THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 
 
 VOLUME I. 
 
DE QUINOEY’S UNCOLLECTED WRITINGS. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 ** Mr. Hogg has placed all lovers of De Quincey under an obligation.**— 
 Academy. 
 
 “ Two most welcome volumes.*’ — Yorkshire Post. 
 
 “ May be looked upon as the concluding volumes of the collection which 
 death prevented^De Quincey himself from completing. . . . For their 
 own intrinsic excellence, no less than for their value as filling up a gap in 
 the volumes of De Quincey ’s works, these two volumes deserve, and can- 
 not fail to meet with, such a hearty welcome as will repay Mr. Hogg for the 
 great trouble which the recovery of some of the papers has cost him.” — 
 Glasgow Herald. 
 
 “All is interesting and welcome.” — Saturday Review » 
 
 “Some of them are so characteristic, that every admirer of De Quincey 
 will be grateful for the service Mr. Hogg has done to his contributor’s 
 memory.”— Scotsman. 
 
 “ There are in these * Uncollected W ritings ’ some seven or eight essays of 
 the greatest interest, and two, at least, in De Quincey’s most characteristic 
 style.” — Manchester Guardian. 
 
 “Mr. Hogg, who was connected with De Quincey during the last years 
 of the Opium-eater’s life, has written a very excellent and instructive intro- 
 duction.— East and West. 
 
 “ The writings they contain are worth preserving, and they are varied 
 enough in matter and manner to show De Quincey’s powers over their whole 
 range.”— Speaker. 
 
LlbSASY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY of tLUNOlS. 
 
‘Da.wscms.Thy'a. 
 
THE UNCOLLECTED WHITINGS 
 
 OF 
 
 THOMAS HE QUINOEY 
 
 WITH 
 
 A PEEFACE AND ANNOTATIONS 
 
 BY 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 Eonton : 
 
 SWAN SONNENSOHEIN & CO. 
 
 NEW YOEK : MACMILLAN & CO, 
 1892 
 
 [J.U Hghts reserved.^ 
 
oo q 
 
 PEEFACE. 
 
 ‘ Tee last fruit off an old tree ! ^ This, in the words 
 of Walter Savage Landor, is what I have now the 
 honour to set before the public in these hitherto 
 ‘ Uncollected Writings of Thomas De Quince y/ 
 It was my privilege to be associated intimately 
 with the Author some thirty to forty years ago — 
 ^ from the beginning of 1850 until his death in 1859.^ 
 ^ Throughout the whole period during which he was 
 engaged in preparing for the Press his Selections 
 Grave and Gay, I assisted in the task. 
 
 Of the singularly pleasant literary intercourse of 
 that memorable time I have given some reminiscences 
 in Harper s Magazine for this month. I may yet 
 combine in a Volume with these some amusing, 
 scholarly letters in my possession, and a Selection of 
 Papers from the original sources, which I feel war- 
 ranted, by the Author’s own estimate, in calling Be 
 Quince fs Choice JVbrks. Meantime, in dealing with 
 the various Essays and Stories here gathered together, 
 I limit myself to such notes as are necessary to point 
 
 * De Quincey, Leigh Hunt, and Macaulay all died in 
 that year. 
 
VI 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 out the special circumstances under which some of 
 the papers were written ; in others the nature of 
 the evidence I have found as to the indisputable 
 authorship. 
 
 My special opportunities, derived from constant 
 companionship and the continuous discussion with De 
 Quincey of matters concerning his writings, gave me 
 the key to some of the admirable papers here reprinted. 
 It also entitles me to say, that he would have included 
 a number of them in his Collected Works alongside 
 the Suspiria de Profundis (Sighs from the Depths), 
 had he lived to continue his labours. 
 
 When we find that most part of the Suspiria — per- 
 haps the highest reach of his intellect in impassioned 
 power — did not appear in the Selections at all, the 
 reader will at once understand that, in the Author’s 
 own opinion, the Essays and Stories now first collected, 
 were neither less dignified in purpose nor less finished 
 in style than those which had passed under his hand 
 in the fourteen volumes he nearly completed. Eather 
 like the Suspiria, some of these papers were reserved 
 as material upon the revision of which his energy 
 might be fitly bestowed when health would permit. 
 
 The interesting papers which appeared in Taii’s 
 Magazine are all duly vouched for in that periodical. 
 I have not touched any of the autobiographical matter 
 which appeared in Tait, — -the Author having recast 
 that as well as the Sketches from Childhood, published 
 in The Instructor in the ‘Autobiographic Sketches’ 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Vll 
 
 with which he opened the Selections. The Casuistry 
 of Duelling^ indeed, appeared in Tait as part of the 
 Autobiographic Series, but, practically, it stood as an 
 independent paper. The touching personal passage 
 in this article reveals the misery caused by the 
 unbridled scurrility of certain notorious publications 
 of the last generation. 
 
 The paper on The German Language appeared in 
 Tait in June 1836, and the Brief Apg)raisal of Greek 
 Literature in December 1838 and June 1839. 
 
 Two long and valuable papers on Education ; 
 Plans for the Lnstruction of Boys in Large Numbers, 
 which appeared in The London Magazine for April 
 and May, 1824, were duly authenticated by the 
 following characteristic letter from De Quinoey to 
 Christopher IsTorth. It appears in Professor Wilson's 
 Life, written by his daughter, Mrs. Gordon : — 
 
 ‘London, Thursday, February 2ith, 1825. 
 
 ‘ My dear Wilson, 
 
 ‘ I write to you on the following occasion : — 
 Some time ago, perhaps nearly two years ago, Mr. 
 Hill, a lawyer, published a book on Education, detail- 
 ing a plan on which his brothers had established a 
 school at Hazlewood, in Warwickshire. This book I 
 reviewed in the London Magazine, and in consequence 
 received a letter of thanks from the Author, who, on 
 my coming to London about midsummer last year, 
 called on me. I have since become intimate with 
 
Vlll 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 him, and, excepting that he is a sad Jacobin (as I am 
 obliged to tell him once or twice a month), I have 
 no one fault to find with him, for he is a very clever, 
 amiable, good creature as ever existed ; and in particu- 
 lar directions his abilities strike me as really very 
 great indeed. Well, his book has just been reviewed 
 in the last Edinburgh Review (of which some copies 
 have been in town about a week). This service has 
 been done him, I suppose, through some of his political 
 friends — (for he is connected with Brougham, Lord 
 Lansdowne, old Bentham, etc.), — but I understand 
 by Mr. Jeffrey. Mr. Hill, in common with multi- 
 tudes in this Babylon — who will not put their trust 
 in Blackwood as in God (which, you know, he ought 
 to do) — yet privately adores him as the Devil ; and 
 indeed publicly too, is a great of Blackwood. 
 
 For, in spite of his Jacobinism, he is liberal and 
 inevitably just to real wit. His fear is — that Black- 
 wood may come as Nemesis, and compel him to 
 regorge any pufiing and cramming which Tifi has 
 put into his pocket, and is earnest to have a letter 
 addressed in an influential quarter to prevent this. 
 I alleged to him that I am not quite sure but it is an 
 affront to a Professor to presume that he has any 
 connection as contributor, or anything else, to any 
 work which he does not publicly avow as his organ 
 for communicating with the world of letters. He 
 answers that it would be so in him, — but that an old 
 friend may write sub rosa. I rejoin that I know not 
 but you may have cut Blackwood — even as a sub- 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 IX 
 
 scriber — a whole lustrum ago. He rebuts, by urging 
 a just compliment paid to you, as a supposed con- 
 tributor, in the News of Literature and Fashion, but 
 a moon or two ago. Seriously, I have told him that 
 I know not what was the extent of your connection 
 with Blackwood at any time ; and that I conceive 
 the labours of your Chair in the University must 
 now leave you little leisure for any but occasional 
 contributions, and therefore for no regular cognizance 
 of the work as director, etc. However, as all that 
 he wishes — is simply an interference to save him from 
 any very severe article, and not an article in his 
 favour, I have ventured to ask of you if you hear 
 of any such thing, to use such influence as must 
 naturally belong to you in your general character 
 (whether maintaining any connection with Black- 
 wood or not) to get it softened. On the whole, I 
 suppose no such article is likely to appear. But to 
 oblige Hill I make the application. He has no direct 
 interest in the prosperity of Hazlewood ; he is himself 
 a barrister in considerable practice, and of some 
 standing, I believe ; but he takes a strong paternal 
 interest in it, all his brothers (who are accomplished 
 young men, I believe) being engaged in it. They 
 have already had one shock to stand : a certain Mr. 
 Place, a Jacobin friend of the School till just now, 
 having taken the pet with it — and removed his sons. 
 How this Mr. Place, who was formerly a tailor — • 
 leather-breeches maker and habit-maker, — having 
 made a fortune and finished his studies, — is become 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 an immense authority as a political and reforming 
 head with Bentham, etc., as also with the Westminster 
 Review, in which quarter he is supposed to have the 
 weight of nine times nine men ; whence, by the way, 
 in the circles of the booksellers, the Be view has 
 got the name of the Breeches Review,^ ^ ^ ^ [The 
 
 writer then passes on to details of his own plans and 
 prospects, and thus concludes.] 
 
 ‘ I beg my kind regards to Mrs. Wilson and my 
 young friends, whom I remember with so much 
 interest as I last saw them at Elleray.- — I am, my 
 dear Wilson, 
 
 ‘ Very affectionately yours, 
 
 ‘Thomas De Quincey.’ 
 
 In approaching the consideration of other papers 
 said, in various quarters (with some show of authority) 
 to have been written by De Quincey, it was necessary 
 to act with extreme care. One was a painstaking 
 list on the whole, but very inaccurate as regards 
 certain contributions attributed to De Quincey in 
 Blackwood. I have had the kind aid of Messrs. 
 Blackwood in examining the archives of Maga to 
 settle the points in question. 
 
 I was puzzled by some papers in The London 
 Magazine set down as De Quincey’ s contributions 
 in a memorandum said to have been furnished by 
 Messrs. Taylor and Hessey, its Publishers. The 
 Blackwood blunders made me very sceptical. There 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 XI 
 
 was one story in particular — the long droll one 
 of Mr, Schnacicenherger ; or, Two Masters to one 
 Tog, about which I remained in doubt. 
 
 I had a faint recollection that one day De Quincey 
 dwelt on the merits of ‘ Juno/ and owned the story 
 when he was discussing ‘ bull-dogs.^ 
 
 By the way, he was rather fond of ‘bull-dogs,’ 
 and had some good anecdotes about them. It was a 
 kind of pet-admiration-horror which he shared with 
 Southey, on account of the difficulty in making a 
 well-bred bull-dog relax his grip. Some member of 
 the canine ‘ fancy ’ down at the Lakes had given them 
 a so-called infallible ‘ tip ’ for making a bull-dog let 
 go. I am sorry to say I have quite forgotten this 
 admirable receipt. To be sure, one ought never to 
 forget such valuable pieces of information. So I 
 thought one day lately before the muzzling order 
 came into force, when a bloodthirsty monster, — a big, 
 white bull- dog, sprang suddenly at me in Cleveland 
 Gardens. Instantly there flashed the thought — 
 what was it that Be Quincey recommended ? A 
 lucky lunge which drove the ferule of my umbrella 
 down the brute’s throat fortunately created a 
 diversion, and allowed a little more time for the 
 study of the problem. Perhaps I will be pardoned 
 this digression, as it affords an opportunity of record- 
 ing the fact that De Quincey and Southey both 
 looked up to the bull-dog as an animal of very 
 decided ‘character.’ 
 
 I was loth to abandon Mr, Schnachenherger, but 
 
Xll 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 unwilling to lean too much on my somewhat 
 hazy remembrance. It seemed almost hopeless to 
 obtain the necessary evidence. Messrs. Taylor and 
 Hessey were long dead, and after groping about like 
 a detective, no one could tell me what had become 
 of the records of The London Magazine, Suddenly 
 there came light in October last. I ascertained that a 
 son of one of the Publishers is the Archdeacon of 
 Middlesex, the Venerable J. A. Hessey, D.C.L. 
 
 I stated the case, and the worthy Archdeacon 
 came most kindly and promptly to my assistance. 
 As a boy he remembered De Quincey at his 
 father’s house, and recollected very well reading Mr, 
 Schnachenherger, He informed me, was greatly 
 interested in the [London] Magazine generally, so 
 much so, that, at my father’s request, I copied from 
 his private list, and attached to the head of each 
 paper the name of the Author. . . This interesting 
 set came to me at my father’s death.’ 
 
 Dr. Hessey had subsequently presented the series 
 to his old pupil, Mr. William Carew Hazlitt (by 
 whose courtesy I have been able to examine it) — ‘ the 
 grandson of William Hazlitt, who was a frequent 
 writer in the Magazine, and an old friend of my 
 father. I thought he would like to possess it, and 
 that it would thus be in fitting hands. I should not 
 have parted with it in favour of any but a man like 
 Mr. Hazlitt, who was sure to value it.’ 
 
 As these valuable annotations of the Archdeacon 
 ramify in various directions — touching as they do the 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Xlll 
 
 contributions of many brilliant men of that period — it 
 may not be amiss (as a possible help to others in 
 the future) to add a few more decisive words by 
 Dr. Hessey : — 
 
 ‘ If any papers are not marked (he refers only to 
 those volumes actually published by Messrs. Taylor 
 and Hessey) it was because they were anonymous, 
 or because, from some inadvertency, they were not 
 assigned in my father’s list. So far as the record goes, 
 it may he depended upon,^ 
 
 By its help I was able to fix the authorship by 
 De Quincey of (1) The Bog Story — translated from 
 the German, (2) Moral Effects of Bevolutions, (3) 
 Prefigurations of Remote Events, (4) Abstract of 
 Svoedenhorgianism by Immanuel Kant, 
 
 Another perplexing element was the letter written 
 by De Quincey to his uncle. Colonel Benson, in 
 1819 (Page’s Life, vol. i. p. 207), wherein reference 
 is made to certain contributions to BlachwooTs 
 Magazine and The (Quarterly Review. 
 
 The archives of Maga I find go back only as far 
 a,s 1825. As to The Quarterly Review, I have Mr. 
 Murray’s authority for stating that De Quincey 
 never wrote a line in it. Whether any contributions 
 were ever commissioned, paid for, and afterwards 
 suppressed, I have been unable to ascertain. As a 
 matter of fact, the Schiller Series referred to in the 
 letter to Colonel Benson was never reviewed in 
 The Quarterly at all. 
 
XIV 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 De Quince y as a ISTewspaper Editor forms the 
 subject of a Chapter in Pagers Life. Some extracts 
 are there given from cuttings out of The Westmorland 
 Gazette found amongst the Author’s Papers. This 
 editorship (1818-19) was of short duration, and pur- 
 sued under hostile circumstances, such as distance 
 from the Press, &c., which soon led to De Quincey’s 
 resignation. I had hoped to add some further speci- 
 mens of the newspaper work, but have not, as yet, 
 obtained access to a file of the period. In any 
 future edition I may be able to add this in an 
 Appendix. 
 
 The Love-Charm. — In spite of the marvellous 
 tenacity of De Quincey’s memory, even as to the 
 very words of a passage in an Author which he 
 had, perhaps, only once read, there were blanks 
 which confounded himself. One of these bore on 
 his contributions to Knight’s Quarterly Magazine. 
 Mr. Fields had been so generally careful in obtain- 
 ing sufficient authority for what he published, 
 in the original American edition, that De Quincey 
 good-humouredly gave the verdict against himself, 
 and ‘ supposed he must be wrong ’ in thinking that 
 some of these special papers were not from his pen. 
 Still, — he demurred, and before including them in 
 The Selections Grave and Gay, it was resolved to- 
 institute an inquiry. Accordingly, about 1852, I 
 was deputed to interview Mr. Charles Knight, 
 and request his aid. My mission was to obtain, if 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 XV 
 
 possible, a correct list of the various contributions to 
 the Quarterly Magazine^ including this Love-Charm. 
 
 Mr. Knight, Mr. Kamsay (his first lieutenant, as he 
 called him), and myself all met at Fleet Street, where 
 we had the archives of the old Quarterly Magazine 
 turned up, and a list checked. I lately found this 
 particular story also referred to circumstantially in 
 the annexed paragraph contained in Charles Knight’s 
 Passages of a Working Life (Thorne’s re-issue, vol. I. 
 chap. X. p. 339). 
 
 * ‘ De Quincey had written to me in December 1824, 
 in the belief that, as he expressed it, ‘‘ many of your 
 friends will rally about you, and urge you to some new 
 undertaking of the same kind. If that should happen, 
 I beg to say, that you may count upon me, as one of 
 your men, for any extent of labour, to the best of my 
 power, which you may choose to command.” He wrote 
 a translation of The Love-Charm of Tieck, with a 
 notice of the Author. This is not reprinted in his 
 Collected Works, though perhaps it is the most in- 
 teresting of his translations from the German. In 
 this spring and summer De Quincey and I were in 
 intimate companionship. It was a pleasant time of 
 intellectual intercourse for me.’ 
 
 There is no doubt The Love-Charm would have been 
 reprinted had the Author lived to carry the Selections 
 farther. 
 
 The curious little Essay On Novels , — written in a 
 Lady’s Album, had passed out of Mr. Davey’s hands 
 
XVI 
 
 PEEFACE. 
 
 before I became aware of its existence. The fac- 
 simile, however, taken for The Archivist, by an expert 
 like Mr. Netherclift, shows that it is, unquestion- 
 ably, in the handwriting of De Quincey. I have 
 been unable to’ trace the ‘ Fair Incognita ’ to whom 
 it was addressed. 
 
 The compositions which were written for me when 
 I edited Titan, and which I now place before the 
 public in volume form, after the lapse of a whole 
 generation (thirty-three years, to speak ^ by the card ’), 
 demand some special comment, particularly in their 
 relation to the Selections Grave and Gay. 
 
 Titan was a half-crown monthly Magazine, a con- 
 tinuation in an enlarged form of The Instructor. I 
 had become the acting Editor of its predecessor, the 
 New Series of The Instructor, working in concert with 
 my Father, the proprietor. In this New Series there 
 appeared from De Quincey’ s pen The Sphinx's Riddle, 
 Judas Iscariot, the Series of Sketches from Childhood, 
 and other notable papers. 
 
 At that time I was but a young editor — young 
 and, perhaps, a little ‘ curly,’ as Lord Beaconsfield 
 put it. De Quincey, with a truly paternal solicitude, 
 gave me much good advice and valuable help, both 
 in the selection of subjects for the Magazine and 
 in the mode of handling them. The notes on The 
 Lake Dialect, Shakspere's Text and Suetonius Un- 
 ravelled, were written to me in the form of Letters, 
 and published in Titan. 
 
PREFACE. Xvii 
 
 Storms in English History was a consideration of 
 part of Mr. Froude^s well-known book, which on its 
 publication made a great stir in the literary world, 
 and profoundly impressed De Quince y. 
 
 How to write English was the first of a series pro- 
 jected for The Instructor. It never got beyond this 
 ‘ Introduction,' but the fragment contains some matter 
 well worthy of preservation. 
 
 The circumstances attending the composition of the 
 four papers on The English in India and The English 
 in China I have explained at some length in the 
 introductory notices attached to them. 
 
 And now for a confession ! The ‘ gentle reader ’ 
 may, perhaps, feel a momentary inclination to blame 
 me when I reveal, that I rather stood in the way 
 of some brilliant articles which were very seriously 
 considered at this period. 
 
 De Quincey was eager to write them, and I should 
 have been glad indeed to have had them for Titan., 
 but for a fear of allowing the Author to wander too 
 far from the ever-present and irksome Works. Any 
 possible escape — even through other downright hard 
 work, from this perplexing labour was joyfully hailed 
 by him as a hopeful chance of obtaining a prosperous 
 holiday. 
 
 For a little I wavered under the temptation (Reader, 
 — was it not great*?) — the idea of having a little 
 relaxation which would permit some, at least, of 
 these well-planned papers to be written. But I was 
 keenly alive to the danger which overtook us at last. 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
XVlll 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 We are daily reminded that ‘art is long and life is 
 short.’ I had already saved the Works from being 
 strangled at their birth in a legal tussle with Mr. 
 John Taylor.^ My Father was at my elbow anxiously 
 inquiring about the progress of the ‘ copy ’ for each 
 succeeding volume. There were eager friends also, on 
 both sides of the Atlantic, pressing resolutely for it. 
 So — prudence prevailed, and we held as straightly 
 on our way as the Author’s uncertain health would 
 permit. 
 
 Thus it came to pass, dear Public, that you lost 
 some charming essays, while you gained the fourteen 
 volumes of the Selections which the Author all but 
 completed. 
 
 Wherefore, seeing that you may possibly expect it 
 of me to make some use of my rare opportunities by 
 doing whatever I can in these matters, ‘ before the 
 night cometh,’ — I have prepared this book — ohne 
 hast, ohne rast. 
 
 I cannot close these few pages better than by 
 quoting some strong, just, sympathetic words which 
 appeared in two great reviews — one American, the 
 other British. 
 
 The North American Review said : — 
 
 ‘In De Quincey we are struck at once by the 
 exquisite refinement of mind, the subtleness of as- 
 sociation, and the extreme tenuity of the threads of 
 
 * This incident was a complicated contention, concerning the 
 copyright of The Confessions, in which De Quincey had long 
 allowed his rights to lie dormant. It was at last happily settled 
 in an amicable manner. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 XIX 
 
 thought, the gossamer filaments yet finally weaving 
 themselves together, and thickening imperceptibly 
 into a strong and expanded web. Mingled with this, 
 and perhaps springing from a similar mental habit, 
 is an occasional dreaminess both in speculation and 
 in narrative, when the mind seems to move vaguely 
 round in vast returning circles. The thoughts catch 
 hold of nothing, but are heaved and tossed like 
 masses of cloud by the wind. An incident of trivial 
 import is turned and turned to catch the light of 
 every possible consequence, and so magnified as to 
 become portentous and terrible.^ 
 
 ‘ A barren and trivial fact, under the power of 
 that life-giving hand, shoots out on all sides into 
 waving branches and green leaves, and odoriferous 
 flowers. It is not the fact that interests us, but the 
 mind working upon it, investing it with mock-heroic 
 dignity, or rendering it illustrative of really serious 
 principles ; or, with the true insight of genius, dis- 
 covering, in that which a vulgar eye would despise, 
 the germs of grandeur and beauty ; the passions of 
 war in the contests of the rival factions of schoolboys, 
 the tragedy in every peasant’s death-bed.’ 
 
 ‘ De Quincey constantly amazes us by the amount 
 and diversity of his learning. Two or three of the 
 minor papers in the collected volumes are absolutely 
 loaded with the life spoils of their author’s scholarship, 
 yet carry their burden as lightly as our bodies sustain 
 
 B 2 
 
XX 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 the weight of the circumambient atmosphere. So 
 perfect is his tact in finding, or rather making a place 
 for everything, that, while inviting, he eludes the 
 charge of pedantry.’ 
 
 ^ ^ ^ 
 
 ^ ‘ It is scarcely to be expected that one who 
 tries his hand at so many kinds of pencraft should 
 always excel ; yet such is the force of De Quince y’s 
 intellect, the brilliancy of his imagination, and the 
 charm of his style, that he throws a new and peculiar 
 interest over every subject which he discusses, while 
 his fictitious narratives in general rivet the attention 
 of the reader with a power not easily resisted.’ 
 
 The Quarterly Review said : — 
 
 ‘ De Quincey’s style is superb, his powers of rea- 
 soning unsurpassed, his imagination is warm and 
 brilliant, and his humour both masculine and delicate.’ 
 
 The writer continues : — 
 
 ^ A great master of English composition, a critic of 
 uncommon delicacy, an honest and unflinching inves- 
 tigator of received opinions, a philosophic inquirer — 
 De Quincey has departed from us full of years, and 
 left no successor to his rank. The exquisite finish of 
 his style, with the scholastic vigour of his logic, form 
 a combination which centuries may never reproduce, 
 but which every generation should study as one of 
 the marvels of English Literature.’ 
 
 James Hogg. 
 
 London , February , 1890. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PREFACE ... ... .0. ... ... ... V 
 
 A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE 
 
 IN ITS FOREMOST PRETENSIONS ... ... 23 
 
 THE GERMAN LANGUAGE, AND PHILOSOPHY OF 
 
 KANT ... ... ...' ... ... 91 
 
 MORAL EFFECTS OF REVOLUTIONS ... ... 130 
 
 PREFIGURATIONS OF REMOTE EVENTS ... ... 132 
 
 MEASURE OF VALUE ... ... ... ... 134 
 
 LETTER IN REPLY TO HAZLITT CONCERNING THE 
 
 MALTHUSIAN DOCTRINE OF POPULATION ... 141 
 
 THE SERVICES OF MR. RICARDO TO THE SCIENCE 
 
 OF POLITICAL ECONOMY ... ... ... 154 
 
 EDUCATION, AND CASE OF APPEAL ... ... 160 
 
 ABSTRACT OF SWEDENBORGIANISM ... ... 215 
 
 SKETCH OF PROFESSOR WILSON ... ... ... 225 
 
 THE LAKE DIALECT ... ... ... ... 265 
 
 STORMS IN ENGLISH HISTORY ... ... ... 275 
 
 THE ENGLISH IN INDIA '... ... ... ... 298 
 
 ON NOVELS (written IN A LADY’s ALBUM) ... 354 
 
 DE quincey’s portrait ... ... ... 357 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK 
 LITERATURE IN ITS FOREMOST PRE- 
 TENSIONS : 
 
 By way of Counsel to Adults who are hesitating as to the Pro- 
 priety of Sticdying the Greek Language with a view to the 
 Literature ; and hy way of consolation to those whom circum- 
 stances have obliged to lay asidx that plan. 
 
 No. I. 
 
 No question has been coming up at intervals for 
 reconsideration more frequently than that which 
 respects the comparative pretensions of Pagan (viz. 
 Greek and Roman) Literature on the one side, and 
 Modern (that is, the Literature of Christendom) on 
 the other. Being brought uniformly before unjust 
 tribunals — that is, tribunals corrupted and bribed by 
 their own vanity — it is not wonderful that this great 
 question should have been stifled and overlaid with 
 peremptory decrees, dogmatically cutting the knot 
 rather than skilfully untying it, as often as it has 
 been moved afresh, and put upon the roll for a re- 
 hearing. It is no mystery to those who are in the 
 secret, and who can lay A and B together, why it 
 should have happened that the most interesting of all 
 literary questions, and the most comprehensive (for 
 
24 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 it includes most others, and some special to itself), 
 has, in the first place, never been pleaded in a style 
 of dignity, of philosophic precision, of feeling, or of 
 research, proportioned to its own merits, and to the 
 numerous ‘ issues ’ (forensically speaking) depending 
 upon it ; nor, in the second place, has ever received 
 such an adjudication as was satisfactory even at the 
 moment. For, be it remembered, after all, that any 
 provisional adjudication — one growing out of the 
 fashion or taste of a single era — could not, at any 
 rate, be binding for a different era. A judgment 
 which met the approbation of Spenser could hardly 
 have satisfied Dryden ; nor another which satisfied 
 Pope, have been recognised as authentic by us of the 
 year 1838. It is the normal or exemplary condition 
 of the human mind, its ideal condition, not its ab- 
 normal condition, as seen in the transitory modes and 
 fashions of its taste or its opinions, which only 
 
 * Can lay great bases for eternity, ’ 
 
 or give even a colourable permanence to any decision 
 in a matter so large, so perplexed, so profound, as 
 this great pending suit between antiquity and our- 
 selves — between the junior men of this earth and 
 ourselves, the seniors, as Lord Bacon reasonably calls 
 us. Appeals will be brought ad infinitum — we our- 
 selves shall bring appeals, to set aside any judgment 
 that may be given, until something more is consulted 
 than individual taste ; better evidence brought for- 
 ward than the result of individual reading ; something 
 higher laid down as the grounds of judgment, as the 
 very principles of the jurisprudence which controls 
 the court, than those vague responsa prudentum, 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 25 
 
 countersigned by the great name, perhaps, of Aris- 
 totle, but still too often mere products of local con- 
 venience, of inexperience, of experience too limited 
 and exclusively Grecian, or of absolute caprice — rules, 
 in short, which are themselves not less truly suh 
 judice and liable to appeal than that very appeal cause 
 to which they are applied as decisive. 
 
 We have remarked, that it is no mystery why the 
 decision should have gone pretty uniformly in favour 
 of the ancients ; for here is the dilemma : — A man, 
 attempting this problem, is or is not a classical 
 scholar. If he is, then he has already received a bias 
 in his judgment ; he is a bribed man, bribed by his 
 vanity ; and is liable to be challenged as one of the 
 judges. If he is not, then he is but imperfectly 
 qualified — imperfectly as respects his knowledge and 
 powers ; whilst, even as respects his will and affec- 
 tions, it may be alleged that he also is under a bias 
 and a corrupt influence ; his interest being no less 
 obvious to undervalue a literature, which, as to 
 him, is tabooed and under lock and key, than his 
 opponent’s is to put a preposterous value upon that 
 knowledge which very probably is the one sole 
 advantageous distinction between him and his 
 neighbours. 
 
 We might cite an illustration from the French 
 literary history on this very point. Every nation in 
 turn has had its rows in this great quarrel, which is, 
 in fact, co-extensive with the controversies upon 
 human nature itself. The French, of course, have 
 had theirs — solemn tournaments, single duels, casual 
 ‘ turn-ups,’ and regular ‘ stand-up ’ fights. The most 
 celebrated of these was in the beginning of the last 
 
26 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 century, when, amongst others who acted as bottle- 
 holders, umpires, &c., two champions in particular 
 ‘ peeled ’ and fought a considerable number of rounds, 
 mutually administering severe punishment, and both 
 coming out of the ring disfigured : these were M. la 
 Motte and Madame Dacier. But Motte was the 
 favourite at first, and once he got Dacier ‘ into 
 chancery,^ and ‘fibbed’ her twice round the ropes, so 
 that she became a truly pitiable and delightful spec- 
 tacle to the connoisseurs in fibbing and bloodshed. 
 But here lay the difference : Motte was a hard hitter ; 
 he was a clever man, and (which all clever men are 
 not) a man of sense ; but, like Shakspeare, he had no 
 Greek. On the other hand, Dacier had nothing hut 
 Greek. A certain abbe, at that time, amused all 
 Paris with his caricatures of this Madame Dacier, 
 ‘who,’ said he, ‘ought to be cooking her husband’s 
 dinner, and darning his stockings, instead of skir- 
 mishing and tilting with Grecian spears ; for, be it 
 known that, after all her not cooking and her not 
 darning, she is as poor a scholar as her injured hus- 
 band is a good one.’ And there the abbe was right ; 
 witness the husband’s Horace, in 9 vols., against the 
 wife’s Homer, However, this was not generally un- 
 derstood. The lady, it was believed, waded petticoat- 
 deep in Greek clover ; and in any Grecian field of 
 dispute, naturally she must be in the right, as against 
 one who barely knew his own language and a little 
 Latin. Motte was, therefore, thought by most people 
 to have come off second best. For, as soon as ever 
 he opened thus — ‘Madame, it seems to me that, 
 agreeably to all common sense or common decorum, 
 the Greek poet should here ’ instantly, without 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 27 
 
 listening to his argument, the intrepid Amazon re- 
 plied (vTTodpa idii(Ta), ‘ You foolish man ! you remark- 
 ably silly man ! — that is because you know no better ; 
 and the reason you know no better, is because you 
 do not understand ton cC apameihomenos as I do.’ Ton 
 T apameihomenos fell like a hand-grenade amongst 
 Motte’s papers, and blew him up effectually in the 
 opinion of the multitude. No matter what he might 
 say in reply — no matter how reasonable, how unan- 
 swerable — that one spell of ‘No Greek ! no Greek ! ’ 
 availed as a talisman to the lady both for offence 
 and defence ; and refuted all syllogisms and all elo- 
 quence as effectually as the cry of A la lanterne I in 
 the same country some fourscore years after. 
 
 So it will always be. Those who (like Madame 
 Dacier) possess no accomplishment hut Greek, will, of 
 necessity, set a superhuman value upon that litera- 
 ture in all its parts, to which their own narrow skill 
 becomes an available key. Besides that, over and 
 above this coarse and conscious motive for overrating 
 that which reacts with an equal and answerable 
 overrating upon their own little philological attain- 
 ments, there is another agency at work, and quite 
 unconsciously to the subjects of that agency, in dis- 
 turbing the sanity of any estimate they may make 
 of a foreign literature. It is the habit (well known 
 to psychologists) of transferring to anything created 
 by our own skill, or which reflects our own skill, 
 as if it lay causatively and objectively* in the re- 
 flecting thing itself, that pleasurable power which in 
 very truth belongs subjectively * to the mind of 
 
 * — * Objectively and subjectively are terms somewhat too meta- 
 physical ; but they are so indispensable to accurate thinking 
 
28 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 him who surveys it, from conscious success in the 
 exercise of his own energies. Hence it is that we 
 see daily without surprise, young ladies hanging 
 enamoured over the pages of an Italian author, 
 and calling attention to trivial commonplaces, such 
 as, clothed in plain mother English, would have 
 been more repulsive to them than the distinctions 
 of a theologian, or the counsels of a great-grand- 
 mother. They mistake for a pleasure yielded by the 
 author, what is in fact the pleasure attending their 
 own success in mastering what was lately an insuper- 
 able difficulty. 
 
 It is indeed a pitiable spectacle to any man of sense 
 and feeling, who happens to be really familiar with 
 the golden treasures of his own ancestral literature, 
 and a spectacle which moves alternately scorn and 
 sorrow, to see young people squandering their time 
 and painful study upon writers not fit to unloose the 
 shoes’ latchets of many amongst their own com- 
 patriots ; making painful and remote voyages after 
 the drossy refuse, when the pure gold lies neglected 
 at their feet. Too often he is reminded of a case, 
 which is still sometimes to be witnessed in London. 
 'Now and then it will happen that a lover of art, 
 modern or antique alike, according to its excellence, 
 will find himself honoured by an invitation from some 
 millionnaire, or some towering grandee, to ‘assist,’ as 
 the phrase is, at the opening of a case newly landed 
 from the Tiber or the Arno, and fraught (as he is 
 assured) with the very gems of Italian art, inter- 
 
 that we are inclined to show them some indulgence ; and, the 
 more so, in cases where the mere position and connection of the 
 words are half sufficient to explain their application. 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 29 
 
 mingled besides with many genuine antiques. He 
 goes : the cases are solemnly disgorged ; adulatory 
 hangers on, calling themselves artists, and, at all 
 events, so much so as to appreciate the solemn farce 
 enacted, stand by uttering hollow applauses of my 
 Lord’s taste, and endeavouring to play upon the 
 tinkling cymbals of spurious enthusiasm : whilst 
 every man of real discernment perceives at a glance 
 the mere refuse and sweeping of a third-rate studio, 
 such as many a native artist would disdain to turn 
 out of his hands j and antiques such as could be pro- 
 duced, with a month’s notice, by cart-loads, in many 
 an obscure corner of London. Yet for this rubbish 
 has the great man taken a painful tour ; compassed 
 land and sea ; paid away in exchange a king’s 
 ransom ; and claims now on their behalf, the very 
 humblest homage of artists who are taxed with the 
 basest envy if they refuse it, and who, meantime, 
 cannot in sincerity look upon the trumpery with 
 other feelings than such as the potter’s wheel, if (like 
 Ezekiel’s wheels) it were instinct with spirit, would 
 entertain for the vilest of its own creations — culinary 
 or ‘post-culinary’ mugs and jugs. We, the writers 
 of this paper, are not artists, are not connected with 
 artists. And yet, upon the general principle of sym- 
 pathy with native merit, and of disgust towards all 
 affectation, we cannot but recall such anecdotes with 
 scorn ; and often we recollect the stories recorded by 
 poor Benvenuto Cellini, that dissolute but brilliant 
 vagabond, who (like our own British artists) was some- 
 times upbraided with the degeneracy of modern art, 
 and, upon his humbly requesting some evidence, re- 
 ceived, by way of practical answer, a sculptured gem 
 
30 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 or vase, perhaps with a scornful demand of — when 
 would he be able to produce anything like that — ‘ eh, 
 Master Ben ? Fancy we must wait a few centuries 
 or so, before you’ll be ready with the fellow of this.’ 
 And, lo ! on looking into some hidden angle of the 
 beautiful production, poor Cellini discovered his own 
 private mark, the supposed antique having been a 
 pure forgery of his own. Such cases remind one too 
 forcibly of the pretty Horatian tale, where, in a con- 
 test between two men who undertake to mimic a pig’s 
 grunting, he who happens to be the favourite of the 
 audience is applauded to the echo for his felicitous 
 execution, and repeatedly encored, whilst the other man 
 is hissed off the stage, and well kicked by a band of 
 amateurs and cognoscenti, as a poor miserable copyist 
 and impostor ; but, unfortunately for the credit of his 
 exploders, he has just time, before they have quite 
 kicked him off, for exposing to view the real pig con- 
 cealed under his cloak, which pig it was, and not 
 himself, that had been the artist — forced by pinches 
 into ‘ mimicry ’ of his own porcine music. Of all 
 baffled connoisseurs, surely these Boman pig-fanciers 
 must have looked the most confounded. Yet there 
 is no knowing : and we ourselves have a clever friend, 
 but rather too given to subtilising, who contends, 
 upon some argument not perfectly intelligible to us, 
 that Horace was not so conclusive in his logic as he 
 fancied ; that the real pig might not have an ‘ ideal ’ 
 or normal squeak, but a peculiar and non-represent- 
 ative squeak ; and that, after all, the man might 
 deserve the ‘threshing’ he got. Well, it may be so; 
 but, however, the Boman audience, wrong or not, for 
 once fancied themselves in the wrong ; and we cannot 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 31 
 
 but regret that our own ungenerous disparagers of 
 native merit, and exclusive eulogisers of the dead or 
 the alien — of those only ‘ quos Lihitina smravit^ or 
 whom oceans divide from us — are not now and then 
 open to the same palpable refutation, as they are cer- 
 tainly guilty of the same mean error, in prejudging 
 the whole question, and refusing to listen even to the 
 plain evidence of their own feelings, or, in some cases, 
 to the voice of their own senses. 
 
 From this preface it is already abundantly clear 
 what side we take in this dispute about modern liter- 
 ature and the antique.^ And we now propose to 
 justify our leaning by a general review of the Pagan 
 authors, in their elder section — that is, the Grecians. 
 These will be enough in all conscience, for one essay ; 
 and even for them we meditate a very cursory in- 
 quest ; not such as would suffice in a grand cere- 
 
 * In general usage, ‘ The antique ’ is a phrase limited to the 
 expression of art ; hut improperly so. It is quite as legitimately 
 used to denote the literature of ancient times, in contradis- 
 tinction to the modern. As to the term classical, though gener- 
 ally employed as equivalent to Greek and Roman, the reader 
 must not forget this is quite a false limitation, contradicting the 
 very reason for applying the word in any sense to literature. 
 For the application arose thus : The social body of Rome being 
 divided into six classes, of which the lowest was the sixth, it 
 followed that the highest was the first. Thence, by a natural 
 process common to most languages, those who belonged to this 
 highest had no number at all assigned to them. The very 
 absence of a number, the calling them classici, implied that they 
 belonged to the class emphatically, or par excellence. The 
 classics meant, therefore, the grandees in social consideration ; 
 and thence by analogy in literature. But if this analogy be 
 transferred from Rome to Greece, where it had no correspond- 
 ing root in civic arrangement — then, by parity of reason, to all 
 nations. 
 
32 
 
 DE QUINOEY. 
 
 monial day of battle — a justum prcelium, as a Roman 
 would call it — but in a mere perfunctory skirmish, 
 or (if the reader objects to that word as pedantic, 
 though, really, it is a highly-favoured word amongst 
 ancient divines, and with many a 
 
 ‘ philosopher, 
 
 Who has read Alexander Ross over,’) 
 
 why, in that case, let us indulge his fastidious taste 
 by calling it an autoschediastic combat, to which, 
 surely, there can be no such objection. And as the 
 manner of the combat is autoschediastic or extempo- 
 raneous, and to meet a hurried occasion, so is the 
 reader to understand that the object of our disputa- 
 tion is not the learned, but the unlearned student ; 
 and our purpose, not so much to discontent the one 
 with his painful acquisitions, as to console the other 
 under what, upon the old principle of omne ignotum 
 pro magnifico, he is too apt to imagine his irreparable 
 disadvantages. We set before us, as our especial 
 auditor, the reasonable man of plain sense but strong 
 feeling, who wishes to know how much he has lost, 
 and what injury the gods did him, when, though 
 making him, perhaps, poetical, they cut short his 
 allowance of Latin, and, as to Greek, gave him not a 
 jot more than a cow has in her side pocket. 
 
 Let us begin at the beginning — and that, as every- 
 body knows, is Homer. He is, indeed, so much at 
 the beginning that, for that very reason (if even 
 there were no other), he is, and will be ever more, 
 supremely interesting. Is the unlearned reader 
 aware of his age? Upon that point there are more 
 hypotheses than one or even two. Some there are 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 33 
 
 among the chronologers who make him eleven hun- 
 dred years anterior to Christ. But those who allow 
 him least, place him more than nine — that is, about 
 two centuries before the establishment of the Grecian 
 Olympiads, and (which is pretty nearly the same 
 thing as regards time) before Bomulus and Bemus. 
 Such an antiquity as this, even on its own account, 
 is a reasonable object of interest. A poet to whom 
 the great-grandfather of old Ancus Martins (his 
 grandfather, did we say — that is, avus? — nay, his 
 abavus, his atavus, his tritavus) looked back as to one 
 in a line with his remote ancestor — a poet who, if he 
 travelled about as extensively as some have supposed 
 him to do, or even as his own countryman Herodotus 
 most certainly did five or six hundred years after- 
 wards, might have conversed with the very workmen 
 who laid the foundations of the first temple at J eru- 
 salem — might have bent the knee before Solomon in 
 allv his glory : — Such a poet, were he no better than 
 the worst of our own old metrical romancers, would 
 — merely for his antiquity, merely for the sublime 
 fact of having been coeval with the eldest of those 
 whom the eldest of histories presents to our know- 
 ledge ; coeval with the earliest kings of Judah, older 
 than the greatest of the Judean prophets, older than 
 the separation of the two Jewish crowns and the 
 revolt of Israel, and, even with regard to Moses and 
 to Joshua, not in any larger sense junior than as we 
 ourselves are junior to Chaucer — purely and exclu- 
 sively with regard to these pretensions, backed and 
 supported by an antique form of an antique language 
 — the most comprehensive and the most melodious 
 in the world, would — could — should — ought to merit 
 
 VOL. I. c 
 
34 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 a filial attention ; and, perhaps with those who had 
 waggon-loads of time to spare, might plead the benefit, 
 beyond most of those in whose favour it was enacted, 
 of that Horatian rule — 
 
 ‘ VOS exemplaria Grseca, 
 
 Nocturna versate manu, versate diurna.’ 
 
 In fact, when we recollect that, in round numbers, 
 we ourselves may be considered as two thousand 
 years in advance of Christ, and that (by assuming 
 less even than a mean between the different dates 
 assigned to Homer) he stands a thousand years before 
 Christ, we find between Homer and ourselves a gulf 
 of three thousand years, or about one clear half of 
 the total extent which we grant to the present dura- 
 tion of our planet. This in itself is so sublime a 
 circumstance in the relations of Homer to our era, 
 and the sense of power is so delightfully titillated 
 to that man’s feeling, who, by means of Creek, and 
 a very moderate skill in this fine language, is able 
 to grasp the awful span, the vast arch of which one 
 foot rest upon 1838, and the other almost upon the 
 war of Troy — the mighty rainbow which, like the 
 archangel in the Hevelation, plants its western 
 limb amongst the carnage and the magnificence of 
 Waterloo, and the other amidst the vanishing gleams 
 and the dusty clouds of Agamemnon’s rearguard — 
 that we may pardon a little exultation to the man 
 who can actually mutter to himself, as he rides home 
 of a summer evening, the very words and vocal music 
 of the old blind man at whose command 
 
 ‘ the Iliad and the Odyssey 
 
 Kose to the murmurs of the voiceful sea.’ 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 35 
 
 But pleasures in this world fortunately are without 
 end. And every man, after all, has many pleasures 
 peculiar to himself — pleasures which no man shares 
 with him, even as he is shut out from many of other 
 men. To renounce one in particular, is no subject 
 for sorrow, so long as many remain in that very class 
 equal or superior. Elwood the Quaker had a luxury 
 which none of us will ever have, in hearing the very 
 voice and utterance of a poet quiet as blind as Homer, 
 and by many a thousand times more sublime. And 
 yet Elwood was not perhaps much happier for that. 
 For now, to proceed, reader — abstract from his 
 sublime antiquity, and his being the very earliest of 
 authors, allowance made for one or two Hebrew 
 writers (who, being inspired, are scarcely to be 
 viewed as human competitors), how much is there in 
 Homer, intrinsically in Homer, stripped of his fine 
 draperies of time and circumstance, in the naked 
 Homer, disapparelled of the pride, pomp, and circum- 
 stance of glorious antiquity, to remunerate a man for 
 his labour in acquiring Greek ] Men think very dif- 
 ferently about what will remunerate any given labour. 
 A fool (professional foot) in Shakspeare ascertains, 
 by a natural process of logic, that a ‘ remuneration ' 
 means a testern, which is just sixpence; and two 
 remunerations, therefore, a testoon, or one shilling. 
 But many men will consider the same service ill paid 
 by a thousand pounds. So, of the reimbursement for 
 learning a language. Lord Camden is said to have 
 learned Spanish, merely to enjoy Don Quixote more 
 racily. Cato, the elder Cato, after abusing Greek 
 throughout his life, sat down in extreme old age to 
 study it ; and wherefore ? Mr. Coleridge mentions 
 
36 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 an author, in whom, upon opening his pages with 
 other expectations, he stumbled upon the following 
 fragrant passage — ‘ But from this frivolous digression 
 upon philosophy and the fine arts, let us return to a 
 subject too little understood or appreciated in these 
 sceptical days — the subject of dung.' Now, that was 
 precisely the course of thought with this old censor- 
 ious Cato : So long as Greek offered, or seemed to 
 offer, nothing but philosophy or poetry, he was 
 clamorous against Greek; bub he began to thaw and 
 melt a little upon the charms of Greek — he ^ owned 
 the soft impeachment,’ when he heard of some Grecian 
 treatises upon heans and turnips; and, finally, he 
 sank under its voluptuous seductions, when he heard 
 of others upon dung. There are, therefore, as different 
 notions about a ‘ remuneration ’ in this case, as the 
 poor fool had met with it in his case. We, however, 
 unappalled by the bad names of ‘Goth,’ ‘Yandal, 
 and so forth, shall honestly lay before the reader our 
 notions. 
 
 When Dryden wrote his famous, indeed matchless, 
 epigram upon the three great masters (or reputed 
 masters) of the Epopee, he found himself at no loss 
 to characterize the last of the triad — no matter what 
 qualities he imputed to the first and the second, he 
 knew himself safe in imputing them all to the third. 
 The mighty modern had everything that his pre- 
 decessors were ever thought to have, as well as some- 
 thing beside.* So he expressed the surpassing 
 
 * The beauty of this famous epigram lies in the form of the 
 conception. The first had A ; the second had B ; and when 
 nature, to furnish out a third, should have given him C, she 
 found that A and B had already exhausted her cycle ; and that 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 37 
 
 grandeur of Milton, by saying that in him nature had 
 embodied, by concentration as in one focus, whatever 
 excellencies she had scattered separately amongst her 
 earlier favourites. But, in strict regard to the facts, 
 this is far from being a faithful statement of the 
 relations between Milton and his elder brothers of 
 the Epos : in sublimity, if that is what Dry den meant 
 by ‘ loftiness of thought,’ it is not so fair to class 
 Milton with the greatest of poets, as to class him 
 apart, retired from all others, sequestered, ‘ sole-sitting 
 by the shores of old romance.’ In other poets, in 
 Dante for example, there may be rays, gleams, sudden 
 coruscations, casual scintillations, of the sublime ; but 
 for any continuous and sustained blaze of the sublime, 
 it is in vain to look for it, except in Milton, making 
 allowances (as before) for the inspired sublimities of 
 Isaiah, Ezekiel, and of the great Evangelist’s Reve- 
 lations. As to Homer, no critic who writes from 
 personal and direct knowledge on the one hand, or 
 who understands the value of words on the other, 
 ever contended in any critical sense for sublimity, as 
 a quality to which he had the slightest pretensions. 
 What ! not Longinus '? If he did, it would have been 
 of little consequence ; for he had no field of com- 
 parison, as we, knowing no literature but one — • 
 whereas we have a range of seven or eight. But he 
 did not : To or the elevated, in the Longinian 
 
 she could distinguish her third great favourite only by giving 
 him both A and B in combination. But the filling up of this 
 outline is imperfect : for the A {loftiness) and the B {majesty) 
 are one and the same quality, under different names. 
 
 * Because the Latin word suhlimis is applied to objects 
 soaring upwards, or floating aloft, or at an aerial altitude, and 
 because the word does sometimes correspond to our idea of the 
 
38 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 sense, expressed all, no matter of what origin, of 
 what tendency, which gives a character of life and 
 animation to composition — whatever raises it above 
 the dead level of flat prosaic style. Emphasis, or 
 what in an artist’s sense gives relief to a passage, 
 causing it to stand forward, and in advance of what 
 surrounds it — that is the predominating idea in the 
 ‘ sublime ’ of Longinus. And this explains what 
 otherwise has perplexed his modern interpreters — • 
 viz. that amongst the elements of his sublime, he 
 ranks even the pathetic, e, (say they) what by 
 connecting itself with the depressing passion of grief 
 is the very counter-agent to the elevating affection of 
 the sublime. True, most sapient sirs, my very 
 worthy and approved good masters : but that very 
 consideration should have taught you to look back, 
 and reconsider your translation of the capital word 
 vil^oQ. It was rather too late in the day, when you 
 had waded half-seas over in your translation, to find 
 
 sublime (in which the notion of height is united with the 
 notion of moral grandeur), and because, in the excessive vague- 
 ness and lawless latitudinarianism of our common Greek 
 Lexicons, the word vipog is translated, inter alia, by to sublime, 
 sublimitas, &c. Hence it has happened that the title of the 
 little essay ascribed to Longinus, ITfpi v\povg, is usually rendered 
 into English, Concerning the sublime. But the idea of the 
 Sublime, as defined, circumscribed, and circumstantiated, in 
 English literature — an idea altogether of English growth — the 
 sublime byway of polar antithesis to the Beautiful, had no exist- 
 ence amongst ancient critics ; consequently it could have no 
 expression. It is a great thought, a true thought, a demon- 
 strable thought, that the Sublime, as thus ascertained, and in 
 contraposition to the Beautiful, grew up on the basis of sexual 
 distinctions, the Sublime corresponding to the male, the 
 Beautiful, its anti-pole, corresponding to the female. Behold ! 
 we show you a mystery. 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 39 
 
 out either that you yourselves were ignoramuses, or 
 that your principal was an ass. * Returning were as 
 tedious as go o’er.’ And any man might guess how 
 you would settle such a dilemma. It is, according to 
 you, a little oversight of your principal : ‘ humanum 
 aliquid passus est.^ We, on the other hand, affirm 
 that, if an error at all on the part of Longinus, it is 
 too monstrous for any man to have ‘ overlooked.’ As 
 long as he could see a pike-staff, he must have seen 
 that. And, therefore, we revert to our view of the 
 case — viz. that it is yourselves who have committed 
 the blunder, in translating by the Latin word suh- 
 limis ^ at all, but still more after it had received new 
 determinations under modern usage. 
 
 * No word has ever given so much trouble to modern critics 
 as this very word (now under discussion) of the sioblime. To 
 those who have little Greek and no Latin, it is necessary in the 
 first place that we should state what are the most obvious 
 elements of the word. According to the noble army of etymo- 
 logists, they are these two Latin words — siob, under, and limus^ 
 mud. Oh ! gemini ! who would have thought of groping for 
 the sublime in such a situation as that ? — unless, indeed, it were 
 that writer cited by Mr. Coleridge, and just now referred to by 
 ourselves, who complains of frivolous modern readers, as not 
 being able to raise and sequester their thoughts to the abstract 
 consideration of dung. Hence it has followed, that most people 
 have quarrelled with the etymology. Whereupon the late Dr. 
 Parr, of pedantic memory, wrote a huge letter to Mr. Dugald 
 Stewart, but the marrow of which lies in a nutshell, especially 
 being rather hollow within. The learned doctor, in the first 
 folio, grapples with the word suh, which, says he, comes from 
 the Greek — so much is clear — but from what Greek, Bezonian ? 
 The thoughtless world, says he, trace it to vno (hypo), sub, i. e. 
 under ; but I, Ego, Samuel Parr, the Birmingham doctor, trace 
 it to uTTcp (hyper), super, i. e. above ; between which the dif- 
 ference is not less than between a chestnut horse and a horse- 
 chestnut. To this learned Parrian dissertation on mud, there 
 
40 
 
 r' DE QUINCEY. 
 
 Now, therefore, after this explanation, recurring to 
 the Longinian critiques upon Homer, it will avail any 
 idolater of Homer but little, it will affect us not much, 
 to mention that Longinus makes frequent reference 
 to the Iliad, as the great source of the sublime — 
 
 ‘ A quo, ceu fonte perenni, 
 
 Yatum Pieriis ora rigantur aquis ’ ; 
 
 for, as respected Grecian poets, and as respected his 
 sense of the word, it cannot be denied that Homer 
 was such. He was the great well-head of inspiration 
 to the Pagan poets of after times, who, however {as a 
 body), moved in the narrowest circle that has ever 
 yet confined the natural freedom of the poetic mind. 
 But, in conceding this, let it not be forgotten how 
 much we concede — we concede as much as Longinus 
 demanded ; that is, that Homer furnished an ideal 
 or model of fluent narration, picturesque descrip- 
 tion, and the first outlines of what could be called 
 characteristic delineations of persons. Accordingly, 
 uninventive Greece — for we maintain loudly that 
 
 cannot be much reasonably to object, except its length in the 
 first place ; and, secondly, that we ourselves exceedingly doubt 
 the common interpretation of limns. Most unquestionably, if 
 the sublime is to be brought into any relation at all to mud, we 
 shall all be of one mind — that it must be found above. But to 
 us it appears — that when the true modern idea of mud was in 
 view, limns was not the word used. Cicero, for instance, when 
 he wishes to call Piso ‘filth, mud,' &c. calls him Coenum : and, 
 in general, limns seems to have involved the notion of some- 
 thing adhesive, and rather to express plaister, or artificially 
 prepared cement, &c., than that of filth or impure depositions. 
 Accordingly, our own definition differs from the Parrian, or 
 Birmingham definition ; and may, nevertheless, be a Birming- 
 ham definition also. Not having room to defend it, for the 
 present we forbear to state it. 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 41 
 
 Greece, in her poets, was uninventive and sterile 
 beyond the example of other nations — received, as a 
 traditional inheritance, the characters of the Paladins 
 of the Troad.^ Achilles is always the all-accomplished 
 and supreme amongst these Paladins, the Orlando of 
 ancient romance ; Agamemnon, for ever the Char- 
 lemagne ; Ajax, for ever the sullen, imperturbable, 
 columnar champion, the Mandricardo, the Bergen-op- 
 Zoom of his faction, and corresponding to our modern 
 ‘ Chicken ’ in the pugilistic ring, who was so called 
 (as the books of the Fancy say) because he was a 
 ‘ glutton ’ ; and a ‘ glutton ’ in this sense — that he 
 would take any amount of cramming (i. e. any pos- 
 sible quantum of ‘ milling,’ or ‘ punishment ’). Ulysses, 
 again, is uniformly, no matter whether in the solem- 
 nities of the tragic scene, or the festivities of the 
 Ovidian romance, the same shy cock, but also sly 
 cock, with the least thought of a white feather in his 
 plumage ; Diomed is the same unmeaning double of 
 every other hero, just as Pinaldo is with respect to 
 his greater cousin, Orlando ; and so of Teucer, 
 Meriones, Idomeneus, and the other less-marked 
 characters. The Greek drama took up these tradi- 
 tional characters, and sometimes deepened, saddened, 
 exalted the features — as Sophocles, for instance, does 
 with his ‘Ajax Flagellifer ’ — Ajax the knouter of 
 
 * There is a difficulty in assigning any term as comprehen- 
 sive enough to describe the Grecian heroes and their antagonists, 
 who fought at Troy. The seven chieftains against Thebes are 
 described sufficiently as Theban captains ; but, to say Trojan 
 chieftains, would express only the heroes of one side ; Grecian^ 
 again, would be liable to that fault equally, and to another far 
 greater, of being under no limitation as to time. This difficulty 
 must explain and (if it can) justify our collective phrase of the 
 Paladins of the Troad. 
 
42 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 sheep — where, by the way, the remorse and peniten- 
 tial grief of Ajax for his own self-degradation, and 
 the depth of his affliction for the triumph which he 
 had afforded to his enemies — taken in connection 
 with the tender fears of his wife, Tecmessa, for the 
 fate to which his gloomy despair was too manifestly 
 driving him; her own conscious desolation, and the 
 orphan weakness of her son, in the event which she 
 too fearfully anticipates — the final suicide of Ajax ; 
 the brotherly affection of Teucer to the widow and 
 the young son of the hero, together with the 
 unlooked-for sympathy of Ulysses, who, instead of 
 exulting in the ruin of his antagonist, mourns over 
 it with generous tears — compose a situation, and a 
 succession of situations, not equalled in the Greek 
 tragedy ; and, in that instance, we see an effort, rare 
 in Grecian poetry, of conquest achieved by idealisation 
 over a mean incident — viz. the hallucination of brain 
 in Ajax, by which he mistakes the sheep for his 
 Grecian enemies, ties them up for fiagellation, and 
 scourges them as periodically as if he were a critical 
 reviewer. But really, in one extremity of this mad- 
 ness, where he fixes upon an old ram for Agamemnon, 
 as the leader of the fiock, the aVaf arSpwr Aya/xe^urwr, 
 there is an extravagance of the ludicrous against 
 which, though not exhibited scenically, but simply 
 narrated, no solemnity of pathos could avail ; even in 
 narration, the violation of tragical dignity is insuffer- 
 able, and is as much worse than the hyper-tragic 
 horrors of Titus Andronicus (a play which is usually 
 printed, without reason, amongst those of Shakspeare) 
 as absolute farce or contradiction of all pathos must 
 inevitably be a worse indecorum than physical horrors 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 43 
 
 which simply outrage it by excess. Let us not, 
 therefore, hear of the judgment displayed upon the 
 Grecian stage, when even Sophocles, the chief master 
 of dramatic economy and scenical propriety, could 
 thus err by an aberration so far transcending the 
 most memorable violation of stage decorum which 
 has ever been charged upon the English drama. 
 
 From Homer, therefore, were left, as a bequest to 
 all future poets, the romantic adventures which grow, 
 as so many collateral dependencies, 
 
 ‘ From the tale of Troy divine ’ ; 
 
 and from Homer was derived also the discrimination 
 of the leading characters, which, after all, were but 
 coarsely and rudely discriminated ; at least, for the 
 majority. In one instance only we acknowledge an 
 exception. We have heard a great modern poet 
 dwelling with real and not counterfeit enthusiasm 
 upon the character (or rather upon the general 
 picture, as made up both of character and position), 
 which the course of the Iliad assigns gradually to 
 Achilles. The view which he took of this imperson- 
 ation of human grandeur, combining all gifts of 
 intellect and of body, matchless speed, strength, in- 
 evitable eye, courage, and the immortal beauty of a 
 god, being also, by his birth-right, half-divine, and 
 consecrated to the imagination by his fatal inter- 
 weaving with the destinies of Troy, and to the heart 
 by the early death which to Ids own knowledge 
 
 * ‘ To his own knowledge ’ — see, for proof of this, the gloomy 
 serenity of his answer to his dying victim, when predicting his 
 approaching end : — 
 
 ‘ Enough ; I know my fate ; to die — to see no more 
 My much-lov’d parents, and my native shore,’ &c. &c. 
 
44 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 impended over his magnificent career, and so abruptly 
 shut up its vista — the view, we say, which our friend 
 took of the presiding character throughout the Iliads 
 who is introduced to us in the very first line, and 
 who is only eclipsed for seventeen books, to emerge 
 upon us with more awful lustre ; — the view which he 
 took was — that Achilles, and Achilles only, in the 
 Grecian poetry, was a great idea — an idealised 
 creation ; and we remember that in this respect he 
 compared the Homeric Achilles with the Angelica of 
 Ariosto. Her only he regarded as an idealisation in 
 the Orlando Furioso, And certainly in the luxury 
 and excess of her all-conquering beauty, which drew 
 after her from ‘ ultimate Cathay ’ to the camps of the 
 baptised in France, and back again, from the palace 
 of Charlemagne, drew half the Paladins, and ‘half 
 Spain militant,’ to the portals of the rising sun ; that 
 sovereign beauty which (to say nothing of kings and 
 princes withered by her frowns) ruined for a time the 
 most princely of all the Paladins, the supreme Orlando, 
 crazed him with scorn, 
 
 ‘ And robbed him of his noble wits outright ’ — 
 
 in all this, we must acknowledge a glorification of 
 power not unlike that of Achilles : — 
 
 ‘ Irresistible Pelides, whom, unarm’d, 
 
 No strength of man or wild beast could withstand ; 
 
 "Who tore the lion as the lion tears the kid ; 
 
 Ran on embattl’d armies clad in iron ; 
 
 And, weaponless himself. 
 
 Made arms ridiculous, useless the forgery 
 Of brazen shield and spear, the hammer’d cuirass, 
 
 Chalybean temper’d steel, and frock of mail, 
 
 Adamantean proof ; 
 
 But safest he who stood aloof. 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 45 
 
 When insupportably his foot advanced 
 
 Spurned them to death by troops. The bold Priamides 
 
 Fled from his lion ramp ; old warriors turn’d 
 
 Their plated backs under his heel, 
 
 Or, groveliug, soil’d their crested helmets in the dust.’ 
 
 These are the words of Milton in describing that 
 ‘ heroic Nazar ete/ ‘ God’s champion ’ — 
 
 * Promis’d by heavenly message twice descending ’ ; 
 heralded, like Pelides, 
 
 ‘ By an angel of his birth. 
 
 Who from his father’s field 
 
 Rode up in flames after his message told ’ ; 
 
 these are the celestial words which describe the 
 celestial prowess of the Hebrew monomachist, the 
 irresistible Sampson ; and are hardly less applicable 
 to the ‘ champion paramount ’ of Greece confederate. 
 
 This, therefore, this unique conception, with what 
 power they might, later Greek poets adopted ; and 
 the other Homeric characters they transplanted some- 
 what monotonously, but at times, we are willing to 
 admit, and have already admitted, improving and 
 solemnizing the original epic portraits when brought 
 upon the stage. But all this extent of obligation 
 amongst later poets of Greece to Homer serves less 
 to argue his opulence than their penury. And if, 
 quitting the one great blazing jewel, the Urim and 
 Thummim of the Iliad, you descend to individual 
 passages of poetic effect ; and if amongst these a 
 fancy should seize you of asking for a specimen of the 
 Sublime in particular, what is it that you are offered 
 by the critics ? Nothing that we remember beyond 
 one single passage, in which the god Neptune is 
 
46 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 described in a steeple chase, and ^ making play ^ at a 
 terrific pace. And certainly enough is exhibited of 
 the old boy’s hoofs, and their spanking qualities, to 
 warrant our backing him against a railroad for a 
 rump and dozen ; but, after all, there is nothing to 
 grow frisky about, as Longinus does, who gets up the 
 steam of a blue-stocking enthusiasm, and boils us a 
 regular gallop of ranting, in which, like the conceited 
 snipe ^ upon the Liverpool railroad, he thinks himself 
 to run a match with Sampson ; and, whilst affecting 
 to admire Homer, is manifestly squinting at the 
 reader to see how far he admires his own fiourish of 
 admiration ; and, in the very agony of his frosty 
 raptures, is quite at leisure to look out for a little 
 private traffic of rapture on his own account. But it 
 won’t do ; this old critical posture-master (whom, if 
 Aurelian hanged, surely he knew what he was about) 
 may as well put up his rapture pipes, and (as Lear 
 says) ‘not squiny’ at us; for let us ask Master 
 Longinus, in what earthly respect do these great 
 strides of Neptune exceed Jack with his seven-league 
 boots ? Let him answer that, if he can. We hold 
 that Jack, has the advantage. Or, again look at the 
 Koran : does any man but a foolish Oriental think 
 that passage sublime where Mahomet describes the 
 divine pen ? It is, says he, made of mother-of-pearl ; 
 so much for the ‘ raw material,’ as the economists say. 
 But now for the size : it can hardly be called a ‘ por- 
 
 * On the memorable inaugural day of the Liverpool railroad, 
 when Mr. Huskisson met with so sad a fate, a snipe or a plover 
 tried a race with Sampson, one of the engines. The race con- 
 tinued neck and neck for about six miles, after which, the snipe 
 finding itself likely to come off second best, found it convenient 
 to wheel off, at a turn of the road, into the solitudes of Chat Moss. 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 47 
 
 table ^ pen at all events, for we are told that it is so 
 tall of its age, that an Arabian '"thoroughbred horse 
 would require 500 years for galloping down the slit 
 to the nib. Now this Arabic sublime is in this 
 instance quite a kin brother to the Homeric. 
 
 However, it is likely that we shall here be reminded 
 of our own challenge to the Longinian word v\j^rj\ov 
 as not at all corresponding, or even alluding to the 
 modern word sublime. But in this instance, the dis- 
 tinction will not much avail that critic — for no 
 matter by what particular vjord he may convey his 
 sense of its quality, clear it is, by his way of illus- 
 trating its peculiar merit, that, in his opinion, these 
 huge strides of Neptune’s have something super- 
 naturally grand about them. But, waiving this 
 solitary instance in Homer of the sublime, according 
 to his idolatrous critics — of the pseudo sublime accord- 
 ing to ourselves — in all other cases where Longinus, 
 or any other Greek writer has cited Homer as the 
 great exemplary model of v\poQ in composition, we are 
 to understand him according to the Grecian sense of 
 that word. He must then be supposed to praise 
 Homer, not so much for any ideal grandeur either of 
 thought, image, or situation, as in a general sense for 
 his animated style of narration, for the variety and 
 spirited effect with which he relieves the direct 
 formal narration in his own person by dialogue be- 
 tween the subjects of his narration, thus ventriloquis- 
 ing and throwing his own voice as often as he can 
 into the surrounding objects — or again for the similes 
 and allusive pictures by which he points emphasis to 
 a situation or interest to a person. 
 
 Now then we have it : when you describe Homer, 
 
48 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 or when you hear him described as a lively picturesque 
 old boy [by the way, why does everybody speak of 
 Homer as old?], full of life, and animation, and move- 
 ment, then' you say (or you hear say) what is true, 
 and not much more than what is true. Only about 
 that word picturesque we demur a little : as a chirur- 
 geon, he certainly is picturesque ; for Howship upon 
 gunshot wounds is a joke to him when he lectures 
 upon traumacy, if we may presume to coin that word, 
 or upon traumatic philosophy (as Mr. M’Culloch says 
 so grandly. Economic Science). But, apart from this, 
 we cannot allow that simply to say ZaKvvdoQ VEixo€.(T(Ta, 
 woody Zacynthus, is any better argument of pictur- 
 esqueness than Stony Stratford, or Harrow on the 
 Hill. Be assured, reader, that the Homeric age was 
 not ripe for the picturesque. Price on the Pic- 
 turesque, or, Gilpin on Forest Scenery, would both 
 have been sent post-haste to Bedlam in those days ; 
 or perhaps Homer himself would have tied a millstone 
 about their necks, and have sunk them as public 
 nuisances by woody Zante. Besides, it puts almost 
 an extinguisher on any little twinkling of the pictur- 
 esque that might have flared up at times from this or 
 that suggestion, when each individual had his own 
 regular epithet stereotyped to his name like a brass 
 plate upon a door : Hector, the tamer of horses ; 
 Achilles, the swift of foot; the ox-eyed, respectable 
 Juno. Some of the ‘ big uns,’ it is true, had a dress 
 and an undress suit of epithets : as for instance. 
 Hector was also KopvdaLoXog, Hector with the tossing 
 or 'the variegated plumes. Achilles again' was Siog 
 or divine. But still the range was small, and the 
 monotony was dire. 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 49 
 
 And now, if you come in good earnest to pictur- 
 esqueness, let us mention a poet in sober truth worth 
 five hundred of Homer, and that is Chaucer. Show 
 us a piece of Homer’s handywork that comes within 
 a hundred leagues of that divine prologue to the 
 Canterbury Tales, or of ‘ The Knight’s Tale,’ of the 
 ‘ Man of Law’s Tale,’ or of the ‘ Tale of the Patient 
 Griseldis,’ or, for intense life of narration and festive 
 wit, to the ‘ Wife of Bath’s Tale.’ Or, passing out of 
 the Canterbury Tales for the picturesque in human 
 manner and gesture, and play of countenance, never 
 equalled as yet by Pagan or Christian, go to the 
 Troilus and Cresseid, and, for instance, to the con- 
 versation between Troilus and Pandarus, or, again, 
 between Pandarus and Cresseid. Lightly did a critic 
 of the 17th century pronounce Chaucer a miracle of 
 natural genius, as having ‘ taken into the compass 
 of his Canterbury Tales, the various manners and 
 humours of the whole English nation in his age ; not 
 a single character has escaped him.’ And this critic 
 then proceeds thus — ‘ The matter and manner of 
 these tales, and of their telling, are so suited to their 
 different educations, humours, and calling, that each 
 of them would be improper in any other mouth. 
 Even the grave and serious characters are distin- 
 guished by their several sorts of gravity. Even the 
 ribaldry of the low characters is different. But there 
 is such a variety of game springing up before me, 
 that I am distracted in my choice,- and know not 
 which to follow. It is sufficient to say, according to 
 the proverb, that here is God’s plenty.’ And soon 
 after he goes on to assert (though Heaven knows in 
 terms far below the whole truth), the superiority of 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
50. 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 Chaucer to Boccaccio. And, in the meantime, who 
 was this eulogist of Chaucer? Why, the man who 
 himself was never equalled upon this earth, unless by 
 Chaucer, in the art of fine narration : it is John 
 Dryden whom we have been quoting. 
 
