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'The great prize has not come yet. The coach with the mitre and crosier in it, which he intends to have for his share, has been delayed on the way from St. James's. The mails wait until nightfall, when his runners come and tell him that the coach has taken a different road and escaped him. So he fires his pistols into the air with a curse, and rides away in his own country.'

FOOTNOTE:

'Jonathan Swift,' by J. Churton Collins: Chatto & Windus, 1893.

LORD BOLINGBROKE.

The most accomplished of all our political rascals, Lord Bolingbroke, who once, if the author of 'Animated Nature' is to be believed, ran naked through the Park, has, in his otherwise pinchbeck 'Reflections in Exile,' one quaint fancy. He suggests that the exile, instead of mourning the deprivation of the society of his friends, should take a pencil and make a list of his acquaintances, and then ask himself which of the number he wants to see at the moment. It is, no doubt, always wise to be particular. Delusion as well as fraud loves to lurk in generalities.

As for this Bolingbroke himself, that he was a consummate scoundrel is now universally admitted; but his mental qualifications, though great, still excite differences of opinion. Even those who are comforted by his style and soothed by the rise and fall of his sentences, are fain to admit that had his classic head been severed from his shoulders a rogue would have met with his deserts. He has been long since stripped of all his fine pretences, and, morally speaking, runs as naked through the pages of history as erst he did across Hyde Park.

That Bolingbroke had it in him to have been a great Parliamentarian is certain. He knew 'the nature of that assembly,' and that 'they grow, like hounds, fond of the man who shows them sport, and by whose halloo they are used to be encouraged.' Like the rascally lawyer in 'Guy Mannering,' Mr. Gilbert Glossin, he could do a good piece of work when so minded. But he was seldom so minded, and consequently he failed to come up to the easy standard of his day, and thus brought it about that by his side Sir Robert Walpole appears in the wings and aspect of an angel.

St. John has now nothing to wear but his wit and his style; these still find admirers amongst the judicious.

Mr. Churton Collins, who has written a delightful book about Bolingbroke, and also about Voltaire in England, has a great notion of Bolingbroke's literary merits, and extols them with ardour. He is not likely to be wrong, but, none the less, it is lawful to surround yourself with the seven stately quartos which contain Bolingbroke's works and letters, and ask yourself whether Mr. Collins is right.

Of all Lord Bolingbroke's published writings, none is better than his celebrated Letter to Wyndham, recounting his adventures in France, whither he betook himself hastily after Queen Anne's death, and where he joined the Pretender. Here he is not philosophizing, but telling a tale, varnished it may be, but sparkling with malice, wit, and humour. Well may Mr. Collins say, 'Walpole never produced a more amusing sketch than the picture of the Pretender's Court at Paris and of the Privy Council in the Bois de Boulogne'; but when he proceeds further and adds, 'Burke never produced anything nobler than the passage which commences with the words "The ocean which environs us is an emblem of our government,"' I am glad to ejaculate, 'Indeed he did!'

Here is the passage:

'The ocean which environs us is an emblem of our government, and the pilot and the Minister are in similar circumstances. It seldom happens that either of them can steer a direct course, and they both arrive at their ports by means which frequently seem to carry them from it. But, as the work advances, the conduct of him who leads it on with real abilities clears up, the appearing inconsistencies are reconciled, and, when it is once consummated, the whole shows itself so uniform, so plain, and so natural, that every dabbler in politics will be apt to think he could have done the same. But, on the other hand, a man who proposes no such object, who substitutes artifice in the place of ability, who, instead of leading parties and governing accidents, is eternally agitated backwards and forwards, who begins every day something new and carries nothing on to perfection, may impose a while on the world, but, a little sooner or later, the mystery will be revealed, and nothing will be found to be couched under it but a thread of pitiful expedients, the ultimate end of which never extended farther than living from day to day.'

A fine passage, most undoubtedly, and an excellent homily for Ministers. No one but a dabbler in literature will be apt to think he could have done the same--but noble with the nobility of Burke? A noble passage ought to do more for a reader than compel his admiration or win his assent; it should leave him a little better than it found him, with a warmer heart and a more elevated mind.

Mr. Collins also refers with delight to a dissertation on Eloquence, to be found in the 'Letter on the Spirit of Patriotism,' and again expresses a doubt whether it would be possible to select anything finer from the pages of Burke.

