No More Learning



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Terence shares with Horace that urbanity, that spirit of modera-
tion and mutual concession, which is the almost inevitable result of
the association of men in large numbers. Angularities wear off by
friction; and this quality of urbanity, developed by the friction of
life in the great Roman city, became a marked feature of later Latin
literature, and remains as the special heritage of French literature
to-day.
The expression of real tenderness, the feeling that lies in the
region between sport and earnest, is rare among the Romans. Sen-
timent that is neither passion on the one hand nor sentimentality
on the other does not readily lend itself to forms of words. In his
power to present this finer feeling, Terence is excelled by only one
among Roman writers, Catullus,-
"Tenderest of Roman poets nineteen hundred years ago. "
With Catullus, too, Terence shares that indefinable quality of charm
which has no less distinct a place in literature than in society,-
that gift of the gods which turns readers of Charles Lamb, of Heine,
of Stevenson, into friends and almost lovers. Indefinable, indeed;
but surely resting on those two qualities so eminent in all these
authors, spontaneity and grace. We require of the lyric poet that
he express emotion; we expect the epic poet to deal with action: in
the dramatist we look for development of emotion through the will
into action. The first may ignore the result of the emotion; the
second may merely imply the motive of the action: but the drama-
tist must trace the cause to its effect.
In the skill with which this development of plot and character is
carried on, Terence ranks with the greatest dramatists. The lead-
ing emotion - the motive—of all his plays is love; and as the plot
moves on, we may trace the working out of this emotion in the
whole action of the piece. In the delineation of character there
are no mere superficial portraits, no over-intensified high lights; all is
simple and consistent. We find none of the broad strokes of Plau-
tus, no impressionist pictures, but always the fine suggestive detail
of the etcher. Here, as elsewhere, Terence closely followed his Greek
models. In his systematic use of double plots, however, he showed
his ability to fit his material to his purpose. The Roman stage de-
manded more action than a single Greek comedy afforded. By a
skillful combination of two Greek plays into one, Terence secured
the added action without loss of continuity.
In creative force, Terence is undoubtedly inferior to his great
predecessor. His characters all belong to a few types. The warm-
hearted, open-minded young man, careless of conventions, but gen-
erous and faithful to his own standard of honor; the easy-going,


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indulgent father, a man of the world, whose motto is, "Boys will be
boys;" the stern old man, grumbling at the degeneracy of the times,
forgetting that he himself was ever young; the weak, devoted
mother, who can see no faults in her darling boy; the suave plau-
sible parasite, ever on the lookout for his own advantage, serving
others often, but always himself; the fine-spirited young girl, whom
misfortune has placed in the false position of a slave, whose weak-
ness is her strength,-loving, constant, and faithful; slaves of vari-
ous sorts, some wily enough to scheme successfully for their masters'
success, some dull enough to involve their masters in unnecessary
and unlooked-for complications, some honestly devoted, some cun-
ningly subservient, - these and some few other characters appear
in all the plays; but each one, drawn by a master hand, is simple,
natural, and consistent.
The diction of Terence was the model of his successors. He
marks, indeed, no less an epoch in the development of the language
of the Romans than in the progress of their views of life; and in
both, the changes, the permanence of which his power assured, were
similar. In language as in life, Terence stands for sweet reasonable-
ness, for moderation, for sympathetic kindliness, for elegance, for art
for classicism. His work brought into Latin literature that element
of perfect style which it retained in Cicero and in Horace; which it
lost in the later empire in the hands of Seneca and Fronto; which
reappeared in France. So too in his philosophy of life and manners,
he finds a follower in Horace, a stern opponent in Juvenal — and an
appreciative audience in modern Paris. It is indeed the philosophy
of compromise, not that of strong enthusiastic conviction. Terence,
like Horace, has alwa been a favorite author with men of wide
experience; while Plautus, like Juvenal, appeals to the reader whose
youth-of years or of heart-knows no fine distinctions.
――
While the moderation of Terence's diction precludes his use of the
forceful energetic word-strokes that lend themselves so well to quota-
tion, the very fineness of his art furnishes many phrases that became
proverbial; such as-Lovers' quarrels are love's renewal; Silence is
praise enough; You are singing the same old song; Hence these
tears; I am a man-all that concerns my fellow-men is my concern;
Many men, many minds; He is holding a wolf by the ears; Not too
much of anything.
As regards the effect of Roman comedy on Roman morals much
might be said, and on both sides. There is undoubtedly a laxity of
view concerning the relations of the sexes that does not commend
itself to modern minds. On the other hand, it is to be remembered
that the increase of wealth and luxury, tending to make of marriage
a matter of mutual material advantage,—a legal relation, looking to


