himself. He is willing to be ‘behind ten thousand counters,’ to be a
guest ‘at ten thousand firesides.’ He is willing to see ‘ordinary men as
they appear in their ordinary business and in their ordinary pleasures.’
He has no objection to ‘mingle in the crowds of the Exchange and the
coffee-house.’ He would ‘obtain admittance to the convivial table and
the domestic hearth.’ So far as his dignity will permit, ‘he will bear
with vulgar expressions.’ And a singular efficacy of fancy gives him the
power to do so. Some portion of the essence of human nature is concealed
from him; but all its accessories are at his command. He delineates any
trait; he can paint, and justly paint, any manners he chooses.
‘A perfect historian,’ he tells us, ‘is he in whose work the
character and spirit of an age is exhibited in miniature. He
relates no fact, he attributes no expression to his characters,
which is not authenticated by sufficient testimony; but, by
judicious selection, rejection, and arrangement, he gives to
truth those attractions which have been usurped by fiction. In
his narrative a due subordination is observed—some transactions
are prominent, others retire; but the scale on which he
represents them is increased or diminished, not according to
the dignity of the persons concerned in them, but according to
the degree in which they elucidate the condition of society
and the nature of man. He shows us the court, the camp, and
the senate; but he shows us also the nation. He considers no
anecdote, no peculiarity of manner, no familiar saying, as too
insignificant for his notice, which is not too insignificant
to illustrate the operation of laws, of religion, and of
education, and to mark the progress of the human mind. Men will
not merely be described, but will be made intimately known
to us. The changes of manners will be indicated, not merely
by a few general phrases, or a few extracts from statistical
documents, but by appropriate images presented in every line.
If a man, such as we are supposing, should write the history of
England, he would assuredly not omit the battles, the sieges,
the negotiations, the seditions, the ministerial changes; but
with these he would intersperse the details which are the
charm of historical romances. At Lincoln Cathedral there is
a beautiful painted window, which was made by an apprentice
out of the pieces of glass which had been rejected by his
master. It is so far superior to every other in the church,
that, according to the tradition, the vanquished artist killed
himself from mortification. Sir Walter Scott, in the same
manner, has used those fragments of truth which historians have
scornfully thrown behind them in a manner which may well excite
their envy. He has constructed out of their gleanings works
which, even considered as histories, are scarcely less valuable
than theirs. But a truly great historian would reclaim those
materials which the novelist has appropriated. The history
of the Government, and the history of the people, would be
exhibited in that mode in which alone they can be exhibited
justly, in inseparable conjunction and intermixture. We should
not then have to look for the wars and votes of the Puritans in
Clarendon, and for their phraseology in _Old Mortality_; for
one half of King James in Hume, and for the other half in the
_Fortunes of Nigel_.’
So far as the graphic description of exterior life goes, he has
completely realised his idea.
This union of a flowing fancy with an insensible organisation is very
rare. In general, a delicate fancy is joined with a poetic organisation.
Exactly why, it would be difficult to explain. It is for metaphysicians
in large volumes to explain the genesis of the human faculties; but,
as a fact, it seems to be clear that, for the most part, imaginative
men are the most sensitive to the poetic side of human life and natural
scenery. They are drawn by a strong instinct to what is sublime, grand,
and beautiful. They do not care for the coarse business of life. They
dislike to be cursed with its ordinary cares. Their nature is vivid; it
is interested by all which naturally interests; it dwells on the great,
the graceful, and the grand. On this account it naturally runs away from
history. The very name of it is too oppressive. Are not all such works
written in the _Index Expurgatorius_ of the genial satirist as works
which it was impossible to read? The coarse and cumbrous matter revolts
the soul of the fine and fanciful voluptuary. Take it as you will, human
life is like the earth on which man dwells. There are exquisite beauties,
grand imposing objects, scattered here and there; but the spaces between
these are wide; the mass of common clay is huge; the dead level of vacant
life, of commonplace geography, is immense. The poetic nature cannot bear
the preponderance; it seeks relief in selected scenes, in special topics,
in favourite beauties. History, which is the record of human existence,
is a faithful representative of it, at least in this: the poetic mind
cannot bear the weight of its narrations and the commonplaceness of its
events.
