THE
ISclCCtU
DECEMBER, 1854.
Art. 1. — Vie de Toussaint L'Ouverture. [Life of Toiissaint
L’Ouvcrture.] Par Saint Ilemy. Haiti: l)es Caves. Paris:
Cloquet, liiliraire-Editcur. 1850.
A NOVEL by ]\Iiss ^Martiiieau, and a drama by M. Lamartine, attest, at least, the existence of a general belief in the heroic worth of this celebrated negro. We have consequently long wished to meet with an authentic and solid biography of a man who has been painted in the fairest colours of fiction. The publication of M. Saint Ilemy does not supply this want. Prolix and bombastic in style, and labouring to exalt the subject of the biograjdiy by encomiums, instead of exhibiting his merits to speak for themselves, the book has been perhaps the most wearisome reading wdiich has ever exhausted a somewhat w'ell-tried courage and jiatience. But it contains some dates whicli seem reliable, several authentic documents, and the sym])athies and ju’ejudices natural to a negro w ho is boasting about a great man of his race, if wo can succeed in giving our readers in a few pages the pith and essence of what is contained in four hundred, their patience will certainly be less tried than ours has been. Toussaint L'Ouverture, the liberator of Saint Domingo, is a historical figure, in the end of the last century, of whom little is known, and of considerable ethnological and historical importance.
This biography is preceded by a portrait of L'Ouverturc, which is stated to be authentic. The liberator hiinscdf gave it, or rather the original of it, to the agent Roumd, in whose family it ha.s been piously preserved ever since, and it is now in the possession of Count lloumd de Saint Laurent, who is resident in Paris. Among
N.S. — VOL. VIII. T T
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LIFE OF TOUSSAINT T/oUVEUTURE.
the caricatures of Robert Kay, of Edinburgh, there is a print of L’Ouverture, ^vhich is doubtless a copy of a contemporary portrait. Kay s print re])resents him as the general and governor of Saint Domingo, in the act of reviewing his troops. Roth |)ortraits agree in giving him a pair of wild, bright, earnest eyes, witli cheeks and chin expressive of firmness, endurance, and enerirv. In the full-length of Kay, the whole figure is replete with ener<gy, and nothing of the negro features is retained except the black skin. In the ludf-len^h published by M. Saint Reiny, L'Ouver- ture is represented in the three plumed hat, and gold decked coat, of a French general, with a white neckcloth and shirt -ruffles ; the t‘arn(‘stness of the eyes is intensified to wildness, and the lirmness of the lower jaw^ is increased to obstinacy and stern¬ ness. An intelligent and energetic man is represented in both portraits, and in that possessed by the Roiime family, while the lineaments of these characteristics are brought out most fully, L’Ouv(*rture, neverthele.sss, is displayed in all the marks of what is deemed negro ugliness. His mouth ]>rojects; and, although in a tie, his hair is plainly woolly ; his lips are thick, and the lower one, especially, is enormous. Resignation is said to be the moral characteristic of the negro or Ethiopian race. On the faces of negro women, who, if not the fairest of the fair, are perhaps the gentlest of the gentle sex, this characteristic is often beauti- fullv seen. However, "we cannot sav we have remarked it on the faces of negro men, and most certainly there is nothing of it visible in the countenance of the chief of their race, Toussaint L'Ouver- ture ; he looks a man full of indignation against injustice, and determined to resist it to the death.
Tlie little generally knowm of the most famous of the negroes can be statecl in few w'ords. Boni a slave, he raised him.self by education and j^erseverance to be the general of the negroes ot Saint Domingo in revolt, and successfullv established their inde- pendence. When victorious, the motto on his Hag was — ‘Ao Retaliation." His courage as a soldier and his skill as a general were equalled by his capacity for legislation. Forced to surrender in his last struggle for the independence of Hayti, before the overwhelming forces of Buonaparte, the First Consul, he retired to his estate under a guarantee of protection. He was, notwith¬ standing, privately seized, hurried on board a French man-ot-war, im]>risoned in an icy dungeon amidst the snows of the Alps, and tlu‘ro starved to death, if not by the express orders, certainly by the neglect and guilt of Buonaparte. His assassination roused his countrymen to arms, and Dessaline, his successor, aided by the unfavourable issue of the last general war to France, established permanently the independence and liberties of his country n>en.
LIFE OF TOUjSSAINT L'OUVERTUUE.
(>43
Such are the brief outlines of the facts i^^eutTally known. M. Saint Rt'inv, when ])veparing his work, ha»l access to the docu¬ ments of the French ministers of manne and war, and he ]>ub- lishes enough of solid materials to reveal the truth ivspecting the life and death of his hero.
Hayti was discovered by Christopher Columbus, and the chief town, and, for several centuries, the whole island, wen^ called Saint Domingo, after the name of his father. Havti means liiuh moun- tains, a chain of which runs from the east to the south. The island contains about half a million of inhabitants, although capable of sustaining twenty millions upon its six thousand miles square of suHace. (Jvando, one of the historians of the <liscovery, relates how ( \jlumbus and his companions, liaving found a heavy block of quartz containing gold, used it as a table, upon which they eat a roasted j)ig.
The culture of a few rotts, the chase, and tishing furnished the aborigines of Hayti with the supply of their wants. But the Spaniards soon compelled them to search for gold in the mine.s, and when their sufferings diminished the population, negroes were bought upon the shores of Africa, and imported to laljour and gratify the lust for gold. In one of the jv'rr/ es made iqion the African tribes, a son of the king or chief »*f the Aradas was seized, called Gaou-Guinou. He was sold to the manager of the sugar plantation of Count de Breda, M. Bayou do Liliertas, ^ ho treated his slaves well. Gaou-Guinou was ivcognis^.d by several slaves of his own tribe or nation, his predecessors in misfortum^, and chosen as their chief or king. By a union with one of his companions in slavery, he became the father of two girls and three boys. The eldest, Francois-Domini(|ue-Toussaiut L’Guverturc, was born, it is said, upon the 2(>th of May, 1743. Fraiujois was such a weakly child that he was nicknamed Jidton, or
Straw-Stalk. At the age of twidve, however, no Ijoy could run more swiftly, swim across a torrent more quickly, or more adroitly manage a wild horse. His occiqiation was that of a herd-bciy, in which doubtless he acquired his characteristic habit of silence.
King Gaou-Guinou would probably have cut a poor figure (if examined in his capacity of an educator) in the report of an e<lu- cational inspector. He knew, however, how to make a weakly boy strong, instead of how to make strong boys sickly. Swift running means good respiration ; firm riding, self-}K>ssession ; and swimming, courage and cleanlines.s. Gaou-Guinou knew, in short, how to educate or draw forth the muscular and respiratory organs of his boy. He was also capable of imparting a useful knowledge of ])ractical iMjtany. His son was able, from the* in¬ structions of his father in the mntfiria niOAUcti of the African nation.s, to treat most of the maladies of hot countries.
T T 2
6li
LIFE OF TOUSSAINT L’OUVERTURE.
Gtoou-Guinou outlived his sou, Avho was himself sixty years old when he wrote, in his last appeal, from his dungeon in Fort du Joux in the Alps, to the First Consul Buonaparte, as follows : — ‘ I am not learned ; 1 am ignorant ; hut my father, who is now blind, showed me the path of virtue and probity, and I am strong in my conscience in that regard/ ‘ Gaou,' the prefix of the name of the lather, signifies ‘good/
Tlie handwriting of lyOuverture was very defective even when he had to sign important state documents. He could speak to his countrymen in their African language, and he read and spoke F rcnch tolerably well. Brought up a Roman Catholic, he had the accomplishment common among the members of his church of ri*ading Latin without understanding it. Small as were his scholastic attainments, no one knew how he obtained them. He never seems to have had any schooling nor any teacher. Some¬ how or other he picked up a little arithmetic, and these seem to have been the sum of his accpiirements. In due time the boy passed from herding cattle to labouring in the fields under the ia.sh of the whip of the commander — the slave whose business it was ti> keep the others to their work. From this painful position his iiitelligence, steadiness and knowledge of horses raised him in a few yt'ars, and he was appointed coachman to his master. Found trustworthy and sober in this situation, he had by-and- by, in addition to the horses, the care of the utensils of the sugar- house confided to him.
M. Bayou, his master, wished him to marry a young and mettlesome negi*ess, but T/Cuverture preferred a woman who was a good housewife, and whom he had long known. 8he had already borne a son named Placide to a man of colour. Toussaint plaetnl his hearth under the protection of the marriage-rite at the church of llaut-du-Ca}), and adopted and legitimated his wife’s boy. 11 is prudence was rewarded by domestic happiness. ‘ Wo went to the fields hand-in-hand," said L’Ouverture to a traveller long afterwards, ‘ and we came back the same, having scarcely perceived the fatigues of the day. Heaven always blessed our toil, and we swam in abundance, having always something to give to the needy. On Sundays and fete days, my relatives, myself, and my wife went to the mass. After our return we ])artook of agreeable repast together, and we spent the rest of the day enfamillcy and closed it with a j^rayer cn commun/
M. Saint Remy finds it to be a mysterious thing that Toussaint did not buy his freedom with his savings, and make himself a free man. The perusal of RaynaPs ‘ Philosojdiic History’ had infused into his mind the ideas about the rights of man which ])ropared the French revolution. His apparent contentment in the condition of a slave is accordant with the prudence and good
LIFE OF TOUSSAINT l'oUVEUTUUE.
G45
sense, the culm insight, and cool reason of liis cliaracter. By buying his freedom, he would have juirchased only the painful condition of a free man of colour. This condition was such in ilayti, that the free negroes and mulaltoes were the first to take up arms when the enthusiasm of the French metropolis spread to the colonies. Fatnis- Baton, or Straw-Stalk, was well oft*, and knew it, in comparison with most of his race. The fall of the B;ustile Wius hailed everywhere as the deathblow of tyranny. Led by Vincent t)ge, the free blacks claimed eipial rights, and the C’onstituent Assembly decreed tlieir concession. Ogd arrived in liayti to demand the execution of the decree, which the colonial aristocracy refused, lie was defeated and put to death. But his execution only caused the spread of the insurrection, and a move¬ ment which began as a demand for eipial rights by the free blacks grew into a struggle for the abolition of slavery. The com¬ manders of the plantations in the north of the i.sland met in the night of the 1 kh August, 171)1, and arranged the insurrection of the slaves for the 21st, when it burst out. A slave named Bouckman, from Jamaica, wiis the chief. In one week, from the north to the eiust and west, the island presented a vast scene of assassination and devasUition. The ))rincely colonists who t'seaped rode over ashes and corpses to the C\ipe, where they establislied a new colonial assembly. Toiissaint maintained at this time an attitude which enabled him to ])rotect his nuuster and mistress.
‘ He saw with inexj)ressible joy,’ he said, ‘ his master, M. Bayou, among his slaves at a moment when it sutliced to be a white to bo massacred.' His nuister took arms as a dragoon, and when Tous.siunt feared he could no longer ])rotect Madame Bayou, his mistress, he contided her to his brother Paul, who drove her in her carriage to the Cape.
When Madame Bayou was gone, the warnings of Bruno, the commander, and of Toussiunt, could not prevent the majority of the slaves of the estate from joining the insurgents. After placing his wife and two children in a place of security in the mountains, Toussaint set out himself for the camp at Oalitfet. Bouckman, a man of herculean strength and fanatical courage, had been killed, and was succeeded in the command by Jean- FraiKj'ois, and his lieutenants, Biassou and Jeannot. Jean-Fran- <;ois wius a handsome and intelligent Creole, who had run iiway b'om slavery, and lived the life of a maroon in the mountains. Biassou appears to have been a courageous but drunken and debauchetl savage. Jeannot, as cruel .as Biassou, was more active and woltish, and his hatred to the whites led him not merely to make a ma.ssiicre upon the plantation ot his master, but to take uj) the blood in his hands and drink it, siiying — ‘ ()h, my triends, the blood of the whites is good, let us drink long draughts of it ;
LIFE OF TOUSSAINT l/oUVEUTURE.
G4i;
let us swear against them an implacable hatred — no peace witli them — I swear it/
I'niissaint joined the insurrection as a pliysician. As he could read and write, and knew the virtues of many plants, and was known fur his moderation in all things, Toussaint gained inflii- enct* and position among the insurgents, without ever sullying himself by murder or jnllage. He was a sort of (fi de-de-camp and cJtef-de-hvreaii to Biassou. The discipline of the army was just the disci|>line of the plantations applied to militaiy adairs. Cattle stealers were hanged. A sentinel caught asleep received fifty lashes during eight days, was passed under the Hag, and at the end of the eight days was beheaded.
When the insurgent slaves obtained possession of Dondon, the native place of Vincent Oge, they revenged him terribl3\ The whites, with four cannons, defended themselves behind their bar- ncadt^s and in the church until nearly all the men were killed. As tiie slaves became masters of the houses, they committed the worst and wildest excesses of murder and pillage, and gave them¬ selves up to the dances of the bamboida until they succumbed from fatigue and th ink. Jeannot having made thirty whites piisoners, pretended t«» tiy them, to enjoy the cruel tortures of mockery and irony which he could inflict upon them prior to executing them. If any one enraged him he would discharge his pistols at him. He caused his coachman, who was his relative and friend, to be shot for 1>eing a few minutes behind time. His camp was planted with gibbets.
In athlilion to their cruelties, the insurgent chiefs distinguished themselves l>y their vain-glorious puerilities. Jean -Fra n^*ois calleil himself generalissimo, and then king, and then viceroy. Their com]>anies had aristocratic titles — the dragoons of Coiule — the dragoons of d'Estaing ; they called themselves gevs dw Vitl — the king’s men — and around their immense white cockades was the motto — Vive le roi ; of course their flag was the white om* of the Bourbons. The traditions of Guinea made the slaves full of sym]»athy for Louis XVI., who, they |>ersuaded them¬ selves. was their }>articular frieml, and while claiming their own tMnaucl[Kition, they were afHicted by the recital of the sullerings of nyalty in Pari.s.
t>f ourse, in cruelties as in vanities, the slaves were like theii* masters, and the masters like the slaves. In revolutionary strifes, the language of both parties is often that of Sliylock — ‘The villany you teach me I will execute, and it shall go hard it I do not better the instruction.' The i)lanters seized, upon the evening of the insuiTection, seventeim men of colour, and hanged them without trial. The jdanters erected live gibbets, which they kept in constant use in executing the sentences of unc cour prevoialc
LIFE OF TOUSSAINT L*OUVERTURE.
647
upon any one, black or yellow, who was denounced by fear or susi)icion.
According to the narrative of Saint Reiny, however, the slaves, notwithstanding the detestal)le forms of their excesses, were more moderate and reasonable than their masters. Jean-Fran- <;ois caused his lieutenant, Jeannot, to be tried and put to death for his cruelties. When a commission arrived from Paris to eftect a reconciliation in the name of the Constitution and the king, the chiefs of tlie slaves only bargained for their own emancipation. Jean-Fran(;ois was for peace if three hundred of the insurgents were made free ; Toussaint reduced the number to tifty; and Jean-Franc^ois, Biassou, Manzeau, Desprez, and Toussaint, signed a letter offering to lay down their arms if liberty was conceded to the leaders only, and to induce the mass of the slaves to return to slavery upon the plantations. Two free men of colour were found courageous enough to brave the gibbets of tlie colonists, and go with the letter to Cap(' Town. They were well received by the Royal Conimis.sioners, but the Colonial Assembly made them wait ten days for an answer, and then they were called to the bar, and addressed as follows: —
‘ Emissaries of the revolted negroes, — von sliall hear the inten- tions of the Colonial Assembly. The Assembly being founded upon the law, and by the law, cannot corresj>ond with persons armed against the law' and all law’s. The Assembly can pardon the guilty when they are penitent, and return to their duty. It will willingly recognise those who liave been entrapped against their will. It ahvays knows how’ to dispense goodness and justice. Withdraw’ ! — Reiirez-vous !' When the bearers of this message returned with it to the cam}) of the insurgents, Biassou ordered aU the w’hite })risoners he had to be ])ut to death. Toussaint and Frani;uis Laiitte, his friend, interceded for them and })ro- tected them. On another occasion, when a ])roclamation of the Assembly was read to the insurgent army, a ciy W'as rais(xl by their universal indignation for tlie death of the prisoners. Toussaint seized the jiroclamation, re-read it, commented upon it, softened its harshness, and a})})ealing to tlie sentiments of jieaco, order, and kindness in the hearts of his hearers, changed the cries of vengeance into tears. Many similar acts are ascribed to him and Latitte. Much as the re})ly of the Assiunbly had enraged the negroes, they acceded to the nxpie.st of the Com¬ missioners, amj agreed to a conference. This conference took place on the -1st December, 1701. Among the delegates of the Assembly w’as M. Bullet, who had bemi the master of the cruel and atrocious Jeannot; and his conduct on this occasion seems to }U’ove that the villanies of the slave had been taught by the master. When Jean-Francois, the insurgent general,
648
LIFE OF TOUSSAINT l'OUVERTITRE.
was dismounting from his horse, having arrived at the head of a numerous body of cavalr}’, M. Bullet approached him, and sud¬ denly gave him a lash wdth his riding-whip. Jean-Fran(;ois, with his cavalry, could have revenged himself by putting to death the handful of whites upon the spot, but he contented himself with retiring from the scene. He was followed by the Royal Commissioner, Saint Leger, >vho apologized for the brutal insult, and his courage and confidence inspired them with such respect, that the insurgents knelt down before him in sign of their devotion to the king and the law. Terms of peace were arranged, upon the conditions of an exchange of prisoners, fifty emancipations, and the return of the rest of the slaves to their slavery. Jean-Fran(;ois stijmlated that his wife, who was in the prison of Cape Town, should be restored to him. Next morning he sent Toussaint and Lafitto with the prisoners, but his wife was not returned to him.
A circumstance had occurred wdrich profoundly affected the minds of the negroes, and showed them that even were they to fight for their masters, they w ould have no security for good treat¬ ment. A body of blacks and mulattoes w^ere enrolled by the colonists in imitation of the Royal Swiss Guards, and they rendered their masters good service, and w ere not guilty of any overt act of insubordination. But they were suspected of being more attached to the revolution than to the counter-revolution, and their deportation w\as deemed politic and necessary. They were embarked in unseaw’orthy vessels, some were wrecked, and the greater number w^ere thrown upon the coast of Jamaica, to succeed or perish as it might happen to them. Their fate made a profound impression upon Toussaint and the moderate chiefs of the insurrection.
Hostilities recommenced. On the 15th January, Jean-Fran- <;ois, w hose wife h«ad not been returned to him, took Oiianamintlie; and on the night of the 2:^nd, Biassou, wdiose mother had not been emancipated, surrounded the village of Haut-du-t\\p, killed the sick in the hosjdtals of Ija Providence, surprised the battery of Beliter, and turned its cannons upon Cape Town. The colonists aw'oke to find their streets a dreadful scene of fire and carnage ; and when at daybreak, those who had been able to meet together, went to combat him, he was already off to the negro camj> at Galiftbt, carrying his old mother with him as a trophy torn from the irons of slavery.
AVhen Toussaint saw' all hopes of peace vanish, he wept. His position was that of principal aide-de-camp and secretary to Biasson. His intellectual superiority and moral integiity were oftensive to the amour propre of Jean-Fran^ois. How ever^ he was slowly gaining the esteem of the army, and the two chiefs
LIFE OF TOUSSAINT l'oUVERTURE.
649
were losing it by their rapacity, ostentation, and crimes. They divided the command and the conquered territory between them; they called their residences, palaces, and affected royal pomp and style ; and to the shame of human nature be it recorded, these slaves, become powerful, sold their fellows as slaves to the Spaniards of Havanah. Aloof from all the atrocities and crimes of the insurrection, Toussaint was equally a stranger to the vanities and venalities of his superiors in command. His func¬ tions were medical and civil, and his influence was exercised on the side of moderation and humanity.
Toussaint’s first atiairs of a military kind were defeats. He happened to be at the camp of La Tannerie w hen it Wiis attacked by D’Assas, at the head of his regiment. Toussaint and his men defended themselves with rare intrepidity, but the severity of their losses compelled them to retire. Soon after, the French troo[)s w^ere led against tlie negroes by generals full of tlie fire of the Revolution, and Jean-Fran(;ois was driven out of the flat country into the mountains. At La Tannerie, which was con¬ sidered the l)ulwark of the insurrection, Biassou and Toussaint offered an obstinate resistance, in a position which w^as powerfully fortified, but were force<l to fly, leaving ten camps and fifteen pieces of artillery behind them.
The death of Louis XVI., and the outbreak of the general war, changed remarkably the aspect of affairs. The })rinci})al colonists offered Saint Domingo to the English. The negro insurgents entered into the service of the King of Spain, and Toussiiint, as general of the royal army, and Biassou, as governor-general, issued a ]»roclamation, in w’liich tliey sw^ore to slied the last drop of their blood in defence of the Bourbons. Defection s[)rcad in the armies which had victoriously attacked the negroes, and places were given up to them from which they had been driven. Aided more by the uncertainty of aff’airs, and vacillation of opinions, than by their military merits, the negro chiefs regained most of the sw\ay they had lost in the island. Three Hags contested the pos.session of it, the English, Spanish, and French, and the whites, mulattoes, and blacks displayed four different cockades, the w'hito, the black, the red, and the tricolor. Jean-Fran(;ois, jealous of the iiiHuence Toussaint had gained in the district under him, picked a (piarrel with him and arrested him, but Biassou attacked the prison and liberated him. The restoration of slavery became as openly an avowed object of the Spaniards in the island as the restoration of the monarchy ; and when the French Convention proclaimed the principles of universal emancipation, Toussaint found himself, by the consequences of his position, in
Ills race.
