NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW. No. LXXXIV. JULY, 1834. ART. I.Lfe of & hdler. The Life of Priedrich LS1chiller. Comprehending an Examination of his Works. From the London Edi- tion. Boston. 1833. POETS are the priests of nature, endowed at birth with the pre-eminent qualities requisite for this high function. The power, too, thus bestowed on them, unlike other human pos- sessions, is as well secured from the detractions of envy, by the pleasure which its exercise diffuses, as it is from attack by its unquestionable supremacy. The poet speaks to the heart, and ever in a voice of music, whether, like the nurse who lulls the crying infant with song, he mingle his soothing notes with the plaints of wo, or, like the spirit-stirring trumpet, quicken the pulses wildest throbs. lie communes with the inmost soul of man: he penetrates to the source of his feelings; he analyzes, he interprets, he anticipates, he reveals them. Yet his deep insight awakens no jealousy; for he derives it from sympathy, and he manifests it in forms of beauty. It is an error of the half-knowledge drawn from superficial and partial appearances, to regard genius and common sense as incompatible. As much so are they as beauty is incom- patible with strength, or uncomeliness of feature with gentle- ness of disposition. Genius is the original intensity of power in a mental faculty, whereby it performs its function with in VOL. XXXIX.NO. 84. 1 2 L/fC of & killer. [July, stantaneous rapidity and unerring accuracy. Exam pies of musical and mathematical genius flimiliar to all, distinctly illustrate the difference between genius and talent. To reach its end, genius performs the same olieration that common in- tellect (1005 ; but it darts from the beginning to the conclusion with such quickness, as to preclude itself from coasciousness of progress, and to impress others,as incapable of understand- ing the process as itself is of following it,with the idea of supernatural poxvem. XVhen it shall 1)0 shown that the absence of all such intuitive cal)acity is attended by an extra-efficiency of common sense, it will he time enough to prove that its pre- sence has no henna upon that quality. Cases are abundant to show the entire independence of each on the other, without going into a theoretical demonstr~ tion of it, were that admissi ble here. If our definition of genius be correct, it will Iea(l us to uni derstand the nature of poetry. Poetical genius is the intense sensibility to the beautiful. As musical stands to musical talent, thus stands the Poet in relation to the multitude of men. Susceptibility to beauty is a quality common to mankind the degree in which it is possessed distinguishes the poet. Crowds listen with delight to the music of Mozart, and millions rejoice over Shakspeare, through the medium of the same faculties by which these great men, possessing them in higher degrees, excelled all others. A word on the fine arts, before proceeding further in our at- tempt to obtain a clear idea of the poet. They might be called the poetical arts, for their essence is beauty ;~in it they have their being, and according to their power to awaken the sus- ceptibility to the beautiful are they prized. Without a high degree of this susceptibility in himself, the architect sinks to the master-builder,tbc musician is little more than the per- former on a hand-organ. Even in the secondary branch of painting and sculpture,the copying of the living countenance, this quality must assist at the artists labor ; and a portrait, that has not an ideal heightening, is a failure as a work of art. Herein it is, that the artist is different from and is raised above the artisan. He works with the same materials, and he needs the same knowledge of their relations and uses; but he com- bines them for a different end, and, lifting himself above physi- cal appliances, appeals to feelings, the gratification of which is as much a want of human nature as that of its daily desires, I~34.j and in the ministering to which he does service equally with the worker with rougher tools, though the results of his efforts l)e not of a utility so obvious and tangible. In him tl]e poeti- cal is superadded to the mechanical. The range of the artist is limited by the gloss nature of the materials anci instruments with which he works and thus, his place is below that of the poet. lie can but embody a point in the sweep of passion ; he illustrates a moment, while the poet developes a life: he presents but a single scene, or, at most, a succession of scenes; or when, as in music, he at- tempts a drama, it is but as an accompaniment, more like the rhythm of a poem than a poem itselg and comparatively equally evanescent. The poet for his instrument has lan gnage,the messenger and mirror of the mind,the body to the soul of thought, flexible and obedient to its infinite modes, the faithful shadow that ever follows ligh t,the universal symbol among men. But, to body forth clearly with this l)owerful instrument, he iuust,besides his poetical superiority, that is, his intenser snsceptibilitv to beauty,perceive more vividly and feel more acutely than common men. Then will his mind spontaneously pour out its materials, whether, accord- ing to orioinal con~ti tution, these lie collected from external 6 nature, or from the workings of passion, or from meditation and each production will he distinguished from the roost vig- orous of the prosaic mind by the halo of beauty, as we see in pictures the infant head of our Saviour by the glory. The pleasure derived from rural occupations anti scenes is univer- sal ; and vet there has been hut OflO rfl1oI1~so1) to reproduce tile i 1 sioris made by them in a picture as faithful as it is lovch rfhotisaads of nax elleis pass yearly over the fielti of \X tci I a, along the Rhuc thioughi Switzerland into Italy, reaping a rich enjoyment fio~n tilO various attractions of these ree~ions bat Childe lkio1d ~ and ever will be, a unique ~xoil rho story of i\Jacbeth lay among the traditions of ~ otard an unheeded insta ld e of common guilt, till Shaks peale lifted it up, as the Cod of nature lifts ill) the common vapor of tile earth to forc~e lus thunderbolts. Tile l)oet, then, must 1 now much ; through observation and study ho must b 11011 in I nowledge, and be skilled in the uses of it by action. He mu~t Icel strongly : and, through cx p01101100 ol the joys an(l athlietions of liii~, have leamed tile dept ha of the human I itt To think without having acted, 4 L jc of ,~gcItiUw. [July, is but to dream. Merely to look at the workings of passion, is barren observation; the shock from the battery must be felt as well as its coruscations be seen, in order to learn the force of electricity ;the heart must meet other hearts through the medium of acts flowing from its own warmth, before the spark of knowledge and truth can be struck forth. In short, to give life and substance to his poetry, the poet must be and do as other men: the man is the basis of the poet. Who has so peered into and illumined Reality, even to the deepest valleys thereof, and even to the smallest worm in them, as the twin stars of poetry, Homer and Shakspeare? As plastic art ever works in the school of nature, so have the richest poets ever been the most devoted and industrious children, laboring to hand over to other children the picture of mother Nature with new traits of likeness. The poets of the ancients were men of business and warriors before they were singers; and especially must the great Epic poets of all times have lustily worked at the helm on the ocean of life, before they took in their hands the pencil which traces the vessels course. Thus Camoens, Dante, Milton,and only Klopstock is an excep- tion, but more for the rule than against it. How were not Shak- speare, and, still more, Cervantes thoroughly penetrated and ploughed and furrowed by life, before in them the seed of their poetic Flora sprouted forth and 6rew up! The poetic school in which Goethe took his first lessons was made up, according to his autobiography, of mechanics shops, painters studies, coronation halls, and of all busy fair-holding Frankfort.* In proportion, then, to the poets elevation among poets, will he be interesting as a man, and the history of his life be valuable; and the general curiosity in regard to all that relates to a great poet, is evidence that public instinct knows his po- sition, independently of the demonstrmition of it which the critic may be able to give. The appearance of a life of Schiller, therefore, will doubtless excite in the reading world an antici- pation of lively pleasure; and such anticipation the work at the head of this article will fully meet. It is a reprint of a work lately published in England. The author is not named in the title. Whoever he may be, he discovers, to quote the language of Dr. Follen, in the Preface to the American * Jean Paul Friedrich Richters Vorschule der .Yest/ieUk.Vol. I. 2. 1334.] Lfe of ,S~c1iillcr. 5 edition, a particular aptness for appreciating the characteris- tic excellence of Schiller. For not only is he a fine critic and writer, and consequently capable of appreciating and de- scribing Schiller; but he brings to his task that strong sym- pathy so essential to its well-perforinance,a qualification in a critic, thus described by Goethe in one of his letters to Schil- icr : It seems to me that, as well in treating of writings as of deeds, unless one speaks xvith a loving sympathy, a certain partial enthusiasm, the result is so defective as to have very little value. Schiller,whose name is now a sound of power in the ~vorld,was born at Marbacb, a small town of Wiirtemberg, on the 10th of November, 1759. His mother was exemplary as a mother and wife; and her taste and intelligence are said to have been superior to her education. It is worthy of note that she was fond of poetry. His father had been a surgeon and officer in the army, from xvhich he retired soon after the hirtb of the poet, and held during the rest of his life an incon- siderable post under the King of Wiirtemberg. He is describ- ed as a clear-headed, upright, pious man, who used the leisure left by his occupations to cultivate himself by reading and stu- dy. These excellent persons, whose characters seem to have been blended in Schiller, and under whose benign influence he grew up, enjoyed the fortune of living to witness the greatness of their son; and we can believe, that filial gratitude and a just consciousness of his own worth suggested to the poet the following beautiful passage, which he makes Don Carlos ad- dress to his father Philip. How sweet and rapturous tis to feel Ourseif exalted in a lovely soul, To know, oar joys make glow anothers cheek, Our fears do tremhle in anothers heart, Our sufferings hedew anothers eye How heautiful and grand tis, hand in hand Vith a dear son, to tread youths rosy path, Again to dream once more the dream of life! How sweet and gre at, imperishable in The virtue of a child, to live for ages, Transmitting good unceasingly! How sweet To plant what a dear son ~vill one day reap, To gather what xviii make him rich,to feel, how deep will one day be his gratitude! 6 L{Je of ~S1chi11er. [J rIv. Schiller was self-educated. Great men must ever be so. There is no teacher of the mnstermmd but itself With its growth I)roeeetls its education selfculture is a necessity of its being. The mind that can be led and moulded has not the native viror to attain piec ~ninen cc and when it bas this vigor, to attem})t to determine its (lirection is like attempting to mould the trunk of the young oak by enclosing it with boards, which, if they press it, are burst, and if they do not, are left entire around it, and are then entitled to as much credit for its form, as tbe instructer is for the results of the genius whose development he happened not to thwart. Therein alone can the teacher, into whose hands a young giant falls, show his wis- dom, by perceiving his power and giving it scope. Far was Scbiller from meeting with this appreciation his poxvers were cabined, cribbed, con~ned at school, particularly the one at which be was last and longest, to ~vhose laws a disposition to poetry did violence, and whose effect on him, Schiller in after life described, b)r calling Tue Robbers a monster, for which by good fortune the world has no origtnal, and which I would not wish to be immortal, except to perpetuate an example of the offspring which Genius, in its unnatural union with Thral dom, may give to the world. So that the (Jarisschule, at Stuttgard, appears to have had the same kind of agency in making Schiller what lie was, that the famous article in the Edinburgh Review, on the hours of idleness, had in produc- ing Byron. There is a mU ture of the comic anil sublime in the pictuic of the youth Schiller , growing to manhood in the hands of the self-complacent pedagogues of the Duke of WUrtemherg and the appearance of Tire Robbers, as a consequence of their formal drilling, can be aptly likened to the explosion of a mass of gunpowder under the noses of sonic ignorant boys, drying it before the fire, to be used as common sand. The author of the Life of Schiller, before us, has a fine J)assage on the effect produced l)y The & Jlicrs. We extract it entire, and could wish that the principle set forth in the last paragraph were more generally understood. The publication of sn& h a work as this naturally produced an extraordinary feeling in the literary world. Translations of the Robbers soomi al)peared in almost all the languages of Europe, and were read in all of them with a deep interest, compounded of a(lfniration and aversion, according to the relative proportions of 1& 34.] 7 sensibility and judgment in the various minds xvhich contemplat- ed the subject. In Germany, the enthusiasm ~vhich the Robbers excited was extreme. The young author had burst upon the world like a meteor; and surprise, for a time, suspended the pow- cr of cool and rational criticism. In the ferment produced by the universal discussion of this single topic, the poet was magni- fied above his natural dimensions, great as they were: and though the general sentence was loudly in his favor, yet he found de- tractors as xvell as praisers, and both equally beyond the limits of moderation. One charge brought against him must have damped the joy of literary glory, and stung 8chillers pure and virtuous mind more deeply than any other. He was accused of having injured the cause of morality by his work of having set up to tbe impetu- ous and fiery temperament of youth a model of imitation, which the young were too likely to pursue with eagerness, and which could only lead them from the safe and beaten tracks of duty into error and destruction. Jt has even been stated, and often repeated since, that a practical exemplification of this doc- trine occurred, about this time, in Germany. A young noble- man, it was said, of the fairest gifts and prospects, had cast away all these advantages ; hetaken himself to the forests, and, copy- ing Moor, had begun a course of active opcrations,which, also copyin~ Moor, but less willingly, lie had eude(1 by a shameful death. It can now be hardly necessary to contradict these theories or to show that none but a candidate for Bedlam as well as Ty- burn could be seduced from the substantial comforts of existence, to seek destruction and disgrace, for the sake of such imaginary grandeur. The German nobleman of the fairest gifts and pros- pects turns out, on investigation, to have been a German black- guard, whom debauchery and riotous extravagance had reduced to want; who took to the highway, ~vhen lie could take to noth- ing else ,not allured by an ebullient enthusiasm, or any heroical and misdirected appetite for sublime actions, but driven by the more palpable stimulus of importunate dumis, an empty l)urse, and five craving senses. Perhaps, in his later days, this philosopher may have referred to Schillers tra~edy, as the source from which he drew his theory of life; but if so, ~ve believe he was mistak- en. For characters like him, the great attraction was the charm of revelry, and the great restraint, the gallows,before the peri- od of Karl von Moor, just as they have been since, and will be to the end of time. Among motives like these, the influence of even the most malignant book could scarcely be discernible, and would be little detrimental, if it were. Life of Sc/tiller. [July, Nothing, at any rate, could be farther from Schillers inten- tion than such a consunimatiori. In his preface, he speaks of the moral effect of the Robbers in terms which do honor to his heart, while they show the inexperience of his head. Ridicule, he sig- nifies, has long been tried against the wickedness of the times, whole cargoes of hellebore have been expended in vain; and now, he thinks, recourse must be had to more pungent medicines. We may smile at the simplicity of this idea; and safely conclude that, like other specifics, the present one would fail to produce a perceptible effect; but Schillers vindication rests on higher grounds than these. his work has on the whole furnished nour- ishment to the more exalted powers of our nature; the senti- ments and images which he has shaped and uttered, tend ,in spite of their alloy, to elevate the soul to a nobler pitch: and this is a sufficient defence. As to the danger of misapplying the in- spiration he communicates, of forgetting the dictates of prudence in our zeal for the dictates of poetry, we have no great cause to fear it. Hitherto, at least, there has always been enough of dull reality, on every side of us, to abate such fervors in good time, and bring us back to the most sober level of prose, if not to sink us below it. We should thank the poet who performs such a service; and forbear to inquire too rigidly whether there is any moral in his piece or not. The writer of a work, which in- terests and excites the spiritual feelings of men, has as little need to justify himself by showing how it exemplifies some wise saw or modern instance, as the doer of a generous action has to de- monstrate its merit, by deducing it from the system of Shaftsbury, or Smith, or Paley, or whichever happens to be the favorite sys- tem for the age and place. The instructiveness of the one, and the virtue of the other, exist independently of all systems or saws, and in spite of all. Thus was Schillers entrance into manhood signalized. He postponed the publication of The Robbers until (after the con- clusion of his college course) he had obtained the post of sur- geon in the army, and he was just twenty-one when it appear- ed. With those in power in Wiirtemberg, The Robbers gain- ed him no favor. To the Duke especially, it was doubly offensive: it was a manifestation of power and spirit in a sub- ject, very unacceptable to a despotic sovereign, and it was a contumacious violation of the laws of taste, which called equal- ly for the Dukes condemnation. He ordered Schiller to abide by medical subjects. And as an earnest of his determination to enforce the order, and with his ducal power to crush the budding genius of the young poet, he bad him put under arrest P334.] Life of & hiller for a week, for having gone secretly to Manheim to witness the performance of The Robbers. Schiller, however, went again; and learning that for this second transgression a much severer punishment awaited him, he resolved to free himself from the tyranny of the Duke, and to fly from his dominions. Accordingly, taking advantage of a day of hustle in Stuttgard, created by the arrival of some foreign Prince, he retired from the city, and passed beyond the frontier of Wiirtemberg. Empty in purse and hope, he left his home. But, though hopeless and moneyless, he was not friendless. This can hardly be the lot of genius in Germany. Baron Dalberg, at that time superintendent of the theatre at Manheim, (in the Palatinate) who appreciated Schiller, and had brought The Robbers upon the stage, supplied him with money, while he lived under the name of Schmidt in a small town of Franconia; and soon after his flight from Stuttgard, Madam von Wollzogen, who admired the author of The Robbers, and knew Schillers character through her sons, with whom he had been at school, invited him to her estate, near Meinungen. Under her hospi- table roof, Schiller gave scope to the impulses of his genius, and within a year sent forth two more dramas, Fiesco and Kabal rind Liebe (Court Intrigue and Love). The reputa- tion of these enabled his friend Dalberg to have him appointed poet t~ the Manheim theatre, a post of respectability and rea- sonable profit. By this step his destiny was accomplished; by it he was placed in a position to devote himself to literature. Successfully had the inward strength of his inclinations struggled against outward difficulties, and opened to him the career which alone could satisfy himself, and in following which he was destined to shine, a light to the world. Something ma- jestic, said he at this period, hovers before me, as I deter- mine now to wear no other fetters but the sentence of the world, to appeal to no other throne but the soul of man. The establishment of Schiller at Manheim, terminates the first era of his life. He was in his twenty-fourth year. In a short time he had experienced much. Strongly and variously had his heart been moved: duty and affection, the love of liberty and the calculation of its perils, fear and hope, had contended in his breast with the keenness exacted by the practical importance of the issue. He had felt the appalling reality of sudden self-dependence. These trials, too, had attested a boldness and energy in risking and resisting, pro~ VOL. XXXIX,NO~ 84. 10 Life of ~S~chiller. [Ju1y~ portioned to the intellectual capacity in whose behalf they were exerted. He was thus well schooled for his vocation of painter and interpreter of the human heart: that this was the part allotted to him by nature, he had brilliantly shown. What he had already done was, however, only the evidence of a mighty power, and not the result of its full exertion ; the three works above named are the deep broad shadows that Don Carlos, Wallenstein, and Tell cast before them. The author before us introduces the second part of the Life of Schiller with comments on the condition of the Man of Letters, eloquently expressed, but only, we think, partially true. We doubt that men who devote themselves to Litera- ture are burdened with more misery than their fellows. From two causes they seem to be so :we seek to learn more of their lives than of those of any other class, and thence become acquainted with their particular portion of the common suffer- ing of humanity; and, secondly, our gratitude to them as benefactors or entertainers, sharpens our sympathy. But even if their pangs, from a deeper sensibility, be keener, so are their pleasures from the same cause. Not that we regard this as a solution of the question. Such a balancing of the account of life gives a very imperfect result; and, indeed, would not only annihilate all gradation in human existence, but would level man, as to the quantum of happiness, to the degree of the brute animal, of whom it can with truth be said, that though the circle of his enjoyments is much narrower than that of man, he suffers proportionally less pain. This esti- mate of happiness is as fallacious as that of pecuniary profit, which should infer equality in the net gains of two merchants, because the income of each is to his outlay as five is to six, without looking to the difference in the amount of their re- spective capitals. The elevated faculties of our nature are the only active capital, that is productive of substantial good; and the propor- tion which they bear in making up the sum of a life, is the index of the happiness of each individual. Now, with those alone ~re hours of study occupied, and in such hours, the common cares and vexations and littlenesses of daily life are banished from the minds presence; nor is the pleasure en- joyed a mere momentary relaxation, such as superficial amuse- ment gives to the work-worn body, but a strong, enduring, paramount gratification, which lightens all burdens, and miti 1334.] Life of & hiller. 11 gates the sting of every affliction. The solitary toil of the student feeds a flame, whose light tempers the darkness that gathers round the man. And this effect, strong when literary employment is merely passive, and the mind does no more than feed on the fruit of others efforts, is far stronger when it labors actively, and reproduces the results of its observation and meditation, of experience and thought. The search of truth is the minds noblest occupation,the discovery, its grandest triumph. Obstacles and difficulties are elements of the pleasure of the search, as labor is of bodily well-being. And to the poet, who works in the richest field,the human heart ,even the personal troubles and afflictions, that darken his individual path, are part of the material wherefrom is ex- tracted the wisdom with which he lights and brightens the way of life to his fellows; just as the rugged rocks, shading with overhanging masses the bosom of the river that has forced its passage through them, are at once the constituents of its beauty and the evidence of its usefulness. At the time when a new voice thus made itself heard in tones so deep and thrilling, German Literature had reached the maturity of its sudden growth. From various causes, this strong-minded people had remained without a literature until the middle of the eighteenth century. Before the Reforma- tion there was no common dialect. Luther, whose gigantic mind made one of the greatest epochs in the history of man, made one too in the language of his country. The High German was gaining the ascendency over the Low German, and Luther determined the conflict, by adopting it in his translation of the Bible. But although in this great literary masterpiece a perfect language was embodied, the religious disputes that engrossed Germany at this period, prevented the growth of elegant literature. Thus did Luther impede, for the time, that over which he was to exercise so vast and healthful an influence :a proof of his mighty power. Then followed the thirty years war, which, besides distracting impoveiishino the Gei~n~~n States, operated injuriously b and literature by upon the currency given through foreign soldiery to foreign languages and idioms. After it, came the French manw. The nobles spoke French and aped French manners. This influence extended into the eighteenth century, being supported not only, as is well known, by the Great Frederic, but by the writers who rose up at this time, endeavoring to 12 Lfe of & hiller. [July, satisfy the long deferred want of a national literature; and who, though writing in Luthers German, imitated French models and were guided by French taste. Such were Opitz, Gottsched, Hagedorn, and others. But among them, and im- mediately following them, there appeared, almost simulta- neously, a host of great original minds, who may be said to have suddenly created German literature :Lessing, who first drew attention to Shakspeare, who was the master of the Schiegels, and may be called the father of philosophical criticism ;.Klopstock, whose odes are as patriotic and national in character, as they are truly lyrical in tone ;the classical Wieland ;Herder, whom Jean Paul calls a Christian Plato; and the greatest of all, Goethe, who, like Schiller, but ten years earlier than he, had swelled this grand concert of spirits with sounds of moan that xvent to the heart of Germany, and whose wild melody announced the master-spirit of the band. We here beseech the reader not to impute to us a blind enthusiasm, because he has read a book entitled The Sorrows of Werther. Goethe never wrote one with that title. He called his work, The sufferings of the young Werther: the one knoxvn to the English reader, is a version of a French translation of that, and having undergone tins double process of bad translation, (a good direct one, even, would be a difficult achievement,) is, we assure him, a very different thing from the original. Much it is to be regretted, that the opinion (if the vague idea excited by their names can be called such) entertained of these two great men by most readers in this country~ should be drawn chiefly from the impression made by The Robbers and Werthier, both produced when they were scarcely arrived at manhood, and both the result of that mor- bid, inflamed state of mind into which young genius will lash itself,the wild cry of passion from deep souls full to suffoca- tion, uttered without aim or knowledge, from the pressure of an inward burden. Immediately after his settlement at Manheim, Schiller en- gaged actively in the discussions in which the awakened lite- rary spirit of Germany was purifying and strengthening itself. He commenced the publication of a journal. In this, called the Rheinisehie Thtahia, appeared the first three acts of Don Ca os, which added greatly to his reputation and gained for him the favor of the Grand Duke of Saxe Weimar, who after- wards proved so valuable a patron. Schiller soon grew dis~ I 834.j Life of iScbilieix 13 contented with his situation at Manheim. The routine of theatrical supervision was not congenial to him. His salary was moderate; and his expanding mind longed for a wider field. At the expiration of eighteen months, he xvent to reside at Leipzig, and afterwards at Dresden. While at Manheim, he had formed an engagement with the daughter of one of his friends there, which was broken off by mutual consent. Ac- cording to the account given in the Life,~ this was a very Un- poetical affair. He atoned for it, however, afterwards, and vindicated his claim to the poetic temperament, by going crazy for a while in consequence of the falsehood of a Dresden beauty. This form of homage to love seems to be a natural one for poets. Goethe, too, paid it, and his own sufferings supplied the materials for those of Werther. Byrons heart never healed of the wound inflicted by his first disappointment in love. Schillers misery was, fortunately, confined to the poetry of courtship ; the prose of matrimony was in his case smooth and bright. While at Leipzig and Dresden, he continued the publica- tion of the Thalia; wrote many of his smaller poems, the fragment of a novel called the & eisterseher (Ghostseer) and concluded Don Garios, of which the writer of the Life says: Schillers Garlos is the first of his plays, that bears the stamp of any thing like full maturity. The opportunities he had en- joyed for extending his knowledge of men and things, the sedu- lous practice of the art of composition, the study of purer morals, had not been without their full effect. Increase of years had done something for him; diligence had done much more. The ebullience of youth is now chastened into the steadfast energy of manhood; the wild enthusiast, that spurned at the errors of the world, has now become the enlightened moralist, that laments their necessity, or endeavors to find out their remedy. A corres- ponding alteration is visible in the external form of the work, in its plot and diction. The plot is contrived with great ingenu- ity, embodying the result of much study, both dramatic and his- torical. The language is blank verse, not prose, as in the for- merxvorks; it is more careful and regular, less ambitious in its object, but more certain of attaining it. Schillers mind had now reached its full stature : he felt and thought more justly ; he could better express what he felt and thought. The following extract presents to the reader a distinct pic- ture of the state of Schillers mind at this period. 14 i~4fr of & liilier. [Ju1y~ This tragedy of Carlos was received with immediate and urn- versal approbation. In the closet and on the stage, it excited the warmest applauses equally among the learned and unlearned. Schillers expectations had not been so high; he knew both the excellencies and the faults of his work: but he had not anticipa- ted that the former would be recognised so instantaneously. The pleasure of this new celebrity came upon him, therefore, heightened by surprise. Had dramatic eminence been his sole object, he might now have slackened his exertions; the public had already ranked him as the first of their writers in that favor- ite department. But this limited ambition was not his moving principle; nor was his mind of that sort for which rest is provid- ed in this world. The primary disposition of his nature urged him to perpetual toil: the great aim of his life, the unfolding of his mental powers, was one of those which admit but a relative, not an absolute progress. New ideas of perfection arise as the former have been reached; the student is always attaining, nev- er has attained. Schillers worldly circumstances, too, were of a kind well calculated to prevent excess of quietism. lie was still drifting at large on the tide of life: he was crowned with laurels, but with- out a home. His heart, warm and affectionate, fitted to enjoy the domestic blessings which it longed for, was allowed to form no permanent attachment: he felt that he was unconnected, sol- itary in the world; cut off from the exercise of his kindlier sym- pathies ; or if tasting such pleasures, it was snatching them rather than partaking of them calmly. The vulgar desire of wealth and station never entered his mind for an instant: but as years were added to his age, the delights of peace and continu- ous comfort were fast becoming more acceptable than any other; and he looked with anxiety to have a resting-place amid his wan- derings, to be a man among his fellow men. For all these wishes, S chiller saw that the only chance of ful- filment depended on unwearied perseverance in his literary oc- cupations. Yet though his activity was unabated, and the calls on it were increasing rather than diminished, its direction was gradually changing. The drama had long been stationary, and of late been falling in his estimation: the difficulties of the art, as he viewed it at present, had been overcome, and new con- quests invited him in other quarters. The latter part of Garlos he had written as a task rather than a pleasure; he contemplated no farther undertaking connected with the Stage. For a time, indeed, lie seems to have wavered among a multiplicity of enter- prises; now solicited to this, and now to that, without being able to fix decidedly on any. The restless ardor of his mind is evinc 1834.] Life of fchillcr. ed by the number and variety of his attempts; its fluctuation by the circumstance that all of them are either short in extent, or left in a state of fragments. Of the former kind are his lyri- cal productions, many of which were composed about this period, during intervals from more serious labors. The character of these performances is such as his former writings gave us reason to expect. With a deep insight into life, and a keen and com- prehensive sympathy with its sorrows and enjoyments, there is combined that impetuosity of feeling, that pomp of thought and imagery which belong peculiarly to Schiller. If he had now left the Drama, it was clear that his mind was still overflo~ving with the elements of poetry; dwelling among the grandest con- ceptions, and the boldest or finest emotions; thinking intensely and profoundly, but decorating its thoughts with those graces, which other faculties than the understanding are required to af- ford them. With these smaller pieces, Schiller occupied him- self at intervals of leisure throughout the remainder of his life. Some of them are to be classed among the most finished efforts of his genius. The Walk, the Song of the Bell, contain exquis- ite delineations of the fortunes and history of man; his Ritter von Toggenburg, his Cranes of ibycus, his Hero and Leander, are among the most poetical and moving ballads to be found in any language. He now turned his attention to history, and his aspiring mind formed several magnificent plans of historical works, too vast for execution. The results of his labor in this depart- mnent of literature, although in extent falling far short of his original designs, are productions of the highest merit, combin- ing with vivid gorgeous narrative, a deep philosophical spirit. The Revolt of the Netherlands (unfortunately a fragment) was the first. To this subject he was led by the investigations into the state of Spain under Philip II., which the composition of Don Carlos made necessary. We must here quote again from the eloquent writer of the Life. Such were Schillers occupations while at Dresden: their ex- tent and variety are proof enough that idleness was not among his vices. It was, in truth, the opposite extreme, in which he erred. He wrote and thought with an impetuosity beyond what nature always could endure. His intolerance of interruptions first put him on the plan of studying by night; an alluring but pernicious practice, which began at Dresden, and was never af- terwards forsaken. His recreations breathed a similar spirit: he loved to be much alone, and strongly moved. The banks of the 16 Life of Schiller. [July, Elbe were the favorite resort of his mornings: here, wandering in solitude amid groves and lawns, and green and beautiful places, he abandoned his mind to delicious musings; watched the fitful current of his thoughts, as they came sweeping through his soul in their vague, fantastic, gorgeous forms; pleased himself with the transient images of memory and hope; or meditated on the cares and studies which had lately been employing, and were again soon to employ him. At times, he might be seen float- ing on the river in a gondola, feasting himself with the loveliness of earth and sky. He delighted most to be there, when tem- pests were abroad: his unquiet spirit found a solace in the ex- pression of his own unrest on the face of Nature; danger lent a charm to his situation ; he felt in harmony with the scene, when the rack was sweeping stormfully across the heavens, and the forests were sounding in the breeze, and the river ~vas rolling its chafed waters into wild eddying heaps. Yet before the darkness summoned him exclusively to his tasks, Schiller commonly devoted a portion of his day to the pleasures of society. Could he have found enjoyment in the flatteries of admiring hospitality, his present fame would have procured them for him in abundance. But these things were not to Schillers taste. His opinion of the flesh-flies of Leip- zic? we have already seen; he retained the same sentiments throughout all his life. The idea of being what we call a hon is offensive enough to any man, of not more than common vani- ty, or less than common understanding: it was doubly offensive to him. His pride and his modesty alike forbade it. The deli- cacy of his nature, aggravated into shyness by his education and his habits,rendered situations of display more than usually pain- ful to him; the digito pra~tereuntium was a sort of celebration he was far from coveting. In the circles of fashion, he appeared unwillingly, and seldom to advantage: their glitter and parade were foreign to his disposition: their strict ceremonial crampod the play of his mind. Hemmed in, as by invisible fences, among the intricate barriers of etiquette, so feeble, so inviolable, he felt constrained and helpless; alternately chagrined and in- dignant. It was the giant among pigmies; Gulliver,in Lilliput, tied down by a thousand packthreads. But there were more con- genial minds, with whom he could associate; more familiar scenes, in which he found the pleasures he was seeking. Here Schiller was himself; frank, unembarrassed, pliant to the humor of the hour. His conversation was delightful, abounding at once in rare and simple charms. Besides the intellectual riches which it carried with it, there was that flow of kindliness and unaffected good humor, which can render dulness itself agreea 1834.] Life tf & /tilicr. 17 ble. Schiller had many friends in Dresden, who loved him as a man, while they admired him as a writer. Their intercourse was of the kind he liked, sober, as well as free and mirthful. It was the careless, calm, honest effusion of his feelings that he wanted, not the noisy tumults and coarse delirium of dissipation. For this, under any of its forms, he at no time showed the small- est relish. In 1787, Schiller paid a visit to Weimar, the capital of lite- rary Germany, where he was cordially welcomed, particularly by Herder and Wieland. You know the men, he writes, of whom Germany is proud; a Herder, a Wieland, with their brethren; and one wall now encloses me and them. What ex- cellencies are in Weimar In this city, at least in This terri- tory, I mean to settle for life, and at length once more to have a country. While at Weimar, he received an invitation from his kind protectress, Madam von Wolizonen, to visit her. It was on occasion of this journey that he became acquainted, at Rudolstadt, with the Fmiulein von Len 6efeld, whose attrac- tions brought him back to Rudolstadt the following spring. To this lady, who returned his love, and was worthy of it, he became engaged. His affectionate nature longed for domestic intercourse, and this union was destined to realize his antici- pations of married life. He spent the summer at Rudolstadt, proceeding diligently and ardently in his literary labors. Here, for the first time, he met Goethe. The meeting, how- ever, led to no intimacy. Soon after it, Schiller thus writes On the whole, this personal meeting has not at all dimin- ished the idea, great as it was, which I had previously formed of Goethe; but I doubt whether we shall ever come into any close communication with each other. Much that still interests me has already had its epoch with him. His whole nature is, from its very origin, otherwise constructed than mine; his world is not my world; our modes of conceiving things appear to be essentially different. From such a combination, no secure, sub- stantial intimacy can result. Time will shew. As little did Goethe feel attracted at that time towards Schiller. We refer the reader to the volume before us, for Goethes interesting account of the state of his mind at that period. And yet, they did come together several years after- wards, and, contrary to Schillers then anticipations, formed a secure and substantial intimacy, which lasted and strength- ened till the death of Schiller, which was, during ten years, the VOL. XXXIX,NO. 84. 3 18 Life of Schiller~ jJuly chief source of pleasure and instruction to both, and which, in the annals of literature, exhibits a phenomenon as beautiful as it is rare. It was in 1787 that they first met, only, as it then seemed, to prove the impossibility of a close union between two such differently constituted natures; and in 1799 Goethe be~ gins the six hundred and forty-fifth letter between them, in the following manner. He had just heard from Schiller of the ill- ness of his wife. Your letter, my dear friend, has given me a most painful surprise. My friendship for you is so strong, that I feel whatever happens to you as if it happened to my- self. * In 1789, being then in his thirtieth year, Schiller was ap- pointed Professor of History at the University of Jena, in the Grand Duchy, and a few miles distant from the town of Wei- mar. Goethe, who appreciated Schillers genius, notwith- standing the indisposition he then felt to a closer intercourse, used his influence in procuring this post for him. Upon this he married; and here and at Weimar lie spent the rest of his too short life. With additional zeal he now devoted himself to the study of history, and in 1791 published his History of the thirty years war. Just at this time the philosophy of Kant spread itself over Germany like a thick vapor. In its course of mental purification, the universal German brain was undergoing the process of fumigation. Schiller, in whom the tendency to metaphysical abstraction was so strong, that, had lie not been a poet~ he probably would have been a metaphysician, became for a while a disciple of the Kantian doctrines. His was not a mind, however, to adopt a system; and he in a short time discovered, that he had not been so much enlightened as he at first supposed. The native soundness of his mind, supported by the influence of Goethe, soon dispelled this metaphysical illusion. The state of Germany, when the reign of Kant was at its height, is finely described by the anonymous author of the Life of Schiller. We cannot resist the temptation to make a long extract. The transcendental system of the K6nigsberg Professor had, for the last ten years, been spreading over Germany, which it had * Ihr Brief, werthester Freund, hat mich auf das unangenehmste ~berrascht. Unsere zust~nde sind so innig verwebt dass ich das was Ihnen begegnet an mir selbst fehle.Briefwechset rwischen Schiiier und Goethe in den Jahren 1794 bi~ 18O5~ 1834.] L~fe of Schiller. 19 now filled with the most violent contentions. The powers and accomplishments of Kant were universally acknowledged; the high pretensions of his system, pretensions, it is true, such as had been a thousand times put forth, and a thousand times found want- ing, still excited notice, when so backed by ability and reputa- tion. The air of mysticism, connected with these doctrines, was attractive to the German mind, with which the vague arid the vast are always pleasing qualities. The dreadful array of first princi- ples, the forest huge of terminology and definitions, where the panting intellect of weaker men wanders as in pathless thickets, and at length sinks powerless to the earth, oppressed with fa- tigue, and suffocated with scholastic miasma, seemed sublime rather than appalling to the Germans; men who shrink not at toil, and to ~vhom a certain degree of darkness appears a native element, essential for giving play to that deep meditative enthu- siasm, which forms so important a feature in their character. Kants Philosophy, accordingly, found numerous disciples, and possessed them with a zeal unexampled since the days of Pytha- goras. This, in fact, r esemhled spiritual fanaticism rather than a cairn ardor in the cause of science; Kants warmest admirers seemed to regard him more in the light of a prophet, than of a mere earthly sage. Such admiration was of course opposed by corresponding censure; the transcendental neophytes had to en- counter skeptical gainsayers as determined as themselves. Of this latter class the most remarkable were Herder and Wieland. Herder, then a clergyman of Weimar, seems never to have com- prehended what he fought against so keenly; he denounced and condenined the Kantian metaphysics, because he found them lieterodox. The young divines came back from the university of Jena with their minds ~vell nigh delirious; full of strange doc- trines, which they explained to the examinators of the Weimar Consistorium, in phrases that excited no idea in the heads of these reverend persons, hut much horror in their hearts. Hence reprirnands, and objurgations, and excessive bitterness between the applicants for ordin~ tion and those appointed to con- fer it; one young clergyman at Weimar shot himself on this ac- count; heresy, and jarring, and unprofitable logic, were univer- sal. Hence Herders vehement attacks on this pernicious (luackery ~ this delusive and destructive system of words. Wieland strove against it for another reason. He had, all his life, been laboring to give currency among his countrymen to a species of diluted epicurism: to erect a certain smooth, and ele~ gant, and very slender scheme of taste and morals, borrowed from our Shaftsbury and the French. All this feeble edifice the new doctrine was sweeping before it to utter ruin, with the via- 20 Life of Schiller. [July, lence of a tornado. It grieved Wieland to see the work of half a century destroyed ; he fondly imagined, that but for Kants philosophy it might have been perennial. With skepticism quickened into action by such motives, Herder and he went forth as brother champions against the transcendental metaphysics; they were not long without a multitude of hot assailants. The uproar produced among thinking men by the conflict, has scarcely been equalled in Germany since the days of Luther. Fields were fought, and victories lost and won; nearly all the minds of the nation were, in secret or openly, arrayed on this side or on that. Goethe alone seemed altogether to retain his wonted composure; he was clear for allowing the Kantian scheme to have its day, as all things have. Goethe had already lived to see the wis- dorn of this sentiment, so characteristic of his genius and turn of thought. In these controversies, soon pushed beyond the hounds oftem- perate or wholesome discussion, Schiller took no part; but the noise they made afforded him a fresh inducement to investigate a set of doctrines, so important in the general estimation. A sys- tem which promised, even with a very little plausibility, to ac- complish all that Kant asserted his complete performance of; to explain the difference bet~veen 1~Latter and Spirit, to unravel the perplexities of Necessity and Free-will ; to show us the true grounds of our belief in God, and what hope nature gives us of the souls immortality ; and thus at length, after a thousand fail- ures, to interpret the enigma of our being,hardly needed that additional inducement, to make such a man as Schiller grasp at it with eager curiosity. Ills progress also was facilitated by his present circumstances; Jena had now becoirie the chief well- spring of Kantian doctrine, a distinction or disgrace it has ever since continued to deserve. Reinhold, one of Kants ablest fol- lowers, was at this time Schillers fellow teacher and daily coin- panion; he did not fail to encourage and assist his friend in a path of study, which, as he believed, conducted to such glorious results. Under this tuition, Schiller was not long in discovering, that at least the new philosophy was more poetical than that of Leibnitz, and had a grander character; persuasions, which of course, confirmed him in his resolution to examine it. How far Schiller penetrated into the arcana of transcenden- talism, it is impossible for us to say. rrhe metaphysical and logi- cal branches of it seem to have affbrded him no solid satisfac- tion, or taken no firm hold of his thoughts; their influence is scarcely to be traced in any of his subsequent writings. The on- ly department, to which he attached himself with his ordinary zeal, wa. that which r latQ~ to the principles of the imitativ a~te, 1834.] L?fe of %hiller. 21 with their moral influences, and which in the Kantian nomen- clature has been designated by the term AJsthetics, or the doc- trine of sentiments and emotions. On these subjects he already had amassed a multitude of thoughts; to see which expressed by new symbols, and arranged in systematic form, and held togeth- er by some common theory, would necessarily yield enjoyment to his intellect, and inspire him with fresh alacrity in prosecuting such researches. The new light which dawned, or seemed to daxvn, upon him, in the course of these investigations, is reflect- ed in various treatises, evincing, at least, the honest diligence with which be studied, and the fertility with which he could pro- duce. Of these, the largest and most elaborate are the essays on Grace and Dignity; on Naive and Sentimental Poetry; and the Letters on the ZEsthetic culture of Man: the other pieces are on Tragic Art; on the Pathetic; on the Gause of our Delight in Tragic Objects; on Employing the Low and Common in Art. Being cast in the mould ofKantism, or, at least, clothed in its garments, these productions, to readers unacquainted with that system, are encumbered here and there with difficulties greater than belong intrinsically to the subject. In perusing them, the uninitiated student is mortified at seeing so much po~verful thought distorted, as he thinks, into such fantastic forms ; the principles of reasoning, on which they rest, are apparently not those of common logic; dimness and doubt overhang their conclusions ; scarcely any thing is proved in a convincing man- ner. But this is no strange quality in such writings. To an exoteric reader, the philosophy of Kant almost~ always appears to invert the common maxim: its end and aim seem not to be to make abstruse things simple, but to make simple things ~ Often a proposition of inscrutable and dread aspect, when reso- lutely grappled ~vith, and torn from its shady den, and its brist- ling entrenchments of uncouth terminology, and dragged forth into the open li_ ht of day, to be seen by the natural eye, and tried by merely human understanding, proves to be a very harm- less truth, familh r to us from of old, sometimes so familiar as to be a truism. Too frequently, the anxious novice is reminded of Dryden in the Battle of the L~ooks: there is a helmet of rusty iron, dark, grim, gigantic ; and within it, at the farthest corner, is a head no bigger than a walnut. These are the general er- rors of Kantian criticism : in the present works, they ;ire by no means of the worst or most pervading kind; and there is a fun- damental merit which does more than counterbalance them: By the aid of study, the doctrine set before us can, in general, at length I e comprehended ; and Schillers fine intellect, recognms~ 22 Ljc of Schiller. [July, ble even in its masquerade, is ever and anon peering forth in its native form, which all may understand, which all must relish, and presenting us with passages, that show like bright verdant islands in the misty sea of metaphysics. We have been compelled to offer these remarks on Kants Philosophy; but it is right to add that they are the result of on- ly very limited acquaintance with the subject. We cannot wish that any influence of ours should add a note, however feeble, to the loud and not at all melodious cry, which has been raised against it. When a class of doctrines, so involved in difficulties, yet so sanctioned by illustrious iiames, is set before us, curiosi- ty must have a theory respecting them, and indolence and other humbler feelings are too ready to afford her one. To call Kants system a laborious dream, and its adherents, crazy mystics, is a brief method; brief but false. The critic, whose philosophy in- cludes the craziness of men like these, so easily and smoothly in its formulas, should render thanks to Heaven for having gifte.d him with science and acumen, such as few in any age or country have been gifted with. Meaner men, however, ought to recollect, that where we do not understand, we should postpone deciding, or, at least, keep our decision for our own exclusive benefit. We of England may reject this Kantian system, perhaps with reason; but it ought to be on other grounds than are yet before us. Phi- losophy is science, and science, as Schiller has observed, cannot always he explained in conversations by the parlor fire, or in written treatises that resemble them. The cui bono of these doctrines may not, it is true, be expressible by arithmetical com- putations; the subject also is perplexed with obscurities, and probably, with manifold delusions; and too often its interpreters with us have been like tenebrific stars, that did ray out darkness on a matter itself sufficiently dark. But what then ? Is the jewel always to be found among the common dust of the highway, and always to he estimated by its value in the common judgment ? It lies embosonied in the depths of the mine; rocks must be rent before it can be reached; skilful eyes and hands must separate it from the rubbish where it lies concealed, and kingly purchasers alone can prize it and buy it. This law of ostracism is as dangerous in science as it was of old in politics. Let u~ not forget that many things are true which cannot be de- monstrated by the rules of Wattss Logic; that many truths are valuable, for which no price is given in Paternoster Row, and no preferment offered at St. Stephens. Whoever reads these treatises of S3hiller with attention, will perceive that they de- peiid on principles of an immensely higher and more complex character than our Essays on Taste, and our Inquiries con- 1834.1 Life of & hilier. 23 cerning the Freedom of the Will. The laws of criticism, which it is their purpose to establish,are derived from the inmost na- ture of man; the scheme of morality, which they inculcate, soars into a brighter region, very far beyond the ken of our Util- ities and Reflex-senses. They do not teach us to judge of poetry and art as we judge of dinner, merely by observing the impressions it produced in us; and they do derive the duties and chief end of man from other grounds than the philosophy of Profit and Loss. These Letters on iEsthetic Oulture, without tl]e aid of any thing which the most skeptical could designate as superstition, trace out and attempt to sanction for us a system of morality, in which man, isolated on this fragment of the universe, encompassed with the boundless desolate Unknown, at war with Fate, without help or the hope of help, is confidently called upon to rise into a calm cloudless height of internal activity and peace, and be, what he has fondly named himself:, the God of this lower world. When such are the results, who would not make an ef- fort for the steps by which they are attained ? In Schillers treatises, it must be owned, the reader, after all exertions, will be fortunate if he can find them. Yet a second perusal will satisfy him better than the first; and among the shapeless immensities which fill the night of Kantism, and the meteoric coruscations, which perplex rather than enlighten him, he will fancy he des- cries some streaks of a serener radiance, which he will pray de- voutly that time may purify and ripen into perfect day. The Philosophy of Kant is probably combined with errors to its very core; but perhaps also, this ponderous unmanageable dross may bear in it the everlasting gold of Truth! Mighty spirits have already labored in refining it: is it xvise in us to take up with the base pewter of Utility, and renounce such projects altogether ? We trust not. * A few years after his establishment at Jena Schiller relaxed in his professional duties, and applied himself exclusively to critical and poetical studies. He gave up the Tiwlia, and commenced, in 1795, a new journal called the Iloren. This event made a crisis in his life, for it was the occasion of his entering into intimate association with Goethe. He sent to Goethe his Prospectus, accompanied with a letter, inviting him to contribute to the 1+loren. Goethe readily accepted the in- * Are our hopes from Mr. Coleridge always to be fruitless? Sneers at the common-sense philosophy of the Scotch are of little use; it is a poor philosophy, perhaps; but not so poor as none at all, which seems to be the state of matters here at present. 