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the establishment of the family-forces the playwright to step out-
side the conventions of society if he would deal with love as an
emotion and as the basis of romantic attachment. Terence meets
this difficulty by supposing his heroine to be ineligible, owing to pov-
erty, or to her position as a slave or a foreigner. Thus the romantic
element in the attachment is justified. In every case, however, she
is discovered to be the daughter of a wealthy Athenian citizen, the
stigma of ineligibility is removed, and the curtain is rung down to
the sound of wedding-bells. Thus the playwright finds his field, and
yet conventional morality is satisfied.
A comparison of the two great Roman comedy-writers will show
that Terence has the broader view, Plautus the more definite focus;
Terence is cosmopolitan, Plautus is national; Terence's pathos is the
deeper, that of Plautus the more evident; Terence has subtler humor,
Plautus a bolder wit: in Terence there is less vivacity of action, less
variety of incident; on the other hand, there is a smoother flow of
action and a greater consistency of plot. The vituperative exuberance
of Plautus is replaced in Terence by the more gentlemanly weapon
of polished irony; while Plautus reveals his close acquaintance with
the narrow lanes of the Subura, Terence introduces us to the lan-
guage of the aristocratic quarter of the Palatine; Terence is careful
of the dramatic unities of time and place, to which Plautus is indif-
ferent; the versification of Terence is smoother and more elegant,
that of Plautus is stronger and less monotonous; Terence wins his
victories in the library, Plautus on the stage; Terence seeks to teach
his audiences what good taste demands, Plautus tries to give them
what they want. After reading one of Plautus's plays we are eager
to read another; after reading one of Terence's, we are anxious to
read it over again.
If we may attribute a distinct purpose to Terence, it was this: to
introduce a finer tone into both the life and language of his country-
men, by picturing for them in the purity of their own idiom the
gentler and more human life of Greece. Not only the critics, but the
subsequent history of Roman life and Roman literature, assure us
that he did not fail.
Thomas Band
Lundes


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BIBLIOGRAPHY. -The best English editions of Terence are those of
Bentley, Parry, and Wagner. The best translation is that of Colman.
The best sketch of his life and work is that by Sellar, in his 'Roman
Poets of the Republic. ' Substantially the same article appears in the
'Encyclopædia Britannica' in an abridged form. There is a very full
account in Dunlop's 'History of Roman Literature. '
FROM THE SELF-TORMENTOR'
Opening Scene: Enter Chremes, and Menedemus with a spade in his
hand; the latter falls to digging.
CHR
HREMES- Although this acquaintanceship between us is of
very recent date, from the time in fact of your purchasing
an estate here in the neighborhood, yet either your good
qualities, or our being neighbors (which I take to be a sort of
friendship), induces me to inform you, frankly and familiarly,
that you appear to me to labor beyond your years, and beyond
what your affairs require. For, in the name of gods and men,
what would you have? What can be your aim? You are, as I
conjecture, sixty years of age or more. No man in these parts
has a better or more valuable estate, no one more servants; and
yet you discharge their duties just as diligently as if there were
none at all. However early in the morning I go out, and how-
ever late in the evening I return home, I see you either dig-
ging or plowing, or doing something, in fact, in the fields. You
take respite not an instant, and are quite regardless of yourself.
I am very sure that this is not done for your amusement. But
really I am vexed how little work is done here. If you were to
employ the time you spend in laboring yourself, in keeping your
servants at work, you would profit much more.
Menedemus- Have you so much leisure, Chremes, from your
own affairs, that you can attend to those of others—those which
don't concern you?
Chremes-I am a man and nothing that concerns a man
do I deem a matter of indifference to me. * Suppose that I wish
either to advise you in this matter, or to be informed myself: if
*«I am a man," etc. : "Homo sum: humani nihil a me alienum puto. » St.
Augustine says that at the delivery of this sentiment, the theatre resounded
with applause; and deservedly, indeed, for it is replete with the very essence
of benevolence and disregard of self.


