unkindness, a new cause of quarrel arose. The Whig party, already
divided against itself, was rent by a new schism. The celebrated Bill
for limiting the number of Peers had been brought in. The proud Duke of
Somerset, first in rank of all the nobles whose religion permitted them
to sit in Parliament, was the ostensible author of the measure. But it
was supported, and, in truth, devised by the Prime Minister.
We are satisfied that the Bill was most pernicious; and we fear that the
motives which induced Sunderland to frame it were not honorable to him.
But we cannot deny that it was supported by many of the best and wisest
men of that age. Nor was this strange. The royal prerogative had, within
the memory of the generation then in the vigor of life, been so grossly
abused that it was still regarded with a jealousy which, when the
peculiar situation of the House of Brunswick is considered, may perhaps
be called immoderate. The particular prerogative of creating peers had,
in the opinion of the Whigs, been grossly abused by Queen Anne's last
ministry; and even the Tories admitted that her Majesty, in swamping, as
it has since been called, the Upper House, had done what only an extreme
case could justify. The theory of the English constitution, according to
many high authorities, was that three independent powers, the Sovereign,
the Nobility, and the Commons, ought constantly to act as checks on each
other. If this theory were sound, it seemed to follow that to put one of
these powers under the absolute control of the other two was absurd. But
if the number of Peers were unlimited, it could not well be denied that
the Upper House was under the absolute control of the Crown and the
Commons, and was indebted only to their moderation for any power which
it might be suffered to retain.
Steele took part with the Opposition, Addison with the Ministers.
Steele, in a paper called the Plebeian, vehemently attacked the Bill.
Sunderland called for help on Addison, and Addison obeyed the call. In a
paper called the Old Whig, he answered, and indeed refuted, Steele's
arguments. It seems to us that the premises of both the
controversialists were unsound, that, on those premises, Addison
reasoned well and Steele ill, and that consequently Addison brought out
a false conclusion, while Steele blundered upon the truth. In style, in
wit, and in politeness, Addison maintained his superiority, though the
Old Whig is by no means one of his happiest performances.
At first, both the anonymous opponents observed the laws of propriety.
But at length Steele so far forgot himself as to throw an odious
imputation on the morals of the chiefs of the administration. Addison
replied with severity, but, in our opinion, with less severity than was
due to so grave an offence against morality and decorum; nor did he, in
his just anger, forget for a moment the laws of good taste and good
breeding. One calumny which has been often repeated, and never yet
contradicted, it is our duty to expose. It is asserted in the Biographia
Britannica, that Addison designated Steele as "little Dicky." This
assertion was repeated by Johnson, who had never seen the Old Whig, and
was therefore excusable. It has also been repeated by Miss Aikin, who
has seen the Old Whig, and for whom therefore there is less excuse. Now,
it is true that the words "little Dicky" occur in the Old Whig, and that
Steele's name was Richard. It is equally true that the words "little
Isaac" occur in the Duenna, and that Newton's name was Isaac. But we
confidently affirm that Addison's little Dicky had no more to do with
Steele than Sheridan's little Isaac with Newton. If we apply the words
"little Dicky" to Steele, we deprive a very lively and ingenious
passage, not only of all its wit, but of all its meaning. Little Dicky
was the nickname of Henry Norris, an actor of remarkably small stature,
but of great humor, who played the usurer Gomez, then a most popular
part, in Dryden's Spanish Friar.[13]
The merited reproof which Steele had received, though softened by some
kind and courteous expressions, galled him bitterly. He replied with
little force and great acrimony; but no rejoinder appeared. Addison was
fast hastening to his grave; and had, we may well suppose, little
disposition to prosecute a quarrel with an old friend. His complaint had
terminated in dropsy. He bore up long and manfully. But at length he
abandoned all hope, dismissed his physicians, and calmly prepared
himself to die.
His works he entrusted to the care of Tickell, and dedicated them a very
few days before his death to Craggs, in a letter written with the sweet
and graceful eloquence of a Saturday's Spectator. In this his last
composition, he alluded to his approaching end in words so manly, so
cheerful, and so tender that it is difficult to read them without tears.