 Between Chaucer and Homer — as to the main art 
 of narration, as to the picturesque life of the manners, 
 and as to the exquisite delineation of character — the 
 interval is as wide as between Shakespeare, in 
 dramatic power, and Hie. Bo we. 
 
 And we might wind up this main chapter, of the 
 comparison between Grecian and English literature — 
 viz. the chapter on Homer, by this tight dilemma. 
 You do or you do not use the Longinian word vij^og in 
 the modern sense of the sublime. If you do not, then 
 of course you translate it in the Grecian sense, as 
 explained above ; and in that sense, we engage to 
 produce many scores of passages from Chaucer, not 
 exceeding 50 to 80 lines, which contain more of 
 picturesque simplicity, more tenderness, more fidelity 
 to nature, more felicity of sentiment, more animation 
 of narrative, and more truth of character, than can 
 be matched in all the Iliad or the Odyssey. On 
 the other hand, if by vipoc you choose absurdly to 
 mean sublimity in the modern sense, then it will 
 suffice for us that we challenge you to the production 
 of one instance which truly and incontestably em- 
 bodies that quality.* The burthen of proof rests upon 
 
 * The description of Apollo in wrath as vvkti soikoj, like 
 night, is a doubtful case. With respect to the shield of 
 Achilles, it cannot he denied that the general conception has, 
 in common with all abstractions (as e. g. the abstractions of 
 dreams, of prophetic visions, such as that in the 6 th jEneid, 
 that to Macbeth, that shown by the angel Michael to Adam), 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 51 
 
 you who affirm, not upon us who deny. Meantime, 
 as a kind of choke-pear, we leave with the Homeric 
 adorer this one brace of portraits, or hints for such a 
 brace, which we commend to his comparison, as 
 Hamlet did the portraits of the two brothers to his 
 besotted mother. We are talking of the sublime : 
 that is our thesis. Now observe : there is a catalogue 
 in the Iliad — there is a catalogue in the Paradise 
 Lost. And, like a river of Macedon and of Mon- 
 mouth, the two catalogues agree in that one fact — 
 viz. that they are such. But as to the rest, we are 
 willing to abide by the issue of that one comparison, 
 left to the very dullest sensibility, for the decision of 
 the total question at issue. And what is that 1 Not, 
 Heaven preserve us ! as to the comparative claims of 
 Milton and Homer in this point of sublimity — for 
 surely it would be absurd to compare him who has 
 most with him whom we affirm to have none at all — • 
 but whether Homer has the very smallest pretensions 
 in that point. The result, as we state it, is this : — 
 The catalogue of the ruined angels in Milton, is, in 
 itself taken separately, a perfect poem, with the 
 beauty, and the felicity, and the glory of a dream. 
 The Homeric catalogue of ships is exactly on a level 
 with the muster-roll of a regiment, the register of a 
 tax-gatherer, the catalogue of an auctioneer. Nay, 
 some catalogues are far more interesting, and more 
 alive with meaning. ‘But him followed fifty black 
 ships ! ’ — ‘ But him follow seventy black ships ! ’ 
 
 something fine and, in its own nature, let the execution be w^hat 
 it may, sublime. But this part of the Iliad, we firmly believe 
 so be an interpolation of times long posterior to that of Homer. 
 
 D 2 
 
52 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 Faugh ! We could make a more readable poem out 
 of an Insolvent’s Balance Sheet. 
 
 One other little suggestion we could wish to offer. 
 Those who would contend against the vast superiority 
 of Chaucer (and him we mention chiefly because he 
 really has in excess those very qualities of life, motion, 
 and picturesque simplicity, to which the Homeric 
 characteristics chiefly tend), ought to bear in mind 
 one startling fact evidently at war with the degree of 
 what is claimed for Homer. It is this : Chaucer is 
 carried naturally by the very course of his tales into 
 the heart of domestic life, and of the scenery most 
 favourable to the movements of human sensibility. 
 Homer, on the other hand, is kept out of that sphere > 
 and is imprisoned in the monotonies of a camp or a 
 battle-field, equally by the necessities of his story, 
 and by the proprieties of Grecian life (which in fact 
 are pretty nearly those of Turkish life at this day). 
 Men and women meet only under rare, hurried, and 
 exclusive circumstances. Hence it is, that throughout 
 the entire Iliad^ we have but one scene in which 
 the finest affections of the human heart can find an 
 opening for display ] of course, everybody knows at 
 once that we are speaking of the scene between 
 Hector, Andromache, and the young Astyanax. No 
 need for question here ; it is Hobson’s choice in Greek 
 literature, when you are seeking for the poetry of 
 human sensibilities. One such scene there is, and no 
 more ; which, of itself, is some reason for suspecting 
 its authenticity. And, by the way, at this point, it 
 is worth while remarking, that a late excellent critic 
 always pronounced the words applied to Andromache 
 yeXacrctcra (tearfully smiling ^ or, smiling through 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 53 
 
 her tears), a mere Alexandrian interpolation. And 
 why? Now mark the reason. Was it because the 
 circumstance is in itself vicious, or out of nature? 
 Not at all : nothing more probable or more interesting 
 under the general situation of peril combined with 
 the little incident of the infant’s alarm at the plumed 
 helmet. But any just taste feels it to be out of the 
 Homeric key ; the barbarism of the age, not mitigated 
 (as in Chaucer’s far less barbarous age) by the tender- 
 ness of Christian sentiment, turned a deaf ear and a 
 repulsive aspect to such beautiful traits of domestic 
 feeling ; to Homer himself the whole circumstance 
 would have been one of pure effeminacy. Now, we 
 recommend it to the reader’s reflection — and let him 
 weigh well the condition under which that poetry 
 moves that cannot indulge a tender sentiment without 
 being justly suspected of adulterous commerce with 
 some after age. This remark, however, is by the by ; 
 having grown out of the SaKpvoer yeXacracra, itself a 
 digression. But, returning from that to our previous 
 theme, we desire every candid reader to ask himself 
 what must be the character, what the circumscription, 
 of that poetry which is limited, by its very subject,* 
 to a scene of such intense uniformity as a battle or a 
 camp ; and by the prevailing spirit of manners to the 
 exclusive society of men. To make bricks without 
 straw, was the excess even of Egyptian bondage ; 
 Homer could not fight up against the necessities of 
 
 * Blit the Odyssey, at least, it will be said, is not thus 
 limited : no, not by its subject ; because it carries us amongst 
 cities and princes in a state of peace ; but it is equally limited 
 by the spirit of manners ; we are never admitted amongst 
 women, except by accident (Nausicaa) — by necessity (Penelope) 
 — or by romance (Circe). 
 
54 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 his age, and the defects of its manners. And the 
 very apologies which will be urged for him, drawn as 
 they must be from the spirit of manners prevalent in 
 his era, are reciprocally but so many reasons for not 
 seeking in him the kind of poetry which has been 
 ascribed to him by ignorance, or by defective sensi- 
 bility, or by the mere self-interest of pedantry. 
 
 From Homer, the route stretches thus : — The 
 Grecian drama lies about six hundred years nearer 
 to the Christian era, and Pindar lies in the interval. 
 These — i. e. the Dramatic and Lyric — are the import- 
 ant chapters of the Greek poetry ; for as to Pastoral 
 poetry, having only Theocritus surviving, and a very 
 little of Bion and Moschus, and of these one only 
 being of the least separate importance — we cannot 
 hold that department entitled to any notice in so 
 cursory a review of the literature, else we have much 
 to say on this also. Besides that, Theocritus was not 
 a natural poet, indigenous to Sicily, but an artificial 
 blue-stocking ; as was Callimachus in a different class. 
 
 The drama we may place loosely in the generation 
 next before that of Alexander the Great. And his 
 era may be best remembered by noting it as 333 
 years b. c. Add thirty years to this era — that will 
 be the era of the Drama. Add a little more than a 
 century, and that will be the era of Pindar. Him, 
 therefore, we will notice first. 
 
 How, the chief thing to say as to Pindar is — to 
 show cause, good and reasonable, why no man of 
 sense should trouble his head about him. There was 
 in the seventeenth century a notion prevalent about 
 Pindar, the very contradiction to the truth. It was 
 imagined that he ‘ had a demon ’ ; that he was under 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 55 
 
 a burthen of prophetic inspiration ; that he was pos- 
 sessed, like a Hebrew prophet or a Delphic priestess, 
 with divine fury. Why was this thought 1 — simply 
 because no mortal read him. Laughable it is to 
 mention, that Pope, when a very young man, and 
 writing his Temple of Fame (partly on the model 
 of Chaucer’s), when he came to the great columns and 
 their bas-reliefs in that temple, each of which is sacred 
 to one honoured name, having but room in all for six, 
 chose Pindar for one ^ of the six. And the first bas- 
 relief on Pindar’s column is so pretty, that we shall 
 quote it ; especially as it suggested Cray’s car for 
 Dryden’s ‘ less presumptuous flight ! ’ 
 
 ‘ Four swans sustain a car of silver bright, 
 
 With heads advanc’d, and pinions stretch’d for flight : 
 
 Here, like some furious prophet, Pindar rode. 
 
 And seem’d to labour with th' inspiring god,' 
 
 Then follow eight lines describing other bas-reliefs, 
 containing ‘ the figured games of Greece ’ (Olympic, 
 Hemean, &c.). But what we spoke of as laughable in 
 the whole affair is, that Master Pope neither had 
 then read one line of Pindar, nor ever read one line 
 of Pindar : and reason good ; for at that time he 
 could not read the simple Homeric Greek ; while the 
 Greek of Pindar exceeds all other Greek in difficulty, 
 excepting, perhaps, a few amongst the tragic choruses, 
 which are difficult for the very same reason — lyric 
 abruptness, lyric involution, and lyric obscurity of 
 transition. Not having read Homer, no wonder that 
 Pope should place, amongst the bas-reliefs illustrating 
 the Iliad, an incident which does not exist in the 
 
 * The other five were Homer, Yirgil, Horace, Aristotle, Cicero. 
 
56 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 Iliad.^ Not having read Pindar, no wonder that 
 Pope should ascribe to Pindar qualities which are not 
 only imaginary, but in absolute contradiction to his 
 true ones. A more sober old gentleman does not 
 exist : his demoniac possession is a mere fable. But 
 there are two suiScient arguments for not reading 
 him, so long as innumerable books of greater interest 
 remain unread. First, he writes upon subjects that, 
 to us, are mean and extinct — race-horses that have 
 been defunct for twenty-five centuries, chariots that 
 were crazy in his own day, and contests with which 
 it is impossible for us to sympathise. Then his digres- 
 sions about old genealogies are no whit better than 
 his main theme, nor more amusing than a Welshman's 
 pedigree. The best translator of any age, Mr. Carey, 
 who translated Dante, has done what human skill 
 could effect to make the old Theban readable; but, 
 after all, the man is yet to come who has read Pindar, 
 will read Pindar, or can read Pindar, except, indeed, 
 a translator in the way of duty. And the son of 
 Philip himself, though he bade ‘spare the house of 
 Pindarus,^ we vehemently suspect, never read the 
 works of Pindarus ; that labour he left to some future 
 Hercules. So much for his subjects : but a second 
 objection is — his metre. The hexameter, or heroic 
 metre of the ancient Greeks, is delightful to our 
 modern ears ; so is the lambic metre fortunately of 
 the stage : but the Lyric metres generally, and those 
 
 * Viz. the supposed dragging of Hector three times round 
 Troy by Achilles — a mere post- Homeric fable. But it is 
 ludicrous to add, that, in after years — nay, when nearly at the 
 end of his translation of the Iliad ^ in 1718 — Pope took part in 
 a discussion upon Homer’s reasons for ascribing such conduct to 
 his hero, seriously arguing the pro and con upon a pure fiction. 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 57 
 
 of Pindar without one exception, are as utterly with- 
 out meaning to us, as merely chaotic labyrinths of 
 sound, as Chinese music or Dutch concertos. Need 
 we say more ? 
 
 Next comes the drama. But this is too weighty 
 a theme to be discussed slightly ; and the more so 
 because here only we willingly concede a strong 
 motive for learning Greek ; here, only, we hold the 
 want of a ready introduction to be a serious mis- 
 fortune. Our general argument, therefore, which 
 had for its drift to depreciate Greek, dispenses, in 
 this case, with our saying anything ; since every word 
 we could say would be hostile to our own purpose. 
 However, we shall, even upon this field of the Greek 
 literature, deliver one oracular sentence, tending 
 neither to praise nor dispraise it, but simply to state 
 its relations to the modern, or, at least, the English 
 drama. In the ancient drama, to represent it justly, 
 the unlearned reader must imagine grand situations, 
 impressive groups ; in the modern tumultuous move- 
 ment, a grand stream of action. In the Greek drama, 
 he must conceive the presiding power to be Death; 
 in the English, Life. What Death? — AVhat Life? 
 That sort of death or of life locked up and frozen into 
 everlasting slumber, which we see in sculpture ; that 
 sort of life, of tumult, of agitation, of tendency to 
 something beyond, which we see in painting. The 
 picturesque, in short, domineers over English tragedy ; 
 the sculpturesque, or the statuesque, over the Grecian. 
 
 The moralists, such as Theogins, the miscellaneous 
 or didactic poets, such as Hesiod, are all alike below 
 any notice in a sketch like this. The Epigrammatists, 
 or writers of monumeutal inscriptions, &c., remain ; 
 
58 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 and they, next after the dramatic poets, present the 
 most interesting field by far in the Greek literature ; 
 but these are too various to be treated otherwise than 
 viritim and in detail. 
 
 There remains the prose literature ; and, with 
 the exception of those critical writers who have 
 written on rhetoric (such as Hermogenes, Dionysius 
 of Halicarnassus, Demetrius Phalerius, &c. &c., some 
 of whom are the best writers extant, on the mere art 
 of constructing sentences, but could not interest the 
 general reader), the prose writers may be thus dis- 
 tributed : 1st, the orators; 2nd, the historians; 3rd, 
 the philosophers ; 4th, the literateurs (such as 
 Plutarch, Lucian, &c.). 
 
 As to the philosophers, of course there are only two 
 who can present any general interest — Plato and 
 Aristotle; for Xenophon is no more a philosophic 
 writer than our own Addison. Now, in this depart- 
 ment, it is evident that the matter altogether tran- 
 scends the manner. No man will wish to study a 
 profound philosopher, but for some previous interest 
 in his doctrines ; and, if by any means a man has 
 obtained this, he may pursue this study sufficiently 
 through translations. It is true that neither Syden- 
 ham nor Taylor has done justice to Plato, for example, 
 as respects the colloquial graces of his style ; but, 
 when the object is purely to pursue a certain course 
 of principles and inferences, the student cannot com- 
 plain much that he has lost the dramatic beauties of 
 the dialogue, or the luxuriance of the style. These 
 he was not then seeking, by the supposition — what he 
 did seek, is still left ; whereas in poetry, if the golden 
 apparel is lost, if the music has melted away from 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 59 
 
 the thoughts, all, in fact, is lost. Old Hobbes, or 
 Ogilbie, is no more Homer than the score of Mozart’s 
 Don Giovanni is Mozart’s Don Giovanni, 
 
 If, however, Grecian philosophy presents no abso- 
 lute temptations to the attainment of Greek, far less 
 does Grecian history. If you except later historians 
 — such as Diodorus, Plutarch, and those (like Appian, 
 Dionysius, Dion Cassius) who wrote of Roman things 
 and Roman persons in Greek, and Polybius, who 
 comes under the same class, at a much earlier period 
 — and none of whom have any interest of style, 
 excepting only Plutarch : these dismissed, there are 
 but three who can rank as classical Greek historians ; 
 three who can lose hy translation. Of these the eldest, 
 Herodotus, is perhaps of real value. Some call him 
 the father of history ; some call him the father of lies. 
 Time and Major Rennel have done him ample justice. 
 Yet here, again, see how little need of Greek for the 
 amplest use of a Greek author. Twenty-two centuries 
 and more have passed since the fine old man read his 
 history at the Grecian games of Olympia. One man 
 only has done him right, and put his enemies under 
 his footstool ; and yet this man had no Greek. Major 
 Rennel read Herodotus only in the translation of 
 Beloe. He has told us so himself. Here, then, is a 
 little fact, my Grecian boys, that you won’t easily get 
 over. The father of history, the eldest of prose 
 writers, has been first explained, illustrated, justified, 
 liberated from scandal and disgrace, first had his 
 geography set to rights, first translated from the 
 region of fabulous romance, and installed in his 
 cathedral chair, as Dean (or eldest) of historians, 
 by a military man, who had no more Greek than 
 
60 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 Shakspeare, or than we (perhaps you, reader) of the 
 Kalmuck. 
 
 Next comes Thucydides. He is the second in order 
 of time amongst the Grecian historians who survive, 
 and the first of those (a class which Mr. Southey, the 
 laureate, always speaks of as the corrupters of genu- 
 ine history) who affect to treat it philosophically. 
 If the philosophic historians are not always so 
 faithless as Mr. Southey alleges, they are, however, 
 always guilty of dulness. Commend us to one pictur- 
 esque, garrulous old fellow, like Froissart, or Philip 
 de Comines, or Bishop Burnet, before all the phil- 
 osophic prosers that ever prosed. These picturesque 
 men will lie a little now and then, for the sake of 
 effect — but so will the philosophers. Even Bishop 
 Burnet, who, by the way, was hardly so much a pic- 
 turesque as an anecdotal historian, was famous for 
 his gift of lying ; so diligently had he cultivated it. 
 And the Duchess of Portsmouth told a noble lord, 
 when inquiring into the truth of a particular fact 
 stated by the very reverend historian, that he was 
 notorious in Charles the Second’s court, and that no 
 man believed a word he said. But now Thucydides, 
 though writing about his own time, and doubtless 
 embellishing by fictions not less than his more amus- 
 ing brethren, is as dull as if he prided himself on 
 veracity. Kay, he tells us no secret anecdotes of the 
 times — surely there must have been many ; and this 
 proves to us, that he was a low fellow without politi- 
 cal connections, and that he never had been behind 
 the curtain. Now, what business had such a man to 
 set himself up for a writer of history and a speculator 
 on politics Besides, his history is imperfect ; and, 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 61 
 
 suppose it were not, what is its subject? Why simply 
 one single war ; a war which lasted twenty-seven 
 years ; but which, after all, through its whole course 
 was enlivened by only two events worthy to enter 
 into general history — viz. the plague of Athens, and 
 the miserable licking which the Athenian invaders 
 received in Sicily. This dire overthrow dished 
 Athens out and out ; for one generation to come, 
 there was an end of Athenian domination ; and that 
 arrogant state, under the yoke of their still baser 
 enemies of Sparta, learned experimentally what were 
 the evils of a foreign conquest. There was therefore, 
 in the domination of the Thirty Tyrants, something 
 to ‘ point a moral ’ in the Peloponnesian war : it was 
 the judicial reaction of martial tyranny and foreign 
 oppression, such as we of this generation have beheld 
 in the double conquest of Paris by insulted and out- 
 raged Christendom. But nothing of all this will be 
 found in Thucydides — he is as cool as a cucumber 
 upon every act of atrocity ; whether it be the bloody 
 abuse of power, or the bloody retribution from the 
 worm that, being trampled on too long, turns at last 
 to sting and to exterminate — all alike he enters in his 
 daybook and his ledger, posts them up to the account 
 of brutal Spartan or polished Athenian, with no more 
 expression of his feelings (if he had any) than a mer- 
 chant making out an invoice of puncheons that are to 
 steal away men’s wits, or of frankincense and myrrh 
 that are to ascend in devotion to the saints. Hero- 
 dotus is a fine, old, genial boy, that, like Froissart or 
 some of the crusading historians, kept himself in 
 health and jovial spirits by travelling about ; nor did 
 he confine himself to Greece or the Grecian islands ; 
 
62 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 but he went to Egypt, got bousy in the Pyramid of 
 Cheops, ate a beef-steak in the hanging-gardens of 
 Babylon, and listened to no sailors’ yarns at the 
 Piraeus, which doubtless, before his time, had been 
 the sole authority for Grecian legends concerning 
 foreign lands. But, as to Thucydides, our own 
 belief is, that he lived like a monk shut up in his 
 museum or study ; and that, at the very utmost, he 
 may have gone in the steamboat ^ to Corfu (i, e. 
 Corcyra), because that was the island which occasioned 
 the row of the Peloponnesian war. 
 
 Xenophon now is quite another sort of man ; he 
 could use his pen ; but also he could use his sword ; 
 and (when need was) his heels, in running away. 
 His Grecian history of course is a mere fraction of 
 the general history ; and, moreover, our own belief, 
 founded upon the differences of the style, is, that the 
 work now received for his must be spurious. But in 
 this place the question is not worth discussing. Two 
 works remain, professedly historical, which, beyond a 
 doubt, are his ; and one of them the most interesting 
 prose work by much which Athens has bequeathed 
 us ] though, by the way, Xenophon was living in a 
 sort of elegant exile at a chateau in Thessaly, and not 
 under Athenian protection, when he wrote it. Both 
 of his great works relate to a Persian Cyrus, but to 
 a Cyrus of different centuries. The Cyropcedia is 
 a romance, pretty much on the plan of Fenelon’s 
 Telemaque, only (Heaven be praised !) not so furi- 
 
 * ‘In the steamboat!’ Yes, reader, the steamboat. It is 
 clear that there was one in Homer’s time. See the art. 
 Phceacian in the Odyssey : if it paid then, a fortiori six hun- 
 dred years after. The only point unknown about it, is the 
 captain’s name and the state-cabin fares. 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 63 
 
 ously apoplectic. It pursues the great Cyrus, the 
 founder of the Persian empire, the Cyrus of the 
 Jewish prophets, from his infancy to his death-bed; 
 and describes evidently not any real prince, according 
 to any authentic record of his life, but, upon some 
 basis of hints and vague traditions, improves the 
 actual Cyrus into an ideal fiction of a sovereign and 
 a military conqueror, as he ought to be. One thing 
 only we shall say of this work, though no admirers 
 ourselves of the twaddle which Xenophon elsewhere 
 gives us as philosophic memorabilia, that the episode 
 of Abradates and Panthea (especially the behaviour 
 of Panthea after the death of her beloved hero, and 
 the incident of the dead man’s hand coming away on 
 Cyrus grasping it) exceeds for pathos everything in 
 Grecian literature, always excepting the Greek drama, 
 and comes nearest of anything, throughout Pagan 
 literature, to the impassioned simplicity of Scripture, 
 in its tale of Joseph and his brethren. The other 
 historical work of Xenophon is the Anabasis. The 
 meaning of the title is the going-up or ascent — viz. of 
 Cyrus the younger. This prince was the younger 
 brother of the reigning king Artaxerxes, nearly two 
 centuries from Cyrus the Great ; and, from opportu- 
 nity rather than a better title, and because his mother ^ 
 and his vast provincial government furnished him 
 with royal treasures able to hire an army, most of 
 all, because he was richly endowed by nature with 
 personal gifts — took it into his head that he would 
 dethrone his brother ; and the more so, because he 
 was only his half-brother. His chance was a good 
 one : he had a Grecian army, and one from the very 
 Uite of Greece ; whilst the Persian king had but a 
 
64 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 small corps of Grecian auxiliaries, long enfeebled 
 by Persian effeminacy and Persian intermarriages. 
 Xenophon was personally present in this expedition. 
 And the catastrophe was most singular, such as does 
 not occur once in a thousand years. The cavalry of 
 the great King retreated before the Greeks continu- 
 ally, no doubt from policy and secret orders ; so that, 
 when a pitched battle became inevitable, the foreign 
 invaders found themselves in the very heart of the 
 land, and close upon the Euphrates. The battle was 
 fought : the foreigners were victorious : they were 
 actually singing Te Deum or lo Pcean for their victory, 
 when it was discovered that their leader, the native 
 prince in whose behalf they had conquered, was 
 missing ; and soon after, that he was dead. What 
 was to be done ? The man who should have improved 
 their victory, and placed them at his own right hand 
 when on the throne of Persia, was no more ; key they 
 had none to unlock the great fortresses of the empire, 
 none to unloose the enthusiasm of the native popula- 
 tion. Yet such was the desperation of their circum- 
 stances, that a coup-de-main on the capital seemed 
 their best chance. The whole army was and felt 
 itself a forlorn hope. To go forward was desperate, 
 but to go back much more so ; for they had a thou- 
 sand rivers without bridges in their rear ; and, if 
 they set their faces in that direction, they would 
 have 300,000 light cavalry upon their flanks, besides 
 nations innumerable — 
 
 ‘ Dusk faces with white silken turbans wreath’d ’ ; 
 
 fierce fellows who understood no Greek, and, what 
 was worse, no joking, but well understood the use of 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 65 
 
 the scymitar. Bad as things were, they soon became 
 worse ; for the chiefs of the Grecian army, being 
 foolish enough to accept a dinner invitation from the 
 Persian commander-in-chief, were assassinated ; and 
 the words of Milton became intelligible — that in the 
 lowest deep a lower deep had opened to destroy them. 
 In this dilemma, Xenophon, the historian of the 
 expedition, was raised to a principal command ; and 
 by admirable skill he led back the army by a different 
 route to the Black Sea, on the coast of which he 
 knew that there- were Grecian colonies : and from one 
 of these he obtained shipping, in which he coasted 
 along (when he did not march by land) to the mouth 
 of the Bosphorus and the Dardanelles. This was the 
 famous retreat of the ten thousand ; and it shows 
 how much defect of literary skill there was in those 
 days amongst Grecian authors, that the title of the 
 book. The Going Up, does not apply to the latter 
 and more interesting seven-eighths of the account. 
 The Going Up is but the preparation or preface to 
 the Going Down, the Anabasis to the Katahasis, in 
 which latter part it is that Xenophon plays any con- 
 spicuous part. A great political interest, however, 
 over and above the' personal interest, attaches to this 
 expedition : for there can be no doubt, that to this 
 proof of weakness in the Persian empire, and perhaps 
 to this, as recorded by Xenophon, was due the expe- 
 dition of Alexander in the next generation, which 
 changed the face of the world. 
 
 The literateurs, as we have styled Plutarch and 
 Lucian, though far removed from the true classical 
 era, being both posterior to Christianity, are truly 
 interesting. And, for Lucian in particular, though 
 
 • VOL. I. E 
 
66 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 he is known by reputation only as a humorous and 
 sneering writer, we can say, upon our personal know- 
 ledge, that there are passages of more terrific effect, 
 more German, and approaching to the sublime, than 
 anywhere else in Greek literature, out of the tragic 
 poets. Of Plutarch we need hardly speak ; one part 
 of his voluminous works — viz. his biographies of 
 Greek and Poman leaders in arts ^ and arms— being 
 so familiar to all nations ; and having been selected 
 by Pousseau as the book for him who should be 
 limited (or, like Collins the poet, should limit himself) 
 to one book only — a foolish choice undoubtedly, but 
 still arguing great range of resources in Plutarch, 
 that he should be thought of after so many myriads of 
 modern books had widened the range of selection. 
 Meantime, the reader is not to forget that, whatever 
 may be his powers of amusement, a more inaccurate 
 or faithless author as to dates, and, indeed, in all 
 matters of research, does not exist than Plutarch. We 
 make it a rule, whenever we see Flut. at the bottom 
 of a dictionary article, as the authority on which it 
 rests, to put the better half down as a bouncer. 
 And, in fact, Joe Miller is quite as good authority 
 for English history as Plutarch for Poman. 
 
 Kow remain the orators ; and of these we have a 
 right to speak, for we have read them ; and, believe 
 us, reader, not above one or two men in a generation 
 have. If the Editor would allow us room, we would 
 
 * ‘In arts,’ we say, because great orators are amongst his 
 heroes ; but, after all, it is very questionable whether, simply 
 as orators, Plutarch would have noticed them. They were also 
 statesmen ; and Mitford always treats Demosthenes as first lord 
 of the treasury and premier. Plutarch records no poet, no 
 artist, however brilliant. 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 67 
 
 gladly contrast them with modern orators ; and we 
 could easily show how prodigious are the advantages 
 of modern orators in every point which can enter 
 into a comparison. But to what purpose! Even 
 modern orators, with all the benefit of modern inter- 
 est, and of allusions everywhere intelligible, are not 
 read in any generation after their own, pulpit orators 
 only being excepted. So that, if the gods had made 
 our reader a Grecian, surely he would never so far 
 misspend his precious time, and squander hi^ precious 
 intellect upon old dusty quarrels, never of more value 
 to a philosopher than a tempest in a wash-hand bason, 
 but now stuffed with obscurities which no man can 
 explain, and with lies to which no man can bring the 
 counter-statement. But this would furnish matter 
 for a separate paper. 
 
 No. II.— THE GREEK ORATORS. 
 
 Now, let us come to the orators. Isocrates, the 
 eldest of those who have survived, is a mere scholastic 
 rhetorician : for he was a timid man, and did not 
 dare to confront the terrors of a stoimy political 
 audience; and hence, though he lived about an entire 
 century, he never once addressed the Athenian 
 citizens. It is true, that, although no hond fide orator 
 — for he never spoke in any usual acceptation of that 
 word, and, as a consequence, never had an opportunity 
 of replying, which only can bring forward a man’s 
 talents as a debater — still he employed his pen upon 
 real and upon existing questions of public policy ; 
 and did not, as so many generations of chamber 
 
 E 2 
 
68 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 rhetoricians continued to do in Greece, confine his 
 powers to imaginary cases of political difficulty, or 
 (what were tantamount to imaginary) cases fetched 
 up from the long-past era of King Priam, or the still 
 earlier era of the Seven Chiefs warring against the 
 Seven-gated Thebes of Boeotia, or the half-fabulous 
 era of the^Argonauts. Isocrates was a man of sense — 
 a patriot in a temperate way — and with something of 
 a feeling for Greece generally, not merely a champion 
 of Athene. His heart was given to politics : and, in 
 an age when heavy clouds were gathering over the 
 independence and the civil grandeur of his country, 
 he had a disinterested anxiety for drawing off the 
 lightning of the approaching storms by pacific coun- 
 sels. Compared, therefore, with the common mer- 
 cenary orators of the Athenian forum — who made a 
 regular trade of promoting mischief, by inflaming the 
 pride, jealousy, vengeance, or the martial instincts of 
 a ‘ fierce democracy,^ and, generally speaking, with no 
 views, high or low, sound or unsound, that looked 
 beyond the momentary profit to themselves from thus 
 pandering to the thoughtless nationality of a most 
 sensitive people — Isocrates is entitled to our respect. 
 His writings have also a separate value, as memorials 
 of political transactions from which the historian has 
 gathered many useful hints ; and, perhaps, to a dili- 
 gent search, they might yield more. But, considered 
 as an orator — if that title can be, with any propriety, 
 allowed to one who declaimed only in his closet — one 
 who, in relation to public affairs, was what, in Eng- 
 land, when speaking of practical jurisprudence, we 
 call a Chamber Counsel — Isocrates is languid, and 
 with little of anything characteristic in his manner to 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 69 
 
 justify a separate consideration. Ib is remarkable 
 that he, beyond all other rhetoricians of that era, 
 cultivated the rhythmus of his periods. And to this 
 object he sacrificed not only an enormity of time, but, 
 I have no doubt, in many cases, the freedom and 
 natural movement of the thoughts. My reason, how- 
 ever, for noticing this peculiarity in Isocrates, is by 
 way of fixing the attention upon the superiority, even 
 artificial ornaments, of downright practical business 
 and the realities of political strife, over the torpid 
 atmosphere of a study or a school. Cicero, long after, 
 had the same passion for numerositas, and the full, 
 pompous rotundity of cadence. But in Cicero, all 
 habits and all faculties were nursed by the daily 
 practice of life and its impassioned realities, in the 
 forum or in the senate. What is the consequence? 
 Why this — that, whereas in the most laboured per- 
 formance of Isocrates (which cost him, I think, one 
 whole decennium^ or period of ten years), few modern 
 ears are sensible of any striking art, or any great 
 result of harmony ; in Cicero, on the other hand, the 
 fine, sonorous modulations of his periodic style, are 
 delightful to the dullest ear of any European. Such 
 are the advantages from real campaigns, from the 
 unsimulated strife of actual stormy life, over the 
 torpid dreams of what the Homans called an umbratic ^ 
 experience. 
 
 * ‘Umbratic.’ I have perhaps elsewhere drawn the attention 
 of readers to the peculiar effects of climate, in shaping the modes 
 of our thinking and imaging. A life of inertia^ which retreats 
 from the dust and toil of actual experience, we (who represent 
 the idea of effeminacy more naturally by the image of shrinking 
 from cold) call a chimney-corner of a fireside experience ; but 
 the Romans, to whom the same effeminacy more easily fell under 
 
70 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 Isocrates I have noticed as the oldest of the surviv- 
 ing Greek orators : Demosthenes^ of course, claims a 
 notice more emphatically, as, by universal consent of 
 Athens, and afterwards of Rhodes, of Rome, and 
 other impartial judges, the greatest, or, at least, the 
 most comprehensively . great. For, by the way, it 
 must not be forgotten — though modern critics do 
 forget this rather important fact in weighing the 
 reputation of Demosthenes — he was not esteemed, in 
 his own day, as the greatest in that particular quality 
 of energy and demoniac power (Seirorijg) which is 
 generally assumed to have been his leading character- 
 istic and his forte ; not only by comparison with his 
 own compatriots, but even with Cicero and the greatest 
 men of the Roman bar. It was not of Demosthenes 
 
 m 
 
 that the Athenians were accustomed to say, ‘ he 
 thunders and lightens/ but of Pericles, an elder 
 orator ; and even amongst the written oratory of 
 Greece, which still survives (for as to the speeches 
 ascribed to Pericles by Thucydides, I take it for 
 granted that, as usual, these were mere forgeries of 
 the historian), there is a portion which perhaps exceeds 
 Demosthenes in the naked quality of vehemence. 
 But this, I admit, will not impeach his supremacy ; 
 for it is probable, that wherever an orator is charac- 
 terised exclusively by turbulent power, or at least 
 remembered chiefly for that quality, all the other 
 numerous graces of eloquence were wanting to that 
 inan, or existed only in a degree which made no 
 equipoise to his insulated gift of Jovian terror. The 
 
 the idea of shrinking from the heat of the sun, called it an 
 experience won in the shade ; and a mere scholastic student, 
 they called an umbraticus doctor. 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 71 
 
 Gracchi, amongst the Roman orators, were probably 
 more properly ‘ sons of thunder ^ than Crassus or 
 Cicero, or even than Csesar himself, whose oratory, by 
 the way, was, in this respect, like his own character 
 and infinite accomplishments ; so that even by Cicero 
 it is rarely cited without the epithet of splendid, 
 magnificent, &c. We must suppose, therefore, that 
 neither Cicero nor Demosthenes was held to be at the 
 head of their respective fields in Rome and Athens, in 
 right of any absolute pre-eminence in the one leading 
 power of an orator — viz. native and fervent vigour — ■ 
 but in right of a large comprehensive harmony of 
 gifts, leaving possibly to some other orators, elder or 
 rival to themselves, a superiority in each of an oratoi ’s 
 talents taken apart, but claiming the supremacy, 
 nevertheless, upon the whole, by the systematic union 
 of many qualities tending to one result : pleasing the 
 taste by the harmonious cou'p ceil from the total 
 assemblage, and also adapting itself to a far larger 
 variety of situations ; for, after all, the mere son of 
 thunder is disarmed, and apt to become ridiculous, if 
 you strip him of a passionate cause, of a theme satu- 
 rated with human strife, and of an excitable or 
 tempestuous audience. 
 
 Such an audience, however, it will be said that 
 Demosthenes had, and sometimes (but not very often 
 in those orations which survive) such a theme. As 
 to his audience, certainly it was all that could be 
 wished in point of violence and combustible passion ; 
 but also it was something more. A mighty advantage 
 it is, doubtless, to an orator, when he sees and hears 
 his own kindling passions instantaneously reflected in 
 the blazing eyes and fiery shouts (the fremitus) of his 
 
72 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 audience — when he sees a whole people, personally or 
 by deputation, swayed backwards and forwards, like 
 a field of corn in a breeze, by the movements of his 
 own appeals. But, unfortunately, in the Athenian 
 audience, the ignorance, the headstrong violence of 
 prejudice, the arrogance, and, above all, the levity of 
 the national mind — presented, to an orator the most 
 favourite, a scene like that of an ocean always rocking 
 with storms ; like a wasp always angry ; like a 
 lunatic, always coming out of a passion or preparing 
 to go into one. Well might Demosthenes prepare 
 himself by sea-shore practice ; in which I conceive 
 that his purpose must have been, not so much 
 (according to the common notion) to overcrow the 
 noise of the forum, a-s to stand fire (if I may so 
 express it) against the uproarious demonstrations of 
 mob fury. 
 
 This quality of an Athenian audience must very 
 seriously have interfered with the intellectual display 
 of an orator. Not a word could he venture to say in 
 the way of censure towards the public will — not even 
 hypothetically to insinuate a fault ; not a syllable 
 could he utter even in the way of dissent from the 
 favourite speculations of the moment. If he did, 
 instantly a roar of menaces recalled him to a sense 
 even of personal danger. And, again, the mere 
 vivacity of his audience, requiring perpetual amuse- 
 ment and variety, compelled a man, as great even as 
 Demosthenes, to curtail his arguments, and rarely, 
 indeed, to pursue a theme with the requisite fulness 
 of development or illustration ; a point in which the 
 superior dignity and the far less fluctuating mobility of 
 the Roman mind gave an immense advantage to Cicero. 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 73 
 
 Demosthenes, in spite of all the weaknesses which 
 have been arrayed against his memory by the hatred 
 of his contemporaries, or by the anti-republican feel- 
 ings of such men as Mitford, was a great man and 
 an honest man. He rose above his countrymen. He 
 despised, in some measure, his audience ; and, at 
 length, in the palmy days of his influence, he would 
 insist on being heard ; he would insist on telling the 
 truth, however unacceptable ; he would not, like the 
 great rout of venal haranguers, lay any flattering 
 unction to the capital distempers of the public mind ; 
 he would point out their errors, and warn them of 
 their perils. But this upright character of the man, 
 victorious over his constitutional timidity, does but 
 the more brightly illustrate the local law and the 
 tyranny of the public feeling. How often do we find 
 him, when on the brink of uttering ‘ odious truth, ^ 
 obliged to pause, and to propitiate his audience with 
 deprecatory phrases, entreating them to give him time 
 for utterance, not to yell him down before they had 
 heard his sentence to the end. M?7 dopy^eire — ‘ Gentle- 
 men of Athens ! for the love of God, do not make an 
 uproar at what I am going to say ! Gentlemen of 
 Athens ! humbly I beseech you to let me finish my 
 sentence ! ’ Such are his continual appeals to the 
 better feelings of his audience. Now, it is very 
 evident that, in such circumstances, no man could do 
 justice to any subject. At least, when speaking not 
 before a tribunal of justice, but before the people in 
 council assembled — that is, in effect, on his greatest 
 stage of all — Demosthenes (however bold at times, 
 and restive in a matter which he held to be paramount) 
 was required to bend, and did bend, to the local 
 
74 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 genius of democracy, reinforced by a most mercurial 
 temperament. The very air of Attica, combined with 
 great political power, kept its natives in a state of 
 habitual intoxication ; and even wise men would have 
 had some difficulty in mastering, as it affected 
 themselves, the permanent bias towards caprice and 
 insolence. 
 
 Is this state of things at all taken into account in 
 our modern critiques upon Demosthenes? The up- 
 shot of what I can find in most modern lecturers upon 
 rhetoric and style, French or English, when speaking 
 of Demosthenes, is this notable simile, by way of 
 representing the final effect of his eloquence— ‘ that, 
 like a mountain torrent, swollen by melting snow, or 
 by rain, it carries all things before it.’ Prodigiously 
 original ! and exceedingly discriminative ! As if such 
 an illustration would not equally represent the effect 
 of a lyrical poem, of Mozart’s music, of a stormy 
 chorus, or any other form whatever of impassioned 
 vehemence. Meantime, I suspect grievously that not 
 one of these critics has ever read a paragraph of 
 Demosthenes. Nothing do you ever find quoted but 
 a few notorious passages about Philip of Macedon, 
 and the too-famous oath, by the manes of those that 
 died at Marathon. I call it too famous, because (like 
 Addison’s comparison of Marlborough, at Blenheim, 
 to the angel in the storm — of which a schoolmaster 
 then living said, that nine out of every ten boys 
 would have hit upon it in a school exercise) it has no 
 peculiar boldness, and must have occurred to every 
 Athenian, of any sensibility, every day of his life. 
 Hear, on the other hand, a modern oath, and (what 
 is most remarkable) an oath sworn in the pulpit. A 
 
A BRTEF. APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 75 
 
 dissenting clergyman (I believe, a Baptist), preaching 
 at Cambridge, and having occasion to affirm or to 
 deny something or other, upon his general confidence 
 in the grandeur of man’s nature, the magnificence of 
 his conceptions, the immensity of his aspirations, &c., 
 delivered himself thus : — ‘ By the greatness of human 
 ideals — by the greatness of human aspirations — by 
 the immortality of human creations — hy the Iliad — 
 
 hy the Odyssey ’ Now, that was bold, startling, 
 
 sublime. But, in the other case, neither was the oath 
 invested with, any great pomp of imagery or expres- 
 sion ; nor, if it had — which is more to the purpose — • 
 was such an oath at all representative of the peculiar 
 manner belonging to Demosthenes. It is always a 
 rude and inartificial style of criticism to cite from an 
 author that which, whether fine or not in itself, is no 
 fair specimen of his ordinary style. 
 
 What then is the characteristic style of Demos- 
 thenes *? — It is one which grew naturally, as did his 
 defects (by which I mean faults of omission, in 
 contradiction to such as are positive), from the 
 composition of his audience. His audience, compre- 
 hending so much ignorance, and, above all, so much 
 high-spirited impatience, being, in fact, always on the 
 fret, kept the orator always on the fret. Hence 
 arose short sentences ; hence, the impossibility of the 
 long, voluminous sweeps of beautiful rhythmus which 
 we find in Cicero ; hence, the animated form of 
 apostrophe and crowded interrogations addressed to 
 the audience. This gives, undoubtedly, a spirited and 
 animated character to the style of Demosthenes ; but 
 it robs him of a large variety of structure applied to 
 the logic, or the embellishment, or the music of his 
 
76 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 composition. His style is full of life, but not (like 
 Cicero’s) full of pomp and continuous grandeur. On 
 the contrary, as the necessity of rousing attention, or 
 of sustaining it, obliged the Attic orator to rely too 
 much on the 'personality of direct question to the 
 audience, and to use brief sentences, so also the same 
 impatient and fretful irritability forbade him to linger 
 much upon an idea — ^^to theorise, to speculate, or, 
 generally, to quit the direct business path of the 
 question then under consideration — no matter for 
 what purpose of beauty, dignity, instruction, or even 
 of ultimate effect. In all things, the immediate — the 
 instant — tYiQ prcesens pTcesentissimumyV 72 i^ kept steadily 
 before the eye of the Athenian orator, by the mere 
 coercion of self-interest. 
 
 And hence, by the way, arises one most important 
 feature of distinction between Grecian oratory (politi- 
 cal oratory at least) on the one hand, and Romari (to 
 which, in this point, we may add British) on the 
 other. A Homan lawyer, senator, or demagogue, 
 even, under proper restrictions — a British member of 
 parliament — or even a candidate from the hustings — 
 but, most assuredly, and by the evidence of many a 
 splendid example, an advocate addressing a jury — 
 may embellish his oration with a wide circuit of 
 historical, or of antiquarian, nay, even speculative 
 discussion. Every Latin scholar will- remember the 
 leisurely and most facetious, the good-natured and 
 respectful, yet keenly satiric, picture which the great 
 Roman barrister draws of the Stoic philosophy, by 
 way of rowing old Cato, who professed that philosophy 
 with too little indulgence for venial human errors. 
 judices — that is, in effect, the jury — were tickled 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 77 
 
 to the soul by seeing the grave Marcus Cato badgered 
 with this fine razor-like raillery ; and there can be no 
 doubt that, by fiattering the self-respect of the jury, 
 in presuming them susceptible of so much wit from a 
 liberal kind of knowledge, and by really delighting 
 them with such a display of adroit teasing applied to 
 a man of scenical gravity, this whole scene, though 
 quite extrajudicial and travelling out of the record, 
 was highly useful in conciliating the good-will of 
 Cicero^s audience. The same style of liberal excursus 
 from the more thorny path of the absolute business 
 before the court, has been often and memorably 
 practised by great English barristers — as, in the trial 
 of Sacheverel, by many of the managers for the 
 Commons ; by ‘ the fiuent Murray,’ on various occa- 
 sions ; in the great cause of impeachment against our 
 English Yerres (or, at least, our Yerres as to the 
 situation, though not the guilt), Mr. Hastings j in 
 many of Mr. Erskine’s addresses to juries, where 
 political rights were at stake ; in Sir James Mackin- 
 tosh’s defence of Peltier for a libel upon Hapoleon, 
 when he went into a history of the press as applied to 
 politics — (a liberal inquiry, but which, except in the 
 remotest manner, could not possibly bear upon the 
 mere question of fact before. the jury) ; and in many 
 other splendid instances, which have really made our 
 trials and the annals of our criminal jurisprudence 
 one great fund of information and authority to the 
 historian. In the senate, I need not say how much 
 farther, and more frequently, this habit of large 
 generalisation, and of liberal excursion from perhaps 
 a lifeless theme, has been carried by great masters; 
 in particular, by Edmund Burke, who carried it, in 
 
78 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 fact, to such excess, and to a point which threatened 
 so much to disturb the movement of public business, 
 that, from that cause more perhaps than from rude 
 insensibility to the value of his speculations, he put 
 Ids audience sometimes in motion for dinner, and 
 acquired (as is well-known) the surname of the 
 Dinner Bell.* 
 
 Now, in the Athenian audience, all this was im- 
 possible : neither in political nor in forensic harangues 
 was there any license by rule, or any indulgence by 
 usage, or any special privilege by personal favour, to 
 the least effort at improving an individual case of law 
 or politics into general views of jurisprudence, of 
 statesmanship, of diplomacy ; no collateral discussions 
 were tolerated — no illustrative details — no historical 
 parallelisms — still less any philosophical moralisations. 
 The^slightest show of any tendency in these directions 
 was summarily nipped in the bud : the Athenian 
 gentlemen began to 6opv€£lj' in good earnest if a man 
 showed symptoms of entering upon any discussion 
 whatever that was not intensely needful and pertinent 
 in the first place — or which, in the second place, was 
 not of a nature to be wound up in two sentences when 
 a summons should arise either to dinner, or to the 
 theatre, or to the succession of some variety anticipated 
 from another orator. 
 
 Hence, therefore, finally arises one great peculiarity 
 of Greek eloquence ; and a most unfortunate one for 
 
 * Yet this story has been exaggerated ; and, I believe, in 
 strict truth, the whole case arose out of some fretful expressions 
 of ill-temper on the part of Burke, and that the name was a 
 retort from a man of wit, who had been personally stung by a 
 sarcasm of the offended orator. 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 79 
 
 its chance of ever influencing a remote posterity, or, 
 in any substantial sense, of its ever surviving in the 
 real unaffected admiration of us moderns — that it 
 embodies no alien, no collateral information as to 
 manners, usages, modes of feeling — no extrinsic orna- 
 ment, no side glimpses into Grecian life, no casual 
 historical details. The cause, and nothing but the 
 cause — the political question, and nothing but the 
 question — pealed for ever in the ears of the terrified 
 orator, always on sufferance, always on his good 
 behaviour, always afraid, for the sake of his party or 
 of his client, lest his auditors should become angry, or 
 become impatient, or become weary. And from that 
 intense fear, trammeling the freedom of his steps at 
 every turn, and overruling every motion to the right 
 or to the left, in pure servile anxiety for the mood 
 and disposition of his tyrannical master, arose the 
 very opposite result for us of this day — that we, by 
 the very means adopted to prevent weariness in the 
 immediate auditors, find nothing surviving in Grecian 
 orations but what does weary us insupportably through 
 its want of all general interest ; and, even amongst 
 private or instant details of politics or law, presenting 
 us with none that throw light upon the spirit of 
 manners, or the Grecian peculiarities of feeling. 
 Probably an Athenian mob would not have cared 
 much at the prospect of such a result to posterity ; 
 and, at any rate, would not have sacrificed one atom 
 of their ease or pleasure to obviate such a, result : 
 but, to an Athenian orator, this result would have 
 been a sad one to contemplate. The final consequence 
 is, that whilst all men find, or may find, infinite 
 amusement, and instruction of the most liberal kind. 
 
80 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 in that most accomplished of statesmen and orators, 
 the Roman Cicero^ — nay, would doubtless, from the 
 causes assigned, have found, in their proportion, the 
 same attractions in the speeches of the elder Antony, 
 of Hortensius, of Crassus, and other contemporaries 
 or immediate predecessors of Cicero — no person ever 
 reads Demosthenes, still less any other Athenian 
 orator, with the slightest interest beyond that which 
 inevitably attaches to the words of one who wrote his 
 own divine language with probably very superior 
 skill. 
 
 But, from all this, results a further inference — viz. 
 the dire affectation of those who pretend an enthusiasm 
 in the oratory of Desmosthenes ; and also a plenary 
 consolation to all who are obliged, from ignorance 
 of Greek, to dispense with that novelty. If it be a 
 luxury at all, it is and can be one for those only 
 who cultivate verbal researches and the pleasures of 
 philology. 
 
 Even in the oratory of our own times, which often- 
 times ' discusses questions to the whole growth and 
 motion of which we have been ourselves parties 
 present, or even accessary — questions which we have 
 followed in their first emersion and separation from 
 the clouds of general politics ; their advance, slow or 
 rapid, towards a domineering interest in the public 
 passions ; their meridian altitude ; and perhaps their 
 precipitous descent downwards, whether from the 
 consummation of their objects (as in the questions of 
 the Slave Trade, of Catholic Emancipation, of East 
 India Monopoly), or from a partial victory and com- 
 promise with the abuse (as in the purification of that 
 Augean stable, prisons, and, still more, private houses 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 81 
 
 for the insane), or from the accomplishment of one 
 stage or so in a progress which, by its nature, is 
 infinite (as in the various steps taken towards the 
 improvement, and towards the extension of edu- 
 cation) : even in cases like these, when the primary 
 and ostensible object of the speaker already, on its 
 own account, possesses a commanding attraction, yet 
 will it often happen that the secondary questions, 
 growing out of the leading one, the great elementary 
 themes suggested to the speaker by the concrete case 
 before him — as, for instance, the general question 
 of Test Laws, or the still higher and transcendent 
 question of. Leligious Toleration, and the relations 
 between the State and religious opinions, or the 
 general history of Slavery and the commerce in the 
 human species, the general principles of economy as 
 applied to monopolies, the past usages of mankind in 
 their treatment of prisoners or of lunatics — these 
 comprehensive and transcendent themes are con- 
 tinually allowed to absorb and throw into the shade, 
 for a time, the minor but more urgent question of 
 the moment through which they have gained their 
 interest. The capital and primary interest gives way 
 for a time to the derivative interest ; and it does so 
 by a silent understanding between the orator and his 
 audience. The orator is well assured that he will not 
 be taxed with wandering ; the audience are satisfied 
 that, eventually, they will not have lost their time: 
 and the final result is, to elevate and liberalise the 
 province of oratory, by exalting mere business (grow- 
 ing originally, perhaps, out of contingencies of finance, 
 or trade, or local police) into a field for the higher 
 understanding • and giving to the mere necessities of 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
82 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 our position as a nation the dignity of great problems 
 for civilising wisdom or philosophic philanthropy. 
 Look back to the superb orations of Edmund Burke 
 on questions limited enough in themselves, sometimes 
 merely personal ; for instance, that on American 
 Taxation, on the Reforms in our Household or Official 
 Expenditure, or at that from the Bristol hustings (by 
 its jprima facie subject, therefore, a mere electioneer- 
 ing harangue to a mob). With what marvellous 
 skill does he enrich what is meagre, elevate what is 
 humble, intellectualise what is purely technical, de- 
 localise what is local, generalise what is personal ! 
 And with what result? Doubtless to the absolute 
 contemporaries of those speeches, steeped to the very 
 lips in the passions besetting their topics, even to 
 those whose attention was sufficiently secured by the 
 domineering interest, friendly or hostile, to the views 
 of the speaker — even to these I say, that, in so far as 
 they were at all capable of an intellectual pleasure, 
 those parts would be most attractive which were least 
 occupied with the present business and the momentary 
 details. This order of precedency in the interests of 
 the speech held even for them ; but to us, removing 
 at every annual step we take in the century, to a 
 greater distance from the mere business and partisan 
 interests of the several cases, this secondary attraction 
 is not merely the greater of the two — to us it has 
 become pretty nearly the sole one, pretty nearly the 
 exclusive attraction. 
 
 As to religious oratory, that stands upon a different 
 footing — the questions afloat in that province of 
 human speculation being eternal, or at least essenti- 
 ally the same under new forms, receives a strong 
 
A BKIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 83 
 
 illustration from the annals of the English senate, to 
 which also it gives a strong and useful illustration. 
 Up to the era of James 1., the eloquence of either 
 House could not, for political reasons, be very striking, 
 on the very principle which we have been enforcing. 
 Parliament met only for dispatch of business ; and 
 that business was purely fiscal, or (as at times it 
 happened) judicial. The constitutional functions of 
 Parliament were narrow ; and they were narrowed 
 still more severely by the jealousy of the executive 
 government. With the expansion, or rather first 
 growth and development of a gentry, or third estate, 
 expanded, pari passu, the political field of their juris- 
 diction and their deliberative functions. This widen- 
 ing field, as a birth out of new existences, unknown 
 to former laws or usages, was, of course, not con- 
 templated by those laws or usages. Constitutional 
 law could not provide for the exercise of rights by a 
 body of citizens, when, as yet, that body had itself no 
 existence. A gentry, as the depository of a vast 
 overbalance of property, real as well as personal, had 
 not matured itself till the latter years of James I. 
 Consequently the new functions, which the instinct 
 of their new situation prompted them to assume, were 
 looked upon by the Crown, most sincerely, as unlawful 
 usurpations. This led, as we know, to a most fervent 
 and impassioned struggle, the most so of any struggle 
 which has ever armed the hands of men with the 
 sword. For the passions take a far profounder sweep 
 when they are supported by deep thought and high 
 principles. 
 
 This element of fervid strife was already, for itself, 
 an atmosphere most favourable to political eloquence. 
 
84 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 Accordingly, the speeches of that day, though generally 
 too short to attain that large compass and sweep of 
 movement without which it is difficult to kindle or to 
 sustain any conscious enthusiasm in an audience, were 
 of a high quality as to thought and energy of expres- 
 sion, as high as their circumstantial disadvantages 
 allowed. Lord Strafford’s great effort is deservedly 
 admired to this day, and the latter part of it has been 
 often pronounced a chef -d' oeuvre. A few years before 
 that era; all the orators of note were, and must have 
 been, judicial orators; and, amongst these, Lord 
 Bacon, to whom every reader’s thoughts will point as 
 the most memorable, attained the chief object of all 
 oratory, if what Ben Jonson reports of him be true, 
 that he had his audience passive to the motions of his 
 will. But Jonson was, perhaps, too scholastic a judge 
 to be a fair representative judge ; and, whatever he 
 might choose to say or to think. Lord Bacon was 
 certainly too weighty — too massy with the bullion of 
 original thought — ever to have realized the idea of a 
 great popular orator — one who 
 
 ‘Wielded at will a fierce democracy,’' 
 
 and ploughed up the great deeps of sentiment, or 
 party strife, or national animosities, like a Levanter 
 or a monsoon. In the schools of Plato, in the palcestra 
 Stoicorum, such an orator might be potent ; not in 
 fcece Romuli. If he had laboured with no other defect, 
 had he the gift of tautology % Could he say the same 
 thing three times over in direct sequence? For, with- 
 out this talent of iteration — of repeating the same 
 thought in diversified forms — a man may utter good 
 heads of an oration, but not an oration. Just as the 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITE-RATURE. 85 
 
 same illustrious man’s essays are good hints — useful 
 topics — for essays ; but no approximation to what we, 
 in modern days, understand by essays : they are, as 
 an eminent author once happily expressed it to myself, 
 
 ‘ seeds, not plants or shrubs ; acorns, that is, oaks in 
 embryo, but not oaks' 
 
 He verting, however, to the oratory of the Senate, 
 from the era of its proper birth, which, we may date 
 from the opening of that our memorable Long Parlia- 
 ment, brought together in November of 1642,^ our 
 Parliamentary eloquence has now, within four years, 
 travelled through a period of two centuries. A most 
 admirable subject for an essay, or a Magazine article, 
 as it strikes me, would be a bird’s-eye view — or 
 rather a bird’s- wing flight — pursuing rapidly, the 
 revolutions of that memorable oracle (for such it 
 really was to the rest of civilised Europe), which, 
 through so long a course of years, like the Delphic 
 oracle to the nations of old, delivered counsels of civil 
 prudence and of national grandeur, that kept alive 
 for Christendom the recollections of freedom, and 
 refreshed to the enslaved Continent the old ideas of 
 Roman patriotism, which, but for our Parliament, 
 would have uttered themselves by no voices on earth. 
 
 * There was another Parliament'of this same year 1642, which 
 met in the spring (April, I think), but was summarily dissolved. 
 A small quarto volume, of not unfrequent occurrence, I believe, 
 contains some good specimens of the eloquence then prevalent — 
 it was rich in thought, never wordy — in fact, too parsimonious 
 in words and illustrations ; and it breathed a high tone of ' 
 religious principle as well as of pure-minded patriotism ; but, 
 for the reason stated above — its narrow circuit and very limited 
 duration — the general character of the Parliamentary eloquence 
 was ineffective. 
 
86 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 That this account of the position occupied by our 
 British Parliament, in relation to the rest of Europe, 
 at least after the publication of the Debates had 
 been commenced by Cave, with the aid of Dr. Johnson, 
 is, in no respect, romantic or overcharged, may be 
 learned from the German novels of the last century, 
 in which we find the British debates as uniformly the 
 morning accompaniment of breakfast, at the houses 
 of the rural gentry, &c., as in any English or Scottish 
 county. Such a sketch would, of course, collect the 
 characteristics of each age, show in what connection 
 these characteristics stood with the political aspects 
 of the time, or with the modes of managing public 
 business (a fatal rock to our public eloquence in 
 England !), and illustrate the whole by interesting 
 specimens from the leading orators in each generation : 
 from Hampden to Pulteney, amongst oppositionists 
 or patriots ; from Pulteney to O’Connell ; or, again, 
 amongst Ministers, from Hyde to Somers, from Lord 
 Sunderland to Lords Oxford and Bolingbroke ; and 
 from the plain, downright Sir Bobert Walpole, to the 
 plain, downright Sir Bobert Peel. 
 
 Throughout the whole of this review, the same 
 ‘ moral,’ if one might so call it, would be apparent — - 
 viz. that in proportion as the oratory was high and 
 intellectual, did it travel out into the collateral ques- 
 tions of less instant necessity, but more durable 
 interest ; and that, in proportion as the Grecian 
 necessity was or was not enforced by the temper of 
 the House, or by the pressure of public business — the 
 necessity wljich cripples the orator, by confining him 
 within the severe limits of the case before him — in 
 that proportion had . or had not the oratory of past 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 87 
 
 generations a surviving interest for modern posterity. 
 Nothing, in fact, so utterly effete — not even old law, 
 or old pharmacy, or old erroneous chemistry — nothing 
 so insufferably dull as political orations, unless when 
 powerfully animated by that spirit of generalisation 
 which only gives the breath of life and the salt which 
 preserves from decay, through every age alike. The 
 very strongest proof, as well as exemplification of all 
 which has been said on Grecian oratory, may thus be 
 found in the records of the British senate. 
 
 And this, by the way, brings us round to an aspect 
 of Grecian oratory which has been rendered memor- 
 able, and forced upon our notice, in the shape of a 
 problem, by the most popular of our native historians 
 — the aspect, I mean, of Greek oratory in comparison 
 with English. Hume has an essay upon the subject ; 
 and the true answer to that essay will open a wide 
 field of truth to us. In this little paper, Hume 
 assumes the superiority of. Grecian eloquence, as a 
 thing admitted on all hands, and requiring no proof. 
 Not the proof of this point did he propose to himself 
 as his object ; not even the illustration of it. No. 
 All that, Hume held to be superfluous. His object 
 was, to investigate the causes of this Grecian superi- 
 ority ; or, if investigate is too pompous a word for so 
 slight a discussion, more properly, he inquired for the 
 cause as something that must naturally lie upon the 
 surface. 
 
 What is the answer? First of all, before looking 
 for causes, a man should be sure of his facts. Now, 
 as to the main fact at issue, I utterly deny the 
 superiority of Grecian eloquence. And, first of all, I 
 change the whole field of inquiry by shifting the 
 
88 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 comparison. The Greek oratory is all political or 
 judicial : we have those also ; but the best of our 
 eloquence, by immeasurable degrees, the noblest and 
 richest, is our religious eloquence. Here, of course, ' 
 all comparison ceases ; for classical Grecian religious 
 eloquence, in Grecian attire, there is none until three 
 centuries after the Christian era, when we have three 
 great orators, Gregory Hazianzen, Basil — of which 
 two I have a very fixed opinion, having read large 
 portions of both — and a third of whom I know no- 
 thing. To our Jeremy Taylor, to our Sir Thomas 
 Browne, there is no approach made in the Greek 
 eloquence. The inaugural chapter of the Holy 
 Dying ^ to say nothing of many another golden 
 passage \ or the famous passage in the Urn Buriall, 
 beginning — ‘ How, since these bones have rested under 
 the drums and tramplings of three conquests ’ — have 
 no paralled in literature. The winding up of the 
 former is more, in its effect, like a great tempestuous 
 chorus from the Judas Maccabeus, or from Spohr’s St, 
 Taut, than like human eloquence. 
 
 But, grant that this transfer of the comparison is 
 unfair — still, it is no less unfair to confine the com- 
 parison on our part to the weakest part of our 
 oratory ; but no matter — let issue be joined even here. 
 Then we may say, at once, that, for the intellectual 
 qualities of eloquence, in fineness of understanding, in 
 depth and in large compass of thought, Burke far 
 surpasses any orator, ancient or modern. But, if the 
 comparison were pushed more widely, very certain I 
 am, that, apart from classical prejudice, no qualities 
 of just thinking, or fine expression, or even of arti- 
 ficial ornament, could have been assigned by Hume, 
 
A BRIEF APPRAISAL OF THE GREEK LITERATURE. 89 
 
 in which the great body of our deliberative and 
 forensic orators fall short of Grecian models ; though 
 I will admit, that, by comparison with the Roman 
 model of Cicero, there is seldom the same arlful 
 prefiguration of the oration throughout its future 
 course, or the same sustained rhythmus and oratorial 
 tone. The qualities of art are nowhere so prominently 
 expressed, nowhere aid the effect so much, as in the 
 great Roman master. 
 
 But, as to Greece, let us now, in one word, unveil 
 the sole advantage which the eloquence of the Athenian 
 assembly has over that of the English senate. It is 
 this — the imhlic business of A thens was as yet simple 
 and unencumberedj by details ; the dignity of the 
 occasion was scenically sustained. But, in England, 
 the vast intricacy and complex interweaving of pro- 
 perty, of commerce, of commercial interests, of details 
 infinite in number, and infinite in littleness, break 
 down and fritter away into fractions and petty 
 minutise, the whole huge labyrinth of our public 
 affairs. It is scarcely necessary to explain my mean- 
 ing. In Athens, the question before the public 
 assembly was, peace or war — before our House of 
 Commons, perhaps the Exchequer Bills’ Bill \ at 
 Athens, a league or no league — in England, the Tithe 
 of Agistment Commutation-Bills’ Renewal Bill \ in 
 Athens — shall we forgive a ruined enemy h in England 
 — shall we cancel the tax on farthing rushlights 1 In 
 short, with us, the infinity of details overlays the 
 simplicity and grandeur of our public deliberations. 
 
 Such was the advantage — a mighty advantage — for 
 Greece. How, finally, for the use made of this ad- 
 vantage. To that point I have already spoken. By 
 
90 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 the clamorous and undeliberative . qualities of the 
 Athenian political audience, by its fitful impatience, 
 and vehement arrogance, and fervid partisanship, all 
 wide and general discussion was barred in limine. 
 And thus occurred this singular inversion of. positions 
 • — the greatest of Greek orators was obliged to treat 
 these Catholic questions as mere Athenian questions 
 of business. On the other hand, the least eloquent 
 of British senators, whether from the immense ad- 
 vance in knowledge, or from the custom and usage of 
 Parliament, seldom fails, more or less, to elevate his 
 intense details of pure technical business into some- 
 thing dignified, either by the necessities of pursuing 
 the historical relations of the matter in discussion, or 
 of arguing its merits as a case of general finance, or 
 as connected with general political economy, or, 
 perhaps, in its bearings on peace or war. The Grecian 
 was forced, by the composition of his headstrong 
 auditory, to degrade and personalise his grand themes ; 
 the Englishman is forced, by the difference of his 
 audience, by old prescription, and by the opposition 
 of a well-informed, hostile party, into elevating his 
 merely technical and petty themes into great national 
 questions, involving honour and benefit to tens of 
 millions. 
 
THE GERMAN LANGUAGE, AND 
 PHILOSOPHY OF KANT. 
 
 Using a New Testament, of which (in the narrative 
 parts at least) any one word being given will suggest 
 most of what is immediately consecutive, you evade 
 the most irksome of the penalties annexed to the first 
 breaking ground in a new language : you evade the 
 necessity of hunting up and down a dictionary. Your 
 own memory, and the inevitable suggestions of the 
 context, furnish a dictionary 'pro hac vice. And after- 
 wards, upon advancing to other books, where you are 
 obliged to forego such aids, and to swim without 
 corks, you find yourself already in possession of the 
 particles for expressing addition, succession, excep- 
 tion, inference — in short, of all the forms by which 
 transition or connection is effected {if, hut, and, there- 
 fore, hovoever, notwithstanding), together with all those 
 adverbs for modifying or restraining the extent of a 
 subject or a predicate, which in all languages alike 
 compose the essential ‘frame -work or extra-linear 
 machinery of human thought. The filling-up — the 
 matter (in a scholastic sense) — may differ infinitely ; 
 but the form, the periphery, the determining moulds 
 
92 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 into which this matter is fused — all this is the same 
 for ever : and so wonderfully limited in its extent is 
 this frame-work, so narrow and rapidly revolving is 
 the clock-work of connections among human thoughts, 
 that a dozen pages of almost any book suffice to 
 exhaust all the enea irrepoei^ra^ wffiich express them. 
 To have mastered these eirsa Trrepoevra is in effect to 
 have mastered seven-tenths, at the least, of any 
 language ; and the benefit of using a New Testament, 
 or the familiar parts of an Old Testament, in this pre- 
 liminary drill, is, that your own memory is thus made 
 to operate as a perpetual dictionary or nomenclator. 
 I have heard Mr. Southey say that, by carrying in 
 his pocket a Dutch, Swedish, or other Testament, on 
 occasion of a long journey performed in ‘ muggy ' 
 weather, and in the inside of some venerable ‘ old 
 heavy ^ — such as used to bestow their tediousness upon 
 our respectable fathers some thirty or forty years ago 
 
 * ''Eiria TrTep6ivTa,\\iQXd,W.y winged ivords. To explain the use 
 and origin of this phrase to non-classical readers, it must be 
 understood that, originally, it was used by Homer to express the 
 few, rapid, and significant words which conveyed some hasty 
 order, counsel, or notice, suited to any sudden occasion or 
 emergency : e. g. ‘ To him flying from the field the hero ad- 
 dressed these winged words — “Stop, coward, or I will transfix 
 thee with my spear.”’ But by Horne Tooke, the phrase was 
 adopted on the title-page of his Diversions of Parley^ as a plea- 
 sant symbolic expression for all the non-significant particles, the 
 articuli or joints of language, which in his well-known theory 
 are resolved into abbreviations or compendious forms (and 
 therefore rapid, flying, winged forms), substituted for significant 
 forms of greater length. Thus, if is a non-significant particle, 
 but it is an abbreviated form of an imperative in the second 
 person — substituted for gif, or give, or grant the case —put the 
 case that. All other particles are shown by Horne Tooke to be 
 equally shorthand (or winged) substitutions. 
 
THE GERMAN LANGUAGE. 
 
