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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Four Early Pamphlets, by William Godwin
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Title: Four Early Pamphlets
Author: William Godwin
Release Date: January 5, 2004 [EBook #10597]
Language: English
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*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOUR EARLY PAMPHLETS ***
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A
DEFENCE
OF THE
ROCKINGHAM PARTY,
IN THEIR LATE
COALITION
WITH
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
FREDERIC LORD NORTH.
LONDON:
Printed for J. STOCKDALE, opposite Burlington House,
Piccadilly. 1783.
[Price One Shilling and Sixpence.]
Entered at Stationers Hall.
A
DEFENCE
OF THE
ROCKINGHAM PARTY,
&c. &c. &c.
* * * * *
The present reign will certainly appear
to our posterity full of the noblest
materials for history. Many circumstances
seem to have pointed it out as
a very critical period. The general diffusion
of science has, in some degree,
enlightened the minds of all men; and
has cleared such, as have any influence
upon the progress of manners and society,
from a thousand unworthy pre-possessions.
The dissipation and luxury
that reign uncontrouled have spread effiminacy
and irresolution every where.—The
grand defection of the United States
of America from the mother country, is
one of the most interesting events, that
has engaged the attention of Europe for
centuries. And the number of extraordinary
geniuses that have distinguished
themselves in the political world, gives
a dignity to the scene. They pour a
lustre over the darkest parts of the story,
and bestow a beauty upon the tragedy,
that it could not otherwise have possessed.
At a time like this, when the attention
of mankind has been kept alive by a
series of the most important events, we
cease to admire at things which would
otherwise appear uncommon, and wonders
almost lose their name. Even now,
however, when men were almost grown
callous to novelty, and the youngest of us
had, like Cato in the play, lived long
enough to be "surprised at nothing," a
matter has occurred which few expected,
and to which, for that reason, men of no
great strength of mind, of no nerve of
political feeling, scarcely know how to
reconcile themselves. I refer to the
coalition between the friends of the late
marquis of Rockingham and the noble
commoner in the blue ribbon.
The manner of blaming this action is
palpable and easy. The censure is chiefly
directed against that wonderful man,
whom, at least in their hearts, his countrymen,
I believe, have agreed to regard
as the person of brightest genius, and
most extensive capacity, that now adorns
the British senate. Has not this person,
we are asked, for years attacked the noble
lord in the most unqualified manner?
Is there any aspersion, any insinuation,
that he has not thrown out upon his character?
Has he not represented him as
the weakest man, and the worst minister,
to whom the direction of affairs was ever
committed? Has he not imputed to his
prerogative principles, and his palpable
misconduct, the whole catalogue of our
misfortunes? If such men as these are to
unite for the detested purposes of ambition,
what security can we have for any
thing valuable, that yet remains to us?
Is not this the very utmost reach of frontless
profligacy? What dependence after
this is to be placed in the man, who has
thus given the lie to all his professions,
and impudently flown in the face of that
honest and unsuspecting virtue, which had
hitherto given him credit for the rectitude
of his intentions?
I do not mean for the present to enter
into a direct answer to these several observations.
I leave it to others, to rest
the weight of their cause upon sounding
exclamations and pompous interogatories.
For myself, I am firmly persuaded, that
the oftner the late conduct of the Rockingham
connexion is summoned to the
bar of fair reason, the more cooly it is
considered, and the less the examiner is
led away by the particular prejudices of
this side or of that, the more commendable
it will appear. We do not fear the light.
We do not shun the scrutiny. We are
under no apprehensions for the consequences.
I will rest my argument upon the regular
proof of these three propositions.
First—That the Rockingham connexion,
was the only connexion by which
the country could be well served.
Secondly—That they were not by
themselves of sufficient strength to support
the weight of administration.
Thirdly—That they were not the men
whose services were the most likely to be
called for by the sovereign, in the present
crisis.
First—I am to prove, that the country
could not be well served but by the
Rockingham connexion.
There are three points principally concerned
in the constituting a good administration;
liberal principles, respectable
abilities, and incorruptible integrity.—Let
us examine with a view to these, the
other four parties in the British government.
The connexion of the earl of
Shelburne, that of lord North, the Bedford
party, and the Scottish. In reviewing
these, it is necessary that I should
employ a manly freedom, though, at
the same time, I should be much unwilling
to do a partial injustice to any of
them.
It is true, there is some difference between
the language of the same men in
office, and out of office. The Bedford
connexion, however, have never been
conceived to bear an over favourable
aspect to the cause of liberty. They are
the avowed enemies of innovation and
reform.
The Scottish party are pretty much
confounded with the set of men that are
called, by way of distinction, the king's
friends. The design of these men has
been to exalt regal power and prerogative
upon the ruins of aristocracy, and
the neck of the people. Arguments, and
those by no means of a frivolous description,
have been brought to prove, that
a most subtle and deep-laid scheme was
formed by them, in the beginning of the
reign, to subserve this odious purpose.
It has been supposed to have been pursued
with the most inflexible constancy,
and, like a skiff, when it sails along the
meandering course of a river, finally to
have turned to account the most untoward
gales.
Lord North, whatever we may suppose
to have been his intrinsic abilities, stands
forward, as, perhaps, the most unfortunate
minister, that this country ever
produced. Misfortune overtook him in
the assertion of the highest monarchical
principles. In spite of misfortune, he
adherred inflexibly to that assertion. In
the most critical situations he remained
in a state of hesitation and uncertainty,
till the tide, that "taken at the flood,
led up to fortune," was lost. His versatility,
and the undisguised attachment,
that he manifested to emolument and
power, were surely unworthy of the stake
that was entrusted to him.
In what I have now said, I do not
much fear to be contradicted. It was
not with a view to such as are attached
to any of these parties, that I have taken
up the pen. Those who come under this
description, are almost universally the advocates
of monarchy, and think that they
have nothing to regret, but that power
and police are not established upon a
more uncontrolable footing among us.
To such persons I do not address myself.
I know of nothing that the friends of
lord Rockingham have to offer that can
be of any weight with them; and, for
my own part, I should blush to say a
word, that should tend to conciliate their
approbation to a system, in which my
heart was interested. The men I wish
chiefly to have in view, are those that
are personally attached to the earl of
Shelburne; such as stand aloof from all
parties, and are inclined to have but an
indifferent opinion of any; and such as
have adhered to the connexion I have
undertaken to defend, but whose approbation
has been somewhat cooled by
their late conduct. The two last in particular,
I consider as least under the power
of prejudice, and most free to the influence
of rational conviction.
The friends of freedom have, I believe,
in no instance hesitated, but between the
Rockingham connexion, and the earl of
Shelburne. It is these two then that it
remains for me to examine. Lord Shelburne
had the misfortune of coming very
early upon the public stage. At that time
he connected himself with the earl of
Bute, and entered with warmth into the
opposition to Mr. secretary Pitt. In
this system of conduct, however, he did
not long persist; he speedily broke with
the favourite, and soon after joined the
celebrated hero, that had lately been the
object of his attack. By this person he
was introduced to a considerable post
in administration. In office, he is
chiefly remembered by the very decisive
stile of authority and censure he employed,
in a public letter, relative to the
resistance that was made to the act of
1767, for imposing certain duties in America.
From his resignation with lord
Chatham, he uniformly and strenuously
opposed the measures that were adopted
for crushing that resistance. He persevered,
with much apparent constancy, in
one line of conduct for near ten years, and
this is certainly the most plausible period
of his story. He first called forth the
suspicions of generous and liberal men in
every rank of society, by his resolute opposition
to the American independency in
1778. But it was in the administration,
that seemed to have been formed under so
favourable auspices in the spring of 1782,
that he came most forward to general
examination.
The Rockingham connexion, in conformity
to what were then supposed to be
the wishes of the people, united, though
not without some hesitation, with the
noble earl and his adherents, in the conduct
of public affairs. And how did he
reward their confidence? He was careful
to retain the question respecting his real
sentiments upon the business of America,
in as much obscurity as ever. He wrote
officially a letter to sir Guy Carleton,
which has never seen the light, by which
that officer was induced to declare the
American independency already irreversibly
recognised by the court of London;
by which he appears to have deceived
all his brother ministers without
exception; and by which Mr. Fox in
particular, was induced to make the same
declaration with general Carleton to foreign
courts, and to come forward in the
commons peremptorily to affirm, that
there was not a second opinion in the
cabinet, upon this interesting subject.
How must a man of his undisguised and
manly character have felt, when, within
a week from this time, he found the noble
earl declaring that nothing had ever been
further from his thoughts, than an unconditional
recognition; and successfully
exerting himself to bring over a majority
in the cabinet to the opposite sentiment?
Lord Shelburne's obtaining, or accepting,
call it which you will, of the office of
first lord of the treasury, upon the demise
of lord Rockingham, without the
privity of his fellow Ministers, was contrary
to every maxim of ingenuous conduct,
and every principle upon which an
association of parties can be supported.
The declaration he made, and which was
contradicted both by his own friends in
the cabinet, and those of Mr. Fox, that
he knew of no reason in God's earth for
that gentleman's resignation, but that of
his having succeeded to the office of
premier, was surely sufficiently singular.
But he is celebrated for being a man
of large professions, and by these professions
he has induced some persons in
different classes in society, to esteem him
the friend of liberty and renovation.
What he has held out, however, upon
these heads, has not been entirely confident.
He has appeared the enthusiastical
partizan of the aristocracy, a
kind of government, which, carried to its
height, is perhaps, of all the different
species of despotism, the most intolerable.
He has talked in a very particular stile of
his fears of reducing the regal power to
a shadow, of his desire that the extension
of prerogative should keep pace with
the confirmation of popular rights, and
his resolution, that, if it were in his power
to prevent it, a king of England should
never be brought to a level with a king
of Mahrattas. The true sons of freedom
will not certainly be very apprehensive
upon this score, and will leave it to the
numbers that will ever remain the adherents
of monarchical power, to guard
the barriers of the throne. In opposition,
his declarations in favour of parliamentary
reform seemed indeed very decisive.
In administration, he was particularly
careful to explain away these
declarations, and to assure the people that
he would never employ any influence in
support of the measure, but would only
countenance it so far as it appeared to be
the sense of parliament. In other words,
that he would remain neutral, or at most
only honour the subject with an eloquent
harangue, and interest himself no further
respecting it.
But let us proceed from his language to
his conduct in office. Almost every salutary
measure of administration, from the
resignation of lord North downward,
was brought about during the union of
the noble earl with the Rockingham
connexion. What inference are we to
draw from this?—That administration,
as auspicious as it was transitory, has
never been charged with more than one
error. They were thought too liberal in
the distribution of two or three sinecures
and pensions. To whom were they
distributed? Uniformly, exclusively, to
the friends of lord Shelburne. Lord
Shelburne proposed them to his august
colleague, and the marquis, whose faults,
if he had any, were an excess of mildness,
and an unsuspecting simplicity, perhaps
too readily complied. But let it be remembered,
that not one of his friends
accepted, or to not one of his friends were
these emoluments extended. But, if
the noble marquis were sparing in the
distribution of pensions, the deficiency
was abundantly supplied by his successor.
While the interests of the people were
neglected and forgotten, the attention of
the premier was in a considerable degree
engrossed by the petty arrangements of
office. For one man a certain department
of business was marked out; the place had
been previously filled by another. Here
the first person was at all events to be
promoted; and the second gratified with
a pension. Thus, in the minute detail
of employment, in adjusting the indeclinables
of a court calendar, to detach
a commis from this department, and to fix
a clerk in that, burthen after burthen
has been heaped upon the shoulders of a
callous and lethargic people.—But no
man can say, that the earl of Shelburne
has been idle. Beside all this, he has
restored peace to his country. His merits
in this business, have already been
sufficiently agitated. To examine them
afresh would lead me too far from the
scope of my subject. I will not therefore
now detain myself either to exculpate or
criminate the minister, to whom, whatever
they are, they are principally to be
ascribed.
From the considerations already suggested,
I am afraid thus much may be
fairly inferred, that the earl of Shelburne
is a man, dark, insidious and inexplicit
in his designs; no decided friend
of the privileges of the people; and in
both respects a person very improper to
conduct the affairs of this country. I
would hope however, that the celebrated
character given of him by the late lord
Holland was somewhat too severe. "I
have met with many, who by perseverance
and labour have made themselves
Jesuits; it is peculiar to this man
to have been born one."
Such then is the estimate we are compelled
to form of a man who in his professions
has sometimes gone as far, as
the most zealous votaries of liberty. And
what is the inference we shall draw from
this? Shall we, for the sake of one man
so specious and plausible, learn to think
the language of all men equally empty
and deceitful? Having once been betrayed,
shall we avoid all future risk, by
treating every pretender to patriotism and
public spirit, as a knave and an impostor?
This indeed is a conclusion to which
the unprincipled and the vicious are ever
propense. They judge of their fellows
by themselves, and from the depravity
of their own hearts are willing to infer,
that every honesty has its price. But
the very motive that inclines the depraved
to such a mode of reasoning, must, upon
the very same account, deter the man of
virtue from adopting it. Virtue is originally
ever simple and unsuspecting.
Conscious to its own rectitude, and the
integrity of its professions, it naturally
expects the same species of conduct from
others. By every disappointment of this
kind, it is mortified and humbled. Long,
very long must it have been baffled, and
countless must have been its mortifications,
ere it can be induced to adopt a
principle of general mistrust. And that
such a principle should have so large a
spread among persons, whose honesty,
candour forbids us to suspect, is surely,
of all the paradoxe upon the face of the
earth, incomparably the greatest.—The
man of virtue then will be willing, before
he gives up all our political connexions
without distinction, to go along
with me to the review of the only one
that yet remains to be examined, that of
the late marquis of Rockingham.
Too much perhaps cannot be said in
their praise. They have nearly engrossed
the confidence of every friend of liberty.
They are the only men, whose principles
were never darkened with the cloud of suspicion.
What, let me ask, has been their
uniform conduct during the whole course
of the reign? They have been ever steady
in their opposition, to whatever bore an
ill aspect to the cause of freedom, and
to the whole train of those political
measures, that have terminated in calamity
and ruin. They have been twice
in administration. Prosperity and power
are usually circumstances that prove the
severest virtue. While in power how
then did this party conduct themselves?
Of their first administration the principal
measure was the stamp act. A law that
restored tranquility to a distracted empire.
A law, to which, if succeeding administrations
had universally adhered, we had
been at this moment, the exclusive allies
and patrons of the whole continent of
North America. A law, that they carried
in opposition to the all-dreaded Mr.
Pitt, on the one hand, and on the other,
against the inclination of those secret directors,
from whose hands they receive
their delegated power. They repealed
the excise upon cyder. They abolished
general warrants. And after having
been the authors of these and a thousand
other benefits in the midst of storms and
danger; they quitted their places with a
disinterestedness, that no other set of
men have imitated. They secured neither
place, pension, nor reversion to themselves,
or any of their adherents.
Their second administration was indeed
very short. But it was crowded
with the most salutary measures. The
granting a full relief to Ireland. The
passing several most important bills of
oeconomy and reformation. The passing
the contractors bill. The carrying
into effect that most valuable measure,
the abolishing the vote of custom-house
officers in the election of members of
parliament. And lastly, the attempt to
atchieve, that most important of all objects,
the establishment of an equal representation.
What might not have been
expected from their longer continuance
in office?
But I will not confine myself to the
consideration of their conduct as a body.
The characters of the individuals of which
they are composed, will still further illustrate
their true principles, and furnish a
strong additional recommendation of them,
to every friend of virtue and of liberty.
That I may not overcharge this part of
my subject, I will only mention two or
three of their most distinguished leaders.
The character of the present chancellor
of the exchequer is entirely an unique.
Though mixing in all the busy scenes of
life, though occupying for many years a
principal place in the political affairs of
this country, he has kept himself unspotted
from the world.—The word of the elder
Cato was esteemed so sacred with the Romans,
that it became a proverb among
them respecting things, so improbable,
that their truth could not be established
even by the highest authority, "I would
not believe it, though it were told me
by Cato." And in an age much more
dissipated than that of Cato, the integrity
and honour of the noble lord I
have mentioned, has become equally proverbial.
Not bonds, nor deeds, nor all
the shackles of law, are half so much
to be depended upon as is his lightest
word. He is deaf to all the prejudices of
blood or private friendship, and has no
feelings but for his country.
Of the duke of Portland, I can say
the less, as not having had an opportunity
of knowing much respecting him.
His candour and his honour have never
been questioned. And I remember, in
the debate upon the celebrated secession
of the Rockingham party, upon the death
of their leader, to have heard his abilities
particularly vouched in very strong
terms, by Mr. chancellor Pitt, and the
present lord Sidney. The latter in particular,
though one of my lord Shelburne's
secretaries of state, fairly avowed
in so many words, that he should have been
better satisfied with the appointment of
his grace, to the office he now holds,
than he was, with the noble lord, under
whom he acted.
The character of lord Keppel, with
persons not attached to any party, has
usually been that of a man of much honesty
and simplicity, without any remarkable
abilities. It is a little extraordinary
however, that, though forced
by a combination of unfavourable circumstances
into a public speaker, he is yet,
even in that line, very far from contempt.
His speeches are manly, regular, and to
the purpose. His defence upon his trial
at Portsmouth, in which he must naturally
be supposed to have had at least a
principal share, has, in my opinion,
much beauty of composition. The adversaries
of this party, though unwilling
to admit that the navy was so much improved
under his auspices as was asserted,
have yet, I believe, universally acknowledged
his particular activity and diligence.
But I come to the great beast of his
own party, and the principal object of
attack to their enemies, the celebrated
Mr. Fox. Men of formality and sanctity
have complained of him as dissipated.
They do not pretend however to aggravate
their accusation, by laying to his
charge any of the greater vices. His contempt
of money, and his unbounded generosity,
are universally confessed. Let
such then know, that dissipation, so qualified,
is a very slight accusation against
a public man, if indeed it deserves a serious
consideration. In all expansive
minds, in minds formed for an extensive
stage, to embrace the welfare and the interest
of nations, there is a certain incessant
activity, a principle that must be
employed. Debar them from their proper
field, and it will most inevitably run
out into excesses, which perhaps had
better have been avoided. But do these
excrescences, which only proceed from the
richness and fertility of the soil, disqualify
a man for public business? Far,
very far from it. Where ever was there
a man, who pushed dissipation and debauchery
to a greater length, than my
lord Bolingbroke? And yet it is perhaps
difficult to say, whether there ever
existed a more industrious, or an abler
minister. The peace of Utrecht, concluded
amidst a thousand difficulties,
from our allies abroad, and our parties,
that were never so much exasperated
against each other at home; must ever
remain the monument of his glory. His
opposition to sir Robert Walpole seems
evidently to have been founded upon the
most generous principles. And though
the warmth and ebullition of his passions
evermore broke in upon his happiest attempts,
yet were his exertions in both instances
attended with the most salutary
consequences. But Mr. Fox appears to
me to possess all the excellencies, without
any of the defects of lord Bolingbroke.
His passions have, I believe,
never been suspected of having embroiled
the affairs of his party, and he has uniformly
retained the confidence of them
all. His friendships have been solid and
unshaken. His conduct cool and intrepid.
The littleness of jealousy never
discoloured a conception of his heart.
In office he was more constant and indefatigable,
than lord Bolingbroke himself.
All his lesser pursuits seemed annihilated,
and he was swallowed up in
the direction of public affairs.
He has been accused of ambition.
Ambition is a very ambiguous term. In
its lowest sense, it sinks the meanest, and
degrades the dirtiest of our race. In its
highest, I cannot agree with those who
stile it the defect of noble minds. I
esteem it worthy of the loudest commendation,
and the most assiduous culture.
Mr. Fox's is certainly not an ambition
of emolument. Nobody dreams
it. It is not an ambition, that can be
gratified by the distribution of places and
pensions. This is a passion, that can
only dwell in the weakest and most imbecil
minds. Its necessary concomitants,
are official inattention and oscitancy.
No. The ambition of this hero is a generous
thirst of fame, and a desire of possessing
the opportunity of conferring the
most lasting benefits upon his country.
It is an instinct, that carries a man forward
into the field of fitness, and of
God.
The vulgar, incapable of comprehending
these exalted passions, are apt upon
the slightest occasions to suspect, that
this heroical language is only held out
to them for a lure, and that the most
illustrious characters among us are really
governed by passions, equally incident to
the meanest of mankind. Let such examine
the features and the manners of
Mr. Fox. Was that man made for a
Jesuit? Is he capable of the dirty, laborious,
insidious tricks of a hypocrite?
Is there not a certain manliness about
him, that disdains to mislead? Are not
candour and sincerity, bluntness of manner,
and an unstudied air, conspicuous in
all he does?—I know not how far the
argument may go with others, with me,
I confess, it has much weight. I believe
a man of sterling genius, incapable of the
littlenesses and meannesses, incident to the
vulgar courtier. What are the principal
characteristics of genius? Are they not
large views, infinite conceptions, a certain
manliness and intrepidity of thinking?
But all real and serious vice originates
in selfish views, narrow conceptions,
and intellectual cowardice. A man
of genius may possibly be thoughtless,
dissipated and unstudied; but he cannot
avoid being constant, generous, and sincere.
The union of first rate abilities
with malignity, avarice, and envy, seems
to me very nearly as incredible a phenomenon,
as a mermaid, a unicorn, or a
phoenix.
I cannot overcome the propensity I feel
to add Mr. Burke to this illustrious catalogue,
though the name of this gentleman
leads me out of the circle of the
cabinet. Mr. Burke raised himself from
an obscure situation, by the greatness of
his abilities, and his unrivalled genius.
Never was distinction more nobly earned.
Of every species of literary composition
he is equally a master. He excels alike in
the most abstruse metaphysical disquisition,
and in the warmest and most spirited
painting. His rhetoric is at once ornamented
and sublime. His satire is polished
and severe. His wit is truly Attic.
Luxuriant in the extreme, his allusions
are always striking, and always happy.
But to enumerate his talents, is to tell
but half his praise. The application he
has made of them is infinitely more to his
honour. He has devoted himself for his
country. The driest and most laborious
investigations have not deterred him.
Among a thousand other articles, that
might be mentioned, his system of oeconomical
reform must for ever stand forth,
alike the monument of his abilities, and
his patriotism. His personal character is
of the most amiable kind. Humanity and
benevolence are strongly painted in his
countenance. His transactions with lord
Rockingham were in the highest degree
honourable to him. And the more they
are investigated, and the better they are
understood, the more disinterestedness of
virtue, and generous singularity of thinking,
will be found to have been exhibited
on both sides.
It is necessary perhaps, that I should say
a word respecting the aristocratical principles
of this gentleman, by which he is
distinguished from the rest of his party.
To these principles I profess myself an
enemy. I am sorry they should be entertained
by a person, for whom, in every
other respect, I feel the highest veneration.
But the views of that man must be
truly narrow, who will give up the character
of another, the moment he differs
from him in any of his principles. I am
sure Mr. Burke is perfectly sincere in his
persuasion. And I hope I have long since
learned not to question the integrity of
any man, upon account of his tenets,
whether in religion or politics, be they
what they may. I rejoice however, that
this gentleman has connected himself with
a set of men, by the rectitude of whose
views, I trust, the ill tendency of any such
involuntary error will be effectually counteracted.
In the mean time this deviation
of Mr. Burke from the general principles
of his connexion, has given occasion
to some to impute aristocratical views
to the whole party. The best answer to
this, is, that the parliamentary reform was
expressly stipulated by lord Rockingham,
in his coalition with the earl of Shelburne,
as one of the principles, upon
which the Administration of March,
1782, was formed.
From what has been said, I consider
my first proposition as completely established,
that the Rockingham party was
the only connexion of men, by which
the country could be well served.
I would however just observe one thing
by the way. I forsee that my first proposition
lies open to a superficial and
childish kind of ridicule. But in order
to its operation, it is not necessary to say,
that the friends of lord Rockingham
were persuaded, that the country could
not be well served, but by themselves.
In reality, this is the proper and philosophical
state of it: that each individual
of that connexion was persuaded, that the
country could not be well served but by
his friends. And I trust, it has now appeared,
that this was a just and rational
persuasion.
The next argument adduced in conformation
of my thesis, is, that they
were not by themselves of sufficient
strength, to support the weight of administration.
It is certainly a melancholy
consideration, that there should not
be virtue enough left in a people to
support an administration of honest views
and uniform principles, against all the
cabals of faction. This however, is incontrovertibly
the case with Britain.
The bulk of her inhabitants are become,
in a very high degree, inattentive, and
indifferent to the conduct of her political
affairs. This has been, at one time,
ascribed to their despair of the commonwealth,
and their mortification in
perceiving a certain course of mal-administration
persisted in, in defiance of the
known sense of the country. At another
time, it has been imputed to their experience
of the hollowness of all our public
pretenders to patriotism. I am afraid,
the cause is to be sought in something,
more uniform in it's operation, and less
honourable to the lower ranks of society,
than either of these. In a word, luxury
and dissipation have every where loosened
the bands of political union. The interest
of the public has been forgotten by
all men; and we have been taught to
laugh at the principles, by which the
patriots of former ages were induced, to
sacrifice their fortunes and their lives for
the welfare of their citizens. Provided
the cup of enjoyment be not dashed from
our own lips, and the pillow of sloth
torn away from our own heads, we do
not ask, what shall be the fate of our liberties,
our posterity, and our country.
Disinterested affection seems to have taken
up her last refuge in a few choice spirits,
and elevated minds, who appear among
us, like the inhabitants of another world.
In the mean time, while the lower people
have been careful for none of these things,
they have been almost constantly decided
in the senate, not by a view to their intrinsic
merits, but in conformity to the
jarring interests, and the inexplicable cabals
of faction. In such a situation, alas!
what can unprotected virtue do? Destitute
of all that comeliness that allures;
stripped of that influence that gives
weight and consideration; and unskilled
in the acts of intrigue?
In conformity to these ideas, when the
choice of an administration was once
again thrown back upon the people, in
March, 1782, we perceive, that no one
party found themselves sufficiently strong
for the support of government; and a
coalition became necessary between the
Rockingham connexion, and a person
they never cordially approved, the earl of
Shelburne. Even thus supported, and
called to the helm, with perhaps as much
popularity, as any administration ever enjoyed,
they did not carry their measure
in parliament without difficulty. The
inconsiderate and interested did even
think proper to ridicule their imbecility;
particularly in the house of lords. The
most unsuspected of all our patriots, Mr.
Burke, was reduced to the necessity of
so far contracting his system of reform
upon this account, as to have afforded a
handle to superficial raillery and abuse.
But turn we to the administration that
succeeded them; who still retained some
pretensions to public spirit; and among
whom there remained several individuals,
whose claim to political integrity was indisputably.
Weaker than the ministry of
lord Rockingham, to what shifts were
they not reduced to preserve their precarious
power? These are the men, who
have been loudest in their censures of the
late coalition. And yet did not they form
coalitions, equally extraordinary with that
which is now under consideration? To
omit the noble lord who presided at the
treasury board, and to confine myself to
those instances, which Mr. Fox had occasion
to mention in treating my subject.
