meditation impossible, and the accidental circumstances of his life,
left him in possession of qualities which are in most men subdued or
expelled by the hard discipline of life. Brought into impulsive
collision with all kinds of authorities, he set up a kind of schoolboy
republicanism, and used all his poetic eloquence to give it an air of
reality. But he never cared to bring it into harmony with any definite
system of thought, or let his outbursts of temper transport him into
settled antagonism with accepted principles. He troubled himself just as
little about theological as about political theories; he was as utterly
impervious as the dullest of squires to the mystic philosophy imported
by Coleridge, and found the world quite rich enough in sources of
enjoyment without tormenting himself about the unseen, and the ugly
superstitions which thrive in mental twilight. But he had quarrelled
with parsons as much as with lawyers, and could not stand the thought of
a priest interfering with his affairs or limiting his amusements. And so
he set up as a tolerant and hearty disciple of Epicurus. Chivalrous
sentiment and an exquisite perception of the beautiful saved him from
any gross interpretation of his master's principles; although, to say
the truth, he shows an occasional laxity on some points which savours of
the easy-going pagan, or perhaps of the noble of the old school. As he
grew up he drank deep of English literature, and sympathised with the
grand republican pride of Milton--as sturdy a rebel as himself, and a
still nobler because more serious rhetorician. He went to Italy, and, as
he imbibed Italian literature, sympathised with the joyous spirit of
Boccaccio and the eternal boyishness of classical art. Mediævalism and
all mystic philosophies remained unintelligible to this true-born
Englishman. Irritated rather than humbled by his incapacity, he cast
them aside, pretty much as a schoolboy might throw a Plato at the head
of a pedantic master.
The best and most attractive dialogues are those in which he can give
free play to this Epicurean sentiment; forget his political mouthing,
and inoculate us for the moment with the spirit of youthful enjoyment.
Nothing can be more perfectly charming in its way than Epicurus in his
exquisite garden, discoursing on his pleasant knoll, where, with
violets, cyclamens, and convolvuluses clustering round, he talks to his
lovely girl-disciples upon the true theory of life--temperate enjoyment
of all refined pleasures, forgetfulness of all cares, and converse with
true chosen spirits far from the noise of the profane vulgar: of the
art, in short, by which a man of fine cultivation may make the most of
this life, and learn to take death as a calm and happy subsidence into
oblivion. Nor far behind is the dialogue in which Lucullus entertains
Cæsar in his delightful villa, and illustrates by example, as well as
precept, Landor's favourite doctrine of the vast superiority of the
literary to the active life. Politics, as he makes even Demosthenes
admit, are the 'sad refuge of restless minds, averse from business and
from study.' And certainly there are moods in which we could ask nothing
better than to live in a remote villa, in which wealth and art have done
everything in their power to give all the pleasures compatible with
perfect refinement and contempt of the grosser tastes. Only it must be
admitted that this is not quite a gospel for the million. And probably
the highest triumph is in the Pentameron, where the whole scene is so
vividly coloured by so many delicate touches, and such charming little
episodes of Italian life, that we seem almost to have seen the fat,
wheezy poet hoisting himself on to his pampered steed, to have listened
to the village gossip, and followed the little flirtations in which the
true poets take so kindly an interest; and are quite ready to pardon
certain useless digressions and critical vagaries, and to overlook
complacently any little laxity of morals.
These, and many of the shorter and more dramatic dialogues, have a rare
charm, and the critic will return to analyse, if he can, their technical
qualities. But little explanation can be needed, after reading them, of
Landor's want of popularity. If he had applied one-tenth part of his
literary skill to expand commonplace sentiment; if he had talked that
kind of gentle twaddle by which some recent essayists edify their
readers, he might have succeeded in gaining a wide popularity. Or if he
had been really, as some writers seem to fancy, a deep and systematic
thinker as well as a most admirable artist, he might have extorted a
hearing even while provoking dissent. But his boyish waywardness has
disqualified him from reaching the deeper sympathies of either class. We
feel that the most superhuman of schoolboys has really a rather shallow
view of life. His various outbursts of wrath amuse us at best when they
do not bore, even though they take the outward form of philosophy or
statesmanship. He has really no answer or vestige of answer for any
problems of his, nor indeed of any other time, for he has no basis of
serious thought. All he can say is, ultimately, that he feels himself in
a very uncongenial atmosphere, from which it is delightful to retire, in
imagination, to the society of Epicurus, or the study of a few literary
masterpieces. That may be very true, but it can be interesting only to a
few men of similar taste; and men of profound insight, whether of the
poetic or the philosophic temperament, are apt to be vexed by his hasty
dogmatism and irritable rejection of much which deserved his sympathy.