24 life of 8cIvUlcr. [.July, vitation in a warm arid flattering answer. The correspondence, thus commenced, xvas continued with growing pleasure on both sides. An intimacy and friendship was formed, which ended only with Selijllers life. Often did the two friends pass weeks in each others house. Their correspondence, comprising nearly a thousand letters, from 1q94 to 1805, has recently been published in Germany, in six volumes, and is the most valuable contribution ever made in this shape to literature. It forms a counterpart, and at the same time a contrast, to the correspondence between Byron and Moore, published about the same time ; and if the one is the most entertaining episto lary series ever written, the other is the most instructive. The opinions and feelings of these two extraordinary men, on all the subjects and occasions that interested the n, are here exhibited with the frankness of the most confiding friendship, and the fullness of mutual sympathy. Dissertations on principles of composition and art ; comments on contemporary writers and books; discussions of l)lans of works; notices of English, French, and Greek literature ; business communications re- lating to negotiations with booksellers and directors of theatres, to contributions for the Horen and Almanac, & c.;such are the materials of these precious letters. We shall make a few extracts from them, translating as literally as we can. The following is from Schillers first letter to Goethe, after reading the conclusion of Wilhelm Meisters Apprenticeship, which Goethe had just finished and sent to him in manuscript. Jena, the 2d July, 1796. I have now gone through again, though rapidly, all the eight books of the novel, whereof the quantity alone is so great that it occupied me two days. Properly, therefore, I ought not to write about it to-day ; for the surprising and unparalleled variety that is, in the strictest sense, concealed in it, overwhelms me. I ac- knowledge that, as yet, although the continuity of it is clear to my mind, the unity is not: I doubt not, however, in the least, that it will be; and indeed, in works of this class, continuity con- stitutes more than half of the unity. As-under these circumstances, you cannot expect from me any thing fully satisfactory, and yet desire to have something, you must be content with remarks put together without method, which, however, will not be entirely without value, inasmuch as * As the Author of the Life of Schiller makes no mention of them, we infer that they were published after his work was written. 1834.] Life of & hiller. 25 they will give you my freshest impressions. A worthy and truly cesthetic estimate of the whole work, as a work of art, is a great undertaking. The coming four mouths I shall devote to it en- tirely, and with delight. Meanwhile, I account it the most for- tunate incident of my existence that I have lived to see the com- pletion of this work; that this has taken place while my faculties are yet capable of improvement; that I can yet draw from this pure spring: and the beautiful relation there is between us makes it a kind of religion with me, to feel to~vards what is yours as if it were my own, and so to purify and elevate my nature that my mind may be a clear mirror, and that I may thus deserve, in a higher sense, the name of your friend. How strongly have I felt on this occasion that the Excellent is a power; that by selfish natures it can be felt but as a power; and that only where there is disinterested love can it be enjoyed. I cannot describe to you how deeply the truth, the beautiful vitality, the simple fullness of this work has affected me. The excitement into which it has thrown my mind will subside when I shall have perfectly mastered it, and that will be an important crisis in my being. This excitement is the effect of the Beauti- ful, and only of the Beautiful, and proceeds thence, that my in- tellect is not yet entirely in accordance ~vith my feelings. I un- derstand now perfectly what you mean when you say that it is strictly the Beautiful, the True, that can move you even to tears. Tranquil and deep, clear, and yet like nature unintelligi- ble, is this work; and all, even the most trivial collateral inci- dent, shows the clearness, the equanimity, of the mind whence it flowed. But I cannot yet give fit expression to my impressions, and shall therefore confine myself to the eighth book. flow did you succeed in drawing together again so closely the large and widely separated circle and scene of action of persons and events? The work is like a planetary system :all is bound together, and the Italian personages,like comets, and as fearfully as these,unite the system to a more remote and a greater one. These person- ages too, as well as Marianna and Aurelia, run out of the system, and separate themselves from it as existences foreign to it, after they have served only to give to it a poetical movement. How beautifully conceived it is, to derive the practically monstrous, the fearfully pathetic, in the fate of Mignon and the Harper, from the theoretically monstrous, from the monstrous births of the un- derstanding, so that nothing is thereby laid to the charge of pure and healthy Nature. Superstition alone gives birth to the horrid fates that pursue Mignon and the Harper. Even Aurelia is ruin- ed only through her masculine character,her unnaturalness. VOL. xxxlx.-.---No. 84. 4 26 Life of Schiller~ [July, The rest of the letter consists of more detailed criticism. We add only the conclusion. LAnd now adieu, my dear, my honored friend. How it moves me to t~~ink, that what we seek and scarcely find in the far dis- tance of a favored antiquity, is to me present in you. Be sur- prised no longer that there are so few capable and worthy of un- derstanding you. The wonderful naturalness, truth, and light- ness of your descriptions precludes, in the herd of judges, all thought of the difficulty, the greatness of Art; and upon those who are able to understand the artist, who perceive the means with which he works, the genial power which they see in action operates with such a hostile, annihilating effect, compresses their barren self into so small a compass, that they angrily push the work from thern,yet in their hearts, though de mauvaise grace they are your worshippers. ScuLLER. What generous devotion! What noble enthusiasm! The rich intellect and pure heart of Schiller are here beautifully exhibited. Of the man and the critic, we learn much from this single letter. Something else may be learnt from it some worthy men may he led to doubt the soundness of the judgment of Wilhelm Meister, which is adverse to that of Schil- ler; others, who habitually mistake the (liminutive image formed by a great whole upon their own brain, for its perfect figure and proportions, may he brought to the conclusion, that there is more than they have discovered in a production which Schillers vast mind is thus stretched to compass and adequate~ ly admire, and if they cannot get insight, may learn modesty; and the literary prudes may take courage from the approbation of the lofty, pure-souled Schiller, and in reading certain por- tions of the work, be saved the effort of a blush. The next extract we make, is a letter from Goethe, who was about to set out on a journey to Switzerland. Schiller had just left him, after a visit of a week. As a leave-taking, you could not have given me anything more agreeable and profitable than your visit of eight days. I am sure I do not deceive myself, when I look upon our being to- gether as productive oi good this time as it always is. So much has been developed for the present, and prepared for the future, that I shall set out with more contentment, inasmuch as I hope to do a good deal on the journey, and look forward on my return to your co-operation again. If we thus continue to execute different works simultaneously, and, while quietly pushing for- Life of & hiller. 27 ward the greater, entertain ourselves with the smaller, we shall be able to effect much. I send you back the Polycrates. On Sunday I shall write you when I shall set off. Adieu: greet your dear wife for me. II wrote to-day to Schiegel. Weimar, the 19th July, 1797. GOETHE. Two days afterwards Sculler thus writes in answer. Jena, the 21 July, 1797. I can never part from you without something having been planted in me, and I rejoice, if in return for the much you give me, I can set you and your inward wealth in motion. Such a relation as ours, built on mutual improvement, must ever remain fresh and animated, and even gain in variety, the more harmo- nious it becomes, and the more contrariety of opinion between us disappears, which, with so many other persons, is all that pre- vents monotony. I think that by degrees we shall come to agree on every thing that can be referred to principles, and in regard to that which from its nature nnot be accounted for, we shall be near each other through feeling. One point on which they agree perfectly, is admiration, we may say, adoration of Shakspeare. Of him they do not speak as of other writers, but ~cem to look upon him as the con- ~ummate master of art,---the infallible oracle of nature; his works, not as creations of a human mind, liable, as such, to error and exception, but as the direct products of nature, fantastic, it may be, even monstrous sometimes, but all instinct with the vital essence, which, itself inscrutahi to nr a, places them beyond the reach of human condemnation. Schiller has translated Macbeth, and we can almost say, that the mighty original has lost nothing by putting on the garb of German words. In his dramas, the study of Shakspeare is often visi- ble, thou ~h not in the shape of direct imitation, much less of plagiarism. In the following extract, we see the impression made on him hy the historical plays. The letter is dated the Q3th of November, 1797. We omit the first part of it. I have just been reading the plays of Shakspeare which treat ~f the war between the two roses; and now, after finishing Rich- ard the Third, am filled with a real ~vonder. This is one of the sublimest of tragedies, and at this moment I cannot name even another of Shakspeares that is superior to it. The great desti- nies prepared in the preceding pieces are here accomplished after a truly great fashion, and according to the most sublime concep 28 L~fe of & hiller. [July, tion. That the subject excludes all that is feminine, tender, sen- timental, aids very much the high effect: all in it is energetic and grand: nothing common disturbs the a?sthetic emotion: one enjoys, as it were, the pure form of the dread-tragic. A high Wemesis presides over the piece, the consciousness of which penetrates the mind from the beginning to the end. To be wondered at is it, how the poet always succeeds in forcing the unpoetic matter to render up poetic booty; and how skilfully he represents that which cannot be directly represented,I refer to his art in using symbols where the reality cannot be exhibited. No play of Shakspeare reminds me so strongly of the Greek tragedy. It were really worth the trouble, to prepare this suite of eight pieces for our stage. An epoch might thereby be created. We must consult together about it. Adieu: my best wishes to our friend Meyer. My Wallen- stein advances daily, and I am right well satisfied with it. SCHILLER. Wallenstein was the beginning of a new series of dramas. Nearly ten years had elapsed since the publication of Don Carlos. Wallenstein, which consists of three parts, cost Schil- ler much labor, and two years of time. But the care and study bestowed on this work, besides making it his mas- terpiece, and the grandest poem of this age, facilitated great- ly his suhsequent dramatic labors. In quick succession fol- lowed Mary Stuart, The ilvlaid qf Orleans, Tue Bride of .ZVlessina, and his last, William Tell. For criticism on these beautiful dramas, we refer the reader to the work before us. Schiller died in the spring of 1805, being only forty-five years of age, in the vigor of his creative energies, his mind teeming with poetic plans. It is idle to regret his early death. In- stead of thinking with disappointment on what he might yet have done, let us dwell on what he has done, and be joyful over the treasures which we through him possess. For him- self, be died calmly; for the world, he has producod works, that will live forever to instruct, delight, and elevate mankind. In conclusion, we strongly recommend this volume to the American public. It is worthy of its great subject. The se- lection of it, as the first of a series which he proposes to pub- lish, gives promise, that Mr. Benjamins plan will be executed with a judgment proportioned to the enterprise with which it has been undertaken. This plan is, to present from time to time to the public a book, similar in size and appearance to 1834.] L~fC of ~SJc1ullcr. 29 the present volume, which shall he either an original work, a translation, or a republication. Mr. Benjamin thus explains, in his general preface, his design more fully. The great object in the publication of this series shall be free- ly to remunerate authors. If this object be encouraged, some good may be done, and some good works may be produced. If the subscriber could be, however remotely and humbly, the cause of exalting, by one volume, the literature of the age, he would feel amply rewarded. There will be those, who, with sagacious disbelieg wilishake their heads on reading this preface; but the Editor, having some experience in literary matters, believes that the popular rage for temporary publications is declining, and that, with the improvement of taste, a demand for good literature is rising. The vulgar prejudice against literary men is also go- ing out. It is no longer thought, that the man of toil, with no capital but his strength, whose employment increases his ca- pacity of action, deserves higher remuneration than the man of letters, who, while his mind is stored with the learning of years, is weakened by his mental labor in those physical powers, on which others confidently depend for a subsistence. Further- more, it is believed that authorship will soon become a distinct profession in this country as it is in Europe,and that an author will be as readily paid for his book, as a physician for his advice, a lawyer for his pleading, or a clergyman for his sermon. Ne- cessitv should not be the plea of any author. Literary men should never write gratuitously ; for, however xvell some can af- ford to give away their time and talents, they should reflect that by so doing they injure others, and depreciate the value of their labor. Should there be only two or three original works pub- lished in this series, for which the proprietor would be enabled to extend a liberal compensation to authors, the cause of good literature must be in some degree advanced. It affords me grat- ification to state the hopeful progress of a work, intended for this series, by an author, whose well-earned fame will, on its appear- ance, be greatly increased, and who will be the first to lift my project to an elevation on which it ~vill be my pride to see it placed. When I cannot procure original pictures for my gallery, I must be content to display copies of the first masters. The republi- cations and translations will be edited by men reported to be most capable of the task. If I meet with a tithe of the kindness hereafter, which it has been my good fortune to experience in connexion with the present volume, I shall apprehend no difficul- ty, but anticipate a pleasure in my applications. I may not add 30 1 he Phiio~ophy of History. [July1 my name, humble as it is, to these remarks, which, for their mer- itorious brevity and business-like style, should rather he called a Prospectus than a Preface, without fully expressing my sense of gratitude to the learned Professor, who so lately delighted a large audience by his lectures on the works of Schiller, and who has now adorned this best account of the great Poets life, by ob- servations not less interesting than the work itself. Here is a liberal estimate of what is due to literary labor. Highly gratifying must it be to all who appreciate the voca- tiOn of the man of letters, and desire to see it honored and re- warded among us, to witness such a spirit manifested in prac- tice. ART. II.. The Philosophy of History. Gours d Ilistoire Moderue, par M. GuIzoT, Professeur dHistoire ~ Ut Pacult~ des Leltres de Paris. Paris. 1829. WE propose in the present article to throw together some remarks upon the nature and importance of historical science, and also a few hints upon its study,a subject which few deny to be of the last importance, but which has not always received the full attention that it deserves; so true is the ob- servation, that we pass over many things, only because they are near and obvious and of especial moment, almost to fly to others which we know not of; and which, when known, hardly reward us for our toil. We need offer no apology to our renders, for this recurrence to history; for whether we con- sider its reat end,the making us better and more valuable members of society ,or its particular excellence as a school of eloquence and philosophy, we shall not fail in either case to assign it a high and noble rank among the studies which in- fluence the designs of men. Lord Bacon admits three kinds in his classification of civil history ; namely, civil prol)er, ecclesiastical and literary ; the first of which he divides into pure and mixed. As a consid- eration of all these different branches and off~shoots would lead us far beyond the limits proper for an article of this kind, and that without being attended with any beneficial result, we shall confine ourselves to the subdivision which he styles

30 1 he Phiio~ophy of History. [July1 my name, humble as it is, to these remarks, which, for their mer- itorious brevity and business-like style, should rather he called a Prospectus than a Preface, without fully expressing my sense of gratitude to the learned Professor, who so lately delighted a large audience by his lectures on the works of Schiller, and who has now adorned this best account of the great Poets life, by ob- servations not less interesting than the work itself. Here is a liberal estimate of what is due to literary labor. Highly gratifying must it be to all who appreciate the voca- tiOn of the man of letters, and desire to see it honored and re- warded among us, to witness such a spirit manifested in prac- tice. ART. II.. The Philosophy of History. Gours d Ilistoire Moderue, par M. GuIzoT, Professeur dHistoire ~ Ut Pacult~ des Leltres de Paris. Paris. 1829. WE propose in the present article to throw together some remarks upon the nature and importance of historical science, and also a few hints upon its study,a subject which few deny to be of the last importance, but which has not always received the full attention that it deserves; so true is the ob- servation, that we pass over many things, only because they are near and obvious and of especial moment, almost to fly to others which we know not of; and which, when known, hardly reward us for our toil. We need offer no apology to our renders, for this recurrence to history; for whether we con- sider its reat end,the making us better and more valuable members of society ,or its particular excellence as a school of eloquence and philosophy, we shall not fail in either case to assign it a high and noble rank among the studies which in- fluence the designs of men. Lord Bacon admits three kinds in his classification of civil history ; namely, civil prol)er, ecclesiastical and literary ; the first of which he divides into pure and mixed. As a consid- eration of all these different branches and off~shoots would lead us far beyond the limits proper for an article of this kind, and that without being attended with any beneficial result, we shall confine ourselves to the subdivision which he styles 1834.1 The Philosophy qf History. 31 pure; observing, moreover, that we adopt his arrangement on account of its convenience to ourselves, and not because we deem it the most just or jihilosophical distribution which might be suggested. Some conception of the extent of the study of history may be formed by a sli~ht attention to the bulk of the materials. The single branch which we have selected is subdivided by Lord Bacon likewise into three kinds ; the first, memorials, he makes to consist of two sorts, commentaries and registers, or collections of public acts; the second, which he styles perfect histories, he divides according as they represent a time, an action, or a person, or in other words, into chronicles, narra- tions or relations which are contemporaneous, as Thucydides History of the Peloponnesian war, and Lives. Antiquities constitute the third species, and comprehend whatever is re- covered from monuments, traditions, private records and the like. To these he adds annals, which have reference to mat- ters of state, and journals, which record facts of minor import- ance. We may receive this system with more confidence and consideration, perhaps, inasmuch as NI. dAlembert has adopted it in his Syst~me ~figur~ des counoissances humainee,* without the slightest variation. It will be readily perceived that the bulk of historical materials must thus be immense, each of these distinct divisions containing a great number of works. In looking over an old es- tablished library, that of Paris for instance, or those of the old- er and even the more recent of the German universities, we are struck with the seeming disproportion between historical treat- ises and those in any other branch of knowledge. The former continue to increase, and in a geometrical ratio with time; the tendency to accumulation being such, undoubtedly, on account of the increase of subjects, in the multiplication of our race, in the progress of the arts of peace, and in the redemption of nations from ignorance. Every age superadds its Pelion upon the Ossa of the one preceding. The mass has thus become fearfully great, even to the most hardy and ambitious of the votat~ies of history. It becomes then an important question how we may render it available, and at the same time not fritter away its spirit and its utility, as has been the case with many of the methods which have been devised for the purpose * French EncycLopedia. Vol. I. 32 The Philosophy of history. [July, of abridging labor, in the shape of partial histories, tables, epitomes and abridgements. We must, however, see the necessity first, before we set about to discover the remedy. Facts are the first objects of attention in history, and this mainly for two reasons; in the first place, because they are of personal interest and come home to the bosom of every individual, and secondly, because they are more readily ascer- tained and understood than principles. That they are the first objects of attention is distinctly proved in the charac- ter of the effusions of the Grecian heroic bards, known as the cyclic poets, who sought to perpetuate in rude song the ex- ploits of warriors and adventurers, as in the accounts of the Argonautic expedition and of the siege and conquest of Troy. Their subjects were invariably traditional or historical, a char- acter which always more or less belonged to Greek poetry. On this fact we may be allowed further to remark, that we should not reject too hastily the accounts which are so received, as fabulous and purely poetical. The garb which they assumed was one of necessity, and the most appropriate for the age, as the only one calculated to ensure their preservation. History in later times has obtained a more exclusive and regular form, the result of the improvement among men and its own increas- ed importance. For our purpose, however, it is sufficient that such was the fact; that truth, however much it might be mixed with fable, was the basis of their poetry. As history, at least that branch of it which we are consider- ing, relates to human conduct, it must begin to exist as soon as man begins to act or to extend his ideas beyond his mere animal existence. It is strictly personal, and we find ac- cordingly that ininstrelsy was invoked to lend its aid to un- mortalize, and to gratify the vanity of the strong and valiant. So, on the other band, their personal nature rendered the ascertainment of historical facts, in primitive times, compara- tively easy. Whole tribes moved but as individuals; there were no superior private concerns to distract the attention of a part from the policy of the nation; for the abundance of the earth rendered an easy sustenance to the scattered clans of in- habitants. The facts of history were thus peculiarly liable to be known. In general, too, it treats of subjects, clear, public, and distinct, and not, like the natural sciences, of those opera- tions which result from the occult laws of motion and matter; 1834.] The Philosophy of History. 33 where it is obscure, it is from the uncertainty of human motives, in regard to which every one can and xviii be his own interpre- ter, though all are not equally well qualified for the task. Then, in particular, it was simple, and not darkened by the intricacies and subtleties of refined legislation and Machiavelian arts. His- tory is recognised by man in every condition; the other sci- ences require an advanced state of civilization, and presuppose a great progress in intellectual philosophy; we may safely con- clude, then, that history must necessarily be the earliest of the sciences; and as such, its contributions to the stock of human knowledge must be the most copions. On this point of the great abundance of historical ma- terials, we may adduce the testimony and authority of a very learned writer: The universal progress of science during the two last centuries, says Dr. Robertson, the art of print- ing and other obvious causes, have filled Europe with such a multiplicity of histories and with such vast collections of his- torical materials, that the term of human life is too short for the study or even the perusal of them. It is necessary then, he continues, not only for those who are called to conduct the affairs of nations, but for such as enquire and reason concern- ing them, to remain satisfied with a general knowledge of dis- tant events, and to confine their study of history in detail chiefly to that period in which the several states of Europe having become intimately connected, the operations of one power are so felt by all as to influence their councils and to regulate their measures.~* The idea of such a limitation is a good one, though it will be seen that the same studies are not suitable for different generations, much less for different nations. The years of an antediluvian would hardly be adequate to master this great bulk of fact, unless some system and order or principle of stndy be adopted, which may dispense with the greater part. We are far from flattering any one that a plan can be devised which will relieve him from labor, even severe labor,for there are secrets which who knows not now, Must, ere he reach them, climb the heapy Alps Of science; and devote seven years to toil. Yet we know that much can be accomplished in the saving of time, by keeping continually before us the nature, end, and im * Preface to Charles V. 5 voL. xxxlx.No. 84. 34 The Philosophy of History~ [July, portance of history, and by studying it in a proper spirit of improvement, and with some definite object in view, which shall fasten in the mind whatever it once admits and desires to retain. Several works have been written professedly for the purpose of facilitating the study of history. The evil seems to have been first particularly noticed and sought to be corrected by John Bodin, who published his Introduction or method for the easy acquisition of history, at Paris, in 1569 ;* this was subse- quently reprinted several times, both in Germany and Holland. His method has received the commendation of many eminent critics, though it has found a very stern and severe one in Lord Bolingbroke, who has condemned it as tedious, unphiloso- phical and useless. As to its utility, Bolingbrokes practical habits gave him the best means of judging, though upon the whole we think that he is unnecessarily caustic. Bodins work at least opened the way, and as such publications do not ak. ways spring into existence, Minerva-like, perfect and complete, we may also look upon it with indulgence. This essay was succeeded by many others, some of which occupied the same field; others deviated according to the opinions as to the want to be supplied; and not a few referred to particular tenets of philosophy or religion as especially wor- thy of consideration. Of this last kind is the work of Father Tomasini or Thomasini; and of a similar cast is The Spirit of Laws, of Montesquieu. The title of Tomasins book suffi- ciently shows its nature and its peculiar characteristic.t A different device, and one which has been very extensive- ly followed, was that of Reineccius and Samuel Puffendorf, whom we may esteem as the fathers of those equivocal works, historical abridgments or compends. Lord Bacon looked upon epitomes in no kind spirit, as being those that have fretted and corroded the sound bodies of many excellent histories, and wrought them into base and unprofitable dregs. We have often regretted to see a valuable work rendered almost useless by those who, in the cant of the day, are styled diligent com- pilers. The spirit of the production is inevitably lost; if it deserve to be read it should not be cut down; if it do not, * Joanni.s Bodini Methodus ad facilem Ilistoriarum cognitionem. Q~uarto. Paris, 1569. ~ M~thode pour studier Chr~tiennement lea Historiena. 1834.] The Philosophy of History. 35 then it should be suffered to rest in the neglect it merits. Do not give us the highly useful matter of another, not diluted to be sure, but, what is worse, robbed of its most essential ingre- dients. The work of Puffendorf, however, is similar in scope and design to the Universal History of Voltaire, and is very frequently referred to by French writers. About a century afterwards, appeared the Praelectiones Hyernales, of Degory Wheare, Camden professor of history at Oxford, published first in Latin and subsequently in English. The introductory discourse is replete with good sense, and contains the results of extensive observation; the whole is far from being either tedious or useless. The work was several times reprinted in Germany, where it seems to have acquired a greater reputation than in England. The first part of the eighteenth century produced the work of M. Fresnoy, Librarian to Prince Eugene. If the popular- ity of a work be any criterion of its value, this must be ranked very high indeed; for, besides numerous French, German and Dutch editions, it was also translated into Italian and English; into the former language by Sebastian Coleti, and into the Jat.. ter by Richard Rawlinson. It may be consulted with advan- tage, though the method of historical study which it proposes is of little value. The Introductions or Universal Histories of Rollin, Vol- taire and others, and the Disquisitions of Bolingbroke, Volney, Morrel, and those of a similar character, are more familiar to our readers; all these aim at advancing the study of history, either by preparing the mind for greater exertions, or by pro- ~~iding it with the critical armor ~vhich shall defend it from the assaults of error. Such are some of the methods, as they are (most improperly) styled, which are intended to obviate the difficulty which pre- sents itself in historical study, from the immensity of the mate- rials. Most of them are worthless, and it is only where the nature and importance of the science are insisted upon as ne- cessary to be fully understood, in order to form a firm basis for subsequent study. that they become of any value. A correct and clear conception of what history is, we believe to be the great secret which is to open to us its stores, and we shall ac- cordingly devote the greater l)art of the residue of this article to a brief prosecution of this enquiry. To undertake the ac- quisition of any science without some idea of its utility and ~36 The Philosophy of History. [July1 importance, we hold to be the act of no sane mind, or at least of none that is bent upon husbanding time with a view to self improvement; for the only proper inducement would be want- ing, while the consequences would be of the most baleful na- ture. It is the intuitive power of properly cultivated minds, or of those denominated geniuses, to form at once a correct opinion of the usefulness of any subject of attention; which power constitutes one part of their superiority over ordinary minds; their landmarks are immediately fixed, their cynosure is clearly perceived, and they know, at every step which ihuy take, the precise bearing in which they are placed. With minds of their mould and culture, it is easy to apprehend strongly the nature of their subject; those which are differently constituted are under a more imperative necessity to pursue a similar course. When we have a clear conception of the true nature arid tests of historic truth, we feel in pursuing the study that we do not grope in the dark; our vision becomes distinct, and there is need of exertion only, to accomplish our purpose the bandages which blinded us are removed by this simple operation, and we are no longer ignorant of the way or whither we are bound; we know what is our precise object and can best judge of the means necessary to attain it. Without such a conception the adventurer in history is at best but a sorry mariner, tossed upon a wide sea, from which the heavens have muffled the stars, and over which they have thrown the im- penetrable mantle of darkness; he has no port to which he may steer his bark, no polar star by which he can guide it with certainty. History may be defined to be the science of human nature, as shown in a full, correct, and philosophical account of the experiments which have been tried upon humanity ever since its first existence. We say a science, because it has principles of its own, evolved by a correct mode of reasoning from well determined facts. Modern history is particularly entitled to this character; it differs from the ancient in that it is more philosophical, that it looks into the constitution and very soul of society, that it regards man more as a social being than as a mere individual one, and that it examines the nature of commercial relations,--a vital subject concerning the improve- ment and well being of man, but which had no interest for the ancients. Besides, it acts upon the same subject indeed, but upon one whose interests and condition have been greatly 1S34.j The Philosophy of History. changed. We admire the simplicity of Herodotus, but that is all; we are far from transferring his spirit into modern his- tory. The sagacity and bold views of human nature of Thucydides are but a part of the requisites in our historian, who, being a philosopher as well as a politician, contem- plates man in a more important light, as a being of reason more than of impulsive feeling; as one whose relations are more multitudinous, more complicated, but more reducible to order. Yet how difficult is the task to arrange and to classify the numerous facts; to discover the springs of human action, to determine the proper influence of every event, and to state each principle in its proper terms ; then to reduce the whole to one harmonious system of mutual dependencies, to infuse that philosophical alehymy, without which the product is no more history, than blank verse, without a certain poetical chemistry to concentrate, to fuse, to sublime the style and to separate its measures from the rhythm of periodical prose, would he poetry. The principles of history are widely spread; its facts more so; no Newton has yet arisen who has traced them all to some one grand general law; the induction is in- complete, or the master spirit has not yet appeared. Still it is a prolific study; it teaches men to think more and to memorize less in modern times, by disburthening them of undigested facts, and presenting in their stead principles which are the elements of reflection; thus its truths become incorporated with their minds, and serve as monitors for the present and the future. The causes of this difference between ancient and modern history, the reader will find stated at large in a former volume.* But the principles of history are certain, distinct and appli- cable, as well as those of other sciences, though not perhaps in the same particular degree; which is owing not to their vague- ness and uncertainty, but to the mutability of the subject. Matter is always uniform, and therefore, similarly experimented upon, will always produce the same result. Men on the con- trary change, not in themselves individually so much as in their relations to each other. Hoxv different is the construc- tion of modern society from that even of civilized Greece and Italy; manners, occupations and sentiments, modes of thought, living, amusement, how changed! All this renders the prin- ciples of our science less extensive, yet they are nevertheless * See Volume XXVIH. Art: Ancient and Modern History. The Philosophy of History. [July, great and momentous. Look at some of them; those which by common consent are firmly established,that we are im- proving beings, the noblest truth that science ever taught, that society and the arts of peace foster this improvement, that there is a necessity of positive regulations, voluntarily submitted to by each for the benefit of the whole, called laws, which especially regard the well being of society,--- that the mutual wants of societies produce commerce, xvhich reacts most beneficially in producing liberality of sentiment, correcting prejudices, and creating wealth and power,that the fine arts flourish most among a wealthy people,that luxury unrestrained is a curse to any nation, but considered as the grand stimulant to industry, and consequently modified thereby, becomes of great advantage,that an enlightened liberty alone can preserve itself,that the virtues of hospi- tality belong rather to an agricultural than a commercial people. We might continue the catalogue to a great length; but let us see what the brief chapter of our own history estab- lishes. It settles that equality is a safe basis for government in this advanced state of the world,that toleration in religious matters, and the absence of a church establishment, are not inconsistent with the success of religion or the stability of political society,that the publicity of the operations of gov- ernment tends in general to secure a just, economical and prudent administration of its affairs,that the liberty of the press is a conservative principle in a republic,---that the licen- tiousness of the sanie engine is a proper subject for judicial animadversion, when ascertained by a full legal investigation. We conceive then that history has sufficient claims to the title of a science,*~a science which has man for its subject. * The tenacity with which some have denied these claims is unac- countable. The proposition seems to us so palpable, that we can hardly justify ourselves in dwelling so long upon it. Lord Brougham, in an article on the objects, advantages, and pleasures of science, originally published in the English Library of Useful Knowledge, and republished in the American work of a similar title, has this remark, after making a general division of the sciences ; connected with all the sciences and subservient to them, is history or the record of facts relating to all kinds of knowledge. That history, considered in the limited sense of the word, as a bare recital of circumstances and events, may be restricted to this meaning, we do not deny; but it seems to us a fell swoop to take that from the circle of the sciences, which has principles as determined and distinct as any of those which 18:34.] The Philosophy of History. As a science it is to him a sure guide; a remembrancer of things which happened before he was horn; a faithful record of past wisdom.* How feeble and impotent would he be with nothing but personal experience, which comes too late to be taken advantage of; standing on a point in eternity, that point would become immeasurably less valuable. But with history,the experience of ages past,he has become a seer who can penetrate the dark future. Nestor lived three ages, and was considered the wisest of men; and so he was. We are now all Nestors; to be sure we have not antediluvian lon- gevity, but we have in its stead postdiluvian knowledge; though our years be less, we may reasonably doubt whether our lives are shorter. This is the case not only with students of histo- ry but with the whole civilized world, who are enjoying the fruits of the experience of their predecessors, as it has been exhibited to them by the learned and wise. History is an are suffered to remain. The error can only be attributed to the fanci- ful division which he has adopted, that all science relates either to quantity, or to matter, or to mind, without regarding that branch which refers to human nature as displayed in human conduct. We cannot determine where the learned lord would place our modern science of political economy, which from the nature of the subject might be as- signed to either of his divisions. Perhaps he may deem it all Cant,heartless cant, and that Economy Cold, and miscalled political! This oversight is the more remarkable, because he himself states, but a page or two before, that science in its most comprehensive sense only means knowledge, and in its ordinary sense, means know- ledge reduced to a system. History has not assumed that regular and systematic order which would entitle it to a place among the sciences in the ordinary sense of the term, yet it is a branch of knowledge which may be taught, remembered and applied, and moreover, has prin- ciples of its own, which, though the result of the facts recorded, are in- dependent of and separable from them. No one thinks of calling the history or account of the experiments in the science of chemistry, the science itself; so the history of the experiments upon man displays a science of human nature, independent of the account. The necessity of forming a clear idea of the term History, as we have used it, is ren- dered evident. Lord Bolingbroke styles History, the ScIENcE of man- kind. This is not a mere dispute about words, for it is obvious from the exclusive division which Lord Brougham has adopted, that he un- derstands the term history in the same sense as ourselves. * Historia vero testis temporum, lux veritatis, vita memoriae, magis- tra vitae, nuntia vetustatis. Gic. de Orat. C. 2. 36. 40 The Philosophy of History. [July, universal science; its truths regard every human being; it is a mirror for all. Falsehood may often be its apparel, but truth is always its substance. The good, the bad, the wise and unwise are by it impartially judged, and their characters and actions put upon a faithful and unalterable record, to he pre- served for the use of their successors; as we are told by the profound and elegant Roman historian, that the province of history is to establish a tribunal, where princes and private men may he tried and adjudged after death, like that which formerly existed among the Egyptians. Unlike most other sciences, the principles of History are fre- quently applied without being separated from their subjects, or in other words we adopt them by imitation and the force of ex- ample. Worthy models are set hefore us to regulate our con- duct; examples of the opposite character to be avoided. Lord Bolingbroke says of history, that it is philosophy teaching by example. There is a vividness and personal applicability in this method which render it of the highest importance. These examples are neither more nor less than living instances, and make impressions of the strongest kind.* Dry precept has al- ways been considered as inferior to them, so that the apoph- thegm of Seneca, Longum iter estperpraecepta, breve et efticax per exempla,has been admitted as correct in every language. There is much truth in Degory Wheares quaint description of the end of history. This is the most healthful and profitable attendant of the knowledge of history, that you may contem- plate the instructions of a variety of examples united in one illus- trious monument, and from thence take such things as are useful to thee or to thy country, and that thou mayst wisely consider that which has an ill beginning will have an ill end, and so avoid it.t The mind is flattered in catching the instruction which they communicate; it is left to judge for itself, to adopt, discriminate and reject. It receives a powerful ally in the feelings; the sympathies are awakened ; the access to the reason is rendered more easy. We see the actual operation become in a measure parties to it; and feel its completion. So easily do we lose sight of our own identity. * Segnius irritant animos demissa per aures Quam quse sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus, et quae Ipse sibi tradit spectator. Horat. De Art. Poet. Praeleetiones Hyemales. Introd. 1834.] The Philosophy of History. 41 We know that there is great danger in this submission as it were, to a foreign control, that we shall abandon ourselves entirely to tl)e guidance of others, and those too of another age or people, very differently situated from ourselves. But this only evinces the necessity for a proper maturity of mind, that can wisely discriminate before we attempt the study ; in the tHe of youth, we must have those who will select for us; this dependence human nature must always own in the spring- tide of existence. And were there sormie content to plod on forever in the track of others, without permitting an excur- sive thought to enter their minds, yet even this evil were a small one, compared with the benefit that is derived by the great majority in possessing the vantage ground of past ex- perience, from which they may direct their own conduct with a proper view of present circumstances. Besides, there are soaring princil)les enough in our nature to keep us from paus- ing in the path of improvement, and from these we have most to apprehend. The truth is yet to he learned and felt, as inculcated in the phrase of lXlilton; who aspires must down as low As high he soared, obnoxious first or last To basest things. Let this wholesome principle of action be once fully re- cognised, and we shall have little to fear from the contracting in- fluence of this study. The mind is apt to spurn particulars; but it should be induced from what is small to that which is great, and not let down from what is more general and comprehen- sive to that which is more particular. History should he read in a proper spirit in order to reap its full fruits; not taken up as pastime to soothe our indolence or to gratify our vanity. It must be studied, diligently conned over, its truths incorporated with our minds. Unless we do this, how shall we ever improve ourselves, and thus act beneficially upon society; or develope those germs of virtue and knowledge, which exist within us? There is a great error abroad in respect of this matter. The study of history is spoken of in the same light as the study of ~)oetry, as if their values were at all comparable. We mean no disparagement to the latter, for we feel that we have derived from it the most substantial benefits, and the solace of many an hour; we know that it has laid before us the chart of the human heart. But history aims VOL. XXXLX..NO. 84. 6 42 The Philosophy of History. LJuly, at the noblest of purposes; it includes within its broad scope the progress of poetry, of the fine arts, and of all the sciences. It concerns the very existence of sdciety, and of consequence every thing which depends upon the social system. The study of history aims at nothing less than the general advance- ment of mankind. How numerous and multifarious are the principles, how universally applicable are the examples afford- ed by it! The simplicity of its method of instruction pre- sents a strong argument in favor of its utility. Example, ad- dressing itself to the simplest faculties of the mind, requires no powers or habits of abstraction. The untutored reader, who has not looked into the depth of things, can understand its lessons as readily as the man of refinement, and as clearly; for this reason our Saviour disseminated his doctrines by the lively method of parables,* which are to be looked upon as similar, in their operation and effect, to historical exemplifica- tion. The fable of Menenius Agrippa, recorded by Livy, was on the same account so effectual in causing the Roman people to evacuate the Mons Sacer, when all the common means of persuasion and even force were unavailing. Anoth- er advantage springing from example is, that it presup- poses experience at the expense of others ; we act, but at anothers cost. In adopting the examples recorded in history, we only carry into the more momentous affairs of life, what we are in the daily practice of observing in our minor concerns. If we investigate, we shall discover that we act almost altogether by imitation; we naturally seek support, for we are weak and dependent creatures at the best. Authority is always admitted as a first argument; and it is highly proper that it is so; for, though deference for authority may occasionally support pre- judice and error, it leads the mind to think, to examine, and to * We have somewhere met with the following beautiful passsge, stated to have been extracted from that charming and once excee4l- ingly popular work, The Defence of Poesy, by Sir Philip Sydney. Even our Saviour could as well have given the moral common-places of unTharitableness and humbleness, as the divine narration of Lazarus and Dives; or of disobedience and mercy, as the heavenly discourse of the lost child and gracious father; but that his thorough-searching wisdom knew that the estate of Dives burning in hell, and of Lazarus in Abrahams bosom, would more constantly, as it were, inhabit both the memory and the judgment- 1834.J The Philosophy of History. 43 judge with caution and prudence. The evil which ii may cause is nothing, compared to the injury which might beex~ perienced from a heedless and unmindful self-confidence. An important question, intimately connected with this en- quiry into the nature of history, and on which Volney and others have laid great stress, here arises, relative to historical credibility. It will be readily perceived that, if we are to make the results of past experience and the examples of times gone by, principles and models for our own conduct, we should have every reasonable certainty of their truth. A historian may be either a narrator of past occurrences or of those of his own time; and accordingly as he is the one or the other of these, will our confidence in his relation be mate- rially affected. There is another contingency which makes a third species of historians ; where individuals chronicle their own exploits or those transactions in which they may have borne a part. These three different kinds of historic writing were carried almost to perfection among the ancients. here the Greeks were the predecessors and superiors of the rest of the world; their historians were deficient in but one thing,-they did not contemplate man in his social rela- tions ; commerce, manufactures, domestic society in all its variety, rarely exercised their pens; but wars and games, con- quests and confederacies, individual patriotism and public dis- interestedness, are their continual themes. Such are the mas- terpieces of Herodotus, Thucydides, and Xenophon, the earliest writers in the three varieties of history which we have enu- merated. Each of these departments has its peculiar difficulties. The historian of a past age has the disadvantage of length of time; accounts reach him magnified by the obscurity of a dark age, or perverted by the prejudice of a superstitious one. They possess the true quality of fame as expressed by the poet ; Ingrediturque solo, et caput inter nubila condit. 1\hinor events, of little consequence except to explain those of greater moment, are completely lost, so that the writer meets with many blanks and spaces, which he must be forced to fill up out of his own wit and conjecture. On the other hand, the contemporary historian treats of events, per- haps incomplete. The sea may be calmed for a season, until 44 The Philosophy of History. [July, some powerful reaction again swells its surface, and overwhelms the voyager who may l)ave too soon congraLulated himselt on an escape. He has otl)er en]barrassnlents of a powerful na- ture in a political bias of his own ; in the secrecy with which men cloak their present intentions ; in the jealousy of tyranni- cal power; in the strength of prejudice honestly maintained. Every one, especially in this reading and printing age, is a Zoilus, who has a critical taste to be pleased; and rare indeed is the occasion when men can speak what they believe, with- out meeting ~vith some to condemn them.* The difficulty is much increased in the case of the writer, ~vho gives us an ac- count of transactions with which he has himself been connect- ed. He will give us a more detailed account, but it will be tinctured with j)crsonal feeling; he must he something more than mortal to look upon his own acts, candidly, impartially, and with calmness. Thus do we find reason to receive every history with caution from its peculiar character; there are, moreover, difficulties common to all, which of course result from the various temperaments of writers. They may amuse us with speculation when they should inform us with fact; they may 1)aint man as he ought to be, and foyet to depict him as he was and is. The character given of Montesquieu, by one not less eminent, should be that of every historiant * Rara temporum felicitas, ubi sentire quac velis, et quae sentias dicerc licet. Tacit. Hist. C. I. 1. ~ Dans cot important onvrage (LEsprit des Lois) M. de Montesquien, sans sappesantir, it lexeniple de ceux qui lont pr~c~d~, sur des dis- cussions rn& aphysiques relatives it lhomnie SU~~OS~ dans un ~tat dabstraction; sans se borner comme dantrcs, it consid~rer certains pen- pies dins qnelqucs relations 00 circonstances particulieres; envisage les babitars de lunivers dans I ~tat ~Thl cit us sont et dans tons lcs rapports quils peuvent avoir entre eux. La plupart des autres ~cri- yams en ce genie sont, presque toujours, on de simples moralistes, ou de simples jurisconsultes, on ni~me quclquefois do sirnples th~nlogi- ens. Pour lui, Ihomrne de tins ice pays et do toutes los nations, ii soccupe moms de cc quo Ic dcvoir exige do none, quo des moyens par lesquols on pent nous obliger do le rcrnplir; de la perfection m~ta- physique des lois, que do cello dont la nature huniaine les rend sus- ceptib~es ;des lois quou a faites, que de cellos quon a dfi faire; des lois dun peuple particulier, que de cellos do tons los peuples. Ainsi, en se cumparant tiiimdme it ceux qui out courn avant mi cetto grande et noble carriero, ii a pu dire, corn me le Corri~ge, quaiid it eut vii les ouvrages de sos rivaux. Et mor aussz,je suis peintre. Eloge de .Jllontesquieu, par M. DAlembert. 1834.] The Philosophy of history. 45 The first great step, then, in studying history, is to secure ourselves against the errors of the writer. Here all the facul- ties and powers of the mind are called into requisition ; at the outset we have to canvass and decide upon a most material point; we begin immediately to feel one benefit in the study; we are induced to reflection ; the mind is disciplined, it is prepared for the assaults of error, it is fortified in truth ; we become judges, while the historian states the case, and we hear and determine, or should do so, im partially. A further duty which we have to discharge, is to examine the strength of the evidence and the character of the witnesses. The rules of our courts of jurisprudence are generally appli- cable here, except that their strictness is somewhat softened in consequence of the nature of the tribunal; we judge and con- demn men, but we cannot punish them. But the test is much nicer in history than in the natural sciences, where the expe- riment may be easily repeated, and the truth or error in the description immediately discovered. In the former, the ope- ration is long, tedious and generally incapable of being repeated. We have, therefore, to sift the accounts most carefully in order to separate the extraneous matter, which a succession of ages, or the prejudice of party or sectional feeling, may have intro- duced ; we have to go back to the fountain-head and ascertain the character of the witnesses, their opportunities to become acquainted with the subject, the degree of their intelligen cc, and a thousand other circumstances, which, taken collectively, have a material effect upon the faith to be accorded to the whole. There is one other touchstone by which all history must be tried, nice in its management and generally certain in its tests; we mean its strong intrinsic probability. We say strong, be- cause the end of history is too im portant to admit any thing equivocal; and intrinsic, meaning its agreeable ness to the set- tled and well-determined laws of nature, and opportuneness to the time and other circumstances. Where these are strong and transcend a bare probability, we may place a great, if not an implicit reliance upon the l)articular accounts. It is a mode of reasoning which is admitted into our best systems of philo- sophy, and amounts to the argument of presumption, which 46 The Philosophy of History. [July, is a 1undamental maxim in the common law.