incolumem!_ He is a man of mark--with whatever faults, a great
Englishman. It will not take the citizens of New York and Boston long to
become quite as familiar with his handsome, thoughtful face as the
people of London. Mr. Froude rarely makes his appearance at any public
meeting or demonstration of any kind. He delivers a series of lectures
now and then to one of the great solemn literary institutions. He is a
member of some of our literary and scientific societies. He used at one
time occasionally to attend the meetings of the Newspaper Press Fund
Committee, where his retiring ways and grave, meditative demeanor
reminded me, I cannot tell why, of Nathaniel Hawthorne. He has many
friends, and mingles freely in private society, but to the average
public he is only a name; to a large proportion of that average public
he is not even so much. I presume he might walk the Strand every day and
no head turn round to look after him. I presume it would not be
difficult to get together a large public meeting of respectable and
intelligent London rate-payers of whom not one could tell who Mr. Froude
was, or would be aroused to the slightest interest by the mention of his
name. Who, indeed, is generally known or cared about in London? I do not
say universally known, for nobody enjoys that proud distinction, not
even the Prince of Wales--nay, not even the Tichborne claimant. But who
is ever generally known? Gladstone and Disraeli are; and Bright is.
Dickens was, and, to a certain extent, Thackeray. Archbishop Manning and
Mr. Spurgeon are, perhaps; and I cannot remember anybody else just now.
Palmerston, in his day, was better known than any of these; and the Duke
of Wellington was by far the most widely known of all. The Duke of
Wellington was the only man who during my time was nearly as well known
in London as Mr. Greeley is in New York. "How can you, you know?" as Mr.
Pecksniff asks. We have four millions of people crowded into one city.
It takes a giant of popularity indeed to be seen and recognized above
that crowd. As for your Brownings and Spencers and Froudes and the rest,
your mere men of genius--well, they have their literary celebrity and
they will doubtless have their fame. But average London knows and cares
no more about them than it does about you or me.
Therefore, let not any American reader, when I describe Mr. Froude as a
man of mark and a great Englishman, assume that he is a man of mark with
the crowd. Let no American visitor to London be astonished if, finding
himself in the neighborhood of Mr. Froude's residence, and stepping
into half a dozen shops in succession to ask for the exact address of
the historian, he should hear that nobody there knew anything about him.
Nobody but scholars and literary people knew anything about the late
George Grote, one of the few great philosophic historians of the modern
world. Compared with the influence of Mr. Grote upon average London,
that of Mr. Froude may almost be described as sensational; for Froude
has stirred up literary and religious controversy, and has been
denounced and has personally defended himself, and in that way must have
attracted some attention. At all events, when New York has seen and
heard Mr. Froude, she will have seen and heard one of the men of our
time in the true sense; one of the men who have toiled out a channel for
a fresh current of literature to run in, and whose name can hereafter be
omitted from no list of celebrities, however select, which pretends to
illustrate the characteristics of the Victorian age in England.
Mr. Froude is a Devonshire man, son of a Protestant archdeacon. He was
educated in Westminster School, and afterward at the famous Oriel
College, Oxford. He is now some fifty-four or fifty-five years of age,
but seems, and I hope is, only in his prime. Froude is a waif of that
marvellous Oxford movement which began some forty years ago, and of
which the strange, diversely operating influence still radiates through
English thought and society. That movement was a peculiar theological
_renaissance_, which partly converted itself into a reaction and partly
into a revolt. It began with the saintly and earnest Keble; its master
spirits were John Henry Newman and Dr. Pusey. It proposed to vindicate
for the Protestant Church the true place of spiritual heir to the
apostles and universal teacher of the Christian world. Newman, Pusey,
and others worked in the production of the celebrated "Tracts for the
Times." The results were extraordinary. The impulse of inquiry thus set
going seemed to shake all foundations of agreement. It was an explosion
which blew people various ways, they could hardly tell why or how. It
made one man a ritualist, another an Ultramontane Roman Catholic, a
third a skeptic. Like the two women grinding at the mill in the
Scripture, two devoted companions, brothers perhaps, were seized by that
impulse and flung different ways. Before the wave had subsided it tossed
Mr. Froude, then a young man of five or six and twenty, clear out of his
intended career as a clergyman of the Church of England. He had taken
deacon's orders before the change came on him, which drove him forth as
the two Newmans had been driven; but his course was more like that of
Francis Newman than of John Henry. He seemed, indeed, at one time likely
to pass away altogether into the ranks of the skeptics. Skepticism is in
London attended with no small degree of social disadvantage. To be in
"society," you must believe as people of good position do. Dissent of
any kind is unfashionable. A shrewd friend of mine says a dissenter can
never enter London. Dissent never gets any further than Hackney or
Clapham, a northern and a southern suburb. Allowance being made for a
