were any metaphysicians to whom one might be tempted to apply the
wizard spell? I replied, there were only six in modern times deserving
the name--Hobbes, Berkeley, Butler, Hartley, Hume, Leibnitz; and
perhaps Jonathan Edwards, a Massachusetts man.[5] As to the French,
who talked fluently of having _created_ this science, there was not a
tittle in any of their writings that was not to be found literally in
the authors I had mentioned. [Horne Tooke, who might have a claim to
come in under the head of Grammar, was still living.] None of these
names seemed to excite much interest, and I did not plead for the
re-appearance of those who might be thought best fitted by the
abstracted nature of their studies for the present spiritual and
disembodied state, and who, even while on this living stage, were
nearly divested of common flesh and blood. As Ayrton, with an uneasy,
fidgety face, was about to put some question about Mr. Locke and
Dugald Stewart, he was prevented by Martin Burney, who observed, 'If
J---- was here, he would undoubtedly be for having up those profound
and redoubted socialists, Thomas Aquinas and Duns Scotus.' I said this
might be fair enough in him who had read, or fancied he had read, the
original works, but I did not see how we could have any right to call
up these authors to give an account of themselves in person, till we
had looked into their writings.
By this time it should seem that some rumour of our whimsical
deliberation had got wind, and had disturbed the _irritable genus_, in
their shadowy abodes, for we received messages from several candidates
that we had just been thinking of. Gray declined our invitation,
though he had not yet been asked: Gay offered to come, and bring in
his hand the Duchess of Bolton, the original Polly: Steele and Addison
left their cards as Captain Sentry and Sir Roger de Coverley: Swift
came in and sat down without speaking a word, and quitted the room as
abruptly: Otway and Chatterton were seen lingering on the opposite
side of the Styx, but could not muster enough between them to pay
Charon his fare: Thomson fell asleep in the boat, and was rowed back
again; and Burns sent a low fellow, one John Barleycorn, an old
companion of his, who had conducted him to the other world, to say
that he had during his lifetime been drawn out of his retirement as a
show, only to be made an exciseman of, and that he would rather
remain where he was. He desired, however, to shake hands by his
representative--the hand, thus held out, was in a burning fever, and
shook prodigiously.
The room was hung round with several portraits of eminent painters.
While we were debating whether we should demand speech with these
masters of mute eloquence, whose features were so familiar to us, it
seemed that all at once they glided from their frames, and seated
themselves at some little distance from us. There was Leonardo, with
his majestic beard and watchful eye, having a bust of Archimedes
before him; next him was Raphael's graceful head turned round to the
Fornarina; and on his other side was Lucretia Borgia, with calm,
golden locks; Michael Angelo had placed the model of St. Peter's on
the table before him; Correggio had an angel at his side; Titian was
seated with his mistress between himself and Giorgione; Guido was
accompanied by his own Aurora, who took a dice-box from him; Claude
held a mirror in his hand; Rubens patted a beautiful panther (led in
by a satyr) on the head; Vandyke appeared as his own Paris, and
Rembrandt was hid under firs, gold chains, and jewels, which Sir
Joshua eyed closely, holding his hand so as to shade his forehead. Not
a word was spoken; and as we rose to do them homage, they still
presented the same surface to the view. Not being _bona-fide_
representations of living people, we got rid of the splendid
apparitions by signs and dumb show. As soon as they had melted into
thin air, there was a loud noise at the outer door, and we found it
was Giotto, Cimabue, and Ghirlandaio, who had been raised from the
dead by their earnest desire to see their illustrious successors--
'Whose names on earth
In Fame's eternal records live for aye!'
Finding them gone, they had no ambition to be seen after them, and
mournfully withdrew. 'Egad!' said Lamb, 'these are the very fellows I
should like to have had some talk with, to know how they could see to
paint when all was dark around them.'
