"When with much pains this boasted learning's got,
'Tis an affront to those who have it not."
CHURCHILL: /The Author/.
THERE was something in De Montaigne's conversation, which, without
actual flattery, reconciled Maltravers to himself and his career. It
served less, perhaps, to excite than to sober and brace his mind. De
Montaigne could have made no man rash, but he could have made many men
energetic and persevering. The two friends had some points in common;
but Maltravers had far more prodigality of nature and passion about
him--had more of flesh and blood, with the faults and excellences of
flesh and blood. De Montaigne held so much to his favourite doctrine of
moral equilibrium, that he had really reduced himself in much to a
species of clockwork. As impulses are formed from habits, so the
regularity of De Montaigne's habits made his impulses virtuous and just,
and he yielded to them as often as a hasty character might have done;
but then those impulses never urged to anything speculative or daring.
De Montaigne could not go beyond a certain defined circle of action. He
had no sympathy for any reasonings based purely on the hypotheses of the
imagination: he could not endure Plato, and he was dumb to the eloquent
whispers of whatever was refining in poetry or mystical in wisdom.
Maltravers, on the contrary, not disdaining Reason, ever sought to
assist her by the Imaginative Faculty, and held all philosophy
incomplete and unsatisfactory that bounded its inquiries to the limits
of the Known and Certain. He loved the inductive process; but he
carried it out to Conjecture as well as Fact. He maintained that, by a
similar hardihood, all the triumphs of science, as well as art, had been
accomplished--that Newton, that Copernicus, would have done nothing if
they had not imagined as well as reasoned, guessed as well as
ascertained. Nay, it was an aphorism with him, that the very soul of
philosophy is conjecture. He had the most implicit confidence in the
operations of the mind and the heart properly formed, and deemed that
the very excesses of emotion and thought, in men well trained by
experience and study, are conducive to useful and great ends. But the
more advanced years, and the singularly practical character of De
Montaigne's views, gave him a superiority in argument over Maltravers
which the last submitted to unwillingly. While, on the other hand, De
Montaigne secretly felt that his young friend reasoned from a broader
base, and took in a much wider circumference; and that he was, at once,
more liable to failure and error, and more capable of new discovery and
of intellectual achievement. But their ways in life being different,
they did not clash; and De Montaigne, who was sincerely interested in
Ernest's fate, was contented to harden his friend's mind against the
obstacles in his way, and leave the rest to experiment and to
Providence. They went up to London together: and De Montaigne returned
to Paris. Maltravers appeared once more in the haunts of the gay and
great. He felt that his new character had greatly altered his position.
He was no longer courted and caressed for the same vulgar and
adventitious circumstances of fortune, birth, and connections, as
before--yet for circumstances that to him seemed equally unflattering.
He was not sought for his merit, his intellect, his talents; but for his
momentary celebrity. He was an author in fashion, and run after as
anything else in fashion might have been. He was invited, less to be
talked to than to be stared at. He was far too proud in his temper, and
too pure in his ambition, to feel his vanity elated by sharing the
enthusiasm of the circles with a German prince or an industrious flea.
Accordingly he soon repelled the advances made to him, was reserved and
supercilious to fine ladies, refused to be the fashion, and became very
unpopular with the literary exclusives. They even began to run down the
works, because they were dissatisfied with the author. But Maltravers
had based his experiments upon the vast masses of the general Public.
He had called the PEOPLE of his own and other countries to be his
audience and his judges; and all the coteries in the world could have
not injured him. He was like the member for an immense constituency,
who may offend individuals, so long as he keep his footing with the body
at large. But while he withdrew himself from the insipid and the idle,
he took care not to become separated from the world. He formed his own
society according to his tastes: took pleasure in the manly and exciting
topics of the day; and sharpened his observation and widened his sphere
as an author, by mixing freely and boldly with all classes as a citizen.
But literature became to him as art to the artist--as his mistress to
the lover--an engrossing and passionate delight. He made it his
glorious and divine profession--he loved it as a profession--he devoted
to its pursuits and honours his youth, cares, dreams--his mind, and his
heart, and his soul. He was a silent but intense enthusiast in the
priesthood he had entered. From LITERATURE he imagined had come all
that makes nations enlightened and men humane. And he loved Literature
the more, because her distinctions were not those of the world--because
she had neither ribbands, nor stars, nor high places at her command. A
name in the deep gratitude and hereditary delight of men--this was the
title she bestowed. Hers was the Great Primitive Church of the world,
without Popes or Muftis--sinecures, pluralities and hierarchies. Her
servants spoke to the earth as the prophets of old, anxious only to be
heard and believed. Full of this fanaticism, Ernest Maltravers pursued
his way in the great procession of the myrtle-bearers to the sacred
shrine. He carried the thyrsus, and he believed in the god. By degrees
his fanaticism worked in him the philosophy which De Montaigne would
have derived from sober calculation; it made him indifferent to the
thorns in the path, to the storms in the sky. He learned to despise the
enmity he provoked, the calumnies that assailed him. Sometimes he was
silent, but sometimes he retorted. Like a soldier who serves a cause,
he believed that when the cause was injured in his person, the weapons
confided to his hands might be wielded without fear and without
reproach. Gradually he became feared as well as known. And while many
abused him, none could contemn.
It would not suit the design of this work to follow Maltravers step by
step in his course. I am only describing the principal events, not the
minute details, of his intellectual life. Of the character of his works
it will be enough to say that, whatever their faults, they were
original--they were his own. He did not write according to copy, nor
compile from commonplace books. He was an artist, it is true,--for what
is genius itself but art? but he took laws, and harmony, and order, from
the great code of Truth and Nature: a code that demands intense and
unrelaxing study--though its first principles are few and simple: that
study Maltravers did not shrink from. It was a deep love of truth that
made him a subtle and searching analyst, even in what the dull world
considers trifles; for he knew that nothing in literature is in itself
trifling--that it is often but a hairsbreadth that divides a truism from
a discovery. He was the more original, because he sought rather after
the True than the New. No two minds are ever the same; and therefore
any man who will give us fairly and frankly the results of his own
impressions, uninfluenced by the servilities of imitation, will be
original. But it was not from originality, which really made his
predominant merit, that Maltravers derived his reputation, for his
originality was not of that species which generally dazzles the
vulgar--it was not extravagant nor /bizarre/--he affected no system and
no school. Many authors of his day seemed more novel and /unique/ to
the superficial. Profound and durable invention proceeds by subtle and
fine gradations--it has nothing to do with those jerks and starts, those
convulsions and distortions, which belong not to the vigour and health,
but to the epilepsy and disease, of Literature.