The passage is too long to be quoted; it begins thus:

'Eloquence has charms to lead mankind, and gives a nobler superiority than power that every dunce may use, or fraud that every knave may employ.'

And then follows a good deal about Demosthenes and Cicero, and other talkers of old time.

This may or may not be a fine passage; but if we allow it to be the former, we cannot admit that as it flows it fertilizes.

Bolingbroke and Chesterfield are two of the remarkable figures of the first half of the last century. They are both commonly called 'great,' to distinguish them from other holders of the same titles. Their accomplishments were as endless as their opportunities. They were the most eloquent men of their time, and both possessed that insight into things, that distinction of mind, we call genius. They were ready writers, and have left 'works' behind them full of wit and gracious expressions; but neither the one nor the other has succeeded in lodging himself in the general memory. The ill-luck which drove them out of politics has pursued them down the path of letters, though the frequenters of that pleasant track are wisely indifferent to the characters of dead authors who still give pleasure.

Horace Walpole, who hated Bolingbroke, as he was in special duty bound to do, felt this keenly. He was glad Bolingbroke was gibbeted, but regretted that he should swing on a wrong count in the indictment.

Writing to Sir Horace Mann, Walpole says:

'You say you have made my Lord Cork give up my Lord Bolingbroke. It is comical to see how he is given up here since the best of his writings, his metaphysical divinity, has been published. While he betrayed and abused every man who trusted him, or who had forgiven him, or to whom he was obliged, he was a hero, a patriot, a philosopher, and the greatest genius of the age; the moment his "Craftsmen" against Moses and St. Paul are published we have discovered he was the worst man and the worst writer in the world. The grand jury have presented his works, and as long as there are any parsons he will be ranked with Tindal and Toland--nay, I don't know whether my father won't become a rubric martyr for having been persecuted by him.'

My sympathies are with Walpole, although, when he pronounces Bolingbroke's metaphysical divinity to be the best of his writings, I cannot agree.

Mr. Collins' book is a most excellent one, and if anyone reads it because of my recommendation he will owe me thanks. Mr. Collins values Pope not merely for his poetry, but for his philosophy also, which he cadged from Bolingbroke. The 'Essay on Man' is certainly better reading than anything Bolingbroke ever wrote--though what may be the value of its philosophy is a question which may well stand over till after the next General Election, or even longer.

STERNE.

No less pious a railway director than Sir Edward Watkin once prefaced an oration to the shareholders of one of his numerous undertakings by expressing, in broken accents, the wish that 'He who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb might deal gently with illustrious personages in their present grievous affliction.' The wish was a kind one, and is only referred to here as an illustration of the amazing skill of the author of the phrase quoted in so catching the tone, temper, and style of King James's version, that the words occur to the feeling mind as naturally as any in Holy Writ as the best expression of a sorrowful emotion.

The phrase itself is, indeed, an excellent example of Sterne's genius for pathos. No one knew better than he how to drive words home. George Herbert, in his selection of 'Outlandish Proverbs,' to which he subsequently gave the alternate title 'Jacula Prudentum,' has the following: 'To a close-shorn sheep God gives Wind by measure'; but this proverb in that wording would never have succeeded in making the chairman of a railway company believe he had read it somewhere in the Bible. It is the same thought, but the words which convey it stop far short of the heart. A close-shorn sheep will not brook comparison with Sterne's 'shorn lamb'; whilst the tender, compassionate, beneficent 'God tempers the wind' makes the original 'God gives wind by measure' wear the harsh aspect of a wholly unnecessary infliction.

Sterne is our best example of the plagiarist whom none dare make ashamed. He robbed other men's orchards with both hands; and yet no more original writer than he ever went to press in these isles.

Dr. Ferriar's book is worthy of its subject. The motto on the title-page is delightfully chosen. It is taken from the opening paragraph of Lord Shaftesbury's 'Miscellaneous Reflections': 'Peace be with the soul of that charitable and Courteous Author who for the common benefit of his fellow-Authors introduced the ingenious way of MISCELLANEOUS WRITING.' Here Dr. Ferriar stopped; but I will add the next sentence: 'It must be owned that since this happy method was established the Harvest of Wit has been more plentiful and the Labourers more in number than heretofore.' Wisely, indeed, did Charles Lamb declare Shaftesbury was not too genteel for him. No pleasanter penance for random thinking can be devised than spending an afternoon turning over Shaftesbury's three volumes and trying to discover how near he ever did come to saying that 'Ridicule was the test of truth.'