At the same time he earnestly recommended the interests of Tickell to
the care of Craggs.
Within a few hours of the time at which this dedication was written,
Addison sent to beg Gay, who was then living by his wits about town, to
come to Holland House. Gay went and was received with great kindness.
To his amazement his forgiveness was implored by the dying man. Poor
Gay, the most good-natured and simple of mankind, could not imagine what
he had to forgive. There was, however, some wrong, the remembrance of
which weighed on Addison's mind, and which he declared himself anxious
to repair. He was in a state of extreme exhaustion; and the parting was
doubtless a friendly one on both sides. Gay supposed that some plan to
serve him had been in agitation at Court, and had been frustrated by
Addison's influence. Nor is this improbable. Gay had paid assiduous
court to the royal family. But in the Queen's days he had been the
eulogist of Bolingbroke, and was still connected with many Tories. It is
not strange that Addison, while heated by conflict, should have thought
himself justified in obstructing the preferment of one whom he might
regard as a political enemy. Neither is it strange that when reviewing
his whole life, and earnestly scrutinizing all his motives, he should
think that he had acted an unkind and ungenerous part, in using his
power against a distressed man of letters, who was as harmless and as
helpless as a child.
One inference may be drawn from this anecdote. It appears that Addison,
on his deathbed, called himself to a strict account, and was not at ease
till he had asked pardon for an injury which it was not even suspected
that he had committed, for an injury which would have caused disquiet
only to a very tender conscience. Is it not then reasonable to infer
that, if he had really been guilty of forming a base conspiracy against
the fame and fortunes of a rival, he would have expressed some remorse
for so serious a crime? But it is unnecessary to multiply arguments and
evidence for the defence, when there is neither argument nor evidence
for the accusation.
The last moments of Addison were perfectly serene. His interview with
his stepson is universally known. "See," he said, "how a Christian can
die." The piety of Addison was, in truth, of a singularly cheerful
character. The feeling which predominates in all his devotional writings
is gratitude. God was to him the all-wise and all-powerful friend who
had watched over his cradle with more than maternal tenderness; who had
listened to his cries before they could form themselves in prayer; who
had preserved his youth from the snares of vice; who had made his cup
run over with worldly blessings; who had doubled the value of those
blessings by bestowing a thankful heart to enjoy them, and dear friends
to partake them; who had rebuked the waves of the Ligurian gulf, had
purified the autumnal air of the Campagna, and had restrained the
avalanches of Mont Cenis. Of the Psalms, his favorite was that which
represents the Ruler of all things under the endearing image of a
shepherd, whose crook guides the flock safe, through gloomy and desolate
glens, to meadows well watered and rich with herbage. On that goodness
to which he ascribed all the happiness of his life, he relied in the
hour of death with the love which casteth out fear. He died on the
seventeenth of June, 1719. He had just entered on his forty-eighth year.
His body lay in state in the Jerusalem Chamber, and was borne thence to
the Abbey at dead of night. The choir sung a funeral hymn. Bishop
Atterbury, one of those Tories who had loved and honored the most
accomplished of the Whigs, met the corpse, and led the procession by
torchlight, round the shrine of St. Edward and the graves of the
Plantagenets, to the Chapel of Henry the Seventh. On the north side of
that Chapel, in the vault of the House of Albemarle, the coffin of
Addison lies next to the coffin of Montague. Yet a few months, and the
same mourners passed again along the same aisle. The same sad anthem was
again chanted. The same vault was again opened, and the coffin of Craggs
was placed close to the coffin of Addison.
