Chapter VIII: Part 8

“If our German philosophy is considered in England and in France as German dreaming, we ought not to render evil for evil, but rather to prove the groundlessness of such accusations by endeavoring ourselves to appreciate, without any prejudice, the philosophers of France and England, such as they are, and doing them that justice which they deserve; especially as, in scientific subjects, injustice means ignorance.” With these words M. Kuno Fischer introduces his work on Bacon to the German public; and what he says is evidently intended, not as an attack upon the conceit of French, and the exclusiveness of English philosophers, but rather as an apology which the author feels that he owes to his own countrymen. It would seem, indeed, as if a German was bound to apologize for treating Bacon as an equal of Leibnitz, Kant, Hegel, and Schelling. Bacon’s name is never mentioned by German writers without some proviso that it is only by a great stretch of the meaning of the word, or by courtesy, that he can be called a philosopher. His philosophy, it is maintained, ends where all true philosophy begins; and his style or method has frequently been described as unworthy of a systematic thinker. Spinoza, who has exercised so great an influence on the history of thought in Germany, was among the first who spoke slightingly of the inductive philosopher. When treating of the causes of error, he writes, “What he (Bacon) adduces besides, in order to explain error, can easily be traced back to the Cartesian theory; it is this, that the human will is free and more comprehensive than the understanding, or, as Bacon expresses himself in a more confused manner, in the forty-ninth aphorism, ‘The human understanding is not a pure light, but obscured by the will.’ ” In works on the general history of philosophy, German authors find it difficult to assign any place to Bacon. Sometimes he is classed with the Italian school of natural philosophy, sometimes he is contrasted with Jacob Boehme. He is named as one of the many who helped to deliver mankind from the thralldom of scholasticism. But any account of what he really was, what he did to immortalize his name, and to gain that prominent position among his own countrymen which he has occupied to the present day, we should look for in vain even in the most complete and systematic treatises on the history of philosophy published in Germany. Nor does this arise from any wish to depreciate the results of English speculation in general. On the contrary, we find that Hobbes, Locke, Berkeley, and Hume are treated with great respect. They occupy well-marked positions in the progress of philosophic thought. Their names are written in large letters on the chief stations through which the train of human reasoning passed before it arrived at Kant and Hegel. Locke’s philosophy took for a time complete possession of the German mind, and called forth some of the most important and decisive writings of Leibnitz; and Kant himself owed his commanding position to the battle which he fought and won against Hume. Bacon alone has never been either attacked or praised, nor have his works, as it seems, ever been studied very closely by Germans. As far as we can gather, their view of Bacon and of English philosophy is something as follows. Philosophy, they say, should account for experience; but Bacon took experience for granted. He constructed a cyclopædia of knowledge, but he never explained what knowledge itself was. Hence philosophy, far from being brought to a close by his “Novum Organon,” had to learn again to make her first steps immediately after his time. Bacon had built a magnificent palace, but it was soon found that there was no staircase in it. The very first question of all philosophy, “How do we know?” or, “How can we know?” had never been asked by him. Locke, who came after him, was the first to ask it, and he endeavored to answer it in his “Essay concerning Human Understanding.” The result of his speculations was, that the mind is a _tabula rasa_, that this _tabula rasa_ becomes gradually filled with sensuous perceptions, and that these sensuous perceptions arrange themselves into classes, and thus give rise to more general ideas or conceptions. This was a step in advance; but there was again one thing taken for granted by Locke,—the perceptions. This led to the next step in English philosophy, which was made by Berkeley. He asked the question, “What are perceptions?” and he answered it boldly: “Perceptions are the things themselves, and the only cause of these perceptions is God.” But this bold step was in reality but a bold retreat. Hume accepted the results both of Locke and Berkeley. He admitted with Locke that the impressions of the senses are the source of all knowledge; he admitted with Berkeley that we know nothing beyond the impressions of our senses. But when Berkeley speaks of the cause of these impressions, Hume points out that we have no right to speak of anything like cause and effect, and that the idea of causality, of necessary sequence, on which the whole fabric of our reasoning rests, is an assumption; inevitable, it may be, yet an assumption. Thus English philosophy, which seemed to be so settled and positive in Bacon, ended in the most unsettled and negative skepticism in Hume; and it was only through Kant that, according to the Germans, the great problem was solved at last, and men again knew _how_ they knew.

From this point of view, which we believe to be that generally taken by German writers of the historical progress of modern philosophy, we may well understand why the star of Bacon should disappear almost below their horizon. And if those only are to be called philosophers who inquire into the causes of our knowledge, or into the possibility of knowing and being, a new name must be invented for men like him, who are concerned alone with the realities of knowledge. The two are antipodes,—they inhabit two distinct hemispheres of thought. But German Idealism, as M. Kuno Fischer says, would have done well if it had become more thoroughly acquainted with its opponent:—