 93 
 
 — he had more than once turned to so valuable an 
 account the doziness or the dulness of his fellow- 
 travellers, that whereas he had ‘ booked ' himself at 
 the coach-office utterly dvaXcpajSrjrog) unacquainted 
 with the first rudiments of the given language, he 
 had made his parting bows to his coach brethren 
 (secretly returning thanks to them for their stupidity), 
 in a condition for grappling with any common book 
 in that dialect. One of the polyglot Old or New 
 Testaments published by Bagster, would be a perfect 
 Encyclopaedia, or Panorganon, for such a scheme of 
 coach discipline, upon dull roads and in dull company. 
 As respects the German language in particular, I 
 shall give one caution from my own experience, to the 
 self-instructor : it is a caution which applies to the 
 German language exclusively, or to that more than 
 to any other, because the embarrassment which it is 
 meant to meet, grows out of a defect of taste charac- 
 teristic of the German mind. It is this : elsewhere, 
 you would naturally, as a beginner, resort to prose 
 authors, since the license and audacity of poetic think- 
 ing, and the large freedom of a poetic treatment, can- 
 not fail to superadd difficulties of individual creation to 
 the general difficulties of a strange dialect. But this 
 rule, good for every other case, is not good for the 
 literature of Germany. Difficulties there certainly 
 are, and perhaps in more than the usual proportion, 
 from the German peculiarities of poetic treatment; 
 but even these are overbalanced in the result, by the 
 single advantage of being limited in the extent by the 
 metre, or (as it may happen) by the particular stanza. 
 To German poetry there is a known, fixed, calculable 
 limit. Infinity, absolute infinity, is impracticable in 
 
94 
 
 DE QUINOEY. 
 
 any German metre. Not so with German prose. 
 Style, in any sense, is an inconceivable idea to a 
 German intellect. Take the word in the limited sense 
 of what the Greeks called ^vydecrig ovojjLaTaiv — i. e. the 
 construction of sentences — I affirm that a German 
 (unless it were here and there a Lessing) cannot admit 
 such an idea. Books there are in German, and, in 
 other respects, very good books too, which consist of 
 one or two enormous sentences. A German sentence 
 describes an arch between the rising and the setting 
 sun. Take Kant for illustration : he has actually 
 been complimented by the cloud-spinner, Frederic 
 Schlegel, who is now in Hades, as a most original 
 artist in the matter of style. ‘ Original ^ Heaven 
 knows he was ! His idea of a sentence was as follows : 
 — We have all seen, or read of, an old family coach, 
 and the process of packing it for a journey to London 
 some seventy or eighty years ago. Night and day, 
 for a week at least, sate the housekeeper, the lady’s 
 maid, the butler, the gentleman’s gentleman, &c., 
 packing the huge ark in all its recesses, its ‘ imperials,’ 
 its ‘ wills,’ its ‘ Salisbury boots,’ its ‘ sword-cases,’ its 
 front pockets, side pockets, rear pockets, its ‘ hammer- 
 cloth cellars ’ (which a lady explains to me as a corrup- 
 tion from hamper-cloth^ as originally a cloth for hiding 
 a hamper, stored with viaticum), until all the uses and 
 needs of man, and of human life, savage or civilised, 
 were met with separate provision by the infinite chaos. 
 Pretty nearly upon the model of such an old family 
 coach packing, did Kant institute and pursue the 
 packing and stuffing of one of his regular sentences. 
 Everything that could ever be needed in the way 
 of explanation, illustration, restraint, inference, by- 
 
THE GERMAN LANGUAGE. 
 
 95 
 
 clause, or indirect comment, was to be crammed, 
 according to this German philosopher’s taste, into the 
 front pockets, side pocketl, or rear pockets, of the one 
 original sentence. Hence it is that a sentence will 
 last in reading whilst a man 
 
 ‘ Might reap an acre of his neighbour’s corn.’ 
 
 Hor is this any peculiarity of Kant’s. It is common 
 to the whole family of prose writers of Germany, 
 unless when they happen to have studied French 
 models, who cultivate the opposite extreme. As a 
 caution, therefore, practically applied to this particular 
 anomaly in German prose-writing, I advise all begin- 
 ners to choose between two classes of composition — 
 ballad poetry, or comedy — as their earliest school of 
 exercise ; ballad poetry, because the form of the stanza 
 (usually a quatrain) prescribes a very narrow range 
 to the sentences ; comedy, because the form of dialogue, 
 and the imitation of daily life in its ordinary tone 
 of conversation, and the spirit of comedy naturally 
 suggesting a brisk interchange of speech, all tend to 
 short sentences. These rules I soon drew from my 
 own experience and observation. And the one sole 
 purpose towards which I either sought or wished for 
 aid, respected the pronunciation ; not so much for 
 attaining a just one (which I was satisfied could not 
 be realised out of Germany, or, at least, out of a daily 
 intercourse with Germans) as for preventing the 
 formation, unawares, of a radically false one. The 
 guttural and palatine sounds of the c/i, and some 
 other German peculiarities, cannot be acquired with- 
 out constant practice. But the false Westphalian or 
 Jewish pronunciation of the vowels, diphthongs, &c., 
 
96 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 may easily be forestalled, though the true delicacy of 
 Meissen should happen to be missed. Thus much 
 guidance I purchased, witli a very few guineas, from 
 my young Dresden tutor, who was most anxious for 
 permission to extend his assistance ; but this I would 
 not hear of : and, in the spirit of fierce (perhaps 
 foolish) independence, which governed most of my 
 actions at that time of life, I did all the rest for 
 myself. 
 
 ‘ It was a banner broad unfurl’d, 
 
 The picture of that western world.’ 
 
 These, or words' like these, in which Wordsworth 
 conveys the sudden apocalypse, as by an apparition, 
 to an ardent and sympathisiug spirit, of the stupendous 
 world of America, rising, at once, like an exhalation, 
 with all its shadowy forests, its endless savannas, and 
 its pomp of solitary waters — well and truly might I 
 have applied to my first launching upon that vast 
 billowy ocean of the German literature. As a past 
 literature, as a literature of iuheritance and tradition, 
 the German was nothing. • Ancestral titles it had 
 none ; or none comparable to those of England, Spain, 
 or even Italy ; and there, also, it resembled America, 
 as contrasted with the ancient world of Asia, Europe, 
 and North Africa.^ But, if its inheritance were 
 nothing, its prospects, and the scale of its present 
 development, were in the amplest style ^f American 
 grandeur. Ten thousand new books, we are assured 
 
 * It has been rather too much forgotten, that Africa, from 
 the northern margin of Bilidulgerid and the Great Desert, south- 
 wards — everywhere, in short, beyond Egypt, Gyrene, and the 
 modern Barbary States — belongs, as much as America, to the 
 New World — the world unknown to the ancients. 
 
THE GERMAN LANGUAGE. 
 
 97 
 
 by Menzel, an author of high reputation — a literal 
 myriad — is considerably below the number annually 
 poured from all quarters' of Germany, into the vast 
 reservoir of Leipsic ; spawn infinite, no doubt, of 
 crazy dotage, of dreaming imbecility, of wickedness, 
 of frenzy, through every phasis of Babylonian con- 
 fusion ; yet, also, teeming and heaving with life and 
 the instincts of truth — of truth hunting and chasing 
 in the broad daylight, or of truth groping in the 
 chambers of darkness ; sometimes seen as it displays 
 its cornucopia of tropical fruitage ; sometimes heard 
 dimly, and in promise, working ^its way through 
 diamond mines. Not the tropics, not the ocean, not 
 life itself, is such a type of variety, of infinite forms, 
 or of creative power, as the German literature, in its 
 recent motions (say for the last twenty years), gather- 
 ing, like the Danube, a fresh volume of power at every 
 stage of its advance. A banner it was, indeed, to me 
 of miraculous promise, and suddenly unfurled. It 
 seemed, in those days, an El Dorado as true and un- 
 deceiving as it was evidently inexhaustible. And the 
 central object in this interminable wilderness of what 
 then seemed imperishable bloom and verdure — the 
 very tree of knowledge -in the midst of this Eden — 
 was the new or transcendental philosophy of Immanuel 
 Kant. 
 
 I have described the gorgeousness of my expecta- 
 tions in those early days of my prelusive acquaintance 
 with German literature. I have a little lingered in 
 painting that glad aurora of my first pilgrimage to 
 the fountains of the Bhine and of the Danube, in 
 order adequately to shadow out the gloom and blight 
 which soon afterwards settled upon the hopes of that 
 VOL. I. G 
 
98 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 golden dawn. In Kant, I had been taught to believe, 
 were the keys of a new and a creative philosophy. 
 Either ‘ ejus ductu^ or ‘ ejvs auspiciis ^ — that is, either 
 directly under his guidance, or indirectly under any 
 influence remotely derived from his principles — I 
 looked confidingly to see the great vistas and avenues 
 of truth laid open to the philosophic inquirer. Alas ! 
 all was a dream. Six weeks’ study was sufficient to 
 close my hopes in that quarter for ever. The phil- 
 osophy of Kant — so famous, so commanding in 
 Germany, from about the period of the French 
 Revolution — alreaxly, in 1805, I had found to be a 
 philosophy of destruction, and scarcely, in any one 
 chapter, so much as tending to a philosophy of recon- 
 struction. It destroys by wholesale, and it substitutes 
 nothing. Perhaps, in the whole history of man, it is 
 an unexampled case, that such a scheme of speculation 
 — which offers nothing seducing to human aspirations, 
 nothing splendid to the human imagination, nothing 
 even positive and affirmative to the human under- 
 standing — should have been able to found an interest 
 so broad and deep among thirty-five millions of culti- 
 vated men. The English reader who supposes this 
 interest to have been confined to academic bowers, or 
 the halls of philosophic societies, is most inadequately 
 alive to the case. Sects, heresies, schisms, by hundreds, 
 have arisen out of this philosophy — many thousands 
 of books have been written by way of teaching it, 
 discussing it, extending it, opposing it. And yet it 
 is a fact, that all its doctrines are negative — teaching, 
 in no case, what we are, but simply what we are not 
 to believe — and that all its truths are barren. Such 
 being its unpopular character, I cannot but imagine 
 
THE GERMAN LANGUAGE. 
 
 99 
 
 that the German people have received it with so much 
 ardour, from profound incomprehension of its mean- 
 ing, and utter blindness to its drift — a solution which 
 may seem extravagant, but is not so ; for, even 
 amongst those who have expressly commented on this 
 philosophy, not one of the many hundreds whom I 
 have myself read, but has retracted from every attempt 
 to explain its dark places. In these dark places lies, 
 indeed, the secret of its attraction. Were light poured 
 into them, it would be seen that they are culs-de-sac, 
 passages that lead to nothing ; but, so long as they 
 continue dark, it is not known whither they lead, how 
 far, in what direction, and whether, in fact, they may 
 not issue into paths connected directly with the 
 positive and the infinite. Were it known that upon 
 every path a barrier faces you insurmountable to 
 human steps — like the barriers which fence in the 
 Abyssinian valley of Rasselas — the popularity of this 
 philosophy would expire at once ; for no popular 
 interest can long be sustained by speculations which, 
 in every aspect, are known to be essentially negative 
 and essentially finite. Man’s nature has something 
 of infinity within itself, which requires a correspond- 
 ing infinity in its objects. We are told, indeed, by 
 Mr. Bulwer, that the Kantian system has ceased to 
 be of any authority in Germany — that it is defunct, 
 in fact — and that we have first begun to import it 
 into England, after its root had withered, or begun 
 to wither, in its native soil. But Mr. Bulwer is 
 mistaken. The philosophy has never withered in 
 Germany. It cannot even be said that its fortunes 
 have retrograded : they have oscillated : accidents of 
 taste and ability in particular professors, or caprices 
 
 G 2 
 
100 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 of fashion, have given a momentary fluctuation to 
 this or that new form of Kantianism, — an ascendency, 
 for a period, to various, and, in some respects, con- 
 flicting, modifications of the transcendental system ; 
 but all alike have derived their power mediately from 
 Kant. Ko weapons, even if employed as hostile 
 weapons, are now forged in any armoury but that of 
 Kant ; and, to repeat a Koman figure which I used 
 above, all the modern polemic tactics of what is called 
 metaphysics, are trained and made to move either 
 ejus ductu or ejus auspiciis, Kot one of the new 
 systems affects to call back the Leibnitzian philosophy, 
 the Cartesian, or any other of earlier or later date, as 
 adequate to the purposes of the intellect in this day, 
 or as capable of yielding even a sufficient terminology. 
 Let this last fact decide the question' of Kant’s 
 vitality. Qui hene distinguit hene docet. This is an 
 old adage. Kow, he who imposes new names upon 
 all the acts, the functions, and the objects of the 
 philosophic understanding, must be presumed to have 
 distinguished most sharply, and to have ascertained 
 with most precision, their general relations — so long 
 as his terminology continues to he adopted. This test, 
 applied to Kant, will show that his spirit yet survives 
 in Germany. Frederic Schlegel, it is true, twenty 
 years ago, in his lectures upon literature, assures us 
 that even the disciples of the great philosopher have 
 agreed to abandon his philosophic nomenclature. But 
 the German philosophic literature, since that date, 
 tells another tale. Mr. Bulwer is, therefore, wrong ; 
 and, without going to Germany, looking only to 
 France, he will see cause to revise his sentence. 
 Cousin — the philosophic Cousin, the only great name 
 
THE GERMAN LANGUAGE. 
 
 101 
 
 in philosophy for modern France — familiar as he is 
 with North Germany, can hardly be presumed un- 
 acquainted with a fact so striking, if it were a fact, 
 as the extinction of a system once so triumphantly 
 supreme as that of Kant ; and yet Mr. Bulwer, 
 admiring Cousin as he does, cannot but have noticed 
 his efforts to naturalise Kant in France. Meantime, 
 if it were even true that transcendentalism had lost 
 its hold of the public mind in Germany, primd facie^ 
 this would prove little more than the fickleness of 
 that public which must have been wrong in one of 
 the two cases — either when adopting the system, or 
 when rejecting it. Whatever there may be of truth 
 and value in the system, will remain unimpeached by 
 such caprices, whether of an individual or of a great 
 nation \ and England would still be in the right to 
 import the philosophy, however late in the day, if it 
 were true even (which I doubt greatly) that she is 
 importing it. 
 
 Both truth and value there certainly is in one part 
 of the Kantian philosophy ; and that part is its 
 foundation. I had intended, at this point, to intro- 
 duce an outline of the transcendental philosophy — 
 not, perhaps, as entering by logical claim of right 
 into any biographical sketch, but as a very allowable 
 digression in the record of that man’s life to whom, 
 in the way of hope and of profound disappointment, 
 it had been so memorable an object. For two or 
 three years before I mastered the language of Kant,* 
 
 ^ I might have mastered the philosophy of Kant, without 
 waiting for the German language, in which all his’ capital works 
 are written ; for there is a Latin version of the whole, by Born, 
 and a most admirable digest of the cardinal work (admirable for 
 
102 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 it had been a pole-star to my hopes, and in hypothesi 
 agreeably to the uncertain plans of uncertain know- 
 ledge, the luminous guide to my future life — as a life 
 dedicated and set apart to philosophy. Such it was 
 some years before I knew it : for, at least ten long 
 years after I came into a condition of valueing its true 
 pretensions and measuring its capacities, this same 
 philosophy shed the gloom of something like misan- 
 thropy upon my views and estimates of human nature ; 
 for man was an abject animal, if the limitations which 
 Kant assigned to the motions of his speculative 
 reason were as absolute and hopeless as, under his 
 scheme of the understanding and his genesis of its 
 powers, too evidently they were. I belonged to a 
 reptile race, if the wings by which we had sometimes 
 seemed to mount, and the buoyancy which had seemed 
 to support our flight, were indeed the fantastic delu- 
 sions which he represented them. Such, and so deep 
 and so abiding in its influence upon my life, having 
 been the influence of this German philosophy, accord- 
 ing to all logic of proportions, in selecting the objects 
 of my notice, I might be excused for setting before 
 the reader, in its full array, the analysis of its capital 
 sections. However, in any memorial of a life which 
 professes to keep in view (though but as a secondary 
 purpose) any regard to popular taste, the logic of 
 proportions must bend, after all, to the law of the 
 occasion — to the proprieties of time and place. For 
 the present, therefore, I shall restrict myself to the 
 
 its fidelity and the skill by which that fidelity is attained), in 
 the same language, by Rhiseldek, a Danish professor. But this 
 fact, such was the slight knowledge of all things connected with 
 Kant in England, I did not learn for some years. 
 
THE GERMAN LANGUAGE. 
 
 103 
 
 few sentences in which it may be proper to gratify 
 the curiosity of some readers, the two or three in a 
 hundred, as to the peculiar distinctions of this philo- 
 sophy. Even to these two or three out of each 
 hundred, I shall not venture to ascribe a larger 
 curiosity than with respect to the most general 
 ‘ whereabouts ’ of its position — from what point it 
 starts — whence and from what aspect it surveys the 
 ground — and by what links from this starting-point 
 it contrives to connect itself with the main objects of 
 philosophic inquiry. 
 
 Immanuel Kant was originally a dogmatist in the 
 school of Leibnitz and Wolf \ that is, according to 
 his trisection of all philosophy into dogmatic, sceptical, 
 and critical, he was, upon all questions, disposed to a 
 strong affirmative creed, without courting any parti- 
 cular examination into the grounds of this creed, or 
 into its assailable points. From this slumber, as it 
 is called by himself, he was suddenly aroused by the 
 Humian doctrine of cause and effect. This celebrated 
 essay on the nature of necessary connection — so 
 thoroughly misapprehended at the date of its first 
 publication to the world by its soi-disant opponents, 
 Oswald, Beattie, &c., and so imperfectly comprehended 
 since then by various soi-disant defenders — became in 
 effect the ‘ occasional cause * (in the phrase of the 
 logicians) of the entire subsequent philosophic scheme 
 of Kant — every section of which arose upon the 
 accidental opening made to analogical trains of 
 thought, by this memorable effort of scepticism, 
 applied by Hume to one capital phenomenon among 
 the necessities of the human understanding. What 
 is the nature of Hume’s scepticism as applied to this 
 
104 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 phenomenon'! What is the main thesis of his cele- 
 brated essay on cause and effect ? For few, indeed, 
 are they who really know anything about it. If a 
 man really understands it, a very few words will avail 
 to explain the nodus. Let us try. It is a necessity 
 of the human understanding (very probably not a 
 necessity of a higher order of intelligences) to connect 
 its experiences by means of the idea of cause and its 
 correlate, effect : and when Beattie, Oswald, Beid, &c. 
 were exhausting themselves in proofs of the indispens- 
 ableness of this idea, they were fighting with shadows ; 
 for no man had ever questioned the practical necessity 
 for such an idea to the coherency of human thinking. 
 Not the practical necessity, but the internal con- 
 sistency of this notion, and the original right to such 
 a notion, was the point of inquisition. For, attend, 
 courteous reader, and three separate propositions will 
 set before your eyes the difficulty. First Prop., which, 
 for the sake of greater precision, permit me to throw 
 into Latin : — Non datur aliquid [A] quo posito ponitur 
 aliud [B] d priori; that is, in other words. You 
 cannot lay your hands upon that one object or phe- 
 nomenon [A] in the whole circle of natural existences, 
 which, being assumed, will entitle you to assume d 
 priori, any other object whatsoever [B] as succeeding 
 it. You could not, I say, of any object or phenomenon 
 whatever, assume this succession d priori — that is, 
 previously to experience. Second Prop. But, if the suc- 
 cession of B to A be made known to you, not d priori 
 (by the involution of B in the idea of A), but by 
 experience, then you cannot ascribe necessity to the 
 succession : the connection between them is not 
 necessary but contingent. For the very widest ex- 
 
THE GERMAN LANGUAGE. 
 
 105 
 
 perience — an experience which should stretch over all 
 ages, from the beginning to the end of time — can 
 never establish a nexus having the least approximation 
 to necessity ; no more than a rope of sand could gain 
 the cohesion of adamant, by repeating its links through 
 a billion of successions. Fro^p. Third, Hence (t. e. 
 from the two preceding propositions), it appears that 
 no instance or case of nexus that ever can have been 
 offered to the notice of any human understanding, 
 has in it, or, by possibility, could have had anything 
 of necessity. Had the nexus been necessary, you 
 would have seen it beforehand ; whereas, by Prop. I. 
 IF on datur aliquid, quo posit o ponitur aliud d priori. 
 This being so, now comes the startling fact, that the 
 notion of a cause includes the notion of necessity. 
 For, if A (the cause) be connected with B (the effect) 
 only in a casual or accidental way, you do not feet 
 warranted in calling it a cause. If heat applied to 
 ice (A) were sometimes followed by a tendency to 
 liquefaction (B) and sometimes not, you would not 
 consider A connected with B as a cause, but only as 
 some variable accompaniment of the true and unknown 
 cause, which might allowably be present or be absent. 
 This, then, is the startling and mysterious phenomenon 
 of the human understanding — that, in a certain 
 notion, which is indispensable to the coherency of our 
 whole experience, indispensable to the establishing 
 any nexus between the different parts and successions 
 of our whole train of notices, we include an accessary 
 notion of necessity, which yet has no justification or 
 warrant, no assignable derivation from any known 
 or possible case of human experience. We have 
 one idea at least — viz. the idea of causation — which 
 
106 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 transcends our possible experience by one important 
 element, the element of necessity, that never can have 
 been derived from the only source of ideas recognised 
 by the philosophy of this day. A Lockian never can 
 find his way out of this dilemma. The experience 
 (whether it be the experience of sensation or the 
 experience of reflection) which he adopts for his 
 master-key, never will unlock this case ; for the sum 
 total of human experience, collected from all ages, can 
 avail only to tell us what is, but never what must he. 
 The idea of necessity is absolutely transcendant to 
 experience, per se, and must be derived from some 
 other source. From what source 1 Could Hume tell 
 us ? No : he, who had started the game so acutely 
 (for with every allowance for the detection made in 
 Thomas Aquinas, of the original suggestion, as re- 
 corded in the Biographia Literaria of Coleridge, we 
 must still allow great merit of a secondary kind to 
 Hume for his modern revival and restatement of the 
 doctrine), this same acute philosopher broke down 
 confessedly in his attempt to hunt the game down. 
 His solution is worthless. 
 
 Kant, however, having caught the original scent 
 from - Hume, was more fortunate. He saw, at a 
 glance, that here was a test applied to the Lockian 
 philosophy, which showed, at the very least, its in- 
 sufficiency, If it were good even for so much as it 
 explained — which Burke is disposed to receive as a 
 sufficient warrant for the favourable reception of a 
 new hypothesis — at any rate, it now appeared that 
 there was something which it could 7iot explain. But 
 next, Kant took a large step in advance proprio morte. 
 Beflecting upon the one idea adduced by Hume, as 
 
THE GERMAN LANGUAGE. 
 
 107 
 
 transcending the ordinary source of ideas, he began 
 to ask himself, whether it were likely that this idea 
 should stand alone ] Were there not other ideas in 
 the same predicament ; other ideas including the 
 same element of necessity, and, therefore, equally 
 disowning the parentage assigned by Locke? Upon 
 investigation, he found that there were : he found 
 that there were eleven others in exactly the same 
 circumstances. The entire twelve he denominated 
 categories ; and the mode by which he ascertained 
 their number — that there were so many and no more 
 — is of itself so remarkable as to merit notice in the 
 most superficial sketch. But, in fact, this one ex- 
 planation will put the reader in possession of Kant^s 
 system, so far as he could understand it without an 
 express and toilsome study. With this explanation, 
 therefore, of the famous categories, I shall close my 
 slight sketch of the system. Has the reader ever 
 considered the meaning of the term Category — a term 
 so ancient and so venerable from its connection with 
 the most domineering philosophy that has yet ap- 
 peared amongst men % The doctrine of the Categories 
 (or, in its Boman appellation, of the Fredicaments\ is 
 one of the few wrecks from the Peripatetic philosophy 
 which still survives as a doctrine taught by public 
 authority in the most ancient academic institutions of 
 Europe. It continues to form a section in the code 
 of public instruction ; and perhaps under favour of 
 a pure accident. For though, strictly speaking, a 
 rtietaphysical speculation, it has always been prefixed 
 as a sort of preface to the Organon (or logical treatises) 
 of Aristotle, and has thus accidentally shared in the 
 immortality conceded to that most perfect of human 
 
108 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 works. Far enough were the Categories from meriting 
 such distinction. Kant was well aware of this : he 
 was aware that the Aristotelian Categories were a 
 useless piece of scholastic lumber : unsound in their 
 first conception ; and, though illustrated through long 
 centuries by the schoolmen, and by still earlier 
 Grecian philosophers, never in any one known instance 
 turned to a profitable account. Why, then, being 
 aware that even in idea they were false, besides being 
 practically unsuitable, did Kant adopt or borrow a 
 name laden with this superfetation of reproach — all 
 that is false in theory superadded to all that is useless 
 in practice ? He did so for a remarkable reason : he 
 felt, according to his own explanation, that Aristotle 
 had been groping [the German word expressive of his 
 blind procedure is herumtappen ^ — groping in the dark, 
 but under a semi-conscious instinct of truth. Here 
 is a most remarkable case or situation of the human 
 intellect, happening alike to individuals and to entire 
 generations — in the situation of yearning or craving, 
 as it were, for a great idea as yet unknown, but dimly 
 and uneasily prefigured. Sometimes the very brink, 
 as it may be called, of such an idea is approached ; 
 sometimes it is even imperfectly discovered ] but with 
 marks in the very midst of its imperfections, which 
 serve as indications to a person coming better armed 
 for ascertaining the sub-conscious thought which had 
 governed their tentative motions. As it stands in 
 Aristotle’s scheme, the idea of a category is a mere 
 lifeless abstraction. Rising through a succession of 
 species to genera, and from these to still higher 
 genera, you arrive finally at a highest genus — a naked 
 abstraction, beyond which no further regress is pos- 
 
THE GERMAN LANGUAGE. 
 
 109 
 
 sible. This highest genus, this genus generalissimum, 
 is, in peripatetic language, a category ; and no purpose 
 or use has ever been assigned to any one of these 
 categories, of which ten were enumerated at first, 
 beyond that of classification — i. e. a purpose of mere 
 convenience. Even for as trivial a purpose as this, 
 it gave room for suspecting a failure, when it was 
 afterwards found that the original ten categories did 
 not exhaust the possibilities of the case ; that other 
 supplementary categories [post-prcedicamenti) became 
 necessary. And, perhaps, ‘ more last words ^ might 
 even yet be added, supplementary supplements, and 
 so forth, by a hair-splitting intellect. Failures as 
 gross as these, revisals still open to revision, and 
 amendments calling for amendments, were at once a 
 broad confession that here there was no falling in 
 with aiiy great law of nature. The paths of nature 
 may sometimes be arrived at in a tentative way ] but 
 they are broad and determinate ; and, when found, 
 vindicate themselves. Still, in all this erroneous 
 subtilisation, and these abortive efforts, Kant per- 
 ceived a grasping at some real idea — fugitive indeed 
 and coy, which had for the present absolutely escaped ; 
 but he caught glimpses of it continually in the rear ; 
 he felt its necessity to any account of the human 
 understanding that could be satisfactory to one who 
 had meditated on Locke’s theory as probed and 
 searched by Leibnitz. A.nd in this uneasy state — 
 half sceptical, half creative, rejecting and substituting, 
 pulling down and building up — what was in sum and 
 finally the course which he took for bringing his 
 trials and essays to a crisis h He states this himself, 
 somewhere in the Introduction to his Critik der reinen 
 
110 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 Vernunft ; and the passage is a memorable one. 
 Fifteen years at the least have passed since I read it \ 
 and, therefore, I cannot pretend to produce the words ; 
 but the substance I shall give ; and I appeal to the 
 candour of all his readers, whether they have been 
 able to apprehend his meaning. I certainly did not 
 for years. But, now that I do, the passage places 
 his procedure in a most striking and edifying light. 
 Astronomers, says Kant, had gone on for ages, as- 
 suming that the earth was the central body of our 
 system ; and insuperable were the difficulties which 
 attended that assumption. At length, it occurred to 
 try what would result from inverting the assumption. 
 Let the earth, instead of offering a fixed centre for 
 the revolving motions of other heavenly bodies, be 
 supposed itself to revolve about some one of these, as 
 the sun. That supposition was tried, and gradually 
 all the phenomena which, before, had been incoherent, 
 anomalous, or contradictory, began to express them- 
 selves as parts of a most harmonious system. ‘ Some- 
 thing,’ he goes on to say, ‘ analogous to this I have 
 practised with regard to the subject of my inquiry — 
 the human understanding. All others had sought 
 their central principle of the intellectual phenomena 
 out of the understanding, in something external to 
 the mind. I first turned my inquiries upon the mind 
 itself. I first applied my examination to the very 
 analysis of the understanding.’ In words, not pre- 
 cisely these, but pretty nearly equivalent to them, 
 does Kant state, by contradistinction, the value and 
 the nature of his own procedure. He first, according 
 to his own representation, thought of applying his 
 investigation to the mind itself. Here was a passage 
 
THE GERMAN LANGUAGE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 which for years (I may say) continued to stagger and 
 confound me. What ! he, Kant, in the latter end of 
 the 18th century, about the year 1787 — he the first 
 who had investigated the mind ! This was not arro- 
 gance so much as it was insanity. Had he said — I, 
 first, upon just principles, or with a fortunate result, 
 investigated the human understanding, he would have 
 said no more than every fresh theorist is bound to 
 suppose, as his preliminary apology for claiming the 
 attention of a busy world. Indeed, if a writer, on 
 any part of knowledge, does not hold himself superior 
 to all his predecessors, we are entitled to say — Then, 
 why do you presume to trouble us ^ It may look like 
 modesty, but is, in effect, downright effrontery for 
 you to think yourself no better than other critics ; 
 you were at liberty to think so whilst no claimant of 
 public notice — as being so, it is most arrogant in you 
 to be modest. This would be the criticism applied 
 justly to a man who, in Kant’s situation, as the author 
 of a new system, should use a language of unseason- 
 able modesty or deprecation. To have spoken boldly 
 of himself was a duty ; we could not tolerate his doing 
 otherwise. But to speak of himself in the exclusive 
 terms I have described, does certainly seem, and for 
 years did seem to myself, little short of insanity. Of 
 this I am sure that no student of Kant, having the 
 passage before him, can have known heretofore what 
 consistent, what rational interpretation to give it ; 
 and, in candour, he ought to own himself my debtor 
 for the light he will now receive. Yet, so easy is it 
 to imagine, after a meaning is once pointed out, and 
 the station given from which it shows itself as the 
 meaning — so easy, under these circumstances, is it to 
 
112 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 imagine that one has, or that one could have, found 
 it for one’s self — that I have little expectation of 
 reaping much gratitude for my explanation. I say 
 this, not as of much importance one way or the other 
 in a single case of the kind, but because a general 
 consideration of this nature has sometimes operated 
 to make me more indilferent or careless as to the 
 publication of commentaries on difficult systems, when 
 I had found myself able to throw much light on the 
 difficulties. The very success with which I should 
 have accomplished the task — the perfect removal of 
 the obstacles in the student’s path — were the very 
 grounds of my assurance that the service would be 
 little valued. For I have found what it was occasion- 
 ally, in conversation, to be too luminous — to have 
 explained, for instance, too clearly a dark place in 
 Eicardo. In such a case, I have known a man of the 
 very greatest powers, mistake the intellectual effort 
 he had put forth to apprehend my elucidation, and to 
 meet it half way, for his own unassisted conquest over 
 the difficulties; and, within an hour or two after, I 
 have had, perhaps, to stand, as an attack upon myself, 
 arguments entirely and recently furnished by myself. 
 No case is more possible : even to apprehend a complex 
 explanation, a man cannot be passive ; he must exert 
 considerable energy of mind ; and, in the fresh con- 
 sciousness of this energy, it is the most natural mistake 
 in the world for him to feel the argument which he 
 has, by considerable effort, appropriated to be an 
 argument which he has originated. Kant is the most 
 unhappy champion of his own doctrines, the most 
 infelicitous expounder of his own meaning, that has 
 ever existed. Neither has any other commentator 
 
THE GERMAN LANGUAGE. 
 
 113 
 
 succeeded in throwing a moonlight radiance upon his 
 philosophy. Yet certain I am, that, were I, or any 
 man, to disperse all his darkness, exactly in that 
 proportion in which we did so — exactly in the propor- 
 tion in which we smoothed all hindrances — exactly in 
 that proportion would it cease to be known or felt 
 that there had ever been any hindrances to be 
 smoothed. This, however, is digression, to which I 
 have been tempted by the interesting nature of the 
 grievance. In a jesting way, this grievance is obliquely 
 noticed in the celebrated couplet — 
 
 ‘ Had you seen hut these roads before' they were made. 
 
 You’d lift up your hands and bless Marshal Wade.’ 
 
 The pleasant bull here committed conceals a most 
 melancholy truth, and one of large extent. Innumer- 
 able are the services to truth, to justice, or society, 
 which never can be adequately valued by those who 
 reap their benefits, simply because the transition from 
 the early and bad state to the final or improved state 
 cannot be retraced or kept alive before the eyes. The 
 record perishes. The last point gained is seen ; but 
 the starting-point, the point from which it was gained, 
 is forgotten. And the traveller never can know the 
 true amount of his obligations to Marshal Wade, 
 because, though seeing the roads which the Marshal 
 has created, he can only guess at those which he 
 superseded. Now, returning to this impenetrable 
 passage of Kant, I will briefly inform the reader that 
 he may read it into sense by connecting it with a part 
 of Kant’s system, from which it is in his owm delivery 
 entirely dislocated. Going forwards some thirty or 
 forty pages, he will find Kant’s development of his 
 
 VOL. I. II 
 
114 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 own categories. And, by placing in juxtaposition 
 with that development this blind sentence, he will 
 find a reciprocal light arising. All philosophers, 
 worthy of that name, have found it necessary to 
 allow of some great cardinal ideas that transcended 
 all the Lockian origination — ideas that were larger in 
 their compass than any possible notices of sense or 
 any reflex notices of the understanding ; and those 
 who have denied such ideas, will be found invariably 
 to have supported their denial by a vitium suhreptionis, 
 and to have deduced their pretended genealogies of 
 such ideas by means of a petitio principii — silently 
 and stealthily putting into some step of their leger-de- 
 main process everything that they would pretend to 
 have extracted from it. But, previously to Kant, 
 it is certain that all philosophers had left the origin 
 of these higher or transcendent ideas unexplained. 
 Whence came they ? In the systems to which, Locke 
 replies, they had been called innate or connate. These 
 were the Cartesian systems. Cudworth, again, who 
 maintained certain ‘ immutable ideas ^ of morality, 
 had said nothing about their origin ; and Plato had 
 supposed them to be reminiscences from some higher 
 mode of existence. Kant first attempted to assign 
 them an origin within the mind itself, though not in 
 any Lockian fashion of reflection upon sensible im- 
 pressions. And this is doubtless what he means by 
 saying that he first had investigated the mind — that 
 is, he first for such a purpose. 
 
 Where, then, is it, in what act or function of the 
 mind, that Kant finds the matrix of these trans- 
 cendent ideas'? Simply in the logical forms of the 
 understanding. Every power exerts its agency under 
 
THE GERMAN LANGUAGE. 
 
 115 
 
 some laws — that is, in the language of Kant, by 
 certain forms. We leap by certain laws — viz. of 
 equilibrium, of muscular motion, of gravitation. We 
 dance by certain laws. So also we reason by certain 
 laws. These laws, or formal principles, under a 
 particular condition, become the categories. 
 
 Here, then, is a short derivation, in a very few 
 words, of those ideas transcending sense, which all 
 philosophy, the earliest, has been unable to dispense 
 with, and yet none could account for. Thus, for 
 example, every act of reasoning must, in the first 
 place, express itself in distinct propositions \ that is, 
 in such as contain a subject (or that concerning which 
 you afiirm or deny something), a predicate (that which 
 you affirm or deny), and a copula, which connects 
 them. These propositions must have what is techni- 
 cally called, in logic, a certain quantity^ or compass 
 (viz. must be universal, particular, or singular) ; and 
 again they must have what is called quality (that is, 
 must be affirmative, or negative, or infinite) ; and 
 thus arises a ground for certain corresponding ideas, 
 which are Kant^s categories of quantity and quality. 
 
 But, to take an illustration more appropriately from 
 the very idea which first aroused Kant to the sense of 
 a vast hiatus in the received philosophies — the idea of 
 cause, which had been thrown as an apple of discord 
 amongst the schools, by Hume. How did Kant 
 deduce this ] Simply thus : it is a doctrine of uni- 
 versal logic, that there are three varieties of syllogism 
 — viz. 1st, Categoric, or directly declarative [A is B\ ; 
 2nd, Hypothetic, or conditionally declarative [If C is 
 D, then A is ; 3rd, Disjunctive, or declarative, by 
 means of a choice which exhausts the possible cases 
 
 H 2 
 
116 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 [A is either B, or C, or D ; hut not C or D ; ergo B\ 
 Now, the idea of causation, or, in Kant’s language, 
 the category of Cause and Effect, is deduced immedi- 
 ately, and most naturally, as the reader will acknow- 
 ledge on examination, from the 2nd or hypothetic form 
 of syllogism, when the relation of dependency is the 
 same as in the idea of causation, and the necessary 
 connection a direct type of that which takes place 
 between a cause and its effect. 
 
 Thus, then, without going one step further, the 
 reader will find grounds enough for reflection and for 
 reverence towards Kant in these two great results : 
 1st, That an order of ideas has been established, which 
 all deep philosophy has demanded, even when it could 
 not make good its claim. This postulate is fulfilled. 
 2ndly, The postulate is fulfilled without mysticism or 
 Platonic reveries. Ideas, however indispensable to 
 human needs, and even to the connection of our 
 thoughts, which came to us from nobody knew whence, 
 must for ever have been suspicious \ and, as in the 
 memorable instance cited from Hume, must have been 
 liable for ever to a question of validity. But, deduced 
 as they now are from a matrix within our own minds, 
 they cannot reasonably fear any assaults of scepticism. 
 
 Here I shall stop. A reader new to these inquiries 
 may think all this a trifle. But he who reflects a 
 little, will see that, even thus far, and going no step 
 beyond this point, the Kantian doctrine of the Cate- 
 gories answers a standing question hanging aloof as a 
 challenge to human philosophy, fills up a lacuna 
 pointed out from the era of Plato. It solves a pro- 
 blem which has startled and perplexed every age : 
 viz. this — that man is in possession, nay, in the hourly 
 
THE GERMAN LANGUAGE. 
 
 117 
 
 exercise, of ideas larger than he can show any title to. 
 And in another way, the reader may measure the 
 extent of this doctrine, by reflecting that, even so far 
 as now stated, it is precisely coextensive with the 
 famous scheme of Locke. For what is the capital 
 thesis of that scheme ? Simply this — that all necessity 
 for supposing immediate impressions made upon our 
 understandings by God, or other supernatural, or 
 antenatal, or connatal, agencies, is idle and romantic ; 
 for that, upon examining the furniture of our minds, 
 nothing will be found there which cannot adequately 
 be explained out of our daily experience ; and, until 
 we find something that cannot be solved by this 
 explanation, it is childish to go in quest of higher 
 causes. Thus says Locke : and his whole work, upon 
 its first plan, is no more than a continual pleading of 
 this single thesis, pursuing it through all the plausible 
 objections. Being, therefore, as large in its extent as 
 Locke, the reader must not complain of the trans- 
 cendental scheme as too narrow, even in that limited 
 section of it here brought under his notice. 
 
 For the purpose of repelling it, he must do one of 
 two things : either he must show that these categories 
 or transcendent notions are not susceptible of the 
 derivation and genesis here assigned to them — that 
 is, from the forms of the logos or formal understand- 
 ing ; or, if content to abide by that derivation, he 
 must allege that there are other categories besides 
 those enumerated, and unprovided with any similar 
 parentage. 
 
 Thus much in reply to him who complains of the 
 doctrine here stated ; as, 1st, Too narrow ; or, 2nd, As 
 insufficiently established. But, 3rd, in reply to him 
 
118 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 who wishes to see it further pursued or applied, I say 
 that the possible applications are perhaps infinite. 
 With respect to those made by Kant himself, they 
 are chiefly contained in his main and elementary 
 work, the Critih der reinen Ternunft ; and they are of 
 a nature to make any man melancholy. Indeed, let 
 a man consider merely this one notion of causation ; 
 let him reflect on its origin ; let him remember that, 
 agreeably to this origin, it follows that we have no 
 right to view anything in rerum naturd as objectively, 
 or in itself a cause ; that when, upon the fullest 
 philosophic proof, we call A the cause of B, we do in 
 fact only subsume A under the notion of a cause ; we 
 invest it with that function under that relation, that 
 the whole proceeding is merely with respect to a 
 human understanding, and by way of indispensable 
 nexus to the several parts of our experience ; finally, 
 that there is the greatest reason to doubt, whether 
 the idea of causation is at all applicable to any other 
 world than this, or any other than a human expe- 
 rience. Let a man meditate but a little on this or 
 other aspects of this transcendental philosophy, and 
 he will find the steadfast earth itself rocking as it 
 were beneath his feet ; a world about him, which is 
 in some sense a world of deception ; and a world 
 before him, which seems to promise a world of con- 
 fusion, or ‘a world not realised.^ All this he might 
 deduce for himself without further aid from Kant. 
 However, the particular purposes to which Kant 
 applies his philosophy, from the difficulties which 
 beset them, are unfitted for anything below a regular 
 treatise. Suflice it to say here, that, difficult as these 
 speculations are from one or two embarrassing 
 
THE GERMAN LANGUAGE. 
 
 119 
 
 doctrines on the Transcendental Consciousness, and 
 depressing as they are from their general tendency, 
 they are yet painfully irritating to the curiosity, and 
 especially so from a sort of experimentum crucis, which 
 they yield in the progress of their development on 
 behalf of the entire doctrine of Kant — a test which, 
 up to this hour, has offered defiance to any hostile 
 hand. The test or defiance which I speak of, takes 
 the shape of certain antinomies (so they are termed), 
 severe adamantine arguments, affirmative and nega- 
 tive, on two or three celebrated problems, with no 
 appeal to any possible decision, but one, which involves 
 the Kantian doctrines. A quoestio vexata is proposed 
 — for instance, the infinite divisibility of matter ; each 
 side of this question, thesis and antithesis, is argued ; 
 the logic is irresistible, the links are perfect, and for 
 each side alternately there is a verdict, thus terminat- 
 ing in the most triumphant reductio ad absurdum — 
 viz. that A, at one and the same time and in the 
 same sense, is and is not B, from which no escape is 
 available, but through a Kantian solution. On any 
 other philosophy, it is demonstrated that this oppro- 
 brium of the human understanding, this scandal of 
 logic, cannot be removed. This celebrated chapter of 
 antinomies has been of great service to the mere 
 polemics of the transcendental philosophy : it is a 
 glove or gage of defiance, constantly lying on the 
 ground, challenging the rights of victory and suprem- 
 acy so long as it is not taken up by any antagonist, 
 and bringing matters to a short decision when it is. 
 
 One section, and that the introductory section, 
 of the transcendental philosophy, I have purposely 
 omitted, though in strictness not to be insulated or 
 
120 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 dislocated from the faithful exposition even of that 
 which I have given. It is the doctrine of Space and 
 Time. These profound themes, so confounding to the 
 human understanding^ are treated by Kant under two 
 aspects — 1st, as Anchauungen, or Intuitions (so the 
 German word is usually translated for want of a 
 better) ; 2ndly, as forms, a 'priori^ of all our other 
 intuitions. Often have I laughed internally at the 
 characteristic exposure of Kant’s style of thinking — • 
 that he, a man of so much worldly sagacity, could 
 think of offering, and of the German scholastic habits, 
 that any modern nation could think of accepting 
 such cabalistical phrases, such a true and very 
 ‘ Ignotium per Ignotius^ in part payment of an ex- 
 planatory account of Time and Space. Kant repeats 
 these words — as a charm before which all darkness 
 flies ; and he supposes continually the case of a man 
 denying his explanations or demanding proofs of them, 
 never once the sole imaginable case — viz. of all men 
 demanding an explanation of these explanations. 
 Deny them ! Combat them ! How sh -uld a man 
 deny, why should he combat, what might, for any- 
 thing to the contrary appearing, contain a promissory 
 note at two months after date for 100 guineas? Ko ; 
 it will cost a little preliminary work before such 
 explanations will much avail any scheme of philosophy, 
 either for the pro or the con. And yet I do myself 
 really profess to understand the dark words ; and a 
 great service it would be to sound philosophy amongst 
 us, if this one word anschauung were adequately 
 unfolded and naturalised (as naturalised it might be) 
 in the English philosophic dictionary, by some full 
 Grecian equivalent. Strange that no man acquainted 
 
THE GERMAN LANGUAGE. 
 
 121 
 
 with German philosophy, should yet have been struck 
 by the fact — or, being struck, should not have felt it 
 important to call public attention to the fact of our 
 inevitable feebleness in a branch of study for which 
 as yet we want the indispensable words. Our feeble- 
 ness is at once argued by this want, and partly caused. 
 Meantime, as respects the Kantian way of viewing 
 space, by much the most important innovation which 
 it makes upon the old doctrines is — that it considers 
 space as a subjective not an objective aliquid ; that is, 
 as having its whole available foundation lying ulti- 
 mately in ourselves, not in any external or alien 
 tenure. This one distinction, as applied to space, for 
 ever secures (what nothing else can secure or explain) 
 the cogency of geometrical evidence. Whatever is 
 true for any determinations of a space originally 
 included in ourselves, must be true for such deter- 
 minations for ever, since they cannot become objects 
 of consciousness to us but in and by that very mode 
 of conceiving space, that very form of schematism 
 which originally presented us with these determin- 
 ations of space, or any whatever. In the uniformity 
 of our own space-conceiving faculty, we have a pledge 
 of the absolute and necessary uniformity (or internal 
 agreement among themselves) of all future or possible 
 determinations of space ; because they could no other- 
 wise become to us conceivable forms of space, than 
 by adapting themselves to the known conditions of 
 our conceiving faculty. Here we have the necessity 
 which is indispensable to all geometrical demonstra- 
 tion : it is a necessity founded in our human organ, 
 which cannot admit or conceive a space, unless as 
 preconforming to these original forms or schematisms. 
 
122 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 Whereas, on the contrary, if space were something 
 objective, and consequently being a separate existence, 
 independent of a human organ, then it is altogether 
 impossible to find any intelligible source of obligation 
 or cogency in the evidence — such as is indispensable 
 to the very nature of geometrical demonstration. 
 Thus we will suppose that a regular demonstration 
 has gradually, from step to step downwards, through 
 a series of propositions — No. 8 resting upon 7, that 
 upon 6, 5 upon 3 — at length reduced you to the 
 elementary axiom, that Two straight lines cannot 
 enclose a space. Now, if space be subjective originally 
 — that is to say, founded (as respects us and our 
 geometry) in ourselves — then it is impossible that two 
 such lines can enclose a space, because the possibility 
 of anything whatever relating to the determinations 
 of space is exactly co-extensive with (and exactly 
 expressed by) our power to conceive it. Being thus 
 able to affirm its impossibility universally, we can 
 build a demonstration upon it. But, on the other 
 hypothesis, of space being objective, it is impossible to 
 guess whence we are to draw our proof of the alleged 
 inaptitude in two straight lines for enclosing a space. 
 The most we could say is, that hitherto no instance 
 has been found of an enclosed space circumscribed by 
 two straight lines. It would not do to allege our 
 human inability to conceive, or in imagination to 
 draw, such a circumscription. For, besides that such 
 a mode of argument is exactly the one supposed to 
 have been rejected, it is liable to this unanswerable 
 objection, so long as space is assumed to have an 
 objective existence, viz. that the human inability to 
 conceive such a possibility, only argues (what in fact 
 
THE GERMAN LANGUAGE. 
 
 123 
 
 is often found in other cases) that the objective exist- 
 ence of space — e. the existence of space in itself, and 
 in its absolute nature — is far larger than its subjective 
 existence — i. e. than its mode of existing quoad some 
 particular subject. A being more limited than man 
 might be so framed as to be unable to conceive curve 
 lines ; but this subjective inaptitude for those deter- 
 minations of space would not affect the objective reality 
 of curves, or even their subjective reality for a higher 
 intelligence. Thus, on the hypothesis of an objective 
 existence for space, we should be thrown upon an 
 ocean of possibilities, without a test for saying what 
 was — what was not possible. But, on the other 
 hypothesis, having always in the last resort what is 
 subjectively possible or impossible (^. e. what is con- 
 ceivable or not by us, what can or cannot be drawn 
 or circumscribed by a human imagination), we have 
 the means of demonstration in our power, by having 
 the ultimate appeals in our power to a known uniform 
 test — viz. a known human faculty. 
 
 This is no trifling matter, and therefore no trifling 
 advantage on the side of Kant and his philosophy, to 
 all who are acquainted with the disagreeable con- 
 troversies of late years among French geometricians 
 of the first rank, and sometimes among British ones, 
 on the question of mathematical evidence. Legendre 
 and Professor Leslie took part in one such a dispute ; 
 and the temper in which it was managed was worthy 
 of admiration, as contrasted with the angry con- 
 troversies of elder days, if, indeed, it did not err in 
 an opposite spirit, by too elaborate and too calculating 
 a tone of reciprocal flattery. But think as we may of 
 the discussion in this respect, most assuredly it was 
 
124 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 painful to witness so infirm a philosophy applied to 
 an interest so mighty. The whole aerial superstruc- 
 ture — the heaven-aspiring pyramid of geometrical 
 synthesis — all tottered under the palsying logic of 
 evidence, to which these celebrated mathematicians 
 appealed. And wherefore 1 — From the want of any 
 philosophic account of space, to which they might 
 have made a common appeal, and which might have 
 so far discharged its debt to truth, as at least to 
 reconcile its theory with the great outstanding phe- 
 nomena in the most absolute of sciences. Geometry 
 is the science of space : therefore, in any 'philosophy of 
 space, geometry is entitled to be peculiarly considered, 
 and used as a court of appeal. Geometry has these 
 two further claims to distinction — that, 1st, It is the 
 most perfect of the sciences, so far as it has gone . 
 and, 2ndly, That it has gone the farthest. A philosophy 
 of space, which does not consider and does not recon- 
 cile to its own doctrines the facts of geometry, which, 
 in the two points of beauty and of vast extent, is 
 more like a work of nature than of man, is, primd 
 facie, of no value. A philosophy of space might be 
 false, which should harmonise with the facts of 
 geometry — it must be false, if it contradict them. 
 Of Kant’s philosophy it is a capital praise, that its 
 very opening section — that section which treats the 
 question of space, not only quadrates with the facts 
 of geometry, but also, by the subjective character 
 which it attributes to space, is the very first philo- 
 sophic scheme which explains and accounts for the 
 cogency of geometrical evidence. 
 
 These are the two primary merits of the trans- 
 cendental theory — 1st, Its harmony with mathematics, 
 
THE GERMAN LANGUAGE. 
 
 125 
 
 and the fact of having first, by its doctrine of space, 
 applied philosophy to the nature of geometrical 
 evidence ; 2ndly, That it has filled up, by means of 
 its doctrine of categories, the great hiatus in all 
 schemes of the human understanding from Plato 
 downwards. All the rest, with a reserve as to the 
 part which concerns the 'practical reason (or will), is 
 of more questionable value, and leads to manifold 
 disputes. But I contend, that, had transcendentalism 
 done no other service than that of laying a foundation, 
 sought but not found for ages, to the human under- 
 standing — namely, by showing an intelligible genesis 
 to certain large and indispensable ideas — it would 
 have claimed the gratitude of all profound inquiries. 
 To a reader still disposed to undervalue Kant’s service 
 in this respect, I put one parting question — Wherefore 
 he values Locke h What has he done, even if value is 
 allowed in full to his pretensions? Has the reader 
 asked himself that ? He gave a 'negative solution at 
 the most. He told his reader that certain disputed 
 ideas were 'not deduced thus and thus. Kant, on the 
 other hand, has given him at the least a positive 
 solution. He teaches him, in the profoundest revela- 
 tion, by a discovery in the most absolute sense on 
 record, and the most entirely a single act — without 
 parts, or contributions, or stages, or preparations from 
 other quarters — that these long disputed ideas could 
 not be derived from the experience assigned by Locke, 
 inasmuch as they are themselves previous conditions 
 under 'which an'y experience at all is possible : he teaches 
 him that these ideas are not mystically originated, 
 but are, in fact, but another phasis of the functions, 
 or, forms of his own understanding; and, finally, he 
 
126 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 gives consistency, validity, and a charter 6f authority, 
 to certain modes of nexus ^ without which the sum 
 total of human experience would be a rope of sand. 
 
 In terminating this slight account of the Kantian 
 philosophy, I may mention that in or about the year 
 1818-19, Lord Grenville, when visiting the lakes of 
 England, observed to Professor Wilson that, after five 
 years’ study of this philosophy, he had not gathered 
 from it one clear idea. Wilberforce, about the same 
 time, made the same confession to another friend of 
 my own. 
 
 It is not usual for men to meet with their capital 
 disappointments in early life, at least not in youth. 
 For, as to disappointments in love, which are doubt- 
 less the most bitter and incapable of comfort, though 
 otherwise likely to arise in youth, they are in this 
 way made impossible at a very early age, that no 
 man can be in love to the whole extent of his capacity, 
 until he is in full possession of all his faculties, and 
 with the sense of dignified maturity. A perfect love, 
 such as is necessary to the anguish of a perfect disap- 
 pointment, presumes also for its object not a mere 
 girl, but woman, mature both in person and character, 
 and womanly dignity. This sort of disappointment, 
 in a degree which could carry its impression through 
 life, I cannot therefore suppose occurring earlier than 
 at twenty-five or twenty- seven. My disappointment 
 — the profound shock with which I was repelled from 
 German philosophy, and which thenceforwards tinged 
 with cynical disgust towards man in certain aspects, 
 a temper which, originally, I will presume to consider 
 the most benign that can ever have been created — 
 occurred when I was yet in my twentieth year. In 
 
THE GERMAN LANGUAGE. 
 
 127 
 
 a poem under the title of Saul, written many years 
 ago by Mr. Sotheby, and perhaps now forgotten, 
 having never been popular, there occurs a passage of 
 some pathos, in which Saul is described as keeping 
 amongst the splendid equipments of a royal wardrobe, 
 that particular pastoral habit which he had worn in 
 his days of earliest manhood, whilst yet humble and 
 undistinguished by honour, but also yet innocent and 
 happy. There, also, with the same care, he preserved 
 his shepherd’s crook, which, in hands of youthful 
 vigour, had been connected with remembrances of 
 heroic prowess. These memorials, in after times of 
 trouble or perplexity, when the burthen of royalty, 
 its cares, or its feverish temptations, pointed his 
 thoughts backwards, for a moment’s relief, to scenes 
 of pastoral gaiety and peace, the heart-wearied prince 
 would sometimes draw from their repository, and in 
 solitude would apostrophise them separately, or com- 
 mune with the bitter-sweet remembrances which they 
 recalled. In something of the same spirit — but with 
 a hatred to the German philosopher such as men are 
 represented as feeling towards the gloomy enchanter, 
 Zamiel or whomsoever, by whose hateful seductions 
 they have been placed within a circle of malign in- 
 fluences — did I at times revert to Kant : though for 
 me his power had been of the very opposite kind ; not 
 an enchanter’s, but the power of a disenchanter — and 
 a disenchanter the most profound. As often as I 
 looked into his works, I exclaimed in my heart, with 
 the widowed queen of Carthage, using her words in 
 an altered application — 
 
 ‘ Qusesivit lucem — ingemiiitque re'pertd. ’ 
 
 Had the transcendental philosophy corresponded to 
 
128 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 my expectations, and had it left important openings 
 for further pursuit, my purpose then was, to have 
 retired, after a few years spent in Oxford, to the 
 woods of Lower Canada. I had even marked out the 
 situation for a cottage and a considerable library, 
 about seventeen miles from Quebec. I planned 
 nothing so ambitious as a scheme of Pantisocracy. 
 My object was simply profound solitude, such as 
 cannot now be had in any part of Great Britain — 
 with two accessary advantages, also peculiar to 
 countries situated in the circumstances and under the 
 climate of Canada : viz. the exalting presence in an 
 under-consciousness of forests endless and silent, the 
 everlasting sense of living amongst forms so ennobling 
 and impressive, together with the pleasure attached 
 to natural agencies, such as frost, more powerfully 
 manifested than in English latitudes, and fcr a much 
 longer period. I hope there is nothing fanciful in all 
 this. It is certain that, in England, and in all 
 moderate climates, we are too slightly reminded of 
 nature or the focus of nature. Great heats, or great 
 colds (and in Canada there are both), or great 'hurri- 
 canes, as in the West Indian latitudes, recall us 
 continually to the sense of a powerful presence, in- 
 vesting our paths on every side ; whereas, in England, 
 it is possible to forget that we live amongst greater 
 agencies than those of men and human institutions. 
 Man, in fact, ‘ too much man,’ as Timon complained 
 most reasonably in Athens, was then, and is now, our 
 greatest grievance in England. Man is a weed every- 
 where too rank. A strange place must that be with 
 us, from which the sight of a hundred men is not 
 before us, or the sound of a thousand about us. 
 
THE GERMAN LANGUAGE. 
 
 129 
 
 Nevertheless, being in this hotbed of man inevit- 
 ably for some years, no sooner had I dismissed my 
 German philosophy than I relaxed a little that spirit 
 of German abstraction which it had prompted ; and, 
 though never mixing freely with society, I began to 
 look a little abroad. It may interest the reader, 
 more than anything else which I can record of this 
 period, to recall what I saw within the ten first years 
 of the century, that was at all noticeable or worthy 
 of remembrance amongst the literati, the philosophers, 
 or the poets of the time. For, though I am not in 
 my academic period from 1804 to 1808, my know- 
 ledge of literary men — or men distinguished in some 
 way or other, either by their opinions, their accom- 
 plishments, or their position and the accidents of their 
 lives — began from the first year of the century, or, 
 more accurately, from the year 1800; which, with 
 some difiiculty and demurs, and with some arguments 
 from the Laureate Pye, the world was at length 
 persuaded to consider the last year of the eighteenth 
 century.* 
 
 * Those who look back to the newspapers of 1799 and 1800, 
 will see that considerable discussion went on at that time upon 
 the question, whether the year 1800 was entitled to open the 
 19th century, or to close the 18th. Mr. Laureate Pye wrote a 
 poem, with a long and argumentative preface on the point. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 I 
 
MOKAL EFFECTS OF REVOLUTIONS. 
 
 {May, 1822.) 
 
 In revolutionary times, as when a civil war prevails 
 in a country, men are much worse, as moral beings, 
 than in quiet and untroubled states of peace. So 
 much is matter of history. The English, under Charles 
 II., after twenty years’ agitation and civil tumults ; 
 the Romans after Sylla and Marius, and the still more 
 bloody proscriptions of the Triumvirates ; the French, 
 after the Wars of the League and the storms of the 
 Revolution — were much changed for the worse, and 
 exhibited strange relaxations of the moral principle. 
 But why % What is the philosophy of the case ? 
 Some will think it sufficiently explained by the neces- 
 sity of witnessing so much bloodshed — the hearths 
 and the very graves of their fathers polluted by the 
 slaughter of their countrymen — the acharnement 
 which characterises civil contests (as always the 
 quarrels of friends are the fiercest) — and the license 
 of wrong which is bred by war and the majesties of 
 armies. Doubtless this is part of the explanation. 
 But is this all ? Mr. Coleridge has referred to this 
 subject in The Friend ; but, to the best of my re- 
 membrance, only noticing it as a fact. Fichte, the 
 celebrated German philosopher, has given us his view 
 
MORAL EFFECTS OF REVOLUTIONS. 
 
 131 
 
 of it {Idea of War) ; and it is so ingenious^ that 
 it deserves mention. It is this — ‘Times of revo- 
 lution force men^s minds inwards : hence they are led 
 amongst other things to meditate on morals with 
 reference to their own conduct. But to subtilise 
 too much upon this subject must always be ruinous 
 to morality, with all understandings that are not very 
 powerful, z. e. with the majority, because it terminates 
 naturally in a body of maxims a specious and covert 
 self-interest. Whereas, when men meditate less, they 
 are apt to act more from natural feeling, in which 
 the natural goodness of the heart often interferes to 
 neutralise or even to overbalance its errors.’ 
 
PREFIGURATIONS OF REMOTE 
 EVENTS* 
 
 {Aprils 1823 .) 
 
 With a total disbelief in all the vulgar legends of 
 supernatural agency, and that upon firmer principles 
 than I fear most people could assign for their in- 
 credulity, I must yet believe that the ‘soul of the 
 world ' has in some instances sent forth mysterious 
 types of the cardinal events, in the great historic 
 drama of our planet. One has been noticed by a 
 German author, and it is placed beyond the limits 
 of any rational scepticism ; I mean the coincidence 
 between the augury derived from the flight of the 
 twelve vultures as types of the duration of the Roman 
 empire, e. Western Empire, for twelve centuries, 
 and the actual event. This augury we know to 
 have been recorded many centuries before its con- 
 summation ; so that no juggling or collusion between 
 the prophets and the witnesses to the final event can 
 be suspected. Some others might be added. At 
 present I shall notice a coincidence from our own 
 history, which, though not so important as to come 
 
 * This is only signed Z in The London Magazine, but is 
 clearly labelled ‘ De Quince y’ in Archdeacon Hessey’s 
 marked copy. — H. 
 
PREFIGURATIONS OF REMOTE EVENTS. 
 
 133 
 
 within the class of prefigurations I have been alluding 
 to, is yet curious enough to deserve mention. The 
 oak of Boscobel and its history are matter of house- 
 hold knowledge. It is not equally well known, that 
 in a medal, struck to commemorate the installation 
 (about 1636) of Charles IL,then Prince of Wales, as 
 a Knight of the Garter, amongst the decorations was 
 introduced an oak-tree with the legend — ‘ Seris factura 
 nepotibus umbram.’ 
 
MEASURE OF VALUE; 
 
 {December i 1823.) 
 
 To tlie reader. — This article was written and printed before the 
 author heard of the lamented death of Mr. Ricardo. 
 
 It is remarkable at first sight that Mr. Malthus, 
 to whom Political Economy is so much indebted in 
 one chapter (viz. the chapter of Population), should 
 in every other chapter have stumbled at every step. 
 On a nearer view, however, the wonder ceases. His 
 failures and his errors have arisen in all cases from 
 the illogical structure of his understanding ; his 
 success was in a path which required no logic. What 
 is the brief abstract of his success ] It is this : he 
 took an obvious and familiar truths which until his 
 time had been a barren truism,^ and showed that it 
 teemed with consequences. Out of this position — That 
 in the ground which limited human food lay the ground 
 v^hich limited human increase — united with this other 
 position — That there is a perpetual nisus in the principle 
 
 * Mr. John Stuart Mill in his Principles of Political 
 Economy, Book III. chaps, i. and ii., makes some interesting and 
 appreciative remarks on De Quincey’s settlement of ‘the phrase- 
 ology of value ; ’ also, concerning his illustrations of * demand 
 and supply, in their relation to value.’ 
 
MEASURE OF VALUE. 
 
 135 
 
 of 'poimlation to pass that limits he unfolded a body of 
 most important corollaries. I have remarked in 
 another article on this subject — how entirely these 
 corollaries had escaped all Mr. Malthus’s^ predecessors 
 in the same track. Perhaps the most striking in- 
 stance of this, which I could have alleged, is that 
 of the celebrated French work — L' Ami des Ilommes, 
 ou Traite de la Population (written about the middle 
 of the last century), which sets out deliberately 
 from this principle, expressed almost in the very 
 words of Mr. Malthus, — ‘ Que la mesure de la Suhsist- 
 ance est celle de la Population ; ' — beats the bushes 
 in every direction about it ; and yet (with the excep- 
 tion of one corollary on the supposed depopulating 
 
 * In a slight article on Mr. Malthus, lately published, I 
 omitted to take any notice of the recent controversy between 
 this gentleman — Mr. Godwin — and Mr. Booth ; my reason for 
 which was — that I have not yet found time to read it. But, if 
 Mr. Lowe has rightly represented this principle of Mr. Booth’s 
 argument in his late work on the Statistics of England, it is a 
 most erroneous one : for Mr. Booth is there described as alleging 
 against Mr. Malthus that, in his view of the tendencies of the 
 principle of population, he has relied too much on the case of 
 the United States — which Mr. Booth will have to be an extreme 
 case, and not according to the general rule. But of what con- 
 sequence is this to Mr. Malthus ? And how is he interested in 
 relying on the case of America rather than that of the oldest 
 European country ? Because he assumes a perpetual nisus in 
 the principle of human increase to pass a certain limit, he does 
 not therefore hold that this limit ever is passed either in the 
 new countries or in old (or only for a moment, and inevitably 
 to be thrown back within it). Let this limit be placed where 
 it may, it can no more be passed in America than in Europe ; 
 and America is not at all more favourable to Mr. Malthus’s 
 theory than Europe. Births, it must be remembered, are more 
 in excess in Europe than in America : though they do not make 
 so much positive addition to the population. 
 
136 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 tendency of war and famine) deduces from it none 
 but erroneous and Anti-Malthusian doctrines. That 
 from a truth apparently so barren any corollaries 
 were deducible — was reserved for Mr. Mai thus to 
 show. As corollaries, it may be supposed that they 
 imply a logical act of the understanding. In some 
 small degree, no doubt ; but no more than necessarily 
 accompanies every exercise of reason. Though infer- 
 ences, they are not remote inferences, but immediate 
 and proximate ; and not dependent upon each other, 
 but collateral. Kot logic but a judicious choice of 
 his ground placed Mr. Mai thus at once in a station 
 from which he commanded the whole truth at a 
 glance — with a lucky dispensation from all necessity 
 of continuous logical processes. But such a dispens- 
 ation is a privilege indulged to few other parts of 
 Political Economy, and least of all to that which is 
 the foundation of all Political Economy, viz. the 
 doctrine of value. Having therefore repeatedly 
 chosen to tamper with this difficult subject, Mr. 
 Malthus has just made so many exposures of his in- 
 tellectual infirmities — which, but for this volunteer 
 display, we might never have known. Of all the men 
 of talents, whose writings I have read up to this 
 hour, Mr. Malthus has the most perplexed under- 
 standing. He is not only confused himself, but is 
 the cause that confusion is in other men. Logical 
 perplexity is shockingly contagious : and he, who 
 takes Mr. Malthus for his guide through any tangled 
 question, ought to be able to box the compass very 
 well ; or before he has read ten pages he will find 
 himself (as the Westmorland guides express it) 
 ‘ maffled,^ — and disposed to sit down and fall a 
 
MEASURE OF VALUE. 
 
 137 
 
 crying with his guide at the sad bewilderment into 
 which they have both strayed. It tends much to 
 heighten the sense of Mr. Malthus’s helplessness in 
 this particular point — that of late years he has given 
 himself the air too much of teasing Mr. Ricardo, one 
 of the ‘ ugliest customers ’ in point of logic that ever 
 entered the ring. Mr. Ricardo is a most ‘dangerous* 
 man ; and Mr. Malthus would do well not to meddle 
 with so ‘vicious* a subject, whose arm (like ISTeate’s) 
 gives a blow like the kick of a horse. He has 
 hitherto contented himself very good-naturedly with 
 gently laying Mr. Malthus on his back ; but, if he 
 should once turn round with a serious determination 
 to ‘ take the conceit * out of him, Mr. Malthus would 
 assuredly be ‘ put into chancery,* and suffer a 
 ‘ punishment * that must distress his friends. — 
 Amongst those whom Mr. Malthus has perplexed by 
 his logic, I am not one : in matter of logic, I hold 
 myself impeccable ; and, to say nothing of my sober 
 days, I defy the devil and all the powers of darkness 
 to get any advantage over me, even on those days 
 when I am drunk, in relation to ‘ Barbara, Celarent, 
 Darii, or Ferio,* 
 
 ‘ Avoid, old Satanas ! * I exclaim, if any man 
 attempts to fling dust in my eyes by false syllogism, 
 or any mode of dialectic sophism. And in relation 
 to this particular subject of value, I flatter myself 
 that in a paper expressly applied to the exposure of 
 Mr. Malthus*s blunders in his Political Economy, I 
 have made it impossible for Mr. Malthus, even 
 though he should take to his assistance seven worse 
 logicians than himself, to put down my light with 
 their darkness. Meantime, as a labour of shorter 
 
138 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 compass, I will call the reader^s attention to the 
 following blunder, in a later work of Mr. Mai thus’ s — 
 viz. a pamphlet of eighty pages, entitled. The 
 Measure of Value, stated and applied (published in 
 the spring of the present year). The question pro- 
 posed in this work is the same as that already dis- 
 cussed in his Political Economy — viz. What is the 
 measure of value ? But the answer to it is different : 
 in the Political Economy, the measure of value was 
 determined to be a mean between corn and labour ; 
 in this pamphlet, Mr. Malthus retracts that opinion, 
 and (finally, let us hope) settles it to his own satis- 
 faction that the true measure is labour ; not the 
 quantity of labour, observe, which will produce X, 
 but the quantity which X will command. Upon 
 these two answers, and the delusions which lie at 
 their root, I shall here forbear to comment ; because 
 I am now chasing Mr. Malthus’ s logical blunders ; 
 and these delusions are not so much logical as 
 economic : what I now wish the reader to attend to — 
 is the blunder involved in the question itself ; because 
 that blunder is not economic, but logical. The 
 question is — what is the measure of value ? I say 
 then that the phrase — ‘ measure of value ’ is an 
 equivocal phrase ; and, in Mr. Malthus’ s use of it, 
 means indifferently that which determines value, in 
 relation to the principium essendi, and that which 
 determines value, in relation to the principium cognos- 
 cendi. Here, perhaps, the reader will exclaim — 
 ‘ Avoid, Satanas ! ’ to me, falsely supposing that I 
 have some design upon his eyes, and wish to blind 
 them with learned dust. But, if he thinks that, he 
 is in the wrong box : I must and will express scho- 
 
MEASURE OF VALUE. 
 