His wanton quarrel with the world has been avenged by the world's
indifference. We may regret the result when we see what rare qualities
have been cruelly wasted, but we cannot fairly shut our eyes to the fact
that the world has a very strong case.
FOOTNOTES:
[29] De Quincey gets into a curious puzzle about Landor's remarks in his
essay on Milton _versus_ Southey and Landor. He cannot understand to
which of Wordsworth's poems Landor is referring, and makes some oddly
erroneous guesses.
_MACAULAY_
Lord Macaulay was pre-eminently a fortunate man; and his good fortune
has survived him. Few, indeed, in the long line of English authors whom
he loved so well, have been equally happy in a biographer. Most official
biographies are a mixture of bungling and indiscretion. It is only in
virtue of some happy coincidence that the one or two people who alone
have the requisite knowledge can produce also the requisite skill and
discretion. Mr. Trevelyan is one of the exceptions to the rule. His book
is such a piece of thorough literary workmanship as would have delighted
its subject. By a rare felicity, the almost filial affection of the
narrator conciliates the reader instead of exciting a distrust of the
narrative. We feel that Macaulay's must have been a lovable character to
excite such warmth of feeling, and a noble character to enable one who
loved him to speak so frankly. The ordinary biographer's idolatry is not
absent, but it becomes a testimony to the hero's excellence instead of
introducing a disturbing element into our estimate of his merits.
No reader of Macaulay's works will be surprised at the manliness which
is stamped not less plainly upon them than upon his whole career. But
few who were not in some degree behind the scenes would be prepared for
the tenderness of nature which is equally conspicuous. We all recognised
in Macaulay a lover of truth and political honour. We find no more than
we expected, when we are told that the one circumstance upon which he
looked back with some regret was the unauthorised publication by a
constituent of a letter in which he had spoken too frankly of a
political ally. That is indeed an infinitesimal stain upon the character
of a man who rose without wealth or connection, by sheer force of
intellect, to a conspicuous position amongst politicians. But we find
something more than we expected in the singular beauty of Macaulay's
domestic life. In his relations to his father, his sisters, and the
younger generation, he was admirable. The stern religious principle and
profound absorption in philanthropic labours of old Zachary Macaulay
must have made the position of his brilliant son anything but an easy
one. He could hardly read a novel, or contribute to a worldly magazine,
without calling down something like a reproof. The father seems to have
indulged in the very questionable practice of listening to vague gossip
about his son's conduct, and demanding explanations from the supposed
culprit. The stern old gentleman carefully suppressed his keen
satisfaction at his son's first oratorical success, and, instead of
praising him, growled at him for folding his arms in the presence of
royalty. Many sons have turned into consummate hypocrites under such
paternal discipline; and, as a rule, the system is destructive of
anything like mutual confidence. Macaulay seems, in spite of all, to
have been on the most cordial terms with his father to the last. Some
suppression of his sentiments must indeed have been necessary; and we
cannot avoid tracing certain peculiarities of the son's intellectual
career to his having been condemned from an early age to habitual
reticence upon the deepest of all subjects of thought.