Was there not the late chancellor of the
exchequer, who has been severest in his
censures of lord North, and the lord advocate
of Scotland, who was his principal
supporter, and was for pushing the American
measures, even to greater lengths,
than the noble patron himself? Was there
not the master general of the ordnance,
who has ever gone farthest in his view of
political reform, and declaimed most
warmly against secret influence; and the
lord chancellor, the most determined
enemy of reform, and who has been supposed
the principal vehicle of that influence?
Lastly, was there not, in the same
manner, the secretary of state for the
home department, who was most unwearied
in his invectives against lord
Bute; and the right honourable Mr. Jenkinson,
who has been considered by the
believers in the invisible power of that
nobleman, as the chief instrument of his
designs.
With these examples of the necessity
of powerful support and extensive combination,
what mode of conduct was it,
that it was most natural, most virtuous,
and most wise, for the Rockingham connexion
to adopt? I confess, I can perceive
none more obvious, or more just,
than that which they actually adopted, a
junction with the noble commoner in the
blue ribbon. At least, from what has
been said, I trust, thus much is evident
beyond control, that they had just reason
to consider themselves abstractedly, as too
weak for the support of government.
Still further to strengthen my argument,
I affirm, in the third place, that
they were not the men, whose services
were likely to be called for by the Sovereign.
I believe, that this proposition
will not be thought to stand in need of
any very abstruse train of reasoning to
support it. The late events respecting it
have been, instead of a thousand arguments.
From an apprehension, probably,
of the uncourtierliness of their temper,
and their inflexible attachment to a
system; it seems to appear by those
events, that the sovereign had contracted
a sort of backwardness to admit them into
his councils, which it is to be hoped,
was only temporary. It was however
such, as, without any other apparent
cause to cooperate with it, alone sufficed
to delay the forming an administration for
six weeks, in a most delicate and critical
juncture. Even the union of that noble
person, who had been considered as his
majesty's favourite minister, did not appear
to be enough to subdue the averseness.
However then we may hope, that
untainted virtue and superior abilities,
when more intimately known, may be
found calculated to surmount prejudices
and conciliate affection; it seems but too
evident, that in the critical moment,
those men, by whom alone we have endeavoured
to prove, that the country
could be well served, would not voluntarily
have been thought on.
But it does not seem to have been
enough considered, at what time the
coalition was made. The Rockingham
connexion, along with thousands of their
fellow citizens, who were unconnected
with any party, were induced, from the
purest views, to disapprove of the late
treaty of peace. The voting with the
friends of lord North upon that question,
was a matter purely incidental. By that
vote however, in which a majority of the
commons house of parliament was included,
the administration of lord Shelburne
was dissolved. It was not till after
the dissolution was really effected, that
the coalition took place. In this situation
something was necessary to be done.
The nation was actually without a ministry.
It was a crisis that did not admit
of hesitation and delay. The country
must, if a system of delay had been adopted,
have immediately been thrown back
into the hands of those men, from whom
it had been so laboriously forced scarce
twelve months before; or it must have
been committed to the conduct of persons
even less propitious to the cause of
liberty, and the privileges of the people.
A situation, like this, called for a firm
and manly conduct. It was no longer a
time to stoop to the yoke of prejudice.
It was a time, to burst forth into untrodden
paths; to lose sight of the hesitating
and timid; and generously to adventure
upon a step, that should rather have in
view substantial service, than momentary
applause; and should appeal from the
short-sighted decision of systematic prudence,
to the tribunal of facts, and the
judgment of posterity.
But why did I talk of the tribunal of
facts? Events are not within the disposition
of human power. "'Tis not in mortals
to command success." And the characters
of wisdom and virtue, are therefore
very properly considered by all men, who
pretend to sober reflection, as independent
of it. If then, as I firmly believe,
the coalition was founded in the wisest
and most generous views, the man, that
values himself upon his rational nature,
will not wait for the event. He will
immediately and peremptorily decide
in its favour. Though it should be
annihilated to-morrow; though it had
been originally frustrated in its views,
respecting the continuation of a ministry;
he would not hesitate to pronounce, that
it was formed in the most expansive and
long-sighted policy, in the noblest and
most prudent daring, in the warmest generosity,
and the truest patriotism.
But it will be said, a coalition of parties
may indeed be allowed to be in many
cases proper and wise; but a coalition between
parties who have long treated each
other with the extremest rancour, appears
a species of conduct, abhorrent to the unadulterated
judgment, and all the native
prepossessions of mankind. It plucks away
the very root of unsuspecting confidence,
and can be productive of nothing, but
anarchy and confusion.
In answer to this argument, I will not
cite the happy effects of the coalition between
parties just as opposite, by which
Mr. Pitt was introduced into office in the
close of a former reign. Still less will I
cite the coalition of the earl of Shelburne,
with several leaders of the Bedford connexion,
and others, whose principles were
at least as inimical to the popular cause,
and the parliamentary reform, as those of
Lord North; and the known readiness of
him and his friends to have formed a
junction with the whole of that connexion.
I need not even hint at the probability
there exists, that the noble lord
then in administration, would have been
happy to have formed the very coalition
himself, which he is willing we should
so much reprobate in another. I need
not mention the suspicions, that naturally
suggested themselves upon the invincible
silence of his party, respecting the mal-administration
of lord North, for so long
a time; and their bringing forward the
singular charge of fifty unaccounted millions
at the very moment that the coalition
was completed. I should be sorry
to have it supposed, that the connexion
I am defending, ever took an example
from the late premier, for one article of
their conduct. And I think the mode of
vindicating them, not from temporary
examples, but from eternal reason, as it
is in itself most striking and most honourable,
so is it not a whit less easy and
obvious.
Let it be remembered then, in the first
place, that there was no other connexion,
sufficiently unquestionable in their
sincerity, and of sufficient weight in the
senate, with which to form a coalition.
The Bedford party, had they even been
willing to have taken this step in conjunction
with the friends of lord Rockingham,
were already stripped of some of
their principal and ablest members, by
the arts of lord Shelburne. Whether these
ought to be considered in sound reason, as
more or less obnoxious than lord North,
I will not take upon me to determine.
Certain I am, that the Scottish connexion
were, of all others, the most suspicious
in themselves, and the most odious to
the people. The only choice then that
remained, was that which was made. The
only subject for deliberation, was, whether
this choice were more or less laudable
than, on the other hand, the deserting
entirely the interests of their country,
and leaving the vessel of the state to the
mercy of the winds.
Secondly, I would observe that the
principal ground of dispute between lord
North and his present colleagues in administration,
was done away by the termination
of the American war. An impeachment
of the noble lord for his past
errors was perfectly out of the question.
No one was mad enough to expect it. A
vein of public spirit, diffusing itself among
all ranks of society, is the indispensible
concomitant of impeachments and attainder.
And such a temper, I apprehend,
will not be suspected to be characteristic
of the age in which we live. But
were it otherwise, the Rockingham connexion
certainly never stood in the way
of an impeachment, had it been meditated.
And, exclusive of this question, I
know of no objection, that applies particular
to the noble lord, in contradistinction
to any of the other parties into which
we are divided.
But, in the third place, the terms upon
which the coalition was made, form a most
important article of consideration in
estimating its merits. They are generally
understood to have been these two; that
the Rockingham connexion should at all
times have a majority in the cabinet; and
that lord North should be removed to
that "hospital of incurables," as lord
Chesterfield has stiled it, the house of
lords. Surely these articles are the happiest
that could have been conceived for
preserving the power of administration, as
much as may be, with the friends of the
people. Places, merely of emolument and
magnificence, must be bestowed somewhere.
Where then can they be more
properly lodged, than in the hands of
those who are best able to support a liberal
and virtuous administration?
I beg leave to add once more, in the
fourth place, that, whatever the demerits
of lord North as a minister may be supposed
to have been, he is perhaps, in a
thousand other respects, the fittest man in
the world to occupy the second place in
a junction of this sort. The union of the
Rockingham connexion with the earl of
Shelburne last year, was, I will admit, less
calculated to excite popular astonishment,
and popular disapprobation, than the present.
In the eye of cool reason and sober
foresight, I am apt to believe, it was
much less wise and commendable. Lord
Shelburne, though he has been able to win
over the good opinion of several, under the
notion of his being a friend of liberty, is
really, in many respects, stiffly aristocratical,
or highly monarchical. Lord Shelburne
is a man of insatiable ambition, and
who pursues the ends of that ambition by
ways the most complex and insidious.
The creed of lord North, whatever it may
be, upon general political questions, is
consistent and intelligible. For my own
part, I do not believe him to be ambitious.
It is not possible, with his indolent and
easy temper, that he should be very susceptible
to so restless a passion. In the
heroical sense of that word, he sits loose
to fame. He is undoubtedly desirous, by
all the methods that appear to him honourable
and just, to enrich and elevate his
family. He wishes to have it in his power
to oblige and to serve his friends. But I
am exceedingly mistaken, if he entered into
the present alliance from views of authority
and power. Upon the conditions I
have mentioned, it was a scheme, congenial
only to a man of a dark and plotting
temper. But the temper of lord North is
in the highest degree candid, open and
undisguised. Easy at home upon every
occasion, there is not a circle in the world
to which his presence would not be an
addition. It is calculated to inspire unconstraint
and confidence into every breast.
Simple and amiable is the just description
of his character in every domestic
relation; constant and unreserved in his
connexions of friendship. The very versatility
and pliableness, so loudly condemned
in his former situation, is now
an additional recommendation. Is this
the man, for whose intrigues and conspiracies
we are bid to tremble?
Another charge that has been urged
against the coalition, is, that it was a step
that dictated to the sovereign, and excluded
all, but one particular set of men,
from the national councils. The first
part of this charge is somewhat delicate
in its nature. I shall only say respecting
it, that, if, as we have endeavoured to
prove, there were but one connexion, by
which the business of administration could
be happily discharged, the friend of liberty,
rejoicing in the auspicious event,
will not be very inquisitive in respect to
the etiquette, with which they were introduced
into the government. In the
mean time, far from intending an exclusion,
they declared publicly, that they
would be happy to receive into their body
any man of known integrity and abilities,
from whatever party he came. The declaration
has never been contradicted.—Strangers
to the remotest idea of proscription,
they erected a fortress, where every
virtue, and every excellence might find a
place.
The only remaining objection to the
coalition that I know of, that it shocks
established opinions, is not, I think, in
itself, calculated to have much weight,
and has, perhaps, been sufficiently animadverted
upon, as we went along, in
what has been already said. The proper
question is, was it a necessary step? Was
there any other way, by which the country
could be redeemed? If a satisfactory
answer has been furnished to these enquiries,
the inevitable conclusion in my
opinion is, that the more it mocked established
opinions, and the more intellectual
nerve it demanded, the more merit
did it possess, and the louder applause is
its due.
I am not inclined to believe, that a majority
of my countrymen, upon reflection,
have disapproved this measure. I am
happy to perceive, that so much of that
good sense and manly thinking in public
questions, that has for ages been considered
as the characteristic quality of Englishmen,
is still left among us. There can
be nothing more honourable than this.—By
it our commonalty, though unable indeed
to forestal the hero and the man of
genius in his schemes, do yet, if I may
be allowed the expression, tread upon his
heels, and are prepared to follow him in
all his views, and to glow with all his
sentiments.
Sensible however, that in the first blush
of such a scheme, its enemies must necessarily
find their advantage in entrenching
themselves behind those prejudices,
that could not be eradicated in a moment,
I was willing to wait for the hour of
calmness and deliberation. I resolved
cooly to let the first gush of prepossession
blow over, and the spring tide of censure
exhaust itself. I believed, that such a
cause demanded only a fair and candid
hearing. I have endeavoured to discharge
my part in obtaining for it such a hearing.
And I must leave the rest to my
readers.
Among these there probably will be
some, who, struck with the force of the arguments
I have adduced on the one hand,
and entangled in their favourite prejudices
on the other, will remain in a kind of
suspence; ashamed to retract their former
opinions, but too honest to deny all
weight and consideration to those I have
defended. To these I have one word to
say, and with that one word I will conclude.
I will suppose you to confess, that
appearances, exclusive of the controverted
step, are in a thousand instances favourable
to the new ministers. They have
made the strongest professions, and the
largest promises of attachment to the general
cause. To professions and promises
I do not wish you to trust. I should blush
to revive the odious and exploded maxim,
not men, but measures. If you cannot place
some confidence in the present administration,
I advise you, as honest men, to do every
thing in your power to drive them from
the helm. But you will hardly deny, that
all their former conduct has afforded reasons
for confidence. You are ready to admit,
that, in no instance, but one, have
they committed their characters. In that
one instance, they have much to say for
themselves, and it appears, at least, very
possible, that they may have been acted
in it, by virtuous and generous principles,
even though we should suppose them
mistaken. Remember then, that popularity
and fame are the very nutriment of
virtue. A thirst for fame is not a weakness.
It is "the noble mind's distinguishing
perfection." If then you would
bind administration by tenfold ties to the
cause of liberty, do not withdraw from
them your approbation till they have
forfeited it, by betraying, in one plain and
palpable instance, the principles upon
which they have formerly acted. I believe
they need no new bonds, but are unchangeably
fixed in the generous system,
with which they commenced. But thus
much is certain. If any thing can detach
them from this glorious cause; if any thing
can cool their ardour for the common
weal, there is nothing that has half so
great a tendency to effect this, as unmerited
obloquy and disgrace.
FINIS.
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INSTRUCTIONS
TO A
STATESMAN.
HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
GEORGE EARL TEMPLE.
M.DCC.LXXXIV.
TO
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
GEORGE EARL TEMPLE.
MY LORD,
The following papers fell into
my hands by one of those
unaccountable accidents, so frequent
in human life, but which
in the relation appear almost incredible.
I will not however
trouble your lordship with the
story. If they be worthy of the
press, it is of no great consequence
to the public how they found their
way thither. If they afford your
lordship a moment's amusement,
amidst the weightier cares incident
to your rank and fortune, I have
obtained my end.
I have endeavoured in vain to
investigate who was their author,
and to whom they were addressed.
It should seem, from the internal
evidence of the composition, that
they were written by a person, who
was originally of a low rank or a
menial station, but who was distinguished
by his lord for those
abilities and talents, he imagined
he discovered in him. I have
learned, by a kind of vague tradition,
upon which I can place little
dependence, that the noble pupil
was the owner of a magnificent
château not a hundred miles from
your lordship's admired seat in
the county of Buckingham. It is
said that this nobleman, amidst a
thousand curiosities with which his
gardens abounded, had the unaccountable
whim of placing a kind
of artificial hermit in one of its
wildest and most solitary recesses.
This hermit it seems was celebrated
through the whole neighbourhood,
for his ingenuity in the carving of
tobacco-stoppers, and a variety of
other accomplishments. Some of
the peasants even mistook him for
a conjuror. If I might be allowed
in the conjectural licence of an
editor, I should be inclined to
ascribe the following composition
to this celebrated and ingenious
solitaire.
Since however this valuable tract
remains without an owner, I
thought it could not be so properly
addressed to any man as your
lordship. I would not however
be misunderstood. I do not imagine
that the claim this performance
has upon the public attention,
consists in the value and excellence
of it's precepts. On the contrary,
I consider it as the darkest and
most tremendous scheme for the
establishment of despotism that
ever was contrived. If the public
enter into my sentiments upon the
subject, they will consider it as
effectually superseding Machiavel's
celebrated treatise of The Prince,
and exhibiting a more deep-laid
and desperate system of tyranny.
For my part, I esteem these great
and destructive vices of so odious
a nature, that they need only be exposed
to the general view in order
to the being scouted by all. And if,
which indeed I cannot possibly
believe, there has been any noble
lord in this kingdom mean enough
to have studied under such a preceptor,
I would willingly shame
him out of his principles, and hold
up to him a glass, which shall convince
him how worthy he is of
universal contempt and abhorrence.
The true reason, my lord, for
which I have presumed to prefix
your name to these sheets is, that the
contrast between the precepts they
contain, and the ingenuous and
manly character that is universally
attributed to your lordship, may
place them more strongly in the
light they deserve. And yet I
doubt not there will be some readers
perverse enough to imagine
that you are the true object of the
composition. They will find out
some of those ingenious coincidences,
by which The Rape of the
Lock, was converted into a political
poem, and the Telemaque of
the amiable Fenelon into a satire
against the government under
which he lived. I might easily
appeal, against these treacherous
commentators, to the knowledge
of all men reflecting every corner
of your lordship's gardens at Stowe.
I might boldly defy any man to
say, that they now contain, or
ever did contain, one of these artificial
hermits. But I will take up
your lordship's defence upon a
broader footing. I will demonstrate
how contrary the character
of your ancestors and your own
have always been to the spirit and
temper here inculcated. If this
runs me a little into the beaten
style of dedication, even the modesty
of your lordship will excuse
me, when I have so valuable a reason
for adopting it.
I shall confine myself, my lord,
in the few thoughts I mean to
suggest upon this head, to your two
more immediate ancestors, men
distinguished above the common
rate, by their virtues or their abilities.
Richard earl Temple, your
lordship's immediate predecessor,
as the representative of your illustrious
house, will be long remembered
by posterity under the very
respectable title of the friend of the
earl of Chatham. But though his
friend, my lord, we well know
that he did not implicitly follow
the sentiments of a man, who was
assuredly the first star in the political
hemisphere, and whose talents
would have excused, if any thing
could have excused, an unsuspecting
credulity. The character of
lord Chatham was never, but in
one instance, tarnished. He did
not sufficiently dread the omnipotence
of the favourite. He fondly
imagined that before a character
so brilliant, and success so imposing
as his had been, no little system of
favouritism could keep its ground.
Twice, my lord, he was upon the
brink of the precipice, and once
he fell. When he trembled on
the verge, who was it that held
him back? It was Richard earl
Temple. Twice he came, like
his guardian angel, and snatched
him from his fate. Lord Chatham
indeed was formed to champ the
bit, and spurn indignant at every
restraint. He knew the superiority
of his abilities, he recollected that
he had twice submitted to the
honest counsels of his friend, and
he disdained to listen any longer to
a coolness, that assimilated but ill
to the adventurousness of his spirit;
and to a hesitation, that wore in
his apprehension the guise of timidity.
What then did Richard
earl Temple do? There he fixed
his standard, and there he pitched
his tent. Not a step farther would
he follow a leader, whom to follow
had been the boast of his life. He
erected a fortress that might one
day prove the safeguard of his misguided
and unsuspecting friend.
And yet, my lord, the character
of Richard earl Temple, was not
that of causeless suspicion. He
proved himself, in a thousand instances,
honest, trusting, and sincere.
He was not, like some men,
that you and I know, dark, dispassionate,
and impenetrable. On
the contrary, no man mistook him,
no man ever charged him with a
double conduct or a wrinkled
heart. His countenance was open,
and his spirit was clear. He was
a man of passions, my lord. He
acted in every momentous concern,
more from the dictates of his heart,
than his head. But this is the key
to his conduct; He kept a watchful
eye upon that bane of every
patriot minister, secret influence. If
there were one feature in his political
history more conspicuous than
the rest, if I were called to point
out the line of discrimination between
his character and that of his
contemporaries upon the public
stage, it would be the hatred of
secret influence.
Such, my lord, was one of your
immediate ancestors, whose name,
to this day, every honest Briton repeats
with veneration. I will turn
to another person, still more nearly
related to you, and who will make
an equal figure in the history of
the age in which he lived, Mr.
George Grenville. His character
has been represented to us by a
writer of no mean discernment, as
that of "shrewd and inflexible."
He was a man of indefatigable industry
and application. He possessed
a sound understanding, and he
trusted it. This is a respectable
description. Integrity and independency,
however mistaken, are
entitled to praise. What was it,
my lord, that he considered as the
ruin of his reputation? What was
it, that defeated all the views of an
honest ambition, and deprived his
country of the services, which his
abilities, under proper direction,
were qualified to render it? My lord,
it was secret influence. It was in
vain for ministers to be able to construct
their plans with the highest
wisdom, and the most unwearied
diligence; it was in vain that
they came forward like men, and
risqued their places, their characters,
their all, upon measures, however
arduous, that they thought
necessary for the salvation of their
country. They were defeated, by
what, my lord? By abilities greater
than their own? By a penetration
that discovered blots in their wisest
measures? By an opposition bold
and adventurous as themselves?
No: but, by the lords of the bedchamber;
by a "band of Janissaries
who surrounded the person
of the prince, and were ready
to strangle the minister upon
the nod of a moment."
With these illustrious examples
ever rushing upon your memory,
no man can doubt that your lordship
has inherited that detestation
of influence by which your ancestors
were so honourably distinguished.
My lord, having considered
the high expectations, which
the virtues of your immediate
progenitors had taught us to form
upon the heir of them both, we
will recollect for a moment the
promises that your first outset in
life had made to your country.
One of your lordship's first actions
upon record, consists in the
high professions you made at the
county meeting of Buckingham, in
that ever-venerable aera of oeconomy
and reform, the spring of
1780. My lord, there are certain
offices of sinecure, not dependent
upon the caprice of a minister,
which this country has reserved
to reward those illustrious statesmen,
who have spent their lives,
and worn out their constitutions
in her service. No man will wonder,
when he recollects from
whom your lordship has the honour
to be descended, that one of
these offices is in your possession.
This, my lord, was the subject of
your generous and disinterested
professions. You told your countrymen,
that with this office you
were ready to part. If a reformation
so extensive were thought
necessary, you were determined,
not merely to be no obstacle to the
design, but to be a volunteer in
the service. You came forward in
the eye of the world, with your
patent in your hand. You were
ready to sacrifice that parchment,
the precious instrument of personal
wealth and private benevolence,
at the shrine of patriotism.
Here then, my lord, you stood
pledged to your country. What
were we not to expect from the
first patriot of modern story?
Your lordship will readily imagine
that our expectations were boundless
and indefinite. "Glorious
and immortal man!" we cried,
"go on in this untrodden path.
We will no longer look with
drooping and cheerless anxiety
upon the misfortunes of Britain,
we have a resource for them
all. The patriot of Stowe is
capable of every thing. He
does not resemble the vulgar
herd of mortals, he does not
form his conduct upon precedent,
nor defend it by example.
Virtue of the first impression was
never yet separated from genius.
We will trust then in the expedients
of his inexhaustible mind.
We will look up to him as our
assured deliverer.—We are well
acquainted with the wealth of
the proprietor of Stowe. Thanks,
eternal thanks to heaven, who
has bestowed it with so liberal a
hand! We consider it as a deposit
for the public good. We count
his acres, and we calculate his income,
for we know that it is, in
the best sense of the word, our
own."
My lord, these are the prejudices,
which Englishmen have
formed in your favour. They
cannot refuse to trust a man, descended
from so illustrious progenitors.
They cannot suspect any
thing dark and dishonourable in
the generous donor of 2700l. a
year. Let then the commentators
against whom I am providing, abjure
the name of Briton, or let
them pay the veneration that is
due to a character, in every view
of the subject, so exalted as that
of your lordship.
I have the honour to be,
MY LORD,
with the most unfeigned respect,
your lordship's
most obedient,
most devoted servant.
INSTRUCTIONS
TO A
STATESMAN.
MY LORD,
I have long considered as the greatest
happiness of my life, the having so
promising a pupil as your lordship.
Though your abilities are certainly of the
very first impression, they are not however
of that vague and indefinite species,
which we often meet with in persons,
who, if providence had so pleased, would
have figured with equal adroitness in the
character of a shoe-black or a link-boy, as
they now flatter themselves they can do
in that of a minister of state. You, my
lord, were born with that accomplishment
of secrecy and retentiveness, which
the archbishop of Cambray represents
Telemachus as having possessed in so
high a degree in consequence of the mode
of his education. You were always distinguished
by that art, never to be sufficiently
valued, of talking much and saying
nothing. I cannot recollect, and yet
my memory is as great, as my opportunity
for observation has been considerable,
that your lordship, when a boy, ever
betrayed a single fact that chanced to fall
within your notice, unless indeed it had
some tendency to procure a school-fellow
a whipping. I have often remarked
your lordship with admiration, talking
big and blustering loud, so as to frighten
urchins who were about half your lordship's
size, when you had no precise
meaning in any thing you said. And I
shall never forget, the longest day I have
to live, when I hugged you in my arms
in a kind of prophetic transport, in consequence
of your whispering me, in the
midst of a room-full of company, in so
sly a manner that nobody could observe
you, that you had just seen John the
coachman bestow upon Betty the cook-maid,
a most devout and cordial embrace.
From your rawest infancy you were as
much distinguished, as Milton represents
the goddess Hebe to have been, by
"nods and becks and wreathed smiles;"
with this difference, that in her they
were marks of gaiety, and in you of demureness;
that in her they were unrestrained
and general, and in you intended
only for a single confidant. My lord,
reflecting upon all these circumstances,
it is not to be wondered at that I treated
your lordship even in clouts with the reverence
due to an infant Jove, and always
considered myself as superintending
the institution of the first statesman that
ever existed.
But, my lord, it has ever been my
opinion, that let nature do as much as
she will, it is in the power of education
to do still more. The many statesmanlike
qualities that you brought into the
world with you, sufficiently prove, that
no man was ever more deeply indebted
to the bounty of nature than your lordship.
And yet of all those qualities she has
bestowed upon you, there is not one that
I hold in half so much esteem, as that
docility, which has ever induced you to
receive my instructions with implicit veneration.
It is true, my coat is fustian,
and my whole accoutrement plebeian.
My shoes are clouted, and it is long since
the wig that defends this penetrating
brain, could boast a crooked hair. But
you, my lord, have been able to discover
the fruit through the thick and uncomely
coat by which it was concealed; you
have cracked the nut and have a right to
the kernel.
My lord, I thought it necessary to
premise these observations, before I entered
upon those important matters of
disquisition, which will form the object
of my present epistle. It is unnecessary
for me to inform a person of so much
discernment as your lordship, that education
is, by its very nature, a thing of
temporary duration. Your lordship's education
has been long, and there have
been cogent reasons why it should be so.
God grant, that when left to walk the
world alone, you be not betrayed into
any of those unlucky blunders, from the
very verge of which my provident hand
has often redeemed your lordship! Do
not mistake me, my lord, when I talk of
the greatness of your talents. It is now
too late to flatter: This is no time for
disguise. Pardon me therefore, my dear
and ever-honoured pupil, if I may seem
to offend against those minuter laws of
etiquette, which were made only for
common cases. At so important a crisis
it is necessary to be plain.
Your lordship is very cunning, but I
never imagined that you were remarkably
wise. The talents you received at
your birth, if we were to speak with
mathematical strictness, should rather be
denominated knacks, than abilities. They
consist rather in a lucky dexterity of face,
and a happy conformation of limb, than
in any very elevated capacities of the intellect.
