later period. When the Whigs began to revive after the long reign of
Tory principles, and such questions as Roman Catholic Emancipation and
Parliamentary Reform were seriously coming to the front, the 'Review'
grew to be a most effective organ of the rising party. Even in earlier
years, it was doubtless a matter of real moment that the ablest
periodical of the day should manifest sympathies with the cause then so
profoundly depressed. But in those years there is nothing of that
vehement and unsparing advocacy of Whig principles which we might expect
from a band of youthful enthusiasts. So far indeed was the 'Review' from
unhesitating partisanship that the sound Tory Scott contributed to its
pages for some years; and so late as the end of 1807 invited Southey,
then developing into fiercer Toryism, as became a 'renegade' or a
'convert,' to enlist under Jeffrey. Southey, it is true, was prevented
from joining by scruples shared by his correspondent, but it was not for
another year that the breach became irreparable. The final offence was
given by the 'famous article upon Cevallos,' which appeared in October
1808. Even at that period Scott understood some remarks of Jeffrey's as
an offer to suppress the partisan tendencies of his 'Review.' Jeffrey
repudiated this interpretation; but the statement is enough to show
that, for six years after its birth, the 'Review' had not been conducted
in such a way as to pledge itself beyond all redemption in the eyes of
staunch Tories.[21]
The Cevallos article, the work in uncertain proportions of Brougham and
Jeffrey, was undoubtedly calculated to give offence. It contained an
eloquent expression of foreboding as to the chances of the war in
Spain. The Whigs, whose policy had been opposed to the war, naturally
prophesied its ill-success, and, until this period, facts had certainly
not confuted their auguries. It was equally natural that their opponents
should be scandalised by their apparent want of patriotism. Scott's
indignation was characteristic. The 'Edinburgh Review,' he says, 'tells
you coolly, "We foresee a revolution in this country as well as Mr.
Cobbett;" and, to say the truth, by degrading the person of the
sovereign, exalting the power of the French armies and the wisdom of
their counsels, holding forth that peace (which they allow can only be
purchased by the humiliating prostration of our honour) is indispensable
to the very existence of this country, I think that for these two years
past they have done their utmost to hasten the fulfilment of their own
prophecy.' Yet, he adds, 9,000 copies are printed quarterly, 'no genteel
family _can_ pretend to be without it,' and it contains the only
valuable literary criticism of the day. The antidote was to be supplied
by the foundation of the 'Quarterly.' The Cevallos article, as Brougham
says, 'first made the Reviewers conspicuous as Liberals.'
Jeffrey and his friends were in fact in the very difficult position of
all middle parties during a period of intense national and patriotic
excitement. If they attacked Perceval or Canning or Castlereagh in one
direction, they were equally opposed to the rough-and-ready democracy of
Cobbett or Burdett, and to the more philosophical radicalism of men like
Godwin or Bentham. They were generally too young to have been infected
by the original Whig sympathy for the French Revolution, or embittered
by the reaction. They condemned the principles of '89 as decidedly if
not as heartily as the Tories. The difference, as Sydney Smith said to
his imaginary Tory, Abraham Plymley, is 'in the means, not in the end.
We both love the Constitution, respect the King, and abhor the French.'