Macaulay's relations to his sisters are sufficiently revealed in a long
series of charming letters, showing, both in their playfulness and in
their literary and political discussions, the unreserved respect and
confidence which united them. One of them writes upon his death: 'We
have lost the light of our home, the most tender, loving, generous,
unselfish, devoted of friends. What he was to me for fifty years who can
tell? What a world of love he poured out upon me and mine!' Reading
these words at the close of the biography, we do not wonder at the
glamour of sisterly affection; but admit them to be the natural
expression of a perfectly sincere conviction. Can there be higher
praise? His relation to children is equally charming. 'He was beyond
comparison the best of playfellows,' writes Mr. Trevelyan; 'unrivalled
in the invention of games, and never weary of repeating them.' He wrote
long letters to his favourites; he addressed pretty little poems to them
on their birthdays, and composed long nursery rhymes for their
edification; whilst overwhelmed with historical labours, and grudging
the demands of society, he would dawdle away whole mornings with them,
and spend the afternoon in taking them to sights; he would build up a
den with newspapers behind the sofa, and act the part of tiger or
brigand; he would take them to the Tower, or Madame Tussaud's, or the
Zoological Gardens, make puns to enliven the Polytechnic, and tell
innumerable anecdotes to animate the statues in the British Museum; nor,
as they grew older, did he neglect the more dignified duty of
inoculating them with the literary tastes which had been the consolation
of his life. Obviously he was the ideal uncle--the uncle of optimistic
fiction, but with qualifications for his task such as few fictitious
uncles can possess. It need hardly be added that Macaulay was a man of
noble liberality in money matters, that he helped his family when they
were in difficulties, and was beloved by the servants who depended upon
him. In his domestic relations he had, according to his nephew, only one
serious fault--he did not appreciate canine excellence; but no man is
perfect.
The thorough kindliness of the man reconciles us even to his good
fortune. He was an infant phenomenon; the best boy at school; in his
college days, 'ladies, artists, politicians, and diners-out' at Bowood,
formed a circle to hear him talk, from breakfast to dinner-time; he was
famous as an author at twenty-five; accepted as a great parliamentary
orator at thirty; and, as a natural consequence, caressed with effusion
by editors, politicians, Whig magnates, and the clique of Holland House;
by thirty-three he had become a man of mark in society, literature, and
politics, and had secured his fortune by gaining a seat in the Indian
Council. His later career was a series of triumphs. He had been the main
support of the greatest literary organ of his party, and the 'Essays'
republished from its pages became at once a standard work. The 'Lays of
Ancient Rome' sold like Scott's most popular poetry; the 'History'
caused an excitement almost unparalleled in literary annals. Not only
was the first sale enormous, but it has gone on ever since increasing.
The popular author was equally popular in Parliament. The benches were
crammed to listen to the rare treat of his eloquence; and he had the far
rarer glory of more than once turning the settled opinion of the House
by a single speech. It is a more vulgar but a striking testimony to his
success that he made 20,000_l._ in one year by literature. Other authors
have had their heads turned by less triumphant careers; they have
descended to lower ambition, and wasted their lives in spasmodic
straining to gain worthless applause. Macaulay remained faithful to his
calling. He worked his hardest to the last, and became a more unsparing
critic of his own performances as time went on. We do not feel even a
passing symptom of a grudge against his good fortune. Rather we are
moved by that kind of sentiment which expresses itself in the schoolboy
phrase, 'Well done our side!' We are glad to see the hearty, kindly,
truthful man crowned with all appropriate praise, and to think that for
once one of our race has got so decidedly the best of it in the hard
battle with the temptations and the miseries of life.
Certain shortcomings have been set off against these virtues by critics
of Macaulay's life. He was, it has been said, too good a hater. At any
rate, he hated vice, meanness, and charlatanism. It is easier to hate
such things too little than too much. But it must be admitted that his
likes and dislikes indicate a certain rigidity and narrowness of nature.
'In books, as in people and places,' says Mr. Trevelyan, 'he loved that,
and loved that only, to which he had been accustomed from boyhood
upwards.' The faults of which this significant remark reveals one cause,
are marked upon his whole literary character. Macaulay was converted to
Whiggism when at college. The advance from Toryism to Whiggism is not
such as to involve a very violent wrench of the moral and intellectual
nature. Such as it was, it was the only wrench from which Macaulay
suffered. What he was as a scholar of Trinity, he was substantially as a
peer of the realm. He made, it would seem, few new friends, though he
grappled his old ones as 'with hooks of steel.' The fault is one which
belongs to many men of strong natures, and so long as we are
considering Macaulay's life we shall not be much disposed to quarrel
with his innate conservatism. Strong affections are so admirable a
quality that we can pardon the man who loves well though not widely; and
if Macaulay had not a genuine fervour of regard for the little circle of
his intimates, there is no man who deserves such praise.