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what you do is right, that I may do the same; if it is not, then
that I may dissuade you.
Menedemus - It's requisite for me to do so: do you as it is
necessary for you to do.
Chremes-Is it requisite for any person to torment himself?
Menedemus It is for me.
-
Chremes-If you have any affliction, I could wish it other-
wise. But prithee, what sorrow is this of yours? How have you
deserved so ill of yourself?
Menedemus - Alas! alas! [He begins to weep. ]
Chremes - Do not weep; but make me acquainted with it,
whatever it is. Do not be reserved; fear nothing; trust me, I
tell you.
Either by consolation, or by counsel, or by any means,
I will aid you.
Menedemus
Do you wish to know this matter?
Chremes - Yes; and for the reason I mentioned to you.
Menedemus-I will tell you.
Chremes-But still, in the mean time, lay down that rake;
don't fatigue yourself.
Menedemus
By no means.
Chremes - What can be your object? [Tries to take the rake
from him. ]
―――――
pray!
-
-
Menedemus-Do leave me alone, that I may give myself no
respite from my labor.
Chremes I will not allow it, I tell you. [Taking the rake
from him. ]
Menedemus-Ah, that's not fair!
Chremes [poising the rake] — Whew! such a heavy one as this,
―
Menedemus
Such are my deserts.
Chremes - Now speak. [Laying down the rake. ]
Menedemus-I have an only son, a young man,-alas! why
did I say, "I have"? . rather I should say, “I had" one, Chre-
mes: whether I have him now or not is uncertain.
Chremes-Why so?
-
There is a poor woman here,
a stranger from Corinth; her daughter, a young woman, he fell
in love with, insomuch that he almost regarded her as his wife:
all this took place unknown to me. When I discovered the
matter, I began to reprove him; not with gentleness, nor in the
way suited to the lovesick mind of a youth, but with violence, and
Menedemus · You shall know.
―


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after the usual method of fathers. I was daily reproaching him,
"Look you, do you expect to be allowed any longer to act
thus, myself your father being alive: to be keeping a mistress
pretty much as though your wife? You are mistaken, Clinia;
and you don't know me if you fancy that. I am willing that you
should be called my son just as long as you do what becomes
you; but if you do not do so, I shall find out how it becomes me
to act towards you. This arises from nothing, in fact, but too
much idleness. At your time of life I did not devote my time
to dalliance; but in consequence of my poverty, departed hence
for Asia, and there acquired in arms both riches and military
glory. " At length the matter came to this: the youth, from
hearing the same things so often, and with such severity, was
overcome. He supposed that I, through age and affection, had
more judgment and foresight for him than himself. He went off
to Asia, Chremes, to serve under the king.
Chremes-What is it you say?
Menedemus-He departed without my knowledge; and has
been gone these three months.
Chremes - Both are to be blamed—although I still think this
step shows an ingenuous and enterprising disposition.
Menedemus-When I learnt this from those who were in the
secret, I returned home sad, and with feelings almost overwhelmed
and distracted through grief. I sit down: my servants run to
me; they take off my shoes; then some make all haste to spread
the couches, and to prepare a repast: each according to his abil-
ity did zealously what he could, in order to alleviate my sorrow.
When I observed this, I began to reflect thus:-
"What! are so
many persons anxious for my sake alone, to pleasure myself only?
Are so many female servants to provide me with dress? Shall I
alone keep up such an expensive establishment, while my only
son, who ought equally to enjoy these things, or even more so,
inasmuch as his age is better suited for the enjoyment of them,
-him, poor youth, have I driven away from home by my sever-
ity! Were I to do this, really I should deem myself deserving of
any calamity. But so long as he leads this life of penury, ban-
ished from his country through my severity, I will revenge his
wrongs upon myself,- toiling, making money, saving, and laying
up for him. " At once I set about it: I left nothing in the house,
neither movables nor clothing; everything I scraped together.
Slaves, male and female, except those who could easily pay for
-:
―――――――


