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The Miscellaneous Writings and Speeches of Lord Macaulay.

Volume II.

May, 2000 [Etext #2168]


Project Gutenberg Etext The Miscellaneous Writings and Speeches
of Lord Macaulay:   Volume 1 [From the Edinburgh Review] of 4
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THE MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS AND SPEECHES

OF

LORD MACAULAY.


VOLUME II.



CONTENTS.


CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE EDINBURGH REVIEW.

John Dryden.  (January 1828.)

History.  (May 1828.)

Mill on Government.  (March 1829.)

Westminster Reviewer's Defence of Mill.  (June 1829.)

Utilitarian Theory of Government.  (October 1829.)

Sadler's Law of Population.  (July 1830.)

Sadler's Refutation Refuted.  (January 1831.)

Mirabeau.  (July 1832.)

Barere.  (April 1844.)




MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS OF LORD MACAULAY.




CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE EDINBURGH REVIEW.


JOHN DRYDEN.

(January 1828.)


"The Poetical Works of John Dryden".  In 2 volumes.  University
Edition.  London, 1826.


The public voice has assigned to Dryden the first place in the
second rank of our poets,--no mean station in a table of
intellectual precedency so rich in illustrious names.  It is
allowed that, even of the few who were his superiors in genius,
none has exercised a more extensive or permanent influence on the
national habits of thought and expression.  His life was
commensurate with the period during which a great revolution in
the public taste was effected; and in that revolution he played
the part of Cromwell.  By unscrupulously taking the lead in its
wildest excesses, he obtained the absolute guidance of it.  By
trampling on laws, he acquired the authority of a legislator.  By
signalising himself as the most daring and irreverent of rebels,
he raised himself to the dignity of a recognised prince.  He
commenced his career by the most frantic outrages.  He terminated
it in the repose of established sovereignty,--the author of a new
code, the root of a new dynasty.

Of Dryden, however, as of almost every man who has been
distinguished either in the literary or in the political world,
it may be said that the course which he pursued, and the effect
which he produced, depended less on his personal qualities than
on the circumstances in which he was placed.  Those who have read
history with discrimination know the fallacy of those panegyrics
and invectives which represent individuals as effecting great
moral and intellectual revolutions, subverting established
systems, and imprinting a new character on their age.  The
difference between one man and another is by no means so great as
the superstitious crowd supposes.  But the same feelings which in
ancient Rome produced the apotheosis of a popular emperor, and in
modern Rome the canonisation of a devout prelate, lead men to
cherish an illusion which furnishes them with something to adore. 
By a law of association, from the operation of which even minds
the most strictly regulated by reason are not wholly exempt,
misery disposes us to hatred, and happiness to love, although
there may be no person to whom our misery or our happiness can be
ascribed.  The peevishness of an invalid vents itself even on
those who alleviate his pain.  The good humour of a man elated by
success often displays itself towards enemies.  In the same
manner, the feelings of pleasure and admiration, to which the
contemplation of great events gives birth, make an object where
they do not find it.  Thus, nations descend to the absurdities of
Egyptian idolatry, and worship stocks and reptiles--Sacheverells
and Wilkeses.  They even fall prostrate before a deity to which
they have themselves given the form which commands their
veneration, and which, unless fashioned by them, would have
remained a shapeless block.  They persuade themselves that they
are the creatures of what they have themselves created.  For, in
fact, it is the age that forms the man, not the man that forms
the age.  Great minds do indeed re-act on the society which has
made them what they are; but they only pay with interest what
they have received.  We extol Bacon, and sneer at Aquinas.  But,
if their situations had been changed, Bacon might have been the
Angelical Doctor, the most subtle Aristotelian of the schools;
the Dominican might have led forth the sciences from their house
of bondage.  If Luther had been born in the tenth century, he
would have effected no reformation.  If he had never been born at
all, it is evident that the sixteenth century could not have
elapsed without a great schism in the church.  Voltaire, in the
days of Louis the Fourteenth, would probably have been, like most
of the literary men of that time, a zealous Jansenist, eminent
among the defenders of efficacious grace, a bitter assailant of
the lax morality of the Jesuits and the unreasonable decisions of
the Sorbonne.  If Pascal had entered on his literary career when
intelligence was more general, and abuses at the same time more
flagrant, when the church was polluted by the Iscariot Dubois,
the court disgraced by the orgies of Canillac, and the nation
sacrificed to the juggles of Law, if he had lived to see a
dynasty of harlots, an empty treasury and a crowded harem, an
army formidable only to those whom it should have protected, a
priesthood just religious enough to be intolerant, he might
possibly, like every man of genius in France, have imbibed
extravagant prejudices against monarchy and Christianity.  The
wit which blasted the sophisms of Escobar--the impassioned
eloquence which defended the sisters of Port Royal--the
intellectual hardihood which was not beaten down even by Papal
authority--might have raised him to the Patriarchate of the
Philosophical Church.  It was long disputed whether the honour of
inventing the method of Fluxions belonged to Newton or to
Leibnitz.  It is now generally allowed that these great men made
the same discovery at the same time.  Mathematical science,
indeed, had then reached such a point that, if neither of them
had ever existed, the principle must inevitably have occurred to
some person within a few years.  So in our own time the doctrine
of rent, now universally received by political economists, was
propounded, almost at the same moment, by two writers unconnected
with each other.  Preceding speculators had long been blundering
round about it; and it could not possibly have been missed much
longer by the most heedless inquirer.  We are inclined to think
that, with respect to every great addition which has been made to
the stock of human knowledge, the case has been similar; that
without Copernicus we should have been Copernicans,--that without
Columbus America would have been discovered,--that without Locke
we should have possessed a just theory of the origin of human
ideas.  Society indeed has its great men and its little men, as
the earth has its mountains and its valleys.  But the
inequalities of intellect, like the inequalities of the surface
of our globe, bear so small a proportion to the mass, that, in
calculating its great revolutions, they may safely be neglected. 
The sun illuminates the hills, while it is still below the
horizon, and truth is discovered by the highest minds a little
before it becomes manifest to the multitude.  This is the extent
of their superiority.  They are the first to catch and reflect a
light, which, without their assistance, must, in a short time, be
visible to those who lie far beneath them.

The same remark will apply equally to the fine arts.  The laws on
which depend the progress and decline of poetry, painting, and
sculpture, operate with little less certainty than those which
regulate the periodical returns of heat and cold, of fertility
and barrenness.  Those who seem to lead the public taste are, in
general, merely outrunning it in the direction which it is
spontaneously pursuing.  Without a just apprehension of the laws
to which we have alluded the merits and defects of Dryden can be
but imperfectly understood.  We will, therefore, state what we
conceive them to be.

The ages in which the master-pieces of imagination have been
produced have by no means been those in which taste has been most
correct.  It seems that the creative faculty, and the critical
faculty, cannot exist together in their highest perfection.  The
causes of this phenomenon it is not difficult to assign.

It is true that the man who is best able to take a machine to
pieces, and who most clearly comprehends the manner in which all
its wheels and springs conduce to its general effect, will be the
man most competent to form another machine of similar power.  In
all the branches of physical and moral science which admit of
perfect analysis, he who can resolve will be able to combine. 
But the analysis which criticism can effect of poetry is
necessarily imperfect.  One element must for ever elude its
researches; and that is the very element by which poetry is
poetry.  In the description of nature, for example, a judicious
reader will easily detect an incongruous image.  But he will find
it impossible to explain in what consists the art of a writer
who, in a few words, brings some spot before him so vividly that
he shall know it as if he had lived there from childhood; while
another, employing the same materials, the same verdure, the same
water, and the same flowers, committing no inaccuracy,
introducing nothing which can be positively pronounced
superfluous, omitting nothing which can be positively pronounced
necessary, shall produce no more effect than an advertisement of
a capital residence and a desirable pleasure-ground.  To take
another example:  the great features of the character of Hotspur
are obvious to the most superficial reader.  We at once perceive
that his courage is splendid, his thirst of glory intense, his
animal spirits high, his temper careless, arbitrary, and
petulant; that he indulges his own humour without caring whose
feelings he may wound, or whose enmity he may provoke, by his
levity.  Thus far criticism will go.  But something is still
wanting.  A man might have all those qualities, and every other
quality which the most minute examiner can introduce into his
catalogue of the virtues and faults of Hotspur, and yet he would
not be Hotspur.  Almost everything that we have said of him
applies equally to Falconbridge.  Yet in the mouth of
Falconbridge most of his speeches would seem out of place.  In
real life this perpetually occurs.  We are sensible of wide
differences between men whom, if we were required to describe
them, we should describe in almost the same terms.  If we were
attempting to draw elaborate characters of them, we should
scarcely be able to point out any strong distinction; yet we
approach them with feelings altogether dissimilar.  We cannot
conceive of them as using the expressions or the gestures of each
other.  Let us suppose that a zoologist should attempt to give an
account of some animal, a porcupine for instance, to people who
had never seen it.  The porcupine, he might say, is of the class
mammalia, and the order glires.  There are whiskers on its face;
it is two feet long; it has four toes before, five behind, two
fore teeth, and eight grinders.  Its body is covered with hair
and quills.  And, when all this has been said, would any one of
the auditors have formed a just idea of a porcupine?  Would any
two of them have formed the same idea?  There might exist
innumerable races of animals, possessing all the characteristics
which have been mentioned yet altogether unlike to each other. 
What the description of our naturalist is to a real porcupine,
the remarks of criticism are to the images of poetry.  What it so
imperfectly decomposes it cannot perfectly reconstruct.  It is
evidently as impossible to produce an Othello or a Macbeth by
reversing an analytical process so defective, as it would be for
an anatomist to form a living man out of the fragments of his
dissecting-room.  In both cases the vital principle eludes the
finest instruments, and vanishes in the very instant in which its
seat is touched.  Hence those who, trusting to their critical
skill, attempt to write poems give us, not images of things, but
catalogues of qualities.  Their characters are allegories--not
good men and bad men, but cardinal virtues and deadly sins.  We
seem to have fallen among the acquaintances of our old friend
Christian:  sometimes we meet Mistrust and Timorous; sometimes Mr
Hate-good and Mr Love-lust; and then again Prudence, Piety and
Charity.

That critical discernment is not sufficient to make men poets, is
generally allowed.  Why it should keep them from becoming poets,
is not perhaps equally evident; but the fact is, that poetry
requires not an examining but a believing frame of mind.  Those
feel it most, and write it best, who forget that it is a work of
art; to whom its imitations, like the realities from which they
are taken, are subjects, not for connoisseurship, but for tears
and laughter, resentment and affection; who are too much under
the influence of the illusion to admire the genius which has
produced it; who are too much frightened for Ulysses in the cave
of Polyphemus to care whether the pun about Outis be good or bad;
who forget that such a person as Shakspeare ever existed, while
they weep and curse with Lear.  It is by giving faith to the
creations of the imagination that a man becomes a poet.  It is by
treating those creations as deceptions, and by resolving them, as
nearly as possible, into their elements, that he becomes a
critic.  In the moment in which the skill of the artist is
perceived, the spell of the art is broken.

These considerations account for the absurdities into which the
greatest writers have fallen, when they have attempted to give
general rules for composition, or to pronounce judgment on the
works of others.  They are unaccustomed to analyse what they
feel; they, therefore, perpetually refer their emotions to causes
which have not in the slightest degree tended to produce them. 
They feel pleasure in reading a book.  They never consider that
this pleasure may be the effect of ideas which some unmeaning
expression, striking on the first link of a chain of
associations, may have called up in their own minds--that they
have themselves furnished to the author the beauties which they
admire.

Cervantes is the delight of all classes of readers.  Every
school-boy thumbs to pieces the most wretched translations of his
romance, and knows the lantern jaws of the Knight Errant, and the
broad cheeks of the Squire, as well as the faces of his own
playfellows.  The most experienced and fastidious judges are
amazed at the perfection of that art which extracts
inextinguishable laughter from the greatest of human calamities
without once violating the reverence due to it; at that
discriminating delicacy of touch which makes a character
exquisitely ridiculous, without impairing its worth, its grace,
or its dignity.  In Don Quixote are several dissertations on the
principles of poetic and dramatic writing.  No passages in the
whole work exhibit stronger marks of labour and attention; and no
passages in any work with which we are acquainted are more
worthless and puerile.  In our time they would scarcely obtain
admittance into the literary department of the Morning Post. 
Every reader of the Divine Comedy must be struck by the
veneration which Dante expresses for writers far inferior to
himself.  He will not lift up his eyes from the ground in the
presence of Brunetto, all whose works are not worth the worst of
his own hundred cantos.  He does not venture to walk in the same
line with the bombastic Statius.  His admiration of Virgil is
absolute idolatry.  If, indeed, it had been excited by the
elegant, splendid, and harmonious diction of the Roman poet, it
would not have been altogether unreasonable; but it is rather as
an authority on all points of philosophy, than as a work of
imagination, that he values the Aeneid.  The most trivial
passages he regards as oracles of the highest authority, and of
the most recondite meaning.  He describes his conductor as the
sea of all wisdom--the sun which heals every disordered sight. 
As he judged of Virgil, the Italians of the fourteenth century
judged of him; they were proud of him; they praised him; they
struck medals bearing his head; they quarrelled for the honour of
possessing his remains; they maintained professors to expound his
writings.  But what they admired was not that mighty imagination
which called a new world into existence, and made all its sights
and sounds familiar to the eye and ear of the mind.  They said
little of those awful and lovely creations on which later critics
delight to dwell--Farinata lifting his haughty and tranquil brow
from his couch of everlasting fire--the lion-like repose of
Sordello--or the light which shone from the celestial smile of
Beatrice.  They extolled their great poet for his smattering of
ancient literature and history; for his logic and his divinity;
for his absurd physics, and his most absurd metaphysics; for
everything but that in which he pre-eminently excelled.  Like the
fool in the story, who ruined his dwelling by digging for gold,
which, as he had dreamed, was concealed under its foundations,
they laid waste one of the noblest works of human genius, by
seeking in it for buried treasures of wisdom which existed only
in their own wild reveries.  The finest passages were little
valued till they had been debased into some monstrous allegory. 
Louder applause was given to the lecture on fate and free-will,
or to the ridiculous astronomical theories, than to those
tremendous lines which disclose the secrets of the tower of
hunger, or to that half-told tale of guilty love, so passionate
and so full of tears.

We do not mean to say that the contemporaries of Dante read with
less emotion than their descendants of Ugolino groping among the
wasted corpses of his children, or of Francesca starting at the
tremulous kiss and dropping the fatal volume.  Far from it.  We
believe that they admired these things less than ourselves, but
that they felt them more.  We should perhaps say that they felt
them too much to admire them.  The progress of a nation from
barbarism to civilisation produces a change similar to that which
takes place during the progress of an individual from infancy to
mature age.  What man does not remember with regret the first
time that he read Robinson Crusoe?  Then, indeed, he was unable
to appreciate the powers of the writer; or, rather, he neither
knew nor cared whether the book had a writer at all.  He probably
thought it not half so fine as some rant of Macpherson about
dark-browed Foldath, and white-bosomed Strinadona.  He now values
Fingal and Temora only as showing with how little evidence a
story may be believed, and with how little merit a book may be
popular.  Of the romance of Defoe he entertains the highest
opinion.  He perceives the hand of a master in ten thousand
touches which formerly he passed by without notice.  But, though
he understands the merits of the narrative better than formerly,
he is far less interested by it.  Xury, and Friday, and pretty
Poll, the boat with the shoulder-of-mutton sail, and the canoe
which could not be brought down to the water edge, the tent with
its hedge and ladders, the preserve of kids, and the den where
the old goat died, can never again be to him the realities which
they were.  The days when his favourite volume set him upon
making wheel-barrows and chairs, upon digging caves and fencing
huts in the garden, can never return.  Such is the law of our
nature.  Our judgment ripens; our imagination decays.  We cannot
at once enjoy the flowers of the spring of life and the fruits of
its autumn, the pleasures of close investigation and those of
agreeable error.  We cannot sit at once in the front of the stage
and behind the scenes.  We cannot be under the illusion of the
spectacle, while we are watching the movements of the ropes and
pulleys which dispose it.

The chapter in which Fielding describes the behaviour of
Partridge at the theatre affords so complete an illustration of
our proposition, that we cannot refrain from quoting some parts
of it.

"Partridge gave that credit to Mr Garrick which he had denied to
Jones, and fell into so violent a trembling that his knees
knocked against each other.  Jones asked him what was the matter,
and whether he was afraid of the warrior upon the stage?--'O, la,
sir,' said he, 'I perceive now it is what you told me.  I am not
afraid of anything, for I know it is but a play; and if it was
really a ghost, it could do one no harm at such a distance and in
so much company; and yet, if I was frightened, I am not the only
person.'--'Why, who,' cries Jones, 'dost thou take to be such a
coward here besides thyself?'--'Nay, you may call me a coward if
you will; but if that little man there upon the stage is not
frightened, I never saw any man frightened in my life'...He sat
with his eyes fixed partly on the ghost and partly on Hamlet, and
with his mouth open; the same passions which succeeded each other
in Hamlet, succeeding likewise in him...

"Little more worth remembering occurred during the play, at the
end of which Jones asked him which of the players he liked best? 
To this he answered, with some appearance of indignation at the
question, 'The King, without doubt.'--'Indeed, Mr Partridge,'
says Mrs Miller, 'you are not of the same opinion with the town;
for they are all agreed that Hamlet is acted by the best player
who was ever on the stage.'--'He the best player!' cries
Partridge, with a contemptuous sneer; 'why I could act as well as
he myself.  I am sure if I had seen a ghost, I should have looked
in the very same manner, and done just as he did.  And then to be
sure, in that scene, as you called it, between him and his
mother, where you told me he acted so fine, why any man, that is,
any good man, that had such a mother, would have done exactly the
same.  I know you are only joking with me; but indeed, madam,
though I never was at a play in London, yet I have seen acting
before in the country, and the King for my money; he speaks all
his words distinctly, and half as loud again as the other. 
Anybody may see he is an actor.'"

In this excellent passage Partridge is represented as a very bad
theatrical critic.  But none of those who laugh at him possess
the tithe of his sensibility to theatrical excellence.  He
admires in the wrong place; but he trembles in the right place. 
It is indeed because he is so much excited by the acting of
Garrick, that he ranks him below the strutting, mouthing
performer, who personates the King.  So, we have heard it said
that, in some parts of Spain and Portugal, an actor who should
represent a depraved character finely, instead of calling down
the applauses of the audience, is hissed and pelted without
mercy.  It would be the same in England, if we, for one moment,
thought that Shylock or Iago was standing before us.  While the
dramatic art was in its infancy at Athens, it produced similar
effects on the ardent and imaginative spectators.  It is said
that they blamed Aeschylus for frightening them into fits with
his Furies.  Herodotus tells us that, when Phyrnichus produced
his tragedy on the fall of Miletus, they fined him in a penalty
of a thousand drachmas for torturing their feelings by so
pathetic an exhibition.  They did not regard him as a great
artist, but merely as a man who had given them pain.  When they
woke from the distressing illusion, they treated the author of it
as they would have treated a messenger who should have brought
them fatal and alarming tidings which turned out to be false.  In
the same manner, a child screams with terror at the sight of a
person in an ugly mask.  He has perhaps seen the mask put on. 
But his imagination is too strong for his reason; and he entreats
that it may be taken off.

We should act in the same manner if the grief and horror produced
in us by works of the imagination amounted to real torture.  But
in us these emotions are comparatively languid.  They rarely
affect our appetite or our sleep.  They leave us sufficiently at
ease to trace them to their causes, and to estimate the powers
which produce them.  Our attention is speedily diverted from the
images which call forth our tears to the art by which those
images have been selected and combined.  We applaud the genius of
the writer.  We applaud our own sagacity and sensibility; and we
are comforted.

Yet, though we think that in the progress of nations towards
refinement the reasoning powers are improved at the expense of
the imagination, we acknowledge that to this rule there are many
apparent exceptions.  We are not, however, quite satisfied that
they are more than apparent.  Men reasoned better, for example,
in the time of Elizabeth than in the time of Egbert; and they
also wrote better poetry.  But we must distinguish between poetry
as a mental act, and poetry as a species of composition.  If we
take it in the latter sense, its excellence depends not solely on
the vigour of the imagination, but partly also on the instruments
which the imagination employs.  Within certain limits, therefore,
poetry may be improving while the poetical faculty is decaying.
The vividness of the picture presented to the reader is not
necessarily proportioned to the vividness of the prototype which
exists in the mind of the writer.  In the other arts we see this
clearly.  Should a man, gifted by nature with all the genius of
Canova, attempt to carve a statue without instruction as to the
management of his chisel, or attention to the anatomy of the
human body, he would produce something compared with which the
Highlander at the door of a snuff shop would deserve admiration. 
If an uninitiated Raphael were to attempt a painting, it would be
a mere daub; indeed, the connoisseurs say that the early works of
Raphael are little better.  Yet, who can attribute this to want
of imagination?  Who can doubt that the youth of that great
artist was passed amidst an ideal world of beautiful and majestic
forms?  Or, who will attribute the difference which appears
between his first rude essays and his magnificent Transfiguration
to a change in the constitution of his mind?  In poetry, as in
painting and sculpture, it is necessary that the imitator should
be well acquainted with that which he undertakes to imitate, and
expert in the mechanical part of his art.  Genius will not
furnish him with a vocabulary:  it will not teach him what word
most exactly corresponds to his idea, and will most fully convey
it to others:  it will not make him a great descriptive poet,
till he has looked with attention on the face of nature; or a
great dramatist, till he has felt and witnessed much of the
influence of the passions.  Information and experience are,
therefore, necessary; not for the purpose of strengthening the
imagination, which is never so strong as in people incapable of
reasoning--savages, children, madmen, and dreamers; but for the
purpose of enabling the artist to communicate his conceptions to
others.

In a barbarous age the imagination exercises a despotic power. 
So strong is the perception of what is unreal that it often
overpowers all the passions of the mind and all the sensations of
the body.  At first, indeed, the phantasm remains undivulged, a
hidden treasure, a wordless poetry, an invisible painting, a
silent music, a dream of which the pains and pleasures exist to
the dreamer alone, a bitterness which the heart only knoweth, a
joy with which a stranger intermeddleth not.  The machinery, by
which ideas are to be conveyed from one person to another, is as
yet rude and defective.  Between mind and mind there is a great
gulf.  The imitative arts do not exist, or are in their lowest
state.  But the actions of men amply prove that the faculty which
gives birth to those arts is morbidly active.  It is not yet the
inspiration of poets and sculptors; but it is the amusement of
the day, the terror of the night, the fertile source of wild
superstitions.  It turns the clouds into gigantic shapes, and the
winds into doleful voices.  The belief which springs from it is
more absolute and undoubting than any which can be derived from
evidence.  It resembles the faith which we repose in our own
sensations.  Thus, the Arab, when covered with wounds, saw
nothing but the dark eyes and the green kerchief of a beckoning
Houri.  The Northern warrior laughed in the pangs of death when
he thought of the mead of Valhalla.

The first works of the imagination are, as we have said, poor and
rude, not from the want of genius, but from the want of
materials.  Phidias could have done nothing with an old tree and
a fish-bone, or Homer with the language of New Holland.

Yet the effect of these early performances, imperfect as they
must necessarily be, is immense.  All deficiencies are supplied
by the susceptibility of those to whom they are addressed.  We
all know what pleasure a wooden doll, which may be bought for
sixpence, will afford to a little girl.  She will require no
other company.  She will nurse it, dress it, and talk to it all
day.  No grown-up man takes half so much delight in one of the
incomparable babies of Chantrey.  In the same manner, savages are
more affected by the rude compositions of their bards than
nations more advanced in civilisation by the greatest master-
pieces of poetry.

In process of time, the instruments by which the imagination
works are brought to perfection.  Men have not more imagination
than their rude ancestors.  We strongly suspect that they have
much less.  But they produce better works of imagination.  Thus,
up to a certain period, the diminution of the poetical powers is
far more than compensated by the improvement of all the
appliances and means of which those powers stand in need.  Then
comes the short period of splendid and consummate excellence. 
And then, from causes against which it is vain to struggle,
poetry begins to decline.  The progress of language, which was at
first favourable, becomes fatal to it, and, instead of
compensating for the decay of the imagination, accelerates that
decay, and renders it more obvious.  When the adventurer in the
Arabian tale anointed one of his eyes with the contents of the
magical box, all the riches of the earth, however widely
dispersed, however sacredly concealed, became visible to him. 
But, when he tried the experiment on both eyes, he was struck
with blindness.  What the enchanted elixir was to the sight of
the body, language is to the sight of the imagination.  At first
it calls up a world of glorious allusions; but, when it becomes
too copious, it altogether destroys the visual power.

As the development of the mind proceeds, symbols, instead of
being employed to convey images, are substituted for them. 
Civilised men think as they trade, not in kind, but by means of a
circulating medium.  In these circumstances, the sciences improve
rapidly, and criticism among the rest; but poetry, in the highest
sense of the word, disappears.  Then comes the dotage of the fine
arts, a second childhood, as feeble as the former, and far more
hopeless.  This is the age of critical poetry, of poetry by
courtesy, of poetry to which the memory, the judgment, and the
wit contribute far more than the imagination.  We readily allow
that many works of this description are excellent:  we will not
contend with those who think them more valuable than the great
poems of an earlier period.  We only maintain that they belong to
a different species of composition, and are produced by a
different faculty.

It is some consolation to reflect that this critical school of
poetry improves as the science of criticism improves; and that
the science of criticism, like every other science, is constantly
tending towards perfection.  As experiments are multiplied,
principles are better understood.

In some countries, in our own for example, there has been an
interval between the downfall of the creative school and the rise
of the critical, a period during which imagination has been in
its decrepitude, and taste in its infancy.  Such a revolutionary
interregnum as this will be deformed by every species of
extravagance.

The first victory of good taste is over the bombast and conceits
which deform such times as these.  But criticism is still in a
very imperfect state.  What is accidental is for a long time
confounded with what is essential.  General theories are drawn
from detached facts.  How many hours the action of a play may be
allowed to occupy,--how many similes an Epic Poet may introduce
into his first book,--whether a piece, which is acknowledged to
have a beginning and an end, may not be without a middle, and
other questions as puerile as these, formerly occupied the
attention of men of letters in France, and even in this country. 
Poets, in such circumstances as these, exhibit all the narrowness
and feebleness of the criticism by which their manner has been
fashioned.  From outrageous absurdity they are preserved indeed
by their timidity.  But they perpetually sacrifice nature and
reason to arbitrary canons of taste.  In their eagerness to avoid
the mala prohibita of a foolish code, they are perpetually
rushing on the mala in se.  Their great predecessors, it is true,
were as bad critics as themselves, or perhaps worse, but those
predecessors, as we have attempted to show, were inspired by a
faculty independent of criticism, and, therefore, wrote well
while they judged ill.

In time men begin to take more rational and comprehensive views
of literature.  The analysis of poetry, which, as we have
remarked, must at best be imperfect, approaches nearer and nearer
to exactness.  The merits of the wonderful models of former times
are justly appreciated.  The frigid productions of a later age
are rated at no more than their proper value.  Pleasing and
ingenious imitations of the manner of the great masters appear. 
Poetry has a partial revival, a Saint Martin's Summer, which,
after a period of dreariness and decay, agreeably reminds us of
the splendour of its June.  A second harvest is gathered in;
though, growing on a spent soil, it has not the heart of the
former.  Thus, in the present age, Monti has successfully
imitated the style of Dante; and something of the Elizabethan
inspiration has been caught by several eminent countrymen of our
own.  But never will Italy produce another Inferno, or England
another Hamlet.  We look on the beauties of the modern
imaginations with feelings similar to those with which we see
flowers disposed in vases, to ornament the drawing-rooms of a
capital.  We doubtless regard them with pleasure, with greater
pleasure, perhaps, because, in the midst of a place ungenial to
them, they remind us of the distant spots on which they flourish
in spontaneous exuberance.  But we miss the sap, the freshness,
and the bloom.  Or, if we may borrow another illustration from
Queen Scheherezade, we would compare the writers of this school
to the jewellers who were employed to complete the unfinished
window of the palace of Aladdin.  Whatever skill or cost could do
was done.  Palace and bazaar were ransacked for precious stones.
Yet the artists, with all their dexterity, with all their
assiduity, and with all their vast means, were unable to produce
anything comparable to the wonders which a spirit of a higher
order had wrought in a single night.

The history of every literature with which we are acquainted
confirms, we think, the principles which we have laid down.  In
Greece we see the imaginative school of poetry gradually fading
into the critical.  Aeschylus and Pindar were succeeded by
Sophocles, Sophocles by Euripides, Euripides by the Alexandrian
versifiers.  Of these last, Theocritus alone has left
compositions which deserve to be read.  The splendour and
grotesque fairyland of the Old Comedy, rich with such gorgeous
hues, peopled with such fantastic shapes, and vocal alternately
with the sweetest peals of music and the loudest bursts of elvish
laughter, disappeared forever.  The master-pieces of the New
Comedy are known to us by Latin translations of extraordinary
merit.  From these translations, and from the expressions of the
ancient critics, it is clear that the original compositions were
distinguished by grace and sweetness, that they sparkled with
wit, and abounded with pleasing sentiment; but that the creative
power was gone.  Julius Caesar called Terence a half Menander,--a
sure proof that Menander was not a quarter Aristophanes.

The literature of the Romans was merely a continuation of the
literature of the Greeks.  The pupils started from the point at
which their masters had, in the course of many generations
arrived.  They thus almost wholly missed the period of original
invention.  The only Latin poets whose writings exhibit much
vigour of imagination are Lucretius and Catullus.  The Augustan
age produced nothing equal to their finer passages.

In France that licensed jester, whose jingling cap and motley
coat concealed more genius than ever mustered in the saloon of
Ninon or of Madame Geoffrin, was succeeded by writers as decorous
and as tiresome as gentlemen ushers.

The poetry of Italy and of Spain has undergone the same change. 
But nowhere has the revolution been more complete and violent
than in England.  The same person who, when a boy, had clapped
his thrilling hands at the first representation of the Tempest
might, without attaining to a marvellous longevity, have lived to
read the earlier works of Prior and Addison.  The change, we
believe, must, sooner or later, have taken place.  But its
progress was accelerated, and its character modified, by the
political occurrences of the times, and particularly by two
events, the closing of the theatres under the Commonwealth, and
the restoration of the House of Stuart.

We have said that the critical and poetical faculties are not
only distinct, but almost incompatible.  The state of our
literature during the reigns of Elizabeth and James the First is
a strong confirmation of this remark.  The greatest works of
imagination that the world has ever seen were produced at that
period.  The national taste, in the meantime, was to the last
degree detestable.  Alliterations, puns, antithetical forms of
expression lavishly employed where no corresponding opposition
existed between the thoughts expressed, strained allegories,
pedantic allusions, everything, in short, quaint and affected, in
matter and manner, made up what was then considered as fine
writing.  The eloquence of the bar, the pulpit, and the council-
board, was deformed by conceits which would have disgraced the
rhyming shepherds of an Italian academy.  The king quibbled on
the throne.  We might, indeed, console ourselves by reflecting
that his majesty was a fool.  But the chancellor quibbled in
concert from the wool-sack:  and the chancellor was Francis
Bacon.  It is needless to mention Sidney and the whole tribe of
Euphuists; for Shakspeare himself, the greatest poet that ever
lived, falls into the same fault whenever he means to be
particularly fine.  While he abandons himself to the impulse of
his imagination, his compositions are not only the sweetest and
the most sublime, but also the most faultless, that the world has
ever seen.  But, as soon as his critical powers come into play,
he sinks to the level of Cowley; or rather he does ill what
Cowley did well.  All that is bad in his works is bad
elaborately, and of malice aforethought.  The only thing wanting
to make them perfect was, that he should never have troubled
himself with thinking whether they were good or not.  Like the
angels in Milton, he sinks "with compulsion and laborious
flight."  His natural tendency is upwards.  That he may soar, it
is only necessary that he should not struggle to fall.  He
resembles an American Cacique, who, possessing in unmeasured
abundance the metals which in polished societies are esteemed the
most precious, was utterly unconscious of their value, and gave
up treasures more valuable than the imperial crowns of other
countries, to secure some gaudy and far-fetched but worthless
bauble, a plated button, or a necklace of coloured glass.

We have attempted to show that, as knowledge is extended and as
the reason develops itself, the imitative arts decay.  We should,
therefore, expect that the corruption of poetry would commence in
the educated classes of society.  And this, in fact, is almost
constantly the case.  The few great works of imagination which
appear in a critical age are, almost without exception, the works
of uneducated men.  Thus, at a time when persons of quality
translated French romances, and when the universities celebrated
royal deaths in verses about tritons and fauns, a preaching
tinker produced the Pilgrim's Progress.  And thus a ploughman
startled a generation which had thought Hayley and Beattie great
poets, with the adventures of Tam O'Shanter.  Even in the latter
part of the reign of Elizabeth the fashionable poetry had
degenerated.  It retained few vestiges of the imagination of
earlier times.  It had not yet been subjected to the rules of
good taste.  Affectation had completely tainted madrigals and
sonnets.  The grotesque conceits and the tuneless numbers of
Donne were, in the time of James, the favourite models of
composition at Whitehall and at the Temple.  But, though the
literature of the Court was in its decay, the literature of the
people was in its perfection.  The Muses had taken sanctuary in
the theatres, the haunts of a class whose taste was not better
than that of the Right Honourables and singular good Lords who
admired metaphysical love-verses, but whose imagination retained
all its freshness and vigour; whose censure and approbation might
be erroneously bestowed, but whose tears and laughter was never
in the wrong.  The infection which had tainted lyric and didactic
poetry had but slightly and partially touched the drama.  While
the noble and the learned were comparing eyes to burning-glasses,
and tears to terrestrial globes, coyness to an enthymeme, absence
to a pair of compasses, and an unrequited passion to the fortieth
remainder-man in an entail, Juliet leaning from the balcony, and
Miranda smiling over the chess-board, sent home many spectators,
as kind and simple-hearted as the master and mistress of
Fletcher's Ralpho, to cry themselves to sleep.

No species of fiction is so delightful to us as the old English
drama.  Even its inferior productions possess a charm not to be
found in any other kind of poetry.  It is the most lucid mirror
that ever was held up to nature.  The creations of the great
dramatists of Athens produce the effect of magnificent
sculptures, conceived by a mighty imagination, polished with the
utmost delicacy, embodying ideas of ineffable majesty and beauty,
but cold, pale, and rigid, with no bloom on the cheek, and no
speculation in the eye.  In all the draperies, the figures, and
the faces, in the lovers and the tyrants, the Bacchanals and the
Furies, there is the same marble chillness and deadness.  Most of
the characters of the French stage resemble the waxen gentlemen
and ladies in the window of a perfumer, rouged, curled, and
bedizened, but fixed in such stiff attitudes, and staring with
eyes expressive of such utter unmeaningness, that they cannot
produce an illusion for a single moment.  In the English plays
alone is to be found the warmth, the mellowness, and the reality
of painting.  We know the minds of men and women, as we know the
faces of the men and women of Vandyke.

The excellence of these works is in a great measure the result of
two peculiarities, which the critics of the French school
consider as defects,--from the mixture of tragedy and comedy, and
from the length and extent of the action.  The former is
necessary to render the drama a just representation of a world in
which the laughers and weepers are perpetually jostling each
other,--in which every event has its serious and ludicrous side. 
The latter enables us to form an intimate acquaintance with
characters with which we could not possibly become familiar
during the few hours to which the unities restrict the poet.  In
this respect, the works of Shakspeare, in particular, are
miracles of art.  In a piece, which may be read aloud in three
hours, we see a character gradually unfold all its recesses to
us.  We see it change with the change of circumstances.  The
petulant youth rises into the politic and warlike sovereign.  The
profuse and courteous philanthropist sours into a hater and
scorner of his kind.  The tyrant is altered, by the chastening of
affliction, into a pensive moralist.  The veteran general,
distinguished by coolness, sagacity, and self-command, sinks
under a conflict between love strong as death, and jealousy cruel
as the grave.  The brave and loyal subject passes, step by step,
to the extremities of human depravity.  We trace his progress,
from the first dawnings of unlawful ambition to the cynical
melancholy of his impenitent remorse.  Yet, in these pieces,
there are no unnatural transitions.  Nothing is omitted:  nothing
is crowded.  Great as are the changes, narrow as is the compass
within which they are exhibited, they shock us as little as the
gradual alterations of those familiar faces which we see every
evening and every morning.  The magical skill of the poet
resembles that of the Dervise in the Spectator, who condensed all
the events of seven years into the single moment during which the
king held his head under the water.

It is deserving of remark, that, at the time of which we speak,
the plays even of men not eminently distinguished by genius,--
such, for example, as Jonson,--were far superior to the best
works of imagination in other departments.  Therefore, though we
conceive that, from causes which we have already investigated,
our poetry must necessarily have declined, we think that, unless
its fate had been accelerated by external attacks, it might have
enjoyed an euthanasia, that genius might have been kept alive by
the drama till its place could, in some degree, be supplied by
taste,--that there would have been scarcely any interval between
the age of sublime invention and that of agreeable imitation. 
The works of Shakspeare, which were not appreciated with any
degree of justice before the middle of the eighteenth century,
might then have been the recognised standards of excellence
during the latter part of the seventeenth; and he and the great
Elizabethan writers might have been almost immediately succeeded
by a generation of poets similar to those who adorn our own
times.

But the Puritans drove imagination from its last asylum.  They
prohibited theatrical representations, and stigmatised the whole
race of dramatists as enemies of morality and religion.  Much
that is objectionable may be found in the writers whom they
reprobated; but whether they took the best measures for stopping
the evil appears to us very doubtful, and must, we think, have
appeared doubtful to themselves, when, after the lapse of a few
years, they saw the unclean spirit whom they had cast out return
to his old haunts, with seven others fouler than himself.

By the extinction of the drama, the fashionable school of
poetry,--a school without truth of sentiment or harmony of
versification,--without the powers of an earlier, or the
correctness of a later age,--was left to enjoy undisputed
ascendency.  A vicious ingenuity, a morbid quickness to perceive
resemblances and analogies between things apparently
heterogeneous, constituted almost its only claim to admiration. 
Suckling was dead.  Milton was absorbed in political and
theological controversy.  If Waller differed from the Cowleian
sect of writers, he differed for the worse.  He had as little
poetry as they, and much less wit; nor is the languor of his
verses less offensive than the ruggedness of theirs.  In Denham
alone the faint dawn of a better manner was discernible.

But, low as was the state of our poetry during the civil war and
the Protectorate, a still deeper fall was at hand.  Hitherto our
literature had been idiomatic.  In mind as in situation we had
been islanders.  The revolutions in our taste, like the
revolutions in our government, had been settled without the
interference of strangers.  Had this state of things continued,
the same just principles of reasoning which, about this time,
were applied with unprecedented success to every part of
philosophy would soon have conducted our ancestors to a sounder
code of criticism.  There were already strong signs of
improvement.  Our prose had at length worked itself clear from
those quaint conceits which still deformed almost every metrical
composition.  The parliamentary debates, and the diplomatic
correspondence of that eventful period, had contributed much to
this reform.  In such bustling times, it was absolutely necessary
to speak and write to the purpose.  The absurdities of Puritanism
had, perhaps, done more.  At the time when that odious style,
which deforms the writings of Hall and of Lord Bacon, was almost
universal, had appeared that stupendous work, the English Bible,-
-a book which, if everything else in our language should perish,
would alone suffice to show the whole extent of its beauty and
power.  The respect which the translators felt for the original
prevented them from adding any of the hideous decorations then in
fashion.  The groundwork of the version, indeed, was of an
earlier age.  The familiarity with which the Puritans, on almost
every occasion, used the Scriptural phrases was no doubt very
ridiculous; but it produced good effects.  It was a cant; but it
drove out a cant far more offensive.

The highest kind of poetry is, in a great measure, independent of
those circumstances which regulate the style of composition in
prose.  But with that inferior species of poetry which succeeds
to it the case is widely different.  In a few years, the good
sense and good taste which had weeded out affectation from moral
and political treatises would, in the natural course of things,
have effected a similar reform in the sonnet and the ode.  The
rigour of the victorious sectaries had relaxed.  A dominant
religion is never ascetic.  The Government connived at theatrical
representations.  The influence of Shakspeare was once more felt. 
But darker days were approaching.  A foreign yoke was to be
imposed on our literature.  Charles, surrounded by the companions
of his long exile, returned to govern a nation which ought never
to have cast him out or never to have received him back.  Every
year which he had passed among strangers had rendered him more
unfit to rule his countrymen.  In France he had seen the
refractory magistracy humbled, and royal prerogative, though
exercised by a foreign priest in the name of a child, victorious
over all opposition.  This spectacle naturally gratified a prince
to whose family the opposition of Parliaments had been so fatal. 
Politeness was his solitary good quality.  The insults which he
had suffered in Scotland had taught him to prize it.  The
effeminacy and apathy of his disposition fitted him to excel in
it.  The elegance and vivacity of the French manners fascinated
him.  With the political maxims and the social habits of his
favourite people, he adopted their taste in composition, and,
when seated on the throne, soon rendered it fashionable, partly
by direct patronage, but still more by that contemptible policy,
which, for a time, made England the last of the nations, and
raised Louis the Fourteenth to a height of power and fame, such
as no French sovereign had ever before attained.

It was to please Charles that rhyme was first introduced into our
plays.  Thus, a rising blow, which would at any time have been
mortal, was dealt to the English Drama, then just recovering from
its languishing condition.  Two detestable manners, the
indigenous and the imported, were now in a state of alternate
conflict and amalgamation.  The bombastic meanness of the new
style was blended with the ingenious absurdity of the old; and
the mixture produced something which the world had never before
seen, and which, we hope, it will never see again,--something, by
the side of which the worst nonsense of all other ages appears to
advantage--something, which those who have attempted to
caricature it have, against their will, been forced to flatter--
of which the tragedy of Bayes is a very favourable specimen. 
What Lord Dorset observed to Edward Howard might have been
addressed to almost all his contemporaries--

"As skilful divers to the bottom fall
Swifter than those who cannot swim at all;
So, in this way of writing without thinking,
Thou hast a strange alacrity in sinking."

From this reproach some clever men of the world must be excepted,
and among them Dorset himself.  Though by no means great poets,
or even good versifiers, they always wrote with meaning, and
sometimes with wit.  Nothing indeed more strongly shows to what a
miserable state literature had fallen, than the immense
superiority which the occasional rhymes, carelessly thrown on
paper by men of this class, possess over the elaborate
productions of almost all the professed authors.  The reigning
taste was so bad, that the success of a writer was in inverse
proportion to his labour, and to his desire of excellence.  An
exception must be made for Butler, who had as much wit and
learning as Cowley, and who knew, what Cowley never knew, how to
use them.  A great command of good homely English distinguishes
him still more from the other writers of the time.  As for
Gondibert, those may criticise it who can read it.  Imagination
was extinct.  Taste was depraved.  Poetry, driven from palaces,
colleges, and theatres, had found an asylum in the obscure
dwelling where a Great Man, born out of due season, in disgrace,
penury, pain and blindness, still kept uncontaminated a character
and a genius worthy of a better age.

Everything about Milton is wonderful; but nothing is so wonderful
as that, in an age so unfavourable to poetry, he should have
produced the greatest of modern epic poems.  We are not sure that
this is not in some degree to be attributed to his want of sight. 
The imagination is notoriously most active when the external
world is shut out.  In sleep its illusions are perfect.  They
produce all the effect of realities.  In darkness its visions are
always more distinct than in the light.  Every person who amuses
himself with what is called building castles in the air must have
experienced this.  We know artists who, before they attempt to
draw a face from memory, close their eyes, that they may recall a
more perfect image of the features and the expression.  We are
therefore inclined to believe that the genius of Milton may have
been preserved from the influence of times so unfavourable to it
by his infirmity.  Be this as it may, his works at first enjoyed
a very small share of popularity.  To be neglected by his
contemporaries was the penalty which he paid for surpassing them. 
His great poem was not generally studied or admired till writers
far inferior to him had, by obsequiously cringing to the public
taste, acquired sufficient favour to reform it.

Of these, Dryden was the most eminent.  Amidst the crowd of
authors who, during the earlier years of Charles the Second,
courted notoriety by every species of absurdity and affectation,
he speedily became conspicuous.  No man exercised so much
influence on the age.  The reason is obvious.  On no man did the
age exercise so much influence.  He was perhaps the greatest of
those whom we have designated as the critical poets; and his
literary career exhibited, on a reduced scale, the whole history
of the school to which he belonged,--the rudeness and
extravagance of its infancy,--the propriety, the grace, the
dignified good sense, the temperate splendour of its maturity. 
His imagination was torpid, till it was awakened by his judgment. 
He began with quaint parallels and empty mouthing.  He gradually
acquired the energy of the satirist, the gravity of the moralist,
the rapture of the lyric poet. The revolution through which
English literature has been passing, from the time of Cowley to
that of Scott, may be seen in miniature within the compass of his
volumes.

His life divides itself into two parts.  There is some debatable
ground on the common frontier; but the line may be drawn with
tolerable accuracy.  The year 1678 is that on which we should be
inclined to fix as the date of a great change in his manner. 
During the preceding period appeared some of his courtly
panegyrics--his Annus Mirabilis, and most of his plays; indeed,
all his rhyming tragedies.  To the subsequent period belong his
best dramas,--All for Love, the Spanish Friar, and Sebastian,--
his satires, his translations, his didactic poems, his fables,
and his odes.

Of the small pieces which were presented to chancellors and
princes it would scarcely be fair to speak.  The greatest
advantage which the Fine Arts derive from the extension of
knowledge is, that the patronage of individuals becomes
unnecessary.  Some writers still affect to regret the age of
patronage.  None but bad writers have reason to regret it.  It is
always an age of general ignorance.  Where ten thousand readers
are eager for the appearance of a book, a small contribution from
each makes up a splendid remuneration for the author.  Where
literature is a luxury, confined to few, each of them must pay
high.  If the Empress Catherine, for example, wanted an epic
poem, she must have wholly supported the poet;--just as, in a
remote country village, a man who wants a muttonchop is sometimes
forced to take the whole sheep;--a thing which never happens
where the demand is large.  But men who pay largely for the
gratification of their taste, will expect to have it united with
some gratification to their vanity.  Flattery is carried to a
shameless extent; and the habit of flattery almost inevitably
introduces a false taste into composition.  Its language is made
up of hyperbolical commonplaces,--offensive from their
triteness,--still more offensive from their extravagance.  In no
school is the trick of overstepping the modesty of nature so
speedily acquired. The writer, accustomed to find exaggeration
acceptable and necessary on one subject, uses it on all.  It is
not strange, therefore, that the early panegyrical verses of
Dryden should be made up of meanness and bombast.  They abound
with the conceits which his immediate predecessors had brought
into fashion.  But his language and his versification were
already far superior to theirs.

The Annus Mirabilis shows great command of expression, and a fine
ear for heroic rhyme.  Here its merits end.  Not only has it no
claim to be called poetry, but it seems to be the work of a man
who could never, by any possibility, write poetry.  Its affected
similes are the best part of it.  Gaudy weeds present a more
encouraging spectacle than utter barrenness.  There is scarcely a
single stanza in this long work to which the imagination seems to
have contributed anything.  It is produced, not by creation, but
by construction. It is made up, not of pictures, but of
inferences.  We will give a single instance, and certainly a
favourable instance,--a quatrain which Johnson has praised. 
Dryden is describing the sea-fight with the Dutch--

"Amidst whole heaps of spices lights a ball;
And now their odours armed against them fly.
Some preciously by shattered porcelain fall,
And some by aromatic splinters die."

The poet should place his readers, as nearly as possible, in the
situation of the sufferers or the spectators.  His narration
ought to produce feelings similar to those which would be excited
by the event itself.  Is this the case here?  Who, in a sea-
fight, ever thought of the price of the china which beats out the
brains of a sailor; or of the odour of the splinter which
shatters his leg?  It is not by an act of the imagination, at
once calling up the scene before the interior eye, but by painful
meditation,--by turning the subject round and round,--by tracing
out facts into remote consequences,--that these incongruous
topics are introduced into the description.  Homer, it is true,
perpetually uses epithets which are not peculiarly appropriate. 
Achilles is the swift-footed, when he is sitting still.  Ulysses
is the much-enduring, when he has nothing to endure.  Every spear
casts a long shadow, every ox has crooked horns, and every woman
a high bosom, though these particulars may be quite beside the
purpose.  In our old ballads a similar practice prevails.  The
gold is always red, and the ladies always gay, though nothing
whatever may depend on the hue of the gold, or the temper of the
ladies.  But these adjectives are mere customary additions.  They
merge in the substantives to which they are attached.  If they at
all colour the idea, it is with a tinge so slight as in no
respect to alter the general effect.  In the passage which we
have quoted from Dryden the case is very different.  "Preciously"
and "aromatic" divert our whole attention to themselves, and
dissolve the image of the battle in a moment.  The whole poem
reminds us of Lucan, and of the worst parts of Lucan,--the sea-
fight in the Bay of Marseilles, for example.  The description of
the two fleets during the night is perhaps the only passage which
ought to be exempted from this censure.  If it was from the Annus
Mirabilis that Milton formed his opinion, when he pronounced
Dryden a good rhymer but no poet, he certainly judged correctly. 
But Dryden was, as we have said, one of those writers in whom the
period of imagination does not precede, but follow, the period of
observation and reflection.

His plays, his rhyming plays in particular, are admirable
subjects for those who wish to study the morbid anatomy of the
drama.  He was utterly destitute of the power of exhibiting real
human beings.  Even in the far inferior talent of composing
characters out of those elements into which the imperfect process
of our reason can resolve them, he was very deficient.  His men
are not even good personifications; they are not well-assorted
assemblages of qualities.  Now and then, indeed, he seizes a very
coarse and marked distinction, and gives us, not a likeness, but
a strong caricature, in which a single peculiarity is protruded,
and everything else neglected; like the Marquis of Granby at an
inn-door, whom we know by nothing but his baldness; or Wilkes,
who is Wilkes only in his squint.  These are the best specimens
of his skill.  For most of his pictures seem, like Turkey
carpets, to have been expressly designed not to resemble anything
in the heavens above, in the earth beneath, or in the waters
under the earth.

The latter manner he practises most frequently in his tragedies,
the former in his comedies.  The comic characters are, without
mixture, loathsome and despicable.  The men of Etherege and
Vanbrugh are bad enough.  Those of Smollett are perhaps worse. 
But they do not approach to the Celadons, the Wildbloods, the
Woodalls, and the Rhodophils of Dryden.  The vices of these last
are set off by a certain fierce hard impudence, to which we know
nothing comparable.  Their love is the appetite of beasts; their
friendship the confederacy of knaves.  The ladies seem to have
been expressly created to form helps meet for such gentlemen.  In
deceiving and insulting their old fathers they do not perhaps
exceed the license which, by immemorial prescription, has been
allowed to heroines.  But they also cheat at cards, rob strong
boxes, put up their favours to auction, betray their friends,
abuse their rivals in the style of Billingsgate, and invite their
lovers in the language of the Piazza.  These, it must be
remembered, are not the valets and waiting-women, the Mascarilles
and Nerines, but the recognised heroes and heroines who appear as
the representatives of good society, and who, at the end of the
fifth act, marry and live very happily ever after.  The
sensuality, baseness, and malice of their natures is unredeemed
by any quality of a different description,--by any touch of
kindness,--or even by any honest burst of hearty hatred and
revenge.  We are in a world where there is no humanity, no
veracity, no sense of shame,--a world for which any good-natured
man would gladly take in exchange the society of Milton's devils.
But as soon as we enter the regions of Tragedy, we find a great
change.  There is no lack of fine sentiment there.  Metastasio is
surpassed in his own department.  Scuderi is out-scuderied.  We
are introduced to people whose proceedings we can trace to no
motive,--of whose feelings we can form no more idea than of a
sixth sense.  We have left a race of creatures, whose love is as
delicate and affectionate as the passion which an alderman feels
for a turtle.  We find ourselves among beings, whose love is a
purely disinterested emotion,--a loyalty extending to passive
obedience,--a religion, like that of the Quietists, unsupported
by any sanction of hope or fear.  We see nothing but despotism
without power, and sacrifices without compensation.

We will give a few instances.  In Aurengzebe, Arimant, governor
of Agra, falls in love with his prisoner Indamora.  She rejects
his suit with scorn; but assures him that she shall make great
use of her power over him.  He threatens to be angry.  She
answers, very coolly:

"Do not:  your anger, like your love, is vain:
Whene'er I please, you must be pleased again.
Knowing what power I have your will to bend,
I'll use it; for I need just such a friend."

This is no idle menace.  She soon brings a letter addressed to
his rival,--orders him to read it,--asks him whether he thinks it
sufficiently tender,--and finally commands him to carry it
himself.  Such tyranny as this, it may be thought, would justify
resistance.  Arimant does indeed venture to remonstrate:--

"This fatal paper rather let me tear,
Than, like Bellerophon, my sentence bear."

The answer of the lady is incomparable:--

"You may; but 'twill not be your best advice;
'Twill only give me pains of writing twice.
You know you must obey me, soon or late.
Why should you vainly struggle with your fate?"

Poor Arimant seems to be of the same opinion.  He mutters
something about fate and free-will, and walks off with the
billet-doux.

In the Indian Emperor, Montezuma presents Almeria with a garland
as a token of his love, and offers to make her his queen.  She
replies:--

"I take this garland, not as given by you;
But as my merit's and my beauty's due;
As for the crown which you, my slave, possess,
To share it with you would but make me less."

In return for such proofs of tenderness as these, her admirer
consents to murder his two sons and a benefactor to whom he feels
the warmest gratitude.  Lyndaraxa, in the Conquest of Granada,
assumes the same lofty tone with Abdelmelech.  He complains that
she smiles upon his rival.

"Lynd.  And when did I my power so far resign,
        That you should regulate each look of mine?

Abdel.  Then, when you gave your love, you gave that power.

Lynd.  'Twas during pleasure--'tis revoked this hour.

Abdel.  I'll hate you, and this visit is my last.

Lynd.  Do, if you can:  you know I hold you fast."

That these passages violate all historical propriety, that
sentiments to which nothing similar was ever even affected except
by the cavaliers of Europe, are transferred to Mexico and Agra,
is a light accusation.  We have no objection to a conventional
world, an Illyrian puritan, or a Bohemian seaport.  While the
faces are good, we care little about the back-ground.  Sir Joshua
Reynolds says that the curtains and hangings in an historical
painting ought to be, not velvet or cotton, but merely drapery. 
The same principle should be applied to poetry and romance.  The
truth of character is the first object; the truth of place and
time is to be considered only in the second place.  Puff himself
could tell the actor to turn out his toes, and remind him that
Keeper Hatton was a great dancer.  We wish that, in our own time,
a writer of a very different order from Puff had not too often
forgotten human nature in the niceties of upholstery, millinery,
and cookery.

We blame Dryden, not because the persons of his dramas are not
Moors or Americans, but because they are not men and women;--not
because love, such as he represents it, could not exist in a
harem or in a wigwam, but because it could not exist anywhere. 
As is the love of his heroes, such are all their other emotions. 
All their qualities, their courage, their generosity, their
pride, are on the same colossal scale.  Justice and prudence are
virtues which can exist only in a moderate degree, and which
change their nature and their name if pushed to excess.  Of
justice and prudence, therefore, Dryden leaves his favourites
destitute.  He did not care to give them what he could not give
without measure.  The tyrants and ruffians are merely the heroes
altered by a few touches, similar to those which transformed the
honest face of Sir Roger de Coverley into the Saracen's head. 
Through the grin and frown the original features are still
perceptible.

It is in the tragi-comedies that these absurdities strike us
most.  The two races of men, or rather the angels and the
baboons, are there presented to us together.  We meet in one
scene with nothing but gross, selfish, unblushing, lying
libertines of both sexes, who, as a punishment, we suppose, for
their depravity, are condemned to talk nothing but prose.  But,
as soon as we meet with people who speak in verse, we know that
we are in society which would have enraptured the Cathos and
Madelon of Moliere, in society for which Oroondates would have
too little of the lover, and Clelia too much of the coquette.

As Dryden was unable to render his plays interesting by means of
that which is the peculiar and appropriate excellence of the
drama, it was necessary that he should find some substitute for
it.  In his comedies he supplied its place, sometimes by wit, but
more frequently by intrigue, by disguises, mistakes of persons,
dialogues at cross purposes, hair-breadth escapes, perplexing
concealments, and surprising disclosures.  He thus succeeded at
least in making these pieces very amusing.

In his tragedies he trusted, and not altogether without reason,
to his diction and his versification.  It was on this account, in
all probability, that he so eagerly adopted, and so reluctantly
abandoned, the practice of rhyming in his plays.  What is
unnatural appears less unnatural in that species of verse than in
lines which approach more nearly to common conversation; and in
the management of the heroic couplet Dryden has never been
equalled.  It is unnecessary to urge any arguments against a
fashion now universally condemned.  But it is worthy of
observation, that, though Dryden was deficient in that talent
which blank verse exhibits to the greatest advantage, and was
certainly the best writer of heroic rhyme in our language, yet
the plays which have, from the time of their first appearance,
been considered as his best, are in blank verse.  No experiment
can be more decisive.

It must be allowed that the worst even of the rhyming tragedies
contains good description and magnificent rhetoric.  But, even
when we forget that they are plays, and, passing by their
dramatic improprieties, consider them with reference to the
language, we are perpetually disgusted by passages which it is
difficult to conceive how any author could have written, or any
audience have tolerated, rants in which the raving violence of
the manner forms a strange contrast with the abject tameness of
the thought.  The author laid the whole fault on the audience,
and declared that, when he wrote them, he considered them bad
enough to please.  This defence is unworthy of a man of genius,
and after all, is no defence.  Otway pleased without rant; and so
might Dryden have done, if he had possessed the powers of Otway. 
The fact is, that he had a tendency to bombast, which, though
subsequently corrected by time and thought, was never wholly
removed, and which showed itself in performances not designed to
please the rude mob of the theatre.

Some indulgent critics have represented this failing as an
indication of genius, as the profusion of unlimited wealth, the
wantonness of exuberant vigour.  To us it seems to bear a nearer
affinity to the tawdriness of poverty, or the spasms and
convulsions of weakness.  Dryden surely had not more imagination
than Homer, Dante, or Milton, who never fall into this vice.  The
swelling diction of Aeschylus and Isaiah resembles that of
Almanzor and Maximin no more than the tumidity of a muscle
resembles the tumidity of a boil.  The former is symptomatic of
health and strength, the latter of debility and disease.  If ever
Shakspeare rants, it is not when his imagination is hurrying him
along, but when he is hurrying his imagination along,--when his
mind is for a moment jaded,--when, as was said of Euripides, he
resembles a lion, who excites his own fury by lashing himself
with his tail.  What happened to Shakspeare from the occasional
suspension of his powers happened to Dryden from constant
impotence.  He, like his confederate Lee, had judgment enough to
appreciate the great poets of the preceding age, but not judgment
enough to shun competition with them.  He felt and admired their
wild and daring sublimity.  That it belonged to another age than
that in which he lived and required other talents than those
which he possessed, that, in aspiring to emulate it, he was
wasting, in a hopeless attempt, powers which might render him
pre-eminent in a different career, was a lesson which he did not
learn till late.  As those knavish enthusiasts, the French
prophets, courted inspiration by mimicking the writhings,
swoonings, and gaspings which they considered as its symptoms, he
attempted, by affected fits of poetical fury, to bring on a real
paroxysm; and, like them, he got nothing but his distortions for
his pains.

Horace very happily compares those who, in his time, imitated
Pindar to the youth who attempted to fly to heaven on waxen
wings, and who experienced so fatal and ignominious a fall.  His
own admirable good sense preserved him from this error, and
taught him to cultivate a style in which excellence was within
his reach.  Dryden had not the same self-knowledge.  He saw that
the greatest poets were never so successful as when they rushed
beyond the ordinary bounds, and that some inexplicable good
fortune preserved them from tripping even when they staggered on
the brink of nonsense.  He did not perceive that they were guided
and sustained by a power denied to himself.  They wrote from the
dictation of the imagination; and they found a response in the
imaginations of others.  He, on the contrary, sat down to work
himself, by reflection and argument, into a deliberate wildness,
a rational frenzy.

In looking over the admirable designs which accompany the Faust,
we have always been much struck by one which represents the
wizard and the tempter riding at full speed.  The demon sits on
his furious horse as heedlessly as if he were reposing on a
chair.  That he should keep his saddle in such a posture, would
seem impossible to any who did not know that he was secure in the
privileges of a superhuman nature.  The attitude of Faust, on the
contrary, is the perfection of horsemanship.  Poets of the first
order might safely write as desperately as Mephistopheles rode. 
But Dryden, though admitted to communion with higher spirits,
though armed with a portion of their power, and intrusted with
some of their secrets, was of another race.  What they might
securely venture to do, it was madness in him to attempt.  It was
necessary that taste and critical science should supply his
deficiencies.

We will give a few examples.  Nothing can be finer than the
description of Hector at the Grecian wall:--

o d ar esthore phaidimos Ektor,
Nukti thoe atalantos upopia lampe de chalko
Smerdaleo, ton eesto peri chroi doia de chersi
Dour echen ouk an tis min erukakoi antibolesas,
Nosphi theun, ot esalto pulas puri d osse dedeei.--
Autika d oi men teichos uperbasan, oi de kat autas
Poietas esechunto pulas Danaioi d ephobethen
Neas ana glaphuras omados d aliastos etuchthe.

What daring expressions!  Yet how significant!  How picturesque! 
Hector seems to rise up in his strength and fury.  The gloom of
night in his frown,--the fire burning in his eyes,--the javelins
and the blazing armour,--the mighty rush through the gates and
down the battlements,--the trampling and the infinite roar of the
multitude,--everything is with us; everything is real.

Dryden has described a very similar event in Maximin, and has
done his best to be sublime, as follows:--

"There with a forest of their darts he strove,
And stood like Capaneus defying Jove;
With his broad sword the boldest beating down,
Till Fate grew pale, lest he should win the town,
And turn'd the iron leaves of its dark book
To make new dooms, or mend what it mistook."

How exquisite is the imagery of the fairy-songs in the Tempest
and the Midsummer Night's Dream; Ariel riding through the
twilight on the bat, or sucking in the bells of flowers with the
bee; or the little bower-women of Titania, driving the spiders
from the couch of the Queen!  Dryden truly said, that

"Shakspeare's magic could not copied be;
Within that circle none durst walk but he."

It would have been well if he had not himself dared to step
within the enchanted line, and drawn on himself a fate similar to
that which, according to the old superstition, punished such
presumptuous interference.  The following lines are parts of the
song of his fairies:--

"Merry, merry, merry, we sail from the East,
Half-tippled at a rainbow feast.
In the bright moonshine, while winds whistle loud,
Tivy, tivy, tivy, we mount and we fly,
All racking along in a downy white cloud;
And lest our leap from the sky prove too far,
We slide on the back of a new falling star,
And drop from above
In a jelly of love."

These are very favourable instances.  Those who wish for a bad
one may read the dying speeches of Maximin, and may compare them
with the last scenes of Othello and Lear.

If Dryden had died before the expiration of the first of the
periods into which we have divided his literary life, he would
have left a reputation, at best, little higher than that of Lee
or Davenant.  He would have been known only to men of letters;
and by them he would have been mentioned as a writer who threw
away, on subjects which he was incompetent to treat, powers
which, judiciously employed, might have raised him to eminence;
whose diction and whose numbers had sometimes very high merit,
but all whose works were blemished by a false taste, and by
errors of gross negligence.  A few of his prologues and epilogues
might perhaps still have been remembered and quoted.  In these
little pieces he early showed all the powers which afterwards
rendered him the greatest of modern satirists.  But, during the
latter part of his life, he gradually abandoned the drama.  His
plays appeared at longer intervals.  He renounced rhyme in
tragedy.  His language became less turgid--his characters less
exaggerated.  He did not indeed produce correct representations
of human nature; but he ceased to daub such monstrous chimeras as
those which abound in his earlier pieces.  Here and there
passages occur worthy of the best ages of the British stage.  The
style which the drama requires changes with every change of
character and situation.  He who can vary his manner to suit the
variation is the great dramatist; but he who excels in one manner
only will, when that manner happens to be appropriate, appear to
be a great dramatist; as the hands of a watch which does not go
point right once in the twelve hours.  Sometimes there is a scene
of solemn debate.  This a mere rhetorician may write as well as
the greatest tragedian that ever lived.  We confess that to us
the speech of Sempronius in Cato seems very nearly as good as
Shakspeare could have made it.  But when the senate breaks up,
and we find that the lovers and their mistresses, the hero, the
villain, and the deputy-villain, all continue to harangue in the
same style, we perceive the difference between a man who can
write a play and a man who can write a speech.  In the same
manner, wit, a talent for description, or a talent for narration,
may, for a time, pass for dramatic genius.  Dryden was an
incomparable reasoner in verse.  He was conscious of his power;
he was proud of it; and the authors of the Rehearsal justly
charged him with abusing it.  His warriors and princesses are
fond of discussing points of amorous casuistry, such as would
have delighted a Parliament of Love.  They frequently go still
deeper, and speculate on philosophical necessity and the origin
of evil.

There were, however, some occasions which absolutely required
this peculiar talent.  Then Dryden was indeed at home.  All his
best scenes are of this description.  They are all between men;
for the heroes of Dryden, like many other gentlemen, can never
talk sense when ladies are in company.  They are all intended to
exhibit the empire of reason over violent passion.  We have two
interlocutors, the one eager and impassioned, the other high,
cool, and judicious.  The composed and rational character
gradually acquires the ascendency.  His fierce companion is first
inflamed to rage by his reproaches, then overawed by his
equanimity, convinced by his arguments, and soothed by his
persuasions.  This is the case in the scene between Hector and
Troilus, in that between Antony and Ventidius, and in that
between Sebastian and Dorax.  Nothing of the same kind in
Shakspeare is equal to them, except the quarrel between Brutus
and Cassius, which is worth them all three.

Some years before his death, Dryden altogether ceased to write
for the stage.  He had turned his powers in a new direction, with
success the most splendid and decisive.  His taste had gradually
awakened his creative faculties.  The first rank in poetry was
beyond his reach; but he challenged and secured the most
honourable place in the second.  His imagination resembled the
wings of an ostrich; it enabled him to run, though not to soar. 
When he attempted the highest flights, he became ridiculous; but,
while he remained in a lower region, he out-stripped all
competitors.

All his natural and all his acquired powers fitted him to found a
good critical school of poetry.  Indeed he carried his reforms
too far for his age.  After his death our literature retrograded;
and a century was necessary to bring it back to the point at
which he left it.  The general soundness and healthfulness of his
mental constitution, his information, of vast superficies, though
of small volume, his wit scarcely inferior to that of the most
distinguished followers of Donne, his eloquence, grave,
deliberate, and commanding, could not save him from disgraceful
failure as a rival of Shakspeare, but raised him far above the
level of Boileau.  His command of language was immense.  With him
died the secret of the old poetical diction of England,--the art
of producing rich effects by familiar words.  In the following
century it was as completely lost as the Gothic method of
painting glass, and was but poorly supplied by the laborious and
tesselated imitations of Mason and Gray.  On the other hand, he
was the first writer under whose skilful management the
scientific vocabulary fell into natural and pleasing verse.  In
this department, he succeeded as completely as his contemporary
Gibbons succeeded in the similar enterprise of carving the most
delicate flowers from heart of oak.  The toughest and most knotty
parts of language became ductile at his touch.  His
versification, in the same manner, while it gave the first model
of that neatness and precision which the following generation
esteemed so highly, exhibited at the same time, the last examples
of nobleness, freedom, variety of pause, and cadence.  His
tragedies in rhyme, however worthless in themselves, had at least
served the purpose of nonsense-verses; they had taught him all
the arts of melody which the heroic couplet admits.  For bombast,
his prevailing vice, his new subjects gave little opportunity;
his better taste gradually discarded it.

He possessed, as we have said, in a pre-eminent degree the power
of reasoning in verse; and this power was now peculiarly useful
to him.  His logic is by no means uniformly sound.  On points of
criticism, he always reasons ingeniously; and when he is disposed
to be honest, correctly.  But the theological and political
questions which he undertook to treat in verse were precisely
those which he understood least.  His arguments, therefore, are
often worthless.  But the manner in which they are stated is
beyond all praise.  The style is transparent.  The topics follow
each other in the happiest order.  The objections are drawn up in
such a manner that the whole fire of the reply may be brought to
bear on them.  The circumlocutions which are substituted for
technical phrases are clear, neat, and exact.  The illustrations
at once adorn and elucidate the reasoning.  The sparkling
epigrams of Cowley, and the simple garrulity of the burlesque
poets of Italy, are alternately employed, in the happiest manner,
to give effect to what is obvious or clearness to what is
obscure.

His literary creed was catholic, even to latitudinarianism; not
from any want of acuteness, but from a disposition to be easily
satisfied.  He was quick to discern the smallest glimpse of
merit; he was indulgent even to gross improprieties, when
accompanied by any redeeming talent.  When he said a severe
thing, it was to serve a temporary purpose,--to support an
argument, or to tease a rival.  Never was so able a critic so
free from fastidiousness.  He loved the old poets, especially
Shakspeare.  He admired the ingenuity which Donne and Cowley had
so wildly abused.  He did justice, amidst the general silence, to
the memory of Milton.  He praised to the skies the school-boy
lines of Addison.  Always looking on the fair side of every
object, he admired extravagance on account of the invention which
he supposed it to indicate; he excused affectation in favour of
wit; he tolerated even tameness for the sake of the correctness
which was its concomitant.

It was probably to this turn of mind, rather than to the more
disgraceful causes which Johnson has assigned, that we are to
attribute the exaggeration which disfigures the panegyrics of
Dryden.  No writer, it must be owned, has carried the flattery of
dedication to a greater length.  But this was not, we suspect,
merely interested servility:  it was the overflowing of a mind
singularly disposed to admiration,--of a mind which diminished
vices, and magnified virtues and obligations.  The most adulatory
of his addresses is that in which he dedicates the State of
Innocence to Mary of Modena.  Johnson thinks it strange that any
man should use such language without self-detestation.  But he
has not remarked that to the very same work is prefixed an
eulogium on Milton, which certainly could not have been
acceptable at the Court of Charles the Second.  Many years later,
when Whig principles were in a great measure triumphant, Sprat
refused to admit a monument of John Phillips into Westminster
Abbey--because, in the epitaph, the name of Milton incidentally
occurred.  The walls of his church, he declared, should not be
polluted by the name of a republican!  Dryden was attached, both
by principle and interest, to the Court.  But nothing could
deaden his sensibility to excellence.  We are unwilling to accuse
him severely, because the same disposition, which prompted him to
pay so generous a tribute to the memory of a poet whom his
patrons detested, hurried him into extravagance when he described
a princess distinguished by the splendour of her beauty and the
graciousness of her manners.

This is an amiable temper; but it is not the temper of great men. 
Where there is elevation of character, there will be
fastidiousness.  It is only in novels and on tombstones that we
meet with people who are indulgent to the faults of others, and
unmerciful to their own; and Dryden, at all events, was not one
of these paragons.  His charity was extended most liberally to
others; but it certainly began at home.  In taste he was by no
means deficient.  His critical works are, beyond all comparison,
superior to any which had, till then, appeared in England.  They
were generally intended as apologies for his own poems, rather
than as expositions of general principles; he, therefore, often
attempts to deceive the reader by sophistry which could scarcely
have deceived himself.  His dicta are the dicta, not of a judge,
but of an advocate:--often of an advocate in an unsound cause. 
Yet, in the very act of misrepresenting the laws of composition,
he shows how well he understands them.  But he was perpetually
acting against his better knowledge.  His sins were sins against
light.  He trusted that what was bad would be pardoned for the
sake of what was good.  What was good, he took no pains to make
better.  He was not, like most persons who rise to eminence,
dissatisfied even with his best productions.  He had set up no
unattainable standard of perfection, the contemplation of which
might at once improve and mortify him.  His path was not attended
by an unapproachable mirage of excellence, for ever receding, and
for ever pursued.  He was not disgusted by the negligence of
others; and he extended the same toleration to himself.  His mind
was of a slovenly character,--fond of splendour, but indifferent
to neatness.  Hence most of his writings exhibit the sluttish
magnificence of a Russian noble, all vermin and diamonds, dirty
linen and inestimable sables.  Those faults which spring from
affectation, time and thought in a great measure removed from his
poems.  But his carelessness he retained to the last.  If towards
the close of his life he less frequently went wrong from
negligence, it was only because long habits of composition
rendered it more easy to go right.  In his best pieces we find
false rhymes,--triplets, in which the third line appears to be a
mere intruder, and, while it breaks the music, adds nothing to
the meaning,--gigantic Alexandrines of fourteen and sixteen
syllables, and truncated verses for which he never troubled
himself to find a termination or a partner.

Such are the beauties and the faults which may be found in
profusion throughout the later works of Dryden.  A more just and
complete estimate of his natural and acquired powers,--of the
merits of his style and of its blemishes,--may be formed from the
Hind and Panther, than from any of his other writings.  As a
didactic poem, it is far superior to the Religio Laici.  The
satirical parts, particularly the character of Burnet, are
scarcely inferior to the best passages in Absalom and Achitophel. 
There are, moreover, occasional touches of a tenderness which
affects us more, because it is decent, rational, and manly, and
reminds us of the best scenes in his tragedies.  His
versification sinks and swells in happy unison with the subject;
and his wealth of language seems to be unlimited.  Yet, the
carelessness with which he has constructed his plot, and the
innumerable inconsistencies into which he is every moment
falling, detract much from the pleasure which such various
excellence affords.

In Absalom and Achitophel he hit upon a new and rich vein, which
he worked with signal success.  They ancient satirists were the
subjects of a despotic government.  They were compelled to
abstain from political topics, and to confine their attention to
the frailties of private life.  They might, indeed, sometimes
venture to take liberties with public men,

"Quorum Flaminia tegitur cinis atque Latina."

Thus Juvenal immortalised the obsequious senators who met to
decide the fate of the memorable turbot.  His fourth satire
frequently reminds us of the great political poem of Dryden; but
it was not written till Domitian had fallen:  and it wants
something of the peculiar flavour which belongs to contemporary
invective alone.  His anger has stood so long that, though the
body is not impaired, the effervescence, the first cream, is
gone.  Boileau lay under similar restraints; and, if he had been
free from all restraints, would have been no match for our
countryman.

The advantages which Dryden derived from the nature of his
subject he improved to the very utmost.  His manner is almost
perfect.  The style of Horace and Boileau is fit only for light
subjects.  The Frenchman did indeed attempt to turn the
theological reasonings of the Provincial Letters into verse, but
with very indifferent success.  The glitter of Pope is gold.  The
ardour of Persius is without brilliancy.  Magnificent
versification and ingenious combinations rarely harmonise with
the expression of deep feeling.  In Juvenal and Dryden alone we
have the sparkle and the heat together.  Those great satirists
succeeded in communicating the fervour of their feelings to
materials the most incombustible, and kindled the whole mass into
a blaze, at once dazzling and destructive.  We cannot, indeed,
think, without regret, of the part which so eminent a writer as
Dryden took in the disputes of that period.  There was, no doubt,
madness and wickedness on both sides.  But there was liberty on
the one, and despotism on the other.  On this point, however, we
will not dwell.  At Talavera the English and French troops for a
moment suspended their conflict, to drink of a stream which
flowed between them.  The shells were passed across from enemy to
enemy without apprehension or molestation.  We, in the same
manner, would rather assist our political adversaries to drink
with us of that fountain of intellectual pleasure, which should
be the common refreshment of both parties, than disturb and
pollute it with the havoc of unseasonable hostilities.

Macflecnoe is inferior to Absalom and Achitophel only in the
subject.  In the execution it is even superior.  But the greatest
work of Dryden was the last, the Ode on Saint Cecilia's Day.  It
is the masterpiece of the second class of poetry, and ranks but
just below the great models of the first.  It reminds us of the
Pedasus of Achilles--

os, kai thnetos eon, epeth ippois athanatoisi.

By comparing it with the impotent ravings of the heroic tragedies
we may measure the progress which the mind of Dryden had made. 
He had learned to avoid a too audacious competition with higher
natures, to keep at a distance from the verge of bombast or
nonsense, to venture on no expression which did not convey a
distinct idea to his own mind.  There is none of that "darkness
visible" of style which he had formerly affected, and in which
the greatest poets only can succeed.  Everything is definite,
significant, and picturesque.  His early writings resembled the
gigantic works of those Chinese gardeners who attempt to rival
nature herself, to form cataracts of terrific height and sound,
to raise precipitous ridges of mountains, and to imitate in
artificial plantations the vastness and the gloom of some
primeval forest.  This manner he abandoned; nor did he ever adopt
the Dutch taste which Pope affected, the trim parterres, and the
rectangular walks.  He rather resembled our Kents and Browns, who
imitating the great features of landscape without emulating them,
consulting the genius of the place, assisting nature and
carefully disguising their art, produced, not a Chamouni or a
Niagara, but a Stowe or a Hagley.

We are, on the whole, inclined to regret that Dryden did not
accomplish his purpose of writing an epic poem.  It certainly
would not have been a work of the highest rank.  It would not
have rivalled the Iliad, the Odyssey, or the Paradise Lost; but
it would have been superior to the productions of Apollonius,
Lucan, or Statius, and not inferior to the Jerusalem Delivered. 
It would probably have been a vigorous narrative, animated with
something of the spirit of the old romances, enriched with much
splendid description, and interspersed with fine declamations and
disquisitions.  The danger of Dryden would have been from aiming
too high; from dwelling too much, for example, on his angels of
kingdoms, and attempting a competition with that great writer who
in his own time had so incomparably succeeded in representing to
us the sights and sounds of another world.  To Milton, and to
Milton alone, belonged the secrets of the great deep, the beach
of sulphur, the ocean of fire, the palaces of the fallen
dominations, glimmering through the everlasting shade, the silent
wilderness of verdure and fragrance where armed angels kept watch
over the sleep of the first lovers, the portico of diamond, the
sea of jasper, the sapphire pavement empurpled with celestial
roses, and the infinite ranks of the Cherubim, blazing with
adamant and gold.  The council, the tournament, the procession,
the crowded cathedral, the camp, the guard-room, the chase, were
the proper scenes for Dryden.

But we have not space to pass in review all the works which
Dryden wrote.  We, therefore, will not speculate longer on those
which he might possibly have written.  He may, on the whole, be
pronounced to have been a man possessed of splendid talents,
which he often abused, and of a sound judgment, the admonitions
of which he often neglected; a man who succeeded only in an
inferior department of his art, but who, in that department,
succeeded pre-eminently; and who with a more independent spirit,
a more anxious desire of excellence, and more respect for
himself, would, in his own walk, have attained to absolute
perfection.


HISTORY.

(May 1828.)

"The Romance of History.  England."  By Henry Neele.  London,
1828.

To write history respectably--that is, to abbreviate despatches,
and make extracts from speeches, to intersperse in due proportion
epithets of praise and abhorrence, to draw up antithetical
characters of great men, setting forth how many contradictory
virtues and vices they united, and abounding in "withs" and
"withouts"--all this is very easy.  But to be a really great
historian is perhaps the rarest of intellectual distinctions. 
Many scientific works are, in their kind, absolutely perfect. 
There are poems which we should be inclined to designate as
faultless, or as disfigured only by blemishes which pass
unnoticed in the general blaze of excellence.  There are
speeches, some speeches of Demosthenes particularly, in which it
would be impossible to alter a word without altering it for the
worse.  But we are acquainted with no history which approaches to
our notion of what a history ought to be--with no history which
does not widely depart, either on the right hand or on the left,
from the exact line.

The cause may easily be assigned.  This province of literature is
a debatable land.  It lies on the confines of two distinct
territories.  It is under the jurisdiction of two hostile powers;
and, like other districts similarly situated, it is ill defined,
ill cultivated, and ill regulated.  Instead of being equally
shared between its two rulers, the Reason and the Imagination, it
falls alternately under the sole and absolute dominion of each. 
It is sometimes fiction.  It is sometimes theory.

History, it has been said, is philosophy teaching by examples. 
Unhappily, what the philosophy gains in soundness and depth the
examples generally lose in vividness.  A perfect historian must
possess an imagination sufficiently powerful to make his
narrative affecting and picturesque.  Yet he must control it so
absolutely as to content himself with the materials which he
finds, and to refrain from supplying deficiencies by additions of
his own.  He must be a profound and ingenious reasoner.  Yet he
must possess sufficient self-command to abstain from casting his
facts in the mould of his hypothesis.  Those who can justly
estimate these almost insuperable difficulties will not think it
strange that every writer should have failed, either in the
narrative or in the speculative department of history.

It may be laid down as a general rule, though subject to
considerable qualifications and exceptions, that history begins
in novel and ends in essay.  Of the romantic historians Herodotus
is the earliest and the best.  His animation, his simple-hearted
tenderness, his wonderful talent for description and dialogue,
and the pure sweet flow of his language, place him at the head of
narrators.  He reminds us of a delightful child.  There is a
grace beyond the reach of affectation in his awkwardness, a
malice in his innocence, an intelligence in his nonsense, an
insinuating eloquence in his lisp.  We know of no writer who
makes such interest for himself and his book in the heart of the
reader.  At the distance of three-and-twenty centuries, we feel
for him the same sort of pitying fondness which Fontaine and Gay
are said to have inspired in society.  He has written an
incomparable book.  He has written something better perhaps than
the best history; but he has not written a good history; he is,
from the first to the last chapter, an inventor.  We do not here
refer merely to those gross fictions with which he has been
reproached by the critics of later times.  We speak of that
colouring which is equally diffused over his whole narrative, and
which perpetually leaves the most sagacious reader in doubt what
to reject and what to receive.  The most authentic parts of his
work bear the same relation to his wildest legends which Henry
the Fifth bears to the Tempest.  There was an expedition
undertaken by Xerxes against Greece; and there was an invasion of
France.  There was a battle at Plataea; and there was a battle at
Agincourt.  Cambridge and Exeter, the Constable and the Dauphin,
were persons as real as Demaratus and Pausanias.  The harangue of
the Archbishop on the Salic Law and the Book of Numbers differs
much less from the orations which have in all ages proceeded from
the right reverend bench than the speeches of Mardonius and
Artabanus from those which were delivered at the council-board of
Susa.  Shakspeare gives us enumerations of armies, and returns of
killed and wounded, which are not, we suspect, much less accurate
than those of Herodotus.  There are passages in Herodotus nearly
as long as acts of Shakspeare, in which everything is told
dramatically, and in which the narrative serves only the purpose
of stage-directions.  It is possible, no doubt, that the
substance of some real conversations may have been reported to
the historian.  But events which, if they ever happened, happened
in ages and nations so remote that the particulars could never
have been known to him, are related with the greatest minuteness
of detail.  We have all that Candaules said to Gyges, and all
that passed between Astyages and Harpagus.  We are, therefore,
unable to judge whether, in the account which he gives of
transactions respecting which he might possibly have been well
informed, we can trust to anything beyond the naked outline;
whether, for example, the answer of Gelon to the ambassadors of
the Grecian confederacy, or the expressions which passed between
Aristides and Themistocles at their famous interview, have been
correctly transmitted to us.  The great events are, no doubt,
faithfully related.  So, probably, are many of the slighter
circumstances; but which of them it is impossible to ascertain. 
The fictions are so much like the facts, and the facts so much
like the fictions, that, with respect to many most interesting
particulars, our belief is neither given nor withheld, but
remains in an uneasy and interminable state of abeyance.  We know
that there is truth; but we cannot exactly decide where it lies.