It is when we turn from Macaulay's personal character to attempt an
estimate of his literary position, that these faults acquire more
importance. His intellectual force was extraordinary within certain
limits; beyond those limits the giant became a child. He assimilated a
certain set of ideas as a lad, and never acquired a new idea in later
life. He accumulated vast stores of knowledge, but they all fitted into
the old framework of theory. Whiggism seemed to him to provide a
satisfactory solution for all political problems when he was sending his
first article to 'Knight's Magazine,' and when he was writing the last
page of his 'History.' 'I entered public life a Whig,' as he said in
1849, 'and a Whig I am determined to remain.' And what is meant by
Whiggism in Macaulay's mouth? It means substantially that creed which
registers the experience of the English upper classes during the four or
five generations previous to Macaulay. It represents, not the reasoning,
but the instinctive convictions generated by the dogged insistence upon
their privileges of a stubborn, high-spirited, and individually
short-sighted race. To deduce it as a symmetrical doctrine from abstract
propositions would be futile. It is only reasonable so far as a creed,
felt out by the collective instinct of a number of more or less stupid
people, becomes impressed with a quasi-rational unity, not from their
respect for logic, but from the uniformity of the mode of development.
Hatred to pure reason is indeed one of its first principles. A doctrine
avowedly founded on logic instead of instinct becomes for that very
reason suspect to it. Common-sense takes the place of philosophy. At
times this mass of sentiment opposes itself under stress of
circumstances to the absolute theories of monarchy, and then calls
itself Whiggism. At other times it offers an equally dogged resistance
to absolute theories of democracy, and then becomes nominally Tory. In
Macaulay's youth the weight of opinion had been slowly swinging round
from the Toryism generated by dread of revolution, to Whiggism generated
by the accumulation of palpable abuses. The growing intelligence and
more rapidly growing power of the middle classes gave it at the same
time a more popular character than before. Macaulay's 'conversion' was
simply a process of swinging with the tide. The Clapham Sect, amongst
whom he had been brought up, was already more than half Whig, in virtue
of its attack upon the sacred institution of slavery by means of popular
agitation. Macaulay--the most brilliant of its young men--naturally cast
in his lot with the brilliant men, a little older than himself, who
fought under the blue and yellow banner of the 'Edinburgh Review.' No
great change of sentiment was necessary, though some of the old Clapham
doctrines died out in his mind as he was swept into the political
current.
Macaulay thus early became a thoroughgoing Whig. Whiggism seemed to him
the _ne plus ultra_ of progress: the pure essence of political wisdom.
He was never fully conscious of the vast revolution in thought which was
going on all around him. He was saturated with the doctrines of 1832. He
stated them with unequalled vigour and clearness. Anybody who disputed
them from either side of the question seemed to him to be little better
than a fool. Southey and Mr. Gladstone talked arrant nonsense when they
disputed the logical or practical value of the doctrines laid down by
Locke. James Mill deserved the most contemptuous language for daring to
push those doctrines beyond the sacred line. When Macaulay attacks an
old non-juror or a modern Tory, we can only wonder how opinions which,
on his showing, are so inconceivably absurd, could ever have been held
by any human being. Men are Whigs or not-Whigs, and the not-Whig is less
a heretic to be anathematised than a blockhead beneath the reach of
argument. All political wisdom centres in Holland House, and the
'Edinburgh Review' is its prophet. There is something in the absolute
confidence of Macaulay's political dogmatism which varies between the
sublime and the ridiculous. We can hardly avoid laughing at this
superlative self-satisfaction, and yet we must admit that it is
indicative of a real political force not to be treated with simple
contempt. Belief is power, even when belief is most unreasonable.
To define a Whig and to define Macaulay is pretty much the same thing.
