|
This interference was successful; and, in the summer of 1699, Addison, made a
rich man by his pension, and still retaining his fellowship, quitted his beloved
Oxford, and set out on his travels. He crossed from Dover to Calais, proceeded
to Paris, and was received there with great kindness and politeness by a kinsman
of his friend Montague, Charles Earl of Manchester, who had just been appointed
Ambassador to the Court of France. The Countess, a Whig and a toast, was
probably as gracious as her lord; for Addison long retained an agreeable
recollection of the impression which she at this time made on him, and in some
lively lines written on the glasses of the Kit-Cat Club, described the envy
which her cheeks, glowing with the genuine bloom of England, had excited among
the painted beauties of Versailles.
Lewis the Fourteenth was at this time expiating the vices of his youth by a
devotion which had no root in reason, and bore no fruit of charity. The servile
literature of France had changed its character to suit the changed character of
the prince. No book appeared that had not an air of sanctity. Racine, who was
just dead, had passed the close of his life in writing sacred dramas; and Dacier
was seeking for the Athanasian mysteries in Plato. Addison described this state
of things in a short but lively and graceful letter to Montague. Another letter,
written about the same time to the Lord Chancellor, conveyed the strongest
assurances of gratitude and attachment. "The only return I can make to your
Lordship," said Addison, "will be to apply myself entirely to my business." With
this view he quitted Paris and repaired to Blois, a place where it was supposed
that the French language was spoken in its highest purity, and where not a
single Englishman could be found. Here he passed some months pleasantly and
profitably. Of his way of life at Blois, one of his associates, an Abbe named
Philippeaux, gave an account to Joseph Spence. If this account is to be trusted,
Addison studied much, mused much, talked little, had fits of absence, and either
had no love affairs, or was too discreet to confide them to the Abbe. A man who,
even when surrounded by fellow-countrymen and fellow-students, had always been
remarkably shy and silent, was not likely to be loquacious in a foreign tongue,
and among foreign companions. But it is clear from Addison's letters, some of
which were long after published in the Guardian, that, while he appeared to be
absorbed in his own meditations, he was really observing French society with
that keen and sly, yet not ill-natured side glance, which was peculiarly his
own.
From Blois he returned to Paris; and, having now mastered the French language,
found great pleasure in the society of French philosophers and poets. He gave an
account, in a letter to Bishop Hough, of two highly interesting conversations,
one with Malbranche, the other with Boileau. Malbranche expressed great
partiality for the English, and extolled the genius of Newton, but shook his
head when Hobbes was mentioned, and was indeed so unjust as to call the author
of the Leviathan a poor, silly creature. Addison's modesty restrained him from
fully relating, in his letter, the circumstances of his introduction to Boileau.
Boileau, having survived the friends and rivals of his youth, old, deaf, and
melancholy, lived in retirement, seldom went either to Court or to the Academy,
and was almost inaccessible to strangers. Of the English and of English
literature he knew nothing. He had hardly heard the name of Dryden. Some of our
countrymen, in the warmth of their patriotism, have asserted that this ignorance
must have been affected. We own that we see no ground for such a supposition.
English literature was to the French of the age of Lewis the Fourteenth what
German literature was to our own grandfathers. Very few, we suspect, of the
accomplished men who, sixty or seventy years ago, used to dine in Leicester
Square with Sir Joshua, or at Streatham. with Mrs. Thrale, had the slightest
notion that Wieland was one of the first wits and poets, and Lessing, beyond all
dispute, the first critic in Europe. Boileau knew just as little about the
Paradise Lost, and about Absalom and Achitophel; but he had read Addison's Latin
poems, and admired them greatly. They had given him, he said, quite a new notion
of the state of learning and taste among the English. Johnson will have it that
these praises were insincere. "Nothing," says he, "is better known of Boileau
than that he had an injudicious and peevish contempt of modern Latin; and
therefore his profession of regard was probably the effect of his civility
rather than approbation." Now, nothing is better known of Boileau than that he
was singularly sparing of compliments. We do not remember that either friendship
or fear ever induced him to bestow praise on any composition which he did not
approve. On literary questions his caustic, disdainful, and self-confident
spirit rebelled against that authority to which everything else in France bowed
down. He had the spirit to tell Lewis the Fourteenth firmly and even rudely,
that his Majesty knew Nothing about poetry, and admired verses which were
detestable. What was there in Addison's position that could induce the satirist,
Whose stern and fastidious temper had been the dread of two generations, to turn
sycophant for the first and last time? Nor was Boileau's contempt of modern
Latin either injudicious or peevish. He thought, indeed, that no poem of the
first order would ever be written in a dead language. And did he think amiss?
