.\''J 
 
ANEW 
 
 SPIRIT OF THE AGE. 
 
 EDITED BY R. H. HORNE, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "ORION/' "GREGORY VII.," &C., &C. 
 
 "It is an easy thing to praise or blame ; 
 The hard task, and the virtue, to do both." 
 
 NEW-YORK: 
 Harper & Brothers, 82 C l i f f-s t. 
 
 1844. 
 
T^ 4-6 1 
 
 .Hi 
 
 finscribeU 
 
 JAMES F. FERRIER, ESQ., 
 
 PROFESSOR OF UNIVERSAL HISTORY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF EDINBURGH, 
 
 A SLIGHT TOKEN OF GRATITUDE FOR CANDID CRITICISM, 
 AND OF RESPECT FOR ENLIGHTENED ERUDITION. 
 
 London, October I2th, 1843 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Nearly twenty years have now elapsed since 
 the pubhcation of Hazlitt's " Spirit of the Age," 
 and a new set of men, several of them animated 
 by a new spirit, have obtained eminent positions 
 in the public mind. 
 
 Of those selected by Hazlitt, three are intro- 
 duced in the present publication, and two also of 
 those who appeared in the '* Authors of England," 
 for reasons which will be appaFent in the papers 
 relating to them. With these exceptions, our se- 
 lection has not been made from those who are 
 already " crowned," and their claims settled, but 
 almost entirely from those who are in progress 
 and midway of fame. 
 
 It has been throughout a matter of deep regret 
 to the editor, more keenly felt as the work drew 
 towards its conclusion, that he found himself com- 
 pelled to omit several names which should have 
 been included ; not merely of authors who, like 
 himself, belong only to the last ten or fifteen years, 
 but of veterans in the field of literature, who have 
 not been duly estimated in collections of this kind. 
 Inability to find sufficient space is one of the chief 
 causes ; in some cases, however, the omission is 
 attributable to a difficulty of classification, or the 
 perplexity induced by a versatility of talents in the 
 same individual. In some cases, also, names hon- 
 oured in literature could not be introduced with- 
 out entering into the discussion of questions of a 
 nature not well suited to a work of this kind — or, 
 rather, to this division of a possible series — yet 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 with which great questions their names are iden- 
 tified. 
 
 The selection, therefore, which it has been 
 thought most advisable to adopt, has been the 
 names of those most eminent in general literature, 
 and representing most extensively the Spirit of 
 the Age ; and the names of two individuals, who, 
 in this work, represent those philanthropic prin- 
 ciples now influencing the minds and moral feel- 
 ings of all the first intellects of the time. Suflicient 
 cause will be apparent in the respective articles 
 for the one or two other exceptions. 
 
 For most of the omissions, however, one rem- 
 edy alone remains. The present work, though 
 complete in itself, forms only the inaugural part 
 of a projected series, the continuation of which 
 will probably depend upon the reception of this 
 first main division, which, in any case, may be re- 
 garded as the centre of the whole. 
 
 Should the design of the projectors be fully car- 
 ried out, it will comprise the " Political Spirit of 
 the Age," in which, of course, the leading men of 
 all parties will be included ; the " Scientific Spirit 
 of the Age," including those who most conspic- 
 uously represent the strikingly opposite classes of 
 discovery or development, &c. ; the "Artistical 
 Spirit of the Age," including the principal painters, 
 sculptors, musical composers, architects, and en- 
 gravers of the time, with such reference to the 
 theatres and concert-rooms as may be deemed 
 necessary; and the "Historical, Biographical, and 
 Critical Spirit of the Age." 
 
 But more than all, the editor regrets that he 
 could afford no sufficient space for an examina- 
 tion of the books for children, which must be re- 
 garded as exercising so great and lasting an influ- 
 ence upon the mind and future life. He is well 
 
PREFACE. V 
 
 assured, while admiring a few excellent works 
 like those of Mrs. Marcet and Mary Howitt, that 
 there are innumerable books for children, the sale 
 of which is enormous, as the influence of them is 
 of the most injurious character. But this could 
 only be appropriately dealt with under the head 
 of Education. 
 
 It will readily be understood that the present 
 volume refers simply to our own country, and 
 (with one exception) to those now living. In the 
 biographical sketches, which are only occasional, 
 the editor has carefully excluded all disagreeable 
 personalities, and all unwarrantable anecdotes. 
 The criticisms are entirely on abstract grounds. 
 
 There is one peculiarity in the critical opin- 
 ions expressed in this volume : it is that they are 
 never balanced and equivocal, or evasive of de- 
 cision on the whole. Where the writer doubts 
 his own judgment, he says so ; but in all cases, 
 the reader will never be in doubt as to what the 
 critic really means to say. The editor, before 
 commencing this labour, confesses to the weak- 
 ness of having deliberated with himself a good 
 half hour as to whether he should " try to please 
 everybody ;" but the result was that he deter- 
 mined to try and please one person only. It may 
 seem a bad thing to acknowledge, but that one 
 was " himself" The pleasure he expected to de- 
 rive, was from the conviction of having fully spo- 
 ken out what he felt to be the Truth ; and in the 
 pleasure of this consciousness he is not disappoint- 
 ed. His chief anxiety now is (and more partic- 
 ularly, of course, with respect to those articles 
 which have been writen by himself), that the read- 
 er should never mistake the self-confidence of the 
 critic for arrogance, or the presumptuous tone of 
 assumed superiority, which are so revoltincr ; but 
 A2 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 solely attribute it to his strong feelino: of convic- 
 tion, and a belief that he clearly sees the truth of 
 the matter in question. There is no other feeling 
 in it. He may be often wrong, but it is with a 
 clear conscience. 
 
 The editor having contributed to several quar- 
 terly journals during the last seven or eight years, 
 has transferred a few passages into the pages of 
 this work concerning writers whose peculiar ge- 
 nius he had exclusive leisure to study some time 
 since, and has been unwilling to say the same 
 things in other words. But these passages occur 
 in two articles only. 
 
 For valuable assistance and advice from several 
 eminent individuals, the editor begs to return his 
 grateful thanks. It will be sufficiently apparent 
 that several hands are in the work. 
 
 R. H. H. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 1. Cileries Dickens , • .9 
 
 f. Lord Ashley and Dr. Southwood Smith . 53 
 
 3. Thomas Ingoldsby 81 
 
 4. Walter Savage Landor 94 • 
 
 5. William and Mary Howitt 109 
 
 6. Dr. Pusey 120 
 
 7. G. P. R. James, Mrs. Gore, Capt. Marryatt, and Mrs. TroUope 127 
 
 8. T. N. Talfourd 145 
 
 9- R. M. Milnes and Hartley Coleridge 154 
 
 10. Sydney Smith, A. Fonblanque, and D. Jerrold . . . 162. 
 
 11. William Wordsworth and Leigh Hunt 177 
 
 12. Alfred Tennyson ... 193 
 
 13. T. B. Macanlay 211 
 
 14. Thomas Hood and the late Theodore Hook . . . .221 
 
 15. Harriet Martineau and Mrs. Jameson 22T 
 
 16. Sheridan Knowles and William Macready .... 238 
 
 17. Miss E. B. Barrett and Mrs. Norton 265 
 
 18. Banim and the Irish Novelists 271 
 
 19. Robert Browning and J. W. Marston 278 
 
 20. Sir Edward Lyttou Bulwer 297 
 
 21. William Harrison Ainsworth 313 
 
 22. Mrs. Shelley 317 
 
 23. Robert Montgomery . . 322 
 
 24. Thomas Carlyle 333 
 
 25. Henry Taylor and the Author of "Festus" . . . .349' 
 
 A2 
 
I 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 " One touch of Nature mukes the wliole world kin." 
 
 " Hunger does not preside over this day," replied the Cook, " thanks be to 
 Camacho the Rich. Alight, and see it thou canst find anywhere a ladle, and 
 fikini out a fowl ur two, and much good may it do thy good heart." "7 see 
 none .'" answered Sancho. " Stay," quoth ihe Cook. " God forgive me, what 
 a nice and good-for-nothing fellow must you be !" So saying, he laid hold of 
 a keitle, and sousing it at (nice into one of the half jar-pots, he fished out three 
 
 pullets and a couple of geese "I have nothing to put it in I" answered 
 
 Sancho. " Then take ladle and all," replied the Cook, " for Camacho's rich- 
 es and felicity are sufficient to supply everything." — Don Quixote, Part ii. 
 Book 11. Cap. 3. 
 
 If an extensive experience and knowledge of the 
 world be certain in most cases to render a man suspi- 
 cious, full of doubts and incredulities, equally certain is 
 it thot with other men such experience and such knowl- 
 edge exercise this influence at rare intervals only, or in 
 a far less degree ; while in some respects the influence 
 even acts in a directly opposite way, and the extraor- 
 dinary things they have seen or suffered, cause them to 
 be very credulous and of open-armed faith to embrace 
 strange novelties. They are not startled at the sound 
 of frt sh wonders in the moral or physical world— they 
 laugh at no feasible theory, and can see truth through 
 the refractions of paradox and contradictory extremes. 
 They know that there are more things in heaven and on 
 the earth than in " your philosophy." They observe 
 the fables and the visions of one age, become the facts 
 and practices of a succeeding age — perhap-s even of a 
 few years after their first announcement, and before the 
 world has done laughing : they are slow to declare any 
 character or action to be unnatural, having so often wit-: 
 nessed some of the extreme lights and shadows which 
 flit upon the outskirts of Nature's capacious circle, and 
 have perhaps themselves been made to feel the bitter 
 reality of various classes of anomaly previously unac- 
 countable, if not incredible. They have discovered that 
 in matters of practical conduct a greater blunder can- 
 not in general be made, than to "judge of others by 
 yourself," or what you think, feel, and fancy of yourself. 
 But having found out that the world is not " all alike,'* 
 though like enough for the charities of real life, they 
 
10 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 identify themselves with other individualities, then 
 search within for every actual and imaginary resem- 
 blance to the great majority of their fellow-creatures, 
 ■which may give them a more intimate knowledge of 
 aggregate nature, and thus enlarge the bounds of unex- 
 clusive sympathy. 
 
 To men of this genial habit and maturity of mind, if 
 also they have an observing eye for externals, there is 
 usually a very tardy admission- of the alleged madness 
 of a picture of scenery, or the supposed grossness of 
 a caricature of the human countenance. The traveller 
 and the voyager, who has, moreover, an eye for art, has 
 often seen enough to convince him that the genius of 
 Turner and Martin has its foundation not only in ele- 
 mental but in actual truth; nor could .such an observer 
 go into any large concourse of people (especially of the 
 poorer classes, where the unsuppressed character has 
 been suffered to rise completely to the surface) without 
 seeing several faces, v\^hich, by the addition of the vices 
 of social man, might cause many a dumb animal to feel 
 indignant at the undoubtedly deteriorated resemblance. 
 The curse of evil circumstances acting upon the " third 
 and fourth generations," when added to the " sins of 
 the fathers," can and does turn the lost face of humani- 
 ty into something worse than brutish. As with the face, 
 so is it with the character of mankind ; nothing can be 
 too lofty, too noble, too lovely to be natural ; nor can 
 anything be too vicious, too brutalized, too mean, or too 
 ridiculous. It is observable, however, that there are 
 many degrees and fine shades in these frequent degra- 
 dations of man to the mere animal. Occasionally they 
 are no degradation, but rather an advantage, as a falcon 
 eye, or a lion-brow, will strikingly attest. But more 
 generally the effect is either gravely humorous, or gro- 
 tesquely comic ; and in these cases the dumb original 
 is not complimented. For, you may see a man with 
 a bull's forehead and neck, and a mean grovelling coun- 
 tenance (while that of the bull is physically grand and 
 high-purposed), and the dog, the sheep, the bird, and 
 the ape in all their varieties, are often seen with such 
 admixtures as are really no advantage. Several times 
 in an individual's life he may meet in the actual world 
 ■with most of the best and worst kind of faces and char- 
 acters of the world of fiction. It is true that there are 
 not to be found a whole tribe of Quilps and Quasimodos, 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. II 
 
 (you would not wish it 1) but once in the life of the stu- 
 dent of character he may have a glimpse of just such a 
 creature ; and that, methinks, were quite familiar proof 
 enough both for nature and art. Those who have ex- 
 clusively portrayed the pure ideal in grandeur or beauty, 
 and those also who have exclusively, or chiefly, por- 
 trayed monstrosities and absurdities, have been recluse 
 men, who drew with an inward eye, and copied from 
 their imaginations : the men who have given us the lar- 
 gest amount of truth under the greatest variety of 
 forms, have always been those who went abroad into 
 the world in all its ways ; and in the works of such men 
 •will always be found those touches of nature which can 
 only be copied at first-hand, and the extremes of which 
 originalities are never unnaturally exceeded. There are 
 no caricatures in the portraits of Hogarth, nor are there 
 any in those of Dickens, The most striking thing in 
 both, is their apparently inexhaustible variety and truth 
 of character. 
 
 Charles Lamb, in his mast3rly essay " On the Genius 
 of Hogarth," says, that in the print of the " Election 
 Dinner," there are more than thirty distinct classes of 
 face, all in one room, and disposed in a natural manner, 
 and all partaking in the spirit of the scene. The up- 
 ror.rious fun and comic disasters in the picture of" Chair- 
 ing the Member ;" the fantastic glee and revelries of 
 " Southwark Fair ;" the irony and farcical confusion of the 
 " March to Finchley ;" the ludicrous and voluble pertina- 
 cities of the " Enraged Musician ;" and the rich humours 
 of " Beer Street," in every one, and every part of which 
 pictures, there is character and characteristic thought 
 or action, are well known to all the numerous class of 
 Hogarth's admirers. How very like they are to many 
 scenes in the works of Dickens, not substantially nor 
 in particular details, but in moral purpose and finished 
 execution of parts, and of the whole, must surely have 
 been often observed. The resemblance is apparent 
 with regard to single figures and to separate groups — 
 all with different objects, and often in conflict with the 
 rest — and equally apparent with relation to one distinct 
 and never-to-be-mistaken whole into which the various 
 figures and groups are fused, and over which one gen- 
 eral and harmonizing atmosphere expands, not by any 
 apparent intention in the skilful hand of the artist, but 
 as if exhaled from and sustained by the natural vitality 
 of the scene. 
 
12 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 But the comic humour for which these two great 
 masters of character are most popularly known, con- 
 stitutes a part only of their genius, and certainly not 
 the highest part. Both possess tragic power — not at 
 all in the ideal world, nor yet to be regarded as mere 
 harsh, unredeemed matter-of-fact reality — but of the 
 profoundest order. Mingled with their graphic tenden- 
 cies to portray absurdity and ugliness, both display a 
 love for tlie beautiful, and the pathetic. In the latter 
 respect more especially, Mr. Dickens greatly excels ; 
 and two or three of his scenes, and numerous incidental 
 touches, have never been surpassed, if the heart-felt 
 tears of tens of thousands of readers are any test of 
 natural pathos. But although their tragic power is 
 so great, it is curious to observe that neither Hogarth 
 nor Dickens has ever portrayed a tragic character, in 
 the higher or more essentii^l sense of the term. The 
 individual whose bounding emotions and tone of thought 
 are in an habitual state of passionate elevation, and 
 whose aims and objects, if actually attainable, are still, 
 to a great extent, idealized by the glowing atmosphere 
 of his imagination, and a high-charged temperament — 
 such a character, which is always ready to meet a tra- 
 gic result half-way, if not to produce it, finds no place 
 in the works of either. In their works no one dies for a 
 noble purpose, nor for an abstract passion. There is no 
 walking to execution, or to a premature grave by any 
 other means, with a lofty air of conscious right, and for 
 some great soul-felt truth— no apprehension for a capi- 
 tal crime in which there is a noble bearing or exulta- 
 tion — no death-bed of greatness in resignation and con- 
 tentment for the cause — for there is no great cause at 
 stake. Their tragedy is the constant tragedy of private 
 life — especially with the poorer classes. They choose 
 a man or woman for this purpose, with sufficient 
 strength of body and will, and for the most part vicious 
 and depraved ; they place them in just the right sort of 
 desperate circumstances which will ripen their previ- 
 ous character to its disastrous end ; and they then leave 
 the practical forces of nature and society to finish the 
 story. Most truly, and fearfully, and morally, is it all 
 done — or, rather, it all seems to happen, and we read it 
 as a fac-simile, or a most faithful chronicle. Their 
 heroes are without any tragic principle or purpose in 
 themselves; they never tempt their fate or run upon 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 13 
 
 -destruction, but rush away from it, evade, dodge, hide, 
 fight, wrestle, tear and scream at it as a downright hor- 
 ror, and finally die because they absolutely cannot help 
 it. This is shown or implied in most of the violent 
 deaths which- occur in the works of these two inventive 
 geniuses. 
 
 The tragic force, and deep moral warnings, contained 
 in several of the finest works of Hogarth, have been 
 fully recognized by a few great writers, but are not yet 
 recognized sufficiently by the popular sense. But even 
 some of his pictures, which are deservedly among the 
 least popular, from the revolting nature of their subject 
 or treatment, do yet, for the most part, contain mani- 
 festations of his great genius. Of this class are the 
 pictures on the " Progress of Cruelty :" but who will 
 deny the terrific truth of the last but one of the series'? 
 The cruel boy, grown up to cruel manhood, has mur- 
 dered his mistress, apparently to avoid the trouble at- 
 tending her being about to become a mother He has 
 ■cut her throat at night in a church-yard, and seeming 
 to have become suddenly paralysed at the completeness 
 of his own deed, which he was too brutally stupid to 
 comprehend till it was really done, two watchmen have 
 arrested him. There lies his victim — motionless, ex- 
 tinct, quite passed away out of the scene, out of the 
 world. Her white visage is a mere wan case that has 
 opened, and the soul has utterly left it. No remains 
 even of bodily pain are traceable, but rather in its va- 
 cuity a suggestion that the last nervous consciousness 
 was a kind of contentment that her life of misery should 
 be ended. The graves, the tombstones, the old church 
 walls are alive and ejaculatory with horror — the man 
 alone stands petrific. There is no bold Turpin, or Jack 
 Sheppard-ing to carry the thing off" heroically. Stony- 
 jointed and stupified, the murderer stands between the 
 two watchmen, who grasp him with a horror which is 
 the mixed eff*ect of his own upon them, and of their 
 scared discovery of the lifeless object before them. It 
 is plain that if the murderer had been a flash Newgate 
 Calendar hero, he could have burst away from them in 
 a moment. But this would not have answered the pur- 
 pose of the moralist. 
 
 The above series, nevertheless, is among the least 
 estimable of the artist's works ; and the last of this set 
 is a horrible mixture of the real and ideal, each assist- 
 B 
 
14 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ing the other to produce a most revolting effect. Tho 
 remains of the executed murderer, which are extended 
 upon the dissecting table, display a consciousness of 
 his situation, and a hideous sensation of helpless yet 
 excruciating agony. Such a picture, though the moral 
 aim is still apparent, is not in the legitimate province 
 of art ; and a similar objection might be made to the 
 terrific picture of " Gin Lane," notwithstanding the ge- 
 nius it displays. These latter productions we have 
 quoted, to show that even in his objectionable pictures, 
 Hogarth was never a mere designer of extravagances^ 
 and also to mark the point where the comparison with 
 him and Dickens stops. In dealing with repulsive char- 
 acters and actions, the former sometimes does so in a 
 repulsive manner, not artistically justifiable by any 
 means, because it is a gross copy of the fact. The lat- 
 ter never does this ; and his power of dealing with the 
 ■worst possible characters, at their worst moments, and 
 suggesting their worst language, yet never once com- 
 mitting himself, his book, or his reader, by any gross 
 expression or unredeemed action, is one of the most 
 marvellous examples of fine skill and good taste the 
 world ever saw, and one great (negative) cause of his 
 universal popularity. Had the various sayings and do- 
 ings, manifestly suggested in some parts of his works, 
 been simply written out — as they would have been in 
 the time of Fielding and Smollet — his works would 
 never have attained one tenth part of their present cir- 
 culation. Three words — nay, three letters — would have 
 lost him his tens of thousands of readers in nearly ev- 
 ery class of society, and they would have lost all the 
 good and all the delight they have derived from his wri- 
 tings — to say nothing of future times. 
 
 Upon such apparently slight filaments and conditions 
 does popularity often hang ! An author seldom knows 
 how vast an amount of success may depend upon the 
 least degree of forbearance, and even if he does know, 
 is apt to prefer his humour, and take his chance. The 
 eflfect of a few gross scenes and expressions in the 
 works of several great writers, as a continued draw- 
 back to their acknowledged fame, is sufficiently and 
 sadly palpable; nor can we bo entirely free from appre- 
 hension that eventually, as refinement advances, they 
 may cease to be read altogether, and be exiled to some 
 remote niche in the temple of fame, to enjoy their own 
 immortality. There are strong signs of this already. 
 
CHARLES i)ICKEN3. 15 
 
 Mr. Dickens is one of those happily constituted indi- 
 viduals who can " touch pitch without soihng his fin- 
 gers ;" the peculiar rarity, in his case, being that he caa 
 60 so without gloves ; and, grasping its clinging black- 
 ness with both hands, shall yet retain no soil, nor ugly 
 imemory. That he is at home in a wood — in green- 
 lanes and all sweet pastoral scenes — who can doubt 
 it that has ever dwelt among them] But he has also 
 been through the back slums of many a St. Giles's. He 
 never " picks his way," but goes splashing on through 
 mud and mire. The mud and mire fly up, and lose 
 themselves like ether — he bears away no stain — nobody 
 has one splash. Nor is the squalid place so bad as it 
 was before he entered it, for some " touch of nature" — 
 of unadulterated pathos — of a crushed human heart 
 uttering a sound from out the darkness and the slough, 
 has left its echo in the air, and half purified it from its 
 malaria of depravity. 
 
 A few touches of genuine good feeling, of rich hu- 
 mour, and of moral satire, will redeem anything, so far 
 as the high principle, right aim and end of writing are 
 concerned ; this, however, will not suffice for extensive 
 popularity in these days. The form and expression 
 must equally be considered, and the language managed 
 skilfully, especially in the use of sundry metropolitan 
 dialects. The secret w^as fully understood, and admira- 
 bly practised by Sir E. L. Bulwer in his novel of " Paul 
 Clifford ;" it was grievously misunderstood, except in 
 the matter of dialect, by Mr. Ainsworth in his " Jack 
 Sheppard," which was full of unredeemed crimes, but 
 being told without any offensive language, did its evil 
 work of popularity, and has now gone to its cradle in 
 the cross-roads of liter^iture, and should he henceforth 
 hushed up by all who have — as so many have — a per- 
 sonal regard for its author. 
 
 The methods by which such characters and scenes 
 as have been alluded to, are conveyed to the reader 
 with all the force of verisimilitude, yet without offence, 
 are various, though it would perhaps be hardly fair to 
 lift the curtain, and show the busy-browed artist " as 
 he appeared" with his hands full. One means only, as 
 adopted by Mr. Dickens, shall be mentioned, and chief- 
 ly as it tends to bring out a trait of his genius as well 
 as art. When he has introduced a girl — her cheeks 
 blotched with rouge, her frock bright red, her boots 
 
16 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 green, her hair stuck over with yellow hair-papers, and 
 a glass of " ruin" in her hand — the very next time he 
 alludes to her, he calls her " this young lady !" Now, 
 if he had called this girl by her actual designation, as 
 awarded to her by indignant, moral man — who has no- 
 thing whatever to do with such degradation — the book 
 would have been destroyed ; whereas, the reader per- 
 fectly well knows what class the poor gaudy outcast 
 belongs to, and the author gains a humorous effect by 
 the evasive appellation. In like manner he deals with 
 a dirty young thief, as " the first-named young gentle- 
 man ;"* while the old Jew Fagin — a horrible compound 
 of all sorts of villany, who teaches " the young idea" 
 the handicraft of picking pockets, under pretence of 
 having an amusing game of play with the boys — the 
 author designates as " the merry old gentleman !" Ev- 
 erybody knows what this grissly old hyena-bearded 
 wretch really is, and everybody is struck with a sense 
 of the ludicrous at the preposterous nature of the com- 
 pliment. In this way the author avoids disgust — loses 
 no point of his true meaning — and gains in the humour 
 of his scene. He has other equally ingenious methods, 
 which perhaps may be studied, or perhaps they are the 
 result of the fine tact of a subtle instinct and good taste ; 
 enough, however, has been said on this point. 
 
 The tragic power and finer qualities of expression in 
 Hogarth are elucidated with exquisite precision and 
 truth by Charles Lamb in his Essay, where he calls 
 particular attention to the " Rake's Progress ;" the last 
 scenes of " Marriage a la Mode ;" " Industry and Idle- 
 ness ;" and the " Distressed Poet." He makes some 
 fine comments upon the expression which is put into 
 the face of the broken-down Rake, in the last plate but 
 one of that series, where " the long history of a mis- 
 spent life is compressed into the countenance as plain- 
 ly as the series of plates before had told it. There is 
 no con-sciousness of the presence of spectators, in or 
 out of the picture, but grief kept to a man's self, a face 
 retiring from notice, with the shame which great an- 
 guish sometimes brings with it — a final leave taken of 
 hope — the coming on of vacancy and stupefaction — a 
 
 * " Un dopo pranzo, il Furbo e niastro Bates avendo un invito per la sera, il 
 primo noininato signorino si ficcd in capo di mostrare un certo genio," &c. 
 Translation, Milano, 1840. But to designate the Artful Dodger throughout^ 
 simply as "il Furbo," is hard — unhandsome. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 17 
 
 beginning alienation of mind looking like tranquillity. 
 Here is matter for the mind of the beholder to feed on 
 for the hour together — matter to feed and fertilise the 
 mind." This is not a fanciful criticism : all that Lamb 
 describes of that face, is there^ and anybody may see, 
 who has an educated eye, and clear perceptions of hu- 
 manity behind it. Lamb also alludes to the kneeling 
 feniaie in the Bedlam scene of the same series ; to the 
 " sad endings of the Harlot and the Rake," in their re- 
 spective '• Progresses ;" to the " heart-bleeding entreat- 
 ies for forgiveness of the adulterous wife," in the last 
 scene but one of " Marriage a la Mode," and to the 
 sweetly soothing face of the wife which seems "to al- 
 lay and ventilate the feverish, irritated feelings of her 
 poor, poverty-distracted mate," in the print of the " Dis- 
 tressed Poet," who has a tattered map of the mines of 
 Peru stuck against his squalid walls. Quite equal, also, 
 to any of these, and yet more clearly to the bent of our 
 argument, is the "image of natural love" displayed in 
 the aged woman in Plate V. of " Lidustry and Idle- 
 ness," " who is clinging with the fondness of hope not 
 quite extinguished, to her brutal vice-hardened child, 
 whom she is accompanying to the ship which is to bear 
 him away from his native soil : in whose shocking face 
 every trace of the human countenance seems obliterated, 
 and a brute beast's to be left instead, shocking and re- 
 pulsive to all but her who watched over it in its cradle 
 before it was so sadly altered, and feels it must belong 
 to her while a pulse, by the vindictive laws of his coun- 
 try, shall be suffered to continue to beat in it." 
 
 How analogous, how closely applicable all this is to 
 the finest parts of the works of Mr. Dickens, must be 
 sufficiently apparent. It may be hardly necessary to 
 mention any corresponding scenes in particular; one 
 or two, however, rise too forcibly to the mind to be re- 
 pressed. In " Oliver Twist" — the work which is most 
 full of crimes and atrocities and the lowest characters, 
 of all its author's productions, in which these things 
 are by no means scarce — there are some of the deepest 
 touches of pathos, and of the purest tenderness, not ex- 
 ceeded by any author who ever lived — simply because 
 they grow out of the very ground of our common hu- 
 manity, and being Nature at her best, are in themselves 
 perfect, by universal laws. Of this kind is the scene 
 where the poor sweet-hearted consumptive child, who 
 B2 
 
tB CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 is weeding the garden before anybody else has risen,, 
 climbs up the gate, and puts his little arms through to 
 clasp Oliver round the neck, and kiss him " a good 
 bye," as he is running away from his wretched appren- 
 ticeship.* They had both been beaten and starved in 
 the workhouse together, and with the little child's 
 "Good-bye, dear — God bless you!" went the full- 
 throated memory of all the tears they had shed to- 
 gether, and the present consciousness that they should 
 never see each other again. When little Oliver opened 
 the door at night to run away, the stars looked farther 
 off than he had ever seen them before. The world 
 seemed widening to the poor outcast boy. Does not 
 the reader also recollect the terrible scene of the funer- 
 al of the pauper in the same work 1 They, and every- 
 thing about them, are so squalid and filthy that they 
 look like " rats in a drain." She died of starvation — 
 her husband, and her old mother are sitting beside the 
 body. " 'I'here was neither fire nor candle, when she 
 died. She died in the dark— in the dark. She couldn't 
 even see her children's faces, though we heard her 
 gasping out their names !" O, ye scions of a refined 
 age — readers of the scrupulous taste, who, here and 
 there, in apprehensive circles, exclaim upon Dickens 
 as a low writer, and a lover of low scenes — look at this 
 passage — find out how low it is — and rise up from the 
 contemplation chastened, purified — wiser, because sor- 
 row-softened and better men through the enlargement 
 of sympathies. One more, though it can only be al- 
 luded to, as it requires a full knowledge of the charac- 
 ters and circumstances to be enough appreciated. It is 
 the terrific scene where the girl Nancy is murdered by 
 the brutal housebreaker Sykes.f The whole thing is 
 done in the most uncompromising manner — a more fe- 
 rocious and ghastly deed was never perpetrated ; but 
 what words are those which burst from the beseeching 
 heart and soul of the victim ? At this moment, with 
 murder glaring above her, all the sweetness of a nature, 
 which the extreme corrosion of an utterly vicious life 
 had not been able to obliterate from the last recesses 
 of her being, gushes out, and endeavouring to lay her 
 head upon the bosom of her ruffian paramour, she calls 
 upon him to leave their bad courses — to lead a new life 
 
 * Oliver Twist, vol, i., c. 7. t Oliver Twist, vol, iii., c. 45. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 19 
 
 — and to have faith in God's mercy ! While uttering 
 which, she finds no mercy from man, and is destroyed. 
 
 Any one who would rightly — that is, philosophically 
 as well as pleasantly — estimate the genius of Mr. Dick- 
 ens, should first read his works fairly through, nnd then 
 read the Essays by Charles Lamb, and by Hazlitt,* on 
 the genius of Hogarth ; or if the hesitating reader in 
 question feels a preliminary distaste for anything which 
 displays low vices without the high sauce of aristocra- 
 cy to disguise the real repulsiveness (a feeling natural 
 enough, by the way), then let him reverse the process, 
 and begin with the Essays. 
 
 It is observable that neither Hogarth nor Dickens 
 ever portray a mere sentimental character, nor a mor- 
 bid one. Perhaps the only exception in all Mr. Dick- 
 ens' works is his character of Monks, which is a fail- 
 ure — a weak villain, whose pretended power is badly 
 suggested by black scovvlings and melo-dramatic night- 
 wanderings in a dark cloak, and mouths-full of extrava- 
 gant curses of devils, and pale-faced froth Ings at the 
 mouth, and fits of convulsion. That the subtle old Fa- 
 gin should have stood in any awe of him is incredible : 
 even the worthy old gentleman, Mr. Brownlow, is too 
 many for him, and the stronger character of the two. 
 In fact, this Monks is a pretender, and genuine charac- 
 ters only suit the hand of our author. A merely re- 
 spectable and amiable common-place character is also 
 pretty certain to present rather a wearisome, prosy ap- 
 pearance in the scenes of Hogarth and of Dickens. 
 They are only admirable, and in their true element, 
 when dealing wdth characters full of unscrupulous life, 
 of genial humour, or of depravities and follies : or with 
 characters of tragic force and heart-felt pathos. 
 
 Both have been accused of a predilection for the lower 
 classes of society, from inability to portray those of the 
 upper classes. Now, the predilection being admitted, the 
 reason of this is chiefly attributable to the fact that 
 there is little if any humour or genuine wit in the upper 
 classes, where all gusto of that kind is polished away ; 
 and also to the fact that both of them have a direct 
 moral purpose in view, viz., a desire to ameliorate the 
 condition of the poorer classes by showing what soci- 
 ety has made of them, or allowed them to become — and 
 to continue. 
 
 * On Marriage i la Mode. 
 
20 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Neither of these great artists ever concentrates the in- 
 terest upon any one great character, nor even upon two 
 or three, but while their principals are always highly 
 finished, and sufficiently prominent on important occa- 
 sions, they are nevertheless often used as centres of 
 attraction, or as a means for progressively introducing 
 numerous other characters which cross them at every 
 turn, and circle them continually with a buzzing world 
 of outward vitality. 
 
 There is a profusion and prodigality of character in 
 the works of these two artists. A man, woman, or 
 child, cannot buy a morsel of pickled salmon, look at 
 his shoe, or bring in a mug of ale ; a solitary object can- 
 not pass on the other side of the way ; a boy cannot 
 take a bite at a turnip, or hold a horse ; a by-stander 
 cannot answer the simplest question ; a dog cannot fall 
 into a doze ; a bird cannot whet his bill ; a pony cannot 
 have a peculiar nose, nor a pig one ear, but out peeps 
 the first germ of " a character." Nor does the ruling 
 tendency and seed-filled hand stop with such as these ; 
 for inanimate objects become endowed with conscious- 
 ness and purpose, and mingle appropriately in the back- 
 ground of the scene. Sometimes they even act as prin- 
 cipals, and efficient ones too, either for merriment and 
 light comedy, genial beauty and sweetness, or the most 
 squalid pantomimists of the " heavy line of business." 
 Lamb particularly notices what he terms " the dumb 
 rhetoric of the scenery — ^for tables, and chairs, and joint- 
 stools in Hogarth are living and significant things," and 
 Hazlitt very finely remarks on the drunken appearance 
 of the houses in " Gin Lane," which " seem reeling and 
 tumbling about in all directions, as if possessed with the 
 frenzy of the scene." All this is equally apparent in 
 the works of Dickens. He not only animates furniiurc, 
 and stocks and stones, or even the wind, with human 
 purposes, but often gives them an individual rather than 
 a merely generalized character. To his perceptions, 
 old deserted broken-windowed houses grow crazed with 
 " staring each other out of countenance," and •crook- 
 backed chimney-pots in cowls turn slowly round with 
 witch-like mutter and sad whispering moan, to cast a 
 hollow spell upon the scene. The interior of the house 
 of the miser Gride,* where there stands an " old grim 
 
 * Nicholas Nicldeby, vol. li.jchap. 56. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 21 
 
 clock, whose iron heart beats heavily within his dusty 
 case," and where the tottering old clothes-presses " slink 
 away from the sight" into their melancholy murky cor- 
 ners — is a good instance of this ; and yet equally so is 
 the description of the house* in which the Kenwigses, 
 Newman Noggs, and Crowl, have their abode, where 
 the parlour of one of them is, perhaps, " a thought dir- 
 tier" (no substantial difference being possible to the 
 eye, the room is left to its own self-consciousness) than 
 any of its neighbours, and in front of which ''the fowls 
 who peck about the kennels, jerk their bodies hither 
 and thither with a gait which none but town fowls are 
 ever seen to adopt." Nor can we forget the neigfibour- 
 hood of " Todgers's," where " strange, solitary pumps 
 were found hiding themselves, for the most part, in 
 blind alleys, and keeping company with fire-ladders. "f 
 All these things are thoroughly characteristic of the 
 condition and eccentricity ot the inmates, and of the 
 whole street, even as the beadle's pocket-book, " which, 
 like himself, was corpulent." A gloomy building, with 
 chambers in it, up a yard, where it had so little busi- 
 ness to be, "that one could scarcely help fancying it 
 must have run there when it was a young house, play- 
 ing at hide-and-seek with other houses, and have for 
 gotten the way out again ;"J and the potatoes, which, 
 after Cratchit had blown the fire, '* bubbled up, and 
 knocked loudly at the saucepan lid, to be let out, and 
 peeled"^ — these are among the innumerable instances 
 to which we have alluded. These descriptions and 
 characteristics are always appropriate ; and are not 
 thrown in for the mere sake of fun and farcicality. 
 That they have, at the same time, a marvellous tenden- 
 cy to be very amusing, may cause the sceptic to shake 
 his head at some of these opinions ; the pleasurable fact, 
 nevertheless, is in any case quite as well for the author 
 and his readers. 
 
 Mr. Dickens' characters, numerous as they are, have 
 each the roundness of individual reality combined with 
 generalization — most of them representing a class. 
 The method by which he accomplishes this, is worth 
 observing, and easily observed, as the process is always 
 the same. He never developes a character from with- 
 in, but commences by showing hov/ the nature of the 
 
 * Nicholas Nicklehy, vol. ii., chap. 14. t Martin Chuzzlewit, chap. 9. 
 t Christmas Carol,, j). 18. () Ibid., p. 87. 
 
22 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 individual has been developed externally by his whole 
 life in the world. To this effect, he first paints his por- 
 trait at full-length ; sometimes his dress before his face, 
 and m.ost commonly his dress and demeanour. When 
 he has done this to his satisfaction, he feels in the man, 
 and the first words that man utters are the key-note of 
 the character, and of all that he subsequently says and 
 does. The author's hand never wavers, never becomes 
 nntrue to his creations. What they promise to I e at 
 first (except in the case of Mr. Pickwick, about whom 
 the author evidently half-changed his mind as he pro- 
 ceeded) they continue to the end. 
 
 That Mr. Dickens often caricatures, has been said by- 
 many people ; but if they examined their own minds 
 they would be very likely to find that this opinion chiefly 
 originated, and was supported by certain undoubted car- 
 icatures among the illustrations. Le ccUhre Cniishank 
 — as the French translator of " Nicholas Nickleby" 
 calls him, appears sometimes to have made his sketch- 
 es without due reference, if any, to the original. These 
 remarks, however, are far from being intended to inval- 
 idate the great excellence of many of the illustrations 
 in " Oliver 'I'wist" and " Nicholas Nickleby," and also 
 of those by Hablott Brown and Cattermole in " Barnaby 
 Rudge" and " Martin Chuzzlewit." 
 
 What a collection — what a motley rout — what a 
 crov/d — what a conflict for precedence in the mind, as 
 WQ pause to contemplate these beings v/ith whom Mr. 
 Dickens has over-peopled our literature. Yet there are 
 but few which, all things considered, we should wish to 
 " emigrate." The majority are finished characters — 
 not sketches. Of those which were most worthy of 
 their high finish many instantly arise in person to su- 
 persede the pen. Mr. Pecksniff, sit down ! yo-u are not 
 asked to address the chair on behalf of the company. 
 Nor need Sam W'eller commence clearing a passage 
 \vith one hand, and pulling forward Mr. Pickv,Mck with 
 the other : nobody can speak satisfactorily for an as- 
 semblage composed of such heterogeneous elements. 
 The cordial welcome which would be so very applica- 
 ble to Old Fezziwig, John Browdie, Nev/man Noggs, 
 Tom Pinch, and a hundred others, would fall very unintel- 
 ligibly on the air on turning to the face of Ralph Nickle- 
 by, Mr. Brass, Jonas Chuzzlewit, and a hundred others. 
 What Variety and contrast, yet what truth, in such char- 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 23 
 
 acters as Oliver Twist and Barnaby Riidgc, the Yankee 
 agent Scadder, and Hugh, Mr. Varden and Mr. Brass, 
 Melly's grandfather, and Mr. Stiggins ! Nor should we 
 forget Sykes's dog, Kit's pony, and Barnaby's raven. 
 But however excellent our author may be in his men, 
 he is equally so with his women. Mrs. Weller, and 
 Mrs. Nickleby, Mrs. Jarley and Miss Montflathers, Mrs. 
 Gamp, the Marchioness, Mrs. Varden, the widow who 
 accused Mr. Pickwick, the sisters Cherry and Merry, 
 and little Nell, and many more, are all acquaintances 
 for life. In his young lady heroines Mr. Dickens is not 
 equally successful. They have a strong tendency to 
 be unromantically dutiful, which in real life, is no 
 doubt " an excellent thing in woman," but it is apt, un- 
 less founded upon some truly noble principle, to become 
 uninteresting in fiction. Their sacrifices to duty are 
 generally common-place, conventional, and of very 
 equivocal good, if not quite erroneous. Some of the 
 amiable old gentlemen are also of the description so 
 very agreeable to meet in private life, but who do not 
 greatly advantage the interest of these books, amidst the 
 raciness and vigour of which they hardly form tiie right 
 sort of contrast. With reference to his female charac- 
 ters, however, who are " better-halves," if his portraits 
 be faithful representations, especially of the middle and 
 lower classes — and it is greatly to be feared they are 
 but too true, in many cases — then we shall discover the 
 alarming amount of screws, scolds, tartars, and terma- 
 gants, over whom her Britannic Majesty's liege married 
 subjects male, pleasantly assume to be "lords and mas- 
 ters." France lifts its shoulders at it, and Germany 
 turns pale. 
 
 The materials of which the works under our present 
 consideration are composed, are evidently the product 
 of a frequent way- faring in dark places, and among the 
 most secret haunts where vice and misery hide their 
 heads ; this way-faring being undertaken by a most ob- 
 serving eye, and a mind exactly suited to the qualities 
 of its external sight. Many and important may be the 
 individual biographical facts; but if ever it were well 
 said of an author that his " life" was in his books, (and a 
 very full life, too,) this might be said of Mr. Dickens. 
 Amidst the variety of stirring scones and characters 
 which unavoidably surround every one who has duties 
 to perform among mixed classes of mankind, and amidst 
 
24 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 the far darker scenes and characters which the bent of 
 his genius caused him to trace out into their main sour- 
 ces and abodes, were the broad masses of his knowledge 
 derived, and the principal faculties of his mind and heart 
 wrought up to their capacious development. When he 
 has not seen it before, he usually goes to see all that 
 can be seen of a thing before he writes about it. To 
 several of the characters he has drawn, objections have 
 often been made, that they were exaggerations, or oth- 
 erwise not perfectly true to nature. It is a mistake to 
 think them untrue : they are, for the most parUfac-sim- 
 He creations, built up with materials from the life, as re- 
 tained by a most tenacious memory. They are not 
 mere realities, but the type and essence of real classes ; 
 while the personal and graphic touches render them at 
 the same time individualized. Sometimes, it is true, 
 he draws a mere matter-of-fact common-place reality ; 
 and these individuals, like Mrs. Maylie, Mr. Brownlow, 
 Harry Maylie, Mrs. Bedvvin, (except when the latter 
 wipes the tears from her eyes, and then wipes her spec- 
 tacles' eyes by the unconscious force of association,) 
 and several others, are a sort of failure " in a book" 
 •where they walk about with a very respectable and 
 rather uncomfortable air. 
 
 The delineation of characters constitutes so very 
 much the more prominent and valuable portion of Mr. 
 Dickens' works, that it is extremely difficult to detach 
 them from any view of an entire production. Take 
 away his characters, and the plots of his stories will 
 look meagre and disconnected. He tells a very short 
 story admirably ; but he cannot manage one extending 
 through a volume or two. His extended narrative is, 
 in fact, a series of short stories, or pictures of active 
 interest introducing new people, who are brought to 
 bear more or less— scarcely at all, or only atmospher- 
 ically, sometimes — upon the principals. Perhaps he 
 may not have the faculty of telling a story of prolonged 
 interest : but, in any case, he has done right hitherto 
 not to attempt it by any concentrating unity of action. 
 Not any of his characters are weighty enough in them- 
 selves to stand " the wear and tear" and carry on the 
 accumulating interests of a prolonged narrative. They 
 need adventitious aids and relief; and most ably and 
 abundantly are these supplied. 
 
 The immense circulation of Mr. Dickens' works, both 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 25 
 
 at home and abroad, and the undoubted influence they 
 exercise, render it an imperative duty to point out ev- 
 erything in them which seems founded in error, and the 
 moral tendency of which may be in any way and in any 
 degree injurious. We are anxious to display his most 
 striking merits — and every fault worth mentioning. 
 INor do we believe, when looking at the direct and be- 
 nevolent aim w^hich characterize*! all the author's ef- 
 forts, that such a proceeding car: ?neet with any other 
 feeling on his part than that of a frank approval, even 
 though he may not in all cases be disposed to admit the 
 validity of the objections. 
 
 The main design of Mr. Dickens is for the most part 
 original, and he always has a moral aim in view, tend- 
 ing to effect practical good. The moral tendency of all 
 his works is apparent, if they are regarded in their en- 
 tireness as pictures of human nature, in which no ro- 
 mantic sympathy is sought to be induced towards what 
 is vicious and evil — but antipathy and alarm at present 
 misery and ultimate consequences — while a genuine 
 heart-felt sympathy is induced towards all that is essen- 
 tially good in human nature. This is true of all his 
 "works considered under general views ; in some of the 
 details, however, the morality becomes doubtful from 
 an undue estimate of conventional duly when brought 
 into collision with the affections and passions. The 
 author always has the purest and best intentions on this 
 score ; nevertheless, some of his amiable, virtuous and 
 high-spirited characters break down lamentably, when 
 brought into conflict with society's grave, misleading 
 •code on the subject of heart and pocket, or "birth." 
 Thus, Rose Maylie — the beautiful young heroine in 
 *' Oliver Twist"^— refuses her devoted lover, whom she 
 also loves, merely because she does not know who her 
 parents were, and she is therefore of " doubtful birth," 
 and actually persists in her refusal. Nor is this com- 
 promise of the strongest and best feelings of nature to 
 mere conventional doubts the only objectionable part of 
 the story ; for the act is spoken of as a fine thing in her 
 to do, as inferring a refined feeling for her lover's hon- 
 our and future satisfaction, though he, the man himself, 
 declares he is satisfied with what she is, let her origin 
 have been as doubtful or as certain as it might. Being 
 ^uiie assured of his love, she tells him he " must en- 
 deavour to forget hei" — that he should think of "how 
 C 
 
26 CHABLES DICKENS. 
 
 many other hearts he might gain" — that he should make 
 her the confidante "of some other passion." These 
 are the wretched, aggravating insincerities so often em- 
 ployed in real life. It is not intended that Rose should 
 be regarded as a fool or a coquette, or in any other dis- 
 advantageous light ; but on the contrary she is said to 
 have " a noble mind," to be " full of intelligence ;" and 
 that her characteristic is "self-sacrifice." Here, then, 
 occurs the very eqCfocal, if not totally erroneous mo- 
 rahty; for so far from this act being simply one of 
 "self-sacrifice," the fact is apparent that Rose sacrifi- 
 ces her lover's genuine unadulterated feeling to her 
 overweening estimate of her own importance as a strict- 
 ly correct-principled young lady in the social sphere. 
 When he leaves the house early in the morning with an 
 aching heart, looking up in vain for a last glimpse, she 
 secretly peeps at him from behind the window curtains ! 
 There is too much of this already in the actual world, 
 and it should not be held up for admiration in works of 
 fiction. She makes, finally, a very bad excuse about 
 the duty she owes " to herself," which is, that she, not 
 knowing her origin, and being portionless, should not 
 bring any disgrace upon her lover, and blight his " brill- 
 iant prospects ;" and very much is also said about the 
 great " triumphs" this young 'squire is to " achieve" in 
 parliament and upwards, by " his great talents, and 
 powerful connections." This only adds nonsense to 
 the young lady's false morality and prudery ; for the 
 young 'squire is one of those ordinary sort of clever 
 sparks, about whose great talents and probable achieve- 
 ments the less that is said the better.* 
 
 It has been remarked that our author does not de- 
 velope his characters from within, but describes them 
 with a master-hand externally, and then leaves them to 
 develope themselves by word and action, which they do 
 most completely. His process is the converse of that 
 of Godwin, who developes solely from within, and whose 
 characters dilate as they advance, and more than carry 
 out the first principles of their internal natures with 
 which we were made acquainted. On the other hand, 
 let any one turn to the description of Rose Maylie when 
 she is first introduced, and then it will be seen that the 
 expected character "breaks down" — nothing comes of 
 
 * Oliver Twist, chaps. 29, 33, 34. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 27 
 
 it. Again : it must be admitted that Kate Nickleby is 
 an admirable, high-spirited, and very loveable girl ; and 
 that Nicholas Nickleby is a very excellent counterpart, 
 and a young man of that sort of thorough- bred mettle, 
 which wins regard and inspires entire confidence. Yet 
 both, undoubtedly fine spirits, get themselves into equiv- 
 ocal positions where their best and strongest feelings 
 are concerned. Kate refuses the hand of Frank Cheer- 
 yble, because she is poor and he rich, and she has re- 
 ceived kindness and assistance from his uncles : Nicho- 
 las gives up Madeline Bray, for precisely the same rea- 
 •sons, — though in point of value, as human beings, Nich- 
 olas and Kate are very superior to the somewhat too 
 real Mr. Frank, and the dutifully uninteresting Miss 
 Madeline, who has consented — the old story of having 
 a selfish father — to marry the miserly dotard, Andrew 
 Gride. Now, each of the parties is well aware of the 
 love of the other, which they sacrifice to a minor moral. 
 If the self-sacrifice of the individual were all that was 
 involved in the question, then indeed gratitude and other 
 secondary causes might perhaps be fairly allowed to 
 influence the painful resignation of a higher feeling ; but 
 where the happiness of the beloved object — and this is 
 the main point of the question — is involved, then the 
 sacrifice becomes, to say the least of it, an equivocal 
 morality — a certain evil, with some very doubtful good. 
 At the head of the chapter which displays the quadruple 
 sacrifice made by Nicholas and Kate, are these words- — 
 *' Wherein Nicholas and his sister forfeit the good opin- 
 ion of all worldly and prudent people." On the contra- 
 ry ; what they do is precisely in accordance with the 
 opinion of the worldly and prudent, and would be certain 
 to obtain the usual admiration. 
 
 But the author's better genius is not be thwarted by 
 these half-measures and short-comings, and strict lines 
 of duty ; for the truth of imagination is stronger in him 
 than the prudence of all the world. Out of his own book 
 will we convict him. After Kate has told her brother 
 of her rejection of the man who loved her, (and whom 
 she loved,) on the grounds of her poverty and obliga- 
 tions to his uncle, her brother thus soliloquiz<s. " What 
 man," thought Nicholas proudly, " would not be suffi- 
 ciently rewarded for any sacrifice of fortune, by the 
 
 * Nicholas Nickleby, chap. 61. 
 
28 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 possession of such a heart as this, which, bnt that" (here 
 peeps in the extraneous misgiving) " hearts weigh light, 
 and gold and silver heavy,"' (but this should not be so 
 ■with lovers !) " is beyond all praise. Frank has money, 
 and wants no more. IMore, would not buy him such a 
 treasure as Kate ? And yet in unequal marriages the rich 
 parly is always supposed to make a great sacrifice, and 
 the other to get a good bargain !" (And again, the mis- 
 giving in full force.) " But I am thinking like a lover, 
 or like an ass, which I suppose is pretty nearly the 
 same."* Instead of being an ass, this stumbling lover, 
 who continues to run his head against the truth, rather 
 figures as a moralist malgre lui. The vacillations in the 
 above passage are striking. The main truth of the ques- 
 tion, however, is yet brought out unalloyed by the good 
 heart of " brother Charles," W'ho says banteringly to his 
 nephew : " How dare you think, Frank, that we would 
 have you marry for money, when youth, beauty, and every 
 amiable virtue and excellence were to be had for love 1" 
 That is the point; well said, " old 'true-penny." Ad- 
 dressing Nicholas, he thus continues : " Madeline's heart 
 is occupied b}^ you, and worthily and naturally. This 
 fortune is destined to be yours, but you have a greater 
 fortune in her, sir, than you would have in money, were 
 it forty times told."t Surely a sincere passion ought to 
 teach all this to lovers, without waiting for a hint from 
 the '• w arm" old gentleman of the story ] 
 
 Yet again, an objection of another kind — for Mr. Dick- 
 ens has quite enough strength to be dealt with unspa- 
 ringly. It has been previously said, and the reasons for 
 the opinion have been stated, that " Oliver Twist," the- 
 work which is open to most animadversion, has a ben- 
 eficial moral tendency, and is full of touches of tender- 
 ness, and pathos, and of generous actions and emotions. J 
 The objection about to be offered, is on the ground of 
 justice being made vindictive and ferocious, which, be 
 it ever so just, has not a good moral tendency. This 
 is said with reference to the death of a most detestable 
 ruffian — Sykes — and it was important that no sympathy 
 should, by any possibility, be induced towards so brutal- 
 ized a villain. Such, however, is the case ; for the 
 
 * Nicholas Nickleby, chap. 61. + Ibid. chap. 63. 
 
 t The author's i n in id uctory defence to the third edition we have only seea 
 after finishing this essay. It is unanswerable, but ought not to have been 
 needed. 
 
CFIARLES DICKENS. 29 
 
 author having taken over-elaborate and extreme pains 
 to prevent it, the " extremes meet." After the brutal 
 murder of the poor girl Nancy, the perpetrator hurries 
 away, he knows not whither, and for days and nights 
 •wanders and lurks about fields and lanes, pursued by the 
 most horrible phantoms and imaginings, amidst ex- 
 haustion from hunger and fatigue and a constant terror 
 of discovery. Far from making a morbid hero of him, 
 in any degree, or being guilty of the frequent error of 
 late years, that of enueavouring to surround an atro- 
 cious villain with various romantic associations, Mr. 
 Dickens has shown the murderer in all his wretched- 
 ness, horror, and utter bewilderment consequent on his 
 crime. So far, the moral tendency is perfect. A cli- 
 max IS required ; and here the author over-shoots his 
 aim. I'erhaps, in reality, no retribution, on earth, could 
 ■very well be too heavy for such a detestable wretch as 
 'Sykes to suffer; but we cannot bear to see so much. 
 The author hunts down the victim, like a wild beast, 
 through mud and mire, and darkness, and squalid ways, 
 'with crowds upon crowds, like hell-hounds gnashing 
 and baying at his heels. Round the grim and desolate 
 old edifice, the haunt of crime and desperation, rising 
 out of a deep corrosion of filth, as if it had actually 
 grown up, like a loathsome thing out of the huge ditch — 
 round this darksome and hideous abode, in which the 
 murderer has taken his last refuge with thrice-barred 
 doors, the infuriate masses of human beings accumulate, 
 throng upon throng, like surge after surge, all clamour- 
 ing for his life. Hunted with tenfold more ferocity 
 than ever was fox, or boar, or midnight wolf— having 
 scarce a chance of escape — certain to be torn and tram- 
 pled amidst his mad, delirious struggles, into a miry 
 death, when caught — our sympathies go with the hunt- 
 ed victim in this his last extremity. It is not " Sykes, 
 the murderer," of whom we think — it is no longer the 
 "criminar in whose fate we are interested — it is for 
 that one worn and haggard man with all the world 
 against him — that one hunted human creature, with an 
 infuriate host pursuing him, howling beneath for his 
 blood, and striving to get at him, and tear him limb from 
 limb. All his old friends turn away from him — look 
 mutely at him, and aghast — and down below, all round 
 the hideous house, in hideous torch-light boils up the 
 surging sea of a maddened multitude. His throwing up 
 C2 
 
30 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 tbe window, and menacing the crowd below, had a gran- 
 deur in it— it rouses the bipod — we menace with him — 
 we would cast off from his plunging horse, that man. 
 who " showed such fury," and offered money for his 
 blood — from the bridge, that man who incessantly called 
 out that the hunted victim would escape from the back 
 — and we would have silenced the voice from the bro- 
 ken wall, that screamed away the last chance of a des- 
 perate man for his life. In truth, we would fairly have 
 had him escape — whether to die in the black moat be- 
 low, or alone in some dark and far-off field. We are 
 with this hunted-down human being, brought home to 
 our sympathies by the extremity of his distress ; and 
 we are 7iot with the howling mass of demons outside. 
 The only human beings we recognize are the victim — 
 and his dog. 
 
 If the above feeling be at all shared by general read- 
 ers, it will then appear that Mr. Dickens has defeated 
 his own aim, and made the criminal an object of sym- 
 pathy, owing to the vindictive fury with which he is 
 pursued to his destruction, because the author was so 
 anxious to cut him ofl' from all sympathy. The over- 
 strained terror of the intended moral, has thus an im- 
 moral tendency. It may, perhaps, be argued that as the 
 sympathy only commences at that very point, where 
 the detestable individual is lost sight of, and verges into 
 the generalized impression of a human being in the last 
 degree of distress — there is no sympathy given to the 
 criminal? The moment he is again thought of as the 
 murderer Sykes, the sympathy vanishes ; and therefore 
 no harm is done. This would present very fair grounds 
 for a tough metaphysical contest, but it is never good to 
 throw the feelings into a puzzle, and we prefer to enter 
 a direct protest against the accumulation of vindictive 
 ferocity with which this criminal is pursued, as tending 
 to defeat the unquestionable moral aim of the author. 
 
 Certainly not the highest, but certainly the most prom- 
 inent characteristic of Mr. Dickens' mind, is his hu- 
 mour. His works furnish a constant commentary on 
 the distinction between wit and humour ; for of sheer 
 "wit, either in remark or repartee, there is scarcely an 
 instance in any of his volumes, while of humour there 
 is a fulness and gvsto in every page, which would be 
 searched for in vain to such an extent, among all other 
 authors. It is not meant that there are not several au- 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 31 
 
 thors, and of the present time, who might equal the best 
 points of humour in any of Mr. Dickens' works, but 
 there is no author who can " k,eep it up" as he does ; no 
 author who can fill page after page with unfaihng and 
 irresistible humour, the only "relief" to which, if any, 
 shall be fun, and the exuberance of animal spirits — a 
 surplus vitality like that which makes him, after signing 
 his name to a letter or note, give such a whirl of flour- 
 ishing, which resembles an immense capering over a 
 thing done, before he is " off" to something else. No 
 other author could have written the whole of chapter 
 twenty-nine of " Martin Chuzzlewit," — nor perhaps the 
 last two pages. Frequently, the humour is combined 
 with the richest irony — as at the funeral of old Anthony 
 Chuzzlewit, where the doctor and the undertaker affect 
 not to know each other. Frequently the humour takes 
 the appearance of burlesque and farce, as when Mr. 
 Bumble the beadle puts on his cocked hat, and dances 
 round the tea-table ; but when it is recollected that he 
 has been courting the mistress of the place, and has just 
 discovered himself to be an accepted man, and that she 
 has left him alone in the room in the first glow of con- 
 scious success, the genuine humour of the proceeding 
 becomes manifest. Sometimes the humour not only 
 takes the show of mere animal spirits, but may be said 
 to depend solely upon them, and to set the lack of wit 
 at utter defiance, as by absolute challenge. This is often 
 done in the person of Master Charley Bates,* who usu- 
 ally falls into shouts of merriment at nothing in itself 
 laughable ; and of John Browdie,f who once nearly 
 choaks himself, displaying a great red face and round 
 eyes, and coughing and stamping about with immoder- 
 ate laughter — and all for the poorest jokes. The joke 
 is felt to be nothing, yet the effect upon John Browdie 
 is so palpable, that it is irresistible to the beholder. In 
 like manner, Mr. Mould | palates, and relishes, and re- 
 peats, one of the very smallest and driest of jokes, be- 
 cause it has a directly professional application that 
 tickles him ; and such is his unaffected delight, that at 
 last, witless as it is, the humorous effect is unquestion- 
 able. But if such points as these might be equalled by 
 several other authors, there are various scenes in the 
 works of Mr. Dickens which are peculiar to himself^ 
 
 * See Oliver Twist, t Nicholas Nickleby. i See Martin Chuzzlewit. 
 
32 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 for their fullness of humour, minj^led with subtle irony, 
 and knowledge of life and character, and are in their 
 combinations unlike any other author. No other author, 
 of past or present times, so far as can be judged by their 
 productions, could have written several scenes, or chap- 
 ters, taken entire, as they stand in the works of " Boz." 
 For instance, the whole chapter in which Mr. Mould, 
 the undertaker, is discovered in his domestic relations,* 
 where the very nature of the whole man is brought out 
 by the fulsome palavering gossip of the nurse, Mrs. 
 Gamp, who has been ""recommended" by Mr. Mould to 
 nurse a certain sick man, and whose permission she 
 comes to ask that she may go and nurse another sick 
 man all night, and thus receive pay from both. Another 
 ■nurse, recommended by Mr. Mould, was attending upon 
 the latter sick man by day — and it is therefore evident 
 that she also leaves her charge at night to go probably 
 to do duty elsewhere. Hence it appears that four sick 
 people are neglected during twelve hours out of each 
 twenty-four, so that Mr. Mould has good chances of a 
 funeral or two among them. Nothmg of this kind is 
 said — nothing is thrown up to the surface of the scene, 
 except its racy humour — but are not the inferences pal- 
 pable in their keen irony] The scene where this hor- 
 rid nurse, Mrs Gamp, goes to fill her office by the sick 
 bed for the night f is an unexampled mixture of the hu- 
 morous, the grotesque, the characteristic, and detesta- 
 ble — to say nothing of the practical service of the 
 *' warning." Two other scenes occur to the mind, 
 which, for the richness of their humour and character, 
 and the thorough knowledge the author has of " his 
 men," are, in their way, quite unparalleled and unrival- 
 led in literature. We allude to the scenes where the 
 two men wlio, in their circumstances, and the external 
 character they supported, would have been the last vol- 
 untarily to lose those wits which were so very necessary 
 always to be kept '• about them," did actually lose the 
 same for a time by getting intoxicated— need it be said 
 that these two men are the methodist preacher Mr. 
 Stiggins, called "the Shepherd :"| and the plausible, 
 smooth-surfaced, self-possessed hypocrite, Mr. Peck- 
 sniff"^ — the character which bids fair to be, when the 
 work is finished, the master-piece of all the author's 
 
 * Martin Chuzzlewit, chap. 25. t Ibid., chap. 25. 
 
 i The Pickwick Tapers. () Martin Chuzzlewit, chap, 0. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 33 
 
 numerous characters, or rivalled only by the more sub- 
 tle delineation of young Martin Chuzzlewit. If ever 
 the conflicting proverbs that " liquor disguises a man" — 
 and, that "drunkenness exposes a man," were brought 
 to a final issue in favour of the exposition of nature in- 
 duced by the latter, here may it be witnessed in those 
 two inimitable scenes. They not only display the se- 
 cret capacities and the habitual bent of the mind, but 
 may also be regarded as physiological studies. A man 
 of genius, to develope and set forth the noble objects of 
 his soul, need not absolutely possess great physical ener- 
 gies, for his work can wait — whether he be above ground 
 or beneath it ; but a charlatan, to succeed, must possess 
 a strong physique, for his work cannot wait, and he 
 must reap while he lives, or not at all. In the most, 
 humorous and strictly characteristic manner — yet with- 
 out the least apparent purpose— the physique of the 
 Shepherd, and of Mr. Pecksniflf, is displayed in these 
 scenes, and we there discover how much secret strength 
 was necessary to enable them to maintain, at all other 
 times, their bland and unruffled exterior, and to repress 
 and govern so much dangerous " stuff" within them. 
 The grave, oily, most respectable Mr. Pecksniff, after 
 being repeatedly put to bed, yet as repeatedly jumping up 
 again, and appearing at the top of the landing-place in, 
 his shirt, discoursing with polite, half-conscious absurdi- 
 ty over the banisters, gives a finish to his character, 
 such as no other condition of aff^iirs could accomplish, 
 and no words so exquisitely portray. It is the same 
 man, drunk, who, being sober, had the strength of self- 
 possession — when his house was filled with confusion, 
 and the last man he wished to see that confusion, was 
 at his door — to settle the dangerous parties in different 
 rooms, and putting on a gardening hat, open the door 
 himself with a demure face and a spade in his hand! 
 "The force of humour could no further go." 
 
 But if Mr. Dickens does not display anything of what 
 is recognized as sheer wit in his writings, he frequently 
 indulges in irony, and sometimes in sarcasm. To his 
 great credit, these instances are never of a morbid mis- 
 anthropical kind, and in the shape of transient side hits 
 and stabs at human nature ; they will almost invariably be 
 found directed against social wrongs, " the insolence of 
 office," against false notions of honour, against mere ex- 
 ternal respectability, and with a view to defend the poor 
 
34 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 against injustice and oppression. His favourite method, 
 however, of exposing and attacking wrongs, and " aba- 
 ting nuisances," is through the humorous display of char- 
 acters actively engrossed with their own objects and 
 designs. "With theories, or systems of philosophy which 
 are not to his mind, he also deals in a similar style of 
 pleasantry. The opening pages of Chapter XIII. of 
 *•' Oliver Twist," are an admirable instance. 
 
 If it be an interesting thing to trace the cause and 
 means of a man's rise to fame, and the various methods 
 by which he mastered obscurity amidst all the crowd 
 struggling for the same narrow door, and fairly won the 
 sympathy, the admiration, and the gold of contempora- 
 neous multitudes, it is no less curious and interesting 
 to observe the failures of successful men, their miscal- 
 culations at the very height of the game, and the re- 
 doubled energy and skill with which they recovered 
 their position. Few are perhaps aware that Mr. Dickens 
 once wrote an Opera ; not very many perhaps know that 
 he wrote a Farce for the theatre, which was acted ; and 
 the great majority of his readers do not at all care to 
 remember that he wrote a " Life of Grimaldi," in two 
 volumes. The opera was set to music very prettily by 
 HuUah, and was produced at the St. James' theatre ; 
 but, somehow, it vanished into space ; albeit, at dusty- 
 old book-stalls, pale-faced near-sighted men, poking over 
 the broken box or tea-chest that usually contains the 
 cheap sweepings of the stock within, avouch that once 
 or twice they have caught a glimpse of the aforesaid 
 lyrics, labelled price three pence. As for the theatrical 
 piece, it " went oflF" in a smoke, with Harley wringing 
 his hands at the top of the cloud ; and for the '• Life of 
 Grimaldi," everybody was disappointed with it, because, 
 although Joseph was certainly in private " no fool," yet 
 as the only hold he had upon our sympathies was with 
 reference to his merry-makings at Christmas-tide, the 
 public certainly did not expect to find most of that set 
 aside, and in its place a somewhat melanchol}'" narrative 
 hopeless of all joyous result from the first, yet endeav- 
 ouring to be pleasant " on the wrong side of the mouth.'* 
 It was like the rehearsal of a pantomime, the poor clown 
 being of course in "plain clothes," and having pains in 
 his limbs, from a fall. It was a sad antithesis to expect- 
 ation, and all old associations. 
 
 Leaving these failures behind him with so light a pace 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 35 
 
 that no one heard him moving off, and never once turn- 
 ing back his head, — which might have attracted the pub- 
 lic attention to his ill-kick — our author started forward 
 on his way, as if nothing had happened. 
 
 The slowness, and dogged grudging with which the 
 English public are brought to admit of great merit, ex- 
 cept in cases where their admiration is suddenly carried 
 off unawares from them, is only to be equalled by the 
 prodigality of disposition towards a favourite once highly 
 established. And this influences all classes, more or 
 less. A recent instance must have caused our author 
 great merriment. At a public dinner a short time since, 
 Mr. Serjeant Talfourd, regretting the absence of his 
 friend Mr. Dickens, paid an appropriate and well-merited 
 compliment to the breadth of surface over which the 
 life, character, and general knowledge contained in his 
 works, extended. The reporter not rightly hearing this, 
 or not attending to it, but probably saying to himselfj, 
 * Oh — it's about Dickens — one can't go wrong,' gave a 
 version of the learned Serjeant's speech in the next 
 morning's paper, to the effect that Mr. Dickens' genius 
 comprised that of all the greatest minds of the time, 
 put together, and that his works represented all their 
 works. The high ideal and imaginative — the improve- 
 ments in the steam-engine and machinery — all the new 
 discoveries in anatomy, geology, and electricity, with, 
 the prize cartoons, and history and philosophy thrown 
 into the bargain, — search from the " Sketches by Boz" 
 to Martin Chuzzlewit inclusive, and you shall find, in. 
 some shape or other " properly understood," everything 
 valuable which the world of letters elsewhere contains. 
 The gratuitous gift of this confused accumulation, is only 
 to be equalled by the corresponding gift of " madness," 
 with which our most amusing, and, in his turn, most 
 amused author was obligingly favoured by an absurd re- 
 port, extensively circulated, some year or two ago. 
 
 The true characteristics of Mr. Dickens' mind are 
 strongly and definitively marked — they are objective, 
 and always have a practical tendency. His universality 
 does not extend beyond the verge of the actual and con- 
 crete. The ideal and the elementary are not his region. 
 
 Having won trophies over so large a portion of the 
 intellectual and plastic world, Mr. Dickens projected a 
 flight into the ideal hemisphere. Accordingly he gave 
 us Master Humphrey, and his Clock. The design had 
 
36 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 a sort of German look ; but the style in which it open- 
 ed was precisely that adopted by the American novel- 
 ist Brockden Brown, (a man of original genius beyond 
 doubt— the author of " Carwin," '' Wieland," &c..) in 
 one of his works especially, we forget which. The in- 
 troduction, which only bordered upon the ideal, and 
 seemed to be a preliminary softening of our mortal 
 earth, with a view to preparing it for " fine air," was no 
 sooner over than the reader had to commence a second 
 preparation, called an " Introduction to the Giant Chron- 
 icles," which was going back to the old style of " Boz," 
 and seemed like giving the matter up at the oi tset. 
 The " First Night of the Giant Chronicles" settled the 
 business. The real giant, " Boz," could make nothing 
 of the ideal giants— they turned out to be mere Guild- 
 hall fellows, pretending to know something beyond the 
 city. The " Clock Case" was a dead failure, so was 
 the " Deaf Gentleman." so was the " Correspondence." 
 Affairs began to look ominous. A brief story of tragic 
 interest was told, and finely. It diverted the attention; 
 but the author was obliged to proceed with his series, 
 and accordingly he commenced " The Old Curiosity 
 Shop" — a sufficiently vague title, which might lead to 
 anything or nothing — and then we had some fresh fail- 
 ures in the shape of " Correspondence." Now, if the 
 author had been a vain man, or a wrong-headed, pur- 
 blind egotist, resolved to go on with something unsuit- 
 able to his mind, and to insist upon success with all 
 fact and fancy, and nature and art, against him, then it 
 would have been all over with the popularity of the re- 
 nowned " Boz." Instead of which, the author's good 
 sense, self-knowledge, adroitness, and tact, made him 
 clearly see the true state of the case, and the surest rem- 
 edy ; he accordingly called up to the rescue some old- 
 established favourites, and after introducing Mr. Pick- 
 wick to Master Humphrey, and bringing Sam Weller 
 and old Weller into the kitchen beneath the luckless 
 " Clock," he literally undermined his own failure, and 
 blew it up, as soon as he saw the prospect of a clear 
 field before him. It was well done. The wood-cut at 
 the end of the " Old Curiosity Shop," in which Master 
 Humphrey is represented seated in his chair, surround- 
 ed by elves, fairies, and grotesque spirits — is all very 
 much in the way of Tieck and Hoffman, but out of Mr. 
 Dickens' way, and he rapidly abandoned it. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 37 
 
 In his delightful little book — a better hearted one 
 never issued from the press— called " A Christmas 
 CaroV in prose, something of the same kind is again 
 attempted, and certainly with success. In his concep- 
 tion, description, and management of the First and 
 Third of the Spirits that visit Scrooge, there are the 
 true elements of the supernatural world. They are 
 '" high German" and first-rate. The allegorical descrip- 
 tion of the Spirit of the Past, is perfect. As for the 
 jolly Giant, he is a modern Goth. The knocker which 
 changes into Marley's dead-alive face, and yet remains 
 a knocker, is taken from Hoffman's " Golden Pot ;" but 
 there is abundance of genuine supernaturalism about 
 him which must have been made on the spot. 
 
 Our author is conspicuous for his graphic powders. 
 All his descriptions are good, often excellent ; some- 
 times, both for minute truths and general eff'ect, perfect. 
 Humorous descriptions are his forte ; and serious de- 
 scription is no less his forte, though he far less often 
 indulges in it. Perhaps it may be said that his ei/e is 
 " worth all his other senses ;" at all events, it is never 
 " made the fool" of the other senses — except where it 
 ought to be so (sympathetically) in describing objects 
 seen through the medium of passion. It will presently 
 be shown that this exception constitutes one of the 
 finest elements, if not the finest element of his genius. 
 But the feature in his writings, now under considera- 
 tion, is the power he possesses of describing things as 
 they actually exist — in fact, of seeing so much more in 
 a given space and time than people usually do, of copy- 
 ing it down in the words most appropriate to bring it 
 before other minds, and of faithfully recollecting and 
 harmoniously combining his materials. After descri- 
 bing the furniture and decorations of a room — walls — 
 floor, and ceiling — and alluding to two different groups 
 of people, the author carelessly says : " Observing all 
 this in the first comprehensive glance with which a 
 •stranger surveys a place that is new to him, &c."* A 
 stranger indeed ! It is w^ell, perhaps, for many " in- 
 teriors" that every stranger who just pops in his head, 
 does not always see quite so much. The reader may 
 also recollect, perhaps, the entrance of Mrs. Gamp into 
 the sick chamber, who, with one glance round, sees the 
 
 * Nicholas Nicldeby, vol. i., cliap. 32 
 
 D 
 
38 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 contents of the room, and the prospect of chimney- 
 pots, and gable-ends, and roofs, and gutters, out at th-e 
 garret window !* 
 
 It is not necessary to make any remark on the de- 
 scriptions given of the dress and other external appear- 
 ances of the characters introduced by Mr. Dickens, ex- 
 cept to say that he considers such descriptions display 
 the character in all its individuality. H e does not distinct- 
 ly say this, but his opinion incidentally slips out in speak- 
 ing of the Massachussets' Asylum for the Blind. f H e re- 
 sembles Sir Walter Scott in this respect, and like Scott,. 
 he also frequently gives the portrait minutely. Some of 
 the faces of his men are drawn with the tangible trutli 
 of Hans Holbein, such as the Yankee agent Scadder.J: 
 the man with two different profiles — one alive and teem- 
 ing with palpable rascality, the other like a dead wall 
 with a thief behind it. There is more done, however, 
 in some instances than merely giving the portrait — its 
 expression is given at a critical moment; and, in one 
 instance, the reflection of expression from face to face 
 is displayed under the influence of strong excitement, 
 in which the very physiology of family characteristics 
 boils up through and above all diff'erences of nature and 
 circumstance, shines out with a light at once noble 
 yet devilish, and culminates on a common centre of 
 passion. The scene is between Ralph, Nicholas, and: 
 Kate Nickleby.^ 
 
 In describing local scenery, Mr. Dickens is generally 
 faithful and minute ; his inventions of scenery are rather 
 (as such things should be) transcripts from memory 
 carefully combined. His " American Notes" have not 
 been valued so much as they deserve, on account of 
 certain manifest exaggerations of travelling scenes (not 
 of sea-faring, for that is all true enough,) and also be- 
 cause the public wanted something more, and some- 
 thing less, they hardly knew what. But if his excellent 
 and humanely-purposed accounts of public institutions 
 do not obtain for these volumes a sufficient regard, the 
 descriptions they contain of American " locjtions," and 
 of wood-scenery, particularly in canal-traveliing, ought 
 to give them a permanent position as historical land- 
 scape records to be referred to in future years whea 
 
 * Martin Chuzzlewit, chap. 25. t American Notes, vol. i., chap. 3. 
 
 I Martin Chuzzlewit, chap. 31. i Nicholas Nickleby chap. 64. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 39 
 
 the face of that great country has become changed. 
 Any one who has iravelled in those parts can hardly 
 fail to recognize the perfect truth of these descriptions, 
 many of which must have been copied down on the 
 spot. 
 
 Amidst the various sets of somewhat elaborate mem- 
 oranda, notes, and outlines, from which this essay is 
 written, there are few more numerous in references 
 than our slip of paper headed with " Happy Words and 
 Graphic Phrases." As when the avaricious dotage of 
 the toothless old miser, Arthur Gride, is cheered with a 
 prospect of success, to which he returns no other an- 
 swer than " a cackle of great delight ;" as when the plac- 
 ards of a company of strolling players are issued " with 
 letters afflicted with every possible variety of spinal de- 
 formity f as when the watery currents "toyed and 
 sported" with the drowned body of Quilp, "now bruis- 
 ing it against the slimy piles, now hiding it in mud or 
 long rank grass, now dragging it heavily over rough 
 stones and gravel, now feigning to yield it to its own 
 -element, and in the same action luring it away," &c. ; 
 as when a set of coffin-lids standing upright, cast their 
 shadows on the wall " like high-shouldered ghosts with 
 their hands in t.heir pockets ;" and an old harpsichord 
 in a dusty cornel* is described by " lisjinglmo: anatomy ;" 
 as when Mr. Pecksniff, overcome with wine, speaks of 
 the vain endeavour to keep down his feelings, " for the 
 more he presses the bolster upon them, the more they 
 look round the corner !" Or, when it is said of one of 
 those wooden figure-heads that adorn ships' bows, and 
 timber yards, that it was " thrusfiyig itself forward with 
 that excessively loide-awake aspect, and air of somewhat 
 obtrusive politeness by which figure-heads are usually 
 characterized." All these, moreover, tend to establish 
 the statement previously made as to the predominating 
 feature of characterization displayed throughout Mr. 
 Dickens' works, and the consequent difficulty of sep- 
 arating this feature from almost every other, so inwo- 
 ven is it into the texture of the whole. The first two 
 paragraphs of the chapter which opens with the descrip- 
 tion of the interior of the house of the miser Gride, for 
 graphic truth and originality, as applied to the endow- 
 ment of old furniture with the very avariciousness and 
 personal character of their owner, yet without the loss 
 of their own identity as old furniture, or any assistance 
 
40 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 from preternatural fancies, are probably without par- 
 allel in the literature of this or any other country.* 
 
 Mr. Dickens' style is especially the graphic and hu- 
 morous, by means of which he continually exhibits the 
 most trifling- and common-place things in a new and 
 amusing light. Owing to the station in life of the ma- 
 jority of his characters, a colloquial dialect of the re- 
 spective classes is almost unavoidable ; even his narra- 
 tive style partakes of the same familiarity, and is like tell- 
 ing the listener " all about it ;" but no one else ever had 
 the same power of using an abundance of "slang" of all 
 kinds, without offence, and carrying it off, as well as ren- 
 dering it amusing by the comedy, or tragic force of the 
 scene, and by its unaffected appropriateness to the utter- 
 ers. Sometimes, however, certain of these licenses 
 are not so fitly taken by the author, where they acci- 
 dentally slip out of the dialogue into the narrative ; nor 
 can good taste approve of the title-page of " Martin 
 Chuzzlevvit," which reminds one of some of the old 
 quack and conjuring treatises, servant-maids' dream- 
 books, or marvellous tracts of bigoted biography and 
 old-fashioned rhodomontade. It is unworthy of the 
 work, which, so far as can be judged at present, will 
 probably be its author's most highly-finished production. 
 
 The " Sketches by Boz" are, for the most part, rath- 
 er poor affairs. Except the " Visit to Newgate" — the 
 " Hospital Patient," and the " Death of the Drunkard" 
 — especially the death-bed scene in the second, and the 
 delirium and suicide of the last, which are fearfully 
 truthful and impressive— there are few of the papers 
 which are above mediocrity. 
 
 That far higher qualities have been discovered in him, 
 by certain students of literature, not only in England, 
 but on the continent of Europe, than his " Sketches," 
 and the " Pickwick Papers" contain, can hardly admit 
 of doubt; nevertheless a few remarks may be offered in 
 addition to what has previously been said, to explain 
 more popularly the grounds which men of intellect have 
 for " the faith that is in them" with regard to the genius 
 of Mr. Dickens. 
 
 So far as a single epithet can convey an impression 
 of the operation of his genius, it may be said that Mr. 
 Dickens is an instinctive writer. His best things are 
 
 * Nicholas Kicldeby, chap. 51. 
 
-CHARLES DICKENS. 41 
 
 ■sncldenly revealed to him ; he does not search for them 
 ill his rniiid : they come to him ; they break suddenly 
 upon hiin, or drop out of his pen. He does not tax his 
 brain, he transcribes what he finds writing itself there. 
 This is the peculiar prerogative of a true creative ge- 
 nius. His instincts manifest themselves in many subtle 
 ways, both seriously and humorously. Thus ; when 
 Lord Verisopht, the foolish young nobleman who has 
 wasted his life in all sorts of utter folly, is on his way 
 to fight a duel which is lated to close his career, it is 
 said that "the fields, trees, gardens, hedges, everything 
 looked very beautiful ; the young man scarcely seemed 
 to have noticed them before, though he had passed the 
 same objects a thousand times."* The whole of the 
 passage should be carefully read : it is deeply pathetic. 
 It is as though Nature, whom the foolish young lord had 
 forgotten during his whole life, had gently touched his 
 heart, reminding him that he should take one look at 
 her, thus to refine and sweeten, with her balmy tender- 
 ness and truth, the last brief interval of his existence. 
 It should also be remarked that the author calls him 
 " the young man" this once only — previously he was 
 always a scion of nobility — now he is simplified for the 
 grave. No hard study and head-work, no skill in art 
 and writing can produce such things as these. They 
 are the result of a fine instinct identifying itself with 
 given characters, circumstances, and elementary princi- 
 ples. When Sykes hurries homeward with the deter- 
 mination of destroying the girl, it is said that he " never 
 once turned his head to the right or left, or raised his 
 eyes to the sky, or low^ered them to the ground, but 
 looked straight hcfore him ;"t and this will be found to be 
 the invariable characteristic of every fierce physical 
 resolution in advancing towards its object. Before he 
 commits the murder he extinguishes the candle though 
 it is scarce daybreak, but says that " there is light 
 enough for what he hat; got to do''"' — the tone of expres- , 
 sion suggesting a vague notion of some excuse to him- 
 self for his contemplated ferocity, as if it were a sort of 
 duty. Allusion may also be made to his not daring to 
 turn his back towards the dead body all the time he re- 
 mained in the room ; to the circumstances attending his 
 flight, and to the conduct of his dog. The same fine in- 
 
 * Nicholas Nickleby, chaji. 50. t Oliver Twist, chap. 45. 
 
 D2 
 
42 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 stinct is displayed, in a different form, in the circum- 
 stances preceding- the suicide of Ralph Nickleby — the 
 hideous churchyard for the poor — his recollections of 
 having been one of a jury, long before, on the body of a 
 man who had cut his throat, and his looking through the 
 iron railings " wondering which might be his grave ;" 
 the set of drunken fellows who were passing, one of 
 whom danced, at which a few bystanders laughed, and 
 one of them looking round in Ralph's face, he, as if galvan- 
 ized, echoed the laugh, and when they were gone recol- 
 lected that the suicide whose grave he had looked for, 
 had been merry when last seen before he had commit- 
 ted the act.* And again, the same instinct manifests 
 itself in a perfectly different mode in the deeply affect- 
 ing conduct of the old grandfather — deep beyond tears 
 — on the death of Nelly, and also after her death ;t and 
 with equal truth and subtlety when Dennis, the hang- 
 man, has received sentence of death| — every word he 
 utters is with the sense of strangulation upon him, and 
 a frantic struggling against visible fate. He " knows 
 by himself" what thoughts are now passing in the mind 
 of the man who is to execute him. Of a humorous 
 kind the instances are too abundant even to be referred 
 to ; one or two only shall be noticed. After Mr. Mould,. 
 the undertaker, has discoursed about certain prospective 
 funerals, and looked out of his window into a church- 
 yard " with an artist's eye to the graves,*' while sipping 
 a tumbler of punch, he covers his head with a silk hand- 
 kerchief, and takes a little nap\ — an expressive com- 
 ment upon an undertakers composed and pleasant idea 
 of death. When "poor Tom Pinch" has lighted old 
 Martin Chuzzlewit with a lanthorn across the fields at 
 night, he immediately blows out the candle for his own 
 return|| — prompted, as it seems, by a sensation of no 
 sort of consequence being attached to himself, and un- 
 consciously influenced by the strictly frugal habits of 
 his employer. In speaking to Jonas of a little surprise 
 he contemplated for his daughters (who evidently knew 
 all about it,) Mr. Pecksniff lowers his voice, and treads 
 on tip-toe, though his daughters are two miles off;^ his 
 sensation actually coinciding with an imaginative im- 
 pulse derived from his own lie. One more : the unfor- 
 
 * Nicholas Nickleby, chap. 62. + The Old Curiosity Shop, chaps. 71, 72, 
 X Barnaby Rud^e, chap. 76. ^ Martin Chuzzlewit, chap. 25. 
 
 y Ibid., chap. 24. ^ Ibid., chap. 20. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 43 
 
 tunate Smike having been caught by Squeers, and 
 brought to the house of Mr. Snavvley, who is at supper, 
 the latter declares " it is clear that there has been a 
 Providence in it," — and this he utters casting his eyes 
 down with an air of humility, and elevating his fork 
 with a bit of lobster on the top of it, towards the ceiling. 
 -' Providence is against him, no doubt," replied Mr. 
 Squeers, scratching his nose. "Of course, that was to 
 be expected." Mr. Snawley then addressing the de- 
 testable Mr. Squeers, makes the moral reflection that 
 *' Hard-heartedness and evil doing will never prosper." 
 " Never was such a thing known," rejoined Squeers, 
 taking a roll of notes from his pocket-book to see that 
 they were all safe.* Let no lover of fun suppose that 
 the ludicrous circumstances of this dialogue are merely 
 introduced to produce a laugh at the graphic absurdity : 
 they mark the hypocrisy and the total absence of any 
 real sense of Providence, in these two scoundrels, while 
 the last action of Squeers betrays a sudden instinctive 
 consciousness, if not of his own villany, at least of 
 the consequences which sometimes ensue on such do- 
 ings as his. 
 
 Now, it may be said, that Mr. Dickens does not per- 
 haps intend all this, which has been regarded as the 
 workings of a fine instinctive faculty — that such things 
 are accidental — that he is not conscious of such infer- 
 ences himself, nor troubles his head about them, and 
 that the critic is playing the part of Mr. Curdle, who 
 wrote a long treatise to inquire whether the nurse's 
 husband in Romeo and Juliet, really was " a merry 
 man," which seemed doubtful from the fact of the one 
 slender joke recorded of him. Possibly; and if Mr. 
 Dickens can write so suggestively by accident, " happy 
 man be his dole." The trial scene of the Jew Fagin is 
 full of these wonderful " accidents." Howbeit, there 
 are the fiction-facts ; and there the critic's comii>ents ; 
 the reader can settle the question to his own mind. It 
 may, however, be observed that if such inferences were 
 the mere invention or fancy of the present essayist, 
 similar things would occur to him in reading the works 
 of other novelists and writers of fiction. But they sel- 
 dom do, except with the greatest writers, and with no 
 others of the present time, in an equal degree. The 
 
 * Nicholas Nickleby, chap. 38, 
 
44 CHARLEg DICKENS. 
 
 very names given to so many characters — names which 
 express the nature or peculiarity of the individual, and 
 which are at once original, eccentric, humorous, and 
 truthful, — would serve to prove that such a number of 
 happy "hits" could never have been made unintention- 
 ally. But this unconsciousness of the operation of 
 their own genius, which was perhaps the case with 
 nearly all the great writers of former times, hardly ap- 
 plies now with any force in our age of constant analy- ' 
 sis and critical disquisition. During the actual moments 
 of composition a great inventive genius will of course 
 be forgetful of himself, and how he works, and ivhere 
 it all comes from ; but to succeed in these days, with 
 any chance of posterity, an author must know well 
 what he is about. Some of the details of his execution 
 may fairly bear more appropriate inferences than a 
 man of genius literally intended ; will continually do 
 so ; but all such things in Mr. Dickens, and in other 
 novelists and dramatists, are the spontaneous offspring 
 of a mind that has started upon a well-understood 
 course, and a nervous system that lives in the charac- 
 ters and scenes of imaginative creation. 
 
 Under the head of " instinctive writing" must also be 
 -classed those subtle intuitions which are the peculiar, 
 and perhaps, exclusive prerogative of a fine inventive 
 genius. He describes (in " Oliver Twist") very remark- 
 able phenomena sometimes attending sleep as well as 
 stupor, when objects of the external senses partially 
 obtain admission, and are perceived by the dreaming 
 mind ; representing a condition of knowledge without 
 power, as though a foot were on either shore of the 
 worlds of vision and reality, the soul being conscious 
 of both, and even of its own anomalous slate. This, 
 however, he may have experienced ; as, in like man- 
 ner, what he describes (in the " American Notes") of 
 the ffeculiar delirium and forlorn brain-wandering some- 
 times induced by prolonged sea-sickness. His por- 
 traiture of a heart-breaking twilight condition of fatuity, 
 brought on by age, and want, and misery, are stronger 
 cases in point, yet these he miglit have witnessed. 
 But he can have no actual experience either in his own 
 person or that of others, of what emotions and thoughts 
 are busy in the innermost recesses of the body and soul 
 of the perpetrator of the worst crimes — of the man con- 
 4iemned for death, of the suicide, and of those who are 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. ' 45 
 
 actually in the last struggle. Yet everybody of ordina- 
 ry imagination and sensibility has felt the vital truth of 
 these descriptions, the home-stinging whisper, or loud 
 cry, of Nature within his being, as he read them. 
 
 Of the tragic power, the pathos, and tenderness con- 
 tained in various parts of xMr. Dickens' works, many 
 examples have already been given, nor can space be 
 afforded for more than a brief reference to one or two 
 more. Nothing can be more striking than the last 
 scenes in the lives of Hugh, of Dennis, and of Barnaby 
 Rudge, each so different, yet so true to the character — 
 the first so suggestive of barbaric greatness and sad 
 waste of energies — the second so overwhelming in. 
 physical apprehensions, and revolting in abject wretch- 
 edness — the last so full of motley melancholy, resigned 
 yet hopeless, a sweetness above despair, a brain for 
 once blessed by an imbecility that places him beyond 
 the cruel world, and meekly smiling at all its " capital" 
 laws. The trial scene of Fagin is a master-piece of 
 tragic genius. There are many little incidents in our 
 author's works of the same kind as the following: — 
 "When the poor, maltreated, half- starved boys all run 
 away from the Yorkshire school, " some were found 
 crying under hedges, and in such places, frightened at 
 the solitude. One had a dead bird in a little cage ; he 
 had wandered nearly twenty miles, and when his poor 
 favourite died, lost courage, and lay down beside him." 
 During the riots described in Barnaby Rudge (chapter 
 77) — "One young man was hanged in Bishopsgate- 
 street, whose aged grey-headed father waited for him 
 at the gallows, kissed him at its foot when he arrived, 
 and sat there on the ground till they took him down. 
 They would have given him the body of his child ; but 
 he had no hearse, no coffin, nothing to remove it in, 
 being too poor ; and walked meekly away beside the 
 cart that took it back to prison, trying as he went to 
 touch its lifeless hand." Words — few as they are — of 
 heart-breaking humanity, the only comment upon 
 which must be a silent, scalding tear. The death of 
 Nelly, and her burial, are well-known scenes, of deep 
 pathetic beauty. 
 
 A curious circumstance is observable in a great portion 
 of the scenes last mentioned, which it is possible may 
 have been the result of harmonious accident, and the 
 author not even subsequently fully conscious of it. It 
 
46 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 is that they are written in blank verse, of irregular me- 
 tre and rhythms, which Southey and Shelley, and some 
 other poets have occasionally adopted. The passage 
 properly divided into lines, will stand thus, — 
 
 NELLY'S FUNERAL. 
 
 And now the bell — the bell 
 She had so often heard by night and day, 
 
 And listened to with solemn pleasure, 
 E'en as a living' voice — 
 Rung its remorseless toll for her, 
 So young, so beautiful, so good. 
 
 Decrepit age, and vigorous life, 
 And blooming youth, and helpless infancy. 
 Poured forth— on crutches, in the pride of strength 
 And health, in the full blush 
 Of promise, the mere dawn of life — 
 To gather round her tomb. Old men were there, 
 Whose eyes were dim 
 And senses failing — 
 Grandames, who might have died ten years ago, 
 And still been old— the deaf, the blind, the lame, 
 
 The palsied, • 
 The living dead in many shapes and forms. 
 To see the closing of this early grave. 
 
 What was the death it would shut in. 
 To that which still could crawl and creep above it I 
 Aiong the crowded path they bore her now ; 
 Pure as the new-fallen snow 
 That covered it ; whose day on earth 
 Had been as fleeting. 
 Under that porch, where she had sat when Heaven 
 In mercy brought her to that peaceful spot, 
 She passed again, and the old church 
 Received her in its quiet shade. 
 
 Throughout the whole of the above only two unim- 
 portant words have been omitted, — m and its; "gran- 
 dames" has been substituted for "grandmothers," and 
 "e'en" for " almost." All that remains is exactly as in 
 the original, not a single word transposed, and the punc- 
 tuation the same to a comma. The brief homily that 
 concludes the funeral is profoundly beautiful. 
 
 Oh ! it is hard to take to heart 
 The lesson that such deaths will teach, 
 But let no man reject it, 
 For it is one that all must learn. 
 And is a mighty, universal truth. 
 When death strikes down the innocent and young, 
 Fot every fragile form from which he lets 
 The parting spirit free, 
 A hundred virtues rise, 
 In shapes of mercy, charity, and love, 
 To walk the world and bless it 
 Of every tear 
 That sorrowing mortals shed on such green graves, 
 Some good is born, some gentler nature comes. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 47 
 
 Not a word of the original is changed in the above 
 quotation, which is worthy of the best passages in 
 "Wordsworth, and thus, meeting on the common ground 
 of a deeply truthful sentiment, the two most unlike men 
 in the literature of the country are brought into the 
 closest approximation. Something of a similar kind of 
 versification in the prose mAy be discovered in Chap. 
 77 of " Barnaby Rudge." The following is from the 
 concluding paragraph of " Nicholas Nickleby :" — 
 
 The grass was green above the dead boy's grave, 
 Trodden by feet so small and light, 
 That not a daisy drooped its head 
 
 Beneath their pressure. 
 Through all the spring and summer time 
 Garlands of fresh flowers, wreathed by infant hands, 
 Rested upon the stone- 
 
 Such are the " kindly admixtures," as Charles Lamb- 
 calls the union of serious and comic characters and 
 scenes in Hogarth, which are to be found in abundance 
 throughout the works of Mr. Dickens. Following up 
 his remark, Lamb adds that " in the drama of real life 
 no such thing as pure tragedy is to be found; but mer- 
 riment and infelicity, ponderous crime, and feather-like 
 variety," &c. Surely this is not sound as a theory of 
 art 1 Pure tragedy is to be found in the drama of real 
 life, if nothing else intervenes at the moment, or the 
 principles are ail too absorbed and abstracted to be con- 
 scious of the presence of anything else. Pure tragedy, 
 therefore, exists in nature, as well as in art ; and ideal 
 art obtains it by stopping short all interference, and 
 keeping the separation absolute. Another point of art 
 of a difterent kind is in the fit and harmonious admixture 
 of the opposite elements of tragedy and comedy, and a 
 fine artist never confounds the two, or brings them into 
 abrupt and offensive contrast and revulsion. Interme- 
 diate shades and gradations are always given. It is one 
 of Mr. Dickens' greatest merits, that notwithstanding 
 his excessive love of the humorous, he never admits any 
 pleasantries into a tragic scene, nor suffers a levity ta 
 run mischievously across the current of any deep emo- 
 tion in a way to injure its just appreciation. In this re- 
 spect he is the direct converse of Thomas Ingoldsby, 
 who not only mixes jests inextricably with horrors, but 
 makes fun of the very horrors themselves — not ghost 
 stories, nor burlesques, are here meant, but murderous 
 deaths of men, women, and children. Rare subjects for 
 fun! 
 
48 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 A pure feeling of religion, and a noble spirit of Chris- 
 tian charity and active benevolence is apparent in all 
 appropriate places throughout the works of Charles 
 Dickens. After describing the poor girl born blind, 
 deaf, and dumb, whom he saw in the Massachussetts' 
 Asylum, at Boston, and about whose course of life, ed- 
 ucation, and present state he excites so lively an inter- 
 est, he concludes with a striking passage.* The same 
 principles and feelings are also apparent in various in- 
 cidental, and perhaps scarcely conscious side-hits and 
 humorous touches which occur in the progress of the 
 narratives or dialogues — as, for instance, where Sykes' 
 dog is shown to entertain so very Christian-like an un- 
 Christianity in his behaviour, and the sentiments he en- 
 tertains with regard to other dogs. It is amusing to see 
 how all this puzzles the Italian translator, who says 
 the passage must have a hidden meaning — " un senso 
 nascoso." 
 
 As a general summary of the result of Mr. Dickens' 
 works, it might be said that they contain a larger num- 
 ber of faithful pictures and records of the middle and 
 lower classes of England of the present period, than 
 can be found in any other modern works; and that 
 while they communicate very varied, and frequently 
 very squalid and hideous knowledge concerning the 
 lower, and the most depraved classes, and without the 
 least compromise of the true state of men and things, 
 the author nevertheless manages so skilfully that they 
 may be read from beginning to end without a single 
 offence to true and unaffected delicacy. Moreover, 
 they tend on the whole to bring the poor into the fairest 
 position for obtaining the sympathy of the rich and 
 powerful, by displaying the goodness and fortitude of- 
 ten found amidst want and wretchedness, together with 
 the intervals of joyousness and comic humour. As Haz- 
 litt says of Hogarth, that " he doubles the quantity of 
 our experience," so may it be said of Dickens, with the 
 additional circumstance, that all the knowledge of" life" 
 which he communicates is so tempered and leavened, 
 that it will never assist a single reader to become a 
 heartless misanthrope, nor a scheming " man of the 
 world." 
 
 At the commencement of this paper a comparison 
 
 * American Notes, vol. i., pp. 103, 104. 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 49 
 
 was instituted between Hogarth and Mr. Dickens. 
 Dropping that comparison, the examination of the works 
 of the latter has continued down to this point by deal- 
 ing solely with the works themselves, as much as if no 
 others of the same or of similar class existed. In a 
 philosophical and elementary sense comparisons are 
 always inevitable to the formation of our judgments ; 
 not so, the bad system of always lugging in such ex- 
 traneous and too often " odious" assistances. But we 
 think we have fairly earned the right of doing some- 
 thing of this kind in conclusion ; and perhaps it may be 
 expected of us. 
 
 Mr. Dickens has often been compared with Scott, 
 with Fielding, and Le Sage. He is not at all like Scott, 
 whose materials are derived from histories and tradi- 
 tions, as shown by his elaborate notes to every chap- 
 ter — all worked up with consummate skill. Mr. Dick- 
 ens has no notes derived from books or records, but 
 from a most retentive memory and subtle associations ; 
 and all this he works up by the aid of an inventive ge- 
 nius, and by genuine impulse rather than art. Scott 
 and Fielding are great designers of plot and narrative. 
 Dickens evidently works upon no plan; he has a lead- 
 ing idea, but no design at all. He knows well what he 
 is going to do in the main, but how he will do this, it is 
 quite clear he leaves to the impulse of composition. 
 He moves in no fixed course, but takes the round of na- 
 ture as it comes. He imposes no restraints upon him- 
 self as to method or map ; his genius cannot bear the 
 curb, but goes dancing along the high road, and bolts 
 ad libitum. (It is not to be admired.) He is like Scott 
 and Fielding in the fleshl}^ solidity, costume, and com- 
 pleteness of his external portraitures. He is also like 
 Fielding in some of his best internal portraitures. Scott 
 does very little in that way. The Preface to the French 
 translation of " Nicholas Nickleby" says of it, " Ce livre 
 est un panorama mouvant de toutes les classes de la 
 societe Anglaise ; un critique fine et piquante de tous 
 les ridicules, une vaste composition a la maniere de 
 ' Gil Bias,' ou mille personnages divers se meuvent et 
 posent devant le lecteur." This is quite true as to the 
 method of working out their ideas ; but with this mo- 
 ving panorama of divers classes, and the excellent delin- 
 eation of character, all resemblance ceases. The ten- 
 dency of the great and too delightful work of Le Sage, 
 E 
 
50 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 is to give us a contempt for our species, and to show 
 that dishonesty and cunning are the best poUcy. The 
 power over the grotesque and the pathetic, displayed 
 by Cervantes, added to his love of beauty in pastoral 
 scenes, and to his deep-heartedness, offers a far closer 
 and more worthy comparison ; although we are aware 
 that our author is not so poetical and elevated as Cer- 
 vantes, nor would he have been likely to delineate such 
 a character as Don Quixote — who comprises within him- 
 self the true flower and consummation of the chivalrous 
 spirit, with its utter absurdity and end. But except in 
 this one character, these two authors have a close affini- 
 ty in genius. Mr. Dickens is not like Gay, " The Beg- 
 gar's Opera" was written to be sung ; it is a poetical, 
 satire ; its heroes are idealized ; their vice and theft 
 do not shock in the least ; and people nod their heads 
 to the burthen of " Tyburn Tree," because it is only a 
 song and satire which hangs upon it. The gallows of 
 the " Beggar's Opera" was not meant for poor, base 
 thieves ; it was a flight far above the rags of " beggars" 
 — it was meant for "better company!" Not so witli 
 the thieves and fine gentlemen of Mr. Dickens. The 
 men and things he deals with he means actually as he 
 calls them ; the only exception to their reality is that 
 they represent classes ; the best of them are never me- 
 chanical matter-of-fact portraits. It is this closeness 
 to reality, so that what he describes has the same effect 
 upon the internal sense as thinking of reality, that ren- 
 ders Dickens very like De Foe ; not omitting the pow- 
 er over the pathetic and grotesque also possessed by 
 both. Yet with all these resemblances, Mr. Dickens is 
 an original inventor, and has various peculiarities, the 
 entire effect of which renders his works, as wholes, un- 
 like those of any other writer. 
 