 139 
 
 lastic phrases ; but, having once done this, I am then 
 ready to descend into the arena with no other 
 weapons than plain English can furnish. Let us 
 therefore translate ‘ measure of value ’ into ‘ that which 
 determines value : ' and, in this shape, we shall detect 
 the ambiguity of which I complain. For I say, that 
 the word determines may be taken subjectively for 
 what determines X in relation to our knowledge, or 
 objectively for what determines X in relation to 
 itself. Thus, if I were to ask — ‘ What determined 
 the length of the racecourse 'I ^ and the answer 
 were — ‘ The convenience of the spectators who could 
 not have seen the horses at a greater distance,’ or 
 ‘ The choice of the subscribers,’ then it is plain that 
 by the word ‘ determined,’ I was understood to mean 
 ‘ determined objectively,’ ^. e. in relation to the exist- 
 ence of the object ; in other words, what caused the 
 racecourse to be this length rather than another 
 
 length : but, if the answer were ‘ An actual 
 
 admeasurement,’ it would then be plain that by the 
 word ‘ determined,’ I had been understood to mean 
 ‘ determined subjectively,’ ^. e. in relation to our 
 knowledge ; — what ascertained it? — Xow, in the 
 objective sense of the phrase, ‘ determiner of value,’ 
 the measure of value will mean the ground of value ; 
 in the subjective sense, it will mean the criterion of 
 valve, Mr. Malthus will allege that he is at liberty 
 to use it in which sense he pleases. Grant that he is, 
 but not therefore in both. Has he then used it in 
 both ? He will, perhaps, deny that he has, and will 
 contend that he has used it in the latter sense as 
 equivalent to the ascertainer or criterion of value. 
 I answer — No : for, omitting a more particular 
 
140 
 
 DE QUINCEY. . 
 
 examination of his use in this place, I say that his use 
 of any word is peremptorily and in defiance of his 
 private explanation to be extorted from the use of 
 the corresponding term in him whom he is opposing. 
 Now he is opposing Mr. Ricardo : his labour which X 
 commands — is opposed to Mr. Ricardo’s quantity of 
 labour which will produce X, Call the first A, the 
 last B. Now, in making B the determiner of value, 
 Mr. Ricardo means that B is the ground of value : 
 i. e, that B is the answer to the question — what 
 makes this hat of more value than this pair of shoes ? 
 But, if Mr. Malthus means by A the same thing, 
 then by his own confession he has used the term 
 measure of value in two senses : on the other hand, 
 if he does not mean the same thing, but simply the 
 criterion of value, then he has not used the word in 
 any sense which opposes him to Mr. Ricardo. And 
 yet he advances the whole on that footing. On 
 either ground, therefore, he is guilty of a logical 
 error, which implies that, so far from answering his 
 own question, he did not know what his own question 
 was. 
 
LETTER IN REPLY TO HAZLITT CON- 
 CERNING THE MALTHUSIAN DOC- 
 TRINE OF POPULATION. 
 
 THE LION^S HEAD.* 
 
 To the Editor of the London Magazine. 
 
 Westmoreland, November 4, 1823. 
 
 My dear Sir, — This morning I received your parcel, 
 containing amongst other inclosures, the two last 
 numbers of your journal. In the first of these is 
 printed a little paper of mine on Mr. Mai thus ; and 
 in the second I observe a letter from Mr. Hazlitt — 
 alleging two passages from the 403rd and 421st pages 
 of his Political Essays as substantially anticipating 
 all that I had said. I believe that he has anticipated 
 me : in the passage relating to the geometric and 
 arithmetic ratios, it is clear that he has : in the other 
 passage, which objects to Mr. Malthus's use of the 
 term 'perfection, that he has represented it under con- 
 tradictory predicates, it is not equally clear ; for I do 
 not find my own meaning so rigorously expressed as 
 
 * This was the heading under which correspondence appeared 
 in The London Magazine at that date. — H. 
 
142 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 to exclude another * interpretation even now when I 
 know what to look for ; and, without knowing what to 
 
 * What other interpretation ? An interpretation which makes 
 Mr. Hazlitt’s argument coincide with one frequently urged 
 against Mr. Malthus — viz. ‘ that in fact he himself relies practi- 
 cally upon moral restraint as one great check to Population, 
 though denying that any great revolution in the moral nature 
 of man is practicable.’ But so long as Mr. Malthus means, by 
 a great revolution^ a revolution in the sense which he imputes to 
 Mr. Godwin — to Condorcet, &c. viz. a revolution amounting to 
 absolute perfection, so long there is no logical error in all this : 
 Mr. Malthus may consistently rely upon moral restraint for 
 getting rid, suppose, of ninety cases out of every hundred which 
 at present tend to produce an excessive population, and yet 
 maintain that even this tenth of the former excess would be 
 sufficient, at a certain stage of population, to reproduce famines, 
 &;c., i. e. to reproduce as much misery and vice as had been got 
 rid of. Here there is an absolute increase of moral restraint, 
 but still insufficient for the purpose of preventing misery, &c. 
 For, as soon as the maximum of population is attained, even 
 one single birth in excess (^. e. which does more than replace 
 the existing numbers) — d- fortiori, then, one-tenth of the present 
 excess (though implying that the other nine-tenths had been 
 got rid of by moral restraint) would yet be sufficient to prevent 
 the attainment of a state of perfection. And, if Mr. Malthus 
 had so shaped his argument, whether wrong or right — he would 
 not have offended in point of logic : his logical error lies in sup- 
 posing a state of perfection already existing and yet as brought 
 to nothing by this excess of births : whereas it is clear that such 
 an excess may operate to prevent, but cannot operate to destroy 
 a state of perfection ; because in such a state no excess could 
 ever arise ; for, though an excess may co-exist with a vast 
 increase of moral restraint, it cannot co-exist with entire and 
 perfect moral restraint ; and nothing less than that is involved 
 in the term ‘perfection.’ A perfect state, which allows the 
 possibility of the excess here spoken of, is already an imperfect 
 state. How, if Mr. Hazlitt says that this is exactly what he 
 means, I answer that I believe it is ; because I can in no other 
 way explain his sixth sentence — from the words ‘ but it is shift- 
 ing the question’ to the end of that sentence. Yet again the 
 
LETTER IN REPLY TO HAZLITT. 
 
 143 
 
 look for, I should certainly not have found it : on the 
 whole, however, I am disposed to think that Mr. 
 Hazlitt’s meaning is the same as my own. So much 
 for the matter of Mr. Hazlitt’s communication : as to 
 the manner y I am sorry that it is liable to a construction 
 which perhaps was not intended. Mr. Hazlitt says — 
 
 ‘ I do not wish to bring any charge of plagiarism in this 
 case ; ^ words which are better fitted to express his own 
 forbearance, than to exonerate me from the dishonour 
 of such an act. But T am unwilling to suppose that Mr. 
 Hazlitt has designedly given this negative form to his 
 words. He says also — ‘ as I have been a good deal 
 abused for my scepticism on that subject, I do not feel 
 quite disposed that any one else should run away with 
 the credit of it.^ Here again I cannot allow myself to 
 think that Mr. Hazlitt meant deliberately to bring 
 me before the reader’s mind under the odious image 
 of a person who was ‘ running away ’ with the credit 
 
 seventh sentence (the last) is so expressed as to be unintelligible 
 to me. And all that precedes the sixth sentence, though very 
 intelligible, yet seems the precise objection which I have stated 
 above, and which I think untenable. Nay, it is still less 
 tenable in Mr. Hazlitt’s way of putting it than as usually put : 
 for to represent Mr. Malthus as saying that, ‘ if reason should 
 ever get the mastery over all our actions, we shall then be 
 governed entirely by our physical appetites ’ (which are Mr. 
 Hazlitt’s words), would be objected to even by an opponent of 
 Mr. Malthus : why ‘ entirely ? ’ why more than we are at 
 present ? The utmost amount of the objection is this : — That, 
 relying so much upon moral restraint practically, Mr. Malthus 
 was bound to have allowed it more weight speculatively, but it 
 is unreasonable to say that in his ideal case of perfection Mr. 
 Malthus has allowed no weight at all to moral restraint : even 
 he, who supposes an increased force to be inconsistent with Mr. 
 Malthus’s theory, has no reason to insist upon his meaning a 
 diminished force. 
 
144 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 of another. As to ‘ credit/ Mr. Hazlitt must permit 
 me to smile when I read that word used in that 
 sense : I can assure him that not any abstract con- 
 sideration of credit, but the abstract idea of a creditor 
 (often putting on a concrete shape, and sometimes 
 the odious concrete of a dun) has for some time past 
 been the animating principle of my labours. Credit 
 therefore, except in the sense of twelve months’ credit 
 where now alas ! I have only six, is no object of my 
 search : in fact I abhor it : for to be a ‘ noted ’ man 
 is the next bad thing to being a ‘protested’ man. 
 Seriously, however, I sent you this as the first of four 
 notes which I had written on the logical blunders of 
 Mr. Malthus (the other three being taken not from 
 his Essay on Population, but from works more ex- 
 pressly within the field of Political Economy): not 
 having met with it elsewhere, I supposed it my own 
 and sent it to complete the series : but the very first 
 sentence, which parodies the words of Chancellor 
 Oxenstiern — (‘ Go and see — how little logic is required,’ 
 &c.), sufficiently shows that, so far from arrogating 
 any great merit to myself for this discovery, I thought 
 it next to miraculous that it should have escaped any 
 previous reviewer of Mr. Malthus. — I must doubt, by 
 the way, whether Mr. Hazlitt has been ‘ a good deal 
 abused’ for these specific arguments against Mr. 
 Malthus ; and my reason for doubting is this : about 
 ten or twelve years ago, happening to be on a visit to 
 Mr. Southey, I remember to have met with a work 
 of Mr. Hazlitt’s on this subject — not that which he 
 quotes, but another {Reply to Malthus) which he refers 
 to as containing the same opinions (either totidem 
 verUs, or in substance). In Mr. Southey’s library, 
 
LETTER IN REPLY TO HAZLITT. 
 
 145 
 
 and in competition with Mr. Southey’s conversation, 
 a man may be pardoned for not studying any one 
 book exclusively : consequently, though I read a good 
 deal of Mr. Hazlitt’s Reply, I read it cursorily : 
 but, in all that I did read, I remember that the 
 arguments were very different from those which he 
 now alleges ; indeed it must be evident that the two 
 logical objections in question are by no means fitted 
 to fill an octavo volume. My inference therefore is — 
 that any ‘abuse,’ which Mr. Hazlitt may have met 
 with, must have been directed to something else in 
 his Reply ; and in fact it has happened to myself on 
 several occasions to hear this book of Mr. Hazlitt’s 
 treated as unworthy of his talents ; but never on 
 account of the two arguments which he now claims. 
 I would not be supposed, in saying this, to insinuate 
 any doubt that these arguments are really to be found 
 in the Reply ; but simply to suggest that they do 
 not come forward prominently or constitute the 
 main argument of that book : and consequently, 
 instead of being opposed, have been overlooked by 
 those who have opposed him as much as they were 
 by myself. 
 
 Finally, Mr. Hazlitt calls the coincidence of my 
 objections with his own ‘ striking : ’ and thus (though 
 unintentionally, I dare say) throws the reader’s at- 
 tention upon it as a very surprising case. Now in 
 this there is a misconception which, apart from any 
 personal question between Mr. Hazlitt and myself, is 
 worth a few words on its own account for the sake of 
 placing it in a proper light. I affirm then that, 
 considering its nature, the coincidence is not a striking 
 one, if by ‘ striking ’ be meant surprising : and 1 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
146 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 affirm also that it would not have been the more 
 striking if, instead of two, it had extended to two 
 hundred similar cases. Supposing that a thousand 
 persons were required severally to propose a riddle, 
 no conditions or limitations being expressed as to the 
 terms of the riddle, it would be surprising if any two 
 in the whole thousand should agree : suppose again 
 that the same thousand persons were required to 
 solve a riddle, it would now be surprising if any two 
 in the whole thousand should differ. Why ? Because, 
 in the first case, the act of the mind is an act of 
 synthesis ; and there we may readily conceive a 
 thousand different roads for any one mind ; but, in 
 the second case, it is an analytic act ; and there we 
 cannot conceive of more than one road for a thousand 
 minds. In the case between Mr. Hazlitt and myself 
 there was a double ground of coincidence for any 
 possible number of writers : first the object was 
 given ; e we were not left to an unlimited choice of 
 the propositions we were to attack ; but Mr. Malthus 
 had himself, by insisting on two in particular (how- 
 ever erroneously) as the capital propositions of his 
 system, determined our attention to these two as the 
 assailable points : secondly, not only was the object 
 given — ^. e. not only was it predetermined for us 
 where ^ the error must lie, if there were an error ; 
 
 * ‘ Where the error must lie ’ — i. e. to furnish a sufficient 
 answer ad homimm : otherwise it will be seen that I do not 
 regard either of the two propositions as essential to Mr. Malthus’s 
 theory : and therefore to overthrow those propositions is not to 
 answer that theory. But still, if an author will insist on 
 representing sometliing as essential to his theory which is not 
 so, and challenges opposition to it, — it is allowable to meet him 
 on his own ground. 
 
LETTER IN REPLY TO .HAZLITT. 
 
 147 
 
 but the nature of that error, which happened to be 
 logical, predetermined for us the nature of the so- 
 lution. Errors which are such materialiter, e. which 
 offend against our knowing^ may admit of many 
 answers — involving more and less of truth. But 
 errors, which are such logically, e. which offend 
 against the form (or internal law) of our thinking^ 
 admit of only one answer. Except by failing of any 
 answer at all, Mr. Hazlitt and I could not hut co- 
 incide : as long as we had the same propositions to 
 examine (which were not of our own choice, but 
 pointed out to us ah extra), and as long as we under- 
 stood those propositions in the same sense, no variety 
 was possible except in the expression and manner of 
 our answers ; and to that extent a variety exists. 
 Any other must have arisen from our understanding 
 that proposition in a different sense. 
 
 My answer to Mr. Hazlitt therefore is — that in 
 substance I think his claim valid ; and though it is 
 most true that I was not aware of any claim prior to 
 my own, I now formally forego any claim on my own 
 part to the credit of whatsoever kind which shall ever 
 arise from the two objections to Mr. Malthus’s logic 
 in his Essay on Population. In saying this, however, 
 and acknowlerlging therefore a coincidence with Mr. 
 Hazlitt in those two arguments, I must be understood 
 to mean a coincidence only in what really belongs to 
 them ] meantime Mr. Hazlitt has used two expres- 
 sions in his letter to yourself which seem to connect 
 with those propositions other opinions from which I 
 dissent : that I may not therefore be supposed to 
 extend my acquiescence in Mr. Hazlitt’s views * to 
 these points, I add two short notes upon them : which 
 
 K 2 
 
148 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 however I have detached from this letter — as forming 
 no proper part of its business. — Believe me, my dear 
 Sir, your faithful humble servant. X. Y. Z. 
 
 1. Mr. Hazlitt represents Mr. Malthus’s error in 
 regard to the different ratios of progression as a 
 mathematical error ; but the other error he calls 
 logical. This may seem to lead to nothing important : 
 it is however not for any purpose of verbal cavil that 
 I object to this distinction, and contend that both 
 errors are logical. For a little consideration will 
 convince the reader that he, who thinks the first 
 error mathematical, will inevitably miss the true 
 point where the error of Mr. Malthus arises ; and the 
 consequence of that will be — that he will never 
 understand the Malthusians, nor ever make himself 
 understood by them. Mr. Hazlitt says, ‘ a bushel of 
 wheat will sow a whole field : the produce of that 
 will sow twenty fields.^ Yes : but this is not the 
 point which Mr. Malthus denies : this he will willingly 
 grant : neither will he deny that such a progression 
 goes on by geometrical ratios. If he did, then it is 
 true that his error would be a mathematical one. 
 But all this he will concede. Where then lies his 
 error “I Simply in this — that he assumes (I do not 
 mean in words, but it is manifestly latent in all that 
 he says) that the wheat shall be continually resown 
 on the same area of land : he will not allow of Mr. 
 Hazlitt’ s ‘ twenty fields : ’ keep to your original field, 
 he will say. In this lies his error : and the nature of 
 that error is — that he insists upon shaping the case 
 for the wheat in a way which makes it no fair analogy 
 to the case which he has shaped for man. That it is 
 
LETTER IN REPLY TO HAZLITT. 
 
 149 
 
 unfair is evident : for Mr. Malthus does not mean to 
 contend that his men will go on by geometrical pro- 
 gression ; or even by arithmetical, upon the same 
 quantity of food : no ! he will himself say the positive 
 principle of increase must concur with the same sort 
 of increase in the external (negative) condition, which 
 is food. Upon what sort of logic therefore does he 
 demand that his wheat shall be thrown upon the 
 naked power of its positive principle, not concurring 
 with the same sort of increase in the negative con- 
 dition, which in this case is land ? It is true that at 
 length we shall come to the end of the land, because 
 that is limited : but this has nothing to do with the 
 race between man and his food, so long as the race is 
 possible. The race is imagined for the sake of trying 
 their several powers : and the terms of the match 
 must be made equal. But there is no equality in the 
 terms as they are supposed by Mr. Malthus. The 
 amount therefore is — that the case which Mr. Malthus 
 everywhere supposes and reasons upon, is a case of 
 false analogy : that is, it is a logical error. But, 
 setting aside the unfairness of the case, Mr. Malthus 
 is perfectly right in his mathematics. If it were fair 
 to demand that the wheat should be constantly 
 confined to the same space of land, it is undeniable 
 that it could never yield a produce advancing by a 
 geometrical progression, but at the utmost by a vei y 
 slow arithmetical progression. Consequently, taking 
 the case as Mr. Malthus puts it, he is right in calling 
 it a case of arithmetical progression : and his error is 
 in putting that case as a logical counterpart to his 
 other case. 
 
 2 Mr. Hazlitt says — ‘ This, Mr. Editor, is the 
 
150 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 writer whom our full senate call all-in-all sufficient/’ ’ 
 — And why not ? I ask. Mr. Hazlitt’s inference is 
 — that, because two propositions in Mr. Malthus’s 
 Essay are overthrown, and because these two are 
 propositions to which Mr. Malthus ascribes a false 
 importance, in relation to his theory, therefore that 
 theory is overthrown. But, if an architect, under 
 some fancied weakness of a bridge which is really 
 strong and self-supported, chooses to apply needless 
 props, I shall not injure the bridge by showing these 
 to be rotten props and knocking them away. What 
 is the real strength and the real use of Mr. Malthus’ s 
 theory of population, cannot well be shown, except 
 in treating of Political Economy. But as to the 
 influence of his logical errors upon that theory, I 
 contend that it is none at all. It is one error to 
 affirm a different law of increase for man and for 
 his food : it is a second error to affirm of a perfect 
 state an attribute of imperfection : but in my judg- 
 ment it is a third error, as great as either of the 
 others, to suppose that these two errors can at all 
 affect the Malthusian doctrine of Population. Let 
 Mr. Malthus say what he will, the first of those 
 errors is not the true foundation of that doctrine ; 
 the second of those errors does not contain its true 
 application. 
 
 Two private communications on the paper which 
 refuted Mr. Malthus, both expressed in terms of 
 personal courtesy, for which I am bound to make my 
 best acknowledgments, have reached me through ^the 
 Editor of the London Magazine. One of them refers 
 me ‘ to the number of the New Monthly Magazine for 
 March or April, 1821, for an article on Malthus, in 
 
LETTER IN REPLY TO HAZLITT. 
 
 151 
 
 wliich the view ' taken by myself ‘ of his doctrine, as 
 an answer to Godwin, seems to have been anticipated.’ 
 In reply to this I have only to express my regret that 
 my present situation, which is at a great distance 
 from any town, has not yet allowed me an opportunity 
 for making the reference pointed out. — The other 
 letter disputes the soundness of my arguments — not 
 so much in themselves, as in their application to Mr. 
 Malthus : ‘ I know nob that I am authorised to speak 
 of the author by name : his arguments I presume 
 that I am at liberty to publish : they are as follows : 
 
 ■ — The first objection appears untenable for this 
 reason : Mr. Malthus treats of the abstract tendency 
 to increase in Man, and in the Food of Man, re- 
 latively. Whereas you do not discuss the abstract 
 tendency to increase, but only the measure of that 
 increase, which is food. To the second objection I 
 thus answer : Mr. Godwin contends not (I presume) 
 for abstract, essential perfection ; but for perfection 
 relating to, and commensurate with, the capabilities 
 of an earthly nature and habitation. All this Mr. 
 Malthus admits argumenti gratia : and at the same 
 time asserts that Mr. Godwin’s estimate in his own 
 terms is incompatible with our state. 8th October, 
 1823.’ — To these answers my rejoinder is this : — The 
 first argument I am not sure that I perfectly under- 
 stand ; and therefore I will not perplex myself or its 
 author by discussing it. To the second argument I 
 reply thus : I am aware that whatsoever Mr. Malthus 
 admits from Mr. Godwin, he admits only argumenti 
 gratia. But for whatsoever purpose he admits it, he 
 is bound to remember, that he has admitted it. Now 
 what is it that he has admitted A state of per- 
 
152 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 fection. This term, under any explanation of it, 
 betrays him into the following dilemma : Either he 
 means perfection, perfection which allows of 
 
 no degrees ; or he means (in the sense which my 
 friendly antagonist has supposed) relative perfection, 
 quoad our present state — i. e. a continual approxi- 
 mation to the ideal of absolute perfection, without 
 ever reaching it. If he means the first, then he is 
 exposed to the objection (which I have already insisted 
 on sufficiently) of bringing the idea of perfection 
 under an inconsistent and destructory predicate. If 
 he means the second, then how has he overthrown the 
 doctrine of human perfectibility as he professes to 
 have done 1 At this moment, though the earth is far 
 from exhausted (and still less its powers), many 
 countries are, according to Mr. Malthus, suffering all 
 the evils which they could suffer if population had 
 reached its maximum : innumerable children are born 
 which the poverty of their parents (no less fatal to 
 them than the limitation of the earth) causes to be 
 thrown back prematurely into the grave. Now this 
 is the precise kind of evil which Mr. Malthus antici- 
 pates for the human species when it shall have reached 
 its numerical maximum. But in degree the evil may 
 then be much less — even upon Mr. Malthus’s own 
 showing : for he does not fix any limit to the increase 
 of moral restraint, but only denies that it will ever 
 become absolute and universal. When the principle 
 of population therefore has done its worst, we may 
 be suffering the same kind of evil — but, in proportion 
 to an indefinitely ^7^creasing moral restraint, an in- 
 definitely (decreasing degree of that evil : i. e. we may 
 continually approximate to the ideal of perfection : 
 
LETTER IN REPLY TO HAZLITT. 
 
 153 
 
 i. e. if the second sense of perfection be Mr. Godwin’s 
 sense, then Mr. Malthus has not overthrown Mr. 
 Godwin. 
 
 X. Y. Z. 
 
 The following admirable letter ^ seems to refer to 
 the observations on Kant, contained in the Opium 
 Eater’s Letters. Perhaps that acute logician may 
 be able to discover its meaning : or if not, he may 
 think it worth preserving as an illustration of Shak- 
 speare’s profound knowledge of character displayed 
 in Ancient Pistol. 
 
 Can Neptune sleep? — Is Willich dead? — Him who 
 wielded the trident of Albion ! Is it thus you trample 
 on the ashes of my friend ? All the dreadful energies 
 of thought — all the sophistry of fiction and the 
 triumphs of the human intellect are waving o’er his 
 peaceful grave. ‘He understood not Kant.’ Peace 
 then to the harmless invincible. I have long been 
 thinking of presenting the world with a Metaphysical 
 Dictionary — of elucidating Locke’s romance. — I await 
 with impatience Kant in English. Give me that ! 
 Your letter has awakened me to a sense of your 
 merits. Beware of squabbles ; I know the literary 
 infirmities of man. Scott rammed his nose against 
 mortals — he grasped at death for fame to chaunt the 
 victory. 
 
 Thine. 
 
 How is the Opium Eater ? 
 
 * This is attached by the Editor of The London Magazine. — H. 
 
THE SERVICES OF MR. RICARDO 
 
 TO THE 
 
 SCIENCE OF POLITICAL ECONOMY, 
 
 BRIEFLY AND PLAINLY STATED.^ 
 
 {March, 1824.) 
 
 I DO not remember that any public event of our 
 own times has touched me so nearly, or so much with 
 the feelings belonging to a private affliction, as the 
 death of Mr. Ricardo. To me in some sense it was a 
 private affliction — and no doubt to all others who 
 knew and honoured his extraordioary talents. For 
 great intellectual merit, wherever it has been steadily 
 contemplated, cannot but conciliate some personal 
 regard : and for my own part I acknowledge that, 
 abstracting altogether from the use to which a man 
 
 * Mr. J. R. McCulloch in his Literature of Political Economy 
 makes the following observations concerning De Quincey’s 
 ‘ Dialogues of Three Templars on Political Economy ’ : — They are 
 unequalled, perhaps, for brevity, pungency, and force. They not 
 only bring the Ricardian theory of value into strong relief, but 
 triumphantly repel, or rather annihilate, the objections urged 
 against it by Malthus, in the pamphlet now referred to and his 
 Political Economy, and by Say, and others. They may, indeed, 
 be said to have exhausted the subject. 
 
THE SERVICES OF MR. RICARDO. 
 
 155 
 
 of splendid endowments may apply them — or even 
 supposing the case that he should deliberately apply 
 them to a bad one, I could no more on that account 
 withhold my good wishes and affection from his 
 person — than, under any consideration of their terrific 
 attributes, I could forbear to admire the power and 
 the beauty of the serpent or the panther. Simply on 
 its own account, and without further question, a 
 great intellect challenges, as of right, not merely an 
 interest of admiration — in common with all other 
 exhibitions of power and magnificence — but also an 
 interest of human love, and (where that is necessary) 
 a spiiit of tenderness to its aberrations. Mr. Eicardo 
 however stood in no need of a partial or indulgent 
 privilege : his privilege of intellect had a comprehen- 
 sive sanction from all the purposes to which he 
 applied it in the course of his public life : in or out 
 of parliament, as a senator — or as an author, he was 
 known and honoured as a public benefactor. Though 
 connected myself by private friendship with persons 
 of the political party hostile to his, I heard amongst 
 them all but one language of respect for his public 
 conduct. Those, who stood neutral to all parties, 
 remarked that Mr. Eicardo’s voice — though heard too 
 seldom for the wishes of the enlightened part of the 
 nation — was never raised with emphasis upon any 
 question lying out of the province in which he reigned 
 as the paramount authority, except upon such as 
 seemed to affect some great interest of liberty or 
 religious toleration. And, wherever a discussion 
 arose which transcended the level of temporary and 
 local politics (as that for example upon corporal 
 punishments), the weight of authority — which mere 
 
15G 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 blank ability had obtained for him in the House of 
 Commons — was sure to be thrown into that view of 
 the case which upheld the dignity of human nature. 
 Participating most cordially in these feelings of 
 reverence for Mr. Picardo^s political character, I had 
 besides a sorrow not unmixed with self-reproach 
 arising out of some considerations more immediately 
 relating to myself. In August and September 1821 
 I wrote The Confessions of an English Opium-Eater : 
 and in the course of this little work I took occasion 
 to express my obligations, as a student of Political 
 Economy, to Mr. Picardo’s ‘Principles ’ of that science. 
 For this as for some other passages I was justly ^ 
 attacked by an able and liberal critic in the New 
 Edinburgh Review — as for so many absurd irrele- 
 vancies : in that situation no doubt they were so ; 
 and of this, in spite of the haste in which I had 
 written the greater part of the book, I was fully 
 aware. However, as they said no more than was 
 true, I was glad to take that or any occasion which 
 I could invent for offering my public testimony of 
 
 * Not so however, let me say in passing, for three supposed 
 instances of affected doubt ; in all of which my doubts were, 
 and are at this moment, very sincere and unaffected ; and, in 
 one of them at least, I am assured by those of whom I have 
 since inquired that my reviewer is undoubtedly mistaken. As 
 another point which, if left unnoticed, might affect something 
 more important to myself than the credit of my taste or judg- 
 ment, — let me inform my reviewer that, when he^ traces an 
 incident which I have recorded most faithfully about a Malay — • 
 to a tale of Mr. Hogg's, he makes me indebted to a book which 
 I never saw. In saying this I mean no disrespect to Mr. Hogg ; 
 on the contrary, I am sorry that I have never seen it : for I 
 have a great admiration of Mr. Hogg’s genius ; and have had 
 the honour of his personal acquaintance for the last ten years. 
 
THE SERVICES OF MR. RICARDO. 
 
 157 
 
 gratitude to Mr. Ricardo. The truth is — I thought 
 that something might occur to intercept any more 
 appropriate mode of conveying my homage to Mr. 
 Ricardo’s ear, which should else more naturally have 
 been expressed in a direct work on Political Economy. 
 This fear was at length realised — not in the » way I 
 had apprehended, viz. by my own death — but by Mr. 
 Ricardo’s. And now therefore" I felt happy that, at 
 whatever price of good taste, I had in some imperfect 
 way made known my sense of his high pretensions — 
 although unfortunately I had given him no means of 
 judging whether my applause were of any value. For 
 during the interval between Sept. 1821 and Mr. 
 Ricardo’s death in Sept. 1823 I had found no leisure 
 for completing my work on Political Economy : on 
 that account I had forborne to use the means of 
 introduction to Mr. Ricardo which I commanded 
 through my private connections or simply as a man 
 of letters : and in some measure therefore I owed it 
 to my own neglect — that I had for ever lost the 
 opportunity of benefiting by Mr. Ricardo’s conversa- 
 tion or bringing under his review such new specula- 
 tions of mine in Political Economy as in any point 
 modified his own doctrines — whether as corrections of 
 supposed oversights, as derivations of the same truth 
 from a higher principle, as further illustrations or 
 proofs of anything which he might have insufficiently 
 developed, or simply in the way of supplement to his 
 known and voluntary omissions. All this I should 
 have done with the utmost fearlessness of giving 
 offence, and not for a moment believing that Mr. 
 Ricardo would have regarded anything in the light 
 of an undue liberty, which in the remotest degree 
 
158 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 might seem to affect the interests of a science so 
 eminently indebted to himself. In reality candour 
 may be presumed in a man of first-rate understanding 
 — not merely as a moral quality — but almost as a 
 part of his intellectual constitution per se ; a spacious 
 and commanding intellect being magnanimous in a 
 manner suo jure, even though it should have the 
 misfortune to be allied with a perverse or irritable 
 temper. On this consideration I would gladly have 
 submitted to the review of Mr. Kicardo, as indisput- 
 ably the first of critics in this department, rather 
 than to any other person, my own review of himself. 
 That I have forfeited the opportunity of doing this — 
 is a source of some self-reproach to myself. I regret 
 also that I have forfeited the opportunity of perhaps 
 giving pleasure to Mr. Hicardo by liberating him 
 from a few misrepresentations, and placing his vindi- 
 cation upon a firmer basis even than that which he 
 has chosen. In one respect I enjoy an advantage for 
 such a service, and in general for the polemic part of 
 Political Economy, which Mr. Picard o did not. The 
 course of my studies has led me to cultivate the 
 scholastic logic. Mr. Picardo has obviously neglected 
 it. Confiding in his own conscious strength, and no 
 doubt participating in the common error of modern 
 times as to the value of artificial logic, he has taken 
 for granted that the Aristotelian forms and the ex- 
 quisite science of distinctions matured by the subtilty 
 of the schoolmen can achieve nothing in substance 
 which is beyond the power of mere sound good sense 
 and robust faculties of reasoning ; or at most can 
 only attain the same end with a little more speed and 
 adroitness. But this is a great error : and it was an 
 
THE SERVICES OF MR. RICARDO. 
 
 159 
 
 ill day for the human understanding when Lord 
 Bacon gave his countenance to a notion, which his 
 own exclusive study of one department in philosophy 
 could alone have suggested. Distinctions previously 
 examined — probed — and accurately bounded, together 
 with a terminology previously established, are the 
 crutches on which all minds— the weakest and the 
 strongest — must alike depend in many cases of 
 perplexity : from pure neglect of such aids, which are 
 to the unassisted understanding what weapons are to 
 the unarmed human strength or tools and machinery 
 to the naked hand of art, do many branches of know- 
 ledge at this day languish amongst those which are 
 independent of experiment. 
 
 As the best consolation to myself for the lost 
 opportunities with which I have here reproached 
 myself, — and as the best means of doing honour to 
 the memory of Mr. Bicardo, — I shall now endeavour 
 to spread the knowledge of what he has performed in 
 Political Economy. To do this in the plainest and 
 most effectual manner, I shall abstain from intro- 
 ducing any opinions peculiar to myself, excepting 
 only when they may be necessary for the defence of 
 Mr. Bicardo against objections which have obtained 
 currency from the celebrity of their authors — or in 
 the few cases where they may be called for by the 
 errors (as I suppose them to be) even of Mr. Bicardo. 
 — In using this language, I do not fear to be taxed 
 with arrogance : we of this day stand upon the 
 shoulders of our predecessors ; and that I am able to 
 detect any errors in Mr. Bicardo — I owe, in most 
 instances, to Mr. Bicardo himself. 
 
 X. Y. Z. 
 
EDUCATION. 
 
 PLANS FOR THE INSTRUCTION OF BOYS IN 
 LARGE NUMBERS.* 
 
 (April and May, 1824.) 
 
 This is the work of a very ingenious man, and 
 records the most original experiment in Education 
 which in this country at least has been attempted 
 since the date of those communicated by the Edge- 
 worths. We say designedly ‘ in this country ; ' be- 
 cause to compare it with some continental schemes 
 which have been only recently made known to the 
 English public (and not fully made known even yet) 
 would impose upon us a minute review of those 
 schemes, which would be, first, disproportionate to 
 our limits — secondly, out of its best situation, because 
 it would be desirable to examine those schemes 
 sepai*ately for the direct purpose of determining their 
 own absolute value, and not indirectly and incidentally 
 for the purpose of a comparison. The Madras system, 
 again, is excluded from the comparison — not so much 
 for the reason alleged (pp. 123-5), by the author 
 before us — as though that system were essentially 
 
 * Plans for the Government and Liberal Instruction of Boys in 
 large Numbers ; Drawn from Experienced London : 1822. 8vo. 
 
EDUCATION. 
 
 161 
 
 different from his own in its purpose and application : 
 the purpose of the Madras system is not exclusively 
 economy of expense, but in combination with that 
 purpose a far greater accuracy (and therefore reality) 
 in the knowledge communicated than could be ob- 
 tained on the old systems ; on this account therefore 
 the possible aj^pHcation of the Madras system is not 
 simply to the education of the poor, though as yet 
 the actual application of it may have been chiefly to 
 them, but also to the education of the rich ; and in 
 fact it is well known that the Madras system (so far 
 from being essentially a system for the poor) has been 
 adopted in some of the great classical schools of the 
 kingdom.^ The difference is more logically stated 
 thus — that the Madras system regards singly the 
 quality of the knowledge given, and (with a view to 
 that) the mode of giving it : whereas the system, 
 
 * The distinguishing excellence of the Madras system is not 
 that it lodges in the pupils tliemselves the functions which on 
 the old systems belong to the masters, and thus at the same 
 blow by which it secures greater accuracy of knowledge gets rid 
 of a great expense in masters : for this, though a great merit, is 
 a derivative merit : the condition of the possibility of this ad- 
 vantage lies in a still greater — viz. in the artificial mechanism of 
 the system by which, when once established, the system works 
 itself, and thus neutralises and sets at defiance all difference of 
 ability in the teachers — which previously determined the whole 
 success of the school. Hence is obtained this prodigious result 
 — that henceforward the blessing of education in its elementary 
 parts is made independent of accident, and as much carried out 
 of the empire of Inch as the manufacture of woollens or cottons. 
 That it is mechanic, is no conditional praise (as alleged by the 
 author before us), but the absolute praise of the Madras system : 
 neither is there any just ground of fear, as he and many others 
 have insinuated, that it should injure the freedom of the human 
 intellect. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 L 
 
162 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 which we are going to review, does not confine its 
 view to man as a being capable of knowledge, but 
 extends it to man as a being capable of action, moral or 
 prudential : it is therefore a much more comprehensive 
 system. The system before us does not exclude the 
 final purpose of the Madras system : on the contrary, 
 it is laudably solicitous for the fullest and most 
 accurate communication of knowledge, and suggests 
 many hints for the attainment of that end as just and 
 as useful as they are enlightened. But it does not 
 stop here ; it goes further, and contemplates the 
 whole man with a reference to his total means of use- 
 fulness and happiness in life. And hence, by the way, 
 it seems to us essential — that the whole child should 
 on this system be surrendered to the school ; ^. e. that 
 there should be no day-scholars ; and this principle 
 we shall further on endeavour to establish on the 
 evidence of a case related by the author himself.* On 
 the whole therefore we have designedly stated our 
 general estimate of the author’s system with a refer- 
 ence to that of the Edgeworths ; not only because it 
 has the same comprehensiveness of object, and is in 
 some degree a further expansion of their method and 
 their principles ; but also because the author himself 
 strikingly resembles the Edgeworths in style and 
 composition of mind ; with this single difference per- 
 haps, that the good sense and perception of propriety 
 (of what in French would be called les convenances), 
 which in both is the characteristic merit (and, when it 
 
 * We have since found that we have not room for it : the case 
 is stated and argued in the Appendix (pp. 220 — 227) ; hut in our 
 opinion not fairly argued. The appellant’s plea was sound, and 
 ought not to have been set aside. [At the end of the Paper I have 
 restored this ‘ Case of Appeal ’ from the original work. — H.] 
 
EDUCATION. 
 
 163 
 
 comes into conflict with any higher quality, the cha- 
 racteristic defect), — in him is less coloured by sarcastic 
 and contemptuous feelings ; which in all cases are un- 
 amiable feelings, and argue some defect of wisdom 
 and magnanimity ; but, when directed (as in the Edge- 
 worths they sometimes are) against principles in 
 human nature which lie far beyond the field of their 
 limited philosophy, recoil with their whole strength 
 upon those who utter them. It is upon this consider- 
 ation of his intellectual affinity with the Edgeworths 
 that we are the less disposed to marvel at his estimate 
 of their labours : that, for instance, at p. 192 he styles 
 their work on education ‘ inestimable,’ and that at 
 p. 122, though he stops short of proposing ‘ divine 
 honours ’ to Miss Edgeworth, the course of his logic 
 nevertheless binds him to mean that on Grecian 
 principles such honours are ‘due to her.’ So much 
 for the general classification and merits of the author, 
 of whom we know nothing more than — that, from his 
 use of the Scotticisms — ‘ succumb,’ — ‘ compete,’ — and 
 ‘ in place of ’ for ‘ instead of ’ he ought to be a Scotch- 
 man : now then for his system. 
 
 Of this we may judge by two criteria — experiment- 
 ally by its result, or a 'priori by its internal aptitude 
 for attaining its ends. Now as to the result, it must 
 be remembered that — even if the author of any system 
 could be relied on aa an impartial witness to its 
 result — yet, because the result of a system of educa- 
 tion cannot express itself in any one insulated fact, it 
 will demand as much judgment to abstract from any 
 limited experience what really is the result as would 
 have sufficed to determine its merits a priori without 
 waiting for any result. Consequently, as it would be 
 
164 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 impossible to exonerate ourselves from the necessity 
 of an elaborate act of judgment by any appeal to the 
 practical test of the result — seeing that this result 
 would again require an act of judgment hardly less 
 elaborate for its satisfactory settlement than the a 
 priori examination which it had been meant to 
 supersede, — we may as well do that at first which we 
 must do in the end ; and, relying upon our own un- 
 derstandings, say boldly that the system is good or 
 bad because on this argument it is evidently cal- 
 culated to do good or on that argument to do evil, 
 than blindly pronounce — it is good or it is bad, be- 
 cause it has produced — or has failed of producing — 
 such and such effects ; even if those effects were easy 
 to collect. In fact, for any conclusive purpose of a 
 practical test, the experience is only now beginning 
 to accumulate : and here we may take occasion to 
 mention that we had ourselves been misinformed as 
 to the duration of the experiment ; for a period of 
 four years, we were told, a school had existed under 
 the system here developed : but this must be a 
 mistake, founded perhaps on a footnote at p. 83 which 
 says — ‘ The plan has now been in operation more 
 than four years : ’ but the plan there spoken of is not 
 the general system, but a single feature of it — viz. the 
 abolition of corporal punishment : in the text this 
 plan had been represented as an immature experi- 
 ment, having then ‘ had a trial of nine months ’ only : 
 and therefore, as more than three years nine months 
 had elapsed from that time to the publication of the 
 book, a note is properly added declaring that the ex- 
 periment had succeeded, and that the author could 
 ‘ not imagine any motive strong enough to force him 
 
EDUCATION. 
 
 165 
 
 back to the old practice.’ The system generally how- 
 ever must have existed now (^. e. November 1823) for 
 nearly eight years at the least : so much is evident 
 from a note at p. 79, where a main regulation of the 
 system is said to have been established ‘ early in 1816.’ 
 Now a period of seven or eight years must have been 
 sufficient to carry many of the senior pupils into active 
 life, and to carry many of the juniors even into situa- 
 tions where they would be brought into close com- 
 parison with the pupils of other systems. Conse- 
 quently, so much experience as is involved in the fact 
 of the systems outliving such a comparison — and in 
 the continued approbation of its founder, who is 
 manifestly a very able and a conscientious man, — so 
 much experience, we say, may be premised for the 
 satisfaction of those who demand practical tests. For 
 ourselves, we shall abide rather in our valuation of 
 the system by the internal evidence of its composition 
 as stated and interpreted by its author. An abstract 
 of all that is essential in this statement we shall now 
 lay before our readers. 
 
 What is the characteristic difference, in the fewest 
 possible words, of this system as opposed to all 
 others'? We nowhere find this stated in a pointed 
 manner : the author has left it rather to be collected 
 from his general exposition ; and therefore we conceive 
 that we shall be entitled to his thanks by placing it 
 in a logical, if possible in an antithetic, shape. In 
 order to this, we ask — what is a school ? A school is 
 a body of young persons more or less perfectly or- 
 ganised — \vhich, by means of a certain constitution or 
 system of arrangements (A), aims at attaining a 
 certain object (B). Now in all former schemes of 
 
166 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 education this A stood to B the positive quantity- 
 sought in the relation of a logical negative (t. e. of a 
 negation of quantity = o), or even of a mathematic 
 negative (i, e. of — x) : — but on this new system of the 
 author before us (whom, for the want of a better 
 name, we shall call the Experimentalist) A for the 
 first time bears to B the relation of a positive quantity. 
 The terms positive and negative are sufficiently opposed 
 to each other to confer upon our contradistinction of 
 this system from all others a very marked and anti- 
 thetic shape ; and the only question upon it, which 
 arises, is this — are these terms justified in their 
 application to this case ? That they are, will appear 
 thus : — Amongst the positive objects (or B) of every 
 school, even the very worst, we must suppose the 
 culture of morals to be one : a mere day-school may 
 perhaps reasonably confine its pretensions to the dis- 
 allowance of anything positively bad ; because here 
 the presumption is that the parents undertake the 
 management of their children excepting in what 
 regards their intellectual education : but, wherever 
 the heads of a school step into the full duties of a 
 child’s natural guardians, they cannot absolve them- 
 selves from a responsibility for his morals. Accord- 
 ingly, this must be assumed of course to exist amongst 
 the positive objects of every boarding-school. Yet so 
 far are the laws and arrangements of existing schools 
 from at all aiding and promoting this object, that 
 their very utmost pretension is — that they do not 
 injure it. Much injustice and oppression, for example, 
 take place in the intercourse of all boys Vith each 
 other; and in most schools ‘the stern edict against 
 hearing tales, ^ causes this to go unredressed (p. 78) : on 
 
EDUCATION. 
 
 167 
 
 the other hand, in a school where a system of nursery- 
 like surveillance was adopted, and ‘ every trifling 
 injury was the subject of immediate appeal to the 
 supreme power ^ (p. 80), the case was still worse. 
 
 ‘ The indulgence of this querulousness increased it 
 beyond all endurance. Before the master had time 
 to examine the justice of one complaint, his attention 
 was called away to redress another ; until, wearied 
 with investigation into offences which were either too 
 trifling or too justly provoked for punishment, he 
 treated all complainants with harshness, heard their 
 accusations with incredulity, and thus tended, by a 
 first example, to the re-establishment of the old 
 system.’ The issue in any case was — that, apart from 
 what nature and the education of real life did for the 
 child’s morals, the school education did nothing at all 
 except by the positive moral instruction which the 
 child might draw from his lessons — e. from B. But 
 as to A, i. e. the school arrangements, either at best 
 their effect was = 0 ; or possibly, by capricious inter- 
 ference for the regulation of what was beyond their 
 power to regulate, they actually disturbed the moral 
 sense (i. e. their effect was = — x). Now, on the 
 new system of our Experimentalist, the very laws and 
 regulations, which are in any case necessary to the 
 going on of a school, have such an origin and are so 
 administered as to cultivate the sense of justice and 
 materially to enlarge the knowledge of justice. These 
 laws emanate from the boys themselves, and are ad- 
 ministered by the boys. That is to say, A (which on 
 the old system is at best a mere blank, or negation, 
 and sometimes even an absolute negative with regard 
 to B) thus becomes a positive agent in relation to 
 
168 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 E — e. to one of the main purposes of the school. 
 Again, to descend to an illustration of a lower order, 
 in most schools arithmetic is one part of B : now on 
 the new system it is so contrived that what is techni- 
 cally termed calling over, which on any system is a 
 necessary arrangement for the prevention of mischief, 
 and which usually terminates there {i. e. in an effect 
 = 0), becomes a positive means of cultivating an 
 elementary rule of arithmetic in the junior students — 
 and an attention to accuracy in all : e. here again, 
 from being simply = 0, A becomes = -{- x in relation 
 to B. A. school in short, on this system, burns its 
 own smoke : The mere negative conditions of its daily 
 goings on, the mere waste products of its machinery, 
 being converted into the positive pabulum of its life 
 and motion. Such then, we affirm, is the brief 
 abstract — antithetically expressed — of the character- 
 istic principle by which the system under review is 
 distinguished from all former systems. In relation to 
 B (which suppose 20 ic) A, which heretofore was = — x, 
 or at best = 0, now becomes = x, ov + 2 x, ov ^ x, 
 as it may happen. In this lies the merit of the con- 
 ception : what remains to be inquired — is in what 
 degree, and upon what parts of B, it attains this con- 
 version of A into a positive quantity : and this will 
 determine the merit of the execution. Let us now 
 therefore turn to the details of the book. 
 
 The book may be properly distributed into two 
 parts : the first of which from page 1 to page 125 in- 
 clusively (comprehending the three first chapters) 
 unfolds and reviews the system : all that remains from 
 page 126 to page 218 inclusively {i.e. to the end) — 
 comprehending four chapters^ — may be considered as a 
 
EDUCATION. 
 
 169 
 
 second or miscellaneous part, treating of some general 
 topics in the business of education, but with a con- 
 tinual reference to the principles laid down in the 
 first part. An appendix, of twenty pages, contains a 
 body of illustrative documents. The first of the three 
 chapters, composing what we have called the first 
 part, is entitled Outline of the System : and, as it is 
 very brief, we shall extract it nearly entire. 
 
 ‘ A schoolmaster being a governor as well as a 
 teacher, we must consider the boys both as a com- 
 munity and as a body of pupils. The principle of our 
 government is to leave, as much as possible, all power 
 in the hands of the boys themselves : To this end we 
 permit them to elect a committee, which enacts the 
 laws of the school, subject however to the veto of the 
 head master. We have also courts of justice for the 
 trial of both civil and criminal causes, and a vigorous 
 police for the preservation of order. Our rewards 
 consist of a few prizes given at the end of each half 
 year to those whose exertions have obtained for them 
 the highest rank in the school ; and certain marks 
 which are gained from time to time by exertions of 
 talent and industry. These marks are of two kinds : 
 the most valuable, called premial ^ marks, will pur- 
 chase a holiday; the others are received in liquidation 
 of forfeits. Our punishments t are fine and imprison- 
 ment. Impositions, public disgrace, and corporeal 
 pain, have been for some years discarded among us. 
 
 * ‘ Premial marks : ' this designation is vicious in point of 
 logic : how is it thus distinguished from the less valuable ? 
 
 t ‘ Our punishments,’ &c. This is inaccurate : by p. 83 
 ‘ disability to fill certain ofiices ’ is one of the punishments. 
 
170 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 To obtain rank is an object of great ambition among 
 the boys ; with us it is entirely dependent on the 
 state of their acquirements ; and our arrangements 
 according to excellence are so frequent — that no one 
 is safe, without constant exertion, from losing his 
 place. The boys learn almost every branch of study in 
 classes, that the master may have time for copious ex- 
 planations ; it being an object of great anxiety with 
 us, that the pupil should be led to reason upon all 
 his operations. Economy of time is a matter of 
 importance with us : we look upon all restraint as an 
 evil, and to young persons as a very serious evil : we 
 are therefore constantly in search of means for en- 
 suring the effective employment of every minute 
 wEich is spent in the school-room, that the boys may 
 have ample time for exercise in the open air. The 
 middle state between work and play is extremely un- 
 favourable to the habits ^ of the pupil : we have 
 succeeded, by great attention to order and regularity, 
 in reducing it almost to nothing. We avoid much 
 confusion by accustoming the boys to march ; which 
 they do with great precision, headed by a band of 
 young performers t from their own body.’ 
 
 Such is the outline of the system as sketched by 
 the author himself : to us however it appears an 
 insufficient outline even for ‘ the general reader ’ to 
 whom it is addressed : without having ‘ any intention 
 of reducing the system to practice,’ the most general 
 reader, if he asks for any information at all, will ask 
 for more than this. We shall endeavour therefore to 
 
 * ‘ Habits ! ’ habits of what ? 
 t ‘ Performers ! ’ Musical performers, we presume. 
 
EDUCATION. 
 
 171 
 
 draw up an account of the plan somewhat less meagre, 
 by separating the important from the trivial details. 
 For this purpose we shall begin — 1. with the govern- 
 ment of the school j ^. e, with an account of the 
 legislative, the executive, and the judicial powers, 
 where lodged — held by what tenure — and how ad- 
 ministered. The legislative power is vested in a com- 
 mittee of boys elected by the boys themselves. The 
 members are elected monthly; the boy, who ranks 
 highest in the school, electing one member ; the two 
 next in rank another ; the three next a third ; and so 
 on. The head-master as well as all the under-masters 
 are members by virtue of their office. This arrange- 
 ment might seem likely to throw a dangerous weight 
 in the deliberations of the ‘ house ^ into the hands of 
 the executive power, especially as the head-master 
 might pursue Queen Anne’s policy under the Tory 
 ministers — and, by introducing the fencing-master — - 
 the dancing-master — the riding-master, &c. under the 
 unconstitutional equivocation of the word ‘ teachers,^ 
 carry a favourite measure in the teeth of the patriotic 
 party. Hitherto however the reigning sovereign has 
 shown so laudable a desire to strengthen those checks 
 upon his own authority which make him a limited 
 monarch — that ‘ only one teacher has been in the 
 habit of attending the committee’s meetings ’ (p. 5) : 
 and, where any teacher himself happens to be inter- 
 ested in the question before the house (e. g. in a case 
 of appeal from any decision of his), ‘ it has lately been 
 the etiquette ’ for that one who does attend to decline 
 voting. Thus we see that the liberty of the subject is 
 on the growth : which is a sure argument that it has 
 not been abused. In fact, as a fresh proof of the 
 
172 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 eternal truth — that in proportion as human beings 
 are honourably confided in, they will in the gross be- 
 come worthy of confidence, it will give pleasure to the 
 reader to be informed that, though this committee 
 ‘ has the formation of all the laws and regulations of 
 the school (excepting such as determine the hours of 
 attendance and the regular amount of exercises to be 
 performed),^ yet ‘ the master’s assent has never even 
 in a single instance been withheld or even delayed.’ 
 ‘ I do not remember,’ says Sir William Temple in 1683 
 to his son, ‘ ever to have refused anything you have 
 desired of me ; which I take to be a greater compli- 
 ment to you than to myself ] since for a young man 
 to make none but reasonable 'desires is yet more ex- 
 traordinary than for an old man to think them so.’ 
 A good arrangement has been adopted for the purpose 
 of combining the benefits of mature deliberation with 
 the vigour and dispatch necessary for sudden emer- 
 gencies : by a standing order of the committee a week’s 
 notice* must be given before a new law can be intro- 
 duced for discussion : in cases of urgency therefore a 
 sort of orders of council are passed by a sub-committee 
 composed of two principal officers for the time being : 
 these may of course be intercepted in limine by the 
 veto of the master ; and they may be annulled by the 
 general committee : in any case they expire in a 
 fortnight : and thus not only is a present necessity 
 met, but also an opportunity gained for trying the 
 effect of a law before it is formally proposed. The 
 executive body, exclusively of its standing members 
 the upper and lower masters, is composed of a sheriff 
 (whose duties are to levy fines imposed by the court 
 of justice, and to imprison on non-payment) — of a 
 
EDUCATION. 
 
 173 
 
 magistrate, and of two constables. All these officers 
 are elected every month by the committee immediately 
 after its own election. The magistrate is bound, in 
 conjunction with his constables, to detect all offences 
 committed in the school : petty cases of dispute he 
 decides himself, and so far becomes a judicial officer • 
 cases beyond his own jurisdiction he sends to the 
 attorney-general, directing him to draw an impeach- 
 ment against the offending party : he also enforces all 
 penalties below a certain amount. Of the judicial 
 body we shall speak a little more at length. The 
 principal officers of the court are the judge who is 
 elected monthly by the committee, and the attorney- 
 general who is appointed at the same time by the 
 master. The court assembles every week : and the 
 jury, consisting of six, is ‘ chosen by lot from among 
 the whole number of qualified boys : ’ disqualifications 
 arise in three ways ; on account of holding a judicial 
 office, on account of conviction by the court within 
 the preceding month, and on account of youth (or, 
 what we presume to be tantamount, being ‘ in certain . 
 lower classes ’). The jury choose their own foreman. 
 The attorney-general and the accused party, if the 
 case be penal, and each disputant, if civil, has a 
 peremptory challenge of three, and an unlimited right 
 of challenge for cause. The judge decides upon the 
 validity of the objections. Such is the constitution 
 of the court : its forms of proceeding we cannot state 
 in fewer words than those of the Experimentalist, 
 which we shall therefore quote : ‘ The officers of the 
 court and the jury having taken their seats, the 
 defendant (when the cause is penal) is called to the 
 bar by the crier of the court, and placed between the 
 
174 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 constables. The clerk of the court then reads the 
 indictment, at the close of which the defendant is 
 asked if he object to any of the jury — when he may 
 make his challenges (as before stated). The same 
 question is put to the attorney-general. A short 
 time is then allowed the defendant to plead guilty^ if 
 he be so disposed : he is asked no question however 
 that he may not be induced to tell a falsehood : but, 
 in order to encourage an acknowledgment of the fault, 
 when he pleads guilty — a small deduction is made 
 from the penalty appointed by the law for the 
 offence. The consequence is — that at least five out 
 of six of those who are justly accused acknowledge 
 the offence in the first instance. If the defendant be 
 determined to stand his trial, the attorney-general 
 opens the case and the trial proceeds. The defendant 
 may either plead his own cause, or employ a school- 
 fellow as counsel — which he sometimes does. The 
 judge takes ‘notes of the evidence, to assist him in 
 delivering his charge to the jury : in determining the 
 sentence he is guided by the regulations enacted by 
 the committee, which affix punishments varying with 
 the magnitude of the offence and the age of the 
 defendant, but invest the judge with the power of 
 increasing or diminishing the penalty to the extent of 
 one-fourth.^ A copy of the sentence is laid before the 
 master, who has of course ‘ the power of mitigation or 
 pardon.^ From the decision of the court there lies 
 an appeal to the committee, which is thus not only 
 the legislative body, but also the supreme court of 
 judicature. Two such appeals however are all that 
 have yet occurred : both were brought by the attor- 
 ney-general — of course therefore against verdicts of 
 
EDUCATION. 
 
 175 
 
 acquittal ; and both verdicts were reversed. Fresh 
 evidence however was in both cases laid before the 
 committee in addition to that which had been heard 
 in the court below ; and on this as well on other 
 grounds there was good reason to acquit the jury of 
 all partiality. Whilst appeals have thus been so rare 
 from the verdicts of juries, appeals from the decisions 
 of the magistrate, and even from those of the teachers, 
 have been frequent : generally indeed the decisions 
 have been affirmed by the committee; and, when 
 they have been reversed, in all but two cases the re- 
 versal has met with the sanction of the teachers as 
 a body. Even in these two (where, by the way, the 
 original decision was only modified and not annulled)) 
 the Experimentalist is himself of opinion (p. 12) that 
 the non-concurrence of the teachers may possibly have 
 been owing to a partiality on their side. So far in- 
 deed as his experience had then extended, the Experi- 
 mentalist tells us (p. 79) that ^one solitary instance 
 only ^ had occurred in which the verdict of the jury 
 did not coincide with his own opinion. This judgment, 
 deliberately pronounced by so competent a judge, 
 combined with the entire acquiescence in the verdict 
 of the jury which is argued by the non-existence of 
 any appeals except on the side of the crown (and then 
 only in two instances), is a very striking attestation 
 to the spirit of conscientious justice developed in the 
 students by this confidence in their incorruptible 
 integrity. ‘ Great,’ says the Experimentalist, " great, 
 but of course unexpressed, anxiety has more than 
 once been felt by us — lest the influence of a leading 
 boy, which in every school must be considerable, 
 should overcome the virtue of the jury : but our fears 
 
176 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 have been uniformly relieved, and the hopes of the 
 offender crushed, by the voice of the foreman pro- 
 nouncing, in a shrill but steady tone, the awful word 
 — Guilty ! ’ Some persons, who hate all innovations, 
 will pronounce all this ‘ mummery,^ which is a very 
 compendious piece of criticism. For ourselves, though 
 we cannot altogether agree with the Experimentalist, 
 who seems to build too much on an assumption that 
 nature and increasing intercourse with human life 
 contribute nothing of themselves without any arti- 
 ficial discipline to the evolution and culture of the 
 sense of justice and to the power of the understand- 
 ing for discovering where justice lies, yet thus much 
 is evident, 1. That the intellectual faculties must be 
 sharpened by the constant habit of discriminating 
 the just and the unjust in concrete cases such as a 
 real experience of life produces ; 2. That the moral 
 sense must be deepened, if it were only by looking 
 back upon so large a body of decisions, and thus 
 measuring as it were, by the resistance which they 
 had often overcome arising out of their own immedi- 
 ate interest, the mightiness of the conscientious power 
 within which had compelled them to such decisions ; 
 3. That all sorts of forensic ability is thus cherished ; 
 and much ability indeed of larger application : thus 
 the logical faculty of abstracting the essential from 
 the accidental is involved in the summing up of the 
 judge ; in the pleadings for and against are involved 
 the rhetorical arts of narrating facts perspicuously — 
 of arranging arguments in the best Order of meeting 
 (therefore of remembering) the counter-argumerfts ; 
 of solving sophisms ; of disentangling misrepresent- 
 ations — of weighing the value of probabilities — to say 
 
EDUCATION. 
 
 177 
 
 nothing of elocution and the arts of style and diction 
 which even the records of the court and the committee 
 (as is urged at p. 105) must tend to cultivate : 4. (to 
 descend to a humbler use) that in this way the master 
 is absolved from the grievous waste of time in ad- 
 ministering justice, which on the old system w^as 
 always imperfect justice that it might waste but 
 little time, and which yet wasted much time though 
 it was imperfect justice. The author’s own moral of 
 this innovation is as follows (p. 76) ; and with this 
 we shall leave the subject : ‘ We shall be disappointed 
 if the intelligent reader have not already discovered 
 that by the establishment of a system of legislation 
 and jurisprudence wherein the power of the master is 
 bounded by general rules, and the duties of the 
 scholar accurately defined, and where the boys are 
 called upon to examine and decide upon the conduct 
 of their fellows, we have provided a course of instruc- 
 tion in the great code of morality which is likely to 
 produce far more powerful and lasting effects than 
 any quantity of mere precept.’ 
 
 We now pass to the other characteristics of the new 
 system, which seem to lie chiefly in what relates to 
 economy of time, rewards and punishments^ the motives 
 to exertion^ and voluntary labour. For, as to the 
 musical performances (which occur more than twenty 
 times a day), we see no practical use in them except 
 that they regulate the marching ; and the marching 
 it is said teaches to measure time : and measuring 
 time accurately contributes ‘ to the order and celerity 
 with which the various evolutions of the school 
 are performed,’ and also to the conquest of ‘ serious 
 impediments of speech.’ But the latter case not 
 
 VOL. I. M 
 
178 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 occurring (we presume) very frequently, and marching 
 accurately not being wholly dependant on music, — it 
 appears to us that a practice, which tends to throw an 
 air of fanciful trifling over the excellent good sense of 
 the system in other respects, would be better omitted. 
 Division into classes again, though insisted on by the 
 Experimentalist (see pp. 290, 291) in a way which 
 would lead us to suppose it a novelty in his own 
 neighbourhood, is next to universal in England ; and 
 in all the great grammar schools has been established 
 for ages. All that distinguishes this arrangement in 
 his use of it — is this, that the classes are variable : 
 that is, the school forms by different combinations 
 according to the subject of study ; the boys, who 
 study Greek together, are not the same who study 
 arithmetic together. Dismissing therefore these two 
 arrangements as either not characteristic or not 
 laudably characteristic, we shall make a brief ex- 
 position of the others. 1. Economy of Time : — ‘We 
 have been startled at the reflection ’ (says the Experi- 
 mentalist) — ‘that if, by a faulty arrangement, one 
 minute be lost to sixty of our boys, the injury sus- 
 tained would be equal to the waste of an hour by a 
 single individual.’ Hence, as the Experimentalist 
 justly argues, the use of classes ; by means of which 
 ten minutes spent by the tutor in explaining a 
 difficult point to a class of ten boys become equal to 
 100 minutes distributed amongst them severally. 
 Great improvement in the economising of time was on 
 this system derived from exacting ‘ an almost super- 
 stitious punctuality ’ of the monitor, whose duty it is 
 to summon the school to all its changes of employment 
 by ringing a bell. It is worthy of notice, but to us 
 
EDUCATION. 
 
 179 
 
 not at all surprising, that — ‘ when the duty of the 
 monitor was easy, and he had time for play, the 
 exact moment for ringing the bell was but seldom 
 observed : but when, as the system grew more 
 complex, he was more constantly in requisition, it 
 was found that with increased labour came increased 
 perfection : and the same boy who had complained of 
 the difficulty of being punctual when he had to ring 
 the bell only ten times in the day, found his duty 
 comparatively easy when his memory was taxed to a 
 four-fold amount. It is amusing to see what a living 
 timepiece the giddiest boy will become during his week 
 of office. The succession of monitors gradually infuses 
 a habit, and somewhat of a love of punctuality, into 
 the body scholastic itself. The masters also cannot 
 think of being absent when the scholars are waiting 
 for them : and thus the nominal and the real hours of 
 attendance become exactly the same.’ — 2. Motives to 
 Exertion. ‘ After furnishing the pupil with the 
 opportunity of spending his time to the greatest 
 advantage, our next case was to examine how we had 
 supplied him with motives ’ for so spending it (p. 92). 
 These are ranged under five heads, — ‘ Love of know- 
 ledge — love of employment — emulation — hope of re- 
 ward — and fear of punishment,’ — and according to 
 what the Experimentalist rightly thinks ‘ their order 
 of excellence.’ The three last, he alleges, are stimuli \ 
 and of necessity lose their power by constant use. 
 Love of employment, though a more durable motive, 
 leaves the pupil open to the attractions of any other 
 employment that may chance to offer itself in com- 
 petition with knowledge. Love of knowledge for its 
 own sake therefore is the mainspring i elied on ; 
 
180 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 insomuch that the Experimentalist gives it as his 
 opinion (p. 96) that ‘ if it were possible for the pupil 
 to acquire a love of knowledge, and that only during 
 the time he remained at school, he would have done 
 more towards insuring a stock of knowledge in 
 maturer age than if he had been the recipient of as 
 much learning as ever was infused into the passive 
 school-boy ’ by any means which fell short of gener- 
 ating such a principle of exertion. We heartily agree 
 with him : and we are further of opinion that this 
 love needs not to be generated as an independent 
 birth previously to our commencing the labour of 
 tuition, but that every system of tuition in propor- 
 tion as it approaches to a good one will inevitably 
 involve the generation of this love of knowledge 
 concurrently with the generation of knowledge itself. 
 Most melancholy are the cases which have come 
 under our immediate notice of good faculties wholly 
 lost to their possessor and an incurable disgust 
 for literature and knowledge founded to our certain 
 knowledge solely on the stupidity and false methods 
 of the teacher, who alike in what he knew or did 
 not know was incapable of connecting one spark of 
 pleasurable feeling with any science, by leading his 
 pupils’ minds to re-act upon the knowledge he at- 
 tempted to convey. Being thus important, how shall 
 a love of knowledge be created According to the 
 Experimentalist, first of all (p. 97 — to the word ‘ zest ’ 
 in p. 107) by combining the sense of obvious utility 
 with all the elementary exercises of the intellect : — 
 secondly (from p. 108 — to the word ‘ rock ’ in p. 114) 
 by matching the difficulties of the learner exactly 
 with his capacity ; — thirdly (from p. 114 — to the 
 
EDUCATION. 
 
 181 
 
 word ‘attention’ in p. 117) by connecting with the 
 learner’s progress the sense of continual success : — ■ 
 fourthly (from p. 117 — to the word ‘co-operation ’ in 
 p. 121) by communicating clear, vivid and accurate 
 conceptions. The first means is illustrated by a 
 reference to the art of learning a language — to arith- 
 metic — to surveying, and to the writing of ‘ themes.’ 
 Can any boy, for instance, reconcile himself to the 
 loathsome effort of learning ^Propria qum maribus^ 
 by any the dimmest sense of its future utility % No, 
 we answer with the Experimentalist : and we go 
 farther even than the Experimentalist is disposed to 
 do (p. 98) ; for we deny the existence of any future 
 utility. We, the reviewer of this book, at eight 
 years of age, though even then passionately fond of 
 study and disdainful of childish sports, passed some 
 of the most wretched and ungenial days of our life in 
 ‘ learning by heart, ^ as it is called (oh ! most ironical 
 misnomer !), Propria quce maribus, ‘ Quce genus,'* and 
 ^ As in prcesenti,' a three-headed monster worse than 
 Cerberus : we did learn them ad unguem ; and to this 
 hour their accursed barbarisms cling to our memory 
 as ineradicably as the golden lines of ^schylus or 
 Shakspeare. And what was our profit from all this 
 loathsome labour, and the loathsome heap of rubbish 
 thus deposited in the memory h Attend, if you 
 please, good reader : the first professes to teach the 
 irregularities of nouns as to gender (^. e. which nouns 
 having a masculine termination are yet feminine, &c.), 
 the second to teach the irregularities of nouns as to 
 number (i. e. which want the singular, which the 
 plural), the third to teach the irregularities of verbs 
 (^. e. their deviations from the generic forms of the 
 
182 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 preterite and the supine) : this is what they profess 
 to teach. Suppose then their professions realised, 
 what is the result ? Why that you have laboriously 
 anticipated a case of anomaly which, if it do actually 
 occur, could not possibly cost more trouble to explain 
 at the time of its occurrence than you are thus pre- 
 mising. This is as if a man should sit down to cull 
 all the difficult cases of action which could ever occur 
 to him in his relations of son, father, citizen, neigh- 
 bour, public functionary, &c. under the plea that he 
 would thus have got over the labour of discussion 
 before the case itself arrived. Supposing that this 
 could be accomplished, what would it effect but to 
 cancel a benevolent arrangement of providence by 
 which the difficulties of life are distributed with 
 tolerable equality throughout its whole course, and 
 obstinately to accumulate them all upon a particular 
 period. Sufficient for the day is its own evil : dis- 
 patch your business as it arises, and every day clears 
 itself : but suffer a few months of unaudited accounts, 
 or of unanswered letters, to accumulate ; and a 
 mountain of arrears is before you which years seem 
 insufficient to get rid of. This sort of accumulation 
 arises in the shape of arrears : but any accumulation 
 of trouble out of its proper place, — ^. e. of a distributed 
 trouble into a state of convergement, — no matter 
 whether in the shape of needless anticipation or need- 
 less procrastination, has equally the practical effect of 
 converting a light trouble (or none at all) into a heavy 
 and hateful one. The daily experience of books, 
 actual intercourse with Latin authors, is sufficient to 
 teach all the irregularities of that language : just as 
 the daily experience of an English child leads him 
 
EDUCATION. 
 
