BLACKWOOD’S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
NO. CCCCLVII. NOVEMBER, 1853. VOL. LXXIV.
CONTENTS.
HAYDON’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY, 519
BRUTE LIFE IN THE ALPINE REGIONS, 539
THE ROMANS IN SCOTLAND, 557
ATHENS IN 1853, 569
A FEW MORE WORDS ON UNIVERSITY REFORM, 583
OUR COMMISSIONER IN PARIS, 595
THE NARCOTICS WE INDULGE IN.—PART II., 605
POEMS, BY H. G. K., 629
A FEW FACTS CONCERNING THE TURKISH QUESTION, 633
* * * * *
EDINBURGH: WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, 45 GEORGE STREET; AND 37 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON.
To whom all communications (post paid) must be addressed.
SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.
BLACKWOOD’S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
NO. CCCCLVII. NOVEMBER, 1853. VOL. LXXIV.
HAYDON’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.[1]
We fear that, of late, there has been considerable deterioration in the tone of contemporary criticism. Works which, in themselves, contain nothing either interesting or memorable, have been puffed into notice on account of the celebrity of the editorial accoucheur, or the former reputation of the party to whom they more particularly refer. Others, which set nature, truth, and common-sense at defiance, and which are, both in conception and composition, extravagant and absurd, are lauded to the skies as the productions of great and commanding genius. Belonging to the former class are the Memoirs, Journal, and Correspondence of Thomas Moore, to which Lord John Russell, actuated no doubt by the most pious and praiseworthy motives, has consented to appear as sponsor. Anything less interesting than the Memoirs, more weakly gossiping than the Journal, and more deplorably dull than the Correspondence of the Bard of Erin, it would be difficult for the imagination of man to conceive; and yet for a time, and until the work got into circulation, there was no limit to the roaring of the laudatory bellows. Belonging to the latter class are sundry works of fiction, of which the present season has produced a remarkably contemptible crop. Journals of some pretension have not hesitated—from what motive we shall not inquire—to characterise the silliest of these as among the most truthful, eloquent, and interesting publications of the year. Few can have forgotten the shout of exultation with which Lord Holland’s Reminiscences were hailed by a certain section of the press, and the persevering attempt to cram down the public throat that farrago of imbecility and scandal. Even in the domain of poetry, fustian has been mistaken for inspiration; and the crude fancies of a whimsical brain have been represented as the noblest efforts of sublime and godlike genius.
This tendency towards undue and extravagant laudation may perhaps in some degree be accounted for by the paucity of new works of merit. Certainly there has been very little of late in the productions of the press to stimulate curiosity or excite interest; and the critics, who are in the main endowed with a much larger share of good-nature than they receive credit for, grow weary of snarling, and, in the absence of better material, take to praising books which, in better and more fruitful times, they would unhesitatingly have condemned. The error is on the gentle side, and we cannot harshly condemn it. But, on the other hand, we now and then meet with remarkable instances of neglect. Judging from the notices which we have seen in various literary journals, and the slight and almost supercilious tone of their commentaries, we are led to believe that the work presently before us—the autobiography of Haydon the painter—has not as yet received, at the hands of the critics, the full measure of consideration. Works of this kind are not to be judged by strictly artistic rules. It is impossible that a diary, extending over the period of many years—indeed the active part of a lifetime—and faithfully chronicling the thoughts, deeds, and struggles of the writer, should be otherwise than unequal in its interest. In the career of all men there are elevations and depressions—fits of energy and times of carelessness—high aims and humble objects—alternations of triumph and despair. Sometimes we are inclined to smile at the eagerness displayed in the pursuit of a phantom; sometimes we are moved to tears by the cry of agony wrung from a disappointed spirit. Sunshine and shadow, calm and tempest—these follow each other in the life of man as certainly as in external nature; and sometimes, even when the clouds are at the darkest, a gleam comes athwart the mass to light up the glories of the rainbow. The value of an autobiography is its truth. If it has been written, not for the purpose of giving a true impression of thought or a just portraiture of