 Mr. Dickens is manifestly the product of his age„ 
 He is a genuine emanation from its aggregate and en- 
 tire spirit. He is not an imitator of any one. He mix- 
 es extensively in society, and continually. Few public 
 meetings in a benevolent cause are without him. He 
 speaks effectively — humorously, at first, and then seri- 
 ously to the point. His reputation, and all the works 
 we have discussed, are the extraordinary product of 
 only eight years. Popularity and success, which in- 
 jure so many men in head and heart, have improved 
 him in all respects. His influence upon his age is ex- 
 
CHARLES DICKENS. 51 
 
 tensive — pleasurable, instructive, healthy, reformatory. 
 If his " Christmas Carol" were printed in letters of gold, 
 there would be no inscriptions which would give a more 
 salutary hint to the gold of a country. As for poster- 
 ity, let no living man pronounce upon it ; but if an opin- 
 ion may be offered, it would be that the earlier works 
 of Mr Dickens — the " Sketches by Boz," and some oth- 
 ers— will die natural deaths ; but that his best produc- 
 tions, such as " Nicholas Nickleby," the " Old Curios- 
 ity Shop," " Oliver Twist," and " Martin Chuzzlewit," 
 will live as long as our literature endures, and take 
 rank with the works of Cervantes, of Hogarth, and De 
 Foe. 
 
 Mr. Dickens is, in private, very much what might be 
 expected from his works— by no means an invariable 
 •coincidence. He talks much or little according to his 
 sympathies. His conversation is genial. He hates ar- 
 g-ument ; in fact, he is unable to argue — a common case 
 with impulsive characters who see the whole truth, and 
 feel it crowding and struggling at once for immediate 
 utterance. He never talks for effect, but for the truth 
 or for the fun of the thing. He tells a story admirably, 
 and generally with humorous exaggerations. His sym- 
 pathies are of the broadest, and his literary tastes ap- 
 preciate all excellence. He is a great admirer of the 
 j^oetry of Tennyson. Mr. Dickens has singular person- 
 al activity, and is fond of games of practical skill. He 
 is also a great walker, and very much given to dancing 
 Sir Roger de Coverley. In private, the general im- 
 pression of him is that of a first-rate practical intellect, 
 with "no nonsense" about him. Seldom, if ever, has 
 any man been more beloved by contemporary authors, 
 and by the public of his time. 
 
 Translations are regularly made in Germany of all 
 Mr. Dickens' works. They are quite as popular there 
 as with us. The high reputation of the Germans for 
 their faithfulness and general excellence as translators, 
 is well supported in some of these versions ; and in oth- 
 ers that reputation is perilled. Bad abbreviations, in 
 which graphic or humorous descriptions are omitted, 
 and the characteristics of dialogue unnecessarily avoid- 
 ed, are far from commendable. No one could expect 
 that the Italian " Oliviero Twist," of Giambatista Ba-^ 
 seggio, published in Milan, would be, in all respects, far 
 better than one of the most popular versions of that 
 
62 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 work in Leipzig. But such is the fact. Some of the 
 French translations are very good, particularly the 
 "Nicolas Nickleby" of E. de la Bedollierre, which is 
 admirably done. Mr. Dickens also " lives" in Dutch, 
 and some of his works are, we believe, translated into 
 Russian. 
 
LORD ASHLEY 
 
 DR. SOUTH WOOD SMITH. 
 
 " And ye, my Lord6s, with your alliaiince, 
 And other faithful people that there be. 
 Trust I to God, shall quench all this noisaunce. 
 And set this lande in high prosperitie." — Chaucer. 
 
 " To plunge into the infection of hospitals ; to survey the mansions of sor- 
 row and pain ; to take the gauge and dimensions of misery, depression, and 
 contempt; to remember the forgotten, and to attend to the neglected." — 
 
 BvRKB. 
 
 " Trace the forms 
 Of atoms moving with incessant change 
 Their elenrental round ; behold the seeds 
 Of being, and the energy of life 
 Kindling the mass with ever-active flame , 
 Then to tlie secrets of the working mind 
 Attentive turn." — Akenside. 
 
 " Yet much remains 
 To conquer still : peace hath her victories 
 No lessrenown'd than war." — Milton. 
 
 The spirit of the philosophy of antiquity offers a 
 striking contrast to that of the present age in the ten- 
 dency of the latter to diffuse itself among the people. 
 In the whole range of scientific or demonstrable knowl- 
 edge which has been grasped by human intelligence, 
 we have now nothing approaching to the old Esoteric 
 and Exoteric doctrine. With results at least as brilliant 
 as those which have distinguished any former age, the 
 instruments of induction and experiment continue to be 
 used to extend the boundaries of knowledge; but that 
 which no former age has witnessed is the energy which 
 is now put forth to make the doctrines of science known 
 aud to teach the masses how to apply them to their ad- 
 vantage. The men at present in possession of the key 
 of knowledge, value it chiefly as it enables them to 
 tmlock treasures for universal diffusion, and estimate 
 their own claim to distinction and honour by the meas- 
 ure in which ihey have enriched the world. This spirit 
 is strongly exemplified in the waitings of Dr. South- 
 E2 
 
64 LORD ASHLEY AND 
 
 wood Smith, and the course of his public life. By na- 
 ture and education he seems to have been formed rather 
 for the retirement and contemplation of the study, than 
 the active business of the world. The bent of his mind 
 led him at an unusually early age to the investigation of 
 the range of subjects that relate more or less directly 
 to intellectual and moral philosophy; and, as not un- 
 frequently happens, the efforts of those around him to 
 give to his pursuits a widely different direction only in- 
 creased his love for these studies. 
 
 Having determined on the practice of medicine as a 
 profession, Dr. Southwood Smith found in the sciences 
 which now demanded his attention, and still more ia 
 the structure and functions of organized beings, studies 
 congenial to his taste, and for which his previous intel- 
 lectual pursuits and habits had prepared him. The con- 
 templation of the wonderful processes which constitute 
 life, the exquisite mechanism, as far as that mechanism 
 can be traced by which they are performed, the sur- 
 prising adjustments and harmonies by which in a crea- 
 ture like man such diverse and opposite actions are 
 brought into relation with each other and made to work 
 in subserviency and co-operation, and the Divine object 
 of all — the communication of sensation and intelligence 
 as the inlets and instruments of happiness, afforded the 
 highest satisfaction to his mind. But this beautiful 
 world, into whose intimate workings his eye now 
 searched, presented itself to his view as a demonstra- 
 tion that the Creative Power is inlinite in goodness, 
 and seemed to afford, as if from the essential elements 
 and profoundest depths of nature, a proof of His love. 
 Under these impressions, he wrote, in 1814, during the- 
 intervals of his college studies, the " Divine Govern- 
 ment," a work which at once brought him into notice 
 and established his reputation as an original and elo- 
 quent writer. It has now gone through many editions,. 
 and has been widely circulated, and read with the deep- 
 est interest by persons of all classes and creeds; there 
 is nothing sectarian in it ; dealing only with great and 
 universal principles, it comprehends humanity and ia 
 some respects indeed the whole sensitive and organic 
 creation. The style is singularly lucid ; its tone is ear- 
 nest, rising frequently into strains of touching and pa- 
 thetic eloquence ; a heartfelt conviction of the truth of 
 every thought that is put into words breathes through- 
 
DR. SOUTH WOOD SI\IITH. 55 
 
 out the whole, and a buoyant and youthful spirit per- 
 vades it, imparting to it a charm which so rivets the at- 
 tention of the reader as to render him in many instances 
 unable to put down the book till finished, as if he had 
 been engaged in an exciting novel. Had the work been 
 written at a maturer age, some of this charm must have 
 vanished, and given place to a deeper consciousness of 
 the woe and pain that mingle with the joys of the pres- ■ 
 ent Slate. But as it is, it has been no unimportant in- 
 strument in the hands of those among whom it has- 
 chanced to fall, in keeping distinctly before the view 
 the greater happiness, as an end, to the attainment of 
 "which, pain is so often the direct and only means. 
 Many instances are on record of the solace it has com- 
 municated to the mourner, and the hope it has inspired 
 in the mind when on the brink of despair. While di- 
 vines of the church have read and expressed their ap- 
 probation of it, it has attracted the attention of some 
 of the most distinguished poets of the day : Byron and 
 Moore have recorded their admiration of it, and it ap- 
 pears to have been the constant companion of Crabbe 
 and to have soothed and brightened his last moments. 
 
 After the completion of his medical terms. Dr. South- 
 wood Smith spent several years in the practice of his 
 profession at a provincial town in the west of England,. 
 near his place of birth, and in the midst of a small but 
 highly cultivated and affectionate circle of friends, de- 
 voting himself with unabated ardour to his favourite 
 studies. On his removal to London, he attached him- 
 self to one of the great metropolitan hospitals, that he 
 might enlarge his experience in his profession. He was 
 soon appointed physician to the Eastern Dispensary^ 
 and in a few years afterwards, to the London Fever 
 Hospital. Called upon by the latter appointment to- 
 treat on so large a scale one of the most formidable- 
 diseases which the physician has to encounter, he ap- 
 plied himself to its study with a zeal not to be abated 
 iDy two attacks of the malady in his own person, so se- 
 vere that his life on each occasion was despaired of. 
 The result of several years' laborious investigation is 
 given in his " Treatise on Fever," which was at once 
 pronounced to be "one of the most able of the philoso- 
 phical works that have aided the advancement of the 
 science of medicine during the last half century ;" and 
 its reputation has risen with time. It has had a wide 
 
66 LORD ASHLEY AND 
 
 circulation on the continent, over India and in America, 
 in the medical schools of which it has become a text 
 book, while in this country high medical authority has 
 pronounced it to be '' tlie best work on fever that ever 
 flowed from the pen of physician in any age or country." 
 
 Dr. Southwood Smith assisted in the formation of the 
 Westminster Review, and wrote the article on "Edu- 
 cation" in the first number. For many years he was a 
 regular contributor, and it Avas here that his paper on 
 the state of the Anatomical Schools first appeared, 
 which attracted so much attention that it was re-print- 
 ■ed in form of a pamphlet, under the title of " The Use 
 of the Dead to the Living." In this form it passed 
 through several editions, and a copy was sent to every 
 member of both houses of Parliament. The evils that 
 must necessarily result to the country by withholding 
 from^ the medical profession the means of obtaining 
 anatomical and physiological knowledge were so clear- 
 ly pointed out in this pamphlet, and the perils insepara- 
 ble from the permission of such a class as the resur- 
 rection-men, (the most horrible results of which were 
 soon afterwards actually realised,) so forcibly depicted, 
 while at the same time a remedy adequate to meet the 
 difficulties of the case was suggested and explained, 
 that the Legislature was induced to take up the subject, 
 and after appointina: a Committee of Inquiry, to pass 
 the existing law, which has put an efl'ectual stop to the 
 trade of body-snatching and the horrible crime of Burk- 
 ing: but, unfortunately, from a defect in the act, the 
 anatomical schools are often placed, though quite un- 
 necessarily, in a state of considerable embarrassment 
 
 Dr. Smith laboured with equal earnestness, but less 
 success, to obtain a revision of the present regulations 
 concerning Quarantine, which he regards as unworthy 
 of a country that has made any progress in science, 
 having their origin in ignorance and superstition worthy 
 of the middle ages; aiming at an object which is alto- 
 :gether chimerical, and which, if it had any real it^iist- 
 ence, would be just as much beyond human power as 
 the control of the force and direction of the winds. Yet 
 these regulations are still allowed grievously to embar- 
 rass commerce, at the cost of hundreds of thousands of 
 pounds annually. 
 
 The articles on "Physiology and Medicine" in the 
 early numbers of the Penny Cyclopaedia are from the 
 
DR. SOUTH WOOD SMITH. 57 
 
 pen of this author, and the success of the treatise on 
 *' Animal Physiology," written at the request of the So- 
 ciety for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, suggest- 
 ed the idea of treating this subject in a still more elabo- 
 rate and comprehensive manner, and led to the publica- 
 tion of the " Philosophy of Health." The first words 
 of the introduction to this work thus express the com-i. 
 prehensive nature of the subject which it embraces : — '; 
 
 " The object of the present work is to give a brief and plain account of 
 the structure and functions of the Body, chiefly with reference to health 
 and disease. This is intended to be introductory to an account of the con- 
 stitution of the Mind, chiefl)' with reference to the development and direc- 
 tion of its powers." 
 
 The two volumes already pubhshed, aim at establish- 
 ing a series of general rules for health, (the word 
 "health" being applied in its widest sense,) by popu- 
 larly explaining the nature of the substances of which 
 the physical part of man is compounded ; describing the 
 various structures and organs of the body, and the dif- 
 ferent functions they perform ; and deducing thence the 
 laws which the creature is enjoined by the principles of 
 its creation to obey. This is merely the basis of a 
 higher philosophy, which rising from the physical, shall, 
 in regular sequence, proceed to the mental, trace their 
 mutual relation and dependence, and endeavour to de- 
 duce from the exposition of the nature of each — as far 
 as their nature can be comprehended by mortal intelli- 
 gence — the rules for the utmost development and pro- 
 gression of both. 
 
 The first volume comprises a most interesting view 
 of life in all organized bodies, commencing from an 
 imperceptible germ, and ascending from the lichen on 
 the rock, to man himself. The distinction between the 
 tw^o great divisions of organized life, between that 
 which only grows — the organic, and that which not on- 
 ly grows, but moves and feels — the animal superadded 
 to the organic — is traced with the hand of a master. 
 Equally masterly is the rapid view of the means adopt- 
 ed to render voluntary motion possible ; the complica- 
 tion of structure requisite to that one faculty ; the ap-- 
 paratus constructed to produce sensation; the eleva- 
 tion of every faculty down to the lowest, by the addi- 
 tion of each higher faculty; the indispensable necessity 
 and uses of pain not only to health, but to life itself; 
 and the indication of the processes by which nature 
 
58 LORD ASHLEY AND 
 
 trains the mind to perceive and think. The concluding 
 passage of this portion of the work is one of remarka- 
 ble power, in which a general view is exhibited of the 
 physiological progress of a human being, from its first 
 appearance in the embryo state, until the final extinc- 
 tion of life, and the subjection of the inanimate body to 
 the material laws which are to decompose it. Exposi- 
 tions of the functions of circulation, digestion, and nu- 
 trition follow, equally characterized by fullness, and 
 conciseness. 
 
 The style of this work is distinguished by terseness 
 and simplicity; it would be difficult to find a useless 
 word, and very fevv epithets are employed, as though 
 the number and variety of ideas to be imparted render- 
 ed condensation essential: in the arrangement there is 
 great precision, subject after subject arising gradually 
 and naturally. Few technical terms are employed, and 
 <i full explanation is given to those which are intro- 
 <luced. A perfect command of the subject is evinced 
 throughout; and its exposition is at once profound and 
 simple, calculated alike to instruct the ignorant, and by 
 the striking nature of the descriptions and the novelty 
 of their applications, to interest even those to whom 
 the facts are not new. Much of the matter contained 
 in these volumes is original, and even that which is ta- 
 ken out of the common treasury of science is disposed 
 in a new manner, and exhibited in new relations of 
 great interest and importance. Scattered phenomena 
 which might be culled out of various works on Anat- 
 omy, Physiology, and mental Philosophy, are here 
 brought together and systematized ; displayed as a se- 
 ries, traced from their germs, and follow^ed onwards to 
 their highest manifestations ; arranged so as to show 
 their relation to one another, and their influence one 
 on the other, thence deducing the means of developing 
 the united powers towards their utmost point of pro- 
 gression. 
 
 Many felicitous instances of scientific generalization 
 and of eloquent description and appeal might be refer- 
 red to in exemplification. It has been well said by a 
 philosophical reviewer, that the " Natural History of 
 I)eath, as a composition, has much of that singular and 
 melancholy beauty wherewith a painter of genius 
 would invest the personification of mortality." The 
 following appeal to mothers has been compared to the 
 
DR. SOUTilWOOD SMITH. 
 
 5» 
 
 fervid eloquence of Rousseau, which aroused women ta 
 a sense of the physical obligations of the maternal char- 
 acter ; but here the earnest call is for mental and mor- 
 al exertion : — 
 
 " I appeal to every woman whose eye may rest on these pages. I ask of 
 you, wliat has ever been done for you to enable you to understand the phys- 
 ical and mental constitution of that human nature, the care of which is 
 imposed on you ? In what part of the course of your education was in- 
 struction of this kind introduced 1 Over how large a portion of your edu- 
 cation did it extend 7 Who were your teachers ? What have you profited 
 by their lessons 1 What progress have you mnde in the acquisition of the 
 requisite information 1 Were you at this moment to undertake the guid- 
 ance of a nevv-bornin fant to health, knowledge, goodness, and happiness, 
 how would you set about the task t How would you regulate the influence- 
 of external agents upon its delicate, tender, and highly irritable organs, in 
 such a manner as to obtain from them healthful s.inuilation, and avoid de- 
 structive excitement 7 What natural and moral objects would you select aa 
 the best adapted to exercise and develope its opening faculties ? What 
 feelings would you check, and what chcr.sh ? How would jou excite aims ; 
 how would you apply motives? How would you avail yourself of plea- 
 sure as a final end, or as the means to some further end 1 And how would 
 you deal with the no less formidable instrument of pain? What is your 
 own physicd, intellectual, and moral state, as especially fitting you for this 
 office ? What is the measure of your own self-control, without a large por- 
 tion of which no hiunan being ever yet exerted over the infant mind any 
 considerable influence for good ?" 
 
 This earnest passage at once serves to give an idea 
 of the style of the work and to explain one of its chief 
 aims; and with it the present short account of the 
 •' Philosophy of Heahh" must conclude, but not before 
 a hope has been expressed that an undertaking so im- 
 portant and so well begun, will not much longer be left 
 unfinished. 
 
 Dr. Southwood Smith was the friend and physiciaa 
 of Bentham. The venerable and unaffected philan- 
 thropist, fully appreciating the importance of anatomi- 
 cal science, and lamenting the prejudice against dissec- 
 tion, gave his own body to Dr. Smith, charging him to 
 devote it to the ordinary purposes of science. His 
 friend fulfilled his desire, and delivered the first lecture 
 over the body — with a clear and unfaltering voice, but 
 with a face as while as that of the dead philosopher be- 
 fore him. Alive, so cheerful and serene — serene for 
 ever now, and nothing more. The lecture was deliver- 
 ed on the 9ih of June, 1832, in the Webb-street School 
 of Anatomy. Dr. Smith availed himself of the occa- 
 sion to give a view of the fundamental principles of 
 Bentham's philosophy, and an account of his last mo- 
 ments. Most of the particular friends and disciples of 
 the deceased were present on the occasion, and his bi- 
 
60 LORD ASHLEY AND 
 
 ographer has made this lecture the concluding part of 
 the Memoir which has been prefixed to the uniform 
 Edition of Bentham's works just published. Tl)e head 
 and face were preserved by a peculiar process, but the 
 latter being found painful in expression, is covered with 
 a wax mask admirably executed and a correct likeness. 
 The skeleton also was preserved ; and the whole clothed 
 in the ordinary dress worn by the philosopher (accord- 
 ing to his own express desire) presenting him as nearly, 
 as possible as he was while living. Seated smiling in 
 a large mahogany case with a glass front, the homely 
 figure, with its long snow-white hair, broad-brimmed 
 hat, and thick ash-plant walking-stick, resides with Dr. 
 Southwood Smith, and may be seen by any one who 
 takes an interest in the writings and character of Jere- 
 my Bentham. 
 
 Lord Ashley, the eldest son of the Earl of Shaftsbu- 
 ry, and member for Dorsetshire, commenced his career 
 in that cause with which his public life has become 
 identified, by undertaking the charge of Mr. Sadler's 
 Factory Bill in the house of Commons. The invention 
 of the spinning-jenny and the power-loom not only al- 
 tered the whole process of manufacture, but withdrew 
 the operatives from their own dwellings, and collected 
 them in numbers in great buildings called Factories. 
 The invention of. machinery was attended with another 
 result ; it created a demand for the comparatively in- 
 expensive labour of children, their small fingers being 
 found best adapted to work in combmation with it. 
 Very young children, of both sexes, were therefore em- 
 ployed in great numbers, together with adult labourers, 
 and as their servants, and were moreover compelled to 
 work the same number of hours whether those amounted 
 to twelve, fourteen, or sixteen, or even all night. It was 
 alleged that children of tender ages placed under these 
 unnatural circumstances were grievously and irrepara- 
 bly injured in their physical constitution ; that they were 
 cruelly treated by their task-masters ; that their morals 
 were early corrupted; that they were growing up in a 
 state of absolute ignorance. It was universally admit- 
 ted that the efforts which the Legislature had hitherto 
 made for their protection had failed, and every existing 
 enactment become a dead letter. It was in this state 
 of things that Lord Ashley, in 1833, took charge of Mr. 
 Sadler's Bill, the object of which was to limit the hours 
 
DR. SOUTHWOOD SMITH. 61 
 
 of work, of all under eighteen, in Factories, to ten hours 
 daily. This was met by the objection that such a 
 measure must necessarily put the same limit on the la- 
 bour of adults. A Commission was accordingly ap- 
 pointed ; first to ascertain the facts of the case as re- 
 garded the children, and, secondly, to enquire whether 
 it would not be practicable to devise a measure for the 
 protection of children without interfering with the lib- 
 berty of all the operatives. Fifteen commissioners 
 were appointed and divided into five sections, each con- 
 sisting of three Commissioners (two civil and one med- 
 ical) and of these Mr. Thomas Tooke, Mr. Chadwick, 
 and Dr. Southwood Smith, formed the Central Board, 
 to direct the inquiry and report the result. Their re- 
 port was : — 
 
 " That the children employed in all the principal branches of manufticture 
 throughout the kingdom work the same number of hours as the adults; that 
 the effects of such labonr, in great numbers of instances, are permanent de- 
 terioration of the physical constitution, the production of disease, often 
 wholly irremediable, and the exclusion by means of excessive fatigue from 
 the means of obtaining education. That children at the ages when they 
 suffer these injuries not being free agents, but let out to hire, their wages be- 
 ing appropriated by their parents, therefore a case is made out for the inter- 
 ference of the legislature in their behalf." 
 
 The Factory Act of 18.33 was founded on this Re- 
 port, and four Inspectors and a considerable number of 
 Sub-Inspectors were appointed to enforce obedience to 
 its enactments. The results are highly important. 
 
 The existing Act which fixes the youngest age at 
 which children can be employed, and the extentof their 
 hours of labour, and which requires education as a con- 
 dition of employment, is (unlike its predecessors) obey- 
 ed ; and although the clause in the Bill prepared by the 
 Commissioners providing for the erection of schools 
 and the payment of teachers, was struck out in the 
 House of Lords, on the motion of the Earl of Shafts- 
 bury, Lord Ashley's father, yet with all its imperfec- 
 tions the present Act haS led to an amelioration in the 
 treat^ment and an improvement in the physical condition 
 and moral character of this vast juvenile population, 
 such as was never before effected by an Act of Parlia- 
 ment ; while the benefits resulting from it to all parties, 
 the employers no less than ihe employed, are not only 
 rapidly multiplying and extending, but are becoming 
 more and more the subjects of general acknowledgment 
 and gratulation. There is reason to believe that the 
 F 
 
62 LORD ASHLEY AND 
 
 total number employed in factory labour in the United 
 Kingdom is little short of 1,000,000.* 
 
 New fields of labour had opened to Lord Ashley at 
 every step of his progress. He had already earned the 
 honourable designation of the general guardian of the 
 children of the poor, as the Lord Chancellor is of the 
 children of the rich. He was satisfied that there were 
 oppressions and sufferings of an aggravated character, 
 and on a large sc«le, in occupations widely different 
 from those of the factory, and which required investiga- 
 tion the more because the places of work, in which 
 some of the most important of these employments are 
 carried on, are wholly inaccessible to the public. The 
 apprehension inseparable from a mind, at once earnest 
 and diffident, that he should fail to elicit the truth, and 
 to place it so strongly before the public and the legisla- 
 ture, as to command attention and to ensure a remedy 
 for any proved grievance, was strongly marked in the 
 opening of his speech on the 4th of August, 1840, for 
 the appointment of a " Commission of Inquiry into the 
 employment of Children in Mines, Collieries, and other 
 occupations not regulated by the Factory Acts." 
 
 "It is, Sir," said he, "with feelings somewhat akin to despair, that I now 
 rise to bring before this House, the motion of which I have given notice. 
 I cannot but entertain misgivings, that I shall not be able to bring under the 
 attention of the House this subject, which has now occupied so large a 
 portion of my public life, and in which are concentrated in one hour, the 
 labours of years. I have long contemplated this effort which I am now 
 making ; I had long resolved that, so soon as I could see the Factory chil- 
 
 dien, as it were, safe in harbour, I would undertake a new task 
 
 I am now endeavouring to obtain an inquiry into the actual circumstances 
 and condition of another large part of our juvenile popuhition. ... I 
 wish," continued he, "to preserve and cherish the physical energies of these 
 poor children, and to cultivate and improve their moral part, both of which, 
 be they taken separately or conjointly, are essential to the peace, security, 
 and progress of the empire. . . . It is instructive to obst^rve, how we 
 compel, as it were, vice and misery with one hand, and endeavour to 
 repress them with the other; but the whole course of our manufacturing 
 system tends to these results ; you engage children from their earliest and 
 tenderest years in these long, painful, and destructive occupations; when 
 they have approached to manhood, they have outgrown their employ- 
 ments, and they are turned upon the world without moral, wiihout profes- 
 sional education ; the business they have learned avails them nothing ; to 
 
 * From a Return furnished by Mr. Sanders, one of tiie Factory Inspectors, 
 it appears that in his district alone, wljich is by no means one of the 1-trgest 
 thetofU number employed in F; ct«>ry labour isi 106,.509. Ainongthese there 
 are 45,958 young persons and cliildien coining under the regulations of the 
 Factory Act. It appears, further, that while there were before the present 
 Act, as far as th*; Inspector could learn, only two schools in his whole dis- 
 trict, at which about 200 children may hrivr^ bren educated, the actu"! num- 
 ber nt present attending schools is 9310. The F ctory Act has diminish- 
 ed the number of young children and increased that of adults 
 
DR. SOUTHWOOD SMITH. 63 
 
 what can they turn their hands for a maintenance ?— the children, for 
 instance, who have been taught to make pins, having reached fourteen or 
 fifteen years of age, are unfit to make pins any longer; to procure an hon- 
 est livelihood then becomes to them almost impossible; tlie governors of 
 prisons will tell you, the relieving officers will tell you, that the vicious 
 resort to il under and prostitution ; the rest sink down into a hopeless pau- 
 perism. I desire to remove these spectiicles of suffering and oppression 
 from the eyes of the poorer classes, or at least to ascertain if we can do so : 
 these things perplex the peaceable, and exasperate the discontented ; they 
 have a tendency to render capital odious, for wealth is known to them only 
 by its oppressions; they judge of it by what they see immediately around 
 them; they know but little beyond their own narrow sphere; they do not 
 extend their view over the whole surface of the land, and so perceive and 
 unders'.and the compensating advanl.iges that wealth and property bestow 
 on the community at large. Sir, with so much ignorance on one side, and 
 so much oppiession on the other, I have never wondered that perilous 
 errors and bitter hatreds have prevailed ; but I have wondered much, and 
 been very thankful that they have prevailed so little." 
 
 Lord Ashley concluded by declaring that it was his 
 object to appeal to, and excite public opinion, '" for 
 where we cannot legislate," said he, " we may exhort; 
 and laws may fail where example will succeed." 
 
 "1 must appeal to the Bishops and Ministers of the Church of England, 
 nay, more, to the Ministers of every denomination, to urge on the hearts of 
 their hearers, ihemiichief and the danger of these covetous and cruel practi- 
 ces ; I trust they will not fall short of the zeal and eloquence of a distinguish- 
 ed prelate in a neighbouring country, who, in these beautiful and emphatic 
 words, exhorted his hearers to justice and mercy: 'Open your eyes,' said 
 the Prince Archbii-hop Prim ite of Normandy, 'and behold; parents and 
 masters dem md of these young plants to produce fruit in the season of 
 blossoms. By excessive and prolonged labour they exhaust the rising sap, 
 caring but little that they leave them to veget ite and perish on a withered 
 and tottering stem. Poor little children! may the laws hasten to extend 
 their protection over your existence. ;inu may postei-ity read with astonish- 
 ment, on the front of this fiffe, so satisjird with itself, that in these days of 
 progress and discovery, there was needed an iron law to forbid the murder 
 of children by excessive labour: ... My grand object is to bring these 
 children within re ich of education. I will say, though possibly I may be 
 charged with cant and hypocrisy, that I have been bold enough to under- 
 take this task, because I must regard the objects of it as beings created, as 
 ourselves, by the same Maker, redeemed by the same Savio'jr, nud destined 
 to the same immortality; and it is, therefore, in this spirit, and with these 
 sentiments, that I now venture to entreat ihe countenance of this House, 
 and the co-operation of Her Majesty's Ministers : first to investigate, and 
 ultimately to remove, these sad evils, which press so deeply and so extea- 
 fcively on such a large and interesting portion of the human race." 
 
 This appeal, distinguished throughout by an earnest 
 simplicity of language, was answered by the cordial sup- 
 port of the Government, and the immediate appointment 
 of a Commission of Inquiry, consisting of a Board of 
 Commissioners, whose office it was to visit the districts 
 and to report thereon. The field of inquiry prescribed 
 by the terms of the Commission, comprehended the 
 mines and collieries of the United Kingdom, and all 
 trades and manufactures whatever, in which chil- 
 
64 LORD ASHLEY AND 
 
 dren work together in numbers, not included under the 
 Factories Regulation Act. The mass of evidence sent 
 up to the Central Board from twenty gentlemen, work- 
 ing day and night, in different parts of the country, with 
 the utmost energy and without intermission for man> 
 consecutive months, speaks for itself. Fortunately the 
 Commissioners were men of energy practised in busi- 
 ness. The chairman, Mr. Thomas Tooke, who had held 
 the same situation in the Factory Commission, possess- 
 ed the confidence of the commercial and manufacturing 
 portion of the country. Mr. Horner and Mr. Saunders, 
 two of the Factory Inspectors, had already spent many 
 years in pursuing investigations analagous to those 
 which were now to be made ; and Dr. Southwood Smith 
 was qualified as a physiologist and physician, to appre- 
 ciate the influence of early labour on the physical and 
 moral condition of children. But the very extent and 
 completeness of the evidence transmitted to the Cen- 
 tral Board, would have caused its failure as an instru- 
 ment of legislation, but for the manner in which it was 
 decided to deal with it. The subject was divided into 
 two parts, Mines and Manufactures. The mines were 
 subdivided into collieries and metallic mines, and the 
 manufactures into the larger branches of industry, 
 such as metal-wares, earthenware, glass-making, lace- 
 making, hosiery, calico-printing, paper-making, wea- 
 ving, &c. 
 
 Those who have closely examined the two small vol- 
 umes, into which compass are compressed and admi- 
 rably arranged the main facts contained in the enor- 
 mous folios, can alone appreciate the amount of labour 
 involved in this undertaking, and will not fail to recog- 
 nise in the lucid order and condensed style, the hand 
 of Dr. Southwood Smith, on whom this portion of the 
 labours of the commission principally devolved. He 
 did not shrink from the task, though nearly every min- 
 ute of the day was absorbed by a fatiguing profession, 
 sustained through the long hours taken from rest and 
 sleep, by the conviction that the usefulness of this work 
 would afford a heart-felt compensation for its labour. 
 The anticipation was fully realized. When the Report- 
 on Mines was laid on the table of the House, astonish- 
 ment and horror were universal. No such outrages on 
 humanity had been discovered since the disclosure of 
 the treatment of Negro slaves. It was truly said that 
 
DR. SOUTHWOOD SMITH. 65 
 
 this report resembled a volume of travels in a remote 
 and barbarous country, so little had been previously- 
 known of the state of things it described. Dark passa- 
 ges to seams of coal, scarcely thirty inches in lieight, 
 not larger than a good-sized drain, through which chil- 
 dren of both sexes, and of all ages, from seven years 
 old and upwards, toiled for twelve hours daily, and 
 sometimes more, obliged to crawl on " all fours," drag- 
 ging after them loaded corves or carts, fastened to their 
 bodies by a belt, a chain passing between the legs; — 
 infants of four, five, and six years old, carried down on 
 their parents' knees to keep the air-doors, sitting in a 
 little niche scooped out in the coal, for twelve hours 
 daily, alone, in total darkness, except when the corves, 
 lighted by their solitary candle, passed along, and some 
 of them during the winter never seeing the light of day, 
 except on Sunday ; — girls and women hewing coals like 
 men, and by the side of men ; — girls and women cloth- 
 ed in nothing more than loose trowsers, and these often 
 in rags, working side-by-side with men in a state of ut- 
 ter nudity ; — girls of tender years carrying on their backs 
 along unrailed roads, often over their ankles, and some- 
 times up to their knees in water, burdens of coal, weigh- 
 ing from f cwt. to 3 cwt., from the bottom of the mine 
 to the bank, up steep ladders, " the height ascended 
 and the distance along the roads added together, ex- 
 ceeding the height of St. Paul's Cathedral ;" married 
 women, and women about to become mothers, drag- 
 ging or bearing on their shoulders similar'enormous 
 loads, up to the very moment when forced to leave this 
 " horse-work" to be "drawn up," to give birth to their 
 helpless offspring, — themselves as helpless — at the pit's 
 mouth, and sometimes even in the pit itself; — boys, of 
 seven and eight years old, bound till the age of twenty- 
 one apprentices to the colliers, receiving until that age, 
 as the reward for their labour, nothing but food, cloth- 
 ing, and lodging, working side-by-side with young men 
 of their own age, free labourers, the latter receiving 
 men^s wages , — boys employed at the steam-engines for 
 letting down and drawing up the work-people ; — ropes 
 employed for this service obviously and acknowledged- 
 ly unsafe ; — accidents of a fearful nature constantly oc- 
 curring ; — the most ordinary precautions to guard 
 against danger neglected; a collier's chances of immu- 
 nity from mortal peril being about equal to those of a 
 F2 
 
66 LORD ASHLEY AND * 
 
 soldier on the field of battle — for ail thisneither the leg- 
 islature nor the public were at all prepared, nor were 
 they better prepared for the two last conclusions dedu- 
 ced by the Commissioners, as the result of the whole 
 body of evidence, namely : — 
 
 "That partly by the severity of the labour and the long hours of work, 
 and partly through the unhealthy state of the place of work, this employ- 
 ment, as at present carried on in ail the districts, deteriorates the physical 
 constitution; in the thin-seam mines, more especially, the limbs become 
 crippled, and the body distorted; and in general the muscular powers give 
 way, and the work-people are incapable of following their occupation, at 
 an earlier period of life than is common in other branches of industry. 
 That by the same causes, the seeds of p-riinful and mortal diseases are oftea 
 sown in childhood and youth; these, slowly but steadily developing tiiem- 
 selves, assume a formidable character between the ages of thirty and forty ; 
 and each generation of this class of the population is commonly extinct 
 soon after lifty." 
 
 When on the 7th of June, 1842, Lord Ashley moved 
 for leave to bring in a Bill, founded on this Report, 
 there was an unusually large attendance of members. 
 After expressing his warm acknowledgments to the late 
 administration, "■ not only for the Commission which 
 they gave, but for the Commissioners whom they ap- 
 pointed, gentlemen who had performed the duties 
 assigned them with unrivalled skill, fidelity and zeal," 
 he proceeded in an elaborate speech, listened to 
 throughout by a silent and deeply attentive House, to 
 detail the most important points of the evidence, pre- 
 senting such an appalling picture of the physical mis- 
 eries and the moral deterioration of large classes of 
 the community, that the motion was granted without a 
 dissentient voice. Members on every side vied with 
 each other in cordial assent and sympathy with the 
 measure. The contemporary press echoed the tone ; 
 the manner of the speech was deservedly eulogized for 
 its freedom from all sickly sentimentalities, useless re- 
 criminations, and philanthropic clap-traps; for the way 
 in which the startling and impressive facts of the case 
 were simply stated and lucidly arranged, and in which 
 each was made to bear upon the nature and necessity 
 of the projected remedy, while blessings were invoked 
 in the name of humanity, on the man by whom this 
 was done, and done so well. " The laurels of party," 
 it was truly declared, " were worthless, compared with 
 the wreath due to this generous enterprize." 
 
 Lord Ashley's Bill proposed a total exclusion of girls- 
 and women from the labour of mines and colleries ; a 
 
DR. SOUTHWOOD SMITH. 67 
 
 total prohibition of male children from this labour, no 
 boy being allowed to descend into a mine, for the pur- 
 pose of performing any kind of work therein, under 
 thirteen years of age ; a total prohibition of apprentice- 
 ship to this labour, and a provision that no person, 
 other than a man between twenty one and fifty years 
 of age, shall have charge of the machinery by which 
 the work-people are let down and drawn up the shafts. 
 
 The history of the mutilated progress of this Bill 
 through both Houses, has now to be recorded. f 
 
 The first point was unanimously acceded to in the* 
 Commons ; the second was altered by the substitution 
 of the age of ten, for that of thirteen ; the concession, 
 however, being neutralized, as far as practicable, by 
 the provision, that no boy under thirteen should work 
 on any two successive days ; the third was materially 
 altered by the addition of the word " underground," 
 thus allowing the collier to take apprentices provided 
 he worked them on the surface; the fourth was altered 
 by omitting the limitation to fifty, thus permitting the 
 lives of all who work in mines, to be placed in the 
 hands of aged and decrepid men. 
 
 Thus changed, each change, it will be observed, being 
 directly against the interest and safety of the work- 
 people, the Bill passed the Commons. In the House 
 of Lords, the whole measure was met with a spirit of 
 hostility as unexpected as it was unanimous, and alas ! 
 successful. It had been forgotten that the mines and 
 collieries of the kingdom belong, with very few excep- 
 tions, to the great landed proprietors — the same noble 
 lords who had now to decide on the fate of the Bill. 
 For some time it was impossible to get any member of 
 that noble House to- take any charge of the business. 
 At length, Lord Devon, from a feeling of shame to 
 which so many had showed themselves insensible, vol- 
 unteered to do what he could to conduct the Bill 
 through its perilous course. In this noble House, even 
 the prohibition to work female children, and married 
 women, and women about to become mothers, was 
 murmured at, but no member ventured to propose an 
 alteration of this part of the measure. The clause pro- 
 hibiting apprenticeship was expunged, saving that a 
 provision was retained that no apprenticeship should 
 be contracted under ten years of age, nor for a longer 
 period than eight years. The clause limiting the labour 
 
68 LORD ASHLEY AND 
 
 of boys under thirteen to alternate days, was expunged. 
 And the clause regulating the age of the persons that 
 work the machinery for conveying the work-people up 
 and down the shafts, which the Commons had altered 
 on the one hand so as to permit decrepid men to per- 
 form this office, the Lords now altered on the other, so 
 as to entrust it to boys. 
 
 Early in the following Session, the Commissioners 
 presented their second Report on Trades and Manufac- 
 tures, drawn up on the same elaborate plan, written 
 with the same clearness and calmness, and exhibiting 
 in some respects a still more melancholy though not 
 so startling a picture of the condition of large classes 
 of our industrial population. It discloses in its full 
 extent the mischief done to the former Bill by the 
 expulsion of the clause prohibiting apprenticeship ; 
 for it proves that the oppressions and cruelties perpe- 
 trated under this legal sanction in mines and collieries, 
 is even exceeded in some trades and manufactures. 
 The words of the Report relative to this subject, ought 
 to sink deep into the mind and heart of the country. 
 After stating that in some trades, more especially those 
 requiring skilled workmen, apprentices are bound by 
 legal indentures usually at the age of fourteen, and for 
 a term of seven years : the Commissioners continue : 
 
 " But by far the greater number are bound without any prescribed legal 
 forms, and in almost all these cases they are required to serve their masters, 
 at whatever age they may commence their apprenticeship, until they attain 
 the age of twenty-one, in some instances in employments in which there is 
 nothing deserving the name of s hill to be acquired, and in Other instances in 
 employments in which they are taught to make only one particular part of 
 the article manufactured ; so that at the end of their servitude they are alto- 
 gether unable to make any one article of their trade in a complete state. A 
 large proportion of these apprentices consist of orphans, or are the children 
 of widnv/s, or belong to the poorest families, and frequently are apprenticed 
 by Boards of Guardians. The term of servitude of these apprentices may 
 and sometimes does commence as early as seven- years of age, and is often 
 passed under circumstances of great hardship and ill-usnge, and under the 
 condition that, during the greater part, if not the whole, of their term, they 
 receive nothing for their labour beyond food and clothing. This system of 
 apprenticeship is most prevalent in the district around Wolverhampton, 
 and is most abused by what are called "small masters," persons who are 
 either themselves journeymen, or who, if working on their own account, 
 work with their apprentices. In- these districts it is the practice among 
 some of the employers to engage the services of children by a simple writ- 
 ten agieement, on the breach of which the defaulter is liable to be commit- 
 ted to jaol, and in fact often is so without regard to age." 
 
 The Report on Wolverhampton states, that " within 
 the last four years five hundred and eighty-four males, 
 and females, all under age, have been committed to 
 
DR. SOUTHWOOD SMITH. 69 
 
 Stafford jail for breach of contract." The following 
 passage concerning the treatment of the children, com- 
 pletes the picture : 
 
 " In the case in which the children are the servants of the workmen, and 
 under their sole control, the master apparently knowing nothing about 
 their treatment, and certainly taking no charge of it, they are almost always 
 roughly, very often harshly, and sometimes cruelly used ; and in the dis- 
 tricts around Wolverhampton in particular, the treatment of them is oppres- 
 sive and brutal to the last degree." 
 
 Wolverhampton, it will be remembered, is the centre 
 of the iron manufactures in South Staffordshire, and the 
 ■words of this Report in their simple conciseness, lay- 
 bare a state of things which, that it should exist at this 
 day, just as if no Commission had been established, 
 and no facts made known to the public, in the centre 
 of a country which calls itself civilized, is an outrage 
 to humanity. The descriptions of this district, exhibit 
 scenes of actual misery among the children, far surpas- 
 sing the inventions of fiction. Here, in the busy work- 
 shops, the Assistant- Commissioner saw the poor ap- 
 prentice boys at their daily labour ; their anxious faces, 
 looking three times their age, on deformed and stunted 
 bodies, showing no trace of the beauty and gladness 
 of childhood or youth ; their thin hands and long fin- 
 gers toiling at the vice for twelve, fourteen, sixteen, 
 sometimes more hours out of the twenty-four; yet with 
 all their toil, clothed in rags, shivering with cold, half- 
 starved or fed on offal, beaten, kicked, abused, struck 
 with locks, bars, hammers, or other heavy tools, burnt 
 with showers of sparks from red-hot irons, pulled by 
 the hair and ears till the blood ran down, and in vain 
 imploring for mercy ;— and all this is going on now* 
 
 Why should it go on ? Apprenticeship is not an 
 order of Nature. It is an arrangement, good in itself, 
 made by the law, and the law should therefore regulate 
 it beneficently. The Jiecessity of interfering between 
 parents and children has been admitted, and in some 
 degree acted upon in the factories, mines, and collie- 
 ries. It is equally necessary in trades and maimfac- 
 tures; and much more is it necessary to interfere be- 
 tween masters and apprentices. The natural instinct 
 has even still some power. The mothers do carry their 
 over-toiled children to their beds when they are too 
 
 * Reports on Wolverhampton, and other districts, on the Employment of 
 Children and Young Persons in the Iron Trades. &c., of South Stafford- 
 shire, and the neighbouring parts of Worcestershire and Shropshire. 
 
70 LORD ASHLEY AND 
 
 tired to crawl to them, — but no one cares for the 
 wretched apprentice. He may he down and die when 
 his "long day's work" is done, and his master can get 
 another, and a sovereign, besides, at the workhouse. 
 
 It is difficult to make an abridgment of the concise 
 and graphic descriptions given in these Reports of the 
 physical and moral condition of the persons employed 
 in the various branches of industry included in the'ln- 
 quiry ; and it is the less necessary, because the means 
 of information are placed within the reach of all; an 
 octavo volume* having been published by direction of 
 the Government, at the desire of the House of Com- 
 mons, containing verbatim the most important portions 
 of the Reports. The individuals composing these clas- 
 ses are to be numbered not by thousands, but by mil- 
 lions ; yet what is the weighed, the solemn verdict given 
 by this Commission as to their moral condition 1 Every 
 word has been deeply considered — and should so be 
 read. The Commissioners say, in their general con- 
 clusion : — 
 
 "That the parents, urged by poverty or improvidence, generally seek 
 employment for the children as goon as tliey can earn the lowest amount 
 of wages ; paying but little regard to the probable injury of their children's 
 health by early labour, and still less regard to the certain injury of their 
 minds by early removal from school, or even by the total neglect of their 
 education ; seldom, when questioned, expressing any desire for the regula- 
 tion of the hours of work, with a view to the protection and welfare of their 
 children, but constantly expressing the greatest apprehension lest any legis- 
 lative restriction should deprive them of the profits of their children's la- 
 bour; the natural parental instinct to provide, during childhood, for the 
 child's subsistence, being, in great numbers of instances, wholly extinguished, 
 and the order of nature even reversed — the children supportiiig, instead of 
 being supported by their parents. 
 
 "That the means of instruction are so grievously defective that in all the 
 districts great numbers of children are growing up without any religious, 
 moral, or intellectual training; nothing being done to train them to habits 
 of order, sobriety, honesty, and forethought, or even to restrain tlieni from 
 vice and crime. 
 
 "That there is not a single district in which the means of instruction 
 are adequate to the wants of the people, while in some it is insufficient for 
 the education of one-third of the population. That as a natural conse- 
 quence of this neglect, and of the possession of unrestrained liberty at an 
 early age, wlien few are capable of self-government, great numbers of these 
 children and young persons acquire in childhood and youth habits which 
 utterly destroy their future health, usefulness, and happiness." 
 
 The details forming the basis of these general state- 
 ments, — which are cold abstractions, necessarily inca- 
 pable of presenting the living action and passion of the 
 
 * " Physical and Moral Condition of the Children and» Young Persons em- 
 ployed in Mines and Manufactures. Illustrated by extracts from the Reports 
 of the Commissioners." — London : Published for her Majesty's Stationary 
 Office, by J. W. Parker, W^est Strand. 1843. 
 
DR. SOUTHWOOD SMITH. 71 
 
 countless individuals from whom they are derived, — 
 exhibit a degree of wide-spread ignorance, vice, and 
 suffering, for the disclosure of which the country was 
 wholly unprepared. For this national moral evil there 
 is no remedy but a national education ; and the presen 
 tation of the Report was followed, on the part of Lord 
 Ashley, by a motion for " A Moral and Religious Edu- 
 cation of the Working Classes." He sustained his 
 motion by a speech, in which, after expressing his 
 heart-felt thanks to the Commissioners for "an exer- 
 cise of talent and vigour never surpassed by any public 
 servants," he gave a comprehensive, massive, and most 
 impressive summary of the results of their labours. 
 Few who were in the House on that night will ever 
 forget the effect produced when, urging on his audience 
 to consider the rapid progress of time, and the appal- 
 ling rapidity with which a child nine years of age, 
 abandoned to himself, and to companions like himself, 
 is added to the ranks of viciousness, misery, and dis- 
 order in manhood, he turned from the Speaker, and 
 looking round on those of his own order, exclaimed — 
 "You call these poor people improvident and immor- 
 al, and so they are ; but that improvidence and immor- 
 ality are the results of our neglect, and,' in some mea- 
 sure, of our example. Declare this night that you will 
 enter on a novel and a better course — that you will 
 seek their temporal through their eternal welfare — and 
 the blessing of God will rest upon your endeavours ; 
 and, perhaps, the oldest among you may live to enjoy 
 for himself and for his children the opening day of the 
 immortal, because the moral glories of the British Em- 
 pire." 
 
 This appeal was met on the part of the Secretary of 
 State for the Home Department, Sir James Graham, 
 by the answer that he had matured a plan which might 
 be regarded as the first effort of Government to intro- 
 duce a national system of education. There were 
 unquestionably elements of good in the education 
 clauses, particularly as they were altered in the course 
 of debate, and they might have formed the basis of 
 institutions expanding and improving by experience, 
 until they were put in harmony with the feelings, and 
 became adequate to the wants of the people ; but, uq- 
 fortunately, whatever may have been the real inte.«- 
 tions of the Minister, the announcement of his plas had 
 
72 LORD ASHLEY AND 
 
 the effect of exciting in a violent degree the sectarian 
 animosities of the people; and after having arrayed, 
 from one end of the kingdom to another in desperate 
 conflict Churchman against Dissenter, and Dissenter 
 against Churchman, and different sections of each 
 against all the rest, terminated, not only in the loss of 
 any measure for Education, but in the defeat of the 
 amendment of the Factory Act, to which the Minister 
 had attached his scheme of National Education. Con-t 
 sequenily, the evils resulting from ignorance, remain 
 as before. The Factory Act will, however, be amen- 
 ded. Government announced, on the 6th of February, 
 the intention of limiting the labour of children, under 
 thirteen, to six hours daily. 
 
 But although the opportunity of making a national 
 provision for education has for the present been lost, 
 yet the exposure of the total inadequacy of existing 
 Institutions for the intellectual and moral training of 
 the people, has not been without a useful result. With- 
 in the space of a few months after the publication of 
 the reports of the "Children's Employment Commis- 
 sion," and immediately after the failure of the Govern- 
 ment plan of education, the friends of the Established 
 Church raised in voluntary contributions an educational 
 fund amounting to nearly 200,000/. ; and one denomina- 
 tion of Dissenters (the Independents) at their first meet- 
 ing, subscribed towards a similar fund upwards of 
 17,000/., and pledged themselves to use their utmost 
 exertions to increase this sum to 100,000/. in the space 
 of five years. The Methodists also have pledged them- 
 selves to raise 200,000/. in seven years, and found 700 
 schools ; nor is it probable that other bodies of Dissen- 
 ters will remain inactive ; so that the people have al- 
 ready put to shame the "National Grant of 30,000/.," 
 the utmost amount ever yet voted by Parliament for 
 the e<lucation of the country — a sum scarcely sufficient 
 to defray the expense of one convict ship, or to main- 
 tain for a year one single prison ! 
 
 The two commissions on which Dr. Southwood Smith 
 has been engaged, have unavoidably turned his mind, 
 away from the speculative studies which at one period 
 occupied him more exclusively, and have converted 
 him from a thinker into a worker. Circumstances 
 connected with his profession had long forced upon his 
 observation the wretched slate of the dwellings of the 
 
DR. SOUTHWOOD SMITH. 73 
 
 poor, and the disease, suffering, and death produced by 
 the noxious exhalations that arise from the unsewered, 
 undrained, and uncleaiised localities into which their 
 houses are crowded. "Nature," said he, "with her 
 burning sun, her stilled and pent-up wind, her stagnant 
 and teeming marsh, manufactures plague on a large 
 and fearful scale : poverty in her hut, covered with her 
 rags, surrounded with her filth, striving with all her 
 might to keep out the pure air, and to increase the heat, 
 imitates nature but too successfully; the process and 
 the product are the same, the only difference is in the 
 magnitude of the result." In the year 1837, this result 
 was produced in certain of the metropolitan districts to 
 such an unusual extent as to attract the attention of 
 the Poor Law Commissioners. They requested Drs. 
 Southwood Smith, Arnott, and Kay to investigate the 
 cause. The districts assigned to Dr. Smith were White- 
 chapel and Bethnal Green, and he adopted the plan of 
 writing a literal description of what he saw in his tour 
 over these unknown regions. Of the many pictures 
 of squahd wretchedness presented, the following may 
 serve as specimens : — 
 
 " An open area of about 700 feet in length, and 300 in breadth ; 300 feet 
 of which are covered by stagnant water, winter and summer. In the part 
 thus submerged, there is always a quantity of putrefyins! animal and vege- 
 table matter, the odour of which at the present moment is most offensive. 
 An open filthy ditch encircles this place. Into this ditch all the .... 
 Nothing can be conceived more disgusting than the appearar<ce; and the 
 odour of the effluvia is at this moment most oflensive. Lamb's-nelds is the 
 fruitful source of fever to the houses which immediately surround it. and to 
 the small streets whicli branch otf from it. Particular houses were pointed 
 out to me from which entire families have been swept away, and from 
 several of the streets fever is never absent." 
 
 Of St. John Street, a close and densely populated 
 place, in which malignant fever has prevailed in almost 
 every house, he says — 
 
 " In one room which I examined, eight feet by ten and nine feet high, 
 six people live by day and sleep at night; the closeness and stench are 
 almost intolerable. . . Alfred and Beckwith Rows, consist of small 
 buildings divided into two houses, one back, the other front: each house 
 being divided into two tenements, occupied by difi'erent families. These 
 habitations are suiTounded by a broad open drain, in a filthy condition. 
 Heaps of filth are accumulated in the spaces meant for gardens in front of 
 the houses. ... I entered several of the tenements. In one of them, 
 on the ground floor, I found six persons occupying a very small room, two 
 in bed, ill with fever. In the room above this were two more persons in 
 one bed, ill with fever. In this same room a woman was carrying on the 
 process of silk-winding. . . Campden-gardens, the dwellings are small 
 ground-floor houses: each containing two rooms, the largest about sevea 
 feet by nine, the smallest barely large enough to admit a small bed; the 
 height about seven feet ; in winter tliese houses are e-xceedingly damp ; the 
 
 G 
 
74 LORD ASHLEY AND 
 
 windows are very small ; there is no drainage of any kind ; it is close upon 
 a marshy district. Often all the members of a family are attacked by (eveTf 
 and die one after the other." 
 
 These descriptions can only be compared to Howard's 
 account of the " State of Prisons^" fifty years ago. The 
 jail fever was then a recognized and prevalent disease ; 
 it is now only a subject of history. So may the ty^ 
 phus fever of London be fifty years hence. It requires 
 only an enlightened legislature to order, and efficient 
 officers to enforce known remedies. 
 
 The impression produced by the entire report, por- 
 tions of which have now been extracted, led to the 
 motion made by the Bishop of London, in the Session 
 of 1839, for an extension of the inquiry into the state 
 of other towns in the IJnited Kingdom. Early in the 
 following Session (1840), Mr. Slaney obtained a Select 
 Committee of the House of Commons for enquiring" 
 into the " Health of Towns," Dr. Southwood Smith 
 was the first witness examined before this Committee, 
 who largely quote his " valuable evidence" in their 
 Report, and refer the legislature to the important paper 
 •which he furnished to them, entitled " Abstract of a 
 Report on the prevalence of Fever in Twenty Metro- 
 pohtan Unions during the year 1838," which they re- 
 printed in their Appendix. 
 
 The urgency of the case had now attracted the notice 
 of Government, and in particular had impressed the 
 noble Secretary of State for the Home Department^ 
 the Marquis of Normanby ; but like many others, being 
 unable to dismiss a doubt whether there vk^ere not some 
 exaggerations in these descriptions, he resolved to 
 verify their correctness by a personal inspection of the 
 districts in question. He accordingly accompanied 
 Dr. Southwood Smith in a visit to Whitechapel and 
 Bethnal Green, and was so deeply affected by what he 
 saw, that he declared his instant conviction, that " so 
 far from any exaggeration having crept into the de- 
 scriptions which had been given, they had not conveyed 
 to his mind an adequate idea of the truth ;" as indeed 
 no words can do. Lord Ashley afterwards performed 
 the same painful round in company with Dr. Smith, 
 and expressed himself in a similar manner.* 
 
 * These statements are strictly authentic. They went privately, and 
 unattended, into the most squalid and Jiidcous abodes of filth, and misery, 
 and vice, and might well express themselves strongly in public after what 
 they witnessed.— Ed. 
 
DR. SOUTH WOOD SMITH. 75 
 
 111 the Session of 1S41, Lord Normanby introduced 
 into Parliament his Bill for the " Drainage of Build- 
 ings," and in his speech on moving the second reading 
 of the Bill on the 12th of February, he acknowledged 
 the services of Dr. Southwood Smith, in the following 
 terms. " I cannot allude to them," he said, " without 
 at once expressing my obligations to that indefatigably 
 benevolent gentleman for much useful information 
 which I have derived from him, with whom I have had 
 the satisfaction of much personal communication on 
 this subject." The principal provisions of this Bill re- 
 garded the drainage of houses, the regulation of the 
 width of lanes and alleys, and the form and conve- 
 niences of dwellings. The Bishop of London warmly 
 supported the measure : — " As presiding over the spir- 
 itual interests of the metropohs, he felt deeply inter- 
 ested in a Bill which he was satisfied would so mate- 
 rially affect them : and being thoroughly convinced 
 that the physical condition of the poor teas intirnately con- 
 nected iviih their moral and religious state, and that the two 
 exerted a mutual influence upon each other, he thankfully 
 hailed the present measure as the first step towards an 
 elevation of that class of the community in the scale 
 of social comfort and order." Lord Ellenborough fol- 
 lowed in the same spirit : — " It is idle," said he, " to 
 build churches, to erect school-houses, and to employ 
 clergymen and schoolmasters, if we do no more. Our 
 first object should be to improve the physical condition 
 of the poor labourer, — to place him in a position in 
 which he can acquire self-respect ; above all things to 
 give him a home." 
 
 But before this measure had passed, there was a dis- 
 solution of Parliament, and a change in the administra- 
 tion. The present ministers, however, have not ne- 
 glected a subject in v/hich the former Government took 
 so deep an interest ; but have appointed a Commission 
 of Inquiry into the state of large towns and populous 
 districts, with a view, chiefly, to report on remedies. 
 In an extended examination before these Commission- 
 ers, Dr. Southwood Smith states that the disease for- 
 merly described by him, still continues, and with in- 
 creasing virulence ; that a new epidemic is now ravaging 
 the metropolis, far more extensive and fatal than the 
 preceding; that the poorer classes in their neglected 
 districts, are still exposed to causes of disease, vsuffer- 
 
76 LORD ASHLEY AND 
 
 ing, and death which are peculiar to them, and the 
 malignant influence of wHich is steady, unceasing, and 
 sure. His words are too terrible to need any com- 
 ment ; — 
 
 " The result," he says, " is tlie same as if twenty or thirty thousand of 
 these people were annually taken out of their wretched dwellings and put 
 to death, the actual fact bein? that they are allowed to remain in them and 
 die. I am now speaking of what silently, but surely, takes place every 
 year in the metropolis alone, and do not include in this estimate the num- 
 bers that perish from these causes in the other great cities, and in the towns 
 and villages of the kingdom. It has been stated that ' the annual slaughter 
 in England and Wales, from preventible causes, of typhus fever, which at- 
 tacks persons in the vigour of life, is double the amount of what was suflered 
 by the allied armies in the battle of Waterloo.' — This is no exaggerated 
 statement; this great battle against our people is every year fought and 
 won ; and yet few take account of it, partly for the very reason that it takes 
 place every year. However ap])alling the picture presented to the m'w.d by 
 this statement, it may be justly regarded as a literal expression of the truth. 
 I am myself convinced from what I constantly see of the ravages of this 
 disease, that this mode of putting the result does not give an exaggerated 
 expression of it. Indeed the most appalling expression of it would be the 
 mere cold statement of it in figures." 
 
 In conclusion, Dr. Smith enforced in earnest lan- 
 guage, the consideration that this whole class of evils 
 is remediable ; that it does not belong to that descrip- 
 tion of evil which is mingled with good in the conditions 
 of our being, but to that much larger sum of suffering 
 which is the consequence of our own ignorance and 
 apathy ; — 
 
 "No Government," said he, "can prevent the existence of poverty; no 
 benevolence can reach the evils of extreme poverty under the circumstances 
 which at present universally accompany it: but there is ground of hope 
 and encouragement in the thought that the most painful and debasing of 
 those circumstances are adventitious, and form no necessary and inevitable 
 part of the condition of that large class of ever>- community which must 
 earn their daily bread by their manual labour. These adventitious circum- 
 stances constitute the hardest part of the lot of the poor, and tliese, as I 
 have just said, are cnpable of being prevented to a very large extent. The 
 labours of a single individual, I mean those of the illustrious Howard, have 
 at length succeeded in removing exactly similar evils, though somewliat more 
 concentrated and intense, froui our prisons ; they are at least etpially capa- 
 ble of being removed from the dwelling houses and work-places of the peo- 
 ple. Here there is a field of beneficent labour which falls legitimately 
 within the scope of the legislator, and which is erjually within that of the 
 philanthropist, affording a common ground, beyond the arena of party strife, 
 in the culture of which all parties may unite with the absolute certainty 
 that they cannot thus labour without producing some good result, and that 
 the good produced, whatever may be its amount, must be unmixed good." 
 
 Dr. Smith is now engaged with Lord Ashley and 
 other influential and benevolent men, in the formation 
 of an Association for improving the dweUings of the 
 industrious classes, by the erection of comfortable, 
 cleanly, well-drained and ventilated houses, to be let 
 to families in sets of rooms, with an ample supply of 
 
DR. SOUTHWOOD SMITH. 77 
 
 water on each floor; a fair return for the capital in- 
 vested being secured. Eleemosynary relief forms no 
 part of the undertaking, as tending to destroy the inde- 
 pendence of those whom it is designed to benefit. The 
 association has fully matured its plans, and will endea- 
 vour practically to show by model-houses what may 
 be done by combination to lessen the expensiveness of 
 the dwellings of the poor, and to increase their heaith- 
 fulness and comforts. 
 
 Though the sanatory condition of the working classes 
 has been the especial object of Dr. Southwood Smith 
 of late years, he has not forgotten the wants of the 
 middle classes in the season of sickness. These are 
 not at first sight so obvious; but there are circum- 
 stances which have never been sufficiently considered, 
 that place many, whose station in life removes them 
 above the evils of poverty, in a worse condition when 
 overtaken by disease than the poor who can obtain ad- 
 mission into the hospitals. Numbers of the middle 
 classes annually leave their homes and families and 
 flock to London, as to a common centre, to find em- 
 ployment, or to complete their education. Others 
 resort to it from distant parts of the country for medi- 
 cal or surgical advice. Strangers and foreigners con- 
 stantly visit it. When attacked by disease, — a close 
 and comfortless lodging in a noisy street, with no bet- 
 ter attendance than the already over-tasked servant of 
 all work, or a landlady, w^ho begins to dread infection, 
 or the non-payment of her rent, — is the lot of many a 
 dehcately minded and sensitive person in the pain of 
 fever or inflammation, with all the desolation of the 
 feeling of absence from home and friends. 
 
 Out of a sympathy with such suff'erers, arose in Dr. 
 Smith's mind the idea of founding an institution on the 
 principles of the great clubs, arranged with every re- 
 quisite for a place of abode in sickness, and provided 
 with regular medical officers and nurses ; the principle : 
 of admission being, as in the case of the clubs, a cer- 
 tain yearly subscription, and a fixed weeklj^ payment 
 during residence in it. Such institutions are not un- 
 common on the continent, though, until the present 
 time, none have existed in this country. 'J'hat origi- 
 nated by Dr. Southwood Smith, under the name of the 
 "Sanatorium," was opened in March, 1842, at Devon- 
 •shire-place House, in the New Road. The house is 
 G2 
 
78 LORD ASHLEY AND 
 
 well calculated for an experimental attempt, but is not 
 sufficiently large to carry out the purposes which 
 he contemplated. These would extend to suites of 
 rooms, kept at a regular temperature for consump- 
 tive cases, and to a separate building for fever cases, 
 which are now totally excluded. It appears only to 
 want greater publicity to attain its full scope of useful- 
 ness ; but unless supported by the class for whom it is 
 designed it cannot be maintained at all. That such a 
 club is certain to be well supported at some period not 
 far distant, we can plainly see ; but the attempt may be 
 premature. Its founder — deriving no personal advan- 
 tage from the design, but devoting much time and la- 
 bour to its advancement — has rested its claim to public 
 support simply on the ground, that, as when the middle 
 and higher classes combine to found public schools and 
 colleges, and to build and endow churches, they solicit 
 the contributions of the rich and benevolent because 
 no new thing, however excellent in itself, or however 
 affluent in the means of securing its ultimate indepen- 
 dence and prosperity, can be set on foot without some 
 capital ; so this institution appeals to the public for 
 assistance, to enable it to mitigate suffering, to shorten 
 the duration of disease, and to save life. The Bank of 
 England, a.nd the large and inlluential merchants houses 
 have seen the good of the undertaking, and have con- 
 tributed largely to promote it ; nor should we omit to 
 notice in particular the strenuous exertions of Mr, 
 Thomas Chapman, the Chairman of the Sanatorium 
 Committee. 
 
 Amidst his many arduous and apparently endless la- 
 boiu-s, some words of encouragement should be address- 
 ed to Dr. Southwood Smith, who in his private station 
 devotes himself to the diffusion of philosophical truth, 
 and to the instruction of the people in some of the most 
 practically interesting and least understood parts of 
 knowledge. He has described for them, the wonderful 
 structures that form the outward and visible machinery 
 of life, and the still more wonderful results of its action 
 — the processes that constitute the vital functions. He 
 has shown the brighter portion of the height and depth 
 of our human nature in the Sources of Happiness, and 
 has proved that " in the entire range of the sentient 
 creation, without a single exception, the higher the or- 
 ganized structure, the greater the enjoyment to which 
 
DR. SOUTIIWOOD SMITH. 79 
 
 it ministers and in which it terminates." He has so ex- 
 pounded the philosophy of Pain, as to communicate to 
 the mourning and desponding, heart and hope, and has 
 taught in the noblest sense the uses of adversity. He 
 has still to deduce from the action of physical agents 
 on living structures the laws of health, and to expound 
 the intellectual and moral constitution based on the 
 physical and growing out of it; without a knowledge 
 of which, neither the mother nor the educator can 
 avoid the most pernicious errors, nor ultimately reach 
 their goal. There are minds and hearts that thank him 
 for what he has already accomplished, and that anxious- 
 ly await the completion of his work. 
 
 By his public labours Dr. Smith has awakened the 
 attention of the people at large, and of the legislature, 
 to those physical causes of suffering, disease, and pre- 
 mature death, which, while they afflict the whole com- 
 munity, press with peculiar severity on the poorer 
 classes ; and has shown not only that these causes are 
 removable, but the means by which human wisdom and 
 energy may certainly succeed in removing them. And 
 he is peculiarly fitted to render services to the com- 
 munity on this important subject, in consequence of his 
 intimate acquaintance with that dreadful train of dis- 
 eases which are entailed on humanity by our inatten- 
 tion to removing the causes of the febrile poison. 
 
 Lord Ashley is yet young, and few men have before 
 them a more noble, or more successful career. He has 
 proved that he possesses the qualities requisite for the 
 performance of the mission to wiiich he has felt the 
 vocation. He is not only intellectual, but possessed 
 of the greatest industry, perseverance, and confidence 
 in his cause, yet diffident of himself from the very 
 depth of his feeling concerning it ; not wanting in firm- 
 ness, yet candid and conciliating, and though earnest 
 even to enthusiasm, tempering and directing the im- 
 pulses of zeal by a sober and sound judgment. His 
 singleness of purpose, his unquestioned sincerity and 
 honesty, his diligence in collecting facts, his careful 
 sifting, lucid arrangement, and concise and candid ex- 
 position of them, and his plain unaffected language and 
 unpretending address, have secured him the deeply re- 
 spectful attention even of the House of Commons. 
 Sustained in his appeals to that difficult assembly by 
 the profound consciousness that the cause he advocates 
 
80 LORD ASHLEY, ETC. 
 
 must engage on its side the sympathies of our common 
 humanity, on which he throws himself with a generous 
 confidence, he often produces the highest results of elo- 
 quence. He has already calmed the fears of the capi- 
 talists; conciliated the Government; engaged the co- 
 operation of the Legislature ; placed under the protec- 
 tion of the Law the children of the factories ; placed 
 tinder the protection of the Law the still more helpless 
 t^hildren doomed to the mines and collieries ; and to the 
 female children and women, heretofore confined therein, 
 he has said — "You are free, and shall do the work of 
 beasts in the attitude of beasts, no more." Lord Ash- 
 ley has still to emancipate apprentices; to obtain a 
 general registration of accidents ; to improve the local- 
 ities and dwellings of the poor; and to give the com- 
 pensating benefit of education to those whose early 
 years are spent in labour. Because the first attempts 
 to accomplish these great objects have failed, let no 
 evasions, obstacles, delays, discourage him, nor let 
 him — 
 
 " Bate a jot, — 
 Of heart or hope ; but siill bear up and steer 
 Right onward." 
 
THOMAS INGOLDSBY. 
 
 POISON IN JI 
 
 At the conclusion of the majority of the " Ingoldst)y^ 
 Legends," there are verses entitled " Moral ;" and this 
 may have been considered by some as a very advan- 
 tageous addition to productions which have had so ex- 
 tensive a sale, and consequently so extensive an influ- 
 ence upon the minds of particular classes of readers. 
 At the end of the " Legend of a Shirt" there occurs the 
 following, — 
 
 Moral. 
 "And now for some practical hints from the story 
 Of Aunt Fan's mishap, which I've thus laid before ye; 
 For, if rather too gay 
 I can venture to say 
 .1 fine vein of moralitij is, in each lay 
 Ol my primitive Muse the distinguishing trait!'" — ^nd Series. 
 
 Now, either this is meant to be the fact; or it is not. 
 If meant as a fact, it will be the business of this paper 
 to display what sort of morality these popular legends 
 contain. But it is not seriously meant ! — the author is 
 "only in fun!" Very well; then the sort of fun in 
 which he abounds shall be displayed, together with the 
 " fine vein of morality" which it is to be presumed his 
 Muse does not contemplate. 
 
 The story of " Nell Cook," (second series) is very 
 clearly and graphically told in rhyme. Nelly is the 
 cook- maid of a portly Canon, a learned man with " a 
 merry eye." Nelly, besides being an excellent cook, 
 is also a very comely lass, and the two-fold position 
 she holds in the private establishment of the Canon is 
 sufficiently apparent. In this merry condition of gas- 
 tronomical affairs there arrives " a lady gay" in a coach 
 and four, whom the Canon presses to his breast as his 
 Niece, gives her his blessing, and kisses her ruby lip. 
 Nelly, the mistress cook, looks askew at this, suspect- 
 ing they were " a little less than 'kin, and rather more 
 than kind." The gay Lady remains feasting with the 
 Canon in his house, quaffing wine, and singing Bobbing 
 
'82 THOMAS INGOLDSBY. 
 
 Joan! The cook becomes jealous of the clergyman, 
 hates the assumed Niece, and hits upon a plan for dis- 
 covering the real truth of the relationship. She hides 
 the poker and tongs in the Lady's bed ! The said uten- 
 sils remain there unheeded during six weeks — and the 
 primitive Muse with " a fine vein of morality" says she 
 does not know where the Lady took her rest all that 
 time ! To be brief: INelly puts poison into her cook- 
 er)'^ — the bell rings for prayers — the Canon does not 
 come — cannot be found. They search, however, and 
 eventually breaking open the door of a bed-chamber, 
 they find the Canon lying dead upon the bed, and his 
 *' Niece" upon the floor, dead also. The black, swollen, 
 livid forms, are described ; and the Prior then says 
 " Well ! here's a pretty Go !" "When the assumed re- 
 lationship of the parties is mentioned in the " sacred 
 fane," the Sacristan " puts his thumb unto his nose, and 
 spreads his fingers out I" It may now be fairly as- 
 sumed — with submission — that the Ingoldsby Muse is 
 not serious, but only in fun — in fact that she is " rather 
 too gay." To proceed, therefore, with the sequel of 
 this extremely droll story. 
 
 The monks, or somebody employed by them, as it 
 seems, seize upon Nelly, and taking up a heavy paving 
 stone near the Canon's door, bury her alive under it. 
 And, — 
 
 " I've been told, lliat moan and groan, and fearful wail and shriek 
 Came from beneath that paving stone for nearly half a week— 
 For three long days, and three long nights, came forth those sounds of fear ; 
 Then all was o'er — they never more fell on the listening year !" 
 
 Excellent fun ! — buried alive ! — moans and shrieks 
 for three days and nights ! — really this fine vein of mor- 
 ality will be the death of us ! 
 
 But these things are not meant to be pleasant. This 
 is meant to be serious. It certainly looks very like that. 
 
 Li process of years three masons take up the heavy 
 stone, and underneath it, in a sort of dry well, they dis- 
 cover a fleshless skeleton. This also looks very se- 
 rious. But presently we shall find that horror and lev- 
 ity are exquisitely blended — the " smiles and the tears," 
 as it is beautifully said by some admirers, in extenua- 
 tion. For " near this fleshless skeleton" there lies a 
 small pitcher, and a " mouldy piece of kissing-ciust !" 
 
 Here it may truly be said that Life and Death meet 
 in horrible consummation. It is awfully funny indeed ! 
 
THOMAS INGOLDSBY. 83 
 
 Under the head of " Moral," at the end, all morality- 
 is evaded by silly common-place exhortations, intend- 
 ed to pass for humour, — such as cautioning " learned 
 Clerks" not to " keep a pretty serving-maid ; " and 
 " don't let your Niece sing Bobbing Joan,-'' and " don't 
 eat too much pie !" — poisoned pie. 
 
 Here is another of these fine veins of a Muse who 
 "poisons in jest." A learned Clerk — the clergy are 
 'specially favoured with prominently licentious positions 
 in these horrible pleasantries — a learned Clerk comes 
 to visit the wife of Gengulphus in his absence.* They 
 eat, and drink, hold revels ; the " spruce young Clerk" 
 finds himself very much at home with " that frolick- 
 some lady:" and then — having placed every thing quite 
 beyond doubt, — the primitive Muse leaves a blank with 
 asterisks, as if she were too delicate to say more. 
 During one of their festivities the husband, Gengulphus, 
 returns from a pilgrimage. The learned Clerk, the 
 spruce young divine, is concealed by the wife in a clos- 
 et, and she then bestows all manner of fond attentions 
 upon her weary husband, whose " weakened body" is 
 soon overcome by some strong drink, and he falls into 
 a sound sleep. The young divine then comes out of 
 the closet, and assists the wife in murdering Gengul- 
 phus, by smothering and suffocation, all of which is re- 
 lated with the utmost levity. After this, they deliber- 
 ately cut up the corpse. 
 
 " So the Clerk and the Wife, they each took a knife, 
 And ttie nippers that nipped the loaf-sugar for tea; 
 
 'W^ith the edges and points they severed the joints 
 At the clavicle, elbow, hip, ankle, and luiee." 
 
 Having dismembered him " limb from limb," cutting 
 off his hands at the wrists, by means of the great sug- 
 ar-nippers, they determine upon throwing his head 
 down the well. Before doing this, however, they cut 
 off his long beard, and stuff it into the cushion of an 
 arm-chair, all of which is laughably told. Then, the 
 Muse does not mean to be serious 1 — this is not intend- 
 ed as an account of a murder done, or anything beyond 
 a joke. Read the next stanza. 
 
 " They contrived to pack the trunk in a sack. 
 Which they hid in an osier bed outside the town, 
 
 The Clerk bearing arms, legs, and all on his back, 
 As the late Mr. Greenacre served Mrs. Brown." 
 
 Exactly — this is the point at issue — here is the direct 
 * See "Gengulphus," 3st Series. 
 
'84 THOMAS INGOLDSBY. 
 
 clearly-pronounced comparison with an actual horror 
 made palpable beyond all dispute. As did Greenacre, 
 in like manner did this spruce young Clerk ! No pan- 
 tomime murders, no Christmas gambol burlesques — but 
 the real thing is meant to be represented to the imag- 
 ination. Here is, indeed a specimen of a Muse being 
 " rather too gay," and upon a very unusual occasion 
 for merriment. Subsequently the story becomes pre- 
 ternatural, after the manner of a monkish legend, vari- 
 egated with modern vulgarisms, and finally the wife 
 seats herself upon the cushion which contains her 
 murdered husband's beard, and the cushion sticks to 
 
 her 1 What follows cannot be ventured in prose. 
 
 The " Moral" at the end, is not very symphonious ; but 
 in the usual twaddling style, affecting to be humorous — 
 " married pilgrims don't stay away so long," and " when 
 you are coming home, just write and say so ;" learned 
 Clerks " stick to your books" — " don't visit a house 
 ■when the master's from home" — " shun drinking ;" and 
 "gay ladies allow not your patience to fail." A fair 
 average specimen of the beautiful concentrated essence 
 of that " fine vein of morality" which runs, or rather, 
 gutters, through these legends. 
 
 In the Legend of Palestine (second series) which is 
 called "The Ingoldsby Penance" (') the knight, who has 
 gone to the holy wars, leaving his wife at Ingoldsby 
 Hall, intercepts a letter, carried by a little page, from his 
 wife to a paramour with whom she has "perhaps been 
 a little too gay," as the holy Father remarks — wherebj'" 
 we discover what meaning is attached to those words. 
 Sir Ingoldsby gives the little page a kick, which sends 
 him somewhere, and the child is apparently killed on 
 the spot. The paramour turns out to be the revered 
 Prior of Abingdon! Sir Ingoldsby forthwith cuts off 
 the reverend man's head. His account of the style in 
 which he murdered his wife, the lady Alice, must be 
 told in his own words : — 
 
 " And away to Ingoldsby Hall I flew ! 
 
 Dame Alice I found — 
 
 She sank on the ground — 
 I twisted her neck till I twisted it round ! 
 With jib r„ and jeer, and mock, and sroff, 
 I twisted it on— till I twisted it off!" ' 
 
 Serious or comic 1 Surely this cannot be meant as 
 a laughable thing, but as a dreadful actual revenge ] At 
 
THOMAS INGOLDSBY. 85 
 
 any rate, however, it is laughed at, and the very next 
 couplet institutes a paraphrastic comparison with Hump- 
 ty Dumpty who sat on a wall 1 " All the king's doc- 
 tors, and all the king's men," sings the primitive Muse — 
 who is sometimes " rather too gay" — " can't put fair 
 Alice's head on agen /" It must by this time have be- 
 come perfectly apparent that the only possible attempt 
 at justification of such writings must be on the score of 
 some assumed merit in the unexampled mixture of the 
 ludicrous and the revolting — the "exquisite turns" — 
 " the playfulness" of these bloody fingers. 
 
 The legitimate aim of Art is to produce a pleasura- 
 emotion ; and through this medium, in its higher walks, 
 to refine and elevate humanity. The art which has a 
 mere temporary excitement and gratification of the ex- 
 ternal senses as its sole object, however innocent the 
 means it employs, is of the lowest kind, except one. 
 That one is the excitement of vicious emotions, unre- 
 deemed by any sincere passion or purpose, whether 
 justified or self-deluding; and there are no emotions so 
 vicious and so injurious as those which tend to bring the 
 most serious feelings and conditions of human nature 
 into ridicule and contempt ; to turn the very body of 
 humanity, " so fearfully and wonderfully made," inside 
 out, by way of a jest, and to represent " battle, murder, 
 and sudden death," not as dreadful things from which 
 ■we would pray that all mankind might be " delivered," 
 but as the richest sources of drollery and amusement. 
 
 There is perhaps no instance of extensive popularity 
 without ability of some kind or other, even when the 
 popularity is of the most temporary description ; and 
 that the " Ingoldsby Legends" possess very great talent, 
 of its kind, should never be denied. It will be treated 
 in due course. Their merit is certainly not icit, in its 
 usual acceptation; and their humour can scarcely be 
 regarded as legitimate, being continually founded upon 
 trifling with sacred, serious, hideous, or otherwise for- 
 bidden subjects, beyond the natural region of the comic 
 muse, and often beyond nature herself. 
 
 It will be acknowledged on all sides that the cheapest 
 kind of wit, or Immour, or whatever passes current for 
 either, is that which a man finds ready-made. Who- 
 ever is the first to appreciate and display a certain quan- 
 tity of this, in a new, and attractive, or striking shape, 
 is pretty sure of finding a large audience. To appeal 
 H 
 
86 THOMAS INGOLDSBY. 
 
 to established jokes, and slang sayings, and absurd 
 events and characters, all well known to everybody, is- 
 one means of amusing a large and by no means very 
 select class : ghost stories and tales of preternatural 
 wonder, if at all well told, are also sure of exciting a 
 considerable interest, so long as the imagination retains 
 its influence as a powerful faculty of the human mind ^ 
 and, though last, it is to be feared not least, there is a 
 very large class extremely disposed to be pleased with 
 a clever dalliance amidst unseemly subjects and stories 
 — a liquorish temerity which continually approaches the 
 very verge of verbal grossness, and escapes under the 
 insinuation — in fact, an ingenious " wrapping up" of all 
 manner of unsightly, unsavoury, and unmentionable 
 things. 
 
 The quantity of common-place slang in these Legends 
 is a remarkable feature. Very much of it is of a kind 
 that was in vogue in the time of our fathers and grand- 
 fathers, such as " Hookey Walker — apple-pie order — a 
 brace of shakes — cock-sure — meat for his master — rais- 
 ing the wind — smellmg a rat — up to snuff — going snacks 
 — -little Jack Horner," &c. ; and there is no want of the 
 slang of present days, such as — " done brown — a shock- 
 ing bad hat — like bricks — coming it strong — heavy wet 
 — a regular guy — right as a trivet — a regular turn up — 
 tipping a facer — cobbing and fibbing — tapping the claret 
 — a prime set to !" &c. These choice morsels are all 
 introduced between inverted commas to mark them as 
 quotations ; as if this rendered them a jot the more fit 
 to illustrate murderous tales ; or as if their dull vulgari- 
 ty was excusable because it v/as not original. To use 
 slang with impunity requires great tact, and good taste, 
 and invention, and the finest humour ; — inverted com- 
 mas do nothing. 
 
 Many of the tales end with some very fusty old say- 
 ings, presented to the eye all in capital letters : — " Don't 
 
 HALLO BEFORE YOU'RE QUITE OUT OF THE WOOD ; NEVER 
 BORROW A HORSE YOU DOn't KNOW OF A FRIEND ; LOOK AT 
 THE CLOCK ; WHO SOPS WITH THE DeVIL SHOULD HAVE A 
 
 LONG SPOON," &c., each of which is intended as a rare 
 piece of humour to wind up with. The stanzas also 
 display in capital letters such excellent new wit as — 
 " Keep your handkerchief safe in your pocket ; little 
 
 PITCHERS have LONG EARS *, BEWARE OF THE RhINE, AND 
 TAKE CARE OF THE RhINO ; I WISH YOU MAY GET IT ; YOU 
 
THOMAS INGOLDSBY. 87 
 
 can't make a silk purse of a sow's ear ; A BIRD IN THE 
 
 HAND IS WORTH TWO IN THE BUSH !" &c. As for the dis- 
 tiches and stanzas at the end of most of the legends 
 under the old-fashioned head " moral," they are all 
 written upon the same principle of arrant twaddling 
 advice, the self-evident pointlessness of which is in- 
 tended to look like humour, and are humiliating to com- 
 mon sense. 
 
 Amidst all these heavy denunciations it is " quite a 
 relief" to be able to admire something. In freedom 
 and melody of comic versification, and in the originality 
 of compound rhymes, the " Ingoldsby Legends" surpass 
 -everything of the kind that has appeared since the days 
 of Hudibras and of Peter Pindar. The style is occa- 
 sionally an indifferent imitation of the old English bal- 
 lads ; but this method of compound rhyming is of a kind 
 Avhich may be regarded, if not as the discovery of new 
 powders in the English language, at least as an enlarge- 
 ment of the domain of those powers. The legends 
 contain in almost every page the best possible illustra- 
 tion of the true principle of rhyming, which the best 
 poets, and the public, have ahvays felt to depend solely 
 upon a good ear, and (more especially in the English 
 language) to have nothing whatever to do with the eye 
 and the similarity of letters — an absurd notion which 
 the majority of critics, to this very day, entertain, and 
 display. These legends are, in this respect, philologi- 
 cal studies, indisputable theoretically, and as novel as 
 they are amusing in practice. The most incongruous 
 and hitherto unimaginable combinations become thor- 
 oughly malleable in the Ingoldsby hand, and words of 
 the most dissimilar letters constitute perfect rhymes, sin- 
 gle, double, and triple. Moreover, these instances are 
 not a few ; they are abundant, and almost in every page, 
 
 " His features, and phiz awiy 
 Bhovv'd so much misery, 
 And so like a dragon he 
 Look'd in his agony," &c. 
 
 Ingoldsby Xe^e?(rfs, '2nd Series. 
 " A nice little boy held a golden ewer, 
 Emboss'd and fiU'd with water as pure 
 As any that flows between Rheims and Namur." — 1st. Series. 
 
 " Extremely annoyed by the ' tarnation whop,' as it 
 's call'd in Kentuck, on his head and its opposite, 
 Bloeg show'd fight 
 W^hen he saw, by the light 
 Of the flickering candle, that had not yet quite 
 Burnt down in the socket, though not over bright, 
 
88 THOMAS INGOLDSBY. 
 
 Certain dark-colour'd stains, as of blood newly spilt. 
 Revealed by the dog's having scratch'd off the quilt. 
 Which hinted a story of horror and guilt ! 
 
 'Twas ' 7(0 mistake' — 
 
 He was ' wide awake' 
 In an instant ; for, when only decently dnitik, 
 Nothing sobers a man so completely as 'funk.'' " — Ibid. 
 
 " From his finger he draws 
 His costly turquoise ; 
 And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws," &c. — Ibid. 
 
 "Both Knights of the Golden Fleece, high-bom Hidalgoes, 
 With whom e'en the King himself quite as a ' pal' goes." 
 
 2nc{ Series- 
 " Or if ever you've witness'd the face of a sailor 
 Return'd from a voyage, and escaped from a gale, or 
 Poetici ' Boreas' that 'lilustering railer,' 
 To find that his wife, when he hastens to hail her 
 Has just run away with his cash — and a tailor," &c. — Ibid 
 
 All these rhymes are perfect rhymes to the ear, which 
 is the only true judge. Let critics of bad ear, or no-ear, 
 beware how they commit themselves in future by at- 
 tempting to make correct rhyming a matter of literary^ 
 eye-sight. These examples bring the question to a 
 test more finally than any argument or disquisition 
 could do. 
 
 "The Most Reverend Don Garcilasso Q,uevedo 
 Was just at this time, as he 
 Now held the Primacy," &c. — Ibid. 
 
 " A long yellow pin-a-fore 
 Hangs down, each chin afore," &c. — Ibid. 
 
 Which it seems of a sort is 
 
 To puzzle our Cortes, 
 And since it has quite flabbergasted this Diet, I 
 Look to vour Grace with no little anxiety, &c. 
 
 * * * ■ * 
 
 So put your considering cap on — we're curious 
 To learn your receipt for a Prince of Asturias. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 So distinguish'ed a Pilgrim— especially when he 
 Considers the boon will not cost him one penny. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Since your Majesty don't like the pease in the shoe, or to 
 Travel — what say you to burning a Jew or two ? 
 
 Of all cookeries, most 
 
 The Saints love a roast ! 
 And a Jew's, of all others, the best dish to toast, &.c. — Ibid 
 
 The rest of the rascals jump'd on him, and Burk'd him, 
 The poor little Page, too, himself got no quarter, but 
 
 Was serv'd the same way. 
 
 And was found the next day 
 With his heels in the air, and his head in the water-butt 
 
 1st Series. 
 
 There is a class of people, who, endeavouring to re- 
 
THOMAS INGOLDSBY. 89 
 
 duce poetry to the strict laws of the understanding, de- 
 feat themselves of every chance of being permitted to 
 understand poetry : there is, how-ever, a much larger 
 class, who, in reading verse of any kind, abandon all 
 use whatever of the understrinding. The specimens of 
 these admirable and masterly thymes must not render 
 us insensible to the hideous levity of the pictures they 
 continually present to the imagination. Thrown off 
 our guard by the comicalities of the style, such things 
 may be passed over with a laugh the first time (they 
 have been so, too generally) ; but a second look pro- 
 duces a shudder, recollectuig, as we do, the previous 
 allusion to Greenacre, and knowing that these horrors 
 are not meant for pantomime. 
 
 In making some remarks on " the diseased appetite 
 for horrors," Mr. Fonblanque has this passage — 
 
 " The landlord upon whose premises a minder is committed, is now-a- 
 days a made man. The place becomes a show in the neighbourhood as the 
 scene of a fair. The barn in which Maria Martin was murdered by Corder, 
 ■was sold in tooth-picks ; the hedge through which the body of Mr. Weare 
 was dragged, was purchased by tlie inch ; Bishop's house bids fair to go off 
 in tobacco-stoppers and snuff-boxes, and the well will be drained at a guinea 
 a quart. Keally, if i>eople indulge in this vile and horrid taste, they will 
 tempt landlords to get murders committed in their houses, for the great profit 
 accruing from the morbid curiosity."* 
 
 Observe the different use made of wit in the forego- 
 ing extract, where ridicule and laughter are apphed to 
 a moral purpose, viz., to the diseased appetites for hor- 
 rors — not to the horrors themselves, which were never, 
 in the history of literature, systematically ripped up for 
 merriment, till the appearance of these Legends of san- 
 guinary Broad Grins. 
 
 The present age is sufficiently rich in its comic poets. 
 They are nearly all remarkable for the gusto of their 
 pleasantry, and in the singular fact that they have but 
 little resemblance to each other. George Col man w^as 
 an original ; Thomas Moore was an original ; the same 
 may be said of Horace and James Smith ; of Theodore 
 Hook ; of Hood,f and Laman Blanchard and Titmarsh ; 
 of several of the wits of Blackwood, and more especially 
 oi Fraser. And here, in the latter, a totally new spe- 
 
 * " England under Seven Administrations," bv Albanv Fonblanque. 
 Vol. ii. 
 
 t It was intended to place the name of " Thomas Hood" in conjunction 
 with that of "Thomas Ingoldsby" at the head of this paper ; but the idea 
 was abandoned out of res):>ect to Mr. Hood, the moment the present writer 
 had, for the first time, read these astounding " Legends !" 
 
 H2 
 
90 TKOMAS INGOLDSBY. 
 
 cies of comic writing should be noticed, z-iz., that of the 
 classical burlesque, in wliich " Father Prout," and the 
 late Dr. Maginn, have displaj^ed a mastery over the 
 Greek and Latin versification that was previously un- 
 known in literature, and certainly never suspected as 
 possible. It was as if the dead languages were sudden- 
 ly called to a state of preternatural life and activity, in 
 which their old friends scarcely could believe their 
 eyes, and the resuscitated Tongues themselves appear- 
 ed equally astonished at their own identity. All these 
 writers are in various ways full of the soul of humour, 
 ■wit, or merriment ; but not one of them ever dreams of 
 juaking a plaything of the last struggles of humanity, 
 or the " raw heads" of the charnel house. The same 
 natural bounds are also equally observed by all the 
 comic prose writers, numerous as they are. The " In- 
 goldsby Legends" stand quite alone — and they always 
 will stand quite alone, — for the "joke" will never be 
 repeated. 
 
 They are constructed upon a very curious and out- 
 rageous principle. As everybody finds his self-love 
 and sense of the ridiculous in a high state of enjoy- 
 ment at a " damned tragedy" by reason of the incon- 
 gruity of the actual emotions compared with those 
 which the subject was naturally intended to convey, 
 and the luckless poet had built all his hopes upon con- 
 veying — the author of these Legends has hit upon a 
 plan for turning this not very amiable fact to account, 
 by the production of a series of self-damned tragedies. 
 Or, perhaps, they may be more properly termed most 
 sanguinary melo-dramas, intermixed with broad farce 
 over the knife and bowl. The justly reprehensible 
 novel of " Jack Sheppard" had nothing in it of this kind ; 
 its brutalities were at least left to produce their natural 
 revulsion ; the heroes did not gambol and slide in crim- 
 son horror, and paint their felon faces with it to *' grin 
 through collars." 
 
 The prose tales of these volumes all harp, more or 
 less, upon the same inhuman strings. Some of them, 
 like the " Spectre of Tappington," are simply indelicate, 
 but others are revolting, 'i'he death-bed (the reader is 
 made fully to believe it is a death-bed) of the lady 
 Rohesia, is of the latter kind. Her husband, and her 
 waiting maid, though fully believing her to be just at 
 the last gasp, carry on a direct amour seated on the 
 
THOMAS INGOLDSEY. 91 
 
 edge of a death-bed ; and a " climax" is only prevented 
 by the bursting of the dying hidy's quiusey ! The " Sin- 
 gular Passage in the life of the late Henry Harris, Doc- 
 tor in Divinity, as related by the Reverend Jasper In- 
 goldsby, M.A., his friend and Executor" has sugges- 
 tions of still worse things. Though tedious in com- 
 mencing, it is a well told, exciting tale of supernatural 
 events. The chief event shall be quoted. A young 
 girl is betrothed to a young man, who bids her farewell 
 for a time, and practices the black art upon her while 
 absent, so that she is sometimes " spirited away" from 
 her home into his chamber by night, there to be subject 
 to all kinds of unmentionable outrages. He moreover 
 has a friend to assist in his orgie ! The girl thus 
 alludes to it : — 
 
 " How shall I proceed — but no, it is impossible, — not even to \-ou, sir, can 
 I — dare I — recount the proceedings of that unhallowed night of horror and 
 shame. Were my life extended to a term commensurate with tliat of the 
 Patriarchs of old, never could its detestable, its daniniug pollutions be ef- 
 faced from my rememberance ; and oh ! above all, never could I forj.'et the 
 diabolical glee which sparkled in the eyes of my fiendish tormentors, as 
 they witnessed the worse than useless struggles of their miserable victim. 
 Oh! why was it not permitted me to take refuge in unconsciousness — nay, 
 in death itself, from the abominations of which I was compelled to be, not 
 only a witness, but a partaker?" &;c. — Ingoldshij Legends, \st Series. 
 
 The introduction of a second yoong man, by way of 
 complicating this preternatural sensualism and horror, 
 admits of no comment. No merriment and burlesque 
 is introduced here. For once a revolting scene and its 
 suggestions, are allowed to retain their true colours. 
 The master-secret of a life froths up from the depths, 
 and the Tale closes as such things mostly do — vvith a 
 death that looks like annihilation. 
 
 Refinement is an essential property of the Ideal, and 
 whatever is touched by ideality is so far redeemed from 
 earth. But where there is no touch of it, all is of the 
 earth earthy. In this condition stands the Genius of 
 the Ingoldsby Legends, eye-deep in its own dark slough. 
 Everything falls into it which approaches, or is drawn 
 near. Of all pure things. Fairy Tales are among the 
 most pure and innocent; their ideality can pass safe 
 and unsullied through all visible forms. But if amidst 
 their revels and thin-robed dancings in the moonlight 
 and over the moss, a sudden allusion be made which 
 reduces them to earth — a mortal fact suddenly brought 
 home, like that which says '• Look ! this is a woman ; — 
 Miss Jones of the Olympic !" then does the ideal vanish 
 
92 THOMAS INGOLDSBY. 
 
 away with fairy -land, add leave us with a minor theatre 
 in its worst moments, and with such a tale as " Sir Ru- 
 pert the Fearless," which is written upon the principle 
 of one of those Olympic doggrel burlesques, the dese- 
 cration of poetry in sense as in feeling. Their tenden- 
 cy is to encourage the public not to believe in true 
 poetry or innocence on the stage, but to be always 
 ready to laugh or think ill things. 
 
 Having previously made an allusion to the laughable 
 circumstance of some Jews being burnt alive, the le- 
 gend which describes it may form an appropriate con- 
 clusion to this exposition. It is entitled " The Auto-da- 
 Fe." This is the story. King Ferdinand had been 
 married six years, and his consort not having presented 
 him with " an Infant of Spain," he consults some of his 
 grandees as to what he shall do for " an heir to the 
 throne ?" All this part is admirably worked up. The 
 grandees evade reply, and " the Most Reverend Don 
 Garcilasso Quevedo," Archbishop of Tolodo, is then 
 consulted, and finally proposes an Auto-da-fe, at which 
 they would burn, roast, and toast some Jews. A pas- 
 sage to this effect was quoted a few pages back. How 
 this was at all likely to occasion her Majesty to present 
 Spain with an heir, every reader, not in the secret, 
 must be quite at a loss to guess. The Auto-da-fe, how- 
 ever, takes place, and by way of proving that it really 
 is one, and not a pantomimic burlesque, the author in- 
 troduces it by a few serious remarks on the " shrieks 
 of pain and wild affright," and the " soul-wrung groans 
 of deep despair, and blood, and death." In the very 
 next stanza, he has some fun about '' the smell of old 
 clothes," and of the Jews roasting ; and in speaking of 
 " the groans of the dying," he says they were " all his- 
 sing, and spitting, and boiling, and frying," &c. The 
 allusion also to the very delicate story of makiag 
 " pretty pork," at such a moment, finishes this mono- 
 maniasm of misplaced levity — " the bon7ie bouche .'" as 
 he calls it, of the Auto-da-fe ! But now for the heir to 
 the throne — the Infant of Spain, which all this horror 
 was to influence the Queen in producing to the world! 
 •Her Majesty was absent from the atrocities so merrily 
 described ; she had " locked herself up" in her Oriel — 
 but not alone. A male devotee was with her to assist 
 in " Pater, and Ave, and Credo," the double-entendre 
 character of which is made very apparent, so that her 
 
THOalAS INGOLDSBY. 9^ 
 
 Majesty does, in due course, bless the nation with an 
 heir to the throne. And vvlio does the astonished rea- 
 der, who may not happen to be famiUar with these very 
 popular Legends, suppose it was that her Majesty had 
 " locked herself up with V Why the Archbishop of 
 Toledo ! Yes, the most reverend Garcilasso ! — and so 
 far from the slightest doubt being left on the matter, 
 the author says it is not clear to him but that all Spain 
 would have thought very meanly of " the pious pair" 
 had It been otherwise ! The The " ^.loral" at the end, 
 is as usual. In fact, rather worse. It tells you, " when 
 you're in Rome, to do as Rome does !" and " in Spain 
 you must do as they do" — " don't be nice !" &c., &c. 
 
