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No. VI.
JUNE, 1856. Price 1
s
THE
Oxford + Cambridge
Magazine,
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CONDUCTED BY MEMBERS OF THE
TWO UNIVERSITIES.
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CONTENTS.
- Thackeray and Currer Bell . . . . .
323
- Carlyle . . . . . . . . . .
336
- Ruskin and the Quarterly . . . . . .
353
- Froude’s History of England . . . .
362
- The Singing of the Poet . . . . . .
388
LONDON:
BELL AND DALDY, FLEET STREET.
PRINTED BY C. WHITTINGHAM, TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE.
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The Newcomes; Vanity Fair; Our Street; The Perkins’s Ball. Jane Eyre.
Editorial Note (page ornament): Initial I is ornamental.
If to be imperfectly understood in his own day be any pledge to an author of immortality to come, Mr. Thackeray may be thought
to
have no small prospect of “life beyond the grave.” That the objects of his satire should so misunderstand him is natural,
but it is
strange that so many of the pure-minded and good should not have discovered how kind a heart, how deep a love of all that
is true, sincere, unaffected and
noble, what a fragrance of philanthropy lies beneath the often bitter leaves of Mr. Thackeray’s writings.
It is in this that we believe him to have been so much misunderstood, affording another instance of the truth how seldom in
the first instance mankind
judge righteous judgment, or, at any rate, by any other standard than the outward appearance. If it has been well said, “
Le monde n’a pas de longues injustices” it might equally well have been added, “
Bon Dieu, qu’elles sont grandes, tant qu’elles durent.”
Column Break
Let Pitt Crawley lay trains for his aunt’s money, let him overreach his nephew, improve an honest empty-headed brother’s backslidings
to his own
advantage, pay clandestine court to his brother’s wife, who despises and deludes him, and neglect his own, who adores him,
what then! Pitt is an
accomplished diplomatist: he trims his character as he trims his nails, and the world judges of the one as it does of the
other—both are rounded,
polished, and decorous.
Let Barnes Newcome sneer at an old relation as a venerable washer-woman, in fact, sneer at everything; let him
play the
“languid puppy” at his club, and in his father’s sweating-room
be the cold, sharp, energetic screw, the veriest
curmudgeon; let him leave his own children, the children of a woman whom he has inveigled from an honest lover, to nakedness
and starvation, and ply the
cupidity of high-born parents to let his ambition rob his friend of a girl who loves that friend; after her marriage, by brutal
and dastardly treatment, let
him drive the miserable wretch to desperation,
page: 324
divorce, and irrevocable ruin, what then! Barnes Newcome inherits his father’s title, and becomes Sir Barnes; Sir Barnes
is a
member of Parliament; Sir Barnes lectures on the poetry of womanhood and the affections: “a public man, a commercial man,
yet his heart is in his
home;” he, too, has trimmed his nails,—we beg pardon, his character,—and the world is most graciously pleased to accept the
homage paid by vice, accounting it for virtue. Then comes a bold and straggling hand, writing cabalistic lore—it lifts the
pall, and a whited
skeleton appears.
Sad and bitter lessons: sad to the spectator, bitter and galling to those who fall under the lash of the satirist. But why
should a man’s lessons be
all so bitter and sad? Is there no sunshine in the world? Is gloom perpetual and everlasting? Do clouds for ever engross the
heavens? Is there no patch of
blue to comfort mortal eyesight? Truly, there is both sunshine and gloom, both cloud and blue sky; but even as one painter
most excels in fixing the frolics
of light, so another’s heart will perchance (perforce?) be in the storm, or his life spent in depicting the grey sadness of
the sky. What right have you or
I to say—paint sunshine alone, or storms alone; what right to prevent an author from writing satire exclusively, or panegyric
exclusively?
Not, indeed, that Mr. Thackeray is much given to croaking, any more than to panegyric. He seldom croaks, and when he does,
it is with easy, artistic
phlegm. One of his peculiar characteristics is the even-handed coldness with which he treats both sides of his subject, and
all sides of his characters. And
although in his last work, by a happy termination, he has departed from his usual severity as an artist, few novelists have
been so felicitously cool, and
rigidly impartial.
He leaves all real croaking to his readers:
Column Break
“You pay your shilling, and take your choice. The famous little Becky puppet is uncommonly flexible in the joints, and wicked
in the
expression. The Dobbin figure, though apparently clumsy, yet dances in a very amusing and natural manner.”
But at the close of the fair he says:
Ah,
Vanitas Vanitatum! Which of us is happy in this world? Which of us has his desire?—or, having it, is satisfied?”
Something like croaking, too, this; but only a sigh, expressive of the profound melancholy which comes over the manager
of the performance, as he sits before the curtain
on the boards, and looks into the crowd. And whoever sees with the author’s eyes must be melancholy for a while. “
All is not gold
that glitters,
” is the maxim inscribed on every page of his writings. It pervades his plots—pervades his characters. Through “Vanity Fair,” “Pendennis,” and “The Newcomes,” from top to bottom of “Our Street,” whether we follow the Kickleburys up the Rhine, or watch the ball at the Perkins’s, the still small whisper of the author
pervades the
atmosphere: “Behold the tinsel.” A melancholy voice in the midst of an overwrought civilization; where every advantage has
its
disadvantage, every picture its reverse; where platters have insides, and two sides are to every question! Not they who talk
most of money, and loudest
about their interest, are most interested or greedy of lucre. Not they who prate of love and extol friendship, are most loving
and true. Not they who raise
their voices in loud appeal to justice, are most righteous and equitable. And yet some men are most generous, most noble,
most disinterested, who are no
less loud in profession than in action. Some can love deeply, very deeply, whose discourse of love is warm. Some will speak
nobly of justice, who are most
nobly just. As our author himself expresses it with two-edged irony:
“It does not follow that all men are
page: 325
honest, because they are poor; and I have known some who were friendly and generous, although they had plenty of money. There
are some great landlords who do not grind down their tenants; there are actually bishops who are not hypocrites; there are
liberal men even among the
Whigs, and the Radicals themselves are not all aristocrats at heart.”
What a chaos, men will say, and how can we ever walk
straight?
From seeing the maxim so broadly written, that “all is not gold that glitters,” they go a step further, and too often say,
“there is no gold at all, no
friendship, no truth, no devotion; all is selfish, fickle, and insincere—all is dross, begilt and betinselled.” But here they
forsake
and calumniate their master. There is gold; but it is hard to find, lying often where men would fain not seek it. Then there
is silver gilt, next best; and
if that cannot be had, why then consult your purse, and try brass—brass electro-plated.
Do you see that lofty figure? It looks like a heroine; only Mr. Thackeray has no faith in heroines, hardly more so, in fact,
than in heroes.* It is Miss Ethel Newcome, who, under a warmer and less artistic hand, would no doubt have grown to an
extraordinary heroine, but under his, turns out little more than such a woman as most men have seen somewhere or other in
their lives, even though they may
not have had the
entrée to the drawing-rooms of her chaperon and grandmother, Lady Kew, nor been admitted into the privacy of Sir Brian, her father.
Ethel Newcome is one of
the hundred girls every year, as the phrase is, on the market—a phrase which the veracious history before us will not, perhaps,
bring into
greater favour than it is. But, as Major Pendennis says to his nephew Arthur, whom Mr. Thackeray has selected as
locum tenens in his new creation, Ethel
“is one of the prettiest girls out this
Column Break
season, Lady Ann’s daughter, an exceedingly fine girl.
I hear the young men say so,” continues the worthy major; “and nothing shows more how monstrous ignorant of the world Colonel
Newcome is, worthy old
Indian. His son could no more get that girl than he could marry one of the royal princesses. Mark my words: they intend Miss
Newcome for Lord Kew. Those
banker fellows are wild after grand marriages. Kew will sow his wild oats, and they’ll marry her to him; or if not, to some
man of high rank. His
father, Walham, was a weak young man; but his grandmother, old Lady Kew, is a monstrous clever old woman, too severe with
her children, one of whom ran
away, and married a poor devil without a shilling. Nothing could show a more deplorable ignorance of the world than poor Newcome
supposing his son could
make such a match as that with his cousin. Is it true that he is going to make his son an artist? I don’t know what the deuce
the world is coming to. An
artist! By gad, in my time, a fellow would as soon have thought of making his son a hairdresser, or a pastry-cook, by gad.”
Where is the gold, and where the tinsel in all this? How much of both is there in Ethel, “seventeen years old, rather taller than
the majority of women” (that is, a little below the average height of heroines), “of a countenance somewhat haughty
and grave, but on occasion brightening with humour, or beaming with kindliness, quick to detect affectation and insincerity,
impatient of dulness and
pomposity.” Look at her “passing her hand gently over the softest of lips and chins, her face assuming a look of
arch humour, as she thereby indicates her admiration of her cousin Mr. Clive’s moustache and imperial, while the blushing,
bowing youth casts down his
eyes before hers. She is more sarcastic now than she became when after years of suffering had softened her nature. Truth looks
out of her bright eyes,
and rises up armed, and flashes scorn or denial, perhaps too readily, when she encounters flattery, meanness,
Transcribed Footnote (page 325):
*These words are here used in their vulgar sense; not in the true sense in which the word “hero” occurs
so frequently in Carlyle’s writings.—Ed.
page: 326
and imposture.” Surely this sounds something like gold; not of the heroic standard, perhaps, not the soft
and tender metal seven times purified and refined, but still gold, with that amount possibly, of the indurating alloy sufficient
to make it wear the stamp
of sublunary life.
“And yet, if the truth must be told, this young lady is popular, neither with many men, nor with most women. The innocent
youth who
pressed round her, attracted by her beauty, are rather afraid, after a while, of engaging her. This one feels dimly that she
despises him; another, that
his simpering common-places (the delight of how many well-bred maidens!) only occasion Miss Newcome’s laughter. Young Lord
Crœsus, whom all
maidens and matrons are eager to secure, is astonished to find that he is utterly indifferent to her, and that she will refuse
him twice or three times
in an evening, to dance as many times with poor Tom Spring, who is his father’s ninth son, and only at home till he can get
a ship and go to sea again.
The young women are frightened at her sarcasm. She seems to know what fadaises they whisper to their partners, as they pause
in their waltzes; and
Fanny, who was luring Lord Crœsus towards her with her blue eyes, dropped them guiltily to the floor, when Ethel’s
turned towards her;* and Cecilia sang more out of tune than usual; and Clara, who was holding Freddy, and Charley, and
Tommy, round her, enchanted by her bright conversation, and witty mischief, became dumb and disturbed when Ethel passed her
with her cold face; and old
Lady Hookham, who was playing off her little Minnie, now at young jack Gorget, of the Guards, now at the eager and simple
Bob Bateson, of the
Cold-streams, would slink off when Ethel made her appearance on the ground: whose presence seemed to frighten away the fish
and the
angler.”
There may be more dross than gold, perhaps, in all this, and yet, reader, which will you choose?—to which award hearty
sympathy?—to “the innocent dancing youth,” or to the
Column Break
lofty Miss Newcome? To the simpering common-places of Lord Crœsus
and the guilty blue eyes of Fanny, or to the full glance of Ethel’s cold eyes only “on occasion brightening with humour, or beaming with
kindliness and affection?”
But, you say, is there no mean, no medium between haughtiness and wit on one side, and weakness and silliness on the other?
Listen to the author:
“Every advantage has its disadvantage. For every ounce of gold there are pounds of gilding. Every jewel has its counterfeit.
The great
Koh-i-noor itself served all practical purposes in imitation. Goodnature and weakness are (how often!) found together—how
often convertible
and mistaken. Overflowing tenderness is mistaken for weakness, and vacillation wears the look of kindness. Superiority and
pride, like birds of a
feather, flock together; and they, too, with the undiscerning, pass for the same.”
But, you ask, is it always so? No, certainly not. But, we apprehend, a satirist describes not the rule, but the exception;
or, at any rate, what ought
to be and generally will be found to be more or less the exception. For instance, what grosser mistake than to suppose Juvenal’s
writings contain a faithful
picture of the whole of Roman society! And all Mr. Thackeray’s characters, though less grossly so, are more or less exceptional,
without being heroes or
heroines. He describes the effects of overwrought civilization, in excess or defect of the golden mean of perfection—not so
much the golden mean
itself. All his writings, viewed in this light, are profoundly true; viewed as exact pictures of the whole state of society,
they are at best but clever
distortions. And this is one great source of the misapprehension
Transcribed Footnote (page 326):
*Is this not rather uncommon in society, where the first accomplishment a girl learns is to acquire an unflinching stare?
But
perhaps eyes that brook the gaze of a man will cower before a woman.
page: 327
under which both the author and his writings commonly lie. “He is a misanthrope,” says
one—“A disappointed man,” says another, “and his characters and scenes are libels on human nature.”
But is every novelist bound to describe the whole of human nature, for the especial behoof of Smith or Cavendish? Must every
novelist be patent
looking-glass maker to Cavendish and Smith, so that whoever else’s face is there, their own, so to speak, may be painted in
the centre, a possession for
ever? You are unreasonable, Cavendish, you are unreasonable, Smith; and if Mr. Thackeray, out of the continent of human nature,
has chosen him a small
principality of his own to describe, it is unjust of you to declare, through thick and thin, because it lies out of your corner,
that he meant to describe
that also, and has altogether failed. It is the West End chiefly that he describes, and not even the whole of that; but, so
to speak, the part which is
diseased by the reaction of the very laws of progress, which lead men lower down in the scale to improve under ordinary circumstances.
It is that
culminating part of the ancient tree, which is beginning to bleach and decay, while ever fresh and healthy branches are spreading
and sprouting from below.
In society, as in nature, there is constant action and reaction. Refinement, pushed to the limits of a particular phase, breeds
degeneracy and torpor, and,
as a consequence, the artificially begotten inferiority of some characters leads an opposite class of minds to exaggerate
all their own claims to
superiority, until they become or threaten to become vices. Thus the independent spirit of Ethel is made haughtier by the
petty cringing and self-seeking of
Fanny. The self-confidence of one man swells and frets at the sight of another’s vacillation. The modesty of Addison recoils
and shrinks before the
forwardness of Steel. “
Rien” says Montaigne, “
Rien ne me redresse tant dans
Column Break
mon assiette, que de voir les défauts d’autrui.” And still more might the saying of Luther be applied, for civilization is like a drunken man on horseback—“prop
her up on one side, and she falls over on the other.”
And if it be said that all this is nothing new—being, in fact, no more than Aristotle’s doctrine under a new dress, of the
extremes which
lie on either side of the golden mean, we may ask in Mr. Thackeray’s words:
“What stories are new? All types of all characters march
through all fables: tremblers and boasters; victims and bullies; dupes and knaves; long-eared Neddies, giving themselves leonine
airs; Tartuffes wearing
virtuous clothing; lovers and their trials, their blindness, their folly and constancy. With the very first page of the human
story do not love and lies
too begin? So the tales were told ages before Æsop: and asses under lion’s manes roared in Hebrew; and sly foxes flattered
in Etruscan; and
wolves in sheep’s clothing gnashed their teeth in Sanscrit, no doubt. The sun shines to-day as he did when he first began
shining; and the birds in the
tree overhead, while I am writing, sing very much the same note they have sung ever since they were finches. Nay, since last
he besought good-natured
friends to listen once a month to his talking, a friend of the writer has seen the New World, and found the (featherless)
birds there exceedingly like
their brethren of Europe. There may be nothing new under and including the sun; but it looks fresh every morning, and we rise
with it to toil, hope,
scheme, laugh, struggle, love, suffer, until the night comes, and quiet. And then will wake Morrow and the eyes that look
on it; and so
da capo.”
And day by day the planets go their everlasting rounds. But if, because neither they nor the sun are new, Kepler had not observed
and Newton
generalized his observations, we should be without the laws of gravitation. And this, which is true of astronomy, may equally
well be applied to human
nature. No less than the former, the latter has laws, orbits, oscillations and eccentricities, which remain, even more than
the heavens, man’s peculiar study
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and richest field of speculation—a field so far from having been exhausted by the curiosity of ages, although for ever
lying next our feet, that, if compared with many a waste reclaimed but yesterday to science from barren observation, it will
be found to have yielded a
smaller proportionate harvest than any other realm of thought. Not that we need wonder at this, if we judge of psychology
by the analogy of its correlative
science physiology, in which the study of anatomy preceded that of organic life. Being at the centre ourselves, our looks
are first turned towards the
objects at the circumference. Another reason is the natural aversion felt by all men until a particular stage of thought arrives,
to believe or even suppose
that man as a living agent
can be the subject matter of science. The idea seems fatalistic, and to interfere with their freedom. Man is
his own last study. We speak here of the genuine scientific process, when man has been schooled by many blunders and failures
to proceed methodically. Every
one knows that at different times centuries have been spent in abortive efforts to discover “the essence,” “the
philosopher’s stone,” etc. etc. First comes the dissection and rational survey of the dead and inanimate, next comes the analysis
of that which
lives and moves, last of all generalizations on the moving cause. So in Ethics, the critical and inductive theory of human
action might naturally have been
expected to come last of all in the scale of sciences; and so it has proved indeed, for it is yet in great measure to come.
But however distant such an
event may be, every fresh writer who stereotypes the society or any part of the society of his day, has bequeathed a valuable
legacy to moral philosophy. As
Copernicus to Kepler and Kepler to Newton; as Vesalius to Bichat and Bichat to Carpenter; such were Homer and the tragedians
to Aristotle; and such Milton,
Shakespeare,
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and our novelists, let us hope may be to him who some day will discover the theory, if not of human, at least of British,
gravitation.
But in the meantime, it is interesting to note how the same phase of society and feeling is reflected in different minds;
how the social
oscillations—the great actions and reactions of class characteristics, normal and abnormal, find a kindred exposition under
a garb outwardly most
dissimilar, in minds apparently far as the poles asunder. Who, for example, at first sight would accuse Thackeray and Currer
Bell of any connection? And
yet, at the bottom, the present time is viewed by both much in the same light. Hitherto, in all highly civilized nations a
time has come, when the machinery
and scaffolding of civilization have threatened to overgrow the building itself; a time, when prudence threatens to choke
goodness, cleverness to trample on
simplicity, affectation to lord it over nature and even over art; when interest blinds justice, worldly wisdom petrifies the
heart, and etiquette poisons
comfort; a time when the letter seems likely to swallow up the law, means to usurp the place of ends, and rules to make a
clean sweep of reason; when
honours are more coveted than worth, riches than happiness, power than affection; when clothes are for character, and hollow
praise for genuine
love—a time rich in the “irony of fate.” Such in some respects seems to be our present phase. And far as Currer Bell and
Thackeray seem apart, yet a deep hatred of this predominance of the husk over the kernel, of the letter over the spirit, of
the essence over the accident,
will, we think, be found to form the prevailing undercurrent of their works.
Jane Eyre by many has been looked upon as an immoral production, and Currer Bell as the treacherous advocate of contempt of established maxims and disregard of the regulations of society. Now this is precisely
the
page: 329
fault which the Pharisees found with the teaching of the Saviour. Where indeed, we would ask, is the immorality of Jane Eyre,
if
not that, acting in the purity of her heart and the might of her integrity, she spurns the letter to give triumph to the spirit?
Who are they, that prate of
falling and make a sickening display of their humility, but those who gloat over human frailty, and, longing to fall, are
for ever spreading the sterile
couch of deprecation beforehand? Are there no strong hearts left? Because temptation has often triumphed, has singleness of
purpose died out of the world,
and may no one be calmly conscious of virtue to act and strength to resist? Jane Eyre is Currer Bell’s answer to the question—and,
viewed as a
contrast to the disgusting cant of immorality lurking beneath tawdry finery and mock humility, may be considered no unimportant
contribution to the
characteristic delineations of our time. Her situations are often extremely forced; she revels in the depiction of freedom;
but after all, she makes will
triumph over temptation, exalting the spirit over the letter, nor is there anything in her descriptions which betrays more
than the intense aspirations of a
powerful moral sense and the eager desire to raise the weak and neglected of the earth to the independence of mind, without
which, virtue is but a shadow.
The noble conduct of the women, who, through evil report and good report, in spite of sneers and fears, within the last few
months, left the comforts of an
English home to bear consolation and kindness and care to our wounded beneath an eastern sun—was in the true spirit of Jane
Eyre.
We will quote the following passages from Jane Eyre and Vanity Fair, with a view to
illustration, and also to compare the peculiarities of their authors. Jane is governess in Mr. Rochester’s family. His wife
is mad. He loves Jane Eyre, and
has
Column Break
just related to her the unfortunate circumstances, which in earlier life led him to contract an alliance with a woman he
never did love.
“A pause.
“Why are you silent, Jane?”
I was experiencing an ordeal: a hand of fiery iron grasped my vitals. Terrible moment: full of struggle, blackness, burning!
Not a human being
could wish to be loved better than I was loved; and him who thus loved me I absolutely worshipped: and I must renounce love
and idol. One drear word
comprised my intolerable duty—“Depart!”
“Jane, you understand what I want of you? Just this promise— ‘I will be yours, Mr. Rochester.’
”
“Mr. Rochester, I will not be yours.”
Another long silence.
“Jane!” he recommenced, with a gentleness that broke me down with grief, and turned me stone-cold with ominous
terror—for this still voice was the pant of a lion rising—“Jane, do you mean to go one way in the world, and to let me
go another?”
“I do.”
“Jane” (bending towards and embracing me) “do you mean it now?”
“I do.”
“And now?” softly kissing my forehead and cheek.
“I do”—extricating myself from restraint rapidly and completely.
“Oh, Jane, this is bitter! This—this is wicked. It would not be wicked to love me.”
“It would to obey you.”
A wild look raised his brows—crossed his features: he rose; but he forbore yet. I laid my hand on the back of a chair for
support: I
shook, I feared—but I resolved.
“One instant, Jane. Give one glance to my horrible life when you are gone. All happiness will be torn away with you. What
then is left?
For a wife I have but the maniac upstairs: as well might you refer me to
page: 330
some corpse in yonder churchyard. What shall I do, Jane? Where turn for a companion, and for some hope?”
“Do as I do: trust in God and yourself. Believe in heaven. Hope to meet again there.”
“Then you will not yield?”
“No.”
“Then you condemn me to live wretched and to die accursed?” His voice rose.
“I advise you to live sinless; and I wish you to die tranquil.”
“Then you snatch innocence and love from me? You fling me back on lust for a passion—vice for an
occupation?”—
“Mr. Rochester, I no more assign this fate to you, than I grasp at it for myself. We were born to strive and endure—you as
well as I: do so. You will forget me, before I forget you.”
“You make me a liar by such language: you sully my honour. I declared I could not change: you tell me to my face I shall change
soon.
And what a distortion in your judgment, what a perversity in your ideas is proved by your conduct! Is it better to drive a
fellow-creature to despair,
than to transgress a mere human law—no man being injured by the breach? for you have neither relatives nor acquaintances whom
you need fear
to offend by living with me.”
This was true; and while he spoke my very conscience and reason turned traitors against me, and charged me with crime in resisting
him. They spoke
almost as loud as Feeling; and that clamoured wildly. “Oh comply!” it said. “Think of his misery; think of his
danger—look at his state when left alone; remember his headlong nature; consider the recklessness following on despair—soothe
him;
save him; love him; tell him you love him and will be his. Who in the world cares for
you? or who will be injured by what you
do?”
Still indomitable was the reply—
Column Break
“
I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more
unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself.
” Becky Sharp respected herself in a very different manner, as we shall presently
see. “I will keep the law given by God, sanctioned by man. I will hold to the principles received by me when I was sane, and
not
mad—as I am now. Laws and principles are not for the times when there are no temptations, they are for such moments as this,
when body and
soul rise up against their rigour; stringent are they; inviolate they shall be. If at my individual convenience I might break
them, what would be their
worth? They have a worth—so I have always believed; and if I cannot believe it now, it is because I am insane—quite insane;
with
my veins running fire, and my heart beating faster than I can count its throbs. Preconceived opinions, foregone determinations,
are all I have at this
hour to stand by; there I plant my foot.”
I did. Mr. Rochester, reading my countenance, saw I had done so. His fury was wrought to the highest; he must yield to it
for a moment, whatever
followed; he crossed the floor and grasped my waist. He seemed to devour me with his flaming glance; physically, I felt at
the moment powerless as
stubble exposed to the draught and glow of a furnace—mentally, I still possessed my soul, and with it the certainty of ultimate
safety.
The soul, fortunately, has an interpreter—often an unconscious, but still a truthful, interpreter—in the eye. My eye rose
to
his; and while I looked in his fierce face, I gave an involuntary sigh; his gripe was painful, and my overtasked strength
almost exhausted.
“Never,” said he, as he ground his teeth, “never was anything at once so frail and so indomitable,”
etc.
Mind triumphs over matter, and Jane keeps her word and departs.
page: 331
As a contrast in artistic performance, in spirit and in style, with this we compare the following picture from Vanity Fair.
“ ‘Rawdon,’ said Becky, very late one night, as a party of gentlemen were seated round her crackling drawing-room
fire (for the men came to her house to finish the night; and she had ice and coffee for them, the best in London): ‘I must
have a
sheep-dog.’ ”
“ ‘ A what?’ said Rawdon, looking up from an
écarté table.