Upon that score, my lord,—you
know I am fond of comparisons, and I
think I have hit upon one in this case,
that must be acknowledged remarkably
apposite. I have sometimes seen a ditch,
the water of which, though really shallow,
has appeared to careless observers
to be very deep, for no other reason but
because it was muddy. Believe me, my
lord, experienced and penetrating observers
are not so to be taken in.
But, as I was saying, education is a
temporary thing, and your lordship's,
however lasting and laborious, is at
length brought to a period. My lord,
if it so pleases the sovereign disposer of
all things, I would be very well satisfied
to remain in this sublunary state for some
years longer, if it were only that I might
live to rejoice in the exemplification of
my precepts in the conduct of my pupil.
But, if this boon be granted to my merits
and my prayers, at any rate I shall
from this moment retire from the world.
From henceforth my secret influence is
brought to its close. I will no longer be
the unseen original of the grand movements
of the figures that fill the political
stage. I will stand aloof from the
giddy herd. I will not stray from my
little vortex. I will look down upon
the transactions of courts and ministers,
like an etherial being from a superior
element. There I shall hope to see your
lordship outstrip your contemporaries,
and tower above the pigmies of the day.
To repeat an idea before delivered, might
be unbecoming in a fine writer, but it is
characteristic and beautiful under the
personage of a preceptor. The fitnesses
which nature bestowed upon your frame
would not have done alone. But joined
with the lessons I have taught you, they
cannot fail, unless I grossly flatter myself,
to make the part which your lordship
shall act sufficiently conspicuous.
Receive then, my lord, with that docility
and veneration, which have at all
times made the remembrance of you
pleasant and reviving to my heart, the
last communications of the instructor of
your choice. Yes, my lord, from henceforth
you shall see me, you shall hear
from me no more. From this consideration
I infer one reason why you should
deeply reflect upon the precepts I have
now to offer. Remembering that these
little sheets are all the legacy my affection
can bestow upon you, I shall concenter
in them the very quintessence and epitome
of all my wisdom. I shall provide in
them a particular antidote to those defects
to which nature has made you most
propense.
But I have yet another reason to inforce
your attention to what I am about
to write. I was, as I have said, the instructor
of your choice. When I had
yet remained neglected in the world,
when my honours were withered by the
hand of poverty, when my blossoms appeared
in the eyes of those who saw me
of the most brown and wintery complexion,
and, if your lordship will allow
me to finish the metaphor, when I stank
in their noses, it was then that your lordship
remarked and distinguished me.
Your bounty it was that first revived my
native pride. It is true that it ran in a
little dribbling rivulet, but still it was
much to me. Even before you were
able to afford me any real assistance, you
were always ready to offer me a corner
of your gingerbread, or a marble from
your hoard. Your lordship had at all times
a taste for sumptuousness and magnificence,
but you knew how to limit your
natural propensity in consideration of the
calls of affinity, and to give your farthings
to your friends.
Do not then, my dear lord, belie the
first and earliest sentiments of your heart.
As you have ever heard me, let your attention
be tripled now. Read my letter
once and again. Preserve it as a sacred
deposit. Lay it under your pillow. Meditate
upon it fasting. Commit it to memory,
and repeat the scattered parcels of
it, as Caesar is said to have done the Greek
alphabet, to cool your rising choler. Be
this the amulet to preserve you from
danger! Be this the chart by which to
steer the little skiff of your political system
safe into the port of historic immortality!
My lord, you and I have read Machiavel
together. It is true I am but a bungler
in Italian, and your lordship was generally
obliged to interpret for me. Your
translation I dare say was always scientifical,
but I was seldom so happy as to
see either grammar or sense in it. So
far however as I can guess at the drift of
this celebrated author, he seems to have
written as the professor of only one
science. He has treated of the art of
government, and has enquired what was
wise, and what was political. He has
left the moralists to take care of themselves.
In the present essay, my lord, I shall
follow the example of Machiavel. I
profess the same science, and I pretend
only to have carried to much greater
heights an art to which he has given a
considerable degree of perfection. Your
lordship has had a great number of masters.
Your excellent father, who himself
had some dabbling in politics, spared
no expence upon your education,
though I believe he had by no means so
high an opinion of your genius and abilities
as I entertained. Your lordship
therefore is to be presumed competently
versed in the rudiments of ethics. You
have read Grotius, Puffendorf, and
Cumberland. For my part I never opened
a volume of any one of them. I am
self-taught. My science originates entirely
in my unbounded penetration, and
a sort of divine and supernatural afflatus.
With all this your lordship knows I am
a modest man. I have never presumed
to entrench upon the province of others.
Let the professors of ethics talk their
nonsense. I will not interrupt them. I
will not endeavour to set your lordship
against them. It is necessary for me to
take politics upon an unlimited scale, and
to suppose that a statesman has no character
to preserve but that of speciousness
and plausibility. But it is your
lordship's business to enquire whether
this be really the case.
I need not tell you, that I shall not,
like the political writers with which you
are acquainted, talk in the air. My instructions
will be of a practical nature,
and my rules adapted to the present condition
of the English government. That
government is at present considerably,
though imperfectly, a system of liberty.
To such a system the most essential maxim
is, that the governors shall be accountable
and amenable to the governed.
This principle has sometimes been denominated
responsibility. Responsibility in
a republican government is carried as
high as possible. In a limited monarchy
it stops at the first ministers, the immediate
servants of the crown. Now to
this system nothing can be more fatal,
than for the public measures not really to
originate with administration, but with
secret advisers who cannot be traced.
This is to cut all the nerves of government,
to loosen all the springs of liberty,
to make the constitution totter to its
lowest foundations.
I say this, my lord, not to terrify your
lordship. The students and the imitators
of Machiavel must not be frightened
with bugbears. Beside, were cowardice
as congenial to the feelings of your lordship
as I confess it has sometimes been to
mine, cowardice itself is not so apt to be
terrified with threats hung up in terrorem,
and menaces of a vague and general
nature. It trembles only at a danger
definite and impending. It is the dagger
at the throat, it is the pistol at the breast,
that shakes her nerves. Prudence is
alarmed at a distance, and calls up all
her exertion. But cowardice is short-sighted,
and was never productive of any
salutary effort. I say not this therefore
to intimidate, but to excite you. I would
teach you, that this is a most important
step indeed, is the grand desideratum in
order to exalt the English monarchy to a
par with the glorious one of France, or
any other absolute monarchy in Christendom.
In order, my lord, to annihilate responsibility,
nothing more is necessary
than that every individual should be as
free, and as much in the habit of advising
the king upon the measures of government,
as his ministers. Let every discarded,
and let every would-be statesman,
sow dissension in the royal councils, and
pour the poison of his discontent into the
royal ear. Let the cabinet ring with a
thousand jarring sentiments; and let the
subtlest courtier, let him that is the most
perfect master of wheedling arts and pathetic
tones, carry it from every rival.
This, my lord, will probably create some
confusion at first. The system of government
will appear, not a regular and proportioned
beauty, like the pheasant of
India, but a gaudy and glaring system
of unconnected parts, like Esop's daw
with borrowed feathers. Anarchy and
darkness will be the original appearance.
But light shall spring out of the noon of
night; harmony and order shall succeed
the chaos. The present patchwork of
three different forms of government shall
be changed into one simple and godlike
system of despotism. Thus, when London
was burned, a more commodious
and healthful city sprung as it were out
of her ashes.
But neither Rome nor London was
built in a day. The glorious work
I am recommending to you must be a
work of time. At first it will be necessary
for the person who would subvert the
silly system of English government, to
enter upon his undertaking with infinite
timidity and precaution. He must stalk
along in silence like Tarquin to the rape
of Lucretia. His horses, like those of Lear,
must be shoed with felt. He must shroud
himself in the thickest shade. Let him
comfort himself with this reflexion:
"It is but for a time. It will soon be
over. No work of mortal hands can
long stand against concussions so violent.
Ulysses, who entered Troy, shut
up in the cincture of the wooden horse,
shall soon burst the enclosure, shall
terrify those from whose observation
he lately shrunk, and carry devastation
and ruin on whatever side he turns."
My lord, I have considered the subject
of politics with as much acuteness as
any man. I have revolved a thousand
schemes, which to recommend to the
pursuit of the statesman of my own creation.
But there is no plan of action
that appears to me half so grand and
comprehensive, as this of secret influence.
It is true the scheme is not entirely new.
It has been a subject of discussion ever
since the English nation could boast any
thing like a regular system of liberty. It
was complained of under king William.
It was boasted of, even to ostentation,
by the Tory ministers of queen Anne.
The Pelhams cried out upon it in lord
Carteret. It has been the business of
half the history of the present reign to
fix the charge upon my lord Bute.
And yet in spite of these appearances,
in spite of all the deductions that modesty
can authorise, I may boldly affirm
that my scheme has something in it that
is truly original. My lord, I would not
have you proceed by leaps and starts,
like these half-fledged statesmen. I
would have you proceed from step to step
in a finished and faultless plan. I have
too an improvement without which the
first step is of no value, which yet has
seldom been added, which at first sight
has a very daring appearance, but which
I pretend to teach your lordship to practice
with perfect safety. But it is necessary
for me, before I come to this grand
arcanum of my system, to premise a few
observations for the more accurately managing
the influence itself.
My lord, there are a variety of things
necessary to absolute secrecy. There is
nothing more inconvenient to a political
character than that gross and unmanageable
quantity of flesh and blood that fortune
has decreed that every mortal should
carry about with him. The man who
is properly initiated in the arcana of a
closet, ought to be able to squeeze himself
through a key hole, and, whenever
any impertinent Marplot appears to blast
him, to change this unwieldy frame into
the substance of the viewless winds. How
often must a theoretical statesman like
myself, have regretted that incomparable
invention, the ring of Gyges! How often
must he have wished to be possessed
of one of those diabolical forms, described
by Milton, which now were taller
than the pole, and anon could shrink into
the compass of an atom!
But I forget the characteristic of my
profession. It is not ours, my lord, to
live in air-built castles, and to deal in
imaginary hypotheses. On the contrary,
we are continually talking of the weakness
and the frailty of humanity. Does
any man impeach one of our body of
bribery and corruption? We confess
that these practices may seem to run
counter with the fine-spun systems of
morality; but this is our constant apology,
human affairs can be no otherwise
managed. Does any man suggest the
most beautiful scheme of oeconomy, or
present us with the most perfect model
of liberty? We turn away with a sneer,
and tell him that all this is plausible and
pretty; but that we do not concern ourselves
with any thing but what is practicable.
In conformity to these ideas, I beg
leave, my lord, to recal the fantastic
wishes that have just escaped me. To be
corporeal is our irrevocable fate, and we
will not waste our time in fruitlessly accusing
it. My lord, I have one or two
little expedients to offer to you, which,
though they do not amount to a perfect
remedy in this case, will yet, I hope,
prove a tolerable substitute for those diabolical
forms of which I was talking.
I need not put your lordship in mind
how friendly to such practices as ours,
is the cover of darkness, and how convenient
those little machines commonly
called back-stairs. I dare say even your
lordship, however inconsequently you
may often conduct yourself, would scarcely
think of mid-day as the most proper
season of concealment, or the passing
through a crowded levee, the most natural
method of entering the royal closet
unobserved.
But, my lord, you will please to recollect,
that there are certain attendants
upon the person of the sovereign whom I
find classed in that epitome of political
wisdom, the Red Book, under the name
of pages. Most wise is the institution,
(and your lordship will observe that I am
not now deviating into the regions of fable)
which is common to all the Eastern
courts, of having these offices filled by
persons, who, upon peril of their life, may
not, in any circumstances whatsoever,
utter a word. But unfortunately in the
western climates in which we reside, the
thing is otherwise. The institution of
mutes is unknown to us. The lips of
our pages have never been inured to the
wholesome discipline of the padlock.
They are as loquacious, and blab as much
as other men. You know, my lord,
that I am fond of illustrating the principles
I lay down by the recital of facts.
The last, and indeed the only time that
I ever entered the metropolis, I remember,
as my barber was removing the hair from
my nether lip:—My barber had all that
impertinent communicativeness that is
incident to the gentlemen of his profession;
he assured me, that he had seen
that morning one of the pages of the
back-stairs, who declared to him, upon
the word of a man of honour, that he
had that moment admitted a certain nobleman
by a private door to the presence
of his master; that the face of the noble
lord was perfectly familiar to him, and
that he had let him in some fifty times in
the course of the past six months.
"How silly is all this!" added the page; "and
how glad should I be", licking his lips,
"that it were but an opera girl or a
countess! And yet my mistress is the
very best mistress that ever I see!"
Oh
this was poor, and showed a pitiful ambition in the man that did it! I will swear,
my lord, that the nobleman who could
thus have been betrayed, must have been
a thick-headed fellow, and fit for no one
public office, not even for that of turnspit
of his majesty's kitchen!A
A: Vide Burke's Speech upon Oeconomy.
My lord, if you would escape that
rock, upon which this statesman terminated
his political career, ever while you
live make use of bribery. Let the pages
finger your cash, let them drink your
health in a glass of honest claret, and
let them chuckle over the effects of
your lordship's munificence. I know
that you will pour forth many a pathetic
complaint over the money that is
drawn off by this copious receiver, but
believe the wisest man that now exists,
when he assures you, that it is well bestowed.
Your lordship's bounty to myself
has sometimes amounted to near ten
pounds in the course of a twelvemonth.
That drain, my lord, is stopped. I
shall receive from you no more. Let
then the expence, which you once incurred
for my sake, be henceforth diverted
to this valuable purpose.
I believe, my lord, that this is all the
improvement that can be made upon
the head of pages. I think we can
scarcely venture upon the expedient that
would otherwise be admirable, of these
interviews being carried on without the
intervention of any such impertinent fellows,
from whom one is ever in danger,
without the smallest notice, of having
it published at St. James's-Market, and
proclaimed from the statue at Charing-Cross.
If however you should think
this expedient adviseable, I would recommend
it to you not to mention it to
your gracious master. Courts are so incumbered
and hedged in with ceremony,
that the members of them are
always prone to imagine that the form
is more essential and indispensable, than
the substance. Suppose then, my lord,
you were, by one of those sly opportunities,
which you know so well how to
command, to take off the key in wax,
and get a picklock key made exactly
upon the model of it. The end, my
lord, take my word for it, would abundantly
sanctify the apparent sordidness of
the means. In this situation I cannot
help picturing to myself the surprise and
the joy, that would be in a moment
lighted up in the countenance of your
friend. Your rencounter would be as
unexpected and fortunate as that of Lady
Randolph and her son, when she fears
every moment to have him murdered by
Glenalvon. You would fly into each
others arms, and almost smother one
another in your mutual embrace.
But another thing that is abundantly
worthy of your lordship's attention, is
the subject of disguises and dark lanthorns.
Harley, afterwards earl of Oxford,
was in the practice, if I remember
right, for it is some time since I read
Dr. Swift's political pamphlets, of crossing
the park in a horseman's coat. But
this is too shallow and thin a disguise.
A mask, on the other hand, might perhaps
be too particular. Though indeed
at midnight, which is the only time
that I would recommend to your lordship
in which to approach within a hundred
yards of the palace, it might probably
pass without much observation.
A slouched hat, and a bob wig, your
lordship may at any time venture upon.
But there is nothing that is of so much
importance in this affair as variety.
I would sometimes put on the turban of
a Turk, and sometimes the half breeches
of a Highlander. I would sometimes
wear the lawn sleeves of a bishop, and
sometimes the tye-wig of a barrister. A
leathern apron and a trowel might upon
occasion be of sovereign efficacy. The
long beard and neglected dress of a
Shylock should be admitted into the list.
I would also occasionally lay aside the
small clothes, and assume the dress of a
woman. I would often trip it along
with the appearance and gesture of a
spruce milliner; and I would often stalk
with the solemn air and sweeping train
of a duchess. But of all the infinite
shapes of human dress, I must confess
that, my favourite is the kind of doublet
that prince Harry wore when he assaulted
Falstaff. The nearer it approaches to
the guise of a common carman the better,
and his long whip ought to be inseparable.
If you could add to it the
sooty appearance of a coal-heaver, or
a chimney-sweep, it would sit, upon
this more precious than velvet garb,
like spangles and lace. I need not add,
that to a mind of elegance and sensibility,
the emblematical allusion which this
dress would carry to the secrecy and
impenetrableness of the person that wears
it, must be the source of a delightful
and exquisite sensation.
And now, my lord, for the last head,
which it is necessary to mention under
this division of my subject, I mean that
of lanthorns. Twenty people, I doubt
not, whom your lordship might consult
upon this occasion, would advise
you to go without any lanthorn at
all. Beware of this, my lord. It is
a rash and a thoughtless advice. It
may possibly be a false and insidious one.
Your lordship will never think of going
always in the same broad and frequented
path. Many a causeway you
will have to cross, many a dark and
winding alley to tread. Suppose, my
lord, the pavement were to be torn up,
and your lordship were to break your
shin! Suppose a drain were to have been
opened in the preceding day, without
your knowing any thing of the matter,
and your lordship were to break your
neck! Suppose, which is more terrible
than all the rest, you were to set your
foot upon that which I dare not name,
and by offending the olfactory nerves of
majesty, you were to forfeit his affections
for ever!
So much, my lord, by way of declamation
against the abolition of lanthorns.
Your lordship however does not imagine
I shall say any thing upon affairs so
common as the glass lanthorn, the horn
lanthorn, and the perforated tin lanthorn.
This last indeed is most to my purpose,
but it will not do, my lord, it will not
do. There is a kind of lanthorns, your
lordship has seen them, that have one
side dark, and the other light. I remember
to have observed your lordship
for half a day together, poring over the
picture of Guy Faux, in the Book of
Martyrs. This was one of the early
intimations which my wisdom enabled
me to remark of the destination which
nature had given you. You know, my
lord, that the possessor of this lanthorn
can turn it this way and that, as he
pleases. He can contrive accurately to
discern the countenance of every other
person, without being visible himself.
I need not enlarge to your lordship upon
the admirable uses of this machine. I
will only add, that my very dear and
ever-lamented friend Mr. Pinchbeck,
effected before he died an improvement
upon it so valuable, that it cannot but
preserve his name from that oblivious
power, by which common names are
devoured. In his lanthorn, the shade,
which used to be inseparable, may be
taken away at the possessor's pleasure,
like the head of a whisky, and it may
appear to all intents and purposes one
of the common vehicles of the kind.
He had also a contrivance, never to be
sufficiently commended, that when the
snuff of the candle had attained a certain
length, it moved a kind of automatic
pair of snuffers that hung within
side, and amputated itself. He left me
two of these lanthorns as a legacy. Such
is my value for your lordship, that I
have wrought myself up to a resolution
of parting with one of them in your
lordship's favour. You will receive it
in four days from the date of this by
Gines's waggon, that puts up in Holborn.
But, my lord, there is a second object
of consideration still more important
than this. It is in vain for your lordship,
or any other person, to persuade the sovereign
against any of the measures of his
government, unless you can add to this
the discovery of those new sentiments
you have instilled, to all such as it may
concern. It is the business of every
Machiavelian minister, such as your
lordship, both from nature and choice, is
inclined to be, to prop the cause of despotism.
In order to this, the dignity
of the sovereign is not to be committed,
but exalted. To bring forward the royal
person to put a negative upon any bill in
parliament, is a most inartificial mode
of proceeding. It marks too accurately
the strides of power, and awakens too
pointedly the attention of the multitude.
Your lordship has heard that the house
of lords is the barrier between the
king and the people. There is a sense
of this phrase, of which I am wonderfully
fond. The dissemination of the
royal opinion will at any time create a
majority in that house, to divert the
odium from the person of the monarch.
Twenty-two bishops, thirteen lords of
the bed-chamber, and all the rabble of
household troops, will at any time compose
an army. They may not indeed
cover an acre of ground, nor would I
advise your lordship to distribute them
into a great number of regiments. Their
countenances are not the most terrific
that were ever beheld, and it might be
proper to officer them with persons of
more sagacity than themselves. But under
all this meekness of appearance, and
innocence of understanding, believe me,
my lord, they are capable of keeping at
bay the commons and the people of
England united in one cause, for a considerable
time. They have been too
long at the beck of a minister, not to be
somewhat callous in their feelings. And
they are too numerous, not to have shoulders
capacious enough to bear all the
obloquy, with which their conduct may
be attended.
But then, my lord, as I would not
recommend it to you to bring into practice
the royal negative, so neither
perhaps would it be advisable for the
sovereign, to instruct those lords immediately
attendant upon him, in person.
Kings, you are not to be informed, are
to be managed and humoured by those
that would win their confidence. If
your lordship could invent a sort of
down, more soft and yielding than has
yet been employed, it might be something.
But to point out to your master,
that he must say this, and write that, that
he must send for one man, and break
with another, is an unpleasant and ungrateful
office. It must be your business
to take the burden from his shoulders.
You must smooth the road you would
have him take, and strew with flowers
the path of ruin. If he favour your
schemes with a smile of approbation, if
he bestow upon your proceedings the
sanction of a nod, it is enough. It is
godlike fortitude, and heroic exertion.
But secrecy is the very essence of
deep and insidious conduct. I would
advise your lordship to bring even your
own name into question, as little as possible.
My lord Chesterfield compares a
statesman, who has been celebrated for
influence during the greatest part of
the present reign, to the ostrich. The
brain of an ostrich, your lordship will
please to observe, though he be the largest
of birds, may very easily be included in
the compass of a nut-shell. When pursued
by the hunters, he is said to bury his
head in the sand, and having done this,
to imagine that he cannot be discovered
by the keenest search. Do not you, my
lord, imitate the manners of the ostrich.
Believe me, they are ungraceful; and, if
maturely considered, will perhaps appear
to be a little silly.
There is a contrivance that has occurred
to me, which, if it were not accompanied
with a circumstance somewhat
out of date, appears to me in the highest
degree admirable. Suppose you were to
treat the lords of the bedchamber with
a sight of St. Paul's cathedral? There
is a certain part of it of a circular form,
commonly called the whispering gallery.
You have probably heard, that by the
uncommon echo of this place, the
weakest sound that can possibly be articulated,
is increased by that time it has
gone half round, into a sound, audible
and strong. Your lordship, with your
flock of geese about you, would probably
be frolic and gamesome. You may
easily contrive to scatter them through
the whole circumference of this apartment.
Of a sudden, you will please to
turn your face to the wall, and utter
in a solemn tone the royal opinion.
Every body will be at a loss from whence
the mandate proceeds. Some of your
companions, more goose-like than the
rest, will probably imagine it a voice
from heaven. The sentence must be
two or three times repeated at proper
intervals, before you can contrive to have
each of the lords in turn at the required
distance. This will demand a considerable
degree of alertness and agility. But
alertness and agility are qualities by
which your lordship is so eminently distinguished,
that I should have very few
apprehensions about your success. Meanwhile
it will be proper to have a select
number of footmen stationed at the door
of the gallery, armed with smelling-bottles.
Some of your friends, I suspect,
would be so much alarmed at this celestial
and ghost-like phenomenon, as to
render this part of the plan of singular
service.
But after all, I am apprehensive that
many of the noble lords to whom I allude,
would be disgusted at the very
mention of any thing so old-fashioned
and city-like, as a visit to this famous
cathedral. And even if that were not
the case, it is proper to be provided with
more than one scheme for the execution
of so necessary a purpose. The question
is of no contemptible magnitude, between
instructions viva voce, and a circular
letter. In favour of the first it
may be said, that a letter is the worst
and most definite evidence to a man's
disadvantage that can be conceived. It
may easily be traced. It can scarcely be
denied. The sense of it cannot readily
be explained away.—It must be confessed
there is something in this; and yet, my
lord, I am by all means for a letter. A
voice may often be overheard. I remember
my poor old goody used to say,
(heaven rest her soul!) That walls had
ears. There are some lords, my dear
friend, that can never think of being
alone. Bugbears are ever starting up in
their prolific imagination, and they cannot
be for a moment in the dark, without
expecting the devil to fly away with
them. They have some useful pimp,
some favourite toad-eater, that is always
at their elbow. Ever remember, so
long as you live, that toad-eaters are
treacherous friends. Beside, it would
be a little suspicious, to see your lordship's
carriage making a regular tour
from door to door among the lords of
the bed-chamber. And I would by no
means have Pinchbeck's dark-lanthorn
brought into common use. Consider,
my lord, when that is worn out, you
will not know where to get such another.
A letter may be disguised in various
ways. You would certainly never think
of signing your name. You might have
it transcribed by your secretary. But
then this would be to commit your
safety and your fame to the keeping of
another. No, my lord, there are schemes
worth a hundred of this. Consider the
various hands in which a letter may be
written. There is the round hand, and
the Italian hand, the text hand, and the
running hand. You may form your letters
upon the Roman or the Italic model.
Your billet may he engrossed. You
may employ the German text or the old
primero. If I am not mistaken, your
lordship studied all these when you were a
boy for this very purpose. Yes, my
lord, I may be in the wrong, but I am
confidently of opinion, that this is absolutely
the first, most important, and most
indispensible accomplishment of a statesman.
I would forgive him, if he did
not know a cornet from an ensign, I
would forgive him, if he thought Italy
a province of Asia Minor. But not to
write primero! the nincompoop! the
numbscul!
If it were not that the persons with
whom your lordship has to correspond,
can some of them barely spell their
native tongue, I would recommend to
your lordship the use of cyphers. But
no, you might as well write the language
of Mantcheux Tartars. For consider,
your letters may be intercepted.
It is true, they have not many perils to
undergo. They are not handed from post-house
to post-house. There are no impertinent
office-keepers to inspect them
by land. There are no privateers to
capture them by sea. But, my lord,
they have perils to encounter, the very
recollection of which makes me tremble
to the inmost fibre of my frame. They
are ale-houses, my lord. Think for a
moment of the clattering of porter-pots,
and the scream of my goodly hostess.
Imagine that the blazing fire smiles
through the impenetrable window, and
that the kitchen shakes with the peals
of laughter. These are temptations,
my lord, that no mortal porter can withstand.
When the unvaried countenance
of his gracious sovereign smiles
invitation upon him from the weather
beaten sign-post, what loyal heart but
must be melted into compliance.
From all these considerations, my lord,
I would advise you to write with invisible
ink. Milk I believe will serve the
purpose, though I am afraid, that the
milk that is hawked about the streets of
London, has rather too much water in
it. The juice of lemon is a sovereign
recipe. There are a variety of other
preparations that will answer the purpose.
But these may be learned from
the most vulgar and accessible sources of
information. And you will please to observe,
that I suffer nothing to creep into
this political testament, more valuable
than those of Richelieu, Mazarine, and
Alberoni, that is not entirely original
matter. My lord, I defy you to learn a
single particular of the refinements here
communicated from the greatest statesman
that lives. They talk of Fox! He
would give his right hand for an atom of
them!