Many tributes were paid to the memory of Addison, but one alone is now
remembered. Tickell bewailed his friend in an elegy which would do honor
to the greatest name in our literature, and which unites the energy and
magnificence of Dryden to the tenderness and purity of Cowper. This fine
poem was prefixed to a superb edition of Addison's works, which was
published, in 1721, by subscription. The names of the subscribers proved
how widely his fame had been spread. That his countrymen should be eager
to possess his writings, even in a costly form, is not wonderful. But it
is wonderful that, though English literature was then little studied on
the Continent, Spanish grandees, Italian prelates, marshals of France,
should be found in the list. Among the most remarkable names are those
of the Queen of Sweden, of Prince Eugene, of the Grand Duke of Tuscany,
of the Dukes of Parma, Modena, and Guastalla, of the Doge of Genoa, of
the Regent Orleans, and of Cardinal Dubois. We ought to add that this
edition, though eminently beautiful, is in some important points
defective; nor, indeed, do we yet possess a complete collection of
Addison's writings.
It is strange that neither his opulent and noble widow, nor any of his
powerful and attached friends, should have thought of placing even a
simple tablet, inscribed with his name, on the walls of the Abbey. It
was not till three generations had laughed and wept over his pages that
the omission was supplied by the public veneration. At length, in our
own time, his image, skilfully graven, appeared in Poet's Corner. It
represents him, as we can conceive him, clad in his dressing-gown, and
freed from his wig, stepping from his parlor at Chelsea into his trim
little garden, with the account of the Everlasting Club, or the Loves of
Hilpa and Shalum, just finished for the next day's Spectator, in his
hand. Such a mark of national respect was due to the unsullied
statesman, to the accomplished scholar, to the master of pure English
eloquence, to the consummate painter of life and manners. It was due,
above all, to the great satirist, who alone knew how to use ridicule
without abusing it, who, without inflicting a wound, effected a great
social reform, and who reconciled wit and virtue, after a long and
disastrous separation, during which wit had been led astray by
profligacy, and virtue by fanaticism.
FOOTNOTES:
[9] The Life of Joseph Addison. By Lucy Aikin. 2 vols. 8vo. London:
1843.
[10] Orlando Furioso, xlv. C8.
[11] It is strange that Addison should, in the first line of his
travels, have misdated his departure from Marseilles by a whole year,
and still more strange that this slip of the pen which throws the whole
narrative into inextricable confusion, should have been repeated in a
succession of editions, and never detected by Tickell or by Hurd.
[12] Nos. 26, 329, 69, 317, 159, 343, 517. These papers are all in the
first seven volumes. The eighth must be considered as a separate work.
[13] We will transcribe the whole paragraph. How it can ever have been
misunderstood is unintelligible to us.
"But our author's chief concern is for the poor House of Commons, whom
he represents as naked and defenceless, when the Crown, by losing this
prerogative, would be less able to protect them against the power of a
House of Lords. Who forbears laughing when the Spanish Friar represents
little Dicky, under the person of Gomez, insulting the Colonel that was
able to fright him out of his wits with a single frown? This Gomez, says
he, flew upon him like a dragon, got him down, the Devil being strong in
him, and gave him bastinado on bastinado, and buffet on buffet, which
the poor Colonel, being prostrate, suffered with a most Christian
patience. The improbability of the fact never fails to raise mirth in
the audience; and one may venture to answer for a British House of
Commons, if we may guess from its conduct hitherto, that it will scarce
be either so tame or so weak as our author supposes."
BARERE[14]
_The Edinburgh Review_, April, 1844
This book has more than one title to our serious attention. It is an
appeal, solemnly made to posterity by a man who played a conspicuous
part in great events, and who represents himself as deeply aggrieved by
the rash and malevolent censure of his contemporaries. To such an appeal
we shall always give ready audience. We can perform no duty more useful
to society, or more agreeable to our own feelings, than that of making,
as far as our power extends, reparation to the slandered and persecuted
benefactors of mankind. We therefore promptly took into our
consideration this copious apology for the life of Bertrand Barere. We
have made up our minds; and we now propose to do him, by the blessing of
God, full and signal justice.
It is to be observed that the appellant in this case does not come into
court alone. He is attended to the bar of public opinion by two
compurgators who occupy highly honorable stations. One of these is M.
David of Angiers, Member of the Institute, an eminent sculptor, and, if
we have been rightly informed, a favorite pupil, though not a kinsman,
of the painter who bore the same name. The other, to whom we owe the
biographical preface, is M. Hippolyte Carnot, Member of the Chamber of
Deputies, and son of the celebrated Director. In the judgment of M.
