A RIDICULOUS PHILOSOPHER
I am not sure that I know what philosophy is; a philosopher is one who
practices it, and we have it on high authority that "there was never yet
philosopher that could endure the toothache patiently."
There is an old man in Wilkie Collins's novel, "The Moonstone," the best
novel of its kind in the language, who, when in doubt, reads "Robinson
Crusoe." In like manner I, when in doubt, turn to Boswell's "Life of
Johnson," and there I read that the fine, crusty old doctor was hailed
in the Strand one day by a man who half a century before had been at
Pembroke College with him. It is not surprising that Johnson did not at
first remember his former friend, and he was none too well pleased to be
reminded that they were both "old men now." "We are, sir," said Dr.
Johnson, "but do not let us discourage one another"; and they began to
talk over old times and compare notes as to where they stood in the
world.
Edwards, his friend, had practiced law and had made money, but had spent
or given away much of it. "I shall not die rich," said he. "But, sir,"
said Johnson, "it is better to live rich than to die rich." And now
comes Edwards's immortal remark, "You are a philosopher, Dr. Johnson. I
have tried, too, in my time to be a philosopher; but, I don't know
how, cheerfulness was always breaking in."
[Illustration: WILLIAM GODWIN, THE RIDICULOUS PHILOSOPHER]
With the word "cheerfulness," Edwards had demolished the scheme of life
of most of our professed philosophers, who have no place in their
systems for the attribute that goes furthest toward making life worth
while to the average man.
Cheerfulness is a much rarer quality than is generally supposed,
especially among the rich. It was not common even before we learned
that, in spite of Browning, though God may be in his heaven,
nevertheless, all is wrong with the world.
If "most men lead lives of quiet desperation," as Thoreau says they do,
it is, I suspect, because they will not allow cheerfulness to break in
upon them when it will. A good disposition is worth a fortune. Give
cheerfulness a chance and let the professed philosopher go hang.
But it is high time for me to turn my attention, and yours, if I may, to
the particular philosopher through whom I wish to stick my pen, and
whom, thus impaled, I wish to present for your edification--say, rather,
amusement. His name was William Godwin; he was the husband of Mary
Wollstonecraft and the father-in-law of Shelley.
Godwin was born in Cambridgeshire in 1756, and came of preaching stock.
It is related that, when only a lad, he used to steal away, not to go in
swimming or to rob an orchard, but to a meeting-house to preach; this at
the age of ten. The boy was father to the man: to the end of his life
he never did anything else. He first preached orthodoxy, later
heterodoxy, but he was always a preacher. I do not like the tribe. I am
using the word as indicating one who elects to teach by word rather than
by example.
When a boy he had an attack of smallpox. Religious scruples prevented
him from submitting to vaccination, for he said he had no wish to run
counter to the will of God. In this frame of mind he did not long
remain. He seems to have been a hard student--what we would call a
grind. He read enormously, and by twenty he considered that he was fully
equipped for his life's work. He was as ready to preach as an Irishman
is to fight, for the love of it; but he was quarrelsome as well as
pious, and, falling out with his congregation, he dropped the title of
Reverend and betook himself to literature and London.
At this time the French Revolution was raging, and the mental churning
which it occasioned had its effect upon sounder minds than his. Godwin
soon became intimate with Tom Paine and others of like opinions.
Wherever political heresy and schism was talked, there Godwin was to be
found. He stood for everything which was "advanced" in thought and
conduct; he joined the school which was to write God with a small g. All
the radical visionaries in London were attracted to him, and he to them.
He thought and dreamed and talked, and finally grew to feel the need of
a larger audience. The result was "An Enquiry Concerning Political
Justice," a book which created a tremendous sensation in its day. It
seemed the one thing needed to bring political dissent and
dissatisfaction to a head.
Much was wrong at the time, much is still wrong, and doubtless reformers
of Godwin's type do a certain amount of good. They call attention to
abuses, and eventually the world sets about to remedy them. A "movement"
is in the air; it centres in some man who voices and directs it. For the
moment the man and the movement seem to be one. Ultimately the movement
becomes diffused, its character changes; frequently the man originally
identified with it is forgotten--so it was with Godwin.