I will now suppose you, my lord, by
all these artifices, arrived at the very
threshold of power. I will suppose that
you have just defeated the grandest and
the wisest measure of your political antagonists.
I think there is nothing more
natural, though the rule will admit of
many exceptions, than for people who
act uniformly in opposition to each other,
upon public grounds, to be of opposite
characters and dispositions. I will therefore
imagine, that, shocked with the
boundless extortions and the relentless
cruelties that have been practised in some
distant part of the empire, they came
forward with a measure full of generous
oblivion for the part, providing with
circumspect and collected humanity for
the future. I will suppose, that they
were desirous of taking an impotent government
out of the hands of Jews and
pedlars, old women and minors, and to
render it a part of the great system. I
will suppose, that they were desirous of
transferring political power from a company
of rapacious and interested merchants,
into the hands of statesmen, men
distinguished among a thousand parties
for clear integrity, disinterested virtue, and
spotless fame. This, my lord, would
be a field worthy of your lordship's prowess.
Could you but gain the interested,
could you eternize rapacity, and preserve
inviolate the blot of the English name,
what laurels would not your lordship deserve?
I will therefore suppose, that your gracious
master meets you with a carte
blanche, that he is disposed to listen to
all your advices, and to adopt all your
counsels. Your lordship is aware that
the road of secret influence, and that of
popular favour, are not exactly the same.
No ministry can long preserve their seats
unless they possess the confidence of
a majority of the house of commons.
The ministry therefore against which
your lordship acts, we will take it for
granted are in this predicament. In this
situation then an important question naturally
arises. Either a majority in the
house of commons must be purchased at
any rate, or the government must be conducted
in defiance of that house, or
thirdly, the parliament must be dissolved.
Exclusive of these three, I can conceive
of no alternative. We will therefore examine
each in its turn.
Shall a majority in the house of commons
be created? Much may be said on
both sides. A very ingenious friend of
mine, for whose counsels I have an uncommon
deference, assured me, that nothing
would be so easy as this. Observing
with a shrewdness that astonished
me, that ministry, upon a late most important
question, mustered no more
than 250 votes, and that there were 558
members, he inferred, that you had nothing
more to do than to send for those
that were absent out of the country, and
you might have upwards of 300 to pit
against the 250. It is with infinite regret
that I ever suffer myself to dissent
from the opinion of this gentleman. But
suppose, my lord, which is at least possible,
that one half of the absentees
should be friends to the cause of the people;
what would become of us then?
There remains indeed the obvious method
of purchasing votes, and it might
be supposed that your lordship's talent of
insinuation might do you knight's service
in this business. But no, my lord,
many of these country gentlemen are at
bottom no better than boors. A mechlin
cravat and a smirking countenance, upon
which your lordship builds so much,
would be absolutely unnoticed by them.
I am afraid of risquing my credit with
your lordship, but I can assure you, that
I have heard that one of these fellows has
been known to fly from a nobleman covered
with lace, and powdered, and perfumed
to the very tip of the mode, to
follow the standard of a commoner whose
coat has been stained with claret, and
who has not had a ruffle to his shirt.
My lord, if common fame may be trusted,
these puppies are literally tasteless
enough to admire wit, though the man
who utters it be ever so corpulent, and to
discover eloquence in the mouth of one,
who can suffer himself to spit in an honourable
assembly. I am a plain man,
my lord; but I really think that among
marquisses and dukes, right honourables
and right reverends, these things are intolerable.
I would therefore have your lordship
give up at once, and with a grace, the
very idea of bringing over to your side
the partisans of these huge slovenly fellows.
The scheme of governing the
country without taking the house of
commons along with you, is much more
feasible than this. This might be done
by passing an act of parliament by the authority
of two estates of the realm, to
declare the house of commons useless.
For my part, I am far from thinking this
so bold a step as by some it may be imagined.
Was not Rome a free state,
though it had no house of commons?
Has not the British house of commons
been incessantly exclaimed upon, as corrupt
and nugatory? Has not a reform
respecting them been called for from all
quarters of the kingdom? I am much
of opinion in the present case, that that
is the most effectual reform, which goes
to the root. Rome had her hereditary
nobility, which composed her senate.
She had her consuls, an ill-imagined
substitute for monarchical power. In
these, my lord, was comprehended, in
a manner, the whole of her government.
I shall be told indeed that they had occasionally
their comitia, or assemblies of
the citizens of the metropolis. But this
is so far from an objection to my reasoning,
that it furnishes me with a very
valuable hint for the improvement of the
English constitution.
Let the present house of commons be
cashiered, and let the common council
of the city of London be placed at St.
Stephen's chapel in their room. These
your lordship will find a much more
worthy and manageable set of people,
than the representatives of the nation at
large. And can any sensible man doubt
for a moment, which are the most respectable
body of men? Examine
their persons. Among their predecessors
I see many poor, lank, shrivelled,
half-starved things, some bald,
some with a few straggling hairs, and
some with an enormous bag, pendant
from no hair at all. Turn, my lord, to
the other side. There you will see a
good, comely, creditable race of people.
They look like brothers. As their size
and figure are the same, so by the fire in
their eyes, and the expression in their
countenances, you could scarcely know
one of them from another. Their very
gowns are enough to strike terror into
the most inattentive. Each of them covers
his cranium with a venerable periwig,
whose flowing curls and voluminous
frizure bespeak wealth and contentment.
Their faces are buxom, and
their cheeks are florid.
You will also, my lord, find them
much more easy and tractable, than
the squeamish, fretful, discontented
wretches, with which other ministers
have had to do. There is but one expence
that will be requisite. It is uniform,
and capable of an easy calculation.
In any great and trying question, I was
going to say debate, but debates, I am
apt to think, would not be very frequent,
or very animated,—your lordship
has nothing to do, but to clear the table
of the rolls and parchments, with which
it is generally covered, and spreading a
table cloth, place upon it half a score
immense turtles, smoking hot, and larded
with green fat. My lord, I will forfeit
my head, if with this perfume regaling
their nostrils, a single man has resolution
enough to divide the house, or to
declare his discontent with any of the
measures of government, by going out
into the lobby.
So much, my lord, for this scheme.
It is too considerable to be adopted without
deliberation; it is too important, and
too plausible, to be rejected without examination.
The only remaining hypothesis
is that of a dissolution. Much,
I know, may be said against this measure;
but, for my own part, next to
the new and original system I have had
the honour of opening to your lordship,
it is with me a considerable favourite.
Those, whose interests it is to raise an
outcry against it, will exclaim, "What,
for the petty and sinister purposes
of ambition, shall the whole nation
be thrown into uproar and confusion?
Who is it that complains of the
present house of parliament? Is the
voice of the people raised against it?
Do petitions come up from every
quarter of the kingdom, as they did,
to no purpose, a few years ago, for
its dissolution? But it is the prerogative
of the king to dissolve his parliament.
And because it is his prerogative,
because he has a power of
this kind reserved for singular emergencies,
does it follow, that this power
is to be exercised at caprice, and
without weighty and comprehensive
reasons? It may happen, that the
parliament is in the midst of its
session, that the very existence of revenue
may be unprovided for, and the
urgent claims of humanity unfulfilled.
It is of little consequence," they will
perhaps pretend, "who is in, and who
is out, so the national interests are
honestly pursued, and the men who
superintend them be not defective in
abilities. That then must be a most
lawless and undisguised spirit of selfishness,
that can for these baubles
risk the happiness of millions, and the
preservation of the constitution."
All these observations, my lord, may
sound well enough in the harangue of a
demagogue; but is it for such a man, to
object to a repetition of that appeal to
the people in general, in the frequency
and universality of which the very existence
of liberty consists? Till lately,
I think it has been allowed, that one of
those reforms most favourable to democracy,
was an abridgment of the duration
of parliaments. But if a general
abridgment be so desirable, must not
every particular abridgment have its value
too? Shall the one be acknowledged
of a salutary, and yet the other be declared
of a pernicious tendency? Is it
possible that the nature of a part, and
of the whole, can be not only dissimilar,
but opposite? But I will quit these
general and accurate reasonings. It is
not in them that our strength lies.
They tell us, that the measure of a
dissolution is an unpopular one. My
lord, it is not so, that you and I are to
be taken in. Picture to yourself the very
kennels flowing with rivers of beer.
Imagine the door of every hospitable ale-house
throughout the kingdom, thrown
open for the reception of the ragged and
pennyless burgess. Imagine the whole
country filled with the shouts of drunkenness,
and the air rent with mingled
huzzas. Represent the broken heads,
and the bleeding noses, the tattered raiment,
and staggering bodies of a million
of loyal voters. My lord, will they pretend,
that the measure that gives birth to
this glorious scene, is unpopular? We
must be very ill versed in the science
of human nature, if we could believe
them.
But a more important consideration
arises. A general election would be of
little value, if by means of it a majority
of representatives were not to be
gained to the aristocratical party. If I
were to disadvise a dissolution, it would
be from the fear of a sinister event. It
is true, your lordship has a thousand
soft blandishments. You can smile and
bow in the newest and most approved
manner. But, my lord, in the midst of
a parcel of Billingsgate fishwomen, in
the midst of a circle of butchers with
marrow-bones and cleavers, I am afraid
these accomplishments would be of little
avail. It is he, most noble patron, who
can swallow the greatest quantity of porter,
who can roar the best catch, and
who is the compleatest bruiser, that
will finally carry the day. He must
kiss the frost-bitten lips of the green-grocers.
He must smooth the frowzy
cheeks of chandlers-shop women. He
must stroke down the infinite belly of a
Wapping landlady. I see your lordship
tremble at the very catalogue. Could
you divide yourself into a thousand parts,
and every part be ten times more gigantic
than the whole, you would shrink into
non-entity at the disgustful scene.
In this emergency I can invent only
one expedient. Your lordship I remember
had six different services of plate
when you were in Ireland, and the duke
of P—— could boast only of three.
You had also five footmen and a scullion
boy more than his grace. By all this
magnificence I have been told that you
dazzled and enchanted a certain class of
the good people of that kingdom. My
lord, you must now improve the popularity
you gained. Import by the very
first hoy a competent number of chairmen.
You are not to be told that they
are accustomed to put on a gold-lace coat
as soon as they arrive upon our shore,
and dub themselves fortune-hunters. It
will be easy therefore to pass them here
for gentlemen, whose low familiarity shall
be construed into the most ravishing condescension.
No men, my lord, can drink
better than they. There is no constitution,
but that of an Irish chairman, that can
dispense with the bouncing whisky. They
are both brawny and courageous, and must
therefore make excellent bruisers. Their
chief talent lies in the art of courtship,
and they are by no means nice and squeamish
in their stomach for a mistress.
They can also occasionally put off the
assumed character of good breeding, and
if it be necessary to act over again the
celebrated scenes of Balfe and M'Quirk,
they would not be found at a loss. My
lord, they seem to have been created for
this very purpose, and if you have any
hope from a general election, you must
derive every benefit from their distinguished
merit. I own however, I am
apprehensive for the experiment, and after
all would advise your lordship to recur
to the very excellent scheme of the common-council
men.
There is only one point more which
it remains for me to discuss. I have already
taken it for granted, that you are
offered your choice of every post that exists
in the government of this country.
Here again, if you were to consult friends
less knowing than myself, you would be
presented with nothing but jarring and
discordant opinions. Some would say,
George, take it, and some, George, let it
alone. For my part, my lord, I would
advise you to do neither the one nor the
other. Fickleness and instability, your
lordship will please to observe, are of the
very essence of a real statesman. Who
were the greatest statesmen this country
ever had to boast? They were, my lord,
the two Villiers's, dukes of Buckingham.
Did not the first of these take his young
master to the kingdom of Spain, in order
to marry the infanta, and then break
off the match for no cause at all? Did
he not afterwards involve the nation in
a quarrel with the king of France, only
because her most christian majesty would
not let him go to bed to her? What was
the character of the second duke? This
nobleman,
Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong, Was every thing by starts, and nothing long, But, in the course of one revolving moon, Was chymist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon.
My lord, I do not flatter you so far as
to suppose that your abilities are as great,
or that you will ever make so distinguished
a figure as either of these noblemen.
But I would have you imitate them in
your humbler circle, and venture greatly,
though the honour you should derive
from it, should be only, that you greatly
fell. Accept therefore, my lord, of one
of the principal responsible offices without
thought and without hesitation.
Through terror or manly spirit, or whatever
you choose to call it, resign again
the next day. As soon as you have done
this, make interest for another place, and
if you can obtain it, throw it up as soon
again. This, my lord, is not, as an ignorant
and coxcomical writer has represented
it, "the vibration of a pendulum,"
but a conduct, wise, manly,
judicious, and heroic. Who does not
know, that the twinkling stars are of a
more excellent nature, than those which
shine upon us with unremitted lustre?
Who does not know that the comet,
which appears for a short time, and vanishes
again for revolving years, is more
gazed upon than either? But I am afraid
the comet is too sublime an idea for your
lordship's comprehension. I would therefore
recommend to you, to make the
cracker the model of your conduct. You
should snap and bounce at regular intervals;
at one moment you should seem a
blazing star, and the next be lost in trackless
darkness.
My lord, there is nothing, which at
all times I have taken more pains to subdue,
than that overweening pride, and
immeasurable conceit, which are the principal
features of your lordship's character.
Nature, indeed, has furnished you with
one corrective to them, or they must infallibly
have damned you. It is timidity.
Other people may laugh at this
quality. For my part I esteem it worthy
the loudest praise and most assiduous cultivation.
When the balance hangs in
doubt between the adventurousness of
vanity and the frigidity of fear, ever incline
to the latter side. I had rather your
lordship should be a coward, than a coxcomb.
If however you could attain to
that reasonable and chastised opinion of
yourself, which should steer a proper
mean between these extremes, should
make you feel your strength, when menaced
by the most terrible adversaries,
and your weakness, when soothed by the
most fawning parasites, this, my lord,
would be the highest perfection to which
you could possibly attain. I will therefore
close my epistle with the discussion
of a case, which your lordship may think
parallel to the species of behaviour I have
recommended to your cultivation. I mean
that of the celebrated and incomparable
earl Granville, in the year 1746. I will
show you what this nobleman did, and
in how many particulars you must for
ever hope in vain to resemble him.
I remember, my lord, that you and
I once studied together the History of
England, in Question and Answer. If
your lordship recollects, the year 1746
began in the very height of the celebrated
rebellion. The ministers of the sovereign
at this time, were, that mixed and
plausible character, Mr. Pelham, and that
immortalized booby, the duke of Newcastle.
These gentlemen possessed their
full proportion of that passion, so universally
incident to the human frame, the
love of power. They had formed such
a connection with the monied interest of
the kingdom, that no administration
could go on without them. Conscious
to this circumstance, they had no toleration
for a rival, they could "bear no
brother near the throne." From this
sentiment, they had driven that most able
minister I have mentioned, from the cabinet
of his sovereign, in no very justifiable
manner, about twelve months before.
The same jealousy kept alive their suspicions:
they knew the partiality of their
master: they imagined their antagonist
still lurked behind the curtain. The distresses
of the kingdom were to them the
ladder of ambition. This was the language
they held to their sovereign: "The
enemy is already advanced into the
heart of your majesty's dominions.
We know that you cannot do without
us. You must therefore listen
with patience to what we shall dictate.
Drive from your presence for
ever the wisest and the ablest of all
your counsellors. This is the only
condition, upon which we will continue
to serve you in this perilous moment."
Majesty, as it was but natural,
was disgusted with this language.
The Pelhams resigned. Lord Granville
accepted the seals. And he held them
I believe for something more than a
fortnight.
My lord, I will tell you, what were the
Pelhams, and what was the true character
of lord Granville. Whatever may be
said, and much I think may justly be
said, in favour of the former, they were
not men of genius. Capable of conducting,
and willing upon the whole to conduct
with loyalty and propriety the affairs
of their country, while they kept within
the beaten channel, they were not born
to grapple with arduous situations. They
had not that commanding spirit of adventure,
which leads a man into the path of
supererogation and voluntary service: they
had not that firm and collected fortitude
which induces a man to look danger in
the face, to encounter it in all its force,
and to drive it from all its retrenchments.
They were particularly attached to the
patronage, which is usually annexed to
their high situations. They did not come
into power by the voice of the people.
They were not summoned to assume the
administration by a vote of the house of
commons. They were introduced into
the cabinet by an inglorious and guilty
compromise of sir Robert Walpole; a
compromise, that shunned the light; a
compromise, that reflected indelible disgrace
upon every individual concerned in
it. We will suppose them ever so much
in the right in the instance before us.
For certainly, the same responsibility, that
ought to remove a minister from the
helm, when he is become obnoxious to
his countrymen, equally makes it improper,
that he should be originally appointed
by the fancy or capricious partiality
of the sovereign. But were they
over so much in the right, it will yet
remain true, that they took a poor and
ungenerous advantage of the personal
distresses of their master, which men
of a large heart, and of sterling genius,
could never have persuaded themselves to
take.
Such were the ministers, whom it
appears that king George the second
would have had no objection to strip of
their employments. I will tell you who
it was, that he was willing to have substituted
in their place. It was a man
of infinite genius. His taste was a standard
to those, who were most attached
to the fine arts, and most uninterruptedly
conversant with them. His eloquence
was splendid, animated, and engaging.
Of all the statesmen then existing
in Europe, he was perhaps the
individual, who best understood the interests
and the politics of all her courts.
But your lordship may probably find it
somewhat more intelligible, if I take the
other side of the picture, and tell you
what he was not. He was not a man
of fawning and servility. He did not
rest his ambitious pretensions upon any
habitual adroitness, upon the arts of
wheedling, and the tones of insinuation.
He rested them upon the most solid talents,
and the most brilliant accomplishments.
He did not creep into the closet
of his sovereign uncalled, and endeavour
to make himself of consequence by assiduities
and officiousness. He pleaded for
years, in a manly and ingenuous manner,
the cause of the people in parliament.
It was by a popularity, great, and almost
without exception, that he was introduced
into power. When defeated by
the undermining and contemptible art of
his rivals; when convinced that it was
impossible for him, to employ his abilities
with success in the service of his
country, he retired. And it was only
by the personal intreaties of his sovereign,
and to assist him in that arduous
and difficult situation, in which those
who ought to have served, deserted him,
that he once again accepted of office.
He accepted it, for the temporary
benefit of his country, and till those
persons, who only could come into administration
with efficiency and advantage,
should again resume their places.
He made way for them without a struggle.
He did not pretend to set practical
impotence, though accompanied with
abilities incomparably the superior, against
that influence and connexion by which
they were supported. Of consequence,
my lord, his memory will always be respected
and cherished by the bulk of
mankind.
I do not mean to propose him to your
lordship for a model. I never imagined
that your talents qualified you for the
most distant resemblance of him; and I
wished to convince you how inferior they
were. Beside, my lord, he did not act
upon the Machiavelian plan. His system
was that of integrity, frankness,
and confidence. He desired to meet
his enemies; and the more extensive
the ground upon which he could meet
them, the better. I was never idle
enough to think of such a line of conduct
for your lordship. Go on then in
those crooked paths, and that invisible
direction, for which nature has so eminently
fitted you. Intrench yourself behind
the letter of the law. Avoid,
carefully avoid, the possibility of any
sinister evidence. And having uniformly
taken these precautions, defy all the
malice of your enemies. They may
threaten, but they shall never hurt you.
They may make you tremble and shrink
with fancied terrors, but they shall never
be able to man so much as a straw
against you. Immortality, my lord, is
suspended over your head. Do not
shudder at the sound. It shall not be
an immortality of infamy. It shall only
be an immortality of contempt.
THE END.
AN ACCOUNT OF THE SEMINARY
That will be opened
On MONDAY the Fourth Day of AUGUST,
At EPSOM in SURREY,
For the INSTRUCTION of
TWELVE PUPILS
IN
The GREEK, LATIN, FRENCH, and ENGLISH Languages.
M.DCC.LXXXIII.
AN
ACCOUNT
OF THE
SEMINARY, &c.
The two principal objects of human
power are government and
education. They have accordingly engrossed
a very large share in the disquisitions
of the speculative in all ages. The
subject of the former indeed is man, already
endowed with his greatest force of
body, and arrived at the exercise of his
intellectual powers: the subject of the
latter is man, as yet shut up in the feebleness
of childhood, and the imbecility of
inexperience. Civil society is great and
unlimited in its extent; the time has
been, when the whole known world was
in a manner united in one community:
but the sphere of education has always
been limited. It is for nations to produce
the events, that enchant the imagination,
and ennoble the page of history:
infancy must always pass away in the unimportance
of mirth, and the privacy of
retreat. That government however is a
theme so much superior to education, is
not perhaps so evident, as we may at first
imagine.
It is indeed wider in its extent, but it
is infinitely less absolute in its power.
The state of society is incontestibly artificial;
the power of one man over another
must be always derived from convention,
or from conquest; by nature
we are equal. The necessary consequence
is, that government must always depend
upon the opinion of the governed. Let
the most oppressed people under heaven
once change their mode of thinking,
and they are free. But the inequality of
parents and children is the law of our
nature, eternal and uncontrolable.—Government
is very limited in its power
of making men either virtuous or happy;
it is only in the infancy of society that
it can do any thing considerable; in its
maturity it can only direct a few of our
outward actions. But our moral dispositions
and character depend very much,
perhaps entirely, upon education.—Children
indeed are weak and imbecil; but
it is the imbecility of spring, and not
that of autumn; the imbecility that
verges towards power, and not that is
already exhausted with performance. To
behold heroism in its infancy, and immortality
in the bud, must be a most attractive
object. To mould those pliant
dispositions, upon which the happiness
of multitudes may one day depend, must
be infinitely important.
Proportionable to what we have stated
to be the importance of the subject, is
the attention that has been afforded it in
the republic of letters. The brightest
wits, and the profoundest philosophers
have emulated each other in their endeavours
to elucidate so valuable a theme.
In vain have pedants urged the stamp of
antiquity, and the approbation of custom;
there is scarcely the scheme so visionary,
the execution of which has not
at some time or other been attempted.
Of the writers upon this interesting subject,
he perhaps that has produced the
most valuable treatise is Rousseau. If
men of equal abilities have explored this
ample field, I know of none, however,
who have so thoroughly investigated the
first principles of the science, or who
have treated it so much at large. If he
have indulged to a thousand agreeable visions,
and wandered in the pursuit of
many a specious paradox, he has however
richly repaid us for this defect, by the
profoundest researches, and the most solid
discoveries.
I have borrowed so many of my ideas
from this admirable writer, that I thought
it necessary to make this acknowledgement
in the outset. The learned reader
will readily perceive, that if I have not
scrupled to profit from his discoveries, at
least I have freely and largely dissented
from him, where he appeared to me to
wander from the path of truth. For my
own part, I am persuaded that it can
only be by striking off something of inflexibility
from his system, and something
of pedantry from the common
one, that we can expect to furnish a
medium, equally congenial to the elegance
of civilization, and the manliness
of virtue.
In pursuance of these principles it
shall be my first business to enquire,
whether or not the languages ought to
make any part of a perfect system of
education; and if they ought, at what
time they should be commenced. The
study of them does indeed still retain its
ground in our public schools and universities.
But it has received a rude
shock from some writers of the present
age; nor has any attack been more formidable,
than that of the author of
Emile. Let us endeavour to examine
the question, neither with the cold prejudice
of antiquity on the one hand;
nor on the other, with the too eager
thirst of novelty, and unbounded admiration
of the geniuses, by whom it has
been attacked.
When we look back to the venerable
ancients, we behold a class of writers, if
not of a much higher rank, at least of a
very different character, from the moderns.
One natural advantage they indisputably
possessed. The field of nature
was all their own. It had not yet
been blasted by any vulgar breath, or
touched with a sacrilegious hand. Its
fairest flowers had not been culled, and
its choicest sweets rifled before them.
As they were not encumbered and hedged
in with the multitude of their predecessors,
they did not servilely borrow their
knowledge from books; they read it in
the page of the universe. They studied
nature in all her romantic scenes, and all
her secret haunts. They studied men in
the various ranks of society, and in different
nations of the world. I might
add to this several other advantages. Of
these the noble freedom of mind that
was characteristic of the republicans of
Greece and Rome, and that has scarcely
any parallel among ourselves, would not
be the least.
Agreeably to these advantages, they
almost every where, particularly among
the Greeks, bear upon them the stamp
of originality. All copies are feeble and
unmarked. They sacrifice the plainness
of nature to the gaudiness of ornament,
and the tinsel of wit. But the ancients
are full of a noble and affecting simplicity.
By one touch of nature and observation
they paint a scene more truly,
than their successors are able to do in
whole wire-drawn pages. In description
they are unequalled. Their eloquence
is fervent, manly and sonorous. Their
thoughts are just, natural, independent
and profound. The pathos of Virgil,
and the sublimity of Homer, have never
been surpassed. And as their knowledge
was not acquired in learned indolence,
they knew how to join the severest application
with the brightest genius. Accordingly
in their style they have united
simplicity, eloquence and harmony, in
a manner of which the moderns have
seldom had even an idea. The correctness
of a Caesar, and the sonorous period
of a Cicero; the majesty of a Virgil,
and the politeness of a Horace, are such
as no living language can express.
It is the remark of a certain old-fashioned
writer, "The form of the
world passeth away." A century or two
ago the greatest wits were known to have
pathetically lamented, that the writers, of
whose merits I have been speaking, were
handed down to us in so mutilated a condition.
Now it seems very probable,
that, if their works were totally annihilated,
it would scarcely call forth a sigh
from the refined geniuses of the present
age. It is certainly very possible to carry
the passion for antiquity to a ridiculous
extreme. No man can reasonably deny,
that it is by us only that the true system
of the universe has been ascertained, and
that we have made very valuable improvements
upon many of the arts. No man
can question that some of our English
poets have equalled the ancients in sublimity,
and that, to say the least, our
neighbours, the French, have emulated
the elegance of their composition in a
manner, that is very far indeed from contempt.
From these concessions however
we are by no means authorised to infer
their inutility.
But I shall be told that in the first revival
of letters the study of the ancient
languages might indeed be very proper;
but since that time we have had so many
excellent truncations of every thing they
contain, that to waste the time, and exhaust
the activity of our youth in the
learning of Latin and Greek, is to very
little purpose indeed. Translation! what
a strange word! To me I confess it
appears the most unaccountable invention,
that ever entered into the mind of man.
To distil the glowing conceptions, and to
travesty the beautiful language of the ancients,
through the medium of a language
estranged to all its peculiarities and all its
elegancies. The best thoughts and expressions
of an author, those that distinguish
one writer from another, are precisely
those that are least capable of being
translated. And who are the men
we are to employ in this promising business?
Original genius disdains the unmeaning
drudgery. A mind that has
one feature resembling the ancients, will
scarcely stoop to be their translator. The
persons then, to whom the performance
must be committed, are persons of cool
elegance. Endowed with a little barren
taste, they must be inanimate enough to
tread with laborious imbecility in the
footsteps of another. They must be
eternally incapable of imbibing the spirit,
and glowing with the fire of their original.