“ ‘A sheepdog!’ said young Lord Southdown. ‘My dear Mrs. Crawley, what a fancy! Why not have a Danish
dog? I know of one as big as a came-leopard, by Jove. It would almost pull your Brougham. Or a Persian greyhound, eh? (I propose,
if you please); or a
little pug that would go into one of Lord Steyne’s snuff-boxes? There’s a man at Bayswater got one with such a nose that you
might,—I mark
the king and play,—that you might hang your hat on it.’
“ ‘I mark the trick,’ Rawdon gravely said. He attended to his game commonly, and didn’t much meddle with the
conversation except when it was about horses and betting.
“ ‘What
can you want with a shepherd’s dog?’ the lively little Southdown continued.
“ ‘I mean a
moral shepherd’s dog,’ said Becky, laughing, and looking up at Lord Steyne.
“ ‘What the devil’s that?’ said his Lordship.
“ ‘A dog to keep the wolves off me,’ Rebecca continued. ‘A companion.’
“ ‘Dear little innocent lamb, you want one,’ said the Marquis; and his jaw thrust out, and he began to grin
hideously, his little eyes leering towards Rebecca.
“The great Lord of Steyne was standing by the fire sipping coffee. The fire crackled and blazed pleasantly. There was a score
of
candles sparkling round the mantelpiece, in all sorts of quaint sconces, of gilt and bronze and porcelain. They lighted up
Rebecca’s figure to
admiration, as she sat on a sofa covered with a pattern of gaudy flowers. She was in a pink dress, that looked as fresh as
a rose; her dazzling white
arms and shoulders were half covered with a thin hazy scarf through which they sparkled; her hair hung in curls round her
neck; one of her little feet
peeped out from the fresh crisp folds of the silk: the prettiest little foot in the
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prettiest little sandal in the finest silk stocking in the
world.
“The candles lighted up Lord Steyne’s shining bald head, which was fringed with red hair. He had thick bushy eyebrows, with
little
twinkling bloodshot eyes, surrounded by a thousand wrinkles. His jaw was underhung, and when he laughed, two white buck-teeth
protruded themselves and
glistened savagely in the midst of the grin. He had been dining with royal personages, and wore his garter and ribbon. A short
man was his lordship,
broad-chested, and bow-legged, but proud of the fineness of his foot and ancle, and always caressing his garter-knee.
“ ‘And so the Shepherd is not enough,’ said he, ‘to defend his lambkin?’
“ ‘The Shepherd is too fond of playing at cards and going to his clubs,’ answered Becky, laughing.
“ ‘ ’Gad, what a debauched Corydon!’ said my lord—‘what a mouth for a
pipe!’
“ ‘I take your three to two;’ here said Rawdon, at the card-table.
“ ‘Hark at Melibæus,’ snarled the noble Marquis; ‘he’s pastorally occupied too: he’s
shearing a Southdown. What an innocent mutton, hey? Damme, what a snowy fleece!’
“Rebecca’s eyes shot out gleams of scornful humour. ‘My lord,’ she said, ‘you are a knight of the
Order.’ He had the collar round his neck, indeed—a gift of the restored Princes of Spain.
“Lord Steyne in early life had been notorious for his daring and his success at play. He had sat up two days and two nights
with Mr.
Fox at hazard. He had won money of the most august personages of the realm: he had won his marquisate, it was said, at the
gaming-table; but he did not
like an allusion to those by-gone
fredaines. Rebecca saw the scowl gathering over his heavy brow.
“She rose up from her sofa, and went and took his coffee-cup out of his hand with a little curtsey. ‘Yes,’ she
said, ‘I must get a watch-dog. But he won’t bark at
you.’ And, going into the other drawing-room, she sat down
to the piano, and began to sing little French songs in such a charming, thrilling voice, that the mollified nobleman speedily
followed her into that
chamber, and might be seen nodding his head and bowing time over her.”
But that the same spirit under the utmost difference of the outer garb, and the same hidden sympathy united
page: 332
the clergyman’s daughter and the man of the world, may perhaps be seen from the following passages.
“Conventionality is not morality; self-righteousness is not religion. To attack the first is not to assail the last. To pluck
the
mask from the face of the Pharisee, is not to lift an impious hand to the crown of thorns.
“These things and deeds are diametrically opposed: they are as distinct as is vice from virtue. Men too often confound them;
they should not be
confounded; appearance should not be mistaken for truth; narrow human doctrines, that only tend to elate and magnify a few,
should not be substituted
for a world redeeming creed of Christ. There is—I repeat it—a difference; and it is a good and not a bad action to mark broadly
and clearly the line of separation between them.”
These ideas under Mr. Thackeray’s pen assume the following shape:
“Shame! What is shame? Virtue is very often shameful according to the English social constitution, and shame honourable. Truth,
if
yours happens to differ from your neighbour’s, provokes your friend’s coldness, your mother’s tears, the world’s persecution.
Love is not to be dealt
in, save under restrictions which kill its sweet healthy free commerce. Sin in man is so light, that scarce the fine of a
penny is imposed; while for
woman it is so heavy, that no repentance can wash it out. Ah! yes; all stories are old. You proud matrons in your May-fair
markets, have you never seen
a virgin sold, or sold one? Have you never heard of a poor wayfarer fallen among robbers, and not a Pharisee to help him?
Of a poor woman fallen more
sadly yet, abject in repentance and tears, and a crowd to stone her? I pace this broad Baden walk as the sunset is gilding
the hills round about, as the
orchestra blows its merry tunes, as the happy children laugh and sport in the alleys, as the lamps of the gambling palace
are lighted up, as the throngs
of pleasure-hunters stroll, and smoke, and flirt, and hum: and wonder sometimes, is it the sinners who are the most sinful?
Is it poor
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Prodigal
yonder amongst the bad company, calling black and red and tossing the champagne; or brother Straightlace that grudges his
repentance? Is it downcast
Hagar that slinks away with poor little Ishmael in her hand: or bitter old virtuous Sarah, who scowls at her from my demure
Lord Abraham’s
arm?
”
And here it may not be out of place to point out a few particulars in which we conceive Currer Bell and Thackeray to agree
and to disagree. Both
satirize existing features of society; but Currer Bell, by describing what is not; Thackeray, by describing what is; the former
by eliciting moral heroism
from the depths of a nature apparently ordinary; the latter by divesting of heroism characters which might pass for heroic;
the former by giving reins to an
aspiration after plain unvarnished and inner truth of human action, which betrays her into exaggerations; the latter by coldly
saying,
“there is high life for you, such as it is; pick out the good and steer clear of the evil, if you
can;”—a spirit which occasionally leads him in spite of his benevolence and artistic impartiality beyond the boundaries of
irony and satire into indiscriminate cynicism.
We are told, for instance, that Hobson and Brian Newcome, so long as their mother, the old bankeress, was alive, contrived
to sow their wild oats
under the rose, in spite of her puritanical jealousy, but that when the old lady was gone, Mr. Hobson had no need any more
of disguise, but took his
pleasure. Fighting, tandems, four-in-hand, anything. All very proper. “But,” proceeds our author, “do not let us be
too angry with Colonel Newcome’s two
most respectable brothers, if for some years they neglected their Indian relative, or held him in
slight esteem. Their mother never pardoned him, or at least by any actual words admitted his restoration to favour. For many
years, as far as they knew,
poor Tom was
an unrepentant
page: 333
prodigal, wallowing in bad company, and cut off from all respectable sympathy.”
Coupling this with the fact of their own wild oats, the irony is sufficiently fair.
Thackeray continues his ironical defence. “Their father had never had courage to acquaint them with his more true and charitable
version of Tom’s story. So he passed at home for no better than a black sheep.”
In short, they turned the small end of the glass to their own, the large end to their brother’s sins. “His marriage with a penniless
young lady did not tend to raise him in the esteem of his relatives at Clapham. It was not until he was a widower, until he
had been mentioned several
times in the gazette for distinguished military service, until they began to speak very well of him in Leadenhall Street,
where the representatives of
Hobson Brothers were, of course, East India proprietors, and until he remitted considerable sums of money to England, that
the bankers, his brethren,
began to be reconciled to him.”
So far, this is all in the vein of impartiality, so peculiar to Thackeray; for, although the defence is to a great extent
ironical, it is clear that
he himself is ready to make some allowance for the circumstances. But unfortunately he does not stop there. His hand begins
to shake a little, and his
two-edged probe to cut both ways—as much in a wrong as in a right direction. “I say,” he continues, waxing more cold and
cynical as he warms with his subject, “do not let us be hard upon the brothers. No people are so ready to give a man a bad name as his own
kinsfolk; and, having made him that present, they are ever most unwilling to take it back again. If they give him nothing
else in the days of his
difficulty, he may be sure of their pity, and
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that he is held up as an example to his young cousins to avoid. If he loses his money, they call him
poor fellow, and point morals out of him. If he falls among thieves, the respectable Pharisees of his race turn their heads
aside and leave him
penniless and bleeding. They clap him on the back kindly enough when he returns, after shipwreck, with money in his pocket.
How naturally Joseph’s
brothers made salaams to him, and admired him, and did him honour, when they found the poor outcast a Prime Minister, and
worth ever so much money,
Surely human nature is not much altered since the days of those primeval Jews. We would not thrust brother Joseph down a well and sell
him bodily, but—but if he has scrambled out of a
well of his own digging, and got out of his early bondage into renown
and credit, at least we applaud him and respect him, and are proud of Joseph as a member of the family.”
All this is too indiscriminate, and when applied to
human nature at large savours of vulgar misanthropy. That relations should be
unable to repress feelings of vexation at the sight of their own flesh and blood digging pits of private and family scandal,
is surely not so very
reprehensible. Nay, that their vexation should be greater in proportion to the proximity of the ties, would seem, indeed,
to be the legitimate result of
greater affection in the beginning. In high life, ties of blood are (God knows) often slender enough, but not so universally
so, after all, judging by the
prevalent outcry against nepotism. It is necessary to the well-being of society that black sheep should meet their deserts.
But then comes the evil of the
law—that the punishment is often altogether arbitrary, and that it so often falls on the wrong person. Over this Mr. Thackeray
may well draw the
edge of his razor. On the other hand, what would become of society,
page: 334
if the plan were reversed—if all men went mad after black sheep; if white sheep were as carefully tabooed; if to be in
debt, to gamble and to drink and cockfight, drive tandem, seduce, be hail fellow well met, what if all this should become
the gauge of excellence?
Mr. Thackeray may be the last man to defend such a state of things. Were it the rule, instead of the exception, we verily
believe such is the temper
of his mind, his love of liberty, his hatred of tyranny, assumption, extremes, absurdities, and usurpations of all kinds,
that he would attack the tyranny
of license as he now assails the tyranny of convention. But if it be not—and it is not the rule, neither are the cases set
forth by Mr. Thackeray
by any means the rule,—it behoves him the more to guard against leaving impressions on the minds of his readers which mar
the good he would
otherwise produce. The impression he too often leaves is that all respectability is a deception—the outward and visible sign
of inward and
spiritual wickedness. “Why should we care for it, then; let us live and choose for our friends the ‘good fellows’ of
life. Let us seek for heart. Intellect, industry, you see—self-command, the energy and thrift of Barnes, what are they, to
the noble and
irregular instincts of Clive? ’Gad, ma’am, ‘boys will be boys,’ and Barnes, who was never a boy, never was a man. He lived
to die
a villain; whereas Clive was a happy man, after all.” This, then, is one fault that we venture to find with Mr. Thackeray: that he
draws the balance
too much in favour of mere feeling and impulse.
Another fault we may be excused for pointing out before we proceed to close this article with the more agreeable and congenial
task of dwelling on
some of the excellencies by which, in our opinion, the author of “The Newcomes” is pre-eminently distinguished
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as a writer of fiction. We have said that he seldom croaks; he is too much a man of the
world—he is too well schooled in the different sides of social pictures to take things otherwise than coolly and philosophically.
But he cannot,
we think, be exonerated from moralizing to an undue extent. It would seem as if it were the result of the impatience of a
writer not caring to be at the
trouble of dramatizing his sermon. Thackeray seems to cling to his moral reflections as tenaciously as Walter Scott did to
his descriptions. Both are
exquisite of their kind, and the reflections infinitely more interesting than the descriptions. But where a writer has unequalled
powers of putting men in
action, his fame as a novelist will be just in proportion as he himself consents to retire from the scene.
It is urged against Thackeray and Currer Bell, that, in different ways, they both covertly undermine principle, to give unlimited
license to feeling.
But what is principle? Principle, to me, is feeling regulated; to you, feeling suppressed. And yet life, after all, is but
feeling—feeling of
some kind or another—from the cradle to the grave! If you unduly fetter and cramp it, you are answerable for one of three
things: its corruption
and degeneracy, or its violent explosion, to the detriment of bystanders; or else its decay and death. “All is not gold that
glitters.” All is not respectability that bears the name. There is real and genuine respectability; and there is its figment
and phantom to
terrify the weak, to grieve the good, and to amuse the bad. We execrate practical jokers, who trifle with the fears of the
unsuspecting, and ought we to
defend the infinitely greater mischief of those who tamper with the tenderness of their neighbours, either because they are
too supine to distinguish
between virtue and vice, or because they make their own standard that of the world; or finally, because
page: 335
they cannot or will not separate the rule from the paramount reason? Men are not made for rules, but rules are made for men.
We
are not to be happy for the good pleasure of society, but society is for the “good pleasure” and best happiness of man. If
not, oh
that we had wings, and might fly to the desert! Why should we not all have as much, instead of as little, happiness as we
may? And if my neighbour’s views
or character are deficient, and he ruthlessly interferes with and poisons my happiness, shall I not murmur? No doubt he who
would get on without any rules
at all, might as well contend against maps, triangles, compasses, and in short, the whole fabric of civilization. But, on
the other hand, who could maintain
that a map is a substitute for a landscape, or that to love a sunset is the feeling of a madman, because sunsets are not found
in maps? If nobody ever went
beyond the tether of a rule, we should all stand still, and the state of the world be stereotyped in imperfection. Ore implies
dross; refining, refuse;
labour, some degree of waste: but so long as there is a healthy preponderance of gold, refinement, and effort after excellence,
so long may we be well
satisfied that we are not at a stand-still. It is not that we should relax the code of discipline and framework of society
for the comfort of one or more
individuals, but that by an enlightened study of the reason we should raise the spirit of the rules by suitable improvements,
or by an enlarged and liberal
interpretation. Has not the whole current of our national progress been against unjust and illiberal restrictions, founded,
not in the nature of things, but
in the intolerance of men? And so within the bosom of society, the sooner we get rid of the hateful priestcraft and druidism
of a spurious respectability
the better, and the greater praise to those who lend their talents to the task.
In conclusion, what is the moral and purpose to be derived from the
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writings before us? To be what we are, to say what we think, and daily to
strive that what is best shall please us more and more: such are the lessons which Mr. Thackeray’s writings seem calculated
to convey.
And yet, if we do so, shall we be happy?
Alas! the world is in embryo still, a chaos of paradox and repugnancy. You must not only be humble—you must seem so; you must
not only be
loving, sincere, unselfish, you must appear to be unselfish, loving, and sincere. What follows? Let me but “seem,” then,
“to be,” shall take its chance. Why should I rack my brain for the essence, when the appearance is so short a cut to comfort?
Why
court the simple eloquence of truth, when meretricious affectation and fine talking, which is pleasing intoxication to myself,
and dust in the eyes of my
audience, will serve every rational purpose? And if I cannot say from my heart, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth
peace, goodwill
towards men,” how easy it is to say it with my lips, by aping the shibboleth of party.
Ah, reader, have you any experience, and have you not discovered how
to seem is as everything,
to be, as nothing?
Do not half the people in the world act as though they thought that to seem happy is far more important than to be so?—to
seem pious even greater
than to be good?
But courage! Truth is in the nature of things, as sparks fly upwards, as the drops fall down. Men do not love evil and shamming
for evil and
shamming’s sake. Who would compass by foul means what he can by fair? Do we not all run riot after seeming goods? Wherein
we pursue goods, we
are good; wherein they are but seeming goods, it is our ignorance. Let us but overcome that ignorance, and so let us more and more
leave the
tinsel and burrow for the gold, detest affectation and cling to the truth, eschew the shadow and clasp the reality.
page: 336
Editorial Note (page ornament): Initial T is ornamental
Towards the end of my last chapter I insisted on the necessity of understanding the Past time before passing sentence on it, and
that the only way to do so effectually was to migrate thither in spirit, and follow the men as they lived and worked, see
as they saw, and feel as they
felt, and, above all, seek affectionately through all difficulties and contradictions, for the good inherent in them, as for
the very heart and substance
and inspiring power of either man or work; and I gave a few examples of what Carlyle, thus looking, had seen, and thus seeking,
had found in his special
province of history the last two centuries; how he had taught us to form a braver, truer, and far happier judgment than the
common one, of such men as
Voltaire, Byron, Goethe, and other men of the time who left their mark behind them. I now wish the reader to acknowledge that
this method of Carlyle’s is
but the due following of “Might is Right” as the universal law, and to accept it as true of all history; of the history of
all Action
no less than of Opinion, through all the strange, eventful fortunes of men and nations hitherto. Let him acknowledge that
all thought which has had a
lasting influence on Belief, has had along with its error, a measure of truth or Divine Might exactly proportionate to its
actual effect: that all work,
likewise, that has stood the test of time, and all relations of authority amongst men, which have been in anywise permanent,
must have
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been then and
there rightful in the main. Is permanence, then, the test of worth in work, and in a world where nothing is permanent? Yes!
it is a very helpful test,
though it requires, no less than any other, a wise mind to apply it. For does a thing last among men, maintaining itself against
all enemies? Then it is a
sign that many men are at least reconciled to it, do suffer it to remain, tacitly approving of it; that experience satisfies
it; that in short it must have
or have had some solid foundation, some alliance with real fact, which means justice and truth. It must be a good thing, and
not a bad thing. This is true;
and yet let any Order show in the strivings of its birth or the plenitude of its power, or the decay of its age, any symptoms
of oppression or other vice,
which man, “drest in a little brief authority,” is at all times apt to yield to, and the modern Leveller will condemn it as
an
unjustifiable tyranny from the beginning! Thus, have we not seen in America, that “land of Anarchy
plus the
Street-constable!” a rebellion against the primeval law of the subjection of women to men, which Fact has justified all over
the world for six
thousand years and upwards?—a rebellion which one may prophesy will be temporary only. And if this be so of an authority,
the form of which is of
necessity perpetual, and therefore present as well as past, and of the most simple natural kind, it is no wonder that condemnation
is hurled far and wide
with the utmost assurance against systems of authority now past and gone, which
Transcribed Note (page 336):
*The Editions I refer to are, “The Miscellanies,” third Edition; “Past and Present,” second Edition; “Sartor,” third Edition;“Cromwell,” third Edition;“French Revolution,” third Edition; and of other works the first Edition.
page: 337
we cannot so easily see the good of, now that their virtue is all diverted into other channels, and their names are labelled
with
the vices that produced their downfal. The old dog is hanged, and
has a bad name, and now he only scents the gale. Nevertheless, could the
old dog’s history be truly known, we should most likely find that once he was a useful servant to men, obedient to them, victorious
for them; and most
surely these old authorities and institutions did once sustain themselves by the might of their usefulness, which was their
present rightfulness, and by
that only, and were by no means mere stupid legalized tyranny. The compulsion we abhor in them was for the most part only
a martial law, very needful for
martial times, all society being “in a state of surge,” as our French neighbours call it; and the relation between men so
created and preserved was in the main a just one.* Thus, as Carlyle has shown, the Feudal Barons were in
their day the right rulers of England; the Pope at Rome was the right ruler of Christendom; the white Englishman was, nay
is, the proper master of the
Jamaica negro. The title of their authority was Might, but it was a good and true title, a God-given one: the injustice of
their practice was but weakness,
and in time their ruin. For by the self-same law, what is unjust cannot last. Feudal Serfdom had to go; Roman Papacy had to
go; Black Slavery had to go, men
enduring their wrongfulness no longer; and alas! in the hurry and rage of the change, much good went with them for the time.
Each of these institutions
carried with it order, organization, and left but a sorry substitute in its room. There is a penalty on Injustice! Might is
Right still.
These are but three examples; an
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infinite number remains behind. Carlyle always accepts both voices of the Past, the condemning as well as the approving;
the rising and the setting sun; the summer and the winter of all human things.
It is important to insist upon the Law of “Might is Right” applying to many acts that at first sight seem acts of brute force
only. Violence! it is a word full of painful significance; and one must admit that history abounds in examples of violence
which were simply crimes.
Nevertheless, we ought to know that the Eden-gift of physical strength is a right noble one, given to man to do his master
service; that there is a true
Right residing in the Might of it. Does Robert Burns do wrong with his plough to the “wee modest, crimson-tipped flower” or
the
“brown, timorous Beastie?” Or does London, being carnivorous, commit thereby a thousand daily crimes? The ploughman’s trade
and the
butcher’s are, I think, both lawful and manly. These examples are beyond all gainsaying; but violence to men? This too is
surely often a duty, and,
rightfully performed, belongs to the true heroic class of human deeds, is sometimes truly sublime. Because it then implies
a stern conquest of self, not of
self-centred passions, but of the first impulses of noble, brotherly affections; because reverence for God and His laws claiming
preference to regard for
men, has then to manifest itself in visible and terrible action. Such is Penal Justice, a perpetual necessity for men and
nations. To forward it, to honour
it when done, is the duty of all; Nature herself teaching this, as by faithful instinct even the child reveres his father’s
sword, and the maiden heart ever
loves the soldier: but to execute it—this is emphatically
Transcribed Note (page 337):
* Since this series of articles has begun, Mr. Froude’s History of
England has appeared; it abounds in practical illustration of all that I have said or have to say concerning Carlyle’s principles
of
historic decision. Carlyle is the true godfather to that excellent book.
page: 338
the duty of Men, true and strong and brave. This is a very old truth, but modern philanthropism would fain deny it, and Exeter
Hall, not content with thinking Penal Justice a sorrowful, would persuade us that it is a degrading, work. But Carlyle despises
such effeminate philosophy,
which would make the Past as gloomy as it makes the Present feeble. He will honour Penal Justice, whensoever it has been done,
and moreover, (what is for
our present purpose more important,)
howsoever done; whether with solemn order, or fiercely, savagely, even with much accompanying crime.
For he will always judge according to the substance, and not by mere external incidents. And as the everlasting essence of
Penal Justice is War, so in every
society its primary form has been open War—War with its savagery and misery and wastefulness, and thousandfold individual
injustice, which, if we
condemn utterly, we do very foolishly. Looking at it in a broad and manful way, as Carlyle has done, not losing our nerve
at the sight of human suffering,
or our judgment in intemperate indignation for wrong, we may say that war was a necessary means to win that beautiful result
now visible in all European
Societies, pre-eminently in England; visible, and yet so seldom thoughtfully noticed—Peace in our streets. Warfare there still
remains, even in
England, but now a better warfare; temperate and just, orderly, solemn, and beautiful in the sight of men, drawing to the
side of right all good men, and
finding every year fewer and worse, (who are also weaker) adversaries; so that instead of lawless revenge by private club
and dagger, we have a Code of Law,
Courts of Justice, and just judges; instead of a fierce, greedy soldiery, a few civil persons in blue; (brave warriors none
the less!) instead of headlong
massacre or torture at the stake, an “improved drop” at Newgate, with a chaplain in attendance.
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What a progress! What a miserable faith to conceive that this result has been won by chance, or worse, is the upshot of mere
contending evils!
“Might is Right” saves us from such a doleful misbelief, and points out the truth that the continuous fighting of those old
Feudal
Barons did at heart mean this, “Let there be Justice; let there be war against the unjust man!” A right worthy maxim for men
in all
times and places. I am not aware that any modern writer, except Carlyle, has insisted upon this, as the very key to the history
of that and other fighting
times. I am sure that none will do justice to the terrible as well as the happier labours of the past, unless he begin by
believing that wherever an
enduring good has been produced, good men and good deeds have had the making of it. The application of this principle to National
History, has a much wider
field than that which we should call Criminal Justice. For let it be duly considered, that robbery and murder are not the
only punishable crimes, though the
mechanism of human law chiefly touches these, but all social vices, all violation and neglect of public duty, especially that
of strict truthfulness and
faithful activity, are punishable, and are inevitably punished; and that this is the true significance of all great Revolutions.
As enduring facts, these
Revolutions first justify themselves; on closer inspection, they prove to be acts of Justice. At first lawless, terrible,
rudely yet undoubtedly penal,
afterwards they develope into order new forms of social combination, and in their season bring forth good works of men. Thus
was ushered in a Roman
Republic, a Roman Empire, a British Constitution, and many other notable national conditions. Such also was the French Revolution,
the frightful incidents
of which are yet all too pre-eminent in our memory; its ultimate results are still unknown to us; but thus much, as Carlyle
has shown,
page: 339
is certain, that it was a penalty upon the misrule and neglect of long years, the death-doom of institutions whose work was
done.
It, too, was in the main just. Sixty years is too short a distance to give us the right view of this mighty movement as a
whole; and we are too apt to judge
of it by details, such as the September Massacres: and even of these we judge too harshly, by not considering sufficiently
that eternal mystery of human
fellowship, whereby the children are visited with the sins of their fathers, and each has to bear his brother’s burden, as
well as share in his blessings;
and by forgetting that when masses of men are striving together for life and death, discriminating justice is impossible.