“And if it be objected,” he says, “that the points of contact
between German and English philosophy, between Idealism and
Realism, are less to be found in Bacon than in other philosophers
of his kind; that it was not Bacon, but Hume, who influenced Kant;
that it was not Bacon, but Locke, who influenced Leibnitz; that
Spinoza, if he received any impulse at all from those quarters,
received it from Hobbes, and not from Bacon, of whom he speaks in
several places very contemptuously,—I answer, that it was Bacon
whom Des Cartes, the acknowledged founder of dogmatic Idealism,
chose for his antagonist. And as to those realistic philosophers
who have influenced the opposite side of philosophy in Spinoza,
Leibnitz, and Kant, I shall be able to prove that Hobbes, Locke,
Hume, are all descendants of Bacon, that they have their roots in
Bacon, that without Bacon they cannot be truly explained and
understood, but only be taken up in a fragmentary form, and, as it
were, plucked off. Bacon is the creator of realistic philosophy.
Their age is but a development of the Baconian germs; every one of
their systems is a metamorphosis of Baconian philosophy. To the
present day, realistic philosophy has never had a greater genius
than Bacon, its founder; none who has manifested the truly
realistic spirit that feels itself at home in the midst of life,
in so comprehensive, so original and characteristic, so sober, and
yet at the same time so ideal and aspiring a manner; none, again,
in whom the limits of this spirit stand out in such distinct and
natural relief. Bacon’s philosophy is the most healthy and quite
inartificial expression of Realism. After the systems of Spinoza
and Leibnitz had moved me for a long time, had filled, and, as it
were, absorbed me, the study of Bacon was to me like a new life,
the fruits of which are gathered in this book.”

After a careful perusal of M. Fischer’s work, we believe that it will not only serve in Germany as a useful introduction to the study of Bacon, but that it will be read with interest and advantage by many persons in England who are already acquainted with the chief works of the philosopher. The analysis which he gives of Bacon’s philosophy is accurate and complete; and, without indulging in any lengthy criticisms, he has thrown much light on several important points. He first discusses the aim of his philosophy, and characterizes it as Discovery in general, as the conquest of nature by man (_Regnum hominis, interpretatio naturæ_). He then enters into the means which it supplies for accomplishing this conquest, and which consist chiefly in experience:—

“The chief object of Bacon’s philosophy is the establishment and
extension of the dominion of man. The means of accomplishing this
we may call culture, or the application of physical powers toward
human purposes. But there is no such culture without discovery,
which produces the means of culture; no discovery without science,
which understands the laws of nature; no science without natural
science; no natural science without an interpretation of nature;
and this can only be accomplished according to the measure of our
experience.”

M. Fischer then proceeds to discuss what he calls the negative or destructive part of Bacon’s philosophy (_pars destruens_),—that is to say, the means by which the human mind should be purified and freed from all preconceived notions before it approaches the interpretation of nature. He carries us through the long war which Bacon commenced against the idols of traditional or scholastic science. We see how the _idola tribus_, the _idola specus_, the _idola fori_, and the _idola theatri_, are destroyed by his iconoclastic philosophy. After all these are destroyed, there remains nothing but uncertainty and doubt; and it is in this state of nudity, approaching very nearly to the _tabula rasa_ of Locke, that the human mind should approach the new temple of nature. Here lies the radical difference between Bacon and Des Cartes, between Realism and Idealism. Des Cartes also, like Bacon, destroys all former knowledge. He proves that we know nothing for certain. But after he has deprived the human mind of all its imaginary riches, he does not lead it on, like Bacon, to a study of nature, but to a study of itself as the only subject which can be known for certain, _Cogito, ergo sum_. His philosophy leads to a study of the fundamental laws of knowing and being; that of Bacon enters at once into the gates of nature, with the innocence of a child (to use his own expression) who enters the kingdom of God. Bacon speaks, indeed, of a _Philosophia prima_ as a kind of introduction to Divine, Natural, and Human Philosophy; but he does not discuss in this preliminary chapter the problem of the possibility of knowledge, nor was it with him the right place to do so. It was destined by him as a “receptacle for all such profitable observations and axioms as fall not within the compass of the special parts of philosophy or sciences, but are more common, and of a higher stage.” He mentions himself some of these axioms, such as—“_Si inæqualibus æqualia addas, omnia erunt inæqualia;_” “_Quæ in eodem tertio conveniunt, et inter se conveniunt;_” “_Omnia mutantur, nil interit._” The problem of the possibility of knowledge would generally be classed under metaphysics; but what Bacon calls _Metaphysique_ is, with him, a branch of philosophy treating only on Formal and Final Causes, in opposition to _Physique_, which treats on Material and Efficient Causes. If we adopt Bacon’s division of philosophy, we might still expect to find the fundamental problem discussed in his chapter on Human Philosophy; but here, again, he treats man only as a part of the continent of Nature, and when he comes to consider the substance and nature of the soul or mind, he declines to enter into this subject, because “the true knowledge of the nature and state of soul must come by the same inspiration that gave the substance.” There remains, therefore, but one place in Bacon’s cyclopædia where we might hope to find some information on this subject,—namely, where he treats on the faculties and functions of the mind, and in particular, of understanding and reason. And here he dwells indeed on the doubtful evidence of the senses as one of the causes of error so frequently pointed out by other philosophers. But he remarks that, though they charged the deceit upon the senses, their chief errors arose from a different cause, from the weakness of their intellectual powers, and from the manner of collecting and concluding upon the reports of the senses. And he then points to what is to be the work of his life,—an improved system of invention, consisting of the _Experientia Literata_, and the _Interpretatio Naturæ_.