650
LIFE OF TOUSSAINT l/OUVERTURE.
Ton ssaint, after secretly preparing Lis measures, passed over, with all liis men and influence, from the Spanish to the French service. Tlie slaves rallied to the side of the cap of liberty. We have seen this exti*aordinary man in a subordinate position, we shall now see him acting by himself, and no longer one of a grou]>, but as a separate flgure. A most decisive proof that he acted as a restraining influence upon his former associates, is found in the fact, that after he left them, their atrocities sur¬ passed all previous precedents. In Fort Dauphin they massacred seven hundied and thirty-four French in one night. The signal for this colonial St. Bartholomew was given by Vasquez, the cure of Axabon.
When he went over to the side of the French Republic, Tous- saint served without any rank, although in command of consider¬ able troops and an extensive district of country. Biassou altered several posts wliich Toussaint had arranged, and Toussaint seized the occasion to replace them, and surround Biassou in his camp at Lariviere ; and the general had great difliculty in escaping from his aide-de-camp. Toussaint proclaimed equal liberty for all in eveiy ]dace under his authority, at Gonaives, Gros-Monie, Canton d'Kunery, Plaisance, Marmalade, Dondon, Acul, aud Limbe, while ]>ulliug down the Spanish, and unfurling the French flag. (Jamp Bertin, Port Margot, and all the posts of La Mon¬ tague Noire, were quickly taken by Tous.saint from Jean-Fraii(;ois. The Pont <le I’Ester, La Petite Riviere, St. Raphael, and St. Michel followed — successes which the French general Laveaux decorated by sending him a grenadier’s feather, w hich he wore ever after.
'J'oussaint, it is W’orth remarking by the w’ay, could not have rendered the services he did to the French Republic if he had not become a tirst-rate horseman in his boyhood. His life was for some time that of a centaur. The English, who had taken Port-au-Prince, and advanced across the river Artibonite, were surprised in an ambuscade at Le Haut-des-Verettes, and their chief w’as killed. Prior to returning to Gonaives, it was deemed a trait of character — notable in Toussaint — that he ordered money and brea<.l to be given to all the needy women and children, ot all colours, w hom he found at La Petite Riviere. In four days he took and erased twenty-eight camps, one of these, Bamby, situated upon a frightful ridge, and defended by three cannons, be.sides musquetry. The cordon he had to defend was ninety miles long, and Toussaint could not aflord to be absent from any point w hich was threatened. M. Saint Remy, besides giving him the credit of defeating Colonel Brisbane, says he forced a party ot English, who had disembarked at Guildive, to re-embark wdth dis¬ order. It W'as on this occasion that Colonel Brisbane was killed.
Toussaint organized his troops in four regiments, making 8000
LIFE OF TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE.
G51
men. An account of the divers fortunes of the rival Gaffs and conflicting cockades woidd extend this article beyond our space, and turn it aside from its object, which is to obtain a glimpse of the true character of Toussaint. Following, then, his fortunes, we find him three times unsuccessfully attacking Saint Marc, but, after retiring from it, taking Le Mirebalais, which commands the interior of the island. However, the English, whom M. Saint Et*niy describes as ‘a people whose every idea is a combination, and whose everv act is a calculation/ drove his brother out of it scKui after. Toussaint was afflicted to find that the pei-sons who had assisted the English were |)ersons who had sworn Gdelity to the rej)ublic. He rarely made a promise, but if repeated suppli¬ cations ever led him to pass his word, he kept it religiously, and would rather have been put to death, he said, than be reproached for jHajury.
Jean-Francois had surpiised Colonel Moyse in Dondon, and driven him and his grenadiers out of it, when Toussaint heard the sound of the conflict, and at the head of fifty dragoons rushed to the rescue, rallied the routed troops, who were dis¬ charging stones for want of balls, drove Jean-Francois out of the village, dislodged him from the fort, and cha.sed him to PKous dt‘s Roches. The Spanish forces never afterwards attacked the French, and peace was soon afterwards established between S[)ain and France. The French Convention decreed, on hearing the nows, that the army of Saint Domingo had deserved w'ell of the country. Laveaux was made a general of division, and, with others, Rigaufl, a mulatto, and Toussaint, a negro, were named generals of briga<le. The generals appointed a deputation, con¬ sisting of a white, a black, and a mulatto, to go to Piiris and thank the Convention, and show the brotherly unity of the three colours, ‘ white, yellow, and black.’
The Spanish flag thus disposed of, the English remained. Rignud is said to have dispossessed them of Tiburon, and destroyed a corvette, called the Lady Jane Grey, and Toussaint, besides retaining this district, extended it, and fortified its frontiers. Toussaint caus(*d Dieudonnd, .suspected of favouring the Plnglish, to be arrested by his own men, and he was impri.soned and ])ut to death. General Bowyer and Admiral Parker having attacked Leogane, are tlescrilxMl in the work before us as having been driven ofl'by T)e.sniisseaux.
J.aveaux, the governor of the island, having attempted to enforce the circulation of ])a})or money, the merchants at Cape Town were panic stricken, and a mob seized the governor in his bedroom, struck him with a stick, and hurried liim off to prison. Villnte, the general upon the si)ot, from personal spite, did not protect the governor-general, and even acce[)ted the dicUitorship
i
652
LIFE OF TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE.
of tlie iiisuirection. Tlie officer sent to him started off to Toussaint, who hastened to the succour of the outraged rtipre- sentativeof France at the head of two battalions and two hundred cavalry. But the insurgents, \vho were almost exclusively nui- lattoes, had become ashamed of their success, and the governor was relieved from restraint. He received Toussaint, nevertheless, W'ith joy, and appointed him commander-in-chief for four-and- twenty hours. At the news of the nomination of an old black slave to this high command, the mulatto farmers seized the harritre Saint Michel. Toussaint put them down, and was cele¬ brated by Laveaux as the man predicted by the Abbd Baynal as destined to redress the wrongs of the negroes. Toussaint re-entered Cape Town by the side of the governor-general, as the lieutenant-general of Saint Domingo. Deep was the indig¬ nation of the mulattoes at seeing a blackamoor raised to such dignity. The municipal body went so far as to refuse to register the appointment.
The distractions of France leaving the island almost without control, the mulattoes and ancient free blacks thought they ought to bear the sway. But they were justly suspected by the Vdacks of intending to restore slavery, and by the whites, or French, of desiring to set up their own independence. Laveaux, having chosen to accept a seat in the corps Icgislatif, left the island for Paris upon the 19th of October, 1796, leaving Toussaint as coininander-in-chief. The Directory had sent him the rank of a general of division, with a sabre and a pair of pistols.
The first memorable act of the new^ general of division was to dislodge the English from Mirebalais. Upon his arrival’ with a force tliey could not resist, they blew up the blockhouse, set lire to the four corners of the town, and retired, leaving him free to occupy the ruins and ashes. He is said to have repulsed them subseipiently u[)on the Plain of Cid~(lc~sac, and taken two hundred prisoners, consisting of English, German, and French emigrants.
if any young man should regard with a longing eye the advancement of poor Straw-Stalk, the slave herdboy, we recom¬ mend him to look w’ell to the realities of his brilliant position, and mark the sequel. He had the English to combat him ; the mulattoes jealous of him ; and the home government suspicious of his inliuence. Sonthonax, a commissioner sent from Paris, hinted to him that the island was strong enough to proclaim its independence. Most probably seeing a trap in the proposal, Toussaint denounced it, and ordered him to embark for France, to answer for his conduct. Sonthonax refused to obey, although requested by his colleague Raymond, and Toussaint sent him word that if he did not embark, he would enter Cape Town at the head of 20,000 men. At midnight of the 2nd and 3rd of
LIFE OF TOUSSAINT L’OUVEIITUUE.
653
September the cannons of Toussaint announced his arrival out¬ side the town, and at six o’clock in the morning Sonthonax passed through a silent crowd in the streets on his way to the ship without receiving a salutation from any one. ‘ Fatras Baton* was ill tlie most real sense of the title king of Saint Domingo.
T1 le Directory saw this fact, and they were afraid of a man whoso sway was so vast. General Ilddouville was sent out with the high powers of a pacificator. His secret orders seem to have beeirto cajole Toussaint L’Ouverture, the chief of the blacks, to visit France, and, if necessary, to arrest Rigaud, the chief of the mulattoes. Hddouville received both with magnificence, but Toussaint kept himself upon his guard and aloof. Fabre, who commanded the scjuadron which brought Iledouville, said one day, ‘ I shall have as much pleasure, general, in taking you to France, as I have had in bringing General Hddouville here ; — there you will find the lionours and rewards due to your services, and all the pleasures of repose which you need.’ The reply was,
‘ Your ship is not big enough for a man like me.’ On another occasion, one of Ht^douville’s ofticers, after boasting of the wonders of France, invited him to make the voyage. ’Poussaint, casting liis eyes and laying his hand u})on a shrub, answered, ‘ Y(^s, 1 shall leave when you make of this a ship to carry me.’ A fete was prepared for him on board the squadron, but he declineil it, and returned to his camp at Gonaives upon pretext of military service.
T1 le English arranged preliminaries of peace with Toussaint. The emigrants and their property were to be respected ; and the English were to carry away their artillery and munitions of war and all the cannons they had taken. M. Saint Remy thinks the English did not give up the ‘ Mole,’ which he calls the ‘Gibraltar of the New World,’ until they were tolerably sure that Toussaint would keep it for them. Hddouville was discontented with tlie terms accepted by Tous.saint, especially in regard to the emi¬ grants, and posted up a jdacard, which applied the laws of the Jacobins towards them ; upon seeing which. Captain Maitland tore up publicly both the treaty and the proclamation. H(5dou- ville was forced to authorize Toussaint to make another of similar tenour. Toussaint entered the JMole at the head of his army, while the white ladies of the town strewed with flowTrs the path of their protector and benefactor ; the priest at the head of his Hock, and Captain Maitland and the British officers lieaped honours upon him. He received a magnificent service of plate ; and the Government House, described as an elegant palace, was presented to him in the name of the King of England. 8ix thousand British troops were reviewed before him. He remarked that ‘ the Republic had never rendered him such honours as he
■li^WWPIP.I .'UW,'
654
LIFE OF TOUSSAINT L*OU\"EIlTURE.
had received from England !’ Although no proofs exist of the ass<3rtiou, Saint Reiuy will have it that England came to an understanding with him to recognise him as King of Saint Domingo ! So much for Fratras Baton. ‘ Never despise a rough colt nor a ragged callant' (boy), said a dealer in Shetland ponies one day, ‘ for ye dinna ken what he may be.'
The protection which Toussaint accorded to the emigrants, and his good understanding wdth the English and Americans, caused Hedouville to accuse him of placing the island under the protec¬ tion of England. The treaties which Toussaint made with thest* countries exist. There is no mention of independence in them. They are merely commercial treaties to secure the needful imports with which France did not and could not su))ply tht‘ Inhabitants. A suspicion that Ht^douville, the whites, and niulat- toes intended to restore slavery, caused a negro insurrection. Hedouville finding that Toussaint was in no hurry to come to succour him, departed in the night, of course leaving a ]>rocla- mation, in which he declared that the English had only made a show of retiring, having postponed the project of indej>endence. Toussaint L’Ouverture sent Colonel Vincent to Paris to meet the. accusations made against him, and his conduct was ap})roved of by the Directory.
No rival tlag now ostensibly disputed the jiossession of the island with the French, and all the cockades had given way before the tricolor. Toussaint had made an opening or ouverture everywhere; yet we enter upon the bloodiest and blackest ]>age of his history. The chief of the blacks had to conquer tht‘ mulattoes or yellows. They had the blood of the whites in their veins, they had been long free, they were superior in wealth arul intelligence, and led by General Iligaud, they attacked one of the outposts of the army of the commander-in-chief. To them it seemed a foul degradation to be governed bv a negro, but ves> terday a slave. Roumc, the new agent of France, supjKuted Toussiiint with the whole authority of the Directory against the mulatto rebellion. Rigaud began to show’ the cloven foot bv refusing to give up the places mentioned to him by Rounie, the represenUitive of France.
Toussaint made this war like a military O’Connell or Crom¬ well, by harangues and religious discourses as w’ell as the sw<ucl. Rigaud and the mulattoes were in every w’ay in the wrong. Toussaint was the superior in command, and supported by the authority of Roum^, wdio represented the French governnn nt ; and yet Rigaud attacked Toussaint. Nothing was alleged to justify the attack, except that Toussaint was ambitioas, which was only said because it was impolitic to say he was black. But Toussaint charged the mulattoes justly with the prejudices ot
I
LIFE OF TOUSSAINT LOUVERTURE. UOD
colour, cT-nd with designs for the restoration of slavery. The old officers of the first negro insurrection, Biassou and others, re¬ mained in tlie Spanish part of the island, and carried on an infamous tratfic in kidnapping and selling their brethren into slavery. Toussaint demanded the authorization of the French agents to suppress this infamy, and found liis intluence paralyzed l)y the intrigues of the mulattoes ; and when an agent appeared who agreed with Toussaint, and gave him what he wanted, the mulattoes attacked him.
On the 2 1st of February, 1799, Toussaint caused the alarm drums to be beaten in the morning, and denounced the conspiracy of the yellows or nudattoes in the church at Cayes. He rec;dled to mind how the blacks called ‘ Swiss' had been got rid of, and described in the strongest colours the hatred of the yellows to the blacks. An incident occurred which seemed to justify his worst accusations. Twenty-nine blacks were im[)risoned in a new dungeon, the lime of which w'as not dry, and were of course asphyxied. Toussaint said ‘ it w^as strange that in all the move¬ ments the blacks were always the victims.' Blacks, by an obvious tactic, were put forward in the movement of the yellows, and the life of Toussaint seems to have been a special object of the insur¬ gents. On one occasion, when passing through a wood, an am¬ bush opened fire upon him, and killed his physician by his side, while half the plume in his hat was shot ofr. What the truth is in regard to the manner in which Toussaint suppressed this rebellion, we have not the means of knowing. M. Saint llerny would have us believe that he became cruel, or, in other words, ceased to be himself, as shown by the tenour of his life. The struggle was the most formidable he ever had, and lie triumphed by the rapidity, skill, and severity of his blows. With regard to the complaints of the mulattoes against bim, they are open to the reply we once heard given to the late ^Ir. O'Connell, when denouncing Cromwell for his conduct to the Irish — ‘ If you did not like what you got by it, there is the more pity you began it.'
The object of Toussaint was the suppression of the slave trade in the east of the island Whether it was that he had become jeakuis of the absolute sway gained by the suppression of the yellows, or that he knew the home government were not sincere enemies of the slave trade, the agent Roumd refused Toussaint the authorization he had sought long and fought hard for — to take possession of the east He alleged that it was to be given by Spain to France, in exchange for Louisiana; obviously a frivolous pretext to screen an infamous abuse. France laid no right to sell the thews and sinews of free negroes, (\jlonel ^loy.se arrested Rourad ‘^od told him that if he did not yield, the whites might sutler for it ; and Rouni^ gave way.
-r I I ’ I .• '
65G
LIFE OF TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE.
Triumphant in the memorable ‘war to the knives/ or guerre (hs coutcavXy Toiissaint L'Ouvertureused his victory, even by the admission of M. Saint llemy, whose sympathies are on the side of tlie mulattoes, with surprising moderation. He proclaimed a general amnesty, and called upon all the citizens to supj)ort order, union, and labour, and to respect persons and property. Tlie subjugation of the Spanish forces was not a difficult matter; and as he kept Roumd under surveillance when he had esta¬ blished his brother in the government of the Spanish colony, his power was undisputed from Cape Eugano to Cape Tiburon.
A Central Assembly having been convoked, Toussaint was named governor for life ; and the following were the principal lieads of the constitution which was given to the island : — That slavery cannot exist in the colonies, all the men born in it living and dying as free Frenchmen ; that all, without distinction of colour, shall ])e admissible to public employments ; that the Catholic religion ought to be the sole professed and protected ; that divorce is prohibited ; that agriculture shall be encouraged ; that the governor shall take suitable means to increase the number of hands ; that commerce shall be free ; and that the administration shall be intrusted to the governor.
Toussaint having established his constitution provisionally, wrote to the First Consul recpiesting the sanction of the govern¬ ment, but Buonaparte had not the good manners to answer any of his letters. Peace with England having left his hands free, Buona])arte sent as his reply an expedition of French republican soldiers to re-establish slavery in Saint Domingo I Some of the obsequious parasites he consulted in the Council of State urged him to decimate his opponents in the colony. ‘ What do you think of it V asked the First Consul of Bishop Grdgoire.
‘ 1 think,' he replied, ‘ that if these gentlemen W'ere instantly to grow^ black, they would change their language.'
On the 20tli of May, 1801, Buonaparte re-established slavery in all the French colonies ; but a pretended exception was immediately after made in favour of Saint Domingo and Cua-laloupe. Toussaint, how^ever, w'as not deceived, and warned of the preparations made against him, he entered into a treaty with Lonl Nugent, Governor of Jamaica, to supply him wdth arms. But he did not delude himself respecting the result of the conflict. In his proclamation to his army he said : — ‘I am a soldier, and do not fear man. I fear God alone ; and if I die, it shall be like an honourable soldier who has nothing to reproach himself with.' Success Wi\s impossible against 30,000 troo])s in fifty-four vessels of w’ar, and Toussaint was only the chief of tlie blacks of the colony. Rigaud and many other mulatto officers accompanied the expedition. Supposing it to be granted
LIFE OF TOUSSAINT L’oUVERTURE.
G57
that ho coiilil, with the aid of the climate, liave destroyed this expHlition, he would only have been guilty of much bloodshed, for Saint Domingo, even when united, is not a match for France. Yet he has been reproached for saying, on seeing the fleet — ‘ We must })erish ; we are betrayed ; all the French have come to n^venge themselves and enslave the blacks.’ He expected to receive communications from Cleneral Leclerc, but he received none, and his subordinate, Christophe, evidently a traitor, made a show of resistance to the disembarkation of the French. Some obscurity rests upon the transactions, but two facts seem certain, that at first Toussaint advanced to open communications with a French officer, and had his horse shot under him ; and that he wrote a letter to his brother Paul, in which he ordered him to fraternize with the French.
Toussaint’s two children, who had been in Paris for their education, were sent with the expedition; and Isaac L’Ouverture had a verbal mes.sage to his father from Duonaparte : — ‘ I promise him protection, glory, and honour.’
As Puona])arte was probably under the influence of his creole wife, Josephine, in his conduct, (General L(‘clerc was, undoubtedly, guided by the mulatto officers, who wished to compromise the distinguished representative and impersonation of negro emancipation. If the letters and messages sent him h.ad been delivered, if General Leclerc had treated him courte¬ ously, or answered his letters, Toussaint L’Guverture might not have been stung into a conflict which had no other use than to form a sort of protest against the re-establishment of slavery. His old mulatto o]4)onent, Rigaud, justified all that liad been suspected of him by appearing in the exj)cdition. Toussaint thus came to understand the real character of it, and .sending his children back to Leclerc, made his military protest against the restoration of the foul compound of robi)ery, violation, and murder, euphoniously called .slavery. From the wounds he received, and the dangers he courted, it is evident the old soldier wished to .seal his protest with his death. He searched for death as eagerly as Buonaparte fled from it at Waterloo. The desertion of Christoplie with 1200 men forced Toussaint to accei)t the terms offered him by Leclerc in a proclamation — the oblivion of the cpiarrel, the continuance of their rank to all the officers, an<l honour and protection to Toussaint in retirement. When ho arrived at Cape Town, he was received with a salute of artillery, Leclerc embraced liim publicly, and his guard was reviewed and
is retirement, in the valley of Ennery, Tous.saint could scarce ly doubt that he was secure from outrage. Buonaparte hod written a letter to him declaring that France owed the colony to N.S. — VOL. VIII. U U
658
LIFE OF TOrSStAIXT LOUVEKTURE.
Irim. He was told to re^id as one of the most dis-
tinsruLshetl citizens of the* Republic. Paul L'Oiiverture, from PLusance, ami Vernet, from Gouaives, warned him of his intended arrest ; but he could not Wlieve it. General Brunet sent him a letter full of French friendship, which in\*ite*d him and his faiuilv to visit the general. Alihou^li ill. Toiussiiint luiswered in ptTson, and was .surrounded by twenty grenadiers, and declartnl a f>risoner. He gave up his sword and was garotte, that is to s;\v, bound with a rope ! Toussaint, his wife, and children, after their house was pilLaged, were embarked for France, without the necessaries of life. On the voyage, he remarked — ‘ They have only felled the trunk of the tree of the liberty of the blacks at Saint Domingo, but it will grow again, for its roots are deep ;uid many.'
