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BY


MEMBERS OF THE UNIVERSITY.
1856.
EDINBURGH:
ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK.
1857.



EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY H. AND R. C1ARLK

I



PREFACE.


'IT is hardly necessary to premise that this publication has
been suggested by the Oxford and Cambridge Essays
published by Mr. Parker, a series to -which it is in aim and
plan substantially similar. The main peculiarity and advantage of that plan is, that it demands no conformity to any
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The term " Members of the University " requires a word
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for the information of those unacquainted with the, peculiar



vi                         Preface.
constitution of our University, that Graduates enjoy no
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1852     503       51      843       6       11
1853     490       85      795       6        9
1854     463       56      767       13      10
1855     495       54      789       8       12
1856     457       59      798       12      13



CONTENTS.
PAGE
I. Plato. By JOHN STUART BLACKIE, M.A., Professor of
Greek in the University.....     i
II. Early English Life in the Drama. By JOHN SKELTON,
Advocate........   42
III. Homoeopathy. By WILLIAM T. GAIRDNER, M.D., Lecturer on the Practice of Physic....   95
IV. Infanti Perduti. By ANDREW WILSON...  132
V. Progress of Britain in the Mechanical Arts. By JAMES
SSIME, M.A........   69
VI. Scottish Ballads. By ALEXANDER SMITH, Secretary to
the University....... 204
VII. Sir William Hamilton. By THOMAS SPENCER BAYNES,
LL.B.........  241
VIII. Chemical Final Causes. By GEORGE WILSON, M.D.,
F.R.S.E., Regius Professor of Technology in the
University........  301






PLATO.


PLATO is one of the most massive and magnificent, but at
- the same time, to us moderns at least, in some respects one
of the most perplexing and unsatisfactory of writers.  This
fault, however, is not one of poverty and weakness, but proceeds, in a great measure, from the very vastness, comprehensiveness, and many-sided variety of his intellect.  As on some
mighty broad-based monarch of mountains, like our Scottish
Benmuich-dhui, it is more easy to lose one's way, than on a
compact, well-rounded, and distinctly marked hill, of which the
boundary is anywhere easily measured by- common optics;
and as the approach to this huge-heaved summit is made
through long  stretches of bog, forest, sheer-rising cliff,
and curiously-winding glen-so the study of Plato is not a
work to be lightly undertaken by every man who can drive a gig
creditably on good roads through the low country of Dr. Paley
and Dr. Reid. The same slipperiness of approach, in fact,
and the same difficulty of mastering, is observable in the case
of Goethe, and other writers of various and rich fertility of
genius. We do not mean, of course, that a great genius
is always hard to be laid hold of-Walter Scott were a very
notable example to the contrary-but what we say is, that
there is a particular order of minds of the first class, that
comprehend so much, and unite, under one gigantic intellectual
supremacy, such contrary and apparently incompatible elements,
that it is very difficult for readers, accustomed to the simple
structure of inferior minds, to work their way to the central
point from which the vast whole becomes comprehensible.
Such a central point unquestionably there is in every strong
and original mind; exactly as in the case of the lofty
mountain, the summit, and the summit only, is the point from
VOL. I.                  B



2


Plato.


which the whole rocky mass itself, and the circumjacent
plains, may be intelligibly surveyed. Now, it is no doubt
possible to be transported to the top of a high mountain in a
balloon or other airy carriage, and thus, at a very small
expense of time and labour, master the general outlines of
such an intelligible survey; but for a really clear and thorough
understanding of a mighty mountain, the detailed way of
mounting gradually, through the winding approach of the
long glens, is indispensable.  The squashy bogs, dark forests,
and rushing torrents without bridges, are not to be evaded.
God has not willed that any knowledge obtained at a slight
expense of labour shall be of equal value to that which is
acquired at a great expense.  War may be talked of by poets
and Quakers; but it is understood only by those who have
gone through a campaign. Plato, in the same way, to be
known, must be studied; and he must be studied, not with
the head only, but, like the Bible, with the whole man; for
a great writer, who brings his.whole highly developed nature
into play, can never be appropriated by one whose culture is
fragmentary, and the notes of whose life have never been
blended into a harmony of which any reasonable ear can take
cognizance.   As a whole, therefore, Plato never will be
comprehended by the million; at least till the million possess
a great deal more patience, love of truth, reach of thought,
and contemplative subtlety than they have hitherto displayed.
Under good guidance, indeed, individual dialogues of the
great master idealist, whether in the original or in a good
translation, may be read with pleasure and instruction by
any man; but whoever buckles to Plato honestly, as a whole,
will find that he is full of stumblingblocks, and that he
bristles with offence; and, what will try the student's
temper most, his most interesting dialogues often seem to
lead nowhere, and to end, like Highland roads, in a bog.
The misfortune is that Plato is an intellect of such a
world-commanding class, that any man who has opinions at
all must have some opinions about him, just as he has about
Homer and Mahomet.    No man can say that the empire of
Plato over the minds of thinking men has passed away, or can
pass away. To call yourself a thinker and ignore Plato, is
to say you are a builder, and never heard of Michael Angelo



Popular Opinion.


3


and St. Peter's.  You dare not say so; and therefore, if you
don't really know anything ofthe architectural power of the great
Florentine, you will, as vulgar honesty goes, pretend that you
do so; your position will force you to make the best shift
you can with the first best 83oa, or mere OPINION on the matter
since you cannot boast the stable certainty of e'rftajunq, or
KNOWLEDGE. Now, in cases of this kind, we generally find that
the popular opinion is founded on the most prominent and
the most striking, but for that reason, often the most superficial feature in the interesting object of which a knowledge
is pretended.  That Cromwell had a wart on his nose; that
Byron had a club foot, which gave him more anxiety than the
critiques on his poems; that the head of Pericles was too
long, for which reason the sculptors always made his bust
helmeted, while that of Julius Caesar was bald, which made
it doubly grateful to that great commander to have his brow
encompassed with an oaken wreath, or the coveted kingly
diadem; such prominent and superficial accessories of personal
appearance, in the case of well-known characters, will often be
familiar to thousands who know nothing more of the person
so curiously characterised.  But these, so far as they go, are
certainly true; they are accurate knowledge, not mere opinion.
Even vulgar opinion is not so often altogether false as it is
partial and inadequate, and therefore unjust.  Of Mahomet,
for instance, everybody knows that he was the prophet of
an intolerant religion, which its most sincere professors have
always most zealously propagated with the sword.   This is
quite true; but it is far from embracing the whole truth with
regard to the religion of the Koran; and he who, with the
inconsiderate haste of-popular logic, uses this accurate knowledge about a fraction of a thing, as if it were the just appreciation of the whole, falls not the less certainly into the region
of mere So'a and delusion;-for though the thing that he
believes is true, it is not true as he gives it currency.
He is in fact doing a thing in the region of ideas which is
equivalent to passing a farthing for a guinea; an act whereby
1 A good example of this will be found in Lord Jeffrey's article
BEAUTY, in the Encyclopedia Britannica,where the author makes a smart
preliminary flourish about the Hippias, which to the intelligent merely
shows that he knew nothing about Plato.



4


Plato.


he swindles the public and himself very nearly as much as if
he were to pass off a piece of painted pasteboard for the same
value.   Still a farthing is better than a piece of pasteboard;
and so with regard to a great philosopher like Plato, the common opinion of the most ignorant, that he was a dreamer and
a fantastic speculator, who was always wandering among
clouds and sunbeams, and who taught the art of falling in
love with the souls of persons who have no bodies-this vulgarest notion is so far true, that Plato, as contrasted with
Aristotle, and other bare and square intellectual architects, did
amuse himself with weaving tissues of beautiful iridescent
speculation, and with    sketching  magnificent pictures of
infinite worlds beyond the moon, for the decoration of the
walls of his stable palace of the science of eternal ideas; but
beyond this it is altogether false-as false as it would be to
say that the granite mountain of Cairngorm, where the
precious stones are dug, is made of velvet, because it is in
fact, in many places, carpeted with a very delicate soft moss,
on which the foot of the most dainty lady might tread with
luxury.
So far we have been talking of Plato only as a man, and
of his critics and commentators, and whosoever expresses
opinions about him as men. But Plato was a Greek man;
and we are English and Scottish men. Herein also lies the
cause of no inconsiderable difficulty of adequate appreciation.
That the Englishman is one of the most noble species of
the genus to which he belongs seems to be generally conceded. The poet Southey expressed the opinion of more
thinkers than himself when he said that the Englishman is
the model or pattern man, at least of all the species at present existing.  But even those who are most thoroughly convinced of this must admit that he has his peculiarities-peculiarities of such a nature as make it extremely difficult for him
to pronounce an impartial judgment on the character and
value of notable men belonging to other nations. One of
the strongest features in the Englishman's character is his
nationality; and one of the most striking traits of that
nationality is pride.  Both these qualities are a great bar in
the way of honest appreciation of foreign excellence; for it is
not by the narrowness of a national estimate, but by the breadth



Greek Philosophy in England.


s


of a cosmopolitan sympathy, not by the isolation of pride, but
by the condescension and chivalrous acknowledgment of love,
that we learn to know and to appreciate whatsoever is not
ourselves and of ourselves.  But there is another potent
element in the English character which renders it peculiarly
unfit for the appreciation of any phenomenon so essentially
Greek as Plato.   We are a practical people.  This _word
"practical " is indeed the shibboleth by which we love to
recognise ourselves; as the Greeks delighted to picture
themselves as more wise, and the French as more polite than
other nations.  But the Greeks, as we all know, were in the
highest degree a speculative, and a subtle, and an essentially
unpractical people. Therefore, as like is only recognised by
like, the Greek mind, or at least a great part of it, will
always remain a mystery to the English mind. Let Greek
grammars and Greek lexicons be multiplied to infinity; let
certain plays of Euripides and certain treatises of Aristotle
be commented on, so long as England shall be England, by
all the aspirants to a mastership, a deanery, or a bishopric in
the kingdom; let head masters of large schools, and tutors of
colleges, dilate, in every varied form of mingled reason and
sophistry, on the never sufficiently to be belauded advantages
of a classical education; with all this the inner soul of Greece
will not be known by, or knowable to, the normal Englishman; and Greek scholarship in England will be liable to
become a thing, as we have too frequently seen it, altogether
without a soul-a thing that deals merely with the external
shell of learning, and amuses a snugly-cabined leisure with
all sorts of grammatical fribbles, and philological card-castles.
How little,' indeed, the English, mind, even in the case of
professional scholars, is occupied with the problems proposed
by Greek philosophy, is manifest from the fact that the most
important articles on Greek philosophers in Doctor Smith's
admirable Dictionary, are written not by Englishmen but by
Germans. Our genius has a most real, concrete, and altogether
terrestrial tendency; there seems to be a considerable majority
of Sadducees amongst us, or, as Plato calls them, " uninitiated
persons, who believe in nothing but what they can lay hold
of with their hands." These men will make railways, telegraphs, and tunnels, and build crystal palaces, and collect



Grote-Sewell-Scotland.


7


recognition of the true Platonic attitude of philosophy, seem
to stand   almost alone.1    None of our great and       most
applauded English names in the world, whether of thought
or of professed scholarship, were Platonic. Neither Bacon,
nor Locke, nor Bentley, nor Person, nor Whewell, nor
Thirlwall, nor Grote, is a Platonist. The last-named writer,
indeed, has come boldly out with one of the most characteristic features of "the nation    of shopkeepers,"   when   he
represents Plato as the subtle theorist, and the sophists as
the useful practical thinkers of the ancient world in the fifth
century before Christ.2   This is the genuine English sentiment uttered by a learned London banker; while the strong
denunciation of the sophists, and the hearty sympathy with
Plato's Republic exhibited by one of the most talented of the
English Puseyites, 3 can only be regarded as one of those
manifestations of combined academical and ecclesiastical feeling that so often react in a very salutary fashion against the
merely practical tendencies of our age and nation.     As for
Scotland (since in a matter pertaining to philosophy it were
wrong not to speak of our own country specially), it is, of all
quarters of the world, that one where a person might wander
longest without stumbling on a thinking person who had any
living pulses beating in sympathy with the great founder of
the Academy.4 Dr. Reid was, no doubt, a very strong1 Badham's edition of the Philebus, recently published, must also be
mentioned, as a work combining the most accurate philological learning
with the soundest appreciation of the Platonic philosophy. It is understood that Professor Jowett of Cambridge is occupied with a new edition
of the whole works of Plato. This is just what was to have been expected
from that quarter.
2 Mr. Grote, whose merits as a political historian no wise critic will
deny, is perhaps not the man, under any circumstances, to write in a
worthy tone about Greek philosophy; but his whole chapter on Plato
and the sophists, if there were no graver offence, is completely marred
for historical purposes by the violent polemical attitude which this writer
constantly assumes. His pages sound often like reports of an emphatic
party-speech delivered in Parliament, rather than the grave verdict of a
historian.
3 SEWELL, in his introduction to the Dialogues of Plato; a book glowing with great truths, but sparkling also with the brilliant exaggerations
that belong to genius without sense.
4 Here, as in many other respects, the Scottish people have lagged
wofully behind the conception of their own great reformer John Knox,



83. Plato.


headed man, with a great amount of " common sense," a
virtue on which the Scottish nation generally, and not without reason, place a very high value; but he was no Platonist.
The present writer once put the question to the late Sir
William  Hamilton, whether either Reid, or Stewart, or
Brown, might be looked upon as men learned in the Greek
philosophy; and the answer was " decidedly not."     " The
whole Scottish school of philosophy," said he, " was essentially
destitute of a learned foundation." And most certainly it does
appear, that of all possible cognitive organs, " common sense,"
however useful in its place, is.that which is the least adapted
for laying hold of some of the most fundamental ideas in
Plato.  But even had the Scottish philosophy been based on
a higher principle, it would have remained impossible for the
Scottish people to have received Plato into their culture, so
long as the universities were condemned to content themselves with dribbling out the beggarly elements of a nominal
scholarship to satisfy the low demands of the country
presbyteries of a church in which learning bears no premium. Of the two elements which go to a knowledge of
Plato-an ideal tone of thought, and a familiarity with the
Greek language-the Scotch had perhaps less of the former
than the English, and of the latter they were altogether
destitute.  Hence Platonism   never existed in Edinburgh;
and Lord Jeffrey and the Reverend Archibald Alison were
allowed with general applause to propound a theory of
beauty, the characteristic feature of which consisted in denying that there exists any intellectual principle of beauty at
all-the identical sceptical doctrine, in fact, tricked out with
sentimental phrases, of the stout old Abderitan sophist
Protagoras, that "every man is the measure of all things to
himself, of true things that they are true, and of false things
that they are false," and that beautiful objects are so only in
virtue of an arbitrary and ever-shifting bond of association in
the mind of the contemplator.
Hitherto, our readers will likely think we have been
who, in the Books of Discipline, lays it down expressly that the study of
Plato and the New Testament shall go hand in hand in the universities.
See First Book of Discipline, " of Readers, and of the Degrees and Times
of Shulfjq.



Platonism and Christianity.


9


offering them very little encouragement to the study of Plato;
having been eager, as it would seem, only to prove that both
the English and the Scottish mind labour under a special
incapacity of comprehending the works of the great apostle of
idealism. Now, this certainly does seem ungracious; but it is so
far necessary.  It is not advisable that certain persons should
wish to know anything about Plato, any more than about
Coleridge, Carlyle, Shelley, or John Keats. Nothing is more
beneficial to the mind than the cultivation of the habit of being
content to be ignorant of certain subjects. Nevertheless there
is one door through which the English mind has a more free
and open access to the Platonic philosophy, viz., religion;
and it is really astonishing, when we reflect seriously, how
little this avenue has been made use of. Learned Germans
have written valuable books on " the Christian element in
Plato;"' and it is a well-known fact that many of the most
authoritative of the Greek fathers spoke of the philosophy of
the Academy, in the very same language that St. Paul used
in reference to Judaism, as being a schoolmaster to bring the
Greek world to Christ.2 Nor does it require a very profound
glance to see how Platonic philosophy and Christian faith, in
their grand outlines, characteristic tendencies, and indwelling
spirit, are identical; identical, at least, in so far as a thing of
Hebrew, and anything of Hellenic origin, can be considered as
presenting varieties of a common type.       The prominence
given to the doctrine of the immortality of the soul in all
Plato's works, as contrasted with the position of the same
doctrine in the systems of Aristotle and other Greek philosophers--the atmosphere of a pure and unworldly emotion,
that, like airs from Paradise, floats through the blooming
bowers of the Academy; the single-hearted dedication of the
soul to truth, beauty, and holiness, as things essentially divine,
for their own sake, to the utter contempt of all the inferior
springs of action that lie in the words expediency, policy,
utility, and worldly wisdom; these, with other characteristic
features that lie on the very surface of the Platonic books,
are things essentially Christian, and are felt by every person
1 Ueber das Christliche in Plato, by Ackermann; a book worth
reading.
2 Clemens Alexandrinus says this distinctly.



10


Plato.


of well cultivated moral sensibility, to be much more closely
allied to the Gospel of John than they are to Aristotle, or
John Locke, or Doctor Paley. Why then, we ask again, has
this door of entrance to the inner sanctuary of Platonic meditation been so little taken advantage of in these lands?
Plainly, so far as we can see, from the strange peculiarities
of the English mind already alluded to, which at once robbed
our scholarship of all capacity to develope the best elements
which it contained, and our theology of all desire to form any
alliance with the highest forms of scholarship.  Our universities were, and still are, very closely connected with our
churches; and yet Plato, the element in purely academical
learning most essentially Christian, was neglected; just because the tyrannical force of the strong English character,
with its obstinate idiosyncrasy, impressed a stamp both upon
our theology and our scholarship which made it impressible
in the least possible degree by anything in the shape of
Platonism.  Our universities, moreover, worked themselves,
by the neglect of generations, into a course of narrow,
pedantic routine, removed from   the healthy breadth and
large generosity of the English character almost as far as it
certainly was from a truly stimulant. and expansive academic
teaching. It may be a harsh thing to say, but it is certainly
true, that the combined action of these restrictive influences,
produced, at an epoch now happily passing away, a temper
of mind in the English universities, which was just as far
from relishing or comprehending the Gospel of John as it
was from relishing or comprehending Plato.  The peculiarly
Platonic element in Christianity was ignored by whole parties
and whole generations of churchmen, just as much as the
Christian element in Plato was unknown to scholars, or at
all events little appreciated.  Instead of giving lectures on
Plato, an English scholar began at an early period to authenticate his claims for a future bishopric, by editing, with new
Latin notes and a sprinkling of fresh various readings, some
declamatory play of Euripides, for the hundredth time; and a
Christian bishop, when once made, would find the occupation
of his prelatical leisure much sooner in quarreling with Hermann about the metrical division of a choral line in Aeschylus,
than in showing how the philosophers in the Academy bore



Plato and his Age.


II


witness to the preachers of the Gospel, and the conversion of
the apostle Paul from Judaism to Christianity had been prefigured by the no less sudden change of Polemo from licentiousness to sobriety.l Our scholarship, in fact, and our theology,
were alike deficient in the philosophical element; and without
this element neither Greek nor theology could lead the
normal English academical or ecclesiastical man into the
essentially speculative domain of Plato.  Hence in the most
Christian and most classical country of Europe, the works of
the man who wrote the noblest Greek, and taught the most
Christianizing of doctrines, were practically ignored. Scholarship dressed itself up in modes of verbal priggery.  Theology stood aloof from its best friend, partly from apathy and
pure stupidity, partly from a frigid jealousy of introducing
a stirring soul of inoculated vitality beneath the stiff ribs
of its reputable formalism; partly also, among the men
called Evangelicals, from a morbid incapacity of acknowledging even kindred emotion and character without the shibboleth of a favourite phraseology, and the scheme of a doctrine
which tradition had rendered sacred, and custom indispensable.
Some of these persons, had they known anything about him,
would have eschewed Plato with the more jealousy, even as
Cardinal Bellarmin is reported to have done, "just because
he was so very closely allied to Chtrist."  Such likeness (it
was feared by timid souls) might have given      rise to a
dangerous mistake.
So much for Plato's relation to the present time and
place. We must now come closer, and consider his relation
to his own age and his own people.      And here we shall
find, that just in proportion to the magnitude of his intellect, and the large capacity of his heart, were the thousand
-quivering points by which he lays hold of his environment.
A small literary man, like our poet Rogers, may think and
1 See the striking account of this heathen regeneration in Valerius
Maximus, lib. vi. 9, and Diogenes Laertius.
2 Emerson says with a severe sarcasm, " The English university
system ripens bishops and extrudes philosophy (English Traits, p.
125);" and I remember reading an article in the Times to the effect
that the much vaunted tutorial system, in behalf of which Dr. Pusey
has written a work, is calculated to produce learning, not thou.qht. But
mere erudition will never inspire a man with enthusiasm for Plato.



12


Plato.


write alone, unaffected in any perceptible way by the great
intellectual, moral, and political movements of the age in
which he lives-a great soul never.   The relation indeed of
a gigantic genius to its environment may be that of distinctly
marked hostility, in some aspects, or in the gross.  So with
Tacitus, so with Shelley; but it can never be the relation of
general indifference and absolute negation.    Goethe, for
instance, held himself aloof, with what to harsh judges might
appear a morbid sensitiveness, from the political movements
of his own time and place; but no German writer was
more affected by the influences; moral, intellectual, and social,
of the atmosphere in which he lived. Though in style and
outward form presenting none of the more notable peculiarities of Germanism, he was, in soul and intellectual attitude,
the most German of the German classics.     This all classes
of his countrymen understand. An exactly similar phenomenon presents itself in Plato.   While, as a politician, he
viewed, as fundamentally false, the whole machinery of the
democracy in the midst of which he lived, and looked down,
from a serene imperturbable altitude, even on the patriotic
achievements of a Themistocles, a Pericles, and a Cimon;1 as
a philosopher, his grand aim seems to have been, to unite, into
one grand vegetation of thought, whatsoever germs of the
highest truth, carefully sown by previous thinkers, were now
grown up into a garden of rich and various, but rank and
unweeded speculation.   Weeds, no doubt, there were many;
and plants positively poisonous not a few. These it was his
mission, in the first place, unsparingly to uproot, and with
merciless dialectic, to rend and disintegrate; but after this
negative work was done, his all-embracing soul, with a
positive and constructive instinct which has never been
surpassed, conceived the work of piling that imperial dome of
thought, beneath whose comprehensive span the greatest
thinkers of all ages have never failed to find a shrine for their
S See Gorgias, 515 D. Mr. Grote's quick eye could not fail to notice
this in order to bring his maligned friends, the itinerant Sophists, into
good company; but Plato rides always full speed against these masters
of tongue-fence, while to the great statesmen he merely gives an occasional
brush in passing, as if to remind them that they also are far from
perfection.



The Culmination of the Greek Mind.


I3


worship.   All the previous culture of Greece, intellectual
and poetical, culminated in Plato; for though he was forced,
by his position as a moral reformer, to make decided war
against the Homeric theology; and though his profound
reverence for philosophy, as containing the method of the
highest culture, often led him to speak of poets and poetry in
a light and depreciatory style; in spite of all this, his unfeigned
reverence for the old poetic theologians and thinkers, who lived
" nearer to the gods," 1 shines through all his works; and
he himself, while condemning dramatic poets in the gross, as
little better than mimics and buffoons, is, at bottom, a more
fine dramatist, a more delicate comedian, and a poet of more
magnificent fancy, than many who have made mere historic
and literary imitation the business of their lives. The splendid
myths with which the G.orgias, the Protagoras, the Republic,
and other of his best works are decorated, served conveniently
enough, some have thought, the purpose of concealing the
weak points of his system.   Very probably they did.   But
they will be much more properly valued as a necessary part
of that luxuriant amplitude of intellectual existence, and that
fulness of universal Greek culture, by which Plato so
strikingly overgrows the meagreness which is natural to
common philosophical minds dealing with abstract truth.
Many men, perhaps most men, in this country, will think
Aristotle a more just thinker, and a more safe speculator;
but no person with his eyes open can admire him as a more
lofty philosopher and a more thoroughly accomplished Greek.
The Stagyrite is the most massive man of science that Greece
produced, not for Greece only, but for all peoples and all
ages. But Plato combined in his own person all that was most
human and most Greek in the highly cultivated age to which
"he belonged, not less completely, and with no less polish of
execution, than Homer showed, when he gathered into two
immortal epics all the humanity and all the Hellenism of the
heroic ages. As a fertile author, after having produced a
series of works, each stamped with its own peculiar freshness
1     m f A raxa/XX XI  Eo77Movg 7111MCV KCX.a F77uTEPw  &J &XotjThg."Philebus, 76 c.
u    ov 6'i 70? ixoaTimaeus, 40. E., com. v  'leb.voi  16 D.
Tinaeus, 40. E., coin. Phileb. 16 D.



14


Plato.


and individuality, sometimes will create a greatest and crowning
work, in which the excellences of all his previous productions
are combined and harmonised; so Greece, after having
produced philosophers of such opposite types as Xenophanes
and Democritus, Pythagoras and Heraclitus, with philosophic
poets like Pindar and Aeschylus, produced Plato. The genius
of combined poetry and philosophy could go no further. The
work of constructive speculation was ended.   Wherefore
Aristotle commenced to dissect animals, and Eratosthenes at
Alexandria measured the diameter of the earth.  On this
track, Bacon, the pioneer of British physical philosophy,
has pointed the way to us; and we are now measuring the
descent of glaciers, and hunting out the law that guides the
fitful storms. But Plato holds still the undisputed sovereignty
over the realm of innate ideas which he conquered.  Under
various masks, and with shifting shibboleths, the grand truths
he first systematized still continue to exercise the mastership
over all those, whether poets, philosophers, or preachers, who
have not been willing to make a cheap compromise with the
bare reality which fronts them, but have sworn to impress the
stamp of a higher ideal upon it, or to die in the attempt.
While nobility of character and heroism of conduct shall live
upon the earth, Plato and Platonism may not disappear from
among men.
The progress of speculative philosophy in Greece, from
the earliest times to the culminating epoch of Plato, presents
a series of gradations, transitions, and combinations, exactly
such as a thoughtful mind, observant of the usual course of
human affairs, would naturally anticipate. First, we have in
Orpheus a philosophy altogether and completely identified
with religion and mystic ceremonial.  In the operations of
the infant human thought the principle of the division of
labour had not yet been admitted.  Nature, God, thought,
and feeling, were taken up into the soul in one grand totality;
and the spokesman of this totality was at once prophet and
poet, priest and philosopher.  After the lapse of a few centuries, the secular poet first appeared as a separate character in
Homer; and, two or three centuries later, the philosopher in
Thales.  As was to have been expected, the first philosophy
of the Greeks, like their first poetry, started from the fresh



Greek Philosophy before Plato.


I5


sense-controlling  and soul-enriching  realities of external
nature; it was altogether "objective,"     as the Germans
phrase it, and so we find the wise Thales, six hundred
years before Christ, calculating eclipses that even now form
the basis of historical calculation to chronologers; and we
perceive him also seeking, with genuine Greek subtlety,
after one original apX7, or fundamental principle of all things,
and recognising that principle in WATER.   Much, no doubt,
could be very ingeniously said in favour of this doctrine;
but Anaximenes, a townsman of its author, could, without
much difficulty, say many things even more ingenious, and
not less true, in favour of the finer fluid, AIR.  Heraclitus
of Ephesus, commonly called the weeping philosopher, carried
this physico-metaphysical speculation to its highest point of
refinement when he gave his suffrage in favour of FIRE, as
the one elementary principle; for, if it was certain that water
was only condensed air, it seemed equally certain that the
power which kept water in this subtle form of gas, was heat;
and this principle also, by the important part which it performs in the sustenance of animal life, seemed much nearer
to the idea of an elemental apxr than any other that could be
taken cognisance of by the corporeal senses.  It is manifest,
however, that all merely material principles, would, as the
process of speculative thought went on, appear inadequate to
explain natural phenomena, of which a cunningly devised, and
easily observed order, is one of the most striking characteristics.  Whence came that ORDER?   Pythagoras wisely noted
the fact of its constant presence in creation, by announcing
that aptOpto4, or NUMBER, is the c'dpyj;1 certainly a far more
intelligible principle for reflection to act on than the aT-etpov or
INFINITE, of Anaximander; but it was reserved for Anaxagoras, the friend of Pericles, and the precursor of Socrates,
to enunciate the fundamental idea, the key-stone of the
Platonic philosophy, without which all other principles are mere
explanations of what again requires to be explained.   The
philosopher of Clazomene taught that voi,? or MIND, is the prin1 Of the Platonic Pythagorean principle of &piOliS6 as the only'true
foundation of an intelligible doctrine of pleasurable emotion, including,
of course, the fundamental postulates of aesthetics, which Lord Jeffrey
completely ignored, Plato makes admirable use in the PH1ILEBUS.



i6


Plato.


ciple which lies at the bottom of all things; and hereby, no
doubt, as Aristotle and all the ancients thankfully acknowledge, he enunciated a great truth, and a truth which, leading
directly to God, as the Primal Mind, based philosophy on its
only sure foundation, that is religion; for which kind service
to human intellect, and to intelligible piety, no man will be
surprised to learn that he was accused of impiety by the
Athenian 8/ o9, and banished to Lampsacus; for it has always
been the habit of the uninstructed majority of mankind to
bring the charge of irreligion against those independent
thinkers who have a more worthy conception of the nature of
the Supreme Being than the received popular theology implies.
Along with Anaxagoras, though in a more abstract and
less intelligible form, must be mentioned, as a champion
of the unity and immateriality of the Deity, Xenophanes
of Colophon, though his system seems to partake more
of a distinctly pronounced intellectual pantheism, which,
fixing the eye on the permanent oneness of the creating
cause, is inclined to look upon the multiplicity of created
things, as a mere play of modifications in the eternally'
substantial, of which reality, in the strict sense, cannot
be predicated.   From   him, as from   its proper fountain,
according to Plato, proceeded that school of philosophy of
which Zeno of Elea in Calabria is generally recognised as the
founder, and of which Parmenides was one of the most notable
ornaments.   This school completely removed from the view
of philosophic contemplation the multitude of finite things;
and all real existence, according to it, is essential unity, with
which alone a wise man will occupy himself. This school,
however, freed itself from the perplexing entanglement of
the " MANY" only that it might learn to float about with a
sort of dazed stupor in the undefinable element of the " ONE;"
which being a barren and wearisome sort of life, they amused
themselves by practising all sorts of logical postures and
contortions, exploding metaphysical air-bags, and doing all
sorts of unfruitful things, of which rare specimens will be found
in the Parmenides and the Euthydemus of Plato.'
1 Against this Attic rage for metaphysical hair-splitting-something
quite analogous to the syllogistic refinements of the medieval schoolmenSocrates protests, with his strong practical good sense, and quiet humour
in the PIIILF.US, 15 E.



Heraclitus.


17


The opposite of the Eleatic doctrine of the " one" was
taught most decidedly by that same Heraclitus of Ephesus
whom we have already mentioned as finding the principle of
all existence in fire. For, in this subtle element, this thinker
saw not only an all-pervading, all-working, and all-dissolving
force, but a constant and unimpeded mobility, the unsleeping
source of that ever-shifting variety which animates the face
of all things, even those apparently the most permanent. In
other words, mutability, as manifested in the eternal succession
of an infinite " many," was the point of view which the
philosopher of Ephesus seized as most congruous with his
dark and sombre musings; and there can be no doubt that
it is an aspect of things sufficiently fertile in the most varied
illustration, which the superficial observer and the profound
investigator will encounter with equal readiness.  " One can
never cross the same river twice at the same place," is a
recorded saying of Heraclitus, characteristic enough for his
point of view. The river that rolls and swirls and bubbles
along; the clouds that chase one another round the globe,
ever going and ever coming, dissipated only that they may
be gathered, and gathering that they be dissipated again;
the seed that bursts into a blade, branches into a leafy stem,
and after being crowned with flower and fruit, ends in a seed
again, in which the germ lies, ever watching for the first
occasion to repeat the same series of mysterious evolutions:
these, to the brooding eye of the Ephesian sage, were the everpresent natural types of his grand doctrine of mutability.
Even the everlasting mountains, whose bare granite summits
are washed by perpetual rains, and lashed by unsleeping
storms, whose gigantic joints are riven by the expansive force
of freezing water, and shivered by lightning, may be viewed
as an enormous bruising machine, constantly enriching the
valleys and plains with new supplies of finely-pounded loam.
Such obvious phenomena of physical nature, to an eye altogether unpractised in tracing the curious transmutations and
transitions which modern chemistry, physiology, and meteorology reveal, would supply ample texts for a philosophical
doctrine of " BECOMING," which might be able to maintain
its reputable place for a season, without any assistance from
the  other two   more celebrated factors of metaphysics
C



Plato.


KNOWING and BEING.     Nothing ever Is; but all things ever
ARE BECOMING.    Such was the doctrine of Heraclitus of
Ephesus; and after him, of many of those famous Athenian
sophists who have acquired so evil a reputation through their
antagonism to Plato, and who have found latterly so zealous
a vindicator in Mr. Grote.
Who were these SoPHISTS?   In one sense of the word,
and in the oldest and most popular sense, Plato himself was
a sophist, and Socrates, and all who professed any sort of
wisdom superior to the vulgar. But in the other and
restricted sense, the Sophists were a class of accomplished and
highly educated men, who, in a country and an age where there
was a great demand for knowledge, and the art of using it,
went through the principal cities of Greece, teaching ambitious and talented young men, for hire, the art of public
speaking, and such knowledge as was most available for the
purposes of popular oratory.  They were a sort of itinerant
teachers, combining the functions of university professors,
and the writers of articles in our Quarterly Reviews, in an
age when the written word, in the shape of books, had not
yet usurped that supremacy over the spoken word, which
our modern plan of education so generally concedes to it.
Now this very function of theirs will at once reveal to a
considerate student what their attitude was in reference to
such a deep-probing speculator, and such a profoundly earnest
moral reformer as Plato. A school of philosophical reformers
certainly they were not, and in their capacity of teachers of
public eloquence, giving their services for hire, could not be.
Young men did not pay large sums to be indoctrinated with
profound principles of philosophy, but to be fitted out with
the accomplishments necessary for making a figure in public
life.  Here, then, was established, in the very position and
attitude of these men, in their whole aim, purpose, and
striving, an antagonism to such men as Plato and Socrates,
of which it is not strange that the most striking traces are
visible everywhere in the writings and conversations of these
remarkable men.    Socrates and Plato also were public
teachers, but they were not teachers who taught the art of
influencing democratic assemblies by spoken words for hire;
they taught a much loftier and more difficult art, the art of



The Sophists.


I9


self-culture, as the ultimate and only sufficient end for a
rational being to pursue; and this without hire.  That men
acting.from such opposite motives should have frequently
clashed, should, in fact, have lived in a state of perpetual war
with one another on some of the most important points
of human interest and speculation, was unavoidable.  To
manage a popular audience is no doubt a delicate matter, and
requires both talents and tact of no ordinary description; but
to probe the deceitfulness of the human heart, and to unveil
the splendid juggleries by which popular orators and popular
audiences are often equally befooled, is a different and a much
more difficult affair; and this is the business of philosophy.
Neither does it require any peculiar perspicacity to perceive
that, whatever other qualities may be necessary to enable a
clever man to lead a popular audience, neither the profoundest
thought, nor the highest character are indispensable for this
business, On the contrary, profound thought will often put
a man out of harmony with shallow hearers; and as for character, the multitude will never demand from those who
address-it a standard of morality much higher than that by
which itself is regulated; that is to say, a public speaker,
except on very rare occasions, when some fitful heroic impulse
seizes the popular mind, needs not rise above those maxims
of worldly wisdom, and that tone of respectable decency
which the proprieties of common life require.  In fact, a
certain conformity to the low-toned morality, and the prudential wisdom of the many, may very often be necessary to a
popular speaker, in order that he may reach his desired end.
An appeal to the highest motives will appear ridiculous where
only the lowest exist. All these considerations the very nature
of the case supplies, without the necessity of formally citing
any very erudite witnesses.  From  their very position, it is
plain that the Sophists must often have been exactly what
they are represented to be in Plato's dialogues, teachers of a
very superficial wisdom, and of a very worldly morality. If
any other charge has been brought against them by illjudged panegyrists of Socrates and Plato, either in ancient or
in modern times, we are content, with Mr. Grote, that it should
be dropt, at least in so far as it affects the whole class.
Individual Sophists of high respectability, and of an elevated



20


Plato.


moral tone, such as Protagoras of Abdera and Prodicus of
Ceos, unquestionably did exist.  But that their relation to
the rich youths whom they taught was anything but favourable to the inculcation of the highest views of truth or virtue,
seems manifest; truth and virtue, in the highest sense of the
word, were not commodities in which they necessarily had
any dealings, though, as men like to make a market with
fair words, no doubt they would often use the same hightoned phraseology as men whose moral convictions were
much deeper, and whose life was more pure. And herein
lay the quarrel which Plato had with them, a quarrel
which, after all that Mr. Grote has advanced, we must still
hold with the great body of scholars, both old and new,
to have been a very just one.1 If a man wished to write
a book (perhaps some German has written such a volume
already) in vindication of those much maligned characters,
the Scribes and Pharisees at the time of Christ, no doubt he
could find ample materials for his justificatory pleading in
Josephus, or, where the Germans find so many arguments, in
the air, or even in the New Testament; for Gamaliel certainly,
for one, seems to have been a most respectable character, and
to have beon as free from    the violent persecuting spirit
characteristic of the sect to which he belonged, as Prodicus,
the author of the well-known apologue on the choice of
Hercules, was from the crime of moral corruption, with which
the Sophists have been so liberally charged. But whatever
virtues Gamaliel might possess, and half a dozen more notable
men of that sect, whom a zealous scholar might set upon the
top of a hill, history has stamped on the Pharisees, as a body,
a character which is none of the highest, and which is likely
to be indelible.  In the same manner, the virtues of many of
the Sophists may be conceded, by a reasonable man, as high
as the zeal of a democratic historian is willing to plant them;
but, as a class, it will remain undeniable that they neither
pursued the highest objects, nor attained the noblest ends;
their very profession forced them to foster that master-vice,
the vain display of half-knowledge, which, as patriots and
' See the excellent paper on the SOPHISTS, in answer to Mr. GROTE, in
the Cambridge Journal of Classical and Sacred Philology. June 1854;
by COPN.



Plato's Doctrine of Ideas.


21


lovers of wisdom, it should have been their business to
eradicate. If they were not an organized school of corruptors
of youth, they were, at least, very dangerous teachers, as
men whose leading principle was to have no principle at all
beyond the local standard of respectability in the place where
they might happen to make their wordy displays. Plato, no
doubt, dips his brush in strong colours when he paints them,
and runs occasionally perhaps, into caricature; but he was
not a man to spend a whole life in fighting a series of terrible
battles with straw-giants, created by himself for the gratification of his own spleen, or the exhibition of his own talent.
If we now inquire particularly what it was, in the midst
of all this myriad-voiced babblement of strange opinions, that
the comprehensive and harmonious soul of Plato really saw
for himself, and settled for all future thinkers, we shall find
no great difficulty in giving a distinct answer to honest
inquiry on this point; for, as to the main characteristic of
Plato's philosophy, the vulgar opinion is unquestionably right,
so far as the mere adherence to an ill-understood traditional
phraseology goes.  Plato was distinguished from all previous
philosophers by the prominence which he gave to the doctrine
of " innate ideas."  Now, the current opinion in this country
certainly is, that these innate ideas were a sort of sublime
phantasm blown to the winds by John Locke and the inductive 'philosophy of external facts which has been achieving such
conquests in the modern world from the time of Bacon downwards.  But the fact is, that the doctrine of innate ideas, as
taught by Plato, never was touched either by Locke or Bacon,
and never can be touched in substantials by any thinker who
believes that he has thoughts, and that these thoughts have
their root in a simple sovereign and plastic principle, which
he calls his soul.  No doubt there are some pleasant imaginations floating with iridescent colours round the border-land
of the Platonic philosophy, which may be blown to the wind
by the puff of any cheek, without special inflation from Locke
or Bacon. When the great thinker, for instance, pushes his argument for the independence of mind so far as to seem to assert, in
positive terms, the existence of ideas in the human soul in readymade panoply transferred from a previous state of existence
into the present, this must be regarded as a trick of the poet



22.Plato.


immanent in the philosopher, ever ready to mistake a beautiful
analogy for a substantial argument.   Wordsworth, as a
philosophic poet, was certainly more at liberty to illustrate
this pleasant fancy than Plato as a poetical philosopher.'
REMINISCENCE, as explained by Socrates in the Menon, and
elsewhere, is not a fact, if the word be taken in its natural
and obvious sense; it is not true that a person studying
mathematics, for instance, when the truth of any profound
relation of quantity or number flashes upon his mind, is
recollecting anything that he ever knew before in a previous
state of existence; the simple fact is that he recognises the
evolution of this truth from  other truths of which he finds
himself in possession, as a consequence that cannot be avoided
when once his mind is set to work in a certain direction.
As certainly as a sportsman's dog will raise game when it
comes near the spot where the bird is lying, and the scent
begins to tell on its eager organ, so certainly will an idea
lurking in a man's mind be hunted out into startled consciousness by an able Socratic questioner, But the simile limps,
like all similes, in one point; the hidden idea is not lying
in the soul, like the bird in the heather, ready-made; it
must be shaped, moulded, and evolved, by a long, and sometimes a very painful process. All that we can legitimately
say therefore, is, that there lies in every normal human soul
the dormant capacity of acknowledging every necessary truth;
and that this capacity is not borrowed from without. In this
sense, and in this sense only, are innate ideas true; and in
this sense, unquestionably, they are very far removed from
what can, with any propriety of language, be called a reminiscence.   But limited as the doctrine thus becomes, and
presenting nothing to which a consistent Lockist needs object,
it is not the less important a fundamental truth to be held
by, and fruitful of all noble consequences when consistently
applied. " ON EARTH THERE IS NOTHING GREAT BUT MAN; IN
MAN THERE IS NOTHING GREAT BUT MIND," is a sentence which
the late Sir William Hamilton considered of sufficient significancy to paint in large letters on the walls of his class-room,
as that text to which the whole of mental philosophy could
' Sec the beautiful poem entitled " Intimations of Immortality."



Ideas the Real Essence of Things.


23


most aptly be referred; but mind is not a passive and receptive substance, like a sheet of white paper, according to the
famous simile of the Sensationalists, acting only in so far as
it may be said to act at all, by absorption; it is rather a
sleeping lion of enormous strength, which must be wakened
indeed, in the first place, by the point of a pin, or the falling
of a leaf, or a succession of such extrinsic influences, but when
awakened, shakes its mane with a thunder which is the echo
of no extraneous terror. Or take the case of a seed. There
lies in every acorn the capacity of becoming an oak; the
nascent mould, type, or " innate idea " of an oak (for &'Ua, o80q,
means only mnould, type, shape, sketch); by virtue of which
it can become such a specific tree, and none other-neither
pine, birch, beech, lime, plane, nor any of the thousand
varieties of the thing called tree. Now it is quite true that
in order to evolve an oak from this acorn, a certain ascertainable accumulation of air, wind, rain, sunshine, and other
external influences, is indispensable; but it is no less true
that all the external influences in the world, accumulated to any
conceivable amount, will not make that a birch which contains in itself only the innate type of an oak.  This innate
type, therefore, is entitled to be regarded as a thing not
indeed independent of external influences for its development,
but as existing per se, and prior to all such influences-as
that ineradicable, inconvertible, plastic something, which contains, so to speak, the very soul, substance, and essential
nature of an oak-tree.
To direct attention always and everywhere to this innate
type, as alone revealing the real essence of any object, and
with which alone is given the possibility of scientific knowledge, was the great merit of Socrates, in the first place, in a
popular way, and afterwards of Plato, with all the completeness of philosophic system. Nor was the service which they
performed small. In all human knowledge and feeling there.are two factors, precisely analogous to those intrinsic and
extrinsic forces which we have seen at work in the growth of a
tree. Mind and matter, thought and sensation, character and
circumstances; these are some of the common terms by which
this universally recognised antagonism in our mysterious
double nature is designated. Now, though a perfect philo



Plato.


sophy must of course adopt, and, if possible, explain both
these factors, it is of infinitely greater consequence for
humanity that the internal rather than the external factor
should receive its fair prominence.  For in the internal, as
every one sees, lies all that characteristically distinguishes a
man from a brute.   No doubt the brutes also have their
inner world; but it is of so small an extent, according to all
appearance, and so completely enslaved to the external factor,
that it is no more to be taken account of than the people are
in a government of unmingled despotism.     The external
world is the tyrannical master of a brute-to man it yields
itself in many departments as an obedient slave; and always
the greater a man is the more decided is the supremacy
which the thinking factor establishes over the sensational.
This Plato saw and preached; for this Socrates lived and
suffered.  By asserting the legitimate sovereignty of mind
as manifesting itself by ideas, over matter as manifested by
sensations and passions, these great men published a gospel, so
to speak, of the intellect, which made exactly the same claims
for innate ideas, as contrasted with acquired experience, that
St. Paul, and after him Martin Luther did, in behalf of faith
contrasted with works.  Both doctrines have been misunderstood and misrepresented; and naturally; because they are
true only to thinkers and those who rise by meditation to that
height, whence alone the confused sensuous details, of which
our daily life is a part, become comprehensible.  It is the
philosophic doctrine of innate ideas only, as taught by Plato,
that renders the details of a mighty plan comprehensible.
Without ideas, sense may observe, and science may discriminate, but combination is possible only to philosophy. Every
great original genius uses innate ideas, though he acknowledges no discipleship to Plato, but works under the mastership of that nature from which Plato drew, and of that
God who is master of all.
The value of the Platonic idea may be shown by an
illustration from the region of the Beautiful.  The marble
figure, which some stone-working poet has baptized a Corinna
or a Sappho, and whose features, expression, and attitude,
combine all that is most dignified in a queen, all that is most
simple in a shepherdess, all that is most inspired in a poetic



Example in Art.


25


thinker, and all that is most attractive in a Venus; this
figure, for the possession of which, to adorn their museums,
the heads of great monarchies will. contend with rival
diplomacy and emulous gold, when dashed to pieces by a
sudden precipitation, is only so much lime which the farmer
may fling upon his land, like straw, or dung, or any other
refuse. Its value is gone as soon as it has lost its form; the
material is common and worthless.  Whence, then, is this
form, this &tos' (species), the superaddition of which imparts so
much value to an otherwise trivial material?  Whence did
it come, and what is it? It is plainly neither more nor less
than an image impressed by the plastic power of mind on a
%material utterly destitute of formative force; and the value
of the work consists altogether in the amount of this formative
force, or organizing intellectual energy, which has been made
to act upon it from without.  But this formative force is a
thing altogether bodiless and untangible. Shatter the substance
of the finest statue in the world to pieces, and the amount
of calcine substance, or earthy matter of lime, remains the
same as before the disintegration.  It follows, manifestly, that
the only real element in the admired object is that which,
according to common phraseology, has no reality in it, viz.,
the idea in the mind of the artist which has been transferred
to stone.  This idea is, in fact, the alone thing which truly
exists, so far as the work of art is concerned; it is the only
thing also that possesses permanency; for whereas the marble
may be broken at any moment, the idea may, at any time, be
recovered from the intellect of the artist where it was originally
generated and where it permanently resides.
That the ideas which belong to genius or original creative
power are innate, in the highest Platonic sense of the word,
most people will be willing to concede.  For if not, why
cannot every eye see in a daisy as much as a Burns or a
Wordsworth saw? Why is not the physiognomy of every
dog as eloquent and as pregnant with profound expression to
me and to you as it is to Landseer?  A common observer
" wants the eye" to see in common objects what the great
artist sees; that is to say, he wants an internal plastic and
organising force; for it is by this mental force only, and not
by mere pupils, corneas, retinas, and other apparatus of mere



26


Plato.


sensuous vision that the man of genius obtains his superior
insight.  This will be granted.  But Plato goes further, and
maintains, in the THEIE.TETUS, that all knowledge, as distinguished from sensation, is innate, and possible only through
means of a something altogether different fi'om sensation,
which we call MIND. It is a complete mistake to imagine
that sensation conveys to our brain any ideas whatsoever.
There are no " ideas of sensation " properly so called. When
I feel a hard stone, a soft moss, I have a sensation, and a dog
or a fly may have this "a'oOo-t9, as well as a man or a god;
but this feeling is no idea. But when I talk of hardness and
softness, this is an idea representing the common element in
various separate objects communicating certain impressions to.
my sensuous organs; and like all ideas, it cannot possibly
exist without the presence of a central presiding power, to
gather, compare, collect, aud unify a multitude of individual
impressions, and designate them by a common epithet. A
dog may perceive two sticks of equal size, but man only
conceives the idea of equality, and on this, and kindred ideas
builds up the sublime and stable structure of arithmetical and
mathematical science. All knowledge comes through the
senses only as an avenue, but from the soul as the only
creative cause. This is the Platonic doctrine of innate ideas,
which has been so ignorantly spoken against.    It is a
doctrine neither fanciful nor mysterious, if men will only
distinguish what must be distinguished, and calmly look on
the co-existent factors that belong to every act of cognition.
Unquestionably, as we said, there are two factors; but Plato
and Emanuel Kant and Professor Ferrier are certainly right
in giving all the positive and imperial power to the intellectual
factor, without which knowledge is not conceivable.
Another field in which we may become practically alive to
the importance of the Platonic doctrine of ideas, is the domain
of natural science, where the department of typology and morphology, as the very names show, contains nothing but a
series of physical illustrations of the divine idea of which
Platonists are always speaking.  Plato, if he pleased, might
have used rT6uro7 and fJop,b as well as the word &o0'?, for
they mean substantially the same thing; and nothing could
possibly have delighted him more than the beautiful doctrine



Real Existence of Ideas.


27


of the metamorphosis of plants, first promulgated by a great
German genius, who like himself, combined the external hardness of the severe man of science with the expanded blossoming
beauty of the poet.1   What do we mean by morphology in
natural science? is it not this, that the whole animal and
vegetable creation is formed upon certain fundamental types
and patterns, which can be traced under various modifications
and transformations, through all the rich variety of things
apparently of most dissimilar build? and what else is this but
the dominancy of the like amid the unlike, of the one amid
the many,2 that Socrates is continually using all his subtle
Greek skill to evolve in the practice of his great art of intellectual midwifery?    A  typology of plants and animals is
merely, in Platonic phrase, an ideology of the organised physical universe; nor is there any point in which a modern
tracer of rudimentary organs, with all the most modern microscopic appliances to aid him, would differ from the great
founder of the Academy, unless perhaps, the modern scientific
man should here and there take it into his foolish head that
there might be a set of moulds without a moulder, a calculated
gradation of forms without a calculator, an ordered world, or
lcoao-,o  without an ordering God.  To Plato's mind, atheistical science would convey about as much meaning as suicidal
life; for science is possible only where there are ideas, and
ideas are possible only where there is mind; and minds are
the offspring of God; and atheism itself is not merely ignorance and stupidity; it is the purely nonsensical and the
unintelligible.
We hope what we have now said may have rendered it
sufficiently plain to the reader, what Plato's point of view was
when he talked in such strong language as he generally does
of the -real existence of ideas, and the unreality of every thing
else. If a man has a dog, and that dog dies, what remains?
The idea of a dog in the Divine Mind, which originally
stamped the form of that animal upon a certain composition
1 "Goethe is a hard granite mountain covered with a rich growth of
soft voluptuous grass."-CARLYLE. Never was a more true or a better
thing said of the great German, but it applies almost equally well to Plato.
2 See particularly the PHILEBUS, 16 D., and what follows on the V xai
TOXX,CC.



28


Plato.


of nitrogen, hydrogen, carbon, and other animal stuffs, and
will again stamp the same form on another composite of the
same kind; thus supplying the loss of one dog by the creation of an infinite number, all of which live and die, and " have
their day," while the divine idea out of which they sprang
never can die, any more than the Divine Being himself can
die who originated the conception.  This idea, therefore, is
the only permanent reality in the case; the only substantial
immortal verity; for every individual dog perishes.  This is
Plato's way of viewing reality and illusion; and there surely
needs be no difficulty in understanding it.  But if his words
be taken literally, and understood- to say, that ideas have a
separate existence of themselves independently of the Divine
Mind in which they reside-that there really is a something
called tile idea of a dog altogether different from any individual dog, and from the pattern of canine nature in the divine
intellect, we can only say that this is nonsense, and quite
inconsistent with the massive sense and sound-mindedness
which the Platonic writings every where display. Any strong
expressions, seeming to imply such nonsense, must, in our
opinion, be interpreted like the paradoxes of the Stoics or of
the New Testament, of the Brahminical doctrines, and in fact
all famous systems that have ruled the world, whether moral
or intellectual.  A paradoxical maxim is a strong one-sided
statement, which, though not strictly true, serves the double
purpose of amusing the proposer and stimulating the person
to whom it is proposed.
We have stated Plato's theory of " KNOWING," and also,
in the main, of " BEING."  The mind only knows, and God
only is; the knowing factor is the only substantial power in
the universe.  But what are we to make of the NoN-I? of
matter? of this table? of that granite rock?  Here both
Plato and Professor Fcrrier are obliged to confess ignorance;
the non-I is unquestionably something; but what it is, they
do not tell us with satisfactory clearness.  Plato avoided the
barren fixation of the Eleatic school, who would have nothing
to do with the " many" at all, and to whom, therefore, any
occupation with physical philosophy could have been only the
amusement of a dreamer dissecting his dreams. On the contrary, he lhas given us, in the Timaeus, a complete architecture



Platonic Conception of Ikiatter.                   2


29


of the material cosmnos, fromn the flaming orb of a star to' the
stomach of a star-fish; which forms one of the most interesting
portions of his richly varied works.  But this framework,
grand as it is, has by no means the stable and massive character
about it, that belongs to the -mental and moral speculations of
the same great architect.  We feel that many parts of it
float loosely enough in the air, and might be blown away with
a very small puff. And no -wonder. The world was not
ripe for physical researches in those days; and Socrates did
not unwisely to interdict them altogether.  But one thing is
plain from this, and from other parts of Plato's writings, that
he was not a mere subjective. idealist, in the modern sense. H-e
believed in matter, at least in a something, through and by
which only mind manifests itself in the present imperfect
state, and by the agency of which the free and pure action of
mind is often strangely troubled and perverted. What, therefore was this matter, this body, or a"&4a which belonged to
the universe as much as to the little world of individual men?
There are only two ways in which a thorough and consistent
theist like Plato could have conceived of matter.  Either it is
something altogether arbitrary and extrinsic which God, by a
sovereign- act of His will, has created for the special purpose,of manifesting His perfections; a mere material which God
made out of nothing; or it is essentially and eternally connected with the divine nature in a close and intimate relation, as the principle of vitality with time vital organism,
forming with mind not two separate things, but only two
poles of one thing, in such a manner, however, always as that
mind is the dominant and disposing factor.   The former
method of philosophizing on matter is that which has been
commonly used in the Christian church, and is, we believe, the
only method which is considered orthodox; the other is
Pantheism, and has been taught in modern times by Spinoza,
Jacob B6hme, Hegel, Goethe, and other profound thinkers.
Now, with regard to Plato, if the question be asked, what
was his opinion with regard to the nature of this mysterious
bond between what, in common language, we call mind and
matter, the answer which the present writer must give is,
that he cannot tell.  There is a region where all humnan
intellect, even the sharpest, ceases to act with a vigrorous



30


Plato.


perspicacity; even as the horizon of the bodily vision loses its
sharp line in a vague mistiness. Here also Plato becomes
dim. To him, no less than to David Hume and Professor
Fraser, there is " an insoluble problem," and an explosion of
human theories in very sensible contradictions.  When he
approaches this region, therefore, Plato naturally loses the
distinctness which always characterises him, where he keeps
strictly within the bounds of the knowable.  Sometimes he
speaks of the body as if it were a mere prison-house, which
the soul had only to burst in order to be perfectly happy
and free. This, of course implies that matter is not necessarily
connected with mind, but only in the way of an adventitious
encumbrance. In the Timaeus, however, he tells us that the
world is a divine animal, and the stars flaming gods, which
plainly implies that the relation between mind and matter is
by no means of that mechanical kind which seems implied in
the received doctrine of modern Christian churches.  On the
whole, Plato's attitude seems to have been to believe mainly
in mind, and to accept matter as a something that could
neither be avoided nor explained, but which must be content
to receive from  the* philosopher, a distant recognition only,
not a cordial salutation.1
So much for the strictly metaphysical part of the Platonic
philosophy.  But great as he stands forth to all ages, the
champion of the rights of sovereign intellect, in combat with
the rebellious rabblement of the senses, he is yet greater as a
purifier of the fountains of human passion, and a preacher of
righteousness in that Heathen Church of which Socrates was
the Messiah.  If man be, as he has been defined, even more
a practical animal than a reasoning animal, and if he is nowise
a merely speculative or theoretical animal, then the greatest
minds must always be those which breathe in the element of
action, and whose profoundest speculations about faculty
must never for a moment lose sight of that stable and well1 The language of Plato in the Philebus, 27 seq., as Badham
justly remarks in his introduction, is certainly anything but pantheistic. It does not appear to me, however, that Plato anywhere clearly
sets forth his notion of the relation of mind to matter; all that he was
concerned to maintain being the absolute suplremacy of intellect, which a
pantheist like Spinoza may maintain as well as a dualist.



Plato as a Moralist.


31


girt energy for the sake of which all faculty exists.  Tried
by this test, Plato will stand out a king of philosophers; superior, in some respects unquestionably, even to that stern and
hard, cool, resolute, concise, and Wellingtonian Aristotle, whose
famous principle of the golden mean in morals, recommends
itself to our practical British intellect above all others, because it
is the most useful in practice. Notwithstanding the pleasure
which, as a genuine Greek, Plato always displays in the slippery
gymnastics of a puzzling dialectic, a quality of mind which makes
some of his dialogues not a little annoying to the broad,
direct, and unrefining mind of the Englishman-the soul of
his philosophy lies in morals, as every one must feel who will
breathe for some time with serious sympathy the atmosphere
of his works.  In this respect there is nothing more striking
than to compare the serious moral tone that winds up some of
his dialogues with the chain of moral maxims, with which St.
Paul generally concludes his doctrinal epistles.  After eleven
chapters of somewhat perplexed and puzzling argumentation,
the great apostle-to take one example from many-proceeds,
in the twelfth chapter of the Epistle to the Romans, to discharge a whole battery of the most important practical admonitions, as if eager to make it manifest to his readers that all argumentative theology is a necessary evil, which one must accept
only as a traveller does a long dark tunnel, through which it
is necessary that he should pass before he can emerge into the
freedom of a broad and smiling landscape.  In the same way
the Gorgias of Plato-a dialogue which commences with a
dialectical dissection of the idea of eloquence, annoying the
British sense not a little with the seeming studied determination of Socrates not to see the plain truth when it stands
before him, unless he can see it rigidly, according to the links
of a strictly logical process-this ostensibly rhetorical. Gorgias
is led step by step into a purely moral vein of such sublime
seriousness, that the most reputable modern reader, according
to the maxims of worldly morality stands convicted before
it, feeling much as Felix did when he trembled before St.
Paul's lofty argument of temperance, and of righteousness,
and of judgment to come.   One feels the difference here
between Plato the preacher of righteousness delivering his
soul of a heavy moral burden, and that army of light-winged



32


Plato.


skirmishers, called Sophists, making a twinkling display of
their wordy accomplishments, whom, nevertheless, as already
mentioned, a recent notable historian of Greece in this
country has thought worthy of placing under the aegis of
his most special championship. Between-the Sophists and
Socrates there was just this very important difference, that to
them the wisdom of words was often everything, while to
Socrates and Plato, as many distinct passages testify, it was
nothing. The Sophists, as a class, were men to whom
intellectual display and mere verbal dexterity sufficed for the
creditable  exercise  of their vocation.  To   Plato, though
himself the most eloquent of writers, such accomplishments
without truthfulness, sincerity, seriousness, and a high purpose
in life, were of no greater value than they were afterwards to
St. Paul. To a man who is in thorough earnest to reform,
first his own moral nature and then the social world around
him, the mere act of talking, to whatever height carried, will
always appear a very flimsy affair.
There is one essentially Greek trait about the Socratic
and Platonic morality (for they are fundamentally the same)'
which deserves special mention.      With  Socrates, as with
Solomon, virtue and wisdom are identical; and all vice is
either stupidity, disease, or madness.  It has been said that
the way to a woman's head is through her heart, and the
way to her heart through her children. In the same way it
may be said that the way to a Greek's heart in Plato's day
was through his head, and the way to his head through
dialectics.2  It was in the doctrine of intellectual ideas, and
in purely rational sciences, such as mathematics and arithmetic, that Plato found the 7rou o rJ, of his whole philosophy
of personal and social reform;bhere was the training-school
that redeemed a man from the slavery of sense, 'and brought
1 The comparison between the Socrates of Xenophon and that of Plato
is well made, and their substantial identity proved by ZELLER, in his
Geschichte der Griecdiischen Ph ilosopliie, a book which I have read with
great care, and can conscientiously recommend to all students.
SIn proof of this the Philebus may specially be noted, and the high
position which in that most important dialogue is assigned to the V06;povs, intellectual insight, above every sort of joy', or pleasurable
emotion. The sentimental and mystic persons, sometimes called Platonic
in modern times, could hardly be made to digest this.



Preaching by Syllogism                     33


33


him up by due degrees to the capacity of receiving the most
elevated, the most comprehensive, and the - least personal of
all ideas-viz. justice.  This method, we need scarcely state,
is not to be found in the New Testament.   There is no idea
more foreign to the Gospel of Jesus Christ than that of leading to holiness through a syllogism. The New Testament
goes direct to the deep fountain of all passion and action in the
emotional nature of man.  It breaks, by the mere assertion of
the moral nature in man, the icy crust of self-righteousness
which keeps the self-contained heart from being stirred by
the breath of divine love; by the moral contagion of a superior
nature it rouses the sleeping power of self-condemnation, the
necessary postulate of a holy life; and commences violently
a process of self-purification and regeneration, under the
highly potentiated influences of the Divine Spirit. Now,
there is nothing of the Socratic dialectic process in all this;
and yet how potently the evangelic method works the moral
history of nearly two thousand years can recount.  In effecting moral reforms of great masses of men, the method of moral
contagion will always be the most efficacious; but the method
of the dialectic exhibition of the utter futility of unrighteousness before practical reason is not, therefore, to be considered
useless, even under the Christian dispensation.  There are
some minds whom a fiery Whitfield may cause to feel uncomfortable for a moment, but he will not convert them.  They
have too much intellectual stoutness to be conquered by anything but hard logic; and to such minds it is necessary that
Plato, and the Greeks, and Sir William Hamilton, should
preach.  The recognition of the importance of this intellectual avenue to the moral nature of man will show the significance of that question, which occupies such a prominent
place in some Platonic dialogues, IS VIRTUE TEACHABLE?
To us, who are continually employing the vast machinery of
the Christian pulpit for the purpose of teaching it, the question seems a very idle one; but to the Greeks, who had no
church of recognized authority, and among whom a mighty
host of self-constituted teachers-the Sophists-had arisen,
professing to teach not only eloquence, but wisdom and
virtue, and making a livelihood by this profession, a more
interesting question could not have been raised.   On this
D



34


Plato.


subject, though in the Protagoras the matter is left undecided, there cannot be the slightest doubt what the real
opinion of Plato and his master was. On the one hand,
when the Sophist made loud pretensions of teaching virtue in
so many lessons for so many drachms per lesson, just as a
druggist might teach any man how to compound a medicine
by taking certain proportions of certain given articles and
triturating them all together, Socrates might well deny that
virtue was teachable in this way, or that justice and temperance can be instilled into a man's soul as wine can be
sent down his throat by the transference of liquor from the
wine-merchant's cask, and of pence from the wine-consumer's
pocket. But, on the other hand, whatever may be the
tongue-fence of individual dialogues, it is indubitably plain
that Socrates, who in Xenoplicn identifies virtue with  po'vp<w,
and Plato, with whom    in the Republic and elsewhere the
same   po'vrltVr, or insigjt, leads the van of all the virtues,
could have held no other doctrine than that virtue is teachable, when taught in the right way-that is, from the commanding point of a great central principle, like the principle
of faith in the New Testament, and the doctrine of eternal,
innate God-generated ideas in the Platonic system.      If
virtue were, like poetry, not teachable-that is, capable of
exposition by scientific reasons, why did Socrates and Plato
spend their long and valuable lives in teaching it?
But the grand characteristic and essentially evangelic
trait of the Platonic morality is its lofty supersensualism, or
what we may, by a more familiar name, call unworldliness.
In this respect it will be greeted at- once with joy by every
true Christian as full sister to the never-sufficiently to be
venerated system of ethics, of which the most perfect type
stands before us in the sermon on the Mount, and in the life
of Christ.   I said before, and I repeat it here, that the
study of Plato is no mere headwork.   It is a severe purification of the whole heart and life, or it is nothing at all.
The apostle of the Academy is not a whit behind the disciple
of Gamaliel in the demands which he makes for a regeneration, and a renovation, and a complete reconstruction of the
whole fabric of human life, so far as that is based on a
morality of mere customary and conventional respectabilities.



Worldly Morality.


35


" Be not conformed to this world! " is a sentence as frequent
and as seriously meant in Plato as in St. Paul. In fact, there
is in the world always a respectable sort of surface moralityand nowhere more than in this British world at the present hour
-a morality of convenience and utility, which pays respect to
the principles of right and wrong when generally formalized,
but which recognizes them practically only in so far as local
customs and decencies, proprieties, etiquettes, and the round
of certain " inevitable charities " are willing to recognize them.
With this morality the popular Greek Sophist in Plato's day
was perfectly contented; he professed, indeed, in the very
words of his highest eulogist Mr. Grote, no other virtue; and
this morality, also, many a consumer of beef-steaks and
swiller of porter in this lusty and material land accepts even
now, after eighteen hundred years of Gospel preaching, as
quite sufficient for all the purposes of a respectable English
life. But how poor a thing it is, Plato in many places
shows with a calm Titanic power that has never been
excelled; and the perverse maxims and vicious practices
with which our British society is rank, make it evident to
the most superficial glance how far the current morality of
our trades and parties is from seeking to accommodate itself
to the principles of extreme moral purity laid down in every
page of the New Testament. A sermon may be a very
proper thing as Sunday work, and may help to bridge the
way to heaven, when a bridge shall be required; but on
Monday a man must attend to his business, and act according to the maxims of his trade, of his party, of his corporation,
of his vestry.  Then the respectable turf-hunter will stake
his last thousand on the leg of a racing-horse, and think it
quite like a Christian gentleman to allow his tailor's bill to
lie unpaid for another year; then the respectable Highland
proprietor will refuse to renew the lease to the industrious
poor cottar on his estate, that the people, for whom he cares
nothing, may make way for the red deer, whom it is his only
passion to stalk; then the respectable brewer, instead of preparing wholesome drink from wholesome grain, will infect his
brewst with deleterious drugs in order to excite a factitious
thirst in the stomach of his consumers, and increase the
amount of drinking; then a respectable corporation, to main



36


Plato.


tain their own "vested rights," will move heaven and earth
to prevent the national parliament from acting on the plainest
rules of justice and common sense in a matter seriously
affecting the public wellbeing; and the respectable members
of society shall flutter round the gilded wax-lights of aristocracy, and perform worship at Hudson's statue, and have
respect to men with gold rings and goodly apparel, and do
everything that is expressly forbidden in the second chapter of
the epistle of James, which they profess to receive as a divine
rule of conduct.  These are only one or two of the more
glaring points in which our commonly-received maxims and
practice of respectable British life run directly in the face of
that highest morality, which the most religious and churchgoing Englishman professes to acknowledge as his rule of conduct. Exactly such an issue Plato had with the respectabilities of Athens in his day.  " You are a fool," said his
accusers to Socrates, " to exercise a vocation which can only
expose you to annoyances, create enemies, and endanger
your life."  This is the advice of worldly wisdom, given as
often in London and in Aberdeen in the nineteenth century
after Christ as ever it was in Athens four hundred years
before the Advent.  " I am no fool," said Socrates, " because
a true man will never consider whether death or life may be
the consequence of his actions, but only this, whether they
are right or wrong." 1 This is exactly what St. Peter said to
the elders, " Shall we obey God rather than man?"  " Do you
pretend to be wiser than our great statesmen Pericles, and
Cimon, and Themistocles? " says Callicles, a thorough-going
man of the world, to Socrates, in the Gorgias.2  " Certainly
I do," replied the sage, " if Themistocles or Pericles, or any
of your highest-vaunted politicians placed their glory in anything rather than in making the people as virtuous as possible;
for without sobriety and righteousness a city filled with harbours and docks, harbour dues, and quays, and walls, is filled
with mere magnificent lumber! "  Did any Hebrew prophet
ever lift up his testimony more stoutly? Does the solemn
word in the Gospel mean anything more when it says, " What
shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his


1 Plato, Apol. p. 28, B.


2 519, A.



Plato as a Politician.


37


own soul? " or, to apply the text to the English nation in the
manner that a modern Socrates assuredly would, what will it
profit England to spin more cotton, to pile more money-bags,
to set more steam-coaches a-going, 'if Mammon is to be wor-.
shipped publicly everywhere rather than virtue and wisdom; if
religion is made to consist in keeping every good thing as much
as possible within the pale of one's own party; and if the poor
man is to be driven out of the land which he defended with
his sword in order that a few idle and insolent lordlings may
possess the hills for the pastime of racing after deer? Those
who have studied Plato most thoroughly will acknowledge
that in no way could the searching and evangelic virtue of his
ethics be made more distinctly manifest than in the shape of
such a plain practical question as that which we have here
made.
There remains now only one thing, that we should say a
single word on Plato as a political philosopher. A politician
in the active sense of the word, neither Socrates nor Plato
ever was. They both rather kept studiously apart from public
life with a sort of philosophic isolation that to our practical
British intellect appears, to say the least, not a little onesided. We look with contempt on the German professor who
shuts himself up among his smoke-infected folios, and writes
books about every the minutest thing that happened in distant
worlds three thousand years ago, unmoved by any breath
from the great storms of the living present which are braying
around him, or the earthquakes which are grumbling beneath
his feet. But this isolation is not altogether a matter of
choice, even in the case of the poor tobacco-smoking beerbesotted Teut; and with regard to Socrates and Plato, we
may easily see that they had the best possible reasons for
not mixing themselves up with the political factions and
personalities of an age which, they were convinced, if saved at
all from impending perdition, could be saved only by a radical
moral revolution. The same wise abstinence from political
questions is observable also in the preachers of the Gospel.
For men, in the position of Socrates and Plato, to have come
forward as active politicians, would have been pretty much
the same as if bishops of the early Christian Church had
accepted office under the hostile Roman Government, before



38


Plato.