Has not the experience of centuries confirmed his opinion? Boileau also thought
it probable that, in the best modern Latin, a writer of the Augustan age would
have detected ludicrous improprieties. And who can think otherwise? What modern
scholar can honestly declare that he sees the smallest impurity in the style of
Livy? Yet is it not certain that, in the style of Livy, Pollio, whose taste had
been formed on the banks of the Tiber, detected the inelegant idiom of the Po?
Has any modern scholar understood Latin better than Frederic the Great
understood French? Yet is it not notorious that Frederic the Great, after
reading, speaking, writing French, and nothing but French, during more than half
a century, after unlearning his mother tongue in order to learn French, after
living familiarly during many years with French associates, could not, to the
last, compose in French, without imminent risk of committing some mistake which
would have moved a smile in the literary circles of Paris? Do we believe that
Erasmus and Fracastorius wrote Latin as well as Dr. Robertson and Sir Walter
Scott wrote English? And are there not in the Dissertation on India, the last of
Dr. Robertson's works, in Waverley, in Marmion, Scotticisms at which a London
apprentice would laugh? But does it follow, because we think thus, that we can
find nothing to admire in the noble alcaics of Gray, or in the playful elegiacs
of Vincent Bourne? Surely not. Nor was Boileau so ignorant or tasteless as to be
incapable of appreciating good modern Latin. In the very letter to which Johnson
alludes, Boileau says--"Ne croyez pas pourtant que je veuille par la blamer les
vers Latins que vous m'avez envoyes d'un de vos illustres academiciens. Je les
ai trouves fort beaux, et dignes de Vida et de Sannazar, mais non pas d'Horace
et de Virgile." Several poems, in modern Latin, have been praised by Boileau
quite as liberally as it was his habit to praise anything. He says, for example,
of the Pere Fraguier's epigrams, that Catullus seems to have come to life again.
But the best proof that Boileau did not feel the undiscerning contempt for
modern Latin verses which has been imputed to him, is, that he wrote and
published Latin verses in several meters. Indeed it happens, curiously enough,
that the most severe censure ever pronounced by him on modern Latin is conveyed
in Latin hexameters. We allude to the fragment which begins
"Quid numeris iterum me balbutire Latinis, Longe Alpes citra natum de patre
Sicambro, Musa, jubes?"
For these reasons we feel assured that the praise which Boileau bestowed on the
Machinae Gesticulantes and the Gerano Pygmaomachia, was sincere. He certainly
opened himself to Addison with a freedom which was a sure indication of esteem.
Literature was the chief subject of conversation. The old man talked on his
favorite theme much and well, indeed, as his young hearer thought, incomparably
well. Boileau had undoubtedly some of the qualities of a great critic. He wanted
imagination; but he had strong sense. His literary code was formed on narrow
principles; but in applying it, he showed great judgment and penetration. In
mere style, abstracted from the ideas of which style is the garb, his taste was
excellent. He was well acquainted with the great Greek writers; and, though
unable fully to appreciate their creative genius, admired the majestic
simplicity of their manner, and had learned from them to despise bombast and
tinsel. It is easy we think, to discover, in the Spectator, and the Guardian:
traces of the influence, in part salutary and in part pernicious, which the mind
of Boileau had on the mind of Addison.