touch of satirical exaggeration, the saying is very expressive, and even
instructive. Probably, however, the odds are more heavily against mere
dissent than a bold, intellectual skepticism, which may have a piquant
and alluring flavor about it, and make a man a sort of curiosity and
lion, so that "society" would tolerate him as it does a poet. There was,
however, nothing in exclusion from fashionable society to frighten a man
like Froude, who, so far as I know, has never troubled himself about the
favor of the West End. His first work of any note (for I pass over "The
Shadows of the Clouds," a novel, I believe, which I have never read nor
seen) was "The Nemesis of Faith." This work was published in 1848, and
is chiefly to be valued now as an illustration of one stage of
development through which the intellect of the author and the tolerance
of his age were passing. "The Nemesis of Faith" was declared a skeptical
and even an infidel book. It was sternly censured and condemned by the
authorities of the university to which Mr. Froude had belonged. He had
won a fellowship in Exeter College, Oxford; the college authorities
punished him for his opinions by depriving him of it. "The Nemesis of
Faith" created a sensation, an excitement and alarm, which surely were
extravagant even then and would be impossible now. Its doubts and
complaints would seem wild enough to-day. Men of any freshness and
originality so commonly begin--or about that time did begin--their
career with a little outburst of skepticism, that the thing seems almost
as natural as it seemed to Major Pendennis for a young peer to start in
public life as a professed republican. Besides, we must remember that
"The Nemesis of Faith" was published in what the late Lord Derby once
called the pre-scientific age. It was the time when skepticism dealt
only in the metaphysical or the emotional, and had not congealed into
the far more enduring and corroding form of physical science. As well as
I can remember, "The Nemesis of Faith"--which I have not seen for
years--was full of life and genius, but not particularly dangerous to
settled beliefs. However, a storm raged around it, and around the
author; and finally Mr. Froude himself seems to have reconsidered his
opinions, for he subsequently withdrew the book from circulation. Its
literary success, however, must have shown him clearly what his career
was to be. He was at this time drifting about the world in search of
occupation; for he found himself cut off from the profession of the
Church, on which he had intended to enter, and yet he had, if I am not
mistaken, passed far enough within its threshold to disqualify him for
admission to one of the other professions. He began to write for the
"Westminster Review," which at that time was in the zenith of its
intellectual celebrity, and for "Fraser's Magazine." His studies led him
especially into the history of the Tudor reigns, and most of his early
contributions to "Fraser" were explorations in that field. Out of these
studies grew the "History of England," on which the fame of the author
is destined to rest. Mr. Froude himself tells us that he began his task
with a strong inclination toward what may be called the conventional and
orthodox opinions of the character of Henry VIII.; but he found as he
studied the actual records and state papers that a different sort of
character began to grow up under his eyes. I can easily imagine how his
emotional and artistic nature gradually bore him away further and
further in the direction thus suddenly opened up, until at last he had
created an entirely new Henry for himself. Of course the old traditional
notion of Henry, the simple idea which set him down as a monster of lust
and cruelty, would soon expose its irrationality to a mind like that of
Froude. But, like the writers who, in revolt against the picture of
Tiberius given by Tacitus, or that of the French Revolution woven by
Burke, have painted the Roman Emperor as an archangel, and the
Revolution as a stainless triumph of liberty, so Mr. Froude seems to
have been driven into a positive affection and veneration for the
subject of his study. In 1856 the first and second volumes appeared of
the "History of England from the Fall of Wolsey to the Death of
Elizabeth." There has hardly been in our time so fierce a literary
controversy as that which sprang up around these two volumes. Perhaps
the war of words over Buckle's first volume or Darwin's "Origin of
Species" could alone be compared with it. Mr. Froude became famous in a
moment. The "Edinburgh Review" came out with a fierce, almost a savage
attack, to which Mr. Froude replied in an article which he published in
"Fraser" and to which he affixed his own signature. Mr. Froude, indeed,
has during his career fought several battles in this open, personal
manner--a thing very uncommon in England. He has had many enemies. The
"Saturday Review" has been unswerving in its passionate hostility to
him, and has even gone so far as to arraign his personal integrity as a
chronicler. Rumor in London ascribes some of the bitterest of the
"Saturday Review" articles to the pen of Mr. Edward A. Freeman, author
of "The History of Federal Government," "The History of the Norman
Conquest of England," and many historical essays--a prolific writer in
reviews and journals. Then as the successive volumes of Froude's work
began to appear, and the historian brought out his famous portraiture of
Elizabeth and Mary, it was but natural that controversy should thicken
and deepen around him. The temper of parties in Great Britain is still
nearly as hot as ever it was on the characters of Mary and Elizabeth.