Constantine.  To take office is to accept a bribe.  The
dignified watch-dog who sits with a golden collar beside his
master's mansion, is not so free to scour the country as the
*shepherd's collie, or the tinker's tyke.  It was the love of
freedom and a sure instinct of incongruity that made the great
Founders of Greek philosophy keep aloof from the political
life of their age and nation. All the works of Plato, but especially
the Republic, disclose a moral attitude towards the Athenian
democracy, which must have rendered it impossible for the
author to have any wish to participate in the management of
a society which he regarded as based on principles fundamentally vicious, and contrary to the eternal proprieties of the
universe. Whatever might be the case with Socrates, Plato
certainly had not a single democratic element in his constitution.  He is the most thorough and consistent intellectual
absolutist that ever wrote.  Not liberty, but order and
harmony were the watchwords of that political constitution
which he admired.  We can easily imagine how little he felt
himself at home among the very smart republican voices that
found the wisest man of the age, so specially declared by the
oracle of Delphi, guilty of corrupting the youth of Athens;
and were willing to take their ideas of him from the ignorant
jests of a writer of farces, rather than from the evidence
of their own eyes and ears.  There are many things, no
doubt, in the immaculate mixed constitution of free Britain
also, which from his lofty point of survey, Plato could scarcely
have looked on with approval. Unquestionably he would
have found a bedlam in our Parliament, an oligarchy in our
peers, and a pandemonium in our populace.
The " Republic," in which the political views of the great
philosophical reformer are set forth, is in one view the most
magnificent, in another the weakest and most inefficient of
Plato's works. It is magnificent as at once an ideal structure
of the most perfect social harmony, and a grand architectural.summary of the whole mundane system of the most loftyminded of philosophers; inefficient as a practical exposition
of social life, either in its origin, its complex existing relations,
or its probable issues. The fact is, that in perfect consistency
with the whole philosophy of innate ideas, it does not, and
cannot, assume any historical position at all. It only projects



The Republic.


39


a moral possibility, and it stands as invulnerable against the
objections of so-called practical men, as the precepts of the
morality of the New Testament do, against the common
objection that they are too good for the world.  Plato had a
perfect right to project the scheme of a social existence, with
an utter disregard of all that was or has been in actual
government; which, useless to every other effect, might at least
serve as an unattainable ideal of perfection, by comparative
approximation to which the excellence of all-existing states
might be measured; and he has done so actually in certain
points of view, which will make his book useful as a moral
measurer to the end of time. But, on the other hand, he had
no right, as a political philosopher, to ignore certain fundamental principles of humanity, out of which as from a root
our wholo political and social nature grows, and to build up a
social fabric of imaginary human beings, whose existence may
indeed be supposed, but is altogether unknown. What should
we think of an architect who should sketch out the plan of
an aerial palace, on the supposition that stones might be got
of sufficient magnitude, as light as air bubbles, as elastic as
caoutchouc, and as radiant as the sun? But stones are stones;
and the architect ought to know this.  Not to mention the
very wonderful misprision of the important element of family,
there is one fundamental defect in Plato's Republic, which
must ever stamp its author, amid wonderful richness and
nobility, as one of the most one-sided and unpractical of
thinkers.  He is so carried away by his antipathy to the
democratic practices then existing in Athens, that he actually
sketches the outline of a perfect state, from which the ideas
of free development, active citizenship, and public spirit, are
completely excluded. No doubt he supposes a body of
perfectly wise men as the rulers; but even with this provision,
a society in which every individual was moulded by a fixed
type from above, and no free play given to individual
character, would be apt, amid extreme virtuousness, to sink
into an utter stupidity, of which no perfect example has
hitherto been found, even among the most consistently stupid
absolutisms of modern times.    The nearest realization of
Plato's perfect republic on earth, as has been well remarked,
is the Roman Catholic Church. There we find in the bishops



40


Plato.


and other High Church dignitaries, an aristocracy, founded
professedly on the purest system of morality that was ever
preached, from whom the mass of Christian men, sitting in a
passive attitude, are to receive the most important wisdom
and the most exalted virtue. How pleasant this is to an
amiable female imagination, that God should commission a
band of hoary-bearded, benignly-beaming, shovel-hatted men, to
sit in Rome (the modem ouaXk6 of the earth), and think, and
see, and feel for us, the benighted millions, and save us from
the disagreeableness of doubt, the labour of inquiry, and the
delicacy of choice!  But pleasant as this fancy may be,
it can only be realized at a price too high to be paid for it,
viz., universal apathy and stupidity.  For if either the
Roman Pope, or Plato, or Dr. Pusey, are to appoint boards
of men, divinely commissioned to think for us in all important
matters, what is the use of thinking? In that case, the
King of Prussia might probably agree with these famous
philosophers and theologers, that the shoemaker should think
about his shoes, the sausage-maker about sausages, and the
law-maker about his laws, in a word, as Plato is constantly
saying:-Ta eavrov 7rparTeTr efcao-TToS that " every man mind
his own business; " but to whatever perfection such a system
of harmoniously divided responsibility, might bring pinheads and the public peace, it certainly would give the deathblow to all that we understand by the honourable phrases of
citizenship, public duty, and public spirit. Where there is
no freedom there can be no public, no people, only a compact
organization of separate trades and professions. Verily, a
strange world it would be, of which the wise men of Rome,
of Oxford, of Berlin, or of Plato's Bepublic, should have the
making!
We have thus finished a hasty sketch of the intellectual
character and position of the great master-architect of the
philosophy of ideas.  I hope I have said enough to convince the intelligent reader that this philosophy is not in its,
essence a mere subtle crotchet of an over-refined mind, or the
luxuriant efflorescence of a lofty imagination, but is in every view
entitled to that high sovereignty over the human soul in its
speculative struggles, which it has exercised more or less now
during a period of above 2000 years. Plato, like Aristotle, has



Wordsworth, Coleridge, Tennyson, Carlyle, etc..41
been used and abused by various parties; and the world, as is
its wont, may often have taken more note of the abuse of what
was noble in this case than of its use. But as the character
of Aristotle has come unsullied from the cobweb weavings
of medieval schoolmen, and the consequent vituperations of
men like Luther and Bacon, who paint him chiefly after the
caricatures of his pseudo-disciples, so Plato, after seeing his
name used for centuries to stamp every idlest imagination
that has steamed up from the diseased brain of every transcendental devotee, can still be recognised by all who wish to
find him, as the great bearer of all the loftiest truths to which
the human mind in its hours of loftiest exercise aspires.
Behind the pure Doric temple of his intellectual system,
when the mists of' centuries of vain talkers are blown aside,
the blue sky of sober contemplation shines as clearly now, as
ever it did to the Alexandrian fathers, who recognised in the
great preacher of ideas the preparatory Moses of the heathen
world; and, from pillar to pillar of that stable architecture,
festoons woven from  the flowers of paradise blossom with
the same brightness, and scatter the same fragrance, that
belonged to them in their native gardens of the Academy.
We may account ourselves particularly happy in the present
age, when the whole tone and temper of those writers who
are exercising the deepest influence on the expanding intellect of the generation to come, are all either profound disciples or spiritual brothers of the great apostle of innate truths.
Wordsworth, Coleridge, Tennyson, Carlyle, Kingsley, Maurice,
Elizabeth Browning, are all fundamentally Platonic.  The
nation which produced minds of this class is not altogether
"a nation of shopkeepers;" and the age which delights in
the productions of their genius believes in something better
than the mere mass of material "production " which is the
idol of a certain school of political economists.  Plato, I
venture to predict, will be the favourite author of the men
who read Greek in the very delicate and difficult transition
epoch of the national speculation on which we seem to be
entering; and the restored familiarity with such a thinker
may not remain without some very sensible influence on our
received formulas of expression in the highest regions of speculation and faith.
J. S. B.



EARLY ENGLISH LIFE IN THE DRAMA.


T HE old historians narrate facts to us which might be safely
predicated of any nation under the sun; the severe virtues
of the Republic, the superb impurities of the Empire; how
masses of men met together, and how stern discipline and the
Roman square endured the assaults of barbarians; admirable
lessons indeed, and deserving due consideration from all
subsequent soldiers and statesmen.  Still these are but the
dry bones of history, from which the roundness of form and
the light of life have departed, and something more is needed
to refill the shrivelled husk of the past.  Livy may write of
dynasties, and C-esar of battles; but a passing glimpse into
an antique dwelling-house at Herculaneum or Pompeii brings
us into more intimate contact, not it may be with royal or
military formalities, but with quick-witted men who, along the
white sands of their sea-girt Calabria, lived, and enjoyed life,
sumptuously.   And through this association the most trivial
details are invested with significance and interest.  The unstrung harp of the dancing-girl-lying there idle in the window,
as it has lain since she cast it from her in the first terror of
her flight-becomes tragic as Ophelia or Lear!
In English histories-whether literary or political-this
connection has been too long neglected.  Much of our ephemeral literature is of no value whatever, except as indicating
the political faith of the society wvhich produced it: and the
problems of our political history cannot be interpreted aright
apart from the effervescent table-talk which illustrates and
explains them.  Our social literature assumes an important



England in the Fifteenth Century.


43


function when regarded as the habitual expression of national
life-; and our political history ceases to be a record of hopeless and unintelligible conflicts when read by the light of the
minor moralities.
Among ourselves such men as Hallam, Macaulay, and
Froude have done good service by asserting this sound principle of historic criticism; but we must not forget that these
writers have avowedly treated the connection, exclusively or
mainly, from the political point of view.  So that a history of
" The Social and Political Literature of England "-a history,
that is, where the characteristic forms of literary activity shall
not be subordinated to the authoritative facts of public lifeis a history that remains to be written.  I have selected for
analysis the era which followed the termination of the protracted conflict between the Houses of York and Lancaster,
as one in which this union, especially as preserved in our
dramatic literature, may be illustrated not without interest.
And I purposely select the reign of Henry VII. because-as the
breathing-place between the strife of the Roses and the strife
of the Reformation-it supplies an age in which the forms of
the old life, half military, half monastic, continued to exist; an
age, therefore, which may be rightly regarded as typal in its
essential conditions of several preceding centuries. The spirit
of the living God already stirred upon the face of the waters;
but that colossal system which the statecraft and priestcraft
of seven centuries had consolidated, though stricken at the
heart, remained to outward seeming in vigorous and obstinate
vitality.
The changes that have taken place in the external aspect
of this country since the close of the fifteenth century are
sufficiently remarkable.  A more complete metamorphosis has
not been effected in the character of the English people than
in the character of the land which they inhabit.     Great
forests, such as now clothe the American savannahs, stretched
across whole counties. The traveller might wander for days
through the open straths by which they were traversed without
encountering a single human habitation, except the wooden
lodges of the keepers who protected the game. The Normans, in their, passion for field-sports, laid waste entire



44


Early English Life in the Drama.


districts which had been rescued from sterility by the industrious energy of the Saxon; and though the later sovereigns
had forced their nobles to adopt a more sagacious policy, so
that large tracts in fertile situations had been and were being
"disforested;" yet, to the end of Henry's reign, the woods
and marshes occupied a good half of the land of England.
The fens were of even greater magnitude than the forests.
Many of them   extended continuously for more than thirty
miles, and travelling was much impeded, as it was necessary
to skirt their borders.  The city of Elie stood in the midst of
one upwards of sixty miles in length, and was, like the ancient
capital of Mexico, approached by three great dykes thrown
across the marshes. The rich meadow pastures which now
surround the town were overflowed for months together;
the cormorant and other sea birds haunted the eaves of the
abbey and the precipitous towers of the cathedral; and from
the walls the eye embraced a vast expanse of water, dotted
with green wooded islands, and traversed by the narrow lines
of the causeways which led to the mainland.   A   desolate
waste indeed --and the picture of that inland sea which the
old chronicle enables us to reconstruct, communicates a
peculiar charm to the well-known fragment which describes
King Canute and his knights lying on their oars, and listening
to the even-song of the monks.'
Around the chief towns, and throughout several counties
in the immediate neighbourhood of the metropolis, the country
was tolerably cultivated.  Even under the most enterprising
landowners, however, the proportion of arable to pasture land
was comparatively insignificant.  It is impossible to ascertain
the total amount of grain then produced in England; but
from the extraordinary variations in the price of wheat which
" Merie sungen the muneches binnen Elie,
The Cnut Ching rew there by;
Roweth, cnihtes, near the land,
And here we thes muneches saeng."
Harrison mentions the three causeways that led to Elie; the cormorant, he adds, was called the " night raven." " There is no cause wherefore I should describe the cormorant among hawks, of which some be
black, and many pied, chiefly about the Isle of Elie, where they are taken
for the night raven."



The Red Deer and the Beaver.


45


generally took place during the year, and from the frequency
with which we find the poorer classes reduced to bread made
of C"peasen, vetches, and fern-roots," we may infer that the
quantity raised was hardly adequate to meet the necessities
of a not very dense population.      For more than three
hundred years these fluctuations are observable; but as centuries elapse, and cultivation extends, they become less continuous and extreme.    In the year 1246 the price of the
bushel of wheat was sixteen shillings; three years before it
had been as low as two.     During 1254 it sold in the Northampton market at one pound; in the Dunstaple at a fourth
of that price.  At Leicester, in the early part of March 1317,
it was fifty-four shillings; four days later it fell to fourteen;
during the harvest it reached eighty; a fortnight afterwards,
when the crop had been collected, it was under six.   From
these and similar statistics, we are entitled to conclude that
the supply of grain was often insufficient for the demand; that
at the commencement of autumn the nation was generally in
great want, sometimes on the verge of starvation; and that,
consequently, the extent of land under permanent cultivation
must have been extremely limited.'
Dense masses of forest, immense breadths of moor and
morass, narrow stripes of arable and considerable tracts of pasture ground-such was the aspect presented by England in the
fifteenth century. The forests were stocked with the roe and
the fallow, and the antlered red-deer, who has now retreated
into the naked fastnesses of Athol or Braemar, then " haunted
the fens of Doncaster, and the great meres thereabouts."
Along the sluggish banks of the inland rivers colonies of industrious beavers had erected their lodges, " wherein," says an
old naturalist, " their bodies lie drie above the river, although
they so provide most commonly that their tails may hang
within the same;" and no traveller could fail to notice " the
fair warrens of conies," which met him wherever he went.
1 State of the Poor, by Sir F. M. Eden, Bart., 1797. Appendix Table of
Prices. Local History of Chester in the Vale Royal. It is necessary to
remember, however, that an acre never produced more than twelve bushels
of wheat or "one good load of hay." Of course, this difference in the
rate of production must be taken into account when estimating the total
extent of cultivation.



46


Early English Life in the Drama.


Rabbits were then a valuable article of commerce, as the fur,
especially the black, was in great repute for various articles
of dress, and the production of " conies" had consequently
become a stereotyped branch of trade.    Among the fens, and
upon the unenclosed commons, numerous birds which are
now seldom or never met with in this country, then bred
regularly, and remained throughout the year. Flocks of the
great bustard strode ostrich-like along the downs; and from
the meres, amid the cackling of an innumerable assemblage of
the rarer wild-fowl, might be heard at times the solitary boom
of the bittern, or the trumpetted alarm of the wild swan.
No human intruder disturbed their solitariness, save where
the unfrequent cabin of a half-savage waterman nestled among
the reeds, or the evening bell rang from the white walls of an
island monastery. For the uncompromising genius of the
Church had penetrated these primitive seclusions, and men
who shrank from the rough issues of common life, practised,
upon the Marsh of Romney, or among the Lincoln Washes,
the perilous virtues of the cloister.1
The English of the fifteenth century are naturally distributed into two great classes-the clergy and the commonalty.
The distribution was patent at a glance.       The manorial
residence of the Norman baron, and the white conventual
buildings belonging to the monks, which flanked the village on
either side, and within the village itself the richly decorated
chapel, whose rustic spire pointed heavenward, and the still
effigy of the old knight underneath, with his nerveless fingers
playing with the hilt of his half-sheathed sword, forcibly
expressed the twofold influence-monastic and militarywhich then determined the characteristic details of English
society.
All over Britain, the monastic bodies had secured for
themselves the goodly places of the land.     The number of
the monks was almost incredible. Even in particular districts,
and attached to single houses, they were to be estimated not
x Description of England by W. Harrison-prefixed to Holinshed's
Chronicle, 1574. Leland's Itinerary, 1538 (2d edition, Oxford, 1744).
Ramsey Abbey was on an island in the Lincoln Washes, and the Franciscans had, in 1264, a convent on Romney Marsh.-Mores Catholici,
iii. 260.



Romance of the Monastery.


47


by tens or by hundreds, but by thousands.' Such a drain
upon the energies of an industrious population could ill be
sustained, even under the most favourable circumstances; and
when this immense array turned its arms against the society
it had been instituted to protect, we need not wonder that
the burden should have quickly become intolerable.    But
looking  at its  external aspect, the  conventual system
undoubtedly communicated an impressiveness to our public
life which it has never since entirely recovered. That around
it, therefore, many fond regrets and anticipations should linger,
which the Reports of Royal Commissioners, and the Records
of Consistorial Courts cannot quite remove, need not surprise
us.  There is much to excuse the artistic devotee, and Mr.
Digby may be pardoned for the emotion he expresses when
describing the evils that have come to pass in this country
since it fell away from the Catholic unity of Christendom.
In the old " ages of faith," the monks, he tells us, were in
the habit of inscribing pious aphorisms upon the rocks and
trees around their dwellings, for the solace and refreshment
of the orthodox. When the way was steep and rugged, as
in the ascent to Monte Calvaro at Domo Dossolo, the pious
procession was comforted by the assurance that such-like was
the path to heaven; or directed, when bewildered among
the mazes of the forest, to the guidance of a spiritual powerSancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in praelio.
But among the alienated ruins of Nutley Abbey, Mr. Digby's
devout enthusiasm can trace no reverent inscription; only at
best a gruff Protestant intimation, warning    all belated
Anglicans, with English directness, that whoever does not
keep the beaten path will be prosecuted according to law!
A lamentable backsliding indeed, and genuine Catholics
may reasonably lament the degeneracy; but it will take some
time, we suspect, to convince our hard-headed countrymen
that the English nation is less brave, or honest, or generous,
1 In the Monastery of St. Finian, in Ireland, there were at one time
3000 monks; the Abbey of Bangor, near Carrickfergus, contained 4000;
and Bangor, in Wales, was divided into eight compartments, to each of
which 800 monks were assigned.-Mores Catholici, iii. 226.



48


Early English Lfe in the Drama.


or practically devout, since it has ceased to practise these
pretty and sentimental pieties.'
But it cannot be disputed that the life of a cathedral city
in these days was a life thoroughly artistic. The ecclesiastical artist understood perfectly what was wanted, and every
effect was characteristic and impressive.  The most minute
detail had been anxiously studied, even down to the melancholy warning of the death-crier.2     And what a scene it
presents!   Within the cathedral itself, under the grotesque
mouldings, and among the noble forms of Catholic art, that
august inevitable ritual is being continually repeated. On the
benches of the chapter-house, the policy of princes is freely
canvassed by mitred ecclesiastics; in the adjacent cloister,
the clergy solemnly exorcise a baron possessed by the devil;
at the feet of a dirty devotee in rags the noblest damsel in
the county seeks grace and absolution on her knees. Within
the conventual buildings hard by, all manner of men are to be
met with,-the patient illuminator of pious missals, the wily
grey-eyed old abbot, the miscreant who cannot venture beyond
the gate of the sanctuary, the faded beauty and the tainted politician who have retreated from the world to learn that for the
broken heart there is no release "this side o' the earth."
Beyond the immediate control of the higher ecclesiastic, the
1 Iores Catholici, iii. 271.-The "Ages of Faith " is a curious book,
full of all manner of learning, Christian and Pagan, priestly and
scholastic; there is power, too, of a rambling and discursive kind, and
many of the descriptions of local scenery are admirably picturesque;
but, on the whole, the book is painful, incomplete, illogical, and unsatisfactory.
2 In a statute passed towards the end of the reign of Henry VIII.,
it is ordered " that clarks are to ring no more than the passing-bell for
poare people, unless for an honest householder, and he a citizen; nor
for children, maydes, journeymen, apprentices, day-labourers, or any
other poare person." Is this the first intimation of that "respect for
persons " characteristic of Protestant sects, and which the arrogant impartiality of Catholicism repudiated-in theory at least? In 1662, the
Bishop of Worcester asks, in his visitation charge:-" Doth the parish
clerk or sexton take care to admonish the living, by tolling of a passing-bell,
of any that are dying, thereby to meditate of their own deaths, and to
commend the others weak condition to the mercy of God?"-Annals of
Worcester in the Olden Time, 1849.  Sir Walter Scott, in the Border
if[instrelsy (ii. 33), asserts that the custom is still (1803) retained in
many villages in Scotland.



The English Layman: Spirit of Liberty.


49


scenes, though still attesting the supreme authority of the Church,
are not so artistically arranged. Pilgrims; swarming with vermin, swarm along the highways, filthy mendicants recount their
filthy adventures at this or the other shrine, pardoners dispose
of their stale charms cheaply to the nearest bidder. Crucified
saints are stuck over the doorways of taverns, and emaciated
Madonnas hang in stable windows. The crazy guesses and
grotesque vagaries of men, partly sad, partly satirical, shape
themselves into quaint combinations-Dances of Death and the
like. Hoary Pagan superstitions and the obstinate charities of
Catholicism, vices and virtues, penances and pardons, the
seven sacraments and the seven deadly sins; all are huddled
together, pitifully, impiously, ludicrously! Still that vagrant
populace is controlled by one common impulse, and the tangled
forest of Gothic foliage which sweeps into the evening sky,
protects a society, which, throughout its intricate issues, is
pledged to maintain the faith " once delivered to the saints."
Against the tyranny of this magnificent organization, the
English layman opposed his natural sense of independence,
and the action of his municipal system.    Excepting the
haughtier Norman nobility, who, in the civil wars, had nearly
exterminated each other, the gentry were exclusively resident
on their estates.  Some of them   occasionally proceeded to
London for the transaction of public business; but the hardship 'of being sent there was considered so great-although
the burgesses at least were -paid for their attendance-that the
Crown was frequently obliged to compel the shires and burghs
to elect parliamentary representatives.1  Impassable roads
infested with highwaymen, wretched hostels infested with
vermin, made it a matter of difficulty and peril to reach the
metropolis from a distant county. Nor were natural obstacles
considered sufficient to guard the provincial nationalities;
artificial restrictions were added. The bye-laws of the countycourts and of the burgh-magistrates were conceived in a
peculiarly jealous and hostile spirit.  The most common
articles of consumption, as wheat and butter, could not be
1 The burgh representatives were paid for their attendance on Parliament at the rate of two shillings a-day.-Social History of the Southern
Counties, by George Roberts; a work containing much curious information.
E



50


Early English Life in the Drama.


transmitted from one county to another, except in small quantities and by special license. Numerous economic evils were
no doubt produced by this rigorous surveillance-such, for
instance, as the remarkable difference in the price of provisions
which existed simultaneously in neighbouring markets-but,
on the whole, it cannot well be questioned that the policy was
dictated by sound and prudential considerations.  It enabled,
nay, indeed forced, each district of the kingdom to preserve
within itself the elements of a healthy and independent society.
The position, too, in which the landlord stood to his tenant, had
long before been greatly modified, and villenage, in its oppressive forms, had been converted into a more humane and honourable relation. "Let no man, for the future," said a statute of
the twelfth century,1 "presume to carry on the wicked trade of
selling men in market, like brute beasts, which hitherto hath
been the common custom in England:" and from that time
forward imperceptible modifications of the common law had
secured the emancipation of the serf.    The gentry thus
appeared, not as scions of the nobility, but as leaders of
the people, with whom, on their many national and religious
festivals, they familiarly mingled. To the working classes
themselves, especially to those engaged in commerce, the
existence of the local guilds and of the great trading societies,
supplied, besides, an obvious basis of co-operation and
defence.  The effect of a system which concentrates in the
capital the minute machinery of governmient is invariably to
weaken and enervate the national life; and had such been
the secular policy of the middle ages, there can be no doubt
that the yoke of the ecclesiastic would have been much more
firmly rivetted than it was; but, fortunately, the discharge of
provincial duties, and the exercise of local government, had
made the English civilian, the yeoman as well as the gentleman, tenacious of his rights, and jealous of his liberties.
We cannot now form any very definite notion of the
material comfort of the general population. The houses, we
are aware, were built of wood; for although bricks were
known in the reign of Henry VI., they were little used until
the beginning of the next century.    The cottages of the
working classes (a few planks nailed together, and plastered
' 1102. 3 Henry I.



Material Confort of the People.


5s1


over with mud to keep out the cold), were, of course, the most
imperfect in construction; but, except in point of size, the
residences of the country magnates would not have gained
much by comparison. A pallet stuffed with straw, and a
"good round log for a pillow," formed the usual couch of not
a few who were certainly classed among the gentry. "Lattices, and fine rifts of oak, in checker-wise," supplied the
place of glass, which was then only used for church windows.
Even in 1567 it continued so rare and expensive a luxury,
that stringent precautions were taken for its preservation.
"It were good," says the steward, in his report on Alnwick
Castle, "that the whole lights of every windowe, at the
departure of his lordship, and during the time of his lordship's
absence, zoere taken downe and laid z in safety, until, on his
return, they be set up anew."  Chimneys were little used, and
the dense smok'e of the wood or peat fire was allowed to
escape as it best could.  The people were, on the whole,
well fed; rye and barley bread, bacon, cider and beer, and
upon the sea-coast, herrings, forming their usual fare. A plain
hospitality was at that time the fashion, but the rich soon
became more fastidious, so much so, that, in the succeeding
reign, "the cookes of the nobility were for the most part
musical-headed Frenchmen and strangers."    The people
throve upon their homely fare, and do not appear to have
been much afflicted by any general distemper until the end
of the century, when the sweating-sickness broke out, and,
with the plague, lasted almost uninterruptedly for one hundred and fifty years.  "Early to bed, early to rise," was the
universal maxim, and our forefathers had breakfasted, and
begun the work of the day, at an hour when we are leaving the
assembly or the supper-party.  The wages of agricultural
labourers were generally regulated by statute, and had been
steadily increased from ten shillings, which was about the
highest rate fixed in 1388, to upwards of one pound per
annum, the maximum in 1490. But it was in the style of dress
that the contrast between the rich and the poor was offensively marked. The Normans, whose taste was always gaudy
and cumbrous, delighted in a rich and elaborate toilet, while
they compelled the Saxons to retain the simple style dictated
by primitive habits. Many sumptuary laws were passed for



52            Early English Life in the Drama.
this express purpose, and the 22d Edward IV. cap. 1, for
instance, enacted that only " gentlemen " should wear "pikes"
to their shoes, boots more than eleven inches in length, or
commit any    other fashionable  absurdity  then  current.
Thus while the lower orders, in scanty and sad-coloured
vestments of Kendal-cloth, retained no small resemblance to
their forefathers who had fallen at Hastings, the attire of the
upper classes, especially of the great dignitaries in church
and state, had become superb and extravagant. The nobles
clothed themselves in velvet gowns, lined with rich furs, and
powdered with jewellery; to these their dames added the
white satin hoods which they wore when travelling, and the
evening head-gear, which, towering up to a peaked horn in
the centre, like that in Michael Angelo's statue of Moses, fell
on either side in showers of transparent folds, through which
glittered the meshes of the golden caul of net-work which confined the hair. No doubt these fashions now appear sufficiently
preposterous; but it is wonderful what puerilities a red lip or a
pair of black eyes can redeem; and, notwithstanding the
libels which the old portrait painters have perpetuated,
it appears certain that the fair Englishwoman of the fifteenth
century, in her hoops and horns, was not a whit less captivating than her demure and puritanic descendant. Indeed,
in so far as a thorough understanding of the capacities of brilliant colouring, and the felicitous adjustment of rich and
ponderous draperies went, our Norman ancestors were never
surpassed; and we have to thank Cromwell and his Ironsides
for the sombre and even ghastly sensations which any
assemblage of well-dressed, well-educated, nineteenth century
Englishmen inevitably produces on the artistic mind.1
To whom we are indebted for more important changes;
for to the Commonwealth must be ascribed the morose and
bitter sectarianism which saddens, to the present day, our
English civilization.  Happily the bloody and passionate
Apocalypse of the Puritans was not yet realised; and
Tribulation-Wholesome, and Praise-God-Barebones, " seques1 Eden's State of the Poor, chap. i. and Appendix.  Harrison's
Description. Leland's Itinerary. Nlorthumberland House Book, xvii. An.
1567. Dress and Habits of the People of England, by Joseph Strutt,
1799. Costume in England, by F. W. Fairholt, F.S.A., 1846.



The Poetic Life.


53


tered" from public life, continued to await, in some out-lying
region of infinite space, the advent of better times. England
was still the "merrie England" of history-the England
of cheerful contentment and generous hospitality, of Mayday-festival and Christmas cheer, of old customs and habits,
of antique sports, pastimes, and holidays.   They were not,
perhaps, very highly refined, or very widely cultivated, these
old-fashioned rustics and gentlemen; but they were brave,
healthy, athletic, sound in wind and limb, and enjoyed themselves thoroughly, as healthy men will do.'
I cannot, indeed, pretend to assert, on behalf of their moral
and spiritual life, the claims which certain writers have not
hesitated to-put forward. When we say that they were healthy,
happy, passingly honest and devout, I think we have said all
that we are entitled to say. More than that, their ballads, their
romance, their superstition, show us that they were not.
Most of their ballads, indeed, are strikingly prosaicespecially when compared with the Scotch.     The poetry of
the northern nation has all the elements of poetic powergenuine pathos and passion, sudden imaginative glimpses, a
startled sense, at times, of the mysterious darkness round
about. The supernatural, in particular, is gifted with a
strange horror, which chills the blood, and even the volatile
and capricious elfs (too unsubstantial, one would suppose, to
be associated with the burden of responsibility, except by an
intellect constitutionally morose and passionate) are allied
with a gloomy destiny and a mysterious retribution. And
the story is told so plainly, so directly, so simply, with such
resolute homeliness, that we dare not disbelieve it at our peril,
Then darkness covered a' the hall,
Where they sat at their meat;
The gray dogs, youling, left their food,
And crept to Henrie's feet.
1 " Consider with thyself, gentle reader, the old discipline of England,
Marke what we were before, and what we are now. Dion saith that
Englishmen could suffer watching and labour, hunger and thirst, and
beare off all stormes with head and shoulders; they fedde upon roots and
barke of trees; they would stand up to the chin many dayes in marshes
without victualles-the men in valour yielding not to Scythia; the
women in courage passing the Amazons."-The School of Abuse, Stephen
Gosson, 1579.



54


Early English Life in the Drama.


And louder howled the rising wind,
And burst the fastened door;
And in there came a griesly ghost,
Stood stamping on the floor.
Such lines as these are worth a legion of modern balladmongers! The English poems have the same obviousness and
directness of expression; but they proceed from an unimaginative and illiterate life, and are not homely, but commonplace.  In the Border-romance, there is a curious difference
between the Catholic or Royalist ballad and that of the
Cameronian,-the former, like the fated cause it celebrates,
bold, fervid, full of wild love or hate, ruth or revenge; the
latter formal, precise, pedantic,-and scrupulously suited to
the monotonous snuffle through which Habakkuk Mucklewrath
testified against the Amalekites.  With rare exceptions the
English poets are the poets of the Covenant, adapted to a
different order of things.  But there are exceptions, and The
Nut Brozwn Maid, fiom the perfectly unselfish and sacrificial
spirit which it breathes, remains for ever a noble and very
memorable tribute to the age in which it was written.
From these ballads, and from other sources, we are enabled
to form a pretty accurate estimate of the popular notions of
the supernatural.  There were, in the first place, scattered
fragments of the old Breton romance-the King of Knighthood,
the exploits of the Round Table, and,
Fairy damsels met, in forest wide,
By knights of Logres and of Liones,
Launcelot, or Pelleas, or Pellenore.
I do not think, however, that these romance-forms, or the peculiar demoniac agencies with which they were accompanied,
retained, in the fifteenth century, much influence over the heart
of the people. They were originally a foreign element, and had
never been thoroughly naturalized, at least among the rustic
population, without whose active co-operation no superstition
can hope for permanence.    " The Elf-Queen, with her jolie
compagnie," was the true offshoot of the popular imagination;
though even she and her subjects, the proper denizens of
Faerie, were subordinated, with true English literalness, to the
grotesque form of Robin Goodfellow.  That " merry wanderer



" The Adventures of Sir Gawuen."


55


of the night" at least was thoroughly national, and, as the
homely avenger of the more homely duties, the poetic
justice of the peace, the mad humourist whose mirthful
antics " frighted the maidens of the villagery," and to whose
malicious intervention the trivial annoyances of domestic life
were attributed, was undoubtedly the centre of a superstition
always most authentic   when   most literal.  Puck   was
distinctly a compromise, the recognized channel of intercourse between the common and the spirit world.      But
the English fairies themselves were not the elastic and
evanescent creatures of the poetic imagination; they were
gross, substantial, "of the earth, earthy;" the benignant
promoting the performance of the plain domestic duties;
the malignant, like those described by Gervase of Tilbury,
who, when the household had-retired, "came to the hearth
at night, devoured frogs, were of antiquated countenance
and wrinkled visage, diminutive, and clothed in    rags,"
-not a very ideal conception surely.  Queen Titania was
in no way superior to her subjects, and the affection which,
in the Midsummer's Dream, she lavished on an ungainly
mortal, had not unfrequently, if we are to credit the popular
authorities, been as indiscriminately bestowed.1
The union of the two elements, into which I would chiefly
resolve the national supernaturalism, the King Arthur romance
and the local fairy traditions, is strikingly illustrated in a
very beautiful and curious fragment republished by Mr. Halliwell, "The Adventures of Sir Gawen."  Though the language
has been modernised, the form  of the legend, which can be
traced back at least as far as the fifteenth century, has undergone little alteration.  Arriving, towards the close of a summer evening, at the entrance to a forest, Sir Gawen, one of
the heroes of the Round Table, alights, and tying his horse
to a tree, threads his way through the dense vegetation to
an old and ruinous castle.  Here he incautiously enters, and
the ghostly adventures which then ensue are narrated with
great dramatic effect. As he groped his way through the dark
' Ritson's Fairy Tales, 1831. Life of Robin Goodfellow, 1628. The
Cosenages of the TMest, 1613. Gervase of Tilbury, Otia Imperialia, s. i.
c. 18: Percy's Reliques of Old English Poetry. Illustrations of Fairy
Mythology, by J. O. Halliwell, 1845.



56            Early English Life in the Drama.
vaults underneath, a sudden and agonizing shriek burst forth
above him, and " something rudely brushing down grasped
him with tremendous strength; in a moment he became
motionless, cold as ice, and felt himself hurried back by some
irresistible being; but just as he reached the vault, a spectre
of so dreadful a shape stalked by within it, that, straining
every muscle, he sprang from  the deadly grasp."  Seeing a
faint blue light in an upper chamber, he went towards it, and
beheld, from a distance, the form of a human corse simmering
above the fire.  He looked on with a horrible fascination,
until, " as the last pale portion of the light died away, the
scarce distinguished form of some terrific being floated slowly
by, and again another dreadful groan ran deepening through
the gloom."   Whilst he was thus agitated with horror and
apprehension," a dim light streaming from behind, accompanied
with a soft, swift, and hollow tread, convinced Sir Gawen
that something was pursuing him, and, struck with bewildering fear, he rushed unconscious down the steps, and fell forward
on the ground." When he returned to consciousness, the
images of death, and the rites of witchcraft, had vanished, and
he awoke among the soft, sweet, and tranquil scenery of a
summer moonlight night. He had been guided to Fairy-land
during his trance, and the vision of the Fairy-camp, pitched
in the centre of a circular lawn, " whose tint and softness were
beyond compare, and which seemed to have been lightly
brushed by fairy feet," is charming.    Not many minutes
elapsed " ere he discovered, on the border of the lawn, just
rising above the wood, and floating on the bosom of the air,
a being of the most delicate form; from his shoulders streamed
a tunic of the tenderest blue, his wings and feet were clothed
in downy silver, and in his grasp he had a wand white as the
mountain snow. He rose swiftly in the air, his brilliance
became excessive from the lunar rays, his song echoed through
the vault of night, but having quickly diminished to the size
and appearance of the evening star, it died away, and the
next moment he was lost in' ether.    Sir Gawen still fixed
his eye on that part of the heavens where the vision had disappeared, and, shortly had the pleasure of again seeing the starlike radiance, which in an instant unfolded itself into the fulland
fine dimensions of the beauteous being, who, having collected



The Catholic Element: Mariolatry.


57


dew from the cold vales of Saturn, now descended rapidly
towards the earth, and waving his wand as he passed athwart
the woods, a number of like form and garb flew round him,
and then, shaking their wings, which spread a perfume through
the air, burst into one general song."  Then from the wood
emerged fairy damsels clad in white, and warlike knights in
mail of tempered steel, and in the centre arose a throne of
ivory inlaid with sapphires, whereon sat a form  of exquisite
beauty; " a plain coronet of gold obliquely crossed her flowing
hair, and her robe of white satin hung negligent in ample folds."
The gold-crowned Queen of Faerie courteously addresses Sir
Gawen, but, just as the knight is about to reply, she fades into
the moonlight, the spirits disappear, and in the white light of
the summer dawn, he finds himself beside his charger, who is
cropping the grass by the side of a public thoroughfare.  The
story, of which I have selected a few prominent points, is
striking, and admirably told, and deserves to be more generally
known, as one of the most graphic and pictorial of our legendary superstitions.1
These demoniac and benignant beings constitute, as I
have said, the principal dramatis personce in the popular religion; but there are others, and even the machinery of Catholicism is not omitted.  In an age, indeed, when every
husbandman tied a stone with a hole in its centre round the
neck of his cattle, "to allow the devil to goe through," it is
not surprising that the Arch-fiend should have played a
conspicuous part in any popular performance, as indeed he
did.  But the frequent allusion to the Mater Unigeniti, as in
that old ballad of Thomas the Rhymer, where the poet
mistakes the Queen of Faerie for the Virgin Mother, "that
bare the childe that died for me," seem to me to prove that
Madonna-worship must have existed at one time as a much
stronger instinct among the English people than we are now
inclined to admit.  Selected to associate the secular supernaturalism with the ecclesiastical superstition-the only form
which habitually appears in both-Mary was no doubt the
object to whom the homely habitual devotion of the people
spontaneously turned.  Mariolatry,-an idolatry which repre

1 Halliwell's Illustrations of Fairy Mythology, p. 77.



Early English Life in the Drama.


sents a great truth so long as it asserts that the characteristic virtues of manhood are imperfect and incomplete without
the womanly tenderness, meekness, purity, but which becomes
false and pernicious when it ceases to perceive that even the
feminine side of human life has been more perfectly manifested
in the comprehensive fulness of the Son's humanity than
in any special form of womanhood, - Mariolatry has been
represented as characteristic, in its more literal aspects,
of the passionate idiosyncrasies of the south; but this, among
many other facts, induces me to believe that faith in the
Madonna was quite as genuine and intense with the Teutonic
as with the Latin races.1
The trials for witchcraft supply another test by which we
may gauge the poetic characteristics of the people,- the
most trustworthy, perhaps, of any, as it owes nothing to the
1 Thomas and the Fairie Queen, Halliwell, p. 55.  All sects, however, repudiated the Fairies. Chaucer says that, in his time even, the
Catholic friars, "thicke as mottes in the sune-beamme," had dispersed the
fairy congregations; while the Protestants attributed their disappearance to the Reformation.   In The Shepherd's Dream (1612), Robin
Goodfellow, admitting in a somewhat naive aside the benefits of the
Reformation, bewails the downfall of popery and the introduction of
tobacco; and Bishop Corbctt of Norwich, in his very graceful poem,
The IFairy's Farewell, repeats the charge.
Witness these lings and rondelays
Of their's which yet remain,
Were footed in Queen Marie's days
On many a grassy plain.
When Tom came home from labour,
Or Ciss to milking rose,
Then merrily went the tabour
And nimbly went their toes,
By which we note the fairies
Were of the old profession;
Their songs were Ave Alaries;
Their dances were procession.
Ilades and Fairy-land seem to have been identified-purgatory being the
Catholic compromise-and Plut6 and Proserpina were the originals of
Oberon and Titania.
Pluto, that is the King of Faerie,
And many a lady in his compagnie,
Following his wife the Queen Proserpina.
CHAUcER, 7Te Marchant's Tale, i, 10, 101.



The Trials for Witchcraft.


59


artifice of the artist.  So much, however, has been written
upon them that it is unnecessary to refer in detail to the evidence they furnish, the substance of which it is impossible to
mistake. The English supernaturalism of the fifteenth century, as of the sixteenth and the seventeenth, was the vulgar
supernaturalism of a people, unimaginative and illiterate, and
when forced into practical life, was characterized by the cruel
and commonplace inhumanity which marks the habitual influence
on the heart of a sordid and ungraceful ignorance.1
These, and such like, were the superstitious notions
current in the fifteenth century, and it is fortunate for us and
for them that they have been transmitted to us tried in the
fire and permeated by the light of a royal imagination.     Our
SNothing, for instance, can be conceived more painfully prosaic
than the evidence commonly tendered upon these occasions; from beginning to end of the history of witchcraft, I do not believe that a single
imaginative narrative occurs. This may, perhaps, be attributed to the fact
that the witches were selected, with some well-known exceptions, from
the very dregs of the population; old, purblind, half-witted women,
utterly ignorant of-the world and of everything that did not relate to
their own unhappy caste, being the usual victims. The motives and
temptations are invariably of the meanest and most literal kind. " Being
demanded," is the deposition of Temperance Lloyd, " who and what the
said gentleman was who appeared unto her in black, the said examinant
answered and said that it was the devil; and confessed, that the devil
did ask of her whether she was a poor woman? unto whom she answered
that she was a poor woman, and that thereupon the devil, in the shape
of a gentleman, did say unto her that if this examinant would grant him
one request, that she should neither want for meat, drink, nor clothes;
whereupon this examinant did say unto the said gentleman (or rather
the devil), In the name of God what is it that I shall have? Upon which
the said gentleman vanished clean away from her."
On the scaffold the examination is resumed in this facetious wayMr. Sherif.-In what shape or colour was the devil?
Temperance.-In black, like a bullock.
Sherif.-Did you never see the devil but this time?
Temperance.-Aye, once before; I was gathering sticks, and he came
to me and said - This poor woman has a great burthen, and would
help to ease me of it; and I said, The Lord has enabled me to carry it
so far, and I hope I shall be able to carry it further.
Sherif.-Did the devil never promise you anything?
Temperance.-No, never.
Sheriff.-Then you served a very bad master, who gave you nothing.
"And so," concludes the old reporter, utterly unconscious of the tragic
hopelessness of the whole affair,-" and so was executed."-Proceedings
against the Devon Witches. Howell's State Trials, vol. iii.



6o


Early English Life in the Drama.


I


friendship is not with the " good people," who haunted the old
wooden homestead of the rough rustic who fought his way
to Richard's side on the field of Bosworth-fought for no
good reason that he knew of, but merely from the inherent
relish for hard knocks which seems natural to Englishmenit is with the fairies of the Tempest and the Midsummer
Night's Dream.   Yet the two are not separate; for Shakespeare's, however transformed, are the creatures of the popular
belief.  They are the English fairies, that we cannot doubt.
Puck, Robin Goodfellow, Oberon, these are the very names
they bore when in the body; Titania only-it is interesting
to know-being Shakespeare's own.'      And yet how they
are transfigured.  The master appropriates the grotesque
and  homely forms, "the    antiquated  gait, the wrinkled
visage;" and upon them he lays his handMarble-thewed,
Yet passing lightly as a birdgrandly, indolently, with supreme carelessness indeed, as it
seems to us now, but with supreme authority.  Oberon's, in
the moonlight, becomes a kingly presence.   Even with the
common fairy he associates more poetic functionWith female fairies will his tomb be haunted.
And how perfect is his conception of the unmalicious, though
laughter-loving Puck, when compared with the coarse, boorish,
unmannerly goblin of the old mythology.
That story of the fairy-world which Shakespeare has told
us is probably the most perfect poem in the language. There
it lies before us in its integrity, a moonlight dream, with the
sunset and the sunrise on either side of it.  Critics, however,
are profane mortals, and this charming pastoral has not been
spared.  Mr. Hallam, for instance, has asserted that the
introduction of the Ass's head is a great artistic blunder,
entirely unfitting it for representation.  Would Sir Edwin
Landseer pronounce the same judgment?        I think not.
S Spenser (in his Epithalamium) is the first, I believe, who alludes
to PuckNe let the Pouke nor other evill sprighte
Fray us with things that be not.



Titania and Bottom.


61


Even for the requirements of the stage, that patient, sagacious, long-eared face, with its air of preternatural acuteness
and solemnity, is, if adequately conceived, admirably suited.
The features of any other animal would not answer so well,
and for Titania's sake it is needful that some such should be
found. For if she really loved the uncouth, unclean, illfavoured Athenian weaver, the Queen of Faerie would forfeit
our regard.   The mnsalliance would manifest so strange a
lack of womanly taste and delicacy that we could never forgive her. Even the potent juice of " love-in-idleness" would
not explain the infatuation.  It is the ass's head that saves
Titania from  disgrace, and that alone.  That removes her
love out of the actual world, and makes it perilous no longer.
There is such a delicious exquisite incongruity in her attachment to the long-eared monster, that we recognise without
pain the delusion under which she labours, and, disengaging
her at once from any notion of responsibility, are able uninterruptedly to enjoy the charming humour of the situation.
A more considerable objection to the Midsummer Night's
Dream has been stated in an elaborate paper by Mr. Halliwell.
The human action, he says, ought not to have been introduced, as its introduction prevents us from believing in the
existence of the supernatural. " The man who wrought that
fairy picture, and introduced into it a company of illiterate
workmen, without shocking the ideal, what would he not
have accomplished had he further isolated his enchantments
from the external world?" This criticism appears to me
singularly unhappy. Reverse the proposition, and we approach the truth. The introduction of these vulgar and unmannerly boors into that gossamer life does not lessen the sense of
reality; on the contrary, it intensifies it.  It is the perfect
contact with the common and the human that makes it possible for us to believe in the existence of the supernatural.
Remove Puck, and Oberon, and Titania from this actual
world, and they will "melt into air, into thin air."   But
bring them back to the fair brakes of wood and meadow-land,
through which are visible blue visions of the YEgean, the
white marble-veined Athene, the Piraeus with its countless
masts, and Fairy-land becomes possible at least!     Then
distribute among them beings of a different order, men



62


Early English Life in the Drama.


of narrow culture, coarse habits, vulgar literalness, and just
in proportion as it is impossible to associate the element of
poetic imposture with prosaic clowns, will the conception become real, positive, substantive-a fact and not a fiction.
Were we to introduce a poet or a scholar into the fairy conclave, his imagination would at once discredit the genuineness
of the scene; but no man can doubt that if Bottom's blind
eyes actually saw Titania, Titania must have been visible.
If the toilet of the phlegmatic and pedantic weaver was performed by Peas-Blossom and Mustard-Seed, without his being
in the least surprised or embarrassed, does not such a circumstance vouch for and attest their genuineness and authenticity more authoritatively than any other could do?  Thus,
the art of Shakespeare is displayed, not by harmonizing " discordant materials," as Mr. Halliwell calls them, but by instinctively recognising that they are not discordant, by feeling that
Bottom  explains and justifies Titania, by apprehending the
artistic fact that the introduction of the one communicates
to the other a more intense and genuine vitality.1
Leaving these informal manifestations of the poetic and
imaginative life, we now come to examine the strictly and
rigorously dramatic. The early English, as I have said, were a
cheerful people, and their national and religious festivals were,
at this time, numerous: so numerous indeed, that in the petition
addressed, forty years afterwards, by the Commons to Henry
VIII., they asked, in consequence of "the great number of
holidays with very small devotion that are solemnized and kept
throughout this your realm, upon the which many great
abominable, and execrable vices, idle and wanton sports, be
used and exercised," that for the future the number should
be limited.  It was on these occasions that, besides other
"idle and wanton" sports, the spectators, with their strong
English enjoyment of the stage, eagerly crowded to witness
that primitive form of the drama which the Church may be
said to have created. Ages before the first Mystery was
written, the ballad of the wandering mynstrel had been sung
1 Shakespeare Society's Papers, vol. iv., art. 13.
2 Petition of the Commons, 1533. Froude's History of England,
vol. i. chap. 2, where the petition is quoted at length.



Origin of the English Drama.


63


in the castle-hall, and the exhibitions of the itinerant jongleur
had taken place on the village common; but these vagrant and
desultory performances, though never entirely superseded,
were eclipsed latterly by the elaborate machinery which the
Church provided. The Roman clergy have been at all times
skilful to avail themselves of national instincts, not unfrequently of national vices, and when they discovered that the
English were passionately fond of dramatic representations,
they at once appropriated the drama.  The Church, in those
early times, had practically undertaken both the secular and
the spiritual education of the people, and the stage was not
unwisely selected to play its part in the working out of this
important duty.  M. Guizot' appears to suppose that the
existence of a religious drama is characteristic of the devotional tendencies of the German races.  The explanation I
believe to be more simple. It is quite true that if a Mystery
were now to be reproduced-unless by AMr. Charles Kean,
who would probably so far succeed in divesting it of its original
peculiarities, as to make it palatable to a modern audience-it
might not be popular; and that the fact of such representations
having once been so, proves that there was a certain aptitude on
the part of the spectators for the devotional impressions it was
desired to convey. But we must carefully distinguish between
exotic culture and spontaneous growth. And the northern drama
was a religious drama not in obedience to any "supreme necessity of the human intellect;" but because the priest was the
dramatist, and the parish-clerk the performer.  The dramatic
impulse itself was undoubtedly spontaneous,--the form it
assumed must be attributed to the body who originally undertook the management of the theatre, and who naturally selected
the themes which formed their special study, and which they
deemed of paramount importance. I will consider more at
length- hereafter the connection which subsisted for several
centuries between the Church and the stage; in the meantime,
seating ourselves on the walls of the Abbey Church of Chester, let us attempt to revive those pleasant Whitsuntide
holidays of 1488, when the Chester Mysteries were played
before the authorities, civic and spiritual, in the reign of his
most gracious Majesty the Seventh Henry of England.
S Shakespeare and his Times, by M. Guizot, 1821, p. 5.



64


Early English Life in the Drama.


It is a bright morning in the month of May,-such as May
mornings -used to be in the old time, before the east wind was
invented,-and there is a goodly prospect from    the walls.
Great masses of greenwood stretch across the wide fertile
plain, through which the Dee weaves its tangled meshes. On
all hands rise, sombre in their isolated supremacy, the feudal
castles of the great northern nobles.  Far in the west the
stronghold of "the warden of the Marshes," among whose
inaccessible turrets the golden eagle has its eyrie,1 creeps
panther-like along the green and wooded precipices of Beeston.
The Welsh mountains, wrapt in their veil of blue morning
mist, seam the southern horizon, and on the other side the
surf of the Irish Sea breaks whitely along the desolate sands
of the Wirrol, and the low-lying thinly-peopled marshes of
the mainland.
In the fifteenth century extensive tracts of country, which
are now reclaimed and cultivated, lay within the sea-margin,
and a wide expanse of blue water must have been distinctly
visible from the walls of the ancient Cestrense. The city,
which, by the retreat of the tide, has been left stranded in the
interior, was at one time literally a seaport.     " Great
stores of shippes," we know, arrived at it by the Dee, when
it had become the most important town on the Western frontier; and before that period the salt water perhaps washed its
walls. During the reign of Edward III., at least, the Abbot
of Chester claimed wrecum maris, the wrecks cast by storms
upon his lands of Chevely and Huntingdon-lands which are
now many miles distant from the tideway. The Wirrol, which
skirted the northern margin of the estuary, was a wild and
desolate region, not yet "disforested," and inhabited by a
few savage and ferocious outlaws. The nature of their pursuits is vividly set forth by the frequent entries in the local
histories, which relate to "the pirates of the Worral;" and
the terror which this wild and plundering race inspiredprobably accounts for Leland's anxiety, fifty years afterwards, to
avoid the inhospitable locality.  Even towards the close of
Elizabeth's reign their social condition does not seem to have
improved, and as late as 1585 we find " sixteen pirates executed
for taking a ship out of the Worrol." This desolate Chersonese
' Harrison (p. 225) says that the eagle built on a castle near Chester.



Ancient Sea-IMar-gins.


65


approached to within a few miles of the town, from which,
it was separated by the waters of the Mersey, whose present
channel was originally clothed with an ancient forest of oak,
scarcely more impenetrable, however, than the dense thicket
of masts which lines the wharfs of the modern Liverpool.'
The city itself had witnessed many of the fluctuations of
fortune.  Its position as a frontier stronghold always made it
important. Before the Conquest it was the scene of perpetual
conflicts between the Cymry and the Saxons. The dictatorial
power conferred by William on the Constable of Chester was
justified by the unsettled habits and the incessant hostility of
his Welsh neighbours, who, even by Edward I., were little
more than nominally subdued. Since that time it had formed
the usual rendezvous for troops, whenever an expedition was
meditated against the Scotch or Welsh border; and during
the bloody conflict which the death of Richard terminated, as
its authorities arrayed themselves on either side, the red rose
of York, the white-swan badge of the House of Lancaster, were
alternately dominant in the city. These circumstances of strife
and danger had sensibly impressed their characters upon its
face, and its skilful position in a curve of the river, its fortified
castle, its massive ramparts, spoke of a garrison dangerously
exposed, frequently assailed, continually on the alert.  It is
interesting to know   that the precipitous terrace, with its
arched arcade, which rises on either side of the street   " a
singular praise or property to this city," as an old Chesterman has it, and which renders its thoroughfares as picturesque
to the modern traveller as those of Berne or Bologna-was
originally erected to enable the inhabitants on more equal terms
to defend their town against the rapid falcon-like swoop of the
guerilla horsemen of the Border.
Around the Abbey-church, and along the northern and
eastern walls, stretched the long lines of the conventual buildings, which then occupied more than a fourth of the whole
town.   The original abbey was of great antiquity, having
1,femoir of the Rapid and Extensive Changes that have taken place
at the entrance to the River Mersey, by Jos. Brookes Yates, Phil. Soc.
Liverpool, 1843. Mortimer's History of Wirrol, 1847. " Lyrpole alias
Lyverpole," says Leland, " a pavid towne, hath but a chapel. At Lyrpole
is small custume payid that causeth marchantes to resort."-Itinerary,
vol. vii.
F



66


Early English Life in the Drama.


been founded, itwas said, in 666, by Walperius, king of the
Mercians, for his fair and devout daughter St. Wertburg, from
whom it derived its name. Very beautiful to those old monks
in their lonely stronghold must have been that white vision of
pitying womanhood, leaving meekly her queenly state for the
bleak austerities of the cloister! The corroded, copper-coloured,
time-stained edifice with whichwe are acquainted, was then being
erected.  Edward I. had granted the monks "venison" from
his forests of Delamere and Wirrol to assist them in rebuilding
their church, abbot after abbot had striven for two hundred
years to bring the good work to a close, and the present occupant of the chair, Simon Ripley, had undertaken the nave, the
southern transept, and the central tower.  The massive and
gloomy pile, however, still remained unfinished, and the Reformation prevented the completion of the great cross of the cathedral according to the original design. Beyond the high wall which
fronted the north side of the building lay the North-Gate, a
spacious piazza, where the booths of the merchants who attended
the Abbots' Fair were periodically established. Thatched with
reeds, which the monks were empowered by charter to gather
from Stanlaw Marsh, and of the very slightest architectural
construction, these stalls contained every necessary, and almost
every luxury, of that primitive life; and the itinerant trader,
who wandered from fair to fair, often carried in his leathern
wallet what would have been reckoned a fortune by any baron
in England. The booths, however, have been cleared away
this May morning, and a motley multitude-friars, pardoners,
belted nobles, honest rustics, wild-looking scamps from the
marshes of the Wirrol and the Welsh border-wait eagerly
the approach of the pageant.    The whole town indeed is
crowded with visitors. Some have come to meet their friends;
others to purchase food and raiment, armour or weapons, whatever they may require during the next twelve months; others,
of a more devout turn, to avail themselves of the " one thousand
days of pardon," granted by Clement, Bishop of Rome (not to
mention the additional month guaranteed by " the Bushop of
Chester)" to whoever should resort " in peaceable manner with
good devotion to heare and see the sayd playes from tyme to
tyme,"-an effective and characteristic mode of soliciting public
support. Along the broad wall where we are seated the monks



The Chester Whitson Plays.


67


themselves are arrayed,-stout, ruddy, hale, and honest gentlemen, if one may judge of them by their looks. Which, perhaps,
it may be as prudent not to do; for I find, in a collection of
old trials, that of "dyvers wymen," who, during the previous
summer, had been indicted and condemned as " paramours of
the monks of Chester,"-a creditable proceeding in itself, perhaps, but which looks to us now just a little like punishing
the wrong parties.1
Of what may be called the stage-business of this early
drama it is difficult to obtain any ample or trustworthy account.
The more characteristic of the meagre particulars which have
been preserved, may, however, be condensed into a brief paragraph.
The Whitson Plays were acted at Chester, seven or eight
on each day, during the Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday
of the Whitsuntide week, by the various crafts in the city, to
each of whom a separate mystery was allotted. The drapers,
for instance, exhibited the Fall of Lucifer; the water-carriers
of the Dee reproduced the Deluge; the cooks had the Harrowing
of Hell. The performers were carried from one station to
another by means of a moveable scaffold, a huge and
ponderous machine, mounted on wheels, gaily decorated with
flags, and divided into two compartments, the upper of which
formed the stage, and the lower, defended from vulgar
curiosity by coarse canvas draperies, answered the purposes
of the green-room.    The performers began at the Abbey
gates, where they were witnessed by the dignitaries of the
Church; they then proceeded to the High Cross, where the
mayor and the civic magnates were assembled; and so on
throughout the city, until this motley history of God and his
dealings with man had been played out.
The production of these pageants must have been
attended with considerable outlay; " to all the city," says the
old proclamation, " follows labour and cost."  Probably, the
' Webb's Description, 1620. Archdeacon Rogers, 1581. King's Vale
Royal, 1656. The Life of the Glorious Virgin St. Werburg, London, 1521.
Ormerod's Cheshire, 3 vols. 1819; the most magnificent of the local histories. Royal Visits and Progresses to Wales, etc., by Ed. Parry, 2d edition,
1851.



68


Early English Life in the Drama.


expense of each Mystery was not less than fifteen or twenty
pounds, estimated according to the present value of money.
The dresses had been originally obtained from the churches,
but the practice seems to have occasioned much scandal
among the stricter clergy (William of Wykeham, Bishop of
Winchester in 1384, denounced the priests who were in the
habit of lending holy vestments for this purpose as guilty of
sacrilege); and the guilds had been latterly obliged to provide
the dresses as well as the other properties for themselves.
The old registers of the trading companies contain many
entries relating to these expenses, some of which are curious,
and many not a little profane. Our Lord was commonly
represented wearing a gilt peruke and a sheep-skin coat,
which was either painted or brilliantly illuminated. Lucifer
appeared in his stereotyped costume, horns and a tail, cloven
feet and a red beard, illustrating, in the latter particular,
the clumsy Pluto of the Gierusalem, and in the others the
grotesque conception of the Bennaissance. The item, " Payd
to Wattis for dressing the devil's head," seems to indicate that
an accomplished artiste was specially engaged to perform this
delicate and responsible duty. The close connection between
Judas Iscariot and the evil principle was typified, moreover,
by his red hair, against which colour, latterly modified into
the bewitching auburn of the Venetian artist, the illiterate in
these days entertained a curious antipathy.  Besides the
expenditure on dress, the players had to be remunerated for
their attendance at the rehearsals as well as at the public
performance.  The pageant accounts contain many entries
which relate to this subject- "Payd to the players for
rehearsal-Imprimis, to God, iis. viiid.; itmn. to Pilate his
wzfe, iis.; itm. to the Devil and Judas, is. vid."-only
eighteenpence, as it was probably considered inexpedient to
incur much outlay on such disreputable characters.  There
was, indeed, a regularly graduated scale of remuneration;
so that while Herod and Pilate fared sumptuously every day,
the cock that crew when Peter denied his Lord starved on a
miserable pittance-" Payd to Fauston for coc-croying, iiijd."
This Fauston seems to have had a kind of available talent,
for we subsequently meet him engaged in a different department of the drama-" Payd to Fauston for hanging Judas, vd."



The Mediaeval Stage.


69


Nor were scenic effects, altogether neglected.  "The cross,
with a rope to draw it up," and " two pair of gallows," are
prominent items in the old accounts.  But it was on "hellmouthe " that the stage artist lavished his resources, and that
he depended for his principal points.  "Payd for mending of
hell, ijd.; itm. for painting of hell-mouth, iijd.; itm. for
making of hell-mouthe new, is. ixd.; itm. for keeping fire at
hell's-mouth, iiijd.; itm. for setting the world offyer, vd. (this
last was another of Fauston's performances), are entries which
occur upon every page. "Hell-mouthe," according to the old
authorities, and as it is preserved in the early engravings, represented the head of a devouring dragon, whose red eye-balls
glared fiercely on the spectators, and whose open jaws disclosed
a murky cavern, wherein were stationed " a great company of
devils," and from which issued the despairing groans of the tormented. This diabolical contrivance in behalf of the better life,
probably proved a source of emolument to the Catholic clergy,
and in that light can be intelligibly understood; but why,
after pardons and masses have been abolished, " Hellmouthe" should be perpetuated as the supreme motive of
Christian conduct, does not at first sight appear.1
Most of the forms of our primitive literature are steeped
in an atmosphere of romance. A nation, in the spring-time
of its years, expresses its cheerfulness, if rudely, yet with boisterous animal delight. The early drama, however, is destitute
of this animated simplicity. Throughout the Mysteries we
desiderate the bloom and perfection of the child-life, the rosy
health and the exuberant vitality of a people girding up their
loins for the race, playing with the materials of life, rejoicing
in those bright lines of dawn wherein the traveller can detect
no trace of the noontide toil.  Written by monks, who often
did little more than the modern English dramatist does-translate from the French,-a Miracle-Play is merely a portion of the
Scripture narrative manufactured into a doggerel drama. A
plain and homely exposition, it is, like the lesson in a schoolbook, designed to teach, and makes no pretensions to literary
refinement. Yet, even in the most prosaic, we are sometimes
1 Sharp's Dissertation on the Coventry Mysteries, 1825. Illustrations
of the Manners and expenses of Ancient Times in England, 1797.



70            Early English Life in the Drama.
arrested by a gush of genuine poetic feeling, welling like a
clear spring through the thick crust of clownish humour and
monkish superstition, as though the human heart beat underneath after all!
The Miracle-Play has been severely condemned on moral
and artistic grounds, more especially by those who are not
perhaps best qualified to judge of such matters. Of course,
if we care to study the literature of Catholicism, we must
come prepared to encounter many Catholic legends and superstitions; as indeed we do.  In the Mystery its fictions continually recur.  There is the cherry-tree that blossomed and
bore fruit at Mary's desire, and the elder-bush on which
Judas hanged himself. The forbidden fruit sticks in Adam's
throat as he attempts to swallow it, and is the cause of the
lump in the man's gullet, which continues even to this day.
The Sybil-during the middle ages a familiar Catholic
influence,
" Dies irae, dies illa
Teste, David, cum Sybilla,
Solvet seclum in favilla,"prophesies, before Octavian, of Jesus and the judgment. A
drama is appropriated to the Assumption of the Virgin, and
another to the Harrowing of Hell; the latter a dogma of
Rome, no doubt, but preserved in England long after the
Reformation, and condensed by Spenser into one of his terse
couplets" And thou who harrowed hell with heavie stour,
The faulty souls from thence brought to thy heavenly bower."1
Few of these legends, however, can offend even the most
fastidious taste; and it is consequently against the buffoonery,
indecency, and profanity of the Mfiracle-Play, in its treatment
of the Scripture narrative, that the charge has been specially
directed. It is said that the men who composed such dramas
must have been utterly devoid of any religious impressions,
and that the representation of such spectacles must have had
an injurious effect on those who witnessed them. Many
absurd, profane, and indecent passages can no doubt be
1 Tie Faerie Queen, canto x. stanza 40.



The Miracle-Play; its Buffoonery.7.


71 -

selected; but even if these had been more numerous than
they are, I am doubtful whether it would be right at once to
assert the large conclusion to which they seem naturally to
point.  The question is indeed one of the greatest intricacy,
for, in settling it, many conflicting issues require to be
adjusted.  I will consider it in reference to the three
charges I have indicated-Buffoonery, Profanity, Indecency.
That a good deal of what we call buffoonery was introduced into this drama cannot and need not be disputed; and
some specimens of the burlesque spirit in which the Scripture
narrative was treated will prove characteristic, and enable us
to form a more accurate opinion on the point at issue. In
the "1Fall of Lucifer," the Deity "1descends fr-om his throne
and goes out," and during his absence, the ambitious archangelk a mischievous school-boy, appropriates -the master's
seat, for which he is rusticated from heaven. Milton is said
to have founded some of his most noble pictures on the rude
groundwork of the Mysteries; there is, for instance, a curious
entry in the Coventry accounts, which alludes to "the Mother
of Death;" and it is quite possible that in some cases he may
have been indebted to them; but the magnificent Lucifer of
the "Paradise Lost,"
"Hurling defiance toward the vault of heaven,"
bears indeed little affinity to the poor and spiritless fiend of
the relig-ious drama. The PRocessus Noe cam fihii9 gives a
rude but graphic account of the circumstances attending the
flood. The principal character in it is Noah's wife, who is
not very favourably or gracefully conceived.     Positive,
sensible, and matter-of-fact, she has adopted the Baconian
method of investigation, and is very vehement in the expression of her disg-ust at the ark. Her husband, she affirms, is
neglecting his business and sacrificing his family for a capricious and   chimerical crotchet.   When   all the needFul
preparations have been concluded, she swears by the Yirgin
Mary that she will never enter the ark, and Noah is ultimately forced to make use of his whip.     This shrewish
personation of the patriarch's wife is very c Iommon in the
old. plays, and seems to have been considered, both by



72


Early English Life in the Drama.


audience and author, as eminently comic. Balaam and his
Ass was another favourite topic; and the conversation between the two, in which the ass expostulates with great force,
is not destitute of humour"Am not I, master, thine own asse,
To bear thee whither thou wilt passe,
And many winters ready was?
To smite me it is shame.
Thou wot'est well, master, pardy,
Thou had'st none ever like to me,
Ne never yet so served I thee,
Now am I not to blame."
The play of The Shepherds introduces the nativity of the
Saviour.  After a prolonged conversation upon the troubles
of their domestic life, the shepherds, who are watching their
flocks by the starlight, fall asleep, and are forthwith informed
of the birth of Christ. One of their sheep having been stolen
during the time of the vision, the recovery of the property,
and the capture of the thief, form a very ludicrous episode.
Having beaten the rogue heartily, they again lie down, when
the star in the east appears, and Angelus cantat gloria in excelsus Deo, et in terra pax hominibus bonce voluntatis. Accordincg to another edition of the same Mystery, the shepherds
have a quarrel and a fight just before the appearance of the
star. Being thereby admonished, they go and present themselves and their gifts at the stable in Bethlehem. These
gifts are coarsely and absurdly burlesqued; one of them, for
instance, being a nut-hook, so that, says the donor to our infant
Lord
"To pulle down apples, peares, and plombes,
Old Joseph shall not need to hurt his thombes."
The buffoonery, exaggeration, and total absence of all dramatic
propriety which are found here are even surpassed in another,
entitled The Oblation of the Kings.  King Herod, who is
introduced into it, swears by the devil and "his cousin "
Mahomet, and rewards the councillor who suggests the
slaughter of all the children in Bethlehem by promising to
make him   "the Pope."    This primitive founder of the
papacy afterwards dies in great agony; and at the end the



Union of the Tragic and the Comic.


73


Protestant reader is gratified to learn that " the devil carries
him away." 1
Such buffoonery is certainly amenable to criticism. But
we must remember, in the first place, that it was introduced
to amuse the spectators, which it no doubt did; the audience
listening, says an old writer, "nunc silentes, nunc cachinnantes;/"
and moreover, that many of the particulars which seem to us
most ludicrous were originally spoken in perfect good faith.
The premeditated burlesque is often the least grotesque; to the
modern reader it is the genuine and exquisite naivete indeed that
proves most extravagant.
Further, it is not the characteristic machinery of Christianity that is made use of in this connection, but the subordinate scriptural characters-Noah's wife, the Shepherds,
Herod, Balaam and his Ass. Unless we require the Bible
narrative to be preserved inviolate, and removed entirely
from the sphere of secular art-an isolation indeed demanded
by certain people, who habitually confound the common and
the unclean-I do not see that we can consistently object
to the principle which this 'connection asserts,-a principle
which lies at the very root of the English character, and of
the great English Drama. In the French classic tragedy
any feeling which is not in harmony with the central emotion
is scrupulously avoided; a jest in Phidre or Athalie would
be regarded as an unpardonable impertinence, insulting
the solemnity of the occasion.      To the Englishman, who
looks the world full in the face, the law      is different.  In
1 The Chester Plays, edited by Thomas Wright, 1843.     Ludus
Coventrice, edited by J. 0. Halliwell, 1841. Collier's History of Dramatic Literature, 3 vols., 1831. Many miscellaneous contributions to
the early literature of the drama have been recently published, and an
immense mass of undigested materiel has been thus collected into an
accessible shape, chiefly through the medium of the publishing societies.
To Messrs. Dyce, Collier, and Halliwell, those who take an interest in
the subject are specially indebted.  It is much to be regretted that
the valuable library of the Faculty of Advocates in Edinburgh, is
so deficient in the literature of the drama. Of the voluminous literature of Euphuism there is scarcely a single volume. It possesses no
early editions of the works of any of our greater dramatists, and, excepting
Mr. Dyce's edition of Marlowe, none of Mr. Pickering's (now) invaluable
reprints. A small annual contribution, continued for a few years, would
serve to put this department in tolerable efficiency.