David and of M. Hippolyte Carnot, Barere was a deserving and an
ill-used man,--a man who, though by no means faultless, must yet, when
due allowance is made for the force of circumstances and the infirmity
of human nature, be considered as on the whole entitled to our esteem.
It will be for the public to determine, after a full hearing, whether
the editors have, by thus connecting their names with that of Barere,
raised his character or lowered their own.
We are not conscious that, when we opened this book, we were under the
influence of any feeling likely to pervert our judgment. Undoubtedly we
had long entertained a most unfavorable opinion of Barere; but to this
opinion we were not tied by any passion or by any interest. Our dislike
was a reasonable dislike, and might have been removed by reason. Indeed,
our expectation was that these Memoirs would in some measure clear
Barere's fame. That he could vindicate himself from all the charges
which had been brought against him, we knew to be impossible; and his
editors admit that he has not done so. But we thought it highly probable
that some grave accusations would be refuted, and that many offences to
which he would have been forced to plead guilty would be greatly
extenuated. We were not disposed to be severe. We were fully aware that
temptations such as those to which the members of the Convention and of
the Committee of Public Safety were exposed must try severely the
strength of the firmest virtue. Indeed, our inclination has always been
to regard with an indulgence, which to some rigid moralists appears
excessive, those faults into which gentle and noble spirits are
sometimes hurried by the excitement of conflict, by the maddening
influence of sympathy, and by ill-regulated zeal for a public cause.
With such feelings we read this book, and compared it with other
accounts of the events in which Barere bore a part. It is now our duty
to express the opinion to which this investigation has led us.
Our opinion, then, is this: that Barere approached nearer than any
person mentioned in history or fiction, whether man or devil, to the
idea of consummate and universal depravity. In him the qualities which
are the proper objects of hatred, and the qualities which are the proper
objects of contempt, preserve an exquisite and absolute harmony. In
almost every particular sort of wickedness he has had rivals. His
sensuality was immoderate; but this was a failing common to him with
many great and amiable men. There have been many men as cowardly as he,
some as cruel, a few as mean, a few as impudent. There may also have
been as great liars, though we never met with them or read of them. But
when we put everything together, sensuality, poltroonery, baseness,
effrontery, mendacity, barbarity, the result is something which in a
novel we should condemn as caricature, and to which, we venture to say,
no parallel can be found in history.
It would be grossly unjust, we acknowledge, to try a man situated as
Barere was by a severe standard. Nor have we done so. We have formed our
opinion of him by comparing him, not with politicians of stainless
character, not with Chancellor D'Aguesseau, or General Washington, or
Mr. Wilberforce, or Earl Grey, but with his own colleagues of the
Mountain. That party included a considerable number of the worst men
that ever lived; but we see in it nothing like Barere. Compared with him
Fouche seems honest; Billaud seems humane; Hebert seems to rise into
dignity. Every other chief of a party, says M. Hippolyte Carnot, has
found apologists: one set of men exalts the Girondists; another set
justifies Danton; a third deifies Robespierre; but Barere has remained
without a defender. We venture to suggest a very simple solution of this
phenomenon. All the other chiefs of parties had some good qualities; and
Barere had none. The genius, courage, patriotism, and humanity of the
Girondist statesmen more than atoned for what was culpable in their
conduct, and should have protected them from the insult of being
compared with such a thing as Barere. Danton and Robespierre were indeed
bad men; but in both of them some important parts of the mind remained
sound. Danton was brave and resolute, fond of pleasure, of power, and of
distinction, with vehement passions, with lax principles, but with some
kind and manly feelings, capable of great crimes, but capable also of
friendship and of compassion. He, therefore, naturally finds admirers
among persons of bold and sanguine dispositions. Robespierre was a vain,
envious, and suspicious man, with a hard heart, weak nerves, and a
gloomy temper. But we cannot with truth deny that he was, in the vulgar
sense of the word, disinterested, that his private life was correct, or
that he was sincerely zealous for his own system of politics and morals.