'But shall we have nothing to say,' interrogated G. J----, 'to the
_Legend of Good Women_?'--'Name, name, Mr. J----,' cried Hunt in a
boisterous tone of friendly exultation, 'name as many as you please,
without reserve or fear of molestation!' J---- was perplexed between
so many amiable recollections, that the name of the lady of his choice
expired in a pensive whiff of his pipe; and Lamb impatiently declared
for the Duchess of Newcastle. Mrs. Hutchinson was no sooner mentioned,
than she carried the day from the Duchess. We were the less solicitous
on this subject of filling up the posthumous lists of Good Women, as
there was already one in the room as good, as sensible, and in all
respects as exemplary, as the best of them could be for their lives!
'I should like vastly to have seen Ninon de l'Enclos,' said that
incomparable person; and this immediately put us in mind that we had
neglected to pay honour due to our friends on the other side of the
Channel: Voltaire, the patriarch of levity, and Rousseau, the father
of sentiment; Montaigne and Rabelais (great in wisdom and in wit);
Moliere and that illustrious group that are collected round him (in
the print of that subject) to hear him read his comedy of the
_Tartuffe_ at the house of Ninon; Racine, La Fontaine, Rochefoucalt,
St. Evremont, etc.
'There is one person,' said a shrill, querulous voice, 'I would rather
see than all these--Don Quixote!'
'Come, come!' said Hunt; 'I thought we should have no heroes, real or
fabulous. What say you, Mr. Lamb? Are you for eking out your shadowy
list with such names as Alexander, Julius Caesar, Tamerlane, or Ghengis
Khan?'--'Excuse me,' said Lamb; 'on the subject of characters in
active life, plotters and disturbers of the world, I have a crotchet
of my own, which I beg leave to reserve.'--'No, no! come, out with
your worthies!'--'What do you think of Guy Fawkes and Judas
Iscariot?' Hunt turned an eye upon him like a wild Indian, but cordial
and full of smothered glee. 'Your most exquisite reason!' was echoed
on all sides; and Ayrton thought that Lamb had now fairly entangled
himself. 'Why I cannot but think,' retorted he of the wistful
countenance, 'that Guy Fawkes, that poor, fluttering annual scarecrow
of straw and rags, is an ill-used gentleman. I would give something to
see him sitting pale and emaciated, surrounded by his matches and his
barrels of gunpowder, and expecting the moment that was to transport
him to Paradise for his heroic self-devotion; but if I say any more,
there is that fellow Godwin will make something of it. And as to Judas
Iscariot, my reason is different. I would fain see the face of him
who, having dipped his hand in the same dish with the Son of Man,
could afterwards betray him. I have no conception of such a thing; nor
have I ever seen any picture (not even Leonardo's very fine one) that
gave me the least idea of it.'--'You have said enough, Mr. Lamb, to
justify your choice.'
'Oh! ever right, Menenius--ever right!'
'There is only one other person I can ever think of after this,'
continued Lamb; but without mentioning a name that once put on a
semblance of mortality. 'If Shakspeare was to come into the room, we
should all rise up to meet him; but if that person was to come into
it, we should all fall down and try to kiss the hem of his garment!'
As a lady present seemed now to get uneasy at the turn the
conversation had taken, we rose up to go. The morning broke with that
dim, dubious light by which Giotto, Cimabue, and Ghirlandaio must have
seen to paint their earliest works; and we parted to meet again and
renew similar topics at night, the next night, and the night after
that, till that night overspread Europe which saw no dawn. The same
event, in truth, broke up our little Congress that broke up the great
one. But that was to meet again: our deliberations have never been
resumed.
FOOTNOTES:
[4] Lamb at this time occupied chambers in Mitre-court, Temple.
[5] Bacon is not included in this list, nor do I know where he should
come in. It is not easy to make room for him and his reputation
together. This great and celebrated man in some of his works
recommends it to pour a bottle of claret into the ground of a morning,
and to stand over it, inhaling the perfumes. So he sometimes enriched
the dry and barren soil of speculation with the fine aromatic spirit
of his genius. His _Essays_ and his _Advancement of Learning_ are
works of vast depth and scope of observation. The last, though it
contains no positive discoveries, is a noble chart of the human
intellect, and a guide to all future inquirers.