But we shall seldom come off so
well as this. The generality of translators
are either on the one hand mere pedants
and dealers in words, who, understanding
the grammatical construction of
a period, never gave themselves the
trouble to enquire, whether it conveyed
either sentiment or instruction; or on
the other hand mere writers for hire, the
retainers of a bookseller, men who translate
Homer from the French, and Horace
out of Creech.
Let it not be said that I am now talking
at random. Let us descend to examples.
We need not be afraid of instancing
in the most favourable. I believe
it is generally allowed that Mr.
Pope's Iliad is the very best version that
was ever made out of one language into
another. It must be confessed to exhibit
very many poetical beauties. As a trial
of skill, as an instance of what can be
effected upon so forlorn a hope, it must
ever be admired. But were I to search
for a true idea of the style and composition
of Homer, I think I should rather
recur to the verbal translation in the
margin of the original, than to the version
of Pope. Homer is the simplest
and most unaffected of poets. Of all
the writers of elegance and taste that
ever existed, his translator is the most
ornamented. We acknowledge Homer
by his loose and flowing robe, that does
not constrain a muscle of his frame.
But Pope presents himself in the close
and ungraceful habit of modern times;
"Glittering with gems, and stiff with woven gold."
No, let us for once conduct ourselves
with honesty and generosity. If we will
not study the ancients in their own nervous
and manly page, let us close their
volumes for ever. I had rather, says the
amiable philosopher of Chaeronea, it
should be said of me, that there never
was such a man as Plutarch, than that
Plutarch was ill-natured, arbitrary, and
tyrannical. And were I the bard of Venusia,
sure I am, I had rather be entirely
forgotten, than not be known for
the polite, the spirited, and the elegant
writer I really was.
To converse with the accomplished, is
the obvious method by which to become
accomplished ourselves. This general
observation is equally applicable to the
study of polite writers of our own and
of other countries. But there are some
reasons, upon account of which we may
expect to derive a more perceptible advantage
from the ancients. They carried
the art of composition to greater
heights than any of the moderns. Their
writers were almost universally of a
higher rank in society, than ours. There
did not then exist the temptation of gain
to spur men on to the profession of an
author. An industrious modern will
produce twenty volumes, in the time
that Socrates employed to polish one
oration.
Another argument flows from the simple
circumstance of their writing in a
different language. Of all the requisites
to the attainment either of a style of our
own, or a discernment in that of others,
the first is grammar. Without this, our
ideas must be always vague and desultory.
Respecting the delicacies of composition,
we may guess, but we can never decide
and demonstrate. Now, of the minutiae
of grammar, scarcely any man ever attained
a just knowledge, who was acquainted
with only one language. And
if the study of others be the surest, I
will venture also to pronounce it the
easiest method for acquiring a mastery in
philology.
From what has been said, I shall consider
this conclusion as sufficiently established,
that the languages ought at some
time to be learned by him who would
form to himself a perfect character. I
proceed to my second enquiry, at what
time the study of them should be commenced?
And here I think this to be
the best general answer: at the age of
ten years.
In favour of so early a period one
reason may be derived from what I have
just been mentioning. The knowledge
of more languages than one, is almost
an indispensible prerequisite to the just
understanding either of the subject of
grammar in particular, or of that of
style in general. Now if the cultivation
of elegance and propriety be at all
important, it cannot be entered upon
too soon, provided the ideas are already
competent to the capacity of the pupil.
The Roman Cornelia, who never suffered
a provincial accent, or a grammatical
barbarism in the hearing of her
children, has always been cited with
commendation; and the subsequent rhetorical
excellence of the Gracchi has
been in a great degree ascribed to it.
Fluency, purity and ease are to be acquired
by insensible degrees: and against
habits of this kind I apprehend there can
be no objection.
Another argument of still greater importance
is, that the knowledge of languages
has scarcely ever been mastered,
but by those, the commencement of
whose acquaintance with them was early.
To be acquainted with any science slightly
and superficially, can in my opinion be
productive of little advantage. But such
an acquaintance with languages must be
very useless indeed. What benefit can
it be expected that we should derive from
an author, whom we cannot peruse with
facility and pleasure? The study of such
an author will demand a particular
strength of resolution, and aptitude of
humour. He can scarcely become the
favourite companion of our retirement,
and the never-failing solace of our cares.
Something of slow and saturnine must
be the necessary accompaniment of that
disposition, that can conquer the difficulties
of such a pursuit. And accordingly
we find that the classics and the
school are generally quitted together,
even by persons of taste, who have not
acquired a competent mastery of them
in their course of education. Very few
indeed have been those, who, estranged
to the languages till the age of manhood,
have after that period obtained such a familiarity
with them, as could ever be
productive of any considerable advantage.
Brutes and savages are totally unacquainted
with lassitude and spleen, the
lust of variety, and the impatience of
curiosity. In a state of society our ideas
habitually succeed in a certain proportion,
and an employment that retards
their progress, speedily becomes disagreeable
and tedious. But children, not
having yet felt this effect of civilization,
are not susceptible to this cause of disgust.
They are endowed with a pliableness
and versatility of mind, that with a
little attention and management may
easily be turned to any pursuit. Their
understandings not yet preoccupied, they
have a singular facility of apprehending,
and strength of retention. It is certain
this pliableness and facility are very liable
to abuse. It is not easy to believe, that
they were given to learn words without
meaning; terms of art, not understood
by the pupil; the systems of theologians,
and the jargon of metaphysics. But then
neither were they given without a capacity
of being turned to advantage. And
it should seem that it could not be a very
fallacious antidote to abuse, to confine
our instructions to such kinds of knowledge,
as are of the highest importance,
and are seldom learned with success, and
even scarcely attainable, at any other period.
Let it be observed that I have not fixed
upon the age of ten years at random.
It is the observation of Rousseau; Both
children and men are essentially feeble.
Children, because however few be their
wants, they are unable to supply them.
Men, in a state of society, because
whatever be their absolute strength, the
play of the imagination renders their
desires yet greater. There is an intermediate
period, in which our powers
having made some progress, and the artificial
and imaginary wants being unknown,
we are relatively strong. And
this he represents as the principal period
of instruction. This remark is indeed
still more striking, when applied to a
pupil, the progress of whose imagination
is sedulously retarded. But it is not
destitute either of truth or utility in the
most general application we can possibly
give it. Let it be observed, that Rousseau
fixes the commencement of this period
at twelve years. I would choose to
take it at ten.
However we may find it convenient to
distribute the productions of nature into
classes, and her operations into epochas,
yet let it be remembered, that her progress
is silent and imperceptible. Between
a perfect animal and vegetable,
the distinction is of the highest order.
Between distant periods we may remark
the most important differences. But the
gradations of nature are uninterrupted.
Of her chain every link is compleat.
As therefore I shall find in commencing
at ten years, that my time will be barely
sufficient for the purposes to which I
would appropriate it, I consider this circumstance
as sufficient to determine my
election. A youth of ten years is omnipotent,
if we contrast him with a youth
of eight.
But if the languages constitute so valuable
a part of a just system of education,
the next question is, in what manner
they are to be taught. Indeed, I
believe, if the persons employed in the
business of education had taken half the
pains to smooth the access to this department
of literature, that they have employed
to plant it round with briars and
thorns, its utility and propriety, in the
view we are now considering it, would
scarcely have been questioned.
There is something necessarily disgusting
in the forms of grammar. Grammar
therefore is made in our public
schools the business of a twelvemonth.
Rules are heaped upon rules with laborious
stupidity. To render them the
more formidable, they are presented to
our youth in the very language, the first
principles of which they are designed to
teach. For my own part, I am persuaded
the whole business of grammar
may be dispatched in a fortnight. I
would only teach the declensions of
nouns, and the inflexions of verbs. For
the rest, nothing is so easily demonstrated,
as that the auxiliary sciences are
best communicated in connection with
their principals. Chronology, geography,
are never so thoroughly understood,
as by him that treats them literally as
the handmaids of history. He, who is
instructed in Latin with clearness and
accuracy, will never be at a loss for the
rules of grammar.
But to complete the disgust we seem
so careful to inspire, the learned languages
are ever surrounded with the severity
verity of discipline; and it would probably
be thought little short of sacrilege
to discompose their features with a smile.
Such a mode of proceeding can never be
sufficiently execrated.
Indeed, I shall be told, "this is the
time to correct the native vices of the
mind. In childhood the influence of
pain and mortification is comparatively
trifling. What then can be more judicious
than to accumulate upon this
period, what must otherwise fall with
tenfold mischief upon the age of maturity?"
In answer to this reasoning,
let it be first considered, how many
there are, who by the sentence of nature
are called out of existence, before they
can live to reap these boasted advantages.
Which of you is there, that has not at
some time regretted that age, in which a
smile is ever upon the countenance, and
peace and serenity at the bottom of the
heart? How is it you can consent to
deprive these little innocents of an enjoyment,
that slides so fast away? How is
it you can find in your heart to pall these
fleeting years with bitterness and slavery?
The undesigning gaiety of youth has the
strongest claim upon your humanity.
There is not in the world a truer object
of pity, than a child terrified at every
glance, and watching, with anxious uncertainty,
the caprices of a pedagogue.
If he survive, the liberty of manhood is
dearly bought by so many heart aches.
And if he die, happy to escape your
cruelty, the only advantage he derives
from the sufferings you have inflicted, is
that of not regretting a life, of which
he knew nothing but the torments.
But who is it that has told you, that
the certain, or even the probable consequences
of this severity are beneficial?
Nothing is so easily proved, as that the
human mind is pure and spotless, as it
came from the hands of God, and that
the vices of which you complain, have
their real source in those shallow and
contemptible precautions, that you pretend
to employ against them. Of all the
conditions to which we are incident,
there is none so unpropitious to whatever
is ingenuous and honourable, as that of a
slave. It plucks away by the root all
sense of dignity, and all manly confidence.
In those nations of antiquity,
most celebrated for fortitude and heroism,
their youth had never their haughty and
unsubmitting neck bowed to the inglorious
yoke of a pedagogue. To borrow
the idea of that gallant assertor of humanity,
sir Richard Steele: I will not
say that our public schools have not produced
many great and illustrious characters;
but I will assert, there was not one
of those characters, that would not have
been more manly and venerable, if they
had never been subjected to this vile and
sordid condition.
Having thus set aside the principal
corruptions of modern education, the
devising methods for facilitating the acquisition
of languages will not be difficult.
The first books put into the hands
of a pupil should be simple, interesting,
and agreeable. By their means, he will
perceive a reasonableness and a beauty in
the pursuit. If he be endowed by nature
with a clear understanding, and the
smallest propensity to literature, he will
need very little to stimulate him either
from hope or fear.
Attentive to the native gaiety of youth,
the periods, in which his attention is required,
though frequent in their returns,
should in their duration be short and inoppressive.
The pupil should do nothing
merely because he is seen or heard by
his preceptor. If he have companions,
still nothing more is requisite, than that
degree of silence and order, which shall
hinder the attention of any from being
involuntarily diverted. The pupil has
nothing to conceal, and no need of falsehood.
The approbation of the preceptor
respects only what comes directly under
his cognizance, and cannot be disguised.
Even here, remembering the volatility
and sprightliness, inseparable from
the age, humanity will induce him not
to animadvert with warmth upon the appearances
of a casual distraction, but he
will rather solicit the return of attention
by gentleness, than severity.
But of all rules, the most important is
that of preserving an uniform, even tenour
of conduct. Into the government
of youth passion and caprice should never
enter. The gentle yoke of the preceptor
should be confounded as much as possible,
with the eternal laws of nature and
necessity. The celebrated maxim of republican
government should be adopted
here. The laws should speak, and the
magistrate be silent. The constitution
should be for ever unchangeable and independent
of the character of him that
administers it.
Nothing can certainly be more absurd
than the attempt to educate children by
reason. We may be sure they will treat
every determination as capricious, that
shocks their inclination. The chef
d'oeuvre of a good education is to form
a reasonable human being; and yet they
pretend to govern a child by argument
and ratiocination. This is to enter upon
the work at the wrong end, and to endeavour
to convert the fabric itself into
one of the tools by which it is constructed.
The laws of the preceptor
ought to be as final and inflexible, as
they are mild and humane.
There is yet another method for facilitating
the acquisition of languages, so
just in itself, and so universally practicable,
that I cannot forbear mentioning
it. It is that of commencing with the
modern languages, French for instance
in this country. These in the education
of our youth, are universally postponed
to what are stiled the learned languages.
I shall perhaps be told that modern
tongues being in a great measure derived
from the Latin, the latter is very properly
to be considered as introductory to
the former. But why then do we not
adopt the same conduct in every instance?
Why to the Latin do we not premise the
Greek, and to the Greek the Coptic and
Oriental tongues? Or how long since is
it, that the synthetic has been proved so
much superior to the analytic mode of
instruction? In female education, the
modern languages are taught without all
this preparation; nor do I find that our
fair rivals are at all inferior to the generality
of our sex in their proficiency.
With the youth of sense and spirit of
both sexes, the learning of French is
usually considered, rather as a pleasure,
than a burden. Were the Latin communicated
in the same mild and accommodating
manner, I think I may venture
to pronounce, that thus taken in the second
place, there will be no great difficulty
in rendering it equally attractive.
I would just observe that there is an
obvious propriety in the French language
being learned under the same direction,
as the Latin and Greek. The pursuit of
this elegant accomplishment ought at no
time to be entirely omitted. But the attention
of youth is distracted between the
method of different masters, and their
amiable confidence, in the direction under
which they are placed, entirely ruined
by mutability and inconstance. The
same observation may also be applied
here, as in the learned languages. The
attention of the pupil should be confined
as much as possible to the most classical
writers; and the French would furnish
a most useful subsidiary in a course of
history. Let me add, that though I have
prescribed the age of ten years, as the
most eligible for the commencement of
classical education, I conceive there
would be no impropriety in taking up
the modern language so early as nine.
Such then is the kind of subjection,
that the learning of languages demands.
The question that recurs upon us is; How
far this subjection may fairly be considered
as exceptionable, and whether its
beneficial consequences do not infinitely
outweigh the trifling inconveniences that
may still be ascribed to it?
But there is another subject that demands
our consideration. Modern education
not only corrupts the heart of
our youth, by the rigid slavery to which
it condemns them, it also undermines
their reason, by the unintelligible jargon
with which they are overwhelmed in the
first instance, and the little attention,
that is given to the accommodating their
pursuits to their capacities in the second.
Nothing can have a greater tendency
to clog and destroy the native activity of
the mind, than the profuseness with
which the memory of children is loaded,
by nurses, by mothers, by masters.
What can more corrupt the judgment,
than the communicating, without measure,
and without end, words entirely devoid
of meaning? What can have a
more ridiculous influence upon our taste,
than for the first verses to which our attention
is demanded, to consist of such
strange and uncouth jargon? To complete
the absurdity, and that we may
derive all that elegance and refinement
from the study of languages, that it is
calculated to afford, our first ideas of
Latin are to be collected from such authors,
as Corderius, Erasmus, Eutropius,
and the Selectae. To begin indeed
with the classical writers, is not the way
to smooth the path of literature. I am
of opinion however, that one of the
above-mentioned authors will be abundantly
sufficient. Let it be remembered,
that the passage from the introductory
studies to those authors, that form the
very essence of the language, will be
much facilitated by the previous acquisition
of the French.
Having spoken of the article of memory,
let me be permitted to mention
the practice, that has of late gained so
great a vogue; the instructing children
in the art of spouting and acting plays.
Of all the qualities incident to human
nature, the most universally attractive is
simplicity, the most disgusting is affectation.
Now what idea has a child of
the passions of a hero, and the distresses
of royalty? But he is taught the most
vehement utterance, and a thousand constrained
cadences, without its being possible
that he should see in them, either
reasonableness or propriety.
I would not have a child required to
commit any thing to memory more than
is absolutely necessary. If, however, he
be a youth of spirit, he will probably
learn some things in this manner, and
the sooner because it is not expected of
him. It will be of use for him to repeat
these with a grave and distinct voice,
accommodated to those cadences, which
the commas, the periods, and the notes
of interrogation, marked in his author,
may require, but without the smallest
instruction to humour the gay, or to sadden
the plaintive.
Another article, that makes a conspicuous
figure in the education of our
youth, is composition. Before they are
acquainted with the true difference between
verse and prose, before they are
prepared to decide upon the poetical
merit of Lily and Virgil, they are called
upon to write Latin verse themselves.
In the same manner some of their first
prose compositions are in a dead language.
An uniform, petty, ridiculous
scheme is laid down, and within that
scheme all their thoughts are to be circumscribed.
Composition is certainly a desirable
art, and I think can scarcely be entered
upon too soon. It should be one end
after which I would endeavour, and the
mode of effecting it will be farther illustrated
in the sequel, to solicit a pupil to
familiarity, and to induce him to disclose
his thoughts upon such subjects as were
competent to his capacity, in an honest
and simple manner. After having thus
warmed him by degrees, it might be
proper to direct him to write down his
thoughts, without any prescribed method,
in the natural and spontaneous
manner, in which they flowed from his
mind. Thus the talk of throwing his
reflections upon paper would be facilitated
to him, and his style gradually
formed, without teaching him any kind
of restraint and affectation. To the
reader who enters at all into my ideas
upon the subject, it were needless to
subjoin, that I should never think of
putting a youth upon the composition of
verse.
From all I have said it will be sufficiently
evident, that it would be a constant
object with me to model my instructions
to the capacity of my pupil.
They are books, that beyond all things
teach us to talk without thinking, and
use words without meaning. To this
evil there can be no complete remedy.
But shall we abolish literature, because it
is not unaccompanied with inconveniencies?
Shall we return to a state of savage
ignorance, because all the advantages of
civilization have their attendant disadvantages?
The only remedy that can be applied,
is to accustom ourselves to clear and accurate
investigation. To prefer, whereever
we can have recourse to it, the book
of nature to any human composition.
To begin with the latter as late as may
be consistent with the most important
purposes of education. And when we
do begin, so to arrange our studies, as
that we may commence with the simplest
and easiest sciences, and proportion our
progress to the understanding of the
pupil.
With respect to grammar in particular,
the declensions of nouns, and the inflexions
of verbs, we may observe, that
to learn words to which absolutely no
ideas are affixed, is not to learn to think
loosely, and to believe without being
convinced. These certainly can never
corrupt the mind. And I suppose no
one will pretend, that to learn grammar,
is to be led to entertain inaccurate notions
of the subjects, about which it is
particularly conversant. On the contrary,
the ideas of grammar are exceedingly
clear and accurate. It has, in my
opinion, all those advantages, by which
the study of geometry is usually recommended,
without any of its disadvantages.
It tends much to purge the understanding,
to render it close in its investigations,
and sure in its decisions. It
introduces more easily and intelligibly
than mathematical science, that most
difficult of all the mental operations,
abstraction. It imperceptibly enlarges
our conceptions, and generalises our
ideas.
But if to read its authors, be the most
valuable purpose of learning a language,
the grammar will not be sufficient. Other
books will be necessary. And how shall
these be chosen, so as not to leave behind
us the understanding of our pupil? Shall
we introduce him first to the sublime
flights of Virgil, the philosophical investigations
of a Cicero, or the refined
elegance and gay satire of Horace? Alas!
if thus introduced unprepared to the
noblest heights of science, how can it be
expected that his understanding should
escape the shipwreck, and every atom of
common sense not be dashed and scattered
ten thousand ways?
The study then I would here introduce,
should be that of history. And
that this study is not improper to the
age with which I connect it, is the second
point I would endeavour to demonstrate.
But is history, I shall be asked, the
study so proper for uninstructed minds?
History, that may in some measure be
considered as concentring in itself the
elements of all other sciences? History,
by which we are informed of the rise
and progress of every art, and by whose
testimony the comparative excellence of
every art is ascertained? History, the
very testimony of which is not to be admitted,
without the previous trial of metaphysical
scrutiny, and philosophic investigation?
Lastly, History, that is
to be considered as a continual illustration
of the arts of fortification and tactics;
but above all of politics, with its various
appendages, commerce, manufacture,
finances?
To all this, I calmly answer, No: it
is not history in any of these forms, that
constitutes the science to which I would
direct the attention of my pupil. Of
the utility of the history of arts and
sciences, at least, as a general study, I
have no very high opinion. But were
my opinion ever so exalted, I should certainly
chuse to postpone this study for
the present. I should have as little to
do with tactics and fortification. I would
avoid as much as possible the very subject
of war. Politics, commerce, finances,
might easily be deferred. I would keep
far aloof from the niceties of chronology,
and the dispute of facts. I would not
enter upon the study of history through
the medium of epitome. I would even
postpone the general history of nations,
to the character and actions of particular
men.
Many of the articles I have mentioned,
serve to compose the pedantry of history.
Than history, no science has been more
abused. It has been studied from ostentation;
it has been studied with the narrow
views of little minds; it has been
warped to serve a temporary purpose.
Ingenious art has hung it round with a
thousand subtleties, and a thousand disputes.
The time has at length arrived,
when it requires an erect understanding,
and a penetrating view, above the common
rate, to discover the noble purposes,
which this science is most immediately
calculated to subserve.
In a word, the fate of history has been
like that of travelling. The institution
has been preserved, but its original use is
lost. One man travels from fashion, and
another from pride. One man travels to
measure buildings, another to examine
pictures, and a third perhaps to learn to
dance. Scarcely any remember that its
true application is to study men and
manners. Perhaps a juster idea cannot
be given of the science we are considering,
than that which we may deduce
from a reflection of Rousseau. "The
ancient historians," says he, "are
crowded with those views of things,
from which we may derive the utmost
utility, even though the facts that
suggest them, should be mistaken. But
we are unskilled to derive any real advantage
from history. The critique of
erudition absorbs every thing; as if it
imported us much whether the relation
were true, provided we could extract
from it any useful induction. Men
of sense ought to regard history as a
tissue of fables, whose moral is perfectly
adapted to the human heart."
The mere external actions of men are
not worth the studying: Who would
have ever thought of going through a
course of history, if the science were
comprised in a set of chronological tables?
No: it is the hearts of men we
should study. It is to their actions, as
expressive of disposition and character, we
should attend. But by what is it that
we can be advanced thus far, but by specious
conjecture, and plausible inference?
The philosophy of a Sallust, and the sagacity
of a Tacitus, can only advance us
to the regions of probability. But whatever
be the most perfect mode of historical
composition, it is to the simplest
writers that our youth should be first introduced,
writers equally distant from the
dry detail of Du Fresnoy, and the unrivalled
eloquence of a Livy. The translation
of Plutarch would, in my opinion,
form the best introduction. As he is not
a writer of particular elegance, he suffers
less from a version, than many others.
The Roman revolutions of Vertot might
very properly fill the second place. Each
of these writers has this further recommendation,
that, at least, in the former
part of their works, they treat of that
simplicity and rectitude of manners of
the first Greeks and Romans, that furnish
the happiest subject that can be devised
for the initiating youth in the study
of history.
Under the restrictions I have laid
down, history is of all sciences the most
simple. It has been ever considered by
philosophers, as the porch of knowledge.
It has ever been treated by men of literature,
as the relaxation of their feverer
pursuits. It leads directly to the most
important of all attainments, the knowledge
of the heart. It introduces us,
without expence, and without danger, to
an acquaintance with manners and society.
By the most natural advances it
points us forward to all the depths of
science. With the most attractive blandishments
it forms us by degrees to an
inextinguishable thirst of literature.
But there is still an objection remaining,
and that the most important of all.
Let history be stripped as much as you
will of every extraneous circumstance, let
it be narrowed to the utmost simplicity,
there is still one science previously necessary.
It is that of morals. If you
see nothing in human conduct, but purely
the exterior and physical movements,
what is it that history teaches? Absolutely
nothing; and the science devoid of
interest, becomes incapable of affording
either pleasure or instruction. We may
add, that the more perfectly it is made a
science of character and biography, the
more indispensible is ethical examination.
But to such an examination it has been
doubted whether the understandings of children
be competent. Upon this question
I will beg leave to say a few words,
and I have done.
It is scarcely necessary to observe, that
I do not speak here of ethics as an abstract
science, but simply as it relates to
practice, and the oeconomy of human
life. Our enquiry therefore is respecting
the time at which that intuitive faculty
is generally awakened, by which we decide
upon the differences of virtue and
vice, and are impelled to applaud the one,
and condemn the other.
The moment in which the faculty of
memory begins to unfold itself, the man
begins to exist as a moral being. Not
long posterior to this, is the commencement
of prescience and foresight. Rousseau
has told us, in his animated language,
that if a child could escape a whipping,
or obtain a paper of sweetmeats, by promising
to throw himself out at window
tomorrow, the promise would instantly
be made. Nothing is more contrary to
experience than this. It is true, death,
or any such evils, of which he has no
clear conception, do not strongly affect
him in prospect. But by the view of
that which is palpable and striking, he is
as much influenced as any man, however
extensive his knowledge, however large
his experience. It is only by seizing
upon the activity and earnestness incident
to youthful pursuits, and totally banishing
the idea of what is future, that we
can destroy its influence. Their minds,
like a sheet of white paper, are susceptible
to every impression. Their brain,
uncrouded with a thousand confused
traces, is a cause, that every impression
they receive is strong and durable.
The aera of foresight is the aera of imagination,
and imagination is the grand
instrument of virtue. The mind is the
seat of pleasure and pain. It is not by
what we see, but by what we infer and
suppose, that we are taught, that any being
is the object of commiseration. It
is by the constant return of the mind to
the unfortunate object, that we are
strongly impressed with sympathy. Hence
it is that the too frequent recurrence of
objects of distress, at the same time that
it blunts the imagination, renders the
heart callous and obdurate.
The sentiment that the persons about
us have life and feeling as well as ourselves,
cannot be of very late introduction.
It may be forwarded by cultivation,
but it can scarcely at any rate be
very much retarded. For this sentiment
to become perfectly clear and striking,
and to be applied in every case that may
come before us, must undoubtedly be an
affair gradual in its progress. From
thence to the feelings of right and wrong,
of compassion and generosity, there is but
one step.
It has, I think, been fully demonstrated
by that very elegant philosopher Mr.
Hutcheson, that self-love is not the
source of all our passions, but that disinterested
benevolence has its seat in the
human heart. At present it is necessary
for me to take this for granted. The
discussion would lead me too far from
my subject. What I would infer from
it is, that benevolent affections are capable
of a very early commencement.
They do not wait to be grafted upon the
selfish. They have the larger scope in
youthful minds, as such have not yet
learned those refinements of interest,
that are incident to persons of longer experience.
Accordingly no observation is more
common, than that mankind are more
generous in the earlier periods of their
life, and that their affections become
gradually contracted the farther they advance
in the vale of years. Confidence,
kindness, benevolence, constitute the entire
temper of youth. And unless these
amiable dispositions be blasted in the bud
by the baneful infusions of ambition,
vanity and pride, there is nothing with
which they would not part, to cherish adversity,
and remunerate favour.