* Yet much cir- curnspection is to be used in its application. Probability is judged of, according to the prevalence of certain doctrines, and the character of the age, and people ; or in other words, it changes, and is not always identical in its nature. For instance, we have just emerged from an age, when witchcraft and its kindred superstitions constituted articles in the creed of general belief; and consequently, when accounts of such transactions, creditable in their narrators, and veritable in the witnesses, were readily admitted as being in the highest degree probable and true. But the philosophy of the present day discourages all credence in the appearance and intervention of disem- bodied spirits ; it discards all statements which aver the special interference of any order of beings, whether of supernal or infer- nal character, as improbable, though not impossible. Perhaps some future age may see cause to reverse the decision of this, when further facts shall have been elicited, and all more philo- sophically arranged. In every case, therefore, we should be careful to refer to the most indubitable and well ascertained principles, in order that we may judge upon the strongest in- trinsic probability. These few simple rules, which in practice should be car- ried out fully in their numerous ramifications, deserve the care- ful attention of every student of history, who may be anxious on the one side to admit that only which is true, and, on the other, to avoid the fatal skepticism in relation to this science, which has exerted so powerful an influence over many minds. By a careful observance of them, he will not fail to derive the full benefits of history, if it be combined with zeal and indus- try in the pursuit. On the nature of these benefits and the importance of the science, we shall now offer a few observa- tions. The great object of history is to teach us how we may be- come good citizens, ant only as the ancients understood the word, but as its present broad and comprehensive meaning de- not~s,considering every individual as a member of the great human family, and as such bound to acts of kindness and char- ity to every other. In the prosecution of this end, it informs * See some excellent remarks in Whatelys Elements of Rhetoric. Third Edition. Page 45 et seq. et al. 1834.] The Philosophy of History. 47 us how we may enact our brief part on lifes stage with decen- cy and propriety and honor; it impresses upon us a broad principle of ethics as the foundation of our conduct,---that the improvement of our fellows no less than our own advancement is a bounden duty, the discharge of which xviii materially con- tribute to our happiness; it teaches us how we may fulfil our oflices, as well as what they are; it provides the means by which error may be confounded, and truth vindicated,~ means at once simple, clear and complete; it strengthens the love of virtue, and creates an abhorrence of vice; in a word, it inculcates a liberal philosophy, a piety known by its deeds, and a wide philanthropy, in every relation in which we may be placed, whether of a political nature or belonging to the gentler connexions of social life. If xve regard philosophy as that wisdom which opens to us the future, and presents us with the means by which we may pass through it xvith safety, then it must be admitted that his- tory makes the true philosopher, the one whose knowledge is most practically useful. The success of some and the failure of others, are landmarks and beacons for our direction. We have the field notes of those who have gone before us, which, though generally hasty and incomplete, dispense with much trouble to ourselves, and teach us the true method and conduct of life.* The past is the archetype of the future ; an imperfect edition, which is to serve as the basis for an improved one thereafter. It differs from that which succeeds, in tl)at it contains more er- rors, which once known can be corrected, and in that it points out nexv occasions of improvement, which may be taken ad van- tage of. Thus we become gifted with a second sight, about which there is no mystery, no sinful compact, no pretension to a partial providence; with it we are seers, entitled to the appellation of wise, and prepared to determine our own fate and that of others. No configuration of stars is to be sought; our own conduct is the only horoscope which needs be cast. But we anticipate. There are those who deny the utility of history; nay more, who deprecate the study. And why? The sciolist will say, that it teaches only what has been, a tissue of errors and truths which has brought us to what we are, but can carry us no farther, inasmuch as we are improving * f~* OVVL& 51/?L Ica)XLfTT?)V ~rai3dav iSyntcov ~rp~ & ?~?p~LVbV 6L6v, TiW ,5~ ~q,ay~ua. VU6~ i~xtopEa~ 1TqflyL7VOptv~7V 44wu91av. Polyb. Tom. I.,p. 60. Ed. Ernesti. 48 The Philosophy of 11 istory. [July, intelligences, whose second step should always be in advance of the first, not over the same ground. He will maintain tl)at it tends to keep man stationary, by un posing upon him the rules of the past for his guidance; that it supersedes the use or exertion of the strong principles of invention and experi- ment, the true springs of improvement; that it degrades hu- manity by making man a mere imitative animal. Perhaps, he will add, being somewhat skeptical, that were the study on the most favorable supposition l)roductive of advantage, all history is false ; its writers, partisans, and witnesses suborn ed or interested. He may complain that it is even written for effect, with impure motive ; that self-interest is always consulted, favorite theories sought to be established, tenets of particular faiths promulgated ; society, law and government, philosophy, morals and religion, made to subserve private views, and sectarian partialities. We have already spoken of the antidotes for such poison. The first part of this objection is sought to be established by referring to the state of Europc. The political condition of that fair portion of the globe, it is contended, is and has been for a long time stationary, and that on account of the study of history or an habitual reference to its principles. A little reflection will show the fallacy of this opinion. The great bulk of the people there, howevcr much they may be enlightened in regard to the truths of physical science, know little of the principles of government. The progress of the nations of Europe in the natural sciences and in the fine arts has been rapi(l, steady and triumphant, but always at the ex- pense of political truths. The policy of Lewis the Fourteenth has been that of every despot who has occupied a throne in modern Europe; namely, to draw off the attention of the peo- ple from their civil condition by diverting it to other objects, and especially to some of the sciences where the pursuit after new truths becomes an absorbing passion. This has succeed- ed thus far, and perhaps may succeed in future ; but the pre- valence of knowledge in the other branches of learning may, for a time at least, exist in connexion with complete ignorance of l)olitical science. Men engaged in other pursuits can feel no inclination to enter upon a new study which promises nei- tler fame nor profit, and is environed with difficulties and dan- gers of the most embarrassing kind. The administration of the government has thus been there 1834.1 The Philosophy of History. 49 secured by a few to their own control and for their own ad- vantage. They found it convenient to assert the divine right of kings, and to denounce the republican principle,saius pop- uli, supremct lex,as impious. If a daring spirit proclaimed the great truth of equality, and attempted to rouse his fel- lows, he found chains already forged for him, a Bastile already gaping for a victim~ Thus was the reformer treated; or per- haps the barking cur received a sop which, alas for human na- ture bought him from his duty. Few have the moral courage to attempt reform; the path is beset with difficulties; no reli- ance can be placed upon assistance, even from those who are most concerned in the correction of abuse. They have their prejudices, which ignorance has fastened upon them ; they have their fears, which their weakness but too well justifies. Great revolutions have always been effected either by the co- operation of some of the influential classes with the citizens, or else by some extraordinary violence which has roused the indignation of an united people,like those which expelled the last of the regal dynasty from the Imperial city, and which forced Charles the Tenth to abdicate his throne. We may thank Heaven that the Rubicon of mans awakened rights has been passed, and that despots have been taught the consequences. Men are no longer to be kept in igno- rance by a few persons interested in the continuance of rotten institutions; they are not to be frightened from their rights, to be bought through their necessities, or to be diverted by the wily policy of those who would play upon their passions for their own benefit. Thus have the people of Europe been kept from the proper study of history by deceit and fraud, by force and corruption, and by an artful policy under the guise of encouragement to literature and science. The great mass of the people have been led to believe, that they were but an insignificant part in the state; that the machinery of government, though work- ing at their expense and for their good, was the exclusive right of a few. They have not been permitted to unfold the long scroll of the past, to learn their natural and inviolable rights; to be advised of the encroachments of power; to dis- cover behind the scene the secrets of political management, and see, in the language of Chancellor Oxenstiern to his son, qui~m parvet sapientia regitur mundus. They have been VOL. xxxix..-~o. 84. 7 50 1 PltdOSOJ)lt// pt I7hStOH/, [July; duped into an assent to the divine right, which has made them mere automata, to raise the note of triumph as the su- perior management of the wire-pullers has heen successful, To pretend to intelligence on political matters, has been in them a crime, to claim sovereignty treason. But though we would earnestly vindicate historical science from the charges thus l)referred, we do not enrol ourselves among those who set up history as an infallible standard ; as the guide in every emergency, and as giving us sure and un- erring canons for our observance under all circumstances. It establishes many principles which are indisputable ; but there are cases where their application must he modified, and where they will fail altogether. The opinion, therefore, so strenu- ously maintained by many distinguished ~vriters in Germany on this l)Oint, seems to OS to dern~nd some limitations before we admit it as correct. Thucydides, in his work, intend- ed to he, as it has become, a rich inheritance to posterity, speaking of the massacre made by the Co~eyreaus of their en- emies within the city, and of the opposing factions of the de- mocracy and the aristocracy, observes, that such things as had then happened will continue to occur a~ long as human nature remains the same, with such variations in form as may result from the circumstances of each particular case.* This reveals to us the true secret of the use and application of historical principles. They require particular attention to be paid to the circumstances of each case; which circumstances regard as ivell the intellectual and moral character of the nation or people as their physical condition. The past only shadows forth the future; its lessons are of the first importance, but they are not and have no pretensions to be considered as absolutely binding. It is the study of history that will ensure to man a political progress; by which we mean a continual adaptation of gov- ernment to the new wants and new relations that may spring up in society, in consequence of the farther amelioration of our condition. It is a mere chimera to suppose that the acme of political benefits has been reached ; as much so as the suppo- sition, that the perfection of humanity has been attained. The * Kat 7F& SO~ 7TOX?d~ ka~ Xa~S7la ICaT& cnIJOW Ta7~ 7r6~~i, yLyvdpwa ~ tca2 Jd & ~ 1~ & VT~ ~t1o~ & v~pc~1rcaw ~ ~ ica? ~~.JxaLTepa ica~ ro7~ ~c5wi & ~A)~iiy ~ha ~ ~v ~scaarac & c /LcTa6tAa~ ThI1~ ~tJVTV%L~SV 4bL~T6SVTaC. Thucyd. Tom. III., 8~. 1834.] The Phiiosophq of Histori1. 51 two are far beyond us, and they will ever march hand in hand, yielding each other mutual support. Civil liberty is far from being an absolute idea; it is never precise; in one state of so- ciety it has one meaning, in another quite a different one. It is regulated h)r the intelli~ence, habits, and situations of those who enjoy it. If it mean any thing definite, it is in the ab- stract, and as such we may define it to be a freedom (tdclj)ted to the genius and character of (t people; not that one man possesses at any time a right over the person of another, but that it is necessary in all cases to yield to the force of circum- stances, which may demand that some l)ortion of personal rights be given up for the welfare of society, according as it is more or less intelligent. [low frequently (10 we hear the phrase,--- a political servitude inconsistent with the present state of so- ciety, or of the world, x hicli plainly implies this mutation in political constitutions, which it must be recollected are expres- sions of political rights, only so hr as it is expedient to adopt them. When the state of society demands a change, history teaches us how we may best effect it. Let us look around and about us ; and then ask the questions how has society become what it is ~lioxv has government reached its present refinement ?how have the laws become so accurately adjusted to the tempers and wants of mankind ? how have morals assumed the rank of a comprehensive and all important science ?how have commerce, manufactures, and agriculture attained their improved state ?how have all the arts of peace flourished ? All these results will be attributed to various concurring causes; but what means stand so eminent as the study of history? That civilized man is above the savage, above the animal which Lord Monboddo has declared him once to have been,is in consequence of the study of past ex- perience. We advance, not by invention, but by reflection upon the knoxvledge derived from former perceptions. If this seem to coincide with the Leibnitzian dogma of nihil in intel- lectu quod non prius in sensu, we can only say that the isthmus between the different opinions is to us sufficiently plain and safe. Finally, we value history for the sublime truth it inculcates, of a wise and superintending Providence, whose care watches over the habitations of men, and whose benignity gladdens their path of duty. In the overthrow of haughty nations, in the demolition of castled cities, in the building up of poor and 52 The Philosophy of history. [July, weak nations, in the great mutations of power, xvealth and glory, we see how little dependence can be placed upon hu- man efforts, how the progress of events is governed entirely by the high designs of the Author and Ruler of the Universe. History utters but one sentiment on this point ; it tells of the triumph of virtue and the misery of moral degradation. The cold skepticism of the author of the Decline and Fall of Rome, had chilled his heart long before he made history his business or his study. Gibbon had been led to the ex- treme of superstition; the rebound of a mind so original and profound threw him into the opposite state. The Eng- lish historian began with doubting; in his own language, he was ready to reject all belief and reasoning, and could look upon no opinion even as more probable or likely than anoth- er. History could not convert a Huine, for when Obduracy takes place, callous and tough, The reprobated race grow judgment proof. Foreign causes, in spite of history, thus influenced the error of these distinguished writers. They were previously determined against Christianity, and were therefore inclined to contemplate its dark spots, which, like those upon the orb of day, only mit- igate its overpowering splendor. The method to he pursued in the practical study of history opens too wide a field for a full discussion in this place; es- pecially as opinions have conflicted so much in relation to it. The age when history should be taken up has given rise to very discordant rules. One writer insists that it should pre- cede all other studies, and cites the example of Cato the Censor, who, according to Plutarch, took such peculiar care in the instruction of his son as to dra~v up an historical work for his express use at a very tender age, that he might form himself upon the models of the great men of his own country, who were most renowned for their probity and virtue.* Such a course requires a careful discrimination on the part of the in- structer, who has it thus in his power to instil almost any sys- tem of principles, and so completely, that years of subsequent study will be requisite to unlearn them if it be found necessary. Early associations cling to us with a remarkable tenacity, and * Rollin. See his method of teaching and studying the belles~ lettres. Vol. 3. 1834.j The Philosophy of History. 53 frequently defy the utmost exertion of reason, philosophy and length of time to loosen. For ourselves, we incline to the opin- ion of Degory Wheare and Volney, that history should he little studied till mature years and a previous acquaintance with many of the sciences,geography, natural l)hilosophy, math- ematics, and so forth,shall have prepared the mind to think for itself and to understand what is read. Great danger is to he apprehended from indiscriminate reading. Those who devour with an anaconda voracity what- ever falls in their way, will derive no advantage therefrom, but will acquire habits of inattention, such as will prevent them from ever using the rude mass of knowledge which they may accumulate. We admire the strain of the following remarks of St. John. Some, says he, in speaking of histories, are to he read, some are to be studied; and some may he neglected entirely, not only without detriment, but with advantage. Some are the proper ohject of one mans curiosity, some of anothers and some of all mens; but all history is not an ohject of curiosity for any man. He who improperly, wantonly, and ahsurdly makes it so, indulges a sort of canine appetite: the curiosity of one, like the hunger of the other, devours ravenous- ly and without distinction whatever falls in its way, hut neither of them digests. There is a system and an order tohe ohserved. More gen- eral histories are to he first taken up, and those especially which relate to ones own country, for in that the student feels most interest. The attention to others becomes a matter of course, and in degree according to their connexion and atti- tude as respects his own ; the study of one begets a passion for anotl]er, and each step encourages to greater exertion and more daring enterprise. The intellectual appetite is to he dieted according to its strength and character; fare correspond. ing to the state of reading is to be set hefore it; it shotild be sometimes whetted by provocations, hut never disgusted hy that which is unseasonable or offensive. But where shall we obtain proper histories for our youth ? We have few or none of sterling merit written with a particu- lar view to our institutions, religion and government. We put into the hands of the enquirer works for the most part inimical to our form of government, which embrace every opportunity to indulge in flings and sneers against it, and which never view its principles impartially. We cannot expect from them any 54 The Philo8oplty ~ Hidory. [July, thing else, for their doctrines will be accommodated to that sys- tem in which their authors have been taught to repose belief; at least these will not write history in reference to other institu- tions than their own. This natural and we may add excusa- ble prejudice belongs to every writer of annals; and, indeed, we should be exceeding loth to adopt the conclusions of any one so situated who should not be influenced by it. A defer- ence is due to public opinion when it is fairly ascertained. The deficiency ofwhich we speak in our own country is be- coming more and more evident, it has given birth to a trait in our national character, which is the most odious in the sight of foreigners ; we mean, our vanity. Our system works well, and, contrasted with the despotisms of Europe, it is a source of continued satisfaction ; but we have no work which has fully developed its admirable qualities, and we therefore become, each and all, expounders of theni. The habit is groxving upon us and has already taken (teep root. In the absence of such a history, it may he pardonable indeed, but our notions are likely to be crude and extravagant and capable of much injury to us, in the estimation of those even who have sufficient lib- erality of feeling to trace them to their right source. It is not our own history only, but that of the whole human race, which is to be written in accordance with the principles here unfolded and established. The accomplishment of such a great work would be most propitious. It would be the nucleus of a distinct national literature. It would at once give us an original national character. The successful com- pletion of such an universal history, would place us on equal terms with our opponents ; wc should have ~t in our power to dispute every inch of ground, fbi in it would be marked the true effect of every event, wherein it was adverse, and wherein auspicious to the breat cause of political rights ; we should no longer see through a glass darkly. The exis- tence of such a work would materially assist in improving our system and in correcting the faults of our age. Nalia aetas vacavit i cuipa. Democracies must not be hid under a bush- el ; they require the broad light of day. They are perfectible inasmuch as they contemplate the well-being of the people, who will discover their interest, and exercise their power ac- cordingly. Our history would give us a starting point, and, founded in the broad principle that all men are born free and equal, would present our past exlerience with its errors on this subject, so that we might avoitl them 1834.] The f~/iilo~ophy of Ji1810rI/. 55 Such a work was projected, and we believe in part completed by Dr. Ramsay, but his tragical death put an end to all hi~ designs. No one else to our knowledge has undertaken the task; and a fearful and responsible one it is. The individual who engages in it must have an intimate acquaintance with the genius and economy of our institutions, a sagacity to de- tect their influence upon the social, moral, and political con- dition of man, a profound and extensive erudition, and talents / of the first order. He must be deeply imbued with the spirit of the age,-rather in advance than behind it; yet he must / admit no fact on doubtful authority nor make any fact bend to his theories. He must have every quality required in the best historians, and some in addition ; he must he not only an enquirer after truth, an efficient advocate in vindicatin~ it an artist and a man, but he must he practically a republican. His work too must he different from anything that has yet been written. The value of such a work to the student of history would be incalculable. The observation of Cicero,nescire quod antea quam natus sis accident, id est semper esse puerurn,is most true; but past experience may be improperly studied; it may he connected with much that is poisonous, which the un- skilled cannot detect. An especial duty devolves upon us, as members of a free state; we require a correct knowledge of the past as to the great political and civil rights of man. The decline into despotism is insensible and rapid; the ascent to freedom, when once lost, is on the other hand slow, difficult and costly. Corrupt ambition is indigenous under all forms of government, but grows perhaps most luxuriantly in democracies. It is a rank weed, to he kept down by unre- mitted care and exertion. I-low strong, then, the necessity that proper histories should he placed in the hands of the student, whether boy or adult! Besides, how proper it is that we should understand ourselves, when our example is felt in almost every quarter of the globe! France is regenerated, England is shaking off hoary abuse, Spain and Portugal are struggling with an apparent probability of success for improved political institutions :who can doubt that the successful cx- perirnent here has produced these efforts for freedom? The selection of proper works is the more important, in that the time which can be allotted to the study of history is very short compared with the immensity of the materials, and 56 The Philosophy of History. [July, that we have little opportunity to unlearn what is impro- per, and to supply its place by new studies. In the few hints which we have ventured to offer on this subject, we have had it in view to aid the student in so directing his researches that he may acquire, with the least possible labor, a valuable store of historical information :the value being determined in this case, not so much by the bulk and extension as by the capa- city of being applied to the existing state of things. His tory / is a practical science, and of importance only so far as it can be used. It takes cognizance of the highest privileges of civil- ized beings, and so far as it assists us in defining them, is of the greatest value. We must then calculate its worth accord- irig to its practical application. The preceding remarks have been partly induced by the conviction, that the taste of the age is undergoing a salutary change in regard to reading. The prevailing disposition to consult utility has been long and widely insisted upon, but we doubt if it has ever been so strongly marked as at present. The public have been so long deluged with a flood of worthless trash in the shape of novels, that they begin at last to look up- on them with nausea and disgust. The pre~minent talents of Sir Walter Scott redeemed this species of writing from the insipidity into which it had fallen. His example has excited a host of imitators, who have followed him,with few excep- tions and these longo intervallo,with very indifferent success. The load has now become intolerable. We hail the appearance of Family Libraries, Cyclopedias, and Cabinets of know- ledge, with the highest gratification, as evidences of a more healthy state of the public mind. The degree of patronage which these collections are receiving, warrants us in the belief that the principle of improvement is universally active. We are pleased to see that historical works constitute so large a portion of these publications. It is a bright and en- couraging omen ; it manifests an increasing solicitude for po- litical knowledge and an anxious regard for political rights and privileges. It is a heart-stirring prospect for the lover of hu- manity ;for all who desire the well-being of man. We are to study diligently how this spirit may be best directed, and its effects rendered lasting. We have contributed our mite fearfully; for we are aware that it may often require the labor of several generations to eradicate a single well-estab- lished error. 1834.] Roman Literature. 57 ART ILLRoman Literature. 1. Bibliotheca Classica Latina, sive Gollectio Auctorum ~lassicorurn Latinorum, cum .Notis et Indicibus. Pa- ris. 1832. 2. Family Classical Library, No. 47. London. 1833. THE age in which we live is often described as an age of intellect; nor is this a misapplied denomination :it is one which is forcibly borne out by the signs of the times. Among the most prominent and convincing of these signs, may be mentioned the extraordinary and resistless impulse given to the human mind by the diffusion of education. In these latter days, we defer not to out brother man because he possesses title or territorial influence ; we defer to his rea- son alone, and on this exclusive ground, that his reason is cul- tivated. This is indeed a proud distinction, and without any prejudice to other operative sources, we may fairly trace one of its principal causes to the daily extending progress of sound classical information. The era is for ever gone by, when a taste for ancient litera- ture,the fount from which so much instruction and delight circulate throughout the world,was to be imbibed only in the purlicus of monastic seclusion, or in the society of wrangling gownsnien. Classical knowledge generally, and particularly Latin classical knowledge, the subject with which we are now more especially concerned, is not only widely scattered abroad, but is also prei~minently influential. This is a fact which we re- gard with peculiar complacency, since it so happily solves the long contested point, as to the practical tendency and use of classical learning in the common intercourse of life. We rejoice that this question, so variously and keenly dis- cussed, admits of such full and satisfactory demonstration. The great and justly earned popularity of the works men- tioned at the head of this article, may be referred to in sup- port of the conclusion, that classical literature has become an object of current and unlimited favor. The abundance and undisputed success of similar labors, impart still further weight to this inference. In directing our notice to the voluminous but judiciously VOL. XXXIX.NO. 84. 8

1834.] Roman Literature. 57 ART ILLRoman Literature. 1. Bibliotheca Classica Latina, sive Gollectio Auctorum ~lassicorurn Latinorum, cum .Notis et Indicibus. Pa- ris. 1832. 2. Family Classical Library, No. 47. London. 1833. THE age in which we live is often described as an age of intellect; nor is this a misapplied denomination :it is one which is forcibly borne out by the signs of the times. Among the most prominent and convincing of these signs, may be mentioned the extraordinary and resistless impulse given to the human mind by the diffusion of education. In these latter days, we defer not to out brother man because he possesses title or territorial influence ; we defer to his rea- son alone, and on this exclusive ground, that his reason is cul- tivated. This is indeed a proud distinction, and without any prejudice to other operative sources, we may fairly trace one of its principal causes to the daily extending progress of sound classical information. The era is for ever gone by, when a taste for ancient litera- ture,the fount from which so much instruction and delight circulate throughout the world,was to be imbibed only in the purlicus of monastic seclusion, or in the society of wrangling gownsnien. Classical knowledge generally, and particularly Latin classical knowledge, the subject with which we are now more especially concerned, is not only widely scattered abroad, but is also prei~minently influential. This is a fact which we re- gard with peculiar complacency, since it so happily solves the long contested point, as to the practical tendency and use of classical learning in the common intercourse of life. We rejoice that this question, so variously and keenly dis- cussed, admits of such full and satisfactory demonstration. The great and justly earned popularity of the works men- tioned at the head of this article, may be referred to in sup- port of the conclusion, that classical literature has become an object of current and unlimited favor. The abundance and undisputed success of similar labors, impart still further weight to this inference. In directing our notice to the voluminous but judiciously VOL. XXXIX.NO. 84. 8 Roman Literature [July~ selected compilation of Lemaire, we cannot forbear bestowing upon it a hearty tribute of eulogy. It was certainly a pro- digious enterprise, and now that, after a careful editorial su- perintendence of fourteen years, it has come to a termination, we may safely pronounce it a performance in every respect creditable both to the spirit, learning and perseverance of the individuals in immediate connexion with it, and also to the genius and reputation of the nation at large. The editions of the different Roman authors selected, are those of the most approved classical scholars in France, Germany, and Holland. The type is in the very best mould of the widely celebrated Didot Press. With regard to the Family Classical Library, our readers are aware of the flattering encouragment it receives in Eng- land, and, we may add, in this country. Its propitious as- sociation ~vith the erudite name of Valpy may be one powerful cause of its popularity, but another still more cogent is doubt- less to be found in the intrinsic value of the work itself. The humhlest citizen, who xvishes to keep pace with the prevailing spirit ,of the age, can now gratify this noble am- bition, wit hoot any serious inconvenience to his purse or his time. A university education is no longer indispensable to him, for an acquaintance with the exploits and revolutions of bygone days. He may, in his own vernacular language, at a moderate expense, and in a comparatively very brief period, familiarize himself with the character and prowess of that extraordinary people, among xvhom the high attributes of honor and patriotism were so ardently cherished. It is from a deliberate conviction of the beneficial result at- tending the perusal and study of the venerable memorials of antiquity, in exalting and perpetuating the generous sympathies of our nature, that we so cordially hail the publication of au- thentic editions of the Latin classics, whether in an original or a translated form. Persuaded of the salutary effects result- ing to a community from such a direction of the mind, we have embraced all fitting occasions for turning the public at- tention to this interesting subject. In repeating our recommendation of the study of the Latin classics, we would not simply base it on their importance as exhaustless sources of taste,as finished models of all that is elegant in expression and lofty in sentiment. We maintain, 1834.] Rontau Litcratwre. 59 that in studying the Roman authors a still nobler end is pro- posed, the practical exercise of the moral powers. In this faithful mirror of so many busy and changeful ages, we may perceive the salutary fact, strikingly elucidated, of the intimate analogy between the destiny of a single individual and that of a whole nation. As the habitual sway of virtuous and honorable principles forms the happiness of the one, so does it in like manner form that of the other. We may more- over observe, in closely viewing this subject, the designs of a wise and beneficent Providence, beautifully evolved in the in- strumentality of the Roman people for the progressive intel- lectual improvement of less enlightened nations, preparatory to the more complete introduction and establishment of moral and religious truth. Such are the enlarged and ameliorating con- ceptions, presented to our minds by the perusal of Roman Lit- erature. And it is only when we correctly and profitably ap- ply such conceptions, that one leading object of our education can be substantially prosecuted. Let us be distinctly understood. What is meant by edu- cation ? Properly speaking, education is the formation of elevated moral and religious principles, and the training of the mind to the practical application of those principles in ociety. Now, as conduct emanates from principles, it is evi- dent that future usefulness and comfort depend on the early and enli htened direction of the understanding. I call, says Milton, a complete and generous education that which fits a man to perform justly, skilfully and magnanimously, all the offices, 1)0th public and private, of peace and war. On this ground, then, as constituting one of the most usefid sources of mental exercise for the conscientious discharge of duty, the study of the Roman classics must hold a l)romninent rank. How very favorable would be the effect upon the intellectual aspect of numbers of both sexes, if they devoted to those instructive authors, but a small portion of the many hours they devote to the ephemeral and inane productions ~vhich constantly stream from the public press. While we maintain that the general tendency of the Roman writers is to invigorate the mind by the infusion of energetic ideas, * Prose Works, Vol. 1. page 5277. Rvnvi~~t LiLCL~JC~ and an unsophisticated masculine taste, such reading on the contrary as that now reprehended, is a degrading waste of precious time, and has even a bad effect on the feelings and the judgment.* But it is utterly improbable that mere sentimentalism and its tinsel offspring can ever seriously engage the attention of minds, accustomed to the vigorous and fervid delineations of C~sar, Livy, and Tacitus,t to the manly and overpowering eloquence of Cicero, to the harmonious strains of Virgil,i: and to the nice and graceful touches of Horace. How pre~minently worthy these and many other distin- guished authors of antiquity are of being consulted and l)CruSCd for the mature and exalted formation of character, is, beyond all contradiction, obvious. We deny not, indeed, that with respect to the matter dis- cussed by those ancient writers, and in a review of the consti- tution, government and current usages of the ancient repub- lics, and snore especially that of Rome, there is much to con- detun; but in our retrospect of bygone times and practices, it is neither accordant with philosophy nor with fairness, to dwell on the exceptionable parts exclusively. Blemishes there are, some of them attributable to accidental circumstances, and others to the original weakness of our nature. The purest po- litical constitutions have their dark side, and there is no coun- try xvithout its factious and ungrateful citizens. A Petiliu~, a Clodius, and a Mark Antony, are to be found in all large communities. But we are to extend our view, and chiefly repose our con- templations on that sublime and disinterested tone of national character, with which the Romans, more than any other peo- ple upon earth, were imbued. Is there, in fact, any one hal- lowed and generous emotion that vibrates through the heart of man, which we may not, among them, discover in the most fas- cinating form? Are they not unrivalled among the nations of the world, for that profusion of truly estimable qualities, which * Thtroductory Essay to the Library of Useful Knowledge, page 36. j In these three authors, the language of Rome is displayed in its utmost purity and perfection~ Schlco~c 1. page 155. . ~ ls Histor~ij of Literature. Vol. ~ Degli altri poCti onore e mine. Dante, Tom. I. page 17. Plenus est jucunditatis et grati~. Quintil. Orat. lib. 1O~ C. 1. 1834.] Roman Literature. 61 have secured for them the admiration of the latest posterity? In the attractive exhibition of Roman deportment, shone forth with conspicuous lustre grandeur of soul in adversity,~ mode- ration and clemency in victory,~ aggrandizing sagacity based on liberal policy4 deep respect for the sanctions of religion, enthusiastic devoted ness to country,Jj valor, perseverance, wisdom, justice, modesty, incorruptible integrity and inextin- guishable love of liberty. This love of liberty was not con- fined to the few, it was national; and as a dearly cherished principle, it became perhaps the more widely spread and firmly settled, inasmuch as its original production and final tri- umph were inseparably connected with disaster, agony and death.** To all this we may add the self-denial of the Romans, and their severe adherence to the strictest rules of discipline and personal restraint. So intimately were their amusements even blended with their future character and renown, that their exercises comuprehended whatever could add strength to the body, activity to the limbs, or grace to the motions.tt The toil to which a Roman soldier was obliged to submit seems, in modern times, absolutely incredible.tt It was all borne cheerfully, however, and amid every extreme of privation, be- cause his country demanded his services. * Tit. Liv. lib. 23. C. 13. t Tit. Liv. lib. 45. $ us favoris~rent les villes qui faisoient le commerce, quoiquelles ne fussent pas sujettes; ainsi us augment~rent, par la cession de plo- sieurs pays, la puissance de Marseille. Oeuvres de Montesquieu. Tom. II. p. 137. This was nobly illustrated in their treatment of the prisoners who escaped from the camp of hannibal after the fatal battle of Cannae, ~ d~ ~opodp~vov 7lQ~~ ~ XVcTaL T~~3) ~pKoV, ~iuavr~e oKarf~)oav 7~QOC TOVC 7TOX~/LUJC. Pob1b. Tom. LI., p. 83. Il y avoit ccci de particulier chez les Romains, quils mdloient qucique sentiment religicux a lamour quils avoient pour leur patrie. Montesquieu. Tom. IV. p. 74. ** Scevola, Curzio, i tre Decij avidi della gloria, la cercano ne tor- menti e nella morte per Ia pubblica salute. Ii popolo non vede la cau- sa, ma osserva gli effetti. La virtm~i sola apparisce, la passione si nas- conde. Lentusiasmo dellindividuo Si comunica alla mnoltitudine; lenorgia duna passione si comunica allaltra; il popolo corre ove leroc lo chiamna. Filangieri,-Scienza Della Legislazione. Tom. V. p. 42. ft Gibbons Rome. Vol. I. p. 18. ~ Cicero Tuscul. Disput. lib. 2. P. 70. 62 Roman Literature. [July, In the whole annals of mankind, tbere is not to be found a more convincing instance of the advantages which accrue to a people from temperance, bravery, order, equity and emula- tion.* And in the perusal of the Roman history, we have fully unfolded to us those great springs of character, which led to events so important and extraordinary. To the principles of conduct which the Romans professed to entertain, they were ever steady in practice. And if it he true, that there is no effectual method of repressing vice of all kinds, hut by eagerly and unceasingly inculcating the ennobling maxims of uprightness, honor and religion, we may then, as a luminous example of this fact, safely refer to the pure and uncorrupted era of the commonwealth of Rome. Another great advantage attending the study of the Latin classics, results from the mutual and indivisible connexion between purity and dignity of national character, and the ascending progress of masculine literary refinement. We would not be understood to insinuate that this mutual re- lation between vigorous intellectual taste, and high moral probity, is, in all cases, a proper standard of decision in form- ing an estimate of character. By no means. It is always possihle that individuals, and even a considerable propor- tion of a community, may be referred to, who are in l)OS- session of the former. but are destitute of the latter. Yet in alluding to the general and prevailing tone of national sen- timent, particularly during the brightest period of the Roman republic, the affirmation now made appears to he well ground- ed. Of its correctness, a reference to the history and authors of Rome will constitute the best proof Before the Roman mind was contaminated by foreign rela- tions. a national sensitiveness to unsullied honor, justice and patriotism throbbed in the bosom of every citizen,and when occasions were displayed for the performance of heroic deeds, the test was never evaded. To the existence of this principle, univeisally dominant dur- ing the primitive times of the Republic, all their historians bear withess. And the great medium for unfolding those ruling sentiments of public taste, which involved national worth and national prosperity, was eloquence. * Priestleys Lectures on History. p. 215. 1834.] Roman Literature. 63 A talent for eloquence arose from the very nature and ele- ments of a republican constitution; in its exercise it exhibited a just and impressive representation of contemporaneous feel- ing :the more so, as it was often required for the discharge of important functions and responsibilities.* The early orators of Rome were straight forw ard, high mind- ed men, whose civic rank frequently combined the vocations of magistrate, priest, and general, and as the criterion of their personal accomplishments was singularly elevated, their elo- quence was the artless impassioned outpouring of the heart, while their language was consistently substantiated in hardy and marvellous achievements. The ancient Greeks and Romans are indeed peculiar among all the nations on the globe, for the solid and momentous appli- cation which they triade of eloquence. And the results arising from the impulse thus communicated to the mind, sufficiently attest the depth of that prospective sagacity, which among them rendered skill in oratory so necessary a branch of intel- lectual education.t But with the cultivation of their Ian. guage, they also cultivated their taste and reason. The opportunities constantly recurring of addressing large assem- blies of their countrymen, concerning the most important state transactions, exceedingly strengthened this bias. Hence it was that the Greek and Latin languages attained an accuracy, a beauty, a majesty and a moral influence, which enabled them to produce in the forum and the battle-field, the wonderful effects described in history. Sentiments were then as much prized as actions. The for~ mer were regarded as the unequivocal pledges of the latter, and were appreciated accordingly. The great motive of dis- course was to instruct, to convince, to persuade. For this paramount end, all the resources and energies of the mind were * Atque ego ijiam, quem instituo, Romanum quemdam velim esse sapientem, qui non secretis disputationibus, sed rerum experimentis atque operibus, vera civilem virum exhibeat. Quintil. Lib. 12. C. 2. t Ii faut se souvenir que Crassus, Antoine, Hortensius, Cic~ron, fu- rent ~iev~s aux premhires dignit~s de la r~pubIique, parceqa ~i1s t~toient ~doquens. On en trouve la raison dans la nature m~me du gouverne- meat. Qjuand an talent est dun usage necessaire et habituel pour quiconque se m~1e de 1 administration, ii faut absolument, que ceux qui le poss~dent dans an degr~ sup~rieur, sojent honor~s et rev~rt~s~ Laharpe, Cours de Litt& at are. Tome II. p. 346. 64 Roman Literature. [July, necessarily called into active play. The ear, the heart, the imagination and the judgment, were powerfully assailed. To accomplish such objects, gigantic labor was of course indispen- sable,and this labor was stimulated by the most active com- petition. It was often bestowed from early youth upwards, with a degree of unyielding, indefatigable diligence that seems past all belief. It was in this career of hardy intellectual emulation, that Cicero, for example, habitually trod, and it was thus that he was enabled to achieve those astonishing feats of literary effort, which appear almost beyond the grasp of human industry. Almost extemporaneously he delivered his incomparable oration for Roscius. In less than two months, he wrote his three books on the Nature of the Gods, two on Divination, and his Laelius and Cato. Within the brief period of three years, he composed all his Philosophical Works, and his Treatises on Rhetoric, not merely those which are in our possession, but many besides, which are irrecoverably lost. All this he accomplished, let us remember, not during a course of uninterrupted leisure, but in the very whirl of high and responsible public functions. Whoever, then, expects to approach the fame and perfec- tion of the Roman orator, must likewise possess his soul, his language, his experience, his ready and assiduous habits of active business. The youth who profitably peruses the im- perishable volumes of Cicero, cannot fail to have his feelings elevated, and his understanding enlightened. And in calling to mind what is recorded of St. Augustine, namely, that his three leading wishes, in reference to the past, were to see Solomon on the throne of Israel, St. Paul in the pulpit, and ancient Rome in its glory, the young student, whose bosom beats high with dignified aspirations, will consider as one of the highest sources of gratification, that would have resulted from the accomplishment of the third of these wishes, the op- portunity which it would have afforded of being present in the Forum at the moment when the thrilling tones of the great Orator were blighting his enemies, and infusing the healing balm of consolation into the hearts of his friends and fellow- citizens. In examining the history of the life of Cicero, the student will, for his encouragement, perceive that sooner or later the 1834.] Roman Literature. 65 honorable toil of early application and self-improvement, is noticed and rewarded. Thus it was in ancient Rome, where men, who had no other recommendation than their personal merits, reached those eminent dignities at which long descended birth did not always arrive. We see this in the case of Cicero himself, who, though born in an obscure town of Italy, obtained the consulship, which was refused to Catiline, to Cethegus, and to Lentulus, all of them belonging to the most illustrious families in Rome. But in the path to honorable distinction, so open and so anxiously pursued in ancient Rome, were to be found not only those who spoke well and emphatically, but also those who wrote and composed for posterity. And the secret, why the early Roman authors have retained an undying popularity in after ages, is the successful transfusion of national portraiture into their pages. Display, or the mere ostentation of eloquence, was with them a very subordinate end, and this is precisely the reason why the noble simplicity of their delineations is ren- dered so profoundly interesting. In their descriptions, there reign a freshness, an originality, a force and a decorum, which entirely baffle all merely imitative exertion. And wherefore was it so? Because the early historians of Rome had to commemorate civil, family and individual acts of unwonted intrepidity and self-devotedness. Their writings teemed with chivalrous deeds. Ancestral renown, and the proud recollec- tion of the past, animated every page. This was the root of Roman character, and from this root did the transcendent power of Rome grow up. The Scipios and the Catos, Sylla, Crassus, Lucullus, Brutus, Pompey, Caesar, and Cicero, were either orators and historians themselves, or the friends and patrons of eloquence and history. But no sooner was imperial rule substituted for the free institutions of a republic, than the decline of Roman grandeur became perceptible. Neither the authority of Augustus, nor the favor of Mmcenas, could healthfully reinvigorate the public taste. The body politic was marked in all its parts with symptoms of decay. The will of the many was now represent- ed by the will of the sovereign. That sovereign was fre- quently a tyrant or a buffoon, from whose polluting con- tact the pure spirit of liberty indignantly recoiled. In such disastrous circumstances, free agency was extinguished, and VOL. XXXIX.NO. S4~ 9 66 Roman Literature [July, imperial satellites reared up their ignominious influence on the ruin of once unfettered Rome. Personal worth and na- tional weal were weighed in the balance against the volup- tuous and degrading enjoyments of sense, and found wanting. Even the highest earthly trust that can devolve on human beings,that of educating their children, of ameliorating the hearts, and regulating the principles and affections of the young,was consigned to the care of slaves. The touching eloquence of their forefathers degenerated into the pedantry of unmeaning declamation, and their historical compositions into records of error and adulation. By none is this wide spread national corruption more un- feignedly lamented, than by the Romans themselves. The works of Persius, Martial, Juvenal and Seneca abound in such regrets, and the amiable and learned Quinctilian, perhaps more than any other Latin author, makes us feel the truth of these remarks. Yet notwithstanding so melancholy a retrogradation of character among the Romans, the genius of their departed fame long continued to exhibit some glimpses of its former energy. Even the imperial purple was occasionally discovered in the arena of literary glory. We know that Augustus extended his especial countenance to Virgil and Horace.* Tiberius maintained a seminary, exclu- sively appropriated for 6ramrnarians. Claudius composed va- rious works, and re-established the Museum of Alexandria. Nero caused some of the finest monuments of Grecian in- genuity to be removed to Rome. He too was a poet, a musi- cian, both instrumental and vocal,t a critic, an orator, and was from early youth initiated in the fine arts.t Vespasian, though proverbially parsimonious, settled an- nuities on many learned men. Domitian revered Quinctilian as his bosom friend. Trajan corresponded with the younger * Virg. in quo non apud divuin Augustum grati~t caruit.De Oratori bus Diatogus, p. 8. + Ne Giu6chi Istmici un Tragico, miglior musico che Politico, perchA non ebbe lavvertenza di desistere dal canto, per lasciar corn- parir quel di Nerone, che doven certamente essere piii mirabile del suo, fu strangolato sni Teatro, in faccia di tutta la Grecia.Muratori, .i?n- nali Dltalia, Torn. I. p. 156. ~ Liberales disciplinas ornnes ferA puer attigit.Sueton. in vita Seron. Tirabosehi, Storia Della Letteratura Italiana.~Tom. IL p. 220 1834.j Roman Literature. 67 Pliny in terms of the most affectionate intimacy. Adrian, whose experience had been so fully ripened by foreign travel,* was not only a learned prince, but in founding the first pub- lic University in Rome, ~ave a more signal proof of his per- sonal attachment to the interests of literature, than any of his predecessors.t But after all, the eclipse (A Roman ~plendor had set in. The body politic was diseased, and both the intellectual and moral faculties suffered in consequence. The change from a republican to a military government, was decisive of the greatness and even of the existence of Rome. And it is no less curious than instructive, to remark how distinctly the de- cline of character is perceptible in literature. Not all die influence of the Emperors could prevent the downward progress. The evil was beyond all remedy. Pliny and Tacitns made a noble effort to retrieve the decayed fame of their country, but with all their literary championship, they are far inferior to their ancestors in the union of vigor and simplicity. The former, in his justly celebrated letters, exhibits an ambitions straining after ornament, totally at va- riance with the flowing ease required for familiar epistolary intercourse. The latter paints dark and troublous times with the hand of a master indeed 4 but in the gloomy and ambigu- ous coloring of philosophical bitterness. Quinctilian helped to cast a literary irradiation across the thickening darkness of his age, but who would think of coni- paring his works, valuable as they certainly are, with those of Tully? Seneca too, with all his acknowledged excellence, failed by moral invective to reclaim the bad taste or the vicious habits of his countrymen. Even in his writings, philo- sophical and dramatic, we discover indications of the progress- ive decline of the national literature. Of Lucan (to say nothing respecting his glaring inconsist- encies of sentiment,) it may he remarked that his poem, though vivid and stirring,~j is destitute of real epic grandeur. * Gibbon, Vol. I. p. 122. t Giannone, Istoria civile di Napoli. Tom. I. p. 53. 4 As long as it shall be thought that the proper study of mankind is man, so long the Annals of Tacitus will be the school of moral as well as political knowledge.Mtophys Essay on the Ljfe and Genius of Tacitus. Page 76. \S Schlegels History of Literature. Vol. I. page 152. Lucanus, ardens et concitatus, et sententiis clarissimus, et, ut di- 68 Usury, and the Usury Laws. [July1 In the Satires of Juvenal, we have a keen, unsparing attack on the flagitious practices of his time, but we seek in vain for the graceful poetic drapery, which is every where discoverable in those of Horace. In fine, Suetonius, Florus, Quintus Cur- Pus, Justin, Silius Itahcus, and Claudian, with all their unde- nied abilities, furnish,both in the matter and style of their writings,still further proofs of the truth of the position ad- vanced,that the shades of a dark and ominous eclipse were gradually mantling over the moral character and literar)r fame of ancient Rome. But it) order to benefit effectually by the experience of the past, we must decide for ourselves, by personal study and re- search. That these observations may in some measure con- tribute to this beneficial end, is our sincere desire. Certain it is, that, in what has been said above, we have by no means overrated the incalculable importance of the end. In support of this opinion, we refer to the following recorded attestation of one of the ablest scholars and most distinguished men of mod- ern times. Study, I beseech you, (says he) soto store your minds with the exquisite learning of former ages, that you may always possess within yourselves sources of rational and refined enjoyment, which will enable you to set at nought the grosser pleasures of sense, whereof other men are slaves.* ART. IV. Usury, and the Usury Laws. Report of a Committee of the General Court of JlJassa- chusetts upon the Petition of TV. Tuckerman and Others for the Repeal of the Laws against Usury. Boston. 1834. AT the last session of the General Court of this Common- wealth, a petition was presented on behalf of a large number of the most intelligent and respectable citizens of Boston, engaged iii active business, for a repeal of the laws against cain quad sentin, magis oratoribus quam poetis adaumerandus. Quinc- til. Inslitut. Orator. Jib. 10. cap. 1. * Buoughams Inaugural Discourse before the University of Glas- gow. Page 6.