Only, as the difference about the means was diametrical, Tories
naturally held them to be playing into the hands of destructives, though
more out of cowardice than malignity. In such a position it is not
surprising if the Reviewers generally spoke in apologetic terms and with
bated breath. They could protest against the dominant policy as rash and
bigoted, but could not put forwards conflicting principles without
guarding themselves against the imputation of favouring the common
enemy. The Puritans of Radicalism set down this vacillation to a total
want of fixed principle, if not to baser motives. The first volume of
the 'Westminster Review' (1824) contains a characteristic assault upon
the 'see-saw' system of the 'Edinburgh' by the two Mills. The
'Edinburgh' is sternly condemned for its truckling to the aristocracy,
its cowardice, political immorality, and (of all things!) its
sentimentalism. In after years J. S. Mill contributed to its pages
himself; but the opinion of his fervid youth was that of the whole
Bentham school.[22] It is plain, however, that the 'Review,' even when
it had succeeded, did not absorb the activities of its contributors so
exclusively as is sometimes suggested. They rapidly dispersed to enter
upon different careers. Even before the first number appeared, Jeffrey
complains that almost all his friends are about to emigrate to London;
and the prediction was soon verified. Sydney Smith left to begin his
career as a clergyman in London; Horner and Brougham almost immediately
took to the English bar, with a view to pushing into public life; Allen
joined Lord Holland; Charles Bell set up in a London practice; two other
promising contributors took offence, and deserted the 'Review' in its
infancy; and Jeffrey was left almost alone, though still a centre of
attraction to the scattered group. He himself only undertook the
editorship on the understanding that he might renounce it as soon as he
could do without it; and always guarded himself most carefully against
any appearance of deserting a legal for a literary career. Although the
Edinburgh _cénacle_ was not dissolved, its bonds were greatly loosened;
the chief contributors were in no sense men who looked upon literature
as a principal occupation; and Jeffrey, as much as Brougham and Horner,
would have resented, as a mischievous imputation, the suggestion that
his chief energies were devoted to the 'Review.' In some sense this
might be an advantage. An article upon politics or philosophy is, of
course, better done by a professed statesman and thinker than by a
literary hack; but, on the other hand, a man who turns aside from
politics or philosophy to do mere hackwork, does it worse than the
professed man of letters. Work, taken up at odd hours to satisfy
editorial importunity or add a few pounds to a narrow income, is apt to
show the characteristic defects of all amateur performances. A very
large part of the early numbers is amateurish in this objectionable
sense. It is mere hand-to-mouth information, and is written, so to
speak, with the left hand. A clever man has turned over the last new
book of travels or poetry, or made a sudden incursion into foreign
literature or into some passage of history entirely fresh to him, and
has given his first impressions with an audacity which almost disarms
one by its extraordinary _naïveté_. The standard of such disquisitions
was then so low that writing which would now be impossible passed muster
without an objection. When, in later years, Macaulay discussed Hampden
or Chatham, the book which he ostensibly reviewed was a mere pretext for
producing the rich stores of a mind trained by years of previous
historical study. Jeffrey wrote about Mrs. Hutchinson's 'Memoirs' and
Pepys's 'Diary' as though the books had for the first time revealed to
him the existence of Puritans or of courtiers under the Restoration. The
author of an article upon German metaphysics at the present day would
think it necessary to show that if he had not the portentous learning
which Sir William Hamilton embodied in his 'Edinburgh' articles, he had
at least read the book under review, and knew something of the language.
The author (Thomas Brown--a man who should have known better) of a
contemptuous review of Kant, in an early number of the 'Edinburgh,'
makes it even ostentatiously evident that he has never read a line of
the original, and that his whole knowledge is derived from what (by his
own account) is a very rambling and inadequate French essay. The young
gentlemen who wrote in those days have a jaunty mode of pronouncing upon
all conceivable topics without even affecting to have studied the
subject, which is amusing in its way, and which fully explains the
flimsy nature of their performance.
The authors, in fact, regarded these essays, at the time, as purely
ephemeral. The success of the 'Review' suggested republication long
afterwards. The first collection of articles was, I presume, Sydney
Smith's in 1839; Jeffrey's and Macaulay's followed in 1843; and at that
time even Macaulay thought it necessary to explain that the
republication was forced upon him by the Americans. The plan of passing
even the most serious books through the pages of a periodical has become
so common that such modesty would now imply the emptiest affectation.