This peculiarity of character gives to Macaulay’s writing one of its
most curious characteristics. He throws over matters which are in their
nature dry and dull,—transactions—budgets—bills,—the charm of fancy which
a poetical mind employs to enhance and set forth the charm of what is
beautiful. An attractive style is generally devoted to what is in itself
specially attractive; here it is devoted to subjects which are often
unattractive, are sometimes even repelling, at the best are commonly
neutral, not inviting attention, if they do not excite dislike. In these
new volumes there is a currency reform, pages on Scotch Presbyterianism,
a heap of Parliamentary debates. Who could be expected to make anything
interesting of such topics? It is not cheerful to read in the morning
papers the debates of yesterday, though they happened last night; one
cannot like a Calvinistic divine when we see him in the pulpit; it is
awful to read on the currency, even when it concerns the bank-notes
which we use. How, then, can we care for a narrative when the divine is
dead, the shillings extinct, the whole topic of the debate forgotten
and passed away? Yet such is the power of style, so great is the charm
of very skilful words, of narration which is always passing forward,
of illustration which always hits the mark, that such subjects as
these not only become interesting, but very interesting. The proof is
evident. No book is so sought after. The Chancellor of the Exchequer
said, ‘all members of Parliament had read it.’ What other books could
ever be fancied to have been read by them? A county member—a real county
member—hardly reads two volumes _per_ existence. Years ago Macaulay said
a History of England might become more in demand at the circulating
libraries than the last novel. He has actually made his words true. It is
no longer a phrase of rhetoric, it is a simple fact.
The explanation of this remarkable notoriety is, the contrast of the
topic and the treatment. Those who read for the sake of entertainment
are attracted by the one; those who read for the sake of instruction are
attracted by the other. Macaulay has something that suits the readers
of Mr. Hallam; he has something which will please the readers of Mr.
Thackeray. The first wonder to find themselves reading such a style;
the last are astonished at reading on such topics—at finding themselves
studying by casualty. This marks the author. Only a buoyant fancy and
an impassive temperament could produce a book so combining weight with
levity.
Something similar may be remarked of the writings of a still
greater man—of Edmund Burke. The contrast between the manner of his
characteristic writings and their matter is very remarkable. He too threw
over the detail of business and of politics those graces and attractions
of manner which seem in some sort inconsistent with them; which are
adapted for topics more intrinsically sublime and beautiful. It was for
this reason that Hazlitt asserted that ‘no woman ever cared for Burke’s
writings.’ The matter, he said, was ‘hard and dry,’ and no superficial
glitter or eloquence could make it agreeable to those who liked what is,
in its very nature, fine and delicate. The charm of exquisite narration
has, in a great degree, in Macaulay’s case, supplied the deficiency; but
it may be _perhaps_ remarked, that some trace of the same phenomenon has
again occurred, from similar causes, and that his popularity, though
great among both sexes, is in some sense more masculine than feminine.
The absence of this charm of narration, to which accomplished women are,
it would seem, peculiarly sensitive, is very characteristic of Burke.
His mind was the reverse of historical. Although he had rather a coarse,
incondite temperament, not finely susceptible to the best influences, to
the most exquisite beauties of the world in which he lived, he yet lived
in that world thoroughly and completely. He did not take an interest,
as a poet does, in the sublime because it is sublime, in the beautiful
because it is beautiful; but he had the passions of more ordinary men in
a degree, and of an intensity, which ordinary men may be most thankful
that they have not. In no one has the intense faculty of intellectual
hatred—the hatred which the absolute dogmatist has for those in whom he
incarnates and personifies the opposing dogma—been fiercer or stronger;
in no one has the intense ambition to rule and govern,—in scarcely any
one has the daily ambition of the daily politician been fiercer and
stronger: he, if any man, cast himself upon his time. After one of his
speeches, peruse one of Macaulay’s: you seem transported to another
sphere. The fierce living interest of the one contrasts with the cold
rhetorical interest of the other; you are in a different part of the
animal kingdom; you have left the viviparous intellect; you have left
products warm and struggling with hasty life; you have reached the
oviparous, and products smooth and polished, cold and stately.