While Addison was at Paris, an event took place which made that capital a
disagreeable residence for an Englishman and a Whig. Charles, second of the
name, King of Spain, died; and bequeathed his dominions to Philip, Duke of
Anjou, a younger son of the Dauphin. The King of France, in direct violation of
his engagements both with Great Britain and with the States-General, accepted
the bequest on behalf of his grandson. The House of Bourbon was at the summit of
human grandeur. England had been outwitted, and found herself in a situation at
once degrading and perilous. The people of France, not presaging the calamities
by which they were destined to expiate the perfidy of their sovereign, went mad
with pride and delight. Every man looked as if a great estate had just been left
him. "The French conversation," said Addison, "begins to grow insupportable;
that which was before the vainest nation in the world is now worse than ever."
Sick of the arrogant exultation of the Parisians, and probably foreseeing that
the peace between France and England could not be of long duration, he set off
for Italy.
In December 17011 he embarked at Marseilles. As he
glided along the Ligurian coast, he was delighted by the sight of myrtles and
olive trees, which retained their verdure under the winter solstice. Soon,
however, he encountered one of the black storms of the Mediterranean. The
captain of the ship gave up all for lost, and confessed himself to a capuchin
who happened to be on board. The English heretic, in the meantime, fortified
himself against the terrors of death with devotions of a very different kind.
How strong an impression this perilous voyage made on him, appears from the ode,
"How are thy servants blest, 0 Lord!" which was long after published in the
Spectator. After some days of discomfort and danger, Addison was glad to land at
Savona, and to make his way, over mountains where no road had yet been hewn out
by art, to the city of Genoa.
At Genoa, still ruled by her own Doge, and by the nobles whose names were
inscribed on her Book of Gold, Addison made a short stay. He admired the narrow
streets overhung by long lines of towering palaces, the walls rich with
frescoes, the gorgeous temple of the Annunciation, and the tapestries whereon
were recorded the long glories of the House of Doria. Thence he hastened to
Milan, where he contemplated the Gothic magnificence of the cathedral with more
wonder than pleasure. He passed Lake Benacus while a gale was blowing, and saw
the waves raging as they raged when Virgil looked upon them. At Venice, then the
gayest spot in Europe, the traveler spent the Carnival, the gayest season of the
year, in the midst of masques, dances, and serenades. Here he was at once
diverted and provoked, by the absurd dramatic pieces which then disgraced the
Italian stage. To one of those pieces, however, he was indebted for a valuable
hint. He was present when a ridiculous play on the death of Cato was performed.
Cato, it seems, was in love with a daughter of Scipio. The lady had given her
heart to Caesar. The rejected lover determined to destroy himself. He appeared
seated in his library, a dagger in his hand, a Plutarch and a Tasso before him;
and, in this position, he pronounced a soliloquy before he struck the blow. We
are surprised that so remarkable a circumstance as this should have escaped the
notice of all Addison's biographers. There cannot, we conceive, be the smallest
doubt that this scene, in spite of its absurdities and anachronisms, struck the
traveler's imagination, and suggested to him the thought of bringing Cato on the
English stage. It is well known that about this time he began his tragedy, and
that he finished the first four acts before he returned to England,
On his way from Venice to Rome, he was drawn some miles out of the beaten road,
by a wish to see the smallest independent state in Europe. On a rock where the
snow still lay, though the Italian spring was now far advanced, was perched the
little fortress of San Marino. The roads which led to the secluded town were so
bad that few travelers had ever visited it, and none had ever published an
account of it. Addison could not suppress a good-natured smile at the simple
manners and institutions of this singular community. But he observed, with the
exultation of a Whig, that the rude mountain tract which formed the territory of
the republic swarmed with an honest, healthy, and contented peasantry, while the
rich plain which surrounded the metropolis of civil and spiritual tyranny was
scarcely less desolate than the uncleared wilds of America.