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their keep by working in the country,- all of them I set up to
auction and sold. I at once put up a bill to sell my house. I
collected somewhere about fifteen talents, and purchased this
farm; here I fatigue myself. I have come to this conclusion,
Chremes, that I do my son a less injury while I am unhappy;
and that it is not right for me to enjoy any pleasure here, until
such time as he returns home safe to share it with me.
Chremes-I believe you to be of an affectionate disposition
towards your children; and him to be an obedient son, if one
were to manage him rightly or prudently.
But neither did you
understand him sufficiently well, nor he you,-a thing that. hap-
pens where persons don't live on terms of frankness together.
You never showed him how highly you valued him, nor did he
ever dare put that confidence in you which is due to a father.
Had this been done, these troubles would never have befallen you.
Menedemus-Such is the fact, I confess; the greatest fault is
on my side.
Chremes-But still, Menedemus, I hope for the best; and I
trust that he'll be here safe before long.
Menedemus-Oh that the gods would grant it!
Chremes-They will do so. Now if it is convenient to you
the festival of Bacchus is being kept here to-day- I wish you to
give me your company.
Menedemus- I cannot.
Chremes-Why not? Do, pray, spare yourself a little while.
Your absent son would wish you to do so.
Menedemus. -It is not right that I, who have driven him hence
to endure hardships, should now shun them myself.
Chremes-Is such your determination?
Menedemus-It is.
-
Chremes-Then kindly fare you well.
Menedemus-And you the same. [Goes into his house. ]
Chremes [alone] - He has forced tears from me, and I do pity
him. But as the day is far gone, I must remind Phania, this
neighbor of mine, to come to dinner. I'll go see whether he is
at home. [Goes to Phania's door, makes the inquiry, and returns. ]
There was no occasion for me to remind him: they tell me he
has been some time already at my house; it's I myself am making
my guests wait. I'll go in-doors immediately. But what means the
noise at the door of my house? I wonder who's coming out. I'll
step aside here. [He stands aside. ]