Not many years ago Thackeray was hissed in Edinburgh, because in one of
his lectures he said something which was supposed to be disparaging to
the moral character of Mary of Scotland. Then the whole question of
Saxon against Celt comes up again in Mr. Froude's account of English
rule in Ireland. Everybody knows what a storm of controversy broke
around the historian's head. He was accused not merely of setting up his
own personal prejudices as law and history, but even of misrepresenting
facts and actually misquoting documents in order to suit his purpose. I
do not mean to enter into the discussion, for I am not writing a
criticism of Mr. Froude's history, but only a chapter about Mr. Froude
himself. But I confess I can quite understand why so many readers, not
blind partisans of any cause, become impatient with some of the passages
of his works. He coolly and deliberately commends as virtue in one
person or one race the very qualities, the very deeds which he
stigmatizes as the blackest and basest guilt in others. "Show me the
man, and I will show you the law," used to be an old English proverb,
illustrating the depth which judicial partisanship and corruption had
reached. "Show me the person, and I will show you the moral law," might
well be the motto of Mr. Froude's history. But I believe Mr. Froude to
be utterly incapable of any misrepresentation or distortion of facts,
any conscious coloring of the truth. Indeed, I am rather impressed by
the extraordinary boldness with which he often gives the naked facts,
and still calmly upholds a theory which to ordinary minds would seem
absolutely incompatible with their existence. It appears to be enough if
he once makes up his mind to dislike a personage or a race. Let the
facts be as they may, Mr. Froude will still explain them to the
discredit of the object of his antipathy. His mode of dealing with the
characters and actions of those he detests, might remind one of the
manner in which the discontented subjects of the perplexed prince in
"Rabagas" explain every act of their good-natured ruler: "Je donne un
bal--luxe effrene! Pas de bal--quelle avarice! Je passe une
revue--intimidation militaire! Je n'en passe pas--je crains l'esprit des
troupes! Des petards a ma fete--l'argent du peuple en fumee! Pas de
petards--rien pour les plaisirs du peuple! Je me porte bien--l'oisivite!
Je me porte mal--la debauche! Je batis--gaspillage! Je ne batis pas--et
le proletaire?"
However that may be, it is certain that the "History" placed Mr. Froude
in the very front rank of English authors. He had made a path for
himself. He refused to accept the thought of what is commonly called a
science of history, although his own method of evolving his narrative is
very often in faithful conformity with the principles of that science.
He had written about political economy, in the very opening of his first
volume, in a manner which, if it did not imply an actual contempt for
the doctrines of that science, yet certainly showed an impatience of its
rule which aroused the anger of the economists. He claimed a reversal of
the universal decision of modern history as to the character of Henry
VIII. He assailed one of the English Protestant's articles of faith when
he denied the virtue of Anne Boleyn. He made mistakes and confessed
them, and went to work again. The opening of the Spanish archives in the
castle of Simancas flooded him with new lights and required a
reconstruction of much that he had done. The progress of his work became
one of the literary phenomena of the age. All eyes were on it. The rich
romantic splendor of the style, the singular power and impressiveness of
the historical portraits, fascinated everybody. Orthodox Protestants
looked on him as a sort of infidel or pagan, despite his admiration for
Queen Bess, because, with all his admiration, he exposed her meannesses
and her falsehoods with unsparing hand. Catholics insisted on regarding
him as a mere bigot of Protestantism, although he condemned Anne Boleyn.
Mr. Froude has always shown a remarkable freedom from prejudice and
bigotry. Some of his closest friends are Catholics and Irishmen. I
remember a little personal instance of liberality on his part which is
perhaps worth mentioning. There was an official in the Record or State
Paper Office of England who had become a Roman Catholic, and was, like
most English Catholics, especially if converts, rather bigoted and
zealous. This gentleman, Mr. Turnbull, happened to be employed some
years ago in arranging, copying, and calendaring the Elizabethan State
papers. The Evangelical Alliance Society got up a cry against him. They
insisted that to employ a Roman Catholic in such a task was only to
place in his hands the means of falsifying a most important period of
English history, and they argued that the temptation would be too strong
for any man like Mr. Turnbull to resist. There sprang up one of those
painful and ignoble disputations which are even still only too common in
England when religious bigotry gets a chance of raising an alarm. I am
sorry to say that so influential a journal as the "Athenaeum" joined in
the clamor for the dismissal of Mr. Turnbull, who was not accused of
having done anything wrong, but only of being placed in a position which
might perhaps tempt some base creatures to do wrong. Mr. Turnbull was a
gentleman of the highest honor, and, unfortunately for himself, an
enthusiast in the very work which then occupied him. Mr. Froude was then
engaged in studying the period of history which employed Mr. Turnbull's
labors. The opinions of the two men were utterly at variance. Mr.