In addition to this impassive nature, inclining him to write on
past transactions—to this fancy, enabling him to adorn and describe
them—Macaulay has a marvellous memory to recall them; and what we may
call the Scotch intellect, enabling him to conceive them. The memory
is his most obvious power. An enormous reading seems always present to
him. No effort seems wanted—no mental excogitation. According to his
own description of a like faculty, ‘it would have been strange indeed
if you had asked for anything that was not to be found in that immense
storehouse. The article you required was not only there, it was ready. It
was in its own compartment. In a moment it was brought down, unpacked,
and explained.’ He has a literary illustration for everything; and his
fancy enables him to make a skilful use of his wealth. He always selects
the exact likeness of the idea which he wishes to explain. And though
it be less obvious, yet his writing would have been deficient in one
of its most essential characteristics if it had not been for what we
have called his Scotch intellect, which is a curious matter to explain.
It may be thought that Adam Smith had little in common with Sir Walter
Scott. Sir Walter was always making fun of him; telling odd tales of
his abstraction and singularity; not obscurely hinting, that a man who
could hardly put on his own coat, and certainly could not buy his own
dinner, was scarcely fit to decide on the proper course of industry and
the mercantile dealings of nations. Yet, when Sir Walter’s own works
come to be closely examined, they will be found to contain a good deal
of political economy of a certain sort,—and not a very bad sort. Any one
who will study his description of the Highland clans in _Waverley_; his
observations on the industrial side (if so it is to be called) of the
Border-life; his plans for dealing with the poor of his own time,—will be
struck not only with a plain sagacity, which we could equal in England,
but with the digested accuracy and theoretical completeness which they
show. You might cut paragraphs, even from his lighter writings, which
would be thought acute in the _Wealth of Nations_. There appears to be
in the genius of the Scotch people—fostered, no doubt, by the abstract
metaphysical education of their Universities, but also, by way of natural
taste, supporting that education, and rendering it possible and popular—a
power of reducing human actions to formulæ or principles. An instance
is now in a high place. People who are not lawyers,—rural people, who
have sense of their own, but have no access to the general repute and
opinion which expresses the collective sense of the great world,—never
can be brought to believe that Lord Campbell is a great man. They read
his speeches in the House of Lords—his occasional flights of eloquence
on the bench—his attempts at pathos—his stupendous _gaucheries_—and they
cannot be persuaded that a person guilty of such things can have really
first-rate talent. If you ask them how he came to be Chief Justice of
England, they mutter something angry, and say ‘Well, Scotchmen _do_ get
on somehow.’ This is really the true explanation. In spite of a hundred
defects, Lord Campbell has the Scotch faculties in perfection. He reduces
legal matters to a sound broad principle better than any man who is now
a judge. He has a steady, comprehensive, abstract, distinct consistency,
which elaborates a formula and adheres to a formula; and it is this
which has raised him from a plain—a very plain—Scotch lawyer to be Lord
Chief Justice of England. Macaulay has this too. Among his more brilliant
qualities, it has escaped the attention of critics; the more so, because
his powers of exposition and expression make it impossible to conceive
for a moment that the amusing matter we are reading is really Scotch
economy.
‘During the interval,’ he tells us, ‘between the Restoration
and the Revolution, the riches of the nation had been rapidly
increasing. Thousands of busy men found every Christmas that,
after the expenses of the year’s housekeeping had been defrayed
out of the year’s income, a surplus remained; and how that
surplus was to be employed was a question of some difficulty.