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Enter Clitipho, from the house of his father Chremes
Clitipho [at the door, to Clinia within]-There is nothing,
Clinia, for you to fear as yet: they have not been long, by any
means; and I am sure that she will be with you presently along
with the messenger.
Do at once dismiss these causeless appre-
hensions which are tormenting you.
Chremes [apart]-Who is my son talking to? [Makes his
appearance. ]
Clitipho [to himself]- Here comes my father, whom I wished
to see: I'll accost him. Father, you have met me opportunely.
Chremes-What is the matter?
Clitipho-Do you know this neighbor of ours, Menedemus ?
Chremes-Very well.
Clitipho-Do you know that he has a son?
Chremes-I have heard that he has; in Asia.
Clitipho- He is not in Asia, father; he is at our house.
Chremes - What is it you say?
Clitipho- Upon his arrival, after he had just landed from the
ship, I immediately brought him to dine with us; for from our
very childhood upwards I have always been on intimate terms
with him.
―――――――――――――――
Chremes-You announce to me a great pleasure. How much
I wish that Menedemus had accepted my invitation to make one
of us, that at my house I might have been the first to surprise
him, when not expecting it, with this delight! —and even yet
there's time enough-
Clitipho-Take care what you do; there is no necessity,
father, for doing so.
Chremes - For what reason?
-
Clitipho-Why, because he is as yet undetermined what to
do with himself. He is but just arrived. He fears everything,-
his father's displeasure, and how his mistress may be disposed
towards him. He loves her to distraction: on her account this
trouble and going abroad took place.
Chremes I know it.
Clitipho-He has just sent a servant into the city to her, and
I ordered our Syrus to go with him.
Chremes-What does Clinia say?
Clitipho-What does he say? That he is wretched.
Chremes-Wretched? Whom could we less suppose so? What
is there wanting for him to enjoy everything that among men,
XXV-917
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in fact, are esteemed as blessings? Parents, a country in pros-
perity, friends, family, relations, riches? And yet, all these are
just according to the disposition of him who possesses them. To
him who knows how to use them, they are blessings; to him
who does not use them rightly, they are evils.
Clitipho-Aye, but he always was a morose old man; and
now I dread nothing more, father, than that in his displeasure
he'll be doing something to him more than is justifiable.
Chremes - What, he? — [Aside.
] But I'll restrain myself; for
that the other one should be in fear of his father is of service
to him.
Clitipho- What is it you are saying to yourself?
Chremes- I'll tell you. However the case stood, Clinia ought
still to have remained at home. Perhaps his father was a little
stricter than he liked: he should have put up with it. For whom
ought he to bear with, if he would not bear with his own father?
Was it reasonable that he should live after his son's humor, or
his son after his? And as to charging him with harshness, it is
not the fact. For the severities of fathers are generally of one
character, those I mean who are in some degree reasonable
men. They do not wish their sons to be always wenching; they
do not wish them to be always carousing; they give a limited
allowance: and yet all this tends to virtuous conduct. But when
the mind, Clitipho, has once enslaved itself by vicious appetites,
it must of necessity follow similar pursuits. This is a wise
maxim: "To take warning from others of what may be to your
own advantage. "
Clitipho-I believe so.
Chremes- I'll now go hence in-doors, to see what we have for
dinner. Do you, seeing what is the time of day, mind and take
care not to be anywhere out of the way. [Goes into his house,
and exit Clitipho. ]
Enter Clitipho
Clitipho [to himself] — What partial judges are all fathers
in regard to all of us young men, in thinking it reasonable for
us to become old men all at once from boys, and not to partici-
pate in those things which youth is naturally inclined to. They
regulate us by their own desires, such as they now are,- not as
they once were. If ever I have a son, he certainly shall find in


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me an indulgent father, for the means both of knowing and of
pardoning his faults shall be found by me; not like mine, who
by means of another person discloses to me his own sentiments.
I'm plagued to death. When he drinks a little more than usual,
what pranks of his own he does relate to me! Now he says,
"Take warning from others of what may be to your own advan-
tage. " How shrewd! He certainly does not know how deaf I
am at the moment when he's telling his stories. Just now the
words of my mistress make more impression upon me.
"Give me
this, and bring me that," she cries. I have nothing to say to
her in answer, and no one is there more wretched than myself.
But this Clinia, although he as well has cares enough of his
own, still has a mistress of virtuous and modest breeding, and a
stranger to the arts of a courtesan. Mine is a craving, saucy,
haughty, extravagant creature, full of lofty airs. Then all that
I have to give her is-fair words; for I make it a point not to
tell her that I have nothing. This misfortune I met with not
long since, nor does my father as yet know anything of the
matter.
Enter Clinia from the house of Chremes
Clinia [to himself]-If my love affairs had been prosperous
for me, I am sure she would have been here by this; but I'm
afraid that the damsel has been led astray here in my absence.
Many things combine to strengthen this opinion in my mind:
opportunity, the place, her age; a worthless mother, under whose
control she is, with whom nothing but gain is precious.
Enter Clitipho
Clitipho-Clinia!
Clinia Alas! wretched me!
Clitipho-Do, pray, take care that no one coming out of your
father's house sees you here by accident.
Clinia-I will do so; but really my mind presages I know
not what misfortune.
Clitipho-Do you persist in making up your mind upon that,
before you know what is the fact?
Clinia - Had no misfortune happened, she would have been
here by this.
Clitipho-She'll be here presently.
Clinia - When will that presently be?