That the Septemberers did a most
brutal, cowardly, and wicked deed, is a conclusion which none can miss, and which Carlyle in nowise questions; on the contrary
he directly affirms it: but
he insists on the other hand, that an approximation to due retributive justice is practicable only under the sanction of custom
and the security of order,
and that the Septemberers had none such to guide or restrain them: they were the untaught and much-wronged mob of the St.
Antoine; they knew only that they
had enemies, and that those enemies were in their power; if they destroyed them, did they not, even in that mad hour, extemporise
“a tribunal of
wild-justice?” I cannot condemn Carlyle for dwelling upon this, as many have done—even his friend Sterling—far otherwise;
it is to me one more emphatic proof of his god-like strength and candour of judgment, which can grasp the most tremendous
movements of conflicting good and
evil, and do justice to all. Weaker minds act in some sort like the Septemberers: in their fear they massacre whole multitudes
of the past.
The conduct of all Revolutionists must be judged in the same large way, those of modern times not excepted.
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Carlyle also fearlessly applies the principle of “Might is Right” to the case of National Conquest: surely a dark subject
in
these days. The Mechanical Morality which so paralyzes faith, thought, and action, and the selfish tyrannous cowardice, which
would make the whole world
work in chains, for fear of mischief, here as elsewhere are all too predominant, preventing us from knowing the truth of National
Duty, and making that
great province of the Past, called International History, a barren waste for us, the record of mere crime and misery. But
it is a false and narrow notion,
this modern one, that Nations have no concern with one another, except that of passing the commercial money-bag in the most
convenient way: they are a
Brotherhood of men founded upon Justice, wherein the element of crime, and with it the element of punishment, cannot be wanting.
Punishment, and as with
individuals, not only for the palpable wrongs of external violence, but for national evil of every kind—most surely for evil
not-doing as well as
for evil-doing. Nay, further, to those who look upon the wide world with its glorious resources as given to mankind to make
the most of it, and who know
that mankind ought to make the most of it, that each nation owes to itself and to others a quite infinite duty, a right of
Conquest immediately discloses
itself. Happy indeed for that Society, which has made for itself a Law; where the warfare and the conquest are of a quiet
regulated kind, where Justice can
be done by formal judgment, and from day to day, not in bloody assizes once a century; where each man and each company of
men are appointed to their proper
place and work by lawful authority, and there protected. But what if there be no law? For one thing there will be much unhappiness;
perpetual warning by
terror and sorrow to haste and make a law; but meanwhile the unwritten Divine Law of Justice does
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most surely exist, most surely through all confusions it shall work, and shall ever choose for its instrument the supreme
might
of men; failing the sceptre for its minister, it shall choose the sword. It is a painful, but withal a glorious truth, that
Nations have hitherto been
managed by Sword Law. As yet there has been no International Law worthy of the name; the Papal supremacy in the medieval times
and the Press in our own, are
the nearest approximations to it, but provisional merely, and very arbitrary and ineffectual: after many centuries, a few
commercial rules, and a few
fighting laws, “rules of the ring,” have got established, and that is all. So that if on the one hand War has been a constant
crime,
most wasteful and miserable (as I most fully admit, but cannot here enlarge upon), it has no less been a constant duty. If
we would understand History we
must acknowledge this, and remember too the cruel temptations, difficulties, necessities of warfare: we shall then form a
judgment of the old warrior-ages
and warrior-nations very different from the sweeping condemnations which modern philanthropy pronounces, as it sits in its
comfortable cathedra, which was
once won by the sword, and is still hedged round visibly or invisibly with protecting bayonets. In all seriousness I would
say that the savage who thought
it all right that nation should war against nation, is nearer the truth than we who think it all wrong. The world is
not a prison, all its
inhabitants felons, and its history a mere Newgate Calendar: far otherwise! Justice must always carry a sword in its right
hand; and this Exeter Hall Theory
is in truth an abnegation of Justice; neither is it so humane, as it thinks: it was once the faith of a Robespierre! And yet
I will not altogether quarrel
with the narrowness of modern theories, but only with the vain arrogance of them. As to the ancients was given a narrow but
intense belief that they might
execute
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their peculiar work of War, so to the most of us a limited vision is given that we may execute with singleness of mind our
work of peaceful
Industry. Enough, if we do that well; and let wiser men govern us in the present, wiser men interpret for us the fierce drama
of the past; the wisest that
can be found, for such are needed. The work of the true historian ranks in difficulty and glory among the very highest.
The
a priori method is one way of attaining a right conclusion upon the ‘thousand wars of old;’ of still
greater force is the retrospective one, that looks from the eminence of the present, over the road which has led hither. Think
upon the Divine work of human
progress which has been realized in the world, upon the fruit which 6000 years bear to-day; just think upon it, reader—and
then ask yourself,
“How has this come to pass?” War, you will find, you cannot help finding, has had a great hand in it. Conquest has been a
mighty
uniter of men, a great cultivator, a great preacher, everywhere a right arm of truth and knowledge and order; commerce of
cotton and books is quite a modern
contrivance, once impracticable, unknown. By Conquest were nations first formed, by conquest Empires have been built up; conquest
has hitherto been a chief
fact, a ruling influence in the history of mankind. And yet, we are told, this is altogether wrong, and the glories of human
achievement have been the
winnings of mere banditti robbery; Satan lording it over his heritage, directing the course of the world, and strangely, to
a good end! Really such a theory
is a libel upon God
and the Devil! It is a mere mistake; it is incredible; a thinking man must not, dare not, believe it. If these
conquests will not square with our formal notions of Justice, why, we had better see if we cannot enlarge our definition of
justice, and make it agree more
nearly to the law of the world; or better still, know
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that no definition can be complete; cease defining, therefore, and try seeing and considering.
Such thoughts as these are perpetual in Carlyle’s writings, he has enforced them very grandly in some chapters of the tractate
called
‘Chartism,’ a book now out of print, but which, it is to be hoped, will not long continue so, for it is one of the wisest
and most
instructive that he has written. I extract two passages:
“M. Thierry has written an ingenious book, celebrating, with considerable pathos, the fate of the Saxons fallen under that
fiercehearted
Conquistator, Acquirer or Conqueror, as he is named. M. Thierry professes to have a turn for looking at that side of things;
the fate of the Welsh too
moves him; of the Celts generally, whom a fierce race swept before them into the mountainous nooks of the West, whither they
were not worth following.
Noble deeds, according to M. Thierry, were done by these unsuccessful men, heroic sufferings undergone; which it is a pious
duty to rescue from
forgetfulness. True, surely! A tear at least is due to the unhappy; it is right and fit that there should be a man to assert
that lost cause too, and
see what can still be made of it. Most right;—and yet, on the whole, taking matters on that great scale, what can we say,
but that the cause
which pleased the gods has, in the end, to please Cato also? Cato cannot alter it; Cato will find that he cannot at bottom
wish to alter it. Might and
Right do differ frightfully from hour to hour, but give them centuries to try it in, they are found to be identical. Whose
land was this of Britain?
God’s, who made it, His, and no others, it was, and is. Who of God’s creatures had right to live in it? The wolves and bisons?
Yes they; till one with a
better right showed itself. The Celt ‘aboriginal savage
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of Europe,’ as a snarling antiquarian names him, arrived, pretending
to have a better right; and did, accordingly, not without pain to the bisons, make good the same. He had a better right to
that piece of God’s land;
namely, a better might to turn it to use; a might to settle himself there, at least, and try what use he could turn it to.
The bisons disappeared; the
Celts took possession and tilled. For ever, was it to be? Alas,
For ever is not a category that can establish itself in this world of
Time. A world of Time is, by the very definition of it, a world of mortality and mutability, of Beginning and Ending. No property
is eternal but God the
Maker’s; whom Heaven permits to take possession, his is the right; Heaven’s sanction
is such permission—while it lasts;
nothing more can be said.—p. 73. Conquest, indeed, is a fact often witnessed; conquest, which seems mere wrong and force, everywhere asserts itself as a right
among men. Yet, if
we examine, we shall find that, in this world, no conquest ever could become permanent, which did not withal show itself beneficial
to the conquered, as
well as to conquerors. . . . . How
can-do, if we will well interpret it, unites itself with
shalt-do among mortals;
how strength acts ever as the right arm of justice; how might and right, so frightfully discrepant at first, are ever in the
long run one and the
same—is a cheering consideration, which always in the black tempestuous vortices of this world’s history, will shine out on
us like an
everlasting polar star. Of conquest, we may say, that it never yet went by brute force and compulsion; conquest of that kind
does not endure. Conquest,
along with power of compulsion, an essential universally in human society, must bring benefit along with it, or men, of the
ordinary strength of men,
will fling it out. The strong
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man, what is he, if we will consider? The wise man; the man with the gift of method, of faithfulness and valour, all of which
are the basis of wisdom; who has insight into what is what, into what will follow out of what, the eye to see and the hand
to do; who is
fit to administer, to direct, and guidingly command; he is the strong man. His muscles and bones are no stronger than ours; but
his soul is
stronger, his soul is wiser, clearer,—is better and nobler; for that is, has been, and ever will be, the root of all clearness
worthy of such
a name. Beautiful it is, and a gleam from the same eternal polestar visible amid the destinies of men, that all talent, all
intellect is in the first
place moral; what a world were this otherwise!”—p. 38.
It will, I am sure, be manifest how much this law (or universal fact) of “Might is Right,” faithfully considered, justifies
and
clears up in History; how it will emancipate the modern reader from the tyranny of likings and mislikings, rightly called
prejudices, and require him to
consider the facts of each case thoroughly; how it will help him to understand the rough doings of Goths and Romans and Moors,
and the other grim
conquerors, of whom the annals of every kingdom bear record. And to those men in old time he will thereby do justice. Remembering
how, till the last few
centuries, what a warring world this has been, I do not see how it is possible to escape the conclusion that the noblest nations
have been the conquering
nations, and that their leaders, must, despite all blemishes, be reckoned among the noblest and best men; Joshua, Julius Caesar,
Charlemagne, Mahomet, our
own William the Conqueror, and the rest. Nay, modern times shall not be altogether excluded. Robert Clive, for instance, founder
of our Anglo-Indian Empire,
what was he? It may be worth while to examine. What India was in the beginning
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of last century; and what India is now, most persons have some notion
of. A country has been redeemed from the anarchy of decay, rendered comparatively a garden of order, and is now full rich
in future promise. The result is
accepted by the tacit consent of all sensible men. But can Truth account Clive “a just man?” Clive, it may well be thought,
felt in
that day, that the time was come when the fruitful land of Bengal and its many thousand inhabitants should be no longer misruled
by a Surajah Dowlah, or by
other plainly incompetent wicked men like him; felt deeply, very deeply,even if unconsciously, that his wise and strong countrymen,
the English, ought to
have it for theirs; felt what a Joshua or an Oliver Cromwell would have expressed in the words, The Lord has delivered it
into our hands. Now, under these
circumstances, with the goal clearly in view, Clive is in too great a hurry to arrive there, and meanwhile thinks that all
is fair against lying Hindoos,
and so he hatches a secret conspiracy, forges a treaty,and employs other scandalous artifices, of which Macaulay tells us;
finally, he conquers gloriously
on the plain of Plassey. Shall we call this man a mere liar and unjust robber? By no means. These lies and base trickeries
were all avenged upon him and us;
as Macaulay rising into high truth, emphatically says, they really hindered our success; and for Clive himself, while we condemn
these crimes, let us say
that he was nevertheless a wise, brave, and just man, who, in the main, saw God’s will concerning India, and did it.—Again,
almost as I write,
the kingdom of Oude is being annexed to our Indian possessions. Is this too just? The
Times and the English public seem to think it is; but is it because the Nabob broke his written word given fifty years ago? Such
an answer will satisfy no
one. Dimly, yet certainly (as is our English fashion), it is here felt, that the Right is our Might. We
can govern the
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people of Oude as they should be governed, and we ought! We are called to do it.
It is easy to understand how such a principle as “Might is Right,” applied to individual and National conduct, must sound
to
many most unjust, most immoral: and it must be admitted that it always has been, and will always be, very liable to abuse,—as,
indeed, God’s
gifts always are; and the highest faculties and truths the most of all. Yet, fairly judged, it is but an extension of Law
and Duty to include all the
fiercer efforts and convulsions of Life; an assertion, that in the strangest fiery confusion, as well as in the known and
quiet and beaten road, there
abides the presence of Divine Law and Human Duty. The negative commands of the Decalogue are good, their plain meaning sufficient
for the daily life of the
Israelites or English citizens; but for an invasion of Canaan, an invasion of India? and yet these too shall be lawful and
right. And the practical danger
of accepting, at Carlyle’s teaching, a principle of action and judgment superior to all codes of law, and even all spoken
systems of morality, reduces
itself to its proper limits, if we take into account that Carlyle, on the other hand, perpetually insists upon the claims
of human law, its sacredness, its
true divine authority; again and again affirming, that walking in the beaten path, patient obedience to constituted authority,
thorough performance of
proximate and common duties, is what is appointed to almost all men at all times; and that the right fulfilment of these is
the only qualification to
understand and accomplish other loftier, wider enterprises, which will, from time to time, reveal themselves as needful to
be attempted. At the present
moment, Carlyle’s counsel to England is more than any man’s, an exhortation to do home duties; and his counsel to every Englishman
is to begin by reforming
himself. I mention this, in order to anticipate natural objections:
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but if England be for the present condemned for its evil deserts to those minor
tasks, and yet be saved from the terrible necessity of attempting mighty ones, while unfit for them, (as France was at the
end of last century); narrow
notions of duty cannot explain the grand epic homicidal Past. That had to be transacted by men single-minded in their fierce
purpose; it can be judged truly
only by men as brave as they, and wiser than they. “Tea-table Morality” has there no place; at best it is fit only for modern
tea-tables, there to keep comfortable and decorous routine; and thus let us allow it performs a useful function. It is wholly
unfit to deal with the great
men and great things of the earth, because it cannot understand how closely divine deeds and the worst crimes approach one
another in outward aspect. At
tea-tables, the taking away of life is murder; the seizing of goods is stealing; the notion of order is, that matters should
be quite comfortable to all
parties. The Execution of Charles, the assumption of supreme power by Oliver Cromwell, are mere lawless horrors; cover your
eyes and shriek! But Carlyle can
face these horrors, because he is a true man. With a daring so peculiarly his own, that I call him “bravest of the brave”
in
literature, he loves to ponder over the wondrous phenomena which attend great men in epochs of change; loves to contemplate
the path of these children of
might as of a flaming sword; and above all, when the hero, asserting his God-given right, has not only to break through the
trammels of routine, but with
steeled heart goes forth to fight and to conquer rebellious men. Oliver is a man whom he delights to honour, let pedantry,
maudlin philanthropy, Tea-table
Morality, and coward minds say what they will. And thus he writes touching Oliver’s self-election to the throne of England.
“Power? Love
of power! Does ‘power’ mean the faculty of giving places, of having
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newspaper paragraphs, of being waited on by sycophants? To ride in gilt coaches, escorted by the flunkeyisms and most sweet
voices—I assure thee it is not the Heaven of all, but only of many! Some born Kings I myself have known, of stout natural
limbs, who in shoes
of moderately good fit, found
walking handier; and crowned themselves, almost too sufficiently, by putting on their own private hat,
with some spoken or speechless, ‘God enable me to be King of what lies under this! For Eternities lie under it, and Infinitudes,
and Heaven
also and Hell. And it is as big as the Universe this Kingdom; and I am to conquer it, or be for ever conquered by it, now
while it is called
To-day!’—The love of ‘power,’ if thou understand what to the manful heart ‘power’
signifies, is a very noble and indispensable love. And here and there, in the outer world too, there is a due throne for the
noble man:—which
let him see well that he seize, and valiantly defend against all men and things. God gives it him; let no Devil take it away.
Thou also art called by
the God’s-message. This, if thou canst read the Heavenly omens, and dare do them, this work is
thine. Voiceless, or with no articulate
voice, occasion, godsent, rushes storming on, amid the world’s events; swift, perilous; like a whirlwind, like a fleet-lightning
steed: manfully shalt
thou clutch it by the mane, and vault into thy seat on it, and ride and guide there, thou! Wreck and ignominious overthrow,
if thou have dared when the
Occasion was
not thine; everlasting scorn to thee if thou dare not when it is;—if the cackling of Roman geese and
Constitutional Ganders, if the clack of human tongues and leading articles, if the steel of armies, and the crack of Doom
deter thee, when the voice
was God’s! Yes, this too is in the law for a man, my poor quack-ridden, bewildered, Constitutional friends; and
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we ought to
remember this withal,
Thou shalt is written upon Life in characters as terrible as
Thou shalt not,—though
poor Dryasdust reads almost nothing but the latter hitherto.”—
Cromwell, iii. 312.
Thou shalt! Every man casting one earnest glance upon his own private past feels this to be true. Bitterer, more overwhelming
far than the remembrance
of any sins, is the remembrance of that one great sin of Not-doing. The gift of Life has been his; what might he not have
done with it? and what
has he done? Looking forward too, it is, “Thou shalt,” that fills the view; an
infinite Duty. Something, however, all men
have done; and some have done great things, though even these have often an ugly wrappage. Look through the wrappage even
as Carlyle commands! Then old
History beams cheerful again; our ancestors grim with battle-stains though they be, smile graciously, gloriously on us their
timid grand-children; and, lo!
the Time-Spirit is no longer a deadly Juggernaut, performing its frightful annual journey, but a car of triumph for men past
and to come: perhaps in a
corner of it some of us may be permitted to ride! In short, is there not in this teaching of Carlyle’s a gospel of good news
to our sceptic despondent age?
A gospel of good news—for once more, a man living amongst us is heard to affirm, that God
is King of the earth, and rides in
the wild whirlwind of human deeds, as well as whispers in the still small voice of the secret Conscience, so that the Past
is but a Psalm of Praise; and our
glorious world is no longer a dead Machine, but an arena of infinite duty, where every force is consecrated, every sin meets
its authentic retribution; as
of old, the seat of Divine judgments; an awful world; for ever beset with mystery, resplendent with infinite majesty and terror.
It would be a mistake to suppose that Carlyle, with his “Might is Right,” has an eye only to the catastrophes of
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History, to the convulsive efforts and flaming victories of men, earthquakes as it were, raising up mountains, and swallowing
up
whole cities; though, undoubtedly, he has chiefly singled out these for study, because they most require expounding. People
are apt to think Carlyle a sort
of Ballad-singer come again, chaunting (in prose) the exploits of a few favourite Heroes, and the discomfiture of their enemies,
just because he is great in
this way. But he is not the vulgar lover of noisy gunpowder Percies they take him for. For who can consider the Life of Man,
still more the Life of a
Nation, and fancy that either is a grand firework display—a few fine single rockets, and the rest utter darkness and nothingness?
Certainly
Carlyle cannot. For along with that loud, blaring doctrine of “Might is Right,” he has another, which he calls (when in the
nomenclating mood) “The Divine Empire of Silence.” The Divine Empire of Silence, a mystical title! nevertheless a reality,
and the
highest reality; the infinite, divine, and everlasting Mystery of all things, and especially of Man.
To begin with, Life is no firework display; but a long, long struggle, demanding the energies of the whole man; not lightning
resolve only, and
death-defying valour, and brilliant noisy qualities; but far more the
silent qualities, patient abiding purpose, calm strength, and all
manner of quiet endurance, quiet endeavour, which leave record of themselves chiefly, often entirely, in their effects. Victory
is indeed appointed to good
men, but seldom such as the world can shout for in the hero’s ears; seldom even such as the good man can himself see (has
he not to live by faith?); and
always it must be won by Suffering:
- Suffering which is permanent, obscure, and dark,
- And has the nature of infinity.
And so Carlyle reckons adversity no evil; it is, he says, the element of human
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life; a training in the stern reality of things, which compels
a man to be sincere, and urges him to work sincerely; a training, which to the wise and strong, brings new wisdom and new
strength. Oliver hemmed in at
Dunbar, “upon an entanglement very difficult;” Oliver toil-worn with the thousand nameless anxieties of governing; Richter
writing
cheerily in his kitchen, “amid the hissing of frying-pans;” Samuel Johnson in his garret: Carlyle dwells upon these, and others
in
like circumstances, with the heartiest and most affectionate sympathy; for he knows that difficulty and sorrow are good for
man. It is the deep feeling for
this truth that forms one element of that pathetic power, in which Carlyle is without a rival in the prose of historic literature;
and one of many things
that win for him the trustfulness of the reader, as for one whose Faith has bravely faced the dark side of existence, and
has come forth the purer and the
stronger for the trial. Still more profoundly touching is his sympathy with those who have to strive, not against poverty
only, and the ills of the flesh,
but against spiritual darkness and error, and who may not utterly win. His estimate of Johnson in this respect is a very beautiful
example, inspired with a
graciousness which seems quite divine; so gracious is it, and yet so just.
Nor is Carlyle so unjust to men as to conceive that in any conflict, the Good is all arrayed on one side, and the Evil on
the other; witness his
judgment of Montrose the Cavalier, the faithful Swiss Guards at the Tuilleries, the valiant Count de Bouilli, and a hundred
others. To the vanquished he
does justice, as to the victors. The conflict, he says, is always one of Mights and Rights, and whatever may seem the issue,
every Might, every Right, is
fully accomplished. Accomplished very often silently, slowly, mysteriously, but inevitably; and it is because Carlyle knows
the
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assuredness, that he can penetrate the mystery deeper than others, and can make the silent speak. That union of might and
right,
which, when we first heard it, sounded the loudest and most immoral of paradoxes, now proves a most useful truth, when we
watch Might trudging along through
long years and centuries; just as the sun might scorch all things into tinder, if brought within a stone’s throw of the earth,
but at its proper distance is
the source of light and life and beauty. And it is thus that Carlyle can reveal new cause for cheerful faith in many a comfortless-looking
page of history,
where the defeat of the good man seems utter at the first sight, or that which seems useless or entirely evil still obstinately
lingers on.
Wallace was a beaten man, and died a cruel death on Tower Hill, but his valour in due time made Scotland, if not an Independent
Kingdom, still a free
kingdom. Johnson was a beaten man; his Toryism and Church-and-State have fallen or are falling, for it is high time for them
to go; but his loyalty has
served to keep alive and fruitful the remnant of their ancient virtue, until a better shall come. The Pope too is a beaten
man, for Luther defeated him
three centuries ago; but he is not yet quite worthless, for when he is he will die altogether. And always the man or creed
sick unto death are of some good
to the last, if it is only the good of calling forth pity and helpfulness; and even though the helpfulness resemble the charitable
office of the Hindoo, who
takes his dying relative to the banks of the sacred river, and chokes his mouth with a handful of the sacred mud. Herein Carlyle,
as usual, is just to the
men of old, because he reaches the secret heart of other times than his own; so different in this from modern Eclecticism,
which can admire only its own
handsome face, and from shallow modern Radicalism, which condemns the whole Past at a single blow. Of which here is another
signal
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instance: He has
just been relating how “old Anselm, exiled Archbishop of Canterbury,” was believed in by the people; “how by
phantasy and true insight they had the intensest conviction, that God’s blessing dwelt in this Anselm;” and he continues:
“ This quarrel of Rufus and Anselm, of Henry and Becket, is not uninstructive to us. It was at bottom a great quarrel. For
admitting
that Anselm was full of divine blessing, he by no means included in him all forms of divine blessing; there were far other
forms withal which he little
dreamed of, and William Redbeard was unconsciously the representative and spokesman of these. In truth, could your divine
Anselm, your divine Pope
Gregory, have had their way, the results had been very notable. Our Western World had all become a European Thibet, with one
Grand Lama sitting at Rome;
our one honourable business, that of singing mass all day and all night. Which would not in the least have suited us! The
Supreme Powers willed it not
so. It was as if King Redbeard, unconsciously addressing Anselm, Becket, and the others, had said: ‘Right Reverend, your Theory
of the
Universe is indisputable by man or devil. To the core of our heart we feel that this divine thing, which you call Mother Church,
does fill the whole
world, hitherto known, and is and shall be all our salvation and all our desire. And yet—and yet—Behold! though it be an unspoken
secret, the world is
wider than any of us think, Right Reverend! Behold, there are yet other unmeasurable Sacrednesses in this that
you call Heathenism, Secularity! On the whole, I, in an obscure but most rooted manner, feel that I cannot comply with you.
Western Thibet and perpetual
mass-chanting—No. I am, so to speak, in the family-way; with child, of I know not what,—certainly of something far different
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from this! I have—
per os Dei I have Manchester Cotton-trades, Bromwicham Iron-Trades, American Commonwealths, Indian Empires, Steam-Mechanisms, and Shakespeare
Dramas in
my belly, and cannot do it, Right Reverend!’ So accordingly it was decided, and Saxon Becket spilt his life in Canterbury
Cathedral as
Scottish Wallace did on Tower Hill; and as generally a noble man and martyr has to do,—not for nothing, no, but for a divine
something, other
than he had altogether calculated.”—
Past and Present, p. 332.
There is rough humour in this; but surely also a deep insight into the hurly-burly of the Past, and a true pathos for suffering
men. Let it be said no
longer that Carlyle worships the laurel-wreath alone! He has read the “open secret” of human life, which is not all folded
in laurel-wreaths; he knows that
few are crowned, that to every earnest man life is a battle, and many fighting bravely in the foremost rank must fall. He
too has learnt to worship in the
holiest of all temples, the Temple of Sorrow.