68 Usury, and the Usury Laws. [July1 In the Satires of Juvenal, we have a keen, unsparing attack on the flagitious practices of his time, but we seek in vain for the graceful poetic drapery, which is every where discoverable in those of Horace. In fine, Suetonius, Florus, Quintus Cur- Pus, Justin, Silius Itahcus, and Claudian, with all their unde- nied abilities, furnish,both in the matter and style of their writings,still further proofs of the truth of the position ad- vanced,that the shades of a dark and ominous eclipse were gradually mantling over the moral character and literar)r fame of ancient Rome. But it) order to benefit effectually by the experience of the past, we must decide for ourselves, by personal study and re- search. That these observations may in some measure con- tribute to this beneficial end, is our sincere desire. Certain it is, that, in what has been said above, we have by no means overrated the incalculable importance of the end. In support of this opinion, we refer to the following recorded attestation of one of the ablest scholars and most distinguished men of mod- ern times. Study, I beseech you, (says he) soto store your minds with the exquisite learning of former ages, that you may always possess within yourselves sources of rational and refined enjoyment, which will enable you to set at nought the grosser pleasures of sense, whereof other men are slaves.* ART. IV. Usury, and the Usury Laws. Report of a Committee of the General Court of JlJassa- chusetts upon the Petition of TV. Tuckerman and Others for the Repeal of the Laws against Usury. Boston. 1834. AT the last session of the General Court of this Common- wealth, a petition was presented on behalf of a large number of the most intelligent and respectable citizens of Boston, engaged iii active business, for a repeal of the laws against cain quad sentin, magis oratoribus quam poetis adaumerandus. Quinc- til. Inslitut. Orator. Jib. 10. cap. 1. * Buoughams Inaugural Discourse before the University of Glas- gow. Page 6. 1834.] Usury, and the Usury Laws. 69 usury. The petition was committed to a Committee of the two branches, which had been raised for the purpose of in- vestigating the conduct of the banks, and probably gave the greater part of its attention to that subject, which was thought at the time to be of more urgent importance. In their Re- port, which accompanied the Bill, prohibiting certain supposed abuses in the administration of the Banks, the Committee al- luded briefly to the Usury Laws, and while they expressed their approbation of the mitigation effected by the statutes of 1825 and 1826, and intimated the opinion that a further change, or perhaps a total repeal of those laws might be ultimately beneficial, considered it inexpedient to do any thing about the matter in the present unsettled state of the financial concerns of the country. The petition was afterwards taken from the files of the Sen- ate, und committed to another joint select Committee, raised for this special purpose. This Committee made a brief report against the principle of the Usury Laws, accompanied by a bill providing for the repeal of all acts, and parts of acts, which restrain or prohibit the taking of more than six per cent. interest, so far as they apply to bills of exchange and promissory notes, payable in three months from the day of their date; but expressly excepting from the operation of the proposed law notes of hand secured by a mortgage of real estate, or payable on demand, and bills of exchange payable at sight. The pro- visions of this Bill were nearly the same with those of a sec- tion, intended to effect the same general object, which was introduced into the late act of the British Parliament, for renewinn the charter of the Bank of England. The course of the proceedings on this subject, to which we have briefly adverted, necessarily delayed very much the con- sideration of it by the General Court upon its merits. The Bill came up in the Senate, on one of the last days of the ses- sion, and being thought of too much consequence to be de- cided upon with precipitation, was referred, after a short debate, to the next General Court. It was, in fact, hardly to be expected or desired, that so important a change in the laxvs should be carried through on its first proposition, and without mature and repeated discussion. The subject will undoubtedly be resumed at the next, or some subsequent session of the Legislature: and in the mean time, we have thought that a somewhat more extended and detailed expo~ 70 Usury, and the Usury Laws. [July, sition of the facts and principles relating to it, than could con- veniently be introduced into any Legislative Report, might not he without its use in furnishing the public in general, and particularly the citizens who may he culled to act upon it, with materials upon xvbich to form an opinion.* * As the proceedings of the Legislature were not published in the newspapers, and are of course not generally known, it may be proper to insert here, for the further elucidation of the subject, the petition of the citizens of Boston and the Report of the Committee, which consisted of Messrs. Everett of Suffolk and Shattuck of Mid- dlesex for the Senate, and Messrs. White of Boston, Greene of New- Bedford, and XVarner of Northampton, for the House of Representa- tives. PETITION FOR THE REPEAL OF THE USURY LAWS. The undersigned, citizens of Boston, having long experienced the inconveniences arising from the existing Usury Laws of Massachusetts, and being persuaded that the Honorable Legislature will, ~whenever the subject is properly brought before them, provide an adequate re- medy for the evils complained og have deemed it suitable and proper to appear as petitioners before that honorable body, setting forth in their petition the inconveniences to which the present laws give rise, and praying such a modification of those laws as will, in their opinion, remove the evil. We, your petitioners, would therefore respectfully represent, that, in our judgment, the existing Usury Laws, so far as they limit the rate of interest, are founded on erroneous principles, and are at variance with the commercial spirit of the age. We think that every article of human traffic, whether money or any other thing, is alike subject to fluctuation of value, and that consequently the market price of them all is constantly liable to change. We think that the price of money, or, more properly speaking, the price of its use, not less than the price of lumber, corn, tobacco, cotton, or any other great commer- cial staple, is, and must be rebulated by the extent of the demand in the market, and that every attempt to fix the value and render the price of any of these articles invariable, is not only vain, but wholly unjust and that it is, in the case of all these commodities, an equal infringe- ment of private rights. We are of opinion that six per cent. per annron is not the highest value to which money rises in the course of business, any more than it is the limit of profits made by traffic in any other commodity. But, on the contrary, that whenever the use of money, in the regular course of business, produces a large amount of profit, the value of that use is proportionately increased; arid that at such times, and at all others when money is scarce and the demand for it great, as well as in cases where the risk of lending is very much increased, the real value of monied capital is, and the market price ought to be, vastly more than six per cent., being always in the exact compound proportion of the demand and risk. 1834.1 Usury; and the Usury Laws. 71 Before we proceed to this inquiry, we cannot refuse our- selves the satisfaction of congratulating our readers upon the successful termination of the efforts which have been made by the friends of humanity, for several years past, in this Common- We think that the law is wrong in imposing any restraint upon the absolute freedom of commercial transactions,which, in order to be successful, must be left unfettered. In the case of money, which re- presents every other commodity, the evil is far greater than it could be in the case of any other article of traffic. We know that, in former ages, when the laws, by a mistaken policy, forbade the receiving of any interest, condemning it as morally wrong, commerce and the arts were almost completely destroyed; and that, as the opinion of mankind changed on this subject, and the laws became more liberal, commerce revived and extended its transactions, and scattered wider and wider its blessings. And we are firmly persuaded that neither this nor any other department of human industry will attain its perfection, until men of business are as unrestrained in buying and selling the media of ex- change, as in buying and selling any other merchandise whatsoever. We are also of opinion, that while the present restrictions were in- tended to favor the interest of borrowers, they are even more injurious to borrowers than to lenders. But before demonstrating this proposi- tion, we beg leave respectfully to express our conviction, that any attempt of the law to favor one particular class of citizens to the in- jury of any other class, is unjust, unconstitutional, and contrary to the spirit of freedom and equal rights; and although in this case the at- tempt is wholly unsuccessful, yet we cannot regard it, on that account, as less contrary to sound principles; and, both as borrowers and as lenders, we are equally hostile to the laws which sustain the attempt. We will now endeavor to show that, in their practical effect, these laws are injurious to borrowers of money. Whenever the demand for money is such in the market as to render it worth more than the es- tablished rate of interest, the borrower, however pressing his want, however strong his necessity, cannot raise the requisite loan; for the money owner is not compelled to part with his money at less than its worth; and he will not be so foolish as to lend, when he can find more profitable modes of investment; and the borrower, although willing to pay any premium for relief, must suffer all the pressure of his emer- gency without the possibility of obtaining assistance. Cases of this sort we have all experienced and observed very frequently; and we know them to form the most serious obstructions to successful enter- prise. So also we are aware that many instances occur, in which the personal character of the borrower is such as to render the owner of money reluctant to venture on his credit, at the usual rate ;while, did the law allow, the applicant would be glad to pay a premium pro- portioned to the risk. In this manner borrowers experience a com- pound evil, being unable to pay for the desired article according to its market value or their own necessities; and many a man is ruined, who, if he could have been allowed to offer seven or eight, or more per [July, 12 Usury, and the Usury Laws. wealth, upon a subject nearly connected with the one now before us. The almost unanimous adoption, by the last General Court, of the act abolishing imprisonment for Debt, furnishes a signal proof that in this country no ahuse, however cent., would have realized a fortune. Caa any reason be assigned why the privilege of charging interest proportionate to the risk, allow- ed on bottomry loans, should not be extended to every other species of loan? The inconvenience experienced by money lenders, under the laws, though great, is yet less than that felt by borrowers, although these laws were intended for the borrowers advantage. For, if the holders of money cannot lead at an interest equivalent to the value of the capital, they can invest that capital in those more profitable modes of traffic, which create the money demand. Thus to them only one avenue of business is closed, while to the borrower, every resource is cut off. But it is certainly worthy of legislative attention, that even in a single particular, the process of business is impeded; and legislators, as such, in our opinion, are to be held responsible for the losses that the com- munity may suffer in the persons of its citizens, from this impediment. The law is manifestly wrong in supposing that, if left unrestricted, money lenders would acquire an overgrown influence, and exercise an oppressive power. Nothing of this sort can be reasonably feared, while we have such a host of banks, and other monied corporations, in addition to individual lenders, all in the market, and all engaged in ac- tive competition. No inconvenience of this kind is ever complained of in the case of bottomry loans, where the lenders are not restricted by any statute. No evil is found to exist in the matter of insurance pre- miums, where the risk is uniformly the measure of the rite. Compe- tition, as much in the pecuniary facilities required by business men, as in the facilities of travel by land and sea, determines the price of those facilities. And is there not as much probability that the public will be burthened with exorbitant stage and steamboat fares, as with extor- tious charges for the use of money? We are firm in the opinion that all money transactions should be regulated, like those in other articles of trade, only by this spirit of competition; and that no greater evils would or could, in the present age, arise from the traffic in money being thus unrestricted, than are now felt from the perfect freedom allowed to traffic in other commodities. And it passes our understand- ing to see why that, whether money or goods, which is made the in- strument of profit to him who uses it, should not, in all cases, be sold at its real value. The evils that grow out of our laws are enhanced by the fact, that the rate of interest in a neighboring State is one per cent. per annum higher than in Massachusetts. In consequence of this difference, by which a constant drain is produced from our market, a vast amount of capital, which, if they were fettered by no law, would remain in cir- culation amongst our fellow citizens, is drawn into the New York market, and totally lost to our borrowers, whose embarrassments are thereby increased. This evil is constantly and severely felt. But at 1834.] Usury, and the Usury Laws. 73 sanctified by long usage and inveterate prejudice, and even though sustained by the supposed interest of certain very active classes of the community, can ultimately resist the current of enlightened public opinion. Among the circum- particular times, as in the present pressure on the money market, its burden is especially heavy, and causes the greatest distress, particu- larly to those who are least able to sustain it, viz., business young men, whose capital is small, and of whom credit is the support. Were the present laws repealed, our own capital would remain in our own use, and the capital of the neighboring States would flow in upon us in such a manner that our business would be greatly extended and increased. We would respectfully direct the attention of the Legislature to the numerous modes that have been devised for evading the laws; modes of transacting business, which., besides being circuitous and inconven- ient, and besides taking away the sanction and protection of the law from those who engage in them, leaving no security but what is termed honor, thus increasing the ri~k~ and of course the premium paid,be- sides these evils, which are loss of time, money, comfort and security, ---produce a fearful disregard of the laws, and establish a precedent of the utmost danger, while they tend to throw pecuniary negotiations into the hands of unprincipled and dangerous men. We need not specify the various methods by which the law is now evaded, and by which interest above six per cent. is taken, in defiance of law, under the various names of premium, exchange, and commission ; for these are matters of notoriety, and need only be alluded to in order to secure the attention of the Legislature. So long as our laws remain unchanged, it is in vain to hope for a better state of things. Such being the opinion of your petitioners, they respectfully pray that the Usury Laws may be so modified, as to leave the rate of inter- est, like the rate of premiums on insurances, perfectly open to con- tract,---providing, however, that in all cases where interest accrues, and the particular rate has not been expressly agreed upon between the parties, the present shall remain the legal rate. And your petitioners will ever pray, & c. Win. Tuckerman, G. Tuckerman, Joseph Balch, Joseph Blake, Charles Tappan, B. Bartlett, James Patten, Jabez Fisher, Job Tower, Bodwell Sargent, Win. H. Delano, George W. Lewis, Enoch Train, Samuel Train, E. N. Train, Ezra C. Hutchins, Robert M. Morse, Joseph Breck, Pickens & Littlehale, Chamberlin & Kendrick, John A. MGaw, John Kendrick, Isaac Danforth, Silas Pierce, R. W. Bayley, J. A. Lowell, Levi Bartlett, John D. Bridge, Isaac Leonard, Prince Hawes, Jedh Blanchard, M. Bolles, Jr., Butler & Coffin, Thomas Dana, William Frost, Stephen White, N. F. Cunningham & Co., B. A. Ray- mond, Win. Fenno, L. T. Stpddard, Daniel Patterson, William Lin- coln, Julius A. Palmer, Otis Norcross & Co., Nath. Hobart & Co., George B. Blake, Samuel Philbrick, Marshall P. Wilder, John M. Whidden, Charles Torrey, Win. W. Stone, George H. Kuhn, William G. Lambert, Henry Willis, R. D. C. Merry, George Bond, Robert Ap VOL. XXXIX.NO. 84. ID 74 Usury, and the Usury Laws. [July, stances which tended most powerfully to bring about this signal triumph of the cause of humanity, may be mentioned the powerful and eloquent language in which the Governor, pursuing the example of his eminent predecessor in the same pleton, James Blake, Jr., G. C. Perkins, Robert Farley, Wilder S~ Thurston, J. S. Hastings, William T. Andrews, John L. Cabot, Rich- ard Warren, S. R. Putnam, Silas Bullard, J. W. Harris, L. A. Caze- nove, H. Rogers Kendall, Charles A. White, Charles J. Cazenove, S. G. Williams, Samuel Cabot, Henry P. Freeman, James Cushing, Eben. Chadwick, Arthur French, George W. Pratt, Hartshorn & Ho- mer, Henry Gasset, N. Appleton, Robert Hugenon, Abraham Howard, IBenj. Humphrey, Win. Appleton, E. W. Robbins, William Reynolds, Ozias Goodwin, Samuel Swett, Benj. Seaver, Joel Thayer, Samuel Dorr, A. Townsend, B. Dana, Henry Edwards, Benj. Loring, Benj. P. Homer, Benj. Willis, Francis Coffin, Thomas B. Wales, Moses Grant, Joshua Chamberlin, William Jackson, Emerson, Lamb & Harvey, James Fullerton & Co., Otis Norcro~s & Co., George W. Torrey, Hastings, Marsh & Co., Emmons & Weld, Moses Williams, Viles & Atkins, Isaiah Atkins, Samuel Downer, Jr., R. Richards, Jr., Trott & Bumstead, Calvin Washburn, R. C. Hooper, D. Hammond, George H. Gray, G. J. Sprague, Crockett, Seaver & Co., Henry Cutter, C. F. Adams, Arthur Scholfield, Henry W. Russell, S. Whitwell, Jr., B. C. Harris, W. C. Stimpson, Samuel B. Doane, Daniel Noyes, Henry G. Rice, Gardner Brewer, Joseph Mariner, S. S. Lynde, Henry Dennie, Jer. Fitch, Isaac Davis, William Stearns, E. Copeland, Jr., James W. Gates & Co., George L. Stearns, John 0. Fairfield, Jabcz Fisher, 2d, Sumner Hudson, Charles J. Fowle, A. W. Grant, Eugene A. Homer, R. E. Little, Thomas P. Cushing, George W. Bond, Zeb. Cook, C. Wilkins, F. W. Dana, Win. Eager, W. Farnsworth, E. Tucker Osborn, Win. Fowle, Luther Parks, John Henshaw, William S. Wait, John W. Chickering, James T. Hobart, Amasa Walker, Newell Withington, Nath. R. Cobb, William Capen, M. T. Lincoln & Co., J. C. Converse, Michael Mellen & Co., George Denny, Win. B. Swett, John Skinner, Henry Hall, E. A. Bourne, N. G. Snelling, John S. Wright, Parker H. Pierce, A. Weston, B. L. Thompson, Nath. Curtis. Alfred Richardson, Benj. V. French, Elijah Vose, Larkin Turner, E. Silsby, Stephen Glover, Win. J. Loring. REPORT OF THE COMMITTEE. Is SENATE, March 19, 1834. The Joint Select Committee, to whom was referred the petition of William Tuckerman and others, for a repeal of the Usury Laws, have considered the same, and respectfully REPORT ;That the peti- tioners, a large number of the most intelligent and respectable citizens of Boston, set forth in a concise, but distinct form, two principal reasons why the Usury Laws ought to be repealed. The first is, that they are 1834.] Usury, and the Usury Laws. 75 oflice,denounced the absurdity and cruelty of the then existing system. Much credit is also due to Mr. Robinson of Marblehead, who introduced the bill in the House of Repre- sentatives, and Mr. Blake of Boston, who took the lead in in themselves, inexpedient and impolitic: the second, that they cannot be carried into effect, and by occasioning shifts and evasions of a more or less fraudulent character, create a great positive evil. 1. The value of money, like that of every other article, naturally regulates itself. If the rate of interest upon it, as fixed by law, coin- cide with the real market value, the law has no operation whatever. If, on the other hand, the rate of interest, as fixed by law, be lower than the real market value of money, then the effect of the law is to check the circulation of money, and thus impede and embarrass the natural course of trade. Thus, in the only case in which it can operate at all, the operation of the law is directly injurious. 2. Were it even admitted that Usury Laws are, in themselves, ex- pedient and politic, experience shows that they cannot be carried into effect. The most general and pointed provisions that can be de. vised, are easily eluded by slight changes in the form of the transac- tion, and the law is accordingly, in practice, constantly evaded. But such evasions are, when strictly considered, of a fraudulent character, and tend to diminish the respect that ought to be entertained by the community for the laws under which they live. Such are the principal reasons that are urged by the petitioners as motives for the repeal of the Usury Laws. The Committee have no hesitation in saying that they entirely concur in these views of the subject. They might easily be sustained by strong arguments, and names of the highest authority, but at this late period of the session the Committee have thought it inexpedient to submit a long report. It is believed that the general considerations connected with the question are familiar to the public mind, and would gain nothing in force by be- ing recapitulated in detail upon the present occasion. These considerations apply equally to every branch of this subject, and would lead to a total repeal of the Laws against Usury. Believing, however, that any sudden and extensive changes in the laws are gener- ally inexpedient, the Committee have preferred to recommend, at pres- ent, a repeal of the Usury Laws only so far as they apply to Promis- sory Notes and Bills of Exchange, payable not less than months after date, and during the time for which they were originally made payable. The evils of the existing system are felt more strongly in reference to this class of contracts, than to any other, and it is there- fore with them, that it appears expedient to begin the reform. The Committee accordingly report a Bill to that effect. Which is respectfully submitted. For the Committee, A. H. EVERETT. 76 Usury, and the Usury Laws~ [July, support of it in the Senate, as well as to the indefatigable and truly meritorious Secretary of the Prison Discipline So- ciety, Mr. Dwight, and the other distinguished citizens of all classes, who gave the weight of their names, and the sanc- tion of their opinions in favor of the measure. Inconsid- erable as may have been the effect of our own feeble efforts in producing the result, we can truly say that there is no part of our labors to which we now recur with higher satisfaction. We entertain no doubt, tbat the act abolishing Imprisonment for Debt in this Commonwealth,although from its being un- connected with the party controversies of the day, it may excite less attention than some other proceedings of the State or General Governmeiits,will really exercise a more beneficial influence upon the well-being of the body of the people, than any legislative measure since the adoption of the Constitution. Although many very plausible considerations xvere urged in favor of the old system, it was in fact sustained by the mere force of habit: and this is also the only real support of the Usury Laws, the injurious operation of which is, in like man- ner, chiefly felt by the middling and poorer classes of the community. We indulge a confident hope, that a temperate but vigorous and persevering course of exertion on the part of the intelligent friends of improvement among us, will meet in due time with the same success, in regard to this abuse, which attended their efforts for the removal of the other. We are no friends of indiscriminate, wanton and violent changes COMMONWEALTH OF MASSACHUSETTS. In the Year of our Lord One Thousand Eight Hundred and Thirty-Four. An Act concerning Usury. Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives in General Court assembled, and by the authority of the same, That from and after the passing of this Act, all Acts and parts of Acts heretofore passed, which restrain or prohibit the taking of interest or discount at a higher rate than six per cent. per annum, be, and they hereby are re- pealed, so far as said Acts and parts of Acts apply to Bills of Ex- change, or Promissory Notes, payable at any time not longer than months from the day of their date respectively, and during the time only for which they were originally made payable. Provided however, That the provisions of this Act shall not be construed to ex- tend to any note of hand, the payment of which is secured by a mort- gage of real estate, or to notes of hand payable on demand, or to bills of exchange payable at sight. 1834.] Usury, and the Usury Laws. 77 in the laws :we are free to say, on the contrary, that we consider an existing, and especially a long established system, as preferable, ceterisparibus, to any one that can be substituted for it: but when a law is notoriously and almost confessedly absurd, cruel and useless,when nothing can be urged in favor of it but its antiquity,we shall always be ready to con- cur, as far as our influence may extend, in removing it from the statute book. Such was the case with the late law authorizing Imprisonment for Debt, and such is substantially the case with the existing laws prohibiting usury, or in other words prohibiting the owner of capital, invested in money, from making the same use of it which he is allowed to make of it when invested in lands, houses, or any other article. We shall now proceed to lay before our readers a rapid historical sketch of the usages on this subject, in some of the most distinguished countries of ancient and modern times, and shall then briefly examine the actual operation of the laws now existing in this Commonwealth. I. Amongst ancient nations, the Jews are the first to claim our attention. Until their departure from the land of Egypt, under Moses, they had never acted as a nation ;although for several hundred years they had preserved themselves an un- mixed race in their state of bondage. Long before this time, money had been used as an agent of commerce; and the let- ting of money to hire was a perfectly familiar thing. Of course, we should expect to find mention made of this practice in the Mosaic law. Nor, on inspection, are we disappointed. The practice of taking interest for the loan of money, or any other commodity, is mentioned in the books of Exodus and Leviti- cus, wherein is recorded the revelation to Moses; and also in the book of Deuteronomy, in which are written the same commandments, as Moses communicated them to the people. The passage in Exodus (xxii. 25.) is in these words : If thou lend money to any of my people that is poor by thee, thou shalt not be to him as a usurer, neither shalt thou lay upon him usury.~ Th& passage in Leviticus (xxv. 3537.) is as follows: And if thy brother he waxen poor, and fallen in decay with thee, then thou shalt relieve him, though he may be a stranger or sojourner; that he may live with thee. Take thou no usury of him, or increase: but fear thy God: that thy brother may live with thee. Thou shalt not give him thy money upon 78 Usury, and the Usury Laws. [July, usury, nor lend him thy victuals for increase; I am the Lord your God. The passage in Deuteronomy (xiii. 19, 20.) is in these words : Thou shalt not lend upon usury to thy brother; usury of money, usury of victuals, usury of any thing that is lent upon usury. Unto a stranger thou mayest lend upon usury, but unto thy brother thou shalt not lend upon usury, that the Lord thy God may bless thee. These laws having been once promulgated, bound the Jews to obedience, as firmly as we should be bound by a command- ment addressed directly to us by the Almighty. It is appar- ent, however, that they did not condemn the practice in the whole, but only in part; that they allowed the taking of interest,but forbade the taking it by one Jew of another. Ac- cordingly, that singular race never hesitated to lend or hire mncney upon interest, in their husiness transactions with foreign nations. We wish to fix the attention of our readers, particularly, upon the distinction made by this la~v hetween interest amongst the Jews, and interest between them and other nations; for on a singular misinterpretation of the Mosaic rule, has been found- ed the most violent and long continued warfare, by religious men against all kinds of interest. It is only within a century or less, that the question has not been argued solely as a question of religion. It is quite clear, that the intention of the Mosaic law was, not to declare the practice of taking interest an offence against the principles of morality,but to make the Jews consider each other as memhers of one family,all equally entitled to the use and enjoyment of the property of the nation. In other words, the law was not in its nature moral, but political; al- though when it was once enacted, its violation was morally wrong. It furnished an exemplification of a distinction made by our common law, between acts mala in se, wrong in them- selves, or morally wrong, and mala proltibita, or acts wrong, because the law forbids them. had the taking of interest been deflared to be in itself an immoral act, the prohibition laid upon the Jews would extend to all mankind; but otherwise it cannot be considered of universal obligation, any more than is the Jewish celebration of the Passover. Neglecting this distinction, and disregarding the fact that the taking of interest 1834.] Usury, and the Usury Laws. 79 is not censured except between Jew and Jew, the ancient Christian fathers considered the practice as an abomination in the sight of God. It was not only condemned in their writ- ings, but denounced as sinful by many a solemn council of the church. The Canon law, or law of the Roman Catholic Hierarchy, repeated the sentence of condemnation, and went so far as to declare those heretics who by argument defended it. We know not whether any person was ever led to the stake for taking interest or for defending the practice; but we think such a thing very probable; for we find the learned Doctor Willson recommending the punishment of this offence by death in the following terms: For my part, I will wish some penall lawe of death to be made against those usurers, as ~vell as against theeves or murtherers, for that they deserve death much more than such men doe; for these usurers des- troye and devour up not onlie whole families, but also whole countries, and bring all folke to beggary that have to doe with them. History tells us, also, that the inquisitors were very industrious in enforcing the canon. We shall again, and more particularly, examine the value of this doctrine of the church. At present we confine ourselves to history. From Judea let us pass over to Greece. It is a glorious monument of the enlightened and commercial character of that country that she had no laws on the subject; that her trade in money, like the trade in every thing else, was left wholly without legal restriction. (Boeck. Econ. of Athens.) The law declared (Potters Antiq. c. 26) that a banker should not demand or recover a higher rate than that fixed by the original contract between himself and the bor- rower. It also contained the following reasonable enactment, Let the interest on money be moderate. But farther than this, it never interfered with the private rights of borrowers and lenders. One per cent. a month was the most common rate of interest; but on some species of loans a premium was charged, equal to sixty per cent. a year. Thus money lent on a voyage to the Euxine Sea, which generally required six months for its completion, was charged with an interest of thirty per cent. While such was the liberal policy of the state, there existed, at various times, individuals who were as violently hostile to the taking of interest as were the Popish councils of the Middle Ages. 80 Usury, and the Usury Laws. [Suly, Amongst these may be found Aristotle; a man whose name is illustrious in the departments of natural and moral science; but whose notions on politics are entitled to small respect. His reputation is dimmed by his enmity to commerce; and his works are, we must say, disgraced by the following passage. Of all modes of accumulation, the worst and most unnatural is interest. This is the utmost corruption of artificial degenera- cy, standing in the same relation to commerce that commerce does to economy. By commerce money is perverted from the purpose of exchange to that of gain; still however, this gain is occasioned by the mutual transfer of different objects; but interest, by transferring merely the same object, from one hand to another, generates money from money; and the product thus generated is therefore called offspring, (roxo~), as be- ing of precisely the same nature with that from which it pro- ceeds. The worthy philosophers indignation at the idea of offspring being produced by money, is not a little amusing. He had studied all the secrets of the natural world, animate and in- animate; he had been abundantly furnished, by the generos- ity of Alexander, with gold and silver coins, to an amount not less than $720,000; he had discovered, to a certainty, that these coins, though shut up together in his pocket and chest, never multiplied, nor gave any signs of fruitfulness; he had, moreover, found out,perhaps by planting money, as the North American Indians did gunpowder,that gold and silver would not vegetate, a whit more than they would generate, and on the strength of this valuable knowledge, he denounced interest as unnatural and abominable. This absurd reasoning of the Stagyrite was adopted by the logicians of after times, as sound and just; and by a singular fate, although in Greece it never gained any influence, yet in many other countries, and in ages long subsequent to his, it has set its stamp upon morals and legislation. The same objection would lie against taking rent for houses, or hire for any other inanimate article of use; for neither do hovtses beget houses, nor did we ever hear of any other inan- imate article of property vegetating or multiplying. In the earliest ages of Rome, there were no laws on the subject of letting money; but the practice was perfectly well known there, and formed one of the most frequent subjects of popular complaint. In the celebrated secession 1834.] Usury, and the Usury Laws. 81 of the lower classes of the people to the Mons Sacer, when for several days there was throughout the streets of the Eter- nal City the most painful expectation of impending civil war and fraternal bloodshed, the seditious multitude complain- ed of nothing more strongly than the pressure of the exorbi- tant interest demanded of them by the wealthy citizens, of whom they were obliged to borrow. in these early periods the common rate of interest seems to have been twelve per cent.;or one per cent. a month. This is to be inferred from the fact, that six per cent. per an- num is spoken of by the old writers as half interest, and three per cent. as one fourth interest. Until the 299th year after the building of Rome, i. e. about 454 years before Christ, there was no such thing, in fact, as law, properly so called. The edicts of the kings, aided some- times by the will of the Senate, and sometimes by that of the people, and made known by placards pasted up at the corners of the streets, hardly deserve the name of laws.* In that year measures were commenced that soon re- sulted in the collection of the code of laws, which, under the name of the Twelve Tables, is celebrated in Roman history. They contained the elements of Roman Jurispru- dence; were collected from the laws of Greece and other foreign countries; and, being written on tables of brass, be- came the statutes of the Republic. One of these laws, according to Tacitus, fixed the rate of interest at one per cent. per annum. Some modern critics doubt the genuineness of the law quoted by Tacitus, and af- firm that the first law, by which the rate of interest was fixed at Rome, was passed by the Tribunes, nearly a hundred years later. The question is unimportant; for either way the law has not much to boast of. If it be found in the Twelve Tables, so is another law, granting the creditors of an insolvent debtor * The learned dispute with regard to the Jus Civile Papirianum, or collection of leges regiae, made by Papirius, about the time of the cx- pulsipa of Tarquin, need not be noticed here. Pomponius, Bynker- shoeck, Heineccius and Niebuhr are arrayed on one side, while on the other appears a single name, which well nigh outweighs them all,that of Gibbon. (See I Kents Comm. Sect. xxiii.) For twenty years after the expulsion of Tarquin, in the language of the Digest, the Romans were governed less by law than by uncertain custom and usage. Incerto magis jure et consuetudine, quam per latam legem. (Dig. s. 2. 3.) VOL. XXX1X..NO. 84. 11 Usury, and the Usury Laws. [July, the power of cutting his body into pieces; and another, giving parents the power of killing, or selling into slavery their chil- dren; and another, commanding the father to murder his child at its birth, if diseased and deforined.* If, on the other hand, the first law fixing the rate of interest was of a more recent date, it was passed by tl)e influence of certain public officers, (the Tribunes,) xvhose greatest delight was, at all times, to oppose the regular operations of government, and stir up sedi- tion among the people ; and it was enacted after a long conflict between the higher and lower classes of the citizens, conducted with such fury, that not even the popularity of the great Ca- inillus, by whom the Gauls had been driven from the Roman territory, armed, as he was, with dictatorial authority, and sus- tained by undoubted justice, was sufficient to stem its headlong impulse. The early records of Rome are marked by numerous con- tests of this description, and by constant proofs of the popular odium belonging to money-lenders. Cato, in his Treatise on Agriculture, informs us that the taking of illegal interest was an offence punished with more severity than theft ;the usurer forfeiting fourfol d,the thief only double,the amount of property taken. Next in order after the Twelve Tables, at an interval of eighty-five years, came the Licinian Law, which temporarily forbade all interest. Ten years later the rate was fixed at j per cent, and afterwards again abolished. The rate of interest was always highest at Rome, as every- where else, when the laws on the subject were most severe; because of the increased risks, the diminished competition, and the aversion of honorable men to engage in any illegal trade. Under the dictatorship of Sylla, towards the close of the Republic, the law fixed the rate of interest at 3 per cent; but we are informed that 12 was the customary and common rate. Cicero, at a still later period, speaks in his letters, of money hired in Rome at 34 per cent., and in the provinces at 48. This was a period of universal confusion, turmoil, and insecurity. At the death of Antony and Cleopatra, interest is said to have fallen to 4 per cent. At that time the genius of Octavius C~sar had gained the last grand triumph over op * Fragments of the Twelve Tables, as collected by Fathers Catron and Rouill~. ~834.] Usury, and the Usury Laws. 83 position, and the world lay prostrate at his feet ;peace being universally welcomed as a relieg though it placed upon the neck of subject nations the yoke of a tyrant. Horace, in his Satires, speaks of a person who lent money at CO per cent. In the reign of Tiberius, whom the retributive pen of Tacitus has delineated for immortal detestation, Rome was again con- vulsed with a usury sedition. The celebrated Pandects and Code of Justinian, finally settled the laxv on this subject. By their provisions, in the language of Gibbon, persons of illus- trious rank were confined to the moderate profit of four per cent.: six was pronounced to be the ordinary and legal stand- ard of interest: eight was allowed for the convenience of man- ufacturers and merchants : twelve was granted to nautical in- surance, which the wiser ancients had not attempted to define; but, except in this perilous adventure, exorbitant interest was severely restrained. Rome, in her turn, like all preceding empires, declined and fell ; and upon the various hordes of Northern barbarians by which she was over-run, her civilization and aws for many cen- turies exerted but a feeble influence. We will not attempt to trace, through the darkness of those centuries, the course of custom and legislation respecting the loan of money, but will pass immediately to the most commercial nation of modern times,England. In the earliest periods of which we have authentic records of this land of our forefathers, we find that the Romish doc- trine of the sinfulness of lettin ~ money to hire, had been uni- versally spread over the island of Great Britain. It xvas the prevailin0 sentiment, that interest, or, as it was then called, usury, was an unholy gain, such as no good Christian could conscientiously receive. Hence the common law, or, in other words, universal con- sent, placed the practice of taking interest amongst those crimes against public morals and convenience, the catalogue of which it would be difficult to complete. Whether it was prohibited amongst Jewish residents only, or the whole body of the people, is a vexed question with lawyers. It is however certain that the prohibition existed, and that its operation was such that the practice of lending money on interest was confined almost wholly to the Jews, who had itt England, and in nearly every other European country, become Usury, and the Usury La is. [July, the leaders of commerce, and the chief bankers. IVioney lend- ers have always been unpopular, even under the most favor- able circumstances, and in the most enlightened and civilized ages. Of course, therefore, the Jews in England were most cordially hated, and, both on account of their religion, and their money, subjected to fiery persecutions. The laws of king Alfred, about A.D. 900, ordained that the personal effects of money lenders should be forfeited to the King, their lands and inheritances to the lord under whom they were held, and that they should not be buried in consecrated ground. By the laws of Edward the Confessor, passed about the year of our Lord 1050, the money lender forfeited all his substance, and was outlawed. Sir Robert Filmer, in a treatise pub- lished in 1678, erroneously states, that, with the exception of a clause in the Council of Calcluith, about the year 787, inter- est had not been prohibited in England, until the reign of Ed- ward the Confessor, A.D. 1045 :and that this monarch, having been educated in France, and been seasoned with the principles of the kin0dom, banished money lenders from Eng- land. Alfreds law was of course earlier than Edwards. Charlemagne, king of France, had in the 8th century pro- hibited the taking of interest, not only by the clergy, accord- in g to the seventeenth Canon of the Council of Nice, but by the laity; which prohibition was thenceforward supported by the whole ecclesiastical power. Notwithstamiding that such were the doctrines of the cont~- nental clergy, and although the laws of Edward partook of their spirit, we find the Enjish clergy less ilhiberal. At a Council held in the year 1 1.26 at Westminster, and at another twelve years later, the clergy alone were, by the decree of council, prohibited from the taking of money ; degradation being the penalty for the offence. In the reign of the second Henry, from A.D. 1154 to 1189, the estate of money lenders on their death was forfeited, and their heirs disinherited. At the death of this king, and on the accession of his son Richard I., A.D. 1189, as we are told by the historian of England,* the prejudices of the age had made the lending of money on interest pass by the invidious name of usury; yet * Huine, Chap. x. 1834.] tkury, and the Usury Laws. 85 the necessity of the practice had still continued it, and the greater part of that kind of dealing fell every where into the hands of the Jews, who, being already infamous on account of their religion, had no honor to lose, and were apt to exercise a profession, odious in itself, hy every kind of rigor, and even sometimes by rapine and extortion. The industry and frugal- ity of this people had put them in possession of all the ready money, which the idleness and profusion, common to the Eng- lish with other European nations, enabled them to lend at exorbitant and unequal interest. The old historians of Eng- land, who were mostly monks, had censured Henry for his wise and equitable protection of the Jews; of course they ex- ult in the cruelties inflicted upon them hy Richard. The king had issued an edict, forbidding their appearance at his coronation; hut some of them, bringing large presents from their nation, presumed, in confidence of that merit, to approach the ball in which he dined. Being (liscovered and driven with insult from the palace, they fled. The people pursued them, and a rumor being immediately circulated that the king had given orders that all the Jews should be slain, such of them as appeared in public were slaughtered, xvhile the hous- es of those who remained at home were broken open, plunder- ed, and their inmates murdered, or else they were set on fire and made the funeral piles of men and xvomen and children, without any emotion, on the part of the mob, of remorse or mercy. The disorder xvas not confined to London. Other cities followed the hloody example. In York, five hundred Jews, who had retired for safety to the castle, and found themselves unable to defend the place, murdered their own wives and children, threw the dead bodies over the walls upon the pop- ulace, and then, setting fire to the houses, perished in the flames. The neighboring gentry, who were all indebted to the Jews, ran to the Cathedral, where their bonds were kept, and made a solemn bonfire of the papers before the altar. A contempo- rary Roman Catholic author, after relating these horrible events, blesses the Almighty for thus delivering over this im- pious race to destruction. Under this same king Richard, a law was enacted, which re- qt4ired that every contract with a Jew should be made in writ- Usury, and the Usury Laws. [July, ing, one copy of which was to remain with the Jew, one with a magistrate, and a third with some good citizen. At this time money was sometimes procured at 10 per cent., but gen- erally the rate was much higher. rrhe common rate in Italy and other countries about this time was 20 per cent. The countess of Flanders, for the money raised to pay her hus- hands ransom, was obliged to pay enormous interest. The lowest rate was more than 20 per cent.,and some of her creditors exacted 30.(Robertsons Charles V. Vol. 3. .A/ote xxx.) James 1st. of Arragon (1242) fixed the rate in that kingdom at 18 per cent.(lb.) A curious document is presented in Llladoxs Formulare Anglicanum, hearing date the tenth and last year of the reign of Richard, in the nature of a mortgage of land for the security of a loan at 10 per cent. interest. Its words are, for which I, Richard of Sandford, xviii pay to him, the said Bene- dict Pernaz, interest at the rate of 10 marks per annum, for the aforesaid hundred marks. Under the succeeding reigns of John and Henry III., which extended to A.D. 1272, although the Jews were violent- ly persecuted, they still remained in England, and still act- ed as money lenders. The rate of interest rose to an enor- mous height both in France and England. Instances occur in xvhich fifty per cent. was paid; and there is an edict of Philip Augustus, the French king, limiting interest to 48 per cent. The Jews, during this period, were subject to the most ru- inous an(l despotic extortion hy government; to ensure them- selves against which, they were, of course, obliged to raise their rate of interest still higher. Kin0 John, whose grasping disposition and pro(ligal habits are so finely delineated in Sir Walter Scotts Ivanhoe, on one occasion demanded of a single Jew in Bristol, the sum of 10,000 marks, which was more than equal to a sixth part of the revenue of all England. When the Jew refused to pay that sum, John ordered one of his teeth to he drawn daily, until he should comply. The Jew endured the tearing out of seven, and then paid the unjust demand. Henry was equally unjust and unmerciful, adopting the most outrageous measures to fill his purse from the pockets of the Jews ; and when his ingenuity failed, he turned them over to his brother, the Earl of Cornxvall; in the language of an ancient author, that those xvhom one brother had flayed, the other might embowel. 1834.] Usury, and the Usury Laws. 87 In the year 1311, Philip IV. of France fixed the rate of interest allowed to be taken in the fairs of Champagne, at 20 per cent.(Ordon. I. 484.) In Arragon it was some- what lower. In this same year, (1311) a Papal council, held at Vienna, renewed the anathemas of the Church upon the practice of taking interest, arid passed that furious canon to which we have before alluded, that if any shall obstinately persist in the error of presuming to affirm that the taking of interest is not sin, we decree that lie shall be punished as a heretic. This was under the administration of Pope Clement V., who had before rendered himself infamous by combining with Philip the Fair, of France, in the cruel butchery of the Knights Templars, for the purpose of seizing to his own use their vast estates. The taking of interest was an indictable offence under the reigns of the three Edwards, who succeeded Henry, and who held the crown of England from the year 1272 to the year 1377. But it seems that the common law courts were not then considered the proper tribunals, in which to punish this offence. The ecclesiastical courts, claiming jurisdiction of the crime as an offence against the Church, were deemed the proper judges. In compliance with the urgent request of the clergy, Edward III. sanctioned a statute making the practice penal. But he had in a manner been forced into this measure, and speedily procured its repeal. This statute betrays a very singular ignorance of the real character and influence of the practice of loaning upon interest; for it declares it to be the Bane of Commerce. This ignorance of the Legislature will excite less wonder, when we learn that such was the prevailing ignorance of geo0raphy, that the English Ambassador at Rome hastened home in disgust on the Popes making Lewis of Spain Prince of the Canary Isles, (then called Fortunate Islands,) firmly believing that they were the islands of Great Britain. The burden of the law did not now, however, fall most heavily upon the Jews. They had been driven from all Eng- land by the tyranny of Edward I. in the early part of his reign; 15,000 of thieni being at one time robbed of their whole property, and banished. After that period, the lending of money passed into other hands, and the rate of interest rose in consequence. During this period, about the year 1360, king John, of 88 Usury, and the Usury Laws. [July, France, by his letters patent, permitted the Jews within his realm to take at least 86 per cent. per annum, on loans. But, as a specimen of royal honesty at that time, we may mention that in the following year he debased the coin, and obliged the lenders to receive it as of full value. From a consideration of these facts, we may see the Justice of a remark made by the celebrated Bentham, in his Defence of Usury; Christians were too intent upon plaguing Jews, to listen to the suggestion of doing as Jews did, even though money xvere to be got by it. Indeed, the easier method, and a method pretty much in vo~ue, was, to let the Jews get the money any bow they could, and then squeeze k out of them as it was wanted. Early in the reign of Henry VII., which began in the year 1485, a very severe statute was enacted, for the purpose of suppressing the taking of interest. The penalty of the offence was fixed at one hundred pounds, besides which the church was empowered to deal according to its will with the soul of the money lender. The same statute subjects him to a for- feiture of the principal, and disables the brokers from further business in their profession, besides subjecting them to a pen- alty of 20, and a half years imprisonment. By a statute passed eight years subsequently, the above pen- alties are somewhat mitigated. Certain rates of interest had been by law established in other European countries. As lately as 1490, the rate in Placentia, an Italian city of considerable commerce, was 40 per cent. Charles V. of Spain and Ger- many, had fixed the rate in the Low Countries at 12 per cent. Lewis, Count of Provence, had, in 1406, allowed the mer- chants of Marseilles to lend and borrow at 10 per cent. Thus far we have seen that the laws of England regarded all interest on loans as criminal. In the succeeding reign we shall find a very decided change in the laws. In the 37th year of the reign of Henry VIII., 1546, a sta- tute was enacted declaring all rates of interest above 10 per cent., to be usurious and unlawful; thus tacitly, though not de- claratively, pronouncing ten per cent. and all inferior rates lawful. From this time forward, the laws have, with one brief exception, made a distinction between interest and usury. Although this legal revolution was a great improvement, yet we cannot but wonder that it did not extend so far, as to leave money contracts perfectly unfettered by law. Our surprise 1834.] Usury, and the Usury Laws. 89 ~vill vanish, however, on looking over the records of Parlia- ment during the reign of Henry, and there finding, that not only was a price fixed upon the use of money, but also upon poultry, cheese, butter, beef, pork, mutton, veal, and the labor of artisans. Beef and pork were ordered to be sold at a half- penny a pound, while mutton and veal were fixed a half-far- thing higher. These wise statutes inform us that poor people alone ate the four kinds of meat last mentioned. Henry VIII. was succeeded by a boy-king, Edward VI., by whom the old laws, condemning all rates of interest, were revived. This was done in consequence of his superstition. But the laws were rendered wholly ineffectual by the wants of the community, and the customary rate was about 14 percent. Edwards superstition was equalled by the bigotry of his sis- ter and successor, Mary, whose name is a blot alike upon the history of her country and of her sex, and by whom, of course, as she xvas a firm Catholic, the laws against interest were still maintained in all their ancient severity. And yet, in the last year of her reign, she borrowed 20,000, at 12 per cent. interest, of the citizens of London, for the payment of which she pledged certain lands. (Stowes citron. 632.) Under the next English sovereign, however, the illustrious Elizabeth, a more liberal spirit prevailed, and the commercial wants of her subjects were treated with greater respect. The statute of Henry VIII., legalizing interest at 10 per cent., was revived; and since that period, all that has been attempted by the laws has been the restraint of interest within certain limits, which limits have been gradually contracted by succes- sive statutes from 10 per cent. to 8, in the reign of James 1st.; to 6 per cent. by ite Rump Parliament, in 1654, whose action thereon was confirmed in the reign of Charles II.; and finally to 5 per cent. in the rei~n of queen Anne, whose statute re- mains in force to this day. In the quaint language of a writer of the last century, (speaking of the statute of Henry VIII.) the good folks, in the 5th and 6th of king Edward VI., repealed this law; but the wiser folks of the 13th year of Queen Eliza- beth repealed that law. (And. lilist. of Commerce, I. 375.) Although the rate of interest in England during the days of Elizabeth was 10 per cent., it was then as low as 6~ per cent. iii France, in consequence, unquestionably, of the superiority of the latter country over England in point of money cap- ital; by the abundance of which commercial prosperity VOL. xXXIx..No. 84. 12 90 Usury, and the Usury Laws. [July, may in general be measured. When the rate in Eng- land has been reduced to 6 per cent., the following were the rates in othercountries, according to an author, (Sir Josiah Child) who wrote in 1688 :In Scotland and Ireland 10 and 12 per cent.: in France 7: in Italy 3: in Turkey 20: in Spain 10 and 12. The statute of Henry VIII., with the exception of the rate of interest therein limited, having remained, to the present time, the law of England, we will quote its general prohibi- tion. No person, by way of corrupt bargain, loan, exchange, cherisance, shift, interest of any wares, merchandises, or other thing whatsoever, shall take, in lucre or gains, or for the for- bearing, or giving day of payment, for a year, above the rate of 10 pounds per centum per annum. When this statute was revived by the statute of Elizabeth, a further clause was inserted, to this effect, that in the inter- pretation of the law it was to be most largely and strongly con- strued for the repressing of usury, and against all persons that should offend against the true meaning of that statute, by any way or device, directly or indirectly. In this careful language may be detected an acknowledg- ment of the fact, that money lenders had resorted to a great variety of expedients by which to evade the operation of law. It had been ever so. The lenders and brokers of old times and of old England, were as shrewd and crafty, and as well acquainted with the slippery tricks of evasion, as any of their descendants of our own times. Our readers will not infer, from this remark, that we are very violent enemies of such infractions of what we consider unjust laws. On the contrary, we are ready to say, in the language of Bentham, if this page suggest an expedient, and that a safe and commodious one, for evading the laws against usury, it will not lie very heavy on our consciences. The inference to be drawn from the language of the statute is just. There had been long kept up a running fight, be- tween the usurers and the Parliaments; and Parliament found, at last, that new modes of evasion sprung up more rapidly than they could legislate against old ones ;and, in despair of suppressing usury by a specification of all its possible forms, they took refuge in the general prohibition of exorbitant inter- est, either directly or indirectly, o~.J3y any shift, or by any deceitful way or means. 1834.] Usury, and the Usury Laws. 91 We may perhaps, with advantage, point out some of the modes resorted to by lenders in England for the purpose of evading the law. But first, for the benefit of the unlearned, we will mention that there are certain species of loan upon which the laws ab low an indefinite rate of interest to be charged. Among these may be named loans on Bottomry and Res- ~ondentia, or maritime loans,where the money is borrowed with reference to a particular voyage, and is to be refunded only if the voyage be performed. The ship itself, or the cargo, is pledged for the principal and the interest, neither of which is to be paid if the vessel or cargo, as the case may be, be lost on the voyage contemplated in the loan. In these cases interest is, not unfrequently, charged as high as 30 or 50 per cent. One evasive expedient of usurers was loaning on fictitious risks, so as fo give to the transaction the appearance of hot- tomry, or some other legal contract; as for example, where the contingency in the bond was, that one, out of certain twenty ships from Newcastle to London, arrived in safety. Another expedient, frequently used, was a pretended sale of goods :the purchaser paying an exorbitant price for them, and then re-selling them to the lender at a less price, so as to give him the difference as interest. Another usurious device was called dry exchange. If any of our readers have been obliged, during the last few months, to go on Change as borroxvers, they may, in this same expedient, recognise the friend that helped them out of trouble. in this mode of lending, the borrower drew a ficti- tious bill of exchange on some person supposed to be abroad; the bill was never negotiated, but passed through the process of protesting, and was thus made to charge the borrower with exchange, re-exchange, and other incidentals, over and above legal interest. A fourth plan was the lending of stock instead of money, on interest, at a nominal value higher than its market price. The advance of money on a pretended partnership, and the receipt of interest as the profits of the concern, was still ano- ther device~ The same object was sometimes effected by the means of a lease on an enormous rent :or by receiving a lease instead of 92 Usury, and the Usury Laws. [July, interest ;or by the purchase of annuities at low prices of the annuitant, and so converting the dividends into interest; and by a thousand other methods, all of which, by their trouble and risk, rendered it necessary for the lender to raise still higher his rate, in order to insure himself; and all of which may be set down as the inevitable mischiefs of usury laws. The ordinary rate of interest in Great-Britain is now less than five per cent., in consequence of the excess of monied capital above the calls for profitable investment. To this fact as a cause, we may ascribe the circumstance that many wealthy foreigners have purchased the stock of our National Bank, which yields a much higher interest.* IL. Having thus completed a brief history of usury and usury laws in the principal ancient states and in England, let us do the same by our own Commonwealth. Our Pilgrim fore- fathers, who in 1620 landed at Plymouth, and began the settlement of New England, were imbued with a deep venera- tion for all the rules and precepts of the Old Testament; which is apparent in their early laws. Thus, amongst their capital offences, were reckoned idolatry, blasphemy, witch- craft, and cursing or smiting one~ s father. We might expect, therefore, to find some provision against usury derived from the same source; and we find, accordingly, on examining their colonial statutes, that the very law of the Jews is there re- enacted. The colonial government was in the hands of the whole body of freemen, who were church-memhers, until the year 1634. It was then deemed expedient, as the number of set- tlements had considerably increased, to elect a House of Rep- resentatives, who from that time forth became legislators. This legislative body adopted the Common Law of England as the basis of their jurisprudence; hut, as Judge Story re- marks, varying it from time to time by municipal regulations better adapted to their situation, or conforming more exactly to their stern notions of the absolute authority and universal obligation of the Mosaic Institutions. * In France, interest was reduced in 1720 from 5 to 2 per cent.: in 1724 it was raised to 3~ per cent.: and in 1725 to 5 percent.: in 1756. it was reduced to 4 per cent.: and afterwards raised again to 5. Smiths Wealth of Nations. B. I. c. 9. In Bengal, money is frequently lent to the farmers at 40, 50, and 60 per cent.; the next crop being mortgaged for the payment. Twelve pe~ cent. is said to be the common rate in China. 