ESSAY III
ON PARTY SPIRIT
Party spirit is one of the _profoundnesses of Satan_, or, in modern
language, one of the dexterous _equivoques_ and contrivances of our
self-love, to prove that we, and those who agree with us, combine all
that is excellent and praiseworthy in our own persons (as in a
ring-fence), and that all the vices and deformity of human nature take
refuge with those who differ from us. It is extending and fortifying
the principle of the _amour-propre_, by calling to its aid the _esprit
de corps_, and screening and surrounding our favourite propensities
and obstinate caprices in the hollow squares or dense phalanxes of
sects and parties. This is a happy mode of pampering our
self-complacency, and persuading ourselves that we, and those that
side with us, are 'the salt of the earth'; of giving vent to the
morbid humours of our pride, envy, hatred, malice, and all
uncharitableness, those natural secretions of the human heart, under
the pretext of self-defence, the public safety, or a voice from
heaven, as it may happen; and of heaping every excellence into one
scale, and throwing all the obloquy and contempt into the other, in
virtue of a nickname, a watchword of party, a badge, the colour of a
ribbon, the cut of a dress. We thus desolate the globe, or tear a
country in pieces, to show that we are the only people fit to live in
it; and fancy ourselves angels, while we are playing the devil. In
this manner the Huron devours the Iroquois, because he is an Iroquois;
and the Iroquois the Huron, for a similar reason: neither suspects
that he does it because he himself is a savage, and no better than a
wild beast; and is convinced in his own breast that the difference of
man and tribe makes a total difference in the case. The Papist
persecutes the Protestant, the Protestant persecutes the Papist in his
turn; and each fancies that he has a plenary right to do so, while he
keeps in view only the offensive epithet which 'cuts the common link
of brotherhood between them.' The Church of England ill-treated the
Dissenters, and the Dissenters, when they had the opportunity, did not
spare the Church of England. The Whig calls the Tory a knave, the Tory
compliments the Whig with the same title, and each thinks the abuse
sticks to the party-name, and has nothing to do with himself or the
generic name of _man_. On the contrary, it cuts both ways; but while
the Whigs say 'The Tory is a knave, because he is a Tory,' this is as
much as to say, 'I cannot be a knave, because I am a Whig'; and by
exaggerating the profligacy of his opponent, he imagines he is laying
the sure foundation, and raising the lofty superstructure, of his own
praises. But if he says, which is the truth, 'The Tory is not a
rascal, because he is a Tory, but because human nature in power, and
with the temptation, is a rascal,' then this would imply that the
seeds of depravity are sown in his own bosom, and might shoot out into
full growth and luxuriance if he got into place, and this he does not
wish to develop till he _does_ get into place.
We may be intolerant even in advocating the cause of toleration, and
so bent on making proselytes to freethinking as to allow no one to
think freely but ourselves. The most boundless liberality in
appearance may amount in reality to the most monstrous ostracism of
opinion--not condemning this or that tenet, or standing up for this or
that sect or party, but in a supercilious superiority to all sects and
parties alike, and proscribing in one sweeping clause, all arts,
sciences, opinions, and pursuits but our own. Till the time of Locke
and Toland a general toleration was never dreamt of: it was thought
right on all hands to punish and discountenance heretics and
schismatics, but each party alternately claimed to be true Christians
and Orthodox believers. Daniel De Foe, who spent his whole life, and
wasted his strength, in asserting the right of the Dissenters to a
Toleration (and got nothing for his pains but the pillory), was
scandalised at the proposal of the general principle, and was equally
strenuous in excluding Quakers, Anabaptists, Socinians, Sceptics, and
all who did not agree in the _essentials_ of Christianity--that is,
who did not agree with him--from the benefit of such an indulgence to
tender consciences. We wonder at the cruelties formerly practised upon
the Jews: is there anything wonderful in it? They were at that time
the only people to make a butt and a bugbear of, to set up as a mark
of indignity, and as a foil to our self-love, for the _ferae naturae_
principle that is within us, and always craving its prey to run down,