"Political Justice" was published in 1793. In it Godwin fell foul of
everything. He assailed all forms of government. The common idea that
blood is thicker than water, is wrong: all men are brothers; one should
do for a stranger as for a brother. The distribution of property is
absurd. A man's needs are to be taken as the standard of what he should
receive. He that needs most is to be given most--by whom, Godwin did not
say.
Marriage is a law and the worst of all laws: it is an affair of
property, and like property must be abolished. The intercourse of the
sexes is to be like any other species of friendship. If two men happen
to feel a preference for the same woman, let them both enjoy her
conversation and be wise enough to consider sexual intercourse "a very
trivial object indeed."
I have a copy of "Political Justice," before me, with Tom Paine's
signature on the title-page. What a whirlwind all this once created,
especially with the young! Its author became one of the most-talked-of
men of his time, and Godwin's estimate of himself could not have been
higher than that his disciples set upon him. Compared with him, "Paine
was nowhere and Burke a flashy sophist." He gloried in the reputation
his book gave him, and he profited by it to the extent of a thousand
pounds; to him it was a fortune.
Pitt, who was then Prime Minister, when his attention was called to the
book, wisely remarked, "It is not worth while to prosecute the author of
a three-guinea book, because at such a price very little harm can be
done to those who have not three shillings to spare."
The following year Godwin published his one other book that has escaped
the rubbish heap of time--"The Adventures of Caleb Williams," a novel.
It is the best of what might be called "The Nightmare Series," which
would begin with "The Castle of Otranto," include his own daughter's
"Frankenstein," and end, for the moment, with Bram Stoker's "Dracula."
"Caleb Williams" has genuine merit; that it is horrible and unnatural
may be at once admitted, but there is a vitality about it which holds
your interest to the last; unrelieved by any flash of sentiment or
humor, it is still as entirely readable as it was once immensely
popular. Colman, the younger, dramatized it under the name of "The Iron
Chest," and several generations of playgoers have shuddered at the
character of Falkland, the murderer, who, and not Caleb Williams, is
the chief character. His other novels are soup made out of the same
stock, as a _chef_ would say, with a dash of the supernatural added.
Godwin had now written all that he was ever to write on which the dust
of years has not settled, to be disturbed only by some curious student
of a forgotten literature; yet he supposed that he was writing for
posterity!
Meanwhile he, who had been living with his head in the clouds, became
aware of the existence of "females." It was an important, if belated,
discovery. He was always an inveterate letter-writer, and his curious
letters to a number of women have been preserved. He seems to have had
more than a passing fancy for Amelia Alderson, afterward Mrs. Opie, the
wife of the artist. He was intimate with Mrs. Robinson, the "Perdita" of
the period, in which part she attracted the attention of the Prince of
Wales. Mrs. Inchbald and Mrs. Reveley were also friends, with whom he
had frequent misunderstandings. His views on the subject of marriage
being well known, perhaps these ladies, merely to test the philosopher,
sought to overcome his objection to "that worst of institutions." If so,
their efforts were unsuccessful.
Godwin, however, seems to have exerted a peculiar fascination over the
fair sex, and he finally met one with whom, as he says, "friendship
melted into love." Godwin, saying he would ne'er consent, consented.
Mary Wollstonecraft, the author of the "Rights of Woman," now calling
herself Mrs. Imlay, triumphed. Her period of romance, followed fast by
tragedy, was for a brief time renewed with Godwin. She had had one
experience, the result of which was a fatherless infant daughter, Fanny;
and some time after she took up with Godwin, she urged upon him the
desirability of "marriage lines."
Godwin demurred for a time; but when Mary confided to him that she was
about to become a mother, a private wedding in St. Pancras Church took
place. Separate residence was attempted, in order to conform to Godwin's
theory that too close familiarity might result in mutual weariness; but
Godwin was not destined to become bored by his wife. She had
intelligence and beauty; indeed, it seems likely that he loved her as
devotedly as it was possible for one of his frog-like nature to do.
Shortly after the marriage a daughter was born, and christened Mary; and
a few days later the remains of Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin were interred
in the old graveyard of St. Pancras, close by the church which she had
recently left as a bride.