1834.] Usury, and the Usury Laws. 9a By this Legislature, in 1641, in the seventh year of thek organization, about twenty years from their landing at Ply- mouth, and in the reign of Charles I., was enacted the follow- ing statute It is ordered, decreed, and by this court declared; that no man shall be adjudged for the mere forbearance of any debt, above eight pound in the hundred, for one year, and not above that rate proportionably, for all sums whatsoever, bills of ex- change excepted; neither shall this be a color or countenance to allow any usury amongst us, contrary to the Law of God. This law was re-enacted in 1643. Its meaning appears to be that amongst church-members, (who were styled brethren) there should be no interest charged, although it might be taken of others. This is our interpretation of the law. We have never seen any contemporaneous exposition or application of it. The rate of interest, thereby fixed, was the legal rate of England at that time, under the statute of James I. The construction which we have put upon this law will ap- pear the more probable, when we remember that no person could, at that time, hold any office or even vote, except he were a member of the church; and that, of course, the Legis- lature was composed wholly of conimunicants. The word us, in the last clause, we suppose refers to the people, as one great church. Perhaps, however, the law intended to say that 8 per cent. interest was not contrary to the law of God,but that all above this was. If so, it would have enlightened their posterity, had the Legislature of that day seen fit to inform us where they found the distinction made. No penalty is provided for the violation of the statute, nor are we able to say whether delinquents were dealt with by Court or Church. It is amusing to notice that next in order on the statute book, after the law respecting usury, comes a law regulating the value of wampum, as an article of currency. It is called an Act fixing the value of wampumpeag, making it a lawful tender in all debts of a less amount than 40 shillings, and de- claring that the white shells shall rate at half a farthing each, and the black at twice as much, if without spot or flaw. This first usury law of Massachusetts remained in force until the year 1693, the 5th year of the reign of William and 94 Usury, and the Usury Laws. [July, Mary, when a new statute was passed, commencing with the following preamble: Forasmuch as the abatement of interest hath always been found beneficial to the advancement of trade, and improve- ment of lands by good husbandry,and whereas the taking of eight in the hundred for the interest of money, tends to the great discouragement of ingenuity and industry in the hus- bandry, trade, and commerce of this Province, Be it, & c. This second law fixes the rate of interest at six per cent., and imposes on every violation of the law the penalty of a for-~ feiture of the full value of the money or other commodity lent. It also excepts from its operation the maritime contracts be- fore named, and certain customs of farmers with regard to the letting of cattle and other things. Its terms are as general and sweeping as those of the statute of Anne in England. But the preamble is its most remarkable feature, containing a strange mixture of truth and falsehood. It very justly declares a low rate of interest to he advantageous to both agriculture and commerce; but very erroneously attributes to the law a controlling power over this rate, and consequently over the prosperity of the community. The truth is, that law can no more regulate the value of the use of money, than it can regu- late the price of labor or of provisions; and so far as general prosperity is affected by the terms on which money can be hired, it is beyond the reach of legislation. In 1750, the twenty-third year of George II., an additional act was thought necessary to the full success of former laws. A new statute was therefore passed, making it lawful for the borrower to come into court, as a witness in his own case, and swear to the usury; and permitting the lender, also, to appear in his own behalf, and swear the other way. The old penalty was retained. Such was the law until the year 1783. America had now become an independent nation, and Massachusetts had taken l~er place amongst the confederated republics. A new act of legislation on the subject of usury xvas deemed essential. BuC the old prohibition, mode of proof, and penalty, were retained; nothing was added except that the penalty might be recovered either by indictment, or by an action of the case : and with this alteration the laxv remained unchanged till 1825, when it was totally repealed. The statutes of 1825 and 1826, which together are the ex 1~34.] Usury, and i/ic Usury Laws. isting law of the land on the subject of usurious contracts, limit the rate of interest to six per cent. per annum. They provide that no contract shall be made void by reason of stipulating for a higher rate. They provide that, if in any action on a con- tract for the payment of money, it shall appear by the plead- ings and on application of the defendant, that illegal interest has been directly or indirectly taken or reserved, the defendant shall recover full costs, and the plaintiff forfeit three times the whole amount of interest taken or reserved, and shall have judgment and execution for the balance only. So also the borrower on such usurious contract may, in law or chancery, recover back three-fold the amount of the inter- est by him so paid. By these statutes the parties are allowed to be witnesses in their own behalf. If any citizen of Massachusetts wishes to make his fortune, according to law, let him go into State Street and borrow money at 18 per cent., a rate at which $90,000 has been re- cently borrowed in one sum; let him take, say $20,000, for ten years. The interest on this sum will be $3,600 per an- num. In ten years it will amount to $36,000. At the ex- piration of that time let him sue the lender, and he will recover back under the law $108,000, from which he may pay the original debt and retire to his otium cum dignitate with a clever property of $88,000, lawyers fees always excepted. Such is the dazzling bribe held out to the dishonest by our wise and conscientious Legislature. It rivals in merit the tooth- drawing edict of King John, already described. We have now completed our historical survey of the subject of usury. Our readers have perceived that, almost ever since the in- troduction of money, and in almost every prominent nation, there have existed usury laws: that wherever and whenever these laws have been the most severe, then and there have usurious practices most abounded and been most abused; that originally these laws have been based on the principle that all rates of interest are wrong; that, as men have become more enlightened and more commercial, that principle has been abandoned as absurd; that in later times the laws against usury have assumed as their basis, what is not true, that the law can regulate the value of the use of money, and of course that the fixing of a low legal rate of interest may be made the cause of national wealth and prosperity. 96 Usury, and the Usury Laws. [July, From the facts thus laid open, the most eminent political economists of the last half century have deduced the principle, that legislation should no more interfere with money contracts than with contracts of any other description, but that the ap- pearance of fraud and injustice therein should, as in all other cases, be within the reach of legal redress. It is matter of surprise that Legislatures have not made and acted upon the same discovery. Perhaps in our Common- wealth the maxim, that great bodies move slowly, may explain this phenomenon. Hoping to help onward in some small de- gree that progress of public sentiment which ultimately com- pels all legislatures into obedience, we shall now proceed to examine some of the various arguments by which the proposi- tion, that the law ought not to interfere with the rate of interest on money lent, is supported. III. The first question to be answered is, Whether the law ought to permit the giving or receiving of interest at any rate or in any case.~ This question may be said to depend on the morality or immorality of taking interest. No person is so ignorant of the principles of political economy as to doubt, that lending and borrowing on interest are of great practical convenience and utility. The dispute must turn, then, upon the question of morals. For if borrowing and lending on interest be immoral, no matter what may be the convenience or pecuniary benefit of these reciprocal sins, they should, of course, be strictly forbidden. We pray our readers to bear constantly in mind the fact, that if either borrowing or lending on interest be morally wrong, both are wrong, and the one is as great a sin as the other. Such is the fact with relation to any act which requires the concurrence of several individuals. Thus the victim, who casts himself to be crushed beneath the ponderous wheels of the car of Juggernaut, is not less guilty of idolatry, than is the priest who guides the course of the murderous vehicle. The recollection of this principle may materially aid us in deciding the question at issue. It may, at first sight, seem needless to argue this question of morals. But when it is recollected that far better, as well a~ far more numerous reasons can be adduced to prove that all interest is immoral, than to prove that the law ought to interfere with the rate: that until recently, the subject of 1834.] Usury, and the Usury Laws. 97 usury, as before remarked, bas been considered and debated as one of mere morals,and that important conclusions for future application will be drawn from tbe manner in which tbis question may now be decided,its discussion will not be con- sidered unnecessary. Let us inquire, then, whetber it be morally wrong to pay or to receive interest. The question, as we have already hinted, has been argued in the negative by Aristotle and other Greek, as well as Latin authors :by the early Christian Fathers, amongst whom ap- pear the names of Cyprian, Lactantius, Basil, Chrysostom, Gregory, Ambrose, Jerome, and Augustin; by the decrees of Roman Catholic councils; by papal bulls; by the statutes of most European nations of the middle ages, and by a cloud of witnesses, who, as writers on morals and politics, have lifted up their voices against the abominable practice of letting money to hire. To the fallacious reasoning of the heathen philosopher, we have already replied. He was the declared enemy of com- merce, and of course would denounce a practice which has ever been the main-spring of commercial prosperity. The argument by which he endeavors to show that the taking of interest is wrong, seems to be based on the name given to it by his countrymen. They called it coiw~,offspring, and the philosopher denounces this unnatural generation of inoney from money, as zealously as though he supposed the Greeks really imagined that interest was begotten of princi- pal. It is unnecessary to spend time in replying to such argu- ments. The strange fact that this reasoning has, in modern days, found disciples, must be ascribed to that principle of hu- man weakness, which induces us, in our admiration of the splendor of genius, to receive with respect even its errors. Christian hostility to the practice of lending and borrowing on interest, originated in a misinterpretation of the Mosaic law. The passages on which the error was founded, have been quoted already at length. In the opinion of the Fathers, they cohtain an unqualified declaration that all interest is sin- ful, and a prohibition of that sin as obligatory upon us as it was upon the Jews; but it is difficult to conceive how they could have deduced such an opinion from such a text. Had Moses intended to declare interest sinful, he would not have allowed it to be taken of a stranger, or to be paid to a stranger. Un VOL. XXXIX..NO. 84. 13 98 Usury, and the Usury Laws. [July, less he meant to declare it sinful in itself, his command to the Jews has no application to any other people, but should be re- garded as an exception from a general rule, applicable to the Israelites only, to whose character as a people we must look for the intention of the law. Unless we mean to assume the burden of the whole Mosaic dispensation, we must beware of taking any part thereof, except it be clearly intended for universal application. A celebrated writer, in defending this doctrine of the Coun- cils, finding it rather difficult to deal with the objection drawn from the discrimination which Moses makes between usury amongst the Jews, and usury between Jews and strangers, very ingeniously remarks that the Israelites were commanded to ex- terminate the Gentile nations of Judea, and that this permis- sion to charge them usury was a part of the apparatus of de- struction. Unfortunately for the soundness of this argument, he does not explain in what manner the Gentiles were to suffer by lending on usury, even if they would be injured by borrowing. The intention of the law must have failed, in consequence of its not prohibiting the Jews from paying usury to their neighbors, who were thus equally furnished with the engine of destruc- tion. The argument is rendered not merely null, but even ridicu- lous, by the light of modern intelligence. We now know that the practice in question, so far from being calculated to exter- minate or injure either borrowers or lenders, is the very soul of commercial prosperity. We now feel that a conscience so tender as to condemn it, would, on principle, condemn every other business transaction, and drive mankind back again to the caves for a habitation, and for sustenance to their primitive diet on acorns. The Mosaic law, therefore, furnishes no proof that it is morally wrong to let or hire money upon interest. But the enemies of this practice have drawn arguments from natural as well as revealed religion. We will now take some notice of the former, as they are summed up in the work of Mon- sieur Domat, a French civilian of the seventeenth century. After declaring the taking. of interest to be a sin most strong- ly condemned in the Scriptures, he thus proceeds ; If there- fore we would discover what is the character of the iniquity which renders interest so criminal before God, and which ought 1834.] Usury, and the Usury Laws. 99 to make it so to us, both in our hearts and minds, we have only to consider what the nature of this contract of loan is, in order to judge whether it be just to take interest for it or not: and we shall easily perceive, by the natural principles of the use which God has given to this contract in the society of men, that taking interest is a crime which violates these principles, and undermines the very foundations of the order of society. He then goes on to declare, as a general fundamental princi- ple, that the very essence of a loan of any thing to be returned in kind, (as money,) is, that it he gratuitous and charitable: - thus furnishing a singular example of what logicians call a /itio princ~pii,a taking for granted the very substance of the proposition in controversy. If loans were indeed gratuitous, the only inference that could be drawn from this fact would seem to be,that letting money to hire is not a loan; but if letting money to hire be a loan, then loans are not in their nature gratuitous. Either way, we see that the civilians argument is unsatisfactory. Having presented this elementary principle as the basis of his reasoning, he next arrays a company of arguments to prove the taking of interest to be a violation of the order of society. The first is, that money lent, returnable in kind, is not ex- posed to insensible diminution, or wear and tear, and that therefore nothing should he paid for the use of it. Had he said .that nothing should be paid for wear and tear, the prop- osition would have been true. But it no more proves that the borrower ought not to pay for the use of money, than the fact, that the lessee of a farm cannot use that farm like nego- tiable paper, proves that he ought to pay no rent. The second argument against interest is, that if the borrower by accident lose the use of the money, he is still bouxd to pay the interest, as though he had used it. The same objection would lie against paying house rent, in case the house be destroyed by fire, so that the use of it is lost. But the law very properly requires the borrower in the one case, and the tenant in the other, to provide against loss~ The third argument is, that if the borrower accidentally lose the principal, the lender nevertheless requires hinc~ to repay the sum borrowed, with interest according to the contract. Is this a hardship? So would the loss be a hardship to the lender, who perhaps is the least able to hear it. The law at.. tributes gross negligence to a person who is so careless as to 100 Usury, and the Usury Laws. [July~ lose borrowed money; and in every instance of gross negligence, the faulty person is justly made the loser. But the fourth argument is, of all, the most remarkable. It is this,the borrower of money becomes, on its delivery to him, the owner thereof, with absolute right to dispose of it at his will, and ought not therefore to be obliged to pay for the use of that which is his own. This argument supposes interest to be paid for the identical piece of coin or slip of paper trans- ferred by the lender to the borrower,instead of for the value which the coin or paper represents. Of the external sign of the value the borrower becomes absolute master,but of the value itself he is only the purchaser for a specified time. The whole of these argunients against interest are founded on the false assumption already named,that the essential character of a loan is charitable and gratuitous. When we re- member that borrowing and lending are as purely business transactions as are buying and selling, or the letting to hire of land, houses, ships, or merchandise, we shall perceive the entire inapplicability of all arguments drawn from a contrary supposition. The weakness of these arguments will farther appear from the fact, that they do not approach the real substantial reasons for paying and receiving interest. The enquiry may now be made, therefore, why should interest be paid? The answer is that A, by borrowing, has deprived B, perhaps greatly ro his injury, of the power of employing such other profitable modes of investment, as he would otherwise have enjoyed ;because A has procured of B an instrument by means of which he can benefit himself, either by the payment of former debts, the purchase of desired articles, or any other investment ; because B has assumed the risks of never being paid, arising from the manner in which A shall employ the money, from his personal character and credit, and from every other circum- stance by which the recovery of the loan is rendered doubtful or difficult ;and, finally, because he voluntarily undertook, after mature deliberation, with a, full understanding of the contract, and on what lie deemed ample consideration, to make such payment. If these reasons be not sufficient to prove that nothing in the law of nature forbids either the payment or the receipt of in- terest, then is there no contract, whatsoever, amongst business men, which is consistent with the law of nature. 1834.] Usury, and the b~snry Laws. 101 We think it quite cleai, therefore, that neither revelation nor natural religion pronounce, the taking or the giving of in- terest to be morally wrong. We now come to the second question :ought the Legislature to interfere with the private rights of borrowers and lenders, and attempt to fix the rate of interest by any limitation? To us it seems perfectly manifest that the laws should no more interfere with money contracts, than with contracts of any other kind. In the one, as in the other, provision should always be made against fraud; but the rules of the law should be of general, instead of specific application. The laws ought not to interfere with the rate of interest, beoause such an interference is an in.fringement of private rights, unwarranted by any circumstance of public benefit or convenience, and therefore wholly at war with the spirit of our government. It is a truth familiar to us all,felt by us a14,that that government is the best, which, by the smallest machinery, and the simplest process, and the least infringement of individual liberty, effects the purpose for which government was intended, the general welfare. Guided by this proposition, and knowing that a part of our individual liberty is the liberty of making such contracts as we deem best for our own interest,the liberty of managing our property in our own way,we cannot but feel assured that unless the laxvs for the prevention of hiring and letting money, above or below certain rates, be called for by the public good, be demanded for the purpose of preventing or removing great and general mischiefs,they are, on principle, to be con- demned as unnecessary, and therefore tyrannical.* We proceed to inquire whether there be evils, and what those evils are, which demand for their cure or prevention the existence of usury laws. One of the most illustrious of the English Political Econo- mists of the last century, remarks in his work on the Wealth of Nations, that if the laws tolerated the giving and taking of * The most effectual plan, says Dr. Smith, for advancing a peo- ple to greatness, is to maintain that order of things which Nature pointed out; by allowing every man, as long as he observes the rules of justice, to pursue his interest in his own way, and to bring both his industry and his capital into the freest competition with those of his fellow citizens. 102 Usury, and the lJ~ury Laws. [July, a rate of interest much above the lowest market rate, the greater part of the money lent would be lent to prodigals and projectors, who alone would give more than that rate. But is it true, that if money contracts were left unfettered by law, none but prodigals and imprudent speculators would borrow? Go into State Street, and ask any money lending corporation or individual, whether, in case our usury laws were repealed, they would select the spendthrift and the visionary schemer as their best borrowing friends ;whether they would lend to the gamester in lotteries or at billiards, and to the dreamy trifler in hazardous experiments, instead of the discreet and sober mer- chant, whose modes of business and whose personal character give promise of prompt and honest payments. The answer, we pres~ime, would be in the negative. Nor can we justly fear that any class of borrowers, so long as they can offer the best secufity, will be subjected to exorbi- tant (lemands. Competition amongst lenders will always bring security and rates of interest to their proper level. No one will contend that money should be lent on bad credit and doubtful security, at a rate as low as that commanded by the best credit and the most unquestionable security. That ~)rodigals and projectors xvould ever monopolize the borrowing market, no one, who knows boxy few they are in any community, and how seldom they are found amongst us, can believe. The supposition involved in Smiths argument is, therefore, false. Nor is that all. Were it true, the argument would nevertheless fail, inasmuch as the hare fact that the two classes of men therein named might become large borrowers, and be exposed to extortion, is no justification of the law. The law has no more right to prevent such persons from forming money contracts, than it has to prevent them from purchasing or sell- ing every species of property at ruinous prices. The laws may, and very properly do, provide for the ap- pointment of guardians over those whose conduct shows them incajiahle of self-direction. They provide, with equal propri- ety, that the designing and fraudulent shall not be allowed to harm these helpless creatures in person or propert)r. Beyond this they have no right to go,and every step beyond is to be repelled as a trespass upon the sacred precincts of mans ina- lienable rights. 1834.] Usury, and the Usury Laws. 103 It has been very truly remarked, that he must be poorly supplied with discretion, who cannot make his own bargains more judiciously than any legislature can make them for him. We come to the conclusion, then, that neither the preven- tion of prodigality or imprudent speculation, nor the protection of folly, is a sufficient cause for legal interference with the rate of interest. It may be further remarked, that if the law can be justified in this interference, under pretext of protecting simplicity, it ought to go farther than it ever has done, and forbid the lending of money under a certain rate per cent.; for surely the simplicity of a money lender is as proper a sub- ject of legislation, as the folly of a borrower; and we know not which, in a business point of view, would be deemed the greater simpleton,he who lets money at six per cent. when it is really worth eighmeen,or he who borrows it at eighteen per cent. when it is worth only six. It cannot be doubted that, if the usury laws were repealed, there would be occasional instances of fraud and extortion; but neither can it be doubted that there are such instances now. it cannot be questioned that an occasional prodigal or sim- pleton, or other person in pressing want of money, would, in case there were no laws against usury, be obliged to pay a much higher rate of interest than is now the legal rate. But under the laws themselves, many an honest and prudent man is forced, nay more, is willing and anxious, to pay the same excess. Let it also be remembered that the laws of Massa- chusetts are not made for any one man, or class of men, nor even for a bare majority of citizens,but for the whole popu- lation. The second argument against usury laws is that, so far as concerns their declared intention, they are absolute nullities; in other words, that they are always evaded and violated. It is so now: it always has been so: and it always will be so, while such laws exist. We have perceived that the practice of usury was always abused in exact proportion to the severity of the laws against it. When the laws amounted to prohibition, then interest was highest: as they relaxed in severity, it grew moderate in its rate. Thus in Greece, where there was no legal interference, money could be procured on the most hazardous voyages, at a rate far below that paid by the farmers of Cyprus on common loans in the days of Cicero. So now in Constantinople, where 104 Usury, and the U~un, Laws. [July, usury is wholly forbidden, the customary rate of interest on ordinary loans is 30 per cent.;a price for which some of our offices would almost insure a voyage to the inner circle of the Maelstrom. Let us now translate the lessons of experience and observa- tion into common language, and we shall learn from them that borrowing and lending will exist in defiance of law, in every commercial community; that money will always command its full market value; that if the laws fix a rate much below the average market price, they xvill be subject to constant direct and indirect violation; and that, if the laws fix a rate differing but little from the average market price, they will be infringed only when the market price is above that rate; we have be- fore seen that the market price of money, like that of all other things, is ever changing; from all which follows inevitably the conclusion, that the laws must always be subject to evasion and infraction. From this inability of the laws to curb the course of busi- ness, arise certain consequences, the nature of which furnishes a third argument against usury laws ;to wit, that they are a serious evil to both borrowers and lenders. Probably all of us have felt this fact ;perbaps some have misunderstood it: we shall endeavor so far as we can, to give an explanation of it. The rate of interest at which any person can borrow, de- pends chiefly on the general relation at that time existing be- tween the supply of money in the market and the demand for its use. It is also affected by the character and credit of the borrower,the nature of the use to which the principal wills be applied, if that can be known,and a multitude of other circumstances, which vary the probability of repayment :or in other words, by the security offered by the borrower, and by the circumstances attending the loan. Interest is therefore of a mixed character ;it partakes of the nature of insurance as well as of rent. When the market rate is highest, when it rises above the laws allowance, then is money invariably most wanted. At such times what is the effect of the law? Ostensibly it wholly prevents both borrowing and lending. It says to the money-owner, who, of course, will not lend be- low the market rate, You shall not lend at all. It says to the would-be borrower, whose prospect of profit, or whose fear 1834.] Usury, and the Usury Laws. 105 of loss, prompts him to hire at the market value, No matter what are your wishes, no matter what your necessities, no mat- ter how excellent your judgment, you shall not borrow above the legal rate. I know that you cannot get the money at that rate; I know that you could vastly increase your property, or escape destruction, by borrowing at almost any interest; but you bad better by far stop business than procure your facilities at seven per cent. To the man of small capital, whose rich neighbors are bor- rowing with difficulty at full legal interest, but who is himself unable to offer the best security, and of course cannot borrow quite so low, the law exclaims, 1 pray you be easy; you must not think of over-bidding the law; you cannot borrow in these days; leave that to your wealthier neighbors, and wait patiently until money is worth less. They may he amassing still larger fortunes meanwhile, and you may be ruined,but there is some comfort in being ruined according to law.~ Such are the principles of the law. A more odious monop- oly than this,a more hateful distinction in favor of the rich and against the poor, could not well be made. Such are not, however, the real effects of the law, as a gen- eral rule; borrowers, at such times, laugh at the law and oflbr the highest price demanded for money. But instead of pay- ing what would be its price were there n~ usury laws, they are obliged to pay, as an insurance against the laws, at least 33 per cent. above that price. In the first place, the laws hold out a bribe to dishonest bor- rowers sufficiently large to tempt almost any man in his hour of weakness to resist the payment of the debt, and recover hack from the lender that triple interest which the statutes im- pose upon him. Against this risk, created by legal operation, must the borrower insure the lender,must the lender insure himself, by an enhanced rate of interest; on the same principle that the lender on Bottomry bonds increases his rate in the storm-season of the year, or on a perilous voyage. A second way in which the laws are an injury to borrowers by advancing interest is, by diminishing the number of lenders, and consequently the amount of that competition by which prices are kept down. Many a man will refuse to lend at any rate, when the market price of money exceeds the legal per centage. Respecting the laws, even when manifestly wrong, they retire from the market. Thus is competition dimin.. VOL. XXX1X.NO. 84. 14 106 Usury, and the Usury Laws. [July, ished. By the same process the quantity of capital in the market is also reduced, and Lhat which remains commands, of course, an increased price. Besides these unfavorable circumstances, there is another. Many persons, refusing to lend above the legal rate, prefer to lend at that rate to such borrowers as can give the best secu- rity. Such men, therefore, become the creditors of banks and other monied corporations, which, having themselves no such scruples, do not hesitate to lend at the top of the market. This diminution of capital and of competition, as we before said, elevates the price of money: for money lending is like stage driving,the more the opposition the lower the fare: it is like every other kind of business, the smaller the quantity in the market while the demand continues, the higher is the price. But the evils of the law are yet more extensive. Those men, who retire from the market rather than violate the law, are the very men with whom borrowers should prefer to deal. They are the most generous, the most conscientious, the most honorable. These who remain as lenders, are in general less generous, if not less honorable and conscientious. What is the consequence? Is it not a more rig~id exaction of the high- est price for money ?a more unyielding and unmerciful spirit of money making? This last evil effect of the laws would be less sensibly felt, were those who remain in the market as lend- ers, merely individuals,were there no corporations standing in the capacity of lenders. But these corporations are by far the greatest lenders at such times. Philosophy would teach us, even had the lessons of a bitter experience never been learned, that where a body of men as- sociate together in order to act as an individual, that feeling of responsibility to conscience and to public opinion, by which every person is in some degree influenced, is almost wholly unfelt; being divided amongst so many it becomes insensible. The persons composing such corporations stand in the same re- lation to each other, with reference to a loss of honor, or of re- putation, as do the members of a Mutual Insurance Company one towards another in reference to losses of property ;the fraction of loss belonging to each individual is so minute as to be scarcely felt. Such has been the conduct of these institu- tions, that public odium everywhere rests upon them. Their agency in times of pecuniary difficulty is never so generous 1834.] Usury, and the Usury Laws. 107 and upright as that of individuals, and of course they consid- erably augment the burden of the usury laws. In view of all these facts, can it he douhted that usury laws are an injury to borrowers? Could this be made the general opinion, those laws would speedily fall before the voice of public dislike; for borrowers form an immense majority in the community, and it is their mistaken trust in the beneficial ef- fect of the laws which has so long preserved them. The injuries inflicted upon lenders by legal operation, are equal in number and severity. They increase the risks upon which money is lent. It ought to be known and felt, that no part of what is charged upon the borrower in the na- ture of insurance is justly called profit. It is not profit: it is indemnity,indemnity for the loss of security. That part of the rate of interest, which is properly called profit, is the small fraction which the lender would charge were the repayment of the sum lent positively certain. That this is very small, may be seen in the fact, that a very low rate of interest is charged on money lent upon the security of real estate,and a still smaller rate on that lent upon government security. When money is worth more than the legal rate, the perils of lending hold a much larger proportion to the profit than on ordinary occasions. That this is an injury no one can doubt. A fourth argument against these laws is, that they are based on erroneous principles of political economy. The first of these principles is, that a low rate of interest is a sign of general wealth and prosperity. This may perhaps be true in old countries, like Holland, France and England, where every mode and form of human enterprise is occupied and crowded,where wealth is vastly accumulated in the form of floating capital, and where there is always a supply of money vastly above the demand for profitable investment. Under such circumstances the rate of interest must he low, and low in exact proportion to such excess of monied capital, or national wealth. But., in this country, we have around us ten thousand untried paths of profit and modes of successful enterprise. Here there is not that vast surplus of capital, which tells of national old age; none of that aggregation of wealth in particular hands, which is justly regarded as the morbid secretion of political systems in decay. All is activity and freshness, and health and youth. We cannot find enough money to meet our de 108 Usury, and the Usury Laws. [July, mands for its profitable investment, and when the course of business is most successful, then does money command the highest rates of interest. For hundreds of years to come it will be so. When, at last, our land, like England, shall groan under the burden of a crowded population,when every acre shall be tilled,when the sky shall be curtained with the smoke of our countless manufactories, and every one of our seas and lakes and rivers shall be vexed with our commerce ;when every device and expedient by which money can be gathered together, shall for a long succession of years have been discovered and employed, and when wealth shall have far outgrown the demand for its employment,then will this golden consummation be indi- cated by diminished rates of interest; but even then, we should be slow to consider these diminished rates as proofs of national prosperity. Till that time shall arrive, let it be remembered by every American legislator, that, as a general rule, with us public prosperity is at its highest pitch when money commands the highest price. Even during the late crisis, when other causes of an extra- ordinary character lent their aid to raise the price of money, any merchant of Boston will probably be ready to say, that the first cause of the unusual rates of interest was a previous un- exampled increase of profitable business, by which hundreds had been induced to extend their credits far beyond the bounds of prudence. So much for the first principle of political economy assumed by our laws. The second principle assumed by the law is, that the rate of interest, and consequently (on the European notion) the de- gree of public prosperity, can be fixed by the Legislature. This idea carries upon the very face of it the impress of ab- surdity. It has already been shown that the price of money is determined, like the price of every thing else, by the relation existing between the demand and the supply. It is obvious that the law cannot affect either of these elements. They depend upon the vicissitudes of trade,which, in turn, depend upon the operation of causes as numerous and as widely spread, as are the efforts of human enterprise and ingenuity. Every change of the breeze wafts to our ears the knowledge of facts which affect the market ;from every quarter of the globe, and from every kingdom of nature, and from every department 18a4.] Usury, and the Usury Laws. t09 of mortal toil, comes that information to our merchants and manufacturers, and farmers, by which their investments and expenditures are regulated. How vain, therefore, is every law which attempts to control that which is the effect of causes so various, so numerous, and so perfectly beyond the reach of legislation! A fifth argument against Usury Laws is their inconsistency. Are they intended to prevent prodigality? They tolerate it in every form but that of borrowing. Are they intended to protect the si[nple? They allow him to lend his money at any rate, however low, and even to throw it away unrebuked. Are they intended to shield the poor? They do not allow him to lend his money at its full value;they drive him as a borrower from the market when money cannot be procured at the legal rate,or else, by the perils of law, force him to pay enormous usury. All this we have proved. But this is not the inconsistency at present complained of. Besides this, the laws allow an indefinite rate of interest to be charged and paid on certain sorts of loans, which cannot, in principle, be distinguished from loans on which the rate is by law limited to six per cent. Thus on Bottomry bonds the lender may charge what he pleases, and the borrower may pay what he chooses. Is there any peculiarity in this kind of loan, or in the cir- cumstances attending it, to justify the distinction made by the law? Before investigating this question, our readers will allow us to remind them of two facts, the importance of which, in any discussion of the usury laws, is very considerahle. The first is, that no person in business complains of the liberty given by Jaw to this maritime contract; but on the contrary it is univer- sally confessed to be just and proper. The second fact is, that, in the practice of lending and borrowing on Bottomry, al- though there is no legal restriction, no law of maritime usury, yet no evils arise from this freedom,no abuses or extortious exactions are complained of;all parties feel that they are even benefited by the absence of legislative interference. One would imagine that such facts might shake the belief of those who advocate usury laws. Now let us see what entitles Bottomry to such legal ex~ emption. 110 Usury, and the Usury Laws. [July, Sir Win. Blackstone says, that trade carried on by sea is of such value and importance, that it ought to be allowed perfect freedom of all such contracts as are needful to its existence or convenience. His remark is very true: but it is as true of business carried on by land :it proves as much in relation to the common terra-firma contract of hiring and letting money, as it does with regard to maritime contracts. We confess that if, during a voyage, a ships company are brought into want of money, and money cannot be hired at the common rate of in- terest, the captain ought to have the power and the right of borrowing at such other rate as he can. But so, also, do we affirm that if, in his ordinary business upon land, a mer- chant finds himself in want of money,without which he must suffer,he ought to have, and to exercise, the same right of borrowing at the best possible rate. Both captain and mer- chant are entitled to be the sole judges of their own respective wants and ability. The law therefore makes a distinction where, in this parti- cular respect at least, there is no difference. But, says Mr. Ord, in his Treatise on Usury, Bottomry is not a loan, as other kinds of borrowing and lending are,be- cause the money lent is put at hazard; whereas in a loan the sum lent is not at risk. We do not insist on calling Bottomry a loan ; A rose by any other name will smell as sweet: but we do insist upon truth in the statement of facts. When it is affirmed that the sum lent is not, in the case of ordina- ry loans, put at risk, we must deny the assertion. The money lent upon Bottomry is put at the hazard of sea perils,of the winds and waves and rocks of the great high- way of nations. In common loans it is put at the risk of every breath of fortune,of every conceivable form of the many- shaped monster, Danger,of every circumstance by which may be affected the inclination or ability of the borrower to fulfil his contract. No such distinction can, therefore, be justly claimed in favor of Bottomry; but he who reasons justly and candidly must confess, that if in the one case exemption from legal restraint is called for by the necessity or nature of the contract, the same reasons demand an equal exemption for the other. But we need not confine the illustration of legal inconsis- tency to a comparison between the different sorts of loans. Truth and justice sustain us in saying that there is not, in the 1834.] Usury, and the Usury Laws. 111 whole circle of human affairs, any species of contract whatso- ever, voluntarily formed by and between persons of sound mind, whether it be purchase or sale, or lease, or charter-party, or any other mode of traffic devised by human ingenuity, ever prompt to relieve its owii necessities,which the law, if con- sistent with itself, ought not to restrict by the same regulations which now encumber the letting to hire of money ; and we need not fear to defy the most subtle intellect, to point out a solid reason for the invidious distinction which now exists. Time was when the legislature extended its interference with private rights to almost every act of private life. But that was a day of political darkness. The wisdom of the people has ever since been increasing; one after another of these le- gal abuses has been removed by more intelligent legislatures, until no relic remains of the old regime of error, excepting the laws against usury. A still farther reform will follow that in- crease of knowledge which is now enlightening the community, and we trust that the time is not very distant when these will disappear. Such are some of the arguments which seem to us to prove that usury laws ought not to exist. it would be easy to miil- tiply them,but we trust that we have said enough to satisfy any reasonable man of the truth of the proposition which we have endeavored to prove. We have seen that usury laws are needless infringements of individual liberty, called for by no public necessity and producing no beneficial effect. We have seen that they are a dead letter, always violated and evaded. We have seen that they are productive of enormous evils to both borrowers and lenders, the largest share of the evils being inflict- ed on those who borrow. We have seen that they are founded upon false notions of political economy; and finally that they are inconsistent in principle, and partial in their operation. In view of all these arguments, and remembering that in strict justice it is incumbent upon the advocates of such laws to prove their claims upon our favorable regard, we feel ourselves authorized to conclude that they ought to be abolished. 112 The Free Cities of Flanders. [July, ART. V.The Free Cities of Flanders. 1. flistoire des Ducs de Bourgogne de Ia ]JIaison de Va- lois. Par M. de BARANTE. 11 tom. Svo. Paris. 1825. 2. Histoire de la Flandre depuis le fJomte Gui de Dampierre jusqu auc Ducs de Bourgogne. Par JuLES VAN PRAET. 2 tom. Svo. Bruxelles. 1828. 3. Notice Historique sur la T7ille do Gand. Par A. VoIsIN. l2mo. Gand. 1826. THE history of a community, which has run its career of pub- lic freedom, is fraught with peculiar interest to those of later times, who are still engaged in trying a similar great experi- ment on the capacity of man for self-government. Its exam- ple addresses instruction and admonition to them, equally as to the rest of the world. And they can enter, with all the sympathy of perfect fellow-feeling, into the triumphs which honored, or the reverses and errors which saddened, the so- journ of liberty in the bosom of a people which has now ceased to be free. The commonwealths of Greece and Rome, by rea- son of their long-continued power and classic celebrity,the Italian republics of the middle age, by their conspicuous posi- tion in the very front of modern European refinement,have attracted, as they ought, the larger share of study and admira- tion. There is another class of communities, in many respects resembling those of Greece and Italy, which, with less of ex- ternal splendor to fix regard, are yet entitled to a careful ex- amination on the part of us, the immediate descendants of the northern nations of Europe,namely, the great cities of Eng- land, the Netherlands, France, Germany, and the Baltic. Whilst, in the rural districts of these countries, the feudal sys- tem struck deep root, and the great baronial aristocracy were exclusively possessed of power,in the large cities, on the contrary, with their dense population, there was a spirit of liber- ty at work from the beginning; and out of them issued forth the power and influence of the commons, and tiers-id at, to change the face of all Europe. We propose, in illustration of this important subject, after saying a few words on the political organization of the commu- nities in question, to run over the leading incidents in the his- tory of one of them, Ghent, the chief among the Flemish free

112 The Free Cities of Flanders. [July, ART. V.The Free Cities of Flanders. 1. flistoire des Ducs de Bourgogne de Ia ]JIaison de Va- lois. Par M. de BARANTE. 11 tom. Svo. Paris. 1825. 2. Histoire de la Flandre depuis le fJomte Gui de Dampierre jusqu auc Ducs de Bourgogne. Par JuLES VAN PRAET. 2 tom. Svo. Bruxelles. 1828. 3. Notice Historique sur la T7ille do Gand. Par A. VoIsIN. l2mo. Gand. 1826. THE history of a community, which has run its career of pub- lic freedom, is fraught with peculiar interest to those of later times, who are still engaged in trying a similar great experi- ment on the capacity of man for self-government. Its exam- ple addresses instruction and admonition to them, equally as to the rest of the world. And they can enter, with all the sympathy of perfect fellow-feeling, into the triumphs which honored, or the reverses and errors which saddened, the so- journ of liberty in the bosom of a people which has now ceased to be free. The commonwealths of Greece and Rome, by rea- son of their long-continued power and classic celebrity,the Italian republics of the middle age, by their conspicuous posi- tion in the very front of modern European refinement,have attracted, as they ought, the larger share of study and admira- tion. There is another class of communities, in many respects resembling those of Greece and Italy, which, with less of ex- ternal splendor to fix regard, are yet entitled to a careful ex- amination on the part of us, the immediate descendants of the northern nations of Europe,namely, the great cities of Eng- land, the Netherlands, France, Germany, and the Baltic. Whilst, in the rural districts of these countries, the feudal sys- tem struck deep root, and the great baronial aristocracy were exclusively possessed of power,in the large cities, on the contrary, with their dense population, there was a spirit of liber- ty at work from the beginning; and out of them issued forth the power and influence of the commons, and tiers-id at, to change the face of all Europe. We propose, in illustration of this important subject, after saying a few words on the political organization of the commu- nities in question, to run over the leading incidents in the his- tory of one of them, Ghent, the chief among the Flemish free 1834.j The Free Cities of Flanders. 113 cities, and for a while the turning point in the polities of West- ern Europe. Rome, it is familiarly known, was in the outset a mere mu- nicipality, not a nation, in the sense which this word hears at the present day. The population of Greece and Italy was in the old time distributed in cities, not in states; and the gov- ernment of Rome, like that of Athens, was a civic, not a na- tional organization. As the conquests of Rome proceeded, she made war upon cities, she contracted alliances with cities, she established colonies in the form of cities; and when the power of the Republic was at length supreme, it consisted of a great multitude of municipalities stripped of their proper inde- pendence, that is, of the powers of sovereignty, of the right of peace and war, but in every other particular retaining a civic constitution analogous to that of Rome. When the Roman Empire fell into pieces, the great cities composing it naturally and readily resumed the sovereignty which they had anciently possessed, or took it upon them for the first time in the mere exercise of the duty of self.defence. In Italy, where the municipal organization was more firmly established than in Gaul or Britain, and where the Barharians were less entirely victorious, the cities speedily rose again to opulence and power. But the Franks, Saxons, and Goths, who gained the western provinces of the Empire, were more successful in the work of destruction than the Lombards and other invaders of Italy. Hence, the municipal organization, which balanced the feudal system in Italy, became quite subordinate to it in the dominions of the Franks and Saxons. In Modern Italy, the feudal nobility left their mountain fastnesses and isolated strong- holds, to enter into the great cities as citizens, not as masters and they severally gained the control of Milan, Florence, and so forth, by usurpation, not by conquest. But in the north of France and in the Netherlands, the cities were compelled to enter unreservedly into the system of feudality, and wear the yoke of the great barons, upon whom the soil, and with it the rights Qf soy ereignty, devolved. In process of time, as the inhabitants of the cities acquired riches, strength, and a sense of the oppression of their feudal superiors, they began to take up arms against the barons on whom they depended, and ex- torted from the latter various concessions in charters of immu- nity, which constitute the legal origin of popular rights in modern Europe. VOL. XXXIX.NO. 84. 15 114 The Free Cities of Flanders. [July, Bearing in mind these preliminary remarks, let us now ap- proach to an individual case, to witness the development of the germ of liberty under the auspices of civic intelligence and patriotism, and trace the vicissitudes of a long contest between feudal power and popular right ;for doing which, the works at the head of this article supply us with abundant materials of the highest authority. It is one of the foibles of antiquaries to carry back the origin of states and cities to a far distant period, and to find some splendid name in the obscurity of traditionary lore as the im- aginary founder of communities, which probably owed their beginnings to the chance association of humble individuals. Hercules is the putative father of many a city along the shores of the Mediterranean. ]Eneas proved a ready resource for less presuming fabulists. The conquests of Julius Cresar in Gaul and Britain have rendered it convenient for the chroni- clers of the middle ages to ascribe to him the honor of numer- ous establishments, which rose to rank in modern times. Ghent, among the rest, has her legend on this subject, which supposes that the name she originally bore was Gaia or Caia, after the prenomen of the Dictator. Another tradition traces the foundation of the city to the Vandals, who, it is thought, gave it the name of Vanda, which afterwards became corrupt- ed into Ganda, the Latin name equivalent to Ghent. Each of these theories has more of fancy than of fact in its composition. Ghent does not make its appearance in history until the seventh century, when Dagobert despatched Saint Amand thither to convert the Pagan inhabitants to Christianity. It seems to have struggled along in common with the other towns under the sway of the Merovingian Franks, amid the barbarism of those times, without being the scene of any remarkable oc- currence, until the ninth century, the disastrous epoch of the incursions of the Normans. Ghent was too near to the sea- coast not to suffer greatly from the merciless inroads of those licentious pirates, who were so long the scourge and terror of Western Europe. In 811 we find Charlemagne constructing a fleet of boats at Ghent for the purpose of opposing the Nor- mans. In 868 Baldwin, first Couut of Flanders, surnamed Bras-de-Fer, or Iron-Arm, a quality that seems to have been very desirable in that age, raised fortifications professedly to protect Ghent from the same robbers, which fortifications afterwards became the means of overawing the citizens them- selves. 1834.] The Free Cities of Flanders. 115 They began, about this time, to exhibit wealth and num- bers, and in the year 960 gave the first signal example of the spirit of independence, for which they subsequently became remarkable. The story is, that Ghent was besieged in that year by the Kings of France, England, and Scotlahd, who made a vow that if the city were not speedily surrendered, they would raze it to its foundations and sow the ruins with corn. Nothing daunted by the menace, the inhabitants made so brave a defence that the siege was abandoned by their enemies, the King of England being permitted to enter the city and scatter a handful of grain in the market place, to comply with his rash vow. Indeed, the characteristic traits of courage, industry, enter- prise, and love of liberty, which so long distinguished the peo- ple of Ghent, had ere now become fully developed. Europe was recovering slowly from the terrible ravages of the Nor- mans, and the patient Flemings being among the first to avail themselves of returning tranquillity, Count Baldwin the young- er introduced the manufacture of cloths at Ghent. The in- habitants devoted themselves successfully to agriculture, com- merce, and manufactures,.chiefly of woollen goods, for which the raw material was obtained in England. Under these cir- cumstances, notwithstanding the occurrence of the customary calamities of the middle ages, namely, occasional pestilence and conflagration, and continual war, Ghent had acquired great comparative prosperity towards the close of the twelfth c9ntury, when the mania of the Crusades seized on the nobles and proved so useful to the humbler bourgeois, peasantry, and serfs, who ~vere enabled to l)urchase numerous privileges from the necessities of their feudal lords. The inhabitants of Ghent profited largely by the circum- stances of the time, which gave dignity and strength to the municipalities of the Low Countries. Under Philip of Alsace, in the year 1178, they were released from all the incidents of villenage, gained territorial rights, the privilege of assembling to deliberate on their public affairs, of being governed by & hcvins, or municipal magistrates, elected by, themselves, and of possessing a public seal, a beffroi or xvatch tower, and judicial authority. At this period, many of the citizens of Ghent had accumulated riches, and they began to build those fortified dwellings, flanked with turrets, which are still seen in some parts of the city. rrhey~ obtained, at the same time, 116 The Free Cities of Flanders. [July, nnmernu~ y~w~x1eg~s fo~ tkxe~ tta~1~ ~rn~A w ~txite~, ~A~1i stimulated the natural proneness of the inhabitants of the Neth- erlands for cultivating the useful arts. Their commerce was greatly extended by the institution of the Hanseatic League. From the Emperor Frederic they received a concession of the free navigation of the Rhine. In the year 1191, Ghent was made the capital of Flanders. Soon afterwards Baldwin of Hainault, the successor 6f Philip, granted them many addition- al immunities, such as that no edict of the Count should have tbe force of law without being confirmed by the citizens, and that they might construct fortifications for the protection of the city or of individuals. The next Count, Baldwin IX., who became Emperor of Constantinople at the time of the Cru- sades, also liberally encouraged tbe industry of Ghent. Under Ferrand and Jeanne, in the year 1228, the thirty- nine were established as the depositaries of the municipal powers, a body which afterwards became famous in the Flem- ish annals. Many cessions of land were also made to the city during the thirteenth century; and by its gradual but rapid increase of territory, wealth and inhabitants, it had now become more extensive and populous than the capital of France. It was visited by Petrarch at this period, xvho spoke with admi- ration of the industrious population, which he found superior to any he had seen since his departure from Italy. And it was not long before Ghent, having prospered so wonderfully under the judicious policy of its Counts, who easily saw that they could in no way derive so much revenue from its inhabi- tants as by fostering their enterprise and industry, rose to pos- sese political importance, and to be capable of exercising a marked influence in the affairs of Europe. At the beginning of the fourteenth century, Gui de Dam- pierre, Count of Flanders, was holden prisoner in France, while Charles de Valois took possession of Ghent in the name of Philippe le Bel. This prince suppressed the thirty-nine, and substituted a different body for the government of the city, which was placed in charge of one of his favorites called Jacques de Chatillon. The Flemings rose in arms in behalf of their native sovereign, and encountering a numerous army under Robert of Artois, at Courtrai, in the year 1302, gained the splendid victory of Courtrai, in which the flower of the French nobility fell before the brave burghers of Bruges and Ghent. On this memorable day, 8000 gilt spurs adorned the 1834.] The Free Cities of Flanders. 117 triumph of the Flemings, from which circumstance this en-. gagement was called the Battle of the Spurs; and the result was the re-establishment of Gui de Dampierre in his authority. This was among the earliest occasions, in which the inhabitants of Ghent distinguished themselves in the great contests of that age; hut others followed in quick succession, in consequence of the troubles which broke out in Flanders under Count Louis de Cr~cy. The people of Ghent supported their Count against the re~ volted inhabitants of Bruges on various occasions, and finally at the battle of Cassel in the year 1328, which proved so fatal to the insurgent Flemings. But afterwards the intrigues of Edward III., of England, who threatened to deprive them of the supply of wool so indispensably necessary to the subsist- ence of their manufactures, induced them to take part against Count Louis. They made choice of the famous James van Artevelde, a man of distinguished birth as well as talents, to he Ruwaert or Protector of Ghent. His relative Siger of Courtrai had been executed in the year 1337, for opposition to Count Louis; hut this example did not deter Artevelde from entering on the same career of patriotism, in defence of the rights of his fellow citizens, against the authority and influ- ence of France. In the year 1338, he led the people of Ghent against Bruges, Ypres, and other towns, and conquered the whole of Flanders. At the seige of Tournai in the year 1340, he commanded the Flemish contingent of 40,000 men in the army of the Allies, leagued against Philippe de Valois. The truce that ensued did not deprive him of his authority, which was in a manner absolute throughout Flanders. To evade the sentence of excommunication pronounced against the peo- ple of Ghent at this time, on account of their hem false to the oath of allegiance to the king of France, which they had pre- viously taken, Artevelde suggested that they should acknow- ledge Edward III., as king of France, so as to reconcile their friendship for him with their oaths. He introduced into Ghent a classification of the inhabitants, in imitation of the internal system of Florence, and thus organized the brave artisans so that their masses could be called into action at a moment s warning. He divided the l)eople into three clas, es, one con- sisting of the proprietors and capitalists, another of the wea- vers, and a third of fifty-two other trades of the city, each class having its dean, xvbo psse~sed consiclerThle executive power. 118 The Free Cities of Flanders. [July, Artevelde enrolled himself in the company of brewers, in or- der to rank with the common people, and was chosen their dean. These arrangements, which continued in force through all Flanders until the middle of the sixteenth century, gave new energy to the inhabitants of Ghent, and enabled Artevet- de to apply their forces promptly to the accomplishment of any public object. He consulted the wishes of the clergy, who repeatedly supplied him with money for the expenses of government, was beloved by the merchants, because he render- ed commerce flourishing, and respected by the army, which be had so often conducted to victory. In fact, for seven years this extraordinary man maintained his authority in Ghent, rais- ing the city to the highest pitch of prosperity, until he was basely assassinated, in the year 1344, by some of the partisans of Count Louis. Van Artevelde had attained a degree of authority and influ- ence which no Count of Flanders ever possessed, and attained it by the simple force of superior talents. Eminently endued with skill as an orator, he knew how to move at will the un- stable multitude, whom it was his fortune to rule. Having travelled and frequented courts, he exhibited the nobleness and native dignity of one born to wear a coronet. Simple and popular in his intercourse with his fellowcitizens, he displayed, among men of higher standing, the penetrating genius and varied intelligence of the profound statesman, and succeeded, with all, in communicating to his enterprises the air of being intended to effect some plausible object of public good. The nobles and princes, those lawgivers and rulers by the right of birth, whom he displaced for a time, did not, of course, bear any affection to his memory ; but the inquisitive and free searching erudition of modern times is more just to the reputa- tion of a man, whom no hereditary sovereign of his country ever surpassed, and who governed by the right of popular election, which the world now seems resolved to think as valid a title to political poxver as primogeniture. The struggle of that period, although on the face of it a dis- l)ute of rival foreign factions, that is, the French and the Eng- lish, was in fact between the conflicting pretensions of growing independence among the i)eople and the spirit of feudalism resisting their efforts to be partially free. It is, therefore, a cause, in which every well wisher of the human family should sympathize. Not~vithstanding the untimely death of Artevelde, 1834.] The Free (Jities oJ Flanders. 