It must be admitted, therefore, that one of the problems which has occupied most philosophers,—nay, which, in a certain sense, may be called the first impulse to all philosophy,—the question whether we can know anything, is entirely passed over by Bacon; and we may well understand why the name and title of philosopher has been withheld from one who looked upon human knowledge as an art, but never inquired into its causes and credentials. This is a point which M. Fischer has not overlooked; but he has not always kept it in view, and in wishing to secure to Bacon his place in the history of philosophy, he has deprived him of that more exalted place which Bacon himself wished to occupy in the history of the world. Among men like Locke, Hume, Kant, and Hegel, Bacon is, and always will be, a stranger. Bacon himself would have drawn a very strong line between their province and his own. He knows where their province lies; and if he sometimes speaks contemptuously of formal philosophy, it is only when formal philosophy has encroached on his own ground, or when it breaks into the enclosure of revealed religion, which he wished to be kept sacred. There, he holds, the human mind should not enter, except in the attitude of the Semnones, with chained hands.

Bacon’s philosophy could never supplant the works of Plato and Aristotle, and though his method might prove useful in every branch of knowledge,—even in the most abstruse points of logic and metaphysics,—yet there has never been a Baconian school of philosophy, in the sense in which we speak of the school of Locke or Kant. Bacon was above or below philosophy. Philosophy, in the usual sense of the word, formed but a part of his great scheme of knowledge. It had its place therein, side by side with history, poetry, and religion. After he had surveyed the whole universe of knowledge, he was struck by the small results that had been obtained by so much labor, and he discovered the cause of this failure in the want of a proper method of investigation and combination. The substitution of a new method of invention was the great object of his philosophical activity; and though it has been frequently said that the Baconian method had been known long before Bacon, and had been practiced by his predecessors with much greater success than by himself or his immediate followers, it was his chief merit to have proclaimed it, and to have established its legitimacy against all gainsayers. M. Fischer has some very good remarks on Bacon’s method of induction, particularly on the _instantiæ prærogativæ_ which, as he points out, though they show the weakness of his system, exhibit at the same time the strength of his mind, which rises above all the smaller considerations of systematic consistency, where higher objects are at stake.

M. Fischer devotes one chapter to Bacon’s relation to the ancient philosophers, and another to his views on poetry. In the latter, he naturally compares Bacon with his contemporary, Shakespeare. We recommend this chapter, as well as a similar one in a work on Shakespeare by Gervinus, to the author of the ingenious discovery that Bacon was the real author of Shakespeare’s plays. Besides an analysis of the constructive part of Bacon’s philosophy, or the _Instauratio Magna_, M. Fischer gives us several interesting chapters, in which he treats of Bacon as an historical character, of his views on religion and theology, and of his reviewers. His defense of Bacon’s political character is the weakest part of his work. He draws an elaborate parallel between the spirit of Bacon’s philosophy and the spirit of his public acts. Discovery, he says, was the object of the philosopher; success that of the politician. But what can be gained by such parallels? We admire Bacon’s ardent exertions for the successful advancement of learning, but, if his acts for his own advancement were blamable, no moralist, whatever notions he may hold on the relation between the understanding and the will, would be swayed in his judgment of Lord Bacon’s character by such considerations. We make no allowance for the imitative talents of a tragedian, if he stands convicted of forgery, nor for the courage of a soldier, if he is accused of murder. Bacon’s character can only be judged by the historian, and by a careful study of the standard of public morality in Bacon’s times. And the same may be said of the position which he took with regard to religion and theology. We may explain his inclination to keep religion distinct from philosophy by taking into account the practical tendencies of all his labors. But there is such a want of straightforwardness, and we might almost say, of real faith, in his theological statements, that no one can be surprised to find that, while he is taken as the representative of orthodoxy by some, he has been attacked by others as the most dangerous and insidious enemy of Christianity. Writers of the school of De Maistre see in him a decided atheist and hypocrite.

In a work on Bacon, it seems to have become a necessity to discuss Bacon’s last reviewer, and M. Fischer therefore breaks a lance with Mr. Macaulay. We give some extracts from this chapter (page 358 _seq._), which will serve, at the same time, as a specimen of our author’s style:—

“Mr. Macaulay pleads unconditionally in favor of practical
philosophy, which he designates by the name of Bacon, against all
theoretical philosophy. We have two questions to ask: 1. What does
Mr. Macaulay mean by the contrast of practical and theoretical
philosophy, on which he dwells so constantly? and 2. What has his
own practical philosophy in common with that of Bacon?