Turnbull must have thought Froude's work in the rehabilitation of Henry
VIII., and the glorification of Elizabeth positively detestable. But Mr.
Froude bore public testimony to the honor and integrity of Mr. Turnbull.
"Mr. Turnbull," Froude wrote, "could have felt no sympathy with the work
in which I was engaged; but he spared no pains to be of use to me, and
in admitting me to a share of his private room enabled me to witness the
ability and integrity with which he discharged his own duties." Bigotry
prevailed, however. Mr. Turnbull was removed from his place, and died
soon after, disappointed and embittered. But Froude the man is not
Froude the author. The man is free from dislikes and prejudices; the
author can hardly take a pen in his hand without being suffused by
prejudices and dislikes. Take for example his way of dealing with Irish
questions, not merely in his history, but in his miscellaneous writings.
Mr. Froude has some little property in the west of Ireland, and resides
there for a short time every year. He has occasionally detailed his
experiences, and commented on them, in the pages of "Fraser." I shall
not give my own view of his apparent sentiments toward Ireland, because
I am obviously not an impartial judge; but I shall take the opinion of
the London "Spectator," which is. The "Spectator" declares that "it may
be not unfairly said that Mr. Froude simply loathes the Irish people;
not consciously perhaps, for he professes the reverse. But a certain
bitter grudge breaks out despite his will now and then. It colors all
his tropes. It adds a sting to the casual allusions of his language.
When he wants a figure of speech to express the relation between the two
islands, he compares the Irish to a kennel of fox-hounds, and the
English to their master, and declares that what the Irish want is a
master who knows that he is a master and means to continue master." In
his occasional studies of contemporary Ireland from the window of his
shooting lodge in Kerry, Mr. Froude exhibits the same strange mixture of
candor as to fact and blind prejudice as to conclusion which so oddly
characterizes his history. He recounts deliberately the most detestable
projects--he himself calls them "detestable;" the word is his, not
mine--avowed to him by the agents of great Irish landlords, and yet his
sympathy is wholly with the agents and against the occupiers. He tells
in one instance, with perfect delight, of a mean and vulgar exhibition
of triumphant malice which he says an agent, a friend of his, paraded
for the humiliation of an evicted and contumacious tenant. The
"Spectator" asks in wonder whether it can be possible that "Mr. Froude,
an English gentleman by birth and education, an Oxford fellow, is not
ashamed to relate this act as an heroic feat?" Indeed, Mr. Froude seems
to associate in Ireland only with the "agent" class, and to take all his
views of things from them. His testimony is therefore about as valuable
as that of a foreigner who twelve or fifteen years ago should have taken
his opinions as to slavery in the South from the judgment and
conversation of the plantation overseers. The "Spectator" observed, with
calm severity, that Mr. Fronde's unlucky accounts of his Irish
experiences were "a comical example of the way in which an acute and
profound mind can become dull to the sense of what is manly, just, and
generous, by the mere atmosphere of association." Let me say that I am
convinced, however, that all this blind and unmanly prejudice is purely
literary; that it is taken up and laid aside with the pen. As I have
already said, some of Mr. Froude's closest friends are Irishmen--men who
are incapable of associating with any one, however eminent, who really
felt the coarse and bitter hatred to their country which Mr. Froude in
his wilder moments allows his too fluent pen to express. In fact Mr.
Froude is nothing of a philosopher. He settles every question easily and
off hand by reference to what Stuart Mill well calls the resource of the
lazy--the theory of race. Celts are all wrong and Anglo-Saxons are all
right, and there is an end of it. If he has any philosophy and science
of history, it is this. It explains everything and reconciles all
seeming contradictions. Nothing can be at once more comprehensive and
more simple. But there is still something to be added to this story of
Mr. Froude's Irish experiences; and I mention the whole thing only to
illustrate the peculiar character of Mr. Froude's emotional temperament,
which so often renders him untrustworthy as a historian. In the
particular instance on which the "Spectator" commented, it turned out
that Mr. Froude was entirely mistaken. He had misunderstood from
beginning to end what his friend the agent told him. The agent, the
landlord (a peer of the realm), and others hastened to contradict the
historian. There never had been any such eviction or any such offensive
display. Mr. Froude himself wrote to acknowledge publicly that he had
been entirely mistaken. He seemed indeed to have always had some doubt
of the story he was publishing; for he sent a proof of the page to the
agent "to be corrected in case I had misunderstood him." But the agent's
alterations, "unluckily, did not reach me in time;" and as Mr. Froude
could not wait for the truth, he published the error. Thus indeed is
history written! This was Mr. Froude's published version of a statement
made _viva voce_ to himself; and his version was wrong in every
particular--in fact, in substance, in detail, in purport, in everything!
I venture to think that this little incident is eminently
characteristic, and throws a strong light on some of the errors of the
"History of England."