119 his party was then completely successful. The people of Ghent bore arms under King Edward before Calais, and com- pelled the French and their young Count, Louis de M~de, to acknowledge and confirm their ancient privileges, and espe- cially to release them from all obligation to give aid in the wars of France against England. For many years after this epoch, Ghent participated largely in the extraordinary prosperity of Flanders, which flourished remarkably amid the barbarism of the rest of Northern Europe. But Louis de M~Je could not forget the humiliation, which be had sustained at the hands of the hold and free-hearted bur- ghers of Ghent. Since his admission to the inheritance of his ancestors, they had repeatedly contributed enormous sums of money to pay off his debts, and at length became weary of continually feeding his extravagance and profusion. He ob- tained what he wanted by applying to the people of Bruges, whom he recompensed for their compliance, by giving them permission to construct a canal for conducting the waters of the Lys directly from Deynse to Bruges. Incensed at the prosecution of a plan, the effect, and perhaps the design of which they saw was to prejudice their own commerce, the people of Ghent flew to arms, and under the command of the dean of the boatmen, named Yoens, they dispersed the laborers on the new canal, and lighted up again the flames of war in Flanders. Louis de Male was nothing loath to have an opportunity of trying conclusions once more with his turbulent subjects. The insurgent party bore the nom de guerre of th~ White-caps. Their leader, Yoens, was brave and unscrupulous, possessed of a popular eloquence and an enterprising spirit, which gave him great influence among his countrymen. Count Louis des- patched his steward with a party of two hundred horsemen, to secure the person of Yoens; but the White-caps fell upon them, slew the steward, tore in pieces the banner of the prince, and ravaged the houses of his adherents. Matters had now gone too far for peace, and the White-caps assembled to the number of 10,000, and proceeded to sack and burn the rich castle of Woldeghem, belonging to Louis, which he had constructed and adorned at vast expense. They then marched against Alost, Terminde, Ninove, and Deynse, which submitted to their au- thority, and made common cause with them in defence of the common liberties of Flanders. On his return from these ex 1 ~2G The Free Gities of Flanders. [July, peditions, Yoens died very suddenly, not without suspicion of being poisoned, and the burghers of Ghent elected four cap- tains to command them, among whom Pieter van den Bossche was the most prominent. Thesc leaders continued the war for a while with various fortune; hut they soon found that the spirit of the people began to flag, and that a man of more pop- ular talents was needed to infuse energy into the ranks of the insurgents. Van den Bossche had his eye upon the person demanded by the exigencies of the occasion, and was suffi- ciently disinterested to be willing to descend from his present elevation, and act a secondary part, when the good of his country required the sacrifice at his hands. During the preceding year, a census had been taken of the male inhabitants of Ghent between fifteen and sixty years of age and capable of bearing arms, which many historians state at the large number of 80,000 men. Their prosperity in comnierce and the arts had introduced luxury and license in its train. The operative classes could earn a subsistence by the labor of two or three days in the week, and had ample leisure for the gratification of disorderly propensities. Now, when they were pressed by the troops of Count Louis, they recalled the days of Van Artevelde, to whom they ascribed so much of their flourishing condition, and whose brilliant abili- ties and popular principles they recollected with veneration and profound regret. Would that James van Artevelde still lived! was the daily cry in Ghent. He did live, unnoticed and almost unknown, in the person of his son, Philip van Ar- tevelde, the god-son of Queen Philippa of England, who, although in obscurity, and yet untouched by the impulse of ambition, was the heir of all the talents of the celebrated brewer of Ghent, the companion of kings, and the champion of his country. Followed by the principal burghers of the city, Van den Bossche repaired to the house of Van Artevelde, and in- vited him to assume the rank of his father. Philip yielded to the call of his country or of ambition, and was conducted to the March6 au Vendredi, where he received the oath of fidel- ity on the part of the people, and swore in his turn to main- tain their rights and immunities inviolate. (February 1381.) One of the first acts of his administration was a tribute of justice to the memory of his father and to the majesty of the laws violated in his person, which gave an earnest of the en- ergy of his own character and purposes. He caused twelve of 1834.] The Thee Cities of Lianders. 121 the individuals concerned in the assassination of James van Artevelde to be punished with death. A military code, pro- mulgated by him soon afterwards, one provision of which was that every man who left the fight without a wound should be imprisoned on bread and water forty days, was equally indica- tive of the resolute spirit of the new dictator. The time soon came for testing the strength of his party in the field of battle. A few months after the elevation of Van Artevelde to power, Louis de Male laid siege to Ghent, and encamped at Heusden with an imposing army. He was beaten in the battle of Gent- brugge; and his cousin and favorite, Gaultier dEnghien, being slain by means of an ambuscade, he was compelled to break up his camp. Van Artevelde, conceiving this to be a favorable occasion for treating with Louis, and bringing about his restoration to power on equitable conditions, sent twelve senators to Harle- beke to propose an accommodation. But the Count would agree to no treaty, without a stipulation that he might select two hundred of the inhabitants, and shut them up in the pri- sons of Lille. It was easy to see that Van Artevelde and his friends, the steady friends of the people, would be swept off by virtue of this clause, and besides losing their own lives, would leave the Flemings exposed to new exactions, with no bold hearts remaining to resist the Counts usurpations. To break up such an arrangement, Van Artevelde and his confi- dant, Van den Bossche, adopted an expedient, whose boldness was its only recommendation. When Simon Bette and Gil- bert de Grutere, the chiefs of the embassy, who had thus be- trayed the interests of the city, had made their report to the people, Van den Bossche stepped up to Gilbert de Grutere, and struck his dagger to his heart, while Van Artevelde did the same to Simon Bette. Another fierce struggle with Louis was the necessary consequence of this summary act of vengeance. Meanwhile the movements of Louis had reduced the peo- ple of Ghent to a state of extreme want and misery. He per- sisted in reserving the right to punish capitally, at discretion, and in requiring that all the burghers should march out to meet him with cords around their necks, and kneel before him in humble petition for mercy. Van Artevelde proposed these degrading terms to the famished people, and finding them resolved to attempt any desperate enterprise rather than submit to such VOL. XXXILNO. 94. 16 122 1he Free Cities of P1auder~. [July~ humiliation, determined to march against Bruges, which had declared for Louis, and where the prince was then quartered. Having arranged his plans, and made a distribution of all the food remaining in the city, he marched forth at the head of 5000 picked men, with 300 pieces of artillery placed in cars, and took a position about a league from Bruges, where, en- trenched behind his cars, he awaited th~ coming up of Count Louis. Van Arteveldes forces were enfeebled by hunger, but they were brave and well armed, and they were steeled against all fear of consequences by the utter hopelessness of their present situation. They must die of starvation as it was, and they could but die at worst, if they did their duty in the field, and were unsuccessful; if they conquered, the boon they gained would be incalculably great. Mass was celebrated on the spot by a party of priests who had followed to bless the enterprise, and more than three quarters of the soldiers partook of the communion as doomed men. Van Artevelde then addressed his followers in a most animating speech, as they stood ready for the onset. Count Louis came to the attack with a force of 40,000 men; but Van Artevelde received him manfully, and suddenly unmasking his cannon, which had been concealed behind the cars, he gained, in despite of the superior numbers of his assailants, the complete and splendid victory of Bover- bout (1382). The men of Ghent entered Bruges in triumph, pursuing the Count so hotly that he barely escaped with life by concealing himself in the bed of some female of low condi- tion. All Bruges was compelled to take the oath of fidelity to Ghent, those who refused being put to death. An immense booty was conveyed to Ghent, including the gilt dragon, which still adorns the Beffroi. All Flanders now submitted to Ghent, and Van Artevelde, on his return, received the honors of a triumph, and was proclaimed the father and saviour of his country. With his accustomed magnanimity, Van Artevelde againpro- posed a reconciliation between Louis and his revolted subjects, to which end he entreated the mediation of the young king of France, Charles VI. But the proud military barons of that age, alarmed at the spread of popular principles, indicated by the rising, called the Jacquerie among the peasantry of France, and by the repeated quarrels of the Flemings with their princes, had resolved to join heart and hand with Louis do M& le for 1834.] The Free Cities of Flanders. 123 his re-establishment in his inheritance, and for the destruction of the usurping burgher-sovereign, who gave such terrible les- sons of liberty and victory to their serfs by means of his gallant men of Ghent. Under their counsels, the king treated the message of Van Artevelde with scorn, and mustered a power- ful army of his own subjects for the succor of Louis de Male. The men of Ghent met with several minor i~everses, and were finally overcome in the bloody battle of Rooseheke, in which Van Artevelde and 20,000 of his lollowers were slain. They fought bravely and perseveringly, but fell before the superior skill or prowess of the chivalry of France. This event settled the question at issue between the feudal aristocracy and their uneasy vassals, and postponed the deliv- erance of Europe for three hundred years. All Flanders, ex- cept Ghent alone, immediately submitted to the Count; but the men of Ghent still held out. To the envoys, whom he sent to treat with them, they replied that they would never acknowledge his authority. No, said they, he is not our sovereign, but our tyrant. Resolved to dare all, and suffer all, we declare war against him unto death, and if he re-enter our city, it must be to reign over ashes and dead bodies. Having at their head Francis Ackerman, the companion and successor of Van Artevelde, they continued the war with invincible per- tinacity. At length, Philip the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, who aspired to the possession of Flanders as son in law to Louis de Male, and who feared, that unless he could effect an accommodation, the whole country would fall into the hands of France by right of conquest, made such concessions as led to a stable peace, by granting a full pardon and a confirmation of all their privileges to the brave citizens of Ghent (1385). But the burgher power had been shattered in the disastrous battle of Roosebeke; and although the spirit of liberty broke out among them from time to time, in consequence of the oppres- sions of their princes of the house of Burgundy, it was never afterwards so brilliantly displayed, as under the direction of the two Van Arteveldes. The men of Ghent followed Phiip the Good to the siege of Calais in the year 1435, and were always in quarrel with the citizens of Bruges. Indeed, they continued to yield a tur- bulent obedience to their sovereign until the year 1449, when they took up arms on account of some obnoxious duties im- posed by Philip. The contest was long continued and disas 124 The Th~ee Cities of Flanders. [July, trous to both parties, the principal towns of Flanders being taken first by one and then by the other, as the chances of war vi- brated between them. The men of Ghent were finally van- quished in a bloody battle, fought on the plains of Gavre, los- ing 16,000 soldiers, ~ho perished on the field or were drowned in the waters of the Scheldt. Being compelled to submit after this defeat, they obtained a humiliating peace only at the expense of a heavy fine, and the sacrifice of a part of their immunities. At the inauguration of Charles the Bold (1467), they sought to regain what they lost in the treaty of Gavre, but, awed by the vindictive temper of that prince, they sub- mitted anew, and suffered a further abridgment of the liber- ties they cherished so dearly. When the splendid succession of the house of Burgundy devolved upon the feeble daughter of Duke Charles, the peo- ple of Ghent, still taking the lead in the affairs of their country, defeated the attempts of the intriguing Louis XI. of France to gain possession of Flanders. Having ascertained that Mary was disposed to follow too implicitly the counsels of her two ministers, the Seigneur d Imbercourt and the Chancellor Hu- gonet, they arrested these unfortunate men, and caused them to be beheaded, in spite of the entreaties and remonstrances of Mary. They followed up this bold deed by concluding a matrimonial alliance for this princess with Maximilian of Aus- tria, son of the Emperor Frederic. On the death of Mary, a dispute arose between the people of Ghent and Maximilian, who severally claimed the wardship of her young children, and for several years the citizens maintained their pretensions. Maximilian finally compelled them to submit by the German troop which he was enabled to levy in his paternal states, and would have laid waste the city but for the remonstrances of Philippe de Cli~ves, who represented to him that in destroy- ing Ghent he lost the flower and pearl of all his dominions (1485). The inhabitants, however, were not long quiet, for three years afterwards they rose ngainst him once more, and thus drew upon themselves the resentment of the Emperor Frederic. This new foe entered Belgium with a formidable army, and laid siege to Ghent, but was manfully resisted by the burghers under Philippe de Cl~ves and Adrian Vilain, and forced to make a shameful retreat from their territory. Ghent has the honor to number among the great men, who were born within her walls, the Emperor Charles V. His 1834.] The Free Cities of Plunders. 125 mother, Juana of Arragon, was delivered of tbe future monarch in a private cabinet, whither she had retired for a moment from the festivities of a ball, (Feb. 25, 1500). This cabinet was embellished during his reign with has-reliefs in honor of the event, of which it was the scene, but was neglected and for- gotten in after years, until M. Voisin, the historian of Ghent, by following the exact indications given by one of the old chron- icles, discovered the place in the humble use of one of the lumber-rooms of a cotton manufactory. Charles appears to have entertained a strong feeling of sincere attachment towards his native city, although, when he rose to be king of Spain, Naples, and the Indies, and Emperor of Germany, Flanders became of necessity a less prominent object of his attention. Under the mild rule of his aunt, Margaret of Austria, and his sister Mary, Ghent enjoyed a long period of peaceful submis~ sion, and flourished greatly, notwithstanding the continual wars of the ambitious Emperor. Guicciardini visited Ghent at this period, and speaks in high terms of the prosperity of the city. lie describes it as being strong, handsome, and one of the largest cities in Eu.~ rope, having ample suburbs, and being likened by many to the magnificent and populous city of Milan. The burghers he characterizes as highly informed, great politicians, severe, and of a martial spirit. He signalizes two things in which Ghent was peculiar, and they both show how far this city was in ad- vance of the rest of Northern Europe. In Ghent, he says, they exhibit great piety and good order in the establishment of schools and regulations for the support and nourishment of a large number of paupers, who are educated at the expense of the city. Here, also, for parade of grandeur and magnifi- cence, they maintain lions, bears, wolves, and other cruel wild beasts from foreign countries.~ The despotic spirit of Charles, which, in depriving the Span- iards of their franchises, contributed so largely to bring on the ages of abasement, under which the Peninsula has half become a desert, could ill brook any demonstration of their ancient love of liberty, on the part even of his Flemish countrymen. Unfortunately for Ghent, that city became involved in a quar- rel with the Emperor, wherein, although the latter was wholly in the wrong, might got the better of right. It happened thus. In the year 1539, Charles gave orders to levy an extraordinary tax of twelve hundred thousand forms in the Low Countries, I Q6 The Free Gities of Flanders. [July, for aid in prosecuting a war against France. The people of Ghent, who then carried on a most extensive and lucrative commerce with France, refused their consent to the subsidy, alleging in justification of their refusal, that by the ancient charters of the city, which the ancestors of the Emperor had conceded, and which he himself had sworn to maintain, no tax could be imposed on them without their express approbation. Hereupon the Governess, Mary of Hungary, arrested, in Brus- sels, Mechlin, and Antwerp, all the merchants of Ghent, who happened to be in those cities. This act of arbitrary violence aroused the old feelings of independence among the people. They immediately sent deputies to the Emperor in Spain to justify themselves and demand the release of their fellow-citi- zens ; but Charles received them with a sternness that was new to them, and sent their cause hack to his council of Mechlin, which adjudged their pretensions to be unfounded. Irritated to madness by this unjust decree, they now flew to arms in defence of the liberties of Flanders, regardless of the irresistible power and austere temper of the prince, whose re- sentment they provoked. They began by expelling from the city all the nobles who had fixed their residence there, and imprisoning the officers of the Emperor. Next they subjected to the torture an(l then to sen- tence of death, Lievin Pyn, one of the Deans, who was accused of having removed or destroyed the charter under which they claimed the right of intervening in the levy of all taxes demand- ed by their sovereigns. In short, they appointed a council of safety, commenced repairing their fortifications, and openly raised the standard of revolt. Conscious, however, of their in- capacity to make head alone against the forces of Charles, they counted upon the hostility of France towards him, as offering them chances of success. Accordingly they despatched envoys to Francis I., proposing to acknowledbe him as sovereign of Flanders, and tendering their aid to enable him to reconquer all the ancient provinces of France. By an absurd refinement of generosity, not called for by any reasonable principles of honor, and totally unmerited by the conduct of Charles, who had scrupled at no device of political fraud to ruin Francis, this monarch not only rejected this proposal with scorn, but most unfairly communicated their plans to the Emperor. En- c0 th us by the misguided chivalry of his injured rival, Charles asked and obtained permission to cross the kingdom 1834.] rIyLe Th~~e Cities oj Fiaizdcrs. 127 of France for the purpose of more speedily repairing to Gh ent, and punishing the refractory burghers; thus committing him- seig although he kept faith with no man, when it was or seemed to be for his present interest to be treacherous, to the good faith and hospitality of the credulous Francis. When the men of Ghent found that they had been betrayed to their prince by Francis, and that Charles was marching on them with a large force, which they had no sufficient means to withstand, they hastily despatched deputies to beg for mer- cy. Charles haughtily replied, that he should appear among them only as a sovereign, with the sceptre in one hand and the sword in the other. He entered Ohent without opposi- tion (February 24, 1540), and having caused the gates to be shut, and posted a strong garrison within the walls, he pro- ceeded to take measures to punish the inhabitants. While deliberating upon this subject, he asked the advice of the cruel Duke of Alba, who answered that he ought to raze the city to the ground. Charles conducted the Duke to the gallery of the Beffroi, that the latter might obtain a clear idea of the im- mense size and wealth of the city; and then asked him in the French language how many Spanish skins it would take to make a glove of such magnitude :~ Combien il fallait de peaux dEspagne pour faire un gant de cette grandeur. Alba received the rebuke in silence, perceiving that the Emperor was shocked at the brutality of such a proposal as the total destruction of Ghent. The sentence actually passed upon the city was sufficiently severe. The cause of Ghent was tried in presence of the Emperor himselg and the city was pronounced guilty of high treason in the first degree. Twenty-six of the principal citizens were capitally executed, and a still greater number banished, their estates being confiscated for the benefit of the imperial treasury. The magistrates, thirty of the most eminent citizens, the deans of each trade, with fifty other persons, were condemned to walk in public, bare-footed and bare-headed, with ropes on their necks, and beg pardon of the Emperor and his sister. The magistrates were also condemned to wear a rope round the neck on all public occasions, as a l)ermanent mark of igno- miny; but they afterwards converted their humiliating badge into an ornament, by employing a rich cord of silk, worn in the form of a scarf. All the fortifications of the city were at the same time demolished, its franchises and privileges suppressed, 128 The Free Cities of Flanders. [July, and its revenues, arms, and municipal property sequestered, including the bells, which had played too noisy a part during the insurrection to pass unnoticed. In fact, the Emperor joy- fully availed himself of this opportunity to break down the free spirit and abolish the immunities of the inhabitants of the Neth- erlands. Ghent, which owed so much of her prosperity to her free institutions, never recovered from this fatal blow. But calamities of a still more overwhelming character were now impending over her, in common with the other cities of Flanders and the Low Countries, under the reign of one of the most ferocious of the tyrants, who are so often imposed on mankind by hereditary succession in public authority. Philip IL visited Ghent for the last time in the year 1559. He had not yet proceeded in the execution of those measures of insane misrule, which filled the Netherlands with bloodshed and misery for so many years; but his temper was beginning to be too well known, and his purposes were become a sub- ject of deep apprehension. In the assembly of the States General, holden at the Maison-de-ville, the syndic of Ghent re- monstrated against the continued occupation of the country by foreign troops, in the genuine language of republican truth. Why, said the syndic, is our defence entrusted to the arms of foreigners? Is it that the world should be induced to regard us as cowards, as men incapable of defending themselves Why is a peace concluded, if the charges of war are still to be pressing heavily upon us? So long as we had enemies to com- bat, necessity suspended our complaints; but now, when peace is restored to us, we cannot disguise our despair. Why main- tain, at so much expense, these foreign bands, who feel no sympathy in the welfare of a country, which they may be called upon to quit tomorrow? You have still in your service courageous Belgians, to whom your late father entrusted the safeguard of his States, in times infinitely more stormy; why suspect now that fidelity which they have invariably maintained towards your ancestors for so many ages? Confounded at the boldness of this address, and starting at the iteration of the word foreigner, Philip rose abruptly, crying, I am a foreigner also: perhaps you would like to get rid of me as well as the others. Happy would it have been for Belgium if the syndic could have replied in the affirmative, and if some Van Arte- velde bad been there to accomplish so desirable an object. The year 1566 witnessed the horrible outrages of the icon- 1834.] The Free Ujijes of Flanders. 129 oclasts, as those wild sectarians were denominated, who pillaged the churches, and destroyed all their ornaments of sculpture and painting. The field preachings of these persons commenced near Ghent, in a plain only half a league without the gates, where the famous Herman Stricker attracted immense crowds of the inhahitants of the city, carried away by a resistless en- thusiasm, and animated with the spirit which provokes and encounters martyrdom. Among them were multitudes of in- telligent men, shocked, as in other countries, by the abuses of the established church, and anxious to introduce a reformed religion. Unhappily the excesses of the more desperate and less enlightened among (hose of their party threw a blight over their cause, from which it never recovered in Belgium. The image-breakers assembled at Ghent, to the number of 400 men of the very dregs of the people (August 2~2, 1566), and, after announcing their intentions to the magistrates of the city, and their resolution to effect what they had undertaken, by force if necessary, they proceeded, not only unopposed, but with a band of peace officers in their company, to prevent any disorder from happening, other than the violence which they had thus deliberately set about. They began with the cathe- dial church of Saint Bavon, entering it armed with axes, ham- mers, and pikes,and performing the work of devastation at midnight by the blaze of lighted torches, which communicated a kind of horrid brilliancy to the scene of sacrilegious outrage, enacted by these lawless men. They wrenched the images of the saints from their pedestals and niches, dashing them in pieces with their heavy axes, tore up the paintings, despoiled the sculptured monuments, and wreaked their vengeance upon every work of art or taste which enriched the splendid edifice. In the course of three or four days all the churches and con- vents in Ghent were subjected to a similar visitation, being ravaged and defaced with the brutal fury of madmen or say- ages,so as to give but too much cause of resentment to the bigoted Court of Philip of Spain. Incidents of this kind occurring at the same time throughout Flanders and Brabant, were the commencement of the war of revolution, which the atrocities of Philip had aroused. The Duke of Alba was now transferred from the viceroyalty of Italy, to be the fit instrument of his cruel master in devastating the Netherlands, under the pretence of restoring the tranquillity of the country. Under the government of this merciless op vOL. xxxix.No. 84. 17 130 The Free G~ties of P1anders~ [July~ pressor, who rendered the ancient and noble name of Toledo a by-word for the very extremity of despotic mal-administra- tion, Ghent, of course, felt its full share of the horrors of that period. Confiscation and death filled all hearts with mourn- ing and terror. Hardly a day passed when the fires of the Holy Office were not lighted up in the March~m au Vendredi, for the torture of some unhappy victim of superstition or cu- pidity. Thousands of the citizens fled in despair from their homes, carrying their industry and skill into Germany and England. Much of the prosperity of the latter is ascribable to the manufactures introduced by the multitude of exiles, whom religious persecution drove from the continent. It is affirmed, that at this time (1570) half the houses in the city were abandoned. The year was marked by a complica- tion of the direst afflictions; for a pestilence raged in the most populous region of the city, and soon afterwards three quarters of the streets were wholly inundated by the rising of the wa- ters, so that it became necessary to convey food by means of boats to the starving occupants of the houses. The year 1576 was memorable at Ghent for the treaty be- tween the states of Holland on the one hand, and those of Belgium on the other, which, from being concluded there, is distinguished by the name of the Pacification of Ghent, but belongs to the general history of the country. While this cel- ebrated compact was in the course of negotiation, the citizens were engaged in the siege of the citadel, constructed by Charles V. after the insurrection of the year 1540, and now held by a body of Spanish soldiers for Philip. In spite of all the force which the citizens could bring against it, aided, as they were, by the troops of the Prince of Orange, the besieged made an obstinate defence, displaying the characteristic pertinacity of the Spanish people in such emergencies, and occasioning infi- nite loss to the besiegers. When at last they were obliged to surrender, they obtained honorable terms of capitulation, and the citizens were astonished to see the Seiiora Mondragon, who had defended the fortress in the absence of her husband, issue forth at the head of only 150 men, including the sick and wounded, the sole remains of the garrison. This heroic lady had nobly performed all the duties of a brave commander, and the other females in the citadel had faithfully supported her, having displayed in the operations of the siege the activity and fearlessness of danger of veteran soldiers. When the people 1834.] The IA~ee Cities of Flanders. 131 had thus gained possession of the citadel, they joyfully pro- ceeded to demolish the stronghold of tyranny, men, women and children marching out together with heat of drum and banners flying, alike eager to ei~gage in this work of liberty and patriotism. It is easy to conceive that the long succession of troubles, which had now for so many years weighed upon Flanders, must have produced a pernicious effect on the character and feelings of the people. The hearts of men became hardened by the continued spectacle of civil war, murder, pillage, and executions in every form of cruelty. The interruption of the ordinary means of subsistence in a large manufacturing city, threw thousands into the career of violence, as the only re- source from starvation for themselves and their families. As the xvorst acts of Philips tyranny had been perpetrated in the name of religion and of the Catholic church, hatred towards that church was mingled ~vith the desire of vengeance. No- where had these considerations greater force than at Ghent. Two of the principal citizens, John Ilembyse, and Francis de Kethulle, lord of Ryhove, took advantage of the situation of things there to institute an independent republic, of which they should he the chiefs. They sprung from families long (listin- guished at Ghent, were possessed of popular talents, and great energy of character, bold, unscrupulous, impatient of a foreign yoke, and pre~minent for their uncompromising opposition to all the measures of the Duke of Alba. They succeeded in ob- taining uncontrolled influence over the faction of the Bggars, (Gucux) as the opponents of the Catholics were content to he called, by flattering their passions, and feeding their necessi- ties out of the plunder of churches and abbeys; and could col- lect a force of 20,000 followers at any moment, for the accom- plishment of ~vhatever purpose. The Duke of Arsehot had been elected Governor of Flan- ders by the patriots, who were now everywhere triumphant, and had come to make his residence in Ghent, as the capital of his government. Hembyse and Ryhove saw that his authority stood in the way of their prospects of ambition, and in less than a week after his arrival they raised their followers, and arrested him, with many other principal persons, on the charge of complicity in a plot in favor of Spain (October 28, 1577 For several days the populace remained under arms, occupy- ing the great squares, xvhile Hembyse and Ryhove seized on 182 The Free Cities of Plandersx [July, the public funds, assumed the management of affairs, the first as civil, and the second as military chief, and proceeded to make a permanent organization of their new republic, profess- ing to model it, as nearly as might he, after the plan of polity which had prevailed in ancient Greece and Rome. In execution of their scheme, they nominated two councils, one of magistrates, and the other of military officers, by whose concurring votes all important measures were adopted. The civil council consisted of eighteen members, headed by Hem- byse himself, and all of them sworn adherents of the Duumvirs. The council of war was composed of the colonels and captains of the civic bands, organized by the same controlling will. To complete the municipal democracy, they revived the compa- nies of trades, which Charles V. had suppressed in the general sequestration of the privileges of Ghent, but which resumed their banners, and reappointed their deans, as of old. The Prince of Orange came to Ghent soon after these events, in order to procure the release of the imprisoned Catholics, and if possible substitute the regular magistracy of the city in lieu of this revolutionary government. But although he was re- ceived with the greatest magnificence, and all apparent defer- ence was paid to his advice, his visit was wholly without effect, and his departure was the signal for commencing the disorders which signalized the rule of Hembyse and Ryhove. Entertaining the idea of rendering Ghent impregnable and the capital of an extensive republic, the consuls began by digging ditches around the city, and demolishing the neighbor- ing churches for materials to face the fortifications. They stripped the churches, both within and without the city, of their bells, chandeliers, and metallic utensils, to be melted into can- nons, and siezed all the ornaments of gold and silver for the purpose of being coined into money. Saint Bavon was con- verted into the chief temple of the Protestant preachers, while Saint Nicolas became the stable and barracks of a troop of two hundred dragoons. The various rich abbeys, dispersed around the country, were pilla0ed and destroyed with a fury far more reprehensible than that of the iconoclasts, as the outrages of the latter were nothing but a sudden paroxysm of misguided reli- gious zeal, while the agents of Hembyse acted from a fixed pur- pose of sacrilegious devastation. While Henibyse was thus occupied within the city, his col- league Ryhove was gathering military laurels without, in van 1834.] The Free Cities of Flanders. 13~3 ous expeditions, which terminated with brilliant success. He commanded a powerful body of troops, domestic and merce- nary, which were engaged in continual combat either against opposing factions or the common enemy. Courtrai, Andenarde, Binges, and Termonde yielded to his arms; and the credit he thus gained led to the result which might easily have been an- ticipated, by awakening jealousy and dissension between the consuls themselves. The violences exercised in their name had of necessity raised up many enemies against them ; and although they abstained from taking the lives of the disaffected, and remained content with inflicting the sentence of banish- inent, yet general distrust and agitation conld not fail to per- vade a city, thus given up to the domination of a lawless fac- tion and its ambitious leaders. At length, after every effort to put an end to these disorders had been attempted by such of the principal individuals in Belgium, as were exempt from the sway of the chiefs of Ghent, and had failed, Elizabeth of England wrote letters to the magistrates of Ghent, reproaching them in the strongest terms for their misconduct. As the state of the contest between the Netherlands and Spain rendered the good will of Elizabeth all important to the patriots, her interposition in this instance threw Hembyse and Ryhove into some perplexity. It was given out that the Prince of Orange was preparing to come to Ghent, and employ efficacious means to depose the popular dictators. In anticipation of this, Ryhove began to look about for means of making his peace, and to attain this object he did not scruple to arrest l)i5 friend and colleague. But the popu- lace, furious at the indignity offered to their idol, surrounded the house of Ryhove, and compelled him to set Heinbyse free. The Prince of Orange finally arrived, and although he brought no troops to enforce his wishes, the influence of his name and the firmness of his character were sufficient to break down the power of the Duumvirs, and restore the regular administration of the laws. Ryhove was at this time at Termonde, and he prudently withdrew into Holland, where he lived unmolested and died a natural death. Heinhyse fled from Ghent in dis- guise, and took refuge in Germany. After a few years, the party of the Beggars once more gained a temporary ascen- dancy, and recalled him to Ghent, to resume his old, authority. But his love of power getting the better of his love of country, he secretly entered into negotiations with the Spaniards, which 134 The fl~ee Cities of Flanders. [July, being discovered, he was deposed, and ignominiously executed for treason, upon evident proofs of his guilt (1584). During the same year, in fact only a month after the death of Hem- byse, the Prince of Parma, having reduced nearly all Flan- ders, laid siege to Ghent, which was soon obliged to ca- pitulate, and with the rest of Belgium became once more subject to Spain. By the expulsion of the Protestants, tlan(luillity, at least, was secured, though at the expense of the industry, wealth, and intelligence of the country. Under the mild rule of Albert and Isabella, and their successors, Ghent participated for a century in the peace and comparative pros- perity, which prevailed through the whole of Belgium. It was not until the capricious ambition of Lewis XLV. disturbed the repose of all Europe, that Flanders again became the seat of war. During the reigns of Lewis XIV., and Lewis XV. Ghent was taken and retaken repeatedly by op~)osmg armies, but without being the scene of any remarkable incidents to separate its history from that of the rest of Belgium. During the troubles occasioned by the innovations of the Emperor Joseph II., between the years 1789 and 1791, Ghent was sufficiently prominent in the efforts then made to render the whole country independent. But the French revolution had now broken out, and events were hurried on by the all controllin~ power of such mighty combinations of men, that no single city could materially affect their progress. Ghent, of course, changed masters, as the tide of war swelled or ebbed, partaking as well in the excesses of the republic, as in the adu- lation lavished on the person of Napoleon, and being finally disposed of by the victors of Waterloo, as best suited their own good pleasure. The days of the Arteveldes had passed away, and that condition of the world, which enabled a simple burgh- er of Ghent to exercise a puissant influence in the general affairs of Europe, subsisted no longer. From the palmy state, which it challenged in the middle ages, Ghent had sunk down into a manufacturing capital, distinguished, it is true, for the taste, refinement, and cultivation of its inhabitants, but de- prived alike of the spirit of liberty and the exuberance of wealth, xvhich once constituted its principal distinctions. 1834.] Life and Writings of (irabbe. 13t~ ART. VI.Life and Writings of E!rabbe. Life and Poetical Works of the Reverend GEORGE CRABBE. In 8 volumes. Vol. I. Containing lire Life of Crabbe. By his SON. London. 1834. ROUSSEAU declared that he must visit the man who had witnessed two summers in a single year; and readers in general will be glad to learn something of the personal history of one, who, after receiving the applause of Burke and John- son, remained silent for more than twenty years, and came forth at last to receive the homage of another generation. In truth, when we speak of Crabbe, xve feel as if we were speak- ing of one who belonged rather to the last century, than to ours; yet there is no other poet, whom the public have known so favorably and so long, of whose history they know so little; and his son has performed an acceptable service, as well as a filial duty, in treasuring up all that can now be remembered of a man of great ability and worth,of a poet, distinguished for his manly and original powers. We shall avail ourselves of the contents of this volume, in order to present such a sketch of the prominent incidents of the life of Mr. Crabbe, as may be required to illustrate a cursory view of his writings. Mr. Crahhe was horn at Aldhorough, on the Christmas eve of 1754. The circumstances of his family were very humble, and he has himself told us, with good humored sarcasm, of the vanity of one of his ancestors, who endeavored to repair in some degree the unkindness of fortune, by dignifying the family name, originally Crab, with the addition of two final letters. His father, after passing several years in the itinerant occupation of a schoolmaster, was at length installed in the offices of warehouse-keeper, and deputy-collector of the port of Aldborough, to which he afterwards added that of col- lector of the salt duties, or salt-master, as this officer is usually denominated. He appears to have united many valuable traits of character with repulsive sternness and severity; while his wife, on the other hand, to whom Crabbe often alludes in terms of affectionate veneration, was one of those beautiful examples of retiring Christian virtue, which, like the most delicate flowers, are rarely found but in the shade. There

1834.] Life and Writings of (irabbe. 13t~ ART. VI.Life and Writings of E!rabbe. Life and Poetical Works of the Reverend GEORGE CRABBE. In 8 volumes. Vol. I. Containing lire Life of Crabbe. By his SON. London. 1834. ROUSSEAU declared that he must visit the man who had witnessed two summers in a single year; and readers in general will be glad to learn something of the personal history of one, who, after receiving the applause of Burke and John- son, remained silent for more than twenty years, and came forth at last to receive the homage of another generation. In truth, when we speak of Crabbe, xve feel as if we were speak- ing of one who belonged rather to the last century, than to ours; yet there is no other poet, whom the public have known so favorably and so long, of whose history they know so little; and his son has performed an acceptable service, as well as a filial duty, in treasuring up all that can now be remembered of a man of great ability and worth,of a poet, distinguished for his manly and original powers. We shall avail ourselves of the contents of this volume, in order to present such a sketch of the prominent incidents of the life of Mr. Crabbe, as may be required to illustrate a cursory view of his writings. Mr. Crahhe was horn at Aldhorough, on the Christmas eve of 1754. The circumstances of his family were very humble, and he has himself told us, with good humored sarcasm, of the vanity of one of his ancestors, who endeavored to repair in some degree the unkindness of fortune, by dignifying the family name, originally Crab, with the addition of two final letters. His father, after passing several years in the itinerant occupation of a schoolmaster, was at length installed in the offices of warehouse-keeper, and deputy-collector of the port of Aldborough, to which he afterwards added that of col- lector of the salt duties, or salt-master, as this officer is usually denominated. He appears to have united many valuable traits of character with repulsive sternness and severity; while his wife, on the other hand, to whom Crabbe often alludes in terms of affectionate veneration, was one of those beautiful examples of retiring Christian virtue, which, like the most delicate flowers, are rarely found but in the shade. There 136 Life and Writings (if (tirabbe. [July, was little in the aspect of his native village to charm a poets fancy: it was a barren and deserted spot, situated between the base of a low cliff and the shore of the German ocean ; its dwellings were like those which are not unfrequently seen on the sands of our own coast, appearing as if draxvn up at anchor on the shore ; and it was peopled by a ~vild and amphibious race of fishermen and sailors, competently versed in the ac- complisliments which are apt to beset the men of perilous adventure. The landscape, notwithstanding the attempt made by some hardy poet to describe it as a scene of beauty, pre- sented little to the eye excepting a desolate succession of unbrok- en heath and sand, enlivened with a meagre covering of weeds and rushes; there was in fact nothing in the prospect to excite or fire the poetical imagination, but the ever varying aspect of the ocean, on which, as is obvious from all Crabbes writings, he loved to dwell. The social aspect of his residence was, if possible, still less inviting than the face of nature. His home was rendered sad and desolate by the harshness of his father; and there were none abroad among whom his own tastes could find the least encouragement or sympathy. His youthful pro- ficiency in the art of managing a fishing boat xvas so indifferent, that his father would sometimes ask, in the bitterness of his heart, What that thing would ever be good for? it should be stated, however, that the father had sense enough to discover the talent of his son, and, as the latter afterwards acknowledged with~ gratitude, labored to provide him with such means of ed- ucation as his own limited resources xvould allow. But the literary toleration of the salt-master did not extend to so cry- ing a heresy as poetry: he was a subscriber to some philo- sophical magazine, the gravity of whose pages was regularly enlivened with a score or two of verses ; these it was his custom to cut out when he sent the numbers to be bound, and they were treasured up as a rich possession by his son, who found in them his first models of the art, in which he afterwards excelled. In his eleventh or twelfth year, after having attended a village school, for what period we are not informed, he was removed to another, where he was expected to prepare him- self to become apprentice to a surgeon. He is said here to have exhibited a decided taste for mathcmatical pursuits, as well as for poetry, in which he made his first essay in the form of a salutary caution to a school girl, not to suffer herself 1834.] Life and Writings of Crabbe. 137 to be too much elated by the triumph of displaying new ribbons on her bonnet. Some time elapsed, after he left this school, before he could find an opportunity of entering upon the busi- ness he intended to pursue. A portion of this time was spent in musing, in his solitary walks by the sea shore; but the greater part was occupied in piling butter and cheese on the quay at AId borough, under the direction of his father, who entertained no great opinion of idleness, and least of all that which was consecrated to poetic dreams. This occupation was long remembered by the poet with little satisfaction. At length, in his fourteenth year, the long expected opportunity was pre- sented; and he set forth, with a heavy heart, to become ap- prentice to a surgeon at Wickham Brook. His pursuits, even there, were not wholly of a scientific kind; his master distrib- uted his time impartially between the arts of husbandry and healing, and his apprentice was the bed-fellow and fellow- laborer of his plough boy. In this way, he passed about two years; then he removed to a more eligible situation, to com- plete the term of his apprenticeship under the direction of a surgeon at Woolridge, a few miles distant from his native village. Poetry still continued to occupy a large share of his attention: he was never much in love with his profession, though he devoted himself to it with tolerable earnestness. He found a source of inspiration, which youthful poets never wait for long, in an attachment which he here formed for the niece of a wealthy farmer, who twelve years afterwards be- came his wife, and in the mean time stimulated his literary zeal by encouragement, which proved in the result to be both fortunate and wise. A small premium for a poem on the subject of Hope, was offered by the proprietor of some Ladies Magazine: this prize it was his fortune to gain, and the suc- cess, trifling as it was, set all the springs of his poetical enthu- siasm in motion. It was here, also, that he published a poem, entitled Inebriety, a name of rio particular attraction ; this work is said to exhibit much facility of versification and maturity of thought, but attracted little notice at the time. Mr. Crabbes term of apprenticeship ended in 1775; he then returned to Aldborough, hoping to find some means of com- pleting his professional education in London ; but his fathers means were inadequate to this demand, as well as to main- taining him in idleness at home : he returned therefore to his old labors at the warehouse, which were rendered doubly irk VOL. XXXIX.NO. 84. 18 138 L.fe and Writings of Orabbe. [July, some by new circumstances of domestic sorrow. The habits of his father had undergone that change, which fills the cup of affliction to the brim; and the health of his mother, in whose happiness his own was hound up, was sinking under a fatal and quick decline. Impelled less by choice than a sense of its necessity, he devoted himself with more zeal than before to the study of his profession, and the sciences connected with it; particularly botany, which was then and afterwards his fa- vorite pursuit. At length his father found the means of send- ing him to London, with a purse too slender to attend lectures or to walk the hospitals, and only with the hope, as he him- self said, of picking up a little surgical knowledge as cheaply as he could. In the course of a few months, he returned to Aldhorough, but with no propitious change in his prospects or his fortune. There he became assistant to a surgeon, who soon retired from the village, and left him at liberty to set up for himself: but he had a rival in the field, and his own prac- tice was the least productive which the place afforded. His patients, who saw his botanical researches, thought it unrea- sonable that they should be called upon to pay for medicines collected in the fields and ditches. On the whole, his pros- pects were not very encouraging, and not the least of his afflic- tions ~vas a sense of his deficiency in professional knowledge and skill. A transient gleani of sunshine broke out in 1778, when the Warwickshire militia were quartered in his neigh- borhood, with whose officers, as their medical attendant, he formed some useful intimacies. He felt, however, that Ald- borough was no place for him, and resolved to take the earliest opportunity to leave it. It was late in the year 1779, at the close of a cold and gloomy day, when, as he was wandering on the bleak cliff above the village, he determined to abandon his profession, and embark on the uncertain sea of literary ad- venture. He stopped before a shallow, muddy sheet of water, as dark and desolate as his own thoughts, and, as he gazed upon it, resolved to go to London and to venture all. His prospects must have indeed been melancholy, to impel him to a resolution, apparently so hopeless. His health was not firm,the reception of his poetical attempts had not been flattering, and his nerves were ill calculated to wrestle with adversity. There was not a single friend in the metropolis, on whom he could rely for aid. He had also to endure the re- proaches of his father, who did not, however, labor much to 1834.) Lfe and Writings of tiJrabbe. 139 change his purpose. The means of effecting it ~vere yet to be found; his own immediate friends were unable or unwilling to supply them, and he applied to Mr. Dudley North, to whom his father had been useful in some political canvass, for the loan of five pounds. The letter, in which he made the appli- cation, was afterwards described by that gentleman as a very extraordinary one: his request was readily granted; and, with three pounds in his pocket, a case of surgical instruments, and a box of clothing, the whole stock of his worldly fortune, he embarked on board a little sloop, and took his way to London. It was in the year 1780, that he reached that city; a pro- pitious period, as his biographer remarks, for an adventurer in poetry, if indeed the good fortune of a poet can he said to con- sist in the absence of a rival. Goldsmith, Gray, and Churchill were dead; Johnson had long before abandoned poetry, and was drawing near the close of his eminent career; the genius of Cowper, which bloomed, like the witch-hazel, in the late dUtumn of his years, had not yet been revealed; and the echo of the fame of Burns had hardly crossed the Scottish border. His biographer is, however, mistaken, if he supposes that the demand for poetry in the literary market is governed by the extent of the supply; and who was to assure the young ad- venturer, that he could fill the vacant place in the admiration of the world? He came without a patron; he could claim but a single acquaintance in London, and she was the wife of a linen draper in Corahill, not particularly likely to forward his literary projects, though kind and liberal in her attentions. He took lodgings at the house of a hairdresser, near the Ex- change, and set himself, with a firm and manly spirit, about the doubtful task before him ; first transcribing the poetical pieces he brought with him from the country, composing one or two dramas and essays in prose, and laboring to improve his versitication, and to become familiar with such books as he found at his command. Some of his intimates, at this period, were in circumstances not unlike his own, and were similarly fortunate in their subsequent life. Among them was Mr. Bonnycastle, late master of the Military Academy at Wool- wicb, and Isaac Dalby and Reuben Barrow, both mathe- maticians of distinguished eminence. It deserves to be re- corded to his honor, that during this period, while he was tor- tured by anxiety and depressed by poverty, he kept his mind always fixed on the object of his pursuit, neither yielding to 140 Life and Writings of Grabbe. [July, the sore teniptations of adverse fortune, nor ever sinking in despondency. Some of his pieces were offered to the book- sellers, and were rejected; he tried new subjects, and labored still harder than before, but with no better success. An an- onymous poem, called The Candidate, was published at his own charge, but found no public welcome; and the failure of his bookseller compelled him to take refuge in the last shelter to which a sensitive mind can resort, an application for pecu- niary aid to strangers. For this he first applied to Lord North, but in vain; a similar appeal to Lord Shelburne produced no answer. After addressing several letters to that coarsest of illustrious personages, Lord Chancellor Thurlow, he received a cold reply, purporting that his lordships avocations left him no leisure to read verses. In his journal, written at this time, he says I have parted with my money, sold my wardrobe, pawned my watch, am in debt to my landlord, and finally, am at some loss how to eat a week longer. Another extract from the same journal will afford an idea of the spirit and temper, with which he bore himselC under these hard circumstances. It is the vilest thing in the world to have but one coat. My only one has met with a mischance, and how to manage it is some difficulty. A confounded stoves modish ornament caught its elbow, and rent it half away. Pinioned to the side it came home, and I ran deploring to my loft. In the dilem- ma, it occurred to me to turn tailor myseig but how to get materials to work with puzzled me. At last I went running down in a hurry, with three or four sheets of paper in my hand, and begged for a needle and thread to sew them together. This finished my job, and, but that it is somewhat thicker, the elbow is a good one yet. The portion of the journal given in this volume, is quite valuable, as presenting a picture of a man- iy spirit, tried by a kind of suffering, which the heart of every one will tell him is severe. There is nothing of querulousness in it: no more of despondency, than the circumstances of his situation could not fail to excite; it betrays throughout the energies of a strong mind, and the tranquillity of a religious one. Mr. Crabbes repeated applications to ex ojjlcio patrons having thus proved fruitless, he resolved to make one final effort: and he fortunately directed himnself to one, who was as much above the hereditary or created peers around him in generous feeling, as he was in the miraculous endowments of his mind. lIe addressed the following letter to Edmund Burke. 1834.] Lifo and Writings of Crabbe. 141 Sir, I am sensible, that I need even your talents to apologize for the freedom I now take; but I have a plea which, however simply urged, will, with a mind like yours, Sir, procure me par- don: I am one of those outcasts on the world, who are without a friend, without employment, and without bread. Pardon me a short preface. I had a partial father, who gave me a better education than his broken fortune would have allow- ed; and a better than was necessary, as he could give me that only. I was designed for the profession of physic; but not hav- ing wherewithal to complete the requisite studies, the design but served to convince me of a parents affection, and the error it had occasioned. In April last I came to London, with three pounds, and flattered myself this would be sufficient to supply me with the common necessaries of life, till my abilities would pro- cure me more; of these I had the highest opinion, and a poeti- cal vanity contributed to my delusion. I knew little of the world, and had read books only; I wrote, and fancied perfcction in my compositions; whenl wanted bread they promised me affluence, and soothed me with dreams of reputation, whilst my appearance subjected me to contempt. Time, reflection and want have showed me my mistake. I see my trifles in that which I think the true light; and whilst I deem them such, have yet the opinion that holds them superior to the common run of poetical publications. I had some knowledge of the late Mr. Nassau, the hrother of Lord Rochford; in consequence of which I asked his Lordships permission to inscribe my little work to him. Knowing it to be free from all l)olitical allusions and personal abuse, it was no ve- ry material point to me to whom it was dedicated. His Lord- ship thought it none to him, and obligingly consented to my request. I was told that a subscription would be the more profitable method for me, and therefore endeavored to circulate copies of the enclosed Proposals. 1 am afraid, Sir, I disgust you with this very dull narration, hut believe me punished in the misery that occasions it. You will conclude that, during this time, I must have been at more expense than I could afford; indeed the most parsimonious could not have avoided it. The printer deceived me, and my little business has had every delay. The people with ~vhom I live perceive my situation, and find me to be indigent and without friends. About ten days since, I was compelled to give a note for seven pounds, to avoid an arrest for about double that sum which I owe. I wrote to every friend I had, but my friends are poor likewise ; the time of payment approached, and I ventured 142 LJe and Writings of (Jrabb~. Li Lily, to represent my case to Lord Rochford. I begged to be credited for this sum till I received it of my subscribers, which I believe will be ~vithin one month; but to this letter I had no reply, and I have probably offended by my importunity. Having used eve- ry honest means in vain, I yesterday confessed my inability, and obtained with much entreaty, and as the greatest favor, a weeks forbearance, when I am positively told, that I must pay the mon- ey, or prepare for a prison. You will guess the purpose of so long an introduction. I ap- peal to you, Sir, as a good, and, let me add, a great man. I have no other pretensions to your favor than that I am an unhap- py one. It is not easy to support the thoughts of confinement; and I am coward enough to dread such an end to my suspense. Can you, Sir, in any degree, aid me with propriety ?Will you ask any demonstrations of my veracity ? I have imposed up- on myself, but I have been guilty of no other imposition. Let me, if possible, interest your compassion. I know those of rank and fortune ~re teased with frequent petitions, and are compelled to refuse the requests even of those whom they know to be in distress it is, therefore, with a distant hope I venture to solicit such a favor: but you will forgive me, Sir, if you do not think proper to relieve. It is impossible that sentiments like yours can proceed from any but a humane and generous heart. I will call upon you, Sir, to-morrow, and if I have not the happiness to obtain credit with you, I must submit to my fate. My existence is a pain to myselg and every one near and dear to me is distressed in my distresses. My connexions, once the source of happiness, now embitter the reverse of my fortune, and I have only to hope a speedy end to a life so unpromisingly be- gun: in which (though it ought not to be boasted of) I can reap some consolation from looking to the end of it. I am, Sir, with the greatest respect, your obedient and most humble servant, GEORGE CRABBE. It is not easy to read any thing relating to Edmund Burke, without pausing for a moment, to indulge in the thousand re- collections, which gather round his name. He was a roan, whose like has been seldom seen in the sphere of human in- telli ~ences, and will not soon be seen a~ain. Ahnost in his youth, he rose to that elevated point of philosophical reputa- tion, of which his adopted country has not many examples to show ; and shortly afterwards, he stood without a rival in the long line of her living or departed orators ;heyond and above them nil in that affluence of thought, deep practical sagacity, an(l ~nrpns~ing glory of rhetorical ornament, which make the 1834.] Life and Writings of & ratbe. 