Of great characters, whose actions are well known, and of those who, whatever claim they may have to distinction, are not so, Aristotle has delivered a precept with his accustomed sagacity. If Achilles, says the Stagirite, be the subject of our inquiries, since all know what he has done, we are simply to indicate his actions, without stopping to detail; but this would not serve for Critias; for whatever relates to him must be fully told, since he is known to few;[142]—a critical precept, which ought to be frequently applied in the composition of this work.
The history of Warburton is now well known; the facts lie dispersed in the chronological biographer;[143] but the secret connexion which exists between them, if there shall be found to be any, has not yet been brought out; and it is my business to press these together; hence to demonstrate principles, or to deduce inferences.
The literary fame of Warburton was a portentous meteor: it seemed unconnected with the whole planetary system through which it rolled, and it was imagined to be darting amid new creations, as the tail of each hypothesis blazed with idle fancies.[144] Such extraordinary natures cannot be looked on with calm admiration, nor common hostility; all is the tumult of wonder about such a man; and his adversaries, as well as his friends, though differently affected, are often overcome by the same astonishment.
To a Warburtonian, the object of his worship looks indeed of colossal magnitude, in the glare thrown about that hallowed 235 spot; nor is the divinity of common stature; but the light which makes him appear so great, must not be suffered to conceal from us the real standard by which only his greatness can be determined:[145] even literary enthusiasm, delightful to all generous tempers, may be too prodigal of its splendours, wasting itself while it shines; but truth remains behind! Truth, which, like the asbestos, is still unconsumed and unaltered amidst these glowing fires.
The genius of Warburton has called forth two remarkable 236 anonymous criticisms—in one, all that the most splendid eloquence can bring to bear against this chief and his adherents;[146] and in the other, all that taste, warmed by a spark of Warburtonian fire, can discriminate in an impartial decision.[147] Mine is a colder and less grateful task. I am but a historian! I have to creep along in the darkness of human events, to lay my hand cautiously on truths so difficult to touch, and which either the panegyrist or the writer of an invective cover over, and throw aside into corners.
Much of the moral, and something too of the physical dispositions of the man enter into the literary character; and, moreover, there are localities—the place where he resides, the circumstances which arise, and the habits he contracts; to all these the excellences and the defects of some of our great literary characters may often be traced. With this clue we may thread our way through the labyrinth of Genius.
Warburton long resided in an obscure provincial town, the articled clerk of a country attorney,[148] and then an unsuccessful 238 practising one. He seems, too, once to have figured as “a wine-merchant in the Borough,” and rose into notice as “the orator of a disputing club;” but, in all his shapes, still keen in literary pursuits, without literary connexions; struggling with all the defects of a desultory and self-taught education, but of a bold aspiring character, he rejected, either in pride or in despair, his little trades, and took Deacon’s orders—to exchange a profession, unfavourable to continuity of study, for another more propitious to its indulgence.[149] In 239 a word, he set off as a literary adventurer, who was to win his way by earning it from patronage.
His first mischances were not of a nature to call forth that intrepidity which afterwards hardened into the leading feature of his character. Few great authors have begun their 240 race with less auspicious omens, though an extraordinary event in the life of an author happened to Warburton—he had secured a patron before he was an author.
The first publication of his which we know, was his “Translations in Prose and Verse from Roman Poets, Orators, and Historians.” 1724. He was then about twenty-five years of age. The fine forms of classic beauty could never be cast in so rough a mould as his prose; and his turgid unmusical verses betrayed qualities of mind incompatible with the delicacy of poetry. Four years afterwards he repeated another bolder attempt, in his “Critical and Philosophical Inquiry into the Causes of Prodigies and Miracles.” After this publication, I wonder Warburton was ever suspected of infidelity or even scepticism.[150] So radically deficient in Warburton 241 was that fine internal feeling which we call taste, that through his early writings he acquired not one solitary charm of diction,[151] and scarcely betrayed, amid his impurity of taste, that nerve and spirit which afterwards crushed all rival force. His translations in imitation of Milton’s style betray his utter want of ear and imagination. He attempted to suppress both these works during his lifetime.