In our time, to invest such a surplus, at something more than
three per cent., on the best security that has ever been
known in the world, is the work of a few minutes. But in the
seventeenth century, a lawyer, a physician, a retired merchant,
who had saved some thousands, and who wished to place them
safely and profitably, was often greatly embarrassed. Three
generations earlier, a man who had accumulated wealth in a
profession generally purchased real property, or lent his
savings on mortgage. But the number of acres in the kingdom
had remained the same; and the value of those acres, though
it had greatly increased, had by no means increased so fast
as the quantity of capital which was seeking for employment.
Many, too, wished to put their money where they could find
it at an hour’s notice, and looked about for some species of
property which could be more readily transferred than a house
or a field. A capitalist might lend on bottomry or on personal
security; but, if he did so, he ran a great risk of losing
interest and principal. There were a few joint-stock companies,
among which the East India Company held the foremost place;
but the demand for the stock of such companies was far greater
than the supply. Indeed, the cry for a new East India Company
was chiefly raised by persons who had found difficulty in
placing their savings at interest on good security. So great
was that difficulty, that the practice of hoarding was common.
We are told that the father of Pope the poet, who retired from
business in the City about the time of the Revolution, carried
to a retreat in the country a strong box containing nearly
twenty thousand pounds, and took out from time to time what
was required for household expenses; and it is highly probable
that this was not a solitary case. At present the quantity of
coin which is hoarded by private persons is so small, that it
would, if brought forth, make no perceptible addition to the
circulation. But in the earlier part of the reign of William
the Third, all the greatest writers on currency were of opinion
that a very considerable mass of gold and silver was hidden in
secret drawers and behind wainscots.
‘The natural effect of this state of things was, that a crowd
of projectors, ingenious and absurd, honest and knavish,
employed themselves in devising new schemes for the employment
of redundant capital. It was about the year 1688 that the
word stockjobber was first heard in London. In the short
space of four years a crowd of companies, every one of which
confidently held out to subscribers the hope of immense gains,
sprang into existence: the Insurance Company, the Paper
Company, the Lutestring Company, the Pearl-Fishery Company,
the Glass-Bottle Company, the Alum Company, the Blythe Coal
Company, the Swordblade Company. There was a Tapestry Company,
which would soon furnish pretty hangings for all the parlours
of the middle class and for all the bedchambers of the higher.
There was a Copper Company, which proposed to explore the
mines of England, and held out a hope that they would prove
not less valuable than those of Potosi. There was a Diving
Company, which undertook to bring up precious effects from
shipwrecked vessels, and which announced that it had laid in
a stock of wonderful machines, resembling complete suits of
armour. In front of the helmet was a huge glass eye, like that
of a Cyclop; and out of the crest went a pipe, through which
the air was to be admitted. The whole process was exhibited
on the Thames. Fine gentlemen and fine ladies were invited
to the show, were hospitably regaled, and were delighted by
seeing the divers in their panoply descend into the river,
and return laden with old iron and ship’s tackle. There was a
Greenland Fishing Company, which could not fail to drive the
Dutch whalers and herring-busses out of the Northern Ocean.
There was a Tanning Company, which promised to furnish leather
superior to the best that was brought from Turkey or Russia.
There was a society which undertook the office of giving
gentlemen a liberal education on low terms, and which assumed
the sounding name of the Royal Academies Company. In a pompous
advertisement it was announced that the directors of the
Royal Academies Company had engaged the best masters in every
branch of knowledge, and were about to issue twenty thousand
tickets at twenty shillings each. There was to be a lottery:
two thousand prizes were to be drawn; and the fortunate
holders of the prizes were to be taught, at the charge of the
Company, Latin, Greek, Hebrew, French, Spanish, conic sections,
trigonometry, heraldry, japanning, fortification, bookkeeping,
and the art of playing the theorbo. Some of these companies
took large mansions, and printed their advertisements in gilded
letters. Others, less ostentatious, were content with ink,
and met at coffee-houses in the neighbourhood of the Royal
Exchange. Jonathan’s and Garraway’s were in a constant ferment
with brokers, buyers, sellers, meetings of directors, meetings
of proprietors. Time-bargains soon came into fashion. Extensive
combinations were formed, and monstrous fables were circulated,
for the purpose of raising or depressing the price of shares.
