SEPTIÈME CAUSERIE

Monsieur,

'* Les auteurs personnels et les auteurs impersonnels " was, I believe, the spécial topic of your last lecture, and few subjects can, to my mind, be more interesting. I confess that I am not sure whetlier 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 prédilections, tastes, préjudices, and partialities escape in every page — one in whom the subjective élément is largely developed ; and that consequently an " auteur impersonnel " is the reverse of ail 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 hiraself into the feel-

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

ings and positions of others, and, divesting himself of ail preconceptions and préjudices, see witli tlie eyes of tliose whom he regards as totally blind, or share for the time tlie sentiments on wtiicli he would willingly hurl anathemas.

Now, Monsieur, I am quite aware tliat it requires a high amount of candour, of wisdom, of nobility of mind, and of clearness of judgment, to be a good critic ; but 1 raust honestly confess that I think writings wliicli are strictly conformed to thèse rules, wanting in that which captivâtes 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 âge, whether it be the records of those whose footprints we trace with révérence 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, ail range themselves. Now, whether it be in the study of the worthies of the past or of the présent, the principle is the same, and I maintain that in seeking to know the character of one whose gênerai 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 wiiole — 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 IIÏ., its détermination to exculpate Iiim from any share in the massacre of Glencoe, because it would hâve 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," w^ith 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 Orange ? Do we not read d'Aubigné with such intense pleasure because he teaches us to love Luther, and in recognizing the link of a common vénération, we are drawn to the author whose wTitings hâve taught us to know, not only bis hero but himself ? How could Macaulay and those like him write otherwise than they do ? — tlie characters they portray they bave learned to know and to révère ; and to use the exquisite proverb you lately quoted, Monsieur, "on ne jette pas de pierres dans la fontaine où on a bu." (1)

Besides this, Ibelieve 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.

of the âge in which he lived. Take oue instance : you remember how Macaulay, in his account of the cruelties practised on the Scottish Covenanters in the reigns of Charles II. and James IL, 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

" Tlie last of Scots, aud last of freemen, Last of ail that dauntless race, "Who would ratlier die unsuUied, Than outlive the land's disgrâce !"

Can this be Macaulay's rapacious Claverhouse ? Even so ; and far from regretting the partiaUties of thèse two authors of contrary opinions, I think we learn to know not only Lord Dundee under two aspects, but Scotland in ail 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.

Lettre écrite à l'occasion de la lettre précédente.

Monsieur,

We bave lately had under discussion the respective merits of " personal and impersonal writers," and I must confess that I do not feel prepared to admit witliout protest, the superior merits of the former, however ably they may hâve 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 bis shadow, lurking behind the scènes. Byron is essentially one of this class of authors : he might indeed be said to bave but one string to bis harp ; for in ail bis writings it is ever Lord Byron's loves and hâtes, passions and woes, himself stamped upon every page ; and this monotone would weary, thougb the player is a skilful one, were it not for the exquisite songs he sings to beguile the companions of bis Pilgrimage, as those from " the sunny land of the citron and olive," of the majesty and freshness of the " dark blue océan," or of the perfect hush of evening beside " clear placid Léman," wbere

" The starlight dews AU 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 hère we find greater powers. We bave a noble "Max" in " Wallenstein," much variety of

character in " Don Carlos ; " in " Marie Stuart," and ** Joan of Arc," féminine grâce and simple dignity, — ail thèse shew a wonderful power of transmigration so to speak, — he is each and ail in turn, but they cannot be held to be less attractive because it is impossible to say of any one of them " this is the poet Schiller."

Nevertheless in a poet, personality is not inadmissible, for he may hâte what we hâte, love what we love, and we are glad to hear him say that in ail things like ourselves, he, as Coleridge bas it, " most exquisitely feels." But the historian bas no business with hâtes or loves, it is with the feelings and actions of other men he bas to deal ; he is the judge before whose tribunal the great of ail âges are passed in review, to be rewarded or condemned without appeal ; and though enthusiasm in a good cause, and when it is not too shortsighted, is an excellent thing, it is liable to degenerate into partiality, and this in him who holds the even-balanced scales of justice, is something more than a fault. Besides, the historian's art is représentative, he bas no license like the poet ; he is a photographer who must reproduce men and things as he finds them, not a fancy painter who may group bis figures according to taste.

Carlyle's History of Frederick the Great might be quoted as an instance of extrême personality in an author, and hère we certainly do find bolh personality and partiality ; but I would venture to believe that thèse qualities, carried to excess, do not enhance but deteriorate from the value of the work as a history. His par-