 Throughout the whole of the foregoing remarks, it 
 should be observed that no animadversions have been 
 made on religious grounds, nor on the score of conven- 
 tional morality, nor on matters relating to social inter- 
 course ; nor have any personalities escaped from the 
 pen. All that has been said — and there was much to 
 say — is upon the abstract grounds of Literature and 
 Art; with a view to the exposition and denunciation 
 of a false principle of composition, as exemplified in 
 licentious works, which are unredeemed and unexten- 
 uated by any one sincere passion, and are consequent- 
 ly among the very worst kind of influences that could 
 be exercised upon a rising generation. The present 
 age is bad enough without such assistance. Wherefore 
 an iron hand is now laid upon the shoulder of Thomas 
 Ingoldsby, and a voice murmurs in his ear, " Brother ! — 
 no more of this !" 
 
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 
 
 " Thy worth and skill exempts thee from the throng." — Milton. 
 
 Let his page 
 Which charms the chosen Spirits of the Age, 
 Fold itself up for a serener clime 
 Of years to cosne, and find its recompense 
 In that just exi>ectation."— Shelley. 
 
 Walter Landor, when a Rugby boy, was famous, 
 among other feats of strength and skill, for the wonder- 
 ful precision with which he used a cast net ; and he 
 was not often disposed to ask permission of the owners 
 of those ponds or streams that suited his morning's fan- 
 cy. One day a farmer suddenly came down upon him ; 
 and ordered him to desist, and give up his net. Where- 
 upon Landor instantly cast his net over the farmer's 
 head; caught him; entangled him; overthrew him; 
 and when he was exhausted, addressed the enraged and 
 discomfited face beneath the meshes, till the farmer 
 promised to behave discreetly. The pride that resent- 
 ed a show of intimidation, the prudence that instantly 
 foresaw the only means of superseding punishment, and 
 the promptitude of will and action, are sufficiently con- 
 spicuous. The wilful energy and self-dependent force 
 of character displayed by Walter Landor as a boy, and 
 accompanied by physical power and activity, all of 
 which were continued through manhood, and probably 
 have been so, to a great extent, even up to the present 
 time, have exerted an influence upon his genius of a 
 very peculiar kind ; — a genius healthy, but the health- 
 fulness not always well applied — resolute, inahon-like 
 sense, but not intellectually concentrated and continu- 
 ous ; and seeming to be capable of mastering all thing.s 
 except its own wilful impulses. 
 
 Mr. Landor is a man of genius and learning, who 
 stands in a position unlike that of any other eminent 
 individual of his time. He has received no apparent 
 influence from any one of his contemporaries ; nor have 
 they or the public received any apparent influence from 
 liim. The absence of any fixed and definite influence 
 
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 95 
 
 Upon the public is actually as it seems ; but that he has- 
 exercised a considerable influence upon the minds of 
 many of his contemporaries is inevitable, because so 
 fine a spirit could never have passed through any com- 
 petent medium without communicating its electric for- 
 ces, although from the fineness of its elements, the ef- 
 fect, like the cause, has been of too subtle a nature to 
 leave a tangible or visible impress. 
 
 To all these causes combined is attributable the sin- 
 gular fact, that although Walter Savage Landor has 
 been before the public as an author during the last fifty 
 years, his genius seldom denied, but long since general- 
 ly recognized, and his present position admissibly in 
 that of the highest rank of authors — and no man higher 
 — there has never been any philosophical and critical 
 estimate of his powers. Admired he has often been 
 abundantly, but the admiration has only been supported 
 by " extract," or by an offhand opinion. The present 
 paper does not pretend to supply this great deficiency 
 in our literature ; it will attempt to do no more than 
 "open up" the discussion. 
 
 Walter Landor, when at Rugby school, was a leader 
 in all things, yet who did not associate with his school- 
 fellows — the infallible sign of a strong and original 
 character and course through life. He was conspicuous 
 there for his resistance to every species of tyranny, 
 either of the masters and their rules, or the boys and 
 their system of making fags, which things he resolutely 
 opposed " against all odds :" and he was, at the same 
 time, considered arrogant and overbearing in his own 
 conduct. He was almost equally famous for riding out 
 of bounds, boxing, leaping, net-casting, stone-throwing, 
 and for making Greek and Latin verses. Many of these 
 verses were repeated at Rugby forty years after he had 
 left the school. The " master," however, studiously 
 slighted him so long, that when at last the token was 
 given of approbation of certain Latin verses, the indig- 
 nant young classic being obliged to copy them out 
 fairly in the " play-book," added a few more, commenc- 
 ing with, — 
 
 " HaEC sunt malorum pessima carminum 
 Q.uot Landor unquam scripsit; at accipe 
 CiiiEB Tarquini set vas cloacam, 
 Unde tuura, dea flava noraen," &c. 
 
 From Rugby to Trinity College, Oxford, was the 
 next remove of Walter Landor. He was " rusticated" 
 
96 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 
 
 for firing off a gun in the quadrangle ; but as he never 
 intended to take a degree, he did not return. He left 
 Oxford — let all the juvenile critics who have taken up 
 facile pens of judgment about Mr. Landor during the 
 last ten years, tremble as they read, and "doubt their 
 own abilities" — in the summer of 1793, when he put 
 forth a small volume of poems. They were published 
 by Cadell, and it will not be thought very surprising 
 that the first poems of a young man, at that time quite 
 unknown to the world, should in the lapse of fifty years 
 have become out of print. His next performances may, 
 with sufficient trouble, be obtained. They are the 
 poems of " Gebir," " Chrysaor," the " Phocaeans," &c., 
 and the very high encomiums passed upon " Gebir" by 
 Southey, with whom Landor was not acquainted till 
 some twelve years afterwards, were accounted as suf- 
 ficient fame by their author. Southey's eulogy of the 
 poem appeared in the Critical Review, to the great 
 anger of Gifford, whose translation of " .luvenal" was 
 by no means so much praised in the same number. 
 One of the most strikingly characteristic facts in con- 
 nection with Mr. Lander is, that while he has declared 
 his own doubts as to whether Nature intended him for 
 a poet, " because he could never please himself by any- 
 thing he ever did of that kind," it must be perfectly 
 evident to everybody who knows his writings, that he 
 never took the least pains to please the public. The 
 consequences were almost inevitable. 
 
 After leaving Trinity, Mr. Landor passed some 
 months in London, learning Italian, and avoiding all 
 society; he then retired to Swansea, where he wrote 
 " Gebir" — lived in comparative solitude — made love 
 — and was happy. 
 
 The " attitude" in which the critical literati of the 
 time received the poem of " Gebir," was very much 
 the same as though such a work had never been pub- 
 lished. A well-written critique, however, did appear 
 as one exception, in a northern provincial paper, in 
 which Mr. Landor was compared, in certain respects, 
 ■with Goethe ; another we have also seen, which was 
 full of grandly eloquent and just expressions of appre- 
 ciation — printed, we believe, in Aberdeen, within two 
 years since, and signed G. G. ; — but the earliest was 
 written by Southey, as previously stated. No doubt 
 Mr. Lander has read the latter, but it is his habit (and 
 
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 97 
 
 one more common among authors of original genius 
 than is at all suspected) never to read critiques upon 
 himself. His feeling towards this department of litera-^ 
 ture may be estimated by his offer of a hot penny roll 
 and a pint of stout, for breakfast (!) to any critic who 
 could write one of his Imaginary Conversations — an 
 indigestible pleasantry which horribly enraged more 
 than one critic of the time. Of " Gebir," however, 
 Coleridge was accustomed to speak in terms of great 
 praise ; till one day he heard Southey speak of it with 
 equal admiration, after which ColeriJge altered his 
 mind — 'he did wo^ admire it — he must have been mis- 
 taken.' 
 
 A few biographical memoranda of Mr. Landor will be 
 found interesting, previous to offering some remarks 
 on his genius and works. During the time he was 
 studying Italian in London, after leaving Trinity, his 
 godfather, General Powell, was anxious that he should 
 enter the army, for which he seemed peculiarly adapt- 
 ed, excepting that he entertiiined republican principles 
 which " would not do there." This proposal being 
 negatived, his father offered to allow him 400/. per 
 annum, if he would adopt the law and reside in the 
 Temple ; but he declared that he would allow him but 
 little more than one-third of that sum, if he refused. Of 
 course Walter Landor well knew that he might have 
 enjoyed a gay London life with 400/. per annum, in the 
 Temple, and neglected the law, as, here and there, a 
 young gentleman of the Temple is apt to do ; he, how- 
 ever, preferred to avoid false pretences, accepted the 
 smaller income, and studied Italian. 
 
 Mr. Landor wrote verses in Italian at this period, 
 which were not very good, yet not perhaps worse than 
 Milton's. The poetry of Italy did not captivate his more 
 severely classical taste at tirst ; he says it seemed to 
 liim "like the juice of grapes and melons left on yester- 
 day's plate." He had just been reading ^Eschylus, So- 
 phocles, and Pindar. But his opinion was altered di- 
 rectly he read Dante, which he did not do till some 
 years afterwards. 
 
 That his uncle was not so far wrong in thinking 
 Landor well suited to a military life, the following an- 
 ecdote will serve to attest. — At the breaking out of the 
 Spanish war against the French, he was the first Eng- 
 lishman who landed in Spain. He raised a few troops 
 I 
 
98 WALTER SAVAGE LANDGR. 
 
 at his own expense and conducted them from Corimna 
 to Aguilar, the head-quarters of Gen. Blake, Viceroy of 
 Gallicia. For this he received the thanks of the Su- 
 preme Jmita in the Madrid Gazette, together with an 
 acknowledgment of the donation of 20,000 reals from 
 Mr. Landor. He returned the letters and documents, 
 with his commission, to Don Pedro Cevallos, on the 
 subversion of the Constitution by Ferdinand, — telling 
 Don Pedro that he was willing to aid a people in the 
 assertion of its liberties against the antagonist of Eu- 
 rope, but that he could have nothing to do with a per- 
 jurer and traitor. 
 
 Mr. Landor went to Paris in the beginning of the 
 century, where he witnessed the ceremony of Napo- 
 leon being made Consul for life, amidst the acclama- 
 tions of multitudes. He subsequently saw the de- 
 throned and deserted Emperor pass through Tours on 
 his way to embark, as he intended, for America. Na- 
 poleon was attended only by a single servant, and de- 
 scended at the Prefecture unrecognized by any-body 
 excepting Landor. The people of Tours were most 
 hostile to Napoleon ; Landor had always felt a hatred 
 towards him, and now he had but to point one finger 
 at him, and it would have done what all the artillery of 
 twenty years of war had failed to do. The people 
 would have torn him to pieces. Need it be said Landor 
 was too "good a hater," and too noble a man, to avail 
 himself of such an opportunity. He held his breath, 
 and let the hero pass. Perhaps, after all, there was no 
 need of any of this hatred on the part of Mr. Landor, 
 ■who, in common with many other excessively wilful 
 men, were probably as much exasperated at Napole- 
 on's commanding successes, as at his falling off from 
 pure republican principles. Howbeit, Landor's great 
 hatred, and yet " greater" forbearance are hereby chron- 
 icled. 
 
 In 1806, Mr. Landor sold several estates in Warwick- 
 shire which had been in his family nearly seven hun- 
 dred years, and purchased Lantony and Comjoy in 
 Monmouthshire, where he laid out nearly JC70,000. 
 Here he made extensive improvements, giving employ- 
 ment daily, for many years, to between twenty and 
 thirty labourers in building and planting. He made a 
 road, at his own expense, of eight miles long, and 
 planted and fenced half a million of trees. The infa- 
 
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 99 
 
 mous behaviour of some tenants caused him to leave 
 the country. At this time he had a milUon more trees 
 all ready to plant, which, as he observed, '' were lost to 
 the country by driving me from it. I may speak of 
 their utihty, if I must not of my own." The two chief 
 offenders were brothers who rented farms of Mr. Lan- 
 : dor to the amount of jC1500 per annum, and were to 
 . introduce an improved system of vSuffolk husbandry. 
 Mr. Landor got no rent from them, but all manner of 
 atrocious annoyances. They even rooted up his trees 
 and destroyed whole plantations. They paid nobody. » 
 When neighbours and workpeople applied for money, 
 Mr. Landor says, " they were referred to the Devil, 
 with their wives and families, wliile these brothers had 
 their two bottles of wine upon the table. As for the 
 Suffolk system of agriculture, wheat was sown upon 
 the last of May, and cabbages for winter food were 
 planted in August or September." Mr. Landor eventu- 
 ally remained master of the field, and drove his tor- 
 mentors across the seas; but so great was his disgust 
 at these circumstances that he resolved to leave Eng- 
 land. Before liis departure he caused his house, which 
 had cost him some 8000Z to be taken down, that his 
 son might never have the chance of similar vexations 
 in that place. 
 
 In 1811, Mr. Landor married Julia, the daughter of J. 
 Thuillier de Malaperte, descendant and representative 
 of the Baron de Neuve-ville, first gentleman of the bed- 
 chamber to Charles the Eighth. He went to reside m 
 Italy in 1815, and during several years occupied the 
 Palazzo Medici, in Florence. Subsequently he pur- 
 chased the beautiful and romantic villa of Count Ghe- 
 rardesca at Fiesole, with its gardens and farms, scarce- 
 ly a quarter of an hour's walk from the ancient villa of 
 Lorenzo de' Medici, and resided there ma.ny years in 
 comparative solitude. 
 
 Of the difference between the partialities of the pub-^ 
 iic, and the eventual judgments of the people ; betweeiil 
 a deeply-founded fame and an ephemeral interest, fewi 
 more striking examples will perhaps be discovered ini 
 future years than in the solitary course of Walter Sav-I 
 age Landor amidst the various " hghts of his day." He 
 has incontestibly displayed original genius as a writer ; 
 the highest critical faculty — that sympathy with genius 
 and knowledge which can only result from imaginatioa 
 
100 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 
 
 and generous love of truth — and also a fine scholarship 
 in the spirit as well as the letter of classical attain- 
 ments. But the public, tacitly, has denied his claims, 
 or worse — admitted them with total indifference, — let- 
 ling fall from its benumbed fingers, work after work, 
 not because any one ventured to say, or perhaps even 
 to think, the books were unworthy, but because the 
 hands were cold. A writer of original genius may be 
 popular in his lifetime, as sometimes, occurs, by means 
 of certain talents and tacts comprehended in his ge- 
 nius ; by the aid of startling novelties, or by broad and 
 general effects ; and by the excitement of adventitious 
 circumstances ; — on which ground is to be worked the 
 problem of Lord Byron's extensive popularity with the 
 very same daily and yearly reading public that made 
 mocks and mowes at Coleridge, and Wordsworth, and 
 Shelley, and Keats. But as a general rule, the origi- 
 nality of a man, say and do what he may, is necessari- 
 ly in itself an argument against his rapid popularity. 
 In the case of Mr. Landor, however, other causes than 
 the originality of his faculty have opposed his favour 
 with the public. He has the most select audience per- 
 haps, — the fittest, fewest, — of any distinguished author 
 of the day ; and this of his choice. " Give me," he 
 said in one of his prefaces, " ten accomplished men for 
 readers, and 1 am content ;" — and the event does not 
 by any means so far as we could desire, outstrip the 
 modesty, or despair, or disdain, of this aspiration. He 
 writes criticism for critics, and poetry for poets : his 
 drama, when he is dramatic, will suppose neither pit 
 nor gallery, nor critics, nor dramatic laws. He is not 
 a publican among poets— he does not sell his Amreeta 
 cups upon the highway. He delivers them rather with 
 the dignity of a giver, to ticketted persons ; analyzing 
 their flavour and fragrance with a learned delicacy, and 
 an appeal to the esoteric. His very spelling of English 
 is uncommon and theoretic. He has a vein of humour 
 which by its own nature is peculiarly subtle and eva- 
 sive ; he therefore refines upon it, by his art, in order 
 to prevent anybody discovering it without a grave, so- 
 licitous, and courtly approach, which is unspeakably 
 ridiculous to all the parties concerned, and w^hich na 
 doubt the author secretly enjovs. And as if poetry 
 were not, ia English, a sufficiently unpopular dead lan- 
 guage, he has had recourse to writing poetry in Latin; 
 
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 101 
 
 with dissertations on the Latin tongue, to fence it out 
 doubly from the populace. " Odi profanum vulgus, et 
 ■arceo.'''' 
 
 Whether Mr. Landor writes Latin or English poetry 
 or prose, he does it all with a certain artistic composure, 
 as if he knew what he was doing, and respected the 
 cunning of his right hand. At times he displays an 
 equal respect for its wilfulness. In poetry, his " Gebir," 
 the " Phocaeans" and some other performances take a 
 high classic rank. He can put out extraordinary pow- 
 er both in description and situation; but the vitality, 
 comprehended in the power, does not overflow along 
 the inferior portions of the work, so as to sustain them 
 to the level of the reader's continued attention. The 
 poet rather builds up to his own elevations than carries 
 them out and on ; and the reader passes from admira- 
 tion to admiration, by separate states or shocks and not 
 by a continuity of interest through the intervals of emo- 
 tion. Thus it happens that his best dramatic works, — 
 those, the impression of which on the mind is most 
 definite and excellent, — are fragmentary ; and that his 
 complete dramas are not often read through twice, even 
 by readers who applaud them, but for the sake of a par- 
 ticular act or scene. 
 
 A remark should be made on Mr. Landors blank 
 verse, in which the poems just named, and several 
 others, are written. It is the very best of the regular- 
 syllable class, the versification of " numbers," as they 
 have been characteristically called by the schools. His 
 blank verse is not only the most regular that ever was 
 written, but it is the most sweet, and far less monoton- 
 ous than we should expect of a musical system which 
 excluded accasional discords. It has all the effect of 
 the most melodious rhyming heroic verse ; indeed, it 
 often gives the impression of elegiac verses in rhyme. 
 ; As blank verse it is a very bad model. There is more 
 freedom in his dramatic verse, and always the purest 
 style. 
 
 His dramatic works (except the compact little scenes 
 entitled " Pentalogia," which are admirable,) are writ- 
 ten upon an essentially undramatic principle ; or, more 
 probably, on no principle at all. Mr. Landor well 
 knows " all the laws," and they seem to provoke his 
 will to be lawless. In this species of drama-looking 
 composition he displays at times the finest passion, the 
 12 
 
102 ^VA^TER savage landor. 
 
 most pure and perfect style of dramatic dialogue, and 
 an intensity of mental movements, with their invisible, 
 undeclared, }- et necessaril}'' tragic results ; all of Avhich 
 proves him to possess the most wonderful three-fourths 
 of a great dramatic genius which ever appeared in the 
 world. But the fourth part is certainly wanting by way 
 of making good his ground to the eyes, and ears, and 
 understanding of the masses. In his " Andrea of Hun- 
 gary," the action does not commence till the last scene , 
 of the third act ; and is not continued in the first scene 
 of the fourth! Instead of the expected continuation, after 
 all this patience, the confounded reader has his breath 
 taken away by the sauntering entrance of Boccacio — 
 the novelist — accompanied by Fiammetta, who having 
 nothing whatever to do with the drama, the former 
 sings her little song ! This extremely free-and-easy- 
 style of treading the boards is so verynew^ and delight- 
 ful that it excites the idea of continuing the scene by 
 the introduction of the Genius of the Drama, with a 
 paper speech coming out of his mouth, on which is in- 
 scribed the Laws of Concentration and Continuity, the 
 Laws of Progressive action, and the Art of Construc- 
 tion. To whom, Enter the Author, iDith a cast-net. He 
 makes his cast to admiration ; trips up the heels of the 
 Genius of the Drama, and leaves it sprawling. It is 
 his own doing. 
 
 In whatever Mr. Landor writes, his power, when he 
 puts it forth, is of the first order. He is classical in 
 the highest sense. His conceptions stand out, clearly 
 cut and fine, in a magnitude and nobility as far as pos- 
 sible removed from the small and sickly vagueness 
 common to this century of letters. If he seems ob- 
 scure at times, it is from no infirmity or inadequacy of 
 thought or word, but from extreme concentration, and 
 involution in brevity — for a short string can be tied in a - 
 knot, as well as a long one. He can be tender, as the j 
 strong can best be ; and his pathos, when it comes, is ; 
 profound. His descriptions are full and startling ; his 
 thoughts, self-produced and bold; and he has the art/ 
 of taking a common-place under a new aspect, and of 
 leaving the Roman brick, marble. Iii marble indeed, 
 he seems to work; for there is an angularity in the 
 workmanship, whether of prose or verse, which the 
 very exquisiteness of the polish renders more con- 
 spicuous. You m.ay complain too of hearing the chiseV 
 
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 103 
 
 but after all, you applaud the work — it is a v/ork M^ell 
 done. The elaboration produces no sense of heavi- 
 ness, — the severity of the outline does not militate 
 against beauty; — if it is cold, it is also noble — if not 
 impulsive, it is suggestive. As a witer of Latin poems, 
 he ranks with our most successful scholars and poets ; 
 , having less harmony and majesty than Milton had, — 
 when he aspired to that species of " Life in Death," — 
 but more variety and freedom of utterance. Mr, Lan- 
 dor's English prose writings possess most of the char- 
 acteristics of his poetry ; only they are more perfect in^ 
 their class. His " Pericles and Aspasia," and '' Penta- 
 raeron," are books for the world and for all time, 
 whenever the world and time shall come to their senses 
 about them ; complete in beauty of sentiment and sub- 
 tlety of criticism. His general style is highly scholas- 
 tic and elegant, — his sentences have articulations, if 
 such an expression may be permitted, of very excellent 
 proportions. And, abounding in striking images and 
 thoughts, he is remarkable for making clear the ground 
 around them, and for lifting them, like statues to pedes- 
 tals, where they may be seen most distinctly, and strike 
 with the most enduring though often the most gradual 
 impression. This is the case both in his prose works 
 and his poetry. It is more conspicuously true of some 
 of his smaller poems, which for quiet classic grace and 
 tenderness, and exquisite care in their polish, may best 
 be compared with beautiful cameos and vases of the 
 antique. 
 
 Two works should be mentioned — one of which is 
 only known to a few among his admirers, and the other 
 not at all. Neither of them were published, and though 
 printed they were very little circulated. The first is 
 entitled, "Poems from the Arabic and Persian." They 
 pretended to be translations, but were written by Lan- 
 der for the pleasure of misleading certain orientalists, 
 and other learned men. In this he succeeded, and for 
 the first time in the known history of such hoaxes, not 
 to the discredit of the credulous, for the poems are ex- 
 tremely beautiful, and breathe the true oriental spirit 
 throughout. They are ornate in fancy, — graceful, and 
 full of unaffected tenderness. They were printed in 
 1800, with many extremely enidite notes ; in writing 
 which, the author, no doubt, laughed ver}- much to 
 himself at the critical labour and searching they would- 
 
104 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 
 
 excite. The other production is called " A Satire upon 
 Satirists, and Admonition to Detractors," printed in 
 1836. It contains many just indignations, terrible de- 
 nunciations, and cleaving blows against those who used 
 not many years since to make a rabid crusade upon all 
 genius; but the satire occasionally makes attacks upon 
 some who do not deserve to be so harshly treated by a 
 brother author; and we cannot but rejoice that this 
 satire (in its present state) has not been pubhshed. 
 
 Mr. Landor's wit and humour are of a very original 
 kind, as previously remarked. Perhaps in none of his 
 writings does their peculiarity occur so continuously 
 as in a series of Letters, entitled " High and Low Life 
 in Italy." Every sarcasm, irony, jest, or touch of hu- 
 mour, is secreted beneath the skin of each tingling 
 member of his sentences. His w^it and his humour are 
 alike covered up amidst various things, apparently in- 
 tended to lead the reader astray, as certain birds are 
 wont to do when you approach the nests that contain 
 their broods. Or, the main jests and knotty points of 
 a paragraph are planed down to the smooth level of the 
 rest of the sentences, so that the reader may walk over 
 them without knowing anything of the matter. All 
 this may be natural to his genius ; it may also result 
 from pride, or perversity. So far from seeking the 
 public, his genius has displayed a sort of apathy, if not 
 antipathy, to popularity ; therefore, the public must court 
 it, if they would enjoy it ; to ppssess yourself of his 
 wit you must scrutinize ; to be let into the secret of 
 his humour you must advance '* pointing the toe." 
 Such are the impressions derivable from Mr. Landor's 
 writings. In private social intercourse nothing of the 
 kind is apparent, and there are few men whose con- 
 versation is more unaflected, manly, pleasing, and in- 
 structive. 
 
 The imagination of Mr. Landor is richly graphic, 
 classic, and subtly refined. In portraying a character, 
 his imagination identifies itself with the mentality and 
 the emotions of its inner being, and all those idiosyn- 
 cracies which may be said to exist between a man and 
 himself, but with which few, if anybody else, have any 
 business. In other respects, most of his characters — 
 especially those of his own invention — might live, think, 
 move, and have their being in space, so little does their 
 author trouble himself with their corporeal conditions. 
 
WALTER SAVAGE LAN DOR. 105 
 
 Whether it be that their author feels his own physique 
 so strongly that it does not occur to him that any one 
 else can need such a thing — he will find all that for 
 them — or that it is the habit of his genius to abstract 
 itself from corporeal realities, (partly from the perverse 
 love a man continually has of being his own " opposite,") 
 and ascend into a more subtle element of existence, — 
 certain it is that many of his characters are totally 
 without material or definite /orw? ,• appear to live no 
 where, and upon nothing, and to be very independent 
 agents, to v/hom practical action seldom or never oc- 
 curs. " They think, therefore they are." They feel, 
 and know (they are apt too often to know as much as 
 their author) therefore they are characters. But they 
 are usually without bodily substance : and such form 
 as they seem to have, is an abstraction which plays 
 round them, but might go off in air at any time, and the 
 loss be scarcely apparent. The designs of his larger 
 works, as wholes, are also deficient in compactness of 
 form, precision of outline, and condensation. They 
 often seem wild, not at all intellectually, but from un- 
 governed will. It is difficult not to arrive at conclu- 
 sions of this kind — though different minds will, of 
 course, see differently — after a careful study of the 
 dramas of " Andrea of Hungary," " Giovanna of Na- 
 ples," and " Fra Rupert ;" the "Pericles and Aspasia," 
 the "Pentameron and Pentalogia," &c. The very title 
 of the " Imaginary Conversations" gives a strong fore- 
 taste of Mr. Landor's predominati^ ideality, and dis- 
 missal of mortal bonds and conditions. The extraor- 
 dinary productions last named are as though their 
 author had been rarified while listening to the conver- 
 sation, or the double soliloquies, of august Shades ; all 
 of which he had carefully written down on resuming 
 his corporeality, and where his memory failed him he 
 had supplied the deficiency with some sterling stuff of 
 his own. The Landorean "peeps" seen through these 
 etherial dialogues and soliloquies of the mighty dead, 
 are seldom to be mistaken ; and though hardly at times 
 in accordance with their company, are seldom un- 
 worthy of the highest. 
 
 As a partial exception to some of the foregoing re- 
 marks, should be mentioned the " Examination of Wil- 
 liam Shakspeare before Sir Thomas Lucy, Knt., touch- 
 ing Deer-stealing." Of all the thousands of books that 
 
106 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 
 
 have issued from the press about Shakspeare, this one 
 of Mr. Landor's is by far the most admirable. It is 
 worth them all. There is the high-water mark of 
 genius upon every page, lit by as true a sun as ever the 
 ocean mirrored. Perfect and inimitable from beginning- 
 to end, that it has not become the most popular of all 
 the books relating to Shakspeare, is only to be account- 
 ed for by some perversity or dulness of the public. The 
 book is, certainly, not read. There is great love and 
 reading bestowed upon every cant about Shakspeare, 
 and much interest has been shown in all the hoaxes. 
 Perhaps the public thought this book was authentic. 
 
 In an age of criticism like this, when to " take" a po- 
 sition over a man and his work, is supposed to include 
 proportionally superior powers of judgment, though not 
 one discovery, argument, or searching remark, be ad- 
 duced in proof; when analysis is publicly understood 
 to mean everything that can be done for the attainment 
 of a correct estimate, and the very term, alone, of 
 synthesis looks pedantic and outre ; and when any 
 anonymous young man may gravely seat himself, in 
 the fancy of his unknowing readers, far above an 
 author who may have pubhshed works — of genius, 
 learning, or knowledge and experience, at the very pe- 
 riod that his We Judge was perhaps learning to write 
 at school, — it is only becoming in an attempt like that 
 of the present paper, to disclaim all assumption of final- 
 ity of judgment upon a noble veteran of established 
 genius, concerningAvhom there has never yet been one 
 philosophically elaborated criticism. To be the first to 
 *' break ground" upon the broad lands of the authors of 
 characters and scenes from real life, is often rather a 
 perilous undertaking for any known critic who values 
 his reputation ; but to unlock the secret chambers of 
 an etherial inventiveness, and pronounce at once upon 
 its contents, would only manifest the most short-sight- 
 ed presumption. Simply to have unlocked such cham- 
 bers for the entrance of others, were task enough for 
 one contemporary. 
 
 Any' sincere and mature opinions of the master of an 
 art are always valuable, and not the less so when com- 
 inenting upon established reputations, or those about 
 which a contest still exists. We may thus be shaken 
 in our faith, or confirmed in it. Mr. Landor's mode of 
 expressing his opinion often amounts to appealing to 
 
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 107 
 
 an inner sense for a corroboration of the truth. He 
 says, in a letter to a friend, " I found the ' Faery Queen' 
 the most dehghtful book in the world to fall asleep 
 upon by the sea-side. Geoffrey Chaucer always kept 
 me wide awake, and beat at a distance all other English 
 poets but Shakspeare and Milton. In many places 
 Keats approaches him." After remarking on the faults 
 and occasional affectations discoverable in two or three 
 of the earliest poems of that true and beautiful genius, 
 Mr. Landor adds that he considers " no poet (always 
 excepting Shakspeare) displays so many happy expres- 
 sions, or so vivid a fancy as Keats. A few hours in the 
 Paecile with the Tragedians would have made him all 
 he wanted — majestically sedate. I wonder if an}^ re- 
 morse has overtaken his murderers. 
 
 Mr. Landor is not at all the product of the present 
 age ; he scarcely belongs to it ; he has no direct influ- 
 ence upon it : but he has been an influence to some of 
 its best teachers, and to some of the most refined illus- 
 trators of its vigorous spirit. For the rest — for the 
 duty, the taste, or the favor of posterity — when a suc- 
 cession of publics shall have slowly accumulated a re- 
 siduum of " golden opinions" in the shape of pure ad- 
 miring verdicts of competent minds, then only, if ever, 
 will he attain his just estimation in the not altogether 
 impartial roll of Fame. If ever 1 — the wT)rds fell from 
 the pen — and the manly voice of him to whom they 
 were apphed, seems to call from his own clear altitude, 
 " Let the words remain." For in the temple of pos- 
 terity there have hitherto always "appeared some im- 
 mortalities which had better have burned out, while 
 some great works, or names, or both, have been suffer- 
 ed to drift away into oblivion. That such is likely to be 
 the fate of the writings of Walter Savage Landor, no- 
 body can for a moment believe ; but were it so des- 
 tined, and he could foresee the result, one can imagine 
 his taking a secret pleasure in this resolution of his 
 works into their primitive elements. 
 
WILLIAM AND MARY HOWITT. 
 
 " While the still n)orn went out with sandals grey, 
 He tcmclied the tender stops of various quills. 
 With enger thought, vvaiTjling his Doric lay : 
 And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, 
 And now was dropt into the western bay ; 
 At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue : 
 To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new."— Lycidas. 
 
 " And all was conscience and tender heart. 
 
 ******* 
 
 And so discreet and fair of eloquence, 
 So benigne and so digne of reverence. 
 And coulde so the people's heart embrace, 
 That each her loveth that looketh on her face. 
 
 ******* 
 
 Published was the bounty of her name. 
 
 And eke beside in many a region : 
 
 If one saith well, another saith the same. 
 
 ******* 
 
 There n' as discord, rancour, or heaviness, 
 In all the land, that she ne could appease. 
 And wisely bring tliem all in heartes ease." — Chaucer. 
 
 The numerous literary labours of William and Maiy 
 Hovvitt, are so inextricably and so interestingly mixed up 
 with their biographies, that they can only be appropriate- 
 ly treated under one head. 
 
 WiUiam Howitt is a native of Derbyshire, where his 
 family have been considerable landed proprietors for 
 many generations. In the reign of Elizabeth a Thomas 
 Howitt, Esq., married a INIiss Middleton, and on the di- 
 vision of the estate, of which she was co-heiress, the 
 manors of Wansley and Eastwood fell to the lot of Mrs. 
 Howitt, who came to reside with her husband at Wan- 
 sley Hall in Nottinghamshire. 
 
 The Howitts — according to a memoir of their early 
 days, now out of print, and of which we shall avail our- 
 selves, as far as it goes, having ascertained its authen- 
 ticity — the Howitts appear to have been of the old school 
 of country squires, who led a jolly, careless life — hunt- 
 ing, shooting, feasting, and leaving their estate to take 
 care of itself as it might, and which, of course, fell into 
 a steady consumption. The broad lands of Wansley 
 and Eastwood slipped away piece-meal ; Wansley Hall 
 and its surrounding demesne followed ; the rectory of 
 
WILLIAM AND MARY HUWITT. 109 
 
 Eastwood, wliich had been a comfortable berth for a 
 younger son, was the last portion of Miss Middleton's 
 dowry, which lingered in the family, and that was even- 
 tually sold to the Plu litre family, in which it yet re- 
 mains. The rectors of Eastwood appear, from family 
 documents, to have very faithfully foUowed out such an 
 education as they may be supposed to have received 
 from their parents. They were more devoted to the 
 field than the pulpit ; and the exploits of the last rector 
 of the name of Howitt and old Squire RoUeston, of 
 Watnall, are not yet forgotten. 
 
 The demesne of one heiress being dissipated, there 
 was not wanting another with which to repair the w-aste 
 with her gold. The great-grandfather of our author 
 married the daughter and sole heiress of a gentleman 
 of Nottinghamshire, with whom he received a large sum 
 in money. This was soon spent, and so much was the 
 lady's father exasperated at the hopeless waste of his 
 son-in-law, that he cut off his own daughter with a shil- 
 ling, and left the estate to an adopted son. The disin- 
 herited man did not, however, learn wisdom from this 
 lesson, unless he considered it wisdom " to daff the 
 world aside and let it pass ; he adhered stoutly to the 
 hereditary habits and maxims of his ancestors; and a 
 wealthy old aunt of his, residing at Derby, getting a 
 suspicion that he only waited her death to squander her 
 hoard too, adopted the stratagem of sending a messen- 
 ger to Heanor to announce to him the melancholy in- 
 telligence of her decease. The result justified her fears. 
 The jolly squire liberally rewarded the messenger, and 
 setting the village bells a- ringing, began his journey to- 
 wards Derby to take possession. To his great conster- 
 nation and chagrin, however, instead of finding the la- 
 dy dead, he found her very much alive indeed, and rea- 
 dy to receive him with a most emphatic announcement, 
 that she had followed the example of his father-in-law, 
 and had struck him out of her will altogether. She 
 faithfully kept her word. The only legacy which she 
 left to this jovial spendthrift was his great two-handled 
 breakfast pot, out of which he consumed every morning 
 as much toast and ale as would have " filled" a baron 
 X)f the fourteenth century. 
 
 This old gentleman seems to have been not only of 
 
 a most reckless, but also of an unresentful disposition. 
 
 He appears to have continued a familiar intercourse 
 
 with the gentleman who superseded him in the estate, 
 
 K 
 
110 WILLIAM AND MARY HOWITT 
 
 who likewise maintained towards him a conduct that 
 was very honourable. The disinherited squire was one 
 of the true Squire Western-school, and spent the re- 
 mainder of his hfe in a manner particularly character- 
 istic of the times. He and another dilapidated old gen- 
 tleman of the name of Johnson, used to proceed from 
 house to house amongst their friends, till probably they 
 had scarcely a home of their own, carousing and drink- 
 ing "jolly good ale and old.*^ They sojourned a long 
 time at one of these places, regularly going out with the 
 greyhounds in the morning, or if it were summer, a-fish- 
 ing, and carousing in the evenings, till one day the but- 
 ler gave them a hint, by announcing that " the barrel was 
 out." On this they proceeded to Lord Middleton's, at 
 Wollerton, and after a similar career and a similar ca- 
 rousing, to the house of a gentleman in Lincolnshire. 
 The building of Wollerton Hall, it is said, had conside- 
 rably impoverished the Middleton family; but Lord 
 Middleton was unmarried ; and as the Lincolnshire gen- 
 tleman had an only daughter and a splendid fortune, 
 family tradition says, that by extolling the parties to 
 each other a match was brought about by these old 
 gentlemen, much to the satisfaction of both sides ; and 
 they were made free of the cellar and the greyhounds 
 for the remainder of their lives. 
 
 The son of this spendthrift, instead of being posses- 
 sor of an estate, became a manager of a part of it for 
 the fortunate proprietor. There was, however, a friend- 
 ly feehng always kept up between the new proprietors 
 and the Howitts, and by this means the father of our 
 author — who was a man of a different stamp from his 
 progenitors — was enabled, in some degree, to restore 
 the fortunes of the family, and to establish a handsome 
 property. Miss Tantum, whom he married, was a 
 member of the Society of Friends, as her ancestors 
 had been from the commencement of the Society ; and 
 Mr. Thomas Howitt, previous to his marriage, as was 
 required by the rules of the Friends, entered the Soci- 
 ety, and has always continued in it. 
 
 William Howitt, the subject of the present biograph- 
 ical sketch, is one of six brothers. He was educated 
 at different schools of the Friends ; but, as we have fre- 
 quently heard him declare, was much more indebted to 
 a steady practice of self-instruction than to any school 
 or teacher whatever. He early showed a predilection 
 
WILLIAM AND MARY HOWITT. Ill 
 
 for poetry, and in a periodical of that day, called " Lit- 
 erary Recreations," a copy of some verses " On 
 Spring" may be found, stated to be by " William How- 
 itt, a boy 13 years of age." During the time that he 
 was not at school, he was accustomed, with his eldest 
 brother, to stroll all over the country, shooting, cours- 
 ing, and fishing, with an indefatigable zeal which would 
 have delighted any of the Nimrods from whom he was 
 descended. As a boy he had been an eager birds'-nester, 
 and these after pursuits, together with a strong poeti- 
 cal temperament, and a keen perception of the beauties 
 of nature, made him familiar with all the haunts, reces- 
 ses, productions, and creatures of the country. In this 
 manner the greatest portion of his early life was spent. 
 After he arrived at manhood, however, those country 
 pleasures were blended with an active study of Chem- 
 istry, Botany, Natural and Moral Philosophy, and of 
 the works of the best writers of Italy, France, and his 
 own country. He also turned the attention of his 
 youngest brother, now Dr. Howitt, to the study of 
 British Botany, aud the Doctor has since prosecuted it 
 with more constancy and success than himself. Gen- 
 eral literature, and poetry, soon drew his attention more 
 forcibly, and his marriage, in his twenty eighth year, 
 no doubt naturally contributed to strengthen this ten- 
 dency. The lady of his choice was Miss Mary Botham, 
 of Uttoxeter, in Staffordshire, also a member of the 
 Society of Friends, and now familiar to the public as 
 the delightful authoress, Mary Howitt. 
 
 Mary Howitt is, by her mother's side, directly de- 
 scended from Mr. William W^ood, the Irish patentee, 
 about whose halfpence, minted under a contract from 
 the Government of George II., Dean Swift raised such 
 a disturbance with his " Drapier's Letters," successful- 
 ly preventing the issue of the coinage, and saddling Mr. 
 Wood with a loss of jC60,000, Sir Robert Walpoie, the 
 minister, resisting all recompense for his loss, although 
 Sir Isaac Newton, who was appointed to assay the 
 coinage, pronounced it better than the contract required, 
 and Mr. Wood, of course, justly entitled to remunera- 
 tion.* His son, Mr. Charles Wood, the grandfather of 
 Mrs. Howitt, and who became assay-master in Jamai- 
 ca, was the first who introduced platinum into Europe. 
 
 * See Ruding's " Annals of Coinage." 
 
112 WILLIAM AND MARY HOWITT. 
 
 Mr. Howitt on his marriage went to reside in Staf- 
 fordshire, and continued there about a year. Mrs. 
 Howitt and himself being of the most congenial taste 
 and disposition, determined to publish jointly a vohmie 
 of poetry. This appeared under the title of " The For- 
 est Minstrel," in 1823. It was highly applauded by the 
 press, and is sufficiently characteristic of both its wri- 
 ters — the irresistible tendency of one to describe natu- 
 ral scenery, and the legendary propensities of the other. 
 
 Soon after their marringe they undertook a walk into 
 Scotland, having long admired warmly the ballad poetry 
 and traditions of that country'. In this rumble, after 
 landing at Dumbarton, they went on over mountain and 
 moorland wherever they proposed to go, for one thous- 
 and miles, walking more than five hundred of it, Mrs. 
 Howitt performing the journey without fatigue. They 
 crossed Ben Lomond without a guide, and after enjoy- 
 ing the most magnificent spectacle of the clouds alter- 
 nately shrouding and breaking away from the chaos of 
 mountains around them, were enveloped by a dense 
 cloud, and only able to effect their descent with great 
 difficulty, and with considerable hazard. They visited 
 Loch Katrine, Stirling, Edinburgh, and all the beautiful 
 scenery for many miles around it, traversed Fifeshire, 
 and then, taking Abbotsford in their route, walked 
 through the more Southern parts, visiting many places 
 interesting for their historical or poetical associations, 
 on to Gretna Green, Where all the villagers turned out 
 brimfuU of mirth, supposiiTg they were come there to 
 be married, especially as they entered the public house 
 ■where such matches are completed, and engaged the 
 landlord to put them in the way to Carlisle. They 
 returned by way of the English lakes, having, as they 
 have been frequently heard to declare, enjoyed the 
 most delightful jo irn<y ima^iiiaWe. 
 
 Soon after their return, they settled in Nottingham ; 
 Mr. Howitt, though actively engaged in business, still 
 devoting his leisure to literary pursuits. Here they 
 soon published another joint volume of poems, called 
 " The Desolation of Eyam," which was received with 
 equal favour by the public. The attention which these 
 two volumes excited, brought many applications from 
 the e(!ilors of Annuals and Magazines; and both Mr. 
 and Mrs. Howitt for some years contributed a great va- 
 riety of articles to these piiblications. 
 
WILLIAM AND MARY HOWITT. 113 
 
 Mr. Howiii possesses such versatility that tnere are 
 few quarters of hterature in which his contributions 
 would not equal the best. His papers in the " Heads 
 of the People " were excellent. Mrs. Howitt's ballads 
 have the true ballad spirit, and some of them are of 
 exceeding sweetness. Her simphcity is without fee- 
 bleness, and her occasional openings into power are 
 striking and noble. 
 
 The circumstance of their names having become at- 
 tached to so many separate articles, now led to a sepa- 
 rate publication of volumes. Mrs. Howitt has since 
 published '' The Seven Temptations," a dramatic work ; 
 " Wood Leighton,"' a prose fiction, and several volumes 
 for the young, all of which have acquired deserved 
 popularity. 
 
 'Within the last half century, a somewhat new class 
 of writing has been introduced into this country with 
 great success, and most fortunately for the public taste, 
 as its influence is most healthy and sweet, most re- 
 freshing and soothing, most joyous, yet most innocent. 
 It is that of the unaffected prose pastoral. After Sir 
 Philip Sidney's " Arcadia," there was no work which 
 had so much of this spirit of the green fields and woods, 
 as Walton's " Complete Angler." A long period then 
 intervened, and the same feeling can hardly be said to 
 have shown itself, excepting in some of the works of 
 Mrs. Barbauld, until the time of Burns, and Words- 
 worth, and Keats, in poetry, and Miss Mitford and 
 Leigh Hunt, in prose. The numerous essays and de- 
 lightful papers of Leigh Hunt, and one little work in 
 particular, entitled " The Months," together with the 
 pastoral sketches of " Our Village," " Belford Regis," 
 and " Country Stories," are known to all. TJiese 
 works of Miss Mitford, if read by snatches, come over 
 the mind as the summer air and the sweet hum of rural 
 sounds would float upon the senses through an open 
 window in the country; leaving with you for a \/hole 
 day, a tradition of fragrance and dew. It is hardly 
 necessary to add, that her prose pastorals are all redo- 
 lent of a cordial and cheerful spirit. They are the po- 
 etry of matter-of fact nature, fresh and at first hand. 
 Who would not fain leave their other matters-of-fact, 
 to go with these writers to gather hlies of the valley 
 from the deep green woods 1 Sooth to say, if the sea- 
 sons in E norland were always as they paint them, we 
 K 2 
 
114 WILLIAM AND MARY HOWIXT. 
 
 should all choose to live out of doors, and iK^body would 
 catch cold. 
 
 Miss Miiford is undoubtedly at the head of this de- 
 lightful, and at present " small family" of prose pasto- 
 ral writers. William and Mary Howitt naturally belong 
 to it ; and if another were to be named of the present 
 time, it would be Thomas Miller. But no one has done 
 so much, systematically, and extensively to make us 
 famihar with the rural population, both of our own 
 country and of Germany, as Mr. Howitt. 
 
 In 1832, Mr. Howitt produced the "Book of the Sea- 
 sons," a volume the publication of which was attended 
 by a circumstance curious in itself, and which should 
 teach young authors not to be discouraged by the opin- 
 ions of publishers. The " Book of the Seasons," was 
 offered to four of the principal publishing houses and 
 rejected by them ; till the author, in disgust, told the 
 gentleman in whose hands it was left, to tie a stone to 
 the MS., and fling it over London Bridge. At length 
 Colburn and Bentley took it: the press with one sim- 
 ultaneous cheer of approbation saluted its appearance ;: 
 it has since gone through seven large editions. 
 
 In 1834, Mr. Howitt published a work of a very differ- 
 ent description, the " History of Priestcraft," which 
 ran through six or seven editions, some of them of 
 3000 copies each. The work, of course, excited as 
 much reprehension from one party as applause from 
 another; but the readers of the " Book of lUe Seasons," 
 which is full of kindly and gentle feelings, could not 
 comprehend how the same spirit could produce both 
 these works. The union Is, nevertheless, perfectly 
 compatible. 
 
 It should be recollected that Mr. Howitt was born 
 and educated a Quaker, and he had imbued himself 
 ■with the writings and spirit of the first Quakers, who 
 were a sturdy race, and suffered much perse,oulion from 
 the r'stablished Church. 
 
 In 1835, our author published " Pantika, or Traditions 
 of the most Ancient Times," a work of imagination, 
 certainly the most ambitious, and not the least success- 
 ful, though not the least popular of all Mr. Howitt's 
 many admirable productions. But its design, its mate- 
 rials and execution are altogether so different frotn ev- 
 ery other work of the Howitts, that its claims will be 
 more appropriately considered under the head of " Mrs» 
 
WILLIAM AND MARY HOWITT. 115 
 
 Shelley and the imaginative romance writers," in Vol. 
 II. of the present work. 
 
 The publication of the " History of Priestcraft" may 
 be said to have driven our author from Nottingham. 
 Till then he lived in great privacy; but this volume 
 discovered to his townsmen that he possessed political 
 opinions. He appeared tnen as the advocate of popu- 
 lar rights, and in that town there is a considerable por- 
 tion of the population which has always been greatly 
 in want of zealous and able leaders. 'I'hese seized on 
 Mr. Howitt as a champion unexpectedly found. He 
 was in a manner forced at once, and contrary to his 
 habits and inclination, into public life. He was called 
 upon to arrange and address public meetings. He was 
 made an alderman of the borough, and looked to as 
 the advocate of all popular meas^ures. It was found 
 that, hlihough unused to public speaking, he possessed 
 a vehement eloquence which excited his hearers to en- 
 thusiasm, and carried them according to his will. A 
 speech of his in the Town Hall, on some Irish question^ 
 in which he introduced some remarks on O'Connell, so 
 agitated his hearers, that they simultaneously announc- 
 ed their determination to invite O'Connell to a public 
 dinner, which they forthwith did. It was hoped by the 
 people of Nottingham that they had found a man am- 
 ply capable and willing to advocate their interests; but 
 this was not the life which Mr. Howitt had marked out 
 for himself. No sphere could have afforded a greater 
 opp<trtunity of doing good to his fellow- men than the 
 one he now occupied, but to do that it required an inde- 
 pendent fortune. Mr. Howitt's was limited; and find- 
 ing his time and energies wholly absorbed by extrane- 
 ous circumstances, he deemed it his du'y to his chil- 
 dren to withdraw to a more secluded place of residence. 
 He therefore removed to Esher, in Surrey, a place 
 which gave him the fullest retirement, in a beautiful 
 country, while it afforded a ready communcatioii with 
 the metropolis. There he resided some years. 
 
 Before leaving Nottingham, his fellow-townsmen, in 
 a very numerous public meeting, voted him a silver 
 inkstand, as an appropriate testimony of their esteem; 
 and, before settling at Esher, he and Mrs. Howitt made 
 another excursion into the North of England, Scotland, 
 and the Western Isles, traversitig the most interesting 
 portions of their journey again on foot. They spent a 
 
116 WILLIAM A. 3 MARY HOWITT. 
 
 short time with Mr. Wordsworth and his family at Ry- 
 dal, and in Edinburgh made the personal acquaintance 
 of most of the literary and eminent characters there. 
 Mr. Howitt also attended a dinner given by the city of 
 Edinburgh to the poet Campbell, and being requested to 
 give as a toast " the English poets, Wordsworth, Sou- 
 they, and Moore," he took the opportunity of pressing 
 on the attention of that brilliant company, that if toast- 
 ing poets did them honour, the true way to serve them 
 was to secure them their "copy-right." 
 
 During Mr. Howitfs residence at Esher, he published 
 the " Rural Life of England," having previously tra- 
 versed the country literally from the Land's End to the 
 Scottish borders, to make himself intimately acquaint- 
 ed with the manners and mode of life of the rural pop- 
 ulation. The work is eminently popular ; and while it 
 is full of the kindly and cheerful spirit of the " Book of 
 the Seasons," has yet higher claims to public favour 
 even than that most pleasant work, from the more ex- 
 alted nature of its subject, and the enlightened and phil- 
 osophical views which it takes of society generally. 
 
 In 1838, Mr. Howitt published a work entitled " Col- 
 onization and Christianity," a popular history of the 
 treatment of the natives by the Europeans in all their 
 colonies ; a work which proves that the writer's philan- 
 thropic sympathy is not confined to any race or nation, 
 and unfolds a dark chapter in the history of human na- 
 ture, and which could hardly fail to produce the most 
 •extensive and beneficial effects. In fact, the reading of 
 this volume led Mr. Joseph Pease, Jun., immediately to 
 establish " The British India Society," in which the 
 zealous exertions of Mr. Pease have mainly contribu- 
 ted to the adoption of a nev/ policy by the East India 
 Company, pregnant with the most important benefits to 
 this country ; — to the liberation of all their slaves, no 
 less than ten millions in number, and to the cultivation 
 of cotton, sugar, and other tropical articles for our 
 market, by which, if continued, not only will the poor 
 population of India be employed, but the manufacturing 
 millions of our own country too, by the constant demand 
 for our manufactured goods; of which every year al- 
 ready brings the most striking and cheering evidences. 
 
 Soon after this, Mr. Howitt published a little book, 
 -which has gladdened many a fireside, called " The Boys' 
 Country Book," a Genuine hfe of a country boy — being 
 
WILLIAM AND MARY HOWITT. 117^ 
 
 evidently his own life. The Boys' Country Book waa 
 followed by "Visits io Remarkable places, Old Halls, 
 Battle Fields, and Scenes illustrative of striking Pas- 
 sages in English History and Poetry." This book was 
 received with enthusiasm ; and though an expensive 
 work, had a large sale, and was followed by a second 
 volume. These works soon found a host of imitators, 
 and have had the beneficial effect of reminding the pub- 
 lic of the valuable stores of historic and poetic inter- 
 est scattered over the whole face of our noble country. 
 Mrs. Howitt's attention had for years been t-urned to 
 works for the young. They were written for the 
 amusement and benefit of her own children, and being 
 tested by the actual approbation of this little domestic 
 auditory, were afterwards published and received with 
 equal applause by the young wherever the English 
 language extends. Up to this period she had issued; 
 — The Sketches of Natural History. — Tales in Verse;, 
 and Tales in Prose — Birds and Flowers. — Hymns and 
 Fireside Verses.* The popularity of these works in- 
 duced a publisher (Mr. Tegg) to propose to Mrs. How- 
 itt to write for him a series of "Tales for the People 
 and their Children ;" of which ten volumes have already 
 appeared, namely ; — 1. Strive and Thrive. — 2. Hope on, 
 Hope ever. — 3. Sowing and Reaping. — 4v Who shall be 
 Greatest?— 5. Which is the Wiser?— 6. Little Coin 
 much Care. — 7. Work and Wages. — 8 Alice Franklin. 
 — 9. Love and Money. These volumes liave never 
 b en introduced to the public by reviews, and it seems- 
 to be a system of Mr. 'I'egg's never to send copies to 
 reviews ; nevertheless they have had a vast circulation, 
 and are scattered all over America in six-penny re- 
 prints. They are in themselves a little juvenile library 
 of the most interesting narratives, full of goodness of 
 heart, and sincere m(jral principles. Translations of 
 "Birds and Flowers" are in progress both in G*^rman 
 and Polish, and ail the works of William and Mary 
 Howitt are immediately reprinted and extensively cir- 
 culated in America. 
 
 Having resided about three years at Esher, Mr. and 
 Mrs. Howitt quitted England for a sojourn in Germany. 
 They bad for some time had their attention drawn to 
 
 * We must not allow ourselves to be so overcome by n sense of the 
 nbnndunce of the HowiUs', as to omit our triltnte to the beauty of Mary 
 Howitt'-; poetical productions, which are not, we think, sufficiently estima- 
 ted in this article. — Ed. 
 
118 WILLIAM AND MARY HO WITT. 
 
 German literature ; and the alleged advantages atten- 
 ding education in Germany, made them resolve to 
 judge for themselves. Attraeted by the beauty of the 
 scenery, they took up their head quarters at Heidelberg, 
 where their children could steadily pursue their educa- 
 tion. Thence, at different times, they visited nearly 
 every part and every large city of Germany, assiduously 
 exerting themselves bj'' social intercourse with the 
 people, as well as by study, to make themselves per- • 
 fecily familiar with the manners, spirit, and literature 
 of that great and varied nation. During upwards of 
 three years thus spent, with the exception of Mrs. 
 Howitfs continuing the series of " Tales for the Peo- 
 ple," and editing " Fisher's Drawing-Room Scrap-Book," 
 which was put into her hands on the decease of L. E. 
 L., English literature was now abandoned for the con- 
 tinuous study of the German. The result on Mr. How- 
 itt's part was the translation of a work written ex- 
 pressly for him, "The Student-Life of Germany," con- 
 taining the most famous songs and music of the Ger- 
 man students. This volume, which was vehemently 
 attacked by some of our own newspapers, nevertheless 
 received from the principal journals of Germany, the 
 highest testimonies of accuracy and mastership of 
 translation, and led to numerous applications on the 
 part of German publishers for translations of works 
 into English, as books for the use of students of Eng- 
 lish, one only of which, however, Mr. Howitt found 
 time to undertake, — the fanciful story of Peter Schle- 
 mill, since published by Schrag of NiJrnberg. After 
 After three years' abode and observation, Mr. Howitt 
 published his " Social and Rural Life of Germany," 
 which was at once well received here, and reprinted in 
 Germany with the assertion of the " Allgemeine Zeit- 
 uiig," the uiSL ciilicdl journal of Germany, of its being 
 the most accurate account of that country ever written 
 by a foreigner. 
 
 Perhaps, however, as concerns the English public, 
 the most important consequence of Mr. and Mrs. How- 
 itt's sojourn in Germany is that they had their attention 
 there turned to the la,nguages and literature of the 
 North of Europe. They had the pleasure of becoming 
 intimately acquainted with an excellent and highly- 
 accomplished English family who had spent many 
 years in Sweden, and were enthusiastic lovers of its 
 
WILLIAM AND MARY HO WITT. 119 
 
 literature. With them they immediately commenced 
 the study of Swedish, and were so much charmed with 
 its affinity, both in form and spirit to the Enghsh, that 
 they pursued it with great avidity. The first results 
 have been the introduction of the prose tales of Frede- 
 rika Bremer, by Mrs. Howitt, to our knowledge ; — a 
 new era in our reading world. These charming works, 
 so distinguished by their natural domestic interest, their 
 faithful delineations, their true spirit of kindliness, 
 poetical feeling, good sense, and domestic harmony and 
 affection, have produced a sensation unequalled as a 
 series since the issue of the Waverley novels, and in 
 cheap reprints have been circulated through every 
 class and corner of America. The rapidity with which, 
 from various circumstances, it has been requisite to 
 produce these translations, has, we understand, made 
 it necessary, though appearing as a lady's work en- 
 tirely in Mrs. Howitt's name, that both Mr. and Mrs. 
 Howitl should latterly unite all their activity in transla- 
 ting, correcting, and passing them through the press. 
 
 The Hewitts are enthusiastic lovers of their literary 
 pursuits, and anxious to educate their children in the 
 best possible manner, and therefore live a retired and 
 domestic life. Though belonging to the Society of 
 Friends, and attached to its great principles of civil, 
 moral, and religious liberty, they have long ago aban- 
 doned its peculiarities ; and in manners, dress, and 
 language belong only to the world. For the honour of 
 literature we may safely say, that amongst the many 
 consolatory proofs in modern times of how much lite- 
 rature may contribute to the happiness of life, the case 
 of the Howitts is one of the most striking. The love 
 of literature was the origin of their acquaintance, its 
 pursuit has been the hand-in-hand bond of the most 
 perfect happiness of a long married hfe ; and we may 
 further add, for the honour of womanhood, that while 
 our authoress sends forth her delightful works in un- 
 broken succession, to the four quarters of the globe, 
 William Howitt has been heard to declare that he will 
 challenge any woman, be she who she may, who never 
 wrote a line, to match his good woman in the able 
 management of a large household, at the same time 
 that she fills her own little world of home with the 
 brightness of her own heart and spirit. 
 
DR. PUSEY. 
 
 "The angelK, in like manner, can utter in a few words singular the things 
 which are written in a volume of any book, and can express such things, or 
 every word, as elevate its meining to interior wisdom; for their speech is 
 such, ihit it is conson int with afiections, and every word with ideas. Ex 
 pressions are also varif^d, by an infinity of methods, according to liie series 
 of the things which aie in a complex in the thought." — Swedenborg, ''Con 
 eerning ti'ie fVisdom of the Angels of Heaven^ 
 
 In the vigorous and very onHiious contest which has 
 for a considerable time been raging between dififerent 
 sections of the Established Church, it will foiin no part 
 of this brief notice to engage, on either side. A work 
 like the present cannot, it must be obvious, afford space 
 for lengthy and complex disquisition on any subject; 
 and least of all would its design accord with controver- 
 sies which are usually, in themselves, endless, whether 
 on matters of religion, science, or politics. A few- 
 broad statements of leading principles and facts are all 
 that will be attempted — intended solely for the benefit 
 of those who do not know much of the subject, and have 
 not time to study the " Tracts," but who wish for some 
 concise infornjation. 
 
 This neces.>ary avoidance of theological conflic-ts and 
 the inadmissibility of polemical treatises, must also pre- 
 vent our taking into the present paper some account 
 of Dr. Chalmers, the leader of the High Church party 
 in the Presbyterian, as Dr. Pusey is iii the Episcopal 
 section of the Protestant Church in this kingdom ; and 
 must «-qually prevent any view of the natural opposites 
 of both these leaders in their theological aspects ; other- 
 wise our design must have included the lectures of W. 
 J. Fox, and those of the late Dr. Chaiming, whose trans- 
 atlantic birth has not precluded his influence among 
 ourselves. Our purpose, however, being limited to the 
 consideration of certain novel doctrines which have 
 been designated after the name of their originator, the 
 followinij remarks are olTered in elucidation. 
 
 Dr. Pusey is the representative of that class of Eng- 
 lishmen, who, looking with reprehension and alarm 
 upon the changes in the ecclesi^jstical and political 
 system of our country which have slowly but constant- 
 
DR. PUSEl'. IStl 
 
 ly gained ground during the lapse of the last fifteen 
 years, have ranged themselves under the freshly em- 
 blazoned banners and newly illuminated altars of the 
 Church, have unsheathed the sword of Faith and new- 
 interpretation, earnest to restore the ancient constitu- 
 tion in Church and State ; to stem the advancing tide 
 of modern opinion and endeavour ; to retain the strong- 
 hold of the Divine Right of Kings and the Spiritual 
 Supremacy of the Priesthood, and from this detached 
 ground to say to the rising waves, " Thus far shalt thou 
 go, and no farther," and to the troubled waters, " Peace 
 —be still." 
 
 The first note of alarm was sounded to this class 
 when, fifteen years ago, the Repeal of the Test and 
 Corporation Act passed the legislature. This measure 
 (to use the words of a distinguished member of their 
 own body, Mr. Palmer) was, in their eyes, a "cutting 
 away from the Church of England of one of its ancient 
 bulwarks, and evidencing a disposition to make conces- 
 sions to the clamour of its enemies." In the next year, 
 called by the same authority " the fatal year 1829," they 
 saw the admission of Catholics to posts of trust and 
 responsibility, and to a share in the legislation. The 
 feelings which animated them now, may be understood 
 from the fact that his part in the transaction cost Sir 
 Robert Peel his seat in the University of Oxford, and 
 from the language of the same authority we have al- 
 ready quoted, who described the Emancipation Act as 
 " a measure which scattered to the wands public princi- 
 ple, pubhc morality, public confidence, and dispersed a 
 party, which, had it possessed courage to act according 
 to its old and popular principles, and to act on them 
 with manly energy, would have stemmed the torrent 
 of revolution and averted the awful crisis which was at 
 hand." Such was the state of appalled apprehension 
 on which the tocsin of revolution in France struck like 
 an electric shock in 1830, and on which the echoes re- 
 verberated nearer and nearer thunders through the re- 
 form agitation in England. "The Tory aristocracy," 
 says Mr. Palmer again, " which had forsaken the Church 
 in yielding Emancipation, were now hurled from their 
 political ascendancy, and the Reform Bill of 1831 — a 
 just retribution for their offence — made for the time the 
 democratic principle all powerful in the state." Events 
 ghded on. The claims of the Dissenters were loudly 
 L 
 
122 DR. PUSEY. 
 
 urged — a severance of Church and State was demand- 
 ed — ten Irish Bishoprics were suppressed— even Church 
 Rates were in many quarters successfully resisted — and 
 Church Reform was actually called for, much in the 
 same manner in which Parliamentary Reform had been 
 demanded a year or two before ! Struck by these signs 
 of the times, by the increase of dissent, the avowedly 
 low views of church authority entertained by a majori- 
 ty of the clergy and nearly the entire body of the laity, 
 the extreme laxity of discipline and graet diversity of 
 doctrine pcevailing in the Church, and the tendency to 
 further innovation manifesting itself in many, and those 
 not unimportant quarters, a few clergymen, chiefly re- 
 siding at Oxford and members of the University, formed 
 themselves into an association under the title of 
 " Friends of the Church." At the head of these was 
 Dr. Pusey. 
 
 Edward Bouverie Pusey is the second son of the late 
 Hon. Philip Pusey, and grandson of the Earl of Radnor. 
 His father assumed the name of Pusey on becoming the 
 possessor of Pusey, in the county of Berks, an estate 
 held by that family from a period considerably anterior 
 lo the Norman conquest, and held under a grant from 
 Canute by corna^e, or the service of a horn. The Pusey 
 horn is well known to antiquaries. Dr. Pusey was born 
 in 1800, and entered the University of Oxford in 1818, 
 as a gentleman commoner of Christ Church. His name 
 appears in tiie first class in 1822. Shortly afterwards- 
 he became a fellow of Oriel College ; in 1824 he obtain- 
 ed the prize for the Latin essay, and in 1828 he became 
 Regius Professorof Hebrew and Canon of Christ Church. 
 In this year he married a lady, since deceased. In 1825 
 he had taken the degree of M.A., and at the usual pe- 
 riods subsequently took those of B.D. and D.D. Dr. 
 Pusey is, therefore, in his 44lh year. He is somewhat 
 under the middle size, pale, and of a meditative and in- 
 tellectual countenance. As a preacher, he is calm, 
 logical and persuasive, and there is an air of sincerity 
 about every word which he utters which is never with- 
 out its effect. His theological views were at one time 
 supposed to be verging towards those of the German 
 theologians, but they underwent a very decided change 
 before the year 1833, when he became one of the foun- 
 ders of the association, out of which sprang the " Tracts 
 for the Times." 
 
DR. PUSEY. 1^3 
 
 Th« first object of this association was to stir up 
 clergy and laity to activity and to more zeal for the 
 office and authority of the Church, and this was done 
 by correspondence, addresses, associations and similar 
 means, with very satisfactory results. But inasmuch 
 as it was by the press that opposite principles had been 
 most successfully inculcated, so the leading members 
 of that society determined to issue some short publica- 
 tions adapted, as they considered, to the exigencies of 
 the times. These publications were not sent forth with 
 any corporate authority. The writers spoke only their 
 own individual opinions, and no system of revision, 
 tliough often recommended, was ever adopted. The 
 title given to them was "Tracts for the Times, by 
 members of the University of Oxford." Some were 
 addressed especially to the clergy, and headed '" ad 
 clerimi,'''' others to the laity, headed " ad populum,'''' others 
 to both. 
 
 The tenets maintained by the Tract, writers were 
 chiefly as follows. They asserted the three-fold order 
 of ministry, Bishops, Priests, and Deacons, as essential 
 to an apostolic church. They claimed a personal, not 
 a merely official, descent from the Apostles, i. e., they 
 declared that not only had the Church ever maintained 
 the three orders, but that an unbroken succession of 
 individuals canonically ordained was enjoyed by the 
 Church and essential to her existence ; in short, th;«r 
 ■without this there could be no Church at all. They held 
 the doctrine of baptismal regeneration, of sacramental 
 absolution, and of a real, in contradistinction to a figu- 
 rative or symbolical, Presence in the Eucharist. 'I'hey 
 maintained the duty of fasting, of ritual obedience, and 
 of communion with the Apostolic Church, declaring all 
 Dissenters, and, as a necessary consequence, the mem- 
 bers of the Church of Scotland, and all church(^.s not 
 episcopal, to be members of no church at all. Thty de- 
 nied the validity of Lay-baptism; they threw out hints 
 from time to time, which evidenced an attachment to 
 the theological system supported by the nonjuring di- 
 vmesin the days of James II. ; and the grand protestant 
 principle as established by Luther — the right of private 
 interpretation of Holy Scripture — they denied. 
 
 A facetious, but somewhat profane Letter, shortly ap- 
 peared, purporting to be " an Epistle from thr Pope, to 
 certain members of the University of Oxford," and was 
 
124 DR. PUSEY. 
 
 extensively circulated. Dr. Pusey replied to this high- 
 ly reprehensible Pretender, in a grave and earnest tone, 
 deprecating a light and irreligious spirit on a topic of so 
 great magnitude and importance. 
 
 The Evangelical party in the Church next objected 
 to certain expressions used in the " Tracts," such as 
 " conveying the sacrifice to the people" — " entrusted 
 with the keys of Heaven and Hell" — " entrusted with 
 the awful and mysterious gift of making the bread and 
 wine, Chrisfs body and blood''"' — all which expressions 
 they considered might perhaps be understood in rather 
 a Romanizing way. " The Record," a religious news- 
 paper, conducted by gentleme^ of Presbyterian tenets, 
 but circulating chiefly among churchmen of Calvinistic 
 doctrine, directly accused the Tract writers as Jesuits, 
 and covert Papists. The conduct of the Bishops, who 
 ■who were supposed to favour Dr. Pusey, was watched^ 
 their dinner-parties noted, and the disposal of their pa- 
 tronage tartly, commented on. The inferior clergy 
 were subjected to espionage. If a priest or deacon 
 was seen at a ball or concert, his name was sure to ap- 
 pear in the next week's " Record" as a musical or a 
 dancing clergynj^an, and a Puseyite ; for the term " Pu- 
 seyite''"' originated with this journal. The Tracts mean- 
 while went steadily on, never replying nor recrimina- 
 ting, but continuing to put forth new and more startling 
 deviations from the received theology of the day. 
 
 In 1836, a new species of hostility commenced, in 
 which the Puseyite party were the assailant. Dr. 
 Hampden, canon of Christ Church, and Principal of St. 
 Mary Hall, was appointed Regius Professor of Divinity. 
 The admirable personal qualities, and the splendid 
 abilities of Dr. Hampden, made the man both admired 
 and esteemed ; but he had preached a course of Bamp- 
 lon Lectures which were considered " rationalistic" — 
 or tending to a daring use of the rational faculty, and 
 had published a pamphlet ; in which, says Mr. Palmer,, 
 "the boldest latitudinarianism was openly avowed, and 
 Socinians were placed on a level with all other Chris- 
 tians !" His appointment was therefore vigorously op- 
 posed by the high Church party ; but the opposition 
 being fruitless, an agitation was commenced chiefly by 
 the Tract writers, and a formal censure of the Universi- 
 ty on Dr. Hampden was passed by an overwhelming 
 majority in Convocation. By this censure, the Margaret 
 Professor of Divinity was substituted for the Regius 
 
DR. PUSEY. 125 
 
 Professor, and the attendance of the under graduates 
 on the latter, dispensed with. 
 
 Periodicals were now started with the avowed object 
 of opposing tiie "Tracts;" and one, "The Church of 
 England Quarterly Review," was alluded to in the 
 House of Commons, and had two articles, which were 
 marked by vehement invective, quoted in " The Times." 
 That paper, however, subsequently discovering certain 
 inaccuracies, repudiated the articles in question. Thus 
 attacked, the Oxford party resolved to have an organ 
 of their own; and the "British Critic" being at that 
 moment thrown into the market, Dr. Pusey became 
 the purchaser, and placed in the post of editor, Mr. 
 Newman, the most learned, the most astute, and the 
 most practised in controversy of all concerned in the 
 tracts. At the same time, Professor Sewell took up 
 their cause in the Quarterly Review. 
 
 The singular book called " Froude's Remains," edited 
 by Mr. Newman, has been excused by moderate wriiers 
 as having been the result of prolonged bad health ; but 
 as its editor gravely answered in print, that " Mr. Froude 
 was not a man who said anything at random," the sup- 
 position, one would think, can scarcely be justified. 
 The author, among many, other similar expressions, 
 Bpoke of himself and his coadjutors as organizing "a 
 conspiracy for the unproteslantizing of the Church ;" — 
 he called the Reformation "A limb badly set, which 
 required to be broken again ;" and wondered that " * * * 
 did not get on faster to hate the reformers." 
 
 The first learned opposition which the Tractarians 
 had to encounter was in the work of Dr. Mc I lvalue, 
 Bishop of Vermont, in America. In the same year, 
 1810, the " Church of England Quarterly" passed into 
 other management, and nmintaiiied a firm, consistent 
 opposition to the same writers, uniformly, however, 
 treating them as gentlemen, scholars, and Christians, 
 in April, 1843, it was, however, again placed under its 
 former conductors. 
 
 Meanwhile the Tracts themselves had been silenced, 
 the Bishop of Oxford having recommended their cessa- 
 tion, and been promptly obeyed. The last of the series, 
 the celebrated No. 90,* which was avowed by Mr. 
 Newman, was pointedly condemned by many of the 
 Bishops, and a note of censure passed on it by the 
 
 * The tract called "One Trnct More," printed subsequently to No. 90, 
 was written by a well-known poet, and M.P. 
 
 L2 
 
126 DR. PUSEY. 
 
 Hebdomadal Board. Books, sermons, reviews, charges^ 
 memoirs from the Puseyite party, have since manifest- 
 ed their determination to continue to be heard through 
 the press. 
 
 The excitement was increased by the charge of the 
 Bishop of London in 1842, in Mhich he touched on 
 some points of ritual observance, apparently favouring 
 the Puseyites. A professor of poetry, who never pub- 
 lished a single poetical work, has been elected at Ox- 
 ford, " because he was not a Puseyite." Mr. Glad- 
 stone's two works, " On the Relation of the Church to 
 the State," and ' Church Principles," were attacked as 
 Puseyite, and Mr. Christmas's treatise on the "Disci- 
 pline of the Anglican Church," though touching on no 
 disputed point of doctrine, afforded matter of criticism 
 for six weeks to a Presbyterian journal on the same 
 ground. Old Divinity was now remembered with affec- 
 tion. Societies for the publication of neglected old 
 divinity have been established, and also, rival societies 
 of Anglo-Catholic theology. As a good influence, may 
 be noticed the impulse to correct Gothic Architecture, 
 to the employment of art in the embellishment of 
 churches, and the improvement of the musical part of 
 the service. As evidences^ of dissension, we observe, 
 one rector advertising for accurate, with — '"No Puseyite 
 need apply ;" — another, " No Oxford man will be ac- 
 cepted ;" en the other hand, a vicar "wants an assistant 
 of sound Anglican views, who is untainted with Eras- 
 tianism, and entertains no objection to the daily service, 
 the weekly offertory, and to preaching in a surplice !" 
 Thus, are the very bowels of Mother Church inflamed 
 and convulsed. 
 
 The last public act of Dr. Pusey was the delivery of 
 a sermon before the University, in which he was ac- 
 cused of advancing the doctrine of transubstantiation. 
 Judges appointed by the University have censured him; 
 passed a sentence of suspension on him, and condemn- 
 ed the sermon as heretical ; but his friends maintain, 
 that by not specifying their grounds, the judges have 
 laid themselves open to the charges of unfairness and 
 severity. It is much to be feared that these doings 
 closely resemble many things which maybe discovered 
 as far back as the times of Abailard and St. Bernard. 
 
 It is said that Dr. Pusey is about to quit Oxford, and 
 to take up his residence at Leeds, where a superb 
 church is in process of erection for his ministry. 
 
G. P. R. JAMES, MRS. GORE, CAPTAIN 
 MARRYATT, AND MRS. TROLLOPE. ^ 
 
 " And what o/this new book, that the whole world make such a rout about V^ 
 —Sterne. 
 
 " How delightful ! To cut open the leaves, to inhale the fragrance of the 
 scarcely-dry paper, to examine the type, to see who is the printer, to launch 
 out into regions of thought and invention, (never trod till now,) and to explore 
 characters, (that never met a human eye before,) this is a luxury worth sacri- 
 ficing a dinner-party, or a few hours of a spare morning to. If we cannot write 
 ourselves, we become by busying ourselves about it, a kind of accessaries after 
 the fact."— Hazlitt. 
 
 " No sooner did the Housekeeper see them than she ran out of the room in 
 great haste, and immediately returned with a pot of holy water and a bunch 
 of hyssop, and said, ' Signor Licentiate, take this and sprinkle the room, lest 
 some enchanter, of the many these books abound with, should enchant us, in 
 revenge for what we intend to do in banishing them out of the world I' The 
 Priest smiled at the Housekeeper's simplicity, and ordered the Barber to reach. 
 him the books, one by one, that they might see what they treated of; for, per 
 haps they might find some that did not deserve to be chastised by fire.'' — Don 
 Quixote. 
 
 Prose fiction has acquired a more respectable status 
 within the last half century than it held at any previous 
 period in English literature. Very grave people, who 
 set up to be thought wiser than their neighbours, are no 
 longer ashamed to be caught reading a novel. The rea- 
 son of this is plain enough. It is not that your conven- 
 tional reader has abated a jot of his dignity, or relaxed 
 a single prejudice in favour of " hght reading," but that 
 the novel itself has undergone a complete revolution. It 
 is no longer a mere fantasy of the imagination, a dreamy 
 pageant of unintelligible sentiments and impossible in- 
 cidents ; but a sensible book, insinuating in an exceed- 
 ingly agreeable form — ^just as cunning physicians insin- 
 uate nauseous drugs in sweet disguises — a great deal of 
 useful knowledge, historical, social, and moral. Most 
 people are too lazy to go to the spring-head, and are 
 well content to drink from any of the numerous little 
 rills that happen to ripple close at hand ; and thus, by 
 degrees, the whole surface becomes fertihzed after a 
 fashion, and by a remarkably easy and unconscious pro- 
 cess. Formerly, a novel was a laborious pretext for 
 saying a vs^onderful variety, of fine silly things ; now, it 
 is really a channel for conveying actual information, the 
 
128 G. p. R. JAMES, MRS. GORE, 
 
 direct result of ooservation and research, put together 
 with more or less artistic ingenuity, but always keeping 
 in view the responsibility due to the living- humanity 
 from which it professes to be drawn. Genteel ameni- 
 ties and pathetic bombast are gone out ; and even the 
 most exquisite universalities of the old school have been 
 long since shot with the immense mass of rubbish under 
 which they were buried. Crebillon himself slumbers in 
 the dust of the well-stocked library, while there is no 
 end to the new editions of Scott. 
 
 This elevation of prose fiction to a higher rank, and 
 the extension of the sphere of its popularity, may be at 
 once referred to the practical nature of the materials 
 with which it deals, and the sagacity with which they 
 are selected and employed. What Aristotle says of po- 
 etry in general may be applied with peculiar force to this 
 particular form of narrative— that it is more philosophi- 
 cal than history ; for while the latter is engaged with lit- 
 eral details of particular facts, which often outrage gene- 
 ral probability and never illustrate general principles, the 
 former generalizes throughout, and by tracing in natural 
 sequence a course of causes and effects w^hich would, in 
 all probability, have succeeded each other in the same 
 order, under similar circumstances, in real life, it exhib- 
 its a more comprehensive picture of human nature, and 
 conducts us upon the whole to a profounder moral. If 
 the flippant observation be true, that History is Philos- 
 ophy teaching by example, then it must be admitted that 
 she sometimes teaches by very bad example? ; but when 
 she condescends to teach through the medium of fiction, 
 she certainly has no excuse for not selecting the best. 
 
 The attempt to establish a sort of junction between 
 history and romance — the Amandas and the Marguerites 
 of Valois, the half-fabulous Rolands and the veritable 
 Richards — was a lucky conception. We have not the 
 least notion to whom the honour of having origina- 
 ted the historical novel fairly belongs. Certainly not to 
 Scott, to whom it is so commonly attributed. Miss Lee 
 was beforehand with him, and Miss Porter, and twenty 
 others — to say nothing of De Foe, who seems to have 
 given a broad hint of the practicability of such a project 
 in two or three of his inimitable fact-fiction memoirs. 
 We suspect that the idea of the historical novel grew up 
 slowly, that nobody had the courage to make so free 
 with history all at once, and that it became developed at 
 
CAPT. MARRYATT, AND MRS. TROLLOPE. 12^ 
 
 last only by the sheer necessity of devising something 
 new, consequent upon the exhaustion of every existing 
 mode of fiction. The germ of this brave conception, if 
 we w^ere disposed to pursue the enquiry in a learned 
 spirit, might, perhaps, be found in the Ethiopics of He- 
 liodorus, which dates so far back as the fourth century, ;; 
 and which is in some sort historical, since it presents t 
 an accurate and curious picture of the customs of an-| 
 cient Egypt.* But we have no occasion to travel into ^ 
 such remote paths of investigation. With Froissart and ! 
 Monstrelet before us, the " Helden Buch," the " Nibe- ' 
 lungen Lied," the " Chronicles of the Cid," and the old 
 Spanish and French romances, we can be at no loss to 
 discover how the historical novel gradually put forth its 
 strength and enlarged its stature, until in course of time 
 it grew to its present height and importance. The po- 
 etical spirit in which the chronicle writers treat the best 
 established historical reputations, the atmosphere of 
 imagination they throw round the most ordinary facts, ' 
 and the skill with which they relate their narratives, 
 mingling the dramatic tact of the raconteur wilh the sobri- 
 ety of the historian, may be regarded as having accom- 
 plished the first grand advance towards the disputed 
 boundary. The subsequent progress was easy enough; 
 nor can it be a matter of much surprise, when once the 
 invasion was fairly efl'ectedjto find the two hitherto dis- 
 tinct races mixed and confounded together on the fron- , 
 tier of the two hitherto hostile territories. If there be 
 romance writers who have taken upon themselves the 
 functions of history, it cannot be denied, on the other 
 hand, that there are historians who have not hesitated 
 to appear in the masquerade of romance. 
 
 Of all historical novelists, Scott justly occupies the 
 first place. If he did not create that kind of composi- 
 tion, he was the first who brought it into general favour. 
 The secret was no sooner unfolded, by which the annals : 
 of nations could thus be rendered tributary to the most 
 fascinating shapes of romance, than hundreds of imita- t 
 tors started up. Everybody thought he could write an ' 
 historical novel, and accordingly there was not a nook 
 or corner of history that was not ransacked for materi- 
 
 * The " Cyropaedia" of Xenophon has a still earher claim ; but either of 
 these derivations makes the historical fiction coincident with the origin of 
 prose romance. Madame de Genlis, in her " Memoires." claims precedence 
 of Scott, who she says was her imitator. — Ed. 
 
130 G. p. R. JAMES, MRS. GORE, 
 
 als. Nor was this excitement confined merely to Eng- 
 land. It rapidly spread over every part of the civilized 
 ^vorld, and seized upon every language that had a print- 
 ing-press to give utterance to its inspirations. Even 
 bleak and uncultivated Norway is warmed into enthusi- 
 asm by the genius of Ingemann, and Russia herself, 
 whose national literature is scarcely half a century old, 
 boasts of her own especial Walter Scott, with some 
 dozens of followers trooping at his heels. 
 
 It is not too much to say that the most successful of 
 those who have trodden the same track in England, is 
 G. P, R. James.* There is no writer, of his particular 
 class, now living, so familiar to the public at large; not 
 one who has drawn so extensively upon sources not al- 
 ways accessible to the readers of novels ; not one who 
 has laboured with such unremitting diligence, and such 
 uniform popularity. If he has never greatly succeeded, 
 ■we know no instance in which he has greatly failed. 
 
 The voluminousness — we choose the word advisedly 
 for the occasion — of Mr. James's writings is the idea in- 
 stantly suggested to the mind upon the bare mention of 
 his name. The first thing you think of is the enormous 
 quantity of books he has written. You fancy a man 
 seated at a table in the centre of a commodious library, 
 with the gift of perpetual motion in his wrist, as incapa- 
 ible of fatigue in brains or fingers as the steam-apparatus 
 that liatches eggs, and possessed with a terrible deter- 
 mination of blood to the head — relieving itself instinct- 
 ively by a fearful resolution to write on — on — on — du- 
 ring secula seculoi'um, at all hazards to gods, men and 
 columns, "till the great globe itself," &c. Fifty other 
 strange notions of a like bewildering kind rise up and 
 Gurround this image of an inexhaustible author ; and the 
 more you attempt to close with the phenomenon, the 
 more incomprehensible it becomes, like a dim perplex- 
 ing figure in a dream. 
 
 We have not the means of verifying the number of 
 Mr. James's publications, nor the period within which 
 they were produced. But, we believe, we are sufficient- 
 ly accurate for general purposes in saying that he com- 
 menced his career about fifteen years ago, and that from 
 that time to the present, he has published nearly two 
 
 * Mr. James may be, numerically, the most popular of all the historical ro- 
 mancists, but we are far from considering him as the equal of the author of 
 " Rienzi" and the " Last Days of Pompeii."— Ed. 
 
CAPT. MARRYATT, AND MRS. TROLLOPE. 131 
 
 novels, or histories, annually. In a catalogue of works 
 pirated from English authors by Baudry of Paris, dated 
 1841, we find no less than twenty-one substantial three- 
 voUimed novels by Mr. James, which the worthy smug- 
 gler, having no duty to pay for copy-right, is enabled to 
 offer to the travelling English, and the travelled French, 
 at the small charge of five francs each work. Mr. James 
 has suffered heavily by this nefarious system of litera- 
 ry plunder ; and to his incessant exertions for the pro- 
 tection of English copy-rights we are mainly indebted 
 for the small amount of security we now enjoy through 
 the vigilance of the custom-house officers. All that can 
 be done in the absence of a law of international copy- 
 right, is to prevent the importation of these swindling 
 editions ; and this, we believe, is now done as carefully 
 as such an office can be expected to be fulfilled by the 
 class of persons to whom it is unavoidably entrusted. 
 
 The French catalogue to which we have referred, is 
 of course a very imperfect guide to Mr. James's com- 
 plete works ; but it will help the imagination a little on 
 the way. In addition to all these novels, there are yet 
 lo be piled up histories and biographies of every class 
 and kind, so that by the time we shall have arrived at 
 the top of the heap, we shall be well disposed to stop- 
 and vent our wonder in one long heave of respiration. 
 If all these works were gathered together, and a scriv- 
 ener employed to copy them, it would probably occupy 
 him a longer period of fair average daily labour in the 
 simple task of transcription than the author expended 
 upon their composition. To those who know how much 
 more rapidly the invention works than the hands — how 
 immeasurably the brain outstrips the mechanical pro- 
 cess of the pen — this assertion will neither be new nor 
 surprising. Yet still there remains behind this prob- 
 lem, — how Mr. James, although he might compose fast- 
 er than another person could copy, contrived both to 
 compose and write so much within so short a period! 
 But the problem is set at rest by the fact that Mr. James 
 did not write any of his works. Like Cobbett, he em- 
 ploys an amanuensis, and all this long and brilliant array 
 of historical narratives with which the public have been 
 so pleasantly entertained for such a series of years have 
 been dictated by the author, while he was walking up 
 and down his study, one after another, or, sometimes,, 
 possibly, two or three at a time ! 
 
132 G. p. R. JAMES, MRS. GORE, 
 
 The usages of authors are proverbially capricious. 
 Cuvier, says " Punch," (and " Punch" is as good an au- 
 thority in such matters as Bayie or Johnson,) used to 
 dip his head and feet into cold water while he was prepa- 
 ring his great work, the " Regne Animal !" There is no 
 reason on earth why Mr. James should not dictate his 
 novels, if the habit suits and pleases him. But to one 
 who is not in the habit of dictating novels, the process 
 seems peculiarly unfavourable to the due attainment of 
 the end proposed. One can understand Cobbett's dicta- 
 tion — its uses and abuses. The dashing articles of the 
 *' Register" are distinguished by the heedless energy and. 
 volubility of impromptu. It is the very style adapted 
 for quick popular effects — to be read on the sudden, and 
 set the head whirling, and the hand aching for a petition 
 to sign, or a second Peterloo ; just the sort of headlong 
 accumulation of facts and accusations a popular leader, 
 who thoroughly understood the elements he had to 
 wield, and who possessed a genius capable of moulding 
 them to his purpose, might pour out with the greatest 
 imaginable triumph. All this is intelligible enough ; but 
 the application of the same method of composition to 
 the machinery and conduct of a narrative romance is 
 inexplicable. The necessity of carrying on the plot by 
 constant references to past scenes, of anticipating events 
 in some cases, and preparing for them in all; and of 
 working up carefully and by reiterated touches in dia- 
 logue and action, the delicate and shifting traits of char- 
 acter, so as to preserve the consistency and dramatic 
 integrity of the general design ; these necessities, and 
 many more which might be easily pointed out in the 
 structure of a well-considered novel, would seem to ren- 
 der it nearly impossible to deliver orally three volumes 
 of such matter, so connected and continuous, so reticu- 
 lated and arranged, so true to life, so varied, and so ar- 
 tistical, in form, movement, and treatment. It is al- 
 most impossible to imagine any man speaking a novel. 
 Yet Mr. James constantly performs this curious feat — 
 more curious to our apprehension a hundred times than 
 if he were to write his novels in his sleep. 
 
 One obvious advantage of this improvisation is, that 
 it has enabled the author to carry on his labours with 
 that njarvellous celerity to which we are indebted for 
 the amazing quantity. It is not likely that he could 
 have produced so much in so short a period, had he been 
 
CAPT. MARRYATT, AND MRS. TROLLOPE. 133 
 
 held ill check by the slower process of pen and ink, with 
 all its provoking suggestiveness, its eye-traps at every 
 turn of a sentence, its awkward gaps, and hitches, and 
 flaws of style, to the mending of which thought and 
 spirit are so frequently sacririced. On the other hand, 
 it may be reasonably doubted whether what might have 
 been thus lost in quantity might not have been gained 
 in quality. If he had written less he would have writ- 
 ten better — there would have been more ultimate {)ur- 
 pose in his writings, more condensation, vigour, and 
 vitality. 
 
 We are very far from thinking that quantity is an ar- 
 gument, a priori, against the originality or strength of 
 genius. It is a common notion to suppose that he who 
 writes a great deal must necessarily dilute and weaken 
 his resources ; that writing upon a variety of subje(;ts, it 
 is impossible to write well upon any. This is a vulgar 
 error of the most ignorant kind. He who can write 
 well upon only one subject, or whose capacity cannot 
 accomplish more than a little upon any. is not very like- 
 ly to be mistaken by the world for a genius. The great- 
 ness of the intellect consists as much in its fullness as 
 its profundity. The most remarkable authors in all 
 ages have been amongst the most prolific — instance, 
 Chaucer, Voltaire, Dryden, Swift, Lope de Vega, Goethe, 
 Scott, &c. But there is no universal dictum on the sub- 
 ject ; each case must be determined finally by the char- 
 acter of the productions themselves. Copiousness with- 
 out power is mere mental imbecility — drivelling upon 
 paper. 
 
 It is not entirely, therefore, because Mr. James has 
 written so much, that we think he might have done bet- 
 ter had he written less. The manner of coniposition 
 has had something to do with it, and is mainly answer- 
 able for that uniformity of style, that smooth onward 
 flat over which the narrative rolls with such regularity, 
 and that want of compactness in details, which, with all 
 our admiration of the versatile talents of the author, we 
 constantly feel in these very clever and very numerous 
 novels. If he had not drawn so extensively upon his- 
 tory, and availed himself so largely of characters whose 
 lineaments were already fatniliar to the reader, these de- 
 ficiencies would have been still more apparent. But, 
 fortunately, the reader is enabled by his previous knowl- 
 edge to fill up many of the faint and hasty outlines of 
 M 
 
134 G. p. R. JAMES, MRS. GOREy 
 
 the author, an involuntary process which frequently 
 atones for the short-comings of the fiction. 
 
 The " fatal facility" of these novels must be apparent 
 to the most superficial critic. It is impossible not to see 
 that they have been hurried out pell-mell, with wonder- 
 ful self-reliance and an almost constitutional contempt 
 of system and responsibility. The fluency of the man- 
 ner is not more palpable than the diffusiveness of the 
 matter. The figures are in eternal motion; the dialogue 
 seems everlasting; the descriptions have the breadth 
 and incoherency and joyous flush of a stage diorama. 
 The flurry of the incidents, the number of the charac- 
 ters, and the mass of subordinate details that stifle the 
 main action, leave upon the memory a very confused 
 sense of the particular merits or final aim of the story. 
 Looking back upon the whole series, one is apt, from 
 the homogeneity, or family-hkeness, which pervades 
 them, to mistake one for another, to run Darnley into 
 Richelieu, or jumble up De L'Orme with De Leon. 
 This indistinctness arises from want of care and reflec- 
 tion in the preliminary settlement of a definite design. 
 The novel seems to be begun and finished at a single 
 heat, while the first thought was still fresh, and before 
 time had been allowed to examine its capabilities, or 
 shape it to an end. The consequences of this indiscre- 
 tion rise up in judgment against the author in every 
 page. There is no repose in the action, the portraiture, 
 the embroidery, the scenery, to give leisure for the 
 reader to take in the vital elements of the subject, or for 
 the prominent personages to grow out into their full and 
 natural proportions, and fix themselves calmly, but forci- 
 bly, upon his attention. 
 
 Novels written upon this plan, or rather absence of 
 plan, may be, as they are, admirable novels of costume; 
 they may even lay claim to the higher distinction of be- 
 ing capital illuminations, worthy of being let into the 
 margin of history; but they must not be confounded 
 with that class of historical or real-life novels in which 
 all other considerations are subservient to the delinea- 
 tion of human nature. 
 
 Fortunately these faults are not of a kind to mar very 
 materially the pleasure of the bulk of novel- readers; 
 who, moreover, find too many sources of rational enjoy- 
 ment in Mr. James's books not t» be ready to compound . 
 
CAPT. MARRYATT, AND MRS. TROLLOPE. 135 
 
 all their sins of execution for their research and good 
 sense— qualities so very rare in modern fictions. 
 
 The historical research evinced in them is very con- 
 siderable ; much more varied and extensive than the au- 
 thor is ever likely to get credit for from the multitude. 
 , People are apt to take history in this shape for granted, 
 : without troubling themselves to look beyond the page 
 before them for any further satisfaction of their curios- 
 ity. But if they were to follow out the suggestions of 
 the narrative, to read up to the point of interest selected 
 by the author, and to render themselves familiar with 
 the life of the period, so as to be able to grasp it in all 
 its aspects, they would begin to perceive that the works 
 which they had been accustomed to regard merely as 
 pleasant pastime, are frequently the fruits of severe in- 
 vestigation. The historical novelist must know a great 
 deal more than he can exhibit in his novels ; he must 
 have laid all the adjacent fields of enquiry under tribute, 
 and mastered many details lying outside the topic, lime, 
 and country, he has chosen for his canvass. He cannot 
 ■cram for the occasion. His collateral studies are as in- 
 dispensable to his purpose as side-hghts to the stage 
 where the action would proceed in comparative dark- 
 ness without them, although they are themselves al- 
 ways kept out of sight. 
 
 h\ this respect Mr. James's novels are entitled to high 
 commendation. They embrace a wide scope of reading, 
 including nearly all ages and countries. Mr. James, 
 indeed, seems to have an especial genius for this discur- 
 sive style of historical literature, and ranges with equal 
 ease through the camp of A^ttila and the salons of Louis 
 Quatorze. In French history he is particularly at 
 home; and the whole vocabulary of chivalry is at his 
 fingers' ends. To say that he has not sometimes adapt- 
 ed history to his own ends, would be to claim for him a 
 merit he would scarcely set up for himself; but it may 
 be safely asserted that of all historical novelists he is, 
 beyond comparison, the most faithful and conscientious. 
 He rarely exceeds the fair license of idealizing his ma- 
 terials ; he seldom makes his prominent historical per- 
 sonages responsible for public acts which he cannot 
 verify by authorities ; and he always presents them in 
 as strict keeping with their admitted hneaments and 
 characteristics, as can reasonably be expected under 
 the new circumstances in which he |iuds it necessary 
 
136 G. p. R. JAMES, MRS. GORE, 
 
 to place them. For this reason we prefer his professed 
 fictions to his professed biographies. They are closer 
 to the mark «f real life. They bring out the portrait 
 more distinctly, surrounded by accessories that assist us 
 to a more intimate view of its features. The habit of 
 writing fiction has given a dangerous freedom to his 
 niHuner of dealing with facts, which communicates its [ 
 influence, more or less, to his purely historical labours..? 
 He works up a history in the picturesque spirit of a ro-; 
 mance ; and, although it is to the full as trustworthy as 
 many much duller works, one cannot help being struck 
 by its deficiencies in closeness of texture and weight of 
 style. 
 
 On the other hand, there seems to be no limit to his 
 ingenuity, his faculty of getting up scenes and incidents, 
 dilemmas, artifices, contre temps, battles, skirmishes, dis- 
 guises, escapes, trials, combats, adventures. He accu- 
 mulates names, dresses, implements of war and peace, 
 oflficial retinues, and the whole paraphernalia of customs 
 and costumes with astounding alacrity. He appears to 
 have exhausted every imaginable "situation," and to 
 have described every available article of attire on rec- 
 ord. What he must have passed through — what tri- 
 umphs he must have enjoyed — what exigencies he must 
 have experienced — what love he must have suffered — 
 what a grand wardrobe his brain must be ! He has made 
 some poetical and dramatic efforts ; but this irresistible 
 tendency to pile up circumstantial particulars is fatal to 
 those forms of art which demand intensity of passion. 
 In stately narratives of chivalry and feudal grandeur, 
 precision and reiteration aae desirable rather than inju- 
 rious — as we would have the most perfect accuracy 
 and finish in a picture of ceremonials ; and here Mr. 
 James is supreme. One of his court romances is a 
 book of brave sights and heraldic magnificence — it is the 
 next thing to moving at our leisure through some su- 
 perb and august procession. 
 
 All his works, without distinction, are pervaded by 
 moral feehng. There is a soul of true goodness in 
 them — no maudlin affectation of virtue, but a manly rec- 
 titude of aim which they derive direct from the heart of 
 the writer. His enthusiastic nature is visibly impressed 
 upon his productions. They are full of his own frank 
 and generous impulses — impulses so honourable to him 
 in private life. Out of his books, there is no man more 
 
CAPT. MARRYATT, AND MRS. TROLLOPE. 137 
 
 sincerely beloved. Had he not even been a distinguish 
 «d author, his active sympathy in the cause of letters 
 •would have secured to him the attachment and respect 
 of his contemporaries. 
 
 If we had prescribed to oui selves in this desuilory 
 criticism anything like a distinct plan, we should be ter- 
 ribly puzzled to assign a satisfactory reason for turning 
 from Mr. James to Mrs. Gore. They are neither so 
 like nor unlike as that one should be suggestive of the 
 other. But we have no plan at all — beyond that of 
 illustrating two or three popular phases of our prose fic- 
 tion through two or three of its master-spirits; and the 
 name of Mrs. Gore occurs to us as one of the most con- 
 spicuous. Within the last eight or nine years she has 
 distanced nearly all her contemporaries by a rapid suc- 
 cession of some of the most brilliant novels in our lan- 
 guage. 
 
 The only element we can discover in common be- 
 tween Mr. James and Mrs. Gore, is that marvellous ca- 
 pacity of production by which they are both so well 
 known in the circulating libraries. Wherever you see 
 a board hung out at the door of a provincial or suburban 
 library, containing a list of the last batch of new books, 
 you may be quite certain of finding Mrs. Gore and Mr. 
 James prodigiously distinguished at the head of it in. 
 Brobdignagian letters. They are the Penates of the 
 subscription shops. Their "last" is ever fresh and nev- 
 er wanting — when the season sets in, they set in, and as 
 punctually as the booksellers' circular is published, they 
 are published. Whatever irregularities may mark the 
 appearances of Bulwer, or Horace Smith, or Morier, 
 none are perceptible in their appearances. The dead 
 months of the year alone intervene — they are as sure to 
 come out with the earliest spring and winter advertise- 
 ments, as the scribe of the mysterious " Evening pa- 
 per" is sure, by some inexplicable means, to anticipate 
 the merits of every one of Mr. Colburn's new publica- 
 tions. 
 
 But accustomed as the public are to this constant and 
 undeviatmg fertility, they can form, nevertheless, only 
 an imperfect notion of the surprising industry of Mrs. 
 Gore. Apprehensive of risking her well-earned popu- 
 larity by taxing the indulgence of her admirers too 
 heavily, or, perhaps, of bringing herself within the lash 
 of the old saw, that easy writing is not always the easi- 
 M 2 ~ 
 
138 G. p. R. JAMES, MRS. GORE, 
 
 est reading, she has given many of her productions to 
 the world anonymously. Many and many a time has 
 some innocent country squire pondered over a new 
 novel with most critical delight, and prophesied a fa- 
 mous literary destiny for its unknown author, little sus- 
 pecting that it sprang from the well-known "Roman 
 hand" to which he was indebted for a similar pleasure 
 only a week or two before. Publishers have been some- 
 times compelled to run a race for priority in bringing 
 out her works ; so that it has happened that two of her 
 novels, appearing in the same week, have been actually 
 made to oppose each other in the market. Profound 
 must be the arts of the bibliopolic craft by which a 
 woman can thus be turned into her own rival. 
 
 In addition to these original productions, acknowledg- 
 ed and unacknowledged, including all sorts of contribu- 
 tions to periodicals, Mrs. Gore has executed some trans- 
 lations from the French, and given several small dramas 
 to the stage ; such as the " Maid of Croissy," " The 
 Tale of a Tub," "The Sledge-Driver," &c., all founded 
 upon, if not taken from, French originals. She has also 
 written a comedy called " The School for Coquettes," 
 and others; but they will scarcely increase her reputa- 
 tion. So fluent and spontaneous a writer was not likely 
 to restrain herself within dramatic forms, without losing 
 much of her natural spirit; and she is still less likely 
 ever to subdue her teeming eloquence down to the brev- 
 ity of expression so essential to what may be properly 
 called dramatic language. She might conceive a com- 
 edy admirably in three volumes, but it is nearly impos- 
 sible she could write one in five acts. 
 