Becket, Wallace, Johnson, Hero-Martyrs known to fame—their recorded names win at least some grateful remembrance from us,
some grateful
speech; their victories lie only in the outskirts of the Empire of Silence. There is a more silent Past than theirs. Are there
not
Unknown
Heroes? “Do I think?” exclaims Carlyle, “of Cadmus or the Unknown Orientals, when I write with
Letters? The world is built upon the mere dust of heroes; once earnest-wrestling, death-defying, prodigal of their blood, who now
sleep well,
forgotten by all their heirs.”—
Cromwell, iv.327.
Nor heroes only; but heroic rank and file. Think of them. Of that great multitude, which no man can number, of all nations
and kindred, and people and
tongues, millions of
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fellow labourers, brothers of ours and dear to us, who have gone through great tribulation, who have worked in their little
span
of life, glimmered in their little nook of earth, helping to make it beautiful for us, then like quiverings of auroral light,
have vanished for ever, and
their place knoweth them no more. Their names are written in the Book of Life, but “the Morning Newspapers have never heard of
them.” Knowledge, oh what then is Human Knowledge? A speck, a something in the sky. What is History? A single thread. What is Fame?
An
infant’s cry of pleasure or pain. There is a divine sorrow in the silence of the Past; as he who has written “Tears, idle
tears” may
tell us: would that there were room to quote that most perfect of poems! And to him who will consider it, what a set-off is
here in this Mystery of Silence,
which should humble us to the very dust, against that proud joyous doctrine of “Might is Right.” Yet between the two truths
there
subsists an inevitable, an everlasting brotherhood; nay they are the same, for Truth is One. Thousands of mankind come and
go, live and die, unnoticed by
their brethren; but their work remains, every stroke of it. The harvest of “the happy autumn field” is garnered in our store;
and the
days that are are heirs to the days that are no more. And one lesson at least we may learn from this,
the lesson of Christianity, as
Carlyle calls it; “Think of the humble, the unknown workers; work, not for Fame, but in the Great Task-Master’s Eye.”
Dwelling on the secluded life of the gifted Rahel Varnhagen von Ense, Carlyle has said, “She sat imprisoned, or it might be
sheltered and fosteringly embowered, in those circumstances of hers; she was not appointed to write or to act, but only to
live. Call her not unhappy on
that account, call her not useless; nay perhaps call her happier and
page: 348
usefuller. Blessed are the humble, are they that are
not known. It is written, ‘Seekest thou
great things, seek them not:’ live where thou art, only live wisely, live diligently. Rahel’s life was not an idle one for
herself or for
others; how many souls may the ‘sparkles showering from that life-fountain’ have kindled and illuminated; whose new virtue
goes on
propagating itself, increasing itself, under incalculable combinations, and will be found in far places, after many days!
She left no stamp of herself
on paper; but in other ways, doubt it not, the virtue of her working in this world will survive all paper. For the working
of the good and brave, seen
or unseen, endures literally for ever, and cannot die. Is a thing nothing because the Morning Papers have not mentioned it?
Or can a nothing be made
something, by never so much babbling of it there? Far better, probably, that no Morning or Evening Paper mentioned it; that
the right hand knew not what
the left was doing! Rahel might have written books, celebrated books. And yet what of books? Hast thou not already a Bible
to write, and publish in
print that is eternal; namely a Life to lead? Silence too is great; there should be great silent ones too.—Beautiful it is
to see and
understand that no worth, known or unknown,
can die even in this earth. The work an unknown good man has done is like a vein of water
flowing hidden under-ground, secretly making the ground green; it flows and flows, it joins itself with other veins and veinlets;
one day it will start
forth as a visible perennial well.”—
Misc. iv.193.
Again and again it must be said of the man of whom I write, that he has faith in the unseen, faith such as has been vouchsafed
to few; that it is the
primal source of his wisdom, of his insight, and of that moving power by which he touches our hearts, and fashions our thoughts
after his own.
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The silence of the Past is intimately blended with that other silence of the Future. For was not every Yesterday once a To-morrow,
and is not all
History only Prophecy accomplished? In no historian has this feeling worked with such living poetic or creative power as in
Carlyle. Inspired by it, he can
make a formal ceremony a very wonder of interest, as in that glorious chapter in the first volume of the Revolution, called
“The
Procession,” and impart to events that in their day seemed trivial, their true and most momentous significance. Let one example
be given from the
“New Eras” in his Chartism. “What a shoot was that, that England, carelessly, in quest of other objects, struck out across the Ocean, into the waste land
which it named
New England! Hail to thee, poor little ship Mayflower, of Delft-Haven: poor common-looking ship, hired by common
charter-party for coined dollars; caulked with mere oakum and tar; provisioned with vulgarest biscuit and bacon;—yet what
ship Argo, or
miraculous epic ship built by the Sea-gods, was not a foolish bum-barge in comparison! Golden fleeces or the like these sailed
for, with or without
effect; thou little Mayflower, hadst in thee a veritable Promethean spark; the life-spark of the largest Nation on our Earth,—so
we may
already name the Trans-Atlantic Saxon Nation. They went seeking leave to hear sermon in their own method, these May-flower
Puritans; a most honest
indispensable search; and yet like Saul the son of Kish, seeking a small thing, they found this unexpected great thing! Honour
to the brave and true;
they verily, we say, carry fire from Heaven, and have a power that themselves dream not of. Let all men honour Puritanism,
since God has so honoured it.”—p. 80
Again the Past was once a Present; and is there not in every Present, and in every living heart, a kingdom of
page: 349
Silence, an infinite number of things altogether beyond the reach of Speech? This seems to be a disparagement of man’s peculiar
gift; but it is far other-wise. It was Herder, I think, who wrote an Essay to prove that with the gift of the Divine Reason
or Soul, Speech was a necessity;
and that even if Speech had not been directly imparted, men must have discovered a method of articulate intercommunion. But
in this high faculty which
requires Speech for its servant, there is, and has always been, an inner heart, which is for ever unutterable. For its office
is to behold that Divine
Universal Presence, that dwells in earth and sea and sky, and has its chief temple in Man himself, and demands from him infinite
love and wonder, infinite
adoration and obedience. And how shall he in anywise fully express this to his brother men? Words cannot do it, nor even deeds,
nor even the witness of a
whole life, seen face to face, which of all utterances is the fullest and worthiest. The Infinite cannot be comprehended,
cannot be expressed: it can only
be shadowed forth in symbols of a higher or a lower kind. Accordingly that which is greatest, in any man, must be silent:
uttered it cannot be, not even to
himself: in that high hour of visitation from the living God, thought is not. Such glory by others, and by himself, can only
be seen by the eye of Faith,
and even thus as in a glass darkly. Carlyle loves to dwell upon this thought, when treating of his heroes: their Silence,
he says, is always greater than
their Speech.
How he uses his eye of Faith! like a keen sportsman, that tries every brake and bush in his path, and yet knows how the game
lies. How he
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strives to seek after the hidden meaning in the lives and works and words of these heroes, and of all men! Seeks for the presence
of the Divine Law, and the
human spirit striving unconsciously to obey it,—or it may be to disobey it. His subjects are for the most part common ones;
he discusses men well
known to History, and topics the most debated in modern times: but he deals with them as no other man has done, at least no
modern man, and finds in both a
very deep significance, which startles the reader by its novelty, and fascinates him by its absolute truth. His results, in
chapter after chapter, as I have
said before, come upon us quite like revelations. Thus, in the horrors of Wars and Revolutions he marks the law of Divine
Retribution; in vain Boswell he
sees a spirit of Reverence for the inspired wisdom of an ugly Johnson; of the French Revolution, and all modern Radicalism,
he perceives the secret meaning
to be a blind passionate cry for wise government, and a just relation between men and men.
And if it is true of individuals and special movements, that the highest good in them is silent, so it is of mankind at large.
Their external
performance, looks, as compared with what it is conceivable it might have been, a sorry one; but the very soul of it is nevertheless
divine,—is a
prophecy of infinite good:
- “Nay, said a voice, soft as the south wind’s breath,
- ‘Dive through the stormy surface of the flood,
- To the great current flowing underneath;
- Explore the secret springs of silent good;
- So shall the truth be better understood,
- And thy grieved spirit brighten strong in faith.’ ”
*
Wordsworth.
Transcribed Footnote (page 349):
Compare also the concluding sonnet to the River Duddon, called “After Thought.”
- “I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide,
- As being past away. Vain sympathies!
- For backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes,
- I see what was, and is, and will abide;
- Still glides the stream, and shall for ever glide;
page: 350
If Carlyle and other wise men can thus use their eye of faith, let us use ours as well as we can; and for one thing see in
him, Carlyle himself, a
spirit infinitely greater than all his spoken words.
And further, the very sacredness of such Divine things as men can think and speak of, is such that it is only a profane heart
that can suffer the
tongue to talk lightly of them, or too much. The thoughts live in the inmost deeps of the mind, and have to find some utterance,
but not the utterance of a
town-crier. In gracious looks, in the simplest and most earnest words, in the mysterious emphasis of symbols, above all in
action, lies their right
expression. Hence Carlyle calls those ages, those men great, which are silent, which speak by symbols,—above all those which
act nobly. Great,
therefore, to him are the middle ages; great are the emblematic Shakespeare and Goethe, so perfect in self-restraint and in
wise utterance; great is even
silent laborious Johnson. To this list, which can be enlarged at will, we must add Carlyle himself. His spirit is ever dwelling
with the highest, but he
very seldom uses the most hallowed names, and then with a perfect simplicity, either of still solemnity, as if with composed
frame, and eyes lifted up to
heaven, or of earnest passionate adjuration; far oftener however he but touches on the thoughts with quick allusions, or typifies
them in symbols, gathered
from every domain of sense, his humour here especially doing the noblest service,—uniting all earth to heaven.
But on this principle, how can he
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honour Cromwell and the Puritans? The fact is, that Cromwell and his fellows, so it seems to Carlyle, acted
more constantly than any company of men in history, in the sense of a Divine Presence, and their speech corresponded. Corresponded,
but tried too much; for
the defect of these men lay in the over-value of the office of words, and in their neglect or denial of things earthly (which
are also heavenly), Nature,
Art, Pleasure, so that speech, even in that generation, became to many a Cant, and remains so to many still. Moreover, Carlyle
always insists that the great
virtue of Cromwell and his helpers, consisted in what they
did, which a candid man, living in an Industrial Age, with at least a due
amount of Political and Religious Liberty, will not think small. And they never boasted of what they were doing for the Middle
Classes, not even to
themselves. Silence, Unconsciousness, are characteristics of all great doers; a doctrine very favourite with Carlyle, which,
as he applies to the Past, so
also with much significance to the Present.
The sum of all is, that Carlyle judges Men by what they have really believed, and what they have really done. Spiritual Beliefs,
or what we call
Religions, have been many, and to all Carlyle will do justice. In every case he will seek the substance underlying the form,
and will with a courage and
candour unusual, assert and approve it; was it not Truth?—the measure of Truth which it was given men then and there to know?
Practical Beliefs
too, which alas, are not always of the spiritual kind, he will honour as they deserve,
Transcribed Footnote (page 350):
- The Form remains, the Function never dies;
- While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise,
- We Men, who in our morn of youth defied
- The elements, must vanish; be it so!
-
10Enough, if something from our hands have power
- To live, and act, and serve the future hour;
- And if, as toward the silent tomb we go,
- Through love, through hope, and faith’s transcendent dower,
- We feel that we are greater than we know.”
page: 351
forgetting none. The highest is that which recognizes God in all things, especially in the relations between man and man:
then
follow others through many degrees; as Diderot’s Faith that Material Knowledge is good, and all Lies are bad; the vulgar Englishman’s
faith in
“Cash and Comfort to be won by work;” lowest of all, is the naked faith that Pleasure is pleasant; but this last is utterly
selfish,
and is in fact no belief, being a denial of the supreme law and fact of human existence; it is a spiritual death, insupportable
by any for long, leading
generally in men and nations to quick suicide. Always, too, Belief is the parent of Action; in whatsoever degree it is sincere,
it is worthy, it is
fruitful. Insincerity, Unbelief, is alone hopelessly barren.
Carlyle thus winds up his essay on Mahomet. “On the whole, we will repeat that this Religion of Mahomet’s is a kind of Christianity; has a genuine element of what is
spiritually highest looking through it, not to be hidden by all its imperfections. The Scandinavian God
Wish, the god of all rude
men,—this has been enlarged into a Heaven by Mahomet; but a Heaven symbolical of sacred Duty, and to be earned by faith and
well-doing, by
valiant action, and a divine patience which is still more valiant. It is Scandinavian Paganism, and a truly celestial element
superadded to that. Call
it not false; look not at the falsehood of it, look at the truth of it. For these twelve centuries it has been the religion
and life-guidance of the
fifth part of the whole kindred of mankind. Above all things, it has been a religion heartily
believed. These Arabs believe their
religion, and try to live by it! No Christians, since the early ages, or only perhaps the English Puritans in modern times,
have ever stood by their
Faith as the Moslem do by theirs—believing it wholly, fronting Time with it, and Eternity
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with it. This night the watchman on the
streets of Cairo, when he cries, ‘Who goes?’ will hear from the passenger, along with his answer, ‘There is no God but
God.’
Allah akbar, Islam, sounds through the souls, and whole daily existence of these dusky millions. Zealous
missionaries preach it abroad among Malays, black Papuans, brutal Idolators;—displacing what is worse, nothing that is better
or good. To the
Arab nation it was as a birth from darkness into light; Arabia first became alive by means of it. A poor shepherd people,
roaming unnoticed in its
deserts since the creation of the world; a Hero-Prophet was sent down to them with a word they could believe: see, the unnoticed
becomes world-notable,
the small has grown world-great; within one century afterwards, Arabia is at Grenada on this hand, at Delhi on that; glancing
in valour and splendour,
and the light of genius, Arabia shines through long ages over a great section of the world. Belief is great, life-giving.
The history of a Nation
becomes fruitful, soul-elevating, great, so soon as it believes.”—
Hero Worship,p. 119.
Again, Carlyle judges men by what they have done. It is the old divine doctrine, “By their fruits ye shall know them,” applied
to the
infinitely complex and ever-varying phenomena of Human Life. By their deeds—not their long prayers in the synagogue and charities
at the street
corners, but what they have actually accomplished for men. Carlyle applies this with noble breadth and freedom; with him all
good is one. Every truth added
to human knowledge, every deliverance from a lie, every right impulse given to a brother man, every solid work from the making
of a road or even the
breaking of a single stone for it, to the ordering of a kingdom, every good act however defaced and mutilated, every righteous
life under whatever form,
page: 352
shall be reckoned as fruits, and be religiously, gratefully gathered up. Sins and short-comings, blossom frustrated and fruits
blighted by the East wind, every man has enough of these: let them be forgotten, or if remembered, as is sometimes needful,
then not without thoughts of the
East wind. Work and the spirit of Work, or Duty, is the most precious and memorable thing which the Old Years contain.
Those who desire wise judgments, clearly, emphatically stated, will, I am sure, find no lack of them in the historical volumes
of Carlyle. Yet it must
be remarked, that the historian has other work besides that of “judging.” Labelling men and things with any titles whatsoever,
cataloguing of them according to any standard, is after all but little gained, if it be not perpetually remembered, that man
sees but a little way into
anything; can catch but a few syllables of the deep counsels of the Almighty. That it be known and taken to heart, that His
counsels do reign here; that the
Universe, wherein man dwells and works, was, and is for ever, every day of it, a Divine riddle past our finding out, a very
wondrous mystery: this, as it is
the first joyous impression of our opening years, is also the last solemn teaching of History. It is one of Carlyle’s most
peculiar merits, that he does
know this, and by a thousand ways which address themselves to the heart, can make his reader sensible of it. To show how he
effects
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this and many
another noble purpose, would lead me into an examination of the qualities of his artistic skill, (his “style” as it is called,
and
admitted on all hands to be very remarkable,) and of the magnificent faculties he brings to his task; for which there is no
room here. Here, at least for
the present, must end what I have to say concerning his “Lamp for the Old Years.” A glorious Lamp it is, and to be bought for a few pounds; but must I add?—of no use to him who has not an Eye. Would that
there were more Eyes amongst us! Would that those who command our thoughts and conduct, and who are leading us on towards
the Future could but see!
And yet one word more; Carlyle, it is said, does not love men. I can only call this a foolish, miserable error. How
can we say it of
one who has spent a life in the loving portraiture of men, especially in the honouring of the Greatest and the Best? How
can we say it of
one, who, as it remains to tell, has laboured much and earnestly to reclaim us, our English Nation, from evil miserable courses,
and to guide us into the
ways of righteousness, which alone are ways of blessedness? “O Jerusalem! Jerusalem! thou that killest the prophets, and stonest
them that are
sent unto thee!”—A sad, sad thought, on which I will not dwell, for now to me this Article is a thing of the Past.
page: 353
- “Vex thou not the poet’s mind
- With thy shallow wit;
- Vex thou not the poet’s mind,
- For thou canst not fathom it.”
—
Tennyson.
Editorial Note (page ornament): Initial I is ornamental. This is a typo; the first letter should be a J.
Iudiciously has the reviewer of modern painters in the Quarterly put in the forefront of his battle the assertion, that the function of art is not to express thought, but to make pretty
things; for herein lies the
whole quarrel between Ruskin and the pedants in literature or art who have opposed him.
What a strangely different life a painter’s would be to what I have conceived it, if the art of painting were of such a nature
as this writer thinks;
for I have been used to think a painter different from other men, (common men I would rather say, for these painters, as I
have thought of them, I have
reverenced hitherto very much,) different from common men in two things: first, in a power of eye and hand; they see things
differently from common men,
remember them longer, though this last especially is not quite peculiar to them; but over their hand they have wonderful mastery,
strange
feeling in it rather, which they can more or less, according as they are good craftsmen, guide, but which also more or less guides
them, I mean
their thoughts; sometimes restraining them, sometimes leading and lighting them as rhymes and measures do a poet: in this
then the painter differs from all
other men, but what if he had only this power?
It is indeed impossible,
quite impossible, that he, having this power, should have no other power,—no use for his
gifts,—God never treated any man so since the world began,—no man ever yet who could speak melodiously wanted thoughts to
speak; that
was why his
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melody was given him, that he might think towards his fellows; and in like manner no man who had that hand-power, was without
heart-power,
nay, without some special power of heart and brain, for which power’s sake all that mystery of skill lying hid in the nerves
was given him;
he was not meant to be silent, whatever other men might be:
- “* * Art was given for that—
- God uses us to help each other so,
- Lending our minds out.”
So then, besides their power of painting, these men must have the power of observation; they can see things as scarce any
other men can, can see
strange aspects of well-known things; can see deep into the natures of mysterious things; visions float before their eyes
and pierce to their hearts, which
go far enough from our dull, sealed eyes; and these visions they tell us of, these thoughts of God’s world, of men’s deeds
upon it, as well as they can by
means of their art; with many disappointments doubtless, often with ineffectual struggles, to tell us
all they thought of; often too with
bitter shortcomings, with failing from the old dream; with forgetfulness of the dear figure seen clearly but for such a short
time; they do this for us with
their “powder mixed with oil,” even as the poets do with words; what thanks, what worship shall we give them in exchange?
At all events, free licence to tell us what they think, whether that thought is “fit for pictorial purposes” or not, and earnest
thanks for any thought of theirs, even if their language halts in the sight of all men; no names of dead
page: 354
men, howsoever venerable, shall cumber them; no rules, howsoever good they seemed once; only this law to guide them:
“tell us what you verily see, but do not pretend to see what you do not.”
This was what I have thought about artists, this is what Ruskin has in his writings taught me to think, that their gift of
painting was a great gift,
but not their greatest, which greatest gift was the same as that which God has given him whom we call a poet.
Here is the part from which the Quarterly Reviewer quotes, given somewhat more at length:
“Painting, or art generally, as such, with all its technicalities, difficulties, and particular ends, is nothing but a noble
and
expressive language, invaluable as the vehicle of thought, but by itself nothing. He who has learned what is commonly considered
the whole art of
painting, that is, the art of representing any natural object faithfully, has as yet only learned the language by which his
thoughts are to be
expressed. He has done just as much towards being that which we ought to respect as a great painter, as a man who has learned
how to express himself
grammatically and melodiously has towards being a great poet. The language is, indeed, more difficult of acquirement in the
one case than in the other,
and possesses more power of delighting the sense, while it speaks to the intellect; but it is nevertheless nothing more than
language, and all those
excellences which are peculiar to the painter as such, are merely what rhythm, melody, precision, and force, are in the words
of the orator and the
poet, necessary to their greatness, but not the tests of their greatness. It is not by the mode of representing and saying,
but by what is represented
and said, that the respective greatness, either of the painter or the writer is to be finally determined.
“Speaking with strict propriety, therefore, we should call a man a great painter only as he excelled in precision and force
in the
language of lines; and a great versifier, as he excelled in precision and force in the language of words. A great poet would
then be a term strictly,
and in precisely the same sense, applicable to both, if warranted by the character of the images or thoughts which each in
their respective languages
conveyed.
“It is not, however, always easy, either
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in painting or literature, to determine where the influence of language stops and where
that of thought begins. Many thoughts are so dependent upon the language in which they are clothed, that they lose half their
beauty if otherwise
expressed.”
“Contradicitur,” says the Quarterly Reviewer, “it is false this, from beginning to
end.” Or rather the first part, for he does not tell his readers that he has read this last sentence or anything else in Ruskin’s
works which
helps to explain this paradox, as indeed it sometimes seems. I wish he were not so unfair, not so bitter, it is a miserable
thing to read, an unkind
spiteful review, though more miserable to write if one only knew it. But he goes on, in a somewhat muddled manner, trying
to prove this his
“Contradicitur:” as thus—
“The only way to arrive at the true end for which an art is valuable at all is by determining those qualities which no other
art but
itself can express, and which are therefore to be considered as
proper to it.”
“Expressing qualities!” what kind of an operation is that? “thoughts” he meant, only it did not look well,
considering what he was going to prove; so nonsense was the result.
“Now thought,” he says, “having a language proper to itself, cannot possibly be defined as the great specific
excellence or purpose of the art of painting.”
Oh! was that the point at issue then, or not? whether “thought” had
one language only “proper to
itself,” or whether it had at the least two, poetry namely and
painting; and, perhaps also, others, though this is beside the
question? This mode of argument one sometimes calls “begging the question.” “A language proper to itself!” what
do we do with the other languages then? Language of the eye—one can sing about that effectually enough:
- “And now the tears were on his face,
- And fondly in his arms he took
- Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace,
page: 355
- Prolonging it with joyous look.
- Which when she view’d, a vision fell
- Upon the soul of Christabel
- Again she saw that bosom old,
- Again she felt that bosom cold,
- And drew in her breath with a hissing sound.”
The poet saw that well enough, could not the painter see it also? Well—
“The best pictures the world ever saw, or perhaps will see, repeat, as in the innumerable Madonnas and Holy Families the same
thought over
and over again.”
Is the Madonna a “thought” then? Holy Families are they “thoughts?” Mary, Joseph, who long ago planed real
boards with real labour, John, who wore at that same time camel’s hair raiment, easily to be known as such by the feel and
look of it; the Holy One, where
these thoughts, or realities? for it is plain from the sentence immediately following this, that the writer of this article
does not mean that the painters
of that time painted Madonnas and Holy Families alike, expressing the same “qualities;” which we call thoughts about the Madonnas
or
the Holy Family. So, if you please, read in this place for “thought,” subject of “thought.” Well—
“Indeed, were we required to answer Mr. Ruskin’s proposition as positively and broadly as he has made it, we should be far
nearer the
truth by denying it altogether, and declaring that the language of painting is comparatively of no value as the vehicle of
thought, which is a faculty
conveyed much better by its own proper medium—the written forms of speech; but that the language of painting being capable
of utterance,
where every other art is silent, is in itself everything.
“That there is, however, a certain measure of thought compatible with, and separate from, the language of painting, we shall
be the
last to deny. But here we are stopped by the vagueness of the term itself; for though Mr. Ruskin urges further on, that ‘it
must be the part
of a judicious critic carefully to distinguish what is language and what is thought, and to rank and praise pictures chiefly
for the latter.’
Yet such is the confusion and contradiction prominent
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in his own thoughts and language, that it becomes no easy task to ascertain what he really
means by ‘thought,’ ‘ideas,’ ‘subject of intellect,’ &c. as applied to
painting.”
Yet, in answering Mr. Ruskin, it would be better not to accept the analogy between the language of painting and other languages;
because it is pretty
deeply rooted in men’s hearts, that language is only a means, even though it be a noble and expressive one, for the conveyance
of thoughts of some sort.
Yet after all do we seem merely to be having a contention of words concerning the meaning of the term “thought,” as used by
Ruskin and others? It almost seems so from the latter part of what is quoted above, and more particularly from what the critic
says concerning Raphael’s
Sistine Madonna, where, indeed, with one notable exception, he says “right things, but calls them by wrong
names,” though even that is not always by any means a venial error, as in the case of “Bishop Blougram” himself.