“Mr. Macaulay decides on the fate of philosophy with a ready
formula, which, like many of the same kind, dazzles by means of
words which have nothing behind them,—words which become more
obscure and empty the nearer we approach them. He says, Philosophy
was made for Man, not Man for Philosophy. In the former case it is
practical; in the latter, theoretical. Mr. Macaulay embraces the
first, and rejects the second. He cannot speak with sufficient
praise of the one, nor with sufficient contempt of the other.
According to him, the Baconian philosophy is practical; the
pre-Baconian, and particularly the ancient philosophy,
theoretical. He carries the contrast between the two to the last
extreme, and he places it before our eyes, not in its naked form,
but veiled in metaphors, and in well-chosen figures of speech,
where the imposing and charming image always represents the
practical, the repulsive the theoretical, form of philosophy. By
this play he carries away the great mass of people, who, like
children, always run after images. Practical philosophy is not so
much a conviction with him, but it serves him to make a point;
whereas theoretical philosophy serves as an easy butt. Thus the
contrast between the two acquires a certain dramatic charm. The
reader feels moved and excited by the subject before him, and
forgets the scientific question. His fancy is caught by a kind of
metaphorical imagery, and his understanding surrenders what is due
to it.... What is Mr. Macaulay’s meaning in rejecting theoretical
philosophy, because philosophy is here the object, and man the
means; whereas he adopts practical philosophy, because man is here
the object, and philosophy the means? What do we gain by such
comparisons, as when he says that practical and theoretical
philosophy are like works and words, fruits and thorns, a
high-road and a treadmill? Such phrases always remind us of the
remark of Socrates: They are said indeed, but are they well and
truly said? According to the strict meaning of Mr. Macaulay’s
words, there never was a practical philosophy; for there never was
a philosophy which owed its origin to practical considerations
only. And there never was a theoretical philosophy, for there
never was a philosophy which did not receive its impulse from a
human want, that is to say, from a practical motive. This shows
where playing with words must always lead. He defines theoretical
and practical philosophy in such a manner that his definition is
inapplicable to any kind of philosophy. His antithesis is entirely
empty. But if we drop the antithesis, and only keep to what it
means in sober and intelligible language, it would come to
this,—that the value of a theory depends on its usefulness, on its
practical influence on human life, on the advantage which we
derive from it. Utility alone is to decide on the value of a
theory. Be it so. But who is to decide on utility? If all things
are useful which serve to satisfy human wants, who is to decide on
our wants? We take Mr. Macaulay’s own point of view. Philosophy
should be practical; it should serve man, satisfy his wants, or
help to satisfy them; and if it fails in this, let it be called
useless and hollow. But if there are wants in human nature which
demand to be satisfied, which make life a burden unless they are
satisfied, is that not to be called practical which answers to
these wants? And if some of them are of that peculiar nature that
they can only be satisfied by knowledge, or by theoretical
contemplation, is this knowledge, is this theoretical
contemplation, not useful,—useful even in the eyes of the most
decided Utilitarian? Might it not happen that what he calls
theoretical philosophy seems useless and barren to the
Utilitarian, because his ideas of men are too narrow? It is
dangerous, and not quite becoming, to lay down the law, and say
from the very first, ‘You must not have more than certain wants,
and therefore you do not want more than a certain philosophy!’ If
we may judge from Mr. Macaulay’s illustrations, his ideas of human
nature are not very liberal. ‘If we were forced,’ he says, ‘to
make our choice between the first shoemaker and Seneca, the author
of the books on Anger, we should pronounce for the shoemaker. It
may be worse to be angry than to be wet. But shoes have kept
millions from being wet; and we doubt whether Seneca ever kept
anybody from being angry.’ I should not select Seneca as the
representative of theoretical philosophy, still less take those
for my allies whom Mr. Macaulay prefers to Seneca, in order to
defeat theoretical philosophers. Brennus threw his sword into the
scale in order to make it more weighty. Mr. Macaulay prefers the
awl. But whatever he may think about Seneca, there is another
philosopher more profound than Seneca, but in Mr. Macaulay’s eyes
likewise an unpractical thinker. And yet in him the power of
theory was greater than the powers of nature and the most common
wants of man. His meditations alone gave Socrates his serenity
when he drank the fatal poison. Is there, among all evils, one
greater than the dread of death? And the remedy against this, the
worst of all physical evils, is it not practical in the best sense
of the word? True, some people might here say, that it would have
been more practical if Socrates had fled from his prison, as
Criton suggested, and had died an old and decrepit man in Bœotia.
But to Socrates it seemed more practical to remain in prison, and
to die as the first witness and martyr of the liberty of
conscience, and to rise from the sublime height of his theory to
the seats of the immortals. Thus it is the want of the individual
which decides on the practical value of an act or of a thought,
and this want depends on the nature of the human soul. There is a
difference between individuals in different ages, and there is a
difference in their wants.... As long as the desire after
knowledge lives in our hearts, we must, with the purely practical
view of satisfying this want, strive after knowledge in all
things, even in those which do not contribute towards external
comfort, and have no use except that they purify and invigorate
the mind.... What is theory in the eyes of Bacon? ‘A temple in the
human mind, according to the model of the world.’ What is it in
the eyes of Mr. Macaulay? A snug dwelling, according to the wants
of practical life. The latter is satisfied if knowledge is carried
far enough to enable us to keep ourselves dry. The magnificence of
the structure, and its completeness according to the model of the
world, is to him useless by-work, superfluous and even dangerous
luxury. This is the view of a respectable rate-payer, not of a
Bacon. Mr. Macaulay reduces Bacon to his own dimensions, while he
endeavors at the same time to exalt him above all other people....
Bacon’s own philosophy was, like all philosophy, a theory; it was
the theory of the inventive mind. Bacon has not made any great
discoveries himself. He was less inventive than Leibnitz, the
German metaphysician. If to make discoveries be practical
philosophy, Bacon was a mere theorist, and his philosophy nothing
but the theory of practical philosophy.... How far the spirit of
theory reached in Bacon may be seen in his own works. He did not
want to fetter theory, but to renew and to extend it to the very
ends of the universe. His practical standard was not the comfort
of the individual, but human happiness, which involves theoretical
knowledge.... That Bacon is not the Bacon of Mr. Macaulay. What
Bacon wanted was new, and it will be eternal. What Mr. Macaulay
and many people at the present day want, in the name of Bacon, is
not new, but novel. New is what opposes the old, and serves as a
model for the future. Novel is what flatters our times, gains
sympathies, and dies away.... And history has pronounced her final
verdict. It is the last negative instance which we oppose to Mr.
Macaulay’s assertion. Bacon’s philosophy has not been the end of
all theories, but the beginning of new theories,—theories which
flowed necessarily from Bacon’s philosophy, and not one of which
was practical in Mr. Macaulay’s sense. Hobbes was the pupil of
Bacon. His ideal of a State is opposed to that of Plato on all
points. But one point it shares in common,—it is as unpractical a
theory as that of Plato. Mr. Macaulay, however, calls Hobbes the
most acute and vigorous spirit. If, then, Hobbes was a practical
philosopher, what becomes of Macaulay’s politics? And if Hobbes
was not a practical philosopher, what becomes of Mr. Macaulay’s
philosophy, which does homage to the theories of Hobbes?”