74


Early English Life in the Drama.


his wide and ample estimate of life, the comic appears
side by side with the tragic; his drama goes on with
courageous resoluteness, shining, like the sun, equally on the
evil and the good, the noble and the ignoble, the terrible
and the grotesque; and to his mind there is no incongruity
in an association which has existed since man was created.
That by sanctioning such an innovation he transgresses
the stereotyped formalities of art is to his strong practical
sense a matter of perfect indifference; he knows that he relishes
the Shakespearian stage, not in spite of its disregard of the
unities, but because (whatever may have been true of the
Greeks, whatever may be true of the Frenchman), in so far
as he is concerned, it is quite right that they should be disregarded.   It is therefore interesting to learn that this
striking idiosyncrasy of the national temperament is observable
in the earliest developments of the national imagination.
We have not to wait for Lear or Macbeth ere we find grief
and joy, pathos and humour, the king and the clown mingling
in the motley pageantry of the stage as they mingle in the
motley pageantry of life.  On the contrary, in the most
primitive form of our drama-a form for such a purpose
peculiarly unpropitious-the germ of this wise, unsectarian, and
thoroughly English insight may be detected. That the early
drama was a religious drama is of course no argument against
the practice. Religion has no right to separate itself from the
facts of life, and a spiritual is just as pernicious as a bodily
asceticism. If it is not impossible that Noah's wife was a
shrew-as matrons have been, undoubtedly, both before and
since the Deluge-surely it cannot detract from the practical
value of the Deluge as a scriptural fact to represent her as
such?
And as this profound necessity for the exhibition of real
life explains and justifies the comic element which we find
in the English as distinguished from the French Mysteries,
it also explains the anachronisms, in reference to time and
place, which abound throughout the former.   Noah's wife
might so far forget what was due to herself and her chronological position as to swear by the Virgin Mary; what cared
the spectators for that?  Such expressions they used to each
other every day, and the employment of the phraseology



Early English Realism.


75


of their familiar life on the stage only intensified the impression of its reality. The play of The Shepherds was the most
popular of the series; at Chester it was frequently acted by
itself; when any august personage visited the city he was
certain to be invited to witness it. And yet it is in its
incidents the most outrageously extravagant of them all.
Wherein lay the fascination?     Mainly in this, that the
Syrian Shepherds represented English rustics; a fact which
accounts for the special value it continues to retain to us;
preserving, as it does, a rude but elaborate picture of the old
country life of England.  We hear about the shepherds and
their sheep; the distempers from which the flocks suffered,
and the remedies-such as hot tar for the rot-which were
considered efficacious; how the women sewed their untanned
leathern socks with crows' feathers instead of thread; how
the men had green cheese and sheep's head for their dinner,
and how they washed it down with sour milk and Halton ale.
It was most improbable, no doubt, that a Syrian shepherd,
during the reign of Tiberius, could have obtained a supply of
the latter article -most improbable; but the audience, for
their part, were perfectly content, since they were thereby
brought into more direct contact with human life than they
could have been although chronological accuracy had been
scrupulously observed, and the manager, in the printed preface
to his play, had presented them with his classical authorities.1
The next charge is a delicate one, on which, from  our
modern spirit of prudery, it is almost impossible to touch.
I must, however, be permitted to allude to it in passing. Dr.
Marriot, in the preface to his collection of Miracle-Plays
(Basel, 1838), asserted that an exact representation of the
primitive state of our first parents in the Garden of Eden
was exhibited on the English stage as late as the close of the
sixteenth century. Though this modern instance has been
disputed, it seems difficult to doubt that such representations
actually did take place at an earlier period. John of Salisbury2
1 The TVinter's Tale, as represented at the Princess' Theatre, with
Note Historical and Explanatory, by Chas. Kean. John K. Chapman.
1856.
2 De Nugis Curialium, lib. i. cap. 8. Mr. Dyce has satisfactorily
disposed of Dr. Marriot's assertion, which rests upon a passage in an old



76


Early English Life in the Drama.


expressly alludes to the indecent attire of the actors; and the
stage directions to the old Mysteries supply internal evidence
which appears to substantiate the charge. In the first of the
Chester series, we are informed that Adam and Eve stabunt
nudi, et non verecundabuntur, and the fact appears still more
indisputably from a subsequent passage which refers to the
disposition of the fig-leaves.  Again, in the crucifixion, this
direction occurs-Tunc spoliabunt Jesum     vestibus, et stabit
nudus quousque sortiati sunt; and that he remained unclothed
till the conclusion is evident from  what " Caiphas" says
afterwards"Men for cock's face,
How long shall Pewdreas
Stand naked in that place?
Go traile him to the tree."
These specimens are selected from the Chester Mysteries;
the Coventry furnish illustrations of the same kind, which,
however, it is unnecessary to quote.  Such an accumulation
of evidence undoubtedly makes out a strong case; it is
difficult to see how it can be explained away. Still I accept
the statement very reluctantly, and not without a hope that,
were our information more ample, the conclusion to which it
forces us might be avoided.    Reluctantly; for how are we
to reconcile the fact, if fact it be, with our conceptions of
old English purity?   The liberty which is extended to the
sculptor, who, in the calm and tranquil exercise of his art,
represents the unveiled and unblushing Aphrodite, will not,
for obvious reasons, be extended to the flesh and blood
of the stage, except by a very primitive or corrupt society.
In the present case, no foreign motive can be assigned for
the introduction of such gratuitous immorality; and as any
exhibition that takes place on the popular stage must be in
accordance with popular habits, and popular associations, it
seems to me quite clear that if this indecency was habitually
tolerated on the platform, it must have been previously tolerated in the household.    If the case be made out, we are
certainly forced to conclude that there was not throughout
play, entitled, The Travailles of the Three Brothers,-a passage, the import of which is so obvious, that it is curious how even an editor could have
misunderstood it.-Kemp's Vine Daies Wonder. Camden Society, 1840.



Profazeness of the " Miracle Play."


77


the ordinary relations of English life the fastidiousness, the
scrupulousness, the horror of the nude, which are now
regarded, whether justly or unjustly, as characteristic of a
sound and temperate society.
That there is in this drama much practical profaneness
those who are best acquainted with its history will be least
inclined to assert.  A few specimens may, no doubt, be
selected for rhetorical or argumentative effect; but there are
few, I venture to say, where the blasphemy is intentional or
premeditated, and none in any measure approaching, in
revolting outrageousness, the passages which Mr. Lewis,
in his characteristic life of Goethe, has translated from an old
German play.'
The last, and perhaps the most serious objection, applies,
therefore, not so much to the manner in which the divine
is introduced, as to its introduction under any circumstances, not so much to the precise practice as to the
abstract principle. This simplifies the matter, and leaves
for us a plain issue to decide upon.  Was it or was it not
expedient that the Creator should be introduced upon the
stage? Was it or was it not right that the principal events
in the life of our Saviour should be presented in the religious
drama? With all respect for the scrupulous piety of those
devout souls who are shocked and distressed when they peruse
a Miracle-Play, I think we are entitled to answer that it was
expedient, that it was justifiable.
The Mystery, as we have seen, was employed by the clergy
to teach the doctrines of the Church.  It was a characteristic
portion of the secular economy of the Roman Catholic system,
perfectly in harmony with the theory upon which that system
was constructed.  And we are not entitled to say that that
system has failed; it did not fail when brought into contact
with a gross and sensuous society; and with a view to such a
society we must remember that it was originally designed.
Roman Catholicism now degrades our conception of the divine
economy; but Roman Catholicism succeeded at a time when
the naked simplicity of Puritanism could have done nothing.
And the rude sketches of the Mystery did undoubtedly convey


1 Lewis' Life of Goethe, ii. 288.



78


Early English Life in the Drama.


to a large class of an illiterate population any definite conception it possessed of the divine government of the world.
But it is said that the knowledge thus coarsely taught
could not have proved efficacious. Now it is no doubt perfectly true, that, in certain cases, the direct homeliness of the
narrative may have introduced into the intercourse between
man and his Maker an undue and perilous familiarity. It is
difficult to believe that the writer who habitually entered such
items in his day-book-" Pay'd for a payre of gloves for God;
Pay'd for gilding God's coat; Divers necessaries bought for
the trymmyng of the Father of Heaven,"' -did not thereby
contract a grossness of conception in regard to the attributes
of the Divine Being which must have exerted a pernicious
influence over the functions of his moral life. This, however,
is an extreme case; and the audiences at least were not
exposed to the same temptations. The story was rudely told,
but, in its essential points, it was told with exact veracity.
Though God "rose up from his throne, and went out," yet
they, in their strong Saxon simplicity, did not the less believe
that he remained the Almighty Governor of the world. They
were required to accept the narrative of our Lord's earthly
passion in its most perfect homeliness; but the great lesson
which it taught of a love stronger than suffering and triumphant over death did not come to them with a whit less
force.  Nay, it is quite possible that they thus obtained an
insight of more thorough practical value into the significance
of that life than any we now     retain.   For would the
literalness and precision of the narrative shock us so much
if we did not make the whole existence of our Redeemer
something essentially different from that which it was, and by
overlaying it with formalities and abstractions of our own,
deprive the divine example of the man Christ of its true
practical homely helpfulness? Our ancestors did not extinguish that noble career of charity and self-sacrifice in a
theological dogma, and perhaps they were none the worse,
either morally or spiritually, that they found in Revelation the
toil and triumph of a human spirit, the profound experience of a
man who, tempted like as they were, was yet without sin. One
is often inclined to conclude, from the prevailing tone of our
1 Sharp's Dissertation on the Coventry Mysteries.



Goethe's " Prologue in Heaven."         79
theological literature, that the thirty years witness to the truth
were just so many years thrown away;-as if our Lord lived
solely that he might die; as if the arbitrary fact of the divine
martyrdom, apart from the richfulness of the divine life of
which it is the highest expression, would have served to release
man's heart from the thraldom of the devil; as if the virtues
of Christ had no real or vital connection with the public morals
of Christendom. We have thrown our religion and every
thing else that concerns us into schemes and doctrines, and
have utterly forgotten that there was really some human
truth in them once.  After all, there may be worse- teachers,
even from the pulpit, than the rude realists of the early stage.
But it is quite another question, whether we are now
entitled to reproduce the characteristic forms of the Mystery,
and one much more difficult to decide. The Prologue in
Heaven in Goethe's Faust, and Thie Nativity, in The Golden
Legend, are well-known specimens of recent imitations.  Mr.
Longfellow cannot help adding to the old drama the grace,
purity, and refinement of modern poetry; but he cleverly
preserves many of its familiar features-its simplicity, its profane directness, its homeliness both of thought and narrative.
Goethe, on the other hand-the greater artist--thoroughly
realises the situation, and the Beelzebub of the primitive
stage could not address the Almighty with more perfect composure than Mephistopheles does. This is even somewhat too
much the case perhaps.  In the real zest and relish with which
the author of Faust treats the profane, there is something
more than the historic impartiality of the artist. And in a
matter of this kind we are entitled and called upon to judge
the modern much more rigorously than the mediaeval playwright. The most profane of the Mysteries may be read
without pain, if we recognise the simplicity of purpose, the
honesty of the motive;
For never anything can come amiss,
When simpleness and duty tender it.
But the modern artist is deprived of the refuge of sincerity.
He feels that to him and to his age many medioeval forms,
many antique types of thought, have become, in a certain



80


Early English Life in the Drama.


sense, profane; and he knows that it is so when he writes.
So that the answer to the question must ultimately rest on
the intrinsic worthlessness or worthiness of the subject itself.
"Many accounts there are in history," says Sir Thomas
Browne, "scandalous unto     Christianity, and even unto
humanity, whose not only verities but relations honest men
do deprecate.  We desire no record of such enormities; in
things of this nature silence commendeth history."1 The
Mystery, however, can hardly be included, with any show
of justice, in the Index Expurgatorius of history.  It is not
in its own nature so objectionable as imperatively to force us
to -exclude it from any authentic or artistic reproduction of
medieval life. And I believe most candid readers admit that
Mr. Longfellow, in a work which restores the motley activities of that life better than any other work I know, has
satisfactorily shown that the old play may be handled so tenderly, and yet so honestly and conscientiously, that it need
not shock the scruples of the most fastidious Puritan.
Such was the Mystery, which for three hundred years
held undisputed possession of the English stage. It ceased
to be generally represented early in the sixteenth century,
but it was not entirely discontinued till a much later period.
In 1567, the Whitson Plays, with the exception of those
deemed " superstitious," were acted at Chester, in spite of an
inhibition from the Archbishop of York; in 1575, the mayor,
Sir John Savage, again set at defiance the clerical interdict;
and in 1577-and this was probably the last official representation-the play of Thze Shepherds was acted at the High
Cross before the Earl of Derby.  But if we may trust the
terms and contents of a play-bill printed in the beginning of
last century, the Miracle-Play was preserved in England,
though under a very different form, till the reign of Queen
Anne:-" By Her Majesty's permission.   At Heatly's Booth,
over against the Cross Daggers, next to Mr. Millar's Booth,
durinq the time of Bartholomew Fair, will be presented a
little Opera, called The Old Creation of the World, nezoly
reviv'd-with the addition of the glorious battle obtained
over the French and Spaniards by His Grace the Duke of


' Sir Thomas Browne's History of Vulgar Errors. Book viii. chap. 19.



The IMloral Play: The Interlude.


81


Marilborough-coqpleated with the Megrrie Humours of Si&
John Sendall, and Punchinello!"1  This is the closing scene
in the career of the religious drama.
"To such base uses may we come, Horatio 1"
The Moral-Play-the introduction of which can be traced
to the reign of Henry VI.-followed the Miracle-Play, but
for many years the two flourished together; the new form,
under the patronage of the Court, continually gaining ground
upon its predecessor, especially among the more cultivated
and studious classes.  In the Moral-Play the vices and the
passions were personified.  The cardinal virtues and the
deadly sins strutted "1their little hour" upon the stage. One
characteristic influence was transmitted from the Mystery," Sathan the Dyvill," whose assistance could not well be dispensed with, and who appeared accompanied by the "Vice,"
a sort of envenomed parasite. By slight gradations the
Moral-Play was modified into the Interlude, a work wherein
greater latitude of thought and subject were permitted, where
abstractions were thrown into the background, and the real
brought prominently   forward.   The   Interlude was the
favourite Court entertainment during the reign of Henry VII.
and of his son, both of whom relished the drama, a taste
which they transmitted to Elizabeth.  Several companies of
actors were attached to their service, the "Players of Interludes," and the " Gentlemen of the Chapel," being those of
whom the most authentic information has been obtained.
John Heywood, "Player of the Virginals" to King Henry
VIII., at a half-yearly salary of ~6: 13: 4, and John Skelton,
the poet-laureate, are the only composers of Interludes whose
names are now remembered. Heywood was a man of
considerable endowments, and his plays are characterised by
so much spirit, vivacity, and humour, that he is entitled to be
considered the Father of English Comedy.  Skelton is better
known as a poet than as a dramatist.  "Magnificence"-the
1 The contents are such as these:-'" The Creation of Adam and
Eve;" "The Intrigues of Lucifer in the Garden of Eden;" ".The Three
Wise Men of the East."-Strutt's Sports and Pastimes. Ed. Hone, p.
166.



82             Early English Life in the Drama.
only Interlude of his which has been preserved, although it
is known that he composed several-has nothing to distinguish it from the mass of such productions.   But as a poet
it may be questioned whether he has been sufficiently appreciated.  There is, undoubtedly, in his works a vast amount of
coarse and offensive buffoonery; but, attached, like Rabelais, to
the principles of the reforming party, and suspected by the
authorities of the Church in which he occupied a subordinate
position, this may have been in part assumed to cloke the
daring spirit of inquiry which would not have been permitted to a grave and moderate thinker. When we penetrate
beneath the crust of extravagant burlesque, we reach a vein of
sound sense, lively humour, bitter, sometimes even brilliant,
wit.  The whole character of the man, indeed, is strongly
marked and graphic.   He hates quite as warmly as he loves,
and that he loved may be gathered from the passage in which
old Anthony Wood tells us that he was suspended from    his
office, "having been guilty of certain crimes, as most poets
are."  The things and people that he hates are manifoldthe Scots, the Mendicant Friars, the Cardinal Wolsey, Lily
the grammarian. And of all things and people whom he hates
he speaks his mind with a boldness rare in those days. The
man is perfectly fearless. He is always at war with Wolsey;
is always denouncing the pride, arrogance, ostentation of the
great minister. Wolsey, however, I can believe, rather liked
the laureate,-as he did any thoroughly strong and honest
man,-and coldly tolerated that mosquito-like hostility, ready
to crush it at a moment's notice whenever it became really
dangerous. And until he got hold somehow of Skelton's
masterly piece of abuse, "Why come ye not to Court?" the
wily Cardinal was content to disregard it.  But by that time
the situation had become difficult; the poem exactly expressed the feelings of the most numerous and influential class
of Henry's subjects, who abhorred the minister quite as much
for "his base progeny, his greasy genealogy," as for his
inordinate ambition and masterly insight into European
politics; and the crisis had arrived when the nuisance must
be briefly and finally put down.  So Skelton was forced to
fly to the sanctuary at Westminster (from which his animated
pasquinades against "The Sorcerer" were indefatigably dis



The Cardinal and the Laureate.


83


charged into 'the city), there to await the fall of that sagacious
and confident ambition.  Altogether, as I have said, the laureate is a likeable man. Sharp, scornful, and bitter, no doubt,
-as such a man could not then well help being, especially if
within the Church, and hating the scandals of the Church,but, at the same time, blunt and honest; there is humour
underneath those shaggy eyebrows, and tenderness, even, of
a rough homely cast; a tenderness, however, that will grow
indignant and passionate when the conviction dawns upon
him that God's most righteous law of love,-quite as needful
as a law of life, then, as now,-has been to him  and to his
brethren tainted and defiled by the mischievous ordinance of
man.1
Of the Moral-Play, little more requires to be said, and that
mainly in the way of illustration.  Of the very considerable
number that have been preserved and published, Everyman,
and Lusty Juventus are probably as complete and characteristic
specimens as we could well select. Everyman, published early
in the reign of Henry VIII., is, in many respects, a very
effective allegory, intended to depict the transitoriness of all
earthly blessings:Man in the begyinning
Look well and take good heed to the endying,
Be ye never so gay;
Ye thinke sinne in the begyinning full swete,
Which, in the end causeth the soul to weep,
When the body lyeth in clay.
God finishes a soliloquy upon the justice of his government
of the universe, with which the play opens, by despatching
Death to summon Everyman-the representative of human
life-to his presence:God.              I must do justice
On every living creature without fear.
Where art thou Death, thou mighty messenger?
Death. Almighty God, I am here at thy will,
Thy commandments to fulfil.
1 Household Book of Henry VIII Skelton's Works, edited by Rev.
A. Dyce. Anthony Wood's Athenue Oxonienses, i. 50. There is a portrait
of the " famous old poet" in Sir Egerton Brydges' British Bibliographer.



8 4           Early English Life in the Drama.
God.    Go thou to Everyman,
And tell him, in my name,
A pilgrimage he must on him take,
Which he in nowise can escape.
And that he bring with him a sure reckoning,
Without delay or any tarrying.
Death (whose introduction here seems to disprove Mr. Douce's
assertion that the last enemy was never represented in the
old religious drama), courteously allows the affrighted sinner
leisure to discover whether any of his friends will undertake
to accompany him.    Friendship, Kindred, Goodes, Beauty,
Strength, one by one forsake him, when they learn by whom
he is summoned, until his " Goode Deedes," " who is so weak
that she cannot stand, verily," is alone left with him.  The
rest of the play, till within a page of the close, consists of an
exposition of several of the more prominent doctrines of the
Roman Catholic Church, not omitting that doctrine of all
catholic churches down to the present day, which sets forth
the privilege of contributing to the necessities of the saints,
and the other ecclesiastical office-bearers.  Having received
the sacrament, Everyman, probably exhausted by the weight
of this protracted discourse, gives up the ghost in a penitent
and edifying way; while his medical attendant informs us, in
manner of epilogue, that, when a sinner dies, nothing
" Save his good deedes with him doth he take;
Which, if they be small,
Before God he hath no help at all."
Lusty Juventus was written during the reign of Edward
VI., and may be looked upon as a defence and exposition of
Protestantism, as Everyman is of Catholicism. The dramatis
personce form  a very motley group-Good Counsel, Hypocrasie, Abominable Living, God's Merciful Promises, and
" Sathan the Dyvill," being among the more conspicuous. The
story is a repetition of the old conflict.  Lusty Juventus is
led astray by the seductions of the world and the flesh, but
is ultimately rescued from utter ruin by the intervention of
Good Counsel and his divine associates.   The work bears
constant traces of the great revolution which had been partially accomplished.  The devil is represented as regretting
the overthrow of the Catholic religion, and the consequent



A Protestant Moral-Play.


spread of enlightenment throughout the masses of the nation.
The " mummeries of superstition " are included in a denunciation quite as comprehensive as Lord John's:" Holy pardons, holy beades,
Holy saints, holy images,
With holy, holy blood,
Holy stocks, holy stones,
Holy cloutes, holy bones,
Yea, and holy, holy wood."
The author dwells besides on the necessity of a rigid adherence
to the pure and simple Word of God; and as example is
more efficacious than precept, makes every quotation from
Holy Writ with scrupulous accuracy, and an edifying disregard of the metre," The reward is given us,
As St. Paul declareth in the IIII chapter of the Romans."
Read the Vth to the Galatians, and there you shall see."
"I will show you what St. Paul doth declare
In his epistle to the Hebrews, and the X chapter."
"My meaning is as Christ saith in the 6th chapter to Matthew;"
and so on. Good Counsel is already affected with the Puritan austerity which seems in some measure characteristic of
Protestantism; he objects to the recreation of dancing, " for,"
says he, " there is no such passing of the time appointed in
Scripture."  Upon the whole, the Protestant play, if more
orthodox, is heavier and more undigested than its Catholic
predecessor.'
The history of the English drama, so long as its history
retains any national importance, is the history of a people
struggling towards reality. Nowhere else is the thoroughly
practical character of the English mind more clearly manifested.  Even in the Miracle-Play we have had occasion to
note this necessity.  The Moral-Play, at first sight, might
appear susceptible of a different interpretation.  Was it not,
indeed, a step in a different direction when vices and virtues,
1 Dodsley's Old Plays.  Collections of Old Plays, 1780. Douce's
Dance of Death, 1831. In Vol. iv. of the Shakespeare Society's Papers,
another edition of the latter part of " Everyma'n" has been published,
which differs somewhat from that generally known.



86             Early English Life in the Drama.
passions and principles, were substituted for kings and
apostles?   The objection, however, is not good.      In the
Moral-Play the spectators descended from the beings of another
life to the passions which agitated their own. The giants
that were before the flood, the prophets and holy men of old,
the powers and principalities in heavenly places, were separated from them by a gulf which they could not cross. But
the Moral-Play brought upon the stage the practical motives
and emotions of the present; and, when this was once
accomplished, the Interlude, where these were associated with
certain large and stereotyped forms of English life, was the
immediate and logical result. Between the Interlude, stilted
and rudimentary as it was, and our modern drama, with its
abundant and versatile life, and its subtle analysis of motive
and character, the interval is not great.   The one was the
true off-shoot of the other; with this change only, that the
latter delineated the real in firmer and more delicate lines.
The light in which the early drama was viewed by the
" religious public" of the day, is a matter of some interest,
or at least curiosity to us.  The Catholic clergy, as we have
seen, exerted themselves strenuously for many centuries in its
behalf, gave absolution to those who attended, permitted the
players to perform in the churches and cemeteries, were
sometimes themselves the performers. To the stricter ecclesiastics, however, this intimate connection soon became repugnant; and many of them even went as far as the followers
of Wickliffe, who, had they possessed the power, would have
entirely suppressed it, as injurious to the public morality.
" Inglond goith to nought, plus fecit homo viciosus.
To lust man is brought; nimis est homo deliciosus.
Goddis halidays, non observantur honeste,
For unthrifty plays, in eis regnant manifeste.'
And this antipathy naturally increased when the theatre
was removed from their immediate superintendence, and made
over to the trading companies and guilds; societies whose
popular constitution nourished and developed the spirit of
liberty.  There had been always a certain wilfulness and
restiveness in the sturdy English Catholic; he had never
1 Satirical Poem, temp. Henry VI; Collier's History of the Stage, i. 25.



The Clergy and the Drama.


87


accepted the slavish limitations of the ultramontane school;
and the drama furnished a favourite channel through which
to attack those defects of ecclesiastical discipline which aroused
the antipathy of the populace.  But it was not until the near
approach of the Reformation that it was considered prudent
to check, by direct legislation, the abuse of the stage.  In
1533, a royal proclamation, prevented evil-disposed persons
from " preaching after their own braine, and from  playing
Interludes concerning matters now in question and controversie." And a subsequent statute,1 which was not repealed
till the reign of Edward VI., after stating, in the preamble,
that the drama had been used to subvert the true religion,
goes on to enact, that no person " shall play in interludes,
sing or rhyme any matter contrary to the doctrine of the
Church of Rome." Orthodox performances, in which Luther
and his German Frau were held up to popular ridicule, were
still patronised by the clergy, and the reformers bitterly complained that, no matter how licentious the spectacle might
be, if the practices of the Church were not discussed, the
authorities remained mute and complaisant. Edward Stalbridge, writing from Basel in the year 1543, says to the
clergy,-" So long as the players played lies, and sang bawdy
songs, blasphemed God, and corrupted men's conscience, ye
never blamed them, but were very well content. But since
they persuaded the people to worship their Lord God aright,
without your lousie legerdemains, ye never were pleased with
them." After the victory had been won, the reformed
ministers seem to have used their influence to effect the discontinuance of the drama, holding, probably, with Stephen
Gosson, that there was a graduated descent,-" from pyping
to playing, from playing to pleasure, from pleasure to slouth,
from slouth to sleepe,' from sleepe to sinne, from sinne to
death, from death to the devil." In 1571, and again in 1575,
the Whitson Plays were represented at Chester, in spite of an
injunction from the Archbishop of York, which, as we have
seen, the mayor, Sir John Savage, took the liberty to disregard, probably relying upon the support of his townsmen.
But the lay authorities were often quite as hostile as the
clergy; and in most of the larger towns the unlicensed
1 34 and 35 Henry VIII. cap. i.



88


Early English Life in the Drama.


players were strictly prohibited.  Even the players of the
Queen and the Lords of the Council were there barely tolerated; and in 1582, we find the mayor of Leicester giving
the Earl of Worcester's company " an angel towards their
dinner," to induce them to quit the town without performing.
The compromise, however, proved ineffectual, and the performance took place in the town-hall, the actors, at the same time,
"acknowledging his worship's authority."   The metropolis
was invariably foremost in any hostile demonstration, and
for many years during Elizabeth's reign, plays were entirely
prohibited within the liberties.  The city, from its extensive
intercourse with Flemish traders, had been tainted, at an
early period, with the gloomy doctrines of the German sectaries; in the city, the gruff burgher nourished in secret his
wrath against the levities of the court and the vices of the
Amalekites; in the city, Puritanism was organising its ranks
for that memorable conflict, out of which, in the next century, it was to come conquering and to conquer.  So powerful was the influence of the fanatic party, that even Elizabeth,
with her artistic prepossessions in behalf of the stage, was
frequently forced to give way, and to sanction, under certain
limitations, stringent enactments for the repression of public
exhibitions.'
A very singular article has been published recently, in
which the relations that existed between " Plays and Puritans,"
at a somewhat later date, are analysed and defended,-an
article pervaded by the fervid illogic of Mr. Kingsley's mind.2
The drift of the argument seems to be that the protest of
Puritanism was founded on truth, and has since obtained the
common consent of Englishmen.       We don't swear--we
don't go to the theatre-we dress in sad-coloured raiment.
Such an argument is surely very contracted, superficial, and
disingenuous. No one denies that Puritanism had some good
points; it would be an anachronism in history if it had not.
1 The Epistle Exhortatory of an English CUhristian to his dearly
beloved Country, 1543.  The School of Abuse: containing a pleasant
invective against Poets, Pipers, Players, Jesters, and such like Caterpillars of a Commonwealth. By Stephen Gosson, 1579. Archdeacon
Rogers (in Ormerod's Cheshire) 1581. Shakespeare Soceity's Papers, vol.
iv. art. xii.
2 llorth British Review, No. xlix, March 1856.



" Plays and Puritans."


89


But the real question is, whether the view of human life
which it adopted was not partial, rigid, fanatical, wanting in
breadth  and   charity, in  love and    wisdom; whether its
theory of man's mind did not tend to exclude from the
subjects of legitimate enjoyment many of his noblest pleasures, many of his highest instincts; whether, in short, it
would have made society into that which God intended it
should be, or into that which Simon Stylites made it on the
top of his granite column?      The social literature of the
Puritans--and    no one except Mr. Kingsley would have
included the Paradise Lost within that category-emphatically proves that all those pursuits which are not directly or
specifically religious, but which are the natural development of
our aesthetic and artistic nature, were deemed by them vain,
frivolous, pernicious, of the devil and not of God. A Greek
statue or an Italian picture-gallery was quite as obnoxious as
the Gothic aisle, with its painted Madonnas and mystic
idolatries. Stephen Gosson denounced the poets and sculptors,
-" caterpillars of a commonwealth,"-as well as the players.1
Is this the theory of human life which is now currently
sanctioned?   If it is not-and in these days of crystal
palaces, national galleries, schools of design, harmonic festivals, who will venture to say that it is?-Mr. Kingsley
is hardly entitled to affirm that the principles of Puritanism
have been ratified by the consent of modern England. In
certain minor and sectional details we may have accidentally
1 John Northbrooke (1577), Stephen Gosson, Philip Stubbles, Whetstone, William Rankins, and the anonymous author of The Second and
Third Blast of Retreat from Plays and Theatres, 1580, were the first
assailants of the stage, and their works bear out the statement made in
the text as to the indiscriminate hostility of the Puritans to every form
of art. Mr. Kingsley asserts that Prynne's opinions, as set forth in his
celebrated Histrio-Mastix, or the Player's Scourge, were fully justified.
So that Mr. Kingsley approves, and would adopt, had he the power, the
discipline sanctioned by the determined old Roundhead. "They (the
players) may be sent to the House of Correction, set in stockes, and
whipped; and if they still persist in playing after these corrections, they
may be burned with a hot-burning iron, of the bredth of an English
shilling, with a great Roman R on the left shoulder, which letter shall
there remain as a perpetual mark of a Rogue; and if this will not
reforme them they may be banished, and after, if they return again and
persist incorrigible, be executed as felons!"



9~


Early English Life in the Drama.


adopted the fashions of Puritanism.  We may cut our hair
and our doublets as the Roundheads did.  But is this done
under the influence of the same abstract spiritualism, or
solely because we find these habits better suit our convenience
and our indolence?   Tlzey believed that miserable, unregenerated, and rebellious sinners insulted their Maker when they
appeared in the rich clothing which the Cavaliers habitually
wore,-is this the reason that a modern gentleman goes to a
marriage or a dinner-party in a suit of black cloth, as though
he proposed to enact the part of a mute at a funeral?  Most
artists, I believe, are of opinion that in the article of dress
the Norman cavaliers exhibited better taste than we do.  If
our modern sobriety, therefore, is due to the Commonwealth,
the Commonwealth must have corrupted us,-corrupted, for in
such questions as these it is not religion, but art, correct
judgment, sound taste, that is the only competent court of
appeal.  But even in regard to the details of social life, is it
true that modern society has accepted the limitations of
Puritanism?  Is dancing prohibited in polite circles?  On
the contrary, have not new fashions been introduced which
might shame the shameless beauties of the Restoration? We
have given up swearing certainly; but have we adopted the
Scriptural nomenclature of the Commonwealth?  We do not
frequent the theatre; but because we prefer an Italian ballet
to a Shakesperian drama, is it to be said that we are afflicted
with the religious scruples of Mr. William Prynne?  There
is not that grossness in our literature which disgraced the
literature of the Stuarts; but Mr. Kingsley has himself composed plays and poems which would shock the soul of an
honest Roundhead quite as much as anything that Suckling
or Sedley ever wrote. Thus, in our wider and truer estimate
of man's spiritual nature, we have discarded the characteristic
limitations of Puritanism; and while certain particulars in
our society which bear a certain resemblance to Puritanism
are to be attributed not to it, but to altogether different
agencies, in others we have diverged further from the
Roundhead than from the Cavalier, inasmuch as his theory
of human life was of the two the more partial and sectarian.
The facts to which I have alluded show that, previous to
the Reformation, the dramatist had undertaken to expose the



Traces of the Reformation in the Drama.


9r


vices of the ecclesiastic. At the same time there are comparatively few traces of this in that portion of the dramatic
literature which has been preserved, and none of any large
or conscientious antagonism to the principle of Catholicism.
Had there been any wide-spread repugnance to the doctrine
of the Church of Rome, the evidence would certainly have
been more abundant. But what valid facts remain, go to
prove that, at the era of the Reformation, the people, though
disgusted with the special nuisances aud iniquities of the
monastic system, remained loyal Catholics at heart.  Heywood, for instance, often directed his vigorous ridicule against
the mendicant monks and pardoners of his day.    Into the
"newe and very merry Enterlude of the Four P's," 1 one
of the latter is introduced who displays a most filthy and
preposterous store of relics, among which are the French-hood
and bon-grace of the Virgin, the great toe of the Trinity, the
jaw-bone of All-Saints, and the bees that stung Eve when
she eat the apple;Pardoner. Here is a boxful of humble bees,
That stange Eve as she sat on her knees,
Tasting the fruit to her forbidden.
Who kisseth the bees within this hidden,
Shall have as much pardon of right,
As for any relic he kiss this night.
'o which the Apothecary modestly replies,I am not worthy; nay, let be,
Those bees that stange Eve, shall not sting me.
Again, in the same play, we have this sarcastic appreciation
of a famous clerical luxuryWith small cost, and without any paine,
These pardons bring them to Heaven plaine;
Give me but a penny or two pence,
And as soon as the soul departeth hence,
In half an hour, or three-quarters at most,
The soul is in Heaven with the Holy Ghost.
But Heywood was himself a conscientious Roman Catholic,
and suffered for his attachment to the faith.  It was against
those external accessories alone, which were not, in his opinion, a necessary element of his creed, and which were calcu' Dodsley's Old Plays, vol. i.



92


Early English Life in the Drama.


lated to impair the authority of an old and august communion,
that his satire was directed. The evidence is of a similar tenor
throughout. The Reformation was not the result of any general
conviction among the English people of the unfitness of Catholicism to satisfy the demands of their religious life. Compliance
with the scrupulous morality of an unscrupulous monarch;
resentment at the secular pretensions of the Roman Pontiff;
vehement hatred against a clergy who shackled their intellectual life, and defiled their household purity; these, if we
are to credit the testimony of our national drama, the verdict
of our social literature, were the causes which led to the downfall of the Catholic system in England.1
It is often asserted, on behalf of Catholicism, that it has
proved itself better fitted than Protestantism to nourish the
more graceful arts of life. Such a statement is curiously fallacious.   For the patronage which it has bestowed has always
' The reports of the commissioners appointed by Cromwell to inquire
into the state of the monasteries, prove that Heywood's satire was not
overcharged. The " Pardoner's" collection of relics is not more preposterous than those which Langton and Loudon scattered. " By my servant,"
says Langton, writing to Cromwell, " I send you reliques; first, two flowers
wrapt in black and white sarcenet, that on Christynmus evyn, hora ipsa
qua Christus natus fuerat, will spring or burgen, and bear blossoms, quod
expertum esse, saith the Prior of Maden Bradeley. Ye shall also receive
a bag of reliques, wherein ye shall see strange things, as shall appear by
the scripture, Our Ladies smock, Parte of God's supper in cena domini,
Pars petre super qua natus erat Jesus in Bethelem, belyke there is in
Bethlehem plcntie of stones, and they make their mangers of stone. The
scripture of everything shall declare to you all: and all this of Maden
Bradeley, where is an holy father prior who hath but vj children, and but
one daughter married yet of the goodes of the monastery,-hoping shortly
to marry the rest.  I send you also our Ladies gyrdell of Bruton, rede
silk, which is a solemne relique sent to women travelyng, which shall not
miscarry in partu" (page 58). " I have sent up," writes Dr. Loudon
from the abbey of Reading, " the principal relique of idolytrie within
this realm, an angel with one wing that brought to Caversham the spearhede that percyd our Saviour his syde upon the Crosse. I have required
of my Lord Abbot the reliques of his house, and I have taken an inventory of them." In the accompanying inventory we find-" two peces of
the Holye Crosse," Saynt James his hand," "a bone of Mary Magdelene,"
" a chow-bone of Saint Ethelmolde" (page 227). The mendicant pilgrims
were considered a nuisance by the clergy as well as the laity. Bishop
Barlow in petitioning for the translation of his See, complains that in the
desolate and unfrequented place where it is situated, "vacabounde pilgrimes" are his only visitors (page 207).-The Suppression of the Monasteries, Camden Society, 1843.



Lifect of Reformation on English Literatre.    9


93


been arrogant, ostentatious, insulting, and, from its very
nature, calculated to cramp the freedom of the judgment, to
petrify the versatile life of the imagination.  Catholicism
preserves admirably, it is the most conservative of institutions,
and it was consequently pre-eminently fitted for the work
which it undertook before the- revival of letters.  But to
develope the taste or the intellect is not its appropriate
function, and when it has affected to do so, the attempt has
proved either ineffective or insincere.  Its best literature
is the literature of those of its members, who, like Pascal and
Bossuet, asserted their intellectual and political freedom in
opposition to the exacting claims of the Church.  Even in
its relation to the great masters of the Italian school, the case on
which its advocates chiefly rely, even there the instincts of the
artist were sacrificed to the interest of the priest. The loving
insight which might have charmed us with exquisite studies of
the familiar life of Italy-a life more pictorial than the poetic
life of other people-was spent upon decrelpit martyrs and emaciated saints, was forced to move within the narrow limits
marked out by the meagre asceticism of the monk, and created
an art which, great in the genius and capacity of its masters,
was great in spite of the coarse tyranny which it served
slavishly. To the Reformation, letters, learning, language in
England, are incalculably indebted.   While it saved our
liberties, it emancipated our art, and created'our literature.
The impressive unity of Catholicism had required throughout
Christendom the preservation of one common language; the
Reformation introduced into the national literature the habitual use of the national speech, a speech not now surpassed
by any in Europe for its varied harmonies, its rich and versatile combinations. Men think more freely, more eloquently,
more earnestly, in their own than through the fetters of
a foreign tongue; so much so, that had the Latin not been
abolished by the Reformation, it is quite certain that Lear,
Hamlet, Othello, would have been postponed-sine die.
The emancipation of English literature, was however,
somewhat sudden. The weight was abruptly removed, and
the recoil was violent and excessive.  But the most severe
and hostile historian cannot criticise very harshly the extravagances which followed. These extravagances, as we know,



94


Early English Life in the Drama.


broke out in every direction; in thought, in speech, in the
habits of dress, in the usages of society, in Euphuisms by
Lily, in Arcadias by Sidney; "whereby," as old Harrison
drily concludes of his contemporaries, "they imagine the
workmanship of God to be not a little amended." " Except,"
he goes on, " it were a dog in a doublet, you shall not see anie
so disguised as are our countrymen of England; women are
become men, and men transformed into monsters."    His
invective need not have been limited to dress, for the spirit
was the same throughout, and Euphuism,-into an examination of which I regret that I cannot now enter,-was its
literary representative.  These extravagances,-the inevitable issue of an exuberant and suddenly enlarged intellectual
activity,-might have done lasting harm to our society; but
they were luckily nipped in the bud, and the popular sympathies diverted from the artificial to the real by one who,
utterly disregarding the mechanic unity of form, contrived
to reach by a peculiarly subtle and penetrating insight,
the organic unity of life.  An age of daring license and reckless originality was prevented from permanently injuring the
national taste, by the perfect tact and temperance of SHAKESPEARE.
J. S.



HOM(EOPATHY.


OBSERVATION, meditation, and experience," writes
-Hahnemann in the introduction to his chief work, the
Organon of the Healing Art, "have discovered to me that,
according to the precepts of homoeopathy, the course to be
followed in order to obtain gentle, swift, sure, and durable cures
consists in choosing, in each case of disease, a remedy capable
in itself of producing an affection similar to that which it is desired to cure.  This homoeopathic method had not been taught
by any one before me; no one had put it in practice.  But if
it alone be consistent with truth, (as every one may be convinced as well as I), we may expect that, notwithstanding
its long concealment, every age will, nevertheless, offer
palpable traces of it.  This has, in fact, been the case.
In all times, all diseases which have been cured really,
promptly, durably, evidently, by medicines, and which have
not owed their cure to the accidental concurrence of some
favourable circumstance, such as the natural termination of
an acute disease, or the gradually reinforced bodily powers
obtaining a mastery over the disease during an allopathic or
antipathic treatment (for a direct and an indirect cure are
very different),-all such diseases, I say, have yielded, although
the physician,did not know it, to a homceopathic remedy,
that is to say, to a remedy having the power of exciting
of itself a disease resembling that of which it caused the
removal."
In another passage, Hahnemann thus briefly expounds the
results which he ascribes to the homceopathic method. "When
the application of a medicine, chosen so as to be perfectly
homoeopathic, has been well made, the natural acute disease



96


Homeaopathy.


which it is intended to cure, however malignant and painful
it may be, is dissipated in a few hours if it be recent, and in
a few days if it be of somewhat longer standing.
Chronic diseases, and especially those which are complicated,
demand more time.    Those chronic medicinal diseases especially, which allopathic medicine engenders in addition to the
natural disease which it has been unable to cure, demand a
very long treatment, and are frequently incurable."'
In the above extracts we strike, as it were, the key-note of
the passage in the history of medicine which it is proposed to
examine in this article. We are enabled, in particular, to appreciate two of the characters by which it is distinguished. Homceopathy is a universal and an exclusive system.  It professes
to meet the case of every curable disease; and to be the 
only method by which diseases are really curable. It assumes,
in other words, to. have reduced the entire cure of disease by
medicines to a single therapeutical law; and it puts forward
that law as a new discovery.  In submitting ourselves, therefore, to the guidance of homoeopathy, we cannot avoid rejecting all other medical doctrines, in so far as they relate
to the action of remedies.  We are led to the conclusion
that medical truth is a thing of yesterday; that up to the
promulgation of the " homoeopathic law," the cure of diseases
was the result of accident, or of a blindly-working and fluctuating experience; but that it is now based on principles as
secure as they are simple, and requiring for their application
only an exact knowledge of the properties of drugs on the
one hand, and the symptoms of diseases on the other.
Hahnemann did not shrink from maintaining the total and
irreconcilable antagonism of his own system of doctrine to all
those current in his own day. In his classification and nomenclature of therapeutical methods, Homoeopathy, Antipathy,
and Allopathy appear to exhaust the possible applications of
remedies to the cure of disease. The first of these terms, which
he derives from the Greek words i'ooso, like, and Lrcios, a morbid
state, he applies to his own system, the formula of which is contained in the words " similia similibus curentur," let like things
he treated by like.  To the second term, fronm a&v, opposed to,


Organon, ~ 149.



A Universal and Exclusive System.


97


and vrcao;, he assigns an exactly opposite formula, viz., " contraria contrariis curentur;" and of this mode of practice he
professes to find numerous examples in the medicine of the
past.  All medical practice and all therapeutical doctrine not
coming under either of these formulae is, according to Hahnemann, only to be regarded as a blind attempt to discover the
proximate or hidden causes of disease; remedies being then
applied according to their presumed influence upon these
causes, and not from any relation of their effects to the obvious
symptoms..On this ground, Hahnemann termed the great
mass of medical practice Allopathy, from  aXXo/io, diferent,
and qddOos, and he finds constant employment for his sarcastic
pen in contrasting its complexity and confusion with the
simplicity of the homceopathic system, which, according to
him, stands alone and apart, refusing to ally itself with other
methods, or even to accept from them that temporary aid
which, in some instances, they appear to be capable of
bestowing.   Hahnemann repeatedly asserts, that allopathy
and antipathy, while occasionally purchasing a very slight
and temporary relief from suffering by subsequent aggravation
of the disease, are responsible for a large proportion of the
sickness and mortality from chronic diseases; of which a
great number, and these the least remediable, spring solely
from the use of active drugs by physicians and apothecaries.
The homoeopathic law, on the other hand, is, according to
Hahnemann, of universal application in theory, and is limited
in practice only by the limited number of remedies, and by
our imperfect knowledge of their action upon the human
body. It claims as its own every real cure; it excludes,
within the limits of its application, every possibility of failure.
It condemns with equal severity the dissentients from its own
exclusiveness, whether they range themselves among its avowed
opponents, or attempt to bring about a compromise of opposing theories.  " It is as impossible," says Hahnemann," to
conceive of another true method of curing dynamic diseases,
as it is to draw more than one straight line between two
points."'  As to the practitioners who pursue a mongrel
system, and, by calling in the resources of allopathy or anti

Organon, ~ 109, note.
II



98


Homeopathy.


pathy, acknowledge the insufficiency of the homoeopathic
law, there is no excuse for them.  They are no true homoeopathists, and are, if possible, worse than the partizans of the
" hateful methods" to which it is so diametrically opposed.
"The pure homoeopathist, who almost never misses his
mark, who succeeds almost always, will never consent to an
association of this nature."1  The homoeopathic law, therefore, is, according to Hahnemann, the single " Organon" of'
medicine.   It is the exclusive and universal method of cure.
It is a system " of great simplicity, always the same in its
principles and in its practice, forming a separate whole,
perfectly independent of other systems, and refusing to associate itself with the pernicious routine of the old school."2
I have been thus particular in insisting on the universality and exclusiveness of the so-called homoeopathic law,
because it is evident that a system so characterized cannot be
tried by the ordinary canons of criticism. Not only is the
great experience of the world against it prima facie, but the
assemblage of instances in its favour will prove nothing,
unless the opposing instances are satisfactorily explained
away. When it is asserted that bleeding is useful in certain
inflammations, or opium in certain diseases of the nervous
system, it is not necessary to demonstrate that over the whole
range of these diseases, still less in each individual case, the
fact asserted holds good.   It is enough if we succeed in
showing that, in some cases of inflammation or of nervous
disease, bleeding and opium respectively are used with good
effect.  Very different is the position of the homoeopathist.
He has bound himself over to establish, by sufficient proof,
not a more or less particular fact, but a general law of nature,
including and superseding all others within the sphere of its
operation. He has himself chosen this issue, and must abide
by it. Had Hahnemann asserted only that certain remedies
resemble, in their operation upon the healthy body, the
diseases they are employed to cure, he would have but asserted
a truism; for every one knows, and no one disputes, the
action of ipecacuanha in some kinds of sickness, and of rhubarb
in some kinds of diarrhoea.  It is the assumption that we can


'Organon, ~ 109, note.


2 Preface to the Organon.



Hahnemann's Polemics.


99


generalize this fact into a universal principle or law that
constitutes the peculiarity of the homeopathic system, and at
the same time gives rise to the difficulty of dealing with it by
means of instances.
The contumely which Hahnemann's pugnacious nature
and lax style of declamation led him to pour out so freely
upon the systems which he ascribed to his opponents, increases
not a little the difficulty of submitting his works to a calm
and serious examination. There are few medical writings in
any age so'careless of logical method, and so fruitful of bitter
invective as his; and, even in the ecclesiastical arena, it is
rare to find a disputant so ready to foreclose argument by
strong assertions; so little anxious to convince, so forward
to strike and to wound. The thunderbolt of an assumed
infallibility is never out of his hands. In perusing his writings,
we seem to see the opponents of the new theory pursued by an
avenging Nemesis, from which there is to be no appeal.
The experience of ages is no defence, but an aggravation of
their crime; the multitude of witnesses on behalf of the
" ancient medicine" does not entitle it to a more respectful
consideration, but rather calls more loudly for that summary
vengeance which their great conspiracy against the truth is
sure to call down on the head of " allopathic" physicians. It
is difficult, it must be confessed, to preserve one's equanimity
in the midst of such a highly-charged electrical atmosphere
as that of the Hahnemannian polemics; but we shall do our
best.
"Could great men thunder
As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet,
For every pelting, petty officer,
Would use his heaven for thunder; nothing but thunder!"
The following passage may serve as an example of the
" saeva indignatio" alluded to.  It occurs in the preface to
Hahnemann's chief work, the " Organon der Heilkunst."
" The end of the fatal efforts of the ancient medicine
would appear to be not less than this,-to render incurable, perhaps even mortal, ninety-nine hundredths of the diseases which
assume the chronic form; and this end is attained without
difficulty when the practitioner is fully acquainted with the
accredited methods of treatment, and has become deaf to the



I00


Homoeopathy.


voice of conscience.  He then either weakens or torments
unceasingly the feeble invalid, already overwhelmed by his
own misfortunes, or he brings upon him new and terrible
diseases.  Arguments are not wanting to the allopathist to
defend all the mischief he does; but he never seeks support
save in the prejudices of his masters and in the authority of
his books...  It is not until (being convinced by long
practice of the dreadful effects of his pretended art) he limits
himself to insignificant drinks (that is to say, to doing nothing,
even in the gravest cases) that his patients begin to be less
frequently rendered worse, and cut off in his hands.  This
fatal art has, for a long series of ages, wielded arbitrary power
over the life and death of the sick; has destroyed ten times
as many men as the most murderous wars, and enormously
increased the sufferings of many millions of others."
One is frequently reminded, in reading these and other
similar passages, of the sledge-hammer style of eloquence
ivhich procured for Paracelsus among his followers the
title of " Lutherus   Medicorum."      Hahnemann    was a
ready penman, and an able, though unscrupulous, controversialist; and there can be no doubt that, by his virulent
opposition, extravagant as it was, the overweening pretensions
and unstable theories of medicine, which have been ever too
much in favour, and were current to an unusual degree at the
time he wrote, received a check which was needed, and which
has, on the whole, been- useful to the medical art.  Nor is
there wanting in some of these tirades, even amid the predominating bitterness of spirit, a certain grim humour which
entitles Hahnemann to a place among the satirists. In a
literary point of view, however, they do not rank very
high among the numerous assaults on medical pedantry and
absurdity.  The accurate and profound erudition of Rabelais,
the delightful frankness and amiably egotistic philosophy
of Montaigne, the thoroughly laughable and effectively broad
caricature of Moliere, are wanting to point the ridicule of
Hahnemann, and to temper his vehemence.    Instead of these,
we have ponderous displays of ill-digested reading, guided by
no critical faculty, and tending to reduce all testimony to a
dead level; systematically distorted reflections of medical
science: with an amount of arrogant dogmatism, and self



The " New " and the " Old Medicine."       101
confident assertion, to which it is very difficult to accord the
credit of sincerity.  We are never allowed to forget that we
are in the presence of one who claims to be the possessor of
exclusive truth, and with whom the sacrifice of a hecatomb of
reputations is but the logical consequence of an inexorable
system-the necessary means to the exaltation of the " new
medicine, which alone is true." We admire the strength of
will-we smile at the boastful pretensions-we indulge a
momentary feeling of indignation at the sweeping and virulent
invective; but we find little in these boisterous outbreaks of
medical fanaticism to satisfy either the reason or the moral
sense.  The special pleading of an advocate is manifest
throughout; and of an advocate compelled, by want of materials for a calm and reasonable appeal, to resort to indiscriminate abuse.  The line of argument (so far as such a thing
can be traced in these. torrents of invective) is as follows:The causes of all diseases, except surgical or mechanical
diseases, are hidden; and hence allopathy (that imaginary
system which Hahnemann everywhere sets up as a target for
his sharpshooting) is nothing but a system of complicated
absurdity, in which remedies, themselves productive of disease,
are given in a cumulative manner; so that the original
symptoms are lost in the crowd of artificial maladies, and the
last state of the patient is worse than the first.  Thus, opium
may be selected to procure sleep, and may succeed in
accomplishing this single object; but as opium is known to
act upon the skin, the kidneys, the intestinal canal, as well as
upon the nervous system, other drugs are associated with it
for the purpose of preventing these collateral effects; these
drugs are productive of a host of disorders, which, in their
turn, require renewed interference, and in this manner are
engendered all those complicated, functional, and organic
affections which usually mark the course of the most severe
and fatal diseases. Allopathy, by its blind routine, by its large
doses of active drugs, and by its complex prescriptions, is
therefore not only ineffectual as a curative system, but becomes
the fruitful parent of disease.  In all these respects it is
opposed to homceopathy, which, besides a curative power
unknown to any other system, can lay claim to the virtues of



102                    Homeopathy.
perfect simplicity and perfect safety. We shall have occasion
to consider some of these assertions in the sequel.
Having thus endeavoured to define the position which
homoeopathy claims for itself in relation to medical systems
and medical practice in general, I shall proceed to consider
the evidence by which its claims are supported. We may
divide this subject conveniently into two portions: first,
the homoeopathic law in the abstract, or as inferred from
selected instances; secondly, the homceopathic practice, as
bearing on the truth of the alleged universal law on which it
is founded.  It is evident that these two inquiries are not
only capable of being distinctly pursued, but that they will
produce confusion if mingled together; for it is possible, on
the one hand, that the law may be well founded, although its
general application in practice be unattainable; or, on the
other, that the law may have been inferred on insufficient
evidence, although the practice be on the whole good, i. e.,
an improvement on that ordinarily pursued.
I. Examination of the homoeopathic law.-Let us now
see how Hahnemann builds up the doctrine which is in fact
the foundation of his system.  We are justified in looking to
Hahnemann's writings as the most authoritative exposition
of this doctrine, because neither he nor any of his followers
professes to find a distinct expression of it in previous medical
history; but, on the contrary, as we have seen, put it forward
as a direct contradiction to all antecedent generalizations.
Nor am I aware of any attempt on the part of the homoeopathists to revise the process of reasoning by which this
doctrine is alleged to be established on the ruins of the past.
On the contrary, the latest, and unquestionably the ablest and
most distinguished of the homceopathic controversialists, has,
in great detail, and without one word of unfavourable commentary, narrated the whole process of this investigation
according to the account given by Hahnemann himself. " The
idea of the homoeopathic law was reasoned out," says Dr.
Henderson, " before a single testing experiment was made.
The first experiment was made with cinchona bark." 1  The


1 tIon 2opatl y fairly represented; by William Henderson, M.D.



Homoeopathic Law deduced c" a priori."


103


narrative to which this remark applies is to be found in
the letter of Hahnemann to Hufeland, quoted by Dr. Henderson. But this was one of the earliest publications in
which his ideas were expressed otherwise than in a fragmentary form.     My observations will, therefore, for the
most part, be founded on the Organon, the author's most
important and most matured work.
I propose first to examine the logical process by which
the law of homoeopathy was " reasoned out before a single
testing experiment was made."     This abstract conception of
the law occupies the first place in the history of its discovery.
The value attached to it by Hahnemann, however, was not
merely historical, as we find it occupying the first place
even in the Organon. Hahnemann's first thesis, therefore, with
respect to the homoeopathic law, professes to be a logical
deduction, from the nature of disease, and the nature of
remedies in general.    Let us see how    he establishes his
position.
All disease, according to Hahnemann, is a modification of
the vital force (which in health determines the functional activity of the organism), by external influences of a deleterious or
morbific kind.  But as the deranged vital force is at the root
of all disease, and as the vital force is an immaterial force
(" a spiritual dynamis," according to Dr. Dudgeon's translation), it follows that morbific influences can only act in an
immaterial (or "spiritual") manner on the vital force, and
likewise that " curative agents are able to re-establish, and
do actually re-establish health and harmony, only by their
immaterial (spiritual or dynamic) action on the vital force."
Now, as everything immaterial is, of necessity, beyond the
reach of the senses, it follows that the original disturbance of
the vital force, as well as the essence of its cause and of its
cure, must always be hidden from our direct observation.  But
the Author of nature has so arranged that the hidden modifications of the vital force in disease find their perfect exposition
in the form of symptoms, i. e., morbid phenomena accessible to
the senses.   To our senses, therefore, the symptoms are the
entire disease, and each separate alteration of the vital force
is manifested in a special series of symptoms corresponding in
character with the nature of the morbific influence.    It is



104


Homeopathy.


of no avail, according to Hahnemann, to inquire how the
altered vital force produces diseases.  Still less philosophic is
it to ascribe to disease a separate material existence within
the organism, as is often done by medical theorists (allopathists.)  " The Master of life has rendered accessible to
the senses only those phenomena of disease, the knowledge of
which is necessary and sufficient for the cure; and the cure,
accordingly, consists solely in the removal or annihilation of
the symptoms, which, when taken as a whole, represent
accurately the whole of the disease.  All speculation beyond
this is futile and absurd."--Organon, ~~ 6-18.
Observe, before going further, that to this general exposition of doctrine, Hahnemann incidentally admits two
classes of exceptions, which may, however, perhaps be considered as the same.  The one is that of surgical or mechanical diseases (~ 13), in which the essence of the disease
may be accessible to the senses, and therefore amenable to
mechanical processes of cure; the other, where a causa
occasionalis, or manifest exciting cause of disease (~ 7)
exists, and is capable of being removed.  Of these exceptions,
there is more to be said hereafter.
To pursue Hahnemann's reasoning. As the only knowledge we have of disease is through symptoms, and the only
knowledge we have of the effect of remedies is through their
effect on these symptoms (the curative or dynamic essence
being, like the vital force on which it acts, immaterial and
hidden), it follows that remedies can only act on diseases in
virtue of their power to alter the vital force, i. e., " to produce
(in healthy persons) certain accidents or symptoms, or, to
express it more clearly, a certain artificial disease which
destroys the natural disease already existing." It follows also
that, to annihilate the totality of the symptoms of a malady,
we must seek a medicine which has the power of producing
either similar symptoms, or contrary symptoms, to those of
the disease, according as experience teaches us to use the one
or the other.  Experience, however, has ahleady pronounced
a verdict upon this issue, by showing, as the result of all
careful trials, that morbid symptoms can only be temporarily
palliated, while they are in reality aggravated, by remedies
administered on the antipathic system.      The allopathic



Hahnemann's Logic.                  105
system, again, is a mere imitation of the blind efforts of the
vital force to get rid of a noxious influence by creating, at
all costs, a disturbance in the organism; it can never do good
eicept by chance. The homoeopathic method, then, of adapting remedies to symptoms is the only one which remains.
Therefore, per viam exclusionis, it is the only true system.
-Organon, ~~ 19-24.
Should the reader be astonished at this strange specimen
of medical logic, I beg to assure him, nevertheless, that, to
the best of my understanding, I have faithfully reported it.
In doing so, it has been necessary to reduce a great deal of
repetition and verbiage within a moderate compass; but I
am not aware of having suppressed or understated a single
point in the original argument.    In the letter to Hufeland,
most of the same reasoning reappears in a less abstract form.
The ultimate appeal, as in the above passages, is to the
alleged failure of the ordinary practice (allopathic and antipathic).  This failure being assumed, it is " blasphemous" to
conceive that the medical art is incapable of greater certainty;
" that the infinite wisdom of the eternal Spirit that animates
the universe could not produce remedies to allay the sufferings
of the diseases He allows to arise;" or that God " was capable of the tyranny" of leaving the cure of any disease an
insoluble problem.   " There must be a sure and trustworthy
method of treatment as certainly as God is the wisest and
best of beings;" for it would be " indifference to the tortures
of His best beloved creatures" to have denied to the genius
of man the discovery of positive and certain remedies, with
their " easy, sure, and trustworthy" application to the cure
of disease.   The arcanum   thus yielded, after centuries of
darkness, by the divine beneficence, is, of course, Homoeopathy.
I confess to a degree of reluctance in quoting even so little
as is here given of these fanatical, and, as it seems to me,
almost impious reflections upon the divine government of the
world.   They afford a striking illustration of the license
allowed.to itself by an ill-regulated intellect, acting in a selfwilled and arrogant nature. We have already seen how
Hahnemann dealt with human science and learning; in these
passages we see the same scornful and vehement spirit
attempting, as it were, to scale the heavens-to lay down



Io6


Homoeopathy,


laws for the Creator of the universe, and to pluck from His
grasp, under the threat, as it were, of an accusation of
injustice, thinly disguised in reverential language, the elixir
of life for which the alchemists laboured in vain.  We are
shocked by the thought that the "tyranny" and " indifference" against the imputation of which Hahnemann seems,
in the above sentences, to defend the Deity, have actually been
displayed towards mankind for several thousand years, during
which they have, according to Iahnemann, lived in a state
of medical darkness.  It is painful to find these fanatical
aberrations quoted approvingly by Dr. Henderson as evidence
of a " lofty piety," and as " the solitary instance " of arduous
medical researches undertaken on the special ground of a
deep sense of the divine goodness.  The whole passage reminds one forcibly of the words put by Goethe into the
mouth of Prometheus, and intended to give expression to
the passionate outpourings of a strong and rebellious will.
" When I was yet a child,
And knew no better,
Wildered, I sought above
An ear to hear my plaintA heart, like mine,
To pity the oppressed."
" Who helped me then
Against the Titan's insolence?
Who rescued me from deathFrom slavery?
Hast thou not, thou thyself, done all,
Thou glowing heart of mine;
Glowing with reverence,
Glowing with youth and love,
With foolish thanks for safety,
To him that sleeps above."
With regard to the argument, or rather the hypothetical
basis on which the homoeopathic law is made to rest in
this portion of the Organon, I have only a few remarks to
make.
First, This argument assumes as proved a theory of
disease which never can be proved, and which can, at most,
be only partially true, inasmuch as it is clearly untrue of
some diseases, and probably not entirely true of any.  That



Objections to Hahnemann's Argument.


o07


in all diseases, whether of function or structure, there is some
modification of the forces of life, or of the conditions under
which these forces act, is true; but this is simply a definition of
disease, not an inquiry into its nature with a view to its cure.
Disease is disordered function; disordered function implies a
modification in the action of those forces which preside over
function in the living being-a modification, in other words,
of the vital activity, or vital force.  But in the raising this
vital force to the rank of a metaphysical entity; in endowing
it with powers of acting and suffering distinct (in theory)
from those of the bodily organization in which and through
which it acts and suffers; in assigning to it, in short, a
spiritual or immaterial essence, from  which disease directly
springs, and on which remedies directly act, Hahnemanp has
transcended the sphere of science, leaving behind him the
whole of the facts which it was his duty to investigate, and
if possible to make the basis of his theory of disease.  He
has, in fact, committed the same error as Van Helmont and
his predecessor Paracelsus, when they ascribed the whole
phenomena of health and disease to an Archbeus; who, from
his unseen throne in the centre of the Microcosm, gave and
administered laws, suffered and struggled, was oppressed or
victorious, angry or pleased, restless or at peace. The results
of this fundamental error are plainly visible in every step of
the subsequent reasoning.    To connect symptoms with the
immaterial essence of disease, Hahnemann has to call in the
aid of a special arrangement of divine providence, by which,
as the keys of an instrument are made to correspond with
the chords (i. e., artificially and for a specific purpose), the
symptoms are placed in relation with the states of the vital
force, only that we may be informed of so much as is necessary to the cure of disease, which is in itself an inscrutable
and intangible essence.  In like manner, in order to connect
the curative virtues of material remedies with the aberrations
of an immaterial vital force, Hahnemann is compelled to avail
himself of another assumption, not less violent than the
former,-that remedial substances, known as they are to act
upon the healthy organism, are endowed with the physiological properties simply as an index to their therapeutic virtues,
which are not capable of being the subject of direct physical



o08


Homceopathy.


demonstration, but are occult, dynamic, immaterial, specifically adapted to the specific changes in the immaterial vital
"force. In criticising the ordinary imperfect theories of disease
as not justified by our knowledge of its phenomena, Hahnemann may not be very far wrong; but he only escapes the
error which he ascribes to allopathy by plunging into a sea
of abstract speculations, founded on assumptions without
proof, having no actual or possible place in demonstrative
science; which it is, therefore, impossible to confirm, and
equally impossible, as well as useless, to confute.
Secondly, The argument of Hahnemann breaks down at
every point when applied to certain well-understood forms of
disease, some of which he has himself indicated.     Thus,
mechanical diseases requiring surgical appliances are excepted
from its operation. But why? Is not a stone in the bladder
a most palpable disease, and is it not removed by a most
palpable remedy? Do we not touch here, by means of
knife and forceps, that very proximate or essential cause of
disease, quce prcesens morbum facit, sublata tollit?  And do
we not, having this proximate cause or essence in our view
and in our power, practically determine to leave the mysterious vital force, with all its occult operations, to shift for itself,
while we lay hold of the mechanical and tangible obstruction,
and by removing it, cure the patient? Now, suppose the
obstruction to be of a different kind-a tapeworm in the
intestine, an acarus in the skin, a gallstone in the biliary
duct, an undue fermentation of the food, an indigestible mass
in the stomach, a poison in the blood. Of most of these sources
of disease, considered as essential causes of certain symptoms,
we have incontrovertible proof; some of the causes we can
remove by medicine, thereby removing the disease, some of
them we cannot so remove. But with most physicians the
same principles apply to all, i. e., removal of the cause, if that
be possible-palliation of the symptoms, if not. Hahnemann,
on the contrary, divides these precisely similar cases into two,
or perhaps into three classes.   Where the cause (causa
occasionalis) can be directly removed, he will not absolutely
shut his eyes to the necessity of this proceeding; but where
it cannot, or where the nature of the cause is only a shade
less palpable than a stone in the bladder, i. e., where the



Objections continued.             lo9
disease is internal, and without an evident causa occasionalis,
he will refuse to seek it further, and will take refuge in the
mist of an immaterial essence, only to be reached by specific
remedies. Palliative remedies and empirical attempts at
cure he equally repudiates.  Disease must, above all, be certainly and easily curable; if possible, by an intelligible theory,
if not, then by a theory founded on gratuitous assumption,
and clothed in the panoply of a scholastic logic worthy of
Thomas Aquinas. Yet who shall say that we are wrong, if
we assert in opposition to Hahnemann, that the great mass of
the ills that flesh is heir to occupy precisely this middle position, which Hahnemann will not admit? Their cause is, to
a certain extent, removed from observation, and perhaps still
further removed from the action of remedies; or it is complex,
and is only in part within our reach; but it is still a material
cause, as cognizable in theory, possibly as amenable to practice (if we only knew what it was) as the stone, or the
acarus, or the tapeworm.
Thirdly, Admitting that Hahnemann's theory of disease
and of cure in general were as sound as I have shown it to
be unsound, the special application of it is a petitio principii,
or unproved assumption, of the most gross and indefensible
kind.  It amounts to this, that as the Author of nature has
established for our guidance a relation between the symptoms
of natural diseases and the artificial symptoms excited by
remedies, it is our duty to discover this relation; but as the
two classes of symptoms (according to Hahnemann) must be
either similar, dissimilar, or contrary, our choice of remedies
must also be either homoeopathic, allopathic, or antipathic.
Both of the latter, however, have been tried and found
wanting; therefore the former is necessarily, exclusively, and
universally true.
Such is the argument.    To every step in it I object.
Not to press for the present the consideration that this
argument is, at best, a leap in the dark from  allopathy and
antipathy, presumed on insufficient grounds to be false,
into homoeopathy, presumed on equally insufficient grounds
to be true, I protest against the endeavour to exhaust the
possible relation of symptoms to each other in the above three
formulas.   The experienced and scientific physician well



i 10                       Homeopathy.
knows that relations of the most unquestionable and definite
kind have been discovered between symptoms,1 which are not
to be expressed in the idea of mere likeness or unlikeness;
just as the mathematician knows that there exist among
numbers relations of the most complex and exact kind,
which are not to be expressed in the old and crude Pythagorean
formulae of equal and unequal, male and female, generated
and not generated.      These relations are, in both cases, the
object of legitimate science. But the science of pathological
relations is repudiated by the homoeopathist, who shuts himself up in the prison of his own crude conceptions, and puzzles
himself in the vague search after mere analogy, the most lax
and fluctuating of all foundations for scientific knowledge.2
The law of homoeopathy could only be proved in theory,
according to the scheme of Hahnemann, by disproving every
other possible relation between the symptoms of the remedy
and the symptoms of the disease. But so far from doing this,
For example:-Blindness is a symptom or a form of disease. Of
course, one case of blindness may be said to be similar to another case
of blindness; and in the ordinary homoeopathic sense, it can scarcely be
said to be similar to anything else. It is not very similar to a case of
deafness, or loss of smell, or of taste, or of touch, or of motion. Yet,
with all of these, it may present pathological relations of the most close
and intimate kind. Given, several cases of blindness. The patients are all
deprived, or partially deprived, of the light of day; the forms and colours
of objects, the gay mantle of nature, the varied works of art, are shut out
from the conceptions of all; they are " similar" cases. But one patient
may be blind from cataract, one from palsy of the retina, one from
inflammation of the cornea, one from adhesion of the pupil, one from
tumour of the brain, one from total destruction of the eyeball. How
much more really unlike each other are these " similar" cases than many
others which, to the common view, present no such similarity at all?
Again:-How much more resemblance between a case of blindness and
lameness, both dependent on diseased brain, than between the former, and
a case of blindness from cataract?
2 In the very great difficulty of dealing with analogy as a principle
for the establishment of truth, may be found the explanation of the fact,
that homceopathists rarely meet with any insuperable obstacle either to
drawing their own conclusions from apparently adverse instances, or to
explaining away the cases where homoeopathy has been alleged notoriously
to fail. Who can tell when a remedy has been homoeopathically chosen?
I have shown, in the preceding note, that the most dissimilar things may
appear similar, and vice versa, from a slight change in the point of view.
The more complex the symptoms, of course the more involved and
difficult the argument.



Homoeopathic Instances.