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Clitipho-You don't consider that it is a great way from
here. Besides, you know the ways of women: while they are
bestirring themselves, and while they are making preparations, a
whole year passes by.
Clinia-O Clitipho, I'm afraid —
Clitipho-Take courage. Look, here comes Dromo, together
with Syrus: they are close at hand.
[They stand aside.
Enter Syrus and Dromo, conversing at a distance
Syrus-Do you say so?
Dromo-'Tis as I told you; but in the mean time, while we've
been carrying on our discourse, these women have been left be-
hind.
Clitipho [apart] - Don't you hear, Clinia? Your mistress is
close at hand.
Clinia [apart]—Why, yes, I do hear now at last; and I see
and revive, Clitipho.
Dromo-No wonder: they are so incumbered; they are bring-
ing a troop of female attendants with them.
Clinia [apart]—I'm undone! Whence come these female at-
tendants ?
Clitipho [apart] - Do you ask me?
Syrus-We ought not to have left them; what a quantity of
things they are bringing!
Clinia [apart] — Ah me!
Syrus - Jewels of gold, and clothes; it's growing late too, and
they don't know the way. It was very foolish of us to leave
them. Just go back, Dromo, and meet them. Make haste! why
do you delay ?
Clinia [apart]-Woe unto wretched me! From what high
hopes am I fallen!
Clitipho [apart] - What's the matter? Why, what is it that
troubles you?
Clinia [apart]- Do you ask what it is? Why, don't you see?
Attendants, jewels of gold, and clothes;-her too, whom I left
here with only one little servant-girl. Whence do you suppose
that they come ?
Clitipho [apart]-Oh! now at last I understand you.
Syrus [to himself]-Good gods! what a multitude there is!
Our house will hardly hold them, I'm sure. How much they
will eat! how much they will drink! what will there be more
―――――


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14661
wretched than our old gentleman? [Catching sight of Clinia and
Clitipho. ] But look: I espy the persons I was wanting.
Clinia [apart]-O Jupiter! Why, where is fidelity gone?
While I, distractedly wandering, have abandoned my country for
your sake, you in the mean time, Antiphila, have been enriching
yourself, and have forsaken me in these troubles: you for whose
sake I am in extreme disgrace, and have been disobedient to my
father; on whose account I am now ashamed and grieved that he
who used to lecture me about the manners of these women, ad-
vised me in vain, and was not able to wean me away from her;
which however I shall now do; whereas when it might have
been advantageous to me to do so, I was unwilling. There is no
being more wretched than I.
Syrus [to himself]- He certainly has been misled by our
words which we have been speaking here. -[Aloud. ] Clinia,
you imagine your mistress quite different from what she really
is. For both her mode of life is the same, and her disposition
towards you is the same, as it always was, so far as we could
form a judgment from the circumstances themselves.
Clinia - How so, prithee? For nothing in the world could I
rather wish for just now, than that I have suspected this without
reason.
Syrus-This, in the first place, then (that you may not be
ignorant of anything that concerns her): the old woman, who was
formerly said to be her mother, was not so. She is dead; this
I overheard by accident from her, as we came along, while she
was telling the other one.
Clitipho-Pray, who is the other one?
Syrus-Stay: what I have begun I wish first to relate, Cli-
tipho; I shall come to that afterwards.
Clitipho-Make haste, then.
Syrus-First of all, then, when we came to the house, Dromo
knocked at the door; a certain old woman came out; when
she opened the door, he directly rushed in; I followed; the old
woman bolted the door, and returned to her wool. On this occas-
ion might be known, Clinia, or else on none, in what pursuits she
passed her life during your absence-when we thus came upon
a female unexpectedly. For this circumstance then gave us an
opportunity of judging of the course of her daily life; a thing
which especially discovers what is the disposition of each individ-
ual.
We found her industriously plying at the web; plainly clad