We have somewhat abridged M. Fischer’s argument, for, though he writes well and intelligibly, he wants condensation; and we do not think that his argument has been weakened by being shortened. What he has extended into a volume of nearly five hundred pages, might have been reduced to a pithy essay of one or two hundred, without sacrificing one essential fact, or injuring the strength of any one of his arguments. The art of writing in our times is the art of condensing; and those who cannot condense write only for readers who have more time at their disposal than they know what to do with.

Let us ask one question in conclusion. Why do all German writers change the thoroughly Teutonic name of Bacon into Baco? It is bad enough that we should speak of Plato; but this cannot be helped. But unless we protest against Baco, _gen._ Baconis, we shall soon be treated to Newto, Newtonis, or even to Kans, Kantis.

1857.

XII. A GERMAN TRAVELLER IN ENGLAND.(36)

A. D. 1598.

Lessing, when he was Librarian at Wolfenbüttel, proposed to start a review which should only notice forgotten books,—books written before reviewing was invented, published in the small towns of Germany, never read, perhaps, except by the author and his friends, then buried on the shelves of a library, properly labeled and catalogued, and never opened again, except by an inquisitive inmate of these literary mausoleums. The number of those forgotten books is great, and as in former times few authors wrote more than one or two works during the whole of their lives, the information which they contain is generally of a much more substantial and solid kind than our literary palates are now accustomed to. If a man now travels to the unexplored regions of Central Africa, his book is written and out in a year. It remains on the drawing-room table for a season; it is pleasant to read, easy to digest, and still easier to review and to forget. Two or three hundred years ago this was very different. Travelling was a far more serious business, and a man who had spent some years in seeing foreign countries, could do nothing better than employ the rest of his life in writing a book of travels, either in his own language, or, still better, in Latin. After his death his book continued to be quoted for a time in works on history and geography, till a new traveller went over the same ground, published an equally learned book, and thus consigned his predecessor to oblivion. Here is a case in point: Paul Hentzner, a German, who, of course, calls himself Paulus Hentznerus, travelled in Germany, France, England, and Italy; and after his return to his native place in Silesia, he duly published his travels in a portly volume, written in Latin. There is a long title-page, with dedications, introductions, a preface for the _Lector benevolus_, Latin verses, and a table showing what people ought to observe in travelling. Travelling, according to our friend, is the source of all wisdom; and he quotes Moses and the Prophets in support of his theory. We ought all to travel, he says,—“vita nostra peregrinatio est;” and those who stay at home like snails (_cochlearum instar_) will remain “inhumani, insolentes, superbi,” etc.

It would take a long time to follow Paulus Hentznerus through all his peregrinations; but let us see what he saw in England. He arrived here in the year 1598. He took ship with his friends at _Depa_, vulgo _Dieppe_, and after a boisterous voyage, they landed at _Rye_. On their arrival they were conducted to a _Notarius_, who asked their names, and inquired for what object they came to England. After they had satisfied his official inquiries, they were conducted to a _Diversorium_, and treated to a good dinner, _pro regionis more_, according to the custom of the country. From _Rye_ they rode to _London_, passing _Flimwolt_, _Tumbridge_, and _Chepsted_ on their way. Then follows a long description of London, its origin and history, its bridges, churches, monuments, and palaces, with extracts from earlier writers, such as Paulus Jovius, Polydorus Vergilius, etc. All inscriptions are copied faithfully, not only from tombs and pictures, but also from books which the travellers saw in the public libraries. Whitehall seems to have contained a royal library at that time, and in it Hentzner saw, besides Greek and Latin MSS., a book written in French by Queen Elizabeth, with the following dedication to Henry VIII.:—

“A Tres haut et Tres puissant et Redoubte Prince Henry VIII. de ce
nom, Roy d’Angleterre, de France, et d’Irlande, defenseur de la
foy, Elizabeth, sa Tres humble fille, rend salut et obedience.”

After the travellers had seen St. Paul’s, Westminster, the House of Parliament, Whitehall, Guildhall, the Tower, and the Royal Exchange, commonly called _Bursa_,—all of which are minutely described,—they went to the theatres and to places _Ursorum et Taurorum venationibus destinata_, where bears and bulls, tied fast behind, were baited by bull-dogs. In these places, and everywhere, in fact, as our traveller says, where you meet with Englishmen, they use _herba nicotiana_, which they call by an American name _Tobaca_ or _Paetum_. The description deserves to be quoted in the original:—

“Fistulæ in hunc finem ex argillâ factæ orificio posteriori dictam
herbam probe exiccatam, ita ut in pulverem facile redigi possit,
immittunt, et igne admoto accendunt, unde fumus ab anteriori parte
ore attrahitur, qui per nares rursum, tamquam per infurnibulum
exit, et phlegma ac capitis defluxiones magnâ copiâ secum educit.”