Hence we may infer, that the general
ideas of merit and character are perfectly
competent to the understanding of children
of ten years. False glory is the
farthest in the world from insinuating its
witchcraft into the undepraved heart,
where the vain and malignant passions
have not yet erected their standard. It
is true, the peculiar sublimities of heroism
cannot be supposed perfectly within
his comprehension. But something of
this sort, as we have already said, is incident
to every step in the scale of literature.
But the more perfectly to familiarise
to my pupil the understanding and digesting
whatever he read, I would consider
it as an indispensible part of my
business, to talk over with him familiarly
the subjects, that might necessarily
demand our attention. I would lead
him by degrees to relate with clearness
and precision the story of his author.
I would induce him to deliver his fair
and genuine sentiments upon every action,
and character that came before us. I
would frequently call upon him for a
plain and simple reason for his opinion.
This should always be done privately,
without ostentation, and without rivalship.
Thus, separate from the danger of
fomenting those passions of envy and
pride, that prepare at a distance for our
youth so many mortifications, and at the
expence of which too frequently this
accomplishment is attained, I would
train him to deliver his opinion upon
every subject with freedom, perspicuity
and fluency. Without at any time dictating
to him the sentiments it became
him to entertain, I might, with a little
honed artifice, mould his judgment into
the form it was most desirable it should
take, at the same time that I discovered his
genius, and ascertained the original
propensities of his mind.
It is unnecessary for me to say any
thing respecting morals in the other sense
of the word, I mean as they are connected
with the conduct, the habits of
which we should endeavour to cultivate
in a pupil; as that subject has been already
exhausted. The vices of youth
spring not from nature, who is equally
the kind and blameless mother of all her
children; they derive from the defects
of education. We have already endeavoured
to shut up all the inlets of vice.
We have precluded servility and cowardice.
We have taken away the motives
to concealment and falshood. By the
liberal indulgence we have prescribed, we
have laid the foundation of manly spirit,
and generous dignity. A continual attention
to history, accompanied with the
cultivation of moral discernment, and
animated with the examples of heroic
virtue, could not fail to form the heart
of the pupil, to all that is excellent.
At the same time, by assiduous care, the
shoots of vanity and envy might be
crushed in the bud. Emulation is a
dangerous and mistaken principle of
constancy. Instead of it I would wish
to see the connection of pupils, consisting
only of pleasure and generosity.
They should learn to love, but not to
hate each other. Benevolent actions
should not directly be preached to them,
they should strictly begin in the heart of
the performer. But when actually done,
they should receive the most distinguished
applause.
Let me be permitted in this place to
observe, that the association of a small
number of pupils seems the most perfect
mode of education. There is surely
something unsuitable to the present state
of mankind, in the wishing to educate
our youth in perfect solitude. Society
calls forth a thousand powers both of
mind and body, that must otherwise
rust in inactivity. And nothing is more
clear from experience, than that there
is a certain tendency to moral depravation
in very large bodies of this kind, to
which there has not yet been discovered
a sufficient remedy.
If, by the pursuit of principles like
these, the powers of the understanding
and the heart might be developed in
concert; if the pupils were trained at
once to knowledge and virtue; if they
were enabled to look back upon the period
of their education, without regretting
one instance of anxious terror, or
capricious severity; if they recollected
their tutor with gratitude, and thought
of their companions, as of those generous
friends whom they would wish
for the associates of their life,—in that
case, the pains of the preceptor would
not be thrown away.
FINIS.
THE
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THE
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A REVIEW
OF THE
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LONDON:
PRINTED FOR J. MURRAY, NO. 32, FLEET-STREET.
M DCC LXXXIV.
TO THE
AUTHORS OF THE MONTHLY
AND
CRITICAL REVIEWS.
GENTLEMEN,
In presenting the following sheets to
the public, I hope I shall not be considered
as encroaching upon that province,
which long possession has probably taught
you to consider as your exclusive right.
The labour it has cost me, and the many
perils I have encountered to bring it to
perfection, will, I trust, effectually plead
my pardon with persons of your notorious
candour and humanity. Represent to
yourselves, Gentlemen, I entreat you,
the many false keys, bribes to the lacqueys
of authors that can keep them,
and collusions with the booksellers of authors
that cannot, which were required
in the prosecution of this arduous undertaking.
Imagine to yourselves how often
I have shuddered upon the verge of petty
larceny, and how repeatedly my slumbers
have been disturbed with visions of the
King's-Bench Prison and Clerkenwell
Bridewell. You, gentlemen, sit in your
easy chair, and with the majesty of a
Minos or an Aeacus, summon the trembling
culprits to your bar. But though
you never knew what fear was, recollect,
other men have snuffed a candle with
their fingers.
But I would not be misunderstood. Heroical
as I trust my undertaking proves
me, I fear no man's censure, and court
no man's applause. But I look up to you
as a respectable body of men, who have
long united your efforts to reduce the disproportioned
members of an ancient republic
to an happy equality, to give wings
to the little emmet of Grub-street, and to
hew away the excrescences of lawless
genius with a hatchet. In this character
I honour you. That you have assumed
it uncompelled and self-elected, that you
have exercised it undazzled by the ignis
fatuus of genius, is your unfading glory.
Having thus cleared myself from the
suspicion of any sinister view, I cannot
here refrain from presenting you with a
peace-offering. Had it been in my power
to procure gums more costly, or incense
more fragrant, I would have rendered
it more worthy your acceptance.
It has been a subject upon which I have
often reflected with mortification, that
the world is too apt to lay aside your lucubrations
with the occasions that gave
birth to them, and that if they are ever
opened after, it is only with old magazines
by staid matrons over their winter
fire. Such persons are totally incapable
of comparing your sentences with the
maturer verdict of the public; a comparison
that would redound so much to your
honour. What I design at present, is
in some measure to remedy an evil, that
can never perhaps be entirely removed.
As the field which is thus opened to me
is almost unbounded, I will confine myself
to two of the most striking examples,
in Tristram Shandy, and the Rosciad of
Churchill.
In the Monthly Review, vol. 24, p,
103, I find these words:
"But your indiscretion, good Mr.
Tristram, is not all we complain of in
the volumes before us. We must tax
you with what you will dread above
the most terrible of all insinuations—nothing
less than DULLNESS. Yes, indeed,
Mr. Tristram, you are dull, very
dull. Your jaded fancy seems to have
been exhausted by two pigmy octavos,
which scarce contained the substance
of a twelve-penny pamphlet, and we
now find nothing new to entertain us."
The following epithets are selected at random.
"We are sick—we are quite
tired—we can no longer bear corporal
Trim's insipidity—thread-bare—stupid
and unaffecting—absolutely dull—misapplication
of talents—he will unavoidably
sink into contempt."
The Critical Review, vol II, p. 212,
has the following account of the Rosciad:
"It is natural for young authors to
conceive themselves the cleverest fellows
in the world, and withal, that
there is not the least degree of merit
subsisting but in their own works: It
is natural likewise for them to imagine,
that they may conceal themselves by
appearing in different shapes, and that
they are not to be found out by their
stile; but little do these Connoisseurs in
writing conceive, how easily they are
discovered by a veteran in the service.
In the title-page to this performance
we are told (by way of quaint conceit),
that it was written by the author; what if
it should prove that the Author and the
ActorA are the same! Certain it is that
we meet with the same vein of peculiar
humour, the same turn of thought, the
same autophilism (there's a new word
for you to bring into the next poem)
which we meet with in the other; insomuch
that we are ready to make the
conclusion in the author's own words:
A: The Actor, a Poem, by Robert Lloyd, Esq.
"We will not pretend however absolutely
to assert that Mr. L—— wrote
this poem; but we may venture to affirm,
that it is the production, jointly
or separately, of the new triumvirate
of wits, who never let an opportunity
slip of singing their own praises. Caw
me, caw thee, as Sawney says, and so
to it they go, and scratch one another
like so many Scotch pedlars."
In page 339, I find a passage referred to
in the Index, under the head of "a notable
instance of their candour," retracting
their insinuations against Lloyd
and Colman, and ascribing the poem in
a particular vein of pleasantry to Mr.
Flexney, the bookseller, and Mr. Griffin,
the printer. Candour certainly did not
require that they should acknowledge
Mr. Churchill, whose name was now inserted
in the title-page, as the author, or
if author of any, at least not of a considerable
part of the poem. That this was
their sense of the matter, appears from
their account of the apology for the
Rosciad, p. 409.
"This is another Brutum Fulinen
launched at the Critical Review by
one Churchill, who it seems is a clergyman,
and it must be owned has a
knack at versification; a bard, who
upon the strength of having written a
few good lines in a thing called The
Rosciad, swaggers about as if he were
game-keeper of Parnassus."
P. 410. "This apologist has very little
reason to throw out behind against the
Critical Reviewers, who in mentioning
The Rosciad, of which he calls
himself author, commended it in the
lump, without specifying the bald
lines, the false thoughts, and tinsel
frippery from which it is not entirely
free." They conclude with contrasting
him with Smollet, in comparison of
whom he is "a puny antagonist, who
must write many more poems as good
as the Rosciad, before he will be considered
as a respectable enemy."
Upon these extracts I will beg leave to
make two observations.
1. Abstracted from all consideration of
the profundity of criticism that is displayed,
no man can avoid being struck
with the humour and pleasantry in which
they are conceived, or the elegant and
gentlemanlike language in which they
are couched. What can be more natural
or more ingenuous than to suppose that
the persons principally commended in a
work, were themselves the writers of it?
And for that allusion of the Scotch pedlars,
for my part, I hold it to be inimitable.
2. But what is most admirable is the
independent spirit, with which they
stemmed the torrent of fashion, and forestalled
the second thoughts of their countrymen.
There was a time when Tristram
Shandy was applauded, and Churchill
thought another Dryden. But who reads
Tristram now? There prevails indeed
a certain quaintness, and something "like
an affectation of being immoderately
witty, throughout the whole work."
But for real humour not a grain. So said
the Monthly Reviewers, (v. 21. p. 568.)
and so says the immortal Knox. Both
indeed grant him a slight knack at the
pathetic; but, if I may venture a prediction,
his pretensions to the latter will one
day appear no better founded, than his
pretentions to the former.
And then poor Churchill! His satire
now appears to be dull and pointless.
Through his tedious page no modern student
can labour. We look back, and
wonder how the rage of party ever swelled
this thing into a poet. Even the great
constellation, from whose tribunal no
prudent man ever appealed, has excluded
him from a kingdom, where Watts and
Blackmore reign. But Johnson and Knox
can by no means compare with the Reviewers.
These attacked the mountebanks
in the very midst of their short-lived
empire. Those have only brought
up the rear of public opinion, and damned
authors already forgotten. They fought
the battles a second time, and "again
they slew the slain."
Gentlemen,
It would have been easy to add twenty
articles to this list. I might have selected
instances from the later volumes
of your entertaining works, in which
your deviations from the dictates of imaginary
taste are still more numerous.
But I could not have confronted them
with the decisive verdict of time. The
rage of fashion has not yet ceased, and
the ebullition of blind wonder is not
over. I shall therefore leave a plentiful
crop for such as come after me, who admire
you as much as I do, and will be
contented to labour in the same field.
I have the honour to be,
Gentlemen,
With all veneration,
Your indefatigable reader,
And the humblest of your panegyrists.
CONTENTS.
ARTICLE I.
The History of the Decline and Fall of the
Roman Empire. By Edward Gibbon, Esq.
Vols. iv, v, vi, vii. 4to.
ARTICLE II.
The History of America. By William Robertson,
D.D. &c. Vols. iii, and iv. 4to.
ARTICLE III.
Secret History of Theodore Albert Maximilian,
Prince of Hohenzollern Sigmaringen. 12mo.
ARTICLE IV.
Louisa, or Memoirs of a Lady of Quality.
By the Author of Evelina and Cecilia. Three
vols. 12mo.
ARTICLE V.
The Peasant of Bilidelgerid, a Tale. Two
vols. Shandean.
ARTICLE VI.
An Essay on Novel, in Three Epistles, inscribed
to the Right Honourable Lady Craven.
By William Hayley, Esq. 4to.
ARTICLE VII.
Inkle and Yarico, a Poem. By James Beattie,
L.L.D. 4to.
ARTICLE VIII.
The Alchymist, a Comedy, altered from Ben
Jonson, by Richard Brinsley Sheridan, Esq.
ARTICLE IX.
Reflexions upon the present State of the United
States of America. By Thomas Paine, M.A.
&c. 8vo.
ARTICLE X.
Speech of the Right Honourable Edmund
Burke, on a Motion for an Address of Thanks to
his Majesty (on the 28th of November, 1783)
for his gracious Communication of a Treaty of
Commerce concluded between George the Third,
King, &c. and the United States of America.
THE
HERALD
OF
LITERATURE, &c.
* * * * *
ARTICLE I.
THE HISTORY OF THE DECLINE AND FALL
OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE. BY EDWARD
GIBBON, ESQ. VOLS. IV, V, VI, VII. 4TO.
We are happy to have it in our power
thus early to congratulate the public
upon the final accomplishment of a work, that
must constitute one of the greatest ornaments
of the present age. We have now before us,
in one view, and described by the uniform
pencil of one historian, the stupendous and
instructive object of the gradual decline of
the greatest empire; circumscribed by degrees
within the narrow walls of a single city;
and at length, after the various revolutions
of thirteen centuries, totally swallowed up in
the empire of the Turks. Of this term, the
events of more than nine hundred years are
described in that part of our author that now
lies before us. It cannot therefore be expected,
that in the narrow limits we have prescribed
to ourselves, we should enter into a
regular synopsis of the performance, chapter
by chapter, after the laudable example of
our more laborious brother reviewers. We
will pay our readers the compliment, however
unauthorised by the venerable seal of
custom, of supposing them already informed,
that Anastasius succeeded Zeno, and Justin
Anastasius; that Justinian published the celebrated
code that is called by his name; and
that his generals, Belisarius and Narses, were
almost constantly victorious over the Barbarians,
and restored, for a moment, the expiring
lustre of the empire. We shall confine
ourselves to two extracts, relating to subjects
of the greatest importance, and which we
presume calculated, at once to gratify and excite
the curiosity of the public.
The reign of the emperor Heraclius is
perhaps more crowded with events of the
highest consequence, than that of any other
prince in the series. It has therefore a proportionable
scope allotted it in the plan of
Mr. Gibbon; who seems to understand better
than almost any historian, what periods to
sketch with a light and active pen, and upon
what to dwell with minuteness, and dilate
his various powers. While we pursue the
various adventures of Cosroes II., beginning
his reign in a flight from his capital city;
suing for the protection and support of the
Greek emperor; soon after declaring war
against the empire; successively conquering
Mesopotamia, Armenia, Syria, Palestine,
Egypt, and the greater part of Natolia; then
beaten; a fugitive; and at last murdered by
his own son; we are unable to conceive of a
story more interesting, or more worthy of
our attention. But in contemplating the
rife of the Saracen khalifate, and the religion
of Mahomet, which immediately succeeded
these events, we are compelled to acknowledge
a more astonishing object.
The following is the character of the impostor,
as sketched by the accurate and judicious
pencil of our historian. We will leave
it to the judgment of our readers, only observing,
that Mr. Gibbon has very unnecessarily
brought Christianity into the comparison;
and has perhaps touched the errors of
the false prophet with a lighter hand, that
the disparity might be the less apparent.
"But Heraclius had a much more formidable
enemy to encounter in the latter
part of his reign, than the effeminate and
divided Persian. This was the new empire
of the Saracens. Ingenious and eloquent,
temperate and brave, as had been
invariably their national character, they
had their exertions concentred, and their
courage animated by a legislator, whose
institutions may vie, in the importance of
their consequences, with those of Solon,
Lycurgus, or Numa. Though an impostor,
he propagated a religion, which,
like the elevated and divine principles of
Christianity, was confined to no one nation
or country; but even embraced a
larger portion of the human race than
Christianity itself.
"Mahomet, the son of Abdallah, was
born on the 9th of April, 571, in the city
of Mecca. Having been early left an orphan
by both parents, he received an
hardy and robust education, not tempered
by the elegancies of literature, nor much
allayed by the indulgencies of natural affection.
He was no sooner able to walk,
than he was sent naked, with the infant
peasantry, to attend the cattle of the village;
and was obliged to seek the refreshment
of sleep, as well as pursue the occupations
of the day, in the open airA.
He even pretended to be a stranger to the
art of writing and reading. But though
neglected by those who had the care of
his infancy, the youth of this extraordinary
personage did not pass away without some
of those incidents, which might afford a
glimpse of the sublimity of his genius;
and some of those prodigies, with which
superstition is prompt to adorn the story
of the founders of nations, and the conquerors
of empires. In the mean time,
his understanding was enlarged by travel.
It is not to be supposed that he frequented
the neighbouring countries, without making
some of those profound observations
upon the decline of the two great empires
of the East and of Persia, which were calculated
to expand his views, and to mature
his projects. The energies of his mind led
him to despise the fopperies of idolatry;
and he found the Christians, in the most unfavourable
situation, torn into innumerable
parties, by the sectaries of Athanasius,
Arius, Eutyches, Nestorius. In this situation,
he extracted that from every system
that bordered most nearly upon the dictates
of reason, and framed to himself a
sublime doctrine, of which the unity of
God, the innocence of moderate enjoyment,
the obligation of temperance and
munificence, were the leading principles.
But it would have contributed little to his
purpose, if he had stopped here. Enthusiastically
devoted to his extensive designs,
and guided by the most consummate art,
he pretended to divine communications,
related a thousand ridiculous and incredible
adventures; and though he constantly refused
a prodigy to the importunities of his
countrymen, laid claim to several frivolous
miracles, and a few thinly scattered
prophecies. One of his most artful devices
was the delivering the system of his
religion, not in one entire code, but in
detached essays. This enabled him more
than once to new mould the very genius
of his religion, without glaringly subjecting
himself to the charge of inconsistency.
From these fragments, soon after
his death, was compiled the celebrated Alcoran.
The style of this volume is generally
turgid, heavy, monotonous. It is disfigured
with childish tales and impossible
adventures. But it is frequently figurative,
frequently poetical, sometimes sublime.
And amidst all its defects, it will remain
the greatest of all monuments of uncultivated
and illiterate genius.
A:
"Abuleda, Chron. p. 27. Boulainvilliers, Vie de
Mahomet, b. ii. p. 175. This latter writer exhibits
the singular phenomenon of the native of a Christian
country, unreasonably prejudiced in favour of the
Arabian impostor. That he did not live, however,
to finish his curious performance, is the misfortune
of the republic of letters."
"The plan was carefully reserved by Mahomet
for the mature age of forty years.
Thus digested however, and communicated
with the nicest art and the most fervid
eloquence, he had the mortification
to find his converts, at the end of three
years, amount to no more than forty persons.
But the ardour of this hero was
invincible, and his success was finally
adequate to his wishes. Previous to the
famous aera of his flight from Mecca, he
had taught his followers, that they had
no defence against the persecution of their
enemies, but invincible patience. But
the opposition he encountered obliged him
to change his maxims. He now inculcated
the duty of extirpating the enemies
of God, and held forth the powerful allurements
of conquest and plunder. With
these he united the theological dogma of
predestination, and the infallible promise
of paradise to such as met their fate in the
field of war. By these methods he trained
an intrepid and continually increasing army,
inflamed with enthusiasm, and greedy
of death. He prepared them for the
most arduous undertakings, by continual
attacks upon travelling caravans and scattered
villages: a pursuit, which, though
perfectly consonant with the institutions
of his ancestors, painted him to the civilized
nations of Europe in the obnoxious
character of a robber. By degrees however,
he proceeded to the greatest enterprizes;
and compelled the whole peninsula
of Arabia to confess his authority as
a prince, and his mission as a prophet.
He died, like the Grecian Philip, in the
moment, when having brought his native
country to co-operate in one undertaking,
he meditated the invasion of distant climates,
and the destruction of empires.
"The character of Mahomet however
was exceeding different from that of Philip,
and far more worthy of the attention of a
philosopher. Philip was a mere politician,
who employed the cunning of a statesman,
and the revenues of a prince, in
the corruption of a number of fallen
and effeminate republics. But Mahomet,
without riches, without rank,
without education, by the mere ascendancy
of his abilities, subjected by persuasion
and force a simple and generous
nation that had never been conquered;
and laid the foundation of an empire, that
extended over half the globe; and a religion,
capable of surviving the fate of empires.
His schemes were always laid with
the truest wisdom. He lived among a
people celebrated for subtlety and genius:
he never laid himself open to detection.
His eloquence was specious, dignified, and
persuasive. And he blended with it a lofty
enthusiasm, that awed those, whom familiarity
might have emboldened, and silenced
his enemies. He was simple of
demeanour, and ostentatious of munificence.
And under these plausible virtues
he screened the indulgence of his constitutional
propensities. The number of his
concubines and his wives has been ambitiously
celebrated by Christian writers.
He sometimes acquired them by violence
and injustice; and he frequently dismissed
them without ceremony. His temper does
not seem to have been naturally cruel.
But we may trace in his conduct the features
of a barbarian; and a part of his
severity may reasonably be ascribed to the
plan of religious conquest that he adopted,
and that can never be reconciled with the
rights of humanity."
After the victories of Omar, and the other
successors of Mahomet had in a manner
stripped the court of Constantinople of all its
provinces, the Byzantine history dwindles
into an object petty and minute. In order to
vary the scene, and enhance the dignity of
his subject, the author occasionally takes a
prospect of the state of Rome and Italy, under
the contending powers of the papacy and
the new empire of the West. When the
singular and unparalleled object of the Crusades
presents itself, the historian embraces
the illustrious scene with apparent eagerness,
and bestows upon it a greater enlargement
than might perhaps have been expected
from the nature of his subject; but not
greater, we confidently believe, than is calculated
to increase the pleasure, that a reader
of philosophy and taste may derive from the
perusal. As the immortal Saladin is one of
the most distinguished personages in this story,
we have selected his character, as a specimen
of this part of the work.
"No sooner however was the virtuous
Noureddin removed by death, than the
Christians of the East had their attention
still more forcibly alarmed by the progress
of the invincible Saladin. He had
possessed himself of the government of
Egypt; first, under the modest appellation
of vizier, and then, with the more
august title of soldan. He abolished the
dynasty of the Fatemite khalifs. Though
Noureddin had been the patron of his family,
and the father of his fortunes, yet
was that hero no sooner expired, than he
invaded the territories of his young and
unwarlike successor. He conquered the
fertile and populous province of Syria. He
compelled the saheb of Mawsel to do
him homage. The princes of the Franks
already trembled for their possessions, and
prepared a new and more solemn embassy,
to demand the necessary succours of their
European brethren.
"The qualities of Saladin were gilded
with the lustre of conquest; and it has
been the singular fortune of this Moslem
hero, to be painted in fairer colours by
the discordant and astonished Christians,
than by those of his own courtiers and
countrymen, who may reasonably be supposed
to have known him best. He has
been compared with Alexander; and tho'
he be usually stiled, and with some justice,
a barbarian, it does not appear that his
character would suffer in the comparison.
His conquests were equally splendid; nor
did he lead the forces of a brave and generous
people, against a nation depressed
by slavery, and relaxed with effeminacy.
Under his banner Saracen encountered Saracen
in equal strife; or the forces of the
East were engaged with the firmer and
more disciplined armies of the West.
Like Alexander, he was liberal to profusion;
and while all he possessed seemed the
property of his friends, the monarch himself
often wanted that, which with unstinted
hand he had heaped upon his favourites
and dependents. His sentiments
were elevated, his manners polite and insinuating,
and the affability of his temper
was never subdued.
"But the parallel is exceedingly far from
entire. He possessed not the romantic
gallantry of the conqueror of Darius; he
had none of those ardent and ungovernable
passions, through whose medium the victories
of Arbela and Issus had transformed
the generous hero into the lawless tyrant.
It was a maxim to which he uniformly
adhered, to accomplish his lofty designs
by policy and intrigue, and to leave as
little as possible to the unknown caprice
of fortune. In his mature age he was temperate,
gentle, patient. The passions of
his soul, and the necessities of nature were
subordinate to the equanimity of his characterA.
His deportment was grave and
thoughtful; his religion sincere and enthusiastic.
He was ignorant of letters,
and despised all learning, that was not theological.
The cultivation, that had obtained
under the khalifs, had not entirely
civilized the genius of Saladin. His
maxims of war were indeed the maxims
of the age, and ought not to be adopted
as a particular imputation. But the action
of his striking off with his own
hand the head of a Christian prince, who
had attacked the defenceless caravan of
the pilgrims of Mecca, exhibits to our
view all the features of a fierce and untutored
barbarianB
."
A:
Bohaoddin, p. 71. He was an eye witness, and had
a considerable share in many of the transactions of Saladin.
He is generally accurate, and tolerably impartial.
B:
Ebn Shohnah, Heg. 589. Abulfarai, Renaudot,
p. 243. D'Herbelot, biblioth. orient. art. Togrul,
&c.
As the whole of this excellent work is now
before us, it may not be impertinent, before
we finally take our leave of it, to attempt an
idea of its celebrated author. We are happy
in this place to declare our opinion, that
no author ever better obeyed the precept of
Horace and Boileau, in choosing a subject
nicely correspondent to the talents he possessed.
The character of this writer, patient
yet elegant, accurate in enquiry, acute in
reflexion, was peculiarly calculated to trace
the flow and imperceptible decline of empire,
and to throw light upon a period,
darkened by the barbarism of its heroes, and
the confused and narrow genius of its authors.
In a word, we need not fear to class
the performance with those that shall do lasting,
perhaps immortal, honour, to the country
by which they have been produced.
But like many other works of this elevated
description, the time shall certainly come,
when the history before us shall no longer be
found, but in the libraries of the learned,
and the cabinets of the curious. At present
it is equally sought by old and young, the
learned and unlearned, the macaroni, the peer,
and the fine lady, as well as the student and
scholar. But this is to be ascribed to the
rage of fashion. The performance is not
naturally calculated for general acceptance.
It is, by the very tenor of the subject, interspersed
with a thousand minute and elaborate
investigations, which, in spite of perspicuous
method, and classical allusion, will
deter the idle, and affright the gay.
Nor can we avoid ascribing the undistinguishing
and extravagant applause, that has
been bestowed upon the style, to the same
source of fashion, the rank, the fortune,
the connexions of the writer. It is indeed
loaded with epithets, and crowded with allusions.
But though the style be often raised,
the thoughts are always calm, equal, and rigidly
classic. The language is full of art,
but perfectly exempt from fire. Learning, penetration,
accuracy, polish; any thing is rather
the characteristic of the historian, than the flow
of eloquence, and the flame of genius. Far
therefore from classing him in this respect
with such writers as the immortal Hume,
who have perhaps carried the English language
to the highest perfection it is capable
of reaching; we are inclined to rank him
below Dr. Johnson, though we are by no
means insensible to the splendid faults of that
admirable writer.