The faults of Herodotus are the faults of a simple and
imaginative mind.  Children and servants are remarkably
Herodotean in their style of narration.  They tell everything
dramatically.  Their "says hes" and "says shes" are proverbial. 
Every person who has had to settle their disputes knows that,
even when they have no intention to deceive, their reports of
conversation always require to be carefully sifted.  If an
educated man were giving an account of the late change of
administration, he would say--"Lord Goderich resigned; and the
King, in consequence, sent for the Duke of Wellington."  A porter
tells the story as if he had been hid behind the curtains of the
royal bed at Windsor:  "So Lord Goderich says, 'I cannot manage
this business; I must go out.'  So the King says,--says he,
'Well, then, I must send for the Duke of Wellington--that's
all.'"  This is in the very manner of the father of history.

Herodotus wrote as it was natural that he should write.  He wrote
for a nation susceptible, curious, lively, insatiably desirous of
novelty and excitement; for a nation in which the fine arts had
attained their highest excellence, but in which philosophy was
still in its infancy.  His countrymen had but recently begun to
cultivate prose composition.  Public transactions had generally
been recorded in verse.  The first historians might, therefore,
indulge without fear of censure in the license allowed to their
predecessors the bards.  Books were few.  The events of former
times were learned from tradition and from popular ballads; the
manners of foreign countries from the reports of travellers.  It
is well known that the mystery which overhangs what is distant,
either in space or time, frequently prevents us from censuring as
unnatural what we perceive to be impossible.  We stare at a
dragoon who has killed three French cuirassiers, as a prodigy;
yet we read, without the least disgust, how Godfrey slew his
thousands, and Rinaldo his ten thousands.  Within the last
hundred years, stories about China and Bantam, which ought not to
have imposed on an old nurse, were gravely laid down as
foundations of political theories by eminent philosophers.  What
the time of the Crusades is to us, the generation of Croesus and
Solon was to the Greeks of the time of Herodotus.  Babylon was to
them what Pekin was to the French academicians of the last
century.

For such a people was the book of Herodotus composed; and, if we
may trust to a report, not sanctioned indeed by writers of high
authority, but in itself not improbable, it was composed, not to
be read, but to be heard.  It was not to the slow circulation of
a few copies, which the rich only could possess, that the
aspiring author looked for his reward.  The great Olympian
festival,--the solemnity which collected multitudes, proud of the
Grecian name, from the wildest mountains of Doris, and the
remotest colonies of Italy and Libya,--was to witness his
triumph.  The interest of the narrative, and the beauty of the
style, were aided by the imposing effect of recitation,--by the
splendour of the spectacle,--by the powerful influence of
sympathy.  A critic who could have asked for authorities in the
midst of such a scene must have been of a cold and sceptical
nature; and few such critics were there.  As was the historian,
such were the auditors,--inquisitive, credulous, easily moved by
religious awe or patriotic enthusiasm.  They were the very men to
hear with delight of strange beasts, and birds, and trees,--of
dwarfs, and giants, and cannibals--of gods, whose very names it
was impiety to utter,--of ancient dynasties, which had left
behind them monuments surpassing all the works of later times,--
of towns like provinces,--of rivers like seas,--of stupendous
walls, and temples, and pyramids,--of the rites which the Magi
performed at daybreak on the tops of the mountains,--of the
secrets inscribed on the eternal obelisks of Memphis.  With equal
delight they would have listened to the graceful romances of
their own country.  They now heard of the exact accomplishment of
obscure predictions, of the punishment of crimes over which the
justice of heaven had seemed to slumber,--of dreams, omens,
warnings from the dead,--of princesses, for whom noble suitors
contended in every generous exercise of strength and skill,--of
infants, strangely preserved from the dagger of the assassin, to
fulfil high destinies.

As the narrative approached their own times, the interest became
still more absorbing.  The chronicler had now to tell the story
of that great conflict from which Europe dates its intellectual
and political supremacy,--a story which, even at this distance of
time, is the most marvellous and the most touching in the annals
of the human race,--a story abounding with all that is wild and
wonderful, with all that is pathetic and animating; with the
gigantic caprices of infinite wealth and despotic power--with the
mightier miracles of wisdom, of virtue, and of courage.  He told
them of rivers dried up in a day,--of provinces famished for a
meal,--of a passage for ships hewn through the mountains,--of a
road for armies spread upon the waves,--of monarchies and
commonwealths swept away,--of anxiety, of terror, of confusion,
of despair!--and then of proud and stubborn hearts tried in that
extremity of evil, and not found wanting,--of resistance long
maintained against desperate odds,--of lives dearly sold, when
resistance could be maintained no more,--of signal deliverance,
and of unsparing revenge.  Whatever gave a stronger air of
reality to a narrative so well calculated to inflame the
passions, and to flatter national pride, was certain to be
favourably received.

Between the time at which Herodotus is said to have composed his
history, and the close of the Peloponnesian war, about forty
years elapsed,--forty years, crowded with great military and
political events.  The circumstances of that period produced a
great effect on the Grecian character; and nowhere was this
effect so remarkable as in the illustrious democracy of Athens. 
An Athenian, indeed, even in the time of Herodotus, would
scarcely have written a book so romantic and garrulous as that of
Herodotus.  As civilisation advanced, the citizens of that famous
republic became still less visionary, and still less simple-
hearted.  They aspired to know where their ancestors had been
content to doubt; they began to doubt where their ancestors had
thought it their duty to believe.  Aristophanes is fond of
alluding to this change in the temper of his countrymen.  The
father and son, in the Clouds, are evidently representatives of
the generations to which they respectively belonged.  Nothing
more clearly illustrates the nature of this moral revolution than
the change which passed upon tragedy.  The wild sublimity of
Aeschylus became the scoff of every young Phidippides.  Lectures
on abstruse points of philosophy, the fine distinctions of
casuistry, and the dazzling fence of rhetoric, were substituted
for poetry.  The language lost something of that infantine
sweetness which had characterised it.  It became less like the
ancient Tuscan, and more like the modern French.

The fashionable logic of the Greeks was, indeed, far from strict. 
Logic never can be strict where books are scarce, and where
information is conveyed orally.  We are all aware how frequently
fallacies, which, when set down on paper, are at once detected,
pass for unanswerable arguments when dexterously and volubly
urged in Parliament, at the bar, or in private conversation.  The
reason is evident.  We cannot inspect them closely enough to
perceive their inaccuracy.  We cannot readily compare them with
each other.  We lose sight of one part of the subject before
another, which ought to be received in connection with it, comes
before us; and as there is no immutable record of what has been
admitted and of what has been denied, direct contradictions pass
muster with little difficulty.  Almost all the education of a
Greek consisted in talking and listening.  His opinions on
government were picked up in the debates of the assembly.  If he
wished to study metaphysics, instead of shutting himself up with
a book, he walked down to the market-place to look for a sophist. 
So completely were men formed to these habits, that even writing
acquired a conversational air.  The philosophers adopted the form
of dialogue, as the most natural mode of communicating knowledge. 
Their reasonings have the merits and the defects which belong to
that species of composition, and are characterised rather by
quickness and subtilty than by depth and precision.  Truth is
exhibited in parts, and by glimpses.  Innumerable clever hints
are given; but no sound and durable system is erected.  The
argumentum ad hominem, a kind of argument most efficacious in
debate, but utterly useless for the investigation of general
principles, is among their favourite resources.  Hence, though
nothing can be more admirable than the skill which Socrates
displays in the conversations which Plato has reported or
invented, his victories, for the most part, seem to us
unprofitable.  A trophy is set up; but no new province is added
to the dominions of the human mind.

Still, where thousands of keen and ready intellects were
constantly employed in speculating on the qualiies of actions and
on the principles of government, it was impossible that history
should retain its whole character.  It became less gossiping and
less picturesque; but much more accurate, and somewhat more
scientific.

The history of Thucydides differs from that of Herodotus as a
portrait differs from the representation of an imaginary scene;
as the Burke or Fox of Reynolds differs from his Ugolino or his
Beaufort.  In the former case, the archetype is given:  in the
latter it is created.  The faculties which are required for the
latter purpose are of a higher and rarer order than those which
suffice for the former, and indeed necessarily comprise them.  He
who is able to paint what he sees with the eye of the mind will
surely be able to paint what he sees with the eye of the body. 
He who can invent a story, and tell it well, will also be able to
tell, in an interesting manner, a story which he has not
invented.  If, in practice, some of the best writers of fiction
have been among the worst writers of history, it has been because
one of their talents had merged in another so completely that it
could not be severed; because, having long been habituated to
invent and narrate at the same time, they found it impossible to
narrate without inventing.

Some capricious and discontented artists have affected to
consider portrait-painting as unworthy of a man of genius.  Some
critics have spoken in the same contemptuous manner of history. 
Johnson puts the case thus:  The historian tells either what is
false or what is true:  in the former case he is no historian: 
in the latter he has no opportunity for displaying his abilities: 
for truth is one:  and all who tell the truth must tell it alike.

It is not difficult to elude both the horns of this dilemma.  We
will recur to the analogous art of portrait-painting.  Any man
with eyes and hands may be taught to take a likeness.  The
process, up to a certain point, is merely mechanical.  If this
were all, a man of talents might justly despise the occupation. 
But we could mention portraits which are resemblances,--but not
mere resemblances; faithful,--but much more than faithful;
portraits which condense into one point of time, and exhibit, at
a single glance, the whole history of turbid and eventful lives--
in which the eye seems to scrutinise us, and the mouth to command
us--in which the brow menaces, and the lip almost quivers with
scorn--in which every wrinkle is a comment on some important
transaction.  The account which Thucydides has given of the
retreat from Syracuse is, among narratives, what Vandyke's Lord
Strafford is among paintings.

Diversity, it is said, implies error:  truth is one, and admits
of no degrees.  We answer, that this principle holds good only in
abstract reasonings.  When we talk of the truth of imitation in
the fine arts, we mean an imperfect and a graduated truth.  No
picture is exactly like the original; nor is a picture good in
proportion as it is like the original.  When Sir Thomas Lawrence
paints a handsome peeress, he does not contemplate her through a
powerful microscope, and transfer to the canvas the pores of the
skin, the blood-vessels of the eye, and all the other beauties
which Gulliver discovered in the Brobdingnagian maids of honour. 
If he were to do this, the effect would not merely be unpleasant,
but, unless the scale of the picture were proportionably
enlarged, would be absolutely FALSE.  And, after all, a
microscope of greater power than that which he had employed would
convict him of innumerable omissions.  The same may be said of
history.  Perfectly and absolutely true it cannot be:  for, to be
perfectly and absolutely true, it ought to record ALL the
slightest particulars of the slightest transactions--all the
things done and all the words uttered during the time of which it
treats.  The omission of any circumstance, however insignificant,
would be a defect.  If history were written thus, the Bodleian
Library would not contain the occurrences of a week.  What is
told in the fullest and most accurate annals bears an infinitely
small proportion to what is suppressed.  The difference between
the copious work of Clarendon and the account of the civil wars
in the abridgment of Goldsmith vanishes when compared with the
immense mass of facts respecting which both are equally silent.

No picture, then, and no history, can present us with the whole
truth:  but those are the best pictures and the best histories
which exhibit such parts of the truth as most nearly produce the
effect of the whole.  He who is deficient in the art of selection
may, by showing nothing but the truth, produce all the effect of
the grossest falsehood.  It perpetually happens that one writer
tells less truth than another, merely because he tells more
truths.  In the imitative arts we constantly see this.  There are
lines in the human face, and objects in landscape, which stand in
such relations to each other, that they ought either to be all
introduced into a painting together or all omitted together.  A
sketch into which none of them enters may be excellent; but, if
some are given and others left out, though there are more points
of likeness, there is less likeness.  An outline scrawled with a
pen, which seizes the marked features of a countenance, will give
a much stronger idea of it than a bad painting in oils.  Yet the
worst painting in oils that ever hung at Somerset House resembles
the original in many more particulars.  A bust of white marble
may give an excellent idea of a blooming face.  Colour the lips
and cheeks of the bust, leaving the hair and eyes unaltered, and
the similarity, instead of being more striking, will be less so.

History has its foreground and its background:  and it is
principally in the management of its perspective that one artist
differs from another.  Some events must be represented on a large
scale, others diminished; the great majority will be lost in the
dimness of the horizon; and a general idea of their joint effect
will be given by a few slight touches.

In this respect no writer has ever equalled Thucydides.  He was a
perfect master of the art of gradual diminution.  His history is
sometimes as concise as a chronological chart; yet it is always
perspicuous.  It is sometimes as minute as one of Lovelace's
letters; yet it is never prolix.  He never fails to contract and
to expand it in the right place.

Thucydides borrowed from Herodotus the practice of putting
speeches of his own into the mouths of his characters.  In
Herodotus this usage is scarcely censurable.  It is of a piece
with his whole manner.  But it is altogether incongruous in the
work of his successor, and violates, not only the accuracy of
history, but the decencies of fiction.  When once we enter into
the spirit of Herodotus, we find no inconsistency.  The
conventional probability of his drama is preserved from the
beginning to the end.  The deliberate orations, and the familiar
dialogues, are in strict keeping with each other.  But the
speeches of Thucydides are neither preceded nor followed by
anything with which they harmonise.  They give to the whole book
something of the grotesque character of those Chinese pleasure-
grounds in which perpendicular rocks of granite start up in the
midst of a soft green plain.  Invention is shocking where truth
is in such close juxtaposition with it.

Thucydides honestly tells us that some of these discourses are
purely fictitious.  He may have reported the substance of others
correctly, but it is clear from the internal evidence that he has
preserved no more than the substance.  His own peculiar habits of
thought and expression are everywhere discernible.  Individual
and national peculiarities are seldom to be traced in the
sentiments, and never in the diction.  The oratory of the
Corinthians and Thebans is not less Attic, either in matter or in
manner, than that of the Athenians.  The style of Cleon is as
pure, as austere, as terse, and as significant, as that of
Pericles.

In spite of this great fault, it must be allowed that Thucydides
has surpassed all his rivals in the art of historical narration,
in the art of producing an effect on the imagination, by skilful
selection and disposition, without indulging in the license of
invention.  But narration, though an important part of the
business of a historian, is not the whole.  To append a moral to
a work of fiction is either useless or superfluous.  A fiction
may give a more impressive effect to what is already known; but
it can teach nothing new.  If it presents to us characters and
trains of events to which our experience furnishes us with
nothing similar, instead of deriving instruction from it, we
pronounce it unnatural.  We do not form our opinions from it; but
we try it by our preconceived opinions.  Fiction, therefore, is
essentially imitative.  Its merit consists in its resemblance to
a model with which we are already familiar, or to which at least
we can instantly refer.  Hence it is that the anecdotes which
interest us most strongly in authentic narrative are offensive
when introduced into novels; that what is called the romantic
part of history is in fact the least romantic.  It is delightful
as history, because it contradicts our previous notions of human
nature, and of the connection of causes and effects.  It is, on
that very account, shocking and incongruous in fiction.  In
fiction, the principles are given, to find the facts:  in
history, the facts are given, to find the principles; and the
writer who does not explain the phenomena as well as state them,
performs only one half of his office.  Facts are the mere dross
of history.  It is from the abstract truth which interpenetrates
them, and lies latent among them like gold in the ore, that the
mass derives its whole value:  and the precious particles are
generally combined with the baser in such a manner that the
separation is a task of the utmost difficulty.

Here Thucydides is deficient:  the deficiency, indeed, is not
discreditable to him.  It was the inevitable effect of
circumstances.  It was in the nature of things necessary that, in
some part of its progress through political science, the human
mind should reach that point which it attained in his time. 
Knowledge advances by steps, and not by leaps.  The axioms of an
English debating club would have been startling and mysterious
paradoxes to the most enlightened statesmen of Athens.  But it
would be as absurd to speak contemptuously of the Athenian on
this account as to ridicule Strabo for not having given us an
account of Chili, or to talk of Ptolemy as we talk of Sir Richard
Phillips.  Still, when we wish for solid geographical
information, we must prefer the solemn coxcombry of Pinkerton to
the noble work of Strabo.  If we wanted instruction respecting
the solar system, we should consult the silliest girl from a
boarding-school, rather than Ptolemy.

Thucydides was undoubtedly a sagacious and reflecting man.  This
clearly appears from the ability with which he discusses
practical questions.  But the talent of deciding on the
circumstances of a particular case is often possessed in the
highest perfection by persons destitute of the power of
generalisation.  Men skilled in the military tactics of civilised
nations have been amazed at the far-sightedness and penetration
which a Mohawk displays in concerting his stratagems, or in
discerning those of his enemies.  In England, no class possesses
so much of that peculiar ability which is required for
constructing ingenious schemes, and for obviating remote
difficulties, as the thieves and the thief-takers.  Women have
more of this dexterity than men.  Lawyers have more of it than
statesmen:  statesmen have more of it than philosophers.  Monk
had more of it than Harrington and all his club.  Walpole had
more of it than Adam Smith or Beccaria.  Indeed, the species of
discipline by which this dexterity is acquired tends to contract
the mind, and to render it incapable of abstract reasoning.

The Grecian statesmen of the age of Thucydides were distinguished
by their practical sagacity, their insight into motives, their
skill in devising means for the attainment of their ends.  A
state of society in which the rich were constantly planning the
oppression of the poor, and the poor the spoliation of the rich,
in which the ties of party had superseded those of country, in
which revolutions and counter-revolutions were events of daily
occurrence, was naturally prolific in desperate and crafty
political adventurers.  This was the very school in which men
were likely to acquire the dissimulation of Mazarin, the
judicious temerity of Richelieu, the penetration, the exquisite
tact, the almost instinctive presentiment of approaching events
which gave so much authority to the counsel of Shaftesbury, that
"it was as if a man had inquired of the oracle of God."  In this
school Thucydides studied; and his wisdom is that which such a
school would naturally afford.  He judges better of circumstances
than of principles.  The more a question is narrowed, the better
he reasons upon it.  His work suggests many most important
considerations respecting the first principles of government and
morals, the growth of factions, the organisation of armies, and
the mutual relations of communities.  Yet all his general
observations on these subjects are very superficial.  His most
judicious remarks differ from the remarks of a really
philosophical historian, as a sum correctly cast up by a
bookkeeper from a general expression discovered by an algebraist. 
The former is useful only in a single transaction; the latter may
be applied to an infinite number of cases.

This opinion will, we fear, be considered as heterodox.  For, not
to speak of the illusion which the sight of a Greek type, or the
sound of a Greek diphthong, often produces, there are some
peculiarities in the manner of Thucydides which in no small
degree have tended to secure to him the reputation of profundity. 
His book is evidently the book of a man and a statesman; and in
this respect presents a remarkable contrast to the delightful
childishness of Herodotus.  Throughout it there is an air of
matured power, of grave and melancholy reflection, of
impartiality and habitual self-command.  His feelings are rarely
indulged, and speedily repressed.  Vulgar prejudices of every
kind, and particularly vulgar superstitions, he treats with a
cold and sober disdain peculiar to himself.  His style is
weighty, condensed, antithetical, and not unfrequently obscure. 
But, when we look at his political philosophy, without regard to
these circumstances, we find him to have been, what indeed it
would have been a miracle if he had not been, simply an Athenian
of the fifth century before Christ.

Xenophon is commonly placed, but we think without much reason, in
the same rank with Herodotus and Thucydides.  He resembles them,
indeed, in the purity and sweetness of his style; but in spirit,
he rather resembles that later school of historians whose works
seem to be fables composed for a moral, and who, in their
eagerness to give us warnings and examples, forget to give us men
and women.  The Life of Cyrus, whether we look upon it as a
history or as a romance, seems to us a very wretched performance. 
The Expedition of the Ten Thousand, and the History of Grecian
Affairs, are certainly pleasant reading; but they indicate no
great power of mind.  In truth, Xenophon, though his taste was
elegant, his disposition amiable, and his intercourse with the
world extensive, had, we suspect, rather a weak head.  Such was
evidently the opinion of that extraordinary man to whom he early
attached himself, and for whose memory he entertained an
idolatrous veneration.  He came in only for the milk with which
Socrates nourished his babes in philosophy.  A few saws of
morality, and a few of the simplest doctrines of natural
religion, were enough for the good young man.  The strong meat,
the bold speculations on physical and metaphysical science, were
reserved for auditors of a different description.  Even the
lawless habits of a captain of mercenary troops could not change
the tendency which the character of Xenophon early acquired.  To
the last, he seems to have retained a sort of heathen Puritanism. 
The sentiments of piety and virtue which abound in his works are
those of a well-meaning man, somewhat timid and narrow-minded,
devout from constitution rather than from rational conviction. 
He was as superstitious as Herodotus, but in a way far more
offensive.  The very peculiarities which charm us in an infant,
the toothless mumbling, the stammering, the tottering, the
helplessness, the causeless tears and laughter, are disgusting in
old age.  In the same manner, the absurdity which precedes a
period of general intelligence is often pleasing; that which
follows it is contemptible.  The nonsense of Herodotus is that of
a baby.  The nonsense of Xenophon is that of a dotard.  His
stories about dreams, omens, and prophecies, present a strange
contrast to the passages in which the shrewd and incredulous
Thucydides mentions the popular superstitions.  It is not quite
clear that Xenophon was honest in his credulity; his fanaticism
was in some degree politic.  He would have made an excellent
member of the Apostolic Camarilla.  An alarmist by nature, an
aristocrat by party, he carried to an unreasonable excess his
horror of popular turbulence.  The quiet atrocity of Sparta did
not shock him in the same manner; for he hated tumult more than
crimes.  He was desirous to find restraints which might curb the
passions of the multitude; and he absurdly fancied that he had
found them in a religion without evidences or sanction, precepts
or example, in a frigid system of Theophilanthropy, supported by
nursery tales.

Polybius and Arrian have given us authentic accounts of facts;
and here their merit ends.  They were not men of comprehensive
minds; they had not the art of telling a story in an interesting
manner.  They have in consequence been thrown into the shade by
writers who, though less studious of truth than themselves,
understood far better the art of producing effect,--by Livy and
Quintus Curtius.

Yet Polybius and Arrian deserve high praise when compared with
the writers of that school of which Plutarch may be considered as
the head.  For the historians of this class we must confess that
we entertain a peculiar aversion.  They seem to have been
pedants, who, though destitute of those valuable qualities which
are frequently found in conjunction with pedantry, thought
themselves great philosophers and great politicians.  They not
only mislead their readers in every page, as to particular facts,
but they appear to have altogether misconceived the whole
character of the times of which they write.  They were
inhabitants of an empire bounded by the Atlantic Ocean and the
Euphrates, by the ice of Scythia and the sands of Mauritania;
composed of nations whose manners, whose languages, whose
religion, whose countenances and complexions, were widely
different; governed by one mighty despotism, which had risen on
the ruins of a thousand commonwealths and kingdoms.  Of liberty,
such as it is in small democracies, of patriotism, such as it is
in small independent communities of any kind, they had, and they
could have, no experimental knowledge.  But they had read of men
who exerted themselves in the cause of their country with an
energy unknown in later times, who had violated the dearest of
domestic charities, or voluntarily devoted themselves to death
for the public good; and they wondered at the degeneracy of their
contemporaries.  It never occurred to them that the feelings
which they so greatly admired sprung from local and occasional
causes; that they will always grow up spontaneously in small
societies; and that, in large empires, though they may be forced
into existence for a short time by peculiar circumstances, they
cannot be general or permanent.  It is impossible that any man
should feel for a fortress on a remote frontier as he feels for
his own house; that he should grieve for a defeat in which ten
thousand people whom he never saw have fallen as he grieves for a
defeat which has half unpeopled the street in which he lives;
that he should leave his home for a military expedition in order
to preserve the balance of power, as cheerfully as he would leave
it to repel invaders who had begun to burn all the corn fields in
his neighbourhood.

The writers of whom we speak should have considered this.  They
should have considered that in patriotism, such as it existed
amongst the Greeks, there was nothing essentially and eternally
good; that an exclusive attachment to a particular society,
though a natural, and, under certain restrictions, a most useful
sentiment, implies no extraordinary attainments in wisdom or
virtue; that, where it has existed in an intense degree, it has
turned states into gangs of robbers whom their mutual fidelity
has rendered more dangerous, has given a character of peculiar
atrocity to war, and has generated that worst of all political
evils, the tyranny of nations over nations.

Enthusiastically attached to the name of liberty, these
historians troubled themselves little about its definition.  The
Spartans, tormented by ten thousand absurd restraints, unable to
please themselves in the choice of their wives, their suppers, or
their company, compelled to assume a peculiar manner, and to talk
in a peculiar style, gloried in their liberty.  The aristocracy
of Rome repeatedly made liberty a plea for cutting off the
favourites of the people.  In almost all the little commonwealths
of antiquity, liberty was used as a pretext for measures directed
against everything which makes liberty valuable, for measures
which stifled discussion, corrupted the administration of
justice, and discouraged the accumulation of property.  The
writers, whose works we are considering, confounded the sound
with the substance, and the means with the end.  Their
imaginations were inflamed by mystery.  They conceived of liberty
as monks conceive of love, as cockneys conceive of the happiness
and innocence of rural life, as novel-reading sempstresses
conceive of Almack's and Grosvenor Square, accomplished
Marquesses and handsome Colonels of the Guards.  In the relation
of events, and the delineation of characters, they have paid
little attention to facts, to the costume of the times of which
they pretend to treat, or to the general principles of human
nature.  They have been faithful only to their own puerile and
extravagant doctrines.  Generals and statesmen are metamorphosed
into magnanimous coxcombs, from whose fulsome virtues we turn
away with disgust.  The fine sayings and exploits of their heroes
remind us of the insufferable perfections of Sir Charles
Grandison, and affect us with a nausea similar to that which we
feel when an actor, in one of Morton's or Kotzebue's plays, lays
his hand on his heart, advances to the ground-lights, and mouths
a moral sentence for the edification of the gods.

These writers, men who knew not what it was to have a country,
men who had never enjoyed political rights, brought into fashion
an offensive cant about patriotism and zeal for freedom.  What
the English Puritans did for the language of Christianity, what
Scuderi did for the language of love, they did for the language
of public spirit.  By habitual exaggeration they made it mean. 
By monotonous emphasis they made it feeble.  They abused it till
it became scarcely possible to use it with effect.

Their ordinary rules of morality are deduced from extreme cases. 
The common regimen which they prescribe for society is made up of
those desperate remedies which only its most desperate distempers
require.  They look with peculiar complacency on actions which
even those who approve them consider as exceptions to laws of
almost universal application--which bear so close an affinity to
the most atrocious crimes that, even where it may be unjust to
censure them, it is unsafe to praise them.  It is not strange,
therefore, that some flagitious instances of perfidy and cruelty
should have been passed unchallenged in such company, that grave
moralists, with no personal interest at stake, should have
extolled, in the highest terms, deeds of which the atrocity
appalled even the infuriated factions in whose cause they were
perpetrated.  The part which Timoleon took in the assassination
of his brother shocked many of his own partisans.  The
recollection of it preyed long on his own mind.  But it was
reserved for historians who lived some centuries later to
discover that his conduct was a glorious display of virtue, and
to lament that, from the frailty of human nature, a man who could
perform so great an exploit could repent of it.

The writings of these men, and of their modern imitators, have
produced effects which deserve some notice.  The English have
been so long accustomed to political speculation, and have
enjoyed so large a measure of practical liberty, that such works
have produced little effect on their minds.  We have classical
associations and great names of our own which we can confidently
oppose to the most splendid of ancient times.  Senate has not to
our ears a sound so venerable as Parliament.  We respect to the
Great Charter more than the laws of Solon.  The Capitol and the
Forum impress us with less awe than our own Westminster Hall and
Westminster Abbey, the place where the great men of twenty
generations have contended, the place where they sleep together! 
The list of warriors and statesmen by whom our constitution was
founded or preserved, from De Montfort down to Fox, may well
stand a comparison with the Fasti of Rome.  The dying
thanksgiving of Sidney is as noble as the libation which Thrasea
poured to Liberating Jove:  and we think with far less pleasure
of Cato tearing out his entrails than of Russell saying, as he
turned away from his wife, that the bitterness of death was past. 
Even those parts of our history over which, on some accounts, we
would gladly throw a veil may be proudly opposed to those on
which the moralists of antiquity loved most to dwell.  The enemy
of English liberty was not murdered by men whom he had pardoned
and loaded with benefits.  He was not stabbed in the back by
those who smiled and cringed before his face.  He was vanquished
on fields of stricken battle; he was arraigned, sentenced, and
executed in the face of heaven and earth.  Our liberty is neither
Greek nor Roman; but essentially English.  It has a character of
its own,--a character which has taken a tinge from the sentiments
of the chivalrous ages, and which accords with the peculiarities
of our manners and of our insular situation.  It has a language,
too, of its own, and a language singularly idiomatic, full of
meaning to ourselves, scarcely intelligible to strangers.

Here, therefore, the effect of books such as those which we have
been considering has been harmless.  They have, indeed, given
currency to many very erroneous opinions with respect to ancient
history.  They have heated the imaginations of boys.  They have
misled the judgment and corrupted the taste of some men of
letters, such as Akenside and Sir William Jones.  But on persons
engaged in public affairs they have had very little influence. 
The foundations of our constitution were laid by men who knew
nothing of the Greeks but that they denied the orthodox
procession and cheated the Crusaders; and nothing of Rome, but
that the Pope lived there.  Those who followed, contented
themselves with improving on the original plan.  They found
models at home and therefore they did not look for them abroad. 
But, when enlightened men on the Continent began to think about
political reformation, having no patterns before their eyes in
their domestic history, they naturally had recourse to those
remains of antiquity, the study of which is considered throughout
Europe as an important part of education.  The historians of whom
we have been speaking had been members of large communities, and
subjects of absolute sovereigns.  Hence it is, as we have already
said, that they commit such gross errors in speaking of the
little republics of antiquity.  Their works were now read in the
spirit in which they had been written.  They were read by men
placed in circumstances closely resembling their own,
unacquainted with the real nature of liberty, but inclined to
believe everything good which could be told respecting it.  How
powerfully these books impressed these speculative reformers, is
well known to all who have paid any attention to the French
literature of the last century.  But, perhaps, the writer on whom
they produced the greatest effect was Vittorio Alfieri.  In some
of his plays, particularly in Virginia, Timoleon, and Brutus the
Younger, he has even caricatured the extravagance of his masters.

It was not strange that the blind, thus led by the blind, should
stumble.  The transactions of the French Revolution, in some
measure, took their character from these works.  Without the
assistance of these works, indeed, a revolution would have taken
place,--a revolution productive of much good and much evil,
tremendous but shortlived, evil dearly purchased, but durable
good.  But it would not have been exactly such a revolution.  The
style, the accessories, would have been in many respects
different.  There would have been less of bombast in language,
less of affectation in manner, less of solemn trifling and
ostentatious simplicity.  The acts of legislative assemblies, and
the correspondence of diplomatists, would not have been disgraced
by rants worthy only of a college declamation.  The government of
a great and polished nation would not have rendered itself
ridiculous by attempting to revive the usages of a world which
had long passed away, or rather of a world which had never
existed except in the description of a fantastic school of
writers.  These second-hand imitations resembled the originals
about as much as the classical feast with which the Doctor in
Peregrine Pickle turned the stomachs of all his guests resembled
one of the suppers of Lucullus in the Hall of Apollo.

These were mere follies.  But the spirit excited by these writers
produced more serious effects.  The greater part of the crimes
which disgraced the revolution sprung indeed from the relaxation
of law, from popular ignorance, from the remembrance of past
oppression, from the fear of foreign conquest, from rapacity,
from ambition, from party-spirit.  But many atrocious proceedings
must, doubtless, be ascribed to heated imagination, to perverted
principle, to a distaste for what was vulgar in morals, and a
passion for what was startling and dubious.  Mr Burke has touched
on this subject with great felicity of expression:  "The
gradation of their republic," says he, "is laid in moral
paradoxes.  All those instances to be found in history, whether
real or fabulous, of a doubtful public spirit, at which morality
is perplexed, reason is staggered, and from which affrighted
nature recoils, are their chosen and almost sole examples for the
instruction of their youth."  This evil, we believe, is to be
directly ascribed to the influence of the historians whom we have
mentioned, and their modern imitators.

Livy had some faults in common with these writers.  But on the
whole he must be considered as forming a class by himself:  no
historian with whom we are acquainted has shown so complete an
indifference to truth.  He seems to have cared only about the
picturesque effect of his book, and the honour of his country. 
On the other hand, we do not know, in the whole range of
literature, an instance of a bad thing so well done.  The
painting of the narrative is beyond description vivid and
graceful.  The abundance of interesting sentiments and splendid
imagery in the speeches is almost miraculous.  His mind is a soil
which is never over-teemed, a fountain which never seems to
trickle.  It pours forth profusely; yet it gives no sign of
exhaustion.  It was probably to this exuberance of thought and
language, always fresh, always sweet, always pure, no sooner
yielded than repaired, that the critics applied that expression
which has been so much discussed lactea ubertas.

All the merits and all the defects of Livy take a colouring from
the character of his nation.  He was a writer peculiarly Roman;
the proud citizen of a commonwealth which had indeed lost the
reality of liberty, but which still sacredly preserved its forms
--in fact, the subject of an arbitrary prince, but in his own
estimation one of the masters of the world, with a hundred kings
below him, and only the gods above him.  He, therefore, looked
back on former times with feelings far different from those which
were naturally entertained by his Greek contemporaries, and which
at a later period became general among men of letters throughout
the Roman Empire.  He contemplated the past with interest and
delight, not because it furnished a contrast to the present, but
because it had led to the present.  He recurred to it, not to
lose in proud recollections the sense of national degradation,
but to trace the progress of national glory.  It is true that his
veneration for antiquity produced on him some of the effects
which it produced on those who arrived at it by a very different
road.  He has something of their exaggeration, something of their
cant, something of their fondness for anomalies and lusus naturae
in morality.  Yet even here we perceive a difference.  They talk
rapturously of patriotism and liberty in the abstract.  He does
not seem to think any country but Rome deserving of love; nor is
it for liberty as liberty, but for liberty as a part of the Roman
institutions, that he is zealous.

Of the concise and elegant accounts of the campaigns of Caesar
little can be said.  They are incomparable models for military
despatches.  But histories they are not, and do not pretend to
be.

The ancient critics placed Sallust in the same rank with Livy;
and unquestionably the small portion of his works which has come
down to us is calculated to give a high opinion of his talents. 
But his style is not very pleasant:  and his most powerful work,
the account of the Conspiracy of Catiline, has rather the air of
a clever party pamphlet than that of a history.  It abounds with
strange inconsistencies, which, unexplained as they are,
necessarily excite doubts as to the fairness of the narrative. 
It is true, that many circumstances now forgotten may have been
familiar to his contemporaries, and may have rendered passages
clear to them which to us appear dubious and perplexing.  But a
great historian should remember that he writes for distant
generations, for men who will perceive the apparent
contradictions, and will possess no means of reconciling them. 
We can only vindicate the fidelity of Sallust at the expense of
his skill.  But in fact all the information which we have from
contemporaries respecting this famous plot is liable to the same
objection, and is read by discerning men with the same
incredulity.  It is all on one side.  No answer has reached our
times.  Yet on the showing of the accusers the accused seem
entitled to acquittal.  Catiline, we are told, intrigued with a
Vestal virgin, and murdered his own son.  His house was a den of
gamblers and debauchees.  No young man could cross his threshold
without danger to his fortune and reputation.  Yet this is the
man with whom Cicero was willing to coalesce in a contest for the
first magistracy of the republic; and whom he described, long
after the fatal termination of the conspiracy, as an accomplished
hypocrite, by whom he had himself been deceived, and who had
acted with consummate skill the character of a good citizen and a
good friend.  We are told that the plot was the most wicked and
desperate ever known, and, almost in the same breath, that the
great body of the people, and many of the nobles, favoured it;
that the richest citizens of Rome were eager for the spoliation
of all property, and its highest functionaries for the
destruction of all order; that Crassus, Caesar, the Praetor
Lentulus, one of the consuls of the year, one of the consuls
elect, were proved or suspected to be engaged in a scheme for
subverting institutions to which they owed the highest honours,
and introducing universal anarchy.  We are told that a
government, which knew all this, suffered the conspirator, whose
rank, talents, and courage rendered him most dangerous, to quit
Rome without molestation.  We are told that bondmen and
gladiators were to be armed against the citizens.  Yet we find
that Catiline rejected the slaves who crowded to enlist in his
army, lest, as Sallust himself expresses it, "he should seem to
identify their cause with that of the citizens."  Finally, we are
told that the magistrate, who was universally allowed to have
saved all classes of his countrymen from conflagration and
massacre, rendered himself so unpopular by his conduct that a
marked insult was offered to him at the expiration of his office,
and a severe punishment inflicted on him shortly after.

Sallust tells us, what, indeed, the letters and speeches of
Cicero sufficiently prove, that some persons consider the
shocking, and atrocious parts of the plot as mere inventions of
the government, designed to excuse its unconstitutional measures. 
We must confess ourselves to be of that opinion.  There was,
undoubtedly, a strong party desirous to change the
administration.  While Pompey held the command of an army, they
could not effect their purpose without preparing means for
repelling force, if necessary, by force.  In all this there is
nothing different from the ordinary practice of Roman factions. 
The other charges brought against the conspirators are so
inconsistent and improbable, that we give no credit whatever to
them.  If our readers think this scepticism unreasonable, let
them turn to the contemporary accounts of the Popish plot.  Let
them look over the votes of Parliament, and the speeches of the
king; the charges of Scroggs, and the harangues of the managers
employed against Strafford.  A person who should form his
judgment from these pieces alone would believe that London was
set on fire by the Papists, and that Sir Edmondbury Godfrey was
murdered for his religion.  Yet these stories are now altogether
exploded.  They have been abandoned by statesmen to aldermen, by
aldermen to clergymen, by clergymen to old women, and by old
women to Sir Harcourt Lees.

Of the Latin historians, Tacitus was certainly the greatest.  His
style, indeed, is not only faulty in itself, but is, in some
respects, peculiarly unfit for historical composition.  He
carries his love of effect far beyond the limits of moderation. 
He tells a fine story finely, but he cannot tell a plain story
plainly.  He stimulates till stimulants lose their power. 
Thucydides, as we have already observed, relates ordinary
transactions with the unpretending clearness and succinctness of
a gazette.  His great powers of painting he reserves for events
of which the slightest details are interesting.  The simplicity
of the setting gives additional lustre to the brilliants.  There
are passages in the narrative of Tacitus superior to the best
which can be quoted from Thucydides.  But they are not enchased
and relieved with the same skill.  They are far more striking
when extracted from the body of the work to which they belong
than when they occur in their place, and are read in connection
with what precedes and follows.

In the delineation of character, Tacitus is unrivalled among
historians, and has very few superiors among dramatists and
novelists.  By the delineation of character, we do not mean the
practice of drawing up epigrammatic catalogues of good and bad
qualities, and appending them to the names of eminent men.  No
writer, indeed, has done this more skilfully than Tacitus; but
this is not his peculiar glory.  All the persons who occupy a
large space in his works have an individuality of character which
seems to pervade all their words and actions.  We know them as if
we had lived with them.  Claudius, Nero, Otho, both the
Agrippinas, are masterpieces.  But Tiberius is a still higher
miracle of art.  The historian undertook to make us intimately
acquainted with a man singularly dark and inscrutable,--with a
man whose real disposition long remained swathed up in intricate
folds of factitious virtues, and over whose actions the hypocrisy
of his youth, and the seclusion of his old age, threw a singular
mystery.  He was to exhibit the specious qualities of the tyrant
in a light which might render them transparent, and enable us at
once to perceive the covering and the vices which it concealed. 
He was to trace the gradations by which the first magistrate of a
republic, a senator mingling freely in debate, a noble
associating with his brother nobles, was transformed into an
Asiatic sultan; he was to exhibit a character, distinguished by
courage, self-command, and profound policy, yet defiled by all

"th' extravagancy
And crazy ribaldry of fancy."

He was to mark the gradual effect of advancing age and
approaching death on this strange compound of strength and
weakness; to exhibit the old sovereign of the world sinking into
a dotage which, though it rendered his appetites eccentric, and
his temper savage, never impaired the powers of his stern and
penetrating mind--conscious of failing strength, raging with
capricious sensuality, yet to the last the keenest of observers,
the most artful of dissemblers, and the most terrible of masters. 
The task was one of extreme difficulty.  The execution is almost
perfect.

The talent which is required to write history thus bears a
considerable affinity to the talent of a great dramatist.  There
is one obvious distinction.  The dramatist creates; the historian
only disposes.  The difference is not in the mode of execution,
but in the mode of conception.  Shakspeare is guided by a model
which exists in his imagination; Tacitus, by a model furnished
from without.  Hamlet is to Tiberius what the Laocoon is to the
Newton of Roubilliac.

In this part of his art Tacitus certainly had neither equal nor
second among the ancient historians.  Herodotus, though he wrote
in a dramatic form, had little of dramatic genius.  The frequent
dialogues which he introduces give vivacity and movement to the
narrative, but are not strikingly characteristic.  Xenophon is
fond of telling his readers, at considerable length, what he
thought of the persons whose adventures he relates.  But he does
not show them the men, and enable them to judge for themselves. 
The heroes of Livy are the most insipid of all beings, real or
imaginary, the heroes of Plutarch always excepted.  Indeed, the
manner of Plutarch in this respect reminds us of the cookery of
those continental inns, the horror of English travellers, in
which a certain nondescript broth is kept constantly boiling, and
copiously poured, without distinction, over every dish as it
comes up to table.  Thucydides, though at a wide interval, comes
next to Tacitus.  His Pericles, his Nicias, his Cleon, his
Brasidas, are happily discriminated.  The lines are few, the
colouring faint:  but the general air and expression is caught.

We begin, like the priest in Don Quixote's library, to be tired
with taking down books one after another for separate judgment,
and feel inclined to pass sentence on them in masses.  We shall
therefore, instead of pointing out the defects and merits of the
different modern historians, state generally in what particulars
they have surpassed their predecessors, and in what we conceive
them to have failed.

They have certainly been, in one sense, far more strict in their
adherence to truth than most of the Greek and Roman writers. 
They do not think themselves entitled to render their narrative
interesting by introducing descriptions, conversations, and
harangues which have no existence but in their own imagination. 
This improvement was gradually introduced.  History commenced
among the modern nations of Europe, as it had commenced among the
Greeks, in romance.  Froissart was our Herodotus.  Italy was to
Europe what Athens was to Greece.  In Italy, therefore, a more
accurate and manly mode of narration was early introduced. 
Machiavelli and Guicciardini, in imitation of Livy and
Thucydides, composed speeches for their historical personages. 
But, as the classical enthusiasm which distinguished the age of
Lorenzo and Leo gradually subsided, this absurd practice was
abandoned.  In France, we fear, it still, in some degree, keeps
its ground.  In our own country, a writer who should venture on
it would be laughed to scorn.  Whether the historians of the last
two centuries tell more truth than those of antiquity, may
perhaps be doubted.  But it is quite certain that they tell fewer
falsehoods.

In the philosophy of history, the moderns have very far surpassed
the ancients.  It is not, indeed, strange that the Greeks and
Romans should not have carried the science of government, or any
other experimental science, so far as it has been carried in our
time; for the experimental sciences are generally in a state of
progression.  They were better understood in the seventeenth
century than in the sixteenth, and in the eighteenth century than
in the seventeenth.  But this constant improvement, this natural
growth of knowledge, will not altogether account for the immense
superiority of the modern writers.  The difference is a
difference not in degree, but of kind.  It is not merely that new
principles have been discovered, but that new faculties seem to
be exerted.  It is not that at one time the human intellect
should have made but small progress, and at another time have
advanced far:  but that at one time it should have been
stationary, and at another time constantly proceeding.  In taste
and imagination, in the graces of style, in the arts of
persuasion, in the magnificence of public works, the ancients
were at least our equals.  They reasoned as justly as ourselves
on subjects which required pure demonstration.  But in the moral
sciences they made scarcely any advance.  During the long period
which elapsed between the fifth century before the Christian era
and the fifth century after it little perceptible progress was
made.  All the metaphysical discoveries of all the philosophers,
from the time of Socrates to the northern invasion, are not to be
compared in importance with those which have been made in England
every fifty years since the time of Elizabeth.  There is not the
least reason to believe that the principles of government,
legislation, and political economy, were better understood in the
time of Augustus Caesar than in the time of Pericles.  In our own
country, the sound doctrines of trade and jurisprudence have
been, within the lifetime of a single generation, dimly hinted,
boldly propounded, defended, systematised, adopted by all
reflecting men of all parties, quoted in legislative assemblies,
incorporated into laws and treaties.

To what is this change to be attributed?  Partly, no doubt, to
the discovery of printing, a discovery which has not only
diffused knowledge widely, but, as we have already observed, has
also introduced into reasoning a precision unknown in those
ancient communities, in which information, was, for the most
part, conveyed orally.  There was, we suspect, another cause,
less obvious, but still more powerful.

The spirit of the two most famous nations of antiquity was
remarkably exclusive.  In the time of Homer the Greeks had not
begun to consider themselves as a distinct race.  They still
looked with something of childish wonder and awe on the riches
and wisdom of Sidon and Egypt.  From what causes, and by what
gradations, their feelings underwent a change, it is not easy to
determine.  Their history, from the Trojan to the Persian war, is
covered with an obscurity broken only by dim and scattered gleams
of truth.  But it is certain that a great alteration took place. 
They regarded themselves as a separate people.  They had common
religious rites, and common principles of public law, in which
foreigners had no part.  In all their political systems,
monarchical, aristocratical, and democratical, there was a strong
family likeness.  After the retreat of Xerxes and the fall of
Mardonius, national pride rendered the separation between the
Greeks and the barbarians complete.  The conquerors considered
themselves men of a superior breed, men who, in their intercourse
with neighbouring nations, were to teach, and not to learn.  They
looked for nothing out of themselves.  They borrowed nothing.
They translated nothing.  We cannot call to mind a single
expression of any Greek writer earlier than the age of Augustus,
indicating an opinion that anything worth reading could be
written in any language except his own.  The feelings which
sprung from national glory were not altogether extinguished by
national degradation.  They were fondly cherished through ages of
slavery and shame.  The literature of Rome herself was regarded
with contempt by those who had fled before her arms, and who
bowed beneath her fasces.  Voltaire says, in one of his six
thousand pamphlets, that he was the first person who told the
French that England had produced eminent men besides the Duke of
Marlborough.  Down to a very late period, the Greeks seem to have
stood in need of similar information with respect to their
masters.  With Paulus Aemilius, Sylla, and Caesar, they were well
acquainted.  But the notions which they entertained respecting
Cicero and Virgil were, probably, not unlike those which Boileau
may have formed about Shakspeare.  Dionysius lived in the most
splendid age of Latin poetry and eloquence.  He was a critic,
and, after the manner of his age, an able critic.  He studied the
language of Rome, associated with its learned men, and compiled
its history.  Yet he seems to have thought its literature
valuable only for the purpose of illustrating its antiquities. 
His reading appears to have been confined to its public records,
and to a few old annalists.  Once, and but once, if we remember
rightly, he quotes Ennius, to solve a question of etymology.  He
has written much on the art of oratory:  yet he has not mentioned
the name of Cicero.

The Romans submitted to the pretensions of a race which they
despised.  Their epic poet, while he claimed for them pre-
eminence in the arts of government and war, acknowledged their
inferiority in taste, eloquence, and science.  Men of letters
affected to understand the Greek language better than their own. 
Pomponius preferred the honour of becoming an Athenian, by
intellectual naturalisation, to all the distinctions which were
to be acquired in the political contests of Rome.  His great
friend composed Greek poems and memoirs.  It is well-known that
Petrarch considered that beautiful language in which his sonnets
are written, as a barbarous jargon, and intrusted his fame to
those wretched Latin hexameters which, during the last four
centuries, have scarcely found four readers.  Many eminent Romans
appear to have felt the same contempt for their native tongue as
compared with the Greek.  The prejudice continued to a very late
period.  Julian was as partial to the Greek language as Frederic
the Great to the French:  and it seems that he could not express
himself with elegance in the dialect of the state which he ruled.

Even those Latin writers who did not carry this affectation so
far looked on Greece as the only fount of knowledge.  From Greece
they derived the measures of their poetry, and, indeed, all of
poetry that can be imported.  From Greece they borrowed the
principles and the vocabulary of their philosophy.  To the
literature of other nations they do not seem to have paid the
slightest attention.  The sacred books of the Hebrews, for
example, books which, considered merely as human compositions,
are invaluable to the critic, the antiquarian, and the
philosopher, seem to have been utterly unnoticed by them.  The
peculiarities of Judaism, and the rapid growth of Christianity,
attracted their notice.  They made war against the Jews.  They
made laws against the Christians.  But they never opened the
books of Moses.  Juvenal quotes the Pentateuch with censure.  The
author of the treatise on "the Sublime" quotes it with praise: 
but both of them quote it erroneously.  When we consider what
sublime poetry, what curious history, what striking and peculiar
views of the Divine nature and of the social duties of men, are
to be found in the Jewish scriptures, when we consider that two
sects on which the attention of the government was constantly
fixed appealed to those scriptures as the rule of their faith and
practice, this indifference is astonishing.  The fact seems to
be, that the Greeks admired only themselves, and that the Romans
admired only themselves and the Greeks.  Literary men turned away
with disgust from modes of thought and expression so widely
different from all that they had been accustomed to admire.  The
effect was narrowness and sameness of thought.  Their minds, if
we may so express ourselves, bred in and in, and were accordingly
cursed with barrenness and degeneracy.  No extraneous beauty or
vigour was engrafted on the decaying stock.  By an exclusive
attention to one class of phenomena, by an exclusive taste for
one species of excellence, the human intellect was stunted. 
Occasional coincidences were turned into general rules. 
Prejudices were confounded with instincts.  On man, as he was
found in a particular state of society--on government, as it had
existed in a particular corner of the world, many just
observations were made; but of man as man, or government as
government, little was known.  Philosophy remained stationary. 
Slight changes, sometimes for the worse and sometimes for the
better, were made in the superstructure.  But nobody thought of
examining the foundations.

The vast despotism of the Caesars, gradually effacing all
national peculiarities, and assimilating the remotest provinces
of the empire to each other, augmented the evil.  At the close of
the third century after Christ, the prospects of mankind were
fearfully dreary.  A system of etiquette, as pompously frivolous
as that of the Escurial, had been established.  A sovereign
almost invisible; a crowd of dignitaries minutely distinguished
by badges and titles; rhetoricians who said nothing but what had
been said ten thousand times; schools in which nothing was taught
but what had been known for ages:  such was the machinery
provided for the government and instruction of the most
enlightened part of the human race.  That great community was
then in danger of experiencing a calamity far more terrible than
any of the quick, inflammatory, destroying maladies, to which
nations are liable,--a tottering, drivelling, paralytic
longevity, the immortality of the Struldbrugs, a Chinese
civilisation.  It would be easy to indicate many points of
resemblance between the subjects of Diocletian and the people of
that Celestial Empire, where, during many centuries, nothing has
been learned or unlearned; where government, where education,
where the whole system of life, is a ceremony; where knowledge
forgets to increase and multiply, and, like the talent buried in
the earth, or the pound wrapped up in the napkin, experiences
neither waste no augmentation.

The torpor was broken by two great revolutions, the one moral,
the other political, the one from within, the other from without. 
The victory of Christianity over Paganism, considered with
relation to this subject only, was of great importance.  It
overthrew the old system of morals; and with it much of the old
system of metaphysics.  It furnished the orator with new topics
of declamation, and the logician with new points of controversy.
Above all, it introduced a new principle, of which the operation
was constantly felt in every part of society.  It stirred the
stagnant mass from the inmost depths.  It excited all the
passions of a stormy democracy in the quiet and listless
population of an overgrown empire.  The fear of heresy did what
the sense of oppression could not do; it changed men, accustomed
to be turned over like sheep from tyrant to tyrant, into devoted
partisans and obstinate rebels.  The tones of an eloquence which
had been silent for ages resounded from the pulpit of Gregory.  A
spirit which had been extinguished on the plains of Philippi
revived in Athanasius and Ambrose.

Yet even this remedy was not sufficiently violent for the
disease.  It did not prevent the empire of Constantinople from
relapsing, after a short paroxysm of excitement, into a state of
stupefaction, to which history furnishes scarcely any parallel. 
We there find that a polished society, a society in which a most
intricate and elaborate system of jurisprudence was established,
in which the arts of luxury were well understood, in which the
works of the great ancient writers were preserved and studied,
existed for nearly a thousand years without making one great
discovery in science, or producing one book which is read by any
but curious inquirers.  There were tumults, too, and
controversies, and wars in abundance:  and these things, bad as
they are in themselves, have generally been favourable to the
progress of the intellect.  But here they tormented without
stimulating.  The waters were troubled; but no healing influence
descended.  The agitations resembled the grinnings and writhings
of a galvanised corpse, not the struggles of an athletic man.

From this miserable state the Western Empire was saved by the
fiercest and most destroying visitation with which God has ever
chastened his creatures--the invasion of the Northern nations. 
Such a cure was required for such a distemper.  The fire of
London, it has been observed was a blessing.  It burned down the
city; but it burned out the plague.  The same may be said of the
tremendous devastation of the Roman dominions.  It annihilated
the noisome recesses in which lurked the seeds of great moral
maladies; it cleared an atmosphere fatal to the health and vigour
of the human mind.  It cost Europe a thousand years of barbarism
to escape the fate of China.

At length the terrible purification was accomplished; and the
second civilisation of mankind commenced, under circumstances
which afforded a strong security that it would never retrograde
and never pause.  Europe was now a great federal community.  Her
numerous states were united by the easy ties of international law
and a common religion.  Their institutions, their languages,
their manners, their tastes in literature, their modes of
education, were widely different.  Their connection was close
enough to allow of mutual observation and improvement, yet not so
close as to destroy the idioms of national opinion and feeling.

The balance of moral and intellectual influence thus established
between the nations of Europe is far more important than the
balance of political power.  Indeed, we are inclined to think
that the latter is valuable principally because it tends to
maintain the former.  The civilised world has thus been preserved
from a uniformity of character fatal to all improvement.  Every
part of it has been illuminated with light reflected from every
other.  Competition has produced activity where monopoly would
have produced sluggishness.  The number of experiments in moral
science which the speculator has an opportunity of witnessing has
been increased beyond all calculation.  Society and human nature,
instead of being seen in a single point of view, are presented to
him under ten thousand different aspects.  By observing the
manners of surrounding nations, by studying their literature, by
comparing it with that of his own country and of the ancient
republics, he is enabled to correct those errors into which the
most acute men must fall when they reason from a single species
to a genus.  He learns to distinguish what is local from what is
universal:  what is transitory from what is eternal; to
discriminate between exceptions and rules; to trace the operation
of disturbing causes; to separate those general principles which
are always true and everywhere applicable from the accidental
circumstances with which, in every community, they are blended,
and with which, in an isolated community, they are confounded by
the most philosophical mind.

Hence it is that, in generalisation, the writers of modern times
have far surpassed those of antiquity.  The historians of our own
country are unequalled in depth and precision of reason; and,
even in the works of our mere compilers, we often meet with
speculations beyond the reach of Thucydides or Tacitus.

But it must, at the same time, be admitted that they have
characteristic faults, so closely connected with their
characteristic merits, and of such magnitude, that it may well be
doubted whether, on the whole, this department of literature has
gained or lost during the last two-and-twenty centuries.

The best historians of later times have been seduced from truth,
not by their imagination, but by their reason.  They far excel
their predecessors in the art of deducing general principles from
facts.  But unhappily they have fallen into the error of
distorting facts to suit general principles.  They arrive at a
theory from looking at some of the phenomena; and the remaining
phenomena they strain or curtail to suit the theory.  For this
purpose it is not necessary that they should assert what is
absolutely false; for all questions in morals and politics are
questions of comparison and degree.  Any proposition which does
not involve a contradiction in terms may by possibility be true;
and, if all the circumstances which raise a probability in its
favour, be stated and enforced, and those which lead to an
opposite conclusion be omitted or lightly passed over, it may
appear to be demonstrated.  In every human character and
transaction there is a mixture of good and evil:  a little
exaggeration, a little suppression, a judicious use of epithets,
a watchful and searching scepticism with respect to the evidence
on one side, a convenient credulity with respect to every report
or tradition on the other, may easily make a saint of Laud, or a
tyrant of Henry the Fourth.

This species of misrepresentation abounds in the most valuable
works of modern historians.  Herodotus tells his story like a
slovenly witness, who, heated by partialities and prejudices,
unacquainted with the established rules of evidence, and
uninstructed as to the obligations of his oath, confounds what he
imagines with what he has seen and heard, and brings out facts,
reports, conjectures, and fancies, in one mass.  Hume is an
accomplished advocate.  Without positively asserting much more
than he can prove, he gives prominence to all the circumstances
which support his case; he glides lightly over those which are
unfavourable to it; his own witnesses are applauded and
encouraged; the statements which seem to throw discredit on them
are controverted; the contradictions into which they fall are
explained away; a clear and connected abstract of their evidence
is given.  Everything that is offered on the other side is
scrutinised with the utmost severity; every suspicious
circumstance is a ground for comment and invective; what cannot
be denied is extenuated, or passed by without notice; concessions
even are sometimes made:  but this insidious candour only
increases the effect of the vast mass of sophistry.

We have mentioned Hume as the ablest and most popular writer of
his class; but the charge which we have brought against him is
one to which all our most distinguished historians are in some
degree obnoxious.  Gibbon, in particular, deserves very severe
censure.  Of all the numerous culprits, however, none is more
deeply guilty than Mr Mitford.  We willingly acknowledge the
obligations which are due to his talents and industry.  The
modern historians of Greece had been in the habit of writing as
if the world had learned nothing new during the last sixteen
hundred years.  Instead of illustrating the events which they
narrated by the philosophy of a more enlightened age, they judged
of antiquity by itself alone.  They seemed to think that notions,
long driven from every other corner of literature, had a
prescriptive right to occupy this last fastness.  They considered
all the ancient historians as equally authentic.  They scarcely
made any distinction between him who related events at which he
had himself been present and him who five hundred years after
composed a philosophic romance for a society which had in the
interval undergone a complete change.  It was all Greek, and all
true!  The centuries which separated Plutarch from Thucydides
seemed as nothing to men who lived in an age so remote.  The
distance of time produced an error similar to that which is
sometimes produced by distance of place.  There are many good
ladies who think that all the people in India live together, and
who charge a friend setting out for Calcutta with kind messages
to Bombay.  To Rollin and Barthelemi, in the same manner, all the
classics were contemporaries.

Mr Mitford certainly introduced great improvements; he showed us
that men who wrote in Greek and Latin sometimes told lies; he
showed us that ancient history might be related in such a manner
as to furnish not only allusions to schoolboys, but important
lessons to statesmen.  From that love of theatrical effect and
high-flown sentiment which had poisoned almost every other work
on the same subject his book is perfectly free.  But his passion
for a theory as false, and far more ungenerous, led him
substantially to violate truth in every page.  Statements
unfavourable to democracy are made with unhesitating confidence,
and with the utmost bitterness of language.  Every charge brought
against a monarch or an aristocracy is sifted with the utmost
care.  If it cannot be denied, some palliating supposition is
suggested; or we are at least reminded that some circumstances
now unknown MAY have justified what at present appears
unjustifiable.  Two events are reported by the same author in the
same sentence; their truth rests on the same testimony; but the
one supports the darling hypothesis, and the other seems
inconsistent with it.  The one is taken and the other is left.

The practice of distorting narrative into a conformity with
theory is a vice not so unfavourable as at first sight it may
appear to the interests of political science.  We have compared
the writers who indulge in it to advocates; and we may add, that
their conflicting fallacies, like those of advocates, correct
each other.  It has always been held, in the most enlightened
nations, that a tribunal will decide a judicial question most
fairly when it has heard two able men argue, as unfairly as
possible, on the two opposite sides of it; and we are inclined to
think that this opinion is just.  Sometimes, it is true, superior
eloquence and dexterity will make the worse appear the better
reason; but it is at least certain that the judge will be
compelled to contemplate the case under two different aspects. 
It is certain that no important consideration will altogether
escape notice.

This is at present the state of history.  The poet laureate
appears for the Church of England, Lingard for the Church of
Rome.  Brodie has moved to set aside the verdicts obtained by
Hume; and the cause in which Mitford succeeded is, we understand,
about to be reheard.  In the midst of these disputes, however,
history proper, if we may use the term, is disappearing.  The
high, grave, impartial summing up of Thucydides is nowhere to be
found.

While our historians are practising all the arts of controversy,
they miserably neglect the art of narration, the art of
interesting the affections and presenting pictures to the
imagination.  That a writer may produce these effects without
violating truth is sufficiently proved by many excellent
biographical works.  The immense popularity which well-written
books of this kind have acquired deserves the serious
consideration of historians.  Voltaire's Charles the Twelfth,
Marmontel's Memoirs, Boswell's Life of Johnson, Southey's account
of Nelson, are perused with delight by the most frivolous and
indolent.  Whenever any tolerable book of the same description
makes its appearance, the circulating libraries are mobbed; the
book societies are in commotion; the new novel lies uncut; the
magazines and newspapers fill their columns with extracts.  In
the meantime histories of great empires, written by men of
eminent ability, lie unread on the shelves of ostentatious
libraries.

The writers of history seem to entertain an aristocratical
contempt for the writers of memoirs.  They think it beneath the
dignity of men who describe the revolutions of nations to dwell
on the details which constitute the charm of biography.  They
have imposed on themselves a code of conventional decencies as
absurd as that which has been the bane of the French drama.  The
most characteristic and interesting circumstances are omitted or
softened down, because, as we are told, they are too trivial for
the majesty of history.  The majesty of history seems to resemble
the majesty of the poor King of Spain, who died a martyr to
ceremony because the proper dignitaries were not at hand to
render him assistance.

That history would be more amusing if this etiquette were relaxed
will, we suppose, be acknowledged.  But would it be less
dignified or less useful?  What do we mean when we say that one
past event is important and another insignificant?  No past event
has any intrinsic importance.  The knowledge of it is valuable
only as it leads us to form just calculations with respect to the
future.  A history which does not serve this purpose, though it
may be filled with battles, treaties, and commotions, is as
useless as the series of turnpike tickets collected by Sir
Matthew Mite.

Let us suppose that Lord Clarendon, instead of filling hundreds
of folio pages with copies of state papers, in which the same
assertions and contradictions are repeated till the reader is
overpowered with weariness, had condescended to be the Boswell of
the Long Parliament.  Let us suppose that he had exhibited to us
the wise and lofty self-government of Hampden, leading while he
seemed to follow, and propounding unanswerable arguments in the
strongest forms with the modest air of an inquirer anxious for
information; the delusions which misled the noble spirit of Vane;
the coarse fanaticism which concealed the yet loftier genius of
Cromwell, destined to control a motionless army and a factious
people, to abase the flag of Holland, to arrest the victorious
arms of Sweden, and to hold the balance firm between the rival
monarchies of France and Spain.  Let us suppose that he had made
his Cavaliers and Roundheads talk in their own style; that he had
reported some of the ribaldry of Rupert's pages, and some of the
cant of Harrison and Fleetwood.  Would not his work in that case
have been more interesting?  Would it not have been more
accurate?

A history in which every particular incident may be true may on
the whole be false.  The circumstances which have most influence
on the happiness of mankind, the changes of manners and morals,
the transition of communities from poverty to wealth, from
knowledge to ignorance, from ferocity to humanity--these are, for
the most part, noiseless revolutions.  Their progress is rarely
indicated by what historians are pleased to call important
events.  They are not achieved by armies, or enacted by senates. 
They are sanctioned by no treaties, and recorded in no archives. 
They are carried on in every school, in every church, behind ten
thousand counters, at ten thousand firesides.  The upper current
of society presents no certain criterion by which we can judge of
the direction in which the under current flows.  We read of
defeats and victories.  But we know that nations may be miserable
amidst victories and prosperous amidst defeats.  We read of the
fall of wise ministers and of the rise of profligate favourites. 
But we must remember how small a proportion the good or evil
effected by a single statesman can bear to the good or evil of a
great social system.

Bishop Watson compares a geologist to a gnat mounted on an
elephant, and laying down theories as to the whole internal
structure of the vast animal, from the phenomena of the hide. 
The comparison is unjust to the geologists; but is very
applicable to those historians who write as if the body politic
were homogeneous, who look only on the surface of affairs, and
never think of the mighty and various organisation which lies
deep below.

In the works of such writers as these, England, at the close of
the Seven Years' War, is in the highest state of prosperity:  at
the close of the American war she is in a miserable and degraded
condition; as if the people were not on the whole as rich, as
well governed, and as well educated at the latter period as at
the former.  We have read books called Histories of England,
under the reign of George the Second, in which the rise of
Methodism is not even mentioned.  A hundred years hence this
breed of authors will, we hope, be extinct.  If it should still
exist, the late ministerial interregnum will be described in
terms which will seem to imply that all government was at an end;
that the social contract was annulled; and that the hand of every
man was against his neighbour, until the wisdom and virtue of the
new cabinet educed order out of the chaos of anarchy.  We are
quite certain that misconceptions as gross prevail at this moment
respecting many important parts of our annals.

The effect of historical reading is analogous, in many respects,
to that produced by foreign travel.  The student, like the
tourist, is transported into a new state of society.  He sees new
fashions.  He hears new modes of expression.  His mind is
enlarged by contemplating the wide diversities of laws, of
morals, and of manners.  But men may travel far, and return with
minds as contracted as if they had never stirred from their own
market-town.  In the same manner, men may know the dates of many
battles and the genealogies of many royal houses, and yet be no
wiser.  Most people look at past times as princes look at foreign
countries.  More than one illustrious stranger has landed on our
island amidst the shouts of a mob, has dined with the king, has
hunted with the master of the stag-hounds, has seen the guards
reviewed, and a knight of the garter installed, has cantered
along Regent Street, has visited Saint Paul's, and noted down its
dimensions; and has then departed, thinking that he has seen
England.  He has, in fact, seen a few public buildings, public
men, and public ceremonies.  But of the vast and complex system
of society, of the fine shades of national character, of the
practical operation of government and laws, he knows nothing.  He
who would understand these things rightly must not confine his
observations to palaces and solemn days.  He must see ordinary
men as they appear in their ordinary business and in their
ordinary pleasures.  He must mingle in the crowds of the exchange
and the coffee-house.  He must obtain admittance to the convivial
table and the domestic hearth.  He must bear with vulgar
expressions.  He must not shrink from exploring even the retreats
of misery.  He who wishes to understand the condition of mankind
in former ages must proceed on the same principle.  If he attends
only to public transactions, to wars, congresses, and debates,
his studies will be as unprofitable as the travels of those
imperial, royal, and serene sovereigns who form their judgment of
our island from having gone in state to a few fine sights, and
from having held formal conferences with a few great officers.

The perfect historian is he in whose work the character and
spirit of an age is exhibited in miniature.  He relates no fact,
he attributes no expression to his characters, which is not
authenticated by sufficient testimony.  But, by judicious
selection, rejection, and arrangement, he gives to truth those
attractions which have been usurped by fiction.  In his narrative
a due subordination is observed:  some transactions are
prominent; others retire.  But the scale on which he represents
them is increased or diminished, not according to the dignity of
the persons concerned in them, but according to the degree in
which they elucidate the condition of society and the nature of
man.  He shows us the court, the camp, and the senate.  But he
shows us also the nation.  He considers no anecdote, no
peculiarity of manner, no familiar saying, as too insignificant
for his notice which is not too insignificant to illustrate the
operation of laws, of religion, and of education, and to mark the
progress of the human mind.  Men will not merely be described,
but will be made intimately known to us.  The changes of manners
will be indicated, not merely by a few general phrases or a few
extracts from statistical documents, but by appropriate images
presented in every line.

If a man, such as we are supposing, should write the history of
England, he would assuredly not omit the battles, the sieges, the
negotiations, the seditions, the ministerial changes.  But with
these he would intersperse the details which are the charm of
historical romances.  At Lincoln Cathedral there is a beautiful
painted window, which was made by an apprentice out of the pieces
of glass which had been rejected by his master.  It is so far
superior to every other in the church, that, according to the
tradition, the vanquished artist killed himself from
mortification.  Sir Walter Scott, in the same manner, has used
those fragments of truth which historians have scornfully thrown
behind them in a manner which may well excite their envy.  He has
constructed out of their gleanings works which, even considered
as histories, are scarcely less valuable than theirs.  But a
truly great historian would reclaim those materials which the
novelist has appropriated.  The history of the government, and
the history of the people, would be exhibited in that mode in
which alone they can be exhibited justly, in inseparable
conjunction and intermixture.  We should not then have to look
for the wars and votes of the Puritans in Clarendon, and for
their phraseology in Old Mortality; for one half of King James in
Hume, and for the other half in the Fortunes of Nigel.

The early part of our imaginary history would be rich with
colouring from romance, ballad, and chronicle.  We should find
ourselves in the company of knights such as those of Froissart,
and of pilgrims such as those who rode with Chaucer from the
Tabard.  Society would be shown from the highest to the lowest,--
from the royal cloth of state to the den of the outlaw; from the
throne of the legate to the chimney-corner where the begging
friar regaled himself.  Palmers, minstrels, crusaders,--the
stately monastery, with the good cheer in its refectory and the
high-mass in its chapel,--the manor-house, with its hunting and
hawking,--the tournament, with the heralds and ladies, the
trumpets and the cloth of gold,--would give truth and life to the
representation.  We should perceive, in a thousand slight
touches, the importance of the privileged burgher, and the fierce
and haughty spirit which swelled under the collar of the degraded
villain.  The revival of letters would not merely be described in
a few magnificent periods.  We should discern, in innumerable
particulars, the fermentation of mind, the eager appetite for
knowledge, which distinguished the sixteenth from the fifteenth
century.  In the Reformation we should see, not merely a schism
which changed the ecclesiastical constitution of England and the
mutual relations of the European powers, but a moral war which
raged in every family, which set the father against the son, and
the son against the father, the mother against the daughter, and
the daughter against the mother.  Henry would be painted with the
skill of Tacitus.  We should have the change of his character
from his profuse and joyous youth to his savage and imperious old
age.  We should perceive the gradual progress of selfish and
tyrannical passions in a mind not naturally insensible or
ungenerous; and to the last we should detect some remains of that
open and noble temper which endeared him to a people whom he
oppressed, struggling with the hardness of despotism and the
irritability of disease.  We should see Elizabeth in all her
weakness and in all her strength, surrounded by the handsome
favourites whom she never trusted, and the wise old statesmen
whom she never dismissed, uniting in herself the most
contradictory qualities of both her parents,--the coquetry, the
caprice, the petty malice of Anne,--the haughty and resolute
spirit of Henry.  We have no hesitation in saying that a great
artist might produce a portrait of this remarkable woman at least
as striking as that in the novel of Kenilworth, without employing
a single trait not authenticated by ample testimony.  In the
meantime, we should see arts cultivated, wealth accumulated, the
conveniences of life improved.  We should see the keeps, where
nobles, insecure themselves, spread insecurity around them,
gradually giving place to the halls of peaceful opulence, to the
oriels of Longleat, and the stately pinnacles of Burleigh.  We
should see towns extended, deserts cultivated, the hamlets of
fishermen turned into wealthy havens, the meal of the peasant
improved, and his hut more commodiously furnished.  We should see
those opinions and feelings which produced the great struggle
against the House of Stuart slowly growing up in the bosom of
private families, before they manifested themselves in
parliamentary debates.  Then would come the civil war.  Those
skirmishes on which Clarendon dwells so minutely would be told,
as Thucydides would have told them, with perspicuous conciseness. 
They are merely connecting links.  But the great characteristics
of the age, the loyal enthusiasm of the brave English gentry, the
fierce licentiousness of the swearing, dicing, drunken
reprobates, whose excesses disgraced the royal cause,--the
austerity of the Presbyterian Sabbaths in the city, the
extravagance of the independent preachers in the camp, the
precise garb, the severe countenance, the petty scruples, the
affected accent, the absurd names and phrases which marked the
Puritans,--the valour, the policy, the public spirit, which
lurked beneath these ungraceful disguises,--the dreams of the
raving Fifth-monarchy-man, the dreams, scarcely less wild, of the
philosophic republican, all these would enter into the
representation, and render it at once more exact and more
striking.

The instruction derived from history thus written would be of a
vivid and practical character.  It would be received by the
imagination as well as by the reason.  It would be not merely
traced on the mind, but branded into it.  Many truths, too, would
be learned, which can be learned in no other manner.  As the
history of states is generally written, the greatest and most
momentous revolutions seem to come upon them like supernatural
inflictions, without warning or cause.  But the fact is, that
such revolutions are almost always the consequences of moral
changes, which have gradually passed on the mass of the
community, and which originally proceed far before their progress
is indicated by any public measure.  An intimate knowledge of the
domestic history of nations is therefore absolutely necessary to
the prognosis of political events.  A narrative, defective in
this respect, is as useless as a medical treatise which should
pass by all the symptoms attendant on the early stage of a
disease and mention only what occurs when the patient is beyond
the reach of remedies.

A historian, such as we have been attempting to describe, would
indeed be an intellectual prodigy.  In his mind, powers scarcely
compatible with each other must be tempered into an exquisite
harmony.  We shall sooner see another Shakspeare or another
Homer.  The highest excellence to which any single faculty can be
brought would be less surprising than such a happy and delicate
combination of qualities.  Yet the contemplation of imaginary
models is not an unpleasant or useless employment of the mind. 
It cannot indeed produce perfection; but it produces improvement
and nourishes that generous and liberal fastidiousness which is
not inconsistent with the strongest sensibility to merit, and
which, while it exalts our conceptions of the art, does not
render us unjust to the artist.

...


MILL ON GOVERNMENT.

(March 1829.)

"Essays on Government, Jurisprudence, the Liberty of the Press,
Prisons, and Prison Discipline, Colonies, the Law of Nations, and
Education."  By James Mill, Esq., author of the History of
British India.  Reprinted by permission from the Supplement to
the Encyclopaedia Britannica.  (Not for sale.)  London, 1828.

Of those philosophers who call themselves Utilitarians, and whom
others generally call Benthamites, Mr Mill is, with the exception
of the illustrious founder of the sect, by far the most
distinguished.  The little work now before us contains a summary
of the opinions held by this gentleman and his brethren on
several subjects most important to society.  All the seven essays
of which it consists abound in curious matter.  But at present we
intend to confine our remarks to the Treatise on Government,
which stands first in the volume.  On some future occasion, we
may perhaps attempt to do justice to the rest.

It must be owned that to do justice to any composition of Mr Mill
is not, in the opinion of his admirers, a very easy task.  They
do not, indeed, place him in the same rank with Mr Bentham; but
the terms in which they extol the disciple, though feeble when
compared with the hyperboles of adoration employed by them in
speaking of the master, are as strong as any sober man would
allow himself to use concerning Locke or Bacon.  The essay before
us is perhaps the most remarkable of the works to which Mr Mill
owes his fame.  By the members of his sect, it is considered as
perfect and unanswerable.  Every part of it is an article of
their faith; and the damnatory clauses, in which their creed
abounds far beyond any theological symbol with which we are
acquainted, are strong and full against all who reject any
portion of what is so irrefragably established.  No man, they
maintain, who has understanding sufficient to carry him through
the first proposition of Euclid, can read this masterpiece of
demonstration and honestly declare that he remains unconvinced.

We have formed a very different opinion of this work.  We think
that the theory of Mr Mill rests altogether on false principles,
and that even on those false principles he does not reason
logically.  Nevertheless, we do not think it strange that his
speculations should have filled the Utilitarians with admiration. 
We have been for some time past inclined to suspect that these
people, whom some regard as the lights of the world and others as
incarnate demons, are in general ordinary men, with narrow
understandings and little information.  The contempt which they
express for elegant literature is evidently the contempt of
ignorance.  We apprehend that many of them are persons who,
having read little or nothing, are delighted to be rescued from
the sense of their own inferiority by some teacher who assures
them that the studies which they have neglected are of no value,
puts five or six phrases into their mouths, lends them an old
number of the Westminster Review, and in a month transforms them
into philosophers.  Mingled with these smatterers, whose
attainments just suffice to elevate them from the insignificance
of dunces to the dignity of bores, and to spread dismay among
their pious aunts and grandmothers, there are, we well know, many
well-meaning men who have really read and thought much; but whose
reading and meditation have been almost exclusively confined to
one class of subjects; and who, consequently, though they possess
much valuable knowledge respecting those subjects, are by no
means so well qualified to judge of a great system as if they had
taken a more enlarged view of literature and society.

Nothing is more amusing or instructive than to observe the manner
in which people who think themselves wiser than all the rest of
the world fall into snares which the simple good sense of their
neighbours detects and avoids.  It is one of the principle tenets
of the Utilitarians that sentiment and eloquence serve only to
impede the pursuit of truth.  They therefore affect a quakerly
plainness, or rather a cynical negligence and impurity, of style. 
The strongest arguments, when clothed in brilliant language, seem
to them so much wordy nonsense.  In the meantime they surrender
their understandings, with a facility found in no other party, to
the meanest and most abject sophisms, provided those sophisms
come before them disguised with the externals of demonstration. 
They do not seem to know that logic has its illusions as well as
rhetoric,--that a fallacy may lurk in a syllogism as well as in a
metaphor.

Mr Mill is exactly the writer to please people of this
description.  His arguments are stated with the utmost
affectation of precision; his divisions are awfully formal; and
his style is generally as dry as that of Euclid's Elements. 
Whether this be a merit, we must be permitted to doubt.  Thus
much is certain:  that the ages in which the true principles of
philosophy were least understood were those in which the
ceremonial of logic was most strictly observed, and that the time
from which we date the rapid progress of the experimental
sciences was also the time at which a less exact and formal way
of writing came into use.

The style which the Utilitarians admire suits only those subjects
on which it is possible to reason a priori.  It grew up with the
verbal sophistry which flourished during the dark ages.  With
that sophistry it fell before the Baconian philosopher in the day
of the great deliverance of the human mind.  The inductive method
not only endured but required greater freedom of diction.  It was
impossible to reason from phenomena up to principles, to mark
slight shades of difference in quality, or to estimate the
comparative effect of two opposite considerations between which
there was no common measure, by means of the naked and meagre
jargon of the schoolmen.  Of those schoolmen Mr Mill has
inherited both the spirit and the style.  He is an Aristotelian
of the fifteenth century, born out of due season.  We have here
an elaborate treatise on Government, from which, but for two or
three passing allusions, it would not appear that the author was
aware that any governments actually existed among men.  Certain
propensities of human nature are assumed; and from these premises
the whole science of politics is synthetically deduced!  We can
scarcely persuade ourselves that we are not reading a book
written before the time of Bacon and Galileo,--a book written in
those days in which physicians reasoned from the nature of heat
to the treatment of fever, and astronomers proved syllogistically
that the planets could have no independent motion,--because the
heavens were incorruptible, and nature abhorred a vacuum!

The reason, too, which Mr Mill has assigned for taking this
course strikes us as most extraordinary.

"Experience," says he, "if we look only at the outside of the
facts, appears to be DIVIDED on this subject.  Absolute monarchy,
under Neros and Caligulas, under such men as the Emperors of
Morocco and Sultans of Turkey, is the scourge of human nature. 
On the other side, the people of Denmark, tired out with the
oppression of an aristocracy, resolved that their king should be
absolute; and, under their absolute monarch, are as well governed
as any people in Europe."

This Mr Mill actually gives as a reason for pursuing the a priori
method.  But, in our judgment, the very circumstances which he
mentions irresistibly prove that the a priori method is
altogether unfit for investigations of this kind, and that the
only way to arrive at the truth is by induction.  EXPERIENCE can
never be divided, or even appear to be divided, except with
reference to some hypothesis.  When we say that one fact is
inconsistent with another fact, we mean only that it is
inconsistent with THE THEORY which we have founded on that other
fact.  But, if the fact be certain, the unavoidable conclusion is
that our theory is false; and, in order to correct it, we must
reason back from an enlarged collection of facts to principles.

Now here we have two governments which, by Mr Mill's own account,
come under the same head in his THEORETICAL classification.  It
is evident, therefore, that, by reasoning on that theoretical
classification, we shall be brought to the conclusion that these
two forms of government must produce the same effects.  But Mr
Mill himself tells us that they do not produce the same effects. 
Hence he infers that the only way to get at truth is to place
implicit confidence in that chain of proof a priori from which it
appears that they must produce the same effects!  To believe at
once in a theory and in a fact which contradicts it is an
exercise of faith sufficiently hard:  but to believe in a theory
BECAUSE a fact contradicts it is what neither philosopher nor
pope ever before required.  This, however, is what Mr Mill
demands of us.  He seems to think that, if all despots, without
exception, governed ill, it would be unnecessary to prove, by a
synthetical argument, what would then be sufficiently clear from
experience.  But, as some despots will be so perverse as to
govern well, he finds himself compelled to prove the
impossibility of their governing well by that synthetical
argument which would have been superfluous had not the facts
contradicted it.  He reasons a priori, because the phenomena are
not what, by reasoning a priori, he will prove them to be.  In
other words, he reasons a priori, because, by so reasoning, he is
certain to arrive at a false conclusion!