 183 
 
 without trouble into all the anomalies of his own 
 language. And, to return to the question wliich we 
 put — ‘ What was our profit from all this loathsome 
 labour ? ’ In this way it was, viz. in the way of 
 actual experience that we, the reviewer of this book, 
 did actually in the end come to the knowledge of 
 those irregularities which the three elegant poems in 
 question profess to communicate. Mark this, reader : 
 the logic of what we are saying — is first, that, if they 
 did teach what they profess, they would attain that 
 end by an artificial means far more laborious than 
 the natural means : and secondly, that in fact they do 
 not attain their end. The reason of this — is partly 
 the perplexed and barbarous texture of the verse, 
 which for metrical purposes, i. e, to keep the promise 
 of metre to the mere technical scansion, is obliged to 
 abandon all those natural beauties of metre in the 
 fluent connection of the words, in the rhythmus, 
 ‘cadence, caesura, &c, which alone recommend metre as 
 a better or more rememberable form for conveying 
 knowledge than prose : prose, if it has no music, at 
 any rate does not compel the most inartificial writer 
 to dislocate, and distort it into non-intelligibility. 
 Another reason is, that ‘ As in prcesenti ' and its 
 companions, are not so much adapted to the reading 
 as to the writing of Latin. For instance, I remember 
 (we will suppose) this sequence of ‘ tango tetigi ’ from 
 the ^ As in P.’ Now, if I am reading Latin I meet 
 either with the tense ‘ tango, ^ or the tense ^ tetigi.^ In 
 the former case, I have no difficulty ; for there is as 
 yet no irregularity : and therefore it is impertinent 
 to offer assistance : in the latter case I do find a 
 difficulty, for, according to the models of verbs which 
 
184 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 I have learned in my grammar, there is no possible 
 verb which could yield tetigi : for such a verb as 
 tetigo even ought to yield tetixi : here therefore I 
 should be glad of some assistance ; but just here it is 
 that I obtain none : for, because I remember ‘ tango 
 Utigi ^ in the direct order, it is quite contrary to the 
 laws of association which govern the memory in such 
 a case, to suppose that I remember, the inverted order 
 of tetigi tango — anymore than the forward repetition 
 of the Lord’s prayer ensures its backward repetition. 
 The practical applicability of ‘ As .in prcesenti ’ is 
 therefore solely to the act of writing Latin : for, 
 having occasion to translate the words ‘ I touched ’ I 
 search for the Latin equivalent to the English word 
 touch — find that it is tango, and then am reminded 
 (whilst forming the preterite) that tango makes not 
 tanxi but ‘ tetigV Such a use therefore I might by 
 possibility derive from my long labours : meantime 
 even here the service is in all probability doubly 
 superfiuous : for, by the time that I am called on to 
 write Latin at all, experience will have taught me that 
 tango makes tetigi ; or, supposing that I am required 
 to write Latin as one of the earliest means for gaining 
 experience, even in that case the very same dictionary 
 which teaches me what is Latin for ‘ touch ’ teaches 
 me what is the irregular preterite and supine of tango. 
 And thus the ‘ upshot ’ (to use a homely word) of the 
 whole business — is that an effort of memory, so great 
 as to be capable otherwise directed of mastering a 
 science, and secondly (because directed to an unnatural 
 composition, viz. «an arrangement of metre, which is 
 at once the rudest and the most elaborately artificial), 
 so disgusting as that no accession of knowledge could 
 
EDUCATION. 
 
 185 
 
 compensate the injury thus done to the simplicity of 
 the child's understanding, by connecting pain and a 
 sense of unintelligible mystery with his earliest steps 
 in knowledge, — all this hyperbolical apparatus and 
 machinery is worked for no one end or purpose that 
 is not better answered by a question to his tutor, by 
 consulting his dictionary, or by the insensible progress 
 of daily experience. Even this argument derived from 
 its utter uselessness does not however weigh so much 
 with us as the other argument derived from the want 
 of common-sense, involved in the wilful forestalling 
 and artificial concentrating into one long rosary of 
 anomalies, what else the nature of the case has by 
 good luck dispersed over the whole territory of the 
 Latin language. To be consistent, a tutor should 
 take the same proleptical course with regard to the 
 prosody of the Latin language : every Latin hyper- 
 dissyllable is manifestly accentuated according to the 
 following law : if the penultimate be long, that 
 syllable inevitably claims the accent ; if short, in- 
 evitably it rejects it — ^. e. gives it to the ante-penulti- 
 mate. The determining syllable is therefore the penul- 
 timate; and for the due reading of Latin the sole 
 question is about the quantity of the penultimate. 
 According to the logic therefore which could ever 
 have introduced ^ As in 'prcesenti^ the tutor ought to 
 make his pupils commit to memory every individual 
 word in which the quantity was not predetermined 
 by a mechanical rule — (as it is e. g. in the gen. plural 
 drum of the second declension, the erunt of the third 
 per. plurals of the preterite, &c., or the cases where 
 the vowel is long by position). But what man of 
 sense would forbear to cry out in such a case — Leave 
 
186 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 the poor child to his daily reading : practice, under 
 correct tuition, will give him insensibly and without 
 effort all that you would thus endeavour to communi- 
 cate through a most Herculean exertion.’ Whom has 
 it cost any trouble to learn the accentuation of his 
 own language h How has he learned that ? Simply 
 by copying others — and so much without effort, that 
 the effort (and a very great effort) would have been 
 not to copy them. In that way let him learn the 
 quantity of Latin and Greek penultimates. That 
 Edmund Burke could violate the quantity of the word 
 ‘ Yectigal’ was owing to his tutor’s ignorance, who 
 had allowed him so to read it ; that Lord North, and 
 every other Etonian in the house, knew better — was 
 owing not to any disproportionate effort of memory 
 directed to that particular word, as though they had 
 committed to memory a rule enjoining them to place 
 the accent on the penultimate of the word vectigal : 
 their knowledge no more rested on such an anticipa- 
 tion by express rules of their own experience, than 
 Burke’s ignorance of the quantity on the want of such 
 anticipation ; the anticipation was needless — coming 
 from a tutor who knew the quantity, and impossible 
 — coming from a tutor who knew it not. At this 
 moment a little boy (three years old) is standing by 
 our table, and repeatedly using the word mans for men: 
 his sister (five years old), at his age, made the very 
 same mistake: but she is now correcting her brother’s 
 grammar, which just at this moment he is stoutly 
 defending — conceiving his dignity involved in the 
 assertion of his own impeccability. Now whence 
 came the little girl’s error and its correction ? Follow- 
 ing blindly the general analogy of the language, she 
 
EDUCATION. 
 
 187 
 
 formed her plural by adding an s to the singular : 
 afterwards everybody about her became a daily 
 monitor — a living Propria quce marihus, as she is 
 in her turn to her brother, instructing her that this 
 particular word ‘ man ’ swerved, as to this one par- 
 ticular point, ^from the general analogy of the 
 language. But the result is just as inevitable from 
 daily intercourse with Latin books, as to the parallel 
 anomalies in that language. In proportion as any 
 case of anomaly could escape the practical regulation 
 of such an intercourse, just in that proportion it must 
 be a rare case, and less- important to be known : what- 
 soever the future experience will be most like to 
 demand, the past experience will be most likely to 
 have furnished. All this we urge not against the 
 Eton grammar in particular : on the contrary, as 
 grammars go, we admire the Eton grammar ; ^ and 
 love it with a filial partiality from early associations 
 (always excepting, however, the three lead-mines of 
 the Eton grammar, ‘ Propria quce marihus^ &c. of 
 which it is not extravagant to say, that the author, 
 though possibly a good sort of a man in his way, has 
 undoubtedly caused more human suffering than Nero, 
 Bobespierre, or any other enemy of the human race). 
 Our opposition is to the general principle, which lies 
 at the root of such treatises as the three we have been 
 considering : it will be observed that, making a proper 
 
 * Indeed an Etonian must in consistency condemn either the 
 Latin or the Greek grammar of Eton. For, where is the Greek 
 ‘ Propria quce maribiis ’ — ‘ Quce genus ’ — and ‘ As in prccsenti ’ ? 
 Either the Greek grammar is defective, or the Latin redundant. 
 Yv'e are surprised that it has never struck the patrons of these 
 three beautiful Idylls, that all the anomalies of the Greek 
 language are left to be collected from practice. 
 
188 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 allowance for the smallness of the print, these three 
 bodies of absurd anticipations of exceptions, are collec- 
 tively about equal in quantity, and virtually for the 
 effort to the memory far more than equal, to the whole 
 body of the rules contained in the Accidence and the 
 Syntax : i.e. that which exists on account of many 
 thousand cases is put on the same level of value and 
 burthen to the memory, as that which exists on 
 account of itself alone. Here lies the original sin of 
 grammars, the mortal taint on which they all demand 
 regeneration : whosoever would show himself a great 
 artist in the profound but as yet infant art of teach- 
 ing, should regard all arbitrary taxes upon the 
 meuiory with the same superstition that a wise law- 
 giver should regard the punishment of death : the 
 lawgiver, who sets out with little knowledge (and 
 therefore little veneration) of human nature, is per- 
 petually invoking the thunders of the law to com- 
 pensate the internal weakness of his own laws : and 
 the same spirit of levity disposes inefficient teachers 
 to put in motion the weightiest machinery of the 
 mind for the most trifling purposes : but we are 
 convinced that this law should be engraven on the 
 title page of all elementary books — that the memory 
 is degraded, if it be called in to deliver any individual 
 fact, or any number of individual facts, or for any 
 less purpose than that of delivering a comprehensive 
 law, by means of which .the understanding is to 
 ‘produce the individual cases of knowledge wanted. 
 Wherever exceptions or insulated cases are noticed, 
 except in notes, which are not designed to be com- 
 mitted to memory, this rule is violated ; and the 
 Scotch expression for particularising, viz. condescend- 
 
EDUCATION. 
 
 189 
 
 ing iLjyon, becomes applicable in a literal sense : when 
 the Eton grammar, e. g. notices Deus as deviating in 
 the vocative case from the general law for that de- 
 clension, the memory is summoned to an unreasonable 
 act of condescension — viz. to load itself almost as 
 heavily for one particular word in one particular case, 
 as it had done by the whole type of that declension 
 {i. e. the implicit law for all words contained under 
 it, which are possibly some thousands). But how 
 then would we have such exceptions learnt, if not by 
 an act of the memory ] Precisely, we answer, as the 
 meanings of all the words in the language are 
 learned : how are they learned ? They are known, 
 and they are remembered : but how 1 Not by any 
 act or effort of the memory : they are deposited in the 
 memory from daily intercourse with them : just as 
 the daily occurrences of our lives are recorded in our 
 memories : not through any exertion on our part, or 
 in consequence of previous determination on our parts 
 that we will remember them : on the contrary, we 
 take no pains about them, and often would willingly 
 forget them : but they stay there in spite of us, and 
 are pure depositions, settlings, or sediments, with or 
 without our concurrence, from the stream of our 
 daily experience. — Keturning from this long excursus 
 on arbitrary taxations of the memory suggested to us 
 by the mention of ‘ Fropria quce marihus,' which the 
 Experimentalist objects to as disgusting to children 
 before they have had experience of the cases in which 
 it furnishes assistance (but which we have objected 
 to as in any case barren of all power to assist), we 
 resume the course of our analysis. We left the 
 Experimentalist insisting on the benefit of directing 
 
190 
 
 DE QUINCE Y. 
 
 the studies of children into such channels as that the 
 practical uses of their labours may become apprehens- 
 ible to themselves — as the first mode of producing a 
 love of knowledge. In some cases he admits that the 
 pupil must pass through ‘ dark defiles/ confiding 
 blindly in his tutor’s ‘ assurance that he will at last 
 emerge into light : ’ but still contends that in many 
 cases it is possible, and where possible — right, that 
 he should ‘ catch a glimpse of the promised land.’ 
 Thus, for example, to construe the language he is 
 learning — is an act of ‘ some respectability in his 
 eyes ’ and its uses apparent : meantime the uses of 
 the grammar are not so apparent until experience has 
 brought him acquainted with the real cases to which 
 it applies. On this account, — without laying aside 
 the grammar, let him be advanced to the dignity of 
 actual translation upon the very minimum of gram- 
 matical knowledge which will admit of it. Again, in 
 arithmetic, it is the received practice to commence 
 with ‘ abstract numbers : ’ but, instead of risking 
 injury to the child’s intellect and to his temper by 
 thus calling upon him to add together ‘ long rows of 
 figures ’ to which no meaning is attached, he is taught 
 ‘ to calculate all the various little problems which 
 may be constructed respecting his tops and marbles, 
 their price, and their comparative value.’ Here the 
 Experimentalist turns aside for about a page (from 
 ‘while,’ p. 101 — to ‘practicable,’ p. 102) to ‘acknow- 
 ledge his obligations to what is called Mental 
 Arithmetic — that is, calculation without the employ- 
 ment of written symbols.’ Jedediah Buxton’s preter- 
 natural powers in this way have been long published 
 to the world, and may now be found recorded in 
 
EDUCATION. 
 
 191 
 
 Encyclopeedias : the Experimentalist refers also to the 
 more recent cases of Person and the American youth 
 Zerah Colborn : amongst his own pupils it appears 
 (p. 54) that this exercise is practised in the morning 
 twilight, which for any other study would not furnish 
 sufficient light : he does not pretend to any very 
 splendid marvels : but the following facts, previously 
 recited at pp. 16 and 17, he thinks may astonish 
 ‘ those who have not estimated the combined power 
 of youth, ardour, and practice.’ The lower classes 
 calculate, purely by the mind without any help from 
 pen or pencil, questions respecting interest ; determine 
 whether a given year be bissextile or not, &c. &c. 
 The upper classes determine the age of the moon at 
 any given time, the day of the week which corresponds 
 with any day of any month, and year, and Easter 
 Sunday for a given year. They will square any 
 number not exceeding a thousand, extract the square 
 root of a number of not more than five places, 
 determine the space through which a body falls in a 
 given time, the circumference and areas of circles 
 from their diameters, and solve many problems in 
 mensuration : they practise also Mental Algebra, &c. 
 In mental, no less than in written. Arithmetic, ‘ by 
 assimilating the questions to those which actually 
 occur in the transactions of life,’ the pupil is made 
 sensible that he is rising into the usefulness and re- 
 spectability of real business. The imitative principle 
 of man is thus made to blend with the motive derived 
 from the sense of utility. The same blended feelings, 
 combined with the pleasurable infiuences of open air, 
 are relied upon for creating the love of knowledge in 
 the practice of surveying. In this operation so large 
 
192 
 
 DE QUTNGEY. 
 
 an aggregate of subsidiary knowledge is demanded, — 
 of arithmetic, for instance — of mensuration — of trigo- 
 nometry, together with ‘ the manual facility of con- 
 structing maps and plans,’ that a sudden revelation is 
 made to the pupils of the uses and indispensableness 
 of many previous studies which hitherto they had 
 imperfectly appreciated ; they also ‘ exercise their 
 discretion in choosing points of observation ; they 
 learn expertness in the use, and care in the preserva- 
 tion of instruments : and, above all, — from this feel- 
 ing that they are really at work, they acquire that 
 sobriety and steadiness of conduct in which the elder 
 school-boy is so often inferior to his less fortunate 
 neighbour, who has been removed at an early age 
 to the accompting-house.’ — The value of the sense of 
 utility the Experimentalist brings home forcibly to 
 every reader’s recollections, by reminding him of the 
 many cases in which a sudden desire for self-education 
 breaks out in a few months after the close of an 
 inefficient education : ‘ and what,’ he asks, ^ produces 
 the change '1 The experience, however short, of the 
 utility of acquisitions, which were perhaps lately 
 despised.’ Better then ‘ to spare the future man 
 many moments of painful retrospection,’ by educing 
 this sense of utility, ‘ while the time and opportunity 
 of impr<yvement remain unimpaired.’ Fiually, the 
 sense of utility is connected with the peculiar exercises 
 in composition ; ^ a department of education which we 
 confess ’ (says the Experimentalist) ‘ has often caused 
 us considerable uneasiness ; ’ an uneasiness which we, 
 on our part, look upon as groundless. For starting 
 ourselves from the same point with the Experiment- 
 alist and the authority he alleges — viz. that the 
 
EDUCATION. 
 
 193 
 
 matter of a good theme or essay altogether transcends 
 the reflective powers and the opportunities for ob- 
 serving of a raw school-boy, — we yet come to a very 
 different practical conclusion. The act of composition 
 cannot, it is true, create thoughts in a boy’s head 
 unless they exist previously. On this consideration, 
 let all questions of general speculation be dismissed 
 from school exercises : especially questions of moral 
 speculation, which usually furnish the thesis of a 
 school-boy’s essay : let us have no more themes on 
 Justice — on Ambition — on Benevolence — on the Love 
 of Fame, &c. : for all theses such as these, which treat 
 moral qualities as pure abstractions, are stripped of 
 their human interest : and few adults even could 
 write endurably upon such subjects in such a shape ; 
 though many might have written very pleasingly and 
 judiciously upon a moral case — ^. e. on a moral ques- 
 tion in concreto. Grant that a school-boy has no 
 independent thoughts of any value ; yet every boy 
 has thoughts dependent upon what he has read — • 
 thoughts involved in it — thoughts derived from it : 
 but these he will (cceteris paribus) be more or less 
 able to express, as he has been more or less accustomed 
 to express them. The unevolved thoughts which pass 
 through the youngest — the rudest — the most inex- 
 perienced brain, are innumerable ; not detached — 
 voluntary thoughts, but thoughts inherent in what is 
 seen, talked of, experienced, or read of. To evolve 
 these, to make them apprehensible by others, and 
 often even to bring them within their own conscious- 
 ness, is very difficult to most people ; and at times to 
 all people : and the power, by which this difficulty is 
 conquered, admits of endless culture : and, amongst 
 
 VOL. I. N 
 
194 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 the modes of culture, is that of written composition. 
 The true value of this exercise lies in the necessity 
 which it imposes of forming distinct ideas — of con- 
 necting them — of disposing them into such an arrange- 
 ment as that they can be connected — of clothing them 
 in words — and many more acts of the mind : both 
 analytic and synthetic. All that is necessary is — to 
 determine for the young composer his choice of 
 matter : require him therefore to narrate an interest- 
 ing story which he has formerly read ; to rehearse the 
 most interesting particulars of a day’s excursion : in 
 the case of more advanced students, let them read one 
 of the English state trials, where the evidence is of a 
 complex character (as the trials on Titus Oates’s plot), 
 or a critical dissertation on some interesting question, 
 or anything in short which admits of analysis — of 
 abstraction — of expansion — or exhibition in an altered 
 shape. Subjects for all this are innumerable ; and, 
 according to the selection made, more or less oppor- 
 tunity is given for collecting valuable knowledge : 
 but this purpose is collateral to the one we are speak- 
 ing of : the direct purpose is to exercise the mind in 
 unravelling its own thoughts, which else lie huddled 
 and tangled together in a state unfit for use, and but 
 dimly developed to the possessor’s own consciousness. 
 — The three other modes of producing a love of 
 knowledge, which the Experimentalist relies on, viz 
 the proportioning the difficulties to the capacity of 
 tne learner, the pleasure of success, and the communi- 
 cation of clear, vivid, and accurate conceptions, are 
 treated with good sense — but not with any great 
 originality : the last indeed (to speak scholastically) 
 contains the other three eminenter : for he, who has 
 
EDUCATION. 
 
 195 
 
 once arrived at clear conceptions in relation to the 
 various objects of his study, will nob fail to generate 
 for himself the pleasure of success ; and so of the rest. 
 But the power of communicating ‘ accurate concep- 
 tions ’ involves so many other powers, that it is in 
 strictness but another name for the faculty of teach- 
 ing in general. We fully agree with the Experiment- 
 alist (at p. 118), that the tutor would do well ‘to 
 provide himself with the various weights commonly 
 spoken of, and the measures of content and of length ; 
 to portion oft upon his play-ground a land-chain, a 
 rood/ &.*. to furnish ‘ maps ’ tracing ‘ the routes of 
 armies ; ’ ‘ plates exhibiting the costumes ’ of different 
 nations : and more especially we agree with him (at 
 p. 135) that in teaching the classics the tutor should 
 have at hand ‘ plates or drawings of ships, temples, 
 houses, altars, domestic and sacred utensils, robes, and 
 of every object of which they are likely to read.^ ‘ It 
 is,’ as he says, ‘ impossible to calculate the injury 
 which the minds of children suffer from the habit of 
 receiving imperfect ideas : ’ and it is discreditable in 
 the highest degree to the majority of good classical 
 scholars that they have no accurate knowledge of the 
 Homan calendar, and no knowledge at all of the 
 classical coinage, &c. : not one out of every twenty 
 scholars can state the relation of the sestertius to the 
 denarius, of the Homan denarius to the Attic drachma, 
 or express any of them in English money. All such 
 defects are weighty : but they are not adequate 
 illustrations of the injury which arises from in- 
 accurate ideas in its most important shape. It is a 
 subject however which we have here no room to 
 enlarge upon. 
 
 N 2 
 
196 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 Rewards and Punishments. — It has already been 
 mentioned that corporal punishments are entirely 
 abolished ; ^ and upon the same principle all such 
 disgrace as ‘ would destroy self-respect.^ ‘ Expulsion 
 even has been resorted to, rather than a boy should 
 be submitted to treatment which might lead himself 
 and his school-fellows to forget that he was a gentle- 
 man.^ In this we think the Experimentalist very 
 wise : and precisely upon this ground it was that Mr. 
 Coleridge in his lectures at the Royal Institution 
 attacked Mr. Lancaster’s system, which deviated 
 from the Madras system chiefly in the complexity 
 of the details, and by pressing so cruelly in its 
 punishments upon the principle of shame. ‘Public 
 disgrace ’ (as the Experimentalist alleges, p. 83) ‘ is 
 painful exactly in proportion to the good feeling of 
 the offender : ’ and thus the good are more heavily 
 punished than the bad. Confinement, and certain 
 disabilities, are the severest punishments : but the 
 former is ‘ as rare as possible ; both because it is 
 attended with unavoidable disgrace ’ (but what 
 punishment is wholly free from this objection ?) ‘ and 
 because, unlike labour, it is pain without any utility ’ 
 
 * On this point there is however an exception made, which 
 amuses us not a little. ‘ In a few instances,’ says the Experi- 
 mentalist, ‘it has been found or supposed necessary to resent 
 insolence by a blow : but this may be rather called an assertion 
 of private right, than an official punishment. In these cases a 
 single blow has almost always been found sufficient, even the 
 rarity of the infliction rendering severity unnecessary.’ He 
 insists therefore that this punishment (which, we cannot but 
 think, might have been commuted for a long imprisonment) 
 shall not be called a punishment, nor entered on the public 
 records as such : in which case however it becomes a private 
 ‘ turn-up, ’ as the boxers call it, between the boy and his tutor. 
 
EDUCATION. 
 
 197 
 
 (p. 183). The ordinary punishments therefore consist 
 in the forfeiture of rewards, which are certain 
 counters obtained by various kinds of merit. These 
 are of two classes, penal (so called from being received 
 as forfeits) and premial, which are obtained by a 
 higher degree of merit, and have higher powers 
 attached to them. Premial counters will purchase 
 holidays, and will also purchase rank (which on this 
 system is of great importance). A conflict is thus 
 created between pleasure and ambition, which gener- 
 ally terminates in favour of the latter : ‘ a boy of 
 fourteen, although constantly in the possession of 
 marks sufficient to obtain a holiday per week, has 
 bought but three-quarters of a day’s relaxation 
 during the whole of the last year. The same boy 
 purchased his place on the list by a sacrifice of marks 
 sufficient to have obtained for him twenty-six half- 
 holidays.’ The purchase of rank, the reader must 
 remember, is no way objectionable — considering the 
 means by which the purchase-money is obtained. One 
 chief means is by study during the hours of leisure — 
 e. by voluntary labour : this is treated of (rather out 
 of its place) in Chap. YII., which ought to be con- 
 sidered as belonging to the first part of the work, viz. 
 to the exposition of the system. Voluntary labour 
 took its rise from the necessity of furnishing those 
 boys, who had no chance of obtaining rank through 
 their talents, with some other means of distinguishing 
 themselves : this is accomplished in two modes : first, 
 by giving rewards for industry exerted out of school 
 hours, and receiving these rewards as the price of 
 rank ; making no other stipulation than one, in 
 addition to its being ‘ tolerably well executed ’ — viz. 
 
198 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 that it shall be in a state of completion. The 
 Experimentalist comments justly at p. 187, on ‘ the 
 mental dissipation in which persons of talent often 
 indulge ’ as being ^ destructive beyoud what can readily 
 be imagined ’ and as leading to ‘ a life of shreds and 
 patches.^ ‘We take care’ (says he) ‘ to reward no 
 boy for fragments, whatever may be their excellence. 
 We know nothing of his exertions until they come 
 before us in a state of completion.’ Heoce, besides 
 gaining the ‘ habit of finishing ’ in early youth, the 
 boy has an interest also in gaining the habit of 
 measuring his own powers : for he knows ‘ that he 
 can receive neither fame nor profit by instalments ; 
 and therefore ‘ undertakes nothing which lie has not 
 a rational hope of accomplishing.’ * A second mode of 
 preventing rank from being monopolised by talents 
 is by flinging the school into various arrangements, 
 one of which is founded on ‘ propriety of manners and 
 general good conduct.’ 
 
 We have thus gone through a pretty full analysis, 
 and a very accurate one, of the new system as 
 contained in the three first chapters. Of the five 
 miscellaneous chapters, the seventh or last but one 
 (on voluntary labour), has been interwoven with our 
 analysis ; and the eighth, which contains a comparison 
 of public and private education, we do not purpose to 
 
 * The details of the system in regard to the penal and premial 
 counters maybe found from pp. 23 to 29. We have no room to 
 extract them : one remark only we must make — that we do not 
 see how it is possible to ascribe any peculiar and incommunicable 
 privileges to the premial as opposed to the penal counters, when 
 it appears that they may be exchanged for each other ‘at an 
 established rate.’ 
 
EDUCATION. 
 
 199 
 
 notice ; the question is very sensibly discussed ; but 
 it is useless to discuss any question like this, which is 
 a difficult problem only because it is an unlimited 
 problem. Let the parent satisfy himself about the 
 object he has in view for his child, and let him 
 consider the particular means which he has at his 
 disposal for securing a good private education, and he 
 may then determine it for himself. As far as the 
 attainment of knowledge is concerned, — it is always 
 possible to secure a good public education, and not 
 always possible to secure a good private one. Where 
 either is possible indifferently, the comparison will 
 proceed upon more equal grounds : and inquiry may 
 then be made about the child’s destination in future 
 life : for many destinations a public education being 
 much more eligible than for others. Under a perfect 
 indetermination of. everything relating to the child 
 — the question is as indeterminable as — whether it is 
 better to go to the Bank through Holborn or through 
 the Strand : the particular case being given, it may 
 then be possible to answer the question ; previously 
 
 it is impossible. Three chapters therefore remain, 
 
 viz. — Chap. IV. on Languages; Chap. Y. on Elocution ; 
 and Chap. YI. on Penmanship. 
 
 Chap. IV. On the best method of acquiring Lan- 
 guages . — The Experimentalist had occasion to observe 
 ‘ that, in the Welsh towns which are frequented by 
 the English, even the children speak both languages 
 with fluency : ’ this fact, contrasted with the labour 
 and pain entailed upon the boy who is learning Latin 
 (to say nothing of the eventual disgust to literature 
 which is too often the remote consequence), and the 
 drudgery entailed upon the master who teaches Latin, 
 
200 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 — and fortified by the consideration, that in the 
 former instance the child learns to speak a new 
 language, but in the latter only to read it, — first 
 drew his attention to the natural mode of learning 
 languages, e. learning them from daily use. This 
 mode never fails with living languages : but how is 
 it to be applied to dead languages The Experiment- 
 alist retorts by asking what is essential to this mode % 
 Partly the necessity which the pupil is laid under of 
 using the language daily for the common intercourse 
 of life, and partly his hearing it spoken by those who 
 thoroughly understand it. ‘ Stimulus to exertion 
 then, and good models, are the great advantages of 
 this mode of instruction : ’ and these, he thinks, are 
 secured even for a dead language by his system : the 
 first by the motives to exertion which have already 
 been unfolded ; and the second by the acting of Latin 
 dramas (which had been previously noticed in his 
 Exposition of the system). But a third imitation of 
 the natural method he places in the use of transla- 
 tions, ‘ which present the student with a dictionary 
 both of words and phrases arranged in the order in 
 which he wants them,’ and in an abstinence from all 
 use of the grammar, until the learner himself shall 
 come to feel the want of it ; i. e. using it with refer- 
 ence to an experience already accumulated, and not 
 as an anticipation of an experience yet to come. The 
 ordinary objection to the use of translations — that 
 they produce indolent habits, he answers thus : ‘We 
 teach by the process of construing ; and therefore, 
 even with the translation before him, the scholar will 
 have a task to perform in matching the English, 
 word by word, with the language which he is learn- 
 
EDUCATION. 
 
 201 
 
 ing.’ For this natural method of learning languages 
 he alleges the authority of Locke, of Ascham, and of 
 Pestalozzi. The best method, with those who have 
 advanced to some degree of proficiency, he considers 
 that of double translations — e. a translation first of 
 all into the mother tongue of the learner, and a re- 
 translation of this translation back into the language 
 of the original. These, with the help of extempor- 
 aneous construing, ^. e. construing any passage at 
 random with the assistance of a master who supplies 
 the meaning of the unknown words as they arise (a 
 method practised, it seems, by Le Febvre the father 
 of Madame Dacier, by others before his time, and by 
 Condillac since) — compose the chief machinery which 
 he employs for the communication of dead languages. 
 
 Chap. K On Elocution . — In this chapter there is 
 not much which is very important. To read well, the 
 Experimentalist alleges, presupposes so much various 
 knowledge, especially oT that kind which is best 
 acquired by private reading, and therefore most spares 
 the labour of the tutor, that it ought reasonably to 
 bestow high rank in the school. Private reading is 
 most favourable to the rapid collection of an author’s 
 meaning : but for reading well — this is not sufficient : 
 two great constituents of that art remain to be 
 acquired — Enunciation and Inflection. These are 
 best learned by Pecitation. Thus far there is no 
 great novelty : the most interesting part of the 
 chapter is what relates to Stammering. This defect 
 is held by the Experimentalist to result from inatten- 
 tion to rhythmus : so much he thinks has been 
 proved by Mr. Thelwall. Whatsoever therefore 
 compels the pupil to an efl&cient perception of time 
 
202 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 and measure, as for example, marching and music 
 (p. 32), he resorts to for its correction. Stammerers, 
 he observes, can all sing : let them be taught to sing 
 therefore, if not otherwise corrigible : and from this 
 let them descend to recitative : then to the recitation 
 of verses distinguished by the simplicity of their 
 rhythmus, marching at the same time and marking 
 the accented syllables by the tread of the foot ; from 
 this to the recitation of more difficult verses ; from 
 that to measured prose ; thence to ordinary prose ; 
 and lastly to narrative and dialogue. 
 
 Chap. YI. Of Penmanship . — This is a subject on 
 which we profess no experience which could warrant 
 us in contradicting a writer who should rest his inno- 
 vations solely upon that ground : but the writer 
 before us does not rely on the practical issue of his 
 own experiment (he does not even tell us what that 
 issue was), but on certain d priori arguments, which 
 we conceive to be ill-reasoned. The amount of the 
 chapter is this — that to write a good running hand is 
 the main object to be aimed at in the art of cali- 
 graphy : we will go farther, and concede that it is the 
 sole object, unless where the pupil is educated for a 
 writing-master. Thus far we are agreed ; and the 
 question is — as to the best means of attaining this 
 object. On which question the plan here proposed 
 differs from those in use by the very natural error — 
 that what is admitted to be the ultimate object, this 
 plan would make the immediate object. The author 
 starts from a false theory of the practice amongst 
 writing-masters : in order that their pupils may write 
 small and running hands well, writing-masters (as is 
 well-known) begin by exacting from them a long 
 
EDUCATION. 
 
 203 
 
 praxis in large hands. But the rationale of this 
 praxis escapes the Experimentalist : the large hand 
 and the small hand stand related to each other, in 
 the estimate of the masters, as a means to an end ; 
 whereas the Experimentalist supposes them to be 
 viewed in the relation simply of two co-ordinate or 
 collateral ends : on which false presumption he 
 grounds what would on his own view be a very sound 
 advice; for justly conceiving that the small hand is of 
 incomparably more use in life, he argues in effect 
 thus : let us communicate the main object, and then 
 (if he has leisure and taste for it) let the pupil direct 
 his attention to the lower object : ‘ when the running 
 hand is accomplished,’ says he, ‘ the pupil may (if it 
 be thought necessary) learn to write the larger hands 
 according to the received models.’ When it is acquired ! 
 ‘ Aye, but in order that it may be acquired,’ — the 
 writing-master will reply, ‘ I must first teach the 
 larger hands.’ As well might the professor of dancing 
 hold out as a tempting innovation to the public — I 
 teach the actual dances, the true practical synthesis 
 of the steps and movements, as it is in fact demanded 
 by the usage of the ball-room : let others teach the 
 analytic elements of the art — the mere useless steps 
 — to those who have time to waste on superfluities. 
 In either art (as in many others) that, which is first 
 (or rather sole) in order of importance, is last in the 
 order of attainment : as an object 'per se, the larger 
 hand is not wanted at all, either before or after the 
 running hand : if it does really contribute nothing to 
 the more accurate formation of the letters, by com- 
 pelling the pupil to exhibit his aberrations from the 
 ideal letter more clearly because on a scale of greater 
 
204 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 magnitude (which yet in the second sentence of this 
 chapter our Experimentalist himself admits), then let 
 it be abandoned at once : for not doing this service, 
 it does nothing at all. On the other hand, if this be 
 its specific service, then it is clear that, being no 
 object jyer se, but simply a means to an object, it 
 must have precedency in the order of communication. 
 And the innovation of our Experimentalist is so far 
 (in the literal sense of that'word) a preposterous in- 
 version of the old usage : and this being the chief 
 principle of his ‘ plan ’ we desire to know no more of 
 it; and were not sorry that (p. 178) we found him 
 declining ‘ to enter into a detail of it.^ — The business 
 of the chapter being finished however, there yet 
 remains some little matter of curiosity. 1. The Ex- 
 perimentalist affirms that ‘ Langford’s copper-plate 
 copies, or indeed any other which he has seen, fail ’ if 
 tried by a certain test : what test ? Why this : that 
 ‘ the large hand seen through a diminishing glass, 
 ought to be reduced into the current hand ; and the 
 current hand, magnified, ought to swell into a large 
 hand.’ Whereas, on the contrary, Hhe large hands 
 reduced appear very stiff and cramped ; and the magni- 
 fied running hand ’ — ‘ appears little better than a 
 scrawl.’ Now to us the result appears in a different 
 light. It is true that the large hands reduced do not 
 appear good running hands according to the standard 
 derived from the actual practice of the world : but 
 why Simply because they are too good : e. they are 
 ideals and in fact are meant to be so ; and have no- 
 thing characteristic : they are purely generic hands, and 
 therefore want individualisation: they are abstrac- 
 tions ; but to affect us pleasurably, they should be 
 
EDUCATION, 
 
 205 
 
 concrete expressions of some human qualities, moral or 
 intellectual. Perfect features in a human face ar- 
 ranged with perfect symmetry, affect us not at all, as 
 is well known, where there is nothing characteristic ; 
 the latency of the individual in the generic, and of the 
 generic in the individual, is that which gives to each 
 its power over our human sensibilities. And this 
 holds of caligraphy no less than other arts. And 
 that is the most perfect hand- writing which unites the 
 minimum of deviation from the ideal standard of 
 beauty (as to the form and nexus of the letters) with 
 the maximum of characteristic expression. It has 
 long been practically felt, and even expressly affirmed 
 (in some instances even expanded into a distinct art 
 and professed as such), that it is possible to determine 
 the human intellectual character as to some of its 
 features from the hand-writing. Books even have 
 been written on this art, as e. g. the Ideographia, or 
 art of knowing the characters of men from their 
 hand- writings, by Aldorisius : and, though this in 
 common with all other modes of physiognomy ^ as 
 craniology, Lavaterianism (usually called physiog- 
 nomy), &c. &c. has laboured under the reproach of 
 fancifulness, — yet we ought not to attribute this 
 wholly to the groundlessness of the art as a possible 
 art — but to these two causes ; partly to the precipita- 
 tion and imperfect psychology of the professors ; who, 
 like the craniologists, have been over-ready to de- 
 termine the indicantia before they had settled accord” 
 ing to any tolerable theory the indicanda ; i. e. have 
 settled what A, what B, what C, shall indicate^ before 
 they have inquired what it was presumable upon 
 any systematic development of human nature would 
 
206 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 have a right to he indicated ; and thus have assigned 
 an external characteristic to a faculty of the third 
 order — suppose (or perhaps a mere accidental effect 
 of a faculty or a mere imaginary faculty), whilst a 
 primary faculty went without any expression at all : 
 — partly, I say, to this cause which is obviously not 
 merely a subjective but also an accidental cause \ and 
 partly also to the following cause, which is objective 
 (i. e. seated in the inherent imperfections of the art it- 
 self, and not removeable therefore by any future 
 improvements to be anticipated from a more matured 
 psychology) ; viz. that the human mind transcends 
 or overflows the gamut or scale of the art ; in other 
 words, that the qualities — intellectual or moral, which 
 ought to be expressed, are far more in number than 
 the alphabet of signs or expressions by which they are 
 to be enunciated. Hence it follows as an inevitable 
 dilemma, that many qualities must go unrepresented ; 
 or else be represented by signs common to them with 
 other qualities : in the first of which cases we have 
 an art imperfect from defect, in the other case im- 
 perfect from equivocal language. Thus, for example, 
 determination of character is built in some cases upon 
 mere energy of the will (a moral cause) ; and again 
 in other cases upon capaciousness of judgment and 
 freedom from all logical perplexity (an intellectual 
 cause). Yet it is possible that either cause will 
 modify the hand-writing in the same way. 
 
 From the long analysis which we have thus given 
 of the book recording this new system of education, 
 it is sufficiently evident that we think very highly of 
 it. In the hands of its founder we are convinced that 
 
EDUCATION. 
 
 207 
 
 it is calculated to work wonders ; and so strong is 
 the impression which his book conveys, that he is not 
 only a man of very extraordinary talents for the 
 improvement of the science of education, but also a 
 very conscientious man — that, for our own parts, we 
 should confide a child to his care with that spirit of 
 perfect confideoce which he has himself described at 
 p. 74. There is an air of gentlemanly feeling spread 
 over the book which tends still further to recommend 
 the author. Meantime two questions arise on the 
 system, — first, is it a good system ? which we have 
 answered : — secondly, is it a system adapted for 
 general diffusion ? This question we dare not answer 
 in the affirmative, unless we could ensure the talents 
 and energy of the original inventor in every other 
 superintendent of this system. — In this we may be 
 wrong : but at all events, it ought not to be con- 
 sidered as any deduction from the merits of the 
 author — as a Very original thinker on the science of* 
 education, that his system is not (like the Madras 
 system) independent of the teacher’s ability, and 
 therefore not unconditionally applicable. — Upon some 
 future occasion we shall perhaps take an opportunity 
 of stating what is in our opinion the great desideratum 
 which is still to be supplied in the art of education 
 considered simply in its intellectual purposes — viz. the 
 communication of knowledge, and the development of 
 the intellectual faculties : purposes which have not 
 been as yet treated in sufiScient insulation from the 
 moral purposes. For the present we shall conclude 
 by recommending to the notice of the Experimentalist 
 the German writers on education. Basedow, who 
 naturalised Bousseau in Germany, was the fii st 
 
208 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 author who called the attention of the German public 
 to this important subject. Unfortunately Basedow 
 had a silly ambition of being reputed an infidel, and 
 thus created a great obstacle to his own success : he 
 was also in many other respects a sciolist and a trifler : 
 but, since his time, the subject has been much culti- 
 vated in Germany : ‘ Paedogogic ^ journals even, have 
 been published periodically, like literary or philosophic 
 journals : and, as might be anticipated from that love 
 of children which so honourably distinguishes the 
 Germans as a people, not without very considerable 
 success. 
 
 CASE OF APPEAL. 
 
 Our little Courts of Justice not unfrequently 
 furnish cases of considerable interest ; and we are 
 always willing to make the resemblance between our 
 - microcosm and the world at large as close as possible, 
 at least in every useful point we are trying to collect 
 a volume of Reports. As all the boys are expected 
 to be present during a trial, to give importance to 
 the proceeding, the time of such as are capable of the 
 task must be profitably employed in taking notes. 
 A useful effect may also be produced upon the parties ; 
 and these records will be valuable acquisitions for 
 those boys who wish to study the laws, and enable 
 themselves to conduct the jurisprudence of the school. 
 We shall detail a case which lately occurred, not 
 because it is the most interesting which could have 
 been selected, but because there will be nothing in 
 its publication to hurt the feelings of any person 
 engaged in the transaction. 
 
CASE OF APPEAL. 
 
 209 
 
 It would be vain to attempt any concealment of 
 the fact that our pupils, like all boys in the full tide 
 of health and spirits, do not always see the folly of 
 an appeal to the ultimo ratio regum in so strong a 
 light as that in which it sometimes appears to older 
 eyes ; and resort is now and then had to trial by 
 combat, in preference to trial by jury. The candid 
 and experienced teacher, who knows the difficulty 
 and the danger of too rigorously suppressing natural 
 impulses, will not censure us for endeavouring to re- 
 gulate this custom, than to destroy it altogether. In 
 the hope of lessening the number of those fracas 
 (never very large), a law was proposed, which the 
 committee adopted, to render it penal for any person, 
 except the Magistrate and the Constables, to be pre- 
 sent at a battle. Six hours’ notice must be given by 
 both parties, and a tax paid in advance. • During the 
 interval, it is the duty of the Magistrate to attempt 
 a reconciliation. These regulations were intended to 
 give opportunity for the passions to cool, and to 
 check the inclination for display which is often the 
 sole cause of the disturbance. 
 
 We consider the effect on the minds of the spec- 
 tators as the worst part of the transaction. There 
 is something dreadfully brutalising in the shouts of 
 incitement and triumph which generally accompany 
 a feat of pugilism. Neither boys nor men ought 
 ever to witness pain without sympathy. It is almost 
 needless to say, that, with us, fighting is anything 
 rather than a source of festivity and amusement. 
 
 To return to our story. — A day-scholar, whose 
 father’s grounds adjoin ours, was discovered by the 
 Magistrate to have witnessed a battle from a tree 
 VOL. I. o 
 
210 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 which he had climbed for that purpose. The Magis- 
 trate fined him. He appealed, and the question of 
 his liability was argued at some length before the 
 Committee. 
 
 The ground which the appellant took was, that no 
 day-scholar could be amenable to the laws of th^ 
 school, except during the hours of business, Or while 
 on the premises of the school, and that the alleged 
 offence was committed out of school hours, and on 
 his father’s land. 
 
 Public opinion ran in his favour. The plea that 
 he was on his father’s land seemed to have great 
 weight with his schoolfellows. To fine a boy under 
 such circumstances appeared to them like an attempt 
 to invade the paternal sanctuary, and the motion for 
 quashing conviction of the Magistrate, at first received 
 the support of several members of the Committee. 
 
 The attending Teacher saw that it would be neces- 
 sary to call the attention of the Committee to general 
 principles, and proposed as an amendment to the 
 general motion, the following resolution, ‘That it is 
 desirable that the laws should be obeyed at all times, 
 and in all places.’ In support of this amendment he 
 argued, that as the laws had the happiness of the 
 school in view, a breach of those laws must certainly 
 be in some degree destructive of the general good. 
 That to allow this in certain individuals would be 
 injurious to the great body, but still more so to the 
 individuals themselves ; and that what was wrong in 
 the schoolroom or on the playground at eleven in the 
 morning, could not be right in the fields at six in the 
 afternoon. In conclusion he said, ‘Whether or not 
 we have the power to fine a person for a breach of 
 
CASE OF APPEAL. 
 
 211 
 
 our laws when he is at a distance from the schools, 
 is a question which it is not our present business to 
 deter mine'; but I firmly believe that our laws are 
 calculated to promote in the highest degree our 
 welfare, and I wish the advantages to be derived from 
 obeying them to be as widely diffused as possible.’ 
 
 The amendment was carried unanimously. 
 
 Having determined ^ that it was desirable that the 
 laws should be obeyed at all times and in all places/ 
 it was necessary in the next place to ascertain whether 
 it was not a part of our law that such should be 
 the case. 
 
 With this view an amendment was proposed which 
 declared, that such was the intention of the law, and 
 in support of it cases were cited in which day-boys 
 had been punished for offences committed at a distance 
 from the school. It was also insisted, that in no 
 single instance had the laws made an exception in 
 favour of the day-boys. They universally begin by 
 saying, that, if ‘ any one,’ or ‘ any pupil,’ or ‘ any boy,’ 
 shall commit such and such an offence, etc., and not 
 ‘ any boarder,’ or ‘any day-boy then at school.’ 
 
 The second amendment was also carried without 
 opposition. 
 
 The question was now confined within very narrow 
 limits. The Committee had declared that it was 
 ‘ desirable that the laws should be obeyed at all times 
 and in all places ; ’ and also, that by law no exception 
 w^as made in favour of day-scholars. It only remained 
 therefore for the Committee to consider, whether the 
 police of the school had the power to enforce the laws. 
 
 It was argued that in this case they had been en- 
 forced, for that the fine had actually been paid, and 
 
 o 2 
 
212 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 that unless the Committee interfered to prevent it, 
 they would continue to operate as they had done, for 
 the welfare of the school at large, and for the ulti- 
 mate advantage even of the individuals who might 
 at first appear to be injured. 
 
 The amended motion was now put, and the 
 conviction was unanimously confirmed. 
 
 This detail will furnish the reader with a more 
 correct conception .than we could otherwise give him, 
 of the opportunities with which the sittings of our 
 little Committees furnish the members for making 
 some important acquirements. 
 
 In the first place, they study the art of reasoning, 
 and that too under very favourable circumstances ; 
 being fully acquainted with the facts on which they 
 are called to exercise their judgments, and seeing 
 them in all their bearings. We believe that intimate 
 acquaintance with the facts of which we speak to be 
 the first and most important element in practical 
 logic. Reasoning, strictly speaking, being no more 
 than the art of tracing analogies and differences. 
 The reality of the business in which the students are 
 engaged is very valuable, inasmuch as it furnishes 
 them with strong motives to exert all their powers 
 in the investigation. The matter at issue ‘ comes 
 home to their business and bosoms ; ’ it may deeply 
 affect their interests, and will not pass unnoticed by 
 their constituents ; among whom the question will 
 be again discussed, and the Committee-men will in 
 conversation have to defend the opinions they have 
 officially expressed. Thus every argument is well 
 canvassed in their minds, and the ideas remain under 
 consideration for a sufficient time to become per- 
 
CASE OF APPEAL. 
 
 213 • 
 
 manently fixed in their remembrance. The power of 
 public speaking is also in some degree acquired, and, 
 we hope, without the countervailing evils which have 
 been so justly deprecated. The great defects of all 
 artificial methods of learning the art of debating is, 
 that it is seldom of any real importance to either 
 speaker or hearer, on which side the question under 
 discussion is determined ; consequently, the speaker 
 is more anxious to display his own talents, than to 
 convince the audience ; which, on its part, wishes 
 rather for amusement than instruction, or seeks the 
 latter only by watching the conduct of this mental 
 fencing-match, in order to learn the most skilful 
 manner of handling the foils. Every one who addresses 
 the company assembled, feels that he shall be more 
 applauded for agreeably wandering, than for pointing 
 out and following the best and straightest road. In 
 short, discussion, instead of being a means employed 
 to gain an object, is the end itself. 
 
 The orator, if such a name is to be so degraded, 
 rises not to gain the votes of his hearers, but to make 
 them laugh and clap their hands ; and, this is most 
 easily done by advancing smart sophisms, and utter- 
 ing well-delivered absurdities with mock solemnity, 
 we may readily conceive how little the powers of 
 investigation can be exercised and improved by such 
 practice as that of spouting clubs and debating 
 societies. No doubt there are many exceptions to 
 these remarks, but the vice we complain of is, we 
 fear, inherent in some degree in the nature of the 
 institutions, although by care in the choice of mem- 
 bers, and the selection of an audience, it may, in a 
 great measure, be counteracted. 
 
214 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 We must not forget to state the advantages 
 enjoyed by the Teacher’s attendance on the sittings 
 of our Committees. He becomes most intimately ac- 
 quainted with the minds of his pupils. He sees their 
 difficulties and their errors in a strong light, and is 
 placed in a situation for addressing himself more 
 completely to the state of their wants than he could 
 be, unless they were thus induced, and almost com- 
 pelled, to disclose all the workings of the mental 
 machine. In general, nearly every person who 
 knows a boy at all, has an opportunity of becoming 
 better acquainted with him than his instructor. No 
 wonder, considering the many painful sensations 
 which the latter, in his various offices of accuser, 
 witness, judge and executioner, is compelled to exite. 
 We are happily relieved from these difficulties, but 
 we still seize with avidity every means by which our 
 pupils may be induced to develop their minds to our 
 view^, feeling that our acquaintance with their springs 
 of thought and action can never be too accurate and 
 complete. The votes at the conclusion of the debate 
 show us the measure of our success. Every influence 
 except that of mind, is, we trust, out of the question : 
 we do not always carry a majority with us ; and this 
 fact gives us hope, that when we do, a sincere effect 
 has been wrought on the convictions of the boys. 
 
 To conclude, we must in candour acknowledge, 
 that we search more industriously for arguments and 
 illustrations to support our opinions, than we should 
 or could do, under other circumstances. The effect 
 on the mind of the Master is not a bad test of any 
 method of education. * 
 
ABSTRACT OF SWEDENBORGIANISM : 
 
 By IMMANUEL KANT. 
 
 {Man, 1824 .) 
 
 But now to my hero. If many a forgotten 
 
 writer, or writer destined to be forgotten, is on that 
 account the more deserving of applause for having 
 spared no cost of toil and intellectual exertion upon 
 his works, certainly Swedenborg of all such writers is 
 deserving of the most. Without doubt his flask in 
 the moon is full ; and not at all less than any of those 
 which Ariosto saw in that planet filled with the lost 
 wits of men, so thoroughly is his great work emptied 
 of every drop of common sense. Nevertheless there 
 prevails in every part so wonderful an agreement with 
 all that the most refined and consistent sense under 
 the same fantastic delusions could produce on the 
 same subject, that the reader will pardon me if I 
 here detect the same curiosities in the caprices of 
 fancy which many other virtuosi have detected in the 
 caprices of nature ; for instance, in variegated marble, 
 where some have discovered a holy family ; or in 
 stalactites and petrifactions, where others have dis- 
 covered monks, baptismal fonts, and organs ; or even 
 in frozen window-panes, where our countryman 
 Liscow, the humourist, discovered the number of the 
 
216 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 beast and 'the triple crown ; things which he only is 
 apt to descry, whose head is preoccupied with thoughts 
 about them. 
 
 The main work of this writer is composed of eight 
 quarto volumes full of nonsense, which he presented 
 to the world as a new revelation under the title of 
 Arcana Coelestia. In this work his visions are chiefly 
 directed to the discovery of the secret sense in the 
 two first books of Moses, and to a similar way of 
 interpreting the whole of the Scripture. All these 
 fantastic interpretations are nothing to my present 
 purpose : those who have any curiosity may find some 
 account of them in the Bibliotheca Theologica of Dr. 
 Ernesti. All that I design to extract are his audita 
 et visa, from the supplements to his chapters — that 
 which he saw with his own eyes, and heard with his 
 own ears : for these parts of his dreams it is which 
 are to be considered as the foundation of all the rest. 
 Swedenborg’s style is dull and mean. His narrations 
 and their whole contexture appear in fact to have 
 originated in a disorder of his sensitive faculty, and 
 suggest no reason for suspecting that the speculative 
 delusions of a depraved intellect have moved him to 
 invent them. Viewed in this light, they are really 
 of some importance — and deserve to be exhibited in 
 a short abstract; much more indeed than many a 
 brainless product of fantastic philosophers who swell 
 our journals with false subtilties ; for a coherent 
 delusion of the senses is always a more remarkable 
 phenomenon than a delusion of the intellect ; inas 
 much as the grounds of this latter delusion are well 
 known, and the delusion itself corrigible enough by 
 self-exertion and by putting more check upon the 
 
ABSTRACT OF SWEDENBORGIANISM. 
 
 217 
 
 rash precipitation of the judgment ; whereas a de- 
 lusion of the senses touches the original foundation 
 of all judgment, and where it exists is radically 
 incapable of all cure from logic. I distinguish there- 
 fore in our author his craziness of sense from his 
 crazy wits 3 and I pass over his absurd and distorted 
 reasonings in those parts where he abandons his 
 visions, for the same reason that in reading a philo- 
 sopher we are often obliged to separate his obverva- 
 tions from his arguments : and generally, delusive 
 experiences are more instructive than delusive grounds 
 of experience in the reason. Whilst I thus rob the 
 reader of some few moments, which otherwise perhaps 
 he would have spent with no greater profit in reading 
 works of abstract philosophy that are often of not 
 less trivial import, — I have at the same time provided 
 for the delicacy of his taste by the omission of many 
 chimseras, and by concentrating the essence of the 
 book into a few drops ; and for this I anticipate no 
 less gratitude from him than (according to the old 
 story) a patient expressed towards his physicians — 
 who had contented themselves with ordering him to 
 eat the bark of the quinquina, when it was clearly in 
 their power to have insisted on his eating up the 
 whole tree. 
 
 Mr. Swedenborg divides his visions into three kinds, 
 of which the first consists in being liberated from the 
 body — an intermediate state between waking and 
 sleeping, in which he saw — heard — and felt spirits. 
 This kind he has experienced three or four times. 
 The second consists in being carried away by spirits, 
 whilst he continues to walk the streets (suppose) 
 without losing his way ; meantime in spirit he is in 
 
218 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 quite other regions, and sees distinctly houses, men, 
 forests, (fee. ; and all this for some hours long, until 
 he suddenly finds himself again in his true place. 
 This has happened to him two or three times. The 
 third or ordinary kind of visions is that which he 
 has daily when wide awake ; and from this class his 
 narrations are chiefly taken. All men, according to 
 Swedenborg, stand in an intimate connection with the 
 spiritual world ; only they are not aware of it ; and 
 the difference between himself and others consists 
 simply in this — that his innermost nature is laid 
 open, of which gift he always speaks with the most 
 devout spirit of gratitude (Datum mihi est ex divina 
 Domini misericordia). From the context it is ap- 
 parent that this gift consists in the consciousness of 
 those obscure representations which the soul receives 
 through its continual connection with the spiritual 
 world. Accordingly he distinguishes in men between 
 the external and the internal memory. The former 
 he enjoys as a person who belongs to the visible world, 
 but the latter in virtue of his intercourse with the 
 spiritual world. Upon this distinction is grounded 
 also the distinction between the outer and inner man ; 
 and Swedenborg’s prerogative consists in this — that 
 he stands already in this life in the society of spirits, 
 and is recognised by them as possessing such a prero- 
 gative. In the inner memory is retained whatsoever 
 has vanished from the outer ; and of all which is 
 presented to the consciousness of man nothing is ever 
 lost. After death the remembrance of all which ever 
 entered his soul, and even all that had perished to 
 himself, constitutes the entire book of his life. The 
 presence of spirits, it is true, strikes only upon his 
 
ABSTRACT OF SWEDENBORGIANISM. 
 
 219 
 
 inner sense. Nevertheless this is able to excite an 
 apparition of these spirits external to himself, and 
 even to invest them with a human figure. The 
 language of spirits is an immediate and unsyrnbolic 
 communication of ideas ; notwithstanding which it is 
 always clothed in the semblance of that language 
 which Swedenborg himself speaks, and is represented 
 as external to him. One spirit reads in the memory 
 of another spirit all the representations, whether 
 images or ideas, which it contains. Thus the spirits see 
 in Swedenborg all the representations which he has 
 of this world ; and with so clear an intuition that 
 they often deceive themselves and fancy that they see 
 the objects themselves immediately — which however 
 is impossible, since no pure spirit has the slightest 
 perception of the material universe : nay they cannot 
 gain any idea of it through intercourse with the souls 
 of other living men, because their inner nature is not 
 opened — ^. e. their inner sense contains none but 
 obscure representations. Hence it arises that Mr. 
 Swedenborg is the true oracle of spirits, which are 
 not at all less curious to read in him the present 
 condition of the world, than he is to view in their 
 memory, as in a mirror, the marvels of the spiritual 
 world. Although these spirits stand in like manner 
 closely connected with all other souls of living men, 
 by a reciprocal commerce of action and passion, yet 
 they are as little aware of this as men are aware of 
 it. Spirits therefore ascribe to themselves as the 
 product of their own minds what in fact results from 
 the action of human souls upon them ; just as men 
 during their lives imagine that all their thoughts, 
 and the motions of the will which take place within 
 
220 
 
 DE QUINCE Y. 
 
 them, arise from themselves, although iu fact they 
 oftentimes take their origin in the spiritual world. 
 Meantime every human soul, even in this life, has its 
 place and station in this spiritual world, and belongs 
 to a certain society which is always adapted to its 
 inner condition of truth and goodness, — that is, to 
 the condition of the understanding and the will. But 
 the places of souls in relation to each other have 
 nothing in common with the material world ; and 
 therefore the soul of a man in India is often in 
 respect to spiritual situation next neighbour to the 
 soul of another man in Europe ; as on the contrary 
 very often those, who dwell corporeally under the 
 same roof, are with respect to their spiritual relations 
 far enough asunder. If a man dies, his soul does not 
 on that account change its place ; but simply feels 
 itself in that place which in regard to other spirits it 
 already held in this life. For the rest, although the 
 relation of spirits to each other is no true relation of 
 space, yet has it to them the appearance of space ; 
 and their affinities or attractions for each other assume 
 the semblance of proximities, as their repulsions do 
 of distances ; just as spirits themselves are not 
 actually extended, but yet present the appearance to 
 each other of a human figure. In this imaginary 
 space there is an undisturbed intercourse of spiritual 
 natures. Mr. Swedenborg converses with departed 
 souls whenever he chooses, and reads in their memory 
 (he means to say in their representative faculty) that 
 very condition in which they contemplate themselves ; 
 and this he sees as clearly as with his bodily eyes. 
 Moreover the enormous distance of the rational in- 
 habitants of the world is to be accounted as nothing 
 
ABSTRACr OF SWEDENBORGIANISM. 
 
 221 
 
 in relation to the spiritual universe ; and to talk with 
 an inhabitant of Saturn is just as easy to him as to 
 speak with a departed human soul. All depends 
 upon the relation of their inner condition in reference 
 to their agreement in truth and goodness : but those 
 spirits, which have weak affinities for each other, can 
 readily come into intercourse through the inter-agency 
 of others. On this account it is not necessary that a 
 man should actually have dwelt on all the other 
 heavenly bodies in order to know them together with 
 all their wonders. 
 
 One presiding doctrine in Swedenborg’s ravings is 
 this : corporeal beings have no subsistence of their 
 own, but exist merely by and through the spiritual 
 world ; although each body not by means of one 
 spirit alone, but of all taken together. Hence the 
 knowledge of material things has two meanings ; an 
 external meaning referring to the inter-dependencies 
 of the matter upon itself, and an internal meaning in 
 so far as they denote the powers of the spiritual world 
 which are their causes. Thus the body of man has a 
 system of parts related to each other agreeably to 
 material laws : but, in so far as it is supported by 
 the spirit which lives, its limbs and their functions 
 have a symbolic value as expressions of those faculties 
 in the soul from which they derive their form, mode 
 of activity, and power of enduring. The same law 
 holds with regard to all other things in the visible 
 universe : they have (as has been said) one meaning 
 as things — which is trivial, and another as signs — 
 which is far weightier. Hence by the way arises the 
 source of those new interpretations of Scripture which 
 Swedenborg has introduced. For the inner sense, — 
 
222 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 that ip, the symbolic relation of all things there 
 recorded to the spiritual world, — is, as he conceits, 
 the kernel of its value ; all the rest being only its 
 shell. All spirits represent themselves to one another 
 under the appearance of extended forms ; and the 
 influences of all these spiritual beings amongst one 
 another raise to them at the same time appearances 
 of other extended beings, and as it were of a material 
 world. Swedenborg therefore speaks of gardens — 
 spacious regions — mansions — galleries — and arcades 
 of spirits — as of things seen by himself in the clearest 
 light ; and he assures us — that, having many times 
 conversed with all his friends after their death, he 
 had almost always found in those who had but lately 
 died — that they could scarcely convince themselves 
 that they had died, because they saw round about 
 them a world similar to the one they had quitted. 
 He found also that spiritual societies, which had the 
 same inner condition, had the same apparition of 
 space and of all things in space ; and that the change 
 of their internal state was always accompanied by 
 the appearance of a change of place. 
 
 I have already noticed that, according to our 
 author, the various powers and properties of the soul 
 stand in sympathy with the organs of the body 
 entrusted to its government. The outer man there- 
 fore corresponds to the whole inner man ; and hence, 
 whenever any remarkable spiritual influence from the 
 invisible world reaches one of these faculties of the 
 soul, he is sensible also harmonically of the apparent 
 presence of it in the corresponding members of his 
 outer man. To this head now he refers a vast variety 
 of sensations in his body which are uniformly con- 
 
ABSTRACT OF SWEDENBORGIANISM. 
 
 223 
 
 nected with spiritual intuition ; but the absurdity of 
 them is so enormous that I shall not attempt to 
 adduce even a single instance. By all this a pre- 
 
 paration is made for the strangest and most fantastic 
 of his notions in which all his ravings are blended. 
 As different powers and faculties constitute that 
 unity which is the soul or inner man, so also different 
 spirits (whose leading characteristics bear the same 
 relation to each other as the various faculties of a 
 spirit) constitute one society which exhibits the 
 appearance of one great man ; and in this shadowy 
 image every spirit is seen in that place and in those 
 visible members which are agreeable to its proper 
 function in such a spiritual body. And all spiritual 
 societies taken together, and the entire universe of 
 all these invisible beings, appears again in the form 
 of a hugest and ultra-enormous man mountain : a 
 monstrous and gigantic fancy, which perhaps has 
 grown out of the school mode of representing a whole 
 quarter of the world under the image of a virgin 
 sittiug. In this immeasurable man is an entire and 
 inner commerce of each spirit with all, and of all with 
 each; and, let the position of men in reference to 
 each other be what it may, they take quite another 
 position in this enormous man — a position which they 
 never change, and which is only in appearance a local 
 position in an immeasurable space, but in fact a 
 determinate kind of relation and influence. 
 
 But I am weary of transcribing the delirious ravings 
 of a poor visionary, the craziest that has ever existed, 
 or of pursuing them to his descriptions of the state 
 after death. I am checked also by other con- 
 siderations. For, although in forming a medical 
 
224 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 museum it is right to collect specimens not only of 
 natural but also of unnatural productions and 
 abortions, yet it is necessary to be cautious before 
 whom you show them : and amongst my readers 
 there may happen to be some in a crazy condition of 
 nerves ; and it would give me pain to think that I 
 had been the occasion of any mischief to them. 
 Having warned them however from the beginning, I 
 am not responsible for anything that may happen ; 
 and must desire that no person will lay at my door 
 the moon-calves which may chance to arise from any 
 teeming fancy impregnated by Mr. Swedenborg’s 
 revelations. 
 
 In conclusion I have to say that I have not inter- 
 polated my author’s dreams with any surreptitious 
 ones of my own ; but have laid a faithful abstract 
 before the economic reader, who might not be well 
 pleased to pay seven pounds sterling for a body of 
 raving. I have indeed omitted many circumstantial 
 pictures of his intuitions, because they could only 
 have served to disturb the reader’s slumber ; and the 
 confused sense of his revelations I have now and then 
 clothed in a more current diction. But all the 
 important features of the sketch I have preserved in 
 
 their native integrity. And thus I return with 
 
 some little shame from my foolish labours, from 
 which I shall draw this moral : That it is often a 
 very easy thing to act prudentially ; but alas ! too 
 often only after we have toiled to our prudence 
 through a forest of delusions. 
 
SKETCH OF PROFESSOR WILSON* 
 
 \ln a Letter to an American Gentleman.'] 
 
 My dear L., — Among the lions whom 5mn missed 
 by one accident or another on your late travels in 
 Europe, I observe that you'recur to none with so much 
 regret as Professor Wilson ; you dwell upon this one 
 disappointment as a personal misfortune ; and perhaps 
 with reason ; for, in the course of my life, I have met 
 with no man of equally varied accomplishments, or, 
 upon the whole, so well entitled to be ranked with 
 that order of men distinguished by brilliant versatility 
 and ambidexterity — of which order we find such 
 eminent models in Alcibiades, in Caesar, in Crichton, 
 in that of Servan recorded by Sully, and in one or 
 two Italians. Pity that you had not earlier communi- 
 
 * This was written for The EcUnhurgh Literary Gazette, of 
 which sixty-one numbers appear to have been issued in 1829-30. 
 The paper is now so scarce, that the American publishers of 
 De Quincey’s works photographed their ‘ copy ’ from that 
 contained in the Advocates’ Library, Edinburgh. There is a 
 file in the British Museum. I have not been able to authen- 
 ticate any other contribution from the pen of De Quincey. This 
 letter deserves attention in various ways, but particularly for 
 the passage on Elleray — Christopher North’s home on the 
 banks of Windermere. Mrs. Gordon in the life of her Father, 
 Professor Wilson, remarks : — ‘ For a description of this beau- 
 tiful spot I gladly avail myself of the striking picture by Mr. 
 De Quincey.’ — H. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 p 
 
226 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 cated to me the exact route you were bound to, and 
 the particular succession of your engagements when 
 you visited the English Lakes ; since, in that case, 
 my interest with Professor Wilson (supposing always 
 that you had declined to rely upon the better pass- 
 port of your own merits as a naturalist) would have 
 availed for a greater thing than at that time stood 
 between you and the introduction which you coveted. 
 On the day, or the night rather, when you were at 
 Bowness and Ambleside, I happen to know that 
 Professor Wilson’s business was one which might 
 have been executed by proxy, though it could not be 
 delayed ; and I also know that, apart from the 
 general courtesy of his nature, he would, at all times, 
 have an especial pleasure in waiving a claim of busi- 
 ness for one of science or letters, in the person of a 
 foreigner coming from a great distance ; and that in 
 no other instance would he make such a sacrifice so 
 cordially as on behalf of an able naturalist. Perhaps 
 you already know from your countryman, Audubon, 
 that the Professor is himself a naturalist, and of 
 original merit ; in fact, worth a score of such meagre 
 bookish naturalists as are formed in museums and by 
 second-hand acts of memory ; having (like Audubon) 
 built much of his knowledge upon personal observa- 
 tion. Hence he has two great advantages : one, that 
 his knowledge is accurate in a very unusual degree ; 
 and another, that this knowledge, having grown up 
 under the inspiration of a real interest and an un- 
 affected love for its objects, — commencing, indeed, at 
 an age when no affectation in matters of that nature 
 could exist, — has settled upon those facts and circum- 
 stances which have a true philosophical value : habits, 
 
SKETCH OF PROFESSOR WILSON. 
 
 227 
 
 predominant affections, the direction of instincts, and 
 the compensatory processes where these happen to be 
 thwarted, — on all such topics he is learned and full ; 
 whilst, on the science of measurements and propor- 
 tions, applied to dorsal-ffns and tail-feathers, and on 
 the exact arrangement of colours, &c. — that petty up- 
 holstery of nature, on which books are so tedious and 
 elaborate, — not uncommonly he is negligent or forget- 
 ful. What may have served in later years to quicken 
 and stimulate his knowledge in this field, and, at any 
 rate, greatly to extend it, is the conversation of his 
 youngest brother, Mr. James Wilson, who (as you 
 know much better than I) is a naturalist majorum 
 gentium. He, indeed, whilst a boy of not more than 
 sixteen or seventeen, was in correspondence (I believe) 
 with Montague the Ornithologist ; and about the 
 same time had skill enough to pick holes in the coat 
 of Mr. Hiiber, the German reformer of our then 
 erroneous science of bees. 
 
 You see, therefore, that no possible introduction 
 could have stood you more in stead than your own 
 extensive knowledge of transatlantic ornithology. 
 Swammerdam passed his life, it is said, in a ditch. 
 That was a base, earthy solitude, — and a prison. But 
 you and Audubon have passed your lives in the 
 heavenly solitudes of forests and savannahs ; and 
 such solitude as this is no prison, but infinite liberty. 
 The knowledge which you have gathered has been 
 answerable to the character of your school : and no 
 sort of knowledge could have secured you a better 
 welcome with Professor Wilson. Yet, had it been 
 otherwise, I repeat that my interest (as I flatter 
 myself) would have opened the gates of Elleray to 
 
228 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 you even at midnight ; for I am so old a friend of 
 Mr. Wilson that I take a pride in supposing myself 
 the oldest ; and, barring relations by blood, arrogate 
 the rights of dean in the chapter of his associates : 
 or at least I know of but one person whose title can 
 probably date earlier than mine. About this very 
 month when I am writing, I have known Professor 
 Wilson for a cycle of twenty years and more, which 
 is just half of his life — and also half of mine ; for 
 we are almost ad apicem of the same age ; Wilson 
 being born in May, and I in August, of the same 
 memorable year. 
 
 My introduction to him — setting apart the intro- 
 duces himself — was memorable from one sole circum- 
 stance, viz. the person of the introducer. William 
 Wordsworth it was, who in the vale of Grasmere, if it 
 can interest you to know the place, and in the latter 
 end of 1808, if you can be supposed to care about the 
 time, did me the favour of making me known to John 
 Wilson, or as I might say (upon the Scottish fashion 
 of designating men from their territorial pretensions) 
 to Elleray. I remember the whole scene as circum- 
 stantially as if it belonged to but yesterday. In the 
 vale of Grasmere, — that peerless little vale which you 
 and Gray the poet and so many others have joined in 
 admiring as the very Eden of English beauty, peace, 
 and pgCstoral solitude, — you may possibly recall, even 
 from that flying glimpse you had of it, a modern 
 house called Allan Bank, standing under a low screen 
 of woody rocks which descend from the hill of Silver 
 How, on the western side of the lake. This house had 
 been then recently built by a worthy merchant of 
 Liverpool ; but for some reason of no importance to 
 
SKETCH OF PROFESSOE WILSON. 
 