One word perhaps ought to be said respecting
Mr. Gibbon's treatment of Christianity.
His wit is indeed by no means uniformly
happy; as where for instance, he tells us,
that the name of Le Boeuf is remarkably apposite
to the character of that antiquarian;
or where, speaking of the indefatigable diligence
of Tillemont, he informs us, that
"the patient and sure-footed mule of the
Alps may be trusted in the most slippery
paths." But allowing every thing for the
happiness of his irony, and setting aside our
private sentiments respecting the justice of
its application, we cannot help thinking it
absolutely incompatible, with the laws of
history. For our own part, we honestly confess,
that we have met with more than one passage,
that has puzzled us whether it ought to be
understood in jest or earnest. The irony
of a single word he must be a churl who
would condemn; but the continuance of
this figure in serious composition, throws
truth and falsehood, right and wrong into
inextricable perplexity.
ARTICLE II.
THE HISTORY OF AMERICA. BY WILLIAM
ROBERTSON, D.D.&C. VOLS. III, IV. 4TO.
The expectation of almost all ranks
has been as much excited by the present
performance, as perhaps by almost any
publication in the records of literature. The
press has scarcely been able to keep pace with
the eagerness of the public, and the third
edition is already announced, before we have
been able to gratify our readers with an account
of this interesting work. For a great
historian to adventure an established name
upon so recent and arduous a subject, is an
instance that has scarcely occurred. Reports
were sometime ago industriously propagated
that Dr. Robertson had turned his attention
to a very different subject, and even when
it was generally known that the present work
was upon the eve of publication, it was still
questioned by many, whether a writer, so
celebrated for prudence, had not declined the
more recent part of the North American
history. The motives of his conduct upon
this head as they are stated in the preface,
we shall here lay before our readers.
"But neither the history of Portuguese
America, nor the early history of our own
settlements, have constituted the most arduous
part of the present publication.
The revolution, which, unfortunately for
this country, hath recently taken place
in the British colonies, hath excited the
most general attention, at the same time
that it hath rendered the gratification of
public curiosity a matter of as much delicacy
as necessity. Could this event have
been foreseen by me, I should perhaps
have been more cautious of entering into
engagements with the public. To embark
upon a subject, respecting which the sentiments
of my countrymen have been so
much divided, and the hand of time hath
not yet collected the verdicts of mankind;
while the persons, to whose lot it hath
fallen to act the principal parts upon the
scene, are almost all living; is a task
that prudence might perhaps refuse, and
modesty decline. But circumstanced as I
was, I have chosen rather to consider these
peculiarities as pleas for the candour of
my readers, than as motives to withdraw
myself from so important an undertaking.
I should ill deserve the indulgence I have
experienced from the public, were I capable
of withdrawing from a task by
which their curiosity might be gratified,
from any private inducements of inconvenience
or difficulty."
We have already said, and the reader will
have frequent occasion to recollect it, that we
by no means generally intend an analysis of
the several works that may come before us.
In the present instance, we do not apprehend
that we shall lay ourselves open to much
blame, by passing over in silence the discoveries
of Vespusius, and the conquests of
Baretto; and laying before our readers some
extracts from the history of the late war.
It is impossible not to remark that the subject
is treated with much caution, and that,
though the sentiments of a royalist be every
where conspicuous, they are those of a royalist,
moderated by misfortune and defeat.
The following is Dr. Robertson's account
of the declaration of independence.
"It is by this time sufficiently visible,
that the men, who took upon themselves
to be most active in directing the American
counsels, were men of deep design and
extensive ambition, who by no means confined
their views to the redress of those
grievances of which they complained,
and which served them for instruments
in the pursuit of objects less popular and
specious. By degrees they sought to undermine
the allegiance, and dissolve the
ties, which connected the colonies with
the parent country of Britain. Every step
that was taken by her ministry to restore
tranquility to the empire, was artfully
misrepresented by the zealots of faction.
Every unguarded expression, or unfortunate
measure of irritation was exaggerated
by leaders, who considered their own
honour and dignity as inseparable from
further advances, and predicted treachery
and insult as the consequences of retreating.
They now imagined they had met
with a favourable opportunity for proceeding
to extremities. Their influence
was greatest in the general congress, and
by their means a circular manifesto was
issued by that assembly intended to ascertain
the disposition of the several colonies respecting
a declaration of independence.
"They called their countrymen to witness
how real had been their grievances, and
how moderate their claims. They said,
it was impossible to have proceeded with
more temper or greater deliberation, but
that their complaints had been constantly
superseded, their petitions to the throne
rejected. The administration of Great
Britain had not hesitated to attempt to
starve them into surrender, and having
miscarried in this, they were ready to
employ the whole force of their country,
with all the foreign auxiliaries they could
obtain, in prosecution of their unjust and
tyrannical purposes. They were precipitated,
it was said, by Britain into a state
of hostility, and there no longer remained
for them a liberty of choice. They must
either throw down their arms, and expect
the clemency of men who had acted as the
enemies of their rights; or they must
consider themselves as in a state of warfare,
and abide by the consequences of
that state. Warfare involved independency.
Without this their efforts must
be irregular, feeble, and without all prospect
of success; they could possess no
power to suppress mutinies, or to punish
conspiracies; nor could they expect countenance
and support from any of the states
of Europe, however they might be inclined
to favour them, while they acknowledged
themselves to be subjects, and it
was uncertain how soon they might sacrifice
their friends and allies to the hopes
of a reunion. To look back, they were
told, to the king of England, after all
the insults they had experienced, and the
hostilities that were begun, would be the
height of pusillanimity and weakness. They
were bid to think a little for their posterity,
who by the irreversible laws of nature and
situation, could have no alternative left
them but to be slaves or independent.
Finally, many subtle reasonings were alledged,
to evince the advantages they must
derive from intrinsic legislation, and general
commerce.
"On the other hand, the middle and
temperate party, represented this step as
unnecessary, uncertain in its benefits, and
irretrievable in its consequences. They
expatiated on the advantages that had
long been experienced by the colonists
from the fostering care of Great Britain,
the generosity of the efforts she had made
to protect them, and the happiness they
had known under her auspicious patronage.
They represented their doubt of
the ability of the colonies to defend themselves
without her alliance. They stated
the necessity of a common superior to
balance the separate and discordant interests
of the different provinces. They
dwelt upon the miseries of an internal and
doubtful struggle. Determined never to
depart from the assertion of what they
considered as their indefeasible right, they
would incessantly besiege the throne with
their humble remonstrances. They would
seek the clemency of England, rather than
the alliance of those powers, whom they
conceived to be the real enemies of both;
nor would they ever be accessory to the
shutting up the door of reconciliation.
"But the voice of moderation is seldom
heard amidst the turbulence of civil dissention.
Violent counsels prevailed. The
decisive and irrevocable step was made on
the 4th of July 1776. It remains with
posterity to decide upon its merits. Since
that time it has indeed received the sanction
of military success; but whatever
consequences it may produce to America,
the fatal day must ever be regretted by
every sincere friend to the British empire."
The other extract we shall select is from
the story of Lord Cornwallis's surrender in
Virginia, and the consequent termination of
the American war.
"The loss of these redoubts may be considered
as deciding the fate of the British
troops. The post was indeed originally
so weak and insufficient to resist the force
that attacked it, that nothing but the assured
expectation of relief from the garrison
of New York, could have induced
the commander to undertake its defence,
and calmly to wait the approaches of the
enemy. An officer of so unquestionable
gallantry would, rather have hazarded an
encounter in the field, and trusted his adventure
to the decision of fortune, than
by cooping his army in so inadequate a
fortress, to have prepared for them inevitable
misfortune and disgrace. But
with the expectations he had been induced
to form, he did not think himself
justified in having recourse to desperate
expedients.
"These hopes were now at an end. The
enemy had already silenced his batteries.
Nothing remained to hinder them from
completing their second parallel, three
hundred yards nearer to the besieged than
the first. His lordship had received no
intelligence of the approach of succours,
and a probability did not remain that he
could defend his station till such time as
he could expect their arrival. Thus circumstanced,
with the magnanimity peculiar
to him, he wrote to Sir Henry Clinton,
to acquaint him with the posture of his
affairs, and to recommend to the fleet and
the army that they should not make any
great risk in endeavouring to extricate
them.
"But although he regarded his situation
as hopeless, he did not neglect any effort
becoming a general, to lengthen the siege,
and procrastinate the necessity of a surrender,
if it was impossible finally to prevent
it. The number of his troops seemed
scarcely sufficient to countenance a
considerable sally, but the emergency was
so critical, that he ordered about three
hundred and fifty men, on the morning
of the 16th, to attack the batteries that
appeared to be in the greatest forwardness,
and to spike their guns. The assault was
impetuous and successful. But either from
their having executed the business upon
which they were sent in a hasty and imperfect
manner, or from the activity and
industry of the enemy, the damage was
repaired, and the batteries completed before
evening.
"One choice only remained. To carry
the troops across to Gloucester Point,
and make one last effort to escape. Boats
were accordingly prepared, and at ten
o'clock at night the army began to embark.
The first embarkation arrived in
safety. The greater part of the troops
were already landed. At this critical moment
of hope and apprehension, of expectation
and danger, the weather, which
had hitherto been moderate and calm,
suddenly changed; the sky was clouded,
the wind rose and a violent storm ensued.
The boats with the remaining troops were
borne down the stream. To complete
the anxiety and danger, the batteries of
the enemy were opened, the day dawned,
and their efforts were directed against the
northern shore of the river. Nothing
could be hoped, but the escape of the
boats, and the safety of the troops. They
were brought back without much loss,
and every thing was replaced in its former
situation.
"Every thing now verged to the dreaded
crisis. The fire of the besiegers was heavy
and unintermitted. The British could not
return a gun, and the shells, their last resource,
were nearly exhausted. They
were themselves worn down with sickness
and continual watching. A few hours it
appeared must infallibly decide their fate.
And if any thing were still wanting, the
French ships which had entered the mouth
of the river, seemed prepared to second
the general assault on their side. In this
situation, lord Cornwallis, not less calm
and humane, than he was intrepid, chose
not to sacrifice the lives of so many brave
men to a point of honour, but the same
day proposed to general Washington a
cessation of twenty four hours, in order
mutually to adjust the terms of capitulation.
"The troops which surrendered in the
posts of York and Gloucester amounted
to between five and six thousand men, but
there were not above three thousand eight
hundred of these in a capacity for actual
service. They were all obliged to become
prisoners of war. Fifteen hundred seamen
were included in the capitulation.
The commander, unable to obtain terms
for the loyal Americans, was obliged to
have recourse to a sloop, appointed to
carry his dispatches, and which he stipulated
should pass unsearched, to convey
them to New York. The British fleet and
army arrived off the Chesapeak five days
after the surrender. Having learned the
melancholy fate of their countrymen,
they were obliged to return, without effecting
any thing, to their former station.
"Such was the catastrophe of an army,
that in intrepidity of exertion, and the
patient endurance of the most mortifying
reverses, are scarcely to be equalled by
any thing that is to be met with in history.
The applause they have received undiminished
by their subsequent misfortunes,
should teach us to exclaim less upon the
precariousness of fame, and animate us
with the assurance that heroism and constancy
can never be wholly disappointed
of their reward."
The publication before us is written with
that laudable industry, which ought ever to
distinguish a great historian. The author
appears to have had access to some of the
best sources of information; and has frequently
thrown that light upon a recent
story, which is seldom to be expected, but
from the developements of time, and the
researches of progressive generations.
We cannot bestow equal praise upon his
impartiality. Conscious however and reserved
upon general questions, the historian
has restricted himself almost entirely to the
narrative form, and has seldom indulged us
with, what we esteem the principal ornament
of elegant history, reflexion and character.
The situation of Dr. Robertson may suggest
to us an obvious, though incompetent, motive
in the present instance. Writing for
his contemporaries and countrymen, he
could not treat the resistance of America, as
the respectable struggle of an emerging nation.
Writing for posterity, he could not
denominate treason and rebellion, that which
success, at least, had stamped with the signatures
of gallantry and applause. But such
could not have been the motives of the
writer in that part of the history of America,
which was given to the world some years
ago. Perhaps Dr. Robertson was willing to
try, how far his abilities could render the
most naked story agreeable and interesting.
We will allow him to have succeeded. But
we could well have spared the experiment.
The style of this performance is sweet and
eloquent. We hope however that we shall
not expose ourselves to the charge of fastidiousness,
when we complain that it is rather
too uniformly so. The narrative is indeed
occasionally enlivened, and the language picturesque.
But in general we search in vain
for some roughness to relieve the eye, and
some sharpness to provoke the palate. One
full and sweeping period succeeds another,
and though pleased and gratified at first, the
attention gradually becomes languid.
It would not perhaps be an unentertaining
employment to compare the style of Dr.
Robertson's present work with that of his
first publication, the admired History of
Scotland. The language of that performance
is indeed interspersed with provincial
and inelegant modes of expression, and the
periods are often unskilfully divided. But
it has a vigour and spirit, to which such
faults are easily pardoned. We can say of
it, what we can scarcely say of any of the
author's later publications, that he has thrown
his whole strength into it.
In that instance however he entered the
lists with almost the only historian, with
whom Dr. Robertson must appear to disadvantage,
the incomparable Hume. In the
comparison, we cannot but acknowledge
that the eloquence of the former speaks the
professor, not the man of the world. He
reasons indeed, but it is with the reasons of
logic; and not with the acuteness of philosophy,
and the intuition of genius. Let not
the living historian be offended. To be
second to Hume, in our opinion might satisfy
the ambition of a Livy or a Tacitus.
ARTICLE III.
SECRET HISTORY OF THEODORE ALBERT
MAXIMILIAN, PRINCE OF HOHENZOLLERN
SIGMARINGEN. 12MO.
This agreeable tale appears to be the production
of the noble author of the
Modern Anecdote. It is told with the same
humour and careless vivacity. The design
is to ridicule the cold pedantry that judges
of youth, without making any allowance
for the warmth of inexperience, and the
charms of beauty. Such readers as take up
a book merely for entertainment, and do
not quarrel with an author that does not
scrupulously confine himself within the limits
of moral instruction, will infallibly
find their account in it.
The following specimen will give some
idea of the manner in which the story is
told.
"The learned Bertram was much scandalized
at the dissipation that prevailed in
the court of Hohenzollern. He was credibly
informed that the lord treasurer of
the principality, who had no less than a
revenue of 109l. 7s. 10-3/4d. committed to
his management, sometimes forgot the
cares of an exchequer in the arms of a
mistress. Nay, fame had even whispered
in his ear, that the reverend confessor
himself had an intrigue with a certain cook-maid.
But that which beyond all things,
afflicted him was the amour of Theodore
with the beautiful Wilhelmina. What,
cried he, when he ruminated upon the
subject, can it be excusable in the learned
Bertram, whose reputation has filled a
fourth part of the circle of Swabia, who
twice bore away the prize in the university
of Otweiler, to pass these crying sins in
silence? It shall not be said. Thus animated,
he strided away to the antichamber
of Theodore. Theodore, who was
all graciousness, venerated the reputation
of Bertram, and ordered him to be instantly
admitted. The eyes of the philosopher
flashed with anger. Most noble
prince, cried he, I am come to inform
you, that you must immediately break
with the beautiful Wilhelmina. Theodore
stared, but made no answer. The vices
of your highness, said Bertram, awake
my indignation. While you toy away
your hours in the lap of a w——e, the
vast principality of Hohenzollern Sigmaringen
hastens to its fall. Reflect, my
lord; three villages, seven hamlets, and
near eleven grange houses and cottages,
depend upon you for their political prosperity.
Alas, thought Theodore, what
are grange houses and cottages compared
with the charms of Wilhelmina? Shall
the lewd tricks of a wanton make you
forget the jealous projects of the prince of
Hohenzollern Hechingen, the elder branch
of your illustrious house? Theodore pulled
out his watch, that he might not outstay
his appointment. My lord, continued
Bertram, ruin impends over you. Two
peasants of the district of Etwingen have
already been seduced from their loyalty,
a nail that supported the chart of your
principality has fallen upon the ground,
and your father confessor is in bed with a
cook-maid. Theodore held forth his hand
for Bertram to kiss, and flew upon the
wings of desire to the habitation of Wilhelmina."
ARTICLE IV.
LOUISA, OR MEMOIRS OF A LADY OF QUALITY.
BY THE AUTHOR OF EVELINA AND
CECILIA. 3 VOLS. 12MO.
There scarcely seems to exist a more
original genius in the present age than
this celebrated writer. In the performances
with which she has already entertained the
public, we cannot so much as trace a feature
of her illustrious predecessors; the fable,
the characters, the incidents are all her own.
In the mean time they are not less happy,
than they are new. A Belfield, a Monckton,
a Morrice, and several other personages
of the admired Cecilia, will scarcely yield
to the most finished draughts of the greatest
writers. In comedy, in tragedy, Miss Burney
alike excels. And the union of them
both in the Vauxhall scene of the death
of Harrel ranks among the first efforts
of human genius. Of consequence we may
safely pronounce that the reputation of this
lady is by no means dependent upon fashion
or caprice, but will last as long as there is
understanding to discern, and taste to relish
the beauties of fiction.
It must be acknowledged that her defects
are scarcely less conspicuous than her excellencies.
In her underplots she generally miscarries.
We can trace nothing of Miss
Burney in the stories of Macartney, Albany,
and the Hills. Her comedy sometimes deviates
into farce. The character of Briggs
in particular, though it very successfully
excites our laughter, certainly deforms a
work, which in its principal constituents
ranks in the very highest species of composition.
Her style is often affected, and in
the serious is sometimes so laboured and
figurative, as to cost the reader a very strict
attention to discover the meaning, without
perfectly repaying his trouble. These faults
are most conspicuous in Cecilia, which upon
the whole we esteem by much her greatest
performance. In Evelina she wrote more
from inartificial nature. And we are happy
to observe in the present publication, that
the masculine sense, by which Miss Burney
is distinguished, has raised her almost
wholly above these little errors. The style
of Louisa is more polished than that of
Evelina, and more consonant to true taste
than that of Cecilia.
The principal story of Louisa, like that
of Cecilia, is very simple, but adorned with
a thousand beautiful episodes. As the great
action of the latter is Cecilia's sacrifice of
fortune to a virtuous and laudable attachment,
so that of the former is the sacrifice
of rank, in the marriage of the heroine to a
young man of the most distinguished merit,
but neither conspicuous by birth, nor favoured
by fortune. The event, romantic
and inconsistent with the manners of polished
society as it may appear, is introduced by
such a train of incidents, that it is impossible
not to commend and admire the conduct
of the heroine.
Her character is that of inflexible vivacity
and wit, accompanied with a spice of
coquetry and affectation. And though this
line of portrait seemed exhausted by Congreve
and Richardson, we will venture to
pronounce Louisa a perfect original. It is
impossible to describe such a character in the
abstract without recollecting Millamant and
Lady G. But in reading this most agreeable
novel, you scarcely think of either. As
there is no imitation, so there are not two
expressions in the work, that can lead from
one to the other. Louisa is more amiable
than the former, and more delicate and feminine
than the latter.
Mr. Burchel, the happy lover, is an author,
a young man of infinite genius, of
romantic honour, of unbounded generosity.
Lord Raymond, the brother of Louisa, becomes
acquainted with him in his travels, by
an incident in which Mr. Burchel does him
the most essential service. Being afterwards
introduced to his sister, and being deeply
smitten with her beauty and accomplishments,
he quits the house of lord Raymond
abruptly, with a determination entirely to
drop his connexion. Sometime after, in a
casual and unexpected meeting, he saves the
life of his mistress. In the conclusion, his
unparalleled merit, and his repeated services
surmount every obstacle to an union.
Besides these two there are many other
characters happily imagined. Louisa is involved
in considerable distress previous to the
final catastrophe. The manner in which her
gay and sportive character is supported in
these scenes is beyond all commendation.
But the extract we shall give, as most singular
in its nature, relates to another considerable
female personage, Olivia. As the humour
of Louisa is lively and fashionable,
that of Olivia is serious and romantic. Educated
in perfect solitude, she is completely
ignorant of modern manners, and entertains
the most sovereign contempt for them. Full
of sentiment and sensibility, she is strongly
susceptible to every impression, and her conduct
is wholly governed by her feelings.
Trembling at every leaf, and agonized at
the smallest accident, she is yet capable,
from singularity of thinking, of enterprises
the most bold and unaccountable. Conformably
to this temper, struck with the character
of Burchel, and ravished with his address
and behaviour, she plans the most extraordinary
attempt upon his person. By her orders
he is surprised in a solitary excursion,
after some resistance actually seized, and
conducted blindfold to the house of his fair
admirer. Olivia now appears, professes her
attachment, and lays her fortune, which is
very considerable, at his feet. Unwilling
however to take him by surprise, she allows
him a day for deliberation, and insists upon
his delivering at the expiration of it, an
honest and impartial answer. His entertainment
is sumptuous.
In the mean time, a peasant, who at a distance
was witness to the violence committed
upon Burchel, and had traced him to the
house of Olivia, carries the account of what
he had seen to Raymond Place. The company,
which, in the absence of lord Raymond,
consisted of Louisa, Mr. Bromley,
an uncle, Sir Charles Somerville, a suitor,
and Mr. Townshend, a sarcastic wit, determine
to set off the next morning for the
house of the ravisher. This is the scene
which follows.
"Alarmed at the bustle upon the stairs,
Olivia, more dead than alive, pressed the
hand of Burchel with a look of inexpressible
astonishment and mortification, and
withdrew to the adjoining apartment.
"The door instantly flew open. Burchel
advanced irresolutely a few steps towards
the company, bowed, and was silent.
"The person that first entered was Mr.
Bromley. He instantly seized hold of
Burchel, and shook him very heartily by
the hand.
"Ha, my boy, said he, have we found
you? Well, and how? safe and sound?
Eh? clapping him upon the shoulder.
"At your service, sir, answered Burchel,
with an air of embarrassment and hesitation.
"It was not altogether the right thing,
methinks, to leave us all without saying
why, or wherefore, and stay out all night.
Why we thought you had been murdered.
My niece here has been in hysterics.
"'Pon honour, cried sir Charles, you are
very facetious. But we heard, Mr. Burchel,
you were ran away with. It must
have been very alarming. I vow, I should
have been quite fluttered. Pray, sir, how
was it?
"Why, indeed, interposed Mr. Townshend,
the very relation seemed to disturb
sir Charles. For my part, I was more
alarmed for him than for Miss Bromley.
"Well, but, returned Bromley, impatiently,
it is a queer affair. I hope as the
lady went so far, you were not shy. You
have not spoiled all, and affronted her.
"Oh, surely not, exclaimed Townshend,
you do not suspect him of being such a
boor. Doubtless every thing is settled by
this time. The lady has a fine fortune,
Burchel; poets do not meet with such
every day; Miss Bromley, you look
pale.
"Ha! Ha! Ha! you do me infinite
honour, cried Louisa, making him a droll
curtesy; what think you, sir Charles?
"'Pon my soul, I never saw you look so
bewitchingly.
"Well, but my lad, cried Bromley, you
say nothing, don't answer a single question.
What, mum's the word, eh?
"Indeed, sir, I do not know,—I do not
understand—the affair is entirely a mystery
to myself—it is in the power of no one
but Miss Seymour to explain it.
"Well, and where is she? where is she?
"O I will go and look her, cried Louisa;
will you come, Sir Charles; and immediately
tripped out of the room. Sir Charles
followed.
"Olivia had remained in too much confusion
to withdraw farther than the next
room; and upon this new intrusion, she
threw herself upon a sopha, and covered
her face with her hands.
"O here is the stray bird, exclaimed Louisa,
fluttering in the meshes.
"Mr. Bromley immediately entered; Mr.
Townshend followed; Burchel brought
up the rear.
"My dearest creature, cried Louisa, do
not be alarmed. We are come to wish you
joy; and seized one of her hands.
"Well, but where's the parson? exclaimed
Bromley—What, has grace been said,
the collation served, and the cloth removed?
Upon my word, you have been
very expeditious, Miss.
"My God, Bromley, said Townshend, do
not reflect so much upon the ladies modesty.
I will stake my life they were not
to have been married these three days.
"Olivia now rose from the sopha in unspeakable
agitation, and endeavoured to
defend herself. Gentlemen, assure yourselves,—give
me leave to protest to you,—indeed
you will be sorry—you are mistaken———Oh
Miss Bromley, added she, in
a piercing voice, and threw her arms eagerly
about the neck of Louisa.
"Mind them not, my dear, said Louisa;
you know, gentlemen, Miss Seymour is
studious; it was a point in philosophy she
wished to settle; that's all, Olivia; and
kissed her cheek.
"Or perhaps, added Townshend,—the lady
is young and inexperienced—she wanted a
comment upon the bower scene in Cleopatra.
"Olivia suddenly raised her head and came
forward, still leaning one arm upon Louisa.
Hear me, cried she; I will be heard. What
have I done that would expose me to the
lash of each unlicenced tongue? What has
there been in any hour of my life, upon
which for calumny to fix her stain? Of
what loose word, of what act of levity and
dissipation can I be convicted? Have I
not lived in the solitude of a recluse? Oh,
fortune, hard and unexampled!
"Deuce take me, cried sir Charles, whispering
Townshend, if I ever saw any thing
so handsome.
"Olivia stood in a posture firm and collected,
her bosom heaving with resentment;
but her face was covered with
blushes, and her eyes were languishing and
sorrowful.
"For the present unfortunate affair I will
acknowledge the truth. Mr. Burchel to
me appeared endowed with every esteemable
accomplishment, brave, generous,
learned, imaginative, and tender. By what
nobler qualities could a female heart be
won? Fashion, I am told, requires that
we should not make the advances. I reck
not fashion, and have never been her slave.
Fortune has thrown him at a distance from
me. It should have been my boast to
trample upon her imaginary distinctions.
I would never have forced an unwilling
hand. But if constancy, simplicity and
regard could have won a heart, his heart
had been mine. I know that the succession
of external objects would have made
the artless virtues of Olivia pass unheeded.
It was for that I formed my little plan.
I will not blush for a scheme that no bad
passion prompted. But it is over, and I
will return to my beloved solitude with
what unconcern I may. God bless you,
Mr. Burchel; I never meant you any
harm: and in saying this, she advanced
two steps forward, and laid her hand on
his.
"Burchel, without knowing what he did,
fell on one knee and kissed it.
"This action revived the confusion of
Olivia; she retreated, and Louisa took
hold of her arm. Will you retire, said
Louisa? You are a sweet good creature.
Olivia assented, advanced a few steps forward,
and then with her head half averted,
took a parting glance at Burchel, and hurried away.
"A strange girl this, said Bromley! Devil
take me, if I know what to make of her.
"I vow, cried sir Charles, I am acquainted
with all the coteries in town, and never
met with any thing like her.