In the course of the examination to which we propose to subject
the speculations of Mr Mill we shall have to notice many other
curious instances of that turn of mind which the passage above
quoted indicates.

The first chapter of his Essay relates to the ends of government. 
The conception on this subject, he tells us, which exists in the
minds of most men is vague and undistinguishing.  He first
assumes, justly enough, that the end of government is "to
increase to the utmost the pleasures, and diminish to the utmost
the pains, which men derive from each other."  He then proceeds
to show, with great form, that "the greatest possible happiness
of society is attained by insuring to every man the greatest
possible quantity of the produce of his labour."  To effect this
is, in his opinion, the end of government.  It is remarkable that
Mr Mill, with all his affected display of precision, has here
given a description of the ends of government far less precise
than that which is in the mouths of the vulgar.  The first man
with whom Mr Mill may travel in a stage coach will tell him that
government exists for the protection of the PERSONS and property
of men.  But Mr Mill seems to think that the preservation of
property is the first and only object.  It is true, doubtless,
that many of the injuries which are offered to the persons of men
proceed from a desire to possess their property.  But the
practice of vindictive assassination as it has existed in some
parts of Europe--the practice of fighting wanton and sanguinary
duels, like those of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, in
which bands of seconds risked their lives as well as the
principals;--these practices, and many others which might be
named, are evidently injurious to society; and we do not see how
a government which tolerated them could be said "to diminish to
the utmost the pains which men derive from each other." 
Therefore, according to Mr Mill's very correct assumption, such a
government would not perfectly accomplish the end of its
institution.  Yet such a government might, as far as we can
perceive, "insure to every man the greatest possible quantity of
the produce of his labour."  Therefore such a government might,
according to Mr Mill's subsequent doctrine, perfectly accomplish
the end of its institution.  The matter is not of much
consequence, except as an instance of that slovenliness of
thinking which is often concealed beneath a peculiar ostentation
of logical neatness.

Having determined the ends, Mr Mill proceeds to consider the
means.  For the preservation of property some portion of the
community must be intrusted with power.  This is government; and
the question is, how are those to whom the necessary power is
intrusted to be prevented from abusing it?

Mr Mill first passes in review the simple forms of government. 
He allows that it would be inconvenient, if not physically
impossible, that the whole community should meet in a mass; it
follows, therefore, that the powers of government cannot be
directly exercised by the people.  But he sees no objection to
pure and direct Democracy, except the difficulty which we have
mentioned.

"The community," says he, "cannot have an interest opposite to
its interests.  To affirm this would be a contradiction in terms. 
The community within itself, and with respect to itself, can have
no sinister interest.  One community may intend the evil of
another; never its own.  This is an indubitable proposition, and
one of great importance."

Mr Mill then proceeds to demonstrate that a purely aristocratical
form of government is necessarily bad.

"The reason for which government exists is, that one man, if
stronger than another, will take from him whatever that other
possesses and he desires.  But if one man will do this, so will
several.  And if powers are put into the hands of a comparatively
small number, called an aristocracy,--powers which make them
stronger than the rest of the community, they will take from the
rest of the community as much as they please of the objects of
desire.  They will thus defeat the very end for which government
was instituted.  The unfitness, therefore, of an aristocracy to
be intrusted with the powers of government, rests on
demonstration.

In exactly the same manner Mr Mill proves absolute monarchy to be
a bad form of government.

"If government is founded upon this as a law of human nature,
that a man, if able, will take from others anything which they
have and he desires, it is sufficiently evident, that when a man
is called a king he does not change his nature; so that when he
has got power to enable him to take from every man what he
pleases, he will take whatever he pleases.  To suppose that he
will not, is to affirm that government is unnecessary, and that
human beings will abstain from injuring one another of their own
accord.

"It is very evident that this reasoning extends to every
modification of the smaller number.  Whenever the powers of
government are placed in any hands other than those of the
community, whether those of one man, of a few, or of several,
those principles of human nature which imply that government is
at all necessary, imply that those persons will make use of them
to defeat the very end for which government exists."

But is it not possible that a king or an aristocracy may soon be
saturated with the objects of their desires, and may then protect
the community in the enjoyment of the rest?  Mr Mill answers in
the negative.  He proves, with great pomp, that every man desires
to have the actions of every other correspondent to his will. 
Others can be induced to conform to our will only by motives
derived from pleasure or from pain.  The infliction of pain is of
course direct injury; and, even if it take the milder course, in
order to produce obedience by motives derived from pleasure, the
government must confer favours.  But, as there is no limit to its
desire of obedience, there will be no limit to its disposition to
confer favours; and, as it can confer favours only by plundering
the people, there will be no limit to its disposition to plunder
the people.  It is therefore not true that there is in the mind
of a king, or in the minds of an aristocracy, any point of
saturation with the objects of desire.

Mr Mill then proceeds to show that, as monarchical and
oligarchical governments can influence men by motives drawn from
pain, as well as by motives drawn from pleasure, they will carry
their cruelty, as well as their rapacity, to a frightful extent. 
As he seems greatly to admire his own reasonings on this subject,
we think it but fair to let him speak for himself.

"The chain of inference in this case is close and strong to a
most unusual degree.  A man desires that the actions of other men
shall be instantly and accurately correspondent to his will.  He
desires that the actions of the greatest possible number shall be
so.  Terror is the grand instrument.  Terror can work only
through assurance that evil will follow any failure of conformity
between the will and the actions willed.  Every failure must
therefore be punished.  As there are no bounds to the mind's
desire of its pleasure, there are, of course, no bounds to its
desire of perfection in the instruments of that pleasure.  There
are, therefore, no bounds to its desire of exactness in the
conformity between its will and the actions willed; and by
consequence to the strength of that terror which is its procuring
cause.  Even the most minute failure must be visited with the
heaviest infliction; and as failure in extreme exactness must
frequently happen, the occasions of cruelty must be incessant.

"We have thus arrived at several conclusions of the highest
possible importance.  We have seen that the principle of human
nature, upon which the necessity of government is founded, the
propensity of one man to possess himself of the objects of desire
at the cost of another, leads on, by infallible sequence, where
power over a community is attained, and nothing checks, not only
to that degree of plunder which leaves the members (excepting
always the recipients and instruments of the plunder) the bare
means of subsistence, but to that degree of cruelty which is
necessary to keep in existence the most intense terrors."

Now, no man who has the least knowledge of the real state of the
world, either in former ages or at the present moment, can
possibly be convinced, though he may perhaps be bewildered, by
arguments like these.  During the last two centuries, some
hundreds of absolute princes have reigned in Europe.  Is it true,
that their cruelty has kept in existence the most intense degree
of terror; that their rapacity has left no more than the bare
means of subsistence to any of their subjects, their ministers
and soldiers excepted?  Is this true of all of them?  Of one half
of them?  Of one tenth part of them?  Of a single one?  Is it
true, in the full extent, even of Philip the Second, of Louis the
Fifteenth, or of the Emperor Paul?  But it is scarcely necessary
to quote history.  No man of common sense, however ignorant he
may be of books, can be imposed on by Mr Mill's argument; because
no man of common sense can live among his fellow-creatures for a
day without seeing innumerable facts which contradict it.  It is
our business, however, to point out its fallacy; and happily the
fallacy is not very recondite.

We grant that rulers will take as much as they can of the objects
of their desires; and that, when the agency of other men is
necessary to that end, they will attempt by all means in their
power to enforce the prompt obedience of such men.  But what are
the objects of human desire?  Physical pleasure, no doubt, in
part.  But the mere appetites which we have in common with the
animals would be gratified almost as cheaply and easily as those
of the animals are gratified, if nothing were given to taste, to
ostentation, or to the affections.  How small a portion of the
income of a gentleman in easy circumstances is laid out merely in
giving pleasurable sensations to the body of the possessor!  The
greater part even of what is spent on his kitchen and his cellar
goes, not to titillate his palate, but to keep up his character
for hospitality, to save him from the reproach of meanness in
housekeeping, and to cement the ties of good neighbourhood.  It
is clear that a king or an aristocracy may be supplied to satiety
with mere corporal pleasures, at an expense which the rudest and
poorest community would scarcely feel.

Those tastes and propensities which belong to us as reasoning and
imaginative beings are not indeed so easily gratified.  There is,
we admit, no point of saturation with objects of desire which
come under this head.  And therefore the argument of Mr Mill will
be just, unless there be something in the nature of the objects
of desire themselves which is inconsistent with it.  Now, of
these objects there is none which men in general seem to desire
more than the good opinion of others.  The hatred and contempt of
the public are generally felt to be intolerable.  It is probable
that our regard for the sentiments of our fellow-creatures
springs, by association, from a sense of their ability to hurt or
to serve us.  But, be this as it may, it is notorious that, when
the habit of mind of which we speak has once been formed, men
feel extremely solicitous about the opinions of those by whom it
is most improbable, nay, absolutely impossible, that they should
ever be in the slightest degree injured or benefited.  The desire
of posthumous fame and the dread of posthumous reproach and
execration are feelings from the influence of which scarcely any
man is perfectly free, and which in many men are powerful and
constant motives of action.  As we are afraid that, if we handle
this part of the argument after our own manner, we shall incur
the reproach of sentimentality, a word which, in the sacred
language of the Benthamites, is synonymous with idiocy, we will
quote what Mr Mill himself says on the subject, in his Treatise
on Jurisprudence.

"Pains from the moral source are the pains derived from the
unfavourable sentiments of mankind...These pains are capable of
rising to a height with which hardly any other pains incident to
our nature can be compared.  There is a certain degree of
unfavourableness in the sentiments of his fellow-creatures, under
which hardly any man, not below the standard of humanity, can
endure to live.

"The importance of this powerful agency, for the prevention of
injurious acts, is too obvious to need to be illustrated.  If
sufficiently at command, it would almost supersede the use of
other means...

"To know how to direct the unfavourable sentiments of mankind, it
is necessary to know in as complete, that is, in as
comprehensive, a way as possible, what it is which gives them
birth.  Without entering into the metaphysics of the question, it
is a sufficient practical answer, for the present purpose, to say
that the unfavourable sentiments of man are excited by everything
which hurts them."

It is strange that a writer who considers the pain derived from
the unfavourable sentiments of others as so acute that, if
sufficiently at command, it would supersede the use of the
gallows and the tread-mill, should take no notice of this most
important restraint when discussing the question of government. 
We will attempt to deduce a theory of politics in the
mathematical form, in which Mr Mill delights, from the premises
with which he has himself furnished us.

PROPOSITION I.  THEOREM.

No rulers will do anything which may hurt the people.

This is the thesis to be maintained; and the following we humbly
offer to Mr Mill, as its syllogistic demonstration.

No rulers will do that which produces pain to themselves.

But the unfavourable sentiments of the people will give pain to
them.

Therefore no rulers will do anything which may excite the
unfavourable sentiments of the people.

But the unfavourable sentiments of the people are excited by
everything which hurts them.

Therefore no rulers will do anything which may hurt the people. 
Which was the thing to be proved.

Having thus, as we think, not unsuccessfully imitated Mr Mill's
logic, we do not see why we should not imitate, what is at least
equally perfect in its kind, its self-complacency, and proclaim
our Eureka in his own words:  "The chain of inference, in this
case, is close and strong to a most unusual degree."

The fact is, that, when men, in treating of things which cannot
be circumscribed by precise definitions, adopt this mode of
reasoning, when once they begin to talk of power, happiness,
misery, pain, pleasure, motives, objects of desire, as they talk
of lines and numbers, there is no end to the contradictions and
absurdities into which they fall.  There is no proposition so
monstrously untrue in morals or politics that we will not
undertake to prove it, by something which shall sound like a
logical demonstration from admitted principles.

Mr Mill argues that, if men are not inclined to plunder each
other, government is unnecessary; and that, if they are so
inclined, the powers of government, when entrusted to a small
number of them, will necessarily be abused.  Surely it is not by
propounding dilemmas of this sort that we are likely to arrive at
sound conclusions in any moral science.  The whole question is a
question of degree.  If all men preferred the moderate
approbation of their neighbours to any degree of wealth or
grandeur, or sensual pleasure, government would be unnecessary. 
If all men desired wealth so intensely as to be willing to brave
the hatred of their fellow-creatures for sixpence, Mr Mill's
argument against monarchies and aristocracies would be true to
the full extent.  But the fact is, that all men have some desires
which impel them to injure their neighbours, and some desires
which impel them to benefit their neighbours.  Now, if there were
a community consisting of two classes of men, one of which should
be principally influenced by the one set of motives and the other
by the other, government would clearly be necessary to restrain
the class which was eager for plunder and careless of reputation: 
and yet the powers of government might be safely intrusted to the
class which was chiefly actuated by the love of approbation. 
Now, it might with no small plausibility be maintained that, in
many countries, THERE ARE two classes which, in some degree,
answer to this description; that the poor compose the class which
government is established to restrain, and the people of some
property the class to which the powers of government may without
danger be confided.  It might be said that a man who can barely
earn a livelihood by severe labour is under stronger temptations
to pillage others than a man who enjoys many luxuries.  It might
be said that a man who is lost in the crowd is less likely to
have the fear of public opinion before his eyes than a man whose
station and mode of living render him conspicuous.  We do not
assert all this.  We only say that it was Mr Mill's business to
prove the contrary; and that, not having proved the contrary, he
is not entitled to say, "that those principles which imply that
government is at all necessary, imply that an aristocracy will
make use of its power to defeat the end for which governments
exist."  This is not true, unless it be true that a rich man is
as likely to covet the goods of his neighbours as a poor man, and
that a poor man is as likely to be solicitous about the opinions
of his neighbours as a rich man.

But we do not see that, by reasoning a priori on such subjects as
these, it is possible to advance one single step.  We know that
every man has some desires which he can gratify only by hurting
his neighbours, and some which he can gratify only by pleasing
them.  Mr Mill has chosen to look only at one-half of human
nature, and to reason on the motives which impel men to oppress
and despoil others, as if they were the only motives by which men
could possibly be influenced.  We have already shown that, by
taking the other half of the human character, and reasoning on it
as if it were the whole, we can bring out a result diametrically
opposite to that at which Mr Mill has arrived.  We can, by such a
process, easily prove that any form of government is good, or
that all government is superfluous.

We must now accompany Mr Mill on the next stage of his argument.

Does any combination of the three simple forms of government
afford the requisite securities against the abuse of power?  Mr
Mill complains that those who maintain the affirmative generally
beg the question; and proceeds to settle the point by proving,
after his fashion, that no combination of the three simple forms,
or of any two of them, can possibly exist.

"From the principles which we have already laid down it follows
that, of the objects of human desire, and, speaking more
definitely, of the means to the ends of human desire, namely,
wealth and power, each party will endeavour to obtain as much as
possible.

"If any expedient presents itself to any of the supposed parties
effectual to this end, and not opposed to any preferred object of
pursuit, we may infer with certainty that it will be adopted. 
One effectual expedient is not more effectual than obvious.  Any
two of the parties, by combining, may swallow up the third.  That
such combination will take place appears to be as certain as
anything which depends upon human will; because there are strong
motives in favour of it, and none that can be conceived in
opposition to it...The mixture of three of the kinds of
government, it is thus evident, cannot possibly exist...It may be
proper to enquire whether an union may not be possible of two of
them...

"Let us first suppose, that monarchy is united with aristocracy. 
Their power is equal or not equal.  If it is not equal, it
follows, as a necessary consequence, from the principles which we
have already established, that the stronger will take from the
weaker till it engrosses the whole.  The only question therefore
is, What will happen when the power is equal?

"In the first place, it seems impossible that such equality
should ever exist.  How is it to be established? or, by what
criterion is it to be ascertained?  If there is no such
criterion, it must, in all cases, be the result of chance.  If
so, the chances against it are as infinity to one.  The idea,
therefore, is wholly chimerical and absurd...

"In this doctrine of the mixture of the simple forms of
government is included the celebrated theory of the balance among
the component parts of a government.  By this it is supposed
that, when a government is composed of monarchy, aristocracy, and
democracy, they balance one another, and by mutual checks produce
good government.  A few words will suffice to show that, if any
theory deserves the epithets of 'wild, visionary, and
chimerical,' it is that of the balance.  If there are three
powers, how is it possible to prevent two of them from combining
to swallow up the third?

"The analysis which we have already performed will enable us to
trace rapidly the concatenation of causes and effects in this
imagined case.

"We have already seen that the interests of the community,
considered in the aggregate, or in the democratical point of
view, is, that each individual should receive protection; and
that the powers which are constituted for that purpose should be
employed exclusively for that purpose...We have also seen that
the interest of the king and of the governing aristocracy is
directly the reverse.  It is to have unlimited power over the
rest of the community, and to use it for their own advantage.  In
the supposed case of the balance of the monarchical,
aristocratical, and democratical powers, it cannot be for the
interest of either the monarchy or the aristocracy to combine
with the democracy; because it is the interest of the democracy,
or community at large, that neither the king nor the aristocracy
should have one particle of power, or one particle of the wealth
of the community, for their own advantage.

"The democracy or community have all possible motives to
endeavour to prevent the monarchy and aristocracy from exercising
power, or obtaining the wealth of the community for their own
advantage.  The monarchy and aristocracy have all possible
motives for endeavouring to obtain unlimited power over the
persons and property of the community.  The consequence is
inevitable:  they have all possible motives for combining to
obtain that power."

If any part of this passage be more eminently absurd than
another, it is, we think, the argument by which Mr Mill proves
that there cannot be an union of monarchy and aristocracy.  Their
power, he says, must be equal or not equal.  But of equality
there is no criterion.  Therefore the chances against its
existence are as infinity to one.  If the power be not equal,
then it follows, from the principles of human nature, that the
stronger will take from the weaker, till it has engrossed the
whole.

Now, if there be no criterion of equality between two portions of
power there can be no common measure of portions of power. 
Therefore it is utterly impossible to compare them together.  But
where two portions of power are of the same kind, there is no
difficulty in ascertaining, sufficiently for all practical
purposes, whether they are equal or unequal.  It is easy to judge
whether two men run equally fast, or can lift equal weights.  Two
arbitrators, whose joint decision is to be final, and neither of
whom can do anything without the assent of the other, possess
equal power.  Two electors, each of whom has a vote for a
borough, possess, in that respect, equal power.  If not, all Mr
Mill's political theories fall to the ground at once.  For, if it
be impossible to ascertain whether two portions of power are
equal, he never can show that even under a system of universal
suffrage, a minority might not carry every thing their own way,
against the wishes and interests of the majority.

Where there are two portions of power differing in kind, there
is, we admit, no criterion of equality.  But then, in such a
case, it is absurd to talk, as Mr Mill does, about the stronger
and the weaker.  Popularly, indeed, and with reference to some
particular objects, these words may very fairly be used.  But to
use them mathematically is altogether improper.  If we are
speaking of a boxing-match, we may say that some famous bruiser
has greater bodily power than any man in England.  If we are
speaking of a pantomime, we may say the same of some very agile
harlequin.  But it would be talking nonsense to say, in general,
that the power of Harlequin either exceeded that of the pugilist
or fell short of it.

If Mr Mill's argument be good as between different branches of a
legislature, it is equally good as between sovereign powers. 
Every government, it may be said, will, if it can, take the
objects of its desires from every other.  If the French
government can subdue England it will do so.  If the English
government can subdue France it will do so.  But the power of
England and France is either equal or not equal.  The chance that
it is not exactly equal is as infinity to one, and may safely be
left out of the account; and then the stronger will infallibly
take from the weaker till the weaker is altogether enslaved.

Surely the answer to all this hubbub of unmeaning words is the
plainest possible.  For some purposes France is stronger than
England.  For some purposes England is stronger than France.  For
some, neither has any power at all.  France has the greater
population, England the greater capital; France has the greater
army, England the greater fleet.  For an expedition to Rio
Janeiro or the Philippines, England has the greater power.  For a
war on the Po or the Danube, France has the greater power.  But
neither has power sufficient to keep the other in quiet
subjection for a month.  Invasion would be very perilous; the
idea of complete conquest on either side utterly ridiculous. 
This is the manly and sensible way of discussing such questions. 
The ergo, or rather the argal, of Mr Mill cannot impose on a
child.  Yet we ought scarcely to say this; for we remember to
have heard A CHILD ask whether Bonaparte was stronger than an
elephant!

Mr Mill reminds us of those philosophers of the sixteenth century
who, having satisfied themselves a priori that the rapidity with
which bodies descended to the earth varied exactly as their
weights, refused to believe the contrary on the evidence of their
own eyes and ears.  The British constitution, according to Mr
Mill's classification, is a mixture of monarchy and aristocracy;
one House of Parliament being composed of hereditary nobles, and
the other almost entirely chosen by a privileged class who
possess the elective franchise on account of their property, or
their connection with certain corporations.  Mr Mill's argument
proves that, from the time that these two powers were mingled in
our government, that is, from the very first dawn of our history,
one or the other must have been constantly encroaching. 
According to him, moreover, all the encroachments must have been
on one side.  For the first encroachment could only have been
made by the stronger; and that first encroachment would have made
the stronger stronger still.  It is, therefore, matter of
absolute demonstration, that either the Parliament was stronger
than the Crown in the reign of Henry VIII., or that the Crown was
stronger than the Parliament in 1641.  "Hippocrate dira ce que
lui plaira," says the girl in Moliere; "mais le cocher est mort." 
Mr Mill may say what he pleases; but the English constitution is
still alive.  That since the Revolution the Parliament has
possessed great power in the State, is what nobody will dispute. 
The King, on the other hand, can create new peers, and can
dissolve Parliaments.  William sustained severe mortifications
from the House of Commons, and was, indeed, unjustifiably
oppressed.  Anne was desirous to change a ministry which had a
majority in both Houses.  She watched her moment for a
dissolution, created twelve Tory peers, and succeeded.  Thirty
years later, the House of Commons drove Walpole from his seat. 
In 1784, George III. was able to keep Mr Pitt in office in the
face of a majority of the House of Commons.  In 1804, the
apprehension of a defeat in Parliament compelled the same King to
part from his most favoured minister.  But, in 1807, he was able
to do exactly what Anne had done nearly a hundred years before. 
Now, had the power of the King increased during the intervening
century, or had it remained stationary?  Is it possible that the
one lot among the infinite number should have fallen to us?  If
not, Mr Mill has proved that one of the two parties must have
been constantly taking from the other.  Many of the ablest men in
England think that the influence of the Crown has, on the whole,
increased since the reign of Anne.  Others think that the
Parliament has been growing in strength.  But of this there is no
doubt, that both sides possessed great power then, and possess
great power now.  Surely, if there were the least truth in the
argument of Mr Mill, it could not possibly be a matter of doubt,
at the end of a hundred and twenty years, whether the one side or
the other had been the gainer.

But we ask pardon.  We forgot that a fact, irreconcilable with Mr
Mill's theory, furnishes, in his opinion, the strongest reason
for adhering to the theory.  To take up the question in another
manner, is it not plain that there may be two bodies, each
possessing a perfect and entire power, which cannot be taken from
it without its own concurrence?  What is the meaning of the words
stronger and weaker, when applied to such bodies as these?  The
one may, indeed, by physical force, altogether destroy the other.
But this is not the question.  A third party, a general of their
own, for example, may, by physical force, subjugate them both. 
Nor is there any form of government, Mr Mill's utopian democracy
not excepted, secure from such an occurrence.  We are speaking of
the powers with which the constitution invests the two branches
of the legislature; and we ask Mr Mill how, on his own
principles, he can maintain that one of them will be able to
encroach on the other, if the consent of the other be necessary
to such encroachment?

Mr Mill tells us that, if a government be composed of the three
simple forms, which he will not admit the British constitution to
be, two of the component parts will inevitably join against the
third.  Now, if two of them combine and act as one, this case
evidently resolves itself into the last:  and all the
observations which we have just made will fully apply to it.  Mr
Mill says, that "any two of the parties, by combining, may
swallow up the third;" and afterwards asks, "How is it possible
to prevent two of them from combining to swallow up the third?" 
Surely Mr Mill must be aware that in politics two is not always
the double of one.  If the concurrence of all the three branches
of the legislature be necessary to every law, each branch will
possess constitutional power sufficient to protect it against
anything but that physical force from which no form of government
is secure.  Mr Mill reminds us of the Irishman, who could not be
brought to understand how one juryman could possibly starve out
eleven others.

But is it certain that two of the branches of the legislature
will combine against the third?  "It appears to be as certain,"
says Mr Mill, "as anything which depends upon human will; because
there are strong motives in favour of it, and none that can be
conceived in opposition to it."  He subsequently sets forth what
these motives are.  The interest of the democracy is that each
individual should receive protection.  The interest of the King
and the aristocracy is to have all the power that they can
obtain, and to use it for their own ends.  Therefore the King and
the aristocracy have all possible motives for combining against
the people.  If our readers will look back to the passage quoted
above, they will see that we represent Mr Mill's argument quite
fairly.

Now we should have thought that, without the help of either
history or experience, Mr Mill would have discovered, by the
light of his own logic, the fallacy which lurks, and indeed
scarcely lurks, under this pretended demonstration.  The interest
of the King may be opposed to that of the people.  But is it
identical with that of the aristocracy?  In the very page which
contains this argument, intended to prove that the King and the
aristocracy will coalesce against the people, Mr Mill attempts to
show that there is so strong an opposition of interest between
the King and the aristocracy that if the powers of government are
divided between them the one will inevitably usurp the power of
the other.  If so, he is not entitled to conclude that they will
combine to destroy the power of the people merely because their
interests may be at variance with those of the people.  He is
bound to show, not merely that in all communities the interest of
a king must be opposed to that of the people, but also that, in
all communities, it must be more directly opposed to the interest
of the people than to the interest of the aristocracy.  But he
has not shown this.  Therefore he has not proved his proposition
on his own principles.  To quote history would be a mere waste of
time.  Every schoolboy, whose studies have gone so far as the
Abridgments of Goldsmith, can mention instances in which
sovereigns have allied themselves with the people against the
aristocracy, and in which the nobles have allied themselves with
the people against the sovereign.  In general, when there are
three parties, every one of which has much to fear from the
others, it is not found that two of them combine to plunder the
third.  If such a combination be formed, it scarcely ever effects
its purpose.  It soon becomes evident which member of the
coalition is likely to be the greater gainer by the transaction. 
He becomes an object of jealousy to his ally, who, in all
probability, changes sides, and compels him to restore what he
has taken.  Everybody knows how Henry VIII. trimmed between
Francis and the Emperor Charles.  But it is idle to cite examples
of the operation of a principle which is illustrated in almost
every page of history, ancient or modern, and to which almost
every state in Europe has, at one time or another, been indebted
for its independence.

Mr Mill has now, as he conceives, demonstrated that the simple
forms of government are bad, and that the mixed forms cannot
possibly exist.  There is still, however, it seems, a hope for
mankind.

"In the grand discovery of modern times, the system of
representation, the solution of all the difficulties, both
speculative and practical, will perhaps be found.  If it cannot,
we seem to be forced upon the extraordinary conclusion, that good
government is impossible.  For, as there is no individual or
combination of individuals, except the community itself, who
would not have an interest in bad government if intrusted with
its powers, and as the community itself is incapable of
exercising those powers, and must intrust them to certain
individuals, the conclusion is obvious:  the community itself
must check those individuals; else they will follow their
interest, and produce bad government.  But how is it the
community can check?  The community can act only when assembled;
and when assembled, it is incapable of acting.  The community,
however, can choose representatives."

The next question is--How must the representative body be
constituted?  Mr Mill lays down two principles, about which, he
says, "it is unlikely that there will be any dispute."

"First, The checking body must have a degree of power sufficient
for the business of checking."

"Secondly, It must have an identity of interest with the
community.  Otherwise, it will make a mischievous use of its
power."

The first of these propositions certainly admits of no dispute. 
As to the second, we shall hereafter take occasion to make some
remarks on the sense in which Mr Mill understands the words
"interest of the community."

It does not appear very easy, on Mr Mill's principles, to find
out any mode of making the interest of the representative body
identical with that of the constituent body.  The plan proposed
by Mr Mill is simply that of very frequent election.  "As it
appears," says he, "that limiting the duration of their power is
a security against the sinister interest of the people's
representatives, so it appears that it is the only security of
which the nature of the case admits."  But all the arguments by
which Mr Mill has proved monarchy and aristocracy to be
pernicious will, as it appears to us, equally prove this security
to be no security at all.  Is it not clear that the
representatives, as soon as they are elected, are an aristocracy,
with an interest opposed to the interest of the community?  Why
should they not pass a law for extending the term of their power
from one year to ten years, or declare themselves senators for
life?  If the whole legislative power is given to them, they will
be constitutionally competent to do this.  If part of the
legislative power is withheld from them, to whom is that part
given?  Is the people to retain it, and to express its assent or
dissent in primary assemblies?  Mr Mill himself tells us that the
community can only act when assembled, and that, when assembled,
it is incapable of acting.  Or is it to be provided, as in some
of the American republics, that no change in the fundamental laws
shall be made without the consent of a convention, specially
elected for the purpose?  Still the difficulty recurs:  Why may
not the members of the convention betray their trust, as well as
the members of the ordinary legislature?  When private men, they
may have been zealous for the interests of the community.  When
candidates, they may have pledged themselves to the cause of the
constitution.  But, as soon as they are a convention, as soon as
they are separated from the people, as soon as the supreme power
is put into their hands, commences that interest opposite to the
interest of the community which must, according to Mr Mill,
produce measures opposite to the interests of the community.  We
must find some other means, therefore, of checking this check
upon a check; some other prop to carry the tortoise, that carries
the elephant, that carries the world.

We know well that there is no real danger in such a case.  But
there is no danger only because there is no truth in Mr Mill's
principles.  If men were what he represents them to be, the
letter of the very constitution which he recommends would afford
no safeguard against bad government.  The real security is this,
that legislators will be deterred by the fear of resistance and
of infamy from acting in the manner which we have described.  But
restraints, exactly the same in kind, and differing only in
degree, exist in all forms of government.  That broad line of
distinction which Mr Mill tries to point out between monarchies
and aristocracies on the one side, and democracies on the other,
has in fact no existence.  In no form of government is there an
absolute identity of interest between the people and their
rulers.  In every form of government, the rulers stand in some
awe of the people.  The fear of resistance and the sense of shame
operate in a certain degree, on the most absolute kings and the
most illiberal oligarchies.  And nothing but the fear of
resistance and the sense of shame preserves the freedom of the
most democratic communities from the encroachments of their
annual and biennial delegates.

We have seen how Mr Mill proposes to render the interest of the
representative body identical with that of the constituent body. 
The next question is, in what manner the interest of the
constituent body is to be rendered identical with that of the
community.  Mr Mill shows that a minority of the community,
consisting even of many thousands, would be a bad constituent
body, and, indeed, merely a numerous aristocracy.

"The benefits of the representative system," says he, "are lost
in all cases in which the interests of the choosing body are not
the same with those of the community.  It is very evident, that
if the community itself were the choosing body, the interests of
the community and that of the choosing body would be the same."

On these grounds Mr Mill recommends that all males of mature age,
rich and poor, educated and ignorant, shall have votes.  But why
not the women too?  This question has often been asked in
parliamentary debate, and has never, to our knowledge, received a
plausible answer.  Mr Mill escapes from it as fast as he can. 
But we shall take the liberty to dwell a little on the words of
the oracle.  "One thing," says he, "is pretty clear, that all
those individuals whose interests are involved in those of other
individuals, may be struck off without inconvenience...In this
light women may be regarded, the interest of almost all of whom
is involved either in that of their fathers, or in that of their
husbands."

If we were to content ourselves with saying, in answer to all the
arguments in Mr Mill's essay, that the interest of a king is
involved in that of the community, we should be accused, and
justly, of talking nonsense.  Yet such an assertion would not, as
far as we can perceive, be more unreasonable than that which Mr
Mill has here ventured to make.  Without adducing one fact,
without taking the trouble to perplex the question by one
sophism, he placidly dogmatises away the interest of one half of
the human race.  If there be a word of truth in history, women
have always been, and still are, over the greater part of the
globe, humble companions, play things, captives, menials, beasts
of burden.  Except in a few happy and highly civilised
communities, they are strictly in a state of personal slavery. 
Even in those countries where they are best treated, the laws are
generally unfavourable to them, with respect to almost all the
points in which they are most deeply interested.

Mr Mill is not legislating for England or the United States, but
for mankind.  Is then the interest of a Turk the same with that
of the girls who compose his harem?  Is the interest of a Chinese
the same with that of the woman whom he harnesses to his plough? 
Is the interest of an Italian the same with that of the daughter
whom he devotes to God?  The interest of a respectable Englishman
may be said, without any impropriety, to be identical with that
of his wife.  But why is it so?  Because human nature is NOT what
Mr Mill conceives it to be; because civilised men, pursuing their
own happiness in a social state, are not Yahoos fighting for
carrion; because there is a pleasure in being loved and esteemed,
as well as in being feared and servilely obeyed.  Why does not a
gentleman restrict his wife to the bare maintenance which the law
would compel him to allow her, that he may have more to spend on
his personal pleasures?  Because, if he loves her, he has
pleasure in seeing her pleased; and because, even if he dislikes
her, he is unwilling that the whole neighbourhood should cry
shame on his meanness and ill-nature.  Why does not the
legislature, altogether composed of males, pass a law to deprive
women of all civil privileges whatever, and reduce them to the
state of slaves?  By passing such a law, they would gratify what
Mr Mill tells us is an inseparable part of human nature, the
desire to possess unlimited power of inflicting pain upon others. 
That they do not pass such a law, though they have the power to
pass it, and that no man in England wishes to see such a law
passed, proves that the desire to possess unlimited power of
inflicting pain is not inseparable from human nature.

If there be in this country an identity of interest between the
two sexes, it cannot possibly arise from anything but the
pleasure of being loved, and of communicating happiness.  For,
that it does not spring from the mere instinct of sex, the
treatment which women experience over the greater part of the
world abundantly proves. And, if it be said that our laws of
marriage have produced it, this only removes the argument a step
further; for those laws have been made by males.  Now, if the
kind feelings of one half of the species be a sufficient security
for the happiness of the other, why may not the kind feelings of
a monarch or an aristocracy be sufficient at least to prevent
them from grinding the people to the very utmost of their power?

If Mr Mill will examine why it is that women are better treated
in England than in Persia, he may perhaps find out, in the course
of his inquiries, why it is that the Danes are better governed
than the subjects of Caligula.

We now come to the most important practical question in the whole
essay.  Is it desirable that all males arrived at years of
discretion should vote for representatives, or should a pecuniary
qualification be required?  Mr Mill's opinion is, that the lower
the qualification the better; and that the best system is that in
which there is none at all.

"The qualification," says he, "must either be such as to embrace
the majority of the population, or something less than the
majority.  Suppose, in the first place, that it embraces the
majority, the question is, whether the majority would have an
interest in oppressing those who, upon this supposition, would be
deprived of political power?  If we reduce the calculation to its
elements, we shall see that the interest which they would have of
this deplorable kind, though it would be something, would not be
very great.  Each man of the majority, if the majority were
constituted the governing body, would have something less than
the benefit of oppressing a single man.  If the majority were
twice as great as the minority, each man of the majority would
only have one half the benefit of oppressing a single
man...Suppose in the second place, that the qualification did not
admit a body of electors so large as the majority, in that case,
taking again the calculation in its elements, we shall see that
each man would have a benefit equal to that derived from the
oppression of more than one man; and that, in proportion as the
elective body constituted a smaller and smaller minority, the
benefit of misrule to the elective body would be increased, and
bad government would be insured."

The first remark which we have to make on this argument is, that,
by Mr Mill's own account, even a government in which every human
being should vote would still be defective.  For, under a system
of universal suffrage, the majority of the electors return the
representative, and the majority of the representatives make the
law.  The whole people may vote, therefore; but only the majority
govern.  So that, by Mr Mill's own confession, the most perfect
system of government conceivable is one in which the interest of
the ruling body to oppress, though not great, is something.

But is Mr Mill in the right when he says that such an interest
could not be very great?  We think not.  If, indeed, every man in
the community possessed an equal share of what Mr Mill calls the
objects of desire, the majority would probably abstain from
plundering the minority.  A large minority would offer a vigorous
resistance; and the property of a small minority would not repay
the other members of the community for the trouble of dividing
it.  But it happens that in all civilised communities there is a
small minority of rich men, and a great majority of poor men.  If
there were a thousand men with ten pounds apiece, it would not be
worth while for nine hundred and ninety of them to rob ten, and
it would be a bold attempt for six hundred of them to rob four
hundred.  But, if ten of them had a hundred thousand pounds
apiece, the case would be very different.  There would then be
much to be got, and nothing to be feared.

"That one human being will desire to render the person and
property of another subservient to his pleasures, notwithstanding
the pain or loss of pleasure which it may occasion to that other
individual, is," according to Mr Mill, "the foundation of
government."  That the property of the rich minority can be made
subservient to the pleasures of the poor majority will scarcely
be denied.  But Mr Mill proposes to give the poor majority power
over the rich minority.  Is it possible to doubt to what, on his
own principles, such an arrangement must lead?

It may perhaps be said that, in the long run, it is for the
interest of the people that property should be secure, and that
therefore they will respect it.  We answer thus:--It cannot be
pretended that it is not for the immediate interest of the people
to plunder the rich.  Therefore, even if it were quite certain
that, in the long run, the people would, as a body, lose by doing
so, it would not necessarily follow that the fear of remote ill
consequences would overcome the desire of immediate acquisitions.
Every individual might flatter himself that the punishment would
not fall on him.  Mr Mill himself tells us, in his Essay on
Jurisprudence, that no quantity of evil which is remote and
uncertain will suffice to prevent crime.

But we are rather inclined to think that it would, on the whole,
be for the interest of the majority to plunder the rich.  If so,
the Utilitarians will say, that the rich OUGHT to be plundered. 
We deny the inference.  For, in the first place, if the object of
government be the greatest happiness of the greatest number, the
intensity of the suffering which a measure inflicts must be taken
into consideration, as well as the number of the sufferers.  In
the next place, we have to notice one most important distinction
which Mr Mill has altogether overlooked.  Throughout his essay,
he confounds the community with the species.  He talks of the
greatest happiness of the greatest number:  but, when we examine
his reasonings, we find that he thinks only of the greatest
number of a single generation.

Therefore, even if we were to concede that all those arguments of
which we have exposed the fallacy are unanswerable, we might
still deny the conclusion at which the essayist arrives.  Even if
we were to grant that he had found out the form of government
which is best for the majority of the people now living on the
face of the earth, we might still without inconsistency maintain
that form of government to be pernicious to mankind.  It would
still be incumbent on Mr Mill to prove that the interest of every
generation is identical with the interest of all succeeding
generations.  And how on his own principles he could do this we
are at a loss to conceive.

The case, indeed, is strictly analogous to that of an
aristocratic government.  In an aristocracy, says Mr Mill, the
few being invested with the powers of government, can take the
objects of their desires from the people.  In the same manner,
every generation in turn can gratify itself at the expense of
posterity,--priority of time, in the latter case, giving an
advantage exactly corresponding to that which superiority of
station gives in the former.  That an aristocracy will abuse its
advantage, is, according to Mr Mill, matter of demonstration.  Is
it not equally certain that the whole people will do the same: 
that, if they have the power, they will commit waste of every
sort on the estate of mankind, and transmit it to posterity
impoverished and desolated?

How is it possible for any person who holds the doctrines of Mr
Mill to doubt that the rich, in a democracy such as that which he
recommends, would be pillaged as unmercifully as under a Turkish
Pacha?  It is no doubt for the interest of the next generation,
and it may be for the remote interest of the present generation,
that property should be held sacred.  And so no doubt it will be
for the interest of the next Pacha, and even for that of the
present Pacha, if he should hold office long, that the
inhabitants of his Pachalik should be encouraged to accumulate
wealth.  Scarcely any despotic sovereign has plundered his
subjects to a large extent without having reason before the end
of his reign to regret it.  Everybody knows how bitterly Louis
the Fourteenth, towards the close of his life, lamented his
former extravagance.  If that magnificent prince had not expended
millions on Marli and Versailles, and tens of millions on the
aggrandisement of his grandson, he would not have been compelled
at last to pay servile court to low-born money-lenders, to humble
himself before men on whom, in the days of his pride, he would
not have vouchsafed to look, for the means of supporting even his
own household.  Examples to the same effect might easily be
multiplied.  But despots, we see, do plunder their subjects,
though history and experience tell them that, by prematurely
exacting the means of profusion, they are in fact devouring the
seed-corn from which the future harvest of revenue is to spring. 
Why then should we suppose that the people will be deterred from
procuring immediate relief and enjoyment by the fear of distant
calamities, of calamities which perhaps may not be fully felt
till the times of their grandchildren?

These conclusions are strictly drawn from Mr Mill's own
principles:  and, unlike most of the conclusions which he has
himself drawn from those principles, they are not as far as we
know contradicted by facts.  The case of the United States is not
in point.  In a country where the necessaries of life are cheap
and the wages of labour high, where a man who has no capital but
his legs and arms may expect to become rich by industry and
frugality, it is not very decidedly even for the immediate
advantage of the poor to plunder the rich; and the punishment of
doing so would very speedily follow the offence.  But in
countries in which the great majority live from hand to mouth,
and in which vast masses of wealth have been accumulated by a
comparatively small number, the case is widely different.  The
immediate want is, at particular seasons, craving, imperious,
irresistible.  In our own time it has steeled men to the fear of
the gallows, and urged them on the point of the bayonet.  And, if
these men had at their command that gallows and those bayonets
which now scarcely restrain them, what is to be expected?  Nor is
this state of things one which can exist only under a bad
government.  If there be the least truth in the doctrines of the
school to which Mr Mill belongs, the increase of population will
necessarily produce it everywhere.  The increase of population is
accelerated by good and cheap government.  Therefore, the better
the government, the greater is the inequality of conditions:  and
the greater the inequality of conditions, the stronger are the
motives which impel the populace to spoliation.  As for America,
we appeal to the twentieth century.

It is scarcely necessary to discuss the effects which a general
spoliation of the rich would produce.  It may indeed happen that,
where a legal and political system full of abuses is inseparably
bound up with the institution of property, a nation may gain by a
single convulsion, in which both perish together.  The price is
fearful.  But if, when the shock is over, a new order of things
should arise under which property may enjoy security, the
industry of individuals will soon repair the devastation.  Thus
we entertain no doubt that the Revolution was, on the whole, a
most salutary event for France.  But would France have gained if,
ever since the year 1793, she had been governed by a democratic
convention?  If Mr Mill's principles be sound, we say that almost
her whole capital would by this time have been annihilated.  As
soon as the first explosion was beginning to be forgotten, as
soon as wealth again began to germinate, as soon as the poor
again began to compare their cottages and salads with the hotels
and banquets of the rich, there would have been another scramble
for property, another maximum, another general confiscation,
another reign of terror.  Four or five such convulsions following
each other, at intervals of ten or twelve years, would reduce the
most flourishing countries of Europe to the state of Barbary or
the Morea.

The civilised part of the world has now nothing to fear from the
hostility of savage nations.  Once the deluge of barbarism has
passed over it, to destroy and to fertilise; and in the present
state of mankind we enjoy a full security against that calamity. 
That flood will no more return to cover the earth.  But is it
possible that in the bosom of civilisation itself may be
engendered the malady which shall destroy it?  Is it possible
that institutions may be established which, without the help of
earthquake, of famine, of pestilence, or of the foreign sword,
may undo the work of so many ages of wisdom and glory, and
gradually sweep away taste, literature, science, commerce,
manufactures, everything but the rude arts necessary to the
support of animal life?  Is it possible that, in two or three
hundred years, a few lean and half-naked fishermen may divide
with owls and foxes the ruins of the greatest European cities--
may wash their nets amidst the relics of her gigantic docks, and
build their huts out of the capitals of her stately cathedrals? 
If the principles of Mr Mill be sound, we say, without
hesitation, that the form of government which he recommends will
assuredly produce all this.  But, if these principles be unsound,
if the reasonings by which we have opposed them be just, the
higher and middling orders are the natural representatives of the
human race.  Their interest may be opposed in some things to that
of their poorer contemporaries; but it is identical with that of
the innumerable generations which are to follow.

Mr Mill concludes his essay, by answering an objection often made
to the project of universal suffrage--that the people do not
understand their own interests.  We shall not go through his
arguments on this subject, because, till he has proved that it is
for the interest of the people to respect property, he only makes
matters worse by proving that they understand their interests. 
But we cannot refrain from treating our readers with a delicious
bonne bouche of wisdom, which he has kept for the last moment.

"The opinions of that class of the people who are below the
middle rank are formed, and their minds are directed, by that
intelligent, that virtuous rank, who come the most immediately in
contact with them, who are in the constant habit of intimate
communication with them, to whom they fly for advice and
assistance in all their numerous difficulties, upon whom they
feel an immediate and daily dependence in health and in sickness,
in infancy and in old age, to whom their children look up as
models for their imitation, whose opinions they hear daily
repeated, and account it their honour to adopt.  There can be no
doubt that the middle rank, which gives to science, to art, and
to legislation itself their most distinguished ornaments, and is
the chief source of all that has exalted and refined human
nature, is that portion of the community, of which, if the basis
of representation were ever so far extended, the opinion would
ultimately decide.  Of the people beneath them, a vast majority
would be sure to be guided by their advice and example."

This single paragraph is sufficient to upset Mr Mill's theory. 
Will the people act against their own interest?  Or will the
middle rank act against its own interest?  Or is the interest of
the middle rank identical with the interest of the people?  If
the people act according to the directions of the middle rank, as
Mr Mill says that they assuredly will, one of these three
questions must be answered in the affirmative.  But, if any one
of the three be answered in the affirmative, his whole system
falls to the ground.  If the interest of the middle rank be
identical with that of the people, why should not the powers of
government be intrusted to that rank?  If the powers of
government were intrusted to that rank, there would evidently be
an aristocracy of wealth; and "to constitute an aristocracy of
wealth, though it were a very numerous one, would," according to
Mr Mill, "leave the community without protection, and exposed to
all the evils of unbridled power."  Will not the same motives
which induce the middle classes to abuse one kind of power induce
them to abuse another?  If their interest be the same with that
of the people they will govern the people well.  If it be
opposite to that of the people they will advise the people ill. 
The system of universal suffrage, therefore, according to Mr
Mill's own account, is only a device for doing circuitously what
a representative system, with a pretty high qualification, would
do directly.

So ends this celebrated Essay.  And such is this philosophy for
which the experience of three thousand years is to be discarded;
this philosophy, the professors of which speak as if it had
guided the world to the knowledge of navigation and alphabetical
writing; as if, before its dawn, the inhabitants of Europe had
lived in caverns and eaten each other!  We are sick, it seems,
like the children of Israel, of the objects of our old and
legitimate worship.  We pine for a new idolatry.  All that is
costly and all that is ornamental in our intellectual treasures
must be delivered up, and cast into the furnace--and there comes
out this Calf!

Our readers can scarcely mistake our object in writing this
article.  They will not suspect us of any disposition to advocate
the cause of absolute monarchy, or of any narrow form of
oligarchy, or to exaggerate the evils of popular government.  Our
object at present is, not so much to attack or defend any
particular system of polity, as to expose the vices of a kind of
reasoning utterly unfit for moral and political discussions; of a
kind of reasoning which may so readily be turned to purposes of
falsehood that it ought to receive no quarter, even when by
accident it may be employed on the side of truth.

Our objection to the essay of Mr Mill is fundamental.  We believe
that it is utterly impossible to deduce the science of government
from the principles of human nature.

What proposition is there respecting human nature which is
absolutely and universally true?  We know of only one:  and that
is not only true, but identical; that men always act from self-
interest.  This truism the Utilitarians proclaim with as much
pride as if it were new, and as much zeal as if it were
important.  But in fact, when explained, it means only that men,
if they can, will do as they choose.  When we see the actions of
a man we know with certainty what he thinks his interest to be. 
But it is impossible to reason with certainty from what WE take
to be his interest to his actions.  One man goes without a dinner
that he may add a shilling to a hundred thousand pounds:  another
runs in debt to give balls and masquerades.  One man cuts his
father's throat to get possession of his old clothes:  another
hazards his own life to save that of an enemy.  One man
volunteers on a forlorn hope:  another is drummed out of a
regiment for cowardice.  Each of these men has, no doubt, acted
from self-interest.  But we gain nothing by knowing this, except
the pleasure, if it be one, of multiplying useless words.  In
fact, this principle is just as recondite and just as important
as the great truth that whatever is, is.  If a philosopher were
always to state facts in the following form--"There is a shower: 
but whatever is, is; therefore, there is a shower,"--his
reasoning would be perfectly sound; but we do not apprehend that
it would materially enlarge the circle of human knowledge.  And
it is equally idle to attribute any importance to a proposition,
which, when interpreted means only that a man had rather do what
he had rather do.

If the doctrine, that men always act from self-interest, be laid
down in any other sense than this--if the meaning of the word
self-interest be narrowed so as to exclude any one of the motives
which may by possibility act on any human being, the proposition
ceases to be identical:  but at the same time it ceases to be
true.

What we have said of the word "self-interest" applies to all the
synonymes and circumlocutions which are employed to convey the
same meaning; pain and pleasure, happiness and misery, objects of
desire, and so forth.

The whole art of Mr Mill's essay consists in one simple trick of
legerdemain.  It consists in using words of the sort which we
have been describing first in one sense and then in another.  Men
will take the objects of their desire if they can. 
Unquestionably:--but this is an identical proposition:  for an
object of desire means merely a thing which a man will procure if
he can.  Nothing can possibly be inferred from a maxim of this
kind.  When we see a man take something we shall know that it was
an object of his desire.  But till then we have no means of
judging with certainty what he desires or what he will take.  The
general proposition, however, having been admitted, Mr Mill
proceeds to reason as if men had no desires but those which can
be gratified only by spoliation and oppression.  It then becomes
easy to deduce doctrines of vast importance from the original
axiom.  The only misfortune is, that by thus narrowing the
meaning of the word desire the axiom becomes false, and all the
doctrines consequent upon it are false likewise.

When we pass beyond those maxims which it is impossible to deny
without a contradiction in terms, and which, therefore, do not
enable us to advance a single step in practical knowledge, we do
not believe that it is possible to lay down a single general rule
respecting the motives which influence human actions.  There is
nothing which may not, by association or by comparison, become an
object either of desire or of aversion.  The fear of death is
generally considered as one of the strongest of our feelings.  It
is the most formidable sanction which legislators have been able
to devise.  Yet it is notorious that, as Lord Bacon has observed,
there is no passion by which that fear has not been often
overcome.  Physical pain is indisputably an evil; yet it has been
often endured and even welcomed.  Innumerable martyrs have
exulted in torments which made the spectators shudder:  and to
use a more homely illustration, there are few wives who do not
long to be mothers.

Is the love of approbation a stronger motive than the love of
wealth?  It is impossible to answer this question generally even
in the case of an individual with whom we are very intimate.  We
often say, indeed, that a man loves fame more than money, or
money more than fame.  But this is said in a loose and popular
sense; for there is scarcely a man who would not endure a few
sneers for a great sum of money, if he were in pecuniary
distress; and scarcely a man, on the other hand, who, if he were
in flourishing circumstances, would expose himself to the hatred
and contempt of the public for a trifle.  In order, therefore, to
return a precise answer even about a single human being, we must
know what is the amount of the sacrifice of reputation demanded
and of the pecuniary advantage offered, and in what situation the
person to whom the temptation is proposed stands at the time. 
But, when the question is propounded generally about the whole
species, the impossibility of answering is still more evident. 
Man differs from man; generation from generation; nation from
nation.  Education, station, sex, age, accidental associations,
produce infinite shades of variety.

Now, the only mode in which we can conceive it possible to deduce
a theory of government from the principles of human nature is
this.  We must find out what are the motives which, in a
particular form of government, impel rulers to bad measures, and
what are those which impel them to good measures.  We must then
compare the effect of the two classes of motives; and according
as we find the one or the other to prevail, we must pronounce the
form of government in question good or bad.

Now let it be supposed that, in aristocratical and monarchical
states, the desire of wealth and other desires of the same class
always tend to produce misgovernment, and that the love of
approbation and other kindred feelings always tend to produce
good government.  Then, if it be impossible, as we have shown
that it is, to pronounce generally which of the two classes of
motives is the more influential, it is impossible to find out, a
priori, whether a monarchical or aristocratical form of
government be good or bad.

Mr Mill has avoided the difficulty of making the comparison, by
very coolly putting all the weights into one of the scales,--by
reasoning as if no human being had ever sympathised with the
feelings, been gratified by the thanks, or been galled by the
execrations, of another.

The case, as we have put it, is decisive against Mr Mill, and yet
we have put it in a manner far too favourable to him.  For, in
fact, it is impossible to lay it down as a general rule that the
love of wealth in a sovereign always produces misgovernment, or
the love of approbation good government.  A patient and far-
sighted ruler, for example, who is less desirous of raising a
great sum immediately than of securing an unencumbered and
progressive revenue, will, by taking off restraints from trade
and giving perfect security to property, encourage accumulation
and entice capital from foreign countries.  The commercial policy
of Prussia, which is perhaps superior to that of any country in
the world, and which puts to shame the absurdities of our
republican brethren on the other side of the Atlantic, has
probably sprung from the desire of an absolute ruler to enrich
himself.  On the other hand, when the popular estimate of virtues
and vices is erroneous, which is too often the case, the love of
approbation leads sovereigns to spend the wealth of the nation on
useless shows, or to engage in wanton and destructive wars.  If
then we can neither compare the strength of two motives, nor
determine with certainty to what description of actions either
motive will lead, how can we possibly deduce a theory of
government from the nature of man?

How, then, are we to arrive at just conclusions on a subject so
important to the happiness of mankind?  Surely by that method
which, in every experimental science to which it has been
applied, has signally increased the power and knowledge of our
species,--by that method for which our new philosophers would
substitute quibbles scarcely worthy of the barbarous respondents
and opponents of the middle ages,--by the method of Induction;--
by observing the present state of the world,--by assiduously
studying the history of past ages,--by sifting the evidence of
facts,--by carefully combining and contrasting those which are
authentic,--by generalising with judgment and diffidence,--by
perpetually bringing the theory which we have constructed to the
test of new facts,--by correcting, or altogether abandoning it,
according as those new facts prove it to be partially or
fundamentally unsound.  Proceeding thus,--patiently,--diligently,
--candidly,--we may hope to form a system as far inferior in
pretension to that which we have been examining and as far
superior to it in real utility as the prescriptions of a great
physician, varying with every stage of every malady and with the
constitution of every patient, to the pill of the advertising
quack which is to cure all human beings, in all climates, of all
diseases.

This is that noble Science of Politics, which is equally removed
from the barren theories of the Utilitarian sophists, and from
the petty craft, so often mistaken for statesmanship by minds
grown narrow in habits of intrigue, jobbing, and official
etiquette;--which of all sciences is the most important to the
welfare of nations,--which of all sciences most tends to expand
and invigorate the mind,--which draws nutriment and ornament from
every part of philosophy and literature, and dispenses in return
nutriment and ornament to all.  We are sorry and surprised when
we see men of good intentions and good natural abilities abandon
this healthful and generous study to pore over speculations like
those which we have been examining.  And we should heartily
rejoice to find that our remarks had induced any person of this
description to employ, in researches of real utility, the talents
and industry which are now wasted on verbal sophisms, wretched of
their wretched kind.

As to the greater part of the sect, it is, we apprehend, of
little consequence what they study or under whom.  It would be
more amusing, to be sure, and more reputable, if they would take
up the old republican cant and declaim about Brutus and Timoleon,
the duty of killing tyrants and the blessedness of dying for
liberty.  But, on the whole, they might have chosen worse.  They
may as well be Utilitarians as jockeys or dandies.  And, though
quibbling about self-interest and motives, and objects of desire,
and the greatest happiness of the greatest number, is but a poor
employment for a grown man, it certainly hurts the health less
than hard drinking, and the fortune less than high play; it is
not much more laughable than phrenology, and is immeasurably more
humane than cock-fighting.

...


WESTMINSTER REVIEWER'S DEFENCE OF MILL.

(June 1829.)

"Westminster Review" Number XXI., Article XVI.  "Edinburgh
Review" Number XCVII., Article on Mill's Essays on Government,
etc.

We have had great reason, we think, to be gratified by the
success of our late attack on the Utilitarians.  We could publish
a long list of the cures which it has wrought in cases previously
considered as hopeless.  Delicacy forbids us to divulge names;
but we cannot refrain from alluding to two remarkable instances. 
A respectable lady writes to inform us that her son, who was
plucked at Cambridge last January, has not been heard to call Sir
James Mackintosh a poor ignorant fool more than twice since the
appearance of our article.  A distinguished political writer in
the Westminster and Parliamentary Reviews has borrowed Hume's
History, and has actually got as far as the battle of Agincourt. 
He assures us that he takes great pleasure in his new study, and
that he is very impatient to learn how Scotland and England
became one kingdom.  But the greatest compliment that we have
received is that Mr Bentham himself should have condescended to
take the field in defence of Mr Mill.  We have not been in the
habit of reviewing reviews:  but, as Mr Bentham is a truly great
man, and as his party have thought fit to announce in puffs and
placards that this article is written by him, and contains not
only an answer to our attacks, but a development of the "greatest
happiness principle," with the latest improvements of the author,
we shall for once depart from our general rule.  However the
conflict may terminate, we shall at least not have been
vanquished by an ignoble hand.

Of Mr Bentham himself we shall endeavour, even while defending
ourselves against his reproaches, to speak with the respect to
which his venerable age, his genius, and his public services
entitle him.  If any harsh expression should escape us, we trust
that he will attribute it to inadvertence, to the momentary
warmth of controversy,--to anything, in short, rather than to a
design of affronting him.  Though we have nothing in common with
the crew of Hurds and Boswells, who, either from interested
motives, or from the habit of intellectual servility and
dependence, pamper and vitiate his appetite with the noxious
sweetness of their undiscerning praise, we are not perhaps less
competent than they to appreciate his merit, or less sincerely
disposed to acknowledge it.  Though we may sometimes think his
reasonings on moral and political questions feeble and
sophistical--though we may sometimes smile at his extraordinary
language--we can never be weary of admiring the amplitude of his
comprehension, the keenness of his penetration, the exuberant
fertility with which his mind pours forth arguments and
illustrations.  However sharply he may speak of us, we can never
cease to revere in him the father of the philosophy of
Jurisprudence.  He has a full right to all the privileges of a
great inventor:  and, in our court of criticism, those privileges
will never be pleaded in vain.  But they are limited in the same
manner in which, fortunately for the ends of justice, the
privileges of the peerage are now limited.  The advantage is
personal and incommunicable.  A nobleman can now no longer cover
with his protection every lackey who follows his heels, or every
bully who draws in his quarrel:  and, highly as we respect the
exalted rank which Mr Bentham holds among the writers of our
time, yet when, for the due maintenance of literary police, we
shall think it necessary to confute sophists, or to bring
pretenders to shame, we shall not depart from the ordinary course
of our proceedings because the offenders call themselves
Benthamites.

Whether Mr Mill has much reason to thank Mr Bentham for
undertaking his defence, our readers, when they have finished
this article, will perhaps be inclined to doubt.  Great as Mr
Bentham's talents are, he has, we think, shown an undue
confidence in them.  He should have considered how dangerous it
is for any man, however eloquent and ingenious he may be, to
attack or defend a book without reading it:  and we feel quite
convinced that Mr Bentham would never have written the article
before us if he had, before he began, perused our review with
attention, and compared it with Mr Mill's Essay.

He has utterly mistaken our object and meaning.  He seems to
think that we have undertaken to set up some theory of government
in opposition to that of Mr Mill.  But we distinctly disclaimed
any such design.  From the beginning to the end of our article,
there is not, as far as we remember, a single sentence which,
when fairly construed, can be considered as indicating any such
design.  If such an expression can be found, it has been dropped
by inadvertence.  Our object was to prove, not that monarchy and
aristocracy are good, but that Mr Mill had not proved them to be
bad; not that democracy is bad, but that Mr Mill had not proved
it to be good.  The points in issue are these:  whether the
famous Essay on Government be, as it has been called, a perfect
solution of the great political problem, or a series of sophisms
and blunders; and whether the sect which, while it glories in the
precision of its logic, extols this Essay as a masterpiece of
demonstration be a sect deserving of the respect or of the
derision of mankind.  These, we say, are the issues; and on these
we with full confidence put ourselves on the country.

It is not necessary, for the purposes of this investigation, that
we should state what our political creed is, or whether we have
any political creed at all.  A man who cannot act the most
trivial part in a farce has a right to hiss Romeo Coates:  a man
who does not know a vein from an artery may caution a simple
neighbour against the advertisements of Dr Eady.  A complete
theory of government would indeed be a noble present to mankind;
but it is a present which we do not hope and do not pretend that
we can offer.  If, however, we cannot lay the foundation, it is
something to clear away the rubbish; if we cannot set up truth,
it is something to pull down error.  Even if the subjects of
which the Utilitarians treat were subjects of less fearful
importance, we should think it no small service to the cause of
good sense and good taste to point out the contrast between their
magnificent pretensions and their miserable performances.  Some
of them have, however, thought fit to display their ingenuity on
questions of the most momentous kind, and on questions concerning
which men cannot reason ill with impunity.  We think it, under
these circumstances, an absolute duty to expose the fallacy of
their arguments.  It is no matter of pride or of pleasure.  To
read their works is the most soporific employment that we know;
and a man ought no more to be proud of refuting them than of
having two legs.  We must now come to close quarters with Mr
Bentham, whom, we need not say, we do not mean to include in this
observation.  He charges us with maintaining,--

"First, 'That it is not true that all despots govern ill;'--
whereon the world is in a mistake, and the Whigs have the true
light.  And for proof, principally,--that the King of Denmark is
not Caligula.  To which the answer is, that the King of Denmark
is not a despot.  He was put in his present situation by the
people turning the scale in his favour in a balanced contest
between himself and the nobility.  And it is quite clear that the
same power would turn the scale the other way the moment a King
of Denmark should take into his head to be Caligula.  It is of
little consequence by what congeries of letters the Majesty of
Denmark is typified in the royal press of Copenhagen, while the
real fact is that the sword of the people is suspended over his
head, in case of ill-behaviour, as effectually as in other
countries where more noise is made upon the subject.  Everybody
believes the sovereign of Denmark to be a good and virtuous
gentleman; but there is no more superhuman merit in his being so
than in the case of a rural squire who does not shoot his land-
steward or quarter his wife with his yeomanry sabre.

"It is true that there are partial exceptions to the rule, that
all men use power as badly as they dare.  There may have been
such things as amiable negro-drivers and sentimental masters of
press-gangs; and here and there, among the odd freaks of human
nature, there may have been specimens of men who were 'No
tyrants, though bred up to tyranny.'  But it would be as wise to
recommend wolves for nurses at the Foundling on the credit of
Romulus and Remus as to substitute the exception for the general
fact, and advise mankind to take to trusting to arbitrary power
on the credit of these specimens."

Now, in the first place, we never cited the case of Denmark to
prove that all despots do not govern ill.  We cited it to prove
that Mr Mill did not know how to reason.  Mr Mill gave it as a
reason for deducing the theory of government from the general
laws of human nature that the King of Denmark was not Caligula. 
This we said, and we still say, was absurd.

In the second place, it was not we, but Mr Mill, who said that
the King of Denmark was a despot.  His words are these:--"The
people of Denmark, tired out with the oppression of an
aristocracy, resolved that their king should be absolute; and
under their absolute monarch are as well governed as any people
in Europe."  We leave Mr Bentham to settle with Mr Mill the
distinction between a despot and an absolute king.

In the third place, Mr Bentham says that there was in Denmark a
balanced contest between the king and the nobility.  We find some
difficulty in believing that Mr Bentham seriously means to say
this, when we consider that Mr Mill has demonstrated the chance
to be as infinity to one against the existence of such a balanced
contest.

Fourthly, Mr Bentham says that in this balanced contest the
people turned the scale in favour of the king against the
aristocracy.  But Mr Mill has demonstrated that it cannot
possibly be for the interest of the monarchy and democracy to
join against the aristocracy; and that wherever the three parties
exist, the king and the aristocracy will combine against the
people.  This, Mr Mill assures us, is as certain as anything
which depends upon human will.

Fifthly, Mr Bentham says that, if the King of Denmark were to
oppress his people, the people and nobles would combine against
the king.  But Mr Mill has proved that it can never be for the
interest of the aristocracy to combine with the democracy against
the king.  It is evidently Mr Bentham's opinion, that "monarchy,
aristocracy, and democracy may balance each other, and by mutual
checks produce good government."  But this is the very theory
which Mr Mill pronounces to be the wildest, the most visionary,
the most chimerical ever broached on the subject of government.

We have no dispute on these heads with Mr Bentham.  On the
contrary, we think his explanation true--or at least, true in
part; and we heartily thank him for lending us his assistance to
demolish the essay of his follower.  His wit and his sarcasm are
sport to us; but they are death to his unhappy disciple.

Mr Bentham seems to imagine that we have said something implying
an opinion favourable to despotism.  We can scarcely suppose
that, as he has not condescended to read that portion of our work
which he undertook to answer, he can have bestowed much attention
on its general character.  Had he done so he would, we think,
scarcely have entertained such a suspicion.  Mr Mill asserts, and
pretends to prove, that under no despotic government does any
human being, except the tools of the sovereign, possess more than
the necessaries of life, and that the most intense degree of
terror is kept up by constant cruelty.  This, we say, is untrue. 
It is not merely a rule to which there are exceptions:  but it is
not the rule.  Despotism is bad; but it is scarcely anywhere so
bad as Mr Mill says that it is everywhere.  This we are sure Mr
Bentham will allow.  If a man were to say that five hundred
thousand people die every year in London of dram-drinking, he
would not assert a proposition more monstrously false than Mr
Mill's.  Would it be just to charge us with defending
intoxication because we might say that such a man was grossly in
the wrong?

We say with Mr Bentham that despotism is a bad thing.  We say
with Mr Bentham that the exceptions do not destroy the authority
of the rule.  But this we say--that a single exception overthrows
an argument which either does not prove the rule at all, or else
proves the rule to be TRUE WITHOUT EXCEPTIONS; and such an
argument is Mr Mill's argument against despotism.  In this
respect there is a great difference between rules drawn from
experience and rules deduced a priori.  We might believe that
there had been a fall of snow last August, and yet not think it
likely that there would be snow next August.  A single occurrence
opposed to our general experience would tell for very little in
our calculation of the chances.  But, if we could once satisfy
ourselves that in ANY single right-angled triangle the square of
the hypothenuse might be less than the squares of the sides, we
must reject the forty-seventh proposition of Euclid altogether. 
We willingly adopt Mr Bentham's lively illustration about the
wolf; and we will say in passing that it gives us real pleasure
to see how little old age has diminished the gaiety of this
eminent man.  We can assure him that his merriment gives us far
more pleasure on his account than pain on our own.  We say with
him, Keep the wolf out of the nursery, in spite of the story of
Romulus and Remus.  But, if the shepherd who saw the wolf licking
and suckling those famous twins were, after telling this story to
his companions, to assert that it was an infallible rule that no
wolf ever had spared, or ever would spare, any living thing which
might fall in its way--that its nature was carnivorous--and that
it could not possibly disobey its nature, we think that the
hearers might have been excused for staring.  It may be strange,
but is not inconsistent, that a wolf which has eaten ninety-nine
children should spare the hundredth.  But the fact that a wolf
has once spared a child is sufficient to show that there must be
some flaw in the chain of reasoning purporting to prove that
wolves cannot possibly spare children.

Mr Bentham proceeds to attack another position which he conceives
us to maintain:--

"Secondly, That a government not under the control of the
community (for there is no question upon any other) 'MAY SOON BE
SATURATED.'  Tell it not in Bow Street, whisper it not in Hatton
Garden,--that there is a plan for preventing injustice by
'saturation.'  With what peals of unearthly merriment would
Minos, Aeacus, and Rhadamanthus be aroused upon their benches, if
the 'light wings of saffron and of blue' should bear this theory
into their grim domains!  Why do not the owners of pocket-
handkerchiefs try to 'saturate?'  Why does not the cheated
publican beg leave to check the gulosity of his defrauder with a
repetatur haustus, and the pummelled plaintiff neutralise the
malice of his adversary, by requesting to have the rest of the
beating in presence of the court,--if it is not that such conduct
would run counter to all the conclusions of experience, and be
the procreation of the mischief it affected to destroy?  Woful is
the man whose wealth depends on his having more than somebody
else can be persuaded to take from him; and woful also is the
people that is in such a case!"

Now this is certainly very pleasant writing:  but there is no
great difficulty in answering the argument.  The real reason
which makes it absurd to think of preventing theft by pensioning
off thieves is this, that there is no limit to the number of
thieves.  If there were only a hundred thieves in a place, and we
were quite sure that no person not already addicted to theft
would take to it, it might become a question whether to keep the
thieves from dishonesty by raising them above distress would not
be a better course than to employ officers against them.  But the
actual cases are not parallel.  Every man who chooses can become
a thief; but a man cannot become a king or a member of the
aristocracy whenever he chooses.  The number of the depredators
is limited; and therefore the amount of depredation, so far as
physical pleasures are concerned, must be limited also.  Now, we
made the remark which Mr Bentham censures with reference to
physical pleasures only.  The pleasures of ostentation, of taste,
of revenge, and other pleasures of the same description, have, we
distinctly allowed, no limit.  Our words are these:--"a king or
an aristocracy may be supplied to satiety with CORPORAL
PLEASURES, at an expense which the rudest and poorest community
would scarcely feel."  Does Mr Bentham deny this?  If he does, we
leave him to Mr Mill.  "What," says that philosopher, in his
Essay on Education, "what are the ordinary pursuits of wealth and
power, which kindle to such a height the ardour of mankind?  Not
the mere love of eating and of drinking, or all the physical
objects together which wealth can purchase or power command. 
With these every man is in the long run speedily satisfied." 
What the difference is between being speedily satisfied and being
soon saturated, we leave Mr Bentham and Mr Mill to settle
together.

The word "saturation," however, seems to provoke Mr Bentham's
mirth.  It certainly did not strike us as very pure English; but,
as Mr Mill used it, we supposed it to be good Benthamese.  With
the latter language we are not critically acquainted, though, as
it has many roots in common with our mother tongue, we can
contrive, by the help of a converted Utilitarian, who attends us
in the capacity of Moonshee, to make out a little.  But Mr
Bentham's authority is of course decisive; and we bow to it.

Mr Bentham next represents us as maintaining:--

"Thirdly, That 'though there may be some tastes and propensities
that have no point of saturation, there exists a sufficient check
in the desire of the good opinion of others.'  The misfortune of
this argument is, that no man cares for the good opinion of those
he has been accustomed to wrong, If oysters have opinions, it is
probable they think very ill of those who eat them in August; but
small is the effect upon the autumnal glutton that engulfs their
gentle substances within his own.  The planter and the slave-
driver care just as much about negro opinion, as the epicure
about the sentiments of oysters.  M. Ude throwing live eels into
the fire as a kindly method of divesting them of the unsavoury
oil that lodges beneath their skins, is not more convinced of the
immense aggregate of good which arises to the lordlier parts of
the creation, than is the gentle peer who strips his fellow man
of country and of family for a wild-fowl slain.  The goodly
landowner, who lives by morsels squeezed indiscriminately from
the waxy hands of the cobbler and the polluted ones of the
nightman, is in no small degree the object of both hatred and
contempt; but it is to be feared that he is a long way from
feeling them to be intolerable.  The principle of 'At mihi plaudo
ipse domi, simul ac nummos contemplor in arca,' is sufficient to
make a wide interval between the opinions of the plaintiff and
defendant in such cases.  In short, to banish law and leave all
plaintiffs to trust to the desire of reputation on the opposite
side, would only be transporting the theory of the Whigs from the
House of Commons to Westminster Hall."

Now, in the first place, we never maintained the proposition
which Mr Bentham puts into our mouths.  We said, and say, that
there is a CERTAIN check to the rapacity and cruelty of men, in
their desire of the good opinion of others.  We never said that
it was sufficient.  Let Mr Mill show it to be insufficient.  It
is enough for us to prove that there is a set-off against the
principle from which Mr Mill deduces the whole theory of
government.  The balance may be, and, we believe, will be,
against despotism and the narrower forms of aristocracy.  But
what is this to the correctness or incorrectness of Mr Mill's
accounts?  The question is not, whether the motives which lead
rulers to behave ill are stronger than those which lead them to
behave well;--but, whether we ought to form a theory of
government by looking ONLY at the motives which lead rulers to
behave ill and never noticing those which lead them to behave
well.

Absolute rulers, says Mr Bentham, do not care for the good
opinion of their subjects; for no man cares for the good opinion
of those whom he has been accustomed to wrong.  By Mr Bentham's
leave, this is a plain begging of the question.  The point at
issue is this:--Will kings and nobles wrong the people?  The
argument in favour of kings and nobles is this:--they will not
wrong the people, because they care for the good opinion of the
people.  But this argument Mr Bentham meets thus:--they will not
care for the good opinion of the people, because they are
accustomed to wrong the people.

Here Mr Mill differs, as usual, from Mr Bentham.  "The greatest
princes," says he, in his Essay on Education, "the most
despotical masters of human destiny, when asked what they aim at
by their wars and conquests, would answer, if sincere, as
Frederick of Prussia answered, pour faire parler de soi;--to
occupy a large space in the admiration of mankind."  Putting Mr
Mill's and Mr Bentham's principles together, we might make out
very easily that "the greatest princes, the most despotical
masters of human destiny," would never abuse their power.

A man who has been long accustomed to injure people must also
have been long accustomed to do without their love, and to endure
their aversion.  Such a man may not miss the pleasure of
popularity; for men seldom miss a pleasure which they have long
denied themselves.  An old tyrant does without popularity just as
an old water-drinker does without wine.  But, though it is
perfectly true that men who for the good of their health have
long abstained from wine feel the want of it very little, it
would be absurd to infer that men will always abstain from wine
when their health requires that they should do so.  And it would
be equally absurd to say, because men who have been accustomed to
oppress care little for popularity, that men will therefore
necessarily prefer the pleasure of oppression to those of
popularity.

Then, again, a man may be accustomed to wrong people in one point
and not in another.  He may care for their good opinion with
regard to one point and not with regard to another.  The Regent
Orleans laughed at charges of impiety, libertinism, extravagance,
idleness, disgraceful promotions.  But the slightest allusion to
the charge of poisoning threw him into convulsions.  Louis the
Fifteenth braved the hatred and contempt of his subjects during
many years of the most odious and imbecile misgovernment.  But,
when a report was spread that he used human blood for his baths,
he was almost driven mad by it.  Surely Mr Bentham's position
"that no man cares for the good opinion of those whom he has been
accustomed to wrong" would be objectionable, as far too sweeping
and indiscriminate, even if it did not involve, as in the present
case we have shown that it does, a direct begging of the question
at issue.

Mr Bentham proceeds:--

"Fourthly, The Edinburgh Reviewers are of opinion, that 'it
might, with no small plausibility, be maintained, that in many
countries, there are two classes which, in some degree, answer to
this description;' [viz.] 'that the poor compose the class which
government is established to restrain; and the people of some
property the class to which the powers of government may without
danger be confided.'

"They take great pains, it is true, to say this and not to say
it.  They shuffle and creep about, to secure a hole to escape at,
if 'what they do not assert' should be found in any degree
inconvenient.  A man might waste his life in trying to find out
whether the Misses of the 'Edinburgh' mean to say Yes or No in
their political coquetry.  But whichever way the lovely spinsters
may decide, it is diametrically opposed to history and the
evidence of facts, that the poor ARE the class whom there is any
difficulty in restraining.  It is not the poor but the rich that
have a propensity to take the property of other people.  There is
no instance upon earth of the poor having combined to take away
the property of the rich; and all the instances habitually
brought forward in support of it are gross misrepresentations,
founded upon the most necessary acts of self-defence on the part
of the most numerous classes.  Such a misrepresentation is the
common one of the Agrarian law; which was nothing but an attempt
on the part of the Roman people to get back some part of what had
been taken from them by undisguised robbery.  Such another is the
stock example of the French Revolution, appealed to by the
'Edinburgh Review' in the actual case.  It is utterly untrue that
the French Revolution took place because 'the poor began to
compare their cottages and salads with the hotels and banquets of
the rich;' it took place because they were robbed of their
cottages and salads to support the hotels and banquets of their
oppressors.  It is utterly untrue that there was either a
scramble for property or a general confiscation; the classes who
took part with the foreign invaders lost their property, as they
would have done here, and ought to do everywhere.  All these are
the vulgar errors of the man on the lion's back,--which the lion
will set to rights when he can tell his own story.  History is
nothing but the relation of the sufferings of the poor from the
rich; except precisely so far as the numerous classes of the
community have contrived to keep the virtual power in their
hands, or, in other words, to establish free governments.  If a
poor man injures the rich, the law is instantly at his heels; the
injuries of the rich towards the poor are always inflicted BY the
law.  And to enable the rich to do this to any extent that may be
practicable or prudent, there is clearly one postulate required,
which is, that the rich shall make the law."

This passage is alone sufficient to prove that Mr Bentham has not
taken the trouble to read our article from beginning to end.  We
are quite sure that he would not stoop to misrepresent it.  And,
if he had read it with any attention, he would have perceived
that all this coquetry, this hesitation, this Yes and No, this
saying and not saying, is simply an exercise of the undeniable
right which in controversy belongs to the defensive side--to the
side which proposes to establish nothing.  The affirmative of the
issue and the burden of the proof are with Mr Mill, not with us. 
We are not bound, perhaps we are not able, to show that the form
of government which he recommends is bad.  It is quite enough if
we can show that he does not prove it to be good.  In his proof,
among many other flaws, is this--He says, that if men are not
inclined to plunder each other, government is unnecessary, and
that, if men are so inclined, kings and aristocracies will
plunder the people.  Now, this we say, is a fallacy.  That SOME
men will plunder their neighbours if they can, is a sufficient
reason for the existence of governments.  But it is not
demonstrated that kings and aristocracies will plunder the
people, unless it be true that ALL men will plunder their
neighbours, if they can.  Men are placed in very different
situations.  Some have all the bodily pleasures that they desire,
and many other pleasures besides, without plundering anybody. 
Others can scarcely obtain their daily bread without plundering. 
It may be true, but surely it is not self-evident, that the
former class is under as strong temptations to plunder as the
latter.  Mr Mill was therefore bound to prove it.  That he has
not proved it is one of thirty or forty fatal errors in his
argument.  It is not necessary that we should express an opinion
or even have an opinion on the subject.  Perhaps we are in a
state of perfect scepticism:  but what then?  Are we the
theorymakers?  When we bring before the world a theory of
government, it will be time to call upon us to offer proof at
every step.  At present we stand on our undoubted logical right. 
We concede nothing; and we deny nothing.  We say to the
Utilitarian theorists:--When you prove your doctrine, we will
believe it; and, till you prove it, we will not believe it.

Mr Bentham has quite misunderstood what we said about the French
Revolution.  We never alluded to that event for the purpose of
proving that the poor were inclined to rob the rich.  Mr Mill's
principles of human nature furnished us with that part of our
argument ready-made.  We alluded to the French Revolution for the
purpose of illustrating the effects which general spoliation
produces on society, not for the purpose of showing that general
spoliation will take place under a democracy.  We allowed
distinctly that, in the peculiar circumstances of the French
monarchy, the Revolution, though accompanied by a great shock to
the institution of property, was a blessing.  Surely Mr Bentham
will not maintain that the injury produced by the deluge of
assignats and by the maximum fell only on the emigrants,--or that
there were not many emigrants who would have stayed and lived
peaceably under any government if their persons and property had
been secure.

We never said that the French Revolution took place because the
poor began to compare their cottages and salads with the hotels
and banquets of the rich.  We were not speaking about THE CAUSES
of the Revolution, or thinking about them.  This we said, and
say, that, if a democratic government had been established in
France, the poor, when they began to compare their cottages and
salads with the hotels and banquets of the rich, would, on the
supposition that Mr Mill's principles are sound, have plundered
the rich, and repeated without provocation all the severities and
confiscations which at the time of the Revolution, were committed
with provocation.  We say that Mr Mill's favourite form of
government would, if his own views of human nature be just, make
those violent convulsions and transfers of property which now
rarely happen, except, as in the case of the French Revolution,
when the people are maddened by oppression, events of annual or
biennial occurrence.  We gave no opinion of our own.  We give
none now.  We say that this proposition may be proved from Mr
Mill's own premises, by steps strictly analogous to those by
which he proves monarchy and aristocracy to be bad forms of
government.  To say this, is not to say that the proposition is
true.  For we hold both Mr Mill's premises and his deduction to
be unsound throughout.

Mr Bentham challenges us to prove from history that the people
will plunder the rich.  What does history say to Mr Mill's
doctrine, that absolute kings will always plunder their subjects
so unmercifully as to leave nothing but a bare subsistence to any
except their own creatures?  If experience is to be the test, Mr
Mill's theory is unsound.  If Mr Mill's reasoning a priori be
sound, the people in a democracy will plunder the rich.  Let us
use one weight and one measure.  Let us not throw history aside
when we are proving a theory, and take it up again when we have
to refute an objection founded on the principles of that theory.

We have not done, however, with Mr Bentham's charges against us.

"Among other specimens of their ingenuity, they think they
embarrass the subject by asking why, on the principles in
question, women should not have votes as well as men.  AND WHY
NOT?

'Gentle shepherd, tell me why?'--

If the mode of election was what it ought to be, there would be
no more difficulty in women voting for a representative in
Parliament than for a director at the India House.  The world
will find out at some time that the readiest way to secure
justice on some points is to be just on all:--that the whole is
easier to accomplish than the part; and that, whenever the camel
is driven through the eye of the needle, it would be simple folly
and debility that would leave a hoof behind."