At Rome Addison remained on his first visit only long enough to catch a glimpse
of St. Peter's and of the Pantheon. His haste is the more extraordinary because
the Holy Week was close at hand. He has given no hint which can enable us to
pronounce why he chose to fly from a spectacle which every year allures from
distant regions persons of far less taste and sensibility than his. Possibly,
traveling, as he did, at the charge of a government distinguished by its enmity
to the Church of Rome, he may have thought that it would be imprudent in him to
assist at the most magnificent rite of that Church. Many eyes would be upon him;
and he might find it difficult to behave in such a manner as to give offence
neither to his patrons in England, nor to those among whom he resided. Whatever
his motives may have been, he turned his back on the most august and affecting
ceremony which is known among men, and posted along the Appian Way to Naples.
Naples was then destitute of what are now, perhaps, its chief attractions. The
lovely bay and the awful mountain were indeed there. But a farmhouse stood on
the theatre of Herculaneum, and rows of vines grew over the streets of Pompeii.
The temples of Paestum had not indeed been hidden from the eye of man by any
great convulsion of nature; but, strange to say, their existence was a secret
even to artists and antiquaries. Though situated within a few hours' journey of
a great capital, where Salvator had not long before painted, and where Vico was
then lecturing, those noble remains were as little known to Europe as the ruined
cities overgrown by the forests of Yucatan. What was to be seen at Naples,
Addison saw. He climbed Vesuvius, explored the tunnel of Posilipo, and wandered
among the vines and almond trees of Capreae. But neither the wonders of nature,
nor those of art, could so occupy his attention as to prevent him from noticing,
though cursorily, the abuses of the Government and the misery of the people. The
great kingdom which had just descended to Philip the Fifth, was in a state of
paralytic dotage. Even Castile and Aragon were sunk in wretchedness. Yet,
compared with the Italian dependencies of the Spanish crown, Castile and Aragon
might be called prosperous. It is clear that all the observations which Addison
made in Italy tended to confirm him in the political opinions which he had
adopted at home. To the last, he always spoke of foreign travel as the best cure
for Jacobitism. In his Freeholder, the Tory fox-hunter asks what traveling is
good for, except to teach a man to jabber French, and to talk against passive
obedience.
From Naples, Addison returned to Rome by sea, along the coast which his favorite
Virgil had celebrated. The felucca passed the headland where the oar and trumpet
were placed by the Trojan adventurers on the tomb of Misenus, and anchored at
night under the shelter of the fabled promontory of Circe. The voyage ended in
the Tiber, still overhung with dark verdure, and still turbid with yellow sand,
as when it met the eyes of Aeneas. From the ruined port of Ostia, the stranger
hurried to Rome; and at Rome he remained during those hot and sickly months
when, even in the Augustan age, all who could make their escape fled from mad
dogs and from streets black with funerals, to gather the first figs of the
season in the country. It is probable that, when he, long after, poured forth in
verse his gratitude to the Providence which had enabled him to breathe unhurt in
tainted air, he was thinking of the August and September which he passed at
Rome.
It was not till the latter end of October that he tore himself away from the
masterpieces of ancient and modern art which are collected in the city so long
the mistress of the world. He then journeyed northward, passed through Sienna,
and for a moment forgot his prejudices in favor of classic architecture as he
looked on the magnificent cathedral. At Florence he spent some days with the
Duke of Shrewsbury, who, cloyed with the pleasures of ambition, and impatient of
its pains, fearing both parties, and loving neither, had determined to hide in
an Italian retreat talents and accomplishments which, if they had been united
with fixed principles and civil courage, might have made him the foremost man of
his age. These days we are told, passed pleasantly; and we can easily believe
it. For Addison was a delightful companion when he was at his ease; and the
Duke, though he seldom forgot that he was a Talbot, had the invaluable art of
putting at case all who came near him.