The Chateau de Joux in the Alps was selecteil as the prison of Tou.ssaint L’Ouverture. Buonaparte shrunk fn*m trying and executing a man who had saved a colon v, and whose only fault was to have stooil by the rights conferred upon his race by laws. A dungeon amidst [Perpetual snows was, howwer, assigned to this illustrious son of the tropics by a man who made the etl'ects of climate upon the human frame hi.s constant study. The etfects of strychnine are not more certain than those of cold. The letters which Touss;\int wrote to Buonap;irte are pathetic, but high*tonc*il. Like a man of honour, he ap|)eals to the word of the captain-general, ami, with a sort of innocent iistonish- ment, describes the rascally trick of Generals Brunet and Li clero. by which he was made a prisoner ; how* he was hurried off without other clothe.s than those he had on ; his house pillaged and burnt ; and his wife and children arrested : ‘ they have nothing even to clothe themselves in.' ‘Citizen First Consul, a mother of a family, tiftv-three years old, merits indulgence. . . . I alone am responsible.' ... In the same strain he wrote to the minister Deeres. The only reply was an order to sepiirate him from his family. Buonajiarte supposed that Toussaint had done what he would in like circumstances have done — amassed im¬ mense treasures — and his cruelties were intendeil to extort by torture the secret of where they were hidden. Tlie great negro had no such secrets, and only wrote imploring the First Consul to decide his fate. He was contident of the result of a just exami¬ nation of his conduct, because his old blind father, still alive, had shown him the way of prol)ity, and he is urgent, because ' grief bad altered his health and ‘ I have claimeil mv liberty of vou that I may be able to w’ork to gain mv living, and nourish my unliappy family. His appeals had become troublesome, and a response was made to them ; liis last faithful servant was with¬ drawn from attendance upon him, and he was deprived of the
FRONUNCIATION OF C.UFliK.
privilege of taking exercise iu the court of the chateau ! Con¬ sidering that Buonaparte owoil his tirst and most ditheult tnui- sition from a Piiris garret to a [K>siiiou iu the Siviety of the French metropolis to his marriage with a gjiy ricli cixole widow, there is in this iissossination a cruelty seldom matehed iu the annals of crime. * Five franc's a-dav/ siivs M. Saint Iwmv, ' were allowed for eiwh prisoner.’ Buouaj^iiirte said * thiw were* plenty.’ Captain Colomier, iu self-vindication, relateil that the governor of the castle made two visits to Neufcliatel in Switzerland ; that a c'ast-iron }x>t and a little fiU'iniWtH)us fcK>d wius ;ill that was allowed toToussaint: and that he ^Colomier) gave him a little coti’tv ; that upon the occasion of his second visit to Neufchatel, the governor did not give f'olomier the keys, dtvlaring that the prisoners ilid not need anvthing : that he remaineil awav four ilavs ; and that when he returned, Toussaiiit was no more. Prior to announcing the fact, the governor carried iu fresh provisions, although his hitggard hice and agitated manner hi trayed what had happeiunl. The attitude of the corpse beside the extinct chimney told the story of the death. The captain of the fort and the mayor of the canton refused to sav the death was owing to anvthing else than famine. Some medic;d men, howewr, were found who certitied it was owing to serous apoplexy.
At Saint Helena, Buonapiu te .s;uil — ‘ 1 had no interest in killing a miserable negro 1’ Buonaparte and roussiiint — egotism and heroism ! —were similar in their deaths, in ;us far as the riK'k of Jura resembles the rock of Saint Helena ; yet there was an enormous ditference between them, for beside the poor chimney of the negro no tnwes are found of the spectral pre.sence of Remorse !
Akt. ll. — The Tronunciation of (hrek ; Accent and Qnantiti/. A Pliilological Jiupiiry. l\v .lnhii Stuart Ulaekie, l*rol’essor ol tiFcvk ill the University of Kdinhuigh. Kdinbupgli : Suther- liuid Iviiox.
The book which staiuls at the liead of this article is the work of a thorough scholar, who,, alter having dived into ail the recesse.H of his subject, and completely nuustered it, luia sat down to draw a broad general sketch of the most important arguments and conclusions he has obtained. It is written, as might have been expected, with warmth and vigour; and into the clullest parts of his task the author has thrown a life aiul a human interest w hich are seldom wutnessc'd in the productions ot learned men. The
U U 2
G60
PRONUNCIATIOX OF GREEK.
book, we think, ^vill not be regarded as perfectly satisfactory on all the points which it discusses ; for some of them are merely glanced at : but no student can read it without ])rotit, for it gives a vast deal of information on subjects new to most, and it suggests manv interesting and not unprofitable inquiries.
AVe agree with Professor Blackie in thinking that the present time is suitable for a consideration of the pronunciation of Greek. The increased facilities of locomotion bring our Hellenists more frequently into contact with foreign scholars ; and then English¬ men feel the disadvantage of speaking Greek in such a way that none but Englishmen can understand them. Several books of travel, recently published, have given utterance to feelings natu¬ rally arising in such circumstances, and have advocated a change. There lias also beinm amongst us a revival of a wider and more catholic scholarship, of which the w'orks of Grote and Mure are the first-fruits ; and from those who are animated with the spirit of this movement, the question of the proper method of pro¬ nouncing Greek will receive a fair and thorough investigation. Add to thi.s, that the publication of a Modern Greek Grammar in London, by Corpe, puts it in the power of the classical student to become acquainted with the present language of the Greeks in a few hours.
The methods of pronouncing Greek are generally divided into two classes, — the Erasmian and the Reuchlinian, or Modern Greek. The Erasmian includes under it a great variety of pro¬ nunciations : the English, with its peculiar sound of a, /, and ou; the German, with its oi sound of fu ; the Scotch, and othei*s. The name is not appropriate, as none of the methods which it embraces corresponds to the theoretical notions propounded by Erasmus, and most of them are purely arbitrary. The Reuch¬ linian is widely ditferent from all the Erasmian, and is charac¬ terized ])rincipally by its iotacism ; that is, it sounds u, t, oi, i», lu, as our ce in been. It derives its name from the celebrated Reuchlin, who was one of its champions in the first days of the controversy.
The European scholars, who, in the fifteenth century, on the revival of Greek literature, studied Greek under Greeks from Con¬ stantinople, adopted the pronunciation of their teachers. Ihis mode continued undisputed for some time, until a few scholars began to suspect that it was a comiption, and that it owed its origin entirely to the common ])eople. This opinion was adopted by Erasmus (in extraordinary circumstances, if Yossius is to be believed),* who, in 1 528, sent forth a dialogue, ‘ De Recta Latini
* See the letter given in Professor Blackie’s book, p. 10.
PRONUNCIATION OF CtREEK. 0)61
Gr»Tciqiie Sermonis Pronunciationc/ A bear and a lion carry on the conversation. In the coniinenceinent they cut up with unsjxiring and acute wit the foibles and stupidities of school- in.asters, and make some excellent and note-worthy remarks on a right system of education. They then advance to the ])ronun- ciation of Latin and Greek : notice many of the national pecu¬ liarities of enunciation which had crej)t into it, and attack the method then universally j>ractised. It was easy work for Erasmus to find fault ; but it was not so easy to construct The plan he j)ro])osed was to enunciate the vowels as they are now pro- nounceil in Germany, or the south of IScotland, and to give distinct expression to both the components of a diphthong. The arguments he adduces are feeble, and applied without critical discrimination ; but nothing else could have been expected. The subject was a new one, and consequently the Lutch scholar was able to give only a crude and imperfect view of the (piestion. His great name, however, was sufficient to attract attention, and though he himself continued to follow the lleuchlinian, and in all probability did not imagine that any other would ever be adopted, some came forward daring enough to venture on an innovation. John Choke, a bold man, and a Professor of Greek in Cambridge University, fought manfully and bravely for the liberty of speaking Greek as he thought Plato and Demosthenes used to utter it, and though the Chancellor urged him not to disgrace his chair by such a new-fangled absurdity, and by strong decrees expelled the new ])ractices from the University, John Cheke got supporters, and his cause ultimately triumphed. After teaching his new method privately for some years, he again found himself in the ITniversity, and with power to do as he liked. His innovation soon became universjd in England. He was not, however, the author of the mode now followed, for that seems to have arisen in days when Greek scholarship had sunk very low in this country.
The Erasmian method was not so successful in Germany ; for there have always been some there who have preferred the lleuchlinian, and several of her most illustrious grammarians and learned men have spoken out in its behalf, and practise it in their class-rooms.
How, then, stands the matter ? Which of the pronunciations current is the ancient, or most like it ? In seeking for an answer to this question, we must not forget that the j)ronunciation of Greek may have varied in ancient times. Homer may have pronounced differently from Plato, and Plato differently from Chrysostom. The Erasmians, whose productions are contained in Havercamp’s collection, neglected this Y)oint altogether. In attacking their opponents, they drew arguments from all ages of
1
662
PRONUNCIATION OF GREEK.
classic lit(‘rature indifferently, as if Greek pronunciation were by its very nature unchangeable. A wiser spirit, however, has ]x^r- vaded modern iinpiiry. The works of Seyffarth and Idskov classify the testimonies according to their countries and ages, and the consecpience is, that they have anived at far more reliable results. Now, an examination of the conclusions to which these and others have come, will show that we cannot be certain as to what was the pronunciation of Greek in tlie days of the classic writers. Some passages here and there point out how single vowels were pronounced ; but it is not till we come to the times of the Ca‘sars that we can give a certain historical table of almost all the vowels and disj)uted consonants. Professor l>Iackie has recorded the result of his investigations in the following
o O
summary : —
|
l.ottcr. |
P«)wer. |
||
|
Long A |
= |
a as in |
father. |
|
Short A |
— |
hat. |
|
|
li |
= |
al „ |
pain. |
|
i: |
= |
(jet. |
|
|
ii |
= |
pore. |
|
|
() |
= |
[fOt. |
|
|
Long V |
if V |
huhne. |
|
|
Short \ |
= |
the same shortened. |
|
|
Jjong 1 |
= |
vr as in r/reen. |
|
|
Short I |
= |
the same shortened. |
|
|
.\I |
= |
ni as in |
|
|
KI |
= |
ee „ |
f/reen. |
|
()1 |
= |
rc „ |
preen. |
|
OV |
00 ,, |
boom. |
|
|
AV |
ai', aj\ |
or ? |
|
|
KV |
=r |
or ? |
These conclusions may appear startling to those who have not investigated this matter; but we can assure them, from a close scrutiny of the evidence, that Professor l^lackie is fully borne out. Perhaps in one or two letters he has not done full justice to the iotacism of modern Cireek. 11 is authority for pronouncing as ai in pain is a passage intlie W(wk of Dionysius of Halicarnassus, * Ilfpi vto’ffiir \)v(ifiiaTiov.’ The rhetorician there gives direc¬ tions as to how it should be pronounced, and it is impossible to mistake the sound to which he refers. Put it may be cjuestionod whet ht'r Dionysius states the n>inal method of pronouncing the vow('l, or whetlier he refers only to its original power, ^lany a schoolmaster in our day tells his pupils that a is to be sounded as (d in Jiud yet he teaches them to pronounce bad like
other )>oople. So Dionysius may have given the })roper power of tht' »j, without meaning to affirm that it was so pronounced by educated people in all words, or by the common people in
1
hj c
PRONUNCIATION OF GREEK. 663
any; for, if he did, how can his substitutions of for the Latin f, in his transposition of Latin names into Greek, be nvonciled with the statement ? Be this as it may, it is not of great im})or- tance, as we have more certain evidence tliat was j)ronounced as i, ])ysoine people at least, in the lirst century of the Christian era. ^LTfmTiytw is touiid tor (TTfHtTtiyav on a monument ot that age ; XfUffmUj and Xpiaror were contounded, as several of the fathers inform us ; and the Syriac version of the Now Testament frequently substitutes chirek for the »/. Jf we come lower than the first century, the ])roofs are numerous and clear. We readily grant that Plato ex]>ressly afhrins that n was pronounced diti’e- rently from i (though he says, too, that long before his time it had been ])ronounced as /); and we allow’ that when Aristoj>hanes writes '(Kti instea»l of to mark a Spartan woman’s j)ronuiicia- tion, it is certainly to be infmred that the sound of i and i; w'ere not the same. Indeed, the imitation of the bleating of a sheep (/3»i, jiii), in a fragment of Cratinus, gives us certainty with regard to its enunciation in classic times; but very early a change took place. Similar remarks might be made in reference to the sound of i>, of which, how’ever, we have less informati*)!!. About the fourth or fifth century, the habit of sounding it as i became settled.
We w ish w’e could ])resent to our readers the whole of the testimony on which these conclusions are based ; but this is im¬ possible, and the student will get all that he can desire in the w'orks of Seyfbirth, Liskov, and Pennington. Meanwhile we shall select a specimen of the kind of ])roof, taking the diphthong ai as tlie subject for examination. In the fourth century before the Christian era, we find in Athenian inscriptions, A^tjvifTv instead of Ac»/i»fi/rTe, Kt foi knuand the like. The/ec^^/cnc/y of this mistake shows that at was sounded as c, not by one dull-headed engraver inerelv, but by the great body of the peoph*. In the third cen- turv, the ‘ Seventy’ substitute at for isetr, as for Jkfhel tliey w’rite ; i'or flhnj aWttft. Now, this could not have been done had tlie at been sounded as a di]>hthong. A fragment of Calli¬ machus also throws light on the sound of at —
Avnat'lii, nit yt ra't^^i KaXtuj, K'liXot; aWa, TTfjtr itTrelr I'ovTtf fTtKjtCjr, rtf U/Wot
wdiere tytt is the echo of and conserpiently t of at. These
testimonies are sufficient to elicit the classical pronunciation of m. We have not taken into consi«lerati(m Homer’s use of Trattj as a dissyllable. No certain or even ])robable infertuice can, in our opinion, be drawn from this ciicumstance. It should be mentioned, however, that IVnnington adduces a j)asHage from Plutarch, and another from iJionysius of Halicaniassus, to prove
064
PRONUNCIATION OP GREEK.
that the educated, in reading Thucydides or a classic author, gave distinct utterance to the i of the diphthong, in the time of these witnesses.
In the first century of the Christian era, the Syriac interpreters substitute tsere and seghol for at. Sextus Empiricus calls at, £«, and ou, oTo^fca, or elements, defining a <tto\uov to be such ‘ Ik* Tov aavv^sTov icat /lovonoiov <l)^oyy6v.* As we come
nearer to the present time, proofs multiply; but we shall con¬ tent ourselves with copying an extract from the Psalm Book of King Athelstan, given by Wetstein. It may be of some use to those scholars in Oxford and elsewhere, who are fond of middle- age saints, and middle-age things : —
THE CREED IX ANGLO-SAXON LETTERS.
‘ Pistheu is then patera pantocratero ce is criston ihu yon autu ton monogenton quirion iinon ton genegenta ec pneumatus agiu ee maria tis parthenu, ton epi pontio pilatu staurothenta, tafinta te trite imera anastanta ec nieron anaunta is tos uranos, eatimenon in dexia tu patros, oten erehetc crine zontas ce nicros ce is pneunia agion, agri, afisin amartion, sarcos anasta. ainin.*
It would be more satisfactory to many scholars if the exact pronunciation of Homer or of Plato could be ascertained ; and almost all who have written on the subject have ventured on a theory. The one generally adopted is that of Erasmus, already noticed, for which the Erasmians fight very bravel)\ ‘ Why call two vowels diphthongs,' says Professor Cheke, ‘ if they are not to be sounded ; why not call them digraphs?' John Cheke might as well ask English grammarians why they talk of diphthongs. Names are not always accurate descriptions of things. They may have been called diphthongs, because at the time at which they were so called both vowels were sounded, or it may have been that the grammatical term was a translation from another language, in which, when the name was given, each vowel was distinctly heard. ^Many other suppositions might be formed, of which Professor Cheke s is undoubtedly the most probable, but its probability would not stand high if set down in figures ; and, even if the argument were good, it does not tell us when or how long the diphthongs were sounded, as they are sup>posed to be at the giving of the name.
‘ But,' says Professor John, ‘when the Greek letters were first used to commit to writing the spoken language, every letter must then have had a distinct forca' Not so fast, Professor Cheke, for you might know very well that when Hebrew or other foreign words are transferred to English, all the English letters have not a distinct force. If the Greek letters had been formed expressly for the Greek language, the argument would
PRONUNCUTION OF GREEK.
665
have been of some value, but this was not the case. Indeed, Professor Cheke's arguments can be applied to the English letters as well as to the Greek ; and it proves simply that the letters, when first invented, had each a separate function ; but it does not inform us whether the diphthongs possessed their double sound wlien they were transferred from Plioenician to Greek ; in fact, it affords us no element of time, and leaves the question in a very unsatisfiujtory position. These are the principal arguments of the Enismians : the rest ai’e of a similar nature and ecpially decisive. There are, certainly, however, several things in the Homeric poems and other old Greek writings, which indicate that the ancient pronunciation differed from the later. Many of the contractions which occur could scarcely have arisen if the pro¬ nunciation of the time of the Ccesars had been used ; and the lines so frecpiently quoted by the Erasmians such as —
Tpottj IV ivpei^ Ti I'v ot TOfTot' dtCvfrao Zeu ;
do not sound well according to the Reuchlinian mode, though this argument has often been pressed too far. But all these give us nothing positive ; they bring before us our ignorance, but they do not enlighten us. We must be content, therefore, with what historical criticism can certify to us.
The discussion of the pronunciation of Greek involves another matter on which almost all are theoretically right and practically wrong — we mean accentuation. It is needless at the present time to prove that the Greeks pronounced according to accent : that is, that they laid a certain stress of the voice on those syllables on which we liave now accentual marks. Plato makes express mention of them. The grammarians again and again define and discuss them. We are told that Aristophanes of Byzantium was the inventor of the accentual marks, and we have the best evidence that these were used in the first century in public inscriptions. Verses, likewise, were made according to accents ; accentual marks are occasionally to be met with in very ancient manuscripts ; and the accentuation thus indicated is tlie same as that which Chrysoloras, Lascaris, and other Greeks, taught their scholars in the fifteenth century. Not long after the taking of Constantinople by the Turks, the communications of learned men with Greece were broken off, the doctrine of accents was discussed and rules for them were made out, as if no Greek nation were in existence ; and now, when intercourse with Greeks is again becoming more common, we find them speaking according to the accents which are printed in our editions of the classics. Proof of this sort is irresistible, and he must be a bold man who can, in the face of the accumulated evidence on the point, venture to assert that our accentual marks have no mean-
66G
PRONUNCIATION OF GREEK.
ing, and that the Greeks regarded nothing but quantity in tlieir pronunciation. Such an assertion has been made oftener than once, but we hope that the days when learned men could utter such an absurdity are passed away for ever.
The ancient Greeks undoubtedly ol>served the quantity of syllables in their pronunciation of their language, but this circum¬ stance leaves undetermined on what syllable the accent was placed. Every word has one accent, as Cicero correctly affirms, and those who have pretended to discard accents from Gi’eek, do not pronounce it according to quantity but according to the Latin accentuation. This they have done, though Quinctilian contrasts the Latin with the Greek in this very point. ‘ Sed accentus (pioque cum rigore qiiodam, turn similitudine i]>sa minus suaves habemus, quia ultima syllaba nec acuta unquam excitatur, nec tlexa circumducitur, sed in gravem, vel duas graves cadit semper. Itac^ue tanto est sermo Graicus Latino jucundior ut nostri poeta? quoties dulce carmen esse voluerant, illorum id noininibus exornent." What could be plainer ?
But can the accents and quantity be both retained ? U n- doubtedly they can, and equally far is it from doubt that the ancient Greeks did observe them both. An acute accent does not lengthen a syllable, as is evident at once from the common pronunciation of the words spirit, Latin, inimical ; and if we remember that the Greeks spoke much more slowly and musically than Englishmen are accustomed to do, we shall see that there would be no difficulty to them in such words as av^pwirofs. Likely enough, some of the low rabble of Colyttus may have spoken Greek in a 'way as different from that of a 'w^ell-educated Greek as the dialect of Whitechapel differs from that of Belgravia; but from the stories told of the acuteness of the Athenian ear, we may gather that among the great mass of the people both accent and cpiantity were carefully observed ; and there is certainly more n^ason for believiim, if this were not the case, that accent was adhered to rather than (juantity. In public orations we know that both were very strictly observed. As to quantity, Dionysius of Halicarnassus actually scans part of the funeral oration of Plato, while Plutarch infonns us that Demosthenes was hissed, as we should say (t7ri roiVtj) 7roAX«ic#c because, from an
etymological speculation of his own, he dared to pronounce Asklepios as a ]iroparoxyton€, contrary to custom. Verse, again, was constructed according to quantity, and there seems good reason for lielieving that w hen poetry w as read, or rather chanted, the s])oken accents were observed as far as the musical permitted. The choral songs, howevei*, w ere, in all probability, never read ; and when sung, the musical accent would completely destroy the spoken.
PRONUNCIATION OF GREEK.
607
We cannot go further into this part of the subject. We have not all the light on it that .could be wislied ; and the want of a thorough musical education unfits many scholars from appre¬ ciating a portion of the facts that liave come down to us. Some good remarks on the subject will be found in Professor Bladders book. Any one, however, who wishes to go deeply into the study will do well to examine tlie Professors pamphlet on the ‘ Khv thin ical Declamation of the Ancients,' and the admirable investigation of the matter in Peimington's ‘ Essay on the Pronunciation of the Greek. Lanjiuaixe.'
