[A maxim which would have pleased Madame de Stael, who thought that
philosophy consisted in fine sentiments. In the “Life of Lord
Byron,” just published by Mr. Moore, the distinguished biographer
makes a similar assertion to that of the sage Augustus: “When did
ever a sublime thought spring up in the soul that melancholy was not
to be found, however latent, in its neighbourhood?” Now, with due
deference to Mr. Moore, this is a very sickly piece of nonsense,
that has not even an atom of truth to stand on. “God said, Let
there be light, and there was light!”—we should like to know where
lies the melancholy of that sublime sentence. “Truth,” says Plato,
“is the body of God, and light is his shadow.” In the name of
common-sense, in what possible corner in the vicinity of that lofty
image lurks the jaundiced face of this eternal bete noir of Mr.
Moore's? Again, in that sublimest passage in the sublimest of the
Latin poets (Lucretius), which bursts forth in honour of Epicurus,
is there anything that speaks to us of sadness? On the contrary, in
the three passages we have referred to, especially in the two first
quoted, there is something splendidly luminous and cheering. Joy is
often a great source of the sublime; the suddenness of its ventings
would alone suffice to make it so. What can be more sublime than
the triumphant Psalms of David, intoxicated as they are with an
almost delirium of transport? Even in the gloomiest passages of the
poets, where we recognize sublimity, we do not often find
melancholy. We are stricken by terror, appalled by awe, but seldom
softened into sadness. In fact, melancholy rather belongs to
another class of feelings than those excited by a sublime passage or
those which engender its composition. On one hand, in the loftiest
flights of Homer, Milton, and Shakspeare, we will challenge a critic
to discover this “green sickness” which Mr. Moore would convert
into the magnificence of the plague. On the other hand, where is
the evidence that melancholy made the habitual temperaments of those
divine men? Of Homer we know nothing; of Shakspeare and Milton, we
have reason to believe the ordinary temperament was constitutionally
cheerful. The latter boasts of it. A thousand instances, in
contradiction to an assertion it were not worth while to contradict,
were it not so generally popular, so highly sanctioned, and so
eminently pernicious to everything that is manly and noble in
literature, rush to our memory. But we think we have already quoted
enough to disprove the sentence, which the illustrious biographer
has himself disproved in more than twenty passages, which, if he is
pleased to forget, we thank Heaven posterity never will. Now we are
on the subject of this Life, so excellent in many respects, we
cannot but observe that we think the whole scope of its philosophy
utterly unworthy of the accomplished mind of the writer; the
philosophy consists of an unpardonable distorting of general truths,
to suit the peculiarities of an individual, noble indeed, but
proverbially morbid and eccentric. A striking instance of this
occurs in the laboured assertion that poets make but sorry domestic
characters. What! because Lord Byron is said to have been a bad
husband, was (to go no further back for examples)—was Walter Scott
a bad husband, or was Campbell, or is Mr. Moore himself? why, in
the name of justice, should it be insinuated that Milton was a bad
husband, when, as far as any one can judge of the matter, it was
Mrs. Milton who was the bad wife? And why, oh! why should we be
told by Mr. Moore,—a man who, to judge by Captain Rock and the
Epicurean, wants neither learning nor diligence,—why are we to be
told, with peculiar emphasis, that Lord Bacon never married, when
Lord Bacon not only married, but his marriage was so advantageous as
to be an absolute epoch in his career? Really, really, one begins
to believe that there is not such a thing as a fact in the world!]
“Now for the hedge!” cried Lovett, unheeding his comrades; and his horse sprang into the road.
The three men now were drawn up quite still and motionless by the side of the hedge. The broad road lay before them, curving out of sight on either side; the ground was hardening under an early tendency to frost, and the clear ring of approaching hoofs sounded on the ear of the robbers, ominous, haply, of the chinks of “more attractive metal” about, if Hope told no flattering tale, to be their own.
Presently the long-expected vehicle made its appearance at the turn of the road, and it rolled rapidly on behind four fleet post-horses.
“You, Ned, with your large steed, stop the horses; you, Augustus, bully the post-boys; leave me to do the rest,” said the captain.
“As agreed,” returned Ned, laconically. “Now, look at me!” and the horse of the vain highwayman sprang from its shelter. So instantaneous were the operations of these experienced tacticians, that Lovett's orders were almost executed in a briefer time than it had cost him to give them.
The carriage being stopped, and the post-boys white and trembling, with two pistols (levelled by Augustus and Pepper) cocked at their heads, Lovett, dismounting, threw open the door of the carriage, and in a very civil tone and with a very bland address accosted the inmate.
“Do not be alarmed, my lord, you are perfectly safe; we only require your watch and purse.”
“Really,” answered a voice still softer than that of the robber, while a marked and somewhat French countenance, crowned with a fur cap, peered forth at the arrester,—“Really, sir, your request is so modest that I were worse than cruel to refuse you. My purse is not very full, and you may as well have it as one of my rascally duns; but my watch I have a love for, and—”
“I understand you, my lord,” interrupted the highwayman. “What do you value your watch at?”