Yes, it seems so, but on the whole is not so; in spite of muddled argument, often suicidal, he really thinks that art is,
on the whole, something to
amuse people; it is good for something; even so, this great art, which may God keep from ever falling to that rank! Yet taken
so, it seems to me that mere
architecture or pretty pattern painting on room-walls, or other art not imitative, would have this advantage over elaborate
imitative painting, that it
would be infinitely easier, being in other respects nearly, if not quite, equal to it: but how much below true art, with full
power of imitation, would
these be? art, whose aim was to use all its powers, increasing and ever to increase them, in telling as man to man what we
find not out for ourselves;
sternly restraining them from mere waste in the display of “cleverness,” rejoicing much in them nevertheless; putting truth
before all
things, before any beauty, any power of moving men’s
page: 356
minds, any rhetoric of art that is; which, indeed, can make people shout loud enough in some Election-square, can even make
them
feel brave and just, and loving; but as for making them brave and just, and loving men,—here, indeed, it fails, because it
goes not deep:
“not necessarily having truth for its subject matter.”
Yet, it is dismally certain that on the whole, this is what the reviewer degrades the art of painting to; something which
amuses men, at best
refreshes them when they are tired; think of a man spending his life in an art of this kind! Many do it now not called artists—upholsterers
for
instance; the life is endurable, I suppose, if it is not thought about much, and has running alongside of it some love or
other. Yet imagine yourself living
in the days of Giotto—what a start would come across you when you first entered that Arena Chapel, first saw the works of
the man sent from God
with visions of the things that had been: so Joseph walked, and Mary, and One greater than they. Christ, forgive me, if I
never thoroughly believed this
thing till now; and this other thing, I too have thought that, but had no language to speak it in, and so was perforce dumb.
How many thoughts would those
colours and lines have given you? Would you not have reverenced the seer and his language? Has he not been a leader of men,
this Giotto, no mere juggler to
make the people laugh? his life was better than an upholsterer’s.
How many things are there, intricate thoughts not even by any sweetest poetry to be quite clearly expressed, which can by
painting be infinitely
expressed? one such I saw the other day. This:
- “Love is hurt with jar and fret.
- Love is made a vague regret.
- Eyes with idle tears are wet.
- Idle habit links us yet.
- What is love? For we forget:
- Ah, no! no!”
How many depths of thought are
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there not there? how many years of life? how many lives from the time of the flood till now?
“Yet this is not the painter’s thought; it is Alfred Tennyson’s.”
Is it not thinking then, to be able to throw yourself into a man’s mind, a poet’s especially, who is different from common
men, and think his very
thoughts? if it is, see here!
She turned round about, bitter thoughts in her heart; she would not weep, but the old love was going, ah! so soon; he sat
silent there, and watched
his golden-haired ideal fleeting from him, both thinking of the time when they will be together always, never one any more,
the very memory of that sweet,
long-past dream, growing dimmer and dimmer as the dull days go by; they see each other sitting together man and wife, unloving
now, thought well of by the
world; they see each other, for they still think the same thoughts: shall this be? how desolate the lonely world will be!
and she creeps a little nearer to
him, half involuntarily—“ah, no! no!” And he catches her hand and holds it tight, and kisses it; and she turns away still,
her right hand feeling how her heart beats; she tries to choke her tears down, but one has overflowed already, and presently
she will turn and be in his
arms weeping “idle tears:” very close together they will be, one again, in spite of “April Love.”
How many, reading these lines before, came upon these thoughts, very clearly expressed in the picture in sweetest language?
many more, doubtless, saw
nothing there but the swing of the rhythm, the clash of the rhyme; but to one who has seen this picture it is no more a set
of words indistinctly put
together for the rhyme’s sake, but something very living and beautiful, the very purple dress, green leaves, and golden hair,
telling us clearly of the
beauty they loved so, they two, and which bound them together so closely.
page: 357
Yes, dismally does this writer deny that truth is the aim of painting, utterly misconceiving that chapter on the false religious
ideal in the third
volume of Modern Painters. A mournful chapter enough, not to have been written by any; but the greatest, the faithfullest, one fearing no truth wheresoever
it might seem to
lead—was it easy, do you think, O critic! for a man who loved art to determine finally this?
“Has there, then,” (the reader asks emphatically,) “been
no true religious ideal? Has religious art
never been of any service to mankind? I fear, on the whole, not.”
This would be easy enough to say for one who thought all art to be only the art of tickling the senses by clever deception,
the art of arranging
pretty draperies, painting pretty or picturesque figures because they were pretty or picturesque; but for one who thinks the
power of painting a gift from
God for the expression of noble thought, not so easy: not a pleasant thing to have to come to this decision, that so many
beautiful things were,
“on the whole”
wrong: think of our critic being so far advanced on this path of his as to impute to Ruskin base
eagerness to overthrow the fame of dead men in writing this and such as this! It is very bad indeed, this kind of criticism;
but almost mournfuller to me
are his comments on that part of the chapter where Ruskin is talking about the cartoons of Raphael, that one especially of
the charge to Peter. He cannot
see that painting has anything to do with man’s history; Ruskin is wrong (he says) for blaming Raphael’s falsifying of the
facts in that cartoon that he
might “serve the Papal heresy of the Petric supremacy.” What then, was Raphael right? was it a heresy, this Petric supremacy?
and if
so, was it right to bend the facts, stern facts enough, for the sustentation of a mere lie? or is the truth to be accepted
and talked about when
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it
keeps at a distance from
us in history, in far-off theology, but calmly to be pitched aside when it comes near to us, that we may enjoy a
picture better?
The reviewer says again, that it is irreverent to represent Peter “all shiny, dripping, and shivering”—a mere dirty
fisherman; that “such a man or painter would as certainly, could his life be turned eighteen centuries back, and be transformed into an
Israelite of that time, be found among those who said in their reason and unbelief, ‘is not this the carpenter’s son?’
”
Is it so distressing, then, to think that Peter did not wear a “superfine, double-milled Saxony blue coat,” linen shirt, laced
and gold studded, that he was only such a man as God chose to make the ears of the world tingle, not with irresolute, badly-aimed
broad-sword stroke, as
before in that torch-lighted garden, but with words and deeds spoken and done with authority.
That a man should pretend to think this, that it was degrading to Peter and to Some One Else this poverty of theirs; truly
he must be a poor painter
who could not show in the faces of men
some of their souls, enough, at all events, to make purple robe and golden crown
needless, if nothing else: yet there were some long ago who put a purple robe on Him, alas! in mockery—neither could
they see anything reverent in such a One who was poor.—Yes,
- “This age, shows, to my thinking, still more infidels to Adam,
- Than directly by profession simple infidels to God.”
As for this cartoon, is it not absolutely
true what Ruskin says of it? Can any one not quite blinded by foolish, aimless
bitterness, pretend to say that he thinks Ruskin’s picture, painted in
such words, is not infinitely more touching, ay, more beautiful,
than that composition of unearnest faces and
page: 358
unmeaning action painted, even suppose it were by Raphael? Peter’s face, now, think of that! Not so easy to paint, I grant;
but
think of any man who could paint well, had mastered the language of painting, daring to paint, instead of passionate, reverent
love, a calm anybody’s face,
thinking, (if haply it thought at all,) concerning the Roman Church, on earth.
Did none of you, thinking of those times, ever wonder what side you would have taken if you had lived then, and with half
awe, half longing, wished it
might have been so, to have seen Him face to face? alas! perhaps not to have known Him, perhaps even to have thought Herod’s
purple and gold more venerable
than that face looking unutterable things, than that voice speaking “not as the Scribes;” but to have seen those brave deeds
done, to
have heard Peter speaking that morning, not by any to be counted a “mere dirty fisherman,” while the world lasted, though
not yet clad
in king’s robes.
Then think if some one were verily to show you how it had all been, not as it “would, or might, or should” have been, but
as it
was: what strange feelings you would have as you approached that vision!
Shall I be disappointed at it? Shall I feebly deny it, though I know it to be true? Shall I feel as if I had been over-hasty
in believing those things
which they told me always were so easy, which, alas! are not easy to believe? Or shall I say this is
TRUE, therefore right, whatever comes
of it, and so saying, find one difficulty clearing off after another, one beauty after another growing and glowing bright
every moment? Yes, I hope so:
meanwhile may some one show us this vision, some part of it, at any rate, and see whether we will thank him: it may come,
nay, it must come, if art is to be
what she even now seems to be fast becoming. For is it not strange that now, this very year in the which
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the two bitterest attacks have been made on
Ruskin of any yet, in the “Quarterly,” namely, and the “Edinburgh,” he himself, not without reason, sings Io Pæan for the triumph of the Pre-Raphaelites? Not a thing to be wondered at, this
triumph, only
scarcely to be expected so soon; doubtless not much hindered by the critics, for these men, you see, were of “stubborn instincts,”
yet
not by any means acknowledged either by the critics or by the public: the latter generally feeling themselves called upon
“not to
understand” many of the pictures, and if that fails, (as the stretch of most men’s conscience has a limit,) they (somewhat
cautiously) pick
infinitesimally small holes in the truth of the pictures, or even in the execution of them.
Nevertheless, who shall doubt that the Pre-Raphaelites are winning the victory, when he sees the pictures on those walls?
Names, more than one or two,
not seen there before, claim to belong to that school decidedly; the older ones work harder than ever, and one seems to be
drawing very near towards
realizing that wish of ours, to know for certain how Christ and his Apostles lived; and there are comparatively few men who
calmly offer us
“maps” when we ask for pictures. Ah me! what things those pictures are to make one dream. It is hard to come back again from
seeing
women’s faces, coronetted with golden hair, looking lovingly on us and all the world; from seeing those aspens, thin-leaved,
against the golden autumn
twilight sky and purple hills; from seeing the strong writhed serpent dying, crimson-bleeding hard by the sphinx there; from
“April
love,” from purple mountains, and green forest glades; hard to come back from seeing all these, and more, dreamlike, and from
feeling the dreams
they bring along with them, to hear merely our somewhat muddled and very bitter and unkind reviewer droning on still, for
pages and pages of respectably printed
page: 359
paper; and not being quite harmless in his droning either; for people will have a king, a leader of some sort, after all;
wherein
they are surely right, only I wish they would not choose king Critic-mob.
“We are stopped by the vagueness.“ Very much so, my friend; and for ever to be stopped, I fear, if you go on in this way,
persisting in shutting your eyes and hearts to a man’s thoughts, and reading with full intention to see nothing whatever but
words—ugly things,
black, on a white ground, forgetting apparently that we are not reading some mere ethical treatise, system of philosophy,
or such like, but a book
“all about” Modern Painters, wherein a man may speak his thoughts without caring so much for the words, so long as his meaning
is
clear. Clear? Clear enough, surely—may even speak his thoughts at any time, not caring much whether they
seem to be consistent
with that which he verily thought yesterday, which he will think again to-morrow, nay, which he thinks now, for, strange to
say, most things have two
aspects or more, not contradictory, certainly; and men with any faith can mostly see these, and know well that it is vain
to try to “reconcile” them, for if
they were not friends already, they could not both be true, which they are, and so leave them, wide apart and startling sometimes,
but not opponent. This
wise men do; foolish ones try hard to make these things meet, or to prove that they cannot exist in the world together, though
they are there before their
eyes; in which process, being troubled not much by their conscience, and apt to choke down any obstructive facts, they succeed,
to the admiration of
themselves and all men, by the help of a syllogism stick, which, however, being taken away, they fall hopelessly at once;
hands and knees of no use now, the
very nose of them scraping along the gravel, collecting no small grit there.
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A great part of this review is spent in defence of Claude and the Poussins, and the Dutch painters, of whom I only wish to
say this: that I myself,
and I believe very many others were in no small ecstacy at discovering that we need no more admire these men, for we always
deemed their pictures ugly and
uninteresting at least, and doubted if they were true: nay, we doubted not, for the very name “picture,” made us think of
something
dusky and unreal; and we did not love pictures, though we paid some reverence to them. Then this man, John Ruskin, rose, seeming
to us like a Luther of the
arts. Think of a man actually making a critical book on art interesting! Was ever such a thing heard? Thenceforward, let no
one wanting to be listened to,
or even to be respected, write twaddle upon art, for we will not have it: for now we know well that this art of painting is
connected with man’s suffering,
man’s thought; we can see Giotto now, Dante standing near him; Angelico, strange painter, kneeling and weeping as he paints;
young Raphael, beautiful and
glorious; great Michael Angelo; Andrea del Sarto, sinned against and sinning (O Robert Browning!); Tintoret, and the Venice
walls flaming from base to cope;
and what if there is a gap there with nothing in it but our old enemies, Claude and Co., who reduced us to such slavery, made
us hate painting almost; yet
Nelson and the Waterloo field kept us still a nation worth keeping, if only for the production of Turner, Millais, Hunt, many
another noble name, I hope, as
the years go on, kings over the people.
Not easily, therefore, O Critic, will you get us to think you superior to this man, John Ruskin; not easily will you
get us to believe that every little slip in observation through four great volumes makes a man wrong at once and for ever;
not easily that every fierce
word, fiercely scornful against shams, is spoken in mere malice
page: 360
and petty spite, utterly unaccountable, even in the lowest man. Neither, if you try to do this, shall we feel inclined to
spare
you when you say such things as this, very
falsely talking about falsehood here, writing about the “Notes” on the
Pictures in the Academy:
“Even granting that Herbert had erred in the high light of a jewel, or Maclise (for with equal injustice Mr. Ruskin accuses
the one of the
breach of that principle of perspective the observance of which he abuses in the other) in the drawing of a border pattern,
even granting this, what
does it prove? A picture is not a culprit, to be cross-examined and detected by a trap here and a slip there. Mr. Ruskin’s
ideas of truth and falsehood,
as applied to art (all traceable to his false start as to the nature and purposes of art), are utterly futile and nonsensical.
Falsehood only becomes
such when there is the power in the deceiver to pervert the truth, or in the deceived to believe the lie. It is not, therefore,
the man who makes the
blunder
in a picture, but he who makes a false statement
about a picture, who is the real offender. Setting aside
the malice which is so obviously the leading principle in this pamphlet, the mere fact that he was driven to such paltry modes
of criticism, is the
highest encomium that living artists could receive.”
Would not any one think from this, (and some more which I have not quoted as not being essential,) that Ruskin was only able
to find fault with
Maclise and Herbert for petty mistakes in drawing and such like? The “Edinburgh” does the same thing, by the way. What is
the
truth here? That Ruskin out of all the pictures exhibited that year, (1855,) chose these two as the representative pictures respectively,
of the actively bad class, and negatively bad class; Herbert’s picture of ‘Lear and Cordelia,’ namely,
having
nothing in it, and Maclise’s of the wrestling scene in “As you like it” having something—lies,
namely. Oh, truly, this is a fine accusation! You throughout, O critic, have been laboriously trying to convict Ruskin of
erring in matters not so much
greater
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than these, and now you say that he can find no fault with Maclise, but the wrong drawing of a border ornament.
To young painters, earnest and laborious, painting what they see, in God’s name, quiet passing over of their slips, or friendly
gentle mention of them;
but to Maclise!—listen:
- “The silk star-broider’d coverlid
- Unto her limbs itself doth mould
- Languidly ever; and amid
- Her full black ringlets downward roll’d,
- Glows forth each softly shadow’d arm
- With bracelets of the diamond bright;
- Her constant beauty doth inform
- Stillness with love, and day with light.
- “She sleeps: her breathings are not heard
-
10In palace chambers far apart;
- The fragrant tresses are not stirr’d
- That lie upon her charmed heart.
- She sleeps: on either hand upswells
- The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest:
- She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells
- A perfect form in perfect rest.
- His spirit flutters like a lark,
- He stoops to kiss her on his knee.
- Love, if thy tresses be so dark,
-
20How dark those hidden eyes must be.”
What kind of awakening was it, I pray you, for that “perfect form in perfect rest?” Anything like that in Maclise’s picture,
all
the noise and rattle of the “Palace Chambers far apart” brought into the room where the lovers were; and the prince, such
a prince!
Certainly no fairy one, “with joyful eyes, and lighter-footed than the fox,” but a somewhat rakish and very stupid young man
in the
costume of Charles the Second. Such a princess, of the stout sort, and above the heads of them, many devils, green-black in
colour, chased (apparently) by
many fairies (stout also) of the not uncomfortable sort: poor princess, to wake to such a reality as
that picture! poor prince and
princess both!
- “And on her lover’s arm she leant,
- And round her waist she felt it fold,
- And far across the hills they went
- In that new world which is the old.”
As it is, I am afraid they will never get there.
What mercy to Maclise who painted
page: 361
the “Hamlet” in the Vernon Gallery? Maclise, whose acre of ugliness stared out above another
picture one year, less in inches than the other in feet, which one could almost think deserved a better fate than to be gaped
at by silly women, saying,
“I don’t understand it a bit;” or, “Oh it’s quite shocking!” to be sneered at by bad men, not so unlike that man
there, with conscience
not to be awakened. Poor Eva! hard to be married so, but hard also that your marriage, not un-pathetic, not
unworthy of the thoughts of men, should be painted
so.
What excuses for Maclise?—who paints our brave Ernest Orlando, with no possession but his young manhood of muscle and brain,
as a very
fool, fit to do nothing on this earth; who paints romance-loving, freedom-loving genial Rosalind, like the foolishest of modern
fine ladies with much hair
and little brains—fancy letting his faults slip when he is set up as “a master in Israel.” Think how he has clouded the
great poet’s mind for us; we shall now no more read that most glorious of his comedies, without having those coarse facts
thrust across our picture; no more
now be able to have the music and pictures, both so exquisite, of “The Day Dream,” floating about us
without some thought of Maclise’s Prince, “in the costume of the period.”
Our reviewer says: “One great proof, were there no other, of the falseness of Mr. Ruskin’s reasoning, is its quantity. Only on the
wrong road could so much have been said at all.”
This sentence is one of those reckless, somewhat meaningless, and utterly untrue things, with which critics are in the habit
of fishing for praise for
originality. “Mr. Ruskin’s reasoning?” What reasoning? All those four volumes of Modern Painters? If not,
what part of them? Well, certainly, if painting were what you think
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it, little would be quite enough to be said about it; but what if it has close
connection with “Many Things?” See, moreover, how untrue this assertion is: the theory of the Christian religion and how to
live by
it, can nothing or but a little be said about that? The theory of right government, can nothing, or but a little be said about
that, except it be false? Be
sure always, or nearly so, when a thing seems very easy of belief, very clear and plain, with only one clean-hewn side to
it, that somewhere there lurks,
unseen, quite a terrible army of difficulties, disbeliefs and unexpected entanglements, which, by using a little clear insight
at first, by accepting some
guidance from other men, would have been beaten long ago.
I have not written much on this article; I could say much more, but it is altogether such a weary business, not without some
shame even, to one who
undertakes ever so much in outline, to tell people that a bitter unfair critic is wrong.
That fight at Inkermann was, indeed, a glorious one, yet the slaughter of the wounded soldiers by the Russians reflected some
disgrace on the noble
English victors ever. And so it is here; as one rises from reading this review, with brain somewhat muddled by the confused
no-logic of it, one thinks,
after all, this man utterly stupid and dull as his writing is, has in some sort done that which he wished to do; his base
bitter words will come across
Ruskin’s noble words, will sully them somewhat, whatever faith one has in the truth of the one and the falsehood of the other.
And yet after all, courage! What happens for the more part in a battle when across some mean slayer of the wounded, flashes
one with inspiration from
the God of battles, and nerves high strung for fight, and
notched sword bright and trenchant?
page: 362
page: 362
- True love turn’d round on fixed poles,
- Love that endures not sordid ends,
- For English natures, freemen, friends,
- Thy brothers and immortal souls.
Editorial Note (page ornament): Initial I is ornamental
I suppose one can hardly help regarding this book in its personal aspect,—not merely as a History of England, but as a History
of England by the author of the “Nemesis of Faith.” For that book has been talked so much about, and so harshly judged, and its publication has had such a well-known effect
on the fortunes
of its author, that Mr. Froude must forgive those who are not personally acquainted with him, if they find it difficult, till
his History has taken the
position which it will undoubtedly take, to disconnect him from his former work. Not that he would be, I suppose, in any way
anxious to forget, or to bid
others forget, that he wrote the “Nemesis;” but we may be sure that he would prefer to be judged by his more matured and hopefuller
production. I think the “Nemesis of Faith” was the saddest book that I ever read, the prolonged and bitter
De Profundis of a great soul sick with the inanities of modern life and faith, and knowing not where to turn for consolation or guidance.
That is but a scant
and sickly gleam of hope, if hope at all, which seems to suggest to him the reconstruction of our ways of thought and maxims
of society on a nobler and
truer basis by the giving up utterly of what he calls the “Hebrew mythology,” and all that we derive from it. Surely the root
of the
matter is not there; and the more I read Mr. Froude’s History, the more
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I am convinced that he himself has found that it is not there. One of the most
significant facts with regard to the present generation, a fact that stares us everywhere in the face, is, that we have lost
altogether that deep and true
faith in the Old Testament History, in the real heart and meaning of it, which did so much for our ancestors. We are as ready
as men ever were to tear each
other to pieces for expressing historical doubts; but this is more for the love of the contention, than of the truths for
which we contend. Probably, for
one man, who having been brought up in the belief that the Old Testament History gives a true account of God’s dealings with
men, is led through that belief
into scepticism and sin, there are a hundred or more whose moral laxity and weakness is distinctly traceable to the opposite
notion; to the notion, that
this History after all cannot be true, universally; but only, if true at all, as an exceptional case, as a story of things
which we have nothing to do with,
and can scarcely understand. Mr. Froude did not prove the weakness of our age far enough. It lies, not in the covering crust,
the superstition that clings
so blindly to old forms, but in the abscess beneath, the abyss of faithlessness which that scepticism covers. What we want
is to repair our loss; to make it
complete and consistent will do us but little good. Now, at last, Mr. Froude has shown us a more excellent way; and I cannot
help regarding
Transcribed Footnote (page 362):
*
History of England from the Fall of Wolsey to the Death of Elizabeth. By James Anthony Froude, M. A.
Volumes I. II. London: John W. Parker and Son, West Strand.1856.
page: 363
the book I have before me as a palinode, a confession, that the sooner we can return to the faith of those majestic old times
the
better it will be for us. He seldom distinctly refers to modern ages; he does not emphasize the contrast he suggests: for
he knows full well that every
earnest reader will set to work on this book, as he does on almost all History now-a-days, for the sake of comparing ages,
long past away, with the state of
things he lives and works in himself.
For if there be one thing very conspicuous in the history of the English Reformation, and of the period immediately subsequent
to it, and in the
history of all the great actors during those times, it is their living and earnest belief in the God of the Bible, and in
those transactions of His which
the Bible sets forth. This colours all they say; this underlies all they do. Be this belief right, or wrong, by the help of
it, they warred most
successfully against all forms of evil, and did some of the greatest works the world ever saw. In that one portion of the
work of those ages which Mr.
Froude’s two volumes set forth, a phenomenon is presented to us, the like of which I suppose no age ever saw—a great revolution
wherein all
church machinery, all the accidents that had been connected for centuries in the minds of men with the truths of religion,
were destroyed or remodelled,
without the least peril to the truths themselves, which, instead of weakening and waning, only shone out the clearer, and
were the more distinctly assented
to by all men. A church reformation of so extensive a character just now would, one fears, have quite a different ending.
I hope I have said enough to induce the readers of this magazine to follow me for a short time through Mr. Froude’s volumes;
partly that I may show
them wherein his worth as an interpreter of history consists, but more especially that, forgetting him in his work, I may
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help them to understand
something of what English life in the sixteenth century was; what the men of those days were doing, and in what spirit they
did it; and how great some of
those men whom we have ungratefully and arbitrarily chosen to vilify and misrepresent really were.
Mr. Froude’s first chapter is a most interesting and most startling analysis of the social condition of England in the sixteenth
century; I cannot
illustrate the tone and tendency of it better than by quoting the summary with which it concludes:
“In the brief review of the system under which England was governed, we have seen a state of things in which the principles
of
political economy were, consciously or unconsciously, contradicted; when an attempt, more or less successful, was made to
bring the production and
distribution of wealth under the moral rule of right and wrong; and where those laws of supply and demand, which we are now
taught to regard as
immutable ordinances of nature, were absorbed or superseded by a higher code. It is necessary for me to repeat, that I am
not holding up the sixteenth
century as a model which the nineteenth might safely follow. The population has become too large, and employment too complicated
and fluctuating, to
admit of such control; while, in default of control, the relapse upon self-interest as the one motive principle is certain
to ensue, and when it ensues
is absolute in its operations. But as, even with us, these so called ordinances of nature in time of war consent to be suspended,
and duty to his
country becomes with every good citizen a higher motive of action than the advantages which he may gain in an enemy’s market;
so it is not uncheering to
look back upon a time when the nation was in a normal condition of militancy against social injustice; when the government
was enabled by happy
circumstances to pursue into detail a serious and single aim at the well-being,—well-being in its widest sense—of all members
of
the commonwealth. There were difficulties and drawbacks at that time as well as this. Of liberty, in the modern sense of the
word, of the supposed right
of every man, ‘to do what he will with his own,’ or with himself, there was no idea. To the question, if ever it was asked,
May I
not do what I will with my own? there was the brief answer, No
page: 364
man may do what is wrong, either with what is his own or with what is another’s. Producers, too, who were not permitted to
drive down their workmen’s wages by competition, could not sell their goods as cheaply as they might have done; and the consumer
paid for the law in an
advance of price: but the burden, though it fell heavily on the rich, lightly touched the poor; and the rich consented cheerfully
to a tax which ensured
the loyalty of the people. The working man of modern times has bought the extension of his liberty at the price of his material
comfort. The higher
classes have gained in wealth what they have lost in power. It is not for the historian to balance advantages; his duty is
with the
facts.”—
I.79.