 229 
 
 you and me, not being immediately wanted for the 
 family of the owner, had been let for a term of three 
 years to Mr. Wordsworth. At the time I speak of, 
 both Mr. Coleridge and myself were on a visit to Mr. 
 Wordsworth ; and one room on the ground floor, de- 
 signed for a breakfasting-room, which commands a 
 sublime view of the three mountains, — Fairfield, 
 Arthur’s Chair, and Seat Sandal (the first of them 
 within about four hundred feet of the highest moun- 
 tains in Great Britain), was then occupied by Mr. 
 Coleridge as a study. On this particular day, the sun 
 having only just set, it naturally happened that Mr. 
 Coleridge — whose nightly vigils were long — had not 
 yet come down to breakfast : meantime, and until the 
 epoch of the Coleridgian breakfast should arrive, his 
 study was lawfully disposable to profaner uses. Here, 
 therefore, it was, that, opening the door hastily in 
 quest of a book, I found seated, and in earnest con- 
 versation, two gentlemen — one of them my host, Mr. 
 Wordsworth, at that time about thirty-seven or 
 thirty-eight years old ; the other was a younger man 
 by good sixteen or seventeen years, in a sailor’s dress, 
 manifestly in robust YLQdlih—fervidus juventd, and 
 wearing upon his countenance a powerful expression 
 of ardour and animated intelligence, mixed with much 
 good nature. ‘ Mr. Wilson of Eller ay ’ — delivered, as 
 the formula of introduction, in the deep tones of Mr. 
 Wordsworth — at once banished the momentary sur- 
 prise I felt on finding an unknown stranger where I 
 had expected nobody, and substituted a surprise of 
 another kind : I now well understood who it was that 
 I saw ; and there was no wonder in his being at 
 Allan Bank, Elleray standing within nine miles; but 
 
230 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 (as usually happens in such cases) I felt a shock of 
 surprise on seeing a person so little corresponding to 
 the one I had half unconsciously prefigured. 
 
 And here comes the place naturally, if anywhere, 
 for a description of Mr. Wilson’s person and general 
 appearance in carriage, manner, and deportment ; and 
 a word or two I shall certainly say on these points, 
 simply because I know that I must, else my American 
 friends will complain that I have left out that precise 
 section in my whole account which it is most impos- 
 sible for them to supply for themselves by any 
 acquaintance with his printed works. Yet suffer me, 
 before I comply with this demand, to enter one word 
 of private protest against the childish (nay, worse 
 than childish — the missy) spirit in which such demands 
 originate. From my very earliest years, — that is the 
 earliest years in which I had any sense of what 
 belongs to true dignity of mind, — I declare to you 
 that I have considered the interest which men, grown 
 men, take in the personal appearance of each other 
 as one of the meanest aspects under which human 
 curiosity commonly presents itself. Certainly I 
 have the same intellectual perception of differences 
 in such things that other men have ; but I connect 
 none of the feelings, whether of admiration or 
 contempt, liking or disliking, which are obviously 
 connected with these perceptions by human beings 
 generally. Such words as ‘ commanding appearance,’ 
 ‘ prepossessing countenance,’ applied to the figures or 
 faces of the males of the human species, have no 
 meaning in my ears : no man commands me, no man 
 prepossesses me, by anything in, on, or about his 
 carcass. What care I for any man’s legs ? I laugh 
 
SKETCH OF PROFESSOR WILSON. 
 
 231 
 
 at his ridiculous presumption in conceiting that I shall 
 trouble myself to admire or to respect anything that 
 he can produce in his physics. What ! shall I honour 
 Milo for the very qualities which he has in common 
 with the beastly ox he carries — his thews and sinews, 
 his ponderous strength and weight, and the quantity 
 of thumping that his hide will carry ? I disclaim and 
 disdain any participation in such green-girl feelings. 
 I admit that the baby feelings I am here condemning 
 are found in connection with the highest intellects : 
 in particular, Mr. Coleridge for instance once said to 
 me, as a justifying reason for his dislike of a certain 
 celebrated Scotsman, with an air of infinite disgust, 
 — ‘ that ugh ! ’ (making a guttural sound as if of ex- 
 ecration) ‘ he (viz. the said Scotsman) was so chicken- 
 breasted.’ I have been assured by the way, that Mr. 
 Coleridge was mistaken in the mere matter of fact : 
 but supposing that he were not, what a reason for 
 a philosopher to build a disgust upon 1 And Mr. 
 Wordsworth, in or about the year 1820, in expressing 
 the extremity of his Nil admirari spirit, declared that 
 he would not go ten yards out of his road to see the 
 finest specimen of man (intellectually speaking) that 
 Europe had to show : and so far indeed I do not 
 quarrel with his opinion ; but Mr. Wordsworth went 
 on to say that this indifference did not extend itself 
 to man considered physically ; and that he would still 
 exert himself to a small extent (suppose a mile or so) 
 for the sake of seeing Belzoni. That was the case he 
 instanced : and, as I understood him, not by way of 
 a general illustration for his meaning, but that he 
 really felt an exclusive interest in this particular 
 man’s physics. Now Belzoni was certainly a good 
 
232 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 tumbler, as I have heard ; and hopped well upon one 
 leg, when surmounted and crested by a pyramid of 
 men and boys ; and jumped capitally through a hoop ; 
 and did all sorts of tricks in all sorts of styles, not at 
 all worse than any monkey, bear, or learned pig, that 
 ever exhibited in Great Britain. And I would myself 
 have given a shilling to have seen him fight with 
 that cursed Turk that assaulted him in the streets of 
 Cairo ; and would have 'given him a crown for catch- 
 ing the circumcised dog by the throat and effectually 
 taking the conceit out of his Mahometan carcass : but 
 then that would have been for the spectacle of the 
 passions, which, in such a case, would have been let 
 loose : as to the mere animal Belzoni, — who after all 
 was not to be compared to Topham the Warwickshire 
 man, that drew back by main force a cart, and its 
 driver, and a strong horse, — as to the mere animal 
 Belzoni, I say, and his bull neck, I would have much 
 preferred to see a real bull or the Darlington ox. The 
 sum of the matter is this : all men, even those who 
 are most manly in their style of thinking and feeling, 
 in many things retain the childishness of their 
 childish years : no man thoroughly weeds himself of 
 all. And this particular mode of childishness is one 
 of the commonest, into which they fall the more 
 readily from the force of sympathy, and because they 
 apprehend no reason for directing any vigilance 
 against it. But I contend that reasonably no feelings 
 of deep interest are justifiable as applied to any point 
 of external form or feature in human beings, unless 
 under two reservations : first, that they shall have 
 reference to women ; because women, being lawfully 
 the objects of passions and tender affections, which can 
 
SKETCH OF PKOFESSOR WILSON. 
 
 233 
 
 have no existence as applied to men, are objects also, 
 rationally and consistently, of all other secondary 
 feelings (such as those derived from their personal 
 appearance) which have any tendency to promote and 
 support the first. Whereas between men the highest 
 mode of intercourse is merely intellectual, which is 
 not of a nature to receive support or strength from 
 any feelings of pleasure or disgust connected with the 
 accidents of external appearance : but exactly in the 
 degree in which these have any infiuence at all they 
 must warp and disturb by improper biases ; and the 
 single case of exception, where such feelings can be 
 honourable and laudable amongst the males of the 
 human species, is where they regard such deformities 
 as are the known products and expressions of criminal 
 or degrading propensities. All beyond this, I care 
 not by whom countenanced, is infirmity of mind, and 
 would be baseness if it were not excused by imbecility. 
 
 Excuse this digression, for which 1 have a double 
 reason : chiefly I was anxious to put on record my 
 own opinions, and my contempt for men generally in 
 this particular; and here I seemed to have a con 
 spicuous situation for that purpose. Secondly, apart 
 from this purpose of offence, I was at any rate 
 anxious, merely on a defensive principle, to screen 
 myself from the obvious misinterpretation incident 
 to the case : saying anything minute or in detail upon 
 a man’s person, I should necessarily be supposed to 
 do so under the ordinary blind feelings of interest in 
 that subject which govern most people ; feelings 
 which I disdain. Now, having said all this, and 
 made my formal protest, liheravi animam meam ; and 
 I revert to my subject, and shall say that word or 
 
234 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 two which I was obliged to promise you on Professor 
 Wilson^ s personal appearance. 
 
 Figure to yourself, then, a tall man, about six feet 
 high, within half an inch or so, built with tolerable 
 appearance of strength ; but at the date of my 
 description (that is, in the very spring-tide and 
 blossom of youth) wearing, for the predominant 
 character of his person, lightness and agility, or (in 
 our Westmoreland phrase), lis/mess : he seemed framed 
 with an express view to gymnastic exercises of every 
 sort — 
 
 "AXjua, iToSujKtirjv, ^laKov, axovra, 7ra\f]v* 
 
 In the first of these exercises, indeed, and possibly 
 (but of that I am not equally certain) in the second, 
 I afterwards came to know that he was absolutely 
 unrivalled : and the best leapers at that time in the 
 ring, Richmond the Black and others, on getting ‘a 
 taste of his quality,^ under circumstances of con- 
 siderable disadvantage [viz. after a walk from Oxford 
 to Moulsey Hurst, which I believe is fifty miles], 
 declined to undertake him. For this exercise he had 
 two remarkable advantages : it is recorded of Sheffield, 
 Duke of Buckingham, that, though otherwise a 
 handsome man, he offended the connoisseurs in 
 statuesque proportions by one eminent defect — 
 perhaps the most obtrusive to which the human 
 figure is liable — viz. a body of length disproportioned 
 to his legs. In Mr. Wilson the proportions were 
 fortunately reversed : a short trunk, and remarkably 
 long legs, gave him one half of his advantages in the 
 noble science of leaping ; the other half was after- 
 wards pointed out to me by an accurate critic in these 
 matters as lying in the particular conformation of 
 
SKETCH OF PROFESSOR WILSON. 
 
 235 
 
 his foot, the instep of which is arched, and the hack 
 of the heel strengthened in so remarkable a way that 
 it would be worth paying a penny or so for a sight of 
 them. It is really laughable to think of the cox- 
 combry which eminent men of letters have displayed 
 in connection with their powers — real or fancied — in 
 this art. Cardinal du Perron vapoured to the end of 
 his life upon some remarkable leap that he either had 
 accomplished, or conceived himself to have accom- 
 plished (not, I presume, in red stockings). Every 
 tenth page of the Ferroniana rings with the echo of 
 this stupendous leap — the length of which, if I re- 
 member rightly, is as obviously fabulous as any feat 
 of Don Belianis of G-reece. Des Cartes also had a 
 lurking conceit that, in some unknown place, he had 
 perpetrated a leap that ought to immortalise him ; 
 and in one of his letters he repeats and accredits a 
 story of some obscure person’s leap, which 
 
 ‘ At one light bound high overleaped all bound ’ 
 
 of reasonable credulity. Many other eminent leapers 
 might be cited. Pagan and Christian : but the Cardinal, 
 by his own account, appears to have been the flower 
 of Popish leapers ; and, with all deference to his 
 Eminence, upon a better assurance than that. Pro- 
 fessor Wilson may be rated, at the time I speak of, 
 as the flower of all Protestant leapers. Not having 
 the Cardinal’s foible of connecting any vanity with 
 this little accomplishment, knowing exactly what 
 could and what could not be effected in this depart- 
 ment of gymnastics, and speaking with the utmost 
 simplicity and candour of his failures and his suc- 
 cesses alike, he might always be relied upon, and his 
 
236 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 statements were constantly in harmony with any col- 
 lateral testimony that chance happened to turn up. 
 
 Viewed, therefore, by an eye learned in gymnastic 
 proportions, Mr. Wilson presented a somewhat strik- 
 ing figure : and by some people he was pronounced 
 with emphasis a fine looking young man ; but others, 
 who less understood, or less valued these advantages, 
 spoke of him as nothing extraordinary. Still greater 
 division of voices I have heard on his pretensions to 
 be thought handsome. In my opinion, and most 
 certainly in his own, these pretensions were but 
 slender. His complexion was too florid ; hair of a 
 hue quite unsuited to that complexion ; eyes not good, 
 having no apparent depth, but seeming mere surfaces ; 
 and in fine, no one feature that could be called fine, 
 except the lower region of his face, mouth, chin, and 
 the parts adjacent, which were then (and perhaps are 
 now) truly elegant and Ciceronian. Ask in one of 
 your public libraries for that little 4to edition of the 
 Rhetorical Works of Cicero, edited by Schiitz (the same 
 who edited jEschylus), and you will there see (as a 
 frontispiece to the 1st vol.) a reduced whole length of 
 Cicero from the antique ; which in the mouth and 
 chin, and indeed generally, if I do not greatly forget, 
 will give you a lively representation of the contour 
 and expression of Professor Wilson’s face. Taken as 
 a w^hole, though not handsome (as I have already 
 said), when viewed in a quiescent state, the head and 
 countenance are massy, dignified, and expressive of 
 tranquil sagacity. 
 
 Thus far of Professor Wilson in his outward man, 
 whom (to gratify you and yours, and upon the con- 
 sideration that my letter is to cross the Atlantic), I 
 
SKETCH OF PROFESSOR WILSON. 
 
 237 
 
 have described with an effort and a circumstantiation 
 that are truly terrific to look back upon. And now, 
 returning to the course of my narrative, such in 
 personal appearance was the young man upon whom 
 my eyes suddenly rested, for the first time, upwards 
 of twenty years ago, in the study of S. T. Coleridge — 
 looking, as I said before, light as a Mercury to eyes 
 familiar with the British build ; but, with reference 
 to the lengthy model of you Yankees, who spindle up 
 so tall and narrow, already rather bulky and columnar. 
 Note, however, that of all this array of personal 
 features, as I have here described them, I then saw 
 nothing at all, my attention being altogether occupied 
 with Mr. Wilson’s conversation and demeanour, which 
 were in the highest degree agreeable : the points 
 which chiefly struck me being the humility and 
 gravity with which he spoke of himself, his large 
 expansion of heart, and a certain air of noble frank- 
 ness which overspread everything he said ; he seemed 
 to have an intense enjoyment of life ; indeed, being 
 young, rich, healthy, and full of intellectual activity, 
 it could not be very wonderful that he should feel 
 happy and pleased with himself and others ; but it 
 was somewhat unusual to find that so rare an assem- 
 blage of endowments had communicated no tinge of 
 arrogance to his manner, or at all disturbed the 
 general temperance of his mind. 
 
 Turn we now suddenly, and without preparation, — 
 simply by way of illustrating the versatile humour of 
 the man, — from this grave and (as in reality it was) 
 philosophic scene, to another first introduction, under 
 most different circumstances, to the same Mr. Wilson. 
 Bepresent to yourself the earliest dawn of a fine 
 
238 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 summer morning, time about half-past two o’clock. 
 A young man, anxious for an introduction to Mr. 
 Wilson, and as yet pretty nearly a stranger to the 
 country, has taken up his abode in Grasmere, and 
 has strolled out at this early hour to that rocky and 
 moorish common (called the White Moss) which over- 
 hangs the Yale of Kydal, dividing it from Grasmere. 
 Looking southwards in the direction of Rydal, sud- 
 denly he becomes aware of a huge beast advancing at 
 a long trot with the heavy and thundering tread of a 
 hippopotamus along the public road. The creature is 
 soon arrived within half a mile of his station ; and by 
 the gray light of morning is at length made out to be 
 a bull apparently flying from some unseen enemy in 
 his rear. As yet, however, all is mystery ; but sud- 
 denly three horsemen double a turn in the road, and 
 come flying into sight with the speed of a hurricane, 
 manifestly in pursuit of the fugitive bull ; the bull 
 labours to navigate his huge bulk to the moor, which 
 he reaches, and then pauses, panting and blowing out 
 clouds of smoke from his nostrils, to look back from 
 his station amongst rocks and slippery crags upon his 
 hunters. If he had conceited that the rockiness of 
 the ground had secured his repose, the foolish bull is 
 soon undeceived ; the horsemen, scarcely relaxing 
 their speed, charge up the hill, and speedily gaining 
 the rear of the bull, drive him at a gallop over the 
 worst part of that impracticable ground down into 
 the level ground below. At this point of time the 
 stranger perceives by the increasing light of the 
 morning that the hunters are armed with immense 
 spears fourteen feet long. With these the bull is 
 soon dislodged, and scouring down to the plain below, 
 
SKETCH OF PROFESSOR WILSON. 
 
 239 
 
 he and the hunters at his tail take to the common at 
 the head of the lake, and all, in the madness of the 
 chase, are soon half engulfed in the swamps of the 
 morass. After plunging together for ten or fifteen 
 minutes, all suddenly regain the terra jirmia, and the 
 bull again makes for the rocks. Up to this moment 
 there had been the silence of ghosts ; and the stranger 
 had doubted whether the spectacle were not a pageant 
 of aerial spectres, ghostly huntsmen, ghostly lances, 
 and a ghostly bull. But just at this crisis — a voice 
 (it was the voice of Mr. Wilson) shouted aloud, ‘ Turn 
 the villain ; turn that villain ; or he will take to 
 Cumberland.’ The young stranger did the service 
 required of him ; the villain was turned and fled 
 southwards ; the hunters, lance in rest, rushed after 
 him ; all bowed their thanks as they fled past him ; 
 the fleet cavalcade again took the high road ; they 
 doubled the cape which shut them out of sight ; and 
 in a moment all had disappeared and left the quiet 
 valley to its original silence, whilst the young stranger 
 and two grave Westmoreland statesmen (who by this 
 time had come into sight upon some accident or other) 
 stood wondering in silence, and saying to themselves, 
 perhaps, — 
 
 ^ The earth hath bubbles as the water hath ; 
 
 And these are of them ! ’ 
 
 But they w^ere no bubbles; the bull was a sub- 
 stantial bull ; and took no harm at all from being 
 turned out occasionally at midnight for a chase of 
 fifteen or eighteen miles. The bull, no doubt, used 
 to wonder at this nightly visitation ; and the owner 
 of the bull must sometimes have pondered a little on 
 
240 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 the draggled state in which the swamps would now 
 and then leave his beast ; but no other harm came of 
 it. And so it happened, and in the very hurly burly 
 of such an unheard-of chase, that my friend was 
 fortunate enough, by a little service, to recommend 
 himself to the notice of Mr. Wilson ; and so passed 
 the scene of his first introduction. 
 
 In reading the anecdote of the bull hunt, you must 
 bear in mind the period of Mr. Wilson’s life to which 
 it belongs, else I should here be unintentionally 
 adding one more to the thousand misrepresentations 
 of his character, which are already extant in different 
 repositories of scandal : most of which I presume, 
 unless in the rarer cases where they have been the 
 pure creations of malice, owe their origin to a little 
 exaggeration, and a great deal of confusion in dates. 
 Levities and extravagances, which find a ready excuse 
 at twenty, ten or fifteen years later are fatal to a 
 man’s character for good sense. In such a case, 
 therefore, to be careless or inaccurate in dates, is a 
 moral dishonesty. Understand then that the bull- 
 hunting scenes belong to the time which immediately 
 succeeded my first knowledge of Mr. Wilson. This 
 particular frolic happened to fall within the earliest 
 period of my own personal acquaintance with him. 
 Else, and with this one exception, the era of his 
 wildest (and according to the common estimate, of 
 his insane) extravagances was already past. All those 
 stories, therefore, which you question me about with 
 so much curiosity, of his having joined a company of 
 strolling players, and himself taken the leading parts 
 both in Tragedy and Comedy — of his having assumed 
 
SKETCH OF PROFESSOR WILSON. 
 
 241 
 
 the garb of a Gipsy, and settled for some time in a 
 Gipsy encampment, out of admiration for a young 
 Egyptian beauty ; with fifty others of the same class, 
 belong undoubtedly (as many of them as are not 
 wholly fabulous), to the four years immediately pre- 
 ceding the time at which my personal knowledge of 
 Mr. Wilson commenced. 
 
 Erom the latter end of 1803 to the spring of 1808, 
 Mr. Wilson had studied at the University of Oxford ; 
 and it was within that period that most of his esca- 
 pades were crowded. He had previously studied as a 
 mere boy, according to the Scotch fashion, at the 
 University of Glasgow, chiefly under the tuition of 
 the late Mr. Jardine (the Professor, I believe, of 
 Logic), and Ur. or Mr. Young (the Professor of 
 Greek). At both Universities he had greatly dis- 
 tinguished himself ; but at Oxford, where the distri- 
 bution of prizes and honours of every kind is to the last 
 degree parsimonious and select, naturally it follows 
 that such academical distinctions are really significant 
 distinctions, and proclaim an unequivocal merit in 
 him who has carried them off from a crowd of 1600 
 or 2000 co-rivals, to whom the contest was open ; 
 whereas, in the Scotch Universities, as I am told by 
 Scotchmen, the multiplication of prizes and medals, 
 and the almost indiscriminate profusion with which 
 they are showered abroad, neutralises their whole 
 effect and value. At least this was the case in Mr. 
 Wilson’s time ; but lately some conspicuous changes 
 have been introduced by a Poyal Commission (not 
 yet, I believe, dissolved) into one at least of the 
 Scotch Universities, which have greatly improved it 
 in this respect, by bringing it much nearer to the 
 
 VOL. I. Q 
 
242 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 English model. When Mr. Wilson gained a prize of 
 fifty guineas for fifty lines of English verse, without 
 further inquiry it becomes evident, from the mere 
 rarity of the distinction which, for a university now 
 nearly of five thousand members, occurs but once a year, 
 and from the great over-proportion of that peculiar 
 class (the Undergraduates) to whom the contest is 
 open, — that such a victory was an indisputable criterion 
 of very conspicuous merit. In fact, never in any 
 place did Mr. Wilson play off his Proteus variety of 
 character and talent with so much brilliant effect 
 as at Oxford. In this great University, the most 
 ancient, and by many degrees the most magnificent 
 in the world, he found a stage for display, perfectly con- 
 genial with the native elevation of his own character. 
 Perhaps you are not fully aware of the characteristic 
 differences which separate our two English Univer- 
 sities of Oxford and Cambridge from those of Scot- 
 land and the Continent : for I have always observed 
 that the best informed foreigners, even after a week’s 
 personal acquaintance with the Oxford system, still 
 adhere to the inveterate preconceptions which they 
 had brought, with them from the Continent. For 
 instance, they continue obstinately to speak of the 
 Professors as the persons to whom the students are 
 indebted for tuition ; whereas the majority of these 
 hold their offices as the most absolute sinecures, and 
 the task of tuition devolves upon the tutors appointed 
 in each particular college. These tutors are called 
 public tutors ; meaning that they do not confine their 
 instructions to any one individual ; but distribute 
 them amongst all the Undergraduates of the college 
 to which they belong ; and, in addition to these, 
 
SKETCH OF PROFESSOR WILSON. 
 
 243 
 
 2 yrivate tutors are allowed to any student who chooses 
 to increase his expenditure in that particular. But 
 the main distinction, which applies to our immediate 
 subject, is the more than regal provision for the 
 lodging and accommodation of the students by the 
 system of Colleges. Of these there are in Oxford, 
 neglecting the technical subdivision of HallSy five-and- 
 twenty ; and the main use of all, both colleges and 
 halls, is, not as in Scotland and on the Continent, to 
 lodge the head of the University with suitable dignity, 
 and to provide rooms for the library and public busi- 
 ness of the University. These purposes are met by a 
 separate provision, distinct from the colleges ; and the 
 colleges are applied as follows : 1st, and mainly to 
 the reception of the Fellows, and of the Under- 
 graduate Students ; 2ndly, to the accommodation of 
 the head (known in different colleges by the several 
 designations of provost, principal, dean, rector, warden, 
 &c.) ; 3rdly to the accommodation of the private library 
 attached to that college, and to the chapel, which is 
 used at least twice every day for public prayers ; 
 4thly, to the Hall, and the whole establishment of 
 kitchen, wine vaults, buttery, &c., (fee., which may be 
 supposed necessary for the liberal accommodation, at 
 the public meals of dinner [and in some colleges 
 supper] of gentlemen and visitors from the country, 
 or from the Continent ; varying (we will suppose) 
 from 25 to 500 heads. Everywhere else the great 
 mass of the students are lodged in obscure nooks 
 and corners, which may or may not be respectable, 
 but are at all events withdrawn from the surveillance 
 of the University. I shall state both the ground and 
 the effect (or tendency rather) of this difference. Out 
 
 Q 2 
 
244 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 of England, universities are not meant exclusively 
 for professional men ; the sons of great landholders, 
 and a large proportion of the sons of noblemen, either 
 go through the same academic course as others — or a 
 shorter course adapted to their particular circum- 
 stances. In England, agaiu, the church is supplied 
 from the rank of gentry — not exclusively, it is true, 
 but in a much larger proportion than anywhere else, 
 except in Ireland. The corresponding ranks in Scot- 
 land, from their old connection with France, have 
 adopted (I believe) much more of the Continental plan 
 for disposing of their sons at this period. At any rate, 
 it will not be contended by any man, that Scotland 
 throws anything like the same proportion with Eng- 
 land, of her gentry and her peerage into her uni_ 
 versities. Hence, a higher standard of manners and 
 of habits presides at Oxford and Cambridge ; and, con- 
 sequently, a demand for much higher accommodations 
 would even otherwise have arisen, had not such a 
 demand already been supplied by the munificence of 
 our English princes and peers, both male and female ; 
 and, in one instance at least, of a Scottish Prince 
 (Baliol). The extent of these vast Caravanseras 
 enables the governors of the various colleges to 
 furnish every student with a set of two rooms at 
 the least, often with a suite of three — [I, who lived at 
 Oxford on no more than my school allowance, had 
 that number] — or in many cases with far more. In 
 the superior colleges, indeed (superior, I mean, as to 
 their purse and landed endowments), all these accom- 
 modations keep pace with the refinements of the age ; 
 and thus a connection is maintained between the 
 University and the landed Noblesse — upper and lower 
 
SKETCH OF PROFESSOR WILSON. 
 
 245 
 
 — of England, which must be reciprocally beneficial, 
 and which, under other circumstances, could scarcely 
 have taken place. 
 
 Of these advantages, you may be sure, that Mr. 
 Wilson availed himself to the utmost extent. Instead 
 of going to Baliol College, he entered himself at 
 Magdalen, in the class of what are called, ‘ Gentle- 
 men Commoners.^ All of us (you know) in Oxford 
 and Cambridge wear an Academic dress, which tells 
 at once our Academic rank with all its modifications. 
 And the term ‘ Gentlemen Commoner ’ implies that he 
 has more splendid costumes, and more in number ; 
 that he is expected to spend a good deal more money, 
 that he enjoys a few trifling immunities ; and that he 
 has, in particular instances, something like a King’s 
 right of pre-emption, as in the choice of rooms, &c. 
 
 Once launched in this orbit, Mr. Wilson continued 
 to blaze away for the four successive years, 1804, 
 1805, 1806, 1807, I believe without any intermission. 
 Possibly I myself was the one sole gownsman who 
 had not then found my attention fixed by his most 
 heterogeneous reputation. In a similar case, Cicero 
 tells a man that ignorance so unaccountable of an- 
 other man’s pretensions argued himself to be a homo 
 ignorahilis ; or, in the language of the Miltonic Satan, 
 ‘Kot to know me, argues thyself unknown.’ And 
 that is true ; a homo ignorahilis most certainly I was. 
 And even with that admission it is still difficult to 
 account for the extent and the duration of my ignor- 
 ance. The fact is, that the case well expresses both 
 our positions ; that he should be so conspicuous as to 
 challenge knowledge from the most sequestered of 
 anchorites expresses his life ; that I should have right 
 
246 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 to absolute ignorance of him who was familiar as day- 
 light to all the rest of Oxford — expresses mine, Never 
 indeed before, to judge from what I have since heard 
 upon inquiry, did a man, by variety of talents and 
 variety of humours, contrive to place himself as the 
 connecting link between orders of men so essentially 
 repulsive of each other — as Mr. Wilson in this instance. 
 
 ‘ Omnis Aiistippum decuit color et status, et res.’ 
 
 From the learned president of his college. Dr. 
 Routh, the editor of parts of Plato, and of some 
 Theological Selections, with whom Wilson enjoyed an 
 unlimited favour — from this learned Academic Doctor, 
 and many others of the same class, Wilson had an 
 infinite gamut of friends and associates, running 
 through every key ; and the diapason closing full in 
 groom, cobbler, stable-boy, barber’s apprentice, with 
 every shade and hue of blackguard and rufiian. In 
 particular, amongst this latter kind of worshipful 
 society, there was no man who had any talents — real 
 or fancied — for thumping or being thumped, but had 
 experienced some preeing of his merits from Mr. 
 Wilson. All other pretensions in the gymnastic arts 
 he took a pride in humbling or in honouring ; but 
 chiefly his examinations fell upon pugilism ; and not 
 a man, who could either ‘ give ’ or ^ take,’ but boasted 
 to have punished, or to have been punished by, 
 Wilson of Malleus.^ 
 
 A little before the time at which my acquaintance 
 
 * The usual colloquial corruption of Magdalen in Ox. is 
 Maudlin; but amongst the very lie dn^peitple, it is called 
 Malleus, 
 
SKETCH OF PROFESSOR WILSON. 
 
 247 
 
 with Mr. Wilson commenced, he had purchased a 
 beautiful estate on the lake of Windermere, which 
 bore the ancient name of Elleray — a name which, 
 with his customary good taste, Mr. Wilson has never 
 disturbed. With the usual latitude of language in 
 such cases, 1 say on Windermere ; but in fact this 
 charming estate lies far above the lake ; and one of 
 the most interesting of its domestic features is the 
 foreground of the rich landscape which connects, by 
 the most gentle scale of declivities, this almost aerial 
 altitude [as, for habitable ground, it really is] with the 
 sylvan margin of the deep water which rolls a mile 
 and a half below. When I say a mile and a half, 
 you will understand me to compute the descent accord- 
 ing to the undulations of the ground ; because else 
 the perpendicular elevation above the level of the 
 lake cannot be above one half of that extent. Seated 
 on such an eminence, but yet surrounded by fore- 
 grounds of such quiet beauty, and settling down- 
 wards towards the lake by such tranquil steps as to 
 take away every feeling of precipitous or dangerous 
 elevation, Elleray possesses a double character of 
 beauty, rarely found in connection ; and yet each, 
 by singular good fortune, in this case absolute and 
 unrivalled in its kind. Within a bow-shot of each 
 other may be found stations of the deepest seclusion, 
 fenced in by verdurous walls of insuperable forest 
 heights, and presenting a limited scene of beauty — 
 deep, solemn, noiseless, severely sequestered — and 
 other stations of a magnificence so gorgeous as few 
 estates in this island can boast, and of those few per- 
 haps none in such close connection with a dwelling- 
 house. Stepping out from the very windows of the 
 
248 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 drawing-room, you find yourself on a terrace which 
 gives you the feeling of a ‘ specular height,’ such as 
 you might expect on Ararat, or might appropriately 
 conceive on ‘ Athos seen from Samothrace.’ The whole 
 course of a noble lake, about eleven miles long, lies 
 subject to your view, with many of its islands, and 
 its two opposite shores so different in character — the 
 one stern, precipitous, and gloomy; the other (and 
 luckily the hither one) by the mere bounty of nature 
 and of accident — by the happy disposition of the 
 ground originally, and by the fortunate equilibrium 
 between the sylvan tracts, meandering irregularly 
 through the whole district, and the proportion left to 
 verdant fields and meadows, — wearing the character 
 of the richest park scenery ; except indeed that this 
 character is here and there a little modified by a quiet 
 hedge-row or the stealing smoke which betrays the 
 embowered cottage of a labourer. But the sublime, 
 peculiar, and not-to-be-forgotten feature of the scene is 
 the great system of mountains which unite about five 
 miles off at the head of the lake to lock in and inclose 
 this noble landscape. The several ranges of mountains 
 which stand at various distances within six or seven 
 miles of the little town of Ambleside, all separately 
 various in their forms and all eminently picturesque, 
 when seen from Elleray appear to blend and group 
 as parts of one connected whole ; and when their 
 usual drapery of clouds happens to take a fortunate 
 arrangement, and the sunlights are properly broken 
 and thrown from the most suitable quarter of the 
 heavens, — I cannot recollect any spectacle in England 
 or Wales, of the many hundreds I have seen, bearing 
 a local, if not a national reputation for magnificence of 
 
SKETCH OF PROFESSOR WILSON. 
 
 249 
 
 prospect, which so much dilates the heart with a sense 
 of power and aerial sublimity as this terrace view 
 from Elleray. It is possible that I may have stood 
 on other mountain terraces commanding as ample a 
 view and as happily combined ; but the difference of 
 effect must always be immense between a spectacle 
 to which you ascend by half a day’s labour, and that 
 upon which you are launched in a second of time 
 from the breakfast table. It is of great importance, 
 for the enjoyment of any natural scene, to be liber- 
 ated from the necessity of viewing it under circum- 
 stances of haste and anxiety, to have it in one’s power 
 to surrender oneself passively and tranquilly to the 
 influences of the objects as they gradually reveal 
 themselves, and to be under no summons to crowd 
 one’s whole visual energy and task of examination 
 within a single quarter of an hour. Having seen 
 Elleray at all times under these favourable circum- 
 stances, it is certainly not impossible that I may 
 unconsciously have overrated in some degree its pre- 
 tensions in comparison with some rival scenes. I 
 may have committed the common error of attributing 
 to the objects the whole sum of an impression which 
 in part belonged to the subjective advantages of the 
 contemplator and the benefits of his station. But, 
 making every allowance in this direction, I am still 
 of opinion that Elleray has, in connection with the 
 merits common to all scenes of its class, others 
 peculiar to itself — and such as are indispensable con- 
 ditions for the fall effect of all the rest. In par- 
 ticular, I would instance this : To bring any scene 
 upon a level of competition with Elleray as to range 
 and majesty of prospect, it is absolutely essential that 
 
250 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 it should occupy an equal elevation, or one not con. 
 spicuously inferior. Now, it is seldom indeed that 
 eminences so commanding are not, by that very 
 circumstance, unfitted to the picturesque aspects of 
 things : in fact I remember no tract of ground so 
 elevated as Elleray from which the lowest level of 
 the adjacent country does not take a petty, dotted, 
 and map-like appearance. But this effect, which is 
 so heavy a price for the sublimities of the upper 
 regions, at Elleray is entirely intercepted by the 
 exquisite gradations of descent by which the con- 
 tiguous grounds begin their fall to the level of the 
 lake : the moment that this fall in any quarter 
 becomes accelerated and precipitous, it is concealed 
 by the brows of this beautiful hanging foreground ; 
 and so happily is this remedy applied, that in every 
 instance where the lowest grounds would, if seen at 
 all, from their immediate proximity, be seen by the 
 spectator looking down perpendicularly as into a well, 
 there they are uniformly hidden ; and these lowest 
 levels first emerge to view at a remote distance — 
 where, being necessarily viewed obliquely, they suffer 
 no peculiar disadvantage by being viewed from an 
 eminence. In short, to sum up the whole in one 
 word, the splendours of Elleray, which could not have 
 been had but at an unusual elevation, are by a rare 
 bounty of nature obtained without one of those sacri- 
 fices for the learned eye which are usually entailed 
 upon that one single advantage of unusual elevation. 
 
 The beautiful estate, which I have thus described 
 to you, was ornamented by no suitable dwelling-house 
 at the time when it was purchased by Mr. Wilson : 
 there was indeed a rustic cottage, most picturesquely 
 
SKETCH OF PROFESSOR WILSON. 
 
 251 
 
 situated, which, with the addition of a drawing-room 
 thrown out at one end, was made for the present 
 (and, as it turned out, for many a year to come) 
 capable of meeting the hospitable system of life 
 adopted by its owner. But, with a view to more 
 ample and luxurious accommodations, even at that 
 early period of his possession (1808), Mr. Wilson 
 began to build a mansion of larger and more elegant 
 proportions. The shell, and perhaps the greater part 
 of the internal work, was soon finished ; but for some 
 reason, which I never remember to have inquired 
 into, was not rendered thoroughly habitable (and 
 consequently not inhabited) till the year 1825. I 
 think it worth while to mention this house particu- 
 larly, because it has always appeared to me a silent 
 commentary on its master’s state of mind, and an 
 exemplification of his character both as it was and 
 as it appeared. At first sight there was an air of 
 adventurousness, or even of extravagance about the 
 plan and situation of the building ; and yet upon a 
 considerate examination (and latterly upon a practical 
 trial) of it, I cannot see that within the same dimen- 
 sions it would have been possible to have contrived 
 a more judicious or commodious house. Thus, for 
 instance, the house is planted upon the boldest and 
 most exposed point of ground that can be found on 
 the whole estate, consequently upon that which might 
 have presumed (and I believe was really reputed) to 
 be the very stormiest : yet, whether from counter- 
 acting screens of wood that have since been reared in 
 fortunate situations, or from what other cause I know 
 not, but undoubtedly at this day no practical incon- 
 venience is suffered ; though it is true, I believe, that 
 
252 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 in the earlier years of its history, the house bore 
 witness occasionally, by dismal wrecks of roof and 
 windows, to the strength and fury of the wind on 
 one particular quarter. Again, in the internal arrange- 
 ments one room was constructed of such ample pro- 
 portions, with a view to dancing, that the length 
 (as I remember) was about seventy feet ; the other 
 dimensions I have forgotten. Now, in this instance 
 most people saw an evidence of nothing but youthful 
 extravagance, and a most disproportionate attention 
 directed to one single purpose, which upon that scale 
 could not probably be of very frequent occurrence in 
 a7i^ family. This by the way was at any rate a 
 sensible extravagance in my judgment ; for our 
 English mode of building tends violently to the oppo- 
 site and most unwholesome extravagance of giving 
 to the very principal room of a house the beggarly 
 proportions of closets. However, the sequel showed 
 that in providing for one end, Mr. Wilson had not 
 lost sight of others : for the seventy-feet room was so 
 divided by strong folding-doors, or temporary par- 
 titions, as in its customary state to exhibit three 
 rooms of ordinary proportions, and unfolded its full 
 extent only by special and extraordinary mechanism. 
 Other instances I might give in which the plan seemed 
 to be extravagant or inconsiderate, and yet really 
 turned out to have been calculated with the coolest 
 judgment and the nicest foresight of domestic needs. 
 It is sufficient to say that I do not know a house 
 apparently more commodiously arranged than this, 
 which was planned and built with utmost precipita- 
 tion, and in the very heyday of a most tempestuous 
 youth. In one thing only, upon a retrospect at this 
 
SKETCH OF PROFESSOR WILSON. 
 
 253 
 
 day of the whole case, there may appear to have been 
 some imprudence, viz. that timber being then at a 
 most unprecedented high price, it is probable that 
 the building cost seven or eight hundred pounds more 
 than it would have done a few years later. Allowing 
 for this one oversight, the principal house on the 
 Elleray estate, which at the time was looked upon as 
 an evidence of Mr. Wilson’s flightiness of mind, 
 remains at this day a lasting monument of his good 
 sense and judgment. 
 
 Whilst I justify him, however, on this head, I am 
 obliged to admit that on another field, at that very 
 time, Mr. Wilson was displaying the most reckless 
 profusion. A sailing club had been established on 
 Windermere, by whom I never heard ; very probably 
 by Mr. Wilson himself ; at all events, he was the 
 leader and the soul of the confederation ; and he 
 applied annually nothing less than a little fortune to 
 the maintenance of the many expenses which arose 
 out of it. Amongst the members of the club there 
 were more than one who had far larger fortunes than 
 Mr. Wilson could ever have possessed ; but he would 
 permit no one to outshine him on this arena. The 
 number of his boats was so great as to compose a 
 little fleet ; and some of them, of unusually large 
 dimensions for this lake, had been built at an enormous 
 expense by regular builders brought over expressly 
 from the port of Whitehaven (distant from Elleray 
 about forty-five miles), and kept during the whole 
 progress of their labour at a most expensive Lakers’ 
 hotel. One of these boats in particular, a ten-oared 
 barge, which you will find specially introduced by 
 name in Professor Wilson’s tale of The Foresters 
 
254 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 (vide p. 215), was generally believed at the time to 
 have cost him at the least five hundred pounds. And 
 as the number of sailors which it required to man 
 these boats was necessarily very great at particular 
 seasons, and as the majority of these sailors lived? 
 during the period of their services, with little or no 
 restraint upon their expenses at the most costly inn 
 in the neighbourhood, — it may be supposed very 
 readily that about this time Mr. Wilson’s lavish 
 expenditure, added to the demands of architects and 
 builders, and the recent purchase of Elleray, must 
 have seriously injured his patrimonial property, — 
 though generally believed to have been originally con- 
 siderably more than thirty thousand (many asserted 
 forty thousand) pounds. In fact, he had never less 
 than three establishments going on concurrently for 
 some years ; one at the town or village of Bowness 
 (the little port of the lake of Windermere), for his 
 boatmen ; one at the Ambleside Hotel, about five 
 miles distant, for himself ; and a third at Elleray, for 
 his servants, and the occasional resort of himself and 
 his friends. It is the opinion of some people that 
 about this time, and during the succeeding two years, 
 Mr. Wilson dissipated the main bulk of his patrimony 
 in profuse expenditure. But more considerate people 
 see no ground for that opinion : his expenses, though 
 great, were never adequate to the dilapidation of so 
 large an estate as he was reputed to have inherited : 
 and the prevailing opinion is that some great loss of 
 £20,000 at a blow, by the failure of some trustee or 
 other, was the true cause of that diminution in his 
 property which, within a year or two from this time, 
 he is generally supposed to have suffered. However, 
 
SKETCH OF PROFESSOR WILSON. 
 
 255 
 
 as Mr. Wilson himself has always maintained an 
 obstinate silence on the subject, and as the mere fact 
 of the loss (however probable) is not more accurately 
 known to me than its extent, or its particular mode, 
 or its cause, — I shall not allow myself to make any 
 conjectural speculations on the subject. It can be 
 interesting to you and me only from one of its con- 
 sequences, viz. its leading him afterwards to seek a 
 professorship : for most certain it is, that, if the 
 splendour of Mr. Wilson's youthful condition as to 
 pecuniary matters had not been in some remarkable 
 degree overcast, and suffered some signal eclipse, he 
 would never have surrendered any part of that perfect 
 liberty which was so dear to him, for all the honours 
 and rewards that could have been offered by the 
 foremost universities of Europe. 
 
 You will have heard, no doubt, from some of those 
 with whom you conversed about Professor Wilson 
 when you were in Europe, or you may have read it 
 in Peter’s Letters, that in very early life (probably 
 about the age of eighteen) he had formed a scheme 
 for penetrating into central Africa, visiting the city 
 of Tombuctoo, and solving (if it were possible) the 
 great outstanding problem of the course of the Niger. 
 To this scheme he was attracted probably not so much 
 by any particular interest in the improvement of 
 geographical knowledge, as by the youthful spirit of 
 romantic adventure, and a very uncommon craving 
 for whatever was grand — indefinite — and gigantic in 
 conception, supposing that it required at the same 
 time great physical powers in the execution. There 
 cannot be a doubt for us at this day, who look back 
 upon the melancholy list of victims in this perilous 
 
256 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 field of discovery which has been furnished by the 
 two or three and twenty years elapsed since Mr. 
 Wilson’s plan was in agitation, that in that enterprise 
 — had he ever irretrievably embarked himself upon 
 it — he would infallibly have perished ; for, though 
 reasonably strong, he was not strong upon that 
 heroic scale which an expedition so Titanic demands ; 
 and what was perhaps still more important, if strong 
 enough — he was not hardy enough, as a gentleman 
 rarely is, more especially where he has literary habits ; 
 because the exposure to open air, which is the indis- 
 pensable condition of hardiness, is at any rate inter- 
 rupted — even if it were not counteracted — by the 
 luxurious habits and the relaxing atmosphere of the 
 library and the drawing-room. Moreover, Mr. Wilson’s 
 constitution was irritable and disposed to fever ; his 
 temperament was too much that of a man of genius 
 not to have furnished amine of inflammable materials 
 for any tropical climate ; his prudence, as regarded 
 his health, was not remarkable ; and if to all these 
 internal and personal grounds of danger you add the 
 incalculable hazards of the road itself, every friend of 
 Mr. Wilson’s must have rejoiced on hearing that in 
 1808, when I first met him, this Tim- (or Tom-) buctoo 
 scheme was already laid aside. 
 
 Yet, as the stimulus of danger, in one shape or 
 other, was at that time of life perhaps essential to his 
 comfort, he soon substituted another scheme, which 
 at this day might be accomplished with ease and 
 safety enough, but in the year 1809 (under the 
 rancorous system of Bonaparte) was full of hazard. 
 In this scheme he was so good as to associate myself 
 as one of his travelling companions, together with an 
 
SKETCH OF PEOFESSOR WILSON. 
 
 257 
 
 earlier friend of his own — an Englishman, of a philoso- 
 phical turn of mind, with whom he had been a fellow- 
 student at Glasgow ; and we were certainly all three 
 of an age and character to have enjoyed the expedition 
 in the very highest degree, had the events of the war 
 allowed us to realise our plan. The plan was as 
 follows : from Falmouth, by one of the regular 
 packets, we were to have sailed to the Tagus ; and, 
 landing wherever accident should allow us, to pur- 
 chase mules — hire Spanish servants — and travel ex- 
 tensively in Spain and Portugal for eight or nine 
 months ; thence, by such of the islands in the Medi- 
 terranean as particularly interested us, we were 
 gradually to have passed into Greece, and thence to 
 Constantinople. Finally, we were to have visited 
 the Troad, Syria, Egypt, and perhaps Nubia. I feel 
 it almost ludicrous to sketch the outline of so exten- 
 sive a tour, no part of which was ever executed ; such 
 a Barmacide feast is laughable in the very rehearsal. 
 Yet it is bare justice to ourselves to say that on our 
 parts there was no slackness or make-believe : what 
 put an extinguislier upon our project was the entrance 
 of Napoleon into Spain, his immediate advance upon 
 Madrid, and the wretched catastrophe of the expe- 
 dition so miserably misconducted under Sir John 
 Moore. The prestige of French generalship was at 
 that time a nightmare upon the courage and spirit of 
 hopeful exertion throughout Europe ; and the earliest 
 dawn was only then beginning to arise of that glorious 
 experience which was for ever to dissolve it. Sir J. 
 Moore, and through him his gallant but unfortunate 
 army, was the last conspicuous victim to the mere 
 sound and humbug (if you will excuse a coarse 
 
 VOL. I. R 
 
258 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 expression) of the words Napoleon Bonaparte. What 
 he fled from was precisely those two words. And the 
 timid policy, adopted by Sir John on that memorable 
 occasion, would — among other greater and national 
 consequences — have had this little collateral interest 
 to us unfortunate travellers, had our movements been 
 as speedy as we had anticipated, that it would have 
 cost us our heads. A certain bulletin, issued by 
 Bonaparte at that time, sufiiciently apprised us of 
 that little truth. In this bulletin Bonaparte pro- 
 claimed with a careless air, but making at the same 
 time somewhat of a boast of it, that having happened 
 to meet a party of sixteen British travellers — persons 
 of whom he had ascertained nothing at all but that 
 they did not bear a military character — he had issued 
 a summary order that they should all be strung up 
 without loss of time by the neck. In this little 
 facetious anecdote, as Bonaparte seemed to think it, 
 we read the fate that we had escaped. Had nothing 
 occurred to retard our departure from this country, 
 we calculated that the route we had laid down for 
 our daily motions would have brought us to Guad- 
 arama (or what was the name of the pass f) just in 
 time to be hanged. Having a British general at our 
 backs with an army of more than thirty thousand 
 effective men, we should certainly have roamed in 
 advance with perfect reliance upon the old British 
 policy of flghting, for which we could never have 
 allowed ourselves to dream of such a substitute as 
 a flight through all the passes of Gallicia on the 
 principle of ‘ the D — tahe the hindmost.^ Infallibly 
 also we should have been surprised by the extra- 
 ordinary rapidity at that time of the French move- 
 
SKETCH OF PROFESSOR WILSON. 
 
 259 
 
 merits ; our miserable shambling mules, with their 
 accursed tempers, would have made but a shabby 
 attempt at flight before a squadron of light cavalry ; 
 and in short, as I said before, we should have come 
 just in time to be hanged. And hanged we should 
 all have been : though why, and upon what principle, 
 it would be difficult to say ] and probably that question 
 would have been left to after consideration in some 
 more philosophical age. You will suppose naturally 
 that we rejoiced at our escape ; and so undoubtedly 
 we did. Yet for my part I had, among nineteen- 
 twentieths of joy, just one-twentieth of a lingering 
 regret that we had missed the picturesque fate that 
 awaited us. The reason was this : it has been through 
 life an infirmity of Mr. Wilson’s (at least in my 
 judgment an infirmity) to think too indulgently of 
 Bonaparte, not merely in an intellectual point of view, 
 but even with reference to his pretensions — hollower, 
 one would think, than the wind — to moral elevation 
 and magnanimity. Such a mistake, about a man who 
 could never in any one instance bring himself to 
 speak generously, or even forbearingly of an enemy, 
 rouses my indignation as often as I recur to it ; and 
 in Professor Wilson, I have long satisfied myself that 
 it takes its rise from a more comprehensive weakness, 
 the greatest in fact which besets his mind, viz. a 
 general tendency to bend to the prevailing opinion 
 of the world, and a constitutional predisposition to 
 sympathise with power and whatsoever is triumphant. 
 Hence, I could not but regret most poignantly the 
 capital opportunity I had forfeited of throwing in a 
 deep and stinging sarcasm at his idol, just at the 
 moment when we should have been waiting to be 
 
260 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 turned off. I know Professor Wilson well : though 
 a brave man, at twenty-two he enjoyed life with a 
 rapture that few men have ever known, and he would 
 have clung to it with awful tenacity. Horribly he 
 would have abominated the sight of the rope, and 
 ruefully he would have sighed if I had suggested to 
 him on the gallows any thoughts of that beautiful 
 and quiet Elleray which he had left behind in England. 
 Just at that moment I acknowledge that it would 
 have been fiendish, but yet what a heaven of a luxury 
 it would have been in the way of revenge — to have 
 stung him with some neat epigram, that I might 
 have composed in our walk to the gallows, or while 
 the ropes were getting into tune, on the generosity 
 and magnanimity of Bonaparte ! Perhaps, in a sober 
 estimate, hanging might be too heavy a price for the 
 refutation of a single error ; yet still, at times, when 
 my moral sense is roused and provoked by the 
 obstinate blindness of Professor Wilson to the mean- 
 ness and parvanimity^ of Bonaparte (a blindness 
 which in him, as in all other worshippers of false 
 idols, is connected at the moment with intense hatred 
 for those who refuse to partake in it), a wandering 
 regret comes over me that we should have missed so 
 fine an opportunity for gathering in our own persons 
 some of those redundant bounties which the Corsican^s 
 ‘ magnanimity ' at that time scattered from his cornu- 
 copia of malice to the Euglish name upon all his 
 unfortunate prisoners of that nation. 
 
 * I coin this word parvanimity as an adequate antitliesis to 
 magnanimity ; for the word pusillanimity has received from 
 usage such a confined determination to one single idea, viz. the 
 defect of spirit and courage, that it is wholly unfitted to be the 
 antipode to the complex idea of magnanimity. 
 
SKETCH OF PROFESSOR WILSON. 
 
 261 
 
 But enough of this ; an event soon occurred in Mr. 
 Wilson’s life which made it a duty to dismiss for 
 ever all travelling schemes that were connected with 
 so much hazard as this. The fierce acharnement of 
 Bonaparte so pointedly directed to everything English, 
 and the prostration of the Continent, which had 
 enabled him absolutely to seal every port of Europe 
 against an Englishman, who could now no longer 
 venture to stray a mile beyond the range of the ship’s 
 guns, which had brought him to the shore, without 
 the certainty of being arrested as a spy, — this unheard- 
 of condition of things had at length compelled all 
 English gentlemen to reconcile themselves for the 
 present to the bounds of their own island; and, 
 accordingly, in the spring of 1809, we three unhanged 
 friends had entirely weaned our minds from the 
 travelling scheme which had so completely occupied 
 our thoughts in 1808. Mr. Wilson in particular gave 
 himself up to the pleasures and occupations furnished 
 by the neighbourhood of Windermere, which at that 
 time were many and various ; living myself at a 
 distance of nine miles from Elleray, I did not see 
 much of him through this year 1809 ; in 1810 he 
 married a young English lady, greatly admired for 
 her beauty and the elegance of her manners, who was 
 generally supposed to have brought him a fortune of 
 about ten thousand pounds. In saying that, I violate 
 no confidence at any time reposed in me, for I rely 
 only on the public voice — which, in this instance, I 
 have been told by well-informed persons, was tolerably 
 correct. Be that as it may, however, in other respects 
 I have the best reasons for believing that this marriage 
 connection has proved the .happiest event of Mr. 
 
62 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 Wilson’s life ; and that the delightful temper and 
 disposition of his wife have continued to shed a 
 sunshine of peace and quiet happiness over his 
 domestic establishment, which were well worth all 
 the fortunes in the world. This lady has brought 
 him a family of two sons and three daughters, all 
 interesting by their personal appearance and their 
 manners, and at this time rapidly growing up into 
 young men and women. 
 
 Here I should close all further notice of Mr. Wilson’s 
 life, and confine myself, through what remains of the 
 space which I have allowed myself, to a short critical 
 notice (such as it may be proper for a friend to write) 
 of his literary character and merits ; but one single 
 event remains of a magnitude too conspicuous in any 
 man’s life to be dismissed wholly without mention. 
 I should add, therefore, that, about eight or nine 
 years after his marriage (for I forget the precise 
 year *), Mr. Wilson offered himself a candidate for 
 the chair of Moral Philosophy in the University in 
 Edinburgh, which had recently become vacant by the 
 death of Hr. Thomas Brown, the immediate successor 
 of Mr. Hugald Stewart. The Scotch, who know just 
 as much about what they call ‘ Moral f Philosophy ’ 
 and Metaphysics as the English do, viz. exactly 
 
 * [In July, 1820.] 
 
 t Everywhere in the world, except in Scotland, by moral 
 philosophy is meant the philosophy of the will, as opposed to 
 the philosophy of the intellect ; in Scotland only the word 
 moral is used, by the strongest abuse, as a comprehensive 
 designation of whatsoever is not physical ; so that in the cycle 
 of knowledge, undertaken by the Edinburgh Professor of Moral 
 Philosophy, are included logic, metaphysics, ethics, psychology, 
 anthropology, — and, in one word, almost all human knowledge, 
 with the exception of physics and mathematics. 
 
SKETCH OF PROFESSOR WILSON. 
 
 263 
 
 nothing at all, pride themselves prodigiously upon 
 these two names of Dugald Stewart and Dr. Brown, 
 and imagine that they filled the chair with some 
 peculiar brilliance. Upon that subject a word or two 
 farther on. Meantime this notion made the contest 
 peculiarly painful and invidious, amongst ungenerous 
 enemies, for any untried man — no matter though his 
 real merits had been a thousand times greater than 
 those of his predecessors. This Mr. Wilson found ; 
 he had made himself enemies ; whether by any 
 unjustifiable violences, and wanton provocations on 
 his own part, I have no means of knowing. In 
 whatever way created, however, these enemies now 
 used the advantages of the occasion with rancorous 
 malignity, and persecuted him at every step with 
 unrelenting fury. Yery different was the treatment 
 he met with from his competitor in the contest ; in 
 that one circumstance of the case, the person of his 
 competitor, he had reason to think himself equally 
 fortunate and unfortunate ; fortunate, that he should 
 be met by the opposition of a man whose opposition 
 was honour — a man of birth, talents, and high 
 breeding, a good scholar, and for extensive reading 
 and universal knowledge of books (and especially of 
 philosophic literature) the Magliabecchi of Scotland ; 
 unfortunate on the other hand that this accomplished 
 opponent, adorned by so many brilliant gifts that 
 recommended him to the contested office, should 
 happen to be his early and highly valued friend. 
 The particular progress of the contest, and its circum- 
 stances, I am not able to state ; in general I have 
 heard in Edinburgh that, from political influences 
 which chiefly governed the course of the election, the 
 
264 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 conduct of the partisans (perhaps on both sides) was 
 intemperate, personal, and unjust; whilst that of the 
 principals and their immediate friends was full of 
 forbearance and generosity. The issue was, that Mr. 
 Wilson carried the Professorship, — by what majority 
 of votes, I am unable to say ; and you will be pleased 
 to hear that any little coolness, which must naturally 
 have succeeded to so warm a contest, has long since 
 passed away ; and the two rival candidates have been 
 for many years restored to their early feelings of 
 mutual esteem and regard. 
 
 Here I pause for everything that concerns in the 
 remotest way the incidents of Professor Wilson’s life ; 
 one letter I mean to add, as I have already promised, 
 on the particular position which he occupies in re- 
 lation to modern literature ; and then I have done. 
 Meantime, let me hope that you have not so far 
 miscalculated my purpose as to have been looking 
 out for anecdotes (^. e, scandal) about Professor 
 Wilson- throughout the course of this letter ; since, 
 if in any case I could descend to cater for tastes of 
 that description (which I am persuaded, are naturally 
 no tastes of ^our family), — you must feel, on reflec- 
 tion, how peculiarly impossible it is to take that 
 course in sketching the character of a friend, because 
 the very means, by which in almost every case one 
 becomes possessed of such private anecdotes, are the 
 opportunities thrown in one’s way by the confiding 
 negligence of affectionate friendship ; opportunities 
 therefore which must be for ever sacred to every man 
 of honour. 
 
 Yours most faithfully, 
 
 Parmenides. 
 
THE lake dialect. 
 
 To the Editor of ^ Titan' 
 
 My Dear Sir, — I send you a few hasty notes upon 
 Mr. Robert Ferguson’s little work (relating to the 
 dialect current at the English Lakes). ^ Mr. Ferguson’s 
 book is learned and seasonable, adapted to the stage 
 at which such studies have now arrived among us, 
 and adapted also to a popular use. I am sure that 
 Mr. Ferguson knows a great deal more about his very 
 interesting theme than I do. Nevertheless, I presume 
 to sit in judgment upon him ; or so it will be inferred 
 from my assuming the office of his reviewer. But in 
 reality I pretend to no such ambitious and invidious 
 functions. What I propose to do, in this hasty and 
 extempore fashion, is — simply to take a seat in Mr. 
 Ferguson’s court as an amicus curice, and occasionally 
 to suggest a doubt, by possibility an amendment ; but 
 more often to lead astray judge, jury, and docile 
 audience into matter growing out of the subject, but 
 very seldom leading back into it, too often, perhaps, 
 having little to do with it ; pleasant by possibility, 
 according to Foote’s judgment in a parallel case, 
 ‘pleasant, but wrong.’ No great matter if it should 
 
 * The Northmen in Cumberland and Westmoreland. By 
 Kobert Ferguson. Carlisle : Steel & Brother. London : 
 Longmans & Co. 
 
266 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 be so. It will be read within the privileged term of 
 Christmas ; ^ during which licensed saturnalia it can 
 be no blame to any paper, that it is ‘ pleasant, but 
 wrong.' 
 
 I begin with lodging a complaint against Mr. 
 Ferguson, namely, that he has ignored me — me, that 
 in some measure may be described as having broken 
 ground originally in this interesting field of research. 
 Me, the undoubted parent of such studies — ^. e. the 
 person who first solemnly proclaimed the Danish 
 language to be the master-key for unlocking the 
 peculiarities of the Lake dialect — me, has this unduti- 
 ful son never noticed, except incidentally, and then 
 only with some reserve, or even with a distinct scruple, 
 as regards the particular point of information for 
 which I am cited. Seriously, however, this very 
 passage, which oifers me the affront of utter exclusion 
 from what I had regarded as my own peculiar terri- 
 tory, my own Danish ring-fence, shows clearly that 
 no affront had been designed. Mr. Ferguson had 
 found occasion, at p. 80, to mention that Fairfield, 
 the most distinguished t of the Grasmere boundaries, 
 and ‘ next neighbour to Helvellyn ' (next also in 
 
 * Writing at the moment in Scotland, where Christmas is 
 as little heard of, or popularly understood or regarded, as the 
 Mahometan festival of Beyram or the fast of Ramadan, I ought 
 to explain that, as Christmas Day, by adjournment from Lady 
 Day — namely, March 25 — falls uniformly on December 25, it 
 happens necessarily that Twelfth Day (the adoration of the Magi 
 at Bethlehem), which is the ceremonial close of Christmas, falls 
 upon the 5th day of January ; seven days in the old, five in the 
 new, year. 
 
 t ‘And mighty Fairfield, with its chime 
 Of echoes, still was keeping time. ’ 
 
 W onus WORTH— The Waggoner. 
 
THE LAKE DIALECT. 
 
 267 
 
 magnitude, being above three thousand feet high), 
 had, as regarded its name, ‘ been derived from the 
 Scandinavian faar^ sheep, in allusion to the peculiar 
 fertility of its pastures.’ He goes on thus — ‘This 
 mountain ’ (says De Quincey) ‘ has large, smooth 
 pastoral savannahs, to which the sheep resort when 
 all its rocky or barren neighbours are left desolate.’ 
 In thus referring to myself for the character of the 
 mountain, he does not at all suppose that he is 
 referring to the author of the etymology. On the 
 contrary, the very next sentence says — I do not 
 know who is the author of this etymology, which has 
 been quoted by several writers ; but it appears to me 
 to be open to considerable doubt ’ ; and this for two 
 separate reasons, which he assigns, and which I will 
 notice a little further on. 
 
 Meantime I pause, for the sake of saying that the 
 derivation is mine. Thirty-seven, or it may be thirty- 
 eight, years ago, I first brought forward my Danish 
 views in a local newspaper — namely. The Kendal 
 Gazette, published every Saturday. The rival (I may 
 truly say — the hostile) newspaper, published also on 
 Saturday, was called The Westmoreland Chronicle, 
 The exact date of my own communication upon the 
 dialect of the Lake district I cannot at this moment 
 assign. Earlier than 1818 it could not have been, 
 nor later than 1820. What first threw me upon this 
 vein of exploring industry was, the accidental stum- 
 bling suddenly upon an interesting little incident of 
 Westmoreland rustic life. From a roadside cottage, 
 just as I came nearly abreast of its door, issued a 
 little child ; not old enough to walk with particular 
 firmness, but old enough for mischief ; a laughing 
 
268 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 expression of which it bore upon its features. It was 
 clearly in the act of absconding from home, and was 
 hurrying earnestly to a turn of the road which it 
 counted upon making available for concealment. But, 
 before it could reach this point, a young woman, of 
 remarkable beauty, perhaps twenty years old, ran out 
 in some alarm, which was not diminished by hearing 
 the sound of carriage-wheels rapidly coming up from 
 a distance of probably two furlongs. The little rosy 
 thing stopped and turned on hearing its mother’s 
 voice, but hesitated a little, until she made a gesture 
 of withdrawing her handkerchief from her bosom, and 
 said, coaxingly, ^ Come its ways, then, and get its 
 Until that reconciling word was uttered, 
 there had been a shadow of distrust on the baby’s 
 face, as if treachery might be in the wind. But the 
 magic of that one word patten wrought an instant 
 revolution. Back the little truant ran, and the young 
 mother’s manner made it evident that she would not 
 on her part forget what had passed between the high 
 contracting parties.^ What, then, could be the mean- 
 
 * It might seem odd to many people that a child able to run 
 alone should not have been already weaned, a process of early 
 misery that, in modern improved practice, takes place amongst 
 opulent families at the age of six months ; and, secondly, it 
 might seem equally odd that, until weaned, any infant could be 
 truly described as ‘rosy.’ I wish, however, always to be puncti- 
 liously accurate ; and I can assure my readers that, generally 
 speaking, the wives of labouring men (for more reasons than 
 one) suckle their infants for three years, to the great indignation 
 of medical practitioners, who denounce the practice as six times 
 too long. Secondly, although unweanei infants are ordinarily 
 pale, yet, amongst those approaching their eighteenth or twen- 
 tieth month, there are often found children as rosy as any one 
 can meet with. 
 
THE LAKE DIALECT. 
 
 269 
 
 ing of this talismanic word patten ? Accidentally, 
 liaving had a naval brother confined amongst the 
 Danes, as a prisoner of war, for eighteen months, I 
 knew that it meant the female bosom. Soon after I 
 stumbled upon the meaning of the Danish word 
 Skyandren — namely, what in street phrase amongst 
 ourselves is called giving to any person a hlowing-up- 
 This was too remarkable a word, too bristling with 
 harsh blustering consonants, to baffle the detecting 
 ear, as it might have done under any masquerading 
 aura-textilis, or woven air of vowels and diphthongs. 
 
 Many scores of times I had heard men threatening 
 to skiander this person or that when next they should 
 meet. ISot by possibility could it indicate any mode 
 of personal violence ; for no race of men could be 
 more mild and honourably forbearing in their inter- 
 course with each other than the manly dalesmen of 
 the Lakes. From the context, it had long been 
 evident that it implied expostulation and verbal 
 reproach. And now at length I learned that this was 
 its Danish import. The very mountain at the foot of 
 which my Grasmere cottage stood, and the little 
 orchard attached to which formed ‘ the lowest step in 
 that magnificent staircase’ (such was Wordsworth’s 
 description of it), leading upwards to the summits of 
 Helvellyn, reminded me daily of that Danish language 
 which all around me suggested as being the secret 
 writing — the seal — the lock that imprisoned ancient 
 records as to thing or person, and yet again as being 
 the key that should open this lock ; as that which 
 had hidden through many centuries, and yet also as 
 that which should finally reveal. 
 
 I have thus come round to the name of Fairfield, 
 
270 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 which seemed to me some lorty years ago as beyond 
 all reasonable doubt the Danish mask for Sheep-fell, 
 But, in using the phrase ‘ reasonable doubt, ^ 1 am far 
 from insinuating that Mr. Ferguson’s deliberate doubt 
 is not reasonable. I will state both sides of the 
 question, for neither is without some show of argu- 
 ment. To me it seemed next to impossible that the 
 early Danish settlers could, under the natural pressure 
 of prominent differences among that circuit of hills 
 which formed the barriers of Grasmere, have failed to 
 distinguish as the sheep mountain that sole eminence 
 which offered a pasture ground to their sheep all the 
 year round. In summer and autumn all the neigh- 
 bouring fells, that were not mere rocks, yielded pasture 
 more or less scanty. But Fairfield showed herself the 
 alma mater of their flocks even in winter and early 
 spring. So, at least, my local informants asserted. 
 Mr. Ferguson, however, objects, as an unaccountable 
 singularity, that on this hypothesis we shall have one 
 mountain, and one only, classed under the modern 
 Scandinavian term of field ; all others being known 
 by the elder name of fell. I acknowledge that this 
 anomaly is perplexing. But, on the other hand, what 
 Mr. Ferguson suggests is still more perplexing. He 
 supposes that, ^ because the summit of this mountain 
 is such a peculiarly green and level plain, it might 
 not inappropriately be called a fair field d Certainly 
 it might ; but by Englishmen of recent generations, 
 and not by Danish immigrants of- the ninth century. 
 To balance the anomaly of what certainly wears a 
 faint soup(^on of anachronism — namely, the apparent 
 anticipation of the modern Norse word field, Mr. 
 Ferguson’s conjecture would take a headlong plunge 
 
THE LAKE DIALECT. 
 
 271 
 
 into good classical English. Now of this there is no 
 other instance. Even the little swells of ground, that 
 hardly rise to the dignity of hills, which might be 
 expected to submit readily to changing appellations, 
 under the changing accidents of ownership, yet still 
 retain their primitive Scandinavian names — as Butter- 
 lip Howe, for example. Nor do I recollect any excep- 
 tions to this tendency, unless in the case of jocose 
 names, such as SMddaw' s Cub, for Lattrig ; and into 
 this class, perhaps, falls even the dignified mountain 
 of The Old Man, at the head of Coniston. Mr. 
 Ferguson will allow that it would be as startling to 
 the dense old Danes of King Alfred’s time, if they 
 had found a mountain of extra pretensions wearing a 
 modern English name, as it would to the Macedonian 
 argijraspides, if suspecting that, in some coming cen- 
 tury, their mighty leader, ‘ the great Emathian con- 
 queror,’ could by any possible Dean of St. Patrick, 
 and by any conceivable audacity of legerdemain, be 
 traced back to All-egg s-under-the-gr ate. If the name 
 really is good English, in that case a separate and 
 extra labour arises for us all ; there must have been 
 some old Danish name for this most serviceable of 
 fells; and then we have not merely to explain the 
 present English name, but also to account for the 
 disappearance of this archaeological Danish name. 
 What I would throw out conjecturally as a bare 
 possibility is this : — When an ancient dialect (A) is 
 gradually superseded by a more modern one (E), the 
 flood of innovation which steals over the old reign, and 
 gradually dispossesses it, does not rush in simultane- 
 ously as a torrent, but supervenes stealthily and 
 unequally, according to the humouring or thwarting 
 
272 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 of local circumstances. Nobody, I am sure, is better 
 aware of this accident, as besetting the transit of 
 dialects, than Mr. Ferguson. For instance, many of 
 those words which are imported to us from the 
 American United States, and often amuse us by their 
 picturesqueness, have originally been carried to 
 America by our own people ; in England they lurked 
 for ages as provincialisms, localised within some 
 narrow circuit, and to which some trifling barrier (as 
 a river — rivulet — or even a brook) offered a retarding 
 force. In supercivilised England, a river, it may be 
 thought, cannot offer much obstruction to the free 
 current of words ; ages ago it must have been bridged 
 over. Sometimes, however, a bridge is impossible 
 under the transcendent importance of a free navi- 
 gation, For instance, at the Bristol Hotwells, the 
 rea;dy and fluent intercourse with Long Ashton, and 
 a long line of adjacencies, is effectually obstructed by 
 the necessity of an open water communication with 
 the Bristol Channel. At one period (^. e. when as yet 
 Liverpool and Glasgow were fifth-rate ports), all the 
 wealth of the West Indies flowed into England 
 through this little muddy ditch of the Bristol Avon, 
 and Bownham Ferry became the exponent and 
 measure of English intercourse with the northern 
 nook of Somersetshire. A river is bad; but when 
 a mountain of very toilsome ascent happens to be 
 interposed, the interruption offered to the popular 
 intercourse, and the results of this interruption, 
 become much more memorable. An illustration which 
 I can offer on this point, and which, in fact, I did 
 offer (as, upon inquiry, Mr. Ferguson will find), thirty- 
 eight years ago, happens to bear with peculiar force 
 
THE LAKE DIALECT. 
 