No sketch of Godwin's life would be complete without the well-known
story of the expiring wife's exclamation: "I am in heaven"; to which
Godwin replied, "No, my dear, you only mean that your physical
sensations are somewhat easier."
Thus, by that "divinity that shapes our ends rough," Godwin, who did not
approve of marriage and who had no place in his philosophy for the
domestic virtues, became within a few months a husband, a widower, a
stepfather, and a father. Probably no man was less well equipped than he
for his immediate responsibilities. He had been living in one house and
his wife in another, to save his face, as it were, and also to avoid
interruptions; but this scheme of life was no longer possible. A
household must be established; some sort of a family nurse became an
immediate necessity. One was secured, who tried to marry Godwin out of
hand. To escape her attentions he fled to Bath.
But his objections to marriage as an institution were waning, and when
he met Harriet Lee, the daughter of an actor, and herself a writer of
some small distinction, they were laid aside altogether. His courtship
of Miss Lee took the form of interminable letters. He writes her: "It is
not what you are but what you might be that charms me"; and he chides
her for not being prepared faithfully to discharge the duties of a wife
and mother. Few women have been in this humor won; Miss Lee was not
among them.
Godwin finally returned to London. He was now a man approaching middle
age, cold, methodical, dogmatic, and quick to take offense. He began to
live on borrowed money. The story of his life at this time is largely a
story of his squabbles. A more industrious man at picking a quarrel one
must go far to find; and that the record might remain, he wrote
letters--not short, angry letters, but long, serious, disputatious
epistles, such as no one likes to receive, and which seem to demand and
usually get an immediate answer.
Ritson writes him: "I wish you would make it convenient to return to me
the thirty pounds I loaned you. My circumstances are by no means what
they were at the time I advanced it, nor did I, in fact, imagine you
would have retained it so long." And again: "Though you have not the
ability to repay the money I loaned you, you might have integrity enough
to return the books you borrowed. I do not wish to bring against you a
railing accusation, but am compelled, nevertheless, to feel that you
have not acted the part of an honest man."
Godwin seems to have known his weakness, for he writes of himself: "I am
feeble of tact and liable to the grossest mistakes respecting theory,
taste, and character." And again: "No domestic connection is fit for me
but that of a person who should habitually study my gratification and
happiness." This sounds ominous from one who was constantly looking for
a "female companion"; and it was to prove so.
* * * * *
It is with a feeling of relief that we turn, for a moment, from the
sordid life of Godwin the philosopher to Godwin the dramatist. He was
sadly in need of funds, and, following the usual custom of an author in
distress, had written a tragedy, for which Charles Lamb had provided the
epilogue.
John Philip Kemble, seduced by Godwin's flattery and insistence, had
finally been prevailed upon to put it on the stage. Kemble had made up
his mind that all the good tragedies that could be written had been
written, and had not his objections been overruled, the tragedy,
"Antonio," would never have been produced, and one of Lamb's most
delightful essays, in consequence, never written.
With the usual preliminaries, and after much correspondence and
discussion, the night of the play came. It was produced at the Theatre
Royal, Drury Lane--what a ring it has! Lamb was there in a box next to
the author, who was cheerful and confident.
It is a pity to mutilate Lamb's account of it, but it is too long to
quote except in fragments.
The first act swept by solemn and silent ... applause would have
been impertinent, the interest would warm in the next act.... The
second act rose a little in interest, the audience became
complacently attentive.... The third act brought the scene which
was to warm the piece progressively to the final flaming forth of
the catastrophe, but the interest stood stone still....
It was Christmas time and the atmosphere furnished some pretext for
asthmatic affections. Some one began to cough, his neighbors
sympathized with him, till it became an epidemic; but when from
being artificial in the pit the cough got naturalized on the stage,
and Antonio himself seemed more intent upon relieving his own lungs
than the distress of the author, then Godwin "first knew fear," and
intimated that, had he been aware that Mr. Kemble labored under a
cold, the performance might possibly have been postponed.