Indeed, we cannot too constantly bear in mind, that we live in a changed time; nor only that, but in a time of change, change
which may not be measured
by years, in which years do the work of centuries. In the individual, boyhood is the time of rapid changes; years pass over
the man, and leave him just as
he was; his hair a little grayer perhaps, his memories a little dimmer, his heart a little less elastic; but in the boy, from
month to month, almost from
day to day, you can trace growth of body and intellect, changes of feeling, alternations of desire and passion. It is not
so in nations, in any the world
has seen; least of all in this England of ours. For five or six centuries previous to the Reformation there was very little
change. Society remained much
the same; not only the outward forms, but the class-types, and the relation of the classes to one another were much the same
at the era of the Conquest and
at the era of Henry VII. Since then we have been sweeping through a multiplicity of changes, increasing every century in their
frequency and intensity, till
now at length the youngest of us would scarcely recognize the England of his own boyhood. The results of this on our national
character are, at least for
the present, anything but good; the fever, and rapidity, and multiformity of modern life contrast painfully with the severe
and simple
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entireness of
the mediæval character:
- “ For what wears out the life of mortal men?
- ’Tis that from change to change their being rolls;
- ’Tis that repeated shocks, again, again,
- Exhaust the energy of strongest souls,
- And numb the elastic powers.
- Thou waitest for the spark from Heaven, and we
- Light half-believers of our casual creeds,
- Who never deeply felt nor clearly will’d;
- Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds,
-
10 Whose vague resolves never have been fulfill’d;
- For whom each year we see
- Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new;
- Who hesitate and falter life away,
- And lose to-morrow the ground won today—
- Ah do not we, Wanderer, await it too?”
—
Matthew Arnolde.
The Scholar Gipsy.
We can never reproduce the Past; yet may we hope to make its good our own, if we believe that, through all change of circumstance,
universal principles
of right and truth lie at the base of every success, and form the real greatness of every noble deed and character.
The topics which Mr. Froude dwells upon, and which we may more briefly refer to, as illustrating the care of government for
the people, and the mutual
consideration of various classes of society for each other, are: the feudal tenure of land; the sumptuary laws; the scale
of income; the rates of wages and
prices; the trade laws; the poor laws; and the education both of rich and poor for civil and military duties. Mr. Froude’s
hobby is the statute-book, as we
knew from his Oxford Essay, and very well he rides it;—illustrating from its pages every principle he lays down. And it is
worth while observing,
how different the tone of an act of parliament in those days was from those which are enacted now. They are absolutely readable;
they have graces of style
about them, and considerable vigour; the vigour of honest sturdy hearts, to which routine and red tape are abominations. Read
page: 365
this statute for the encouragement of the linen trade.
“The King’s Highness, calling to his most blessed remembrance the great number of idle people daily increasing throughout
this his
Realm, supposeth that one great cause thereof is by the continued bringing into the same the great number of merchandize made,
and brought out and from,
the parts beyond the sea into this his Realm, ready wrought by manual occupation; amongst the which wares one kind of merchandize
in great quantity,
which is linen cloth of divers sorts made in divers countries beyond the sea, is daily conveyed into this Realm; consumed
and spent within the same; by
reason whereof not only the said strange countries where the said linen cloth is made, by the policy and industry of making
and vending the same are
greatly enriched; and a marvellous great number of their people, men, women, and children, are set on work and occupation,
and kept from idleness, to
the great furtherance and advancement of their commonwealth; but also contrariwise the inhabitants and subjects of this Realm,
for lack of like policy
and industry, are compelled to buy all or most part of the linen cloth consumed in the same, amounting to inestimable sums
of money. And also the people
of this Realm, as well men as women, which should and might be set on work, by exercise of like policy and craft of spinning,
weaving, and making of
cloth, lies now in idleness and otiosity, to the high displeasure of Almighty God, great diminution of the King’s people,
and extreme ruin, decay, and
impoverishment of this Realm. Therefore, for reformation of these things, the King’s Most Royal Majesty intending, like a
most virtuous Prince, to
provide remedy in the premises; nothing so much coveting as the increase of the Commonwealth of this his Realm, with also
the virtuous exercise of his
most loving subjects and people, and to avoid that most abominable sin of idleness out of the Realm, hath, by the advice and
consent of his Lords and
Commons in Parliament assembled, ordained and enacted that every person occupying land for tillage, shall, for every sixty
acres which he hath under
the plough, sow one quarter of an acre in flax or hemp.”
Generally, the Statute-book of this age, as of all earlier ages in English history, shows a disposition to deal thus summarily
with what are now
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considered private affairs. The principle of a sumptuary law, for example, would in these days be scouted at once, as something
quite out of the province of
government. It undoubtedly is so, as we at present think of government; but every page of the early Statute-book shows that
such interference is not fairly
characterised as un-English. Indeed, among the word-trickeries by which we delude ourselves, that use of the word “English,”
and of
the yet more sacred word “
liberty,” as applied to the license of doing anything we please without reference to any
law, human or divine, is one of the most painful. In our own day, a wise and good philanthropist has been vehemently attacked
for proposing that a
magistrate should have power to inflict summary imprisonment on any man who was not able to give an account of his means of
livelihood; and more recently
still, one of the most enlightened of our statesmen has been cried down in the most unconscientious way, because he had the
boldness to bring forward a
scheme of compulsory education. This is not the place to criticise either measure; I only point to the fact, that both these
men, despite the abuse they met
with for their un-English love of policy, were recommending measures clearly in the spirit of the Plantagenet and Tudor period,
the longest and, during its
latter part, the most prosperous period in our history. With regard to sumptuary laws—such as that of 10 Ed. III., cap.
3, that nobody should have more than two courses at dinner—the obvious objection to this class of laws is that their enforcement
was
impossible; and Mr. Froude wisely remarks that they seem to have been promulgated more for the sake of the moral authority
which they had as a declaration
of what wise and good men considered to be right, than as laws to which obedience could be compelled.
The great principle of the feudal system, that the land of England must
page: 366
provide for the defence of England, was, in Henry the Eighth’s time, in full vigour. There was a military organization, a
descending scale of owners, each of whom possessed his separate rights with regard to those above and below him in the scale,
which the law guarded and none
might violate. Serfdom had merged into free servitude; and this was so regulated, that every man had his place; that, though
the peasantry had their own
choice of masters, there were severe restrictions which prevented either master or servant from disobeying the bond for any
light or insufficient reason.
Thus the balance was evenly held between a landed monopoly and a peasant proprietary—troublesome from the number of independent
owners, and
incompatible with the accumulation of capital. Of course all such arrangements pre-supposed a fidelity between man and man,
a reverence for the obligation
of oaths and acknowledgments, which we must admit we have lost.
But to make the comparison still closer; we are, perhaps, too much disposed to measure the happiness of a labouring man as
we measure everything else
now,—to regard it as varying directly as the wages, and inversely as the rent and the price of food, carrying that standard
back with us to the
fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, we meet with results that fairly startle us, though at the same time, they are no other
than ought to have been inferred
from the traditional sturdiness and fierceness of the English Commons upon the battle-field. The majority of labourers lived
in the houses of their
employers; if a man lived in a cottage of his own, he was probably worse off with regard to sustenance than his brother up
at the hall. Now look at the
prices of food. Wheat, always fluctuating of course, kept at a pretty steady average of six-and-eightpence the quarter—barley
being about three
shillings—beef and pork were fixed by statute at a halfpenny per pound—
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mutton at three farthings; though the act was unpopular,
as tending to raise the price. Fresh meat, moreover, was sold in all markets the whole year round. Strong beer, such as we
now buy for eighteen-pence a
gallon, was then a penny a gallon; table-beer less than a half-penny, French and German wines were eightpence the gallon—Spanish
and Portuguese
wines a shilling. This was the highest price at which the best wines might be sold; and if there was any fault in quality
or quantity, the dealers forfeited
four times the amount. Rent again, cannot be accurately fixed; and we can only judge from information about the rent of more
considerable farms, such as we
get from Latimer, who tells us in one of his sermons that his father “had no lands of his own; only he had
a farm of three or four
pounds by the year
, at the uttermost, whereupon he tilled so much as kept half-a-dozen men. He had walk for a hundred sheep, and my mother milked
thirty kine. He was able, and did find the king a harness with himself and his horse. I remember that I buckled on his harness
when he went to Blackheath
field. He kept me at school, or else I had not been able to have preached before the king’s majesty now. He married my sisters,
with five pounds or twenty
nobles each, having brought them up in godliness and the fear of God. He kept hospitality for his poor neighbours, and some
alms he gave to the poor; and
all this he did of the said farm.” Mr. Froude considers himself below the truth in assuming the penny in terms of bread, beef,
beer, wine, and
lodging, to have been equal in the reign of Henry VIII. to the present shilling. Then, if we turn to the table of wages, we
find an enactment, (6 Henry
VIII. cap. 3.) which fixes the wages of artisans (carpenters, masons, and the like) at sixpence a-day for half the year, five-pence
for the other half, or
an average
page: 367
of five-pence half-penny the year round; the common labourer, working by the piece in the harvest months, brought up his
average
to fourpence a-day for the whole year. Moreover, he was engaged by contract for a year, and could not be dismissed before,
unless grave misconduct could be
proved against him before two magistrates. So with a weekly holiday, he earned, steadily and regularly, the equivalent of
twenty shillings a week; besides
that, the parish almost always provided common land for fuel and pasture.
The main difference between this state of things and ours, lies in the fact that the rights of various classes were portioned
out by the rule, not of
economy, but of equity; it was not the accumulation of capital, but the highest degree of physical well-being of all classes
compatible with the producing
power of the country, that they desired to see. In those days, private proceedings interfering with the common weal, could
not for a moment be tolerated;
when, for instance, in the Isle of Wight, a system of uniting farms had begun to prevail, to the great depopulation of the
island, and manifest weakening of
its capabilities for defence, it was at once enacted that no one should take any several farms more than one, “whereof the
yearly value shall not
exceed the sum of ten marks;” and that, in case of leases of several farms to a greater value having been already made, the
lessee should choose
one farmhold, and the rest of his lease should be void. This measure soon justified itself; the population of the island almost
alone defended it in 1546,
against an army of 60,000 Frenchmen. A measure of somewhat similar form was carried in the twenty-fifth of Henry VIII. to
check the money-making spirit
which had begun to prevail in the country, enacting that no person should have or keep on lands not their own inheritance
more than 2000 sheep.
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Such other facts of this character as can be collected, Mr. Froude collects. He shows how the wealthier peers had incomes
varying from two to six
thousand a year, out of which they had to defray the cost of an enormous retinue, and, in war, of a great share of the expenses;
thinking, as they always
did, first of England, and only next of themselves; how the court expenses in this magnificent reign fell under twenty thousand
pounds, including the cost
of supporting the royal castles and forests, the yeomen and followers, in estimating which we must remember that though necessaries
were so cheap, luxuries
were very dear indeed; how the qualification of a justice was £20 a year, and how strict was the surveillance which he had
to exercise, and which
was exercised in turn over him; how the “wages” of a parish priest were kept by statute under £6, so that there could be no
very marked difference in habits between priest and squire, and the commons among whom they lived; how the glory of hospitality
was kept up, and all tables
open at dinner time to all comers; how the people lived in frank style, “hating three things with all their hearts—idleness,
want, and cowardice, and for the rest, carrying their hearts high, and having their hands full.”
Then he goes on to speak of trade, of the guilds and companies, of which only the shadows now remain, but which were part
of a vast organization
penetrating the entire trading life of England, an “organization set on foot to realize that most necessary, if not difficult condition of
commercial excellence, under which man should deal faithfully with his brother; and all wares offered for sale, of whatever
kind, should honestly be
what they pretend to be.” There were companies in every town, whose duty was to see that no one professed a trade to which he had not
been educated, to determine the price at which
page: 368
every article ought to be sold, to take care that every one bought what he supposed himself to be buying. Into the details
of
this system, and the statutes which illustrate it, I can hardly follow him; I will bring this uninteresting abstract, or rather
enumeration of particulars,
to a close by very briefly referring to two other points.
Every man was trained as a soldier; when the bow became the peculiar weapon of the English, regular practice was
ordered:—“Every hamlet had its pair of butts, and on
Sundays and holidays all able-bodied men were
required to appear in the field, to employ their leisure hours as valyant Englishmen ought to do;” a statute re-enacted by Henry
VIII., himself the best rider, the best lancer, the best archer in England, with the proviso that “every man being the King’s subject, not
lame, decrepit, or maimed, being within the age of sixty years, except spiritual men, justices of the one bench and of the
other, justices of the
assize, and barons of the exchequer, do use and exercise shooting in long bows, and also do have a bow and arrows ready continually
in his house, to use
himself in shooting.” This, then, was the principal amusement of the English, but they were moreover an especially dramatic people;
plays and pageants, and allegorical devices of fantastic splendour, fill up a large portion of the pages of the contemporary
historians.
Where hospitality is so general, vagrancy must be guarded against; and accordingly we find many very severe acts against “valiant
and
sturdy beggars;” two, especially, in Henry VIII.’s reign. Indeed, from the time of Richard II. there had been a series of
poor-laws, indicating
plainly enough that pauperism was no result of the dissolution of the monasteries, as one hears every day from weak and vain
opponents of the measure. The
Act of 1531 provided that justices of peace
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should make strict search in their several parishes and districts for all aged and impotent persons,
living necessarily on alms, and appoint to each certain limits within which they shall beg (under penalty of being whipped),
furnishing them with letters
authorizing them to beg; that if any person or persons, “being whole and mighty in body,” be found begging, or be not able
to give
account of himself, he should be arrested and brought to the next market town, and there tied to the cart’s-tail, and whipped
“till his body be
bloody by reason of such whipping,” and then be enjoined on oath to return to his parish and put himself to labour “like a
true man
ought to do;” that scholars of the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge that go about begging without due license from the
chancellor or other
authority, shipmen pretending loss of their ships, proctors, pardoners, and all other idle persons, using various games and
plays, or feigning knowledge in
“physick, physnamye, and palmistry,” should be punished in the same way; and on the second offence be scourged two days, put
in the
pillory for two hours, and lose one ear, the other being mercifully reserved for the event of a third transgression. The Act
of 1536 was yet more severe;
the increasing evil required a stringent remedy; and now the sturdy vagabond found a third time offending, and thus proving
himself to be of no use on the
earth, but only living thereon to the harm of the commonwealth, was punished with death. This law was formally and deliberately
repassed under Elizabeth,
and it was thus shown to be the express conviction of the English nation that it was “better for a man not to live at all,
than to live a
profitless and worthless life.”
The English were a stern people; their intense hatred of evil brooked no sentimentalities. Between the passing of these two
Acts, a dreadful
crime—the crime of poisoning, unknown in
page: 369
England before, was punished (for the first and last time) by a most dreadful death; the convicted criminal was boiled alive.
Such things happened in London three hundred and thirty years ago. Even the martyr-fires of Smithfield were far less an evidence
of recklessness or cruelty,
than of a stern determination to oppose to the very uttermost all that was repugnant to God’s law. Right opinion, to the people
of that day, seemed most
intimately and closely connected with right action; the heretic was an enemy to the commonweal; an enemy to man and God.
I have been thus disproportionately lengthy in my analysis of the first chapter of Froude, because it is the most important
in his book. To correct
errors in the popular belief about individual characters and particular actions, such as the execution of Anne Boleyn, is
indeed well; but it is surely a
greater work to chastise and refute a false belief about a whole period, a gratuitous and ungenerous assumption that we are
better and better off than they,
without whose labour and unselfishness we should not have been even what we are, should scarcely have been a nation at all.
Such wholesome arrangements as we have been considering go right to the mark; they were helped by the national spirit. The
course which public opinion
and parliamentary tradition necessitates in any parallel case, now seems bungling and inoperative beside them. Take an instance
from the adulteration of
saleable articles, especially articles of food: as long as the organization of trade-guilds, which Mr. Froude describes worked
well, and for a long time it
did work well, there was very little fear of such adulteration; the main safeguard, being the public spirit and sense of duty
among the tradesmen
themselves. This cannot be too much insisted on as a feature of the time; all knowledge we can anywhere obtain about the inner
life
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of that age
confirms the obvious inference from the statute book. We, on the other hand, have bartered the moral power of preventing such
abuses for the scientific
power of detecting them. Instead of public virtue, in the least as in the greatest, we have Dr. Harsall and his microscope,
and a Parliamentary Committee
sitting from day to day, Mr. Scholefield in the chair. One fears they will have to sit a long time before Devilsdust, the
miller, and Cocculus, the brewer,
and Chalk, Alum, and Co. the bakers, are, as they ought to be, utterly and thoroughly expunged from among the types of English
society. Legislation can only
utter a feeble protest against the tone of public morals on all such points; it can take but half or quarter measures where
it can interfere at all. We must
look far deeper for the possible source of a change in the spirit of the commercial classes. Such a change, one may hope,
God is even now preparing for us.
At all events, many things which have happened lately, instances of self-devotion and public feeling which we were hardly
prepared to see, as well as the
roused indignation of the people against the perpetrators of some more than usually startling frauds, combine to assure us
that there is manly and English
feeling left among us, of such sort and in such degree, as to give us the best and highest hope for the future.
Turning now to the narrative part of this history, I shall run very rapidly through the great drama that is nearly played
out within these two
volumes, itself most rapid, action succeeding action, with a swiftness that takes away the breath. And yet the English Parliament
knew full well what they
were about; they saw that revolution was inevitable; they went on with bold hearts and steady faces, little recking of the
future, but only of the present,
and their duty that lay therein: and like every great work which the people of England have ever achieved, this
page: 370
work was done soberly and peacefully, without loss of temper or
- “The random heat,
- And blind hysterics of the Celt.”
The devout world of England at the time of the death of Wolsey was still for the most part Romanist. There was great excitement
among the people; they
had begun to see very clearly that the priesthood were not labouring for their benefit, but for their own, and to suspect
that the broad distinction which
the Church had laboured to draw between the religious and secular world (like the analogous distinction among modern Protestants),
was by no means
coincident with, but rather traversed almost at right angles, the broader distinction which God’s word and men’s consciences
drew, between those who did
right and those who did wrong. They saw priests committing with impunity, or under peril of a small pecuniary mulct, sins,
for which if amenable to a
secular tribunal, they would have suffered most severely; while a layman, if brought under the power of the ecclesiastical
courts by even the slightest
suspicion of heresy, was kept in prison at the pleasure of the ordinary, and suffered all sorts of inconvenience, without
the slightest hope of
compensation. Naturally, the priests were most unpopular, and if a clergyman was knocked down into the kennel, as often happened,
the presumption is not
that the offender was a Wickliffite or a “Lutheran,” but rather that he was not. These were waiting in silence the course
of events,
enrolling themselves in the Association of Christian Brothers in London, meeting stealthily in little companies at one another’s
rooms at Oxford, or
gathering round Tyndal at Antwerp; poor, few, and unknown; armed only with the truth. Listen to what Froude says of the principle
which carried them to
victory; his words are worth pondering.
“They had returned to the essential fountain of life; they re-asserted the principle which has lain at the root of
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all religions,
whatever their name or outward form, which once burnt with divine lustre in that Catholicism which was now to pass away; the
fundamental axiom of all
real life, that the service which man owes to God is not the service of words or magic forms, or ceremonies or opinions; but
the service of holiness, of
purity, of obedience to the everlasting laws of duty.
“When I look through the writings of Latimer, the apostle of the English Reformation, when I read the depositions against
the martyrs,
and the lists of their crimes against the established faith, I find no opposite schemes of doctrine, no plans of ‘salvation,’
no
positive system of theology which it was held a duty to believe; these things were of later growth, when it became again necessary
to clothe the living
spirit in a perishable body. I find only an effort to express again the old exhortation of the wise man—‘Will you hear the
beginning and the end of the whole matter? Fear God and keep his commandments; for that is the whole duty of man.’
“This, as I understand it, was the position of the early Protestants. They found the service of God buried in a system where
obedience
was dissipated into superstition; where sin was expiated by the vicarious virtues of other men: where, instead of leading
a holy life, men were taught
that their souls might be saved through masses said for them, at a money rate, by priests whose licentiousness disgraced the
nation which endured it; a
system in which, amidst all the trickery of the pardons, pilgrimages, indulgences—double-faced as these inventions are—wearing
one
meaning in the apologies of theologians, and quite another to the multitude who live and suffer under their influence—one
plain fact at least
is visible. The people substantially learnt that all evils which could touch either their spirits or their bodies, might be
escaped by means which
resolved themselves, scarcely disguised, into the payment of moneys.
“The superstition had lingered long: the time had come when it was to pass away. Those in whom some craving lingered for a
Christian
life turned to the heart of the matter, to the book which told them who Christ was, and what he was. And finding there that
holy example for which they
longed, they flung aside, in one noble burst of enthusiastic passion, the disguise which had concealed it from them. They
believed in Christ, not in the
bowing rood,
page: 371
or the pretended wood of the cross on which he suffered; and when that saintly figure had once been seen—the
object of all love, the pattern of all imitation—thenceforward neither form nor ceremony should stand between them and their
God.”
Wolsey was not a persecutor; he had nothing harsh about his nature; he never punished where he could silence; and his conduct
in this respect stands
in strange contrast to that of his successor Sir Thomas More. This is one of the cases in which, if we could look back at
the men of old, we should be very
prone to reverse our judgments as hastily as we formed them. We should see with surprise the spotless saint, sending innocent
men to the stake for having in
their possession an English Testament, or keeping them imprisoned in his own house in defiance of the law, and we should see
the unscrupulous Cardinal
refusing to hear accusations, or if he must needs takes cognizance of them, taking the utmost pains, and braving the opposition
of his brother Churchmen, to
save the lives of the transgressors.
There is a curious narrative by one Dalaber, an Oxford undergraduate, which I wish I could give in full, so well it illustrates
the difficulties with
which seekers after truth had to contend in those days, and so close it brings us to the life of three centuries ago. Wolsey
founded, as we all know, a
college at Oxford, called St. Frideswide, or Cardinal College (now Christ Church); he introduced some promising students from
Cambridge, courting talent,
as he always did, instead of crushing it. Frith, the martyr, was among them, and John Clark, who used to read St. Paul’s epistles
to a select circle of
young men; these formed themselves into a secret society, and a certain Thomas Garret, a fellow of Magdalen, and “Christian
Brother”
of London, coming up to Oxford with a whole library of Testaments and tracts, took the lead among them. The
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alarm is taken; the proctors are out after
Garret: Dalaber of Alban Hall, whose brother in Dorsetshire wants a curate, sends Garret thither, that he may “convey himself
some
whither” over the sea. Dalaber then for his own safety, migrates to Gloucester (where now stands Worcester College), on the
Thursday, and, having
by Saturday afternoon arranged his furniture and books in his new chamber, (all but the heretical books, which he kept in
a secret place at his old rooms,)
determines “to spend that whole afternoon, until evensong at St. Frideswide College, at my book in mine own study; and so shut my chamber
door unto me, and my study door also, and took into my head to read Francis Lambert upon the gospel of St. Luke, which book
only I had then within
there. And so, as I was diligently reading in the said book of Lambert upon Luke, suddenly one knocked at my chamber-door
very hard, which made me
astonished, and yet I sat still, and would not speak; then he knocked again more hard, and yet I held my peace; and straightway
he knocked again yet
more fiercely; and then I thought this: peradventure it is somebody that hath need of me; and therefore I thought myself bound
to do as I would be done
unto; and so, laying my book aside, I came to the door and opened it, and there was Master Garret, as a man amazed, whom I
thought to have been with my
brother, and one with him.” Garret, it seems, had lost heart, returned, been taken by the proctors, been locked up in the rector’s
house at Lincoln, escaped while the rector was at chapel, and found his way to Dalaber: but the servant who had directed him
to his friend’s rooms slipped
off suspiciously, and they felt by no means secure. After they had prayed together, with much weeping, and consulted what
was to be done, Dalaber packs him
off again, in disguise,
page: 372
into Wales; returns to his study, and “with many a deep sigh and salt tear did with much deliberation read over the
tenth chapter of St. Matthew’s gospel.” Then he went to Frideswide to find Master Clark; they were almost at Magnificat before
he came thither.
He stood at the choir door; he ought to have been among the singers, but now his singing and music was turned into sighing
and musing. As he stood there, he
saw the Commissary (the Rector of Lincoln) come hurrying in, “bareheaded, as pale as ashes (I knew his grief well enough), and to the dean he
goeth in his stall, and talked with him very sorrowfully. Then they two came away; and about the middle of the church met
them, Dr. London, puffing,
blustering, and blowing, like a hungry and greedy lion seeking his prey. They talked together awhile; but the commissary was
much blamed by them, in so
much that he wept for sorrow.” Dalaber consults “the brethren” at Corpus Christi, stops the night at his old
lodging at Alban Hall, and rising at five hastens through the storm to his rooms at Gloucester College. He arrives there all
over mud; the gates are not
opened till seven, and he paces about, full of care, under the walls for two hours. He finds that the proctors have visited
his chamber, thrown his books
and clothes into disorder, probed the very bedstraw with bills and swords. He is sent for by the “prior of the students,”
replies to
his questionings with an ingenious lie, to the effect that Garret had gone to Woodstock for a piece of venison promised him
by one of the keepers; is
summoned before the Commissary, the Dean and Dr. London (Warden of New); after a long and unsatisfactory cross-questioning,
is set in the stocks, and
meditates there of many and godly things which he had heard from Master John Clark; about noontide the commissary visits him,
and finding him
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obstinate, offers him some dinner. Here the narrative abruptly closes and the world will never know whether or no Dalaber
obtained the promised dinner. We
only know that he confessed nothing, except his own heresy, and was sent to Bocardo; that “the Commissary being in extreme pensiveness,
knew no other remedy but this extraordinary, and caused a figure to be made by one expert in astronomy—and his judgment doth
continually
persist upon this, that he fled in a tawny coat, south-east-ward, and is in the middle of London, and will shortly to the
seaside,”
and that, by less doubtful means, he was, after all, discovered at Bristol, conducted to Wolsey, and persuaded to abjure.