143 voice of real eloquence as commanding in future ages, as in the moment of its most important victories. He combined the fervor of the most generous enthusiasm, with unerring insight into all the springs and sources of human character and action; deep scorn of all that was low and sordid with constant solici- tude to advance the well-being of his race: and it might almost be considered a triumph of our nature, that one so highly gifted should have been so disinterested and confiding, so earnest in the cause of human happiness and right. It may be, that some of his political views, weighed in our balances and mea- sured by our standards, are found wanting; but such a mind could not but be noble in its very errors; they were errors of judgment and not imperfections of the heart: they were the wreaths of mist, which intercept the glories of the morning sun, while they are kindled into beauty by its light. It was indeed a generous and manly spirit, to which the affecting appeal of the young adventurer was made. Men, who are engaged in conducting the destinies of nations, have rarely leisure to at- tend to individual concerns; the wholesale good which occu- pies their thoughts seems to acquit them of the obligation to be benevolent by retail. At this l)eriod, the mind of Mr. Burke was much absorbed in the fierce struggles of parliament- ary war. His pecuniary circumstances were by no means those of affluence: of the pride or vanity of being deemed a patron, he had absolutely none; his charities were so unob- trusive, that he evidently thought them nothing more than daily acts of duty. There was probably nothing very peculiar in the circumstances of iVir. Crabbe; claims of equal strength, so far as his could then be known, might not unfrequently be held forth by others: he presented himself to Mr. Burke only as a young man of merit in distress. He went, says his son, into Mr. Burkes room, a poor young adventurer, spurned by the opulent, and rejected by the publishers, his last shilling gone, and all but his last hope with it: he. came out virtually secure of almost all the good fortune that, by successive steps, after- wards fell to his lot :his genius acknowledged by one whose verdict could not be questioned,his character and manners appreciated and approved by a noble and capacious heart, whose benevolence knew no limits but its power,that of a giant in intellect, who was, in feeling, an unsophisticated child, a bright example of the close affinity between superlative talents, and the warmth of the generous affections. Mr. 144 Life and Writings of Crabbe. [July, Burke immediately received him under his roof, and proceeded to examine his compositions, with the view of selecting a por- lion of them for the press. The Library, and The Village, appeared to him best suited to his purpose; he took the man- uscripts himself to Dodsley, and gave the whole weight of his critical decision in their favor. The worthy bookseller indeed declined to take the hazard of the publication, but used every effort to procure for them a rapid sale, and uniformly treated the author with a liberality, xvhich was always gratefully ac- knowledged. Of these poems, The Lihrary was published first, and was shortly afterwards followed by The Village. The latter is a much better example of Crabbes peculiar power, than the former; we shall therefore detain our readers for a moment by some remarks upon its style and character. It was the principal object of the writer to represent rural character, and scenery, and manners as they are, without much regard to that rule of taste, which rejects from the picture all those incidents, which might impair its pleasing and harmoni- ous effect. The venerable pastoral had been transported from old times and other climates, just as Chinese pagodas and Grecian temples are erected to embellish the pleasure grounds of an English nobleman, giving an artificial aspect to the scene, quite at variance with the purposes of nature. It was cherish- ed by modern poets with as much zeal, as the French dra- mnatists adhere to their Greek model, and of course was cold and unnatural to those, whose imaginations were too faint to clothe the fields of Albion with the verdure of Arcadia, or to convert ploughmen and day laborers into the musing shep- herds of the golden age. Gays Pasrorals, intentionally coarse and ludicrous as they are, are more true to nature than those of Pope ; because these were never designed to be faithful to nature, hut only to present a pleasing copy of a work of an- cient art. Goldsmiths descriptions have more of truth about them, but the sunlight rests on these as on our landscape in the Indian summer; there is a soft haze which veils the ruder features of the prospect, and the dreary sky and gathering storm are kept entirely from the view. Crabbes error was just the opposite one ; he was himself familiar with all the dark shades of village life, and in his own depressed and sad circumstances, they occupied and filled his imagination ; he had himself experienced what others only sung, and had found it cheerless as the valley of the shadow of death. We all 1834.] L~/c and Writing-s of (irabbe. 14~ know how much our impressions of scenery and modes of life are governed by our feelings; the brightest sun is cold and melan- choly to the mourner, and the dreariest landscape pleasing to the eye, when we ourselves are happy. Crabbe saw the coun- try without pleasure, and left it without regret; to him it pre- sented no recollections but those of disappointed hope: and he accordingly describes it with a stern and powerful hand, without compunction or mercy, and with colors too severely true. The Village opens with a merciless rebuke of the fond Corydons, who have studiously disregarded truth and nature in their pictures of rural life. The author avows his deter- mination to reveal those real ills, which have been hitherto concealed beneath the vain trappings of poetic pride; and he forthwith proceeds to display a picture of his own,not of green woods and sunny streams, of an innocent and artless race,but a delineation, as powerful and vivid as it is re- pulsive, of the barren heaths of his native village, and the beings who inhabit it. Lo! where the heath, with withering brake grown oer, Lends the light turf that warms the neighboring poor: From thence a length of burning sand appears, Where the thin harvest waves its withered ears; Rank weeds, that every art and care defy, Reign oer the land, and rob the blighted rye; There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar, And to the ragged infant threaten war; There poppies, nodding, mock the hope of toil; There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil; Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf; The slimy mallow waves her silky leaf; Oer the young shoot the charlock throws a sh~.de, And clasping tares cling round the sickly blade; With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound, And a sad splendor vainly shines around. So looks the maid, whom wretched arts adorn, Betrayed by man, then left for man to scorn: Whose cheek in vain assumes the mimic rose, While her sad eyes the troubled breast disclose; Whose outward splendor is but follys dress, Exposing most, when most it gilds distress. Here joyless roam a wild amphibious race, With sullen wo displayed in every face; 19 VOL. XXXIX.-.-.WO. 84. 146 Life and Writings of (irabbe. [JuLy~ Who far from civil arts and social fly, And scowl at strangers with suspicious eye. These are scenes, in which nature has been sparing of her bounty; the poet now turns to those where plenty smiles; but there, too, he finds a contrast between apparent comfort and real misery, which throws the latter into even deeper shade. The laborers hoard up aches and anguish for their declining years by exposure to the sun and storm; they toil with earn- estness, hoping to forget their wretchedness in the strong effort of manly pride; yet they sink to the earth beneath that hopeless poverty, which murders peace; and go down at last, worn and weary, into forsaken and unhonored age. The gates of the village poor house are thrown open to receive its most unwelcome guests. There is yon house that holds the parish poor, Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door; There, where the putrid vapors, flagging, play, And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day There children dwell who know no parents care; Parents, who know no childrens love, dwell there! Heart-broken matrons, on their joyless bed, Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed: Dejected widows, with unheeded tears, And crippled age, with more than childhoods fears: The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they! The moping idiot and the madman gay. Here, too, the sick their final doom receive, Here brought, amid the scene of grief, to grieve, Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow, Mixed with the clamors of the crowd below; Here, sorrowin g, they each kindred sorrow scan, And the cold charities of man to man: Whose laws indeed for reverend age provide, And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride; But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh, And pride embitters what it cant deny. Here is in truth a mass of misery, which reminds one of Virgils description of the gate of Tartarus. The village doc- tor, with fate and physic in his eye, enters this abode of wretch- edness, to insult the victim, whom he means to kill ; hurries over some habitual queries, without waiting for a reply, and rushes to the door, leaving his patient to sink into the grave. The dying poor man asks the consolations of religion, and the murmuring nurse reluctantly summons the parish priest: 1834.] Lift and Writing8 of Crabbe. 147 A jovial youth, who thinks his Sundays task As much as God or man can fairly ask: The rest he gives to loves and labors light, To fields the morning, and to feasts the night; None better skilled the noisy pack to guide, To urge their chase, to cheer them or to chide: A sportsman keen, he shoots through halfthe day, And, skilled at whist, devotes the night to play; Then, while such honors bloom around his head, Shall he sit sadly by the sick mans bed, To raise the hope he feels not, or with zeal To combat fears that evn the pious feel? Death comes at last, in a form far less repulsive than that of the overseer or church warden ; the rejoicing parish cheer- fully pay the frugal fees of interment; the mourners, sedately torpid and devoutly dumb, enter the church; the fox-hunting priest is too busy to perform the last religious offices over one so humble, and the unblessed remains are committed to the dust. This is the destiny of the aged and the friendless; but what is the condition of the young, who, if any can be so, are full of enjoyment and of hope? They have some brief intervals of leisure and tranquillity, when the sabbath returns; but their employer is all the while murmuring at the exactions of Providence in demanding tithes, in addition to one day in seven. The stillness of the day of rest is broken by the clamor of vulgar debauchery: slander pours its bitterness into the shallow cup of pleasure; and the day closes with ale-house squabjzinles and coarse licentiousness. Such is the portrait of rural life, given by a poet of original- ity and power; by one, who had seen what he described, and had sufficient purity of purpose to intend, at least, to describe it faithfully. Every one will see, from the sketches and the ex- tracts we have given, that it is a dark and powerful represent- ation, designed to shadow forth the same forbidding views of life, which are so vividly displayed in the prose and poetry of Johnson. Life is a sphere, of which the pastoral poets saw only the brilliant side, while Crabbe, at this period, was fa- miliar only with the dark one; they all wanted some moral Mercators projection, by which both hemispheres might be at once presented to the eye. We doubt whether either can produce a happy moral influence ;in order to do this, they must carry with them a conviction of their truth. Mr. Crabbe 149 Lift and Writings of Urabbc. [July~ inverted the maxims of the Greek painter, in the execution of his portrait of the Queen of Love; instead of selecting and combining beauties, he left no blemish or deformity untouch- ed, and produced a whole, every part of which might be true to nature, while its general impression was as false as it was frightful. But moral defects are the first to be forgiven: men were weary of the small poets who had undertaken to amuse them in the absence of the chief performers, and were glad to welcome one, who revived the ancient inspiration; they saw in Crabbe a poet of real abilities, who, if he resorted to old themes, treated them in a manner rarely witnessed before; they saw a model of versification, as finished and far more vig- orous than that of Goldsmith, and inferior in his own language only to Pope. No wonder, under these circumstances, that the impression which he made was strong and lasting. His poems, at this period, were however brief and few: and those of his later years are so different in character, and so much more varied than these, that it would be wholly out of place here to offer any general remarks upon his rank and ability as a poet. We shall therefore pursue the brief sketch, which we proposed to give of the prominent incidents of his life. The liberality of Mr. Burke was equally active and unwea- ried. At his table, Mr. Crabbe became intimately known to that illustrious circle, of which his friend was the chief orna- ment,to Reynolds, Fox, and Johnson,.all of whom appear to have appreciated his abilities, and to have treated him with marked respect and kindness. Johnson, in particular, ~vhose critical word was law, read The Village in manuscript, and pronounced upon it a panegyric, of which he was never very prodigal. The views of life which it presented, so similar, as we have already intimated, to his own, may have been in some degree the cause of this complacency; but however this may have been, the eulogy was just; and when Johnson applaud- ed, the lesser critics felt entirely safe in joining in the chorus. Even the Lord Chancellor, to whom Crabbe, after the rejec- tion of his application, had addressed a severe poetical remon- strance, now requested an interview, at which he addressed him with the words, The first poem you sent to me, Sir, I ought to have noticed,and I heartily forgive the second. He at the same time requested the satirist to accept a bank note of one hundred pounds, and assured him, that when he should take orders, which, by the advice of Mr. Burke, he 1S~34.j LJc and F ittiligs OJ LfrabLw. 149 was about to do, more substantial evidences of regard should be afforded him. in the year 1781, his purpose was effected. He was ordained as a priest, and became a curate to the rector of his native village. On returning to Aldborough, under circumstances far different from those in which he left it, his reception was of a kind, which confirmed his early impressions of the character of rural life. His poetical reputation was not one, which the villagers were well calculated to appreciate; those jealousies and hearthurnings, which are sure to follow the possessor of unexpected good fortune, made his residence uncomfortable; his excellent mother, to whom he not unfre- quently alludes in his writings, with a tenderness and feeling, resembling those with which Pope has preserved the memory of the guardian of his early years, had sunk beneath affliction and disease ; and his father had diminished the few comforts of his home by an alliance with one little calculated to repair the loss. After a brief sojourn, Mr. Crabbe accepted the place of domestic chaplain to the I)uke of Rutland, and took up his residence at Belvoir Castle. Some circumstan.ces are related by his biographer, which tend to show that he was not inclined to regret the separation from his patron, which took place shortly after, on the departure of the Duke to as- sume the post of Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. Just at this moment, the Lord Chancellor, after assuring him, with some of those emphatic asseverations with which his conversation was apt to beembroidered,thathe was aslike Field- ings Parson Adams as twelve to a dozen, presented him with two small livings. He was now united in marriage to the early friend, who had watched his progress to competency and fame through many weary years. Not long afterwards, his old friend the Lord Chancellor, at the instigation of the Duchess of Rut- land, and sorely against his inclination, gave him the living of Muston, in the vicinity of Belvoir Castle. On the first sug- gestion of this exchange, the keeper of the royal conscience had roundly sworn, that he would make it for no man in Eng- land ; hut a lady was the intercessor in this instance, so that tbere was no infraction of the vow. itere, in 1785, he pub- ished the Newspaper, a brief and not veiny original satire; and then sunk into a repose, compared with which the slumber of the sleepers of Ephesus was of very brief duration. It was not until the expiration of twentytwo years, that his other ~ began to be iss~ieinl from the press. 150 Life and Writings ~f Orabbe. [J Lily, This persevering silence, on the part of one, ~vho had no reason to complain of a want of public favor, has occasioned much speculation; we think, however, that it is more easily accounted for than his subsequent reappearance. It is very obvious, from the sketch of his character given in this volume, that lie had no overweening confidence in his own powers the encouragement of Burke and Johnson, to say nothing of the pressure of severe necessity, had overborne his scru- l)les hitherto; but that spur to effort was removed, and he had acquired a capital of fame sufficient for his wishes. Men of sensitive minds are not unfrequently less reluctant to see their stock diminishing by time, than to risk it on a doubtful venture; they follow the example of Popes father, who re- tired from business in the prime of life, deposited all his prop- erty in a stout iron chest, and went on expending, until his life and fortune came to an end together. Mr. Crabbe was not one of those who look on poetry as pastime. There were various other engagements to which he niore readily inclined; and he appears, also, to have been at all times scrupulous to permit nothing else to interfere with the rigorous discharge of duty. Goldsmiths beautiful description of the religious char- acter of the priest of Sweet Auburn, would not have been inap- plicable to him. He was always found at the bedside of the sick and dying; his parishioners unanimously accorded to him the touching eulogy, that no sympathy was like his. During the whole period of his duties as a country clergyman, he gra- tuitously gave to all the benefits of his old professional skill and his poetical reputation, great as it is, seems valueless in the comparison with that which he merits for the assiduous discharge of every moral and religious duty. Earthly fame has no rewards to offer, like those which follow him, who ministers with fidelity, however humbly, at the altar of God. Mr. Crabbe combined high intellectual gifts with an almost child-like simplicity. As a preacher, he was eloquent and impressive, and though very regardless of ceremony, entirely tree from affectation. I must have some money, gentlemen, was the public notice which his parishioners received of the ~i pproaeh of tithe day. If the evening began to fall before the conclusion of his discourse, lie would remove to a pew near a window, and stand upon a bench to finish it ; these were not indications of a contempt of ordinary forms, but of the forget- fulness of one, who was too sincere to be solicitous about his manner. 1834.] Life and Writings of Urabbe. I M We have just intimated, that Mr. Crabbe had no undue confidence in his own powers: he was at all times too ready to follow the advice of others, whose capacity and judgment were not equal to his own; and the world is probably a loser by this infirmity. Botany was always his favorite pursuit; he was scarcely ever without a flower in his hand, when the weather permitted him to go abroad; and he employed him- self for some years in preparing an essay on this subject. It was written in English, and this the Vice-Master of Trinity College considered as nothing less than high treason against the majesty of the Latin tongue. This absurd suggestion dis- couraged him, and the work ~vas never completed. Among his other avocations, was that of writing romances, for which he was in some respects eminently fitted; no man surpassed him in descriptive power and keen scrutiny of character, and we cannot doubt that his delineations would have been full of energy and truth. As ill fortune would have it, these too fell victims to domestic criticism. One of them was entitled Widow Grey, but of this we have no memorial. A second bore the name of Reginald Glanshawe, or the man who com- manded success. It opened with a description of a wretch- ed room, which his wife pronounced inferior in effect to similar descriptions in his poems; on this judicious hint, he made a bonfire of the whole. The early efforts of this lady to induce him to cultivate his poetical powers, are hardly suffi& ient to atone for her fatal gift of criticism in the present instance. Another sacrifice of the same kind was offered on his own ac- count, perhaps in order to show his gratitude for the advice of his friends, by following it beyond both the spirit and the let- ter. This consisted of a series of poems which he had offered to Dodsley, who refused them. We may as well say something here of Mr. Crabbes do- mestic character. He was not without severe trials ; for more than twenty years before her de~ith, his wife was visited with severe disease, which seems, though her son makes little direct allusion to the subject, to have cast a partial shadow over her mind. His constant and attentive kindness to her, when kind- ness was almost wearied or repelled, is a beautiful trait; and the recollections of his son are full of many such amiable qual. ities. To the children, his approach was always a signal for delight; benevolence was in fact his distinguishing character- istic; he entered with a mild and delicate interest into the 152 Lift and Writings of Urabbe. LJuly, feelings of every one around him. Men are apt to forget, ~vhen they speak of extraordinary virtue, that they in general refer to some single act, or occasional exhibition of exalted qualities: but the virtue, after all, which passes that of mar- tyrs, flows from a living and perennial spring, flashing ever in the sunlight of a cheerful temper, and sending its fertilizing stream through all the dark places and deserts of the way. I can still see him, says his son, in the eye of memory, his fatherly countenance unmixed with any of the less loveable expressions, that in too many faces obscure that character, but pre~minently fatherly: conveying the idea of kindness, intel- lect and purity; his manner grave, manly and cheerful, in unison with his high and open forehead; his very attitudes, whether as he sat absorbed in the arrangement of his minerals, shells and insects,or as he labored in his garden until his naturally pale complexion acquired a tinge of fresh healthy red; or as, coming lightly toward us with some unexpected present, his smile of indescribable benevolence spoke exulta- tion in the foretaste of our raptures. It would be of little interest to dwell upon Mr. Crabbes changes of residence, or other circumstances, which are stated with considerable minuteness by his son: we pass therefore to the period, when his long silence was broken, and he again appeared to revive and confirm the original impression of his power. In the year 1806, he had nearly completed his Par- ish Register for publication. Several years before, Mr. Fox had promised to revise his publications, and to afford him the advantage of his critical suggestions. The career of that great man was now drawing to a close; but he readily renewed his promise, and it gives additional interest to this poem to know, that it employed his mind almost in his last hours. In 1807, it appeared, together with Sir Eustace Grey, the Birth of Flattery, and other poems. Three years afterwards, appeared The Borough; this was succeeded in 1812 by the Tales in Verse, and in 1819 by the Tales of the Hall, the last of his publications. It has been already intimated, that there is a remarkable difference between Crabbes early poems, and those of his maturer years: both have defects and excellencies of their own; the first are far superior to the later ones in polished beauty of versification, while they are less marked by those traits, which distinguish him from most of the other poets of 1834.] L{fe and Writings of Grabbe. 153 his country. The circumstances, which gave a sad and dis- torted coloring to his early views of life and manners, tended very strongly to impair the effect of his first productions; they excite our feelings less powerfully, because we know that the misery is partly of his own making. If a man choose the shady side of the way, he will naturally find occasion to complain of the absence of the sunbeams; but he will surely meet with little sympathy from those, who feel that there is no necessity for walking in the dark. In the long interval which elapsed before his reappearance as a writer, his circum- stances had become materially altered for the better, and his views and feelings had undergone a corresponding change: he was in the enjoyment of a competent fortune; assiduously en- gaged in that discharge of duty, which brings with it an ex- ceeding great reward, and possessed of some leisure to devote to that study of mankind, which can only be pursued by the contented and the tranquil. The miserable man, instead of studying others, dwells upon his own impulses and feelings, and from these infers how others think and act and feel; and there are few who do not wonder at the alterations in the aspect of the world around them, as their spirits rise or fall. Mr. Crabbe is said to have remarked, that he de- rived less pleasure from the contemplation of a beautiful pros- pect, than from standing in the highway, to watch the faces of the passers by; and the remark, we think, serves to afford an explanation of the character of his later writings. Natural beauty excites but a small share of his enthusiasm; it is rare for him to dwell on any lovely scene, though he occasion- ally describes those of an opposite character with great vivid- ness: with the exception of the ocean, with which many of the associations of his childhood were connected, and whose changing aspects he portrays with remarkable force of coloring, the grand and beautiful in nature have few charms for hjm. Motives,feelings,passions,all that relates to human char- acter and action,these are the points which be seizes on with a masters hand, and unfolds with a stern energy and truth, which convince us that he is engaged with no crea- tions of fancy, but is describing what he has actually seen and studied. No English poet since the time of Shakspeare has painted those diversities of character, which one meets in the ordinary intercourse of life, with equal fidelity or with equal effect. He sees them not through a distorted medium, VOL. xxxlx.NO. 84. 20 154 Life and Writings of (Jrahbe. [July, nor within the shade of intervening objects: he has attained that point of philosophical elevation, neither so lofty as to confuse the sight, nor so low as to confine it, where every ob- ject appears in a true light and in its just proportions; the re- sults of his observation are neither things of speculation nor of fancy, but the strong, distinct, vivid portraitures of classes of our race. Mr. Crabbe is certainly entitled to the praise of a reformer. Before his day, no poet would have dreamed of resorting to humble life for any thing beyond a theme of ludicrous cari- cature, or the personages of a Beggars Opera. Even at the present time, critics are apt to shake their heads with looks of peculiar wisdom, when they come in contact with such inno- vations: they are willing to admit that The Borough is well enough in its way, but deem the effort to invest such subjects with poetical attraction as hopeless as to draw the living wa- ters from the rock. The poets themselves have yielded to this prejudice, and instead of copying from nature, when they wish to introduce a peasant, have made hini as unlike reality, as is the waxen image to the animated frame; the man of their creation has no affinity with merely mortal flesh and blood. We might as well expect in real life to meet a phoenix, as tone of their sentimental swains, musing in rapture as he goes forth to his daily task, or following the plough with unuttera- ble joy and glory. We know that there is enough in humble life which has no claim to the title of poetical, and so there is in every other condition ; but we are not sure, that the mate- rials of poetry are not more abundant in a lowly, than in an elevated sphere; for feeling is there unfettered by those con- ventional restraints, which operate like la~v on natural freedom: the stern rebuke of opinion, which has as much power over those who move in the elevated social walks, as the eye of the keeper over the madman, loses its authority; passion walks abroad without control, and the reluctant step of the slave is exchanged for the free and elastic movements of the moun- taineer. So it is with the utterance of deep emotions; the natural expression of feeling is never vulgar, and those who deem it so show only that they do not know what they con- demn. When Scott, in his romances, puts the most energetic and affecting language into the mouths of his unlettered per- sonages, he is entirely true to nature; the gipsys stern exe- cration of the vain and unfeeling Bertram,the language of 18.34.] Lfe aiid }Vritings of ~Jrabbe. .155 Edie Ochiltree, in the fearful night at Halket-head,the elo- quence with which the rude and generous Highland outlaw pours out the emotions of his inmost heart,who can for a moment doubt that these are natural? On the contrary, it is nothiiig hut their truth, which is the secret of their power and the same simplicity and truth are the only agents, which produce the wonders attributed to Indian eloquence. The INorth American savage has no more literature than the mean- est bluegown of Scotland, and, as respects refinement, is not greatly his superior hut he gives utterance to his natural sen- timents in the plainest an(l most unaffected language, and no conventional forms were ever half so powerful. Examples of this are familiar to the recollection of every reader; the speech of Logan has been most frequently quoted; but a more recent illustration occurs to us, xvhich is perhaps not less striking. When the chief of the Sacs, Black Hawk, lately returned from his captivity to the tribe, which he had a few months before led forth to battle, but which was now crushed and broken, the agent of the United States expressed in council the views and expectations of the President. In the course of his reply, the warrior said On your way home, you will l)~55 where my village once was. Nu one lives there now. All are gone V There is an interest connected with the Indian character, which, in the common estimation, gives more than usual force and impressiveness to their eloquence ; but wherever strong feeling and manly sentiment are found, there will eloquence surely be found also; and these are peculiar to no class or condition. It is true that the poet, who confines himself to the exhibi- tion of humble life merely, can hardly expect a willing audi- ence. Our interest is so much absorbed by the fortunes of the great, that it seems almost like presumption to ask it for the little; the writers of romance have been well axvare of this prepossession, and have employed it for their own pur- poses ; we see their heroes decorated with all the ornaments of rank and accomplishments and title, and bow down to them, as a matter of course. Mr. Burke says that this is natural; it certainly is second nature. Perhaps the world will in time grow wise enough to reserve that admiration for the exalted qualities of the heart and intellect, which has hitherto been lavished on adventitious ones; but that millenium has not yet begun. Undoubtedly, the distitictions which social life infalli- bly creates are not to be disregarded, hut they may be seen 156 L~fr and Writings of Orabbe. [July, with a more just and equal eye; the observer of human nature need not forget the high, while contemplating the lowly; but he will do well to look abroad, when the outlines of the trees and mountains are distinctly marked on the clear blue sky, and not merely when they are magni6ed by the gorgeous drapery of mist. When all the exhalations of prejudice and of fash- ion shall have passed away, the moral interest will be more equally distributed among the different conditions of life. The simple energy and truth of Crabbe will be more valued by the many, than they have been heretofore ; if his intellectual vision does not, like that of the most glorious of the sons of light, comprehend all space, it will be acknowledged to be keen, wide, and faithful. Shakspeare, from his watchtower, caught every change of many-colored life; the great volume of our nature was wide open before him; and whether he un- veils the humble bosom, or describes the fierce struggles of jealousy, ambition or remorse, or the sorrow quickened into madness of the credulous old king, no one ever thought of doubting that the portraiture was real. Crabhe generally as- pired to no such wide extent of observation, though when he has attempted it, his success is complete; he saw and studied all the beings around him with no less interest and care, than he pursued his researches into the secrets of inanimate nature and what he undertakes to describe, neither Scott nor Shak speare could have painted better. His purpose is a moral one ; he never aims to dazzle or to please; he conceals no defect, softens no deformity, and aims not to exaggerate a sin- gle beauty; he makes few sacrifices on the altar of fastidious taste whoever admires him, admires him for his plain truth and manly power. In these remarks, we refer of course to his later writings; for the prevalent defect of the earlier ones has been already pointed out. As he went onward in the way of life, he became a cool, thoughtful, philosophical and some- what sarcastic observer, with tolerable charity for human vice and folly, hut with principle enough to describe them as they are. The writings of Crabbe are not so familiar to the general reader, as to render it intrusive to attempt to illustrate our view of his poetical character by a few examples. In the Parish Register, he sketches the history of many of the villagers. combining tales of crime and sorrow with those of humble and unair~oitious virtue. There are several death-bed scenes, of which not the least curious is that of the bustling widow Goc. 1834.] Life and WUiugs of (Jrabbe. 157 Bless me! I die, and not a warning given, With much to do for earth, and ALL for Heaven No reparation for my souls affairs, No leave petitioned for the barns repairs; Accounts perplexed, my interest yet unpaid, My mind unsettled, and my will unmade A lawyer haste, and, in your way, a priest, And let me die in one good work, at least. She speaks, and trembling dropped upon her knees, Heaven in her eye, and in her hand the keys; And still the more she found her life decay, With greater force she grasped those signs of sway; Then fell and died !in haste her sons drew near And dropped, in haste, the tributary tear, Then from the adhering clasp the keys unbound, And consolation for their sorrows found. Here is a sketch of the funeral of a very different example of her sex,a pattern of unassuming virtue, who fell by the sudden blow of pestilence. Slowly they bore, with solemn step, the dead; When grief grew loud and bitter tears were shed; My part began; a crowd drew near the place, Awe in each eye, alarm in every face So swift the ill, and of so fierce a kind, That fear with pity mingled in each mind; Friends with the husband came their griefs to blend, For good-man Frankford was to all a friend. The last-born boy they held above the bier, He knew not grief, but cries expressed his fear. * * * * * * * Arrived at home, how then they gazed around, In every place, where she, no more, was found The seat at table she was wont to fill; rrhe fireside chair, still set, but vacant still; The garden walks, a labor all her own; The latticed bower, with trailing shrubs oergrown: The Sunday pew she filled, with all her race, Each place of hers was now a sacred place, rhat while it called up sorrows in the eyes, Pierced the full heart, and forced them still to rise. But these are not the strongest efforts of his pencil. At the risk of repeating what may be already quite familiar, we will give another example, which is equalled, we think, by few I ~ Lift and (l7rilings oJ Chabb~. [July) in the whole compass of English poetry. Among the poor of the Borough, we have the history of Peter Grimes, the fisher- man. In his youth, be treats his father with brutal harshness, becomes familiar with debauchery and crime, and is at length shunned by all his neighbors. Two apprentices are bound to him, xvhose death is supposed to be hastened by his constant cruelty, if not produced by more sudden violence. He be- comes a solitary being, avoiding and avoided by all, and is at last the prey of remorse and madness. lie is conveyed to the poor-house, where The priest attending found he spoke at times As one alluding to his fears and crimes: It was the ~ he muttered, I can show The manner how,i never struck a blow, And then aloud, unhand me, free my chain; On oath, he fell,it struck him to the brain Why ask my father ?that old man will swear Against my life ; besides, he was not there What, all agreed ?am I to die to-day My Lord, in mercy, give me time to pray. In one of the paroxysm~ of delirium, he makes his fearful and mysterious revelation. Twas one hot noon, all silent, still, serene, No living being I had lately seen; I paddled up and down, and dipped my net, But such his pleasure I could nothing get A ~ pleasure, when his toil was done, To plague and torture thus an only son! And so I sat and looked npon the stream, How it ran on, and felt as in a dream But dream it was not; no,I fixed my eyes On the mid stream an(l saw the spirits rise. I saw my father on the water stand, And hold a thin pale boy in either hand, And there they glided ghastly on the top Of the salt flood, and never touched a drop; I would have struck them, but they knew the intent, And smiled upon the oar, and down they ~vent. Now from that day, whenever I began To dip my net, there stood the hard old man, He and those boys: I humbled me and prayed They would be gone,they heeded not, but stayed; Nor could I turn, nor would the boat go by, 1834.] LJC and Writings of (irabbe. 159 But gazing on the spirits, there was I; They bade me leap to death, but I was loath to die; And every day, as sure as day arose, Would those three spirits meet me at the close; To hear and mark them daily was my doom, And, Come, they said, with weak, sad voices, Come. * * * * * * * In one fierce summer day, when my poor brain Was burning hot, and cruel was my pain, Then came this father-foe, and there he stood With his two boys again upon the flood; There was more mischief in those eyes, more glee In their pale faces when they glared at me; Still did they force rue on the sea to rest, And when they saw me fainting and oppressed, He, with his hand, the old man, scooped the flood, And there came flame about him mixed with blood; He bade me stoop and look upon the place, Then flung the red hot liquor in my face; Burning it blazed, and then I roared for pain, I thought the demons would have turned my brain. Still there they stood, and forced me to behold A place of horrors,they cannot be told, When the flood opened, there I heard the shriek Of tortured guilt,no earthly tongue can speak; All days alike forever! did they say, And unremitted torments every day Yes, so they said ;but here he ceased, and gazed On all around, aifrightened and amazed; And still he tried to speak, and looked in dread Of frightened females gathering round his bed; Then dropped exhausted and appeared at rest, Till the strong foe the vital powers possessed;~ Then with an inward, broken voice he cried, Again they come, and muttered as he died. There is another most powerful delineation of madness in Sir Eustace Grey, a brief sketch, but not inferior in power to any of Crabbes writin where, in the presence gs. The scene is laid in a madhouse, moods of of the physician and a visitor, the va- rying madness are unveiled by the lunatic, Sir Eus- tace Grey himself. He describes himself as happy in the en- joyment of all earthly advantages, but forgetful of religious duty, until his wife deserted him for the arms of a treacher- ous friend, whom he murders under the impulse of revenge. 160 L~fe and Writings of ~rabbe. [July, Madness comes on, the offspring of disgrace and poverty; he is under the control of fiends, who torture him for years without an interval of rest; till, worn out by the very excess of his delirium, he finds tranquillity at last in the be- lief that his iniquities are pardoned, and that be is redeemed by his Saviour from the foul tormenting fiends. He thus re- lates how, in the first period of their visitation, they hurried him over sea and land to a boundless plain. There was I fixed, I know not how, Condemned for years untold to stay; Yet years were not ;one dreadful now Endured no change of night or day; The same mild evenings sleeping ray Shone softly-solemn and serene, And all that time I gazed away, The setting suns sad rays were seen. At length a moments sleep stole on, Again came my commissioned foes; Again through sea and land were gone, No peace, no respite, no repose Above the dark broad sea we rose, We ran through bleak and frozen land; I had no strength their strength t oppose, An infant in a giants hand. They placed me where those streamers play, Those nimble beams of brilliant light: It would the strongest heart dismay, To see, to feel that dreadful sight So swift, so pure, so cold, so bright, They pierced my frame with icy wound, And all that half-years polar night, Those dancing streamers wrapped me round. Slowly that darkness passed away, When down upon the earth I fell, Some hurried sleep was mine by day; But, soon as tolled the evening bell, They forced me on, where ever dwell Far distant men in cities fair, Cities of which no travlers tell, Nor feet but mine were wanderers there. Their watchmen stare, and stand aghast As on we hurry through the dark; 1834.1 Life and Writings of (Jrabbe. 161 The watch-light blinks as we go past, The watch-dog shrinks and fears to bark: The watch-towers bell sounds shrill ;and, hark! The free wind blows,-weve left the town, A wide sepulchral ground I mark, And on a tombstone place me down. What monuments of mighty dead! What tombs of various kinds are found! And stones erect their shadows shed On humble graves, with wickers bound; Some risen fresh above the ground, Some level with the native clay; What sleeping millions wait the sound, Arise, ye dead, and come away!~~ Alas! they stay not for that call; Spare me this wo! ye demons, spare! They come! the shrouded shadows all, Tis more than mortal brain can bear: Rustling they rise, they sternly glare At man, upheld by vital breath, Who, led by wicked fiends, should dare To join the shadowy troops of death. We can insert hardly enough of this poem, to give any just idea of its power. 1-us biographer tells us that it was written during a severe snow-storm ; a fact, which may be of consid- erable importance to those, who are anxious to discover the seasons most propitious to poetical inspiration. It is far more wild and imaginative than any of his other writings, and shews a versatility of talent, which those xvho are acquainted only with the most familiar portions of them would scarcely have anticipated. Before we leave this subject,we are unwilling to pass by the tribute paid to his ability by Sir Walter Scott. It is interesting, no less as a full and striking testimony to his merit, by one whose favorable judgment was of no ordinary value, than as an example of the kindness and liberality of feeling of the great man, whose character is as honorable to our nature, as his writings are to the literature of his country. The following is an extract from a letter, written by him in reply to one of Crabbe, accompanying a present of a copy of the Parish Register. I am just honored with your C Ashestiel, October 21, 1809. letter, which gives me the more sensible pleasure, since it has gratified a wish of more than twen VOL. XXXJX.NO. 84. 21 16~2 Lije aU(.1 Wfitiitg8 of Cibbe. [July~ ty years standing. It is, I think, fully that time since I was, for great part of a very snowy winter, the inhabitant of an old house in the country, in a course of poetical study, so very like that of your admirably painted Young Lad, that I could hardly help saying, Thats me ! when I was reading the tale to my family. Among the very few books which fell under my hands, was a volume or two of Dodsleys Annual Register, one of which contained copious extracts from The Village, and The Libra- ry; particularly the conclusion of book first of the former, and an extract from the latter, beginning with the description of the old Romances. I committed them most faithfully to my memory, where your verses must have felt themselves very strangely lodged in company with ghost-stories, border-riding ballads, scraps of old plays, and all the miscellaneous stuff which a strong appetite for reading, with neither means nor discrimination for selection had assembled in the head of a lad of eighteen. New publications, at that time, were very rare in Edinburgh, and my means of procuring them very limited; so that, after a long search for the poems which contained these beautiful specimens, and which had afforded me so much delight, I was fain to rest contented with extracts from the Register, which I could repeat at this moment. You may, therefore, guess my sincere delight, when I saw your poems at a later period assume the rank in the public consideration which they so well deserve. It was a tri- umph to my own immature taste to find I had anticipated the applause of the learned and of the critical, and I became very desirous to offer my gratulor, among the more important plaudits which you have had from every quarter. I should certainly have availed myself of the freemasonry of authorship,(for our trade may claim to be a mystery, as well as Abhorsons) to address to you a copy of a new poetical attempt, which I have now UpOn the anvil, and I esteem myself particularly obliged to Mr. Hatch- ard, and to your goodness acting on his information, for giving me the opportunity of paving the way for such a freedom. I am too proud of the compliments you honor me with, to affect to de- cline them and with respect to the comparative view I have of my own labors and yours, I can only assure you, that none of my little folks, about the formation of whose taste and principles I may be supposed naturally solicitous, have ever read any of my own poems, while yours have been our regular evenings entertain- ment. My eldest girl begins to read well, and enters as well into the humor as the sentiment of your admirable descriptions of hu- man life. As for rivalry, I think it has seldom existed among those who know, by experience, that there are much better things in the world than literary reputation, and that one of the 1834.] Life and H/riting8 of Urn/The. 163 best of these good things is the regard and friendship of those deservedly esteemed for their worth or their talents. I believe many dilettanti authors do cocker themselves up into a great jealousy of any thing that interferes with what they are pleased to call their fame : but I should as soon think of nursing one of my own fingers into a whitlow for my private amusement, as en- couraging such a feeling. It was not until the year 1817, after the rising of the sec- ond morn on the mid-noon of his former fame, that Mr. Crabbe returned to the society of London, with which, more than thirty years before, he had been familiam in the persons of those, whose names xviii not perish so long as English bistory endures: and it is difficult to imagine xvhat must have been his feelings, on comparing the present literary generation with his recollections of the past. He received a warm and cordial welcome in the highest intellectual and fashionable circles; Campbell, Rogers, and Moore did homage to the living patri- arch of English poetry ; and there were very few persons of talent and distinction, to whom he xvas not personally known. But these social enjoyments, however gratifying, do not seem to have elated him ; it is an interesting trait in his character, that the attentions which were lavished upon him xvere un- known to his family, until after his death. On his return from London, he l)uI~ued his usual occupations, as if they had un- dergone no interruption. This volume contains several let- teis, written by gentlemen of high literary fame, in which the writers have embodied their recollections of him at this peri od. On one occasion, at the urgent invitation of Sir Walter Scott, Mr. Crabbe visited him at Edinburgh. The reader will be interested in the folloxving extrac1~ of a letter address- ed by Mr. Lockhart to his hiobrapher, in which several cir- cumstances, relating to this visit, are detaileml. London, December 26, 1833. I am sorry to tell you that Sir Walter Scott kept no diary dur- ing the time of your fathers visit to Scotland, otherxvise it would have given me pleasure to make extracts for the use of your me- moirs. For myself, although it is true that, in consequence of Sir Walters being constantly consulted about the details of eve- ry procession and festival of that busy fortnight, the pleasing task of shewing to Mr. Crabbe the usual lions of Edinburgh fell principally to my share, I regret to say that my memory does not supply me with many traces of his conversation. The gen 164 Life and Writing.~ of Grabbe. [July, eral impression, however, that he left on my mind was strong, and I think, indelible; while all the mummeries and carousals of an interval, in which Edinburgh looked very unlike herselg have faded into a vague and dreamlike indistinctness, the image of your father, then first seen, but long before admired and re- vered in his works, remains as fresh as if the years that have now passed ~vere but so many days. His noble forehead, his bright beaming eye, without any thing of old age about it, though he was then, I presume, above seventy,his sweet and, I would say, innocent smile, and the calm mellow tones of his voice,are all reproduced the moment I open any page of his poetry; and how much better have I understood and enjoyed his poetry, since I was able thus to connect it with the living pres- ence of the man! The literary persons, in company with whom I saw him the most frequently, were Sir Walter and Henry Mackenzie; and be- tween two such thorough men of the world as they were, perhaps his apparent simplicity of look and manners struck me more than it might have done under different circumstances; but all three harmonized admirably together,Mr. Crabbes avowed ig- norance about Gaels, and clans, and tartans, and every thing that was at that moment uppermost in Sir Walters thoughts, furnishing him with a welcome apology for dilating on such top- ics with enthusiastic minuteness,while your fathers counte- nance spoke the quiet delight he felt in opening his imagination to what was really new ;and the venerable Man of Feeling, though a fiery Highlander himself at bottom, had the satisfac- tion of lying by and listening until some opportunity offered of hooking in, between the Jinks, perhaps, of some grand chain of poetical imagery, some small comic or sarcastic trait, which Sir Walter caught up, played with, and, with that art so peculiarly his own, forced into the service of the very impression it seemed meant to disturb. One evening, at Mr. Mackenzies own house, I particularly remember among the noctes coenaeque Deiiim. Mr. Crabbe had, I remember, read very little about Scotland before that excursion. It appears to me that he confounded the Inchcolm of the Frith of Forth with the Icolmkill of the Hebri- des: but John Kemble, I have heard, did the same. I really be- lieve he had never known until then, that a language, radi- cally distinct from the English, was still actually spoken within the island. And this recalls a scene of high merriment which occurred the morning after his arrival. When he came down into the breakfast parlor, Sir Walter had not yet appeared there: and Mr. Crabbe had before him two or three portly personages, all in the full Highland garb. These gentlemen, arrayed in a costume so novel, were talking in a language which he did not 1834.] Life aiid W~itings of (Jrabbe. 165 understand; so he never doubted that they were foreigners. The Celts, on their part, conceived Mr. Crabbe, dressed as he was in rather an old fashioned style of clerical propriety, with buckles in his shoes, for instance, to be some learned abb6, who had come on a pilgrimage to the shrine of Waverley; and the result was, that when, a little afterwards, Sir Walter and his fam- ily entered the room, they found your father and these worthy lairds hammering away, with pain and labor, to make themselves mutually understood, in most execrable French. Great was the relief and potent the laughter, when the host interrupted the colloquy with his plain English Good morning. * * * * All my friends, who had formed acquaintance with Mr. Crabbe on this occasion, appeared ever afterwards to remember him with the same feeling of affectionate respect. Sir Walter Scott and his family parted with him most reluctantly. He had been quite domesticated under their roof, and treated the young people very much as if they had been his own. His unsophisticated, simple and kind address put every body at ease with him: and indeed, one would have been too apt to forget what lurked beneath that good humored, unpretending aspect, but that every now and then he uttered some brief pithy remark, which showed how narrow- ly he had been scrutinizing into whatever might be said or done before him, and called us to remember, with some awe, that we were in the presence of the author of The Borough. I recollect that he used to have a lamp and writing materi- als placed by his bedside every night; and when Lady Scott told him she wondered the day was not enough for authorship, he an- swered, Dear Lady, I should have lost many a good hit, had I not set down, at once, things that occurred to me in my dreams. I could never help regretting very strongly that Mr. Crabbe did not find Sir Walter at Abbotsford, as he had expected to do. The fortnight he passed in Edinburgh was one scene of noise, glare, and bustle,reviews, levm~es, banquets, and balls,and no person could either see or hear so much of him, as might, under other circumstances, have been looked for. Sir Walter himself I think, took only one walk with Mr. Crabbe: it was to the ru- ins of St. Anthonys Chapel, at the foot of Arthurs seat, which your father wished to see, as connected with part of the Heart of Mid-Lothian. I had the pleasure to accompany them on this occasion: and it was the only one on which I heard your father enter into any details of his own personal history. He told us, that during many months, when he was toiling in early life in London, he hardly ever tasted butchers meat, except on a Sun- day, when he dined usually with a tradesmans family, and 166 LJe and Writings of Urabbe. [J Lily, thought their leg of mutton, baked in the pan, the perfection of luxury. The tears came into his eyes while he talked of Burkes kindness to him in his distress: and I remember he said, The night after I delivered my letter at his house, I was in such a state of agitation, that I walked Westminster bridge backwards and forwards until daylight. For many years before his death, Mr. Crabbe underwent severe tortures from the tic donloureux, and the rapid approach- es of infirmity gave warning, in the beginning of 1831, that the period of his departure was at hand. Mine, says he, is an old mans natural infirmity, and that same old man creeps upon me more and more. Early in February of that year, he died, after a few days of great suffering. The closing scene was marked by the same religious hope, which had shed a beauti- ful lustre over his useful and protracted life. He retained to the last, in the intervals of pain, that calmness and serenity, xvhich viewed without terror the event he felt to be approach- ing; and he exhibited throughout that interest in others, which had hound many hearts to his. The testimonies of respect, that xvere freely paid to his memory by the people of his neighborhood, xvere of that character, which nothing but the loss of a good man would call forth, and nothing but affec- tionate veneration would bestoxv. We ought not to omit to notice the manner, in which the life of Mr. Crahbe has been recorded by his son. He formed the plan of preparing a biography, some time previous to his fath- ers death, and has not thought it expedient to alter that por- tion of it which was written in his lifetime. We think this a judicious resolution ; this portion of the work is undoubtedly more animated and attractive to the reader, than it would have been had it been written in the immediate contemplation of the loss. There is little reason to fear, that the son has omitted any thing particularly worthy ofremembrance; while he has certain- ly collected much, that would not easily have been accessible to others. On the whole, it will be regarded as a just and grati- fyiug tribute to a man of stiperior genius and virtue, whose moral qualities command our veneration, while his poetical abilities xvill ensure him a high and permanent rank among the poets of his country. l$~3i. Ueieu. 167 ART. VLI.Hclcn. Helen: a Talc by MARIA EDGE WORTH. In two volumes. Philadelphia. 1834. XVE know not when we have been more delighted, either as re viewers or as men, with any occurrence in the literary world, than with the opportunity of giving another welcome to Miss Edgeworth, the friend of our earlier years. And yet we must confess that our pleasure was mingled with many fears ; for it was possible, that the recollection of the interest her writings used to inspire, might be stronger than the reality; there was a chance too, that during her long silence she might have lost something of her power, or that the public taste, so long used to the excitement of Scotts romances, might be less disposed than formerly to relish that quiet and unassuming excellence, which distinguishes Miss Edgeworths writings. But whatever sentiments prevailed in our minds,whether hopes or fears, we believe that all intelligent readers will agree with us in the acknowledgment, that the fears were uncalled for, and the hopes have been exceeded. We remember her as the morn- ing star, whose radiance was lost for a time in the excessive brightness of the rising sun; now we see her reappearing more beautiful than ever as the planet of evening, after that sun has left the sky. Works of this description are constantly exerting an im- mense power upon those who read them; and what numbers that phrase embraces in this reading age, when all who read anything are familiar with Miss Edgeworth and Scott! No one is on his guard against injurious impressions; when any one takes them up, he surrenders his mind to the excitement, and floats along like the drifting vessel, which takes no note of its bearings. He may be carried far aside from the right way, without the least suspicion that all is not well, and should he be a young reader, even if he perceive that injury has been done to his moral feelings, lie may not have energy to repair it. The moral character of Scotts works is uniformly good, and that it is so, is indeed a blessing to the world. But another set of writers, such as the author of Vivian Grey, have sprung up since his decline, and have exerted a contrary influence, to