self, but for posthumous exhibition, in order that men may know the altitude of him who wrote it, vanity is almost sure to assume the place of truth, and the picture, however skilfully designed, has small resemblance to the original. The author, in designing his own mausoleum, forgets the rules of proportion, and over the remains of an ordinary mortal would construct the pyramid of a king. If, on the other hand, it be a genuine chronicle, in which thoughts are entered and deeds described irrespective of all considerations as to after judgment or approval, we have indeed a record over which it is salutary to ponder. For, not only in his strength, but in his weakness also, is the man confessed; and which of us, looking to himself, can deny that in weakness rather than in strength is the true character revealed? What need we care for journals compiled purposely to show that the writer has, in his own day, mingled on easy terms with the great and illustrious of this world—that he has dined with a duke, was on intimate terms with an earl, and has heard from the lips of beauty the warmest encomiums on his genius? Alas for the little vanity that can see, in such things as these, a passport to posthumous consideration! Is Virgil remembered through his works, or through the reflected credit of his having been the favourite of Mæcenas? Would Shakespeare even have been heard of as the friend of Lord Southampton, without his immortal legacy? No. The way to the Temple of Fame does not lie through Holland House, Woburn Abbey, Bowood, or any other seat of titled hospitality. No man can cheat posterity into the belief that he was really great, by registering the blandishments of society, however these may have convinced himself of the extraordinary range of his genius. We can give but a passing regard to the eccentric flitting of the butterfly.
Read Moore’s Journal, and then tell us what matter of interest you have found—what lesson of value you have received? Of bons mots and anecdotes current among the loungers of society, there are a few good, many indifferent, and a multitude heinously bad. There are notes of balls and dinners, tavern bills, Tivoli amusements, and theatrical small-talk—numerous instances of fulsome compliment addressed to the author, and apparently received by him as genuine without hesitation—the contents of Falstaff’s pocket with scarce a scintillation of his wit. But where are the notices of the serious struggle of life—where the aspirations of high genius elaborately working out its aims—where the traces of that self-denial and energy without which even the choicest gifts of genius are vouchsafed in vain? Of these there is no vestige. We are indeed very sorry that such a book has been given to the world; for, while it tends to lower greatly, in the estimation of all thinking men, the character of one who was at least a sparkling poet, it conveys a false impression of life, and we believe was intended to do so.
Most unlike the flippant journals of Moore is the stern autobiography of Haydon. No matter what judgment may be passed upon the rashness, imprudence, inconsistencies, or even follies of the man, these volumes contain as true a record of the struggles of a life as ever yet was exposed to the public view. In them there is nothing concealed, nothing falsified. Haydon never set down a word, which he did not believe to be true, nor ever forged a sentiment in order that it might raise him in the world’s esteem. Doubtless he expected—for an inordinate estimation of his own importance in regard to his art was his foible—that these volumes would hereafter be perused by many an aspirant after fame; but we can nowhere trace any indication of their being otherwise than a faithful transcript of his thoughts. Over and over again we find him referring to former entries—blaming himself for having entertained too rash an impression, or retracting some accusation set down in an irritated moment—but never do we perceive him engaged in framing an imposture for posterity. The hopes and the disappointments, the success and the failure of each day and of each scheme, are chronicled with a minuteness which gives decisive evidence of their truth; and we hesitate not to say that, within the compass of these volumes—most ably edited and arranged by Mr Taylor—is expressed a deeper tragedy than any which has been shadowed on the stage. It is a work that ought to be studied, not for its artistic but for its practical lesson, by every student of art, whether his implement be the brush, the chisel, or the pen; and, although poor Haydon would have revolted from the thought, it is nevertheless true that he is more likely to be known to posterity on account of this expressive journal of his, than from all the yards of canvass that he covered with his historical compositions.