 It is well known in the literary circles that Mrs. Gore 
 is the author of that clever, but surpassingly impudent 
 book, " Cecil." We believe she has never avowed it, 
 and has rather, on the contrary, kept up a little mysti- 
 fication about it. But there is really no doubt on the 
 subject. She wrote the story, and Mr. Beckford helped 
 her to the learning. The public have been often per- 
 plexed by Mrs. Gore's Greek and Latin, which, although 
 they were never paraded so impertinently as the poly- 
 glott pretensions of Lady Morgan, were still remote 
 enough from the ordinary course of female accomplislv- 
 meiiis to startle the public. Where they came from on 
 former occasions we know not; but in this instance 
 they may be referred to Mr. Beckford, together with th^ 
 
CAPT. MARRYATT, AND MRS. TROLLOPE. 139 
 
 Still more recondite scraps of far-off tongues that are 
 scattered through the work. 
 
 " Cecil" is a perfect representation of the worst, but 
 certainly the most dazzHng aspect of Mrs. Gore's ge- 
 nius. It abounds in flashy, high-mettled fashionable 
 slang, and is thrown off in such a vein of upsetting ego- 
 tism, with such a shew of universal knowledge, and io 
 a style of such dashing effrontery, that it carries the 
 multitude fairly off their legs. There never was a novel 
 written at such a slapping pace. The fearlessness of. 
 the execution diverts attention from its deficiencies as' 
 a work of art, and helps in a great degree to conceal 
 the real poverty of the conception. But books of this 
 class will not endure the test of re-perusal. Their shal- 
 lowness becomes palpable at the second reading, even 
 to those who have not sufficient discernment to detect 
 it at once. 
 
 As there is nothing so intolerable as dulness, so there 
 is nothing so attractive as vivacity. And this is the 
 predominant quality which has ensured the success of 
 " Cecil." The unflagging gaiety by which the story is 
 lighted up, puts the reader into the best possible humour 
 with himself and the author. When this temper of mu- 
 tual good-will is attained by any means, the result is 
 safe. But critics must not suffer their judgment to be 
 taken by storm in this way. They must look a little 
 below the surface, and satisfy themselves as to the con- 
 gruity of the fable, the truthfulness of the characters, 
 and the general bearing of the whole design. To sub- 
 ject the motley " Cecil" to such an ordeal would be an" 
 act of great cruelty. It would be the breaking of a very 
 charming butterfly on a wheel of torture. The plot is 
 frequently absurd and sometimes improbable — the 
 prominent figures are at best clever exaggerations of 
 an artificial state of society — and the moral, K that be 
 the right name for the final impression it leaves upo5i 
 the mind, is an unprofitable exposition of selfishness 
 and sensuality, and of aristocratic talents steeped to 
 rottenness in the most debasing vices. The second se- 
 ries was an attempt to redeem " Cecil," but, like most 
 second series, the experiment was felt on all hands to 
 be a failure. 
 
 We have referred to " Cecil" for the purpose of get- 
 ting rid at once of all our objections to Mrs. Gore as 
 a novelist. Wherever she has elsewhere missed a 
 
140 G. p. R. JAMES, MRS. GORE, 
 
 complete triumph, it has generally arisen from the in- 
 trusion of this same spirit of coxcombry. As a painter 
 of society, possessing knowledge of human nature, she 
 leaves the Richardsons and Brookes far behind. The 
 elasticity of her manner is perfectly unrivalled. If she 
 rarely reaches the quiet humour of Madame D'Arblay, 
 and never realizes the Dutch fidelity of Miss Austen, 
 she preserves, upon the whole, a more sustained flight 
 than either.* Although nearly all her novels belong to 
 the same genus, and are minted off with nearly the same 
 pattern, they do not fatigue or disappoint the reader. 
 Their buoyancy imparts to them a perpetual youth. 
 
 Mrs. Gore's views of English society are not always 
 founded on actual observation. Sometimes, out of 
 sheer impatience of time and thought, she drops into 
 the old traditions of fashionable life, as they have de- 
 scended to us in the plays and novels of the last centu- 
 ry, making her lords and ladies move about like per- 
 sons in a masquerade who have come to play allegor- 
 ical characters and shew off their finery, instead of be- 
 ing engaged in the bona fide business of life. Yet she 
 presents this false picture with so much tact and adroit- 
 ness, and colours it so superbly, that, with all our con- 
 sciousness of its unreality, we feel it to be irresistibly 
 amusing. Genius alone can thus invest shadows Avith 
 interest; and there is a fehcity in Mrs. Gore's genius 
 which gives piquancy and effect to everything she 
 touches. When she sets herself in earnest to sketch 
 the aristocracy, she shew^s how little necessity she has 
 for reflecting in her faithful pages artificial modes that 
 have been long since extinct, or cobweb refinements 
 that never existed. She never succeeds so well as in 
 that class of experienpes which come within her own 
 immediate observation. Her gentry are capital. She 
 excels in the portraiture of the upper section of the mid- 
 dle class, just at the point of contact with the nobility, 
 where their own distinguishing traits are modified by 
 the peculiarities of their social position. The firmness 
 and subtlety with which she traces them through all 
 their relations, political and domestic ; the almost mas- 
 culine energy she throws into her vivid details of party 
 
 * We hardly feel at ease in the above classification of Richardson with the 
 author of the " Fool of Quality." We also think that Miss Austen preserves 
 a very sustained flight ; it may be near the ground, but she never fl,ags in a 
 feather.— Ed. 
 
CAPT. MAERYATT, AND MRS. TROLLOPE. 141 
 
 intrigue, from the public contentions in parliamen!: to 
 the secret conspiracies of the club and the boudoir; and 
 the consummate sagacity she displays in unveiling to 
 its very household recesses the interior life that pants 
 under all this external tumult, wrong-headed and hollow- 
 hearted, proud, sensitive and irritable — are solid quali- 
 ties upon which she may safely repose for the verdict of 
 posterity. 
 
 Her parvenues are quite equal in their way to any ex- 
 amples of the kind in our language, without being de- 
 graded by superfluous grossness, or farcical expedients. 
 They are not labelled like fools and jesters, but made 
 to work out their ends by their own lusty vanities, and 
 by the unsuspecting sincerity with which they eternally 
 strive against the grain of their unfitness. She lets 
 their humanity rise superior to the humour she raises 
 at their expense, and sometimes even flings a tinge of 
 sadness over their hopeless exclusion from the circles 
 to which they aspire. She does not hesitate to exhibit 
 them, on occasion, like the poor Peri crouched at the 
 gate of Paradise with the opal light falling through a 
 chink on her folded wings. She is not unmindful of 
 the pathetic truth that wells up to the surface of all mis- 
 directed eff'orts and false enthusiasm, even through the 
 most ludicrous association of ideas. It is this truth 
 ■which makes " Don Quixote," to those who perceive its 
 true meaning, one of the most profomidly melancholy 
 books in the world. 
 
 If we wanted a complete contrast to Mrs. Gore, we 
 have i-t at hand in Mrs. Trollope. The class to which 
 she belongs is, fortunately, very small ; but it will al- 
 ways be recruited from the ranks of the unscrupulous, 
 so long as a corrupt taste is likely to yield a trifling 
 prtjflt. She owes everything to that audacious con- 
 tempt of public opinion, which is the distinguishing- 
 mark of persons who are said to stick at nothing. No- 
 thing but this sticking at nothing could have produced 
 some of the books she has written, in which her won- 
 derful impunity of face is so remarkable. Her consti- 
 tutional coarseness is the natural element of a low pop- 
 ularity, and is sure to pass for cleverness, shrewdness, 
 and strength, where cultivated judgment and chaste in- 
 spiration would be thrown away.* Her books of travel 
 
 * Still, we subtnit that the critic does not admit enough on the other side.. 
 
142 G. p. R. JAMES, MRS. GORE, 
 
 are crowded with plebeian criticisms on works of art 
 and the usages of courts, and are doubtless held in great 
 esteem by her admirers, who love to see such things 
 overhauled and dragged down to their own level. The 
 book on America is of a different class. The subject 
 exactly suited her style and her taste, and people look- 
 ed on at the fun as they would at a scramble of sweeps 
 in the kennel ; while the reflecting few thought it a lit- 
 tle unfair in Mrs. Trollope to find fault with the man- 
 ners of the Americans. Happy for her she had such a 
 topic to begin with. Had she commenced her literary 
 career with Austria or France, in all likehhood, she 
 would have ended it there. 
 
 But it is to her novels she is chiefly indebted for her 
 current reputation; and it is here her defects are most 
 glaringly exhibited. She cannot adapt herself to the 
 characterization requisite in a work of fiction : she can- 
 not go out of herself: she serves up everything with 
 the same sauce : the predominant flavour is Trollope 
 still. The plot is always preposterous, and the actors 
 in it seem to be eternally bullying each other. She 
 takes a strange delight in the hideous and revolting, and 
 dwells with gusto upon the sins of vulgarity. Her sen- 
 sitiveness upon this point is striking. She never omits 
 an opportunity of detaihng the faults of low-bred peo- 
 ple, and even goes out of her way to fasten the stigma 
 upon others who ought to have been more gently tas- 
 selled. Then her low people are sunk deeper than the 
 lowest depths, as if they had been bred in and in, to the 
 last dregs. Nothing can exceed the vulgarity of Mrs. 
 Trollope's mob of characters, except the vulgarity of 
 her select aristocracy. That is transcendent — it caps 
 the climax. 
 
 We have heard it urged on behalf of Mrs. Trollope, 
 that her novels are, at all events, drawn from life. So 
 are sign-paintings. It is no great proof of their truth 
 that centaurs and grifiins do not run loose through her 
 pages, and that her men and women have neither hoofs 
 nor tails. The tawdriest wax-works, girt up in paste 
 and spangles, are also " drawn from life ;" but there 
 ends the resemblance. 
 
 Foremost amongst the novelists who really do " draw 
 from hfe," is Captain Marryatt. Were it necessary to 
 
 We think Mrs. Trollope is clever, shrewd, and strong ; as certainly as that 
 Mrs. Gore has a bright wit.— Ed 
 
CAPT. MARRYATT, AND MRS. TROLLOPE. 143 
 
 seek any excuse for occasional blemishes in his tales, 
 £he best that could be found is, that they are, more or 
 less, indigenous to the soil he turns up. The life-like 
 earnestness of his sketches may generally be urged 
 with confidence in vindication of any faults which may 
 be detected in them by prudish or captious readers. 
 Captain Marryatt is the antipodes of a fine writer. His 
 English is always rough-cast, and his style frequently 
 crude and slovenly. But this negligence of forms only 
 heightens the substantial interest of the matter. He 
 tells a story like one who has his heart in it, and who 
 is indifferent to everything but his facts. The veracity 
 of his fictions, if we may use the expression, constitutes 
 their permanent charm. 
 
 Few novelists have ever more distinctly shown, that 
 the secret of success in works of this description is 
 close adherence to nature. There are no dramatic per- 
 plexities in his books, no fluent descriptions, no turgid 
 appeals to the imagination: his narratives are simple 
 and progressive ; he never uses a word more than he 
 actually wants ; and the class from which he generally 
 selects his characters, cannot certainly be considered 
 very attractive to the public at large. Yet his novels 
 are read with breathless curiosity in the most refined 
 circles, as well as in those to whose sympathies they 
 are more directly addressed. By what means does he 
 so successfully attain this result? By fidelity to the 
 nature he professes to delineate. There is literally no- 
 thing else in his books to fascinate attention. But, then, 
 this " like Aaron's serpent swallows up the rest." 
 
 Coincident with his inherent truthfuhiess is the total 
 absence of egotism and affectation. You never feel the 
 author looking in upon you through the curtains of the 
 story to see how you like him. There is no personal 
 idiosyncrasy thrust upon you ; no literary vanity sus- 
 pending the action to let the author survey himself in 
 the glass ; the story predominates to the entire exclu- 
 sion of the authorship, and might have been written by 
 A. B. or C, as well as by Marryatt, for all the reader 
 has any reason to know. 
 
 It is the " one touch of nature," that makes people 
 who are technically ignorant of ships and seamen, and 
 of the seaward Hfe, articulated so correctly in Captain 
 Marryatt's books, feel so strong an interest in the for- 
 tunes of his heroes. Their individuality rises up palpa* 
 
144 G. p. R. JAMES, MRS. GORE, ETC. 
 
 bly under his hands. The vicissitudes through which 
 they pass may be new and foreign, but their humani'^y 
 is intelligible and familiar. His characters, whatever 
 may be iheir rank, are appropriate to the place and bu- 
 siness in which they are engaged ; they are acting pre- 
 cisely as you would expect such men to act in such cir- 
 cumstances ; they are surrounded by the essentials of 
 their condition ; and a practical property and consisten- 
 cy, the perfection of art in its kind, invariably presides 
 over their language and conduct. You become gradu- 
 ally intimate with them, and are affected at last by a 
 pure sympathy in their way of life ; and thus a race, pe- 
 culiar in Itself, and remote from the daily intercourse of 
 the world, is made to reach and agitate the universal 
 heart. 
 
 Of course we do not apply this description indiscrim- 
 inately to all Captain Marryatt's productions. It must 
 be taken with exceptions ; as all criticisms must, that 
 aim at nothing more than to exhibit salient characteris- 
 tics. 
 
THOMAS NOON TALFOURD. 
 
 *' A Serjeant of the Lawe, ware and wise, 
 Tnat often hadde yben at the paruis. 
 There was also, lull riche of excellence. 
 Discrete he was, and of gret reverence ; 
 lie seemed swiche, his wordes were so wise." — Chauceb. j 
 
 "And give me stomach to digest this Law, 
 O sacred Puesy, the queen rf souls ! 
 Would men learn but to distinguish spirits. 
 And set true difference 'twixt those jaded wits 
 That run a broken pace to: common hire, 
 And the high raptures of a happy muse ! — 
 
 Hence, Law, and welcome. Muses ! tho'not rich 
 
 Yet are you pleasing : let's bo reconciled I" — Ben Jonson. 
 
 It falls to the lot of very few men to attain to emi- 
 sience in many and various paths. The subject of the 
 present essay, celebrated as an able, accomplished, and 
 conscientious lawyer, an acute critic of independent 
 judgment and generous feelings, an eloquent orator, a 
 consistent legislator, and a dramatic poet, is one of 
 these few who have so signalized themselves. 
 
 Thomas Noon Talfourd is a native of Reading. His 
 mother was the daughter of INIr. Thomas Noon, who 
 v/as for thirty years the minister of the Independent 
 congregation there. Accordingly he was instructed in 
 their strict tenets, and his early education was obtained 
 in their school at Mill-Hill; bin being removed to the 
 public grammar school under Dr. Valpy, he there ac- 
 quired a love of Shakspeare and the drama — forbidden 
 ground to his native sect — and soon adopted the less 
 rigid doctrines of the Church of England. At the same 
 time he acquired those ardent political feelings, which, 
 tempered by time, he has always since maintained. His 
 poetical talent was developed equally early. In the 
 year 1811, while still at school, he published a volume 
 <3ntilled *' Poems on various Subjects." The subjects 
 are interesting, as evincing the character of his thoughts 
 at this early period. One of them, entitled '' On the 
 Education of the Poor," and another, " The Union and 
 BrotluM-hood of Mankind," obtained for him the ac- 
 quaintance of Joseph Fox, distinguished for his zeal in 
 -the cause of education, and this new friend introduced 
 N 
 
146 SERJEANT TALFOURD. 
 
 him by letter to Lord (then Mr. Henry Brougham). He 
 was received by that distinguished individual with the 
 utmost kindness, and encouraged to work his way to 
 the bar through hterature. Following this judicious ad- 
 vice, he engaged himself in 1813 to Mr. Chitty for a pe- 
 riod of four years. 
 
 The literary career of the j'^oung lawyer began with 
 an essay published in the " Pamphleteer," early in 1813, 
 entitled " An Appeal to the Protestant Dissenters of 
 Great Britain on behalf of the Catholics." This essay- 
 was eloquently written and breathed a spirit of liberali- 
 ty, such as is rightly denominated "Christian." Tal- 
 fourd was then under eighteen. '• A Critical Examina- 
 tion of some objections taken by Cobbett to the Unita- 
 rian Relief Bill," was a very successful attempt to grap- 
 ple with a writer of such singular power. " Observa- 
 tions on the Punishment of the Pillory," and "An Ap- 
 peal against the Act for regulating Royal Marriages," 
 look the side of humanity against barbarous custom and 
 mistaken notions of national policy. 
 
 An " Attempt to Estimate the Poetical Talent of the 
 Present Age," written in 1815, is chiefly remarkable as 
 testifying his high appreciation of the poetry of Words- 
 worth, (at a period when such a testimony was suffi- 
 cient to ensure almost universal ridicule,) and scarcely 
 less so for the courage with which it denounced the 
 gloomy exaggerations of Lord Byron, who was then in 
 the full blaze of his popularity. Hazlitt's " Spirit of the 
 Age," was not published till ten years afterwards. Mr. 
 Talfourd was probably the very first who publicly de- 
 clared, on critical grounds, that William Wordsworth 
 was a true poet. In this declaration, as in several oth- 
 ers in this " Estimate," he displayed the very uncommon 
 critical faculty of discovering the truth by its own light,. 
 and the almost as uncommon courage and generosity in 
 telling the world — without equivocation or escape-valves 
 — what he had found. 
 
 In 1817, Talfourd started as a Special Pleader. Du- 
 ring his period of study he had assisted Mr. Chitty in 
 his voluminous work on the Criminal Laws. The chief 
 quarters in which he carried on his literary labours, 
 were now in the " Retrospective Review," and the " En- 
 cyclopaedia Metropolitana." The articles on " Homer,'' 
 on " Greek Tragedians," and " Greek Lyric Poets," in 
 the latter, were written by him. He began his connec- 
 
SERJEANT TALFOUllD. 147 
 
 tion with tlie " New Monthly" in 1820, and continued to 
 furnish the dramatic criticisms, besides other papers, in 
 that magazine for twelve years. He subsequently 
 wrote in the " Edinburgh Review" and " London Magu- 
 zine," and published in 1826 a Memoir of Mrs. Radcliffe, 
 prefixed to her posthumous work of " Gaston de Blonde- 
 ville." About the same tin)e he brought out an edi- 
 tion of " Dickenson's Guide to the Quarter Sessions," a 
 labour for which the puzzled brains of country squires 
 best know how to feel grateful to him. 
 
 Mr. Talfourd was called to the bar by the Society of 
 the Middle Temple in 1821, and joined the Oxford Cir- 
 cuit and Berkshire Sessions. In 1822 he married Rachel, 
 daughter of John Powell Rutt, Esq., a name well known 
 to political reformers. 
 
 The gradual extension of his professional engage- 
 ments through the circuit, induced him to retire from 
 the sessions at the expiration of twelve years, when he 
 was called to the degree of Serjeant — the very same 
 year in which he wrote his tragedy of " Ion." He now 
 contines his practice almost exclusively to the circuit 
 of the Common Pleas. Any exception has been on oc- 
 casions when his s)'mpathies excited him to exertion. 
 He undertook the defence of the " True Sun" newspa- 
 per in the King's Bench, and electrified the court by his 
 eloquence on that occasion. His defence of " Tait's 
 Magazine" against Richmond, in the Exchequer, was 
 ■equally brilliant and sound of argument. 
 
 In 1834, the electors of Reading returned their distin- 
 guished tovi'nsman to Parliament by a large majority, 
 composed of all parties. He was returned again in the 
 General Election of 1839, but declined standing in that 
 of 1841. Plis parliamentary career has been distinguish- 
 ed by the same high talent, consistency of principle, 
 and moral purpose, which have pervaded his life. His 
 most celebrated speeches are those on moving for the 
 Law of Copyright, and on bringing forward his " Cur-- 
 tody of Infants" Bill. The tone and style of the forme- 
 speech were, like its subject, new to the ear of the 
 House ; but he was listened to with deep attention, 
 while with earnest and fluent language, assisted by 
 happy illustrative reference, he enforced the claims of 
 the struggling professors of literature upon that proper- 
 ty in the products of the brain, which the law allov.^ed 
 to be wrested from them. With regard to the Custodv 
 
148 SERJEANT TALFOURD. 
 
 of Infants, his attempt to obtain an alteration of tha 
 statute, which in every case of separation, though the 
 character of the wife was as free from spot or taint as 
 that of the liusband was sullied by vice, yet releiitlessly 
 tore the children from their mother, and gave them as 
 his sole right to the fatlier — was advocated with inde- 
 fatigable zeal, and finally with success. 
 
 Mr. Serjeant Talfourd was an assiduous discharger 
 of his parliamentary duties, when not engaged on the 
 circuit; notwithstanding v.hich, he always found time 
 for literature. The two tragedies which succeeded 
 "Ion," were written while he was in Parliament. He 
 also at that period published an edition of the " Letters 
 of Lamb," with a touching and masterly sketch of the 
 life of his old friend ; a delightful book to all true lovers 
 of literature. 
 
 While the leisure hours of Mr. Talfourd have been 
 enriched with the society of the most distinguished lit- 
 erary characters of the tune, for among his friends have 
 been — the living would be too numerous to mention — 
 Godwin, Hazlitt, Coleridge, Lamb, &c., he never forgot 
 his old master, Dr. Valpy. Among other instances of 
 friendly intercourse, which continued to the close of 
 Dr. Valpy's life, he regularly attended all the meetings 
 of the school, and always wrote the epilogues to the 
 Greek Plays triennially performed. 
 
 Mr. Talfourd is remarkable for having achieved an 
 equally high reputation in law and in letters ; and it is. 
 almost as peculiar a circumstance that he has had so 
 few dissentient voices among the critics of Ids day. 
 Dissentient voices of course he has had to endure, as all 
 eminent men must have in their lifetime, and more or 
 less afterwards; but if the worthy Serjeant has occa- 
 sionally suffered, he has not had more than "his share," 
 while the majority have cordially admitted his claims 
 with such slight objections or differences of opinion with 
 him, and with each other, as are natural to different 
 minds in contemplating the same objects. The spirit of 
 fairness asks and permits this amicable discussion on 
 all hands, and with this feeling the following critical re- 
 marks are submitted. 
 
 If the public, with its leaders and teachers and censors 
 of the present day, are cold and indifferent with regard 
 to dramatic literature, or positively hosiiie when a dra- 
 ma is published without having been produced on the 
 
SERJEANT TALFOl'RD. 149 
 
 -Stage— it is probable that matters were still worse in this 
 respect when iMr. Talfourd commenced his dramatic ca- 
 reer. To complete, therefore, the peculiarity of his po- 
 sition, he wrung from the public and the iiifluencers of 
 its opinions — opinions which seemed to assume some 
 credit to themselves for their undramatic tendencies — a 
 triumph, and on the very stage, for a legitimate drama; 
 and while the age had been returning, in the more promi- 
 nent of its late poetry, to the Shaksperean and Elizabe- 
 than standards, he stood in the doorway of the Gallic- 
 Greek- Enghsh school, and took the town by surprise 
 with a new "Cato" of a stronger colouring and calibre. 
 We say advisedly the Gallic-Greek-English school — 
 meaning the Gallic conception of the Greek drama, which 
 is indeed a thing as unlike the reality, as Versailles is to 
 the Parthenon ; and which Dryden helped to naturalize 
 in England, when he " reformed" our versification gener- 
 ally, upon the Gallic conception of rhythm. Of this 
 school (not that we for a moment would hint at any ac- 
 tual similarity) were Addison's "Cato,"" Johnson's "Ire- 
 ne," and Holme's " Douglas :" and of this, in our later 
 age, arose " Ion," vrhich is well worth all the three, tak- 
 ing them on their own ground ; more exalted than " Ca- 
 to," more eloquent than " Irene," and more purely tender 
 than " Douglas ;" with a glow from end to end, which 
 may be called the sentiment of unity, and which nobly 
 distinguishes it from all. Let the same question of ori- 
 gin be put to Mr. Talfourd's as to the " Ion" of Euripides, 
 
 and it must be answered, we believe, even so. 
 
 Of the concentration and passion of the Shaksperean 
 drama, Mr. Talfourd's first dramatic production does not, 
 as we have assumed, partake. The appeal of his trage- 
 dy is to the conscientiousness of its audience ; and it pu- 
 rines less by pity and terror, than by admiration and ex- 
 altation. Its power is less an intellectual and poetical 
 than a moral power; and the peculiarity of its sublime 
 lies significantly in the excellence of its virtue. For, — 
 avoiding any loose classification of this tragedy with the 
 works of the Greek dramatists, on the specious ground 
 of its containing that awful dogma of fatalism which is 
 the thunder of the ^Escliylean drama ; the critic will rec- 
 ognize, upon consideration, that while the design of 
 ■" ion" turns upon a remorseless fatahsm, the principal 
 N 2 
 
150 SERJEANT TALFOURD. 
 
 action turns upon Virtue completing herself within the- 
 narrow bounds left by Destiny to Life. It is not only a. 
 drama of fate, but of self-devoted duty. The necessity 
 of woe is not stronger in it, than the necessity of hero- 
 ism. The determination of the heroic free-will confronts 
 in it gloriously the predestination of circumstance. And, 
 strikingly and"^ contrastingly effective, there arises beside 
 the VIS iricriics of the colossal Fate, and the vis certamini.s- 
 of the high-hearted victim, the tender elevated purity of 
 the woman Clemanihe; equal in augustness to either 
 power, and crushed disconsolately between both. 
 
 This mixture of the pure Christian principle of faith 
 and love with the Greek principle of inexorable fate, pro- 
 duces an incongruity in the tragedy which raises a con- 
 flict in the mind. Capricious demons are left triumphant,, 
 and noble humanity is sacrificed. The very same ef- 
 fect is equally produced by the method and style of the 
 execution. In the Greek mode of treating these sub- 
 jects the sublime rather than the beautiful is aimed at ; 
 the sterner and colder characters of the actors, and the 
 pov^erful effect of the chorus, nerve the mind to bear 
 the contemplation of humanity in the iron grasp of Fate, 
 Above all, sympathy is not allowed to rest satisfied with 
 the triumph of the remorseless gods, for the old Greek 
 tragedians (if we except iEschylus) were most of them 
 sceptical at heart. The choruses, besides their alarms, 
 would have " had their doubts." 
 
 The tragedy of" Ion" has an admirable unity of pur- 
 pose and expression ; a unity apart from the "' unities,^ 
 and exceeding them in critical value ; and in ilself an es- 
 sential characteristic of every high work of art. The 
 conception springs clear from the author's mind, and 
 alights with fulness upon the readers ; the interest is un- 
 interrupted throughout, and the final impression distinct. 
 To the language, may be attributed appropriateness and 
 eloqueivce, with some occasional redundance, and a cer- 
 tain deficiency in strength : the images are rather ele- 
 gant than bold or original ; and the versification flows 
 gracefully and copiously within the limits of the school. 
 The effect of the whole is such as would be created were 
 it possible to restore the ground-plan of an Athenian 
 temple in its majestic and simple proportions, and deco- 
 rate it with the elegant statues of Canova. 
 
 Mr. Talfourd's second work of "The Athenian Cap- 
 tive," has much of the ruling principle, and most of the 
 
SERJEANT TALFOURD. 151 
 
 features of his former tragedy, though with sufficient va- 
 riety in its structure and adornments. If he appears 
 somewhat haunted by the ideal virtue of his " Ion," it is 
 not an ignoble bewitchment ; nor could any right priest- 
 ly hand extend itself very eagerly to exorcise a "man 
 of La we" of ihe nineteenth century, from the presence 
 of su(;h high chivalrous shadows. It was produced un- 
 der Mr. Macready's auspices, who personated the chief 
 charncter very finely. The effect of the tragedy was 
 very good in itself; very well received by a crowded au- 
 dience ; promised to become a refining influence upon 
 the stage — a stage so much needing such assistance — 
 was played three or four times, and has never been act- 
 ed since. The mysteries, like the stupidities, of Man- 
 agement, are inscrutable. 
 
 The tragedy of " Glencoe," — or "The Fate of the 
 Macdonalds," again displayed the learned author's ten- 
 dency to revert to the old classical tyranny of fate. But 
 still greater varieties were introduced in the present in- 
 stance than in the production last named. And not. 
 merely in the scenery and costume ; nor in the wish to 
 v/rite for a favourite actor — though the "Advertise- 
 ment to the Second Edition" would lead us fully to ex- 
 pect this. 
 
 "It was composed in the last vacatioa at Glandwr, in the most beautiful 
 part of North Wales, chiefly for the purpose of embodying- the feelings which. 
 the grandest scenery in the Highlands of Scotland had awakened, when I vis- 
 ited them in the preceding autumn. I hud no distinct inteatioa at that time 
 of seeking for it a trial on the stage ; but having almost unconsciously blend- 
 ed with the image of the hero, the figure, the attitudes, and the tones of the 
 great actor whom I had associated for many years with every form of tragedy, 
 I could not altogether repress the hope that I might one day enjoy the delight, 
 &c. &c. The Play was printed, merely for the purpose of being presented to 
 my friends ; but when only two or three copies had beenpresenl;ed, I was en- 
 couraged to believe that it would one day be acted," <tc. &c. 
 
 Passing over such objections as might be made to a 
 " tragedy" being written chiefly for the purpose of de- 
 scribing the emotions induced by any local scenery — 
 what a development is contained, in the last two sen- 
 tences, of the condition of dramatic aff'airs in this coun- 
 try ! — of the all-powerful position of a manager or prin- 
 cipal actor, and of the humiliating position of the dra- 
 .matic poet. Here we see one of the most able and em.- 
 inent men of the time humbly relating how he was 
 " encouraged to believe that his play would one day be 
 acted !' Instead of Mr. Talfourd being in a position to 
 command the representation of any production, it turns 
 out that he is exactly in the position of all other dram- 
 
152 SERJEANT TALFOURD. 
 
 atists— acted or unacted. Yet people wonder at the 
 poverty of the modern acted drama, and of the dearth of 
 any new pieces of the higher class. If Mr. Talfourd, 
 with his third tragedy, felt himself surrounded and op- 
 pressed with all these doubts and difficulties, what won- 
 der that nearly all other dramatists should have had no 
 chance. The accusations of partiality or favoritism in 
 the selection of the productions of particular men — ex- 
 cept in the single instance of Sir E. L. BuUver — are 
 comparatively unfounded. The expenses now thought 
 necessary to incur in the production of a new five-act 
 piece upon the stage, are so heavy, that very few new 
 pieces can be produced in a season ; so that the general 
 system is a tolerably impartial and sweeping rejection, 
 for which it is foolishly thought requisite by manage- 
 ments to oifer some other reasons, critical or prevari- 
 cating. 
 
 But in this tragedy of " Glencoe," there is not only 
 the charm of descriptive poetry, there is also the poetry 
 of feeling, and of deep unaffected sentiment. It has 
 nothing in common with that mawkish sentimentality 
 and affectation of something profound, either in thought 
 or feeling, which are discoverable in too many produc- 
 tions of our day. In " Glencoe" there is developed 
 clearly, and truly, that anguish which overcomes a noble 
 mind, when its affections, having been drawn out under 
 the half-guilty, half-innocent guise of female friendship, 
 till the devotion became entire and absorbing the whole 
 being — are put aside and evaded by the fair friend on the 
 score of nothing more than friendship having been un- 
 derstood. An anguish in which the future life of the 
 iover has become a drifting wreck; and that of the 
 thoughtless deceiver generally a sacrifice to some un- 
 genial and selfish alliance. The tragedy ends rather 
 poorly in comparison with the expectations raised by 
 the emotions previously excited; but that one striking 
 phase in the history of human hearts, is, however, em- 
 bodied in " Glencoe," and with a force, which the deli- 
 cacy and refinement of the language sometimes renders 
 less apparent to the ear than to the sensibility, but 
 which is derived from its inherent truth, and clearness 
 of development. 
 
 It may be said of Mr. Talfourd, as a general estimate 
 of his character, abilities, and aim in lif^e,that his whole 
 career has been equally distinguished by high moral 
 
SERJEANT TALFOURD. 153 
 
 purpose, and by ihe most unquestionable talents. It 
 does not fall within the scope of this work to enter into 
 any examination of Mr. Talfourd's legal abilities; we 
 must, therefore, content ourselves with observing, that 
 the marked anxiety of professional men to obtain his 
 services can only be the result of an experience of the 
 most advantageous results. 
 
R. M. MILNES AND H. COLERIDGE. 
 
 " Oh, Sir I pray is this gold ? — and this ? — aud this ? 
 
 Doth it sound ?— 
 
 Melodiously — a golden tune." — Shirley's Arcadia. 
 
 The poetry of Richard Monckton Milnes lias met 
 with considerable praise in many quarters, yet hardly 
 as much as it deserves; and it has met vvith peculiar 
 dispraise, more than it deserves, either in kind or de- 
 gree. A common case enough. Of the poetry of Hart- 
 ley Coleridge — as of Charles Tennyson, and Thomas 
 Wade — we may say, without fear of contradiction, that, 
 like many other good things, it is not at all known to 
 the public. 
 
 Mr. Milnes has been accused of a want of the divine 
 fire of imagination and passion ; and he has, moreover, 
 been accused of merely thinking that he thinks, or of imi- 
 tating the tone and current of other men's minds, and mis- 
 taking that for the original impulse and production of his 
 own. Not any of these broad accusations are justifiable, 
 and in some respects they are demonstrably unfounded. 
 
 Mr. Milnes does not appear to possess the least dra- 
 matic passion, nor does he display much impulse or en- 
 ergy in his poetry. There is no momentum in the 
 progress of his lines; and the want is conspicuously 
 betrayed in his blank verse, because, of all other forms, 
 that is the one which absolutely requires the most gen- 
 uine, thought-sustained, and unflagging energies. We 
 are almost tempted to hazard the opinion that fine blank 
 verse requires great material stamina; in fact, a power- 
 ful internal physique, to carry on the burthen and pur- 
 pose of the soul. We think that the psychological 
 history of nearly every one of our great poets who wrote 
 in blank verse, will bear us out in the opinion. Several 
 exceptions are undoubtedly against this ; and the great- 
 est of them would be Keats; yet here the exception 
 would tend to prove the rule, as he died soon after the 
 production of his only poem in blank verse, which is, 
 moreover, unfinished. How far this latter speculation — 
 which, indeed, may be of no sound value — would be ap- 
 plicable or inapplicable to the poet at present under dis- 
 
R. M. MILNES AND H. COLERIDGE. 155^ 
 
 cussion, need not be considered, because he seldom, 
 writes in blank verse ; he is essentially a lyrical poet ; 
 but to his occasionally attempting the former may be 
 attributed some of the accusations of want of passion 
 and impulsive energies. 
 
 But the most ostensible is not always the most forci- 
 ble ; there is latent fire as well as palpable combustion ; 
 and the eflfect of genuine elements, though always pro- 
 portionate to its cause, must seem inadequate, in all 
 cases of very refined or quiet development, except to 
 those who are prepared with a ready sympathy, and can 
 recognize the deepest source from the least murmuring: 
 that rises up to the surface. A poet should be judged 
 by the class to which he belongs, and by the degree of 
 success he attains in his own favourite aim. Mr. Milnes,. 
 regarding poetry as "the gods' most choicest dower," 
 says of it, in his " Leucas," — 
 
 •' Poesy, which in chaste repose abides, 
 As in its atmosphere ; that placid flower 
 Thou hast exposed to passion's fiery tides," &c. 
 
 Here, at once, we discover Mr. Milnes' theory, and 
 the chief aim of his muse. Sappho is blamed for steep- 
 ing her verse in " passion's fiery tides," because poesy 
 is said to abide " in chaste repose," as its proper atmo- 
 sphere. By this standard, then, is the poetry of Rich- 
 ard Monckton Milnes to be measured ; it is a standard' 
 of inherent beauty; and he will be found to attain it 
 most completely. A short extract from one of the ear- 
 liest poems in his collection, published ten years ago,, 
 ■will suffice to illustrate this. 
 
 " But when in clearer unison 
 
 That marvellous concord still went on ; 
 And gently as a blossom grows 
 g A frame of syllables uprose ; 
 
 With a delight akin to fear 
 
 My heart beat fast and strong, to hear 
 Two munnurs beautifully blent. 
 
 As of a voice and instrument, 
 A hand laid lig^htly on low chords, 
 
 A voice that sobbed between its words. 
 ' Stranger I the voice that trembles in your ear 
 
 You would have placed had you been fancv-free 
 First in the chorus of the happy sphere, 
 
 The home of deified mortality. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Stranger, the voice is Sappho's — weep ; oh ! weep. 
 
 That the soft tears of sympathy may fall 
 Into this prison of the sunless deep, 
 
 Where I am laid in miserable thrall.' "*— iewca*. 
 
 * MemoriaJs of a Tour in Greece, by R. M. Milnes. 1834. 
 
156 RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES 
 
 It is as a lyric and elegiac poet (in the ancient sense 
 of elegy) with a temperament rather elegiac than lyric, 
 that Mr. Monckton M lines takes his place among the 
 distinguished writers of his age and country. Notwith- 
 standing that he has written "■ Poetry for the People," 
 neither in the work in question nor in any other, has he 
 given evidence of a genius calculated for popular ap- 
 peals. He might have called his work '• Poetry for the 
 Philosopliers ;"" but the very philosophers shoidd be of 
 the upper House and accustomed to tread softly upon 
 Plato's carpets, or they would be found inevitably de- 
 fective, now and then, in their range of sympathies. For 
 Mr. Milnes is an aristocrat in literature and modes of 
 thought; though we are far from meaning lo insinuate 
 that he merely " writes like a gentleman ;" his mind 
 and heart are too strong in the "humanities." But the 
 impulses of mind and heart, although abundantly human 
 and true, are surrounded by so definite a circle of intel- 
 lectual habit, that they cannot, or, at least, do not cast 
 themselves beyond it ; and they remain coloured by the 
 mode. He thinks the truth out boldly, and feels gen- 
 erously the use of speaking it; but the medium of 
 expression between him and the public, is somewhat 
 <?onventionally philosophical in its character, and too 
 fine and recondite in its peculiarities, to be appreciated 
 by the people popularly so called. 
 
 The poetical prodisciions of Hartley Coleridge are 
 also exclusively lyrical and elegiac. He is one of the 
 many instances of the disadvantage of having an emi- 
 nent father. It was almost impossible for the son of 
 such a man not to be influenced by his father's genius 
 to a degree that is destructive of originality. With 
 strong feeling, a bright fancy, and a facility of versifica- 
 tion, there is yet a certain hard resemblance in the 
 poems of the son to the poems of the father, which may 
 perhaps be termed an unconscious mechanism of the 
 faculties, acting under the associations of love. His de- 
 signs want invention, and his rhapsodies abandonment. 
 His wildness does not look quite spontaneous, btit as if 
 it blindly followed something erratic. '!'he mirth seems 
 rather forced ; but the love and the melancholy are his 
 own. Hartley Coleridge has a sterling vein of thought 
 in him, without a habit and order of thought. It is ex- 
 tremely probable that he keeps his best things to him- 
 self. His father talked his best thoughts, so that some' 
 
AND HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 157 
 
 body had the benefit of them ; his son for the most part 
 keeps his for liis own bosom. 
 
 We are averse to notice a man's politics in speaking 
 ofhis poetry, but Mr. Hartley Coleridge forces his spleen 
 disagreeably upon the attention, especially in his " Leon- 
 ard y]id Susan." 
 
 But if the lovers of poetry have done wrong to suffer 
 the verses of Hartley Coleridge to sink into the mass of 
 forgotten publications, iiis a far stronger ground of com- 
 plaint that the poems of Thomas Wade — author of 
 "Mundi et Cordis Carmin>i," "Helena," and " Protha- 
 nasia," &(;., should not have fared very much better in 
 respect of popularity. The first of these works contains 
 many echoes of other poets, the consequence of studies 
 in a "loving spirit," but the echoes are true to their ori- 
 gin, and in the finest spirit. In m.ost cases, the thoughts 
 and images are his own, derived from his own imagina- 
 tion, and from the depths of his being. This is nK^re es- 
 pecially the case with " Prothanasia," which is founded 
 upon a passage in the correspondence of Bettine Bren- 
 tano with Goethe, and is well worthy of its foundation. 
 A few lines of uivocation will display the fervid tone of 
 this poem : — 
 
 " Beiiutiful River ! could I flow like thee, 
 Year after year, thro' tliis deliciousness 
 Ever-renewing ; and retain no iTiore 
 Of human thought and passion than might yield 
 A loving conscio'isness of grace and joy ; 
 I could content niP to endure, till Time 
 Had heap'd such inillion'd years upon his record, 
 As almost in himself to seem and be 
 The sole Eternity I — O, trees and flowers ; 
 .Toy-throated i.>irds ; and ye, soft airs and hues, 
 That nestle in you skiey radiance I 
 Happy ye are, as beauteous : to your life, 
 Unrealised, unrealisable. 
 Intolerable, infinite desire 
 Approacheth never ; and ye live and die, 
 Yournatni-es all-fulfilling and fultill'd, 
 Self-satiate and perfected." 
 
 It is impossible to believe that such a poem should 
 not some day find its just appreciation in the public 
 mind. And it is the least of the merits of this author's 
 productions that they display a care and classical finish 
 from which many well-known writers might derive a 
 verv sahitary lesson. 
 
 The following is one of Mr. Wade's sonnets, the pro- 
 phetic spirit of which is its own sufficient comment. It 
 is entitled " A Prophecy." 
 O 
 
158 RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES 
 
 " There is a mighty dawning on the earth, 
 Of human glory : dreams unknown before 
 Fill the mind's boundless world, and wondrous birth 
 Is given tog:reat thought: the deeji-drawnlore, 
 But late a hidden fount, at which a few 
 Quaff'd and were glad, is now a flowing river, 
 Which the pnrch'd nations may approach and view, 
 Kneel down and driuk, or float in it for ever : 
 The bonds of Spirit are asunder broken, 
 And Matter makes a very sport of distance ; 
 On every side appears a silent token 
 Of what will be hereafter, when Existence 
 Shall even become a pure and equal thing. 
 And earth sweep high as heaven, on solemn wing." 
 
 And this, also by the same author, is a striking proof 
 of intellectual subtlety : — 
 
 " God will'd Creation ; but Creation was not 
 The cause of that Almighty Will of God, 
 But that great God's desire of emanation : 
 Beauty of Human Love the object is ; 
 But Love's sweet cause lives in the Soul's desire 
 For intellectual, sensual sympathies: 
 Seeing a plain-plumed bird, in whose deep throat 
 We know the richest power of music dwells, 
 We long to hear its linked melodies ; 
 Scenting a far-off flower's most sweet perfume, 
 That gives its balm of life to every wind, 
 We crave to mark the beauty of its bloom : 
 But bird nor flower is that Volition's cause ; 
 But Music and fine Grace, graven on the Soul, like laws." 
 
 It may be said that there is such a thing as an author's 
 voluntary abandonment of the field ; and that this is pecu- 
 liarly the case with regard to Hartley Coleridge, and to 
 Charles Tennyson. Perhaps so ; still it is not a poet's 
 business to be his own bellman. Be this as it may, 
 there is something peculiarly touching in the withdraw- 
 al of Charles Tennyson from the pathway to the temple 
 of Poesy, as though he would prefer to see his brother's 
 name enshrined with an undivided fame. One little 
 volume of sweet and unpretending poetry comprises all 
 we know of him. It has long been out of print. His 
 feeling of the " use and service" of poetry in the world 
 may be comprised in a few lines, which may also be re- 
 garded as the best comment upon his own ; — 
 
 We must have music while we languish here, 
 
 To make the Soul with pleasant fancies rife 
 
 And soothe the stranger from another sphere. 
 
 Sonnet xv. 
 
 But perhaps we had better give one of Charles Ten- 
 nyson's sonnets entire : — 
 
 " I trust thee from my soul, O Mary dear, 
 But, ofttimes when delight has fullest power, 
 Hope treads too lightly for herself to hear, 
 And doubt is ever by until the hour : 
 
AND HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 159 
 
 I trust thee, Mary, but till thou art mine 
 
 Up from thy foot unto thy golden hair, 
 
 O let me still niisg-ive thee and repine, 
 
 Uncommon doubts spring up with blessings i-are ! 
 
 Thine eyes of purest love give surest sign, 
 
 Drooping with fondness, and thy blushes tell 
 
 A flitting tale of steadiest faith and zeal ; 
 
 Yet I will doubt — to make success divine I 
 
 A tide of summer dreams with gentlest swell 
 
 Will bear upon me then, and I shall love most well I" 
 
 Sonnet xxiii. 
 
 Mr. Milnes's earlier poems are more individual in ex- 
 pression and ideal in their general tone, and probably 
 contain more essential poetry and more varied evidence 
 of their author's gifts, than the writings which it has 
 since pleased him to vouchsafe to the public. He has 
 since divested himself of tlie peculiarities which offend- 
 ed some critics, and has more studiously incarnated 
 himself to the perception of readers not poetical. The 
 general character of his genius is gentle and musing. 
 The shadow of an academical tree, if not of a temple- 
 column, seems to lie across his brows, which are bland 
 and cheerful none the less. He has too much real sen- 
 sibility, too much active sympathy with the perpetual 
 workings of nature and humanity, to have any morbid 
 moaning sentimentality. Beauty he sees always ; but 
 moral and spiritual beauty, the light kernelled in the 
 light, he sees supremely. Never will you hear him ask, 
 in the words of a great contemporary poet, 
 
 " And is there any moral shut 
 Within the bosom of a rose V 
 
 because while he would eschew with that contemporary 
 the vulgar utilitarianism of moral drawing, he would 
 perceive as distinctly as the rose itself, and perhaps 
 more distinctly, the spiritual significance of its beauty. 
 His philosophy looks upward as well as looks round — 
 looks upward because it looks round: it is essentially 
 and specifically Christian. His poetry is even ecclesi- 
 astical sometimes ; and the author of " One Tract More," 
 and his tendency towards a decorative religion, are to 
 be recognized in the haste with which he lights a taper 
 before a picture, or bends beneath a " Papal Benedic- 
 tion." For the rest, he is a very astringent Protestant 
 in his love for ratiocination — and he occasionally draws 
 out his reasons into a fine line of metaphysics. He sits 
 among the muses, making reasons; and when Apollo 
 plucks him by the ear to incite him to some more purely 
 
160 EICHARD MONCKTON MII.NES 
 
 poetic work, — then he sings them. With every suscep- 
 tibility of sense and fHncy, and full of appreciations of 
 art, he would often write pictorially if he did not nearly 
 always write analytically. Moreover, he makes senti- 
 ments as well as reasons; and whatever may be the no- 
 bility of sentiment or thought, the words are sure to be 
 worthy of it. He has used metres in nearly every kind of 
 combination, and with results almost uniformly, if not oft- 
 en exquisitely, harmonious and expressive. There may 
 be a slight want of suppleness and softness in his lighter 
 rhythms, and his blank verse appears to us defective in 
 intonation and variety, besides such deficiencies as we 
 have previously suggested ; but the intermediate forms 
 of composition abundantly satisfy the ear. With all 
 this, he is quite undramatic; and in matters of charac- 
 ter and story, has scarcely ever gone the length, and 
 that never very successfully, even of the ordinary bal- 
 lad writer. His poems, for the most part, are what is 
 called " occasional,"— their motive — impulse arising 
 from without. He perceives and responds, rather than 
 creates. Yet he must have the woof of his own per- 
 sonality to weave upon. With the originality which 
 every man possesses who has strength enough to be 
 true to his individuality, his genius has rather the air of 
 reflection than of inspiration ; his muse is a Pythia com- 
 petent to wipe the foam from her lips — if there be any 
 foam. Thoughtful and self-possessed instead of fervent 
 and impulsive, he is tender instead of passionate. And 
 when he rises above his ordinary level of philosophy 
 and tenderness, it is into a still air of rapture instead of 
 into exulting tumults and fervours. Even his love 
 poems, for which he has been crowned by the critics 
 M'ith such poor myrtle as they could gather, present a 
 serene transfiguring of life instead of any quickening 
 of the currents of life: the poet's heart never beats so 
 tumultuously as to suspend his observation of the beat- 
 ing of it — 
 
 " And the beating of my own heart 
 Was all the sound I heard." 
 
 The general estimate of him, in brief, is a thinking, 
 feeling man, worshipping and loving as a man should — 
 gifted naturally, and refined socially; and singing the 
 songs of his own soul and heart, in a clear, sweet seren- 
 ity, which does not want depth, none the less faithfully 
 and nobly, that he looks occasionally from the harp- 
 
AND HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 161 
 
 Strings to tlie music-book. His "Lay of the Humble," 
 *' Long Ago," and other names of melodies, strike upon 
 the memory as softly and deeply as a note of the melo- 
 dies themselves — while (apart from these lyrics) he has 
 written some of the fullest and finest sonnets, not mere- 
 ly of our age, but of our literature. 
 
 'I'he three other poets mentioned in this paper have 
 each written very fine sonnets. Those of Charles Ten- 
 nyson are extremely simple and unaffected; the sponta- 
 neous offspring of the feelings and the fancy — those of 
 Thomas Wade are chiefly of the intellect; high- wrought, 
 recondite, refined, classical, and often of sterling thought, 
 with an upward and onward eye : those of Hartley Cole- 
 ridge are reflective; the emanations of a sad heart, aim- 
 less, of little hope, and resigned, seeming to proceed from 
 one who has suffered the best of his life to slip away 
 from him unused. Sonnet IX. pathetically expresses 
 this. 
 
 " Long time a child, and still a child, when years 
 Had painted manhood on my cheek, was I ; 
 For yet I lived like one not born to die ; 
 A thriftless prodig-al of smiles and tears, 
 No hope I needed, and 1 knew no fears. 
 But sleep, though sweet, is only sleep, and waking, 
 I waked to sleep no more, at once o'ertaking 
 The vanguard of my age, with all arrears 
 Of duty on my back. Nor child, nor man, 
 Nor youth, nor sage, I find my head is grey, 
 For I have lost the race I never ran, 
 A rathe December blights my lagging May ; 
 And still I am a child, tho' I be old, 
 Time is my debtor for my years untold." 
 
 The prose writings of Hartley Coleridge — particular- 
 ly his " Yorkshire Worthies," and his Introduction to 
 " Massinger and Ford," — are all of first-rate excellence. 
 It is much to be regretted they are not more numerous. 
 O 2 
 
REV. S. SMITH, A. FONBLANaUE, 
 
 DOUGLAS JERROLD. 
 
 " Hard words that have been 
 So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, 
 As if that every one from whom they came 
 Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest."— Beaumont. 
 
 " His fine wit 
 Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it."— Shelley. 
 
 " I shall talk nothing but crackers and fire-works to-night." — Ben Jonsom. 
 
 " Hold out, ye guiltie and ye galled hides. 
 And meet my far-fetched stripes with waiting sides." — Hall's Satires. 
 
 The present age is destined for the first time in the 
 history of literature and of the human mind, to display- 
 Wit systematically and habitually employed by the 
 great majority of its possessors in the endeavour to pro- 
 mote the public good. While great satirists like Juve- 
 nal and Horace have been " on virtue's side," they shone 
 all the more for being exceptions to the fraternity. Not 
 only the vices, the follies, the vanities, the weaknesses 
 of our fellow-creatures, have furnished the best subjects- 
 for the shafts of wit : but little self-denial was practi- 
 sed with reference to the nobler feelings and actions of 
 humanity. To take a flight directly to modern times, 
 let us alight at once upon the days of Charles the Sec- 
 ond, when the laugh was raised indiscriminately at vice 
 or virtue, honesty or knavery, wisdom or folly. What- 
 ever faults such great writers as Swift and Butler, or 
 Moliere and Voltaire, may sometimes have committed 
 in directing their ridicule amiss, their intentions, a 
 least, were reformatory, and therefore their errors aie 
 not to be compared with the licentious poison whic 
 spurted glistening from the pens of Wycherly, Farqu 
 har, Congreve, and Vanbrugh, who had no noble aim Oa- 
 object, or good intention, whether sound or self-delu- 
 ding — but whose vicious instinct almost invariably 
 prompted them to render heartless vice and wanton dis- 
 honesty, as attractive and successful as possible, and 
 make every sincere and valuable quahty seem dull or 
 
REV. S. SMITH, A. FONBLANaUE, AND D. JERROLD. 163" 
 
 ridiculous. All the great writers of Fables — writers 
 who are among the best instructors, and noblest bene- 
 factors of their species — have been humorists rather 
 than wits, and do not properly come into the question. 
 
 Up to the present period, the marked distinction be- 
 tween humour and wit has been that the former evin- 
 ced a pleasurable sympathy; the latter, a cutting deris- 
 ion. Humour laughed with humanity ; wit at all things. 
 But now, for the first time, as a habit and a principle, 
 do all the established wits, and the best rising wits, 
 walk arm-in-arm in the common recognition of a moral 
 aim. The very banding together of a number of genu- 
 ine and joyous wits in the " London Charivari," instead 
 of all being at •' daggers drawn" with each other in the 
 old way, is in itself a perfectly novel event in the histo- 
 ry of letters ; and w-hen this fact is taken in conjunction 
 with the unquestionable good feeling and service in the 
 cause of justice and benevolence displayed by its wri- 
 ters, the permanent existence and extensive success of 
 such a periodical is one of the most striking and encour- 
 aging features of the age. 
 
 The strongest instances of the commencement of 
 this change are to be found in the writings of Hazlitt, 
 Charles Lamb, and Leigh Hunt. No man has left such 
 a number of axiomatic sayings, at once brilliant and 
 true, as Hazlitt. That they are mixed up with many 
 things equally brilliant, and onl)^ half-true, or, perhaps, 
 not true at all, is not the question : he always meant 
 them for honest truths, and invariably had a definite 
 moral purpose in view. Perhaps in the works of Charles 
 Lamb, and the prose writings of Leigh Hunt, wit and 
 humour may be said to unite, and for the production of 
 a moral eff"ect. An anxiety to advance the truth and 
 promote the happiness, the right feeling, the knowledge, 
 and the welfare of mankind, is conspicuous in all the 
 principal essays of these three authors. That the same 
 thing should ever come to be said of wits in general, 
 shows that the good feeling of mankind has at length 
 enlisted on its side those brilhant " shots" who had pre- 
 viously refused all union or co-operation, and who, hav- 
 ing been equally unsparing of friend or foe, rendered 
 every noble action liable to be made ridiculous, and 
 therefore, to a certain extent, impeded both private and 
 public improvement and elevation of character. It 
 should here be observed that the office of the poetical 
 
164 REV. SYDNEY SMITH, ALBANY FONBLANaUE, 
 
 Satirist appears to have died out, not because there are 
 no such men (as the world always says when no " such" 
 2nan appears), but because there is no demand for him. 
 
 The three writers, each of Avhose names possesses a 
 peculiar lustre of its own, have a lively sense of the 
 humorous, but are not in themselves great as humorists. 
 Mr. Jerrold is the only one of the three who exercises 
 tiny of the latter faculty in a consecutive and character- 
 izing form, and even with him it is apt to ramble wide- 
 ly, and continually emerges in caustic or sparkhng di- 
 alogue and repartee, which are his forte. 
 
 The Reverend Sydney Smith gives a laconic account 
 of the commencement of his own career in the Preface 
 to his published works, and as his own words usually 
 " defy competition," the best plan will be to let him 
 speak for hunself. 
 
 " When first I went into the Church," says he, " I had a curacy in the 
 middle of Salisbury Plain. The Squire of the parish took a fancy to me, and 
 requested me to go with his son to reside at the University of Weimar ; before 
 we could get there, Germany became the seat of war, and in stress of politics 
 ■^ve put into Edinburgh, where I remained five years. The principles of the 
 French Revolution were then fully afloat, and it is impossible to conceive a 
 more violent and agitated state of society. Amonsr the first persons with 
 whom I became acquainted were. Lord Jetfrey, Lord Murray (late Lord Ad- 
 vocate for Scotland,) and Lord Brougham ; all of them maintaining opinions 
 wpon political subjects a little too liberal for the dynasty of Dundas, then ex- 
 ercising a supreme power over the northern division of the island. 
 
 " One day we happened to meet in the eighth or ninth story or flat in Buc- 
 •clfiugh-place. the elevated residence of the then Mr. Jeffrey. I proposed that 
 ■we should set up a Review ; this was acceded to with acclamation. 1 was 
 appointed Editor, and remained long enough in Edinburgh to edit the first. 
 jiumber of the Edinburgh Review. The motto I proposed for the Review wa*, 
 ' Tenui mnsam meditamur avena.^ 
 ' We cultivate literature upon a little oatmeal.' 
 But this was too near the truth to be admitted, and so we took our present 
 grave motto from Publius Si/i-vs, of whom none of us had, I am sure, ever read a 
 Single line ; and so began what has since turned out to be a very important and. 
 able journal. When I left Edinburgh, it fell into the stronger hands of Lord 
 Jeffrey and Lord Brougham, and reached the highest point of popularity and 
 success. " 
 
 After giving various good reasons for a high appre- 
 ciation of the " Edinburgh Review" at the time it start- 
 ed, Sydney Smith says — 
 
 " I see very little in my Reviews to alter or repent of: I always endeavour- 
 ed to fight against evil ; and what I thought evil then, I think evil now. I 
 am heartily glad that all our disqualifying laws for religious opinions are abol- 
 ished, and I see nothing in such measures but unmixed good and real increase 
 .of strength to our Establishment." 
 
 The few words witli which he introduces the celebra- 
 ted " Letters of Peter Plymley" (which were so very 
 instrumental in assisting the Catholic emancipation by 
 
AND DOUGLAS JERROLD. 165- 
 
 extreme ridicule of all needless alarms upon the occa- 
 sion) are inimitable : — 
 
 " Soir.ohow or another, it came to be conjectured tliat I was the author : / 
 have always dented it ; but Jinding that J deny it in vain, I have thought it 
 tmvht be as loell io include the Letters in this Collection : they had an im- 
 iQCLse cifculation at the time, atid 1 thiuk above 20,000 copies were sold." 
 
 As displaj'ing the political and social opinions of Syd- 
 ney Smith, the following may suffice : — 
 
 *' It is always considered as a piece of impertinence in England, if a man 
 of less than two or three thousand a year has any opinions at all upon impf)r- 
 tant subjects ; and, in addition, he was sure at that time to be assailed with 
 all the Billingsgate of the French Revolution — Jacobin, Leveller, Atheist, 
 Deist, Socinian, Incendiary, Regicide, were the gentlest appellations used ; 
 and the man who breathed a syllable against the senseless bigotry of the two 
 Georges, or hinted at the abominable tyranny and persecution exercised upoa 
 Catholic Ireland, was shunned as unfit for the relations of social life. Not a 
 murmur against any a.buse was permitted ; to say a word against the suitor- 
 cide delays of the Court of Chancery, or the cruel punishments of the Game 
 Laws, or against any abuse which a rich man inflicted or a poor man suffer- 
 ed, was treason against the Plousiocracy, and was bitterly and steadily re- 
 sented." 
 
 " We believe," says the ' Times,' in a notice of the 
 works of Sydney Smith, " that the concession of full 
 defence to prisoners by counsel, is a boon for which hu- 
 manity is in great measure indebted to the effect pro- 
 duced upon the public mind by his vigorous article in 
 the ' Edinburgh Review,' for December, 1828." Previ- 
 ous to this a man might be hanged before he had been 
 half heard. 
 
 Something remains to be added to this : Sydney Smith, 
 is opposed to the Ballot, and the Penny Postage, and 
 is in favour of capital punishment — apparently prefer- 
 ring retribution to reformation. His feelings are al- 
 ways generous and sincere, whatever may be thought 
 of his judgment in certain things, and his Sermons are 
 replete with pure doctrine, toleration, and liberality of 
 sentiment. The Irish Catholics ought to erect a mon- 
 ument to him, with his statue on the top — looking very 
 grave, but with the hands " holding both his sides," and 
 the tablets at the base covered with bas-relief selected 
 from the graphic pages of Peter Plymley. 
 
 Although wit is the great predominating characteris- 
 tic of the writings of Sydney Smith, the finest and most 
 original humour is not unfrequently displayed. Under 
 this latter head may be classed his review in the " Ed- 
 inburgh" of Dr. Langford's " Anniversary Sermon of 
 the Royal Humane Society." The review is so lacon- 
 ic that v/e give it entire. 
 
166 REV. SYDNEY SMITH, ALBANY FONBLANaUE, 
 
 " An accident, T\-hicli liappened to the gentleman engag^ed in rsvicwin? 
 this Sermon, proves, in the most striking- niaaner, the importance of this 
 •charity for restoring to life persons in whom the vital power is suspended. 
 He was discovered with Dr. Langlord's discourse lying open before him in a 
 -State of the most profound sleep ; from which he could not, by nny means, be 
 awakened for a great length of time. By attending, however, to the rules 
 prescribed by the Humane Society, flinging in the smoke of tobacco, apply- 
 ing hot flannels, and carefully remocing the discourse itself to a great distance, 
 the critic was restored to his disconsolate brothers. 
 
 •' The only account he could give of himself was, that he remembers read- 
 ing on, regularly, till he came to the following pathetic description of c 
 'drowned tradesman ; beyond which he recollects nothing."* 
 
 This is the whole of the review, for the quotation 
 follows, so tumid, and drawling, and affected, and com- 
 mon-place, that we forbear to give it, lest the same ac- 
 •cident recorded by the critic should occur to the pres- 
 ent reader. The " Letters to Archdeacon Singleton'' 
 are excellent ; and display both wit and humour as well 
 as reason. One of the happiest " turns" among many, 
 is that which he gives to the threat that if clergymen 
 agitate any questions affecting the patronage of the bish- 
 ops, the democratic Philistines will come down upon 
 the inferior clergy and sweep them all away together. 
 ^' Be it so," says Sydney Smith; "I am quite ready to 
 foe swept away when the time comes. Everybody has 
 his favourite death ; some delight in apoplexy, and oth- 
 •ers prefer miasmus. I w^ould iniinitely rather be crush- 
 ed by democrats, than, under the plea of the public 
 good, be mildly and blandly absorbed by bishops."! The 
 illustrative anecdote which follow^s this, is inimitable, 
 •but we cannot afford space for it. 
 
 Albany Fonblanque w^as intended for the bar, and be- 
 came a student of the Middle Temple. He w^as a pupil 
 of Chitty, the special pleader, and from his acuteness 
 and promptitude in seizing upon certain prominent fea- 
 tures of a case, great expectations were no doubt en- 
 tertained of the brightness of his future career in the 
 law. But meantime he had made the discovery that he 
 could write on current topics of interest, and his fellow- 
 students also discovered that what he wrote was a keen 
 hit — " a palpable hit." He soon proceeded to politics. 
 Castle reagh's " Six Acts" made a political writer of 
 him. Totally neglecting the " declarations" and '• pleas" 
 himself, and the cause of neglect if not also of " wit" in 
 others, Albany Fonblanque incited the students in Mr. 
 Chitty's office to the discussion of the questions of the 
 
 * Works of the Rev. Sydney Smith. Second edition, vol. i., p. 25. 
 t First Letter to Archdeacon Smgleton. Works, vol. iii., p. 195. 
 
AND DOUGLASS JERROLD. 167 
 
 day, greatly to the delight and satisfaction of all par- 
 ties, till a brother pupil occasionally exclaiming in his 
 gleeful edification, " What a pity it is that some one 
 does not say that in print /" the idea of actually trying 
 it occurred to the mind of Fonblanque. He wrote " an 
 article," — it produced an immediate " sensation," — and 
 discovering, at the same moment, how ver}^ much he 
 disliked the law, and how very much he should prefer 
 literature and sharp-shooting, he hurried away from Mr. 
 Chitty's dusky office, and threw himself into the bright- 
 est current of tlie many-branching many-mouthed peri- 
 odical press. 
 
 But the study of the law from which Fonblanque had 
 so gladly emancipated his mind had still been of great 
 value to the subsequent management oi his powers. It 
 served to check the natural excesses of a vivid fancy, 
 and to render him searching, acute, logical, and clear- 
 headed amidst contradictory or confusing statements 
 and reasonings. Those who have read any of Sydney 
 Smith's lucubrations in favour of the punishment of 
 death should read Albany Fonblanque's articles, enti- 
 tled " Capital Punishment,"* and " Justice and Mercy."! 
 A brief extract will serve to show the tone adopted in 
 the former, in which, let us observe, what a fine head 
 and heart had Sir William Meredith, and do him hon- 
 our who fifty years ago in the very " thick" of all the^ 
 hanging, considered so right and necessary by every- 
 body else, uplifted his voice against its vindictive inutil- 
 ity. Lord Brougham thinks — that is, in 1831, he thought 
 — diflferently. 
 
 '• ' Evpii in crimes which are seldom or never pardoned,' observed Sir Will- 
 iam Meredith, half a century a^o, ' death is no prevention. Housebreakers, 
 forgers, and coiners, are sure to be hanged : yet housebreaking, forgery, and 
 coining are the very crimes which are oftenest committed. Strange it is, that 
 in the case of blood, of which we ought to be most tender, we should still go- 
 on against reason, and against experience, to make unavailing slaughter of 
 our fellow-creatures.' 
 
 " ' We foresee,' observes Fonblanque, ' that Lord Brougham and Vaux will be 
 a prodigious favourite with the Church. His ob.servation ' that there was 
 nothing in the Bible prohibitory of the punishment of death for other crime* 
 than murder,' reminds us of the reason which the Nev/gate Ordinary, in 
 Jonathan Wild, gives for his choice of punch, that it is a liquor nowhere 
 spoken ill of in Scripture. 
 
 " The common phrase, the severity of punishment, is inaccurate and mis- 
 leading. Of our punishments no one quality can be predicated. They vary 
 with humour and circumstance. Sometimes thej'^ are sanguinary, sometimes 
 gentle ; now it is called justice, anon, mercy. If intention were to be infer- 
 
 * England under Seven Administrations," vol. ii., p. 15&, 
 1 Ibid. Vol. i,, p. 194. 
 
168 REV. SYDNEY SMITH, ALBANY FONBLANaUE, 
 
 red from effect, it would be supposed that the policy of the law had been to 
 improve crime by a sort of gymnastic exercise. When extraordinary activity 
 is observed in any limb of crime, the law immediately corrects the partiality 
 by a smart application of the rod ; the ingenuity of the rogues then takes an- 
 other direction which has hitherto had repose and indulgence, the law after 
 a time pursues it m that quarlor with u terrible chastisement ; a third is then 
 tried, and so on. By this process all the muscles of crime are in turn exer- 
 cised, and the body fehmious rendered supple, agile, and vigorous. There is 
 as much fashion in what is termed justice as in bonnets or sleeves. The 
 judge's cap is indeed as capricious as the ladies'. Sometimes the trimminga 
 are blood-red, sometimes the sky blue of mercy is in vogue. One assize there 
 is a run of death on horse-dealers ; another, the sheep-stealers have their 
 turn ; last winter arson was the capital rage ; now, death for forgery is said 
 to be coming in again — ne quid nimis is the maxim. By this system it has come 
 to pass that our rogues are accomplished in all branches of felony, and prac- 
 tised in resources beyond the rogues of all other countries in the world; 
 and our criminals may be afiirmed to be worthy o^" our Legislators."* 
 
 Mr. Fonblanque's articles on the magistracy, and 
 particularly the one in favour of stipendiary magis- 
 trates, in which he opposes Sydney Smith in the " Edin- 
 burgh Review," (who chiefly objected to the abuses 
 which would ensue among the " rural judges,") are also 
 good specimens of his style. To see edge-tools play- 
 ing with each other, adds a considerable zest to the ar- 
 gument. 
 
 " It is no objection to town Judges that they are in the pay of Government, 
 yet it is an inseparable one to rural Judges. The Frenchman, according to 
 Joe Miller, who observed that an Englishman recovered from a fever after 
 mating a red-herring, administered one to the first of his fellow-countrymen 
 whom he found labouring under that disease, and having found that it killed 
 him, noted in his tablet that a red-herring cures an Englishman of a fever, 
 but it kills a Frenchman. So, wo must note, according to the ' Edinburgh 
 Reviewer,' that pay is wholesome for Judges in town, but it is bad for 
 Judges in the country. Pay in town is esteemed the very salt of place, the 
 preservative of honesty which keeps the meat sweet and wholesome, and 
 causes it to set the tooth of calumny and time at defiance. There is the * * * 
 who holds out toughly, like a piece of old junk. What has made him such 
 an everlasting ofScer ? The salt, the pay. When we want to make a good 
 and competent authority, what do we do with him ? Souse him in salary ; 
 pickle him well with pay. The other day, how we improved the Judges, by 
 giving them another dip in the public pan I But pay, though it cures great 
 Judges, corrupts small ones. Our Reviewer says so, and we must believe it. 
 A Lttle pay, like a little learning, is a dangerous thing — drink deep, or touch 
 not the Exchequer spring !"t 
 
 The "reply" of the Reverend Sydney Smith to the 
 foregoing, v^^ould now be well worth reading, but we are 
 not aware that any appeared. 
 
 Douglas Jerrold's father was the manager of a coun- 
 try theatre. He did not, however, " take to the stage," 
 owing perhaps to his inherent energies, which causing 
 him to feel little interest in fanciful heroes, impelled 
 him to seek his fortune amidst the actual storms and 
 troubles of life. He went on board a man-of-war as a 
 
 * " England under Seven Administrations," vol. ii., p. 158. 
 t Ibid., vol. ii., p. 85. 
 
AND DOUGLAS JERROLD. 169 
 
 midshipman at eleven years of age. On board of this 
 same vessel was Clarkson Stanfield, a midshipman also. 
 The ship was paid off in two years time from Jerrold's 
 joining her ; Stanfield and he parted, and never saw each 
 other again till sixteen years afterwards, when the}^ 
 met on the stage of Drnry Lane theatre. It was on the 
 night that Jerrold's " Rent Day" was produced. 
 
 But to return to Jerrold's early days : his sea-life be- 
 ing at an end, he found himself,' at the age of thirteen, 
 with " all London" before him " where to choose" — not 
 what he thought best, but what he could obtain. He 
 learned printing ; and follov/ed this during three or four 
 years ; he then began to right dramas for minor thea- 
 tres. He met with more than what is usually consid- 
 ered success at the Surrey theatre, where he was the 
 first who started, or rather revived, what is now known 
 as the English "domestic drama." In speaking of it 
 somewhere he says — " a poor thing, but mine own." 
 It was certainly greatly in advance of the gory melo- 
 dramas and gross extravagances then in vogue. The 
 *' Rent Day"\vas produced in 1831 or 32 : and was fol- 
 lowed by " Nell Gwynne," " The Wedding Gown," 
 *' The Housekeeper," &c., &c. All these were in two 
 acts, according to the absurd legal compulsion with re- 
 gard to minor theatres, but which he endeavoured to 
 write in the spirit of five. 
 
 Mr. Jerrold's position as a dramatist will receive at- 
 tention in another portion of this work ; he is at pres- 
 ent chiefly dealt with as a writer of characteristic prose 
 fictions, essays, jeux d'esprits, and miscellaneous peri- 
 odical papers. About the year 1836 he published " Men 
 of Character," in three volumes, most of which had 
 previously appeared in " Blackwood ;" and he also con- 
 tributed to the " New Monthly" during two or three 
 years. In 1842 appeared his "Bubbles of the Day," 
 soon folio v/ed by a collection of essays, &c., entitled 
 *• Cakes and Ale ;" and in 1843 " Punch's Letters to his 
 Son." Mr. Jerrold has also written heaps of political 
 articles, criticisms, and "leaders" without number. His 
 last productions, up to the present date, are the " Story 
 of a Feather," published in a series by the " Punch," 
 and the " Chronicles of Clovernook," and " The Folly 
 of the Sword" in the " Illuminated Magazine," which 
 he edits. 
 
 Of writings so full of force and brightness to make 
 P 
 
170 REV. SYDNEY SMITH, ALBANY FONBLANQUE, 
 
 themselves seen and felt, so full of thorough-going man 
 ]y earnestness for the truth and the right — and so iiv 
 terspersed with tart sayings and bitter irony, touched 
 up with quills of caustic, in attacks of all abuses, vicious- 
 ness, and selfish depravity — writings so easily accessi- 
 ble, so generally read, and about which there exist n<? 
 disputes, and seldom any difference of opinion, it is im- 
 possible to say enough without saying much more than 
 the majority need, and the only safe proceeding is ob- 
 viously that of saying very little. 
 
 •' Brevity" is no more " the soul of wit" than a short 
 stick is the essence of comedy ; it must not, therefore, 
 be fancied that in uttering only the fewest words about 
 such productions as '^ The Bubbles of the Day," the 
 "Prisoners of War," &c., we think the best comment 
 has been made upon them. But in truth they are of a 
 kind that require to be read, and seen, and felt, rather 
 than to be discoursed about. Mr. Jerrold never writes 
 anything without a good leading idea, and this he works 
 out chietly by sharp dialogues, and striking exhibitions 
 of truthful, clearly-defined, valuable characters, all full 
 of life, and of themselves. He is not a good hand at 
 the conduct of a story, and worse in the construction of 
 a plot. In the " Bubbles of the Day" there is wit and 
 character enough for two or three five-act comedies ; and 
 there is not story enough, nor action enough for a good 
 one-act drama. He always succeeds, in spite of this 
 utter deficiency, which is fatal to everybody else. No- 
 thing can more forcibly attest the presence of other 
 striking powers. His wit, and his abundance of life- 
 like character, are irresistible. Kxcept, perhaps, a very 
 few productions, such as the beautiful and melancholy 
 sketch of " The Painter of Ghent" — the " Lord of Peir- 
 esc," and some genial criticisms and miscellanies, all 
 his works may be regarded as pungent moral satires. 
 Thrown early upon life— a mere child, with all the world 
 before him and around— his heart and brain still tumul- 
 tuous, fresh from the bleak seas — with nothing but those 
 two little unaided hands to work out his own immediate 
 maintenance and future fortunes, and without a guide, 
 except his own "natural promptings," Douglas Jerrold 
 could not fail to see and suffer, and accumulate experi- 
 ence of a kind to turn much of the " milk of human kind- 
 ness" into gall, and the hopefulness of youth and manhood 
 into shadows and sorrow. But nothing ever quelled Im 
 
AND DOUGLAS JERROLD. 171 
 
 <>nergies and his belief in good ; and a passage through 
 early life, of a kind sufficient to have made a score of 
 ntisanthropes, and half-a-dozen yet more selfish Apa- 
 thies, — only served to keep alive his energies, and to 
 excite him to renewed indignation at all the wrongs 
 done in the world, and to unceasing contests with all 
 sorts of oppressions and evil feelings. In waging this 
 battle " against odds," it is curious to observe how en- 
 tirely he has been " let alone" in his course. This may 
 be, in part, attributable to the greater portion of his 
 writings appearing in periodicals, which are not gener- 
 ally so fiercely dealt with by adverse opinions, as when 
 a work comes compact in its offences before them ; and 
 partly to the non-attachment of their just weight to 
 dramatic productions : but it is also attributable to the 
 fact, that while he is known to be thoroughly honest, 
 outspoken, and fearless, he has at his command such an 
 armoury in his wit, and such " a power" of bitterness in 
 his spleen, that neither one, nor many have ever rel- 
 ished the chances of war in crossing his path with 
 hostility. 
 
 The three writers who form the subject of the pres- 
 ent paper, are so full of points and glances, so saturated 
 with characteristics, that you may dip into any of their 
 volumes, where the book fully opens of itself, and you 
 shall find something "just like the author." The Rev. 
 Sydney Smitli is always pleased to be so " pleasant," 
 that it is extremely difficult to stop ; and it is remarka- 
 ble that he clears off his jokes so completely as he goes, 
 either by a sweeping hand, or by carrying on such frag- 
 ments as he wants to form a bridge to the next one, 
 that you never pause in reading him till fairly obliged to 
 lay down the book. Albany Fonblanque very often 
 gives you pause amidst his pleasantries, many of which, 
 nay, most of which, are upon subjects of politics, or 
 Jurisprudence, or the rights and wrongs of our social 
 doings, so that the laugh often stops in mid-volley, and 
 changes into weighty speculation, or inward applause. 
 In his combined powers of the brilliant and argumenta- 
 tive, the narrative and epigrammatic, and his matchless 
 adroitness in illustrative quotation and reference, Fon- 
 blanque stands alone, Douglas Jerrold is seldom dis- 
 posed to be "pleasant" — his merriment is grim — he 
 does not shake your sides so often as shake you by the 
 shoulders — as he would say, "See here, now! — look 
 
172 REV. SYDNEY SMITH, ALBANY FONBLANaUE, 
 
 there now ! — do you know what you are doing ! — is this 
 what you think of your fellow-creatures V A little of 
 his writing goes a great way. You stop very often, and 
 do not return to the book for another dose, till next 
 week, or so. The exceptions to this are chiefly in his 
 acted comedies, where there is a plentiful admixture of 
 brilliant levity and stinging fun ; but in all else he usu- 
 ally reads you a lesson of a very trying kind. Even 
 his writings in " Punch" give you more of the baton, 
 than the beverage "in the eye." Sydney Smith has 
 continually written articles for the pure enjoyment and 
 communication of fun ; Fonblanque never ; Jerrold 
 never, except on the stage — and that was probably only 
 as "matter of income," rather than choice, Sydney 
 Smith, in hostility, is an overwhelming antagonist; his 
 arguments are glittering with laughter, and well bal- 
 anced with good sense ; they flow onwards with the 
 ease and certainty of a current above a bright cascade ; 
 he piles up his merriment like a grotesque mausoleum 
 over his enemy, and so compactly and regularly that 
 you feel no fear of its topphng over by any retort. 
 Fonblanque seems not so much to fight " on editorial 
 perch," as to stand with an open Code of Social Laws 
 in one hand, and a two-edged sword in the other, waving 
 the latter slowly to and fro with a grave face, while dic- 
 tating his periods to the laughing amanuensis. As 
 Jerrold's pleasantest works are generally covert satires, 
 so hi?s open satires are galling darts, or long bill-hook 
 spears that go right through the mark, and divide it — 
 pull it nearer for a " final eye," or thrust it over the pit's 
 edge. 
 
 All these writers have used their wit in the cause of 
 humanity, and honestly, according to their several 
 views of what was best, and most needful to be done, 
 or done away with. They have nobly used, and scarce- 
 ly ever abused the dangerous, powerful, and tempting 
 weapon of the faculty of wit. Some exceptions must 
 be recorded. Sydney Smith has several times sufi'ered. 
 his sense of the ridiculous to " run away" with his bet- 
 ter feelings ; and in subjects which were in themselves 
 of a painful, serious, or shocking nature, he has allowed 
 an absurd contingent circumstance to get the upper 
 hand, to the injury, or discomfiture, or offence, of na- 
 ture and society. Such was the fun he made of the 
 locking people in railway-carriages upon the occasion 
 
AND DOUGLAS JERROLD. 173 
 
 of the frightful catastrophe at Versailles. Fonblanque 
 has continually boiled and sparkled round the extreme 
 edge of the same offence ; but we think he has never 
 actually gushed over. The same may be nearly said 
 of Jerrold, though we think he has been betrayed b}' 
 that scarcely resistible good or evil genius " a new sub- 
 ject" into several papers which he had much better 
 never have vt'ritten. One — the worst — should be men- 
 tioned : it is the " Metaphysician and the Maid."* 
 
 ]\o doubt can exist as to who the bad satire was 
 raeant for. This was of itself sufficiently bad in the et 
 tu Brute sense ; but besides the personal hit, it has 
 graver errors. If the paper had been meant to ridicule 
 pretended thinkers, and besotted dreamers, those who 
 prattle about motives, and springs, and " intimate knowl- 
 edge" charlatan philosophers, or even well-meaning 
 transcendentalists " who darken knowledge ;" and if it 
 had also been intended to laugh at a man for a vulgar 
 amour, the mistaking a mere sensuality for a sentimeat, 
 or a doll for a divinity — all were so far very well and 
 good. The " hit" at a man desperately in love who 
 was in the middle of an essay on " Free Will," is all 
 fair, and fine wit. But here the sincere and earnest 
 thinker is ridiculed ; — a well-known sincere and pro- 
 found thinker having been selected to stand for the 
 class ; — his private feelings are ridiculed (his being in a 
 state of illusion as to the object, is too common to 
 serve as excuse for the attack) — his passion for abstract 
 truth is jested upon, and finally his generosity and un- 
 worldly disinterestedness. But the " true man's hand" 
 misgave him in doing this deed. The irresistible " new 
 subject" was not so strong as his own heart, and the 
 iifluence of the very author he was, in this brief in- 
 ■ tance, turning into ridicule, was so full upon him that 
 while intending to write a burlesque upon '' deep think- 
 i.ig," he actually wrote as follows, — 
 
 " He alone, who has for months, nay years, lived upon great imaginings — 
 whose subject hath been a part of his blood— a. throb of his pulse — hath scarce- 
 ly faded from his brain as he hath fallen to sleep— hath waked with him— 
 hith, in his squalid study, glorified even poverty— )ia.th. walked with him 
 abroad, and by its ennobling presence, raised him above t'le prejudice, the 
 little spite, the studied negligence, the sturdy wrong, that m his out-dwr life 
 aaeer upon and elbow him — he alone, can understand the calm, deep, yet, se- 
 rene joy felt by * * *" 
 
 The foregoing noble and affecting passage — the cli- 
 
 * " Cakes and Ale," vol ii., p. 175 
 P2 
 
174 REV. SYDNEY SMITH, ALBANY FONBLANaUE, 
 
 max of which is forced into a dull and laboured absurd- 
 ity — is more than a parody, it is an unintentional imita- 
 tion derived from some dim association with the well- 
 known passage of Hazlitt's, commencing with — " There 
 are moments in the life of a solitary thinker, which are 
 to him wliat the evening of some great victory is to the 
 conqueror — milder triumphs long remembered with 
 truer and deeper delight, &c."* We leave these two 
 passages with Mr. Jerrold for his own most serious con- 
 sideration ; — the original terminating with a natural cli- 
 max — his own so abominably. It is probable that we 
 could say nothing more strongly in reprehension than 
 -Vlr. Jerrold will say to himself. As for the satire upon 
 the weaknesses or follies of the strongest-minded men 
 when in love, the " Liber Amoris" left nothing to be 
 added to its running commentary of melancholy irony 
 upon itself and its author. 
 
 It is customary in speaking of great wits, to record 
 and enjoy their •' last ;" but there are, at this time, sO' 
 many of Sydney Smith's " last" in the shape of remarks 
 on the insolvent States of America, that it is difficult to 
 choose. If, however, we were obhged to make selec- 
 tion for " our own private eating," we should point to 
 the bankrupt army marching to defend their plunder, 
 with are alieno engraved upon the trumpets. For the 
 voice of a trumpet can be made the most defying and 
 insulting of all possible sounds, and in this instance 
 even the very insolence of the ''special pleader" is sto- 
 len — (zre alieno, another man's sarce !-\ 
 
 Mr. Fonblanque's " last" are so regularly seen in the 
 " Examiner," and there will, in all probability, have 
 been so many of them before these pages are publish- 
 ed, that we must leave the reader to cater for himself; 
 and more particularly as it would be impossible to please 
 " all parties" with tranchant political jokes upon matters 
 of immediate interest and contest. But nothing can 
 more forcibly prove the true value of Mr. Fonblanque's 
 wit than the fact that all the papers collected in " Eng- 
 land under Seven Administrations" were written upon 
 passing events ; that most of the events are passed, 
 and the wit remains. A greater disadvantage no wri- 
 tings ever had to encounter; yet they are read with 
 
 * Hazlitt's " Principlee of Human Action." 
 
 t It also suggests the Latim idiom of wre alieno cxirc — a now way to pay, 
 old debts. 
 
AND DOUGLAS JERROLD. 175 
 
 pleasure and admiration ; and, in many instances, yet 
 but too fresh and vigorous, with improvement, and re- 
 newed wonder that certain abuses should be of so long 
 life. 
 
 Mr. Jerrold's two "last" we may select from the 
 *' History of a Feather," and the " Folly of the Sword." 
 In the first we shall allude to the biting satire of the 
 Countess of Blusbrose, who being extremely beautiful 
 ■was very proud and unfeeling towards the poor; bu: 
 after over-dancing herself one night at a ball, she got 
 the erysipelas which spoiled her face, and she then be- 
 came an angel of benevolence who could never stir 
 abroad without " walking in a shower of blessings." In 
 the second we find the follosving remark on war and 
 glory. 
 
 " Now look aside, and contemplate God's image with a musket. "What a 
 fine-looking- thing- is war I Yet, dress it as we may, dress and feather it, 
 daub it -with gold, huzza it, and sing swaggering songs about it — what is it, 
 nine times out of ten, but Murder in uniform ? Cain taking the Serjeant's 
 shilling? * * * Yet, oh man of war! at this very moment are you shrink- 
 ing, withering like an aged giant. The ringers of Opinion have been busy 
 at your plumes — you are not the feathered thing you were ; and then this 
 little tube, the goose-quill, has sent its silent shots into your huge anatomy ; 
 jind the corroding Ink, even whilst you look at it, and think it shines so 
 brightly, is eating -with a tooth of iron into your sword 1" 
 
 Our last extract shall be from Sydney Smith's cele- 
 brated Letters to Peter Plymley, and on a subject now 
 likely to occupy the public mind still more than at the 
 time it was penned : — 
 
 " Our conduct to Ireland, during the -whole of this war, has been that of a 
 man who subscribes to hospitals, weeps at charity sermons, carries out broth 
 and blankets to beggars, and then comes home and beats his wife and chil- 
 dren. We had compassion for th-? victims of all other ojipression and injus- 
 tice, except our own. If Switzerland was threatened, away went a Treasury 
 Clerk with a hundred thousand pounds for Switzerland ; large bags of mon^ 
 ■were kept constantly under sailing orders ; upon the slightest demonstration 
 towards Naples, down went Sir William Hamilton upon his knees, and beg- 
 ged for the love of St. Januarius they would help us off with a little money ; 
 all the arts of Machiavel were resorted to, to persuade Europe to borrow 
 troops were sent off in all directions to save the Catholic and Protestarf 
 world ; the Pope himself was guarded by a regiment of English dragoons ; i! 
 the Grand Lama had been at hand, he would h-ave had another ; every Cath- 
 olic Clergyman, who had the good fortune to be neither English nor Irish, 
 ^/vas immediately provided -vyith lodging, soup, crucifix, missal, chaj)el-beads, 
 relics, and holy water; if Turks had landed, Turks would have received an. 
 order from the Treasury for coffee, opium, korans, and seraglios. In the 
 midst of all this fury of saving and defetiding, this crusade of conscience and 
 Christianity, there was an universal agreement among all descriptions of 
 people to continue every species of internal persecution : to deny at home 
 every just riglit that had been denied before ; to pummel poor Dr. Abraham 
 Rees and his Dissenters ; and to treat the unhappy Catholics of Ireland as if 
 their tongues were mute, their heels cloven, their nature brutal, and desigiu 
 edly subjected by Providence to their Orange masters. 
 
176 REV. SYDNEY SMITH, ALBANY FONBLANCIUE, 
 
 " How would my admirable brotlier, the Rev. Abraham Plymley, lihe t» 
 Iv. marched to a Catholic chapel, to be sprinkled with the sanctified contents 
 of a pump, to hear a number of false quantities in the Latin tongue, and to 
 see a. uumber of persons occupied in making- right angles upon the breast 
 suid forehead 1 And if all this would give you so much pain, what right 
 2iave you to march Catholic soldiers to a place of worship, where there is no 
 aspersion, no rectangular gestures, and where they vruicrstand ever;/ word they 
 hear, having first, in order to get him to enlist, made a solemn promise lo the 
 contrary? Can you wonder, after this, that the Catholic priest stops the re- 
 croiting in Ireland, as he is now doing to a most alarming degree ?" 
 
 The influence of these three writers has been exten- 
 sive, and vigorously beneficial — placing their politics 
 out of the question. Their aqua fortis and " laughing 
 gas" have exercised alike a purificatory office ; their 
 championship has been strong on the side of social 
 ameliorations and happy progress. The deep impor- 
 tance of national education on a proper system has been 
 finely advocated by each in his peculiar way — Sydney 
 Smith by excessive ridicule of the old and present sys- 
 tem ; Fonblanque by administering a moral cane and 
 caustic to certain pastors and masters and ignorant 
 pedagogues of all kinds : and Jerrold by such tales as 
 the " Lives of Brown, Jones, and Robinson," (in vol. ii. 
 of " Cakes and Ale,") and by various essays. If in the 
 conflict of parties the Rev. Sydney Smith and Mr. Fon- 
 blanque have once or twice been sharply handled, they 
 might reasonably have expected much worse. As for 
 vague accusations of levity and burlesque, and want of 
 *' a well-regulated mind," and trifling and folly, those 
 things are always said of all such men. It is observa- 
 ble that very dull men and men incapable of wit — ei- 
 ther in themselves, or of the comprehension of it in 
 others— invariably call every witty man, and every 
 witty saying, which is not quite agreeable to them- 
 selves, by the term flippant. Let the wits and humour- 
 ists be consoled ; they have the best of it, and the dull 
 ones know it. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH AND LEIGH 
 HUNT. 
 
 " I jiidge him for a rectified spirit, 
 By many revolutions of discourse, 
 (In his bright reason's iniluence) refined 
 From all the tartarous moods of common men ; 
 Bearing- the nature and similitude 
 Of a right heavenly body ; most severe 
 In fashion and collection of himself; 
 And, then, as clear and confident as Jove." — Ben Jonsoi?. 
 
 " You will see H— t ; one of those happy souls 
 Which are the salt o' the earth, and without whom 
 This world would smell like what it is — a tomb." — Shellet- 
 
 " Most dehonnaire, in courtesy supreme ; 
 Loved of the mean, and honoured by the great ; 
 Ne'er dashed by Fortune, nar cast down by Fate ; 
 To present and to after times a theme." — Drummond. 
 
 Thesg two laurelled veterans, whose lives are clad 
 with the eternal youth of poesy, have been so long be- 
 fore the public, and their different and contrasted claims 
 may be thought to have been so thoroughly settled, that, 
 it will, perhaps, as a first impression, be considered that 
 there was no necessity for including them in this work. 
 They aue, however, introduced as highly important con- 
 necting links between past and present periods ; as the 
 outlivers of many storms ; the originators of many opin- 
 ions and tastes ; the sufferers of odium, partly for their 
 virtues, and in some respects for their perversities ; and 
 the long wounded but finally victorious experiencers of 
 popular changes of mind during many years. If, there- 
 fore, it should still be thought that nothing very new re- 
 mains to be said of them, it is submitted that at leas 
 there are some truths concerning both, which have neve^ 
 yet been fairly brought into public notice. 
 
 When Mr. Wordsworth first stood before the work 
 as a poet, he might as well, for the sorriness of his re 
 ception, have stood before the world as a prophet. In 
 some such position, perhaps, it may be said he actually 
 did stand ; and he had prophet's fare in a shower of 
 stones. For several generations, had the cadences of 
 our poets (so called) moved to them along the ends of 
 their fingers. Their language had assumed a conven- 
 
178 WILLIAM WORDS VVOllTH 
 
 tlonal elegance, spreading smoothly into pleonasms or 
 •clipped nicely into elisions. The point of an antithesis 
 had kept perpetual sentry upon the ' final pause ;' and 
 "while a spurious imagination made a Name stand as a 
 .personification, Observation only looked out of window 
 (" with extensive view%" indeed . . " from China to Pe- 
 ru !") and refused very positively to take a step out of 
 doors. A long and dreary decline of poetry it was, 
 from the high-rolling sea of Dryden, or before Dryden, 
 when Waller first began to " improve" (bona verba !) 
 our versification — down to the time of Wordsworth. 
 Miitjon's far-off voice, in the meantime, was a trumpet, 
 which the singing birds could not take a note from : his 
 genius was a lone island in a remote sea, and singularly 
 Uiiinfluential on his contemporaries and immediate suc- 
 cessors. The decline sloped on. And that edition of 
 the poets which was edited by Dr. Johnson for popular 
 uses, and in which he and liis publishers did advisedly 
 obliterate from the chronicles of the people, every poet 
 l^efore Cowley, and force the Chancers, Spencers, and 
 Draytons to give place to " Pomfrei's Choice" and the 
 ■^ Art of Cookery," — is a curious proof of poetical and 
 -critical degradation. " Every child is graceful," ob- 
 serves Sir Joshua Reynolds, with a certain amount of 
 truth, " until he has learnt to dance." We had learned 
 to dance with a vengeance — we could not move except 
 we danced — the French .school pirouetted in us most 
 anti-nationally. The age of Shakspeare and our great 
 ancestral writers had grown to be rococo — they were 
 men of genius and deficient in ' taste,' but loe were wits 
 and classics — we exceeded in civilization, and wore 
 wigs. It was not, how^ever, to end so. 
 
 Looking back to the experiences of nations, a national 
 literature is seldom observed to recover its voice after 
 an absolute declension ; the scattered gleaners may be 
 singing in the stubble, but the great song of the harvest 
 sounds but once. Into the philosophy of this fact it 
 would take too much space to enquire. That genius 
 comes as a periodical effluence, and in dependence ou 
 unmanifest causes, is the confession of grave thinkers, 
 rather than fanciful speculators ; and perhaps if the 
 Roman empire, for instance, could have endured in 
 strength, and held its mighty breath until the next tide, 
 some Latin writer would have emerged from the on- 
 ward flood of inspiration which was bearing Dante to 
 
AND LEIGH HUNT. 179 
 
 the world's wide shores. Unlike Dante, indeed, would 
 have been that writer — for no author, however influen- 
 tial on his contemporaries, can be perfectly independent 
 himself of their influences — but he would" have been a 
 Latin writer, and his hexameters worth waiting: for, 
 And England did not wait in vain for a new effluence of 
 genius — it came at last like the morning — a pale light 
 in the sky, an awakening bird, and a sunburst — we had 
 Cowper — we had Burns — that lark of the new grey 
 dawn ; and presently the early-risers of the land could 
 see to spell slowly out the name of William Words- 
 worth. They saw and read it ci-early with those of 
 Coleridge and Leigh Hunt, — and subsequently of Shel- 
 ley and Keats, notwithstanding the dazzling beams of 
 lurid power w]iich were in full radiation from the en- 
 grossing name of Byron. 
 
 Mr. Wordsworth began his day with a dignity and 
 determination of purpose, which might well have star- 
 tled the public and all its small poets and critics, his 
 natural enemies. He laid down fixed principles in his 
 prefaces, and carried them out with rigid boldness, in 
 his poems ; and when the world laughed, he bore it 
 well, for his logic apprized him of what should follow : 
 nor was he without the sympathy of Coleridge and a 
 iG\Y other first-rate intellects. W^ith a severe hand he 
 tore away from his art the encumbering artifices of his 
 predecessors ; and he walked upon the pride of criticism 
 with greater pride. No toleration would he extend to» 
 the worst laws of a false critical code ; nor any concil- 
 iation to the critics who had enforced them. He was a 
 poet, and capable of poetry, he thought, only as he was 
 a man and faithful to his humanity. He would not sep- 
 arate poetry and nature, even in their forms. Instead 
 of being " classical" and a " wit," he would be li poefe 
 and a man, and " like a man," (notwithstanding certain 
 weak moments) he spoke out bravely, in language, free 
 of the current phraseology and denuded of conventional 
 adornments, the thought which was in him. And the- 
 thought and the word witnessed to that verity of natirrs, 
 which is eternal with variety. He laid his hand upon the 
 Pegasean mane, and testified that it was not floss silk. 
 He testified that the ground was not all lawn ot bowling-- 
 green ; and that the forest trees were not clippe<l npoa 
 a pattern. He scorned to be contented with a tradition 
 of beauty, or with an abstraction of the beautiful. He 
 
180 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
 refused to work, as others had done, like those sculp- 
 tors, who make all their noses in the fashion of that of 
 the Medicisan Venus ; until no one has his own nose ; 
 nature being " cut to order." William Wordsworth 
 would accept no type for nature : he would take no leap 
 at the generalization of the natural ; and the brown moss 
 upon the pale should be as sacred to him and acceptable 
 to his song, as the pine-clothed mountain. He is a poet 
 of detail, and sings of what is closest to his eye ; as small 
 starting points for far views, deep sentiment, and com- 
 prehensive speculation. " The meanest flower that 
 blows" is not too mean for him ; exactly because 
 *' thoughts too deep for tears" lie for him in the mys- 
 tery of its meanness. He has proved this honour on the 
 universe ; that in its meanest natural thing is no vul- 
 garism, unconveyed by the artificiality of human man- 
 ners. That such a principle should lead to some pue- 
 xilities at the outset, was not surprising. 
 
 A minute observer of exterior nature, his humanity 
 seems nevertheless to stand between it and him ; and 
 Jie confounds those two lives — not that he loses him- 
 self in the contemplation of things, but that he absorbs 
 them in himself, and renders them Wordsworthian. 
 They are not what he wishes, until he has brought them 
 home to his own heart. Chaucer and Burns made the 
 most of a daisy, but left it still a daisy ; Mr. Words- 
 worth leaves it transformed into his thoughts. This is 
 the sublime of egotism, disinterested as extreme. It is 
 on the entity of the man Wordsworth, that the vapour 
 creeps along the hill — and " the mountains are a feel- 
 ing." To use the language of the German schools, he 
 makes a subjectivity of his objectivity. Beyond the 
 habits and purposes of his individuality, he caimot carry 
 his sympathies ; and of all powerful writers, he is the 
 least dramatic. Another reason, however, for his dra- 
 matic inaptitude, is his deficiency in passion. He is 
 passionate in his will and reason, but not in his senses 
 and affections ; and perhaps scarcely in his fancy and 
 imagination. He has written, however, one of thp no- 
 blest odes in the English langa.ige, in his " Recollections 
 of Childhood;'^ and his chief poem, "The Excursion," 
 which is only a portion of a larger work (to be published 
 hereafter) called "The Recluse," h;is passages of very 
 glorious exaltation. Still, he is seldom impulsive ; and 
 his exaltation is rather the nobly-acquired habit of his 
 
AND LEIGH HUNT. 181 
 
 mind than the prerogative of his temperament. A great 
 Christian inorHlist and teacher, he is sacerdotal bum m 
 gravity and purity ; he is majestic and sell-possessed. 
 Like many oilier great inen, lie can be dull aiiu prolix. 
 It" lie has not written too many sonneis, it may be uoubt- 
 ed il" he has not burned too lew : none are bau, it is true ; 
 but the value of the linest would be enhanced by separ- 
 ation from so much fatiguing good sense. 'J'hey would 
 be far more read. Pernaps, Ins gravity and moral aim 
 are Mr. Wordsworth's most prevailing characteristics. 
 His very cheerfulness is a smiie over tiie altar, — a siniie 
 of beneuiction which no one dares return — and expres- 
 sive of good will rather than sympathy. 
 
 These remarks have doubtless occurred to many stu- 
 dents and admirers of Wordsworth; but ii is more re- 
 markable that he is what he is, not unconsciously or 
 instinctively, as many other men of genius have devel- 
 oped their idiosyncrasies; but consciously, to all ap- 
 pearance, and determmately, and by a particular act of 
 the will. Moreover, he is not only a self-conscious 
 thinker and feeler ; but he is conscious, apparently, of 
 this self-consciousness. 
 