Addison gave some time to Florence, and especially to the sculptures in the
Museum, which he preferred even to those of the Vatican. He then pursued his
journey through a country in which the ravages of the last war were still
discernible, and in which all men were looking forward with dread to a still
fiercer conflict. Eugene had already descended from the Rhaetian Alps, to
dispute with Catinat the rich plain of Lombardy. The faithless ruler of Savoy
was still reckoned among the allies of Lewis. England had not yet actually
declared war against France: but Manchester had left Paris; and the negotiations
which produced the Grand Alliance against the House of Bourbon were in progress.
Under such circumstances, it was desirable for an English traveler to reach
neutral ground without delay. Addison resolved to cross Mont Cenis. It was
December; and the road was very different from that which now reminds the
stranger of the power and genius of Napoleon. The winter, however, was mild; and
the passage was, for those times, easy. To this journey Addison alluded when, in
the ode which we have already quoted, he said that for him the Divine goodness
had warmed the hoary Alpine hills.
It was in the midst of the eternal snow that he composed his "Epistle" to his
friend Montague, now Lord Halifax. That Epistle, once widely renowned, is now
known only to curious readers, and will hardly be considered by those to whom it
is known as in any perceptible degree heightening Addison's fame. It is,
however, decidedly superior to any English composition which he had previously
published. Nay, we think it quite as good as any poem in heroic meter which
appeared during the interval between the death of Dryden and the publication of
the Essay on Criticism. It contains passages as good as the second-rate passages
of Pope, and would have added to the reputation of Parnell or Prior.
But, whatever be the literary merits or defects of the Epistle, it undoubtedly
does honor to the principles and spirit of the author. Halifax had now nothing
to give. He had fallen from power, had been held up to obloquy, had been
impeached by the House of Commons, and, though his Peers had dismissed the
impeachment, had, as it seemed, little chance of ever again filling high office.
The Epistle, written, at such a time, is one among many proofs that there was no
mixture of cowardice or meanness in the suavity and moderation which
distinguished Addison from all the other public men of those stormy times.
At Geneva, the traveler learned that a partial change of Ministry had taken
place in England, and that the Earl of Manchester had become Secretary of State.
Manchester exerted himself to serve his young friend. It was thought advisable
that an English agent should be near the person of Eugene in Italy; and Addison,
whose diplomatic education was now finished, was the man selected. He was
preparing to enter on his honorable functions, when all his prospects were for a
time darkened by the death of William the Third.
Anne had long felt a strong aversion, personal, political, and religious, to the
Whig party. That aversion appeared in the first measure of her reign. Manchester
was deprived of the seals, after he had held them only a few weeks. Neither
Somers nor Halifax was sworn of the Privy Council. Addison shared the fate of
his three patrons. His hopes of employment in the public service were at an end;
his pension was stopped; and it was necessary for him to support himself by his
own exertions. He became tutor to a young English traveler, and appears to have
rambled with his pupil over great part of Switzerland and Germany. At this time
he wrote his pleasing Treatise on Medals. It was not published till after his
death; but several distinguished scholars saw the manuscript, and gave just
praise to the grace of the style, and to the learning and ingenuity evinced by
the quotations.
From Germany Addison repaired to Holland, where he learned the melancholy news
of his father's death. After passing some months in the United Provinces, he
returned about the close of the year 1703 to England. He was there cordially
received by his friends, and introduced by them into the Kit Cat Club, a society
in which were collected all the various talents and accomplishments which then
gave luster to the Whig party.
Addison was, during some months after his return from the Continent, hard
pressed by pecuniary difficulties. But it was soon in the power of his noble
patrons to serve him effectually. A political change, silent and gradual, but of
the highest importance, was in daily progress. The accession of Anne had been
hailed by the Tories with transports of joy and hope; and for a time it seemed
that the Whigs had fallen, never to rise again. The throne was surrounded by men
supposed to be attached to the prerogative and to the Church; and among these
none stood so high in the favor of the Sovereign as the Lord Treasurer Godolphin
and the Captain-General Marlborough.