l$~3i. Ueieu. 167 ART. VLI.Hclcn. Helen: a Talc by MARIA EDGE WORTH. In two volumes. Philadelphia. 1834. XVE know not when we have been more delighted, either as re viewers or as men, with any occurrence in the literary world, than with the opportunity of giving another welcome to Miss Edgeworth, the friend of our earlier years. And yet we must confess that our pleasure was mingled with many fears ; for it was possible, that the recollection of the interest her writings used to inspire, might be stronger than the reality; there was a chance too, that during her long silence she might have lost something of her power, or that the public taste, so long used to the excitement of Scotts romances, might be less disposed than formerly to relish that quiet and unassuming excellence, which distinguishes Miss Edgeworths writings. But whatever sentiments prevailed in our minds,whether hopes or fears, we believe that all intelligent readers will agree with us in the acknowledgment, that the fears were uncalled for, and the hopes have been exceeded. We remember her as the morn- ing star, whose radiance was lost for a time in the excessive brightness of the rising sun; now we see her reappearing more beautiful than ever as the planet of evening, after that sun has left the sky. Works of this description are constantly exerting an im- mense power upon those who read them; and what numbers that phrase embraces in this reading age, when all who read anything are familiar with Miss Edgeworth and Scott! No one is on his guard against injurious impressions; when any one takes them up, he surrenders his mind to the excitement, and floats along like the drifting vessel, which takes no note of its bearings. He may be carried far aside from the right way, without the least suspicion that all is not well, and should he be a young reader, even if he perceive that injury has been done to his moral feelings, lie may not have energy to repair it. The moral character of Scotts works is uniformly good, and that it is so, is indeed a blessing to the world. But another set of writers, such as the author of Vivian Grey, have sprung up since his decline, and have exerted a contrary influence, to 168 Helen. [July, an extent, which, considering their worthlessness in a literary point of view, is really surprising. Those who read such books are not aware perhaps of any bad effect produced upon their minds; but the simple circumstance that they can read them, is enough to shoxv that injury is done. For those who take pleasure in such things are morally incapable of relishing better, and the depraved appetite grows by indulgence, till the health of the soul is irrecoverably lost. Truly, when garnesters, robbers and assassins, are served up to us as high- minded and honorable men; when the vile scandal of the day, or the history of sensuality is brought out to light, with only a thin veil of sentiment to cover its shame; when dun- geons and death-beds are resorted to for narratives and scenes, which hide the defect of power in the writers, by supplying a powerful interest of their own ; and when all this is received, without suspicion either of its moral purity or its intellectual pretensions, it is certain that some injury is already done. We do not suppose that such works will gain much favor with those who are truly enlightened; but it is too much to suppose that the great body of readers answer to that description. But we have no disposition to act the part of Don Quixote at the puppet show, making an assault on works which are in- significant enough in themselves, and which are perhaps already forgotten by many of our readers. We refer to them, only by way of contrast, to show the value of a writer like Miss Edgeworth, who comes forward with authority, speaks in a voice to which all must listen, and recalls the public taste to truth and nature. We admire, most of all, the moral bearing of her writings; with a manner which is neither affected, as- suming nor professional, she causes this to be felt in almost every page. The professed moral of such writings is not the thing to be most regarded; for often, where no fault can be found with the sign which the writer hangs out, scenes and descriptions are introduced, which leave no good impression. When the plays acted in this city were called moral lectures, in order to evade the law, it is not probable that the morality of the performance constituted its principal attraction, nor, when a writer makes the same profession in order to conciliate the great laxv of public opinion, are we always sure of finding it in any part of the work after the preface or title page. The only way to determine what the actual moral is, must be to ascertain what decided impression is left upon the mind after 18;34.j lie/en. reading it. if it produce a sort of kit~d regard for the guilty and a disposition to smile at their crimes; if it lessen the dis- gust which every pure mind feels for coarseness and sensuality; if it bring us into any thing like a friendly familiarity with characters whom we ought to shun, whether in actual life or poetical description, then, whatever may he the moral of the work, its morality will be found wanting. Many writers feel as if all the demands of morality were answered by poetical justice, as it is called, hy which is meant the retribution which, at the close of the work, makes the good prosperous, and brings the guilty to adversity and shame. But this is a rule which has nothinb like it in nature ; the world does not witness such an equal providence, and to make pros~ perity the invariable result of excellence, is to prepare many to be disappointed. But this kind of retribution is assigned by inferior hands: they think that they have done enough when they have given riches and honor to the deserving, a process which requires nothing more than a movement of the pen. The true poetical justice, the only one which answers the claims of morality, is to conciliate the respect and attachment of the reader for the deserving, and to show that the unworthy are never to be envied, whatever prosperity they may seem to en- joy. When Richardson made his Clarissa unfortunate in the closing scenes, a result which was anticipated by his readers, since the work appeared, like Gibbons history, in volumes suc- cessive and far between, a general outcry was raised by her admirers, who thought that to marry her happily was the least that he could do; but the author judiciously stopped his ears and held fast to his original plan. The good sense of Shaks.~ peare, in bringing Cordelia to the grave, when lengthened life would only have been stretching her out longer on the rack of the rough world, has been thought so unsuitable to dramatic representation, that it has been altered by common consent; unsuited to the stage it may he, but it is not unsuited to truth and nature. In the Heart of Mid-Lothian, Scott has given rank and luxury to the less worthy sister, which he has denied to the other: in this he was right; his retribution consisting in the happiness and admiration which Jeanie secured by her vir- tue, while all the seeming splendor of Effie was but the gilding of her woe. The fate of novels, which have been written as vehicles for religious influences, shows that a formal moral will not always VOL. xxxIx,No. 84. ~22 IIo~ Helen. [July, give a moral impression. They have, almost without excep- tion, been decided failures; the writers have been so entirely different in habits of thought and feeling from those whom they wished to conciliate, that all their attempts to recommend the subject have produced an effect precisely the reverse of that wh~ich they intended. Miss Edgeworths works certainly are not what are called religious: nor do we know her sentiments in respect to the religion which we profess; she has been coarsely railed against, for her silence, by some who professed a zeal for Christianity, but has not to our knowledge explicitly avowed her opinions. Still it is certain, that the morality of her writings is the same with that which Christianity enjoins; her literary influence aids the cause of improvement, which Christians have at heart. It was beautifully said by the la- mented Frisbie, that she has stretched forth a powerful hand to aid the impotent in virtue; and had she added, ~ in the name of Jesus of Nazareth, we might almost have expected miracles from her touch. But we are not sure, that a great proportion of those whose minds she wished to reach, the English fashion- able world for example, would have listened so patiently to one who avowed her purpose to instruct them, though we should certainly rejoice to be able to infer more decidedly from her expressions, that she regards Christianity as a reve- lation from on high. And yet, whatever her faith may be, it is but just to say that her works have done more good, than all the professedly religious novels that have been written since the creation of the world. But while the writers of works, professedly moral, have often failed in an undertaking, which requires not merely good inten- tions but knowledge of the world and address, as well as intellect- ual power, they have been guilty only of mistake; we wish we could say as much for others, who are less easily forgiven. The former class of writers have made virtue and religion re- pulsive, but those to whom we allude have labored to make vice attractive and engaging: not that such was their direct ob- ject in writing; but such was the effect of their writings, and they had nob sufficient respect for morality to abstain from these dishonorable arts of attraction. We are sorry to say that a great proportion of the older English novels are liable to this censure, nor can it all be excused by ascribing it to the times in which they appeared, which would account for coarse- ness perhaps, but must not be allowed to throw its broad mantle -1 834.jJ Helen. -17-1 -over indecent and sensual immorality. Richardson perhaps shows how far this excuse may be reasonably pleaded; indel- icate enough in all conscience some of his pages are, but his aim was always to produce a moral impression. Fielding, a much greater genius, was as much beneath him in all moral respects, as he was above him in intellectual power. It was hardly to be expected that one, who led a life of vulgar dissi- pation in the lanes and taverns of London, and cared not what his own associates were, would be particular in the society which lie introduced to his readers; and yet, strange to say, he was more decent in this respect than Smollett, who was a man of better life, and yet seemed to revel with a sort of insane delight in all the off-scouring of the world. Such writers have their reward in the change of moral feeling, which, if it tolerate them in one age, will give them up in the next; they are gra- dually lifted to the highest shelf of the bookcase, and those who read them as part of the -national literature, can hardly open them without a feeling of shame. By estimating the injury to the cause of good morals which such writers have done, we can form some just idea of the good which is done by Miss Edgeworth and Scott, not to speak of others who, in their various degrees, follow the same high exam- ples. Such offenders against the moral and social law are to be found even now, and the world is disposed to pass over their transgressions somewhat too lightly. Even Dr. Johnson, mo- ralist though he was, lent his authority to this view of the sub- ject when he said, Men -do not become highwaymen because Macheath is acquitted on the stage. This however is but an ingenious evasion of the question; the true inquiry is, whether the admiration inspired by the gay bold-faced villain is not in~ jurious to -the cause of good morals. We think there is no doubt of it; for those who permit themselves to admire such characters will not be likely to form a taste for better, either in actual or imaginary life ; and such admiration, though it may not make men robbers, may nevertheless influence them un~ happily to a breat extent, without ever bringing them to the prison or the halter. We hold it evident that such writings may do harm: and in the same proportion, we believe that Miss Edgeworth does good by substituting in their place works of greater ability and attraction, which, so far as they have any effect, shall tend to elevate and purify the mind. So far, these works have a good effect, but we believe that 172 Helen. [July~ the service works of imagination can render to the cause of virtue, is greatly overrated. Bad ones can do harm in a pro- portion far greater, than good ones can do good. The passive impressions which the mind receives in reading them, if they are works immoral in their bearing, can easily undermine prin- ciples of virtue, a process which requires little exertion, since, if not sustained and exercised, they are always ready to die of themselves: all this can be done in the lethargy and inaction of the soul. And were it enough to give virtuous impressions, the better sort of these works of fiction might have credit for more than can now be fairly ascribed to them. But good im- pressions do not make good men; neither is an aversion to had characters sufficient to make good men: to render much to the cause of virtue it is necessary to form principles, which is more than passive impressions ever had power to do. Scott, in dis- cussing this subject, arrives at the conclusion that novels may inspire generous sentiments, and this he considers their highest praise. But if the mind is passive in reading them, they can- not have much po~ver even to do this; and we believe that it will be found on inquiry, that the feelings which they inspire are hollow and unsubstantial,not such as lead to action, but such as flatter and deceive their possessor. When once they are brought to the trial, it is evidently seen, that only the moral energy of the soul and the stern discipline of real life can form principles of virtue firm enough to face the winds and storms. Yet, though we are not prepared to allow that novels can do so much good as some ascribe to them, we believe that Miss Edgeworths exert a happier influence than any other, with- out a single exception; for beside the whole impression, which is always in favor of truth, good sense, and virtue, there are maxims of admirable wisdom interwoven in the texture of the work, as striking as those of De Retz, showing a profound and intimate acquaintance with the human heart. They all tend to establish the fact, that the straight and narrow way of duty, though it may sometimes be hard to travel, will sooner or later appear to be the only path of pleasantness and peace. When we praise the moral effect of Miss Edgeworths writ- ings, we consider ourselves as bearing testimony not only to her good intentions, but to her ability also; for to desire to produce such an effect is one thing, and actually to produce it is another. The writer, who aims at it without success, does more harm than good, just as they who aim at wit without sue 1884.] Ueicn. 173 ceeding, are not merely spiritless, but actually offensive. And yet to arrange the circumstances of their story, to keep light and graceful control over the movements of the characters, to regulate the suggestions, narratives, and descriptions which combine to give the moral impression, requires a comprehen- sion which very few possess. We are told that Andrew Fair- services horse used three legs for the purpose of progression, and flourished the fourth in the air by way of accompanin~ient; in this, he affords a lively illustration of the course of sundry novels, except that in them the accompaniment generally hears a greater proportion to the enginery employed in efficient ac- tion; and the truth is, that the good sense, which subdues all the elements of character and action into harmonious order, is an intellectual gift, peculiar to masters in this department of writing. Fielding possessed it without doubt; but his tastes and habits made him a painter of manners rather than of nature; Scott is the one who has displayed it in its greatest perfection; a fe~v bold touches of his pencil set the scene and character al- most visibly before our eyes; and Miss Edgeworth, though her range is not so wide, has shown almost equal gracefulness and freedom in her management of stories and characters within the circle of ordinary life, where, had she failed, almost every reader could, from his own experience, have pronounced her work unnatural, and have pointed out where and what was wanting. We have dwelt, perhaps too long for the patience of our readers, on the moral bearing of Miss Edgeworths writings, be- cause, though they are admirable in every respect, this is the point in which they have rendered most service to the world. No writers of fiction, before her, ever attempted to do more than amuse an idle hour, or if any did try to convey instruction in this pleasing form, their morality was 50 heavy, that they often threw it overboard to save their craft from sinking; certainly the greater proportion of them have sailed in ballast so far as respected morality. Even now it is surprising to see with what impudence certain novelists insult the common sense and decency of mankind; and with what eagerness many, who might be supposed to know better, receive their accounts of English high life, their lofty sentiment and fine writing, admir- ing the grace and elegance which these writers add to their talent by a familiarity with the ways of rhe world ; while the only high life which the author lin~ ever seen, is that 174 J9kien. [July, which is visible fiorn his garret window, and his art of style consists in furnishing the reader with impressions instead of ideas,irnpressions which strike the young sentimentalist as exceedingly magnificent, because, being undefined, he can- not discern their form. If such productions can find favor with any class of readers now, what would have been the state of things had Miss Edgeworth never existed ? Happily these works are of a fashion which I)~55C5 away. The same princi- ple of corruption in them, by which they become so pestilen- tial to readers, is a l)rinciple of decay to themselves; the very light that seems to play round them is phosphoric,generated by their own dissolution, and far from being attractive to those who understand its nature, warns them that their senses will he offended if they approach too nigh. Meantime the writer, w ho, like Miss Edgeworth, unites fine moral taste with talent, shines with the steady brightness of a star, which, once risen, shall miever more go down. For some time after Miss Edgeworth had written with great reputation and success, it was supposed that she was under obligation to her father for his literary aid. But it would seem that he did nothing more than write an occasional preface, to introduce her the more gracefully to the notice of the world. His memoirs, written by himself, were published by his daugh- ter after his death, and they show conclusively, that his turn of mind was such that mechanical assistance was all he would be likely to give. He seems to have been a man of active mind and restless habits, with a strong taste for mechanical in- ventions. We remember once meeting an insane projector, who was engaged in constructing a steam engine for eradicat- ing the stumps of trees in newly settled countries ; he remark- ed, that it would soon be in the handsof every backwoodsman, since, after simplifying the machinery a little, he should be able to afford it for three thousand dollars. Mr. Edgeworths plans seem to have been of the same grotesque description, such as a moveable treadmill, to which Dr. Johnsons remark would apply, that in ordinary cases a man moved only himself, but the great excellence of this invention was, that it required him to move himself and the machine too. Among others was a phaeton, with a single ~vheel like a wheelbarrow, in which something was gained in point of friction ,though at con- siderable expense in regard to security. He also had a plan for carrying manure about his farm in a balloon, though wheth 1S34.J C. 1Th~ er it was for the sake of easy conveyance, or of improving the article by an a& onautic expedition, does not readily appeal. These however were harmless oddities, and he seems to have led an active, busy and useful life, though entirely without such habits of thought, as would have qualified him to aid his accomplished daughter to any considerable extent in her liter- ary labors. There was evidently a strong feeling of mutual admiration existing between them: he felt himself honored by the homage which was paid to her, and she in turn ascribed all her success to his early counsels and instructions. We should be glad to forget, if we could, that her memoirs, when they appear- ed about fourteen years ago, were the subject of one of those brutal attacks, in which a certain English review has always indulged; we had supposed that the day of such iniquities was over, but we see another late outpouring from the same source upon Miss Martinean, which one would suppose might furnish a regale better suited to the Hottentot circles, than those of England. One of the more important subjects which engaged the at- tention of Mr. Edgeworth, was that of early education, and he seems to have recommended to his daughter the employment of writing for the young, by which she has secured the lasting gratitude and affection of that important part of the human race. There is scarcely an intelligent child in America, who does not love her name ; and this is, in our opinion, the high- est honor which ambition can desire or hearts bestow. Miss Edgeworth seems to have considered her father as opening a new path in the field of education; his plan was to note down anecdotes of the child, and in that way to form an accurate knowledge of its character, so as to be able to tell the kind of discipline and influence to which it needs to be subjected. Here it is only the mechanical process which is new: it is only a more systematic way of taking those observations of the minds, habits and feelings of the young, which judicious parents and teachers have always taken for their guidance in the dis- charge of their trust. Neither is it probable that such incidents, as would be thought sufficiently important to deserve insertion in such a journal, would be as good indications of character as many which would be caught by the glance of an observing eye. The practice which he recommended was better suited to his daughters purpose of writing for the young; accordingly many of the incident-s in her youthful tales, and possibly some 176 flelcit. [July7 that seem most unlikely ever to have happened, were actual in- cidents, drawn from real life and preserved in a minute registry of this description. We have been assured that she made it her practice, in order to secure exact representations of the Irish, to take notes of incidents and expressions when her father was acting as a magistrate, and sometimes also to use, for the same purpose, whatever struck her as worth preserving in the inter- course of social life. Miss Edgeworth was quite young when she began the lite- rary career, which has been so long and brilliant. Her Essay on Self-Justification was written in 1787, and published in 1795, probably without her name, since she is generally un- derstood to have made her first appearance in 1798, when she published the Treatise on Practical Education, in conjunction with her father. Castle Rackrent appeared in 1800, and was enough to establish her reputation as a painter of Irish nature. The incidents, which supplied the outline of the story, are believed to have been furnished by the history of her own an- cestors, but the story is hut a small part of its merit; the con- versation in which it is told is the evidence of her talent, and probably this was never surpasse(l by any other describer of the Irish manners, nor by any other passages in her own wri- tings. It is surprising to see how much can be done for his own country by a powerful writer, who opens before the eyes of the world a new vein of national character, for intelligent minds to explore. Scott has spread a rich mantle of poetical associations over all the blue hills of his native land ; and he himself assures us, that it was his ambition to do for his coun- try what Miss Edgeworth had done for her own green isle, to introduce its natives to those of the sister kingdom in a fa- vorable light,which induced him to undertake that new lite- rary enterprise, that placed him in such an enviable position before the eyes of the world, at the moment when his poetical inspiration seemed dying away. The Moral Tales were published in 1801, with a view of furnishing to the young a kind of reading that should gratify the youthful taste, without exciting too much of the passion for fictitious narrative; we can certainly say of her, that she has come nearer to success than any other writer, but whether it be possible to indulge the taste without the danger of its becoming too engrossing, is a question not easily decided. One would have said beforehand, that the effect of Scotts 1834.] Helen. 177 works would be, to drive an army of worthless novels out of circulation, by making the world more fastidious in its choice; but we see, on the contrary, that the taste becomes so raven- ous, that it no longer cares for selection, but devours with voracious appetite the wretched materials with which the book- sellers take care to keep it supplied. We cannot speak with much decision on the subject, but we fear that the effect of Miss Edgeworths tales for the young may have been similar to this. If so, however, it is an effect for which she is not answerable. Neither is the danger, if there be any, to be avoided in the way which has been attempted by some infe- rior writers,by taking scenes, incidents and characters from real life. It is the boast of writers of religious stories, for ex- ample, that what they narrate and describe is true. Still their description is not reality; it is only the picture of reality, and there seems to be no reason why such a picture should better answer the purpose of actual experience in making one acquaint- ed with real life, than the fancy piece which is true to nature. We are confident that Miss Edgeworths stories have more truth in them,more truth to fact, certainly more truth to nature, than hundreds of those which profess to describe events that have actually happened. No one can help admiring the easy and graceful way in which she manages her incidents and characters, so as to make all hear upon the great purpose of instruction,the particular moral which she endeavors to impress. St. Pierres Paul and Virginia is almost the only work, which compares in this respect with her writings for the young: and in that delightful tale, it may be a fault, that the philosophy which the writer had at heart is so little essential to the story, that the young reader listens with impatience ~vhen it is pointed out to him, dismisses it from his mind, and never associates it with the work again. The Popular Tales appeared in 1804, and were intended for a class who were not much in the habit of reading. The times are wonderfully changed in the course of thirty years, and the boundary of the reading public extended further than would have been thought possible a quarter of a century ago. We do not look upon this change as approaching the miracu- lous; the efforts of the human mind have probably always been as great, comparatively speaking, as in the last few years, and the taste for reading only resembles other comforts, which pass into a greater number of hands in each successive VOL. XXXIX.NO. 84. 23 178 Nelen. [JuW generation the great difference is, that in former times the demand was not sufficient to call for a very active supply; whereas now, a thousand pens and a million presses are kept in constant motion for the many, and their wants are even too much regarded if they make writers regardless of the wants and judgment of the few. Miss Edgewoith, who has always endeavored to lay the foundations of her fame in usefulness, wrote the Popular Tales for the benefit of those who were not much given to other kinds of reading, and nothing can be bet- ter than the manner in which maxims of prudence and practi- cal good sense are illustrated and enjoined. Lame Jervas, for example, shows from what small beginnings a youth may raise himself by integrity and application; The Will illustrates the manner in which industry and attention secure the rewards, which genius considers as its own; The Manufacturers offers a warning to those, who are meanly ambitious of rising into higher circles, where they are despised and insulted, while they might have been useful and honored among their former friends; Tomorrow is a powerful representation of the effect of delay, that false dictate of a treacherous heart, which is per- petually betraying thousands into ruin and shame; and The Contrast, one of the finest narratives that ever were written, shows that the effect of moral education does not depend nearly as much on chance or accidental iniluence, as is generally sup- posed. They who have rightly cultivated the minds of their children, and sown good seed in their hearts, with patient and interested care, are in general as sure of reaping the fruit of their labor, as the husbandman is of enjoying his happy har- vest-home in return for his exertions in the spring. The Fashionable Tales followed the Popular, after an inter- val of several years. It is evident enough that they were not written by the booksellers instigation, for of The Dun, and Ennui, which appeared together in 1809, the former was writ- ten in 180~, and the latter two years later,five years before it was given to the world. The story of Lord Glenthorn is one of deep interest and attraction; the discovery which de- prives him of his rank and title, and the moral energy by which he clears out a path for himself to prosperity and fame, are doubtless exceedingly improbable events; but so skilfully is the story managed, that the reader takes no notice of the cir- cumstance till it is pointed out by the critic, who, in this case as in many others, receives slender thanks for his endeavors to 1834.j Helen. 179 enlighten the public mind. Of all the Fashionable Tales, Vivian inspires the most profound interest and makes the deepest moral impression. The weakness of heart, which makes a man faithless to himself, or, to use an expressive phrase, his own worst enemy,which impels him to act without any just discernment of the consequences of his ac- tions,which puts him in the power of those, who are im- measurably beneath him in intellectual ability and moral feel- ing, all the effects of this helplessness are represented, in that fine story, with a fearful strength of portraiture which no one can easily forget. Among the Tales of Fashionable Life, was The Absentee, a work well known for its admirable sketches of Irish character, and the patriotism, with which Miss Edgeworth endeavored to impress upon the owners of estates in that country, a sense of their duty in regard to their tenants. If we might credit some of the English politicians, it is the duty of the landlord to leave these dependants at the mercy of his agent, and to go, much against his xviii no doubt, to spend his income among strangers, this being the way in which he can best serve the interests of his country. Others, xvho take a more philosophical view of the subject, relieve the absentees from censure, by showing that it is the order of Providence which brings wretchedness and famine upon Ireland, and that the people are themselves to blame for coming into an over-crowded world. But those most interested in the subject have never been quite satisfied with these ingenious theories, and have of late begun to think it reasonable, that all who hold power over men shall be res- ponsible to men for the use of that power,a maxim, which may perhaps occasion some inconvenience to the great, but which will tend in a far greater proportion to secure the com- fort and happiness of the small. The representative of a no- ble Irish family, miserably ambitious of being ridiculed and despised in London, in preference to being useful and honored at home,the high-minded son, who feels the humiliation of the position in xvhich he stands, and resolves to restore his pa- rents to their country,the beautiful cousin, Grace Nugent, perhaps the loveliest female portrait ever drawn,these and the Irish characters at home and abroad, with all their origin- ality of oddity and humor, have made this work a favorite with the public; its popularity is greater than that of any of her writings, unless perhaps we except the very last. 180 Helem [July7 Belinda, which was written in 1800, made a considerable sensation when it first appeared. It had not the recommenda- tion of the Irish character and humor, in which she excels; but the description of English life was striking and animated even too much so to suit the taste of English critics, who fell upon her with great fury, and abused her for misrepresenting their fashionable world. The spirited sketch of Lady Dela- cour gave particular offence, but if we mistake not, the most offensive passages in that ladys history were taken from real life; such for example was the duel which she fought with an- other female politician; it has always been understood, that a celebrated Duchess gave Mr. Fox an equally convincing proof of her devotion to his party. The part of this novel, which would generally be condemned as most improbable, we mean Cla- rence Herveys attempt to educate a wife, was taken from the reality in substance, though some romance is superadded to the truth. Day, the author of Sandford and Merton, a man of large fortune and still more abundant eccentricity, actually se- lected two girls from the Foundling Hospital, intending to edu- cate them in innocence and ignorance, apart from the corrupt- ing influence of the world. One of them was soon dismissed for want of talent, but she married a respectable tradesman, and had talent enough to make an excellent wife and mother. The other might have answered the purpose, being handsome, intelligent, and ready to receive instruction, but unfortunately her patron was disgusted with the sleeves of a gown which she happened to wear, and in consequence her chance of promo- tion was lost. After solemn consideration, he determined in his own mind, that he never could be happy with one who had given so signal a~proof of her want of strength of mind, and therefore abandoned her forever. The result of the experi- ment, as described in the novel, has often been criticised as ex- tremely improbable; whether falling in love with a picture, or renouncing a loved one on account of her sleeves, be the more unlikely event, must be determined by those who are hetter versed than reviewers in matters of the bem~rt. Patronage appeared in 1813, and never was so fortunate as its predecessors in gaining public applause. Not that it does not give evidence of as much talent as any which ~vent before it, nor because its scenes and characters are inferior to any of theirs; the only difficulty seemed to he in the wide reach of the subject; it contained such a variety of interest and adventure7 1834.] Helen. 181 that there was a want of singleness in its impression, though all are made to bear upon the subject with considerable skill. The abundance of the authors materials perhaps embarrassed her a little, and this was the explanation of that want of unity of which so many complained. The letters of the sons of Mr. Percy, giving the particulars of their professional success, were thought by some to weigh heavily upon the story: such is not our opinion; but much impertinent criticism on this subject was addressed even to the author herself, who admitted its justice, though in a tone rather expressive of modesty than conviction. Her Lord Gldhorough was one of those imposing characters, that at first sight make an impression, which the second reading does not confirm ; he is too statue-like aud unbending, savoring more of the days of Lord Chatham, who would not allow his secretaries to sit in his presence, than of these later times, when great men have lost a part of their reverence as well as power. But without saying more of works which are familiar to all our readers, we will only remark that Helen, while it is equal in excellence to her best, bears little resemblance to her other writings. It is too common with those who begin to write again after long silence, to copy the manner which proved successful on former occasions; the consciousness that a high reputation is to be maintained or lost in the new adventure, often deprives the writer of courage, and he feels that lie shall be satisfied, if he do not fall below his former standard. The same timidity often makes him serve up old incidents and characters in new forms, while the reader, instead of being glad to meet his old acquaintance again, is vexed to see them endeavoring to hide their respectable antiquity under a youth- ful dress. Miss Edgeworth has not been betrayed into this error; feeling sure that she possessed all her early strength, she has written with calm confidence, and has proved to the satisfaction of the world, that the light within has not grown pale with age. Miss Edgeworths object in writin6 Helen, was to inspire a reverence for the truth, and to shoxv the evils which inevitably result from its violation. The common expressions of good feeling, in social life, usually convey more than is felt by those who use them: and the habit of exceedintg the exact truth, thus formed, is very easily carried into more important matters, under the impression, that if it he right to exceed the truth in 1Sf! nacit. [July) the polite intercourse of society, it is still more excusable xvhen the object is to give pleasure or avoid giving pain. There are many cases in which it requires great moral energy to speak the truth, while it seems as if no harm would come from sup- pressing it: and unless the moral principle be deep and strong, the truth will be violated without the conscience being alarmed or offended. To a great proportion of mankind, selfishness seems to constitute all the sin of falsehood, and so long as they have no selfish object to gain,still more when they do it to serve a friend or to spare his feelings,they do not feel as if they had done any thing which the sternest moralist need con- demn. But as white lies lead on to those of a darker color, and the conscience, which has tolerated one, cannot easily take offence at another, there is dan0er in the least indulgence; on this account Dr. Johnson said that he would punish a child, for saying that a thing happened at one window, when it actu- ally happened at another; because indifference to truth is the prevailing cause of falsehood; while to those who reverence the truth, no circumstances can excuse the violation of it; no temptation, no palliating reason, no benevolent intention can make the transgression light. The heroine of the story is Helen Stanley, an orphan, edu- cated by her uncle, a Dean of the English church, and a man of taste and fortune, who, two years before the period when the history opens, had resided with her in Florence, where they were intimate with Lord and Lady Davenant and their daughter Lady Cecilia; shortly after the Dean returned with his niece to England, he died, having exhausted his fortune by his expensive luxuries, and leaving no inheritance to his niece, but a sum of money which he had settled upon her before his affairs became disordered. She insists upon appropriating this money to the payment of his debts, in order to remove all re- 1)roach from his memory, though the sacrifice leaves her xvitli hut slender means of support. Her former friends, the Davenants and their daughter, who meantime has married General Clarendon, retain their attach- ment to Helen under her altered circumstances. She is at once invited to make Clarendon Park her home, as lady Ce- cilia tells her, by the express desire of her husband. But lady Cecilia, lovely and amiable though she was, had never learned to reverence the truth, and though she would have ~corned a selfish falsehood, would sometimes rose-color her 18~4.j Uelen. 183 representations, either for the sake of giving pleasure or to avoid giving pain. In the present case, she had given her husband to understand, that Helen had formerly promised to reside with her when she was married, and she represented to Helen, that the arrangement was made by her husbands de- sire; whereas the fact was, that the General desired the com- pany of his sister, Esther Clarendon, a lady who was both ex- cellent and disagreeable, not discriminating between sincerity, and what Addison calls the silly affectation of speaking ones mind. In this case as in all others, the truth would not only have been much better, but would have answered her imme- diate purpose much better; Helen finds the General perfectly polite, but somewhat stately; and for a time, she is perplexed to reconcile his manner with the account which lady Cecilia had given. At length she becomes convinced, that she was a resident in the house against the will of its master; and shocked at the idea, she is on the point of retreating at once, without regarding the consequences; but fortified by the coun- sels of lady Davenant, she resolves to do nothing hastily; till one day, when it becomes necessary to determine her plans for the future, she begs leave to speak with the General, and asks it as a favor that he will deal plainly with her, and tell whether she was not holding the place in his family which another might more properly have filled. Had there been the least want of singleness of heart in our heroine on this occa- sion, the application would have been indelicate; but the man- ner of openness and truth cannot be misunderstood; he was struck at once with the conviction, that she was better suited than his sister, to be a companion to Lady Cecilia, having the same truth and moral courage, without that bluntness of man- ner, which sometimes makes a virtue even to the virtuous almost as repulsive as a sin. The scene between them on this occasion is beautiful and affecting, and entirely removes the coldness, which was owing solely to lady Cecilias suppres- sion of the truth. But all difficulties which originated in that source were not so easily mastered. The General, from par- ticular circumstances, had resolved that he never would marry a woman who had loved another,one of those resolutions which men often form, and keep till they find inducement enough to break them. Lady Cecilia, knowing this prejudice, had carefully concealed from him that she once flirted and even corresponded, when in Florence, with a man of pleasure, 184 Helen. [July, oue Col. DAubigny; no harm could have arisen from dis- closing it, but still it was concealed. When this mans name was once accidentally mentioned, Helen happened to blush, though not for herself, and Lady Cecilia, with that meanness, which seems forced on those who suppress the truth, suffered her friend to lie under the suspicion of having been once at- tached to the worthless libertine, who never had the least interest in her heart. Lady Cecilia did not imagine that Helen could be injured by such a suspicion; she loved her friend very sincerely; but having once concealed the truth from her husband, she was afterwards afraid to disclose it: what was at first a weakness on her part, became a selfish and ungenerous willingness to sacrifice her friend. Truly does ir- ving say that one truth concealed, like a dollar in the vaults of a bank, has a dozen paper representatives; so it proved on this occasion; and the consequence was, that the place which seemed to offer so pleasant a home to Helen, soon became to her little better than a house of suffering and bondage. Lady Davenant is the person who calls forth most of Miss Edgewort hs power. In her youth, she was romantic in the best sense of the word, and gave her heart to one whom her imagination exalted above the mortal standard; but at the time when he was engaging her affections, he had given his heart to another. When she discovered this, she released him at once from his engagements, without a word of upbraiding; and the l)larl for her happiness, which her mother had so inju- diciously formed, had almost become the means of breaking her heart. Instead, however, of avenging upon all others the unfaithfulness of one, she forced herself into society, and new admirers came,among them Lord Davenant, to whom she revealed the state of her heart, but who nevertheless perse- vered in his endeavors to gain all the affection she was able to give. Lord Davenant was at that time a younger son, with- out title or fortune; it was not till afterwards, that the death of his brothers thre~v rank and wealth into his hands. When the effect of her first passion had subsided, she be- came ambitious; at first she wished to distinguish herself by the power of conversation, in which Madame de Sta~l thinks that English ladies, without exception, are wanting; in this she succeeded, and was ridiculed and admired, till one of her friends had the courage to warn her of the affectation in which she was indulging, and she had good sense enough to take the 1834.J Helen. 18~ suggestion as kindly as it was intended. But political ambi- tion remained; Lord Davenant was a man of talent, but some- what careless of influence and applause; she took advantage of his place as minister to ask favors for some of her acquaint- ance, and thus gave the impression that she exerted consid- erable power. While thus engrossed with public matters, she was less mindful of her duties as a mother; and the conse- quence of her leaving her daughter to the care of others was, that lady Cecilia acquired that habit which afterwards involved her in so much suffering and shame. Nor was her influence with her husband always well exerted. Her mother, having exhausted her means in expensive luxuries, persuaded lady Davenant to ask a pension for her from her husband; he could not grant it for such a purpose, and to such a person, without dishonor; still, having once asked it, she persevered, till her unreasonableness had well nigh separated them forever. Mean- time he granted the desired favor from his own private fortune, and his wife forgot her disappointment in admiration of his firm virtue, and shame for her own unworthy application. The effect of all this experience was, to make her character firm, dignified and commanding; she never disguised from herself her own faults and errors, but saw and acknowledged them precisely as they were, and welcomed the lesson she had learned at whatever expense of feeling: we know not where the process, by which real character is formed, can be found traced by an abler hand. About this time, Granville Beauclerc, General Clarendons ward, appears upon the stage. Lady Cecilia, by certain sug- gestions, had contrived to give Helen such an embarrassment in his company, as deprived her of all presence of mind. She was very desirous that they should be agreeable to each other; and, in order to remove Helens blushes, told her a story, for which she herself might have blushed,that Beauclerc was soon to be married to another. The consequence of this idle falsehood was, that she, thrown daily into his society, lost her heart before she was aware of it; he became equally attached to her; but when he declares his passion in the incoherent language appropriated to such occasions, she entirely misunder- stands him, and he, believing himself rejected, at once takes his flight from the country. Had Lady Cecilia even then told the truth to her husband, his flight might have been arrested; but she could not persuade herself to do this; she found it voL. xxxlx.wo. 84. 24 186 Helem [July; easier to leave him under the impression, that Helen had acted a coquettish and unworthy part; the consequence was, that her friend began to decline in the Generals esteem, he being a man who esteemed openness one of the most sacred of duties, and insincerity one of the basest of crimes. It was only by writing herself to Beauclerc, and confessing what false impres- sions she had given, that Lady Cecilia could recall him at last. Thus far Helen was not to blame; but now, Lady Cecilia takes the fancy that they shall always dress alike. Helen had it still in her power to withhold her uncles legacy from the sacred purpose for which she had set it apart; without this, her means were very slender; but she had not sufficient strength of mind to resist her friends solicitations, who made her compliance in this respect a test of affection. It was not long before she had involved herself deeply in deht, for articles of luxury which she neither wanted nor valued. But in her perplexity, which was sufficiently alarming, she retained her openness, and though dissuaded by Lady Cecilia, went at once to Lady Davenant and confessed the extravagance of which she had been guilty, declaring her purpose at the same time to sacrifice every thing rather than touch the legacy of her uncle. Unmoved, except to tears by the cold severity of her friend, Helen went through with her confession, and the result was, that her confidence retrieved her circumstances and secur- ed the affection of her friend, where a suppression of the truth would have involved the one past all recovery, and alienated the regard of the other. These were but the beginning of troubles. Lady Davenant was obliged to go with her husband on a foreign embassy, and, being aware of the fatal defect in her daughters character, she was rejoiced to leave her with such a companion as Helen, in whose integrity she reposed unbounded confidence. Nor was it unworthily bestowed. But Helen was young, and Ce- cilia, though she had this failing, was her warm-hearted and affectionate friend. The danger was, that when an appeal was made to her affection, Helen would not have firmness to resist it, and so it proved. Certain letters, which Lady Cecilia had formerly written to Col. DAubigny, were forwarded with no good intention to General Clarendon, and his wife accident- ally discovered the contents of the packet before it caine under his hand. The discovery filled her with dismay; but instead of confessing the truth to him, she could think of no resource, 1834] helen. I 8~ but to persuade Helen to receive the packet as her own. Their handwriting was similar,the letters were signed with a fancy name, and if Helen could be induced to enter into this con- spiracy, all might be well. The plan was proposed to Helen; every kind of solicitation was tried, and among other things, it was urged that, in Lady Davenants state of health, the shock of a discovery might be fatal. Dreadful as it was to lend even silent aid to a wife in an attempt to deceive her husband, Helen in an evil hour consented, on receiving a promise from Cecilia, that as soon as Lady Davenant was gone, she would disclose all to her husband. That promise was never redeemed. The scene, where Helen claims the fulfil- ment of the promise, is so characteristic and forcible, that we are tempted to extract it, though it is rather long for our purpose. Your mother is safe now, Cecilia. Oh yes, and thank you, thank you for that Then, now, Ceciliayour promise.~~ My promise! Lady Cecilias eyes opened in unfeigned astonishment. What promise ?Oh, I recollect, I promised did I? My dear Cecilia, surely you cannot have forgotten. How was it? You know the reason I consented was to prevent the danger of any shock to Lady Davenant. Well, I know, but what did I promise? The words had in reality passed Lady Cecilias lips at the time without her at all considering them as a promise, only as a means of persuasion to bring helen to her point. What did I promise? repeated she. You said, As soon as my mother is safe, as soon as she is gone, I will tell my husband all ,Cecilia, you cannot forget what you promised. Oh no, now I remember it perfectly, but I did not mean so soon. I never imagined you would claim it so soon; but some time I certainly will tell him all. Do not put it off, dearest Cecilia. It must be donelet it be done to-day. To-day! Lady Cecilia almost screamed. I will tell you why, said Helen. To-day ! repeated Lady Cecilia. If we let the present now pass, continued Helen, we shall lose both the power and the opportunity, believe me. I have not the power, Helen, and I do not know what you mean by the opportunity, said Cecilia. 188 Helen. [July, We have a reason now to give General Clarendona true ood reason, for what we have done. Reason! cried Lady Cecilia, what can you mean? That it was to prevent danger to your mother, and now she is safe; and if you tell him directly, he will see this was really so., That is true, hut I cannotwait till to-morrow, at least. Every day will make it more difficult. The deception will be greater and less pardonable. If we delay, it will become de- liberate falsehood, a sort of conspiracy between us, said Helen. Conspiracy! Oh, Helen, do not use such a shocking word, when it is really nothing at all. Then why not tell it? urged Helen. Because, though it is nothing at all in reality, yet Clarendon would think it dreadfulthough I have done nothing really wrong. So I sayso I know, cried Helen; therefore Therefore let me take my own time, said Cecilia. How can you urge me so, hurrying me so terribly, and when I am but just recovered from one misery, and when you had made me so happy, and when I was thanking you with all my heart! said Cecilia. Helen was much moved, but answered as steadily as she could It seems cruel, but, indeed, I am not cruel. When you had raised me ~ continued Cecilia, to dash me down again, and leave me worse than ever! Not worseno, surely not worse, when your mother is safe. Yes, safe, thank youbut oh, Helen, have you no feeling for your own Cecilia? The greatest, answered Helen, and her tears said the rest. You, Helen! I never could have thought you would have urged me so! 0, Cecilia! if you knew the pain it was to me to make you unhappy again,but I amure you it is for your own sake. Dear- est Cecilia, let me tell you all that General Clarendon said about it, and then you will know my reasons. She repeated as quick- ly as she could all that had passed between her and the General, and when she came to this declaration that, if Cecilia had told him plainly the fact before, he would have married with perfect confidence, and, as he believed, with increased esteem and love, Cecilia started up from the sofa on which she had thrown her- self and exclaimed, 0 that I had but known this at the time, and I would have told him. 1834.j lie/en. 189 It is still time, said Helen. Time now ?impossihle. His look this morning. Oh! thet look! But what is one look, my dear Cecilia, compared with a whole life of confidence and happiness? A life of happiness! never, never for me, in that way, at least, never. In that way and no other, Cecilia, believe me. I am certain you never could endure to go on concealing this, living with him you love so, yet deceiving him. Deceiving !do not call it deceiving, it is only suppressing a fact that would give him pain; and when he can have no sus- picion, why give him that pain? I am afraid of nothing now but this timidity of yoursthis going back. Just before you came in, Clarendon was saying how much he admired your truth and candor, how much he is obliged to you for saving him from endless misery; he said so to me, that was ~vhat made me so completely happy. I saw that it was all right for you as well as me, that you had not sunk, that you had risen in his esteem. But I must sink, Cecilia, in his esteem, and now it hangs upon a single pointupon my doing what I cannot do. Their she repeated what the General had said about that per- fect openness, which he was sure there would be in this case be- tween her and Beauclerc. You see what the General expects that I should do. Yes, said Cecilia, and then indeed she looked much dis- turbed. I am very sorry that this notion of your telling Beau- clerc came into Clarendons headvery, very sorry, for he will not forget it. And yet, after all, continued she, he will never ask you point blank, Have you told Beauclerc? and still more impossible that he should ask Beauclerc about it. Cecilia! said Helen, If it were only for niyself, I would say rio more; there is nothing I would not endurethat I would not sacrificeeven my utmost happiness.She stopped, and blushed deeply. Oh my dearest Helen! do you think I could let you ever hazard that? If I thought there was the least chance of injuring you with Granville !I would do any thingi would throw my- self at Clarendons feet this instant. This instantI wish he was here, cried Helen. Good heavens! do you? cried Lady Cecilia, looking at the door with terrorshe thought she heard his step. Yes, if you would but tell himO let me call him! Oh no, no! Spare mespare nie, I cannot speak now. I could not utter the words; I should not know what words to use. Tell him if you will, I cannot. 190 JJC1(.~It. [July, May I tell him? said Helen, eagerly. No, nothat would be worse; if any body tells him it must be myself. Then you will nowwhen he comes ~ He is coming! cried Cecilia, General Clarendon came to the doorit was bolted. In a few minutes, said Helen~ Lady Cecilia did not speak, but listened, as in agony, to his receding footsteps. In a few minutes, Helen, did you say ?th~n there is no- thing for me now, but to dieI wish I couldI wish I was dead. Helen felt she was cruel, she began to doubt her own motives; she thought she had been selfish in urging Cecilia too strongly, and going to her kindly, she said, Take your own time, my dear Cecilia; only tell him-tell him 5Q~fl~~ I will, I will indeed, when 1 canbut now I am quite ex- hausted. You are indeed, said Helen, hoiv cruel I have been ! how pale you are! Lady Cecilia lay down on the sofa, and Helen covered her with a soft India shawl, trembling so much herself that she could hardly stand. Thank you, thank you, dear, kind Helen; tell him I am going to sleep, and I am sure I hope I shall. Helen closed the shuttersshe had now done all she could; she feared she had done too much, and as she left the room, she said to herselg Oh, Lady Davenant! if you could seeif you knewwhat it cost me! The natural consequence of all this was, that the General considered Helen as acting dishonorably, in not confessing her correspondence with Col. DAubigny to Beauclerc, who was now her professed and accepted lover. Her predicament was painful; but, fettered as she was by her engagement to Cecilia, she could only throw herself 6n his generosity. She (lid it at once, with a manner that inspired the most perfect confidence; she confessed to him that there was a mystery which she was not at liberty to explain, and begged him to trust her integrity till the time for explanation should come. Lie at once avows, in the most generous language, his perfect f~mith in her, arid declares that no unworthy jealousy shall ever alienate his afibction. Still the relation in which they were placed was extremely delicate; and it is one great proof of Miss Edgeworths talent, that she is able to inspire so much 1834.] Helen. 191 regard for Lady Cecilia, who is deeply interesting to every reader, though all detest the folly by which she sacrifices her friends to her own fancied security. This may strike some as a failure on the part of the moralist ; it appears to us in a dif- ferent light ; it is the very soul of Christian morality, to pity the offender, while it condemns his crimes. Helen was so confident that she had acted with good inten- tions, that she hardly confessed to herself that she was acces- sary to an imposture,that she was aiding a wife to deceive a noble-minded and confiding husband. Her perplexities, great as they were, did not trouble her so much as might have been supposed ; for she did not realize to its full extent the fact, that no peace,no reconciliation,no prosperity can endure, except it be founded in truth. We have no room to describe the difficulties into which this wretched stratagem of Lady Cecilia led. Lady Davenant was in Russia, in miserable health, and Helen could only take coun- sel of her own heart: she felt all the embarrassmen~t which tor- tures an ingenuous mind, at the thought of being accessary to imposture; she felt that she was under the stern eye of per- petual disapprobation, whenever she met the General, and much as she loved Cecilia, Helen could not disguise from herself, that her conduct throughout was treacherous and unworthy. When the family ivent to London, instead of being able to lose the consciousness of wrong in the pleasures of social life, they were met by a paragraph in the papers, which announced that Col. DAubignys memoirs were to be published, together with his correspondence with certain ladies of fashion; and so point- ed an allusion was made to Helen, as one of those who had en- couraged his attentions, that she attracted a sort of observation which it was very difficult to endure. The publication had been got up between some booksellers and certain venomous scandal-mongers in high life; the brother of the Colonel had furnished the letters, and passages had been inserted to make them more discreditable, particularly in those of Lady Cecilia, which of themselves were before quite too affectionate for the occasion. Those concerned in preparing the work had, for reasons which it is needless to mention, taken a bitter spite to Helen, and by the use of these letters, which they ascribed to her, together with additions of their own, they thought themselves sure of destroying her reputation and breaking off her marriage. The General by private contract 192 helen. [July puts a stop to the publication,~but takes a copy to Helen, de- siring her to mark the parts which she had written. Helen carries this to Cecilia, who promises to mark them with the utmost exactness, but is not faithful; the General compares the work, as marked, with copies of the correspondence which had fallen into his hands, ascertains that Helen had not marked them faithfully, and thus she is again presented to him as guilty of a deliberate falsehood. He had engaged to give her away at the marriage, but now he declares that nothing should induce him to sanction such an union. It was but natural that the friend, for whom she had sacri- ficed all this, should grow cold; no sacrifices, made at the ex- pense of principle, ever can ensure lasting gratitude, however generously made, however kindly intended. But this is not the worst; Beauclerc, having engaged in a duel with Horace Churchill, a man of the world, who had imprudently made himself responsible for the publication in which he had little share, wounds him desperately, and is obliged to fly from the country. A note from the General to Helen, announcing his determination with respect to the wedding, and giving the reasons for his change of purpose, makes Helen profoundly sensible of the degraded position in which she stands, both in his eyes and those of others. She has not lost her self-respect, and she writes a letter to him, declaring that she can no longer enjoy his hospitality, and another to Beauclerc, in which she tells him, that without any change of feeling on her part, the force of circumstances which she cannot explain, inust separate them forever. Her plan was, to reside with an old house- keeper of her uncle, but Miss Clarendon, who happened to be in London, and who, in her direct way, soon satisfied herself of the real state of the case, persuaded her to accompany her into Wales, where the intelligence of the duel and the agita- tion of mind through which she had passed, brought her almost to the grave. Miss Clarendon is a good example of those characters, who are sometimes found in the world, who take pride in their own sincerity, till they learn to pay too little re- gard to the feelings of others; they do not know that sincerity is one thing, and bluntness quite another; and they do an in- jury to the cause of virtue, by associating a fine attribute of character with a roughness not necessarily connected with it, which inspires anger and aversion. The later scenes, in which the mysteries of the story are de 1834.] Hd.n. 193 veloped, have a thrilling interest which Miss Edgeworth has never exceeded. Scenes of the exciting kind have not much abounded in her former writings; certainly there is nothing in them, which rivals the closing passages of this. When Helen is recalled to London to meet Lady Davenant, who is ex- pected home from Russia, the first person she sees is Lady Cecilia, who had not even taken leave of her when she went away. We give the scene in the authors own words. When they were within the last stage of London, the car- riage suddenly stopped, and Helen, who was sitting far back, deep in her endless reverie, started forwardCockburn was at the carriage door. My lady, coining to meet you, Miss Stanley. It was Cecilia herself. But Cecilia, so changed in her whole appearance, that Helen would scarcely have known her. She was so much struck that she hardly knew what was said: but the carriage doors were opened, and Lady Cecilia was beside her, and Cockburn shut the door without permitting one moments delay, and on they drove. Lady Cecilia was excessively agitated. Helen had not power to utter a word, and was glad that Cecilia went on speaking very fast; though she spoke without appearing to know well what she was saying: of Helens goodness in coming so quickly, of her fears that she would never have been in time but she was in time,her mother had not yet arrived. Clarendon had gone to meet her on the road, she believedshe was not quite certain. That seemed very extraordinary to Helen. Not quite cer- tain? said she. No, I am not, replied Cecilia, and she colored; her very pale cheek flushed ; but she explained not at all, she left that subject, and spoke of the friends Helen had left at Llansillen then suddenly of her mothers returnher hopesher fears and then, without going on to the natural idea of seeing her mother, and of how soon they should see her, began to talk of Beauclercof Mr. Churchills being quite out of dangerof the Generals expectation of Beauclercs immediate return. And then, my dearest Helen, said she, all will be Oh! I do not know how it will be! cried she, her tone changing suddenly; and, from the breathless hurry in which she had been running on, sinking at once to a low broken tone, and speaking very slowly. I cannot tell what will become of any of us. We can never be happy againany one of us. And it is all my doingand I cannot die. Oh! Helen,when I tell you vei.. xxxix.~o. 84. 25 194 Helm. [July, She stopped, and Miss Clarendons warning counsel, all her own past experience, were full in Helens mind, and, after a moments silence, she stopped Cecilia, just as she seemed to have gathered power to speak, and begged that she would not tell her any thing that was to be kept secret. She could not, would not hear any secrets: she turned her head aside, and let down the glass, and looked out, as if determined not to be compelled to receive this confidence. Have you then lost all interest, all affection for me, Helen? I deserve it !But you need not fear mc now, Helen: I have done with deception, would to Heaven I had never begun with it! It was the tone and look of truthshe steadily fixed her eyes upon Helenand instead of the bright beams that used to play in those eyes, there was now a dark deep-seated sorrow, almost despair. Helen was deeply moved: it was indeed impossible for her,it would have been impossible for any one who had any feeling, to have looked upon Lady Cecilia Clarendon at that moment, and to have recollected what she had so lately been, without pity. The friend of her childhood looked upon her with all the poig- nant anguish of compassion Oh, my dear Cecilia ! how changed! Helen was not sensible that she uttered the words how changed!~~ Changed! yes! I believe I am, said Lady Cecilia, in a calm voice, very much changed in appearance, but much more in reality; my mind is more altered than my person. ~Oh! Helen! if you could see into my mind at this moment, and know how completely it is changed ;but it is all in vain now! You hav