III


he has not disproved, any more than he has hitherto proved,
anything at all. He has assumed much, he has guessed at
more, and he ends with making the assertion that homoeopathy
must be true because allopathy and antipathy are false. And
this is what we are told to consider a logical exposition of
the homoeopathic law, independently of experiment!
I have next to consider the homoeopathic law in the
light of positive experiment. But here my limits forbid me to
enter at all into the discussions which have arisen upon almost
every one of those instances which have been adduced by
Hahnemann himself, and by others, as the instantie crucis.
I have already alluded to the ease with which vague
analogies may be converted to the support of a pre-conceived
opinion.  The controversies in question afford constant proof
of this tendency, which Dr. Simpson has happily compared to
the easy and courtier-like acquiescence of Polonius in the
doctrine "similia similibus," when proposed to him    by
Hamlet:-" Do you see yonder cloud that's almost in the
shape of a camel?"  "By the mass, and it is like a camel
indeed."  "Methinks it is like a weasel."  "It is backed
like a weasel."  " Or like a whale?"  " Very like a whale."
Any one who is at all accustomed to weigh medical testimony
in relation to the therapeutical effects of remedies, and who
will read over the introductory chapters of the Organon of
Hahnemann, or any considerable passage of his Materia
Medica, cannot, I think, fail to wonder at the laxity with
which facts are admitted and conclusions set down upon
authority, and under circumstances of contradiction and doubt
which would damage a case of much stronger character than
I have shown homoeopathy prima facie to be.
When, for instance, we are told that a fatty discharge
from the intestine is cured by olive oil; that measles cured
a chronic herpetic eruption, and was found a preventive of
hooping-cough; that small-pox is a homoeopathic cure for
inflammation of the eyes, blindness (paralysis of retina), deafness, difficulty of breathing, dysentery, etc.; that arnica is
adapted for the healing of wounds and contusions, because it
produces stitches in the side, sickness, anxiety, and other
nervous symptoms which sometimes accompany wounds and



112


Homoeopathy.


bruises; that belladonna is said to have cured hydrophobia (?)
and to produce symptoms in the healthy somewhat like hydrophobia (about as like as the cloud to the whale); that squill
cures pleurisy (?), because J. C. Wagner saw "a sort of
pleurisy" come on under this commonest of all remedies
(which was never accused of such a thing before or since);
that camphor cures typhus fever (febris nervosa lenta of
Huxhanf), because it produces insensibility, prostration, and
diminished temperature in poisonous doses; and that it also
cures cholera (I presume, for similar reasons); that wine is
a good (homceopathic) remedy for inflammation (!)--(Crivellati, Augenius, Mundella, two other unnamed persons,
and Asclepiades, are adduced as the authorities); when we
hear these things, we are tempted to ask, what doctrine could
possibly be named so absurd as not to admit of something
like evidence on similar terms?  But the climax is not yet
reached. Hahnemann gravely proposes, as illustrations of the
homoeopathic law, the effect of the sunlight in extinguishing the
brilliancy of the stars; of snuff in removing the impression of
fetid odours; of the drum in preventing an army from being
terrfied by the roar of distant cannon; and other examples
equally convincing!
Perhaps the most celebrated instances of the homoeopathic
law given by Hahnemann himself, and. adopted with tolerable
unanimity by his followers, have been these three:-quinine,
or Peruvian bark, against intermittent fever or ague; belladonna, against scarlet fever; and vaccination, in reference to
small-pox.  In regard to these three instances, I shall make
a few very brief remarks, without venturing on a detailed
consideration of any of them.
The utmost that is asserted with any show of probability
in the case of quinine, is that, when taken in considerable
quantity in a healthy person, it is apt to induce feverishness
and headache, with furred tongue and nausea.  On these
grounds, which are more or less plausibly maintained, it is
asserted that quinine is homeopathic to ague.  Here, however, it is to be observed that, on the same grounds on which
quinine is asserted to be homceopathic to ague, it may be
with equal propriety maintained that it is homceopathic to
ephemeral fevers of all kinds, and even, inasmuch as all fevers



Peruvian Bark-Belladonna-Vaccination.


113


are " similar" in these respects to the alleged action of
quinine, that its' curative power ought to extend very widely
over the range of febrile diseases; whereas we know that
this therapeutic value of quinine, or of Peruvian bark, is
actually circumscribed within very narrow limits; these
remedies being quite as useless in most other fevers as they
are useful in those of the aguish type, to which in reality their
effects on the healthy system   bear no special resemblance
whatever.    The whole case, therefore, as regards quinine, is
this-that a substance which, in very large doses, occasionally
produces feverishness, along with other effects, in the healthy
is applicable to the cure of one particular class of fevers only.
The power of belladonna to prevent scarlatina when
epidemic, and sometimes to cure it, was maintained by
Hahnemann soon after the celebrated discovery of Jenner.
Now, the homoeopathic character of this instance depends
upon two circumstances, both of which are, unluckily, after
years of controversy and experiment upon both sides, still
rather more than doubtful.     The power of belladonna to
produce a morbid state having any considerable resemblance to
scarlatina,' is one so rarely observed, if it really exist, that
many physicians have used belladonna largely both in acute
and chronic disease, and not unfrequently also in healthy persons, without once seeing such an effect.  On the other hand,
the action of the remedy as a prophylactic in that disease
has, in my opinion, been clearly shown to be quite visionary.2
The admitted power of vaccination as a prophylactic or
preservative remedy against small-pox is claimed by Hahnemann as an illustration of the homoeopathic law.   Let us see
by what reasoning this claim is maintained; premising that
the most trustworthy medical authorities are content, in the first
place, to admit the fact as a fact proved by experience; and in
the second place, to connect it with the very reasonable, though
1 We have seen above that belladonna is likewise homeopathic to
hydrophobia. Now, as lahnemann always professes to judge of the
application of a remedy by the totality of the symptoms, and as there are
few diseases more unlike than scarlatina and hydrophobia, it is difficult
to understand this double curative action of belladonna.
2 See an article by Dr. Warburton Begbie in the British and Foreign
Med. Chir. Review, Jan. 1855, p. 77; and the succeeding controversy in the
Homoeopathic Journal and Monthly Journal of Medical Science for 1855.



1I4


Homoeopathy.


not by any means certain, theoretical argument, that the
vaccine disease is, in fact, small-pox under a modified formless dangerous, both to the patient and to others-strictly
local and non-infectious under all ordinary circumstances-but
identical in essence with its prototype, and therefore carrying
(as small-pox itself would do, and as most other contagious
fevers do) the mysterious but well-ascertained power of protecting, within certain limits, against a renewed attack.  If
this theoretical explanation of an admitted fact be unsatisfactory (and I shall not presume to assert the contrary), what
shall we say of Hahnemann's, which denies to the vaccine
disease identity with small-pox, but asserts that it is similar,
and because similar, curative.    It is to me very clear
that if the vaccine disease do not stand to small - pox
in a relation of pathological identity, or similarity, that
is, a relation founded on a common or a nearly common
cause, it is scarcely possible to find two diseases, or at least
two eruptive diseases, more widely different in that totality
of symptoms to which Hahnemann refers as alone giving
homeopathic similarity.  Nay more, I maintain, and I think
most practical physicians will bear me out in asserting,
that there are diseases having greatly more resemblance, as
regards symptoms, to small-pox than vaccinia has; diseases
which are apt to be mistaken for small-pox (which vaccinia
never is), even after close observation for some days, but
which are not in any degree protective, and which may
be followed by the true small-pox (if the patient be exposed to its infection), within a very few days.   Further,
Hahnemann admits that vaccination does not cure smallpox when present.    It does not, therefore, perform  the true
office of a homoeopathic remedy, according to the homoeopathic law; it performs a totally different office, an office
which homceopathic remedies generally do not perform;
while these do possess, according to Habnemann, that curative
virtue which the vaccine disease confessedly has not.  " To
produce this effect (of cure)," says Hahnemann, " it only
wants that excess of power which ought to accompany the
homceopathic resemblance in order to effect a cure."  He goes
on to explain that, although deficient in power to cure, it is
powerful enough to excite a disease similar to small-pox, and



How to build up a System.


5Is


so similar as to possess even that most mysterious and inexplicable of all the qualities of small-pox, protective virtue
against a recurrence of the disease.  Let those accept this
explanation who will; to me it seems the mere jangling of
meaningless words, alike incapable and undeserving of being
treated as an argument.
But suppose that in these three instances, or in many more
instances, a similarity between the action of the remedy and
the symptoms of the disease had been pointed out, would
that similarity establish the homceopathic principle in therapeutics?  Most certainly not; because, amid the complex
phenomena of disease on the one hand, and of remedial
actions on the other, it can hardly happen otherwise than
that there should be accidental resemblances; as there is, for
example, between the action of an emetic and the sickness
caused by the surfeit for which the emetic is plainly the
proper remedy.  To establish the homceopathic principle as
regards this particular symptom, it would be necessary to
prove, that in all cases of stomach-sickness the cure is to
be sought in the artificial use of substances tending to stomachsickness or something like it; and that the more sick the stomach
the more is the homoeopathic remedy in question indicated.
The fact is, however, that the evidence of the homoeopathic
theory stands before us in " shreds and patches " only; we are
never invited to take up any single class of symptoms, much
less any single symptom, and to exhaust the consideration of
it in relation to its appropriate remedy or remedies; on the
contrary, we are asked to view symptoms in their most intricate combinations, and to seek for traces of similarity betweenthe totality of the symptoms ascribed to the disease, and the
totality of the symptoms ascribed to the remedy. Let any one,
keeping this in view, look at a homoeopathic work on the
Materia Medica on the one hand, and a somewhat elaborate
and learned exposition of nosological science on the other,
and he will be at no loss to discover how systems are built
up in medicine, and why they are of so unstable a character
when built.  The pedantry and cumulative labour of ages
have given to each disease a farrago of characters of almost
hopeless complexity; and the imagination of homceopathic
" provers," which has ascribed to charcoal 930 symptoms, to



- 116


Homoeopathy.


oyster-shell, 1090, to cinchona bark, 1143, has made the
search after illustrations of the homoeopathic law merely a
matter of time and industry.    To seek either the establishment or the rejection of that law by individual instances,
therefore, seems to be a very unsatisfactory way of arriving
at the truth.  And with these remarks I close this part of
the investigation.
II. Examination of the Homoeopathic Practice.-Is homoeopathic practice generally, or in particular hands, so successful
and so consistent with the principles on which it professes to
be founded, as to form a ground for admitting those principles
to be true, independently of the evidence which we have
already discussed?   Such is the inquiry to which I now
proceed.
The inquiry is one of considerable difficulty; but it may
tend to lessen that difficulty if we observe that homoeopathy
must do much more than prove a moderate amount of success
in order to entitle it to consideration from its own point of
view.   If homoeopathy be that universal, sure, and trustworthy system which it claims to be, and if it be opposed to
a system radically wrong in theory, and murderous in practice,
as Hahnemann asserted, the difference between the results of
the two methods ought to be the difference between food and
poison, between light and darkness, between absolute success
and utter failure.  Further, we have a right to expect, as a
legitimate consequence of the position claimed by homoeopathy,
that its professors shall have followed out its principles, and
- shall not shrink from their application in practice, either in
acute or chronic, in severe or trivial diseases.  With these
preliminary remarks, I proceed to consider, in the first
place, some of the practical results obtained by Hahnemann,
as recorded by himself.
The first point to which it seems necessary to direct
attention, is the degree of confidence with which Hahnemann
carried out in practice his preconceived law of homoeopathy
and the range of diseases over which he extended it.   There
seems no reason to doubt that Hahnemann rigidly abstained
from anything at all approaching to the ordinary use of
drugs.    At least, I am  not disposed to question his state



Infinitesimal Doses.             I 17
ments on this point.  That he was very careful and precise
in his dietetic regulations, and caused his patients to adopt a
very strict regimen, is generally admitted; and that his energy
of character, high pretensions, and great celebrity, induced many
of them to repose unbounded confidence in him, is also more
than probable.  That he possessed, with a degree of that
metaphysical haze so prevalent in the German mind, uncommon
tact in shaping his course according to circumstances, is clear
from every part of his writings.  I think, therefore, that
apartfrom his use of medicines, Hahnemann was probably a
successful practitioner in a considerable proportion of the
cases in which he was ordinarily consulted.  This success
he had in common with all other practitioners who obtain
the confidence of their patients, and establish for them fitting
rules of life.
When we come to consider his use of remedial agents, the
first peculiarity, beyond the homoeopathic law itself, which
strikes us is the tenuity of the doses.  The method of infinitesimal doses, as it is called, was not originally part of the
homceopathic system, with which it has apparently no very
obvious or necessary connection; nevertheless, it formed in the
end a part of Hahnemann's creed, to which he was not less
devoted than to the law of " similia similibus curentur " itself.
The system of minute doses has moreover been embraced by
most of Hahnemann's followers, some of whom, indeed, have
pursued the idea of attenuation to a degree almost inconceivably beyond the most inconceivable of the original infinitesimal dilutions, while others have tended to revert towards more
palpable quantities.  I shall not follow out all the details
bearing upon the process of attenuation alluded to; they are
for the most part well known.  A grain of the medicine is
dissolved in 99 grains of alcohol, or alcohol and water; then
one drop of this solution (1st dilution) is mixed with 99 drops
more of alcohol; one drop of this further attenuation (2d
dilution) with 99 drops more of alcohol; and so on to the
10th, 20th, 30th, or 600th to 1000th dilution as the case may
be.  The result of this extraordinary and inconceivable process of subdivision is stated by Dr. Simpson in the form of a
calculation revised by competent mathematical authorities,
and from which I shall give only the following illustrations:



Homneopathy.


-At the 6th dilution, had the entire original grain been furnished with its proper amount of alcohol, that quantity could
have amounted to 13,000,000 gallons; at the 12th dilution, to
a sea six times the size of the Mediterranean; at the 15th, to
46,000 times the whole waters contained in all the oceans of
the globe; at the 30th dilution (the ordinary one employed
by Hahnemann, but very much below those recommended by
some of his followers), to a "quantity sufficient to make one
hundred and forty billion spherical masses extending from
limit to limit of Neptune's orbit, or a quantity equal to many
hundred spheres, each with a radius extending from the earth
to the nearest fixed star."'
A consideration of this strange doctrine (which was only
feebly expressed by Lord Jeffrey when he said that an ounce
of medicine, put into the Rhone at the upper end of the lake
of Geneva, would physic all the Calvinists at the lower end,)
excites a natural curiosity to know how Hahnemann was led
so far (apparently) out of his way.  The answer to this question is important.
Hahnemann did not fail to discover, as he has told us in
the Organon, ~ 276, et seq., that a homceopathic remedy
" always does harm when given in too large a dose, and does
harm all the more in prop)ortion as the dose is larger.  Moreover, the more homoeopathic the remedy, the greater is the
injury from  too large a dose; the effects of a homoeopathic
remedy, under these circumstances, being much worse than a
similar dose of an allopathic medicine."  From this proposition Hahnemann was gradually led into a series of experiments (for he says it is impossible that theory could decide the
matter,) as to the necessary attenuation of a homoeopathic
remedy to avoid the consequence above indicated, viz., of its
being more hurtful than an allopathic remedy in like quantity.
The precise evil effects ascribed to the over dose of the homoeopathic medicine are detailed elsewhere (Organon,~ 156-7); they
include not only the development of those powers of the drug
which do not stand in exact relation with the symptoms, but
in almost every case an aggravation of the original symptoms;
or, as Hahnemann expresses it, "a small aggravation, which
so closely resembles the primitive affection, that the patient
1 IJaom:iopatIy, its Tenets and Tendencies; by Professor Simpson, p. 285.



Hahnemann versus Homceopathy.


II9


himself supposes it to be an increase of his disease; whereas
it is, in fact, a medicinal disease, very like the primitive
disease, and surpassing it a little in intensity."
On the strength of these admissions, I claim       Hahnemann as the first witness against his own system.         It is
plain that the reduction of the homceopathic dose to an insensible and preposterous minuteness, was determined by a fact
which ought in reality to have determined the rejection of
the system; founded, as we have seen it to be, not upon experience, but upon abstract reasoning. The first experiments,
doubtless, revealed   what subsequent experiments       corroborated-that homoeopathic remedies invariably aggravate
the diseases they are intended to cure; or, as he somewhat
naively says, that " the artificial disease which the remedy
has excited in the most suffering parts of the organism, goes
the length of being hurtful."    Hence the necessity of reducing the doses. And once involved in this train of false
inference, Hahnemann did not hesitate to spring from       one
absurdity to another.   The idea, indeed, that the curative
virtues of remedies are spiritual or immaterial, led him    to
look on them as bearing no fixed relation to the bulk of the
medicine; and all the nonsense about the influence of shaking
and   trituration  in  developing  these  "dynamic virtues,"
naturally followed.
Another point in which Hahnemann's system evidently
gave way beneath his feet, was in relation to chronic organic
diseases.  It was impossible to assert that there existed any
remedy directly homoeopathic to cancer, caries, disease of the
vertebrae, etc., etc.  The consequence of this vital defect in
the system (in connection with the general idea that remedies
must be found for every disease) was the invention of a class
of antipsoric remedies, as he called them, and the celebrated
"psoric hypothesis," which even Dr. Henderson, who, after a
SHering, a homoeopathic expositor of Hahnemann's doctrines, is so
distinct and concise in his statement on this point, that I quote the
following passage, as given in the work of Dr. Epps, Homoeopathy and
its Principles. The "almost constant aggravation of the disease by the
remedies which were chosen according to the new law, threatened to
embarrass very much their trial, if not to render it wholly impracticable.
To avoid these disagreeable results, Hahneibann adopted the most simple
and natural expedient, viz., that of lessening the dose."



Homoeopathy referred to " Common Sense."  I I
dietetic and mental influences to which I have adverted
above.   To the infinitesimal doses, as medicines, I ascribe
simply no effect whatever.
Having thus examined my subject from every point of
view to which there is access in the writings of Hahnemann
himself; having carefully weighed the claims of homeopathy
to consideration, both as a system of doctrine and as a method
of practice; having found it to be, on the one hand, based
upon assumptions destitute of proof, and inconsistent with
known facts; while, on the other, it stands condemned by
the very experimental evidence which has been adduced in
its support, I might perhaps bring this inquiry to a conclusion.  But it cannot fail to 'have struck those who are
familiar with the position of homceopathy in the present day,
that there is an obvious disposition, on the part of its adherents, to avoid the discussion of principles and of elementary
facts, and to invite attention chiefly to the general results of
practice in homceopathic hands, as the only true test of the
value of the system. We hear every day of wonderful cures
of isolated cases; of desperate diseases which yield to homceopathy in a way unknown to the old practice; of homceopathic
hospitals in which the ratio of mortality is surprisingly low,
and in which the most acute and formidable diseases are cured
in the most astonishing manner.  Statistical tables are presented to us showing the results of treatment in homoeopathic
and in " allopathic" institutions; and we are told that whatever becomes of the homceopathic law, a system must be
known by its fiuits, and of these the public can judge for
themselves from the facts presented.  " Common sense," says
Dr. Henderson, in one of his earlier publications, " is quite
competent to decide which of two systems of treatment is the
best-that which has the greatest number of recoveries, or
that which has not;" the numerical advantage being, of
course, attributed to homoeopathy, on the faith of the statistical tables to which we have referred.  Besides this, the
horrors of bleeding and blistering, bolus and draught, pill and
powder, are constantly brought before us, and contrasted with
the amenity and the slight disturbance to the system of the
small sugared globules, or the colourless and tasteless solutions



122


Homeaopathy.


in which the infinitesimals of the homoeopathist are diffused.
And upon these materials the public is invited to give its
verdict, while the homceopathic law is thrown into the background.
I am in no way disposed to shrink from this aspect of
the question, any more than from   the others which have
been already discussed.  But I take leave at the outset, before stating the very few considerations for which there is
room, to remark, that if there be anything which requires the
exercise of a skilful judgment, and a specially educated critical
faculty, it is precisely a question of this nature-one involving
considerations of the most delicate, and moreover the most
technical kind that it is possible to conceive.  To refer the
question between two systems of treatment, therefore, to
"common sense," on the faith of ex parte statistics, implies
a degree of insensibility to the true conditions of the inquiry,
which only the blinding influence of party could possibly
have produced in a mind naturally so acute and so critical
as that of Dr. Henderson.
I shall take a single instance of the fallacy which may
lurk under such a numerical statement as that to which
Dr. H-enderson refers.  I select this instance fiom  one of
his own writings, not only because he is "facile prwizceps"
among the homceopathists, but because, in questions necessarily to a certain extent personal, it is desirable to deal
with those, and those only, whom we believe to be above the
suspicion of intentional unfairness, however much warped
and biased by what we cannot but regard as a false position.
Dr. Henderson has taken occasion to inform us, in one place,
obviously, though not statedly, for purposes of numerical
comparison, that he had treated hoomceopathically thtrouzghout
16 cases of pneumonia, with one death.  To this statement,
considered merely as a statement, I do not object; but
if we are intended to draw the inference from it, that the
homoeopathic mortality of pneumonia in Dr. Henderson's
hands has been 1 in 16, then I must observe that such an
inference, however naturally resulting from the facts stated,
would be grossly incorrect.  For in a detailed record of eleven
cases of lpneumonia, homceoopathically treated, published in



Statistics.


123


the HIomoeopathic Journal for 1850, Dr. Henderson incidentally notices two very severe and complicated cases, in one of
which he himself, in the other the friends of the patient, became dissatisfied with the results of the homoeopathic treatment, and both of which cases ended fatally, after passing
into the hands of another physician. Such events are known
to be common in the practice of most homceopathists; the
alarm of a really severe disease being generally all that is
required to send men away from      infinitesimals in quest of
active r.emedies. Indeed, I suppose that few instances of really
severe and fatal disease are ever treated "homoeopathically
throughout" in private practice; at least among those able
to have a choice of physicians.   But it is evidently a most
erroneous calculation which would pass over these palpable
failures of the homoeopathic treatment, simply because they
were transferred, possibly when beyond hope, into other
hands.   Had the two cases alluded to (and we have no
security that there were not others) remained     under Dr.
Henderson's treatment, and died (as they most probably
would in any hands), the mortality of his cases would at once
have been altered from 1 in 16, to 1 in 6; which, considering
the character of the cases reported, would have been a very
high average indeed.'
A not less striking exhibition of the fallacies inherent in
statistical statements of this kind, put forward in the interest
of a system, is afforded by an examination of the results of
treatment in the Vienna Homceopathic Hospital.     It is now
some years since I had occasion to publish an analysis
of the reports of that much vaunted       institution;. and I
1 A word of personal explanation may here be permitted to the author.
Dr. Henderson will remember having made him the object of a very
bitter, but, under the circumstances, not unnaturally violent remonstrance in a controversial work, as having publicly questioned his' (Dr.
Henderson's) good faith in relation to the above subject. The fact is,
simply, that Dr. Henderson wrote under a total misapprehension, and
evidently from a very unfaithful report, of the public lecture on.which
he comments. The author never did, either in public or private, at any
time or in any place whatever, _use language intended or, he thinks.
calculated to bear such a construction. And as he never made the attack
attributed to him, so he has never felt aggrieved by the retaliation. No
names having been mentioned on either side, he has never alluded to the
matter until now, and will not now go into any details.



124


Homoeopathy.


am not aware of any reply to my criticisms in the least
deserving of, or requiring, notice.  It had been customary for
the homoeopathic writers and journalists to point triumphantly
to these reports, as indicating results " far beyond the reach
of any other mode of treatment;" and this on two grounds,
1st, that the general mortality was 6- per cent, which was
vaunted as surprisingly low; 2d, that in particular, pneumonia, pleurisy, peritonitis, and other acute diseases, were
treated with a success unknown in other hospitals.  So prevalent was the idea that these statistics were unassailable, that
several writers not favourable to homoeopathy were led into
giving almost unlimited credit to their results. Yet so completely has this credit broken down, as regards the first point
at least, that Dr. Henderson himself (while defending, as it
were, every inch of defensible ground) now admits the unfairness of the original comparison instituted by the homoeopathists on this point.1  The homoeopathic hospitals have,
in fact, by a somewhat strict comparison with those of ordinary physic, been shown to be systematically filled with those
trivial and easily curable cases, which all considerable and
well-filled hospitals are compelled, by the pressure of severe
and fatal disease, to exclude. Thus, in the Vienna Homoeopathic Hospital, consumption and organic disease of the
heart, liver, and kidney, find place in exceedingly small
proportion; while colic, diarrhoea, headache, sore-throat,
chicken-pox, affections of the skin of an acute and curable
kind, and similar diseases of other organs, swell the lists to a
degree unknown in any considerable hospital established for
purely charitable purposes. To give but one or two instancesout of about 6500 cases, the accumulation of several years,
the homoeopathic hospital at Vienna had 300 of sore-throat;
while the general hospital of Vienna, admitting not less than
21,400 cases in a single year, had, in this enormous number,
only 216 cases of inflammation connected with the mouth,
gums, teeth, palate or tonsils, or about one third less than
the cases of sore-throat alone in the homoeopathic institution.
Again, in the homoeopathic hospital, there were 110 cases of
chicken-pox, while in the Edinburgh Infirmary, there were


1 Ilomoopathy Fairly Represented, p. 82.



Treatment of Acute Diseases.                      2


125


only 2, out of a nearly equal aggregate of cases.   On the
other hand, for 276 cases of consumption in Edinburgh, there
were only 98 so called in the Vienna Homoeopathic Hospital;
for 1,59 cases of diseased heart, 15; for 82 cases of diseased
kidney, none; for 103 of paralysis, 5; for 33 of disease of
the liver, 1; for 17 of diabetes, none; for 14 of neuralgia,
none; for 18 of internal aneurism, 1; and so on.  Yet with
this very remarkable selection of cases, the mortality was
actually higher by one-third than that of the average of
English provincial hospitals; and was in fact shown to be
only exceeded by'those hospitals, in this country and abroad,
which, from their situation and other causes, receive an
enormous proportion of severe and incurable cases.'
Then, as regards the cases of acute disease supposed to
have been treated with such surprising success in the Homceopathic Hospital, one fact may suffice to indicate the bias in
the numerical statements. All the world over, catarrh of the
chest or bronchitis is a very frequent disease, while pneumonia,as well as pleurisy, are comparatively rare. Vienna is no
exception to this rule  for, in the general hospitals of that
city, there are admitted 2078 cases of catarrh for 509 of pneumonia, and 427 of pleurisy. In the Homoeopathic Hospital, on
the contrary, the proportion is so completely inverted, that for
300 cases of pneumonia and 224 of pleurisy, there are only 15
of acute bronchitis mentioned, while all the other diseases of
the chest together do not make up nearly the difference; thus
showing clearly that every example of curable disease which
could, however violently, be twisted into the semblance of
pneumonia or pleurisy, was made to swell the list of these
two formidable diseases, and thus to increase the apparent
success of the homceopathic experiment.  The case is even
worse as regards peritonitis, a dis-ease undoubtedly rare both
in hospital and general practice; of which, nevertheless, 105
cases appear among 6000; the Edinburgh Infirmary showing
in a similar total number only 19 of peritonitis.
These remarks- will, I trust, suffice to show how very
unsatisfactory are the results. to be deduced from the examiI For the more full statement of the whole question, see the author's
article on "~ Homceopathic Hospital Statistics,)) in the Medical Timtes for
April 3, 1852, p. 341.



126


Homoeopathy.


nation of either hospital or private practice as bearing upon
the success of homoeopathy.    Nevertheless, I am not by
any means inclined to deny that homceopathic practice is
frequently  successful in the treatment of disease; nay,
that in certain cases its success, as measured by the result,
may be not less than that of judicious, and a great deal
more than that of injudicious, practice of the ordinary
kind.  A  very large proportion  of cases require the assistance of the physician simply as a skilled adviser; and
that man is no true physician who does not quite as frequently
dissuade from active drugs, as urge the patient to their use.
In this class of cases the most rigid homoeopathist, with his
infinitesimal doses, is on a par, as regards medicine, with the
physician, and possibly has even an advantage over him, if
the faith in globules be, on the part of the patient, deeply
rooted.  But between the homoeopathist, in such a case as
this, and the unhappy apothecary who, from old habit, or for
present emolument, will insist on drenching, and sickening,
and narcotizing his patient alternately, after the routine manner still somewhat too common, and so well hit off by Moliere
in the " Mailade Imaginaire," 1 there is no comparison at all.
The public will always play off the man who does nothing
under a fine name, against the man who under a fine name
unnecessarily tortures its bowels, drains its blood, and decorticates its exterior.  And, no doubt, it is on the whole well
both for medicine and its professors, that the Sangrado should,
in the natural course of things, evolve the Hahnemannist with
his infinitesimals, just as the curmudgeon of a father evolves
the spendthrift of a son, as the Puritans evolved Charles II.
and Nell Gwynne, as the " Grand Monarque" sowed the
seeds of the French Revolution.   We may be assured that
nature's laws, in the remedy of abuses and absurdities, are not
homceopathic, nor infinitesimal neither; it is not " similia
similibus," but " contraria contrariis curantur."
The time when Hahnemann lived and wrote was singularly favourable for the first propagation of such a theory as
S" Clysterium donare
Postea seignare
Ensuita purgare
Repurgare, reseignare, et reclysterizare."
Le Malade Imaginaire, Troisieme Intermnde.



Medical Hypotheses.


I127


his.   The century preceding had been eminently an era of
systems and of hypotheses, each one more crude, and at the
same time more fantastic than its predecessor.  The latrochemists had given way to the latro-mathematicians, salt
and tartar to lines and triangles, and the attempt to reduce disease to a geometrical demonstration; humoralism
had been   shaken  to its foundations by   Hoffmann   with
his theory of spasm; and Boerhaave, with immense labour
and erudition, but little practical tact, had attempted to
construct an eclectic system, in which   " error loci" and
"spasm  of the vessels" should hold a place beside "the
spontaneous gluten," the "acid and alkali," as causes of
disease.  But the end was felt by the best minds to be
vanity of vanities.  The pathological knowledge of which
the basis was laid by Berzelius in the chemical department, and by Morgagni, Hunter, Bichat, Corvisart, Bayle, and
Laennec, in the anatomy of disease, was wanting to initiate
a real advance. Hahnemann's speculation, therefore, fell upon
a soil barren of new facts and teeming with old and worn-out
hypotheses.  It was one of a thousand theories, but it suited
the temper of some men's minds, both by what it professed,
and by what it rejected and abandoned. It was scarcely more
absurd than the Brunonian system of medicine, and much
less mischievous.  It was in fact less injurious in practice
than almost any of the exclusive theories which either preceded or succeeded it,- and therefore it found favour with
those with whom an exclusive theory was a necessity, but
who had seen the mischief of the current hypotheses.
Among those who call themselves homceopathists in the
present day, there are not a few who depart widely from the
principles of Hahnemann himself, and not only administer
what he called allopathic or antipathic remedies, but do so
habitually, and confessedly with reference to the occurrence of
cases in practice in which " the homoeopathic principle cannot
be of service to them, whether from its own present or
necessary limitations, or their insufficient acquaintance with
it." 1  Of course, from the moment when the homoeopathic
principle is regarded as subject to " necessary limitations," it


1 Henderson's Homoeopathy Fairly Represented, p. 25.



128


Homceopathy.


ceases to take rank as a law of nature; for to nature's laws
there can be no real, however there may be apparent,
exceptions; and it is not permitted to us to violate them,even in the way of omission, with impunity; much less to set
up in opposition to them, in particular cases, principles of a
contradictory character, or maxims founded on special, and
therefore limited, experience.  If, in so common a case, for
instance, as constipation of the bowels, it is habitually found
impossible to relieve the symptom in question by the administration of any of the numerous substances known as capable
of producing a like condition in the healthy, and if, on the
contrary, the adoption of laxative medicines, or of a diet and
regimen tending in the healthy to relax the bowels, be habitually resorted to in place of, or in addition to, homceopathic
remedies, then is homceopathy (as regards one very large class
of instances) proved to be false; and therefore, if for no other
reason, is the homceopathic law proved to be no law of nature.
The system of Hahnemann himself is at least entitled to
examination as a whole, on the footing of logical consistency;
but with those who, ranging themselves under his banner,
and adopting some of his formule, take shelter from the
shower of opposing facts under the doctrine of exceptions
and "necessary limitations," it is impossible to hold any
argument about the homeopathic law.
The author whom    we have quoted above claims for
himself and for those who act and think with him the
credit of " professional and  scientific  catholicity."  If
this merely mean that such persons are open to conviction as to the best course to be followed in each special
case, argued on its own merits, and without reference to any
general therapeutical law, such as the homeopathic law professes to be, then we are at one with them; but then, also,
they cease to be homceopathists in anything but the name;
and the questions between them and the medical world in
general are of a very limited description-simply, indeed, the
questions discussed in every medical journal, and in every
lecture-room, with regard to the effects of particular remedies,
or modes of treatment, in particular diseases.  For it must
always be recollected that the scientific physician of the present day affirms no general law of therapeutics, nor does he



The true Physician is of no Sect.


129


repudiate homoeopathic remedies in detail; he admits that
the medical art consists in a calculation of data peculiar to
each disease, or class of diseases, and often to each individual
case; he admits, as a fact, that some of his remedies produce
physiological effects similar, and many others dissimilar or
opposite, to those of the diseases for the cure of which they
are found to be adapted; but he denies that these circumstances form a legitimate ground for the adoption of
homoeopathy on the one hand, or of allopathy or antipathy
on the other. From all such universal systems he recoils,
knowing that they are not only indefensible and crude in
theory, but calculated to communicate an injurious bias to
practice; that they tend to exclude from view important considerations, founded on the plainest dictates of experience,
and the most obvious applications of common sense; that
they seduce the reason by a false show of simplicity, and confine the judgment within a vicious circle of propositions, not less
doubtful in fact than they are dangerous in application.  The
true physician derives his chief claim to that character from
his perfect intellectual and moral freedom. Untrammelled by
the shibboleth of a party,' and undisturbed by the fantastic
' There cannot be a more striking proof of what is here stated as to
the completely free and unsectarian character of medicine in its highest
sense, than the outrageous attempts which are constantly made by
homoeopathic writers to fix upon " the old school" names which all physicians repudiate, and principles of action which no one ever thought of
until the time of Hahnemann. The latest attempt at such a nickname,
and such a principle, is the following:-In a recent controversy, Dr.
Henderson replied to the charge that he occasionally used remedies not
falling within the principles of his party, with a tu quoque, as follows:"Men who.. profess themselves to be allopathists- often employ
remedies which they admit to operate homceopathically;.. it is incumbent on them honestly to restrict themselves to their sectarian principle of ' diversa diversis curantur,' before they can consistently stigmatize others as dishonest for openly advocating a more comprehensive
creed."-Reply to Dr. Simpson's (first) Pamphlet on Homoeopathy, 2d
edition, p. 83. Now, without entering on the personal question between
Dr. Henderson and Dr. Simpson, we may fairly ask who ever heard of this
"sectarian principle" till the above pamphlet was written? Render it
into English, and the nonsense is apparent at once. "Different things
are cured by different things " is a watchword which could no more hold a
"sect" in physic together than the profession of a belief in "nothing"
or in "everything," could hold a religious party. The "men professing
to be allopathists " are likewise a figment of the imagination; there are no
K



130


Homoeopathy.


hypotheses by which men seek to reduce the variety of nature
to a false semblance of unity, he is able to devote his best
attention to those practical questions which emerge at the
bedside, and not in the study. He finds those questions,
small and peddling as they seem to minds intoxicated with
science or with learning, to be of very vast importance,
and to involve in their answer a very solemn responsibility.
He seeks their answer, accordingly, from all available sources;from previous personal experience, from credible and unbiassed
testimony, from cautious induction and analogy, from legitimate theory, finally fiom the march of events in each special
case, watched, if necessary, from hour to hour, and from
minute to minute;-from all these sources he gathers the
elements of a judgment, which he rarely submits to revision
on the ground merely of a remote or abstract hypothesis.
The questions which he has to resolve are often obscure
and difficult, the results at which he arrives confessedly
uncertain, perhaps often erroneous; but they are questions
which must be met, results which cannot be evaded.      His
concern for his patient, therefore, and his own peace of
mind, equally demand that he shall occupy a position free
from sectarian bias, and from the narrow bigotry of a stereotyped therapeutical creed.  It is his business to use, not the
remedies of this or that individual, this or that party, but
those remedies which experience and science combine in
recommending as capable of effecting the specific purpose for
which he uses them.    If the use of those remedies be further
justified by a satisfactory theory of their action, it is well;
but, if not, he is content to wait for further light, and to
reap, in the meantime, an advantage the nature of which he
such men; the name has never been used as the symbol of party, and indeed is utterly unintelligible, although constantly repeated by Hahnemann
and his followers as one of the parrot-cries of controversy. Even the alleged
antipathic principle, "contraria contrariis opponenda," which does look
something like a general principle of action, was never asserted as such
in systematic medicine, until Hahnemann fished it up into the light of
day out of some dark corner in the Hippocratic treatises, where it is set
forth as a special maxim for the treatment of certain kinds of disease.
Although true enough in its way, the maxim had, long before Hahne.mann wrote, been consigned to the tomb of all the Capulets, and become
food for-commentators.



Conclusion.


I31


does not profess to understand.  True science and safe practice require that he should not only desire knowledge, but
should be free from all suspicion of presumptuously overleaping the barrier which divides our knowledge from our
ignorance.
It is the misfortune of homceopathy that its votaries, like
those of all exclusive sects, never can occupy the position
above defined as that of the true physician.  If, indeed, their
leading principle had been an axiom, or self-evident truth, its
exclusiveness might have been justified. But even in this case
it had better have been tacitly assumed or calmly maintained
against discussion, than have been made the ground-work of
those virulent attacks upon the convictions of others, which, as
we have seen, formed the most prominent part of Hahnemann's
literary labours. By ungenerous and unfair treatment of his
-adversaries, by an arrogance and presumption which, if not
allied to madness, are indicative of the most insufferable personal vanity, and by a mode of dealing with facts which shows
but a very slender regard for the modest limits of truth,
Hahnemann from the first placed himself beyond the pale of
ordinary scientific discussion, and provoked retaliation, both
of a moral and a material kind, which I am not prepared in
all cases to justify. That a similar spirit of self-exaltation on
the one hand, and a somewhat similar disposition to make
reprisals on the other, still continue to characterize this unhappy controversy, is but too true.    Indeed it is obviously
part of the policy of homoeopathy to encourage this strife; to
flaunt in the faces of physicians the banner of its exclusive
dogma, and to perpetuate the use of nicknames associated
with every kind of bitterness.    I have been desirous, in
this article, of adding as little as may be to the exasperation
of the contending parties. Although in duty bound to state
clearly and strongly my own opinions, I have endeavoured
to do so, without distorting or calumniating those of the
homoeopathists, whom it has been my anxious desire to
represent accurately according to their own authorized sources
of information.
W. T. G.



INFANTI PERDUTI.


Much they reck of your praise and you!
But the wronged great souls can they be quit
Of a world where all their work is to do,
Where you style them, you of the little wit,
Old Master this and Early the other,
Not dreaming that Old and New are fellows?
BROWNING'S Old Pictures in Florence.
W     HETHER     or not defeat may often be greater than
victory, as involving a higher success than that
at which the struggler aimed, and "to nobly die" may be
called the first, rather than "the second, glorious part," it is
at least certain, that
The dread strife
Of poor humanity's afflicted will,
Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny,
excites a profounder interest in the hearts of men than any
which can be aroused by the most complete and conspicuous
success.  Such is most evidently the case when the struggle
finally results in victory, but too late for him who has borne
the heat of the battle; for then, defeat is just victory denied
victory's reward. The forlorn hope of the assault, the martyrs
of the churches, early patriots, pioneers of civilization, discoverers of truth, and the poets in their misery dead, obtain,
at last, the truest and most affectionate acknowledgment, even
though certain weaklings may at times harp upon the theme
so as to render it distasteful to weaklings of another kind.
All other interest taken in the past is poor compared with
that which attaches itself to a few men of high aims and
tragic destiny.  Columbus as mere high admiral and successful viceroy could have been little to us, but his story, with



The Forlorn Hope of Humanity; Columbus.


133


its pathos and romance, nerves us to command the present
and anticipate the future, for it is a brief striking representation, which all can comprehend, of the struggles, hopes, and
conquests of humanity.  The thoughtful majesty, delicate
beauty (well contrasted with the casque and sword haply laid
aside for a time), and blue clear pensive eyes of his portrait
in the Museo Reale of Naples, indicate a nature at once so
gentle and so powerful, consequently so generous and so
brave, that merely to recognize that nature lifts one to nobler
moods of mind. And when, recalling his story, we think
over his single-handed battle and denied reward-how that
immortal, as Homer would have said, was tortured for the
sake of mortals, we may be both contented and proud, if to
us also, as to him and to Achilles and the Greeks, it be given
" to accomplish painful wars, till we, even each of us, shall
perish." For the wool-carder's son had long to struggle unsuccessfully with the petty conditions necessary to the realization of his idea; his heart remained undaunted through the
bitter years of his " long wandring woe;" his soul was sufficient to itself on that unknown deep, where it must have been
as lonely as the Ancient Mariner's, when even God scarce
seemed to be; and though he did not meet with the laughing
incredulity which rewarded the Phoenician who first sailed to
the South of the sun, yet after: finding the path to the New
World,-that, with its Mississippi and Amazon valleys, its
ancient forests, broad table-lands, and rolling prairies, was to
provide for the unborn generations of Europe,-after twenty
years' painful service to the sovereigns of Spain had left,
as he said, his body infirm, and every hair grey, he had to
complain that his very frock had been taken and sold, that
he had not a roof of his own, and lacked wherewithal to pay
his tavern bill. Even at his death (though they gave him
a "royal funeral") he was a scarcely tolerated beggar, and it
was then that, with failing breath, he uttered the words,
sublime in their touching simplicity,-" I, a native of Genoa,
discovered, in the distant West, the continent and isles of
India." Proud as Scotsmen are of King Robert Bruce, his
personal success has diminished his influence; and the national
spirit has been more effectually nourished by the story of the
faith of Wallace, who desired no personal reward; saw, with



134 -

Infanti Perduti.


the instinct of genius, the future of his country; and, when
betrayed, insulted, and condemned to ignominious death, could
remain the hero in spite of the surging crowd eager to see him
die, the submission, for a time, of Scotland to the oppressor,
and the executioner's ruthless hand. Portuguese history (to
take an instance from the poets) can present no spectacle
more interesting than that of Camoens, as we may easily
conceive him, sitting on the stairs of a convent, floating, as it
were, in a cloud of golden light between the blue frith and
the blue sky of that " delicious land;" waiting, in his feebleness, for his grey-headed Javan to bring him the melon-rinds,
and such other scraps of pig's and poet's food as were to be
gathered on the streets of Lisbon; recalling, as he watches the
white sails below, red African and Arabian sands, the palmfringed coast of Malabar, intricate China seas, and all the far
memories of his troubled wandering life; mourning over his
country's degeneracy, as his one eye beholds, in prophetic
vision, Goa's wasted state, and the descendant of Vasco de
Gama in the nineteenth century glorying in being an English
sahib's butler and the son of a sea-cook; but still thinking
with love, not bitterness, of the ingrata patria to which he
had returned, with his rich prize, A Lusiada, only to conclude it, ere he sunk into a pauper's grave, with the lines
Mickle pointedly paraphrased:Enough, my Muse, thy wearied wing no more
Must to the seat of Jove triumphant soar.
Chill'd by my nation's cold neglect, thy fires
Glow bold no more, and all thy rage expires.
In so far as the forlorn hope of humanity is composed of
such men as the two first of those I have just referred to, it
commands the veneration of all reasonable beings, whenever
judgment is purified by time; it is acknowledged that such
men are, as Mohammed said, " sent as a blessing from the
Lord."  But in that dread strife, never ending and never
promising to end, between destiny and human will, there are
other shapes to which many eyes are turned with almost a
deeper interest than towards those who stand so grandly and
so calm.  There are those to whom the reason firm and
temperate will appear to have been denied, or rather denied



Interest felt in the Forlorn Hope.


135


in that measure which was necessary to sustain them against
the roughness of their fate, or enable them to control their
own destructive passions, and who, in consequence, have
wrathfully performed deeds which made them a terror and a
shame, or else
Have sunk, extinct, in their refulgent prime.
Of those who have failed, knocked      under in their
life-battle, some appear in themselves not less great than
any of move happy fortune, but it is chiefly the tragic
character of their lives which gives them all their peculiar
places in the memory of the world. No fat livings, no
soft pillows of serene stupidity, no noble consciousness of
an undivided soul were given to them while on earth; and
it is as something very different from "gods and heroes"
that they "1people the immeasurable solitudes of time;"
yet, looking back on their pale disfigured faces, where the
wrath of a Titan is so often blended with the weakness
of a child, and the fury of a maniac with the light of
immortal love, it is no weak unintelligent useless pity which
loves to dwell there, and to find there, if possible, instruction
and hope.    This pity almost ignores the question as to
whether the cause of the misfortune may have lain in the
individuals or in their environment.     Instinctively the
ordinary judgment of humanity refuses to judge harshly of
those whose very degradation has had a humanizing influence,
and without very clearly seeing wherefore, without being able
to see, or willing to admit, that the common ground is general
gain by individual loss, classes together all the unfortunates,
all the lost children, on the ground of their failure when
alive, without paying much attention to the character of that
failure or the measure of their ultimate apparent success.
There is great kindliness in such phrases as Enfans perdu,
Infante perduto, Gens perdus, Fillep erdue, and the Forlorn
Hope of Huonanity.    Our notion   of a forlorn hope is,
destruction to the individuals composing it, but a clear gain
to the force from which they are selected.  Doubtless, an
entire army partakes of this character, and we may speak of
the whole human race as Gens perdus, life being, as some one
has acutely observed, the disease of which we all perish; but



I136


Infanti Perduti.


the phrases are usually applied to persons remarkably and
eminently unfortunate, whose work, whether it be called good
or evil, attracts general notice, and indicate, when so applied,
an unexpressed, perhaps unconscious, judgment, which is well
worthy of a little consideration.
It cannot be denied, however, that a certain class of
moral critics view the subject in a different light.  Entertaining very various theories among themselves as to the
active source of evil, but deeply impressed with the fact of
individual responsibility, they are in the habit of ascribing
the error and failure of any individual to that individual
himself, at least so far as direct responsibility is concerned,
for most usually they postulate a principle of evil.    They
have very little patience with excuses of frailty, and holding
by the doctrine, sic vita, finis ita, highly approve Randle
Cotgrave's definition in his old dictionary, of the Enfans
perdus, as " lost, perished, forlorne, past hope of recovery,
cast away, forgone, omitted, overslipped, run or fallen away;
also lewed, naughty, wicked, ungracious or past grace."  They
say that the head is hurt by being knocked against the wall;
that each man should adapt himself to the conditions of his
existence.  Assuming perfection and complete happiness as
the normal condition of humanity, they apply to every case
the doctrine of Eliphaz the Temanite, " They that plow
iniquity and sow wickedness reap the same." Consequently,
they have a very simple, if not altogether satisfactory,
explanation of the aberrations of men of genius, and so far
from excusing, they judge these most harshly of allFor sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lillies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
Any extraordinary combination of mean frailty and noble
feeling argues only the greater guilt. Burns was too fond of
toddy and strapping queans; Byron gave himself up to what
holy Saint Bernard stigmatized as " delights of the flesh with
miserable women; " Marlowe also drank and dissipated, and
so died cursing in his thirtieth year; Tasso paid the penalty
of his presumptuous love; the heathens, ancient and modern,
lived in error. They even regard the Infanti perduti with a
species of horror, and apply to them that singular passage in



How Men of Genius should be Judged.


i37


the Epistle of Jude, where those who despise dominion, speak
evil of dignities, and dream of things to come, are spoken of as
" clouds without water, carried about of winds; trees, whose
fruit withereth, without fruit, twice dead, plucked up by the
roots; raging waves of the sea, foaming out their own
shame; wandering stars, to whom is reserved the blackness
of darkness for ever."  In this view there is much important
truth; it is impossible to deny that many of the most unfortunate men of genius have been great sinners, in the ordinary
sense of the word--have been devotees of him whom Buddha
called the Lord of Pleasure and the God of Death, and so
have destroyed their own balance and calm.
But such an admission goes only a short way, and it
remains to be considered whether those who condemn the
frailty of men of genius are not like the travellers who
reviled the plane-tree for its uselessness while they were
resting under it, sheltered from the burning mid-day sun.
Pain or suffering has two sides, and a twofold relation.  On
the one side, it is connected with error and misfortune; on
the other,.it is related to further development and real success.
The surest evidence, when general views are attempted, of a
shallow judgment, is inability to distinguish between the pain
which is generative and that which is lethal. Man enters
into life through suffering, and in suffering he passes away;
in his successive acts or states of being the same law holds
good.  Hence, even the error and suffering of some men is
the very condition necessary to the development of their
genius; but in such cases, the error and suffering do not.spring so much from the naturally evil bent of their nature
-as from the great distortion of that nature in its development.   Evidently, the fate of any one must depend to a
large extent on his own original nature, but that is only
one of many conditions affecting the result.  The effect of
circumstance is so palpable that it is generally ignored rather.than denied by harsh judges.   Yet can it only be fully
appreciated by a small class of persons, for men of poor and,narrow nature, devoid of that original power which is its own
law, find their safety and happiness dependent on existing
laws or arrangements, and so, making themselves the measure
of the universe, cannot comprehend how to others these



138


Infanti Perduti.


arrangements can be anything but useful.    Consequently,
though they may sometimes admit, they cannot realize the
fact that (arrangements being for the benefit of the mass)
circumstances which are protective to men of ordinary
character may even prove inevitably destructive to men of
better and stronger souls.    Thus the effect of outward
circumstance is the first and most obvious consideration which
makes us gently scan our brother-man, and hesitate in
condemning the Infanti perduti.
In truth, the more steadily we look at, and the more
distinctly we see any man's history, the more inclined are
we to admit that the struggle of every human soul is after
good. As a modern illustration of this old opinion, I may
take here the case of Edgar Allan Poe, the late American
poet. He has been held up to public view as a sort of
moral monstrosity-a union of the god and the beast,showing how pure poetic genius may be united not only
with the most degrading weakness, but with basest falseness and fiendish hatred;-all which disappears on closer
examination, and condemnation gives place to pity. Unfortunately Poe, when dying, appointed the Reverend Rufus
Griswold his literary executor, perhaps from a desire to
afflict that person, or as a last stroke of sarcasm against
the country which had done him to death.   Griswold being,
as recent events have disclosed, not quite immaculate himself,
assumed hypocritically an over-moral and respectable tone.
Moreover he seems to have had an old grudge at Poe, who
once had the audacity to write to him for the loan of five dollars. It is true that, as he drily informs us, " no further correspondence " passed between the parties for more than a year
after the presumptuous request, but the event seems to have
damned Poe's moral characterin the estimation of Mr. Griswold.
Strongly impressed with a bad opinion, this literary executor
readily gave credit to a great variety of stories, ill-authenticated
and capable of very various explanation. Mr. Willis, Mrs.
Osgood, and various other credible persons, mention that they
heard sometimes of Poe's mad conduct, but that they themselves never saw, nor certainly knew of, anything of the kind.
Willis, in particular, mentions that, misled by reports, he expected scenes of violence and neglect of duty when Poe be



Edgar Allan Poe.                139
came his sub-editor, but that nothing of the kind ever happened: day after day, punctually at nine, the poet made his
appearance, and bending his sad but beautiful face over the
mud-sprinklings of American journalism, industriously performed the work he had to do. Now I am far from believing
that Poe, with his impulsive nature, could persist thus,
without natural exasperation and furious leaping in the harness he could not altogether shake off; but I see no reason
to suppose anything specially wicked or weak in order to find
an explanation of many stories which may have been told
about him. It may easily be conceived that when he was in
the hands of some barbarian to whom he had been sent with
a letter of introduction amounting to this--" The bearer is a
man of some imagination, but he is very poor, and we drudged
him"-there might be misunderstandings enough, imputed
neglect of duty, and violent scenes, in all which affairs Poe,
being "very poor," was of course in the wrong, but most
likely was still more wronged. It is conceivable that when
a Dr. England, smarting under deserved criticism, published
a card intimating that he had several times inflicted personal
chastisement on the poor poet, the base falsehood might sting
a man of quick sensibility into a very frantic state, which
many would interpret as madness or intoxication. The human mind is fond of monsters, and readily produces them
when it cannot get them made to hand.  Stories get all their
finest points by passing from mouth to mouth, and there is
no reason to credit more than half of what was said about this
poor American, by those who were unable to appreciate his
character, motives, and peculiar sufferings. Half of his monstrosity thus disappears, and the other half may easily be explained so as to render credible all along what he said of himself and his wife:
I was a child, and she was a child,
In that kingdom by the sea.
For we must remember that, from infancy, he was fatherless,
motherless, without any ties of natural affection, and taken
pride in only as a prodigy by his adopted father.  Such a
starting was, with one of his nature, quite sufficient to cause
an isolation like that of a demon.  In his impetuous youth,
when his " heart was volcanic," and, literally speaking, there



140


Infanti Perduti.


was nothing to guide him but his own nature, which, however
pure, was impulsive, he got into scrapes, but none which
argued any essential evil, or different from those which befal
most promising youth. Like Byron, untaught in youth to
tame his heart, with his intellect unduly developed (as may
be seen in the portrait affixed to the edition of his collected
works), and his love of excitement too liberally gratified, his
brain could not fail to get a touch of phantasy and flame, not
likely to be removed by his solitary wanderings in Europe.
The final quarrel with his adopted father threw him upon the
world-upon "the dungy earth," which, Shakspeare says,
" feeds man and beast alike," but which requires to be solicited
with a certain wild-beast fury not usual in poets; and his was
a nature certain to be goaded on to suspicion, drunkenness,
and insanity, by mean toil in which his mind could take little
interest, alternations of poverty and plenty, and galling
dependence for employment on men far his inferiors, who
made him groan of " the secret of a spirit bow'd from its wild
pride into shame."  In that rude but mixed state of society
which combines the brutality of barbarism with the sense of
civilization that incapacitates men of finer souls from warring
like savages, in that miserable life to which he was condemned-that theriomachy or cum bestiis pugnare into which
blind fortune threw him, it was inevitable that he should
either " die or be degraded."  Yet even there we may recognise the poet to the end, and sorrowfully believe him when
he sungIf I could dwell
Where Israfel
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not sing so wildly well
A mortal melody,
While a bolder note than this might swell
From my lyre within the sky.
His very degradation is a proof of that, because though it
was hurried on by the intoxication to which he had recourse
in order to regain glimpses of the poet's Aidenn, whose gates,
he fancied, were closing against him for ever, even in that
respect it consisted only in paying a high price out of his life
for a purely ideal pleasure, otherwise by him unattainable, and



Poe's Insanity.


141


intoxication became a cause of his ruin and death, only because
it was a result of increasing disorganization and insanity.
"One man," says Mr. Browning,
Goes mad, and from the wreck
Of what he was, by his wild talk alone,
We first collect how great a spirit he had.
Still more true is it that, when a man goes mad, we may
learn how bad a spirit he had. Among mad persons that we
meet, what'frightful inner depths of cruelty, baseness, hatred,
and foaming uncleanness are disclosed!  But though Poe
was evidently partially insane all his life, and latterly wildly
so, though his crotchets, foolish fancies, absurd likings and
dislikings, find their way into his writings repeatedly, being
even prominently and disagreeably thrust forward, we find
nothing but most pardonable frailties of a highly imaginative
affectionate nature, too keenly sensitive to praise and blame,
and incapable of being guided by external law. More threadbare appeared his clothes; more attenuated was his form;
wilder grew his madness; more passionate his love of injurious excitement, whether from ordinary stimulants or from
extraordinary conceptions; the keen intellect which flashed
into the secrets of the physical universe wasted itself in playing fitfully over a mare tenebrarum; the windows of his soul
were darkened, and the daughters of music brought low-yet
nothing remarkably evil appeared. The madman laid open
and described his mad world, so we may see what manner of
man he was. It has been questioned whether all men are
not mad at bottom, and certainly men of genius are most
frequently something like it; Hercules, according to the old
story, was afflicted with madness as the punishment for his
being so near the gods; Shakspeare strikes me, in his writings, as sometimes insanely wanton. Not how well or how
ill madness is covered over and kept down is of importance
to us, but what its covering produces. And Poe's bore such
beautiful flowers of poesy!  In so far as he was compelled
to write for life, and partially suit popular taste, he is morbidly
horrible in his stories, making himself the beau ideal of
a detective-officer in a world which pressed so close upon
him that he could see little good in it, as the best means of



142


Infanti Perduti.


getting through with that sort of writing pleasantly.  Very
extraordinary is his own peculiar world.  Light streams from
lurid seas up turrets and pinnacles from which Death looks
silently down. Ghastly moonlight shines over illimitable deserts, where the lonely demon sits in the shadow of the tomb,
laughing hideous laughter, while the lynx that dwells for ever
in the tomb comes out and lies down at the feet of the demon,
"looking at him steadily in the face."  The curse of silence
is upon a region where rivers of blood slumber amid poisonous
flowers; and high upon a grey rock is seen the figure of a
man with the features of a deity, wan with terror. Dim
shadows wander, talking unearthly tongues, over the dim
plains of Helusion. White-sheeted memories of the past flit
across moonlit glades. Eternal ships, with immortal sailors,
float for ever, hopelessly, on seas of darkness.  The released
spirits of beautiful men and maidens tell wondrous things
concerning immortality and other states of being. Lost poets
stand, gazing into blackness, on the Night's Plutonian shore.
Rhyming chiming bells yield sounds- of joy and horror.
Stricken eagles droop on thunder-blasted trees.     But far
away, in happy stars, imagination revels in perfect life. And
pure lovely female forms are seen in all varieties of character
and circumstance: now a little child loves the young poet
with such love, that her high-born kinsmen, the angels, not
half so happy in heaven, bear her away; the violet-eyed
Eulalie becomes his blushing bride; in enchanted far-off isles,
or in valleys beyond infinite woods and flowery savannahs,
the mild-eyed stars look down joyfully on love which is innocent of earthly bitterness; sainted maidens sit on golden
thrones beside the King of Heaven, or their footsteps gleam
in ethereal dances by the eternal streams; and even the
loathsome things of the grave yield sweet music to the sadhearted poet as he singsMy love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep
As it is lasting so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep! I
I pray to God that she may lie
For ever with unopened eye,
While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!
When, even in his madness, this poet was so gentle and so



Efect of circumstances in ruining Men.


I43


beautiful, what might he not have been in the place of Israfel?
And if any further proof be required that his was a pure soul
struggling helplessly in entanglement and darkness, it may
be found in his love for his wife and his mother-in-law, and
in that mother's love for him. How simple and touching
these lines!My mother-my own mother, who died early,
Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
By that infinity with which my wife
Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.
Mr. Willis tells us that that mother-in-law loved him to the
last, covered his failings, got his stories sold, wept and pleaded
for him.   All which means, let us consider, that she who
gave him her daughter and had most reason to complain of all
his failings; who tended him in sickness, knowing any transient
shades of anger, who was often beside him when reason had
fled, imagination was degraded, from his white lips all the
evil that was in him foamed forth, and in his delirium  he
uttered wild words to the hideous throng of wild shapes
which were passing across his brain,-that she could not be
alienated from him, but still loved him, with that womanly
love before which man's harsher judgment must be mute, as
before the infinite pity to which even the best must look for
pardon,-loved him so, that her's was the only hand "to wash
his scarred face," her's the only voice to bid him  "rest in
peace, the noblest of his race."
So powerful is the effect of circumstance, that the contemplation of such cases as that of the American poet is
almost calculated to make us overlook the want of internal
balance which, as well as the untoward outward circumstance,
is necessary to the ruin of any man.  Goethe says, with his
usual mild wisdom, " Truth belongs to the Man, error to the
Time.   Hence we say of an extraordinary man, Le malheur
des tems a causd son erreur, mais la force de son ame l'en a
fait sortir avec gloire."  But such statements are only half
truths, and require to be counterbalanced by opposite statements equally strong. The writer just quoted dwells repeatedly
on the unimportance of the circle in which any man is called to



144


'4Infanti Perduti.


act, if only he act in it honestly and fitly-a doctrine which,
absolutely considered, is quite absurd. So also, Mr. Carlyle,
who can vindicate character so warmly and so nobly (especially
when his hero is a Frenchman and transcendent blackguard),
pointedly declares, in his Essay on Burns, and often in his
other writings, that the cause of any man's ruin must lie in
the man himself, because death is the worst and last evil
which untoward fate can inflict, and death can be triumphed
over.  A juster statement of the case is this:-Whatever
imperfection there may be in that greater life we call circumstance, any man to be ruined by it must, as regards his own
nature, participate in that imperfection.
Then the question arises, What is it to be ruined? Each
man must pour out his heart's blood, pure or clotted, hastily
or slowly, to the last drop. What right have we to praise
one way of fulfilling life as natural and satisfactory, and to
condemn another as unnatural and imperfect? The acorn that
falls into fruitful soil grows into a magnificent tree, while that
which is blown into a cleft of the rock springs up a miserable
stunted thing; but, in the great economy of nature, the force
of the last is not thrown away; it breaks down rugged stones,
and leaves green grass where before there was only lichen.
It is a narrow and altogether contemptible view of human
life which ignores the necessity of labour, pain, bungling, sin,
and ruin.  Existence, so far as known to us, does not float
in the dark void because of its spontaneous levity, but supports itself there by means of its incessant effort.  Like the
albatross of the common sailor's fancy, it can only have rest
and sleep by being content to sink down from the height
which it has gained.  We should not, then, be hasty in condemning any manifestation of life, and, in particular, in regard
to men of genius, it becomes us to inquire whether their very
function as such is not dependent on misfortune lying in
themselves or in their environment.  The Arabs say that
shooting-stars are stars hurled by the hand of God in order
that Skeytan Jinn, or evil genii, may be struck and destroyed.
Other stars move calmly under the action of eternal law, but
these gleam suddenly through the startled deep, and the star
and the demon both fall shivered.  Such " wandering stars"
are the unfortunate men of genius; and it is always for great



Connection of Genius and Misery; ShaLspeare.


I45


ends, otherwise unattainable, that they are cast into outer
darkness.  Were it not so their artistic products would be
quite valueless.
And even they whose shattered hearts and frames
Make them unhappiest of poetic names,
What are they, if they know their calling high,
But crush'd perfumes exhaling to the sky?
Or weeping clouds, that but a while are seen,
Yet keep the earth they haste to bright and green?
In IEsop, a countryman remarks to the shell-fish he is roasting-" 0 ye Cockles! being about to die, why do you sing?"
A  similar pathetic question might be put to unfortunate
artists; and in both cases an acute observer might perceive
that without the roasting there could be no singing, or at
least none of that peculiarly affecting kind which alone can
pierce the dull ear of the world.  There is evidently some
connection between the misery of a man's fate and the valuable products which be leaves.  Literary men and artists of
even the greatest activity, who in life are highly prosperous
both outwardly anld inwardly, such as Titian, De Vega, and
Sir Walter Scott, do not seriously touch the heart of the
country and of the world.  Shakspeare is often adduced as
an exception to this rule, but those who so adduce him have
failed to appreciate the inner spirit of his writings, and have
not given due weight to the argument of his lines,
Where words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain;
For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain.
Like Buddha, Homer, Goethe, and most of the highest class
of men, he indeed contrived to stand a little above his
situation, but only just above, and after having nearly perished
in the struggle to surmount it.   Titus Andronicus, in its
present shape,- bears the same relation to the rest of the
Shakspearian drama as do the Werther of Goethe and the
Robbers of Schiller to the later productions of these poets;
and it indicates sceptical despair and extraordinary gloom.
Coleridge, according to Mr. Collier, has spoken of this drama
as mere pandering to the vulgar taste for blood and horror;
but that is the most superficial and doubtful of its aspects, for
the horror lies not so much in the mere revolting incidents
L



46


linfanti Perduti.


as in the undertone of sadness and despair, and the way in
which these revolting incidents are presented as representative
facts of human life.  In it, the young poet believes that
"the gods delight in tragedies."  Doubting eternal justice
and existence, he makes the clown reply: " Alas, Sir, I know
not Jupiter; I never drank with him in all my life."  With
Titus he declares:
For now I stand as one upon a rock,
Environ'd with a wilderness of sea,
Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave.
And the personal meaning of these, and innumerable such like
passages, may be safely assumed, for in character and tone
the entire drama is an assertion of the " Everlasting No,"
and one implying moods of mind which no mere dramatic
sympathy could, without experience, ever fathom.   This
dark humour was subdued by Shakspeare, but still Titus
Andronicus affords the key to the deepest meaning of his
poetry.  In all his dramas he is more or less in the awful
presence of that Horror of the Night against which Mohammed
prayed.  Even his jokes, as for instance, Ancient Pistol's
braggart speeches, have a melancholy meaning.  With Falstaff, he wishes that it "were bed-time and all well."  There
is an inner voice mingling its tones of infinite sadness with
the sound of armies, blythe maidens' laughter, and the fairies'
song-a low sweet voice crying, "Give me to drink mandragora," singing of " Souls wandering in the air," "to darkness fleet and solemn shades of endless night;" or in deep
passion saying,
I will encounter Darkness as a bride,
And hug it in mine arms.
Shakspeare lived in that middle position in which the great
artist must be suspended, where, like Melanthius, " for a long
time, being alive, he may suffer terrible griefs, " in order that
he may greatly influence his fellows.  Is not his life, so far as
known to us, a proof, that had it not been for Iiis necessities
and his sufferings, he would have written nothing? He also,
like the cockles, required to be roasted, that he might sing.
Those who believe in pure nature and the law of life
cannot but allow that the connection between the fate and
the products of remarkable men' arises from the very nature



Necessity and Freewill, What?


147


of things, and, being a condition of existence, is a provision
for the well-being of humanity. Even others may readily
allow  so much; for Plato's xc   agv &ov ou67g, which has
always been an axiom with the better class of thinkers, remarkably underlies popular judgment at present, and the
notion of moral merit and demerit is being rapidly modified in
the ordinary thought of Europe, through the knowledge of the
laws of crime which we have been forced to acquire in order
to check the growth of crime and the organizing of criminals
which attend high civilization. We do not any longer hold
that cockles are roasted for their sins, and sing from the
natural depravity of their hearts.  Given a force acted on by
certain other forces, and the result is as good as mathematically sure.  Men, like trees, grow according to their nature
and their circumstances. Burns, placed in exactly the same
circumstances iii which he lived, would be exactly the Burns
that he was. We like or dislike the original nature; we pity
or envy the fortune it has met with; and we admire and love
the man, or dislike and shun him, just as we stop to look on
the rose, or trample carelessly on the dandelion.  Freewill
is only force, and all force is determined, first, autonomically,
that is, by its own law or nature, and again by the action of
other forces.  So-called philosophers hold interminable controversy on the mysterious antagonism of freewill and
necessity, because they are unaware, or forget, when they
should not, that all language is imagery, and all thought is
a broken reflex in petto. Necessity is a word by which we
express the relation of Force, as unity, to individual forces;
by Freewill we express the relation of any individual force to
force as unity.  But we know very little of these relationships, and of force as unity and in division; we only imperfectly express what we do know on the subject; and to get
up a serious controversy on the contradictions of phraseology
is not the way to increase our knowledge.  The peculiarity
of the phrases Freewill and Necessity is, that while logically,
as correlatives, the one implies the other, yet if we affirm
freewill we leave no room for the possibility of necessity, and
if we affirm the latter we deny the former, but then without
necessity Will ceases to be (having no results), and without
will necessity becomes a void. Such phrases are only desperate



148


Infanti Perduti.


attempts at expressing what cannot be expressed; and those
who found moral doctrines upon them only betray their
ignorance. " On a grande raison," wrote Leibnitz, " de se
recrier sur la maniere etrange des hommes, qui se tourmentent
en agitant des questions mal-concues."
Therefore, regarded under the simple law of force, we
may expect to find some peculiarity, whether of nature or
environment, common to all unfortunate men of genius, to
which the tragic character of their fate may be ascribed; and
that, I think, may be found in the nature of genius itself, on
which subject etymology affords, as it always does in such
cases, some useful hints.  " Genius," in its common signification, as in its Latin, Greek, and Sanscrit derivations, denotes
generically the power of creation-the generative faculty"but specially that power intellectually operative.  It does not
imply any extraordinary amount of the vitality, or force
whereby men live, co-ordinate, and produce, but signifies that
force acting in a special way and on peculiar objects.   I
cannot better express briefly my notion of the nature of
genius than by saying that it is force forming or reforming
the reflex of existence.  Not isolated and purely autonomic,
but acted.upon by myriad forces, and related to these by the
laws both of attraction and repulsion-of love and hatred,
Man cannot live without compensating himself for his limitations arising from forces around, by identifying himself with
the life and interests by which he is limited. Hence the
craving after knowledge, theory, and the necessity for the
consciousness of a greater life than his own.  Even for his
practical behoof, he must have some trust in the unity of life,
some chart of the way on which he is led, some sky which
shall protect him from the blackness of darkness, some faith
in which he can rest, accepting the sorrows and contradictions of the hour,-persevering to the end.  The wider the
view, the more perfect appears the harmony.   The pain of
the hour becomes tolerable when understood in its relation to
the life of the individual; the loss of individuals is the gain
of the nation; the loss of the nation is the gain of the race.
But, as implied, there is a deeper influence at work.  Man is
sympathetically united to the Whole; there is a sense of, and
longing after, the Divine.  David Scott, our great Scottish



The Function of Genius.


149


painter, asked4 passionately, bending over a flower, why he
could not enter into its life.  Byron desired that womankind
had only one mouth which he might kiss. Nero displayed
the same sympathy, but sympathy repulsed, when he wished
that men had only one neck to be divided at a blow.  The
apprehension of this relationship to the Whole, has, in some
ages of the world, been regarded as a divine power.  In
barbarous times, he who specially manifests it is "1inspired"a God speaking through him; in more critical but reverential
ages, it is still the mens divinior; in sceptical times, it is
the poco piý4-the something exceptional and extraordinary.
Creeds, Philosophy, Music, Sculpture, Painting, Poetry, Law,-all these belong to Art in its peculiar signification; that is
to say, to the reconstruction of existence on an ideal basis.
Thus, law is a reflected objective rule, intended to indicate
and effect the best possible compromise between conflicting
forces; even religion implies a binding-up, a measns by which
harmony may be produced or restored. The antithesis of Art
is Nature, ordinary language recognizing the broad distinction
between life in direct and life in reflective or restorative
action. Homer well understood the true nature of Art when
he made Phoebus Apollo, after tasting the immoital food, and
bursting the golden swaddling clothes, exclaim:-" May a
lyre and bending bow be mine, for I will declare to men the
unerring counsel of Jove." The Artist is he who can know
and declare the unerring counsel; he is the interpreter
between Man and Nature,-between Man and God.
Goethe has said that Man was the first speech Nature
held with God, but evidently we get on very uncertain ground
when applying the principle.  It may be that the poets are
right in ascribing conscious life to what we call inanimate
objects; the flowers may rejoice in the odours they breathe
forth; the volcano may rage with conscious fury; and the
spirit of the earth may know her wanderings among sister
moons and stars.   But since conscious thought or a reflex
implies existence, while existence, except in so far as it exists
in thought, necessarily implies nothing whatever, it might
almost be allowable to regard speech, thought, and consciousness, as belonging entirely to the restorative action of life.
Without hazarding so much, or venturing into that portion of



Thinking in Stone.