to worry and make sport of at discretion, and without mercy--the
unvarying uniformity and implicit faith of the Catholic Church had
imposed silence, and put a curb on our jarring dissensions,
heartburnings, and ill-blood, so that we had no pretence for
quarrelling among ourselves for the glory of God or the salvation of
men:--a JORDANUS BRUNO, an Atheist or sorcerer, once in a way, would
hardly suffice to stay the stomach of our theological rancour; we
therefore fell with might and main upon the Jews as a _forlorn hope_
in this dearth of objects of spite or zeal; or when the whole of
Europe was reconciled to the bosom of holy Mother Church, went to the
Holy Land in search of a difference of opinion, and a ground of mortal
offence: but no sooner was there a division of the Christian World,
than Papist fell on Protestants or Schismatics, and Schismatics upon
one another, with the same loving fury as they had before fallen upon
Turks and Jews. The disposition is always there, like a muzzled
mastiff; the pretext only is wanting; and this is furnished by a name,
which, as soon as it is affixed to different sects or parties, gives
us a licence, we think, to let loose upon them all our malevolence,
domineering humour, love of power, and wanton mischief, as if they
were of different species. The sentiment of the pious English Bishop
was good, who, on seeing a criminal led to execution, exclaimed,
'There goes my wicked self!'
If we look at common patriotism, it will furnish an illustration of
party spirit. One would think by an Englishman's hatred of the French,
and his readiness to die fighting with and for his countrymen, that
all the nation were united as one man, in heart and hand--and so they
are in war-time and as an exercise of their loyalty and courage: but
let the crisis be over, and they cool wonderfully; begin to feel the
distinctions of English, Irish, and Scotch; fall out among themselves
upon some minor distinction; the same hand that was eager to shed the
blood of a Frenchman, will not give a crust of bread or a cup of cold
water to a fellow countryman in distress; and the heroes who defended
the 'wooden walls of old England' are left to expose their wounds and
crippled limbs to gain a pittance from the passengers, or to perish of
hunger, cold, and neglect, in our highways. Such is the effect of our
boasted nationality: it is active, fierce in doing mischief; dormantly
lukewarm in doing good. We may also see why the greatest stress is
laid on trifles in religion, and why the most violent animosities
arise out of the smallest differences, either in this or in politics.
In the first place, it would never do to establish our superiority
over others by the acquisition of greater virtues, or by discarding
our vices; but it is charming to do this by merely repeating a
different formula of prayer, turning to the east instead of the west.
He should fight boldly for such a distinction, who is persuaded it
will furnish him a passport to the other world, and entitle him to
look down on the rest of his fellows as _given over to perdition_.
Secondly, we often hate those most with whom we have only a slight
shade of difference, whether in politics or religion; because as the
whole is a contest for precedence and infallibility, we find it more
difficult to draw the line of distinction where so many points are
conceded, and are staggered in our conviction by the arguments of
those whom we cannot despise as totally and incorrigibly in the wrong.
The High Church party in Queen Anne's time were disposed to sacrifice
the Low Church and Dissenters to the Papists, because they were more
galled by their arguments and disconcerted with their pretensions. In
private life the reverse of the foregoing holds good: that is, trades
and professions present a direct contrast to sects and parties. A
conformity in sentiment strengthens our party and opinion, but those
who have a similarity of pursuit, are rivals in interest; and hence
the old maxim, that _two of a trade can never agree_.
1830.
ESSAY IV
ON THE FEELING OF IMMORTALITY IN YOUTH
No young man believes he shall ever die. It was a saying of my
brother's, and a fine one. There is a feeling of Eternity in youth
which makes us amends for everything. To be young is to be as one of
the Immortals. One half of time indeed is spent--the other half
remains in store for us with all its countless treasures, for there is
no line drawn, and we see no limit to our hopes and wishes. We make
the coming age our own--
'The vast, the unbounded prospect lies before us.'
