absurdity, I observed, “What nonsense we are talking. One goes on for
ever repeating common places, without reflection. You know, as well as
I do, that great talents and indolence are physically incompatible.
Vitality, or all-aliveness—energy, activity, are the great elements of
what we call talents.”
The idleness of genius is a mere _platitude_. Bacon, Shakspeare, Milton,
Voltaire, Newton, all who have enlightened and benefitted the world, have
been no less remarkable for their labour, than for their genius. Physical
activity may exist without mind; but the man of talent cannot be idle,
even though he desire it; he is mastered by his moral energy, and pushed
into activity, whether he will or not. I know not a better instance of
the industry and energy of talent, than my friend Shiel. A leader of
the great national army of the disqualified, and obliged to a perpetual
study and practice of the tactics of defence and offence—a lawyer of
considerable business—an orator, standing alone, not only in his own
country, where so many are eloquent, but in his age and in Europe—a
dramatic writer, long ranked among the first of his day,—he adds to these
sources of occupation, which are not sufficient to exhaust his unwearied
industry, his frequent contributions to the New Monthly Magazine—those
brilliant and fanciful sketches, which, though thrown out in moments of
relaxation, are, for graphic delineation and picturesque colouring, equal
to the best pages, which have made the reputation of Sir W. Scott.
Then again, there is O’Connell, the head and front of all agitation,
moral, political, social, and legal. When we read in the papers those
eloquent and powerful speeches, in which the spectres of Ireland’s
oppression are called up from the depths of history, with a perfect
knowledge of all that has concerned the country from its earliest
records, and in which unnumbered “modern instances” of misrule, in all
its shades of ignorance and venality, are collected from the storehouse
of his capacious memory,—those speeches in which, amidst the fiery
explosions of long nurtured indignation, (the petulant outpourings of
constitutional impatience,) arguments of logical conviction, and facts
of curious detail, come forth, as from an exhaustless fountain,—who but
would suppose that the life of the patriot, demagogue, and agitator,
was occupied exclusively in the one great and absorbing cause? It is,
however, on his way home from the courts, and after legal labours,
that have occupied him from the dawn of light, that, (as if to escape
from the homage which haunts his steps,) he turns into the Catholic
Association—it is after having set a jury-box in a roar by his humour,
made “butchers weep” by his pathos, driven a witness to the last shift of
Irish evasion, and puzzled a judge by some point of law, not dreamed of
in his philosophy, that, all weary and exhausted as he must be, he mounts
the rostrum of the Corn Exchange, the _Jupiter Tonans_ of the Catholic
senate; and, by those thunderbolts of eloquence, so much more effective
to hear than to read, kindles the lambent light of patriotism to its
fiercest glow, and with “fear of change perplexes” Brunswick clubs and
Orange lodges.[51]
Again, this boldest of demagogues, this mildest of men, “from Dan to
Beersheba,” appears in the patriarchal light of the happy father of a
happy family, practising all the social duties, and nourishing all the
social affections. It is remarkable, that Mr. O’Connell is not only
governed by the same sense of the value of time as influenced Sir Edward
Coke, but literally obeys his injunctions for its partition, which forms
the creed more than the practice of rising young lawyers. It is this
intense and laborious diligence in his profession, that has won him the
public confidence. Where his abilities as a lawyer may be serviceable,
party yields to self-interest; and many an inveterate ascendancy man
leaves his friends, the Orange barristers, to hawk their empty bags
through the courts, while he contributes his official gains indirectly
to the Catholic rent, by assigning to Catholic talent the cause which
Catholic eloquence can best defend.