The country gentlemen and country clergymen had fully expected that the policy
of these Ministers would be directly opposed to that which had been almost
constantly followed by William; that the landed interest would be favored at the
expense of trade; that no addition would be made to the funded debt; that the
privileges conceded to Dissenters by the late King would be curtailed, if not
withdrawn; that the war with France, if there must be such a war, would, on our
part, be almost entirely naval; and that the Government would avoid close
connections with foreign powers, and, above all, with Holland.
But the country gentlemen and country clergymen were fated to be deceived, not
for the last time. The prejudices and passions which raged without control in
vicarages, in cathedral closes, and in the manor-houses of fox-hunting squires,
were not shared by the chiefs of the Ministry. Those statesmen saw that it was
both for the public interest, and for their own interest, to adopt a Whig
policy, at least as respected the alliances of the country and the conduct of
the war. But, if the foreign policy of the Whigs were adopted, it was impossible
to abstain from adopting also their financial policy. The natural consequences
followed. The rigid Tories were alienated from the Government. The votes of the
Whigs became necessary to it. The votes of the Whigs could be secured only by
further concessions; and further concessions the Queen was induced to make.
At the beginning of the year 1704, the state of parties bore a close analogy to
the state of parties in 1826. In 1826, as in 1704, there was a Tory Ministry
divided into two hostile sections. The position of Mr. Canning and his friends
in 1826 corresponded to that which Marlborough and Godolphin occupied in 1704.
Nottingham and Jersey were, in 1704, what Lord Eldon and Lord Westmoreland were
in 1826. The Whigs of 1704 were in a situation resembling that in which the
Whigs of 1826 stood. In 1704, Somers, Halifax, Sunderland, Cowper, were not in
office. There was no avowed coalition between them and the moderate Tories. It
is probable that no direct communication tending to such a coalition had yet
taken place; yet all men saw that such a coalition was inevitable, nay, that it
was already half formed. Such, or nearly such, was the state of things when
tidings arrived of the great battle fought at Blenheim on the 13th August, 1704.
By the Whigs the news was hailed with transports of joy and pride. No fault, no
cause of quarrel, could be remembered by them against the Commander whose genius
had, in one day, changed the face of Europe, saved the Imperial throne, humbled
the House of Bourbon, and secured the Act of Settlement against foreign
hostility. The feeling of the Tories was very different. They could not indeed,
without imprudence, openly express regret at an event so glorious to their
country; but their congratulations were so cold and sullen as to give deep
disgust to the victorious general and his friends.
Godolphin was not a reading man. Whatever time he could spare from business he
was in the habit of spending at Newmarket or at the card-table. But he was not
absolutely indifferent to poetry; and he was too intelligent an observer not to
perceive that literature was a formidable engine of political warfare, and that
the great Whig leaders had strengthened their party, and raised their character,
by extending a liberal and judicious patronage to good writers. He was
mortified, and not without reason, by the exceeding badness of the poems which
appeared in honor of the battle of Blenheim. One of these poems has been rescued
from oblivion by the exquisite absurdity of three lines:
"Think of two thousand gentlemen at least, And each man mounted on his capering
beast Into the Danube they were pushed by shoals."
Where to procure better verses the Treasurer did not know. He understood how to
negotiate a loan, or remit a subsidy: he was also well versed in the history of
running horses and fighting cocks; but his acquaintance among the poets was very
small. He consulted Halifax; but Halifax affected to decline the office of
adviser. He had, he said, done his best, when he had power, to encourage men
whose abilities and acquirements might do honor to their country. Those times
were over. Other maxims had prevailed. Merit was suffered to pine in obscurity;
and the public money was squandered on the undeserving. "I do know," he added,
"a gentleman who would celebrate the battle in a manner worthy of the subject;
but I will not name him." Godolphin, who was expert at the soft answer which
turneth away wrath, and who was under the necessity of paying court to the
Whigs, gently replied that there was too much ground for Halifax's complaints,
but that what was amiss should in time be rectified, and that in the meantime
the services of a man such as Halifax had described should be liberally
rewarded. Halifax then mentioned Addison, but, mindful of the dignity as well as
of the pecuniary interest of his friend, insisted that the Minister should apply
in the most courteous manner to Addison himself; and this Godolphin promised to
do.