Why, says or sings Mr Bentham, should not women vote?  It may
seem uncivil in us to turn a deaf ear to his Arcadian warblings. 
But we submit, with great deference, that it is not OUR business
to tell him why.  We fully agree with him that the principle of
female suffrage is not so palpably absurd that a chain of
reasoning ought to be pronounced unsound merely because it leads
to female suffrage.  We say that every argument which tells in
favour of the universal suffrage of the males tells equally in
favour of female suffrage.  Mr Mill, however, wishes to see all
men vote, but says that it is unnecessary that women should vote;
and for making this distinction HE gives as a reason an assertion
which, in the first place, is not true, and which, in the next
place, would, if true, overset his whole theory of human nature;
namely, that the interest of the women is identical with that of
the men.  We side with Mr Bentham, so far, at least, as this: 
that, when we join to drive the camel through the needle, he
shall go through hoof and all.  We at present desire to be
excused from driving the camel.  It is Mr Mill who leaves the
hoof behind.  But we should think it uncourteous to reproach him
in the language which Mr Bentham, in the exercise of his paternal
authority over the sect, thinks himself entitled to employ.

"Another of their perverted ingenuities is, that 'they are rather
inclined to think,' that it would, on the whole, be for the
interest of the majority to plunder the rich; and if so, the
Utilitarians will say that the rich OUGHT to be plundered.  On
which it is sufficient to reply, that for the majority to plunder
the rich would amount to a declaration that nobody should be
rich; which, as all men wish to be rich, would involve a suicide
of hope.  And as nobody has shown a fragment of reason why such a
proceeding should be for the general happiness, it does not
follow that the 'Utilitarians' would recommend it.  The Edinburgh
Reviewers have a waiting gentlewoman's ideas of 'Utilitarianism.' 
It is unsupported by anything but the pitiable 'We are rather
inclined to think'--and is utterly contradicted by the whole
course of history and human experience besides,--that there is
either danger or possibility of such a consummation as the
majority agreeing on the plunder of the rich.  There have been
instances in human memory, of their agreeing to plunder rich
oppressors, rich traitors, rich enemies,--but the rich
simpliciter never.  It is as true now as in the days of
Harrington that 'a people never will, nor ever can, never did,
nor ever shall, take up arms for levelling.'  All the commotions
in the world have been for something else; and 'levelling' is
brought forward as the blind to conceal what the other was."

We say, again and again, that we are on the defensive.  We do not
think it necessary to prove that a quack medicine is poison.  Let
the vendor prove it to be sanative.  We do not pretend to show
that universal suffrage is an evil.  Let its advocates show it to
be a good.  Mr Mill tells us that, if power be given for short
terms to representatives elected by all the males of mature age,
it will then be for the interest of those representatives to
promote the greatest happiness of the greatest number.  To prove
this, it is necessary that he should prove three propositions: 
first, that the interest of such a representative body will be
identical with the interest of the constituent body; secondly,
that the interest of the constituent body will be identical with
that of the community; thirdly, that the interest of one
generation of a community is identical with that of all
succeeding generations.  The two first propositions Mr Mill
attempts to prove and fails.  The last he does not even attempt
to prove.  We therefore refuse our assent to his conclusions.  Is
this unreasonable?

We never even dreamed, what Mr Bentham conceives us to have
maintained, that it could be for the greatest happiness of
MANKIND to plunder the rich.  But we are "rather inclined to
think," though doubtingly and with a disposition to yield to
conviction, that it may be for the pecuniary interest of the
majority of a single generation in a thickly-peopled country to
plunder the rich.  Why we are inclined to think so we will
explain, whenever we send a theory of government to an
Encyclopaedia.  At present we are bound to say only that we think
so, and shall think so till somebody shows us a reason for
thinking otherwise.

Mr Bentham's answer to us is simple assertion.  He must not think
that we mean any discourtesy by meeting it with a simple denial. 
The fact is, that almost all the governments that have ever
existed in the civilised world have been, in part at least,
monarchical and aristocratical.  The first government constituted
on principles approaching to those which the Utilitarians hold
was, we think, that of the United States.  That the poor have
never combined to plunder the rich in the governments of the old
world, no more proves that they might not combine to plunder the
rich under a system of universal suffrage, than the fact that the
English kings of the House of Brunswick have not been Neros and
Domitians proves that sovereigns may safely be intrusted with
absolute power.  Of what the people would do in a state of
perfect sovereignty we can judge only by indications, which,
though rarely of much moment in themselves, and though always
suppressed with little difficulty, are yet of great significance,
and resemble those by which our domestic animals sometimes remind
us that they are of kin with the fiercest monsters of the forest. 
It would not be wise to reason from the behaviour of a dog
crouching under the lash, which is the case of the Italian
people, or from the behaviour of a dog pampered with the best
morsels of a plentiful kitchen, which is the case of the purpose
of America, to the behaviour of a wolf, which is nothing but a
dog run wild, after a week's fast among the snows of the
Pyrenees.  No commotion, says Mr Bentham, was ever really
produced by the wish of levelling; the wish has been put forward
as a blind; but something else has been the real object.  Grant
all this.  But why has levelling been put forward as a blind in
times of commotion to conceal the real objects of the agitators? 
Is it with declarations which involve "a suicide of hope" that
man attempt to allure others?  Was famine, pestilence, slavery,
ever held out to attract the people?  If levelling has been made
a pretence for disturbances, the argument against Mr Bentham's
doctrine is as strong as if it had been the real object of
disturbances.

But the great objection which Mr Bentham makes to our review,
still remains to be noticed:--

"The pith of the charge against the author of the Essays is, that
he has written 'an elaborate Treatise on Government,' and
'deduced the whole science from the assumption of certain
propensities of human nature.'  Now, in the name of Sir Richard
Birnie and all saints, from what else SHOULD it be deduced?  What
did ever anybody imagine to be the end, object, and design of
government AS IT OUGHT TO BE but the same operation, on an
extended scale, which that meritorious chief magistrate conducts
on a limited one at Bow Street; to wit, the preventing one man
from injuring another?  Imagine, then, that the Whiggery of Bow
Street were to rise up against the proposition that their science
was to be deduced from 'certain propensities of human nature,'
and thereon were to ratiocinate as follows:--

"'How then are we to arrive at just conclusions on a subject so
important to the happiness of mankind?  Surely by that method,
which, in every experimental science to which it has been
applied, has signally increased the power and knowledge of our
species,--by that method for which our new philosophers would
substitute quibbles scarcely worthy of the barbarous respondents
and opponents of the middle ages,--by the method of induction,--
by observing the present state of the world,--by assiduously
studying the history of past ages,--by sifting the evidence of
facts,--by carefully combining and contrasting those which are
authentic,--by generalising with judgment and diffidence,--by
perpetually bringing the theory which we have constructed to the
test of new facts,--by correcting, or altogether abandoning it,
according as those new facts prove it to be partially or
fundamentally unsound.  Proceeding thus,--patiently, diligently,
candidly, we may hope to form a system as far inferior in
pretension to that which we have been examining, and as far
superior to it in real utility, as the prescriptions of a great
physician, varying with every stage of every malady, and with the
constitution of every patient, to the pill of the advertising
quack, which is to cure all human beings, in all climates, of all
diseases.'

"Fancy now,--only fancy,--the delivery of these wise words at Bow
Street; and think how speedily the practical catchpolls would
reply, that all this might be very fine, but, as far as they had
studied history, the naked story was, after all, that numbers of
men had a propensity to thieving, and their business was to catch
them; that they, too, had been sifters of facts; and, to say the
truth, their simple opinion was, that their brethren of the red
waistcoat--though they should be sorry to think ill of any man--
had somehow contracted a leaning to the other side, and were more
bent on puzzling the case for the benefit of the defendants, than
on doing the duty of good officers and true.  Such would, beyond
all doubt, be the sentence passed on such trimmers in the
microcosm of Bow Street.  It might not absolutely follow that
they were in a plot to rob the goldsmiths' shops, or to set fire
to the House of Commons; but it would be quite clear that they
had got A FEELING,--that they were in process of siding with the
thieves,--and that it was not to them that any man must look who
was anxious that pantries should be safe."

This is all very witty; but it does not touch us.  On the present
occasion, we cannot but flatter ourselves that we bear a much
greater resemblance to a practical catchpoll than either Mr Mill
or Mr Bentham.  It would, to be sure, be very absurd in a
magistrate discussing the arrangements of a police-office, to
spout in the style either of our article or Mr Bentham's; but, in
substance, he would proceed, if he were a man of sense, exactly
as WE recommend.  He would, on being appointed to provide for the
security of property in a town, study attentively the state of
the town.  He would learn at what places, at what times, and
under what circumstances, theft and outrage were most frequent. 
Are the streets, he would ask, most infested with thieves at
sunset or at midnight?  Are there any public places of resort
which give peculiar facilities to pickpockets?  Are there any
districts completely inhabited by a lawless population?  Which
are the flash houses, and which the shops of receivers?  Having
made himself master of the facts, he would act accordingly.  A
strong detachment of officers might be necessary for Petticoat
Lane; another for the pit entrance of Covent Garden Theatre. 
Grosvenor Square and Hamilton Place would require little or no
protection.  Exactly thus should we reason about government. 
Lombardy is oppressed by tyrants; and constitutional checks, such
as may produce security to the people, are required.  It is, so
to speak, one of the resorts of thieves; and there is great need
of police-officers.  Denmark resembles one of those respectable
streets in which it is scarcely necessary to station a catchpoll,
because the inhabitants would at once join to seize a thief. 
Yet, even in such a street, we should wish to see an officer
appear now and then, as his occasional superintence would render
the security more complete.  And even Denmark, we think, would be
better off under a constitutional form of government.

Mr Mill proceeds like a director of police, who, without asking a
single question about the state of his district, should give his
orders thus:--"My maxim is, that every man will take what he can. 
Every man in London would be a thief, but for the thieftakers. 
This is an undeniable principle of human nature.  Some of my
predecessors have wasted their time in enquiring about particular
pawnbrokers, and particular alehouses.  Experience is altogether
divided.  Of people placed in exactly the same situation, I see
that one steals, and that another would sooner burn his hand off. 
THEREFORE I trust to the laws of human nature alone, and
pronounce all men thieves alike.  Let everybody, high and low, be
watched.  Let Townsend take particular care that the Duke of
Wellington does not steal the silk handkerchief of the lord in
waiting at the levee.  A person has lost a watch.  Go to Lord
Fitzwilliam and search him for it; he is as great a receiver of
stolen goods as Ikey Solomons himself.  Don't tell me about his
rank, and character, and fortune.  He is a man; and a man does
not change his nature when he is called a lord.  ("If Government
is founded upon this, as a law of human nature, that a man, if
able, will take from others anything which they have and he
desires, it is sufficiently evident that when a man is called a
king, he does not change his nature, so that, when he has power
to take what he pleases, he will take what he pleases.  To
suppose that he will not, is to affirm that government is
unnecessary and that human beings will abstain from injuring one
another of their own accord."--"Mill on Government".)  Either men
will steal or they will not steal.  If they will not, why do I
sit here?  If they will, his lordship must be a thief."  The
Whiggery of Bow Street would perhaps rise up against this wisdom. 
Would Mr Bentham think that the Whiggery of Bow Street was in the
wrong?

We blamed Mr Mill for deducing his theory of government from the
principles of human nature.  "In the name of Sir Richard Birnie
and all saints," cries Mr Bentham, "from what else should it be
deduced?"  In spite of this solemn adjuration, with shall venture
to answer Mr Bentham's question by another.  How does he arrive
at those principles of human nature from which he proposes to
deduce the science of government?  We think that we may venture
to put an answer into his mouth; for in truth there is but one
possible answer.  He will say--By experience.  But what is the
extent of this experience?  Is it an experience which includes
experience of the conduct of men intrusted with the powers of
government; or is it exclusive of that experience?  If it
includes experience of the manner in which men act when intrusted
with the powers of government, then those principles of human
nature from which the science of government is to be deduced can
only be known after going through that inductive process by which
we propose to arrive at the science of government.  Our knowledge
of human nature, instead of being prior in order to our knowledge
of the science of government, will be posterior to it.  And it
would be correct to say, that by means of the science of
government, and of other kindred sciences--the science of
education, for example, which falls under exactly the same
principle--we arrive at the science of human nature.

If, on the other hand, we are to deduce the theory of government
from principles of human nature, in arriving at which principles
we have not taken into the account the manner in which men act
when invested with the powers of government, then those
principles must be defective.  They have not been formed by a
sufficiently copious induction.  We are reasoning, from what a
man does in one situation, to what he will do in another. 
Sometimes we may be quite justified in reasoning thus.  When we
have no means of acquiring information about the particular case
before us, we are compelled to resort to cases which bear some
resemblance to it.  But the more satisfactory course is to obtain
information about the particular case; and, whenever this can be
obtained, it ought to be obtained.  When first the yellow fever
broke out, a physician might be justified in treating it as he
had been accustomed to treat those complaints which, on the
whole, had the most symptoms in common with it.  But what should
we think of a physician who should now tell us that he deduced
his treatment of yellow fever from the general theory of
pathology?  Surely we should ask him, Whether, in constructing
his theory of pathology, he had or had not taken into the account
the facts which had been ascertained respecting the yellow fever? 
If he had, then it would be more correct to say that he had
arrived at the principles of pathology partly by his experience
of cases of yellow fever than that he had deduced his treatment
of yellow fever from the principles of pathology.  If he had not,
he should not prescribe for us.  If we had the yellow fever, we
should prefer a man who had never treated any cases but cases of
yellow fever to a man who had walked the hospitals of London and
Paris for years, but who knew nothing of our particular disease.

Let Lord Bacon speak for us:  "Inductionem censemus eam esse
demonstrandi formam, quae sensum tuetur, et naturam premit, et
operibus imminet, ac fere immiscetur.  Itaque ordo quoque
demonstrandi plane invertitur.  Adhuc enim res ita geri
consuevit, ut a sensu et particularibus primo loco ad maxime
generalia advoletur, tanquam ad polos fixos, circa quos
disputationes vertantur; ab illis caetera, per media, deriventur;
via certe compendiaria, sed praecipiti, et ad naturam impervia,
ad disputationes proclivi et accommodata.  At, secundum nos,
axiomata continenter et gradatim excitantur, ut non, nisi
postremo loco, ad maxime generalia veniatur."  Can any words more
exactly describe the political reasonings of Mr Mill than those
in which Lord Bacon thus describes the logomachies of the
schoolmen?  Mr Mill springs at once to a general principle of the
widest extent, and from that general principle deduces
syllogistically every thing which is included in it.  We say with
Bacon--"non, nisi postremo loco, ad maxime generalia veniatur." 
In the present inquiry, the science of human nature is the
"maxime generale."  To this the Utilitarian rushes at once, and
from this he deduces a hundred sciences.  But the true
philosopher, the inductive reasoner, travels up to it slowly,
through those hundred sciences, of which the science of
government is one.

As we have lying before us that incomparable volume, the noblest
and most useful of all the works of the human reason, the Novum
Organum, we will transcribe a few lines, in which the Utilitarian
philosophy is portrayed to the life.

"Syllogismus ad 'Principia' scientiarum non adhibetur, ad media
axiomata frustra adhibetur, cum sit subtilitati naturae longe
impar.  Assensum itaque constringit, non res.  Syllogismus ex
propositionibus constat, propositiones ex verbis, verba notionum
tesserae sunt.  Itaque si notiones ipsae, id quod basis rei est,
confusae sint, et tenere a rebus abstractae, nihil in iis quae
superstruuntur est firmitudinis.  Itaque spes est una in
Inductione vera.  In notionibus nil sani est, nec in Logicis nec
in physicis.  Non substantia, non qualitas, agere, pati, ipsum
esse, bonae notiones sunt; multo minus grave, leve, densum,
tenue, humidum, siccum, generatio, corruptio, attrahere, fugare,
elementum, materia, forma, et id genus, sed omnes phantasticae et
male terminatae."

Substitute for the "substantia," the "generatio," the
"corruptio," the "elementum," the "materia," of the old
schoolmen, Mr Mill's pain, pleasure, interest, power, objects of
desire,--and the words of Bacon will seem to suit the current
year as well as the beginning of the seventeenth century.

We have now gone through the objections that Mr Bentham makes to
our article:  and we submit ourselves on all the charges to the
judgment of the public.

The rest of Mr Bentham's article consists of an exposition of the
Utilitarian principle, or, as he decrees that it shall be called,
the "greatest happiness principle."  He seems to think that we
have been assailing it.  We never said a syllable against it.  We
spoke slightingly of the Utilitarian sect, as we thought of them,
and think of them; but it was not for holding this doctrine that
we blamed them.  In attacking them we no more meant to attack the
"greatest happiness principle" than when we say that Mahometanism
is a false religion we mean to deny the unity of God, which is
the first article of the Mahometan creed;--no more than Mr
Bentham, when he sneers at the Whigs means to blame them for
denying the divine right of kings.  We reasoned throughout our
article on the supposition that the end of government was to
produce the greatest happiness to mankind.

Mr Bentham gives an account of the manner in which he arrived at
the discovery of the "greatest happiness principle."  He then
proceeds to describe the effects which, as he conceives, that
discovery is producing in language so rhetorical and ardent that,
if it had been written by any other person, a genuine Utilitarian
would certainly have thrown down the book in disgust.

"The only rivals of any note to the new principle which were
brought forward, were those known by the names of the 'moral
sense,' and the 'original contract.'  The new principle
superseded the first of these, by presenting it with a guide for
its decisions; and the other, by making it unnecessary to resort
to a remote and imaginary contract for what was clearly the
business of every man and every hour.  Throughout the whole
horizon of morals and of politics, the consequences were glorious
and vast.  It might be said without danger of exaggeration, that
they who sat in darkness had seen a great light.  The mists in
which mankind had jousted against each other were swept away, as
when the sun of astronomical science arose in the full
development of the principle of gravitation.  If the object of
legislation was the greatest happiness, MORALITY was the
promotion of the same end by the conduct of the individual; and
by analogy, the happiness of the world was the morality of
nations.

"...All the sublime obscurities, which had haunted the mind of
man from the first formation of society,--the phantoms whose
steps had been on earth, and their heads among the clouds--
marshalled themselves at the sound of this new principle of
connection and of union, and stood a regulated band, where all
was order, symmetry, and force.  What men had struggled for and
bled, while they saw it but as through a glass darkly, was made
the object of substantial knowledge and lively apprehension.  The
bones of sages and of patriots stirred within their tombs, that
what they dimly saw and followed had become the world's common
heritage.  And the great result was wrought by no supernatural
means, nor produced by any unparallelable concatenation of
events.  It was foretold by no oracles, and ushered by no
portents; but was brought about by the quiet and reiterated
exercise of God's first gift of common sense."

Mr Bentham's discovery does not, as we think we shall be able to
show, approach in importance to that of gravitation, to which he
compares it.  At all events, Mr Bentham seems to us to act much
as Sir Isaac Newton would have done if he had gone about boasting
that he was the first person who taught bricklayers not to jump
off scaffolds and break their legs.

Does Mr Bentham profess to hold out any new motive which may
induce men to promote the happiness of the species to which they
belong?  Not at all.  He distinctly admits that, if he is asked
why government should attempt to produce the greatest possible
happiness, he can give no answer.

"The real answer," says he, "appeared to be, that men at large
OUGHT not to allow a government to afflict them with more evil or
less good than they can help.  What A GOVERNMENT ought to do is a
mysterious and searching question, which those may answer who
know what it means; but what other men ought to do is a question
of no mystery at all.  The word OUGHT, if it means anything, must
have reference to some kind of interest or motives; and what
interest a government has in doing right, when it happens to be
interested in doing wrong, is a question for the schoolmen.  The
fact appears to be, that OUGHT is not predicable of governments. 
The question is not why governments are bound not to do this or
that, but why OTHER MEN should let them if they can help it.  The
point is not to determine why the lion should not eat sheep, but
why men should not eat their own mutton if they can."

The principle of Mr Bentham, if we understand it, is this, that
mankind ought to act so as to produce their greatest happiness. 
The word OUGHT, he tells us, has no meaning, unless it be used
with reference to some interest.  But the interest of a man is
synonymous with his greatest happiness:--and therefore to say
that a man ought to do a thing, is to say that it is for his
greatest happiness to do it.  And to say that mankind OUGHT to
act so as to produce their greatest happiness, is to say that the
greatest happiness is the greatest happiness--and this is all!

Does Mr Bentham's principle tend to make any man wish for
anything for which he would not have wished, or do anything which
he would not have done, if the principle had never been heard of? 
If not, it is an utterly useless principle.  Now, every man
pursues his own happiness or interest--call it which you will. 
If his happiness coincides with the happiness of the species,
then, whether he ever heard of the "greatest happiness principle"
or not, he will, to the best of his knowledge and ability,
attempt to produce the greatest happiness of the species.  But,
if what he thinks his happiness be inconsistent with the greatest
happiness of mankind, will this new principle convert him to
another frame of mind?  Mr Bentham himself allows, as we have
seen, that he can give no reason why a man should promote the
greatest happiness of others if their greatest happiness be
inconsistent with what he thinks his own.  We should very much
like to know how the Utilitarian principle would run when reduced
to one plain imperative proposition?  Will it run thus--pursue
your own happiness?  This is superfluous.  Every man pursues it,
according to his light, and always has pursued it, and always
must pursue it.  To say that a man has done anything, is to say
that he thought it for his happiness to do it.  Will the
principle run thus--pursue the greatest happiness of mankind,
whether it be your own greatest happiness or not?  This is absurd
and impossible; and Bentham himself allows it to be so.  But, if
the principle be not stated in one of these two ways, we cannot
imagine how it is to be stated at all.  Stated in one of these
ways, it is an identical proposition,--true, but utterly barren
of consequences.  Stated in the other way, it is a contradiction
in terms.  Mr Bentham has distinctly declined the absurdity.  Are
we then to suppose that he adopts the truism?

There are thus, it seems, two great truths which the Utilitarian
philosophy is to communicate to mankind--two truths which are to
produce a revolution in morals, in laws, in governments, in
literature, in the whole system of life.  The first of these is
speculative; the second is practical.  The speculative truth is,
that the greatest happiness is the greatest happiness.  The
practical rule is very simple; for it imports merely that men
should never omit, when they wish for anything, to wish for it,
or when they do anything, to do it!  It is a great comfort to us
to think that we readily assented to the former of these great
doctrines as soon as it was stated to us; and that we have long
endeavoured, as far as human frailty would permit, to conform to
the latter in our practice.  We are, however, inclined to suspect
that the calamities of the human race have been owing, less to
their not knowing that happiness was happiness, than to their not
knowing how to obtain it--less to their neglecting to do what
they did, than to their not being able to do what they wished, or
not wishing to do what they ought.

Thus frivolous, thus useless is this philosophy,--
"controversiarum ferax, operum effoeta, ad garriendum prompta, ad
generandum invalida."  (Bacon, "Novum Organum".)  The humble
mechanic who discovers some slight improvement in the
construction of safety lamps or steam-vessels does more for the
happiness of mankind than the "magnificent principle," as Mr
Bentham calls it, will do in ten thousand years.  The mechanic
teaches us how we may in a small degree be better off than we
were.  The Utilitarian advises us with great pomp to be as well
off as we can.

The doctrine of a moral sense may be very unphilosophical; but we
do not think that it can be proved to be pernicious.  Men did not
entertain certain desires and aversions because they believed in
a moral sense, but they gave the name of moral sense to a feeling
which they found in their minds, however it came there.  If they
had given it no name at all it would still have influenced their
actions; and it will not be very easy to demonstrate that it has
influenced their actions the more because they have called it the
moral sense.  The theory of the original contract is a fiction,
and a very absurd fiction; but in practice it meant, what the
"greatest happiness principle," if ever it becomes a watchword of
political warfare, will mean--that is to say, whatever served the
turn of those who used it.  Both the one expression and the other
sound very well in debating clubs; but in the real conflicts of
life our passions and interests bid them stand aside and know
their place.  The "greatest happiness principle" has always been
latent under the words, social contract, justice, benevolence,
patriotism, liberty, and so forth, just as far as it was for the
happiness, real or imagined, of those who used these words to
promote the greatest happiness of mankind.  And of this we may be
sure, that the words "greatest happiness" will never, in any
man's mouth, mean more than the greatest happiness of others
which is consistent with what he thinks his own.  The project of
mending a bad world by teaching people to give new names to old
things reminds us of Walter Shandy's scheme for compensating the
loss of his son's nose by christening him Trismegistus.  What
society wants is a new motive--not a new cant.  If Mr Bentham can
find out any argument yet undiscovered which may induce men to
pursue the general happiness, he will indeed be a great
benefactor to our species.  But those whose happiness is
identical with the general happiness are even now promoting the
general happiness to the very best of their power and knowledge;
and Mr Bentham himself confesses that he has no means of
persuading those whose happiness is not identical with the
general happiness to act upon his principle.  Is not this, then,
darkening counsel by words without knowledge?  If the only fruit
of the "magnificent principle" is to be, that the oppressors and
pilferers of the next generation are to talk of seeking the
greatest happiness of the greatest number, just as the same class
of men have talked in our time of seeking to uphold the
Protestant constitution--just as they talked under Anne of
seeking the good of the Church, and under Cromwell of seeking the
Lord--where is the gain?  Is not every great question already
enveloped in a sufficiently dark cloud of unmeaning words?  Is it
so difficult for a man to cant some one or more of the good old
English cants which his father and grandfather canted before him,
that he must learn, in the schools of the Utilitarians, a new
sleight of tongue, to make fools clap and wise men sneer?  Let
our countrymen keep their eyes on the neophytes of this sect, and
see whether we turn out to be mistaken in the prediction which we
now hazard.  It will before long be found, we prophesy, that, as
the corruption of a dunce is the generation of an Utilitarian, so
is the corruption of an Utilitarian the generation of a jobber.

The most elevated station that the "greatest happiness principle"
is ever likely to attain is this, that it may be a fashionable
phrase among newspaper writers and members of parliament--that it
may succeed to the dignity which has been enjoyed by the
"original contract," by the "constitution of 1688," and other
expressions of the same kind.  We do not apprehend that it is a
less flexible cant than those which have preceded it, or that it
will less easily furnish a pretext for any design for which a
pretext may be required.  The "original contract" meant in the
Convention Parliament the co-ordinate authority of the Three
Estates.  If there were to be a radical insurrection tomorrow,
the "original contract" would stand just as well for annual
parliaments and universal suffrage.  The "Glorious Constitution,"
again, has meant everything in turn:  the Habeas Corpus Act, the
Suspension of the Habeas Corpus Act, the Test Act, the Repeal of
the Test Act.  There has not been for many years a single
important measure which has not been unconstitutional with its
opponents, and which its supporters have not maintained to be
agreeable to the true spirit of the constitution.  Is it easier
to ascertain what is for the greatest happiness of the human race
than what is the constitution of England?  If not, the "greatest
happiness principle" will be what the "principles of the
constitution" are, a thing to be appealed to by everybody, and
understood by everybody in the sense which suits him best.  It
will mean cheap bread, dear bread, free trade, protecting duties,
annual parliaments, septennial parliaments, universal suffrage,
Old Sarum, trial by jury, martial law--everything, in short,
good, bad, or indifferent, of which any person, from rapacity or
from benevolence, chooses to undertake the defence.  It will mean
six-and-eightpence with the attorney, tithes at the rectory, and
game-laws at the manor-house.  The Statute of Uses, in appearance
the most sweeping legislative reform in our history, was said to
have produced no other effect than that of adding three words to
a conveyance.  The universal admission of Mr Bentham's great
principle would, as far as we can see, produce no other effect
than that those orators who, while waiting for a meaning, gain
time (like bankers paying in sixpences during a run) by uttering
words that mean nothing would substitute "the greatest
happiness," or rather, as the longer phrase, "the greatest
happiness of the greatest number," for "under existing
circumstances,"--"now that I am on my legs,"--and "Mr Speaker, I,
for one, am free to say."  In fact, principles of this sort
resemble those forms which are sold by law-stationers, with
blanks for the names of parties, and for the special
circumstances of every case--mere customary headings and
conclusions, which are equally at the command of the most honest
and of the most unrighteous claimant.  It is on the filling up
that everything depends.

The "greatest happiness principle" of Mr Bentham is included in
the Christian morality; and, to our thinking, it is there
exhibited in an infinitely more sound and philosophical form than
in the Utilitarian speculations.  For in the New Testament it is
neither an identical proposition, nor a contradiction in terms;
and, as laid down by Mr Bentham, it must be either the one or the
other.  "Do as you would be done by:  Love your neighbour as
yourself:"  these are the precepts of Jesus Christ.  Understood
in an enlarged sense, these precepts are, in fact, a direction to
every man to promote the greatest happiness of the greatest
number.  But this direction would be utterly unmeaning, as it
actually is in Mr Bentham's philosophy, unless it were
accompanied by a sanction.  In the Christian scheme, accordingly,
it is accompanied by a sanction of immense force.  To a man whose
greatest happiness in this world is inconsistent with the
greatest happiness of the greatest number is held out the
prospect of an infinite happiness hereafter, from which he
excludes himself by wronging his fellow-creatures here.

This is practical philosophy, as practical as that on which penal
legislation is founded.  A man is told to do something which
otherwise he would not do, and is furnished with a new motive for
doing it.  Mr Bentham has no new motive to furnish his disciples
with.  He has talents sufficient to effect anything that can be
effected.  But to induce men to act without an inducement is too
much, even for him.  He should reflect that the whole vast world
of morals cannot be moved unless the mover can obtain some stand
for his engines beyond it.  He acts as Archimedes would have
done, if he had attempted to move the earth by a lever fixed on
the earth.  The action and reaction neutralise each other.  The
artist labours, and the world remains at rest.  Mr Bentham can
only tell us to do something which we have always been doing, and
should still have continued to do, if we had never heard of the
"greatest happiness principle"--or else to do something which we
have no conceivable motive for doing, and therefore shall not do. 
Mr Bentham's principle is at best no more than the golden rule of
the Gospel without its sanction.  Whatever evils, therefore, have
existed in societies in which the authority of the Gospel is
recognised may, a fortiori, as it appears to us, exist in
societies in which the Utilitarian principle is recognised.  We
do not apprehend that it is more difficult for a tyrant or a
persecutor to persuade himself and others that in putting to
death those who oppose his power or differ from his opinions he
is pursuing "the greatest happiness," than that he is doing as he
would be done by.  But religion gives him a motive for doing as
he would be done by:  and Mr Bentham furnishes him no motive to
induce him to promote the general happiness.  If, on the other
hand, Mr Bentham's principle mean only that every man should
pursue his own greatest happiness, he merely asserts what
everybody knows, and recommends what everybody does.

It is not upon this "greatest happiness principle" that the fame
of Mr Bentham will rest.  He has not taught people to pursue
their own happiness; for that they always did.  He has not taught
them to promote the happiness of others, at the expense of their
own; for that they will not and cannot do.  But he has taught
them HOW, in some most important points, to promote their own
happiness; and, if his school had emulated him as successfully in
this respect as in the trick of passing off truisms for
discoveries, the name of Benthamite would have been no word for
the scoffer.  But few of those who consider themselves as in a
more especial manner his followers have anything in common with
him but his faults.  The whole science of Jurisprudence is his. 
He has done much for political economy; but we are not aware that
in either department any improvement has been made by members of
his sect.  He discovered truths; all that THEY have done has been
to make those truths unpopular.  He investigated the philosophy
of law; he could teach them only to snarl at lawyers.

We entertain no apprehensions of danger to the institutions of
this country from the Utilitarians.  Our fears are of a different
kind.  We dread the odium and discredit of their alliance.  We
wish to see a broad and clear line drawn between the judicious
friends of practical reform and a sect which, having derived all
its influence from the countenance which they have imprudently
bestowed upon it, hates them with the deadly hatred of
ingratitude.  There is not, and we firmly believe that there
never was, in this country a party so unpopular.  They have
already made the science of political economy--a science of vast
importance to the welfare of nations--an object of disgust to the
majority of the community.  The question of parliamentary reform
will share the same fate if once an association be formed in the
public mind between Reform and Utilitarianism.

We bear no enmity to any member of the sect; and for Mr Bentham
we entertain very high admiration.  We know that among his
followers there are some well-intentioned men, and some men of
talents; but we cannot say that we think the logic on which they
pride themselves likely to improve their heads, or the scheme of
morality which they have adopted likely to improve their hearts. 
Their theory of morals, however, well deserves an article to
itself; and perhaps, on some future occasion, we may discuss it
more fully than time and space at present allow.

The preceding article was written, and was actually in types,
when a letter from Mr Bentham appeared in the newspapers,
importing that, "though he had furnished the Westminster Review
with some memoranda respecting 'the greatest happiness
principle,' he had nothing to do with the remarks on our former
article."  We are truly happy to find that this illustrious man
had so small a share in a performance which, for his sake, we
have treated with far greater lenity than it deserved.  The
mistake, however, does not in the least affect any part of our
arguments; and we have therefore thought it unnecessary to cancel
or cast anew any of the foregoing pages.  Indeed, we are not
sorry that the world should see how respectfully we were disposed
to treat a great man, even when we considered him as the author
of a very weak and very unfair attack on ourselves.  We wish,
however, to intimate to the actual writer of that attack that our
civilities were intended for the author of the "Preuves
Judiciaires," and the "Defence of Usury"--and not for him.  We
cannot conclude, indeed, without expressing a wish--though we
fear it has but little chance of reaching Mr Bentham--that he
would endeavour to find better editors for his compositions.  If
M. Dumont had not been a redacteur of a different description
from some of his successors, Mr Bentham would never have attained
the distinction of even giving his name to a sect.

...


UTILITARIAN THEORY OF GOVERNMENT.

(October 1829.)

Westminster Review (XXII., Article 16), on the Strictures of the
Edinburgh Review (XCVIII., Article 1), on the Utilitarian Theory
of Government, and the "Greatest Happiness Principle."

We have long been of opinion that the Utilitarians have owed all
their influence to a mere delusion--that, while professing to
have submitted their minds to an intellectual discipline of
peculiar severity, to have discarded all sentimentality, and to
have acquired consummate skill in the art of reasoning, they are
decidedly inferior to the mass of educated men in the very
qualities in which they conceive themselves to excel.  They have
undoubtedly freed themselves from the dominion of some absurd
notions.  But their struggle for intellectual emancipation has
ended, as injudicious and violent struggles for political
emancipation too often end, in a mere change of tyrants.  Indeed,
we are not sure that we do not prefer the venerable nonsense
which holds prescriptive sway over the ultra-Tory to the upstart
dynasty of prejudices and sophisms by which the revolutionists of
the moral world have suffered themselves to be enslaved.

The Utilitarians have sometimes been abused as intolerant,
arrogant, irreligious,--as enemies of literature, of the fine
arts, and of the domestic charities.  They have been reviled for
some things of which they were guilty, and for some of which they
were innocent.  But scarcely anybody seems to have perceived that
almost all their peculiar faults arise from the utter want both
of comprehensiveness and of precision in their mode of reasoning. 
We have, for some time past, been convinced that this was really
the case; and that, whenever their philosophy should be boldly
and unsparingly scrutinised, the world would see that it had been
under a mistake respecting them.

We have made the experiment; and it has succeeded far beyond our
most sanguine expectations.  A chosen champion of the School has
come forth against us.  A specimen of his logical abilities now
lies before us; and we pledge ourselves to show that no
prebendary at an anti-Catholic meeting, no true-blue baronet
after the third bottle at a Pitt Club, ever displayed such utter
incapacity of comprehending or answering an argument as appears
in the speculations of this Utilitarian apostle; that he does not
understand our meaning, or Mr Mill's meaning, or Mr Bentham's
meaning, or his own meaning; and that the various parts of his
system--if the name of system can be so misapplied--directly
contradict each other.

Having shown this, we intend to leave him in undisputed
possession of whatever advantage he may derive from the last
word.  We propose only to convince the public that there is
nothing in the far-framed logic of the Utilitarians of which any
plain man has reason to be afraid; that this logic will impose on
no man who dares to look it in the face.

The Westminster Reviewer begins by charging us with having
misrepresented an important part of Mr Mill's argument.

"The first extract given by the Edinburgh Reviewers from the
Essay was an insulated passage, purposely despoiled of what had
preceded and what followed.  The author had been observing, that
'some profound and benevolent investigators of human affairs had
adopted the conclusion that, of all the possible forms of
government, absolute monarchy is the best.'  This is what the
reviewers have omitted at the beginning.  He then adds, as in the
extract, that 'Experience, IF WE LOOK ONLY AT THE OUTSIDE OF THE
FACTS, appears to be divided on this subject;' there are
Caligulas in one place, and kings of Denmark in another.  'As the
surface of history affords, therefore, no certain principle of
decision, WE MUST GO BEYOND THE SURFACE, and penetrate to the
springs within.'  This is what the reviewers have omitted at the
end."

It is perfectly true that our quotation from Mr Mill's essay was,
like most other quotations, preceded and followed by something
which we did not quote.  But, if the Westminster Reviewer means
to say that either what preceded or what followed would, if
quoted, have shown that we put a wrong interpretation on the
passage which was extracted, he does not understand Mr Mill
rightly.

Mr Mill undoubtedly says that, "as the surface of history affords
no certain principle of decision, we must go beyond the surface,
and penetrate to the springs within."  But these expressions will
admit of several interpretations.  In what sense, then, does Mr
Mill use them?  If he means that we ought to inspect the facts
with close attention, he means what is rational.  But, if he
means that we ought to leave the facts, with all their apparent
inconsistencies, unexplained--to lay down a general principle of
the widest extent, and to deduce doctrines from that principle by
syllogistic argument, without pausing to consider whether those
doctrines be or be not consistent with the facts,--then he means
what is irrational; and this is clearly what he does mean:  for
he immediately begins, without offering the least explanation of
the contradictory appearances which he has himself described, to
go beyond the surface in the following manner:--"That one human
being will desire to render the person and property of another
subservient to his pleasures, notwithstanding the pain or loss of
pleasure which it may occasion to that other individual, is the
foundation of government.  The desire of the object implies the
desire of the power necessary to accomplish the object."  And
thus he proceeds to deduce consequences directly inconsistent
with what he has himself stated respecting the situation of the
Danish people.

If we assume that the object of government is the preservation of
the persons and property of men, then we must hold that, wherever
that object is attained, there the principle of good government
exists.  If that object be attained both in Denmark and in the
United States of America, then that which makes government good
must exist, under whatever disguise of title or name, both in
Denmark and in the United States.  If men lived in fear for their
lives and their possessions under Nero and under the National
Convention, it follows that the causes from which misgovernment
proceeds existed both in the despotism of Rome and in the
democracy of France.  What, then, is that which, being found in
Denmark and in the United States, and not being found in the
Roman Empire or under the administration of Robespierre, renders
governments, widely differing in their external form, practically
good?  Be it what it may, it certainly is not that which Mr Mill
proves a priori that it must be,--a democratic representative
assembly.  For the Danes have no such assembly.

The latent principle of good government ought to be tracked, as
it appears to us, in the same manner in which Lord Bacon proposed
to track the principle of Heat.  Make as large a list as
possible, said that great man, of those bodies in which, however
widely they differ from each other in appearance, we perceive
heat; and as large a list as possible of those which, while they
bear a general resemblance to hot bodies, are nevertheless not
hot.  Observe the different degrees of heat in different hot
bodies; and then, if there be something which is found in all hot
bodies, and of which the increase or diminution is always
accompanied by an increase or diminution of heat, we may hope
that we have really discovered the object of our search.  In the
same manner we ought to examine the constitution of all those
communities in which, under whatever form, the blessings of good
government are enjoyed; and to discover, if possible, in what
they resemble each other, and in what they all differ from those
societies in which the object of government is not attained.  By
proceeding thus we shall arrive, not indeed at a perfect theory
of government, but at a theory which will be of great practical
use, and which the experience of every successive generation will
probably bring nearer and nearer to perfection.

The inconsistencies into which Mr Mill has been betrayed by
taking a different course ought to serve as a warning to all
speculators.  Because Denmark is well governed by a monarch who,
in appearance at least, is absolute, Mr Mill thinks that the only
mode of arriving at the true principles of government is to
deduce them a priori from the laws of human nature.  And what
conclusion does he bring out by this deduction?  We will give it
in his own words:--"In the grand discovery of modern times, the
system of representation, the solution of all the difficulties,
both speculative and practical, will perhaps be found.  If it
cannot, we seem to be forced upon the extraordinary conclusion
that good government is impossible."  That the Danes are well
governed without a representation is a reason for deducing the
theory of government from a general principle from which it
necessarily follows that good government is impossible without a
representation!  We have done our best to put this question
plainly; and we think that, if the Westminster Reviewer will read
over what we have written twice or thrice with patience and
attention, some glimpse of our meaning will break in even on his
mind.

Some objections follow, so frivolous and unfair, that we are
almost ashamed to notice them.

"When it was said that there was in Denmark a balanced contest
between the king and the nobility, what was said was, that there
was a balanced contest, but it did not last.  It was balanced
till something put an end to the balance; and so is everything
else.  That such a balance will not last, is precisely what Mr
Mill had demonstrated."

Mr Mill, we positively affirm, pretends to demonstrate, not
merely that a balanced contest between the king and the
aristocracy will not last, but that the chances are as infinity
to one against the existence of such a balanced contest.  This is
a mere question of fact.  We quote the words of the essay, and
defy the Westminster Reviewer to impeach our accuracy:--

"It seems impossible that such equality should ever exist.  How
is it to be established?  Or by what criterion is it to be
ascertained?  If there is no such criterion, it must, in all
cases, be the result of chance.  If so, the chances against it
are as infinity to one."

The Reviewer has confounded the division of power with the
balance or equal division of power.  Mr Mill says that the
division of power can never exist long, because it is next to
impossible that the equal division of power should ever exist at
all.

"When Mr Mill asserted that it cannot be for the interest of
either the monarchy or the aristocracy to combine with the
democracy, it is plain he did not assert that if the monarchy and
aristocracy were in doubtful contest with each other, they would
not, either of them, accept of the assistance of the democracy.
He spoke of their taking the side of the democracy; not of their
allowing the democracy to take side with themselves."

If Mr Mill meant anything, he must have meant this--that the
monarchy and the aristocracy will never forget their enmity to
the democracy in their enmity to each other.

"The monarchy and aristocracy," says he, "have all possible
motives for endeavouring to obtain unlimited power over the
persons and property of the community.  The consequence is
inevitable.  They have all possible motives for combining to
obtain that power, and unless the people have power enough to be
a match for both they have no protection.  The balance,
therefore, is a thing the existence of which upon the best
possible evidence is to be regarded as impossible."

If Mr Mill meant only what the Westminster Reviewer conceives him
to have meant, his argument would leave the popular theory of the
balance quite untouched.  For it is the very theory of the
balance that the help of the people will be solicited by the
nobles when hard pressed by the king, and by the king when hard
pressed by the nobles; and that, as the price of giving alternate
support to the crown and the aristocracy, they will obtain
something for themselves, as the Reviewer admits that they have
done in Denmark.  If Mr Mill admits this, he admits the only
theory of the balance of which we ever heard--that very theory
which he has declared to be wild and chimerical.  If he denies
it, he is at issue with the Westminster Reviewer as to the
phenomena of the Danish government.

We now come to a more important passage.  Our opponent has
discovered, as he conceives, a radical error which runs through
our whole argument, and vitiates every part of it.  We suspect
that we shall spoil his triumph.

"Mr Mill never asserted 'THAT UNDER NO DESPOTIC GOVERNMENT DOES
ANY HUMAN BEING, EXCEPT THE TOOLS OF THE SOVEREIGN, POSSESS MORE
THAN THE NECESSARIES OF LIFE, AND THAT THE MOST INTENSE DEGREE OF
TERROR IS KEPT UP BY CONSTANT CRUELTY.'  He said that absolute
power leads to such results 'by infallible sequence, where power
over a community is attained, AND NOTHING CHECKS.'  The critic on
the Mount never made a more palpable misquotation.

"The spirit of this misquotation runs through every part of the
reply of the Edinburgh Review that relates to the Essay on
Government; and is repeated in as many shapes as the Roman pork. 
The whole description of 'Mr Mill's argument against despotism,'
--including the illustration from right-angled triangles and the
square of the hypothenuse,--is founded on this invention of
saying what an author has not said, and leaving unsaid what he
has."

We thought, and still think, for reasons which our readers will
soon understand, that we represented Mr Mill's principle quite
fairly, and according to the rule of law and common sense, ut res
magis valeat quam pereat.  Let us, however, give him all the
advantage of the explanation tendered by his advocate, and see
what he will gain by it.

The Utilitarian doctrine then is, not that despots and
aristocracies will always plunder and oppress the people to the
last point, but that they will do so if nothing checks them.

In the first place, it is quite clear that the doctrine thus
stated is of no use at all, unless the force of the checks be
estimated.  The first law of motion is, that a ball once
projected will fly on to all eternity with undiminished velocity,
unless something checks.  The fact is, that a ball stops in a few
seconds after proceeding a few yards with very variable motion. 
Every man would wring his child's neck and pick his friend's
pocket if nothing checked him.  In fact, the principle thus
stated means only that governments will oppress unless they
abstain from oppressing.  This is quite true, we own.  But we
might with equal propriety turn the maxim round, and lay it down,
as the fundamental principle of government, that all rulers will
govern well, unless some motive interferes to keep them from
doing so.

If there be, as the Westminster Reviewer acknowledges, certain
checks which, under political institutions the most arbitrary in
seeming, sometimes produce good government, and almost always
place some restraint on the rapacity and cruelty of the powerful,
surely the knowledge of those checks, of their nature, and of
their effect, must be a most important part of the science of
government.  Does Mr Mill say anything upon this part of the
subject?  Not one word.

The line of defence now taken by the Utilitarians evidently
degrades Mr Mill's theory of government from the rank which, till
within the last few months, was claimed for it by the whole sect. 
It is no longer a practical system, fit to guide statesmen, but
merely a barren exercise of the intellect, like those
propositions in mechanics in which the effect of friction and of
the resistance of the air is left out of the question; and which,
therefore, though correctly deduced from the premises, are in
practice utterly false.  For, if Mr Mill professes to prove only
that absolute monarchy and aristocracy are pernicious without
checks,--if he allows that there are checks which produce good
government even under absolute monarchs and aristocracies,--and
if he omits to tell us what those checks are, and what effects
they produce under different circumstances,--he surely gives us
no information which can be of real utility.

But the fact is,--and it is most extraordinary that the
Westminster Reviewer should not have perceived it--that if once
the existence of checks on the abuse of power in monarchies and
aristocracies be admitted, the whole of Mr Mill's theory falls to
the ground at once.  This is so palpable, that in spite of the
opinion of the Westminster Reviewer, we must acquit Mr Mill of
having intended to make such an admission.  We still think that
the words, "where power over a community is attained, and nothing
checks," must not be understood to mean that under a monarchical
or aristocratical form of government there can really be any
check which can in any degree mitigate the wretchedness of the
people.

For all possible checks may be classed under two general heads,--
want of will, and want of power.  Now, if a king or an
aristocracy, having the power to plunder and oppress the people,
can want the will, all Mr Mill's principles of human nature must
be pronounced unsound.  He tells us, "that the desire to possess
unlimited power of inflicting pain upon others, is an inseparable
part of human nature;" and that "a chain of inference, close and
strong to a most unusual degree," leads to the conclusion that
those who possess this power will always desire to use it.  It is
plain, therefore, that, if Mr Mill's principles be sound, the
check on a monarchical or an aristocratical government will not
be the want of will to oppress.

If a king or an aristocracy, having, as Mr Mill tells us that
they always must have, the will to oppress the people with the
utmost severity, want the power, then the government, by whatever
name it may be called, must be virtually a mixed government or a
pure democracy:  for it is quite clear that the people possess
some power in the state--some means of influencing the nominal
rulers.  But Mr Mill has demonstrated that no mixed government
can possibly exist, or at least that such a government must come
to a very speedy end:  therefore, every country in which people
not in the service of the government have, for any length of
time, been permitted to accumulate more than the bare means of
subsistence must be a pure democracy.  That is to say, France
before the revolution, and Ireland during the last century, were
pure democracies.  Prussia, Austria, Russia, all the governments
of the civilised world, are pure democracies.  If this be not a
reductio ad absurdum, we do not know what is.

The errors of Mr Mill proceed principally from that radical vice
in his reasoning which, in our last number we described in the
words of Lord Bacon.  The Westminster Reviewer is unable to
discover the meaning of our extracts from the "Novum Organum",
and expresses himself as follows:

"The quotations from Lord Bacon are misapplications, such as
anybody may make to anything he dislikes.  There is no more
resemblance between pain, pleasure, motives, etc., and
substantia, generatio, corruptio, elementum, materia,--than
between lines angles, magnitudes, etc., and the same."

It would perhaps be unreasonable to expect that a writer who
cannot understand his own English should understand Lord Bacon's
Latin.  We will therefore attempt to make our meaning clearer.

What Lord Bacon blames in the schoolmen of his time is this,--
that they reasoned syllogistically on words which had not been
defined with precision; such as moist, dry, generation,
corruption, and so forth.  Mr Mill's error is exactly of the same
kind.  He reasons syllogistically about power, pleasure, and
pain, without attaching any definite notion to any one of those
words.  There is no more resemblance, says the Westminster
Reviewer, between pain and substantia than between pain and a
line or an angle.  By his permission, in the very point to which
Lord Bacon's observation applies, Mr Mill's subjects do resemble
the substantia and elementum of the schoolmen and differ from the
lines and magnitudes of Euclid.  We can reason a priori on
mathematics, because we can define with an exactitude which
precludes all possibility of confusion.  If a mathematician were
to admit the least laxity into his notions, if he were to allow
himself to be deluded by the vague sense which words bear in
popular use, or by the aspect of an ill-drawn diagram, if he were
to forget in his reasonings that a point was indivisible, or that
the definition of a line excluded breadth, there would be no end
to his blunders.  The schoolmen tried to reason mathematically
about things which had not been, and perhaps could not be,
defined with mathematical accuracy.  We know the result.  Mr Mill
has in our time attempted to do the same.  He talks of power, for
example, as if the meaning of the word power were as determinate
as the meaning of the word circle.  But, when we analyse his
speculations, we find that his notion of power is, in the words
of Bacon, "phantiastica et male terminata."

There are two senses in which we may use the word "power," and
those words which denote the various distributions of power, as,
for example, "monarchy":--the one sense popular and superficial,
the other more scientific and accurate.  Mr Mill, since he chose
to reason a priori, ought to have clearly pointed out in which
sense he intended to use words of this kind, and to have adhered
inflexibly to the sense on which he fixed.  Instead of doing
this, he flies backwards and forwards from the one sense to the
other, and brings out conclusions at last which suit neither.

The state of those two communities to which he has himself
referred--the kingdom of Denmark and the empire of Rome--may
serve to illustrate our meaning.  Looking merely at the surface
of things, we should call Denmark a despotic monarchy, and the
Roman world, in the first century after Christ, an aristocratical
republic.  Caligula was, in theory, nothing more than a
magistrate elected by the senate, and subject to the senate. 
That irresponsible dignity which, in the most limited monarchies
of our time, is ascribed to the person of the sovereign never
belonged to the earlier Caesars.  The sentence of death which the
great council of the commonwealth passed on Nero was strictly
according to the theory of the constitution.  Yet, in fact, the
power of the Roman emperors approached nearer to absolute
dominion than that of any prince in modern Europe.  On the other
hand, the King of Denmark, in theory the most despotic of
princes, would in practice find it most perilous to indulge in
cruelty and licentiousness.  Nor is there, we believe, at the
present moment a single sovereign in our part of the world who
has so much real power over the lives of his subjects as
Robespierre, while he lodged at a chandler's and dined at a
restaurateur's, exercised over the lives of those whom he called
his fellow citizens.

Mr Mill and the Westminster Reviewer seem to agree that there
cannot long exist in any society a division of power between a
monarch, an aristocracy, and the people, or between any two of
them.  However the power be distributed, one of the three parties
will, according to them, inevitably monopolise the whole.  Now,
what is here meant by power?  If Mr Mill speaks of the external
semblance of power,--of power recognised by the theory of the
constitution,--he is palpably wrong.  In England, for example, we
have had for ages the name and form of a mixed government, if
nothing more.  Indeed, Mr Mill himself owns that there are
appearances which have given colour to the theory of the balance,
though he maintains that these appearances are delusive.  But, if
he uses the word power in a deeper and philosophical sense, he
is, if possible, still more in the wrong than on the former
supposition.  For, if he had considered in what the power of one
human being over other human beings must ultimately consist, he
would have perceived, not only that there are mixed governments
in the world, but that all the governments in the world, and all
the governments which can even be conceived as existing in the
world, are virtually mixed.

If a king possessed the lamp of Aladdin,--if he governed by the
help of a genius who carried away the daughters and wives of his
subjects through the air to the royal Parc-aux-cerfs, and turned
into stone every man who wagged a finger against his majesty's
government, there would indeed be an unmixed despotism.  But,
fortunately, a ruler can be gratified only by means of his
subjects.  His power depends on their obedience; and, as any
three or four of them are more than a match for him by himself,
he can only enforce the unwilling obedience of some by means of
the willing obedience of others.

Take any of those who are popularly called absolute princes--
Napoleon for example.  Could Napoleon have walked through Paris,
cutting off the head of one person in every house which he
passed?  Certainly not without the assistance of an army.  If
not, why not?  Because the people had sufficient physical power
to resist him, and would have put forth that power in defence of
their lives and of the lives of their children.  In other words,
there was a portion of power in the democracy under Napoleon. 
Napoleon might probably have indulged himself in such an
atrocious freak of power if his army would have seconded him. 
But, if his army had taken part with the people, he would have
found himself utterly helpless; and, even if they had obeyed his
orders against the people, they would not have suffered him to
decimate their own body.  In other words, there was a portion of
power in the hands of a minority of the people, that is to say,
in the hands of an aristocracy, under the reign of Napoleon.

To come nearer home,--Mr Mill tells us that it is a mistake to
imagine that the English government is mixed.  He holds, we
suppose, with all the politicians of the Utilitarian school, that
it is purely aristocratical.  There certainly is an aristocracy
in England; and we are afraid that their power is greater than it
ought to be.  They have power enough to keep up the game-laws and
corn-laws; but they have not power enough to subject the bodies
of men of the lowest class to wanton outrage at their pleasure. 
Suppose that they were to make a law that any gentleman of two
thousand a-year might have a day-labourer or a pauper flogged
with a cat-of-nine-tails whenever the whim might take him.  It is
quite clear that the first day on which such flagellation should
be administered would be the last day of the English aristocracy. 
In this point, and in many other points which might be named, the
commonalty in our island enjoy a security quite as complete as if
they exercised the right of universal suffrage.  We say,
therefore, that the English people have in their own hands a
sufficient guarantee that in some points the aristocracy will
conform to their wishes;--in other words, they have a certain
portion of power over the aristocracy.  Therefore the English
government is mixed.

Wherever a king or an oligarchy refrains from the last extremity
of rapacity and tyranny through fear of the resistance of the
people, there the constitution, whatever it may be called, is in
some measure democratical.  The admixture of democratic power may
be slight.  It may be much slighter than it ought to be; but some
admixture there is.  Wherever a numerical minority, by means of
superior wealth or intelligence, of political concert, or of
military discipline, exercises a greater influence on the society
than any other equal number of persons,--there, whatever the form
of government may be called, a mixture of aristocracy does in
fact exist.  And, wherever a single man, from whatever cause, is
so necessary to the community, or to any portion of it, that he
possesses more power than any other man, there is a mixture of
monarchy.  This is the philosophical classification of
governments:  and if we use this classification we shall find,
not only that there are mixed governments, but that all
governments are, and must always be, mixed.  But we may safely
challenge Mr Mill to give any definition of power, or to make any
classification of governments, which shall bear him out in his
assertion that a lasting division of authority is impracticable.

It is evidently on the real distribution of power, and not on
names and badges, that the happiness of nations must depend.  The
representative system, though doubtless a great and precious
discovery in politics, is only one of the many modes in which the
democratic part of the community can efficiently check the
governing few.  That certain men have been chosen as deputies of
the people,--that there is a piece of paper stating such deputies
to possess certain powers,--these circumstances in themselves
constitute no security for good government.  Such a constitution
nominally existed in France; while, in fact, an oligarchy of
committees and clubs trampled at once on the electors and the
elected.  Representation is a very happy contrivance for enabling
large bodies of men to exert their power with less risk of
disorder than there would otherwise be.  But, assuredly, it does
not of itself give power.  Unless a representative assembly is
sure of being supported in the last resort by the physical
strength of large masses who have spirit to defend the
constitution and sense to defend it in concert, the mob of the
town in which it meets may overawe it;--the howls of the
listeners in its glory may silence its deliberations;--an able
and daring individual may dissolve it.  And, if that sense and
that spirit of which we speak be diffused through a society,
then, even without a representative assembly, that society will
enjoy many of the blessings of good government.

Which is the better able to defend himself;--a strong man with
nothing but his fists, or a paralytic cripple encumbered with a
sword which he cannot lift?  Such, we believe, is the difference
between Denmark and some new republics in which the
constitutional forms of the United States have been most
sedulously imitated.

Look at the Long Parliament on the day on which Charles came to
seize the five members:  and look at it again on the day when
Cromwell stamped with his foot on its floor.  On which day was
its apparent power the greater?  On which day was its real power
the less?  Nominally subject, it was able to defy the sovereign. 
Nominally sovereign, it was turned out of doors by its servant.

Constitutions are in politics what paper money is in commerce.
They afford great facilities and conveniences.  But we must not
attribute to them that value which really belongs to what they
represent.  They are not power, but symbols of power, and will,
in an emergency, prove altogether useless unless the power for
which they stand be forthcoming.  The real power by which the
community is governed is made up of all the means which all its
members possess of giving pleasure or pain to each other.

Great light may be thrown on the nature of a circulating medium
by the phenomena of a state of barter.  And in the same manner it
may be useful to those who wish to comprehend the nature and
operation of the outward signs of power to look at communities in
which no such signs exist; for example, at the great community of
nations.  There we find nothing analogous to a constitution; but
do we not find a government?  We do in fact find government in
its purest, and simplest, and most intelligible form.  We see one
portion of power acting directly on another portion of power.  We
see a certain police kept up; the weak to a certain degree
protected; the strong to a certain degree restrained.  We see the
principle of the balance in constant operation.  We see the whole
system sometimes undisturbed by any attempt at encroachment for
twenty or thirty years at a time; and all this is produced
without a legislative assembly, or an executive magistracy--
without tribunals--without any code which deserves the name;
solely by the mutual hopes and fears of the various members of
the federation.  In the community of nations, the first appeal is
to physical force.  In communities of men, forms of government
serve to put off that appeal, and often render it unnecessary. 
But it is still open to the oppressed or the ambitious.

Of course, we do not mean to deny that a form of government will,
after it has existed for a long time, materially affect the real
distribution of power throughout the community.  This is because
those who administer a government, with their dependants, form a
compact and disciplined body, which, acting methodically and in
concert, is more powerful than any other equally numerous body
which is inferior in organisation.  The power of rulers is not,
as superficial observers sometimes seem to think, a thing sui
generis.  It is exactly similar in kind, though generally
superior in amount, to that of any set of conspirators who plot
to overthrow it.  We have seen in our time the most extensive and
the best organised conspiracy that ever existed--a conspiracy
which possessed all the elements of real power in so great a
degree that it was able to cope with a strong government, and to
triumph over it--the Catholic Association.  An Utilitarian would
tell us, we suppose, that the Irish Catholics had no portion of
political power whatever on the first day of the late Session of
Parliament.

Let us really go beyond the surface of facts:  let us, in the
sound sense of the words, penetrate to the springs within; and
the deeper we go the more reason shall we find to smile at those
theorists who hold that the sole hope of the human race is in a
rule-of-three sum and a ballot-box.

We must now return to the Westminster Reviewer.  The following
paragraph is an excellent specimen of his peculiar mode of
understanding and answering arguments.

"The reply to the argument against 'saturation,' supplies its own
answer.  The reason why it is of no use to try to 'saturate' is
precisely what the Edinburgh Reviewers have suggested,--'THAT
THERE IS NO LIMIT TO THE NUMBER OF THIEVES.'  There are the
thieves, and the thieves' cousins,--with their men-servants,
their maid-servants, and their little ones, to the fortieth
generation.  It is true, that 'a man cannot become a king or a
member of the aristocracy whenever he chooses;' but if there is
to be no limit to the depredators except their own inclination to
increase and multiply, the situation of those who are to suffer
is as wretched as it needs be.  It is impossible to define what
ARE 'corporal pleasures.'  A Duchess of Cleveland was 'a corporal
pleasure.'  The most disgraceful period in the history of any
nation--that of the Restoration--presents an instance of the
length to which it is possible to go in an attempt to 'saturate'
with pleasures of this kind."

To reason with such a writer is like talking to a deaf man who
catches at a stray word, makes answer beside the mark, and is led
further and further into error by every attempt to explain.  Yet,
that our readers may fully appreciate the abilities of the new
philosophers, we shall take the trouble to go over some of our
ground again.

Mr Mill attempts to prove that there is no point of saturation
with the objects of human desire.  He then takes it for granted
that men have no objects of desire but those which can be
obtained only at the expense of the happiness of others.  Hence
he infers that absolute monarchs and aristocracies will
necessarily oppress and pillage the people to a frightful extent.

We answered in substance thus.  There are two kinds of objects of
desire; those which give mere bodily pleasure, and those which
please through the medium of associations.  Objects of the former
class, it is true, a man cannot obtain without depriving somebody
else of a share.  But then with these every man is soon
satisfied.  A king or an aristocracy cannot spend any very large
portion of the national wealth on the mere pleasures of sense. 
With the pleasures which belong to us as reasoning and
imaginative beings we are never satiated, it is true; but then,
on the other hand, many of those pleasures can be obtained
without injury to any person, and some of them can be obtained
only by doing good to others.

The Westminster Reviewer, in his former attack on us, laughed at
us for saying that a king or an aristocracy could not be easily
satiated with the pleasures of sense, and asked why the same
course was not tried with thieves.  We were not a little
surprised at so silly an objection from the pen, as we imagined,
of Mr Bentham.  We returned, however, a very simple answer. 
There is no limit to the number of thieves.  Any man who chooses
can steal:  but a man cannot become a member of the aristocracy
or a king whenever he chooses.  To satiate one thief, is to tempt
twenty other people to steal.  But by satiating one king or five
hundred nobles with bodily pleasures we do not produce more kings
or more nobles.  The answer of the Westminster Reviewer we have
quoted above; and it will amply repay our readers for the trouble
of examining it.  We never read any passage which indicated
notions so vague and confused.  The number of the thieves, says
our Utilitarian, is not limited.  For there are the dependants
and friends of the king and of the nobles.  Is it possible that
he should not perceive that this comes under a different head? 
The bodily pleasures which a man in power dispenses among his
creatures are bodily pleasures as respects his creatures, no
doubt.  But the pleasure which he derives from bestowing them is
not a bodily pleasure.  It is one of those pleasures which belong
to him as a reasoning and imaginative being.  No man of common
understanding can have failed to perceive that, when we said that
a king or an aristocracy might easily be supplied to satiety with
sensual pleasures, we were speaking of sensual pleasures directly
enjoyed by themselves.  But "it is impossible," says the
Reviewer, "to define what are corporal pleasures."  Our brother
would indeed, we suspect, find it a difficult task; nor, if we
are to judge of his genius for classification from the specimen
which immediately follows, would we advise him to make the
attempt.  "A Duchess of Cleveland was a corporal pleasure."  And
to this wise remark is appended a note, setting forth that
Charles the Second gave to the Duchess of Cleveland the money
which he ought to have spent on the war with Holland.  We
scarcely know how to answer a man who unites so much pretension
to so much ignorance.  There are, among the many Utilitarians who
talk about Hume, Condillac, and Hartley, a few who have read
those writers.  Let the Reviewer ask one of these what he thinks
on the subject.  We shall not undertake to whip a pupil of so
little promise through his first course of metaphysics.  We
shall, therefore, only say--leaving him to guess and wonder what
we can mean--that, in our opinion, the Duchess of Cleveland was
not a merely corporal pleasure,--that the feeling which leads a
prince to prefer one woman to all others, and to lavish the
wealth of kingdoms on her, is a feeling which can only be
explained by the law of association.

But we are tired, and even more ashamed than tired, of exposing
these blunders.  The whole article is of a piece.  One passage,
however, we must select, because it contains a very gross
misrepresentation.

"'THEY NEVER ALLUDED TO THE FRENCH REVOLUTION FOR THE PURPOSE OF
PROVING THAT THE POOR WERE INCLINED TO ROB THE RICH.'  They only
said, 'as soon as the poor AGAIN began to compare their cottages
and salads with the hotels and banquets of the rich, there would
have been another scramble for property, another general
confiscation,' etc."

We said that, IF MR MILL'S PRINCIPLES OF HUMAN NATURE WERE
CORRECT, there would have been another scramble for property, and
another confiscation.  We particularly pointed this out in our
last article.  We showed the Westminster Reviewer that he had
misunderstood us.  We dwelt particularly on the condition which
was introduced into our statement.  We said that we had not
given, and did not mean to give, any opinion of our own.  And,
after this, the Westminster Reviewer thinks proper to repeat his
former misrepresentation, without taking the least notice of that
qualification to which we, in the most marked manner, called his
attention.

We hasten on to the most curious part of the article under our
consideration--the defence of the "greatest happiness principle." 
The Reviewer charges us with having quite mistaken its nature.

"All that they have established is, that they do not understand
it.  Instead of the truism of the Whigs, 'that the greatest
happiness is the greatest happiness,' what Mr Bentham had
demonstrated, or at all events had laid such foundations that
there was no trouble in demonstrating, was, that the greatest
happiness of the individual was in the long run to be obtained by
pursuing the greatest happiness of the aggregate."

It was distinctly admitted by the Westminster Reviewer, as we
remarked in our last article, that he could give no answer to the
question,--why governments should attempt to produce the greatest
possible happiness?  The Reviewer replies thus:--

"Nothing of the kind will be admitted at all.  In the passage
thus selected to be tacked to the other, the question started
was, concerning 'the object of government;' in which government
was spoken of as an operation, not as anything that is capable of
feeling pleasure or pain.  In this sense it is true enough, that
OUGHT is not predicable of governments."

We will quote, once again, the passage which we quoted in our
last Number; and we really hope that our brother critic will feel
something like shame while he peruses it.

"The real answer appeared to be, that men at large OUGHT not to
allow a government to afflict them with more evil or less good,
than they can help.  What a GOVERNMENT ought to do is a
mysterious and searching question which those may answer who know
what it means; but what other men ought to do is a question of no
mystery at all.  The word OUGHT, if it means anything, must have
reference to some kind of interest or motives; and what interest
a government has in doing right, when it happens to be interested
in doing wrong, is a question for the schoolmen.  The fact
appears to be that OUGHT is not predicable of governments.  The
question is not, why governments are bound not to do this or
that, but why other men should let them if they can help it.  The
point is not to determine why the lion should not eat sheep, but
why men should not eat their own mutton if they can."

We defy the Westminster Reviewer to reconcile this passage with
the "general happiness principle" as he now states it.  He tells
us that he meant by government, not the people invested with the
powers of government, but a mere OPERATION incapable of feeling
pleasure or pain.  We say, that he meant the people invested with
the powers of government, and nothing else.  It is true that
OUGHT is not predicable of an operation.  But who would ever
dream of raising any question about the DUTIES of an operation? 
What did the Reviewer mean by saying, that a government could not
be interested in doing right because it was interested in doing
wrong?  Can an operation be interested in either?  And what did
he mean by his comparison about the lion?  Is a lion an operation
incapable of pain or pleasure?  And what did he mean by the
expression, "other men," so obviously opposed to the word
"government?"  But let the public judge between us.  It is
superfluous to argue a point so clear.

The Reviewer does indeed seem to feel that his expressions cannot
be explained away, and attempts to shuffle out of the difficulty
by owning, that "the double meaning of the word government was
not got clear of without confusion."  He has now, at all events,
he assures us, made himself master of Mr Bentham's philosophy. 
The real and genuine "greatest happiness principle" is, that the
greatest happiness of every individual is identical with the
greatest happiness of society; and all other "greatest happiness
principles" whatever are counterfeits.  "This," says he, "is the
spirit of Mr Bentham's principle; and if there is anything
opposed to it in any former statement it may be corrected by the
present."

Assuredly, if a fair and honourable opponent had, in discussing a
question so abstruse as that concerning the origin of moral
obligation, made some unguarded admission inconsistent with the
spirit of his doctrines, we should not be inclined to triumph
over him.  But no tenderness is due to a writer who, in the very
act of confessing his blunders, insults those by whom his
blunders have been detected, and accuses them of misunderstanding
what, in fact, he has himself mis-stated.

The whole of this transaction illustrates excellently the real
character of this sect.  A paper comes forth, professing to
contain a full development of the "greatest happiness principle,"
with the latest improvements of Mr Bentham.  The writer boasts
that his article has the honour of being the announcement and the
organ of this wonderful discovery, which is to make "the bones of
sages and patriots stir within their tombs."

This "magnificent principle" is then stated thus:  Mankind ought
to pursue their greatest happiness.  But there are persons whose
interest is opposed to the greatest happiness of mankind.  OUGHT
is not predicable of such persons.  For the word OUGHT has no
meaning unless it be used with reference to some interest.

We answered, with much more lenity than we should have shown to
such nonsense, had it not proceeded, as we supposed, from Mr
Bentham, that interest was synonymous with greatest happiness;
and that, therefore, if the word OUGHT has no meaning, unless
used with reference to interest, then, to say that mankind ought
to pursue their greatest happiness, is simply to say, that the
greatest happiness is the greatest happiness; that every
individual pursues his own happiness; that either what he thinks
his happiness must coincide with the greatest happiness of
society or not; that, if what he thinks his happiness coincides
with the greatest happiness of society, he will attempt to
promote the greatest happiness of society whether he ever heard
of the "greatest happiness principle" or not; and that, by the
admission of the Westminster Reviewer, if his happiness is
inconsistent with the greatest happiness of society, there is no
reason why he should promote the greatest happiness of society. 
Now, that there are individuals who think that for their
happiness which is not for the greatest happiness of society is
evident.  The Westminster Reviewer allowed that some of these
individuals were in the right; and did not pretend to give any
reason which could induce any one of them to think himself in the
wrong.  So that the "magnificent principle" turned out to be,
either a truism or a contradiction in terms; either this maxim--
"Do what you do;" or this maxim, "Do what you cannot do."

The Westminster Reviewer had the wit to see that he could not
defend this palpable nonsense; but, instead of manfully owning
that he had misunderstood the whole nature of the "greatest
happiness principle" in the summer, and had obtained new light
during the autumn, he attempts to withdraw the former principle
unobserved, and to substitute another, directly opposed to it, in
its place; clamouring all the time against our unfairness, like
one who, while changing the cards, diverts the attention of the
table from his sleight of hand by vociferating charges of foul
play against other people.

The "greatest happiness principle" for the present quarter is
then this,--that every individual will best promote his own
happiness in this world, religious considerations being left out
of the question, by promoting the greatest happiness of the whole
species.  And this principle, we are told, holds good with
respect to kings and aristocracies as well as with other people.

"It is certain that the individual operators in any government,
if they were thoroughly intelligent and entered into a perfect
calculation of all existing chances, would seek for their own
happiness in the promotion of the general; which brings them, if
they knew it, under Mr Bentham's rule.  The mistake of supposing
the contrary, lies in confounding criminals who have had the luck
to escape punishment with those who have the risk still before
them.  Suppose, for instance, a member of the House of Commons
were at this moment to debate within himself, whether it would be
for his ultimate happiness to begin, according to his ability, to
misgovern.  If he could be sure of being as lucky as some that
are dead and gone, there might be difficulty in finding him an
answer.  But he is NOT sure; and never can be, till he is dead. 
He does not know that he is not close upon the moment when
misgovernment such as he is tempted to contemplate, will be made
a terrible example of.  It is not fair to pick out the instance
of the thief that has died unhanged.  The question is, whether
thieving is at this moment an advisable trade to begin with all
the possibilities of hanging not got over?  This is the spirit of
Mr Bentham's principle; and if there is anything opposed to it in
any former statement, it may be corrected by the present."

We hope that we have now at last got to the real "magnificent
principle,"--to the principle which is really to make "the bones
of the sages and patriots stir."  What effect it may produce on
the bones of the dead we shall not pretend to decide; but we are
sure that it will do very little for the happiness of the living.

In the first place, nothing is more certain than this, that the
Utilitarian theory of government, as developed in Mr Mill's Essay
and in all the other works on the subject which have been put
forth by the sect, rests on those two principles,--that men
follow their interest, and that the interest of individuals may
be, and in fact perpetually is, opposed to the interest of
society.  Unless these two principles be granted, Mr Mill's Essay
does not contain one sound sentence.  All his arguments against
monarchy and aristocracy, all his arguments in favour of
democracy, nay, the very argument by which he shows that there is
any necessity for having government at all, must be rejected as
utterly worthless.

This is so palpable that even the Westminster Reviewer, though
not the most clear-sighted of men, could not help seeing it. 
Accordingly, he attempts to guard himself against the objection,
after the manner of such reasoners, by committing two blunders
instead of one.  "All this," says he, "only shows that the
members of a government would do well if they were all-wise," and
he proceeds to tell us that, as rulers are not all-wise, they
will invariably act against this principle wherever they can, so
that the democratical checks will still be necessary to produce
good government.

No form which human folly takes is so richly and exquisitely
laughable as the spectacle of an Utilitarian in a dilemma.  What
earthly good can there be in a principle upon which no man will
act until he is all-wise?  A certain most important doctrine, we
are told, has been demonstrated so clearly that it ought to be
the foundation of the science of government.  And yet the whole
frame of government is to be constituted exactly as if this
fundamental doctrine were false, and on the supposition that no
human being will ever act as if he believed it to be true!

The whole argument of the Utilitarians in favour of universal
suffrage proceeds on the supposition that even the rudest and
most uneducated men cannot, for any length of time, be deluded
into acting against their own true interest.  Yet now they tell
us that, in all aristocratical communities, the higher and more
educated class will, not occasionally, but invariably, act
against its own interest.  Now, the only use of proving anything,
as far as we can see, is that people may believe it.  To say that
a man does what he believes to be against his happiness is a
contradiction in terms.  If, therefore, government and laws are
to be constituted on the supposition on which Mr Mill's Essay is
founded, that all individuals will, whenever they have power over
others put into their hands, act in opposition to the general
happiness, then government and laws must be constituted on the
supposition that no individual believes, or ever will believe,
his own happiness to be identical with the happiness of society. 
That is to say, government and laws are to be constituted on the
supposition that no human being will ever be satisfied by Mr
Bentham's proof of his "greatest happiness principle,"--a
supposition which may be true enough, but which says little, we
think, for the principle in question.

But where has this principle been demonstrated?  We are curious,
we confess, to see this demonstration which is to change the face
of the world and yet is to convince nobody.  The most amusing
circumstance is that the Westminster Reviewer himself does not
seem to know whether the principle has been demonstrated or not. 
"Mr Bentham," he says, "has demonstrated it, or at all events has
laid such foundations that there is no trouble in demonstrating
it."  Surely it is rather strange that such a matter should be
left in doubt.  The Reviewer proposed, in his former article, a
slight verbal emendation in the statement of the principle; he
then announced that the principle had received its last
improvement; and gloried in the circumstance that the Westminster
Review had been selected as the organ of that improvement.  Did
it never occur to him that one slight improvement to a doctrine
is to prove it?

Mr Bentham has not demonstrated the "greatest happiness
principle," as now stated.  He is far too wise a man to think of
demonstrating any such thing.  In those sections of his
"Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation", to
which the Reviewer refers us in his note, there is not a word of
the kind.  Mr Bentham says, most truly, that there are no
occasions in which a man has not SOME motives for consulting the
happiness of other men; and he proceeds to set forth what those
motives are--sympathy on all occasions, and the love of
reputation on most occasions.  This is the very doctrine which we
have been maintaining against Mr Mill and the Westminster
Reviewer.  The principal charge which we brought against Mr Mill
was, that those motives to which Mr Bentham ascribes so much
influence were quite left out of consideration in his theory. 
The Westminster Reviewer, in the very article now before us,
abuses us for saying, in the spirit, and almost in the words of
Mr Bentham, that "there is a certain check to the rapacity and
cruelty of men in their desire of the good opinion of others." 
But does this principle, in which we fully agree with Mr Bentham,
go the length of the new "greatest happiness principle?"  The
question is, not whether men have SOME motives for promoting the
greatest happiness, but whether the STRONGER motives be those
which impel them to promote the greatest happiness.  That this
would always be the case if men knew their own worldly interests
is the assertion of the Reviewer.  As he expresses some doubt
whether Mr Bentham has demonstrated this or not, we would advise
him to set the point at rest by giving his own demonstration.

The Reviewer has not attempted to give a general confirmation of
the "greatest happiness principle;" but he has tried to prove
that it holds good in one or two particular cases.  And even in
those particular cases he has utterly failed.  A man, says he,
who calculated the chances fairly would perceive that it would be
for his greatest happiness to abstain from stealing; for a thief
runs a greater risk of being hanged than an honest man.

It would have been wise, we think, in the Westminster Reviewer,
before he entered on a discussion of this sort, to settle in what
human happiness consists.  Each of the ancient sects of
philosophy held some tenet on this subject which served for a
distinguishing badge.  The summum bonum of the Utilitarians, as
far as we can judge from the passage which we are now
considering, is the not being hanged.

That it is an unpleasant thing to be hanged, we most willingly
concede to our brother.  But that the whole question of happiness
or misery resolves itself into this single point, we cannot so
easily admit.  We must look at the thing purchased as well as the
price paid for it.  A thief, assuredly, runs a greater risk of
being hanged than a labourer; and so an officer in the army runs
a greater risk of being shot than a banker's clerk; and a
governor of India runs a greater risk of dying of cholera than a
lord of the bedchamber.  But does it therefore follow that every
man, whatever his habits or feelings may be, would, if he knew
his own happiness, become a clerk rather than a cornet, or
goldstick in waiting rather than governor of India?

Nothing can be more absurd than to suppose, like the Westminster
Reviewer, that thieves steal only because they do not calculate
the chances of being hanged as correctly as honest men.  It never
seems to have occurred to him as possible that a man may so
greatly prefer the life of a thief to the life of a labourer that
he may determine to brave the risk of detection and punishment,
though he may even think that risk greater than it really is. 
And how, on Utilitarian principles, is such a man to be convinced
that he is in the wrong?  "You will be found out."--
"Undoubtedly."--"You will be hanged within two years."--"I expect
to be hanged within one year."--"Then why do you pursue this
lawless mode of life?"--"Because I would rather live for one year
with plenty of money, dressed like a gentleman, eating and
drinking of the best, frequenting public places, and visiting a
dashing mistress, than break stones on the road, or sit down to
the loom, with the certainty of attaining a good old age.  It is
my humour.  Are you answered?"

A king, says the Reviewer again, would govern well, if he were
wise, for fear of provoking his subjects to insurrection. 
Therefore the true happiness of a king is identical with the
greatest happiness of society.  Tell Charles II. that, if he will
be constant to his queen, sober at table, regular at prayers,
frugal in his expenses, active in the transaction of business, if
he will drive the herd of slaves, buffoons, and procurers from
Whitehall, and make the happiness of his people the rule of his
conduct, he will have a much greater chance of reigning in
comfort to an advanced age; that his profusion and tyranny have
exasperated his subjects, and may, perhaps, bring him to an end
as terrible as his father's.  He might answer, that he saw the
danger, but that life was not worth having without ease and
vicious pleasures.  And what has our philosopher to say?  Does he
not see that it is no more possible to reason a man out of liking
a short life and a merry one more than a long life and a dull one
than to reason a Greenlander out of his train oil?  We may say
that the tastes of the thief and the tyrant differ from ours; but
what right have we to say, looking at this world alone, that they
do not pursue their greatest happiness very judiciously?

It is the grossest ignorance of human nature to suppose that
another man calculates the chances differently from us, merely
because he does what, in his place, we should not do.  Every man
has tastes and propensities, which he is disposed to gratify at a
risk and expense which people of different temperaments and
habits think extravagant.  "Why," says Horace, "does one brother
like to lounge in the forum, to play in the Campus, and to anoint
himself in the baths, so well, that he would not put himself out
of his way for all the wealth of the richest plantations of the
East; while the other toils from sunrise to sunset for the
purpose of increasing his fortune?"  Horace attributes the
diversity to the influence of the Genius and the natal star:  and
eighteen hundred years have taught us only to disguise our
ignorance beneath a more philosophical language.

We think, therefore, that the Westminster Reviewer, even if we
admit his calculation of the chances to be right, does not make
out his case.  But he appears to us to miscalculate chances more
grossly than any person who ever acted or speculated in this
world.  "It is for the happiness," says he, "of a member of the
House of Commons to govern well; for he never can tell that he is
not close on the moment when misgovernment will be terribly
punished:  if he was sure that he should be as lucky as his
predecessors, it might be for his happiness to misgovern; but he
is not sure."  Certainly a member of Parliament is not sure that
he shall not be torn in pieces by a mob, or guillotined by a
revolutionary tribunal for his opposition to reform.  Nor is the
Westminster Reviewer sure that he shall not be hanged for writing
in favour of universal suffrage.  We may have democratical
massacres.  We may also have aristocratical proscriptions.  It is
not very likely, thank God, that we should see either.  But the
radical, we think, runs as much danger as the aristocrat.  As to
our friend the Westminster Reviewer, he, it must be owned, has as
good a right as any man on his side, "Antoni gladios contemnere." 
But take the man whose votes, ever since he has sate in
Parliament, have been the most uniformly bad, and oppose him to
the man whose votes have been the most uniformly good.  The
Westminster Reviewer would probably select Mr Sadler and Mr Hume. 
Now, does any rational man think,--will the Westminster Reviewer
himself say,--that Mr Sadler runs more risk of coming to a
miserable end on account of his public conduct than Mr Hume?  Mr
Sadler does not know that he is not close on the moment when he
will be made an example of; for Mr Sadler knows, if possible,
less about the future than about the past.  But he has no more
reason to expect that he shall be made an example of than to
expect that London will be swallowed up by an earthquake next
spring; and it would be as foolish in him to act on the former
supposition as on the latter.  There is a risk; for there is a
risk of everything which does not involve a contradiction; but it
is a risk from which no man in his wits would give a shilling to
be insured.  Yet our Westminster Reviewer tells us that this risk
alone, apart from all considerations of religion, honour or
benevolence, would, as a matter of mere calculation, induce a
wise member of the House of Commons to refuse any emoluments
which might be offered him as the price of his support to
pernicious measures.