The collections of Jeffrey and Sydney Smith will give a sufficient
impression of the earlier numbers of the 'Review.' The only contributors
of equal reputation were Horner and Brougham. Horner, so far as one can
judge, was a typical representative of those solid, indomitable
Scotchmen whom one knows not whether to respect for their energy or to
dread as the most intolerable of bores. He plodded through legal,
metaphysical, scientific, and literary studies like an elephant forcing
his way through a jungle; and laboured as resolutely and systematically
to acquire graces of style as to master the intricacies of the 'dismal
science.' At an early age, and with no advantages of position, he had
gained extraordinary authority in Parliament. Sydney Smith said of him
that he had the Ten Commandments written on his face, and looked so
virtuous that he might commit any crime with impunity. His death
probably deprived us of a most exemplary statesman and first-rate
Chancellor of the Exchequer, but it can hardly have been a great loss to
literature. Passages from Horner's journals, given in his 'Memoirs,' are
quaint illustrations of the frame of mind generally inculcated in
manuals for the use of virtuous young men. At the age of twenty-eight,
he resolves one day to meditate upon various topics, distributed under
nine heads, including the society to be frequented in the metropolis;
the characters to be studied; the scale of intimacies; the style of
conversation; the use of other men's minds in self-education; the
regulation of ambition, of political sentiments, connections, and
conduct; the importance of 'steadily systematising all plans and aims
of life, and so providing against contingencies as to put happiness at
least out of the reach of accident,' and the cultivation of moral
feelings by 'dignified sentiments and pleasing associations' derived
from poets, moralists, or actual life. Sydney Smith, in a very lively
portrait, says that Horner was the best, kindest, simplest, and most
incorruptible of mankind; but intimates sufficiently that his
impenetrability to the facetious was something almost unexampled. A jest
upon an important subject was, it seems, the only affliction which his
strength of principle would not enable him to bear with patience. His
contributions gave some solid economical speculation to the 'Review,'
but were neither numerous nor lively. Brougham's amazing vitality wasted
itself in a different way. His multifarious energy, from early boyhood
to the borders of old age, would be almost incredible, if we had not the
good fortune to be contemporaries of Mr. Gladstone. His share in the
opening numbers of the 'Review' is another of the points upon which
there is an odd conflict of testimony.[23] But from a very early period
he was the most voluminous and, at times, the most valuable of
contributors. It has been said that he once wrote a whole number,
including articles upon lithotomy and Chinese music. It is more
authentic that he contributed six articles to one number at the very
crisis of his political career, and at the same period he boasts of
having written a fifth of the whole 'Review' to that time. He would sit
down in a morning and write off twenty pages at a single effort. Jeffrey
compares his own editorial authority to that of a feudal monarch over
some independent barons. When Jeffrey gave up the 'Review,' this 'baron'
aspired to something more like domination than independence. He made the
unfortunate editor's life a burden to him. He wrote voluminous letters,
objurgating, entreating, boasting of past services, denouncing rival
contributors, declaring that a regard for the views of any other man was
base subservience to a renegade Ministry, or foolish attention to the
hints of understrappers; threatening, if he was neglected, to set up a
rival Review, and generally hectoring, bullying, and declaiming in a
manner which gives one the highest opinion of the diplomatic skill of
the editor, who managed, without truckling, to avoid a breach with his
tremendous contributor. Brougham, indeed, was not quite blind to the
fact that the 'Review' was as useful to him as he could be to the
'Review,' and was therefore more amenable than might have been expected,
in the last resort. But he was in every relation one of those men who
are nearly as much hated and dreaded by their colleagues as by the
adversary--a kind of irrepressible rocket, only too easy to discharge,
but whose course defied prediction.
It is, however, admitted by everyone that the literary results of this
portentous activity were essentially ephemeral. His writings are
hopelessly commonplace in substance and slipshod in style. His garden
offers a bushel of potatoes instead of a single peach. Much of
Brougham's work was up to the level necessary to give effect to the
manifesto of an active politician. It was a forcible exposition of the
arguments common at the time; but it has nowhere that stamp of
originality in thought or brilliance in expression which could confer
upon it a permanent vitality.