 273 
 
 upon our immediate difficulty of Fairfield. The valleys 
 on the northern side of Kirkstone — namely, in par- 
 ticular, the three valleys of Patterdale, Matterdale, 
 and Martindale — are as effectually cut off from 
 intercourse with the valleys on the southern side — 
 namely, the Windermere valley, Pyedale, and Gras- 
 mere, with all their tributary nooks and attachments — 
 as though an arm of the sea had rolled between them. 
 It costs a foot traveller half of a summer’s day to 
 effect the passage to and fro over Kirkstone (what 
 the Greeks so tersely expressed in the case of a race- 
 course ^ by the one word diaulos). And in my time 
 no innkeeper from the Windermere side of Kirkstone 
 would carry even a solitary individual across with 
 fewer than four horses. What has been the result] 
 Why, that the dialect on the northern side of Kirk- 
 stone bears the impress of a more ultra-Danish 
 influence than that upon the Windermere side. In 
 
 * I mean that they included the progressive or outward-bound 
 course, and equally the regressive or homeward-bound course, 
 within the compass of this one word hiavkoQ. We in England 
 have a phrase which conventionally has been made to supply 
 the want of such an idea, but unfortunately with a limitation to 
 the service of the Post-office. It is the phrase course of post. 
 When a Newcastle man is asked, ‘ What is the course of post 
 between you and Liverpool?’ he understands, and by a legal 
 decision it has been settled that he is under an obligation to 
 understand — What is the diouulos^ what is the flux and reflux — 
 the to and the fro — the systole and diastole of the respiration — 
 between you and Liverpool. ’ What is the number of hours and 
 minutes required for the transit of a letter from Newcastle to 
 Liverpool, but coupled with the return transit of the answer ? 
 This forward and backward movement constitutes the 9 .* 
 
 less than this will not satisfy the law as the complex process 
 understood by the course of post. Less than this is only the half 
 section of a diaulos. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 S 
 
274 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 particular this remarkable difference occurs : not the 
 nouns and verbs merely are Danish amongst the 
 trans-Kirkstonians (I speak as a Grasmerian), but 
 even the particles — the very joints and articulations 
 of language. The Danish for instance, is used for 
 to ; I do not mean for to the preposition : they do not 
 say, ‘ Carry this letter at Mr. W.^ ; but as the sign 
 of the infinitive mood. ‘ Tell him at put his spurs on, 
 and at ride off for a surgeon ? ^ Now this illustration 
 carries along with it a proof that a stronger and a 
 weaker infusion of the Danish element, possibly an 
 older and a younger infusion, may prevail even 
 in close adjacencies, provided they are powerfully 
 divided by walls of rock that happen to be eight miles 
 thick. 
 
 But the inexorable Press, that waits for few men 
 under the rank of a king, and not always for him (as 
 I happen to know, by having once seen a proof-sheet 
 corrected by the royal hand of George lY., which 
 proof exhibited some disloyal signs of impatience), 
 forces me to adjourn all the rest to next month. — 
 Yours ever. 
 
 Thomas De Quincey. 
 
STORMS IN ENGLISH HISTORY: 
 
 A GLANCE AT THE REIGN OF HENRY VIIL* 
 
 What two works are those for which at this moment 
 our national intellect (or, more rigorously speaking, 
 ou ’ 'popular intellect) is beginning clamorously to call % 
 They are these : first, a Conversations- Lexicon, obeying 
 (as regards plan and purpose) the general outline of 
 the German work bearing that title ; ministering to 
 the same elementary necessities ; implying, therefore, 
 a somewhat corresponding stage of progress in our 
 own populace and that of Germany ; but otherwise 
 (as regards the executive details in adapting such a 
 work to the special service of an English public) 
 moving under moral restraints sterner by much, and 
 more faithfully upheld, than could rationally be looked 
 for in any great literary enterprise resigned to purely 
 German impulses. For over the atmosphere of 
 thought and feeling in Germany there broods no 
 public conscience. Such a Conversations-Lexicon is 
 one of the two great works for which the popular 
 mind of England is waiting and watching in silence, 
 
 * History of England from the Fall of Wolsey to the Death 
 of Elizabeth. By James Anthony Fronde, M.A., late Fellow 
 of Exeter College, Oxford. Yols. I. and II. London : Parker & 
 Son, West Strand. 1856. 
 
276 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 The other (and not less important) work is — a faithful 
 History of England. We will offer, at some future 
 time, a few words upon the first ; but upon the 
 second — here brought before us so advantageously 
 in the earnest, thoughtful, and oftentimes eloquent 
 volumes of Mr. Froude — we will venture to offer 
 three or four pages of critical comment. 
 
 Could the England of the sixteenth century have 
 escaped that great convulsion which accompanied the 
 dissolution of the monasteries % It is barely possible 
 that a gentle system of periodic decimations, dis- 
 tributing this inevitable ruin over an entire century, 
 might have blunted the edge of the fierce plough- 
 share : but there were difiiculties in the way of such 
 arrangements, that would too probably have thwarted 
 the benign purpose. 
 
 Meantime, what was it that had stolen like a 
 canker-worm into the machinery of these monastic 
 bodies, and insensibly had corroded a principle origin- 
 ally of admitted purity '? The malice of Protestantism 
 has too readily assumed that Popery was answerable 
 for this corrosion. But it would be hard to show 
 that Popery in any one of its features, good or bad, 
 manifested itself conspicuously and operatively : nay, 
 to say the simple truth, it was through the very 
 opposite agency that the monastic institutions came 
 to ruin : it was because Popery, that supreme control 
 to which these monasteries had been confided, shrank 
 from its responsibilities — weakly, lazily, or even per- 
 fidiously, abandoned that super visorship in default of 
 which neitlier right of inspection, nor duty of inspec- 
 tion, nor power of inspection, was found to be lodged 
 in any quarter — there it was, precisely in that 
 
STORMS IN ENGLISH HISTORY. 
 
 277 
 
 dereliction of censorial authority, that all went to 
 ruin. All corporations grow corrupt, unless habitu- 
 ally kept under the eye of public inspection, or else 
 officially liable to searching visitations. Now, who 
 were the regular and official visitors of the English 
 monasteries 'I Not the local bishops ; for in that case 
 the public clamour, the very notoriety of the scandals 
 (as we see them reported by Wicliffe and Chaucer), 
 would have guided the general wrath to some effectual 
 surgery for the wounds and ulcers of the institutions. 
 Unhappily the official visitors were the heads of the 
 monastic orders ; these, and these only. A Franciscan 
 body, for example, owed no obedience except to the 
 representative of St. Francis ; and this representative 
 too uniformly resided somewhere on the Continent. 
 And thus it was that effectually and virtually English 
 monasteries were subject to no control. Nay, the 
 very corrections of old abuses by English parlia- 
 mentary statutes had greatly strengthened the evil. 
 Formerly, the monastic funds were drawn upon to 
 excess in defraying the costs of a transmarine visita- 
 tion. But that evil, rising into enormous proportions, 
 was at length radically extirpated by parliamentary 
 statutes that cut down the costs ; so that continental 
 devotees, finding their visitations no longer profitable 
 in a pecuniary sense, sometimes even costly to them- 
 selves, and costly upon a scale but dimly intelligible 
 to any continental experience, rapidly cooled down in 
 their pious enthusiasm against monastic delinquencies. 
 Hatred, at any rate, and malignant anger the visitor 
 had to face, not impossibly some risk of assassination, 
 in prosecuting his inquiries into the secret crimes of 
 monks that were often confederated in a common 
 
278 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 interest of resistance to all honest or searching in- 
 quiry. But, if to these evils were superadded others 
 of a pecuniary class, it was easy to anticipate, under 
 this failure of all regular inspectorship, a period of 
 plenary indulgence to the excesses of these potent 
 corporations. Such a period came : no man being 
 charged with the duty of inspection, no man inspected ; 
 but never was the danger more surely at hand, than 
 when it seemed by all ordinary signs to have abso- 
 lutely died out. Already, in the days of Bichard II., 
 the doom of the monasteries might be heard muttering 
 in the chambers of the upper air. In the angry 
 denunciations of Wicliffe, in the popular merriment 
 of Chaucer, might be read the same sentence of con- 
 demnation awarded against them. Fierce warnings 
 were given to them at intervals. A petition against 
 them was addressed by the House of Commons to 
 Henry TV, The son of this prince, the man of 
 Agincourt, though superstitious enough, if super- 
 stition could have availed them, had in his short reign 
 (so occupied, one might have thought, with war and 
 foreign affairs) found time to read them a dreadful 
 warning : more than five scores of these offending 
 bodies (Priories Alien) were suppressed by that single 
 monarch, the laughing ffal of Jack Falstaff. One 
 whole century slipped away between this penal sup- 
 pression and the ministry of Wolsey. What effect 
 can we ascribe to this admonitory chastisement upon 
 the general temper and conduct of the monastic 
 interest 1 It would be difficult beyond measure at 
 this day to draw up any a lequate report of the foul 
 abuses prevailing in the majority of religious houses, 
 for the three following reasons : — First, because the 
 
STORMS IN ENGLISH HISTORY, 
 
 .279 
 
 main record of such abuses, after it had been elabor- 
 ately compiled under the commission of Henry YIII., 
 was (at the instigation of his eldest daughter Mary) 
 most industriously destroyed by Bishop Bonner ; 
 secondly, because too generally the original oath of 
 religious fidelity and secrecy, in matters interesting 
 to the founder and the foundation, was held to inter- 
 fere with frank disclosures ; thirdly, because, as to 
 much of the most crying licentiousness, its full and 
 satisfactory detection too often depended upon a 
 surprise. Steal upon the delinquents suddenly, and 
 ten to one they were caught flagrante delicto: but 
 upon any notice transpiring of the hostile approach, 
 all was arranged so as to evade for the moment — or 
 in the end to baffle finally — search alike and suspicion. 
 
 The following report, which Mr. Fronde views as 
 the liveliest of all that Bishop Bonner’s zeal has 
 spared, offers a picturesque sketch of such cases, 
 according to the shape which they often assumed. In 
 Chaucer’s tale, told with such unrivalled vis comica, 
 of the Trompington Miller and the Two Cambridge 
 Scholars, we have a most life-like picture of the miller 
 with his ‘big bones,’ as a ‘dangerous’ man for the 
 nonce. Just such a man, just as dangerous, and just 
 as big-boned, we find in the person of an abbot — 
 defending his abbey, not by any reputation for sanctity 
 or learning, but solely by his dangerousness as the 
 wielder of quarter-staff and cudgel. With no bull- 
 dog or mastiff, and taken by surprise, such an abbot 
 naturally lost the stakes for which he played. The 
 letter is addressed to the Secretary of State : — ‘ Please 
 it your goodness to understand, that on Friday the 
 22nd of October (1535), I rode back with speed to take 
 
280 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 an inventory of Folkstone ; and thence I went to 
 Langden. Whereat immediately descending from 
 my horse, I sent Bartlett, your servant, with all my 
 servants, to circumsept the abbey [^. e. to form a 
 hedge round about], and surely to keep [guard] all 
 back-doors and starting holes. I myself went alone 
 to the abbot’s lodging — joining upon the fields and 
 wood.’ [This position, the reporter goes on to in- 
 sinuate, was no matter of chance : but, like a rabbit- 
 warren, had been so placed with a view to the 
 advantages for retreat and for cover in the adjacent 
 woodlands.] ‘I was a good space knocking at the 
 abbot’s door ; neither did any sound or sensible 
 manifestation of life betray itself, saving the abbot’s 
 little dog, that within his door, fast locked, bayed and 
 barked. I found a short pole-axe standing behind 
 the door ; and with it I dashed the abbot’s door in 
 pieces ictu oculi [in the twinkling of an eye] ; and set 
 one of my men to keep that door ; and about the 
 house I go with that pole-axe in my hand — ne forte 
 [‘‘ lest hy any chance ” ^ — holding in suspense such 
 words as ‘‘some violence should he offered^^^ — for the 
 abbot is a dangerous, desperate knave, and a hardy. 
 But, for a conclusion, his gentlewoman bestirred her 
 stumps towards her starting holes ; and then Bartlett, 
 watching the pursuit, took the tender demoisel ; and, 
 after I had examined her, to Dover — to the mayor, 
 to set her in some cage or prison for eight days. 
 And I brought holy father abbot to Canterbury ; 
 
 * ‘ Ne forte ’ is a case of what is learnedly called aposiopesis or 
 reticentia ; that is, where (for the sake of effect) some emphatic 
 
 words are left to be guessed at : as Virgil’s Qitos ego (Whom 
 
 if I catch. I’ll ) 
 
STORMS IN ENGLISH HISTORY. 
 
 281 
 
 and here, in Christ Church, I will leave him in 
 piison.’ 
 
 This little interlude, offering its several figures in 
 such life-like attitudes — its big-boned abbot prowling 
 up and down the precincts of the abbey for the chance 
 of a ‘ shy ’ at the intruding commissioner — the little 
 faithful bow-wow doing its petit possible to warn big- 
 bones of his danger, thus ending his faithful services 
 by an act of farewell loyalty — and the unlucky 
 demoisel scuttling away to her rabbit-warren, only to 
 find all the spiracles and peeping-holes preoccupied or 
 stopped, and her own ^ apparel ’ unhappily locked up 
 ‘ in the abbot his coffer,^ so as to render hopeless all 
 evasion or subsequent denial of the fact, that ten 
 big-boned ‘ indusia ’ (or shirts) lay interleaved in one 
 and the same ‘ coffer,’ inter totidem niveas camisas ^ (or 
 chemises) — all this framed itself as a little amusing 
 parenthesis, a sort of family picture amongst the 
 dreadful reports of ecclesiastical commissioners. 
 
 No suppression of the religious houses had originally 
 been designed j nothing more than a searching visit- 
 ation. And at this moment, yes, at this present 
 midsummer of 1856, waiting and looking forward to 
 the self-same joyful renewal of leases that then was 
 looked for in England, but not improbably, alas ! 
 summoned to the same ineffable disappointment as 
 fell more than three centuries back upon our own 
 
 * ‘ Camisas : ’ i. e. chemises ; but at one time the word camisa 
 was taken indifferently for shirt or chemise. And hence arose 
 the term camisado for a night-attack, in which the assailants 
 recognised each other in the dark by their white shirt-sleeves, 
 sometimes further distinguished by a tight cincture of broad 
 black riband. Tlie last literal camisado, that I remember, was a 
 nautical one — a cutting-out enterprise somewhere about 1807-8. 
 
282 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 England — lies, waiting for her doom, a great kingdom 
 in central Europe. She, and under the same causes, 
 may chance to be disappointed. What was it that 
 caused the tragic convulsion in England? Simply 
 this : regular and healthy visitation having ceased, 
 infinite abuses had arisen ; and these abuses, it was 
 found at last, could not be healed by any measure less 
 searching than absolute suppression. Austria, as 
 regards some of her provinces, stands in the same 
 circumstances at this very moment. Imperfect 
 visitations, that cleansed nothing, should naturally 
 have left her religious establishments languishing for 
 the one sole remedy that was found applicable to the 
 England of 1540. And what was that? It was a 
 remedy that carried along with it revolution. England 
 was found able in those days to stand that fierce 
 medicine : a more profound revolution has not often 
 been witnessed than that of our mighty Eeforma- 
 tion. Can Austria, considering the awful contagions 
 amongst which her political relations have entangled 
 her, hope for the same happy solution of her case ? 
 Perhaps a revolution, that once unlocks the fountains 
 of blood in central Germany, will be the bloodiest of 
 all revolutions : whereas, in our own chapters of 
 revolution even the stormiest, those of the Marian 
 Persecution and of the Parliamentary War, both 
 alike moved under restraints of law and legislative 
 policy. The very bloodiest promises of English 
 history have replied but feebly to the clamour and 
 expectations of cruel or fiery partisans. Different is 
 the prospect for Austria. From her, and from the 
 auguries of evil which becloud her else smiling atmo- 
 sphere, let us turn back to our own history in this 
 
STORMS IN ENGLISH HISTORY. 
 
 283 
 
 sixteenth century, and for a moment make a brief 
 inquest into the blood that really was shed — whether 
 justly or not justly. Bloodshed, as an instinct — 
 bloodshed, as an appetite — raged like a monsoon in 
 the French Revolution, and many centuries before in 
 the Rome of Sylla and Marius — in the Rome of the 
 Triumvirate, and generally in the period of Proscrip- 
 tions. Too fearfully it is evident that these fits of 
 acharnement were underlaid and fed by paroxysms of 
 personal cruelty. In England, on the other hand, 
 foul and hateful as was the Marian butchery, never- 
 theless it cannot be denied that this butchery rested 
 entirely upon principle. Homage offered to anti- 
 Lutheran principles, in a moment disarmed the Popish 
 executioner. Or if (will be the objection of the 
 reflecting reader) — if there are exceptions to this 
 rule, these must be looked for amongst the king’s 
 enemies. And the term ‘ enemies ’ will fail to repre- 
 sent adequately those who, not content with ranking 
 themselves wilfully amongst persons courting objects 
 irreconcilable to the king’s interests, sought to ex- 
 asperate the displeasure of Henry by special insults, 
 by peculiar mortifications, and by complex ingratitude. 
 Foremost amongst such cases stands forward the 
 separate treason of Anne Boleyn, mysterious to this 
 hour in some of its features, rank with pollutions 
 such as European prejudice would class with Italian 
 enormities, and by these very pollutions — literally by 
 and through the very excess of the guilt — claiming 
 to be incredible. Neither less nor more than this 
 which follows is the logic put into the mouth of the 
 Lady Anne Boleyn : — From the mere enormity of the 
 guilt imputed to me, from that very abysmal stye of 
 
284 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 incestuous adultery in which now I wallow, I challenge 
 as of right the presumption that I am innocent ; for 
 the very reason that I am loaded in my impeachment 
 with crimes that are inhuman, I claim to be no 
 criminal at all. Because my indictment is revolting 
 and monstrous, therefore is it incredible. The case, 
 taken apart from the person, would not (unless 
 through its mysteriousness and imperfect circum- 
 stantiation) have attracted the interest which has given 
 it, and will in all time coming continue to give it, a 
 root in history amongst insoluble or doubtfully soluble 
 historical problems. The case, being painful and 
 shocking, would by readers generally have long since 
 been dismissed to darkness. But the person, too 
 critically connected with a vast and immortal revolu- 
 tion, will for ever call back the case before the 
 tribunals of earth. Trip mother of Queen Elizabeth, 
 the mother of Protestantism in England, cannot be 
 suffered — never will be suffered — to benefit by that 
 shelter of merciful darkness which, upon any humbler 
 person, or even upon this person in any humbler case, 
 might be suffered to settle quietly as regards the 
 memory of her acts. Mr. Froude, a pure-minded 
 man, is the last man to call back into the glare of a 
 judicial inquest deeds of horror, over which eternal 
 silence should have brooded, had such an issue been 
 possible. But three centuries of discussion have 
 made that more and more impossible. And now, 
 therefore, with a view to the improvement of the 
 dispute, and, perhaps, in one or two instances, with a 
 chance for the rectification of the ‘ issues ’ (speaking 
 juridically) into which the question has been allowed 
 to lapse, Mr. Froude has in some degree re-opened 
 
STORMS IN ENGLISH HISTORY. 
 
 285 
 
 the discussion. ‘The guilt/ he says, ‘must rest 
 where it is due. But under any hypothesis guilt 
 there was — dark, mysterious, and most miserable.’ 
 
 Tell this story how you may, and the evidence 
 remains of guilt under any hypothesis — guilt such as 
 in Grecian tragedy was seen thousands of years ago 
 hanging in clouds of destiny over princely houses, 
 and reading to them a doom of utter ruin, root and 
 branch, in which, as in the anarchy of hurricanes, no 
 form or feature was descried distinctly — nothing but 
 some dim fluctuating phantom, pointing with recording 
 finger to that one ancestral crime thiough which the 
 desolation had been wrought. 
 
 Mr. Froude, through his natural sense of justice, 
 and his deep study of the case, is unfavourably dis- 
 posed towards the Lady Anne Boleyn : nevertheless 
 he retains lingering doubts on her behalf, all of which, 
 small and great, we have found reason to dismiss. 
 We, for our parts, are thoroughly convinced of her 
 guilt. Our faith is, that no shadow of any ground 
 exists for suspending the verdict of the sentence ; but 
 at the same time for mitigating that sentence there 
 arose this strong argument — namely, that amongst 
 women not formally pronounced idiots, there never 
 can have been one more pitiably imbecile. 
 
 There is a mystery hanging over her connection 
 with the king which nobody has attempted to disperse 
 We will ourselves suggest a few considerations that 
 may bring a little coherency amongst the scattered 
 glimpses of her fugitive court life. The very first 
 thought that presents itself, is a sentiment, that 
 would be pathetic in the case of a person entitled to 
 more respect, upon the brevity of her public career. 
 
286 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 Apparently she lost the king’s favour almost in the 
 very opening of her married life. But in what way ? 
 ISTot, we are persuaded, through the king’s caprice. 
 There was hardly time for caprice to have operated ; 
 and her declension in favour from that cause would 
 have been gradual. Time there was none for her 
 beauty to decay — neither had it decayed. We are 
 disposed to think that in a very early stage of her 
 intercourse with the king, she had irritated the king 
 by one indication of mental imbecility rarely under- 
 stood even amongst medical men — namely, the 
 offensive habit of laughing profusely without the 
 least sense of anything ludicrous or comic. Oxford, 
 or at least one of those who shot at the Queen, was 
 signally distinguished by this habit. Without reason 
 or pretext, he would break out into causeless laughter, 
 not connected with any impulse that he could explain. 
 With this infirmity Anne Boleyn was plagued in 
 excess. On the 2nd of May, 1536, the very first day 
 on which she was made aware of the dreadful accusa- 
 tions hanging over her good name and her life, on 
 being committed to the Tower, and taken by Sir 
 William Kingston, the governor, to the very same 
 chambers in which she had lain at the period of her 
 coronation, she said, ‘ It ’ (meaning the suite of rooms) 
 ‘ is too good for me ; Jesu, have mercy on me ; ’ next 
 she kneeled down, ‘ weeping a great space.’ Such are 
 Sir William’s words ; immediately after which he 
 adds, ‘and in the same sorrow fell into a great 
 laughing.’ A day or two later than this, she said, 
 ‘ Master Kingston, shall I die without justice ? ’— 
 meaning, it seems, would she be put to death without 
 any judicial examination of her case ; upon which Sir 
 
STORMS IN ENGLISH HISTORY. 287 
 
 William replied, ‘ The poorest subject the king hath, 
 had justice ’ — meaning, that previously to such an 
 examination of his case, he could not by regular 
 course of justice be put to death. Such was the 
 question of the prisoner — such was the answer of the 
 king’s representative. What occasion was here 
 suggested for rational laughter ? And yet laughter 
 was her sole comment. ‘ Therewith,’ says Sir William, 
 ‘ she laughed.’ On May 18th, being the day next 
 before that of her execution, she said, ‘ Master 
 Kingston, I hear say I shall not die afore noon ; and 
 I am very sorry therefore, for I thought to be dead 
 by this time, and past my pain.’ Upon this Sir 
 William assured her ‘ it should be no pain, it was so 
 subtle ; ’ meaning that the stroke of a sword by a 
 powerful arm, applied to a slender neck, could not 
 meet resistance enough to cause any serious pain. 
 She replied, ‘ I heard say the executioner was very 
 good, and I have a little neck;’ after which she 
 laughed heartily. Sir William so much misunder- 
 stood this laughter, which was doubtless of the same 
 morbid and idiotic character as all the previous cases, 
 that he supposes her to have had ‘ much joy and 
 pleasure in death,’ which is a mere misconstruction of 
 the case. Even in the very act of dying she could 
 not check her smiling, which assuredly was as morbid 
 in its quality and origin as what of old was known as 
 ‘ risus sardonicus.^ 
 
 Carrying along with us, therefore, a remembrance 
 of this repulsive habit, which argues a silliness so 
 constitutional, and noting also the obstinate (almost 
 it might be called the brutal) folly with which, during 
 the last seventeen days of her life, she persisted in 
 
288 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 criminating herself, volunteering a continued rehearsal 
 of conversations the most profligate, under a mere 
 instinct of gossiping, we shall begin to comprehend 
 the levity which no doubt must have presided in her 
 conversations with the king. Too evidently in a 
 court but . recently emerging from barbarism, there 
 was a shocking defect of rules or fixed ceremonial for 
 protecting the dignity of the queen and of her female 
 attendants. The settlement of any such rules 
 devolved upon the queen herself, in default of any 
 traditional system ; and unhappily here was a queen 
 without sense, without prudence, without native and 
 sexual dignity for suggesting or upholding such 
 restraints, and whose own breeding and experience 
 had been purely French. Strange it was that the 
 king’s good sense, or even his jealousy, had not 
 peremptorily enjoined, as a caution of mere decency, 
 the constant presence of some elderly matrons, uniting 
 rank and station with experience and good sense. 
 But not the simplest guarantees for ordinary decorum 
 were apparently established in the royal household. 
 And the shocking spectacle was daily to be seen, of a 
 young woman, singularly beautiful, atrociously silly, 
 and without common self-respect, styling herself 
 Queen of England, yet exacting no more respect or 
 homage than a housemaid, suffering young men, the 
 most licentious in all England, openly to speculate on 
 the contingency of her husband’s death, to talk of it 
 in language the coarsest, as ‘ waiting for dead men’s 
 shoes,’ and bandying to and fro the chances that this 
 man or that man, according to the whim of the 
 morning, should ‘ have her,’ or should not ‘ have her ’ 
 — that is, have the reversion of the queen’s person as 
 
STORMS IN ENGLISH HISTORY. 
 
 289 
 
 a derelict of the king. All this, though most injurious 
 to her prospects, was maJe known by Anne Boleyn 
 herself to the female companions who were appointed 
 to watch her revelations in prison. And certainly no 
 chambermaid ever rehearsed her own colloquies with 
 these vile profligates in a style of thinking more abject 
 than did at this period the female majesty of England. 
 Listening to no accuser, but simply to the unsolicited 
 revelations of the queen herself, as she lay in bed 
 amongst her female attendants in the Tower, every 
 man of sense becomes aware, that if these pre- 
 sumptuous young libertines abstained from daily 
 proposals to the queen of the most criminal nature, 
 that could arise only from the reserve and suspicion 
 incident to a state of rivalship, and not from any 
 deference paid to the queen’s personal pretensions, or 
 to her public character. 
 
 Three years, probably one-half of that term, had 
 seen the beginning, the decay, and the utter extinction 
 of the king’s affection for Anne. It is known now, 
 and at the time it had furnished a theme for con- 
 jecture, that very soon after his marriage the king 
 manifested uneasiness, and not long after angry 
 suspicions, upon matters connected with the queen. 
 We have no doubt that she herself, whilst seeking to 
 amuse the king with fragments of her French experi- 
 ences, had, through mere oversight and want of tact, 
 unintentionally betrayed the risks to which her 
 honour had been at times exposed. Without presence 
 of mind, without inventive talent or rapidity of 
 artifice, she would often compromise herself, and 
 overshoot her momentary purposes of furnishing 
 amusement to the king. He had heard too much. 
 
 VOL. I. T 
 
290 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 He believed no longer in her purity. And very soon, 
 as a natural consequence, she ceased to interest him. 
 The vague wish to get rid of her would for some time 
 suggest no hopeful devices towards such a purpose. 
 For some months, apparently, he simply neglected 
 her. This neglect unhappily it was that threw her 
 unprotected upon the vile society of young libertines. 
 Two of these — Sir Henry Norris and Sir Francis 
 Weston — had been privileged friends of the king. 
 But no restraints of friendship or of duty had checked 
 their designs upon the queen. Either special words, 
 or special acts, had been noticed and reported to the 
 king. Thenceforward a systematic watch had been 
 maintained upon all parties. Discoveries more 
 shocking than anybody looked for had been made. 
 The guilty parties had been careless : blind them- 
 selves, they thought all others blind ; but, during 
 the April of 1536, the Privy Council had been 
 actively engaged in digesting and arranging the 
 information received. 
 
 On May-day, the most gladsome day in the whole 
 year, according to the usages of that generation, the 
 dreadful news transpired of the awful accusations and 
 the impending trials. Smeton, a musician, was the 
 only person not of gentlemanly rank amongst the 
 accused. He was accused of adultery with the 
 queen ; and he confessed the offence ; never retract- 
 ing that part of his confession. In discussing the 
 probabilities of the case, it is necessary to use special 
 and extraordinary caution. The confession, for in- 
 stance, of Anne herself has been treated as hollow 
 and unmeaning ; because, it is alleged, the king’s 
 promise of indulgence and favour to her infant 
 
STORMS IN ENGLISH HISTORY. 
 
 291 
 
 daughter was purchased under the condition of con- 
 fession. It is clear that such a traffic would not have 
 been available except in special and exceptional cases. 
 As to Smeton, he did not at all meet the king’s 
 expectations, except as to the one point of confessing 
 the adultery. Consequently, as he was quite dis- 
 interested, had nothing at all to gain, and did gain 
 nothing by his confession, him we are obliged to 
 believe. On the other hand, the 7 ^ 07 ^-confession of 
 some amongst the gentlemen, if any there were that 
 steadfastly adhered to this non-confession, proves 
 nothing at all ; since they thought it perfidy to con- 
 fess such a case against a woman. Meantime, Con- 
 stantyne, a known friend of Sir H. Norris and of 
 Sir W. Brereton, two of the four gentlemen accused, 
 declares that, for himself, being a Protestant, and 
 knowing the queen’s secret leaning to that party, he 
 and all other ‘ friends of the gospel ’ could not bring 
 themselves to believe that the queen had behaved so 
 abominably. ‘ As I may be saved before God,’ he 
 says, ‘ I could not believe it, afore I heard them speak 
 at their death. But on the scaffold, in a manner all 
 confessed, unless Norris ; and as to him, what he said 
 amounted to nothing.’ The truth is, there occurred 
 in the cases of these gentlemen a dreadful struggle. 
 The dilemma for them was perhaps the most trying 
 upon record. Gallantry and manly tenderness forbade 
 any man’s confessing, for a certain result of ruin to a 
 woman, any treasonable instances of love which she 
 had shown to him. Yet, on the other hand, to deny 
 was to rush into the presence of God with a lie upon 
 their lips. Hence the unintelligible character of their 
 final declarations. Smeton, as no gentleman, was 
 
292 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 hanged. All the other four — Norris, Brereton, 
 Weston, and Eochford — were bsheaded. The four 
 gentlemen and Smeton suffered all on the same day 
 — namely, Wednesday, the 17th of May. Of all the 
 five. Sir W. Brereton was the only one whose guilt 
 was doubted. Yet he was the most emphatic in 
 declaring his own guilt. If he could die a thousand 
 deaths, he said, all would be deserved. 
 
 But the crime of all the rest seemed pale by the 
 side of Eochford’s. He had been raised to the 
 peerage by Henry, as an expression of his kindness 
 to the Boleyn family. He was the brother of Anne ; 
 and whilst the others had offended by simple adultery 
 with Anne, his crime was incestuous adultery ; and 
 his dying words appeared (to the auditors), ‘ if not,’ 
 says Mr. Froude, ‘ a confession, yet something too 
 nearly resembling it.’ 
 
 From such dreadful offences, all readers are glad 
 to hurry away ; yet in one respect this awful im- 
 peachment has a reconciling effect. No reader after 
 this wishes for further life to Anne. For her own 
 sake it is plain that through death must lie the one 
 sole peaceful solution of her unhappy and erring life. 
 Some people have most falsely supposed that the case 
 against the brother and sister, whatever might be 
 pronounced upon the four other cases, laboured under 
 antecedent improbabilities so great as to vitiate, or 
 to load with suspicion, the entire case of the Privy 
 Council. But, on the contrary, the shocking mon- 
 strosity of the charge strengthens the anti-Boleyn 
 impeachment. As a means for getting rid of Anne, 
 the Eochford case was not at all needed. If it could 
 even in dreams be represented as false, the injury 
 
STORMS IN ENGLISH HISTORY. 
 
 293 
 
 offered to the Boleyns, whilst quite superfluous for 
 any purpose of Henry’s, would be too atrocious an 
 outrage upon truth and natural justice for human 
 nature to tolerate. The very stones would mutiny 
 against such a calumny coming as a crown or crest 
 to other injuries separately unendurable, if they could 
 once be regarded as injuries at all. Under these 
 circumstances, what should we think of a call upon 
 Lord Berkshire, the very father of Anne Boleyn, to 
 sit as one of the judges upon the cases. Not, indeed, 
 upon the cases of his son and his daughter ; from 
 such Boman trials of fortitude he was excused ; but 
 on the other cases he was required to officiate as one 
 of the judges. And, in fact, the array of rank and 
 splendour, as exhibited in the persons of those who 
 composed the court, surpassed anything previously 
 known in England. On the part of the crown, it 
 was too keenly felt that the deep personal interest of 
 the king, in obtaining liberty to form a new marriage 
 connection with Jane Seymour, would triumphantly 
 outweigh all the justice that ever could be arrayed 
 against the two Boleyns. Nothing could win a 
 moment’s audience for the royal cause, except an un- 
 paralleled and matchless splendour in the composition 
 of the court. This, therefore, was secured. Pretty 
 nearly the whole peerage of that period was embattled 
 upon the bench of judges. 
 
 Meantime, the tragedy, so far as the queen is 
 concerned, took a turn which convicts all parties of a 
 blunder ; of a blunder the most needless and super- 
 fluous. This blunder was exposed by Bishop Burnet 
 about a hundred and fifty years later, but most 
 insufficiently exposed ; and to this hour it has not 
 
294 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 been satisfactorily cleared up. Let us pursue the 
 arrears of the case. The four gentlemen, together 
 with Mark Smeton, were executed (as we have seen) 
 on Wednesday, the 17th of May, 1536. Two days 
 later Queen Anne Boleyn was brought out at noonday 
 upon the verdant lawn within the Tower, and with 
 very slight ceremonies she suffered decapitation. A 
 single cannon-shot proclaimed to Lo-ndon and West- 
 minster the final catastrophe of this unhappy romance. 
 Anne had offered not one word of self- vindication on 
 this memorable occasion ; and, if her motive to so 
 signal a forbearance were really consideration for the 
 interests of her infant daughter, it must be granted 
 that she exhibited, in the farewell act of her life, a 
 grandeur of self-conquest which no man could have 
 anticipated. For this act she has never received the 
 homage which she deserved ; whilst, on the other 
 hand, praise most unmerited has been given for three 
 centuries to the famous letter of self-defence which 
 she is reputed to have addressed to the king at the 
 opening of her trial. This letter, beyond all doubt 
 a forgery, was first brought into effectual notice by 
 the Spectator somewhere about 1710; and, whether 
 authentic or not, is most injudiciously composed. It 
 consists of five paragraphs, each one of which is 
 pulling distractedly in contradictory directions. 
 
 Meantime, that or any other act of Anne Boleyn’s 
 was superseded by a fatal discovery, which changed 
 utterly the relations of all parties, which in effect 
 acquitted Anne of treason, and which summarily 
 rehabilitated as untainted subjects of the king those 
 five men who had suffeied death in the character of 
 traitors. The marriage of Anne to the king, it was 
 
STORMS IX ENGLISH HISTORY. 
 
 295 
 
 suddenly discovered, had from the beginning been 
 void. It is true that we have long ceased to accredit 
 those objections from precontracts, &c., which in the 
 papal courts would be held to establish a nullity. But 
 we are to proceed by the laws as then settled. Grounds 
 of scruple, which would now raise at most a mere case 
 of irregularity, at that time, unless met ah initio by 
 a papal dispensation, did legally constitute a flaw 
 such as even a friendly pope could not effectually 
 cure ; far less that angry priest, blazing up with 
 wrath, and at intervals meditating an interdict, who 
 at present occupied the chair of St. Peter. Here was 
 a discovery to make, after so much irreparable in- 
 justice had been already perpetrated ! If (which is 
 too certain), under the marriage laws then valid, 
 Anne Boleyn never had been the lawful wife of 
 Henry, then, as Bishop Burnet suddenly objected 
 when too late by one hundred and fifty years, what 
 became of the adultery imputed to Anne, and the five 
 young courtiers? Not being the king’s wife, both 
 she was incapable in law of committing adultery as 
 against the king, and by an inevitable consequence 
 they were incapable of participating in a crime which 
 she was incapable of committing. 
 
 When was this fatal blunder detected ? Evidently 
 before any of the victims had become cold in their 
 graves. And the probability is — that, when the 
 blunder was first perceived, the dreadful consequences 
 of that blunder, and the legal relations of those con- 
 sequences, were not immediately discerned. What 
 convinces us of this is, that the first impulse of the 
 king and his advisers, upon discovering through a 
 secret communication made by Anne the existence of 
 
296 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 a precontract, and the consequent vitiation of her 
 marriage with the king, had been, to charge upon 
 Anne a new and scandalous offence. Not until they 
 had taken time to review the case, did they become 
 aware of the injustice that had been perpetrated by 
 their own precipitance : and as this was past all 
 reparation, probably it was agreed amongst the few 
 who were parties to the fatal oversight, that the 
 safest course was to lock up the secret in darkness. 
 But it is singular to watch the fatality of error which 
 pursued this ill-starred marriage. Every successive 
 critic, in exposing the errors of his predecessor, has 
 himself committed some fresh blunder. Bishop 
 Burnet, for instance, first of all in a Protestant age 
 indicated the bloody mistakes of papal lawyers in 
 1536; not meaning at all to describe these mistakes 
 as undetected by those who were answerable for them. 
 Though hushed up, they were evidently known to 
 their unhappy authors. Next upon Burnet, down 
 comes Mr. Froude. Burnet had shaped his criticism 
 thus : ‘ If,^ he says, ‘ the queen was not married to 
 the king, there was no adultery.^ Certainly not. 
 But, says Mr. Froude, Burnet forgets that she was 
 condemned for conspiracy and incest, as well as for 
 adultery. Then thirdly come we, and reverting to 
 this charge of forgetfulness upon Burnet, we say, 
 Forgets ! but how was he bound to remember ? The 
 conspiracy, the incest, the adultery, all alike vanish 
 from the record exactly as the character of wife 
 vanishes from Anne. With any or all of these 
 crimes Henry had no right to intermeddle. They 
 were the crimes of one who never had borne any 
 legal relation to him ; crimes, therefore, against her 
 
STORMS IN ENGLISH HISTORY. 
 
 297 
 
 own conscience, but not against the king in any 
 character that he was himself willing permanently to 
 assume. 
 
 On this particular section of Henry’s reign, the 
 unhappy episode of his second wife, Mr. Froude has 
 erred by insufficient rigour of justice. Inclined to 
 do more justice than is usually done to the king, and 
 not blind to the dissolute character of Anne, he has 
 yet been carried, by the pity inalienable from the 
 situation, to concede more to the pretences of doubt 
 and suspense than is warranted by the circumstances 
 of the case. Anne Boleyn was too surely guilty up 
 to the height of Messalina’s guilt, and far beyond 
 that height in one atrocious instance. 
 
 Passing from that to the general pretensions of 
 this very eloquent and philosophic book, we desire to 
 say — that Mr. Froude is the first writer (first and 
 sole) who has opened his eyes to comprehend th e 
 grandeur of this tremendous reign. 
 
THE ENGLISH IN INDIA. 
 
 In now reproducing the three series of notes on the 
 Indian Mutiny written by De Quincey for me in 
 Titan, I must advert briefly to the agony of appre- 
 hension under which the two earlier chapters were 
 written. I can never forget the intense anxiety with 
 which he studied daily the columns of The Scotsman 
 and The Times, looking wistfully for tidings from 
 Roorkhee where his daughter Florence was shut up. 
 The father’s heart was on the rack until news arrived 
 that the little garrison was saved. 
 
 The following paragraph from a letter written to 
 his daughter Emily on Sunday, December 1st, 1857, 
 will give some idea of the tension of that terrible 
 suspense : — 
 
 ‘ India. — Tip to the last mail but one (or briefly in 
 its Latin form, up to the penultimate mail), I suffered 
 in my nervous system to an extent that (except 
 once, in 1812) had not experimentally been made 
 known to me as a possibility. Every night, often- 
 times all night long, I had the same dream — a vision 
 of children, most of them infants, but not all, the 
 first rank being girls of five and six years old, who 
 were standing in the air outside, but so as to touch 
 the window ; and I heard, or perhaps fancied that I 
 heard, always the same dreadful word Delhi, not then 
 
THE ENGLISH IN INDIA. 
 
 299 
 
 knowing that a word even more dreadful — Cawnpore 
 — was still in arrear. This fierce shake to my 
 nerves caused almost from the beginning a new 
 symptom to expose itself (of which previously I never 
 had the faintest outline), viz. somnambulism ; and 
 now every night, to my great alarm, I wake up 
 to find myself at the window, which is sixteen feet 
 from the nearest side of the bed. The horror was 
 unspeakable from the hell-dog Nena or ISTana; how 
 if this fiend should get hold of Florence or her baby 
 (now within seventeen days of completing her half 
 year) 1 What first gave me any relief w^as a good 
 firm-toned letter, dated Rourkee,^ in the public jour- 
 nals, from which it was plain that Rourkee had found 
 itself able to act aggressively.’ 
 
 De Quincey had reason to be proud of his son-in- 
 law, Colonel Baird Smith, whose varied and brilliant 
 services, culminating at the siege of Delhi, are 
 written in the pages of Sir John Kaye’s and Colonel 
 Malleson’s History of the Sepoy War. 
 
 On that fateful day at Delhi, when so much hung 
 upon the decision as to whether the British should 
 hold the ground they had won in the first assault, it 
 is not too much to say that ‘ the splendid obstinacy ’ 
 of Baird Smith practically saved India. 
 
 I throw together a few passages from the thrilling 
 pages vrhere the story is told — sufficient to enable 
 the reader who comes fresh to the subject, to under- 
 stand what manner of man this gallant engineer was 
 who made his mark on British India. 
 
 ije ^ * 
 
 * ADglo-Indian authorities seem to spell this word in four 
 different ways. — H. 
 
303 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 Rurki (or Roorkhee) was the head-quarters of the 
 Engineering Science of the country. When the 
 news came of the Delhi massacre, Baird Smith in- 
 stantly made ‘ admirable arrangements for the defence 
 of the great engineering depot, in which he took such 
 earnest and loving interest. Officially, he was super- 
 intendent of irrigation in the north-western pro- 
 vinces — a most useful functionary, great in all the 
 arts of peace, and with a reputation which any man 
 might be proud to possess. But the man of much 
 science now grew at once into the man of war, and 
 Riirki became a garrison under his command. Not 
 an hour was lost.’ 
 
 ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 
 
 His timely express to Major Charles Reid to bring 
 his men on by the Ganges Canal route instead of by 
 forced marches was an early evidence of his combina- 
 tion of dash and sound judgment. Reid said, that 
 it saved the place and the lives of the ladies and 
 children. 
 
 From the hour that he made his appearance before 
 Delhi as Chief Engineer, a succession of incidents 
 stand on record which show his skill and courage. 
 On the first occasion of Brigadier-General Wilson 
 consulting him professionally, ‘ he threw all the 
 earnestness of his nature into a great remonstrance 
 against the project of withdrawal. He told the 
 General that to raise the siege would be fatal to our 
 national interests. ‘It is our duty,’ he said, ‘to 
 retain the grip which we now have upon Delhi, and 
 to hold on like Grim Death until the place is our 
 own.’ He argued it ably. Wilson listened, and was 
 convinced. 
 
THE ENGLISH IN INDIA. 
 
 301 
 
 In that supreme moment at the storming of Delhi, 
 when the repulse of two columns, the heavy losses, 
 and the great strength of the place caused the 
 General to hesitate whether to continue the opera- 
 tions, England had cause to feel thankful for the 
 tenacity and daring of two of her sons : — 
 
 ‘ From this fatal determination General Wilson 
 was saved by the splendid obstinacy of Baird 
 Smith, aided by the soldier-like instincts of Neville 
 Chamberlain. ^ ^ ^ ^ The General undoubtedly 
 believed that the safety of the army would be com- 
 promised by the retention of the positions they had 
 gained. Fortunately, Baird Smith was at his elbow. 
 Appealed to by General Wilson as to whether he 
 thought it possible for the army to retain the ground 
 they had won, his answer was short and decisive, 
 “We must do so ! ” That was all. But the uncom- 
 promising tone, the resolute manner, the authority 
 of the speaker, combined to make it a decision against 
 which there was no appeal. General Wilson 
 accepted it. ^ ^ ^ It is not too much to 
 
 affirm, that a retrograde movement would, for the 
 time, have lost India.’ 
 
 ^ ^ ^ ^ 
 
 In spite of the sufferings attendant on a severe 
 wound, the indomitable spirit of this brave soldier 
 carried him through all trials until India was practi- 
 cally saved. Then, shattered by his many exertions, 
 the breathing time came too late. His career is 
 thus summed up in the following inscription on his 
 tomb in Calcutta Cathedral : — 
 
 ‘Colonel Bichard Baird Smith of the Bengal 
 Engineers, Master of the Calcutta Mint, C.B. and 
 
302 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 A.D.C. to the Queen, whose career, crowded with 
 brilliant service, cut short at its brightest, was born 
 at Lass wade on the 31st of December, 1818. He 
 went to India in 1836. Already distinguished in the 
 two Sikh wars, his conduct on the outbreak of revolt 
 in 1857 showed what a clear apprehension, a stout 
 heart, and a hopeful spirit could effect with scanty 
 means in crushing disorder. Called to Delhi as chief 
 engineer, his bold and ready judgment, his weighty 
 and tenacious counsels, played a foremost part in 
 securing the success of the siege and England’s 
 supremacy. The gathered wisdom of many years 
 spent in administering the irrigation of Upper India, 
 trained him for his crowning service — the survey of 
 the great famine of 1861, the provision of relief, and 
 the suggestions of safeguards against such calamities. 
 Broken by accumulated labours, he died at sea, Dec. 13, 
 1861, aged scarcely 43 years. At Madras, where his 
 Indian career began, his body awaits the resurrection.’ 
 
 His great work, the Report on Italian Irrigation^ 
 published with maps and plans in 1852, remains a 
 monument of his engineering ability. Colonel Baird 
 Smith also published : — 
 
 (1) Agricultural Resources of the Punjab. London : 
 1849. 8vo. 
 
 (2) The Cauvery, Kistnahy and Godavery ; being a 
 report on the works constructed on these rivers for the 
 Irrigation of the provinces of Tanjore, Guntoor, 
 Masulipatam, and Rajahmundry, in the Presidency of 
 Madras. London : 1856. 8vo. 
 
 (3) A Short Account of the Ganges Canal, with a 
 description of some of the Principal Works. 40 pp. 
 Thomason College Press, Boorkee : 1870. 8vo. — H. 
 
THE ENGLISH IN INDIA. 
 
 303 
 
 I. 
 
 HURRIED NOTICES OF INDIAN AFFAIRS. 
 
 {Septcmher, 1857.) 
 
 From the foundations of the earth, no case in 
 human action or suffering has occurred which could 
 less need or less tolerate the aid of artificial rhetoric 
 than that tremendous tragedy which pow for three 
 months long has been moving over the plains of 
 Hindostan. What in Grecian days were called apor- 
 reta {aTropprjTo), things not utterable in human language 
 or to human ears — things ineffable — things to be 
 whispered — things to dream of, not to tell ^ — these 
 things amongst high-caste Brahmims, and amongst the 
 Bajapoots, or martial race of heroes, have been the 
 common product of the passing hour.t Is this welH 
 Is this a fitting end for the mighty religious system 
 that through countless generations has overshadowed 
 India? Yes, it is well: it is a fitting end for that 
 man-destroying system, more cruel than the bloody 
 religions of Mexico, which, for the deification of the 
 individual, made hopeless Helots of the multitude. 
 Henceforward caste must virtually be at an end. 
 Upon caste has our Bengal army founded a final treason 
 bloodier and larger than any known to human annals. 
 Now, therefore, mere instincts of self-preservation — 
 mere shame — mere fiery stress of necessity, will com- 
 pel our East India Directory (or whatsoever power 
 
 * ‘A sight to dream of, not to tell.’ — Coleridge. 
 t Twenty-three and twenty-eight thousand of these two 
 orders we have in our Bengal army. 
 
304 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 may now under parliamentary appointment inherit 
 their responsibilities) to proscribe, once and for ever, 
 by steadfast exclusion from all possibility of a martial 
 career — to ruin by legal degradation and incapacities, 
 all Hindoo pretensions to places of trust, profit, or 
 public dignity which found themselves upon high 
 caste, as Brahmins or Bajapoots. Yes, it is well that 
 the high-caste men, who existed only for the general 
 degradation of their own Hindoo race in humbler 
 stations, have themselves severed the links which 
 connected thSm with the glory (so unmerited for 
 them) of a nobler Western nationality. Bought 
 though it is by earthly ruin, by torment, many times 
 by indignities past utterance inflicted upon our dear 
 massacred sisters, and upon their unoffending infants, 
 yet for that very reason we must now maintain the 
 great conquest so obtained. There is no man living 
 so base — no, there is not a felon living amongst us, who 
 could be persuaded to repeat the act of the Grecian 
 leader Agamemnon — namely, to sacrifice his innocent 
 daughter, just entering the portals of life in its most 
 golden stage, on the miserable pretence of winning 
 a public benefit ; masking a diabolical selfishness by 
 the ostentation of public spirit. Yet if some calamity, 
 or even some atrocity, had carried off the innocent 
 creature under circumstances which involved an ad- 
 vantage to her country, or to coming generations, 
 the most loving father might gradually allow himself 
 to draw consolation from the happy consequences of 
 a crime which he would have died to prevent. Even 
 such a mixed necessity of feeling presses upon our- 
 selves at present. From the bloody graves of our 
 dear martyred sisters, scattered over the vast plains 
 
THE ENGLISH IN INDIA. 
 
 305 
 
 of India, rises a solemn adjuration to the spiritual ear 
 of Him that listens with understanding. Audibly 
 this spiritual voice says : O dear distant England ! 
 mighty to save, were it not that in the dreadful hour 
 of our trial thou wert far away, and heardest not the 
 screams of thy dying daughters and of their perishing 
 infants. Behold! for us all is finished! We from 
 our bloody graves, in which all of us are sleeping to 
 the resurrection, send up united prayers to thee, that 
 upon the everlasting memory of our hell-born wrongs, 
 thou, beloved mother, wouldst engraft a counter- 
 memory of everlasting retribution, inflicted upon the 
 Moloch idolatries of India. Upon the pride of caste 
 rests for its ultimate root all this towering tragedy, 
 which now hides the very heavens from India. Grant, 
 therefore, O distant, avenging England — grant the 
 sole commensurate return which to us can be granted 
 — us women and ’children that trod the fields of car- 
 nage alone — grant to our sufferings the virtue and 
 lasting efficacy of a lutron (Xvrpoy), or ransom paid 
 down on behalf of every creature groaning under the 
 foul idol of caste. Only by the sufferance of England 
 can that idolatry prosper. Thou, therefore, England^ 
 when Delhi is swept by the ploughshare and sown 
 with salt, build a solitary monument to us ; and on 
 its base inscribe that the last and worst of the mur- 
 derous idolatries which plagued and persecuted the 
 generations of men was by us abolished a^cL that by 
 women and children was the pollution of c'aste cleansed 
 from the earth for ever ! 
 
 Now let us descend into the circumstantialities 
 of the case, explaining what may have been obscure 
 VOL. I. u 
 
/ 
 
 306 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 to the general reader. By which term general reader 
 is meant, that reader who has had no reason for 
 cultivating any acquaintance whatever with India ; 
 to whom, therefore, the whole subject is unbroken 
 ground ; and who neither knows, nor pretends to 
 know, the merest outline of our British connection 
 with India ; what first carried us thither ; what 
 accidents of good lack and of imminent peril raised 
 us from a mere commercial to a political standing ; 
 how we improved this standing by prodigious energy 
 into the position of a conquering state ; prospered 
 rapidly by the opposition which we met ; overthrew 
 even our European competitors, of whom the deadliest 
 were the French ; pursued a difficult war with an able 
 Mahometan upstart, Hyder Ali — a treacherous and 
 cruel prince ; next with his son, Tippoo Sahib, a still 
 more ferocious scoundrel, who, in his second war with 
 us, was settled effectually by one thrust of a bayonet 
 in the hands of an English soldier. This war, and 
 the consequent division of Tippoo’s dominions, closed 
 the eighteenth century. About 1817 we undertook 
 the great Mahratta war; the victorious termination 
 of which placed us, after sixty years of struggle, in 
 the supreme rank amongst Indian potentates. All 
 the rest of our power and greatness accrued to us by 
 a natural and spontaneous evolution of consequences, 
 most of which would have followed us as if by some 
 magnetic attraction, had we ourselves been passive. 
 No conquering state was ever yet so mild and be- 
 neficent in the spirit of its government, or so free 
 from arrogance in its demeanour. An impression 
 thoroughly false prevails even amongst ourselves, 
 that we have pursued a systematic course of usurpa- 
 
THE ENGLISH IN INDIA. 
 
 307 
 
 tions, and have displaced all the ancient thrones of 
 Hindostan. Unfortunately for this representation, 
 it happens that all the leading princes of India whose 
 power and rank brought them naturally into collision 
 with ourselves, could not be ancient, having been 
 originally official dependants upon the great Tartar 
 prince, whose throne was usually at Agra or Delhi, 
 and whom we called sometimes the Emperor, or the 
 Shah, or more often the Great Mogul. During the 
 decay of the Mogul throne throughout the eighteenth 
 century, these dependent princes had, by continual 
 encroachments on the weakness of their sovereign, 
 made themselves independent rulers ; but they could 
 not be older than the great Mogul Shah himself, who 
 had first created them. Now the Mogul throne was 
 itself a mere modern creation, owing its birth to 
 Baber, the great-grandson of Tamerlane. But Baber, 
 the eldest of these Tartar princes, synchronised with 
 our English Henry YIII. In reality, there was 
 nothing old in India that could be displaced by us ; 
 at least amongst the Mahometan princes. Some 
 ancient Hindoo Bajahs there were in obscure corners, 
 but without splendour of wealth or military distinc- 
 tion ; and the charge of usurpation was specially 
 absurd, since we pre-eminently were the king-makers, 
 the king-supporters, the king-pensioners, . in Hindo- 
 stan ; and excepting the obscure princes just men- 
 tioned, almost every Indian prince, at the time of our 
 opening business in the political line, happened to be 
 a usurper. We ourselves made the Bajah of Oude 
 into a king ; we ourselves more than once saved the 
 supreme Shah (i. e. the Great Mogul) from military 
 ruin, and for many a year saved him and his from 
 
308 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 the painful condition of insolvency. But all this is 
 said in the way of parenthesis. In another number, a 
 sketch of our Indian Empire, in its growth and early 
 oscillations, may be presented to the reader, specially 
 adapted to the use of those whose reading has not 
 lain in that direction. Now let us return to the 
 great domineering question of the hour — the present 
 tremendous revolt on the part of seventy or eighty 
 thousand men in our Bengal Presidency. 
 
 This mutiny we propose to notice briefly but search- 
 ingly under three heads — first, in its relation to the 
 mutineers themselves ; next, in its relation to our- 
 selves ; but, subdividing that question, we will assign 
 the second head to the consideration of its probable 
 bearing on our political credit and reputation ; whilst 
 the third head may be usefully given to the consider- 
 ation of its bearing on our pecuniary interests, and 
 our means of effectual reparation for the ruins left 
 behind by rebellion, and by the frantic spasms of 
 blind destruction. 
 
 First, then, let us look for a moment at this great 
 tumultuary movement, as it points more or less 
 obscurely to the ulterior purposes of the mutineers, 
 and the temper in which they pursue those purposes. 
 In a newspaper of Saturday, August 15, we observe 
 the following sentence introductory to a most unsatis- 
 factory discussion of the Indian revolt : — ‘ The mutiny 
 in India, from the uninterrupted nature of its pro- 
 gress, and its rapid spread through every considerable 
 station, shows a power of combination and deter- 
 mination which has never before been given credit 
 for to the native Indian mind.’ This passage is cited 
 by us, not for anything plausible in its views, but for 
 
THE ENGLISH IN INDIA. 
 
 309 
 
 the singular felicity of contradiction which fortunately 
 it offers to every indication of the true disposable 
 ability that is now, or ever has been, at the service 
 of the insurgents. This, indeed, is rapidly becoming 
 of very subordinate importance ; since the ablest 
 rebel, without an army, must be contemptible enough. 
 But with a view to the larger question — What quality 
 of opposition is ever likely to be brought into play 
 against us, not in merely military displays, but in 
 the secret organisation of plots and local tumults, 
 propagated over extensive provinces ] Some degree 
 of anxiety is reasonable under any possible condition 
 of the army ; and this being so, it is satisfactory to 
 observe, now in 1857, the same childishness and defect 
 of plan and coherent purpose as have ever cha- 
 racterised the oriental mind. No foresight has been 
 exhibited ; no concert between remote points ; no 
 preparation ; no tendency towards combined action. 
 And, on the other hand, it is most justly noticed by 
 a new London paper, of the same date — namely, the 
 People — that it is perfectly dazzling to the mind to 
 review over the whole face of India, under almost 
 universal desertion, the attitude of erectness and pre- 
 paration assumed by the scattered parties of our noble 
 countrymen — everywhere ’ (says the People^ ‘ driven 
 to bay, and everywhere turning upon and scattering 
 all assailants. From all parts is the same tale. No 
 matter how small the amount of the British force 
 may be, if it were but a captain’s company, it holds 
 its own.^ On the other hand, what single success 
 have the rebels achieved 1 Most valiant, no doubt, 
 they have shown themselves in hacking to pieces poor 
 fugitive women, most intrepid in charging a column 
 
310 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 of infants. Else, what have they to show ? Delhi is 
 the solitary post which they have for the moment 
 secured ; but even that through the incomprehensible 
 failure of the authorities at Meerut, and not through 
 any vigour manifested by themselves. Any uneasi- 
 ness which still possesses the minds of close observers 
 fastens upon these two points — first, upon the disarm- 
 ings, as distinguished from the desertions ; secondly, 
 upon the amount, and probable equipment, and sup- 
 posed route of stragglers. It is now said that the 
 mutiny has burned itself out from mere defect of 
 fuel ; there can be no more revolts of sepoys, seeing 
 that no sepoys now remain to revolt ; that is, of the 
 Bengal force. But in this general statement a great 
 distinction is neglected. Begiments once disarmed, 
 if also stripped of their private arms, whether deserters 
 or not, are of slight account ; but the grave question 
 is this — how many of (say seventy) regiments have 
 gone off previously to the disarming. Even in that 
 case, the most favourable for them where arms are 
 secured, it is true that ammunition will very soon 
 fail them ; but still their bayonets will be available ; 
 and we believe that the East India infantry carry 
 swords. A second anxiety connects itself with the 
 vast number of vagrant marauding soldiers, having 
 power to unite, and to assail small detached stations 
 or private bungalows. Yet, again, in cases known 
 specially to ourselves, the inhabitants of such small 
 insulated stations had rapidly fortified the buildings 
 best fitted for defence. Already, by the 18th of 
 May, in a station not far from Delhi, this had been 
 effected ; every native servant, male or female, had 
 been discharged instantly ; and perhaps they would 
 
THE ENGLISH IN INDIA. 
 
 311 
 
 be able to strengthen themselves with artillery. The 
 horrors also of the early murders at Delhi would be 
 likely to operate beneficially, by preventing what 
 otherwise is sure to happen — namely, the disposition 
 to relax in vigilance as first impressions wear off. 
 Considering, upon the whole, the amount of regiments 
 that may be assumed as absolutely disarmed and 
 neutralised ; and, on the other hand, counting the 
 5000 and upwards of troops intercepted on their 
 route to Hong-Kong, and adding these to at least 
 25,000 of Queen’s troops previously in the country, 
 counting also the faithful section of the Sikhs, the 
 Ghoorkas, and others that could be relied on, the 
 upshot must be, that at least 40,000 troops of the 
 best quality are scattered between the Hoogly and 
 the Sutlege (or, in other words, between Calcutta and 
 Loodiana ^). Beyond a few casual outrages on some 
 small scale, we hope that no more of bloody tragedies 
 can be now (August 25) apprehended. But we, that 
 have dear friends in Bengal, must, for weeks to come, 
 feel restless and anxious. Still, this is a great miti- 
 gation of the horror that besieged our anticipations 
 six weeks ago. 
 
 But, having thrown a glance at the shifting aspects 
 of the danger, now let us alight for a moment on the 
 cause of this dreadful outbreak. We have no separate 
 information upon this part of the subject, but we have 
 the results of our own vigilant observations upon 
 
 * ‘ Loodiana : ’ — The very last station in Bengal, on going 
 westwards to the Indus. In Rimjeet Singh’s time this was for 
 many years the station at which we lodged our Alfghan 
 pensioner, the Shah Soojah — too happy, had he never left his 
 Loodiana lodgings. 
 
312 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 laying this and that together ; and so much we will 
 communicate. From the first, we have rejected in- 
 credulously the immoderate effects ascribed to the 
 greased cartridges ; and not one rational syllable is 
 there in the pretended rumours about Christianising 
 the army. Not only is it impossible that folly so 
 gross should maintain itself against the unremitting 
 evidence of facts, all tending in the opposite direction ; 
 but, moreover, under any such idle solution as this, 
 there would still remain another point unaccounted 
 for, and that is the frantic hatred borne towards our- 
 selves by many of the rebellious troops. Some of our 
 hollow friends in France, Belgium, &c., profess to read 
 in this hatred an undeniable inference that we must 
 have treated the sepoys harshly, else how explain an 
 animosity so deadly. To that argument we have a 
 very brief answer, such as seems decisive. The 
 Bengalese sepoy, ^ when most of all pressed for some 
 rational explanation of his fury, never once thought 
 of this complaint ; besides which, it is too notorious 
 that our fault has always lain the other way. Heavily 
 criminal, in fact, we had been by our lax discipline ; 
 and in particular, the following most scandalous 
 
 * For the sake of readers totally unacquainted with the 
 subject, it may be as well to make an explanation or two. The 
 East India regiments generally run to pretty high numbers — 
 1000 or 1200. The high commissioned officers, as the captain, 
 lieutenant, &c., are always British ; but the non-commissioned 
 officers are always native Hindoos — that is, sepoys. For instance, 
 the naik^ or corporal ; the havildctr^ or serjeant : — even of the 
 commissioned officers, the loioest are unavoidably native, on 
 account of the native private. Note that sepoy , as colloquially 
 it is called, but sipahee, as in books it is often written, does not 
 mean Hindoo or Hindoo soldier, but is simply the Hindoo word 
 for soldier. 
 
THE ENGLISH IN INDIA. 
 
 313 
 
 breach of discipline must have been silently connived 
 at for years by British authorities. Amongst the 
 outward forms of respect between man and man, there 
 is none that has so indifferently belonged to all 
 nations, as the act of rising from a sedentary posture 
 for the purpose of expressing respect. Most other 
 forms of respect have varied with time and with 
 place. The ancient Homans, for instance, never 
 bowed ; and amongst orientals, you are thought to 
 offer an insult if you uncover your head. In this 
 little England of ours, who could fancy two stout men 
 curtseying to each other h Yet this they did, and so 
 recently as in Shakspere’s days. To use his words, 
 they ‘crook’d the pregnant liinges of the knee.’ 
 Sometimes they curtseyed with the right knee singly, 
 sometimes with both, as did Borneo to the fiery 
 Tybalt. Many and rapid, therefore, were the changes 
 in ceremonial forms, at least with us, the changeable 
 men of Christendom ; else how could it happen that, 
 two hundred and fifty years back, men of rank in 
 England should have saluted each other by forms 
 that now would be thought to indicate lunacy 1 And 
 yet, violent as the spirit of change might otherwise 
 be, one thing never changed — the expression of respect 
 between man and man by rising from their seats. 
 
 ‘ Utque viro sancto chorus assurrexerit omnis ’ 
 
 is a record belonging to the eldest of days ; and that 
 it belonged not to the eldest times only, but also to 
 the highest rank, is involved in a memorable anecdote 
 from the last days of J ulius Caesar. He, the mighty 
 dictator — 
 
 ‘ Yes, he, the foremost man of all this world ’ — 
 
314 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 actually owed his assassination, under one represent- 
 ation, to the burning resentment of his supposed 
 aristocratic hauteur in a public neglect of this very 
 form. A deputation of citizens, on a matter of 
 business, had found him seated, and to their im- 
 measurable disgust, he had made no effort even to 
 rise. His friends excused him on the allegation, 
 whether true or not, that at the moment he was 
 physically incapacitated from rising by a distressing 
 infirmity. It might be so : as Shakspere elsewhere 
 observes, the black silk patch knows best whether 
 there is a wound underneath it. But, if it were not 
 so, then the imperial man paid the full penalty of 
 his offence, supposing the rancorous remembrance of 
 that one neglect were truly and indeed what armed 
 the Ides of March against his life. But, were this 
 story as apocryphal as the legends of our nurseries, 
 still the bare possibility that ‘ the laurelled majesty ’ ^ 
 of that mighty brow should have been laid low by one 
 frailty of this particular description — this possibility 
 recalls us clamorously to the treasonable character of 
 such an insolence, when practised systematically for 
 the last eighteen months by a Pagan hound, by a 
 sepoy from Lucknow or Benares, towards his British 
 commanding officer. Shall it have been possible that 
 the founder of the Homan empire died for having 
 ignored the decencies of human courtesy, perhaps 
 through momentary inattention, by wandering of 
 thoughts, or by that collapse of energy which some- 
 
 * ‘ The laurelled majesty,' kc. : — A flying reference to a grand 
 expression — majestas laurea frontis — wliich occurs in a Latin 
 supplement to the Pharsalia by May, an English poet, contem- 
 porary with the latter days of Shakspere. 
 
THE ENGLISH IN INDIA. 
 
 315 
 
 times steps between our earnest intentions and their 
 fulfilment — this man, so august, shall he have expiated 
 by a bloody death one fleeting moment of forgetful- 
 ness] and yet, on the other hand, under our Indian 
 government, the lowest of our servants, a mass of 
 carrion from a brotherhood of Thugs, shall have had 
 free license to insult the leaders of the army which 
 finds bread for him and his kindred ] That the reader 
 may understand what it is that we are talking of — 
 not very long ago, in one of the courts-martial 
 occasioned by some explosions of tentative insubordin- 
 ation preliminary to the grand revolt, a British officer, 
 holding the rank of lieutenant, made known to the 
 court, that through the last twelve or eighteen 
 months he had been struck and shocked by one 
 alarming phenomenon within the cantonments of the 
 sepoys : formerly, on his entering the lines, the men 
 had risen respectfully from their seats as he walked 
 along; but since 1854, or thereabouts, they had 
 insolently looked him in the face, whilst doggedly 
 retaining their seats. Now this was a punishable 
 breach of discipline, which in our navy would be 
 punished without fail. Even a little middy, fresh 
 from the arms of his sisters or his nurse, and who 
 does not bear any royal commission, as an ensign or 
 cornet in the army, is thus supported in the perform- 
 ance of his duty, and made respectable in the eyes of 
 his men, though checked in all explosions of childish 
 petulance — even to this child, as an olficer in command, 
 respect is exacted ; and on the finest arena of dis- 
 cipline ever exhibited to the world, it is habitually 
 felt that from open disrespect to the ruin of all 
 discipline the steps of descent are rapid. This 
 
316 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 important fact in evidence as to the demeanour of 
 the sepoy, throws a new light upon the whole revolt. 
 Manifestly it had been moulding and preparing itself 
 for the last two years, or more. And those autho- 
 rities who had tolerated Colonel Wheler for months, 
 might consistently tolerate this presumption in the 
 sepoy for a year. 
 
 We had, in reliance upon receiving fuller materials 
 for discussion by the Eastern mail arriving in the 
 middle of August, promised by anticipation two heads 
 for our review, which, under the imperfect explana- 
 tions received, we are compelled to defer. Meantime, 
 upon each of these two heads we shall point the 
 attention of our readers to one or two important facts. 
 First, as regards the sepoy revolt considered in relation 
 to the future pecuniary burdens on the Bengal 
 exchequer, it ought to be remembered, that, if 
 (according to a very loose report) the Company shall 
 finally be found to have lost twenty millions of 
 rupees, or two millions sterling, by the looting of 
 many local treasuries, it will, on the other hand, have 
 saved, upon forfeited pay, and (which is much more 
 important) upon forfeited pensions, in coming years, 
 a sum nearly corresponding. Secondly, this loot or 
 plunder must have served the public interest in a 
 variety of ways. It must have cramped the other- 
 wise free motions of the rebels ; must have given 
 multiplied temptations to desertion ; must have in- 
 stilled jealousies of each other, and want of cordial 
 co-operation in regard to the current plans, and 
 oftentimes murderous animosities in regard to past 
 
THE ENGLISH IN INDIA. 
 
 317 
 
 transactions — divisions of spoil, or personal competi- 
 tions. Thus far, if nothing had been concerned more 
 precious than money, it is by no means clear that the 
 'public service (as distinct from the interest of private 
 individuals, whose property has been destroyed) will 
 be found to have very seriously suffered. 
 