After they had seen everything in London—not omitting the ship in which Francis Drake, _nobilissimus pyrata_, was said to have circumnavigated the world,—they went to Greenwich. Here they were introduced into the presence-chamber, and saw the Queen. The walls of the room were covered with precious tapestry, the floor strewed with hay. The Queen had to pass through on going to chapel. It was a Sunday, when all the nobility came to pay their respects. The Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of London were present. When divine service began, the Queen appeared, preceded and followed by the court. Before her walked two barons, carrying the sceptre and the sword, and between them the Great Chancellor of England with the seal. The Queen is thus minutely described:—

“She was said (_rumor erat_) to be fifty-five years old. Her face
was rather long, white, and a little wrinkled. Her eyes small,
black, and gracious; her nose somewhat bent; her lips compressed,
her teeth black (from eating too much sugar). She had ear-rings of
pearls; red hair, but artificial, and wore a small crown. Her
breast was uncovered (as is the case with all unmarried ladies in
England), and round her neck was a chain with precious gems. Her
hands were graceful, her fingers long. She was of middle stature,
but stepped on majestically. She was gracious and kind in her
address. The dress she wore was of white silk, with pearls as
large as beans. Her cloak was of black silk with silver lace, and
a long train was carried by a marchioness. As she walked along she
spoke most kindly with many people, some of them ambassadors. She
spoke English, French, and Italian; but she knows also Greek and
Latin, and understands Spanish, Scotch, and Dutch. Those whom she
addressed bent their knees, and some she lifted up with her hand.
To a Bohemian nobleman of the name of Slawata, who had brought
some letters to the Queen, she gave her right hand after taking
off her glove, and he kissed it. Wherever she turned her eyes,
people fell on their knees.”

There was probably nobody present who ventured to scrutinize the poor Queen so impertinently as Paulus Hentznerus. He goes on to describe the ladies who followed the Queen, and how they were escorted by fifty knights. When she came to the door of the chapel, books were handed to her, and the people called out, “God save the Queen Elizabeth!” whereupon the Queen answered, “I thanke you myn good peuple.” Prayers did not last more than half an hour, and the music was excellent. During the time that the Queen was in chapel, dinner was laid, and this again is described in full detail.

But we cannot afford to tarry with our German observer, nor can we follow him to Grantbridge (Cambridge) or Oxenford, where he describes the colleges and halls (each of them having a library), and the life of the students. From Oxford he went to Woodstock, then back to Oxford, and from thence to Henley and Madenhood to Windsor. Eton also was visited, and here, he says, sixty boys were educated gratuitously, and afterwards sent to Cambridge. After visiting Hampton Court and the royal palace of Nonesuch, our travellers returned to London.

We shall finish our extracts with some remarks of Hentzner on the manners and customs of the English:—

“The English are grave, like the Germans, magnificent at home and
abroad. They carry with them a large train of followers and
servants. These have silver shields on their left arm, and a
pig-tail. The English excel in dancing and music. They are swift
and lively, though stouter than the French. They shave the middle
portion of the face, but leave the hair untouched on each side.
They are good sailors and famous pirates; clever, perfidious, and
thievish. About three hundred are hanged in London every year. At
table they are more civil than the French. They eat less bread,
but more meat, and they dress it well. They throw much sugar into
their wine. They suffer frequently from leprosy, commonly called
the white leprosy, which is said to have come to England in the
time of the Normans. They are brave in battle, and always conquer
their enemies. At home they brook no manner of servitude. They are
very fond of noises that fill the ears, such as explosions of
guns, trumpets, and bells. In London, persons who have got drunk
are wont to mount a church tower, for the sake of exercise, and to
ring the bells for several hours. If they see a foreigner who is
handsome and strong, they are sorry that he is not an
Anglicus,—_vulgo_ Englishman.”

On his return to France, Hentzner paid a visit to Canterbury, and, after seeing some ghosts on his journey, arrived safely at Dover. Before he was allowed to go on board, he had again to undergo an examination, to give his name, to explain what he had done in England, and where he was going; and, lastly, his luggage was searched most carefully, in order to see whether he carried with him any English money, for nobody was allowed to carry away more than ten pounds of English money: all the rest was taken away and handed to the royal treasury. And thus farewell, Carissime Hentzneri! and slumber on your shelf until the eye of some other benevolent reader, glancing at the rows of forgotten books, is caught by the quaint lettering on your back, “_Hentzneri Itin_.”

1857.

XIII. CORNISH ANTIQUITIES.(37)

It is impossible to spend even a few weeks in Cornwall without being impressed with the air of antiquity which pervades that county, and seems, like a morning mist, half to conceal and half to light up every one of its hills and valleys. It is impossible to look at any pile of stones, at any wall, or pillar, or gate-post, without asking one’s self the question, Is this old, or is this new? Is it the work of Saxon, or of Roman, or of Celt? Nay, one feels sometimes tempted to ask, Is this the work of Nature or of man?

“Among these rocks and stones, methinks I see More than the heedless impress that belongs To lonely Nature’s casual work: they bear A semblance strange of power intelligent, And of design not wholly worn away.”—_Excursion_.