Jeffrey and Sydney Smith deserve more respectful treatment. Macaulay
speaks of his first editor with respectful enthusiasm. He says of the
collected contributions that the 'variety and fertility of Jeffrey's
mind' seem more extraordinary than ever. Scarcely could any three men
have produced such 'diversified excellence.' 'When I compare him with
Sydney and myself, I feel, with humility perfectly sincere, that his
range is immeasurably wider than ours. And this is only as a writer. But
he is not only a writer, he has been a great advocate, and he is a great
judge. Take him all in all, I think him more nearly an universal genius
than any man of our time; certainly far more nearly than Brougham, much
as Brougham affects the character.' Macaulay hated Brougham, and was,
perhaps, a little unjust to him. But what are we to say of the writings
upon which this panegyric is pronounced?
Jeffrey's collected articles include about eighty out of two hundred
reviews, nearly all contributed to the 'Edinburgh' within its first
period of twenty-five years. They fill four volumes, and are distributed
under the seven heads--general literature, history, poetry, metaphysics,
fiction, politics, and miscellaneous. Certainly there is versatility
enough implied in such a list, and we may be sure that he has ample
opportunity for displaying whatever may be in him. It is, however, easy
to dismiss some of these divisions. Jeffrey knew history as an English
gentleman of average cultivation knew it; that is to say, not enough to
justify him in writing about it. He knew as much of metaphysics as a
clever lad was likely to pick up at Edinburgh during the reign of Dugald
Stewart; his essays in that kind, though they show some aptitude and
abundant confidence, do not now deserve serious attention. His chief
speculative performance was an essay upon Beauty contributed to the
'Encyclopædia Britannica,' of which his biographer says quaintly that it
is 'as sound as the subject admits of.' It is crude and meagre in
substance. The principal conclusion is the rather unsatisfactory one for
a professional critic, that there are no particular rules about beauty,
and consequently that one taste is about as good as another. Nobody,
however, could be less inclined to apply this over-liberal theory to
questions of literary taste. There, he evidently holds there is most
decidedly a right and wrong, and everybody is very plainly in the wrong
who differs from himself.
Jeffrey's chief fame--or, should we say, notoriety?--was gained, and his
merit should be tested by his success in this department. The greatest
triumph that a literary critic can win is the early recognition of
genius not yet appreciated by his contemporaries. The next test of his
merit is his capacity for pronouncing sound judgment upon controversies
which are fully before the public; and, finally, no inconsiderable merit
must be allowed to any critic who has a vigorous taste of his own--not
hopelessly eccentric or silly--and expresses it with true literary
force. If not a judge, he may in that case be a useful advocate.
What can we say for Jeffrey upon this understanding? Did he ever
encourage a rising genius? The sole approach to such a success is an
appreciative notice of Keats, which would be the more satisfactory if
poor Keats had not been previously assailed by the Opposition journal.
The other judgments are for the most part pronounced upon men already
celebrated; and the single phrase which has survived is the celebrated
'This will never do,' directed against Wordsworth's 'Excursion.' Every
critic has a sacred and inalienable right to blunder at times: but
Jeffrey's blundering is amazingly systematic and comprehensive. In the
last of his poetical critiques (October 1829) he sums up his critical
experience. He doubts whether Mrs. Hemans, whom he is reviewing at the
time, will be immortal. 'The tuneful quartos of Southey,' he says, 'are
already little better than lumber; and the rich melodies of Keats and
Shelley, and the fantastical emphasis of Wordsworth, and the plebeian
pathos of Crabbe, are melting fast from the field of vision. The novels
of Scott have put out his poetry. Even the splendid strains of Moore are
fading into distance and dimness, except where they have been married to
immortal music; and the blazing star of Byron himself is receding from
its place of pride.' Who survive this general decay? Not Coleridge, who
is not even mentioned; nor is Mrs. Hemans secure. The two who show least
marks of decay are--of all people in the world--Rogers and Campbell! It
is only to be added that this summary was republished in 1843, by which
time the true proportions of the great reputations of the period were
becoming more obvious to an ordinary observer. It seems almost
incredible now that any sane critic should pick out the poems of Rogers
and Campbell as the sole enduring relics from the age of Wordsworth,
Shelley, Keats, Coleridge, and Byron.