What pronunoiation then ought to be adopted in our schools and colleges ? From the remarks already made, it is manifest that our present mode stands on no authority, theoretical or historical. Accenting Greek according to Latin laws is op¬ posed to the express declarations of Quinctilian. In a con¬ tinuation of the passage previously adduced, the rhetorician confesses the defects of Latin in these words: — ‘Non possumus esse tarn graciles? Simus fortiores.’ Now, according to our pronunciation, both languages are fortes. Greek and Latin are alike ; they have the same stately monotonous march. Hear, on the other hand, an educated Greek read the ancient language, and you can see at once, that while the Latin moves on as with the heavy tread of an elephant, or, to use a more compli¬ mentary comparison, as with the dignified pace of a lion, the movement of Greek may be compared to that of a serpent which now suddenly darts forwjird, then poises itself for a moment, and then gently traces exquisite lines of beauty. We certainly do great injustice to Greek in om* pronunciation.
Scholia’s of a certain stamp are slow to move, and we know full well that schoolmasters will make strong objections to altering their pronunciation ; but we apjieal to their candour and good sense, and we ask, why should such an eccentricity as our pro¬ nunciation of Greek, unauthorized l)y iincient practice, and having no beauty or consistency in itself, be allowed to disgrace our seats of learning ?
But what other pronunciation can be adopted in its stead? The modern Greek, .say we, without hesitation. Supj)o8e a German wished to learn English, would he begin debating with himself as to whetht;r he would try to a.scertain tlie pronunciation common in the time of Elizabeth, and follow that as having the authority of the Augustan age of English literature? Would he not acting contrary to the acknowledged rights of a living language ? Or, suppose we heard him reading Shakspeare in a way in which he thought the dramatist himself jironounced the words, should we not smile at his aitclics for acheSy and other peculiarities t We need not wonder, then, if the Greeks are aato-
3^"
PRONUNCIATION OF CREEK.
nisliod that our men of mighty learning should enunciate their language in a manner in which it is totally unintelligihle to them. They claim to be dictators in this matter, not merely as standing on a tradition of 1400 years, or more, but as the moulders and lawgivers of their o^^m language. ‘ As much right have we,' say they, ‘to adopt an arbitrary method of speaking English, pro¬ nouncing every letter distinctly, and doing away with all its irregularities, as you scholars to mangle and torture our native tongue in the way you do.' What answer can be made to this appeal ? None, we suspect, unless that modern Greek is not the same language as the ancient. If this w ere the case, of course the present inhabitants of Greece w’ould have no more right to inter¬ fere wdth ancient Greek than the Italians wdth Latin. Jhit is this the case i No. We do not deny that changes have taken })lace in the language, and that the Neo-Hellenic contains in it several modern elements. But we fearlessly assert, that the ditferences between it and ancient Greek are not so great as to make them tw’o distinct languages. Modern Greek does not difter so much from ancient Greek as the English of Wicklif from that of the days of James I.; and we believe that those Greeks for whom the notes of scholiasts were written w ouhl tind less dithcidtv in reading a modern author than in reading Homer. In thus speaking, we are merely reiterating the statements of all, or, at least, the greatest part of those who have studied the modern language. Professor Blackie, who is one of the first British Neo- Hellenic scholars, devotes several pages to a refuta¬ tion of the notion that Greek is a dead language.* Many Germans w’ho have been in Greece have expressed the same opinion, and Cor])e, in his preface and his whole grammar, testifies to the fact. Indeed, a proof of this point is etusy. Let the classical student read the following extract, taken from a novel by Alexander JSoutsos, and say if he finds difficulty in understanding it : —
KfHtToufifi'vi iiTTo T(iQ ^e7f)aCi TrffHTrarovrrec ftoroi vXok'Xi'ifxn'c tXfffTfwt'OVf^ify tiQ rac ItCfTTaneic Tor k‘()(TfAOi' k’cii tov£ Tnk'fjovr rov
7rfpimra(T^i(fV£. *11 ynXi'irr] rij£ fupiri/c I'VKTocy o (larffttoTrotj
oiyKii'or, TO KfXtu'tjftu rijg ruty rafJutTwy knii Twy ^t(l)VfHt)y
o ripiryoc \!/t^vfH(rf.t6£y to Tray ficig fyot]revei\
This extract, taken from a letter wTitten by a Greek to his sweetheart, and describing their moonlight w’anderings, is a lair specimen of the Greek usually addressed to the people. M e have selected it purely from the harmony of the sound and the sense which it exhibits. We might have chosen passages from
* The Professor diseusses this point more fully in a leeture delivrred on his return from a visit to (rreeee : * Uu the Living Language of tlie (Greeks, and its utility to the Classical Scholar.* EdiiiburLrh; Sutherland & Knox. Ib53.
/
/
PnOXUNCIATIOX OF OUEEK.
works adilressod to tlie learned, wlueli could not he distini^fuished from ancient Greek, or we might pitch on many songs in Fauriel s collection of niodern Greek ballads, which would ht' intelligihh> to none hut those thoroughly vei-sed in the language. The mean is tlu‘ fairest, and we i\sk, does it not prove our point i Would it not he easy to select sjKK'imens of the Doric dialect which differ far more widely from Attic than this^ The use of c'itto with the accusative, ti<,* for tr, ami /tine for the genitive and accusiitive plural of tytOf are the princijKil peculiarities in these sentences, ami certainly nothing worth speaking of.
The history of the language leads to a similar conclusion. When did Greek ceiise to he the language of Grei'ce { Not in the third and fourth centuries of the Ghristian era, for we have an illustrious band of Greek fathers, who preached and wrote their language with vigour and elegance. Not in the middle ages, for the works of the llyzantine historians are in Greek. They may not he written in such Greek as woidd j)lc:use some of our retined scholars, who, intiiiested only in wonls and phnises, and caring little about the matter of Greek hooks, abjure all authors who do not belong to a certain supposed chvssical age of ])urity. If such were to ciirry their views down t(^ niodern times, they wouhl he compelled to acknowledge that English was the most barbarous language on the fiwe of the earth, and that Milton and Shakspi‘are were not to he read because they happemal to use it ! With scholars of a liberal cast, however, the Greek of Anna Comnena, or of CMialcondyles, will he allowed to ht‘ Greek, and not very had, after all. Nor did the language fall into disuse after the taking of Constantinople by tlie Turks. Tlie priests continued to use the ancient language, according to the com¬ mands of their ])atriarchs ; and down to the present time, hooks have been, and are still, written by learned men in ancit'ut Greek. Tliere has thus been an uninterrupted tradition of the aticicnt language. Ihit what do we know of the modern i The twelfth century is the time generally assigned to the tirst apiH'arance of the modern as a written language; and it ditfered from the ancient in this, that it was an exact coj)y of tliat Greek which was used in common conversation. It ha<l taken up some of the forms which characterize modern languages, sucli as the uso of auxiliary verbs, while it retained several /Kolic or Doric inflexions. It had also a large infusion of Homeric and other ancient words, which were seldom found in the written language, just as many of the dialects of the English counties and the Scotch contain Shaks))earian wonls ^now oh.solete in written Emdish. Our extract from Soutsos will exhibit the truth of this statement. Modern Greek is therefore essentially is>pular; it was the language of the vuhjus. But, as in the interval
*•1. If
t ‘ I
-4"
670
PRONUNCIATION OF GREEK.
between the domination of the Turks and Venetians, and the excitement of a free spirit attendant on the French Revolution, almost all the Greeks were compelled to occupy the position of the vub/ns, modern Greek came into universal use. J>uring these centuries of Turkish domination, the language was fairly in the way of becoming a new one, through the adoption of Turkish, Italian, and otlier words and idioms. A better day, however, dawned on (Jreece. A national feeling begtin to per¬ vade her, and amidst other results of it, her language was puri¬ fied, — the foreign elements were systematically expelled, an<l the learned Korais and his followers have brought back as many of the forms of the ancient dialect as was consistent with the motlern spirit and modes of thinking. So that now there is perhaps not another language that has so few foreign words. Its richness supplies it witli terms for all our inventions, and for all our philoso])hic ideas. Railway, Steamer, Daguen’eotype, ami s\ich words are expressed in compounil words of ])ure Greek, while many of our scientific and other names, as j)hotography, phono¬ graphy, are Greek already. Professor Bhtckie informs us that in three columns of a Greek neicsj^oper, of the year RSoii, there do not certainly occur three v:ords that are not pure native Greek.
The Greeks, then, we maintain, have an inalienable right to legislate on the pronunciation of their language. But even if they had not, it happens that theirs is the only one current which has a good foundation in historical inquiry. The practical conclusion, then, seems inevitable that the modern Greek pro¬ nunciation should be universally adopted.
Tho only ])oint on wdiich a scholar might have some hesitation is the neglect of quantity which prevails in modern Greek, 'bhus TVTTTuvai is tipthsi. This certainly was not the case in the best times of the ancient language ; still this ])ractice is not of recent orimn. The accent does not lengthen the svllable on which it is placed, nor shorten the syllables that follow it. It is not ditticult to ]>ronounce such a word as grandfather, and equally easy is it to give both accent and quantity to «i'3’p(t)7roc. Nor is it contrary to reason to suppose that the Greek people gave both in the common talk of life, provided they had a good- musical education, and spoke more slowly than is common with us. Indeed, we have often heard Greeks linger unconsciously on syllables succeed¬ ing the accented one. But when a language is spoken (juickly, or when a nation loses the exquisite sense of time wdiich the Greeks possesseil, the penultimate syllable of a jiroparoxytone is apt to be shortened. This took place in the Greek language. Pennington finds examples of accentual verses in Dionysius of
rilONUNCIAnON OF OUEEK.
671
Halicarn»assus, AVe are not pertec'tly satisfied that lie is correct in the interpretation of the passage ; the verses, too, are not very smooth, if scanned by accents ; yet we confess we have no other reason for doubting than the early age of the writer.
Tlie fifth century of the Christian era gives us proof, at least, of tlie commencement of this custom, and the eight li of its having become ])revalent. rriulentius, in the fifth century, shortens the jienult of and of similar words; and in
the eighth century we have the vo'snsf poliiicif or vers(‘s framed according to accent, from .lohn of Damascus. Add to this, the legislative rights of the modern language, and the consideration that the custom is more consonant witli modern habits, ami more suitable to most Knglisb oars ; and we think we have a case for following the Creeks. We should follow them even in reading the ancient orators, just as we adhere to onr present ]n*onunoia- tionof English in reading Wicklif. Toetry, on the otlier hand, is based on (jiiantity, wliicli C()nst‘(|ii(‘ntly must he attended to, as in reading Cliaucer we deem it riglit to convert monosyllabic words into dissyllaliles, when the rhythm demands it.
We have been able to present only tlie general outlines of thus subject, and we now submit the matter to tlu‘ judgment of British scholars. They, we maintain, have a h»‘tter right to <lecide what ought to he onr |>rnmmoiatiun of Greek than those from whom we have derived our present mode, because the philology of this age is sounder and healthier, and the means of investigation are more abundant. It is not at all imjnohahle that wo have boon somewhat pit^judieed in the advocacy of onr own view. It is almost inn)()s.sil>lt? to avoid this. But we shall have attained our object if we excite our h*arned men to a calm, liberal, ami thorough examination of this not unimportant ]>oiiit of scholarship. Prejudices we all have ; custom throws its cliains around everv man ; and each is rcadv to defend liisown crotchet at the expense of sense and truth. But it is the duty of every one to struggle against everv obstacle that hmder.s him from a clear insight into the tnitli, no matter whether the truth he of small or groat importance. And the f|ue.stioii before ns is not without its interest and its advantages. The investigation may drag many scholars, crammed with grammatical inflections and nothing else, into the healthy literature of a people proud of their descent and of their jiresent liberties; and it may open up to ns easier methods of learning languages. It is notorious that our scholars can read and write Greek and Latin, but when a Greek bilks to them in the one language, or a Magyar or Roman- catholic prie.st in the other, they are duml>. Onr system of education is palpably wrong in ne(fleciing the ear as an instru-
LORD RACOX.
iiient ill acquiring languages. We imagine that if our young men wero first taught to speak motlern Greek, and were then gradually led from the modem to the ancient liteniture, they would learn more Greek, and reap a richer harvest of those advantaires which a classical education can confer.
Akt. hi. — l>(tcon’'s Essays^ Apophtherpns^ IVisdom of ilie Ancients, Scir Atlantis, and Henry VII. With Introductory llissertiitioii an<l Notes by J. Dove}’, M.A. (l^ohii’s Standard Libnu’y, 1852.) 2. J>acoHS Xovuni Oryanuni, and Advancement of l^earniny. With Notes by J. Devey, M.A. (Uoha’s Seientilic Jabrary 1853.)*
The two main divisions of the history of philosophy are ancient and modern. All that does not strictly belong to either of these may bo regarded as fonning transition ste2)s. ^lodern civiliza¬ tion, though it may not have excelled antiquity in the tine art.s, })oetry, rhetoric, statuary — and is indebted to it for the founda¬ tion of jnire mathematics — has far surpassed it in those branches of knowledge which are based on observation and experiment.
In order rightly to estimate the scientific reformation which was mainly brought about by Bacon, let us glance at the chief characteristics of the scholastic plLilo.sophy. As early as the second century of the jiresent era, Christianity came in contact with the philosophy of the age, and especially with New Pla¬ tonism. It was not, however, till the eleventh century, that what may be called Christian philosophy sprung up, which, under its varied jdiases, is collectively .styled scholasticism. The origin of this term is to be found in the Scholar, or schools, which were founded by Charlemagne for philoso])hical studies; in which, however, scarcely any in those days had either leisure or inclination to engage, except the clergy. Hence the main characteristic of this period was constant endeavour to explain the doctrines of the church philosophically, and to work them up into the fonn of scientific systems. Anselm's declara¬ tion, ‘ credo ut intelligam,' was adopted as the guiding principle. The works of the scholastic writers exhibit an immense amount
* The })rcscnt article is intciuleil to be ^\\ exposition. Wc have ciuleavoiirLcl to gatlier the ‘viutacre* of the. aeeounts given by St e wad, IMayfair, Na])ier, Campbell, Macaulay, Ballam, Morell, Cousin, Hopnus, Lewes, Craik, A'C. The editions which wc have noticed alx)ve contain valmudc illustrative notes. Their elieapuoss ])laees the works of the illustrious philosopher within the reach ol a large circle of reivders.
LOUD BACON.
673
of subtlety and acuteness, industry and toil; but, on the other hand, a mass of barren definitions, and fruitless distinctions, ‘grave trifling, and solemn folly/ hence, the absence of really valuable results.
The final aim of scholastic philosophy was a scientific develop¬ ment of the tenets of tlie Roman church. It assumed as its basis the truth of those tenets, and employed as its in.stniment the Aristotelian logic. The deep and extensive intluence of Aristotle's writings at this periotl is thus graphically (]t.*scri})ed by Dr. ICoppus : — ‘This logic was the engine liy which, for ages, the minds of men were bewitclied in a manner that was
altogether extraordinary . Glosses, ])araphi*ascs, summaries,
arguments, and dissertations on his works were composed without end ; . . . Many of the inhabitants of the west learned Arabic, in order to read a translation of them in that lan"ua"e. The Latin tongue was made another medium of their circulation,
and they w'cre read in mo.st parts of the know’n world .
Aristotle's works were the great text-book of knowledge, and
his logic w as tiie only weapon of truth . Christians, Jews,
and Mahometans united in jirofessing avssent to the great law¬ giver of human opinions, ; not Europe alone, but also Africa and Asia acknowledged his dominion ; and while his Greek originals w^ere studied at Paris, translations were read in Persia and at Samarcand. The rage for disputation, which now began to prevail in consequence of the spread of this philosophy, indiiceil the council of Liiteran, under Pope Innocent III., to proclaim a prohibition of the use of the physics and metaphysics of Aristotle; but awful as w’ere then the thunders of the Vatican, they were not mighty enough to dethrone him from that des¬ potism over men's minds, which, by long custom, had now ren¬ dered itself almost omnipotent.' At length, ‘in some of the universities of Europe, statutes were framed, which required the jirofessors to promise on oath, that in their public lectures on philosojdiy, they would follow no other guide.'
The most important point of philosophical discussion during the schola.stic age, and one which exhibits itself through the wdiole period, is that between Nominalism and Realism. Realism philosophised in support of the church, and was in turn protected by ecclesiastical authority; Nominalism contended against the dominion of ecclesiastical power; Realism represents the dog¬ matical, Nominalism the critical element ; Realism fettered indi¬ vidual freedom with the bonds of external authority ; Nomi¬ nalism sought to establish the .autonomy of human reason.
During the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, several great events combined in bringing about the ultimate freedom of rational speculation from suborilination to ecclesiastical autho-
N.s. — VOL. VII 1. X X
674 LORD BACON.
ritv. Ab the first of these, ^^ e may place the revival of learning ill the fifteenth century. During the scholastic age, the study of the ancient classical authors had declined ; even the Platonic and Aristotelian systems were known almost exclusively from translations and secondaiy sources. Italy first awoke to a juster ap])reciation of the beauties of the authpie. The arrival of Greek fugitives from Constantinojde gave a great impulse to tlie study of ancient authors in that land. Greek and Latin w orks w ere read in the original languages, and the art of printing multi¬ plied copies. Learned men assembled at the court of the Medici at Florence. Bessarion and ^larsilius Ficinus distinguished themselves as expositors of the ancient, and es))ecially of the Platonic philosophy. Classical refinement protested against the <lr\% inelegant, uncritical mode in which the sciences had hitherto been handled. ‘ The mere substitution of the Academic for the Peripatetic philoso))hy w ould indeed have done little good. But anything w as better than the old habit of unreasoning servility. It was something to have a choice of tyrants. ‘‘A sjiark of freedom,"' as Gibbon has justly remarked, was produced by this collision of adverse servitude.”
The second and main cause was the Reformation. The contest against the spirit of scholasticism — the advocacy of classic culture — the struggle after national inde))endence — the etforts of society to liberate itself from the Roman hierarchy — the desire of (exploring the facts and laws of nature — above all, the grasping of individual reason after a full emancipation from external authority — in short, every element of modern times finds its centre-point in the great German reformation. Luther and many of his distinguished contemporaries diil not hesitate to express their contempt of the Peripatetic philosophy.
A third cause w^as a number of disconnected attempts at iiiih'pendent thinking on the part of Peter Ramus (1515-1572) in the science of logic ; of Telesius and Campanella in physics; and of Patritius, and Giordano Bruno in metaphysics — all w hich, however, failed to produce any permanent results.
A fourth cause was the rise of the natural sciences. Coper¬ nicus, Kejder, and Galileo restored to nature the honour^ of which .scholasticism had robbed her, gave a new aspect to the world of thought, and shook men's faith in the authority of the church. The investigation of natiure's law's, shamefully but vainly op|)i)sed by the hierarchy and papal orthodoxy, amie to be viewed as an essential object of philosophy.
Thus, even before the time of Bacon, the justice of the tyrannic sway which scholasticism had exercised over the minds of men had been called in question, and in opposition to servile obe-
* ^laoaalay.
LORD BACON.
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dieuce to external authority, a revolutionary spirit had raised its head ; nor had the fortresses of that dominion remained free from direct and repeated attack. But the fundamental reason of the injustice of that rule had not heon clearly pointed out: the revo¬ lution needed the guidance of some master-mind, who should plan and etfect an assault upon the citadel itself, and who should sketcli the outline of a future government which merited the lofty name of science.
In the words of Mr. Morell, ‘ Twt) such minds arose, both of gigantic powei*s and almost inexhaustible resources. Each of them applied his whole strength to aid the work of reformation ; and their combined intluence succeeded in turning the stream of all scientific investigation into the two main directions, which it has been pursuing more or less ever since. The first of these was Lord Bacon ; the next in the order, both of time and intluence, was Descartes.' We postpone the comparison of their merits and philoso])hical methods.
Francis Bacon was born at York House, in the Straml, January 22, 1561. He was the son of Sir Nicholas Bacon, who, during the first twenty years of Elizabeth’s reign was Lord-keeper of the great seal, and in legal ability and political wisdom was universally ranked secoinl only to the great Burle’gh. His mother, who was the second daughter of Sir Anthony Cooke, was well versed in the Creek, Latin, and Italian languages, and also eminent for her piety. He was delicate in health, and fond of sedentary pursuits. His activity of intellect, which early showed itself in attem]>ts to explain the anomalies of legerdemain, and the curious echo in a vault in St. James's Fields, wfis no doubt fostered by contact with the varied minds of a (Jecil, a »Iewel, a Sidney, a Raleigh, and a Drake, and won the flattering acknow¬ ledgment of Queen Elizabeth, who conferred upon him the title of her young Lord-keeper.
At tiie age of thirteen he entered Trinity College, Cambridge. The university was at that time the scene of much activity. The works of the great reformers, and recent investigations in mathe- inatics, astronomy, and political philosophy, gave birth to a life of dis]nitation and contest. Bacon, however, did not avail him¬ self of those advantages of college discipline, wdiich, by extending his sphere of knowledge, would not only have benefited his mind at the time, but have saved him from fault;S which mark his subse(|uent writings. He left Cambridge with ‘a just scorn for the trifles on whicli the followers of Aristotle had wasted their powers, and no great reverence for Ari.stotle himself. As he declared to his secretJiry, Dr. Hawley, he fell into a dislike of the philoso])hy of Aristotle, ‘ Jiot for the worthlessness of the author, to whom he would ever ascribe high attributes, but for
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the unfruitfulness of the way; being a philosophy, as his lordshij» used to say, only strong for disputations and contentions, but barren of the production of works for the benefit of the life of man.*
In his seventeenth year he was sent to Paris, in the suite of Sir Amias Paulet, Queen Elizabeth’s ambassador. This visit had doubtless a lasting influence on his character. The state of a country which had but recently witnessed the massacre of St. Bartholomew’s day, abidingly confirmed his adherence to Protestant principles. He travelled through several French pro¬ vinces, and subsequently published the results of his acute and extensive observations in a work entitled ‘ The State of Europe.’