 The other head, which concerns the probable rela- 
 tion of this astonishing revolt to the wisdom of our 
 late Indian administration, finds us, for the present, 
 enveloped in a mystery the most impenetrable that 
 history, in any of its darkest chapters, has offered. 
 We have a war on foot with Southern China, or 
 rather with Canton ; and what may be the Chinese 
 object in that war, is hitherto an impenetrable 
 mystery. But dai*ker and more unfathomable is the 
 mystery which invests the sepoy insurrection. Besides 
 the notorious fact that no grievances, the very slight- 
 est, have been alleged, it must also be remembered 
 that we first and solely made a provision for the 
 invalided and for the superannuated soldier — a thing 
 unheard of throughout Asia. And this golden 
 reversion, the poor infatuated savages have icilfull'y 
 renounced ! The sole sure result, from this most 
 suicidal of revolts, is — that unpitied myriads of 
 sepoys will be bayonetted, thousands will be hanged, 
 and nearly all will lose their pensions. 
 
318 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 II. 
 
 PASSING NOTICES OF INDIAN AFFAIRS. 
 
 {Octohcr, 1857.) 
 
 An English historian — one amongst many — of our 
 British India, having never happened to visit any 
 part of that vast region, nor, indeed, any part of the 
 East, founded upon that accident a claim to a very 
 favourable distinction. It was, Mr. Mill argued, de- 
 sirable — it was a splendid advantage — not to have 
 seen India. This advantage he singly, amongst a 
 crowd of coming rivals and precursors, might modestly 
 plead j and to that extent he pretended to a pre- 
 cedency amongst all his competitors. 
 
 The whole claim, and the arguments which sup- 
 ported it, wore the aspect of a paradox; and a paradox 
 it certainly was — but not, therefore, a falsehood. A 
 paradox, as I have many times explained, or pro- 
 position contradicting the doxa or public opinion, not 
 only may be true, but often has been the leading 
 truth in capital struggles of opinion. Not only the 
 true doctrine, but also, in some branches of science, 
 the very fundamental doctrine, that which at this day 
 furnishes a foundation to all the rest, originally came 
 forward as a violent and revolting paradox.* It is 
 
 * This truth, for the sake of making it more impressive, I 
 threw long ago into this antithetic form ; and I will not scruple, 
 out of any fear that I may he reproached with repeating myself, 
 to place it once again on record : — ‘Not that only is strictly a 
 paradox, which, being false, is popularly regarded as true ; ’ but 
 that also, and in a prodigiously greater extent, which, being 
 true, is popularly regarded as false. 
 
THE ENGLISH IN INDIA. 
 
 319 
 
 possible enough, therefore, that the Indian historio- 
 grapher may have been right, and not merely 
 speciously ingenious. It is something of a parallel 
 case, which we may all have known through the 
 candid admissions of the Duke of Wellington, that 
 the battle of Waterloo might by possibility have been 
 reported as satisfactorily, on the 18th of June, 1815, 
 from the centre of London smoke, as from the centre 
 of that Belgian smoke which sat in heavy clouds 
 throughout the day upon the field of battle. Now 
 and then, it is true, these Belgian clouds drew up 
 in solemn draperies, and revealed the great tragic 
 spectacle lying behind them for a brief interval. 
 But they closed up again, and what the spectator 
 saw through these fugitive openings would have 
 availed him little indeed, unless in so far as it was 
 extended and interpreted by information issuing from 
 the British staff. But this information w^ould have 
 been not less material and effectual towards a history 
 of the mighty battle, if furnished to a man sitting 
 in a London drawing-room, than if furnished to a 
 reporter watching as an eye-witness at Hougoumont. 
 
 This one Waterloo illustration, if thoughtfully 
 applied, might yield a justification for the paradoxical 
 historian. Much more, therefore, might it yield a 
 justification for us at home, who, sitting at ten 
 thousand miles’ distance, take upon us to better the 
 Indian reports written on the spot, to correct their 
 errors of haste, or to improve them by showing the 
 inferences which they authorise. We, who write 
 upon the awful scenes of India at far-distant stations, 
 do not so truly enjoy unequal advantages, as we enjoy 
 varying and dissimilar advantages. 
 
320 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 According to the old proverb, the bystander sees 
 more of the game than those who share too closely in 
 its passions. And assuredly, if it were asked, what 
 it is that we who write upon Indian news aspire to 
 effect, I may reply frankly, that, if but by a single 
 suggestion any one of us should add something to the 
 illumination of the great sepoy conspiracy — whether 
 as to its ultimate purpose, or as to its machinery, or 
 as to its waning hopes, or if but by the merest trifle 
 any one of us should take away something from the 
 load of anxious terrors haunting the minds of all who 
 have relations in India — that man will have earned 
 his right to occupy the public ear. For my own 
 part, I will not lose myself at present, when so much 
 darkness prevails on many leading questions, in any 
 views too large and theoretic for our present con- 
 dition of light. And that I may not be tempted into 
 doing so, I will proceed without regard to any 
 systematic order, taking up, exactly as chance or 
 preponderant interest may offer them, any urgent 
 questions of the hour, before the progress of events 
 may antiquate'them, or time may exhale their flavour. 
 This desultory and moody want of order has its 
 attractions for many a state of nervous distraction. 
 Every tenth reader may happen to share in the 
 distraction, so far as it has an Indian origin. The 
 same deadly anxiety on behalf of female relatives, 
 separated from their male protectors in the centre of 
 a howling wilderness, now dedicated as an altar to 
 the dark Hindoo goddess of murder, may, in the 
 reader also, as well as in the writer on Indian news, 
 periodically be called on to submit to the insurmount- 
 able aggravation of delay. In such a case, what is 
 
THE ENGLISH IN INDIA. 
 
 321 
 
 good for one may be good for another. The same 
 inexpressible terrors, so long as Nena Sahibs and 
 other miscreant sons of hell are roaming through the 
 infinite darkness, may prompt the same fretfulness of 
 spirit ; the same deadly irritation and restlessness, 
 which cannot but sharpen the vision of fear, will 
 sharpen also that of watching hope, and will con- 
 tinually read elements of consolation or trust in that 
 which to the uninterested eye offers only a barren 
 blank. 
 
 EUROPEANS. 
 
 I am not sorry that the first topic, which chance 
 brings uppermost, is one w'hich overflows with the 
 wrath of inexhaustible disgust. What fiend of 
 foolishness has suggested to our absurd kinsmen in 
 the East, through the last sixty years, to generalise 
 themselves under the name of Eurojmins ? As if 
 they were ashamed of their British connections, and 
 precisely at that moment when they are leaving 
 England, they begin to assume continental airs ; 
 when bidding farewell to Europe, they begin to style 
 themselves Europeans, as if it were a greater thing 
 to take up a visionary connection with the Continent, 
 than to found a true and indestructible nobility upon 
 their relationship to the one immortal island of this 
 planet. There is no known spot of earth which has 
 exerted upon the rest of the planet one-thousandth 
 part of the influence which this noble island has 
 exercised over the human race — exercised through 
 the noblest organs ; and yet, behold ! these coxcombs 
 of our own blood have no sooner landed on Indian 
 soil, than they are anxious to disclaim the connection. 
 
 VOL. I. X 
 
322 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 Such at least is the apparent construction of their 
 usage. But mark the illogical consequences which 
 follow. A noble British regiment suddenly, and for 
 no rational purpose, receives a new baptism, and 
 becomes a European regiment. The apologist for 
 this folly will say, that a British regiment does not 
 necessarily exclude Germans, for instance. But I 
 answer that it does. The British Government have, 
 during this very month of September, 1857, declared 
 at Frankfort (in answer to obstinate applications 
 from puppies who fancy that we cannot tame* our 
 rebels without their assistance), ‘ that the British 
 army., by its constitution, does not admit foreigners.' 
 But suppose that accidents of aristocratic patronage 
 have now and then privately introduced a few 
 Germans or Swedes into a very few regiments, 
 surely this accident, improbable already, was not 
 more probable when the regiment was going away 
 for twenty years (the old term of expatriation) to a 
 half-year’s distance from the Bhine and the Danube. 
 The Germanism of the regiment might altogether 
 evaporate in the East, but could not possibly increase. 
 Next, observe this; if we must lose our nationality, 
 and transmute ourselves into Europeans, for the very 
 admirable reason that we were going away to 
 climates far remote from Germany, then, at least, 
 we ought not to call our native troops sepoys, but 
 Asiatics. In this way only will there be any logical 
 parity of antithesis. Scripturally, we are the children 
 of Japheth ; and, as all Asiatics are the sons of Shem, 
 then we shall be able to mortify their conceit, by 
 calling to their knowledge our biblical prophecy, that 
 the sons of Japheth shall sit down in the tents of 
 
THE ENGLISH IN INDIA. 
 
 323 
 
 Shem. But, thirdly, even thus we should find our- 
 selves in a dismal chaos of incoherencies ; for what is 
 to become of ‘Jack’? Must our sailors be re-baptised? 
 Must Jack also be a Eurojpean ? Think of Admiral 
 Seymour reporting to the Admiralty as a leader of 
 Europeans ! and exulting in having circumvented 
 Yeh by Her Majesty’s European crews ! And then, 
 lastly, come the Marines : must they also qualify for 
 children of Europe? Was there ever such outrageous 
 folly ? One is sure, in the fine picturesque words of 
 Chaucer, that, ‘for very filth and shame,’ neither 
 admiral nor the youngest middy would disgrace 
 liimself by such ridiculous finery from the rag-fair 
 of cosmopolitan swindling. The real origin of so 
 savage an absurdity is this : — Amongst’ the com- 
 mercial bodies of the three presidencies, in all the 
 leading cities, it became a matter of difficulty often 
 to describe special individuals in any way legally 
 operative. Your wish was to distinguish him from 
 the native merchant or banker ; but to do this by 
 calling him a British merchant, &c., was possibly not 
 true, and legally, therefore, not safe. He might be 
 a Dane, a Eussian, or a Frenchman; he was described, 
 therefore, in a more generalising way, as a European. 
 But a case so narrow as that — a case for pawnbrokers 
 and old clothesmen— -ought not to regulate the 
 usage of great nations. Grand and spirit-stirring 
 (especially in a land far distant from home) are the 
 recollections of towns or provinces connected with 
 men’s nativities. And poisonous to all such ancestral 
 inspirations are the rascally devices of shroffs and 
 money-changers. 
 
324 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 DELHI. 
 
 That man — I suppose we are all agreed — who 
 commanded in Meerut on Sunday the tenth day of 
 May, in the year of Christ one thousand eight 
 hundred and fifty-seven, a day which will furnish an 
 epoch for ever to the records of civilisation — that 
 man who could have stepped the bloody kennel of 
 hounds, but did not, racing in full cry to the homes 
 of our unsuspecting brothers and sisters in Delhi — 
 it were good for that man if he had not been born. 
 He had notice such as might have wakened the dead 
 early in the afternoon (2 or 3 o’clock p.m., I believe), 
 and yet, at the end of a long summer day, torchlight 
 found him barely putting his foot into the stirrup. 
 And why into the stirrup at all It For what end, on 
 what pretence, should he ever have played out the 
 ridiculous pantomime and mockery of causing the 
 cavalry to mount h Two missions there were to 
 execute on that fatal night — first, to save our noble 
 brothers and sisters at Delhi from a ruin that was 
 destined to be total ; secondly, to inflict instant and 
 critical retribution upon those who had already 
 opened the carnival of outrage, before they left 
 Meerut. Oh, heaven and earth! heart so timid was 
 there in all this world, sense of wrong so callous, 
 as not to leap with frenzy of joy at so sublime a 
 summons to wield the most impassioned functions of 
 Providence — namely, hell-born destroyers to destroy 
 in the very instant of their fancied triumph, and 
 suffering innocence to raise from the dust in the very 
 crisis of its last despairing prostration. Deader! it 
 
THE ENGLISH IN INDIA. 
 
 325 
 
 is not exaggeration — many a heart will bear witness 
 in silence that it is not — if I should say that men 
 exist, who would gladly pay down thirty years of life 
 in exchange for powers so heavenly for redressing 
 earthly wrongs. To the infamous torpor on that 
 occasion, and the neglect of the fleeting hour that 
 struck the signal for delivery and vengeance, are due 
 many hundreds of the piteous outi’ages that have 
 since polluted Bengal. Do I mean that, if the rebel 
 capture of Delhi had been prevented, no subsequent 
 outrages would have followed h By no means. Other 
 horrors would have been perpetrated ; but that first 
 and greatest (always excepting the case of Cawnpore) 
 would by all likelihood have been intercepted.^ 
 
 But perhaps his military means were inadequate to 
 the crisis ? He had duties to Meerut, not less than 
 duties of vengeance and of sudden deliverance for 
 Delhi. True : he had so ; and he had means for 
 meeting all these duties. He had a well-mounted 
 establishment of military force, duly organized in all 
 its arms. Three-and-twenty hundreds he had of 
 British, suitably proportioned as to infantry, cavalry, 
 and artillery — a little army that would have faced 
 anything that Delhi could at that time have put 
 forward. Grant that Delhi could have mustered 5000 
 
 * Here observe there were 2300 admirable British troops, and 
 about 700 men of the mutineers, who might then have been 
 attacked at a great advantage, whilst dispersed on errands of 
 devastation. Contrast with these proportions the heroic ex- 
 ertions of the noble Havelock— fighting battle after battle, with 
 perhaps never more than 1700 or 1800 British troops, and 
 having scarcely a gun but what he captured from the enemy. 
 And what were the numbers of his enemy ? Five thousand in 
 the earlier actions, and 10,000 to 12,000 in the last. 
 
326 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 men : these are three propositions having no doubtful 
 bearing upon such a fact : — 
 
 1. That cheerfully would this little British force 
 have faced any Asiatic force of 5000 men, which, 
 indeed, it can hardly be necessary to say, in the face 
 of so large and so transcendent an experience. 
 
 2. That the Delhi force could have reached the 
 amount supposed of 5000 only after a junction with 
 the Meerut mutineers; which junction it was the. 
 main business of the Meerut commander to intercept. 
 
 3. That this computation assumes also the whole of 
 the Delhi garrison to be well aifected to the muti- 
 neers ; an assumption altogether unwarrantable on 
 the outside of Delhi during the 10th and 11th of 
 May. 
 
 Such were (1) the motives of the commander at 
 Meerut towards a noble and energetic resolution ; 
 such were (2) his means. ^ 
 
 Thinking of that vile lacJiete, which surrendered, 
 
 * Mr. D. B. Jones comes forward to defend the commandant of 
 Meerut. How ? The last sentence only of his letter has any 
 sort of reference to the public accusation ; and this sentence 
 replies, but not with any mode of argument (sound or unsound), 
 to a charge perfectly irrelevant, if it had ever existed — namely, 
 an imaginary charge against the little army assembled on 
 May 10 at Meerut. The short and summary answer is, that no 
 such imaginary charge, pure and absolute moonshine, was ever 
 advanced against the gallant force at Meerut. 
 
 Secondly, if it had, such a charge could have no bearing 
 whatever upon that charge, loudly preferred against the com- 
 mander of that district. 
 
 Thirdly, the charge has been (I presume) settled as regards 
 its truth, and any grounds of disputation, this way or that, by 
 the Governor-General. The newspapers have told us, and have 
 not been contradicted, that Lord Canning has dismissed this 
 functionary for ^ supine/ness.' 
 
THE ENGLISH IN INDIA. 
 
 327 
 
 with a girl’s tameness, absolutely suffered to lapse, 
 without effort, and as if a bauble, this great arsenal 
 and magazine into the bands of the revolters, involun- 
 tarily we have regarded it all along as a deadly mis- 
 fortune ; and, upon each periodic mail, the whole 
 nation has received the news of its non-capture as a 
 capital disappointment. 
 
 But, on steadier consideration, apparently all this 
 must be regarded as a very great error. Not that it 
 could be any error to have wished for any course of 
 events involving the safety of our poor slaughtered 
 compatriots. That event would have been cheap at 
 any price. But that dismal catastrophe having hap- 
 pened, to intercept that bitter wo having been already 
 ripened into an impossibility by the 11th and 12th of 
 May, seven-and-forty days before our thoughts at 
 home began to settle upon India, thenceforwards it 
 became a very great advantage — a supreme advantage 
 — that Delhi should have been occupied by the muti- 
 neers. Briefly, then, why] 
 
 First of all, because this movement shut up within 
 one ring fence the Uite of the rebels (according to some 
 calculations, at least three-and-twenty thousand of 
 well-armed and well-disciplined men), that would 
 otherwise have been roaming over the whole face of 
 Bengal as marauders and murderers. These men, 
 left to follow their own vagrant instincts, would, it is 
 true, in some not inconsiderable proportion, have 
 fallen victims to those fierce reactions of rustic venge- 
 ance which their own atrocities would very soon have 
 provoked. But large concentrated masses would still 
 have survived in a condition rapidly disposable as 
 auxiliary bodies to all those towns invested by 
 
328 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 circumstances with a partisan interest, such as 
 Lucknow, Benares, Cawnpore, Agra, Gwalior, and 
 Allahabad. 
 
 Secondly, Delhi it was that opened the horrors of 
 retribution ; mark what chastisement it was that 
 alighted from the very first upon all the scoundrels 
 who sought, and fancied they could not fail to find, 
 an asylum in Delhi. It is probable that hardly one 
 in twenty of the mutineers came to Delhi without 
 plunder, and for strong reasons this plunder would 
 universally assume the shape of heavy metallic money. 
 For the public treasuries in almost every station were 
 rified ; and unhappily for the comfort of the robbers 
 under the Bengal sun of June and July, very much 
 of the East Indian money lies in silver — namely, 
 rupees ; of which, in the last generation, eight were 
 sufficient to make an English pound ; but at present 
 ten are required by the evil destiny of sepoys. Every- 
 body has read an anecdote of the painter Correggio, 
 that, upon finishing a picture for some monastery, 
 the malicious monks paid him for it in copper. The 
 day of payment was hot, and poor Correggio was 
 overweighted ; he lay down under his copper afflic- 
 tion ; and whether he died or not, is more than I 
 remember. But doubtless, to the curious in Correg- 
 giosity, Pilkington will tell. For the sepoys, although 
 their affliction took the shape of silver, and not of 
 copper, virtually it was not less, considering the far 
 more blazing sun. Mephistopheles might have 
 arranged the whole affair. One could almost hear 
 him whispering to each separate sepoy, as he stood 
 amongst the treasury burglars, the reflection that 
 tho^e pensions, which the kind and munificent English 
 
THE ENGLISH IN INDI4. 
 
 329 
 
 Government granted to their old age or their infirm- 
 ities, all over India, raising up memorial trophies of 
 public gratitude or enlightened pity, never more 
 would be heard of. All had perished, the justice that 
 gave, the humble merit that received, the dutiful 
 behaviour that hoped ; and henceforwards of them 
 and of their names, as after the earliest of rebellions, 
 in the book of life ‘ was no remembrance.’ 
 
 Under these miserable thoughts the vast majority 
 of the sepoys robbed largely, as opportunities con- 
 tinually opened upon them. Then, and chiefly through 
 their robberies, commenced their chastisement in 
 good earnest. Every soldier by every comrade was 
 viewed with hatred and suspicion ; by the common 
 labourer with the scrutiny of deep self-interest. The 
 popular report of their sudden wealth travelled 
 rapidly ; every road, village, house, whether ahead or 
 on their flanks, became a place of distrust and anxious 
 jealousy \ and Delhi seemed to offer the only safe 
 asylum. Thither, as to a consecrated sanctuary, all 
 hurried ; and their first introduction to the duties of 
 the new home they had adopted, would be a harsh 
 and insolent summons to the chances of a desperate 
 sortie against men in whose presence their very souls 
 sank. On reviewing the circumstances which must 
 have surrounded this Delhi life, probably no nearer 
 resemblance to a hell of apostate spirits has ever 
 existed. Money, carried in weighty parcels of coin, 
 cannot be concealed. Swathed about the person, it 
 disfigures the natural symmetries of the figure. The 
 dilemma, therefore, in which every individual traitor 
 stood was, that, if he escaped a special notice from 
 every eye, this must have been because all his crimes 
 
330 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 had failed to bring him even a momentary gain. 
 Having no money, he had no swollen trousers. For 
 ever he had forfeited the pension that was the pledge 
 of comfort and respectability to his family and his 
 own old age. This he had sacrificed, in exchange for 
 — nothing at all. But, on the other hand, if his 
 robberies had been very productive and prosperous, 
 in that proportion he became advertised to every eye, 
 indicated and betrayed past all concealment to every 
 ruffian less fortunate as a pillager. Delhi must in 
 several points have ripened his troubles, and. showed 
 them on a magnifying disk. To have no confidential 
 friend, or adviser, or depositary of a secret, is an 
 inevitable evil amongst a population constitutionally 
 treacherous. But now in Delhi this torment takes a 
 more feaiful shape. Every fifth or sixth day, when 
 he is sternly ordered out upon his turn of duty, what 
 shall he do with his money ? He has by possibility 
 40 lbs. weight of silver, each pound vrorth about three 
 guineas. In the very improbable case of his escaping 
 the gallows, since the British Government will en- 
 deavour to net the wFole monstrous crew that have 
 one and all broken the sacr amentum militare^ for 
 which scourging with rods and subsequent strangula- 
 tion is the inevitable penalty, what will remain to his 
 poor family h His cottage, that once had been his 
 pride, will now betray him, as soon as ever movable 
 columns are formed, and horse-patrols begin to inspect 
 the roads. But, as to his money, in nineteen cases 
 out of twenty, he will find himself obliged to throw it 
 away in his flight, and will then find that through 
 three months of intolerable suffering he has only been 
 acting as steward for some British soldier. 
 
THE ENGLISH IN INDIA. 
 
 331 
 
 The private letters and the local newspapers from 
 many parts of India having now come in, it is possible 
 through the fearful confusion to read some facts that 
 would cause despair, were it not for two remem- 
 brances : first, what nation it is that supports the 
 struggle ; secondly, that of the six weeks immediately 
 succeeding to the 10th of September, no two days, no 
 period of forty-eight hours, can pass without continued 
 successions of reinforcements reaching Calcutta. It 
 should be known that even the worst sailers among 
 the transports — namely, exactly those which were 
 despatched from England through the course of July 
 (not of August) — are all under contract to perform 
 the voyage in seventy days ; whereas many a calcula- 
 tion has proceeded on the old rate of ninety days. 
 The small detachments of two and three hundreds, 
 despatched on every successive day of July, are already 
 arriving at their destination ; and the August detach- 
 ments, generally much stronger (800 or 900), all 
 sailed in powerful steamers. Lord Elgin arrived at 
 Calcutta in time to be reported by this mail, with 
 marines (300) and others (300), most seasonably to 
 meet the dangers and uproars of the great Mahometan 
 festival. The bad tidings are chiefly these : — 
 
 1. The failure of a night-attack upon the Dinapore 
 mutineers by detachments from two of our British 
 regiments, with a loss of ‘ 200 hilled ' ; in which, how- 
 ever, there must be a mistake ; for the total number 
 of our attacking party was only 300. On the other 
 hand, there may have been some call for a consciously 
 desperate effort ; and the enemy, having two regi- 
 ments, would muster, probably, very nearly 2000 
 men ; for the sepoy regiments are always strong in 
 
332 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 numbers, and these particular regiments had not 
 su:ffered. 
 
 2. Much more ominous than these reports, is an 
 estimate of our main force before Delhi at less than 
 2000 men. This, unhappily, is not intrinsically 
 improbable. The force was, by many persons, never 
 reckoned at more than 6000 or 7000 men; and this, 
 when reduced by three-and -twenty conflicts (perhaps 
 more), in which the enemy had the advantage of 
 artillery more powerful than ours, and (what is worse) 
 of trained artillerymen more numerous, might too 
 naturally come down to the small number stated. 
 
 3. The doubtful condition of Lucknow, Benares, 
 and Agra comes in the rear of all this to strike a 
 frost into the heart, or would do so, again I say, if 
 any other nation were concerned. 
 
 4. Worse still, because reluctantly unfolding facts 
 that had previously been known and kept back, is 
 the state of Bombay. When retreats on board the 
 shipping are contemplated, or at least talked of, the 
 mere insulated case of Kolapore becomes insignificant. 
 
 5. I read a depressing record in the very quarter 
 whence all our hopes arise. In summing up the 
 particular transports throughout July whose destina- 
 tion was Calcutta, I find that the total of troops 
 ordered to that port in the thirty-one days of July 
 was just 6500, and no more. Every place was rapidly 
 becoming of secondary importance in comparison of 
 the area stretching with a radius of 150 miles in every 
 direction from the centre of Allahabad. And the 
 one capital danger is too clearly this — that, being 
 unable to throw in overwhelming succours, those 
 inadequate succours, matched against the countless 
 
THE ENGLISH IN INDIA. 
 
 333 
 
 resources of Hindoo vagrant ruffianism, may, at the 
 utmost, enable us to keep a lingering hold, whilst 
 endless successions of incomparably gallant men fall 
 before our own rifles, our own guns, and that disci- 
 pline of a cowardly race which we ourselves have 
 taught. We are true to ourselves, and ever shall 
 be so : that is a rock to build upon. Yet, if it 
 should appear by January next that no deep impres- 
 sion has then been made upon revolting India, it will 
 probably appear the best course to send no more 
 rivulets of aid ; but to combine measures energetically 
 with every colony or outpost of the empire ; to call 
 up even the marines and such sections of our naval 
 forces as have often co-operated with the land forces 
 (in the Chinese war especially) ; and to do all this 
 with a perfect disregard of money. Lord Palmerston 
 explained very sufficiently why it is that any power- 
 ful squadrons of ships, which would else have rendered 
 such overwhelming succour against the towns along 
 the line of the Ganges and Jumna, were unhappily 
 disqualified for action, by the shallows and sand-banks 
 on those great rivers. But this apology does not 
 stand good as regards flotillas of gunboats or rafts 
 with a very light draught of water ; still less as regards 
 the seamen and marines. 
 
 I conclude with these notices — too painfully entitled 
 to some attention. Would to heaven they were not ! 
 
 1. Calcutta itself is not by any means in a state of 
 security^ either in the English sense of that word 
 (namely, freedom from danger), or in its old Latin 
 sense of freedom from the anxieties of danger. All 
 depends upon the prosperity of our affairs at Delhi, 
 Lucknow, Agra, Cawnpore, and Allahabad. The 
 
334 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 possibility of a fanatical explosion, such as that which 
 occurred recently at Patna, shows the inefficiency of 
 our precautions and pretended police. I believe that 
 the native associations formed in Calcutta will be of 
 little use. Either the members will be sleeping at 
 the moment of outbreak, or will be separated from 
 their arms. We are noble in our carelessness; our 
 enemy is base, but his baseness, always in alliance 
 with cunning and vigilance, tells cruelly against us. 
 
 2. It may be feared that the Governor-General has 
 in the following point lamentably neglected a great 
 duty of his place. It must have been remarked 
 with astonishment, as a matter almost inexplicable, 
 how it has arisen that so many gallant men, at the 
 head of every regiment, should have suffered them- 
 selves to be slaughtered like sheep in a butcher’s 
 shambles. Surely five-and-twenty or thirty men, in 
 youthful vigour, many of them capital shots, could 
 easily have shot down 150 of the cowardly sepoys. 
 So much work they could have finished with their 
 revolvers. More than one amongst the ladies, in this 
 hideous struggle, have shot down their two brace of 
 black scoundrels apiece. But the officers, having the 
 advantage of swords, would have accounted for a few 
 score more. Why, then, have they not done this?- — 
 an act of energy so natural to our countrymen when 
 thus roused to unforgiving vengeance. Simply be- 
 cause they have held themselves most nobly, and in 
 defiance of their own individual interest, to be under 
 engagements of fidelity to the Company, and obliga- 
 tions of forbearance to the dogs whom they commanded, 
 up to the last moment of possible doubt. How, from 
 these engagements of honour the Governor-General 
 
THE ENGLISH IN INDIA. 
 
 335 
 
 should, by one universal act (applicable to the three 
 Presidencies) have absolved them. For it cannot be 
 alleged now for an instant, that perhaps the regiments 
 might mean to continue faithful. If they do mean 
 this, no harm will come to any party from the official 
 dispensing order ; the sepoys could sulfer by it only 
 in the case of treachery. And, in the meantime, there 
 has emerged amongst them a new policy of treason, 
 which requires of us to assume, in mere self-defence, 
 that all sepoys are meditating treason. It is this : 
 they now reserve their hnal treason until the critical 
 moment of action in the very crisis of battle. Ordered 
 to charge the revolters, they discharge their carbines 
 over their heads ; or, if infantry, they blaze away 
 with blank cartridge. This policy has been played olf 
 already eight or nine times ] and by one time, as it 
 happens, too many ; for it was tried upon the stern 
 Havelock, who took away both horses and carbines 
 from the oJffenders. Too late it is now for Bengal to 
 baffle this sharper’s trick. But Bombay and Madras, 
 should their, turn come after all, might profit by the 
 experience. 
 
 3. For years it has been our nursery bugbear, to 
 apprehend a Bussian invasion on the Indus. This, by 
 testimony from every quarter (the last being that of 
 Sir Boderick Murchison, who had travelled over most 
 of the ground), is an infinitely impossible chimera ; 
 or at least until the Biissians have colonized Khiva 
 and Bokhara. Meantime, to those who have suffered 
 anxiety from such an anticipation, let me suggest one 
 consolation at least amongst the many horrors of the 
 present scenes in Bengal — namely, that this perfidy 
 of our troops was not displayed first in the veiy 
 
336 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 agony of conflict with Russia, or some more probable 
 invader. 
 
 4. A dismal suggestion arises from the present 
 condition of Bengal, which possibly it is too late now 
 to regard as a warning. Ravaged by bands of 
 marauders, no village safe from incursion, the usual 
 culture of the soil must have been dangerously inter- 
 rupted. Next, therefore, comes Famine (and note 
 that the famines of India have been always excessive, 
 from want of adequate carriage), and in the train of 
 famine, inaudibly but surely, comes cholera ; and then, 
 perhaps, the guiltiest of races will pay down an 
 expiation at which centuries will tremble. For in 
 the grave of famishing nations treason languishes ; 
 the murderer has no escape ; and the infant with its 
 mother sleeps at last in peace. 
 
 P.S . — The following memoranda, more or less con- 
 nected with points noticed in the preceding paper, 
 but received later, seem to merit attention : — 
 
 R As to the strength of our army before Delhi, it 
 seems, from better accounts, to be hardly less than 
 5000 men, of which one-half are British infantry ; 
 and the besieged seem, by the closest inquiries, to 
 reach at the least 22,000 men. 
 
 2. Colonel Edwardes, so well known in connection 
 with Moultan, has published an important fact — 
 namely, that the sepoys did rely, in a very great 
 degree, upon the whole country rising, and that their 
 disappointment and despair are consequently propor- 
 tionable. 
 
 3. A great question arises — How it was possible 
 for the sepoys — unquestionably not harbouring the 
 
THE ENGLISH IX INDIA. 
 
 337 
 
 smallest ill-will to the British — suddenly and almost 
 universally to .assail them with atrocities arguing 
 the greatest. Even their own countrymen, with all 
 their childish credulity, would not he made to believe 
 that they really hated people with whom they had 
 never had any but the kindest and most indulgent 
 intercourse. I should imagine that the solution must 
 de sought in two facts — first, in the deadly ennui and 
 tcedium of sepoy life, which disposes them to catch 
 maniacally at any opening for furious excitement ; 
 but, secondly, in the wish to forward the ends of the 
 conspiracy under Mahometan misleading. Hence, in 
 particular, the cruelties practised on women and 
 children : for they argued that, though the British 
 men would face anything in their own persons before 
 they would relax their hold on India, they would yet 
 be appalled by the miseries of their female partners 
 and children. 
 
 4. It is most unfair, undoubtedly, to attack any 
 man in our present imperfect state of information. 
 But some neglects are unsusceptible of after excuse. 
 One I have noticed, which cannot be denied or var- 
 nished, in Lord Canning. Another is this : — Had he 
 offered 10,000 rupees (<£1000 sterling) for the head 
 of Nena Sahib, he would have got it in ten days, 
 besides inflicting misery on the hell-kite. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 Y 
 
338 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 HI. 
 
 SUGGESTIONS UPON THE SECRET OF THE MUTINY. 
 
 (January y 1858.) 
 
 The first question arises upon the true originators, 
 proximate and immediate, of the mutiny — who were 
 they % This question ploughs deeper than any which 
 moves under an impulse of mere historic curiosity ; 
 and it is practically the main question. Knowing 
 the true, instant, operative cause, already we know 
 something of the remedy ; — having sure information 
 as to the ringleaders, we are enabled at once to read 
 their motives in the past, to anticipate their policy in 
 the future ; — having the persons indicated, those who 
 first incited or encouraged the felonious agents, we 
 can shorten the course of public vengeance ; and in 
 so vast a field of action can give a true direction from 
 the first to the pursuit headed by our Indian police. 
 For that should never be laid out of sight — that 
 against rebels whose least offence is their rebellion, 
 against men who have massacred by torture women 
 and children, the service of extermination belongs of 
 right to executioners armed with whips and rods, 
 with the lassos of South America for noosing them, 
 and, being noosed, with halters to hang them.* It 
 
 * ^ To hang them :' — But with a constant notification that, 
 after hanging, the criminals would be decapitated : otherwise 
 the threat loses its sting. It seems to be a superstition uni- 
 versal amongst Southern Asiatics, unless possibly amongst the 
 Malay race, that to suffer any dismemberment of the body 
 operates disastrously upon the fate in the unseen world. And 
 
THE ENGLISH IN INDIA. 
 
 339 
 
 should be made known by proclamation to the sepoys, 
 that de jure, in strict interpretation of the principle 
 concerned, they are hunted by the hangman ; and 
 that the British army, whilst obliged by the vast 
 scale of the outrages to join in this hangman's chase, 
 feel themselves dishonoured, and called to a work 
 which properly is the inheritance of the gallows ; and 
 yet, again, become reconciled to the work, as the 
 purgation of an earth polluted by the blood of the 
 innocent. 
 
 Who then, again I ask — who are those that, after 
 seven months’ watching of the revolt, appeared, by 
 any plausible construction of events, to have been 
 the primal movers in this hideous convulsion ? Indi- 
 vidual opinions on this question, and such as could 
 plead a weight of authority in regard to experience, to 
 local advantages for conjecture, and to official oppor- 
 tunities for overlooking intercepted letters, there have 
 been many ; and at first (say from May 10 to the end 
 of June), in the absence of any strong counter-argu- 
 ments, some of these were entitled to the full benefit 
 of their ^personal weight (such weight, I mean, as 
 could be drawn from the position or from the known 
 
 hence, no doubt, it has arisen that the gallows is not viewed in 
 the light of a degrading punishment. Immunity from mutila- 
 tion compensates any ignominy which might else attend it. 
 Accordingly, we see in China that the innumerable victims of 
 the present rebellion, captured in the vast province of Quantung 
 by the cruel Yeh, were all beheaded by the sword in the blood- 
 reeking privacies of Canton. And two centuries back, when the 
 native dynasty was overthrown by the last Tartar invasion, the 
 reigning emperor (having unlimited freedom of choice) ended 
 his career by a halter : retiring to his orchard, he hanged both 
 himself and his daughter. 
 
 Y 2 
 
340 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 character of him who announced the opinion). But 
 now — namely, on the 15th of December (or, looking 
 to India, say the 10th of November) — we are entitled 
 to something weightier. And what is there which 
 generally would be held weightier? First, there are 
 the confessions of dying criminals; — I mean, that, 
 logically, we must reserve such a head, as likely to 
 offer itself sooner or later. Tempers vary as to ob- 
 duracy, and circumstances vary. All men will not 
 share in the obstinacy of partisan pride ; or not, by 
 many degrees, equally. And again, some amongst 
 the many thousands who leave families will have 
 favours to ask. They all know secretly the perfect 
 trustworthiness of the British Government. And 
 when matters have come to a case of choice between 
 a wife and children, in the one scale, and a fraternity 
 consciously criminal, in the other, it may be judged 
 which is likely to prevail. What through the coercion 
 of mere circumstances — what through the entreaties 
 of wife and children, co-operating with such circum- 
 stances — or sometimes through weakness of nature, 
 or through relenting of compunction — it is not to be 
 doubted that, as the cohesion of party begins rapidly 
 to relax under approaching ruin, there will be con- 
 fessions in abundance. For as yet, under the timid 
 policy of the sepoys — hardly ever venturing out of 
 cover, either skulking amongst bushy woodlands, or 
 sneaking into house-ghelter, or slinking back within 
 the range of their great guns — it has naturally hap- 
 pened that our prisoners have been exceedingly few. 
 But the decisive battle before Lucknow will tell us 
 another story. There will at last be cavalry to reap 
 the harvest when our soldieiy have won it. The 
 
THE ENGLISH IN INDIA. 
 
 341 
 
 prisoners will begin to accumulate by thousands ; 
 executions will proceed through week after week ; and 
 a large variety of cases will yield us a commensurate 
 crop of confessions. These, when they come, will tell 
 us, no doubt, most of what the sepoys can be sup- 
 posed to know. But, meantime, how much is that 1 
 Too probably, except in the case of here and there 
 some specially intelligent or specially influential sepoy 
 officer, indispensable as a go-between to the non-mili- 
 tary conspirators moving in darkness behind the 
 rebel army, nothing at all was communicated to the 
 bulk of the privates, beyond the mere detail of move- 
 ments required by the varying circumstantialities of 
 each particular case. But of the ultimate purpose, 
 of the main strategic policy, or of the transcendent 
 interests over-riding the narrow counsels that fell 
 under the knowledge of the illiterate soldier, since no 
 part was requisite to the fulfilment of each man^s 
 separate duty, no part would be communicated. It 
 is barely possible that so much light as may be won 
 from confessions, combined with so much further 
 light as may be supposed to lurk amongst the mass 
 of unexamined papers left behind them by the rebels 
 at Delhi, might tell us something important. But 
 any result to be expected from the Delhi papers is a 
 doubtful contingency. It is uncertain whether they 
 will ever be brought under the review of zeal united 
 to sagacity sufficient for sustaining a search purely 
 disinterested. Promising no great triumph for any 
 literary purpose, proving as little, perhaps, one way 
 or other, as the mathematician in the old story com- 
 plained that the proved — these papers, unless 
 
 worked by an enamoured bookworm (or paperworm), 
 
342 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 will probably be confiscated to some domestic purpose, 
 of singeing chickens or lighting fires. 
 
 But, in any case, whether speaking by confessions 
 or by the varied memoranda (orders to subaltern 
 oflScers, resolutions adopted by meetings, records of 
 military councils, petitions, or suggestions on the 
 public service, addressed to the king, &c.), abandoned 
 in the palace at Delhi, the soldier can tell no more 
 than he knew, which, under any theory of the case, 
 must have been very little. Better, therefore, than 
 all expectations fixed on the vile soldiery, whom, in 
 every sense, and in all directions, I believe to have 
 been brutally ignorant, and through their ignorance 
 mainly to have been used as blind servile instruments 
 — better and easier it would be to examine narrowly 
 whether, in the whole course and evolution of this 
 stupendous tragedy, there may not be found some 
 characterising feature or distinguishing incident, 
 that may secretly report the agency, and betray, by 
 the style and character of the workmanship, who 
 might be the particular class of workmen standing at 
 the centre of this unparalleled conspiracy. I think 
 that we stand in this dilemma : either, on the one 
 hand, that the miserable sepoys, who were the sole 
 acting managers, were also the sole contrivers of the 
 plot — in which case we can look for further light 
 only to the judicial Confessions ; or, on the other hand, 
 that an order of agents far higher in rank than any 
 subaltern members of our army, and who were en- 
 abled by this rank and corresponding wealth to use 
 these soldiers as their dupes and tools, stood in the 
 background, holding the springs of the machinery in 
 their hands, with a view to purposes transcending by 
 
THE ENGLISH IN INDIA. 
 
 343 
 
 far any that could ever suggest themselves to persons 
 of obscure station, having no prospect of benefiting 
 by their own fullest success. In this case, we shall 
 learn nothing from the confessions of those who must, 
 upon a principle of mere self-preservation, have been 
 excluded from all real knowledge of the dreadful 
 scheme to which they were made parties, simply as 
 perpetrators of its murders and outrages. Here it is 
 equally vain to look for revelations from the mercen- 
 ary workers, who know nothing, or from the elevated 
 leaders, who know all, but have an interest of life 
 and death in dissembling their knowledge. Revela- 
 tions of any value from those who cannot, and from 
 those who will not, reveal the ambitious schemes 
 communicated to a very few, are alike hopeless. In 
 default of these, let us examine if any one incident, 
 or class of incidents, in the course of these horrors, 
 may not have made a self-revelation — a silent but 
 significant revelation, pointing the attention of men 
 to the true authors, and simultaneously to the final 
 purposes, of this mysterious conspiracy. 
 
 Now, it has not escaped the notice of many people 
 that two most extraordinary classes of outrages, 
 perpetrated or attempted, have marked a very large 
 majority of the mutinous explosions ; outrages that 
 were in the last degree unnatural, as out of harmony 
 with the whole temper and spirit of intercourse 
 generally prevailing between the sepoys and their 
 British ofiicers. The case is peculiarly striking. No 
 reproach on the character of their manners was ever 
 alleged against their British ofiicers by any section 
 or subdivision of the sepoy soldiery. Indeed, the 
 reproach, where any existed, ran in the very opposite 
 
/ 
 
 344 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 channel. Too great indulgence to the sepoy, a spirit 
 of concession too facile to their very whims and 
 caprices, and generally too relaxed a state of disci- 
 pline — these features it was of the British bearing 
 towards the native soldiery which too often, and 
 reasonably, provoked severe censures from the ob- 
 serving. The very case ^ which I adduced some 
 months back, where an intelligent British officer, in 
 the course of his evidence before some court-martial, 
 mentioned, in illustration of the decaying discipline, 
 that for some considerable space of time he had 
 noticed a growing disrespect on the part of the 
 privates ; in particular, that, on coming into the can- 
 tonments of his own regiment, the men had ceased to 
 rise from their seats, and took no notice of his pre- 
 sence — this one anecdote sufficiently exemplified the 
 quality of the errors prevailing in the deportment of 
 our countrymen to their native soldiery ; and that it 
 would be ludicrous to charge them with any harshness 
 or severity of manner. Such being too notoriously 
 the case, whence could possibly arise the bloody car- 
 nage by which, in almost every case, the sepoys 
 inaugurated, or tried to inaugurate, their emancipa- 
 tion from British rule ? Our continental neighbours 
 at first grossly misinterpreted the case; and more 
 excusably than in many other misinterpretation's. 
 Certainly it was unavoidable at first to read, in this 
 frenzy of bloodshed, the vindictive retaliations of men 
 
 * This case was entirely misapprehended by a journalist who 
 happened to extract the passage. He understood me to mean 
 that this particular mode of disrespect to their British officers 
 had operated as a cause of evil ; whereas I alleged it simply as 
 an evidence and exponent of evil habits criminally tolerated 
 amongst the very lowest orders of our mercenary troops. 
 
THE ENGLISH IN INDIA. 
 
 345 
 
 that had suffered horrible and ineffable indignities at 
 our hands. It was apparently the old case of African 
 slaves in some West Indian colony — St. Domingo, for 
 instance — breaking loose from the yoke, and murder- 
 ing (often with cruel torments) the whole households 
 of their oppressors. But a month dissipated these 
 groundless commentaries. The most prejudiced 
 Frenchman could not fail to observe that no sepoy 
 regiment ever alluded to any rigour of treatment, 
 or any haughtiness of demeanour. His complaints 
 centred in the one sole subject of religion ; even as 
 to which he did not generally pretend to any cer- 
 tain knowledge, but simply to a very strong belief or 
 persuasion that we secretly meditated, not that we 
 openly avowed or deliberately pursued, a purpose of 
 coercing him into Christianity. This, were it even 
 true, though a false and most erroneous policy, could 
 not be taxed with ill-will. A man’s own religion, if 
 it is sincerely such, is that which he profoundly 
 believes to be the truth. Now, in seeking to inocu- 
 late another with that which sincerely he believes to 
 be eminently the truth, though proceeding by false 
 methods, a man acts in a spirit of benignity. So that, 
 on all hands, the hellish fury of the sepoy was felt to 
 be unnatural, artificially assumed, and, by a reason- 
 able inference, was held to be a mask for something 
 else that he wished to conceal. But what? What 
 was that something else which he wished to conceal ? 
 The sepoy simulated, in order that he might dissimu- 
 late. He pretended a wrong sustained, that he might 
 call away attention from a wrong which he designed. 
 At this point I (and no doubt in company with 
 multitudes beside that had watched the case) became 
 
346 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 sensible of an alien presence secretly intruding into 
 this pretended quarrel of the native soldier. It was 
 no sepoy that was moving at the centre of this feud : 
 the objects towards which it ultimately tended were 
 not such as could by possibility interest the poor, 
 miserable, idolatrous native. What was he to gain 
 by the overthrow of the British Government ? The 
 poor simpleton, who had been decoyed into this 
 monstrous field of strife, opened the game by re- 
 nouncing all the vast advantages which he and his 
 children to the hundredth generation might draw 
 from the system of the Company, and entered upon a 
 career towards distant objects that for him have 
 absolutely no meaning or intelligible existence. At 
 this point it was that two enigmas, previously insol- 
 uble, suddenly received the fullest explanation : — 
 
 1. What was the meaning of that hellish fury 
 suddenly developed towards officers with whom pre- 
 viously the sepoy had lived on terms of reciprocal 
 amity % 
 
 2. What cause had led to that incomprehensible 
 enmity manifested, in the process of these ferocious 
 scenes, towards the wives and children of the officers ? 
 Surely, if his wish were to eliminate their families 
 from the Indian territory, that purpose was suf- 
 ficiently secured by the massacre of him whose 
 exertions obtained a livelihood for the rest of the 
 household. 
 
 It was tolerably certain that the widows and their 
 children would not remain much longer in the Indian 
 territory, when it no longer offered them an asylum 
 or a livelihood. Now, since personally, and viewed 
 apart from their husbands, these ladies could have no 
 
THE ENGLISH IN INDIA. 
 
 347 
 
 interest for the murdering sepoys, it became more 
 find more unintelligible on what principle, steady 
 motive, or fugitive impulse, these incarnate demons 
 could persist in cherishing any feeling whatever to 
 those poor, ruined women, who, when their anchorage 
 should be cut away by the murder of their husbands, 
 would become mere waifs and derelicts stranded upon 
 the Indian shores. 
 
 These had seemed at first two separate mysteries 
 not less hard to decipher than the primal mystery of 
 the mutiny itself. But now all became clear ; what- 
 soever might be the composition, or character, or 
 final objects of that tyranny which had decoyed the 
 sepoys under its yoke, one thing was certain — namely, 
 that the childishness and levity of the Hindoo sepoy 
 made it difiicult in excess to gain any lasting hold 
 over his mind, or consequently to count upon his 
 lasting services. But to this general difficulty there 
 had now supervened one signal aggravation, in a 
 shape hateful to those who encountered it — namely, 
 the attractions of the British service, which service 
 would be no sooner abjured than it would be passion- 
 ately regretted. Here lay the rock which threatened 
 the free movement of the insurrection. It was 
 evidently determined by those who meant to appropri- 
 ate the services of the sepoys, that they should have 
 no retreat, no opening for recovering a false step, in 
 the well-known mercy of the British Government. 
 For them it was resolved that there should be no 
 locus penitentice left open. In order to close for ever 
 that avenue to all hope of forgiveness, the misleaders 
 of the soldiery urged them into those atrocities which 
 every nation upon earth has heard of with horror. 
 
/ 
 
 348 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 The mere fact of these atrocities indicates at once the 
 overruling influence of such men as Nena Sahib, 
 determined to place a bar of everlasting separation 
 between the native army and that government which 
 might else have reclaimed the erring men, had their 
 offences lain within the reach of lawful forgiveness. 
 The conspirators having thus divorced the ruling 
 power, as they idly flattered themselves, from all 
 martial resources, doubtless assumed the work of 
 revolution already finished by midsummer-day of this 
 present year. And this account of the course through 
 which that attempted revolution travelled — according 
 to which, not the sepoys, who could have had no 
 ambition such as is implied in that attempt, but In- 
 dian princes and rajahs, standing in the background, 
 were the true originators of the movement — finds 
 an indirect justification of its own accuracy in the 
 natural solution which it furnishes to those infernal 
 massacres, which else, as they must remain for ever 
 without a parallel, will also remain for ever without 
 an intelligible motive. These atrocities were exacted 
 from the sepoys by the conclave of princes as tests of 
 their sincerity. Such doubtless was the argument 
 for this exaction, the ostensible plea put forward to 
 the miserable reptiles who were seduced into this 
 treason, by the promise no doubt of sharing in the 
 fruits of the new and mighty revolution. Such pleas 
 were for the sepoy. But for himself and his own 
 secret benefit the princely seducer needed all that he 
 could obtain of such accursed acts, as the means sure 
 and sudden of making the separation between the 
 soldier and the government more and more irreparable. 
 
 So much for the massacre of his ofiicers : but a 
 
THE ENGLISH IN INDIA. 
 
 349 
 
 different reason availed for the more diabolical out- 
 rages upon women and their children. The murder 
 of the men was extorted from the sepoy as a kind 
 of sacrifice. With them the reptile had lived upon 
 terms of humanising intercourse ; and, vile as he 
 was, in many cases this must have slowly ripened 
 into some mode of regard and involuntary esteem ] so 
 that, in murdering the man, oftentimes a sepoy was 
 making a real (if trifling) sacrifice. But for females 
 he cared nothing at all. And in my opinion they 
 perished on a very different principle. The male 
 murders were levied as pledges for the benefit of the 
 princes, and very distinctly understood to be levied 
 against the wishes of the sepoy. But in the female 
 sacrifice all parties concurred — sepoy and prince, 
 tempted and tempter alike. I require you to murder 
 this officer, as a pledge of your real hostility (which 
 else might be a pure pretence) to the government. 
 But the murder of the officer’s wife and child rested 
 on a motive totally different — namely, this : — Through- 
 out Hindostan no feature in the moral aspects of the 
 British nature could have been so conspicuous or so 
 impressive as the tenacity of purpose, the persistency, 
 and the dogged resolution never to relax a grasp once 
 taken. Consequently, had the men of our nation, 
 and they separately from the women, scattered them- 
 selves here and there over the land (as they have 
 long done in China, for instance), then, perhaps, the 
 natives, when finding themselves in conflict with this 
 well-known principle of imperishable tenacity, would 
 be liable to a sentiment of despair, as in a contest 
 with fate. And that sentiment would paralyse the 
 Hindoos when entering upon a struggle for unrooting 
 
350 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 the British from Hindostan. But here suddenly, 
 Woman steps in to aid the Hindoo. For the Briton, 
 it is notorious, would never loosen his hold, more 
 than his compatriot the bull-dog. But that scene 
 which a man had faced steadily upon his own account, 
 he shrinks from as a husband or a father. Hence 
 the sepoy attacks upon women and children. 
 
 From hurried writing, it is to be feared that I may 
 have done slight justice to my own views. Let me 
 conclude this head therefore by briefly resuming. 
 
 The argument for tracing back the great conspiracy 
 to the discontented rajahs is — that otherwise, and 
 supposing the mutiny raised for objects specially 
 affecting the sepoys, they would not have massacred 
 their officers. They must have desired to leave an 
 opening for pardon in the event of failure. That 
 crime was exacted to compromise the native army 
 effectually with the government. But this in many 
 ways was sure to operate ruinously for the sepoy 
 interests, and could therefore have found a sufficient 
 motive only with the native princes. 
 
 But the female sacrifice was welcome to all parties. 
 For no doubt they represented the British officer 
 as saying : — So long as the danger affected only 
 myself, I would never have relaxed my hold on India ; 
 but now, when the war threatens our women and 
 children, India can no longer be a home for us. 
 
 Another urgent question concerns the acts of the 
 Bengal Government. Many unfounded charges, as 
 in a case of infinite confusion and hourly pressure, 
 must be aimed at the Governor-General : the pro- 
 bability of such charges, and the multiplied experi- 
 ence of such charges, makes reasonable men cautious 
 
THE ENGLISH IN INDIA. 
 
 351 
 
 — in fact, unduly so ; and the excess of caution reacts 
 upon Lord Canning’s estimation too advantageously. 
 Lord Dalhousie is missed ; his energy would have 
 shown itself conspicuously by this time. For surely 
 in such a case as the negotiation with Bahadopr J ung 
 of Nepaul, as to the Ghoorkas, there can be no doubt 
 at 'present, though a great doubt, unfairly indulgent 
 to Lord Canning, was encouraged at first, that most 
 imbecile oscillation governed the Calcutta counsels. 
 And it is now settled that this oscillation turned 
 entirely upon a petty personal motive. A subordi- 
 nate officer had accepted the Nepaul offer, and by 
 that unauthorised acceptance had intruded upon the 
 prerogative of Lord Canning. The very same cause 
 — this jealous punctiliousness of exacting vanity, and 
 not any wdsh to enforce the severities of public jus- 
 tice — interfered to set aside the proclamation of Mr. 
 Colvin at Agra. The insufficiency again of the steps 
 taken as to Nena Sahib speaks the same language. 
 In this very journal, full six weeks earlier than in 
 the Calcutta proclamation, the offer of a large sum * 
 for this man’s head had been suggested. That offer 
 was never kept sufficiently before the public eye. 
 But a grosser neglect than this, as affecting the con- 
 dition of many thousands, and not of any single 
 villain, was the non-employment of the press in pur- 
 suing the steps of the mutineers. Everywhere, as 
 fast as they appeared in any strength, brief handbills 
 
 * And imperfectly as the offer was advertised, it seems to 
 have had considerable effect. Apparently it has extinguished 
 the Nena’s power to show himself, and to move about with 
 freedom. He is now distrustful and jealous — often no doubt 
 with very little reason. 
 
352 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 should have been circulated — circumstantially re- 
 lating their defeats, exposing their false pretences, 
 and describing their prospects. Once only the 
 government attempted such a service; and blundered 
 so far as to urge against the sepoys a reproach which 
 must have been unintelligible both to them and to 
 all native readers. 
 
 Again, a question even more practical and instant 
 arises as to the modes of public vengeance. 
 
 1. If, when finally defeated, and in a military sense 
 destroyed, on some signal field of battle, the muti- 
 neers should fly to the hills in the great ranges, or 
 the jungle, the main fear would arise not from 
 tliem^ but from the weak compromising government, 
 that would show itself eager to treat, and make what 
 the Roman law calls a transaction or half-and-half 
 settlement with any body of sepoys that showed a 
 considerable strength. But, in such a case, besides 
 that the rebels, having now no Delhi, will have 
 scanty ammunition, our best resource would be found 
 in the Spanish bloodhounds of Cuba, which we British 
 used fifty years back for hunting down the poor negro 
 Maroons in Jamaica, who were not by a thousand 
 degrees so criminal as the sepoys. 
 
 2. That no wrong is done to the Bengal Govern- 
 ment by this anticipation of an eventual compromise, 
 may be judged by the assertion (resting apparently 
 on adequate authority), that even at this hour that 
 government are making it a subject for delibera- 
 tion and doubt — whether the sepoys have forfeited 
 their pensions ! Doubtless, the Delhi and Cawnpore 
 exploits merit good-service pensions for life ! 
 
 3. Others by millions, who come to these questions 
 
THE ENGLISH IN INDIA. 
 
 353 
 
 in a far nobler spirit, fear that at any rate, and with 
 every advantage for a righteous judgment, too many 
 of the worst sepoys laden with booty may find means 
 to escape. To these I would suggest that, after all, 
 the appropriate, worst, aod most hellish of punish- 
 ments for hellish malefactors, is mortification and 
 utter ruin in every one of their schemes. What is 
 the thrust of a bayonet or the deepest of sabre-cuts ? 
 These are over in a few moments. And I with others 
 rejoiced therefore that so many escaped from Delhi 
 for prolonged torment. That torment will be found 
 in the ever-rankling deadly mortification of knowing 
 that in all things they and their wicked comrades 
 have failed ; and that in the coming spring, and 
 amongst the resurrections of spring, when all will be 
 finished, and the mighty storm will have wheeled 
 away, there remains for the children of hell only this 
 surviving consciousness — that the total result has 
 been the awakening of our Indian Government, and 
 the arming it for ever against a hideous peril, that 
 might else have overwhelmed it unprepared in an 
 hour of slumbering weakness. Such a game is played 
 but once; and, having failed, never again can it be 
 repeated. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 z 
 
ON NOVELS. 
 
 {Two pages written in a Lady's Alhuyn.*) 
 
 A FALSE ridicule has settled upon Novels, and upon 
 Young Ladies as the readers of novels. Love, we are 
 told authoritatively, has not that importance in the 
 actual practice of life — nor that extensive influence 
 upon human affairs — which novel-writers postulate, 
 and which the interest of novels presumes. Some- 
 thing to this effect has been said by an eminent 
 writer ; and the law is generally laid down upon 
 these principles by cynical old men, and envious blue- 
 stockings who have outlived their personal attractions. 
 The sentiment however is false even for the present 
 condition of society ; and it will become continually 
 more false as society improves. For what is the great 
 commanding event, the one sole revolution, in a 
 woman’s life'? Marriage. Viewing her course from 
 the cradle to the grave in the light of a drama, I am 
 entitled to say that her wedding-day is its catastrophe 
 — or, in technical language, its peripeteia : whatever 
 else is important to her in succeeding years has its 
 origin in that event. So much for that sex. For the 
 other, it is admitted that Love is not, in the same 
 
 * This was published in facsimile from the Original ]\IS. in 
 The Archivist and- Autograph Review, edited by S. Davey, 
 F.K.S L.— June, 1888. [H.] 
 
ON NOVELS. 
 
 355 
 
 exclusive sense, the governing principle under which 
 their lives move : but what then are the concurrent 
 forces, which sometimes happen to cooperate with 
 that agency — but more frequently disturb it '? They 
 are two ; Ambition, and Avarice. Now for the vast 
 majority of men — Ambition, or the passion for per- 
 sonal distinction, has too narrow a stage of action, its 
 grounds of hope are too fugitive and unsteady, to 
 furnish any durable or domineering influence upon 
 the course of life. Avarice again is so repulsive to 
 the native nobility of the human heart, that it rarely 
 obtains the dignity of a passion : great energy of 
 character is requisite to form a consistent and accom- 
 plished miser : and of the mass of men it may be said 
 — that, if the beneflcence of nature has in some 
 measure raised them above avarice by the necessity of 
 those social instincts which she has impressed upon 
 their hearts, in some measure also they sink below it 
 by their deficiencies in that austerity of self-denial 
 and that savage strength of will which are indis- 
 pensable qualifications for the role of heroic miser. A 
 perfect miser in fact is a great man, and therefore a 
 very rare one. Take away then the two forces of Am- 
 bition and Avarice, — what remains even to the male 
 sex as a capital and overruling influence in life, 
 except the much nobler force of Love 1 History con- 
 firms this view : the self-devotions and the voluntary 
 martyrdoms of all other passions collectively have 
 been few by comparison with those which have been 
 offered at the altar of Love. If society should ever 
 make any great advance, and man as a species grow 
 conspicuously nobler. Love also will grow nobler ; 
 and a passion, which at present is possible in any 
 
356 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 elevated form for one perhaps in a hundred, will then 
 be coextensive with the human heart. 
 
 On this view of the grandeur which belongs to the 
 passion of Sexual Love in the economy of life, as it is 
 and as it may be, Kovels have an all-sufficient justi- 
 fication ; and Novel-readers are obeying a higher and 
 more philosophic impulse than they are aware of. 
 They seek an imaginary world where the harsh hin- 
 drances, which in the real one too often fret and 
 disturb the ‘ course of true love,’ may be forced to 
 bend to the claims of justice and the pleadings of the 
 heart. In company with the agitations and the dread 
 suspense — the anguish and the tears, wffiich so often 
 wait upon the uncertainties of earthly love, they de- 
 mand at the hands of the Novelist a final event 
 corresponding to the natural award of celestial wisdom 
 and benignity. What they are striving after, in short, 
 is — to realize an ideal ; and to reproduce the actual 
 world under more harmonious arrangements. This is 
 the secret craving of the reader ; and Novels are 
 shaped to meet it. With what success, is a separate 
 and independent question : the execution cannot pre- 
 judice the estimate of their aim and essential purpose. 
 
 Fair and unknown Owner of this Album, whom 
 perhaps I have never seen — whom perhaps I never 
 shall see, pardon me for wasting two pages of your 
 elegant manual upon this semi-metaphysical disquisi- 
 tion. Let the subject plead my excuse. And believe 
 that I am, Fair Incognita ! 
 
 Your faithful servant, 
 
 Thomas de Quincey. 
 
 Professor Wilson’s — Glocester Place, Edinburgh, 
 
 Friday night, December 3 , 1830 . 
 
DE QUINCEY’S PORTRAIT. 
 
 The only one which can be considered satisfactory 
 is that of which a copy is prefixed to these Yolumes. 
 It is from a steel engraving by Frank Croll, taken at 
 Edinburgh from a daguerreotype by Howie in 1850. 
 
 De Quince y’s own opinion of it is expressed to me 
 in the amusing letter which was published in The 
 Instructor (ISTew Series, vol. vi. p. 145). 
 
 TO THE EDITOE OF THE INSTRUCTOR, 
 
 September 21, 1850. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — I am much obliged to you for com- 
 municating to us (that is, to my daughters and myself) 
 the engraved portrait, enlarged from the daguerreotype 
 original. The engraver, at least, seems to have done 
 his part ably. As to one of the earlier artists con- 
 cerned, viz. the sun of July, I suppose it is not 
 allowable to complain of him, else my daughters are 
 inclined to upbraid him with having made the mouth 
 too long. But, of old, it was held audacity to suspect 
 the sun’s veracity : — ‘ Solem quis dicere falsum 
 audeat I ’ And I remember that, half a century ago, 
 the Sun newspaper, in London, used to fight under 
 I. z * 
 
358 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 sanction of that motto. But it was at length dis- 
 covered by the learned, that Sun junior, viz. the 
 newspaper, did sometimes indulge in fibbing. The 
 ancient prejudice about the solar truth broke down, 
 therefore, in that instance ; and who knows but Sun 
 senior may be detected, now that our optical glasses 
 are so much improved, in similar practices ] in which 
 case he may have only been ‘ keeping his hand in ' 
 when operating upon that one feature of the mouth. 
 The rest of the portrait, we all agree, does credit to 
 his talents, showing that he is still wide-awake, 
 and not at all the superannuated old artist that 
 some speculators in philosophy had dreamed of his 
 becoming. 
 
 As an accompaniment to this portrait, your wish is 
 that I should furnish a few brief chronological mem- 
 oranda of my own life. That would be hard for me 
 to do, and when done, might not be very interesting 
 for others to read. Nothing makes such dreary and 
 monotonous reading as the old hackneyed roll-call, 
 chronologically arrayed, of inevitable facts in a man’s 
 life. One is so certain of the man’s having been born, 
 and also of his having died, that it is dismal to lie 
 under the necessity of reading it. That the man 
 began by being a boy — that he went to school — and 
 that, by intense application to his studies, ‘ which he 
 took to be his portion in this life,’ he rose to distinc- 
 tion as a robber of orchards, seems so probable, upon 
 the whole, that I am willing to accept it as a postulate. 
 That he married — that, in fulness of time, he was 
 hanged, or (being a humble, unambitious man) that 
 he was content with deserving it — these little circum- 
 stances are so naturally to be looked for, as sown 
 
DE QUINCEY S PORTKAIT. 
 
 359 
 
 broadcast up and down the great fields of biography, 
 that any one life becomes, in this respect, but the 
 echo of thousands. Chronologic successions of events 
 and dates, such as these, which, belonging to the race, 
 illustrate nothing in the individual, are as wearisome 
 as they are useless. 
 
 A better plan will be — to detach some single 
 chapter from the experiences of childhood, which is 
 likely to offer, at least, this kind of value — either 
 that it will record some of the deep impressions under 
 which my childish sensibilities expanded, and the 
 ideas which at that time brooded continually over my 
 mind, or else will expose the traits of character that 
 slumbered in those around me. This plan will have 
 the advantage of not being liable to the suspicion of 
 vanity or egotism ; for I beg the reader to understand 
 distinctly, that I do not offer this sketch as deriving 
 any part of what interest it may have from myself, 
 as the person concerned in it. If the particular ex- 
 perience selected is really interesting, in virtue of its 
 own circumstances, then it matters not to whom it 
 happened. Suppose that a man should record a 
 perilous journey, it will be no fair inference that he 
 records it as a journey performed by himself. Most 
 sincerely he may be able to say, that he records it 
 not for that relation to himself, but in spite of that 
 relation. The incidents, being absolutely independ- 
 ent, in their power to amuse, of all personal reference, 
 must be equally interesting [he will say] whether 
 they occurred to A or to B. That is my case. Let 
 the reader abstract from me as a person that by 
 accident, or in some partial sense, may have been pre- 
 viously known to himself. Let him read the sketch 
 
360 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 as belonging to one who wishes to be profoundly 
 anonymous. I offer it not as owing anything to its 
 connection with a particular individual, but as likely 
 to be amusing separately for itself; and if I make 
 any mistake in that, it is not a mistake of vanity 
 exaggerating the consequence of what relates to my 
 own childhood, but a simple mistake of the judgment 
 as to the power of amusement that may attach to a 
 particular succession of reminiscences. 
 
 Excuse the imperfect development which in some 
 places of the sketch may have been given to my 
 meaning. I suffer from a most afflicting derangement 
 of the nervous system, which at times makes it diffi- 
 cult for me to write at all, and always makes me im- 
 patient, in a degree not easily understood, of recasting 
 what may seem insufficiently, or even incoherently, 
 expressed. — Believe me, ever yours, 
 
 Thomas de Quincey. 
 
 This letter was a preface to ‘ A Sketch from Child- 
 hood,’ of which the first and second parts appeared in 
 that Yolume. 
 
 After this came a blank of six months — a whole 
 Yolume containing nothing. In Yolume YIII. (Janu- 
 ary, 1852), ‘A Sketch from Childhood’ was resumed 
 with the following whimsical apology. It then ran 
 for five months consecutively : — 
 
 {January, 1852 .) 
 
 I UNDERSTAND that Several readers of my Sketch 
 from Childhood have lodged complaints against me for 
 not having pursued it to what they can regard as a 
 
DE QUINCEY’s PORTKAIT. 
 
 361 
 
 satisfactory close. Some may have done this in a 
 gentle tone, as against an irreclaimable procrastinator, 
 amiably inclined, perhaps, to penitence, though consti- 
 tutionally incapable of amendment ; but others more 
 clamorously, as against one faithless to his engage- 
 ments, and deliberately a defaulter. Themselves they 
 regard in the light of creditors, and me as a slippery 
 debtor, who, having been permitted to pay his debts 
 by instalments — three, suppose, or four — has paid 
 two, and then absconded in order to evade the rest. 
 Certainly to this extent I go along with them myself, 
 that, in all cases of a tale or story moving through 
 the regular stages of a plot, the writer, by the act of 
 publishing the introductory parts, pledges himself to 
 unweave the whole tissue to the last. The knot that 
 he has tied, though it should prove a very Gordian 
 knot, he is bound to untie. And, if he fails to do so, 
 I doubt whether a reader has not a right of action 
 against him for having wantonly irritated a curiosity 
 that was never meant to be gratified — for having 
 trifled with his feelings — and, possibly, for having 
 distressed and perplexed his moral sense ; as, for 
 instance, by entangling the hero and heroine (two 
 young people that can be thoroughly recommended 
 for virtue) in an Iiish bog of misfortunes, and there 
 leaving them to their fate — the gentleman up to his 
 shoulders, and the poor lady, therefore, in all proba- 
 bility up to her lips. But, in a case like the present, 
 where the whole is offered as a sketchy an action would 
 not lie. A sketch, by its very name, is understood 
 to be a fragmentary thing : it is a torso ^ which may 
 want the head, or the feet, or the arms, and still 
 
362 
 
 DE QUINCEY. 
 
 remain a marketable piece of sculpture. In buying a 
 horse, you may look into his mouth, but not in 
 buying a torso : for, if all his teeth have been gone 
 for ten centuries, which would certainly operate in 
 the way of discount upon the price of a horse, very 
 possibly the loss would be urged as a good ground 
 for an extra premium upon the torso. Besides, it is 
 hard to see how any proper end could be devised for 
 a paper of this nature, reciting a few incidents, sad 
 and gay, from the records of a half-forgotten child- 
 hood, unless by putting the child to death ; for which 
 denouement, unhappily, there was no solid historical 
 foundation. 
 
 Bight or wrong, however, my accusers are entitled 
 to my gratitude; since in the very fact of their 
 anger is involved a compliment. By proclaiming 
 their indignation against the procrastinating or 
 absconding sketcher, they proclaim their interest in 
 the sketch ; and, therefore, if any fierce Peter Peebles 
 should hang upon my skirts, haling me back to work, 
 and denouncing me to the world as a fugitive from 
 my public duties, I shall not feel myself called upon 
 to contradict him. As often as he nails me with the 
 charge of being a skulker from work in meditatione 
 fugce, I shall turn round and nail him with the 
 charge of harbouring an intense admiration for me, 
 and putting a most hyperbolical value upon my 
 services ; or else why should he give himself so 
 much trouble, after so many months are gone by, in 
 pursuing and recapturing me ? On this principle, I 
 shall proceed with others who may have joined the 
 cry of the accusers, obediently submitting to their 
 
DE QUINCEY’s PORTKAIT. 
 
 363 
 
 pleasure, doing my best, therefore, to supply a con- 
 clusion which in my own eyes had not seemed 
 absolutely required, and content to bear the utmost 
 severity of their censure as applied to myself, the 
 workman, in consideration of the approbation which 
 that censure carries with it by implication to the 
 work itself. 
 
 END OF VOLUME I. 
 

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