The late King of Prussia’s remark about Oxford, that in it everything old seemed new, and everything new seemed old, applies with even greater truth to Cornwall. There is a continuity between the present and the past of that curious peninsula, such as we seldom find in any other place. A spring bubbling up in a natural granite basin, now a meeting-place for Baptists or Methodists, was but a few centuries ago a holy well, attended by busy friars, and visited by pilgrims, who came there “nearly lame,” and left the shrine “almost able to walk.” Still further back the same spring was a centre of attraction for the Celtic inhabitants, and the rocks piled up around it stand there as witnesses of a civilization and architecture certainly more primitive than the civilization and architecture of Roman, Saxon, or Norman settlers. We need not look beyond. How long that granite buttress of England has stood there, defying the fury of the Atlantic, the geologist alone, who is not awed by ages, would dare to tell us. But the historian is satisfied with antiquities of a more humble and homely character; and in bespeaking the interest, and, it may be, the active support of our readers, in favor of the few relics of the most ancient civilization of Britain, we promise to keep within strictly historical limits, if by historical we understand, with the late Sir G. C. Lewis, that only which can be authenticated by contemporaneous monuments.

But even thus, how wide a gulf seems to separate us from the first civilizers of the West of England, from the people who gave names to every headland, bay, and hill of Cornwall, and who first planned those lanes that now, like throbbing veins, run in every direction across that heath-covered peninsula! No doubt it is well known that the original inhabitants of Cornwall were Celts, and that Cornish is a Celtic language; and that, if we divide the Celtic languages into two classes, Welsh with Cornish and Breton forms one class, the _Cymric_; while the Irish with its varieties, as developed in Scotland and the Isle of Man, forms another class, which is called the _Gaelic_ or _Gadhelic_. It may also be more or less generally known that Celtic, with all its dialects, is an Aryan or Indo-European language, closely allied to Latin, Greek, German, Slavonic, and Sanskrit, and that the Celts, therefore, were not mere barbarians, or people to be classed together with Finns and Lapps, but heralds of true civilization wherever they settled in their worldwide migrations, the equals of Saxons and Romans and Greeks, whether in physical beauty or in intellectual vigor. And yet there is a strange want of historical reality in the current conceptions about the Celtic inhabitants of the British Isles; and while the heroes and statesmen and poets of Greece and Rome, though belonging to a much earlier age, stand out in bold and sharp relief on the table of a boy’s memory, his notions of the ancient Britons may generally be summed up “in houses made of wicker-work, Druids with long white beards, white linen robes, and golden sickles, and warriors painted blue.” Nay, strange to say, we can hardly blame a boy for banishing the ancient bards and Druids from the scene of real history, and assigning to them that dark and shadowy corner where the gods and heroes of Greece live peacefully together with the ghosts and fairies from the dreamland of our own Saxon forefathers. For even the little that is told in “Little Arthur’s History of England” about the ancient Britons and the Druids is extremely doubtful. Druids are never mentioned before Cæsar. Few writers, if any, before him were able to distinguish between Celts and Germans, but spoke of the barbarians of Gaul and Germany as the Greeks spoke of Scythians, or as we ourselves speak of the negroes of Africa, without distinguishing between races so different from each other as Hottentots and Kaffirs. Cæsar was one of the first writers who knew of an ethnological distinction between Celtic and Teutonic barbarians, and we may therefore trust him when he says that the Celts had Druids, and the Germans had none. But his further statements about these Celtic priests and sages are hardly more trustworthy than the account which an ordinary Indian officer at the present day might give us of the Buddhist priests and the Buddhist religion of Ceylon. Cæsar’s statement that the Druids worshipped Mercury, Apollo, Mars, Jupiter, and Minerva, is of the same base metal as the statements of more modern writers that the Buddhists worship the Trinity, and that they take Buddha for the Son of God. Cæsar most likely never conversed with a Druid, nor was he able to control, if he was able to understand, the statements made to him about the ancient priesthood, the religion and literature of Gaul. Besides, Cæsar himself tells us very little about the priests of Gaul and Britain; and the thrilling accounts of the white robes and the golden sickles belong to Pliny’s “Natural History,” by no means a safe authority in such matters.(38)

We must be satisfied, indeed, to know very little about the mode of life, the forms of worship, the religious doctrines, or the mysterious wisdom of the Druids and their flocks. But for this very reason it is most essential that our minds should be impressed strongly with the historical reality that belongs to the Celtic inhabitants, and to the work which they performed in rendering these islands for the first time fit for the habitation of man. That historical lesson, and a very important lesson it is, is certainly learned more quickly, and yet more effectually, by a visit to Cornwall or Wales, than by any amount of reading. We may doubt many things that Celtic enthusiasts tell us; but where every village and field, every cottage and hill, bear names that are neither English, nor Norman, nor Latin, it is difficult not to feel that the Celtic element has been something real and permanent in the history of the British Isles. The Cornish language is no doubt extinct, if by extinct we mean that it is no longer spoken by the people. But in the names of towns, castles, rivers, mountains, fields, manors, and families, and in a few of the technical terms of mining, husbandry, and fishing, Cornish lives on, and probably will live on, for many ages to come. There is a well-known verse:—

“By Tre, Ros, Pol, Lan, Caer, and Pen, You may know most Cornish men.”(39)

But it will hardly be believed that a Cornish antiquarian, Dr. Bannister, who is collecting materials for a glossary of Cornish proper names, has amassed no less than 2,400 names with Tre, 500 with Fen, 400 with Ros, 300 with Lan, 200 with Pol, and 200 with Caer.