Our country witnessed for the first time those phenomena with
which a long experience has made us familiar. A mania, of which
the symptoms were essentially the same with those of the mania
of 1720, of the mania of 1825, of the mania of 1845, seized the
public mind. An impatience to be rich, a contempt for those
slow but sure gains which are the proper reward of industry,
patience, and thrift, spread through society. The spirit of
the cogging dicers of Whitefriars took possession of the grave
senators of the City, wardens of trades, deputies, aldermen.
It was much easier and much more lucrative to put forth a
lying prospectus announcing a new stock, to persuade ignorant
people that the dividends could not fall short of twenty per
cent., and to part with five thousand pounds of this imaginary
wealth for ten thousand solid guineas, than to load a ship
with a well-chosen cargo for Virginia or the Levant. Every day
some new bubble was puffed into existence, rose buoyant, shone
bright, burst, and was forgotten.’
You will not find the cause of panics so accurately explained in the
dryest of political economists—in the Scotch M’Culloch.
These peculiarities of character and mind may be very conspicuously
traced through the _History of England_, and in the _Essays_. Their first
and most striking quality is the _intellectual entertainment_ which they
afford. This, as practical readers know, is a kind of sensation which
is not very common, and which is very productive of great and healthy
enjoyment. It is quite distinct from the amusement which is derived from
common light works. The latter is very great; but it is passive. The
mind of the reader is not awakened to any independent action: you see
the farce, but you see it without effort; not simply without painful
effort, but without any perceptible mental activity whatever. Again,
entertainment of intellect is contrasted with the high enjoyment of
consciously following pure and difficult reasoning; such a sensation is
a sort of sublimated pain. The highest and most intense action of the
intellectual powers is like the most intense action of the bodily on a
high mountain. We climb and climb: we have a thrill of pleasure, but
we have also a sense of effort and anguish. Nor is the sensation to be
confounded with that which we experience from the best and purest works
of art. The pleasure of high tragedy is also painful: the whole soul
is stretched; the spirit pants; the passions scarcely breathe: it is
a rapt and eager moment, too intense for continuance—so overpowering,
that we scarcely know whether it be joy or pain. The sensation of
intellectual entertainment is altogether distinguished from these by not
being accompanied by any pain, and yet being consequent on, or being
contemporaneous with, a high and constant exercise of mind. While we read
works which so delight us, we are conscious that we are delighted, and
are conscious that we are not idle. The opposite pleasures of indolence
and exertion seem for a moment combined. A sort of elasticity pervades
us; thoughts come easily and quickly; we seem capable of many ideas;
we follow cleverness till we fancy that we are clever. This feeling is
only given by writers who stimulate the mind just to the degree which is
pleasant, and who do not stimulate it more; who exact a moderate exercise
of mind, and who seduce us to it insensibly. This can only be, of
course, by a charm of style; by the inexplicable _je ne sais quoi_ which
attracts our attention; by constantly raising and constantly satisfying
our curiosity. And there seems to be a further condition. A writer who
wishes to produce this constant effect must not appeal to any single,
separate faculty of mind, but to the whole mind at once. The fancy tires,
if you appeal only to the fancy; the understanding is aware of its
dulness, if you appeal only to the understanding; the curiosity is soon
satiated unless you pique it with variety. This is the very opportunity
for Macaulay. He has fancy, sense, abundance; he appeals to both fancy
and understanding. There is no sense of effort. His books read like an
elastic dream. There is a continual sense of instruction; for who had
an idea of the transactions before? The emotions, too, which he appeals
to are the easy admiration, the cool disapprobation, the gentle worldly
curiosity, which quietly excite us, never fatigue us,—which we could bear
for ever. To read Macaulay for a day, would be to pass a day of easy
thought, of pleasant placid emotion.