On receiving intelligence of the sudden death of hisfatlior, Bacon returned hastily home. His father having died intestate, he found himself bereft of pecuniary resources. Hence he was compelled to seek some lucrative occupation. After having in vain endeavoured to obtain a government post through the. ]>atronage of Ids uncle. Lord Burleigh (who wished to promote Ids ow'ii son, afterwards Sir Robert Cecil), he enrolled himself as a student at Gray’s-inn. For some years he laboured in obscurity. At length, by his profound acquaintance with the principles of law, and his admirable talents and address, he acquired such reputation, that the queen appointed him her ‘ counsel extraordinary.* (1 590.) Cecil also procured for him the reversion of the rcgistrarsldp of the Star Chamber, w hich lucrative office fell in after some years.
In 1 593 Bacon took his seat in parliament for the county of Middlesex,' and soon became distingidshed as an orator and debater. * There happened in my time,* says Ben Jonson, ‘ one noble speaker who was full of gravity in his speaking. His language, where he could spare or pass by a jest, w^as nobly censorious. No man ever spoke more neatly, more pressly, more weightily, or suffered less emptiness, less idleness, in what he uttered. No member of his speech, but consisted of his own graces. His hearers could not cough or look aside from him without loss. He commanded where he spoke, and had his judges angry and pleased at his devotion. No man had their affections more in his power. The fear of every man wdio heard him was lest he should make an end.* In politics, however, he made a perilous attempt to please both court and people. On one occasion, indeed, he delivered a vehement speech against the crown, and was in danger of being sent to the Tower, and punished by the Star Chamber, but when the queen gave forcible expression to her indignation, he sought forgiveness by promising never to repeat the offence.
Still failing to obtain the patronage of Burleigh, Bacon
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attached liimself to Essex, who, impelled by a generous friendship, endeavoured to procure for him, first the office of attorney- general, then that of solicitor-general ; but in both cases he was thwarted by the opposition of the Cecils. To mitigate Bacon’s disappointment, Essex gave him an estate, worth nearly X'2000, at d’wickenham.
In lo|)7 he published a small volume of ‘ Essayes, Religious Meditations, Places of Perswasion and Disswasion/ These essa\’s were popular, not only in England, but also throughout the whole of Eiiroj)e.
It is with deep moititication that we notice his base ingratitude to Essex. When the latter was prosecuted for a conspiracy against tlie (jueen, Bacon, on whom he had conferred so many and such substantial benefits, and in whom he had so fully confided, not only abandoned him, but even aj)peared iis counsel for tho pro¬ secution, — nay, ev^cn employed his learning and ingenuity in magnifying his crimes ; and to crown the whole, after the execu¬ tion of Essex, he wrote, at the queen s request, ‘ a declaration of tlie practices and treasons attempted and committed by Robert Earl of Essex.' ddius, ‘ this friend so loved, so trusted, bore a principal part in ruining the eaiTs fortunes, in shedding his blood, and in blackening his memory.’
After the accession of James, Bacoji rose ra])idly in fortune and favour. In 1603 he was knighted ; in 1601 he was appointed ’ king’s counsel ; in 1607 solicitor-general ; and in 1613 attornc}"- general. He distinguished himself in Parliament, and espe¬ cially, both l>y his speeches and his writings, sought to bring aliout the accomplishment of James’s favourite measure — the union of England and Scotland. Meanwhile, he did not neglect literature and philosophy. In 1605 he published his ‘Advance¬ ment of Learning,’ and in 1600 his ‘ Wisdom of .the Ancients.’ He was also gradually elaborating his ‘ Novum Organum.' It is mournful to think that the author of such works should have lent himself to tyranny. He was counsel for the prosecu¬ tion atrainst Oliver St John, who was summoned before the Star-Chamber for maintaining that the king had no right to levy benevolences ; and in the case of Peacham, who was falsely accused of treason, he not only tampered with the judges, but even joined in the attempt to extort a confession from the pri¬ soner by torturing him on the rack.
Bacon’s next patron was Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, the favourite and master oi James. In 1616 ho was sworn of the privy council ; in 1617 he was appointed keeper ot the great seal, an appellation which he soon after changed for the higher title of chancellor. In 1621 he attained the zenith of his glory. He had just jniblished his‘ Novum Organum,’ and had been created
1
%
678 . LORD BACON.
Baron Verulam, ainl then Viscount St Albans. It must not, however, be concealed that in his chancellorship he issued abominable patents ; and not only allowed V^illiers to interfere in his judicial decisions, but even accepted large bril)es from persons engaged in chancery-suits.
Retribution was at hand. After six years’ recess, parliament again met. The Commons discussed public grievances, and attacked the unrighteous patents which had shielded Buckingham and his followers. A committee was appointed to examine the state of the courts of justice. Two charges of bribery were brought against Bacon ; the number soon rose to twenty-three. Bacon drew up a confession, which was handed to the House of Lords by the Prince of Wales. To the deputation of peers, appointed to inquire whether the confession was subscribed by himself, he replied, ‘ My lords, it is my act, my hand, my heart.
I beseech your lordships to be merciful to a broken reed.’ The lords condemned him to ‘ pay a tine of 40,000, to be imprisoned in the Tower during the king’s pleasure, to be for ever inca}3able of holding any public office, place, or employment,’ and ‘ never ’ to ‘sit in parliament, nor come within the verge of the court.’ The sentence was immediately mitigated. He was sent to the Tower, but liberated in two days. The tine was released by the crown. By the year 1624 all his punishment was remitted. Government granted him a pension of .PI 200 a-year.
During the last five years of his life he commenced a ‘ Digest of the Laws of England,’ a ‘ History of England under the House of Tudor,’ a ‘ Body of Natural Histoiy,’ and a ‘Philosophical Romance.’ He also published his ‘De Augmentis Scientiarum’ in 1623.
‘The great apostle of experimental philosophy,’ says Mr. Macaulay, ‘ was destined to be its martyr. It had occurred to him that snow might be used with advantage for the purpose of ])re- venting animal substances from putrefying. On a very cold ilay, early in the spring of the year 1 626, he alighted from his coach near Highgate to try the experiment. He went into a cottage, bought a fowl, and with his own hands -stuffed it with snow. While thus engaged, he felt a sudden chill, and was so much indisposed that it was impossible for him to return to Gray’s-inn. After an illness of about a week, he expired on the moniing of Euster-day, 1626. His mind appears to have retained its strength and liveliness to the end. He did not forget the fowl which had causeil his death. In the last letter that he ever wrote, with fingers which, as he said, could not steadily hold a pen, he did not omit to mention that the experiment of the snow had suc¬ ceeded excellently well.’ His will contains the strikingly prophetic passive — ‘ For my name and memory I leave it to men’s cliarit- able speeches, and to foreign nations, and the next ages.’
LORD BACON.
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His writings may be divided into — 1. Scientific ; 2. Moral and Historical ; 3. Epistolary and Miscellaneous. His great philosophical works are, ‘ The Advancement of Learning' (pub- lishetl 1605) ; ‘ Instaiiratio Magna' and ‘ Novum Organum' (pub¬ lished 1620); and ‘ De Augineutis Scientiarum' (published 1623). Hallam remarks, ‘ I hiid upon comparison that more than two-thirds of this treatise (i.e. the ‘ De Autrmentis Soien- tiarum ) are a version, with slight interpolation or omission, from ‘ The Advancement of Learning,' the remainder being new matter.
The ‘ Instaiiratio Magna' is divided into six parts : —
1. Partitiones Scientiarum, intended to furnish a general summary of knowledge alreaily gained, and indications of lacunce. This first part, Bacon tells us, is wanting in the ‘ Instauratio he has substituted for it the ‘ J)e Augmentis Scientianim.'
2. The second part was to contain the new logic, or inductive method. As far as he coinjdeted it, it is known under the name of the ‘Novum Organum,' which was to consist of nine parts ; we |x)ssess, however, only the first.
3. The third part was to form an entire natural history, under which were to be included one hundred and thirty particular histories. C)f course Bacon, in his age, could accomplish but little of so vast a work.
4. The finirth part, called Scala Intellectus, was to supply ‘ types and models, which place before our eyes the entire pro¬ cess of the mind in the discovery of tnith, selecting various and remarkable instances.' This part is wanting, except a few intro¬ ductory pages.
5. The fifth part, which Bacon calls Prodromi, sive Antici- j Hit tones PhUosophke Secunda^ was to give a sample of that new philosophy, which was to be erected on the basis of his natural history, and by means of the inductive method. The Coglfaia et Vis(fj Ctpgitatiorics de Natura Rerum, Filum Lahyrinfhi, and others, form fragments of this part.
6. The sixth and last part, philosojdtia aecunda, was to present a complete system of philosophy, attained by the induc¬ tive method. ‘ To perfect this last part,' he says, ‘ is above our powers and beyond our hopes. We may, as we trust, make no desjdcable beginnings; the destinies of the human race must complete it.'
‘ Such,' says ^Ir. Hallam, ‘ was the temple, of which Bacon saw in vision before him the stately front and deconited pediments, in all their breadth of light and harmony of proportion, while long vistas of receding columns, and glim})se8 of internal splendour, revealed a glory that it was not permitted him to comprehend. In the treatise ‘ De Augment is Scientiarum,' and in the ‘ Novum Organum,' we have less, no doubt, than Lord Bacon, under
LORD RACOX.
(lifteront conditions of life, might In'ive achieved ; he miglit have heen more emphatically the high-priest of Nature, if he had not been the chancellor of James L, hut no man could have tilled up the vast outline which he alone, in that stage of the world, could have so boldly sketched/
The treatise ‘ De Augmentis Scientiarum’ is divided into nine hooks.
The first is designed to remove prejudices against the investi¬ gation of truth, and to indicate the causes of error.
In the second book knowledge is divided into — I. Histor}’. TI. Poetiy. III. Philosophy; corresponding to memory, imagi¬ nation, reason.
I. History comprises, 1. Natural Histoiy, (1) of Regular Pheno¬ mena; (2) of Monstrosities ; (8 ; of the Arts. 2. Civil, or rather Human History: (1) Civil History proper ; (2) Sacred History ; (8) Literary History.
II. Poetry is divided into — 1. Narrative. 2. Dramatic. 3. Pambolic.
III. Philo-o}»hy or Science. There must be a general science, comprising a bovly of axioms common to all the spechil sciences. 'Die speciid sciences have three principal objects: — 1. God. 2. Nature f3rd Rook]. Natural science is either speculative or ])ractical. Speculative natural science comprises physics, which deal with material and eflicient causes, and metajdiysics, which fleal with formal and final causes. Practical natural science in¬ cludes mechanics, by which Racoii means experimentation in general, and magic, or experimentation applied to the production of extraordinary ])lienomena. Mathematics are purely instru- moutal, and consist of pure matiiematics (geometry and algebra) and mixed mathematics.
The fourth to the eighth-hooks treat of science in relation to its third object, MAX. There must be an introductory science exjdaining personality and the coinmunication lH‘tween the soul and the hodv. Tlie science of man Bacon then divides into
(1) The Science of Human Nature; and (2) The Science of
Givil Society. The former treats [ij of the body (meiliciiie, eosmical science, gymnastics, music, and painting) ; [2J of the soul, both its substance and its iaculties, which are either logical
or moral. Logic is either inventive or traditive, and in its latter phase comj»rises grammar,^ rhetoric, criticism, and l>cdugogy.
' Hacou formed some very sagacious aiiticipalioiis about universal graiuiuar. Hirauuuar,* ho observes, ‘is of two kinds, tlie one literary, tin* other ohiloso-
I'bieal. . . . The latter directs the attention, not to the analogies whiciMVords
i)e.ar to word'^, but the analogies which words bear to things;’ or, ‘to language considered as the sensible portrait me or image of the inciilal process.’
LORD RACOX.
681
Etliics arc cither speculative (showing the natural history of character), or practical (treating of the culture of the aftectiona). Under the head of the science of civil society Bacon handles only two points — viz., the methods of enlarging the boundaries of the state, and the principles of universal legislation, lie says society is designed to secure sohtmen contra solitudinenif aajuvamcn ill vei/otlisy and ailiuvameii contra injurias.
‘The ninth and last book, which is short, glances only at some ilosiderata in theological science, and is chietly remarkahle as it disjdays a more liberal and catholic spirit than was often to bo met with in a period signalized by bigotry and ecclesiastical pride.*
In the ‘ Novum Organum,* the most important topic is what Bacon terms tlie Idola (tV&tiXo); i. e., not idols as most writers (e. g., Playfair, Brown, Stewart, Hoppus) have suppo.sed ; but, as llallam has shown, ‘ images, illusions, fallacie.s, or, as Lord Bacon e.alls them in the ‘ Advancement of Learning,* false appearances.* These Idola are of four kinds.
I. Idola Trihns (of the tribe); illusions common to tlie Avhole tribe or race of mankiml, ‘ those general })rejudices which arise from the intirmity of human nature itself.’ ‘ The understanding of man,* says Bacon, ‘ is like a mirror whoso surface is not true, and so mixing in its own imperfection with the nature of things, distorts and ])erverts them.* The sources of these Idola are — (1) *1*00 great a tendency of the mind to assume a greater uniformity in Nature than really exists. (2) A teinlcncy in the hmnau understanding to force all facts into harmony with a j)ro- pos.sessed notion or principle. (8) A liability of the mind rather to be im]K‘lloil by the imagination than guided by tlie under- stamling. (P The engernes.s of the mind to push its investiga¬ tions lieyond its proper limits, (o) The inthienc(M)f the will ami the atlections on the under.standing. ‘ The light of the under- .standing,* says Bacon, ‘ is not a dry or pure light, hut it receives a tincture from the will and the affections, and forms the sciences accordingly; for men are most willing to believe what tliey most de.sire.’ ((>) The diilness, incompetency, and errors of the senses. (7) The too great tendency of the mind to aUstraction and gene¬ ralization.
II. Idola Speens (of the cave or den); ‘those prejudices which stamp upon each mind its own peculiar character, and are identi¬ fied with every individual man.* These include the particular studies which a person pursues, the (liffereiico of men’s capa- eitie.s, attachment to times (e. g., anti(piitv), and an exclusive predilection for the minute or the vfist in nature.
III. Idola Fori (of the market-jdace) ; ‘ jirejudices arising froin mere words and terms in our common intercourse with mankind,
682
LORD BACON.
— i. e., from the imperfection of langinige. Words deceive us when they are names of things which do not exist, or when they are confused and ill-defined.
IV. Idola Theatri (of the theatre); illusions proceeding from the fabulous and visionary representations of jdiilosophical theories. ‘ We call them idols of the theatre/ says Bacon,
‘ because all the systems of philosophy that have been hitherto invented, or received, are but so many stage-plays, which have exhibited nothing but fictitious and theatrical words.’
The next topic for our consideration is Bacon’s method. He lays down the following fundamental principle as his first and leading a})horism concerning ‘ the interpretation of Nature, and man’s dominion over it — ‘ Homo, naturae minister et interpres, tantum facit et intelligit, quantum de naturae ordine, re vel mente, observaverit ; nec amplius scit, aut potest.’ (Man the servant and inter})reter of Nature can only understand and act in proportion as he observes the order of Nature ; more he can neither know nor do.) The methcKl he recommends for the interpretation of Nature is called the inductive method. In induction we assert, to use the words of Whately, ‘ that what belongs to the individual or individuals we have examined, belongs (certainly or probably, as the case may be,) to the whole class under which they come.’ The first step in the inductive process of Bacon is to collect a natural history. We must carefully and patiently gather a variety of particular facts and instances which relate to the subject of inquiry; we mu.st not rest satisfied with those facts which spontaneously present themselves, but must institute experiments for the discovery of fresh ones. Being now' in possession of a body of facts, obtained by observa¬ tion and experiment, we must classify them into tables, and, applying the method of ‘ exclusion,’ reject those which are irreh‘- vaut to the matter in hand, and gather the ‘ vintage’ of such as are really significant. These selected facts must then l)e ex¬ amined as to their relative worth. The most important pheno¬ mena are called by him ‘ prerogative instances,’ as holding a kind of prerogative dignity from being peculiarly suggestive of causa¬ tion. Fifteen of these are to guide the intellect, five to aid the senses, and seven to correct the practice. Of these twenty-seven we shall adduce only the most important. (1) IndantiiC soli- teiriic: ‘examples of the same quality existing in two bodies otherwise different, or of a quality differing in two bodies other¬ wise the same. In the first instance the bodies differ in all things but one e. g., crystals, dew-drops, wdiich exhibit colour in some situations, have nothing but the colour in common with stones, metals, &c., whose colours are pennanent. (These examples guided Newton to the discovery of the composition of light.) In
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the second instance, ‘ the bodies agree in all things but one here Bacon adduces as exain|>les the veins of black and white in marble, and the variety of colours in flowers, where the substances agree in almost everything except colour.
2. Instant lev mujrantes exhibits (jualities passing from less to greater or greater to less ; e. g., glass, when whole, is colourless ; when pulverized, white.
3. / nstantue osteiisivw are instances wdiich show some (piality in its highest degree; e. g., the barometer exhibits the weight of air, when the impediment arising from pressure in all directions is entirely removed.
4. Instant la; con formes — instances that are parallel or ana¬ logous, — are facts wdiich resemble or are analogous to each other in some particulars, while very ditierent in all the rest. Bacon mentions, as examples, optical instruments and the eye, the structure of the ear and of caverns that yield an echo.
o. Instant la comitatus, atqiie hostll^^Sy are instances of (piali- ties w hich alway.s accompany each other and the reverse. Thus tlame and heat always co-exist, transparency and malleability in solids are never combined.
6. Instantla jci'ucls, crucial instances, are so called from the sign -posts at cross roacls, because they determine at once be¬ tween two or more possible conclusions. ‘ These instances,' says Bacon, ‘ are of such a kind, that, when in search of any nature (cause), the mind comes to an equilibrium, or is suspended be¬ tween tw^o or more causes, the facts decide the question by re¬ jecting all the causes but one.' Suppose that up to a certain point in our investigations, two or more causes seem to explain a given phenomenon equally well, an experiment w hich decides in favour of one of them is an experiinentum crucis.
Perhaps in no part of his discussion concerning the right method of investigation, has Bacon rendered greater service to the cause of science than where he inculcates the necessity of a ffradual ascent in our generalizations. ‘There are,' he says, ‘two ways of searching after and discovering truth; the one from sense and ])articulars rises directly to the most general axioms, and resting upem these principles and their unshaken truth, finds out intermediate axioms, and this is the method in use ; but the other raises axioms f rom sense and jKuiJculars by a continued and gradual ascenty till at last it arrives at the most general axioms, which is the true way, but hitherto untried.'
Facts having been collected, examined, and classified, we mu.st endeavour to discover the form of a given object, i.e., its ultimate essence ; e.g., in answer to the (piestion. What is heat ? What is its essence ? Thus Bacon eiToneously supposes tliat the huinan mind can discover what two centuries of profound investigation
084
LORD BACON.
since his time have in uo one instance succeeded in revealing, and what in all probability lies entirely beyond the apprehension of human faculties.
Two other subjects of investigation are the latens 2'>vocessus (latent ])roces8) and the lutcris schematismus (latent schema¬ tism.) By the latent process, Bacon seems to mean what has since been termed the Ui w of continuity, according to which quantities which change their magnitude or position, do so bv passing through all the intermediate magnitudes or positions, till the change is completed ; e.g., in the firing of a cannon, the series of events between the application of the match and the expulsion of the ball is a latent process, which can now be pretty accurately traced. The latent sclteniatism of bodies, is the internal structure and arrangement of their parts. ‘A proneness.’ remarks Dr. Hoppus, ‘to form boundless expectations as to what human power might effect, and, in the very infancy of j>ractical science to look for achievements higher than we can, even in its more advanced age, venture to hope for, is one of the most remarkable features in the elevated and daring genius of tliis great man.’
The question has often been raised and discussed — Did Bacon intend and deem it possible tliat his inductive method should be applied to metaphy.sics and moral subjects? An affirmative answer Is at once supplied by his own express declarations, that Ids method is applicable to logic, ethics, politics, and metaphysics. On the other hand, it was but to a trifling extent that he applied his principles and rules to moral and metaphysical subjects, and also the entire structure of the ‘ Novum Organum’ is more espe¬ cially suited to physical investigations. Nor, indeed, can it b(* denied that the inductive method has peculiar advantages in physical inquiries. For a full and able discussion of this point ^ve refer our readers to Hallam’s ‘ Literature of Euroj^e,’ vol. ii. p. 415, &c.
Jn his disquisitions on ethical subjects Bacon displays an eminently intact ical spirit. He does not enter into lengthy dis¬ cussions about the principle and the object of moral approbation, I'ut holds it to be the main function of moral science to discover the influence which customs, habits, modes of education, mental j)ursuits, &c., exert upon human character, and thus to lay down tlie best mode of preserving and restoring moral health. On these topics, as Stewart remarks, ‘he has enlarged more ably and more usefully than any writer since Aristotle.’ Under tliis head we may mention the most popular of all his works, known under the title of ‘ Essays.’ These essays are characterised by an amazing pregnancy and originality of thought ; an admirable blending of ingenuity and fancy with a wisdom, which, as
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685
famishing sage suggestions for the guidance of life, ‘ comes homo to men s business and bosoms ;* a rare combination of solidity and brilliancy; a style which, while untainted by mere verbal con¬ ceits, is incomparably striking and brilliant, richly coloured with metaphors aiul analogies. The whole is pervaded by a sagacious and penetrating, a generous and catholic spirit. In illustration of these remarks, we shall quote the first part of his essay on ‘ Studies.'