It is rather a relief to know that
he died afterwards for the truth which for once he surrendered. Clark too was imprisoned, and died in confinement, and of
the rest, some abjured, and all
were dispersed. So died out heresy in Oxford.
The most powerful auxiliary of Protestant doctrine was Papal corruption. The enormous abuses of the Ecclesiastical courts,
the mortuaries and the
Peter’s pence, the profligacy and the non-residence of the clergy, weighed far more heavily on the people than any question
of mass or purgatory. The
clerical system was felt to be utterly out of place in this industrious England—a blot upon the land. The priests and monks
had, like all other
classes, a great work which God had given them to do—to develop religion and intellect in all men, to help the poor and infirm,
to try all state
policy, all private transactions, by the highest motives—a grander work than anything in these days will help us to conceive.
They had become
unfaithful and unconscientious, the only idle class in the realm. There was but one bishop in all England, Latimer said, hard
at work in his diocese,
namely, the Devil. He so busy, and they so idle, what would have become
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of public morals, but that God had taught the English people a better lesson than their clergy could teach them?—and
in the strength of that lesson they saw that, come what might, the Church must be reformed. Wolsey saw it too: he set to work
earnestly, but it was not to
be done his way; he would have reformed the Church without relaxing the connection with Rome, or leaving room for doctrinal
innovation. He would have purged
the monasteries, not suppressed them; and when the English succession was settled, and the alliance with France was established,
he would have joined the
victorious arms of the two countries in a holy crusade against German heresy and Moslem infidelity, and Europe should once
more have been one fold, under
one shepherd. But it was not to be: though it was only what we call a combination of circumstances which put an end to his
scheming.
King Henry had set his heart on the divorce. We know nothing of the private influences, the stirrings behind the scenes, which
perhaps had originated,
or, at all events, confirmed his resolve. Henry’s genial and impetuous temperament, and Catharine’s stern severity, were not
likely to coincide well. We
only know that it cannot have been unbridled passion in the first instance for another woman which led him to seek for the
divorce. He had never seen Anne
Boleyn; he was not a man—and this must distinctly be borne in mind—of licentious habits, he had passed the flower of his youth
without
blemish; and yet his determination was fixed so that no power on earth could shake it. It were far nearer the truth to say
that he desired a separation for
public reasons. At all events, for public reasons it was most desirable; and so the people felt. There was no hope of settling
the succession while
Catharine was queen; Henry had looked in vain for a son; Mary was weak and delicate, and whether she survived so long or no,
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her father’s death would
be the signal for civil war. The question of succession was most doubtful; the country was only now taking breath after a
long and very calamitous war which
a similar doubt had originated. James of Scotland, the next heir, was hated by the people, yet he would have rejoiced to force
himself upon them, and France
would have backed his claims. A White Rose agitation was fermenting in secret, and Poles and Nevilles and Courtenays were
rallying round the heiress of the
king-maker. We must not, led away by pity for a loving and suffering woman, refuse to give considerations like these their
due weight. Moreover, we have no
right to assume that the moral scruples which Henry repeatedly put forth did not exist. He was no hypocrite, more than we
all are. Every one’s conscience is
more sensitive when its dictates coincide with inclination, and have expediency to back them; and the legitimacy of his connexion
with Catharine was
certainly open to the gravest doubt. The main obstacles to an agreement were Catharine’s resolute and stern purpose, which
would admit of no compromise, and
the chivalrous ardour of her nephew, Charles the Fifth, in her favour.
European affairs were, at this crisis, curiously complicated. An army of Charles’s Lutheran subjects, under Bourbon, had sacked
Rome, and imprisoned
and insulted the Pope. Henry, on the other hand, seemed the Pope’s mainstay. Even Wolsey was misled into believing that the
Emperor was the enemy of the
Papacy, and though England and Spain were bound together by long and close alliance, by the personal popularity of Charles,
and by the intimate commercial
connexion between the English and the Flemish merchants, he determined on a rupture; preferring, in opposition to the instincts
and genius of the nation, a
French alliance. It was a desperate throw, and he staked everything upon
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it. A league was formed with Francis to drive the imperialist troops from Italy, and, if possible, depose the Emperor. Meanwhile,
a long and dreary course of negociations had been opened at Rome on the divorce—negociations which had but one result, to
disgust the English
king and people with a tribunal which could only support its claim to infallibility by chicanery and vacillation. This was
just one of those cases for which
the Pope’s dispensing power had been conferred on him: if he could not meet the case openly, prudently, and courageously,
men would naturally suspect the
authority by which he held the power. They were beginning to feel that the ecclesiastical jurisdiction was on its trial, that
it must stand or fall by
Clement’s conduct on this occasion. He was a poor weak old man, with no convictions of any sort, but always swayed by what
he had last heard. He inclines at
first to support Henry; but will the alliance shield him from the Emperor’s wrath? He sobs, and sighs, and shuffles, and twists
and untwists his
handkerchief, and waits, as weak men wait, for “something to happen.” Wolsey assures him that there is nothing but
“universal and inevitable ruin” before him if he does not comply. Gardiner taunts him with a dilemma:—if he
will not decide, where is his justice? If he
cannot, God must have taken from him the key of knowledge.
“True,” said Clement, “the canon law says that the Pope has all laws locked up in the writing-case of his breast (
in scrinio pectoris), but God forgot to give him the key to open that lock.” Meanwhile the French are defeated and driven out of Italy by the
imperialists, and things become more gloomy for Wolsey day by day. The loudest discontent is expressed against a course of
policy which tends to starve out
the Flemish trade, so essential to the commercial prosperity of England; and as Campeggio, who has now arrived,
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shows quite clearly that his object
and his master’s is simply procrastination, Wolsey feels that his credit is gone. That was a strange utterance of his, for
an infirm old man of sixty, that
“if he could only see the divorce arranged, the king re-married, the succession settled, and the laws and the church reformed,
he would retire
from the world, and would serve God the remainder of his days.” But what with imperial intrigues, and Flemish traders, and
Papal dissimulation,
and a whole country roused against him, he could not stand even to see the beginning of these things, and so fell: a man of
comprehensive views, of
courageous heart, of princely habits, true to himself, true to his country, true to his order; whom would that men would judge,
not as they have judged him
hitherto, but as they would be judged themselves.
This, then, is the position of affairs at the beginning of the autumn of 1529. Campeggio has urged Catharine to a compromise,
and she has refused: the
Pope has, by means of various legal subtleties (including a forged brief), escaped from his promise not to recall the Commission,
thus virtually
transferring the cause to Rome; Wolsey has, in the King’s name, defied him to transfer it, but, finding his fall inevitable,
has resigned the seals to Sir
Thomas More; writs have been issued for a Parliament; Henry has established Anne Boleyn at the palace at Greenwich, and publicly
acknowledged her as his
intended wife.
And now, before the curtain rises, and the drama fairly begins, let us glance for a moment at Mr. Froude’s estimate of the
chief actor, his greatness,
and his vices; and let us mark it well as a specimen of the loving human way in which he looks on every one whom he deals
with.
“If Henry VIII. had died previous to the first agitation of the divorce, his
page: 375
loss would have been deplored as one of the heaviest misfortunes which had ever befallen the country; and he would have left
a name which would have taken its place in history by the side of that of the Black Prince or of the conqueror of Agincourt.
Left at the most trying
age, with his character unformed, with the means at his disposal of gratifying every inclination, and married by his ministers
when a boy to an
unattractive woman far his senior, he had lived for thirty-six years almost without blame, and bore through England the reputation
of an upright and
virtuous King. Nature had been prodigal to him of her rarest gifts. In person he is said to have resembled his grandfather,
Edward IV. who was the
handsomest man in Europe. His form and bearing were princely; and amidst the easy freedom of his address, his manner remained
majestic. No knight in
England could match him in the tournament, except the Duke of Suffolk; he drew with ease as strong a bow as was borne by any
yeoman of his guard; and
these powers were sustained in unfailing vigour by a temperate habit and by constant exercise. Of his intellectual ability
we are not left to judge from
the suspicious panegyrics of his contemporaries. His State papers and letters may be placed by the side of those of Wolsey
or of Cromwell, and they lose
nothing in the comparison. Though they are broadly different, the perception is equally clear, the expression equally powerful,
and they breathe
throughout an irresistible vigour of purpose. In addition to this, he had a fine musical taste, carefully cultivated; he spoke
and wrote in four
languages; and his knowledge of a multitude of other subjects with which his versatile ability made him conversant, would
have formed the reputation of
any ordinary man. He was among the best physicians of his age; he was his own engineer, inventing improvements in artillery
and new constructions in
ship-building; and this not with the condescending incapacity of a royal amateur, but with thorough workman-like understanding.
His reading was vast,
especially in theology, which has been ridiculously ascribed by Lord Herbert to his father’s intention of educating him for
the Archbishopric of
Canterbury; as if the scientific mastery of such a subject could have been acquired by a boy of twelve years of age, for he
was no more when he became
Prince of Wales. He must have studied theology with the full maturity of his understanding;
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and he had a fixed and perhaps unfortunate interest in
the subject itself.
“In all directions of human activity Henry displayed natural powers of the highest order, at the highest stretch of industrious
culture. He was
‘attentive,’ as it is called, ’to his religious duties,’ being present at the services in chapel two or
three times a day with unfailing regularity, and showing to outward appearance a real sense of religious obligation in the
energy and purity of his
life. In private he was good-humoured and good-natured. His letters to his secretaries, though never undignified, are simple,
easy, and unrestrained;
and the letters written by them to him are similarly plain and business-like, as if the writers knew that the person whom
they were addressing disliked
compliments, and chose to be treated as a man. Again, from their correspondence with one another, when they describe interviews
with him, we gather the
same pleasant impression. He seems to have been always kind, always considerate; inquiring into their private concerns with
genuine interest, and
winning, as a consequence, their warm and unaffected attachment.
We must allow him the benefit of his past career, and be careful to remember it, when interpreting his later actions. Not
many men
would have borne themselves through the same trials with the same integrity, but the circumstances of those trials had not
tested the true defects in
his moral constitution. Like all princes of the Plantagenet blood, he was a person of a most intense and imperious will. His
impulses, in general nobly
directed, had never known contradiction; and late in life, when his character was formed, he was forced into collision with
difficulties with which the
experience of discipline had not fitted him to contend. Education had done much for him, but his nature required more correction
than his position had
permitted, whilst unbroken prosperity and early independence of control had been his most serious misfortune. He had capacity,
if his training had been
equal to it, to be one of the greatest of men. With all his faults about him, he was still, perhaps, the greatest of his contemporaries;
and the man
best able of all living Englishmen to govern England, had been set to do it by the conditions of his birth.”
On the third of November the Parliament met,—that Parliament which
page: 376
was to achieve so grand a result. It knew that its task was to superintend a revolution: the country knew it too, and watched
its
proceedings with the silence of suspense. What was the Church they had to reform? What were the Consistory Courts, the pride
and stay of that Church? An
institution founded and built up for the noblest ends had degenerated into a mere machine for making money. For a hundred
misdemeanours of a class so
trivial and vague as to include promise-breaking, impatience, absence from church, and the like, for the nonpayment of probate
and legacy duties, and
especially for complaints against the constitution of the Courts (which savoured of heresy), men might be summoned to the
court of the Archbishop, miles and
miles away from home; if they did not attend, they were excommunicated, and had to pay for their release; if they attended,
they were delayed, perhaps for
weeks, before the cause was heard, and if then the accusation could not be proved, (though in case of heresy proof was made
purposely as easy as possible,)
they had no means of recovering costs. Nor was all this a mere latent power in the hands of the Church; it was daily exercised
in innumerable cases, in a
manner most oppressive and exorbitant; and when men saw
what the clergy were, (and the most unfavourable statements which have been made
against them are fully borne out by the extant records of the Courts,) they refused to accept as arbiters of
their morals those who showed
so little care for their own.
The first proceeding of this Parliament, was an “act of accusation” against the Clergy, drawn up before the session, and
presented to the king at the very commencement of it, in the name of the Commons of England. They complained therein of “discord,
variance, and
debate,” ensuing as well “through new fantastical and erroneous opinions, grown by occasion of
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frantic seditious books compiled, imprinted, published, and made in the
English tongue, contrary and against the very true Catholic and Christian faith; as also by the extreme and uncharitable behaviour
and dealing of divers
ordinaries, their commissaries and sumners, which have heretofore had, and yet have, the examination in and upon the said
errors and heretical
opinions;” and they specify, in no very accurate order, a series of grievances:—the laws made in convocation, without the
assent of the king or any lay subjects, and yet binding the laity as much as the clergy; the paucity of proctors in the courts,
so that no layman
“can ne in nowise may have indifferent counsel;” the causeless and frequent summons before the ordinaries, and costs consequent
thereon; the exorbitant fees taken in the courts; the refusal of the sacraments, unless money be paid for them; the enormous
sums levied as probate duties;
the fees to the ordinary on the induction into a benefice; the frequent presentation by the ordinaries of “sundry benefices
unto certain young
folks,” called,
ex euphemismo, their nephews or kinsfolk; the great number of holidays, fostering vice and idleness, and in harvest-time found very inconvenient;
the illegal
imprisonments by bishops, and their secret tribunals; the impossibility of recovering costs after a false accusation; the
nature of the examination for
heresy, questions being put purposely to “trap a simple unlearned, or yet a well-witted layman without learning,” and
two witnesses of any or no character being deemed sufficient to establish a charge. The king requests Parliament to draw up
enactments meeting the several
cases, and submits the petition to the bishops, who are soon ready with an answer, showing most significantly their blindness
to the signs of the times, and
their confidence in the sanctity of their own office. Among other things they require that, as their
page: 377
power of making laws is vested in them by Scripture and the Church, the king may, “if there appear cause why,
with the assent of his people, temper his laws accordingly; whereby shall ensue a most sure and hearty conjunction and agreement,
God being
lapis angularis;” and assert, that no heretic suffers but by his own subtlety, and that “no man has been damaged or
prejudiced by spiritual jurisdiction in this behalf, neither in this realm nor in any other, but only by his own deserts.”
To this extraordinary document the House pays little attention; but goes on with its work, curtailing probate duties, legacy-duties,
and mortuaries,
inhibiting the Clergy from secular employment, enforcing residence, and limiting the number of pluralities, which, with some
smart skirmishing with the
Upper House and the bench of bishops, is work enough for one session; and in the middle of December Parliament is prorogued;
and “viands and
interludes” become the order of the day.
Meanwhile, the cause of the divorce has been advoked to Rome; and the Pope, now quite under the influence of the Emperor,
has threatened Henry with
spiritual censures if he take any further steps. Henry, by Cranmer’s suggestion, as we generally hear, has put the question
on a new ground
altogether,—Had Pope Julius power at all to permit a man to marry his brother’s widow? Was not the dispensation
ipso facto void? Only general consent, expressed in a council or otherwise, could settle this: the Pope was not the authority to fix
the limits of his own
power. So the opinions of Universities and learned men are collected; the king’s agents generally doing more than simply requesting
a judgment. About this
time the Emperor is to be crowned at Bologna, in the miserable Italy which he has wasted, by the hands of a Pope whom he has
insulted and imprisoned: who
yet, France being schismatically inclined,
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and England so remote, has to look to him for protection and succour. To Bologna repairs the Earl of
Wiltshire, with three ecclesiastics, on a mission from Henry, promising pecuniary and other satisfaction for the unfortunate,
yet necessary arrangements,
with regard to Catharine; or if this be not accepted, threatening, that Henry if he could not do what he would, would do what
he could, and fear God rather
than man. Charles simply refuses to deal with Anne Boleyn’s father, as an interested party; and so the matter ends, and there
is no other attempt made to
conciliate the Emperor. Clement vacillates, as usual, and tries to please both sides, succeeding, as he deserves, in not pleasing
either. What can he do? He
cannot afford to lose either Germany or England. By this time the opinions of Universities begin to come in; gained, one scarcely
dare guess by what means.
Craft is met by craft; Spanish and English agents try to outwit one another in Italy; and whoever bids highest, gets a decision
in his favour. In Germany we
can only see that the Lutheran party is clear against Henry; in France, subtle motives of policy attach the king to the English
side, and he orders the
University to decide in Henry’s favour; a strange way of getting at the truth on an abstract question of theology. All that
Mr. Froude, or any one else can
say, is, that intrigue, intimidation, and bribery, were used indiscriminately on both sides, and that the discussion was universally
understood to be a
competition of skill in those arts. How was it with Oxford and Cambridge? precisely as “their later characters would have led us
respectively to expect from them.” So says Mr. Froude, who knows something, certainly, of Oxford, and is not very likely to be
biassed in its favour. “The heads of houses, and the senior doctors and masters, submitted their consciences to state dictation without
opposition, and, as it seemed, without reluctance. . . . But there was
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a class of residents which appears to be perennial in that University, composed out of the younger masters; a class which,
defective alike in age, in wisdom, or in knowledge, was distinguished by a species of theoretic High Church fanaticism; and
which, until it received its
natural correction from advancing years, required from time to time to be protected against its own extravagance by some form
of external pressure.
These were the persons whom the king was addressing in his more severe language, and it was not without reason that he had
recourse to
it.” A committee is suggested, consisting of the heads of houses, the proctors, and the graduates in divinity and law; the recalcitrant
masters demur, and demand full convocation, where they are sure of a majority; the king interferes with a letter, rebuking
the contentious and factious
conduct of the “youth” of that University, and reminding them that “
non est bonum
irritare crabrones
;” the “youth” of course submit, and the University seal is affixed to a document
declaring in favour of Henry. Cambridge, “being distinguished,” says Mr. Froude, “by greater openness
and largeness of mind, on this as on the other momentous subjects of the day, than the sister University, was able to preserve
a more manly bearing, and
escape direct humiliation.” Cambridge had just now a great name. A Cambridge man, Cranmer, had written the best book in favour of the
divorce; another Cambridge man, Latimer, had just been made, in defiance of the orthodox, who hated him, a select preacher
in the royal chapel. This was a
man who was very displeasing to the faithful, because, though he preached most excellent things about “sin, and godliness,
and
virtue,” he was clearly opposed to “candles,” and always ranting and raving about Holy Scripture. So much for Cranmer’s
expedient; it helped Henry’s cause on the whole, but considering what it involved, one would
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rather the young Cambridge man had been of a less
ingenious turn.
I suppose it was a similar ingenuity which discovered about this time, that Wolsey’s assumption of legatine power, and its
acknowledgment by the body
of the clergy, entitled him and them to the penalties of a
præmunire; entitled, in fact, the king and the nation to those penalties; but the clergy having sinned in many ways, it is deemed expedient
that this guilt
shall rest on them alone. Especially have they sinned in the extortion of money; and by the surrendering of money they shall
be punished. Only on payment of
£118,000 can they escape the full penalties to which their guilt, general and special, has rendered them liable; 100,000 (call
it 1,000,000), for
the province of Canterbury, and the rest for York. But this is not all; they are to designate the king “Protector and only
supreme Head of the
Church,” and swallow
that if they can. It is a hard morsel; with shuffling, and prevarication, and final ungracious yielding,
the work is done.
Second session of the House: no very important business, excepting the boiling alive, which I have referred to, of the Bishop
of Rochester’s cook, who
had poisoned two or three persons in the attempt to poison his master. Poor Fisher! aged as you are, saved from this danger
as you have been, no peaceful
grave waits you; be strong, old man; strong as you have hitherto been weak, if you would gain for yourself a name among men.
One other act of this session
deserves mentioning: the act “for the banishment out of the country of divers outlandish and vagabond people called Egyptians;”
remarkable as a symptom of the fanatic fears and superstitious cravings of the times. Old faiths were shaken, and new fancies
rife; every one was looking
for change; the faithless generation of monks and priests sought for a sign. A sign was given them such as they deserved.
A somnambulist servant girl, by
name Elizabeth
page: 379
Barton, speaking “very godly certain things concerning the seven deadly sins and the ten commandments,” and
therefore plainly inspired of heaven, becomes a centre of attraction to the clergy of Kent, and even the archbishop; and,
presuming on the reverence with
which she is listened to, and profiting by the instructions of certain ingenious fathers, establishes herself as a great religious
oracle, famous through
England, pronouncing distinctly against the House of Commons and the divorce, and imposing by her pretended inspiration, on
every one excepting the king:
even the sinking Wolsey believes; and the whole hierarchy accept with gladness the evident token that their cause is of God.
On the other hand, the Houses
of Parliament, having a strength in themselves which no supernaturalism can support or subvert, issue an address to the Pope,
putting before him, in a manly
and straightforward way, the feelings of the nation with regard to the divorce, and the necessity that existed on the Pope’s
part to respect those feelings.
What of Catharine, meanwhile, roused into jealousy by the court that is paid to Anne, Queen elect, under the very palace roof?
See, in the hot June, a
deputation wending their way to her Greenwich residence. Will she withdraw her appeal? No, truly; “for the king’s conscience, I pray God
send his Grace good quiet therein, and tell him I say I am his lawful wife, and to him lawfully married; and on that point
I will abide till the court
of Rome, which was privy to the beginning, hath made thereof a determination and a final ending.” Little hope in that quarter; only,
she must not stay at Greenwich. They fix her finally at Ampthill, with her own friends and servants about her; there she may
gather whom she will around
her, correspond with whom she will, be the nucleus if she will of an insurrectionary party, with her imperial nephew, and
the nun of Kent, and the Poles and
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Nevilles to support her; a party that shall never leave the court free from constant suspicion, and occasional armed interference,
till the headsman’s
axe at Fotheringay shall crush its last straggling hopes. Yes, we forget many things when we accuse Henry of arbitrary and
summary action.
“With despatches before his eyes, in which Charles V. was offering James of Scotland the hand of the Princess Mary, with the
title for
himself of Prince of England and Duke of York; —with Ireland, as we shall speedily see it, in flame from end to end, and Dublin
Castle, the
one spot left within the island on which the banner of St. George still floated, with a corps of friars in hairshirts and
chains, who are also soon to
be introduced to us, and an inspired prophetess at their head preaching rebellion in the name of God;—with his daughter and
his daughter’s
mother in league against him, some 40,000 clergy to be coerced into honest dealing, and the succession to the crown floating
in uncertainty; finally,
with excommunication hanging over himself, and, at length falling, and his deposition pronounced; Henry, we may be sure, had
no easy time of it, and no
common work to accomplish; and all these things ought to be present before our minds, as they were present before his mind,
if we would see him as he
was, and judge him as we would be judged ourselves.”
Now comes the third session of Parliament (January 15, 1531-2), convocation meeting the same day, and determining to exhume
and burn one Tracy, who
has died, bequeathing his soul to God through Christ’s mercies, and declining masses and saintly intercession. They want to
burn Latimer, too, but are
interrupted in that good work by pressing matters on the side of Parliament. The Commons are waking up; they go on from strength
to strength. Why should the
clergy be exempt at all from secular jurisdiction?
page: 380
Why should a villain who could write his name escape any more easily than a scoundrel who could not write his name? They
began by
enacting that no person under the degree of subdeacon, if guilty of felony, should be entitled to plead his clergy,—that is,
to escape with a
mere fine, where another would suffer death. Then they reformed the Arches Court, and limited the evasion of the Mortmain
Act; dealing with each of these
points in a temper wonderfully moderate; changing as little as they fairly could, and yet by every change they made greatly
relieving the people of England.
At this point comes a strange proceeding, the commencement of the threatened breach with Rome. Bishops and Archbishops, on
preferment, transmitted to the
Pope from old time the first year’s income of their sees, as “annates,” or first-fruits, a most grievous impost, both to the
individuals and their families, and to the state, carrying yearly so much bullion out of the country. The houses of convocation
petition the king for the
abolition of this impost, and all others which impoverished the Church of England for the benefit of the Church of Rome, and,
strangely enough, propose that
in case the Pope will not comply, the obedience of the people be withdrawn from that see. Gardiner had invented by this time
what Mr. Froude calls
the Anglican solecism—the notion of an independent and self-governed English church, adhering without variation to Catholic
orthodoxy, and the theory had grown into sudden popularity. The Commons, more equitable and moderate than the clergy, in passing
the bill, leave scope for
composition with Rome, if such should be possible; and then proceed to the question of the rights of convocation, which the
bishops finally surrender; and
thus the session ends, not satisfactorily for Sir Thomas More, who resigns the seals in suspicion and dread of such sweeping
charges, nor for old Archbishop
Warham,
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who draws up a formal protest against any legislation to the detriment of the church; and then lays himself down and dies;
but satisfactorily
enough, we may be sure, for king and people.