A language does not die all at once, nor is it always possible to fix the exact date when it breathed its last. Thus, in the case of Cornish, it is by no means easy to reconcile the conflicting statements of various writers as to the exact time when it ceased to be the language of the people, unless we bear in mind that what was true with regard to the higher classes was not so with regard to the lower, and likewise that in some parts of Cornwall the vitality of the language might continue, while in others its heart had ceased to beat. As late as the time of Henry VIII., the famous physician Andrew Borde tells us that English was not understood by many men and women in Cornwall. “In Cornwal is two speeches,” he writes; “the one is naughty Englyshe, and the other the Cornyshe speche. And there be many men and women the which cannot speake one worde of Englyshe, but all Cornyshe.” During the same King’s reign, when an attempt was made to introduce a new church service composed in English, a protest was signed by the Devonshire and Cornish men utterly refusing this new English:—

“We will not receive the new Service, because it is but like a
Christmas game; but we will have our old Service of Matins, Mass,
Evensong, and Procession, in Latin as it was before. And so we the
Cornish men (whereof certain of us understand no English) utterly
refuse this new English.”(40)

Yet in the reign of Elizabeth, when the liturgy was appointed by authority to take the place of the mass, the Cornish, it is said,(41) desired that it should be in the English language. About the same time we are told that Dr. John Moreman(42) taught his parishioners the Lord’s Prayer, the Creed, and the Ten Commandments, in the English tongue. From the time of the Reformation onward, Cornish seems constantly to have lost ground against English, particularly in places near Devonshire. Thus Norden, whose description of Cornwall was probably written about 1584, though not published till 1728, gives a very full and interesting account of the struggle between the two languages:—

“Of late,” he says (p. 26), “the Cornishe men have muche conformed
themselves to the use of the Englishe tounge, and their Englishe
is equall to the beste, espetially in the easterne partes; even
from Truro eastwarde it is in manner wholly Englishe. In the weste
parte of the countrye, as in the hundreds of Penwith and Kerrier,
the Cornishe tounge is moste in use amongste the inhabitantes, and
yet (whiche is to be marveyled), though the husband and wife,
parentes and children, master and servantes, doe mutually
communicate in their native language, yet ther is none of them in
manner but is able to convers with a straunger in the Englishe
tounge, unless it be some obscure people, that seldome conferr
with the better sorte: But it seemeth that in few yeares the
Cornishe language will be by litle and litle abandoned.”

Carew, who wrote about the same time, goes so far as to say that most of the inhabitants “can no word of Cornish, but very few are ignorant of the English, though they sometimes affect to be.” This may have been true with regard to the upper classes, particularly in the west of Cornwall, but it is nevertheless a fact that, as late as 1640, Mr. William Jackman, the vicar of Feock,(43) was forced to administer the sacrament in Cornish, because the aged people did not understand English; nay, the rector of Landewednak preached his sermons in Cornish as late as 1678. Mr. Scawen, too, who wrote about that time, speaks of some old folks who spoke Cornish only, and would not understand a word of English; but he tells us at the same time that Sir Francis North, the Lord Chief Justice, afterwards Lord Keeper, when holding the assizes at Lanceston in 1678, expressed his concern at the loss and decay of the Cornish language. The poor people, in fact, could speak, or at least understand, Cornish, but he says, “They were laughed at by the rich, who understood it not, which is their own fault in not endeavoring after it.” About the beginning of the last century, Mr. Ed. Lhuyd (died 1709), the keeper of the Ashmolean Museum, was still able to collect from the mouths of the people a grammar of the Cornish language, which was published in 1707. He says that at this time Cornish was only retained in five or six villages towards the Land’s End; and in his “Archæologia Britannica” he adds, that although it was spoken in most of the western districts from the Land’s End to the Lizard, “a great many of the inhabitants, especially the gentry, do not understand it, there being no necessity thereof in regard there’s no Cornish man but speaks good English.” It is generally supposed that the last person who spoke Cornish was Dolly Pentreath, who died in 1778, and to whose memory Prince Louis Lucien Bonaparte has lately erected a monument in the churchyard at Paul. The inscription is:—

“Here lieth interred Dorothy Pentreath, who died in 1778, said to
have been the last person who conversed in the ancient Cornish,
the peculiar language of this country from the earliest records
till it expired in this parish of St. Paul. This stone is erected
by the Prince Louis Lucien Bonaparte, in union with the Rev. John
Garret, vicar of St. Paul, June, 1860.”

It seems hardly right to deprive the old lady of her fair name; but there are many people in Cornwall who maintain that when travellers and grandees came to see her, she would talk anything that came into her head, while those who listened to her were pleased to think that they had heard the dying echoes of a primeval tongue.(44) There is a letter extant, written in Cornish by a poor fisherman of the name of William Bodener. It is dated July 3, 1776, that is, two years before the death of Dolly Pentreath; and the writer says of himself in Cornish:—

“My age is threescore and five. I am a poor fisherman. I learnt
Cornish when I was a boy. I have been to sea with my father and
five other men in the boat, and have not heard one word of English
spoke in the boat for a week together. I never saw a Cornish book.
I learned Cornish going to sea with old men. There is not more
than four or five in our town can talk Cornish now,—old people
fourscore years old. Cornish is all forgot with young people.”(45)

It would seem, therefore, that Cornish died with the last century, and no one now living can boast to have heard its sound when actually spoken for the sake of conversation. It seems to have been a melodious and yet by no means an effeminate language, and Scawen places it in this respect above most of the other Celtic dialects:—