‘Studios serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. Their ohief use for delight is in privateness and retiring ; for ornament i.s hi discourse; and for ability is in the judgment and disposition of business ; for expert men can execute, and perhaj)s judge, of particulars, one by one ; but the general counsels, and the plots and mai'shalling of affairs, come but from those that are learned. 'Fo spend too much time in studies is sloth ; to us(; them too much for ornament is affectation ; to make judgment wholly by their rules is the humour of a scholar. They perfect nature, and arc perfected by experience ; for natund abilities are like natural plants, they need pruning by study ; and studies themselves do give forth directions too much at large, except they be bounded in by experience. Crafty men contemn studies, simple men admire them, and wise men use them ; for they teach not their own use ; but that is a wisdom without them and above them, won by observation. Head not to contradict and confute, nor to believe and take for granted, nor to find talk and discourse, but to weigh and consider. Some books are to bo tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested ; that is, some books are to Ixj read only in jiarts ; others to be read, but not curiously ; and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence an<l attention. Some books, also, may be read by deputy, and extracts made of them by others : but that w'ould be only in the less im])ortant arguments an<l the meaner sort of bocjks ; else, distilled books are, like common dis¬ tilled waters, llashy things. Reading maketh a full man ; conference a ready man ; and writing an exact man ; .and, therefore, if a man writo little, he luul need have a groat memory ; if he confer little, he had need have a present wit ; and if he reiul little, he had need have much cunning to seem to know that he doth not. Histories make men wise ; poets, witty ; the mathematics, subtle ; natural philosophy, deep ; moral, grave; logic and rhetoric, able to contend.*
As .a theolofiicin, Bacon possessed an intimate acqimint.anco with the Bible, .and w.as a believer in the truth of Ciiris- tianity. He also devoted a considerable portion of his time to theologic.al works, but abstained from entering into any of those speculative controversies on subtle points of divinity, which at that time engaged so much public attention throughout the wliole of Europe. We cannot refrain from quoting his noble protest against atheism : — * I had rather lielievc all tlie tables in the Legend, and the Talmud, and the Alcoran, than that this
lord bacon.
586 . While the mind of inau
“S.uJ it sfoS'S'raSn s
Tk« X toua i« to ‘lto‘'''J‘>L“2o»« to™ tot..
historian is to bo opposite op
iiig jpo limits of tlie preseut ar ic e^ ^jj^^Paiii ami Cialk.
expressed T jjg the fo-st instance in our
ourselves .vitpr reiuurks^ — . ^ \ 4. v^'^soniu'^’’ uii public
The former ^ plication of the Italians. Praise
laugm^e of tl PP ^Pe ancients and uatuiv
eventsmtm im^^^ largely bestowed^ u
upon Henry much a cratty a . yf his own
rf B.c«. W «to.™ ■ ■ ■
he tbougbt, also, « j ^^ith passages arc,
sovereign admirable ^vcat an
. The History of ^^o ambitiously, ' Viim of the
seems to bo . , vnd in another passag , ‘ Essays,’
absence of ‘ ^it^^^tlsertV; ^
sixth, History of Henry VH., politics ot
and also of the rhetoric, e ’ ^ £or their deep
compare ) .' tpo historians Biost cele ^^th Thucydides,
Aristotle, or the i f^“'^">l! ’Hume, we ibad, I
insij^^ht luto cn Machiavel, Havi ,
TaJtus, Philip de Com i^ ^Inmstbe eompared wdU m
think, ojinionof the ^j'^^Yg^mus historical pieces
together. t^iaiK i and altogethei lelicu imsuvpassed
most amni^l,- f^L that ^t ‘ still mmam®: com-
ill our literature m ip^yHy narrative, in expi ‘
in a vein of \uoi ^ V Tiuiuction had
power of writing. • far the Baconian ^vas
^ We, sh^l nmv mqune ho^ philosophers and
hccn m'l‘''£''JS,thor^of an article m the As^‘ \ P,ode
original. T ‘ p edit.)— • , jp^provcd by the
(vol. viii. pp- »J> 7 >1" tion, illustrated and mp ^eiierally
of reasoning by . .iq^yum Organum, \ later
great Lord e of the rapid progress of s ^Usthictly
considered as the c > y,,j^ to Arisfot?e, an ‘ • leads to
.f i'Kfi'rShto of to«t.8«to";^S Steely
delineated by him, a That Aristotle was hk , .l .piithe
2:«.',ut, or ‘to' to to;! “Xto,. oC „ e.J
“"“'"“ieS* t to employol i- "
proper mateiiais
LORD BACON. 687
experiments. We are, therefore, led to conclude that all the blame of continiiig the human mind for so long a time in chains by the force of syllogism, cannot be fairly imputeil to Aristotle ; nor all the merit of enlarging it, and setting it free, ascribed to Lord Verulam/ (Ib. pp. 89, 90.) After careful investigation of this point, we come to the following conclusion : — It cannot be denied that Aristotle clearly distinguisheil induction as an inference from the particular to the universal, from deduction as an inference from the universal to the particular. But he had no conception of the possibility of a valid process of arriving at a universal truth, except by an examination of all the particulars (f£ awttvTwv Tiov aTo/jnovj — enumerationfm per nimpl iceni). Bacon, on the other hand, aimed at discovering how, by a careful examination of the relative values of a limited number of par¬ ticulars, we may, with certainty, attain to a universal truth. Moreover, Aristotle gave but a very meagre analysis of induction, and did not perceive how the uniformity of the laws of nature justities us in dispensing with the necessity of examining all the particulars. Bacon, on the contrary, endeavoured to show hmv far the assumption of that uniformity may take the jdace of a com])lete investigation of individual phenomena.
We shall now take up a point which we postponed in the earlier part of our article — viz., the relation of Bacon to Descartes.
‘ Descartes," says Cousin, ‘ has established in France j)recisely the same method which England has been eager to attribute exclu¬ sively to Bacon." Now, we readily admit that Descartes, as well as Bacon, adopted analysis as the main instrument in jddloso- phical investigation ; the former applied it to tliovyld, the latter to natnre. What, however, were their views concerning the relative position of induction and deduction ? Htue a funda¬ mental difference presents itself. Bacon, it is true, admits the necessity of a provisional ‘ anticipation" of nature as a gui<le in observation and experiment; and Descarb^s maintains the value of experiments in verifying the truths of deduction. But Bacon assigns to induction, Descartes to deduction, the tii*st place as to order and importance.
Macaulay has asserted that the merit of Bacon’s scientific labours consists, not in his rules for the inductive process, but in his su|)plying motives for the careful |>ert‘ormance of that [>roce8R. We venture to maintain, on the contrary, that motives had already been furnished, nay, that the entire age was under the potent inrtuence of these motives, but that no one befon? Bacon discovered those rides which should direct the awakened mental energy into a well-planned channel. Again, Macaulay has atiirme<l that the only part of the inductivf* ]uocess which admits of rules, has been and is i)eiformcd perfectly well V)y all
? r
688
LORD BACON.
mankind without such rules ; and that, therefore, Eacoii s rules are superHuons and useless. Here, however, this distinguished writer plainly confounds induction, as a simple, everyday infer¬ ence, with the inductive method — a lengthy and complex train of reasoning ; these two Bacon repeatedly distinguishes. And further, however little a mind that has studied Bacon's rules may act in conscious and designed accordance with them, yet it will carry with it into all its researches the benefit of that general educational influence, which patient reflection on those rules infallibly exerts. Moreover, as Dr. Whewell observes, ‘ The truly remarkable circumstance is to find this (i.e., Bacon's) recom¬ mendation of a continuous advance from observation by limited steps, through successive gradations of generality, given at a time when speculative men in general had only just begun to ])erceive that they must begin their course from experience in some way or other.'
Valid objections to Bacon's philosophical merits may, we admit, be founded upon his ignorance of mathematics, and his iuade(piate estimate of their utility ; his lack of that ‘ practical wisdom which results from a long acquaintance with the actual processes of philosophical research ;' and his exaggerated opinion of the value of his ‘ new organ,' which, as he supposed, would bring all minds to nearly the same level, and supersede the advantages of natural genius.
The early fame of Bacon's writings may be gathered from the fact that in 1623, the TJniversitv of Oxford addressed him as ‘a mighty Hercules,' as having advanced the pillars of science : at Cambridge, his philosophy soon made great progress; the Institution of the Royal Society filled England with his fame ; the writings of Boyle, Hooke, and Locke, exhibited the deep impress of the Baconian method ; the genius of Newton found the ground cleared, and the plan sketched for the exercise of its mighty energies ; and within half a century the writings of the reviver of true philosophy won high applause throughout France, Italy, Holland, and Germany.
We conclude with a general estimate of Bacon's mental and moral character. We have already spoken to some extent of his mental abilities. We add the following supplementary remarks : His intellect was marked rather by a wide-ranging view of the nature of science in general than by a deep acquaintance with the minuiioe of any particular science. Though he was neither a mathematician, nor an astronomer, nor a chemist, nor a physi¬ ologist, yet he had a thorough insight into those essential attributes which constitute each of these a science, and the relative positions which each ought to occupy in the .special applications of the general principles of scientific inquiry
LORD BACON.
G89
Whilst he made no discoveries himself, he taught the 'method by which discovades ave luude. In all his investigations, lie was eminently practical, carefully shunning abstruse specula¬ tions and metaphysical subtleties. We heartily subscribe to Hallam’s judgment, — ‘ No books prior to those of Lord Bacon carrieil mankind so far on the road to truth; none have obtained so thorough a triumph over arrogant usurpation without seeking to substitute another ; and he may be comjiared to those liberators of nations who have given them laws by which they might govern themselves, and retained no homage but their gratitude.'
Bacon's moral charactiT, with its dark shades and lamentable defects, has been faithfully and graphically depicted by the masterly pen of Macaulay : — ‘The moral qualities of Bacon were not of a high order. We do not say that he was a bad man. He was not inhuman or tvrannical. He bore with meekness his high civil honours, and the far higher honours gained by his intellect. He was very seldom, if ever, provoked into treating any person with malignity and insolence. No man more readily lield up the left cheek to those who had smitten the right. No man was more expert at the soft answer which turneth away wrath. He was never accused of intemperance in his j>leasure.s. His even temper, his flowing courtesy, the general re.spectal>ility of his demeanour, made a favourable impression on those who saw him in situations which do not severely try the principles. His faults were — we write it with pain — coldness of lieart and meanness of spirit. He seems to have been incapable of feeling strong affection, of facing great dangers, of making great sacrifices. H is desires were set on thin^xs below. Had his civil ends continued to be moderate . . . we should not then b(‘ com¬ pelled to regard his character with mingled contempt ami admiration — with mingled aversion and gratitude. We .shoidd not then n'gret that there should be so many proofs of the narrowness and selfishness of a heart, the benevolence of which was yet large enough to take in all races and all ages. We .should not then have to blush for the disingenuousness of the most devotecl worshipper of speculative truth — for the servility of the boldest champion of intellectual freedom.'
Let the life of Bacon engrave upon the reader '.s heart the warning of sacred writ — ‘Let not the wise man glory in hi.s wisdom, neither let the mighty man glory in his might ; let not the rich man glory in his riches ; but let him that glorieth, glory in tliis, that he understandeth and knoweth me, that am the Lord, which exercise loving-kindness, judgment, and righteous¬ ness in the earth ; for in these things I delight, saith the Lord.
N.S. — VOL. VII 1.
Y Y
688
LORD BACON.
mankind without such rules ; and that, therefore, Eacou s rules are superfluous and useless. Here, however, this distinguished writer plainly confounds induction, as a simple, everyday infer¬ ence, with the inductive method — a lengthy and complex train of reasoning ; these tw o Bacon repeatedly distinguishes. And further, however little a mind that has studied Bacon's rules may act in conscious and designed accordance with them, yet it w ill carry with it into all its researches the benefit of that general educational influence, which patient reflection on those rules infallibly exerts. Moreover, as Dr. Whew'ell observes, ‘ The truly remarkalde circumstance is to find this (i.e.. Bacon's) recom¬ mendation of a continuous advance from observation by limited steps, through successive gradations of generality, given at a time when speculative men in general had only just begun to perceive that they must begin their course from experience in some way or other.'
Valid objections to Bacon's philosophical merits may, we admit, be founded upon his ignorance of mathematics, and h’s inadequate estimate of their utility ; his lack of that ‘ practical wisdom which results from a long acquaintance with the actual processes of philosophical research ;' and his exaggerated opinion of the value of his ‘ new organ,' which, as he supposed, would bring all minds to nearly the same level, and supersede the advantages of natural genius.
The early fame of Bacon's writings may be gathered from the fact that in 1623, the University of Oxford addressed him as ‘a mighty Hercules,' as having advanced the pillars of science : at Cambridge, his philosophy soon made great progress; the Institution of the Royal Society filled England with his fame ; the writings of Boyle, Hooke, and Locke, exhibited the deep impress of the Baconian method ; the genius of Newton found the ground cleared, and the plan sketched for the exercise of its mighty energies ; and within half a century the witings of the reviver of true philosophy won high applause throughout France, Italy, Holland, and Germany.
We conclude with a general estimate of Bacon's mental and moral character. W e have already spoken to some extent of his mental abilities. We add the follow ing supplementary remarks : His intellect was marked rather by a wdde-ranging view of the nature of science in general than by a deep acquaintance wdth the minutice of any particular science. Though he w^as neither a mathematician, nor an astronomer, nor a chemist, nor a physi¬ ologist, yet he had a thorough insight into those essential attributes which constitute each of these a science, and the relative positions wdiich each ought to occupy in the .special applications of the general principles of scientific inquiry
LORD BACON.
689
Whilst he made no discoveries hiinscdf, he taught the 'method by which discoveries are vinde. In all his investigations, he was eminently practical, carefully shunning abstruse sf)ecula- tions and metaphysical subtleties. We heartily subscribe to Hallatu's judgment, — ‘ No books prior to those of Lord Bacon carrieil mankind so far on the road to truth ; none have obtained so thorough a triumph over arrogant usurpation without seeking to substitute another ; and he may be compared to those liberators of nations who have given them laws bv winch thev might govern themselves, and retained no homage but their gratitude.'
Bacon's moral charaettT, with its dark shades and lamentable defects, has been faithfully and graphically depicteil by the masterly pen of Macaulay : — * The moral qualities of Bacon were not of a high order. We do not say that he was a bad man. He was not inhuman or tyrannical. He bore with meekness his high civil honours, and the far higher honours gained by his intellect. He was very seldom, if ever, provoked into treating any person with malignity and insolence. No man more readily held up the left cheek to tho.se who had smitten the right. No man was more expert at the soft answer which turneth away wrath. He was never accused of intemperance in Ids pleasures. His even temper, his flowing courtesy, the general respectability of his demeanour, made a favourable impression on those who .«^aw him in situations which do not severely try the principles. His faults were — we write it with pain — cfddness of heart and meanness of spirit. He seems to have been incapable of feeling strong aftection, of facing great dangers, of making great sacrifices. His desires were set on things ])elow. Had his civil ends continued to be moderate . . . we should not then bo com¬ pelled to regard his character with mingled contempt and admiration — with mingled aversion and gratitude. We shoiild not then regret that there should be so many proofs of the narrowness and selfishness of a heart, the benevolence of which was yet large enough to take in all races and all ages. We should not then have to blush for the disingenuousness of the most devoted worshipper of speculative truth — for the servility of the boldest champion of intellectual freedom.'
Let the life of Bacon engrave upon the reader's heart the warning of sacred writ — ‘ Let not the wise man glory in his wisdom, neither let the mighty man glory in his might ; let not the rich man glory in his riches ; but let him that glorieth, glory in this, that he understandeth and knoweth me, that I am the Lord, which exercise loving-kindncs.s, judgment, and righteous¬ ness in the earth ; for in these things I delight, saith the Lord.'
N.S. — VOL. VIII.
Y Y
Art. IV. — llippolytus and his Aye ; or^the Beginnings and Prospects
of Christianity. Second Edition. Two Volumes. 8vo. ])j).
5U5, itd. By Christian Charles Josias Bunsen, D.C.L., D.Bli.
2. Analecta Ante-yiccuna. Three Volumes. Svo. pp. 111,520, l‘JG.
By the Same.
3. Outlines of the Philosophy of Universal History, applied to Lan¬
guage and Pcligion. Two Volumes. Svo. pp. 521, ISS. liy
the Same. London : Longman & Co. 1S51.
At the time of tlie publication of the first edition of ‘ lIi])polytus and his Age,' two years since, its author held the post of Prussian ambassiulor at the court of our sovereign, a position which he has since earned the a}>plause of Europe by sacriticing rather than ])ander to the truckling Kussian policy of his royal master in the Eastern (piestion. It was amidst the pressure of arduous duties devolving u})on him in this highly responsible, and then honour¬ able capacity, that, by the ))roduction of this work, he confirmed the favourable impression })reviously made by bis ^ Egypt,' and won for himself, although a foreigner, a place in the very lirst rank of English contem})orary literature. Uur readers will not have forgotten the sensation which the book created, not only in all theological circles, but amongst educated people in general. No person, with any ])retensions to intelligence, could afford to be ignorant of a ]>henomenon which divided with ‘ Uncle Tom' the literary chit-chat of the day. The daily journals made it the text of long columns of news] ui per sermonizing for the edilication of their astonished readers. Country editors, as usual, took their cue from their brethren in the metropolis, and amiable curates were }>olitely requested to dribble out a few drops from the full fountain of their jhatristic lore, that poor benighted Earmer CJiles in his chimney-corner might read, for the fii-st time in his life, the talismanic name of llipix)lytus. Monthlies and (juarterlies, of all sorts and sizes, were uneasy until they had had their say u]>on the subject, and bad made their patrons an courani with the topic of the hour. The work, as was natural, soon found its way to the continent, and we are informed that the enthusiasm it excited amongst the author's countrymen was even greater than that with which it was received here. Its awkward dis¬ closures concerning the secret history of the Boman see during the former half of the third century, given upon the authority ot the long lost, but hap}>ily recovered, treatise of lli})polytus, himself a contemporary and eye-witness of the whole, roused the ire of the papacy, whose chief lost no time in setting the seal of his church to the immortality of the obnoxious book, by putting
UIPPOLYTUS AND HIS AGE. 691
it in the ‘Index.' The cry, Ifannibal ad portas f was raised and the champions of the catholic faith from Oanl and Germany rushed to the rescue. Certainly it was a most inconvenient cocpose, and no doubt fervent and deep have been the wishes in that quarter that ^I. Yilleinain and the Greek, AlynoYdes Mynas, whom he sent* on his ill-starred literarv mission in search of ancient manuscripts, had been sunk together in the HellesjKmt before they disturbed the codtw which was so comfortably rotting on the dunghill of the monastery on Mount Athos. However, there it was, and in print, too, and it was necessary to find something to say to the Prot(‘stants, when they should Hout the advocates of papal inlallibility with this pretty piece of scandal. Here was a canonized saint, ]>ope, and martyr, St. Callistus, charged by a canonized saint, bishop, and martyr, no less a person than 8t. Hij)])olytus, with being nothing l)etter than a swindler, a convict, a heretic, an anabaj)tisf, a shameless impostor, and a greedy trafficker in souls. 11 is vaunted mar¬ tyrdom was shorn of its rays of glory, and resolved into a vulgar attempt of a desperate cul|)rit to commit suicide. Well might French nhhes scream, and German ]^rofessors at catholic univer¬ sities draw their ])ens and seize the golden o])]K)rtunity (►f writing themselves into the good graces of the C^iria. We felt naturally inquisitive to see how Rome would wriggle out of this new diffi¬ culty. Of course we did not exj^ect that she would 1h‘ at a loss for expedients, even in so desperate a case. Rut we confess we were hardly prepared for the amusing exhibition which luas been got up for our edilication. The Abbe dallabert luis hit upon tlie lucky discovery, that the obnoxious treatise must have been written by TertuHian, who, being a mere Montanist heretic, has of course no right to bo heard. Unfortunately for this theory, the author of the work exjiressly condemns Montanism as heresy, so that, if TertuHian wrote it, he must have done so as a (Catholic. The opinion is, besides, too absurd to merit refutation, and no one has ventured to endorse it, not even M. Jallabort’s friend, the Cdnon Cruice, who styles himself Siqierior of the School of High Ecclesiastical Studies at Paris. These high ecclesiastical studies must now, we imagine, be in a rather poor condition in the country of Tillemont, Hiqiin, Pagi, and Fleury, if we may judge from the trash which M. Cniice has printed upon the ‘ Philosophumena' Even he, however, though he looks wistfully towards the hypothesis of his countryman, and affects to think there is much" to be said for it, jirefers, upon the whole, to leave the question of authorship undetermined.