Then, as we are on the subject of the association, there is another
of its distinguished members, Thomas Wyse, an antiquarian, linguist,
traveller, artist, scholar, painter, and author, no less than an orator
and a politician. What industry, what application, what energy must
have gone to make up all this acquirement! In a careless and desultory
conversation, Mr. Wyse will throw out as much, and as varied knowledge,
as would qualify some noble pedant for the chair of what Horace Walpole
calls “the old ladies’ society.” Without the aptitude for labour, nothing
great ever was or ever will be produced. Poets talk of inspiration; but
their finest passages are uniformly the result of the deepest study. Even
Sheridan, the man of eminence most quoted for his idleness, has left
proofs behind him of the intensity of the effort by which his inimitable
comedies were elaborated; and his biographer and countryman might bear
his own personal evidence to the great truth, that not even the slightest
and most sparkling effusions of the muse, are emancipated from this great
governing law of excellence. The supposition of amazing talents, latent
in the capabilities of indolent triflers, is like the theory of those
elaborate and ingenious machines for producing perpetual motion, which
are extremely surprising and admirable, but which labour under a small
practical disadvantage, that—they do not perform.
FRANKNESS.
Nothing wins on the affections more than that frank and generous
disposition which, ever ready to risk itself for others, may excite the
derision of the crafty and designing, but has an unfailing advocate in
the self-love of society. The manœuvrer, male or female, may deceive for
a time—obtain admirers by a plausible exterior, make dupes, and secure
dependants; but such persons win no friends, excite no confidence. The
cold and crafty Octavius, with all his power, had no devoted intimates
of the heart; while Cæsar, with all his crimes, and Anthony, with all
his vices, won, by their generous and unreserved dispositions, the
affections of all who approached them. He who in his patriotism had said,
that “he could neither be false to the republic nor survive it,”[52] was
yet devoted to Cæsar, whose captivating affability and generous temper
were irresistible; and many a stern republican relaxing his severity,
and, surrendering his feelings to Anthony, suffered the sophistry of the
affections to master the graver impressions of patriotism.
“Mark Anthony I served, who best was worthy
Best to be served: whilst he stood up and spoke,
He was my master, and I wore a life
To spend upon his hater.”
The two great captains of antiquity seem to have possessed singular arts
of fascination; while of the two great captains of modern times, one only
excelled in that species of _bonhommie_, which lays contributions on the
hearts of the multitude, often dangerous to their rights and happiness.
Napoleon Buonaparte—stern at the Tuileries, where he was surrounded
by those whom he knew to be despicable, and whom he had proved to be
corrupt—when in the midst of his soldiers, gave a full, free scope to his
frank and _brusque_ cordiality. The idol of his troops, had he trusted
to their affection and their fealty, he would not have fallen a victim
to the treachery of that false _grade_, which he himself had the folly
to create, and which contributed as mainly to his destruction, as the
diplomacy of foreign cabinets, and the force of foreign bayonets.
The craft of the manœuvrer lies essentially in the narrowness of his
faculties. It is rarely that a cold and selfish heart is accompanied by
extensive views, and an enlarged intellect. The manœuvrer, engrossed by
the cunning of detail, has no thought for the wisdom of the complex; his
scope is a succession of paltry temporary objects, each of which, in its
turn, absorbs his whole attention, and is pursued without reference to
its relative importance, or to the influence which the means employed
in its attainment may have on the future. He sacrifices character to
win some dishonest trifle, and parts with a friend on the slightest
expediency. Conscious, too, of the artifice of his combinations, and
the falsehood of his pretences, he cannot inspire a conviction that he
does not feel; and the caution and circumspection which attend all his
movements, becoming infectious, inspire an instinctive suspicion in the
minds on which he operates.
For this reason, the mere diplomatist makes the worst of ministers. The
“finessing and trick,” which are the soul of his enterprizes, serve but
to isolate him, and never carry the public along with them. Whereas the
bold, the generous, the uncalculating, and, it may be, the imprudent
statesman, communicates the fire of his own volition to those around him,
and seizes with an irresistible impulse, the sympathies of the people.
By the simple enchantment of a constitutional frankness, and an innate
veracity, the Marquis of Anglesea, in eight short months, unmarked by any
decided ministerial measure, unconsciously captivated a nation’s love.
