Life Without and Life Within; or, Reviews, Narratives, Essays, and Poems.
custom of the times, and even preaching to himself as well as to
others--for well can we imagine that his courage and his pride would
have fallen without keeping up the illusion; but we never see Heaven
answering his invocations in any way that can interfere with the rise of
his fortunes or the accomplishment of his plans. To ourselves, the tone
of these religious holdings-forth is sufficiently expressive; they all
ring hollow; we have never read any thing of the sort more repulsive to
us than the letter to Mr. Hammond, which Mr. Carlyle thinks such a noble
contrast to the impiety of the present time. Indeed, we cannot recover
from our surprise at Mr. Carlyle's liking these letters; his
predetermination must have been strong indeed. Again, we see Cromwell
ruling with the strong arm, and carrying the spirit of monarchy to an
excess which no Stuart could surpass. Cromwell, indeed, is wise, and the
king he had punished with death is foolish; Charles is faithless, and
Cromwell crafty; we see no other difference. Cromwell does not, in
power, abide by the principles that led him to it; and we can't help--so
rose-water imbecile are we!--admiring those who do: one Lafayette, for
instance--poor chevalier so despised by Mr. Carlyle--for abiding by his
principles, though impracticable, more than Louis Philippe, who laid
them aside, so far as necessary, "to secure peace to the kingdom;" and
to us it looks black for one who kills kings to grow to be more kingly
than a king.
The death of Charles I. was a boon to the world, for it marked the dawn
of a new era, when kings, in common with other men, are to be held
accountable by God and mankind for what they do. Many who took part in
this act which _did_ require a courage and faith almost unparalleled,
were, no doubt, moved by the noblest sense of duty. We doubt not this
had its share in the bosom counsels of Cromwell. But we cannot
sympathize with the apparent satisfaction of Mr. Carlyle in seeing him
engaged, two days after the execution, in marriage treaty for his son.
This seems more ruthlessness than calmness. One who devoted so many days
to public fasting and prayer, on less occasions, might well make solemn
pause on this. Mr. Carlyle thinks much of some pleasant domestic letters
from Cromwell. What brigand, what pirate, fails to have some such soft
and light feelings?
In short, we have no time to say all we think; but we stick to the
received notions of Old Noll, with his great, red nose, hard heart, long
head, and crafty ambiguities. Nobody ever doubted his great abilities
and force of will; neither doubt we that he was made an "instrument"
just as he professeth. But as to looking on him through Mr. Carlyle's
glasses, we shall not be sneered or stormed into it, unless he has other
proof to offer than is shown yet. And we resent the violence he offers
both to our prejudices and our perceptions. If he has become interested
in Oliver, or any other pet hyena, by studying his habits, is that any
reason we should admit him to our Pantheon? No! our imbecility shall
keep fast the door against any thing short of proofs that in the hyena a
god is incarnated. Mr. Carlyle declares that he sees it, but we really
cannot. The hyena is surely not out of the kingdom of God, but as to
being the finest emblem of what is divine--no, no!
In short, we can sympathize with the words of John Maidstone:--
"He [Cromwell] was a strong man in the dark perils of war; in the high
places of the field, hope shone in him like a pillar of fire, when it
had gone out in the others"--a poetic and sufficient account of the
secret of his power.
But Mr. Carlyle goes on to gild the refined gold thus:--
"A genuine king among men, Mr. Maidstone! The divinest sight this world
sees, when it is privileged to see such, and not be sickened with the
unholy apery of such."
We know you do with all your soul love kings and heroes, Mr. Carlyle,
but we are not sure you would always know the Sauls from the Davids. We
fear, if you had the disposal of the holy oil, you would be tempted to
pour it on the head of him who is taller by the head than all his
brethren, without sufficient care as to purity of inward testimony.
Such is the impression left on us by the book thus far, as to the view
of its hero; but as to what difficulties attended the writing the
history of Cromwell, the reader will like to see what Mr. Carlyle
himself says:--
"These authentic utterances of the man Oliver himself--I have gathered
them from far and near; fished them up from the foul Lethean quagmires
where they lay buried; I have washed, or endeavored to wash, them clean
from foreign stupidities, (such a job of buck-washing as I do not long
to repeat;) and the world shall now see them in their own shape."
For the rest, this book is of course entertaining, witty, dramatic,
picturesque; all traits that are piquant, many that have profound
interest, are brought out better than new. The "letters and speeches"
are put into readable state, and this alone is a great benefit. They are
a relief after Mr. Carlyle's high-seasoned writing; and this again is a
relief after their long-winded dimnesses. Most of the heroic anecdotes
of the time had been used up before, but they lose nothing in the hands
of Carlyle; and pictures of the scenes, such as of Naseby fight, for
instance, it was left to him to give. We have passed over the hackneyed
ground attended by a torch-bearer, who has given a new animation to the
procession of events, and cast a ruddy glow on many a striking
physiognomy. That any truth of high value has been brought to light, we
do not perceive--certainly nothing has been added to our own sense of
the greatness of the times, nor any new view presented that we can
adopt, as to the position and character of the agents.