The Suptjrior s book is (iuite refreshing for its stupidity and thoroughly French luiivete. It <loes one good to see from his shrugs, grimaces, and contortions, how extremely unpalatable
Y Y 2
• mM
I
692
IIIPPOLYTUS AND HIS AGE.
the Hippolytan disclosures are to the ultramontane party. Of argument hifi h'oclnirc is as innocent as his own sacerdotal crown is of capillary attraction, and the region beneath of something still more important ; but of entertainment there is jdcntv. So far from softening down the crimes laid to the charge of Callistus by the writer of the anonymous treatise, he expatiates upon their enormity with virtuous indignation, and then asks us whether it is possible that a wretch guilty of such mon¬ strosities could ever have been elected to the chair of Peter, or could have been retained in it an instant after the detection of his villany? There must, therefore, be some mystitication, which, however, he does not profess to be able (modest man that he is) perfectly to clear up. Yet not to leave his bewildered readers wholly in the dark, the Superior of the School of High Ecclesiastical Studies will not withhold from them his measure of light. Accordingly he whispers in confidence the reassuring words:
‘ It’s the wrong man' This suggestion is the gem of the hook, and ought to be rewarded with a cardinars hat at least. Cruice points mysteriously to a fragment of Apollonius, a Christian writer of the second century, which Eusebius (Hist. Eccles. v. 1<S) has preserved, in which we find the counterpart of the story of Callistus as contained in the ‘ Philosophumena.’ There one Alexander, a Montanist, who gave himself out for a martyr, is accused by Ajxdlonius of having been convicted before the Proconsul of Ephesus, iEinilius Frontinus, of being a swindler. It is true that names, time, and scene are (juite difterent in the two cases. But by some Itocus-pocns which the ahhe does his b(‘st to ex])lain, he is convinced that the two swindlers, Alexander of Ephesus and Pope Callistus, the Pro- consul of that city, Frontinus, and the Prefect of Rome, Fuscianus, mentioned by the author of the ‘ Philosophumena,’ the metropolis of the world, and the metropolis of Asia Elinor, have all exchanged parts in this strange comedy of errors. No, M. Cruice ; writhe as you may, it will only afibrd us the more sport, and not extricate 3’ou and your church from the embarrassments of the cause cdthre — ‘ St. Hippolytus v. St. Callistus.’ In the words of our own Iron Duke, there is no mistake — there can be no mistake — ami there shall be no mistake.
Catholic Germany, as represented by Professor Dollinger of Munich, has shown far more adroitness in meeting the emergency than catholic France. He is evidently a man of real learning, and his work contains much valuable information. He admits without reserve the authorship of Hippolytus, and ridicules the opposing pretensions which have been advanced in favour of Origen and the presbyter Cains of Rome. He denies, however, that Hippolytus was ever Bishop of Portus (the harbour of Rome, at the mouth of
HIPPOLYTUS AND HIS AGE.
G93
the Tiber), and contends, on the other hand, that he was an anti¬ pope to Callistus. Hence the bitterness of his accusjitions against the latter. To save the credit of Hippolytus, whom Professor Dollinger’s church has dubbed a saint and a martyr, he invents the fiction of his having been subsequently reconciled to the catholic communion shortly before his martyrdom. To wash such a blackamoor as Callistus white was, of course, a most painfully laborious operation. But the feat has been so cleverly accom¬ plished, that after coming out of the SiicerdoUil laver, the swarthy complexion of the maligned pontiti* hius completely vanished, Callistus is himself again, and answers to the signification of his name, which, as our readers need not be informed, means ‘ most fair,^ or ‘ a very pretty fellow.' Such a masterj)iece of sj)ecial pleading as Professor DiJllinger s a])ology for this peccant poi)e of the third century it has never been our good fortune to meet with. It beats Sir Fitzroy Kelly's celebrated ‘ aj)ple-t)i})' speech, in behalf of the murderer Tawell, hollow. The Alunich professor is duly noticed in the preface to this second edition of the Chevalier Bunsen's work, along with all other o})ponents.
It is not our practice to do more than simply chronicle the a})pcarance of new editions. The present case might seem to justify a departure from the rule, since we have here substantially a new work, or rather three new works. But we must not, even on so tempting an occasion, widely deviate from our course. When books expand in triplicate ratio, reviewers may well tremble and ask whether the i)rogression is to be in geometrical or only in arithmetical proportion, since in the foiiner case the tenth edition of ‘ Hippolytus and his Age' will about lill the Bodlei.an Library. We have heard, to our dismay, that the Chevalier is writing away at the rate of sixteen hours out of the twenty-four in his beautiful German villa, and begin to wish that the war was over, if only for the siike of getting him safely ensconced again at Carl ton-terrace, with a few hirsute Westphalians to tease him, and an occasional despatch to fire off.
Of the two volumes constituting the first of the three works, the second contains comparatively little new matter, what there is consisting almost entirely of foot-notes designed to correct, modify, or explain statements in the text. The former halt ot the first volume, which may be described as a history of the church during the first seven generations, has been entirely recast, and in such a way as cannot fail to gratify thoughtful and intelligent readers. The latter half of the same volume is little more than which formed
Ante-Nicaiiia' constitutes a most valuable contribution to our patristic and ecclesiastical literature. The ‘Aphorisms' with
a reprint of the five letters to Archdeacon Hare, L*d the vestibule of the first edition. The ‘ Analecta
I
C94
HIPrOLYTUS AND HIS AGE.
which tlie second volmne of the original edition opened, are the gemi out of which the ‘ Outlines of the Philosophy of Universal History" have been developed. But of the ])rocess which lias resulted in the metamorphosis before us we cannot do better than let the Chevalier speak for himself.
* I have,’ he says, ‘ reduced Ilipjadytus and his age to two historioiil pictures in two volumes. That of the hero of the work himselt’ is entirely new. I have j>laced the portrait of the Bishop of I’ortus in its ])roper frame. He is here considered as one of those Oliristian teachers, governors, and thinkers who made Christianity what it became as a social system, and as one of thought and ethics; a noble chain of which St. Peter and St. Paul are the first links, and llip- polytus and Origen the last. In this manner the age of llip])olytus had alri‘ady been treated in the third volume of the first edition. 1 had there shown that his time was the last stage of that woinhTful lifi‘ of the Christian eongregations, which regenerated the world in the midst of persecutions, and of general decay and destruction. 'I'his picture forms the second volume of the new edition. The first volume gives the jneture of llip])olytus among the series of the leading men of t1u‘ first seven generations of Christians, as the second ])resents that of his age, and generally of the ancient church, in its discipline and constitution, its worship, and social relations. 'fhis sirond volume concludes with the tiction of the ‘Apology of Hippolytus’ as the uniting ]>icture. Such a liction appeared to me the only means of ])resenting our hero in action together with his age, and of bringing him and the whole real line of ancient Christendom nearer to our own times and our own hearts.’ — Preface, p. vi.
So much fortho first of these three works, ‘Hy}>])olytus and his Age." Of the new matter, we have been chietly struck with the exhibition of the Onostio systems of Valentinus, Basilides, and U arcion,and with the sudden change which has taken place in the Chevalier’s view of our old friend the ‘Shepherd of Hennas." Every tvro in church historv knows what a mysterious interest attaches to the names of the threi* great Gnostic heresiarchs of the former half of the second centiuy, and those who have gone most deejuy into the subject are be.st aware of the seemingly insurmountable ilil- ficulty of arriving at anvthing like clear and satisfactory ideas of their ivspective doctrinal systems. Their works have survived only in fragments, which, until the recoyery of the long-lost treatise of ‘ Hip])olytus," were intinitesimally small and few. But even had their writings been suffered by the zeal of their oppo¬ nents to be handed down entire, their speculations are so abstruse, ami tin' garb in which, with the exception of Harcion"s, they were carefully shrouded from the gaze of all but the esoteric disciples, pi oves so eft'ectual a disguise, that nothing short of the most patient attention and the closest thinking can hope to .succeed in dis engaging them from the fantastic and motley envelope. Ne-
HIPPOLYTUS AND HIS AGE.
695
ander, Baur, and others, have done something towards translating these ancient semi-Christian systems of religious philosophy into the language of more modern schools, and would doubtless have accomplished more had the additional sources which the treatise of ‘ Hippolytus' puts us in possession of, been at their command. Professor Jacobi, of Konigsburg, endeavoured lately, with the help of tliese new fragments, to reconstruct the system of Basi- lides, (Basilidis Philosojdii Gnostici 8i‘ntentiiis ex llippolyti Libro Kara llaacue Aifncrtiov nuper rej)erto illustravit J. L. Jacobi, Berolini, 1852;) but tliegeneral opinion of the learned seems to be that his monogra})h upon the subject is somewhat of a failure. We are not sure that the Chevalier’s delineation of either Basilidianism or of Marcionism will be regarded as ([uite siitis- factory, although he seems to us to advance the problem nearer solution. After reading his expositions one begins to have a glimmeringof the import of the strange hieroglyphics. On the other hand, his analysis of \"alentinianism is a real triumph, for which, however, as he frankly owns, he is mainly indebted to the previous labours of llossell, whose admirable picture of the system he has wisely introduced entire into his own work, llos- sell’s masterly sketch of Valentinus is worthy of a pu|)il and friend of the great Neander, and with the Chevalier’s comments, should be carefully studied by every one who is resolved to <lig down to the roots of the history of Christian doctrine. The ancient church-teachers were evidently not wholly in the wrong Avhen they saw in Valentinus the foreruniKu* of Arius, and it is impossible to follow up intelligently the ramiliciitions of later controversies which shook Christendom to its foundations with¬ out some understanding of the leading Gnostic systems, whence they may most truly be said to have s|»rung.
The ‘Shepherd of Hennas,’ which, in his tirst edition, the Cheva¬ lier had styled, ‘that dull novel which Niebuhr used to say he [litied the Athenian Christians for being obliged to hear r(‘ad in their ineetimrs/it is amusing to tind him now characterize as ‘oneof those books wliicli, like the ‘ Diviiia Comediii ami Ihinyan s ‘ l’iloriiu .s Pi •Ogress,’ captivate the mind by the united power of thought and fiction, both drawn from the genuine depths of the human Soul.’ He is now convinced that it is far more lively than most sermons with which he is accpi.ainted.
‘ The hook,’ ho says, ‘ certainly does not ])ossess, what a learned Knglisli divine considers as the criterion ot a treatise destined to reveal to the initiated the mysteries ol laith — namely, a great <jnantity ol (juotations from Scripture. Our hook, ealled hy the talhers ‘tin* Serip- ture,’* does not (piote Scripture, although many passages in it allude
* Irciiicus is the only father who gives it this title.
696
HIPPOLYTUS AND HIS AGE.
to tlie Gospel, aiicl though it is, from beginning to end, based uj)on the great truths proclaimed in the canonical Scripture (p) 1 confess 1 cannot help believing that this method fully satisfied its contemporaries, and indeed the most enlightened Christians of the following centuries. Perhaps even they thought it to lie the peculiar charm* of the book, that it was not a sermon stuffed with quotations from the Seriptures, but rather one that gave evidence of the intiuence and power of the same S}>irit which had presided at their composition (!), and that it was inspired (!) by the contemidation of the great individual centre of all Serijdure. Such a com])Osition ‘The Shepherd’ really is; and it has further the merit of brevity, which is more than can be said of all sermons.’ — Vol. i. pp. 1S3, 184.
This last fling at the divines is peculiarly unfortunate. There may he room for diflerence of opinion as to the literary and theological merits of this curious production of the Homan Chris¬ tianity of the middle of the second century. Some may think with Niebuhr, and with the w riter of the sentence w hich w e have extracted from the first edition of ‘ Hippolytus and his Age,' that it is insufferably dull, and others may, with the Chevalier, in his second edition, place it by the side of Dante's immortal poem, and Bunyan's inimitable allegory^ So again, some wdth Irenants, and our author in his last ex cathedra judgment, may class it with the inspired w ritings ; and others, with a host of theologians of all Christian communions, Ilomanist and Protestant, orthodox and heterodox, may deem its doctrinal complexion to be but a shade or tw^o removed from the poorest Ebionitism. But its length is a matter easily settled. We know not what sermons the Chevalier is in the habit of reading, for as to hearing w e will say nothing, since the rumour which makes him, like Lord Eldon, a buttress rather than a ])illar of the church, cannot charitably be supposed to be tnie. But this w’e do know, that sennonsas long, and, to quote the Chevalier’s owui word, as ‘ dull’ too, as the ‘‘Shepherd,’ are such outrageous exceptions to the rule, that he must be as great an antiquary in this sort of literature as he is knowui to be in prayer-books and hymnody, if he has met with many such. This also w e know, that for one who, like our author, lionourably aspires to the dignity of a reformer, to sneer at the Christian pulpit is a capital mistake.
The lollowdng is the Chevalier’s account of the genesis of the tw o works w’hich form the sequel or introduction (we can scarcely tell W’hich) to ‘Hippolytus and his Age,’ and of their connexion w’ith it — matters which he is certainly the only person comi^etent to explain : —
‘It is inq)ossil)lo to conceiil from oneself,’ he says, ‘ that pictures of
Tiic italics are ours.
HIPPOLYTUS AND HIS AGE.
697
bje-"OTic historical characters and ac^es cannot prove all they assert and rei)rescnt. Such compositions arc huildings erected upon a suhstruc- tion, hoth philosophical and philological, to which a few detached essays and notes cannot do justice.
‘ The present volumes, therefore, appear Hanked hy two other works. The lirst presents, in two ))arts, a key to the philosojdiical, historical, and theological views which pervade ‘ Hippolytus and his Age.* It he.ars the title, ‘Sketch of the Philosophy of Language and of Jieligion ; or, the beginning and Prospects of the liuman Pace.’ This sketch com])rises the Aj)horisms of the second volume of the lirst edition, hotter digested and worked out, so as to form an integral ])art of a philosophical glance at the ])rimordial history of our race with regard to the principle of development and of progress.
‘ The second substruction, the j)hilological, is also presented as a separate work, and forms three volumes. The remains of ante-Nicenc documents constitute three sections, none of which have hitherto been p^ven in a complete and satisfactory manner; the literary remains, the constitutional documents, and the liturgical records. Of these, the third section was critically almost a blank Wforethe publication of my ‘ llelitpiia} Liturgica\* 1 have had nothing to add to these liturgical texts, but 1 have this time printed in extenso the passages of the Syrian Jacobite liturgy which correspond with the Greek text ; whereas, in the lirst edition, 1 only indicated that they were identical. Put I have prelixed to those texts the Elementa Liturgica, pojndarly exhibited in my ‘Pook of the Church.’ These elements are the following three : — Firsts the Lord’s Prayer as liturgically used, and as recorded ill the ancient MSS. of the New Testament, and in the Fathers. Secondly^ the various baptismal formularies, commonly called the Apostles’ Creed ; to which are added the Nicenc and Constantino- politan Creeds, which, at a later period, came gradually into liturgical use. Thirdly^ the i>rimitive psalmody. I give lirst the so-called three Canticles of Mary, Zacharias, and Simeon, printed as Hebrew psalms in hemistichs, as they are composed and intended to be used; then the hymns of the ancient Greek church. To these I have added, as an a})j)endix, the Te Deiim Laudamus, the truly original and poetical reproduction and amplification of the Greek Morning Jlymn; a German composition of the fifth century ; the only Latin psalm and the only liturgical composition of the Western church which has obtained universal adoption.’ — Preface, pp. viii., ix.
We wish we could add that the development supplied in the case of ‘ Hippolytus’ is uniformly healthy. Put this we cannot answer for. It is painful to find the key-note of rationalism struck in the very first page of the work, where the great miracle of the Pentecost is resolved into a thunder-storm. In this and other similar jihenomena we discern the lamentable result of our author’s early training at the feet of the Gamaliels of a school W'hich is now happily aliticpiated even in Germai>y. In our review of the first edition we warned our readers that the work was not to be judged from the English pjint of view. This
698
HIPrOLYTUS AXD HIS AGE.
caution, however, did not save us from the auimadveniions of a contemporary, who has benevolently taken our orthoiloxv under his special tutelage, and who, we are glad to hear. h;\s at last made up Lis mind to grapple with the linguistic pan of * Germanism,' in order that he may no longer lie under the reproach of indiscriminate nailing at what he does not understand. It was owing to a wholesome dread of this stigma that we refrained from abusing the Chevalier's odd christology and doctrine of the Trinity, which its well-intentioned author endently thinks is as transpiirt nt as the water of life, but which to us appears ten times more obscure than the Xicene, rejecteii by him on account of its mysteriousness. But enough of this. Chevalier Bunsen is not a man to bo written down bv anv ieremiads about his orthodoxy, which either we or our censors can ]xmi. His is one of the most original, ix'werful. and cultivated minds of Kuro^v. lie is a diamond of the lirst water, though not without Haws. His heart, too, is thoroughly Christian, and Ix^ats in unison with the piety of the humblest believer : whilst in intellectual ]rowcss
he is more than a match for the very Goliaths of the Philistines. To rej^dfrom us such an ally in these daysof rebuke and blasythemy, because, forsooth, he has not been taiii^ht in our Sundav-schools, and learnt our Shiblxdeths, is worse than folly — it is sin. That he has inhaled much choke-damp down there in those deep mines whence he has been diirinmr out hid treasure to lav on ChhIs altar, so that he cannot ahvays breathe freely, we dejdore as sincerely as any. But fresh air is already beginning to oiivulato in those perilous but auriferous shafts and galleries, and Cn rinan literature bids fair soon to become as splendid a Christian fact as it has long been recognistd to bo a stupendous, though vUvw wayward, development of human genius and learning. Bunsen in particular we may say, that his childish horror ol the sujKTnatural belongs to the accidents rather than to the essence of the man. It is like the wijx of the rei^n of CJeorue 111., which some old gentlemen still sport — a remnant ot an ante¬ diluvian fashion. If he is a rationalist, it is in spite ot hiinselt and of Ids truly genial, better nature.
ii
N . — -1A/ /•V#V/f</»\* anJ IVin^ Moiuorinls,
Portraits, aiul Personal luw'lUvtions of IXwasovl iVlohritios i\i' the Xinottvnth CVntnrv ; with Si'hvtions frv'»m their VnpnhlishiHl Letters. Pv P. ti. Patmoiw vols. London : Saunders \ i^tlev. l>oL
A MODKliX and motoindo ossi^yist tolls us that history sluuiKl l»o alKdishod. and that bioi^raphy should take its phuv ; and in this apparent }urado\ there is a nueleus of truth. If history were a mere alnuutaek. just a oatalooue i»f physical phenomena, the divla- ration would be al^surd, unless. iiul\*i\i. it were i\»vt'i'iHl by a prect'dent j>ostulate, that the human ia<.v can ilo |H'rhvtly well without almanacks. Put the case is far otherwise'. History, so far Iroin lK,dno a iword of material phenomena, is little elst» than a record ot the acts and thoughts of indivulual men. It is but the expansion of biography. Homer’s battles ai\' the details of individual prowess ; and in the grandest tableaux of history, indivivlual words aiul divvls constitutt' the fas<,'inating points, — the brilliant pendants and nu>re oialeanHl iKvorations in its gorgeous array, rhis, indet\l, springs out of the universitl law ot human symjvrthy. We own a kiiulred, not with tunpiro.s but with men; not with vague aiul cumbrous tratlitional systems, but with transcendental principles, which in their lonely indi¬ viduality stand like distant pyramiils keenly defuuHl in tlte minds of contemporary observers, and embraced with the s;mio minuteness and tenacity by our own. Who.st* .senlinu'nts ilo not gravitate, in |K‘1 using the record i>f the gn‘at contests for freedom, towards the immortal anoedotes of its champions, and turn with pensive privle to the divisive or living words and actions of those men of whom the world was not worthy ^ Who, in contemplating the whoh* opulence of truth and greatness, presented both in sjicred and uninspired ivclesia.stical liistory, has not had his attention riveted — as by that irrt'sisiible art by which painters compel the eye, l>y a colour ot controlling brilliancy, to a ]Kirticular relieving spot in their paintings — to the exhibitions of individual character, developed by the noble army of martyrs, the creati>rs of that history itselt {
It is this principle which umh'rlies the whole theory ot di*a- matic and tictilious literature. It constitutes, indeed, the very secret of its power, and residing, as it does, mnid.st the most elemental springs of our naturi‘, it has not escaped the observa¬ tion of the deejvst investigators ot the human mind. It is just that ‘one touch of nature* that ‘makes the whole world kiu, and in dwelling u[)ou it, we are reminded ot a |M\s.s;\go iu which
700 PATMORES FRIENDS AND ACQUAINTANCE.
it is beautifully indicated by Foster, in bis Essay on a mans writing memoirs of himself : — ‘ I suppose,' he says, ‘ a child in Switzerland, growing up to a man, would have acquired incom¬ parably more of the cast of his mind from the events, manners and actions of the next village, though its inhabitants were hut his occasional companions, than from all the mountain scenes, the cataracts, and every circumstance of beauty or sublimity in nature around him. We are all true to our species, and very soon feel its importance to us (though benevolence be not the basis of the interest) far beyond the importance of anything that we see besides. Beginning our observations with children, you may have noted how instantly they will turn their attention away from any of the aspects of nature, however rare or striking, if human objects present themselves to view in any active manner. This “ leaning to our kind" brings each individual, not only under the influence attending immediate association with a. few, but under the operation of numberless influences from all the moral diversities of which he is a spectator in the living world, a com¬ plicated, though insensible tyranny, of which every fashion, folly, and vice may exercise its part.'*
The influence exerted by this universal instinct on our litera¬ ture is sufliciently obvious. Of the millions who are debarred by their position from any acquaintance with the private life of distinguished men, a large number in such an age as this are im|>atient of their social exile. They thirst for the poignant pleasures of such an acquaintance, and the demand thus occa¬ sioned affords to such as can supply it a prodigious temptation. Those whose lot is cast on the outskirts of the intellectual work!, and who need fear no similar reprisals in their own case, are under a strong temptation to turn this popular demand to their own private account. Society will never be very intensely anxious to know their sayings and doings ; but famishing multitudes will be eager for those crumbs which fall from the tables to which such men are accidentally admitted. This circumstance should in all propriety impose a law of extreme delicacy and reserve upon those whose temptations to supply such a demand are unusually strong. The success of such j3ersonal memoirs as those of Evelyn, Pepys, Boswell, and many others, oft'ei's to such men a strong inducement to violate a confidence which every honour¬ able mind should hold sacred ; and in proportion to the strength of that inducement should be their nice sense of honour and their self-restraint. He who infringes this obligation by making the drawing-room, the library, and even the chamber, to which he is admitted as public as Salisbury Plain, — who, to use well-known
* Foster’s Essays, eleventh edition, p. 23.
