Through the Magic Door | Page 4

an excellent subject for the
operations of swindlers and banterers. Bullies jostled him into the
kennel, Hackney coachmen splashed him from head to foot, thieves
explored with perfect security the huge pockets of his horseman's coat,
while he stood entranced by the splendour of the Lord Mayor's Show.
Money-droppers, sore from the cart's tail, introduced themselves to him,
and appeared to him the most honest friendly gentlemen that he had
ever seen. Painted women, the refuse of Lewkner Lane and Whetstone
Park, passed themselves on him for countesses and maids of honour. If
he asked his way to St. James', his informants sent him to Mile End. If
he went into a shop, he was instantly discerned to be a fit purchaser of
everything that nobody else would buy, of second-hand embroidery,
copper rings, and watches that would not go. If he rambled into any
fashionable coffee-house, he became a mark for the insolent derision of
fops, and the grave waggery of Templars. Enraged and mortified, he
soon returned to his mansion, and there, in the homage of his tenants
and the conversation of his boon companions, found consolation for the
vexations and humiliations which he had undergone. There he was once
more a great man, and saw nothing above himself except when at the
assizes he took his seat on the bench near the Judge, or when at the
muster of the militia he saluted the Lord Lieutenant."
On the whole, I should put this detached chapter of description at the
very head of his Essays, though it happens to occur in another volume.
The History as a whole does not, as it seems to me, reach the same
level as the shorter articles. One cannot but feel that it is a brilliant
piece of special pleading from a fervid Whig, and that there must be
more to be said for the other side than is there set forth. Some of the
Essays are tinged also, no doubt, by his own political and religious
limitations. The best are those which get right away into the broad

fields of literature and philosophy. Johnson, Walpole, Madame
D'Arblay, Addison, and the two great Indian ones, Clive and Warren
Hastings, are my own favourites. Frederick the Great, too, must surely
stand in the first rank. Only one would I wish to eliminate. It is the
diabolically clever criticism upon Montgomery. One would have
wished to think that Macaulay's heart was too kind, and his soul too
gentle, to pen so bitter an attack. Bad work will sink of its own weight.
It is not necessary to souse the author as well. One would think more
highly of the man if he had not done that savage bit of work.
I don't know why talking of Macaulay always makes me think of Scott,
whose books in a faded, olive-backed line, have a shelf, you see, of
their own. Perhaps it is that they both had so great an influence, and
woke such admiration in me. Or perhaps it is the real similarity in the
minds and characters of the two men. You don't see it, you say? Well,
just think of Scott's "Border Ballads," and then of Macaulay's "Lays."
The machines must be alike, when the products are so similar. Each
was the only man who could possibly have written the poems of the
other. What swing and dash in both of them! What a love of all that is
and noble and martial! So simple, and yet so strong. But there are
minds on which strength and simplicity are thrown away. They think
that unless a thing is obscure it must be superficial, whereas it is often
the shallow stream which is turbid, and the deep which is clear. Do you
remember the fatuous criticism of Matthew Arnold upon the glorious
"Lays," where he calls out "is this poetry?" after quoting--
"And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds For the ashes of
his fathers And the Temples of his Gods?"
In trying to show that Macaulay had not the poetic sense he was really
showing that he himself had not the dramatic sense. The baldness of the
idea and of the language had evidently offended him. But this is exactly
where the true merit lies. Macaulay is giving the rough, blunt words
with which a simple-minded soldier appeals to two comrades to help
him in a deed of valour. Any high-flown sentiment would have been
absolutely out of character. The lines are, I think, taken with their
context, admirable ballad poetry, and have just the dramatic quality and
sense which a ballad poet must have. That opinion of Arnold's shook
my faith in his judgment, and yet I would forgive a good deal to the
man who wrote--

"One more charge and