Dr. Ferriar's happy motto puts the reader in a sweet temper to start with, for he sees at once that the author is no pedantic, soured churl, but a good fellow who is going to make a little sport with a celebrated wit, and show you how a genius fills his larder.

The first thing that strikes you in reading Dr. Ferriar's book is the marvellous skill with which Sterne has created his own atmosphere and characters, in spite of the fact that some of the most characteristic remarks of his characters are, in the language of the Old Bailey, 'stolen goods.' '"There is no cause but one," replied my Uncle Toby, "why one man's nose is longer than another's, but because God pleases to have it so." "That is Grangousier's solution," said my father. "'Tis he," continued my Uncle Toby, looking up and not regarding my father's interruption, "who makes us all, and frames and puts us together in such forms and proportions and for such ends as is agreeable to His infinite wisdom."'

'"Out of the fulness of the heart the mouth speaketh"; and if those are not the words of my Uncle Toby, it is idle to believe in anything': and yet we read in Rabelais--as, indeed, Sterne suggests to us we should--'"Pourquoi," dit Gargantua, "est-ce que fr?re Jean a si beau nez?" "Parce," r?pondit Grangousier, "qu'ainsi Dieu l'a voulu, lequel nous fait en telle forme et ? telle fin selon son divin arbitre, que fait un potier ses vaisseaux."'

To create a character and to be able to put in his mouth borrowed words which yet shall quiver with his personality is the supreme triumph of the greatest 'miscellaneous writer' who ever lived.

Dr. Ferriar's book, after all, but establishes this: that the only author whom Sterne really pillaged is Burton, of the 'Anatomy of Melancholy,' a now well-known writer, but who in Sterne's time, despite Dr. Johnson's partiality, appears to have been neglected. Sir Walter Scott, an excellent authority on such a point, says, in his 'Life of Sterne,' that Dr. Ferriar's essay raised the '"Anatomy of Melancholy" to double price in the book market.'

Sir Walter is unusually hard upon Sterne in this matter of the 'Anatomy.' But different men, different methods. Sir Walter had his own way of cribbing. Sterne's humorous conception of the character of the elder Shandy required copious illustration from learned sources, and a whole host of examples and whimsicalities, which it would have passed the wit of man to invent for himself. He found these things to his hand in Burton, and, like our first parent, 'he scrupled not to eat.' It is not easy to exaggerate the extent of his plunder. The well-known chapter with its refrain, 'The Lady Baussiere rode on,' and the chapter on the death of Brother Bobby, are almost, though not altogether, pure Burton.

The general effect of it all is to raise your opinion immensely--of Burton. As for your opinion of Sterne as a man of conduct, is it worth while having one? It is a poor business bludgeoning men who bore the brunt of life a long century ago, and whose sole concern now with the world is to delight it. Laurence Sterne is not standing for Parliament. 'Eliza' has been dead a dozen decades. Nobody covers his sins under the cloak of this particular parson. Our sole business is with 'Tristram Shandy' and 'The Sentimental Journey'; and if these books are not matters for congratulation and joy, then the pleasures of literature are all fudge, and the whole thing a got-up job of 'The Trade' and the hungry crew who go buzzing about it.

Mr. Traill concludes his pleasant 'Life of Sterne' in a gloomy vein, which I cannot for the life of me understand. He says: 'The fate of Richardson might seem to be close behind him' . Even the fate of 'Clarissa' is no hard one. She still numbers good intellects, and bears her century lightly. Diderot, as Mr. Traill reminds us, praised her outrageously--but Mr. Ruskin is not far behind; and from Diderot to Ruskin is a good 'drive.' But 'Tristram' is a very different thing from 'Clarissa.' I should have said, without hesitation, that it was one of the most popular books in the language. Go where you will amongst men--old and young, undergraduates at the Universities, readers in our great cities, old fellows in the country, judges, doctors, barristers--if they have any tincture of literature about them, they all know their 'Shandy' at least as well as their 'Pickwick.' What more can be expected? 'True Shandeism,' its author declares, 'think what you will against it, opens the heart and lungs.' I will be bound to say Sterne made more people laugh in 1893 than in any previous year; and, what is more, he will go on doing it--'"that is, if it please God," said my Uncle Toby.'

DR. JOHNSON.