Patmore’s friends and acquaintance 701*
words, ‘ invades domestic privacy, and publishes the sallies of the convivial hour,’ — commits a double wrong ; first, to the individual whose confidence he abuses, and next, to those who may be excluded from the higher society to which their talents or their virtues entitle them, by the suspicion which his prattling imper¬ tinence has engendered.
This charge lies heavily against Mr. Patmore. Holding the situation of literary referee to an eminent London publisher, he was necessarily thrown into correspondence and personal inter¬ course with some of the principal authors of the day. And this circumstance has supplied him with the stock on which he trades in the volumes before us. It has been justly remarked by one critic, — ^That this work will be of great value to the living cele¬ brities of the present century as a warning to them to be cautious with whom they correspond, and whom to admit into their society. It conUiins a great deal of WTitten matter that ought never to have been printed, and scarcely less of printed matter that ought never to have been written. The letters here j>ub- lished are chiefly communications, purely confidential, and they are served up as mind portraits,” with the silliest of comments, and we grieve to add, the most unprincipled of reflections.’* To these remarks we feel bound to add, that Mr. Patmore’s w’ork labours under three cardinal disadvantages : first, that he criticizes intellectual and literary men with the slenderest amount of critical and literary ability. Secondly, that he portrays scholars with a lamentable want of scholarship ; and, thirdly, that without any impeachment of his veracity, there ap|>ears to be internal evidence that his representations cannot be accepted as true. These serious accusations will, we fear, be clearly sub¬ stantiated in the analysis of his book on wdiich w'c are about to enter.
Mr. Patmore commences his notices wdth Charles Lamb, a most interesting character, certainly, to an acute observer of human nature, but one wdiich his descrijitions leave under a dense fog. We pass over his description of Lamb’s person,
‘ But see — he has removed his hat,’ and all such p.soudo-draniatic and vulgar clap-trap. He attributes to his countenance the ‘gravity of the .siige contending with the gaiety of the humourist.’ But even this physiognomical description does not prepare us for the statement that ‘ Charles Lamb’s face, like his other attri¬ butes, “ amounts to a contradiction in terms,” ’ or this still cruder statement, ‘ he hated and despised men with his mind and judg¬ ment in proportion as (aiul 'precisely because) he loved and yearned to them in his heart, and individually he' loved those
* The Literary (razettc, August 12th, 1851.
702
PATMORE’S FRIENDS AND ACQUAINTANCE.
best whom every one else hated, and for the very reasons for which others hated them.' Let these remarks be followed hnt for a moment into illustrative details. Certain men are hated because they are false, treacherous, cruel, despotic, or insolent, because they are at once shallow and arrogant, and therefoi\^ intolerable nuisances in society. Are we to suppose that Mr. Lamb loved them for these veiy reasons? If he did so, he was simply an idiot ; but if that hypothesis is too a])surd to be accepted, what are we to think of ^Ir. Patmore’s knowledixe of human nature and insight into individual character. Indeed, it is impossible to exaggemte the crude and random character of this w liter’s observations. He tells us (vol. L p. 22) that ‘ Lamb WT\s always on a par w ith his company, how^ever high or however low^ it might be ;’ and yet in the very same page he states that ‘ the first impression he made upon jx^ople w^as always unfavour¬ able, — sometimes to a violent and repulsive degree,’ and adds that ‘ to those who did not know- him, or knowing, did not or could not appreciate him. Lamb often passed for something between an imbecile, a brute, and a butfoon.’ This of Charles Jjamb !
Lilt in thoughtless fatuity Mr. Patmore sometimes exceeds himself. After depicting Lamb as an utterly impossible monster, he says (p. 23), ‘ He did not like to be thought different from his fellow-men (!), and he knew' that in the vocabulary of the ordinary world, “a man of genius” seldom means anything better, and often something worse, than an object of mingled fear, jnty, and contempt.’ Poor Charles Lamb ! Verily he w as taken from the evil to come. To his many admirers who mourn his loss it will be matter of great consolation that he has not lived to see himself befooled by the self-complacent crudities of this unfortunate author.
Shakspeare talks of ‘damning with faint praise,’ but ^Ir. Patmore throughout these pages lias showm us the still lieavier doom that may lie inflicted by a blind and ignorant determination to praise at all hazards, esjiecially when the eulogy of one who is claimed as an intimate friend reflects a sort of mock glorification upon himself. Pages oD-G-S are occupied w ith a rambling, rollicking letter from Lamb to the author. It is such a letter as any man who has a few witty friends, who are also good correspondents, would jirobably receive tw enty times in a year. Indeed it is an amusing but sli])shod affair, by no means a fair specimen of Lamb’s humour, and perhaps its (piality is best accounted for in the first sentence. ‘ Dear P., I am so poorly ! I have been to a funeral, where 1 made a pun, to the consternation of the rest of the mourners, and w e had w ine.’ And then he goes on about his dog Dash, and dotting down the interpolations of his sister as to her inability to procure him shrimp sauce for soles, and an accident to his
703
PATMOKE’s FPIENDS AND ACQUAINTANCE.
sister after the funeral, under whom the seat of a crazy chair gave way, at which the widow joined the rest of the company in a titter ; ‘ and then,' Lamb adds, ‘ 1 knew she was not incon¬ solable.'
Of this epistle, diverting enough in its way, Patmore says : — . ‘ If 1 give this incomparable letter in iUl its disjointed integrity, with its enormous jokes in the shape of pretended domestic news about Procter, Hone, Godwin, Becky, &c. ; its inimitable tableau vivant of the ‘‘ meiTy passage with the widow at the Coininons its “ and then I knew that she was not inconsolable," which cannot be out of Shaksjmi re ; its startling
dramatic interpolations “No shrimps!" and “All three, sa3^s l)i\sh its sick qualms, curable only by puns ; its deliberate incoherences; its hypothetical invitation to dinner (1 was at Paris at the time) ; if I venture to give all these in their naked inno¬ cence, it is because I do not dare to tamper, even to the amount of a single word, w’ith an epistolary gem that is w'orth the best volume of Horace Walpole s, and half the ‘ Elegant Extracts from Pope and Atterbury to boot’
A writer w ho can be guilty of sucli a ])anegyric as this, so ])re- posterously inappropriate, indiscriminating, and extravagant, is obviously destitute of all critical ability, and can command no contidence even in his biographical fidelity. Thus our credulity is sorely taxed at page 73, where we are informed that Lamb was more than indifferent about flowers. Upon this statement, which we receive with due suspicion, Patmore is seized with one of his spasms of feeble philosopliizing. ‘ In the world,’ he says, ‘ as at })reseut constituted, a man like Charles Lamb must hate some¬ thing ; and for him (Lamb) to hate a human being, or indeed any sentient being (he had ])reviously said, page If), that Lamb hated and despised men with his mind and judgment), even an adder or a toad, was impossible to his nature. Is it then speculating too curiously on his singularly-constitubid mind and lieart to suppose that he may have gone to the o])positc extreme — for he lived in extremes — and hated that which seems made only to be loved, and which all the world fancy they love, or pretend to do, because they can find nothing in them to move their hate — flow ers, fields, and the face of external nature?’ It mav be owing to our insutheient acquaintance witli the writings of the feeblest minds that have thought themselves capable of sup})lying stock for the circulating lil>raries, but w'c confess that we do not recollect meeting with a paragraph which, wdth tlie air ami pretension of ingenious thinking, betrays more absolute fatuity than this. We beg pardon of Mr. Lamb’s dog Dash, if we are wrong in our conjecture that w’e see in it the traces of his paw’. Perhaps, however, he knew his master better.
I
704
Patmore’s friends and acquaintance.
After this we are not a little astonished to find (page 82) that it is not the aim of this work to exalt or aggrandize the intellectual pretensions of the persons to whom it relates, but only to give tnie sketches of them as they appeared from the point of view from which the writer looked at them.
Mr. Patmore’s appreciation of his own performance seems to be on a par with that of the literary men whom he delineates. Nothing can be more incorrect than his representations. All his geese jire swans, and his intention seems to have been to stilt himself up to a factitious importance by the grossest exaggeration of the merits of those who happen to have honoured him with their acquaintance. He rarely reports their conversations ; and when he does, they are so utterly meagre and worthless, that they would greatly reduce our estimate of the men, did we not recollect the medium through which they are transmitted. In the case of Lamb, for example, we meet with a few pages of con¬ versational anecdote, and are tempted to imagine that the obser¬ vations reported as Lamb’s must have been those of Mr. Patmore himself, and wrongly attributed, through a failure of memory. The very first entry affords an example of this : ‘ I took up a book on the table — Almacks — and Lamb said, “ Ay, that must be all 'iiuix to the lovers of scandal.’ It is scarcely conceivable that Lamb should have made so stupid a pun as this ; though, by the way, it is almost as difficult to imagine how any man who ever found his way into cultivated society should have thought it worth reporting, even if he had. His only notice of Mr. Lamb’s death is equally characteristic, and the pendant anecdote, a propos d€8 bottes, exhibits the author’s want of perception most gro¬ tesquely. ‘ There is something inexpressibly shocking in first hearing of a dear friend’s death through the medium of a jniblic newspaper, at a time, perhaps, when you believe him to be in perfect health, and are on the point of paying him a too long- delayed visit. Such was my case in respect to Charles Lamb. Still more painful w^as the case of a lady formerly a distin¬ guished ornament of the English stage, to wdiom Lamb was attached by the double tie of admiration and friendship. S(jvoral days after Lamb’s death, she W’as conversing of him with a mutual friend, who, taking for granted her knowledge of Lamb’s death, al>ruptly referred to some circumstance coiincct(‘d w’ith the event, which for the first time made her acquainted with it’
^Ir. Patmore’s next victim is the late Thomas Campbell, and the lovers of his memory wdll be puzzled to know which most to regret, his exclusion from Westminster Abbey, or his admission into Mr. Patmore’s volumes. We fear they will feel that if the one is a negative, the other is a positive disgrace. Against
705
patmorf/s friknds axd acquaintance.
Campbell, however, our author has brought one charge which has excited not a little indignation — namely, that he was not the author ot the ‘ Lives* of Mrs. Siddons and Sir Thomas Ijawrence, which were published with his name, but that all he had to do with tlieir ])roduction was the looking over the MS. and tlie ])roof sheets, and permitting his name to stand rubric on the title-page.
On tins charge the publisher of the 'Life of Mrs. Siddons* asserts in a letter to the ' Athenaeum,* that Campbell declared to him that he did write them, having been bound by a ])romiso to Mrs. Siddons herself, who becpieathed to him her Diary for the pur[)ose. He further (piotes a letter from Campbell respecting it, which contains the words, ‘ really considering the labour I have bestowed upon this work, as well as my own conviction and that oimy friends with respect to its execution,* &c.* This evidenci*, so far as we are aware, has never been rebutted by Mr. J^itmore. His estimate of Campbell is as vague and im])erfect as that of his other subjects. He speaks of him as being fairly reco¬ gnised as the greatest of living poets, and in an unmeaning com|)arison of him with Mr. Rogei's, informs us that ‘ the passions in the Bard of ‘ Hope* still burn with a bright intensity, that would consume the altar on which they are kindled, were it a shrine less pure and holy than a poet’s heart.* If this means any¬ thing, it declares poets to be the purest and holiest of human beings. Does Mr. Patmore mean gravely to afiirm this of Thornas Campbell ? ])oes he of Pope, Byron, Moon^ Shelley, and Burns ? If not, what in the name of common sense does he mean ? In our simplicity, we can only say with Hamlet’s grave-digger, ‘ Mass ! 1 can’t tell !’
The next ‘ mind portrait’ with wdiich Mr. Patmore favours the public is that of the late Countess of Blessington. He commences with a description of her beauty ; anil setting himself up as a judge of painting, makes some ridiculous criticisms on Lawrence’s well- known portrait of the countess, accusing the painter of falling ‘ into the error of Idending incompatible expres.sions in the same
* Mr. Vat more instaucos one rx])rrssion of Campholl as evidenor that he dill not even peruse the materials before him. It is in reference to some letters of a pretended Frenchman, on wliich Campbell says, ‘The editor admits them on aeeount of the ability which they seem to possess.’ On tins I’atmorc remarks in a note, ‘ Tlere the secret of non-perusal peeps out. to
possess !” So that they may or they may not jmssess it, for anything he knows abinit them.* Mr. Patmore evidently cannot understand the modest suggestion of an opuiion, and we can imagine how he would have been puzzled had he ever been led astray into the writings of Tacit u.s by such words as Hrrmauos Milenas crediderim. Yet, shortly afterwards (u. V2S), we find him adojding the very same form of expression, ‘ 1 particularly seem to remember that these very words were used.*
N.S. — VOL. VIII. Z Z
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patoore's friends and acquaintance.
face.' This silly remark reminds us of a characteristic joke of Sidney Smith, who, while bearing Tom Moore company in a sitting for his portrait, asked the artist if he could not manage * to throw into the face a more decided expression of hostility to the established church.' Her ladyship's charms seem fairly to liave robbed Mr. Patmore of his wits ; and the portion of his work devoted to her, and by necessary association to Count D'Orsay, is really a lamentable exhibition of feebleness and folly. Thus, at page 176, he says, ‘Not that she did not desire to please, no woman desired it more. But she never tried to do so, never felt that she was doing so; never (so to speak) cared whether she did so or not' The purchaser of these volumes may now determine whether Lady Blessington was desirous of pleasing or not. ‘ He pays his money and he has his choice.'
^Ir. Patmore's notices of her intercourse with Byron are about as discriminating as the above observation is logical. He tells us ‘ that Lady Blessington may be considered as having been the depositary of his last thoughts and feelings ; and she may cer¬ tainly be regarded as having exercised a very beneficial inlluence on the tone and colour of the last and best days of that most strange and wayward of men' (vol. i. p. 181) ; and again (p. J8.S) lie informs us, that under the infiuence of this intercourse, ‘ un¬ touched as it was bv the least taint of flirtation on either side,' both
V '
the poet and the man became once more what nature intended them to be ; and that ‘ had it endured a little longer, it might have redeemed the personal character of Byron, and saved him for those high and holy things for which his noble and beautiful genius seems to have been created, but which the fatal Nemesis of his early life interdicted him from accomplishing.' Mr. Pat¬ more's views of morals and holiness constitute perhaps his only claim to originality Of Lady Blessington's monility, we will observe a modest silence ; but, if we recollect aright, the poem of Byron which was produced ‘ in his last and best days' is the one which, for its blaspheinyand obscenity, is universally excluded from every library and drawing-room in this metropolis, which Mr. Patmore declares to be ‘ not merely the most immoral, but the most openly and indecently immoral capital in Europe.'
We think that many of the readers of these volumes must have been constantly reminded, as w^e have been, of one of the London morning papers, the faults of whose style are so exactly those of Mr. Patmore that we cannot divCvSt ourselves of the opinion that he has been a frequent contributor to its columns. Take, for example, the following sketch, which Mr. Patmore informs us was taken from the Ring in Hyde-park : —
‘ Observe that green chariot just making the turn of the unbroken line of equipages. Though it is now advancing towards us with at
PATMORE’S FRIENDS AND ACQUAINTANCE. 707
least a dozeu carriages between, it is to be distinguished from tlic tlirong by the elevation of its driver and footnuui above tlie ordimuy level of the line. As it comes nearer, we can observe the particular points that give it that perfectly dUtingue apiK‘arance which it bears above all others in the throng. They consist of the white wheels, lightly picked out with green and crimson ; the high-stepping ac*tion, blood-like shaj)e, and brilliant manege of its dark bay horses ; the perfect style of its driver ; the height (six feet two) of its slim, spider- limbed, pow’dered footman, perked up at least three feet above the roof of the carriage, and occupying his eminence with that peculiar air of accidental superiority, half petit-maltre, half })lough-boy, which we take to be the ideal of footman perfection ; and, linally, the exceetlingly light, airy, and (if we may so speak) intellect uiU chariicter of the whole set-out.! — Vol. i. p. 19J1, 194.
\V e axe then treated to ‘ the arms and supporters bhxzoned on the centre panels," and the face of the countess within, ‘ throu^li the doubly refracting medium of plate-ghuss and a blonde veil;'
‘ the lady, her companion, is the Countess de St. i^Iarsault, her sister, whose finely-cut features and perfectly oval face bears a strikirifi geneo'al resemblance to those of Lady h.,wiilioiit heimj at all like them.* Paradox would seem to constitute the family characteristic of these tw o ladies. Lady Blessington's sister bears a striking resemblance to her without being at all like her, and her ladyship herself, as we have seen, is, above all women, desirous of pleasing without caring a straw w hether she does so or not. But her ladyship’s martyr-like powers of endumnee remain to be noticed, as furnishing an exam])le of the triumph of genius and virtue over almost insuperable difficulties : — ‘ Lady Blessington was the first to introduce the beautifully simple fashion of wearing the hair in bands, but was not imitated in it till she had persevered for at least seven years ; and it was the same with the white wheels and peculiar style of picking out of her ecjuipages ; both features being universally adopted some ten or a dozen years after Lady Blessington had introduced and })ersevered in them.'
But perhaps the richest example of this intense vulgarity is the following pjissage, which w'e meet with at p. 210: — ‘Few readers will expect to find a w^ork like ‘ Jerrold’s Magazine’ on the gilded tables of Gore House. But the following note will show^ that Lady Blessington's sympathies extended to all classes.' Yes, to all classes ! even to that most hund^le and abject clas® to which Mr. Douglas Jerrold belongs. That she who could ‘in her golden urn draw light’ from the full meridian blaze of Mr. Patmore’s genius should stoop to recognise the existence of Mr. Douglas Jerrold is certainly a miracle of condescension. Of this, however, her ladyship seems to have been unaware, for in the very letter introduced by this silliest ot tittle-tattlers, she says, ‘What a clever production ‘Jerrold’s Magazine’ is, and
708
patmorf/s friends and acquaintance.
how admirable are his own contributions ! Such writings must effect good.'
After kneeling to the countess, Mr. Patmore turns with an abso¬ lute ^ falling-down-deadness' of devotion to the Count D'Orsay. He premi.ses that ‘ the highest and noblest phase of the human character is a gentleman,' and confidently designates the count as the beau ideal of this ineffable perfection. ‘ He was the hivonrite associate, on terms of perfect intellectual equality, of a Byron, a Bulwer, and a L»andor, and at the Siime time the oracle, in dress and eveiy other species of dandyism, of a Ohestertield, a Pem¬ broke, and a Wilton' (p. 222). We must leave all questions arising out of Count D’Orsay's waistcoat and trousers to Mr. Patmore and the old clothes men of Moninouth-street ; ljut we must confess some curiosity to know what is meant here by ‘ terms of ])orfect intellectual equality.' Docs he mean that J )’Orsay equalled Bvron in poetic genius, Landor in learning and intellectual power, and Bulwer in literary accomplishment ? If he does not, he should have said terms of social equality, which, as meaning next to nothing, would have been a ph rase most tit for Mr. Patmore’s use: if he does, his statement is too ridiculous to be improved upon by satire. In attributing all that he can imagine of human excel¬ lence to this ‘admirable Crichton,’ as he calls him, riding, shooting, swimming, boxing, fencing, wrestling, tennis playing, &c., he says, among other things, he was amongst the best cricketers in a country wdiere all arc cricketers. This hasty generalization sug¬ gests a scene which Sidney Smith would have delineated to ])er- fection, and perhaps we might succeed in casting ‘ two elevens’ who would supply a tempting opportunity to the caricaturist.
But rash and ridiculous assertion is not the heaviest charge that lies against Mr. Patmore. In worshipping his golden calves, he illustrates the immoral tendency of such itlolatry. Thus of Count D'Orsay, he says.
‘ III tlie next place, with tastes and personal haViits magnificent and genei*ous even to a fault, Count D’Orsay was very iar from being rich; conseipiently, at every step, he was obliged to tread upon some of the .shopkeeping prejudices of English life. Unlike most of the denizens
of this nation of shojikeepers,” he very wisely looked upon a tradesman as a being born to give credit, but who never does fulfil that part ot his calling if he can helj) it, except wliere he believes that it will conduct him, if not to j)ayment, at least to jirofit. The fashionable tradesmen of London knew that to be patronized by Count D’Orsay was a fortune to them ; and yet they had the face to expect that he would pay their bills after they had run for a ‘‘reasonable” jicriod, whether it suited his convenience to do so or not ! As if, by rights, he ought to have )>aid