 When Mr. Wordsworth had published his " Lyrical 
 Ballads," out swarmed the critics — with reference to 
 the accidental gathering together in his neighbourhood 
 of certain poets (who, although men of genius and im- 
 patient of the trammels of the scholastic rhymers, were 
 not so " officially" reformers, nor partakers of his char- 
 acteristics ;) — out swarmed the critics, declaring that 
 the Lyrical Balladmonger had a school, and that it should 
 be called the *' Lake School." It was a strange mis- 
 take, even for the craft. Here was a man reproached 
 by themselves, with all anti-scholastic offences, a man 
 who had made mock at the formulas, confused the class- 
 es, and turned the schoolmasters out of doors ! and he 
 must be placed in a school, forsooth, for the sake of 
 those who could discern nothing out of the subdivis- 
 ions of the schools. The critical " memoria technica" 
 required that it should be so arranged. And, verily, 
 when Wordsworth and his peers looked up to the sub- 
 lime Lake mountains, and down to the serene Lake wa- 
 ters, they were probably consoled for the slang, by the 
 dignity and holiness of this enforced association. It 
 was otherwise in the matter of another calling of names, 
 nearly simultaneously effected; when Leigh IJunt and 
 Q 
 
182 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
 his friends were saluted in London, by that nickname of 
 the " Cockney School," which was so incessantly re- 
 peated and applied to almost everybody who ventured 
 to write averse, that at length it became the manifest 
 sign of a juvenile Cockney critic to use the term. It 
 was presently superseded by the new nickname of " Sa- 
 tanic School," which, however, unlike the others, had 
 some sort of foundation. 
 
 The Cockney School was as little-minded a catch- 
 word of distinctive abuse as ever came from the splen- 
 etic pen of a writer " at a loss for something." The 
 cheek of the impartial historian, as of the true critic of 
 present times, flushes in having to recount, tliat Lamb, 
 who stammered out in child- like simplicity, his wit 
 beautiful with wisdom — that Coleridge, so full of ge- 
 nius and all rare acquirements— that Hazlitt, who dwelt 
 gloriously with philosophy in a chamber of imagery — 
 that Sheiley, with his wings of golden fire — that Keats 
 who saw divine visions, and the pure Greek ideal, be- 
 cause he had the essence in his soul— that Leigh Hunt 
 (now the sole survivor of all these) true poet and exqui- 
 site essayist— and finally Alfred Tennyson — were of 
 the writers so stigmatized ! Eventually the term was 
 used as a reproach by people who had never been out 
 of London, and by Scotchmen who had never been out 
 of p]dinburgh — and then— that is, when this fact was 
 discovered pretty generally — then the epithet was no- 
 more heard. But while in use, its meaning seemed ta 
 be — pastoral, minus nature ; and it is a curious and stri- 
 king fact, that every one of the eminent men to whom 
 it was applied was a marked example of the very con- 
 trary characteristic. It hence would appear that the 
 term was chiefly applicable to the men themselves who 
 used it ; because, knowing nothing of pastoral nature, 
 they did not recognize it when placed before them, but 
 conceived it must be a mere afl'ectation of something 
 beyond their own civic ideas. If the word had meant 
 simply an exclusion, as livers in cities, from a familiar- 
 ity with the country— if it had meant the acquirement 
 of conventional views and artificial habits from this ac- 
 cident of place ; then it suited Dr. Johnson, Pope, and 
 his " wits about town" with tolerable propriety. 
 
 Leigh Hunt, the poet of " Foliage" and the " Story 
 of Rimini," the author of some of the most exquisite 
 essays in the English language, of a romance (" Sir 
 
AXD LEIGH HUNT. 183 
 
 Ralph Eshcr,") full of power and beauty, and of the 
 " Legend of Florence," a production remarkable for 
 dramatic excellence and a pure spirit of generous and 
 refined morality, is likely to be honoured with more 
 love from posterity, than he ever received, or can hope 
 to receive, from his contemporary public. Various cir- 
 cumstances combined to the ruffling of the world be- 
 neath his feet — and the two years of his imprisonment 
 for libel, w^hen he covered his prison-walls with gar- 
 lands of roses, and lived, in spite of fate and the king's 
 attorney-general, in a bower — present a type, in the 
 smiling quaintness of their oppositions, of the bitterness 
 and sweetness, the constraint and gay-heartedness of 
 his whole life besides. At the very time he was thus 
 imprisoned, his physician had ordered him much horse- 
 exercise, his health having been greatly impaired by 
 sedentary habits. Still, he covered the walls of his 
 room with garlands. 
 
 On a survey of the ordinary experiences of poets, we 
 are apt to come hastily to a conclusion, that a true poet 
 may have quite enough tribulation by his poetry, for all 
 good purposes of adversity, without finding it necessa- 
 ry to break any fresh ground of vexation : — but Leigh 
 Himt, imprudent in his generation, w^as a gallant politi- 
 cian, as well as a genuine poet ; and, by his connection 
 with the " Examiner" newspaper, did, in all the super- 
 fluity of a youth full of animal spirits, sow the whirl- 
 wind and reap the tornado. We have also heard of 
 some other literary offences of thirty or forty years ago, 
 but nobody cares to recollect them. In religious feel- 
 ing, however, he has been misrepresented. It is cer- 
 tain that no man was ever more capable of the spirit 
 of reverence ; for God gifted him with a loving genius 
 ■ — with a genius to love and bless. He looks full ten- 
 derly into the face of every man, and woman, and child, 
 and living creature ; and the beautiful exterior world, 
 even when it is in angry mood, he smoothes down soft- 
 ly, as in recognition of its sentiency, with a gentle ca- 
 ressing of the fancy— Chaucer's irrepressible " Ah, ben- 
 edicite," falling for ever from his lips ! There is an- 
 other point of resemblance between him and several 
 of the elder poets, who have a social joyous full-heart- 
 edness ; a pathetic sweetness ; a love of old stories, 
 and of sauntering about green places ; and a liking for 
 sj-ardens and drest nature, as well as fields and forests; 
 
184 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
 though he is not always so simple as they, in his mode 
 of describing-, but is apt to elaborate his admiration, 
 while his eider brothers described the thing — and left it 
 so. He presses into association with the old Eliza- 
 bethan singing choir, just as the purple light from Italy 
 and Marini had flushed their foreheads ; and he is an 
 Italian scholar himself, besides having read the Greek 
 idyls. He has drunken deep from " the beaker full of 
 the warm South," and loves to sit in the sun, indolent- 
 ly turning and shaping a fancy " light as air," or — and 
 here he has never had justice done him — in brooding 
 deeply over the welfare, the struggles, and hopes of 
 humanity. Traces of this high companionship and 
 these pleasant dispositions are to be found like laven- 
 der between the leaves of his books ; while a fragrance 
 native to the ground— which would be enough for the 
 reader's pleasure, though the lavender were shaken out 
 — diffuses Itself fresh and peculiar over all. He is aii 
 original writer: his individuality extending into man- 
 nerism, which is individuality prominent in the mode. 
 When he says new things, he puts them strikingly ; 
 when he says old things, he puts them newly — and no 
 intellectual and good-tempered reader will complain of 
 this freshness, on account of a certain "knack at tri- 
 fling," in which he sometimes chooses to indulge. He 
 does, in fact, constrain such a reader into sympathy 
 with him — constrain him to be glad " with the spirit of 
 joy" of which he, the poet, is possessed — and no living 
 poet has that obvious and overflowing delight in the 
 bare act of composition, of which this poet gives sign. 
 'Composition' is not a word for him — we might as 
 well use it of a bird — such is the ease with which it 
 seems to flow ! Yet he is an artist and constructor 
 also, and is known to work very hard at times before 
 it comes out so bright, and graceful, and pretending to 
 have cost no pains at all. He spins golden lines round 
 and round and round, as a silk-worm in its cocoon- 
 He is not without consciousness of art. — only he is 
 conscious less of design in it, than of pleasure and 
 beauty. His excessive consciousness of grace in the 
 turning of a line, and of richness in the perfecting of an 
 image, is what some people have called " coxcombry :" 
 and the manner of it approaclies to that conscious, side- 
 long, swimming gait, balancing between the beautiful 
 and the witty, which is remarkable in some elder po- 
 
AND LEIGH HUNT. 185 
 
 ets. Ris versification is sweet and various, running 
 into Chaucer's cadences. His blank verse is the most 
 successfully original in its freedom, of any that has ap- 
 peared since the time of Beaumont and Fletcher. His 
 images are commonly beautiful, if often fantastic — 
 clustering like bees, or like grapes — sometimes too 
 many for the vines — a good fault in these bare modern 
 days. His gatherings from nature are true to nature ; 
 Tind wc might quote passages whicli would disprove the 
 old bygone charge of ' Cockneyism,' by showing that 
 lie had brought to bear an exceeding niceness of actual 
 observation upon the exterior world. His nature, how- 
 ever, is seldom moor-land and mountain- land ; nor is it, 
 for the most part, English nature — we have hints of 
 fauns and the nymphs lying hidden in the shadow of 
 the old Italian woods ; and the sky overhead is several 
 tints too blue for home experiences. It is nature, not 
 by tradition, like Pope's nature, nor quite by sensation 
 and reflection, like Wordsworth's : it is nature by mem- 
 ory and phantasy; true, but touched with an exotic 
 purple. His sympathies with men are wide as the dis- 
 tance betvveen joy and grief: and while his laughter is 
 audible and resistless, in pathos and depth of tender 
 passionateness, he is no less sufficient. The tragic 
 power of the " Story of Rimini," has scarcely been ex- 
 ceeded by any English poet, alive or dead ; and his 
 *' Legend of Florence," is full of the ' purification of 
 pity,' and the power of the most Christian-like man- 
 hood and sympathy. We might have fancied that the 
 consciousness of pleasure in composition, which has 
 been attributed to this poet, and the sense of individu- 
 ality which it implies, W'Ould have interfered with the 
 right exercise of the dramatic faculty — but the reason 
 of tears is probably stronger in him than the conscious- 
 ■ iiess of beauty. He has in him, and has displayed it 
 occasionally, an exaltation and a sense of the divine, 
 under a general aspect : a very noble dramatic lyric on 
 the liberation of the soul from the body, published with- 
 in the last seven 5^ears, has both those qualities, in the 
 highest degree. 
 
 In attempting some elucidatory contrast between the 
 poets William Wordsworth and Leigh Hunt, as one of 
 the applications of the foregoing remarks, it is not 
 meant that their positions as poets and teachers (and 
 all poets must be teachers) are alike in any external 
 Q 2 
 
186 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
 respects. We are not to forget that Mr. Wordsworth 
 took the initiative in the great poetical movement of 
 his times. Both, however, are poets and teachers, and 
 both have been martyrs by distinction of persecution, 
 and both were placed in " a school," by the critics, in a 
 manner unsolicited and unjustified. Both are poets, 
 but Wordsworth is so upon a scheme, and determinate- 
 ly ; Hunt, because he could not help it, and instinctively 
 — the first, out of the entireness of his will ; the last, out 
 of the fuhiess of his fancy. Both were reformers, but 
 Hunt, like Melancthon, despising the later, and cleaving 
 to the earlier Christians, — embraced the practice of 
 Chaucer and of the Elizabethan men, as eagerly as a. 
 doctrine ; while Wordsworth threw himself straight 
 over all the fathers and ancestral poets, into the ' phi- 
 losophia prima' of first principles. Not that Hunt reject- 
 ed the first principles, nor Wordsworth the ancestral 
 poets ; but that the instinct of the former worked in 
 him, while the ratiocination of the latter worked out of 
 him. Both have an extraordinary consciousness— but 
 Wordsworth has it in the determination of ends, and 
 Hunt in the elaboration of details ; — and in the first we 
 discover the duty of the artist, and in the latter his 
 pleasure. In exterior nature, Wordsworth has a wider 
 faith, or a less discriminating taste. He draws her up 
 into the embrace of his soul as he sees her, undivided 
 and unadorned — a stick in the hedge he would take up' 
 into his song— but Hunt believes in nothing except 
 beauty, and would throw away the stick, or cover it 
 with a vine or woodbine. Mr. Hunt is more impression- 
 able towards men — Wordsworth holds their humanity 
 within his own, and teaches them out of it, and blesses 
 them from the heights of his priestly oftice, — while it is 
 enough for the other poet to weep and smile with them 
 openly, what time he ' blesseth them unaware.' Hunt 
 is more passionate, more tragic ; and he has also a more 
 rapid fancy, and a warmer imagination under certain 
 aspects ; but Wordsworth exceeds him in the irnaghia- 
 tion ' in inlellectu.'' The imagination of the latter calls 
 «o " spirit," nor men from the vasty deep, but is almost 
 entirely confined to the illustration of his own thoughts. 
 The imagination of the former is habitually playful, and 
 not disposed for sustained high exercise. William 
 Wordsworth is a spiritual singer, a high religious sing- 
 er, and none the less holy because he stands firmly still 
 
AND LEIGH HUNT. 1^7 
 
 to reason among the tossings of the censers ; while 
 Leigh Hunt is disposed to taste the odours of each whilo 
 the worship is going on. Wordsworth is habitually 
 cold, distant, grave, inflexible; Hunt exactly the oppo- 
 site in each respect. The sympathies of Leigh Hunt 
 are universal, in philosophy and in private habits ; the 
 poetical sympathies of William W^ordsworth are with 
 primitive nature and humble life, but his personal sym- 
 pathies are aristocratical. Leigh Hunt converses as 
 well as he writes, often better, ready on every point, 
 with deep sincerity on all serious subjects, and fai in 
 advance of his age ; with a full and pleasant memory, 
 of books, and men, and things ; and with a rich sense of 
 humour and a quick wit. Mr. Wordsworth does not 
 converse. He announces formally at times, but he can- 
 not find a current. He is moral, grave, good-natured,. 
 and of kindly intercourse. He does not understand a 
 joke, but requires it to be explained ; after wiiich he 
 looks uneasy. It is not his point. He sees nothing in 
 it. The thing is not, and cannot be made Wordsvvorth- 
 ian. He reads poetry very grandly, and with solem- 
 nity. Leigh Hunt also reads admirably, and with the 
 most expressive variety of inflection, and natural em- 
 phasis. He is fond of music, and sings and accom- 
 panies himself with great expression. Wr. Words- 
 worth does not care much about music. He prefers to 
 walk on the mountains in a high wind, bare-headed and 
 alone, and listen to the far-ofi" roar of streams, and 
 watch the scudding clouds while he repeats his verse 
 aloud. 
 
 Certain opinions concerning eminent men which have 
 grown into the very fibres of the public mind, are al- 
 ways expected to be repeated whenever the individual 
 is spoken of. To this there may be no great objection, 
 provided a writer conscientiously feels the truth of those 
 opinions. With reference, therefore, to Wordsworth, 
 as the poet of profound sentiment, elevated humanity, 
 and religious emotion, responding to the universe around, 
 we respectfully accept and record the popular impres- 
 sion ; asking permission, however, to offer a few re- 
 marks of our own for further consideration. 
 
 After the public had denied Mr. Wordsworth the pos- 
 session of any of the highest faculties of the mind du- 
 ring twenty years, the same public has seen good of 
 late to reward him with all the highest faculties in ex- 
 
188 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
 cess. The imagination of Wordsworth is sublime in 
 elevation, and as the illustrator of reflection; but it is 
 very limited. It is very deficient in invention, see his 
 *' Poems of the Imagination." They perfectly settle the 
 question. The fine things which are there (in rather 
 indifferent company) we know, and devoutly honour : 
 but we also know "what is not there. He has a .small 
 creative spirit ; narrow, without power, and ranging 
 over a barren field. These remarks cannot honeslly be 
 quoted apart from the rest of what is said of Mr. Words- 
 worth ; such remarks, however, must be made, or the 
 genius in question is not justly measured. He has no 
 sustained plastic energies ; no grand constructive power 
 in general design of a continuous whole, either of sub- 
 ject, or of individual characters. His universality is in 
 humanity, not in creative energies. He has no creative 
 passion. His greatness is lofty and reflective, and his 
 imagination turns like a zodiac upon its own centre, lit 
 by its own internal sun. If at times it resembles the 
 bare, dry, attenuated littleness of a school-boy's hoop, 
 he may insist upon admiring this as much as his best 
 things, but posterity will not be convinced. It is in 
 vain to be obstinate against time ; for some day the 
 whole truth is sure to be said, and some day it is sure 
 to be believed. 
 
 The prose writings of these distinguished poets are 
 strikingly qualified to bring under one view these va- 
 rious points of contrast : and yei it must be granted, at 
 the first glance, tliat Wordsworth's prose is only an ex- 
 position of the principles of his poetry, or highly valu- 
 able as an appendix to his poems ; while if Leigh Hunt 
 had never written a line as a poet, his essays would 
 have proved him an exquisite writer, and established 
 his claim upon posterity. As it is, he has two claims ; 
 and is not likely to be sent back for either of them, not 
 even as the rival of Addison. The motto to his " Lon- 
 don Journal" is highly characteristic of him — " To as- 
 sist the inquiring, animate the struggling, and sympa- 
 thise with all."" The very philosophy of cheerfulness 
 and the good humour of genius imbue all his prose 
 papers from end to end ; and if the best dreamer of us 
 all should dream of a poet at leisure, and a scholar '■'■in 
 idleness," neither scholar nor poet would speak, in that 
 air of dreamland, more graceful, wise and scholar-like 
 fancies than are written in his books. Mr. Wordsworth 
 
AND LEIGH HUNT. 189 
 
 on tlie other hand remits nothing of his poetic austerity, 
 when he condescends to speak prose ; if anything, he 
 is graver than ever, with an additional tone of the dic- 
 tator. He teaches as from the chair, and with the ges- 
 ture of a master, as he is — learnedly, wisely, sometimes 
 eloquently, and not unseldom coldly and heavily, and 
 with dull redundancy ; but always with a self-possess- 
 ed and tranquil faith in the truth which is in him, and 
 (considering it is poet's prose) with a curious deficiency 
 of imagery and metaphor, not as if in disdain of the 
 adornment and illustration, but rather as being unable 
 to ascend from the solid level without the metrical 
 pinions. 
 
 The work that Leigh Hunt has done, may be ex- 
 pressed in the few words of a dedication made to him 
 some years since.* "You have long assisted," says 
 the dedication — "largely and most successfully — to^ 
 educate the hearts and heads of both old and young ; 
 and the extent of the service is scarcely perceptible, because 
 the free and familiar spirit in which it has been rendered^ 
 gives it the semblance of an involuntary emanation. The 
 spontaneous diffusion of intelligence and good feeling 
 is not calculated, however, to force its attention upoa 
 general perception, &c." The meaning of all this is,, 
 that Leigh Hunt has no "system," and no sustained 
 gravity of countenance, and therefore the fineness of 
 his intellect, and the great value of his unprofessor-like 
 teaching has been extremely underrated. The dedica- 
 tion also marks this disgrace to the age — which shall 
 be as distinctly stated as such a disgrace deserves — that 
 while the public generally takes it for granted that Mr. 
 Leigh Hunt is on the Pension List, he most certainly is. 
 not, and never has been ! 
 
 Both of these authors have written too much ; Words- 
 worth from choice ; Leigh Hunt less from choice than 
 necessity. The first thinks that all he has written must 
 be nearly of equal value, because he takes equal pains 
 with everything ; the second evidently knows the in- 
 feriority of many of his productions — "but what is a 
 poet to do who follows literature as a profession ?'* 
 Few can afford to please themselves. In this respect, 
 however, Mr. Wordsworth is always successful. 
 
 After twenty years of public abuse and laughter, 
 William Wordsworth is now regarded by the public of 
 
 * See " Death of Marlowe." 
 
190 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
 the same country, as the prophet of his age. And this 
 is not a right view — after all. Wordsworth's feeling 
 for pastoral nature, and the depths of sentiment which 
 he can deduce from such scenes, and the lesson of hu- 
 manity he can read to the heart of man, are things, in 
 themselves, for all time ; but as the prophetic spirit is 
 essentially that of a passionate foreseeing and annun- 
 ciation of some extraneous good tidings to man ; in this 
 sense Wordsworth is not a prophet. His sympathies, 
 and homilies, and invocations, are devoted to the pan- 
 theistic forms of nature, and what they suggest to his 
 own soul of glory and perpetuity ; but he does not cry 
 aloud to mankind like a " voice in the wilderness," that 
 the way should be "made straight," that a golden age 
 will come, or a better age, or that the time may come 
 when "poor humanity's afflicted will" shall not struggle 
 altogether in vain with ruthless destiny. His Sonnets 
 in favour of the punishment of Death, chiefly on the 
 ground of not venturing to meddle with an old law, are 
 the tomb of his prophet-title. He is a prophet of the 
 Past. His futurity is in the eternal form of things, and 
 the aspiration of his own soul towards the spirit of the 
 universe ; but as for the destinies of mankind, he looks 
 back upon them with a sigh, and thinks that as they 
 were in the beginning, so shall they be world without 
 end. His " future can but be the past." He dictates, 
 he does not predict : he is a teacher and a preacher in 
 the highest sense, but he does not image forth the To- 
 Come, nor sound the trumpet of mighty changes in the 
 horizon. 
 
 It is wonderful to see how great things are sometimes 
 dependent upon small, not for their* existence, but for 
 their temporary effect. Anything essentially great in 
 its mentality, will be lasting when once the world ap- 
 preciates it ; the period of this commencement, how- 
 ever, may he retarded beyond the life of the originator, 
 and perhaps far longer, merely by its being accompa- 
 nied with some perfectly extraneous form or fancy 
 which has caught the public ear, and caused the airy 
 part to be mistaken for the substantial whole, the ex- 
 crescence for the centre. Mr. Leigh Hunt was gener- 
 ally very felicitous in certain words and phrases, and 
 admirable for reconciling the jarring discord of evil say- 
 ings and doings ; but he had half-a-dozen words and 
 phrases which people " agreed to hate," and he would 
 
AND LEIGH HUNT. 191 
 
 never cease to use ; and they were also provoked at his 
 tendency to confuse the distinctions of sympathy and 
 antipathy, by saying too much on the amiable side of 
 the condemned, so that, after all, mankind seemed to 
 be wrong- in definitely deciding for the right. Meta- 
 physically, he may be correct; but "practice drives us 
 mad." The Fish who became wiser when changed into 
 a Man, and again wiser when changed into a Spirit, (^ee 
 Hum's inimitable poem on the subject,) might have had 
 still more knowledge to communicate if he had been 
 put back once more to a Fish. Something very like 
 the principle here discussed, is discoverable in Chaucer 
 and Shakspeare, who usually give the bane and anti- 
 dote in close relation, do justice to every one on all 
 sides, and never insist upon a good thing or a bad one, 
 but display an impartiality which often amounts to the 
 humorous. Leigh Hunt's manner of doing this was the 
 chief offence, for while the elder poets left the readers 
 to their own conclusions, our author chose to take the 
 case upon himself, so that he became identified with the 
 provocation of those readers who were defeated of an 
 expected decision. In Mr. Wordsworth's case there 
 was a more deliberate and settled design in his ofi'ence. 
 Subjects and characters seemed to be chosen, and en- 
 tire poems written expressly with a view to provoke rid- 
 icule and contempt. He wrote many poems which 
 were trivial, puerile, or mere trash. Not a doubt of it. 
 There stand the very poems still in his works ! Any- 
 body can see them — the ungrateful monuments of a 
 great poet. Weakness, reared by his own hands, and 
 kept in repair to his latest day ! Let no false pen gar- 
 ble these remarks, and say that the essayist calls the 
 high-minded and true poet W^ordsworth bad names, and 
 depreciates his genius ; let the remarks of the whole be 
 fairly taken. With this peremptory claim for justice 
 and fair dealing on all sides, be it stated as an opinion, 
 that poems, in which, by carrying a great principle to a 
 ridiculous extreme, are gravely " exalted" garden-spades, 
 common streets, small celandines, waggoners, beggars, 
 household common- places, and matter-of-fact details, 
 finished up like Dutch pictures and forced upon the at- 
 tention as pre-eminently claiming profound admiration 
 or reverence — that these deliberate outrages upon true 
 taste, judgment, and the ideality of poetry, cost a great 
 poet twenty years of abuse and laughter — during which 
 
i92 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH AND LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 period thousands of people died without knowing his 
 genius, who tnight otherwise have been refined and ele- 
 vated, and more " fit" to die into a higher existence. 
 
 Now, however, all these small offences are merged 
 in a public estimation, which seems likely to endure 
 wih our literature-. Wordsworth is taken into the rev- 
 erence of the intellect, and Leigh Hunt into the warm 
 recesses of the affections. The one elevates with the 
 sense of moral dignity: the other refines with a loving 
 spirit, and instructs in smiles. And this is their influ- 
 ■ence upon the present age. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 ** A hauntint? music, soln, perhaps, and lone 
 Su)ipijrtress of tliu faery ruuf, maJe moan 
 Throughout, as fearing the whole charm might fade." — Keats 
 
 *• Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses, 
 But feeds on the auriai k.sj^'s 
 Of shapes that haunt thoughts' wildernesses. 
 He will watch from dawn to gloom 
 The lake-reflected sun illume 
 The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom, 
 Mor heed nor see what things they be ; 
 But from these, create he can 
 Forms more real than real man, — 
 Nurslings of immortality." — Shklley. 
 
 The poetic fire is one simple and intense element in 
 human nature ; it has its source in the divine mysteries 
 ©f our existence ; it developes with the first abstract de- 
 light of childhood, the first youthful aspiration towards 
 something beyond our mortal reach ; and eventually 
 becomes the master passion of those who are possess- 
 ed with It in the highest degree, and the most ennobling 
 and refining influence that can be exercised upon the 
 passions of others. At times, and in various degrees, 
 all are open lo tlie influence of the poetic element. Its 
 objects are palpable to the external senses, in propor- 
 tion as individual perception and sensibility have been 
 habituated to contemplate them with interest and de- 
 Mght ; and palpable to the imagination in proportion as 
 an individual possesses this faculty, and has habituated 
 it to ideal subjects and profoundly sympathetic reflec- 
 tions. If there be a third condition of its presence, it 
 must be that of a certain consciousness of dreamy glo- 
 ries in the soul, with vague enunioiis, aimless impulses, 
 and pr()j)hetic sensations, which may be said to tremble 
 on the extreme verge of the fermenting source of that 
 poetic fire, by whicn the life of humanity is purified and 
 sidorued. The first and second of these conditions must 
 be clear to all ; the last will not receive sa general an 
 admission, and, perhaps, may not be so intelligible to 
 everybody as could be wished. We thus ariive at the 
 conclusion that the poetic element, though simple and 
 R 
 
194 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 entire, has yet various forms and modifications of de- 
 velopment according- to individual nature and circum- 
 stance, and, therefore, that its loftiest or subtlest mani- 
 festations are not equally apparent to the average mass 
 of human intelligence. He, then, who can give a form 
 and expression to these lofty or these subtle manifes- 
 tations, in a way that shall be the most intelligible to 
 the majority, is he who best accomplishes the mission 
 of a Poet. We are about to claim for Alfred Tennyson 
 — living as he is, and solely on account of what he has 
 already accomplished — the title of a true poet of the 
 highest class of genius, and one whose writings may be 
 considered as peculiarly hjcid to all competent under- 
 standings that have cultivated a love for poetry. 
 
 It may fairly be assumed that the position of Alfred 
 Tennyson, as a poet of fine genius, is now thoroughly 
 established in the minds of all sincere and qualified 
 lovers of the higher classes of poetry in this country. 
 But what is his position in the public mind ] Or, rath- 
 er, to what extent is he known to the great mass of 
 general readers? Choice and limited is the audience, 
 ■we apprehend, to whom this favoured son of Apollo 
 pours forth his melodious song. It is true, however, 
 that the public is •' a rising man" in its gradual appreci- 
 ation, perhaps, of every genius of the present time ; and 
 certainly this appreciation is really on the rise with re- 
 spect to the poetry of Tennyson. It is only some thir- 
 teen years since he published his first volume, and if it 
 require all this time for " the best judges" to discover 
 his existence, and determine " in one way, and the oth- 
 er," upon some of his most original features, the public 
 may be excused for not knowing more about his poems 
 than they do at present. That they desire to know 
 more is apparent from many circumstances, and part- 
 ly from the fact of the last edition of his works, in two 
 volumes, having been disposed of in a few months. 
 Probably the edition was not large ; such, however, is 
 the result after thirteen years. 
 
 The ni me of Alfred Tennyson is pressing slowly, 
 calmly, but surely, — with certain recognition but no 
 loud shouts of greeting, — from the lips of the discerners 
 of i)oets, of whom there remain a few, even in the cast- 
 iron ages, along the lips of the less informed public, " to 
 its own place" in the stony house of names. That it 
 is the name of a true poet, the drowsy public exerts it- 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 195 
 
 self to acknowledge ; testifying with a heavy lifting of 
 the eyelid, to its consciousness of a new light in one of 
 the nearer sconces. This poet's public is certainly 
 awake to him, although you would not think so. And 
 this public's poet, standing upon the recognition of his 
 own genius, begins to feel the ground firm beneath his 
 feet, after no worse persecution than is comprised in 
 those charges of affectation, quaintness, and manner- 
 ism, which were bleated down the ranks of the inno- 
 cent " sillie" critics as they went one after another to 
 water. Let the toleration be chronicled to the honor 
 of England.* And who knows "? — There may be hope 
 from this, and a few similar instances of misprision of 
 the high treason of poetry, that our country may con- 
 clude her grand experience of a succession of poetical 
 writers unequalled in the modern world, by learning 
 some ages hence to know a poet when she sees one. 
 Certainly if we looked only to the peculiar genius of 
 Tennyson, with the eyes of our forefathers, and some 
 others rather nearer to our own day, we should find it 
 absolutely worthy of being either starved or stoned, or, 
 as Shelley said of Keats, "hooted into the grave." 
 
 A very striking remark was made in the Times, (De- 
 cember 26th, 1842), with reference to the fate and prog- 
 ress of true poets in the mind of the public. Alluding 
 to " the noble fragment of ' Hyperion,' " the writer says, 
 " Strange as it may appear, it is no less certain that the 
 half-finished works of this young, miseducated, and un- 
 ripe genius, have had the greatest influence on that 
 which is now the popular poetry. In the eyes of the 
 * young England' of poets, as in those of Shelley — 
 
 'The soul of Adonais, like a »tar, 
 Beacons from the abode where the immortals are.' 
 
 " What a text," pursues the same writer, " for a dis- 
 sertation on the mutability of popular taste !" True in- 
 deed ; but we must not be tempted into it at present. 
 Objecting to the expressions of " miseducated" and 
 " unripe," as only applicable to the errors in " Endy- 
 mion" and his earlier poems ; and to " half-finished" as 
 only applicable (we believe this is correct ?) to " Hy- 
 perion," there can be no sort of doubt of the influence. 
 But there is this peculiarity attached to it, one which 
 
 * One exception, at least, should be noticed. In 1833 a philosophical crit 
 icism appeared on Tennysoii, in the '• Monthly Repository,'' written by W. J 
 Fox, which unhesitatingly recognized his genius. 
 
196 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 Stands alone in the history, certainly of all moral influ- 
 ences. It is, that he has not had a single mechanical 
 imitator. There is an excellent reason for this. A me- 
 chanical imitation of style, or by choice of similar sub- 
 jects, would not bear ajiy resemblance to Keats ; no 
 one would recognise the intended imitation. When 
 somebody expressed his surprise to Shelley, that Keats, 
 who was not very conversant with the Greek language, 
 could write so finely and classically of their gods and 
 goddesses, Shelley replied " He was a Greek." We may 
 also refer to what Landor has said of him, in the paper 
 headed with that gentleman's name, in a former part of 
 this present work. The writings of Keats are saturated 
 and instinct with the purest inspiration of poetry ; his 
 mythology is full of ideal passion ; his divinities are 
 drawn as from "the life," nay, from their niner and es- 
 sential life ; his enchantments and his " faery land" are 
 exactly like the most lovely and truthful records of one 
 who has been a dweller among them and a participator 
 in their mysteries ; and his descriptions of pastoral 
 scenery are often as natural and simple as they are 
 romantic, and tinged all over with ideal beauty. Ad- 
 mitting all the faults, errors in taste, and want of de- 
 sign in his earliest works, but laying our hands with 
 full faith upon his "Lamia," "Isabella," "The Eve of 
 St. Agnes," the four " Odes" in the same collection, 
 and the fragment of" H3^perion," we unhesitatingly say 
 that there is no poet, ancient or modern, upon whom 
 the title of " Divine" can be more appropriately con- 
 ferred than upon Keats. While the " Satanic School" 
 was in its glory, it is no great wonder that Wordsworth 
 should have been a constant laughing-stock, and Keats 
 an object for contemptuous dismissal to the tomb. It 
 must, however, be added that the marked neglect of 
 the public towards the latter has continued down to the 
 present day. The pure Greek wine of Keats has been 
 set aside for the thin gruel of Kirk White. But if there 
 be faith in the pure Ideal, and in the progress of intelli- 
 gence and refinement, the ultimate recognition of Keats 
 by the public will certainly follow that of the "fit auli- 
 ence" which he will ever continue to possess. Of all 
 the numerous imitators of Lord Byron, not one now re- 
 mains. And this may be mentioned as a quiet com- 
 mentary upon his supercilious fling at the superior ge- 
 nius of John Keats. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 197 
 
 How it should happen that the influencer of so many- 
 spirits of the present time should himself have been left 
 to the ecstatic sohtude of his own charmed shores and 
 "faery lands forlorn," while those very spirits have 
 each mid all of them made some passage for them- 
 selves into the public mind, is one of those problems 
 which neither the common fate of originators, the ob- 
 duracy or caprice of the public, the clinging poison of 
 bygone malice and depreciation, nor the v/ant of suf- 
 cient introduction and championship on the part of 
 jiving appreciators, can furnish a perfectly satisfac- 
 tory solution. Sucli, hov/ever, is the fact at this very 
 time. 
 
 We have said that Keats has had no imitators ; of 
 ■what nature, then, has been his influence upon the po- 
 etry of the present day? It has been spiritual in its 
 ideality ; it has been classical in its revivification of the 
 forms and images of the antique, which he inspired with 
 a new soul; it has been romantic in its spells, and 
 dreams, and legendary associations ; and it has been 
 pastoral in its fresh gatherings from the wild forests and 
 fields, and as little as possible from the garden, a,nd 
 2iever from the hot-house and the flower-shows. His 
 imagination identified itself with the essences of things, 
 poetical in themselves, and he acted as the interpreter 
 of all this, by words which eminentlj^^ possess the pre- 
 rogative of expressive form and colour, and have a 
 sense of their own by which to make themselves un- 
 derstood. Who shall imitate these peculiarities of ge- 
 nius ? It is not possible. But kindred spirits will al- 
 ways recognize the voice from other spheres, v/ill hail 
 the "vision and the faculty divine," come from whom 
 it may, will have their own inherent impulses quicken- 
 ed to look into their own hearts, and abroad upon na- 
 ture and mankind, and to work out the purposes of 
 their souls. 
 
 How much of the peculiar genius of Keats is visible 
 in Alfred Tennyson, must have been apparent to all 
 those who are familiar with their writings ; and yet it 
 is equally certain that Tennyson, so far from being an 
 imitator of any one, is undoubtedly one of the most 
 original poets that ever lived. Wordsworth has had 
 many imitators, some of whom have been tolerably suc- 
 cessful, especially in simplicitjr. They thought /./laf. was 
 the grand secret. A few who had genuine ideas have 
 R2 
 
198 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 been more worthy followers of the great poet of pro- 
 found sentiment. Tennyson has also had followers; 
 but only such as have felt his spirit, nor is he likely to 
 have any mere imitators, for the dainty trivialities and 
 mannerism of his early productions have been aban- 
 doned, and now let those imitate who can. They must 
 have some fine poetical elements of their own in order 
 to be at all successful. 
 
 if a matter-of-fact philosopher, who prided himself 
 upon the hardness of his head, and an exclusive faculty 
 of understanding actual things, were to apply to us for 
 the signification of the word " Poetry," we could not do 
 belter than thrust into his hand, widely opened for the 
 expected brick, one of Alfred Tennyson's volumes. 
 His poetry is poetry in the intense sense, and admits 
 of no equivocal definitions. The hard-headed realist 
 might perhaps accept Macaulay's "Lays of Ancient 
 Rome," as good martial music, (with the help of a lit- 
 tle prompting from a friend of some imagination,) or 
 Mr. Henry Taylor's "Philip van Artevelde" as excel- 
 lent steady thinking ; or a considerable portion even of 
 Wordsworth's works as sound good sense, though in 
 verse, (a great admission) ; but if he did not understand 
 Tennyson's poems to be " Poetry," he would not he 
 very likely to misunderstand them for anything else. 
 The essence and element of them are poetry. The 
 poetry of the matter strikes through the manner. The 
 Art stands up in his poems, self-proclaimed, and not as 
 any mere modification of thought and language, but the 
 operation of a separate and definite power in the human 
 faculties. A similar observation attaches itself to the 
 poetry of Shelley, to the later productions of Keats, to 
 certain poems of Coleridge. But Tennyson and Shel- 
 ley, more particularly, walk in the common daylight in 
 their "singing clothes;" they are silver-voiced when 
 they ask for salt, and say " Good-morrow to you" in a 
 cadence. They each have a poetical dialect ; not such 
 a one as Wordsworth deprecated when he overthrew 
 a system ; not a conventional poetical idiom, but the 
 very reverse of it — each poet fashioning his phrases 
 upon his own individuality ; and speaking as if he were 
 making a language then, for the first time, under those 
 * purple eyes' of the muse, which tinted every syllable 
 as it was uttered, with a separate benediction. 
 
 Perhaps the first spell cast by Mr. Tennyson, the 
 
ALFRED TEXNYSOX. 199 
 
 master of many spells, he cast upon tlie ear. His 
 power as a lyrical versifier is remarkable. The meas- 
 ures flow softly or roll nobly to his pen ; as well one as 
 the other. He can gather up his strength, like a ser- 
 pent, in the gleaming coil of a line ; or dart it out 
 straight and free. Nay, he will write you a poem with 
 nothing in it except music, and as if its music were 
 everything, it shall charm your soul. Be this said, not 
 in reproach, — but in honour of him and of the English 
 language, for the learned sweetness of his numbers. 
 The Italian lyrists may take counsel, or at once enjoy, 
 
 ' Where Claribel low lieth.' 
 
 But if sweetness of melody, and richness of harmony 
 be the most exquisitely sensuous of Tennyson's char- 
 acteristics, he is no less able to "pipe to the spirit dit- 
 ties of no tone," for certainly his works are equally 
 characterized by their thoughtful grace, depth of senti- 
 ment, and ideal beauty. And he not only has the most 
 musical words at his command (without having recourse 
 to exotic terminologies), but he possesses the power of 
 conveying a sense of colour, and a precision of outline 
 by means of words, to an extraordinary degree. In 
 music and colour he was equalled by Shelley, but in 
 form, clearly defined, with no apparent effort, and no 
 harsh shades or lines, Tennyson stands unrivalled. 
 
 His ideality is both adornative and creative, although 
 up to this period it is ostensibly rather the former than 
 the latter. His ideal faculty is either satisfied with an 
 exquisitely delicate Arabesque painting, or clears the 
 ground before him so as to melt and disperse all other 
 objects into a suitable atmosphere, or aerial perspec- 
 tive, while he takes horse on a passionate impulse, as 
 in some of his ballads which seem to have been panted 
 through without a single pause. This is the case in 
 " Oriana," in " Locksley Hall," in " The Sisters," &c. 
 Or, at other times, selecting some ancient theme, he 
 stands collected and self-contained, and rolls out with 
 an impressive sense of dignity, orb after orb of that 
 grand melancholy music of blank verse which leaves 
 long vibrations in the reader's memory; as in " Ulysses," 
 the divine ''(Enone," or the '• Morte D'Arthur." The 
 idea of the death, or fading away of Fairy-land, allegor- 
 ically conveyed in the latter poem, is apparently the 
 main basis of the design, and probably original ; but it 
 
200 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 is observable that Tennyson scarcely ever invents any 
 elaborate design of moving characters. The two other 
 poems just named, with the " Lord of Burleigh," " Lady 
 Clare," "Dora," " Godiva," and most of those which 
 contain liuman character in a progressive story, are 
 taken from various sources; but they are taken by a 
 master hand, and infused with new life and beauty, 
 new thought and emotion. The same pecuUarity as to 
 ground-plot is observable in Shakspeare and Chaucer, 
 who never invented their subjects or stories ; but filled 
 them up as nobody else ever had done, or could do. It 
 was exactly the converse with Scott, who invented 
 nearly all his stories, but borrowed materials to fill them 
 up from all possible sources. Tennyson does not ap- 
 pear to possess much inventive construction. He has 
 burnt his epic, or this would have settled the question. 
 We would almost venture to predict that he will never 
 write another ; nor a five-act tragedy, nor a long heroic 
 poem. "Why should he 1 
 
 Alfred Tennyson may be considered,generally under 
 four different aspects, — developed separately or in col- 
 lective harmony, according to the nature of his subject 
 • — that is to say, as a poet of fairy-land and enchant- 
 ment ; as a poet of profound sentiment in the aflfections 
 (as Wordsworth is of the intellect and moral feelings) ; 
 as a painter of pastoral nature ; and as the delineator 
 and representer of tragic emotions, chiefly with refer- 
 ence to one particular passion. 
 
 With regard to the first of these aspects of his genius, 
 it may be admitted at the outset that Tennyson is not 
 the portrayer of individual, nor of active practical char- 
 acter. His characters, with few exceptions, are gener- 
 alizations, or refined abstractions, clearly developing 
 certain thoughts, feelings, and forms, and bringing them 
 home to all competent S3^mpathies. This is almost ex- 
 clusively the case in the first volume, published in 
 1830. Those critics, therefore, who have seized upon 
 the poet's early loves — his Claribels, Lilians, Adelines, 
 Madelines — and comparing them with real women, and 
 the lady-loves of the actual world, have declared that 
 they were not natural beings of flesh and blood, have 
 tried theui by a false standard. They do not belong to 
 the flesh-and -blood class. There is no such substance 
 in them. They are creatures of the elements of poetry. 
 And, for that reason, they have a sensuous life of their 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 201 
 
 own ; as far removed from ordinary bodily condition as 
 from pure spirit. They are transcendentalisms of the 
 senses ; examples of the Homeric eidula, or rather — if 
 WG may venture to trace the genealogical history of 
 such fragile creatures — the descendcints of those ecdoy'ka, 
 as modified by the influence of the romantic ages. 
 Standing or seated, flying or floating, laughing or weep- 
 ing, sighing or singing, pouting or kissing, they are love- 
 ly underbodies, which no German critic would for a 
 moment hesitate to take to his visionary arms ; but we 
 are such a people for " beef.'' We cry aloud for soul — 
 we want more soul — we want to be inspired — and the 
 instant anything is floated before our ken which might 
 serve as an aerial guide to the Elysian Valley, or the 
 Temple of the Spirit, then we instantly begin to utter 
 the war-cry of "dreamy folly!" "mystical mystery!'' 
 and urged by the faiih (the beef) that is in us, continue 
 our lowing for the calf, that surely cometh. but cannot 
 satisfy our better cravings. 
 
 Continuing our inquiries into the fruits of Tennyson's 
 early excursions in dream-land, we perceive that he 
 was inclined, even when upon commoner ground, 4o ac- 
 cept the fantasy of things for the things themselves. 
 His Muse was his own Lady of Shalott, — she was met- 
 amorphosed into the Merman and the Mermaid, and re- 
 uniting at the bottom of the sea, lay swelling with the 
 sense of ages beneath enormous growths upon the sur- 
 face, in the form of the Kraken. Why this latter poem 
 should have been omitted in the present collection puz- 
 zles and annoys us as much as his insertion of " the 
 Goose," and one or two other such things. But nothing 
 in this class of subjects is more remarkable than the 
 power he possesses of communicating to simple inci- 
 dents and objects of reality, a preternatural spirit as 
 part of the enchantment of the scene. Of this kmd, in 
 the dim and desolate chamber of the moated grange, 
 where Mariana, in the anguish of mingled hope and de- 
 spair, moaned away her dreary life — of this kind, to her 
 morbid fancy, was the blue fly that " sung i' the pane ;" 
 and the mouse that " behmd the mouldering wainscot 
 shrieked." We have heard it asked — as such questions 
 always are asked by numbers— what more there waa 
 in this than the mere details of a description of squalid- 
 ness and desertion ? The best answer was recently 
 made by * * * " Why," said he, " don't you know that 
 
S02 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 this ghastly fly had been bred of a corpse — and knew 
 it 1 As for the mouse, it had clearly been the poor 
 stai-ved niece of a witch, and the witch had murdered 
 her, her soul passing into the body of a mouse by rea- 
 son of foul relationship." This, at least, was accepting 
 a suggestion at full. In such a spirit of imaginative 
 promptitude and coincidence should such things be read, 
 or nothing will come of the reading. 
 
 " Old faces glimnier'd through the doors, 
 Old footsteps trod the upper floors, 
 Old voices called her from without I" 
 
 But since " the low sky raining" in the autumn eve, 
 "when the white-robed dying form of the Lady of Shalott 
 floated in the boat towards the many-towered palaces 
 of the Knights, a marked change has come over the ge- 
 nius of this poet with regard to his female characters. 
 Instead of the scions of the fairy race, most of whom 
 seem to have been the poet's " cousin" — a consanguin- 
 ity which evidently haunts him — we had in the volume 
 of 1832, some equally beautiful women, such as the 
 " Miller's Daughter," " Margaret," and the proud " Lady 
 Clara Vere de Vere ;" while in the volume last given 
 to the public, there are several more, and not a single 
 additional sylph. Here we find him not only awake to 
 the actual world, but awake with a set of totally new 
 experiences. In no writer is the calm intensity of pure 
 .affection, both in its extreme tenderness and continuity, 
 more exquisitely portrayed than in the poems of the 
 " Miller's Daughter," •• Dora," and the " Gardener's 
 Daughter." Tliey are steeped in the very sweetest 
 fountains of tlie human heart. 
 
 In the description of pastoral nature in England, no 
 one has ever surpassed Tennyson. The union of fidel- 
 ity to nature and extreme beauty is scarcely to be found 
 in an equal degree in any other writer. There may 
 sometimes be a tone of colour, and the sense of a sus- 
 tained warmth in the temperature, which is rather Ital- 
 ian ; and this is a peculiarity of our poets, who invariably 
 evade notice or consciousness of the four seasons in 
 each day, which is a characteristic of our climate. The 
 version which all English poets give of " Spring," more 
 especially, is directly at variance with what everybody 
 feels and knows of that bitter season in this country. 
 But allowing for this determination to make the best of 
 what we have, no poet more closely adheres to nature. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 203 
 
 He is generally as sweet, and fresh, and faithful in his 
 drawing and colouring of a landscape, as the prose 
 pastorals of Miss Mitford, which is saying the utmost 
 we can for a possessor of those qualifications. But be- 
 sides this, Tennyson idealises, as a poet should, wher- 
 ever his subject needs it — not so much as Shelley and 
 Keats, but as much as the occasion will bear, without 
 undue preponderance, or interfering with the harmony 
 of his general design. His landscapes often have the 
 truthful ideality ofClaude, combined with the refined 
 reality of Calcott, or the homely richness of Gainsbor- 
 ough. The landscape painting of Keats was more like 
 the back grounds of Titian and Annibal Carracci ; as 
 that of Shelley often resembled the pictures of Turner. 
 We think the extraordniary power of language in Shel- 
 ley sometimes even accomplished, not only the wild 
 brilliancy of colouring, but the apparently impossible ef- 
 fect, by words, of the wonderful aerial perspective of 
 Turner — as where he speaks of the loftiest star of heaven 
 "pinnacled dim in the intense inane." But with Ten- 
 nyson there is no tendency to inventiveness in his de- 
 scriptions of scenery ; he contents himself with the 
 loveliness of the truth seen through the medium of such 
 emotion as belongs to the subject he has in hand. But 
 as these emotions are often of profound passion, senti- 
 ment, reflection, or tenderness, it may well be conceived 
 that his painting is of that kind which is least common 
 in art. The opening of " CEnone" is a good example, 
 and is a fine prelude to love's delirium, which follows it. 
 
 " There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier 
 Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. 
 The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen, 
 Puts forth an arm and creeps from pine to pine, 
 And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand 
 The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down 
 Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars 
 The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine 
 In cataract after cataract to the sea." 
 
 If Alfred Tennyson became awake to the actual world 
 in his second volume of 1832, his publication in 1843 
 showed him more completely so ; awake after the storm, 
 after the wrecks, the deepest experiences of life. In 
 the ten years' interval he has known and suffered. So 
 far from any of his private personal feelings being pa- 
 raded before the public, either directly, or by means of 
 characters which everybody shall recognize as identical. 
 
204 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 after the fashion of Lord Byron, there is a withdrawal 
 from every identification, and generally a veil of ideality 
 cast over the whole. Certainly Tennyson is not at all 
 draniatic. That he can be intensely tragic, in pure emo- 
 tion and deep passion of expression, we shall presently 
 show ; that he has great power of concentration, will be 
 equally apparent ; and that in his powerful monodrama 
 of " St. Simeon Stylites," and in the various imagina- 
 tive or fanciful personages he introduces, he presents 
 full evidence of the faculty of self absorption in the iden- 
 tity of other idiosyncrasies, wo think also to be incon- 
 testable. Still, he only selects a peculiar class of char- 
 acters — those in whom it shall not be requisite to dis- 
 possess himself of beauty (Stylites being the only ex- 
 ception) ; nor can he speak without singing. His style 
 of blank verse is elegiac, epic, heroic,' or suited to the 
 idyl ; and not at all dramatic. His characters, as we 
 have said before, are generalizations or abstractions ; 
 they pass before the imagination, and often into the very 
 centre of the heart and all its emotions ; they do not 
 stand forth conspicuous in bone or muscle, nor in solid- 
 ity, nor roundness, nor substantial identity. They have 
 no little incidental touches of character, and we should 
 not know them if we met them out of his poetry. They 
 do not ent and drink, and sneeze. One never thought 
 of that before ; and it seems an offence to hint at such 
 3. thing concerning them. But besides all this, our poet 
 cannot laugh outright in his verses ; not joyously, and 
 with self-abandonment. His comic, grotesque, or bur- 
 lesque pieces, are neither natural nor wild. They arc 
 absolute failures by dint of ingenuity. His " Amphion" 
 and " the Goose" have everything but that which such 
 attempts most need — animal spirits. There is some- 
 thing intermediate, however, which he can do, and 
 which is ten thousand times more uncommon,— that of 
 an harmonious blending of the poelical and familiar, so 
 that the latter shall neither destroy the former, nor vex 
 the taste of the reader. As an instance of this, we 
 would quote " Will Waterproof's Lyrical Monologue," 
 which is perfection; as also were Shelley's poelical 
 
 *' Letter to ," and his " Julian and Maddalo." Of the 
 
 constructive power, and the distribution of action re- 
 quired in a dramatic composition, there is no need to 
 speak ; but it is time to consider the tragic faculties of 
 our author, and his power over the passions by descrip- 
 tion. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 205 
 
 The frequent tendency to the development or illnstra- 
 lion of tragic emotion has been less noticed than any 
 other important feature of Tennyson's poetry. In liis 
 first volume (1830) we find a " Dirge ;" the '"' Death of 
 Love;" tlie " BaUad of Oriana ;" the "Supposed (Con- 
 fession;" and "Mariana;" all of which are full of the 
 emotions and thoughts which lead directly, if they do 
 not involve, tragic results. The same may be said of 
 the following poems in the second volume (1832) : — the 
 " Lady ol' Shalott ;" " Eleanore ;" " Sappho" (called " Fa- 
 tima" in the new edition !) ; " CEnone ;" the " New Year's 
 Eve ;" and the " Sisters." Upon this last-named poem 
 we will venture a few remarks and suggestions. 
 
 " The Sisters" is a ballad poem of six stanzas, each 
 of only four lines, with two lines of a chorus sung by 
 the changeful roaring of the wind " in turret and tree" 
 — which is made to appear conscious of the passions 
 that are at work. In this brief space is comprised, 
 fully told, and with many suggestions beyond, a deep 
 tragedy. 
 
 The story is briefly this. A youthful earl of great 
 personal attractions seduces a young lady of family, 
 deserts her, and she dies. Her sister, probably an el- 
 der sister, and not of equal beauty, had, apparently, 
 also loved the earl. When, therefore,. she found that 
 not only had her love been in vain, but her self-sacri- 
 fice in favour of her sister had only led to the misery 
 and degradation of the latter, she resolved on the earFs 
 destruction. She exerted herself to the utmost to at- 
 tract his regard ; she " hated him with the hate of hell," 
 but, it is added, that she " loved his beauty passing 
 well," for the earl " was fair to see." Abandoning her- 
 fseif in every way to the accomplishment of her purpose, 
 she finally lulled him to sleep, with his head in her lap, 
 and then stabbed him " through and through." She 
 composed and smoothed the curls upon " his comely 
 head," admiring to see that " he looked so grand when 
 he was dead;" and wrapping him in a winding-sheet, 
 she carried him to his proud ancestral hall, and "laid 
 him at his mother's feet." 
 
 We have no space to enter into any psychological 
 examination of the peculiar character of this sister; 
 with regard, however, to her actions, the view that 
 seems njost feasible, and the most poetical, if not equal- 
 I3' tragic, is that she did not actually commit the self- 
 S 
 
206 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 abandonment and murder ; but went mad on the death 
 of her sister, and imagined in her delirium all that has 
 been related. But " read the part" how we may, there 
 never was a deeper thing told in briefer words. 
 
 The third volume of " Tennyson's Poems," (that i-s, 
 the Vol. II. of the new edition last issued), contains 
 several tragic subjects. The one most penetrating to 
 the heart, the most continuous, and most persevered in 
 with passionate intensity, so that it becomes inerad- 
 icable from the sensibility and the memory, is '' Locks- 
 ley Hall." The story is very simple ; not narrative, but 
 told by the soliloquy of anguish poured out by a young 
 man amid the hollow weed-grown courts of a ruined 
 mansion. He loved passionately ; his love was return- 
 ed ; and the girl married another, — a dull, every-day 
 sort of husband. The story is a familiar one in the 
 world — too familiar ; but in Tennyson's hands it be- 
 comes invested with yet deeper life, a vitality of hope- 
 less desolation. The sufferer invoking his betrayer, 
 her beauty and her falsehood, by the memory of their 
 former happiness, says that such a memory is the very 
 crown of sorrow : — 
 
 " Drag thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof, 
 In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the rooof. 
 
 Like a dog he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall, 
 Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the sliadows rise and fall. 
 
 Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep. 
 To thy widowed marriage-pillow, to the tears that thou shalt weep. 
 
 Thou shalt hear the " Never ! never I" whispered by the phantom years,. 
 And a song from out the distance, in the ringing of thine ears ; 
 
 And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. 
 
 Of similar character and depth of tone is the poem of 
 " Lady Clara Vere de Vere," who impelled to suicide 
 one of the victims of her heartless beauty. The long- 
 drawn music of her very name is suggestive of the 
 proud pedigree to which she was ready to offer up any 
 sacrifice. For continuity of affectionate tenderness and 
 deep pathos in the closing scene, we should mention 
 "The Lord of Burleigh," and the idyl of " Dora,"— the 
 style of both being studiously artless, the latter, indeed, 
 having a Scriptural simplicity which presents a curious 
 contrast to the poet's early manner, la the poem of 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 207 
 
 *' Love and Duty" there is a general tone of suppressed 
 •emotion, and violent effort against nature which is deep- 
 ly painful. The equal tenderness and bitterness of the 
 anguish renders it the more difficult to receive with that 
 feeling of resignation and sense of right which one 
 would wish for on such heart-breaking occasions. It is 
 to be. feared that some conventionalities have been 
 erected into undue tyrannies over the noblest and most 
 impassioned impulses, although the poet, not choosing 
 to be more explicit in his story, or its suggestions, may 
 inot have intended to illustrate any such principle. The 
 clear course of feeling in the two preceding poems, 
 ■which are equally pathetic and conclusive, will gen- 
 erally be preferable even to the more intensely tragic 
 emotion of this latter one. 
 
 It remains to offer a remark on two or three other 
 poems which also form the most striking features of 
 the present collection. 
 
 With respect to " CEnone," it is an exquisitely suc- 
 cessful attempt of the poet to infuse his own beating 
 heart's blood into the pale blind statues of the antique 
 times : and loses no jot of the majesty, while the vitality 
 informs the grace. It is not surpassed by anything of 
 the kind in Keats, or Shelley, or Landor. The " Morte 
 D'Arthur"' precisely reverses the design of the Greek 
 revival ; and, with equal success, draws back the Ho- 
 meric blood and spirit to inspire a romantic legend. 
 
 Of the " Ulysses" we would say that the mild dignity 
 and placid resolve — the steady wisdom after the storms 
 of life, and with the prospect of future storms — the mel- 
 ancholy fortitude, yet kingly resignation to his destiny 
 which gives him a restless passion for wandering — the 
 unaffected and unostentatious modesty and self-con- 
 scious power — the long softened shadows of memory 
 cast from the remote vistas of practical knowledge and 
 experience, with a suffusing tone of ideality breathing 
 over the whole, and giving a saddened charm even to 
 the suggestion of a watery grave — all this, and much 
 more, independent of the beautiful picturesqueness of 
 the scenery, render the poem of " Ulysses" one of the 
 most exquisite (as it has hitherto been one of the least 
 noticed) poems in the language. 
 
 It would be impossible to give that full consideration 
 to the extraordinary poem of " St, Simeon Styliles," 
 which as a work of genius it merits, without entering 
 
208 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 into complexities of the passions, mind, and human 
 character, under the excitement and involuntary as v/ell 
 as wilful hallucinations of fanaticism, for wtiich we 
 could afford no adequate space. We must content our- 
 selves with saying that it is a great and original " study." 
 There are no qualities in Tennyson more character- 
 istic than those of delicacy and refinement. How very 
 few are the poets who could equally well have dealt with 
 the dangerous loveliness of the story of " Godiva." 
 
 " Then fled she to her inmost bower, and there 
 Unclasped the wedded eagles of her belt, 
 The grim Earl's gift ; but ever at a breath 
 She lingered, looking like a summer moon 
 Half-dipt in cloud: anon she shook her head, 
 And shouered the rippled ringlets to her knee ; 
 Unclad herself in haste ; adown the stair 
 Stole on ; and 'like a creeping sunbeam, slid 
 From pillar unto pillar, until she reached 
 The gateway, &c." 
 
 The mind which can force up a vital flower of ideal- 
 ity through the heavy fermenting earth of human expe- 
 riences, must have a deep intellectual root and active 
 life. Among these experiences we must of course in- 
 clude those inner struggles of the soul with its own 
 thoughts ; dealings with the revelations that seem to 
 come from other states of existence ; difficult contests 
 between the mortal promptings and resistances that breed 
 so many doubts and hopes, and things inscrutible ; and 
 thoughts that often present themselves in appalling 
 whispers, against the will and general tone and current 
 of the mind. Tennyson's intellectual habit is of great 
 strength ; his thoughts can grow with large progressive 
 purpose either up or down, and the peculiarity is that in 
 him they commonly do so to " a haunting music." No 
 argument was ever conducted in verse with more ad- 
 mirable power and clearness than that of the " Two 
 Voices." The very poetry of it magnifies itself into a 
 share of the demonstration : take away the poetry and 
 the music, and you essentially diminish the logic. 
 
 Though Tennyson often writes, or rather sings ap- 
 parently from his own personality, you generally find 
 that he dje^ )Q.t refer to himself, but to some imaginary 
 person. He permits the reader to behold the workings 
 of his individuality, only by its reliex action. He comes 
 out of himself to sing a poem, and goes back again ; or 
 rather sends his song out from his shadow under the 
 leaf, as other nightingales do ; and refuses to be expan- 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 209 
 
 sive to his public, opening his heart on the hinges of 
 music, as other poets do. We know nothing of him ex- 
 cept that he is a poet ; and this, although it is something 
 to be sure of, does not help us to pronounce distinctly 
 upon what may be called the mental intention of his 
 poetry. 
 
 Whatever he writes is a complete work : lie holds 
 the unity of it as firmly in his hand as his (Enone's Par- 
 is holds the apple — and there is nothing broken or in- 
 complete in his two full volumes. His lew " fragments'" 
 are entire in themselves, and suggest the remainder. 
 But for all this unity of every separate poem produced 
 by him, there is, or appears to be, some vacillation of 
 intention, in his poetry as a mass. To any question 
 upon the character of his early works, the reply rises 
 obviously — they are from dream-land ; and of the ma- 
 jority of those which he has since produced, the same 
 answer should be returned. The exceptive instances 
 are like those of one who has not long awakened from 
 his Dreams. But what dreams these have been— of 
 what loveliness of music, form, and colour, and what 
 thoughtfulness— our foregoing remarks have very faint- 
 ly expressed and declared. Jn the absence of any mark- 
 ed and perceptible design in his poetical faith and pur- 
 poses, Tennyson is not singular. It would be equally 
 difficult to decide the same question with regard to sev- 
 eral others ; nor perhaps is it necessary to be decided. 
 As the matter rests in tiiis instance, we have the idea of 
 a poet (his volumes in our hands) who is not in a fixed 
 attitude ; not resolute as to means, not determined as 
 to end — sure of his power, sure of his activity, bui not 
 sure of his objects. There appears to be some want of 
 the sanctification of a spiritual consistency ; or a liabil- 
 ity at intervals to resign himself to the •' Lotos Eaters." 
 We seem to look on while a man stands in preparation 
 for some loftier course— while he tries the edge of his 
 various arms and examines the wheels of his chariots, 
 and meditates, full of youth and capability, down the 
 long slope of glory. He constantly gives us thcTimpres- 
 sion of something greater than his woi*'45i' And this 
 must be his own soul. He may do greater things than 
 he has yet done ; but we do not expect it. If he do no 
 more, he has already done enough to deserve the lasting 
 love and admiration of posterity. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson is the son of a clergyman of Lin- 
 S 2 
 
210 ALFIiED TENNYSON. 
 
 colnsliire. He went through the usual routine of a Uni- 
 versity education at Trinity Colleg-e, Cambridg-e. He 
 has brothers and sisters living, who are all possessed of 
 superior attainments. Avoidmg general society, he 
 would prefer to sit up all night talking with a friend, or 
 else to sit "and think alone." Beyond a very small 
 circle he is never to be met. There is nothing eventful 
 in his biography, of a kind which would interest the pub- 
 lic ; and wishing to respect the retirement he unaftect- 
 edly desires, we close the present paper. 
 
T. B. MACAULAY. 
 
 " Yes, from ths records of my youthful state, 
 And from the lore of bards and sages old, 
 From whatsoe'er niv wakened lhou<ihts create, 
 
 * * *"* * * * * 
 
 Have I collected language to unfold 
 Truth to my countrymen." — Siiellet. 
 
 " Arma, virumque, (5-c." — Virgil. 
 
 "And in triumphant ch^ir was set on high 
 The ancient glorie of the Roman peers." — Spenser.. 
 
 Thomas Babington Macaulay is the son of Zachary 
 Macaiilay, well known as the friend of Wilberforce, 
 and, though himself an African merchant, one of the 
 most ardent abolitionists of slavery. In 1818, T. B» 
 Macaulay became a member of Trinity College, Cam^ 
 bridge, where he took his Bachelors degree in 1S22, 
 He distinguished himself as a student, having obtained 
 a scholarship, twice gained the Chancellors medal for 
 English verse, and also gained the second Craven 
 Scholarship, the highest honour in classics which the 
 University confers. Owing to his dislike of mathemat- 
 ics, he did not compete for honours at graduation, but 
 nevertheless he obtained a Fellowship at the October 
 competition open to graduates of Trinity, which he ap- 
 pears to have resigned before his subsequent departure- 
 for India. He devoted much of his time to the " Union''' 
 debating Society, where he was reckoned an eloquent 
 speaker. 
 
 Mr. Macaulay studied at Lincoln's Inn, and was call- 
 ed to the bar in 1826. In the same year his " Essay on 
 Milton" appeared in the " Edinburgh Review :" and out 
 of Lord (then Mr.) Jeffrey's admiration of that paper^ 
 arose an intimate friendship. IMacaulay, visiting Scot- 
 land soon afterwards, went the circuit with Mr. Jeffrey.. 
 His connection with the "Edinburgh Review" has con- 
 tinued at intervals ever since. 
 
 By the Whig administration Mr. Macaulay was ap- 
 pointed Conimi8sioiier of Bankrupts. He commenced 
 his parliamentary career about the same period, aa^ 
 
212 T. B. MAC AULA Y. 
 
 raetiiber for Colne in the Reform Parliament of 1832, 
 and again for Leeds in 1834, at which time lie was sec- 
 retary to the India Board. His seat was, however, 
 soon relinquished, for in the same year )ie was appoint- 
 ed member of the Supreme Council in Calcutta, under 
 the East India Company's new charter. 
 
 Arriving in Calcutta, in September, 1834, Mr. Mac- 
 aul33^ shortly assumed an important trust in addition to 
 his seat at the Council. At the request of the Gover- 
 nor General, Lord William Bentinck, he became Presi- 
 iient of the commission of five, appointed to frame a pe- 
 nal code for India ; and the principal provisions of this 
 code have been attributed to him. One of its enact- 
 ments, in particular, was so unpopular among the Eng- 
 lish inhabitants, as to receive the appellation of the 
 " Black Act." It abolished the right of appeal from the 
 Local Courts to the Supreme Court at the Presidency, 
 hitherto exclusively enjoyed by Europeans, and put 
 them on the same footing with natives, giving to both 
 an equal right of appeal to the highest Provincial Courts. 
 Inconvenience and delay of justice had been caused by 
 the original practice, even when India was closed 
 against Europeans in general, but such practice was 
 obviously incompatible with the rights and property of 
 the natives under the new system of opening the coun- 
 try to general resort. This measure of equal justice, 
 however, exposed iNIr. Macaulay, to whom it was uni- 
 versally attributed, to outrageous personal attacks in 
 letters, pamphlets, and at public meetings. 
 
 The various reforms and changes instituted by Lord W, 
 Bentinck and Lord Auckland, were advocated in general 
 by Mr. Macaulay. He returned to England in 1838. 
 
 Mr. Macaulay was elected member for Edinburgh 
 on the liberal interest in . 1839 ; and being appointed 
 Secretary at War, he was re-elected the following year, 
 and again at the general election in 1841. No review 
 of his political career is here intended ; although in re- 
 lation to literature, it should be mentioned that he op- 
 posed Mr. Serjeant Talfourd's Copyright Bill, and was 
 the principal agent in defeating it. As a public speak- 
 er, he usually displays extensive information, close 
 reasoning, and eloquence ; and has recently bid fair to 
 rival the greatest names among our English orators. 
 His conversation in private is equally briUiant and in- 
 structive. 
 
T. E. MACAULAY. 213 
 
 Mr. Maoanlay may fairly be regarded as the first 
 critical and historical essayist of the lime. It is not 
 meant lo be inferred that there are not other writers 
 who display as much understanding and research, as 
 great, perhnps greater capacity of appreciating excel- 
 lence, as much acuteness and humour, and a more sub- 
 tle power of exciting, or of measuring, the efforts of 
 the intellect and the imagination, besides possessing an 
 equal mastery of language in their own peculiar style ; 
 but there is no other writer who combines so large an 
 amount of all those qualities, with the addition of a 
 mastery of style, at once highly classical and most ex- 
 tensively popular. His style is classical, because it is 
 so correct ; and it is popular because it must be intel- 
 ligible without effort to every educated understanding^.. 
 
 In the examination of the " Critical and Historical 
 Essay" of Mr. Macaulay, it would have been our wish, 
 as the most genial and sgreeable proceeding, to com- 
 mence with that unqualified adminition which so large 
 a portion of his labours justly merits. But unfortu- 
 nately he hns written a " Preface." It scarcely occu- 
 pies two priges, yet presents a stumbling-block in our 
 course ; and, in that spirit of free discussion adopted 
 by Mr. Macaulay himself throughout his volumes, he 
 ■will pardon our stating certain objections which we 
 cannot quietly overcome in our own minds. 
 
 '• The author of these Essays is so sensible of thf^ir defects, that he hau 
 repeatedly refused to let ihem appear in a form which miiiht seem to indi- 
 cate that he thought them worthy of a permanent phxe in Enfili.-h liternture 
 Nor would he now give his consent to the republication of pieces so imper- 
 fect, if, by withholding his consent, he could make republication impossiblei 
 But as they have been reprinted more than once in the United States," &.c ' 
 Preface. 
 
 This, therefore, being unfortunately the state of af- 
 fairs, of course we expect to be told that tiie author 
 has now carefully revised productions which he had 
 been so anxious to suppress from a sense of their in- 
 completeness. 
 
 "No attempt has made to remodel any of the pieces which are contained! 
 in tliese volumes. Even the criticism on Milton, which was vvntien whea 
 the author was fresh from college, and which contains scarcely a paragraph 
 such as his matured jiidgwrnt approves Still remains overloaded with gaudy 
 and ungraceful ornament.'' — Preface. 
 
 Nevertheless, in this condition Mr. Macaulay re- 
 prints his Essays, now that, wheiher willingly or un- 
 willingly, he sends them forth in the form which an- 
 
214 T. B. macaulay. 
 
 thors adopt who think their works worthy of a perma- 
 sient place in literature. An odd compliment, by the 
 way, to the admiration expressed by Lord Jeffrey, of 
 this very paper. How are we to proceed 1 The criti- 
 cal author has placed all his fraternity in a very anom- 
 alous, not to say rather grotesque position. For if we 
 object to anything, especially in the essay on Milton, 
 the author will have been before-hand with us — he knew 
 aFt that himself; and if we admire anything, he may 
 smile and say " Ah, I thought pretty well of it myself 
 whea I was a very young man." 
 
 But these Essays have gone forth to do their work 
 la the svorld, and the Essay on Milton, among the rest, 
 will exercise its appointed degree of influence; though 
 it ^'contains scarcely a paragraph such as the author's 
 mature judgment approves" — and, we will venture to 
 add- contains certain positions which are very mis 
 chlevous to the popular mind. 
 
 We will proceed as though no Preface had been 
 nvrilten. Our objections shall not meddle with the 
 •style, nor do we think its redundancy of ornament so 
 prominent an annoyance as the author intimates. Our 
 objections are of a more serious nature; founded on 
 confused views of truth and fiction, of reality and 
 ideality, and leading directly to the question of wheth- 
 <3r Shakspeare and Milton ought to be regarded in any 
 respect as lunatics. 
 
 " Perhaps no person can be a poet, or can ever enjoy poetry, without a 
 certain unsovndntss of vmid, if anything which gives so much pleasure 
 ought to be called unsoundness." — Essays, vol. i. p. 7. 
 
 The position is guarded and qualified, in the above 
 <|uotation, but presently it comes out in all its fulness. 
 The author, be it understood, explains that he means 
 poetr3% impassioned and imaginative poetry ; not mere 
 verse-making, but poetry of the highest order. And 
 ^vhat the world has been hitherto accustomed to regard 
 in the light of an inspiration, the essayist wishes to 
 teach us to consider as the product of an unsound 
 2«ind. It is even catching, and those who read may 
 rave. *' The greatest of poets," he says, " has describ- 
 ed it in lines which are valuable on account of the just 
 notion which they convey of the art in which he ex- 
 ceiled : 
 
 " Ay iniagiKation Ijodies forth 
 The forms of things unknown, the iwet's pen 
 Turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing 
 A local I'.abitalion and a name " 
 
T. B. MACAULAY. 215 
 
 Now all this, which so palpably implies creative pow- 
 er, suggests to the essayist an unsound creator. 
 
 " These are tlie fruits of the ' fine frenzy' which he ascribes to the poet— 
 a tine t'''5nzy, doubtless, but still a frenzy. Truth, indeed, is essential t« 
 poetry ; but it is the truth of madness." — Ibid. p. 8. 
 
 Surely the youngessayist must have heard of the"nc^''- 
 west madness ?" But he suffered himself to be misled 
 by the imperfect comparison with the rensonings of mad 
 people, "which are just; but the premises are false." 
 A few lines farther on, observing how much ''a lUtle 
 girl is affected by the story of poor Red Ridrng-hood" 
 he adds — '• She knows that it is all false, that wolves can- 
 not speak, that there are no wolves in England, Yet 
 in spite of her knowledge she believes, she weeps, she 
 trembles,'' &c. That is the point. There is no mad- 
 ness in the matter; those who are mad, do not know 
 that their premises are false. With respect to poetry, 
 it is no undsoundness of mind ; but the surrendering up 
 of the feelings to certain operations of the mind, — 
 which happens in other things besides poetry, and jid 
 one thinks of calling it madness. After this, come the? 
 usual remarks about " the despotism of the imagination 
 over uncultivated minds" (Greece and Rome foi in- 
 stance ?) the " rude state of society," and the influence 
 of poetry dwindling with the " improvements" of civil- 
 isation, but " lingering longest among the peasantry." — 
 all of whom are excessively addicted to Wordsworth 
 and Shelley. Finally, " as the light of knowledge 
 breaks in upon its exhibitions" — 
 
 "The hues nnd lineaments of the phantoms which the poet calls ijp, 
 grow fainter and fainter. We cannot unite the incompatible advantagt?s of 
 reality and deception, the clear discernment of truth and the exquisite eas- 
 joyment of fiction."— /Z^id. p. 9. 
 
 As if fiction involved no truth — no realities t — as if 
 there were not a larger amount of truth in fietioiij iliaa 
 in any known reality. Moreover, we are told, and tro- 
 ly (in the Essay on " Moore's Life of Lord ByjcMj/* 
 Vol. L page 332), that " the heart of man is the p?i>T- 
 ince ofpoetry, and of poetry alone." With. mad?>e5», 
 therefore, at heart, as well as in the head, we ars m a 
 pretty condition ! It could hardly have been on ihi^ 
 account that Lord Jeffrey was so pleased with the es- 
 say. Entertaining, as we do, the most unaffected t^s- 
 pect for the " mature judgment" of Mr.Macaulayj ao^ & 
 
216 T. B. MACAULAY. 
 
 sincere admiration of his great powers and acquire- 
 ments, we must be permitted to express our regret — 
 all the more strongly for that very respect and admira- 
 tion — that he did not think fit to exercise theiw in re- 
 vising the crude philosophy of a young gentleman 
 *'.fresh from college," instead of sending it abroad to 
 do its work of injurious influence upon the mind of our 
 not very finely frenzied public — a pubHc of itself, by no 
 means disposed to regard poets or their works with too 
 much estimation, except as matter of national boast- 
 ing. Once convince and fortify John Bull in the opin- 
 ion that to read poetry and cultivate liis imaginative 
 faculties will render him liable to aberration of mind, 
 ■and it is all over with him, and the poets. Ht has half 
 suspected this for a long time; his unsoundnejs is al- 
 ready on the other side. Or does our classic Essayist 
 and right Roman lyrist make an exception in favour of 
 the mental soundness of Songs of the Sword — of bards 
 and readers on war-steeds — of statesmen who write 
 poetry in steel helmets ? 
 
 In the same essay we are also obliged to object to 
 the remark that the Prometheus of ^Eschylus " bears 
 ^undoubtedly a considerable resemblance to the Satan 
 vof Milton^''' because "in both we find the same impa- 
 VieTice of control, the same ferocihj, the same unconquer- 
 able pride." At page 348 of this volume, we also find a 
 coraparison made with some of the Byronic heroes 
 " who are sick of life, who are at war with society, 
 who are supported in their anguish only by an uncon- 
 querable pride, resembling that of Prometheus on the 
 rack, or of Satan in the burning marl," &c. Here we 
 find individual ambition and morbid dissatisfaction con- 
 founded with the loftiest sympathies — demoniac pride 
 with the pride of the Champion of Humanity. On the 
 other hand, we have, elsewhere*, an equal extrava- 
 gance in the way of eulogium, when the " harsh, dark 
 features of the Earl of StralTord," are said to have been 
 *' ennobled by their expression into more than the ina- 
 jesty of an antique Jupiter,"— as though thf-re could be 
 siny comparison between the finest practical head, and 
 the finest ideal one. which could be fair towards either. 
 
 Let it not be supposed, however, that we do not find 
 
 * In the Essay on " Lord Nu?ent's Memorials of Hampden," vol. i. pp. 
 450, 1, 2. where Strafford, the same more thm siiperlnimanly majestic 
 jioblemaa, is fairly shown to have been an avaricious and desjwtic renegade. 
 
T, B. MACAULAY. 217 
 
 much to admire in the essay on Milton — hazardous as 
 such a declaration may be, after what the author has 
 himself said of it. Having duly deliberated, however, 
 we will venture to express great admiration of the pas- 
 sages on "revolution" at pp. 39,40,41; (which we 
 commend to Sir E. L. Buhver's especial attention) and 
 also of the character of Cromwell, at pp. 45, 40 — which 
 we commend to the especial attention of the " author- 
 ity," who seems to be so short-sighted as to contem- 
 plate the exclusion of all pictorial recognition of the 
 Commonwealth from the new Houses of Parliament*. 
 
 Few essays were ever sent abroad in the world aiore 
 calculated to improve the public understanding, and 
 direct its moral feelings aright, than those on " Moore's 
 Life of Byron," " Machiavelli," aud " Boswell's Life of 
 Johnson." They contain many passages of sterling 
 philosophy in the analysis and elucidation of character, 
 in principles and conditions of public and private mo- 
 rality, and in matters of literary taste ; all of which are 
 set forth with unanswerable arguments and admirable 
 illustrations. Among the latter we cannot forbear no- 
 ticing the equally acute and amusing remarks on the 
 -hypocritical public horror at Lord Byron's separation 
 from his wife, and because Edmund Kean " had dis- 
 turbed the conjugal felicity of an alderman," — common 
 occurrences, of which the world takes no sort of notice 
 beyond the newspaper paragraphs of the day, except 
 about once in seven years, and then " the public decen- 
 cy requires a victim." His remarks on Dr. Johnson 
 are excellent, and while they do every justice to all the 
 good qualities of the "great man" of his day, will ma- 
 terially assist in leading the public mind at last to per- 
 ceive how constantly Dr. Johnson, in philosophy, in 
 morals, and in criticism, was quite as wrong as he was 
 pompous and overbearing. 
 
 The article on Warren Hastings is a model of biog- 
 raphy. It is biography of the most difficult kind ; that, 
 namely, in which the character and actions of the indi- 
 vidual subject caiuiot be portrayed without a compre- 
 hensive history of the times in which he lived. Such 
 writings are apt to be exceedingly tedious, and in fact 
 to present a mixture of two styles of composition, that 
 Tof the historian and that of the biographer, fitted to- 
 gether as they best may be. But in the case before us, 
 
 * February the £'i(l. 
 
 T 
 
218 T. B. MACAULAY. 
 
 while in the state of the political world, the progress 
 of events, the aspects of parties, the peculiar condition 
 of the great continent of India, the characteristics of 
 its various races, are all presented distinctly, and held 
 constantly before the mind as they in succession 
 change, swell into importance, or fade into obscurity, 
 in the onward march of time ; — so, with equal distinct- 
 ness and constancy, is the individual Warren Hastings 
 always held present to the imagination, as those events, 
 and scenes, and characteristics acted upon him, or he 
 acted upon them. Th€ man stands revealed in this 
 clear picture of his circumstances and his actions. We 
 do not require to be told what was the peculiar nature 
 of his intellect, his moral perceptions, his temperament. 
 These we deduce from the history; any occasional 
 remark upon him in the way of metaphysical analysis 
 we read as a corollary, and can only say, 'just so,' or 
 ' of course.' Perhaps a skilful physiognomist might 
 even pronounce on the features of his face after read- 
 ing the whole. With the «ame skill as that displayed 
 in presenting the history of his time, the men who sur- 
 rounded him are brought on the scene. 
 
 Of the masterly essay on " Lord Bacon," we must 
 content ourselves with saying that it is in itself a great 
 work of harmoniously united history, biography, and 
 criticism, each of the highest class, and of which there 
 is not a single page without its weight and value. 
 
 Mr. Macaulay possesses great powers of logical crit- 
 icism ; a fine and manly taste and judgment ; a quick 
 sense of the absurd, with an acute perception of the 
 illogical; great fairness, and love of truth and justice. 
 His prose is a model of style. It is sculpturesque by 
 its clearness, its solidity, its simplicity, without any 
 mannerism or affectation, and by its regularity. But 
 this regularity is not of marble equality ; the strong and 
 compacted sentences rather presenting the appearance 
 of a Cyclopian wall, with the outer surface polished. 
 Continually the matter is of similar character with this 
 style, and a brief section contains the growth of ages. 
 Many single sentences might be adduced, in which are 
 compressed clearly and without crowding, the sum of 
 prolonged historical records, their chief events and 
 most influential men, and how the events and the men 
 acted and re-acted upon each other. 
 
 Mr. Macaulay has great and singular ability in mak- 
 
T. B. MACAULAY. 219 
 
 ing difficult questions clear, and the most unpromising 
 subjects amusing. A good example of this may be 
 found in his review of" Southey's Colloquies on Soci- 
 ety," where Macaulay displays Southey's errors and 
 wrong-headedness, and what the true state of the case 
 is with respect to the currency, the national debt, and 
 finance, — subjects which Literature had always consid- 
 ered as dry and impracticable as a rope of snnd, but 
 which in Mr. Macaulay's hands become not only intel- 
 ligible and instructive, but incredibly entertaining. 
 
 Notwithstanding the many excellent remarks on 
 poets and poetical productions, occurring in the course 
 of his volumes — and the acuteness displayed, not only 
 in what Mr. Macaulay says of the so-called " correct- 
 ness " of Pope, and Addison, and Gray (as though their 
 descriptions of men and external nature were not far 
 less correct than those of the Elizabethan poets), but 
 in the more admiring tone he occasionally takes,— it 
 might still have been doubted whether a writer, in 
 whom the understanding faculty predominates, would 
 be able to make that degree of surrender of its power, 
 which the fullest appreciation of poetry requires. He 
 might fear it would argue "unsoundness." Howbeit, 
 in certain remarks on Shelley, we see that he can make 
 the requisite surrender to one, whose poetry, of all 
 others, needs it, in order to be rightly estimated. And 
 it is a part of the means of forming the best judgment 
 •of poetical productions to know when, and how far 
 that faculty should abandon itself^ and receive a domi- 
 nant emotion as fresh material for subsequent judg- 
 ment. 
 
 The last publication of Mr. Macaulay — his " Lays of 
 Ancient Rome" — may fairly be called, not an exhuma- 
 tion of decayed materials, but a reproduction of classi- 
 cal vitality. The only thing we might object to, is the 
 style and form of his metres and rhythms, which are 
 not classical, but Gothic, and often remind us of the 
 "Percy Reliques." There is no attempt to imitate the 
 ancient metres. Li other respects these Lays are 
 Roman to the back-bone ; and where not so, they are 
 Homeric. The events and subjects of the poems are 
 chosen with an heroic spirit ; there is all the hard 
 glitter of steel about the lines ! — their music is the 
 neighing of steeds, and the tramp of armed heels ; their 
 inspiration was the voice of a trumpet. 
 
220 T. B. MACAULAY. 
 
 "And nearer fapt and nearer 
 
 Doth the red whirlwind conne ; 
 And louder still and still more loud, 
 From underneath that rolling cloud, 
 Is heard the trumpet's war-nole proud, 
 
 The trampling, and the hum. 
 And plainly and more plainly 
 
 Now through the glonm appears, 
 Far to left and far to right, 
 In broken gleams of dark-blue light, 
 The long array of helnnits bright. 
 
 The long array of spears." 
 ***** 
 
 " And backward now and forward 
 
 Wavers the deep array ; 
 And on the tossing sea of steel. 
 To and fro the stand irds reel ; 
 And the victorious trumpet peal 
 
 Dies fitfully away." — Horatius. 
 
THOMAS HOOD 
 
 AND 
 
 THE LATE THEODORE HOOK. 
 
 •' Or send to us 
 Thy wit's great overplus : 
 
 But teach us yet 
 Wisely to husband it; 
 Lest we that talent spend: 
 And having once brought to an end 
 That precious stock ; tlie store 
 Of such a wit: the world should have no more." — Herrick. 
 
 "Have gentility, and scorn every man!"— Ben Jonson. 
 
 " And laughter oft is but an art 
 To drown the outcry of the heart." — Hartley Coleridge. 
 
 "Act freeli\ carelessly, and capriciously; as if our veins ran with quick- 
 silver; and noi utter a phrase but what shall come forth steeped in the very 
 brine of conceit, and sparkle like salt in fire." 
 
 Ben Jonson, Cynthia's Revels. 
 
 There are some writers, whose popularity has been 
 so long established, is so well deserved, and about the 
 character of whose genius there is so correct a general 
 impression in the mind of the pubHc, that very little 
 more need be said about them. But these are few in 
 number. For, although it is not uncommon for the 
 majority to be tolerably unanimous in its opinion of a 
 favourite, it certainly very rarely occurs that such 
 opinion is so perfectly satisfactory as to leave no op- 
 portunity and no wish to offer any further comment 
 upon the individual or his works. Such, however, is 
 the case with regard to Thomas Hood; and almost in 
 an equal degree as to the late Theodore Hook, though 
 the men are very different. We shall do little more, 
 therefore, than endeavour to arrange and illustrate in a 
 compact form, what we believe to be the popular im- 
 pressions of both. 
 
 Mr. Hood possesses an original wealth of humour, 
 invention, and an odd sort of wit that should rather 
 be called whimsicality, or a faculty of the "high fan- 
 tastic." Among comic writers he is one of those who 
 also possess genuine pathos; it is often deep, and of 
 much tenderness, occasional sweetness of expression, 
 T2 
 
222 THOMAS HOOD AND 
 
 and full of melancholy memories. The predominating: 
 characteristics of his genius are humorous fancies 
 grafted upon melancholy impressions. It is a curious 
 circumstance, that in his " Whims and Oddities," of 
 bygone years, the majority of them, by far, turned 
 upon some painful physicality. A boy roaring under 
 the rod — a luckless individual being thrown over a 
 horse's head — an old man with his night-cap on fire — 
 a clergyman with his wig accidentally caught off his 
 head by a pitch- fork — a man pursued by a bull, — skele- 
 tons, death, duels — cats with mice, dogs with kettles — 
 &c. These are the kind of things (we do not recollect 
 if all these are actually in his books) in which his an- 
 nual presents abounded. Nobody who takes a second 
 look at any of these can feel them in a very jocular 
 sense. If at all considered, they cease to be pleasura- 
 ble. In the very first article of liis " Magazine" recently 
 published, there is a morbid energy of desolation and 
 misery for the love of those things, and there is no 
 story to relieve the feelings. A ghost or gitblin of any 
 kind would have been a real comfort. "The Haunted 
 House" is a wonderful production for its prolonged 
 inspiration of wretchedness and squalid catalogue of 
 ruin. Such are Hood's latent characteristics, at all 
 events ; but the more obvious features are those of 
 humour, and a most ingenious eccentricity. His fan- 
 cies often bear an appearance of being studied, and 
 seem to have arisen from the mind of a thoughtful 
 humourist. Still, they are unaflTected, and like himself. 
 The fertility of his wit has chiefly been displayed in 
 the application of his most erratic fancies to the cur- 
 rent topics of the day, its men and manners, its sayings 
 and doings, its ignorances and illiberalities. Mr. Hood 
 is almost exclusively known as a comic writer, and his 
 "Plea of the Midsummer Fairies" is little read in com- 
 parison : nevertheless, his songs and lyrical composi- 
 tions have much sweetness, refinement, and tender 
 melancholy. His prose and his verse equally illustrate 
 his tendency to serious and pathetic writing. Though 
 the touches of sadness are generally brief, and at unex- 
 pected seasons, Mr. Hood has still shown himself capa- 
 ble of writing a long narrative of serious interest and 
 sustained purpose — carried on clear through the very 
 thick of the cross-fire of puns, jokes, and extravaganzas 
 ■ — and convinced us that had he pleased (or had he pos- 
 
THE LATE THEODORE HOOK. 223 
 
 sessed less versatility) he would have taken a perma- 
 nent position among the highest class of English novel- 
 ists, — if his " Tylney Hall" does not already entitle hina 
 to this rank. It will be recognized as a work of genius, 
 when hundreds of novels which have been popular 
 since its publication, have lined trunks, and the trunks 
 been burnt for fire-wood. 
 
 Theodore Hook possessed both wit and humour, and 
 told a story well. He had great graphic powers in the 
 ridiculous, and a surprising readiness of invention, or 
 novel application. But his wit was generally malicious, 
 and his humour satirical. If he made a sharp hit at an 
 individual peculiarity, ihe point generally went through 
 into hnman nature. You could not help laughing, but 
 were generally ashamed at yourself for having laughed. 
 The objects of his satire were seldom the vices or fol- 
 lies of mankind ; but generally their misfortunes, or 
 manners, or unavoidable disadvantages, whether of a 
 physical or intellectual kind. A poor man with his 
 mutton bone, was a rich meal for his comic muse ; and 
 he was convulsed at the absurdity of high principles in 
 rags, or at all needy. He never made fu.n of a lord. 
 He would as soon have taken the Kingof Terrors pick- 
 aback, as made fun of a lord. He was at the head of 
 that unfortunately large class, who think that a bril- 
 liant sally of wit, or fancy, at any cost of truth or feel- 
 ing, is not only the best thing in society but the best 
 proof of sterling genius ; and that one of the finest tests 
 of a dashing fellow of spirit is to steal clothes, i. e. not 
 pay a tailor's bill ; — nor any other bill that can be help- 
 ed, it might be added. iMr. Hood was a wit about town, 
 and a philosopher while recovering from " the eflfects 
 of last night." His writings tended to give an unfa- 
 vourable view of human nature, to make one suspicious 
 and scornful. On the whole, though you had .been amu- 
 sed and interested as you went on, you were left un- 
 comfortable, and wished you could forget what you had 
 read. 
 
 Both these writers possess very great mastery of 
 comic expression, and characteristic felicity of versifi- 
 cation and rhyming. In addition to this, there was a 
 novel feature 'introduced by Hood in his annuals, which 
 often had an extremely ludicrous effect — viz. that of 
 drawing in illustration, made by one who had "the idea," 
 but no knowledge or ability m drawing. Since Hood 
 
224 THOMAS HOOD AND 
 
 vreally could draw, his performances in this way must 
 be regarded as all the more ingenious. The most ex- 
 traordinary attitudes and intentions, and the most dif- 
 ficult foreshortenings, were boldly attempted after the 
 fashion of a child on a slate, but with a determined, un- 
 misgiving, mind's eye, and apparently the most self- 
 complaisant result. They were often quite irresistible. 
 It is not, at the same time, to be denied that they con- 
 tinually gave you a very uncomfortable sensation. 
 
 We could not, perhaps, convey a much better notion 
 of Mr. Hook's style of writing, and of his actual habits 
 of life, than in the following quotation from the Second 
 Series of " Sayings and Doings : — 
 
 •'What's the hour"?" said George. 
 
 "Past six," answered Ills friend ; " so go : sleep oft' your sorrow , and I 
 and Wilson will settle the order of the day." 
 
 " By the way," said Georjre, " we have something particular for to-day." 
 
 "Particular!" answered Dyson; "indeed have we — there's the Fives 
 Court at one — at four the dear Countess — 'gad how she did eat, this last past 
 night of her joyous life." 
 
 " And drink too," interrupted George. 
 
 " She never refuses R(jman punch," observed Dyson, " I never saw a freer 
 creature in that line in my life ; to he sure she is dreadfully under-rated ; her 
 <:ousin they say is a tallowchandler ; and, upon my life, I never sit near her 
 but I fancy I smell the moulds." 
 
 " Hang the moulds !" said George, " she is good-natured, and I like her." 
 
 " The good nature arises from laer good set of teeth," said Dyson ; " if 
 ever you want laughers, George, to make up a party, study the ivory. Be 
 sure your guests have good teeth, and they'll laugh at the worst story of a 
 dinner-going wit, rather than not show the ' white and even.' Never mind ; 
 at four we go to the Countess, at six we try a new oft-Ieader, at seven I have 
 a short call to make in the New Road, and at eight we all dine here. After 
 that, trust to chance : by the way, George, before you go to bed, I'll trouble 
 you to lend me a couple of hundred pounds." 
 
 " To be sure," said George, turning to his prime minister, who wa^ wait- 
 ing ; " Wilson, let Wr. Dyson have what he wants." 
 
 "Sir," exclaimed Wilson. 
 
 "Don't scold me, Mr. Wilson," said his master : "my friend Dyson mus?t 
 oiot be refused ; so good night, most worthy Arthur." Saying which the 
 master of the house retired to rest, escorted by his body-serA'ant Monsieur 
 Duval. 
 
 " Now, Wilson," said Mr. Dyson, " the money if you please, at your ear- 
 liest convenience." 
 
 " Mone3', Sir?" said Wilson. 
 
 " Yes, money, Mr. Wilson," repeated the young worthy ; " why, you sUu-e 
 as if 1 asked you to pay the national debt ; I only want you to give me two 
 hundreds of pounds." 
 
 " I could do the one as easily as the other," answered the men. 
 
 " Why, you keep your master's purse, Mr. Wilson V 
 
 The Man of Many Friends. 
 
 So much for the knowledge and experience of fash- 
 ionable life, its follies, extravagances, and " principles" 
 of conduct. Let us turn to something more kindly 
 from the pages of Hood. We can hardly do better than, 
 
THE LATE THEODORE HOOK. 225^ 
 
 tnrn to the First Series of " Whims and Oddities," and 
 the first thing that meets our eye, is "Moral Reflections 
 on the Cross of St. Paul's :" — 
 
 " And what is life 1 and all its ages — 
 
 There's seven stasfes ! 
 Turnham Green ! Chelsea ! Putney ! Fulham ! 
 Brenlford ! and Kevv ! 
 And Tooting, too ! 
 And oh ! what very little nags to pull 'ena. 
 
 Yet each would seem a horse indeed, 
 If here at Paul's tip-top we'd got 'em; 
 Although like Cinderella's breed, 
 They're mice at bottom. 
 
 Then let me not despise a horse. 
 Though he looks small from Paul's high croas ! 
 Smce he would be, — as near the sky, 
 — Fourteen hands high. 
 
 " What is this world with London in its lap ? 
 
 Mogg's Map. 
 The Thames, that ebbs and flows in its broad channel ? 
 
 A tidy kennel. 
 The bridges stretching from its banks ? 
 
 Stone planks. 
 Oh me ! hence could I read an admonition 
 
 To mad Ambition ! 
 But that he would not listen to my call, 
 Though 1 should stand upon the cross, and ball T' 
 
 Mr. Hood's sympathies are with humanity; they are 
 not often genial, because of a certain grotesque sadness, 
 that pervades them, but they are always kindly. He 
 is liberal-minded, and of an independent spirit. His in- 
 ner life is clearly displayed by his various writings. 
 Mr. Hook had no sympathies with humanity for it& 
 own sake, but only as developed and modified by aris- 
 tocratic circumstances and fashionable tastes. He was 
 devoted to splendid externals. He may be said to have 
 had no inner life — except that the lofty image of a pow- 
 dered footman, wiih golden aiguillettes and large white 
 calves, wali<ed with a great air up and down the silent 
 avenues of his soul. But the life of animal spirits. 
 Hook possessed in an eminent degree. They appear- 
 ed inexhaustible, and being applied as a sort of " steam" 
 or laughing gas to set in motion his invention and all 
 its fancies, and his surprising faculty of extemporane- 
 ous song-making, it is no wonder that his company was 
 so much in request, and that he was regarded as such a 
 delightful time-killer and incentive to wine by the "high 
 bloods of the upper circle." He made them laugh at 
 good things, and forget themselves. He also made 
 them drink. Thus are red herrings and anchovies used. 
 
226 THOMAS HOOD, ETC. 
 
 Sad vision of a man of genius, as Hook certainly was, 
 assiduously pickling his prerogative, and selling his 
 birth-right for the hard and thankless servitude of pleas- 
 ing idle hours and pampered vanities. The expenses, 
 the debts, the secret drudgery, the splitting head-aches 
 and heart's misery he incurred, in order to maintain his 
 false position in these circles, are well known ; and 
 furnish one more warning to men of genius and wit, of 
 how dearly, how ruinously they have to pay for an in- 
 vitation to a great dinner, and a smile from his Grace. 
 The man of moderate means who usually dines at 
 home, saves money besides his independence ; but the 
 man who is always " dining out" let him look to his 
 pocket, as well as his soul. 
 
 Mr. Hood, in private, offers a marked contrast to all 
 that has been said of Theodore Hook. In nothing, per- 
 haps, more than in this — that Hook was " audible, and 
 full of vent," and Hood is habitually retiring and silent. 
 Mr. Hood was originally intended for an engraver; but 
 abandoned the profession, probably because a " graver" 
 could not be found. 
 
 Mr. Hook displayed a dashing physique ; Mr. Hood 
 rather resembles a gentleman of a serious turn of mind, 
 who is out of health. Within this unpromising outside 
 and melancholic atmosphere, lie hidden, and on the 
 watch, — a genius of quaint humour, a heart of strong 
 emotions, and a spirit of kindliness towards all the 
 ^orld. 
 
HARRIET MARTINEAU 
 
 MRS. JAMESON. 
 
 "Therefore she walks through the great city, veiled 
 In virtue's adamantine eloquence, 
 'Gainst scorn, and death, and pain, thus trebly mailed. 
 
 And blending in the smiles of that defence, 
 TJie serpent and the dove — Wisdom and Innocence." 
 
 Revolt of Islam 
 
 "A thousand winged Intelligences daily 
 
 Shall be thy ministers. 
 
 Thou Shalt command all Arts, 
 
 As handmaids." — Microcosmus. 
 
 "I meant the day-star should not brighter rise, 
 
 Nor lend like influence from its lucent seat; 
 I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet, 
 
 Hating that solemn vice of greatness, pride ; 
 I meant each softest virtue there should meet, 
 
 Fit in that softer bosom to reside : 
 Only a learned and a manly soul 
 
 I pariKJsed her ; that should, with even powers, 
 The rock, the spindle, and the shears controul 
 
 Of destiny, and spin her own free hours."— Ben JoNSOsr. 
 
 Harriet Martineau, in whose powers of keen obser- 
 vation, clear thought, patient study, and untiring energy, 
 guided always by singleness of purpose in the pursuit 
 of truth, we should naturally have found promise of a 
 long career of constantly progressive intellectual la- 
 bour, has been withdrawn by disabling illness from the 
 active course which from her youth she had worthily 
 pursued. Had it been otherwise, a review of the char- 
 acter of her mind and writings must have been con- 
 ducted as only an examination of one portion of their 
 manifestations, and must have been prophetic as well 
 as retrospective. As it is, it must bear something of 
 the impress of finality. Yet, it will not be worthy of 
 its subject if on that account it is tinged with regret or 
 complaint. In her consistent and well-ordered mind, 
 nothing akin to such a feeling has found a place. We 
 did not require to be told that she has endured the or- 
 deal, peculiarly hard to one of her active habits, with 
 
228 HARRIET MARTINEAU AND 
 
 cheerfulness, courage, and faith in " the soul of good 
 ness in things evil." The few works she has published 
 since her illness have been addressed to the young, and 
 written in a tone of entire sympathy with their buoyant 
 life. This shows a singular freshness of spirit main- 
 tained throughout the languor and suffering of the bodi- 
 ly frame. The moral influence emanating from her 
 sick room, and hitherto exerted over the circle of her 
 friends, has by her volume of essays just published, ex- 
 tended itself more widely. Of this beautiful volume we 
 shall speak in its place. It is a pathetic illustration of 
 the way in which 
 
 "They also serve who only stand and wait." 
 