I51


but we may guess how modern Hinduism sprung from the
ruin of Buddhism; recognize the secret of Mohammedanism
in its organizing power; and perceive clearly that the time
in which Christianity arose was dark indeed, when the decaying Roman empire and Pagan faith were brought into contact with still more degraded oriental systems, while Greek
subtlety and fraud, Latin stolidity, African fetishism, with
hot African sensualism, and northern ferocity, threatened the
future of the world, unless awed by some striking revelation
of the higher tendency of things, and subdued by a power
capable of permeating society with new life. Again, there
was a period of the Middle Ages when men thought in stone.
Turning with dissatisfaction from the Latin hymns of Aboelard, the rude grotesque miracle-plays, and the chiefly barren
disputes of the schoolmen, to the cathedrals of Florence, Pisa,
and Liicca, of Nuremberg and other towns in Central Germany and Flanders, the abbeys of England and Scotland, the
Gothic castles, and even many rude robber strongholds, it is
not difficult to see that the highest thought and feeling of the
time found in those marvellous piles-those springing arches,
calm falls of light, depths of shade, and doors whose beauty
well deserved to last for aye-the most fitting representatives
and vindications of the higher effort of Man,-of Man making
the earth more beautiful as it rolls among the stars, working
according to the will of the Eternal Father who looked down
from above, consecrated to the work, in the solemn place,
while yet a child;-and even the memory of the proudest and
most victorious perpetuated only by a recumbent statue with
humbly clasped hands in acknowledgment of shortcoming,
but undying aspiration.
Each time has new wants, and the tendency has been
toward more articulate forms of expression.    The power
of thinking in stone was lost, as thought found easier and
distincter modes, and only imitations of what had been
thought in that way were produced.      Even St. Peter's,
Michael Angelo's gigantic attempt, lacks the vital relationship
to anything high, and represents only the vulgar splendour
of later Catholicism.  Architecture usually suggests, and is
displaced by, sculpture and painting.  There, as elsewhere,
there are embodiments and imitations. We approach some



I52


Infanti Perduti.


paintings of known character with a certain awe, which is
increased rather than destroyed, where there is anything of
the vision divine, by familiarity with them. Among these
are Da Vinci's Last Supper, some of the old Madonnas, the
Praying Monk of Fiesole's little pieces, Guido's Angels and
Women, and everything-from the questionable Madonna, " a
mither yet nae wife," up to the white victor face in the
Dispute of the Sacrament, and Christ Transfigured above the
misery, agony, and doubt of mortal life-which came from
him, the truest of artists and greatest of painters, who, for so
few years, was allowed to show his young face on the streets
of Rome or beside his Fornarina, and who was called so soon
to sleep in the solemn silence of the Roman Pantheon,
that relic of a darker sterner time.  Others again, though
most carefully executed, contain less meaning than a signboard does. No sooner has genius been successful in placing
itself in relation to any sphere of life than a thousand imitators start up, appearing to do it over again; but while they
are at work, Art has passed into other regions and methods.
Now it is in architecture, now in painting, now in romance
of chivalry, now in war ballads, now in dramas, now in sermons
and Long Parliament speeches, now satiric novels, now sceptical
science, now metaphysical poetry, now theories of human perfectibility, now in lyrics, and now in history, that consciousness
of the harmonious plan finds fit expression.
Some critics can recognise Art only in its varieties, and
suppose that there is a vital distinction, if not even opposition,
between such things as poetry and philosophy. The true state
of the case has been so fully laid down by Shelley, in his magnificent Defence of Poetry, that it is unnecessary to show how
superficial are the distinctions.  Only I will remark, that the
critics, in their treatment of Shelley and others in regard to
this and cognate, but still more serious matters, remind me
of nothing so much as of the base crowd of satyrs who hooted
the worthy and acknowledged lover of heavenly Una because
he neglected to join them in worshipping her ass. There is
true Art and there is false; there is the soul of man representing, from fatal necessity, the meaning of the Whole, and
the soul of man attempting to imitate these representations,
without any consciousness of the Whole, without any innate



Dante.


153


necessity, puffed up by vanity, or in the hope of obtaining
the recognition (still more its occasionally consequent material
gratifications) which, sooner or later, is bestowed on the true
artist.  Blind Homer, thinking of the blue eyes of goddesses,
the limbs of the Greeks, the deep breasts of the maidens, the
strength of Achilles, the wisdom of Ulysses, the vessels of
silver, the purple robes,-of all that he had seen or heard of,
from the white splendour of Olympus down to the white
tusks of the very swine,-felt that these things were intrinsically good, and saw that, even in the wild tumult of passion,
the will of Jove was accomplishing; but shall Wilkie (not to
take a more imposing instance) make his Epigoniad a poem,
by sitting down to imitate Homer, instead of sympathising
with the life he knows, and expressing that sympathy as the
day demands? In virtue of that truth and love which dwelt
in his own soul, believing in eternal justice, and seeing that
that mad Italian world trembled in the light of time, between
heaven calm above and hell lurid beneath, Dante could hold
the history of his age against the great sun of truth; that is
to say, he could contrast the life of Italy with wider tendencies of life, and discerning, partially, eternal justice under
all the wild strivings of humanity, instead of acquiescing in
his temporary defeat, his whole soul rose in protest, even
amid evil souls, to the height of the great argument, and
poured forth, in unequalled song, its vindication of the ways
of God to man.  Hence he was a poet; during the long centuries of Italian degradation and misery, his burning heart
has been as a watch-fire and promise to the true and faithful
of his country; and so powerful to wanderers from the North,
that Milton learned from him to bear the pettiness of evil
tongues and evil days, while even Byron turned, after riding
under the pine-trees of Ravenna, to strike his lyre to loftier
strains than it had ever known before.  But when men of
the best minds in Europe are saying, in their bitterness,
Gestorben ist der Herr Gott oben,
Und unten ist der Teufel todt,
shall Pollok or Montgomery enable us to see beyond the
evils of the day, by clashing together words which have only
historical meaning?



154


Infanti Perduti.


The sacred furor of genius is incessantly imitated, just
as insanity is counterfeited in the East because of the veneration which it there commands; and hence we must consider at present, only original genius, and without expressing
any opinion as to how far imitations of it may be required.
Doubtless the eastern veneration for insanity arose in part
from the resemblance of insanity to the highest mood of mind
-both states appearing to come from some power external
to the subject. So well do the Arabs understand the approximation between madness and genius, that they distinctly
recognise a certain profound melancholy, incapability of action,
and shunning of men, as attendant among them on high mental
development, and always treat a SAUDAWI, or man so afflicted,
with kindness and consideration.  But the creative faculty of
the mind not only produces abnormal mental states; it can
scarcely be exercised without the existence of such.
In the first place, and most obviously, it both implies
and produces peculiar isolation of spirit.  Men are gregarious
even as to their ways of thinking.  The tendency is not only
to live like those around us, but to think with them also,
within the same limits, on the same objects, and to the same
ends.  Comfort and repose are lost when the mind becomes
a stranger among strangers; sympathies are no longer swiftly
exchanged; suspicion of the dissenting mind is generated;
and the very loss goads on that mind either to proud bitter
contempt, or to apprehend higher sympathies, which include
those denied to it directly.  Even the pioneer of civilization
is generally driven into the forests by some wild craving he
has failed to satisfy, some deep sorrow, or some crime he has
committed; it is because he is alone that he seeks the solitude
of the wilderness; as his leather leggins harden on him, as
his eye and ear become quicker, and the hunter-fever quickens,
he becomes more unfit for ordinary life, and would rather see
an Indian's scalp-lock than the smoke of a settler's fire. Still
more emphatically does the like hold true in the realms of
intellect and imagination.  There the tendency is to rest on
what has already been gained, and to enjoy that. In very
few men, and only in those of poor nature, is this tendency
counterbalanced by the weak love of fame simply. Guerazzi,
the Florentine novelist and statesman, said, in one of his



Regenerative Function of Genius.      I5 5
prefaces, that he had written a book because he could not
fight a battle.  " Most of Goethe's writings," said his friend,
Chancellor von Miiller, " arose from the absolute necessity of
freeing himself from some inward discord or distressing impression."  "Most wretched men," said Shelley,
Are cradled into poetry by wrong.
All the poets may, with a little explanation, be shown to
illustrate this.  Even the best effort of Sir Walter Scott
sprung from his craving after a ruder manlier life than that
which he enjoyed; Byron's Giaours and Don Juans arose
from the unslaked desire of a not very ethereal soul.  It is
not to be denied that this isolation has its compensating
pleasures; but, apart from these, its tendency is to perpetuate
and increase itself; and, in spite of these, its effect on many
men must be to hurry them towards madness and ruin.
Madness, perhaps, this solitude will not produce in any man
of unselfish nature, but it may well make him a Saudazi.
Alone! that worn-out word,
So idly spoken, and so coldly heard;
Yet all that poets sing, or grief hath known,
Of hope laid waste, knells in that word-alone I
Secondly, the exercise of the creative faculty implies a
felt want, which this action is intended to supply. The man
of genius must be an example of the failure of the Old, and
apprehend the possibility of the New; consequently, though
he may conquer, he must be, as Byron said, "full of scars."
The most exhaustive and painful of the mental functions is
not roused to activity except when urgently required. An
honest, modest soul, from which alone good can come, is
slow to quarrel with its creeds, feelings, morals, and customs.
So long as a scientific theory even fits our facts, only fools
discard it; but a fact which will not fit in troubles men who
know that a soul unfaithful to itself is dying, and they change
or extend their theory. Life would become too difficult and
serious a matter were it not for the guidance and faith under
which we move. Even common tailors would have their
lives worried out of them, if every time they made a coat they
had to devise how to shape and stitch it. A daily editor must
have a certain knack of saying anything or nothing, in order



156


Infanti Perduti.


to keep his mind from   being for ever on the stretch.  To
decide the right and wrong of the practical problems which
in rapid succession come before us, we must have moral
axioms and generalizations on which to rely. Men's feelings
are certain determined inclinations, which they never think of
repressing or outrooting, until landed by them in painful
difficulties.  A little experience teaches the child that his
feelings must be restrained; and the general rule is drawn
from suffering in itself and others.  Mr. Emerson, excusing
the English for their dulness in theory, observes that a horse
works best with blinders.  The blinders of men are, in fact,
methods of working. To devise a mode of working even in
tailoring is a very serious matter. The process is incessantly
going on. Old modes become useless; new ones are invented.
Of course some men fall into the mistake of regarding their
own peculiar need as the need of humanity; but a man of
true genius is guided by his apprehension of the widest and
highest tendencies.  Consequently, though his demands may
outrun immediate, they never contradict absolute, possibility.
A true man is always " representative." It was expedient for
Moses to leave Egypt, but it was also good for his race to do
so.  " What is good is effective," says the American thinker.
Goethe said the same thing-" Was fruchtbar ist allein ist
wahr."   That is ideally true which is generative.    The
idea of Columbus binds the two hemispheres with a white
chain of ships; other thoughts are transformed into electric
wire; the words of the apostles become stately churches, tilled
fields, laws, and institutions. Material things become immaterial; immaterial, material. Death is the condition of birth;
birth, of death; and both are gates of danger and pain. When
the originator is not personally involved in the failure and
destruction of the Old, he must, in order to appreciate that
failure, have a depth of sympathy and excess of imagination
unfitting him  entirely for this rude earth.  There may be
such; I can only say, like Shakspeare's clown, that I have
never drank with them.   When the creation relates to social
or national organization, morals, feelings, and faith, then,
most usually at least, the inventor has personally, and to his
grief, found the Old wanting. Would Mirabeau and the last
of the Gracchi have thrown dust towards heaven, and called



Genius has to frame a New World.


157


on the avenging deities, could they have settled, as regarded
themselves, that question between patrician and plebeian?
Socrates, nearly the most admirable of moralists, had been
sensual and bore to his grave the head of Silenus, being
emphatically, like all true moralists, a "conqueror of high
renown, but full of scars."  The poet, or the creator in the
region of feeling, gives voice to new or unrecognised sympathies which he feels to be necessary to redeem life from the
charge of falseness or baseness.  The highest faith can only
be originated by a soul which has been compelled to wander
out from under its traditional sky, and has, with awe and
trembling, found itself under the great darkness.  And what
does all such experience involve? It may seem a very light
matter to those who work cheerfully on in their blinders,
and cannot fancy what distraction their poor little souls should
be in without blinders; but even they, if not too conceited,
may see from a distance and dimly. They may partially
understand how the man of genius must suffer when he
participates in the mistake, confusion, and misery, which fall
upon men when their social arrangements are unsuited to
their activities, when their moralities fail to indicate the
highest ideal, and only cramp the necessities of practical life,
when their recognised sympathies differ from their real, and
when their theory of the Highest has become wretched blasphemy. Participating in such injury,-is it to be wondered
at if he should never escape from its effects-if the moralist
should continue to be somewhat immoral, and the poet to
be somewhat extravagant and false?    Again, while thus
suffering, he has to go out alone and frame his new world;
he has to face that black void which no man can look at
without danger. A Maratha proverb runs, " When the sky is
rent, who shall stitch it?" Without the sky, to speak metaphorically, of right, feeling, and faith, Man cannot live; and
when that is rent, who shall stitch it? And yet the man of
genius must do so if he is not to end in mere delirium or
insensibility.  To speak more plainly, he must form   his
world-theory anew; having found his morality mischievous,
he must determine what is good for Man; having found his
faith foolish, he must find wisdom. Little chance, then, can
he have of extricating himself from his errors.  Not unfre



The " Unripe Man."


159


might make food of him, not for their stomachs only, but
also for their souls; that instruction, as well as pleasure,
might lawfully be got out of men born into the world
before their time. In this way the Forian doctrine may
be made to suit a great number of cases, for, in the great
human tribe, the man born before his time is devoured in
very various ways. In rude states of society they eat him
literally, and with relish, but as men advance, they get a distaste for this article of diet, and take their gratification out of
him in other ways. In less rude states they sacrifice him to
their gods, believing that though they themselves cannot, these
will relish the delicate unripe morsel. In still more advanced
states they sacrifice him, not to the Powers of Nature, but to
the Moral Power. They regard him as impious. They
immolate him for the benefit of morality--pounding him in
mortars, giving him hemlock to drink, sawing him asunder,
crucifying him, burning him, throwing him to wild beaststhus obtaining, besides the satisfaction of the moral principle,
spectacles of great interest, and greatly gratifying to certain
human sensibilities.- Civilization teaches the introduction of
the more cruel element of mercy; the most interesting of all
sights being to see the man " die of, himself."  When my
excellent old friend, Duke Abbas, late Prince of the Johanna
Isle, had been taught a little English and civilization by the
sailors of the ships touching (as they did more frequently
some years ago than now) at his domain, he would allow of
no executions.  Over a gaunt huge negro tied to a tree in
the last stage of starvation, with tongue hanging down, and
eyes swollen out of their sockets, it was once remarked to a
philosophical observer by a brother of the Prince:--" My
broder, he a most merciful man; he no take away life.  No!
when one bad man is, he tie him up dis way, and no gid him
nothink to eat, and nothink to drink, till he die all of himself."
This is a great advance on the ruder methods of treating
the unripe man, for the process is simple, consisting in
ignoring his existence, except to watch with interest his
mad attempts to connect himself with the life that is
around him, and his unavailing struggles for something
to eat and something to drink.    But we cannot keep
the world from  rolling.  Even my merciful friend, Duke



16o


Infanti Perduti.


Abbas, being either unripe himself or too mellow, was
dethroned by his own prime minister, and is now, in his old
age, dragging out an obscure existence by selling sweetmeats
and cotton cloth in ports of the Arabian Gulf.  Death by
starvation has long been regarded as rude and unsatisfactory
by men of fastidious minds; it is too speedy.  Then, sometimes, the poor unripe one will not stand it, but leaps over
the ring and dies in solitude, defrauding all the spectators of
their legitimate rights, and allowing them only the consolation
of abusing him, of tearing up his moral character, and of
damning him to all eternity. It is clearly understood now
that the unripe man should not be starved, should be kept in
life, and entangled in all sorts of coils. What are the sufferings of death compared to the sufferings which have been
got in this way? Like Count Cenci we grow in knowledge,
and take care to preserve the body that we may enjoy the
anguish of the soul as revealed in songs and groans, in
The dry fixed eye-ball, the pale quivering lip,
Which tell us that the spirit weeps within
Tears bitterer than the bloody sweat of Christ.
England being a dull country-a Ghuddistan or Cuddyland,1 as they say in the East-keeps up old fashions, and not
till shocked by the death of Chatterton could she be induced
to give up the simplicity of the rude starvation plan; but the
South displayed early a finer apprehension of the destiny of
genius. The Cumaeans wanted to starve Homer, but he was
too ripe for that, and, as he informs us, his mighty spirit
urged him, though his limbs were weak, to go to another
people. Another proof of his having been exposed to Greek
Forians, may be found in that pathetic speech to Ulysses
which he puts into the mouth of Themius the bard:--" I am
able to sing to thee, as to a god; therefore do not be desirous
to cut off my head." Yet was Homer brought in contact
with a more civilized state of matters, and was devoured by
1 Let me take refuge here in the authority of Shakspeare:---  " Proud Italy,
Whose manners still our tardy apish nation
Limps after in base imitation."
"But it was always yet the trick of our English nation, if they have
a good thing, to make it too common."



What Italy did for Dante.


161


the Time-Spirit in a prolonged scientific Way,.exclaiming, all
the while-" To what a fate did father Jove (the Sultan) give
me as sport, whe.n he nurtured me, an infant, on the knees
of my venerated mother."    Italy, in Rienzi, Tasso, Michael
Angelo, showed varying: -skill in crushing men of genius for
the. sake of the perfume, but Dante was its masterpiece of
ruin. In the sweet melancholy and almost womanly affection
of his youthful portrait on the wall of the Palazzo del Podestfa,
we may see what a fine element she had to work upon, while
in the broken old countenance of the Duomo, we may see
how well it was worked upon-how thoroughly the dry winds
of poverty and wrong wrecked him on the shores of condemnation and wrath. Dante, too, belonged to the Infanti Perduti; because, in his " Inferno," instead of there being, as Mr.
Carlyle seems to think, a just balance between the " infinite
pity" and the " infinite rigour of law," while the pity is true
and divine-the throbbing in his heart of the great heart of
the universe-the vigour is too often human, untrue, localthe fierce misapprehension of a calm necessity.
Se fosse amico, il Re dell' Universo,
Noi pregheremmo lui per la tua pace:
" If the King of the Universe were our friend, we should pray
to him for thy peace."   What is there in all poetry more
touching than these words of poor Francesca?   Yet the idea
which makes them so is atheistic rather than otherwise, and
it is recklessly applied by Dante when he can so condemn
her of Ravenna, and yet admit the sensual Cunizza into
paradise.  On reading this and many more of even a Dante's
judgments, I think of Plutarch's inquiry as to whether he
should like men to say there was no such man as Plutarch,
or that there was one Plutarch who devoured his own children; I remember how great is the consolation that judgment
is not of men; and I recognise in Dante, as in Swift, and
many more, a ruin not the less real, because less inconvenient
to that small morality, which, according to the French proverb, est toujours lennemie de la 9ande, than that of such
men as Alexander and Mirabeau, and a ruin that makes his
writing sometimes read like the story of a ruined god who
had been cast down from heaven, and had taken, in his bitter
M



162


Infanti Perduti.


hunger, to devouring women. Let me not forget, however,
in an Edinburgh Essay, the credit which is due to Scotland
for her appreciation of the destiny of genius.  In that respect,
as in all others, she has been the foremost land of all the
world, the land of the Scots, the mother of the men who,
according to the Scandinavian meaning of the name, move
promptly, swiftly, and terribly.' A superficial observer might
think her treatment of her children of genius rather severe,
but the severity arises from her intense reverence, she judging them ready for heaven and the Scottish Valhalla. Since
she found, in the case of Wallace, the advantage of the practice, she has always been ready to give her nobler children
to the famishing Time-Spirit. The men who kept her Border
were chucked over in dozens.   The Border Minstrels were
swallowed, even to their boots, so that their very name and
individuality disappeared. Only dimly and with much straining can we, perhaps, discern a few of them:-Clerk Saunders,
after the seven bluidy brothers had thrust the " bright brown
brand" right through his "fair bodye," and as he lay in
sleeping May Margaret's arms,
Yet sad and silent was the night
That was atween thir twae;
the clerk's two sons of Owsenford, when, for "a little o'
dear boucht love," they were hanged high at morn; young
Barthram, in the misty morning, when
They shot him dead at the Nine-stane Rig,
Beside the headless crops,
And they left him lying in his blood
Upon the moor and moss;
and Johnnie Armstrong, wildest of them all, when, on his
" departing night," both friends and foes wishing him away,
he covered his bleeding heart with one hand, and with the
other waved them all good night and joy. Most graciously
Scotland sacrificed her poets. Fergusson "of deathless name,"
disappeared like a glass of whisky, with one gurgle-his
maniac's shriek; Michael Bruce, even as he sat looking on
1 See under Skcutin and Si2sla, in Dr. Udo Waldemar Dieterich's
Runen-&orterbuch, published by Fritze at Stockholm and Leipsic.



Scot/and and Burns.16


163,


the smiling Frith of Forth, spoke of "1this foreign land, this
gloomy apartment of 'the universe of God; " and in Burns
she put even Italy to shame. Florence made Dante lacerate
himself, but Scotland made Burns actually devour himself.
"Behold," said the undaunted Scottish Forians, "an unripe man
whom the Sultan has sent to us that we may see him offer up
himself! By Allah! 0 Man! art thou not ashamed to delay?
it is for thy sins this punishment is laid upon thee. We%
shall aid thee." And they aided him accordingly, thus:
Having allowed the boy to force his way unaided to giant
unripe manhood, and so induced the poetic melancholy which
follows long protracted sore struggles with obstructions to the
unrolling of life and development of character in the season
of youth-the joy-time, they laid hold of him, just as he was
about to seek another shore, and changed him, as he himself
remarked, from " a sixpenny private and a miserable soldier,"
into "1a starving cadet, a little more conspicuously wretched."
We all know what Burns was then; a nobler victim had not
been seen in Scotland since Wallace, betrayed and bound,
had been borne across the Border.  But men must have so
much enjoyment, and when no suitable life or labour affords
it, it is purchased at a sacrifice. When the destiny of the
soul (which destiny lies in its own nature) cannot be harmonized with its earthly destiny, then the soul becomes furious
and willing to end the matter, as well (why not better?) in
dissipation and madness as in slow misery and dying by
inches. The hunger for living must be satisfied:. one man
eats his honesty; another, his manly independence. Coleridge
eat up his poetic soul, finding it sweet in the mouth, but
bitter in the memory; Southey and Wordsworth sacrificed
such intellects as they had; an unripe man is sent into the world
to be devoured, or to devour himself, and Burns sacrificed the
lower parts of his nature, keeping his heart pure and his soul
unspotted from the world; he was -of a nobler breed than
they: still nobler, perhaps, are those who, like Chatterton,
"94compress the god within them, and rejoin the stars." Moreover, the pQet must know men, sharing their joys and griefs,
wisdom and folly; so Burns, alongside of some Tam o'Shantcr
or filue perdue, may have been more in the way of fulfilling
his -vocation than when driving cattle.  Nor was he without



164


Infanti Perduti.


aid.  A wife and children will eat up a good deal of a man's
substance. Every farmer in his neighbourhood, and every
passing traveller had a share of his society, his toddy, and
his jokes.  Even his servants eat his bread before it was
baked, and drunk his ale before it was brewed; for Robert
Burns was not the man to frown at time lost among the
"rigs o' barley," or to make his farm profitable by pinching
his labourers.  So the thing went on, affording him  no
opportunity, such as his nature required, for extricating himself from his entanglements and rising to self-sufficing wisdom
and ripe manhood; until that- unhappy giant, feeling his life
miserably passing away, turned round in fierce wrath on a
blind careless fate, on all his tormentors, and like an Indian
chief proudly defiant in his death agonies, shouted the songs
of his tribe, taunted his hereditary foes, and in such haunts
as village ale-houses, tore his own flesh, and maddened his
brain, till on that dark winter morning he sunk down upon
the snow; and after his lingering death, embittered by the
want of five pounds, after the savage fury and the feeling soul
had both gone for ever, ten thousand Scotsmen wept at his
burial, and the " awkward squad" fired over him, as it continues to do to this day.  Happier, indeed, had it been for
Burns, had he not been thrown into these stony Scottish
hills; but it was there he was needed; there to reveal once
more where the true beauty of life lay-how the daisy on the
furrow and the honest man on the moorside were fulfilling
great Nature's plan.
Though such views of the destiny of men of genius make
it difficult to distinguish between useful and useless misfortune,
yet, at the same time, they suggest considerations of practical
value both to these men and to the world in general.  The
lesson which may be drawn from the ruin of their fellows, by
men possessing the greatest of all earthly possessions, has been
often inculcated by solemn and somewhat ignorant moralists,
and inculcated with so little discrimination that it has almost
been turned into this:-" You had better take care of yourselves; for, if you do not, be sure nobody will do it for you."
To such advice, however smoothed down in the delivery,
those for whom it was specially intended have generally turned
a deaf car; and it is to be regretted that they have often dis



Genius must be self-regulated.         165
regarded the truth of which the advisers have, when they advise,
a rude apprehension.   Some men have grown up with such
rich impulsive natures, under such miserably false guidance,
that.the effect of that guidance, and of their after conflict
with it, has proved utterly destructive; but in other cases we
see the action of an element which can only in special circumstances be considered as necessary to genius.  Drawing
too lai'gely on the capability of pleasure is not unfrequently,
when resulting from circumstances external to the individual,
a mean by which he is convinced of the mistake-general,
not merely individual mistake, in which he has dwelt, and is
the mean by which he is roused to learn and correct the
error.  Hence over-indulgence may actually promote the
growth of genius; but
Boundless intemperance
In nature is a tyranny; it hath been
The untimely emptying of the happy throne,
And fall of many kings.
Woe to him, and specially if he have in any measure the
gift of genius, whose love of pleasure is so insatiable that,
instead of convincing him of his errors and regulating his
life, it hurries him on to sacrifice everything for its gratification; all the fuel being exhausted, he at last sets his vessel
on fire, in order that he may reach land.  That even such
are fulfilling the will of Jove, and that their loss is nature's
gain, is also true; but no pity or honour from men shall they
receive, for " verily they have had their reward."    It is
impossible to point out any general criterion by means of
which men may determine whether their confusion or apparent ruin is the necessary condition of nobler higher life, or
the forerunner of physical and spiritual death, but it is at
least certain that there is no rest for the Children of Time, that
they are all either retrograding  or advancing-advancing
in what conceited ignorance may regaid as ruin-retrograding
often in what, to the gross worldly eye, may appear glorious
success.  If retrograding, and with life enough left to enable
them to know they are so, let them remember that they alone
can discover for themselves where their salvation lies; and
when advancing, through confusions manifold, let them not
be misled by general rules and moralities, but boldly dare to



Life not greater than its Reflex.


i67


perish miserably whom a little friendly help might easily have
saved. When Shakya Buddha walked over Indian plains,
hidden treasures, according to the Thibetan books, raised their
heads and exclaimed:-" 0 Mighty One! icome and take us"
-the most affecting instance of hero-worship upon record!
From Buddha and his friends to Chatterton, compelled even
to buy his pennyworth of arsenic, what a range!  I think
the hidden treasures knew their own interest better than did
the English of the eighteenth century, and doubt the rule
which holds success in struggle with the world to be necessary
to prove a man's greatness, as if the proof lay in greedily
taking rather than in nobly giving. The treasures in Buddha's
time were wise, and knew to whom they ought to yield; in
our day the treasures also give themselves up, but unwisely,
to bearers of divining rods which have long ceased'to divine.
In other words, men know their need of spiritual teaching
of the various degrees, and readily sacrifice much to obtain
it; but much of men's effort is mistake, and they never
almost get any return for their outlay; the little real teaching
'they get comes gratis, and perhaps might be increased by
outlay in the right direction.
So much has been said in this paper of genius as restorative, and as implying new and painful mental states, that I
cannot conclude without dissenting from the opinion that life
in spontaneous unconscious evolution, is, relatively to us, or
to life's progress (for, in an absolute sense, there is neither
great nor little, except interchangeablyKlein das Grosse, gross das Kleine),
greater than its reflex. As the flower on the mountain-side,
and the crystal in the vein of the rock, may be more lovely
and more perfect to us than the mountain itself, so individual souls may be, as it were, the flowers and highest
perfection of the great existence of which they are a part,
while these souls again have their flower and highest perfection
in the ideal life which they project beyond the confines of the
real. The highest life known to us exists not in the ages of
our past, not in the distant stars, which look so blue and beautiful, while probably they are full of wildly conflicting forces,
but in our own imaginings and longing dreams, which can



068


Jinfanti Perduti.


harmonize:all ahtagonisms, and shadow forth a perfect world,
It is even this draping glorifying power of imaginative
thought which renders possible our conscious recognition of
things existent. Omnipotent Phantasy, that divinest goddess,
is the true mater gloriosa and Queen of Heaven, the mistress
of souls and benefactress of mankind, ever gathering our
knowledge and our ignorance into shapes of beauty, weaving
the rainbow across our path, and veiling the dark deep with
lucent azure.  From the cradle to the grave, what were the
children of men but for her?  Before the child's gaze, where
the speculation is but small, she forms this our world as before
the clear earnest eyes of the bravest man; and when the
strong thought is about to slumber for ever in the wearied
brain, the heart of feeling beats faintly, and the dim eye is
closing, she is there, painting the blessed fields, on the awful
darkness, with the very mists of death.     In her gift is
an ordered world.   How   often, in her highest exercise, has
she formed it anew for the races of men!-now giving, as
centre, some misty Olympus, among the peaks of which are
gods; now some unfathomable source of creative power, itself
unmoved; now some omnipotent ruler-" Jehovah, Jove, or
Lord."   Slight her not, poor Thinker!-and worship at her
nod, for without her, there is only the blackness of darkness
for ever-the melancholy waste of waters on which no
Columbus has found the New Land. Painful and dangerous
is her service, spes et prcemia in ambiguo-certa, funera et
luctus; but even to him    who is destroyed by it there is
compensation; for, in the very perception of genius-in its
love penetrating to all stars, its sight, which vindicates existence and hails the golden age-there is a pure joy, an
exceeding sense of glory, which can raise and transfigure it
above the sufferings of earth, enabling, it to sing, with
ApolloI am the eye with which the universe
Beholds itself, and knows itself divine;
All harmony of instrument or verseAll prophecy, all medicine, are mine,
All light of art or nature;-to my song
Victory and praise in their own right belong.
A. W.



PROGRESS OF BRITAIN IN THE
MECHANICAL ARTS.
"The greatness of the British nation is not owing to war and conquests, to enlarging its dominions by the sword, or subjecting the people
of other countries to our power; but it is all owing to TRADE, to the
increase of our commerce at home, and the extending it abroad."-DEFoE.
T    is a favourite assertion with some writers that, if the
position of a country, its climate, soil, and physical features
be given, the history of the people who shall inhabit it may
be inferred beforehand, almost as certainly as the propositions of Euclid are inferred from    his definitions.'  Britain
cannot help being a great country, because the physical conditions on which national greatness depends are developed in
her to an extent unknown elsewhere. If the globe be divided
into two hemispheres, of which the one shall contain nearly
all the land on the surface of the earth, and the other scarcely
anything but water, it will be found that the metropolis of
Britain is only a few miles distant from the pole of the former,
and is therefore manifestly marked out by nature as the centre
of the world's commerce.    Her climate, also, neither too hot
in summer, nor too cold in winter, and seldom too dry or too
moist, is fitted to support a hardy and active race of men,
whose energies would be weakened in warmer, or rendered
1"Give me," says M. Cousin, "the map of a country, its configuration, its climate, its waters, its winds, and all its physical geography
give me its natural productions, its flora, its fauna, and I pledge myself
to tell you, a priori, what the inhabitants of that country will be, and
what place that country will take in history, not accidentally, but necessarily; not at a particular epoch, but at all periods of time; in a word,
the thought which that country is formed to represent."



170


Progress of Britain in the Mechanical Arts.


torpid in colder regions.  The easy communication maintained, by means of rivers, between her interior and the sea,
the immense amount of water-power in all parts, and the
mineral treasures in which she abounds, prove that she
was intended to be both a commercial and manufacturing
community.    Other nations may possess some of these
advantages, but none can boast of them all to the same
extent; and in proportion as their physical condition resembles
that of Britain, they will be great and prosperous like her.
This commonplace delusion has gained a footing in men's
minds; and a prejudice so flattering to the national pride, if
once established, is not easily rooted out.  One thing, however, has been overlooked-the mind which turns these advantages to account. Nations do not fall from their pre-eminence
because their mineral treasures are exhausted, or the physical
features of the country have changed, but because the energy
of mind, which once administered the affairs of state or stimulated the enterprise of the citizens, has decayed.  Spain has
greater advantages than Britain for carrying on commerce
with the rest of the world; she is not situated precisely at
the centre of the land hemisphere, indeed, but she lies nearer
the great trading regions of the earth, the Indies, the Tropics,
the States of America, and the southern countries of Europe.
History proves that her climate is equally well fitted to rear
hardy and enterprising men, and the treasures of her soil,
though of less value than those of Britain, are very considerable. Three centuries ago her people might have held similar
language to that which is now current among us, and none
could have foretold at that time the utter prostration of her
power which has since taken place. The cotton manufacture,
which has greatly contributed to raise Britain to her present
eminence as a commercial nation, once flourished in Spain,
whose inhabitants cultivated the plant in their own country,
and might have procured it in any quantities from  the New
World, which they discovered.1  Something more than the
position and climate of a country determines its history:
outward relations alone do not form the characters of men or
1 In 1740, only 17,350 tons of iron were obtained from all the furnaces of England and Wales; in 1717, 7540 tons were imported from
abroad. and of these 2744 tons were furnished by Spain.



Sources of Britain's Greatness.


i71


nations. The climate, the shores, the mountains of Greece,
are still the same as when Salamis or Marathon was fought,
but the spirit that then animated her heroic sons is gone,
and neither climate nor scenery can bring it back.       The
same considerations apply to Britain. Our island might have
been inhabited by a race of men unable or unwilling to avail
themselves of the resources placed within their reach:1 coal
and iron, tin and copper, might have been dug out of its
soil, without ever leading to the idea of a steamboat or a
railroad. There is nothing in the climate, scenery, or natural
resources of Britain to compel invention or discovery, to impart practical sagacity or an enterprising spirit, and to unite
many different parts into one harmonious whole.      National
character is undoubtedly affected by the position, appearance,
and mineral treasures of a country, but it may overcome the
barriers to prosperity and progress which they sometimes present, as the history of Britain during the last ninety years
abundantly proves.
The real progress of Britain in the mechanical arts began
at a comparatively recent period: not that they were thought
beneath the dignity of a great people, but because ingenuity
only then discovered how they might be made most effectually to
develope the resources and advance the greatness of the country.
A flourishing trade, not an extensive empire, has long been regarded as the best guarantee of Britain's pre-eminence among
the nations: " An estate's a pond, but trade's a spring: the
first, if it keeps full, and the water wholesome, by the ordinary supplies and drains from the neighbouring grounds, 'tis
well, and 'tis all that is expected; but the other is an inexhausted current, which not only fills the pond, and keeps it
full, but is continually running over, and fills all the lower
ponds and places about it."2  A century ago the steam-engines
of Britain were few in number, and even these unworkable;
her manufactures were limited almost entirely to woollen and
linen goods;3 man's power over iron was confined to the
1 Towards the end of last century the Russians " imagined that we were
completely at their mercy for the necessary supply of iron." Scrivenor's
History of the Iron Trade, p. 93. The cotton manufacture has existed for
thousands of years in India without giving birth to a single invention.
2 Defoe's Complete English Tradesman, vol. i. p. 322.
3 The silk trade, however, had made considerable progress before this



17z       Progress of Britain in the Mechanical Arts.
production of coarse articles at a high price; trustwoithy
timekeepers for the use of sailors were still unknown; and
the muscles of men and horses were then sources of strength
in innumerable works where they have long ceased to be
employed.   Many persons could remember when Holland
had a larger share of the carrying trade of the world than
any other nation, and when her manufactures and colonial
productions were in greater demand than those of Britain.
Half a century earlier, the linen and cotton manufactures
could scarcely be said to exist in England; more fine linen
was worn by the people than in any other country, but
the greater part was imported from Holland, Flanders, and
other places.  Woollen cloth had been the staple production
of England for centuries, and was exported by the Dutch
and their neighbours to the principal states of Europe.  The
linen trade had been fostered in Scotland, and was then rising
into importance; the quantity of cloth stamped for sale had increased between 1728 and 1732, from two to four millions of
yards. At that time a competency, not a fortune, was sought by
our merchants; and many of them made it their business to
travel through the country with the goods they had for sale.
There were either no roads in our island for inland traffic, or
they were so wretched that they afforded little facility for trade,
and were altogether inadequate to develope the natural resources of the country.  Road-making and bridge-building,
like all the other arts in which the principles of mechanics
are involved, were in their infancy; and the good bridges of
the kingdom were so few in number, that travellers set down
in their note books the builders and sites of the best.  In
many respects the manufactories, the enterprise, and the skill
of the British merchant are scarcely one hundred years old;
and, judging from the activity that pervades every branch
of the national industry, there is good reason for supposing
that they have not yet reached their manhood, or indeed
lost the first freshness of youth.
time: Defoe in 1720 estimated that above ~1,200,000, which were formerly given to foreign manufacturers, were then spent on home-made
silks. English manufacturers at that time, and for many years after,
could not rival the delicate cotton fabrics of the East Indies, and restrictive laws were imposed on these articles to foster the home trade.



" The Era of Invention.


173


In the history of the arts as well asthe sciences, eminent
men have not unfrequently arisen in groups, and given a forward
impulse to all the branches of a nation's industry at once.
While each was labouring in his own department, unconscious of the influence he might exert on another, all were
really working to each other's hands, and moving towards a
point where further progress was forbidden without assistance
from  a totally different quarter.  At no time was this separate, simultaneous, and yet mutually dependent progress of
industry, more apparent than in the latter half of last century.
Watt, poor in worldly wealth, but possessed of mental riches
vouchsafed to few, was then toiling to realise an idea destined
to effect more surprising results in the history of Britain than
the wars, alliances, and legislation of centuries..Brindley,
the neglected son of a dissipated father, though far inferior to
Watt in acquirements, and scarcely able even to sign his own
name, was successfully showing the strength of natural genius
in the construction of canals, the tunnelling of mountains,
and the building of bridges, which the more learned members
of his profession pronounced impossibilities. Harrison, a poor,carpenter, had gone up to London from his native county
persuaded that he could solve the problem of finding the
longitude at sea, and earn the parliamentary reward of
~20,000; while he carried with him in token of success an
ingeniously constructed clock, which amused the people and
secured for him the respect of scientific men-  Hargreaves,
attempting to spin cotton yarn by machinery, had been
mobbed in the west of England, and forced to leave that part
of the country.  Arkwright, reviving and improving the.
almost forgotten invention of spinning by rollers made thirty
years earlier by Wyatt, had given up the trade of gathering
hair for barbers; and though steeped in poverty, unable to
spell or write correctly, and once mistaken for a vagabond, was struggling against terrified spinners, and scarcely
honest capitalists, to introduce water-twist, and give Britain
a new character in the commercial world.   Smeaton, more
favoured in circumstances, was building lighthouses on our
coasts, spanning our rivers with handsome bridges, improving
roads and mills, digging canals, and laying a good foundation
for the subsequent development of the national resources.



174


'4    Progress of Britain in the Mechaniccd Arts.


Graham and others, a few years earlier, had suggested improvements in clocks, and presented the astronomer and
the sailor with more accurate instruments than they ever'
before used.  Each of these men represents at least one
improvement in the mechanical arts,,which has held its place
to this day, and in some cases has been the parent of a multitude of others.  Not one of them, if we except Smeaton,
had received a college, education, Watt, indeed, spent some
years as an instrument-maker in the university of Glasgow;
and the advantages he derived from intercourse with Black
and Robison must not be underrated; but even he was only
a mechanic, and was under greater obligations to his own
genius than to the instructions of others.  The latter half of
last century 'was thus the spring-time of British industry,
when the seeds of thought were first cast abroad over the
nation, which have since yielded a harvest of wealth, prosperity, and ingenuity, without a parallel in the history of the
world. To the men whose names are mentioned above most
of the honour is due; they were the main agents under
Providence in determining the development of the national
resources; and, but for them, and those who caught the
generous infection of their example, the physical conditions
of British greatness might never have produced brighter
results than the meagre commerce of the seventeenth, and
first half of the eighteenth century.
At the head of the illustrious men to whom the nation was
indebted for the first steps in real progress, must be placed
the name of James Watt.    His influence on the mechanical
arts of Great Britain was twofold-he showed how a source
of power previously well known might be most advantageously applied; and he set a bright example of success in
simplifying the working, and extending the province of
machinery.   Steam  was known long before his time as,
an efficient mechanical agent, provided it could be brought
under authority and made to do the work of -which it is
capable; but every scheme for employing it had failed:
several of them had never existed except on paper, and the
most successful had proved inadequate to the duties required.
About the middle of last century many valuable mines had
become almost unworkable in consequence of the quantity of



Watt's Separate Condenser.


175


water which had accumulated in them. The expense of lifting
that water to the surface from depths of seven or nine hundred
feet would have absorbed the whole profits and left the
proprietors in debt besides.  No one feared that the mines
were likely soon to be exhausted, but it seemed impossible to
lift the treasures of coal, copper, and iron, to the surface
without loss: the expense of drawing off the water alone in
some places was above ~10,000 a year. It was known that
almost inexhaustible wealth was buried in these mines, though
the time seemed rapidly approaching when they should cease
to be wrought at all, in consequence of the expenses greatly
exceeding the returns. Steam-engines had staved off this result
for some years before Watt arose, but the quantity of fuel
they consumed was immense when compared with the quantity of mineral and water they raised. These engines had
been invented by an ingenious person named Newcomen,
and it was with one of them, a model belonging to Glasgow
College, that Watt began his experiments. He soon found,
notwithstanding all his efforts, that it would not give the
amount of work represented by the fuel consumed; and on
examining the structure of the machine more closely, he
was led to ask why the steam   should first do its work
in the cylinder and then be condensed there by a jet of
cold water.  Steam, like air, is an elastic fluid, and will rush
into a vacuum communicating with a vessel in which it is
contained. Let the cylinder of the engine be filled with
steam; establish a communication between it and another
vessel kept as free as possible of air, and in which a jet of
cold water is playing, the steam will then be condensed, and
the temperature of the cylinder will not be affected. This is
the great discovery of Watt: he made others more ingenious,
but none of greater utility; the best proof of its excellence
is that it still keeps its place in the condensing engine after
nearly a century of progress in the arts, although other improvements of his have been superseded by greater, or set
aside as useless; and it will most likely do so until steam
itself retire to make way for a cheaper if not a more
powerful agent. Watt made his experiments with a little
tin cistern, which is still preserved, and while busy investigating the subject he was once observed by a visitor kicking



176


76    Progress of Britain ini the Mfechanical A.rts.,it *beneath the tab le to prevent questioning.  That pigmy
cistern has been the parent of a progeny of giants, and
has astonished the world by the magnitude of the results
produced from a cause apparently so. insignificant.
The importance of Watt's invention is proved by the
revolutions in almost every branch of industry to which it
has given rise; the simplicity of it, by the effrontery with
which his patent was disregarded and his lawful profits
refused. Like all great. inventions and good ideas, it is so
simple and seems so obvious that one feels as if he could have
produced it himself. Watt's improvements on the steamengine were at fist despised by the ignorant, and then stolen
by the dishonest, who maintained that they were too obvions
to deserve protection by patent or credit for the inventor.
Ignorance and envy always pay ingenuity the compliment of
saying, "We could have done that,' if good luck had not
enabled you to ontstrip us."
The state of the mechanical arts at the time almost
baffled Watt's attempts to carry his idea into execution.  He
had to struggle with poverty, but that might have been overcome; he had to encounter other- obstacles, but they were not
insuperable; for defective workmanship, however, arising from
the backward state of the arts, he had no resource.  Steamengines were never really perfect until of late years they
manufactured- themselves; and Watt often experienced from
this cause the bitterness of hope deferred, in the. failure of
experiments, and the useless expenditure of money. But, even
after he had succeeded, and was prepared to manufacture
improved engines, it was not an easy matter to obtain for
him public favouar and support.  The invention was fraught
with wealth, prosperity, and even safety to the empire; but
only a few men like-minded with Watt himself were alive to
its vast importance; the nation was indifferent. At the very
time that Watt was engaged in the experiments which ultimately led to the construction of his engine, Parliament wasawarding handsome sums of money to the makers of chronometers for finding the longitude at sea; but there was no
national encouragement of that kind for improving the steamengine, because men laboured under the idea that it had nothing
to do with the maritime, and comparatively littl-e withi the'



T'att's Business Habits.


i77


manufacturing interests of the empire. Unless Watt had
possessed friends eager to help him, and pertinacity in invention besides, what chance could he have had of bringing his
engines into general use? He was as unlike ordinary tradesmen as any person could be; he had neither push nor tact
in buying and selling; and without these the brightest genius
cannot succeed in the business of life. "Willing rather to face
a loaded cannon than settle an account," and trembling at the
name of a man with whom he had any transactions, Watt
could not have got on without friends to force his improved
engines into the market, and, what was better, to testify in all
companies that he was the cleverest man in the British empire.
Notwithstanding these difficulties, perseverance and genius
united succeeded in introducing Watt's invention into general
use, and laying the foundation of the astonishing progress in
arts and manufactures which the nation has since made.
Although steamboats, perhaps, bulk more largely in our
eyes than other benefits which Watt was the means of conferring
upon mankind, it would be a mistake to regard these as the
noblest monuments of his fame; progress in manufactures
was contemporary with Watt's invention, and in course of time
became dependent on it.  Our textile and iron manufactures
received an impulse at this period from the application of
new or improved machinery, which, so far from having spent
its force, has been increased from time to time by fresh
triumphs of genius, and is still bestowing prosperity and
wealth upon the nation.  In one branch of industry has
this forward impulse been especially apparent. The demands for cotton goods which began to pour into the towns
of Lancashire from abroad about a hundred years ago
could no longer be met by hand labour; spinners, chiefly
women, were bribed to supply the weavers with yarn, but the
weaver could not supply the manufacturer with cloth. Hand
labour had reached the limit of its abilities in spinning, and
genius at length furnished mechanism to take its place.
The various processes through which cotton is prepared for
the loom were long imperfectly performed by the hand, until
the genius, the perseverance, and  the vigour of Arkwright, who revived and improved machines that had been
forgotten, as well as invented new ones, effected a revolution
N



178        Progress of Britain in the Mechanical Arts.


in spinning and weaving, and introduced the present factory
system.  Of the numerous processes to which the cotton fibres
are subjected, there are two in particular on which all the rest
depend, and in which inventive power was most signally displayed.  Cotton, flax, and wool, are received by the manufacturer in tangled heaps of fibres doubled and twisted among
each other in every conceivable way, and he requires, in the
first place, to lay these lengthwise and parallel.  The carding
machine enables him to accomplish this.  Originally it consisted of rows of parallel steel wires, forming a wire-brush;
cotton was placed upon them, and another instrument of the
same kind, when passed repeatedly along the wires of the first,
both straightened the fibres and laid them parallel. Great improvements on this were made by Lewis Paul and Arkwright,
who substituted machinery for the hand, and furnished the
spinner with a riband of cotton some hundred yards long, instead
of the short rolls formerly stripped off the cards.  If a row of
cards be arranged along an arc of a circle, and a cylinder, of
which the circumference is stuck full of wires, and the centre
the same as that of the circle, revolve within it so that the
wires are near each other, but not in contact, the cotton fibres
will be drawn by the revolution of the cylinder between the
upper and lower wires, laid parallel in the passage, and will
emerge in the form of a riband of nearly uniform thickness.
This riband, or " sliver" as it is called, is then stripped off the
cylinder by a comb invented for that purpose, and may be
made of any length whatever by furnishing a' large enough
supply of cotton at the beginning side of the machine.
Although the fibres are now parallel, it is possible that some
of them, having been caught in the middle by the wires of
the carding machine, lie doubled up in the mass; and
although the thickness of the ribands must be nearly uniform,
it is not likely to be precisely the same in all; other
operations, therefore, require to be performed before perfect
straightness and equality  are attained.  Formerly hand
labour not only prepared the riband, but also drew it out
to greater fineness, and twisted the fibres on each other,
as any one who has seen a spinning wheel at work must
have noticed.  Wyatt, however, in 1739, and Arkwright,
with more success in 1769, the same year that Watt took



Carding and Spinning.


I179


out his first patent for improvements on the steam engine,
introduced the method of spinning by means of two or more
pairs of rollers turning with different velocities.  This invention has changed the character of the cloth trade; and is so
simple, that it is surprising some one did not think of it
earlier. If a riband of parallel fibres be caught between two
rollers, of which the upper is pressed down on the lower by
heavy weights, it will be drawn through and compressed as
they revolve; but it will not be lengthened out. If, however,
the end escaping from one set of rollers be caught between a
second which turn twice or thrice as quickly, it will be
drawn forivard with greater speed than before. A known
length of riband is passed through the first set by one
turn; but if the second set be made to revolve twice as
fast, the same quantity must pass between them in one-half
the time; or, as the tenacity of the fibres prevents the
riband from tearing across, it will be drawn out to double
its former length and fineness.  A   slight twist is at the
same time given to increase the strength of the " roving,"
as the attenuated thread is now called.  By repeating the
process, greater fineness may be attained, and a still further
twist given; and, by employing a sufficient number of
rollers, a thousand threads may be spun in this way as
easily as one. Arkwright at first employed water power to
move his machinery, and the yarn which he produced was
therefore called water-twist.  Such, in principle, were the two
great inventions that effected an entire change in the manufacture of cotton, wool, and flax. The men by whom they
were really invented, Paul and Wyatt, partners in the same
establishment, did not succeed in securing for them public
favour; while Arkwright, possessing more perseverance, and
perhaps equal inventive power, carried off the prize of fortune
and fame to which the original inventors were entitled.
Before Arkwright introduced spinning by rollers, Hargreaves, an ingenious mechanic of Blackburn, had contrived
a frame in which a number of previously prepared rovings
*were drawn out to greater fineness and twisted into yarn,
enabling one man to do the work of eight or even eighty.
Arkwright's invention prepared the rovings and spun the
yarn; Hargreaves' could do the latter only.    The former



18o      Progress of Britain in the Mechanical Arts.
was best adapted for producing firm warp yarn; the latter
for spinning the finer kinds used as weft.  The union of the
principles of both was requisite to perfect the art of spinning.
Hargreaves (1767) attached the ends of several parallel rovings
to spindles placed vertically in a frame; and, seizing the whole
by a clasp at some distance, drew it from  the frame, when
the reduced roving was twisted by the rapid revolution
of the spindle, and then wound upon a bobbin.  The rollers
of Arkwright and the motion from the spindles are united in
the mule of Crompton, which was invented in 1779; and,
after many unsuccessful attempts, made self-acting about
thirty years ago; so that one spinner can make 800, 1000,
or even 2000 threads at once.  The rovings pass through
rollers, which turn for some time and then stop; the
spindles are placed on a carriage, which moves from the
rollers after they have ceased to turn, and draws out the
thread; the spindles revolve, the requisite twist is communicated to the fibres, and the thread thus spun is then wound
on the bobbins as the carriage advances towards the rollers.
The power which gave motion to the rollers and spindles
in the factories of Arkwright and his contemporaries was
supplied at first by falls of water. Manufacturers were accordingly under the necessity of planting their establishments in
districts where water power was readily obtained, however
inconvenient these situations might be in other respects.
Watt's improvements on the steam-engine, however, supplied
them with what they wanted, at a higher price certainly, but
in any place and at any time they chose. As soon as steamengines were used to drive the machinery, factories might be
set down in towns, made independent of drought or flood,
and wrought by a motive power whose energies could be
adapted with the utmost nicety to the work required. Steamengines were accordingly employed in turning the rollers,
and other machines used in spinning the cotton, as early as
1785; and the inventions of Watt and Arkwright, when
thus combined, gave an impulse to the manufacture which
neither of them  by itself could have produced.  But the
triumphs of this combination were not confined to spinning.
Several attempts had been made to weave cloth by machinery
before 1769; but they had been unsuccessful or were soon



The Power-Loom.


181


forgotten. When Dr. Cartwright in 1784 proposed to do this,
his manufacturing friends pronounced it impossible. He was
not discouraged, however, and though entirely ignorant of
mechanics, he undertook to realise the idea.  Success crowned
his efforts; but the machine he contrived was rude and awkward, for his own loom was the first he had ever seen. Powerlooms were not immediately introduced into the factories. They
remained an unprofitable speculation until it was discovered,
in 1803, that the warp might be dressed before being put in
the loom, and the services of the man employed for this
purpose dispensed with. The construction of the machine and
the method of dressing have been improved since that time;
and cloth is now woven by the help of steam with. a rapidity
and to an extent formerly unknown.   A steam-engine of
forty or sixty horse power gives motion to thousands of
rollers, spindles, bobbins, for spinning yarn, and works four or
five hundred looms besides. This gigantic spinner and weaver
needs very little assistance from man.  It undertakes and
faithfully discharges all the heavy work of putting shafts,
wheels,,and pulleys in motion, of throwing the shuttle, working the treadles, driving home the weft, and turning round the
warp and cloth beams. One man may now do as much work
as two or three hundred ninety years ago.  Labour is greatly
lightened and the fruits of industry vastly increased by the
assistance of this untiring fellow-worker.
The substitution of machinery in place of hand-labour in
spinning and weaving has been productive of the most beneficial
consequences to the whole kingdom, during the ninety years that
have elapsed since the inventions of Arkwright and Watt were
made. Results which the most sanguine never anticipated
have been obtained, not in one branch of trade or industry,
but in all. Really good steam-engines and mill-gearing could
not be manufactured when mechanical power was first introduced. Both were indispensable to success, and a revolution
in working iron was the result.  For many years after Arkwright's time, heavy shafts of wood and cast iron, huge wheels
and pulleys, slow motions and great friction, gave a ponderous
and ungainly appearance to the factories, compared with the
light wrought iron rods, the smaller wheels, the quintupled
velocities, and the diminished friction of the present day.



Results.


'83


before they formed nearly one half of the whole exports of
Great Britain. Spinners, weavers, and many kind-hearted
men, believed that machinery would deprive the poor of their
bread, reduce an industrious population to beggary, and
turn thickly peopled districts into wastes, tenanted by
steam engines and spinning jennies; but Lancashire, from
being third in point of population among the English counties
at the beginning of the century, is now more populous than
Middlesex  itself.'  The   original thirteen  states of the
American Union have not increased at the same rate within
that time, notwithstanding the multitudes of strangers who
pour into them from all parts of the world.2 It was long
thought that the British workman could never rival the
delicate cotton fabrics of the Hindoo; and it was even feared
that the cheapness of labour in India would not only render
it impossible to undersell the workers of that country, but
would operate to the disadvantage of British industry. Machinery, however, spins finer yarns than Hindoo fingers, and
enables the British merchant to buy the cotton of India, pay
for its carriage to this country, turn it into cloth, and export
it to Calcutta or Bombay at a profit.   It is calculated that,
about the middle of last century, there were probably 20,000
people engaged in the cotton manufacture in Britain, but
from the last population returns it appears that there are
now upwards of half a million, exceeding by more than twenty
thousand the whole number employed in the silk, linen,
woollen, and worsted manufactures of the island.8 Instead
of the beggary with which the operatives seemed to be
threatened, they are now a much better paid and more intelligent class of men than ever, though it must be confessed
1
1750.      1801.     1851.  Increaseper cent i 50
years (1801-1851.)
Lancashire,  297,400    672,565   2,031,236      201
SMiddlesex,...     818,129   1,886,576      130
Yorkshire,...     859,153   1,797,995      109
Lanarkshire,...     147,962    530,169       258
2 Population of United States in 1775, 2,803,000; in 1850, 13,189,570.
3 These numbers refer to persons actually working in mills, and do
not include others dependent on them for support.



184+      Progress of Britain in the Mechanical Arts.
that commercial crises, unhappy strikes, and the desire of
gain, at whatever cost to the souls and bodies of men, have
not unfrequently given rise to crimes and distress formerly
nnknown in the manufacturing districts of Britain.
But the sea as well as the land was destined soon
to witness the triumphs of ingenuity and machinery:
the present century has produced the process of diagonal
bracing in the construction of ships, the application of Watt's
engine to propel them, iron vessels instead of wood, watertight compartments, and a multitude of other useful and important changes.  Here, as in the textile manufactures, steam
lies in a great degree at the root of progress, in shipbuilding
and sailing. Amongc these various inventions, the application
of the steam engine to propel vessels especially deserves
notice; the first voyage of the first steamboat is too prominent an event in the history of the mechanical arts to be
overlooked.  Several of our countrymen in the end of last
century, and beginning of this, attempted to employ steam as
the motive power of ships for commercial purposes; hut most of
them failed, and one or two, who might halve succeeded, wanted
the necessary means or perseverance.  It was reserved for an'
American citizen to execute, and an American river to witness,
an enterprise the honour of which properly belongs to Scotland. Robert Fulton, who deserves the gratitude of mankind for the perseverance and ingenuity he displayed in
this work, visited Europe towards the close of last century,
and made several attempts both in Britain and in France to
propel vessels by steam. Watt and Boulton supplied him
with machinery, and many of his ideas were borrowed
from Miller of Dalswinton and Symington, whose steamboat he inspected when in Scotland.      From    the first,
Fulton regarded the steamer as a means of developing
the vast resources of the western states of the Union, where
50,000 miles of river navigation,- through a rich and
fertile country, invited capital, enterprise, and population.
Fourteen years elapsed, however, before success crowned his
labours; many difficulties and disappointments were encountered; and, once, when a vessel which he had built, was ready
for an experimental trip on the Seine at Paris, the boat broke in
two, and the machinery carried the fragments to the bottom of



Steam-Navigation.18


185


the river.  In 1807 he launched his first steam-vessel on the
Hudson, and inaugurated a new era mn river and ocean navigation.  The prejudices, which rendered the multitude both
of the wise and the ignorant sceptical, before Fulton's ideas had
been fully realized, and which drew them to the water side to
scoff at an expected failure, were destroyed in a few minutes
by the steady motion of the vessel.  Her first trip was made
on the Hudson, between New York and Albany, a distance
of 150 miles. When we look back on that -voyage, fraught
with unspeakable benefits to mankind, how amusing is almost
everything connected with it.  The velocity of the steamer
was only a~bout five miles an hour, yet so rapid did this rate
seem to those on board, that the ships they passed moving
with themselves appeared as if at anchor! The pine -wood
used as fuel sent forth a column of ignited vapo-ur many
feet above the flue, and so appalled were the crews of
the ships on the Hudson as they saw this fiery monster
moving towards them in the darkness against both wind
and tide, that some abandoned their ships, and others
thought their last hour was come!   Between 1807 and
1812, the year in which the Comet, the first British
steamer, began to ply on the Clyde, steamboats were introduced on almost all the larger rivers of the United States,
and the increased demand had also pointed out the disadvantages under which they laboured and suggested improvements.
Even after the beneficial influence of steam in river navigation
had been fully proved-so slowly do real improvements
become popular-cattle were employed to drive the paddlewheels of ferry boats in America. They gave motion to a,large horizontal wheel, which worked another vertical, and in
this way drove the shaft to which the paddles -were attached.
But there is another application of steam power of -which
Fulton deserves the credit.  During the war between Great
Britain and -the United States in 1814, the coast of the latter
was 'very much exposed to the insults and ravages of our
cruizers.  Fulton proposed to free his countrymen from this
annoyance, and to defend the harbour of New York from
attack, by means of steam-frigates.  That which he actually
did build, although it was not required, was pierced for thirty
guns, and resembled the double boats or twinzs constructed by



Dfficulties overcome: The Screw-Propeller.


I87


at hand; instead of one cylinder two might be employed; and
instead of one crank, two, as in the locomotive, where two
cranks at right angles to each other produce nearly uniform
motion in the axle of the driving wheels. But the expediency of
using paddles at all was soon questioned. They take up space
which might be better employed, they may be too deeply immersed at the beginning of a voyage and too little at the end,
owing to the diminished draught caused by the consumption
of one or two hundred tons of coals, and in a ship-of-war they
are prominent marks to an enemy's shot.  These objections
to paddle-wheels have led to the introduction of the screw
propeller into the merchant service and the navy.  Where
speed must be attained at whatever cost, paddles are employed;
where economy in the use of fuel with more room for the
stowage of goods are of primary importance, the screw is preferred.  As an auxiliary power the latter is well adapted to
vessels, the former much less. In ships-of-war, when paddlewheels are used, the height of the machinery and the use of
paddles are serious objections, both from the space they occupy
on the upper decks of the vessel, and from the greater ease
with which they may be crippled by an enemy. Paddlewheel steamers certainly have been engaged with forts without
damage to their machinery; but in an action between two
fleets they would soon be rendered useless. The screw leaves
a clear broadside for the guns, does not prevent the use of
sails, and allows the machinery to be placed six or eight feet
below the water line, thus leaving the upper decks free for
working the guns. The progress of the screw in the navy
-since 1839, when the Rattler, the first war-ship fitted with it,
was built, has been most rapid. In 1852, there were 125
armed steamers, both paddle and screw, in the navy, carrying
800 guns; at the great naval review of last year, nearly
twice as many steamers, principally screws, were assembled,
carrying double the number of guns.
The triumphs of steam and ingenuity, however, were
not confined to the mines, the navigation, and the textile
manufactures of the empire; for the progress that has been
made in these branches of the national industry would not
have been so great, unless important improvements had been
effected in smelting and working iron.  About the middle of



188


Progress of Britain in the AMechanical Arts.


last century (1740), the iron trade of Great Britain was
threatened with destruction; the number of tons produced
annually had fallen in a few years from 180,000 to 17,000.
Ironstone was known to exist in inexhaustible abundance
throughout the kingdom; but the forests were protected by
law; and wood, then deemed indispensable in reducing the
ore, could not be obtained except in small, quantities.  A
few years later (1750), the ironmongers of Birmingham
affirmed, that not half the quantity of iron required in the
trade was got from our own mines; and their statement was
undoubtedly true.  It was discovered, however, that the
metal could be extracted from the ore by means of pit coal,
provided the fire were well blown as the smelting proceeded;
and a great extension of the iron trade was the result.
Water-wheels or steam-engines could work the machinery
that supplied the blast; coal was as abundant as iron:
the consequence was, that the produce of the British furnaces
at the end of the century was upwards of 150,000 tons against
17,000 sixty years earlier; and it has gone on constantly
increasing.  A   further  extension  was  given  to  the
trade in 1783-4 by the inventions of Mr. Cort, who spent a
large fortune in bringing them to perfection, and was rewarded with opposition from the manufacturers, robbery
by Government officials, and ingratitude from the nation.
It is a singular and a mournful fact, that every one of the
great improvements to which Britain owes her present prosperity, has fought its way in the world against clamour,
knavery, and contempt.  An increase in poor-rates, and a
general distress among work people, were thought inevitable on the introduction of an important piece of machinery.
Combinations not to use it, nor to buy what it produced, were
sometimes formed among intelligent men; but as soon as
the inventor began to make money and employ more hands,
an outcry was raised by less able rivals that the improvement
was of national importance and ought not to be protected by
patent.  Law pleas, poverty for a time at least, and sometimes for life, and petty annoyances of every kind, were too
often the inheritance of inventors, whose genius has done
as much for the nation as the most distinguished naval or
military chief of whom it can boast.



State of the Iron Trade.


189


The inventions of Mr. Cort were made at a time when
the iron trade of Britain had again come to a stand.
British science was long unable to produce good wroughtiron from the pigs furnished by our own furnaces, and
the mechanical contrivances for adapting it to use in the
arts were slow in operation, expensive, and unsatisfactory.
On the one hand, Britain was to a great extent dependent on foreign nations, especially Russia and Sweden, for a
supply of bar-iron, and large sums of money were sent out
of the country every year in consequence; while, on the
other, workmen could not meet the increasing demand for iron
articles which were ordered from abroad, and the trade seemed
likely to pass into new channels. Genius again warded off
this danger, and turned our treasures of coal and iron to
account. After much labour and many failures, Mr. Cort
showed how the pig or cast-iron drawn off from the furnace
may be turned into malleable iron, by means of pit coal,
though only in very small quantities at a time. Others followed in the path that he opened up; new processes were
introduced into the art, and Britain was again enabled almost
to monopolise the iron trade of the world.      But the
mechanical improvements made by Mr. Cort were not less
important. Before his time, the wrought iron formed in the
furnace was prepared for use in the arts by the shingling
hammer which beat out the hot piles of metal into bars two
or three yards long, and then welded several of them
into one.   There were certain limits, however, to the
dimensions of the bar, beyond which it was not possible to
employ the hammer; and not only was the process itself
slow, but it required to be supplemented by another still
slower and more expensive.   The smallest section of bariron drawn under the hammer was three quarters of an inch
square, and twelve hours were spent in finishing a ton of
average sizes, about a fifteenth part of the work that can
now be done in the same time.1 Bars of smaller sizes, of
which great numbers were required for wire, nails, and
other articles, were made in the splitting mill, by dividing
into pieces of less dimensions the bars formed under the
hammer. Mr. Cort, borrowing the idea perhaps from the
S Scrivenor's History of the Iron Trade, 121.



Igo


Progress of Britain in the Mechanical Arts.


cotton factory, proposed to employ heavy rollers in reducing
the balls of wrought iron taken from the furnace, into forms
required in the arts; and this invention was another of the
important steps which saved the British iron trade, if not
from destruction, at least from serious crippling. If a semielliptical or circular groove be formed on each of two castiron cylinders, turning nearly in contact, a heated slab of
wrought iron, seized by one end between them, will be
reduced in dimensions as it is drawn through, and will take
the form of the groove. Passing it immediately through
another groove of smaller size, its section will be still further
reduced and its length increased; and by repeating the process sufficiently often, a rod of the required fineness may be
got.1  Bars can also be welded between the rollers, formed
into plates, squeezed out into the shapes in which they are
used in the arts, and treated with a freedom to which manufacturers were entire strangers before Mr. Cort's time.
Without the assistance of the steam-engine, these results
could not always be attained. The rollers make from 60 to 400
revolutions per minute, or travel as fast as ordinary railway
trains, and it requires a powerful engine with a heavy flywheel to carry the plates through.  Sometimes, however, the
forge hammer must be employed for work which the rollers cannot perform. The shafts, to which the paddle wheels of steamers
or the driving wheels of locomotives are keyed, could not be
manufactured between cylinders, orunderthe old forge hammer.
The former in some cases weigh twenty tons, and are many feet
in length, and uniform strength throughout the mass, as well
as thorough welding of the several pieces, are indispensable.
Nasmyth's steam hammer is the best that has been invented
for such work.  A heavy block of cast-iron, sometimes five
tons in weight, and attached to the lower end of a piston rod
working in an inverted cylinder, is lifted by admitting the
steam beneath the piston, and then allowed to fall upon the
work by its own weight; or, by a little management, it may
be made to slide up and down without striking at all. The
heaviest work is forged under the blows of this ponderous
1 Sometimes the bars are reduced to wires fifteen times their original
length, and only one quarter of an inch in diameter.-'Encyclopcedia
Britannica.



Rollers and Steam-Hammers.