We have hitherto been examining cases proposed by our opponent. 
It is now our turn to propose one; and we beg that he will spare
no wisdom in solving it.

A thief is condemned to be hanged.  On the eve of the day fixed
for the execution a turnkey enters his cell and tells him that
all is safe, that he has only to slip out, that his friends are
waiting in the neighbourhood with disguises, and that a passage
is taken for him in an American packet.  Now, it is clearly for
the greatest happiness of society that the thief should be hanged
and the corrupt turnkey exposed and punished.  Will the
Westminster Reviewer tell us that it is for the greatest
happiness of the thief to summon the head jailer and tell the
whole story?  Now, either it is for the greatest happiness of a
thief to be hanged or it is not.  If it is, then the argument, by
which the Westminster Reviewer attempts to prove that men do not
promote their own happiness by thieving, falls to the ground.  If
it is not, then there are men whose greatest happiness is at
variance with the greatest happiness of the community.

To sum up our arguments shortly, we say that the "greatest
happiness principle," as now stated, is diametrically opposed to
the principle stated in the Westminster Review three months ago.

We say that, if the "greatest happiness principle," as now
stated, be sound, Mr Mill's Essay, and all other works concerning
Government which, like that Essay, proceed on the supposition
that individuals may have an interest opposed to the greatest
happiness of society, are fundamentally erroneous.

We say that those who hold this principle to be sound must be
prepared to maintain, either that monarchs and aristocracies may
be trusted to govern the community, or else that men cannot be
trusted to follow their own interest when that interest is
demonstrated to them.

We say that, if men cannot be trusted to follow their own
interest when that interest has been demonstrated to them, then
the Utilitarian arguments in favour of universal suffrage are
good for nothing.

We say that the "greatest happiness principle" has not been
proved; that it cannot be generally proved; that even in the
particular cases selected by the Reviewer it is not clear that
the principle is true; and that many cases might be stated in
which the common sense of mankind would at once pronounce it to
be false.

We now leave the Westminster Reviewer to alter and amend his
"magnificent principle" as he thinks best.  Unlimited, it is
false.  Properly limited, it will be barren.  The "greatest
happiness principle" of the 1st of July, as far as we could
discern its meaning through a cloud of rodomontade, was an idle
truism.  The "greatest happiness principle" of the 1st of October
is, in the phrase of the American newspapers, "important if
true."  But unhappily it is not true.  It is not our business to
conjecture what new maxim is to make the bones of sages and
patriots stir on the 1st of December.  We can only say that,
unless it be something infinitely more ingenious than its two
predecessors, we shall leave it unmolested.  The Westminster
Reviewer may, if he pleases, indulge himself like Sultan
Schahriar with espousing a rapid succession of virgin theories. 
But we must beg to be excused from playing the part of the vizier
who regularly attended on the day after the wedding to strangle
the new Sultana.

The Westminster Reviewer charges us with urging it as an
objection to the "greatest happiness principle" that "it is
included in the Christian morality."  This is a mere fiction of
his own.  We never attacked the morality of the Gospel.  We
blamed the Utilitarians for claiming the credit of a discovery,
when they had merely stolen that morality, and spoiled it in the
stealing.  They have taken the precept of Christ and left the
motive; and they demand the praise of a most wonderful and
beneficial invention, when all that they have done has been to
make a most useful maxim useless by separating it from its
sanction.  On religious principles it is true that every
individual will best promote his own happiness by promoting the
happiness of others.  But if religious considerations be left out
of the question it is not true.  If we do not reason on the
supposition of a future state, where is the motive?  If we do
reason on that supposition, where is the discovery?

The Westminster Reviewer tells us that "we wish to see the
science of Government unsettled because we see no prospect of a
settlement which accords with our interests."  His angry
eagerness to have questions settled resembles that of a judge in
one of Dryden's plays--the Amphitryon, we think--who wishes to
decide a cause after hearing only one party, and, when he has
been at last compelled to listen to the statement of the
defendant, flies into a passion, and exclaims, "There now, sir! 
See what you have done.  The case was quite clear a minute ago;
and you must come and puzzle it!"  He is the zealot of a sect. 
We are searchers after truth.  He wishes to have the question
settled.  We wish to have it sifted first.  The querulous manner
in which we have been blamed for attacking Mr Mill's system, and
propounding no system of our own, reminds us of the horror with
which that shallow dogmatist, Epicurus, the worst parts of whose
nonsense the Utilitarians have attempted to revive, shrank from
the keen and searching scepticism of the second Academy.

It is not our fault that an experimental science of vast extent
does not admit of being settled by a short demonstration; that
the subtilty of nature, in the moral as in the physical world,
triumphs over the subtilty of syllogism.  The quack, who declares
on affidavit that, by using his pills and attending to his
printed directions, hundreds who had been dismissed incurable
from the hospitals have renewed their youth like the eagles, may,
perhaps, think that Sir Henry Halford, when he feels the pulses
of patients, inquires about their symptoms, and prescribes a
different remedy to each, is unsettling the science of medicine
for the sake of a fee.

If, in the course of this controversy, we have refrained from
expressing any opinion respecting the political institutions of
England, it is not because we have not an opinion, or because we
shrink from avowing it.  The Utilitarians, indeed, conscious that
their boasted theory of government would not bear investigation,
were desirous to turn the dispute about Mr Mill's Essay into a
dispute about the Whig party, rotten boroughs, unpaid
magistrates, and ex-officio informations.  When we blamed them
for talking nonsense, they cried out that they were insulted for
being reformers,--just as poor Ancient Pistol swore that the
scars which he had received from the cudgel of Fluellen were got
in the Gallia wars.  We, however, did not think it desirable to
mix up political questions, about which the public mind is
violently agitated, with a great problem in moral philosophy.

Our notions about Government are not, however, altogether
unsettled.  We have an opinion about parliamentary reform, though
we have not arrived at that opinion by the royal road which Mr
Mill has opened for the explorers of political science.  As we
are taking leave, probably for the last time, of this
controversy, we will state very concisely what our doctrines are. 
On some future occasion we may, perhaps, explain and defend them
at length.

Our fervent wish, and we will add our sanguine hope, is that we
may see such a reform of the House of Commons as may render its
votes the express image of the opinion of the middle orders of
Britain.  A pecuniary qualification we think absolutely
necessary; and in settling its amount, our object would be to
draw the line in such a manner that every decent farmer and
shopkeeper might possess the elective franchise.  We should wish
to see an end put to all the advantages which particular forms of
property possess over other forms, and particular portions of
property over other equal portions.  And this would content us. 
Such a reform would, according to Mr Mill, establish an
aristocracy of wealth, and leave the community without protection
and exposed to all the evils of unbridled power.  Most willingly
would we stake the whole controversy between us on the success of
the experiment which we propose.

...


SADLER'S LAW OF POPULATION.

(July 1830.)

"The Law of Population; a Treatise in Six Books, in Disproof of
the Superfecundity of Human Beings, and developing the real
Principle of their Increase".  By Michael Thomas Sadler, M.P.
2 volumes 8vo. London: 1830.

we did not expect a good book from Mr Sadler:  and it is well
that we did not; for he has given us a very bad one.  The matter
of his treatise is extraordinary; the manner more extraordinary
still.  His arrangement is confused, his repetitions endless, his
style everything which it ought not to be.  Instead of saying
what he has to say with the perspicuity, the precision, and the
simplicity in which consists the eloquence proper to scientific
writing, he indulges without measure in vague, bombastic
declamation, made up of those fine things which boys of fifteen
admire, and which everybody, who is not destined to be a boy all
his life, weeds vigorously out of his compositions after five-
and-twenty.  That portion of his two thick volumes which is not
made up of statistical tables, consists principally of
ejaculations, apostrophes, metaphors, similes,--all the worst of
their respective kinds.  His thoughts are dressed up in this
shabby finery with so much profusion and so little
discrimination, that they remind us of a company of wretched
strolling players, who have huddled on suits of ragged and faded
tinsel, taken from a common wardrobe, and fitting neither their
persons nor their parts; and who then exhibit themselves to the
laughing and pitying spectators, in a state of strutting,
ranting, painted, gilded beggary.  "Oh, rare Daniels!" 
"Political economist, go and do thou likewise!"  "Hear, ye
political economists and anti-populationists!"  "Population, if
not proscribed and worried down by the Cerberean dogs of this
wretched and cruel system, really does press against the level of
the means of subsistence, and still elevating that level, it
continues thus to urge society through advancing stages, till at
length the strong and resistless hand of necessity presses the
secret spring of human prosperity, and the portals of Providence
fly open, and disclose to the enraptured gaze the promised land
of contented and rewarded labour."  These are specimens, taken at
random, of Mr Sadler's eloquence.  We could easily multiply them;
but our readers, we fear, are already inclined to cry for mercy.

Much blank verse and much rhyme is also scattered through these
volumes, sometimes rightly quoted, sometimes wrongly,--sometimes
good, sometimes insufferable,--sometimes taken from Shakspeare,
and sometimes, for aught we know, Mr Sadler's own.  "Let man,"
cries the philosopher, "take heed how he rashly violates his
trust;" and thereupon he breaks forth into singing as follows:

"What myriads wait in destiny's dark womb,
Doubtful of life or an eternal tomb!
'Tis his to blot them from the book of fate,
Or, like a second Deity, create;
To dry the stream of being in its source,
Or bid it, widening, win its restless course;
While, earth and heaven replenishing, the flood
Rolls to its Ocean fount, and rests in God."

If these lines are not Mr Sadler's, we heartily beg his pardon
for our suspicion--a suspicion which, we acknowledge, ought not
to be lightly entertained of any human being.  We can only say
that we never met with them before, and that we do not much care
how long it may be before we meet with them, or with any others
like them, again.

The spirit of this work is as bad as its style.  We never met
with a book which so strongly indicated that the writer was in a
good humour with himself, and in a bad humour with everybody
else; which contained so much of that kind of reproach which is
vulgarly said to be no slander, and of that kind of praise which
is vulgarly said to be no commendation.  Mr Malthus is attacked
in language which it would be scarcely decent to employ
respecting Titus Oates.  "Atrocious," "execrable," "blasphemous,"
and other epithets of the same kind, are poured forth against
that able, excellent, and honourable man, with a profusion which
in the early part of the work excites indignation, but after the
first hundred pages, produces mere weariness and nausea.  In the
preface, Mr Sadler excuses himself on the plea of haste.  Two-
thirds of his book, he tells us, were written in a few months. 
If any terms have escaped him which can be construed into
personal disrespect, he shall deeply regret that he had not more
time to revise them.  We must inform him that the tone of his
book required a very different apology; and that a quarter of a
year, though it is a short time for a man to be engaged in
writing a book, is a very long time for a man to be in a passion.

The imputation of being in a passion Mr Sadler will not disclaim. 
His is a theme, he tells us, on which "it were impious to be
calm;" and he boasts that, "instead of conforming to the candour
of the present age, he has imitated the honesty of preceding
ones, in expressing himself with the utmost plainness and freedom
throughout."  If Mr Sadler really wishes that the controversy
about his new principle of population should be carried on with
all the license of the seventeenth century, we can have no
personal objections.  We are quite as little afraid of a contest
in which quarter shall be neither given nor taken as he can be. 
But we would advise him seriously to consider, before he
publishes the promised continuation of his work, whether he be
not one of that class of writers who stand peculiarly in need of
the candour which he insults, and who would have most to fear
from that unsparing severity which he practises and recommends.

There is only one excuse for the extreme acrimony with which this
book is written; and that excuse is but a bad one.  Mr Sadler
imagines that the theory of Mr Malthus is inconsistent with
Christianity, and even with the purer forms of Deism.  Now, even
had this been the case, a greater degree of mildness and self-
command than Mr Sadler has shown would have been becoming in a
writer who had undertaken to defend the religion of charity. 
But, in fact, the imputation which has been thrown on Mr Malthus
and his followers is so absurd as scarcely to deserve an answer. 
As it appears, however, in almost every page of Mr Sadler's book,
we will say a few words respecting it.

Mr Sadler describes Mr Malthus's principle in the following
words:--

"It pronounces that there exists an evil in the principle of
population; an evil, not accidental, but inherent; not of
occasional occurrence, but in perpetual operation; not light,
transient, or mitigated, but productive of miseries, compared
with which all those inflicted by human institutions, that is to
say, by the weakness and wickedness of man, however instigated,
are 'light;' an evil, finally, for which there is no remedy save
one, which had been long overlooked, and which is now enunciated
in terms which evince anything rather than confidence.  It is a
principle, moreover, pre-eminently bold, as well as 'clear.' 
With a presumption, to call it by no fitter name, of which it may
be doubted whether literature, heathen or Christian, furnishes a
parallel, it professes to trace this supposed evil to its source,
'the laws of nature, which are those of God;' thereby implying,
and indeed asserting, that the law by which the Deity multiplies
his offspring, and that by which he makes provision for their
sustentation, are different, and, indeed, irreconcilable."

"This theory," he adds, "in the plain apprehension of the many,
lowers the character of the Deity in that attribute, which, as
Rousseau has well observed, is the most essential to him, his
goodness; or otherwise, impugns his wisdom."

Now nothing is more certain than that there is physical and moral
evil in the world.  Whoever, therefore, believes, as we do most
firmly believe, in the goodness of God, must believe that there
is no incompatibility between the goodness of God and the
existence of physical and moral evil.  If, then, the goodness of
God be not incompatible with the existence of physical and moral
evil, on what grounds does Mr Sadler maintain that the goodness
of God is incompatible with the law of population laid down by Mr
Malthus?

Is there any difference between the particular form of evil which
would be produced by over-population, and other forms of evil
which we know to exist in the world?  It is, says Mr Sadler, not
a light or transient evil, but a great and permanent evil.  What
then?  The question of the origin of evil is a question of ay or
no,--not a question of more or less.  If any explanation can be
found by which the slightest inconvenience ever sustained by any
sentient being can be reconciled with the divine attribute of
benevolence, that explanation will equally apply to the most
dreadful and extensive calamities that can ever afflict the human
race.  The difficulty arises from an apparent contradiction in
terms; and that difficulty is as complete in the case of a
headache which lasts for an hour as in the case of a pestilence
which unpeoples an empire,--in the case of the gust which makes
us shiver for a moment as in the case of the hurricane in which
an Armada is cast away.

It is, according to Mr Sadler, an instance of presumption
unparalleled in literature, heathen or Christian, to trace an
evil to "the laws of nature, which are those of God," as its
source.  Is not hydrophobia an evil?  And is it not a law of
nature that hydrophobia should be communicated by the bite of a
mad dog?  Is not malaria an evil?  And is it not a law of nature
that in particular situations the human frame should be liable to
malaria?  We know that there is evil in the world.  If it is not
to be traced to the laws of nature, how did it come into the
world?  Is it supernatural?  And, if we suppose it to be
supernatural, is not the difficulty of reconciling it with the
divine attributes as great as if we suppose it to be natural? 
Or, rather, what do the words natural and supernatural mean when
applied to the operations of the Supreme Mind?

Mr Sadler has attempted, in another part of his work, to meet
these obvious arguments, by a distinction without a difference.

"The scourges of human existence, as necessary regulators of the
numbers of mankind, it is also agreed by some, are not
inconsistent with the wisdom or benevolence of the Governor of
the universe; though such think that it is a mere after-concern
to 'reconcile the undeniable state of the fact to the attributes
we assign to the Deity.'  'The purpose of the earthquake,' say
they, 'the hurricane, the drought, or the famine, by which
thousands, and sometimes almost millions, of the human race, are
at once overwhelmed, or left the victims of lingering want, is
certainly inscrutable.'  How singular is it that a sophism like
this, so false, as a mere illustration, should pass for an
argument, as it has long done!  The principle of population is
declared to be naturally productive of evils to mankind, and as
having that constant and manifest tendency to increase their
numbers beyond the means of their subsistence, which has produced
the unhappy and disgusting consequences so often enumerated. 
This is, then, its universal tendency or rule.  But is there in
Nature the same constant tendency to these earthquakes,
hurricanes, droughts, and famines by which so many myriads, if
not millions, are overwhelmed or reduced at once to ruin?  No;
these awful events are strange exceptions to the ordinary course
of things; their visitations are partial, and they occur at
distant intervals of time.  While Religion has assigned to them a
very solemn office, Philosophy readily refers them to those great
and benevolent principles of Nature by which the universe is
regulated.  But were there a constantly operating tendency to
these calamitous occurrences; did we feel the earth beneath us
tremulous, and giving ceaseless and certain tokens of the coming
catastrophe of Nature; were the hurricane heard mustering its
devastating powers, and perpetually muttering around us; were the
skies 'like brass,' without a cloud to produce one genial drop to
refresh the thirsty earth, and famine, consequently, visibly on
the approach; I say, would such a state of things, as resulting
from the constant laws of Nature, be 'reconcilable with the
attributes we assign to the Deity,' or with any attributes which
in these inventive days could be assigned to him, so as to
represent him as anything but the tormenter, rather than the kind
benefactor, of his creatures?  Life, in such a condition, would
be like the unceasingly threatened and miserable existence of
Damocles at the table of Dionysius, and the tyrant himself the
worthy image of the Deity of the anti-populationists."

Surely this is wretched trifling.  Is it on the number of bad
harvests, or of volcanic eruptions, that this great question
depends?  Mr Sadler's piety, it seems, would be proof against one
rainy summer, but would be overcome by three or four in
succession.  On the coasts of the Mediterranean, where
earthquakes are rare, he would be an optimist.  South America
would make him a sceptic, and Java a decided Manichean.  To say
that religion assigns a solemn office to these visitations is
nothing to the purpose.  Why was man so constituted as to need
such warnings?  It is equally unmeaning to say that philosophy
refers these events to benevolent general laws of nature.  In so
far as the laws of nature produce evil, they are clearly not
benevolent.  They may produce much good.  But why is this good
mixed with evil?  The most subtle and powerful intellects have
been labouring for centuries to solve these difficulties.  The
true solution, we are inclined to think, is that which has been
rather suggested, than developed, by Paley and Butler.  But there
is not one solution which will not apply quite as well to the
evils of over-population as to any other evil.  Many excellent
people think that it is presumptuous to meddle with such high
questions at all, and that, though there doubtless is an
explanation, our faculties are not sufficiently enlarged to
comprehend that explanation.  This mode of getting rid of the
difficulty, again, will apply quite as well to the evils of over-
population as to any other evils.  We are sure that those who
humbly confess their inability to expound the great enigma act
more rationally and more decorously than Mr Sadler, who tells us,
with the utmost confidence, which are the means and which the
ends,--which the exceptions and which the rules, in the
government of the universe;--who consents to bear a little evil
without denying the divine benevolence, but distinctly announces
that a certain quantity of dry weather or stormy weather would
force him to regard the Deity as the tyrant of his creatures.

The great discovery by which Mr Sadler has, as he conceives,
vindicated the ways of Providence is enounced with all the pomp
of capital letters.  We must particularly beg that our readers
will peruse it with attention.

"No one fact relative to the human species is more clearly
ascertained, whether by general observation or actual proof, than
that their fecundity varies in different communities and
countries.  The principle which effects this variation, without
the necessity of those cruel and unnatural expedients so
frequently adverted to, constitutes what I presume to call THE
LAW OF POPULATION; and that law may be thus briefly enunciated:--

"THE PROLIFICNESS OF HUMAN BEINGS, OTHERWISE SIMILARLY
CIRCUMSTANCED, VARIES INVERSELY AS THEIR NUMBERS.

"The preceding definition may be thus amplified and explained. 
Premising, as a mere truism, that marriages under precisely
similar circumstances will, on the average, be equally fruitful
everywhere, I proceed to state, first, that the prolificness of a
given number of marriages will, all other circumstances being the
same, vary in proportion to the condensation of the population,
so that that prolificness shall be greatest where the numbers on
an equal space are the fewest, and, on the contrary, the smallest
where those numbers are the largest."

Mr Sadler, at setting out, abuses Mr Malthus for enouncing his
theory in terms taken from the exact sciences.  "Applied to the
mensuration of human fecundity," he tells us, "the most
fallacious of all things is geometrical demonstration;" and he
again informs us that those "act an irrational and irrelevant
part who affect to measure the mighty depth of God's mercies by
their arithmetic, and to demonstrate, by their geometrical
ratios, that it is inadequate to receive and contain the efflux
of that fountain of life which is in Him."

It appears, however, that it is not to the use of mathematical
words, but only to the use of those words in their right senses
that Mr Sadler objects.  The law of inverse variation, or inverse
proportion, is as much a part of mathematical science as the law
of geometric progression.  The only difference in this respect
between Mr Malthus and Mr Sadler is, that Mr Malthus knows what
is meant by geometric progression, and that Mr Sadler has not the
faintest notion of what is meant by inverse variation.  Had he
understood the proposition which he has enounced with so much
pomp, its ludicrous absurdity must at once have flashed on his
mind.

Let it be supposed that there is a tract in the back settlements
of America, or in New South Wales, equal in size to London, with
only a single couple, a man and his wife, living upon it.  The
population of London, with its immediate suburbs, is now probably
about a million and a half.  The average fecundity of a marriage
in London is, as Mr Sadler tells us 2.35.  How many children will
the woman in the back settlements bear according to Mr Sadler's
theory?  The solution of the problem is easy.  As the population
in this tract in the back settlements is to the population of
London, so will be the number of children born from a marriage in
London to the number of children born from the marriage of this
couple in the back settlements.  That is to say--

2 : 1,500,000 :: 2.35 : 1,762,500.

The lady will have 1,762,500 children:  a large "efflux of the
fountain of life," to borrow Mr Sadler's sonorous rhetoric, as
the most philoprogenitive parent could possibly desire.

But let us, instead of putting cases of our own, look at some of
those which Mr Sadler has brought forward in support of his
theory.  The following table, he tells us, exhibits a striking
proof of the truth of his main position.  It seems to us to prove
only that Mr Sadler does not know what inverse proportion means.

Countries          Inhabitants on a       Children to a
                   Square Mile, about     Marriage    

Cape of Good Hope         1                 5.48
North America             4                 5.22
Russia in Europe         23                 4.94
Denmark                  73                 4.89
Prussia                 100                 4.70
France                  140                 4.22
England                 160                 3.66

Is 1 to 160 as 3.66 to 5.48?  If Mr Sadler's principle were just,
the number of children produced by a marriage at the Cape would
be, not 5.48, but very near 600.  Or take America and France.  Is
4 to 140 as 4.22 to 5.22?  The number of births to a marriage in
North America ought, according to this proportion, to be about
150.

Mr Sadler states the law of population in England thus:--

"Where the inhabitants are found to be on the square mile,

From      To      Counties   Number of births to 100 marriages

  50      100        2             420
 100      150        9             396
 150      200       16             390
 200      250        4             388
 250      300        5             378
 300      350        3             353
 500      600        2             331
4000 and upwards     1             246

"Now, I think it quite reasonable to conclude, that, were there
not another document in existence relative to this subject, the
facts thus deduced from the census of England are fully
sufficient to demonstrate the position, that the fecundity of
human beings varies inversely as their numbers.  How, I ask, can
it be evaded?"

What, we ask, is there to evade?  Is 246 to 420 as 50 to 4000? 
Is 331 to 396 as 100 to 500?  If the law propounded by Mr Sadler
were correct, the births to a hundred marriages in the least
populous part of England, would be 246 x 4000 / 50, that is
19,680,--nearly two hundred children to every mother.  But we
will not carry on these calculations.  The absurdity of Mr
Sadler's proposition is so palpable that it is unnecessary to
select particular instances.  Let us see what are the extremes of
population and fecundity in well-known countries.  The space
which Mr Sadler generally takes is a square mile.  The population
at the Cape of Good Hope is, according to him, one to the square
mile.  That of London is two hundred thousand to the square mile. 
The number of children at the Cape, Mr Sadler informs us, is 5.48
to a marriage.  In London, he states it at 2.35 to a marriage. 
Now how can that of which all the variations lie between 2.35 and
5.48 vary, either directly or inversely, as that which admits of
all the variations between one and two hundred thousand?  Mr
Sadler evidently does not know the meaning of the word
proportion.  A million is a larger quantity than ten.  A hundred
is a larger quantity than five.  Mr Sadler thinks, therefore,
that there is no impropriety in saying that a hundred is to five
as a million is to ten, or in the inverse ratio of ten to a
million.  He proposes to prove that the fecundity of marriages
varies in inverse proportion to the density of the population. 
But all that he attempts to prove is that, while the population
increases from one to a hundred and sixty on the square mile, the
fecundity will diminish from 5.48 to 3.66; and that again, while
the population increases from one hundred and sixty to two
hundred thousand on the square mile, the fecundity will diminish
from 3.66 to 2.35.

The proposition which Mr Sadler enounces, without understanding
the words which he uses, would indeed, if it could be proved, set
us at ease as to the dangers of over-population.  But it is, as
we have shown, a proposition so grossly absurd that it is
difficult for any man to keep his countenance while he repeats
it.  The utmost that Mr Sadler has ever attempted to prove is
this,--that the fecundity of the human race diminishes as
population becomes more condensed,--but that the diminution of
fecundity bears a very small ratio to the increase of
population,--so that, while the population on a square mile is
multiplied two hundred-thousand-fold, the fecundity decreases by
little more than one half.

Does this principle vindicate the honour of God?  Does it hold
out any new hope or comfort to man?  Not at all.  We pledge
ourselves to show, with the utmost strictness of reasoning, from
Mr Sadler's own principles, and from facts of the most notorious
description, that every consequence which follows from the law of
geometrical progression, laid down by Mr Malthus, will follow
from the law, miscalled a law of inverse variation, which has
been laid down by Mr Sadler.

London is the most thickly peopled spot of its size in the known
world.  Therefore the fecundity of the population of London must,
according to Mr Sadler, be less than the fecundity of human
beings living on any other spot of equal size.  Mr Sadler tells
us, that "the ratios of mortality are influenced by the different
degrees in which the population is condensated; and that, other
circumstances being similar, the relative number of deaths in a
thinly-populated, or country district, is less than that which
takes place in towns, and in towns of a moderate size less again
than that which exists in large and populous cities."  Therefore
the mortality in London must, according to him, be greater than
in other places.  But, though, according to Mr Sadler, the
fecundity is less in London than elsewhere, and though the
mortality is greater there than elsewhere, we find that even in
London the number of births greatly exceeds the number of deaths. 
During the ten years which ended with 1820, there were fifty
thousand more baptisms than burials within the bills of
mortality.  It follows, therefore, that, even within London
itself, an increase of the population is taking place by internal
propagation.

Now, if the population of a place in which the fecundity is less
and the mortality greater than in other places still goes on
increasing by propagation, it follows that in other places the
population will increase, and increase still faster.  There is
clearly nothing in Mr Sadler's boasted law of fecundity which
will keep the population from multiplying till the whole earth is
as thick with human beings as St Giles's parish.  If Mr Sadler
denies this, he must hold that, in places less thickly peopled
than London, marriages may be less fruitful than in London, which
is directly contrary to his own principles; or that in places
less thickly peopled than London, and similarly situated, people
will die faster than in London, which is again directly contrary
to his own principles.  Now, if it follows, as it clearly does
follow, from Mr Sadler's own doctrines, that the human race might
be stowed together by three or four hundred to the acre, and
might still, as far as the principle of propagation is concerned,
go on increasing, what advantage, in a religious or moral point
of view, has his theory over that of Mr Malthus?  The principle
of Mr Malthus, says Mr Sadler, leads to consequences of the most
frightful description.  Be it so.  But do not all these
consequences spring equally from his own principle?  Revealed
religion condemns Mr Malthus.  Be it so.  But Mr Sadler must
share in the reproach of heresy.  The theory of Mr Malthus
represents the Deity as a Dionysius hanging the sword over the
heads of his trembling slaves.  Be it so.  But under what
rhetorical figure are we to represent the Deity of Mr Sadler?

A man who wishes to serve the cause of religion ought to hesitate
long before he stakes the truth of religion on the event of a
controversy respecting facts in the physical world.  For a time
he may succeed in making a theory which he dislikes unpopular by
persuading the public that it contradicts the Scriptures and is
inconsistent with the attributes of the Deity.  But, if at last
an overwhelming force of evidence proves this maligned theory to
be true, what is the effect of the arguments by which the
objector has attempted to prove that it is irreconcilable with
natural and revealed religion?  Merely this, to make men
infidels.  Like the Israelites, in their battle with the
Philistines, he has presumptuously and without warrant brought
down the ark of God into the camp as a means of ensuring
victory:--and the consequence of this profanation is that, when
the battle is lost, the ark is taken.

In every age the Church has been cautioned against this fatal and
impious rashness by its most illustrious members,--by the fervid
Augustin, by the subtle Aquinas, by the all-accomplished Pascal. 
The warning has been given in vain.  That close alliance which,
under the disguise of the most deadly enmity, has always
subsisted between fanaticism and atheism is still unbroken.  At
one time, the cry was,--"If you hold that the earth moves round
the sun, you deny the truth of the Bible."  Popes, conclaves, and
religious orders, rose up against the Copernican heresy.  But, as
Pascal said, they could not prevent the earth from moving, or
themselves from moving along with it.  One thing, however, they
could do, and they did.  They could teach numbers to consider the
Bible as a collection of old women's stories which the progress
of civilisation and knowledge was refuting one by one.  They had
attempted to show that the Ptolemaic system was as much a part of
Christianity as the resurrection of the dead.  Was it strange,
then, that when the Ptolemaic system became an object of ridicule
to every man of education in Catholic countries, the doctrine of
the resurrection should be in peril?  In the present generation,
and in our own country, the prevailing system of geology has
been, with equal folly, attacked on the ground that it is
inconsistent with the Mosaic dates.  And here we have Mr Sadler,
out of his especial zeal for religion, first proving that the
doctrine of superfecundity is irreconcilable with the goodness of
God, and then laying down principles, and stating facts, from
which the doctrine of superfecundity necessarily follows.  This
blundering piety reminds us of the adventures of a certain
missionary who went to convert the inhabitants of Madagascar. 
The good father had an audience of the king, and began to
instruct his majesty in the history of the human race as given in
the Scriptures.  "Thus, sir," said he, "was woman made out of the
rib of man, and ever since that time a woman has had one rib more
than a man."  "Surely, father, you must be mistaken there," said
the king.  "Mistaken!" said the missionary.  "It is an
indisputable fact.  My faith upon it!  My life upon it!"  The
good man had heard the fact asserted by his nurse when he was a
child,--had always considered it as a strong confirmation of the
Scriptures, and fully believed it without having ever thought of
verifying it.  The king ordered a man and woman, the leanest that
could be found, to be brought before him, and desired his
spiritual instructor to count their ribs.  The father counted
over and over, upward and downward, and still found the same
number in both.  He then cleared his throat, stammered,
stuttered, and began to assure the king that though he had
committed a little error in saying that a woman had more ribs
than a man, he was quite right in saying that the first woman was
made out of the rib of the first man.  "How can I tell that?"
said the king.  "You come to me with a strange story which you
say is revealed to you from heaven.  I have already made you
confess that one half of it is a lie:  and how can you have the
face to expect that I shall believe the other half?"

We have shown that Mr Sadler's theory, if it be true, is as much
a theory of superfecundity as that of Mr Malthus.  But it is not
true.  And from Mr Sadler's own tables we will prove that it is
not true.

The fecundity of the human race in England Mr Sadler rates as
follows:--

"Where the inhabitants are found to be on the square mile--

From    To      Counties    Number of births per 100 marriages

  50    100         2           420
 100    150         9           396
 150    200        16           390
 200    250         4           388
 250    300         5           378
 300    350         3           353
 500    600         2           331
4000 and upwards    1           246

Having given this table, he begins, as usual, to boast and
triumph.  "Were there not another document on the subject in
existence," says he, "the facts thus deduced from the census of
England are sufficient to demonstrate the position, that the
fecundity of human beings varies inversely as their numbers."  In
no case would these facts demonstrate that the fecundity of human
beings varies inversely as their numbers in the right sense of
the words inverse variation.  But certainly they would, "if there
were no other document in existence," appear to indicate
something like what Mr Sadler means by inverse variation. 
Unhappily for him, however, there are other documents in
existence; and he has himself furnished us with them.  We will
extract another of his tables:--

TABLE LXIV.

Showing the Operation of the Law of Population in the different
Hundreds of the County of Lancaster.

(In the following table the name of the Hundred is followed in
order by:
Population on each Square Mile.
Square Miles.
Population in 1821, exclusive of Towns of separate Jurisdiction.
Marriages from 1811 to 1821.
Baptisms from 1811 to 1821.
Baptisms to 100 Marriages.)

Lonsdale   :  96 : 441 :  42,486 :  3,651 :  16,129 : 442
Almondness : 267 : 228 :  60,930 :  3,670 :  15,228 : 415
Leyland    : 354 : 126 :  44,583 :  2,858 :  11,182 : 391
West Derby : 409 : 377 : 154,040 : 24,182 :  86,407 : 357
Blackburn  : 513 : 286 : 146,608 : 10,814 :  31,463 : 291
Salford    : 869 : 373 : 322,592 : 40,143 : 114,941 : 286

Mr Sadler rejoices much over this table.  The results, he says,
have surprised himself; and, indeed, as we shall show, they might
well have done so.

The result of his inquiries with respect to France he presents in
the following table:

"In those departments where there are to each inhabitant--

Hectares     Departments   Legitimate births to 
                           every 1000 marriages

4    to 5         2               5130
3    to 4         3               4372
2    to 3        30               4250
1    to 2        44               4234
 .06 to 1         5               4146
 .06              1               2557

Then comes the shout of exaltation as regularly as the Gloria
Patri at the end of a Psalm.  "Is there any possibility of
gainsaying the conclusions these facts force upon us; namely that
the fecundity of marriages is regulated by the density of the
population, and inversely to it?"

Certainly these tables, taken separately, look well for Mr
Sadler's theory.  He must be a bungling gamester who cannot win
when he is suffered to pack the cards his own way.  We must beg
leave to shuffle them a little; and we will venture to promise
our readers that some curious results will follow from the
operation.  In nine counties of England, says Mr Sadler, in which
the population is from 100 to 150 on the square mile, the births
to 100 marriages are 396.  He afterwards expresses some doubt as
to the accuracy of the documents from which this estimate has
been formed, and rates the number of births as high as 414.  Let
him take his choice.  We will allow him every advantage.

In the table which we have quoted, numbered lxiv., he tells us
that in Almondness, where the population is 267 to the square
mile, there are 415 births to 100 marriages.  The population of
Almondness is twice as thick as the population of the nine
counties referred to in the other table.  Yet the number of
births to a marriage is greater in Almondness than in those
counties.

Once more, he tells us that in three counties, in which the
population was from 300 to 350 on the square mile, the births to
100 marriages were 353.  He afterwards rates them at 375.  Again
we say, let him take his choice.  But from his table of the
population of Lancashire it appears that, in the hundred of
Leyland, where the population is 354 to the square mile, the
number of births to 100 marriages is 391.  Here again we have the
marriages becoming more fruitful as the population becomes
denser.

Let us now shuffle the censuses of England and France together. 
In two English counties which contain from 50 to 100 inhabitants
on the square mile, the births to 100 marriages are, according to
Mr Sadler, 420.  But in forty-four departments of France, in
which there are from one to two hecatares to each inhabitant,
that is to say, in which the population is from 125 to 250 or
rather more, to the square mile, the number of births to 100
marriages is 423 and a fraction.

Again, in five departments of France in which there is less than
one hecatare to each inhabitant, that is to say, in which the
population is more than 250 to the square mile, the number of
births to 100 marriages is 414 and a fraction.  But in the four
counties of England in which the population is from 200 to 250 on
the square mile, the number of births to 100 marriages is,
according to one of Mr Sadler's tables, only 388, and by his very
highest estimate no more than 402.

Mr Sadler gives us a long table of all the towns of England and
Ireland, which, he tells us, irrefragably demonstrates his
principle.  We assert, and will prove, that these tables are
alone sufficient to upset his whole theory.

It is very true that, in the great towns the number of births to
a marriage appears to be smaller than in the less populous towns. 
But we learn some other facts from these tables which we should
be glad to know how Mr Sadler will explain.  We find that the
fecundity in towns of fewer than 3000 inhabitants is actually
much greater than the average fecundity of the kingdom, and that
the fecundity in towns of between 3000 and 4000 inhabitants is at
least as great as the average fecundity of the kingdom.  The
average fecundity of a marriage in towns of fewer than 3000
inhabitants is about four; in towns of between 3000 and 4000
inhabitants it is 3.60.  Now, the average fecundity of England,
when it contained only 160 inhabitants to a square mile, and
when, therefore, according to the new law of population, the
fecundity must have been greater than it now is, was only,
according to Mr Sadler, 3.66 to a marriage.  To proceed,--the
fecundity of a marriage in the English towns of between 4000 and
5000 inhabitants is stated at 3.56.  But, when we turn to Mr
Sadler's table of counties, we find the fecundity of a marriage
in Warwickshire and Staffordshire rated at only 3.48, and in
Lancashire and Surrey at only 3.41.

These facts disprove Mr Sadler's principle; and the fact on which
he lays so much stress--that the fecundity is less in the great
towns than in the small towns--does not tend in any degree to
prove his principle.  There is not the least reason to believe
that the population is more dense, ON A GIVEN SPACE, in London or
Manchester than in a town of 4000 inhabitants.  But it is quite
certain that the population is more dense in a town of 4000
inhabitants than in Warwickshire or Lancashire.  That the
fecundity of Manchester is less than the fecundity of Sandwich or
Guildford is a circumstance which has nothing whatever to do with
Mr Sadler's theory.  But that the fecundity of Sandwich is
greater than the average fecundity of Kent,--that the fecundity
of Guildford is greater than the average fecundity of Surrey,--as
from his own tables appears to be the case,--these are facts
utterly inconsistent with his theory.

We need not here examine why it is that the human race is less
fruitful in great cities than in small towns or in the open
country.  The fact has long been notorious.  We are inclined to
attribute it to the same causes which tend to abridge human life
in great cities,--to general sickliness and want of tone,
produced by close air and sedentary employments.  Thus far, and
thus far only, we agree with Mr Sadler, that, when population is
crowded together in such masses that the general health and
energy of the frame are impaired by the condensation, and by the
habits attending on the condensation, then the fecundity of the
race diminishes.  But this is evidently a check of the same class
with war, pestilence, and famine.  It is a check for the
operation of which Mr Malthus has allowed.

That any condensation which does not affect the general health
will affect fecundity, is not only not proved--it is disproved--
by Mr Sadler's own tables.

Mr Sadler passes on to Prussia, and sums up his information
respecting that country as follows:--

(In the following table numbers appear in the order:
Inhabitants on a Square Mile, German.
Number of Provinces.
Births to 100 Marriages, 1754.
Births to 100 Marriages, 1784.
Births to 100 Marriages, Busching.)

Under 1000   : 2 : 434 : 472 : 503
1000 to 2000 : 4 : 414 : 455 : 454
2000 to 3000 : 6 : 384 : 424 : 426
3000 to 4000 : 2 : 365 : 408 : 394

After the table comes the boast as usual:

"Thus is the law of population deduced from the registers of
Prussia also:  and were the argument to pause here, it is
conclusive.  The results obtained from the registers of this and
the preceding countries, exhibiting, as they do most clearly, the
principle of human increase, it is utterly impossible should have
been the work of chance; on the contrary, the regularity with
which the facts class themselves in conformity with that
principle, and the striking analogy which the whole of them bear
to each other, demonstrate equally the design of Nature, and the
certainty of its accomplishment."

We are sorry to disturb Mr Sadler's complacency.  But, in our
opinion, this table completely disproves his whole principle.  If
we read the columns perpendicularly, indeed, they seem to be in
his favour.  But how stands the case if we read horizontally? 
Does Mr Sadler believe that, during the thirty years which
elapsed between 1754 and 1784, the population of Prussia had been
diminishing?  No fact in history is better ascertained than that,
during the long peace which followed the seven years' war, it
increased with great rapidity.  Indeed, if the fecundity were
what Mr Sadler states it to have been, it must have increased
with great rapidity.  Yet, the ratio of births to marriages is
greater in 1784 than in 1754, and that in every province.  It is,
therefore, perfectly clear that the fecundity does not diminish
whenever the density of the population increases.

We will try another of Mr Sadler's tables:

TABLE LXXXI.

Showing the Estimated Prolificness of Marriages in England at the
close of the Seventeenth Century.

(In the following table the name of the Place is followed in
order by:
Number of Inhabitants.
One Annual Marriage, to.
Number of Marriages.
Children to one Marriage.
Total Number of Births.

London          :   530,000 : 106 :  5,000 : 4.   :  20,000
Large Towns     :   870,000 : 128 :  6,800 : 4.5  :  30,000
Small Towns and
Country Places  : 4,100,000 : 141 : 29,200 : 4.8  : 140,160
                -------------------------------------------
                : 5,500,000 : 134 : 41,000 : 4.65 : 190,760

Standing by itself, this table, like most of the others, seems to
support Mr Sadler's theory.  But surely London, at the close of
the seventeenth century, was far more thickly peopled than the
kingdom of England now is.  Yet the fecundity in London at the
close of the seventeenth century was 4; and the average fecundity
of the whole kingdom now is not more, according to Mr Sadler,
than 3 1/2.  Then again, the large towns in 1700 were far more
thickly peopled than Westmoreland and the North Riding of
Yorkshire now are.  Yet the fecundity in those large towns was
then 4.5.  And Mr Sadler tells us that it is now only 4.2 in
Westmoreland and the North Riding.

It is scarcely necessary to say anything about the censuses of
the Netherlands, as Mr Sadler himself confesses that there is
some difficulty in reconciling them with his theory, and helps
out his awkward explanation by supposing, quite gratuitously, as
it seems to us, that the official documents are inaccurate.  The
argument which he has drawn from the United States will detain us
but for a very short time.  He has not told us,--perhaps he had
not the means of telling us,--what proportion the number of
births in the different parts of that country bears to the number
of marriages.  He shows that in the thinly peopled states the
number of children bears a greater proportion to the number of
grown-up people than in the old states; and this, he conceives,
is a sufficient proof that the condensation of the population is
unfavourable to fecundity.  We deny the inference altogether.
Nothing can be more obvious than the explanation of the
phenomenon.  The back settlements are for the most part peopled
by emigration from the old states; and emigrants are almost
always breeders.  They are almost always vigorous people in the
prime of life.  Mr Sadler himself, in another part of his book,
in which he tries very unsuccessfully to show that the rapid
multiplication of the people of America is principally owing to
emigration from Europe, states this fact in the plainest manner:

"Nothing is more certain, than that emigration is almost
universally supplied by 'single persons in the beginning of
mature life;' nor, secondly, that such persons, as Dr Franklin
long ago asserted, 'marry and raise families.'

"Nor is this all.  It is not more true, that emigrants, generally
speaking, consist of individuals in the prime of life, than that
'they are the most active and vigorous' of that age, as Dr
Seybert describes them to be.  They are, as it respects the
principle at issue, a select class, even compared with that of
their own age, generally considered.  Their very object in
leaving their native countries is to settle in life, a phrase
that needs no explanation; and they do so.  No equal number of
human beings, therefore, have ever given so large or rapid an
increase to a community as 'settlers' have invariably done."

It is perfectly clear that children are more numerous in the back
settlements of America than in the maritime states, not because
unoccupied land makes people prolific, but because the most
prolific people go to the unoccupied land.

Mr Sadler having, as he conceives, fully established his theory
of population by statistical evidence, proceeds to prove, "that
it is in unison, or rather required by the principles of
physiology."  The difference between himself and his opponents he
states as follows:--

"In pursuing this part of my subject, I must begin by reminding
the reader of the difference between those who hold the
superfecundity of mankind and myself, in regard to those
principles which will form the basis of the present argument.  
They contend, that production precedes population; I, on the
contrary, maintain that population precedes, and is indeed the
cause of, production.   They teach that man breeds up to the
capital, or in proportion to the abundance of the food, he
possesses:  I assert, that he is comparatively sterile when he is
wealthy, and that he breeds in proportion to his poverty; not
meaning, however, by that poverty, a state of privation
approaching to actual starvation, any more than, I suppose, they
would contend, that extreme and culpable excess is the grand
patron of population.  In a word, they hold that a state of ease
and affluence is the great promoter of prolificness.  I maintain
that a considerable degree of labour, and even privation, is a
more efficient cause of an increased degree of human fecundity."

To prove this point, he quotes Aristotle, Hippocrates, Dr Short,
Dr Gregory, Dr Perceval, M. Villermi, Lord Bacon, and Rousseau. 
We will not dispute about it; for it seems quite clear to us that
if he succeeds in establishing it he overturns his own theory. 
If men breed in proportion to their poverty, as he tells us
here,--and at the same time breed in inverse proportion to their
numbers, as he told us before,--it necessarily follows that the
poverty of men must be in inverse proportion to their numbers. 
Inverse proportion, indeed, as we have shown, is not the phrase
which expresses Mr Sadler's meaning.  To speak more correctly, it
follows, from his own positions, that, if one population be
thinner than another, it will also be poorer.  Is this the fact? 
Mr Sadler tells us, in one of those tables which we have already
quoted, that in the United States the population is four to a
square mile, and the fecundity 5.22 to a marriage, and that in
Russia the population is twenty-three to a square mile, and the
fecundity 4.94 to a marriage.  Is the North American labourer
poorer than the Russian boor?  If not, what becomes of Mr
Sadler's argument?

The most decisive proof of Mr Sadler's theory, according to him,
is that which he has kept for the last.  It is derived from the
registers of the English Peerage.  The peers, he says, and says
truly, are the class with respect to whom we possess the most
accurate statistical information.

"Touching their NUMBER, this has been accurately known and
recorded ever since the order has existed in the country.  For
several centuries past, the addition to it of a single individual
has been a matter of public interest and notoriety:  this
hereditary honour conferring not personal dignity merely, but
important privileges, and being almost always identified with
great wealth and influence.  The records relating to it are kept
with the most scrupulous attention, not only by heirs and
expectants, but they are appealed to by more distant connections,
as conferring distinction on all who can claim such affinity. 
Hence there are few disputes concerning successions to this rank,
but such as go back to very remote periods.  In later times, the
marriages, births, and deaths, of the nobility, have not only
been registered by and known to those personally interested, but
have been published periodically, and, consequently, subject to
perpetual correction and revision; while many of the most
powerful motives which can influence the human mind conspire to
preserve these records from the slightest falsification. 
Compared with these, therefore, all other registers, or reports,
whether of sworn searchers or others, are incorrectness itself."

Mr Sadler goes on to tell us that the peers are a marrying class,
and that their general longevity proves them to be a healthy
class.  Still peerages often become extinct;--and from this fact
he infers that they are a sterile class.  So far, says he, from
increasing in geometrical progression, they do not even keep up
their numbers.  "Nature interdicts their increase."

"Thus," says he, "in all ages of the world, and in every nation
of it, have the highest ranks of the community been the most
sterile, and the lowest the most prolific.  As it respects our
own country, from the lowest grade of society, the Irish peasant,
to the highest, the British peer, this remains a conspicuous
truth; and the regulation of the degree of fecundity conformably
to this principle, through the intermediate gradations of
society, constitutes one of the features of the system developed
in these pages."

We take the issue which Mr Sadler has himself offered.  We agree
with him, that the registers of the English Peerage are of far
higher authority than any other statistical documents.  We are
content that by those registers his principle should be judged. 
And we meet him by positively denying his facts.  We assert that
the English nobles are not only not a sterile, but an eminently
prolific, part of the community.  Mr Sadler concludes that they
are sterile, merely because peerages often become extinct.  Is
this the proper way of ascertaining the point?  Is it thus that
he avails himself of those registers on the accuracy and fulness
of which he descants so largely?  Surely his right course would
have been to count the marriages, and the number of births in the
Peerage.  This he has not done;--but we have done it.  And what
is the result?

It appears from the last edition of Debrett's "Peerage",
published in 1828, that there were at that time 287 peers of the
United Kingdom, who had been married once or oftener.  The whole
number of marriages contracted by these 287 peers was 333.  The
number of children by these marriages was 1437,--more than five
to a peer,--more than 4.3 to a marriage,--more, that is to say,
than the average number in those counties of England in which,
according to Mr Sadler's own statement, the fecundity is the
greatest.

But this is not all.  These marriages had not, in 1828, produced
their full effect.  Some of them had been very lately contracted. 
In a very large proportion of them there was every probability of
additional issue.  To allow for this probability, we may safely
add one to the average which we have already obtained, and rate
the fecundity of a noble marriage in England at 5.3;--higher than
the fecundity which Mr Sadler assigns to the people of the United
States.  Even if we do not make this allowance, the average
fecundity of marriages of peers is higher by one-fifth than the
average fecundity of marriages throughout the kingdom.  And this
is the sterile class!  This is the class which "Nature has
interdicted from increasing!"  The evidence to which Mr Sadler
has himself appealed proves that his principle is false,--utterly
false,--wildly and extravagantly false.  It proves that a class,
living during half of every year in the most crowded population
in the world, breeds faster than those who live in the country;--
that the class which enjoys the greatest degree of luxury and
ease breeds faster than the class which undergoes labour and
privation.  To talk a little in Mr Sadler's style, we must own
that we are ourselves surprised at the results which our
examination of the peerage has brought out.  We certainly should
have thought that the habits of fashionable life, and long
residence even in the most airy parts of so great a city as
London, would have been more unfavourable to the fecundity of the
higher orders than they appear to be.

Peerages, it is true, often become extinct.  But it is quite
clear, from what we have stated, that this is not because
peeresses are barren.  There is no difficulty in discovering what
the causes really are.  In the first place, most of the titles of
our nobles are limited to heirs male; so that, though the average
fecundity of a noble marriage is upwards of five, yet, for the
purpose of keeping up a peerage, it cannot be reckoned at much
more than two and a half.  Secondly, though the peers are, as Mr
Sadler says, a marrying class, the younger sons of peers are
decidedly not a marrying class; so that a peer, though he has at
least as great a chance of having a son as his neighbours, has
less chance than they of having a collateral heir.

We have now disposed, we think, of Mr Sadler's principle of
population.  Our readers must, by this time, be pretty well
satisfied as to his qualifications for setting up theories of his
own.  We will, therefore, present them with a few instances of
the skill and fairness which he shows when he undertakes to pull
down the theories of other men.  The doctrine of Mr Malthus, that
population, if not checked by want, by vice, by excessive
mortality, or by the prudent self-denial of individuals, would
increase in a geometric progression, is, in Mr Sadler's opinion,
at once false and atrocious.

"It may at once be denied," says he, "that human increase
proceeds geometrically; and for this simple but decisive reason,
that the existence of a geometrical ratio of increase in the
works of nature is neither true nor possible.  It would fling
into utter confusion all order, time, magnitude, and space."

This is as curious a specimen of reasoning as any that has been
offered to the world since the days when theories were founded on
the principle that nature abhors a vacuum.  We proceed a few
pages further, however; and we then find that geometric
progression is unnatural only in those cases in which Mr Malthus
conceives that it exists; and that, in all cases in which Mr
Malthus denies the existence of a geometric ratio, nature changes
sides, and adopts that ratio as the rule of increase.

Mr Malthus holds that subsistence will increase only in an
arithmetical ratio.  "As far as nature has to do with the
question," says Mr Sadler, "men might, for instance, plant twice
the number of peas, and breed from a double number of the same
animals, with equal prospect of their multiplication."  Now, if
Mr Sadler thinks that, as far as nature is concerned, four sheep
will double as fast as two, and eight as fast as four, how can he
deny that the geometrical ratio of increase does exist in the
works of nature?  Or has he a definition of his own for
geometrical progression, as well as for inverse proportion?

Mr Malthus, and those who agree with him, have generally referred
to the United States, as a country in which the human race
increases in a geometrical ratio, and have fixed on thirty-five
years as the term in which the population of that country doubles
itself.  Mr Sadler contends that it is physically impossible for
a people to double in twenty-five years; nay, that thirty-five
years is far too short a period,--that the Americans do not
double by procreation in less than forty-seven years,--and that
the rapid increase of their numbers is produced by emigration
from Europe.

Emigration has certainly had some effect in increasing the
population of the United States.  But so great has the rate of
that increase been that, after making full allowance for the
effect of emigration, there will be a residue, attributable to
procreation alone, amply sufficient to double the population in
twenty-five years.

Mr Sadler states the results of the four censuses as follows:--

"There were, of white inhabitants, in the whole of the United
States in 1790, 3,093,111; in 1800, 4,309,656; in 1810,
5,862,093; and in 1820, 7,861,710.  The increase, in the first
term, being 39 per cent.; that in the second, 36 per cent.; and
that in the third and last, 33 per cent.  It is superfluous to
say, that it is utterly impossible to deduce the geometric theory
of human increase, whatever be the period of duplication, from
such terms as these."

Mr Sadler is a bad arithmetician.  The increase in the last term
is not as he states it, 33 per cent., but more than 34 per cent.
Now, an increase of 32 per cent. in ten years, is more than
sufficient to double the population in twenty-five years.  And
there is, we think, very strong reason to believe that the white
population of the United States does increase by 32 per cent.
every ten years.

Our reason is this.  There is in the United States a class of
persons whose numbers are not increased by emigration,--the negro
slaves.  During the interval which elapsed between the census of
1810 and the census of 1820, the change in their numbers must
have been produced by procreation, and by procreation alone. 
Their situation, though much happier than that of the wretched
beings who cultivate the sugar plantations of Trinidad and
Demerara, cannot be supposed to be more favourable to health and
fecundity than that of free labourers.  In 1810, the slave-trade
had been but recently abolished; and there were in consequence
many more male than female slaves,--a circumstance, of course,
very unfavourable to procreation.  Slaves are perpetually passing
into the class of freemen; but no freeman ever descends into
servitude; so that the census will not exhibit the whole effect
of the procreation which really takes place.

We find, by the census of 1810, that the number of slaves in the
Union was then 1,191,000.  In 1820, they had increased to
1,538,000.  That is to say, in ten years, they had increased 29
per cent.--within three per cent. of that rate of increase which
would double their numbers in twenty-five years.  We may, we
think, fairly calculate that, if the female slaves had been as
numerous as the males, and if no manumissions had taken place,
the census of the slave population would have exhibited an
increase of 32 per cent. in ten years.

If we are right in fixing on 32 per cent. as the rate at which
the white population of America increases by procreation in ten
years, it will follow that, during the last ten years of the
eighteenth century, nearly one-sixth of the increase was the
effect of emigration; from 1800 to 1810, about one-ninth; and
from 1810 to 1820, about one-seventeenth.  This is what we should
have expected; for it is clear that, unless the number of
emigrants be constantly increasing, it must, as compared with the
resident population, be relatively decreasing.  The number of
persons added to the population of the United States by
emigration, between 1810 and 1820, would be nearly 120,000.  From
the data furnished by Mr Sadler himself, we should be inclined to
think that this would be a fair estimate.

"Dr Seybert says, that the passengers to ten of the principal
ports of the United States, in the year 1817, amounted to 22,235;
of whom 11,977 were from Great Britain and Ireland; 4164 from
Germany and Holland; 1245 from France; 58 from Italy, 2901 from
the British possessions in North America; 1569 from the West
Indies; and from all other countries, 321.  These, however, we
may conclude, with the editor of Styles's Register, were far
short of the number that arrived."

We have not the honour of knowing either Dr Seybert or the editor
of Styles's Register.  We cannot, therefore, decide on their
respective claims to our confidence so peremptorily as Mr Sadler
thinks fit to do.  Nor can we agree to what Mr Sadler very
gravely assigns as a reason for disbelieving Dr Seyberts's
testimony.  "Such accounts," he says, "if not wilfully
exaggerated, must always fall short of the truth."  It would be a
curious question of casuistry to determine what a man ought to do
in a case in which he cannot tell the truth except by being
guilty of wilful exaggeration.  We will, however, suppose, with
Mr Sadler, that Dr Seybert, finding himself compelled to choose
between two sins, preferred telling a falsehood to exaggerating;
and that he has consequently underrated the number of emigrants. 
We will take it at double of the Doctor's estimate, and suppose
that, in 1817, 45,000 Europeans crossed to the United States. 
Now, it must be remembered that the year 1817 was a year of the
severest and most general distress all over Europe,--a year of
scarcity everywhere, and of cruel famine in some places.  There
can, therefore, be no doubt that the emigration of 1817 was very
far above the average, probably more than three times that of an
ordinary year.  Till the year 1815, the war rendered it almost
impossible to emigrate to the United States either from England
or from the Continent.  If we suppose the average emigration of
the remaining years to have been 16,000, we shall probably not be
much mistaken.  In 1818 and 1819, the number was certainly much
beyond that average; in 1815 and 1816, probably much below it. 
But, even if we were to suppose that, in every year from the
peace to 1820, the number of emigrants had been as high as we
have supposed it to be in 1817, the increase by procreation among
the white inhabitants of the United States would still appear to
be about 30 per cent. in ten years.

Mr Sadler acknowledges that Cobbett exaggerates the number of
emigrants when he states it at 150,000 a year.  Yet even this
estimate, absurdly great as it is, would not be sufficient to
explain the increase of the population of the United States on Mr
Sadler's principles.  He is, he tells us, "convinced that
doubling in 35 years is a far more rapid duplication than ever
has taken place in that country from procreation only."  An
increase of 20 per cent. in ten years, by procreation, would
therefore be the very utmost that he would allow to be possible. 
We have already shown, by reference to the census of the slave
population, that this doctrine is quite absurd.  And, if we
suppose it to be sound, we shall be driven to the conclusion that
above eight hundred thousand people emigrated from Europe to the
United States in a space of little more than five years.  The
whole increase of the white population from 1810 to 1820 was
within a few hundreds of 2,000,000.  If we are to attribute to
procreation only 20 per cent. on the number returned by the
census of 1810, we shall have about 830,000 persons to account
for in some other way;--and to suppose that the emigrants who
went to America between the peace of 1815 and the census of 1820,
with the children who were born to them there, would make up that
number, would be the height of absurdity.

We could say much more; but we think it quite unnecessary at
present.  We have shown that Mr Sadler is careless in the
collection of facts,--that he is incapable of reasoning on facts
when he has collected them,--that he does not understand the
simplest terms of science,--that he has enounced a proposition of
which he does not know the meaning,--that the proposition which
he means to enounce, and which he tries to prove, leads directly
to all those consequences which he represents as impious and
immoral,--and that, from the very documents to which he has
himself appealed, it may be demonstrated that his theory is
false.  We may, perhaps, resume the subject when his next volume
appears.  Meanwhile, we hope that he will delay its publication
until he has learned a little arithmetic, and unlearned a great
deal of eloquence.

...


SADLER'S REFUTATION REFUTED.

(January 1831.)

"A Refutation of an Article in the Edinburgh Review (No. CII.)
entitled, 'Sadler's Law of Population, and disproof of Human
Superfecundity;' containing also Additional Proofs of the
Principle enunciated in that Treatise, founded on the Censuses of
different Countries recently published."  By Michael Thomas
Sadler, M.P.  8vo.  London:  1830.

"Before anything came out against my Essay, I was told I must
prepare myself for a storm coming against it, it being resolved
by some men that it was necessary that book of mine should, as it
is phrased, be run down."--John Locke.

We have, in violation of our usual practice, transcribed Mr
Sadler's title-page from top to bottom, motto and all.  The
parallel implied between the Essay on the Human Understanding and
the Essay on Superfecundity is exquisitely laughable.  We can
match it, however, with mottoes as ludicrous.  We remember to
have heard of a dramatic piece, entitled "News from Camperdown,"
written soon after Lord Duncan's victory, by a man once as much
in his own good graces as Mr Sadler is, and now as much forgotten
as Mr Sadler will soon be, Robert Heron.  His piece was brought
upon the stage, and damned, "as it is phrased," in the second
act; but the author, thinking that it had been unfairly and
unjustly "run down," published it, in order to put his critics to
shame, with this motto from Swift:  "When a true genius appears
in the world, you may know him by this mark--that the dunces are
all in confederacy against him."  We remember another anecdote,
which may perhaps be acceptable to so zealous a churchman as Mr
Sadler.  A certain Antinomian preacher, the oracle of a barn, in
a county of which we do not think it proper to mention the name,
finding that divinity was not by itself a sufficiently lucrative
profession, resolved to combine with it that of dog-stealing.  He
was, by ill-fortune, detected in several offences of this
description, and was in consequence brought before two justices,
who, in virtue of the powers given them by an act of parliament,
sentenced him to a whipping for each theft.  The degrading
punishment inflicted on the pastor naturally thinned the flock;
and the poor man was in danger of wanting bread.  He accordingly
put forth a handbill solemnly protesting his innocence,
describing his sufferings, and appealing to the Christian charity
of the public; and to his pathetic address he prefixed this most
appropriate text:  "Thrice was I beaten with rods.--St Paul's
Epistle to the Corinthians."  He did not perceive that, though St
Paul had been scourged, no number of whippings, however severe,
will of themselves entitle a man to be considered as an apostle. 
Mr Sadler seems to us to have fallen into a somewhat similar
error.  He should remember that, though Locke may have been
laughed at, so has Sir Claudius Hunter; and that it takes
something more than the laughter of all the world to make a
Locke.

The body of this pamphlet by no means justifies the parallel so
modestly insinuated on the title-page.  Yet we must own that,
though Mr Sadler has not risen to the level of Locke, he has done
what was almost as difficult, if not as honourable--he has fallen
below his own.  He is at best a bad writer.  His arrangement is
an elaborate confusion.  His style has been constructed, with
great care, in such a manner as to produce the least possible
effect by means of the greatest possible number of words. 
Aspiring to the exalted character of a Christian philosopher, he
can never preserve through a single paragraph either the calmness
of a philosopher or the meekness of a Christian.  His ill-nature
would make a very little wit formidable.  But, happily, his
efforts to wound resemble those of a juggler's snake.  The bags
of poison are full, but the fang is wanting.  In this foolish
pamphlet, all the unpleasant peculiarities of his style and
temper are brought out in the strongest manner.  He is from the
beginning to the end in a paroxysm of rage, and would certainly
do us some mischief if he knew how.  We will give a single
instance for the present.  Others will present themselves as we
proceed.  We laughed at some doggerel verses which he cited, and
which we, never having seen them before, suspected to be his own. 
We are now sure that if the principle on which Solomon decided a
famous case of filiation were correct, there can be no doubt as
to the justice of our suspicion.  Mr Sadler, who, whatever
elements of the poetical character he may lack, possesses the
poetical irritability in an abundance which might have sufficed
for Homer himself, resolved to retaliate on the person, who, as
he supposed, had reviewed him.  He has, accordingly, ransacked
some collection of college verses, in the hope of finding, among
the performances of his supposed antagonist, something as bad as
his own.  And we must in fairness admit that he has succeeded
pretty well.  We must admit that the gentleman in question
sometimes put into his exercises, at seventeen, almost as great
nonsense as Mr Sadler is in the habit of putting into his books
at sixty.

Mr Sadler complains that we have devoted whole pages to mere
abuse of him.  We deny the charge.  We have, indeed,
characterised, in terms of just reprehension, that spirit which
shows itself in every part of his prolix work.  Those terms of
reprehension we are by no means inclined to retract; and we
conceive that we might have used much stronger expressions,
without the least offence either to truth or to decorum.  There
is a limit prescribed to us by our sense of what is due to
ourselves.  But we think that no indulgence is due to Mr Sadler. 
A writer who distinctly announces that he has not conformed to
the candour of the age--who makes it his boast that he expresses
himself throughout with the greatest plainness and freedom--and
whose constant practice proves that by plainness and freedom he
means coarseness and rancour--has no right to expect that others
shall remember courtesies which he has forgotten, or shall
respect one who has ceased to respect himself.

Mr Sadler declares that he has never vilified Mr Malthus
personally, and has confined himself to attacking the doctrines
which that gentleman maintains.  We should wish to leave that
point to the decision of all who have read Mr Sadler's book, or
any twenty pages of it.  To quote particular instances of a
temper which penetrates and inspires the whole work, is to weaken
our charge.  Yet, that we may not be suspected of flinching, we
will give two specimens,--the two first which occur to our
recollection.  "Whose minister is it that speaks thus?" says Mr
Sadler, after misrepresenting in a most extraordinary manner,
though, we are willing to believe, unintentionally, one of the
positions of Mr Malthus.  "Whose minister is it that speaks thus? 
That of the lover and avenger of little children?"  Again, Mr
Malthus recommends, erroneously perhaps, but assuredly from
humane motives, that alms, when given, should be given very
sparingly.  Mr Sadler quotes the recommendation, and adds the
following courteous comment:--"The tender mercies of the wicked
are cruel."  We cannot think that a writer who indulges in these
indecent and unjust attacks on professional and personal
character has any right to complain of our sarcasms on his
metaphors and rhymes.

We will now proceed to examine the reply which Mr Sadler has
thought fit to make to our arguments.  He begins by attacking our
remarks on the origin of evil.  They are, says he, too profound
for common apprehension; and he hopes that they are too profound
for our own.  That they seem profound to him we can well believe. 
Profundity, in its secondary as in its primary sense, is a
relative term.  When Grildrig was nearly drowned in the
Brobdingnagian cream-jug he doubtless thought it very deep.  But
to common apprehension our reasoning would, we are persuaded,
appear perfectly simple.

The theory of Mr Malthus, says Mr Sadler, cannot be true, because
it asserts the existence of a great and terrible evil, and is
therefore inconsistent with the goodness of God.  We answer thus. 
We know that there are in the world great and terrible evils.  In
spite of these evils, we believe in the goodness of God.  Why may
we not then continue to believe in his goodness, though another
evil should be added to the list?

How does Mr Sadler answer this?  Merely by telling us, that we
are too wicked to be reasoned with.  He completely shrinks from
the question; a question, be it remembered, not raised by us--a
question which we should have felt strong objections to raising
unnecessarily--a question put forward by himself, as intimately
connected with the subject of his two ponderous volumes.  He
attempts to carp at detached parts of our reasoning on the
subject.  With what success he carries on this guerilla war after
declining a general action with the main body of our argument our
readers shall see.

"The Reviewer sends me to Paley, who is, I confess, rather more
intelligible on the subject, and who, fortunately, has decided
the very point in dispute.  I will first give the words of the
Reviewer, who, when speaking of my general argument regarding the
magnitude of the evils, moral and physical, implied in the theory
I oppose, sums up his ideas thus:--'Mr Sadler says, that it is
not a light or transient evil, but a great and permanent evil. 
What then?  The question of the origin of evil is a question of
aye or no,--not a question of MORE or LESS.'  But what says
Paley?  His express rule is this, that 'when we cannot resolve
all appearances into benevolence of design, we make the FEW give
place to the MANY, the LITTLE to the GREAT; that we take our
judgment from a large and decided preponderancy.'  Now in
weighing these two authorities, directly at issue on this point,
I think there will be little trouble in determining which we
shall make 'to give place;' or, if we 'look to a large and
decided preponderancy' of either talent, learning, or
benevolence, from whom we shall 'take our judgment.'  The
effrontery, or, to speak more charitably, the ignorance of a
reference to Paley on this subject, and in this instance, is
really marvellous."

Now, does not Mr Sadler see that the very words which he quotes
from Paley contain in themselves a refutation of his whole
argument?  Paley says, indeed, as every man in his senses would
say, that in a certain case, which he has specified, the more and
the less come into question.  But in what case?  "When we CANNOT
resolve all appearances into the benevolence of design."  It is
better that there should be a little evil than a great deal of
evil.  This is self-evident.  But it is also self-evident, that
no evil is better than a little evil.  Why, then, is there any
evil?  It is a mystery which we cannot solve.  It is a mystery
which Paley, by the very words which Mr Sadler has quoted,
acknowledges himself unable to solve; and it is because he cannot
solve that mystery that he proceeds to take into consideration
the more and the less.  Believing in the divine goodness, we must
necessarily believe that the evils which exist are necessary to
avert greater evils.  But what those greater evils are, we do not
know.  How the happiness of any part of the sentient creation
would be in any respect diminished if, for example, children cut
their teeth without pain, we cannot understand.  The case is
exactly the same with the principle of Mr Malthus.  If
superfecundity exists, it exists, no doubt, because it is a less
evil than some other evil which otherwise would exist.  Can Mr
Sadler prove that this is an impossibility?

One single expression which Mr Sadler employs on this subject is
sufficient to show how utterly incompetent he is to discuss it. 
"On the Christian hypothesis," says he, "no doubt exists as to
the origin of evil."  He does not, we think, understand what is
meant by the origin of evil.  The Christian Scriptures profess to
give no solution of that mystery.  They relate facts:  but they
leave the metaphysical question undetermined.  They tell us that
man fell; but why he was not so constituted as to be incapable of
falling, or why the Supreme Being has not mitigated the
consequences of the Fall more than they actually have been
mitigated, the Scriptures did not tell us, and, it may without
presumption be said, could not tell us, unless we had been
creatures different from what we are.  There is something, either
in the nature of our faculties or in the nature of the machinery
employed by us for the purpose of reasoning, which condemns us,
on this and similar subjects, to hopeless ignorance.  Man can
understand these high matters only by ceasing to be man, just as
a fly can understand a lemma of Newton only by ceasing to be a
fly.  To make it an objection to the Christian system that it
gives us no solution of these difficulties, is to make it an
objection to the Christian system that it is a system formed for
human beings.  Of the puzzles of the Academy, there is not one
which does not apply as strongly to Deism as to Christianity, and
to Atheism as to Deism.  There are difficulties in everything. 
Yet we are sure that something must be true.

If revelation speaks on the subject of the origin of evil it
speaks only to discourage dogmatism and temerity.  In the most
ancient, the most beautiful, and the most profound of all works
on the subject, the Book of Job, both the sufferer who complains
of the divine government, and the injudicious advisers who
attempt to defend it on wrong principles, are silenced by the
voice of supreme wisdom, and reminded that the question is beyond
the reach of the human intellect.  St Paul silences the supposed
objector, who strives to force him into controversy, in the same
manner.  The church has been, ever since the apostolic times,
agitated by this question, and by a question which is inseparable
from it, the question of fate and free-will.  The greatest
theologians and philosophers have acknowledged that these things
were too high for them, and have contended themselves with
hinting at what seemed to be the most probable solution.  What
says Johnson?  "All our effort ends in belief that for the evils
of life there is some good reason, and in confession that the
reason cannot be found."  What says Paley?  "Of the origin of
evil no universal solution has been discovered.  I mean no
solution which reaches to all cases of complaint.--The
consideration of general laws, although it may concern the
question of the origin of evil very nearly, which I think it
does, rests in views disproportionate to our faculties, and in a
knowledge which we do not possess.  It serves rather to account
for the obscurity of the subject, than to supply us with distinct
answers to our difficulties."  What says presumptuous ignorance? 
"No doubt whatever exists as to the origin of evil."  It is
remarkable that Mr Sadler does not tell us what his solution is.
The world, we suspect, will lose little by his silence.

He falls on the reviewer again.

"Though I have shown," says he, "and on authorities from which
none can lightly differ, not only the cruelty and immorality
which this system necessarily involves, but its most revolting
feature, its gross partiality, he has wholly suppressed this, the
most important part of my argument; as even the bare notice of it
would have instantly exposed the sophistry to which he has had
recourse.  If, however, he would fairly meet the whole question,
let him show me that 'hydrophobia,' which he gives as an example
of the laws of God and nature, is a calamity to which the poor
alone are liable; or that 'malaria,' which, with singular
infelicity, he has chosen as an illustration of the fancied evils
of population, is a respecter of persons."

We said nothing about this argument, as Mr Sadler calls it,
merely because we did not think it worth while: and we are half
ashamed to say anything about it now.  But, since Mr Sadler is so
urgent for an answer, he shall have one.  If there is evil, it
must be either partial or universal.  Which is the better of the
two?  Hydrophobia, says this great philosopher, is no argument
against the divine goodness, because mad dogs bite rich and poor
alike; but if the rich were exempted, and only nine people
suffered for ten who suffer now, hydrophobia would forthwith,
simply because it would produce less evil than at present, become
an argument against the divine goodness!  To state such a
proposition, is to refute it.  And is not the malaria a respecter
of persons?  It infests Rome.  Does it infest London?  There are
complaints peculiar to the tropical countries.  There are others
which are found only in mountainous districts; others which are
confined to marshy regions; others again which run in particular
families.  Is not this partiality?  Why is it more inconsistent
with the divine goodness that poor men should suffer an evil from
which rich men are exempt, than that a particular portion of the
community should inherit gout, scrofula, insanity, and other
maladies?  And are there no miseries under which, in fact, the
poor alone are suffering?  Mr Sadler himself acknowledges, in
this very paragraph, that there are such; but he tells us that
these calamities are the effects of misgovernment, and that this
misgovernment is the effect of political economy.  Be it so.  But
does he not see that he is only removing the difficulty one step
further?  Why does Providence suffer men, whose minds are filled
with false and pernicious notions, to have power in the state? 
For good ends, we doubt not, if the fact be so; but for ends
inscrutable to us, who see only a small part of the vast scheme,
and who see that small part only for a short period.  Does Mr
Sadler doubt that the Supreme Being has power as absolute over
the revolutions of political as over the organisation of natural
bodies?  Surely not:  and, if not, we do not see that he
vindicates the ways of Providence by attributing the distresses,
which the poor, as he confesses, endure, to an error in
legislation rather than to a law of physiology.  Turn the
question as we may, disguise it as we may, we shall find that it
at last resolves itself into the same great enigma,--the origin
of physical and moral evil:  an enigma which the highest human
intellects have given up in despair, but which Mr Sadler thinks
himself perfectly able to solve.

He next accuses us of having paused long on verbal criticism.  We
certainly did object to his improper use of the words "inverse
variation."  Mr Sadler complains of this with his usual
bitterness.

"Now what is the Reviewer's quarrel with me on this occasion? 
That he does not understand the meaning of my terms?  No.  He
acknowledges the contrary.  That I have not fully explained the
sense in which I have used them?  No.  An explanation, he knows,
is immediately subjoined, though he has carefully suppressed it. 
That I have varied the sense in which I have applied them?  No. 
I challenge him to show it.  But he nevertheless goes on for many
pages together in arguing against what he knows, and, in fact,
acknowledges, I did not mean; and then turns round and argues
again, though much more feebly, indeed, against what he says I
did mean!  Now, even had I been in error as to the use of a word,
I appeal to the reader whether such an unworthy and disingenuous
course would not, if generally pursued, make controversy on all
subjects, however important, that into which, in such hands, it
always degenerates--a dispute about words."

The best way to avoid controversies about words is to use words
in their proper senses.  Mr Sadler may think our objection
captious; but how he can think it disingenuous we do not well
understand.  If we had represented him as meaning what we knew
that he did not mean, we should have acted in a disgraceful
manner.  But we did not represent him, and he allows that we did
not represent him, as meaning what he did not mean.  We blamed
him, and with perfect justice and propriety, for saying what he
did not mean.  Every man has in one sense a right to define his
own terms; that is to say, if he chooses to call one two, and two
seven, it would be absurd to charge him with false arithmetic for
saying that seven is the double of one.  But it would be
perfectly fair to blame him for changing the established sense of
words.  The words, "inverse variation," in matters not purely
scientific, have often been used in the loose way in which Mr
Sadler has used them.  But we shall be surprised if he can find a
single instance of their having been so used in a matter of pure
arithmetic.

We will illustrate our meaning thus.  Lord Thurlow, in one of his
speeches about Indian affairs, said that one Hastings was worth
twenty Macartneys.  He might, with equal propriety, have said ten
Macartneys, or a hundred Macartneys.  Nor would there have been
the least inconsistency in his using all the three expressions in
one speech.  But would this be an excuse for a financier who, in
a matter of account, should reason as if ten, twenty, and a
hundred were the same number?

Mr Sadler tells us that he purposely avoided the use of the word
proportion in stating his principle.  He seems, therefore, to
allow that the word proportion would have been improper.  Yet he
did in fact employ it in explaining his principle, accompanied
with an awkward explanation intended to signify that, though he
said proportion, he meant something quite different from
proportion.  We should not have said so much on this subject
either in our former article, or at present, but that there is in
all Mr Sadler's writings an air of scientific pedantry, which
renders his errors fair game.  We will now let the matter rest;
and, instead of assailing Mr Sadler with our verbal criticism,
proceed to defend ourselves against his literal criticism.

"The Reviewer promised his readers that some curious results
should follow from his shuffling.  We will enable him to keep his
word.

"'In two English counties,' says he, 'which contain from 50 to
100 inhabitants on the square mile, the births to 100 marriages
are, according to Mr Sadler, 420; but in 44 departments of
France, in which there are from one to two hecatares [hectares]
to each inhabitant, that is to say, in which the population is
from 125 to 250, or rather more, to the square mile, the number
of births to one hundred marriages is 423 and a fraction.'

"The first curious result is, that our Reviewer is ignorant, not
only of the name, but of the extent, of a French hectare;
otherwise he is guilty of a practice which, even if transferred
to the gambling-table, would, I presume, prevent him from being
allowed ever to shuffle, even there, again.  He was most ready to
pronounce upon a mistake of one per cent. in a calculation of
mine, the difference in no wise affecting the argument in hand;
but here I must inform him, that his error, whether wilfully or
ignorantly put forth, involves his entire argument.

"The French hectare I had calculated to contain 107,708 67/100
English square feet, or 2 47265/100000 acres; Dr Kelly takes it,
on authority which he gives, at 107,644 143923/1000000 English
square feet, or 2 471169/1000000 acres.  The last French
"Annuaires", however, state it, I perceive, as being equal to 2
473614/1000000 acres.  The difference is very trifling, and will
not in the slightest degree cover our critic's error.  The first
calculation gives about 258 83/100 hectares to an English square
mile; the second, 258 73/100; the last, or French calculation 258
98/100.  When, therefore, the Reviewer calculates the population
of the departments of France thus:  'from one to two hectares to
each inhabitant, that is to say, in which the population is from
125 to 250, or rather more, to the square mile; his 'that is to
say,' is that which he ought not to have said--no rare case with
him, as we shall show throughout."

We must inform Mr Sadler, in the first place, that we inserted
the vowel which amuses him so much, not from ignorance or from
carelessness, but advisedly, and in conformity with the practice
of several respectable writers.  He will find the word hecatare
in Ree's Cyclopaedia.  He will find it also in Dr Young.  We
prefer the form which we have employed, because it is
etymologically correct.  Mr Sadler seems not to know that a
hecatare is so-called, because it contains a hundred ares.

We were perfectly acquainted with the extent as well as with the
name of a hecatare.  Is it at all strange that we should use the
words "250, or rather more," in speaking of 258 and a fraction? 
Do not people constantly employ round numbers with still greater
looseness, in translating foreign distances and foreign money? 
If indeed, as Mr Sadler says, the difference which he chooses to
call an error involved the entire argument, or any part of the
argument, we should have been guilty of gross unfairness.  But it
is not so.  The difference between 258 and 250, as even Mr Sadler
would see if he were not blind with fury, was a difference to his
advantage.  Our point was this.  The fecundity of a dense
population in certain departments of France is greater than that
of a thinly scattered population in certain counties of England. 
The more dense, therefore, the population in those departments of
France, the stronger was our case.  By putting 250, instead of
258, we understated our case.  Mr Sadler's correction of our
orthography leads us to suspect that he knows very little of
Greek; and his correction of our calculation quite satisfies us
that he knows very little of logic.

But, to come to the gist of the controversy.  Our argument, drawn
from Mr Sadler's own tables, remains absolutely untouched.  He
makes excuses indeed; for an excuse is the last thing that Mr
Sadler will ever want.  There is something half laughable and
half provoking in the facility with which he asserts and
retracts, says and unsays, exactly as suits his argument. 
Sometimes the register of baptisms is imperfect, and sometimes
the register of burials.  Then again these registers become all
at once exact almost to an unit.  He brings forward a census of
Prussia in proof of his theory.  We show that it directly
confutes his theory; and it forthwith becomes "notoriously and
grossly defective."  The census of the Netherlands is not to be
easily dealt with; and the census of the Netherlands is therefore
pronounced inaccurate.  In his book on the Law of Population, he
tells us that "in the slave-holding States of America, the male
slaves constitute a decided majority of that unfortunate class." 
This fact we turned against him; and, forgetting that he had
himself stated it, he tells us that "it is as erroneous as many
other ideas which we entertain," and that "he will venture to
assert that the female slaves were, at the nubile age, as
numerous as the males."  The increase of the negroes in the
United States puzzles him; and he creates a vast slave-trade to
solve it.  He confounds together things perfectly different; the
slave-trade carried on under the American flag, and the slave-
trade carried on for the supply of the American soil,--the slave-
trade with Africa, and the internal slave-trade between the
different States.  He exaggerates a few occasional acts of
smuggling into an immense and regular importation, and makes his
escape as well as he can under cover of this hubbub of words. 
Documents are authentic and facts true precisely in proportion to
the support which they afford to his theory.  This is one way,
undoubtedly, of making books; but we question much whether it be
the way to make discoveries.

As to the inconsistencies which we pointed out between his theory
and his own tables, he finds no difficulty in explaining them
away or facing them out.  In one case there would have been no
contradiction if, instead of taking one of his tables, we had
multiplied the number of three tables together, and taken the
average.  Another would never have existed if there had not been
a great migration of people into Lancashire.  Another is not to
be got over by any device.  But then it is very small, and of no
consequence to the argument.

Here, indeed, he is perhaps right.  The inconsistencies which we
noticed, were, in themselves, of little moment.  We give them as
samples,--as mere hints, to caution those of our readers who
might also happen to be readers of Mr Sadler against being
deceived by his packing.  He complains of the word packing.  We
repeat it; and, since he has defied us to the proof, we will go
fully into the question which, in our last article, we only
glanced at, and prove, in such a manner as shall not leave even
to Mr Sadler any shadow of excuse, that his theory owes its
speciousness to packing, and to packing alone.

That our readers may fully understand our reasoning, we will
again state what Mr Sadler's proposition is.  He asserts that, on
a given space, the number of children to a marriage becomes less
and less as the population becomes more and more numerous.

We will begin with the census of France given by Mr Sadler.  By
joining the departments together in combinations which suit his
purpose, he has contrived to produce three tables, which he
presents as decisive proofs of his theory.