Threatening signs appear: Cromwell receives hourly information of seditious language and seditious acts in all parts of England:
a clerical revolt
seems ripe; every pulpit rings with the polemics of the divorce. Without, a tangled web of diplomacy is weaving; Henry, Francis,
and Charles, in turn, bully
and menace the Pope; and he soothes each in turn by promises. The Turk is pressing on the Emperor, and Germany seething with
sedition; England and France
refuse to help, and form between themselves a league offensive and defensive, to be ratified by a meeting between the sovereigns
at Boulogne. Francis
promises Henry all possible support, moral and material, more than he afterwards chooses to remember; and advises him to make
Anne Boleyn his wife at once.
The Pope, about this time, does not see why Henry should not have two wives; professes to Bonner and Bennet, and other agents,
that he has nearly reduced
the Emperor to submission; and at last suggests the alternative of a general council, or a relegation of the cause to an “indifferent
place.” Henry suspects him, fortunately for English independence, and cuts the knot, by marrying Mistress Anne, “somewhere
about St.
Paul’s day,” 1532-3. After all, the great fault in this transaction is a want of delicacy in dealing with Catharine, and a
blindness to the want
of delicacy in Anne Boleyn. That this lady should have consented to occupy the position she did for so long before her marriage,
is a strong presumption
against her; her “honour,” in the technical sense of the term, had not been endangered; the king was too scrupulous for that;
but the
least regard for the feelings of Catharine would have been incompatible with an assumption
page: 381
of queenly state before her marriage. Her antecedents are most suspicious; her childhood at Paris; her reputed engagement
with
Lord Percy, and the certain engagement with some person unknown, which she confessed before the Archbishop afterwards, and
which is confirmed by a curious
document found among Cromwell’s papers, all tend to fix the charge of levity on her character, and to throw doubt on the legitimacy
of her marriage with
Henry. Indeed, this precontract, which seems not to have been known till much later, according to the laws of that day, rendered
the marriage null and void
from the first. She was undoubtedly very beautiful: “her portraits, though all by Holbein, or copied from pictures by him, are singularly
unlike each other. The profile in the picture which is best known is pretty, innocent, and piquant, though rather insignificant:
there are other
pictures, however, in which we see a face more powerful, though less prepossessing. In these the features are full and languid.
The eyes are large; but
the expression, though remarkable, is not pleasing, and indicates cunning more than thought, and passion more than feeling;
while the lips and mouth
wear a look of sensuality which is not to be mistaken.” Now, at length, she is married, and only waiting to be happy, till the
divorce be legally pronounced, and she crowned Queen of England. Meanwhile, more complications at Rome are brought before
us; a pastoral letter from
Clement, appealing to Henry’s generosity; a postscript, in a very different spirit, bearing the same date, but not issued
till two months afterwards,
declaring Henry
ipso facto excommunicate, if he did not at once restore Catharine to her former position and rights. Then come waverings on the part
of Francis and secret
treaties with the Emperor, and a retirement from the scheme of schism which he and Henry had contemplated
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together; a sad mesh of intrigue and
insincerity, from which it is pleasant to turn to the bold and hopeful aspect of the English Parliament. They meet, February
4; in that terrible crisis,
forgetting the impending excommunication, they settle down quietly to pass Act after Act against social evil, frauds in trade,
dishonesty among shoemakers,
and so on; a fraction of the great work which the parliaments of those days set themselves, and which ran parallel all the
way with the more remarkable
exploits of the Ecclesiastical Reformation. “And to have beaten back, or even to have fought against and stemmed in ever so small a degree
those besetting basenesses of human nature, now held so invincible that the influences of them are assumed as the fundamental
axioms of economic
science; this appears to me a greater victory than Agincourt, a grander triumph of wisdom, and faith, and courage, than even
the English constitution or
the English liturgy.” The last act of the session is that famous “Act of Appeals,” the first bold and distinct
defiance of papal authority and tradition, commencing with a declaration that “this realm of England is an
empire,”
complete within itself in its two “terms of spiritualty and temporalty,” and finally laying down, not as a new statute, but
as an
assertion of the old law of the realm, that all ecclesiastical causes, testamentary and matrimonial, and all suits for tithes,
&c, shall henceforth
be adjudged in the spiritual and temporal courts within the realm, “without regard to any process of foreign jurisdiction, or any
inhibition, excommunication, or interdict;” and persons procuring processes, inhibitions, appeals, or citations, from the court of
Rome, their “fautors, comforters, counsellors, aiders, and abettors, all and every of them, shall incur the penalties of
præmunire;” while to meet Catharine’s special case, and do away with
page: 382
the seeming injustice of the retrospective law, there was a special clause introduced, permitting an appeal, in cases then
pending, from the Arches Court to the Upper House of Convocation.
Convocation, now the chief authority, decides against the lawfulness of Henry’s marriage with Catharine; and Cranmer straightway
opens a court at
Dunstable to try the case, and by May 23, closes the whole long litigation by deciding, finally, that the marriage was null
and void from the beginning.
This was no arbitrary proceeding in the sense we attach to the words; the trial was conducted as fairly as possible, the only
dissentient in convocation
being associated with Cranmer and three other bishops to try the case; and the king, whatever he may be thought to have assumed
in right of his new position
as head of the Church, had certainly no thought of setting himself above the law of the land. We have not the least right
to suppose that he was not sincere
in his belief of the justice of his cause, and in his determination to bring it to an issue in the fairest and most open way
possible.
Now nothing remains but the coronation of Anne; the splendours of that last day of May, 1533, have never been eclipsed by
a grander pageant; the cloth
of gold which blazed along Cheapside, the scarlet and crimson of Cornhill, the long and brilliant procession, closing with
the cynosure of all eyes, the
very star of the scene, the lovely Queen of England; then the pomps and allegorical devices, and “pretty conceits,” satiated
the gaze
and filled the heart; so that there was scarcely more thought of the sad, stern mourner at Ampthill, than of the yet sadder,
but less noble
victim—victim to her own follies and sins—who was destined to be gazed at by that crowd, three years later, in a far different
spirit.
Then comes the painful necessity of a proclamation that the Lady Catharine of Spain, heretofore called Queen of
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England, was not to be called by
that title any more, but to be called “Princess Dowager.” We read of her indignant protestations, of her brave bearing to
the last, of
her resolute determination not to yield one jot of her right before God and man; altogether the saddest domestic tragedy you
have ever read of.
The king had been cited to appear at Rome. He expected no less. The Pope is resolute, now that he has detached Francis from
Henry. A meeting between
Francis and Clement is arranged. Henry appeals to a general council. When the news of the Dunstable divorce becomes known
at Rome, the Pope is furious. He
issues a brief, commanding Henry to cancel the process, or, if he fail in doing so before the end of September, the censures
of excommunication, which he
had already incurred, would fall. Henry expostulates with Francis, to prevent his meeting the Pope; a meeting which he knows
bodes no good. When his
remonstrance fails, and there seems a prospect of the Pope, the emperor, and the king, uniting as a Catholic triumvirate against
him, he strives, though in
vain, to gain supporters among the German Protestant powers. He must stand or fall alone, it seems. He recks little, though,
of external politics, now that
guns and bells, and Te Deums are announcing to earth and heaven that Elizabeth is born; born, who can guess to how great a
future? born to be
- “A pattern to all princes living with her,
- And all that shall succeed: Saba was never
- More covetous of wisdom, and fair virtue,
- Than this pure soul shall be: all princely graces,
- That mould up such a mighty piece as this is,
- With all the virtues that attend the good,
- Shall still be doubled on her: truth shall nurse her,
- Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her:
- She shall be loved and feared. Her own shall bless her:
-
10Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn,
page: 383
- And hang their heads with sorrow. Good grows with her:
- In her days, every man shall eat in safety
- Under his own vine, what he plants; and sing
- The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours:
- God shall be truly known; and those about her
- From her shall read the perfect ways of honour,
- And by those claim their greatness, not by blood.”
Happy poet, who could write so about his sovereign; and so truly!
The next scene is at Marseilles. The meeting of the Pope and Francis; and there, amid gay French and gay Italians, and the
fair Catherine de Medici,
the Pope’s gift to France (a gift, the value of which future years would prove, all too terribly) appears a strange figure,
a rough, coarse, vuar
Englishman. Men call him Bonner. The Pope had threatened him with boiling lead before this. But he fears nothing, makes his
way up to Clement, and informs
him of Henry’s appeal to a general council. “And herewithal,” says he, “I drew out the said writing, showing his
said Holiness that I brought the same in proof of the premises, and that his Holiness might see and perceive all the same.
The Pope having this for a
breakfast, only pulled down his head to his shoulders, after the Italian fashion, and said, that because he was as then fully
ready to go unto the
consistory, he would not tarry to hear or see the said writings, but willed me to come at afternoon.” Afternoon came, and Bonner.
After much general discussion on the merits of the question, Bonner hands him the king’s appeal. The datary reads. When he
comes to the words,
“to the next general council which shall be lawfully held in place convenient,” his Holiness falls
“in a marvellous great choler and rage,” “continually folding up and unwinding of his handkerchief, which he
never doth but when he is tickled to the very heart with great choler.”
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After three days, being calmer, he sends
for Bonner, rejects Henry’s appeal, as “frivolous, forbidden, and unlawful;” and promises that he will do his best that
the council may meet. New shufflings; new attempts at compromise. Henry is the only one of the potentates who sees clearly
what he is about. It is a
question of simple right or wrong, and he will have an unconditional answer, or none at all.
His suspicions just now are roused at home. England and Ireland are both on the verge of insurrection. No one can tell how
deeply the danger has taken
root. The Princess Mary, now sixteen years old, refuses to surrender her title—refuses haughtily and unconditionally. Government
begins to
suspect that there is some secret influence from abroad at work. Two suspicious friars are arrested at Bugden; and it all
at once becomes evident that there
is a large insurrectionary party in the country, headed by the queen and princess, who believe, on the authority of the Nun
of Kent, that the king has
forfeited the crown, that he will die before many days have elapsed, or, at all events, that a revolution is imminent, which
will place the princess on the
throne. The Nun had declared that Henry would not live a month—certainly not six after his marriage with Anne. He married.
The
“one month passed; the six months passed; eight—nine months. His child was born and was baptized, and no divine thunder had
interposed; only a mere harmless verbal thunder, from a poor old man at Rome. The illusion, as he imagined, had been lived
down, and had expired of its
own vanity.” Not so. The king was like Saul, a king in the eyes of the world, but no king to God. This was treason; and the Friars
Mendicant, her emissaries all England through, were but missionaries of sedition and treason. Fisher and More, the queen and
princess, the marchioness of
Salisbury (heiress of the White Rose), had
page: 384
all tampered with the Nun. A large and simultaneous arrest was made. The Nun and the five friars, her chosen apostles, made
public confession of the course of guilt and imposture, for which, perhaps, they were more responsible than she. Among other
of the nobility, Lord Latimer’s
brothers, Sir William and Sir George Neville, are arrested and examined. Greater suspicion rested on them, as being so closely
connected with the Salisbury
family. Sir William makes confession, to the effect that, having consulted a wizard at Cirencester, about some silver spoons,
he was recommended by him to
visit a brother wizard, more learned than himself, whose name was Jones, of Oxford. This wizard, among his stillatories, alembics,
serpent-skins, and rings
of gold, to obtain favour of great men, declared that he had seen in a vision a certain room in a tower, and a spirit therein
delivering the same to Sir W.
Neville. These proved to be the Warwick Arms, and the room a chamber in Warwick castle. He further said, that the realm should
be long without a king; that
there would be spoliation of abbeys and rich men; and if Sir William chose to retire into his castle, divers persons would
resort unto him. Moreover, that
none of Cad-Wallader’s blood should reign more than twenty-four years; with much else of the kind. The Nevilles succeed in
clearing themselves; but their
confession betrays the wild fantastical beliefs and visions of change which floated, through these years in men’s minds.
The time has run, and the King, the Queen, and the Archbishop are declared to have incurred the threatened censures. Henry
immediately renews his
overtures with the Protestant States of Germany, without tangible success. Parliament meets again; Cromwell, as usual, the
only man who sees his way
clearly, the only man who understands what is impending, and shapes his course and the
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course of the Parliament accordingly. “Very
few men actively adhered to him. To him belonged the rare privilege of genius, to see what other men could not see: and therefore
he was condemned to
rule a generation which hated him, to do the will of God, and to perish in his success.” This Parliament appoints a commission to
revise the Canon law, reforms the law for the prosecution of heretics (prohibiting especially the power of arbitrary imprisonment,
which gave rise to
Marshalsea tragedies, more piteous, in their truth, than anything Mr. Dickens can tell us); re-adjusts the method of electing
Bishops, repeals all those
named and unnamed exactions by which English money was made to flow perennially into the Pope’s exchequer.—“Pensions, Censes,
Peter’s Pence, Procurations, Fruits, Suits for Provision, Delegacies and Rescripts in causes of Contention and Appeals, Jurisdictions
legatine,
Dispensations, Licences, Faculties, Grants, Relaxations, Writs called Perinde Valere, Rehabilitations, Abolitions, infinite
sorts of Rules, Briefs, and
instruments of sundry natures, names, and kinds.” Then the Bill of Attainder is presented in the case of the Nun and her accomplices.
The Nun and the five friars are declared guilty of treason: Fisher and More of misprision of treason. More sensibly and honestly
explains the circumstances
of his intercourse with the Nun, and requests forgiveness, which is immediately granted. Fisher attempts to vindicate himself
unworthily and absurdly. He
will acknowledge no fault: he is sentenced to forfeiture of goods and imprisonment, but the sentence is never executed. The
session closes with the Act of
Succession, establishing the invalidity of the late, and the validity of the present, marriage, settling the succession on
the heirs of Queen Anne, first
the sons, then the daughters, and resolving that “whosoever should do anything by
page: 385
writing, printing, or other external act or deed, to the peril of the King, or to the prejudice of his marriage with Queen
Anne, or to the derogation of the issue of that marriage, should be held guilty of high treason: and whosoever should speak
against that marriage,
should be held guilty of misprision of treason,”—any doubt or even discussion of the subject, being evidently most
dangerous. A commission consisting of Cranmer, the Chancellor, and the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, was appointed to administer
an Oath of Allegiance,
framed in accordance with this statute. A week after Parliament rises, news comes from Rome that all is over; the cause is
decided, and decided against the
King. The Bishop of Paris has been at Rome, a
dernier ressort, has offered some terms, which the Pope professes to be ready to accept, and Henry accepts too. But, taking advantage of
the delay of a courier
for six days, Clement hurriedly pronounces final sentence against the King, declares the original marriage to have been valid,
and Henry to be
excommunicated, and to have forfeited the allegiance of his subjects. Thus the game is played; the news reaches Henry, together
with the news of an
impending Imperial invasion. He meets defiance by defiance; Convocation declares that the Pope has no more authority in England
than any other bishop; and
in the apprehension of Flemish invasion and the reality of Irish insurrection and Papal excommunication, those in power see
that it is very necessary to try
the allegiance of the people. Almost every one having any name, or holding any office, swears, except Fisher and More. More
is very resolute: Cranmer and
Cromwell entreat him, but in vain; he resigns himself to the Tower and the headsman. He had fairly laid himself open to suspicion,
and he could not complain
that the oath was administered to him; Fisher and he are left
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to comfort one another in the Tower. Meanwhile, orders are given that sermons shall be
preached in every church, and by a bishop every Sunday at Paul’s Cross, on the Pope’s usurpation. In all houses, at all tables,
this is to be the subject of
conversation, and every father of a family, every employer, every master is to teach his children, labourers, and servants,
how wrongly the Pope has acted
and how rightly the King: and “all manner of prayers, rubrics, Canons of Mass-books, and all other books in the churches, wherein the
Bishop of Rome was named, or his presumptuous and proud pomp and authority preferred, should utterly be abolished, eradicated,
and rased out, and his
name and memory should be never more, except to his contumely and reproach, remembered; but perpetually be suppressed and
obscured.”
We may not suppose that all this was very pleasing to the clergy; indeed they must have been stupified and blinded at first
by the suddenness of the
change. Gradually they waken, and waken to distrust and sedition; numerous cases are brought before government of clergymen
who have abused the confessional
to inculcate opposition to government measures, and to recommend mental reservation, such as they confess to have exercised
themselves. Here is one; the
confessor of Sion Monastery, has professed extreme loyalty; one John Staunton, being suspicious thereof, and not over scrupulous
in his ways of getting to
the truth, goes to him to be shriven, confessing “the seven deadly sins particularly, and next the misspending of his five
wits” in various ways, and among others, in heresy. “Sir,” he said, “there is one thing in my
stomach which grieveth my conscience very sore,” namely, a sermon of Latimer’s, which has convinced him that the Pope has no power to
forgive sins; and that, in consequence, his shrift will be of none effect.
page: 386
The priest answered: “That Latimer is a false knave. . . . I say the Pope’s pardon is as good as ever it was,
and he is the head of the Universal Church, and so will I take him; and as for oaths, an oath loosely made may be loosely
broken,”
with more of the like; which John Staunton duly reports to the authorities. The result of all this is sad enough, but as far
as one can see, inevitable; an
act of supremacy is passed to bring things to a point, and an act of treason, denouncing the extreme penalties of the law
against all recusants; following
close on this come the sad tragedies of the Charterhouse Monks, and of Fisher and More. The historian would say little about
these scenes, but that silence
is abused; if he close his mouth for pity, men will aver that he dare not speak for shame. To Mr. Froude, and to all who read
history as Mr. Froude does,
the execution of Sir Thomas More “appears most piteous and most inevitable.” In halcyon days, it is hopeless and needless
to attempt
to judge too closely the actions of those whom God has placed at the head of a revolution. Ordinary morality, ordinary humanity,
are acknowledged to be
suspended on the battle-field; why not, when the battle covers a larger area, and occupies a longer period, and is woven into
the daily doings of the world?
If More had died by Cromwell’s hand in fair fight, where would have been Cromwell’s blame? Revolutions ever establish themselves
thus; even in later days,
in the manhood, as in the youth, of the world, Nature’s evil star has forced men
- To follow flying steps of truth
- Across the brazen bridge of war.
- And new and old, disastrous feud,
- Must ever shock like armed foes,
- And this is true till time shall close,
- That principles are rain’d in blood.
The effect upon Europe was instantaneous and electrical. At last it was evident that Henry was in earnest. The famous bull
of Paul III. was
prepared, to be issued three years later; the feud
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was complete, and the English Church henceforth, with a very brief reaction, went joyfully along
her own way.
One part of the story remains; a terrible domestic retribution. Catharine died, dictating with her last breath a letter to
Henry, in which she vowed,
“that her eyes desire him above all things.” Four months afterwards, a secret committee of the privy council is
engaged in receiving evidence which implicates the queen in adultery: when they consider their task complete, Parliament is
suddenly summoned, the queen and
her suspected paramours are arrested, and lodged in the Tower. She confesses only this, that both Norris and Weston had made
their love known to her.
“Let us feel our very utmost commiseration for this poor queen; if she was guilty, it is the more reason that we should pity
her; but
I am obliged to say, that conversations of this kind, admitted by herself, disentitle her to plead her character in answer
to the charges against her.
Young men do not speak of love to young and beautiful married women, still less to ladies of so high rank, unless something
more than levity has
encouraged them; and although to have permitted such language is no proof of guilt, yet it is a proof of the absence of innocence.” I
will make another extract. “Her spirits had something rallied, though still violently fluctuating. ‘One hour,’ wrote
Kingston, ‘she is determined to die, and the next hour much contrary to that.’ Sometimes she talked in a wild wandering way,
wondering whether any one made the prisoners’ beds, with other of those light trifles which women’s minds dwell upon so strangely,
when strained beyond
their strength. ‘There would be no rain,’ she said, ‘till she was out of the Tower; and if she died, they would see the
greatest punishment for her that ever came to England.’ ‘And then,’ she added, ‘I shall be a saint in
page: 387
heaven, for I have done many good deeds in my days; but I think it much unkindness in the king to put such about me as I
never loved.’ Kingston was a hard chronicler, too convinced of the queen’s guilt to feel compassion for her; and yet these
rambling fancies
are as touching as Ophelia’s; and, unlike hers, are no creations of a poet’s imagination, but words once truly uttered by
a poor human being in her
hour of agony. Yet they prove nothing. And if her wanderings seem to breathe of innocence, they are yet compatible with the
absence of it. We must
remind ourselves, that two of the prisoners had already confessed both their own guilt and hers.”
She and they were tried, Froude says, with a scrupulousness without a parallel in the criminal records of the time. He gives
the names of all that
were engaged on the trials;—the special commission, the grand juries of Middlesex and Kent, the peers who were summoned to
try the queen and her
brother. The result of it all is, that if she was innocent, the Lord Chancellor, the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, the Earl
of Wiltshire, her father;
Cromwell, to whom, above all men, we owe our Protestant Church, Sir W. Fitzwilliam, the old admiral, whose career had been
so brilliant, Paulet the
treasurer, all the judges, and all the highest nobility and gentry in England, the very pride and flower of our own ancestors,
the noblest men of the
noblest nation in the world, were guilty of subserviency and baseness to which no history can possibly find a parallel. “If there was
evidence, it must have been close, elaborate, and minute; if there was none, these judges, these juries, and noblemen, were
the accomplices of the king
in a murder, perhaps the most revolting which was ever committed. Though we stretch our belief in the complacency of statesmen
to the furthest limit of
credulity, can
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we believe that Cromwell would have invented that dark indictment,—Cromwell who was, and who remained till his death,
the dearest friend of Latimer? Or the Duke of Norfolk, the veteran who won his spurs at Flodden? Or the Duke of Suffolk and
Sir William Fitzwilliam, the
Wellington and the Nelson of the sixteenth century? Scarcely among the picked scoundrels of Newgate could men be found for
such work; and shall we
believe it of men like these? It is to me impossible. Yet, if it was done at all, it was done by these four ministers.” It is not
pleasant to write of such things, yet the truth is worth telling; if haply the shame of noble names may be saved.
I have brought this abstract to a close. It has been long; it may have been dull. I have omitted all reference to several
very interesting episodes,
the Irish Rebellion, for instance, and the dissolution of the minor monasteries; and have kept, as closely as I could to the
main action. If by its means I
shall have induced any to read Froude, well: if I shall have disposed any to think more highly than they have been in the
habit of thinking about the work
of the Reformation and the men who accomplished that work, better. It is a strange thing that we who glory in being Englishmen,
yet take a pleasure in
ascribing the meanest and most degrading character to those who made Englishmen and England what they are: that we, who boast
of our Shakespeare and our
Milton, take so little pride in our Henry and our Elizabeth. Many will say, I feel sure, that this book of Mr. Froude’s is
an indication of that Quixotic
chivalry so rampant in our times which seeks by some strange impulse the most inglorious and unseemly objects that it may
adorn and trick them out with the
flowers and fillets of its own blind admiration; another development of that spirit which has made Carlyle idolize Cromwell,
and
page: 388
Grote speak out boldly for the sophists and demagogues of Athens, which has led Congreve to extol the despotism of the
Roman Empire, and Merivale to find, if not heroes, yet comparatively ordinary and innocent mortals in Tiberius and Caligula.
Some of these attempts have
been thoroughly successful, some not: I hail them all as indications of a more truthful spirit at length beginning to prevail
among historians; of a
determination to look upon these and all men as they were, not as after ages have succeeded in drawing them. Of them all perhaps
we owe most admiration to
this first sustained effort of Mr. Froude’s to show
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us, in the history of the Tudor times, what were the secrets of the greatness of the English
character, and the success of the English rule; to show us in one of its highest developments that power which has since produced
Shakespeare and Cromwell,
Blenheim and Trafaar, a Puritan Revolt and an American Federation. All thanks to him for doing such a work, and doing it so
well; not with tricky rhetoric
and tinsel ornament, but with the pure eloquence of feeling and of truth, with the sustained strength of an honest heart,
with faith in God and in his
fellow men shining out in every page.
Editorial Note (page ornament): Initial A is ornamental.
Note: Though the rest of the periodical is printed in two columns, poems are printed in a single column, centered.
- A poet came to an ancient town,
- And sang a song that was strange and wild;
- And all thronged round him with open ear;
- But a little while, and the many smiled,
- And said, he sings we know not what,
- Fantastic fancies together stringing.
- But he heeded them not, and chaunted on,
- For his heart was in his singing.
- And a few still linger’d, scarce knowing why,
-
10 And listen’d with heedful and earnest ears,
- And faces were flush’d, and hearts beat fast,
- And cheeks were wet with unwonted tears.
- For the song he sang was thick with thoughts
- That all had felt, but could utter never,
- That shot through the spirit strange and faint
- A moment, then past for ever.
- And to one, it seem’d the voice of a child,
- That had left him long, and was far away;
- And on some it fell with a mother’s tone,
-
20A mother dead full many a day.
- It was strange indeed how the graves gave up
- Their dead as that voice sang low and mournful,
- And it brought the changed as they once had been,
- The fickle and false and scornful.
- And still, as he chaunted, the crowd pressed round,
- And many that heard at the first, and jeer’d,
- Came back, and listen’d intent and awed,
- Though the melody still was as wild and weird;
- For he changed it never to charm the throng,
-
30 But sang as his inner spirit moved him;
- And all, that he seemed to heed them not,
- But honour’d the more and loved him.
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