(_Edinburgh Review_, July, 1837.)
We {336}return our hearty thanks to Mr. Montagu for this truly valuable
work. From the opinions which he expresses as a biographer we often
dissent. But about his merit as a collector of the materials out of
which opinions are formed, there can be no dispute; and we readily
acknowledge that we are in a great measure indebted to his minute
and accurate researches for the means of refuting what we cannot but
consider as his errors.
The labour which has been bestowed on this volume has been a labour of
love. The writer is evidently enamoured of the subject. It fills his
heart. It constantly overflows from his lips and his pen. Those who are
acquainted with the Courts in which Mr. Montagu practises with so much
ability and success well know how often he enlivens the discussion of
a point of law by citing some weighty aphorism, or some brilliant
illustration, from the _De Augmentis_ or the _Novum Organum_. The Life
before us doubtless owes much of its value to the honest and generous
enthusiasm of the writer. This feeling has stimulated his activity,
has sustained his perseverance, has called forth all his ingenuity and
eloquence: but, on the other
(1) _The Works of Francis Bacon, Lord Chancellor of England.
A new Edition_. By Basil Montagu, Esq., 16 vols. 8vo.
London: 1825-1834
{337}hand, we must frankly say that it has, to a great extent, perverted
his judgment.
We are by no means without sympathy for Mr. Montagu even in what we
consider as his weakness. There is scarcely any delusion which has a
better claim to be indulgently treated than that under the influence
of which a man ascribes every moral excellence to those who have left
imperishable monuments of their genius. The causes of this error lie
deep in the inmost recesses of human nature. We are all inclined to
judge of others as we find them. Our estimate of a character always
depends much on the manner in which that character affects our own
interests and passions. We find it difficult to think well of those
by whom we are thwarted or depressed; and we are ready to admit every
excuse for the vices of those who are useful or agreeable to us. This
is, we believe, one of those illusions to which the whole human race is
subject, ana which experience and reflection can only partially remove.
It is, in the phraseology of Bacon, one of the _idolatribus_. Hence it
is that the moral character of a man eminent in letters or in the fine
arts is treated, often by contemporaries, almost always by posterity,
with extraordinary tenderness. The world derives pleasure and advantage
from the performances of such a man. The number of those who suffer by
his personal vices is small, even in his own time, when compared with
the number of those to whom his talents are a source of gratification.
In a few years all those whom he has injured disappear. But his works
remain, and are a source of delight to millions. The genius of
Sallust is still with us. But the Numidians whom he plundered, and the
unfortunate husbands who caught him in their houses at unseasonable
hours, are forgotten. {338}We suffer ourselves to be delighted by the
keenness of Clarendon’s observation, and by the sober majesty of his
style, till we forget the oppressor and the bigot in the historian.
Falstaff and Tom Jones have survived the gamekeepers whom Shakspeare
cudgelled and the landladies whom Fielding bilked. A great writer is the
friend and benefactor of his readers; and they cannot but judge of him
under the deluding influence of friendship and gratitude. We all know
how unwilling we are to admit the truth of any disgraceful story about
a person whose society we like, and from whom we have received favours:
how long we struggle against evidence, how fondly, when the facts cannot
be disputed, we cling to the hope that there may be some explanation or
some extenuating circumstance with which we are unacquainted. Just such
is the feeling which a man of liberal education naturally entertains
towards the great minds of former ages. The debt which he owes to them
is incalculable. They have guided him to truth. They have filled his
mind with noble and graceful images. They have stood by him in all
vicissitudes, comforters in sorrow, nurses in sickness, companions
in solitude. These friendships are exposed to no danger from the
occurrences by which other attachments are weakened or dissolved. Time
glides on; fortune is inconstant; tempers are soured; bonds which
seemed indissoluble are daily sundered by interest, by emulation, or by
caprice. But no such cause can affect the silent converse which we
hold with the highest of human intellects. That placid intercourse is
disturbed by no jealousies or resentments. These are the old friends
who are never seen with new faces, who are the same in wealth and in
poverty, in glory and in obscurity. With the dead there is no rivalry.
In the {339}dead there is no change. Plato is never sullen. Cervantes is
never petulant. Demosthenes never comes unseasonably. Dante never stays
too long. No difference of political opinion can alienate Cicero. No
heresy can excite the horror of Bossuet.
Nothing, then, can be more natural than that a person endowed
with sensibility and imagination should entertain a respectful and
affectionate feeling towards those great men with whose minds he holds
daily communion. Yet nothing can be more certain than that such men
have not always deserved to be regarded with respect or affection. Some
writers, whose works will continue to instruct and delight mankind
to the remotest ages, have been placed in such situations that their
actions and motives are as well known to us as the actions and motives
of one human being can be known to another; and unhappily their conduct
has not always been such as an impartial judge can contemplate with
approbation. But the fanaticism of the devout worshipper of genius is
proof against all evidence and all argument. The character of his idol
is matter of faith; and the province of faith is not to be invaded by
reason. He maintains his superstition with a credulity as boundless, and
a zeal as unscrupulous, as can be found in the most ardent partisans of
religious or political factions. The most decisive proofs are rejected;
the plainest rules of morality are explained away; extensive and
important portions of history are completely distorted. The enthusiast
misrepresents facts with all the effrontery of an advocate, and
confounds right and wrong with all the dexterity of a Jesuit; and all
this only in order that some man who has been in his grave during many
ages may have a fairer character than he deserves. {340}Middleton’s
Life of Cicero is a striking instance of the influence of this sort of
partiality. Never was there a character which it was easier to read than
that of Cicero. Never was there a mind keener or more critical than
that of Middleton. Had the biographer brought to the examination of his
favourite statesman’s conduct but a very small part of the acuteness
and severity which he displayed when he was engaged in investigating
the high pretensions of Epiphanius and Justin Martyr, he could not have
failed to produce a most valuable history of a most interesting portion
of time. But this most ingenious and learned man, though,
“So wary held and wise