The first is as follows:--

"The legitimate births are, in those departments where there are
to each inhabitant--

Hectares       Departments   To every 1000 marriages

4    to 5           2               130
3    to 4           3              4372
2    to 3          30              4250
1    to 2          44              4234
 .06 to 1           5              4146
 .06                1              2657

The two other computations he has given in one table.  We subjoin
it.

Hect. to each  Number of    Legit. Births to   Legit. Births to
Inhabitant     Departments   100 Marriages      100 Mar. (1826)

4 to 5             2              497                397
3 to 4             3              439                389
2 to 3            30              424                379
1 to 2            44              420                375
under 1            5              415                372
and .06            1              263                253

These tables, as we said in our former article, certainly look
well for Mr Sadler's theory.  "Do they?" says he.  "Assuredly
they do; and in admitting this, the Reviewer has admitted the
theory to be proved."  We cannot absolutely agree to this.  A
theory is not proved, we must tell Mr Sadler, merely because the
evidence in its favour looks well at first sight.  There is an
old proverb, very homely in expression, but well deserving to be
had in constant remembrance by all men, engaged either in action
or in speculation--"One story is good till another is told!"

We affirm, then, that the results which these tables present, and
which seem so favourable to Mr Sadler's theory, are produced by
packing, and by packing alone.

In the first place, if we look at the departments singly, the
whole is in disorder.  About the department in which Paris is
situated there is no dispute:  Mr Malthus distinctly admits that
great cities prevent propagation.  There remain eighty-four
departments; and of these there is not, we believe, a single one
in the place which, according to Mr Sadler's principle, it ought
to occupy.

That which ought to be highest in fecundity is tenth in one
table, fourteenth in another, and only thirty-first according to
the third.  That which ought to be third is twenty-second by the
table, which places it highest.  That which ought to be fourth is
fortieth by the table, which places it highest.  That which ought
to be eighth is fiftieth or sixtieth.  That which ought to be
tenth from the top is at about the same distance from the bottom. 
On the other hand, that which, according to Mr Sadler's
principle, ought to be last but two of all the eighty-four is
third in two of the tables, and seventh in that which places it
lowest; and that which ought to be last is, in one of Mr Sadler's
tables, above that which ought to be first, in two of them, above
that which ought to be third, and, in all of them, above that
which ought to be fourth.

By dividing the departments in a particular manner, Mr Sadler has
produced results which he contemplates with great satisfaction. 
But, if we draw the lines a little higher up or a little lower
down, we shall find that all his calculations are thrown into
utter confusion; and that the phenomena, if they indicate
anything, indicate a law the very reverse of that which he has
propounded.

Let us take, for example, the thirty-two departments, as they
stand in Mr Sadler's table, from Lozere to Meuse inclusive, and
divide them into two sets of sixteen departments each.  The set
from Lozere and Loiret inclusive consists of those departments in
which the space to each inhabitant is from 3.8 hecatares to 2.42. 
The set from Cantal to Meuse inclusive consists of those
departments in which the space to each inhabitant is from 2.42
hecatares to 2.07.  That is to say, in the former set the
inhabitants are from 68 to 107 on the square mile, or
thereabouts.  In the latter they are from 107 to 125.  Therefore,
on Mr Sadler's principle, the fecundity ought to be smaller in
the latter set than in the former.  It is, however, greater, and
that in every one of Mr Sadler's three tables.

Let us now go a little lower down, and take another set of
sixteen departments--those which lie together in Mr Sadler's
tables, from Herault to Jura inclusive.  Here the population is
still thicker than in the second of those sets which we before
compared.  The fecundity, therefore, ought, on Mr Sadler's
principle, to be less than in that set.  But it is again greater,
and that in all Mr Sadler's three tables.  We have a regularly
ascending series, where, if his theory had any truth in it, we
ought to have a regularly descending series.  We will give the
results of our calculation.

The number of children to 1000 marriages is--

                                 1st Table  2nd Table  3rd Table

In the sixteen departments where
there are from 68 to 107 people
on a square mile................   4188        4226       3780

In the sixteen departments where
there are from 107 to 125 people
on a square mile................   4374        4332       3855

In the sixteen departments where
there are from 134 to 155 people
on a square mile................   4484        4416       3914

We will give another instance, if possible still more decisive. 
We will take the three departments of France which ought, on Mr
Sadler's principle, to be the lowest in fecundity of all the
eighty-five, saving only that in which Paris stands; and we will
compare them with the three departments in which the fecundity
ought, according to him, to be greater than in any other
department of France, two only excepted.  We will compare Bas
Rhin, Rhone, and Nord, with Lozere, Landes, and Indre.  In
Lozere, Landes, and Indre, the population is from 68 to 84 on the
square mile or nearly so.  In Bas Rhin, Rhone, and Nord, it is
from 300 to 417 on the square mile.  There cannot be a more
overwhelming answer to Mr Sadler's theory than the table which we
subjoin:

The number of births to 1000 marriages is--

                                 1st Table  2nd Table  3rd Table

In the three departments in which 
there are from 68 to 84 people
on the square mile...............  4372        4390       3890

In the three departments in which 
there are from 300 to 417 people
on the square mile...............  4457        4510       4060

These are strong cases.  But we have a still stronger case.  Take
the whole of the third, fourth, and fifth divisions into which Mr
Sadler has portioned out the French departments.  These three
divisions make up almost the whole kingdom of France.  They
contain seventy-nine out of the eighty-five departments.  Mr
Sadler has contrived to divide them in such a manner that, to a
person who looks merely at his averages, the fecundity seems to
diminish as the population thickens.  We will separate them into
two parts instead of three.  We will draw the line between the
department of Gironde and that of Herault.  On the one side are
the thirty-two departments from Cher to Gironde inclusive.  On
the other side are the forty-six departments from Herault to Nord
inclusive.  In all the departments of the former set, the
population is under 132 on the square mile.  In all the
departments of the latter set, it is above 132 on the square
mile.  It is clear that, if there be one word of truth in Mr
Sadler's theory, the fecundity in the latter of these divisions
must be very decidedly smaller than in the former.  Is it so?  It
is, on the contrary, greater in all the three tables.  We give
the result.

The number of births to 1000 marriages is--

                                 1st Table  2nd Table  3rd Table

In the thirty-two departments in
which there are from 86 to 132 
people on the square mile.......   4210        4199       3760

In the forty-seven departments in
which there are from 132 to 417
people on the square mile........  4250        4224       3766

This fact is alone enough to decide the question.  Yet it is only
one of a crowd of similar facts.  If the line between Mr Sadler's
second and third division be drawn six departments lower down,
the third and fourth divisions will, in all the tables, be above
the second.  If the line between the third and fourth divisions
be drawn two departments lower down, the fourth division will be
above the third in all the tables.  If the line between the
fourth and fifth division be drawn two departments lower down,
the fifth will, in all the tables, be above the fourth, above the
third, and even above the second.  How, then, has Mr Sadler
obtained his results?  By packing solely.  By placing in one
compartment a district no larger than the Isle of Wight; in
another, a district somewhat less than Yorkshire; in the third, a
territory much larger than the island of Great Britain.

By the same artifice it is that he has obtained from the census
of England those delusive averages which he brings forward with
the utmost ostentation in proof of his principle.  We will
examine the facts relating to England, as we have examined those
relating to France.

If we look at the counties one by one, Mr Sadler's principle
utterly fails.  Hertfordshire with 251 on the square mile;
Worcester with 258; and Kent with 282, exhibit a far greater
fecundity than the East Riding of York, which has 151 on the
square mile; Monmouthshire, which has 145; or Northumberland,
which has 108.  The fecundity of Staffordshire, which has more
than 300 on the square mile, is as high as the average fecundity
of the counties which have from 150 to 200 on the square mile. 
But, instead of confining ourselves to particular instances, we
will try masses.

Take the eight counties of England which stand together in Mr
Sadler's list, from Cumberland to Dorset inclusive.  In these the
population is from 107 to 150 on the square mile.  Compare with
these the eight counties from Berks to Durham inclusive, in which
the population is from 175 to 200 on the square mile.  Is the
fecundity in the latter counties smaller than in the former?  On
the contrary, the result stands thus:

The number of children to 100 marriages is--

In the eight counties of England, in which there are
from 107 to 146 people on the square mile............. 388

In the eight counties of England, in which there are
from 175 to 200 people on the square mile..............402

Take the six districts from the East Riding of York to the County
of Norfolk inclusive.  Here the population is from 150 to 170 on
the square mile.  To these oppose the six counties from Derby to
Worcester inclusive.  The population is from 200 to 260.  Here
again we find that a law, directly the reverse of that which Mr
Sadler has laid down, appears to regulate the fecundity of the
inhabitants.

The number of children to 100 marriages is--

In the six counties in which there are from 150 to 170
people on the square mile................................392

In the six counties in which there are from 200 to 260
people on the square mile................................399

But we will make another experiment on Mr Sadler's tables, if
possible more decisive than any of those which we have hitherto
made.  We will take the four largest divisions into which he has
distributed the English counties, and which follow each other in
regular order.  That our readers may fully comprehend the nature
of that packing by which his theory is supported, we will set
before them this part of his table.

(Here follows a table showing for population on a square mile the
proportion of births to 100 marriages, based on figures for the
years 1810 to 1821.

100 to 150...396
150 to 200...390
200 to 250...388
250 to 300...378)

These averages look well, undoubtedly, for Mr Sadler's theory. 
The numbers 396, 390, 388, 378, follow each other very speciously
in a descending order.  But let our readers divide these thirty-
four counties into two equal sets of seventeen counties each, and
try whether the principle will then hold good.  We have made this
calculation, and we present them with the following result.

The number of children to 100 marriages is--

In the seventeen counties of England in which there
are from 100 to 177 people on the square mile..........387

In the seventeen counties in which there
are from 177 to 282 people on the square mile..........389

The difference is small, but not smaller than differences which
Mr Sadler has brought forward as proofs of his theory.  We say
that these English tables no more prove that fecundity increases
with the population than that it diminishes with the population. 
The thirty-four counties which we have taken make up, at least
four-fifths of the kingdom:  and we see that, through those
thirty-four counties, the phenomena are directly opposed to Mr
Sadler's principle.  That in the capital, and in great
manufacturing towns, marriages are less prolific than in the open
country, we admit, and Mr Malthus admits.  But that any
condensation of the population, short of that which injures all
physical energies, will diminish the prolific powers of man, is,
from these very tables of Mr Sadler, completely disproved.

It is scarcely worth while to proceed with instances, after
proofs so overwhelming as those which we have given.  Yet we will
show that Mr Sadler has formed his averages on the census of
Prussia by an artifice exactly similar to that which we have
already exposed.

Demonstrating the Law of Population from the Censuses of Prussia
at two several Periods.

(Here follows a table showing for inhabitants on a square league
the average number of births to each marriage from two different
censuses.)

               1756     1784

 832 to  928...4.34 and 4.72
1175 to 1909...4.14 and 4.45 (including East Prussia at 1175)
2083 to 2700...3.84 and 4.24
3142 to 3461...3.65 and 4.08

Of the census of 1756 we will say nothing, as Mr Sadler, finding
himself hard pressed by the argument which we drew from it, now
declares it to be grossly defective.  We confine ourselves to the
census of 1784:  and we will draw our lines at points somewhat
different from those at which Mr Sadler has drawn his.  Let the
first compartment remain as it stands.  Let East Prussia, which
contains a much larger population than his last compartment,
stand alone in the second division.  Let the third consist of the
New Mark, the Mark of Brandenburg, East Friesland and
Guelderland, and the fourth of the remaining provinces.  Our
readers will find that, on this arrangement, the division which,
on Mr Sadler's principle, ought to be second in fecundity stands
higher than that which ought to be first; and that the division
which ought to be fourth stands higher than that which ought to
be third.  We will give the result in one view.

The number of births to a marriage is--

In those provinces of Prussia where there are fewer than
1000 people on the square league.......................4.72

In the province in which there are 1175 people on the
square league..........................................5.10

In the provinces in which there are from 1190 to 2083
people on the square league............................4.10

In the provinces in which there are from 2314 to 3461
people on the square league............................4.27

We will go no further with this examination.  In fact, we have
nothing more to examine.  The tables which we have scrutinised
constitute the whole strength of Mr Sadler's case; and we
confidently leave it to our readers to say, whether we have not
shown that the strength of his case is weakness.

Be it remembered too that we are reasoning on data furnished by
Mr Sadler himself.  We have not made collections of facts to set
against his, as we easily might have done.  It is on his own
showing, it is out of his own mouth, that his theory stands
condemned.

That packing which we have exposed is not the only sort of
packing which Mr Sadler has practised.  We mentioned in our
review some facts relating to the towns of England, which appear
from Mr Sadler's tables, and which it seems impossible to explain
if his principles be sound.  The average fecundity of a marriage
in towns of fewer than 3000 inhabitants is greater than the
average fecundity of the kingdom.  The average fecundity in towns
of from 4000 to 5000 inhabitants is greater than the average
fecundity of Warwickshire, Lancashire, or Surrey.  How is it, we
asked, if Mr Sadler's principle be correct, that the fecundity of
Guildford should be greater than the average fecundity of the
county in which it stands?

Mr Sadler, in reply, talks about "the absurdity of comparing the
fecundity in the small towns alluded to with that in the counties
of Warwick and Stafford, or in those of Lancaster and Surrey." 
He proceeds thus--

"In Warwickshire, far above half the population is comprised in
large towns, including, of course, the immense metropolis of one
great branch of our manufactures, Birmingham.  In the county of
Stafford, besides the large and populous towns in its iron
districts, situated so close together as almost to form, for
considerable distances, a continuous street; there is, in its
potteries, a great population, recently accumulated, not
included, indeed, in the towns distinctly enumerated in the
censuses, but vastly exceeding in its condensation that found in
the places to which the Reviewer alludes.  In Lancashire, again,
to which he also appeals, one-fourth of the entire population is
made up of the inhabitants of two only of the towns of that
county; far above half of it is contained in towns, compared with
which those he refers to are villages:  even the hamlets of the
manufacturing parts of Lancashire are often far more populous
than the places he mentions.  But he presents us with a climax of
absurdity in appealing lastly to the population of Surrey as
quite rural compared with that of the twelve towns having less
than 5000 inhabitants in their respective jurisdictions, such as
Saffron-Walden, Monmouth, etc.  Now, in the last census, Surrey
numbered 398,658 inhabitants, and to say not a word about the
other towns of the county, much above two hundred thousands of
these are WITHIN THE BILLS OF MORTALITY!  'We should, therefore,
be glad to know' how it is utterly inconsistent with my principle
that the fecundity of Guildford, which numbers about 3000
inhabitants, should be greater than the average fecundity of
Surrey, made up, as the bulk of the population of Surrey is, of
the inhabitants of some of the worst parts of the metropolis?  Or
why the fecundity of a given number of marriages in the eleven
little rural towns he alludes to, being somewhat higher than that
of an equal number, half taken, for instance, from the heart of
Birmingham or Manchester, and half from the populous districts by
which they are surrounded, is inconsistent with my theory?

"Had the Reviewer's object, in this instance, been to discover
the truth, or had he known how to pursue it, it is perfectly
clear, at first sight, that he would not have instituted a
comparison between the prolificness which exists in the small
towns he has alluded to, and that in certain districts, the
population of which is made up, partly of rural inhabitants and
partly of accumulations of people in immense masses, the
prolificness of which, if he will allow me still the use of the
phrase, is inversely as their magnitude; but he would have
compared these small towns with the country places properly so
called, and then again the different classes of towns with each
other; this method would have led him to certain conclusions on
the subject."

Now, this reply shows that Mr Sadler does not in the least
understand the principle which he has himself laid down.  What is
that principle?  It is this, that the fecundity of human beings
ON GIVEN SPACES, varies inversely as their numbers.  We know what
he means by inverse variation.  But we must suppose that he uses
the words, "given spaces," in the proper sense.  Given spaces are
equal spaces.  Is there any reason to believe, that in those
parts of Surrey which lie within the bills of mortality, there is
any space equal in area to the space on which Guildford stands,
which is more thickly peopled than the space on which Guildford
stands?  We do not know that there is any such.  We are sure that
there are not many.  Why, therefore, on Mr Sadler's principle,
should the people of Guildford be more prolific than the people
who live within the bills of mortality?  And, if the people of
Guildford ought, as on Mr Sadler's principle they unquestionably
ought, to stand as low in the scale of fecundity as the people of
Southwark itself, it follows, most clearly, that they ought to
stand far lower than the average obtained by taking all the
people of Surrey together.

The same remark applies to the case of Birmingham, and to all the
other cases which Mr Sadler mentions.  Towns of 5000 inhabitants
may be, and often are, as thickly peopled "on a given space," as
Birmingham.  They are, in other words, as thickly peopled as a
portion of Birmingham, equal to them in area.  If so, on Mr
Sadler's principle, they ought to be as low in the scale of
fecundity as Birmingham.  But they are not so.  On the contrary,
they stand higher than the average obtained by taking the
fecundity of Birmingham in combination with the fecundity of the
rural districts of Warwickshire.

The plain fact is, that Mr Sadler has confounded the population
of a city with its population "on a given space,"--a mistake
which, in a gentleman who assures us that mathematical science
was one of his early and favourite studies, is somewhat curious. 
It is as absurd, on his principle, to say that the fecundity of
London ought to be less than the fecundity of Edinburgh, because
London has a greater population than Edinburgh, as to say that
the fecundity of Russia ought to be greater than that of England,
because Russia has a greater population than England.  He cannot
say that the spaces on which towns stand are too small to
exemplify the truth of his principle.  For he has himself brought
forward the scale of fecundity in towns, as a proof of his
principle.  And, in the very passage which we quoted above, he
tells us that, if we knew how to pursue truth or wished to find
it, we "should have compared these small towns with country
places, and the different classes of towns with each other." 
That is to say, we ought to compare together such unequal spaces
as give results favourable to his theory, and never to compare
such equal spaces as give results opposed to it.  Does he mean
anything by "a given space?"  Or does he mean merely such a space
as suits his argument?  It is perfectly clear that, if he is
allowed to take this course, he may prove anything.  No fact can
come amiss to him.  Suppose, for example, that the fecundity of
New York should prove to be smaller than the fecundity of
Liverpool.  "That," says Mr Sadler, "makes for my theory. For
there are more people within two miles of the Broadway of New
York, than within two miles of the Exchange of Liverpool."  
Suppose, on the other hand, that the fecundity of New York should
be greater than the fecundity of Liverpool.  "This," says Mr
Sadler again, "is an unanswerable proof of my theory.  For there
are many more people within forty miles of Liverpool than within
forty miles of New York."  In order to obtain his numbers, he
takes spaces in any combinations which may suit him.  In order to
obtain his averages, he takes numbers in any combinations which
may suit him.  And then he tells us that, because his tables, at
the first glance, look well for his theory, his theory is
irrefragably proved.

We will add a few words respecting the argument which we drew
from the peerage.  Mr Sadler asserted that the peers were a class
condemned by nature to sterility.  We denied this, and showed
from the last edition of Debrett, that the peers of the United
Kingdom have considerably more than the average number of
children to a marriage.  Mr Sadler's answer has amused us much. 
He denies the accuracy of our counting, and, by reckoning all the
Scotch and Irish peers as peers of the United Kingdom, certainly
makes very different numbers from those which we gave.  A member
of the Parliament of the United Kingdom might have been expected,
we think, to know better what a peer of the United Kingdom is.

By taking the Scotch and Irish peers, Mr Sadler has altered the
average.  But it is considerably higher than the average
fecundity of England, and still, therefore, constitutes an
unanswerable argument against his theory.

The shifts to which, in this difficulty, he has recourse, are
exceedingly diverting.  "The average fecundity of the marriages
of peers," said we, "is higher by one-fifth than the average
fecundity of marriages throughout the kingdom."

"Where, or by whom did the Reviewer find it supposed," answers Mr
Sadler, "that the registered baptisms expressed the full
fecundity of the marriages of England?"

Assuredly, if the registers of England are so defective as to
explain the difference which, on our calculation, exists between
the fecundity of the peers and the fecundity of the people, no
argument against Mr Sadler's theory can be drawn from that
difference.  But what becomes of all the other arguments which Mr
Sadler has founded on these very registers?  Above all, what
becomes of his comparison between the censuses of England and
France?  In the pamphlet before us, he dwells with great
complacency on a coincidence which seems to him to support his
theory, and which to us seems, of itself, sufficient to overthrow
it.

"In my table of the population of France in the forty-four
departments in which there are from one to two hectares to each
inhabitant, the fecundity of 100 marriages, calculated on the
average of the results of the three computations relating to
different periods given in my table, is 406 7/10.  In the twenty-
two counties of England in which there is from one to two
hectares to each inhabitant, or from 129 to 259 on the square
mile,--beginning, therefore, with Huntingdonshire, and ending
with Worcestershire,--the whole number of marriages during ten
years will be found to amount to 379,624, and the whole number of
the births during the same term to 1,545,549--or 407 1/10 births
to 100 marriages!  A difference of one in one thousand only,
compared with the French proportion!"

Does not Mr Sadler see that, if the registers of England, which
are notoriously very defective, give a result exactly
corresponding almost to an unit with that obtained from the
registers of France, which are notoriously very full and
accurate, this proves the very reverse of what he employs it to
prove?  The correspondence of the registers proves that there is
no correspondence in the facts.  In order to raise the average
fecundity of England even to the level of the average fecundity
of the peers of the three kingdoms, which is 3.81 to a marriage,
it is necessary to add nearly six per cent. to the number of
births given in the English registers.  But, if this addition be
made, we shall have, in the counties of England, from
Huntingdonshire to Worcestershire inclusive, 4.30 births to a
marriage or thereabouts:  and the boasted coincidence between the
phenomena of propagation in France and England disappears at
once.  This is a curious specimen of Mr Sadler's proficiency in
the art of making excuses.  In the same pamphlet he reasons as if
the same registers were accurate to one in a thousand, and as if
they were wrong at the very least by one in eighteen.

He tries to show that we have not taken a fair criterion of the
fecundity of the peers.  We are not quite sure that we understand
his reasoning on this subject.  The order of his observations is
more than usually confused, and the cloud of words more than
usually thick.  We will give the argument on which he seems to
lay most stress in his own words:--

"But I shall first notice a far more obvious and important
blunder into which the Reviewer has fallen; or into which, I
rather fear, he knowingly wishes to precipitate his readers,
since I have distinctly pointed out what ought to have preserved
him from it in the very chapter he is criticising and
contradicting.  It is this:--he has entirely omitted 'counting'
the sterile marriages of all those peerages which have become
extinct during the very period his counting embraces.  He counts,
for instance, Earl Fitzwilliam, his marriages, and heir; but has
he not omitted to enumerate the marriages of those branches of
the same noble house, which have become extinct since that
venerable individual possessed his title?  He talks of my having
appealed merely to the extinction of peerages in my argument;
but, on his plan of computation, extinctions are perpetually and
wholly lost sight of.  In computing the average prolificness of
the marriages of the nobles, he positively counts from a select
class of them only, one from which the unprolific are constantly
weeded, and regularly disappear; and he thus comes to the
conclusion, that the peers are 'an eminently prolific class!' 
Just as though a farmer should compute the rate of increase; not
from the quantity of seed sown, but from that part of it only
which comes to perfection, entirely omitting all which had failed
to spring up or come to maturity.  Upon this principle the most
scanty crop ever obtained, in which the husbandman should fail to
receive 'seed again,' as the phrase is, might be so 'counted' as
to appear 'eminently prolific' indeed."

If we understand this passage rightly, it decisively proves that
Mr Sadler is incompetent to perform even the lowest offices of
statistical research.  What shadow of reason is there to believe
that the peers who were alive in the year 1828 differed as to
their prolificness from any other equally numerous set of peers
taken at random?  In what sense were the peers who were alive in
1828 analogous to that part of the seed which comes to
perfection?  Did we entirely omit all that failed?  On the
contrary, we counted the sterile as well as the fruitful
marriages of all the peers of the United Kingdom living at one
time.  In what way were the peers who were alive in 1828 a select
class?  In what way were the sterile weeded from among them?  Did
every peer who had been married without having issue die in 1827? 
What shadow of reason is there to suppose that there was not the
ordinary proportion of barren marriages among the marriages
contracted by the noblemen whose names are in Debrett's last
edition?  But we ought, says Mr Sadler, to have counted all the
sterile marriages of all the peers "whose titles had become
extinct during the period which our counting embraced;" that is
to say, since the earliest marriage contracted by any peer living
in 1828.  Was such a proposition ever heard of before?  Surely we
were bound to do no such thing, unless at the same time we had
counted also the children born from all the fruitful marriages
contracted by peers during the same period.  Mr Sadler would have
us divide the number of children born to peers living in 1828,
not by the number of marriages which those peers contracted, but
by the number of marriages which those peers contracted added to
a crowd of marriages selected, on account of their sterility,
from among the noble marriages which have taken place during the
last fifty years.  Is this the way to obtain fair averages?  We
might as well require that all the noble marriages which during
the last fifty years have produced ten children apiece should be
added to those of the peers living in 1828.  The proper way to
ascertain whether a set of people be prolific or sterile is, not
to take marriages selected from the mass either on account of
their fruitfulness or on account of their sterility, but to take
a collection of marriages which there is no reason to think
either more or less fruitful than others.  What reason is there
to think that the marriages contracted by the peers who were
alive in 1828 were more fruitful than those contracted by the
peers who were alive in 1800 or in 1750?

We will add another passage from Mr Sadler's pamphlet on this
subject.  We attributed the extinction of peerages partly to the
fact that those honours are for the most part limited to heirs
male.

"This is a discovery indeed!  Peeresses 'eminently prolific,' do
not, as Macbeth conjured his spouse, 'bring forth men-children
only;' they actually produce daughters as well as sons!!  Why,
does not the Reviewer see, that so long as the rule of nature,
which proportions the sexes so accurately to each other,
continues to exist, a tendency to a diminution in one sex proves,
as certainly as the demonstration of any mathematical problem, a
tendency to a diminution in both; but to talk of 'eminently
prolific' peeresses, and still maintain that the rapid extinction
in peerages is owing to their not bearing male children
exclusively, is arrant nonsense."

Now, if there be any proposition on the face of the earth which
we should not have expected to hear characterised as arrant
nonsense, it is this,--that an honour limited to males alone is
more likely to become extinct than an honour which, like the
crown of England, descends indifferently to sons and daughters.
We have heard, nay, we actually know families, in which, much as
Mr Sadler may marvel at it, there are daughters and no sons. 
Nay, we know many such families.  We are as much inclined as Mr
Sadler to trace the benevolent and wise arrangements of
Providence in the physical world, when once we are satisfied as
to the facts on which we proceed.  And we have always considered
it as an arrangement deserving of the highest admiration, that,
though in families the number of males and females differs
widely, yet in great collections of human beings the disparity
almost disappears.  The chance undoubtedly is, that in a thousand
marriages the number of daughters will not very much exceed the
number of sons.  But the chance also is, that several of those
marriages will produce daughters, and daughters only.  In every
generation of the peerage there are several such cases.  When a
peer whose title is limited to male heirs dies, leaving only
daughters, his peerage must expire, unless he have, not only a
collateral heir, but a collateral heir descended through an
uninterrupted line of males from the first possessor of the
honour.  If the deceased peer was the first nobleman of his
family, then, by the supposition, his peerage will become
extinct.  If he was the second, it will become extinct, unless he
leaves a brother or a brother's son.  If the second peer had a
brother, the first peer must have had at least two sons; and this
is more than the average number of sons to a marriage in England. 
When, therefore, it is considered how many peerages are in the
first and second generation, it will not appear strange that
extinctions should frequently take place.  There are peerages
which descend to females as well as males.  But, in such cases,
if a peer dies, leaving only daughters, the very fecundity of the
marriage is a cause of the extinction of the peerage.  If there
were only one daughter, the honour would descend.  If there are
several, it falls into abeyance.

But it is needless to multiply words in a case so clear; and,
indeed it is needless to say anything more about Mr Sadler's
book.  We have, if we do not deceive ourselves, completely
exposed the calculations on which his theory rests; and we do not
think that we should either amuse our readers or serve the cause
of science if we were to rebut in succession a series of futile
charges brought in the most angry spirit against ourselves;
ignorant imputations of ignorance, and unfair complaints of
unfairness,--conveyed in long, dreary, declamations, so prolix
that we cannot find space to quote them, and so confused that we
cannot venture to abridge them.

There is much indeed in this foolish pamphlet to laugh at, from
the motto in the first page down to some wisdom about cows in the
last.  One part of it indeed is solemn enough, we mean a certain
jeu d'esprit of Mr Sadler's touching a tract of Dr Arbuthnot's. 
This is indeed "very tragical mirth," as Peter Quince's playbill
has it; and we would not advise any person who reads for
amusement to venture on it as long as he can procure a volume of
the Statutes at Large.  This, however, to do Mr Sadler justice,
is an exception.  His witticisms, and his tables of figures,
constitute the only parts of his work which can be perused with
perfect gravity.  His blunders are diverting, his excuses
exquisitely comic.  But his anger is the most grotesque
exhibition that we ever saw.  He foams at the mouth with the love
of truth, and vindicates the Divine benevolence with a most
edifying heartiness of hatred.  On this subject we will give him
one word of parting advice.  If he raves in this way to ease his
mind, or because he thinks that he does himself credit by it, or
from a sense of religious duty, far be it from us to interfere. 
His peace, his reputation, and his religion are his own concern;
and he, like the nobleman to whom his treatise is dedicated, has
a right to do what he will with his own.  But, if he has adopted
his abusive style from a notion that it would hurt our feelings,
we must inform him that he is altogether mistaken; and that he
would do well in future to give us his arguments, if he has any,
and to keep his anger for those who fear it.

...


MIRABEAU.

(July 1832.)

"Souvenirs sur Mirabeau, et sur les deux Premieres Assemblees
Legislatives".  Par Etienne Dumont, de Geneve:  ouvrage posthume
publie par M.J.L. Duval, Membre du Conseil Representatif du
Canton du Geneve.  8vo.  Paris:  1832.

This is a very amusing and a very instructive book:  but even if
it were less amusing and less instructive, it would still be
interesting as a relic of a wise and virtuous man.  M. Dumont was
one of those persons, the care of whose fame belongs in an
especial manner to mankind.  For he was one of those persons who
have, for the sake of mankind, neglected the care of their own
fame.  In his walk through life there was no obtrusiveness, no
pushing, no elbowing, none of the little arts which bring forward
little men.  With every right to the head of the board, he took
the lowest room, and well deserved to be greeted with--Friend, go
up higher.  Though no man was more capable of achieving for
himself a separate and independent renown, he attached himself to
others; he laboured to raise their fame; he was content to
receive as his share of the reward the mere overflowings which
redounded from the full measure of their glory.  Not that he was
of a servile and idolatrous habit of mind:--not that he was one
of the tribe of Boswells,--those literary Gibeonites, born to be
hewers of wood and drawers of water to the higher intellectual
castes.  Possessed of talents and acquirements which made him
great, he wished only to be useful.  In the prime of manhood, at
the very time of life at which ambitious men are most ambitious,
he was not solicitous to proclaim that he furnished information,
arguments, and eloquence to Mirabeau.  In his later years he was
perfectly willing that his renown should merge in that of Mr
Bentham.

The services which M. Dumont has rendered to society can be fully
appreciated only by those who have studied Mr Bentham's works,
both in their rude and in their finished state.  The difference
both for show and for use is as great as the difference between a
lump of golden ore and a rouleau of sovereigns fresh from the
mint.  Of Mr Bentham we would at all times speak with the
reverence which is due to a great original thinker, and to a
sincere and ardent friend of the human race.  If a few weaknesses
were mingled with his eminent virtues,--if a few errors
insinuated themselves among the many valuable truths which he
taught,--this is assuredly no time for noticing those weaknesses
or those errors in an unkind or sarcastic spirit.  A great man
has gone from among us, full of years, of good works, and of
deserved honours.  In some of the highest departments in which
the human intellect can exert itself he has not left his equal or
his second behind him.  From his contemporaries he has had,
according to the usual lot, more or less than justice.  He has
had blind flatterers and blind detractors--flatterers who could
see nothing but perfection in his style, detractors who could see
nothing but nonsense in his matter.  He will now have judges. 
Posterity will pronounce its calm and impartial decision; and
that decision will, we firmly believe, place in the same rank
with Galileo, and with Locke, the man who found jurisprudence a
gibberish and left it a science.  Never was there a literary
partnership so fortunate as that of Mr Bentham and M. Dumont. 
The raw material which Mr Bentham furnished was most precious;
but it was unmarketable.  He was, assuredly, at once a great
logician and a great rhetorician.  But the effect of his logic
was injured by a vicious arrangement, and the effect of his
rhetoric by a vicious style.  His mind was vigorous,
comprehensive, subtile, fertile of arguments, fertile of
illustrations.  But he spoke in an unknown tongue; and, that the
congregation might be edified, it was necessary that some brother
having the gift of interpretation should expound the invaluable
jargon.  His oracles were of high import; but they were traced on
leaves and flung loose to the wind.  So negligent was he of the
arts of selection, distribution, and compression, that to persons
who formed their judgment of him from his works in their
undigested state he seemed to be the least systematic of all
philosophers.  The truth is, that his opinions formed a system,
which, whether sound or unsound, is more exact, more entire, and
more consistent with itself than any other.  Yet to superficial
readers of his works in their original form, and indeed to all
readers of those works who did not bring great industry and great
acuteness to the study, he seemed to be a man of a quick and
ingenious but ill-regulated mind,--who saw truth only by
glimpses,--who threw out many striking hints, but who had never
thought of combining his doctrines in one harmonious whole.

M. Dumont was admirably qualified to supply what was wanting in
Mr Bentham.  In the qualities in which the French writers surpass
those of all other nations--neatness, clearness, precision,
condensation--he surpassed all French writers.  If M. Dumont had
never been born, Mr Bentham would still have been a very great
man.  But he would have been great to himself alone.  The
fertility of his mind would have resembled the fertility of those
vast American wildernesses in which blossoms and decays a rich
but unprofitable vegetation, "wherewith the reaper filleth not
his hand, neither he that bindeth up the sheaves his bosom."  It
would have been with his discoveries as it has been with the
"Century of Inventions."  His speculations on laws would have
been of no more practical use than Lord Worcester's speculations
on steam-engines.  Some generations hence, perhaps, when
legislation had found its Watt, an antiquarian might have
published to the world the curious fact that, in the reign of
George the Third, there had been a man called Bentham, who had
given hints of many discoveries made since his time, and who had
really, for his age, taken a most philosophical view of the
principles of jurisprudence.

Many persons have attempted to interpret between this powerful
mind and the public.  But, in our opinion, M. Dumont alone has
succeeded.  It is remarkable that, in foreign countries, where Mr
Bentham's works are known solely through the medium of the French
version, his merit is almost universally acknowledged.  Even
those who are most decidedly opposed to his political opinions--
the very chiefs of the Holy Alliance--have publicly testified
their respect for him.  In England, on the contrary, many persons
who certainly entertained no prejudice against him on political
grounds were long in the habit of mentioning him contemptuously. 
Indeed, what was said of Bacon's philosophy may be said of
Bentham's.  It was in little repute among us, till judgments in
its favour came from beyond sea, and convinced us, to our shame,
that we had been abusing and laughing at one of the greatest men
of the age.

M. Dumont might easily have found employments more gratifying to
personal vanity than that of arranging works not his own.  But he
could have found no employment more useful or more truly
honourable.  The book before us, hastily written as it is,
contains abundant proof, if proof were needed, that he did not
become an editor because he wanted the talents which would have
made him eminent as a writer.

Persons who hold democratical opinions, and who have been
accustomed to consider M. Dumont as one of their party, have been
surprised and mortified to learn that he speaks with very little
respect of the French Revolution and of its authors.  Some
zealous Tories have naturally expressed great satisfaction at
finding their doctrines, in some respects, confirmed by the
testimony of an unwilling witness.  The date of the work, we
think, explains everything.  If it had been written ten years
earlier, or twenty years later, it would have been very different
from what it is.  It was written, neither during the first
excitement of the Revolution, nor at that later period when the
practical good produced by the Revolution had become manifest to
the most prejudiced observers; but in those wretched times when
the enthusiasm had abated, and the solid advantages were not yet
fully seen.  It was written in the year 1799,--a year in which
the most sanguine friend of liberty might well feel some
misgivings as to the effects of what the National Assembly had
done.  The evils which attend every great change had been
severely felt.  The benefit was still to come.  The price--a
heavy price--had been paid.  The thing purchased had not yet been
delivered.  Europe was swarming with French exiles.  The fleets
and armies of the second coalition were victorious.  Within
France, the reign of terror was over; but the reign of law had
not commenced.  There had been, indeed, during three or four
years, a written Constitution, by which rights were defined and
checks provided.  But these rights had been repeatedly violated;
and those checks had proved utterly inefficient.  The laws which
had been framed to secure the distinct authority of the executive
magistrates and of the legislative assemblies--the freedom of
election--the freedom of debate--the freedom of the press--the
personal freedom of citizens--were a dead letter.  The ordinary
mode in which the Republic was governed was by coups d'etat.  On
one occasion, the legislative councils were placed under military
restraint by the directors.  Then, again, directors were deposed
by the legislative councils.  Elections were set aside by the
executive authority.  Ship-loads of writers and speakers were
sent, without a legal trial, to die of fever in Guiana.  France,
in short, was in that state in which revolutions, effected by
violence, almost always leave a nation.  The habit of obedience
had been lost.  The spell of prescription had been broken.  Those
associations on which, far more than on any arguments about
property and order, the authority of magistrates rests, had
completely passed away.  The power of the government consisted
merely in the physical force which it could bring to its support. 
Moral force it had none.  It was itself a government sprung from
a recent convulsion.  Its own fundamental maxim was, that
rebellion might be justifiable.  Its own existence proved that
rebellion might be successful.  The people had been accustomed,
during several years, to offer resistance to the constituted
authorities on the slightest provocation, and to see the
constituted authorities yield to that resistance.  The whole
political world was "without form and void"--an incessant whirl
of hostile atoms, which, every moment, formed some new
combination.  The only man who could fix the agitated elements of
society in a stable form was following a wild vision of glory and
empire through the Syrian deserts.  The time was not yet come,
when

"Confusion heard his voice; and wild uproar
Stood ruled:"

when, out of the chaos into which the old society had been
resolved, were to rise a new dynasty, a new peerage, a new
church, and a new code.

The dying words of Madame Roland, "Oh, Liberty! how many crimes
are committed in thy name!" were at that time echoed by many of
the most upright and benevolent of mankind.  M. Guizot has, in
one of his admirable pamphlets, happily and justly described M.
Laine as "an honest and liberal man, discouraged by the
Revolution."  This description, at the time when M. Dumont's
Memoirs were written, would have applied to almost every honest
and liberal man in Europe; and would, beyond all doubt, have
applied to M. Dumont himself.  To that fanatical worship of the
all-wise and all-good people, which had been common a few years
before, had succeeded an uneasy suspicion that the follies and
vices of the people would frustrate all attempts to serve them. 
The wild and joyous exaltation, with which the meeting of the
States-General and the fall of the Bastile had been hailed, had
passed away.  In its place was dejection, and a gloomy distrust
of suspicious appearances.  The philosophers and philanthropists
had reigned.  And what had their reign produced?  Philosophy had
brought with it mummeries as absurd as any which had been
practised by the most superstitious zealot of the darkest age. 
Philanthropy had brought with it crimes as horrible as the
massacre of Saint Bartholomew.  This was the emancipation of the
human mind.  These were the fruits of the great victory of reason
over prejudice.  France had rejected the faith of Pascal and
Descartes as a nursery fable, that a courtezan might be her idol,
and a madman her priest.  She had asserted her freedom against
Louis, that she might bow down before Robespierre.  For a time
men thought that all the boasted wisdom of the eighteenth century
was folly; and that those hopes of great political and social
ameliorations which had been cherished by Voltaire and Condorcet
were utterly delusive.

Under the influence of these feelings, M. Dumont has gone so far
as to say that the writings of Mr Burke on the French Revolution,
though disfigured by exaggeration, and though containing
doctrines subversive of all public liberty, had been, on the
whole, justified by events, and had probably saved Europe from
great disasters.  That such a man as the friend and fellow-
labourer of Mr Bentham should have expressed such an opinion is a
circumstance which well deserves the consideration of
uncharitable politicians.  These Memoirs have not convinced us
that the French Revolution was not a great blessing to mankind. 
But they have convinced us that very great indulgence is due to
those who, while the Revolution was actually taking place,
regarded it with unmixed aversion and horror.  We can perceive
where their error lay.  We can perceive that the evil was
temporary, and the good durable.  But we cannot be sure that, if
our lot had been cast in their times, we should not, like them,
have been discouraged and disgusted--that we should not, like
them, have seen, in that great victory of the French people, only
insanity and crime.

It is curious to observe how some men are applauded, and others
reviled, for merely being what all their neighbours are,--for
merely going passively down the stream of events,--for merely
representing the opinions and passions of a whole generation. 
The friends of popular government ordinarily speak with extreme
severity of Mr Pitt, and with respect and tenderness of Mr
Canning.  Yet the whole difference, we suspect, consisted merely
in this,--that Mr Pitt died in 1806, and Mr Canning in 1827. 
During the years which were common to the public life of both, Mr
Canning was assuredly not a more liberal statesman than his
patron.  The truth is that Mr Pitt began his political life at
the end of the American War, when the nation was suffering from
the effects of corruption.  He closed it in the midst of the
calamities produced by the French Revolution, when the nation was
still strongly impressed with the horrors of anarchy.  He
changed, undoubtedly.  In his youth he had brought in reform
bills.  In his manhood he brought in gagging bills.  But the
change, though lamentable, was, in our opinion, perfectly
natural, and might have been perfectly honest.  He changed with
the great body of his countrymen.  Mr Canning on the other hand,
entered into public life when Europe was in dread of the
Jacobins.  He closed his public life when Europe was suffering
under the tyranny of the Holy Alliance.  He, too, changed with
the nation.  As the crimes of the Jacobins had turned the master
into something very like a Tory, the events which followed the
Congress of Vienna turned the pupil into something very like a
Whig.

So much are men the creatures of circumstances.  We see that, if
M. Dumont had died in 1799, he would have died, to use the new
cant word, a decided "Conservative."  If Mr Pitt had lived in
1832, it is our firm belief that he would have been a decided
Reformer.

The judgment passed by M. Dumont in this work on the French
Revolution must be taken with considerable allowances.  It
resembles a criticism on a play of which only the first act has
been performed, or on a building from which the scaffolding has
not yet been taken down.  We have no doubt that, if the excellent
author had revised these Memoirs thirty years after the time at
which they were written, he would have seen reason to omit a few
passages, and to add many qualifications and explanations.

He would not probably have been inclined to retract the censures,
just, though severe, which he has passed on the ignorance, the
presumption, and the pedantry, of the National Assembly.  But he
would have admitted that, in spite of those faults, perhaps even
by reason of those faults, that Assembly had conferred
inestimable benefits on mankind.  It is clear that, among the
French of that day, political knowledge was absolutely in its
infancy.  It would indeed have been strange if it had attained
maturity in the time of censors, of lettres-de-cachet, and of
beds of justice.  The electors did not know how to elect.  The
representatives did not know how to deliberate.  M. Dumont taught
the constituent body of Montreuil how to perform their functions,
and found them apt to learn.  He afterwards tried, in concert
with Mirabeau, to instruct the National Assembly in that
admirable system of Parliamentary tactics which has been long
established in the English House of Commons, and which has made
the House of Commons, in spite of all the defects in its
composition, the best and fairest debating society in the world. 
But these accomplished legislators, though quite as ignorant as
the mob of Montreuil, proved much less docile, and cried out that
they did not want to go to school to the English.  Their debates
consisted of endless successions of trashy pamphlets, all
beginning with something about the original compact of society,
man in the hunting state, and other such foolery.  They sometimes
diversified and enlivened these long readings by a little
rioting.  They bawled; they hooted; they shook their fists.  They
kept no order among themselves.  They were insulted with impunity
by the crowd which filled their galleries.  They gave long and
solemn consideration to trifles.  They hurried through the most
important resolutions with fearful expedition.  They wasted
months in quibbling about the words of that false and childish
Declaration of Rights on which they professed to found their new
constitution, and which was at irreconcilable variance with every
clause of that constitution.  They annihilated in a single night
privileges, many of which partook of the nature of property, and
ought therefore to have been most delicately handled.

They are called the Constituent Assembly.  Never was a name less
appropriate.  They were not constituent, but the very reverse of
constituent.  They constituted nothing that stood or that
deserved to last.  They had not, and they could not possibly
have, the information or the habits of mind which are necessary
for the framing of that most exquisite of all machines--a
government.  The metaphysical cant with which they prefaced their
constitution has long been the scoff of all parties.  Their
constitution itself,--that constitution which they described as
absolutely perfect, and to which they predicted immortality,--
disappeared in a few months, and left no trace behind it.  They
were great only in the work of destruction.

The glory of the National Assembly is this, that they were in
truth, what Mr Burke called them in austere irony, the ablest
architects of ruin that ever the world saw.  They were utterly
incompetent to perform any work which required a discriminating
eye and a skilful hand.  But the work which was then to be done
was a work of devastation.  They had to deal with abuses so
horrible and so deeply rooted that the highest political wisdom
could scarcely have produced greater good to mankind than was
produced by their fierce and senseless temerity.  Demolition is
undoubtedly a vulgar task; the highest glory of the statesman is
to construct.  But there is a time for everything,--a time to set
up, and a time to pull down.  The talents of revolutionary
leaders and those of the legislator have equally their use and
their season.  It is the natural, the almost universal, law, that
the age of insurrections and proscriptions shall precede the age
of good government, of temperate liberty, and liberal order.

And how should it be otherwise?  It is not in swaddling-bands
that we learn to walk.  It is not in the dark that we learn to
distinguish colours.  It is not under oppression that we learn
how to use freedom.  The ordinary sophism by which misrule is
defended is, when truly stated, this:--The people must continue
in slavery, because slavery has generated in them all the vices
of slaves.  Because they are ignorant, they must remain under a
power which has made and which keeps them ignorant.  Because they
have been made ferocious by misgovernment, they must be
misgoverned for ever.  If the system under which they live were
so mild and liberal that under its operation they had become
humane and enlightened, it would be safe to venture on a change. 
But, as this system has destroyed morality, and prevented the
development of the intellect,--as it has turned men, who might
under different training have formed a virtuous and happy
community, into savage and stupid wild beasts,--therefore it
ought to last for ever.  The English Revolution, it is said, was
truly a glorious Revolution.  Practical evils were redressed; no
excesses were committed; no sweeping confiscations took place;
the authority of the laws was scarcely for a moment suspended;
the fullest and freest discussion was tolerated in Parliament;
the nation showed, by the calm and temperate manner in which it
asserted its liberty, that it was fit to enjoy liberty.  The
French Revolution was, on the other hand, the most horrible event
recorded in history,--all madness and wickedness,--absurdity in
theory, and atrocity in practice.  What folly and injustice in
the revolutionary laws!  What grotesque affectation in the
revolutionary ceremonies!  What fanaticism!  What licentiousness! 
What cruelty!  Anacharsis Clootz and Marat,--feasts of the
Supreme Being, and marriages of the Loire--trees of liberty, and
heads dancing on pikes--the whole forms a kind of infernal farce,
made up of everything ridiculous, and everything frightful.  This
it is to give freedom to those who have neither wisdom nor
virtue.

It is not only by bad men interested in the defence of abuses
that arguments like these have been urged against all schemes of
political improvement.  Some of the highest and purest of human
beings conceived such scorn and aversion for the follies and
crimes of the French Revolution that they recanted, in the moment
of triumph, those liberal opinions to which they had clung in
defiance of persecution.  And, if we inquire why it was that they
began to doubt whether liberty were a blessing, we shall find
that it was only because events had proved, in the clearest
manner, that liberty is the parent of virtue and of order.  They
ceased to abhor tyranny merely because it had been signally shown
that the effect of tyranny on the hearts and understandings of
men is more demoralising and more stupifying than had ever been
imagined by the most zealous friend of popular rights.  The truth
is, that a stronger argument against the old monarchy of France
may be drawn from the noyades and the fusillades than from the
Bastile and the Parc-aux-cerfs.  We believe it to be a rule
without an exception, that the violence of a revolution
corresponds to the degree of misgovernment which has produced
that revolution.  Why was the French Revolution so bloody and
destructive?  Why was our revolution of 1641 comparatively mild? 
Why was our revolution of 1688 milder still?  Why was the
American Revolution, considered as an internal movement, the
mildest of all?  There is an obvious and complete solution of the
problem.  The English under James the First and Charles the First
were less oppressed than the French under Louis the Fifteenth and
Louis the Sixteenth.  The English were less oppressed after the
Restoration than before the great Rebellion.  And America under
George the Third was less oppressed than England under the
Stuarts.  The reaction was exactly proportioned to the pressure,
--the vengeance to the provocation.

When Mr Burke was reminded in his later years of the zeal which
he had displayed in the cause of the Americans, he vindicated
himself from the charge of inconsistency, by contrasting the
wisdom and moderation of the Colonial insurgents of 1776 with the
fanaticism and wickedness of the Jacobins of 1792.  He was in
fact bringing an argument a fortiori against himself.  The
circumstances on which he rested his vindication fully proved
that the old government of France stood in far more need of a
complete change than the old government of America.  The
difference between Washington and Robespierre,--the difference
between Franklin and Barere,--the difference between the
destruction of a few barrels of tea and the confiscation of
thousands of square miles,--the difference between the tarring
and feathering of a tax-gatherer and the massacres of September,
--measure the difference between the government of America under
the rule of England and the government of France under the rule
of the Bourbons.

Louis the Sixteenth made great voluntary concessions to his
people; and they sent him to the scaffold.  Charles the Tenth
violated the fundamental laws of the state, established a
despotism, and butchered his subjects for not submitting quietly
to that despotism.  He failed in his wicked attempt.  He was at
the mercy of those whom he had injured.  The pavements of Paris
were still heaped up in barricades;--the hospitals were still
full of the wounded;--the dead were still unburied;--a thousand
families were in mourning;--a hundred thousand citizens were in
arms.  The crime was recent;--the life of the criminal was in the
hands of the sufferers;--and they touched not one hair of his
head.  In the first revolution, victims were sent to death by
scores for the most trifling acts proved by the lowest testimony,
before the most partial tribunals.  After the second revolution,
those ministers who had signed the ordinances, those ministers,
whose guilt, as it was of the foulest kind, was proved by the
clearest evidence,--were punished only with imprisonment.  In the
first revolution, property was attacked.  In the second, it was
held sacred.  Both revolutions, it is true, left the public mind
of France in an unsettled state.  Both revolutions were followed
by insurrectionary movements.  But, after the first revolution,
the insurgents were almost always stronger than the law; and,
since the second revolution, the law has invariably been found
stronger than the insurgents.  There is, indeed, much in the
present state of France which may well excite the uneasiness of
those who desire to see her free, happy, powerful, and secure. 
Yet, if we compare the present state of France with the state in
which she was forty years ago, how vast a change for the better
has taken place!  How little effect, for example, during the
first revolution, would the sentence of a judicial body have
produced on an armed and victorious partty!  If, after the 10th
of August, or after the proscription of the Gironde, or after the
9th of Thermidor, or after the carnage of Vendemiaire, or after
the arrests of Fructidor, any tribunal had decided against the
conquerors in favour of the conquered, with what contempt, with
what derision, would its award have been received!  The judges
would have lost their heads, or would have been sent to die in
some unwholesome colony.  The fate of the victim whom they had
endeavoured to save would only have been made darker and more
hopeless by their interference.  We have lately seen a signal
proof that, in France, the law is now stronger than the sword. 
We have seen a government, in the very moment of triumph and
revenge, submitting itself to the authority of a court of law.  A
just and independent sentence has been pronounced--a sentence
worthy of the ancient renown of that magistracy to which belong
the noblest recollections of French history--which, in an age of
persecutors, produced L'Hopital,--which, in an age of courtiers,
produced D'Aguesseau,--which, in an age of wickedness and
madness, exhibited to mankind a pattern of every virtue in the
life and in the death of Malesherbes.  The respectful manner in
which that sentence has been received is alone sufficient to show
how widely the French of this generation differ from their
fathers.  And how is the difference to be explained?  The race,
the soil, the climate, are the same.  If those dull, honest
Englishmen, who explain the events of 1793 and 1794 by saying
that the French are naturally frivolous and cruel, were in the
right, why is the guillotine now standing idle?  Not surely for
want of Carlists, of aristocrats, of people guilty of incivism,
of people suspected of being suspicious characters.  Is not the
true explanation this, that the Frenchman of 1832 has been far
better governed than the Frenchman of 1789,--that his soul has
never been galled by the oppressive privileges of a separate
caste,--that he has been in some degree accustomed to discuss
political questions, and to perform political functions,--that he
has lived for seventeen or eighteen years under institutions
which, however defective, have yet been far superior to any
institutions that had before existed in France?

As the second French Revolution has been far milder than the
first, so that great change which has just been effected in
England has been milder even than the second French Revolution,--
milder than any revolution recorded in history.  Some orators
have described the reform of the House of Commons as a
revolution.  Others have denied the propriety of the term.  The
question, though in seeming merely a question of definition,
suggests much curious and interesting matter for reflection.  If
we look at the magnitude of the reform, it may well be called a
revolution.  If we look at the means by which it has been
effected, it is merely an Act of Parliament, regularly brought
in, read, committed, and passed.  In the whole history of
England, there is no prouder circumstance than this,--that a
change, which could not, in any other age, or in any other
country, have been effected without physical violence, should
here have been effected by the force of reason, and under the
forms of law.  The work of three civil wars has been accomplished
by three sessions of Parliament.  An ancient and deeply rooted
system of abuses has been fiercely attacked and stubbornly
defended.  It has fallen; and not one sword has been drawn; not
one estate has been confiscated; not one family has been forced
to emigrate.  The bank has kept its credit.  The funds have kept
their price.  Every man has gone forth to his work and to his
labour till the evening.  During the fiercest excitement of the
contest,--during the first fortnight of that immortal May,--there
was not one moment at which any sanguinary act committed on the
person of any of the most unpopular men in England would not have
filled the country with horror and indignation.

And now that the victory is won, has it been abused?  An immense
mass of power has been transferred from an oligarchy to the
nation.  Are the members of the vanquished oligarchy insecure? 
Does the nation seem disposed to play the tyrant?  Are not those
who, in any other state of society, would have been visited with
the severest vengeance of the triumphant party,--would have been
pining in dungeons, or flying to foreign countries,--still
enjoying their possessions and their honours, still taking part
as freely as ever in public affairs?  Two years ago they were
dominant.  They are now vanquished.  Yet the whole people would
regard with horror any man who should dare to propose any
vindictive measure.  So common is this feeling,--so much is it a
matter of course among us,--that many of our readers will
scarcely understand what we see to admire in it.

To what are we to attribute the unparalleled moderation and
humanity which the English people had displayed at this great
conjuncture?  The answer is plain.  This moderation, this
humanity, are the fruits of a hundred and fifty years of liberty. 
During many generations we have had legislative assemblies which,
however defective their constitution might be, have always
contained many members chosen by the people, and many others
eager to obtain the approbation of the people:--assemblies in
which perfect freedom of debate was allowed;--assemblies in which
the smallest minority had a fair hearing; assemblies in which
abuses, even when they were not redressed, were at least exposed. 
For many generations we have had the trial by jury, the Habeas
Corpus Act, the freedom of the press, the right of meeting to
discuss public affairs, the right of petitioning the legislature. 
A vast portion of the population has long been accustomed to the
exercise of political functions, and has been thoroughly seasoned
to political excitement.  In most other countries there is no
middle course between absolute submission and open rebellion.  In
England there has always been for centuries a constitutional
opposition.  Thus our institutions had been so good that they had
educated us into a capacity for better institutions.  There is
not a large town in the kingdom which does not contain better
materials for a legislature than all France could furnish in
1789.  There is not a spouting-club at any pot-house in London in
which the rules of debate are not better understood, and more
strictly observed, than in the Constituent Assembly.  There is
scarcely a Political Union which could not frame in half an hour
a declaration of rights superior to that which occupied the
collective wisdom of France for several months.

It would be impossible even to glance at all the causes of the
French Revolution within the limits to which we must confine
ourselves.  One thing is clear.  The government, the aristocracy,
and the church were rewarded after their works.  They reaped that
which they had sown.  They found the nation such as they had made
it.  That the people had become possessed of irresistible power
before they had attained the slightest knowledge of the art of
government--that practical questions of vast moment were left to
be solved by men to whom politics had been only matter of theory
--that a legislature was composed of persons who were scarcely
fit to compose a debating society--that the whole nation was
ready to lend an ear to any flatterer who appealed to its
cupidity, to its fears, or to its thirst for vengeance--all this
was the effect of misrule, obstinately continued in defiance of
solemn warnings, and of the visible signs of an approaching
retribution.

Even while the monarchy seemed to be in its highest and most
palmy state, the causes of that great destruction had already
begun to operate.  They may be distinctly traced even under the
reign of Louis the Fourteenth.  That reign is the time to which
the Ultra-Royalists refer as the Golden Age of France.  It was in
truth one of those periods which shine with an unnatural and
delusive splendour, and which are rapidly followed by gloom and
decay.

Concerning Louis the Fourteenth himself, the world seems at last
to have formed a correct judgment.  He was not a great general;
he was not a great statesman; but he was, in one sense of the
words, a great king.  Never was there so consummate a master of
what our James the First would have called kingcraft,--of all
those arts which most advantageously display the merits of a
prince, and most completely hide his defects.  Though his
internal administration was bad,--though the military triumphs
which gave splendour to the early part of his reign were not
achieved by himself,--though his later years were crowded with
defeats and humiliations,--though he was so ignorant that he
scarcely understood the Latin of his mass-book,--though he fell
under the control of a cunning Jesuit and of a more cunning old
woman,--he succeeded in passing himself off on his people as a
being above humanity.  And this is the more extraordinary because
he did not seclude himself from the public gaze like those
Oriental despots whose faces are never seen, and whose very names
it is a crime to pronounce lightly.  It has been said that no man
is a hero to his valet;--and all the world saw as much of Louis
the Fourteenth as his valet could see.  Five hundred people
assembled to see him shave and put on his breeches in the
morning.  He then kneeled down at the side of his bed, and said
his prayer while the whole assembly awaited the end in solemn
silence--the ecclesiastics on their knees, and the laymen with
their hats before their faces.  He walked about his gardens with
a train of two hundred courtiers at his heels.  All Versailles
came to see him dine and sup.  He was put to bed at night in the
midst of a crowd as great as that which had met to see him rise
in the morning.  He took his very emetics in state, and vomited
majestically in the presence of all the grandes and petites
entrees.  Yet, though he constantly exposed himself to the public
gaze in situations in which it is scarcely possible for any man
to preserve much personal dignity, he to the last impressed those
who surrounded him with the deepest awe and reverence.  The
illusion which he produced on his worshippers can be compared
only to those illusions to which lovers are proverbially subject
during the season of courtship.  It was an illusion which
affected even the senses.  The contemporaries of Louis thought
him tall.  Voltaire, who might have seen him, and who had lived
with some of the most distinguished members of his court, speaks
repeatedly of his majestic stature.  Yet it is as certain as any
fact can be, that he was rather below than above the middle size. 
He had, it seems, a way of holding himself, a way of walking, a
way of swelling his chest and rearing his head, which deceived
the eyes of the multitude.  Eighty years after his death, the
royal cemetery was violated by the revolutionists, his coffin was
opened; his body was dragged out; and it appeared that the
prince, whose majestic figure had been so long and loudly
extolled, was in truth a little man.  (Even M. de Chateaubriand,
to whom we should have thought all the Bourbons would have seemed
at least six feet high, admits this fact.  "C'est une erreur,"
says he in his strange memoirs of the Duke of Berri, "de croire
que Louis XIV. etait d'une haute stature.  Une cuirasse qui nous
reste de lui, et les exhumations de St Denys, n'ont laisse sur
certain point aucun doute.")  That fine expression of Juvenal is
singularly applicable, both in its literal and in its
metaphorical sense, to Louis the Fourteenth:

"Mors sola fatetur
Quantula sint hominum corpuscula."

His person and his government have had the same fate.  He had the
art of making both appear grand and august, in spite of the
clearest evidence that both were below the ordinary standard. 
Death and time have exposed both the deceptions.  The body of the
great king has been measured more justly than it was measured by
the courtiers who were afraid to look above his shoe-tie.  His
public character has been scrutinized by men free from the hopes
and fears of Boileau and Moliere.  In the grave, the most
majestic of princes is only five feet eight.  In history, the
hero and the politician dwindles into a vain and feeble tyrant,--
the slave of priests and women--little in war,--little in
government,--little in everything but the art of simulating
greatness.

He left to his infant successor a famished and miserable people,
a beaten and humbled army, provinces turned into deserts by
misgovernment and persecution, factions dividing the court, a
schism raging in the church, an immense debt, an empty treasury,
immeasurable palaces, an innumerable household, inestimable
jewels and furniture.  All the sap and nutriment of the state
seemed to have been drawn to feed one bloated and unwholesome
excrescence.  The nation was withered.  The court was morbidly
flourishing.  Yet it does not appear that the associations which
attached the people to the monarchy had lost strength during his
reign.  He had neglected or sacrificed their dearest interests;
but he had struck their imaginations.  The very things which
ought to have made him most unpopular,--the prodigies of luxury
and magnificence with which his person was surrounded, while,
beyond the inclosure of his parks, nothing was to be seen but
starvation and despair,--seemed to increase the respectful
attachment which his subjects felt for him.  That governments
exist only for the good of the people, appears to be the most
obvious and simple of all truths.  Yet history proves that it is
one of the most recondite.  We can scarcely wonder that it should
be so seldom present to the minds of rulers, when we see how
slowly, and through how much suffering, nations arrive at the
knowledge of it.

There was indeed one Frenchman who had discovered those
principles which it now seems impossible to miss,--that the many
are not made for the use of one,--that the truly good government
is not that which concentrates magnificence in a court, but that
which diffuses happiness among a people,--that a king who gains
victory after victory, and adds province to province, may
deserve, not the admiration, but the abhorrence and contempt of
mankind.  These were the doctrines which Fenelon taught. 
Considered as an epic poem, Telemachus can scarcely be placed
above Glover's Leonidas or Wilkie's Epigoniad.  Considered as a
treatise on politics and morals, it abounds with errors of
detail; and the truths which it inculcates seem trite to a modern
reader.  But, if we compare the spirit in which it is written
with the spirit which pervades the rest of the French literature
of that age, we shall perceive that, though in appearance trite,
it was in truth one of the most original works that have ever
appeared.  The fundamental principles of Fenelon's political
morality, the test by which he judged of institutions and of men,
were absolutely new to his countrymen.  He had taught them
indeed, with the happiest effect, to his royal pupil.  But how
incomprehensible they were to most people, we learn from Saint
Simon.  That amusing writer tells us, as a thing almost
incredible, that the Duke of Burgundy declared it to be his
opinion that kings existed for the good of the people, and not
the people for the good of kings.  Saint Simon is delighted with
the benevolence of this saying; but startled by its novelty and
terrified by its boldness.  Indeed he distinctly says that it was
not safe to repeat the sentiment in the court of Louis.  Saint
Simon was, of all the members of that court, the least courtly. 
He was as nearly an oppositionist as any man of his time.  His
disposition was proud, bitter, and cynical.  In religion he was a
Jansenist; in politics, a less hearty royalist than most of his
neighbours.  His opinions and his temper had preserved him from
the illusions which the demeanour of Louis produced on others. 
He neither loved nor respected the king.  Yet even this man,--one
of the most liberal men in France,--was struck dumb with
astonishment at hearing the fundamental axiom of all government
propounded,--an axiom which, in our time, nobody in England or
France would dispute,--which the stoutest Tory takes for granted
as much as the fiercest Radical, and concerning which the Carlist
would agree with the most republican deputy of the "extreme
left."  No person will do justice to Fenelon, who does not
constantly keep in mind that Telemachus was written in an age and
nation in which bold and independent thinkers stared to hear that
twenty millions of human beings did not exist for the
gratification of one.  That work is commonly considered as a
schoolbook, very fit for children, because its style is easy and
its morality blameless, but unworthy of the attention of
statesmen and philosophers.  We can distinguish in it, if we are
not greatly mistaken, the first faint dawn of a long and splendid
day of intellectual light,--the dim promise of a great
deliverance,--the undeveloped germ of the charter and of the
code.

What mighty interests were staked on the life of the Duke of
Burgundy! and how different an aspect might the history of France
have borne if he had attained the age of his grandfather or of
his son;--if he had been permitted to show how much could be done
for humanity by the highest virtue in the highest fortune!  There
is scarcely anything in history more remarkable than the
descriptions which remain to us of that extraordinary man.  The
fierce and impetuous temper which he showed in early youth,--the
complete change which a judicious education produced in his
character,--his fervid piety,--his large benevolence,--the
strictness with which he judged himself,--the liberality with
which he judged others,--the fortitude with which alone, in the
whole court, he stood up against the commands of Louis, when a
religious scruple was concerned,--the charity with which alone,
in the whole court, he defended the profligate Orleans against
calumniators,--his great projects for the good of the people,--
his activity in business,--his taste for letters,--his strong
domestic attachments,--even the ungraceful person and the shy and
awkward manner which concealed from the eyes of the sneering
courtiers of his grandfather so many rare endowments,--make his
character the most interesting that is to be found in the annals
of his house.  He had resolved, if he came to the throne, to
disperse that ostentatious court, which was supported at an
expense ruinous to the nation,--to preserve peace,--to correct
the abuses which were found in every part of the system of
revenue,--to abolish or modify oppressive privileges,--to reform
the administration of justice,--to revive the institution of the
States-General.  If he had ruled over France during forty or
fifty years, that great movement of the human mind, which no
government could have arrested, which bad government only
rendered more violent, would, we are inclined to think, have been
conducted, by peaceable means to a happy termination.

Disease and sorrow removed from the world that wisdom and virtue
of which it was not worthy.  During two generations France was
ruled by men who, with all the vices of Louis the Fourteenth, had
none of the art by which that magnificent prince passed off his
vices for virtues.  The people had now to see tyranny naked. 
That foul Duessa was stripped of her gorgeous ornaments.  She had
always been hideous; but a strange enchantment had made her seem
fair and glorious in the eyes of her willing slaves.  The spell
was now broken; the deformity was made manifest; and the lovers,
lately so happy and so proud, turned away loathing and horror-
struck.

First came the Regency.  The strictness with which Louis had,
towards the close of his life, exacted from those around him an
outward attention to religious duties, produced an effect similar
to that which the rigour of the Puritans had produced in England. 
It was the boast of Madame de Maintenon, in the time of her
greatness, that devotion had become the fashion.  A fashion
indeed it was; and, like a fashion, it passed away.  The
austerity of the tyrant's old age had injured the morality of the
higher orders more than even the licentiousness of his youth. 
Not only had he not reformed their vices, but, by forcing them to
be hypocrites, he had shaken their belief in virtue.  They had
found it so easy to perform the grimace of piety, that it was
natural for them to consider all piety as grimace.  The times
were changed.  Pensions, regiments, and abbeys, were no longer to
be obtained by regular confession and severe penance:  and the
obsequious courtiers, who had kept Lent like monks of La Trappe,
and who had turned up the whites of their eyes at the edifying
parts of sermons preached before the king, aspired to the title
of roue as ardently as they had aspired to that of devot; and
went, during Passion Week, to the revels of the Palais Royal as
readily as they had formerly repaired to the sermons of
Massillon.

The Regent was in many respects the fac-simile of our Charles the
Second.  Like Charles, he was a good-natured man, uttl destitute
of sensibility.  Like Charles, he had good natural talents, which
a deplorable indolence rendered useless to the state.  Like
Charles, he thought all men corrupted and interested, and yet did
not dislike them for being so.  His opinion of human nature was
Gulliver's; but he did not regard human nature with Gulliver's
horror.  He thought that he and his fellow-creatures were Yahoos;
and he thought a Yahoo a very agreeable kind of animal.  No
princes were ever more social than Charles and Philip of Orleans: 
yet no princes ever had less capacity for friendship.  The
tempers of these clever cynics were so easy, and their minds so
languid, that habit supplied in them the place of affection, and
made them the tools of people for whom they cared not one straw. 
In love, both were mere sensualists without delicacy or
tenderness.  In politics, both were utterly careless of faith and
of national honour.  Charles shut up the Exchequer.  Philip
patronised the System.  The councils of Charles were swayed by
the gold of Barillon; the councils of Philip by the gold of
Walpole.  Charles for private objects made war on Holland, the
natural ally of England.  Philip for private objects made war on
the Spanish branch of the house of Bourbon, the natural ally,
indeed the creature of France.  Even in trifling circumstances
the parallel might be carried on.  Both these princes were fond
of experimental philosophy, and passed in the laboratory much
time which would have been more advantageously passed at the
council-table.  Both were more strongly attached to their female
relatives than to any other human being; and in both cases it was
suspected that this attachment was not perfectly innocent.  In
personal courage, and in all the virtues which are connected with
personal courage, the Regent was indisputably superior to
Charles.  Indeed Charles but narrowly escaped the stain of
cowardice.  Philip was eminently brave, and, like most brave men,
was generally open and sincere.  Charles added dissimulation to
his other vices.

The administration of the Regent was scarcely less pernicious,
and infinitely more scandalous, than that of the deceased
monarch.  It was by magnificent public works, and by wars
conducted on a gigantic scale, that Louis had brought distress on
his people.  The Regent aggravated that distress by frauds of
which a lame duck on the stock-exchange would have been ashamed. 
France, even while suffering under the most severe calamities,
had reverenced the conqueror.  She despised the swindler.

When Orleans and the wretched Dubois had disappeared, the power
passed to the Duke of Bourbon; a prince degraded in the public
eye by the infamously lucrative part which he had taken in the
juggles of the System, and by the humility with which he bore the
caprices of a loose and imperious woman.  It seemed to be decreed
that every branch of the royal family should successively incur
the abhorrence and contempt of the nation.

Between the fall of the Duke of Bourbon and the death of Fleury,
a few years of frugal and moderate government intervened.  Then
recommenced the downward progress of the monarchy.  Profligacy in
the court, extravagance in the finances, schism in the church,
faction in the Parliaments, unjust war terminated by ignominious
peace,--all that indicates and all that produces the ruin of
great empires, make up the history of that miserable period. 
Abroad, the French were beaten and humbled everywhere, by land
and by sea, on the Elbe and on the Rhine, in Asia and in America. 
At home, they were turned over from vizier to vizier, and from
sultana to sultana, till they had reached that point beneath
which there was no lower abyss of infamy,--till the yoke of
Maupeou had made them pine for Choiseul,--till Madame du Barri
had taught them to regret Madame de Pompadour.

But unpopular as the monarchy had become, the aristocracy was
more unpopular still; and not without reason.  The tyranny of an
individual is far more supportable than the tyranny of a caste. 
The old privileges were galling and hateful to the new wealth and
the new knowledge.  Everything indicated the approach of no
common revolution,--of a revolution destined to change, not
merely the form of government, but the distribution of property
and the whole social system,--of a revolution the effects of
which were to be felt at every fireside in France,--of a new
Jaquerie, in which the victory was to remain with Jaques
bonhomme.  In the van of the movement were the moneyed men and
the men of letters,--the wounded pride of wealth, and the wounded
pride of intellect.  An immense multitude, made ignorant and
cruel by oppression, was raging in the rear.

We greatly doubt whether any course which could have been pursued
by Louis the Sixteenth could have averted a great convulsion. 
But we are sure that, if there was such a course, it was the
course recommended by M. Turgot.  The church and the aristocracy,
with that blindness to danger, that incapacity of believing that
anything can be except what has been, which the long possession
of power seldom fails to generate, mocked at the counsel which
might have saved them.  They would not have reform; and they had
revolution.  They would not pay a small contribution in place of
the odious corvees; and they lived to see their castles
demolished, and their lands sold to strangers.  They would not
endure Turgot; and they were forced to endure Robespierre.

Then the rulers of France, as if smitten with judicial blindness,
plunged headlong into the American war.  They thus committed at
once two great errors.  They encouraged the spirit of revolution. 
They augmented at the same time those public burdens, the
pressure of which is generally the immediate cause of
revolutions.  The event of the war carried to the height the
enthusiasm of speculative democrats.  The financial difficulties
produced by the war carried to the height the discontent of that
larger body of people who cared little about theories, and much
about taxes.

The meeting of the States-General was the signal for the
explosion of all the hoarded passions of a century.  In that
assembly, there were undoubtedly very able men.  But they had no
practical knowledge of the art of government.  All the great
English revolutions have been conducted by practical statesmen. 
The French Revolution was conducted by mere speculators.  Our
constitution has never been so far behind the age as to have
become an object of aversion to the people.  The English
revolutions have therefore been undertaken for the purpose of
defending, correcting, and restoring,--never for the mere purpose
of destroying.  Our countrymen have always, even in times of the
greatest excitement, spoken reverently of the form of government
under which they lived, and attacked only what they regarded as
its corruptions.  In the very act of innovating they have
constantly appealed to ancient prescription; they have seldom
looked abroad for models; they have seldom troubled themselves
with Utopian theories; they have not been anxious to prove that
liberty is a natural right of men; they have been content to
regard it as the lawful birthright of Englishmen.  Their social
contract is no fiction.  It is still extant on the original
parchment, sealed with wax which was affixed at Runnymede, and
attested by the lordly names of the Marischals and Fitzherberts. 
No general arguments about the original equality of men, no fine
stories out of Plutarch and Cornelius Nepos, have ever affected
them so much as their own familiar words,--Magna Charta,--Habeas
Corpus,--Trial by Jury,--Bill of Rights.  This part of our
national character has undoubtedly its disadvantages.  An
Englishman too often reasons on politics in the spirit rather of
a lawyer than of a philosopher.  There is too often something
narrow, something exclusive, something Jewish, if we may use the
word, in his love of freedom.  He is disposed to consider popular
rights as the special heritage of the chosen race to which he
belongs.  He is inclined rather to repel than to encourage the
alien proselyte who aspires to a share of his privileges.  Very
different was the spirit of the Constituent Assembly.  They had
none of our narrowness; but they had none of our practical skill
in the management of affairs.  They did not understand how to
regulate the order of their own debates; and they thought
themselves able to legislate for the whole world.  All the past
was loathsome to them.  All their agreeable associations were
connected with the future.  Hopes were to them all that
recollections are to us.  In the institutions of their country
they found nothing to love or to admire.  As far back as they
could look, they saw only the tyranny of one class and the
degradation of another,--Frank and Gaul, knight and villein,
gentleman and roturier.  They hated the monarchy, the church, the
nobility.  They cared nothing for the States or the Parliament. 
It was long the fashion to ascribe all the follies which they
committed to the writings of the philosophers.  We believe that
it was misrule, and nothing but misrule, that put the sting into
those writings.  It is not true that the French abandoned
experience for theories.  They took up with theories because they
had no experience of good government.  It was because they had no
charter that they ranted about the original contract.  As soon as
tolerable institutions were given to them, they began to look to
those institutions.  In 1830 their rallying cry was "Vive la
Charte".  In 1789 they had nothing but theories round which to
rally.  They had seen social distinctions only in a bad form; and
it was therefore natural that they should be deluded by sophisms
about the equality of men.  They had experienced so much evil
from the sovereignty of kings that they might be excused for
lending a ready ear to those who preached, in an exaggerated
form, the doctrine of the sovereignty of the people.

The English, content with their own national recollections and
names, have never sought for models in the institutions of Greece
or Rome.  The French, having nothing in their own history to
which they could look back with pleasure, had recourse to the
history of the great ancient commonwealths:  they drew their
notions of those commonwealths, not from contemporary writers,
but from romances written by pedantic moralists long after the
extinction of public liberty.  They neglected Thucydides for
Plutarch.  Blind themselves, they took blind guides.  They had no
experience of freedom; and they took their opinions concerning it
from men who had no more experience of it than themselves, and
whose imaginations, inflamed by mystery and privation,
exaggerated the unknown enjoyment;--from men who raved about
patriotism without having ever had a country, and eulogised
tyrannicide while crouching before tyrants.  The maxim which the
French legislators learned in this school was, that political
liberty is an end, and not a means; that it is not merely
valuable as the great safeguard of order, of property, and of
morality, but that it is in itself a high and exquisite happiness
to which order, property, and morality ought without one scruple
to be sacrificed.  The lessons which may be learned from ancient
history are indeed most useful and important; but they were not
likely to be learned by men who, in all their rhapsodies about
the Athenian democracy, seemed utterly to forget that in that
democracy there were ten slaves to one citizen; and who
constantly decorated their invectives against the aristocrats
with panegyrics on Brutus and Cato,--two aristocrats, fiercer,
prouder, and more exclusive, than any that emigrated with the
Count of Artois.

We have never met with so vivid and interesting a picture of the
National Assembly as that which M. Dumont has set before us.  His
Mirabeau, in particular, is incomparable.  All the former
Mirabeaus were daubs in comparison.  Some were merely painted
from the imagination--others were gross caricatures:  this is the
very individual, neither god nor demon, but a man--a Frenchman--a
Frenchman of the eighteenth century, with great talents, with
strong passions, depraved by bad education, surrounded by
temptations of every kind,--made desperate at one time by
disgrace, and then again intoxicated by fame.  All his opposite
and seemingly inconsistent qualities are in this representation
so blended together as to make up a harmonious and natural whole. 
Till now, Mirabeau was to us, and, we believe, to most readers of
history, not a man, but a string of antitheses.  Henceforth he
will be a real human being, a remarkable and eccentric being
indeed, but perfectly conceivable.

He was fond, M. Dumont tells us, of giving odd compound
nicknames.  Thus, M. de Lafayette was Grandison-Cromwell; the
King of Prussia was Alaric-Cottin; D'Espremenil was Crispin-
Catiline.  We think that Mirabeau himself might be described,
after his own fashion, as a Wilkes-Chatham.  He had Wilkes's
sensuality, Wilkes's levity, Wilkes's insensibility to shame. 
Like Wilkes, he had brought on himself the censure even of men of
pleasure by the peculiar grossness of his immorality, and by the
obscenity of his writings.  Like Wilkes, he was heedless, not
only of the laws of morality, but of the laws of honour.  Yet he
affected, like Wilkes, to unite the character of the demagogue to
that of the fine gentleman.  Like Wilkes, he conciliated, by his
good-humour and his high spirits, the regard of many who despised
his character.  Like Wilkes, he was hideously ugly; like Wilkes,
he made a jest of his own ugliness; and, like Wilkes, he was, in
spite of his ugliness, very attentive to his dress, and very
successful in affairs of gallantry.

Resembling Wilkes in the lower and grosser parts of his
character, he had, in his higher qualities, some affinity to
Chatham.  His eloquence, as far as we can judge of it, bore no
inconsiderable resemblance to that of the great English minister. 
He was not eminently successful in long set speeches.  He was
not, on the other hand, a close and ready debater.  Sudden
bursts, which seemed to be the effect of inspiration--short
sentences which came like lightning, dazzling, burning, striking
down everything before them--sentences which, spoken at critical
moments, decided the fate of great questions--sentences which at
once became proverbs--sentences which everybody still knows by
heart--in these chiefly lay the oratorical power both of Chatham
and of Mirabeau.  There have been far greater speakers, and far
greater statesmen, than either of them; but we doubt whether any
men have, in modern times, exercised such vast personal influence
over stormy and divided assemblies.  The power of both was as
much moral as intellectual.  In true dignity of character, in
private and public virtue, it may seem absurd to institute any
comparison between them; but they had the same haughtiness and
vehemence of temper.  In their language and manner there was a
disdainful self-confidence, an imperiousness, a fierceness of
passion, before which all common minds quailed.  Even Murray and
Charles Townshend, though intellectually not inferior to Chatham,
were always cowed by him.  Barnave, in the same manner, though
the best debater in the National Assembly, flinched before the
energy of Mirabeau.  Men, except in bad novels, are not all good
or all evil.  It can scarcely be denied that the virtue of Lord
Chatham was a little theatrical.  On the other hand there was in
Mirabeau, not indeed anything deserving the name of virtue, but
that imperfect substitute for virtue which is found in almost all
superior minds,--a sensibility to the beautiful and the good,
which sometimes amounted to sincere enthusiasm; and which,
mingled with the desire of admiration, sometimes gave to his
character a lustre resembling the lustre of true goodness,--as
the "faded splendour wan" which lingered round the fallen
archangel resembled the exceeding brightness of those spirits who
had kept their first estate.

There are several other admirable portraits of eminent men in
these Memoirs.  That of Sieyes in particular, and that of
Talleyrand, are master-pieces, full of life and expression.  But
nothing in the book has interested us more than the view which M.
Dumont has presented to us, unostentatiously, and, we may say,
unconsciously, of his own character.  The sturdy rectitude, the
large charity, the good-nature, the modesty, the independent
spirit, the ardent philanthropy, the unaffected indifference to
money and to fame, make up a character which, while it has
nothing unnatural, seems to us to approach nearer to perfection
than any of the Grandisons and Allworthys of fiction.  The work
is not indeed precisely such a work as we had anticipated--it is
more lively, more picturesque, more amusing than we had promised
ourselves; and it is, on the other hand, less profound and
philosophic.  But, if it is not, in all respects, such as might
have been expected from the intellect of M. Dumont, it is
assuredly such as might have been expected from his heart.

...


BARERE.

(April 1844.)

"Memoires de Bertrand Barere":  publies par MM. Hippolyte Carnot,
Membre de la Chambre des Deputes, et David d'Angers, Membre de
l'Institut:  precedes d'une Notice Historique par H. Carnot.
4 tomes.  Paris:  1843.