We close with the only one of Cromwell's letters that we really like.
Here his religious words and his temper seem quite sincere.
"_To my loving Brother, Colonel Valentine Walton: These._
July, 1644.
"DEAR SIR: It's our duty to sympathize in all mercies; and to
praise the Lord together in chastisements or trials, so that we may
sorrow together.
"Truly England and the church of God hath had a great favor from
the Lord, in this great victory given unto us, such as the like
never was since this war began. It had all the evidences of an
absolute victory obtained by the Lord's blessing upon the godly
party principally. We never charged but we routed the enemy. The
left wing, which I commanded, being our own horse, saving a few
Scots in our rear, beat all the prince's horse. God make them as
stubble to our swords. We charged their regiments of foot with our
horse, and routed all we charged. The particulars I cannot relate
now; but I believe, of twenty thousand, the prince hath not four
thousand left. Give glory, all the glory, to God.
"Sir, God hath taken away your eldest son by a cannon-shot. It
brake his leg. We were necessitated to have it cut off, whereof he
died.
"Sir, you know my own trials this way;[24] but the Lord supported
me with this, that the Lord took him into the happiness we all pant
for and live for. There is your precious child, full of glory,
never to know sin or sorrow any more. He was a gallant young man,
exceedingly gracious. God give you his comfort. Before his death he
was so full of comfort, that to Frank Russel and myself he could
not express it, 'it was so great above his pain.' This he said to
us. Indeed it was admirable. A little after, he said one thing lay
upon his spirit. I asked him what that was. He told me it was, that
God had not suffered him to be any more the executioner of his
enemies. At his fall, his horse being killed with the bullet, and,
as I am informed, three horses more, I am told he bid them open to
the right and left, that he might see the rogues run. Truly he was
exceedingly beloved in the army, of all that knew him. But few knew
him; for he was a precious young man, fit for God. You have cause
to bless the Lord. He is a glorious saint in heaven; wherein you
ought exceedingly to rejoice. Let this drink up your sorrow: seeing
these are not feigned words to comfort you, but the thing is so
real and undoubted a truth. You may do all things by the strength
of Christ. Seek that, and you shall easily bear your trial. Let
this public mercy to the church of God make you to forget your
private sorrow. The Lord be your strength; so prays
"Your truly faithful and loving brother,
"OLIVER CROMWELL."
And add this noble passage, in which Carlyle speaks of the morbid
affection of Cromwell's mind:--
"In those years it must be that Dr. Simcott, physician in Huntingdon,
had to do with Oliver's hypochondriac maladies. He told Sir Philip
Warwick, unluckily specifying no date, or none that has survived, 'he
had often been sent for at midnight;' Mr. Cromwell for many years was
very 'splenetic,' (spleen-struck,) often thought he was just about to
die, and also 'had fancies about the Town Cross.'[25] Brief intimation,
of which the reflective reader may make a great deal. Samuel Johnson too
had hypochondrias; all great souls are apt to have; and to be in thick
darkness generally, till the eternal ways and the celestial guiding
stars disclose themselves, and the vague abyss of life knit itself up
into firmaments for them. The temptations in the wilderness, choices of
Hercules, and the like, in succinct or loose form, are appointed for
every man that will assert a soul in himself and be a man. Let Oliver
take comfort in his dark sorrows and melancholies. The quantity of
sorrow he has, does it not mean withal the quantity of _sympathy_ he
has, the quantity of faculty and victory he shall yet have? 'Our sorrow
is the inverted image of our nobleness.' The depth of our despair
measures what capability, and height of claim, we have to hope. Black
smoke as of Tophet filling all your universe, it can yet by true
heart-energy become _flame_, and brilliancy of heaven. Courage!"
Were the flame but a pure as well as a bright flame! Sometimes we know
the black phantoms change to white angel forms; the vulture is
metamorphosed into a dove. Was it so in this instance? Unlike Mr.
Carlyle, we are willing to let each reader judge for himself; but
perhaps we should not be so generous if we had studied ourselves sick in
wading through all that mass of papers, and had nothing to defend us
against the bitterness of biliousness, except a growing enthusiasm about
our hero.
EMERSON'S ESSAYS[26]
At the distance of three years this volume follows the first series of
Essays, which have already made to themselves a circle of readers,
attentive, thoughtful, more and more intelligent; and this circle is a
large one if we consider the circumstances of this country, and of
England also, at this time.
In England it would seem there are a larger number of persons waiting
for an invitation to calm thought and sincere intercourse than among
ourselves. Copies of Mr. Emerson's first published little volume called
"Nature," have there been sold by thousands in a short time, while one
edition has needed seven years to get circulated here. Several of his
orations and essays from the "Dial" have also been republished there,
and met with a reverent and earnest response.
We suppose that while in England the want of such a voice is as great as
here, a larger number are at leisure to recognize that want; a far
larger number have set foot in the speculative region, and have ears
refined to appreciate these melodious accents.