Addison then occupied a garret up three pair of stairs, over a small shop in the
Haymarket. In this humble lodging he was surprised, on the morning which
followed the conversation between Godolphin and Halifax, by a visit from no less
a person than the Right Honorable Henry Boyle, then Chancellor of the Exchequer,
and afterwards Lord Carleton. This highborn Minister had been sent by the Lord
Treasurer as ambassador to the needy poet. Addison readily undertook the
proposed task, a task which, to so good a Whig, was probably a pleasure. When
the poem was little more than half finished, he showed it to Godolphin, who was
delighted with it, and particularly with the famous similitude of the Angel.
Addison was instantly appointed to a Commissionership worth about two hundred
pounds a year, and was assured that this appointment was only an earnest of
greater favors.
The Campaign came forth, and was as much admired by the public as by the
Minister. It pleases us less on the whole than the "Epistle to Halifax." Yet it
undoubtedly ranks high among the poems which appeared during the interval
between the death of Dryden and the dawn of Pope's genius. The chief merit of
the Campaign, we think, is that which was noticed by Johnson, the manly and
rational rejection of fiction. The first great poet whose works have come down
to us sang of war long before war became a science or a trade. If, in his time,
there was enmity between two little Greek towns, each poured forth its crowd of
citizens, ignorant of discipline, and armed with implements of labor rudely
turned into weapons. On each side appeared conspicuous a few chiefs, whose
wealth had enabled them to procure good armor, horses, and chariots, and whose
leisure had enabled them to practice military exercises. One such chief, if he
were a man of great strength, agility, and courage, would probably be more
formidable than twenty common men; and the force and dexterity with which he
flung his spear might have no inconsiderable share in deciding the event of the
day. Such were probably the battles with which Homer was familiar. But Homer
related the actions of men of a former generation, of men who sprang from the
Gods, and communed with the Gods face to face, of men, one of whom could with
ease hurl rocks which two sturdy hinds of a later period would be unable even to
lift. He therefore naturally represented their martial exploits as resembling in
kind, but far surpassing in magnitude, those of the stoutest and most expert
combatants of his own age. Achilles, clad in celestial armor, drawn by celestial
coursers, grasping the spear which none but himself could raise, driving all
Troy and Lycia before him, and choking Scamander with dead, was only a
magnificent exaggeration of the real hero, who, strong, fearless, accustomed to
the use of weapons, guarded by a shield and helmet of the best Sidonian fabric,
and whirled along by horses of Thessalian breed, struck down with his own right
arm foe after foe. In all rude societies similar notions are found. There are at
this day countries where the Lifeguardsman Shaw would be considered as a much
greater warrior than the Duke of Wellington. Buonaparte loved to describe the
astonishment with which the Mamelukes looked at his diminutive figure. Mourad
Bey, distinguished above all his fellows by his bodily strength, and by the
skill with which he managed his horse and his saber, could not believe that a
man who was scarcely five feet high, and rode like a butcher, could be the
greatest soldier in Europe.
1 It is strange that Addison should, in the first line of his
travels, have misdated his departure from Marseilles by a whole year, and still
more strange that this slip of the pen, which throws the whole narrative into
inextricable confusion, should have been repeated in a succession of editions,
and never detected by Tickell or by Hurd.
Previous | Critical And Historical Essays, Volume II
| Next
Critical And Historical Essays, Volume II, Thomas Babbington Macaulay,
1843 |
|
Add/Correct a Link