This book has more than one title to our serious attention.  It
is an appeal, solemnly made to posterity by a man who played a
conspicuous part in great events, and who represents himself as
deeply aggrieved by the rash and malevolent censure of his
contemporaries.  To such an appeal we shall always give ready
audience.  We can perform no duty more useful to society, or more
agreeable to our own feelings, than that of making, as far as our
power extends, reparation to the slandered and persecuted
benefactors of mankind.  We therefore promptly took into our
consideration this copious apology for the life of Bertrand
Barere.  We have made up our minds; and we now purpose to do him,
by the blessing of God, full and signal justice.  It is to be
observed that the appellant in this case does not come into court
alone.  He is attended to the bar of public opinion by two
compurgators who occupy highly honourable stations.  One of these
is M. David of Angers, member of the institute, an eminent
sculptor, and, if we have been rightly informed, a favourite
pupil, though not a kinsman, of the painter who bore the same
name.  The other, to whom we owe the biographical preface, is M.
Hippolyte Carnot, member of the Chamber of Deputies, and son of
the celebrated Director.  In the judgment of M. David and of M.
Hippolyte Carnot, Barere was a deserving and an ill-used man--a
man who, though by no means faultless, must yet, when due
allowance is made for the force of circumstances and the
infirmity of human nature, be considered as on the whole entitled
to our esteem.  It will be for the public to determine, after a
full hearing, whether the editors have, by thus connecting their
names with that of Barere, raised his character or lowered their
own.

We are not conscious that, when we opened this book, we were
under the influence of any feeling likely to pervert our
judgment.  Undoubtedly we had long entertained a most
unfavourable opinion of Barere:  but to this opinion we were not
tied by any passion or by any interest.  Our dislike was a
reasonable dislike, and might have been removed by reason. 
Indeed our expectation was, that these Memoirs would in some
measure clear Barere's fame.  That he could vindicate himself
from all the charges which had been brought against him, we knew
to be impossible; and his editors admit that he has not done so. 
But we thought it highly probable that some grave accusations
would be refuted, and that many offences to which he would have
been forced to plead guilty would be greatly extenuated.  We were
not disposed to be severe.  We were fully aware that temptations
such as those to which the members of the Convention and of the
Committee of Public Safety were exposed must try severely the
strength of the firmest virtue.  Indeed our inclination has
always been to regard with an indulgence, which to some rigid
moralists appears excessive, those faults into which gentle and
noble spirits are sometimes hurried by the excitement of
conflict, by the maddening influence of sympathy, and by ill-
regulated zeal for a public cause.

With such feelings we read this book, and compared it with other
accounts of the events in which Barere bore a part.  It is now
our duty to express the opinion to which this investigation has
led us.

Our opinion then is this:  that Barere approached nearer than any
person mentioned in history or fiction, whether man or devil, to
the idea of consummate and universal depravity.  In him the
qualities which are the proper objects of hatred, and the
qualities which are the proper objects of contempt, preserve an
exquisite and absolute harmony.  In almost every particular sort
of wickedness he has had rivals.  His sensuality was immoderate;
but this was a failing common to him with many great and amiable
men.  There have been many men as cowardly as he, some as cruel,
a few as mean, a few as impudent.  There may also have been as
great liars, though we never met with them or read of them.  But
when we put everything together, sensuality, poltroonery,
baseness, effrontery, mendacity, barbarity, the result is
something which in a novel we should condemn as caricature, and
to which, we venture to say, no parallel can be found in history.

It would be grossly unjust, we acknowledge, to try a man situated
as Barere was by a severe standard.  Nor have we done so.  We
have formed our opinion of him, by comparing him, not with
politicians of stainless character, not with Chancellor
D'Aguesseau, or General Washington, or Mr Wilberforce, or Earl
Grey, but with his own colleagues of the Mountain.  That party
included a considerable number of the worst men that ever lived;
but we see in it nothing like Barere.  Compared with him, Fouche
seems honest; Billaud seems humane; Hebert seems to rise into
dignity.  Every other chief of a party, says M. Hippolyte Carnot,
has found apologists:  one set of men exalts the Girondists;
another set justifies Danton; a third deifies Robespierre:  but
Barere has remained without a defender.  We venture to suggest a
very simple solution of this phenomenon.  All the other chiefs of
parties had some good qualities; and Barere had none.  The
genius, courage, patriotism, and humanity of the Girondist
statesmen more than atoned for what was culpable in their
conduct, and should have protected them from the insult of being
compared with such a thing as Barere.  Danton and Robespierre
were indeed bad men; but in both of them some important parts of
the mind remained sound.  Danton was brave and resolute, fond of
pleasure, of power, and of distinction, with vehement passions,
with lax principles, but with some kind and manly feelings,
capable of great crimes, but capable also of friendship and of
compassion.  He, therefore, naturally finds admirers among
persons of bold and sanguine dispositions.  Robespierre was a
vain, envious, and suspicious man, with a hard heart, weak
nerves, and a gloomy temper.  But we cannot with truth deny that
he was, in the vulgar sense of the word, disinterested, that his
private life was correct, or that he was sincerely zealous for
his own system of politics and morals.  He, therefore, naturally
finds admirers among honest but moody and bitter democrats.  If
no class has taken the reputation of Barere under its patronage,
the reason is plain:  Barere had not a single virtue, nor even
the semblance of one.

It is true that he was not, as far as we are able to judge,
originally of a savage disposition; but this circumstance seems
to us only to aggravate his guilt.  There are some unhappy men
constitutionally prone to the darker passions, men all whose
blood is gall, and to whom bitter words and harsh actions are as
natural as snarling and biting to a ferocious dog.  To come into
the world with this wretched mental disease is a greater calamity
than to be born blind or deaf.  A man who, having such a temper,
keeps it in subjection, and constrains himself to behave
habitually with justice and humanity towards those who are in his
power, seems to us worthy of the highest admiration.  There have
been instances of this self-command; and they are among the most
signal triumphs of philosophy and religion.  On the other hand, a
man who, having been blessed by nature with a bland disposition,
gradually brings himself to inflict misery on his fellow-
creatures with indifference, with satisfaction, and at length
with a hideous rapture, deserves to be regarded as a portent of
wickedness; and such a man was Barere.  The history of his
downward progress is full of instruction.  Weakness, cowardice,
and fickleness were born with him; the best quality which he
received from nature was a good temper.  These, it is true, are
not very promising materials; yet, out of materials as
unpromising, high sentiments of piety and of honour have
sometimes made martyrs and heroes.  Rigid principles often do for
feeble minds what stays do for feeble bodies.  But Barere had no
principles at all.  His character was equally destitute of
natural and of acquired strength.  Neither in the commerce of
life, nor in books, did we ever become acquainted with any mind
so unstable, so utterly destitute of tone, so incapable of
independent thought and earnest preference, so ready to take
impressions and so ready to lose them.  He resembled those
creepers which must lean on something, and which, as soon as
their prop is removed, fall down in utter helplessness.  He could
no more stand up, erect and self-supported, in any cause, than
the ivy can rear itself like the oak, or the wild vine shoot to
heaven like the cedar of Lebanon.  It is barely possible that,
under good guidance and in favourable circumstances, such a man
might have slipped through life without discredit.  But the
unseaworthy craft, which even in still water would have been in
danger of going down from its own rottenness, was launched on a
raging ocean, amidst a storm in which a whole armada of gallant
ships was cast away.  The weakest and most servile of human
beings found himself on a sudden an actor in a Revolution which
convulsed the whole civilised world.  At first he fell under the
influence of humane and moderate men, and talked the language of
humanity and moderation.  But he soon found himself surrounded by
fierce and resolute spirits, scared by no danger and restrained
by no scruple.  He had to choose whether he would be their victim
or their accomplice.  His choice was soon made.  He tasted blood,
and felt no loathing; he tasted it again, and liked it well. 
Cruelty became with him, first a habit, then a passion, at last a
madness.  So complete and rapid was the degeneracy of his nature,
that within a very few months after the time when he had passed
for a good-natured man, he had brought himself to look on the
despair and misery of his fellow-creatures with a glee resembling
that of the fiends whom Dante saw watching the pool of seething
pitch in Malebolge.  He had many associates in guilt; but he
distinguished himself from them all by the Bacchanalian
exaltation which he seemed to feel in the work of death.  He was
drunk with innocent and noble blood, laughed and shouted as he
butchered, and howled strange songs and reeled in strange dances
amidst the carnage.  Then came a sudden and violent turn of
fortune.  The miserable man was hurled down from the height of
power to hopeless ruin and infamy.  The shock sobered him at
once.  The fumes of his horrible intoxication passed away.  But
he was now so irrecoverably depraved that the discipline of
adversity only drove him further into wickedness.  Ferocious
vices, of which he had never been suspected, had been developed
in him by power.  Another class of vices, less hateful perhaps,
but more despicable, was now developed in him by poverty and
disgrace.  Having appalled the whole world by great crimes
perpetrated under the pretence of zeal for liberty, he became the
meanest of all the tools of despotism.  It is not easy to settle
the order of precedence among his vices, but we are inclined to
think that his baseness was, on the whole, a rarer and more
marvellous thing than his cruelty.

This is the view which we have long taken of Barere's character;
but, till we read these Memoirs, we held our opinion with the
diffidence which becomes a judge who has only heard one side. 
The case seemed strong, and in parts unanswerable; yet we did not
know what the accused party might have to say for himself; and,
not being much inclined to take our fellow-creatures either for
angels of light or for angels of darkness, we could not but feel
some suspicion that his offences had been exaggerated.  That
suspicion is now at an end.  The vindication is before us.  It
occupies four volumes.  It was the work of forty years.  It would
be absurd to suppose that it does not refute every serious charge
which admitted of refutation.  How many serious charges, then,
are here refuted?  Not a single one.  Most of the imputations
which have been thrown on Barere he does not even notice.  In
such cases, of course, judgment must go against him by default. 
The fact is, that nothing can be more meagre and uninteresting
than his account of the great public transactions in which he was
engaged.  He gives us hardly a word of new information respecting
the proceedings of the Committee of Public Safety; and, by way of
compensation, tells us long stories about things which happened
before he emerged from obscurity, and after he had again sunk
into it.  Nor is this the worst.  As soon as he ceases to write
trifles, he begins to write lies; and such lies!  A man who has
never been within the tropics does not know what a thunderstorm
means; a man who has never looked on Niagara has but a faint idea
of a cataract; and he who has not read Barere's Memoirs may be
said not to know what it is to lie.  Among the numerous classes
which make up the great genus Mendacium, the Mendacium
Vasconicum, or Gascon lie, has, during some centuries, been
highly esteemed as peculiarly circumstantial and peculiarly
impudent; and, among the Mendacia Vasconica, the Mendacium
Barerianum is, without doubt, the finest species.  It is indeed a
superb variety, and quite throws into the shade some Mendacia
which we were used to regard with admiration.  The Mendacium
Wraxallianum, for example, though by no means to be despised,
will not sustain the comparison for a moment.  Seriously, we
think that M. Hippolyte Carnot is much to blame in this matter. 
We can hardly suppose him to be worse read than ourselves in the
history of the Convention, a history which must interest him
deeply, not only as a Frenchman, but also as a son.  He must,
therefore, be perfectly aware that many of the most important
statements which these volumes contain are falsehoods, such as
Corneille's Dorante, or Moliere's Scapin, or Colin d'Harleville's
Monsieur de Crac would have been ashamed to utter.  We are far,
indeed, from holding M. Hippolyte Carnot answerable for Barere's
want of veracity; but M. Hippolyte Carnot has arranged these
Memoirs, has introduced them to the world by a laudatory preface,
has described them as documents of great historical value, and
has illustrated them by notes.  We cannot but think that, by
acting thus, he contracted some obligations of which he does not
seem to have been at all aware; and that he ought not to have
suffered any monstrous fiction to go forth under the sanction of
his name, without adding a line at the foot of the page for the
purpose of cautioning the reader.

We will content ourselves at present with pointing out two
instances of Barere's wilful and deliberate mendacity; namely,
his account of the death of Marie Antoinette, and his account of
the death of the Girondists.  His account of the death of Marie
Antoinette is as follows:--"Robespierre in his turn proposed that
the members of the Capet family should be banished, and that
Marie Antoinette should be brought to trial before the
Revolutionary Tribunal.  He would have been better employed in
concerting military measures which might have repaired our
disasters in Belgium, and might have arrested the progress of the
enemies of the Revolution in the west."--(Volume ii. page 312.)

Now, it is notorious that Marie Antoinette was sent before the
Revolutionary Tribunal, not at Robespierre's instance, but in
direct opposition to Robespierre's wishes.  We will cite a single
authority, which is quite decisive.  Bonaparte, who had no
conceivable motive to disguise the truth, who had the best
opportunities of knowing the truth, and who, after his marriage
with the Archduchess, naturally felt an interest in the fate of
his wife's kinswomen, distinctly affirmed that Robespierre
opposed the trying of the Queen.  (O'Meara's "Voice from St
Helena", ii. 170.)  Who, then, was the person who really did
propose that the Capet family should be banished, and that Marie
Antoinette should be tried?  Full information will be found in
the "Moniteur".  ("Moniteur", 2d, 7th and 9th of August, 1793.) 
From that valuable record it appears that, on the first of August
1793, an orator, deputed by the Committee of Public Safety,
addressed the Convention in a long and elaborate discourse.  He
asked, in passionate language, how it happened that the enemies
of the Republic still continued to hope for success.  "Is it," he
cried, "because we have too long forgotten the crimes of the
Austrian woman?  Is it because we have shown so strange an
indulgence to the race of our ancient tyrants?  It is time that
this unwise apathy should cease; it is time to extirpate from the
soil of the Republic the last roots of royalty.  As for the
children of Louis the conspirator, they are hostages for the
Republic.  The charge of their maintenance shall be reduced to
what is necessary for the food and keep of two individuals.  The
public treasure shall no longer be lavished on creatures who have
too long been considered as privileged.  But behind them lurks a
woman who has been the cause of all the disasters of France, and
whose share in every project adverse to the revolution has long
been known.  National justice claims its rights over her.  It is
to the tribunal appointed for the trial of conspirators that she
ought to be sent.  It is only by striking the Austrian woman that
you can make Francis and George, Charles and William, sensible of
the crimes which their ministers and their armies have
committed."  The speaker concluded by moving that Marie
Antoinette should be brought to judgment, and should, for that
end, be forthwith transferred to the Conciergerie; and that all
the members of the house of Capet, with the exception of those
who were under the sword of the law, and of the two children of
Louis, should be banished from the French territory.  The motion
was carried without debate.

Now, who was the person who made this speech and this motion?  It
was Barere himself.  It is clear, then, that Barere attributed
his own mean insolence and barbarity to one who, whatever his
crimes may have been, was in this matter innocent.  The only
question remaining is, whether Barere was misled by his memory,
or wrote a deliberate falsehood.

We are convinced that he wrote a deliberate falsehood.  His
memory is described by his editors as remarkably good, and must
have been bad indeed if he could not remember such a fact as
this.  It is true that the number of murders in which he
subsequently bore a part was so great that he might well confound
one with another, that he might well forget what part of the
daily hecatomb was consigned to death by himself, and what part
by his colleagues.  But two circumstances make it quite
incredible that the share which he took in the death of Marie
Antoinette should have escaped his recollection.  She was one of
his earliest victims.  She was one of his most illustrious
victims.  The most hardened assassin remembers the first time
that he shed blood; and the widow of Louis was no ordinary
sufferer.  If the question had been about some milliner,
butchered for hiding in her garret her brother who had let drop a
word against the Jacobin Club--if the question had been about
some old nun, dragged to death for having mumbled what were
called fanatical words over her beads--Barere's memory might well
have deceived him.  It would be as unreasonable to expect him to
remember all the wretches whom he slew as all the pinches of
snuff that he took.  But, though Barere murdered many hundreds of
human beings, he murdered only one Queen.  That he, a small
country lawyer, who, a few years before, would have thought
himself honoured by a glance or a word from the daughter of so
many Caesars, should call her the Austrian woman, should send her
from jail to jail, should deliver her over to the executioner,
was surely a great event in his life.  Whether he had reason to
be proud of it or ashamed of it, is a question on which we may
perhaps differ from his editors; but they will admit, we think,
that he could not have forgotten it.

We, therefore, confidently charge Barere with having written a
deliberate falsehood; and we have no hesitation in saying that we
never, in the course of any historical researches that we have
happened to make, fell in with a falsehood so audacious, except
only the falsehood which we are about to expose.

Of the proceeding against the Girondists, Barere speaks with just
severity.  He calls it an atrocious injustice perpetrated against
the legislators of the republic.  He complains that distinguished
deputies, who ought to have been readmitted to their seats in the
Convention, were sent to the scaffold as conspirators.  The day,
he exclaims, was a day of mourning for France.  It mutilated the
national representation; it weakened the sacred principle, that
the delegates of the people were inviolable.  He protests that he
had no share in the guilt.  "I have had," he says, "the patience
to go through the 'Moniteur', extracting all the charges brought
against deputies, and all the decrees for arresting and
impeaching deputies.  Nowhere will you find my name.  I never
brought a charge against any of my colleagues, or made a report
against any, or drew up an impeachment against any."  (Volume ii.
407.)

Now, we affirm that this is a lie.  We affirm that Barere himself
took the lead in the proceedings of the Convention against the
Girondists.  We affirm that he, on the twenty-eighth of July
1793, proposed a decree for bringing nine Girondist deputies to
trial, and for putting to death sixteen other Girondist deputies
without any trial at all.  We affirm that, when the accused
deputies had been brought to trial, and when some apprehension
arose that their eloquence might produce an effect even on the
Revolutionary Tribunal, Barere did, on the 8th of Brumaire,
second a motion for a decree authorising the tribunal to decide
without hearing out the defence; and, for the truth of every one
of these things so affirmed by us, we appeal to the very
"Moniteur" to which Barere has dared to appeal.  ("Moniteur",
31st of July 1793, and Nonidi, first Decade of Brumaire, in the
year 2(?).)

What M. Hippolyte Carnot, knowing, as he must know, that this
book contains such falsehoods as those which we have exposed, can
have meant, when he described it as a valuable addition to our
stock of historical information, passes our comprehension.  When
a man is not ashamed to tell lies about events which took place
before hundreds of witnesses, and which are recorded in well-
known and accessible books, what credit can we give to his
account of things done in corners?  No historian who does not
wish to be laughed at will ever cite the unsupported authority of
Barere as sufficient to prove any fact whatever.  The only thing,
as far as we can see, on which these volumes throw any light, is
the exceeding baseness of the author.

So much for the veracity of the Memoirs.  In a literary point of
view, they are beneath criticism.  They are as shallow, flippant,
and affected, as Barere's oratory in the Convention.  They are
also, what his oratory in the Convention was not, utterly
insipid.  In fact, they are the mere dregs and rinsings of a
bottle of which even the first froth was but of very questionable
flavour.

We will now try to present our readers with a sketch of this
man's life.  We shall, of course, make very sparing use indeed of
his own Memoirs; and never without distrust, except where they
are confirmed by other evidence.

Bertrand Barere was born in the year 1755, at Tarbes in Gascony.
His father was the proprietor of a small estate at Vieuzac, in
the beautiful vale of Argeles.  Bertrand always loved to be
called Barere de Vieuzac, and flattered himself with the hope
that, by the help of this feudal addition to his name, he might
pass for a gentleman.  He was educated for the bar at Toulouse,
the seat of one of the most celebrated parliaments of the
kingdom, practised as an advocate with considerable success, and
wrote some small pieces, which he sent to the principal literary
societies in the south of France.  Among provincial towns,
Toulouse seems to have been remarkably rich in indifferent
versifiers and critics.  It gloried especially in one venerable
institution, called the Academy of the Floral Games.  This body
held every year a grand meeting which was a subject of intense
interest to the whole city, and at which flowers of gold and
silver were given as prizes for odes, for idyls, and for
something that was called eloquence.  These bounties produced of
course the ordinary effect of bounties, and turned people who
might have been thriving attorneys and useful apothecaries into
small wits and bad poets.  Barere does not appear to have been so
lucky as to obtain any of these precious flowers; but one of his
performances was mentioned with honour.  At Montauban he was more
fortunate.  The academy of that town bestowed on him several
prizes, one for a panegyric on Louis the Twelfth, in which the
blessings of monarchy and the loyalty of the French nation were
set forth; and another for a panegyric on poor Franc de
Pompignan, in which, as may easily be supposed, the philosophy of
the eighteenth century was sharply assailed.  Then Barere found
an old stone inscribed with three Latin words, and wrote a
dissertation upon it, which procured him a seat in a learned
Assembly, called the Toulouse Academy of Sciences, Inscriptions,
and Polite Literature.  At length the doors of the Academy of the
Floral Games were opened to so much merit.  Barere, in his
thirty-third year, took his seat as one of that illustrious
brotherhood, and made an inaugural oration which was greatly
admired.  He apologises for recounting these triumphs of his
youthful genius.  We own that we cannot blame him for dwelling
long on the least disgraceful portion of his existence.  To send
in declamations for prizes offered by provincial academies is
indeed no very useful or dignified employment for a bearded man;
but it would have been well if Barere had always been so
employed.

In 1785 he married a young lady of considerable fortune.  Whether
she was in other respects qualified to make a home happy, is a
point respecting which we are imperfectly informed.  In a little
work, entitled "Melancholy Pages", which was written in 1797,
Barere avers that his marriage was one of mere convenience, that
at the altar his heart was heavy with sorrowful forebodings, that
he turned pale as he pronounced the solemn "Yes," that unbidden
tears rolled down his cheeks, that his mother shared his
presentiment, and that the evil omen was accomplished.  "My
marriage," he says, "was one of the most unhappy of marriages." 
So romantic a tale, told by so noted a liar, did not command our
belief.  We were, therefore, not much surprised to discover that,
in his Memoirs, he calls his wife a most amiable woman, and
declares that, after he had been united to her six years, he
found her as amiable as ever.  He complains, indeed, that she was
too much attached to royalty and to the old superstition; but he
assures us that his respect for her virtues induced him to
tolerate her prejudices.  Now Barere, at the time of his
marriage, was himself a Royalist and a Catholic.  He had gained
one prize by flattering the Throne, and another by defending the
Church.  It is hardly possible, therefore, that disputes about
politics or religion should have embittered his domestic life
till some time after he became a husband.  Our own guess is, that
his wife was, as he says, a virtuous and amiable woman, and that
she did her best to make him happy during some years.  It seems
clear that, when circumstances developed the latent atrocity of
his character, she could no longer endure him, refused to see
him, and sent back his letters unopened.  Then it was, we
imagine, that he invented the fable about his distress on his
wedding day.

In 1788 Barere paid his first visit to Paris, attended reviews,
heard Laharpe at the Lycaeum, and Condorcet at the Academy of
Sciences, stared at the envoys of Tippoo Sahib, saw the Royal
Family dine at Versailles, and kept a journal in which he noted
down adventures and speculations.  Some parts of this journal are
printed in the first volume of the work before us, and are
certainly most characteristic.  The worst vices of the writer had
not yet shown themselves; but the weakness which was the parent
of those vices appears in every line.  His levity, his
inconsistency, his servility, were already what they were to the
last.  All his opinions, all his feelings, spin round and round
like a weathercock in a whirlwind.  Nay, the very impressions
which he receives through his senses are not the same two days
together.  He sees Louis the Sixteenth, and is so much blinded by
loyalty as to find his Majesty handsome.  "I fixed my eyes," he
says, "with a lively curiosity on his fine countenance, which I
thought open and noble."  The next time that the king appears all
is altered.  His Majesty's eyes are without the smallest
expression; he has a vulgar laugh which seems like idiocy, an
ignoble figure, an awkward gait, and the look of a big boy ill
brought up.  It is the same with more important questions. 
Barere is for the parliaments on the Monday and against the
parliaments on the Tuesday, for feudality in the morning and
against feudality in the afternoon.  One day he admires the
English constitution; then he shudders to think that, in the
struggles by which that constitution had been obtained, the
barbarous islanders had murdered a king, and gives the preference
to the constitution of Bearn.  Bearn, he says, has a sublime
constitution, a beautiful constitution.  There the nobility and
clergy meet in one house, and the Commons in another.  If the
houses differ, the King has the casting vote.  A few weeks later
we find him raving against the principles of this sublime and
beautiful constitution.  To admit deputies of the nobility and
clergy into the legislature is, he says, neither more nor less
than to admit enemies of the nation into the legislature.

In this state of mind, without one settled purpose or opinion,
the slave of the last word, royalist, aristocrat, democrat,
according to the prevailing sentiment of the coffee-house or
drawing-room into which he had just looked, did Barere enter into
public life.  The States-General had been summoned.  Barere went
down to his own province, was there elected one of the
representatives of the Third Estate, and returned to Paris in May
1789.

A great crisis, often predicted, had at last arrived.  In no
country, we conceive, have intellectual freedom and political
servitude existed together so long as in France, during the
seventy or eighty years which preceded the last convocation of
the Orders.  Ancient abuses and new theories flourished in equal
vigour side by side.  The people, having no constitutional means
of checking even the most flagitious misgovernment, were
indemnified for oppression by being suffered to luxuriate in
anarchical speculation, and to deny or ridicule every principle
on which the institutions of the State reposed.  Neither those
who attribute the downfall of the old French institutions to the
public grievances, nor those who attribute it to the doctrines of
the philosophers, appear to us to have taken into their view more
than one half of the subject.  Grievances as heavy have often
been endured without producing a revolution; doctrines as bold
have often been propounded without producing a revolution.  The
question, whether the French nation was alienated from its old
polity by the follies and vices of the Viziers and Sultanas who
pillaged and disgraced it, or by the writings of Voltaire and
Rousseau, seems to us as idle as the question whether it was fire
or gunpowder that blew up the mills at Hounslow.  Neither cause
would have sufficed alone.  Tyranny may last through ages where
discussion is suppressed.  Discussion may safely be left free by
rulers who act on popular principles.  But combine a press like
that of London with a government like that of St Petersburg; and
the inevitable effect will be an explosion that will shake the
world.  So it was in France.  Despotism and License, mingling in
unblessed union, engendered that mighty Revolution in which the
lineaments of both parents were strangely blended.  The long
gestation was accomplished; and Europe saw, with mixed hope and
terror, that agonising travail and that portentous birth.

Among the crowd of legislators which at this conjuncture poured
from all the provinces of France into Paris, Barere made no
contemptible figure.  The opinions which he for the moment
professed were popular, yet not extreme.  His character was fair;
his personal advantages are said to have been considerable; and,
from the portrait which is prefixed to these Memoirs, and which
represents him as he appeared in the Convention, we would judge
that his features must have been strikingly handsome, though we
think that we can read in them cowardice and meanness very
legibly written by the hand of God.  His conversation was lively
and easy; his manners remarkably good for a country lawyer. 
Women of rank and wit said that he was the only man who, on his
first arrival from a remote province, had that indescribable air
which it was supposed that Paris alone could give.  His
eloquence, indeed, was by no means so much admired in the capital
as it had been by the ingenious academicians of Montauban and
Toulouse.  His style was thought very bad; and very bad, if a
foreigner may venture to judge, it continued to the last.  It
would, however, be unjust to deny that he had some talents for
speaking and writing.  His rhetoric, though deformed by every
imaginable fault of taste, from bombast down to buffoonery, was
not wholly without force and vivacity.  He had also one quality
which, in active life, often gives fourth-rate men an advantage
over first-rate men.  Whatever he could do, he could do without
effort, at any moment, in any abundance, and on any side of any
question.  There was, indeed, a perfect harmony between his moral
character and his intellectual character.  His temper was that of
a slave; his abilities were exactly those which qualified him to
be a useful slave.  Of thinking to purpose, he was utterly
incapable; but he had wonderful readiness in arranging and
expressing thoughts furnished by others.

In the National Assembly he had no opportunity of displaying the
full extent either of his talents or of his vices.  He was indeed
eclipsed by much abler men.  He went, as was his habit, with the
stream, spoke occasionally with some success, and edited a
journal called the "Point du Jour", in which the debates of the
Assembly were reported.

He at first ranked by no means among the violent reformers.  He
was not friendly to that new division of the French territory
which was among the most important changes introduced by the
Revolution, and was especially unwilling to see his native
province dismembered.  He was entrusted with the task of framing
Reports on the Woods and Forests.  Louis was exceedingly anxious
about this matter; for his majesty was a keen sportsman, and
would much rather have gone without the Veto, or the prerogative
of making peace and war, than without his hunting and shooting. 
Gentlemen of the royal household were sent to Barere, in order to
intercede for the deer and pheasants.  Nor was this intercession
unsuccessful.  The reports were so drawn that Barere was
afterwards accused of having dishonestly sacrificed the interests
of the public to the tastes of the court.  To one of these
reports he had the inconceivable folly and bad taste to prefix a
punning motto from Virgil, fit only for such essays as he had
been in the habit of composing for the Floral Games--

"Si canimus sylvas, sylvae sint Consule dignae."

This literary foppery was one of the few things in which he was
consistent.  Royalist or Girondist, Jacobin or Imperialist, he
was always a Trissotin.

As the monarchical party became weaker and weaker, Barere
gradually estranged himself more and more from it, and drew
closer and closer to the republicans.  It would seem that, during
this transition, he was for a time closely connected with the
family of Orleans.  It is certain that he was entrusted with the
guardianship of the celebrated Pamela, afterwards Lady Edward
Fitzgerald; and it was asserted that he received during some
years a pension of twelve thousand francs from the Palais Royal.

At the end of September 1791, the labours of the National
Assembly terminated, and those of the first and last Legislative
Assembly commenced.

It had been enacted that no member of the National Assembly
should sit in the Legislative Assembly; a preposterous and
mischievous regulation, to which the disasters which followed
must in part be ascribed.  In England, what would be thought of a
Parliament which did not contain one single person who had ever
sat in parliament before?  Yet it may safely be affirmed that the
number of Englishmen who, never having taken any share in public
affairs, are yet well qualified, by knowledge and observation, to
be members of the legislature is at least a hundred times as
great as the number of Frenchmen who were so qualified in 1791.
How, indeed, should it have been otherwise?  In England,
centuries of representative government have made all educated
people in some measure statesmen.  In France the National
Assembly had probably been composed of as good materials as were
then to be found.  It had undoubtedly removed a vast mass of
abuses; some of its members had read and thought much about
theories of government; and others had shown great oratorical
talents.  But that kind of skill which is required for the
constructing, launching, and steering of a polity was lamentably
wanting; for it is a kind of skill to which practice contributes
more than books.  Books are indeed useful to the politician, as
they are useful to the navigator and to the surgeon.  But the
real navigator is formed on the waves; the real surgeon is formed
at bedsides; and the conflicts of free states are the real school
of constitutional statesmen.  The National Assembly had, however,
now served an apprenticeship of two laborious and eventful years. 
It had, indeed, by no means finished its education; but it was no
longer, as on the day when it met, altogether rude to political
functions.  Its later proceedings contain abundant proof that the
members had profited by their experience.  Beyond all doubt there
was not in France any equal number of persons possessing in an
equal degree the qualities necessary for the judicious direction
of public affairs; and, just at this moment, these legislators,
misled by a childish wish to display their own disinterestedness,
deserted the duties which they had half learned, and which nobody
else had learned at all, and left their hall to a second crowd of
novices, who had still to master the first rudiments of political
business.  When Barere wrote his Memoirs, the absurdity of this
self-denying ordinance had been proved by events, and was, we
believe, acknowledged by all parties.  He accordingly, with his
usual mendacity, speaks of it in terms implying that he had
opposed it.  There was, he tells us, no good citizen who did not
regret this fatal vote.  Nay, all wise men, he says, wished the
National Assembly to continue its sittings as the first
Legislative Assembly.  But no attention was paid to the wishes of
the enlightened friends of liberty; and the generous but fatal
suicide was perpetrated.  Now the fact is, that Barere, far from
opposing this ill-advised measure, was one of those who most
eagerly supported it; that he described it from the tribune as
wise and magnanimous; that he assigned, as his reasons for taking
this view, some of those phrases in which orators of his class
delight, and which, on all men who have the smallest insight into
politics, produce an effect very similar to that of ipecacuanha. 
"Those," he said, "who have framed a constitution for their
country are, so to speak, out of the pale of that social state of
which they are the authors; for creative power is not in the same
sphere with that which it has created."

M. Hippolyte Carnot has noticed this untruth, and attributes it
to mere forgetfulness.  We leave it to him to reconcile his very
charitable supposition with what he elsewhere says of the
remarkable excellence of Barere's memory.

Many members of the National Assembly were indemnified for the
sacrifice of legislative power by appointments in various
departments of the public service.  Of these fortunate persons
Barere was one.  A high Court of Appeal had just been instituted. 
This court was to sit at Paris:  but its jurisdiction was to
extend over the whole realm; and the departments were to choose
the judges.  Barere was nominated by the department of the Upper
Pyrenees, and took his seat in the Palace of Justice.  He
asserts, and our readers may, if they choose, believe, that it
was about this time in contemplation to make him Minister of the
Interior, and that in order to avoid so grave a responsibility,
he obtained permission to pay a visit to his native place.  It is
certain that he left Paris early in the year 1792, and passed
some months in the south of France.

In the mean time, it became clear that the constitution of 1791
would not work.  It was, indeed, not to be expected that a
constitution new both in its principles and its details would at
first work easily.  Had the chief magistrate enjoyed the entire
confidence of the people, had he performed his part with the
utmost zeal, fidelity, and ability--had the representative body
included all the wisest statesmen of France, the difficulties
might still have been found insuperable.  But, in fact, the
experiment was made under every disadvantage.  The King, very
naturally, hated the constitution.  In the Legislative Assembly
were men of genius and men of good intentions, but not a single
man of experience.  Nevertheless, if France had been suffered to
settle her own affairs without foreign interference, it is
possible that the calamities which followed might have been
averted.  The King, who, with many good qualities, was sluggish
and sensual, might have found compensation for his lost
prerogatives in his immense civil list, in his palaces and
hunting grounds, in soups, Perigord pies, and champagne.  The
people, finding themselves secure in the enjoyment of the
valuable reforms which the National Assembly had, in the midst of
all its errors, effected, would not have been easily excited by
demagogues to acts of atrocity; or, if acts of atrocity had been
committed, those acts would probably have produced a speedy and
violent reaction.  Had tolerable quiet been preserved during a
few years, the constitution of 1791 might perhaps have taken
root, might have gradually acquired the strength which time alone
can give, and might, with some modifications which were
undoubtedly needed, have lasted down to the present time.  The
European coalition against the Revolution extinguished all hope
of such a result.  The deposition of Louis was, in our opinion,
the necessary consequence of that coalition.  The question was
now no longer, whether the King should have an absolute Veto or a
suspensive Veto, whether there should be one chamber or two
chambers, whether the members of the representative body should
be re-eligible or not; but whether France should belong to the
French.  The independence of the nation, the integrity of the
territory, were at stake; and we must say plainly that we
cordially approve of the conduct of those Frenchmen who, at that
conjuncture, resolved, like our own Blake, to play the men for
their country, under whatever form of government their country
might fall.

It seems to us clear that the war with the Continental coalition
was, on the side of France, at first a defensive war, and
therefore a just war.  It was not a war for small objects, or
against despicable enemies.  On the event were staked all the
dearest interests of the French people.  Foremost among the
threatening powers appeared two great and martial monarchies,
either of which, situated as France then was, might be regarded
as a formidable assailant.  It is evident that, under such
circumstances, the French could not, without extreme imprudence,
entrust the supreme administration of their affairs to any person
whose attachment to the national cause admitted of doubt.  Now,
it is no reproach to the memory of Louis to say that he was not
attached to the national cause.  Had he been so, he would have
been something more than man.  He had held absolute power, not by
usurpation, but by the accident of birth, and by the ancient
polity of the kingdom.  That power he had, on the whole, used
with lenity.  He had meant well by his people.  He had been
willing to make to them, of his own mere motion, concessions such
as scarcely any other sovereign has ever made except under
duress.  He had paid the penalty of faults not his own, of the
haughtiness and ambition of some of his predecessors, of the
dissoluteness and baseness of others.  He had been vanquished,
taken captive, led in triumph, put in ward.  He had escaped; he
had been caught; he had been dragged back like a runaway galley-
slave to the oar.  He was still a state prisoner.  His quiet was
broken by daily affronts and lampoons.  Accustomed from the
cradle to be treated with profound reverence, he was now forced
to command his feelings, while men who, a few months before, had
been hackney writers or country attorneys, sat in his presence
with covered heads, and addressed him in the easy tone of
equality.  Conscious of fair intentions, sensible of hard usage,
he doubtless detested the Revolution; and, while charged with the
conduct of the war against the confederates, pined in secret for
the sight of the German eagles and the sound of the German drums. 
We do not blame him for this.  But can we blame those who, being
resolved to defend the work of the National Assembly against the
interference of strangers, were not disposed to have him at their
head in the fearful struggle which was approaching?  We have
nothing to say in defence or extenuation of the insolence,
injustice, and cruelty with which, after the victory of the
republicans, he and his family were treated.  But this we say,
that the French had only one alternative, to deprive him of the
powers of first magistrate, or to ground their arms and submit
patiently to foreign dictation.  The events of the tenth of
August sprang inevitably from the league of Pilnitz.  The King's
palace was stormed; his guards were slaughtered.  He was
suspended from his regal functions; and the Legislative Assembly
invited the nation to elect an extraordinary Convention, with the
full powers which the conjuncture required.  To this Convention
the members of the National Assembly were eligible; and Barere
was chosen by his own department.

The Convention met on the 21st of September 1792.  The first
proceedings were unanimous.  Royalty was abolished by
acclamation.  No objections were made to this great change; and
no reasons were assigned for it.  For certainly we cannot honour
with the name of reasons such apophthegms, as that kings are in
the moral world what monsters are in the physical world; and that
the history of kings is the martyrology of nations.  But, though
the discussion was worthy only of a debating club of schoolboys,
the resolution to which the Convention came seems to have been
that which sound policy dictated.  In saying this, we do not mean
to express an opinion that a republic is, either in the abstract
the best form of government, or is, under ordinary circumstances,
the form of government best suited to the French people.  Our own
opinion is, that the best governments which have ever existed in
the world have been limited monarchies; and that France, in
particular, has never enjoyed so much prosperity and freedom as
under a limited monarchy.  Nevertheless, we approve of the vote
of the Convention which abolished kingly government.  The
interference of foreign powers had brought on a crisis which made
extraordinary measures necessary.  Hereditary monarchy may be,
and we believe that it is, a very useful institution in a country
like France.  And masts are very useful parts of a ship.  But, if
the ship is on her beam-ends, it may be necessary to cut the
masts away.  When once she has righted, she may come safe into
port under jury rigging, and there be completely repaired.  But,
in the meantime, she must be hacked with unsparing hand, lest
that which, under ordinary circumstances, is an essential part of
her fabric should, in her extreme distress, sink her to the
bottom.  Even so there are political emergencies in which it is
necessary that governments should be mutilated of their fair
proportions for a time, lest they be cast away forever; and with
such an emergency the Convention had to deal.  The first object
of a good Frenchman should have been to save France from the fate
of Poland.  The first requisite of a government was entire
devotion to the national cause.  That requisite was wanting in
Louis; and such a want, at such a moment, could not be supplied
by any public or private virtues.  If the king were set aside,
the abolition of kingship necessarily followed.  In the state in
which the public mind then was, it would have been idle to think
of doing what our ancestors did in 1688, and what the French
Chamber of Deputies did in 1830.  Such an attempt would have
failed amidst universal derision and execration.  It would have
disgusted all zealous men of all opinions; and there were then
few men who were not zealous.  Parties fatigued by long conflict,
and instructed by the severe discipline of that school in which
alone mankind will learn, are disposed to listen to the voice of
a mediator.  But when they are in their first heady youth, devoid
of experience, fresh for exertion, flushed with hope, burning
with animosity, they agree only in spurning out of their way the
daysman who strives to take his stand between them and to lay his
hand upon them both.  Such was in 1792 the state of France.  On
one side was the great name of the heir of Hugh Capet, the
thirty-third king of the third race; on the other side was the
great name of the republic.  There was no rallying point save
these two.  It was necessary to make a choice; and those, in our
opinion, judged well who, waving for the moment all subordinate
questions, preferred independence to subjugation, and the natal
soil to the emigrant camp.

As to the abolition of royalty, and as to the vigorous
prosecution of the war, the whole Convention seemed to be united
as one man.  But a deep and broad gulf separated the
representative body into two great parties.

On one side were those statesmen who are called, from the name of
the department which some of them represented, the Girondists,
and, from the name of one of their most conspicuous leaders, the
Brissotines.  In activity and practical ability, Brissot and
Gensonne were the most conspicuous among them.  In parliamentary
eloquence, no Frenchman of that time can be considered as equal
to Vergniaud.  In a foreign country, and after the lapse of half
a century, some parts of his speeches are still read with
mournful admiration.  No man, we are inclined to believe, ever
rose so rapidly to such a height of oratorical excellence.  His
whole public life lasted barely two years.  This is a
circumstance which distinguishes him from our own greatest
speakers, Fox, Burke, Pitt, Sheridan, Windham, Canning.  Which of
these celebrated men would now be remembered as an orator, if he
had died two years after he first took his seat in the House of
Commons?  Condorcet brought to the Girondist party a different
kind of strength.  The public regarded him with justice as an
eminent mathematician, and, with less reason, as a great master
of ethical and political science; the philosophers considered him
as their chief, as the rightful heir, by intellectual descent and
by solemn adoption, of their deceased sovereign D'Alembert.  In
the same ranks were found Guadet, Isnard, Barbaroux, Buzot,
Louvet, too well known as the author of a very ingenious and very
licentious romance, and more honourably distinguished by the
generosity with which he pleaded for the unfortunate, and by the
intrepidity with which he defied the wicked and powerful.  Two
persons whose talents were not brilliant, but who enjoyed a high
reputation for probity and public spirit, Petion and Roland, lent
the whole weight of their names to the Girondist connection.  The
wife of Roland brought to the deliberations of her husband's
friends masculine courage and force of thought, tempered by
womanly grace and vivacity.  Nor was the splendour of a great
military reputation wanting to this celebrated party.  Dumourier,
then victorious over the foreign invaders, and at the height of
popular favour, must be reckoned among the allies of the Gironde.

The errors of the Brissotines were undoubtedly neither few nor
small; but, when we fairly compare their conduct with the conduct
of any other party which acted or suffered during the French
Revolution, we are forced to admit their superiority in every
quality except that single quality which in such times prevails
over every other, decision.  They were zealous for the great
social reform which had been effected by the National Assembly;
and they were right.  For, though that reform was, in some
respects, carried too far, it was a blessing well worth even the
fearful price which has been paid for it.  They were resolved to
maintain the independence of their country against foreign
invaders; and they were right.  For the heaviest of all yokes is
the yoke of the stranger.  They thought that, if Louis remained
at their head, they could not carry on with the requisite energy
the conflict against the European coalition.  They therefore
concurred in establishing a republican government; and here,
again, they were right.  For, in that struggle for life and
death, it would have been madness to trust a hostile or even a
half hearted leader.

Thus far they went along with the revolutionary movement.  At
this point they stopped; and, in our judgment, they were right in
stopping, as they had been right in moving.  For great ends, and
under extraordinary circumstances, they had concurred in measures
which, together with much good, had necessarily produced much
evil; which had unsettled the public mind; which had taken away
from government the sanction of prescription; which had loosened
the very foundations of property and law.  They thought that it
was now their duty to prop what it had recently been their duty
to batter.  They loved liberty, but liberty associated with
order, with justice, with mercy, and with civilisation.  They
were republicans; but they were desirous to adorn their republic
with all that had given grace and dignity to the fallen monarchy. 
They hoped that the humanity, the courtesy, the taste, which had
done much in old times to mitigate the slavery of France, would
now lend additional charms to her freedom.  They saw with horror
crimes exceeding in atrocity those which had disgraced the
infuriated religious factions of the sixteenth century,
perpetrated in the name of reason and philanthropy.  They
demanded, with eloquent vehemence, that the authors of the
lawless massacre, which, just before the meeting of the
Convention, had been committed in the prisons of Paris, should be
brought to condign punishment.  They treated with just contempt
the pleas which have been set up for that great crime.  They
admitted that the public danger was pressing; but they denied
that it justified a violation of those principles of morality on
which all society rests.  The independence and honour of France
were indeed to be vindicated, but to be vindicated by triumphs
and not by murders.

Opposed to the Girondists was a party which, having been long
execrated throughout the civilised world, has of late--such is
the ebb and flow of opinion--found not only apologists, but even
eulogists.  We are not disposed to deny that some members of the
Mountain were sincere and public spirited men.  But even the best
of them, Carnot, for example, and Cambon, were far too
unscrupulous as to the means which they employed for the purpose
of attaining great ends.  In the train of these enthusiasts
followed a crowd, composed of all who, from sensual, sordid, or
malignant motives, wished for a period of boundless license.

When the Convention met, the majority were with the Girondists,
and Barere was with the majority.  On the King's trial, indeed,
he quitted the party with which he ordinarily acted, voted with
the Mountain, and spoke against the prisoner with a violence such
as few members even of the Mountain showed.

The conduct of the leading Girondists on that occasion was little
to their honour.  Of cruelty, indeed, we fully acquit them; but
it is impossible to acquit them of criminal irresolution and
disingenuousness.  They were far, indeed, from thirsting for the
blood of Louis:  on the contrary, they were most desirous to
protect him.  But they were afraid that, if they went straight
forward to their object, the sincerity of their attachment to
republican institutions would be suspected.  They wished to save
the King's life, and yet to obtain all the credit of having been
regicides.  Accordingly, they traced out for themselves a crooked
course, by which they hoped to attain both their objects.  They
first voted the King guilty.  They then voted for referring the
question respecting his fate to the whole body of the people. 
Defeated in this attempt to rescue him, they reluctantly, and
with ill-suppressed shame and concern, voted for the capital
sentence.  Then they made a last attempt in his favour, and voted
for respiting the execution.  These zigzag politics produced the
effect which any man conversant with public affairs might have
foreseen.  The Girondists, instead of attaining both their ends,
failed of both.  The Mountain justly charged them with having
attempted to save the King by underhand means.  Their own
consciences told them, with equal justice, that their hands had
been dipped in the blood of the most inoffensive and most
unfortunate of men.  The direct path was here, as usual, the path
not only of honour, but of safety.  The principle on which the
Girondists stood as a party was, that the season for
revolutionary violence was over, and that the reign of law and
order ought now to commence.  But the proceeding against the King
was clearly revolutionary in its nature.  It was not in
conformity with the laws.  The only plea for it was, that all
ordinary rules of jurisprudence and morality were suspended by
the extreme public danger.  This was the very plea which the
Mountain urged in defence of the massacre of September, and to
which, when so urged, the Girondists refused to listen.  They
therefore, by voting for the death of the King, conceded to the
Mountain the chief point at issue between the two parties.  Had
they given a manful vote against the capital sentence, the
regicides would have been in a minority.  It is probable that
there would have been an immediate appeal to force.  The
Girondists might have been victorious.  In the worst event, they
would have fallen with unblemished honour.  Thus much is certain,
that their boldness and honesty could not possibly have produced
a worse effect than was actually produced by their timidity and
their stratagems.

Barere, as we have said, sided with the Mountain on this
occasion.  He voted against the appeal to the people and against
the respite.  His demeanour and his language also were widely
different from those of the Girondists.  Their hearts were heavy,
and their deportment was that of men oppressed by sorrow.  It was
Vergniaud's duty to proclaim the result of the roll-call.  His
face was pale, and he trembled with emotion, as in a low and
broken voice he announced that Louis was condemned to death. 
Barere had not, it is true, yet attained to full perfection in
the art of mingling jests and conceits with words of death; but
he already gave promise of his future excellence in this high
department of Jacobin oratory.  He concluded his speech with a
sentence worthy of his head and heart.  "The tree of liberty," he
said, "as an ancient author remarks, flourishes when it is
watered with the blood of all classes of tyrants."  M. Hippolyte
Carnot has quoted this passage in order, as we suppose, to do
honour to his hero.  We wish that a note had been added to inform
us from what ancient author Barere quoted.  In the course of our
own small reading among the Greek and Latin writers, we have not
happened to fall in with trees of liberty and watering-pots full
of blood; nor can we, such is our ignorance of classical
antiquity, even imagine an Attic or Roman orator employing
imagery of that sort.  In plain words, when Barere talked about
an ancient author, he was lying, as he generally was when he
asserted any fact, great or small.  Why he lied on this occasion
we cannot guess, unless indeed it was to keep his hand in.

It is not improbable that, but for the one circumstance, Barere
would, like most of those with whom he ordinarily acted, have
voted for the appeal to the people and for the respite.  But,
just before the commencement of the trial, papers had been
discovered which proved that, while a member of the National
Assembly, he had been in communication with the Court respecting
his Reports on the Woods and Forests.  He was acquitted of all
criminality by the Convention; but the fiercer Republicans
considered him as a tool of the fallen monarch; and this reproach
was long repeated in the journal of Marat, and in the speeches at
the Jacobin club.  It was natural that a man like Barere should,
under such circumstances, try to distinguish himself among the
crowd of regicides by peculiar ferocity.  It was because he had
been a royalist that he was one of the foremost in shedding
blood.

The King was no more.  The leading Girondists had, by their
conduct towards him, lowered their character in the eyes both of
friends and foes.  They still, however, maintained the contest
against the Mountain, called for vengeance on the assassins of
September, and protested against the anarchical and sanguinary
doctrines of Marat.  For a time they seemed likely to prevail. 
As publicists and orators, they had no rivals in the Convention. 
They had with them, beyond all doubt, the great majority both of
the deputies and of the French nation.  These advantages, it
should seem, ought to have decided the event of the struggle. 
But the opposite party had compensating advantages of a different
kind.  The chiefs of the Mountain, though not eminently
distinguished by eloquence or knowledge, had great audacity,
activity, and determination.  The Convention and France were
against them; but the mob of Paris, the clubs of Paris, and the
municipal government of Paris, were on their side.

The policy of the Jacobins, in this situation, was to subject
France to an aristocracy infinitely worse than that aristocracy
which had emigrated with the count of Artois--to an aristocracy
not of birth, not of wealth, not of education, but of mere
locality.  They would not hear of privileged orders; but they
wished to have a privileged city.  That twenty-five millions of
Frenchmen should be ruled by a hundred thousand gentlemen and
clergymen was insufferable; but that twenty-five millions of
Frenchmen should be ruled by a hundred thousand Parisians was as
it should be.  The qualification of a member of the new oligarchy
was simply that he should live near the hall where the Convention
met, and should be able to squeeze himself daily into the gallery
during a debate, and now and then to attend with a pike for the
purpose of blockading the doors.  It was quite agreeable to the
maxims of the Mountain that a score of draymen from Santerre's
brewery, or of devils from Hebert's printing-house, should be
permitted to drown the voices of men commissioned to speak the
sense of such cities as Marseilles, Bordeaux, and Lyons; and that
a rabble of half-naked porters from the Faubourg St Antoine
should have power to annul decrees for which the representatives
of fifty or sixty departments had voted.  It was necessary to
find some pretext for so odious and absurd a tyranny.  Such a
pretext was found.  To the old phrases of liberty and equality
were added the sonorous watchwords, unity and indivisability.  A
new crime was invented, and called by the name of federalism. 
The object of the Girondists, it was asserted, was to break up
the great nation into little independent commonwealths, bound
together only by a league like that which connects the Swiss
Cantons or the United States of America.  The great obstacle in
the way of this pernicious design was the influence of Paris.  To
strengthen the influence of Paris ought therefore to be the chief
object of every patriot.

The accusation brought against the leaders of the Girondist party
was a mere calumny.  They were undoubtedly desirous to prevent
the capital from domineering over the republic, and would gladly
have seen the Convention removed for a time to some provincial
town, or placed under the protection of a trusty guard, which
might have overawed the Parisian mob; but there is not the
slightest reason to suspect them of any design against the unity
of the state.  Barere, however, really was a federalist, and, we
are inclined to believe, the only federalist in the Convention. 
As far as a man so unstable and servile can be said to have felt
any preference for any form of government, he felt a preference
for federal government.  He was born under the Pyrenees; he was a
Gascon of the Gascons, one of a people strongly distinguished by
intellectual and moral character, by manners, by modes of speech,
by accent, and by physiognomy, from the French of the Seine and
of the Loire; and he had many of the peculiarities of the race to
which he belonged.  When he first left his own province he had
attained his thirty-fourth year, and had acquired a high local
reputation for eloquence and literature.  He had then visited
Paris for the first time.  He had found himself in a new world. 
His feelings were those of a banished man.  It is clear also that
he had been by no means without his share of the small
disappointments and humiliations so often experienced by men of
letters who, elated by provincial applause, venture to display
their powers before the fastidious critics of a capital.  On the
other hand, whenever he revisited the mountains among which he
had been born, he found himself an object of general admiration. 
His dislike of Paris, and his partiality to his native district,
were therefore as strong and durable as any sentiments of a mind
like his could be.  He long continued to maintain that the
ascendency of one great city was the bane of France; that the
superiority of taste and intelligence which it was the fashion to
ascribe to the inhabitants of that city were wholly imaginary;
and that the nation would never enjoy a really good government
till the Alsatian people, the Breton people, the people of Bearn,
the people of Provence, should have each an independent
existence, and laws suited to its own tastes and habits.  These
communities he proposed to unite by a tie similar to that which
binds together the grave Puritans of Connecticut and the
dissolute slave-drivers of New Orleans.  To Paris he was
unwilling to grant even the rank which Washington holds in the
United States.  He thought it desirable that the congress of the
French federation should have no fixed place of meeting, but
should sit sometimes at Rouen, sometimes at Bordeaux, sometimes
at his own Toulouse.

Animated by such feelings, he was, till the close of May 1793, a
Girondist, if not an ultra-Girondist.  He exclaimed against those
impure and bloodthirsty men who wished to make the public danger
a pretext for cruelty and rapine.  "Peril," he said, "could be no
excuse for crime.  It is when the wind blows hard, and the waves
run high, that the anchor is most needed; it is when a revolution
is raging, that the great laws of morality are most necessary to
the safety of a state."  Of Marat he spoke with abhorrence and
contempt; of the municipal authorities of Paris with just
severity.  He loudly complained that there were Frenchmen who
paid to the Mountain that homage which was due to the Convention
alone.  When the establishment of the Revolutionary Tribunal was
first proposed, he joined himself to Vergniaud and Buzot, who
strongly objected to that odious measure.  "It cannot be,"
exclaimed Barere, "that men really attached to liberty will
imitate the most frightful excesses of despotism!"  He proved to
the Convention, after his fashion, out of Sallust, that such
arbitrary courts may indeed, for a time, be severe only on real
criminals, but must inevitably degenerate into instruments of
private cupidity and revenge.  When, on the tenth of March, the
worst part of the population of Paris made the first unsuccessful
attempt to destroy the Girondists, Barere eagerly called for
vigorous measures of repression and punishment.  On the second of
April, another attempt of the Jacobins of Paris to usurp supreme
dominion over the republic was brought to the knowledge of the
Convention; and again Barere spoke with warmth against the new
tyranny which afflicted France, and declared that the people of
the departments would never crouch beneath the tyranny of one
ambitious city.  He even proposed a resolution to the effect that
the Convention would exert against the demagogues of the capital
the same energy which had been exerted against the tyrant Louis. 
We are assured that, in private as in public, he at this time
uniformly spoke with strong aversion of the Mountain.

His apparent zeal for the cause of humanity and order had its
reward.  Early in April came the tidings of Dumourier's
defection.  This was a heavy blow to the Girondists.  Dumourier
was their general.  His victories had thrown a lustre on the
whole party; his army, it had been hoped, would, in the worst
event, protect the deputies of the nation against the ragged
pikemen of the garrets of Paris.  He was now a deserter and an
exile; and those who had lately placed their chief reliance on
his support were compelled to join with their deadliest enemies
in execrating his treason.  At this perilous conjuncture, it was
resolved to appoint a Committee of Public Safety, and to arm that
committee with powers, small indeed when compared with those
which it afterwards drew to itself, but still great and
formidable.  The moderate party, regarding Barere as a
representative of their feelings and opinions, elected him a
member.  In his new situation he soon began to make himself
useful.  He brought to the deliberations of the Committee, not
indeed the knowledge or the ability of a great statesman, but a
tongue and a pen which, if others would only supply ideas, never
paused for want of words.  His mind was a mere organ of
communication between other minds.  It originated nothing; it
retained nothing; but it transmitted everything.  The post
assigned to him by his colleagues was not really of the highest
importance; but it was prominent, and drew the attention of all
Europe.  When a great measure was to be brought forward, when an
account was to be rendered of an important event, he was
generally the mouthpiece of the administration.  He was therefore
not unnaturally considered, by persons who lived at a distance
from the seat of government, and above all by foreigners, who,
while the war raged, knew France only from journals, as the head
of that administration of which, in truth, he was only the
secretary and the spokesman.  The author of the History of
Europe, in our own Annual Registers, appears to have been
completely under this delusion.

The conflict between the hostile parties was meanwhile fast
approaching to a crisis.  The temper of Paris grew daily fiercer
and fiercer.  Delegates appointed by thirty-five of the forty-
eight wards of the city appeared at the bar of the Convention,
and demanded that Vergniaud, Brissot, Guadet, Gensonne,
Barbaroux, Buzot, Petion, Louvet, and many other deputies, should
be expelled.  This demand was disapproved by at least three-
fourths of the Assembly, and, when known in the departments,
called forth a general cry of indignation.  Bordeaux declared
that it would stand by its representatives, and would, if
necessary, defend them by the sword against the tyranny of Paris. 
Lyons and Marseilles were animated by a similar spirit.  These
manifestations of public opinion gave courage to the majority of
the Convention.  Thanks were voted to the people of Bordeaux for
their patriotic declaration; and a commission consisting of
twelve members was appointed for the purpose of investigating the
conduct of the municipal authorities of Paris, and was empowered
to place under arrest such persons as should appear to have been
concerned in any plot against the authority of the Convention. 
This measure was adopted on the motion of Barere.

A few days of stormy excitement and profound anxiety followed;
and then came the crash.  On the thirty-first of May the mob of
Paris rose; the palace of the Tuileries was besieged by a vast
array of pikes; the majority of the deputies, after vain
struggles and remonstrances, yielded to violence, and suffered
the Mountain to carry a decree for the suspension and arrest of
the deputies whom the wards of the capital had accused.

During this contest, Barere had been tossed backwards and
forwards between the two raging factions.  His feelings, languid
and unsteady as they always were, drew him to the Girondists; but
he was awed by the vigour and determination of the Mountain.  At
one moment he held high and firm language, complained that the
Convention was not free, and protested against the validity of
any vote passed under coercion.  At another moment he proposed to
conciliate the Parisians by abolishing that commission of twelve
which he had himself proposed only a few days before; and himself
drew up a paper condemning the very measures which had been
adopted at his own instance, and eulogising the public spirit of
the insurgents.  To do him justice, it was not without some
symptoms of shame that he read his document from the tribune,
where he had so often expressed very different sentiments.  It is
said that, at some passages, he was even seen to blush.  It may
have been so; he was still in his novitiate of infamy.

Some days later he proposed that hostages for the personal safety
of the accused deputies should be sent to the departments, and
offered to be himself one of those hostages.  Nor do we in the
least doubt that the offer was sincere.  He would, we firmly
believe, have thought himself far safer at Bordeaux or Marseilles
than at Paris.  His proposition, however, was not carried into
effect; and he remained in the power of the victorious Mountain.

This was the great crisis of his life.  Hitherto he had done
nothing inexpiable, nothing which marked him out as a much worse
man than most of his colleagues in the Convention.  His voice had
generally been on the side of moderate measures.  Had he bravely
cast in his lot with the Girondists, and suffered with them, he
would, like them, have had a not dishonourable place in history. 
Had he, like the great body of deputies who meant well, but who
had not the courage to expose themselves to martyrdom, crouched
quietly under the dominion of the triumphant minority, and
suffered every motion of Robespierre and Billaud to pass
unopposed, he would have incurred no peculiar ignominy.  But it
is probable that this course was not open to him.  He had been
too prominent among the adversaries of the Mountain to be
admitted to quarter without making some atonement.  It was
necessary that, if he hoped to find pardon from his new lords, he
should not be merely a silent and passive slave.  What passed in
private between him and them cannot be accurately related; but
the result was soon apparent.  The Committee of Public Safety was
renewed.  Several of the fiercest of the dominant faction,
Couthon for example, and Saint Just, were substituted for more
moderate politicians; but Barere was suffered to retain his seat
at the Board.

The indulgence with which he was treated excited the murmurs of
some stern and ardent zealots.  Marat, in the very last words
that he wrote, words not published till the dagger of Charlotte
Corday had avenged France and mankind, complained that a man who
had no principles, who was always on the side of the strongest,
who had been a royalist, and who was ready, in case of a turn of
fortune, to be a royalist again, should be entrusted with an
important share in the administration.  (See the "Publiciste" of
the 14th July, 1793.  Marat was stabbed on the evening of the
13th.)  But the chiefs of the Mountain judged more correctly. 
They knew, indeed, as well as Marat, that Barere was a man
utterly without faith or steadiness; that, if he could be said to
have any political leaning, his leaning was not towards them;
that he felt for the Girondist party that faint and wavering sort
of preference of which alone his nature was susceptible; and
that, if he had been at liberty to make his choice, he would
rather have murdered Robespierre and Danton than Vergniaud and
Gensonne.  But they justly appreciated that levity which made him
incapable alike of earnest love and of earnest hatred, and that
meanness which made it necessary to him to have a master.  In
truth, what the planters of Carolina and Louisiana say of black
men with flat noses and woolly hair was strictly true of Barere. 
The curse of Canaan was upon him.  He was born a slave.  Baseness
was an instinct in him.  The impulse which drove him from a party
in adversity to a party in prosperity was as irresistible as that
which drives the cuckoo and the swallow towards the sun when the
dark and cold months are approaching.  The law which doomed him
to be the humble attendant of stronger spirits resembled the law
which binds the pilot fish to the shark.  "Ken ye," said a shrewd
Scotch lord, who was asked his opinion of James the First--"Ken
ye a John Ape?  If I have Jacko by the collar, I can make him
bite you; but, if you have Jacko, you can make him bite me." 
Just such a creature was Barere.  In the hands of the Girondists
he would have been eager to proscribe the Jacobins; he was just
as ready, in the gripe of the Jacobins, to proscribe the
Girondists.  On the fidelity of such a man the heads of the
Mountain could not, of course, reckon; but they valued their
conquest as the very easy and not very delicate lover in
Congreve's lively song valued the conquest of a prostitute of a
different kind.  Barere was, like Chloe, false and common; but he
was, like Chloe, constant while possessed; and they asked no
more.  They needed a service which he was perfectly competent to
perform.  Destitute as he was of all the talents both of an
active and of a speculative statesman, he could with great
facility draw up a report, or make a speech on any subject and on
any side.  If other people would furnish facts and thoughts, he
could always furnish phrases; and this talent was absolutely at
the command of his owners for the time being.  Nor had he excited
any angry passion among those to whom he had hitherto been
opposed.  They felt no more hatred to him than they felt to the
horses which dragged the cannon of the Duke of Brunswick and of
the Prince of Saxe-Coburg.  The horses had only done according to
their kind, and would, if they fell into the hands of the French,
drag with equal vigour and equal docility the guns of the
republic, and therefore ought not merely to be spared, but to be
well fed and curried.  So was it with Barere.  He was of a nature
so low, that it might be doubted whether he could properly be an
object of the hostility of reasonable beings.  He had not been an
enemy; he was not now a friend.  But he had been an annoyance;
and he would now be a help.

But, though the heads of the Mountain pardoned this man, and
admitted him into partnership with themselves, it was not without
exacting pledges such as made it impossible for him, false and
fickle as he was, ever again to find admission into the ranks
which he had deserted.  That was truly a terrible sacrament by
which they admitted the apostate into their communion.  They
demanded of him that he should himself take the most prominent
part in murdering his old friends.  To refuse was as much as his
life was worth.  But what is life worth when it is only one long
agony of remorse and shame?  These, however, are feelings of
which it is idle to talk, when we are considering the conduct of
such a man as Barere.  He undertook the task, mounted the
tribune, and told the Convention that the time was come for
taking the stern attitude of justice, and for striking at all
conspirators without distinction.  He then moved that Buzot,
Barbaroux, Petion, and thirteen other deputies, should be placed
out of the pale of the law, or, in other words, beheaded without
a trial; and that Vergniaud, Guadet, Gensonne, and six others,
should be impeached.  The motion was carried without debate.

We have already seen with what effrontery Barere has denied, in
these Memoirs, that he took any part against the Girondists. 
This denial, we think, was the only thing wanting to make his
infamy complete.  The most impudent of all lies was a fit
companion for the foulest of all murders.

Barere, however, had not yet earned his pardon.  The Jacobin
party contained one gang which, even in that party, was pre-
eminent in every mean and every savage vice; a gang so low-minded
and so inhuman that, compared with them, Robespierre might be
called magnanimous and merciful.  Of these wretches Hebert was
perhaps the best representative.  His favourite amusement was to
torment and insult the miserable remains of that great family
which, having ruled France during eight hundred years, had now
become an object of pity to the humblest artisan or peasant.  The
influence of this man, and of men like him, induced the Committee
of Public Safety to determine that Marie Antoinette should be
sent to the scaffold.  Barere was again summoned to his duty. 
Only four days after he had proposed the decrees against the
Girondist deputies he again mounted the tribune, in order to move
that the Queen should be brought before the Revolutionary
Tribunal.  He was improving fast in the society of his new
allies.  When he asked for the heads of Vergniaud and Petion he
had spoken like a man who had some slight sense of his own guilt
and degradation:  he had said little; and that little had not
been violent.  The office of expatiating on the guilt of his old
friends he had left to Saint Just.  Very different was Barere's
second appearance in the character of an accuser.  He now cried
out for blood in the eager tones of the true and burning thirst,
and raved against the Austrian woman with the virulence natural
to a coward who finds himself at liberty to outrage that which he
has feared and envied.  We have already exposed the shameless
mendacity with which, in these Memoirs, he attempts to throw the
blame of his own guilt on the guiltless.

On the day on which the fallen Queen was dragged, already more
than half dead, to her doom, Barere regaled Robespierre and some
other Jacobins at a tavern.  Robespierre's acceptance of the
invitation caused some surprise to those who knew how long and
how bitterly it was his nature to hate.  "Robespierre of the
party!" muttered Saint Just.  "Barere is the only man whom
Robespierre has forgiven."  We have an account of this singular
repast from one of the guests.  Robespierre condemned the
senseless brutality with which Hebert had conducted the
proceedings against the Austrian woman, and, in talking on that
subject, became so much excited that he broke his plate in the
violence of his gesticulation.  Barere exclaimed that the
guillotine had cut a diplomatic knot which it might have been
difficult to untie.  In the intervals between the Beaune and the
Champagne, between the ragout of thrushes and the partridge with
truffles, he fervently preached his new political creed.  "The
vessel of the revolution," he said, "can float into port only on
waves of blood.  We must begin with the members of the National
Assembly and of the Legislative Assembly.  That rubbish must be
swept away."

As he talked at table he talked in the Convention.  His peculiar
style of oratory was now formed.  It was not altogether without
ingenuity and liveliness.  But in any other age or country it
would have been thought unfit for the deliberations of a grave
assembly, and still more unfit for state papers.  It might,
perhaps, succeed at a meeting of a Protestant Association in
Exeter Hall, at a Repeal dinner in Ireland, after men had well
drunk, or in an American oration on the fourth of July.  No
legislative body would now endure it.  But in France, during the
reign of the Convention, the old laws of composition were held in
as much contempt as the old government or the old creed.  Correct
and noble diction belonged, like the etiquette of Versailles and
the solemnities of Notre Dame, to an age which had passed away. 
Just as a swarm of ephemeral constitutions, democratic,
directorial, and consular, sprang from the decay of the ancient
monarchy; just as a swarm of new superstitions, the worship of
the Goddess of Reason, and the fooleries of the Theo-
philanthropists, sprang from the decay of the ancient Church;
even so, out of the decay of the ancient French eloquence sprang
new fashions of eloquence, for the understanding of which new
grammars and dictionaries were necessary.  The same innovating
spirit which altered the common phrases of salutation, which
turned hundreds of Johns and Peters into Scaevolas and
Aristogitons, and which expelled Sunday and Monday, January and
February, Lady-day and Christmas, from the calendar, in order to
substitute Decadi and Primidi, Nivose and Pluviose, Feasts of
Opinion and Feasts of the Supreme Being, changed all the forms of
official correspondence.  For the calm, guarded, and sternly
courteous language which governments had long been accustomed to
employ, were substituted puns, interjections, Ossianic rants,
rhetoric worthy only of a schoolboy, scurrility worthy only of a
fishwife.  Of the phraseology which was now thought to be
peculiarly well suited to a report or a manifesto Barere had a
greater command than any man of his time, and, during the short
and sharp paroxysm of the revolutionary delirium, passed for a
great orator.  When the fit was over, he was considered as what
he really was, a man of quick apprehension and fluent elocution,
with no originality, with little information, and with a taste as
bad as his heart.  His Reports were popularly called Carmagnoles. 
A few months ago we should have had some difficulty in conveying
to an English reader an exact notion of the state papers to which
this appellation was given.  Fortunately a noble and
distinguished person, whom her Majesty's Ministers have thought
qualified to fill the most important post in the empire, has made
our task easy.  Whoever has read Lord Ellenborough's
proclamations is able to form a complete idea of a Carmagnole.

The effect which Barere's discourses at one time produced is not
to be wholly attributed to the perversion of the national taste. 
The occasions on which he rose were frequently such as would have
secured to the worst speaker a favourable hearing.  When any
military advantage had been gained, he was generally deputed by
the Committee of Public Safety to announce the good news.  The
hall resounded with applause as he mounted the tribune, holding
the despatches in his hand.  Deputies and strangers listened with
delight while he told them that victory was the order of the day;
that the guineas of Pitt had been vainly lavished to hire
machines six feet high, carrying guns; that the flight of the
English leopard deserved to be celebrated by Tyrtaeus; and that
the saltpetre dug out of the cellars of Paris had been turned
into thunder, which would crush the Titan brethren, George and
Francis.

Meanwhile the trial of the accused Girondists, who were under
arrest in Paris, came on.  They flattered themselves with a vain
hope of escape.  They placed some reliance on their innocence,
and some reliance on their eloquence.  They thought that shame
would suffice to restrain any man, however violent and cruel,
from publicly committing the flagrant iniquity of condemning them
to death.  The Revolutionary Tribunal was new to its functions. 
No member of the Convention had yet been executed; and it was
probable that the boldest Jacobin would shrink from being the
first to violate the sanctity which was supposed to belong to the
representatives of the people.

The proceedings lasted some days.  Gensonne and Brissot defended
themselves with great ability and presence of mind against the
vile Hebert and Chaumette, who appeared as accusers.  The
eloquent voice of Vergniaud was heard for the last time.  He
pleaded his own cause and that of his friends, with such force of
reason and elevation of sentiment that a murmur of pity and
admiration rose from the audience.  Nay, the court itself, not
yet accustomed to riot in daily carnage, showed signs of emotion. 
The sitting was adjourned; and a rumour went forth that there
would be an acquittal.  The Jacobins met, breathing vengeance. 
Robespierre undertook to be their organ.  He rose on the
following day in the Convention, and proposed a decree of such
atrocity that even among the acts of that year it can hardly be
paralleled.  By this decree the tribunal was empowered to cut
short the defence of the prisoners, to pronounce the case clear,
and to pass immediate judgment.  One deputy made a faint
opposition.  Barere instantly sprang up to support Robespierre--
Barere, the federalist; Barere, the author of that Commission of
Twelve which was among the chief causes of the hatred borne by
Paris to the Girondists; Barere, who in these Memoirs denies that
he ever took any part against the Girondists; Barere, who has the
effrontery to declare that he greatly loved and esteemed
Vergniaud.  The decree was passed; and the tribunal, without
suffering the prisoners to conclude what they had to say,
pronounced them guilty.

The following day was the saddest in the sad history of the
Revolution.  The sufferers were so innocent, so brave, so
eloquent, so accomplished, so young.  Some of them were graceful
and handsome youths of six or seven and twenty.  Vergniaud and
Gensonne were little more than thirty.  They had been only a few
months engaged in public affairs.  In a few months the fame of
their genius had filled Europe; and they were to die for no crime
but this, that they had wished to combine order, justice, and
mercy with freedom.  Their great fault was want of courage.  We
mean want of political courage--of that courage which is proof to
clamour and obloquy, and which meets great emergencies by daring
and decisive measures.  Alas! they had but too good an
opportunity of proving that they did not want courage to endure
with manly cheerfulness the worst that could be inflicted by such
tyrants as Saint Just, and such slaves as Barere.

They were not the only victims of the noble cause.  Madame Roland
followed them to the scaffold with a spirit as heroic as their
own.  Her husband was in a safe hiding-place, but could not bear
to survive her.  His body was found on the high road near Rouen. 
He had fallen on his sword.  Condorcet swallowed opium.  At
Bordeaux the steel fell on the necks of the bold and quick-witted
Guadet and of Barbaroux, the chief of those enthusiasts from the
Rhone whose valour, in the great crisis of the tenth of August,
had turned back the tide of battle from the Louvre to the
Tuileries.  In a field near the Garonne was found all that the
wolves had left of Petion, once honoured, greatly indeed beyond
his deserts, as the model of republican virtue.  We are far from
regarding even the best of the Girondists with unmixed
admiration; but history owes to them this honourable testimony,
that, being free to choose whether they would be oppressors or
victims, they deliberately and firmly resolved rather to suffer
injustice than to inflict it.

And now began that strange period known by the name of the Reign
of Terror.  The Jacobins had prevailed.  This was their hour, and
the power of darkness.  The Convention was subjugated and reduced
to profound silence on the highest questions of state.  The
sovereignty passed to the Committee of Public Safety.  To the
edicts framed by that Committee the representative assembly did
not venture to offer even the species of opposition which the
ancient parliament had frequently offered to the mandates of the
ancient kings.  Six persons held the chief power in the small
cabinet which now domineered over France--Robespierre, Saint
Just, Couthon, Collot, Billaud, and Barere.

To some of these men, and of those who adhered to them, it is due
to say that the fanaticism which had emancipated them from the
restraints of justice and compassion had emancipated them also
from the dominion of vulgar cupidity and of vulgar fear; that,
while hardly knowing where to find an assignat of a few francs to
pay for a dinner, they expended with strict integrity the immense
revenue which they collected by every art of rapine; and that
they were ready, in support of their cause, to mount the scaffold
with as much indifference as they showed when they signed the
death-warrants of aristocrats and priests.  But no great party
can be composed of such materials as these.  It is the inevitable
law that such zealots as we have described shall collect around
them a multitude of slaves, of cowards, and of libertines, whose
savage tempers and licentious appetites, withheld only by the
dread of law and magistracy from the worst excesses, are called
into full activity by the hope of immunity.  A faction which,
from whatever motive, relaxes the great laws of morality is
certain to be joined by the most immoral part of the community. 
This has been repeatedly proved in religious wars.  The war of
the Holy Sepulchre, the Albigensian war, the Huguenot war, the
Thirty Years' war, all originated in pious zeal.  That zeal
inflamed the champions of the Church to such a point that they
regarded all generosity to the vanquished as a sinful weakness. 
The infidel, the heretic, was to be run down like a mad dog.  No
outrage committed by the Catholic warrior on the miscreant enemy
could deserve punishment.  As soon as it was known that boundless
license was thus given to barbarity and dissoluteness, thousands
of wretches who cared nothing for the sacred cause, but who were
eager to be exempted from the police of peaceful cities, and the
discipline of well-governed camps, flocked to the standard of the
faith.  The men who had set up that statute were sincere, chaste,
regardless of lucre, and perhaps, where only themselves were
concerned, not unforgiving; but round that standard were
assembled such gangs of rogues, ravishers, plunderers, and
ferocious bravoes, as were scarcely ever found under the flag of
any state engaged in a mere temporal quarrel.  In a very similar
way was the Jacobin party composed.  There was a small nucleus of
enthusiasts; round that nucleus was gathered a vast mass of
ignoble depravity; and in all that mass there was nothing so
depraved and so ignoble as Barere.

Then came those days when the most barbarous of all codes was
administered by the most barbarous of all tribunals; when no man
could greet his neighbours, or say his prayers, or dress his
hair, without danger of committing a capital crime; when spies
lurked in every corner; when the guillotine was long and hard at
work every morning; when the jails were filled as close as the
hold of a slave-ship; when the gutters ran foaming with blood
into the Seine; when it was death to be great-niece of a captain
of the royal guards, or half-brother of a doctor of the Sorbonne,
to express a doubt whether assignats would not fall, to hint that
the English had been victorious in the action of the first of
June, to have a copy of one of Burke's pamphlets locked up in a
desk, to laugh at a Jacobin for taking the name of Cassius or
Timoleon, or to call the Fifth Sansculottide by its old
superstitious name of St Matthew's Day.  While the daily waggon-
loads of victims were carried to their doom through the streets
of Paris, the Proconsuls whom the sovereign Committee had sent
forth to the departments revelled in an extravagance of cruelty
unknown even in the capital.  The knife of the deadly machine
rose and fell too slow for their work of slaughter.  Long rows of
captives were mowed down with grapeshot.  Holes were made in the
bottom of crowded barges.  Lyons was turned into a desert.  At
Arras even the cruel mercy of a speedy death was denied to the
prisoners.  All down the Loire, from Saumur to the sea, great
flocks of crows and kites feasted on naked corpses, twined
together in hideous embraces.  No mercy was shown to sex or age. 
The number of young lads and of girls of seventeen who were
murdered by that execrable government is to be reckoned by
hundreds.  Babies torn from the breast were tossed from pike to
pike along the Jacobin ranks.  One champion of liberty had his
pockets well stuffed with ears.  Another swaggered about with the
finger of a little child in his hat.  A few months had sufficed
to degrade France below the level of New Zealand.

It is absurd to say that any amount of public danger can justify
a system like this, we do not say on Christian principles, we do
not say on the principles of a high morality, but even on
principles of Machiavellian policy.  It is true that great
emergencies call for activity and vigilance; it is true that they
justify severity which, in ordinary times, would deserve the name
of cruelty.  But indiscriminate severity can never, under any
circumstances, be useful.  It is plain that the whole efficacy of
punishment depends on the care with which the guilty are
distinguished.  Punishment which strikes the guilty and the
innocent promiscuously, operates merely like a pestilence or a
great convulsion of nature, and has no more tendency to prevent
offences than the cholera, or an earthquake like that of Lisbon,
would have.  The energy for which the Jacobin administration is
praised was merely the energy of the Malay who maddens himself
with opium, draws his knife, and runs amuck through the streets,
slashing right and left at friends and foes.  Such has never been
the energy of truly great rulers; of Elizabeth, for example, of
Oliver, or of Frederick.  They were not, indeed, scrupulous. 
But, had they been less scrupulous than they were, the strength
and amplitude of their minds would have preserved them from
crimes such as those which the small men of the Committee of
Public Safety took for daring strokes of policy.  The great Queen
who so long held her own against foreign and domestic enemies,
against temporal and spiritual arms; the great Protector who
governed with more than regal power, in despite both of royalists
and republicans; the great King who, with a beaten army and an
exhausted treasury, defended his little dominions to the last
against the united efforts of Russia, Austria, and France; with
what scorn would they have heard that it was impossible for them
to strike a salutary terror into the disaffected without sending
school-boys and school-girls to death by cart-loads and boat-
loads!

The popular notion is, we believe, that the leading Terrorists
were wicked men, but, at the same time, great men.  We can see
nothing great about them but their wickedness.  That their policy
was daringly original is a vulgar error.  Their policy is as old
as the oldest accounts which we have of human misgovernment.  It
seemed new in France and in the eighteenth century only because
it had been long disused, for excellent reasons, by the
enlightened part of mankind.  But it has always prevailed, and
still prevails, in savage and half-savage nations, and is the
chief cause which prevents such nations from making advances
towards civilisation.  Thousands of deys, of beys, of pachas, of
rajahs, of nabobs, have shown themselves as great masters of
statecraft as the members of the Committee of Public Safety. 
Djezzar, we imagine, was superior to any of them in their new
line.  In fact, there is not a petty tyrant in Asia or Africa so
dull or so unlearned as not to be fully qualified for the
business of Jacobin police and Jacobin finance.  To behead people
by scores without caring whether they are guilty or innocent; to
wring money out of the rich by the help of jailers and
executioners; to rob the public creditor, and to put him to death
if he remonstrates; to take loaves by force out of the bakers'
shops; to clothe and mount soldiers by seizing on one man's wool
and linen, and on another man's horses and saddles, without
compensation; is of all modes of governing the simplest and most
obvious.  Of its morality we at present say nothing.  But surely
it requires no capacity beyond that of a barbarian or a child. 
By means like those which we have described, the Committee of
Public Safety undoubtedly succeeded, for a short time, in
enforcing profound submission, and in raising immense funds. But
to en force submission by butchery, and to raise funds by
spoliation, is not statesmanship.  The real statesman is he who,
in troubled times, keeps down the turbulent without unnecessarily
harrassing the well-affected; and who, when great pecuniary
resources are needed, provides for the public exigencies without
violating the security of property and drying up the sources of
future prosperity.  Such a statesman, we are confident, might, in
1793, have preserved the independence of France without shedding
a drop of innocent blood, without plundering a single warehouse. 
Unhappily, the Republic was subject to men who were mere
demagogues and in no sense statesmen.  They could declaim at a
club.  They could lead a rabble to mischief.  But they had no
skill to conduct the affairs of an empire.  The want of skill
they supplied for a time by atrocity and blind violence.  For
legislative ability, fiscal ability, military ability, diplomatic
ability, they had one substitute, the guillotine.  Indeed their
exceeding ignorance, and the barrenness of their invention, are
the best excuse for their murders and robberies.  We really
believe that they would not have cut so many throats, and picked
so many pockets, if they had known how to govern in any other
way.

That under their administration the war against the European
Coalition was successfully conducted is true.  But that war had
been successfully conducted before their elevation, and continued
to be successfully conducted after their fall.  Terror was not
the order of the day when Brussels opened its gates to Dumourier. 
Terror had ceased to be the order of the day when Piedmont and
Lombardy were conquered by Bonaparte.  The truth is, that France
was saved, not by the Committee of Public Safety, but by the
energy, patriotism, and valour of the French people.  Those high
qualities were victorious in spite of the incapacity of rulers
whose administration was a tissue, not merely of crimes, but of
blunders.