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in a mourning-dress,-on account of this old woman, I suppose,
who was lately dead; without golden ornaments, dressed besides
just like those who only dress for themselves, and patched up
with no worthless woman's trumpery. Her hair was loose, long,
and thrown back negligently about her temples. -[To Clinia. ]
Do hold your peace.
Clinia My dear Syrus, do not without cause throw me into
ecstasies, I beseech you.
Syrus - The old woman was spinning the woof: there was
one little servant-girl besides; she was weaving together with
them, covered with patched clothes, slovenly, and dirty with filth-
iness.
-
Clitipho- If this is true, Clinia, as I believe it is, who is there
more fortunate than you? Do you mark this girl whom he
speaks of as dirty and drabbish? This too is a strong indica-
tion that the mistress is out of harm's way, when her confidant
is in such ill plight; for it is a rule with those who wish to gain
access to the mistress, first to bribe the maid.
Clinia [to Syrus]-Go on, I beseech you; and beware of en-
deavoring to purchase favor by telling an untruth. What did she
say when you mentioned me?
Syrus-When we told her that you had returned, and had
requested her to come to you, the damsel instantly put away the
web, and covered her face all over with tears; so that you might
easily perceive that it really was caused by her affection for
you.
――
Clinia So may the Deities bless me, I know not where I am
for joy! I was so alarmed before.
Translation of Henry Thomas Riley.


## p. 14662 (#233) ##########################################



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## p. 14663 (#237) ##########################################

14663
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
(1811-1863)
BY W. C. BROWNELL
HACKERAY shares the reader's interest with his works in a
degree quite unexampled in literature. His works are, in
a more obvious and special sense than is true of those of
most authors, the direct expression of his personality; and this per-
sonality in turn is one of unusually special and conspicuous interest.
He was a man of immense idiosyncratic attractiveness aside from his
literary faculties and equipment, and he endued his writings with
this personal interest to an extent not to be met with elsewhere.
No books are so personal as his. They are full of his ideas, his
notions, his feelings; and they owe to these not only their color and
atmosphere, but a considerable portion of their substance. They not
only tell the story, but draw the moral; and in a large way justify
the title of "week-day preacher," which he gave himself, and of
which he was both fond and proud.
This circumstance has been variously viewed by his readers and
critics, according to their own inclinations towards art or towards
morals, their preferences for "objectivity" in the novelist's attitude
to, and treatment of, his theme, or for the cogent and illuminating
commentary which draws out and sets forth in the telling the typi-
cal and universal interest and value of the story. Taine laments the
consecration of such splendid artistic gifts as are witnessed by the ex-
ceptional 'Henry Esmond' to the service of morals. And on the other
hand, Dr. John Brown both underestimates and undervalues the artis-
tic element in Thackeray, and deems his "moralizing" his great and
real distinction. The inference is, naturally, that Thackeray has a
side which each of these temperaments may admire at its ease. But
it is to be pointed out in addition that he has so fused the two-
which ordinarily exist separately when they exist in any such distinc-
tion as they do in Thackeray - that each enhances and neither dis-
parages the other. The characters of 'Vanity Fair,' 'Pendennis,' or
The Newcomes,' and the story that is evolved out of their study
rather than constructed for their framework, gain greatly in realiza-
tion as well as in significance from the personal commentary by
which they are expressed as well as attended. And the social and


## p. 14664 (#238) ##########################################

14664
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
personal philosophy which springs from their consideration, and to
which they give point, is powerfully enforced by the illustrative,
exemplary, and suggestive service they perform. Both proceed from
the instinctive exercise of Thackeray's mind and temperament, and
therefore coexist harmoniously in his works. Letters has never known
such a combination in one personality of the artist and moralist, the
satirist and poet; and the literature that is the expression of this
unique personality is therefore not to be classed in the customary
category of art or in that of morals, with its complementary qualities
considered correspondingly as defects according to the category to
which the work is ascribed. Hence, moreover, the unusual, the unique
importance and convenience in any critical consideration of Thack-
eray's works, of considering also the personality which not only pene-
trates but characterizes them.
It has become quite superfluous at the present day to point out
that he was very far from being the cynic he passed for with many
readers during his lifetime. He is rather to be defended from the
reproach of sentimentality. But excess in the matter of sentiment
is something that different people will determine differently. Intel-
lectual rectitude distinguished him conspicuously; but he was notably
a man of heart, and exercised his great powers in the service of the
affections. He may be said to have taken the sentimental view of
things, if not to do so implies the dispassionate and detached atti-
tude towards them. He was extremely sensitive, and chafed greatly
under the frequent ascription of cynicism that he had to endure. He
found the problem of reconciling a stoic philosophy and an epicurean
temperament no easier and no harder, probably, than many others to
whom it has been assigned; and his practice was, as usual, a succes-
sion of alternations of indulgence and restraint. But he hoodwinked
himself no more than he was deceived by others; and if few men of
his intellectual eminence - which is the one thing about him we can
now perceive as he could hardly do himself-have been so open to
his particular temptations, few men of his temperament, on the other
hand, have steadfastly and industriously carved for themselves so
splendid a career. He was at the same time the acutest of observers
and eminently a man of the world. He was even in some sense a
man about town. The society he depicted so vividly had marked.
attractions for him. He was equally at home in Bohemia and in
Belgravia,- enough so in the latter to lead the literal to ascribe to
him the snobbishness he made so large a portion of his subject. As
he pointed out, however, no one is free from some touch of this, and
denunciation of it is in peculiar peril from its contagion; and Thack-
eray had the courage of his tastes in valuing what is really valuable
in the consideration which society bestows. On its good side this