191


hammer, which acts with an energy that the strength of iron
cannot withstand, and yet is kept in such control that a nutshell may be cracked or an egg chipped as easily as iron
beams are welded or shaped.
It is unnecessary to mention all the machines, by the help of
which man maintains his power over this most useful metal.
There is still much room for improvement in both the chemical
and mechanical processes by which it is prepared for the market,
but the progress of the past seventy years justifies the hope that
these cannot be long delayed.  Britain can only retain her
pre-eminence in the arts by improving what is old or inventing what is new, and there seems no lack of energy among
her people in doing both.   The last seventy years have
witnessed at least two revolutions in the working of iron, and
the next seventy may produce as many more. At present,
iron blocks are squeezed between rollers, or compressed in
the jaws of an iron alligator; two or three are welded into
one, or formed into a sheet, and squeezed out to greater
thinness; huge shears, working with marvellous rapidity,
clip three-quarter inch plates at the rate of ten feet each
stroke; circular saws, moving with greater speed than the
fastest railway trains, cut railway bars in two with a precision
otherwise unattainable; heavy hammers unite ponderous beams
of iron; light ones, striking a thousand times in a minute,
assist in manufacturing the smallest articles required with the
utmost rapidity and accuracy; holes are punched through
masses of iron almost a foot thick as easily as if they were pieces
of wood or cheese; and sheets are nailed together with a
firmness that gives to hundreds of united plates the stiffness of
one.  Britain may claim for herself the credit of nearly all
these improvements; but the physical conditions of the
country, whatever influence they may have had in inciting to
research, could never of themselves have produced them.
Besides the inventions made of late years for rolling and
hammering iron, there is another of the highest importance,
which has contributed as much as any to cheapen and perfect
the articles into which this metal is manufactured.  The
interior of a steam cylinder must be of uniform diameter
from top to bottom, valve faces accurately planed, and pistonrods of the same thickness throughout; but both before and



I92


Progress of Britain in the Mechanical Arts.


after the time of Watt, whose improvements made perfect
forms indispensable in the construction of steam engines,
accuracy of workmanship was left to the eye and skill of the
workman. The immense number of machines now required in
the arts must certainly call forth skill in an uncommon degree,
and discipline the eye to greater accuracy; but the tendency of
modern science is to leave nothing, or as little as possible, to
the eye or artistic skill: it aims at perfection. In the period
which preceded the inventions of Watt and Arkwright, there
was very little demand for greater accuracy of form than the
workman himself could supply. Supposing that he wished to
turn an iron rod in the lathe, he had nothing to trust to but
his own unaided strength to force the cutting tool against
the bar, and dexterity was his only resource for producing a
rod of uniform  thickness.   Although the formation of a
wooden rod in this way requires neither much labour nor
much skill, the case is widely different when it becomes
necessary to turn a bar of iron in the lathe.  If the workman cut too deep in any place, he will require to go over
the whole of the work again, or leave it imperfect; in this
way the rod might be spoiled by being made too thin, or
rendered useless by being left thick in one part and thin in
another.  About fifty years ago this was actually the case:
everything depended on the eye and skill of the workman, and
perfect forms in machinery appeared unattainable. True lines,
circles, planes, spheres, cones, and cylinders of iron, were objects
of earnest but seemingly hopeless desire to practical men; the
expense of attempting to obtain them was great, the result
unsatisfactory.  Engineers avoided these forms in their
works as much as possible; and their economy in using
them is in striking contrast with their prodigality at present.
Maudslay of London, by his application of the slide rest
principle, has changed the state of things entirely.  What
necessity is there for allowing the cutting tool to lean against
the chest of the workman?     A fixed support will do the
work a great deal better; it will evidently cut to the depth
required, and will take off neither too much nor too little.
The duty of the workman in that case would be to slide this
rest or support along the face of the work in the lathe, and
parallel to the axis round which it was revolving; shavings



The Slide Rest.                   193
would then be taken off to the same depth throughout, and
uniform thickness in all parts secured.  But even this is not
necessary; the machine may be made to slide its own cutting
tool along, and the services of the workman, except at the
beginning and end of the operation, dispensed with altogether.
This principle, so simple in its nature, has been applied to
the turning of rods, the planing of surfaces, the boring of
cylinders, the formation of cones, the cutting of screws, and
other purposes. Instead of the indifferent articles which left
the iron factories about half a century ago, the cylinders;
rods, and tables which they send out now are as perfect as
can be wished.   At first, the imperfect tools with which the
workmen wrought rendered accuracy impossible; but each
tool made on this principle was better than its parent and a
step nearer perfection.  An ill-planed surface could not produce another altogether faultless; but it could turn out an
article better than itself, and perfection was reached by
degrees. Excellence of workmanship, however, has not been
attended by advance in price; here, as in every other department of industry, machinery has both perfected and cheapened
the products of manual labour, besides releasing men from
toils to which flesh and blood are unequal.'
The progress of the branches of industry already enumerated soon led to great changes in travelling and in the
carriage of goods.   In the first half of last century, carts
and horses' backs were the only means of conveying goods
throughout the country; and there were very few of the
former in some of the richest districts of Scotland.' Pedlars
knew by experience the load which a horse's back could
bear, and curiosity led men of science to put down the
breaking weight or an approach to it in their text books.3
Another way of conveying goods to short distances had been
greatly improved about 1730, and was then practised in
S"c One has only to go into any of those vast establishments which
within the last ten years have sprung up for the purpose of supplying
the demand for machinery, and we shall find that nine-tenths of all the
fine mechanism in use, and in process of production, is through the
agency, more or less direct, of the slide rest and planing machine."Nasmyth, in Buchanan's Essays on Mill Work, i. p. 404 (1841).
2 Falkirk possessed three in 1750, according to Pennant.
3 Desagulier's Course of Experimental Science, i. 274.
0



194      Progress of Britain il the Mechanical Arts.
several places.  When coal pits and quarries were near
a river side, especially if the ground rose considerably from
the water's edge, it was usual to lay down an oak railway
between the pit and wharf, and to furnish the wagon wheels
with broad flanges to keep them from slipping off the rails.
Trains of wagons were allowed to run down an incline by
their own weight, or were dragged along the level ground by
horse power; they were easily stopped by locking the
wheels.  Carts loaded with four tons, the weight which some
of these wagons usually carried, would have sunk deep in the
ground on the wretched roads of those times; and this was
one of the great advantages gained by employing an " oaken
frame." No one at that time appears to have thought of
connecting the larger towns of the kingdom by lines of railway like these, and the nation had to pass first through
two useful revolutions, effected severally by canals and
stage coaches.  About the middle of last century travellers
journeyed from   place to place on horseback;    pedlars
and merchants used strong little horses for carrying their
goods; the servants of noblemen supplied their masters'
castles with fuel, by transporting coal or peat for many miles in
the same way; and occasionally a successful merchant might
be met conveying his stock in trade from town to town in a onehorse wagon.  The northern parts of Scotland, even in 1770,
were a land of myth and darkness to our southern neighbours; many of the Highland mountains, according to report,
were covered with everlasting snow;1 the longest river in
the country was only guessed at; the heights of the mountains were unknown.2  Even in the beginning of the present
century, so wretched were the conveyances in the south of
Scotland and the north of England, that Sydney Smith compared a company of travellers in a post chaise of those times
to a party of prisoners on their way to Newgate.3  Canals,
however, on a great scale were begun in 1758, and rapidly
spread in both divisions of our island, but especially in the
west of England.  Liverpool supplies the country to the east
and north with the productions of other lands, and also exports
Pennant, Tour in Scotland, i. 207.
2 Maskelyne's celebrated observations on Schihallien were begun in
1774.                                 3 Life, i. 19.



Canals and Tram-Roads.              195
the woollens of Leeds, and the cottons of Manchester.  Easy
communication between these towns was therefore of the
utmost importance to the manufacturing interests of the
nation.  Canals were thought of; but the science of the
day was frightened at the difficulties to be encountered
in their construction, and declared the thing impossible.
Valleys had to be crossed; mountains to be levelled or bored;
and rivers spanned. How was it possible to carry a river
across a river, through a mountain, or from side to side of a
deep valley? The feat has been accomplished; the difficulties that lay in the way have been overcome, and we are now
unable to estimate their greatness.  Brindley undertook the
work.   He was laughed at as a fool, written down as a man
of no education, and charged with squandering his employer's
money on impossible projects; but he persevered.  He had
faith in his own abilities, and could inspire others with confidence.  Some time elapsed; and this self-taught genius
from being the laughing stock had become the idol of England; his cuttings, bridges, tunnellings, and contrivances were
the wonder of newspapers, and the common talk of family
circles.  In fifty years canals had done their utmost as a
means of inland carriage, and the industry of the nation was
again checked: imports could not be conveyed to the interior,
nor exports forwarded to the coast to meet the demands of
consumers.   Manufacturing firms in Manchester had to
take their turn in getting goods from Liverpool; and not
unfrequently the complaint was heard that cotton was conveyed across the Atlantic in less time than between these
towns.   Travelling was unavoidably slow; accidents or
frost rendered the transport of goods at times impossible;
and factories were put on half work, because the canals
could not furnish the necessary supplies of cotton.  Tram
roads, as the railways were then called, seemed to offer a
remedy. They were extensively used in the mining districts,
where cast iron rails had taken the place of the " oaken
frame," about 1760; and locomotives had been invented in
1784 by Murdoch, the ingenious assistant and afterwards the
partner of Boulton and Watt.   So useful had these railroads
been found that the proposal to levy a tax on iron in 1806 was
opposed, because it would increase the expense of construct



196       Progress of Britain in the Mechanical Arts.
ing them about ~700 a mile.' At first they had been laid
down for short distances only; but, in course of time, the
proprietors of mines considerably removed from rivers were
emboldened to increase their length to seven, ten, and even
twenty miles, by the facilities they. offered for the conveyance of coals and goods.   Locomotives came into use in
1804, though the machinery was still very imperfect, and the
ideas of engineers very crude.  They were much improved
in the course of the next twenty years, and a speed of from
four to seven miles per hour was attained, with a prospect of
greater. High pressure engines required to be used, and there
is something in the very name that has always frightened the
ignorant; the boilers had been formed of cast iron in some
cases at first, and the results, as might have been expected,
were unsatisfactory and alarming.  The difficulty of arranging
the parts of a high pressure engine on a movable carriage,
and the apparent impossibility of furnishing enough of steam
to make the wheels turn at the rate of twenty or even ten
miles an hour, retarded the progress of the locomotive.  If a
wheel, four feet in diameter, turn 110 times in a minute, or
travel at the rate of fifteen miles an hour, each cylinder will
take from the boiler 220 fills of steam per minute; and it
is not surprising therefore that many thoughtful people,
whose   opinions  were  entitled  to  respect, regarded  a
speed of fifteen or even ten miles an hour as unattainable.
Where learning failed, however, natural genius triumphed.
George Stephenson, once a locomotive stoker in the north
of England, and afterwards one of the most distinguished
engineers of modern times, invented the tubular boiler, and
raised the speed of the engine from seven to thirty miles an
hour.  A large heating surface is indispensable to generate
the steam  required; but the space allowed for the whole
engine on the carriage is necessarily limited, and Stephenson's ingenuity was exercised in providing the former without
unduly increasing the latter.  The flame and heated air
leave the fire-box at a very high temperature, and much heat
would be wasted if they were allowed to escape immediately
into the atmosphere.  Stephenson had already made an improvement on locomotives, which enabled him to supplement
1 Scrivenor, histori of the Iron Trade, 99.



Locomotives.


197


the ordinary operation of the furnace by this heated air.
As high-pressure engines are used, the steam escapes from
the cylinder, after having done its work, at a high temperature.  If allowed to escape into the atmosphere immediately, so much power would be wasted; if made to pass
into the smoke-box, and then conveyed up the chimney, it
would act as a powerful blast upon the fire. Instead of blowing the fire, it blows the chimney; and more air will of course
enter the fire if the chimney be cleared more quickly. This,
then, was Stephenson's first great improvement, and it enabled
him to give effect to another.  Putting the chimney at one end
of the boiler, and the fire-box at the other, he connected the
two by a number of metal tubes passing from the back
of the  furnace to the   smoke-box.   Hot air, escaping
through these tubes, heats the water by which they are surrounded, and enables engines to travel at the rate of twenty,
sixty, or even seventy miles an hour.  By increasing the
number of these tubes, and diminishing their diameter, the
heating surface may be rendered much larger; but there are
limits beyond which it is neither safe nor economical to reduce
the size of the tubes.  With an engine constructed on this
principle, Stephenson gained the prize offered by the Liverpool and Manchester Railway Company in 1829, and placed
beyond doubt the propriety of using locomotives in preference
to horses or stationary engines.  Other parts of the locomotive which he constructed were not so suitable, and room was
left to the inventive powers of his successors; but the great
object had been attained; a speed of ten miles an hour with
ordinary loads was now certain, and thirty miles was not impossible.  The manufacture of these engines became a regular
and lucrative trade; and almost every year since 1830 has
witnessed an increase in their number and power.  Stephenson's prize locomotive, the Rocket, weighed four tons and a
quarter, and ran on rails of thirty-five Ilbs. to the yard;
engines are constructed now weighing more than thirty tons,
and running along rails of eighty lbs. to the yard.
Quick travelling, and greater facilities for inland commerce,
were the immediate results of railroads and locomotives; but
others followed in a few years.    Engincering problems,
sometimes the same as those which baffled the skill of a pre



198      Progress of Britain in the Mechanical Arts.
ceding generation, were presented under forms of greater
difficulty, and new questions arose where there was neither
experience to guide nor rules to direct.  A better proof
could scarcely be wished, that the energy of the British
mind has not decayed during the past century, than the success with which obstacles were overcome, which threatened
to check the progress of railway enterprise, or break the network of lines then proposed for connecting all the large towns
of the kingdom.   It was in the art of bridge-building especially that these triumphs were achieved.  Bridges of stone
and wood have been known since the earliest times; the
arch is found among the monuments of ancient Egypt; suspension bridges have existed for ages in Asia, and were thrown
across the ravines of Peru long before the arrival of the
Spaniards.  To the present generation of British engineers
was reserved the honour of proving what wonders might
be effected in this art by the use of iron.  Cast-iron bridges
were proposed in 1773, and an arch, consisting of five semicircular ribs which supported the roadway, was shortly after
thrown across the Severn near Colebrook Dale.  During the
next fifty years, a considerable number of cast-iron bridges were
erected. Rennie in 1819 built one across the Thames, in which
the centre arch had a span of 240 feet; and Telford, a few years
after, proposed to throw another twice the size across the
Menai Straits, and rising at the crown 100 feet above highwater mark.   When railway enterprise gave greater scope
to engineering, it was found that cast-iron beams, supported
on pillars of stone less than forty feet apart, would form a
much more convenient and cheaper form of bridge than the
cast-iron arches formerly in use.  Both kinds were used on
railroads; but experience has shown that in spans of about
100 feet, the girder bridges are unsafe.  Hollow beams of
wrought iron are found stronger and cheaper; a wooden
platform carrying the rails is suspended between two of them,
and the piers on which they rest are sometimes 150 feet
apart.  Rivers, canals, and streets are spanned by these
bridges.  The heaviest trains pass along them with perfect
safety, and the beams are so stiff, that the bending which
then takes place is only detected by very careful observations.



Bridge-Building.


I199


An iron beam     has a very different shape from    one of
wood. The particles on the top are forced together by a
superincumbent weight, those in the bottom drawn asunder;
compression takes place above, extension below.     Cast-iron
has the property of resisting the former in a high degree,
while it very readily gives way to the latter; wrought iron,
on the contrary, has less power to resist compression than
extension. A cast-iron pillar may be safely loaded with an
immense weight on the top; but it is not so safe to draw it
out in the direction of its length. A bar of wrought iron,
again, will' carry an enormous load suspended from it, but
would not answer so well if used as a pillar to support roofs
or heavy weights. Hence, when these metals are used for
railway bridges, the roadway is laid on the top of cast iron,
but generally suspended from the bottom of wrought iron
girders.  Although these principles are well known now,
ignorance of them at first led to constructions in which there
was less safety and more expense than in recent bridges.
When a beam gives way, economy and strength require that
it yield at neither top nor bottom singly, but in both at once;
and to accomplish this, the section of the beam at right angles
to its length, must not be a square or rectangle, but of some
other form.    Cast iron resists compression with at least six
times the force that it resists extension; and there must therefore be six times more matter in the under than in the upper
side of a cast iron beam. The middle part or rib serves to keep
the top and bottom together, and is not made so thick at
either; the section of a cast-iron girder will thus be like an
inverted T. On the other hand, greater thickness of metal
should be thrown into the top than the bottom of a wrought
iron beam, and the strongest section in that case will be of
a different form. Mr. Fairbairn, the eminent engineer of
Manchester, who introduced wrought-iron girders, found that
it was more convenient and safe to make the top cellular,
instead of using thicker plates than in the bottom.  The stiffness of the bridges which he constructed, showed the value of
this improvement, and was afterwards a means of solving the
most difficult problem in engineering that the world has yet
known.
As it is necessary, for many reasons, that the natural



200       Progress of Britain in the ]i/Iechanical Arts.
barrier between England and Ireland should impede the
communication between the two countries as little as possible,
it is desirable that means of transport should be provided at
the narrowest part of the sea which separates these two portions of the empire.    Holyhead, besides being the most
convenient harbour on that part of the coast, is only 62
statute miles from Kingston, the port of Dublin.  But Holyhead can only be reached from   the mainland by crossing a
strait of difficult navigation, and it is therefore desirable to
carry a road over it which shall free the traveller from the
necessity of changing his conveyance.  These considerations
led to the construction of Telford's celebrated suspension
bridge in 1826, and were again brought forward when it was
proposed to construct a railway between Chester and Holyhead in 1844.    Cast-iron arches of 360 feet span might
have carried the railroad across, but the Commissioners of
Admiralty would not give their consent.  It was at last found
necessary to construct a level platform 450 feet in clear span,
and 104 feet above high-water mark. Experience had proved
that suspension bridges, however strong, are unsafe, in a
place so exposed to storms as the Menai Straits, but even
the principle of a suspension bridge was inadmissible.  One
had been constructed some years before for a railway over the
Tees, and it turned out an entire failure.   MAr. Robert
Stephenson, the engineer for the line, at last thought of spanning the strait by a tunnel of wrought-iron stretching from
side to side, and allowing a passage for trains through its
interior.  His ideas on the subject, as might be expected,
were crude enough; the possibility of such an erection was
doubtful, and the form which it ultimately assumed resembled
its inventor's ideal only in being hollow, and forming a
tunnel for trains.  A number of questions required to be
answered before a tubular bridge, as the new invention was
called, could be built.  Should it be supported by chains or
left to itself? what should be the form of the tube? elliptical, circular, or rectangular? where was most strength
required? where least? and how could the greatest strength
be secured with the least expenditure of materials?  These
points could only be determined by careful experiments, and
for this purpose the assistance of Mr. Fairbairn was requested.



Tubular Bridges.


201


The correspondence between the two engineers who thus
became associates in a great enterprize, has been woven by the
latter into a narrative, recording the gradual progress of the
original idea towards perfection, with the comments of the
principal parties engaged on the various difficulties that arose
in the course of the experiments.  It differs from a romance
unfortunately in this, that while the latter generally ends with
harmony among the chief actors, in this case an unhappy disagreement about the division of the honour mars the interest
with which one reads the story. After many experiments, and
much anxious consideration, the project assumed a shape,well
calculated to alarm the directors, and render the public
incredulous.  It was seriously proposed to build an iron box
460 feet long, 30 feet high, and 14 feet broad, on the banks
of the Menai Straits; to float this mass of 1450 tons at high
water to openings in piers prepared for its reception; to lift
it upwards of 100 feet, and build solid masonry underneath
for its support; to rest it at its utmost height on cast-iron
rollers, which would allow it to expand and contract as the
sun rose and set, or as summer advanced and waned, and
then to make it a tunnel for the passage of railway trains
weighing, perhaps, a hundred tons.   The properties of
wrought iron were not well understood when the experiments
were begun, which emboldened the engineers to recommend
this project to the directors.  Experience made Mr. Fairbairn
confident that there was no danger of the bridge giving way
under its own weight; and numerous experiments on a large
scale proved the truth of his opinion.  Chains were as
unnecessary to support this bridge as intermediate piers,
even if the latter could have been built.  Its strength is
derived from a different source from either. The roof consists
of two platforms, 1 foot 9 inches apart, and 14 feet broad;
this space is divided into eight equal parts by partitions running from end to end of the bridge; and the cells thus
formed keep the tube from giving way to compression in
the top, where the material is most liable to be injured.
Two of these stupendous bridges were constructed for the
Chester and Holyhead line. The first was built on the
banks of the Conway river (1848), and now spans that stream
not far from the suspension bridge erected by Telford on the



Prospects of Britain.20


203


useful arts; and they will suggest the questions, Is the
country still progressing? And, if so, is there any limit to its
advance? Some are of opinion that Britain has reached the
summit of greatness, and that decline has already begun;
but there is no evidence of weakness or decay in the sagacity
and enterprise of her people. They may slumber for a time;
but when great occasions call them forth, inventions and improvements, surpassing the boldest conceptions of previous
generations, are the result. Neither does there appear to be
any limit to the advances Britain may make in all the branches
of mechanical industry. New fields of enterprise are opening
up; difficulties without number have still to be overcome;
and men are not only alive to the obstacles which forbid
further progress, but bent on effecting their removal. With
Providence watching over the nation's welfare, there is no
reason to doubt, that a century hence will find Britain as far
in advance of the present day, as the present is of the times of
Watt and Arkwright.
J. S.



SCOTTISH BALLADS.
A GREEK girl traced the shadow of her lover's face on a
sunny wall. That, says the legend, was the birth of painting. The death of one of the lions of the early world may have
given birth to the twin arts of poetry and music. The barbarian
returning to his village laden with the spoils of the chase, or
driving before him a crowd of captives, must have a poet to
rehearse his triumphs, to celebrate the strength of his arm
and the terrors of his unconquerable spear. To some such rude
source we may trace back the sacred streams of poetry and
music which have flowed down to us out of unknown time.
From his power of conferring a new distinction on warlike
achievements, the bard or singer has ever been held in respect.
His songs are a kind of rude fame.  He is the depositary of
the traditions of his tribe.  His memory is the archives of his
people, and therein are preserved their rolls of glory.  We
find the singer in every ancient nation, by the rainy shores
of the Baltic, in the vast Germanic forests; and every where
he is regarded as one possessing surpassing knowledge, who
has mysterious kindred with the elements, and who in solitary places hears the messages of the gods.  He passes from
land to land, walks into the heart of hostile camps, and sits
down at the very carousals of his foes.  He finds a welcome
in the den of the robber, and in the rush-strewn hall of the
prince.  When at rich and solemn feast the monarch is
seated on the dais surrounded by his earls, there is also the
minstrel and his harp.  What were a banquet without song



Minstrelsy.


205


and the recital of the deeds of heroes? The wild boar's flesh
is tasteless, the mead is ditch-water, it cannot fire the blood,
nor tingle to the brain.  In course of time chivalry brought
the Troubadour, a more courtly and splendid personage
than his predecessor, who knew another god than Odin,
believed in quite a different Valhalla, and relished softer
pleasures than drinking ale out of the skulls of departed
warriors.  Some of these men were soldiers as well as minstrels, and were cunning with the sword as with the harpstring.  On the morning of Hastings, Taillefer asked and
obtained permission from William to lead the onset.  He
sang in a loud voice the " Song of Roland" in the fiont of the
Norman army, then striking spurs into his horse, he rode
forward still singing, and dashed his life out in an ecstasy on
the Saxon spears.  After the Conquest, the English kings
were great patrons of poets and minstrels, and some of them
were no mean brethren of the craft, and could touch the harp
themselves.  Richard I. was an accomplished musician, and
composed verses.  The story how one of the king's minstrels, Blondell by name, rescued his master from captivity
is familiar to most readers. It was known in England that
Richard had returned from Palestine, but no one could tell in
what country he was detained.  Blondell travelled through
many lands in search of the king, till his wanderings led him one
day to a strong castle. On inquiry he learned that the fortress
belonged to the Duke of Austria, and that it contained a
single prisoner; but no one could tell him his name.  The
minstrel took up his place beneath one of the grated windows,
and began to sing a song in French, which he and the king
had at one time composed together.  Richard started when
the familiar tones fell upon his ear, and recognised Blondell's
voice.  He immediately took up the strain, and sang the
remaining half.  By that token Blondell knew it was the
king, and returning to England discovered to the barons where
their master was imprisoned.  In the reign of Richard II.
a court of minstrels was established, which obtained a
charter, l)ad power to enact laws, and every year elected a
king to preside over them.  By the time of Elizabeth the
craft had fallen into disrepute, the minstrel was profanely
classed with " rogues, vagabonds, and sturdy beggars," and



206


Scottish Balladr.


seems to have been better acquainted with the staff of the
constable, than with the tables of the rich or the favour
of princes.  Although   more  emphatically the home of
minstrelsy than England, we have but little information
relative to  the worldly prosperity *of the minstrels in
Scotland.. Celtic bards, we know, frequently left their
mountains and wandered through the Lowlands singing their
wild songs, and the inhabitants of the Borders were passionately fond of listening to strains in which the struggles of clans
and the forays into England were celebrated.  Some provision appears to have been made for poets or musicians among
the Celtic tribes; a piper seems to have been as indispensable
to a highland chieftain as a claymore or eagle's feather; and a
portion of the land of the tribe, called the "piper's croft,"
was set apart for the support of that important individual.
In the Lowlands the poets seem to have found few royal
favours.  Dunbar and Sir David Lindsay resided at court,
and although the ffist was sometimes attached to the train of
a noble when he visited France on an embassy of state, and
the second was honoured by bearing a young prince on his
back, he meanwhile romping about on all-fours, they do not
seem to have lived in the most flourishing condition.  A
considerable portion of their poetry is of the begging-letter
species.  If wit and eloquence had had power to charm coin
from the pocket of the king, theirs had been better supplied.
It is to be hoped that the poets were the most troublesome
duns of the Jameses, else the unfortunate monarchs must
have frequently been at the ends of their royal wits.  It is
hardly to be expected, however, that a line of kings, of
lineage unexceptionable and most irreproachable blood, some
of whom were occasionally hard-pushed in the matter of
silk stockings, could afford to be generous to singing men and
singing women, to poets, jesters, and buffoons.
But it was not from  the court poets that the ballads
sprung.  They grew up over the country like wildflowers.
Their authors were most probably part minstrels, part
gaberlunzies, who wandered about the kingdom, dwelling
often " under the canopy with the choughs and crows,"
haunting fairs, markets, and all assemblies of people, and
when fortunate enough to procure a supper and a couch



Conditions of Ballad Poetry.


207


of straw, paying    their lawing   with   a song, and then
forward on the morrow; and often, doubtless, we should
find the minstrel equipped in the steel jacket of the mosstrooper, urging a drove of floundering and terrified cattle
before him from Cumberland on a moonless night, with
many a prick of lance and a great superfluity of curses.
Many of the border ballads are so real and life-like, so full of
character and humour, that we feel the singer had himself
wielded a sword in the combat, or ridden into England to
lift a prey.  The form    of this kind of poetry is of course
necessitated by the circumstances of the minstrel and his
audience. They were meant to be sung on public occasions
to the harp or some other musical instrument, and in order
to produce effect and sustain interest, some exploit must be
the theme which flashed out far above common raid and
the skirmish of rival clans-some surpassing tragedy which
steeped a whole country-side in tears.   The story claimed,
too, to be told in the most direct and natural manner, and the
"lighter poetic graces-ornaments and efflorescences, precious
and delightful enough in a calmer hour-were scared away
by the fury of the minstrel's hand and voice. These compositions-and some of them are very ancient-were not, till
a comparatively recent period, preserved by printing; living,
therefore, on the lips and in the memories of several generations, and sung extensively over a country where, even at the
present day, every twenty or thirty miles you come upon a
dialect locally peculiar, it is not surprising_ that in process of
time they underwent considerable modifications; that we
frequently find half-a-dozen versions of the same story, and
several stanzas of one ballad imbedded in the very heart of
another.   When a minstrel met a brother of the craft, they
would in all probability exhibit their stock in trade, and both
thereby acquire fresh materials.     The meeting over, and
reciting his novelties in distant parts of the country, if memory
failed, the singer who could not afford to pause in his strain
would hardly hesitate to thrust into the hiatus any set of stanzas
which, without outrage to the proprieties of the story, carried
along with it the feelings of his audience.  In these compositions there are great similarities of incident and feeling.
One thing at least never fails the reader; when two lovers die



208


Scottish Ballads.


they are of course buried together, and out of the grave of
one there springs a.rose, and out of the grave of the other
a briar; which rapidly growing, contrive as a sort of poetical
justice and compensation for their cruel fate, to interlace and
marry their branches above the spire of the church-a spectacle which, however it might astonish people now-a-days,
seems to have had the most touching associations for the
grim moss-trooper and the lawless reiver of the marches.
None of these ballads can be looked upon as the work of a
single author.  Their present form is the work of generations.  For centuries the floating legendary material was
reshaped, added to and altered, by the changing spirit and
emotion of man.     Rude and formless, they   are touching
and venerable as some ruin on the waste, the names of whose
builders are unknown; whose towers and walls, although not
erected in accordance with the lights of modern architecture,
affect the spirit, and fire the imagination far more than
nobler and more recent piles; for its chambers, now roofless to
the day, were ages ago tenanted by life and death, joy and
sorrow, for its walls have been worn and rounded by time,
its stones channelled and fretted by the fierce tears of winter
rains; on broken arch and battlement every April for centuries has kindled a light of desert flowers, and it stands
muffled in ivy, bearded with moss, and stained with lichens,
crimson, golden and green, by the suns of forgotten summers.
We are told to imitate this, but who can recal the strong
arms and rude hearts that piled huge stone on stone?  Who
can simulate the hallowing of time?    Who can create us
a ruin to-day with the weather-wear and lichens of five
centuries upon it?
The Scottish Ballads may be divided into two classes.
1. Those poems founded on historical events, private tragedies, and the fairy mythology.  2. Those which more specially pertain to the Borders, and relate the sturt and strife,
the wild revenges, the exploits, skirmishes, and cattle-lifting
expeditions of the marchmen.    The first contains much of
the finest poetry, and the deepest pathos.   Those of the
second attend closely to the business in hand, are rude and
bustling, and are frequently enlivened by flashes of savage
humour.   In every stanza you seem    to hear the clatter of



Characteristics.


209


hoofs, and the rattle of steel jackets. Both are valuable,
as throwing light on a condition of man which can never
recur in these islands; as exhibiting in a mighty mirror,
pictures of a strong, passionate, turbulent time.  Nowhere is
the reader more impressed, not even on the page of Shakspeare himself, with the reality of the scenes and the men
and women. Yet with all this naturalness, it is difficult
for the reader of to-day, with his complex environments and difference of training, to imagine himself so
actuated, so.subdued by fears, so stormed along by passion.
In reading these compositions, we see what we have gained
and lost in the course of a few centuries, what new elements
have entered into human life, what more of awfulness or
frivolity, of truth or falsehood; we discover the old seamargins of right and wrong, and compare with them the point
the tide reaches to-day. All that far-off, lawless, and generous life is unroofed to us in these Ballads; we wander
amongst the relics of a past society as we would amongst the
ruins of Pompeii. We see the domestic economy of the
houses of our ancestors; everything is left there    for
our inspection. We can take up a household implement
and examine its material and shape.  The first thing which
strikes the reader of the Ballads is their direct and impulsive life.  There is nothing cloaked or concealed.  You
look through the iron corslet of the marauder, and see
the fierce heart heave beneath.  None of the heroes ever
seems to feel that hesitancy and palsy of action which arises
from the clash of complex and opposing motives. At once
the mailed hand executes the impulse of the hot heart. There
seem to have been no dissimulators in those days.   If a
man is a scoundrel, he speaks and acts as if he were perfectly
aware of the fact, and aware, too, that the whole world knew
it as well as himself. If a man is wronged by another, he
runs him through the body with his sword, or cleaves him
to the chin with his pole-axe, and then flees, pursued day
and night, awake and asleep, in town and wilderness, by a
bloody ghost. If two lovers meet in the greenwood, they
forget church and holy priest, and in course of time the heron
is startled from his solitary haunt, and shame and despair are
at rest beneath the long weeds of the pool, and a ghost with
P



Freedomfrom from  fluence of Criticism.  211
The literary merit of many of these Ballads is great; in
the majority, the singer is in utter abeyance, and the subject
is all in all.  There is no straining and effort, no artifices
are employed to fillip the dulled spirit of the reader; no
impertinent ornaments distract the attention from the agony
or the woe.  Their authors were not literary men, and there
was no existing literature by which their efforts were measured.  Originality was not expected of them, and they were
consequently never tempted to call grass purple, to avoid
the imputation of plagiarism, some former writer having
called it green.  There were no critics to show up their
failings and shortcomings, or to parade their good thingsperhaps a line and a half in length-in italics, as the manner
of some is.  It may fairly be doubted whether the present
time is favourable to the production of poetry of a high class;
not, as is commonly supposed, that there is anything necessarily unpoetical in the artificial state of society, in the
eternal struggle and roar of labour, in the shifting of the
points of interest from green fields and meadows, and the
sweet goings on of pastoral life, to the joys, crimes, and
tragedies of men congregated in thousands beneath the smoke
of mighty towns, but mainly from the greatness of existing
literature, the prevalence of criticism, and its immediate
application to literary productions.  In 1824 we find Goethe
expressing himself in the following terms to Eckermann:"And how could one get courage only to put pen to paper, if
one were conscious in an earnest appreciating spirit, that
such unfathomable and unattainable excellencies (as Shakspeare's writings) were already in existence!..
It fared better with me fifty years ago in my own dear
Germany.    I could soon come to an end with all that then
existed; it could not long awe me or occupy my attention.
I soon left behind me German literature and the study of it,
and turned my thoughts to life and to production.  So on
and on I went in my own natural development, and on and
on I fashioned the productions of epoch after epoch.  And at
every step of life and development my standard of excellence
was not much higher than what at such step I was able to
'attain.  But had I been born an Englishman, and had all
those numerous masterpieces been brought before me, in all



212


212                 Scottish Ballads.


their power at my ' first dawn of youthful consciousness, they
would have overpowered me, and I should not have known
what to do. I could not have gone on with such fresh lightheartedness, but should have had to bethink myself and look
about for a long, time to find some new outlet."  It is this
seeking a "1new outlet for one's self," which is the cause of
nearly all the vices of contemporary literature-of poetry
especially.  On it may be cbarged the strain and glitter, the
forced and perverse. originality; and the extraordinary innovations in rhythm and measure of which so much is heard, both
in the way of applause and condemnation.      The primal
emotions of humanity have been so fully sung in England
during the last two hundred years, that a poet of the present
period, unless he is swept away by the torrent of feeling, oik is
bold enough-which he is perfectly justified in being-to look
upon every situation of life, whether expressed before or not,
as merely poetic material, and to use it for his own purposes,
colour it by his o-wn mind, shape it by his own emotion,-is
tempted, when he remembers in a former writer some consummate expression of an idea, indispensable to the sequence
and stream of emotion, to diverge from the direct path, and
to attest his originality by becoming unintelligible or
unnatural.  It is required of every builder that he should
erect a house new and well-proportioned; it is not required
that he should, with his own hands, have baked every brick
employed in the edifice.  The existing system of criticism,
and the greatness and fulness of literature, are in many respects
injurious to poetical writers.  An author's first book is generally written con amore and for himself; critic and reader are
forgotten in the heat and delight of the task; but after he has
run the gauntlet of dailies, weeklies, monthlies, and quarterlies,
he becomes more conscious and less single-hearted.    He
writes with one eye, to his subject, and the other to what
the reviewers wifl say of him. H-e is more careful of the
expression than of the thought.   He desires to dazzle and
astonish.  He is no longer an inspired singer uttering words
of fire; he is a lapidary coldly polishing a gem. The condition of the modern author resembles that of the flying-fish;
if it seeks the air to escape its water foes, pounce come the
gulls upon it. If he writes quietly he is common-place,



Simplicity of the Ballads.


213


if strikingly, he is a sky-rocket with a noisy rush to heaven,
a brilliant burst and shower of falling splendours, and then
utter darkness and oblivion.  He must either be crazy or
dull.  Under which king, Bezonian, speak or die!   Most
men prefer the former. The ballad-writers living under
different circumstances were of course untouched by these
peculiar temptations, nor had they to face the spectres and
questions which centuries of life and speculation have since
started. They had simpler hearts and lived in simpler times.
They sang to rude and uncultured men; their task was to
touch their spirits and evoke their sympathies, and from their
peculiar environments and training, they exhibit an artlessness and simplicity which becomes at times the very perfection of style, and which-whatever other 'merits modern
singers may possess-cannot be expected to appear in anything like the same degree in an artificial and fastidious
age.  In pathos they are supreme.  Nothing can be placed
beside them.  It is so direct and simple, and goes so to
the heart. There is an element of helplessness in it which
is overpowering. It is piteous as the complaint of a little
child.
Sir Philip Sidney said long ago that the ballad of ChevyChase, although " sung but by some blinde crowder," stirred
his blood "more than a trumpet."      The publication of
Bishop Percy's " Reliques," at the close of the last century,
was the salvation of English poetry. The world was weary
of the museums of Darwin and Hayley, with their wax figures
arrayed in dresses stiff with embroidery and gold;-pretty
enough to look on as curiosities in their gorgeous apparel, but
with never a flash in their glassy eyes, never a throb beneath
their costly clothes. In the " Reliques" had returned tenderness, and nature, and passion.  The voices of men and
women were again heard in gladness and grief, the globed
dews were lying thick on the purple moors, the wind was
blowing strong and fresh, curling the faces of the streams,
and bringing odours from the forests.  The rivers of poetry
had been frozen up, but the spring had come and loosened
their icy chains, and they flowed forth again exulting and
abounding.
Coleridge has praised the " grand old ballad of Sir Patrick



214


Scottish Ballads.


Spens."   Being familiar to most readers, it need not now be
quoted at length. Passing, however, such graphic touches of
description asI saw the new moon late yestreen,
Wi' the auld moon in her arm;
orHe hadna sailed a league, a league,
A league, but barely three;
When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,
And gurly grew the sea,
attention may be drawn to its magnificent close0 lang, lang may the ladyes sit
Wi' their fans into their hand;
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens,
Come sailing to the strand.
And lang, lang may the maidens sit
Wi' their gowd kames in their hair;
A waiting for their ain dear loves,
For them they'l see nae mair.
0 forty miles off Aberdour,
'Tis fifty fathom deep;
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.
Whoever he was, the nameless and forgotten author of
this old song was a poet, and a great one too.
The ballad of Fair Helen is well known, and the story is
simple. Helen, a lady of great beauty, had two lovers, one of
whom was preferred, but their passion being displeasing to her
family, they were obliged to meet in secret.   During one of
these interviews the discarded suitor appeared on the opposite
bank of the stream, and in a fit of jealous rage, levelled his
carabine at his rival.   Helen sprang before her lover to
shield him and received the bullet. The following song is
supposed to be sung by the bereaved man over her grave:I wish I were where Helen lies,
Night and day on me she cries;
0 that I were where Helen lies,
On fair Kirkconnell Lee!



Helen of Kirkconneit.


215


Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
And died to succour me 4
0 think na ye my heart was sair
When my love dropt doun and spak nae mair!
Then did she swoon wi' meikle care
On fair Kirkconnell Lee.
As I went doun the water side,
None but my foe to be my guide,
None but my foe to be my guide
On fair Kirkconnell Lee:
I lighted doun my sword to draw,
I hacked him in pieces sma',
I hacked him in pieces sma',
For her sake that died for me.
I wish my grave were growing green,
A winding sheet drawn ower my een,
And I in Helen's arms lying
On fair Kirkconnell Lee.
The reader will note the curiously intermingled ferocity
and pathos of these verses; the lament with which they
open; the grim    satisfaction with which he recounts his
progress down the river, his foe being his "guide," repeated.
as if that gave an additional zest and flavour to his revenge;
the terrible re-duplication,
I hacked him in pieces sma',
I hacked him in pieces sma';
in which he lingers over, and is loath to leave the savage
sweetness of the memory, killing him   again and again in
imagination.  That done, he is weak as tears,-how desolate
and hopeless is the music,
I wish my grave were growing green,
A winding sheet drawn ower my een.
His vengeance is sated. The fiery thirst which kept him
alive, and all too eager for sleep, is abundantly slaked.
There is nothing now to live for on earth. Blind him, there



2i6


Scottish Ballads.


fore, with a winding-sheet, shut out the world from him with
its peaceful folds, and lay him side by side with Helen in the
grave.
A dreadful scene is described in the ballad entitled,
"Edom o' Gordon." This marauder clatters up to the house
of Rodes with a band of ruffians at his heels, and in the
absence of the lord, demands that the lady should deliver up
to him the keys of the castle. She refuses, and the freebooter
orders the house to be burned. The poor mother is standing
at one of the windows with her children, girt with climbing and quivering fires, and rolled in volumes of choking
smoke, and reproaches one of her servants whom she discovers
busy among the yelling fiends outside.
Wae worth, wae worth ye, Jock my man,
I paid ye weel your fee;
Why pu' ye out the ground-wa stane
Lets in the reek to me?
And ein wae worth ye, Jock, my man,
I paid ye weel your hire;
Why pu' ye out the ground-wa stane
To me lets in the fire?
Ye paid me weel, my hire lady,
Ye paid me weel my fee,
But now I'm Edom o' Gordon's man
Maun either do or dee.
0 then bespaik her little son,
Sate on the nurse's knee:
Says, "Mither dear, gi' ower this house
For the reek it smithers me."
" I wad gie a' my gowd, my child,
Sae wald I a' my fee,
For ane blast o' the western wind
To blaw the reek from thee."
0, than bespaik her dochter dear,
She was baith jimp and sma',
", row me in a pair o' sheets
And tow me ower the wa'."



Their Pathos.                  7-17
They rowed her in a pair o' sheets,
They tow'd her ower the wa';
But on the point o' Gordon's spear
She got a deadly fa'.
0 bonnie bonnie was her mouth,
And cherry were her cheeks;
And clear clear was her yellow hair,
From which the red bluid dreeps.
Then wi' his spear he turned her ower,
0 gin her face was wan!
He said, 1"Ye are the first that eir
I wished alive again."
He turned her ower and ower again,
0 gin her skin was white!
"I might hae spared that bonnie face
To hae been some man's delight.
"Busk and boun my merry men a',
For ill dooms I do guess;
I canna luik on that bonnie face
As it lies on the grass."
The writer of "1Edom o' Gordon" had no theories of art.
He uttered only what he saw and felt; but what words could
add to that picture of the burning tower, the unutterable sigh
of the mother for "1ane blast o' the western wind," and the
mute reproach of the face on the grass, more terrible to the
marauder than the gleam of hostile spears.
There is an expression of misery in these Ballads which
appears frequently in Scottish song, and is in some degree
peculiar to the compositions of the nation. It is a ghost which
rises out of the ashes of passion-  the despair of that love,caused by stroke of death or heartlessness of man,-which knew
neither pride of birth, nor riches, nor shame, nor death, which
was conscious only of itself, blind to everything save its own
rapture and its, own joy; a mental state, not grief, not
pain, but rather a dull stupor of misery, which would welcome
sharp pain itself as a relief fr-om its own bewilderment,
which turns passionately to death, and hugs oblivion like a
lver.  The heart has crowded all on one throw of the dice:



Scottish Ballads.


that lost, the forgetfulness of the grave, and a quiet coverlet
of waving grass is all that even Hope desires.
In 1529, James V. made an expedition to the borders, and
executed many of the freebooters.   One of those who suffered
was Cockburn of Henderland.     He was hanged by command
of the king over the gateway of his own tower. The following verses seem to have been composed by his wife:He slew my knight to me sae dear,
He slew my knight and poin'd his gear:
My servants all for life did flee,
And left me in extremitie.
I sewed his sheet, making my mane:
I watched the corpse myself alane;
I watched his body night and day,
No living creature came that way.
I took his body on my back,
And whiles I gaed and whiles I sat;
I digg'd a grave and laid him in,
And happed' him with the sod so green.
But think na ye my heart was sair,
When I laid the moul' on his yellow hair;
0 think na ye my heart was wae,
When I turned about away to gae.
Does the reader remember anything half so touching as that
woman's lonely vigil by the dead, in a solitude where no creature
came, or her progress to some secret place, carrying the body
of her lord, sitting down weary with the burden, and then
up and struggling on again?      There is in the verses no
tumult, no complaint, no wild wringing of sorrowful hands,
no frenzied appeal to the pitiless heaven that saw the deed
1 Can the English reader catch the strange tenderness and pathos of
the word happed? It is one of the dearest to a Scottish ear, recalling
infancy and the thousand instances of the love of a mother's heart, and
the unwearied care of amother's hand. The red-breast happed the dead
bodies of the Babes in the Wood with leaves. Happed is the nursery word
in Scotland, expressing the care with which the bed-clothes are laid upon
the little forms, and carefully tucked in about the round sleeping cheeks.
What an expression it gives in the verses quoted above to the burden and
agony of fondness, allwasted and lavished on unheeding clay!



Pathos; Waly, Waly.


219


and made no sign. A broken heart indulges in neither trope
nor metaphor; the language is simple as a child's, the circumstances are related without any passion or excitement.
All lesser feelings are lost and swallowed up in utter desolation and woe.
There is an old song, published by Dr. Percy in his
Reliques, which illustrates the hopeless pathos to which
allusion has been made.   The circumstances of the tragedy
are unknown. All that has come down to us is the following
strain of mournful music:
0 waly waly up the bank,
And waly waly down the brae,
And waly waly yon burn side,
Where I and my love wer wont to gae.
I leant my back unto an aik,
I tlhought it was a trusty tree,
But first it bowed and syne it brak,
Sae my true love did lechtly me.
0 waly waly gin love be bonny
A little time while it is new;
But when it's auld it waxeth cauld,
And fades away like morning dew.
0 wherefore should I busk my head?
Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
For my true love has me forsook,
And says he'll never lo'e me mair.
Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed,
The sheets shall ne'er be fyled by me;
Saint Anton's well sall be my drink,
Since my true love has forsaken me.
Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
0 gentle death! when wilt thou cum,
For of my life I am wearie.
'Tis not the frost that freezes fell,
Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie:
'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,
But my love's heart grown cauld to me.
Whan we came in by Glasgowe town,
We were a comely sight to see,
My love was cled in black velvet,
And I mysell in cramasie.



220


Scottish Ballads.


But had I wist before I kist,
That love had been sae ill to win,
I had lockt my heart in a case o' gowd
And pinned it with a siller pin.
And oh I if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurse's knee,
And I mysell were dead and gane,
For a maid again Ise never be.
Burns in one of his letters quotes the following stanzas from
an old ballad he had picked up among the country people.
It breathes the same hopeless misery as those already quoted,
and pines like them for the rest of the grave:0 that my father had ne'er on me smiled!
0 that my mother had ne'er to me sung!
O that my cradle had never been rocked!
But that I had died when I was young.
0 that the grave it were my bed I
My blankets were my winding sheet!
The clocks and the worms my bed fellows a',
And, 0, sae sound as I should sleep.
"What a sigh was there! " Burns adds; " I do not remember,
in all my reading, to have met with anything more truly the
language of misery than the exclamation in the last line.
Misery is like love; to speak its language truly the author
must have felt it."
The Ballads relating to sprites, fairies, and other supernatural creatures, are not many in number, but are mostly
of great poetic beauty.  From these compositions we gain
considerable information regarding the spiritual agents in
which the mounted robber of the marches believed, and at
the mention of whose name, or at his approach to the district
in which they were supposed to reside, he piously crossed
himself, and murmured a prayer to Mary Mother.  Perhaps,
owing to the desolate aspect of the scenery, and the sterner
character of the people, the superstitions of Scotland are of
a more terrific nature than those of the sister kingdom. The
Scotch have no Puck or Robin Goodfellow. The taciturn
Brownie who sets the house to rights, who threshes as
much corn in a single night as six husbandmen could accom



Fairy Mythology.                221
puish in' a summer day, and forsakes the family when he is
insulted by any offer of gift or reward, is the most kindly disposed to human beings. The greater proportion, however,
of the creatures of popular superstition are of an uncanny and
-vindictive disposition. There is the restless, Will o' the Wisp,
who betrays the traveller into the treacherous bog and deep
morass; the Water Kelpie, who haunts at midnight the
fords of swollen streams, and raises shrieks of eldritch laughter, when horse and man are swept away by the current.
And there are the. Fairies, whose mossy rinjgs are still to be
seen on the hill side, and when the peasant is overtaken on
the lonely moor by these phantom riders in chase of a phantom
stag, although he sees nothing, a sound of horns and
dogs sweeps past him onl the wind; and on Hallow-mass
eve, when they ride forth in courtly and measured procession,
dim shapes are visible in the moonbeam, and he hears the
trampling of innumerable tiny hoofs, and the music of their
bridle bells. The Fairies are a kidnapping people, and have
acquired great dexterity in their art.  They carry off young
children, and leave a peevish and misshapen elf in its place; and
persons of maturer age, if they happen to sleep within the
rings after sunset, are pretty certain to awake in Fairyland.
Many a child who wandered out to gather berries in the
wood, and who was sought in the evening with tears and a
broken heart, and so the next day and the next, is now a
happy page to the Fairy Queen. Many a man who never
returned from his distant journey, and for whose soul mass
has been sung and prayers offered, and whose -wife, who
-thought she never could have forgotten him, sleeps in the
bosom of another husband, is at this moment stretched in
one. of the sweet-smelling valleys, and basking in the everlasting sunshine of that Land of Dream, wondering, perhaps,
what his old companions are about on the earth, and if they
ever think of him now.   Seek not to return, 0 lost one!
However unpleasant to believe, the world wags just as comfortably as when you were one of its denizens.  The chair
you sat -upon is filled.  The heart that loved you once, has
changed its allegiance and loves another quite as fondly and
devotedly.  The guests have sat down, every seat is occupied;
there is no room for you at the feast.  When one of these



222


Scottish Ballads.


lost ones wishes to return to earth he informs some friend by
dream that he has been carried away by the " good people,"
and points out the method in which his release can be accomplished.  The friend thus commissioned takes his station on
Hallow-mass eve on the highway along which the Fairies are
to pass.  Soon the cavalcade is heard approaching.    He
stands forward and seizes a rider by the mantle, and claims
him by name. After some altercation and fierce struggles, the
procession sweeps on with murmurs of discontent; a hurried
trample of innumerable hoofs and clash of angry bells, and
two human beings are standing on the midnight road.    In
the ballad of " Young Tamlane," we are told how a lady
rescued her lover in this manner from the Fairies, and we are
also admitted behind the scenes and learn wzhy the " good
people" have a penchant for the children of human parents.
Elf-land, it seems, like every other land, has its secret
history and its own annoyances.  It appears, then, that the
land of Fairy must pay tribute to Hell once every seven
years, that tribute being its fattest inhabitant.  The Fairies
naturally prefer handing over to the tender mercies of the
Fiend one of the human mortals whom they have ensnared
rather than one of their own race.     Young Tamlane is
unhappily inclined to obesity; in fact he is the Jack Falstaff
of Fairy Land; and as the seven years are nearly expired,
and the time draws near when Hell must receive its due, his
sleek and well-to-do condition throws him into a state of
considerable trepidation.  He therefore appears to his ladylove and tells her that he enjoys exceedingly the pleasure of
Elf-land; indeed, he would not think of changing his
residence but for the weighty considerations already mentioned,
which he describes with considerable nawvete and pathos:
Then I would never tire, Janet,
In Elfish land to dwell,
But aye, at every seven years,
The pay the teind to hell;
And I am sae fat and fair of flesh,
I fear 'twill be mysell.
He adds that that evening is Halloween, the evening when the
Fairies would ride abroad, and that if she would save him,



The Young Tamlane.                 223
she must act to-night or never.  She asks how   she should
recognize him among the passing troops of ghostly knights
and unearthly cavaliers.  He replies:The first company that passes by,
Say na, and let them gae;
The next company that passes by,
Sae na, and do right sae;
The third company that passes by,
Then I'll be ane o' thae.
First let pass the black, Janet,
And syne let pass the brown;
But grip ye to the milk-white steed,
And pu' the rider down.
For I ride on the milk-white steed,
And aye nearest the toun;
Because I was a christened knight,
They gave me that renown.
My right hand will be gloved, Janet,
My left hand will be bare;
And these the tokens I gie thee,
Nae doubt I will be there.
They'll turn me in your arms, Janet,
An adder and a snake;
But haud me fast, let me not pass,
Gin ye wad buy me maik.
They'll turn me in your arms, Janet,
An adder and an ask;
They'll turn me in your arms, Janet,
A bale that burns fast.
They'll turn me in your arms, Janet,
A red-hot gad o' airn;
But haud me fast, let me not pass,
For I'll do you no harm.
They'll shape me in your arms, Janet,
A tod, but, and an eel;
But haud me fast, nor let me gang,
As you do love me weel.



224


Scottish Ballads.


They'll shape me in your arms, Janet,
A dove, but, and a swan,
And last they'll shape me in your arms
A mother-naked man:
Cast your green mantle over me,
I'll be myself again.
Janet takes her station at the Miles Cross, pulled down
the rider on the milk-white steed, and held her lover fast
through all his changing shapes. After her green mantle
was thrown over him, the wrathful voice of the Fairy Queen
was heardUp then spake the Queen of Fairies,
Out o' a bush o' rye,
" She's taen awa the bonniest knight
In a' my companie.
" But had I kenned Tamlane," she says,
" I lady had borrowed theeI wad taen out thy twa grey een,
Put in twa een o' tree.
"Had I but kenned Tamlane," she says,
" Before ye cam frae hameI wad taen out your heart o' flesh
Put in a heart o' stane.
"Had I but had the wit yestreen,
That I hae coft the dayI paid my kane seven times to Hell,
Ere you'd been won away."
But the most famous earthly inhabitant of Fairy-land was
Thomas Learmont of Erceldoune, better known by his traditionary name of Thomas the Rhymer, poet, prophet, and the
beloved of the Queen of Elf-land, who alone of mortal men
dared to kiss her lips, and whose grey tower nods over the
Leader, still regarded with superstitious awe by the natives
of that district. This apparition True Thomas saw as he lay
stretched on the Huntly Bank on a summer's day:
True Thomas lay on the Huntlie Bank;
A ferlie he spied wi' his ee:
And there he saw a ladye bright,
Come riding doun by the Eildon tree.



Thomas the Rhymer.


225


Her shirt was o' the grass green silk,
Her mantle o' the velvet fyne:
At ilka tett of her horse's mane,
Hung fifty siller bells and nine.
True Thomas he pulled aff his cap,
And louted low doun to his knee,
"All hail thou mighty Queen of Heaven!
For thy peer on earth I never did see."
" 0 no, 0 no, Thomas," she said,
" That name does not belong to me;
I am but the Queen of fair Elf-land,
That am hither come to visit thee.
"iHarp and carp, Thomas," she said,
" Harp and carp along wi' me;
And if ye dare to kiss my lips,
Sure of your bodie I will be."
" Betide me weal, betide me woe,
That weird shall never daunton me."
Syne he has kissed her rosy lips,
All underneath the Eildon tree.
From that day for seven years Thomas was seen no more
among men.     After that period he returned and scattered
abroad prophecies of days of dool and woe to Scotland, when
the fields should be harvestless, and the hare bring forth her
young on the hearth-stone of the castle; of storms raging
from sea to sea, of disastrous battle-fields, of the strange
overflow of rivers, and the final union of the crowns. When
he left Elf-land, he was bound to return at the pleasure of
its Queen. One day Thomas was feasting in his own tower,
when a messenger burst into the apartment, and told that a
doe and fawn of wonderful beauty were pacing, without fear,
and silently as a dream, the streets of the little village.
Thomas knew the signal, and immediately arose and followed
the creatures into the forest, and was never again seen on
earth.  Had the Queen pined for her favourite?     To what
glory was he marshalled?    To what weird to dree?     His
countrymen for centuries believed that he was still alive in
Fairy-land, and looked for his return.
Q



226


Scottish Ballads.


The district of country which produced the Border
Ballads-stretching from the cataract of the Grey Mare's Tail,
along the green valley of the Yarrow, onward to where the
castle-keep of Norham blackens against the sinking sun,
embracing amongst other streams, the Tweed, and the waters
of the Teviot and the Ettrick-is, although somewhat limited
in extent, by far the most interesting in Scotland.  It is a
region for the most part pastoral, with round swelling hills of
no great altitude, and valleys through which waters run
whose names are familiar to every Scottish ear. The traveller
passes in a day's journey over fifty battle-fields, some famous,
some forgotten, descrying every few miles as he goes, on the
hill-side or up the withdrawing glen, the grey peel of a border
laird, roofless and open to the sky, the walls crowned with
long withered grasses, which sigh in the passing wind, and
half a dozen sheep feeding around its base, with bits of
straggling brambles sticking in their wool; or perhaps, as the
day draws to a close, the mightier ruin of the castle of some
feudal lord looms upon him through the fast fading light.
The whole district is full of associations.  Every stream has
its tradition, every glen is peopled by legends, every ruin is
consecrated by a story of love or revenge. Genius has thrown
an additional charm over the country. As you pace along
the crystal mirror of St. Mary's Loch, or visit the farm-house
of Altrive, you remember Hogg. The shade of Wordsworth
wanders along the silver course of the Yarrow; and when
the swollen Tweed raves as it sweeps, red and broad, round
the ruins of Dryburgh, you think of him who rests there-the
magician asleep in the lap of legends old, the sorcerer buried
in the heart of the land he has made enchanted.     This
region, so peaceful now, quietly growing its harvests and
fattening its flocks, was in the olden time one great theatre
of strife and bloodshed.  It was the battle-field of the Percy
and the Douglas; and, to quote the old chronicleThere was never a time on the March partes,
Sen the Douglas and the Percy met,
But yt was marvell and the redde blude roune not
As the rane does in the stret.


The Kers, Scotts, Armstrongs, and other border clans, dwelt



Border Feuds.


227


on the waters of the Ettrick, the Whitadder, and the
Teviot, and preyed on England, Scotland, and on one
another  with  great  impartiality.  Though   the  cloud
of English war first burst on the Border, and midnight was
reddened by flames from peel and farm-steading, and rendered
hideous by the shouts of the plunderers and the lowing of
cattle driven off with a tumult and rapidity utterly repugnant
to their meditative and decoious mode of life;-though the
Jameses, in moments of unusual vigour, suddenly appeared on
the marches with an army, and left dozens of the robbers
wavering in the wind over the gateways of their own towers,
still Ishmael was untamed; in a week Cumberland was
swept, or the flocks of the Lothian farmer driven off by the
light of his burning house.  Crushed and broken, the spirit
of the borderer was never subdued; his hand was against
every man, and every man's hand against him.   'Forgive
your enemies' was never a part of his creed, and revenge,
prompt and terrible, was elevated unto a chief place among
the virtues.  He never forgot an injury, and although the
insult was given in hot youth, and years had elapsed, the
avenger was silently upon the track, and in grey hairs blood
was exacted for blood, and groan for groan.  On one occasion, Sir Robert Ker, the Warden of the Scottish March, was
murdered by three Englishmen, two of whom made their
escape.  After some time they began to appear in public,
and one of them fixed his residence at a considerable distance
from the Scottish border.  On this becoming known, two
servants of the murdered man's son passed into England
during the night, slew him in his own house, and brought
the head to their master in Edinburgh, who exposed it on a
pole in one of the public streets, and left it there to wither
in the sun like a gourd.  In the reign of James V., Albany,
then regent of the kingdom, thirsting for an opportunity to
gratify his private revenge, invited Lord Home to a solemn
council to be held on state affairs at Edinburgh.  When the
hapless chieftain arrived, he was seized, condemned on a
charge of treason, and executed along with his brother.
Before sailing for France, Albany appointed Sir Anthony
Darcy, a French knight of great ability, to be Warden of the
East March in his absence.  This Frenchman was an object



Sturt and Strife: Savage Humour.


z 23I


But a toom byre and a wide,
And the twelve nogs on ilka side.
Fy lads I shout a' a' a' a' a'
My gear's a' gane.
Weel may ye ken
Last night I was right scarce o' men;
But Toppet Hob o' the Mains had guestened in my house by
chance.
I set him to wear the fore-door wi' a spear, while I kept the
back-door wi' a lance;
But they hae run him thro' the thick o' the thie, and broke his
knee-pan,
And the mergh o' his shin-bane has run down on his spurleather whang;
He's lame while he lives and where're he may gang.
Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a'
My gear's a' gane."
Battle is an every day occurrence, and wounds and dislocations are matters of course.  Tush, man, don't look so white,
tie up the ugly thing with a napkin; it is your turn to-day,
it may be mine to-morrow.    Death, too, is always walking
about on the Borders; even the little children have seen him,
and know his face.    The older troopers when they meet
him give him good day, like a common acquaintance, and
some of the more familiar stay for a moment to bandy a
grim jest or two with him.
Ane gat a twist o' the craig,
Ane gat a punch o' the wame;
Symy Haw gat lamed of a leg,
And syne ran bellowing hame.
Hoot, hoot, the auld man's slain outright I
Lay him now wi' his face doun-he's a sorrowful sight.
Janet, thou donet,
I'll lay my best bonnet,
Thou gets a new gude-man afore it be night.
A fit place, truly, to jest about a new husband; the old one
lying so still there, face downward, on the trampled grass.
In the ballad entitled " Jamie Telfer," we have a
spirited description of a foray, and the subsequent pursuit
and rescue of the prey. The Captain of Bewcastle had
carried off Jamie's cattle, and the ruined man starts up,



232


Scottish Ballads.


" leaving a greeting wife and bairnies three," and runs ten
miles afoot over the new fallen snow to summon aid.    He
alarms peel after peel, and the awaked inmates hurry on jack,
and grasp lance, and push on in hot haste to Branksome Ha',
where Buccleuch dwelt in a sort of feudal state.   " WVha
brings the fraye to me?" cried the old lord as the riders
clattered at his gates" It's I, Jamie Telfer o' the fair Dodhead,
And a harried man I think I be!
There's nought left in the fair Dodhead
But a greeting wife and bairnies three."
" Alack for wae!" quoth the gude auld lord,
" And ever my heart is wae for thee!
But fye, gar cry on Willie, my son,
To see that he come to me speedilie.
Gar warn the water braid and wide,
Gar warn it sune and hastilie;
They that winna ride for Telfer's kye,
Let them never look in the face o' me.
Warn Wat o' Harden and his sons,
Wi' them will Borthwick water ride;
Warn Gandilands and Allan-haugh,
And Gilmanscleugh and Commonside."
The Scotts they rade, the Scotts they ran,
Sae starkly and sae steadilie;
And aye the ower-word o' the thrang
Was-" Rise for Branksome readilie."
With their number augmented, they ride forward, and in a
short time come in sight of the Captain of Bewcastle and
his men driving the booty straight for England.  As was to
be expected, little time is wasted in words.
Then til't they gaed wi' heart and hand,
The blows fell thick as bickering hail;
And mony a horse ran masterless,
And mony a comely cheek was pale.



Jamie Telfer.


233


But Willie was stricken ower the head,
And thro' the knapscap the sword has gane,
And Harden grat for very rage,
When Willie on the grund lay slain.
But he's taen aff his gude steel cap,
And thrice he's waved it in the air;
The Dinlay snaw was ne'er mair white
Nor the lyart locks of Harden's hair.
" Revenge! revenge! " auld Wat gan cry:
" Fye, lads, lay on them cruellie,
We'll ne'er see Teviotside again,
Or Willie's death revenged shall be."
0 many a horse ran masterless,
The splintered lances flew on hie;
But or they war to the Kershope ford,
The Scotts had gotten the victory.
Having now secured Jamie's cattle, the idea suggests itself
to one of the party that they might improve the occasion by
robbing the Captain's house.
There was a wild gallant among us a',
His name was Watty wi' the Wudspurs,
Cried-" On for his house in Stanegirthside,
If ony man will ride with us!"
When they cam to the Stanegirthside,
They dang wi' trees and burst the door,
They loosed out a' the Captain's kye,
And set them forth our lads before.
There was an auld wyfe ayont the fire,
A wee bit o' the Captain's kin,
"Whae dar loose out the Captain's kye,
Or answer to him and his men."
" It's I, Watty Wudspurs, loose the kye,
I winna layne my name frae thee!
And I will loose out the Captain's kye
In scorn of a' his men and he."



z34


Scottish Ballads.


When they cam to the fair Dodhead,
They were a wellcum sight to see!
For instead of his ain ten milk kye,
Jamie Telfer has gotten thirty and three.
And he has paid the rescue shot,
Baith wi' goud and white monie;
And at the burial o' Willie Scott
I wat was mony a weeping ee.
But "Kinmont Willie" is the finest of all these Ballads;
remarkable for the daring deed it celebrates, and the light
and laughing scorn of danger which it exhibits. The mosstrooper encounters peril with as gay a heart as he opens a
dance with a_ rustic beauty at a Border fair. Lord Scroope
and Sheriff Salkelde have succeeded in capturing Kinmont
Willie, a robber whose exploits were well known on the
marches.
They band his legs beneath the steed,
They tied his hands behind his back;
They guarded him five-some on each side,
And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack.
They led him thro' the Liddel-rack,
And also thro' the Carlisle sands;
They brought him to Carlisle castel,
To be at my Lord Scroope's commands.
" My hands are tied, but my tongue is free,
And whae will dare this deed avow?
Or answer by the Border law?
Or answer to the bauld Buccleuch?"
" Now haud thy tongue, thou rank riever!
There's never a Scot shall set thee free;
Before ye cross my castle yate,
I trow ye shall take farewell o' me."
" Fear ye na that, my lord," quo' Willie;
"1 By the faith o' my body, Lord Scroope," he said,
" I never yet lodged in a hostelrie
But I paid my lawing before I gaed."
So while Willie lies in the central dungeon under a load



Kinmont Willie.


235


of clanking chains thinking on his sins, and the cheerless
hours creep on that bring his death on Haribee, intelligence
of the capture reaches Buccleuch in Branksome Hall.   How
the blood of the Border chieftain boils upHe has ta'en the table wi' his hand,
He garr'd the red wine spring on hie;
"Now Christ's curse on my head," he said,
"1 But avenged of Lord Scroope I'll be.
" 0 is my basnet a widow's curtch?
Or my lance a wand o' the willow tree?
Or my arm a ladye's lilye hand,
That an English lord should lightly me?"
And have they ta'en him, Kinmont Willie,
Against the truce of Border tide?
And forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch
Is Keeper here on the Scottish side?
And have they taen him, Kinmont Willie,
Withouten either dread or fear?
And forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch
Can back a steed and shake a spear?
Kinmont is to be delivered, and the rescuing party is
described. Note the characteristic touch of Border humour
at the close.  It is quite an exquisite jest to run a nTan
through the body, and the want of appreciation of the
joke on the part of the skewered makes it all the more
delightful.
He has called him forty marchmen bauld,
Were kinsmen to the bauld Buccleuch;
With spur on heel, and splent on spauld,
And gleuves of green and feathers blue.
There were five and five before them a',
Wi' hunting-horns and bugles bright;
And five and five came wi' Buccleuch,
Like warden's men arrayed for fight.
And five and five, like a mason gang,
That carried the ladders lang and hie;
And five and five, like broken men,
And so they reached the Woodhouselee.



236


Scottish Ballads.


And as we crossed the Bateable land,
When to the English side we held,
The first o' men that we met wi',
Whae sould it be but the fause Sakelde?
"Where be ye gaun, ye hunters keen?"
Quo' fause Sakelde; " come tell to me?"
We go to hunt an English stag
Has trespassed on the Scots countrie."
"Where be ye gaun, ye marshal men?"
Quo' fause Sakelde; " come tell me true?"
"We go to catch a rank reiver
Has broken faith wi' the bauld Buccleuch."
"Where are ye gaun, ye mason lads?"
Quo' fause Sakelde; " come tell to me?"
"We gang to harry a corbie's nest
That wons not far frae Woodhouselee."
" Where be ye gaun, ye broken men?"
Quo' fause Sakeldel; " come tell to me?"
Now Dickie of Dryhope led that band,
And the nevir a word of lear had he.
" Why trespass ye on the English side?
Row-footed outlaws, stand!" quo' he.
The nevir a word had Dickie to say,
Sae he thrust the lance thro' his fause bodie.
Here is the rescue and conclusion:Wi' coulters and wi' forehammers,
We garred the bars bang merrilie,
Until we came to the inner prison,
Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie.
And when we cam to the inner prison,
Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie"0 sleep ye, wake ye, Kinmont Willie,
Upon the day that thou's to die?"
"0 I sleep saft, and I wake aft,
Its lang since sleeping was fleyed frae me I
Gie my service back to my wife and bairns,
And a' gude fellows that speir for me."



Kinmont Willie.


237


Then Red Rowan has hente him up,
The starkest man in Teviotdale" Abide, abide, now, Red Rowan,
Till of my Lord Scroope I take farewell.
" Farewell, farewell, my gude Lord Scroope,
My gude Lord Scroope, farewell," he cried;
"I'll pay you for my lodging maill,
When first we meet on the Border side."
Then shoulder high, with shout and cry,
We bore him down the ladder lang;
At every stride Red Rowan made,
I wot the Kinmont's aims played clang!
"0 mony a time," quo' Kinmont Willie,
" I have ridden a horse baith wild and wood,
But a rougher beast than Red Rowan,
I ween my legs have ne'er bestrode."
" And mony a time," quo' Kinmont Willie,
" I've pricked a horse out once the furs;
But since the day I backed a steed,
I never wore sic cumbrous spurs."
We scarce had won the Staneshaw-bank,
When a' the Carlisle bells were rung,
And a thousand men on horse and foot
Cam wi' the keen Lord Scroope along.
Buccleuch has turn'd to Eden Water,
Even where it flowed frae bank to brim;
And he has plunged in wi' a' his band,
And safely swam them through the stream.
He turned him to the other side,
And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he" If ye like na my visit in merry England,
In fair Scotland come visit me."
All sore astonished stood Lord Scroope,
He stood as still as rock of stane;
He scarcely dared to trew his eyes,
When thro' the water they had gane.



238


Scottish Ballads.


"He's either himsell a devil frae hell,
Or else his mother a witch maun be;
I wadna hae ridden that wan water
For a' the gowd in Christentie."
So all those fierce spirits have stormed themselves out, and
we learn the stories of their strifes and hatreds, their generosities and revenges, their burnings and plunderings, from
the strains of a few wandering and forgotten minstrels.
They were brave men, who did what work they had to do
with promptitude and vigour, dandled children proudly
enough on their knees, and when it came to that at last,
they clashed down in harness, and death and pain got as few
groans out of them as out of most.   Times are changed
now, however. Their sons have the same bold hearts and
strong arms, but they are turned to other uses, and worn out
in other tasks. The stream which of yore rushed wastefully
from fount to sea, is banked and bridged, it turns the wheels
of innumerable mills, carries- on its bosom barge and stately
ship, sweeps through mighty towns where thousands live
and die beneath an ever-brooding canopy of smoke, and
melts at last into peaceful ocean-rest a labourer grimed and
worn; but its cradle is still, as of old, on the mountain top
among the sacred splendours of the dawn, its companions the
flying sunbeams and the troops of stars, its nurses the dews
of heaven and the weeping clouds.
There are modern writers who conceive that man is
only poetical when he clanks about in mail and swears by
St. Bridget; when he inhabits an immense castle turreted
and moated, with a background of savage pines, amongst
which the winds make a great roaring of winter nights;
who spends his forenoons amongst his dogs, or amuses himself with flying his falcon at the blue-legged heron that rises
screaming from the weedy pool; and they are careful to
inform the world that the Ballad is the most natural form of
poetry, and ought to be the model of all future compositions.
The wisdom of this seems very questionable.  The most
profitless work on this planet is the simulation of ancient
ballads; to hold water in a sieve is the merest joke to it.
A man may as well try to recal Yesterday, or to manufacture



Imitation often unprofitable.


239


tradition or antiquity, with the moss of ages on them. It
has been attempted by men of the highest genius, but in no
case with encouraging success. If ever a man was qualified
for the task, it was Sir Walter Scott. No one lived more
in the past than he. He was more familiar with the men of
the middle ages than with the men who brushed past him in
Princes Street; and yet, his efforts in the ballad formbeautiful and spirited poems they all are-are devoid of the
homely garrulousness, the simple-heartedness, the carelessness
and unconsciousness which give such a charm to the productions of the old minstrels.  There is no modern attempt
which could by any chance or possibility be mistaken for an
original.  You read the date upon it as legibly as upon
the letter you received yesterday.      However dexterous
the workman, he is discovered-a word blabs, the turn
of a phrase betrays him.    Simplicity, which is seen at a
glance to be affected, carelessness elaborately laboured, and
modes of thought and expression which have no correspondence with the feelings or the language of living men, are
not ornamental to any form of composition. Why should
we go to steel-clad barons and rough-riding moss-troopers;
is there not sufficient poetry in the life which environs us
to-day?  It is of course the merest truism, that in every
age and under every disguise-beating beneath the mail of
the Crusader or the vest of the English gentleman-the same
human heart sorrows and rejoices, and that all poetry resides
in it, and not in its encasement of Yorkshire broadcloth or
Spanish steel; but it is astonishing how frequently a truism
which has passed for generations among men like current coin,
would startle them if they only took the trouble to examine
it. The more generally a thing is supposed to be believed
by mankind, the less real faith there is in it. Handle your
truism, and it explodes beneath your unsuspecting nose like
a bombshell.   Carlyle utters the merest truisms, and what
a strange sound that is;-there is again a prophet amongst
men!    Our ballad poetry is valuable,-for certain special
merits of genuineness and nature second only to the Shakespearian drama-but why it should be chosen as a model, and
sedulously imitated, is not altogether evident.  Let genius
have free range and scope; it has its own laws which it



SIR WILLIAM HAMILTON.