With
“A soul as sure to charm as seen,”
which
“Boldly steps forth, nor keeps a thought within,”
he impressed upon public opinion a conviction, which nothing could shake,
of the honesty of his purpose. His word, like truth, carried its evidence
along with it. The fiercest passions were calmed at his bidding; and the
swelling waters of political agitation subsided, even while the winds
were yet raging that had lashed them into fury.
MANŒUVRERS.
On the subject of a _female manœuvrer_ whole volumes might be written,
for woman goes so much more into detail than man. One or two samples
present themselves at this moment, in the list of my own acquaintance,
which leave even Miss Edgeworth’s admirable portrait far behind. These
creatures, not only in their most trivial actions, “_pèsent l’apparent,
le douteux, et le possible_,” but, by the very depth and intricacy of
their calculations, their “_politiques aux choux et aux raves_,” defeat
the purpose they wish to effect, by the means they take to accomplish
it. I have one of these _manœuvriers_ at present before me;—here she
goes!—But, here is a bill of fare to write, and though character will
keep cool—cooks won’t. So “_revenons à notre mouton_.” It is quite
horrible how housekeeping crosses authorship. What fame may I not have
forfeited, by getting up a dinner instead of a book!
WONDERFUL CHILDREN, AND GOOD MOTHERS.
“So wise, so young, they say do ne’er live long.”
_Richard III._
It is a curious fact, that in the present times we have none of those
precose prodigies, so numerous in the olden time. It seems to have been
one of the peculiar privileges of the wisdom of our ancestors, to produce
those infant miracles of learning and science, the “admirable Crichtons”
of the nursery, who studied in cradles, and lectured from go-carts. “I
was not” (says the quaint, but most amusing Mr. Evelyn,) “initiated into
any rudiments, _till_ I was _four_ years old; and then, one Friar taught
us, at the church door of Wotton!” This “_’till I was four years old_,”
marks his conviction of his own backwardness, in comparing himself with
other children of his age, and times; but it was more particularly in
reference to the superior wit, talent, and learning of his own son, at
that early period of his brief existence, who was, to use his afflicted
father’s words, a “prodigy for wit and understanding.” A prodigy, indeed!
for, “at two years and a half old, he could perfectly read any of the
English, French, Latin, and gothic characters, pronouncing the three
first languages exactly,” &c. &c.
The termination of this most short, splendid, and unnatural career is
worth marking:—“He died,” (says Evelyn) “at five years, after six fits
of quartan ague, with which it pleased God to visit him; though, in
my opinion, he was suffocated by the women and maids who tended him,
and covered him too hot with blankets, as he lay in a cradle, near
an _excessive hot fire_, (in a quartan fever!)—I suffered him to be
opened, when they found he was what is vulgarly called, livergrown!”
What a picture!—what a history of the times, the state of science, and
the wisdom of our ancestors! In the first instance, the attributing
an infliction to the divine visitation, which was at the same time
assignable to vulgar nursery maids, and hot blankets. In the next, the
vain father not perceiving that the genius of his child was but disease,
and his supernatural intelligence only the unnatural development of
faculties, most probably produced by mal-organization, which the style
of his rearing and education was so calculated to confirm. “Before his
fifth year, he had not only skill to read most written hands, but to
decline all nouns, conjugate the verbs, regular and irregular, learned
out ‘Puerilis,’ got by heart almost the entire vocabulary of Latin and
French primitives, could make congruous syntax, turn English into Latin,
construe and prove what he had read, knew the government and use of
relatives, verbs, substantives, ellipses, and many figures and tropes,
and made a considerable progress in Comonius’s ‘Janua,’ and had a strong
passion for Greek.”
This is too frightful—it makes one shudder to transcribe it. Such,
however, was the education, by which an accomplished and really knowing
parent, (knowing for the age in which he lived,) hesitated not to hurry
his wonderful child to an untimely grave.
Such, however, were the times, when learning was dearly prized, and
knowledge little diffused; when monastic universities, founded by the
church, through the influence of its royal and noble dependants, were
the sole depositaries of the little that was known, worth the labour of
acquiring; and when the most learned of the community had less solid
practical information, than the operative mechanics of the present day.