We have not time to tell how the leaders of the savage faction at
length began to avenge mankind on each other:  how the craven
Hebert was dragged wailing and trembling to his doom; how the
nobler Danton, moved by a late repentance, strove in vain to
repair the evil which he had wrought, and half redeemed the great
crime of September by man fully encountering death in the cause
of mercy.

Our business is with Barere.  In all those things he was not only
consenting, but eagerly and joyously forward.  Not merely was he
one of the guilty administration.  He was the man to whom was
especially assigned the office of proposing and defending
outrages on justice and humanity, and of furnishing to atrocious
schemes an appropriate garb of atrocious rodomontade.  Barere
first proclaimed from the tribune of the Convention that terror
must be the order of the day.  It was by Barere that the
Revolutionary Tribunal of Paris was provided with the aid of a
public accuser worthy of such a court, the infamous Fouquier
Tinville.  It was Barere who, when one of the old members of the
National Assembly had been absolved by the Revolutionary
Tribunal, gave orders that a fresh jury should be summoned. 
"Acquit one of the National Assembly!" he cried.  "The Tribunal
is turning against the Revolution."  It is unnecessary to say
that the prisoner's head was soon in the basket.  It was Barere
who moved that the city of Lyons should be destroyed.  "Let the
plough," he cried from the tribune, "pass over her.  Let her name
cease to exist.  The rebels are conquered; but are they all
exterminated?  No weakness.  No mercy.  Let every one be smitten. 
Two words will suffice to tell the whole.  Lyons made war on
liberty; Lyons is no more."  When Toulon was taken Barere came
forward to announce the event.  "The conquest," said the apostate
Brissotine, "won by the Mountain over the Brissotines must be
commemorated by a mark set on the place where Toulon once stood. 
The national thunder must crush the house of every trader in the
town.  When Camille Desmoulins, long distinguished among the
republicans by zeal and ability, dared to raise his eloquent
voice against the Reign of Terror, and to point out the close
analogy between the government which then oppressed France and
the government of the worst of the Caesars, Barere rose to
complain of the weak compassion which tried to revive the hopes
of the aristocracy.  "Whoever," he said, "is nobly born is a man
to be suspected.  Every priest, every frequenter of the old
court, every lawyer, every banker, is a man to be suspected. 
Every person who grumbles at the course which the Revolution
takes is a man to be suspected.  There are whole castes already
tried and condemned.  There are callings which carry their doom
with them.  There are relations of blood which the law regards
with an evil eye.  Republicans of France!" yelled the renegade
Girondist, the old enemy of the Mountain--"Republicans of France!
the Brissotines led you by gentle means to slavery.  The Mountain
leads you by strong measures to freedom.  Oh! who can count the
evils which a false compassion may produce?"  When the friends of
Danton mustered courage to express a wish that the Convention
would at least hear him in his own defence before it sent him to
certain death, the voice of Barere was the loudest in opposition
to their prayer.  When the crimes of Lebon, one of the worst, if
not the very worst, of the viceregents of the Committee of Public
Safety, had so maddened the people of the Department of the North
that they resorted to the desperate expedient of imploring the
protection of the Convention, Barere pleaded the cause of the
accused tyrant, and threatened the petitioners with the utmost
vengeance of the government.  "These charges," he said, "have
been suggested by wily aristocrats.  The man who crushes the
enemies of the people, though he may be hurried by his zeal into
some excesses, can never be a proper object of censure.  The
proceedings of Lebon may have been a little harsh as to form." 
One of the small irregularities thus gently censured was this: 
Lebon kept a wretched man a quarter of an hour under the knife of
the guillotine, in order to torment him, by reading to him,
before he was despatched, a letter, the contents of which were
supposed to be such as would aggravate even the bitterness of
death.  "But what," proceeded Barere, "is not permitted to the
hatred of a republican against aristocracy?  How many generous
sentiments atone for what may perhaps seem acrimonious in the
prosecution of public enemies?  Revolutionary measures are always
to be spoken of with respect.  Liberty is a virgin whose veil it
is not lawful to lift."

After this, it would be idle to dwell on facts which would
indeed, of themselves, suffice to render a name infamous, but
which make no perceptible addition to the great infamy of Barere. 
It would be idle, for example, to relate how he, a man of
letters, a member of an Academy of Inscriptions, was foremost in
that war against learning, art, and history which disgraced the
Jacobin government; how he recommended a general conflagration of
libraries; how he proclaimed that all records of events anterior
to the Revolution ought to be destroyed; how he laid waste the
Abbey of St Denis, pulled down monuments consecrated by the
veneration of ages, and scattered on the wind the dust of ancient
kings.  He was, in truth, seldom so well employed as when he
turned for a moment from making war on the living to make war on
the dead.

Equally idle would it be to dilate on his sensual excesses.  That
in Barere as in the whole breed of Neros, Caligulas, and
Domitians whom he resembled, voluptuousness was mingled with
cruelty; that he withdrew, twice in every decade, from the work
of blood, to the smiling gardens of Clichy, and there forgot
public cares in the madness of wine and in the arms of
courtesans, has often been repeated.  M. Hippolyte Carnot does
not altogether deny the truth of these stories, but justly
observes that Barere's dissipation was not carried to such a
point as to interfere with his industry.  Nothing can be more
true.  Barere was by no means so much addicted to debauchery as
to neglect the work of murder.  It was his boast that, even
during his hours of recreation, he cut out work for the
Revolutionary Tribunal.  To those who expressed a fear that his
exertions would hurt his health, he gaily answered that he was
less busy than they thought.  "The guillotine," he said, "does
all; the guillotine governs."  For ourselves, we are much more
disposed to look indulgently on the pleasures which he allowed to
himself than on the pain which he inflicted on his neighbours.

"Atque utinam his potius nugis tota illa dedisset
Tempora saevitiae, claras quibus abstulit urbi
Illustresque animas, impune ac vindice nullo."

An immoderate appetite for sensual gratifications is undoubtedly
a blemish on the fame of Henry the Fourth, of Lord Somers, of Mr
Fox.  But the vices of honest men are the virtues of Barere.

And now Barere had become a really cruel man.  It was from mere
pusillanimity that he had perpetrated his first great crimes. 
But the whole history of our race proves that the taste for the
misery of others is a taste which minds not naturally ferocious
may too easily acquire, and which, when once acquired, is as
strong as any of the propensities with which we are born.  A very
few months had sufficed to bring this man into a state of mind in
which images of despair, wailing, and death had an exhilarating
effect on him, and inspired him as wine and love inspire men of
free and joyous natures.  The cart creaking under its daily
freight of victims, ancient men and lads, and fair young girls,
the binding of the hands, the thrusting of the head out of the
little national sash-window, the crash of the axe, the pool of
blood beneath the scaffold, the heads rolling by scores in the
panier--these things were to him what Lalage and a cask of
Falernian were to Horace, what Rosette and a bottle of iced
champagne are to De Beranger.  As soon as he began to speak of
slaughter his heart seemed to be enlarged, and his fancy to
become unusually fertile of conceits and gasconades. 
Robespierre, Saint Just, and Billaud, whose barbarity was the
effect of earnest and gloomy hatred, were, in his view, men who
made a toil of a pleasure.  Cruelty was no such melancholy
business, to be gone about with an austere brow and a whining
tone; it was a recreation, fitly accompanied by singing and
laughing.  In truth, Robespierre and Barere might be well
compared to the two renowned hangmen of Louis the Eleventh.  They
were alike insensible of pity, alike bent on havoc.  But, while
they murdered, one of them frowned and canted, the other grinned
and joked.  For our own part, we prefer Jean qui pleure to Jean
qui rit.

In the midst of the funeral gloom which overhung Paris, a gaiety
stranger and more ghastly than the horrors of the prison and the
scaffold distinguished the dwelling of Barere.  Every morning a
crowd of suitors assembled to implore his protection.  He came
forth in his rich dressing-gown, went round the antechamber,
dispensed smiles and promises among the obsequious crowd,
addressed himself with peculiar animation to every handsome woman
who appeared in the circle, and complimented her in the florid
style of Gascony on the bloom of her cheeks and the lustre of her
eyes.  When he had enjoyed the fear and anxiety of his suppliants
he dismissed them, and flung all their memorials unread into the
fire.  This was the best way, he conceived, to prevent arrears of
business from accumulating.  Here he was only an imitator. 
Cardinal Dubois had been in the habit of clearing his table of
papers in the same way.  Nor was this the only point in which we
could point out a resemblance between the worst statesman of the
monarchy and the worst statesman of the republic.

Of Barere's peculiar vein of pleasantry a notion may be formed
from an anecdote which one of his intimate associates, a juror of
the revolutionary tribunal, has related.  A courtesan who bore a
conspicuous part in the orgies of Clichy implored Barere to use
his power against a head-dress which did not suit her style of
face, and which a rival beauty was trying to bring into fashion. 
One of the magistrates of the capital was summoned and received
the necessary orders.  Aristocracy, Barere said, was again
rearing its front.  These new wigs were counter-revolutionary. 
He had reason to know that they were made out of the long fair
hair of handsome aristocrats who had died by the national
chopper.  Every lady who adorned herself with the relics of
criminals might justly be suspected of incivism.  This ridiculous
lie imposed on the authorities of Paris.  Female citizens were
solemnly warned against the obnoxious ringlets, and were left to
choose between their head-dresses and their heads.  Barere's
delight at the success of this facetious fiction was quite
extravagant:  he could not tell the story without going into such
convulsions of laughter as made his hearers hope that he was
about to choke.  There was something peculiarly tickling and
exhilarating to his mind in this grotesque combination of the
frivolous with the horrible, of false locks and curling-irons
with spouting arteries and reeking hatchets.

But, though Barere succeeded in earning the honourable nicknames
of the Witling of Terror, and the Anacreon of the Guillotine,
there was one place where it was long remembered to his
disadvantage that he had, for a time, talked the language of
humanity and moderation.  That place was the Jacobin club.  Even
after he had borne the chief part in the massacre of the
Girondists, in the murder of the Queen, in the destruction of
Lyons, he durst not show himself within that sacred precinct.  At
one meeting of the society, a member complained that the
committee to which the supreme direction of affairs was
entrusted, after all the changes which had been made, still
contained one man who was not trustworthy.  Robespierre, whose
influence over the Jacobins was boundless, undertook the defence
of his colleague, owned there was some ground for what had been
said, but spoke highly of Barere's industry and aptitude for
business.  This seasonable interposition silenced the accuser;
but it was long before the neophyte could venture to appear at
the club.

At length a masterpiece of wickedness, unique, we think, even
among Barere's great achievements, obtained his full pardon even
from that rigid conclave.  The insupportable tyranny of the
Committee of Public Safety had at length brought the minds of
men, and even of women, into a fierce and hard temper, which
defied or welcomed death.  The life which might be any morning
taken away, in consequence of the whisper of a private enemy,
seemed of little value.  It was something to die after smiting
one of the oppressors; it was something to bequeath to the
surviving tyrants a terror not inferior to that which they had
themselves inspired.  Human nature, hunted and worried to the
utmost, now turned furiously to bay.  Fouquier Tinville was
afraid to walk the streets; a pistol was snapped at Collot
D'Herbois; a young girl, animated apparently by the spirit of
Charlotte Corday, attempted to obtain an interview with
Robespierre.  Suspicions arose; she was searched; and two knives
were found about her.  She was questioned, and spoke of the
Jacobin domination with resolute scorn and aversion.  It is
unnecessary to say that she was sent to the guillotine.  Barere
declared from the tribune that the cause of these attempts was
evident.  Pitt and his guineas had done the whole.  The English
Government had organised a vast system of murder, had armed the
hand of Charlotte Corday, and had now, by similar means, attacked
two of the most eminent friends of liberty in France.  It is
needless to say that these imputations were, not only false, but
destitute of all show of truth.  Nay, they were demonstrably
absurd:  for the assassins to whom Barere referred rushed on
certain death, a sure proof that they were not hirelings.  The
whole wealth of England would not have bribed any sane person to
do what Charlotte Corday did.  But, when we consider her as an
enthusiast, her conduct is perfectly natural.  Even those French
writers who are childish enough to believe that the English
Government contrived the infernal machine and strangled the
Emperor Paul have fully acquitted Mr Pitt of all share in the
death of Marat and in the attempt on Robespierre.  Yet on
calumnies so futile as those which we have mentioned did Barere
ground a motion at which all Christendom stood aghast.  He
proposed a decree that no quarter should be given to any English
or Hanoverian soldier.  (M. Hippolyte Carnot does his best to
excuse this decree.  His abuse of England is merely laughable. 
England has managed to deal with enemies of a very different sort
from either himself or his hero.  One disgraceful blunder,
however, we think it right to notice.  M. Hippolyte Carnot
asserts that a motion similar to that of Barere was made in the
English Parliament by the late Lord Fitzwilliam.  This assertion
is false.  We defy M. Hippolyte Carnot to state the date and
terms of the motion of which he speaks.  We do not accuse him of
intentional misrepresentation; but we confidently accuse him of
extreme ignorance and temerity.  Our readers will be amused to
learn on what authority he has ventured to publish such a fable. 
He quotes, not the journals of the Lords, not the Parliamentary
Debates, but a ranting message of the Executive Directory to the
Five Hundred, a message, too, the whole meaning of which he has
utterly misunderstood.)  His Carmagnole was worthy of the
proposition with which it concluded.  "That one Englishman should
be spared, that for the slaves of George, for the human machines
of York, the vocabulary of our armies should contain such a word
as generosity, this is what the National Convention cannot
endure.  War to the death against every English soldier.  If last
year, at Dunkirk, quarter had been refused to them when they
asked it on their knees, if our troops had exterminated them all,
instead of suffering them to infest our fortresses by their
presence, the English government would not have renewed its
attack on our frontiers this year.  It is only the dead man who
never comes back.  What is this moral pestilence which has
introduced into our armies false ideas of humanity?  That the
English were to be treated with indulgence was the philanthropic
notion of the Brissotines; it was the patriotic practice of
Dumourier.  But humanity consists in exterminating our enemies. 
No mercy to the execrable Englishman.  Such are the sentiments of
the true Frenchman; for he knows that he belongs to a nation
revolutionary as nature, powerful as freedom, ardent as the
saltpetre which she has just torn from the entrails of the earth. 
Soldiers of liberty, when victory places Englishmen at your
mercy, strike!  None of them must return to the servile soil of
Great Britain; none must pollute the free soil of France."

The Convention, thoroughly tamed and silenced, acquiesced in
Barere's motion without debate.  And now at last the doors of the
Jacobin Club were thrown open to the disciple who had surpassed
his masters.  He was admitted a member by acclamation, and was
soon selected to preside.

For a time he was not without hope that his decree would be
carried into full effect.  Intelligence arrived from the seat of
war of a sharp contest between some French and English troops, in
which the Republicans had the advantage, and in which no
prisoners had been made.  Such things happen occasionally in all
wars.  Barere, however, attributed the ferocity of this combat to
his darling decree, and entertained the Convention with another
Carmagnole.

"The Republicans," he said, "saw a division in red uniform at a
distance.  The red-coats are attacked with the bayonet.  Not one
of them escapes the blows of the Republicans.  All the red-coats
have been killed.  No mercy, no indulgence, has been shown
towards the villains.  Not an Englishman whom the Republicans
could reach is now living.  How many prisoners should you guess
that we have made?  One single prisoner is the result of this
great day."

And now this bad man's craving for blood had become insatiable. 
The more he quaffed, the more he thirsted.  He had begun with the
English; but soon he came down with a proposition for new
massacres.  "All the troops," he said, "of the coalesced tyrants
in garrison at Conde, Valenciennes, Le Quesnoy, and Landrecies,
ought to be put to the sword unless they surrender at discretion
in twenty-four hours.  The English, of course, will be admitted
to no capitulation whatever.  With the English we have no treaty
but death.  As to the rest, surrender at discretion in twenty-
four hours, or death, these are our conditions.  If the slaves
resist, let them feel the edge of the sword."  And then he waxed
facetious.  "On these terms the Republic is willing to give them
a lesson in the art of war."  At that jest, some hearers, worthy
of such a speaker, set up a laugh.  Then he became serious again. 
"Let the enemy perish," he cried, "I have already said it from
this tribune.  It is only the dead man who never comes back. 
Kings will not conspire against us in the grave.  Armies will not
fight against us when they are annihilated.  Let our war with
them be a war of extermination.  What pity is due to slaves whom
the Emperor leads to war under the cane; whom the King of Prussia
beats to the shambles with the flat of the sword; and whom the
Duke of York makes drunk with rum and gin?"  And at the rum and
gin the Mountain and the galleries laughed again.

If Barere had been able to effect his purpose, it is difficult to
estimate the extent of the calamity which he would have brought
on the human race.  No government, however averse to cruelty,
could, in justice to its own subjects, have given quarter to
enemies who gave none.  Retaliation would have been, not merely
justifiable, but a sacred duty.  It would have been necessary for
Howe and Nelson to make every French sailor whom they took walk
the plank.  England has no peculiar reason to dread the
introduction of such a system.  On the contrary, the operation of
Barere's new law of war would have been more unfavourable to his
countrymen than to ours; for we believe that, from the beginning
to the end of the war, there never was a time at which the number
of French prisoners in England was not greater than the number of
English prisoners in France; and so, we apprehend, it will be in
all wars while England retains her maritime superiority.  Had the
murderous decree of the Convention been in force from 1794 to
1815, we are satisfied that, for every Englishman slain by the
French, at least three Frenchmen would have been put to the sword
by the English.  It is, therefore, not as Englishmen, but as
members of the great society of mankind, that we speak with
indignation and horror of the change which Barere attempted to
introduce.  The mere slaughter would have been the smallest part
of the evil.  The butchering of a single unarmed man in cold
blood, under an act of the legislature, would have produced more
evil than the carnage of ten such fields as Albuera.  Public law
would have been subverted from the foundations; national enmities
would have been inflamed to a degree of rage which happily it is
not easy for us to conceive; cordial peace would have been
impossible.  The moral character of the European nations would
have been rapidly and deeply corrupted; for in all countries
those men whose calling is to put their lives in jeopardy for the
defence of the public weal enjoy high consideration, and are
considered as the best arbitrators on points of honour and manly
bearing.  With the standard of morality established in the
military profession the general standard of morality must to a
great extent sink or rise.  It is, therefore, a fortunate
circumstance that, during a long course of years, respect for the
weak and clemency towards the vanquished have been considered as
qualities not less essential to the accomplished soldier than
personal courage.  How long would this continue to be the case,
if the slaying of prisoners were a part of the daily duty of the
warrior?  What man of kind and generous nature would, under such
a system, willingly bear arms?  Who, that was compelled to bear
arms, would long continue kind and generous?  And is it not
certain that, if barbarity towards the helpless became the
characteristic of military men, the taint must rapidly spread to
civil and to domestic life, and must show itself in all the
dealings of the strong with the weak, of husbands with wives, of
employers with work men, of creditors with debtors?

But, thank God, Barere's decree was a mere dead letter.  It was
to be executed by men very different from those who, in the
interior of France, were the instruments of the Committee of
Public Safety, who prated at Jacobin Clubs, and ran to Fouquier
Tinville with charges of incivism against women whom they could
not seduce, and bankers from whom they could not extort money. 
The warriors who, under Hoche, had guarded the walls of Dunkirk,
and who, under Kleber, had made good the defence of the wood of
Monceaux, shrank with horror from an office more degrading than
that of the hangman.  "The Convention," said an officer to his
men, "has sent orders that all the English prisoners shall be
shot."  "We will not shoot them" answered a stout-hearted
sergeant.  "Send them to the Convention.  If the deputies take
pleasure in killing a prisoner, they may kill him themselves, and
eat him too, like savages as they are."  This was the sentiment
of the whole army.  Bonaparte, who thoroughly understood war, who
at Jaffa and elsewhere gave ample proof that he was not unwilling
to strain the laws of war to their utmost rigour, and whose
hatred of England amounted to a folly, always spoke of Barere's
decree with loathing, and boasted that the army had refused to
obey the Convention.

Such disobedience on the part of any other class of citizens
would have been instantly punished by wholesale massacre; but the
Committee of Public Safety was aware that the discipline which
had tamed the unwarlike population of the fields and cities might
not answer in camps.  To fling people by scores out of a boat,
and, when they catch hold of it, to chop off their fingers with a
hatchet, is undoubtedly a very agreeable pastime for a
thoroughbred Jacobin, when the sufferers are, as at Nantes, old
confessors, young girls, or women with child.  But such sport
might prove a little dangerous if tried upon grim ranks of
grenadiers, marked with the scars of Hondschoote, and singed by
the smoke of Fleurus.

Barere, however, found some consolation.  If he could not succeed
in murdering the English and the Hanoverians, he was amply
indemnified by a new and vast slaughter of his own countrymen and
countrywomen.  If the defence which has been set up for the
members of the Committee of Public Safety had been well founded,
if it had been true that they governed with extreme severity only
because the republic was in extreme peril, it is clear that the
severity would have diminished as the peril diminished.  But the
fact is, that those cruelties for which the public danger is made
a plea became more and more enormous as the danger became less
and less, and reached the full height when there was no longer
any danger at all.  In the autumn of 1793, there was undoubtedly
reason to apprehend that France might be unable to maintain the
struggle against the European coalition.  The enemy was
triumphant on the frontiers.  More than half the departments
disowned the authority of the Convention.  But at that time eight
or ten necks a day were thought an ample allowance for the
guillotine of the capital.  In the summer of 1794, Bordeaux,
Toulon, Caen, Lyons, Marseilles, had submitted to the ascendency
of Paris.  The French arms were victorious under the Pyrenees and
on the Sambre.  Brussels had fallen.  Prussia announced her
intention of withdrawing from the contest.  The Republic, no
longer content with defending her own independence, was beginning
to meditate conquest beyond the Alps and the Rhine.  She was now
more formidable to her neighbours than ever Louis the Fourteenth
had been.  And now the Revolutionary Tribunal of Paris was not
content with forty, fifty, sixty heads in a morning.  It was just
after a series of victories, which destroyed the whole force of
the single argument which has been urged in defence of the system
of terror, that the Committee of Public Safety resolved to infuse
into that system an energy hitherto unknown.  It was proposed to
reconstruct the Revolutionary Tribunal, and to collect in the
space of two pages the whole revolutionary jurisprudence.  Lists
of twelve judges and fifty jurors were made out from among the
fiercest Jacobins.  The substantive law was simply this, that
whatever the tribunal should think pernicious to the republic was
a capital crime.  The law of evidence was simply this, that
whatever satisfied the jurors was sufficient proof.  The law of
procedure was of a piece with everything else.  There was to be
an advocate against the prisoner, and no advocate for him.  It
was expressly declared that, if the jurors were in any manner
convinced of the guilt of the prisoner, they might convict him
without hearing a single witness.  The only punishment which the
court could inflict was death.

Robespierre proposed this decree.  When he had read it, a murmur
rose from the Convention.  The fear which had long restrained the
deputies from opposing the Committee was overcome by a stronger
fear.  Every man felt the knife at his throat.  "The decree,"
said one, "is of grave importance.  I move that it be printed and
the debate be adjourned.  If such a measure were adopted without
time for consideration, I would blow my brains out at once."  The
motion for adjournment was seconded.  Then Barere sprang up.  "It
is impossible," he said, "that there can be any difference of
opinion among us as to a law like this, a law so favourable in
all respects to patriots; a law which insures the speedy
punishment of conspirators.  If there is to be an adjournment, I
must insist that it shall not be for more than three days."  The
opposition was overawed; the decree was passed; and, during the
six weeks which followed, the havoc was such as has never been
known before.

And now the evil was beyond endurance.  That timid majority which
had for a time supported the Girondists, and which had, after
their fall, contented itself with registering in silence the
decrees of the Committee of Public Safety, at length drew courage
from despair.  Leaders of bold and firm character were not
wanting, men such as Fouche and Tallien, who, having been long
conspicuous among the chiefs of the Mountain, now found that
their own lives, or lives still dearer to them than their own,
were in extreme peril.  Nor could it be longer kept secret that
there was a schism in the despotic committee.  On one side were
Robespierre, Saint Just, and Couthon; on the other, Collot and
Billaud.  Barere leaned towards these last, but only leaned
towards them.  As was ever his fashion when a great crisis was at
hand, he fawned alternately on both parties, struck alternately
at both, and held himself in readiness to chant the praises or to
sign the death-warrant of either.  In any event his Carmagnole
was ready.  The tree of liberty, the blood of traitors, the
dagger of Brutus, the guineas of perfidious Albion, would do
equally well for Billaud and for Robespierre.

The first attack which was made on Robespierre was indirect.  An
old woman named Catherine Theot, half maniac, half impostor, was
protected by him, and exercised a strange influence over his
mind; for he was naturally prone to superstition, and, having
abjured the faith in which he had been brought up, was looking
about for something to believe.  Barere drew up a report against
Catherine, which contained many facetious conceits, and ended, as
might be expected, with a motion for sending her and some other
wretched creatures of both sexes to the Revolutionary Tribunal,
or, in other words, to death.  This report, however, he did not
dare to read to the Convention himself.  Another member, less
timid, was induced to farther the cruel buffoonery; and the real
author enjoyed in security the dismay and vexation of
Robespierre.

Barere now thought that he had done enough on one side, and that
it was time to make his peace with the other.  On the seventh of
Thermidor, he pronounced in the Convention a panegyric on
Robespierre.  "That representative of the people," he said,
"enjoys a reputation for patriotism, earned by five years of
exertion, and by unalterable fidelity to the principles of
independence and liberty."  On the eighth of Thermidor, it became
clear that a decisive struggle was at hand.  Robespierre struck
the first blow.  He mounted the tribune, and uttered a long
invective on his opponents.  It was moved that his discourse
should be printed; and Barere spoke for the printing.  The sense
of the Convention soon appeared to be the other way; and Barere
apologised for his former speech, and implored his colleagues to
abstain from disputes which could be agreeable only to Pitt and
York.  On the next day, the ever-memorable ninth of Thermidor,
came the real tug of war.  Tallien, bravely taking his life in
his hand, led the onset.  Billaud followed; and then all that
infinite hatred which had long been kept down by terror burst
forth, and swept every barrier before it.  When at length the
voice of Robespierre, drowned by the President's bell, and by
shouts of "Down with the tyrant!" had died away in hoarse
gasping, Barere rose.  He began with timid and doubtful phrases,
watched the effect of every word he uttered, and, when the
feeling of the Assembly had been unequivocally manifested,
declared against Robespierre.  But it was not till the people out
of doors, and especially the gunners of Paris, had espoused the
cause of the Convention, that Barere felt quite at ease.  Then he
sprang to the tribune, poured forth a Carmagnole about
Pisistratus and Catiline, and concluded by moving that the heads
of Robespierre and Robespierre's accomplices should be cut off
without a trial.  The motion was carried.  On the following
morning the vanquished members of the Committee of Public Safety
and their principal adherents suffered death.  It was exactly one
year since Barere had commenced his career of slaughter by moving
the proscription of his old allies the Girondists.  We greatly
doubt whether any human being has ever succeeded in packing more
wickedness into the space of three hundred and sixty-five days.

The ninth of Thermidor is one of the great epochs in the history
of Europe.  It is true that the three members of the Committee of
Public Safety who triumphed were by no means better men than the
three who fell.  Indeed, we are inclined to think that of these
six statesmen the least bad were Robespierre and Saint Just,
whose cruelty was the effect of sincere fanaticism operating on
narrow understandings and acrimonious tempers.  The worst of the
six was, beyond all doubt, Barere, who had no faith in any part
of the system which he upheld by persecution; who, while he sent
his fellow-creatures to death for being the third cousins of
royalists, had not in the least made up his mind that a republic
was better than a monarchy; who, while he slew his old friends
for federalism, was himself far more a federalist than any of
them; who had become a murderer merely for his safety, and who
continued to be a murderer merely for his pleasure.

The tendency of the vulgar is to embody everything.  Some
individual is selected, and often selected very injudicially, as
the representative of every great movement of the public mind, of
every great revolution in human affairs; and on this individual
are concentrated all the love and all the hatred, all the
admiration and all the contempt, which he ought rightfully to
share with a whole party, a whole sect, a whole nation, a whole
generation.  Perhaps no human being has suffered so much from
this propensity of the multitude as Robespierre.  He is regarded,
not merely as what he was, an envious, malevolent zealot, but as
the incarnation of Terror, as Jacobinism personified.  The truth
is, that it was not by him that the system of terror was carried
to the last extreme.  The most horrible days in the history of
the Revolutionary Tribunal of Paris were those which immediately
preceded the ninth of Thermidor.  Robespierre had then ceased to
attend the meetings of the sovereign Committee; and the direction
of affairs was really in the hands of Billaud, of Collot, and of
Barere.

It had never occurred to those three tyrants that, in
overthrowing Robespierre, they were overthrowing that system of
terror to which they were more attached than he had ever been. 
Their object was to go on slaying even more mercilessly than
before.  But they had misunderstood the nature of the great
crisis which had at last arrived.  The yoke of the Committee was
broken for ever.  The Convention had regained its liberty, had
tried its strength, had vanquished and punished its enemies.  A
great reaction had commenced.  Twenty-four hours after
Robespierre had ceased to live, it was moved and carried, amidst
loud bursts of applause, that the sittings of the Revolutionary
Tribunal should be suspended.  Billaud was not at that moment
present.  He entered the hall soon after, learned with
indignation what had passed, and moved that the vote should be
rescinded.  But loud cries of "No, no!" rose from those benches
which had lately paid mute obedience to his commands.  Barere
came forward on the same day, and abjured the Convention not to
relax the system of terror.  "Beware, above all things," he
cried, "of that fatal moderation which talks of peace and of
clemency.  Let aristocracy know that here she will find only
enemies sternly bent on vengeance, and judges who have no pity." 
But the day of the Carmagnoles was over:  the restraint of fear
had been relaxed; and the hatred with which the nation regarded
the Jacobin dominion broke forth with ungovernable violence.  Not
more strongly did the tide of public opinion run against the old
monarchy and aristocracy, at the time of the taking of the
Bastile, than it now ran against the tyranny of the Mountain. 
From every dungeon the prisoners came forth as they had gone in,
by hundreds.  The decree which forbade the soldiers of the
republic to give quarter to the English was repealed by an
unanimous vote, amidst loud acclamations; nor, passed as it was,
disobeyed as it was, and rescinded as it was, can it be with
justice considered as a blemish on the fame of the French nation. 
The Jacobin Club was refractory.  It was suppressed without
resistance.  The surviving Girondist deputies, who had concealed
themselves from the vengeance of their enemies in caverns and
garrets, were readmitted to their seats in the Convention.  No
day passed without some signal reparation of injustice; no street
in Paris was without some trace of the recent change.  In the
theatre, the bust of Marat was pulled down from its pedestal and
broken in pieces, amidst the applause of the audience.  His
carcass was ejected from the Pantheon.  The celebrated picture of
his death, which had hung in the hall of the Convention, was
removed.  The savage inscriptions with which the walls of the
city had been covered disappeared; and, in place of death and
terror, humanity, the watchword of the new rulers, was everywhere
to be seen.  In the meantime, the gay spirit of France, recently
subdued by oppression, and now elated by the joy of a great
deliverance, wantoned in a thousand forms.  Art, taste, luxury,
revived.  Female beauty regained its empire--an empire
strengthened by the remembrance of all the tender and all the
sublime virtues which women, delicately bred and reputed
frivolous, had displayed during the evil days.  Refined manners,
chivalrous sentiments, followed in the train of love.  The dawn
of the Arctic summer day after the Arctic winter night, the great
unsealing of the waters, the awakening of animal and vegetable
life, the sudden softening of the air, the sudden blooming of the
flowers, the sudden bursting of old forests into verdure, is but
a feeble type of that happiest and most genial of revolutions,
the revolution of the ninth of Thermidor.

But, in the midst of the revival of all kind and generous
sentiments, there was one portion of the community against which
mercy itself seemed to cry out for vengeance.  The chiefs of the
late government and their tools were now never named but as the
men of blood, the drinkers of blood, the cannibals.  In some
parts of France, where the creatures of the Mountain had acted
with peculiar barbarity, the populace took the law into its own
hands and meted out justice to the Jacobins with the true Jacobin
measure, but at Paris the punishments were inflicted with order
and decency, and were few when compared with the number, and
lenient when compared with the enormity, of the crimes.  Soon
after the ninth of Thermidor, two of the vilest of mankind,
Fouquier Tinville, whom Barere had placed at the Revolutionary
Tribunal, and Lebon, whom Barere had defended in the Convention,
were placed under arrest.  A third miscreant soon shared their
fate, Carrier, the tyrant of Nantes.  The trials of these men
brought to light horrors surpassing anything that Suetonius and
Lampridius have related of the worst Caesars.  But it was
impossible to punish subordinate agents, who, bad as they were,
had only acted in accordance with the spirit of the government
which they served, and, at the same time, to grant impunity to
the heads of the wicked administration.  A cry was raised, both
within and without the Convention for justice on Collot, Billaud,
and Barere.

Collot and Billaud, with all their vices, appear to have been men
of resolute natures.  They made no submission; but opposed to the
hatred of mankind, at first a fierce resistance, and afterwards a
dogged and sullen endurance.  Barere, on the other hand, as soon
as he began to understand the real nature of the revolution of
Thermidor, attempted to abandon the Mountain, and to obtain
admission among his old friends of the moderate party.  He
declared everywhere that he had never been in favour of severe
measures; that he was a Girondist; that he had always condemned
and lamented the manner in which the Brissotine deputies had been
treated.  He now preached mercy from that tribune from which he
had recently preached extermination.  "The time," he said, "has
come at which our clemency may be indulged without danger.  We
may now safely consider temporary imprisonment as an adequate
punishment for political misdemeanours."  It was only a fortnight
since, from the same place, he had declaimed against the
moderation which dared even to talk of clemency; it was only a
fortnight since he had ceased to send men and women to the
guillotine of Paris, at the rate of three hundred a week.  He now
wished to make his peace with the moderate party at the expense
of the Terrorists, as he had, a year before, made his peace with
the Terrorists at the expense of the moderate party.  But he was
disappointed.  He had left himself no retreat.  His face, his
voice, his rants, his jokes, had become hateful to the
Convention.  When he spoke he was interrupted by murmurs.  Bitter
reflections were daily cast on his cowardice and perfidy.  On one
occasion Carnot rose to give an account of a victory, and so far
forgot the gravity of his own character as to indulge in the sort
of oratory which Barere had affected on similar occasions.  He
was interrupted by cries of "No more Carmagnoles!"  "No more of
Barere's puns!"

At length, five months after the revolution of Thermidor, the
Convention resolved that a committee of twenty-one members should
be appointed to examine into the conduct of Billaud, Collot, and
Barere.  In some weeks the report was made.  From that report we
learn that a paper had been discovered, signed by Barere, and
containing a proposition for adding the last improvement to the
system of terror.  France was to be divided into circuits;
itinerant revolutionary tribunals, composed of trusty Jacobins,
were to move from department to department; and the guillotine
was to travel in their train.

Barere, in his defence, insisted that no speech or motion which
he had made in the Convention could, without a violation of the
freedom of debate, be treated as a crime.  He was asked how he
could resort to such a mode of defence, after putting to death so
many deputies on account of opinions expressed in the Convention. 
He had nothing to say, but that it was much to be regretted that
the sound principle had ever been violated.

He arrogated to himself a large share of the merit of the
revolution in Thermidor.  The men who had risked their lives to
effect that revolution, and who knew that, if they had failed,
Barere would, in all probability, have moved the decree for
beheading them without a trial, and have drawn up a proclamation
announcing their guilt and their punishment to all France, were
by no means disposed to acquiesce in his claims.  He was reminded
that, only forty-eight hours before the decisive conflict, he
had, in the tribune, been profuse of adulation to Robespierre. 
His answer to this reproach is worthy of himself.  "It was
necessary," he said, "to dissemble.  It was necessary to flatter
Robespierre's vanity, and, by panegyric, to impel him to the
attack.  This was the motive which induced me to load him with
those praises of which you complain.  Who ever blamed Brutus for
dissembling with Tarquin?"

The accused triumvirs had only one chance of escaping punishment.
There was severe distress at that moment among the working people
of the capital.  This distress the Jacobins attributed to the
reaction of Thermidor, to the lenity with which the aristocrats
were now treated, and to the measures which had been adopted
against the chiefs of the late administration.  Nothing is too
absurd to be believed by a populace which has not breakfasted,
and which does not know how it is to dine.  The rabble of the
Faubourg St Antoine rose, menaced the deputies, and demanded with
loud cries the liberation of the persecuted patriots.  But the
Convention was no longer such as it had been, when similar means
were employed too successfully against the Girondists.  Its
spirit was roused.  Its strength had been proved.  Military means
were at its command.  The tumult was suppressed:  and it was
decreed that same evening that Collot, Billaud, and Barere should
instantly be removed to a distant place of confinement.

The next day the order of the Convention was executed.  The
account which Barere has given of his journey is the most
interesting and the most trustworthy part of these Memoirs. 
There is no witness so infamous that a court of justice will not
take his word against himself; and even Barere may be believed
when he tells us how much he was hated and despised.

The carriage in which he was to travel passed, surrounded by
armed men, along the street of St Honore.  A crowd soon gathered
round it and increased every moment.  On the long flight of steps
before the church of St Roch stood rows of eager spectators.  It
was with difficulty that the coach could make its way through
those who hung upon it, hooting, cursing, and striving to burst
the doors.  Barere thought his life in danger, and was conducted
at his own request to a public office, where he hoped that he
might find shelter till the crowd should disperse.  In the
meantime, another discussion on his fate took place in the
Convention.  It was proposed to deal with him as he had dealt
with better men, to put him out of the pale of the law, and to
deliver him at once without any trial to the headsman.  But the
humanity which, since the ninth of Thermidor, had generally
directed the public councils restrained the deputies from taking
this course.

It was now night; and the streets gradually became quiet.  The
clock struck twelve; and Barere, under a strong guard, again set
forth on his journey.  He was conducted over the river to the
place where the Orleans road branches off from the southern
boulevard.  Two travelling carriages stood there.  In one of them
was Billaud, attended by two officers; in the other two more
officers were waiting to receive Barere.  Collot was already on
the road.

At Orleans, a city which had suffered cruelly from the Jacobin
tyranny, the three deputies were surrounded by a mob bent on
tearing them to pieces.  All the national guards of the
neighbourhood were assembled; and this force was not greater than
the emergency required; for the multitude pursued the carriages
far on the road to Blois.

At Amboise the prisoners learned that Tours was ready to receive
them.  The stately bridge was occupied by a throng of people, who
swore that the men under whose rule the Loire had been choked
with corpses should have full personal experience of the nature
of a noyade.  In consequence of this news, the officers who had
charge of the criminals made such arrangements that the carriages
reached Tours at two in the morning, and drove straight to the
post-house.  Fresh horses were instantly ordered; and the
travellers started again at full gallop.  They had, in truth, not
a moment to lose; for the alarm had been given; lights were seen
in motion; and the yells of a great multitude, disappointed of
its revenge, mingled with the sound of the departing wheels.

At Poitiers there was another narrow escape.  As the prisoners
quitted the post-house, they saw the whole population pouring in
fury down the steep declivity on which the city is built.  They
passed near Niort, but could not venture to enter it.  The
inhabitants came forth with threatening aspect, and vehemently
cried to the postillions to stop; but the postillions urged the
horses to full speed, and soon left the town behind.  Through
such dangers the men of blood were brought in safety to Rochelle.

Oleron was the place of their destination, a dreary island beaten
by the raging waves of the Bay of Biscay.  The prisoners were
confined in the castle; each had a single chamber, at the door of
which a guard was placed; and each was allowed the ration of a
single soldier.  They were not allowed to communicate either with
the garrison or with the population of the island; and soon after
their arrival they were denied the indulgence of walking on the
ramparts.  The only place where they were suffered to take
exercise was the esplanade where the troops were drilled.

They had not been long in this situation when news came that the
Jacobins of Paris had made a last attempt to regain ascendency in
the state, that the hall of the Convention had been forced by a
furious crowd, that one of the deputies had been murdered and his
head fixed on a pike, that the life of the President had been for
a time in imminent danger, and that some members of the
legislature had not been ashamed to join the rioters.  But troops
had arrived in time to prevent a massacre.  The insurgents had
been put to flight; the inhabitants of the disaffected quarters
of the capital had been disarmed; the guilty deputies had
suffered the just punishment of their treason; and the power of
the Mountain was broken for ever.  These events strengthened the
aversion with which the system of terror and the authors of that
system were regarded.  One member of the Convention had moved
that the three prisoners of Oleron should be put to death;
another, that they should be brought back to Paris, and tried by
a council of war.  These propositions were rejected.  But
something was conceded to the party which called for severity.  A
vessel which had been fitted out with great expedition at
Rochefort touched at Oleron; and it was announced to Collot and
Billaud that they must instantly go on board.  They were
forthwith conveyed to Guiana, where Collot soon drank himself to
death with brandy.  Billaud lived many years, shunning his
fellow-creatures and shunned by them; and diverted his lonely
hours by teaching parrots to talk.  Why a distinction was made
between Barere and his companions in guilt, neither he nor any
other writer, as far as we know, has explained.  It does not
appear that the distinction was meant to be at all in his favour;
for orders soon arrived from Paris, that he should be brought to
trial for his crimes before the criminal court of the department
of the Upper Charente.  He was accordingly brought back to the
continent, and confined during some months at Saintes, in an old
convent which had lately been turned into a jail.

While he lingered here, the reaction which had followed the great
crisis of Thermidor met with a temporary check.  The friends of
the House of Bourbon, presuming on the indulgence with which they
had been treated after the fall of Robespierre, not only ventured
to avow their opinions with little disguise, but at length took
arms against the Convention, and were not put down till much
blood had been shed in the streets of Paris.  The vigilance of
the public authorities was therefore now directed chiefly against
the Royalists; and the rigour with which the Jacobins had lately
been treated was somewhat relaxed.  The Convention, indeed, again
resolved that Barere should be sent to Guiana.  But this decree
was not carried into effect.  The prisoner, probably with the
connivance of some powerful persons, made his escape from Saintes
and fled to Bordeaux, where he remained in concealment during
some years.  There seems to have been a kind of understanding
between him and the government, that, as long as he hid himself,
he should not be found, but that, if he obtruded himself on the
public eye, he must take the consequences of his rashness.

While the constitution of 1795, with its Executive Directory, its
Council of Elders, and its Council of Five Hundred, was in
operation, he continued to live under the ban of the law.  It was
in vain that he solicited, even at moments when the politics of
the Mountain seemed to be again in the ascendant, a remission of
the sentence pronounced by the Convention.  Even his fellow-
regicides, even the authors of the slaughter of Vendemiaire and
of the arrests of Fructidor, were ashamed of him.

About eighteen months after his escape from prison, his name was
again brought before the world.  In his own province he still
retained some of his early popularity.  He had, indeed, never
been in that province since the downfall of the monarchy.  The
mountaineers of Gascony were far removed from the seat of
government, and were but imperfectly informed of what passed
there.  They knew that their countryman had played an important
part, and that he had on some occasions promoted their local
interests; and they stood by him in his adversity and in his
disgrace with a constancy which presents a singular contrast to
his own abject fickleness.  All France was amazed to learn that
the department of the Upper Pyrenees had chosen the proscribed
tyrant a member of the Council of Five Hundred.  The council
which, like our House of Commons, was the judge of the election
of its own members, refused to admit him.  When his name was read
from the roll, a cry of indignation rose from the benches. 
"Which of you," exclaimed one of the members, "would sit by the
side of such a monster?"  "Not I, not I!" answered a crowd of
voices.  One deputy declared that he would vacate his seat if the
hall were polluted by the presence of such a wretch.  The
election was declared null on the ground that the person elected
was a criminal skulking from justice; and many severe reflections
were thrown on the lenity which suffered him to be still at
large.

He tried to make his peace with the Directory, by writing a bulky
libel on England, entitled, the Liberty of the Seas.  He seems to
have confidently expected that this work would produce a great
effect.  He printed three thousand copies, and in order to defray
the expense of publication, sold one of his farms for the sum of
ten thousand francs.  The book came out; but nobody bought it, in
consequence, if Barere is to be believed, of the villainy of Mr
Pitt, who bribed the Directory to order the Reviewers not to
notice so formidable an attack on the maritime greatness of
perfidious Albion.

Barere had been about three years at Bordeaux when he received
intelligence that the mob of the town designed him the honour of
a visit on the ninth of Thermidor, and would probably administer
to him what he had, in his defence of his friend Lebon, described
as substantial justice under forms a little harsh.  It was
necessary for him to disguise himself in clothes such as were
worn by the carpenters of the dock.  In this garb, with a bundle
of wood shavings under his arm, he made his escape into the
vineyards which surrounded the city, lurked during some days in a
peasant's hut, and, when the dreaded anniversary was over, stole
back into the city.  A few months later he was again in danger. 
He now thought that he should be nowhere so safe as in the
neighbourhood of Paris.  He quitted Bordeaux, hastened undetected
through those towns where four years before his life had been in
extreme danger, passed through the capital in the morning
twilight, when none were in the streets except shop-boys taking
down the shutters, and arrived safe at the pleasant village of St
Ouen on the Seine.  Here he remained in seclusion during some
months.  In the meantime Bonaparte returned from Egypt, placed
himself at the had of a coalition of discontented parties,
covered his designs with the authority of the Elders, drove the
Five Hundred out of their hall at the point of the bayonet, and
became absolute monarch of France under the name of First Consul.

Barere assures us that these events almost broke his heart; that
he could not bear to see France again subject to a master; and
that if the representatives had been worthy of that honourable
name, they would have arrested the ambitious general who insulted
them.  These feelings, however, did not prevent him from
soliciting the protection of the new government, and from sending
to the First Consul a handsome copy of the essay on the Liberty
of the Seas.

The policy of Bonaparte was to cover all the past with a general
oblivion.  He belonged half to the Revolution and half to the
reaction.  He was an upstart and a sovereign; and had therefore
something in common with the Jacobin, and something in common
with the Royalist.  All, whether Jacobins or Royalists, who were
disposed to support his government, were readily received--all,
whether Jacobins or Royalists, who showed hostility to his
government, were put down and punished.  Men who had borne a part
in the worst crimes of the Reign of Terror, and men who had
fought in the army of Conde, were to be found close together,
both in his antechambers and in his dungeons.  He decorated
Fouche and Maury with the same cross.  He sent Arena and Georges
Cadoudal to the same scaffold.  From a government acting on such
principles Barere easily obtained the indulgence which the
Directory had constantly refused to grant.  The sentence passed
by the Convention was remitted; and he was allowed to reside at
Paris.  His pardon, it is true, was not granted in the most
honourable form; and he remained, during some time, under the
special supervision of the police.  He hastened, however, to pay
his court at the Luxembourg palace, where Bonaparte then resided,
and was honoured with a few dry and careless words by the master
of France.

Here begins a new chapter of Barere's history.  What passed
between him and the Consular government cannot, of course, be so
accurately known to us as the speeches and reports which he made
in the Convention.  It is, however, not difficult, from notorious
facts, and from the admissions scattered over these lying
Memoirs, to form a tolerably accurate notion of what took place. 
Bonaparte wanted to buy Barere:  Barere wanted to sell himself to
Bonaparte.  The only question was one of price; and there was an
immense interval between what was offered and what was demanded.

Bonaparte, whose vehemence of will, fixedness of purpose, and
reliance on his own genius were not only great but extravagant,
looked with scorn on the most effeminate and dependent of human
minds.  He was quite capable of perpetrating crimes under the
influence either of ambition or of revenge:  but he had no touch
of that accursed monomania, that craving for blood and tears,
which raged in some of the Jacobin chiefs.  To proscribe the
Terrorists would have been wholly inconsistent with his policy;
but, of all the classes of men whom his comprehensive system
included, he liked them the least; and Barere was the worst of
them.  This wretch had been branded with infamy, first by the
Convention, and then by the Council of Five Hundred.  The
inhabitants of four or five great cities had attempted to tear
him limb from limb.  Nor were his vices redeemed by eminent
talents for administration or legislation.  It would be unwise to
place in any honourable or important post a man so wicked, so
odious, and so little qualified to discharge high political
duties.  At the same time there was a way in which it seemed
likely that he might be of use to the government.  The First
Consul, as he afterwards acknowledged, greatly overrated Barere's
powers as a writer.  The effect which the Reports of the
Committee of Public Safety had produced by the camp fires of the
Republican armies had been great.  Napoleon himself, when a young
soldier, had been delighted by those compositions, which had much
in common with the rhapsodies of his favourite poet, Macpherson. 
The taste, indeed, of the great warrior and statesman was never
very pure.  His bulletins, his general orders, and his
proclamations, are sometimes, it is true, masterpieces in their
kind; but we too often detect, even in his best writing, traces
of Fingal, and of the Carmagnoles.  It is not strange, therefore,
that he should have been desirous to secure the aid of Barere's
pen.  Nor was this the only kind of assistance which the old
member of the Committee of Public Safety might render to the
Consular government.  He was likely to find admission into the
gloomy dens in which those Jacobins whose constancy was to be
overcome by no reverse, or whose crimes admitted of no expiation,
hid themselves from the curses of mankind.  No enterprise was too
bold or too atrocious for minds crazed by fanatacism, and
familiar with misery and death.  The government was anxious to
have information of what passed in their secret councils; and no
man was better qualified to furnish such information than Barere.

For these reasons the First Consul was disposed to employ Barere
as a writer and as a spy.  But Barere--was it possible that he
would submit to such a degradation?  Bad as he was, he had played
a great part.  He had belonged to that class of criminals who
filled the world with the renown of their crimes; he had been one
of a cabinet which had ruled France with absolute power, and made
war on all Europe with signal success.  Nay, he had been, though
not the most powerful, yet, with the single exception of
Robespierre, the most conspicuous member of that cabinet.  His
name had been a household word at Moscow and at Philadelphia, at
Edinburgh and at Cadiz.  The blood of the Queen of France, the
blood of the greatest orators and philosophers of France, was on
his hands.  He had spoken; and it had been decreed that the
plough should pass over the great city of Lyons.  He had spoken
again; and it had been decreed that the streets of Toulon should
be razed to the ground.  When depravity is placed so high as his,
the hatred which it inspires is mingled with awe.  His place was
with great tyrants, with Critias and Sylla, with Eccelino and
Borgia; not with hireling scribblers and police runners.

"Virtue, I grant you, is an empty boast;
But shall the dignity of vice be lost?"

So sang Pope; and so felt Barere.  When it was proposed to him to
publish a journal in defence of the Consular government, rage and
shame inspired him for the first and last time with something
like courage.  He had filled as large a space in the eyes of
mankind as Mr Pitt or General Washington; and he was coolly
invited to descend at once to the level of Mr Lewis Goldsmith. 
He saw, too, with agonies of envy, that a wide distinction was
made between himself and the other statesmen of the Revolution
who were summoned to the aid of the government.  Those statesmen
were required, indeed, to make large sacrifices of principle; but
they were not called on to sacrifice what, in the opinion of the
vulgar, constitutes personal dignity.  They were made tribunes
and legislators, ambassadors and counsellors of state, ministers,
senators, and consuls.  They might reasonably expect to rise with
the rising fortunes of their master; and, in truth, many of them
were destined to wear the badge of his Legion of Honour and of
his order of the Iron Crown; to be arch-chancellors and arch-
treasurers, counts, dukes, and princes.  Barere, only six years
before, had been far more powerful, far more widely renowned,
than any of them; and now, while they were thought worthy to
represent the majesty of France at foreign courts, while they
received crowds of suitors in gilded antechambers, he was to pass
his life in measuring paragraphs, and scolding correctors of the
press.  It was too much.  Those lips which had never before been
able to fashion themselves to a No, now murmured expostulation
and refusal.  "I could not"--these are his own words--"abase
myself to such a point as to serve the First Consul merely in the
capacity of a journalist, while so many insignificant, low, and
servile people, such as the Treilhards, the Roederers, the
Lebruns, the Marets, and others whom it is superfluous to name,
held the first place in this government of upstarts."

This outbreak of spirit was of short duration.  Napoleon was
inexorable.  It is said indeed that he was, for a moment, half
inclined to admit Barere into the Council of State; but the
members of that body remonstrated in the strongest terms, and
declared that such a nomination would be a disgrace to them all. 
This plan was therefore relinquished.  Thenceforth Barere's only
chance of obtaining the patronage of the government was to subdue
his pride, to forget that there had been a time when, with three
words, he might have had the heads of the three consuls, and to
betake himself, humbly and industriously, to the task of
composing lampoons on England and panegyrics on Bonaparte.

It has been often asserted, we know not on what grounds, that
Barere was employed by the government not only as a writer, but
as a censor of the writings of other men.  This imputation he
vehemently denies in his Memoirs; but our readers will probably
agree with us in thinking that his denial leaves the question
exactly where it was.

Thus much is certain, that he was not restrained from exercising
the office of censor by any scruple of conscience or honour; for
he did accept an office, compared with which that of censor,
odious as it is, may be called an august and beneficent
magistracy.  He began to have what are delicately called
relations with the police.  We are not sure that we have formed,
or that we can convey, an exact notion of the nature of Barere's
new calling.  It is a calling unknown in our country.  It has
indeed often happened in England that a plot has been revealed to
the government by one of the conspirators.  The informer has
sometimes been directed to carry it fair towards his accomplices,
and to let the evil design come to full maturity.  As soon as his
work is done, he is generally snatched from the public gaze, and
sent to some obscure village or to some remote colony.  The use
of spies, even to this extent, is in the highest degree unpopular
in England; but a political spy by profession is a creature from
which our island is as free as it is from wolves.  In France the
race is well-known, and was never more numerous, more greedy,
more cunning, or more savage, than under the government of
Bonaparte.

Our idea of a gentleman in relations with the Consular and
Imperial police may perhaps be incorrect.  Such as it is, we will
try to convey it to our readers.  We image to ourselves a well-
dressed person, with a soft voice and affable manners.  His
opinions are those of the society in which he finds himself, but
a little stronger.  He often complains, in the language of honest
indignation, that what passes in private conversation finds its
way strangely to the government, and cautions his associates to
take care what they say when they are not sure of their company. 
As for himself, he owns that he is indiscreet.  He can never
refrain from speaking his mind; and that is the reason that he is
not prefect of a department.

In a gallery of the Palais Royal he overhears two friends talking
earnestly about the King and the Count of Artois.  He follows
them into a coffee-house, sits at the table next to them, calls
for his half-dish and his small glass of cognac, takes up a
journal, and seems occupied with the news.  His neighbours go on
talking without restraint, and in the style of persons warmly
attached to the exiled family.  They depart; and he follows them
half round the boulevards till he fairly tracks them to their
apartments, and learns their names from the porters.  From that
day every letter addressed to either of them is sent from the
post-office to the police, and opened.  Their correspondents
become known to the government, and are carefully watched.  Six
or eight honest families, in different parts of France, find
themselves at once under the frown of power without being able to
guess what offence they have given.  One person is dismissed from
a public office; another learns with dismay that his promising
son has been turned out of the Polytechnic school.

Next, the indefatigable servant of the state falls in with an old
republican, who has not changed with the times, who regrets the
red cap and the tree of liberty, who has not unlearned the Thee
and Thou, and who still subscribes his letters with "Health and
Fraternity."  Into the ears of this sturdy politician our friend
pours forth a long series of complaints.  What evil times!  What
a change since the days when the Mountain governed France!  What
is the First Consul but a king under a new name?  What is this
Legion of Honour but a new aristocracy?  The old superstition is
reviving with the old tyranny.  There is a treaty with the Pope,
and a provision for the clergy.  Emigrant nobles are returning in
crowds, and are better received at the Tuileries than the men of
the 10th of August.  This cannot last.  What is life without
liberty?  What terrors has death to the true patriot?  The old
Jacobin catches fire, bestows and receives the fraternal hug, and
hints that there will soon be great news, and that the breed of
Harmodius and Brutus is not quite extinct.  The next day he is
close prisoner, and all his papers are in the hands of the
government.

To this vocation, a vocation compared with which the life of a
beggar, of a pickpocket, of a pimp, is honourable, did Barere now
descend.  It was his constant practice, as often as he enrolled
himself in a new party, to pay his footing with the heads of old
friends.  He was at first a Royalist; and he made atonement by
watering the tree of liberty with the blood of Louis.  He was
then a Girondist; and he made atonement by murdering Vergniaud
and Gensonne.  He fawned on Robespierre up to the eighth of
Thermidor; and he made atonement by moving, on the ninth, that
Robespierre should be beheaded without a trial.  He was now
enlisted in the service of the new monarchy; and he proceeded to
atone for his republican heresies by sending republican throats
to the guillotine.

Among his most intimate associates was a Gascon named Demerville,
who had been employed in an office of high trust under the
Committee of Public Safety.  This man was fanatically attached to
the Jacobin system of politics, and, in conjunction with other
enthusiasts of the same class, formed a design against the First
Consul.  A hint of this design escaped him in conversation with
Barere.  Barere carried the intelligence to Lannes, who commanded
the Consular Guards.  Demerville was arrested, tried, and
beheaded; and among the witnesses who appeared against him was
his friend Barere.

The account which Barere has given of these transactions is
studiously confused and grossly dishonest.  We think, however,
that we can discern, through much falsehood and much artful
obscurity, some truths which he labours to conceal.  It is clear
to us that the government suspected him of what the Italians call
a double treason.  It was natural that such a suspicion should
attach to him.  He had, in times not very remote, zealously
preached the Jacobin doctrine, that he who smites a tyrant
deserves higher praise than he who saves a citizen.  Was it
possible that the member of the Committee of Public Safety, the
king-killer, the queen-killer, could in earnest mean to deliver
his old confederates, his bosom friends, to the executioner,
solely because they had planned an act which, if there were any
truth in his own Carmagnoles, was in the highest degree virtuous
and glorious?  Was it not more probable that he was really
concerned in the plot, and that the information which he gave was
merely intended to lull or to mislead the police?  Accordingly,
spies were set on the spy.  He was ordered to quit Paris, and not
to come within twenty leagues till he received further orders. 
Nay, he ran no small risk of being sent, with some of his old
friends, to Madagascar.

He made his peace, however, with the government so far, that he
was not only permitted, during some years, to live unmolested,
but was employed in the lowest sort of political drudgery.  In
the summer of 1803, while he was preparing to visit the south of
France, he received a letter which deserves to be inserted.  It
was from Duroc, who is well known to have enjoyed a large share
of Napoleon's confidence and favour.

"The First Consul, having been informed that Citizen Barere is
about to set out for the country, desires that he will stay at
Paris.

"Citizen Barere will every week draw up a report on the state of
public opinion on the proceedings of the government, and
generally on everything which, in his judgment, it will be
interesting to the First Consul to learn.

"He may write with perfect freedom.

"He will deliver his reports under seal into General Duroc's own
hand, and General Duroc will deliver them to the First Consul. 
But it is absolutely necessary that nobody should suspect that
this species of communication takes place; and, should any such
suspicion get abroad, the First Consul will cease to receive the
reports of Citizen Barere.

"It will also be proper that Citizen Barere should frequently
insert in the journals articles tending to animate the public
mind, particularly against the English."

During some years Barere continued to discharge the functions
assigned to him by his master.  Secret reports, filled with the
talk of coffee-houses, were carried by him every week to the
Tuileries.  His friends assure us that he took especial pains to
do all the harm in his power to the returned emigrants.  It was
not his fault if Napoleon was not apprised of every murmur and
every sarcasm which old marquesses who had lost their estates,
and old clergymen who had lost their benefices, uttered against
the imperial system.  M. Hippolyte Carnot, we grieve to say, is
so much blinded by party spirit that he seems to reckon this
dirty wickedness among his hero's titles to public esteem.

Barere was, at the same time, an indefatigable journalist and
pamphleteer.  He set up a paper directed against England, and
called the "Memorial Antibritannique".  He planned a work
entitled, "France made great and illustrious by Napoleon."  When
the Imperial government was established, the old regicide made
himself conspicuous even among the crowd of flatterers by the
peculiar fulsomeness of his adulation.  He translated into French
a contemptible volume of Italian verses, entitled, "The Poetic
Crown, composed on the glorious accession of Napoleon the First,
by the Shepherds of Arcadia."  He commenced a new series of
Carmagnoles very different from those which had charmed the
Mountain.  The title of Emperor of the French, he said, was mean;
Napoleon ought to be Emperor of Europe.  King of Italy was too
humble an appellation; Napoleon's style ought to be King of
Kings.

But Barere laboured to small purpose in both his vocations. 
Neither as a writer nor as a spy was he of much use.  He
complains bitterly that his paper did not sell.  While the
"Journal des Debats", then flourishing under the able management
of Geoffroy, had a circulation of at least twenty thousand
copies, the "Memorial Antibritannique" never, in its most
prosperous times, had more than fifteen hundred subscribers; and
these subscribers were, with scarcely an exception, persons
residing far from Paris, probably Gascons, among whom the name of
Barere had not yet lost its influence.

A writer who cannot find readers generally attributes the public
neglect to any cause rather than to the true one; and Barere was
no exception to the general rule.  His old hatred to Paris
revived in all its fury.  That city, he says, has no sympathy
with France.  No Parisian cares to subscribe to a journal which
dwells on the real wants and interests of the country.  To a
Parisian nothing is so ridiculous as patriotism.  The higher
classes of the capital have always been devoted to England.  A
corporal from London is better received among them than a French
general.  A journal, therefore, which attacks England has no
chance of their support.

A much better explanation of the failure of the "Memorial" was
given by Bonaparte at St Helena.  "Barere," said he to Barry
O'Meara, "had the reputation of being a man of talent:  but I did
not find him so.  I employed him to write; but he did not display
ability.  He used many flowers of rhetoric, but no solid
argument; nothing but coglionerie wrapped up in high-sounding
language."

The truth is that, though Barere was a man of quick parts, and
could do with ease what he could do at all, he had never been a
good writer.  In the day of his power he had been in the habit of
haranguing an excitable audience on exciting topics.  The faults
of his style passed uncensured; for it was a time of literary as
well as of civil lawlessness, and a patriot was licensed to
violate the ordinary rules of composition as well as the ordinary
rules of jurisprudence and of social morality.  But there had now
been a literary as well as a civil reaction.  As there was again
a throne and a court, a magistracy, a chivalry, and a hierarchy,
so was there a revival of classical taste.  Honour was again paid
to the prose of Pascal and Massillon, and to the verse of Racine
and La Fontaine.  The oratory which had delighted the galleries
of the Convention was not only as much out of date as the
language of Villehardouin and Joinville, but was associated in
the public mind with images of horror.  All the peculiarities of
the Anacreon of the guillotine, his words unknown to the
Dictionary of the Academy, his conceits and his jokes, his Gascon
idioms and his Gascon hyperboles, had become as odious as the
cant of the Puritans was in England after the Restoration.

Bonaparte, who had never loved the men of the Reign of Terror,
had now ceased to fear them.  He was all-powerful and at the
height of glory; they were weak and universally abhorred.  He was
a sovereign; and it is probable that he already meditated a
matrimonial alliance with sovereigns.  He was naturally
unwilling, in his new position, to hold any intercourse with the
worst class of Jacobins.  Had Barere's literary assistance been
important to the government, personal aversion might have yielded
to considerations of policy; but there was no motive for keeping
terms with a worthless man who had also proved a worthless
writer.  Bonaparte, therefore, gave loose to his feelings. 
Barere was not gently dropped, not sent into an honourable
retirement, but spurned and scourged away like a troublesome dog. 
He had been in the habit of sending six copies of his journal on
fine paper daily to the Tuileries.  Instead of receiving the
thanks and praises which he expected, he was drily told that the
great man had ordered five copies to be sent back.  Still he
toiled on; still he cherished a hope that at last Napoleon would
relent, and that at last some share in the honours of the state
would reward so much assiduity and so much obsequiousness.  He
was bitterly undeceived.  Under the Imperial constitution the
electoral colleges of the departments did not possess the right
of choosing senators or deputies, but merely that of presenting
candidates.  From among these candidates the emperor named
members of the senate, and the senate named members of the
legislative body.  The inhabitants of the Upper Pyrenees were
still strangely partial to Barere.  In the year 1805, they were
disposed to present him as a candidate for the senate.  On this
Napoleon expressed the highest displeasure; and the president of
the electoral college was directed to tell the voters, in plain
terms, that such a choice would be disgraceful to the department. 
All thought of naming Barere a candidate for the senate was
consequently dropped.  But the people of Argeles ventured to name
him a candidate for the legislative body.  That body was
altogether destitute of weight and dignity; it was not permitted
to debate; its only function was to vote in silence for whatever
the government proposed.  It is not easy to understand how any
man who had sat in free and powerful deliberative assemblies
could condescend to bear a part in such a mummery.  Barere,
however, was desirous of a place even in this mock legislature;
and a place even in this mock legislature was refused to him.  In
the whole senate he had not a single vote.

Such treatment was sufficient, it might have been thought, to
move the most abject of mankind to resentment.  Still, however,
Barere cringed and fawned on.  His letters came weekly to the
Tuileries till the year 1807.  At length, while he was actually
writing the two hundred and twenty-third of the series, a note
was put into his hands.  It was from Duroc, and was much more
perspicuous than polite.  Barere was requested to send no more of
his Reports to the palace, as the Emperor was too busy to read
them.

Contempt, says the Indian proverb, pierces even the shell of the
tortoise; and the contempt of the Court was felt to the quick
even by the callous heart of Barere.  He had humbled himself to
the dust; and he had humbled himself in vain.  Having been
eminent among the rulers of a great and victorious state, he had
stooped to serve a master in the vilest capacities; and he had
been told that, even in those capacities, he was not worthy of
the pittance which had been disdainfully flung to him.  He was
now degraded below the level even of the hirelings whom the
government employed in the most infamous offices.  He stood idle
in the market-place, not because he thought any office too
infamous, but because none would hire him.

Yet he had reason to think himself fortunate; for, had all that
is avowed in these Memoirs been known, he would have received
very different tokens of the Imperial displeasure.  We learn from
himself that, while publishing daily columns of flattery on
Bonaparte, and while carrying weekly budgets of calumny to the
Tuileries, he was in close connection with the agents whom the
Emperor Alexander, then by no means favourably disposed towards
France, employed to watch all that passed at Paris; was permitted
to read their secret despatches; was consulted by them as to the
temper of the public mind and the character of Napoleon; and did
his best to persuade them that the government was in a tottering
condition, and that the new sovereign was not, as the world
supposed, a great statesman and soldier.  Next, Barere, still the
flatterer and talebearer of the Imperial Court, connected himself
in the same manner with the Spanish envoy.  He owns that with
that envoy he had relations which he took the greatest pains to
conceal from his own government; that they met twice a day; and
that their conversation chiefly turned on the vices of Napoleon;
on his designs against Spain, and on the best mode of rendering
those designs abortive.  In truth, Barere's baseness was
unfathomable.  In the lowest deeps of shame he found out lower
deeps.  It is bad to be a sycophant; it is bad to be a spy.  But
even among sycophants and spies there are degrees of meanness. 
The vilest sycophant is he who privily slanders the master on
whom he fawns; and the vilest spy is he who serves foreigners
against the government of his native land.

From 1807 to 1814 Barere lived in obscurity, railing as bitterly
as his craven cowardice would permit against the Imperial
administration, and coming sometimes unpleasantly across the
police.  When the Bourbons returned, he, as might have been
expected, became a royalist, and wrote a pamphlet setting forth
the horrors of the system from which the Restoration had
delivered France, and magnifying the wisdom and goodness which
had dictated the charter.  He who had voted for the death of
Louis, he who had moved the decree for the trial of Marie
Antoinette, he whose hatred of monarchy had led him to make war
even upon the sepulchres of ancient monarchs, assures us, with
great complacency, that "in this work monarchical principles and
attachment to the House of Bourbon are nobly expressed."  By this
apostasy he got nothing, not even any additional infamy; for his
character was already too black to be blackened.

During the hundred days he again emerged for a very short time
into public life; he was chosen by his native district a member
of the Chamber of Representatives.  But, though that assembly was
composed in a great measure of men who regarded the excesses of
the Jacobins with indulgence, he found himself an object of
general aversion.  When the President first informed the Chamber
that M. Barere requested a hearing, a deep and indignant murmur
ran round the benches.  After the battle of Waterloo, Barere
proposed that the Chamber should save France from the victorious
enemy, by putting forth a proclamation about the pass of
Thermopylae and the Lacedaemonian custom of wearing flowers in
times of extreme danger.  Whether this composition, if it had
then appeared, would have stopped the English and Prussian
armies, is a question respecting which we are left to conjecture. 
The Chamber refused to adopt this last of the Carmagnoles.

The Emperor had abdicated.  The Bourbons returned.  The Chamber
of Representatives, after burlesquing during a few weeks the
proceedings of the National Convention, retired with the well-
earned character of having been the silliest political assembly
that had met in France.  Those dreaming pedants and praters never
for a moment comprehended their position.  They could never
understand that Europe must be either conciliated or vanquished;
that Europe could be conciliated only by the restoration of
Louis, and vanquished only by means of a dictatorial power
entrusted to Napoleon.  They would not hear of Louis; yet they
would not hear of the only measures which could keep him out. 
They incurred the enmity of all foreign powers by putting
Napoleon at their head; yet they shackled him, thwarted him,
quarrelled with him about every trifle, abandoned him on the
first reverse.  They then opposed declamations and disquisitions
to eight hundred thousand bayonets; played at making a
constitution for their country, when it depended on the
indulgence of the victor whether they should have a country; and
were at last interrupted, in the midst of their babble about the
rights of man and the sovereignty of the people, by the soldiers
of Wellington and Blucher.

A new Chamber of Deputies was elected, so bitterly hostile to the
Revolution that there was no small risk of a new Reign of Terror. 
It is just, however, to say that the king, his ministers, and his
allies exerted themselves to restrain the violence of the
fanatical royalists, and that the punishments inflicted, though
in our opinion unjustifiable, were few and lenient when compared
with those which were demanded by M. de Labourdonnaye and M. Hyde
de Neuville.  We have always heard, and are inclined to believe,
that the government was not disposed to treat even the regicides
with severity.  But on this point the feeling of the Chamber of
Deputies was so strong that it was thought necessary to make some
concession.  It was enacted, therefore, that whoever, having
voted in January 1793 for the death of Louis the Sixteenth, had
in any manner given in an adhesion to the government of Bonaparte
during the hundred days should be banished for life from France. 
Barere fell within this description.  He had voted for the death
of Louis; and he had sat in the Chamber of Representatives during
the hundred days.

He accordingly retired to Belgium, and resided there, forgotten
by all mankind, till the year 1830.  After the revolution of July
he was at liberty to return to France; and he fixed his residence
in his native province.  But he was soon involved in a succession
of lawsuits with his nearest relations--"three fatal sisters and
an ungrateful brother," to use his own words.  Who was in the
right is a question about which we have no means of judging, and
certainly shall not take Barere's word.  The Courts appear to
have decided some points in his favour and some against him.  The
natural inference is, that there were faults on all sides.  The
result of this litigation was that the old man was reduced to
extreme poverty, and was forced to sell his paternal house.

As far as we can judge from the few facts which remain to be
mentioned, Barere continued Barere to the last.  After his exile
he turned Jacobin again, and, when he came back to France, joined
the party of the extreme left in railing at Louis Philippe, and
at all Louis Philippe's ministers.  M. Casimir Perier, M. De
Broglie, M. Guizot, and M. Thiers, in particular, are honoured
with his abuse; and the King himself is held up to execration as
a hypocritical tyrant.  Nevertheless, Barere had no scruple about
accepting a charitable donation of a thousand francs a year from
the privy purse of the sovereign whom he hated and reviled.  This
pension, together with some small sums occasionally doled out to
him by the department of the Interior, on the ground that he was
a distressed man of letters, and by the department of Justice, on
the ground that he had formerly held a high judicial office,
saved him from the necessity of begging his bread.  Having
survived all his colleagues of the renowned Committee of Public
Safety, and almost all his colleagues of the Convention, he died
in January 1841.  He had attained his eighty-sixth year.

We have now laid before our readers what we believe to be a just
account of this man's life.  Can it be necessary for us to add
anything for the purpose of assisting their judgment of his
character?  If we were writing about any of his colleagues in the
Committee of Public Safety, about Carnot, about Robespierre, or
Saint Just, nay, even about Couthon, Collot, or Billaud, we might
feel it necessary to go into a full examination of the arguments
which have been employed to vindicate or to excuse the system of
Terror.  We could, we think, show that France was saved from her
foreign enemies, not by the system of Terror, but in spite of it;
and that the perils which were made the plea of the violent
policy of the Mountain were to a great extent created by that
very policy.  We could, we think, also show that the evils
produced by the Jacobin administration did not terminate when it
fell; that it bequeathed a long series of calamities to France
and to Europe; that public opinion, which had during two
generations been constantly becoming more and more favourable to
civil and religious freedom, underwent, during the days of
Terror, a change of which the traces are still to be distinctly
perceived.  It was natural that there should be such a change,
when men saw that those who called themselves the champions of
popular rights had compressed into the space of twelve months
more crimes than the Kings of France, Merovingian, Carlovingian,
and Capetian, had perpetrated in twelve centuries.  Freedom was
regarded as a great delusion.  Men were willing to submit to the
government of hereditary princes, of fortunate soldiers, of
nobles, of priests; to any government but that of philosophers
and philanthropists.  Hence the imperial despotism, with its
enslaved press and its silent tribune, its dungeons stronger than
the old Bastile, and its tribunals more obsequious than the old
parliaments.  Hence the restoration of the Bourbons and of the
Jesuits, the Chamber of 1815 with its categories of proscription,
the revival of the feudal spirit, the encroachments of the
clergy, the persecution of the Protestants, the appearance of a
new breed of De Montforts and Dominics in the full light of the
nineteenth century.  Hence the admission of France into the Holy
Alliance, and the war waged by the old soldiers of the tricolor
against the liberties of Spain.  Hence, too, the apprehensions
with which, even at the present day, the most temperate plans for
widening the narrow basis of the French representation are
regarded by those who are especially interested in the security
of property and maintenance of order.  Half a century has not
sufficed to obliterate the stain which one year of depravity and
madness has left on the noblest of causes.

Nothing is more ridiculous than the manner in which writers like
M. Hippolyte Carnot defend or excuse the Jacobin administration,
while they declaim against the reaction which followed.  That the
reaction has produced and is still producing much evil, is
perfectly true.  But what produced the reaction?  The spring
flies up with a force proportioned to that with which it has been
pressed down.  The pendulum which is drawn far in one direction
swings as far in the other.  The joyous madness of intoxication
in the evening is followed by languor and nausea on the morrow. 
And so, in politics, it is the sure law that every excess shall
generate its opposite; nor does he deserve the name of a
statesman who strikes a great blow without fully calculating the
effect of the rebound.  But such calculation was infinitely
beyond the reach of the authors of the Reign of Terror. 
Violence, and more violence, blood, and more blood, made up their
whole policy.  In a few months these poor creatures succeeded in
bringing about a reaction, of which none of them saw, and of
which none of us may see the close; and, having brought it about,
they marvelled at it; they bewailed it; they execrated it; they
ascribed it to everything but the real cause--their own
immortality and their own profound incapacity for the conduct of
great affairs.

These, however, are considerations to which, on the present
occasion, it is hardly necessary for us to advert; for, be the
defence which has been set up for the Jacobin policy good or bad,
it is a defence which cannot avail Barere.  From his own life,
from his own pen, from his own mouth, we can prove that the part
which he took in the work of blood is to be attributed, not even
to sincere fanaticism, not even to misdirected and ill-regulated
patriotism, but either to cowardice, or to delight in human
misery.  Will it be pretended that it was from public spirit that
he murdered the Girondists?  In these very Memoirs he tells us
that he always regarded their death as the greatest calamity that
could befall France.  Will it be pretended that it was from
public spirit that he raved for the head of the Austrian woman? 
In these very Memoirs he tells us that the time spent in
attacking her was ill spent, and ought to have been employed in
concerting measures of national defence.  Will it be pretended
that he was induced by sincere and earnest abhorrence of kingly
government to butcher the living and to outrage the dead; he who
invited Napoleon to take the title of King of Kings, he who
assures us that after the Restoration he expressed in noble
language his attachment to monarchy, and to the house of Bourbon? 
Had he been less mean, something might have been said in
extenuation of his cruelty.  Had he been less cruel, something
might have been said in extenuation of his meanness.  But for
him, regicide and court-spy, for him who patronised Lebon and
betrayed Demerville, for him who wantoned alternately in
gasconades of Jacobinism and gasconades of servility, what excuse
has the largest charity to offer?

We cannot conclude without saying something about two parts of
his character, which his biographer appears to consider as
deserving of high admiration.  Barere, it is admitted, was
somewhat fickle; but in two things he was consistent, in his love
of Christianity, and in his hatred to England.  If this were so,
we must say that England is much more beholden to him than
Christianity.

It is possible that our inclinations may bias our judgment; but
we think that we do not flatter ourselves when we say that
Barere's aversion to our country was a sentiment as deep and
constant as his mind was capable of entertaining.  The value of
this compliment is indeed somewhat diminished by the circumstance
that he knew very little about us.  His ignorance of our
institutions, manners, and history is the less excusable,
because, according to his own account, he consorted much, during
the peace of Amiens, with Englishmen of note, such as that
eminent nobleman Lord Greaten, and that not less eminent
philosopher Mr Mackensie Coefhis.  In spite, however, of his
connection with these well-known ornaments of our country, he was
so ill-informed about us as to fancy that our government was
always laying plans to torment him.  If he was hooted at Saintes,
probably by people whose relations he had murdered, it was
because the cabinet of St James's had hired the mob.  If nobody
would read his bad books it was because the cabinet of St James's
had secured the Reviewers.  His accounts of Mr Fox, of Mr Pitt,
of the Duke of Wellington, of Mr Canning, swarm with blunders
surpassing even the ordinary blunders committed by Frenchmen who
write about England.  Mr Fox and Mr Pitt, he tells us, were
ministers in two different reigns.  Mr Pitt's sinking fund was
instituted in order to enable England to pay subsidies to the
powers allied against the French republic.  The Duke of
Wellington's house in Hyde Park was built by the nation, which
twice voted the sum of 200,000 pounds for the purpose.  This,
however, is exclusive of the cost of the frescoes, which were
also paid for out of the public purse.  Mr Canning was the first
Englishman whose death Europe had reason to lament; for the death
of Lord Ward, a relation, we presume, of Lord Greaten and Mr
Coefhis, had been an immense benefit to mankind.

Ignorant, however, as Barere was, he knew enough of us to hate
us; and we persuade ourselves that, had he known us better, he
would have hated us more.  The nation which has combined, beyond
all example and all hope, the blessings of liberty with those of
order, might well be an object of aversion to one who had been
false alike to the cause of order and to the cause of liberty. 
We have had amongst us intemperate zeal for popular rights; we
have had amongst us also the intemperance of loyalty.  But we
have never been shocked by such a spectacle as the Barere of
1794, or as the Barere of 1804.  Compared with him, our fiercest
demagogues have been gentle; compared with him, our meanest
courtiers have been manly.  Mix together Thistlewood and Bubb
Doddington; and you are still far from having Barere.  The
antipathy between him and us is such, that neither for the crimes
of his earlier nor for those of his later life does our language,
rich as it is, furnish us with adequate names.  We have found it
difficult to relate his history without having perpetual recourse
to the French vocabulary of horror, and to the French vocabulary
of baseness.  It is not easy to give a notion of his conduct in
the Convention, without using those emphatic terms, guillotinade,
noyade, fusillade, mitraillade.  It is not easy to give a notion
of his conduct under the Consulate and the Empire without
borrowing such words as mouchard and mouton.

We therefore like his invectives against us much better than
anything else that he has written; and dwell on them, not merely
with complacency, but with a feeling akin to gratitude.  It was
but little that he could do to promote the honour of our country;
but that little he did strenuously and constantly.  Renegade,
traitor, slave, coward, liar, slanderer, murderer, hack writer,
police-spy--the one small service which he could render to
England was to hate her:  and such as he was may all who hate her
be!

We cannot say that we contemplate with equal satisfaction that
fervent and constant zeal for religion which, according to M.
Hippolyte Carnot, distinguished Barere; for, as we think that
whatever brings dishonour on religion is a serious evil, we had,
we own, indulged a hope that Barere was an atheist.  We now
learn, however, that he was at no time even a sceptic, that he
adhered to his faith through the whole Revolution, and that he
has left several manuscript works on divinity.  One of these is a
pious treatise, entitled "Of Christianity, and of its Influence." 
Another consists of meditations on the Psalms, which will
doubtless greatly console and edify the Church.

This makes the character complete.  Whatsoever things are false,
whatsoever things are dishonest, whatsoever things are unjust,
whatsoever things are impure, whatsoever things are hateful,
whatsoever things are of evil report, if there be any vice, and
if there be any infamy, all these things, we knew, were blended
in Barere.  But one thing was still wanting; and that M.
Hippolyte Carnot has supplied.  When to such an assemblage of
qualities a high profession of piety is added, the effect becomes
overpowering.  We sink under the contemplation of such exquisite
and manifold perfection; and feel, with deep humility, how
presumptuous it was in us to think of composing the legend of
this beatified athlete of the faith, St Bertrand of the
Carmagnoles.

Something more we had to say about him.  But let him go.  We did
not seek him out, and will not keep him longer.  If those who
call themselves his friends had not forced him on our notice we
should never have vouchsafed to him more than a passing word of
scorn and abhorrence, such as we might fling at his brethren,
Hebert and Fouquier Tinville, and Carrier and Lebon.  We have no
pleasure in seeing human nature thus degraded.  We turn with
disgust from the filthy and spiteful Yahoos of the fiction; and
the filthiest and most spiteful Yahoo of the fiction was a noble
creature when compared with the Barere of history.  But what is
no pleasure M. Hippolyte Carnot has made a duty.  It is no light
thing that a man in high and honourable public trust, a man who,
from his connections and position, may not unnaturally be
supposed to speak the sentiments of a large class of his
countrymen, should come forward to demand approbation for a life
black with every sort of wickedness, and unredeemed by a single
virtue.  This M. Hippolyte Carnot has done.  By attempting to
enshrine this Jacobin carrion, he has forced us to gibbet it; and
we venture to say that, from the eminence of infamy on which we
have placed it, he will not easily take it down.





End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of The Miscellaneous Writings
and Speeches of Lord Macaulay, Volume II.