S COTLAND has recently lost in rapid succession three of
her greatest men, Dr. Chalmers, Professor Wilson, and
Sir William Hamilton, who during more than a quarter of
a century have been respectively her foremost representatives in Theology, Literature, and Philosophy.  Professors
together for years in the same university, they had in common
a breadth of nature, a strength and concentration of intellect,
in a word, a harmony of mental power, that stamped the seal
of a rare excellence on all they did, and carried their fame
far beyond the scene of their personal labours.  They were
indeed the three men that an intelligent stranger visiting
Edinburgh probably wished most of all to see, and they were
precisely the three whose appearance would least disappoint
his expectations.  Dr. Chalmers, perhaps, at first sight might
scarcely look equal to his fame, for in repose his countenance
was certainly heavy and his eye dull; but the moment he
opened his lips to give even the most ordinary greeting, or ask
the most common-place question, a flash of genial light revealed
the man; and if you. found out his class-r~oom at the temporary college in George Street, and spent an hour of the short
winter afternoon on these dimly lighted and densely crowded
benches, you would, in all likelihood, learn the true secret of
his power, and be amply rewarded for the trouble. At first,
indeed, the reading of the lecture would go on quietly enough,
with nothing particular to remark except a certain glow of
subdued fervour in the tone; but by and by, on coming to
some point in the manuscript which suggested further expansion, or struck him as calling for special application, the
'R



242


Sir William Hamilton.


lecturer would pause in the reading, raise his head from the
desk, and keeping his forefinger on the line to mark the place,
begin his extempore comment with, " Here, gentlemen, I
would just say"-speaking at first only in an animated conversational tone. Gradually, however, you perceived a change,
the sibilants came with greater force and frequency, the
vowels were broadened, the strong consonants strengthened
the emphatic syllables rendered more emphatic still, until at
length kindling with the subject, as new views of its importance crowded thickly upon him-especially if it had a practical bearing, and touched at all upon the future fortunes of
the church-his whole manner would undergo a rapid change;
abandoning the manuscript altogether, he would suddenly
rise from his chair, the professor's gown fluttering about him
as he rose, and reaching over the desk with outstretched arm,
flashing eye, and dilated form, burst into a strain of impassioned eloquence, of solemn warning, exhortation or entreaty,
that thrilled through the hearer as he sat, making him feel for
the moment that he was verily listening to the message of an
inspired prophet, though, from the strangeness of the accent
and manner, he might well believe, one who had been summoned to the work, like the prophets of old, from following
the sheep amidst the mountains, or driving the oxen afield,
with the herdsmen of Tekoa.
Professor Wilson was in body as in mind the very
perfection of manly health and strength, a king of men,
every inch a king. Nothing could possibly disguise him,
not even the sad-coloured garments, the square Puritanic
collar, and low broad-brimmed hat that of late years it was
his delight to wear. If you saw him on his way to college
amidst the crowd in Princes Street, or met him facing the
blast on the North Bridge, his long tawny locks floating away
from his coat collar before the wind, you would at once
recognise in the erect and lofty frame, magnificent chest, firm
elastic step, and stout oak cudgel of the Professor, the
Christopher North of the Noctes and the Recreations.  Nor
was Sir William Hamilton's appearance at all less characteristic. Though not so tall as Professor Wilson, he was above
the middle height, and the sinewy vigour of his well-compacted frame, the strength and penetration of his look, the



His AMerits slowly Recognised.


243


perfect self-reliance and finished courtesy of his manner,
would at once have impressed you anywhere; while on
the opportunity of a nearer view in his class-room, it was
impossible to see the massive head, decisive yet finely
cut features, dark, calm, piercing eye of the lecturer, and
listen to his deep, firm, truthful voice, expounding the problems
or annihilating some obnoxious theory of his science, in sentences strong and brilliant as polished steel, without feeling
that here at least was a master,-one who had learnt the
lesson given by the oracle to the wisest of men, who had
fearlessly- confronted the cruel Sphinx of self-consciousness
and read her riddle, who, holding the keys of an invisible
world, could unlock the hidden mysteries of thought; and
having found such an one you might be pardoned if, in the
enthusiasm of the moment, you were almost ready to exclaim,
with Socrates in the Phaedo, " that you would follow him as
a god."
Sir William Hamilton was less popularly known than
either of his distinguished contemporaries.  Till the last few
years, indeed, he was, in his own country at least, scarcely
known at all.  Nor is this surprising.  Too ardent and
severe a student to become actively identified with any considerable party in Church or State, he rarely appeared in public;
and the sciences of his choice were precisely those furthest
removed from  popular sympathy and appreciation.    The
strange neglect into which these sciences had fallen also
prevented for a time the recognition of his rare merit, even
where this might have been confidently expected. For the
circle of readers, never a very large one, really interested in
Mental Philosophy, at the time when Sir W. Hamilton came
forward to discuss its problems, was reduced to the narrowest
dimensions, if not practically extinct.  On the appearance of
his first contribution to the Edinburgh Review, nearly thirty
years ago, M. Cousin justly said that there were probably not
fifty persons in the country who would be able to appreciate
its value, or even to understand its meaning. This was
strictly true, for the article in question, though for clearness
and force of style a perfect model of philosophic exposition,
was universally complained of at the time as unintelligible.
To-day, the number of those who would welcome such papers



Influence of his Writings.


245


by Brandis, in Germany, as the great master of the Peripatetic
Philosophy-by Cousin, in France, as the first metaphysician
in Europe.
The publication of Reid's Works, however, at length
secured for Sir William  Hamilton at home the philosophic
reputation he had so long enjoyed abroad.  The masterly
dissertations appended to that volume at once placed Sir
William at the head of living philosophers, and gave a far
more powerful impulse to the study of Psychology than any
of his other writings. Many who had previously given up
the study of speculative science in despair, finding its course
a maze rather than a way, welcomed these dissertations, especially the first, on the Philosophy of Common Sense, as the
very instrument they needed-the novum organon of a new
and thoroughly progressive era in the history of the science.
Psychology, as a developed consciousness, was here seen to
have a basis, a method, and an end; its foundation being
laid in the facts of nature, its progress secured by observation
and analysis, its results throwing a flood of light on the whole
development alike of the individual and the race-a key for
the deeper explanation of the past, the present, and the
future. True, little more than the starting-place was fixed,
but this was established with such certainty, the surveys from
the central point of view were so wide and accurate, and the
course which all successful progress in future must take indicated in lines so firm and clear, that the student was led with
kindled enthusiasm to explore the outlying country for himself, fully assured that his labours would not be in vain.
The number of readers interested in the science who studied
Sir William's writings and adopted his views, now rapidly
increased every year, so that on the republication of his contributions to the Edinburgh Review, a second edition of the
volume,-massive alike in size and contents,-was called for
within a year after the issue of the first.  Sir William
Hamilton thus lived to reap the tardy first fruits of what he
had so long and so laboriously sown; and these-though a
mere scantling to the rich harvest of influence and renown that
will hereafter be gathered in to that honoured name-are in
themselves by no means small or unimportant results. When
summoned from his work, Sir William had effectually broken up



Personal Influence as a Teacher.       247
William's prelections, who had never even read a word of
his published writings, felt his influence and became his disciples.  But, of course, it is not simply from  the number
who attended, but mainly from the kind and degree of enthusiasm awakened in those who undertook the work of the
class, that Sir William's influence in reviving the study of
philosophy through his lectures must be estimated.    This
enthusiasm was of the highest kind, often leading to intense
and even passionate devotion to the work. Under its inspiration the men laboured not merely to make a respectable
figure in the class, or gain its honours, however enviable, not
simply even to master the system taught; but rather to seize
for themselves the very keys of knowledge, to grasp, if possible, the harmonising principles of all science, the central
truths of all philosophy.  And this spirit was certainly reflected from the chair; it was by the living example before
them that the highest intellectual energies of the students were
aroused to such free, vigorous, and prolonged activity.  Sir
William Hamilton's personal relation to his pupils through
his lectures and the general intercourse of the class, had thus
a most important share in the philosophical revival he effected;
and as it is the source of his influence at once, perhaps, most
powerful and least generally known, I propose to consider
it a little in the present paper, leaving the system taught,Sir William's philosophy in general,-to be noticed more fully
hereafter.  The main outlines of that philosophy are before
the world in his published writings, and they will vindicate
his fame wherever the English language is known, wherever
the reflective sciences are cultivated; but his living voice, his
personal influence, will be heard and felt no more, and as, in
common with numbers beside, I owe to these a debt of gratitude that can never be adequately acknowledged, much less
repaid, I am anxious to record at least my sense of their worth.
I may, however, at the outset, state such biographical particulars as can be given without special inquiry or examination,
for which, indeed, the time has hardly yet arrived.
Sir William Hamilton was born at Glasgow on the 8th
of March, in the year 1788, just six years before the death of
Reid, and sixteen before that of Kant, the thinkers who
overthrew the dominant Sensualism of the eighteenth century,



248


Sir William Hamilton.


and laid the foundation of that deeper and more catholic
philosophy which their ardent disciple was destined to consolidate and establish. His father, Dr. William Hamilton,,
who was professor of Anatomy and Botany in the university,
died at the early age of thirty-two, exceedingly respected and
beloved, and leaving behind him a great reputation. There
is, or was, a tablet in the nave of the old cathedral, bearing a
striking testimony to his early fame.  Dr. Strang, in his
recent work on the Clubs of Glasgow, speaks of him, indeed,
as more celebrated than his father Dr. Thomas Hamilton,
who occupied the same chair before him, and with Dr. Cullen
founded the medical school of that city. Dr. Thomas, however, was a noteworthy man-distinguished not only among
the men of science of his day for his sagacity and penetration,
but in social life for his spirit, vivacity, and good fellowship.
He belonged to two Glasgow clubs at least, the Anderston,
and the Hodge-podge, the latter evidently a lively enough
fraternity, and the former probably not particularly severe.
"Among the members of the Anderston club," says Dr.
Strang, 1" we may notice Dr. James Moor, the accomplished
professor of Greek; Dr. Cullen and Mr. Thomas Hamilton,
the great advancers of medical science; Professor Ross, a
very Cicero in Roman literature; Adam Smith, the worldrenowned political economist; and though last, not least, the
brothers Foulis, the Elzevirs of the Scottish press." Of Dr.
Thomas Hamilton's position as leader of the Hodge-podge
Club, holding a foremost place in its " wit-combats," a rude
but graphic picture is preserved in some doggerel verses quoted
by Dr. Strang:"A club of choice spirits each fortnight employ
An evening in laughter, good humour, and joy;
Like the national council, they often debate,
And settle the army, the navy, and state.
" In this club there is a jumble of nonsense and sense;
And the name of Hodge-podge they have taken from thence;
If in but jumbling verses this ditty I frame,
Pray be not surprised for a Hodge-podger I am.
"' If you choose to know more of this merry class,
Like the king's in Macbeth they shall one by one pass;
The man that can't bear with a good humoured rub,
I am sure is lnot worthy a place in this club.



250


Sir William Hamilton.


but is rather inclined to believe it nevertheless, on the ground
of internal evidence, fancying he traces "now and then in
Sir William's polemics the sword-arm that charged at Drumclog." The fact, however, is quite authentic, and the resemblance by no means a mere fancy. The same strength of
character, the same invincible courage, resolution, and independence are manifest in both.  Curiously enough, too, it
was through this very ancestor that Sir William formally
established his right to represent the Hamiltons of Preston.
The title had lain for some time dormant, and it was "by
his service to this militant Cameronian confessor who died
in 1703, that Sir William made good his claim to be the
twenty-fourth in lineal male succession from Sir John FitzGilbert de Hamilton of Rossavon and Fingalton, who flourished
about the year 1330, and was the second son of the progenitor of the house of Hamilton."
Of Sir William Hamilton's early life I know little, except
that when still quite young he was placed under the care of
the Rev. Dr. Summers, minister of Mid-Calder, who had for
several years the oversight of his education.  He attended
the junior classes at the University of Glasgow when only
twelve years old, and was exceedingly indignant at being
removed from the College to Dr. Dean's School at Bromley,
regarding it as quite a degradation to be turned into a mere
schoolboy again after having enjoyed the dignity of a gownsman. After remaining a year or two at Dr. Deans's, he
returned to finish his course at the University, taking a high
position in the senior classes, and devoting special attention to
the philosophical ones, in which he carried off the first-prizes.
During this time, he still spent most of his vacations at MidCalder with Dr. Summers, between whom and himself a sincere
friendship sprung up, which continued without interruption
till the death of the worthy clergyman, about fourteen years
ago.  The doctor had, indeed, early perceived the force and
originality of his pupil's mind, as well as the generous ardour
of his disposition. He was evidently charmed with his keenness of intellect, his fine sense of honour, his frank and manly
bearing, and felt towards him not only admiration but warm
regard. Referring to this period several years after in a letter
to one of the magistrates of Edinburgh, the good doctor writes:



252


Sir William Hamilton.


with many.   Sir William, on going up for his degree, took
into the schools with him not only far more than the usual
average of books in Poetry and History,-in fact every classic
author of mark, whether poet, orator, or historian; but in the
department of Science, he professed all the works extant in
Greek and Roman Philosophy. Under the latter head, indeed,
the list would probably not be very large, as it could include
little more than Lucretius, Cicero, and Seneca; but the
amount of hard reading to be gone through in preparing the
existing records of Greek Philosophy with the minute accuracy
necessary for such an examination would be such as few,
indeed, could stand. Under the head of Science, it was usual to
take in at most only two or three books of Aristotle, the more
popular of his treatises-the Rhetoric, Ethics, and Politicsbeing commonly selected, and one or two of Plato; but Sir
William  took in the whole of Aristotle, with the works
of his early commentators, and the whole of Plato, with
the Neo-Platonists Proclus and Plotinus, to say nothing of the
fragments of both earlier and later philosophic doctrines preserved by Laertius, Stobaeus, and the other collectors.  Of
course, as the examination was minute and searching in proportion to the number and abstruseness of the books professed,
Sir William in taking in so many exposed himself to the
sharpest trial; in fact openly challenged the severest scrutiny.
The suspicion of the examiners would naturally be roused at
the outset, and in the conviction that depth and accuracy
must have been sacrificed to mere extent of reading, they
would be sure to test the ambitious profession of the'daring
undergraduate in every possible way. Any latent weakness,
any imperfect knowledge of the books, either as language or
science, would thus infallibly be detected. Nothing daunted,
however, Sir William stood the trial, and the event proved
that he was only too well prepared.  From the testimony of
eye and ear witnesses, we learn that Sir William's examination
in philosophy occupied two days, lasting six hours each day;
that he was actually examined " in more than four times
the number of philosophical and didactic books ever wont to
be taken up even for the highest honours, and those likewise
authors far more abstruse than had previously been attempted



Honour-Examination in Philosophy.        253
in the schools;"' and that in "fourteen of his books on the
abstruser subjects of Greek philosophy," the Metaphysics of
Aristotle among the number, the examiners declined, with
the most flattering compliments, to question him at all.  A
fellow-collegian, who was present at the examination, the Rev.
W. Villiers, in writing to the patrons of the University in
1820, says of Sir William:-" In the department, however,
of science, his examination stood, and I believe, still stands
alone; and it certainly argued no common enthusiasm and
ability for philosophical pursuits that in a university like
Oxford, his examination should not only remain unequalled
for the number, but likewise for the difficulty of the authors.
It contained every original work of antiquity difficult or
important in logic, on the philosophy of the human mind, on
ethics, politics, and other branches of practical philosophy,
on rhetoric and poetical criticism; and after a trial of many
hours, beside the honours of the University, he received the
thanks and public acknowledgings of the examiners, that he
never had been surpassed either in the minute or the Comprehensive knowledge of the systems on which he had been examined."
Testimonies to the same effect, if possible even stronger, are
given by others who were in the schools during the examination.  It is Mr. Villiers who adds, that in "fourteen of
his books on Greek philosophy he was not questioned, the
greater part of these being declared by the masters to be too
abstrusely metaphysical for examination."  So that Sir William was strictly accurate, when some years after, in tracing
the neglect of logic and philosophy at Oxford to its true cause,
he wrote as follows:-" Since the institution of honours and
of a real examination for the first degree in arts, a powerful
stimulus has been applied to other studies-to that of logic
none. Did a candidate make himself master of the Organon?
he would find as little favour from the dispensers of academical distinction as he had previously obtained assistance
from  his tutor.  For the public examinators could not be
expected either to put questions on what they did not understand, or to encourage the repetition of such overt manifestations of their own ignorance." In these words, in fact, he but
1 Letter written in 1820 by the Rev. A. Nicol, then librarian of the
Bodleian, afterwards Professor of Hebrew, and Canon of Christ Church.



254


Sir William Hamilton.


described the position he had himself once occupied, and the
treatment he then received.
Sir William did not, however, confine his philosophical
reading at Oxford to the standard writers of Greece and
Rome, though these naturally occupied the first place. He
had even thus early carefully studied the leading Greek commentators on Aristotle,-Themistius, Alexander, Ammonius,
Simplicius, and Philoponus; the works of his Arabian expositors Averroes and Avicenna; the more philosophic of the
Latin fathers, especially St. Augustine, of whom he always
retained a high admiration; and the chief of the schoolmen,
St. Thomas and Scotus in particular. In his zealous search
amidst the monuments of medieval thinking, he must, indeed,
have disturbed many a volume in those old monastic college
libraries, whose rest had not been broken for years, probably
for centuries; many whose massive vellum-bound boards and
brazen clasps have not been opened since he shut them nearly
half a century ago. He had also at this time formed an
acquaintance with the less known scholars and thinkers of the
Revival,-Cardan, the elder Scaliger, Agricola, Valla, and
Vives; had studied diligently the fathers of Modern Philosophy,
Descartes and Leibnitz, both in their own writings and those
of their followers; and finally, was deeply interested in the
new direction and development of philosophic speculation on
the Continent, of which scarcely any tidings had then reached
this country. The main lines of those profound and exhaustive
researches into the history of philosophic opinions which Sir
William afterwards made were thus fairly traced before he left
the University.
Having chosen the profession of the Law, Sir William, on
leaving Oxford in 1812, returned to Edinburgh, entered at
the bar the following year, and at once commenced practice
as an advocate.  As, however, the professional duties of the
younger members of the bar are generally not very arduous
for a year or two after their first appearance in the Parliament
House,1 he still had leisure to follow his favourite pursuits.
He was, indeed, at this time, and for years afterwards, an
ardent student, an incessant reader, living chiefly with his
1 The Scottish Westminster Hall, originally the meeting-place of the
Scottish Parliament.



Superhuman Learning: Account of Mr. De.uincey.  255
books; mining diligently at intervals amongst the piled masses
of forgotten learning in the dark cellars of the Advocates'
Library; perplexing simple-minded librarians by constant
inquiries for works affirmed to be in their keeping, but whose
names and places were alike unknown; and driving veteran
bibliographers to distraction by a ready knowledge of rare
manuscripts, unnoticed first editions, and unique copies, far
more extensive and minute than their own.     These things
were sufficient to awaken curiosity, and we find from Mr. De
Quincey, who met Sir William Hamilton when on a visit to
Edinburgh in the year 1814, that even then his rare and
varied accomplishments, particularly his vast erudition, were
quite notorious in his own circle. The following is the OpiumEater's graphic account of the popular social feeling which Sir
William's reading and scholarship had excited:"In the year 1.814 it was that I became acquainted with Sir
William Hamilton, the present professor of logic in the University
of Edinburgh. I was then in Edinburgh for the first time, on a
visit to Mrs. Wilson, the mother of Professor Wilson. Him, who
at that time neither was a professor, nor dreamed of becoming one
(his intention being to pursue his profession of advocate at the
Scottish bar), I had known for a little more than five years.
Wordsworth it was, then living at Allan Bank in Grasmere, who had
introduced me to Jbhn Wilson; and ever afterwards I was a
frequent visitor at his beautiful place of Elleray, on Windermere,
not above nine miles distant from my own cottage in Grasmere.
In those days, Wilson sometimes spoke to me of his friend Hamilton,
as of one specially distinguished by manliness and elevation of
character, and occasionally gazed at as a monster of erudition.
Indeed, the extent of his reading was said to be portentous-in
fact, frightful; and, to some extent, even suspicious; so that certain
ladies thought him 'no canny;' for, if arithmetic could demonstrate
that all the days of his life, ground down and pulverised into 'wee
wee' globules of five or eight minutes each, and strung upon threads,
would not furnish a rosary anything like corresponding, in its
separate beads or counters, to the books he was known to have
studied and familiarly used, then it became clearer that he must
have had extra aid, and, in some way or other, must have read by
proxy. Now, in that case we all know in what direction a man
turns for help, and who it is that he applies to when he wishes, like
Dr. Faustus, to read more books than belonged to his own allowance
in this life. I hope sincerely there was no truth in these insinuations; for, besides that it would be disagreeable to have a hanger



Intercourse with Dugald Stewart.


27


I had seen before, and men distinguished for their attainments, who
shocked everybody, and upon me, in particular, nervously susceptible, inflicted horror as well as distress, by striving restlessly and
almost angrily for the chief share in conversation.  Some I had
known, who possessed themselves in effect pretty nearly of the
Whole, without being distinctly aware of what they were about.
0... In Sir William Hamilton, on the other hand, was an
apparent carelessness whether he took any conspicuous share or
none at all in the conversation. It is possible that, as representative of an ancient family, he may secretly have felt his position in
life; far less however in the sense of its advantages than of its
obligations and restraints. And, in general, my conclusion was that
I had rarely seen a person who manifested less of self-esteem, under
any of the forms by which ordinarily it reveals itself-whether of
pride, or vanity, or full-blown arrogance, or heart-chilling reserve."
Sir William at this time became acquainted with Dugald
Stewart; and the first years of his residence in Edinburgh
were thus spent in personal intercourse with the philosopher,
whose successor in the history of Scottish speculation he was
destined to become, and whose collected works, at the time
of his own death, he was engaged in editing. Mr. Stewart
would be sure to welcome Sir W illiam, and sympathise warmly
with his pursuits, even though he might not be able to appreciate
fully his acquirements. This indeed could hardly be expected,
as Sir William's comprehensive erudition included a minute
acquaintance with philosophic systems of whose existence Mr.
Stewart had scarcely even heard.     In a letter, written a few
years -later, Mr. Stewart acknowledges himself "indebted to
Sir William for much curious and valuable information about
the later philosophers of Germany," regretting, at the same
time, " that he had not an earlier opportunity of forming his
acquaintance, as he has no doubt that he would have profited greatly by his assistance in the pursuit of his favourite
studies." It was at Mr. Stewart's that Sir William met Dr.
Parr, and, as I have heard it reported, astonished the colossal
philologist by evincing a range and accuracy of scholarship not
inferior to his own. The erudite doctor, probably in gracious
condescension to the society in which he found himself, had at
first discoursed of Greek philosophy, his knowledge of which
was certainly extensive, but finding he did not achieve any
decided superiority in this chosen walk, betook himself to an
s



Sir William Hamilton.


fluence of their literature, philosophy, and laws on modern civilization. Of these lectures, Professor Wilson says, that " he
had had the best opportunity of knowing what was thought of
them by the most distinguished students, who spoke with
enthusiasm of their sagacity, learning, eloquence, and philosophical spirit."
It need scarcely be said that Sir William Hamilton was
still diligently occupied with his favourite pursuits; but it is
more important to add that his researches now took a direction
too often neglected by metaphysicians in general-the study
of the material organs and instruments of the mind. He was
engaged in a thorough examination of the nervous system,
and in investigating the relations that exist between Psychology and Physiology. Sir William had, in fact, always been
fond of anatomy and of physiology, a predilection probably
inherited from his immediate ancestors. "Already in 1814,"
says Mr. De Quincey, in his short account of the intercourse
he then had with Sir William, "I conceive that he must
have been studying physiology upon principles of investigation suggested by himself."  He now resumed the subject
with fresh zeal, undertaking a more systematic and minute
examination than before, while circumstances soon contributed
to give a special and practical direction to his inquiries.
Phrenology was at this time exciting some attention in various
parts of the country, and especially in Edinburgh, where Mr.
George Combe, the friend and correspondent of Gall and Spurzheim, had come forward as the representative and expositor of
their system. The pretensions of the new science were by no
means humble; as it claimed not only to furnish a sure index
of mental character and endowment, but to be, on its theoretical and practical side respectively, a system of philosophy,
and an instrument of education, and these so perfect as finally
to supersede all other systems and instruments whatever.
Such claims were too high to pass without challenge from
those interested in philosophy, and as the so-called science
professed to be wholly founded on facts-physiological factsSir William proceeded to test its worth by an examination of
these. He selected several of the leading points laid down
as the physiological basis of the system-such as the relative
size and function of the cerebellum, the age at which the



Discussion with the Phrenologists.


26r


brain is fully developed, the presence and value of the frontal
sinus-and found, after a series of experiments, that the dictum
of the phrenologist on each point was not only erroneous, but
absolutely false.  The evidence that convicted the system of
fundamental fallacy was neither slight nor partial.  In testing
the first of the points mentioned, for example, I know that
Sir William went through a laborious course of comparative
anatomy, made numerous experiments on the living animal,
and dissected with his own hand several hundred different
brains; while in order to ascertain the truth with regard to
the frontal sinus, he sawed open a series of sculls, of different
nations, both sexes, and all ages. Sir William embodied
the result of his researches in two papers, read before the
Royal -Society of Edinburgh in the year 1826. These
papers involved him in a controversial correspondence with
Mr. Combe, and subsequently, on his visit to Edinburgh in 1828,
with Dr. Spurzheim; but the points at issue were never
brought to a decision, as Dr. Spurzheim refused to submit them
to any adequate and impartial judges, demanding instead that
they should be- discussed before a popular assembly, and
decided by the voice of a public meeting.  Of course Sir
William Hamilton had too much respect for himself and the
scientific questions at stake, to bring them before such an
utterly incompetent tribunal.  Sir William's polemic however
was by no means without practical result; for the points in
which he had convicted the phrenologists of fundamental error
being reproduced against them by others, not only in this
country, but on the Continent, weakened the confidence of
the public in their statements, and thus helped to arrest the
progress of the system, with its spurious science, materialistic
philosophy, and demoralising art.
Sir William was soon, however, to be engaged in more
important, as well as more congenial work.  In 11829, on
Lord Jeffrey's retirement from the editorship of the Edinburgh Review, Professor Napier, his successor, requested Sir
William to write a philosophical article for the first number
under his management.    The new editor was a personal
friend, who knowing Sir William's powers, and sympathizing
in some measure with his pursuits, was naturally anxious to
secure him as a contributor. As the new philosophical move



262


Sir William Hamilton.


ment in France, produced by the zeal and eloquence of M.
Cousin, had at that time received no notice from the literary
journals of this country, Professor Napier wished Sir William to
undertake a review of the French philosopher's lectures.  He
was averse to this, because, while entertaining the highest
admiration for M. Cousin, he was opposed to his system, and
a review  of his lectures must involve   an  unfavourable
criticism of the doctrine they expounded. Professor Napier,
however, was inexorable, he would accept no refusal; and
so, under this pressure, and in considerable haste (it was
the year of his marriage), Sir William wrote the first, and
in many respects the most striking of his contributions to the
Edinburgh Review-the celebrated article on the Philosophy
of the Unconditioned.  The reception of the paper in this
country has been already referred to-in Sir William's own
words-" The reasonings were of course not understood, and
naturally, for a season, declared incomprehensible."  On the
Continent it was appreciated at once, and, especially in France,
excited great attention. M. Cousin himself was among the
first to recognise and proclaim its rare merit.  He welcomed
it, indeed, with the generous enthusiasm of a sincere lover of
science.  True, it had attacked the leading points of his
favourite doctrine in the most unanswerable way, but all
personal considerations were lost sight of in his joy at discovering that " Scotland possessed such a worthy successor to
Dugald Stewart," and was once more fitly represented in the
great council of European philosophers.  An extract from
a letter written to a literary friend in England will best
explain his feelings at the time. His correspondent (who
had not, however, himself yet seen the article) having informed him that the number of the Edinburgh Review just
published contained a "bitter attack" upon him, M. Cousin
in his reply says:" How could an Englishman approve of a French work, especially a work of philosophy, and still more of speculative philosophy?  I was therefore prepared for an article more than severe
on the part of the Edinburgh Review, and said so to one of my
English friends. He has read it, this terrible article; and from
what he tells me, I conclude that it is very polite towards me personally, and written in full knowledge of the cause. An extract
from it which I have received has singularly struck me. I did not



First Contribution to the Edinburgh Review.


263


believe that there was an individual beyond the channel capable of
interesting himself so deeply in metaphysics, and I regard this
article as an excellent augury for philosophy in England. I am
therefore thankful to the author, and wish that he knew it. You
will please me by information as to his true name, for it is here
doubted whether you are correct in the person you have mentioned
as the writer, and I request of you on this point all the information
you may be able to collect. I think he is wrong in his objections
to my doctrine; but I must do him the justice to say that he has
profoundly studied and perfectly understood me. I should wish
him to read my lectures of 1829, the second volume of which
contains ten lectures on Locke which might interest an Englishman."
In a second letter, after reading the article and having
learned the author's name, he writes:-" Sir William Hamilton's article has arrived, and I have read it.  It is a masterpiece. Mr. Brougham has good reason to speak of it highly.
For my part I have done the same here, and 1 affirm that the
article is so excellent that there cannot be fifty persons in
England competent to understand it.        It is truly to be
regretted that such talents have not produced more.      You
seem to speak to me of other articles from    the same hand.
Where are these articles, and what are they?" He subsequently adds:-" The information you are to send me
regarding Sir W. Hamilton is expected with so much the
more impatience, as I wish to push my chivalry towards him
to. the point of having his article translated." This was
accordingly done.    With regard to the style, M. Cousin
afterwards says, most justly-" That article is by no means
easy to be understood. When once the sense is comprehended, it is found to be perfectly good and correct; but the
style is very condensed; every word is pregnant with meaning.
The soundness of its views, the extensive acquaintance with
philosophical systems, and the profoundness of thought which
it exhibits, can only be appreciated by those who are of the
mn4tier; it is, in short, an article written for a few minds only
throughout Europe, whilst to the multitude its very force and
merit will render it obscure.  The conciseness of expression
in Sir William Hamilton, with the difficulty felt by ordinary
readers of understanding him, has induced many to look upon
him with distrust as a follower of the German systems, and a
perverter of the strict and cautious philosophy of the Scottish



Candidate for the Logic Chair.


265


consolidate and carry on the work that Reid and Stewart had
so well begun; while all interested in the progress of that
-work could not but deplore that, having yet found no position
worthy of his powers, his contributions to the science in which
he had proved himself a master should be restricted to
occasional articles in a literary and political review.
These regrets, however, were not to be of long continuance.  The opportunity so ardently desired by the friends of
philosophy came soon after; and at length a way was opened
for Sir William to take his true position as public teacher of
the sciences to which he had devoted his life. Early in the
year 1836, Dr. Ritchie, then professor of Logic and Metaphysics in the university, resigned his chair, and Sir William.
without delay declared himself a candidate for the vacant post.
It may naturally be thought, perhaps, that it would be scarcely
necessary for him formally to take this step; that his claims
being so well known and so pre-eminent, the patrons would
have decided at once, and elected him without a dissenting voice.
So far, however, was this from being the case, that it remained for some time very doubtful whether he would be
chosen at all.  It actually became necessary for his friends
to exert themselves to avert the public disgrace of his rejection, which it seemed not improbable the city Council, if
left to themselves, might bring upon the country. M. Cousin,who two years before had said emphatically in conversation with
Professor Pillans, that from the peculiar bent of his mind, and
his pre-eminence above all his Scotch and English contemporaries, Sir W. Hamilton was the very man to be professor of
logic at the first vacancy, while his election would be an
honour to the university and a benefit to European philosophy,-now writes an urgent letter from his sick bed, evidently, however, not without a feeling of surprise that it
should be needful for a stranger to speak at all.  The tone
and spirit of the letter, which is a long one, may be gathered
from the following extracts:-" Sir W. Hamilton is the man
who before all Europe has, in the Edlinburghi eview, defended
the Scottish philosophy, and posted himself its representative.
In this relation the different articles which he has written in
that journal are of infinite value, and it is not I who ought
to solicit Scotland for Sir W. Hamilton; it is Scotland her



Opposed in the Council.


267


venture to enter into competition with Sir William Hamilton for
a professorship of logic and metaphysics in any British university."  Other witnesses of high character give further evidence as to Sir William's reputation, both on the Continent
and in America. At home, Lord Jeffrey, Professor Napier,
and Professor Wilson, each the centre of a large literary circle,
wrote voluntarily to the patrons, stating, not simply as their
own opinion, but as the unanimous verdict of all capable of
judging, with whom they had any intercourse, that Sir
William Hamilton's claims to the vacant chair were altogether
peerless.  Lord Jeffrey, in closing his letter, says:-" I
cannot conclude without stating to you (he is addressing the
Lord Provost) my sincere conviction, founded upon what I know
to be Sir William Hamilton's reputation among the learned,
that if the choice of the town council should fall upon any other
person, the first sentiment of those who concern themselves
about such studies, not only in Great Britain but in France and
Germany, will be one of surprise, and the next of eager anxiety
to be made acquainted with the singular merits of the hitherto
unknown individual to whom he has been justly postponed."
While all the judges de jure were thus perfectly united,
the de facto electors continued, however, to be divided.  The
first philosophers in Europe and his own country had with
one voice chosen Sir William; but the worthy bailies of the
Grassmarket and the West Port, of the High Street and the
Canongate, hesitated to admit his claims, and remained still
unconvinced.  In other words, Sir William  Hamilton was
not actively identified with any powerful party in Church or
State.  It has been already noticed that, from  its popular
nature, the patronage was liable to be strongly affected by
party influences. At the election formerly referred to, the
political element had been in the ascendant, now the disturbing
force was mainly religious.  During the last thirty years,
indeed, the council may be said to have passed through
three stages of influence-the political, the religious, and
finally, since the abolition of tests, the sectarian, though it is
scarcely correct to say that it has passed through the last, that
being the existing stage.  In 1836, however, the tests were
still in force, and the opposition to Sir William  took very
much the form of an Evangelical combination against the



268


z68             aSir William Hamilton.


more moderate party in the council.   One member indeed
had the candour, as well as the modest assurance, to confess
-publicly that there was, on this occasion, "1A coalition between
the Evangelical Dissenters and the Churchmen friendly to
religion." The Coalition wished of course to have a candidate
of orthodox views and evangelical sentiments; and accordingly,
Mr. Isaac Taylor, the author of several religious essays, was fixed
-upon as afit and proper person to represent their religious opinions
'in the university. The new candidate might be innocent of
any save the most superficial knowledge of either the literature
or science of the subjects to be taught, and his supporters
implicitly admitted as much; but his reputation was high in
the churches to which the members of the coalition belonged,
and they urged with exquisite relevancy the cogent argument
that, being theologically sound, he was therefore suitable. The
pietistic unction manifested on the occasion is really affecting.
The gentleman who proposed Mr. Taylor dwelt, we are told,
"ccwith great fervour on the vast advantage that would accrue
to the university from placing in the chair a man of such
undoubted piety;" another councillor gloried in the fact
that members of different sects " bad united in favour of an
individual who, if elected, would advance the interests of pure
and undefiled religion;" while a third, referring to Sir
William Hamilton, says emphatically:-" Then on the point
of religion, they had no evidence that he would set it forth so
boldly, uncompromisingly, and distinctly as Mr. Taylor would."
In reading the speeches of Mr. Taylor's friends, one would,
in fact, naturally suppose that the election must be for the
vacant pulpit of 'some city church at least, if not for a city
missionary.
Furthermore, the Coalition held that the candidate
should be not only a person of evangelical views, but a
popular author,-a writer of showy and successful evangelical
works; deeming the possession of a flowing, ornate, diffuse
style, an indispensable condition to the proper treatment of
such light and popular subjects as Logic and Metaphysics.
Mr. Taylor met this condition; he had written works that
were well known in the narrow circles to which the members
of the Coalition belonged, which all of them had heard of,
-most of them had seen, and a few had even read.   On the



270


Sir William Hamilton.


candidates, says, " of Mr. Musten of Rotterdam I have a high
opinion, from his work on Recognition in the Next World,
which I have been reading with delight."   Fortunately,
there does not appear to have been any candidate who had
distinguished himself in Unfulfilled Prophecy; had there been,
I feel sure Sir William Hamilton would have had no chance
whatever of success. Curiously enough, however, Sir William's old antagonist, Mr. George Combe, was a competitor;
and his friends, though few, seem to have been very much
in earnest, and to have made up in intensity of feeling what
they lacked in numbers. The councillor who proposed Mr.
Combe gave a glowing account of the state and prospects of
Phrenology, describing it as in a most commanding position,
having lived down all opposition, and silenced all opponents
"-" the day for twitting about bumps is gone by. Where
are all their gibes now? " he exultingly exclaims; intimating
at the same time, that it would soon prevail universally, to
the exclusion of every other system of philosophy or education
whatever.  Meanwhile he promised, on behalf of Mr. Combe,
that, if elected, he would deal tenderly with the prejudices of
the weaker brethren who still had a lingering attachment
to the ancient superstition.  Mr. Combe himself also considerately engages, in a private note, that if appointed to the
chair, he will bury the old system with the utmost decency,
and not wantonly outrage the feelings of surviving friends and
relatives. He was, however, still too much in advance of
the time, and his supporters at the final muster numbered only
three.
The chief opposition, of course, proceeded from the Coalition,
whose unscrupulous activity threatened at one time to
endanger the result of the election. Their cause being intrinsically weak, they sought to strengthen it in a way too
common with such combinations at such a time. Not content
with opposing Sir William Hamilton in public, they endeavoured, by whispered inuendoes, to damage him in private.
Nothing, it is well known, makes men more reckless of the
means they use to secure their ends than the spirit of
religious bigotry envenomed by sectarian bitterness.  This
spirit, now fully aroused, manifested itself in the usual way.
Malignant and cowardly as ever, it grasped its. darling instru



Spirit displayed in the Contest.


271I


ments, the cloak and dagger of insinuation, and attempted
its favourite policy, that of stabbing the obnoxious reputation
in the dark.   The weapon employed was, of course, the
odium  theologicum.   There was a panic at that time, as
there always is amongst the weak-minded and ignorant, on
the subject of Germanism.  It was feared that the venerable
Old Kirk, the Pharos of Orthodoxy, would be swamped by the
shifting sands and advancing tides of the German Ocean.
Though groundless, the alarm thus excited was real, and
tended admirably to give force to an electioneering-whisper.
The Coalition eagerly availed themselves of it. Vague rumours
were judiciously set afloat of more than suspected heterodoxyof Germanism and Neology,-words in themselves utterly without meaning to those who used and those who listened to them;
but which, as symbols of the current fear, and as interpreted
by the compassionate shrug, and mournful shake of the pious
slanderer's head, became invested with the darkest significance.
It was intimated that the obnoxious candidate had been
diligently studying the writings of the German pantheists,
had imbibed their spirit, and adopted their views.  Think of
such charges brought against Sir William Hamilton! He,
the most thoroughly Scotch of all Scottish thinkers, who had
assailed with the force of a resistless dialectic the ambitious
systems of German speculation, and stood before all Europe
as the champion of the sober and more reverent philosophy
of his countrymen, is stigmatized by his grateful fellowcitizens as an alien. And the metaphysician who, at a time
when theological professors were aggravating the current
scepticism of an inquiring era, by teaching in their -divinityhalls doctrines, such as the fatalism of Edwards, subversive
alike of morality and religion;-the metaphysician who, at
such a time, when they seemed drifting more widely than ever
asunder, vindicated on the highest grounds the essential
harmony of philosophical and revealed truth, is traduced as a
sceptic by the professed friends of religion.  It is the old
story over again.  It is but too evident that he was in his
own country; that such friends, such foes, could be only
those of his own national household. To charge this wretched
proceeding on any sect or party as a whole, would, however,
be unfair, though experience daily proves that they are



272


Sir William Hamilton.


many in every sect who are capable of such conduct. It
is but another illustration of what all familiar with history
or with life well know, that there is nothing blinder, nothing
more cruel, demoralising, and utterly unjust than the spirit of
sectarian intolerance.
On the day of election one of the Coalition, who seems to
have been the Joseph Surface of the party, having towards the
close of a maudlin hypocritical speech, rather overacted his
part by unconsciously revealing the darker policy of the
brotherhood, met with a well-merited rebuke. Mr. Adam
Black, then treasurer of the council (now member for the
city), immediately rose, and at the commencement of his
speech, thus pointedly referred to the Coalition and its representative:
" It was, he said, one of the most unpleasant signs of the present
times, that, whenever men came forward with an object in view,
they invariably made a stalking-horse of religion. Whatever might
be the matter under discussion, they were ready to cry out heresy
against their neighbour, and, by this means, more mischief had been
done in the world than by anything else. Had it come from individuals who joined the holy office of the Inquisition and were prepared
to burn men, thinking they did God service; had it come from
individuals who sincerely thought they were doing service to religion,
though injuring their fellow-creatures, either in their fame or their
worldly prospects, he could have understood it. But there was another class-men who showed no regard to religion in their private
conduct; men who habitually took God's name in vain in their
common conversation; men who had cone nothing to advance the
interests of real religion. When they come forward with such
canting, hypocritical professions on that subject, he freely admitted
that he could not express the feelings of disgust with which he listened to them. He could excuse a man, who had all his life acted
under a strong sense of the principles of religion, and who, in the
application of those principles to a particular line of conduct, sometimes carried those principles to extreme lengths; but when a man
who had never before shown any symptom of religious feeling, put
on the semblance of it to accomplish a purpose, he looked on such
conduct with infinite disgust. The last speech, however, had the
merit of having let out the secret of that influence which had been
employed against Sir William Hamilton. Men had talked of the
influence of German philosophy and neology; they did not say that
Sir William Hamilton was an infidel; but they led them by a quiet,
underhand, serpentine, creeping induction, to draw the conclusion



Result of the Election: Work of the Class.


273


that he was an infidel. Now, if they thought so, let them say so
at once. That gentleman had published several articles-if they
contained such sentiments let that be shewn."
The coalition failed as it deserved to do.  Indeed, by a
natural reaction, the extreme course pursued by its unscrupulous members disgusted some of their own friends, and on the
day of election others beside Mr. Black belonging to the
religious sections of which it was avowedly composed, publicly denounced its proceedings in the Council-Chamber. Sir
William Hamilton was elected by a majority of four votes.
On the first vote being taken the numbers were for Sir W.
Hamilton 14; for Mr. Taylor 10; eight votes being distributed amongst other candidates.  At the second vote, the
outlying eight were equally divided, and the final numbers
were, for Sir William 18; for Mr. Taylor 14. By this narrow majority was the native school of philosophy in Scotland,
as represented in her university teaching, rescued from premature extinction, and the country at large saved from the
indelible disgrace of having rejected the noblest of her philosophic sons.
Sir William Hamilton, having now taken his true position
in the university, gave his chief attention during the next few
years to the Class.  For its use the edition of Reid's works
was originally undertaken, but while passing through the press
it expanded to a size much beyond the first intention, and
instead of retaining the humble character of a text-book,
acquired the dignity and value of an original philosophic
work. Almost immediately after entering on his new duties,
Sir William was involved in a lengthy correspondence with
the patrons on his right to divide the class into two sections,
the one for Logic, the other for Metaphysics, devoting an
hour daily to each.  The discussion was, however, fruitless,
and as it would be impossible to give an outline of Sir
William's arguments in a sentence or two, I pass on to
describe the course he actually pursued, and the effect it produced. Professors in the literary faculty of a Scotch university,
as most readers know, find an obstacle to the full discharge
of their higher duties in the early age at which the students
come up, a majority of them being still boys, as well as in
T



274                 Sir William Hamilton.
the imperfect preparation many have previously received.
Those not familiar with the system    will find this difficulty
forcibly put by Professor Blackie in his recent letters to the
Times on "The State of the Scotch'Universities."      Of the
ways in which it is usually met, he says:" The professors in the faculty of arts having to deal with such
an insoluble problem as teaching mere boys academically, must adopt
one of three courses.  Either they teach up to the highest mark of
their supposed academical dignity, and then they fly over the heads
of their scholars, and are not good teachers; or they let themselves
down to the lowest level of their students, and sink the whole academical character of their business; or 'they attempt to do both in a
hasty, bungling sort of way, and get up a fair show of success, satisfactory enough to our country Presbyteries, the only parties hitherto
who took any regular cognizance of what was doing at our seats of
learning. Those who adopt the first course sustain the reputation of
the university, and send its fame abroad over the empire, or even
sometimes over all Europe, as the late Sir W. Hamilton did; but the
latter two courses are those which the necessity of the case generally
produces, and the professors are thus systematically obliged to tone
down the whole style of teaching from its proper academic level."
Though this description of the general state of things is
correct enough, the account given of Sir William's teaching
is by no means accurate; indeed, it contradicts itself.   Sir
William certainly taught academically, but he did not in
the sweeping way here stated, "fly over the heads of his
scholars."  If so, how was it possible, through his lectures,
none of them     being  published, for him to   "uphold the
reputation of the university, and carry its fame over the
whole empire, and     even over Europe?"       The  truth is,
philosophy must be taught academically, that is scientifically,
or not at all. A professor of Humanity or Greek may, if he
chooses, become a schoolmaster-teach the mere elements of
grammar with extracts from Xenophon, instead of lecturing
on iZEschylus, Thucydides, or Plato-and still do something.
But a professor of Philosophy cannot " let himself down to the
lowest level of his students;" he must raise them above this,
or be content to do nothing. They come to him unprepared,
unused to thinking, it is true; but his very business being to
awaken thought, this is at once the condition and the test of his
success.  The sciences he has to teach being pre-eminently



Scotch University Teaching.


275


reflective, whose elementary facts even can only be recognised
by reflective effort, demand on the part of the student, as the
condition of acquiring any, even the humblest acquaintance
with them, some independent exercise of thought. Nor can
the teacher of philosophy follow the second course suggested
by Professor Blackie without, in effect, renouncing his work.
It is true, the attempt at such a compromise was formerly
made, and perhaps still may be, in some philosophic
chairs, by converting the work of the class into a kind of
expanded Pinnoclk's Catechism, consisting of elementary
questions and worthless answers, barren definitions, arbitrary
divisions, meagre explanations, trivial problems, often mere
verbal quibbles, and small but incessant exercises, all of the
same feeble, memoriter, and mechanical kind; but of course this
is not teaching philosophy at all.  Such a system, though
lauded as perfect by tile unthinking, from the show of ceaseless
activity it presents, is utterly worthless in every point of view.
The information given is not worth having: the process of
acquiring it only exhausts and irritates, instead of strengthening the mind, being an endless repetition of the same weary
round--a mill-horse course of constant action and no progress;
while the result of the whole is equally worthless, leaving to
even the best scholars only a few empty forms and isolated
notions, which though sometimes perhaps, under the mnultiplying mirrors of imagination, presenting, like the bits of broken
glass in a kaleidoscope, a deceptive appearance of system,
have in reality not the least particle of science.
The plan, therefore, represented by Professor Blackie as
the common one, is scarcely possible to a teacher of philosophy
worthy of the name; and however possible, it is quite certain
that Sir William Hamilton would never have dreamt for a
moment of adopting it.  He knew too well the true end of
university teaching, and the value of his own science in relation
to that end, to think of attempting any such weak and suicidal
course. Born, like every great philosopher, a teacher, he
had carefully studied the various systems of tuition pursued
both in ancient and modern times, and the best means by
which the ends of higher education may be realised.
Education is, in fact, only an applied philosophy; and Sir
William early vindicated the practical character of his intellect



Character of the Lectures.


277


thus awakened, a measure of reform has at length been carried
into effect. The spirit he evoked is still working in the
Scotch universities; and notwithstanding the obstacles to be
encountered from both friends and foes, will eventually issue
in their reform. Nor was the eloquent defence of his own
science, as a most important branch of academic training, in
vain.   The study of philosophy is reviving at Oxford, a
tripos of Moral and Political science has been established at
Cambridge,, and every new college that is founded, either
at home or in the colonies, has now its chair of Logic and
Metaphysics.
It was not to be expected, therefore, that Sir William
Hamilton would falsify by his own example the precepts he
had laboured so long and earnestly to enforce.   In carrying
out his views of philosophic training, in a Scotch university,
he had indeed to encounter difficulties arising not only from
the early age at which the freshmen enter, but from the
false position which the chair of Logic and Metaphysics holds
in the curriculum, being placed at the beginning instead of
at the end.   Still there was no room for hesitation, really no
choice; and he determined at once to secure the ends of such
training for even a minority, rather than fail with all,-the
inevitable result of the mixed and superficial system already
referred to.  In his letter to the patrons offering himself
as a candidate, he says emphatically-," I have only further to
repeat in general, what I have formerly more articulately stated,
that in the event of my appointment to this chair, I am determined to follow out my convictions of the proper mode of
academical tuition; that is, I shall not only endeavour to
instruct, by communicating on my part the requisite information; but to educate, by determining through every means in
my power, a vigorous and independent activity on the part
of my pupils." This purpose was faithfully fulfilled in regard
to each of the objects referred to,-the former by the course
of lectures expounding the sciences to be taught, the latter by
the system of class discipline pursued. In the scientific exposition Sir William for the first time divided the subjects of the
chair, devoting a separate course of lectures to each.  Under
the old meagre system of elementary teaching, both, and
much more than both, had been professedly included in a



System of Class Discipline.


279


step that did not naturally follow from what had gone before,
and conduct to what came after; so that if a pupil had any
faculty of attention at all, he might without much difficulty
keep abreast of the lectures, and in the end gain both a
clear and distinct idea of the whole course.  It was, in fact,
throughout a splendid illustration, not only of order, but of
the highest scientific Method, the parts being connected
together in no accidental or capricious way, but by the force
of an inward law whose spontaneous action gave organic
unity to the whole. The very effort of watching the daily
development of such a method was in fact, to an intelligent
student, a positive and highly effective training in the philosophic art of thinking well.
The active discipline of the class consisted of exercises
and examinations, the latter of two kinds-compulsory and
voluntary. The compulsory, which generally occurred four
or five times during the session, was an examination (in the
lectures) of the whole class, when any member was liable to be
called up, and generally before the end of the session all were
actually questioned once or twice at least. Latterly, however,
this fell rather into disuse, so that often the voluntary, which
had always been the principal, remained the exclusive form of
examination during the session. This examination was of two
kinds, or rather in two subjects,-the lectures, and what was
called "additional information," i. e., subjects connected with the
lectures. The examination derived its name from the fact that
it was quite optional whether the students took it or not; the
order in which those who offered themselves were examined
being determined in the most impartial manner, in fact, by
lot as follows:-On the examination    days, which were
Tuesday and Thursday-Monday, Wednesday, and Friday
being lecture days-the members of the class were requested
to sit in alphabetical order according to their names, the
benches being lettered for this purpose; on the table before
the professor, at the commencement of the hour, was placed
a jar (by courtesy a vase or urn) containing the letters of the
alphabet, printed in large type on rounds of mill-board, in fact,
a child's alphabet with highly coloured pictures at the back
of the letters, from " A was an apple," to " Z was a zebra;"
these Sir William mixed thoroughly together in the jar, and



280


Sir William Hamilton.


then taking the uppermost one, say W, held it before the
class, inquiring whether any gentleman in W was prepared
to undertake the examination, whereupon Mr. Walker, or
Watson, or whatever the name might be, rose, bowed to the
chair, and commenced at the point where the last examination
left off. The work of preparing for these examinations was
by no means slight to those who did it regularly and well.
For the lectures being so full of condensed matter, a mere
outline would not do,-some important points being necessarily
left out in any abstract the student might attempt; there were
always three or four, and generally five or six lectures in
arrear, any part of which he must be prepared to take up at a
moment's notice, as it was of course impossible to know when
and where he should be called, or whether he should be
called at all. Finally, the lectures he was thus required to
have at his finger-ends often contained long series of
minute and extremely subtle discriminations, such as the
thirty-three distinctions between Mediate and Immediate
knowledge in note B, and the thirty-one between the Primary
and Secondary qualities of body in note D of Sir William's
edition of Reid, both of which, I remember, were included in
the lectures the year I attended the metaphysical course,-ito
say nothing of exercises in Syllogistic, such as concrete
examples of every valid Mood under the old and new systems,
and the like, which naturally occurred in the logical course.
It was useless for any one to attempt the examination trusting to memory alone, as some men are said to do with
Euclid; for in the first place, it was almost impossible to
remember the lectures without understanding them; and in
the second, one's knowledge was continually tested by crossexamination on the more difficult points, in which the mere
memoriter men were sure to break down altogether.  The
effort of thorough preparation was, however, a most
invigorating one to those who made it, not only from
the mastery of the subject induced, but from the habits
of clear mental discrimination and exact verbal precision it
necessarily helped to form.  The second voluntary examination in subjects connected with the lectures, though not so
arduous as the first, was a very useful, pleasant, and at times
even entertaining one. The subjects brought before the class



Examination and Essays.


281


in the space of an hour were often miscellaneous enough, as
the only restriction imposed--that the "additional information "
should refer to points touched upon in the previous lecturesstill left a large margin for the diversities of individual choice.
The pupil might, for example, give the views of any philosophic
writer on questions directly or indirectly discussed in the
lectures, such as the division of the mental powers, the
distinction between Art and Science, the theories of Perception,
etc.; the history of a philosophic word such as Category,
Predicament, Concept, Consciousness, etc.; the distinction between related terms, as Hypothesis and Theory, Discovery and
Invention, Observation and Experiment; a short biography of
any philosopher, poet, critic, historian, or celebrated man
mentioned in the lectures; or, finally, state difficulties and
speculations of his own on points arising out of the previous
exposition. Sir William strongly encouraged all such manifestations of interest in the subject of the prelections, especially,
perhaps, the last; and from the greater freedom thus allowed,
this examination brought the students more directly into contact with the Professor than any other class exercise.  After
the student had finished his account, whatever it might be,
Sir William would inquire what books he was reading, give
valuable hints as to the best course of study, and often supplement the information brought by particulars derived from
the vast store-house of his own learning.  The examination
thus acted as a powerful stimulus and guide during the whole
course of philosophic study.
The exercises of the class were short essays, restricted,
like the foregoing examination, to subjects connected with
the lectures, and generally prescribed every fortnight or three
weeks.   Extracts from these essays were regularly read to
the class by the writers, each student being allowed five
minutes (measured by a sand-glass) for this purpose-the
time being extended at the option of the Professor, who
generally criticised the more important exercises. While only
a fourth, or at most a third, of the class attempted the voluntary examinations, a large majority of the members wrote
essays of some sort or other.  In addition, however, to the
regular class exercises, essays on special subjects were now
and then prescribed to the competitors for prizes, which were



Personal Influence.


287


sages who walked with their disciples in the Lycseum and the
Grove, who taught in the marble stillness of the Porch, or
amidst the green shadows of the Garden, it was at once perceived that the lecturer was speaking of thinkers he had held
familiar intercourse with, as an equal, even in their abstrusest
walks; nay, more, that having accompanied them     to the
furthest point in the fields of speculation, and looked with clear
intellectual vision from the last Pisgah height, where their eye
grew dim, and their strength began to fail, he could at once
recognize and complete the imperfect description they have left
us of objects whose form and outline fell obscurely on their
fading sight. The same effect was produced in dealing with
the phenomena of the science. While expounding the mental
faculties, their order, laws, and development, it was felt that
the speaker had verified for himself every fact referred tothat he spoke but of what he knew, and testified of what
he had personally seen.   Not, of course, that the listener
understood and recognized at once everything spoken of, but
this was obviously not from any want of clearness in the
description, but simply because the right point of view
for seeing the object had not yet been gained, while, at the
same time, there was the clear conviction that by following
the prescribed course, he would soon be able to see and
judge for himself.  Thus the first effect produced in listening
to Sir William Hamilton was a feeling of mingled confidence,
admiration, and delight.
When, becoming familiar with the manner, the attention
of the student was concentrated on the matter of the
lectures, and the objects exciting the new feeling of wonder
gradually grew more distinct, the first conviction was,
that he had entered into an entirely new world, wholly
different from the world of men and the world of books
which he had hitherto known.  And what struck him most of
all probably, was the fact that it really was a world-a veritable
Cosmos, with facts and laws of its own, with phenomena,
processes, and results not less vast and varied, harmonious,
and sublime, than the sensible facts and physical laws of the
universe,-a world within as full of wonder and mystery,
of secret activities and unknown powers, as the material earth
and heaven around and above us.    It was soon discovered,



288


Sir William Hamilton.


moreover, to be a region, in exploring which he needed
and could receive but little help from others; the objects of
research and the instruments of investigation, the observer
and the phenomena to be observed, being alike within.
He awoke to the sudden       consciousness that the living
spirit moving amidst the clouds of passion, and behind the
veil of innumerable, but often unconscious activities, was far
more full of strange and prophetic inspiration than the fabled
oracle of Delphi, while the inscription on the temple of the
one was the true key to the mysteries of the other-7yyi w mur6v
-know thyself.    And he was powerfully impelled to acquire
this self-knowledge, because it in turn would obviously furnish
the key to the vaster world opening before him in the dawning
light of a new experience. The visible motto of that world" On Earth there is nothing great but Man; in Man there is
nothing great but Mind "-seemed at once to reverse the
previous views of history and life.   All manifestations of
mere material strength appeared only as the rude mechanical
servants of higher masters-the intellectual forces that really
move and mould the world.        The grand    tragedies of
history-revolutions that filled continents with strife and
bloodshed-were but the active representations of a drama
previously rehearsed in the speculative opinions of the few,
and originally, perhaps, elaborated in the prescient intellect
of an   obscure and   solitary thinker.  The chief figures
of this drama-kings crowned with regal pomp amidst
worshipping multitudes-faded into insignificance before the
silent monarchs, whose unrecognised decree had, in the end,
broken their sceptre and given their empire to another,"11 The great of old!
The dead but sceptred sov'rans, who still rule
Our spirits from their urns."
The relative value of historic events was changed. Alexander
was thought of far more as the pupil of Aristotle than as the
conqueror of the world; Theodoric as the executioner of Boethius,
rather than as the first Gothic ruler of the Roman empire;
and Charlemagne as the reputed friend and patron of Scotus
Erigena, rather than as the warrior sage who had won Europe
by his sword and kept it with his pen. Ancient laws and
institutions were looked upon simply as way-marks of opinion



Influence of his Method.


289


-curious and valuable specimens of obsolete and crystallized.
thought.   Any historical fact, however imposing, was of
little value until its place on the intellectual chart had been
traced and verified through a recognition of the underlying law.
In a word, the student begins to open his unaccustomed eyes
in what the elder thinkers call the "' intelligible world."
It was soon discovered, moreover, from the lecturer's
method, that this new world was, in the strictest sense, the
object of science-that its facts could be observed, and its
laws known. And if the science were thus possible, it must
obviously, when achieved, be superior to all others-must in
a sense be inclusive of all others-at once a key to the past,
a guide in the present, and a prophecy for the future.  It
would necessarily explain every special history, interpret every
old form  of religion and government, every successive phase
of past civilization, by reaching the psychological laws whose
development they reflect. It must throw a flood of light on the
complex forces working amidst the crowd and dust of actual
life, and powerfully help to solve the urgent social problems
arising from their blind or misguided activity; while the
prospect opened for the future was inspiring in its boundless
extent, as it was obviously impossible to measure the powers
or limit the development of humanity.   The true clue for
exploring the intellectual world being once found, it was
natural to believe that future progress would be sure, rapid,
and almost limitless; and this clue was found in the rigorously inductive method of observation and analysis pursued
in the scientific exposition.  Nor did the_ treatment of history
in the lecturer's hands at all diminish one's confidence in the
certainty of the science. True, the speculations of illustrious
thinkers were   assailed  without pity, and remorselessly
destroyed. Sir William's path was, in the words of one of
his critics, " emphatically over the wreck of systems which he
demolished as he went;" but, strange to say, this but
strengthened instead of weakening confidence, because it
was clearly seen to be done upon principle. A tithe of such
destructive criticism  from  a teacher of less power, might
have left one utterly sceptical, while Sir William's inexorable
dialectic -inspired the fullest trust.  For though much was
destroyed, more was left.   The indurated hull of system
U



290


Sir William Hamilton.


was shattered only to set free the germ of truth it contained;
and the severest criticism but illustrated the maxim of Leibnitz,
that philosophers are true in what they affirm, false in what
they deny. It was continually shown that every error is only
a truth abused, and all partial systems but contributions
towards a perfect science. The theories of elder philosophers
that lay isolated, barren, and far asunder on the fields of speculation, came like the dry bones in the Valley of Vision at the
voice of the prophet, marshalling to their place, bone gathering
to bone, sinew to sinew,-the scattered fragments growing
into form, and waiting only the breath of higher inspiration
to  appear as a living    whole.   The   entire  exposition
thus tended   powerfully to confirm  the first impression,
strengthening at every step the rising belief in a new and
noble field of investigation, offering to the zealous explorer
results of the highest certainty and value.
Such teaching naturally produced in the pupil the most
vigorous and intense intellectual activity.  A   desire to
pursue the new paths opened seized him with the force of
a passion; and no effort that contributed    to this end
seemed wearisome.   Books that might fairly be considered
hard and dry, flavoured by the appetite brought, were read
with avidity and positive enjoyment. Preparation for the
class examination scarcely seemed an effort.    Conscious
of new powers, he delighted in their exercise; and learning
the use of new weapons, it became a pleasure to test their
value, and at the same time increase his own skill by constant
practice.  This naturally showed itself in a tendency to
theorise and debate.  He rapidly generalised the objects of
his knowledge, gathered all new facts into principles, worked
out provisional solutions of the problems that crossed his path,
and most likely involved his friends and companions in perpetual discussions.  Any outlet, in fact, for the superfluous
energy was welcome. It might perhaps be thought that
devotion to metaphysical pursuits would estrange one from
the healthy activities of life, and the self-introspection induced naturally create a morbid state of mind.  Not in the
least. On the contrary, the vigorous exercise of the intellect
produced a sympathetic activity through the whole nature.
All life became more brilliant, mysterious, and intense. Even



General Effect of his Teaching


291


physical exertion acquired a new   zest and relish.  The
pleasurable reflex of sustained mental effort gave vigour to
the student's pulse and elasticity to his step, as he breasted
the ridge of the lion's nose in climbing to the top of Arthur's
Seat; or, skates in hand, brushed through the frozen reeds
to test the strength of the ice on Duddingstone Loch; or
walked up from Newhaven in the winter moonlight after a
breezy sail on the blue Firth.  Saturday excursions had a
double object, or rather effected a double purpose.  He explored -at once the outlying.country about the city, and the
new problems opened in the class, discussing, it may be,
Malebranche and Berkeley on horseback, while cantering
through Dalmeny Park, to bait at the Royal Ferry beyond; or debating the Freedom of the Will as he continued
the journey through devious and copse-fringed country ways,
till rattling over the rough causeway, the argument and
ride drew rein together in the silent streets of Linlithgow.
Here, refreshed with bannocks and usquebaugh, the chances
were, that leaving Hobbes and Edwards to their fate, and yielding to the influence of the place as he climbed the mouldering
turret-stair, and sat on the roofless walls overlooking the
quiet Loch, he would break an argumentative lance for Queen
Mary in the palace of her birth; and in the evening probably
gallop back through the frosty air to attend a meeting of one
of the Associated Societies, and take part in a debate on the
Perception of Beauty, or the Foundation of Morals.    In
pedestrian trips too, along the wooded depths of Hawthornden to Roslin Chapel, or across Corstorphine Hill, or
through the peat-hollows of the Pentlands to Habbie's Howe,
parties of the more active men, who were generally practical
disciples of the Peripatetic Philosophy, would often surprise
the simple rustics at way-side inns by animated discussions
on such eerie subjects as the Genesis of Causality, and the
Categorical Imperative.
All nature was seen in a new light. Philosophy is said
to be the express antithesis of poetry, and its pursuit is
commonly supposed to extract the romance from life; but
instead of this, the veil of commonplace seemed taken from
the face of familiar objects, and one looked forth on a virgin
creation. We live, says Wordsworth, by wonder, admiration,



292


Sir William Hamilton.


and hope, and the new birth of these feelings was a fresh
elixir vitce.  It was not without a sensation of awe that,
looking on the changing light of dawn and sunset, sea and
sky, the student reflected that this rich and varied painting
was less substantial than the melting outline of a cloud, the
glory of colour being neither in the object, nor even in the
eye, but in the mind; that, perhaps, indeed, there was not
in any true sense an object at all, the whole material universe being but a divine thought of the ever-present Godhead, "in whom we live, and move, and have our being."
Every system of philosophy became to the awakened intellect a new sense of vision, through which to behold the
world.  It was not only to be read of, but realized, not only
known, but seen and felt as well. He necessarily tried to look
at the world through the very eyes of the thinker who had
elaborated such or such an account of it, and thus regarded, no system seemed utterly contemptible. The airiest
touched reality at some point, and the most abstract was
not without a human element. Even the rude physical
speculations of the early Greek philosophers were redeemed
from absurdity; there were moments in which nature bore
witness to their relative truth.  The voice of a rippling burn
between the hills, for example, or the face of the unquiet
sea, as you sat musing on the rocks, would recall Thales, and
serve to explain his thought; what was in his heart and
brain when walking constantly on the shores of his island
home, and pondering on the many ways in which the mighty
element before him ministered to the wants of man; the dew
that refreshed the pastures, the rain that filled the valleys with
corn, the springs without whose reviving draughts both man
and beast perish; the sea at last acquired such power over
his whole thought and life that he was led to generalize the
essence of water or moisture as the principle of all things.
So, too, not to multiply instances, with the air and fire
theories of Anaximenes and Heraclitus, the musical numbers
of Pythagoras, and many a later and finer form both of
idealism and materialism.  Thus the universe appeared to
these thinkers, and so it was still to be seen through the
glass of their realized thought.
Common life was invested with new interest.  The most



General Efect of his Teaching.


293 --


familiar objects seen under fresh aspects and relations regained
the charm  of novelty.  Illustrations of newly recognised
mental laws were detected in every thing around, in the
prattle of children, the wrangling of street boys, the gossip
of old women, the maudlin or savage songs of tipsy men, no
less than in the spontaneous or reflective activity of the
beautiful and good.  And as in everything around, so in
everything within. The most ordinary mental processes and
impressions continually suggested new problems of interest.
Fire-light shadows on the wall, the sound of an organ below
the windows, the scent of a flower, the colour of a riband,
the tone of a voice awakening a crowd of recollections,
would determine sudden quest for the special law, or laws of
association that had thrown open the doors of memory, and set
them free.  Even in dreams, self-reflective activity was not
wholly lost, and in one's efforts to explore the fairy realm of
psychology, every night became for entertainment an Arabian
one, while the morning brought in fresh vividness and power,
the conviction, " How wonderful is sleep!" The inquirer lay
down on the threshold of an enchanted land, and awoke perhaps
after the first light nap, to trace if possible, the delicate links
between the last sensible impressions and the first creations of
fancy; or in the morning roused into sudden consciousness,
marvelling through what finer avenues than those of ordinary
sense the pale objects of the dawn had pierced the thin
veil of dissolving slumber, and mingling in the world of
dreams, confused the gates of ivory and horn.  Attention
was in this way constantly arrested by what was going on
within, and every group of mental phenomena furnished
questions of its own, which it soon became a pleasurable
exercise to explore.
Thus all within the sphere of knowledge,-poetry, history,
nature, life,-furnished materials for the use of the newlyawakened powers.  Everything was noted and analysed, often
rudely enough of course, sometimes perhaps with partial success; but in any case the result was as nothing compared to
the value of the exercise.  The end to be attained was not
so much knowledge as power-strength of faculty derived
from constant use, and the whole training tended to secure
this.  All education, indeed, is in the last resort self



294


294            Sir William Hamilton.


education; and the discipline that most powerfully stimulates
the mind to independent effort i6 the very highest. Judged
by this standard, at once the truest ailid most severe, it may be
said without fear of contradiction, that there was at that time
no0 such teaching as Sir William Hamilton's to be found in any
university within the four seas.  His educational practice
was thus, the -express correlative of his theory; the work
he accomplished-that of kindling the enthusiasm of the
students in the subject taught, and exciting them to a course
of high and prolonged mental activity-being exactly what
he had from the first proposed.  He was a true teacher of
the noblest type, whom numbers will have to thank all their
lives long for having first stirred the faculty of thought to
vigorous exercise, and given them a sincere and lasting
interest in the objects to which it was directed-the, sciences
they learned from his lips.
Personal intercourse with Sir Wiliaiu confirmed and
deepened the influence of his public teaching.  His splendid
endowments, original philosophic genius, rare elevation of
character, and heroic love of truth, were apparent to all in
his prelections from the chair; but in private these were
found united with the most unassuming manners, a profoundly
earnest yet genial nature, and true depth and cordiality of
feeling.  Always accessible to his-students, none ever found
him preoccupied or engaged when they entered his private
room to submit a doubt, ask a question, or make a request.
He listened, not only with patient courtesy, but with real
interest, to the detail of their elementary difficulties, adapted
his explanation to their point of view, encouraged and guided
their inquiries, and freely offered them any assistance in his
power,-,-the use of his invaluable library even to those wishing
to pursue an extended course of private reading; so that the
admiration which the peerless intellectual qualities of the
Professor as thinker and critic had excited, was soon blended
with feelings of personal reverence and regard for his noble
simplicity of character., high moral worth, and true kindness
of heart.  These feelings became stronger and deeper with
the opportunity of knowing him      more intimately.   Sir
William Hamilton, indeed, appeared to the greatest advantage
in. the unrestrained intercourse of social and domestic life.



A Philosophic Rejorner; Method.


295


Devoted to severely abstract pursuits during the hours of
study, he enjoyed the fullest relaxation amidst his family and
friends, entering with hearty relish into all home pleasures
and pursuits, keenly appreciating a good story or capital
joke, interesting himself in the occupations of the young
people about him, nay, even sympathising with the children,
delighting in their toys and books, and not unfrequently sharing
with them their games, tales, and fireside amusements.  But
of Sir William in this relation the space already occupied
warns me that I cannot now speak.
Nor is it possible here to give, even in outline, the result
of Sir William Hamilton's labours for the advancement of his
science.  One point only, that has been already frequently
referred to, and is in itself of the highest importance, may be
noted in closing,-that of Method. By what he accomplished
in this department alone, Sir William has contributed more
to the true progress of philosophy than any single thinker for
a thousand years.  And why?     Because a true method,
faithfully pursued, is the one condition of all real progress.
The complaint is continually brought against mental science,
that, instead of advancing, it moves in a circle, the same theories
perpetually appearing, vanquishing each other, and reappearing, like the shadowy heroes of Valhalla. To a great extent
this complaint is just, nor is the reason far to seek.  The
true method of procedure has rarely been recognised by philosophers, and never at any time consistently followed. Strange
as such a statement may perhaps seem at first sight, it is
nevertheless true; and if we reflect a little, not after all so
surprising.  Philosophy is still quite young,-indeed only
just emerging from the era of Poetry into that of Science.
The earlier thinkers who attempted the problem of existence
were too much absorbed by the object of pursuit to reflect on
the way they travelled, and too enamoured of the first partial
solutions that rewarded their efforts, to ask with judicial calmness, whether they were satisfactory and complete.  Thus
their systems and theories are little better than romances of the
speculative intellect,-philosophical works of fiction founded
upon fact.  Some, perhaps, may fairly claim to be considered
historic novels, from the amount of truth they contain, but
none are History, much less Science. The position they occupy



History of Philosophic Method.