He, therefore, naturally finds admirers among honest but moody and
bitter democrats. If no class has taken the reputation of Barere under
its patronage, the reason is plain: Barere had not a single virtue, nor
even the semblance of one.
It is true that he was not, as far as we are able to judge, originally
of a savage disposition; but this circumstance seems to us only to
aggravate his guilt. There are some unhappy men constitutionally prone
to the darker passions, men all whose blood is gall, and to whom bitter
words and harsh actions are as natural as snarling and biting to a
ferocious dog. To come into the world with this wretched mental disease
is a greater calamity than to be born blind or deaf. A man who, having
such a temper, keeps it in subjection, and constrains himself to behave
habitually with justice and humanity towards those who are in his power,
seems to us worthy of the highest admiration. There have been instances
of this self-command; and they are among the most signal triumphs of
philosophy and religion. On the other hand, a man who, having been
blessed by nature with a bland disposition, gradually brings himself to
inflict misery on his fellow creatures with indifference, with
satisfaction, and at length with a hideous rapture, deserves to be
regarded as a portent of wickedness; and such a man was Barere. The
history of his downward progress is full of instruction. Weakness,
cowardice, and fickleness were born with him; the best quality which he
received from nature was a good temper. These, it is true, are not very
promising materials; yet, out of materials as unpromising, high
sentiments of piety and of honor have sometimes made martyrs and heroes.
Rigid principles often do for feeble minds what stays do for feeble
bodies. But Barere had no principles at all. His character was equally
destitute of natural and of acquired strength. Neither in the commerce
of life, nor in books, did we ever become acquainted with any mind so
unstable, so utterly destitute of tone, so incapable of independent
thought and earnest preference, so ready to take impressions and so
ready to lose them. He resembled those creepers which must lean on
something, and which, as soon as their prop is removed, fall down in
utter helplessness. He could no more stand up, erect and self-supported,
in any cause, than the ivy can rear itself like the oak, or the wild
vine shoot to heaven like the cedar of Lebanon. It is barely possible
that, under good guidance and in favorable circumstances, such a man
might have slipped through life without discredit. But the unseaworthy
craft, which even in still water would have been in danger of going down
from its own rottenness, was launched on a raging ocean, amidst a storm
in which a whole armada of gallant ships was cast away. The weakest and
most servile of human beings found himself on a sudden an actor in a
Revolution which convulsed the whole civilized world. At first he fell
under the influence of humane and moderate men, and talked the language
of humanity and moderation. But he soon found himself surrounded by
fierce and resolute spirits, scared by no danger and restrained by no
scruple. He had to choose whether he would be their victim or their
accomplice. His choice was soon made. He tasted blood, and felt no
loathing; he tasted it again, and liked it well. Cruelty became with
him, first a habit, then a passion, at last a madness. So complete and
rapid was the degeneracy of his nature that, within a very few months
after the time when he had passed for a good-natured man, he had brought
himself to look on the despair and misery of his fellow creatures with a
glee resembling that of the fiends whom Dante saw watching the pool of
seething pitch in Malebolge. He had many associates in guilt; but he
distinguished himself from them all by the Bacchanalian exultation which
he seemed to feel in the work of death. He was drunk with innocent and
noble blood, laughed and shouted as he butchered, and howled strange
songs and reeled in strange dances amidst the carnage. Then came a
sudden and violent turn of fortune. The miserable man was hurled down
from the height of power to hopeless ruin and infamy. The shock sobered
him at once. The fumes of his horrible intoxication passed away. But he
was now so irrecoverably depraved that the discipline of adversity only
drove him further into wickedness. Ferocious vices, of which he had
never been suspected, had been developed in him by power. Another class
of vices, less hateful perhaps, but more despicable, was now developed
in him by poverty and disgrace. Having appalled the whole world by great
crimes perpetrated under the pretence of zeal for liberty, he became the
meanest of all the tools of despotism. It is not easy to settle the
order of precedence among his vices; but we are inclined to think that
his baseness was, on the whole, a rarer and more marvellous thing than
his cruelty.