 Harriet Martineau was born in the year I8C2, one of 
 the youngest among a family of eight children. Her 
 father was a proprietor of one of the manufactories 
 in Norwich, in which place his family, originally of 
 French origin, had resided since the revocation of the 
 Edict of Nantes. She has herself ascribed her taste for 
 literary pursuits to the extreme delicacy of her health 
 in childhood; to the infirmity (deafness) with which 
 she has been afflicted ever since, which without being 
 so complete as to deprive her absolutely of all inter- 
 course with the world, yet obliged her to seek occupa- 
 tions and pleasures within herself; and to the affection 
 which subsisted between her and the brother nearest 
 her own age, the Rev. James Martineau, whose fine 
 mind and talents are well known. The occupation of 
 •writing; first begun to gratify her own taste and inclina- 
 tion, became afterwards to her a source of honourable 
 independence, when by one of the disasters so common 
 in trade, her family became involved in misfortunes. 
 She was then enabled to reverse the common lot of un- 
 married daughters in such circumstances, and cease to 
 be in any respects a burthen. She realized an income 
 sufficient for her simple habits, but still so small as to 
 enhance the integrity of the sncrifice which she made 
 to principle in refusing the pension offered to her by 
 Government in 1840. Her motive for refusing it, was, 
 that she considered herself in the light of a political 
 writer, and that the offer did not proceed from the peo- 
 ple, but from the Government which did not represent 
 the people. 
 
 The list of works published by Harriet Martineau is 
 
MRS. JAMESON. 229 
 
 sufficient of itself to prove her great industry and per- 
 severance in a course once beffun. It will be seen 
 that she pubhshed early in life, and that the series of 
 her works proceeds with scarcely a break, year by 
 year, onward to the period -of her illness. Full as.it is, 
 It does not comprehend her numerous contributions to 
 periodical literature, some of which are among the 
 most *aluable of her compositions. The list is as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 1823. — " Devotional Exercises, for the use of Young Persons." 
 
 1824 .& 5.—" Christmas D;iy, or the Friends," a tale. " The Friends." — 
 Second Pirt. 
 
 1826.— " Principle and Practice," a tale. "The Rioters." "Addresses, 
 Prayers, and Oriijiial Hvmns." 
 
 1827.—" M:iry Campbell," a tale. "The Turn Out," a tale. 
 
 1829. — "Sequel to Piinciple and Practice," a tale. Tracts, for Houlston. 
 ** My Servant Rachel," a tale. 
 
 18.30.—" Traditions of Palestine." " The E.=sential Faith of the Universal 
 Church," (Prize Essay.) " Five Years of Youth," a tale. 
 
 1831.—" The Faitii as unfolded by miny Prophets," (Prize Essay.) 
 ♦'Providence as muiifested through Israel." (I'lize Essay.) 
 
 1832, 3, & 4.—-' Illustrations of Political Economy," "Illustrations of 
 Ta.vation," tales. "Poor Laws and Paupers Illustrated," tales. 
 
 In this interval Miss Martineau went to America. 
 
 1837. — " Society in America." 
 
 1838.—" Retrn^p<:ct of Western Travel." " Letter to the Deaf." " How- 
 to observe Morals and Manners." "The Maid of All Work," (Guide to 
 Service.) "The Lady's Maid." 
 
 1839.—" Deerhrook," a novel. "The Housemaid," (Guide to Service). 
 
 1840.— '• The Dressmaker," with technical aid. (Guide to Trade.) " The 
 Hour and the Man," a Rnmance. 
 
 1841.— "The Playfellow,"4 vols., viz. ;—" The Settlers at Home." "The 
 Peasant and the Prince." " Feats on the Fiord." " The Crofton Boys." 
 
 From these works, the authoress would doubless, 
 like all those who have published early in life, gladly 
 expunge some of the earliest. Yet there is not one 
 among them which is out of keeping with the rest. 
 All are written with a moral aim, in some higher, in 
 others lower, but always apparent; all are remarkable 
 for a free, clear, and unaffected style, which in her later 
 productions is admirable from its lucid distinctness and 
 simple force ; and the whole taken together evince a 
 continual improveability and progression, an undoubted 
 sign of the possession on the part of the writer, of a 
 mmd open to and earnest for truth. 
 
 The year 1830 marks an epoch in the mind we are 
 studying : the works from that period assume a higher 
 tone, and have in general a higher aim. The " Tradi- 
 tions of Palestine"" was a beautiful conception, executed 
 in a spirit of love and poetry which throws a charm 
 over its pages. The period in which Jesus Christ ful- 
 U 
 
230 HARRIET MARTINEAU AND 
 
 filled his mission on earth, the people among whom he 
 dwelt, the scenes in which he moved, the emotions he 
 awakened, the thoughts he kindled, all are portrayed 
 in a series of descriptions ; while He himself (with that 
 true art which has in this instance been instilled by- 
 reverence) is never introduced in person. This little 
 book must kindle pure and holy thoughts wherever it 
 is read. . 
 
 The three Prize Essays published in this and the fol- 
 lowing year by the Association of Unitarian Dissenters, 
 to which Miss Martineau belongs, display some of the 
 chief powers of her mind. At this period she began 
 her contributions to the " Monthly Repository ;" these 
 ■were sometimes original essays, tales, or poetry ; some- 
 times reviews of metaphysical or theological works. 
 Among the most excellent, we may notice the " Essays 
 on the Art of Thinking," on the " Religion of Socrates,'* 
 and " True Worshippers ;" but above all, the poem for 
 the month of August, in a series by different authors, 
 entitled " Songs of the Months." 
 
 All these literary labours were coincident with the 
 design which was afterwards accomplished in the " Il- 
 lustrations of Political Economy." She has herself 
 ascribed the original idea of this successful work to the 
 reading of Mrs. Marcet's " Conversations on Political 
 Economy" which made her perceive that in her own 
 tales entitled the " Rioters" and " The Turn-Out," she 
 had written political economy as M, Jourdain spoke 
 prose, without knowing it. The question which thence 
 presented itself, as to why all the doctrines of the 
 science should not be equally well illustrated by fiction,, 
 was followed by a resolution to risk the publication of 
 her Tales. The plan had been rejected by the Society 
 for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge. They could 
 not see that any practical knowledge or truth was to 
 be conveyed through the medium of fiction, which they 
 regarded in all its forms as light reading, in direct op- 
 position to weighty facts. The leading publishers, 
 probably had a similar impression; and would not ac- 
 cept the work. At length one was found who under- 
 took the enterprise, and at the end of a month complete 
 success was certain. The books were in everybody's 
 hands ; the new number was watched for at the begin- 
 ning of every month ; edition was called for after edi- 
 ion ; translations into French and German were made ; 
 
MRS. JAxMESON. 231 
 
 the reputation of Harriet Martineau as an able writer, 
 was established. 
 
 This is not the place for an examination of the doc- 
 trines of political economy; nor would any such task 
 be incumbent, even in a lengthened analysis of Miss 
 Martineau's work. The task which she proposed to 
 herself was to illustrate such parts of the fundamental 
 doctrines of the science as lead to important practical 
 results, adopting the doctrines as taught by the highest 
 contemporary authorities. No one will deny the clear- 
 ness and completeness of her illustration. Her correct 
 interpretation of her authorities is questioned only on 
 one point by a high authority, Mr. John Mill, in his 
 review of her series. That point is her " unqualified 
 condemnation of the principle of the poor-laws." " In 
 this," says the reviewer, '* she is decidedly behind the 
 present state of the science." What this principle has 
 effected in the working, is another matter. We should, 
 however, conceive on the evidence of passages in her 
 work on " America," relating to the competitive system 
 and its necessary results, that she has subsequently 
 abandoned her former views on this subject. 
 
 The stories, by means of which she illustrates her 
 main points, are generally constructed admirably, and 
 testify to a great power of invention. It was no slight 
 undertaking to contrive an interesting plot bearing on 
 twenty-four doctrines of political economy ; six more 
 on taxation; and four more on poor-laws and paupers! 
 But the majority of these stories really are interesting 
 on their own account ; some of them deeply so. We 
 need only instance ■' Ireland" as perhaps the finest of 
 all, and add that it was worthily companioned. 
 
 The choice of such a class of subjects gave rise to all 
 manner of imputations. The " Quarterly Review," in 
 especial, while enlarging on what did not appear to it 
 as " feminine," certainly forgot what was gentlemanly. 
 To most dispassionate inquirers, the choice will appear 
 simply an evidence of the possession of a mind keenly 
 ahve to perceptions of all outward things ; actively be- 
 nevolent ; observant of passing events, and the wants 
 and evils of the age; turning its attention, therefore, 
 to studies bearing on those evils and their remedies; 
 logical rather than creative; hopeful of good, therefore 
 too ready at times to adopt a theory bearing a promise 
 of good ; and having embraced it, clear and acute in 
 
232 HARRIET MARTINEAU AND 
 
 working it out. Too unshackled in spirit, too unaffect- 
 ed and simple-minded to be deterred for a moment from 
 putting forth to the world that which she had con(;eived 
 of truth and wisdom, by any consideration of what this 
 or the other organ might decide on the subject of femi- 
 nine occupations ; but that which she found to do, 
 "doing it with her might." 
 
 The work on "America," written after the tour 
 which Miss Martineau made in that country, is very 
 valuable, as containing an admirably written descrip- 
 tion by an accurate observer, with a most candid mind 
 and a thirst after the truth. At that period she was 
 possessed of perfect health, and the good spirits natural 
 to her were enhanced by success. The book breathes 
 of cheerfulness and hopefulness. She evidently enjoy- 
 ed her residence among the Americans, and she has 
 dwelt on their fine institutions, their grand country, 
 their many advantages, as on a favourite theme. Their 
 lighter faults she has touched lightly ; their graver er- 
 rors with a melancholy earnestness. " Their civiliza- 
 tion and morals," says she, " fall far below their own 
 principle." This is enough to say. It is better than 
 contrasting them with " European morals and civiliza- 
 tion." This is undoubtedly the only philosophical view 
 of the matter ; and it is wiser to have faith like Harriet 
 Martineau that the ideal standard set before them will 
 elevate them to itself in time, than to reproach them 
 with the discrepancy. It is no wonder that the subject 
 is puzzling to us, who have outgrown our Institutions, 
 and are obliged to maintain a continual struggle to bring 
 them into something hke harmony with our morals and 
 civilization. Her chapters on slavery and its aspects 
 have a solemnity of reprobation. On the other hand, 
 the following passage contains a view of this subject 
 which other nations are too apt to forget, and is a good 
 instance of that clear-sightedness and candour which 
 are so characteristic of the writer : 
 
 " The nation must not be judged of by that portion whose worldly inter- 
 ests are involved in the maintenance of the anomaly ; nor yet by the eight 
 hundred flourishing abolition socieiies of the north, with all the supporters 
 they have in unassociated individuals. The nation must be judged of as to 
 Slavery by neither of these parties ; but by the aspect of the conflict between 
 them. If it be found that the five abolitionists who first met in a little chani 
 ber five years ago, to measure their moral strength against this national 
 enormity, have become a host beneath whose a-ssaults the vicious institutioa 
 is rocking to its foundations, it is time that slavery was ceasing to be a na- 
 tional reproach. Europe now owes to America the justice of regarding her 
 
MRS. JAMESON. 233 
 
 as the country of abolitionism, quite as emphatically as the couatiy of sla- 
 very." — Society in Jimerica, v. 3, p. 249. 
 
 This work is as remarkable for its fearless outspoken 
 tone as for its cheerful, hopeful, and candid views of 
 things. Among other subjects on which the opinions 
 of the writer are freely stated, is that of the condition 
 of women. Miss Martiheau accuses the American Con- 
 stitution of inconsistency in withholding from women 
 poUiical and social equality with men. She points out 
 that while it proclaims, in theory, the equal rights of all 
 the human race (except the blacks), it excludes one- 
 half of the human race from any political rights what- 
 ever; neither providing for their independence as hold- 
 ers of property, nor as controllers of legislation, although 
 their uiterests are equally concerned in both with those 
 of men. 
 
 A similarity of opinion on this question is to be found 
 in the writings of Mrs. Jameson. Her delightful work, 
 the " Characteristics of Women," may be said to have 
 derived its origin from her strong feelings concerning 
 the imperfect institutions of society with regard to her 
 own sex; and in her " Winter Studies and Summer 
 Ramble.s in Canada," she has explicitly and in eloquent 
 terms stated her dissatisfaction, though she has rather 
 called upon legislators to provide a remedy than pointed 
 one out herself, except in her advocacy of a more en- 
 larged and more enlightened system of education. 
 
 It is evident that these two fine-minded women have 
 been led to the same opinions by totally different cir- 
 cumstances, and hence they hold them "with a differ- 
 ence." The calm temperament, clear intellect, and ac- 
 tive energy of Harriet Martineau ensured to herself a 
 fnoral independence ; the intellectual society in which 
 she moved encouraged it, and her logical head set her 
 to the investigation of the causes which debarred the 
 generality of women from the enjoyment of the healthy 
 and cheerful tone of the inner life of which she was 
 conscious herself. In her writings, therefore, we find 
 no complaints ; simply a recognition of existing evils, 
 and an indication of their remedies. With Mrs. Jame- 
 son it is different. She sees more difficulties in the 
 case. She knows by experience more of the complica- 
 tions, and is conscious of the mysterious links and sym- 
 pathies by which the chains have been wound around 
 that half of the human race to which she belongs. Her 
 U2 
 
234 HARRIET MARTINEAU AND 
 
 feelings have been awakened to the subject by experi- 
 ence of suffering ; and looking round her, and seeing 
 how widely spread such suffering is, she points to the 
 iwaster passion whence she feels it springs, and to the 
 evil at the root of the tree of life, with a cry for help 
 which ofien sounds life a wail of despair ; 
 
 " Strange, and passing strange," she says, " that the relation between the 
 two sexes, the passion of love, in short, should not be taken into deeper 
 consideration by our teachers and our legisltitors. People educate and legis- 
 late as if there was no such thing in the world ; but ask tlie priest, ask the 
 physician— let them reveal the amount of moral and physical results from- 
 this oiie cause. * * Must love be ever treated with i)rofaneness, as a mere 
 illusion ? or with coarseness, as a mere impulse 1 or with fear, as a mere 
 disease 1 or with shame, as a mere weakness 1 or with levity, as a mere 
 accident 1 Whereas, it is a great mystery and a great necessity, lying at the 
 foundation of human existence, morality, and happiness — mysterious, uni- 
 versal, inevitable as death. Why, then, should love be treated less seriously 
 than death ? It is as serious a thing. ***** Death must come 
 and love must come — but the state in which they find us 7 — whether blind- 
 ed, astonished, and frightened, and ignorant, or, like reasonable creaturea, 
 guarded, prepared, and fit to manage our own feelings ? — thin, I suppose, de- 
 pends on ourselves ; and for want of such self management and self-know- » 
 ledge, look at the evils that ensue! — hasty, improvident, unsuitable mar- 
 riages ; repining, diseased, or vicious celibacy ; irretrievable infamy ; cureless- 
 insanity : — the death that comes early, and the love that comes late, revers- 
 ing the primal laws of our nature." 
 
 Mrs. Jameson is well aware of the odium likely to 
 fall upon any meddler with this subject, and thus hu- 
 morously describes the danger she runs upon : 
 
 " It is like putting one's hand into the fire, only to touch upon it ; it is the 
 universal bruise, the putrifying sore, on which ) ou must not lay a finger, or 
 your patient (that is, society) cries out and resists ; and, like a sick baby,, 
 scratches and kicks its physician." — Mrs. Jameson's " Canada," vol. 3, p. 
 12,13. 
 
 Mrs. Jameson is an established favourite with the 
 public. She is an accomplished woman, an elegant 
 writer, and her refined taste and quick sensibility are 
 good influences on her age. Her " Characteristics of 
 "Women" contain a searching analysis of character and 
 fine criticism, such as ought to place her name among: 
 those of the greatest of the commentatorsof Shakspeare. 
 Her exposition of the character of Cordelia is, in espe- 
 cial, beautifully true ; and her perception of the intensi- 
 ty, and strength, and real dignity of soul in Helena (in 
 "All's Well that Ends Well"), notwithstanding that the- 
 tenour of all the incidents and circumstances around 
 her wound and shock, manifests the true power to look 
 beyond the outward shows of things and read the heart. 
 The •' Visits and Sketches at Home and Abroad" is a 
 delightful book ; accomplishing that rare task of ren- 
 
MRS. JAMESON. 235 
 
 dering descriptions of works of art pleasant reading in- 
 stead of dull catalogues. The authoress has also pub- 
 lished the "Lives of Celebrated Female Sovereigns;" 
 and " Explanatory Notes to the Series of Outlines by 
 Retzch," called " Retzch's Fancies." The "Diary of 
 an Ennuyee" has gone through more editions than any 
 of her works. It is not only a delightful book of trav- 
 els, but the vivid picture of an individual mind — a per- 
 sonal narrative, which is always exciting and interest- 
 ing. But self-consciousness, the bane of all real emo- 
 tion, is implied in the possibility of recording emotion ; 
 and feeling is apt "to die, if it but look up.)n itself." 
 Hence, we regard those who enrich the world's experi- 
 ence by the disclosure of their own souls, to be them- 
 selves the sacrifice ; for both joy and sorrow are blunt- 
 ed by their own record. 
 
 The " Deerbrook" of Harriet Martineau has not en- 
 hanced the reputation of its authoress. The concep- 
 tion involves a moral puzzle, which is always painful. 
 Neither does the catastrophe solve the puzzle. As the 
 hero is made to sacrifice love to a supposed and mis- 
 taken view of duty, thus tampering with a great reality 
 for the sake of a shadow, the plot ought to end in a 
 tragedy, instead of in peace after a struggle. "The 
 Hour and the Man," is a story of deep interest ; but fic- 
 tion has done httle for it. In the form of an authentic 
 memoir of its grand subject, the life and death of 
 "Toussaint L'Ouverture," its effect would have been 
 more powerful. Much finer than either of these works 
 of fiction are the tales comprising the series called the 
 " Play-fellow," published within the last two years. 
 These tales, constructed simply, to suit the minds for 
 which they are intended, and founded on the emotions 
 and actions of children, breathe a spirit of noble forti- 
 tude, endurance, energy, and self-control, which make 
 them healthy reading for old and young. If they have 
 a fault it is that they are rather wanting in love as an 
 influence, resting more on the teachings of suffering. 
 Among them all " The Crofton Boys" is our especial 
 favourite. In all these works there is evinced a very 
 great power of description, and frequently a quiet hu- 
 mour. Harriet Martineau is never personal nor satiri- 
 cal. "Life in the Sick Room" is published without a 
 name; but that she is the authoress cannot be doubted 
 for a moment by any one who has studied her writings, 
 
S36 HARRIET MARTINEAU AND 
 
 and far less by any one who has held companionship 
 with herself; for it breathes of herself in every thought 
 and word, chastened, purified, and instructed by suffer- 
 ing, and with eyes firmly fixed on the countenance of 
 the Angel of Death, which is to her not terrible, but 
 calm, in pale and solemn beauty. It would also appear, 
 though no name is mentioned, that the friend to whom 
 she dedicates the volume is Elizabeth B. Barret, thn el- 
 egant poetess and accomplished scholar, who, like her- 
 self, long immured within the four walls of her cham- 
 ber, yet possesses sympathies alive to beauty and all 
 fine influences, and a spirit expanding into and aspiring 
 towards infinity. The holy teachings of this book are 
 more touching in their wisdom than would be the words 
 of one who came to us " from the dead ;" for here the 
 bourne is not passed ; the words come indeed from one 
 who has become accustomed to her " footing on the 
 shaking plank over the deep dark river," but who is not 
 too far removed from our sympathies, and has not yet 
 laid aside the conditions of our common nature. 
 
 Both these fine writers have, as we have seen, advo- 
 cated a re-modelling of our institutions with regard to 
 their own sex. The one represents the intellect of the 
 question, the other the feeling ; one brings to it an 
 acute abstract comprehension, the other all the sympa- 
 thies of a woman ; one reasons from observation, the 
 other from experience; one has been roused to the 
 cause by general benevolence, the other, probably, by 
 personal suffering. Harriet Martineau has devoted her 
 powers chiefly to science, moral or political. She has 
 generally written with some fixed aim, some doctrine 
 to illustrate, some object to accomphsh. Mrs. Jame- 
 son, on the other hand, has pursued the study of art. 
 She is a fine critic, and possesses a subtle insight into 
 <?haracter. We may expect many more works from 
 her. To the course of Harriet Martineau we must look 
 as to one nearly closed ; but close when it may, she 
 has done enough to prove her possession of a mind en- 
 dowed with the capability of great usefulness, which 
 she has nobly applied to high purposes. She has shown 
 the power of grasping a principle ; of evolving from it 
 all its legitimate consequences, and of so clearly ar- 
 ranging them as to present truth to the understanding 
 and to the heart also by its consistency and harmony. 
 Her genius is not creative ; but her works of fiction ex- 
 
MRS. JAMESON. 237 
 
 hihit a rare faculty of conception, and the power of 
 combining the materials collected by her accurate ob- 
 servation and clear thought, so as to produce a charm 
 and an interest. She is poetical, though not a poet. 
 One composition, however, to which we have already 
 referred, might, by itself, give her a claim to the title ; 
 but, perhaps, there is no fine mind which has not in its 
 time produced its one poem. We conclude with that 
 poem, and we feel that in reference to her, we so con- 
 clude, appropriately : — 
 
 "song for august," 
 
 "Beneath this starry arch, 
 Nought resteth or is slill ; 
 But all things hold their march 
 As if by one great will. 
 Moves one, move all ; 
 Harli to the foot-fall ! 
 On, on, for ever. 
 
 " Yon sheaves were once but seed ; 
 Will ripens into deed ; 
 As cave-drops swell the streams, 
 Day thoughts feed nightly dreams* 
 And sorrow tracketh wrong. 
 As echo follows song. 
 
 On, on, for ever. 
 
 " By night, like stars on high. 
 The hours reveal their train ; 
 They whisper and go by ; 
 I never watch in vain. 
 Moves one, move all ; 
 Hark to the foot-fall I 
 On, on, for ever. 
 
 " Tliey pass the cradle head, 
 And there a promise shed ; 
 They pass the moist new grave, 
 And bid rank verdure wave ; 
 They bear througii every clime. 
 The harvests of all time. 
 On, on, for ever." 
 
SHERIDAN KNOWLES 
 
 WILLIAM MACREADY. 
 
 "Too popular is Tragic Poesy, 
 Straining his tip-toes for a farthing fee. 
 Painters and Poets hold your ancient right ! 
 Write what you will, and write not what you might. 
 Their limits be their list — their reason, will!" 
 
 Bishop Hall's Satires. 
 
 The Drama should be the concentrated spirit of the 
 age. The Stage should be the mirror over which every 
 varying emotion of the period should pass. What is 
 the Spirit of an Age as regards the Drama? Certainly 
 the Theatrical Spirit is the most undramatic that can 
 be. Stage-plays are not of necessity Dramas, and more 
 truly dramatic elements may be found in the novelist's 
 works than in the theatrical writer's. The Dramatic 
 Spirit of our Age, of this very year, is to be found more 
 living and real in the pages of Hood, Dickens, Mrs. Gore, 
 and Mrs, Trollope, than in the play-house pieces. These 
 writers gather for themselves the characteristics of ex- 
 istence as modified by the principles and taste of the 
 age, and the latter draw from them, or from the large 
 conventional storehouse of the hereditary drama their 
 traditionary portraitures. 
 
 In this portion of our subject, must we then examine 
 the works of the novelists and other writers of fiction, 
 rather than the stage writers 1 To be strictly logical, 
 this should be the case; but as our work is historical 
 as well as critical, we must adhere to the popular and 
 forsake the philosophical classification. 
 
 The visible Drama is most eminently portrayed in 
 the works of Sheridan Knowles, and the acting of Wil- 
 liam Macready. These two gentlemen, at all events, 
 are the visible represenlers of it, and ninety-men out of 
 every hundred allude to and think of them when dis- 
 cussing Dramatic matters. This is reversing the rational 
 state of the matter; but being so, we must endeavour 
 to accommodate ourselves to it. 
 
SHERIDAN KNOWLES, ETC. 239" 
 
 The only way in which Mr. Knowles personifies our 
 age, is in his truly domestic feeling. The age is domes- 
 tic, and so is he. Comfort — not passionate imaginings, 
 — is the aim of every body, and he seeks to aid and 
 gratify this love of comfort. All his dramas are domes- 
 tic, and strange to say, those that should be most 
 classic, or most chivalric, most above and beyond it, 
 are the most imbued with this spirit. In what consists 
 the interest and force of his popular play of" Virginius V 
 The domestic feeling. The costume, the setting, the 
 decorations are heroic. We have Roman tunics, but a 
 modern English heart, — the scene is the Forum, but the 
 sentiments those of the "Bedford Arms." The affec- 
 tion of the father for his daughter — the pride of the 
 daughter in her father, are the main principles of the 
 play, and the pit and galleries and even much of the 
 boxes are only perplexed with the lictors and Decemviri, 
 and the strange garments of the actors. These are a 
 part of the shew folks' endeavour to amuse. Is Caius 
 Gracchus not heroic] — are there not very long speech- 
 es about Liberty and Rome ? Undoubtedly : but still 
 the whole care of Gracchus is for his family : and to 
 the audience the interest is entirely domestic. 
 
 It is the same in " William Tell ;" though hberty and 
 heroism should be the prevailing subject, the interest is 
 entirely domestic. For the freedom of a country, for 
 the punishment of a petty-minded tyrant the auditor of 
 this play but slenderly cares, — while for the security 
 of Tell's family and the personal success of Tell, every 
 one is anxious. This feeling, in proportion as our au- 
 thor became popular, has only more visibly developed 
 itself; and his later productions have manifested his 
 prevailing quality more powerfully in the pure form of 
 woman's characteristics. .lulia, — the Wife — the Count- 
 ess Eppenstein, are fine impersonations of the affec- 
 tions ; elaborated and exfoliated into all the ramifica- 
 tions of womanhood. Is this assertion of his ruling 
 principle stated in a spirit of detraction ? By no means : 
 but only to enable us to trace the cause of Mr. Knowles' 
 popularity, as far as it extends, and to show the inevi- 
 table connexion the writer's genius must have with the 
 Spirit of the Age. Mr. Knowles is at the head of the 
 acted Dramatists of the age, assuredly not because he 
 has more invention, more wit, more knowledge of hu- 
 man character, or more artistical skill than many other 
 
240 SHERIDAN KNOVVLES 
 
 living dramatic writers, but because his genius, for do- 
 mestic interests, added to his stage influence as an ac- 
 tor, has forced his talents into higher or fuller emph)y- 
 ment than that of any of his compeers. He has delved 
 into the human breast, and traced the secret windings 
 of the affections. Limited, indeed, to the emuliims 
 elicited by modern social intercourse, but still with 
 genuine iruth and varied knowledge. For this he is 
 greatest in dialogue scenes tliat gradually and com- 
 pletely unfold a feeling. And again, this tendency of 
 his genius induces him to delight in delineating the 
 chara'-teristics of woman. 
 
 He is entitled to respect inasmuch as he has risen in- 
 stead of fallen with public approbation. In " Virginius," 
 '• Caius Gracchus," " Tell," we see the play-wright pre- 
 <3ominant. Mr Knowles, when composing these, was 
 strung. ing for fame, perhaps for existence, and he was 
 compellea to pass through the turnpikes that public 
 taste had erected, and managers maintained. Conse- 
 quently, we find all the formula of the received drama, 
 — shows, battles, bustle, antiquated phraseology, vapid 
 imitations of obsolete humours, and altogether a barba- 
 rous medley of the traditionary and commonplace 
 tricks of the theatre, introduced, first to attract mana- 
 gers and through them to charm the rnidtitnde. Grad- 
 ually, however, as he won his way from servitude to 
 power he used his success manfully. In the " Hunch- 
 back," he emancipated himself greatly from the tram- 
 mels of the play-wright, and in the character of " Julia" 
 gave full licenc-e to his genius to develope his intuitions 
 of female nature. The plot of this play is absurd, the 
 construction clumsy, the attempt to delineate human 
 character in many instances feeble — the language often 
 grotesque ; but it took hold of the public, it elicited 
 unanimous applause, because in the woman it spoke 
 the language of nature to n . nre. Herein he vijulicated 
 his high calling — herein he vvas the poet. Situation — 
 sentiment — circumstance — show — processions — group- 
 ings — were abandoned, and human emotion finely ex- 
 pressed, won, and subdued all hearts, — chastening, 
 whilst interesting; instructing, while it moved. 
 
 As an artist in dramatic composition, Mr. Knowles 
 must be ranked with tlie least skilful, particularly of 
 late. The comparative fiilure of his last three or four 
 productions is chiefly attributable to their inefliciency 
 
AND WILLI MACREADY. 241 
 
 of constrnclion, though they contain more beautiful 
 poetry in detached frngments than can be found in any 
 of his former works. 
 
 So much space would not rightly have been given to 
 remarks on Mr. Knov.'les, but that he speaks the pre- 
 dominating feehng of the age. Were we to estimate 
 him by comparison, or by analysis — by what has been, 
 whafis, and what may be, he would not hold a high 
 rank — so great, so vast are the capacities of the Drama. 
 Placed beside Shakspeare, and the powerful- minded 
 men of Elizabeth's day, he dwindles, it is true ;"* but 
 placed beside the Rovves, the Southerns, the Murphys — 
 he is as a man to mouthing dwarfs. But, whatever 
 he may be by comparison, he is truly a poet, and as 
 such should be honoured. 
 
 But the Drama has many phases ; and being so pecu- 
 liarly an imitative art, how can it be otherwise ? The 
 most simple is that which reflects the tone and tem- 
 perament of the age. This kind of Drama must not 
 now be looked for amongst what is somewhat absurdly 
 called the " legitimate." That phrase is foolishly ap- 
 plied to a form — the five-act form ; and to that kind of 
 Drama which includes philosophical exposition of hu- 
 man character, and philosophical and rhetorical disser- 
 tation upon it. But the most legitimate, because the 
 genuine offspring of the age, is that Drama which 
 catches the manners as they rise, and embodies the 
 characteristics of the time. Triis, then, has forsaken 
 the five-act form, and taken shelter at what have been 
 named "IMinor Theatres," and it will be found in the 
 skilful little Comedies, and bright, racy Dramas of Jer- 
 rold, Planche, Bernard, Buckstone, Oxenford, Dance, 
 Mark Lemon, MoncriefF, Coyne, Leman Rede, Lunn, 
 Peake, Poole, and others. Few of these clever writers 
 have made any pretensions, in writing for the stage, 
 beyond pecuniary and fair professional motives. Mr. 
 Jerrold, Mr. Oxenford, Mr. Planche, and several more, 
 have various other claims in literature ; but their posi- 
 tion on the stage only is here treated. They have, 
 each and all (though in very d'^erent quantities), 
 lavished much wit, fancy, and invt*'tion on their pro- 
 ductions, doomed by the theatrical destinies to an 
 
 * We should except the finer parts of his best dialogue?, in which he 
 does not dwindle beside the Elizabethtm men, but is worth}' to stand among 
 them.— Ed. 
 
 X 
 
242 SHERIDAN KNOWLES 
 
 ephemeral existence. Some of tlieir pieces have lived 
 their thirty, fifty, and even hundred nights, and then 
 been heard of no more. These writers have borne the 
 brunt of much truculent and bombastic criticism — they 
 have been miserably remunerated — and often but ill 
 appreciated, though much applauded. Whoever for 
 the last twenty years has spent his evenings at the 
 Olympic, the Adelphj, the Haymarket, the Strand, the 
 Surrey, and even the Victoria Theatres, cannot but 
 recall the innumerable dramas that have risen, like 
 summer clouds, evening after evening, only to be ab- 
 sorbed into a night, endless in all cases, and frequently 
 undeserved. How many sparkling sallies — how much 
 gaiety — how many humorous characteristics — lightly 
 and vividly shadowing forth our social existence, — and 
 what skill in the distribution of the action and effects ! 
 Could all the laughs be collected and re-uttered in a 
 continuous volley, the artillery of Waterloo would be 
 a trifle to it ; nor vi'ould the rain of that destructive day 
 exceed the tears that have been shed at these shrines 
 of the dramatic muses. Yet the authors are spoken of 
 slightingly by the ponderous dispensers of fame ; and 
 treated by the managers, and even the delighted public, 
 as something only a few degrees above street-minstrels. 
 But herein is shadowed the fate of their mighty prede- 
 cessors ; and in the red-herring and rhenish banquet 
 that killed Nash — in the tavern-brawling death of Mar- 
 lowe — in the penury of Dekker — of W' ebster, who waS' 
 a parish-clerk, — of Beaumont, and Fletcher, and the dis- 
 tresses of nearly every one of the dramatists of their 
 age, is to be found the symbol of the conduct which 
 originality ever suffers, in the first instance. Deaths 
 that might have resembled Otway's, have no doubt 
 been often within an ace of occurring among many of 
 his fraternity. The present race are small of stature 
 when measured with their noble progenitors — not be- 
 cause the present Age is so much less imaginative and 
 impassioned, but because the public taste has been per- 
 verted and cannot improve of itself, and because mana- 
 gers, without a single exception, persist in pandering to 
 that perversion, viz., addressing gaudy and expensive 
 shows to the external senses. The elder dramatists 
 "were scholars and immortal poets writing to and for 
 enquiring and earnest-minded men. The intellectual 
 wants of that age were large — their speculative facul- 
 
AND WILLIAM MACREADY. 243 
 
 ties were fully developed — the grandest questions and 
 the highest deeds occupied men, and the theme must 
 be high and the development fine that satisfied them. 
 Bacon propounded the proposition of Nature and its 
 causes — Raleigh and Sydney embodied the Chivalry — 
 and a Faith, burning and sincere, sought to penetrate 
 the deepest recesses of man's eternal destinies. It is 
 not meant to be argued that in their own day, any of 
 the great men of former times, who needed bread, 
 were not as liable to be half-starved as they are now; 
 nor to be intimated that any such greatness exists in 
 our day ; but simply, that original greatness, besides all 
 the old difficuhies and neglects, has now a trading mass 
 of hostile criticism against it, and that there is not the 
 same enthusiasm to be half-starved as formerly. 
 
 The poets who speak to an age must be equal to it, 
 or they will not be heard ; if far beyond it they will 
 not be listened to, in so far as they are beyond it. The 
 elder dramatists having a ready access to the stage, 
 and a cordial welcome, wrote with a full nature be- 
 cause th^r audiences felt it, and were not weak and 
 dainty. rChecked at every turn, our modern acted 
 dramatists have for the most part sought to efifect little 
 more than pastime for the hour. The difference is 
 ai least as much in the times and circumstances as the 
 men. 
 
 It is not to depreciate, but to estimate, that we com- 
 pare. Whatever the amount of their ability, the truly 
 dramatic, as far as it exists on the modern stage at all, 
 will be found in these comparatively neglected writers 
 of the minor drama. This neglect may be traced to 
 one special cause — they are not " literary." The lite- 
 rary men were opposed to them, and so strongly was 
 this felt, that one of them said to another who has sub- 
 sequently become one of the most popular essayists of 
 the day, " So, you have left us, and taken to literature .''' 
 The Drama is so elastic as to embrace the highest 
 poetry, philosophy, eloquence, wit, knowledge and learn- 
 ing, as exemplified by him who was great in each and 
 all. It can, however, exist without any of these quali- 
 ties, and reaches in a graphic vista from " Punch" to 
 ^schyUis. Our modern play-wrights (as they are 
 nick-named) have sought only to please, and cared not 
 to exercise more labour than was absolutely necessary 
 for this end. Quickness — interest — invention — skill, 
 
244 SHERIDAN KNOWLES 
 
 were demanded and provided, and often wit, humour, 
 fancy and pathos thrown into the bargain. 
 
 In Jerrold's forty dramas who does not recognize an 
 infinity of briUiant repartee — of fine sense and feeling? 
 What a readiness in the dialogue ! — What variety of 
 characteristics ! So much, that if carefully woven into 
 no greater number of plays than Congreve wrote, would 
 have provided a far more lasting and deserved reputa- 
 tion than that licentious classic has obtained. " Doves 
 in a cage," the " Wedding Gown," " Nell Gwyn," the 
 " Prisoner of War," and the remainder of the long li&t, 
 how abounding are they with sparkling glances and pun- 
 gent satire on the humours, follies and absurdities of 
 existing life ! 
 
 Mr. Buckstone is nearly as prolific as Thomas Hey- 
 wood, and almost all his pieces have been successful, 
 and deservedly so ; that is, they have made hundreds 
 and thousands laugh and cry, and speeded the hours of 
 innumerable audiences. Quantity may not betoken 
 quality, nor success merit, but still there must be, and 
 there is, much of the latter in Buckstone. He i^ a trans- 
 lator, a hunter up of old stories^ a retailer of old jokes, 
 an adapter and stage artizan, say many. So he is ; but 
 still he does all these things with talent — he excellent- 
 ly adapts rather than translates — and gives new life to 
 an old joke by giving it congenial characteristics. His 
 hand is hard, his colouring coarse ; but still he has a 
 quick eye for social absurdities, knows the pulse of an 
 audience, to the finest division ; is admirable in coil 
 struction, and effect, and possesses that very uncom- 
 mon gift in an Englishman — a ceaseless flow of animal 
 spirits, which is perhaps the main source of all his suc- 
 cesses. 
 
 Mr. Bernard, in his earlier career, dealt more in the 
 sentimental ; and very delicate and high-toned were 
 some of his dramas. They touched the chord of do- 
 mestic feeling and rung a sharp and full vibration frorr^ 
 it. " A man of Genius on his Last Legs" proved his 
 rich sense of the absurd, as did many subsequent pro- 
 ductions. He too is essentially of his age. 
 
 Mr. Oxenford has mastered the art of construction, 
 and can manufacture a piece for the stage as a cabinet- 
 maker fashions an ingenious article. His idea of fun is 
 great, and his fancy is governed by a highly culti- 
 vated and instructed judgment. Invention and hu- 
 
AND WILLIAM ilACREADY. 
 
 245 
 
 mour are his, as is evident to every one who has seen 
 "A Day Well Spent."* 
 
 Mr. Planchfi, if only for the extraordinary number of 
 dramas he has successfully produced, would deserve 
 especial notice. Original dramas, translations, farces, 
 interludes, operas, Christmas pleasantries, &c. ; he has 
 contributed upwards of one hundred pieces to the stage, 
 and with the exception of only three " damnations" 
 they have all been successful! Mr. Planche has a vivid 
 notion of manners, and depicts character as exempli- 
 fied and modified by them, admirably. The fine lady 
 of intrigue — the battered debauchee of rank — the man 
 of pleasure — he delineates well. He has a strong feel- 
 ing for, and admiration of the artificial elegancies of 
 life — considerable fancy — a ready invention in charac- 
 ter and situation, and great skill in new adaptations ; 
 not much wit or repartee, but a genial and laughable 
 humour, and the rare art of throwhig a refining atmos- 
 phere round even the most unpromising subjects. He 
 has the most wary, watchful, logical head in the con- 
 struction! of a play, and could give instructions in this 
 respect to some of the best dramatists, very much to 
 their advantage. 
 
 But we must pass on, and without particularizing the 
 individual characteristics of the pens of the many 
 *' ready writers" who have set in motion the various 
 green-rooms. 
 
 Dance — and Leman Rede — have each made a path 
 for themselves, nor can it be doubted but they possess 
 in themselves the ability to produce something very 
 superior to that which circumstance and the present 
 condition of the stage requires at their hands ; and 
 Moncrieff only wanted to have fallen on a better age to 
 have been ranked with some of the dramatists of a 
 nobler era. 
 
 But have all the play-makers and stage-feeders been 
 named 1 — Not a tenth part of them. Are all of the 
 same ability 1 — By no means. A catalogue as lengthy 
 as that of Homer's ships might be made, though their 
 freights would by no means be so weighty. Shades of 
 these shadows might be found ; second, third, and 
 fourth transmitters of a weak original ; combinations 
 of the ferocious and the witty, and imitators and con- 
 
 * Mr. Oxenford has also sterlins; claims in literature, were it only for his 
 ■finrivalled translations from Calderon. — Ed. 
 
 X'2 
 
246 SHERIDAN KNOWLES 
 
 structors so faint and poor that the art is no longer 
 concealed, and the mechanism is apparent to all but the 
 merest novices, or the most vapid imaginations. Sur- 
 prises, rescues, and discoveries, perils, escapes, and dis- 
 guises, so echoed and re-echoed that all effect is gone. 
 Puns so obvious, allusions so dim, mistakes so absurd, 
 disguises so thin, characteristics so exaggerated, equi- 
 vokes so bald, that no reflecting mind could be enter- 
 tained, or for a moment be deluded, by them. To par- 
 ticularize names here would be invidious. Though all 
 v'ho depress the age deserve as much castigation as 
 those who by their talents raise it deserve eulogy, 
 these are not of sufficient importance. Collectively, 
 only, they are so. With such as we have last men- 
 tioned, the drama has sunk from the educated and the 
 tasteful to the uncultivated, and those of coarser pleas- 
 ures, — from the refined gentleman to the intelligent tra- 
 der, and from him to the small shop-keeper, the inferior 
 class of operatives, the ignorant, and the degraded. 
 
 The acted drama of our age is at the best but of a 
 poor kind. It has been popular because it was small, 
 and it v/as small because it merely sought popularity. 
 But the great heart of the world, although it beat faint- 
 ly, has not lost its vitality ; and the sympathies, capaci- 
 ties, and wants of the human soul will manifest them- 
 selves. Whilst the stage only sought in general to 
 shadow forth the smaller peculiarities of an actual and 
 every-day life domesticity, there have been men hi 
 whom all the passionate energies and imaginings of 
 our nature would burst forth. These men belonging to 
 literature, and not to the stage, have been rightly desig- 
 nated as " unacted dramatists," and the press gave to 
 the world what the corrupted stages were too sunken 
 in their own earthy ruins to be able to believe in, or 
 even recognize as having any affinity with their own 
 existence. The spirit of the drama no longer trod, but 
 was trodden into "the boards," and therefore a set of 
 unacted dramatists arose, and will some day be seen 
 and heard. 
 
 It has been erroneously fancied that inflated with a 
 literary position and high notions, they both envied, 
 and looked down upon their acted fraternity, and 
 thought them mere usurpers. A greater calumny could 
 not have been devised. On the contrary, the unacted 
 dramatists consider those at present occupying the 
 
AND WILLIAM MACREADY. 247 
 
 Stage, to be its only supporters ; so far from envying 
 their position, they consider their abilities underrated, 
 and not sufficiently remunerated, and in all their suc- 
 cesses they sympathize and rejoice. But that in the 
 pure element of dramatic composition they also consider 
 themselves worthy to be " ranked with some of the 
 dramatists of a nobler era," is undoubtedly true, — and 
 one of them has been heard to set at nought the scoffs 
 of his time, by claiming to rank, in the pure elements 
 of tragedy, with the dramatists of the Greek or Khza- 
 bethan ages.* How far any of those " high and re- 
 mote" claims may have grounds, il is impossible to 
 devote space for examination ; they are mentioned, 
 however, to show at least the vitality and self-reliance 
 of the dramatic spirit, and that, besides the known and 
 acted men, there is a " brood" as yet beneath the earth, 
 who may one day spring up like the dragon's teeth 
 sown by Cadmus. 
 
 But it has been asked by some, even in our own 
 country, who, not seeing a play, are by no means sure 
 of its existence — " Who are those unacted dramatists ?" 
 The answer from lovers of the elder drama would be — 
 " Shakspere, in respect of at least two thirds of his 
 plays; and Ben Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, Ford, 
 Webster, Marlowe, — in fact all the rest of the Eliza- 
 bethan dramatists, who are absolutely unacted." Not to 
 confuse the question, however, let us speak of the mod- 
 ern drama as it is: — "Who then are these unacted 
 dramatists V The answer must be — " Nearly all the 
 best authors." The knowledge of some and the igno- 
 rance of others of the dramatic art, is not, at present, 
 the question ; the object is to show that all are treated 
 with nearly the same exclusion; in fact, that there is 
 manifestly the strongest tendency in the present age to 
 be dramatic, but its chief authors have no means of 
 learning the art. To go no further back than Byron, 
 Southey, Shelley, Coleridge, the list includes almost 
 every author eminent in works of injagination and 
 invention. Even Wordsworth and Keats, — the two last 
 men from whom anything in the shape of a drama could 
 be expected, have written tragedies. Surely nothing can 
 
 * Our esteemed Contributor avoids naming the Author of " Cosmo de 
 Medici," and " Gregory Vtl.," for obvious reasons ; but lest some others 
 misbt have to bear the odium of taking their position into their own 
 hands, the offender is hereby "given up" to justice.— Ed. 
 
248 SHERIDAN KNOWLES 
 
 more directly show the breadth of the external influen- 
 ces of this Spirit of the Age. It has even penetrated 
 to the heart of the aristocracy, as shown in the dramas 
 of Lord Francis Egerton, Lord John Russell, Lord John 
 Manners, Lord Beaumont, &c. ; the " Francesca di Fa- 
 enza" of the latter, containing some of the finest dra- 
 matic writing and situation of modern times. 
 
 The Drama is a root; a theatrical show is a mere 
 blossom. One is born of its age, the other grows 
 through it, out of the past into the future. The poet 
 deals with eternal nature, and the eternal effects of 
 nature. The poetaster deals with the tastes of men as 
 formed by circumstances, and fashioned by convention 
 and association; the poet with the passions of men, 
 and the qualities of things. The one is guided by mere 
 association, the other by analogy.* The one by casual 
 prejudices, the other by truths. The poetaster appeals 
 to the pleasurable recollections and notions by associa- 
 tion ; the poet extends our knowledge and experience, 
 making the soul wise, because he proceeds by analogy. 
 There are two kinds of dramatists. He who seeks to 
 reflect back the sentiments, feelings, prejudices, and 
 foibles of the day; who is at once an echo and a glass ; 
 and he who, passing by these common modes of pro- 
 curing success, exemplifies the human creature in all 
 the various phases that its intellect, temperament, pas- 
 sions, and desires produce. 
 
 They ma}^ to a certain degree, and perhaps must be 
 mingled. But it is easy to see which mode will be 
 pursued by those whose sole aim is the applause of " a 
 house." At the hustings, the brawling reiteration of 
 catch-words must be more successful (to use the favour- 
 ite and hard-ridden modern phrase), than Plato or Cole- 
 ridge would have been. 
 
 It may naturally be expected that some space should 
 be devoted to tlie productions of two gentlemen who 
 have written for the stage, and have attracted a large 
 share of public attention by their well-merited success 
 in other departments of literature, as well as law, poli- 
 tics, and various valuable public services. But for 
 these reasons, Mr. Serjeant Talfourd, and Sir E. L. 
 
 *Mr. Henry Mayhevr in his " What to tench, and how to teach it," was, 
 we believe, the first author who forcibly marked out and illustrated this 
 important distinction and theory. We also reg-ird the treatises on the Dra- 
 ma by this gentleman's brother, Mr. Edward Mayhew, as highly deserving 
 of careful study. 
 
AND WILLIAM MACREADY. 249 
 
 Biilwer, will receive a separate and more entire atten- 
 tion than could here be given to their claims. It will 
 therefore be sufficient in the present paper to say that 
 Talfourd— the representative of the classical drama, as 
 Sheridan Knowles is of the romantic, — did really 
 " stand in the gap" during the periods when there were 
 few, if any such dramas as have smce been published; 
 and they jointly maintained the precarious existence 
 of the English drama. Sir E. L. Bulwer, can hardly 
 be considered as a dramatist, having pursued this class 
 of writing, not from any strong internal gift and pre- 
 dominating impulse, but rather as a man of first rate 
 talent and ingenuity, who could produce any kind of 
 literary article that might be in request, and having "all 
 appliances and means to boot," could not very easily 
 (though he has managed that, too, occasionally) do other 
 than succeed. This justly admired, and far more dra- 
 matic novelist, was apparently drawn to the stage by 
 the ambition and excitement of a new and difficult pur- 
 suit, and every facility for learning the art, and every 
 theatrical assistance being sedulously afforded him, his 
 versatile ability and great industry were profitably re- 
 warded. Above all things, however, his exertions for 
 the freedom of the stage, long since, entitle him to the 
 gratitude and respect of dramatists and actors. 
 
 Of the histrionic Art, at the head of which, in this 
 country, Mr. Macready has stood of late years, by legit- 
 imate succession no less than by superior attainments 
 and energies, it will not be requisite to say much, nor 
 of its professors, because the nature of their position 
 renders their claims so well known to the public. But 
 the Art and its professors become of additional impor- 
 tance when it is considered that they excite the efforts 
 — and to no purpose, — of all the most energetic and cre- 
 ative intellects in our literature. 
 
 While the biography and stage recollections of the 
 most experienced mountebank of ihe time,* whose "ex- 
 perience" has been characterized by every degree of 
 well-merited failure, could only produce, at best, along 
 account of trading speculations, and mechanical details, 
 
 * Here is an instance of the power of "position" in this country, and of 
 irresponsibility in a manager. A well known author of the highest abili- 
 ity. — Mr. Robert Bell, a truthful historian, an elegant biographer, and a con- 
 scientious critic, who is moreover universally respected and esteemed, has 
 been subject to a great public injury, and, apparently, without any chaace 
 of redress. 
 
250 SHERIDAN KXOV/LEi. 
 
 conducted with all the arrogance of a grossly self-satis- 
 fied ignorance, — it is impossible to conceive of any bi- 
 ographical and professional recollections which would 
 involve so large an amount of melancholy interest, to 
 literary men more especially, as those of Mr. Macready. 
 Nothing like sufficient space could here be given for 
 such recollections as Mr. Macready's professional ca- 
 reer must embody, even if we possessed the materials. 
 But how many phases of them present themselves to 
 the mind ^ They must tell of early studies and difficul- 
 ties, of efforts and disappointments, of renewed ener- 
 gies and labours, while vague aspirations and palpable 
 ambitions broke through the fogs and mists of circum- 
 stance, as did the dangerous vision of a crown upon 
 the yet uncertain mind of Macbeth. They must tell of 
 slow acquirements, slow advances, chagrins, mortifica- 
 tions, exasperations, and redoubled efforts, with some 
 successes, though so disproportionate to the efforts, the 
 hopes, and, in many cases, to the just deserts. Gradu- 
 ally they would display successes, and popular suocess- 
 es, and the rank of " principal" in them, but not in the 
 highest walk. Yet here would commence more com- 
 pletely the consciousness of that undue position over 
 the intellectual men of a country, which every very 
 successful actor or actress attains, in respect of one of 
 the liighest departments of literature. His recollections 
 would now tell of dissatisfactions of positions, and cast 
 of characters, and of nobler aims at greater excellence; 
 of his attamment of the first class of characters, and 
 his hard-earned successes in them, notwithstanding the 
 ail-but eclipsing and overwhelming genius, energy, and. 
 unequalled popularity of Kean ; — of tormenting strug- 
 gles of rivalry, and to maintain his position ; of his 
 gradual security, and, by degrees, of his fortitude, tem- 
 perance, and unconquerable perseverance, bringing him 
 his reward as sole possessor of the tragic throne, from 
 which, step by step, with staggering power, his meteoric 
 sword fading from his hand — his inspiration now bor- 
 dering upon delirium — the intemperate, heart-desolate 
 wreck of Edmund Kean, with hands still grappling the 
 shape-thronged air, reeled away half unconsciously in- 
 to the darkness. 
 
 Mr. Macready wrs now admissibly tlie first living 
 tragedian ; and if the anxiety of authors to obtain his as- 
 sistance in the production of their pieces upon the stage 
 
AND WILLIAM MACREADY. 251 
 
 had previously been great, it was now immensely in- 
 creased ; and their overtures, and flatteries, and ded- 
 ications, were enough to have turned the head of most 
 men into that hallucinatory condition of mind, in which 
 most potentates necessarily exist. Yet such is the con- 
 tradictory nature of circumstances, and of theatrical cir- 
 cumstances above nearly all others, and such the pre- 
 dominating power of external position in this country, 
 above every kind of internal individual capacity, that 
 at this time Mr. IMacready's position being that of an 
 actor under that of a manager, it signified nothing that 
 he was immeasurably superior, in himself, and m every 
 attainment, — he was nevertheless subject to the gross- 
 est ill-treatment and insult from one of the lowest. 
 How that unbearable condition of things terminated, is 
 well known ; and how universally did Mr. Macready 
 carry with him the sympathy and approval of all edu- 
 cated men, and of all true lovers of the Drama, of com- 
 mon justice, and common decency, must be equally 
 fresh in the memory of the public. There was no 
 other alternative, and Macready became a Manager. 
 
 It is not requisite to dwell upon this gentleman's 
 great successes in what he sought to effect, as matter 
 of taste in the "getting up" of dramas; nor upon his 
 repeated failure, as matter of pecuniary speculation. 
 His influence upon the national intellect as a manager, 
 must, however, come under discussion, together with, 
 a view of managerial influence, generally, whether in 
 this, or any other country. Nor can we do better than 
 quote a {e\v remarks on the rise of the drama in Spain, 
 — for though they a.re applied to the neglect experienced 
 by Cervantes, the pith of the whole question will be 
 seen to be one and the same. 
 
 "If the only thing requisite in order to originate, to revive, to reform, orto 
 re-create the drama of a civilized country, was dramatic genius; if to }M)s- 
 sess the faculty and execute the work as matter of literary composition, 
 vi'ere all that was needed to produce the effect or commence its develop- 
 ment, — then perhaps might the name of Cervantes have Blood parallel in 
 Spain with the highest names of our dramatists of the age of Elizabeth. 
 But between original dramatic genius, and its desired attempts, there come 
 •three powerful intermediates, any one of which may prevent the very 
 chance of fair trial, or any trial at all,— these are the public tastes of the 
 day, influence of capital (or the want of it), and the individual capacities 
 and characters — in fact the private tastes of managers of theatres. The pub- 
 lic taste may be good or vicious, its reception of new things is always a 
 doubtful matter; capital is rarely, if ever, embarked upon a new thing of 
 ideal pretensions; and to say that a particular novelty of any kind would 
 be to the interest of a manager to produce, might be true, or imtrue, — that is 
 not the question, but what he itiinks, and chooses to do ; and whether he 
 
252 SHERIDAN KxNOWLES 
 
 be very wise or veiy ignorant, he has hitherto been ' the law/ as to what 
 genius or talent should make its appeal to the public through the medium 
 of the stage."* 
 
 Apart from all other considerations, that a public pro- 
 'fessing to understand, and certainly having so universal 
 an admiration of Shakspere, should not have sufficient- 
 ly patronized a manager who displayed so much anx- 
 iety to produce his plays under the name of " revivals," 
 with a prodigality of scenic illustrations and supernu- 
 merary appointments, all excellent, expensive, appro- 
 priate, and skilfully applied — but that, on the contrary, 
 the public should in very few instances be found suf- 
 ficientl}' numerous (as the paying portion of the audi- 
 ence) to half-fill the theatre afier the excitement of the 
 first three or four nights, so that eventually the accom- 
 plished and indefatigable manager is obliged to go to 
 America to recover his health and retrieve his damaged 
 fortunes, — would appear to be one of the most inexpli- 
 cable problems of modern times, if not one of its deep- 
 est disgraces. Still, there must be some solution to 
 this ? Perhaps the public may ncU, after all, be so 
 perverse as appears 1 The truth is so important to all 
 the interests of dramatic literature and the stage, that, 
 if it can be discovered, some hope of a remedy and a 
 a new and prosperous course might perhaps be des- 
 cried. A few opinions and suggestions shall therefore 
 be offered in these concluding pages. 
 
 Whatever troubles, pertinacities, and weari.some ap- 
 plications Mr. Macready may have experienced from 
 the authors of dramas previous to his becoming a man- 
 ager, it cannot be doubted but that they must have mul- 
 tiplied prodigiously afterwards. The most improbable 
 plots, or the most inextricable non-constructions, with 
 characters at once monstrous and imbecile, outrageous 
 and inconsequential, are forwarded to managers by 
 hundreds every season, from the pens of educated, half 
 educated, and totally uneducated men, — without the 
 ability to put two acts, or perhaps two scenes, together 
 with consecutive action and direct purpose ; without 
 an idea of consistency in any one character; without 
 the least prevision of effects upon an audience; with a 
 total disregard of what is convenient or impossible in 
 in the nature and sequence of scenery; yet each one 
 believing that his play is, of all others, the most eligible 
 
 * Essay on "The Dramatic Mind of Europe," by R. H. Home. 
 
AND WILLIAM MACREADY. 253 
 
 to the manager, and — if the notion of a " cast" occurs 
 at all — the most eligible for the talents of the given 
 company. The fate of all these pieces may be antici- 
 pated. Bnt there is another class of men, who at in- 
 tervals of from one to three years, transmit dramatic 
 productions to, managers. These authors are not 
 numerous ; some of them are known in the literary 
 world, some not. They are, for the most part, solitary 
 students of nature and the passions, of philosophy, of 
 literature, and of art; they have worked secretly for 
 years, and the midnight lamp and the shadow on the 
 wall have been sole witnesses of their toils, tiieir en- 
 thusiasms, and their aspiring dreams. Straitened in 
 means, no doubt, they usually are, so that at last the 
 time which they have given to preparing themselves to 
 be worthy of some honour, needs a little remuneration. 
 And these men are treated precisely with the same re- 
 jection and neglect as those previously described. So 
 certainly as they have suffered themselves to be deluded 
 by the compliments and exhortations to publish their 
 tragedies or plays, and to renew their efforts in the 
 same class of composition, so certainly have they been 
 injured in the worst way ; their tim.e, their energies, 
 an.d their health wasted, and in cases where the im- 
 pulse was too strong to be checked, and they have had 
 no private resources, they have been ruined. That the 
 dramas they forwarded to managements were unskilful 
 in some respects, dangerous in others, and wanting 
 practical assistance in many, cannot adn)it of a doubt; 
 but it is questionable if they were more unskilful, dan- 
 gerous, or wanting, than those accepted and acted pro- 
 ductions which, with every assistance from managers 
 and actors, have proved ruinous to all parties. 
 
 Abundant examples might be adduced to prove this. 
 Perhaps the two most striking would be those of " Mar- 
 tinuzzi" and " Plighted Troth" — the first produced un- 
 der the auspices of unexperienced amateurs and con- 
 flicting practical opinions; the other produced by a 
 most experienced management, and all governed by 
 one head. It may be said that Mr. Macready did not 
 incur a loss exceeding five or six hundred pounds by 
 the disastrous failure of " Plighted Troth," whereas tlie 
 chivalrous experiment of Mr. Stephens cost him per- 
 haps, in all, more than double that sum. Yet that was 
 caused by his own will, — his resolve not to be con- 
 
254 SHERIDAN KNOWLES 
 
 quered, but to play a five-act tragedy in defiance of an 
 absurd law, and of the friends of the old managerial 
 system ; and this he did during upwards of twenty 
 nights. " Plighted Troth," be it admitted, contained, 
 as well as " Martinuzzi," several scenes of true dramat- 
 ic genius ; it was the bad judgment of all parties that 
 made them both look so preposterous. 
 
 But if the unacted Drama be held in no regard by 
 theatrical people, it is not much more esteemed by the 
 majority of the public press. The slightest acted piece 
 often has a long notice ; whereas, of an unacted trage- 
 dy or comedy anything, or nothing, may be said, — and 
 any thing with impunity.* 
 
 " But the Unacted, and consequently the unaided Drama, has at length 
 made some progress ; under every disadvantage, with every thing in its dis- 
 favour, it has made its way against its well-provided opponent. The Acted 
 Drama, with all the aid of numerous actors, beautiful paintings, charming 
 music — with all the dazzling fascinations that belong to public shows — with 
 fashion, custom, and hereditary predilection in its favour, — has dwindled 
 and degenerated, until the voice of criticism, of the Dramatists themselves, 
 and of the intellectual part of the public, have declared it inferior in men- 
 tal power to the Unacted; — have declared that, with all the facilities that 
 practice can give, with all the means that experience and knowledge can 
 afford, it is more essentially deficient in the true elements of dramatic pow- 
 er, than the Unacted. The Unacted Drama may have awkwardnesses, in- 
 congruities, and even absurdities, from its not having the advantages of ex- 
 perience and practical exercise. But that it is great in conception, power- 
 ful in expression, strong in criginality, and vigorous from its tVeshness, is 
 allowed. It has again dired to step within the terrific circle of the pas- 
 sions, and to show in appalling strife those never-dying elements of human- 
 ity."! 
 
 What with the claims of the able and the incompetent, 
 the reasonable and the unreasonable, the men of genius 
 and talent with a definite aim, and the men of self-de- 
 lusion and a puzzled will, — the logical heads and the 
 half insane, the sound advice of one friend, the flatter- 
 ing advice of another, and the retreating opinion cf all, 
 as the manager himself began to come to a decision — 
 Mr. Macready must have had a most feverish seat of 
 power, and a most troublesome and thankless reign. 
 The bad success here which caused him to make a trip 
 to America, has very possibly been the saving of his 
 
 * A professional critic, in a fit of frank cordiality, once told a certain un- 
 acted dramatist, that he had written disparagingly of his tragedy from a 
 prejudice he had conceived against him on account of his superabundant" 
 whiskers — and he regretted it. The offending hair had since been cut ofl^ 
 and he was reconciled. It never struck this critic that the use of a public 
 organ for any trivial private prejudice or purpose, was a startling confession ! 
 
 t Lecture on the " Relative Value of the Acted and the Unacted Drama,'* 
 by F. G. Tomlins, Secretary to the Shakspcre Society, &.c. 
 
AND WILLIAM MACREADY. 255 
 
 life and health, and may be regarded as a gratulatory 
 result by everybody, since everybody must look for- 
 ward with interest to his career, which will probably be 
 renewed in this country by fresh " revivals" of Shaks- 
 pere in one of the smaller theatres. So placed, with a 
 less lavish expenditure in gorgeous redundancies and 
 real upholstery, and wisely confining himself to the old 
 established stock pieces, he would most probably be 
 very successful; and that he would be most deservedly 
 so, there can hardly exist a doubt. But he should care- 
 fully avoid all new pieces, and all pretence of encour- 
 aging living dramatists ; first, because, instructed by 
 long experience, he must have found that it is his des- 
 tiny to select mediocrity or failure ; and secondly, 
 because he will thus cease to excite the efforts and 
 occupy the time of men of intellect, to no purpose. 
 
 Mr. Macready's merits as an actor are far greater 
 than his defects ; let us therefore contemplate the for- 
 mer, chiefly. He is the first artist on the stage. On 
 all those innumerable points of art connected with the 
 stage, which he has studied from his youth, there is no 
 one who possesses more knowledge or skill in their 
 application ; and no one possesses both in an equal de- 
 gree. He is rarely " at home" in anything new, either 
 of principle or practice, without long study, if then. 
 His conception is slow, and by degrees ; nor does it 
 ever attain beyond a certain point. That point is the 
 extremity of all that his study and practice can discov- 
 er and embody ; and it is very much. He has no reve- 
 lations of genius, no inspirations except those which 
 are unconsciously "given off" at times from great 
 physical energies. If he had any such revelations, he 
 would adopt them doubtfully, and partially, and so de- 
 feat their essential meaning. But when he does em- 
 brace the whole of a character (such as William Tell, 
 Coriolanus, lago. Cardinal Wolsey, King John,) he 
 leaves little undone, and all the rest to admire, in the 
 highest degree. He dresses to perfection. He is the 
 only man on the stage who seems to have a fine eye 
 for true harmony of colour. Sometimes he has allow- 
 ed splendid dresses to be destroyed by an equally 
 splendid back-ground of similar colour, but never when 
 he himself is in front of it. If he wore but a blanket, 
 he would have a back-ground that should make that 
 blanket the most gracious object the eye could rest 
 
256 SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 
 
 upon — perhaps the focus of all attraction. He reads 
 poetry very badly, as to rhythm — broken up — without 
 melody — harsh — unmusical — shattered prose ; and yet 
 he speaks with exquisite distinctness, and very impres- 
 sively, because he is thoroughly in earnest. There 
 is great finish in all he does — a definite aim, clearly 
 worked out — and those who find little to admire in his 
 acting, the fault is in them. 
 
 As a manager he has unexampled merits in his at- 
 tempt to separate the theatres from their long-estab- 
 lished union with bare-faced licentiousness. It is to 
 his great and lasting honour that he is the first manager 
 who seems ever to have felt that Art has nothing in 
 common with " the town." Great merit is also due to 
 him for his indefatigable industry and attention to all 
 the business of the theatre. One instance of his 
 thoughtful care, though to the outside of the walls, 
 should be noticed : he successfully defeated the bru- 
 tality which characterizes an English audience in entering 
 the pit on crowded nights ; and the public, especially the 
 female portion, should be grateful for so needful an 
 attention. His exertions to improve the stage arrange- 
 ments and appointments, are well known ; they ex- 
 tended from broad effects down to the minutest details, 
 — perhaps the former were sometimes injured by the 
 latter. He made the supernumeraries act — a mortal 
 labour. He not only multiplied the brood of these 
 "turkeys," but he crammed them, and made men and 
 women of them. It has been currently reported — prob- 
 ably on no better grounds than because he does not 
 sing the drinking song of lago — that Mr. Macready 
 does not understand, or care for music. This can 
 hardly be true : he has introduced music amidst the 
 Shaksperean dialogue, and at "times and seasons" in a 
 far more poetical way than any other manager. He 
 has applied fine scenery and dioramic efll'ects to Shaks- 
 pere more appropriately to the sense of the words, 
 than were ever done before ; but as to the eflfect upon 
 the action (excepting in the Chronicle plays where the 
 want of action might justify extraneous aid,) and as to 
 the effect upon the poetry, in all cases, there can be no 
 doubt that both are injured by the predominating, and 
 sometimes overwhelming effect upon the external 
 senses — not intended by the poet. As a manager of 
 business, and in all agreements and pecuniary dealings^ 
 
AND WILLIAM MACREADY. 257 
 
 Mr. Macready has always been liberal, generous, tho- 
 roughly to be relied upon, and of unimpeachable integ- 
 rity. 
 
 But the merits of an individual, as an actor or mana- 
 ger, or both, however great and meritorious, must 
 necessarily be a small matter in themselves compared 
 with their influence and effect upon one of the highest 
 departments of the literature of a great nation. This, 
 on the whole, in Mr. Macready's case, may be pro- 
 nounced as good — an aggregate advantage, though bad 
 in its individual instances. Good, inasmuch as it has 
 largely assisted in stirring up the dramatic Spirit of the 
 country ; bad, inasmuch as, vi'ith some three or four 
 exceptions, it has led to nothing but labour in vain. 
 He has advised or exhorted nearly every author who 
 sent him a drama of any pretensions, to publish it — 
 and write another, — write another by all means — that 
 he could do the thing if he would, — why did he nof? 
 &c. Mr. Macready, throughout his whole career, has 
 produced on the stage no great or standard work of 
 dramatic genius ; or, if " Ion" and " Virginius" be re- 
 garded as exceptions, who will name a third ? — and he 
 has wasted the time of more men of genius and talent 
 than any other individual on record. 
 
 Mr. Macready shares a part of the latter accusation 
 with high authorities for precedent. Even Garrick did 
 not produce on the stage any new^ stock tragedy of the 
 first class ; nor did the Kemble family, nor did Edmund 
 Kean. These facts seem to lead to the conclusion that 
 managers and actors, when unassisted by established 
 reputations, have no taste for anything beyond second 
 and third-rate plays. It is in vain to say they could 
 find no better than they produced. Too truly they 
 could not. No one finds 'that which he has no soul to 
 search for, or no eye to perceive. The great discove- 
 ries in the physical v/orld by men of science were nor 
 their inventions ; the things were there before the}' 
 searched. They discovered the things they sought, 
 because they knew them when they saw them; and 
 the powers of nature are not limited to any particular 
 age. The " mighty dead'' are not mighty because they 
 are dead—though it would seem that so many people 
 think so. They were once alive, and laughed at. 
 
 Mr. Macready's character (we deal only with such 
 elements of it as are directly or indirectly of public 
 Y 2 
 
258 SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 
 
 influence.) is made up of stronger opposites than is 
 usual, however common those antagonisms are in for- 
 cible characters. He has great energies of action, and 
 a morbid will. He has a limited imagination, with a 
 large ambition. His imagination is slow and dull of 
 vision, but quick and sensitive to feel. It, therefore, 
 continually misleads him beyond retreat. For this 
 reason, his hasty judgments are always wrong, and his 
 slow judgments futile from exhausted impulses. In 
 these respects he has been much assisted by Mr. Serle. 
 It is evidently the opinion of this gentleman that a cold 
 dispassionate judgment is the only popular test of ex- 
 cited imnginations. His advice, therefore, is always 
 judicious, and ineffectual. But it is quite a mistake to 
 suppose that Mr. Macready is misled by the advice of 
 friends. We are aware that Mr. Forster and Mr. Serle 
 have been commonly accused of this; but we think 
 very unjustly. Mr. Macready takes no advice but that 
 which backs his own opinion. His constant errors in 
 judgment show that they proceed from the same man. 
 His spirit is a hot-headed steed, capable of leaping great 
 conclusions; but he wants faith in those things, and in 
 himself, which would enable him to succeed greatly ; 
 and when he does leap, he makes up for a long arrear 
 of doubts by wilfulness, and ''falls on the other side." 
 He has genial feelings, but a morbid fancy which 
 troubles them. It pains him to laugh. His tempera- 
 ment is impetuous, his hopes dreary, his purposes high- 
 minded, his opinions conflicting, and " his luck against 
 him," with his own assistance. He boldly incurred the 
 odium of allowing Anti-Corn-law meetings in Covent 
 Garden, besides giving an arm-sweeping slash at recent 
 taxations in a farewell address; and he made a speech 
 to the poor Duke of Cambridge, on receiving a " testi- 
 monial," at which all his best friends blushed, and he 
 himself, before the farce was concluded, which had 
 cost so much pains to get up, wished a large trap-door 
 would unbolt itself beneath his feet. As a patron of 
 modern dramatic literature, he has been totally mis- 
 taken by others, and the less he ever attempts of this 
 kind in future, the better for all parties. As a supporter 
 of the Shaksperean drama, and all the fine old "stock 
 pieces," he has not been encournged according to his 
 deserts; and, with all his faults, the want of sufficient 
 patronage in his own country, is discreditable to the age.. 
 
AND WILLIAM MAC HEADY. 25^ 
 
 Few men ever had the sympathies of the public more 
 completely in their power than Sheridan Knowles, 
 Scarcely any imprudence or deficiency that he could be 
 guilty of, in a new play, would cause the audience to> 
 damn it, though they might not go again to see it. With 
 Macready the case is ditferent. He always has enemies 
 in the "house," and a large party, or parties, against 
 him out of the " house." Some for one thing, some for 
 another, abstract or personal, private or public. Strong 
 and unfailing friends he also has, and they form a party^ 
 though comparatively a small one, and rapidly decreasing. 
 Like all very anxious men, Mr. Macready, besides his 
 bad judgment, is unlucky ; and Mr. Knowles, like all 
 careless men, is usually hi good luck, notwithstanding 
 his equal deficiency in judgment. The one "darkens 
 averse" at all critical strictures, the other calls every 
 critic he meets " my dear boy." Mr. Macready has had^ 
 however, to endure many ill-natured and personal re- 
 marks and insinuations from various parties — some who 
 were, and others who thought they were aggrieved by 
 him ; and, on the other hand, he has had the advantage 
 of more assistance, systematic and instant to his need, 
 from the public press, than almost any other individual 
 of his day. If those who have publicly uttered anony- 
 mous complaints against him were known, with all their 
 affnirs in relation to him, there would be a better means 
 of judging the case among all parties ; and, on the other 
 hand, if his public applauders and supporters were knowjij. 
 with all their aflfairs in relation to him, there would be a 
 better means of judging among all parties. As it is, all 
 the parties must " fret it out," till, sooner or later, a 
 change comes over the whole scene— some grand gen- 
 eral explosion takes place — the atmosphere clears, and 
 a fair, open field for dramatists may then give ihem Ihe 
 means of proving their existence. 
 
 vSo great are the difficulties attending five-act pieces,, 
 either tragedies, comedies, or plays, that there is no in^ 
 stance of a successful author in them, throughout our 
 literature of the present day. No, there is not one. 
 Shall we mention Mr. Sheridan Knowles^ who has writ- 
 ten three or four times as many five-act pieces as any 
 other author, all of which have been acted 1 What i» 
 his success? One tragedy, scarcely ever played now ;: 
 and two comedies. His last four dramas have beea 
 dead failures, notwithstanding their fine detached scenes^. 
 
2C>0 SHERIDAN KNOWLES 
 
 dialogues, and genuine poetry. Shall we name Sir E. 
 L. Bulwer? With all the professional friendship and 
 assistance he has had from Mr. Macready and others, 
 and notwithstanding his great ingenuity, and tact, and 
 versatile skill, his dramatic list presents marked failures, 
 with two exceptions, only one of which is now acted. 
 Mr. Serjeant Talfourd's success rests upon one tragedy, 
 seldom acted. As for the many great " discoveries" of 
 Mr. Macready, they have vanished for ever. We allude 
 to such equivocal tragedies as " Mary Stewart," " PHgiit- 
 ed Troth," the much-puffed •' Gisippus !" &c., &c. There 
 has never been in our own times one successful acted 
 dramatist of the higher class. Yet some of these wri- 
 ters (as well as others less known, or not known at all) 
 are probably able to achieve many successes, could the'y 
 have practically mastered their art. To do this there 
 is no opportunity. The difficulties of the art are not 
 greater than the difficulty of obtaining any sufficient 
 means of study and experiment. The man who has 
 succeeded most profitably, is the one who has had most 
 of these means and " appliances." 
 
 There are no doubt a dozen good collateral causes 
 for the decline of the acted drama; but those at the 
 root of the matter are simply these — that the actors, 
 who never did, and never can, originate or contribute to, 
 a Dramatic Literature, have got the exclusive power of 
 the stage ; — that authors of genius have no free access 
 to the stage for the production of pieces that originate 
 in their oum strongest impulses ; — and that nearly all 
 critical literature is arrayed against them by reason of 
 the total disbelief in their practicable existence, or the 
 possible composition of actable dramas which are not 
 seen. We need seek no more causes than these. There 
 is a body without a soul ; and the body has got the visi- 
 ble position. 
 
 The Drama (meaning its literature,) like the Age, has 
 been at the lowest, and both are manifestly rising to a 
 purer taste. Whether the circumstances of modern 
 society and civilization are eventful enough to give new 
 incidents to the Drama, may be doubted. If not, it 
 must and will, in future, take a more imaginative and 
 philosophical tone. 
 
 A visible Drama more nearly allied to the universal 
 genius of the age must arise now that physical re- 
 straints are removed hy the late legislation. The new 
 
AND WILLIAM MACREADY. 261 
 
 order of dramatists, both acted and unacted, only await 
 the man, come when he may, who, having the material 
 means in his power, shall mould a form congenial to 
 the present spirit of the age ; and this once done, the 
 abundant existing dramatic genius will gather round it, 
 and the Drama again become popular. It will of course 
 be understood, that no removal of legal restrictions, nor 
 any other outward circumstances can bring about a new 
 dramatic period, unless dramatists have a ready access 
 to theatres, and the services of the best actors. With- 
 out these, any possible number of the most genuine 
 dramatists would not be of the least avail. They would 
 be like disembodied souls ; or like a waggon load of gold 
 on the wrong side of a turnpike, where gold was not 
 recognized. 
 
 But with these necessary aids, a Drama will agaio 
 be created. Theories that have long oppressed it, 
 circumstances that have stunted and destroyed it, 
 are rapidly passing away. The hope that external cir- 
 cumstances could re-ignite it. must now be for ever 
 abandoned. Actor and actress, manager and mounte- 
 bank, bandmaster and speculator, one after another, 
 fail to do so ; and the hope of their being ever able to 
 effect a revival of the Drama, or a dramatic success of 
 any kind, — the most pertinacious of those fallacies 
 clung to by those who call themselves " the practical 
 men," — is now utterly extinguished. The utmost that 
 Garrick effected — perhaps the most generally accom- 
 plished and versatile actor that ever lived — was merely 
 to make the theatre fashionable, and '• a rage." If it 
 be true that he also improved or even created a better 
 taste, he did nothing to produce or aid the creation of the 
 thing tasted. It was there before him. The same may 
 be said of the Kembles ; and of Edmund Kean. Much, 
 more has been aimed at by Mr. Macready, but not with, 
 much better success. Shakspere improved the Drama 
 of his time, and created fresh dramas. Aw actor can 
 only improve or injure taste. Mr. Macready has done 
 both — improved taste in poetical scenery, and the "get- 
 ting up," and injured it in almost confirming the taste 
 for expensive upholstery and display. The imagination. 
 of creative dramatists can alone call forth any new 
 spirit and form of Drama. The most profuse and ad- 
 mirable external aids can only foster mediocrity, and 
 are so far detrimental because they dazzle and mislead 
 
262 SHERIDAN KNOWLES 
 
 the public judginent till it cannot distinguish the essen- 
 tial from the extraneous. 
 
 That the good management of a theatre requires the 
 power to be vested in one man. is no doubt true ; and 
 perhaps — when we look at the discordant and conflict- 
 ing talents, vanities, and interests, all in vigorous mo- 
 tion — his power should be almost despotic. But how 
 far it is good for such management to be vested in a 
 prmcipal actor, in full possession of his acting faculties, 
 is another question. Instead of enlarging the sphere 
 of the drama, he is sure to narrow it to his own exclu- 
 sive standard. Instead of rendering it miiversal, he 
 will make it particular. Instead of a reflexion of hu- 
 manity, it will become the pampered image of an indi- 
 vidual. " I cannot see myselfin this part," is a favour- 
 ite expression of Mr. Farren's when he does not like a 
 new play ; and may be taken as a general characteris- 
 tic of all the "■'' stars." The stars, however, are disap- 
 pearing, and with them the long suite of their retain- 
 ers, the scenery-mongers, decorators, restorers, tailors, 
 antiquarians, upholsterers, who have had their day. 
 Capitalists have backed them with unbounded wealth ; 
 experience has lent them all her aid; trickery all her 
 cunning ; puffery all her placards, bills, paragraphs, and 
 the getting up of " stories ;" the press all its hundred 
 tongues, telling of their nightly doings — besides the 
 special tongues in cases where a public organ has been 
 a private engine — and what has been the result 1 Bank- 
 ruptcies, failures, dispersions, flights, half-salaries, no 
 salaries, farewell dinners, debts, prisons, — and fresh 
 candidates for the fatal seat. The fresh candidate, who 
 in most cases is a fine old hand at a failure, usually 
 finds a fresh capitalist to back him. " He is a man of 
 such practical experience!" says the capitalist. Moon- 
 calf! of lohat is his experience ? Are not the practical 
 results of all his eff'orts precisely of a kind to make ev- 
 ery capitalist in his rational senses, start back from his 
 disastrous *' experience V But there is also another 
 peculiarity attached to a managerial lease-holder. He 
 pays people if he can ; if he cannot, he laughs in their 
 faces. Anybody else would be arrested, or knocked 
 down, or something. He stands in a sporting attitude ; 
 and nothing happens to him ! Every now and then, 
 when a dashing speculating sort of " man about town" 
 finds himself totally without money, and does not know 
 
AND WILLIAM MACREADY. 263 
 
 what in tlie world to do next; he says to liiraself, — 
 " Damme ! I'll take a theatre !" Very likely he will 
 find backers with money as soon as he has taken it; in 
 any case, the proprietors are all too happy to let him 
 the house. He invariably fails. Some are paid, many 
 not. Who cares? That dashing speculator is not a 
 scamp, "bless your heart!" — but an excellent good fel- 
 low. He has such enterprise in him ! — such experi- 
 ence ! "Why, the impudent rogue absolutely risked 
 nothing — he had nothing to risk. Oh, but he has such 
 enterprise ! And thus with two unexamined catch- 
 words — enterprise and experience — the proprietors of 
 theatres, and the poor mooncalf capitalist, delude and 
 injure themselves and the public. 
 
 How totally inapplicable to Mr. Macready must be 
 any of the preceding remarks, with reference to pecu- 
 niary dealings, need not be repeated ; it is the more to 
 be regretted 'that the system he pursued of profuse 
 expenditure upon extrinsic adornments, was of a kind 
 which never can prove successful, and which, for his 
 sake, as well as that of the poetry of the Drama, we 
 most earnestly trust he will never repeat. 
 
 During periods when the Drama and the stage have 
 been almost at the last ebb, it should be recollected 
 that Sheridan Knowles and Mr. Macready have contin- 
 ually exerted themselves to open new springs, or recal 
 the retiring waters. If in vain, their indefatigable en- 
 ergies are at least worthy of admiration. Both have 
 now been before the public these twenty-five or thirty 
 years, and have well earned the estimation they have 
 obtained. Mr. Knowles commenced his career as an 
 actor, but has some time since abandoned it. He is 
 still in vigorous life, and full of excellent spirits — poeti- 
 cal, convivial, and Hibernian. In private he is a prodi- 
 gious favourite with all who know him ; frank, burly, 
 smiling, offhand, voluble, and saying whatever comes 
 uppermost ; with a large heart beating under a great 
 broad and deep chest, not easily accessible to care or 
 trouble, but constitutionally jovial and happy. Mr. 
 Macready in private is good-natured, easy, unaffected, 
 without the least attempt at display, extremely gentle- 
 man-like, habitually grave, and constitutionally satur- 
 nine. His smile is melancholy, and his expression is 
 occasionally of great kindness. He speaks little ; with 
 frequent hesitation, but well: with good sense, and 
 
264 SHERIDAN KNOWLES, ETC. 
 
 enlarged and benevolent sympathies, moral and politi- 
 cal. His views of art are confused between the real 
 and ideal. Mr. Knovvles occasionally delivers Lec- 
 tures on the Drama, which are conspicuous for no 
 philosophy or art, and an abundance of good humour 
 and the warmest admiration of his favourite authors. 
 
MISS E. B. BARRETT 
 
 AND 
 
 MRS. NORTON. 
 
 Flower of the Soul ! emblem of sentient Thoughts, 
 With prayer on prayer to chorded harps ascending, 
 Till at the clouded I'ortals, humbly bending, 
 
 They, like the holy martyrs' pale coli6rts. 
 
 Wait solemnly — while sounds of dew descending 
 
 Their presence recognise, approve, and bless ; — 
 
 Flower ! shedding fragrance from a dark recess, 
 
 Thy roots lie passive on tliis mortal soil ; 
 
 Thy beauty blooms on high— serene beyond our coil !" 
 
 " As one v.'ho drinks from a charmed cup 
 
 Of foaming and sparkling and murmuring wine. 
 Which a mighty Enchantress, filling up. 
 Invites to love with her lips divine." — Shelley. 
 
 " Tliy Mind shines through thee like a radiant sun, 
 Although thy body be a beauteous cloud." 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 
 It is anything but handsome towards those who were 
 'Criticised, or fair towards the adventurous critic, to re- 
 gard, as some have done, the article on " Modern Eng- 
 lish Poetesses," which appeared a few years ago in the 
 *' Quarterly Review," as a tribute merely of admiration. 
 It was a tribute of justice ; and hardly that, because 
 nine ladies were reviewed, of very different kind and 
 degree of merit, all in the same article. Eight were al- 
 lowed to wear their laurels ; the ninth fell a victim. 
 Passing over the victim, who shall be nameless, we 
 will say, that the poetical genius, the impassioned fer- 
 vour, the knowledge of genuine nature and of society, 
 of books, of languages, of all that is implied by the term 
 of accomplishment, and, "though last, not least," the 
 highly cultivated talent in the poetic art, displayed by 
 the other eight, are such as to entitle them to a higher 
 position than several of the "received" poets of the 
 past and present centuries. 
 
 The list we have named comprises, Mrs. Norton ; 
 Miss E. B. Barrett; Maria del Occi 'ente ; Lady Nor- 
 thampton (author of " Irene") ; Caroline Souihey ; Miss 
 Lowe; the Author of "IX Poems;" Sara Coleridge; 
 Z 
 
266 MISS E. B. BARRETT. 
 
 and one other, a lady of rank, whom it was a pity to in- 
 troduce in company where she has no claim to rank. 
 The reviewer proposed to make a wreath of them after 
 ihe manner of Meleager, and appropriately commenced 
 with Mrs. Norton as " the Rose, or, if she like it, Love- 
 lies-a- bleeding ;'''' and Miss Barrett as " Greek Valoian, or 
 Ladder to Heaven, or, if she pleases, Wild Angelical 
 The former lady is well known, personally, to a large 
 and admiring circle, and is also extensively known to 
 the reading public by her works. The latter lady, or 
 " fair shade" — whichever she may be — is not known 
 personally, to anybody, we had almost said ; but her 
 poetry is known to a highly intellectual class, and she 
 " lives" in constant correspondence with many of the- 
 most eminent persons of the time. When, how^ever, 
 we consider the many strange and ingenious conjectures' 
 that are made in after years, concerning authors who 
 appeared but little among their contemporaries, or of 
 whose biography little is actually known, we should 
 not be in the least surprised, could we lift up our ear 
 out of our grave a century hence, to hear some learned 
 Thebans expressing shrewd doubts as to whether such 
 an individual as Miss E. B. Barrett had ever really ex- 
 isted. Letters and notes, and exquisite English lyrics, 
 and perhaps a few elegant Latin verses, and spirited 
 translations from ^Eschylus, might all be discovered 
 under that name ; but this would not prove that such a 
 lady had ever dwelt among us. Certain admirable and 
 erudite prose articles on the " Greek Christian Poets,"" 
 might likewise be ascertained by the exhumation of 
 sundry private letters and documents, touching periodi- 
 cal literature, to have been from the hand of that same 
 " Valerian ;" but neither the poetry, nor the prose, nor 
 the delightfully gossipping notes to fair friends, nor the 
 frank correspondence with scholars, such as Lady Jane 
 Grey might have written to Roger Ascham — no, not 
 even if the great-grandson of some learned Jewish doc- 
 tor could show a note in Hebrew (quite a likely thing 
 really to be extant) with the same signature, darkly 
 translated by four letters — nay, though he should dis- 
 play as a relic treasured in his family, the very pens 
 with its oblique Hebraic nib, that wrote it — not any 
 one, nor all of those things could be sufficient to de- 
 monstrate the fact, that such a lady had really adorned 
 the present century. 
 
AND MRS. NORTON. 267 
 
 In such chiaroscuro, therefore, as circumstances per- 
 mit, we will endeavour to offer sufficient grounds for 
 our readers' belief, to the end that posterity may at least 
 have the best authorities and precedents we can furnish. 
 Confined entirely to her own apartment, and almost her- 
 metically sealed, in consequence of some extremely 
 delicate state of health, the poetess of whom we write 
 is scarcely seen by any but her own family. But though 
 thus separated from the world — and often, during many 
 weeks at a time, in darkness almost equal to that of 
 night. Miss Barrett has yet found means by extraordina- 
 iry inherent energies to develope her inward nature ; to 
 give vent to the soul in a successful struggle with its 
 destiny while on earth ; and to attain and master more 
 knowledge and accomplishments than are usually with- 
 in the power of those of either sex who possess every 
 adventitious opportunity, as well as health and industry. 
 Six or seven years of this imprisonment she has now 
 endured, not with vain -repinings, though deeply con- 
 scious of the loss of external nature's beauty ; but with 
 resignation, with patience, with cheerfulness, and gen- 
 erous sympathies towards the world without ; — with in- 
 defatigable " work" by thought, by book, by the pen, 
 and with devout faith, and adoration, and a high and 
 hopeful waiting for the time when this mortal frame 
 "putteth on immortality." 
 
 The period when a strong prejudice existed against 
 learned ladies and " blues" has gone by, some time since ; 
 yet in case any elderly objections may still exist on this 
 score, or that some even of the most liberal-minded 
 readers may entertain a degree of doubt as to whether 
 a certain austere exclusiveness and ungenial pedantry 
 might infuse a slight tinge into the character of ladies 
 possessing Miss Barrett's attainments, a few words may 
 be added to prevent erroneous impressions on this score. 
 Probably no living individual has a more extensive and 
 diffuse acquaintance with literature — that of the present 
 day inclusive — than Miss Barrett. Although she has 
 read Plato, in the original, from beginning to end, and 
 the Hebrew Bible from Genesis to Malachi (nor suffered 
 her course to be stopped by the Chaldean), yet there is 
 probably not a single good romance of the most roman- 
 tic kind in whose marvellous and impossible scenes she 
 has not delighted, over the fortunes of whose immacu- 
 late or incredible heroes and heroines she has not wept; 
 
268 MISS E, B. BARRETT 
 
 nor a clever novel or fanciful sketch of our own day, 
 over the brightest pages of which she has not smiled 
 inwardly, or laughed outright, just as their authors them- 
 selves would have desired. All of this, our readers may 
 be assured that we believe to be as strictly authentic as 
 the very existence of the lady in question, although, as.. 
 we have already confessed, \Ve have no absolute know- 
 ledge of this fact. But lest the reader should exclaim, 
 " Then, after all, there really may be no such person !" 
 we should bear witness t© having been shown a letter 
 of Miss Mitford's to a friend, from which it was plainly 
 to be inferred that she had actually seen and conversed 
 with her. The date has unfortunately escaped us. 
 
 We cannot admit that any picture, engraving, or other 
 portrait of Mrs. Norton with which the public has been, 
 favoured does full justice to the original ; nevertheless 
 they may be considered as likenesses, to a certam ex- 
 tent, and by reason of these, and her popular position 
 as an authoress, any introductory remarks on the pre- 
 sent occasion would be needless. 
 
 There are few poems which would be more accept- 
 able to the majority of lovers of poetry than Mrs. Nor- 
 ton's " Dream," from which we make the following ex- 
 tract ; — 
 
 "Oh ! Twilight! Spirit that does render birth 
 To dim enchantments; melting heaven with earth, 
 Leaving on craggy hills and running streams 
 A softness like the atmosphere of dreams ; 
 Thy hour to all is welcome ! Faint and sweet 
 Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward feet, 
 Who, slow returning from his task of toil. 
 Sees the low sunset gild the cultured soil. 
 And, tho' such radiance round him brightly glows, 
 Marks the small spark his cottage window throws, 
 Still as his heart foiestals his weary pace, 
 Fondly he dreams of each familiar face, 
 Recalls the treasures of his narrow life, 
 His rosy children and his sunburnt wife, 
 To whom his coming is the chief event 
 Of simple daj's in cheerful labour spent. 
 The rich man's chariot hath gone whirling past. 
 And these poor cottagers hnve only cast 
 One careless glance on all that show of pride, 
 Then to their tasks turn'd quietly aside ; 
 But him they wait for, him they welcome home, 
 Fixed sentinels look forth to see him come; 
 The fiigot sent for when the fire grew dim, 
 The frugal meal prepared, are all for him ; 
 For him the watching of that sturdy boy. 
 For him those smiles of tenderness and joy, 
 For him — who plods his sauntering way along, 
 Whistling the fragment of some village song'"' 
 
AND MRS. ISORTON. 269 
 
 The above is characteristic of a style in which Mrs. 
 Norton excels, and it is a popular error to regard her 
 solely as the poetess of impassioned personalities, 
 great as she undoubtedly has shown herself in such de- 
 lineations. 
 
 The next extract is from Miss Barrett's " Seraphim," 
 ^vhere Ador, a seraph, exhorts Zerah not to linger nor 
 look through the closed gate of heaven, after the Voice 
 had said " Go !" 
 
 "Thou — wherefore dost thou wait? 
 Oh ! gaze not backward, brother mine ; 
 The deep love in thy mystic eyne 
 Deepening inward, til! is made 
 A copy of the earth-love shade — 
 Oh ! gaze not through the gate ! 
 God filleth heaven with Gk)d's own solitude 
 
 Till all its pavements glow ! 
 His Godhead being no more subdued 
 By itself, to glories low 
 
 Which seraphs can sustain, 
 What if thou in gazing so, 
 Should behold but only one 
 Attribute, the veil undone — 
 And that the one to which we press 
 Nearest, for its gentleness — 
 
 Ay ! His love ! 
 How the deep ecstatic pain 
 Thy being's strength would capture ! 
 Without a language for the rapture, 
 Without a music strong to corae, 
 
 And set th' adoring free ; 
 For ever, ever, wouldst thou be 
 Amid the general chorus dumb, — 
 
 ■God-stricken, in seraphic agony I 
 
 Or, brother, what if on thine eyes 
 In vision bare should rise 
 The life-fount whence his hand did gather 
 With solitary force 
 Our immortalities ! — 
 Straightway how thine own would witlier, 
 Falter like a human breath, — 
 And shririk into a point like death, 
 By gazing on its source ! 
 
 We cannot do belter, we think, than attempt to dis- 
 play the different characteristics of the genius of the 
 two highly-gifted women who form the subject of the 
 present paper, by placing them in such harmonious 
 juxtaposition as may be most advantageous to both, 
 and convey the clearest synthetical impression to the 
 reader. 
 
 The prominent characteristics of these two poetesses 
 
 may be designated as the struggles of woman towards 
 
 happiness, and the struggles of a soul towards heaven. 
 
 The one is oppressed with a sense of injust.ce, and 
 
 Z2 
 
270 MISS E. B. BARRETT, ETC. 
 
 feels the need of human love ; the other is troubled 
 with a sense of mortality, and aspires to identify herself 
 with elherial existences. The one has a certain tinge 
 of morbid despondency taking the tone of complaint 
 and the amplification of private griefs ; the other too 
 often displays an energetic morbidity on the subject of 
 death, together with a certain predilection for " terrors." 
 The imagination of Mrs. Norton is chiefly occupied 
 with domestic feelings and images, and breathes melodi- 
 ous plaints or indignations over the desecrations of her 
 sex's loveliness; that of Miss Barrett often wanders 
 amidst the supernatural darkness of Calvary sometimes 
 with anguish and tears of blood, sometimes like one 
 who echoes the songs of triumphal quires. Both pos- 
 sess not only great mental energies, but that description 
 of strength which springs from a fine nature, and mani- 
 fests itself in productions which evidently originated in 
 genuine impulses of feeling. The subjects they both 
 choose appear spontaneous, and not resulting from study 
 or imitation, though cast into careful moulds of art. 
 Both are excellent artists : the one in dealing with sub- 
 jects of domestic interest; the other in designs from 
 sacred subjects, poems of religious tendency, or of the 
 supernatural world. Mrs. Norton is beautifully clear 
 and intelligible in her narrative and course of thought 
 and feeling ; Miss Barrett has great inventiveness, but 
 not an equal power in construction. The one is all 
 womanhood ; the other all wings. The one writes from 
 the dictates of a human heart in all the eloquence of 
 beauty and individuality; the other like an inspired 
 priestess — not without a most truthful heart, but a heart 
 that is devoted to religion, and whose individuality is 
 cast upward in the divine afflatus, and dissolved and 
 carried off" in the recipient breath of angelic ministrants. 
 Some of Mrs. Norton's songs for music are very 
 lovely, and other of her lyrics have the qualities of 
 sweetness and pathos to a touching and thrilling de- 
 gree. One of the domestic poems in the " Dream and 
 other poems," is a striking composition. The personaF 
 references in the miscellaneous poems are deep and 
 true, and written with unaffected tenderness. She has 
 contributed many prose tales full of colour and expres- 
 sion to several of the Annuals ; but these, together with 
 her musical talents and editorial labours, are much too 
 popularly known and admired to render any further re- 
 marks that we could oflfer upon tliem al all requisite. 
 
BANIM 
 
 AND 
 
 THE IRISH NOVELISTS. 
 
 " Great heart, and brisht humours, my masters ; with a wit that never 
 lingers, and a sorrow that sits with her head under one wing." — Ous- 
 Ck)MEDy. 
 
 "Certes, sir, your painted eloqueuce, 
 So pay, so fresh, and eke so talkative. 
 It doth transcend the wit of Dame Prudence 
 For to declare your thought or to descrive, 
 So gloriously glad language ye contrive." — Chauckr. 
 
 "Couhl he dance on the head of him, and think with his heels, then were 
 he a blessed spirit." — Old Ireland. 
 
 " Ock, Shane, Fadh — Shane Fadh, a cushla machree! you're going to break 
 up the ring — going to lave us, avounieen, for ivver, and we to hear your 
 light foot and sweet voice, morning, noon, and night, no more !"— Carleton. 
 
 The author of the " O'Hara Tales" stands pre-emi- 
 nent ainong the delineators of Irish character, and quite 
 distinct from the mere painters of Irish manners. He 
 goes to the very heart and soul of the matter. He is 
 neither the eulogist nor the vilifier, neither the patron- 
 izing apologist, nor the caricaturist of his countrymen, 
 but their true dramatic historian. Fiction such as his, 
 is truer than any history, because it deals not only in 
 facts and their causes, but with the springs of motive 
 and action. It not only details circumstances, but 
 probes into and discovers the living elements on which 
 circumstances operate. His Irishmen are not strange, 
 unaccountable creatures, but members of the great hu- 
 man family, with a temperament of their own, marking 
 a peculiar race, and his Irishwomen are in especial 
 drawn with the utmost truth and depth of feeling. He 
 knows well the sources of those bitter waters which 
 have converted the impulsive, generous, simple-mind- 
 ed, humorous, and irascible race with whom he has to 
 deal, into lawless ruffians, or unprincipled knaves. He 
 loves to paint the national character in its genial state, 
 ardent in love, constant in friendship, with a ready tear 
 for the mourner, and a ready laugh for the reveller, 
 
272 BANIM AND THE 
 
 overflowing with gratitude for kindness, with open 
 hand and heart, and unsuspicious as a child ; and re- 
 versing the picture, to show that same character goaded 
 by oppression and contemptuous injustice, into a cruel 
 mocking demon in human form, or into some reckless, 
 libertine, idle, hopeless tattered rascal. The likeness 
 cannot be disputed. The description carries internal 
 evidence with it. Whoever has been in Ireland re- 
 members' illustrations of it, and begins to discover the 
 how and the why of things which before puzzled him. 
 Even those who have never been in Ireland, cannot 
 have gone through their lives without observing the 
 cheerfulness, humour, and gaiety of its natives, even un- 
 der depressing circumstances, their natural politeness, 
 the warmth of their gratitude, their ready helpfulness, 
 all evidences of a character to be moulded into excel- 
 lent good form by love and kindness. The reverse of 
 the picture need not be dwelt on. It is the theme of 
 all the world. Irish reprobates and Irish criminals are 
 plentiful. Banim and some few others can teach why 
 Ihey are so. 
 
 In the small compass of nine pages of Banim's admi- 
 rable story called " Crohoore of the Bill-Hook," there is 
 contained what may be called the natural history of 
 " White-boyism," and in those pages is comprised the 
 philosophy of the whole matter, with its illustrations in 
 human tears and drops of blood. In the vivid and ex- 
 citing description of the White-boy outrage on the tithe- 
 proctor, where the remorseless cruelty is rendered more 
 revolting by its accompaniment of the never-absent 
 Irish humour that makes the torturer comfort his 
 wretched victim before he cuts off his ears, with " Don't 
 be the lasteunasy in yoursef, a-gra ; you may be right 
 sartin, I'll do the thing nate and handy" — how finely 
 does the author claim and obtain impartial justice for 
 the perpetrators, at the tribunal of eternal truth, by the 
 few words with which he prefaces his dreadful narra- 
 tive. " The legal retribution" says he "visited on Da- 
 mien and Ravaillac has found its careful registers: nor 
 in this transcript of real scenes, shall the illegal violence 
 done to an Irish tithe-proctor, want true and courage- 
 ous historians." Who that has ever had his soul sick- 
 ened by even a glance into the cold methodical detail 
 of the exquisite tortures, that were each -day, and day 
 after day, applied to Ravaillac — the pincers, the fire, the 
 
IRISH NOVELISTS. 273^^ 
 
 rack, the screw — while the *' Do not drive my soul to 
 despair !" shrieked out in vain, except to be recorded 
 by the witnessing secreta y — every agonized exclama- 
 tion being carefully noted — who does not feel the force 
 of those words'? Despotic power had transformed 
 these legal and highly-polished tormentors into devils. 
 Ignorance, wrong, and ruin had converted those illegal 
 and outcast men of impulse, into mocking savages. 1ji- 
 divlduril character and varied circumstance, acting and 
 re-aciing discordantly, these make up the mystery of 
 human woe. Rise to a sufficient elevation, and the 
 criminals might be seen to change places, or all fade 
 into one mass of suffering wanderers in the dark, con- 
 cerning whom horror and hatred would turn into deep 
 pity ; and tears and an effort to save take the place of 
 re;ribution. 
 