In vain did the plot thicken. The procession of verbiage stalked
on, the audience paid no attention whatever to it, the actors
became smaller and smaller, the stage receded, the audience was
going to sleep, when suddenly Antonio whips out a dagger and stabs
his sister to the heart. The effect was as if a murder had been
committed in cold blood, with the audience betrayed into being
accomplices. The whole house rose in clamorous indignation--they
would have torn the unfortunate author to pieces if they could have
got him.
[Illustration: CHARLES LAMB'S PLAY-BILL OF "ANTONIO," BY GODWIN. "DAMNED
WITH UNIVERSAL CONSENT"]
The play was hopelessly and forever damned, and the epilogue went down
in the crash.
Over my writing-table hangs a dark oak frame containing a souvenir of
this performance--the programme which Charles Lamb used on this fateful
evening. It is badly crumpled, crumpled no doubt by Elia in his agony.
No reference is made to the play being by Godwin except a note in
Charles Lamb's handwriting which reads, "By Godwin," with the
significant words, "Damned with universal consent."
Godwin bore his defeat with philosophic calm. He appealed to friends for
financial assistance and to posterity for applause. But it was really a
serious matter. He was on the verge of ruin, and now did what many
another man has done when financial difficulties crowded thick and
fast--he married again.
A certain Mrs. Clairmont fell in love with Godwin even before she had
spoken to him. She was a fat, unattractive widow, and apparently did all
the courting. She took lodgings close by Godwin's, and introduced
herself--"Is it possible that I behold the immortal Godwin?"
This is flattery fed with a knife. When a widow makes up her mind to
marry, one of two things must be done, and quickly--her victim must run
or submit. Godwin was unable to run and a marriage was the result. Like
his first wedding, it was for a time kept a profound secret.
An idea of Godwin and his wife at this period is to be had from Lamb's
letters. He refers constantly to Godwin as the Professor, and to his
wife as the Professor's Rib, who, he says, "has turned out to be a
damned disagreeable woman, so much so as to drive Godwin's old
cronies"--among whom was Lamb--"from his house."
It was a difficult household. Mrs. Godwin had two children by her first
husband: a daughter whose right name was Mary Jane, but who called
herself Claire--she lived to become the mistress of Lord Byron and the
mother of his daughter Allegra; also a son, who was raised a pet and
grew up to be a nuisance. Godwin's immediate contribution to the
establishment was the illegitimate daughter of his first wife, who
claimed Imlay for her father, and his own daughter Mary, whose mother
had died in giving her birth. In due course there was born another son,
christened William, after his father.
Something had to be done, and promptly. Godwin began a book on Chaucer,
of whose life we know almost as little as of Shakespeare's. In dealing
with Chaucer, Godwin introduced a method which subsequent writers have
followed. Actual material being scanty, they fill out the picture by
supposing what he might have done and seen and thought. Godwin filled
two volumes quarto with musings about the fourteenth century, and called
it a "Life of Chaucer."
Mrs. Godwin--who was a "managing woman"--had more confidence in trade
than in literature. She opened a bookshop in Hanway Street under the
name of Thomas Hodgkins, the manager; subsequently in Skinner Street,
under her own name, M. J. Godwin. From this shop there issued children's
books, the prettiest and wisest, for "a penny plain and tuppence
colored," and more. "The Children's Book-Seller," as he called himself,
was presently successful, and parents presented his little volumes to
their children, with no suspicion that the lessons of piety and goodness
which charmed away selfishness were published, revised, and sometimes
written by a philosopher whom they would scarcely venture to name. It
was Godwin who suggested to Charles Lamb and his sister that the "Tales
from Shakespeare" be written. Godwin's own contributions were produced
under the name of Baldwin.
Lamb writes: "Hazlitt has written some things and a grammar for Godwin,
but the gray mare is the better horse. I do not allude to Mrs. Godwin,
but to the word grammar, which comes near gray mare, if you observe." It
would certainly surprise Godwin could he know that, while his own
"works" are forgotten, some of the little publications issued by the
"Juvenile Library," 41 Skinner Street, Snow Hill, are worth their weight
in gold.