Such were the times when plague, pestilence, and famine, were events of
ordinary occurrence; when corruption in morals, and baseness in politics
flourished, even to the extent of surrounding a king at the altar of his
God, with the ministers of his vices; and converting the “brightest,” and
the “wisest,” into the worst and meanest of mankind. These were the times
of the most brutal ignorance in the people, and the greatest profligacy
in the nobility; and, these were the times that produced such learned
little prodigies as young Evelyn, under a system of education calculated
to make such prodigies; but not to form citizens for a free state, nor
legislators for a great nation.
Whatever may have been the natural abilities of this poor child, to
have made such a progress in the learned languages, at five years old,
he must have been the object and victim of a very laborious system of
study, all applied to the exercise of his memory. He must therefore have
submitted to close confinement in warm rooms, to the privation of air and
exercise, and to a sedentary and cramped position; and he was probably
much injured by the gross habit of eating, and the want of personal
purity, so remarkable in an age, when meat was devoured three or four
times a day, even by the most dainty, and when general ablutions were
resorted to, more as a remedy than a daily habit.
The overworking of the brain at the expense of all the other functions,
must also have had a fatal effect even on children of robust
temperaments; and the Indian practice of flinging their offspring
into the sea, to sink or swim, as strength or feebleness decided, was
humanity and civilization, to the system pursued in times quoted with
such approbation—a system by which infant intelligence was tortured
into intellectual precocity, and hurried to an early tomb, under the
precipitating concurrences of “maids, women, hot blankets, and excessive
hot fires.”
What is most notable in all this is, that Mr. Evelyn, the father of the
unfortunate infant, was one of the cleverest and most advanced men of his
time, and much celebrated for his translation of, and his essay prefixed
to, the “_Golden Book_” of St. Chrysostom, “_concerning the Education of
Children_.”
But if Mr. Evelyn was misled by “all the vulgar errors of the wise,”
where was the mother’s instinct? Alas, where a mother’s instincts often
are, in her vanity and her weakness. Mrs. Evelyn was one of the most
accomplished women of the Court of Charles the Second; and one of the
few virtuous women who frequented it. She was a celebrated linguist and
artist, and her works in oil and miniature are frequently quoted with
pride by her husband. Yet she permitted disease to creep insidiously on
the infancy of her child, while he was learning the Latin and Gothic
characters, and giving to studies beyond his strength those hours which
should have gone to air, exercise, and timely repose. Finally, she
consigned him to the superintendence of her maids and women; and, worse
than all, hurried on his death by surrounding him with circumstances
calculated to produce it,—because that rational information necessary
to all mothers, was not on the category of her acquirements. How many
mothers, even in these march of intellect times, have stopped short with
Mrs. Evelyn; whose judgment should take the lead of the gratification
of feeling and vanity?—and be it observed, that mothers in general
mistake their own indulgence for their children’s; and have quite as
much pleasure in stuffing pounds of plum cake down the throats of their
over-fed masters Gobbleton Mowbray, as the masters Gobbleton enjoy in its
deglutition.
“The Temple of Nature is the heart of a mother,” says Kotzebue, in his
sentimental jargon; but there are various temples; and Nature is a very
capricious deity. What was she in the heart of Lady Macclesfield, and in
a thousand other mothers, who have abandoned their children to want or
infamy, or to neglect, and the influence of their own bad examples, whose
results pursue their offspring through life?