 WV have been dwelling on the darker and stronger 
 portraits in Banim's works. As an illustration of the 
 humorous, we may lake " Andy Houlahan," in the same 
 story of "■ Crohoore." There he stands, true to the life. 
 "Tall, square, slight, loose, bony," as if he had been 
 put togeiher by chance; " looking like a bold but imper- 
 fect sketch of a big fellow;" his "skin fitting tight to 
 his high cheek-bones ;" his " expression of good-humour, 
 foolishness, fidget, and subtlety ;" his clothes looking as 
 if " they had been tossed on with a pitclifork;" his hat, 
 "that part of every man's costume in its shape and ad- 
 justment most redolent of character," going through all 
 the varieties of adjustment, from being '" pushed back to 
 the last holding point of his skull" to being "dragged 
 down into his eyes" according to the mood of the wear- 
 er; liis long outside coat fallen from his shoulders, pin- 
 ioning his arms and trailing in the dust or mud; the 
 buttons at his knees, collar, and vest unfastened; his 
 st(jckings " festooning down to his brogues." Now, of 
 this Aniiy Houlahan, it is just what is to be expected 
 that he should perpetrate a succession of well-meant 
 blunders, and so he does. He is brave to recklessness 
 in real danger, but as to witches, ghosts, and fairies, an 
 arrant coward; the mosiloving and faithful creature in 
 the world, yet marring and counteracting every effort 
 to serve the friend he loves best in the world, and near- 
 ly getting him hanged at last ; then, (after his friend has 
 been saved by other intervention,) pulling down the 
 gallows, and stamping the coffin to shivers ; and con- 
 
274 CANIM AND THE 
 
 cludiug by startling all the assembled magistrates in 
 grave discussion, by his loud " whoop," when he sees 
 his friend made all right and happy at last ; for which 
 finishing stroke he must give his own excuse, "It's a 
 fashion we have in screechin' that a way, when we're 
 glad, or sorry, or a thing o' the kind." 
 
 Banim's conception of his subject is equal to his skill 
 in the development of character. He has always a 
 definite aim and purpose, and always a plot. However 
 elaborately he may finish his individual figures, they 
 are always skilfully grouped, and all the groups to- 
 gether make an harmonious whole. His management 
 of his subject is equally fine. He invests it with an 
 interest, humorous, terrible, or pathetic. We are suffi- 
 ciently behind the scenes to feel with and for his cha- 
 racters, and to attach due importance to his incidents, 
 yet he does not disclose his "mystery" till the proper 
 moment. " Crohoore," is an excellent illustration of 
 this. We defy any one, unless he resort to the unjusti- 
 fiable expedient of "looking at the end," to divine how 
 all will be explained to his heart's ease and thorough 
 satisfaction at last. 
 
 The thrilling interest attached to the history of the 
 young priest in " The Nowlans," affords another in- 
 stance of the power and passion with which this author 
 works out his conceptions. The struggle between 
 nature and conscience, unnaturally opposed as they are 
 by the vow of celibacy, is here rendered more terrible 
 in its effect by the youth and the ardent, impetuous 
 character of the priest, which fight desperately against 
 his high sense of duty and devotion to his faith. The 
 lovely and refined character of Lettey, her sweet, ten- 
 der, trustful, artless, self-sacrificing spirit, and her ex- 
 cessive yet trembling love for him, obliterating from 
 her consciousness all thought of her own superior sta- 
 tion and fortune — all this enhances the deadly eflfort it 
 cost them to part for ever, engages our deepest sympa- 
 thies, and carries us along with them in their horror- 
 striken flight together, when that interview which they 
 had meant to be their last on earth, has imited their 
 fates for ever. Then follow the cruel persecution of 
 the world, the vain struggle with its anathema, and the 
 final tragedy — the lone waste cabin in the lone field 
 surrounded by the darkness of night, by the snow and 
 winter wind ; the door torn from its hinges and raised 
 
IRISH NOVELISTS. 27& 
 
 on four stones from off the wet floor ; upon it the corpse 
 of the beautiful young woman clasping the dead infant 
 to her breast; the rushlight stuck in a lump of yellow ' 
 clay flickering by their side ; at their feet, the young 
 -man, kneeling — his face pale as their's, " with unwink- 
 ing distended eyes rivetted on the lowly bier." 
 
 " The Nowlans" is, perhaps, the finest of Banim's 
 works ; but they are all more or less stamped with 
 genius. We could dwell on many more of them ; they 
 are, however, all before the public and well knovvn^ 
 and their peculiar characteristics are similar to those 
 we have enumerated in this short sketch of " Crohoore" 
 and " The Nowlans." 
 
 Lover is a very forcibly eff'ective, and truthful writer 
 of Irish novels, and falls into the ranks after Banim. 
 He has less passion, but more picturesque vivacity.. 
 As a writer and composer of songs (not to mention the 
 charming expression with which he sings them) Mr. 
 Lover is perhaps still more popular, and his ballads 
 have a certain singable beauty in them, and a happy 
 occasional fancifulness. His novels, however, are the 
 stuff" whereof his fame is made, and they are highly 
 vital, and of great value in the sense of commentary on 
 the national character. 
 
 Who ever read Rory O'More from beginning to end, 
 without being seized with many a fit of uncontrollable 
 laughter, and also shedding some tears 1 — or who ever 
 began to read it, and left off" without reading to the 
 endl Genuine pathos, and as genuine fun — a true love 
 of nature, and simple true-heartedness — are all there ;. 
 and the dialogues are exquisite, and full of Irish humour.. 
 
 The writings of William Carleton must not be omit- 
 ted. If Banim may be characterized as the dramatic 
 historian of his countrymen, Carleton may with equal 
 truth be styled their faithful portrait-painter. He draws 
 from the life. In his manly and unaff'ected introduc- 
 tion to " Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry," he 
 has given his auto-biography, and explained how it is 
 he can so accurately describe, because he was himself 
 one of them : — A good reason for his knowledge ; but 
 in himself is the power to use it with talent and effect. 
 
 The Irish Tales of Mrs. S. C. Hall have character 
 and life, tenderness and softness. She has written on& 
 or two novels ; but the performances she is better 
 known by, are her miscellaneous light essays or tales, 
 
276 BANIM AND THE 
 
 with which the periodical literature of the day is sown 
 abundantly, and the characteristic sketches illustrative 
 of her native Ireland, of which she published a volume * 
 not long ago, in conjunction with her husband. Her 
 miscellaneous sketches, in general, are graceful, and 
 womanly in the most amiable sense. 
 
 Lever, well known in the popular literature of the 
 day as " Harry Lorrequer," writes Irish novels too, and 
 therefore is mentioned in this place. He has a large 
 circle of readers, and many of them would say they 
 prefer him to anybody else ; but if you tried to elicit 
 from them one good reason, they would have no better 
 answer to give than "Oh! he's a capital fellow!" 
 What the French call material life, is the whole life he 
 recognizes ; and that life is a jest, and a very loud one, 
 in his philosophy. The sense of beauty and love he 
 does not recognize at all, except in our modern condi- 
 tion of social animals. To read him is like sitting in 
 the next room to an orgie of gentlemen topers, with 
 their noisy gentility and 'hip! hip! hurras!' and the 
 rattling din of plates and glasses. In his way, he is a 
 very clever writer, nobody can deny ; but he is con- 
 tracted and conventional, and unrefined in his line of 
 conventionality. His best descriptions are of military 
 life. He is most at home in the mess-room. He has 
 undoubted humour and a quick talent of invention of 
 comic scenes, which generally end in broad frirce. He 
 does not represent fairly even the social and jovial side 
 of men of much refinement, or, if he does, he should 
 not represent them as he does, on all sides thus social 
 and jovial. 
 
 "A capital fellow" — is Lorrequer accounted by his 
 readers, and that expression we take to be the most 
 compact and complete estimate of him. The sort of 
 reader for Harry Lorrequer, is one of those right jovial 
 blades who can'dismiss his six dozen of oysters and a 
 tankard of stout "after the play," and then adjourn 
 with some other capital fellows to brandy-and-water 
 and a Welsh rabbit, pleasantly relieved by poached 
 eggs, and cisars, and a comic song; yet rise the next 
 morning without a fraction of headache, without the 
 knowledge of a stomach, and go to breakfast with a 
 fox-hu;iter. 
 
 The present period is certainly destined to display a 
 singular variety, not only in the classes of literary pro- 
 
IRISH NOVELISTS. 277 
 
 <3iiction,but in the different modifications of each class. 
 We think the most omniverous reader would be dis- 
 composed by the contrasts, if for liis morning's reading 
 he took alternately a chapter from Banim, a chapter from 
 Lady Morgan's " Wild Irish Girl," a chapter from Mrs. 
 S. C. HalTs " Irish Tales," a high-brogue chapter from 
 Lover's " Rory O'More," an after-dinner scene from 
 Harry Lorreqner, and concluded by going to a wake or 
 a wedding with Carleton. 
 
 A A 
 
ROBERT BROWNING AND J. W. 
 •MARSTON. 
 
 " One midniglit dark a Spirit electric came, 
 And shot an invisible arrow through the sky !" 
 
 " A poet hidden in the light of thought." 
 
 ■" The art of the poet is to separate from the fable whatever does not essen- 
 tially belong to it ; whatever, in the daily necessities of real life, and the petty 
 occupations to -which they give rise, interrupts the progress of important ac- 
 ti<»s. — A. W. Schlagel. Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature. 
 
 " Break, Phantasy, from thy cave of cloud, 
 And spread thy purple wings ! 
 Now all thy figures are allowed, 
 
 And various shapes of things." — Ben Jonson. 
 
 The spirit of passionate and imaginative poetry is not 
 dead among us in llie " ignorant present" — it is alive, 
 and of great splendour, filling the eyes and ears of those 
 who by nature and study are fitted to receive such in- 
 fluences. If dazzling lines, passages, and scenes, were 
 asked in proof of this, what an array might instantly be 
 selected from the comparatively little known works of 
 Mr. Browning— Mr. Darley — the author of the " Man- 
 uscripts of Erdely" — the author of " Festus," and sev- 
 eral others still less known. While the struggle of this 
 spirit to ascend visibly from the denser masses around — 
 a struggle understood by so few, interesting to fewer, 
 believed in by fewer still — while this is going on, there 
 is also a struggle of a more practical kind in the field of 
 letters, which is well patronized, greatly assisted, and 
 expected to be successful — the spirit of reality, or of 
 the artistical representation of reality. Such is appa- 
 rently the creed, as it has hitherto been the practice, of 
 Mr. Marston and many others. This is the principle 
 which is thought to be the true representative of the 
 tendency of the present age ; so much easier to under- 
 stand than the ideal ; and so sure eventually of triumph- 
 ant success. Believing in this, Madame Vestris car- 
 peted and upholstered the stage, and Mr. Macready car- 
 ried the ruinous error to a still greater extent in his 
 "gettings up." But this principle is nol the true repre- 
 sentative of the age ; it is not understood much belter 
 
ROBERT BROWNING AND J. \V. MARSTON. 279 
 
 than the ideal and imaginative, though all mechanical- 
 minded men fully believe they can grasp it — so palpable 
 it seems ; and it will not be successful. Hitherto it has 
 always failed. It cannot even obtain a temporary suc- 
 cess — for all the spirit of railroads and all the steam. 
 Their success is no precedent for art. Art is in a false 
 position among them. The spirit of the Fine Arts can- 
 not be identical with the material forces and improve- 
 ments of the age, which are progressive — the former is 
 not. Its greatness is self-centred, and revolves in its 
 own proper orbit. 
 
 The career of the author of " Paracelsus," extending 
 at present over not much more than half the period of 
 Mr. Tennyson, presents different features, some of which 
 appear more fortunate and some less. His reception 
 was comparatively good ; we may say very good. Sev- 
 eral of those periodicals, in which the critics seem dis- 
 posed to regard poetry of a superior kind as a thing to 
 be respected and studied, hailed the appearance of Mr. 
 Robert Browning with all the honours which can rea- 
 sonably be expected to be awarded to a new comer, 
 who is moreover alive. In more than one quarter the 
 young poet was fairly crowned. The less intelligent 
 class of critics spoke of him with praise ; guarding their 
 expressions with an eye to retreat, if necessary, at any 
 future time, made various extracts, and set him to grow. 
 The rest did what is usual. Now, this reception was, 
 all things considered, very good and promising; the poet 
 had no enemies banded together to hunt and hoot him 
 down, and he had admirers among the best class of 
 critics. Here was a fine table-land whereon to build a 
 reputation, and to make visible to all men those new- 
 fabrics of loveliness and intellectual glory which w^ere 
 manifestly germinating in his brain. Mr. Browning's 
 next production was a tragedy, w'hich, " marvellous to 
 relate," he got acted immediately — an event quite un- 
 precedented on the modern stage, except with those two 
 or three dramatic authors who have previously passed 
 through the customary delays preceding representation. 
 It succeeded, as the saying is, but was not very at- 
 tractive, and being printed "as acted," did not advance 
 the poet's reputation. After this, Mr. Browning went 
 to Italy, where he appears to have felt himself far too 
 happy for the work that was before him; his spiritual 
 -existence drinking in draughts too deep and potent of 
 
280 ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 the divine air, and all the intense associations of the 
 scenes in which he dwelt, and dreamed, and revelled, to 
 suffer him to apply a steady strength, to master his own 
 impulses, and to subdue the throng of elementary ma- 
 terials, so as to compress them into one definite design, 
 suited to the general understandings of mankind. 
 
 After a silence of four years, the poet published 
 " Sordello," which has proved, and will inevitably con- 
 tinue to prove, the richest puzzle to all lovers of poetry 
 which was ever given to the world. Never was extra- 
 ordinary wealth squandered in so extraordinary a man- 
 ner by any prodigal son of Apollo. Its reception, if not 
 already known to the reader, may be guessed without 
 much difficulty ; but the poem has certainly never been 
 fairly estimated. The last publications of Mr. Brown- 
 ing are in a dramatic form and spirit ; they were issued 
 at intervals, and we trust will continue — the series bear- 
 ing the title of " Bells and Pomegranates." The public 
 has treated them hitherto, we believe, with less neglect 
 than is usual with dramatic productions which have not 
 been substantiated to the understanding by stage repre- 
 sentation, although it is still to be feared that the title 
 of the series has not induced any anticipative sympathy. 
 
 Mr. Marston's first work was the play of the " Patri- 
 cian's Daughter," and was the subject of a second 
 " marvel," for this, also, obtained speedy representation. 
 To this play, as to Mr. Browning's "Strafford," Mr» 
 Macready took a sudden fancy — fatal omen of invaria- 
 ble results ! Both of these works are examples of men 
 of genius going astray, the one turning tragedy into a 
 spasmodic skeleton, the other carrying the appointments 
 of what is technically and degradingly termed " a coat- 
 and-breeches comedy" into the tragic arena, and wound- 
 ing Art with real-life weapons. The play has had some 
 temporary success ; but it will only be temporary. Mr, 
 Marston's next work was "Gerald," a poem in a dra- 
 matic form, illustrative of the old melancholy story of 
 the struggles of Genius with the experiences of the ac- 
 tual world. The subject of Mr. Browning's first work 
 was in some respects similar; but the struggles of 
 " Paracelsus" are always treated poetically, while those 
 of " Gerald" have a harsh matter-of-fact tone — for such 
 is the principle of " realizing" in art. 
 
 " Paracelsus" is evidently the work of a young poet 
 of premature powers — of one who sought to project his 
 
AND J. W. MARSTON. 281 
 
 imaginalion beyond the bounds of his future, as well as 
 present, experience, and whose intellect had resolved 
 to master all the results thus obtained. We say the 
 powers were premature, simply because such a design 
 could only be conceived by the most vigorous energies 
 of a spirit just issuing forth with " blazmg wings," too 
 full of strength and too far of sight to believe in the or- 
 dinary laws and boundaries of mortality. It is the ef- 
 fort of a mind that wilfully forgets, and resolves to set 
 aside its corporeal conditions. Even its possible fail- 
 ure is airily alluded to at the outset, and treated in the 
 same way, not merely as no sort of reason for hesita- 
 ting to make the attempt to gain " forbidden knowledge," 
 but as a result which is solely referable to the Cause of 
 its own aspirations and impulses. 
 
 " What though 
 It be so 1 If indeed the strong desire 
 Eclipse the aim in me ? If splendour break 
 Upon the outset of my path alone. 
 And duskest shade succeed? What fairer seal 
 Shall I require to my authentic mission 
 Than this fierce energ-y .' This instinct striving 
 Because its nature is to strive ? Enticed 
 By the security of no broad course — 
 Where error is not, but success is sure. 
 How know I else such glorious fate my own, 
 But in the restless, irresistible force 
 That works within me '? Is it for human will 
 To institute such impulses? Still less 
 To disregard their promptings ? What should I 
 Do, kept among you all ; your loves, your cares, 
 Your life — all to be mine ? Be sure that God 
 Ne'er dooms to waste the strength he deigns impart. 
 Ask the gier-eagle why she stoops at once 
 Into the vast and unexplored abyss ! 
 What full grown power informs her from the first, 
 Why she not marvels, strenuously beating 
 The silent boundless regions of the sky 1" 
 
 Paracelsus, p. 18, 19. 
 
 It should be observed that reference is made exclu- 
 sively to the poet's creation, not to the " Paracelsus" of 
 history. The higher destinies of man, which are con- 
 ceived by the "Paracelsus" we are contemplating, as 
 attainable on earth, are thus sublimely intimated: — 
 
 " The wide East, where old Wisdom sprung ; 
 The bright South, where she dwelt ; the populous North, 
 All are pass'd o'er— it lights on me. 'Tis time 
 New hopes should animate the world— new light 
 Should dawn from new revealings to a race 
 Weigh'd down so long, forgotten so long ; so shall 
 The heaven reserv'd for us at last, receive 
 No creatures whom unwonted splendours blind. 
 But ardent to confront the unclouded blaze, 
 
 A a2 
 
282 ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 Whose beams not seldom lit their pilgrimage ; 
 Not seldom glorified their life below." 
 
 Paracelsus, p. 20. 
 
 A Promethean character pervades the poem through- 
 out ; in the main design, as well as the varied aspira- 
 tions and struggles to attain knowledge, and power, and 
 happiness for mankind. But at the same time there is 
 an intense craving after the forbidden secrets of crea- 
 tion, and eternity, and power, which place ''Paracel- 
 sus" in the same class as " Faust," and in close affinity 
 with all those works, the object of which is an attempt 
 to penetrate the mysteries of existence — the infinity 
 within us and without us. Need it be said, that the re- 
 sult is in all the samel— and the baffled magic— the 
 sublime occult— the impassioned poetry — all display the 
 same ashes which were once wings. The form, the 
 mode, the impetus and course of thought and emotion, 
 admit, however, of certain varieties, and " Paracelsus" 
 is an original work. Its aim is of the highest kind; in 
 full accord and harmony with the spirit of the age; and 
 we admit that it has been accomplished, in so far as 
 such a design can well be: for since the object of all 
 such abstractions as Paracelsus must necessarily fail, 
 individually and practically, the true end obtained is that 
 of refining and elevating others, by the contemplation 
 of such efforts, and giving a sort of polarity to the vague 
 impulses of mankind towards the lofty and the benefi- 
 cent. It also endeavours to sound the depths of exist- 
 ence for hidden treasures of being. 
 
 Living a long life— dreaming a lofty dream — working 
 and suffering, Paracelsus now lies dead before us ! Be- 
 hold an epitome of the course he ran ! Paracelsus as- 
 pires. He has a glorious vision of the discovery of 
 hidden knowledge never as yet revealed to man. He 
 believes that if he constantly seeks it, and works for it, 
 he shall attain it ; and that, were it not possible, these 
 "vast longings" would not be "sent to direct us." He 
 "stands at first, where all aspire at last," and pursues 
 the ever-fleeting "secret of the world," of man and our 
 ultimate destiny. He searches at home and abroad; 
 but, chief of all, he searches within himself, believing 
 that there is " an inmost centre in us all, where truth 
 abides in fulness ;" and that to know, 
 
 " Rather consists in opening out a way 
 Whence the imprisoned splendour may dart forth. 
 Than in effecting' entry for a light 
 Supposed to be without." 
 
AND J. W. MAESTON. 280 
 
 Filled with the divine portion of truth, which he mis- 
 takes for the whole, Paracelsus pursues his labours, 
 *' serene amidst the echoes, beams, and glooms," yet 
 struggling onward with impassioned will, and subduing 
 his life "10 the one purpose whereto he has ordained 
 it," till at length he "attains" — But what? — Imperfect 
 knowledge! He finds that knowledge without love is 
 intellect without heart, and a bitter, as it must ever be a 
 certain, disappointment. Paracelsus looks around him, 
 and renews his labours. 
 
 " This life of mine 
 Must be lived out, and a grave thoroug-hly earned." 
 
 He becomes a miraculous physician — professor of 
 medicine at Basil; and his cures, his doctrines, and his 
 fame are noised abroad in the world. But he is not sat- 
 isfied : he feels the poverty of such reputation, when 
 compared with what he would do for the human race. 
 Again Paracelsus aspires. What his object now is in 
 this part of the poem is not so clear; but knowledge, 
 and love, and disappointed efforts, and fresh struggles 
 and apprehensions, are all at work, while Paracelsus is 
 at the same time full of anguish at the persecution which 
 now hunts him from place to place, as an impostor and 
 a quack. His feelings often display strong signs of 
 over-tasked powers, and impel his mind along the bor- 
 ders of delirium and madness. He looks back upon the 
 past, where " the heaving sea is black behind ;" and in 
 the miseries and horrors of the present, he feels at times 
 that " there is a hand groping amid the darkness ta 
 catch us." 
 
 The closing scene is near. Paracelsus finally " at- 
 tains." And what 1 — Purified feelings, and a clear 
 knowledge of what may, and may not be. He is on the 
 brink of the grave, and of eternity ; a sublime fire is be- 
 fore his path, a constant music is in his ears, and a melt- 
 ing into "bliss for evermore." True to his ruling pas- 
 sion, he pauses a moment to speculate on his momea^ 
 tons state — the awful threshold on which he stands — for 
 a last chance of discovering "some further cause fo? 
 this peculiar mood;" but it " has somehow slipt away" 
 from him. He stands in "his naked spirit so majea 
 tical," and full, once more, of ennobling hopes, looka 
 forward to the time when man shall conmience the in- 
 fancy of a higher slate of being. Then, with one last 
 sigh over the " waste and wear" of faculties " displayed 
 
■284: ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 in vain, but bom to prosper in some better sphere," the 
 old heart-broken philosopher closes his eyes in death. 
 His awe-stricken friend, standing mute for hours over 
 the pale clay, at length slowly murmurs — 
 
 " And this was Paracelsus !" 
 
 The genius of Mr. Marston has hitherto displayed a 
 misgiving originality — or a fancied originality — self- 
 confident at its first launch upon the tide, and midway 
 calling for help from the past, and supporting its sinking 
 venture by all manner of old associations. He took the 
 bull by the horns, and let him go again; the conse- 
 quence has been that he has only aggravated and exalt- 
 ed the power he intended to tame or transfer. He in- 
 tended to show that the bull was a real thing, and the 
 provocation transforms it to a Jupiter. The principle 
 on which the " Patrician's Daughter" was written, (a 
 kind of following in the track of the " Lady of Lyons,") 
 was to prove that reality and the present time constitu- 
 ted the best material and medium for modern poetry, 
 especially dramatic poetry. Now this very play con- 
 tains as many antiquated words and phrases as any 
 modern drama written in direct imitation of the Eliza- 
 bethan dramatists. As an acting tragedy it has failed 
 to take any satisfactory hold upon the stage — for ladies 
 with fashionable parasols, and gentlemen in grenadiers' 
 caps, are an outrage to tragic art, which appeals to the 
 hearts and businesses of men through universal sympa- 
 thies ; and inasmuch as it cannot be aided by matter-of- 
 fact costumes, so it may be injured by ugliness in that 
 respect, more particularly when it constantly calls back 
 (instead of stimulating) the imagination, and reminds it 
 that all this pretended reality is not real. An extract 
 from De Quincy's " Essay on Imitation in the Fine 
 Arts," v/ill make this question more clear : 
 
 "The first error of the artist,— consists in stepping- beyond his art to seek 
 in tlie resources of another, an increase of imitative resemblance. The second 
 error of the artist,— consists in seeking truth fshort of the limits of every art) 
 by a system of servnle copy, which deprives the imitation or the image of that 
 fictitious part tohich constitutes at once its essence and its character. 
 
 " In every art there must be with respect to truth sDxne fiction, and with re- 
 spect to resemblance something incomplete." 
 
 In the delineation of his chief character, moreover, 
 Mr. Marston commits the very dangerous error of say- 
 ing prodigious things of his hero's abilities, but not 
 showing his greatness by his actions. Among other 
 
AND J. W. MARSTON. 286 
 
 extravagances he calls him " the apostle of his age," 
 and sliuus no shadow of justification for the title. 
 
 We iiave here to mention, chiefly for the sake of rep- 
 rehension, ilie numerous reality tragedies of the author 
 of " Tlie Shepherd's Well." Some are printed with his 
 name, some not ; but they are all of one family. This 
 gentleman has attempted to introduce real-life, common- 
 place colloquial dialogue into tragedy, — not as prose 
 tragedy, but in llie form of verse. Whatever ability he 
 may display in the conception of subjects, we certainly 
 think that his method of execution uefeats the design. 
 The perfectly domestic drama should be presented in a 
 perfectly domestic form. Rapidity of production is also 
 apt to degenerate into reckless impulse. A tragedy at 
 three sittings appears to be Mr. Powell's rate of work»- 
 Five mortal acts as a few hours' amusement ! But they 
 are not acts. They are interludes to display a catastro- 
 phe. 'IMiese productions have the merit of one idea; 
 and sometimes a very fine and striking one it would 
 prove, if properly worked out ; but having reserved this 
 idea for the last scene of his last act, the author seems 
 to think that any mass of introductory or irrelevant mat- 
 ter, may be cut into four parts — and \hen comes Act the 
 Fifth, and the one stinging idea. That he has " stufiF" 
 in him of a good kind, if fairly worked upon, and with 
 any justice done to its own nature, is evident, though it 
 may he doubted from these specimens whether he will 
 ever be a dramatist. But, in the first place, and in any 
 case, we object to the principle of realizing in dramatic 
 composition, however admirably the intention were ex- 
 ecuted. "The Blind Wife," the " W'ife's Kevenge;"' 
 *' Marguerite ;" " Marion," &c., &c., are all instances of 
 the error, carried to its extreme, and with a fairness 
 that brings the question at once to an issue. It ought 
 to be added that the '• Shepherd's Well" is the best of 
 Mr. Powell's productions, and not only has ?\ne ele- 
 ments of t'eeling and purpose in its conception, but is ex- 
 ecuted in a style of more care and poetical refinement 
 than any of the rest of his large " young family," It is 
 a great pity that six months' labour was not bestowed 
 upon so finely conceived a subject. 
 
 That a composition intended for the stage, which was 
 the second production of Mr. Browning, should be very 
 ditferent from an epic or psychological poem, will ex- 
 cite no surprise ; but that it should contain so few inci- 
 
^86 ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 dental touches of that pecuhar genius which he had pre- 
 viously displayed, is a curious circumstance to remark. 
 Paracelsus was an ebullition of the poet's powers. The 
 tragedy of " Strafford" is a remarkable instance of the 
 suppression of them. It was a strange mistake, with 
 regard to the tragic principle, which needs the highest 
 consummation of poetry and passion, so that each shall 
 be either or both ; whereas " Strafford" was a piece of 
 passionate action with the bones of poetry. It was a 
 maimed thing, all over patches and dashes, with the 
 light showing through its ribs, and the wind whistling 
 through its arms and legs ; while in its head and echo- 
 ing in its heart, was sung its passion for a king. It was 
 printed as " acted." What it might have been original- 
 ly is impossible to say, but we have some difficulty in 
 •conceiving how it could have been put together with so 
 many disjointed pieces in the first instance. The num- 
 ber of dashes and gaps of omission made its pages often 
 resemble a Canadian field in winter, after a considera- 
 ble thoroughfare of snow-shoes. It appeared, however, 
 to please Mr. Macready, and it was played by him ap- 
 propriately during several nights. 
 
 But it is ever the " trick of genius" to do something 
 which we do not expect; and turning to the series, is- 
 sued under the pretty and most unsatisfactory title of 
 " Bells and Pomegranates," we discover Mr. Browning 
 to possess the finest dramatic genius. " King Victor 
 and King Charles" is a complete tragedy. It appears in 
 the form of two main divisions, each of which is also di- 
 vided into two parts, yet presenting one entire and per- 
 fectly united drama. It is properly a tragedy in four 
 acts, with the interval of about a twelvemonth between 
 the second and third. The characters are drawn with 
 a fine and masterly hand, and the scenes in which they 
 appear are full of nice shades and gradations, and subtle 
 casuistries of the passions, and are not only dramatic in 
 an intellectual sense, but would be so to the feeling and 
 to the eye, if duly represented. \ It is another proof, 
 among the many already existing, that the unacted 
 drama is incomparably superior to the melodramatic 
 plays and farces adopted by managers""^) 
 
 The action in "King Victor and King Charles" is so 
 finely intervolved, though so very clear to the under- 
 standing, and its scenes are so thoroughly dependent 
 
AND J. W. MARSTON. 28T 
 
 upon each other, even for ordinary effect, that extracts 
 can do no justice to its artistic structure. 
 
 The same author's tragedy of the " Return of the 
 Druses" is, in conception, still finer. The main requi- 
 sites for a successful acting tragedy are character and 
 passionate action — and these the " Druses" possesses 
 in the highest degree ; the next requisite is the perspic- 
 uous distribution of the action — and here this tragedy is 
 deficient, but in a way that might easily be remedied, 
 aud with far less trouble than is always taken with the 
 works of Mr. Knowles, or Sir E. L. Bulwer, or with 
 any of the " great discoveries" and failures of Mr. Mac- 
 ready. The character of Djabal is a masterpiece, and 
 of the highest order of dramatic portraiture. It is at 
 once complicated and clear ; the motives intervolved 
 and conflicting, yet " palpable to feehng as to sight ;" 
 and all his actions, their results, and his ov/n end, are 
 perfectly in harmony with these premises. Anything 
 in him that puzzles us, is only in the progress of the 
 drama; for eventually he stands out in the finest relief^ 
 as though upon " the mountain," to which his dying 
 steps lead on his emancipated people. 
 
 Of a similar kind in design and structure to " The Pa- 
 trician's Daughter," is the poem of " Gerald," by the 
 same author. It is another form of the idea of a man 
 of genius struggling with the world of the present time. 
 The scenes are laid in such places as H5^de Park, the 
 High Road, at Bayswater, &c., and the language having 
 a strong smack of the olden time. The poem may be 
 designated as a narrative dialogue and reverie, in which 
 a series of emotions and thoughts, and a few events, are 
 brought before us. They are all very like private ex- 
 periences poetized, philosophized, and moralized upon. 
 It may also be doubted whether the author's faculties 
 have attained their maturity, judging by the love he has 
 for displaying his good things in Italics, evidently show- 
 ing that he considers the ideas as very new, which they 
 frequently are not, though perhaps expressed in a novel 
 form. But the gravest fault is of the same kind as that 
 in his previous work, viz., the author gives us no proof 
 that his hero is a man of genius. Gerald says : 
 
 " In my solitude. 
 While bending o'er the page of bards, to feel 
 Their greatness fiU my soul, and albeit then 
 The lofty meaning I could scarce translate, 
 To quiver with an awful, vague delight, 
 
288 EGBERT BROWNING 
 
 And find my heart respond, although no sense 
 Outran my thought ! Wliat, shall no harvest burst 
 From seed like this^" — Gerald, p. II. 
 
 We answer, " very likely not any." If any, then 
 most likely a reproduction of the thoughts of others, 
 the seeds of which have inspired him. All thai he, snys 
 in proof of an impuN^e and capacity, is in itself only 
 poetical emotion, which should not be mistaken (as it 
 always is in youth) for poetical genius. Gerald leaves 
 his home feeling a strong impulse to do something great 
 in the world. Here at once we see the old sad error— 
 a vague aspiration or ambition mistaken for an object 
 and a power. A man of genius rushes out of his soli- 
 tude, or takes some extreme step, because he is pos- 
 sessed with a ruling passion — a predominating idea — 
 a conviction that he can accomplish a particular thing, 
 and so relieve his breast of the ever-smouldering image 
 ' — his imagination of the ever-haunting thought. He 
 does not rush forth with expanded arms to grasp at 
 "whatever presents itself to his inflamed desires, but to 
 grasp his soul's idol. In like manner — to come down 
 to details — a man of genius never snatches a pen, and 
 sits down to write whatever comes uppermost (or if he 
 do so, now and then, it is because he is in a morbid 
 state, and will most likely burn what he has written); 
 but to write down a sudden revelation of a definite kind. 
 We think that towards the close of his work Mr. Mars- 
 ton discovered this ; in fact, we see signs that he did; 
 but it was too late, and all he could do was to make his 
 hero accuse himself of a selfish ambition as an excuse 
 for his want of success. 
 
 So much for these heroes ; but that the author of both 
 these works is a man of genius, and one of the moving 
 spirits of the time, no doubt can exist. Mr. Marston's 
 "Vritings are full of thoughtful beauty, of religious aspi- 
 ration, and affectionate tenderness. He has also ac- 
 quired considerable reputation as a lecturer, and is in 
 other respects likely to have a prosperous career before 
 him — a career which at present he has not commenced 
 in that fullness of strength which we anticipate he will 
 shortly develope. 
 
 Having spoken of the realizing attempts of Mr. Pow- 
 ell with regard to the drama, it will be only justice 
 merely to remark, that this is not the case with his 
 other poetical productions. He possesses much talent 
 in lyrical composition, and his poems of the aflfeclions 
 
AND J. W. MARSTON. 289 
 
 have great beauty. Many of the other pieces are of a 
 very restless and unequal description. They breathe 
 too much of death, and a morbid harping upon religious 
 forms and dogmas. If we were to select those which 
 we like best, they would be from among his smaller 
 poems of a few stanzas each ; and we could pick out 
 many sonnets, which are excellent in thought, imagery, 
 and harmonious versification. His longer poems want 
 design and order — to say nothing of some care and con- 
 sistency. For instance, in his poem entitled " A Dream 
 of Arcadi," he thinks proper to see a splendid cathedral, 
 to hear a fine organ and anthems, and to delight his 
 senses with the fumes of incense, amidst crowds of dev- 
 otees. High-mass in Arcadia! For the rest, however, 
 every one must feel the presence of the spirit of poetry, 
 and of religious sensibility; nor can any confusion of 
 time, place, form, and of purpose (or the want of pur- 
 pose), prevent that sympathy which follows even the 
 wildest touch upon the chords of universal emotion. 
 
 To that somewhat extensive class of readers who are 
 ■of opinion that poetry, so far from being a thing to study, 
 should be so plain, that " all who run may read," and 
 who take up the works of Mr. Browning with that view, 
 we should premise that they might just as well run an- 
 other way. In " Paracelsus" the diflficulties were in 
 the quantity and quality of thought ; in " Sordello" there 
 is the additional difficulty of an impracticable style. In 
 proportion to the depth or novelty of a thought, the poet 
 has chosen to render the vehicle difficult in which it is 
 conveyed — sometimes by its erudite elaboration of pa- 
 renthesis within parenthesis, and question upon query — 
 sometimes by its levity, jaunting indifference, and ap- 
 parent contempt of everything — sometimes it has an 
 interminable period, or one the right end of which you 
 cannot find ; a knotted serpent, which either has no dis- 
 coverable tail, or has several, the ends of which are in 
 the mouths of other serpents, or else flanking in the air 
 • — sometimes it has a series of the shortest possible 
 periods, viz., of one word, or of two or three words. 
 And amidst ail this there is at frequent intervals a dark 
 hailstone shower of proper names — names of men and 
 women, and places, and idealities, with which only one 
 general reader in about twenty thousand can be ex- 
 pected to be familiar, and with the whole of which the 
 style of the poet seems courteously to assume that all 
 B B 
 
290 ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 his readers are upon the most famihar terms possible. 
 Under these circumstances it can be no wonder that 
 such of the miscellaneous public as take up a poem by 
 ■vvay of a little relaxation shrunk back in hopeless dis- 
 may ; nor that the more numerous class of daily and 
 weekly critics, whose judgments are, from the very na- 
 ture of their position, compelled in most cases to be as 
 hasty as their hands, which " write against time," should 
 have been glad to dismiss " Sordello" with an angry 
 paragraph. In a few instances the critics appeared to 
 have read a portion of it ; in the great majority of in- 
 stances it was not read at all, which fact was evident 
 in the notice, and in several instances was boldly de- 
 clared by the irate critic as a task beyond his sublunary 
 powers. And this no doubt was true. 
 
 " Who will, may hear Sordello's story told : 
 His story ?" 
 
 The author is bewitched at the very outset with an 
 inability to "get on with his story;" and he never 
 recovers this bad beginning. The historical ground- 
 plan of the work is laid down after a most bewildering 
 fashion : 
 
 " So Guelfs i-ebuilt 
 Their houses ; not a drop of blood was spilt 
 When Cino Bocchimpane chanced to meet 
 Buccio Virtil ; God's wafer, and the street 
 Is narrow ! Tutti Santi, think, a-swarm 
 With Ghibellins, and yet he took no harm. 
 This could not last. Off Saling-uerra went 
 To Padua, Podesta," &c.—SordeUo, p. 7. 
 
 Adding to the vague or conflicting historical accounts 
 whatever fictions were agreeable to his fancy, the poet 
 has thus successfully succeeded in bewildering himself 
 and his readers, amidst the elaborate webs of all man- 
 ner of real and ideal events and biographies. Whether 
 to the purpose of his psychologically digressive narra- 
 tive, or merely as an association suggested (to himself)' 
 by the last remark he has made, he never lets you off. 
 Speaking of Adelaide, and the Kaiser's gold, and Monk 
 Hilary, w^ho is on his knees — 
 
 " Now, sworn to kneel and pray till God shall please 
 Exact a punishment for many things 
 You know and some you never knew ; wJiich brings 
 To memory, Azzo's sister Beatrix 
 And Richard's Giglia are my Alberic's 
 And Ecelin's betrathed ; the Count himself 
 Must get my Palma: Ghibellin and Guelf 
 Mean to embrace each other. So begaa 
 Romano's missive to his fighting-man 
 
a?;d j. w. marston. 291 
 
 Taxirello on the Tuscan's death, away 
 
 With Friedrich sworn to sail from Naples' bay 
 
 Next month for Syria." — iSordsllo, p. 81. 
 
 Intending to say several things in token of admira- 
 tion, amidst all the oft'-hand severities of contempora- 
 ries that have been vented upon " Sordell(),"il neverthe- 
 less seemed right to display some of the heaviest faults 
 of the poem at the outset. Having done this unspa- 
 ringly, the far more pleasant, even though the far more 
 arduous task remains. The following are offered as 
 opinions and impressions of the work, regarding it as a 
 whole : — 
 
 The poem of " Sordello" is an attempt to carry out 
 the impossible design in which the author's previous 
 hero, "Paracelsus," had so admirably failed, it is as 
 though the poet, having created a giant, whose inevita- 
 ble fall in the attempt to scale the heavens had been so 
 fully explained, was resolved himself to follow in the 
 same track with all the experience and power thus de- 
 rived ; and, moreover, with the consciousness of being 
 the real and vital essence which had called that ideal- 
 ism into existence, and less likely, therefore, to ''go 
 off" into fine air, not being amenable to the same laws. 
 Sordello takes up the asbestos lamp from the inmost 
 chamber of the tomb of Paracelsus, and issues forth 
 with it into the world, being already far on the way to- 
 wards the outlet which leads to other worlds, or states 
 of being, and perhaps to the borders of infinity. Para- 
 celsus, while dying, came to the conviction that men 
 were already beginning " to pass their nature's bounds ;" 
 that a fine instinct guided them beyond the power of 
 mere knowledge or experience, and that they were — 
 
 "all ambitious, upwards tending-, 
 
 Like plants in mines, which never saw the sun, 
 But dream of him and guess where he may be, 
 And do their best to climb and get to him." 
 
 He had, moreover, a sentient perception, "beyond, 
 the comprehension of our narrow thought, but some- 
 how felt and known in every shift and change of the 
 spirit within — of what God is, of what we are, and what 
 life is." Now, we should reply to Paracelsus, and to 
 all who, like him, have suffered their imaginative sensi- 
 bilities to reason them into such notions, that they de- 
 ceive themselves, although the truth is in them. Full, 
 however, of this sublime deception, Sordello tunes his 
 harp, and works through all the complicated chords and 
 
292 ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 mazes of harmony with indefatigable zeal, from the 
 first note to the end. In the last book of " Sordello" we 
 find him ahnost using the same expressions as in the 
 last book of "Paracelsus." Here we learn that his 
 truth— 
 
 " Lig^hted his old life's every shift and change, 
 Effort with counter-effort ; nor the range 
 Of each looked wrong except wherein it checked 
 Some other — which of these could he suspect 
 Prying into them by the sudden blaze ? 
 The real way seemed made up of all the ways — 
 Mood after mood of the one mind in him ; 
 Tokens of the existence, bright or dim. 
 Of a transcendent all-embracing sense 
 Demanding only outward influence, 
 A soul, in Palma's phrase, above his soul. 
 Power to uplift his power," &c.— Sordello, p. 217, 218. 
 
 Exactly so : he only wants that very thing which has 
 been denied to mortality since the beginning of things. 
 Despairing of this, and doubting whether any external 
 power in nature be adequate to forward his desire, Sor- 
 dello finally moots the question of whether he may be 
 ordained a prouder fate — " a law to his own sphere"?" 
 Sordello dies, and the whole amount of his transcend- 
 ental discoveries may be summed up in the poet's ■ 
 question — 
 
 " What has Sordello found ?" 
 
 To which no reply is given. 
 
 Such is the most simplified account the present stu- 
 dent can offer of the main object of the poem of '' Sor- 
 dello," carved out from the confused " story," and 
 broken, mazy, dancing sort of narrative no-outline, 
 which has occasioned so much trouble, if not despair, 
 to his most patient and pains-taking admirers. Some 
 have thought that the general purport of the poem was 
 to show that mere material things and matters of fact 
 were a mistaken object of life, only leading to disap- 
 pointment and sorrow; and that in the ideal world 
 alone, true contentment, satisfaction, and happiness 
 were to be found ; others have contended, on the con- 
 trary, that it is intended to display the impossibility of 
 attaining to a knowledge of the essences of things, that 
 a life passed amidst idealisms is one of inutility and 
 sorrow, and that the true object of man should be to 
 discover and attain the best realities. But a third view- 
 suggests itself. It is probable that Sordello is not de- 
 voted to either of the above purposes exclusively, but 
 
AND J. W. MARSTON. 293 
 
 comprising both, displays the hopes and the despairs, 
 the vakie and the inutility of boih, when foUowed with 
 the devotion of the whole being. The selection is left 
 to the reader's individual nature, in such propurloins as 
 may accord with that nature. 
 
 As to the poetry of " Sordello," apart from all these 
 disquisitions, we think it abounds with beauties. We 
 should offer as one instance (it cannot be extracted on 
 account of its length) the matchless description of the 
 poetical mind of the noblest order, as typified in Sor- 
 dello, from the bottom of page 20 to the top of page 2-5. 
 Of the childhood of Sordello, a beautiful description is 
 given,— at p. 26-28. 
 
 The complex working of the youthful mind of the 
 poet is illustrated in a very happy manner : 
 
 " Thus thrall reached thrall ; 
 He o'er-festooning every interval 
 As the adventurous spider, making light 
 Of distance, shoots her threads from depth to height, 
 From barbican to battlement ; so flung 
 Fantasies forth and in their centre swung 
 Our architect." 
 
 Sordello, p. 29. 
 
 At page 69, there are several passages highly illus- 
 trative of some of our previous remarks on the philoso- 
 phy of " Sordello ;" but the simple matter-of-fact beauty 
 of the following must be apparent to the reader: 
 
 " In Mantua-territory half is slough, 
 Half pine-tree forest ; maples, scarlet-oaks 
 Breed o'er the river beds ; even Mincio chokes 
 With sand the summer through ; but 'tis morass 
 In winter up to Mantua walls." 
 
 Sordello, p. 17. 
 
 The whole of page 39 might be quoted for its pastoral 
 loveliness. 
 
 Containing, as it does, so many passages of the finest 
 poetry, no manner of doubt can exist but that " Sordel- 
 lo" has been hitherto treated with great injustice. It 
 has been condemned in terms that would lead any one 
 to suppose there was nothing intelligible throughout the 
 whole poem. We have shown its defects in detail, and 
 we have also shown that it has some of the highest 
 beauties. The style, the manner, the broken measure, 
 the recondite form ; these have constituted still greater 
 difficulties than even the recondite matter of which it 
 treats — though the latter only were quite enough to 
 " settle" or " unsettle" an ordinary reader. 
 B b2 
 
294 ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 But how speak of the poem synthetically — how re- 
 view it as a whole'? In what terms shall we endeav- 
 our to express the sum of our impressions of thousands 
 of verses poured forth, as Sordeilo says, "by a mad im- 
 pulse nothing justified, short of Apollo's presence V 
 In sobriety of language it is not to be done, save most 
 unfittingly. In what fine rapture, then, shall we seek 
 to lose our mere critical faculties, and resign ourselves 
 to the swift and wayward current of the verse; now 
 basking in its brilliancy, now merged in its profound 
 shadows, at one time whirled in a vortex, and the next 
 moment cast upon some vast shelving strand, glistening 
 all over with fiints, and diamonds, and broken shells, 
 where strange amphibious creatures crawl, and stare, 
 or wink, while the song of Sordeilo passes over our pros- 
 trate head, and we have to scramble up and stagger 
 after the immortal quire, vainly catching at the torn and 
 cast-off segments of their flickering skirts 1 We hurry 
 on in fond yet vain pursuit, when suddenly a Guelf and 
 Ghibellin appear before us, each with an enormous urn 
 of antique mould, which they invert above our tingling 
 cranium, and instantly we are half extinguished and 
 quite overwhelmed by a dark shower of notes and 
 memoranda from Tiraboschi, Nostradamus, the Latin 
 treatise of Dante, the Chronicle of Rolandin, the Com- 
 ments on the sixth Canto of the Purgatorio, by Benve- 
 nuto d'Imola, and all the most recondite hints from the 
 most learned and minute biographical lexicogpiphers of 
 the old Italian periods. 
 
 The poem of " Sordeilo" is a beautiful globe, which, 
 rolling on its way to its fit place among the sister 
 spheres, met with some accident which gave it such a 
 jar that a multitude of things half slipt into each other's 
 places. It is a modern hieroglyphic, and should be 
 carved on stone for the use of schools and colleges. 
 Professors of poetry should decypher and comment upon, 
 a few lines every morning before breakfast, and young 
 students should be ground upon it. It is a fine mental 
 exercise, whatever may be said or thought to the con- 
 trary. Here and there may be found passages equal to 
 the finest things that were ever written, and are not 
 more difficult to the understanding than those same 
 finest things. It is also full of passages apparently con- 
 structed with a view to make the general reader rage 
 and foam, if ever a general reader should push forth liis 
 
AND J. W. MARSTON. 295 
 
 adventurous boat out of sight of the shore of the first 
 page — and out of sight it will surely appear to him be- 
 fore he has doubled the storm-rejoicnig cape of page 
 four. To some it will appear to be a work addressed to 
 the perception of a seventh sense, or of a class of facul- 
 ties which we do not at present know that we possess 
 — if we really do possess. To others it will seem to be 
 a work written in the moon by the only sane individual 
 of that sphere, viz., the man of that ilk ; or a work writ- 
 ten by a poet somewhere in the earth by the light of a 
 remote sun whose rays are unrevealed to other eyes. 
 To some the most vexatious part of it will be the count- 
 less multitude of little abrupt snatches of questions, 
 snaps of answers, and inscrutable exclamations, chirp- 
 ing around from every branch of a wilderness or a jun- 
 gle of glimmering mysteries. To others the continual 
 consciousness of the reader's presence will most annoy, 
 because it destroys the ideal life, and reminds him of 
 something far less agreeable — himself, and his diairact- 
 ing problem ! The flowing familiar style sometimes re- 
 minds us of Shelley's "Julian and Maddalo" with a 
 touch of Keats' " Endymion," broken up into numerous 
 pit-falls, whether mines of thought or quirks of fancy; 
 but there are also other occasions when it becomes 
 spiral, and of sustained inspiration, not unlike certain 
 parts of the " Prometheus Unbound" put into rhyme ; 
 yet is it no imitation of any other poet. Certain por- 
 tions also remind us of the suggestive, voluble, discon- 
 nected, philosophical jargon of Shakspeare's fools, and 
 with all the meaning which they often have for those 
 who can find it. The poem is thick-sown throughout 
 with suggestions and glances of history and biography, 
 of dark plots, tapestried chambers, eyes behind the ar- 
 ras, clapping doors, dreadful galleries, and deeds in the 
 dark, over which there suddenly bursts a light from on 
 high, and looking up you find a starry shower, as from, 
 some remote rocket, descending in silent brilliancy upon 
 the dazzled page. Each book is full of gems set in puz- 
 zles. It is like what the most romantic admirers of 
 Goethe insist upon " making out" that he intended in his 
 simplest fables. It is the poetical portion of three ep- 
 ics, shaken together in a sack and emptied over the 
 hand of the intoxicated reader. It is a perfect store- 
 house of Italian scenery and exotic fruits, plants, and 
 flowers ; so much so, that by the force of contrast it 
 
£96 ROBERT BROWNING AND J. W. MARSTON. 
 
 brings to mind the half-dozen flowers and pastoral com- 
 mon-places in collections of " Beauties of English 
 Poets," till the recollection of the sing-song repetitions 
 makes one almost shout with laughter. It is pure Ital- 
 ian in all its materials. There is not one drop of Brit- 
 ish ink in the whole composition. Nay, there is no ink 
 in it, for it is all written in Tuscan grape juice, em- 
 browned by the sun. It abounds in things addressed to 
 a second sight, and we are often required to see double in 
 order to apprehend its meaning. The poet may be con- 
 sidered the Columbus of an impossible discovery. It is 
 a promised land, spotted all over with disappointments, 
 and yet most truly a land of promise, if ever so rich and 
 rare a chaos can be developed into form and order by 
 revision, and its southern fulness of tumultuous heart 
 and scattered vineyards be ever reduced to given pro- 
 portion, and wrought into a shape that will fit the aver- 
 age mental vision and harmonize with the more equable 
 pulsations of mankind. 
 
SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER. 
 
 " Pitch thy project high I 
 
 Sink not in spirit. Who aimeth at the sky- 
 Shoots higher much than if he meant a tree. 
 Let thy nund still be beut, still plotting where, 
 And when, and how, the business may be done." 
 
 George Herbert. 
 
 B " whom all the Graces taught to please, 
 
 Mixed mirth with morals, eloquence with ease. 
 His genius social, as his judgment clear ; 
 When frolic, prudent ; smiling when severe. 
 Secure each temper and each taste to hit, 
 His was the curious happiness of wit." — Mallet. 
 
 It should be remembered to the honour of Sir E. L. 
 Bulvver, that although born to an independence and to 
 the prospect of a fortune, and inheriting by accident of 
 birth an advantageous position in society, he has yet 
 cultivated his talent with the most unremitting assidui- 
 ty, equal to that of any " poore scholar," and has not 
 suffered his " natural gifts" to be smothered by indo- 
 lence or the pleasures of the world. He is one of the 
 most prolific authors of our time ; and his various ac- 
 complishments, habits of research, and extraordinary 
 industry, no less than his genius, well entitle him to the 
 rank he holds as one of the most successful, in that 
 branch of literature in which he eminently excels. We 
 must not be dazzled by his versatility; we entertain no 
 doubts about his real excellence, and shall endeavour to 
 fix his true and definite position. 
 
 Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer is the youngest son of 
 General Bulwer, of Heydon Hall, in the county of Nor- 
 folk, and of EHzabeth, daughter and heiress of Henry 
 Warburton Lytton, Esq., of Knebworth Park, Herts, to 
 the possession of which estate he has just succeeded; 
 and is connected on botli sides of the house, with many 
 noble and ancient families. He sat in parliament at an 
 early age for the borough of St. Ives, and subsequently 
 for the city of Lincoln. His parliamentary career was 
 highly creditable, and in one respect, in especial, has 
 left an honourable testimonial to his exertions ; we al- 
 lude to the bill for the protection of dramatic copyright, 
 
298 SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER. 
 
 ■which he brought in and carried. He distinguished 
 himself at the same time as an able political writer. As 
 a speaker, he had won the respect of the House, though 
 his voice is weak, his manner somewhat hesitating, 
 and his style more florid than accords with the taste of 
 that assembly. His train of argument surmounted these 
 disadvantages, and, what was more difficult still, induced 
 honourable members to overlook a certain appearance 
 of fastidious nicety in dress, which by no means accords 
 with their notions in general. He was made a baronet ; 
 the date and occasion of which event we forget. His 
 political labours interfered not in the least with his 
 literary career, to the progress of which we now turn. 
 
 The development of his literary taste is ascribed to 
 the influence of his mother, to whose charge he was 
 early consigned by his father's death. The " Percy's 
 Eeliques" was a favourite book of his childhood, and he 
 wrote some ballads in imitation, when only five or six 
 years old. He was never sent to any public school, but 
 graduated at Cambridge. He, however, found for him- 
 self a kind of education, — which was probably of more 
 importance to the development of genius than any he 
 received in the University, — by wandering over the 
 greater part of England and Scotland on foot during the 
 long vacation, and afterwards making a similar tour of 
 France on horseback. He began to publish when only 
 two or three and twenty, at first in verse ; next anony- 
 j mously a novel now forgotten, entitled " Falkland." It 
 I hence appears that his early attempts were failures. 
 xj .His first successful work was " Pelhani," and this es- 
 tablished his reputation as a clever novelist. It was 
 rapidly followed by " The Disowned," by " Devereux ;" 
 and then by " Paul ClifTord," which stamped him as a 
 man of genius. " Eugene Aram" well sustained the 
 high reputation thus gained. 
 
 There was a considerable interval between these two 
 fine works last named, and the other novels and roman- 
 ces of their author, in which he undertook the editorship 
 of the " New Monthly Magazine." His own papers, of 
 which he wrote many, were various in subject; some- 
 times political, sometimes literary criticism. A series 
 entitled " The Conversations of an Ambitious Student" 
 was in general devoted to abstract speculation. The 
 best of these were afterwards re-published under the 
 title of "The Student." The germ of many of the 
 
SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER. 299 
 
 thoughts embodied and developed in these papers be- 
 longs to Hazlitt ; but the germ has power and life suffi- 
 cient to bear the branching stems and foliage with which 
 it was elaborated by Bulwer, and in a manner that was 
 often wortiiy of it. If the saying attributed to Sir Lyt- 
 ton Bulwer concerning his editorship is true, it belongs 
 to that " dandiacal" portion of him, which disagreeably 
 interferes with one's confidence in his sincerity ; for if 
 he said he became an Editor " to show that a gentleman 
 xnight occupy such a position," it must simply be set 
 down to the same Beau-Brummel idiosyncrasy which 
 makes him seriously careful of the cut of his coat, and 
 the fashion of his waistcoat. But it was only a " flour- 
 ish of the queue,''- whoever said it. The motive was 
 more worthy ; and if a proof were wanting, the papers 
 of the " Student" might be referred to, in which the- 
 aim is always high and pure. " England and the Eng- 
 lish," was more the work of the man of the world, and 
 the member of Parliament, superadded to the thinker. 
 No doubt it contains some exaggerations, but it is cor- 
 rect in the main, and is an admirably applied and much 
 required dose for our overweening conceit of our na- 
 tional prejudices and pride. It might have been enti- 
 tled " An Exposition of the Influences of Aristocracy." 
 
 A return to the region of fiction was perhaps accel- 
 erated by a tour on the Continent. Passing over the 
 " Pilgrims of the Rhine," a piece of prettiness in litera- 
 ture beautifully illustrated, — a work which, to use ap- 
 propriate language, a perfect gentleman might permit 
 himself to write for a thousand pounds — we see Sir 
 Lytton Bulwer in his own element again upon the pub- 
 lication of his " Last Days of Pompeii ;" followed by" 
 " Rienzi," and, at intervals wonderfully short, by " Er- 
 nest Maitravers," "Alice," "Night and Morning," " Za- 
 noni," and " The Last of the Barons." 
 
 Had the author of these works — giving evidence of a 
 range and variety of intellect, invention, and genius suf- 
 ficient to satisfy a high ambition — attempted no other 
 walk of genius, he would have stood above and beyond 
 the analytical portion of criticism, and commanded its 
 far more worthy and genial office of synthetical appre- 
 ciation of excellence. But he has aimed at the fame of 
 a poet, and a dramatist, besides. Those who are used 
 to think of Sir Lytton Bulwer as a uniformly successful 
 author; a sort of magician under whose wand paper 
 
300 SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER. 
 
 will always turn into gold, do not know that several al- 
 ready forgotten poems have been put forth by him since 
 his acquirement of popularity, the very names of which 
 sound strange. " Ismael, an Oriental Tale," " Leila, or 
 the Siege of Granada," " The Siamese Twins" have 
 gone into forgetfulness, and " Eva and other poems and 
 tales," are not destined to a long life. Then there have 
 been patriotic songs, and odes, in which there was a cu- 
 rious mixture of the roast-beef of Old England style, 
 with an attempt at imaginative impulse and intensity of 
 meaning, depending chiefly for high personifications and 
 abstract qualities upon the use of capital letters. More- 
 over, there was a tragedy of " Cromwell" which is said 
 to have been re-written, and its design and character 
 totally changed while it was going through the press : 
 and finally, after it was printed, it was suppressed. 
 *' The public was not worthy of it," — we heard this inti- 
 mated. But there were some few intellects alive who 
 were ; and they could not obtain it. Besides, the public 
 has many good things of which it is not worthy, as a 
 mass ; and yet, here and there, the right sort of man al- 
 ways picks up the right sort of book to his thinking. 
 
 That there are great elements of popular success, and 
 a mastery of the worldly side of it, in Sir Lytton Bul- 
 wer, is undoubted; nor would it in the least surprise us 
 if he became a peer of the realm, sometime within the 
 next ten 3'ears ; nevertheless there are several other 
 things which he cannot accomplish. 
 ^ The known dramatic works of Sir Lytton Bulwer con- 
 sist of " The Duchess de la Valliere," " The Lady of 
 Lyons," " Richelieu," " The Sea Captain," and " Mon- 
 ey," all brought out on the stage by Mr. IMacready. 
 The first was deservedly a failure. Of the others, one 
 only retains a share of popularity, but its share is a large 
 one. " The jLady of Lyons" is a decided favourite with 
 the public. ^Jit is usual to place its author among the 
 first of modern dramatists, which he decidedly is not, as 
 well as among the first of our novelists, which he assu- 
 redly IS, of whatever period. 
 
 The charm of the " Lady of Lyons" results from the 
 interest of tlie plot, the clear and often pathetic working 
 of the story, the easy flow of the dialogue, the worldly 
 morality, and the reality of the action, just sufficiently 
 clothed in an atmosphere of poetry to take it out of the 
 mere prose of existence, without calling upon the ima- 
 
SIR EDWx\RD LYTTON BULWER. 301 
 
 ginatioii for any effort to comprehend it. All this, 
 united with every advantage that scenic effect and ex- 
 cellent acting could give, established the " Lady of Ly- 
 ons" in a popularity which it has always retained. But 
 this alone is not the mede of a great dramatist. The 
 plot of the play in question will not bear examination 
 by any high standard. A heart is treacherously won; 
 then, when after the cruel conflict with its own just in- 
 dignation, it is ready to forgive all and continue true to 
 its love, it is deserted with cruelty as great as the for- 
 mer treachery, all because a self-loving notion of " hon- 
 our" demands the sacrifice. The old false preference 
 of the shadow for the substance ! Then, at last, when 
 honour is satisfied all is right. It is made right by the 
 lover having been to battle, and "fought away" and ob- 
 tained rank and property. In the last scene he literally 
 purchases the lady — the price passing before her very 
 face. This is fostering our worst faults ; exciting sym- 
 pathy for the errors that are among the most prolific 
 sources of " the weariness, the fever, and the fret" of 
 our life. 
 
 " Money" had a better purpose, was more clever and 
 witty, and was superior in its structure ; but while the 
 power of money, and all its undue influence in the 
 world, was excellently displayed, the ostensible and 
 popular moral tendency of the play was to encourage 
 the acquisition as a legitimate and honourable means 
 for attaining objects of all kinds, — a triumph of the 
 purse over every thought and feeling. The author 
 shows his contempt for this condition of the world; but 
 only meets it upon its own ground, instead of taking a 
 higher. It was very successful at first, but is now sel- 
 dom acted. " Richelieu" had also a " run" on its first 
 appearance; but has never since been represented. 
 
 'The character of Sir Lytton Bulwer's mind is analyt- 
 ical, rather than impulsive ; elaborate and circuitous, 
 rather than concentrating and direct ; fanciful rather 
 than imaginative ; refining and finishing, rather than 
 simple and powerful; animated and vivid, rather than 
 passionate and fiery. He constructs upon system, rather 
 than upon sensation ; and works by his model, and with 
 little help from instinct. His strongest faith is in the 
 head, not in the heart ; and for these reasons he is not a 
 great dramatist. Nor can all the labour and skill in the 
 world make him one. But he is philosophical and artis- 
 C c 
 
302 SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER. 
 
 tical, and is pretty sure to display both intellect and 
 Gkill in whatever he undertakes. 
 
 Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer is a great novelist; his 
 name will rank among the masters in the art, and his 
 works will live together with theirs. It is sufficient to 
 mention the names of such compositions as " Paul Clif- 
 ford," " Eugene Aram," " Night and Morning," " Ernest 
 Maltravers" — with its sequel of" Alice" — an4 " Zanoni," 
 to feel fearless in making this assertion. ^The variety 
 and originality displayed in these fine works ; the inven- 
 tion ; the practical knowledge, and clever working of 
 character; the fine art in the management of the plot; 
 the elegance of the style ; the power over the feelings in 
 deep pathos; all these qualities combine to place their 
 author in the highest rank of this department of litera- 
 ture. 
 
 In calling to mind the list of Bulwer's novels, those we 
 have mentioned occurred first as masterpieces, but oth- 
 ers remain behind to which other tastes may give the 
 preference. ^' Pelham" has never been a favourite with 
 us, notwithstanding its decided superiority to its con- 
 temporary " fashionable novels." We cannot relish 
 philosophy or abstract speculation (and we grant these 
 in " Pelham") from the same mouth which discusses 
 the fopperies of the toilette, and how to make a pair of 
 trousers ! " A fine gentleman" is not to our taste, and 
 there is quite enough worldly morality in the actual 
 world without putting it down in a book, as a good thing 
 •worth repeating. "The last Days of Pompeii," wove 
 into a story of deep interest and beauty, the memories 
 of the classic times ; and the character of Nydia, the 
 l>lind girl, will last as long as our language endures. 
 " Rienzi" is, perhaps, the least marked by genius of any 
 of its author's later works of fiction. 
 
 Among those first enumerated, "Eugene Aram" is 
 distinguished for the development of a great and subtle 
 truth. In the dreadful crime into which the benevolent 
 and gifted scholar is betrayed at the very moment when 
 he is full of ardour for knowledge and virtue, small cav- 
 illers are apt to ask, could a benevolent or virtuous na- 
 ture act thus 1 — how can it be natural ? We consider 
 that the revelations of genius here displayed may fairly 
 be said to have recorded a consciousness that in the 
 moral as well as the physical frame, " we are fearfully 
 and wonderfully made;" that when the instincts and 
 
SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER. 303 
 
 ■the passions are over-mastered by the intellect, and 
 man resis proudly on his boasted reason alone, he may 
 work strange deeds before " high Heaven ;" that he 
 must beware of the casuistries of his brain no less than 
 the wild workings of his heart, and that the affections 
 and passions are the grand purifiers, the master movers, 
 the voice of God in the soul, regulating the speculative, 
 daring reason, and controlling as well as impelling ac- 
 tion. This is to write greatly; to write philosophy and 
 history, the physiology of sensation, and aggregate and 
 individual truth. 
 
 In '' Ernest Maltravers" is pourtrayed the training of 
 genius to the business of life ; a hard task, and accom- 
 plished in a truly philosophical spirit. But as examples 
 of excellence in his art, as well as of variety in its 
 manifestation, we would especially dwell on " Paul 
 Clifford," " Night and Morning," and " Zanoni." 
 
 " Paul Clifford" is of the same class as the " Beggars' 
 Opera," and worthy to rank with it. While its hero is 
 a highwayman, and the lowest characters are introdu- 
 ced in it, who have an appropriate dialect, there is no- 
 thing in it that could for a moment shock any one of 
 real delicacy, and there is a tinge of the ideal wrought 
 into the very texture of most of these men which ren- 
 ders them interesting to the imagination, as their good 
 feeling and honhommie, with the total absence of any- 
 thing brutal or gross, reconciles them to the mind, and 
 obtains a hold upon the sympathies. But besides being 
 individualized, as well as the representatives of classes, 
 several of them are also latent satires upon certain 
 known men of our time. Some of these are admirable, 
 but more especially Old Bags, Fighting Attie, and Pe- 
 ter Macgrawler. Long Ned and Augustus Tomlinson 
 are exquisite. One of the finest scenes — that of the 
 trial, where the judge is the father of the criminal, is 
 taken from Mrs. Inchbald. AVith this exception, the 
 work in its various parts, and as a whole, is a fine ori- 
 ginal. The author does not make his hero admired for 
 any one bad quality, but for naturally high qualities in- 
 dependent of the worst circumstances. It is a skilful 
 work of art, and its moral tendency is noble, healthy, 
 tmd full of exhortations to the manful struggle after 
 good. 
 
 The character of Philip Beaufort in " Night and Morn- 
 ing," is a fine conception, and as finely pourtrayed from 
 
304 SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER. 
 
 the moment that he is first shown a proud and pam- 
 pered hoy, imperious in his strength and beauty, on- 
 wards through the bitter trials of his " night," till by the 
 energy of his will, always kept up to the mark by the 
 intensity of his affections, he works his own way to 
 clear " morning." His boyhood and youth are carried 
 forward on a swelling tide of passion, which is sustain- 
 ed to the close of the work, and leaves the mind eleva- 
 ted by its contemplation. There is a great variety of 
 character in the book : the rapid sketch of the father 
 of Philip, and the exquisitely finished portrait of the 
 mother, most pathetic in the dignity of her grief; the 
 spoilt, gentle, selfish, idolized brother for whom the 
 proud Philip works like a menial to be rewarded by in- 
 gratitude ; the worldly uncle in high life, and the re- 
 spectable uncle in the shopocracy ; all are excellently 
 drawn, but the interest is centred in the principal char- 
 acter. The story is equally well managed. The plot 
 is complicated, yet clearly worked out ; the incidents 
 flow much less from outward circumstance than from 
 the strong passions and proud will of the hero, by which 
 he casts away over and over again the aid that would 
 have saved him, rushes into danger and disaster, but at 
 length works out his own regeneration, chastened and 
 purified. The interest never flags; and those who can 
 get through these three volumes with dry eyes, must be 
 |nade of hard materials. 
 
 / " Zanoni" is the most harmonious as a work of art, 
 'the most imaginative, and the purest and highest in 
 moral purpose of any of the works of Bulwer. A cer- 
 tain peculiarity of style has laid it open to the charge 
 of imitation, and many of the ideas and sentiments gath- 
 ered from Plato, from Schiller, Richter, and Goethe, 
 have induced superficial readers to term it a compila- 
 tion. Sir Lytton Bulwer has been heard to declare his 
 opinion that it was quite fair to take anything from an 
 older author — if you could improve it.. This opens a 
 most dangerous door to human vanity, as it would ex- 
 cuse any one to himself, for taking anything. Our au- 
 thor must not therefore be surprised if this notion has 
 occasionally laid him open to vexatious remarks from 
 half-seeing censurers. 'JJotwithstanding any of its ob- 
 ligations, " Zanoni" is a truly original work ; a finished 
 design ; embodying a great principle and pervaded by 
 one leading idea. In the fable of " Zanoni" is depicted 
 
SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER. 305 
 
 the triumph of the sympathetic over the selfish nature ; 
 both these terms being understood in their largest sense. 
 Under the selfish, being comprised the pleasures of the 
 intellect, the clear light of science, the love of the beau- 
 tiful, the worship of art ; — under the sympathetic, love 
 in its most devoted and spiritual meaning, love losing 
 the sense of self, stronger than life and death, rendering 
 sacrifice easy, hallowing sorrow, endowing the soul 
 with courage and faith. In order to bring out the prin- 
 ciple in the strongest manner some supernatural ma- 
 chinery is employed, and the hero is supposed to pos- 
 sess the knowledge of ages and the secret of immortality. 
 Love is also represented as the means by which the 
 mind grasps the beneficent order and harmony of the 
 Universe, in which Death is not an exception, but an 
 integral part when viewed in connection with Eternity. 
 This truth may be attained also by pure reason, but the 
 philosophical author has chosen to ascribe it to the in- 
 tuitive teaching of pure passion. In like manner, Ten- 
 nyson, in his fine poem of " Love and Death," makes 
 Love " pierce and cleave'' the gloom in his address to 
 Death : 
 
 " Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree 
 Stands in the sun and shadows all beneath, 
 So in the light of great eternity 
 Life eminent creates the shade of death ; 
 The shadow passeth when the tree shall fall, 
 But I shall reigu for ever over all." 
 
 In the course of the story there are many valuable 
 secondary suggestions and ideas. The new creation 
 which opens to the eyes of those who are awakened to 
 the grandeur and mystery of things, and seek a higher 
 life and knowledge, is beautifully shadowed forth in the 
 floating forms of light that seem to fill the air when the 
 young aspirant, Glyndon, first inhales the elixir of life ; 
 while the dread of " the world," that common world 
 which has always followed with its persecution and its 
 scorn the best and the noblest, the strikers out of new 
 paths, the pioneers and heralds of progression, this 
 nameless dread is embodied with singular power in the 
 "Dweller of the Threshold." There is more still im- 
 plied in this haunter of " first steps." Every new birth 
 is ushered in with a pang — every new idea enlarges the 
 capacity for pain as well as for pleasure, and who ever 
 felt the inspiration of a new and great feeling without 
 Cc2 
 
306 SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER. 
 
 trembling] The following passage contains the ima- 
 gery to which we have alluded : 
 
 " And now he distinctly saw shapes somewhat resembling' in outline those 
 of the human form, gliding slowly and with regular evolutions through 
 the cloud. As they moved in majestic order, he heard a low sound — which 
 each caught and echoed from the other ; a low sound, but musical, which 
 seemed the chant of some unspeakably tranquil joy. Slowly they glided 
 round and aloft, till, in the same majestic order, one after one, they float- 
 ed through the casement and were lost in the moonlight ; then, as his eyes 
 followed them, the casement became darkened with some oliject indistinguish- 
 able at the first gaze, but which sutficed mysteriously to change into ineffable 
 horror the delight he had before experienced. By degrees this object shaped 
 itself to his sight. It was as that of a human head, coveted with a dark veil, 
 through which glared with livid and demoniac fire, eyek that froze the mar- 
 row in his bones." / 
 
 This is fearfully beautiful painting. Many could bear 
 witness to the truthfulness of its suggestions. Cow- 
 ardly fear and distrust give the triumph to this phan- 
 tom ; courage and faith alone can conquer it; courage 
 to brave danger or disgrace ; faith in the truth, love of 
 the beauty and the good to which the mind aspires. 
 In the narrative, ihe author has represented the pres- 
 ence of this loathsome thing as a necessary part of the 
 ordeal which the neophyte must go through ; a presence 
 only to be banished by those vvho can firmly confront 
 its terrible eyes. It vanishes always before a steady 
 gaze. The whole of the supernatural machinery of the 
 story is, in like manner, founded on profound truths 
 connected with the mysteries of our being. The fabled 
 events represent, or are types of. the links of association, 
 the sympathies and antipathies, the instincts, smothered 
 or left undeveloped in common life by the nature of our 
 education, pursuits, and habits, but not the less elemental 
 principles of nature. 
 
 The character of Viola, the woman through whom 
 Love asserts his pre-eminence — his "reign eternal over 
 all" is exquisitely drawn in the first portion of the story. 
 Her life as an actress, with the pathetic history of the 
 musician Pisani, her father, are especially beautiful. 
 The charm of the ideal is thrown over everything con- 
 nected with her, and her purity, childlike and spotless, 
 combined with her impassioned devotion to Zanoni, the 
 hero, render the picture perfect. Out of this lovely 
 character, however, arises the grand fault of the work, 
 as an ethical harmony. It is the compromise of tier 
 passion for Zanoni by her maternal instinct over-mas- 
 tering it. When she becomes a mother, she deserts her 
 husband for the sake of her child. This is a heresy 
 
SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER. 307 
 
 against a pure and exalted love. It is too true that it 
 happens very commonly in real life, but not with such 
 a woman, and such a love. It was necessary to the 
 course of the story to remove her from her great pro- 
 tector, yet some other means should have been invented. 
 Deep nature is sacrificed to an immediate requisition of 
 the narrative. The mistake is cleverly effected by the 
 aid of superstition. But superstition could never have 
 been so strong as her love — because, as we have said 
 before, a great and ennobling passion is the voice of 
 God in the soul, and banishes all weak fears. The ex- 
 alted faith of Zanoni, and the heart-broken intensity of 
 affection in Viola under the separation, are finely done ; 
 and the re-union still finer. They meet again in a dun- 
 geon in Paris in the Reign of Terror. Viola is con- 
 demned to die, and Zanoni relinquishes his " charmed 
 life," his immortality of youth to save her. He leaves 
 her asleep when his guards call him to execution. She 
 IS unconscious of the terrible sacrifice, but awaking and 
 missing him, a vision of the procession to the guillotine 
 comes upon her ; Zanoni radiant in his youth and beauty 
 is there ; — 
 
 " Oa to the Barriere du Trone I It frowns dark in the air— the g^iant instru- 
 ment of murder I One after one to the glaive ; — another, and another, and 
 another ! Mercy I O mercy I Is the bridge between the sun and the shades 
 so brief? — brief as a sigh ? There — there — his turn has come. ' Die not yet ; 
 leave me not behind I Hear me — hear me !' shrieked the inspired sleeper. 
 ' What I and thou smilest still I' They smiled — those pale lips — and with the 
 smile, the place of doom, the headsman, the horror vanished ! With that 
 smile, all space seemed suffused in eternal sunshine. Up from the earth he rose 
 — he hovered over her — a thing not of matter— an idea of joy and light I Be- 
 hind, Heaven opened, deep after deep; and the Hosts of Beauty were seen 
 rank upon rank, afar ; and ' Welcome,' in a myriad melodies broke from your 
 choral multitude, ye People of the Skies — ' Welcome ! O purified by sacrifice, 
 and immortal only through the grave — this it is to die.' And radiant amidst 
 the radiant, the image stretched forth its arms, and murmured to the sleeper, 
 ' Companion of Eternity 1 — this it is to die I' * * * * 
 
 " They burst into a cell , forgotten since the previous morning. They found 
 there a young female, sitting upon her wretched bed ; her arms crossed upon 
 her bosom, her face raised upward ; the eyes unclosed, and a smile of more 
 than serenity, — of bliss upon her lips. Never had they seen life so beautiful ; 
 and as they crept nearer, and with noiseless feet, they saw that the lips breath- 
 ed not, that the repose was of marble, that the beauty and the ecstasy were 
 of death." 
 
 We have quoted this beautiful passage because it 
 ought to remain on record, singled out as an example of 
 pVire and exalted conception. To those who knew it 
 before, it will b^ renewed pleasure; to those who did 
 not, an inducement to become acquainted with the work 
 from which it is selected. 
 
 It is strange that in a composition which embodies sq 
 
308 SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER. 
 
 much high philosophy, the author should have taken so 
 puerile a view of the French Revolution. He dwells 
 only on its horrors, — a theme long since exhausted. 
 'I'rue, they were many and great; — but slaughterous 
 battles for legitimacy, and long ages of despotism, and 
 inquisitions, and Sicilian massacres, and massacres of 
 Saint Bartholomew, have had their horrors too.* Sir 
 Lytton laments over " the throne and the altar !" Words 
 of high and very ancient sound ; but what besides words 
 were they at that period 1 In a note to a passage in his 
 Zanoni, he says, '• Take away murder from the French 
 Revolution, and it becomes the greatest farce ever 
 played before the angels !" The greatest farce ! — was 
 the decrepitude and fall of the altar, then, a farce after 
 all — the decripitude and fall of the throne a farce, after 
 all — the brutalized vices of the nobles, their despotism 
 and ail-but extinction as a nobility — were these things 
 only a gieat farce 1 Rather say, the greatest and most 
 frightful retribution, the most abused principle, the 
 greatest expiatory sacrifice, the most comprehensive 
 tragedy — any of these are nearer the mark, historically, 
 morally, philosophically, and as matter of human feeling. 
 It is from passages such as this, strangely at variance 
 ■with the philosophical spirit which is unquestionably 
 manifested in the writings of this author, that he gives 
 an impression of shallowness, and also of insincerity 
 and aftectation. Whatever be the cause, it is certain 
 that he lays himself open to these charges. Witho/it 
 coinciding in the accusation of shallowness, it is fair/to 
 say that he cannot pretend to the distinction of an pri- 
 ginal or profound thinker, or a discoverer of truth ; but 
 it is much to be capable of perceiving and appreciating 
 truth when dug up and displayed by others, and this Bul- 
 %ver does; he does more, he is able to assimilate it, and 
 make it in some respects his own, by giving it new 
 forms and colours, all in harmony with itself. His af- 
 fectations we take to proceed, partly, from the fact that 
 Lis mind does not always keep up to the high mark it 
 attains when imbued with the philosophy it is capable 
 of comprehending, but does actually disport itself in cer- 
 tain fripperies and follies ; and, partly, from the neces- 
 sity he is under of displaying no more truth to the 
 world than the world can bear with complacency. 
 
 * " Let tliem add to this the fact that seventy-two thousand, persons suffered 
 death by the hands of the executioner during- the reign of Henry the Eighth, 
 and iudse between, &c." Macaulay's Essays, vol. i., u. 250. 
 
SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER, 309 
 
 An honest-minded reviewer of the works of Sir E. L. 
 Bulwer has said of him, " his soul is not brave enough 
 for truth." This is scarcely correct : he is brave enough 
 to face any truth, but his pohcy holds check upon his 
 soul. He knows what a strong bull- headed thing the 
 world is, and he loves popularity too well to risk having 
 it trampled down by hoofs. He never, therefore, goes 
 too far beyond his age ; but he keeps up with it always. 
 Hence he maintains his popularity, and perhaps when 
 his intellect feels the necessity of reining in, it turns a 
 little restive and indulges in some curvets at the expense 
 of the "gentle readers" he feels obliged to humour. It 
 is further to be admitted that he is essentially aristocrat- 
 ic in his tastes and feelings ; that in his writings there is 
 no true sympathy with humanity until it is refined and 
 polished. Grant this, however, and he is a great writer. 
 The true delineation of rough nature must not be expect- 
 ed of him. The unpolished diamond he would recognize, 
 and turn coldly from jl : nature, with him, requires to be 
 perfected — by art. He is prone to idealise all his char- 
 acters. With few exceptions they are the reverse of real 
 or substantial. Not that we would have them real, but 
 with rather a larger portion of reality. His walk, how- 
 ever, is the least of all frequented in this age, and he 
 pursues it, in general, worthily. 
 
 If Sir Lytton Bulwer had not already established a 
 higher reputation, he might have fairly laid claim to dis- 
 tinction as an historian from his well studied, classical,, 
 and elegant work entitled " Athens, its Rise and Fall ;" 
 in which he has occupied the truer and more extensive 
 field over which history ought to extend, instead of con- 
 fining himself to the mere chronicle of political events,, 
 and the vicissitudes of war. The progress of the arts 
 and literature of Athens, comprising some fine criticism 
 on its drama, are distinguishing features of the two vol- 
 umes already published, and its philosophy, social man- 
 ners and customs are promised in the two which are to 
 complete the work. 
 
 The " Last of the Barons" ought to have been published 
 in the form of history, entitled " Chronicles of the Great 
 Earl of Warwick," or something equivalent : it would 
 have been valuable to all interested in such matters. 
 Read as a romance, it is intolerably tedious and heavy, 
 and its authenticity and elaborate research are thrown 
 away ; — for the question " Is it all true V must contin- 
 
310 SIR EDWAFvD LYTTON BULWER. 
 
 ually occur, just ascliildren are apt to interrupt the thread 
 of a story wiih that inquiry. Doubtless, historical nov- 
 els are among the most popular we have, as, for instance, 
 ihose of Sir Walter Scott, and " Rienzi," by Bulvi^er 
 himself; but, in them, the fiction predominates, in the 
 " Last of the Barons," it is the reverse. 
 
 Sir E. L. Bulwer is, in private, a very different and su- 
 perior man to the character indicated by the portraits of 
 him. That by Chalon, conveys the last infirmities of 
 mawkish sentimentality and personal affectation; where- 
 as Sir Lytton is very frank, easy, careless (sometimes, 
 perhaps, studiously so), good-natured, pleasant, conver- 
 sible, and without one lint of those lack-a-daisy qualities 
 conferred upon him by the artists. If his sitting had its 
 " weak moment," the artist ought not to have copied it, 
 but to have taken the best of the truth of the whole man. 
 
 Now, it may be the fact, that nothing would convey so 
 complete a conviction to the mind of Sir Lytton of his 
 own genius and general talents, and so perfect a sensa- 
 tion of inward satisfaction and happiness, as to be seat- 
 ed at a table — say in the character of an Ambassador — 
 with his fingers covered with dazzling rings, and his feet 
 delightfully pinched in a pair of looking-glass boots 
 >viih Mother-Shipton heels, while he held a conversation 
 with two diplomatic foreigners of distinction, from dif- 
 ferent courts, each in his own language ; took up the 
 thread of an argument with a philosopher on his right ; 
 put in every now and then a capital repartee to the last 
 remark of a wit at his left elbow, while at every mo- 
 ment's pause he continued three letters lying before him 
 — one to the Minister of State for the Home Department, 
 one to a friend (inclosing a postscript for his tailor), and 
 one on love, containing some exquisite jokes in French 
 and Italian on the Platonic Republic — and all those con- 
 versations, and arguments, and repartees, and writings, 
 continuing at the same time — each being fed from the 
 same fount with enough to last till the turn came round. 
 And finally, that he should discover the drift of one di- 
 plomatist, talk over the other to his views, confute the 
 philosopher, silence the court wit, convey the most im- 
 portant information to the English Premier, give his 
 friend all the advice he asked, and something far more 
 subtle besides, (together with the clearest directions and 
 fractional measurements in the postscript,) and that the 
 love-letter should not only answer every possible pur- 
 
SIR EDWARD LYTTO?J BULvVEK. 311 
 
 pose of kindliness, delight, amusement and admiration, 
 but should, by a turn of the wrist, be easily convertible 
 into an exquisite chapter for a future novel. 
 
 But where is the great mischief of any private fancies 
 of this kind, which moreover have some foundation ini 
 an undoubted versatility and general accomplishments? 
 ^ven in the matter of external daintiness, a great deal 
 too much fuss is made about it, and many ill-natured re- 
 marks vented, as if no other eminent man had a private 
 hobby. If the private hobbies of the majority of our 
 leadmg minds, and well-known men of genius, were dis- 
 played, the eyes of the Public would open to the largest 
 circle, and its mouth become pantomimic. One great 
 author has a fancy for conjuring tricks, which he per- 
 forms *' in a small circle," to admiration ; another would 
 play at battledore and shuttle-cock, till he dropped; 
 another or two (say a dozen) prefer a ballet to any other 
 work of art; one likes to be a tavern-king, and to be pla- 
 ced in the "chair;" another prefers to sit on a wooden 
 bench round the fire of a hedge alehouse, and keep all the 
 smock-frocks in a roar; two or three are amateur mes- 
 merists, and practice "the passes" with prodigious satis- 
 faction ; one poet likes to walk in a high wind and a 
 pelting rain, without his hat, and repeating his verses 
 aloud ; another smokes during half the day, and perhaps 
 half the night, with his feet upon the fender and puffing 
 the cloud up the chimney ; another sits rolled up in a 
 bear's-skin, and as soon as he has got the " idea," he 
 rushes out to waite it down ; another has a fancy for 
 playing all sorts of musical instruments, and could not 
 be left alone in a room with organ, bag-pipe, or bassoon, 
 but in a few minutes a symphony would begin to vibrate 
 through the wall ; and if so much is thought of an over- 
 attention to a man's bodily outside, what should be said 
 of those who — as one would fill a tub — pour or cram into 
 the bodily inside so much that is not harmless, but injures 
 health, and with it injures the powers of the mind, and 
 the moral feelings, besides shortening the duration of 
 lif^l We should look into ourselves, and be tolerant. 
 
 Notwithstanding the popularity of Sir E. L. Bulwer, 
 we-'hardly think he has been sufficiently appreciated as 
 a great novelist by the majority, even of those critics 
 who admire his works ; while the hostile attacks and de- 
 preciations have been very numerous and unceasing^. 
 Of his philosophy we would say in brief that we believe 
 
312 SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER. 
 
 the world is hardly in the main so bad as he considers 
 it, and certainly with many more exceptions than he 
 seems to admit; and that he himself is a much better 
 man than he knows of, and only wants more faith in 
 genuine and sincere nature to be himself the possessor 
 of as large a share as his faith. 
 
WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH. 
 
 "Madame Tussaud describes * * * * as a fine handsome-looking man, with 
 a florid complexion, and a military air. He had presided over some of the 
 massacres in the provinces."— Madame Tussaud's Memoirs. 
 
 " With regard to the personal aescriptions of the different characters in- 
 troduced throughout the work, it may be confidently asserted, that they are 
 Jikely to be more accurate th.in those generally given by other authors ." — Ibid. 
 Preface. 
 
 From the historical novel and romance, as reorigina- 
 ted, in modern times, by Madame de Genlis and Sir 
 "Walter Scott, and adopted with such high success by- 
 Sir E. L. Bulwer, and with such extensive popularity 
 hy Mr. James, there has of late years sprung up a sort 
 •of lower or less historical romance, in which the chief 
 -part of the history consisted in old dates, old names, 
 old houses, and old clothes. But dates in themselves 
 tire but numerals, names only sounds, houses and 
 streets mere things to be copied from prints and rec- 
 ords ; and any one may do the same with regard to old 
 coats, and hats, wigs, waitscoats, and boots. Now, we 
 know that " all flesh is grass," but grass is not flesh, for 
 all that , nor is it of any use to show us hay for hu- 
 manity. 
 
 To throw the soul back into the vitality of the past, 
 to make the imagination dwell with its scenes and walk 
 Jhand in hand with knowledge ; to live with its most 
 eminent men and women, and enter into their feelings 
 and thoughts as well as their abodes, and be sensitive 
 with them of the striking events and ruling influences 
 of the time ; to do all this, and to give it a vivid form 
 in words, so as to bring it before the eye, and project 
 it into the sympathies of the modern world, this is to 
 write the truest history no less than the finest histori- 
 cal fiction ; this is to be a great historical romancist — 
 something very diff"erent from a reviver of old clothes. 
 
 Such are the extremes of this class; and if there be 
 very few who in execution approach the higher stand- 
 ard, so there are, perhaps, none who do not display 
 some merits which redeem them from the charge of a 
 mere raking and furbishing up of by-gone materials. 
 Dd 
 
314 WILLIAM HARRISON AINS WORTH. 
 
 But as there is a great incursion of these un-historical 
 un-romantic romances into the literature of the present 
 day, and fresh adventurers marshaUing their powers of 
 plunder on the borders, it may be of some service that 
 we have drawn a strong line of demarcation, displaying- 
 the extreme distinctions, and leaving the application to 
 the general judgment. 
 
 With regard to the Newgate narrative of " Jack Shep- 
 pard" and the extraordinarily extensive notoriety it ob- 
 tained for the writer, upon the residuum of which he 
 founded his popularity, so much just severity has al- 
 ready been administered from criticism and from the 
 opinion of the intellectual portion of the public, and its 
 position has been so fully settled, that we are glad to 
 pass over it without farther animadversion. 
 
 The present popularity of Mr. Ainsworth could not 
 have risen out of its own materials. His so-called his- 
 torical romance of " Windsor Castle" is not to be re- 
 garded as a work of literature open to serious criticism.. 
 It is a picture book, and full of very pretty pictures. 
 Also full of catalogues of numberless suits of clothes. 
 It would be difficult to open it any where without the 
 eye falling on such words as cloth of gold, silver tissue, 
 green jerkin, white plumes. 
 
 Looking for an illustration, we are stopped at the 
 second page. Here is the introduction of two char- 
 acters : — 
 
 " His countenance was full of thought and intelligence ; and he had a 
 broad, lofty brow, shaded by a profusion of light brown ringlets ; a long, 
 straight, and finely-formed nose ; a full, sensitive, and well-chiselled mouth ; 
 and a pointed chin. His eyes were large, dark, and somewhat melancholy 
 in expression ; and his complexion possessed that rich, clear, brown tint, con- 
 stantly met with in Italy or Spain, though but seldom seen in a native of our 
 colder clime. His dress was rich but sombre, consisting of a doublet of black 
 satin, worked with threads of Venetian gold ; hose of the same material, and 
 similarly embroidered ; a shirt curiously wrought with black silk, and fast- 
 ened at the collar with black enamelled clasps ; a cloak of black velvet, pass- 
 mented with gold, and lined with crimson satin ; a flat black velvet cap, set 
 with pearls and goldsmith's work, and adorned with a short white plume ; 
 and black velvet buskins. His arms were rapier and dagger, both having gilt 
 and graven handles, and sheaths of black velvet. 
 
 " As he moved along the sound of voices chanting vespers arose from Saint 
 George's Chapel ; and while he paused to listen to the solemn strains, a door in 
 that part of the castle used as the King's privy lodgings, opened, and a person 
 advanced towards him. The new-comer had broad, brown, martial-looking fea- 
 tures, darkened still more by a thick coal-black beard, clipped short in the fash- 
 ion of the time, and a pair of enormous moustachios. He was accoutred in a 
 habergeon, which gleamed from beneath the folds of a russet-coloured man- 
 tle, and wore a steel cap in lieu of a bonnet on his head." — Windsor Castle. 
 p. 2-3. 
 
 The book is also full of processions, banquets, royal 
 
WILLIAM HARRISON AINcVVORTH. 315 
 
 hunting parties, courtiers, lords, and jesters, who are in- 
 deed *' very dull fools." It has, moreover, a demon ghost 
 in the form of Heme the Hunter, who, according to this 
 legend, led King Henry VHI. and all his court the life 
 of a dog. As to plot or story it does not pretend to any. 
 
 " Old St. Paul's, a tale of the Plague and the Fire," 
 is a diluted imitation of some parts of De Foe's " Plague 
 in London," varied with libertine adventures of Lord 
 Rochester and his associates. It is generally dull, ex- 
 cept when it is revolting. There are descriptions of 
 nurses who poison or smother their patients, wretched 
 prisoners roasted alive in their cells, and one felon who 
 thrusts his arms through the red-hot bars — " literally" 
 is added, by w^ay of apology. 
 
 A critic recently remarked of Mr. Ainsworth's " St. 
 James's, or the Court of Queen Anne," that the deline- 
 ations of character in it were mere portraits, and no- 
 thing more. " The business in which they are engaged 
 has no vitality for any but themselves — it is dull, passe 
 in every sense of the word, and they leave not a single 
 incident or memento of romance or poetry behind them 
 by which to identify them in our hearts ; so that, in 
 truth, we turn back from these cut-and-dry dummies to 
 Maclise's portrait of Mr. Ainsworth quite as a matter of 
 relief; and as we sit contemplating his handsome and 
 cheerful lineaments, wonder how, in the name of all 
 that is romantic, he will get through the task which he 
 has assigned to himself, of rendering the dullest period 
 of our history amusing to our ' mass' of readers. It 
 is one thing to write an historical romance ; another, 
 to write a romantic history ; and a third to write a his- 
 tory without any romance." This is all very just, and 
 we might quote many similar opinions. 
 
 It has become very plain, that brief as this paper is, 
 the natural termination of it can no longer be delayed. 
 The truth must be told. This paper is a joint-produc- 
 tion. No sooner were the first two paragraphs seen, 
 than the article was taken out of the writer's hands in 
 jrder to prevent a severity which seemed advancing 
 with alarming strides. But the continuation by anoth- 
 er hand appearing to be very little better, recourse was 
 had to a quotation from the author's works, introduced 
 by a third hand; and fijially, as it was feared by the 
 hint at " similar opinions" that further critical referen- 
 ces were intended, it was unanimously agreed that no. 
 
316 WILLIAM HAREISON AINSWORTH. 
 
 thing more should be done in that way, except to coin- 
 cide with the remark made above, as to the handsome 
 and good-tempered portrait of a man who is usually 
 spared in public, because so much esteemed and regard- 
 ed in private. 
 
MRS. SHELLEY. 
 
 " Out of the depths of Nature — 
 
 Substance, shades, or dreams. 
 Thou shalt call up — sift — and take 
 "What seems fitting- best to make 
 
 A structure, fraught with direful gleams, 
 
 Or one all filled with sunny beams." 
 
 Oh you, who sentried stand upon the temple wall ; 
 Holy, and nearer to the glory's golden fall. 
 Moon-like, possess and shed at large its rays I" 
 
 Cornelius Mathews. 
 
 For though 
 
 Not to be pieiced by the dull eye whose beam 
 
 Is spent on outward shapes, there is a way 
 
 To make a search into its hidden'st passage." — Shirley. 
 
 The imaginative romance as distinguished from the 
 'historical romance, and the actual or social life fiction, is 
 of very rare occurrence in the literature of the present 
 day. Whether the cause lies with the writers or the 
 public, or the character of events and influence now op- 
 erating on society, certain it is that the imaginative ro- 
 mance is almost extinct among us. 
 
 We had outgrown the curdling horrors and breath- 
 less apprehensions of Mrs. Ratcliffe, and the roseate 
 pomps of Miss Jane Porter. But why have we no 
 Frankensteins, for that fine work is in advance of the 
 age? 
 
 Perhaps we ought to seek the cause of the scarcity 
 in the difficulty of the production. A mere fruitless, 
 purposeless excitement of the imagination will not do 
 now. The imaginative romance is required to be a sort 
 of epic — a power to advance — a something to propel 
 the frame of things. Such is Bulwer's " Zanoni," a 
 profound and beautiful work of fiction, which has been 
 reviewed in its place, and in w^hich Godwin's '' St. Le- 
 on" found a worthy successor. With this single ex- 
 ception, the first place among the romances of our day 
 belongs to the " Frankenstein" of Mrs. Shelley. 
 
 The solitary student with whom the longing desire 
 to pry into the secrets of nature ends in the discovery 
 of the vital principle itself, and the means of communi- 
 cating it, thus describes the consummation of his toils. 
 Dd2 
 
318 MRS. SHELLEY.. 
 
 We quote the passage as illustrative of the genius by 
 which the extravagance of the conception is rendered 
 subservient to artisiical effect : — 
 
 " It was on a dreary night of November, that I beheld the accomplishment 
 of my toils- With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the 
 instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the 
 lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the 
 rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, 
 ■when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow 
 eye of the creature open ; it Ijreathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated 
 its limbs. 
 
 '• How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the 
 wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form ? 
 His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. 
 JBeautiful I — Great God I His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of mus- 
 cles and arteries beneath ; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing ; his 
 teeth of a pearly whiteness ; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid 
 contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as the 
 dun white sockets in which they were set, his shrivelled complexion, and 
 straight black lips." — Frankenstein, vol. i., p. 97, 98. 
 
 The Monster in " Frankenstein," sublime in his ugli- 
 ness, his simplicity, his passions, his wrongs and his 
 strength, physical and mental, embodies in the wild nar- 
 rative more than one distinct and important moral the- 
 ory or proposition. In himself he is the type of a class 
 deeply and cruelly aggrieved by nature — the Deformed^ 
 or hideous in figure or countenance, whose S5'mpathies 
 and passions are as strong as their bodily deformity 
 renders them repulsive. An amount of human woe, 
 great beyond reckoning, have such experienced. When 
 the Monster pleads his cause against cruel man, and 
 when he finally disappears on his raft on the icy sea to> 
 build his own funeral pile, he pleads the cause of all 
 that class who have so strong a claim on the help and 
 sympathy of the world, yet find little else but disgust, 
 or, at best, neglect. 
 
 The Monster created by Frankenstein is also an illus- 
 tration of the embodied consequences of our actions. 
 As he, when formed and endowed with life, became to 
 his imaginary creator an everlasting ever-present curse, 
 so may one single action, nay a word, or it may be a 
 thought, thrown upon the tide of time become to its 
 originator a curse, never to be recovered, never to be 
 shaken off. 
 
 " Frankenstein" suggests yet another analogy. It 
 teaches the tragic results of attainment when an im- 
 petuous irresistible passion hurries on the soul to its 
 doom. Such tragic results are the sacrificial fires out 
 of which humanity rises purified. They constitute one 
 
MRS. SHELLEY. 319'> 
 
 form of the great ministry of Pain. The conception of 
 " Frankenstein" is the converse of that of the delight- 
 ful German fiction of Peter Schlemil, in which the loss 
 of his shadow (reputation or honour) leads on the hero 
 through several griefs and troubles to the great simpli- 
 city of nature and truth ; while in " Frankenstein" the 
 aitamment of a gigantic reality leads through crime and 
 desolation to the same goal, but it is only reached in 
 the moment of death. 
 
 In " Pantika, or Traditions of the most Ancient 
 Times," by William Howitt, there is much imaginative 
 power, and great invention. These tales abound in 
 lofty thoughts, and the descriptions are both beautiful 
 and grand. The "Exile of Heaven" is, perhaps, the 
 finest of the series both in design and execution. There 
 is sublimity in the rapid view of creation as witnessed 
 by the Angel, and in the picture of Cain, and in that of 
 Satan. There is also gorgeous and glowing painting in 
 the description of the voluptuous city of Lilith the 
 Queen of Beauty, whom the Angel in his presumption^ 
 had created to be more perfect than Eve, and through 
 whom he had lost Heaven and brought evil on earth. 
 The contrast between this imaginative creation and that 
 of Frankenstein is curious. The punishment here 
 comes through beauty, instead of deformity. Lilith is 
 made too beautiful ; it is impossible to sympathise with 
 the Angel's hatred of her, or to believe she was evil. 
 This is the fault of the story. The attempt to make 
 her exquisitely beautiful, yet not an object of any sym- 
 pathy, is unsuccessful. The fact is, " friend Howitt" 
 has got into a very ticklish position. We venture to 
 submit that the loveliness of his misleading fair one 
 ought to have been made to fade gradually before the 
 view, as the merely external always does in its influ- 
 ence upon the senses. This would, at least, have 
 shown an individual triumph over her ; but as the story 
 stands she is triumphant (as at present the sensual beau- 
 ty is in the world), with every prospect of continuing 
 so, according to the sequel of this gorgeous fable. 
 
 There is a high purpose in the Angel's final humihty, 
 his submission to the existence of evil, and to the im- 
 possibility of obliterating the consequences of action,. 
 The teachings which lead to this are finely managed ; 
 — as when, in his wanderings through space, he sees a- 
 dim planet covered with water, suddenly become con- 
 
320 MRS. SHELLEY. 
 
 vulsed and tossed in hideous commotion, and while he 
 murmurs at the ruin he expects to witness, beholds a 
 fair world emerge from these fiery and terrific throes ; 
 the mountains have risen, the waters are confined to 
 their appointed bed, the dry land is ready to become 
 -clothed with verdure, and a great and beneficent work 
 has been done. 
 