Doubtless a critic should rather draw the moral of his own fallibility
than of his superiority to Jeffrey. Criticism is a still more perishable
commodity than poetry. Jeffrey was a man of unusual intelligence and
quickness of feeling; and a follower in his steps should think twice
before he ventures to cast the first stone. If all critics who have
grossly blundered are therefore to be pronounced utterly incompetent, we
should, I fear, have to condemn nearly everyone who has taken up the
profession. Not only Dennis and Rymer, but Dryden, Pope, Addison,
Johnson, Gray, Wordsworth, Byron, and even Coleridge, down to the last
new critic in the latest and most fashionable journals, would have to be
censured. Still there are blunders and blunders; and some of Jeffrey's
sins in that kind are such as it is not very easy to forgive. If he
attacked great men, it has been said in his defence, he attacked those
parts of their writings which were really objectionable. And, of course,
nobody will deny that (for example) Wordsworth's wilful and ostentatious
inversion of accepted rules presented a very tempting mark to the
critic. But--to say nothing of Jeffrey's failure to discharge adequately
the correlative duty of generous praise--it must be admitted that his
ridicule seems to strike pretty much at random. He picks out Southey,
certainly the least eminent of the so-called school of Wordsworth,
Coleridge, and Lamb, as the one writer of the set whose poetry deserves
serious consideration; and, besides attacking Wordsworth's faults, his
occasional flatness and childishness, selects some of his finest poems
(e.g. the Ode on the Intimations of Immortality) as flagrant specimens
of the hopelessly absurd.
The 'White Doe of Rylstone' may not be Wordsworth's best work, but a man
who begins a review of it by proclaiming it to be 'the very worst poem
ever imprinted in a quarto volume,' who follows up this remark by
unmixed and indiscriminating abuse, and who publishes the review
twenty-eight years later as expressing his mature convictions, is
certainly proclaiming his own gross incompetence. Or, again, Jeffrey
writes about 'Wilhelm Meister' (in 1824), knowing its high reputation in
Germany, and finds in it nothing but a text for a dissertation upon the
amazing eccentricity of national taste which can admire 'sheer
nonsense,' and at length proclaims himself tired of extracting 'so much
trash.' There is a kind of indecency, a wanton disregard of the general
consensus of opinion, in such treatment of a contemporary classic (then
just translated by Carlyle, and so brought within Jeffrey's sphere)
which one would hope to be now impossible. It is true that Jeffrey
relents a little at the end, admits that Goethe has 'great talent,' and
would like to withdraw some of his censure. Whilst, therefore, he
regards the novel as an instance of that diversity of national taste
which makes a writer idolised in one country who would not be tolerated
in another, he would hold it out rather as an object of wonder than
contempt. Though the greater part 'would not be endured, and, indeed,
could not have been written in England,' there are many passages of
which any country might naturally be proud. Truly this is an
illustration of Jeffrey's fundamental principle, that taste has no laws,
and is a matter of accidental caprice.
It may be said that better critics have erred with equal recklessness.
De Quincey, who could be an admirable critic where his indolent
prejudices were not concerned, is even more dead to the merits of
Goethe. Byron's critical remarks are generally worth reading, in spite
of his wilful eccentricity; and he spoke of Wordsworth and Southey still
more brutally than Jeffrey, and admired Rogers as unreasonably. In such
cases we may admit the principle already suggested, that even the most
reckless criticism has a kind of value when it implies a genuine (even
though a mistaken) taste. So long as a man says sincerely what he
thinks, he tells us something worth knowing.
Unluckily, this is just where Jeffrey is apt to fail; though he affects
to be a dictator, he is really a follower of the fashion. He could put
up with Rogers's flattest 'correctness,' Moore's most intolerable
tinsel, and even Southey's most ponderous epic poetry, because
admiration was respectable. He could endorse, though rather coldly, the
general verdict in Scott's favour, only guarding his dignity by some not
too judicious criticism; preferring, for example, the sham romantic
business of the 'Lay' to the incomparable vigour of the rough
moss-troopers,
Who sought the beeves that made their broth
In Scotland and in England both--