LET TRE

ÉCRITE À L'OCCASION DE LA

SEPTIEME CAUSERIE. (1)

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MONSIEUR,

"LES auteurs personnels et les auteurs impersonnels was, I believe, the special topic of your last lecture, and few subjects can, to my mind, be more interesting. I confess that I am not sure whether I fully understand the words "personnel" and "impersonnel," but I suppose an "auteur personnel" is one in whose writings you can easily detect the writer,—one whose own predilections, tastes, prejudices, and partialities escape in every page one in whom the subjective element is largely developed; and that consequently an "auteur impersonnel" is the reverse of all this. If I am right then an "auteur personnel" would never be a good critic, he could never conform to the rules which in a previous lecture you justly laid down on the subject of criticism, he could not throw himself into the feel

(1) Cette lettre n'a qu'un rapport de mots avec la septième Causerie; j'avais parlé de l'impersonnalité des poëtes: elle traite de l'impersonnalité des critiques et des historiens; ce sont deux choses et deux questions trèsdifférentes. Mais cela n'en diminue en rien l'intérêt ni le mérite.

P. S.

ings and positions of others, and, divesting himself of all preconceptions and prejudices, see with the eyes of those whom he regards as totally blind, or share for the time the sentiments on which he would willingly hurl anathemas.

Now, Monsieur, I am quite aware that it requires a high amount of candour, of wisdom, of nobility of mind, and of clearness of judgment, to be a good critic; but I must honestly confess that I think writings which are strictly conformed to these rules, wanting in that which captivates the attention, and fixes itself indelibly on the mind. Take for example the study of studies in my opinion--the study of History-what is it? "History," it has been said, “is the essence of innumerable biographies," and if "the proper study of mankind is man," what can be more fascinating to our race in every age, whether it be the records of those whose footprints we trace with reverence unspeakable upon the sands of time?" or the utterances, the struggles, the progress of those who are now fighting the battle of life, around whom the conflict is most fiercely raging, the leaders under whose banners, consciously or unconsciously, all range themselves. Now, whether it be in the study of the worthies of the past or of the present, the principle is the same, and I maintain that in seeking to know the character of one whose general sentiments and conduct convince us that he is truly great, we gain in every way by ignoring any slight blemishes, and looking on the beautiful whole-by forgetting the spots, and gazing on

the full orbed glory of the meridian sun. What would Macaulay's history be without its estimate of William III., its determination to exculpate him from any share in the massacre of Glencoe, because it would have been inconsistent with himself? How Carlyle's writings would lose their interest and become tame and powerless, did we extract from them the passionate heroworship which breathes in every page, the "yes, my brave one, even so," with which he ever and anon apostrophizes Oliver Cromwell, when rescuing some noble act or word which had lain buried under two centuries of misrepresentation. Can any one fail to be the better for the example presented to us by Motley of that noblest of heroes, that statesman almost without a compeer, William the Silent, Prince of Crange? we not read d'Aubigné with such intense pleasure because he teaches us to love Luther, and in recognizing the link of a common veneration, we are drawn to the author whose writings have taught us to know, not only his hero but himself? How could Macaulay and those like him write otherwise than they do?-the characters they portray they have learned to know and to revere ; and to use the exquisite proverb you lately quoted, Monsieur, on ne jette pas de pierres dans la fontaine où on a bu." (1)

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Besides this, I believe that by studying the portrait of a hero, drawn by the pen of an "auteur personnel," we gain not merely a better knowledge of the man, but

(1) Ce proverbe arabe est cité dans la huitième Causerie.

P. S.

of the age in which he lived.

Take one instance: you remember how Macaulay, in his account of the cruelties practised on the Scottish Covenanters in the reigns of Charles II. and James II., stigmatizes one of the chief persecutors as "the profane and rapacious Claverhouse." Turn now to Aytoun's poem on the Burial March of Dundee, and read how, after the Battle of Killiecrankie, the vaults of Atholl opened to receive

"The last of Scots, and last of freemen,

Last of all that dauntless race,

Who would rather die unsullied,

Than outlive the land's disgrace!"

Can this be Macaulay's rapacious Claverhouse?

Even

and far from regretting the partialities of these two authors of contrary opinions, I think we learn to know not only Lord Dundee under two aspects, but Scotland in all the varied character of that troubled century, the poor persecuted Covenanters steadfast to the death,— the gallant Highlanders who rushed forth in their loyalty at the cry "O Bonny Dundee." Yes, the works in which we can trace no passionate soul-stirring personality, are to us for ever like a beautiful statue, which we can admire indeed, but never love; but where the author is discernible in every page, it is as though the statue had become endued with life, it breathes, it speaks to us, we listen, and recognize the voice of a friend.

H. T.

Lettre écrite à l'occasion de la lettre précédente.

MONSIEUR,

We have lately had under discussion the respective merits of "personal and impersonal writers," and I must confess that I do not feel prepared to admit without protest, the superior merits of the former, however ably they may have been advocated. A "personal writer is one who never forgets himself in the characters he is seeking to represent; we are not able thoroughly to enjoy the society of those to whom he introduces us, for we are always haunted by his shadow, lurking behind the scenes. Byron is essentially one of this class of authors: he might indeed be said to have but one string to his harp; for in all his writings it is ever Lord Byron's loves and hates, passions and woes, himself stamped upon every page; and this monotone would weary, though the player is a skilful one, were it not for the exquisite songs he sings to beguile the companions of his Pilgrimage, as those from "the sunny land of the citron and olive," of the majesty and freshness of the "dark blue ocean," or of the perfect hush of evening beside "clear placid Leman," where

"The starlight dews

All silently their tears of love instil,

Weeping themselves away, till they infuse

Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues."

But if we turn to Schiller, the notably impersonal writer, surely here we find greater powers. We have a noble "Max" in "Wallenstein," much variety of