Dr. Johnson's massive shade cannot complain of this generation. We are not all of us--or, indeed, many of us--much after his mind, but, for all that, we worship his memory. Editions of Boswell, old or new, are on every shelf; but more than this, there is a healthy and commendable disposition to recognise that great, surpassingly great, as are the merits of Boswell, still there is such a thing as a detached and separate Johnson.

It is a good thing every now and again to get rid of Boswell. It is a little ungrateful, but we have Johnson's authority for the statement that we hate our benefactors. After all, even had there been no Boswell, there would have been a Johnson. I will always stick to it that Hawkins's Life is a most readable book. Dr. Birkbeck Hill stands a good chance of being hated some day. We owed him a debt of gratitude already. He has lately added to it by publishing at the Clarendon Press, in two stately volumes, uniform with his great edition of the Life, the 'Letters of Samuel Johnson, LL.D.'

For a lazy man who loathed writing Dr. Johnson did not do badly--his letters to Mrs. Thrale exceed three hundred. It is not known that he ever wrote a letter to Burke. I cannot quite jump with the humour of Dr. Hill's comment on this fact. He observes: 'So far as we know, he did not write a single letter to Edward Burke--he wrote more than three hundred to the wife of a Southwark brewer.' What has the beer got to do with it? and why drag in Southwark? Every man knows, without being told, why Johnson wrote three hundred letters to Mrs. Thrale; and as for his not writing to Burke, it is notorious that the Doctor never could be got to write to anybody for information.

Dr. Hill's two volumes are as delightful books as ever issued from the press. In them Dr. Johnson is to be seen in every aspect of his character, whilst a complete study may be made from them of the enormous versatility of his style. It is hard to say what one admires most--the ardour of his affection, the piety of his nature, the friendliness of his disposition, the playfulness of his humour, or his love of learning and of letters.

What strikes one perhaps most, if you assume a merely critical attitude, is the glorious ease and aptitude of his quotations from ancient and modern writings. Of pedantry there is not a trace. Nothing is forced or dragged in. It is all, apparently, simply inevitable. You do not exclaim as you read, 'What a memory the fellow has!' but merely, 'How charming it all is!'

It is not difficult to construct from these two volumes alone the gospel--the familiar, the noble gospel according to Dr. Johnson. It reads somewhat as follows:

'Your father begot you and your mother bore you. Honour them both. Husbands, be faithful to your wives. Wives, forgive your husbands' unfaithfulness--once. No grown man who is dependent on the will, that is the whim, of another can be happy, and life without enjoyment is intolerable gloom. Therefore, as money means independence and enjoyment, get money, and having got it keep it. A spendthrift is a fool.

'Clear your mind of cant and never debauch your understanding. The only liberty worth turning out into the street for, is the liberty to do what you like in your own house and to say what you like in your own inn. All work is bondage.

'Never get excited about causes you do not understand, or about people you have never seen. Keep Corsica out of your head.

'There is great solace in talk. We--you and I--are shipwrecked on a wave-swept rock. At any moment one or other of us, perhaps both, may be carried out to sea and lost. For the time being we have a modicum of light and warmth, of meat and drink. Let us constitute ourselves a club, stretch out our legs and talk. We have minds, memories, varied experiences, different opinions. Sir, let us talk, not as men who mock at fate, not with coarse speech or foul tongue, but with a manly mixture of the gloom that admits the inevitable, and the merriment that observes the incongruous. Thus talking we shall learn to love one another, not sentimentally but fundamentally.

'Cultivate your mind, if you happen to have one. Care greatly for books and literature. Venerate poor scholars, but don't shout for "Wilkes and Liberty!" The one is a whoremonger, the other a flatulency.

'If any tyrant prevents your goings out and your comings in, fill your pockets with large stones and kill him as he passes. Then go home and think no more about it. Never theorize about Revolution. Finally, pay your score at your club and your final debt to Nature generously and without casting the account too narrowly. Don't be a prig like Sir John Hawkins, or your own enemy like Bozzy, or a Whig like Burke, or a vile wretch like Rousseau, or pretend to be an atheist like Hume, but be a good fellow, and don't insist upon being remembered more than a month after you are dead.'

This is but the First Lesson. To compose the Second would be a more difficult task and must not be here attempted. These two volumes of Dr. Hill are endless in their variety. Johnson was gloomy enough, and many of his letters may well move you to tears, but his was ever a human gloom. The year before his death he writes to Mrs. Thrale:

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