The ardent and capricious genius of our author projected a universal history which was to occupy three mighty folios, at a time when our language had not yet produced a single historical work; he had no model to look up to; nor, had there been, was he disposed to be casting in other men’s moulds. The design and the execution were a creation of his own. Masses of the most curious parts of learning were to be drawn out of recondite tomes, from the Rabbins, the Fathers, the historians and the poets of every nation; all that the generations of men have thought, and whatever they have memorably acted. But in this voluminous scroll of time, something was to enter of not less price—what his own searching spirit thought, what his diligence had collected, and farther, what his own eyes had observed in the old and the new worlds. Truth and EXPERIENCE were to be the columns which supported and adorned HISTORY. And this we read in “The Mind of the Frontispiece,” one of those emblematical representations of “the mind” of the author, which the engravers of that day usually rendered less pictorial than perplexing.[8]
A universal genius was best able to compose a universal history; statesman, soldier, and sage, in writing the “History of the World,” how often has Rawleigh become his own historiographer! He had been a pilgrim in many characters; and his philosophy had been exercised in very opposite spheres of human existence. A great commander by land and by sea, he was critical in all the arts of stratography, and delights to illustrate them on every occasion. The danger of having two generals for one army, is exemplified by what he himself had witnessed at Jarnac; in a narrative of Carthage, when the Romans lost their fleet, he points out the advantages of a flying navy, from what had occurred under his own eye in the wars of the Netherlands, and of Portugal; and concludes that “it is more difficult to defend a coast than to invade it.” In the midst of a narrative of the siege of a town of Carthage, when the besieged rushed out of the town eager to learn the terms of the capitulation before they were concluded, the Roman general seized on this advantage by entering with his army, without concluding the capitulation. “A similar incident happened when I was a young man in France, of Marshal Monluc, while a parley was held about the surrender; but noble men held this conduct as not honourable.” Foreign mercenaries, he observes, are not to be relied on, for at the greatest extremity, they have not only refused to fight, but have passed over to the enemy; or they have become the masters of those who hired them, as the Turks were called in by the Greeks, and the Saxons by the Britons; and here he distinguishes the soldiery consisting of English, French, and Scotch, which established the independence of the Netherlands; in this case, these mercenaries were bound together by one common interest with the people who had required their aid; therefore, these stood in the condition of allies, as well as of foreigners solely retained by pay.
His digressions are never more agreeable than when they become dissertations; the most ordinary events of history assumed a new face by the noble speculations which he builds on them, full of a searching, critical spirit, of sound morality, and of practicable policy; often profound, always eloquent. One on the Mosaic code as a precedent for the laws of other nations, would have delighted Montesquieu. On the inviolability of oaths, he admirably describes them as “the chains by which free-men are tied to the world.” On slavery—on idolatry—on giving the lie—on the point of honour—on the origin of local names of America by their first discoverers—such topics abound in his versatile pages. Even curious matters engaged his attention, and in the new world he inspected nature with the close eye of a naturalist;[9] nor has he disdained, at times, a pleasant tale. There are few pages of this venerable, but genial volume, where we do not find that it is Rawleigh who speaks or who acts, making legible his secret thoughts, charming the story of four thousand years with the pleasures of his own memory.
The actual condition of society; the politics of past governments; the arts, the trades, the inventions of past ages, matters deeply interesting in the history of man, often forgotten, and hardly recoverable, judged by that large mind which had so boldly planned the “History of the World,” cannot properly be censured as “Digressions.” “True it is,” he adds, “that I have also made many others, which, if they shall be laid to my charge, I must cast the fault into the great heap of human error. For seeing we digress in all the ways of our lives—yea, seeing the life of man is nothing else but digression, it may the better be excused in writing of their lives and actions. I am not altogether ignorant in the laws of history and of the kinds.”
It is evident that our author was conscious that he had struck into a virgin vein, and however amenable to the code of historical composition, very gracefully apologises for indulging the novelty. The novelty indeed was so little comprehended by those gross feeders on the carrion of time who can discover nothing in history but its disjointed and naked facts, that, rejecting every “digression” as interrupting the chronology, they put forth their abridgments; and Alexander Ross rejoiced to call his “The Marrow of History;” but probably found, to his dismay, that he had only collected the dry bones; and that in all this “History of the World,” nothing was more veritable than the author’s own emotions. All which these matter-of-fact retailers had so carefully omitted we now class by a title which such writers rarely recognise as the philosophy of history. Great writers admit of no abridgment. If you do not follow the writer through all the ramifications of his ideas, and imbue your mind with the fulness of the author’s mind, you can receive only interrupted impressions, and retain but an imperfect and mutilated image of his genius. The happiest of abridgments is the author’s own skill in composition: to say all that is necessary and to omit all that is superfluous—this is the secret of abridgment, and there is no other of a great original work.
“The History of the World” appeared as a literary phenomenon, even to the philosophical Hume. He expresses his astonishment at “the extensive genius of the man who being educated amid naval and military enterprises, had surpassed in the pursuits of literature even those of the most recluse and sedentary lives.”
This is much from him who has taught us not to wonder but to inquire. Rawleigh, however, had dropped some hints on his Hebraic studies; acknowledging his ignorance of that recondite language, he was indebted to some preceding interpreters and to “some learned friends;” and he adds with good humour, but with a solemn feeling, “Yet it were not to be wondered at had I been beholding to neither, having had eleven years’ leisure to obtain the knowledge of that or any other language.” It did not occur to our historian that “eleven years” of uninterrupted leisure yields a full amount of “the most recluse and sedentary life.” With a universal mind Rawleigh was eager after universal knowledge; and we have positive and collateral evidence that he sought in his learned circle whatever aid the peculiar studies of each individual could afford him.
A circumstance as remarkable as the work itself occurred in the author’s long imprisonment. By one of those strange coincidences in human affairs, it happened that in the Tower Rawleigh was surrounded by the highest literary and scientific circle in the nation. Henry, the ninth Earl of Northumberland, on the suspicion of having favoured his relative Piercy, the gunpowder-plot conspirator, was cast into this state-prison, and confined during many years. This earl delighted in what Anthony Wood describes as “the obscure parts of learning.” He was a magnificent Mecænas, and not only pensioned scientific men, but daily assembled them at his table, and in this intellectual communion participating in their pursuits he passed his life. His learned society were designated as “the Atlantes of the mathematical world;” but that world had other inhabitants, antiquaries and astrologers, chemists and naturalists. There was seen Thomas Allen, another Roger Bacon, “terrible to the vulgar,” famed for his Bibliotheca Alleniana, a rich collection of manuscripts, most of which have been preserved in the Bodleian; the name of Allen survives in the ardent commemorations of Camden, of Spelman, and of Selden. He was accompanied by his friend Doctor Dee, but whether Dee ever tried their patience or their wonder by his “Diary of Conferences with Spirits” we find no record; and by the astronomical Torporley, a disciple of Lucretius, for his philosophy consisted of atoms; several of his manuscripts remain in Sion College. The muster-roll is too long to run over. In this galaxy of the learned, the brightest star was Thomas Hariot, who merited the distinction of being “the universal philosopher;” his inventions in algebra, Descartes, when in England, silently adopted, but which Dr. Wallis afterwards indignantly reclaimed; his skill in interpreting the text of Homer excited the grateful admiration of Chapman when occupied by his version; Bishop Corbet has described—
| Deep Hariot’s mine, In which there is no dross. |