"Why, she is as coming, rejoined the
squire, as a milk-maid, and yet I do not
know how she has something that dashes
one too.
"Ah, cried sir Charles, shaking his head,
she has nothing of the manners of the
grand monde.
"That I can say nothing to, said Bromley,
but, in my mind, her behaviour is gracious
and agreeable enough, if her conduct
were not so out of the way.
"What think you, Burchel, said Townshend,
she is handsome, innocent, good
tempered and rich; excellent qualities,
let me tell you, for a wife.
"I think her, said Burchel, more than
you say. Her disposition is amiable, and
her character exquisitely sweet and feminine.
She is capable of every thing generous
and admirable. A false education,
and visionary sentiments, to which she
will probably one day be superior, have
rendered her for the present an object of
pity. But, though I loved her, I should
despise my own heart, if it were capable
of taking advantage of her inexperience,
to seduce her to a match so unequal.
"At this instant Louisa re-entered, and
making the excuses of Olivia, the company
returned to the carriage, sir Charles
mounted on horseback as he came, and
they carried off the hero in triumph."
ARTICLE V.
THE PEASANT OF BILIDELGERID, A TALE.
2 VOLS. SHANDEAN.
This is the only instance in which we
shall take the liberty to announce to the
public an author hitherto unknown. Thus
situated, we shall not presume to prejudice
our readers either ways concerning him, but
shall simply relate the general plan of the
work.
It attempts a combination, which has so
happily succeeded with the preceding writer,
of the comic and the pathetic. The latter
however is the principal object. The hero
is intended for a personage in the highest degree
lovely and interesting, who in his earliest
bloom of youth is subjected to the
most grievous calamities, and terminates
them not but by an untimely death. The
writer seems to have apprehended that a dash
of humour was requisite to render his story
in the highest degree interesting. And he
has spared no exertion of any kind of which
he was capable, for accomplishing this
purpose.
The scene is laid in Egypt and the adjacent
countries. The peasant is the son of
the celebrated Saladin. The author has exercised
his imagination in painting the manners
of the times and climates of which he
writes.
ARTICLE VI.
AN ESSAY ON NOVEL, IN THREE EPISTLES
INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
LADY CRAVEN, BY WILL. HAYLEY, ESQ.
4TO.
The public has been for some time
agreed that Mr. Hayley is the first of
English poets. Envy herself scarcely dares utter
a dissentient murmur, and even generous
emulation turns pale at the mention of his
name. His productions, allowing for the
very recent period in which he commenced
author, are rather numerous. A saturnine
critic might be apt to suspect that they
were also hasty, were not the loftiness of
their conceptions, the majesty of their style,
the richness of their imagination, and above
all, the energy both of their thoughts and
language so conspicuous, that we may defy
any man of taste to rise from the perusal,
and say, that all the study and consideration
in the world could possibly have made them
better. After a course however of unremitted
industry, Mr. Hayley seemed to have
relaxed, and to the eternal mortification of
the literary world, last winter could not
boast a single production of the prince of
song. The muses have now paid us another
visit. We are very sensible of our incapacity
to speak, or even think of this writer
with prosaic phlegm; we cannot however
avoid pronouncing, that, in our humble opinion,
Mr. Hayley has now outdone all his
former outdoings, and greatly repaid us for
the absence we so dearly mourned.
We are sensible that it is unbecoming the
character of a critic to lay himself out in
general and vague declamation. It is also
within the laws of possibility, that an
incurious or unpoetical humour in some of our
readers, and (ah me, the luckless day!)
penury in others, may have occasioned their
turning over the drowsy pages of the review,
before they have perused the original work.
Some account of the plan, and a specimen of
the execution may therefore be expected.
The first may be dispatched in two words.
The design is almost exactly analogous to
that of the Essay on History, which has been
so much celebrated. The author triumphs
in the novelty of his subject, and pays a very
elegant compliment to modern times, as
having been in a manner the sole inventors
of this admirable species of composition, of
which he has undertaken to deliver the
precepts. He deduces the pedigree of novel
through several generations from Homer and
Calliope. He then undertakes to characterise
the most considerable writers in this line.
He discusses with much learning, and all
the logical subtlety so proper to the didactic
muse, the pretensions of the Cyropedia of
Xenophon; but at length rejects it as containing
nothing but what was literally true,
and therefore belonging to the class of history.
He is very eloquent upon the Shepherd
of Hermas, Theagenes and Chariclea, and
the Ethiopics of Heliodorus. Turpin, Scudery,
Cotterel, Sidney, the countess D'Anois,
and "all such writers as were never read,"
next pass in review. Boccace and Cervantes
occupy a very principal place. The modern
French writers of fictitious history from Fenelon
to Voltaire, close the first epistle. The second
is devoted to English authors. The third
to the laws of novel writing.
We shall present our readers, as a specimen,
with the character of that accomplished
writer, John Bunyan, whom the poet has
generously rescued from that contempt which
fashionable manners, and fashionable licentiousness
had cast upon him.
"See in the front of Britain's honour'd band, The author of the Pilgrim's Progress stand. Though, sunk in shades of intellectual night, He boasted but the simplest arts, to read and write; Though false religion hold him in her chains, His judgment weakens and his heart restrains: Yet fancy's richest beams illum'd his mind, And honest virtue his mistakes refin'd. The poor and the illiterate he address'd; The poor and the illiterate call him blest. Blest he the man that taught the poor to pray, That shed on adverse fate religion's day, That wash'd the clotted tear from sorrow's face, Recall'd the rambler to the heavenly race, Dispell'd the murky clouds of discontent, And read the lore of patience wheresoe'er he went."
Amidst the spirited beauties of this passage,
it is impossible not to consider some as
particularly conspicuous. How strong and
nervous the second and fourth lines! How
happily expressive the two Alexandrines!
What a luminous idea does the epithet
"murky" present to us! How original and
picturesque that of the "clotted tear!" If
the same expression be found in the Ode to
Howard, let it however be considered, that
the exact propriety of that image to wash it
from the face (for how else, candid reader,
could a tear already clotted be removed) is a
clear improvement, and certainly entitles the
author to a repetition. Lastly, how consistent
the assemblage, how admirable the
climax in the last six lines! Incomparable
they might appear, but we recollect a passage
nearly equal in the Essay on History,
"Wild as thy feeble Metaphysic page, Thy History rambles into Steptic rage; Whose giddy and fantastic dreams abuse, A Hampden's Virtue and a Shakespeare's Muse."
How elevated the turn of this passage!
To be at once luxuriant and feeble, and to
lose one's way till we get into a passion,
(with our guide, I suppose) is peculiar to a
poetic subject. It is impossible to mistake
this for prose. Then how pathetic the conclusion!
What hard heart can refuse its
compassion to personages abused by a dream,
and that dream the dream of a History!
Oh, wonderful poet, thou shalt be immortal,
if my eulogiums can make thee so!
To thee thine own rhyme shall never be applied,
(Dii, avertite omen).
"Already, pierc'd by freedom's searching rays, The waxen fabric of his fame decays!"
ARTICLE VII.
INKLE AND YARICO, A POEM, BY JAMES
BEATTIE, L.L.D. 4TO.
This author cannot certainly be compared
with Mr. Hayley.
We know not by what fatality Dr. Beattie
has acquired the highest reputation as a
philosopher, while his poetry, though acknowledged
to be pleasing, is comparatively little
thought on. It must always be with regret
and diffidence, that we dissent from the general
verdict. We should however be somewhat
apprehensive of sacrificing the character we
have assumed, did we fail to confess that his
philosophy has always appeared to us at once
superficial and confused, feeble and presumptuous.
We do not know any thing it has to
recommend it, but the good intention, and
we wish we could add the candid spirit,
with which it is written.
Of his poetry however we think very
differently. Though deficient in nerve, it is
at once sweet and flowing, simple and
amiable. We are happy to find the author
returning to a line in which he appears so
truly respectable. The present performance
is by no means capable to detract from his
character as a poet. This well known tale
is related in a manner highly pathetic and
interesting. As we are not at all desirous of
palling the curiosity of the reader for the
poem itself, we shall make our extract at
random. The following stanzas, as they are
taken from a part perfectly cool and
introductory, are by no means the best in this
agreeable piece. They are prefaced by some
general reflexions on the mischiefs occasioned
by the sacra fames auri. The reader
will perceive that Dr. Beattie, according to
the precept of Horace, has rushed into the
midst of things, and not taken up the narrative
in chronological order.
"Where genial Phoebus darts his fiercest rays, Parching with heat intense the torrid zone: No fanning western breeze his rage allays; No passing cloud, with kindly shade o'erthrown, His place usurps; but Phoebus reigns alone, In this unfriendly clime a woodland shade, Gloomy and dark with woven boughs o'ergrown, Shed chearful verdure on the neighbouring glade, And to th' o'er-labour'd hind a cool retreat display'd.
Along the margin of th' Atlantic main, Rocks pil'd on rocks yterminate the scene; Save here and there th' incroaching surges gain An op'ning grateful to the daisied green; Save where, ywinding cross the vale is seen A bubbling creek, that spreads on all sides round Its breezy freshness, gladding, well I ween, The op'ning flow'rets that adorn the ground, From her green margin to the ocean's utmost bound.
The distant waters hoarse resounding roar, And fill the list'ning ear. The neighb'ring grove Protects, i'th'midst that rose, a fragrant bow'r, With nicest art compos'd. All nature strove, With all her powers, this favour'd spot to prove A dwelling fit for innocence and joy, Or temple worthy of the god of love. All objects round to mirth and joy invite, Nor aught appears among that could the pleasure blight.
Within there sat, all beauteous to behold! Adorn'd with ev'ry grace, a gentle maid. Her limbs were form'd in nature's choicest mould, Her lovely eyes the coldest bosoms sway'd, And on her breast ten thousand Cupids play'd. What though her skin were not as lilies fair? What though her face confest a darker shade? Let not a paler European dare With glowing Yarico's her beauty to compare.
And if thus perfect were her outward form, What tongue can tell the graces of her mind, Constant in love and in its friendships warm? There blushing modesty with virtue join'd There tenderness and innocence combin'd. Nor fraudful wiles, nor dark deceit she knew, Nor arts to catch the inexperienc'd hind; No swain's attention from a rival drew, For she was simple all, and she was ever true.
There was not one so lovely or so good, Among the num'rous daughters of the plain; 'Twas Yarico each Indian shepherd woo'd; But Yarico each shepherd woo'd in vain; Their arts she view'd not but with cold disdain. For British Inkle's charms her soul confest, His paler charms had caus'd her am'rous pain; Nor could her heart admit another guest, Or time efface his image in her constant breast,
Her generous love remain'd not unreturn'd, Nor was the youthful swain as marble cold, But soon with equal flame his bosom burn'd; His passion soon in love's soft language told, Her spirits cheer'd and bad her heart be bold. Each other dearer than the world beside, Each other dearer than themselves they hold. Together knit in firmest bonds they bide, While days and months with joy replete unnotic'd glide.
Ev'n now beside her sat the British boy, Who ev'ry mark of youth and beauty bore, All that allure the soul to love and joy. Ev'n now her eyes ten thousand charms explore, Ten thousand charms she never knew before. His blooming cheeks confest a lovely glow, His jetty eyes unusual brightness wore, His auburn locks adown his Shoulders flow, And manly dignity is seated on his brow."
ARTICLE VIII
THE ALCHYMIST, A COMEDY, ALTERED
FROM BEN JONSON, BY RICHARD BRINSLEY
SHERIDAN, ESQ.
There are few characters, that have
risen into higher favour with the English
nation, than Mr. Sheridan. He was
known and admired, as a man of successful
gallantry, both with the fair sex and his
own, before he appeared, emphatically
speaking, upon the public stage. Since that
time, his performances, of the Duenna, and
the School for Scandal, have been distinguished
with the public favour beyond any
dramatical productions in the language. His
compositions, in gaiety of humour and spriteliness
of wit, are without an equal.
Satiated, it should seem, with the applauses
of the theatre, he turned his attention
to public and parliamentary speaking. The
vulgar prejudice, that genius cannot expect
to succeed in two different walks, for some
time operated against him. But he possessed
merit, and he compelled applause. He now
ranks, by universal consent, as an orator and
a statesman, with the very first names of an
age, that will not perhaps be accounted unproductive
in genius and abilities.
It was now generally supposed that he had
done with the theatre. For our own part,
we must confess; we entertain all possible
veneration for parliamentary and ministerial
abilities; we should be mortified to rank second
to any man in our enthusiasm for the
official talents of Mr. Sheridan: But as the
guardians of literature, we regretted the loss
of his comic powers. We wished to preserve
the poet, without losing the statesman.
Greatly as we admired the opera and the comedy,
we conceived his unbounded talents
capable of something higher still. To say all
in a word, we looked at his hands for the
MISANTHROPE of the British muse.
It is unnecessary to say then, that we congratulate
the public upon the present essay.
It is meaned only as a jeu d'esprit. But we
consider it as the earnest of that perseverance,
which we wished to prove, and feared to lose.
The scene we have extracted, and which,
with another, that may be considered as a
kind of praxis upon the rules, constitutes
the chief part of the alteration, is apparently
personal. How far personal satire is commendable
in general, and how far it is just
in the present instance, are problems that we
shall leave with our readers.—As much as
belongs to Jonson we have put in italics.
ACT IV
SCENE 4
Enter Captain Face, disguised as Lungs,
and Kastril.
- FACE.
- Who would you speak with?
- KASTRIL.
- Where is the captain?
-
FACE.
- Gone, sir, about some business.
-
KASTRIL.
- Gone?
-
FACE.
- He will return immediately. But master
doctor, his lieutenant is here.
-
KASTRIL.
- Say, I would speak with him.
[Exit Face.
Enter Subtle.
-
SUBTLE.
- Come near, sir.—I know you well.—You
are my terrae fili—that is—my boy of
land—same three thousand pounds a year.
-
KASTRIL.
- How know you that, old boy?
-
SUBTLE.
- I know the subject of your visit, and I'll
satisfy you. Let us see now what notion
you have of the matter. It is a nice point
to broach a quarrel right.
-
KASTRIL.
- You lie.
-
SUBTLE.
- How now?—give me the lie?—for what,
my boy?
-
KASTRIL.
- Nay look you to that.—I am beforehand—that's
my business.
-
SUBTLE.
- Oh, this is not the art of quarrelling—'tis
poor and pitiful!—What, sir, would
you restrict the noble science of debate to
the mere lie?—Phaw, that's a paltry trick,
that every fool could hit.—A mere Vandal
could throw his gantlet, and an Iroquois
knock his antagonist down.—No, sir, the
art of quarrel is vast and complicated.—Months
may worthily be employed in the
attainment,—and the exercise affords range
for the largest abilities.—To quarrel after
the newest and most approved method, is
the first of sciences,—the surest test of
genius, and the last perfection of civil
society.
-
KASTRIL.
-
You amaze me. I thought to dash the
lie in another's face was the most respectable
kind of anger.
-
SUBTLE.
-
O lud, sir, you are very ignorant. A
man that can only give the lie is not worth
the name of quarrelsome—quite tame and
spiritless!—No, sir, the angry boy must
understand, beside the QUARREL DIRECT—in
which I own you have some proficiency—a
variety of other modes of attack;—such
as, the QUARREL PREVENTIVE—the
QUARREL OBSTREPEROUS—the QUARREL
SENSITIVE—the QUARREL OBLIQUE—and
the QUARREL PERSONAL.
-
KASTRIL.
-
O Mr. doctor, that I did but understand
half so much of the art of brangling as
you do!—What would I give!—Harkee—I'll
settle an hundred a year upon you.—But
come, go on, go on—
-
SUBTLE.
-
O sir! you quite overpower me—why,
if you use me thus, you will draw all my
secrets from me at once.—I shall almost
kick you down stairs the first lecture.
-
KASTRIL.
-
How!—Kick me down stairs?—Ware
that—Blood and oons, sir!
-
SUBTLE.
-
Well, well,—be patient—be patient—Consider,
it is impossible to communicate
the last touches of the art of petulance,
but by fist and toe,—by sword and pistol.
-
KASTRIL.
-
Sir, I don't understand you!
-
SUBTLE.
-
Enough. We'll talk of that another
time.—What I have now to explain is the
cool and quiet art of debate—fit to be introduced
into the most elegant societies—or
the most august assemblies.—You, my
angry boy, are in parliament?
-
KASTRIL.
-
No, doctor.—I had indeed some thoughts
of it.—But imagining that the accomplishments
of petulance and choler would be
of no use there—I gave it up.
-
SUBTLE.
-
Good heavens!—Of no use?—Why, sir,
they can be no where so properly.—Only
conceive how august a little petulance—and
what a graceful variety snarling and
snapping would introduce!—True, they
are rather new in that connexion.—Believe
me, sir, there is nothing for which I
have so ardently longed as to meet them
there.—I should die contented.—And you,
sir,—if you would introduce them—Eh?
-
KASTRIL.
-
Doctor, you shall be satisfied—I'll be
in parliament in a month—I'll be prime
minister—LORD HIGH TREASURER of
ENGLAND—or, CHANCELLOR of the EXCHEQUER!
-
SUBTLE.
-
Oh, by all means CHANCELLOR of the
EXCHEQUER! You are somewhat young
indeed—but that's no objection.—Damn
me, if the office can ever be so respectably
filled as by an angry boy.
-
KASTRIL.
-
True, true.—But, doctor, we forget
your instructions all this time.—Let me
see—Ay—first was the QUARREL PREVENTIVE.
-
SUBTLE.
-
Well thought of!—Why, sir, in your
new office you will be liable to all sorts of
attacks—Ministers always are, and an angry
boy cannot hope to escape.—Now nothing,
you know, is so much to the purpose as
to have the first blow—Blunders are very
natural.—Your friends tell one story in
the upper house, and you another in the
lower—You shall give up a territory to
the enemy that you ought to have kept,
and when charged with it, shall unluckily
drop that you and your colleagues
were ignorant of the geography of the
country—You foresee an attack—you immediately
open—Plans so extensively beneficial—accounts
so perfectly consistent—measures
so judicious and accurate—no
man can question—no man can object
to—but a rascal and a knave.—Let him
come forward!
-
KASTRIL.
-
Very good! very good!—For the
QUARREL OPSTREPEROUS, that I easily
conceive.—An antagonist objects shrewdly—I
cannot invent an answer.—In that
case, there is nothing to be done but to
drown his reasons in noise—nonsense—and
vociferation.
-
SUBTLE.
-
Come to my arms, my dear Kastril! O
thou art an apt scholar—thou wilt be nonpareil
in the art of brawling!—But for
the QUARREL SENSITIVE—
-
KASTRIL.
-
Ay, that I confess I don't understand.
-
SUBTLE.
-
Why, it is thus, my dear boy—A
minister is apt to be sore.—Every man
cannot have the phlegm of Burleigh.—And
an angry boy is sorest of all.—In that case—an
objection is made that would dumbfound
any other man—he parries it with—my
honour—and my integrity—and the
rectitude of my intentions—my spotless
fame—my unvaried truth—and the greatness
of my abilities—And so gives no
answer at all.
-
KASTRIL.
-
Excellent! excellent!
-
SUBTLE.
-
The QUARREL OBLIQUE is easy enough.—It
is only to talk in general terms of
places and pensions—the loaves and the
fishes—a struggle for power—a struggle for
power—And it will do excellent well, if at
a critical moment—you can throw in a hint
of some forty or fifty millions unaccounted
for by some people's grandfathers and
uncles dead fifty years ago.
-
KASTRIL.
-
Ha! ha! ha!
-
SUBTLE.
-
Lastly, for the QUARREL PERSONAL—It
may be infinitely diversified.—I have
other instances in my eye,—but I will
mention only one.—Minds capable of the
widest comprehension, when held back
from their proper field, may turn to lesser
employments, that fools may wonder at,
and canting hypocrites accuse—A CATO
might indulge to the pleasures of the
bottle, and a CAESAR might play—Unfortunately
you may have a CAESAR to oppose
you—Let him discuss a matter of
finance—that subject is always open—there
you have an easy answer. In the
former case you parried, here you thrust.—You
must admire at his presumption—tell
him roundly he is not capable of the
subject—and dam his strongest reasons
by calling them the reasons of a gambler.
-
KASTRIL.
-
Admirable!—Oh doctor!—I will thank
you for ever.—I will do any thing for
you!
[Face enters at the corner of the stage,
winks at Subtle, and exit.]
-
SUBTLE.
-
"Come, Sir, the captain will come to us
presently—I will have you to my chamber of
demonstrations, and show my instrument for
quarrelling, with all the points of the compass
marked upon it. It will make you able
to quarrel to a straw's breadth at moonlight.
Exeunt."
ARTICLE IX.
REFLEXIONS UPON THE PRESENT STATE OF
THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. BY
THOMAS PAINE, M.A. &c. 8vo.
The revolution of America is the most
important event of the present century.
Other revolutions have originated in
immediate personal feeling, have pointed
only at a few partial grievances, or, preserving
the tyranny entire, have consisted only in
a struggle about the persons in whom it
should be vested. This only has commenced
in an accurate and extensive view of things,
and at a time when the subject of government
was perfectly understood. The persons,
who have had the principal share in
conducting it, exhibit a combination of wisdom,
spirit and genius, that can never be
sufficiently admired.
In this honourable list, the name of Mr.
Paine by no means occupies the lowest
place. He is the best of all their political
writers. His celebrated pamphlet of Common
Sense appeared at a most critical period,
and certainly did important service to the
cause of independency. His style is exactly
that of popular oratory. Rough, negligent
and perspicuous, it presents us occasionally
with the boldest figures and the most animated
language. It is perfectly intelligible
to persons of all ranks, and it speaks with
energy to the sturdy feelings of uncultivated
nature. The sentiments of the writer are
stern, and we think even rancorous to the
mother country. They may be the sentiments
of a patriot, they are not certainly
those of a philosopher.
Mr. Paine has thought fit to offer some
advice to his countrymen in the present juncture,
in which, according to some, they
stand in considerable need of it. The performance
is not unworthy of the other productions
of this author. It has the same virtues
and the same defects. We have extracted
the following passage, as one of the most
singular and interesting.
"America has but one enemy, and that is
England. Of the English it behoves us
always to be jealous. We ought to cultivate
harmony and good understanding with
every other power upon earth. The necessity
of this caution will be easily shewn.
For
1. The united states of America were
subject to the government of England.
True, they have acknowledged our independence.
But pride first struggled as
much as she could, and sullenness held off
as long as she dare. They have withdrawn
their claim upon our obedience, but do
you think they have forgot it? To this
hour their very news-papers talk daily of
dissentions between colony and colony, and
the disaffection of this and of that to the
continental interest. They hold up one
another in absurdity, and look with affirmative
impatience, when we shall fall
together by the ears, that they may run
away with the prize we have so dearly
won. It is not in man to submit to a defalcation
of empire without reluctance.
But in England, where every cobler, slave
as he is, hath been taught to think himself
a king, never.
2. The resemblance, of language, customs,
will give them the most ready access
to us. The king of England will
have emissaries in every corner. They
will try to light up discord among us.
They will give intelligence of all our
weaknesses. Though we have struggled
bravely, and conquered like men, we are
not without imperfection. Ambition and
hope will be for ever burning in the breast
of our former tyrant. Dogmatical confidence
is the worst enemy America can
have. We need not fear the Punic sword.
But let us be upon our guard against the
arts of Carthage.
3. England is the only European state
that still possesses an important province
upon our continent. The Indian tribes
are all that stand between us. We know
with what art they lately sought their detested
alliance. What they did then was the
work of a day. Hereafter if they act against
us, the steps they will proceed with will be
slower and surer. Canada will be their place
of arms. From Canada they will pour down
their Indians. A dispute about the boundaries
will always be an easy quarrel. And
if their cunning can inveigle us into a false
security, twenty or thirty years hence we
may have neither generals nor soldiers to
stop them."
ARTICLE X.
SPEECH OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
EDMUND BURKE, ON A MOTION FOR AN
ADDRESS OF THANKS TO HIS MAJESTY (ON
THE 28TH OF NOVEMBER, 1783) FOR HIS
GRACIOUS COMMUNICATION OF A TREATY
OF COMMERCE CONCLUDED BETWEEN
GEORGE THE THIRD, KING, &C. AND THE
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.
We were very apprehensive upon Mr.
Burke's coming into administration,
that this circumstance might have proved a
bar to any further additions to the valuable
collection of his speeches already in the hands
of the public. If we imagined that our verdict
could make any addition to the very
great and deserved reputation in which they
are held, we should not scruple to say that
were Cicero our contemporary, and Mr.
Burke the ancient, we are persuaded that
there would not be a second opinion upon
the comparative merits of their orations. In
the same degree as the principles of the latter
are unquestionably more unsullied,
and his spirit more independent; do we
esteem him to excel in originality of genius,
and sublimity of conception.
We will give two extracts; one animadverting
upon the preliminaries of peace concluded
by the earl of Shelburne; the other
a character of David Hartley, Esq.
"I know that it has been given out, that
by the ability and industry of their predecessors
we found peace and order established
to our hands; and that the present ministers
had nothing to inherit, but emolument
and indolence, otium cum dignitate.
Sir, I will inform you what kind of peace
and leisure the late ministers had provided.
They were indeed assiduous in their devotion;
they erected a temple to the goddess
of peace. But it was so hasty and incorrect
a structure, the foundation was so imperfect,
the materials so gross and unwrought,
and the parts so disjointed,
that it would have been much easier to
have raised an entire edifice from the
ground, than to have reduced the injudicious
sketch that was made to any regularity
of form. Where you looked for
a shrine, you found only a vestibule;
instead of the chapel of the goddess, there
was a wide and dreary lobby; and neither
altar nor treasury were to be found. There
was neither greatness of design, nor accuracy
of finishing. The walls were full of
gaps and flaws, the winds whistled through
the spacious halls, and the whole building
tottered over our heads.
Mr. Hartley, sir, is a character, that
must do honour to his country and to human
nature. With a strong and independent
judgment, with a capacious and
unbounded benevolence, he devoted himself
from earliest youth for his brethren
and fellow creatures. He has united a
character highly simple and inartificial,
with the wisdom of a true politician. Not
by the mean subterfuges of a professed
negociator; not by the dark, fathomless
cunning of a mere statesman; but by an
extensive knowledge of the interest and
character of nations; by an undisguised
constancy in what is fit and reasonable;
by a clear and vigorous spirit that disdains
imposition. He has met the accommodating
ingenuity of France; he has met the
haughty inflexibility of Spain upon their
own ground, and has completely routed
them. He loosened them from all their
holdings and reserves; he left them not a
hole, nor a corner to shelter themselves.
He has taught the world a lesson we had
long wanted, that simple and unaided virtue
is more than a match for the unbending
armour of pride, and the exhaustless
evolutions of political artifice."
FINIS.
1783 By WILLIAM GODWIN.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Four Early Pamphlets, by William Godwin
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