Death, old age, are words without a meaning, a dream, a fiction, with
which we have nothing to do. Others may have undergone, or may still
undergo them--we 'bear a charmed life,' which laughs to scorn all such
idle fancies. As, in setting out on a delightful journey, we strain
our eager sight forward,
'Bidding the lovely scenes at distance hail,'
and see no end to prospect after prospect, new objects presenting
themselves as we advance, so in the outset of life we see no end to
our desires nor to the opportunities of gratifying them. We have as
yet found no obstacle, no disposition to flag, and it seems that we
can go on so for ever. We look round in a new world, full of life and
motion, and ceaseless progress, and feel in ourselves all the vigour
and spirit to keep pace with it, and do not foresee from any present
signs how we shall be left behind in the race, decline into old age,
and drop into the grave. It is the simplicity and, as it were,
abstractedness of our feelings in youth that (so to speak) identifies
us with nature and (our experience being weak and our passions strong)
makes us fancy ourselves immortal like it. Our short-lived connection
with being, we fondly flatter ourselves, is an indissoluble and
lasting union. As infants smile and sleep, we are rocked in the cradle
of our desires, and hushed into fancied security by the roar of the
universe around us--we quaff the cup of life with eager thirst without
draining it, and joy and hope seem ever mantling to the brim--objects
press around us, filling the mind with their magnitude and with the
throng of desires that wait upon them, so that there is no room for
the thoughts of death. We are too much dazzled by the gorgeousness and
novelty of the bright waking dream about us to discern the dim shadow
lingering for us in the distance. Nor would the hold that life has
taken of us permit us to detach our thoughts that way, even if we
could. We are too much absorbed in present objects and pursuits. While
the spirit of youth remains unimpaired, ere 'the wine of life is
drunk,' we are like people intoxicated or in a fever, who are hurried
away by the violence of their own sensations: it is only as present
objects begin to pall upon the sense, as we have been disappointed in
our favourite pursuits, cut off from our closest ties, that we by
degrees become weaned from the world, that passion loosens its hold
upon futurity, and that we begin to contemplate as in a glass darkly
the possibility of parting with it for good. Till then, the example of
others has no effect upon us. Casualties we avoid; the slow approaches
of age we play at _hide and seek_ with. Like the foolish fat scullion
in Sterne, who hears that Master Bobby is dead, our only reflection
is, 'So am not I!' The idea of death, instead of staggering our
confidence, only seems to strengthen and enhance our sense of the
possession and enjoyment of life. Others may fall around us like
leaves, or be mowed down by the scythe of Time like grass: these are
but metaphors to the unreflecting, buoyant ears and overweening
presumption of youth. It is not till we see the flowers of Love, Hope,
and Joy withering around us, that we give up the flattering delusions
that before led us on, and that the emptiness and dreariness of the
prospect before us reconciles us hypothetically to the silence of the
grave.
Life is indeed a strange gift, and its privileges are most mysterious.
No wonder when it is first granted to us, that our gratitude, our
admiration, and our delight should prevent us from reflecting on our
own nothingness, or from thinking it will ever be recalled. Our first
and strongest impressions are borrowed from the mighty scene that is
opened to us, and we unconsciously transfer its durability as well as
its splendour to ourselves. So newly found, we cannot think of parting
with it yet, or at least put off that consideration _sine die_. Like a
rustic at a fair, we are full of amazement and rapture, and have no
thought of going home, or that it will soon be night. We know our
existence only by ourselves, and confound our knowledge with the
objects of it. We and Nature are therefore one. Otherwise the
illusion, the 'feast of reason and the flow of soul,' to which we are
invited, is a mockery and a cruel insult. We do not go from a play
till the last act is ended, and the lights are about to be
extinguished. But the fairy face of Nature still shines on: shall we
be called away before the curtain falls, or ere we have scarce had a
glimpse of what is going on? Like children, our step-mother Nature
holds us up to see the raree-show of the universe, and then, as if we
were a burden to her to support, lets us fall down again. Yet what
brave sublunary things does not this pageant present, like a ball or
_fete_ of the universe!