The more or less powerful instinct of maternity is an affair of
temperament, nurtured or modified by other instincts or passions, and by
circumstances favourable or unfavourable to its existence. The bird that
flies at the invader of its nest—the tigress that gathers its young under
it, and darts its murderous glance at all who attempt to interfere with
the objects of its affections, is more respectable than any one of these
mothers “upon instinct,” who are only that. It is not the instinct, or
feeling, but the judgment that directs it, which is laudable. Maternity
is no abstraction; and when people say, “such a one is injudicious, or
ignorant, or feeble, or shallow, but she is a good mother,” they talk
nonsense. That which the woman is, the mother will be; and her personal
qualities will direct and govern her maternal instinct, as her taste will
influence her appetite. If she be prejudiced and ignorant, the _good
mother_ will mismanage her children; and if she be violent in temper and
vehement in opinion, the good mother will be petulant and unjust towards
them: if she be inconsistent and capricious, she will alternate between
fits of severity and bursts of indulgence, equally fatal: if she be vain,
and coquettish, and selfish, she may be fond of her children through
her pride, but she will always be ready to sacrifice their enjoyments,
and even their interests, to the triumphs of her own vanity, or the
gratification of her egotism.
The perfection of motherhood lies, therefore, in the harmonious blending
of a happy instinct, with those qualities which make the good member of
general society—with good sense and information—with subdued or regulated
passions, and that abnegation, which lays every selfish consideration at
the feet of duty. To make a good mother, it is not sufficient to seek
the happiness of the child, but to seek it with foresight and effect.
Her actions must be regulated by long-sighted views, and steadily and
perseveringly directed to that health of the body and of the mind,
which can alone enable the objects of her solicitude to meet the shocks
and rubs of life with firmness, and to maintain that independence,
in practice and principle, which sets the vicissitudes of fortune at
defiance, fitting its possessor to fill the various stations, whether of
wealth or poverty, of honour or obscurity, to which chance may conduct
him.
This is my idea of the duties of maternity, and of the perfection of
that most perfect creature, a good mother. I know it is not everybody’s
idea, and that there is another _beau idéal_ of maternity, which is much
more prevalent.
There is the good mother, that spends half her life in hugging,
flattering, and stuffing her child, till, like the little Dalai Lama
of Thibet, he thinks he has come into the world for no other purpose
than to be adored like a god, and crammed like a capon. This is the
good mother, who, in her fondness, is seen watching anxiously, after a
long late dinner, for the entrance of the little victim which she has
dressed up for sacrifice, and whose vigils are prolonged beyond its
natural strength, that it may partake of the poisonous luxuries in the
last service of the feast of ceremony, till the fever of over excitement
mounts to its cheek, sparkles in the eye, and gives incoherency to its
voluble nonsense; an excitement to be followed not by the deep and
dreamless sleep of infancy, but by the restless slumbers and fearful
visions of indigestion. Alas for the mother and for the child! and alas
for the guests called upon for their quota of admiration upon such
melancholy occasions, such terrible exhibitions of human vanity and
human weakness, counteracting the finest instincts of human nature!
Clever and truth-telling Miss Edgeworth—you who have written such
rational and charming books for children—why have you not written some
_easy lessons_ for their mothers? Why have you not composed a manual
for their use, to teach them a few elementary facts in physics and in
morals; and, above all, to teach them that nature, in all things, is the
sole basis of right thinking and right acting, under all circumstances,
and in all times? Did mothers know and feel this, what sorrows and
disappointments might be spared to their hearts and their hopes, to their
affections and their ambition; what time, now given to acquire arts, for
which nature has refused the requisite organization, might be dedicated
to health, and what lives might be spared, whose loss, (attributed
sacrilegiously to “the will of God,”) has only been a sacrifice to
“maids, women, hot blankets, excessive hot fires,” and the ignorance, and
prejudices, and selfish fondness of the “best of mothers.”
TOYS AND TRINKETS.
“Parfaits dans le petit—sublimes en bijoux—
Grands inventeurs de riens, nous faisons des jaloux.”
_Voyage à Berlin._
I should like to know if the march of intellect has any thing to do with
the indifference which the children of our day shew for toys. The Mrs.
Chenevixes, and the _petits Dunkerques_ of modern times would be ruined
and undone, if it were not for the papas and mammas, whose _boudoirs_ and
dressing-rooms are the only baby-houses to be found in modern mansions.