Let us trace some of the qualities which enabled one man to become so
completely the type of a vast body of his compatriots.
The first and most obvious power in which Macaulay excelled his
neighbours was his portentous memory. He could assimilate printed pages,
says his nephew, more quickly than others could glance over them.
Whatever he read was stamped upon his mind instantaneously and
permanently, and he read everything. In the midst of severe labours in
India, he read enough classical authors to stock the mind of an ordinary
professor. At the same time he framed a criminal code and devoured
masses of trashy novels. From the works of the ancient Fathers of the
Church to English political pamphlets and to modern street ballads, no
printed matter came amiss to his omnivorous appetite. All that he had
read could be reproduced at a moment's notice. Every fool, he said, can
repeat his Archbishops of Canterbury backwards; and he was as familiar
with the Cambridge Calendar as the most devout Protestant with the
Bible. He could have re-written 'Sir Charles Grandison' from memory if
every copy had been lost. Now it might perhaps be plausibly maintained
that the possession of such a memory is unfavourable to a high
development of the reasoning powers. The case of Pascal, indeed, who is
said never to have forgotten anything, shows that the two powers may
co-exist; and other cases might of course be mentioned. But it is true
that a powerful memory may enable a man to save himself the trouble of
reasoning. It encourages the indolent propensity of deciding
difficulties by precedent instead of principles. Macaulay, for example,
was once required to argue the point of political casuistry as to the
degree of independent action permissible to members of a Cabinet. An
ordinary mind would have to answer by striking a rough balance between
the conveniences and inconveniences likely to arise. It would be forced,
that is to say, to reason from the nature of the case. But Macaulay had
at his fingers' end every instance from the days of Walpole to his own
in which Ministers had been allowed to vote against the general policy
of the Government. By quoting them, he seemed to decide the point by
authority, instead of taking the troublesome and dangerous road of
abstract reasoning. Thus to appeal to experience is with him to appeal
to the stores of a gigantic memory; and is generally the same thing as
to deny the value of all general rules. This is the true Whig doctrine
of referring to precedent rather than to theory. Our popular leaders
were always glad to quote Hampden and Sidney instead of venturing upon
the dangerous ground of abstract rights.
Macaulay's love of deciding all points by an accumulation of appropriate
instances is indeed characteristic of his mind. It is connected with a
curious defect of analytical power. It appears in his literary criticism
as much as in his political speculations. In an interesting letter to
Mr. Napier, he states the case himself as an excuse for not writing upon
Scott. 'Hazlitt used to say, "I am nothing if not critical." The case
with me,' says Macaulay, 'is precisely the reverse. I have a strong and
acute enjoyment of works of the imagination, but I have never habituated
myself to dissect them. Perhaps I enjoy them the more keenly for that
very reason. Such books as Lessing's "Laocoon," such passages as the
criticism on "Hamlet" in "Wilhelm Meister," fill me with wonder and
despair.' If we take any of Macaulay's criticisms, we shall see how
truly he had gauged his own capacity. They are either random discharges
of superlatives or vigorous assertions of sound moral principles. He
compliments some favourite author with an emphatic repetition of the
ordinary eulogies, or shows conclusively that Montgomery was a sham
poet, and Wycherley a corrupt ribald. Nobody can hit a haystack with
more certainty, but he is not so good at a difficult mark. He never
makes a fine suggestion as to the secrets of the art whose products he
admires or describes. His mode, for example, of criticising Bunyan is to
give a list of the passages which he remembers, and of course he
remembers everything. He observes, what is tolerably clear, that
Bunyan's allegory is as vivid as a concrete history, though strangely
comparing him in this respect to Shelley--the least concrete of poets;
and he makes the discovery, which did not require his vast stores of
historical knowledge, 'that it is impossible to doubt that' Bunyan's
trial of Christian and Faithful is meant to satirise the judges of the
time of Charles II. That is as plain as the intention of the last
cartoon in 'Punch.' Macaulay can draw a most vivid portrait, so far as
that can be done by a picturesque accumulation of characteristic facts,
but he never gets below the surface, or details the principles whose
embodiment he describes from without.