The years passed on. Godwin lived more or less in constant terror of his
wife, of whom Lamb writes: "Mrs. Godwin grows every day in disfavor with
God and man. I will be buried with this inscription over me: 'Here lies
Charles Lamb, the woman-hater, I mean that hated one woman. For the
rest, God bless 'em, and when He makes any more, make 'em prettier.'"
As he grew older Godwin moderated his views of men somewhat, so that "he
ceased to be disrespectful to any one but his Maker"; and he once so far
forgot himself as to say "God bless you" to a friend, but quickly added,
"to use a vulgar expression." He remained, however, always prepared to
sacrifice a friend for a principle. He seemed to feel that truth had
taken up its abode in him, and that any question which he had submitted
to the final judgment of his own breast had been passed upon finally and
forever.
This search for truth has a great fascination for a certain type of
mind. It does not appear dangerous: all one has to do is thrust one's
feet in slippers and muse; but it has probably caused as much misery as
the search for the pole. The pole has now been discovered and can be
dismissed, but the search for truth continues. It will always continue,
for the reason that its location is always changing. Every generation
looks for it in a new place.
[Illustration: LETTER FROM WILLIAM GODWIN
I bought this letter one hundred years to a day after it had been
written, for a sum which would have amazed its writer, and temporarily,
at least, have relieved him of his financial difficulties.]
One night Lamb, dropping in on Godwin, found him discussing with
Coleridge his favorite problem, "Man as he is and man as he ought to
be." The discussion seemed interminable. "Hot water and its better
adjuncts" had been entirely overlooked. Finally Lamb stammered out,
"Give me man as he ought _not_ to be, and something to drink." It must
have been on one of these evenings that Godwin remarked that he wondered
why more people did not write like Shakespeare; to which Lamb replied
that he could--if he had the mind to.
The older generation was passing away. Long before he died Godwin was
referred to as though he were a forgotten classic; but there was to be a
revival of interest in him, due entirely to the poet Shelley. The mere
mention of Shelley's name produced an explosion. He had been expelled
from Oxford for atheism. Reading revolutionary books, as well as writing
them, he had come across "Political Justice" and was anxious to meet the
author.
He sought him out, eventually made the acquaintance of his daughter
Mary, by this time a beautiful and interesting girl of seventeen years,
and in due course eloped with her, deserting his wife Harriet. Where was
Godwin's philosophy now? we may well ask. At no time in his long life
was Godwin so ridiculous as in his relations with Shelley.
In their flight, Shelley and Mary had taken with them Mrs. Godwin's
daughter Claire. The mother made after the runaways post-haste and
overtook them in Calais, her arrival creating consternation in the camp
of the fugitives; but they all declined to return. In such scorn was
Shelley generally held, that the rumor that he had bought both Godwin's
daughter and his step-daughter for a sum in hand created no amazement,
the pity rather than the possibility of it being most discussed.
Financial affairs, too, in Skinner Street were going badly. From the
record of notes given and protested at maturity, one might have supposed
that Godwin was in active business in a time of panic.
"Don't ask me whether I won't take none or whether I will, but leave the
bottle on the chimleypiece and let me put my lips to it when I am so
dispoged." Such was the immortal Mrs. Gamp's attitude toward gin.
Godwin's last manner in money matters was much the same: money he would
take from any one and in any way when he must, but, like Mrs. Gamp, he
was "dispoged" to take it indirectly.
Indignant with Shelley, whose views on marriage were largely of his
teaching, Godwin refused to hold any communication with him except such
as would advance his (Godwin's) fortunes at Shelley's expense. Their
transactions were to be of a strictly business character (business with
Shelley!). We find Godwin writing him and returning a check for a
thousand pounds because it was drawn to his order. How sure he must have
been of it! "I return your cheque because no consideration can induce me
to utter a cheque drawn by you and containing my name. To what purpose
make a disclosure of this kind to your banker? I hope you will send a
duplicate of it by the post which will reach me on Saturday morning.
You may make it payable to Joseph Hume or James Martin or any other name
in the whole directory." And then Godwin would forge the name of "Joseph
Hume or James Martin or any other name in the whole directory," and
guarantee the signature by his own indorsement, and the business
transaction would be complete. Pretty high finance this, for a
philosopher!