297


a one-sided system, it became necessary for his opponents, both
in Scotland and Germany, to take refuge in the neglected
facts of consciousness.   Dr. Reid, however, employs the
appeal to consciousness, by a kind of natural instinct, as a
happy controversial expedient, rather than as an instrument
of science.  Even Kant gets no further than the criticism of
principles, still speaking of ideas rather than existences, and
resting on intellectual postulates and necessities instead of
on the true basis of reality.
Thus, the whole procedure of philosophy hitherto, has
been either an assumption of principles, a criticism of principles, or at most, a capricious and immethodical appeal to
facts. To Sir William Hamilton belongs the glory of having
finally abolished this vicious system, by expounding with
philosophical rigour and minuteness the nature and conditions
of the one true method;-fixing the point of departure for
philosophy in the facts of inward experience, and converting
the appeal to Consciousness, hitherto at best so partial, fluctuating, and contradictory, into a scientific instrument of the
utmost certainty and precision.  The value of his " Dissertation on the Philosophy of Common Sense," in this relation,
cannot be overrated.   The true path being thus opened, it
is reasonable to believe, that the progress of the science in
future will be sure and rapid,-presenting a striking contrast
to the tardy rate of advancement in the past.  Such a belief
the analogy of physical science abundantly justifies.    As
physical theories are earlier in the history of speculation than
metaphysical, it was natural that physical science should first
emerge from the labyrinth of subtle dialectics in which both
were originally, and for so long involved. But even this is
a comparatively recent event.   Physical science is still in its
first youth, no branch of it being yet two hundred years old;
during the previous two thousand itremained under the dominion
of systems, and was like Metaphysics, a mere logical romance.
The most elaborate theories, starting from abstract principles
instead of observed facts, could of course really explain nothing,
could discover nothing; and instead of contributing to the
progress of the science, remained wholly barren-at best, like
the Ptolemaic astronomy, curious monuments of great but



298


298             Sir William Hamilton.


perverse ingenuity.  With the Revival of Letters came the
dawn of a bettcr method.    Bacon, standing in that early
light, clearly pointed out the, errors which had hitherto pre-,
vented the progress of inquiry, as well as the road which all
successful investigation in future must pursue; and modern
science is the result of his method.  Sir William Hamilton is
the true Bacon of mental philosophy, and his method fully
accepted and diligently followed, will here also break up the
despotism of systems, and inaugurate the era of science..
All-important as the w~ork thus accomplished is, it must
not be supposed, however, that Sir William. Hamilton did
nothing more than fix the basis, and determine the scientific
method of philosophy. On the contrary, unlike Bacon and
Descartes, he rigidly pursued himself the course pointed out
to others, and with the happiest results.  The application of
his method to the conflicting theories of Perception, given as
a general illustration of its value, at once, in the doctrine of
Natural Realism, sweeps away a multitude of one-sided theories,
and relieves the science of a controversy which has divided it
from the rise of speculation to the present day; while the
more goneral results of that application, summed up under the,
Conditions of the Thinkable, furnish the scientific means of
finally deciding other controversies equally celebrated.  The
principles of this higher philosophy-that of the Conditionedhave indeed yet to be appreciated; but it may be noted in
passing, that the solution through them of the vexed question
of Causality, though quite misapprehended by Sir William-]s
critics, afifords a signal illustration of their range and value.
Pregnant hints of their application to other central problems
of the science, are found scattered here and there in Sir
William's writings. These hints now bitterly remind us how
much philosophy has lost in the removal of the great master
who alone could have perfectly unfolded their meaning. Once
powerfully stimulating curiosity, they are of unspeakable value
now as guides to the undeveloped thought of him who always
spoke with authority, but whom we can hear no more. Though
mere fragments they sufficiently show that no department of
the science had been left unexplored, and enable us in a measure to imaggine how catholic, harmonious, and complete Sir



CHEMICAL FINAL CAUSES,


AS ILLUSTRATED BY T-IE PRESENCE OF PHOSPHORUS,
NITROGEN, AND IRON IN THE HIGHER
SENTIENT ORGANISMS.
THE recent unexampled progress of Anatomy, Chemistry,
and Physiology, has brought into startling prominence a
problem which may be thus stated, " Why do certain Chemical elements or ingredients, rather than others, enter into the
composition of Plants and Animals?"  This question has
probably been put to himself more or less clearly, by every
considerate student of the Sciences named above, and has
unconsciously guided researches which did not professedly
deal with it.  There is not one, moreover, of our great
Physiologists and Chemists who has not long meditated on
this problem, and largely contributed to its solution, but their
replies in the majority of cases, have been indirect and
implicit; sometimes indeed instinctive rather than intentional;
and those whom they have addressed have often failed to
perceive that a question had been proposed, and an answer to it
given. A very few have distinctly considered the problem,
among whom    a foremost place must be assigned to the
learned Lehmann1 in whose writings such phrases as "the
physiological value " of an element continually occur, and
who is induced only by a sense of the complexity of the
Physiological Chemistry by Prof. G. C. Lehmann, vol. i. Translat d
for the Cavendish Society by Prof. G. E. Day, St. Andrews. JMet/oological Introduction, pp. 10, 25.



The Possible Organismal Elements.


305


Of the two missing non-metallic elements, Selenium, the
analogue of sulphur, may be found accompanying the latter
in the sulphur-compounds of the animal, organism; and
Boron, the salts of whose oxy-acids resemble those of carbon
and silicon, may be associated with the alkaline carbonates
and phosphates. Neither of these elements has as yet been
sought for.
It may seem at first sight, questioning the sufficiency of
the Chemist's "victorious analysis" to detect every ingredient of a complex whole, to hint that he may have missed
certain organismal elements because he did not seek for them;
seeing that he professes his ability to resolve an unknown
composite substance into each of its ingredients, however
numerous they may be, provided only they are all among the
recognised sixty (or more) elements.  But in reality, the
Physiological Chemist has never done more than say, " this
is present," and has always left a margin for those possible
elements which had not been objects of search with him. No
deliberate, exhaustive inquiry into all the elements of any plant
or animal has ever been instituted, and till it shall be, a query
may be put in every list of organismal elements over against
all the so-called chemical simple substances; although it is
manifest that, in the case of the human organism, we know
all the elements which are present in large quantity in it.
At the same time, when we find an organic compound so
easily detected as sugar, overlooked, till very recently, in the
secretions of the liver; and so familiar a substance as ammonia,
after being positively pronounced, by the most skilful and
impartial Chemists, to be totally absent from the blood,
demonstrated, to the satisfaction of the most competent
judges, to be one of its never failing and most important
constituents, we must avoid dogmatising on what substances
may yet prove to be essential ingredients, even of those
organisms which have for the longest time been objects of
study. And as quantity is no measure of value in the case
of an organismal element, we must apply a similar rule to
the rarest simple substances.   More than five years of
research have enabled me to demonstrate the universal distribution of Fluorine throughout the mineral, vegetable, and animal
kingdoms, and especially its occurrence in the higher organisms;
x



306


Chemical Final Causes.


and at length, my results have received confirmation by M.
Nickles,1 who is about to lay his observations before the
French Academy.
It thus appears, that, as regards the kind or quality, of their
component matter, living organisms, so far as we know them,
consist chiefly of non-metallic matter; eleven out of the
thirteen non-metals (including hydrogen) being found in
them, whilst only six of the solidifiable metals have as yet
been   recognised   among   their components.      If, however,
Hydrogen is a metal, as there are so many reasons for believing it to be, and if Silicon is a metal, and as such better
named Silicium, then the list of non-metallic bodies will
be diminished by two, but they will still exceed the metals
in number by three.2
So far again as quantity of component ingredient is concerned, the bulk and weight of all living Organisms are most
largely made up of non-metallic matter; charcoal and oxygen
specially preponderating.
In relation, thus, both to quality and quantity of constituent elements, Plants and Animals are mainly aggregations
of Non-Metals: but this forms no point of distinction between
them and a multitude, perhaps the majority, of minerals; nor
does it warrant any conclusion as to the metals which do
occur in Organisms, being less important than their nonmetallic elements.
1 My papers on Fluorine are contained in the Transactions of the
Royal Society of Edinburgh for April 6, 1846, and April 19, 1852, and
in the Proceedings of the same Society for November 1846; likewise in
the Reports of the British Association for 1846 and 1850, and in the
Transactions of the Botanical Society of Edinburgh for 1852. I give
these references in detail, because M. Nickles is apparently unacquainted
with any of my researches, and has deposited with the French Academy,
a preliminary Note on " The Presence of Fluorine in the Blood," which,
ten years after I had announced the fact, he claims as a discovery which
he has just made in November last.   (Journal de Pharmacie pour
Decembre 1856.   Pr6sence du fluor dans le sang par M. J. Nickles.
Communiqu6 & l'Academie des Sciences, dans la sdance du 3 November
1856.)
2 The recent interesting discovery by Wbhler and Deville, that Boron
is crystallisable like Carbon in its diamond-modification, and does not
put on crystalline metallic characters, lessens the probability of Silicon
proving to be a metal.
3 Certainly the majority, if Silicon, which next to Oxygen is the
prevailing celement in Minerals, is not metallic.



Rejective Power of Organisms.         307
Living Organisms then are not chance-medleys of elements of different kinds; nor do they consist of equal quantities of all the elements; nor do they contain in greatest
quantity the elements which contribute most largely to the
weight of the Globe.
It is true that as all plants consist chiefly of Charcoal and
Water, the amount of Vegetable Matter on the Globe could
not be large, if Carbon, Hydrogen, and Oxygen, were not
abundant; and as the great majority of animals have much
lime in their skeletons, their number could not be great, if
lime were a scarce substance. But it certainly is not merely
because charcoal, water, and lime are plentiful that they
occur in living Organisms. On the other hand both plants
and animals are found to reject substances which are in
abundance about them, and to appropriate others which are
scantily provided by nature, and can only be very slowly
accumulated even in favourable circumstances.    A  Land
plant, for example, finds in the soil which supports it much
of the earth or oxide Alumina, and very little of the Alkalies
potash and soda; yet it totally refuses to take any of the
alumina, whilst it untiringly searches for and absorbs the
alkalies; or dies if it cannot find them.  A graminivorous
animal finds in its food much Silica, yet with the exception
of a very little in the hair, and mere traces elsewhere, silica
is absent from all its structures.  On the other hand it finds
in its food very little phosphate of lime but it appropriates
the whole of it, expending it on the nutrition of every tissue,
but especially in constructing its bones.
If we had the means of comparing the weight of an
elephant's tusk, say of 150 lbs., with the tons of vegetable
matter which the animal had to devour, and the hundredweights of Silica which it had to reject, before it obtained a
sufficient amount of phosphate of Lime to form the ivory of
a single tooth, we should have a startling proof that there is
no necessary connection between the quantity of raw material
offered to an Organism, and the quantity of that material
appropriated by it.
The illustration of this truth afforded by the rejection of
Alumina by plants, and of Silica by animals, is the more
significant that it is strikingly at variance with  common



308                Chemical Final Causes.
belief.  Silica and Alumina together, constitute clay, and
although this occurs in no plant or animal of any kind, all
plants and animals, and especially Man are held to have been
created from it, and to revert to it after death.  Not merely
the vulgar but also the intelligent have agreed in interpreting the Sacred declaration that " the Lord God formed man
of the dust of the ground," as signifying that man was made
from clay.  Theologians have often undesignedly contributed
to the opinion, by mixing up with this simple declaration of
a physical truth the purely metaphorical references of Scripture to "' the earthly house of this tabernacle" and to mankind under God's sovereignty as resembling " Clay in the
hands of the potter."   The doctrine, however, does not belong only to Christendom.   In many regions of the East,
Adam is held to have been a Red Man and made of red
clay; nay, a specimen of such loam, brought from a traditional
site of the Garden of Eden near the Euphrates, was recently
offered in Edinburgh for chemical analysis, to see if it could
be identified as Adamic dust!  Shakespeare long ago counted
upon a universal response when he made Hamlet too curiously
consider, how
Imperious Coesar dead, and turned to clay,
Might stop a hole to keep the wind away;
and our latest and greatest poetess, in her Aurora Leigh,
makes her hero Romney exclaim,
" Dear Marian, of one clay God made us all,
And though men push and poke and paddle in't,
(As children play at fashioning dirt-pies),
And call their fancies by the name of facts,
Assuming difference, lordship, privilege,
When all's plain dirt,--they come back to it at last;
The first grave-digger proves it with a spade,
And pats all even."'
The belief is a very natural one, for no dust is more
abundant than clay-dust; and plants live with their roots
buried in clay, and on plants all Animals, including Man,


1 1st Edn. p. 139.



Selective Power of Organisms.


309


feed directly or indirectly; yet the belief is without any
foundation. Dust we are, and unto dust we shall return, but
not into clay.
The selecting power which thus characterises the vegetable and animal worlds each as a whole, is not less strikingly
shown when we compare genera with genera, or species with
species, as to their component ingredients.  In every botanic
garden one may see plants requiring very different kinds of
food growing side by side, and living on the same soil.  Botanic gardens would be impossible but for this. If we had
not only to bring the palm fiom South America, and the
camellia from China, but also to import the very earth in
which they grew, our richest gardens would exhibit a very
meagre show. We stole the secret of porcelain-making from
the Chinese, but it did us no good, till in a few widely-separated places in Europe we discovered porcelain-clay. But
the camellias, the azaleas, and tea-plants of China take as
kindly to British earth as if they had never known any other;
and the palms, if they sigh for brighter skies, and for breezes
with warmer breaths, make no complaint against the soil or
water of England. Botanic gardens are possible, because,
provided their soils contain all the ingredients of plants,
each will select for itself exactly what it requires.
Zoological gardens are possible for a similar reason, and
illustrate the same truth. The naturally carnivorous cat may
be accustomed to a vegetable diet, and the naturally graminivorous horse or ox to an animal diet, provided in both
cases no ingredient essential to life is wanting, for the selecting power resident in each organism will prevent it from
injuriously losing or gaining by the change.
A still more striking example of selective action is afforded
by the plants and animals which simultaneously develop
themselves from the same medium, such as the sea. In any
rocky pool, when the tide is out, and in every thriving drawing-room  aquarium, one may find the graceful plants which
we call sea-weeds sipping from the mingled waters their
daily fractional dose of iodine; housed sea-snails sucking from
it carbonate of lime for their shells; restless fishes extracting
from it phosphate of lime to strengthen their bones; and



3Io


Chemical Final Causes.


lazy-like sponges dipping successfully into it for silica to
distend the months of their filters.
Thus, no creature is a fortuitous concourse of atoms.
Each is as definite and constant in its chemical composition
as it is in its mechanical structure, or its external form.  A
bird does not more certainly in successive generations
instinctively build its nest in the same way, than from the
first moment of its embryonic life it unconsciously builds its
own body out of the same materials, gathering lime to its
bones, iron to its blood, and silica to its feathers.
In this way, through unnumbered centuries, each tribe of
organisms has from the period of its creation followed in its
structural development, a chemical formula of composition,
which in the same species is constant, within narrow limits,
for every one of its members, so that each plant and animal
has a chemical as well as an anatomical individuality.  On
analysing an organism, we find certain substances, and only
these, present; and we have made some progress, though as
yet it is but small, in establishing the quantities in which
those chemical constants occur in different species.  I have
called them " constants" because the first, and, perhaps, the
fullest proof that a chemical element is essential to an
organism, is its invariable presence in it.  A criterion like
that by which Vincentius Lirinensis proposed to test Catholic
religious doctrine is applicable here. Quod semper, quod ubiqute,
quod ab omnibus.   Whatever chemical element is found in all
the individuals of a species, at all times, and in all places, is
essential to each individual.  This criterion requires only the
qualification that neither plant nor animal can prevent nonessential substances from entering its body along with its
food, and in the air and water on which it so largely lives;
so that if we analyse it whilst it is thus traversed by a nonessential element, we may mistake that for an essential
ingredient.   But if this unwelcome visitant be not so
poisonous as to lill the subject of its intrusion, in which case
analysis would be out of the question, it will soon be dismissed, for every organism has as positive a power of refusing
as of choosing, and its house is its castle.  It would be
foolish, accordingly, to act like the census-collectors who count



312


312             Chemical Final Causes.


derance of such power on the part of either, but only perfect
equality, so that we speak of one and two hundred as the
chemical equivalents of these bodies. Quicksilver may represent
an abundant organismal element, when contrasted b y equivalent with hydrogen, held to represent a scanty one, but neither
chemically excels the other in such proportions; to compare
the chemical powers of equal weights, is to transgress the
first law of quantitative chemistry. We must in the meanwhile be content to ascertain in what proportions the elements
of organisms occur in them, with no prejudice in favour of
scanty or abundant occurrence as a measure of importance.Seeing, then, that every plant and animal is an edifice
like the temple of the Hebrews, built of stones squared and
fashioned for their respective places before they were put
together, we cannot forbear the question why were certain
building materials chosen rather than others? This choice
can have been made, no matter how brought about, only
because of a peculiar fitness which they possessed beyond
those equally accessible, to which they were preferred.  Let
us try the point in a case or two, and in the following way,
limiting ourselves to the human organism.
Suppose an intelligent person, quite ignorant of both
chemistry and physiology, to be taught as much of the latter
science as can be learned without an acquaintance with the
former, and then to have shown him the properties of all the
chemical elements and their chief compounds, after which he
is requested to state which of those elements is most likely
to occur in the human frame.
Avoiding all minute details in reference to structural
peculiarities, and not even appealing to the microscope; (for it
would be premature in the present state of our knowledge to
attempt to explain the chemical changes which attend the
development and metamorphosis of cells;) the physiologist
is content to teach his pupil the great general laws which
regulate the changes of the human organism during life; such
for example as the following.,
The living body of man unites in itself the contrasted
and apparently incompatible qualities, of great stability and
great mobility.  It is so stable that it can last for threescore
years and ten; for a hundred or more; maintaining its



Burning and Unburning of the Body.


3I5


Chemically, again, the human organism is the continual
subject of swift changes of its composition in opposite direc+   tions.  One half of the blood, which is in the arteries, is
always in one chemical condition; the other half which is in
the veins, is in another condition: and the whole blood is at
all times rapidly transferred through these alternations.  The
arterial blood is charged with oxygen; the venous with
carbonic acid.  These gases are partly the causes, partly the
effects, partly the indices of chemical differences between the
two bloods, which affect probably more or less all their
respective ingredients. At one half revolution of the circulation, they are changed in one way at the capillaries of the
lungs, whilst oxygen is absorbed: at the other half revolution
they are changed in another way at the capillaries of the
system, whilst oxygen is lost and carbonic acid takes its place.
There is thus continual addition of matter to the body,
and continual withdrawal of matter from it; but apart from
this, and within the ring-fence of its own organism, a process of combustion,'and one the very reverse, are going on
together. Our bodies are at all times like the fire which was
shown to the hero of the Pilgrim's Progress in Interpreter's
House, which had water poured on it, on one side of the wall
against which it blazed, and oil on the other. Here one
tissue is burning like fuel, and there another is becoming the
depository of combustible matter.   We have, as it were,
millions of microscopic wind-furnaces, converting into carbonic
acid, water-vapour, and other products of combustion, all the
combustible elements of the body; and millions of blast-furnaces reducing the starch and sugar of the food, and the
sulphates and phosphates of the body, into inflammable oils
and other fuels, which are finally transferred to the windfurnaces and burned there.  Burning, and what we must call
in contradistinction, unburning, thus proceed together; the
flame of life, like a blow-pipe flame, exhibiting an oxidising,
and a reducing action, at points not far distant from  each
other.
There are thus as concerns the organism, continual addition and cdntinual abstraction; continual physical alternation
of liquefaction and solidification; continual chemical alternation
of combustion and reduction.  The blood-vessels are at once



Phosphorus and its Analogues.


317


the Homo Sapiens of Linneus.   At all events, the chances
are very great that he would pass over entirely that remarkable group of elements, in which two of the most characteristic
ingredients of all animal organisms are included. This group
contains four bodies, Phosphorus, Arsenic, Antimony, Nitrogen, with an outlying fifth one, Bismuth, which I do not at
present consider; and, in the whole category of elements, no
four at first sight seem more unfitted for organismal constituents than they.  Phosphorus has been known for two centuries as a dangerous combustible, and most deadly poison,
which the recent sad, and often fatal experience of the
lucifer-match makers has shown to possess a peculiar antipathy to the bones, for when it can reach them, as it can those
of the jaws, it rots them away. On the poisonous properties of
arsenic it is quite needless to dwell. Antimony, or AntiMonk, betrays by its name a deadliness to man, akin to that
of its name-sister, Monkshood, a still more potent killer; and
for both, all men are monks. Nitrogen, on the other hand, has
seemingly no properties at all; a light, thin, tasteless, insipid,
insoluble, incombustible gas, to appearance good fornothing, and
as such fitly symbolised in chemical tables by the letter N.
Two Murderers, a dangerous Mediciner, and an Incapable,
are surely not the parties to whom any one would propose
to entrust our lives?  Yet the fiery phosphorus and the
negative nitrogen, are the two elements which, by their greater
abundance in animals, and the part which they play there,
most strikingly distinguish animals from plants; and they are
specially important in relation to the human organism.
When, moreover, we study those two elements more particularly, they singularly change characters; Phosphorus, on a
closer acquaintance, proving to be a very healthful and friendly
occupant of the body, Nitrogen prone to conceal under its
look of helpless indifference the most energetic powers of
making and marring, so that when occasion calls, it proves
better at killing and slaying than any one of its more demonstrative brethren.
Into a more detailed consideration of these elements I
will now enter, in the hope of showing, that though we might,
not have anticipated their presence in our bodies, we can
point out many reasons why they actually are there.  First



3V8


Chemical Final Causes.


of phosphorus. Its importance to the human organism is
shown, 1st, by its invariable presence in it; 2d, by the abundance of its presence; 3d, by the. universality of its presence;
4th, by the diversified manifestations of its presence; 5th,
by the active part which it takes in the most energetic vital
processes, such as absorption, secretion, nutrition, reproduction, sensation, emotion, and all the other forms of nervous
or cerebral action; 6th, by the invariable loss of health which
attends its withdrawal from the body; 7th, by its efficacy as
a restorative.  A  substance which is alike present in the
hardest bone and the most pulpy nerve, which occurs in one
form or rather series of forms in the blood, in another series
in the flesh-juices, in a third in the milk, in a fourth in the
brain, and probably in other modifications elsewhere in the
organism, and which is associated with all its critical changes,
must be pre-eminently serviceable to the body.
Phosphorus occurs in all organisms chiefly as phosphoric
acid, in union with water, with mineral and organic bases,
with fatty bodies, and in other forms of organic combination
as yet little understood.  The following exposition of the
properties of the element and its chief organismal compounds
may illustrate why it is so serviceable to the body.
I. Phosphorus is remarkable for the Protean shapes which
it can assume.  Some elementary bodies, such as gold, are
familiar to us in one form, and that so beautiful that we are
not curious to inquire whether the metal can assume other
and less noble shapes.  In truth we have but recently fully
realised that a multitude of the chemical elements can masquerade in disguises, through which we with difficulty realise
- their individuality.  Among those masqueraders a first place
must be given to the element under notice.
Since about 1660 we have been familiar with phosphorus
as a soft semi-transparent nearly colourless wax-like substance,
possessed of a glassy structure, exhaling in the air an odour
of garlic, shining even at the freezing point of water, melting
a hundred degrees below the boiling point (111~5 F.) of that
liquid, bursting into flame in the air at a temperature a little
higher, and yielding a thick white smoke condensing into a
snow  of phosphoric acid.   This form  of the element we
have learned to distinguish as vitreous phosphorus.  It is



Modifications of Phosphorus.


319


so inflammable, that it can be preserved with safety only
under water, and there is scarcely a chemist who has not
been in some degree a martyr to its flames.        It is so
poisonous that not a year passes without some poor child
falling a victim to the minute portion which it thoughtlessly
eats from a lucifer-match, and without some uncautioned lucifermatch maker suffering the prolonged tortures of slow poisoning,
which its daily administration in infinitesimal doses infallibly
occasionis.  It reacts so powerfully upon the air in which it is
permitted to fume, that it changes its oxygen into the energetic, oxidising, deodorising and bleaching agent which is
known as ozone.    In a word, it exhibits in an intense degree
an affinity, or tendency to combine, alike with metals and
non-metals, and strikingly alters each by its union with it.
In so far, then, as mobility, or susceptibility of various
change is concerned, no one will question the fitness of phosphorus to become an organismal element. But till recently
we had not discovered that it can change this mobile, restless,
agonistic condition, for one of passive indifference and great
stability.
Recent researches have shown that vitreous phosphorus
is susceptible of no fewer than five modifications.
1st, It may be altered from the glassy to the crystalline
condition.
2d, By exposure under water to aii and light, it becomes
a white, opaque, sparingly fusible body.
3d, By fusion and sudden cooling at a comparatively low
temperature, it becomes black and opaque.
4th, By elevation to near its boiling point, and sudden
cooling, it becomes viscid like sulphur in the same circumstances, and retains for a considerable period a consistence
like that of caoutchouc.
5th, By exposure to the rays of the sun in a vacuum,
or in a gas free from oxygen, or in water free from air, and
excluded from air, it changes into an amorphous red solid.
Thus we know phosphorus as
1. A symmetrical crystal.
2. A true vitreous body, or glass.
3. A soft elastic substance like caoutchouc.
4. A white amorphous solid.



320


Chemical Final Causes.


5. A black amorphous solid.
6. A red amorphous solid.1
The crystalline phosphorus and the vitreous closely correspond
in chemical characters, and we know little of the elastic, the
white and the black varieties; but the possibility of producing them illustrates how susceptible phosphorus is of many
modifications, and in the red amorphous modification we
have an indifferent form of the element, so unlike that in
which we are accustomed to see phosphorus, that though it
has been in the chemist's hands for more than a century, he
has only very recently recognised that it is phosphorus.
It is now, however, manufactured on the large scale,2 so
that its properties may be stated and illustrated in full.  It
is neither crystalline nor glassy, but amorphous, and heavier
than the familiar forms of phosphorus.     It does not shine
at the heat of freezing water, nor melt even at that of boiling
water.    It exhales at ordinary temperatures no vapour and
no odour, nor does it become oxidised in the air, or change
it into ozone." It is not poisonous even when          directly
administered in doses a hundred times greater than those
which are fatal with vitreous phosphorus, and it may be handled
with impunity.    Towards other elements it shows in general a singular indifference, nor is it till we raise it to the
temperature of 500~ F., some 470~ above the heat necessaTry to make vitreous phosphorus begin to burn, that it
starts  into  activity, bursting   into flame, and    yielding
phosphoric   acid.    It  appears  to   owe   its  peculiarities
to the presence in it of much latent heat, so that it differs
friom vitreous phosphorus, as steam does fri-om water, and
water from ice, for it is most easily produced by long maintenance of the common phosphorus at a temperature below
1 See Gmelin's Handbook of Chemistry, Cavendish Soc. Trans., article
Phosphorus. Prof. W. A. Miller's Chemistry, vol. ii. p. 593. Graham's
Chemistry, vol. i. p. 431.
2 Messrs. Albright, near Birmingham, have for the last five or six
years prepared red phosphorus according to Schr6tter's process, which
they have patented. I am indebted to these gentlemen for the opportunity of examining large specimens of this important substance, which
promises, by its comparative harmlessness, to render the manufacture,
use, and carriage of lucifer matches much less dangerous than they are
at present.



Incorrosiveness of Phosphoric Acid.


323


earth, of which the larger part is lime, whilst the remainder
is in great part phosphoric acid.  This acid can be separated
from  the bone-earth, by pouring oil of vitriol upon it, and
its properties as the dominant acid of all the higher sentient
organisms, are now to be considered.
Phophoric acid has all the properties of the most powerful
acids.  It dissolves in water. It is intensely sour. It reddens
all acidifiable vegetable blues.  It perfectly saturates powerful
bases.   In these respects it agrees with sulphuric, nitric,
hydrochloric, and   acetic acids.  But from    all other acids
possessing such properties, it differs in several singular ways,
and these differences point to the cause of its organismal preeminence.
The first remarkable difference is its freedom from corrosiveness. The acids named above, even when considerably
diluted with water, rapidly disintegrate organic bodies, and
in their strongest aqueous dilutions, act like hot irons on the
skin.   A   drop of oil of vitriol, or of the strongest aqua
fortis, burns the flesh like a live coal, and unless mingled with
much water, excites painful and dangerous inflammation of
the tissues.  But the phosphoric acid extracted from    bones,
even when combined with a chemical minimum of water, and
concentrated into a crystallisable hydrate, may be spread for
a considerable time over the thinnest skin of the living body
without burning, paining, or inflaming it.    It is thus of all
the strong acids we know, the only one which can be set
free, and that in a concentrated form, within living organisms, without causing their destruction.    In this peculiarity
I find one cause of its universal presence in the body; for
whatever services an acid can render to an active organism
phosphoric acid can render to the full without harming it.1
A second peculiarity of phosphoric acid is, that unlike
the majority of equally strong acids, it does not coagulate
albumen. And as this substance, familiar to all in white of
egg, is largely present in the flesh, the natural juice of which
' It seems worth the consideration of surgeons, whether common
phosphoric acid, in virtue of its unirritating action on living tissues, and
its solvent action on phosphatic calculi, may not as a litholytic be brought
in direct contact with vesical concretions of the non-acid class, and render in some cases operations unnecessary.



324


Chemical Final Causes.


contains partially neutralised phosphoric acidl;' and is also
largely present in the brain and nerves, associated with a
modification of the same acid known as oleo-phosphoric acid,
we can affirm at least that the solitary potent inorganic acid
compatible with the non-coagulation of albumen, is the only
one found in a free (or at least partially free) state, in association with the liquid form of that important organismal
constituent.  These peculiarities, however, are as nothing
compared with the third, which calls for special notice.  The
majority of acids which are soluble in water exhibit their
characteristic properties most markedly when associated with
the chemical minimum    of water which can combine with
them, and when more water is added, they show in a less
degree, according to their dilution, such qualities as sourness,
power to alter vegetable colours, and to saturate bases.
There is thus but one sulphuric, or nitric acid.  The less
water united with either, the more powerful it is, and the
greater the weight of base it can neutralise.  In the language
of quantitative chemistry, one equivalent (or chemical unit)
of nitric acid can combine with one equivalent of a base,
neither more nor less.  This is the general rule.  One unit
by weight of an acid unites with one unit of base, and here the
neutralising power of the former stops, so that as dilution by
water implies the spreading of the efficacious unit over a wider
area, a given weight of diluted acid must neutralise a smaller
weight of an undiluted base than the same weight of stronger
acid will neutralise. Hence, the less amount of water, the
greater the acidity of the acid; and unit of acid to unit of
water is the condition of greatest strength.
But to this widely applicable rule phosphoric acid forms
a remarkable exception. It is most acid when united not with
one, but with three units of water.  In this condition it is
extracted from bones, and found (at least after death), in the
blood and flesh. One unit of the acid crystallises along with
three units of water, and retains these in special combination
to whatever extent it is diluted with more water.      Its
neutralising power, moreover, is correspondingly threefold,
so that, for example, in the bones, one equivalent of it
is combined with three equivalents of lime, whilst all the
1 The tribasic, acid phosphate of potash (2 H O, K 0 + PO5.)



Modifications of Phosphoric Acid.


325


other bone-acids are united in single units, with a single
unit of lime.   An endless series of salts similar to bonephosphate, but containing other bases than lime, are known
to chemists, who distinguish them as a class, as the tribasic
phosphates.    The organismal importance, however, of this
property of phosphoric acid will not appear till we look to a
fourth peculiarity which it possesses.
Phosphoric acid has the singular power of dropping or
casting off, as it were, one of the three units of water which
it is able to retain, keeping only two, and refusing, even
though dissolved in volumes of water, to take back the third.
In this modification (which is known as pyro-phosphoric acid),
it has not a threefold, but only a twofold power of neutralising
bases, so that, for example, as it occurs in burnt bones, one
equivalent is united with but two equivalents of magnesia,
and an extensive series of corresponding salts is known,
distinguished as the bibasic phosphates.
But further: pyro-phosphoric acid can part with one of
the two units of water which it characteristically retains, as
common phosphoric acid can part at once with two of its
three characteristic units of water, both becoming, like the
ordinary mineral acids, a compound of unit of acid to unit of
water, with a onefold power of neutralising bases.       This
modification has been called meta-phosphoric acid.    It also
forms a large series of salts all containing one equivalent of
acid to one equivalent of base, and distinguished as monobasic
phosphates.
Meta-phosphoric acid, unlike the other hydrates of the
acid, coagulates albumen. Dissolved in cold water, it slowly
takes to itself two additional units of that body; and if
boiled with the liquid, it takes them with great rapidity.
We have thus to begin with a snow-like soft solid, called
anhydrous phosphoric acid, procured by burning dry phosphorus in equally dry air. When we dissolve it in water, it
so unites with that liquid as to produce, according to circumstances, three acid solutions, as distinct from each other in
all their properties as if they were composed of totally different
ingredients.  These three solutions, distinguished as common
phosphoric, pyro-phosphoric, and meta-phosphoric acids (of
which the first two are crystallisable as solids), are mutually



4Anomalous Relation of Phosphoric Acid to Water.


327


from an organised structure, anhydrous phosphoric acid can
take from them.  The most caustic acids known to us are
probably sulphuric and hydrofluoric acid, but the strong
hydrates of both are rendered anhydrous by phosphoric acid,
which nevertheless does not possess a trace of their causticity.
It has latterly come into extensive and most important use
among scientific chemists, as a means of dehydrating or rendering waterless other substances, so remarkably does it excel
them in affinity for water, and yet the powers which they
owe to such an affinity are not exhibited by it. It is thus a
lord paramount among acids, compelling its barons to surrender to it the prey which they have taken from the innocents, but never found robbing the innocents itself.
There is much indeed, as yet unaccounted for, in the relation of phosphoric acid to water.  One should expect such a
substance to dissolve in this liquid with the greatest rapidity; yet
the anhydrous acid, though it hisses like hot iron when it meets
water, and shows by the heat which it evolves, an intense
affinity for it, seems to retain that affinity only for a moment,
and to have its thirst quenched by the first draught, or rather
sip of liquid, for it dissolves slowly, like snow which has
barely reached the thawing temperature. Anhydrous sulphuric acid, on the other hand, not only undergoes aqueous
solution with great energy and rapidity, but, long after it has
acquired its unit of water, continues eagerly to combine with
more, absorbing its vapour from the atmosphere, so as to
desiccate everything in its neighbourhood; and the other
strong acids have a similar power. Phosphoric acid is thus
like a feverish child, begging for a great bowl of water, but
pushing it away the moment its lips are wetted. Sulphuric
acid is like the sufferer from a gunshot wound, whose insatiable craving for water, no number of goblets can appease;
and yet the former acid can drink the latter dry.
Whatever be the explanation of this anomaly, the important fact remains that phosphoric acid is at once more powerful
than strong sulphuric acid, and less irritant than weak vinegar,
so that it can innocently traverse every part of the body.
But of what service it may be asked is it to the body, to be
traversed by an acid whether innocuous or irritant?  To this,
in the meanwhile, it will be sufficient to reply, that the chief



Services of Phosphoric Acid to the Organism.  331
traverse the tissues), and phosphoric acid provides a salt, containing 2 units of water and 1 of potash, which secures the
requisite acidity. Further: in some of the serous and other
liquids of the body, a changeable salt is required; and for this
phosphoric acid provides, by combining with soda, ammonia,
and water, to produce microcosmic salt which is alkaline in its
integrity, but by parting with the easily lost, volatile ammonia,
becomes alkaline.'
All those compounds are needed in the adult as well
as in the infant organism. With the adult we may further
connect such an incident as the fracture of a bone, which is
repaired by a beautiful process of splicing, during which phosphates, first very soluble, then moderately so, then slightly so,
are finally succeeded by dense insoluble bone-earth, filling up
the breach till it becomes the strongest part of the reunited
bone. And as counterpart of this, we have the most solid
bone dissolving under the pressure of a throbbing (aneurismal)
blood-vessel, which unless the bone gave way would first
torture, and then kill the whole body. Particle by particle,
the petrified ivory is pressed, softened, melted, dissolved, and
washed away by the same potent acid which hardened it from
a thin liquid into a compact solid.
At all periods, moreover, in the life of the body, the liquid
albumen and fibrin of the blood are becoming solid albumen
and fibrin in the tissues. Both are also becoming, in the
nursing mother, the casein of her milk, and that casein in her
suckling's body is becoming the albumen and fibrin of its flesh
and blood, and building up its organs in other ways.
Each of these blood-forming, flesh-forming, milk-forming,
tissue-forming bodies, albumen, fibrin and casein, and likewise
their analogue gelatine, are inseparably accompanied in all
their liquefactions, solidifications and transmutations by phosphates, which in virtue of their mobility, are able to liquefy,
solidify, and undergo transmutation as the body which they
accompany does. We cannot pretend to follow those changes
step by step, for they occur within the inaccessible penetratralia of a living structure; but certain it is that the phosphates accommodate themselves to changes which no other
salts we know could submit to.
1 Lehmann's PAYSiol. Chem. Cay. Soc. Trans. vol. i. 369.



332


Chemical Final Causes.


In the particular cases given above, there may be great
misapprehension and even signal error.  But in the general
estimate of the organismal suitableness of phosphates beyond
all other salts, there cannot be much mistake.  Chemical
unions have been compared to marriages, and chemical compounds to wedded pairs. If the comparison is accepted, then
the great majority of the mineral acids are monogamists and
wedded each to a single base; but phosphoric acid, like an
Eastern patriarch, has the privilege if he pleases of wedding
three bases, although he is often satisfied with two, and can
cheerfully content himself with one. Or, to vary the figure more
expressively, the ordinary acids are like the Hindoos under
the domination of caste, and when hired as servants stipulate to
carry but one thing, and the minimum weight of that. Phosphoric acid is an English servant of all work, lifting three
loads at a time, of any three things that require to be
lifted, and willing at all times to make himself generally
useful.
Putting all figure aside, we may affirm that no acid is
known to us, approaching to phosphoric acid in susceptibility
of various modification.  Even if we were to suppose, that as
a hermit crab tries shell after shell till he finds one to fit him,
the living organism had made trial in turn of all the mineral
acids, we cannot imagine it finally selecting any one but
phosphoric acid.
For a knowledge of its remarkable properties we are
chiefly indebted to Professor Graham, who was the first also to
suggest that its manifold variability specially qualified it for
being what I may term the organismal acid par excellence.
"Phosphoric acid," he observes, "is one of the links by
which mineral and organic compounds are connected. And
it may be reasonably supposed that it is that pliancy of constitution which peculiarly adapts the phosphoric above all
other mineral acids to the wants of the animal economy."' He
also illustrates this remarkable "pliancy" by the conversion
which the hydrated metaphosphate of soda (Na 0, P05 + HO)
undergoes at 300~ F. into the pyrophosphate of soda and
water (Na 0, HO, + PO,), remarking that its conversion "exhibits a change of nature, without a change of composition, such
1 Elements of Chemistry, 2d edition, vol. i. p. 451.



336


Chemical Final Causes.


But though free nitrogen will scarcely unite with a single
other free element, by indirect processes it can be made to
unite with nearly all the elements; and the compounds which
it forms are among the most remarkable which the chemist
knows; acids the most potent, such as nitric acid; alkalies the
most powerful, of which ammonia is one among a multitude;
dyes the most useful, such as indigo; medicines the most
energetic, such as quinine; poisons the most deadly, such
as prussic acid and strychnia; besides endless other substances,
belonging to every category of chemical compounds.
To the nitrogenous bodies as a class, belongs as a distinctive property the utmost readiness to undergo change,
and exactly because they contain an element indifferent to
change.    Its great gaseous elasticity prevents it from entering
into combination, and its great tendency to recover the gaseous
form causes it readily to abandon its compounds. As Gmelin
expresses it, "Nitrogen has probably the greatest affinity of
all ponderable bodies for heat, with which it constantly tends
to form   a gas.   Consequently, many of its compounds are
decomposed by slight causes, with extreme suddenness, the
nitrogen being disengaged in the gaseous form, and often
producing the most violent explosions."1
One mode in which the characteristic longing of nitrogen
for freedom displays itself, is as Gmelin implies, by conferring
explosiveness on its compounds.      I need only name gunpowder; the various bodies of which gun-cotton is the type;
percussion-cap powder and the other fulminates; the so-called
ammoniuret of gold; and the chloride and iodide of nitrogen.
In a greatly lessened degree, this chemical fragility and
rapidity of combustion and oxidation at the earth's surface; whilst as a
great gaseous envelope which the ocean and tributary waters cannot
dissolve, and which neither acts injuriously on rocks, plants, or animals,
nor is altered in quality by them, it forms a permanent medium for the
production of winds, and a moderator and equaliser of the sidereal light,
heat, and other agencies determining climatic differences, such as no
other gas, simple or compound, known to us, could be. But however
important such services are to the entire vegetable and animal world,
they are rendered outside of the organism, and cannot be added to the
list of good qualities which belong to nitrogen as an organismal element.
1 Handbook of COemistry. Cav. Soc. Trans., vol. ii. p. 373.



344


Chemical Final Causes.


Electricity also invariably develops magnetism, and we know
that electrical currents are constantly traversing the muscles
and other organs. Such currents will react on the magnetic
masses in their neighbourhood and be reacted on by them,
with a corresponding exaltation of the intensity alike of the
electricity and the magnetism.
Further, the peculiar force or polarity which acts along
the nerves resembles in many respects electrical and magnetic
force.  It is probable that all three forces or polarities
powerfully influence each other, and that the magnetisable
iron of the body is continually taking part in such reciprocal
actions.  If, moreover, the iron in the blood-vessels, as has
been suggested previously, becomes magnetic oxide at each
half-revolution of the blood, it will be much more magnetic
at each of the great crises of the circulation than at any
other period.  I feel- at least assured that the magnetic
qualities of iron are among its organismal virtues, and that
Copper, for example, however suitable otherwise, could never
perfectly replace iron, inasmuch as it is devoid of all but
traces of magnetic power.
Such is an endeavour, most imperfect and inadequate,
to exemplify one mode in which we may hope to discover
why living creatures consist of certain chemical substances
rather than of others.  I ask for an indulgent estimate of a
method of research in which I have scarcely a predecessor;
but I submit to criticism examples of the method, because I
believe it to be logically free firom objection. It only assumes
that whatever properties a chemical element possesses before
its entrance into an organism, it retains after its entrance.
Thus, if iron be crystallisable, magnetisable, electrifiable,
oxidable in various degrees, and ready to unite with organic
matters out of the body, I assume that it will continue to exhibit
those properties within it, whatever may be the additional
properties which it manifests in virtue of its being placed in
such new conditions as can be realised only in a living
organism. When we examine substances in a perfectly dark
apartment we discern no colour in them, but when we carry
them with us into a lighted room, and perceive the tints which
they then display, we do not doubt that they retain all the
properties which they exhibited in darkness; and that these



The Deductive Application of the Sciences.


345


moreover are closely connected with their assumption of colour
when light falls upon them. We make a similar but not less
legitimate assumption, when we take for granted that all the
properties which exist in an element when part of a dead
mass, remain in it when part of a living one. Such a mode
of inquiry, accordingly as I have suggested, may be prosecuted equally well under the guidance of almost any hypothesis, or theory of life, or without hypothesis or theory at
all. And it cannot fail to yield important results.
The careful study of each of the chemical elements with
a view to ascertain why it is suitable or unsuitable to become
a component of a living organism, may often enable us to
anticipate physiological discoveries; as conversely the careful
study of the molecular changes which occur in living organisms,
may enable us to anticipate chemical discoveries in reference
to inorganic bodies.
SIt has always seemed to me very remarkable that the
sciences which are mutually dependent, should so rarely be
found furnishing each other with principles which can be
used deductively as organons of discovery.  The chemist, for
example, might have said to the physiologist, I find, from
my experiments on phosphoric acid and its salts, that it
is so unique in its conjoined mobility, stability, and manifold
mutability, that I predict you will find it largely present
in organisms, and taking an active part in their most
characteristic metamorphoses.  Or the physiologist might
have said to the chemist, I find this phosphoric acid so universally present in the organs of the living body, assisting
in functions so different, and accommodating itself to changes
of condition so great, that I am certain if you examine
its inorganic compounds, you will find them unlike those of
any other acid, much more numerous, and very dissimilar to
each other.
To take another example.  The fact of but one set of
tubes being provided in our bodies to convey ahir to the
lungs and from the lungs, and the fact that gases, irrespective of chemical affinity and of difference in relative
density, rapidly intermingle and exchange places, stand
in direct connection with each other.  The natural philosopher might have said to the physiologist, I find that



346


Chemical Final Causes.


a peculiar diffusive force comes into play when unlike gases
meet each other, so that in a way liquids cannot do, they
exchange places with great rapidity, and pass in opposite
directions along the narrowest tube.  I predict, accordingly,
that though one set of vessels may be provided to carry
blood to the lungs, and another to carry blood from them, a
single set of tubes will be found all that is provided to carry
air to and from those organs, and one channel will prove to be
sufficient for inspiration and expiration. Or the physiologist
might have said to the physicist, I find living organisms inspiring and expiring through a single canal, which, moreover, in many of them is a tube with rigid walls: there
must, therefore, be an unsuspected power of intermingling,
and exchanging places on the part of gases, which, if you
seek for, you will certainly find.  The physiological and the
physical fact, however, were discovered independently.
Occasionally we have seen one science assist another in
the way suggested.  Thus the optician, especially after the
invention of the telescope and of spectacles, pressed upon the
attention of the physiologist that the living eye must possess
the power of adjusting its focus to the vision of objects at different distances.  And after some two centuries of unsuccessful endeavours to solve the problem, but not without the
discovery of many important truths, in their efforts at its
solution, the physiologists of our own day have within
the last three years justified the optician by solving the
problem, and have added largely to the wealth of their own
science.
If there are few such cases, it only shows how much
more difficult it is to reason deductively than inductively,
and how very rarely man can look down from a point of
view, even faintly approximating to that at all times occupied
by God, and see a law go forth to its fulfilment.
And therefore before seeking to reach the last conclusion
to which our method of inquiry may lead us, I would pause
to notice the lesson which it teaches of humility and patience.
Kepler, the astronomer, when he could not convince his contemporaries that the laws which he had announced as presiding
over the movements of the heavenly bodies did actually
exist, nobly consoled himself with the reflection that if God



The Impossibility of Disbelief in Final Causes.


347


had waited some six thousand years before he could find one
man to believe that He had impressed such laws on the
planets, Kepler might well wait one year before blaming his
fellow men for not believing him. If G od, in like manner, has
waited not thousands, but millions of years, before a very few
of his children have studied his works, so as to learn, even
most imperfectly, why he made them    and their Pre-Adamic
ancestors of one kind of dust, rather than of another, we need
not boast of the little we know, or angrily complain, because
our small discoveries about fluorine, or the like, do not seem
to others quite so wonderful as they do to ourselves.
With no desire, accordingly, to be dogmatic, or to press
for a verdict in favour of my conclusions, I refer to the truths
(in so far as they are truths) expounded in the preceding
pages as illustrations, not demonstrations of final causes.  To
a belief in these no man can compel another, and I would
not compel another even if I could. I blame no man for disbelieving them; but I should be glad to secure for all, the
happiness which faith in them begets.  The doctrine of final
causes is at present in disrepute in many scientific quarters,
and this can neither be wondered at, nor in many cases much
condemned. There have been so many unwise endeavours to
sustain this doctrine, by arguments of less than no value,
that it has been unavoidably discredited and despised.
All lovers of truth will join in protesting against making
a search for final causes, the chief object of scientific inquiry.
We are certain to be misled if we do.    There are idols of
the church, as dangerous as those idols of the den or of the
market-place against which Bacon so specially warns us.
But when guided by the Lumen Siccum, which a desire
for the simple truth supplies, we have patiently and honestly
reached a result, and then find our hearts swelling with rapture
at the wondrous example which it affords of God's wisdom
and power, we are traitors to ourselves and to our Maker if
we refuse adoration.
I believe that few honest intellects and hearts can
come face to face with such truths as I have most imperfectly detailed in these pages, without in the beginning
feeling a great doubt of their reality, and     in the end
a great faith in them; and I know that, like St. Thomas



348


348              Chemical Final Ciauses.


of old, they will first stand up, and thrust their fingers
into the nail-marks on the palms, and their hands into
the hole in the side; but by and by they will kneel and
say " My Lord and my God!" If some are faithless, I
will ask them to look at the Great Panorama with beating hearts, as well as with eager eyes, and I -will simply
sorrow for them if they think to measure the universe by
the intellect and the senses. I follow with unbounded
delight and gratitude, though it is at a long distance,
the footsteps of the great Philosopher Humboldt, when he
goes before me round the vast Cosmos, and with infantlike simplicity shows me every known feature of universal nature, without speculation on its purpose or cause.But I have no sympathy with the Man Humboldt when he
tells me that our most reverent demeanour towards God, is
that of not pretending to discover purposes of one kind or
another in any of his works; so that we should imitate the
Ancient Egyptians who showed their special reverence for
Osiris by never naming him. The only attitude that befits
us as men, after traversing a mere fraction of the. Cosmos,
is that of kneeling worshippers.
Nor need we be ashamed to be seen on our bended
knees, because Final Causes are so often foolishly dealt with
by their admirers.  They always will be by a large class.
Few realise what the words Final Cause mean. To demonstrate the full reason or entire Final Cause, why one element,
such as iron, exists in the body, would demand a perfect
acquaintance, not only with all the properties of that element, but with all those of every other element which is
also present in the body; besides an acquaintance with
much else: and how little do all the chemists of the
world know even of a single element?
The sagacious old alchemist, Basil Valentine, i 0n his
famus  urrs  Tiuphalis Antimon"i in which he has
triumphantly ridden down to the present day, and is likely
to ride for many a day to come, declares that "1no man
knows all the virtues of Antimony."' With what astonish' Basil's own words, as givdn in the quaint translation printed in
London for Dorman Newman at the King's Arms in the Poultry, 1678,
run thus:-" Antirnony,, like unto Alercury, may fitly be compared to



Manl's and God's Final Cause.


349


ment would Basil, if he could revisit the earth for half an hour,
hear of antimonious, antimonic, and metantimonic acids; of
antimoniuretted hydrogen, penta-sulphide of antimony,
stibio-methyle, stibio-ethyle, and the like.  The coaches of
his day did not differ more from the railway carriages of ours,
than his " Currus Triumphalis," does from such a Triumphal
Chariot of Antimony, as Hofmann, if he chose, could mount
upon literary wheels at the present day.       Yet Hofmann
would find no better motto to put upon the panel of his
chariot than Basil's words, " No man knows all the virtues of
Antimony," and I may add, no man ever will; nor is the
chemist better off in respect to other things than he is in
respect to Valentine's favourite metal.
What we call a final cause, is not God's final cause, but
only that small corner of it which we can comprehend in our
widest glance.   The fragmentary corner fills our intellects,
not because it is vast, but because they are small, and we find
how small they have made it, the moment we try to make the
fragment a measure of infinite wisdom.    The wisest of us is
but a microscopic shell in the ocean of Omniscience, and
when left on the shore with a drop of its waters in our cup,
we cannot reflect in its tiny mirror more than a drop's worth
of the meaning of the universe. And yet we speak as if
out of that drop the whole universe might arise!     Men of
cold, logical intellect have so fully realised this, that on all
hands they remind students of science that Bacon declared
final causes to be sterile, comparing them to nuns or vestal
virgins dedicated to God.'
a round circle, of which there is no end; in which the more diligently
any man seeks, the more he finds, if process be made by him in a right
way and due order. Yet the life of no one man is suficient for him to learn
all the mysteries thereof."-Basil Valentine, his triumphant Chariot of
Antimony, with Annotations of Theodore Kirkringius, M.D., p. 19.
1 "Nam Causarum Finalium   inquisitio sterilis est, et tanquam
virgo Deo consecrata nihil parit."--De Augmentis Scientiarum, lib.
iii. cap. v. Since writing the text, I find that in the elaborate edition
of Bacon's works, of which the first volume has just issued from
the press, under the editorship of Messrs. Spedding, Ellis, and Heath,
this passage is commented on as follows:-" No saying of Bacon's
has been more often quoted and misunderstood than this. Carrying
out his division of the Doctrina de Naturd, which, as we have seen,
depends upon Aristotle's quadripartite classification of causes, he remarks, that to Physica corresponds Mechanica, and to Metaphysica,






3


Progress of Acoustics. CHLADNI-SAVART-Laplace's Correction of the
Theory of Sound. Vibrating Plates and Acoustic Figures. Cagniard de
la Tour's " Sirene."
CHAPTER V.-OPTICS.
THOMAS YouNG.-The Undulatory Theory of Light.-Its History from
the time of Hooke and Huygens--The Law of Interference.-Its application to Diffraction-to the Rainbow-and to other subjects.-The
Theory of Polarization referred to another section. MALUS.-Discovery
of the Polarization of Light by Reflection.-Early History of Double
Refraction and Polarization. FRESNEL.-The Undulatory Theory of Light
continued.-Diffraction.-Transverse Vibrations; Young.-Polarization
and Double Refraction explained.-Lighthouse Illumination. ARAGO.Short Account of his Scientific Career-He discovers the Colours of Polarized Light-Laws and Theory of Depolarization; M. Biot; Young;
Fresnel.-Non-interference of oppositely Polarized Rays-Rotatory Action of Quartz.--M. Foucault's Experiment on the Velocity of Light.
SIR DAVID BREWSTER-Progress of Experimental Optics-Laws of Polarization-Double Refraction produced by Heat and Compression-Discovery
of Biaxal Crystals-Laws of Metallic Reflection-Absorption of Light;
and Lines of the Solar Spectrum; FRAUNHOFER.-Seebeck; M. BIOT.
Mr AIRY, Sir WILLIAM R. HAMILTON, and Professors LLOYD and MACCULLAGH.-Confirmation of Fresnel's Theory-Investigation of the Wave
Surface completed; Conical Refraction.--M. CAUCHY--Mechanical Theory of Elastic Media, and of Ordinary and Metallic Reflection; M. Jamin.
-Theory of Dispersion; Professor Powell. RITTER.-Chemical Rays of
the Spectrum.-NIEPCE; DAGUERRE; Mr TALBOT. Art of Heliography
or Photography-Daguerreotype-Calotype.--Professor STOKES.     Chemical Rays rendered visible-Fluorescence.
CHAPTER VI.--HEAT, INCLUDING SOME TOPICS OF CHEMICAL PHILOSOPHY.
BLACK.--Latent and Specific Heat.-Irvine.-Hutton.-Doctrines of
Heat applied to some Natural Phenomena. CAVENDISH.-His Singular
Character and Attainments-Eminent Chemical Discoveries-Observations on Heat and on other Branches of Physics.-L AVOISIER-The Calorimeter-Theory of Combustion and of Oxidation. DALTON.-Theory
of Gases and Vapours--Law of Expansion by Heat-Atomic Theory of
Chemistry.-GAY LussAc. RuvonRD.-Economical applications of Heat
-Point of Maximum Density of Water; Hope.-Friction as a source of
Heat. Theory that Heat is convertible into Mechanical Energy; Mr



4


Joule. SIR JOHN LESLIE.-Establishment of certain Laws of Radiant
Heat.-Pictet.-Prevost. FOURIER.-Mathematical Theory of the Conduction of Heat-Lambert; Poisson.-Temperature of the Earth and of
Space. DULONG.-The Law of Cooling.-Progress of the Science of Radiant Heat between Leslie's and Melloni's Discoveries; transmission of
Radiant Heat through Glass. Herschel; De La Roche; Professor Powell.-Theory of Dew; Wells. MELLONI.-Recent History of Radiant
Heat-Transmission and Refraction of Heat; Properties of Heat analogous to Colour-Experiments in Great Britain on the Polarization and
Double Refraction of Heat. M. REGNAULT.-Numerical Laws of Expansion by Heat; Rudberg.-Vaporization; Dulong.-Latent Heat;
Hygrometry.
CHAPTER VII.-ELECTRICITY-MAGNETISM-ELECTRO-MAGNETISM.
GALVANI.-Discovery of Galvanism; Proper Animal Electricity.-The
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VOLTA.-Progress of Discovery in Common and Atmospheric Electricity
-The Electro-motive Theory-Voltaic Pile-Chemical Analogies and
Decomposition; Fabbroni; Nicholson and Carlisle.      SIR  HuMPiRY
DAvY.-Progress of Voltaic Electricity-Electro-Chemistry; Berzelius.
-Davy's Invention of the Safety-Lamp.-WOLLrASTON; his Electrical
and other Observations. Contrast of his Character with that of Davy.
OERSTED.-AMPERE.-Discovery of Electro-Magnetism - Electro-Dynamic Theory-Discovery of Thermo-Electricity; SEEBECK. The Galvanometer of Schweiger and Nobili. Dr FARADAY.-Progress of the
Theory of Electro-Chemical Decomposition-Volta-Electric InductionMagnetic-Electricity-Diamagnetism-Optical Changes induced by Magnetism.-Professor Pliicker-Magneoptic Action.-OHM-DANIELL-Mr
WHEATSTONE--M. JACOBI.-Laws of Electrical Conduction;-Constant
Battery;-Applications of Electricity to Telegraphs-Clocks-Motive
Engines-the Electrotype. CAVENDISH-COULOMB.-On the Distribution of Statical Electricity, and on the Mathematical Theory of the same.
-PoissoN.-Mathematical Theory of Statical Electricity and of Magnetism generalized; Green; Professor William Thomson. Professor HANSTEEN.-Baron A. VON HUMBOLDT-GAuss-Major-General SABINE-Captain Sir J. C. Ross.-Progress of our Knowledge of Terrestrial Magnetism
in the Present Century.
EDINBURGH: ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK.
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[SPECIMEN OF THE ORIGINAL WORK.]


CARPUS.
and more recently by Count Bertou and Dr.
Robinson, under the name of Kurmul. The
place is now utterly desolate, but the ruins indicate a town of considerable extent and importance.
These ruins lie around the head and along the
two sides of a valley of some width and depth,
the head of which forms a semicircular amphitheatre shut in by rocks. They consist chiefly of
the foundations and broken walls of dwellings
and other edifices, scattered in every direction,
and thrown together in mournful confusion and
desolation. The most remarkable ruin is that of
a castle, quadrangular, standing on a swell of
ground in the midst of the town. A minute description of this and the other remains is given by
Dr. Robinson (Bib. Researches, ii. pp. 195-201).
The distance of this place from Hebron is nearer
eight Roman miles than ten, as assigned by Eusebius and Jerome.
CARNAIM. [ASHTAROTH.]
CARPENTER. [HANDICRAFT.]
CARPUS (Kdpiros), a disciple of Paul who
dwelt at Troas (2 Tim. iv. 13).
CART (ir^; Sept. "At/a~a). The Hebrew
word rendered by our translators in some places
by 'waggon,' and in others by 'cart,' denotes any
vehicle moving on wheels and usually drawn by
oxen; and their particular character must be determined by the context indicating the purpose
for which they were employed.   First, we have
the carts which the king of Egypt sent to assist
in transporting Jacob's family   from  Canaan
(Gen. xlv. 19, 27).. From their being so sent
it is manifest that they were not used in the
latter country; and that they were known there as
being peculiar to Egypt is shown by the confirmation which they affbrded to Jacob of the truth of
thee strangestory told by his sons. These carts or
waggons were, of course, not war-chariots, nor
such curricles as were in use among the Egyptian
nobility, but were not suited for travelling. The
209.
only other wheel-vehicles actually or probably
used by the Egyptians themselves are those represented in figs. 1, 2, of No. 210. But they are
not found on the monuments in such connection
as to show whether they were employed for travelling or for agriculture. The solid wheels would
suggest the latter use, if, indeed, the same feature
does not rather show that, although figured on
Egyptian monuments, they are the cars of a foreign people. This is the more probable, inasmuch
as the ready means of transport and travel by the
Nile seems to have rendered in a great measure
unnecessary any other wheel-carriages tla th ose
for war or pleasure.  The sculptures, however,
exhibit some carts as used by a nomade people
(enemies of the Egyptians) in their migrations.
If any of these had, by the rout of this people, been
left in the hands of the Egyptians, the king would
no doubt consider them suitable to assist the migration of another people of similar habits. At


CAT.


399


any rate, they afford the only attainable analogy,
and are for that reason here represented (No. 209).
Elsewhere (Num. vii. 3, 6; 1 Sam. vi. 7) we read
of carts used for the removal of the sacred arks
and utensils. These also were drawn by two oxen.
0
210.
In Rossellini we have found a very curious representation of the vehicle used for such purposes by
the Egyptians (No. 210, fig. 3). It is little more
than a platform on wheels; and the apprehension
which induced Uzzah to put forth his hand to
stay the ark when shaken by the oxen (2 Sam. vi.
6), may suggest that the cart employed on that
occasion was not unlike this, as it would be easy
for a jerk to displace whatever might be upon it.
As it appears that the Israelites used carts,
they doubtless employed them sometimes in the
removal of agricultural produce, although we
are not aware of any distinct mention of this
practice in Scripture. This is now the only use
for which carts are employed in Western Asia.
They are suchas are represented in No. 211.
41.
211.
CASLUHIM      (tr:)D; Sept. Xao-1cuvse),
properly Casluchim, a people whose progenitor
was a son of Mizraim (Gen. x. 14; 1 Chron. i.
12). He, or they, for the word applies rather to
a people than to an individual, are supposed
by Bochart and others to have carried a colony
from Egypt, which settled in the district between
Pelusium and Gaza, or, in other words, between
the Egyptians and the Philistines.  There are
some grounds for this conjecture; but it is impossible to obtain any certainty on so obscure a
subject.
CASSIA.    [KETZIAH.]
CASTLE. [FORTIFICATIONS.]
CASTOR AND POLLUX          (Ac0KovipoL), the
Dioscuri: in heathen mythology, the twin sons
of Jupiter by Leda. They had the special province of assisting pelrsons in danger of shipwreck (Theocrit. Id. xxii. 1; Xenoph. Syrmp. viii.
29, comp. Horat. Carsm. i. 3. 2; iv. 8. 31); and
hence their figures were often adopted for 'the
sign' (,rb 7rapdLSriofLv, insigne), from which a ship
derived its name, as was the case with that 'ship
of Alexandria' in which St. Paul sailed on his
journey for Rome (Acts xxviii. 11).
CAT   (afiovpos).  It might be assumed that
the cat was an useful, if not a necessary, domestic
animal to the Hebrew people in Palestine, where
corn was grown for exportation, as well as for



[SPECIMEN OF THE ABRIDGMENT.]


92             ARIMATHEA                                    ARIMATHEA
a place called Papyron, and lost above 6000  palm-trees are also seen, as well as the kharob
men. Three or four years after, Scaurus, to  and the sycamore. The streets are few; the
whom Pompey had committed the government houses are of stone, and many of them large and
of Ccele-Syria, invaded Petraea, but finding it well built.  There are five mosques, two or
difficult to obtain provisions for his army, he  more of which are said to have once been
consented to withdraw on the offer of 300 talents  Christian churches; and there is here one of the
from Aretas. 3. Aretas, whose name was ori- largest Latin convents in Palestine. The place
ginally ZEneas, succeeded Obodas. He was the  is supposed to contain about 3000 inhabitants, of
father-in-law  of Herod Antipas.  The latter  whom two-thirds are Moslems, and the rest
made proposals of marriage to the wife of his  Christians, chiefly of the Greek church, with a
half-brother Herod-Philip, Herodias, the daughter
of Aristobulus their brother, and the sister of
Agrippa the Great. In consequence of this, the          =-  --        E
daughter of Aretas returned to her father, and a
war (which had been fomented by previous dis- 
ensued between Aretas and Herod. The army
/AE                                                                   ___--_.
/^E,     '5. '-                            -,                        _
46.
of the latter was totally destroyed, and on his 
sending an account of his disaster to Rome, the
emperor immediately ordered Vitellius to bring
quarters and returned to Rome. It must have     $     IH  u -     -
been at this juncture that Aretas took possession                           -
of Damascus, and placed a governor in it with a  1    l        a   4
garrison. For a knowledge of this fact wear
indebted to the apostle Paul.
AR'GOB, a district in Bashan, east of the Lake
of Gennesareth, which was given to the half-        b
1. A'RIEL, a word meaning ' lion of God,' and,|         I.
correctly enough rendered by 'lion-like,' in|.        -&
2 Sam. xxiii. 20; 1 Chron. xi. 22. It was applied as an epithet of distinction to bold and wa r- 
like persons, as among the Arabians, who sUr       i
2. ARIEL. The same word is used as a local 
proper name in Isa. xxix. 1, 2, applied to Jeru-   ft we  are
salem-' as victorious under God '-says Dr. Lee;
andin Ezek. xliii. 15, 16, to the altar of bulrntofferings.
ARIMATHE'A, the birthplace of the wealthy|     - 
Joseph, in whose sepulchre our Lord was laid |,(Matt. xxvii. 57; John xix. 38). The Arimathea   -                       -
of Joseph is generally regarded as the same place             -
as the Ramathaim of Samuel, which stood near                      47 -Lydda or Diospolis. Hence it has by some been
identified with the existing  e                                  inhabitArmei an ts carry on sonic
Ramleh is in N. lat. 310 59', and E. long  trade in cotton and soap. The great caravl35~ 28', 8 miles S.. from Joppa, and 24 miles rod between Egypt and Damascus, Smyrl na
N.W. by W. from Jerusalem. It lies in the fine  and Constantinople passes through Ramlel. as
undulating plain of Sharon, upon the eastern  well as the most frequented road for European
side of a broad low swell rising from a fertile  pilgrims and travellers between Joppa and Jeruthough sandy plain. Like Gaza and Jaffa, this salem. The isolated tower, of which a figure is
town is surrounded by olive-groves and gardens  here given, is the most conspicuous object in oi
of vegetables and delicious fruits.  Occasional about the citv. It is about 12) feet in height



ATTITUDES


AVEN


or rather thanksgiving, which the sequel of       as they passed the temples or statues of their
the chapter contains. Those unacquainted with     gods [ADORATION].
Eastern manners are surprised at this.      But     It appears from 1 Sam. x. 1; 1 Kings xix. 18
there is a mode of sitting in the East which is   Ps. ii. 12; that there was a peculiar kiss of hohighly respectful and even reverential. It is     mage, the character of which is not indicated.
that which occurs in the Moslem forms of wor-     It was probably that kiss upon the forehead exship (9). The person first kneels, and then sits  pressive of high respect which was formerly, if
back upon his heels. Attention is also paid to    not now, in use among the Bedouins.
the position of the hands, which they cross, fold,  BowING.-In the Scriptures there are different
or hide in the opposite sleeves. The variety of   words descriptive of various postures of rethis formal sitting, which the following figure   spectful bowing; as to incline or bow down the
head, to bend down the body very low, to bend the
knee, also to bless. These terms indicate a conformity with the existing usages of the East, in
which the modes of bowing are equally diversified, and, in all likelihood, the same. These
are-1. touching the lips and the forehead with


71.
represents, is highly respectful. The prophet
Elijah must have been in this or some other
similar posture when he inclined himself so
much forward in prayer that his head almost
touched his knees (1 Kings xviii. 42).
SUPPLICATION, when addressed externally to
man, cannot possibly be exhibited in any other
forms than those which are used in supplication
to God. Uplifted hands, kneeling, prostration,
are common to both. On the Egyptian monuments, suppliant captives, of different nations,
are represented as kneeling or standing with outspread hands. Prostration, orfalling at the feet
of a person, is often mentioned in Scripture as


73.
the right hand, with or without an inclination
of the head or of the body, and with or without previously touching the ground; 2. placing
the right hand upon the breast, with or without
an inclination of the head or of the body; 3.
bending the body very low, with folded arms;
4. bending the body and resting the hands on
the knees: this is one of the postures of prayer,
and is indicative of the highest respect in the
presence of kings and princes.
It appears to have been usual for a person to
receive a blessing in a kneeling posture. We
know also that the person who gave the blessing
laid his hands upon the head of the person
blessed (Gen. xlviii. 14). This is exactly the
case at the present day in the East, and a picture
of the existing custom would furnish a perfect
illustration of the patriarchal form of blessing.
This may be perceived from the annexed engraving.




72.
an act of supplication or of reverence, or of both
(1 Sam. xxv. 24; 2 Kings iv. 37; Esth. viii. 3;
Matt. xviii. 29; xxviii. 9; Mark v. 22; Luke
viii. 41; John xi. 32; Acts x. 25). Sometimes
in this posture, or with the knees bent as before
indicated, the Orientals bring their forehead to
the ground, and before resuming an erect position either kiss the earth, or the feet, or border
of the garment of the king or prince before
whom they are allowed to appear. There is no
doubt that a similar practice existed among the
Jews (Matt. ix. 20; Luke vii. 38, 45). Kissing
the hand of another as a mark of affectionate
respect, we do not remember as distinctly mentioned in Scripture. But as the Jews had the
other forms of Oriental salutation, we may conclude that they had this also, although it does
not happen to have been specially noticed.
Kissing one's own hand is mentioned as early as
the time of Job (xxxi. 27), as an act of homage
to the heavenly bodies. It was properly a salutation, and as such an act of adoration to them.
The Romans in like manner kissed their hands


"74.


AVA (2 Kings xvii. 24), also IVAH (2 Kings
xviii. 34; xix. 13; Isa. xxxvii. 13), the capital
of a small monarchical state conquered by the
Assyrians, and from which king Shalmaneser
sent colonies into Samaria. It is most probable
that Ava was a Syrian or Mesopotamian town,
of which no trace can now be found either in
ancient writers or in the Oriental topographers.
AVEN, a plain, ' the plain of the sun,' of Damascene Syria (Amos i. 5). It is usually supposed to be the same as the plain of Baalbec, or



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