 Most of the other tales are built too much on the 
 fierce and exclusive spirit of the ancient Jewish people. 
 They consequently breathe a vindictive, blood-thirsty 
 tone. The horrible punishment of the Starving Man 
 who kills and eats the Scape-goat, and then finds him- 
 self possessed by all the crimes of mankind ; the wretch- 
 ed case of the poor Soothsayer cursed by the Hebrew 
 Prophet, and detained in bed for a whole year by a 
 congregation of all the Idols in his room (standing round 
 his bed), who will not suff'er him to move, and keep in 
 his life by feeding him on oil-cake, till he almost turns 
 into a mummy, and at last sees the Idols begin to crum- 
 ble round him, and reptiles crawling about among the 
 ruins ; these are fine and striking inventions, worthy of 
 an eastern imagination, and only assume a repulsive 
 appearance because the Infinite Power of the universe 
 is represented as causing them. If Allah or Buddha 
 had done this, we should have felt nothing of the kind. 
 
 Had the author of the " Manuscripts of Erdely" pos- 
 sessed clearness of conception and arrangement of his 
 subject in the same degree as he is gifted with imagi- 
 nation, invention, and fine pov/er of developing charac- 
 ter and describing both action and scenery, his work 
 would have been entitled to one of the highest places in 
 romance. But Mr. Stephens has destroyed the effect 
 of his work by the prodigality of his incidents and per- 
 sonages, and by the confusion of his method of dealing 
 with them. There is ma'tter for four different plots, 
 with a hero and heroine to each, in his one romance. 
 He gives evidence of a learned research and historical 
 knowledge ; we find also a puzzlmg array of names, not 
 unlike that which is to be found in Robert Browning's 
 " Sordello.'' There are, besides, too many quotations, 
 and the fault is the less pardonable in a wa-iter of such 
 great original power. 
 
 We have said that there is a fine power of description 
 in this author. In attempting an illustration, we are 
 puzzled where to choose, so many present themselves. 
 
MRS. SHELLEY. 321 
 
 The following beautiful and poetical passage must suf- 
 fice. A man pure in character but maligned on earth 
 has appealed to the spirit of his dead wife for sympa- 
 thy :— 
 
 " Spirit of the departed ! do you know that I am innocent ? 
 
 " He raised his eyes, and a curdling thrill crept through his veins '. for, lo ! 
 tlie prayer, that, almost silently, had welled up from the sanctuary of his soul, 
 had reached its aim, and had an answer. The far depths of the room became 
 gradually brightened with a glor}', not of this world ; and a dim, thin, human 
 shape, slowly developed its indistinct and shadowy outline, by insensibly di- 
 vesting itself, as it were, of one immortal shroud after another, till it stood, 
 pale and confessed, in ethereal repose." — Manuscripts of Erdely, vol. i., p. 
 307. 
 
 Mrs. Shelley has published, besides " Frankenstein," 
 a romance entitled " Valperga," which is less known 
 than the former, but is of high merit. She exhibits ia 
 her hero, a brave and successful warrior, arriving at the 
 height of his ambition, endowed with uncommon beauty 
 and strength, and with many good qualities, yet causes, 
 him to excite emotions of reprobation and pity, because 
 he is cruel and a tyrant, and because in the truth of 
 things he is unhappy. This is doing a good work, ta- 
 king the false glory from the eyes and showing things 
 as they are. There are two female characters of won- 
 derful power and beauty. The heroine is a lovely and. 
 noble creation. The work taken as a whole, if below 
 " Frankenstein" in genius, is yet worthy of its author 
 and of her high rank in the aristocracy of genius, as the 
 daughter of Godwin and Mary Wolstonecraft, and the 
 widow of Shelley. 
 
ROBERT MONTGOMERY. 
 
 " Parnassus is transformed to Zion Hill, 
 And Jewry-palms her steep ascents do fill. 
 Now good St. Peter weeps pure Helicon, 
 And both the Maries make a music-moan ; — 
 Yea, and the prophet of the heavenly IjTe, 
 Great Solomon, sings in the English quire, 
 And is become a new-found Sonnetist I" 
 
 Bishop Hall. Satire 8. 
 
 Mr. P. — " My friend I — (patting his shoulder) — this is not a bell. (Patting 
 the tin bell.) It is a very fine Organ I" — Drama of Punch. 
 
 Humour may be divided into three classes ; the broad, 
 the quiet, and the covert. Broad humour is extravagant, 
 voluble, obtrusive, full of rich farce and loud laughter : — 
 quiet humour is retiring, suggestive, exciting to the ima- 
 gination, few of words, and its pictures grave in tone : — 
 covert humour, (which also comprises quiet humour,) 
 is allegorical, typical, and of cloven tongue — its double 
 sense frequently delighting to present the reverse side 
 of its real meaning, to smile when most serious, to look 
 grave when most facetiously disposed. Of this latter 
 class are the comic poems of the ingenious Robert Mont- 
 gomery, a humourist whose fine original vein has never 
 been rightly appreciated by his contemporaries. He has 
 been scoffed at by the profane for writing unmeaning 
 nonsense, when that very nonsense had the most disin- 
 terested and excellent moral aim ; he has passed for a 
 quack, when he nobly made his muse a martyr ; he has 
 been laughed at, when he should have been admired ; he 
 has been gravely admired when his secret laughter 
 should have found response in every inside. He has 
 been extensively purchased ; but he has not been under- 
 stood. 
 
 In these stirring times when theologies are looking 
 up, and the ribald tongues of fifty thousand sectarian 
 pulpits wag wrathfully around the head of the Estab- 
 lished Maternity ; while she herself is suffering intes- 
 tine pains from dangerous wars, and the pure spirit of 
 Religion is wandering and waiting in the distant fields ; 
 it behoves all those thrifty shepherds who are still dis- 
 posed to multiply the goods of this world, and take up 
 
ROBERT MONTGOMERY. 323' 
 
 the burdens and vain pomps which others being less 
 strong, may, peradvemure, find too onerous, — it behoves 
 such shepherds, we repeat, to look keenly through and 
 beneath all these struggles and backslidings, and to 
 watch over the movements of wealthy congregations. 
 
 It is not to be denied that with the vigorous elements 
 which distinguish the spirit of the present age, are 
 mingled many weaknesses and short-comings ; that 
 winding about its truthfulness there are many falsehoods 
 and hypocrisies ; that the battle for the right is but too 
 frequently mixed up and confused with the battle for the 
 wrong; and that amidst so much that is high-minded 
 and sincere, there is perhaps still more that is selfish 
 and cunning, that is, in fact, not genuine but humbugeous. 
 
 " The London Charivari," to which allusion has pre- 
 viously been made on page 163, comprises the three 
 classes of humour described at the opening of this paper, 
 and may also be said to have a wit and humour pecu- 
 liar to itself. The application of these faculties, being 
 always liable to exert a powerful influence for good or 
 evil, has been from the very first commencement of that 
 periodical, devoted to the cause of justice, of good feel- 
 ing, and of truth. The most " striking" characteristic 
 of this " Punch" is his hatred and ridicule of all grave- 
 faced pretences and charlatanry. Considering his very 
 unscrupulous nature, it is remarkable how little there is 
 of actual private personality in him. If he strikes at 
 a man domestically, which is very rare, it is by no 
 means on account of his quiet " hearth-stone," but of his 
 public humbugeosity. Never before were so many- 
 witty, humorous, and choice-spirited individuals ami- 
 cably associated together for anything like so long a 
 period ; and never before did so many perfectly free- 
 spoken wits and humourists indulge their fancies and 
 make their attacks with so good-natured a spirit, and 
 without one spark of wanton mischief and malignity. 
 It is a marked sign of good in the present age. 
 
 In this same light, and to these same moral aims, — 
 though with a characteristic diff'erence such as marks 
 all original genius — do we regard the public character 
 and works of the much-admired yet equally maligned 
 Robert Montgomery. At some future time, and when 
 his high purpose can no longer be injured by a discovery 
 of its inner wheels and movements, springs and fine es- 
 capements — at such a period he may perhaps vouchsafe 
 
"324 ROBERT MONTGOMERY. 
 
 a key to all his great works ; meantime, however, in his 
 defence, because we are unable to bear any longer the 
 spectacle of so total a misconception of a man's virtues 
 and talents in the public mind, we will offer a few elu- 
 cidatory comments upon two of his larger productions. 
 
 The poem of" Satan" is evidently the work of a great 
 free-thinker. Far be it from us to use this much-abused 
 and perverted expression in any but its true sense, with 
 regard to Mr. Robert Montgomery. Freely he thinks 
 of all spiritual and mundane things ; in fact, his freedom 
 amounts to a singular degree of familiarity with those 
 Essences and Subjects concerning which nearly every- 
 body else entertains too much awe, and doubt of them- 
 selves, to venture upon anything like proximity or cir- 
 cumambience. But though the thinking faculty of Mr. 
 Robert Montgomery makes thus free, it is only within 
 the bounds of the " Establishment," as defined in his 
 Preface, though not necessarily governed in all other 
 respects, — to use his own inimitable words, — by " the 
 sternness of adamantine orthodoxy."* In support of 
 the spiritual part of his treatment of his subject, and re- 
 ferring to the free-thinking of his hero (who is not only 
 the Prince of Air, but the London Perambulator, as 
 proved by this poem), Mr. Montgomery quotes the fol- 
 lowing from high authority : — " Thus the Devil has un- 
 ■doubtedly a great degree of speculative knowledge in 
 divinity ; having been as it were, educated in the best 
 divinity school in the universe," &c. He also quotes 
 from the same author (Jonathan Edwards) that " it is 
 evident he (the Devil) has a great speculative knowledge 
 of the nature of experimental religion." These prelim- 
 inary statements of the more enlarged view we should 
 take of the Satanic mind, and its many unsuspected ac- 
 quirements, together with much more which we cannot 
 venture to quote, will be found in the Preface to the 
 fourth edition of this accomplished Prince. 
 
 Having stated the spiritual or "experimental" drift; 
 we have only now to point to the worldly activity or 
 practical application, and we shall at once find a key to 
 this sublimely humorous design, and its high moral pur- 
 pose. This application we shall find in the covert parody 
 of the " Devil's Walk" (the one which has been ascribed 
 jointly to Porson and to Southey), which for the force 
 
 * Preface to the Fifth Edition of" Satan," p. 2. 
 
ROBERT MONTGOMERY. 325 
 
 and piquancy of its satire has rarely been surpassed. 
 Accordingly, Mr. Robert Montgomery considers the hero 
 of his poem, as a real, personal, and highly intellectual 
 agent, walking about London — he distinctly alludes to 
 London — so that, to follow out this poet's excursion, we 
 might meet Satan on 'Change, hear his voice on Water- 
 loo Bridge, see him taking a jelly in the saloon of Drury 
 Lane theatre, or seated demurely in a pew at Church, 
 with a psalter stuck on his ofF-horn. Mr. Montgomery 
 intimates and suggests all these sort of things, — nay, 
 he directly describes many of the circumstances. For 
 instance, Satan goes to the play. To what part of the 
 house is not said. His natural locality would of course 
 be the pit, and, for this very reason, he would probably 
 prefer the one shilling gallery ; but as Mr. Montgomery 
 clearly explains that his hero went there on business — 
 to collect materials for this very poem, which is written 
 as a diabolico-theological and philosophical soliloquy — 
 it is to be presumed that he was in the boxes. He thus 
 describes a few of his observations, and personal sen- 
 sations. 
 
 " Music and Pomp their mingling spirit shed 
 Around me ; beauties in their cloud-like robes 
 Shine forth, — a scenic paradise, it glares 
 Intoxication through the reeling sense 
 Of flush'd enjoyment." 
 
 Satan, Book V. 
 
 The comparison of a theatrical scene with a scene 
 
 " Upon the forehead of these fearless times" 
 
 in paradise, and made by one who had actually been in 
 both places, would be more bold than reverent, in any 
 other writer ; nor are we by any means sure that Satan or 
 his poet could show the slightest foundation for it. But 
 we bow to their joint authority. He next describes the 
 different classes of the audience. Some wish to mount 
 upon Shakspeare's wings, and "win a flash" of his 
 thought ; but the second, he says, are " a sensual tribe ;" 
 
 " Convened to hear romantic harlots sing, 
 On forms to banquet a lascivious gaze, 
 While the bright perfidy of wanton eyes 
 Through brain and spirit darts delicious fire !" 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 Well may this stern " spirit" feel it delicious, after 
 the very different kind of flame to which he has been 
 elsewhere accustomed. This is to write philosophy 
 and history, moral satire and autobiography, all under 
 one highly humorous head. 
 
 Ee 
 
326 ROCERT MONTGOMERY. 
 
 The main object of the poem of " Satan," however 
 ingeniously it may be covered up, is to work out the 
 deep satire of the old proverb of the " Devil quoting 
 Scripture ;" in fact, he very ably defends in his Pref- 
 aces, the propriety of displaying Satan as a great 
 preaching LL.D. in private, or a D.D. hypocrite in pub- 
 lic. Let any one read his Prefaces — they must see his 
 fine aim. Hence, we shall discover in this sublime 
 poem a succession of well-glossed blows and thrusts at 
 all those clerical brethren who are not guided and gov- 
 erned in their duties and efforts by " the sternness of 
 adamantine orthodoxy." It will, to any close observer^ 
 be perceived that the work throughout, shows no quar- 
 ter to Dissent or Tergiversation ; nor to any of the 
 proud visions of Newfangledness, which have of late 
 exalted their dark antlers above the horns of the aver- 
 age humility. 
 
 " Upon the forehead of these fearless times 
 I know the haughtiness that now exults : 
 But let the modern in his pride, beware I" 
 
 Satan, b. iv. 
 
 Equally, in melodious cornopsean strains does he 
 breathe forth a wail over cornucopian pluralities. Here 
 are his own soft yet reproachful, sweet yet terrible 
 words — no German flute was ever more tenderly 
 searching, nor, when based on an ophecleide accom- 
 paniment, more confounding. 
 
 " Partaken mercies are forgotten things. 
 But Expectation hath a grateful heart 
 Hailing the smile of promise from afar; 
 Enjoyment dies into ingratitude," &c. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 And presently afterwards in speaking of " haughty- 
 featured England," he compares certain proud authori- 
 ties, to — 
 
 " A hell-bom feeling such as I would nurse. 
 
 Of Mammon, that vile despot of the soul. 
 The happy meekness of contented minds 
 Is fretted with ambition,"' &c. 
 
 Ibid, b. iv. 
 
 Ahem ! Really this is a very sad state of things. 
 Amidst all this fine comic writing who can fail to see 
 the sadness of the subtle truth that lurks beneath the 
 assumed gravity. The hero of the poem playing the 
 nurse to a juvenile compatriot (in the first line of the 
 preceding quotation) is an equally dark and " palpable" 
 hit at the very dangerous teachings of various branches 
 
KOBERT MONTGOMERY. 327 
 
 of Dissent, and sections of the Church itself ; while the 
 *' happy meekness" of those " contented minds" which 
 are '' fretted with ambition" quietly and quaintly slips 
 in a reflection that must have caused the sounding- 
 board of many a pulpit to tremble with the vibratory 
 effluence of the Conscience beneath. Moreover, as 
 Satan warms with his theme, he becomes yet more di- 
 rect in his attack, though we are not quite sure at what 
 denomination of the unorthodox he levels his fork — 
 
 " Some gracious, g^-and, and most accomplished few, 
 Each with a little kinsjdom in his brain, 
 Who club tog-ether to re-cast the world, 
 A.nd love so many that they care for none," &c. 
 
 Ibid, b. VI. 
 
 Such is the main-spring of the covered movement 
 *' capped and jewelled," which is discoverable in the great 
 poem of '' Satan." That there are many branch-move- 
 ments and inferior wheels playing upon the complex 
 circle of general lay society, is equally apparent, even 
 as was done in its prototype (the " Devil's Walk,") but 
 we cannot give space to their examination. A few in- 
 sulated passages, illustrative of poetical excellencies, of 
 the opinion secretly entertained by the poet of himself, 
 and of the character of the accomplished Prince, are all 
 that can be attempted. Of the latter he finely says — 
 
 " His nature was a whirlpool of desires, 
 And mighty passions perilously mixed, 
 That with the darkness of the demon world 
 Had something of the light of Heaven." 
 
 Ibid, b. ii. 
 
 With what graceful ingenuity does the poet seem to 
 say so much in the first line just quoted, and yet say 
 nothing ; because it is clear that desires, in a whirlpool 
 of themselves, could not exist as any one definite de- 
 sire. The line, therefore, is a terrific nothing. What 
 follows, no doubt furnished Milton with the idea of his 
 Satan, whose form had not yet lost all its " original 
 brightness ; nor appeared less than archangel ruined." 
 It is hence very evident that Milton, by the inspiration 
 of his genius, foresaw what Robert Montgomery would 
 say, and wisely availed himself of the poetic revelation. 
 Montgomery's " Satan" is, nevertheless, disposed to be 
 complimentary to Milton, who, he says, is 
 
 " Flaming with visions of eternal glare !" 
 
 Ibid, b. V. 
 
 The compliment has rather a professional look; but 
 it should be remembered from whose mouth this pro- 
 
328 ROBERT MONTGOMERY. 
 
 ceeds. The same great master of light and shade also 
 favours us with the following portrait : — 
 
 •' Then mark the hypocrite of pious mould, 
 For ever putting on unearthly moods, 
 And looking lectures witli his awful eyes, &c. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Or sternly paints some portraiture of sin, 
 But feels himself the model vyhence he drew." 
 
 Ibid, b. iii.- 
 
 We are upon dangerous ground, we know ; but it is 
 ever thus in dealing with great humourists. One never 
 scarcely knows where to have them. He proceeds in 
 this strain : — 
 
 " Meanwhile, I flatter the surpassing fool, 
 
 * X * 
 
 Too mean for virtue, too polite for vice." 
 
 Ibid, b. iii. 
 
 This Prince is becoming personal, and we must there- 
 fore conclude with one more flash of his pen at those 
 who, impelled " by frenzied glory," will venture on " till 
 dashed to ruin ;" and he then makes an apostrophe to 
 the " Review of Departed Days" of poetry — 
 
 " By whom, as beacon-light for time unborn. 
 The past might well have risen — hast forgot 
 The law of retribution in thy love 
 Of fame, and adoration to the dead. — 
 A war awakes I — what poetry is here," &c. 
 
 Ibid, b. iv. 
 
 All that remains, therefore, with reference to the 
 Princely Preacher's prolonged soliloquy, is to give one 
 specimen of the "poetry," as abstract art, of his- we 
 had almost said — Serene Highness, so very amiable 
 does he appear in these pages : — 
 
 " So may it ever be ! let ages gone — 
 
 Whence monuments, by sad experience piled, 
 Might o'er unheedful days a warning frown — 
 Like buried lumber, in oblivion sleep ; 
 Experience is the sternest foe of hell." 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 How novel a face does even the commonest proverb 
 wear, when rouged and rabbit-pawed by genius ! The 
 last line admirably conveys the intimation of what "a 
 burnt child" both dreads and hates ; or, perhaps, it 
 would rather infer that those who are burnt most be- 
 come the most implacably hot. Our last quotation 
 must be in illustration of the fine " keeping" which ex- 
 ists in this poem as a work of art. Other poems seek 
 to rise to a climax, now and then, and usually towards 
 the close ; but this very properly descends, and thor- 
 
ROBERT MONTGOMERY. 329 
 
 oughly illustrates " the art of sinking in poetry" de- 
 scribed by Dean Swift. Let us observe how, step by 
 step, from primitive elements to chaos, thence to the 
 Satanic solitude, thence to a chorus of thunder-clouds, 
 thence to an earthly commotion, thence (like the last 
 revival of a dying candle) to nature's reel of anguish, 
 and thence — to a small geographic familiarity. 
 
 " I love this passion of the Elements, 
 This mimicry of chaos, in their might 
 Of storm ! — And here, in my lone awfulness, 
 While eveiy cloud a thunder-hymn repeats, 
 Earth throbs, and nature in convulsion reels, 
 Farewell to England 1'' 
 
 Ibid, b. vi . 
 
 This is a truly unique specimen of the bathetic, and 
 does his Unserene Profundity the most abysmal degree 
 of credit. 
 
 Impressed with the deepest admiration of his sublim- 
 ity and covert humour, we pass onwards, bowing, 
 through his other works, and beneath their walls and 
 towers of many editions, until we bow ourselves into 
 the presence of Mr. Robert Montgomery's " Woman." 
 As a poem, the subject is both human and divine ; but 
 it has moreover a secret and occult purpose of the most 
 magnanimous kind. 
 
 Ostensibly this poem entitled " Woman" is a versified 
 flattery, extending through upwards of three thousand 
 three hundred lines, and it also abounds with sentiments 
 of gallantry and of chivalry, which in these dull days 
 of matter-of-fact courtship is really quite refreshing to 
 meet with. One specimen will suffice : — 
 
 " Next Chivalry, heroic child, 
 With brow erect, and features mild. 
 Placed Love npon his matchless throne, 
 For gallantry to guard alime. 
 Then, woman I m that reign of heart, 
 How peerless was thy magic part ! 
 * * " * 
 
 And shall we, in a venal age. 
 
 When love hath grown more coldly sage, 
 
 With frigid laugh and frown decry , 
 
 The bright return of Chivalry ? — 
 
 The trumpet-music of the past. 
 
 In tales of glory doom'd to last, — 
 
 No longer must one echo stir 
 
 The pulse of English character ? 
 
 Woman, canto ii. 
 
 But while the exoteric adulations of the fair, and sem- 
 llances of a yearning to restore the romance of ancient 
 .days of chivalry, with his suggestions for a new order 
 Ee2 
 
330 ROBERT MONTGOMERY. 
 
 of Church Militant, might lead one to confer upon his 
 gallant reverence the title of the Spiritual Quixote, there 
 lurks beneath all this an esoteric design yet more mag- 
 nanimous, and of still greater purity of self-devotion. 
 Compared with this " the tales of glory doom'd to last" 
 (let us observe his covert contempt of such glory in the 
 expression of doom'd) will be regarded as the mere toys 
 and gilded brutalities of a rude age : nor shall we pay 
 further attention to those bright external attractions of 
 the fair, which, as this poet says, b)'" their " ray of un- 
 discern'd control," — 
 
 " Advanced above life's daily sphere, 
 Disclosed her radiance, full and near ; 
 And kindled for bet.louded man 
 The light that only woman can." 
 
 Woman, c. ii. 
 
 The very bad grammar by which the last couplet is 
 beclouded, (and which indeed is so marked a feature in 
 this, and other poems of the same inspired penman) will 
 do much to prove that Mr. Robert Montgomery always 
 has ulterior designs far above and beyond all the mate- 
 riality of mere philological expression, and that his 
 muse is not amenable to any of its known law^s and re- 
 quisitions. 
 
 The secret purpose, then, which is concealed with so 
 much subtle humour, like a bright serpent, beneath all 
 the superincumbent rubbish-couplets of this wonderful 
 work of " Woman" is nothing less than an attempt to 
 bring about a thorough reformation in Art, by means of 
 a thorough purification of the public taste in poetry.. 
 This reformation and this purification he seeks to ac- 
 complish by the converse of the usually received no- 
 tions as to the required process. Observing that to give 
 the public the most pure and refined poetical produc- 
 tions does not answer the desired e\\(l^ because they 
 are not read, or, when read, only appreciated by the 
 few, the high-soaring, disinterested, and original mind 
 of Robert Montgomery has alighted upon the idea of 
 opening the eyes of the public by a master-stroke of 
 genius; viz.^ by giving it a production which it would 
 read, and of a kind which should display the strongest 
 possible contrast to all genuine poetry, so that the pub- 
 lic should suddenly exclaim, " What is this darkness % 
 — and where is the light ^ — what intensely atrocious 
 trash do we read ? — and v/here is the most unlike thing. 
 to this ; for our souls are confounded and athirst 1" 
 
ROBERT MONTGOMERY. 331 
 
 Accordingly, with a magnanimity only to be classified 
 with that of the devout martyrs, and of the Roman he- 
 roes who devoted themselves for the good of their 
 country, this great Virtue has devoted itself — not to an 
 honourable fate, but, more than that, to the utmost dis- 
 grace for the good of his literature ! Knowing well 
 what he was about, and fully prepared for all the odium 
 and contempt that such a proceeding must reasonably 
 be expected to entail, he launched upon the public, in 
 this long poem of " Woman" a cargo of such unques- 
 tionable nonsense, such common-place vapidities of ad- 
 ulation, such high pretensions of imbecility, such un- 
 grammatical flourishes and touches of the bathetic, and 
 such a prolonged droning sing-song, uninspired even by 
 the abortive life of one vigorous absurdity, — a produc- 
 tion, in fine, which must be pronounced, in its parts, 
 and as a whole, to be without parallel throughout the 
 entire range of modern literature. 
 
 But the result has been quite as wonderful as the 
 poem, Mr. Montgomery must console his bosom by 
 the proud consciousness of having meant to act a noble 
 part. With much regret we have to record the total 
 failure of his esoteric scheme. We have described 
 what he intended, and we have honestly, and pretty 
 fully, expressed our opinion of how he carried out his 
 design in the poem of " Woman." But it was misun- 
 derstood. For the public (or at least an immense num- 
 ber of readers) not perceiving his drift, and not feeling 
 the force of contrast, as the strategical martyr had in- 
 tended, actually received the thing in sober earnest — 
 as a poem ! Its elaborate stupidity and matchless non- 
 sense were all thrown away ! The effort to exhaust 
 with a mixture of folly and emptiness was defeated. 
 The labour to disgust had been in vain — and Robert 
 Montgomery, with " Woman" under his arm, was admit- 
 ted into the public temple of the Muses, and again 
 crowned as ^ a Poet !' 
 
 But not alone did the greatly humorous, though de- 
 feated Strategist enter this public Temple. Behind him 
 came a crowd shouting his praises, and around him was 
 a crowd, shouting in praise of his poetry ; and in front 
 of him was a crowd who bore placards, showing that 
 his poems had gone through more than four or five 
 editions for every one edition of the works of such fel- 
 lows as Wordsworth, or Coleridge, or Tennyson. But 
 
332 ROBERT MONTGOMERY. 
 
 among this latter crowd there also appeared Mr. Punch! 
 This well-known personage had a very large mirror 
 under his short cloak. Courteously pointing his toe, 
 as he approached the sacred Penman, he eloquently ex- 
 pressed his admiration of the man, who, after waving 
 his white cambric handkerchief from a pulpit till the 
 tears ran in rivulets all round, should yet have discov- 
 ered another equally successful trick of oratory under 
 circumstances where it was impossible to display the 
 ring upon his little finger. Mr. Punch then coughed 
 slightly — gave his mirror a rounding polish with the 
 corner of his cloak, and addressing the crowds as the 
 Public, he turned the mirror towards them, and polite- 
 ly requested to be informed what pecuhar impression 
 upon their thoughts they derived from the mtelligent 
 object they contemplated therein ? 
 
THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 " Always there stood before him, night and day, 
 Of wayward vary-colored circumstance 
 The imperisliable presences serene, 
 Colossal, without form, or sense, or sound ; 
 Dim shadows but unwaning presences 
 Four-faced to four corners of the sky : 
 And yet again, three shadows, fronting one, 
 One forward, one respectant, three but one ; 
 And yet again, again and evermore. 
 For the two first were not, but only seemed, 
 One shadow in the midst of a great light, 
 One reflex from eternity on time. 
 One mighty countenance of perfect calm, 
 Awful with most invariable eyes." 
 
 Tennyson. The Mystic. 
 
 "Beware when the great God lets loose a thinker on this planet. Then 
 all things are at risk. There is not a piece of science, but its flank may be 
 turned to-morrow, there is not any literary reputation, nor the so-called 
 eternal names of fame, that may not be revised and condenmed. ***** 
 He claps wings to the sides of all the solid old lumber of the world." 
 
 Emerson. Essay on circles. 
 
 According to the view of the microcosmus, what is 
 said of the world itself, may be said of every individu- 
 al in it ; and what is said of the individual, may be pre- 
 dicated of the world. Now the individual mind has 
 been compared to a prisoner in a dark room, or in a 
 room which would be dark but for the windows of the 
 same, meaning the senses, in a figure ; nothing being in 
 the mind without the mediation of the senses, as Locke 
 held, — " except," as Leibnitz acutely added in modifica- 
 tion, " the mind itself," Thus is it with the individual, 
 and thus with the general humanity. Were it not for 
 the Something from without, and the Something with- 
 in, which are both Revelations, we should sit on the 
 floor of our dark dungeon, between its close stifling 
 walls, gnawing vainly with the teeth of the mind, at the 
 chains we wear. But conclusions which genius has 
 leapt successfully, and science proved, have come to 
 aid us. It is well to talk of the progress of the public 
 mind. The public mind, — that is, the average intelli- 
 gence of the many, — never does make progress, ex- 
 cept by imbibing great principles from great men, 
 which, after long and frequent reiteration, become part 
 of the moral sense of a people. The educators are the 
 
334 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 tru.e and only movers. Progress implies the most ac- 
 tive of energies, such as genius is, such as science is; 
 and general progress implies, and indeed essentinlly 
 consists of, individual progresses, men of genius, and 
 other good teachers, working. A Ulysses must pass 
 with the first goat, — call him Nobody, or by his right 
 name. And to return to our first figure, — what the 
 senses are to the individual mind, men of genius are to 
 the general mind. Scantily assigned by Providence 
 for necessary ends, one original thinker strikes a win- 
 dow out here, and another there ; wielding the mallet 
 sharply, and leaving it to others to fashion grooves 
 and frames, and complete advantage into convenience. 
 That Mr. Carlyle is one of the men of genius thus 
 referred to, and that he has knocked out his window 
 from the blmd wall of his century, we may add without 
 any fear of contradiction. We may say, too, that it is 
 a window to the east ; and that some men complain of 
 a certain bleakness in the wind which enters at it, 
 when they should rather congratulate themselves and 
 him on the aspect of the new sun beheld through it, the 
 orient hope of which he has so discovered to their 
 eyes. And let us take occasion to observe here, and 
 to bear in memory through every subsequent remark 
 we maybe called upon to make, that it has not been his 
 object to discover to us any specific prospect -not the 
 mountain to the right, nor the oak-wood to the left, nor 
 the river which runs down between, — but the sun, which 
 renders all these visible. 
 
 When *' the most thinking people" had, at the sound of 
 all sorts of steam-engines, sufficiently worshipped that 
 idol of utilitarianism which Jeremy Bentham, the king, 
 had set up, and which Thomas Carlyle, the transcend- 
 entalist, and many others, who never read a page of 
 Bentham's works, have resolved to narrow to their own 
 misconceptions of this philosopher, — the voice of a 
 prophet was heard praying three times a day, with 
 magnanimous reiteration, towards Jerusalem, — towards 
 old Jerusalem, be it observed ; and also towards the 
 place of sun-rising for ultimate generations. And the 
 voice spoke a strange language, — nearly as strange as 
 Benthara^'s own, and as susceptible of translation into 
 English. Not English by any means, the critics said it 
 spoke; nor even German, nor Greek; although partak- 
 ing considerably more of the two last than of English; 
 
THOMAS CARLYLE. 335 
 
 but more of Saxon than either, we humbly beg to add. 
 Yet if the grammarians and public teachers coiild not 
 measure it out to pass as classic English, after the 
 measure of Swift or Addison, or even of Bacon and 
 Milton,— if new words sprang gauntly in it from sav- 
 age derivatives, and rushed together in outlandish com- 
 binations,— if the collocation was distortion, wandering 
 wildly up and down, — if the comments were every- 
 where in a heap, like the " pots and pans" of Bassano, 
 classic or not, English or not ; it was certainly a true 
 language — a language " fj-epoTtuv avOpuTzuv ;" the significant 
 articulation of a living soul : God's breath was in the 
 vowels of it. And the clashing of these harsh com- 
 pounds at last drew the bees into assembly, each mur- 
 muring his honey-dream. And the hearers who stood 
 longest to listen, became sensible of a still grave music 
 issuing like smoke from the clefts of the rock. If it 
 was not " style" and " classicism," it was something 
 belter; it was soul-language. There was a divinity at 
 the shaping of these rough-hewn periods. 
 
 We dwell the longer upon the construction of Mr. 
 Carlyle's sentences, because of him it is pre-eminently 
 true, that the speech is the man. All powerful writers 
 will leave, more or less, the pressure of their individu- 
 ality on the medium of their communication with the 
 public. Even the idiomatic writers, who trust their 
 thoughts to a customary or conventional phraseology, 
 and thus attain to a recognized level perfection in the 
 medium, at the expense of being less instantly incisive 
 and expressive (according to an obvious social analogy) 
 have each an individual aspect. But the individuality 
 of this writer is strongly pronounced. It is graven — 
 like the Queen's arrow on the poker and tongs of her 
 national prisons — upon the meanest word of his utter- 
 ance. He uses no moulds in his modeUing, as you may 
 see by the impression of his thumb-nail upon the clay. 
 He throws his truth with so much vehemence, that the 
 print of the palm of his hand is left on it. Let no man 
 scoff at the language of Carlyle — for if it forms part of 
 his idiosyncracy, his idiosyncracy forms part of his 
 truth; — and let no man say that we recommend Car- 
 lylisms — for it is obvious, from our very argument, that, 
 in the mouth of an imitator, they would unlearn their 
 uses, and be conventional as Addison, or a mere chaos 
 of capitals, and compounds, and broken language 
 
336 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 We have named Carlyle in connection with Bentham, 
 and we believe that you will find in " your philosophy," 
 no better antithesis for one, than is the other. There 
 is as much resemblance between them as is necessary 
 for antithetic unlikeness. Each headed a great move- 
 ment among thinking men; and each made a language 
 for himself to speak with ; and neither of them origi- 
 nated what they taught. Bentham's work was done by 
 systematizing ; Carlyle's, by reviving and reiterating. 
 And as from the beginning of the world, the two great 
 principles of matter and spirit have combated, — whether 
 in man's personality, between the flesh and the soul ; 
 or in his speculativeness, between the practical and the 
 ideal ; or in his mental expression, between science and 
 poetry, — Bentham and Carlyle assumed to lead the 
 double van on opposite sides. Bentham gave an im- 
 pulse to the material energies of his age, of the stuff of 
 which he was himself made, — while Carlyle threw him- 
 self before the crushing chariots, not in sacrifice, but 
 deprecation ; " Go aside — there is a spirit even in the 
 wheels .'" In brief, and to take up that classification of 
 virtues made by Proclus and the later Platonists, — Ben- 
 tham headed such as were TToliTLnai, Carlyle exalts that 
 which is reTiEGTiKT/, venerant and religious virtue. 
 
 Every reader may not be acquainted, as every thinker 
 should, with the Essays of R. W. Emerson, of Concord, 
 Massachusetts. He is a follower of Mr. Carlyle, and in 
 the true spirit; that is, no imitator, but a worker out of 
 his own thoughts. To one of the English editions of 
 this volume, Mr. Carlyle has written a short Preface, 
 in which the following gaunt and ghastly, grotesque and 
 graphic passage occurs, and which, moreover, is char- 
 acteristic and to our immediate point. 
 
 "In a word, while so many Benthamism?, Socialisms, Fourrierisms, pro- 
 fessing to have no soul, ^o staggering and lowing like monstrous moon- 
 calves, the product of a heavy-laden moon struck age; and in this same 
 baleful 'twelfth hour of the night' even galvanic Pu«eyisms, as we say, 
 are visible, and dancings of the sheeted dead, — shall not any voice of a 
 living man be welcome to us, even because it is alive 7'' 
 
 That the disciples of Bentham, and Robert Owen and 
 Fourrier, should be accused of professing to have no 
 soul, because their main object has been to ameliorate 
 the bodily condition of mankind ; or that an indifference 
 to poetry and the fine arts, except as light amusements, 
 to be taken alternately with gymnastics and foot-ball. 
 
THOMAS CARLYLE. 337 
 
 «Tiould be construed into a denial of the existence of 
 such things, we do not consider fair dealing. True, 
 they all think of first providing for the body ; and, look- 
 ing around at the enormous amount of human suffering 
 from physical causes, it is no great wonder that they 
 chiefly devote their efforts to that amelioration. A man 
 who is starving, is not in a fit state for poetry, nor even 
 for prayer. Neither is a man fit for prayer, who is 
 diseased, or ragged, or unclean — except ihe 07ie prayer 
 for that very amelioration which the abused philoso- 
 phers of the body seek to obtain for him. With respect, 
 however, to the disciples of Bentham, Owen, and Four- 
 rier, it is no wonder that he should be at utter variance. 
 No great amount of love " is lost between them." Not 
 that Carlyle read^ or knows much of their systems; 
 and not that they read or know anything of his writings. 
 In these natural antipathies all philosophers are in an 
 equal state of unreasonableness. Or shall we rather 
 call it wisdom, to follow the strong instincts of nature, 
 without any prevaricating reasonings upon the in-felt 
 fact. Carlyle could make little good out of their sys- 
 tems, if he read them ; and they could make nothing at 
 all of his writings. The opposite parties might force 
 themselves to meet gravely, with hard lines of the 
 efforts of understanding in tlieir faces, and all manner 
 of professions of dispassionate investigation and mutu- 
 al love of truth — and they would clash foreheads at the 
 first step, and part in fury! "The Body is the first 
 thing to be helped!" cry the Benthamites, Owenites, 
 Fourrierites, — loudly echoed by Lord Ellenborough and 
 the Bishop of London — "Get more Soul!" cries Car- 
 lyle, " and help yourselves !" 
 
 " But the wants of the body will win the day — the 
 movements of the present age show that plainly. The 
 immortal soul can well afford to wait till its case is 
 repaired. The death-groans of humanity must first be 
 humanely silenced. More Soul, do we crave for the 
 world 1 The world has long had a sphere full of unused 
 Soul in it, before Christ, and since. If Plato, and Soc- 
 rates, and Michael Angelo and Raphael, and Shaks- 
 pere and Milton, and Handel and Haydn, and all the 
 great poeis, philosophers, and music-magicians, that 
 have left their Souls among us, have still rendered us 
 no protection against starvation, or the disease and 
 damage of the senses and brain by reason of want of 
 Ff 
 
338 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 food, in God's name let us now think a little of the Bo- 
 (3y — the mortal case and medium of his Image. What 
 should we think of a philosopher who went to one of 
 our manufacturing towns where the operatives work 
 from sixteen to eighteen hours a-day, and are neverthe- 
 less badly clothed, dirty, and without sufficient food, — - 
 and to whom the philosopher, as a remedial measure, 
 suggested that they should get more soul. Many at 
 this hour are slowly, or rapidly, dying from want. Can 
 we tell them to think of their souls-? No — give the fire 
 some more fuel, and then expect more light, and the 
 warmth of an aspiring flame. That these two extremes 
 of body and soul philosophy, may, as Emerson declares, 
 involve one and the same principle, viz., the welfare 
 and progress of mankind, may be true ; but at pres- 
 ent the poor principle is " between two stools" — or be- 
 tween the horns of a dilemma not inaptly represented 
 by Mr. Carlyle's misapplied figure of the staggering 
 moon-calf. 
 
 We have observed that Carlyle is not an originator; 
 and although he is a man of genius and original mind, 
 and although he has knocked out his window m the 
 wall of his century — and we know it, — we must repeat 
 that, in a strict sense, he is not an originator. Perhaps, 
 our figure of the window might have been more cor- 
 rectly stated as the re-opening of an old window, long 
 bricked up or encrusted over, — and probably this man 
 of a strong mallet, and sufficient right hand, thought 
 the recovery of the old window, a better and more glo- 
 rious achievement, than the making of many new win- 
 dows. His office certainly is not to " exchange new 
 lamps for old ones." His quality of a " gold-reviver"^ 
 is the nearest to a novel acquirement. He tells us 
 what we knew, but had forgotten, or refused to remem- 
 ber ; and his reiterations startle and astonish us like 
 informations. We "have souls," he 'tells us. Who 
 doubted it in the nineteenth century ; yet who thought 
 of it in the roar of the steam-engine "? He tells us that 
 work is every man's duly. Who doubted that among 
 the factory masters ? — or among the charity children,, 
 when spelling from the catec'hism of the naiional 
 church, that they will "do their duty in the state of 
 life to which it shall please God to call them ?" Yet 
 how deep and like a new sound, do the words " soul,'* 
 * work," *' duty," strike down upon the flashing anvils, 
 
THOMAS CARLYLE. 339 
 
 of the age, till the whole age vibrates ! And again he 
 tells us, " Have faith."" Why, did we net know that we 
 ■must have " faith V Is there a religious teacher in the 
 land who does not repeat from God's revelation, year 
 by year, day by day — Have faith"? or is there a quaek 
 in the land who does not call to his assistance the 
 energy of " faith V And again — " Truth is a good 
 thing." Is that new? Is it not written in the theories 
 of the moralist, and of the child ? — yes, and in the moral 
 code of Parliament men, and other honourable gentle- 
 men, side by side with bribery and corruption, and the 
 " melancholy necessity" of the duellist's pistol and 
 twelve paces? Yet we thrill at the words, as if some 
 new thunder of divine instruction ruffled the starry air, 
 — as if an angel's foot sounded down it, step by step, 
 coming with a message. 
 
 Thus it is obvious that Mr. Carlyle is not an origina- 
 tor, but a renewer, although his medium is highly ori- 
 ginal; and it remains to us to recognise that he is none 
 the less important teacher on that account, and that 
 there was none the less necessity for his teaching. 
 *'The great fire-heart," as he calls it, of human nature 
 may burn too long without stirring ; burn inwardly, cake 
 outwardly, and sink deeply into its own ashes: and to 
 emancipate the flame clearly and brightly, it is neces- 
 sary to stir it up strongly from the lowest bar. To do 
 this, by whatever form of creation and illustration, is 
 the aim and end of all poetry of a high order, — this,-— 
 to resume human nature from its beginning, and return 
 to first principles of thought and first elements of feel- 
 ing ; this, — to dissolve from eye and ear the film of hab- 
 it and convention, and open a free passage for beauty 
 and truth, to gush in upon unencrusted perceptive fac- 
 ulties : for poetry like religion should make a man a 
 child again in purity and unadulterated perceptivity. 
 
 No poet yearns more earnestly to make the iinier 
 life shine out, than does Carlyle. No poet regrets more 
 sorrowfully, with a look across the crowded and crush- 
 ing intellects of the world, — that the dust risiig up from 
 men's energies, should have blmded them to the bright- 
 ness of their instincts, — and that understanding (accor- 
 ding to the German view) should take precedence of a 
 yet more spiritualized faculty. He is reproached with 
 not being practical. " Mr. Carlyle," they say, "is not 
 practical." But he is practical for many intents of the 
 
340 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 inner life, and teaches well the Doing of Being. " What 
 would he make of usV say the complainers. " He re- 
 proaches us with the necessities of the age, lie taunts 
 us with the very progress of time, his requirements are 
 so impossible that they make us despair of the repub- 
 lic." And this is true. If we were to give him a sc p- 
 tre, and cry " Rule over us," nothing could exceed the 
 dumb, motionless, confounded figure he would stand : 
 his first words on recovering himself, would be, " Ye 
 have souls ! work — believe." He would not know 
 what else to think, or say for us, and not at all what 
 to do with us. He would pluck, absently, at the scep- 
 tre, for the wool of the fillet to which his hands were 
 accustomed ; for he is no king, except in his own pecu- 
 liar sense of a prophet and priest-king, — and a vague 
 prophet, be it understood. His recurrence to first prin- 
 ciples and elements of action, is in fact, so constant 
 and passionate, that his attention is not free for the 
 development of actions. The hand is the gnomon by 
 which he judges of the soul ; and little cares he for the 
 hand otherwise than as a spirit-index. He will not 
 wash your hands for you, be sure, however he may 
 moralise on their blackness. Whether he writes his- 
 tory, or philosophy, or criticism, his perpetual appeal 
 is to those common elements of humanity which it is 
 his object to cast into relief and light. His work on 
 the French Revolution is a great poem with this same 
 object; — a return upon the life of humanity, and nni' 
 eliciting of the pure material and initial element of life, 
 out of the fire and torment of it. The work has fitly- 
 been called graphical and picturesque ; but it is so ht/ 
 force o/6ei??o- philosophical and poetical. For instance,, 
 where the writer says that " Marat was in a cradle like 
 the rest of us," it is no touch of rhetoric, though it 
 may seem so, but a resumption of the philosophy of 
 the whole work. Life suggests to him the cradle, the 
 grave, and eternity, with scarce a step between. In 
 that brief interval he sometimes exhorts that you should 
 work ; and sometimes it would appear as if he exhorted 
 you not to work at all, but to fit still and think. He is 
 dazzled by the continual contemplation of a soul beat- 
 ing its tiny wings amidst the pale vapours of Infinity. 
 Why, such a tnan (not speaking it irreverently) is not 
 fit to live. He is only fiit to be vv'here his soul most 
 aims at. He sinks our corporal condition, with all its 
 
THOMAS CARLYLE. 341 
 
 wants, and says, " Be a man !" A doad-man with a 
 promoted spinl seems our only chance in this philoso- 
 
 Carlyle has a great power of re-production, and can 
 bring back his mnn from the grave of years, not Hke a 
 ghost, but, witli all his vital flesh as well as his thoughts 
 about him. The reproduced man thinks, feels, and 
 acts like himself at his most characteristic climnx — and 
 the next instant the Magician pitches him into Eternity, 
 saying, *' It all comes to that." But his power over 
 the man, while he lasts, is entire, and the individual is 
 almost always dealt with as in time-present. His 
 scenes of by- gone years, are all acted now, before your 
 eyes. By contrast Carlyle often displays truth ; from 
 the assimilations in the world, he v»'rings the product 
 of the differences ; and by that masterly method of in- 
 dividualising persons, which is remarkable in his his- 
 torical writing, the reader sometimes attains what Car- 
 lyle himself seems to abhor, viz., a broad generaliza- 
 tion of principles. His great forte and chief practice is 
 individualization. And when he casts his living heart 
 into an old monk's diary, and, with the full warm 
 -gradual throbs of genius and power, throws out the 
 cowled head into a glory : the reason is not, as some 
 disquieted readers have hinted, that Mr, Carlyle regrets 
 the cloistral ages and defunct superstitions, — the reason 
 is not, that Mr. Carlyle is too poetical to be philosophi- 
 cal, but that he is so poetical as to be philosophical in 
 essence when treating of things. The reason is, that 
 Mr. Carlyle recognizes, in a manner that no mere his- 
 torian ever does, but as the true poet always will do, — 
 the same human nature through every cycle of indi- 
 vidual and social existence. He is a poet also, by his 
 insight iuto the activity of moral causes working through 
 the intellectual agencies of the mind. He is also a 
 poet in the mode. He conducts his argument with no 
 philosophical arrangements and marshalling of " for 
 and against ;" his paragraphs come and go as they 
 please. He procefjds, like a poet, rather by analogy 
 and subtle association than by uses of logic. His illus- 
 trations not only Illustrate, but bear a part in the rea- 
 soning; — ihe images standing out, like grand and beau- 
 tiful caryatides, to sustain the heights o7 the argument 
 Of his language we have spoken. Somewhat too slow, 
 broken up. and involved "for eloquence, and too indi- 
 Ff2 
 
342 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 vidual to be classical, it is yet the language of a gifted 
 painter and poet, the colour of whose soul eats itself 
 into the words. And magnificent are the splendours 
 they display, even as the glooms. Equally apt are 
 they for the sad liveries of pain and distress, and cer- 
 tainly for the rich motleys of the humorous grotesque. 
 His pictures and conjurings-up of this latter kind — 
 chiefly from his original faculty, and method of produ- 
 cing the thing alive and before you, but also by contrast 
 with his usual thoughtful, ardent, and exacting style — 
 are inexpressibly ludicrous. His Latin epitaph on Count 
 Zahdarm, in " Sartor Resartus," and his account of the 
 courtier whose lower habiliments were stuffed with 
 bran, to look broad and fashionable, but who unfortu- 
 nately sat down upon a nail, are exquisite. These 
 things are often additionally ludicrous from his giving 
 the actors a dry, historical shape, while the scene itself 
 is utterly absurd and extravagant, but amidst which the 
 narrator seldom appears to move a muscle of his face. 
 It is by reason of this humorous dryness that we some- 
 times do not know if he would really have us laugh at 
 the thing. 
 
 Moreover, it must be stated, that the Prophet of the 
 Circle hath displayed a cloven tongue ! — and peradven- 
 ture the sincerity of his mode of expression in several 
 works may at times have been questionable. The 
 most orthodox dogmatists have often applauded his 
 sayings about a Church, when it has been plain to the 
 initiated readers of his books that he meant no such 
 templ.e as that, but some untithed field, with a soul in 
 it. Jn like manner, in his remarks on tolerance in his 
 *' Hero-worship," he seems to guard himself strongly 
 against imputations of latitudinarianism ; whereby the 
 highly orthodox commend him as very proper, and the 
 latitudinarians laugh in their sleeves — he does it so 
 well. It is the same in politics. Radicalism is snoffed 
 at ; and the next page lets loose a sweeping radical 
 principle, involving perhaps no sm.all destructiveness 
 for its attainment. On the other side, Tories are grati- 
 fied by his declarations of reverence for old things, 
 though they may be placed, in order to be the better 
 seen, upon the top of Vesuvius ; and the more assimila- 
 tive and shapely Conservative smiles to hear him speak 
 aloud for the conservation of all things which are good 
 and excellent. The book on " Past and Present," how- 
 
THOMAS CARLYLE. 343 
 
 ever, settles most of these doubts. It i-s all over with 
 him among the high church party ; and he laughs as he 
 thinks. But have any of the other parties got him? 
 Not so: he was born to be an independent Thinker; it 
 is his true mission ; it is the best thing he can do, and 
 we have no doubt but it is just the thing he will do. 
 
 We think "Sartor Resartus" the finest of Mr. Car- 
 iyle's works in conception, and as a whole. In execu- 
 tion he is always great; and for graphic vigour and 
 quantity of suggestive thought, matchless : but the idea, 
 in this book, of uncovering the world — taking off all 
 the clothes — the cloaks and outsides — is admirable. His 
 finest work, as matter of political philosophy, is un- 
 doubtedly his " Past and Present." In this work he is 
 no longer the philosopher of the circle. He allows the 
 world a chance. 
 
 The incentive to progression in the great family of 
 mankind, is usually considered to be the desire for hap- 
 piness, or the prospect of beUering our condition by 
 struggling onward to a given point: but the necessity 
 of progression, as well as the incentive, are perhaps 
 equally attributable to another cause. It may be that 
 Dissatisfaction is the great mover; and that this feeling 
 is implanted as a restless agent to act for ever upon us, 
 so as to urge us onward for ever in our ascending cycles 
 of being. This we should conceive to be Mr. Carlyle's 
 impression. He does not say so, we believe ; nor per- 
 haps does he decidedly think so ; nevertheless we 
 should say the Philosophy of Dissatisfaction formed a 
 principal element in his many-sided unsystematic view 
 of the struggles of mortality. 
 
 The book entitled " Chartism" was a recognition of 
 this principle of dissatisfaction, as manifested by the 
 violent mental and physical forces of a number of en- 
 raged sufferers. But we pass through the book as 
 through a journey of many ways and many objects, 
 brilliantly illuminated and pictured in every direction, 
 but without arriving at any clear conclusion, and with- 
 out gathering any fresh infortn-ation on the main sub- 
 ject, duiing the progress. By his not very clear argu- 
 ment aboui " might" and " right," he has enabled any 
 despot to show some sort of reasoning for any violent 
 act. 
 
 His grand remedial proposals for all the evils of the 
 country, by " Universal Education" and " General Emi-. 
 
344 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 gration," are rather an evasion of Chartism and its cau- 
 ses ; for the Chartists say, " We have enough education 
 to see the injustice of people being starved in a land of 
 plenty ; and as for emigration, we do not choose to go. 
 Go yourselves." 
 
 " Past and Present" evidences a perception of greater 
 wants than these Education and Emigration plans. 
 
 "True, nil turns on yo\ir Ready Reckoner bein^ moderately correct, — be- 
 ing not insupporiably incorrect ! A Ready Reckoner which lias led to dis- 
 tinct entries in your Ledger such as these: — ' Creditor, to English i>eople, 
 Ijv fif.een hundred years of good labour; and Debtor in lodging in enchant- 
 ed Poor-Law Bastilles : Creditor by conquering the largest Empire the Sun 
 ever saw ; and Debtor to Donothingism and ' Impossible,' v^ ritten on all 
 the departments of the government thereof: Creditor by niounfiins of gold 
 ingots earned ; and Debtor to the Bread purchasable by them •' s%ich Ready 
 Reckcner, methinks, is beginning to be suspect; nay, is ceasing, and has 
 ce ised, lo be suspect ! Such Ready-Reckoner is ;i Solecism in Eastcheap : 
 and must, whatever he the press of business, and will and shall be rectifie<l 
 a liitle ! Business can go on no longer with itJ" — Past and Present, p. 220. 
 
 'I'he " History of the French Revolution," is con- 
 sidered by most people to be Mr, Carlyle's greatest 
 work ; not as a history, we presume, nor because it is in 
 three volumes, but chiefly because it is thought to con- 
 tain a more abundant and varied display of his powers 
 than any of his other works. We can offer no remarks 
 about it so good as those we shall extract from an ar- 
 ticle written by Joseph Mazzini,* which we consider to 
 be one of the most profound, masterly, and earnest- 
 minded critical .essays that was ever written. We 
 should also add, that it is full of that admiration and 
 respect which are due to a writer of Mr. Carlyle's ge- 
 nius and character. 
 
 "By that Revolution the spirit of emancipation became incarnate in a peo- 
 ple, and gave battle ; and the battle was long, bloody, destructive, full of 
 ^reatand cruel tilings, of Titan-like phrenzies and achievements. * * * * 
 Have extinct geneiations nothing more to yield lis than an emotion of 
 pity? ***** The historian has a noble and great mission; 
 but it is not by making us weep over all that falls ; it is not by placing 
 before us, fragment by fragment, detail by detail, the mere material fact, 
 the succession of crises by which this world of the detid, with their im- 
 mediate effects, have parsed away ; — above ail, it is not by dragging forth, 
 at every instant, from the midst oP this collective and complex world, the 
 single wretched and feeble individual, and set'ing him in presence of the 
 profound ' mystery of time,' before ' unf ithomable darkness,' to terrify hira 
 with the enigma of cxi-tence — it is not so that this mission can be fultilled. 
 * * * * Before our eye?, as before his, in the midst of a kind of phas- 
 tasmngoiial vnrtex, c.-sp ^bje of giving the strongest head a dizziness, pass in 
 speedy flight the defunct heroes of the poem. What are they going to do ? 
 We know not: the poet expl lins them not, but he Innents over them all, 
 whoever they m ly be. What have they done ? Where are they going ? 
 We know not, but whatever they may have done, time has now devoured 
 them, and onward they passover the slippery gore one after another, rolling 
 
 * Monthly Chronicle, No. XXIII., Janv?ry 18-10. 
 
THOMAS CARLYLE. 345 
 
 into night, the great night of Goethe, tlie bottomless and nameless abyss ; 
 and the voice of tlie poet is heard crying to the loiterers, ' Rest not — con- 
 tinue not — lorwaid to thy doom !' When all are gone, when escaped, as 
 from the nightmiue ; out of the midst of the turmoil, you look around to 
 catch some trace of their passage, to see if they have left aught behind 
 them that can furnish the solution of the enigma, — you have only a vacuum. 
 Three words alone remain as the summary of their history — the Bastille — 
 the Constitution — the Guillotine. The Constitution, the object of every ef- 
 fort, is placed between a prison and a scatibld. * * * * And is this 
 all 1 There is another thing. Twenty-nine millions of beings rose not as 
 one man, and the half of the population of Europe shook not at their ap- 
 peal, for a word, a shadow, and empty formula. * * * * He has done 
 no more than give us tab'cauj, wonderful in execution, but nothing in con- 
 ception, without connection, without a bearing. His book is the French 
 Revolution illustrated — illustrated by the hand of a master, we know, hut 
 one from whom we expected a different labour. * * * * 'Phe eternal 
 cursus et rccursus inexorably devours ideas, creeds, daring, and devoted- 
 ness. The Infinite takes, to him, the form of Nihilation. It has a glance 
 of pity for every act of enthusiasm, a smile, stamped with scepticism, for 
 every act of great devotedness to ideas. Generalities are odious to it; (jptail 
 is its favourite occupiition, and it there amuses itself as if seeking to lay at 
 rest its inconsolable cares." 
 
 We add the following, as being equally applicable to 
 certain peculiarities in other works of Mr. Carlyle. 
 
 "He has lost the sentiment of human grandeur; he has found himself 
 placed between the infinite and the individual, catching at every instant 
 from this contrast, a kind of terror of the former, and of pity, nothing more 
 than pity, for the latter. So, having no higher value to give to the idea, he 
 has been driven, in order not to exhaust himself at the very outset, to give 
 so much the more to the impression : he becomes passive. Everything of 
 a nature to strike vividly on the senses has been seized by him, and he has 
 handed down the image to his readers. * * * * 
 
 " It is to Goethe, too much revered by Mr. Carlyle, that we owe this tinge 
 of irony which in this book often supervenes * * those traits of mock- 
 ery * * above all, that disposition to cru^h man by contrasting him with 
 the Infinite. As if it were not precisely from the consciousness of this In- 
 finite environing him, and that yet prevents him not from arting, that man 
 is great ;— as if the eternity that is before us, after us, and around us, were 
 not also within us." — Mazzini. 
 
 This unfair method of dealing with humanity, this 
 continual disposition to place man at a disadvantage of 
 the most extreme kind, viz.^ by comparison with space 
 and time, and the miraculous round of things, consti- 
 tutes a prominent feature in the philosophy of dissatis- 
 faction. It is always sure of its blow, and its humiliat- 
 ing superiority ; for who can stand before if ] We 
 might quote to Mr. Carlyle the words addressed to 
 Mephistopheles — " Seems' nothing ever right to you on 
 earth '!" One cannot imagine anything done by human 
 hands which would be likely to give Mr. Carlyle much 
 satisfaction. He would be pretty sure to sny, at best, 
 " Work on, and we shall see what else will come of 
 it!" Or, more probably, to quote again from ' Faust," 
 he would remind us that " Man must err, till he has 
 
346 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 ceased to struggle.'" Hence he would have us sit quiet- 
 ,ly and be silent. He applauds inactivity and silence; 
 but he also applauds work: he says man must work, 
 and exhorts every one to do his utmost. These con- 
 tradictions, however, have a central meaning, which 
 we shall attempt to explain. The dissatisfaction, the 
 ainhopefiilness, and the melancholy that pervades his 
 ■works are attributable to the same causes. 
 
 For the practical dissatisfaction exhibited in Mr. Car- 
 lyle's works, we would offer the following elucidation. 
 We think that he so continually negatives the value of 
 work, denies the use and good of doing things, and smiles 
 bitterly or laughs outright at human endeavour, because 
 he considers that so long as the Competitive system — 
 the much applauded " fair competition" — be the rule of 
 social working life, instead of Co-operation, there can 
 be made no actual step in advance to a better condition 
 of things. So long as one class, whether in trade, 
 politics, art, or literature, is always striving to oppose, 
 pull back, counteract, or plunder the other, no perma- 
 nent good can supervene. The greatest remedial meas- 
 ure which is sure to let in an overflowing stream of 
 good, he laughs at, — because, after all the long labours 
 of the contest for it, he sees in imagination a number 
 of side-trenches cut to let it off before it reaches the 
 assumed destination, or means taken to let it off after 
 its arrival, by other channels. By the terms " hero" 
 and " heroic," he means true wisdom and moral 
 strength ; and the only hope he sees for this world, is 
 that one man should rule over each country, eminent 
 for his heroic worth, because chosen by a people who 
 have at length become themselves not un-heroic, and 
 therefore capable of knowing true greatness, and of 
 choosing their greatest man. 
 
 So much for his practical and political dissatisfaction. 
 For his contradictory tone concerning all work, as una- 
 vailing and yet a necessity, let him answer for himself: 
 
 "Tlius, like a God-created, fire-breathing, spirit-host, we emerge from the 
 Inane ; haste stormfully across the astonished earth ; then phin^'e asiain into 
 the Inane. Earth's mountains ;ire levelled, and her seas filled up, in our 
 passiifie: can the earth, which is but dead and a vision, resist spirits which 
 have reality and are alive 1 On the hardest adamant, some foot-print of us 
 is stamped in ; the last Rear of the host will read traces of the earliest Van. 
 But whence? O, heaven, whither? Sense knows not; Faith knows not; 
 only that it is through Mystery to Mystery, from God to God. 
 ' We are suck stuff 
 
 As dreams are made of, and our little Life 
 
 Is i;oaad£d. with a sleep.' " 
 
THOMA.S CARLYLE. 347 
 
 A familiar illustration sometimes helps a philosophi- 
 cal difficulty. The following story, which is highly 
 characteristic of the parties, and is nevertheless of a 
 kind that may be told without violating the trustfulness 
 of private intercourse, will very well answer our pre- 
 sent purpose. Leigh Hunt and Carlyle were once pre- 
 sent among a small party of equally well-known men. 
 It chanced that the conversation rested with these 
 two — both first-rate talkers, and the others sat well 
 pleased to listen. Leigh Hunt had said something about 
 the Islands of the Blest, or El Dorado, or the Millenni- 
 um, and was flowing on in his bright and hopeful way, 
 when Carlyle dropt some heavy tree-trunk across 
 Hunt's pleasant stream, and banked it up with philosoph- 
 ical doubts and objections at every interval of the 
 speaker's joyous progress. But the unmitigated Hunt 
 never ceased his overflowing anticipations, nor the sat- 
 urnine Carlyle his infinite demurs to those finite flour- 
 ishings. The hsteners laughed and applauded by turns ; 
 and had now fairly pitted them against each other, as 
 the philosopher of Hopefulness and of the Unhopeful. 
 The contest continued with all that ready wit and phil- 
 osophy, that mixture of pleasantry and profundity, that 
 extensive knowledge of books and character, with their 
 ready application in argument or illustration, and that 
 perfect ease and good nature, which distingui.sh each of 
 these men. The opponents were so well matched that 
 it was quite clear the contest would never come to an 
 end. But the night was far advanced, and the party 
 broke up. They all sallied forth; and leaving the close 
 room, the candles and the arguments behind them, sud- 
 denly found themselves in presence of a most brilliant 
 star-light night. They all looked up. " Now," thought 
 Hunt, "■ Carlyle's done for! — he can have no answer to 
 that !" " There!" shouted Hunt, " look up there ! look 
 at that glorious harmony, that sings with infinite voices 
 an eternal song of hope in the soul of man." Carlyle 
 looked up. They all remained silent to hear what he 
 would say. They began to think he was silenced at lant — 
 he was a mortal man. But out of that silence came a 
 few low- toned words, in abroad Scotch accent. And. 
 who, on earth, could have anticipated what the voice 
 
 said! "Eh! it's a 5ac? sight!" Hunt sat down on a 
 
 stone step. They all laughed — then looked very 
 thoughtful. Had the finite measured itself with infini- 
 
348 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 ty, instead of surrendering itself up to the influence 1 
 Again they laugiied — then bade each other good night, 
 and betook themselves homeward with slow and serious 
 pace. There might be some reason for sadness, too. 
 That brilliant firujament probably contained infinite 
 worlds, each full of struggling and snfTering beings — of 
 beings who had to die — for life in the stars implies that 
 those bright worlds should also be full of graves; but 
 all that Ufe, like ours, knowing not whence it came, 
 nor whither it goeth, and the brilliant Universe in its 
 great Movement having, perhaps, no more certain 
 ■knowledge of itself, nor of its ultimate destination, than 
 hath one of the suffering specks that compose this 
 small spot we inherit. 
 
HENRY TAYLOR 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF "FESTUS." 
 
 "Hand in hand at wisdom's shrine, 
 
 Beauty with Truth I strive to join. 
 
 And grave Assent with glad Applause; 
 
 To pMint tlie story of the soul. 
 
 And Plato's vision to controul 
 
 By Verulamian laws!" — Akensidk. 
 
 *'But as we, in onr isle imprisoned. 
 Where cattle only, and divers dogs are bred, 
 The precious unicorns, strange monsters call, — 
 So thought he sweets strange, that had none at all." 
 
 Donne. Elegy i^ 
 
 "Great thoughts, like great deeds, need 
 No trumpet. ***** 
 But set thyself about it, as the sea 
 About earth, lashing at it day and night ; 
 And leave the stamp of thine own soul in it, 
 As thorough as the fossil flower in clay." 
 
 .^dditwnal Scene to " F^stus." 
 
 "Yea, copyists shall die, spark out and out. 
 Minds which Combine and Make, alone can tell 
 The bearings snd the workings of all things 
 In and upon each other." — Ibid. 
 
 The unrepressed vigour of imagination, — and the 
 graceful display of philosophical thought ; the splendour 
 of great and original imagery, — and the level dignity of 
 the operations of the understanding; the passion of 
 poetry, — and the sound sense of poetry ; are proposed 
 to be discussed in this essay. The calm philosophy of 
 poetry, in its addresses to the understanding and the 
 domestic affections, now holds the ascendancy ; but as 
 the fresh and energetic spirit of the present age ad- 
 vances, a contest is certain to take place in the fields 
 of Literature on the above questions. The sooner, 
 therefore, the battle is fought out, the better; and to 
 this end, the poetical antagonisiiis shall at once be 
 brought into collision. Several of the parties being per- 
 sonal friends, they will not be so much surprised at this 
 summary ciy "lo arms," as that very large portion of 
 Gg 
 
350 HENRY TAYLOR AND 
 
 the public who fancy that the periods of poetry are all 
 over with us in England. 
 
 A peculiar principle, and a peculiar style, are the first 
 things to be considered in this business. If the absence 
 of enthusiasm, or the total subjugation of it by the in- 
 tellect ; and if the absence of a power to call up imagery, 
 or- the levelling down of imagery to a barren regularity, 
 be now considered as the true principle and style for 
 the greatest poetry, then all our great poets of by-gone 
 ages, have written in error, and must no longer be ac- 
 counted great, except in the light of barbarians, even 
 as Pope and Dr. Johnson regarded the men of the 
 Elizabethan age. But this will never be admitted again, 
 for the public mind has outgrown all such teaching. 
 The attempt, therefore, seems to be to bring back the 
 same impression or opinion, without verbally stating it, 
 — and, by n)aking an exception in favour of Shakspere, 
 to merge all the glories of his poetical contemporaries 
 in a generalized idea of extravagance and disorder. 
 
 Most readers will recollect that Wordsworth has pre- 
 fixed to his beautiful poem, " To the Daisy," some lines 
 from Withers, which either originated or encouraged 
 in him the principle by which the descriptive part of his 
 poetry is so peculiarly influenced: — 
 
 " That from every thinw I saw 
 I could Fome instruction draw. 
 And raise pleasure to the height. 
 Through the meanest objecl's sight," &c.— WiTHKRa. 
 
 The disposition to misuse an extreme principle has 
 for some time been perceptible. The great poet Words- 
 worth has said how much to his mind was " the mean- 
 est flower that blows." No doubt but it was much to 
 him; and no doubt there is nothing mean, essentially, 
 in nature. But when a number of other poets say — 
 "Well, and the meanest flower is just as much to us V 
 — we cannot believe that they are sincere, for the ori- 
 ginal impression is not theirs, and no one, by mere im- 
 itation, can have "thoughts that lie top deep for tears." 
 The universal application of a sentiment cannot imply 
 a universal sensibility. (It should here be understood 
 that we are not at present alluding to either of the gen- 
 tlemen at the head of this paper, but speaking in gener- 
 al terms.) But out of this same "following" has been 
 derived a notion that the more mean and insignificant a 
 subject, or object, is in itself, the more fit and worthy 
 
THE AUTHOR. OF " FESTUS." 351 
 
 is the opportunity for a poet to make it great by uplift- 
 ing and surrounding it with his own personal feelings 
 and thoughts. To all this we say — " Leave the great 
 poet his originality." His best teachings should be 
 received, bui his experience should not be imitated or 
 assumed. Nor will the principle bear it any further 
 than he has carried it without manifest injury to our 
 literature. With Burns the daisy was a " wee, modest, 
 crimson-tippit flower ;" — with Wordsworth it has "a 
 function Apostolical." The small celandine, or common, 
 pilewort, Wordsworth calls a " Prophet of delight and 
 mirth." That in his enlarged and pecuhar sense of 
 these things, the terms are admissible, we very well 
 know ; but we should not be prompt to respect any 
 other poet who declared that to him the daisy was like 
 any apostle, or that he could discover anything prophe- 
 tic of mirih in the suiall celandine ! It was so, to Words- 
 worth : it is not so to many of his followers. 
 
 The steady, classical, and perspicuous style of the 
 accomplished author of *' Philip van Artevelde" is much 
 to be admired. He, and a few others, have rightly un- 
 derstood the true meaning of simplicity, as matter of 
 style. The word, however, has become injurious by 
 the notion that has been created from it, and very much, 
 by Mr. Taylor's assistance, that all splendour of image- 
 ry is mere redundancy; and this notion has hence be- 
 come a sort of excuse for the pride of natural barren- 
 ness. 
 
 Now, for our own individual taste, however, we free- 
 ly declare that we like something more " audible and 
 full of vent," and are not without apprehension that an 
 €xclusive devotion to the idea of simplicity may gradu- 
 ally induce baldness into our poetical literature. There 
 is coming among us a cant about simplicity, as though, 
 the means of greatness were the end. " Nothing (as 
 an ingenious gentleman recently said in a monthly pe- 
 riodical) can be more simple than 'Give me a pot of 
 beer!'" — yet nobody would pretend that this was gran- 
 deur." To say this would be like the assertion o-f Lord 
 Peter, in excuse for feeding his poor brothers upon 
 nothing but bread. " Bread (said Lord Peter) is the 
 staff of life. Bread comprises within itself the essence 
 of beef, and mutton, and veal, and partridge, and pheas- 
 ant, and woodcock, and grouse, and quail, and plum- 
 pudding, and custard." This will not do ; the beauty 
 
352 HENRY TAYLOR AND 
 
 and the power of passion and imagination, simply ear- 
 pressed^ is the great point to aim at ; and yet by no means 
 lo tiie exclusion of such images and phrases as sponta- 
 neously arise out of those great elements, and are in 
 such cases their most natural interpreters. For a de- 
 monstration of the above position, if not thought self- 
 evi(^ent, we can only refer to the practice of the great- 
 est epic, dramatic, and lyric poets. 
 
 " So then," it may be said, " your are for the choice 
 of great subjects, and a great style; and not for the 
 meanest things, and simplicity 1" That would be the 
 taunting form of the proposition, and would convey a 
 false inference besides. Not in that mode are princi- 
 ples of Art to be discussed. We are for an unexclusive 
 choice in good subjects, and we are for a suitable style 
 to each. But we are anxious to see poets create and 
 design subjects in which their own individuality shall 
 be merged ; and that it should be well understood that 
 true simplicity does not refer to puerilities or a barren 
 style, but primitive emotions, and a clear and concise 
 form of expression. 
 
 The reader will perhaps recollect, or turn to, the re- 
 marks (p. 214) on Mr. Macaulay's position, that to write, 
 or even to enjoy, poetry of the highest class, involves 
 a certain degree of " unsoundness of mind." We hope 
 it has there been shown how much the notion amounts 
 to ; and that no songs of " battle, murder, and sudden 
 death," can be called the perfection of right reason, 
 merely because the slayers are ancient Romans. Mac- 
 aulay is a man of undoubtedly great and most soimd 
 understanding — but "how about these Lays'? — for he 
 cannot be sound and unsound V 
 
 In Mr. Taylor's preface to "Philip van Artevelde,'' 
 he propounds his philosophy of poetry with that clear- 
 ness of expression and gentleman-like courtesy in dif- 
 fering, which are characteristic of him. Yet we think 
 that besides certain indefensible opinions and assertions, 
 he has not fully met the question. With his strictures 
 on Lord Byron we agree in the main. Byron was cer- 
 tainly a better constructor, and a more practical and 
 generally intelligible artist than Shelley, though his 
 imagination was far inferior to that of Shelley. Still, 
 it cannot be rightly inferred because Shelley's imagina- 
 tion carried him away, often into regions where his ge- 
 nius could neither act, nor whence it could return to 
 
THE AUTHOR OF " FESTUS." 353 
 
 earth, but was lost in the bright Immfnsity, thai there- 
 fore poets ought to make all imagination subservient to 
 the reasoning faculty, and what is called ''good sense," 
 or that it should be reduced to the condition of a bal- 
 anced level, and its natural images be shorn and shaven 
 to baldness. "Suppose I were to say," says Dr. Bnr- 
 ney, *• Well — I have been to Italy — seen the Venus, the 
 Apollo, and many fine things, — but, after all, give nie a 
 good, plain barber's block." 
 
 Mr. Henry Taylor would no doubt say that he did not 
 mean this ; but we fear his argument would amount to 
 something like it, and at any rate is calculated to pro- 
 duce such an impression, and inculcate a hard dry taste 
 in the public mind. Mr. Taylor argues for poets obtain- 
 ing a fine balance of the faculties (devoutly to be de- 
 sired, of course), and regards "good sense" as '"one of 
 the most essential constituents of genius" — which it un- 
 doubtedly is, philosophicnlly understood ; and undoubt- 
 edly is not^ in the conventional meaning of ttie term, as 
 he uses it. These arguments, therefore, must rather 
 be regarded as pretexts for depressing the tone of all 
 modern poetry, moderating passion at the very outset, 
 and stunting the growth of imagination by never suffer- 
 ing it to rise beyond the calm level of reason and com- 
 mon sense. 
 
 There must be something peculiarly undramatic in 
 the mind that could conceive and execute a dramatic 
 subject in so lengthy a form as to comprise the same 
 number of lines as six plays, each of the ordinary length. 
 In this philosophical poem we may find a prolonged 
 illustration of Mr. Taylor's principles of poetry and the 
 drama. A dramatic poet, without passion ; — what does 
 that amount to ] A romantic poet, without any romance 
 in him ; — what does that amount tol A contemplative 
 poet, without a heaven of ideality above his head ; — 
 %vhat does that amount to? A rhythmical writer, and 
 teacher, who denies the distinct element of poetry as 
 poetry. 
 
 Yet a distinct element it assuredly has. Poetry, 
 though made up of other things, is yet as much an en- 
 tire thing as any of the substantive faculties of the mind, 
 each of which is made up of the other faculties. For 
 there is no such thing as pure reason, pure imagination, 
 pure judgmen.t ; — but each helps the other, and of neces- 
 sity. Still, we admit a distinct faculty of each. In 
 Gg2 
 
354 HENRY TAYLOR AND 
 
 like manner do we claim a distinct existence for poe- 
 try. 
 
 Should we think it fitting- that our legislators deliver- 
 ed statesmanlike and eloquent orations in Parliament 
 with a musical accompaniment ; or our philosophers 
 lectured in recitative^ The arguments of Mr. Taylor 
 lead us directly to the question of why he does not write 
 in prose? Certainly "Philip van Artevelde" would 
 have been as dramatic and roinantic in prose as in its 
 present form, its rhythm appears unnecessary, and he 
 evidently feels it. After writing a romance in about ten 
 thousand lines of verse, which ought to have been three 
 volumes of elegant prose, he then composes a Preface 
 to justify the proceeding. He says, " My critical views 
 have rather resulted from composition than directed it.'* 
 Finding he could rise no higher, he strives to show that 
 rising higher would argue a loss "of the equipoise of 
 reason." 
 
 It may now be asked, — Are there any signs of ima- 
 ginative vitality among living authors, independent of 
 those old established reputations, the owners whereof 
 are reposing upon their laurels? — are there any new 
 men with whom abstract power and beauty are a pas- 
 sion, and who possess the requisite faculties for their 
 development? Are there, also, any signs of efforts, on 
 their part, to revive or create a taste in the public for 
 the higher classes of composition ? and if so, with what 
 degree and prospect of success? These are surely very 
 interesting quesiior.s — some of them easily answered, 
 others open to considerable Jifficnlties and incertitude. 
 
 Whatever may be the struggles — foolishly called all- 
 absorbing — which are now transpiring in politics, in 
 theology, and in the commercial world ; and however 
 convinced each of the different parties may be that no- 
 thing else can go right — nor that, indeed, any thing else 
 can be properly attended to — till their particular cause 
 is settled as they wish, — it is manifest that there is 
 quite as great a siruL'gle coming on in literature, and in 
 that very department which is most neglected by the 
 public — we mean in poetry. The public does not see 
 this; and as poetry is at present so unpopular, the 
 critics do not see the struggle; but let anybody look at 
 the persevering announcements of new poems in adver- 
 tisements, and read a few of the poems of some hal.fr 
 dozen of the best, and then the truth of our assertion 
 
THE AUTHOR OF " FESTUS 355 
 
 will become apparent. The energetic spirit at work in 
 various minds, and with different kinds and degrees of 
 power, but still at work, not only without the slightest 
 outward encouragements, but with all manner of oppo- 
 sition in their path, and with the certain expenditure of 
 time and worldly means upon their ''losing trame," 
 must absolutely possess something genuine in its ele- 
 ments, .and in its hopeful and indefatigable continuity. 
 
 Imaginative and impassioned poetry has not been so 
 uncommon among us as may have been thought. Those 
 whom " it concerned" in nearly every instance dis- 
 covered it, and welcomed it. Besides those who are 
 already recognized, there have been, and are, others. 
 Several of these little known, or unknovi'n, works we 
 will mention. It is a service of abstract love; and we 
 trust it will be received, not in a resentful, but a 
 kindly spirit, by those who may now hear of them for 
 the first time. One of the least known, published as 
 long since as 1824, under the unpromising title of " Jo- 
 seph and his Brethren," was full of the elements of true 
 poetry, — in passion, imagination, and in thoughts result- 
 ing from the reason and the understanding. It also dis- 
 played great descriptive powers. The resemblaiice of 
 the author's mind to that of P. J. Bailey, the author of 
 " Festus," is extraordinary. As the writings of this 
 latter poet are at present but little known (his work 
 was only published four years since, and a true poet 
 has little chance under ten or twelve), we ought per- 
 haps to introduce him at once in an extract : — 
 
 "We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; 
 In feelings, not in figures on a dial. 
 We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives 
 Who thinks most; feels the noblest; acts the best. 
 And he whose heart beats quickest lives tiie longest : 
 Lives in one hour more than in years do some 
 Whose fot blood sleeps as it slips along their veins. 
 Life is but a means unto an end ; that end, 
 Beginning, mean and end to all things — God. 
 The dead have all the glory of the world.'' — Festus, p. 62-3. 
 
 We should at once decline to argue with anybody 
 who denied the poetry in the above passnge. The phi- 
 losophy of the poem of " Festus" is to show the great 
 ministry of evil as a purifier. But the spirit itself 
 mowrns, not knowing its purpose. In the following, the 
 Spirit of Evil speaks : — 
 
 "The arrow knoweth not its end and aim. 
 And I keep rushing, ruining along, 
 
356 HENRY TAYLOR AND 
 
 Like a great river rich with tlead men's souls. 
 For if I knew 1 might rejoice ; and that 
 To me by nature is forbidden. I know 
 Nor joy nor sorrow ; bnt a changeless tone 
 Of sadness, like the night-wind's, is the strain 
 Of what I have of feeling."— /iirf, p. 26. 
 
 This poem abounds with equally fine passages, and 
 in nearly every page. Such perfect instances of con- 
 trast are the minds of Mr. Henry Taylor, and of the 
 author of " Festus," that you cannot open the works of 
 either, scarcely at any one page, which does not fur- 
 nish a striking illustration of the passion of true poetry 
 on the one hand, and the philosophical sense, and 
 statesman-like self-possession of verse which should 
 have been prose, on the other. 
 
 Here is a passage from the "Additional Scene to 
 Festus," on love, which Mr. Taylor will no doubt regard 
 as the total loss of " the equipose of reason," as indeed 
 it usually is, we suspect. 
 
 " Festus. It is therefore that I love thee ; for, that when 
 The fierj' perfection of the world, 
 The sun, shall be a shadow, and burnt out, 
 There is an impulse tow'rds eternity 
 Raised by this moment's love." 
 
 Instead of entering into any useless arguments on 
 this point, we will at once give a love-scene from Mr. 
 Taylor's work. 
 
 Let us take an illustration of " reason" and " passion," 
 as the two stand opposed in Mr. Taylor's mind. We 
 will extract a portion of the scene in which Artevelde 
 has, with much inlreaty and many flattering protesta- 
 tions, won the consent of Elena to devote herself to 
 him; — 
 
 ■Artevelde. "Tell me, sweet Elena, 
 
 May I not hope, or rather can I hope, 
 That for such brief and bounded space of time 
 As are my days on earth, you'll yield yourself 
 To love me living, and to mourn me dead." 
 
 Elena is altogether a creature of impulse and emotion 
 — an Italian, of great beauty and of high birth, but of 
 wounded affection and blighted fame. She loves Arte- 
 velde passionately, and his "proposals" (the usual 
 worldly term suits well here) affect her deeply. As he 
 presses her to give him up her heart, she replies ;— 
 
 "I cannot — no — 
 I cannot give you what you've had so long; 
 Nor need I tell you what you know so well. 
 I must be gone." 
 
THE AUTHOR OF *' FESTUS." 357 
 
 and again ; — 
 
 " No, let me go — I cannot tell — no — no — 
 I want to be alone — 
 Oh ! Artevelcie, for God's love let me go !" 
 
 She leaves him with these words. The sequel proves 
 that her love was deep and intense. She lives with him 
 till the battle in which he was killed. She finds his 
 body among the slain, kneels by it, embraces it, is dis- 
 covered in this state, and when a French knight at- 
 tempts to defend her from the charge of having been 
 the paramour of the dead hero, she starts to her feet 
 with the words, — 
 
 "Thou liest, I was his paramour ;" 
 
 thus glorying in her devotion. She revenges the in- 
 sult offered to him, as he lies dead, by stabbing a man 
 to the heart, and is herself killed in her resistance to a 
 separation from his body. This closing scene is very 
 ineffectively executed, and the situation being too 
 strong for Mr. Taylor, he has painted it coarsely, and 
 with an effect of bombast, the result of artificially striv- 
 ing to supply the want of passion ; but it is detailed here 
 to show that Elena had a passion for Artevelde. 
 
 How then, to revert to their previous life, did he, cool 
 and self-possessed, comport himself, when she, agitated 
 with conflicting emotions, left him with the words, 
 " Oh, Artevelde, for God's love let me go !" 
 
 ^'^ Artevelde (after a pause). The night is far advanced upon 
 the morrow, 
 And but for th.'.t conglomerated mass 
 Of cloud with rajiged edges, like a mound 
 Or black pine-forest on a mountain's top, 
 Wherein the light lie« arabu^hed, diwn were near, — 
 Yes. [have wasted half a svmmer's night. 
 Was it well spent ! Successfully it wis. 
 How little flattering is a woman's love ! — 
 Worth to tlie heart, come how it may, a world ; 
 Worth to mens measures of their own deserts. 
 If weighed in wisdom's balance, merely nothing-.'' 
 
 So that the pure gift of feeling which is worth a 
 world to man's heart, is worth nothing in comparison 
 with a much wiser thing — his vain glory ! Recovering 
 himself, therefore, as quickly as he can, he calls one of 
 his officers— enters upon business— and orders two men 
 to be hanged ! 
 
 Here then we find placed before us passion and rea- 
 son ; or, at least, Mr. Taylor's idea of passion and rea- 
 son. Tihe latter he exalts in his theory ; the former he 
 
35S IIE2JRY TAYLOR AND 
 
 condemns as selfish and as vanity. Which is here the 
 more selfish '^ Passion gives all, even to life itself. 
 Reason wins all, and sneers at it. In the world's esti- 
 mation this self possessed reason is of course the 
 most ''respectable;" but which stands purest in the eye 
 of God ? 
 
 Several poems of the higher class of imaginative 
 composition have appeared during the last ten years. 
 In allusion to the learned and versatile author of the 
 " Judgment of the Flood," and the " Descent into Hell," 
 we could hardly do better than quote a couplet from 
 the American poet, Cornelius Matthews — 
 
 *'Thy heart-gates, mighty, open either way, — 
 Come they to least, or go they forth to pray." 
 
 The " Record of the Pyramids," by J. E. Reade, is 
 another of those works in which the author has chosen 
 a great subject, and had a high design in his mind. The 
 execution in this case is unequal to the conception, ow- 
 ing to the preservation of a certain philosophic calm, 
 under circumstances when nothing but passion could 
 have carried through such stupendous actions as are 
 described, or induced full faith in the reader. But the 
 respect and admiration due to an author who has always 
 manifested such high and pure aims in art, ought al- 
 ways to be gladly awarded. 
 
 While treating of works of design, we should not be 
 deterred from submitting a few remarks concerning 
 *' Orion" (using the same privilege as Mr. Taylor and 
 other authors, in their Introductions and Prefaces), but 
 ■want of space warns us to pass on to the works of oth- 
 ers, which it is our duty to discuss in preference. 
 
 " Vivia Perpeiua," by Sarah Flower Adams, is an 
 example of an exalted subject, worthily wTought out, 
 clear in design, skilful in construction. The characters 
 are well drawn. The style a true example of simplici- 
 ty. The ideas are more characterized by sweetness 
 and pure religious emotion than by abstract imagination, 
 either of beauty or power. Yet the power and beauty 
 of impassioned reason (we commend the expression to 
 Mr. Taylor's especial attention) are never absent, being 
 personified in the principal character. Some of the sit- 
 uations in which Vivia is placed, are highly dramatic. 
 The foUovinng fine extract shows the noble Roman lady 
 renouncing faith in the gods of her country. 
 
THE AUTHOR OF " FESTUS." 35^ 
 
 TEMPLE OF JUPITER OLYMPUS. 
 
 ViviA Perpktua at an altar burning before a statue of the god- 
 
 ViviA. Lo! where all trembling, I have knelt and pray'd; 
 Where vow and sacrifice, at morn and eve. 
 Shrouded in incense dim, have risen to appease 
 The wrath, great Jove, of thy once dreaded thunder, — 
 Up to the might of thy majestic brows. 
 Yet lerrible with anger, thus I utter, — 
 I am no longer worshipper of thine! 
 Witness the firm farewell these steadfast eyes 
 For ever 'grave upon thy marble front ; 
 Witness these hands — their trembling is not fear — 
 That on thine altar set for evermore 
 A firm renouncing seal — I am a Cliristian ! 
 Where are thy lightnings ? — where thine awful thunder t 
 Melted from out thy grasp by love and peace I 
 * * * * 
 
 The shadows blacken, and the altar flame 
 Troubles them into motion. God of stone, 
 For the last time, farewell ! 
 
 Vivia Pcrpetua, Act II., Sc. 4. 
 
 The character of Vivia Perpetua in the hands of her 
 regenerator from the honoured dust of by-gone ages, 
 stands dramatically entire and intact; but she has also 
 by suggestion a spiritual connection with all those who, 
 in any age, struggle towards the light, proclaiming the 
 truth that is in them, and suffer with her a martyrdom 
 in the scorn and injuries of the world. It is a poeni 
 for the future, as well as the past. It is a great subject, 
 worthily executed, although it would probably bear con^^ 
 siderable abbreviation. 
 
 Mr. Taylor's acquaintance with the poetry of his time 
 appears to be either very limited, or else we must un- 
 derstand him to denounce all poetry except that which 
 is adapted to his own peculiar nature and taste. He 
 actually concludes his observations on Lord Byron, 
 which are sufficiently disparaging, by the following- 
 statement: — " Nor can it be said that anything better, 
 or indeed anything half so good, has been subsequently 
 produced. The poetry of the day, whilst it is greatii^ 
 inferior in quality, continues to be like his in kind T* 
 And this, with Alfred Tennyson alive in the world, at 
 whom, indeed, the rest of the paragraph seems to poinfe 
 directly. 
 
 We would also commend to Mr. Taylor's discom- 
 posed attention, the poems of " Paracelsus" and of 
 *' Festus," were it only that he might endeavour lo 
 discover the likeness to Lord Byron. 'I'hey are as un- 
 like, by the presence of the finer qualities of imagina> 
 
360 HENRY TAYLOR AND 
 
 tion, as " Philip van Arteveld" is unlike by the absence 
 of passion. 
 
 Whatever greatness has originated in Wordsworth's 
 mind from his habit of refusing " to share any glory 
 with his subject" by the systematic selection of things 
 devoid of much obvious interest in themselves, and, as 
 lie often declares, on account of their meanness, to the 
 eye, or to the general impressions of mankind, it is 
 much to be doubted if the adoption of this principle ly 
 others will not lead them downwards in the scale of 
 enthusiasm. It may tend to throw them exclusively 
 upon their individualities, which may not inaptly be rep- 
 resented by a paraphrase of a well-known couplet, — 
 
 " My Thought is great because the object's mean : 
 Then 'twould be greater were no object seen." 
 
 We are fully aware how open every argument of this 
 kind will be to misrepresentation. Nevertheless we 
 shall speak it out, and trust to having justice in the long 
 run. It is such poems as Wordsworth's " Laodamia," — 
 the scriptural grandeur of simplicity in " Michael," — 
 the high-wrought fervour of his immortal " Ode," and 
 not his illustrations of " the meanest objects," that all 
 lovers of poetry so deeply admire, and that his disci- 
 ples should regard as stars to guide them. 
 
 It is much to be lamented by all those who are seri- 
 ously interested in works of art, that the power of con- 
 ception should by no means necessarily include the 
 power of design and construction, nor do even these 
 always insure a worthily executive hand. A singular 
 example of great capacities in execution with a deplor- 
 able inability to build up a fabric, was exhibited some 
 few years since, in a half-epic, half-lyrical poem, pri- 
 vately circulated, entitled, " Ernest, or Political Regen- 
 eration," which was reviewed in one of the leading 
 quarterlies, we forget which. A passage from it will 
 be of good application to some remarks previously made 
 •with reference to the inseparable nature of Imagination 
 from all poems of large scope, and from poetry itself, 
 which is a radiant Passion no less than an art : — 
 
 "The glorious sun, that sate alone 
 WhilH yet creation was a child ; 
 Is sovereign still npf)n his throne ! 
 Undinnned, undarkeneil, undefiied, 
 They watch and wheel, those mighty spheres, 
 Slill ru<!liing round him at his will ; 
 Through boundless space and countless years, 
 
THE AUTHOR OF "fESTUS.'* 361 
 
 And he doth list their music still. 
 
 And ever onward as they roll. 
 
 He cheers them with his quickening ray." 
 
 Ernest, p. 250. 
 
 Of the subject of " Festus," we have already spoken. 
 The build of its design is so obviously taken from 
 Goethe's " Faust," whatever differences may also exist, 
 that we can but regard it as so far unworthy of the 
 striking originality of the materials of passion, thought, 
 and imagination, comprised in its structure. The exe- 
 cution breathes throughout a fulness of power. That 
 the work often runs wild, is admissible ; and besides 
 redundancies, it also has many violations of taste. 
 
 But, however great a conception may be, however 
 splendid the imagination, the modern artist can never 
 be too earnestly exhorted to think well of his design, 
 and the construction in all its parts. Why should he 
 fail, as so many do, in these things ? Let us endeavour, 
 in a few concluding words, to make our meaning clear 
 to all whom it may concern. 
 
 There burns in the elements of certain natures, in 
 the secret wells of their being, the deep sources where 
 dwelleth the soul, a yearning towards some vaster 
 region than the world which surrounds them, and an 
 aspiration which would cleave its crystalline walls and 
 soar away towards illimitable heavens, unknown ecsta- 
 sies, and the eternal mysteries of Divinity. They feel 
 this yearning, this aspiration, communicating itself to 
 the very temperature and current of their blood; it 
 stings them to the quick of inward being; it breaks out 
 in drops upon the forehead, and rills down this poor 
 inadequate, corporeal frame. They have mighty 
 thoughts and deep; the deep thoughts often cross 
 each other, and re-cross in their tumultuous lights and 
 shades, till the man is vanquished by the over-forces 
 of his own mind : they see mighty phantasies and 
 shapes ; and the vision and the image rule over the 
 man. Does he dream ? No, he wakes ; he has awak- 
 ened to more things than his fellows. Is he mad, or 
 of intellect unsound'? Not so ; for he sees clearly and 
 knows that his mystery is but some excess in the com- 
 mon mystery of all life, and that he is but a troubled 
 human creature ; a frame-work troubled by some re- 
 bounding and imprisoned spirit within, that seeks for 
 freedom in the illimitable air and in the illinntable light, 
 not as a mere wild voyage to regions where he would 
 
362 HENRY TAYLOR AND 
 
 be altogether strange and confounded, but as though by 
 a sense of birth-right in these intolerable desires. But 
 Time moves on — the wheels of the years pass over the 
 head and face turned star-ward, — and the man finds 
 that he will assuredly be, some day, old. He is but 
 where he was when he first commenced this upward- 
 looking, these aspirations to infinity. His thoughts 
 now slowly recoil and revolve inwardly, and his visions 
 gather closer round him. He seeks a sublime result 
 for that within, which is denied to him from without. 
 He places the images of his mind in order, even as a 
 man before the death of his mortality arraigneth his 
 house : and finally he is no longer vanquished by his 
 thoughts, but fixes and rules over the vision and the 
 dream. Here then he finds some solace for his yearn- 
 ings ; he no longer seeks to disperse himself, but to 
 collect ; no longer to revel in the arms of bright and un- 
 attainable desires, but to build. And the condition of 
 this man's mind is that of Creative Passion. 
 
 But to the store-house of the world, and to the things 
 of worth for man's largest use and benefit, his soul's 
 sake and body's sake, of what value is this creative 
 passion? Can it take us up into the blessed air beside 
 it, or help us to ride with it triumphant upon the trium- 
 phant winds? Or can it come down to us on earth, and 
 if so, with what benefit to those who need help ? How 
 shall we perceive and feel it? How know it, how take 
 it to heart and use it, as an incentive to hope, a refuge 
 for sorrow, or an influence to elevate, and a medium to 
 bring good tidings to mankind ? Of what value to us 
 shall be a palace of mighty voices, and echoes from 
 mightier worlds, if we have no fair entrance porch, or 
 if, having entered, we cannot distinguish the passages 
 and step-flights from the pillars and the walls, nor the 
 right shape of anything, nor the clear interpretation of 
 any voice or echo 1 
 
 Out of these wild imaginations, these ungoverned 
 and formless phantasies, these outrages to common 
 sense, which heated brains call genius or inspiration, 
 we must seek to free ourselves. Should we not call 
 in the aid of calm reason? Must we not command all 
 the-e passionate emotions and imaginings by erecting 
 a glacier in the midst, at the summit of which Sound 
 Sense shall sit upon his judgment throne ? 
 
 There sits Sound Sense upon his throne ! He is at 
 
THE AUTHOR OF " FESTUS. 363 
 
 the same aliitude as those fantastic dreams and fiery 
 emotions which he is to govern. Yet a Httle while he 
 sits ; not haughtily, but with a sober pride. And be- 
 hold ! — his throne is sinking — it surely is sinking I — the 
 crowned Perfection is sinking lower and lower — the 
 glacier is dissolving at the base — the passions are 
 cruelly hot — the summit of his glacier has now dropt 
 flat — his grave long face gapes wide, and out of that 
 widening dismay a grey mist issues, amidst which that 
 very miscalculating presumption is diffused and lost. 
 
 Are we again upon earth'? We are safely there, 
 though the descending mist is there also. Nviy, but 
 Sound Sense is a good thing when upon earth. Let us 
 all be reconciled. For out of the mist we now see a 
 man emerge — an actual, living piece of humanity. He 
 is a Working Man and may help us in this matter. 
 
 He hath a rough beard, and a strong, well-knit, sup- 
 ple body ; a large organic forehead, and a steady eye. 
 in one hand he holds a chisel, in the other a lump of 
 clay. A modeller and a mason, a designer and a build- 
 er is this working man. He would speak to us. Shall 
 we hear him ? Or shall he be dumb, and go on with his 
 fAvn work? Will the Spirit of the Age listen to an un- 
 known, unlaurelled labourer] Well, — let him say what 
 he thinks. 
 
 " The first thing for the making of a house is the 
 definite impulse to have a house made. The second 
 thing is to have imagination to conceive of the design. 
 And the third thing is to have a good workman's hand." 
 
 All this is common, plain-spoken stuff which every 
 body knew before. Why should a man who makes 
 things, presume to tell us how things are made? But 
 let hitn proceed for the chance of something better. 
 
 "The definite impulse is a passion for that thing; the 
 imagination is the power to think the shape; and the 
 hand is the power to make the shape of the thought. 
 You must listen, or depart. For now I will go on. 
 The passion of the heart commands the passion of the 
 brain, when the heart is of the right strength as meant 
 by God for a natural, true man ; and in those heart-felt 
 emotions doth God's voice speak — the only inspiration 
 of genius, because a revelation from the Infinite Maker 
 to the finite maker who devoutly conceives these 
 things, and aspires to make them manifest to his broth- 
 ers of the earth. If a man have no passion he can 
 
364 HENRY TAYLOR AND 
 
 have no true impulse to create any thing. If he have 
 passion, what he designs will then be in accordance and 
 proportion with what he imagines ; and lastly, what he 
 imagines can only receive due form and be intelligible 
 to fitting eyes, by mastery of hand." 
 
 *'This shapeless lump of clay, so unsightly, so cold, 
 and unsuggestive, is the type of all substance whereon 
 no work has been done. Breathe fire into it — give to 
 it a soul, and it shall have high capacities ; set an ar- 
 tist's hand to work upon it, and it may have an angel's 
 form. All the great imaginings, all the splendid visions 
 that spring up in the mind, or can be created by volun- 
 tary power, will exercise no good influence in the 
 world, nor have a long date, unless they be wrought 
 upon a clear design, and are built up into a suitable 
 structure. Nay, thoughts themselves, howsoever lofty 
 or profound, must have intelligible form. The spirit 
 of philosophy and of art, may comprehend the abstrac- 
 tions, and the germinating ideas as they exist in the 
 work-places of the brain ; but even these practised 
 spirits understand the things better when they have 
 acquired some definite shape, visible within, if not with- 
 out ; while for the use and benefit of mankind at large 
 no labour is available that hath not intelligible form." 
 
 "As generations advance in civilization and refine- 
 ment, a polish comes over the surface of nature, so 
 that an artist that works with a light hand, shall find 
 his tool's edge turned, and his labours produce no effect. 
 In these days the people need power. They talk of 
 knowledge, but must first be made to feel truth, and 
 desire it. Among the relics of ancient Egypt there is 
 a colossal granite Fist ; sole memory of a forgotten god. 
 Four thousand years have those granite fingers been 
 held close. They did their work — and were locked up. 
 It was that power which reared the pyramids — which 
 gave them their structure, their form, and their eternity. 
 They could not have lasted as rude shapeless heaps. 
 They could not have endured the elements; man could 
 not have borne the sight of them. Imagine that mighty 
 fragment of a limb to open out into a Hand ! A good 
 change has come among some nations, and will grad- 
 ually develope itself through all nations, — the change 
 of feeling and conviction in the estimate of power. 
 True power is now seen to arise from the nobler pas- 
 sions of the heart and of the intellect. Use, then, that 
 
THE AUTHOR OF ''fESTUS." 365 
 
 mighty open Hand with moral aim, and build for truth 
 a lofty fabric." 
 
 " Nothing will now be received which has not some 
 distinct principle, a clear design, a shapely structure. 
 Characters, passions, thought, action and event, must 
 mU be wiihin a circle and citadel of their own, bounded 
 by no hard line of horizon, and opening large portals on 
 ail sides to the influences and sympathies of the outer 
 world. The only artist-work that does good in its day, 
 or that reaches posterity, is the work of a Soul that 
 gives Form. But without the impassioned life of that 
 soul, the best-reasoned form and structure are but cold 
 vanities, which leave man's untired nature just where 
 they found it, and therefore are of no service on earth." 
 
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