## p. 14665 (#239) ##########################################

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14665
consideration is certainly to be prized by any one not a snob; for it
means a verdict often more impartial and independent than that of
any other tribunal. Society is a close corporation; and petty as are
many of its standards, and vulgar as is much of its application of
them, it has its ideal of the art of life: and what it really worships
is real power,-power that is independent of talent, accomplishment,
or worth, often, very likely; but power that, adventitious or other,
is almost an automatic measure of an individual's claims upon it.
Really to contribute to the life of society implies a special, disinter-
ested, and æsthetic talent like another; and Thackeray's gift in this
respect is properly to be associated with his literary and more largely
human ones.
At all events it aided him to handle his theme of
"manners" with a competence denied to most writers, and helped
to fuse in him the dual temperament of the artist and satirist with
distinguished results.
This combination of the artist and the satirist is the ideal one for
the novelist; and Thackeray's genius, varied as it is, is pre-eminently
the genius of the born novelist. It is singular, but it is doubtless
characteristic of a temperament destined to such complete matur-
ity, that he should have waited so long before finding his true field
of effort, and that he should not have begun the work upon which
his fame rests until he had reached an age at which that of not a
few men of genius has ended: he was thirty-six before his first great
work was published. He was born July 18th, 1811, in Calcutta; and
was sent home to England to school, upon his father's death when
he was five years old. From 1822 to 1828 he was at Charterhouse
School, the famous "Grey Friars" of The Newcomes. ' He spent
two years at Cambridge, leaving without a degree to travel abroad,
where he visited the great European capitals, and saw Goethe at
Weimar. He traveled in the real sense, and used perceptive faculties
such as are given to few observers, to the notable ends subsequently
witnessed in his books. He was from the first always of the world
as well as in it, and understood it with as quick sympathy in one
place as in another. At Weimar he meditated translating Schiller;
but- no doubt happily-nothing came of the rather desultory design.
In 1831 he went into chambers in the Temple; but not taking kindly
to law, and losing a small inherited fortune, he followed his native
bent, which led him into journalism, literature, and incidentally into
art. He began his serious literary work as a contributor to Fra-
ser's Magazine in 1835, after some slight preliminary experience; and
thenceforth wrote literary miscellany of extraordinary variety — sto-
ries, reviews, art criticisms, foreign correspondence, burlesques, bal-
lads for all sorts of periodicals.
In 1836 he made an effort to obtain work as an illustrator, but
without success,- one of his failures being with Dickens, whose refusal
--
-
--


## p. 14666 (#240) ##########################################

14666
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
was certainly justified. In 1838 he illustrated Jerrold's 'Men of
Character'; but in the main he was forced to content himself with
his own works in this respect, and most of these he did illustrate.
Pictorial art was clearly not his vocation. His drawings have plenty
of character; and it is not unfortunate, perhaps, that we have his
pictorial presentment rather than another's, of so many of his person-
ages.
But he not only lacked the skill that comes of training,- he
had no real gift for representation, and for the plastic expression of
beauty he had no faculty; the element of caricature is prominent in
all his designs. He did them with great delight and ease, whereas
literary work was always drudgery to him; but of course this is the
converse of witness to their merit.