What are the qualities of a good contributor?  What makes a good Review?  Is the best literature produced by the writer who does nothing else but write, or by the man who tempers literature by affairs?  What are the different recommendations of the rival systems of anonymity and signature?  What kind of change, if any, has passed over periodical literature since those two great periodicals, the Edinburgh and the Quarterly, held sway?  These and a number of other questions in the same matter ­some of them obviously not to be opened with propriety in these pages ­must naturally be often present to the mind of any one who is concerned in the control of a Review, and a volume has just been printed which sets such musings once more astir.  Mr. Macvey Napier was the editor of the Edinburgh Review from 1829 ­when Jeffrey, after a reign of seven-and-twenty years, resigned it into his hands ­until his death in 1847.  A portion of the correspondence addressed to Mr. Napier during this period is full of personal interest both to the man of letters and to that more singular being, the Editor, the impresario of men of letters, the entrepreneur of the spiritual power.

To manage an opera-house is usually supposed to tax human powers more urgently than any position save that of a general in the very heat and stress of battle.  The orchestra, the chorus, the subscribers, the first tenor, a pair of rival prima donnas, the newspapers, the box-agents in Bond Street, the army of hangers-on in the flies ­all combine to demand such gifts of tact, resolution, patience, foresight, tenacity, flexibility, as are only expected from the great ruler or the great soldier.  The editor of a periodical of public consideration ­and the Edinburgh Review in the hands of Mr. Napier was the avowed organ of the ruling Whig powers ­is sorely tested in the same way.  The rival house may bribe his stars.  His popular epigrammatist is sometimes as full of humours as a spoiled soprano.  The favourite pyrotechnist is systematically late and procrastinatory, or is piqued because his punctuation or his paragraphs have been meddled with.  The contributor whose article would be in excellent time if it did not appear before the close of the century, or never appeared at all, pesters you with warnings that a month’s delay is a deadly blow to progress, and stays the great procession of the ages.  The contributor who could profitably fill a sheet, insists on sending a treatise.  Sir George Cornewall Lewis, who had charge of the Edinburgh for a short space, truly described prolixity as the bête noire of an editor.  “Every contributor,” he said, “has some special reason for wishing to write at length on his own subject.”

Ah, que de choses dans un menuet! cried Marcel, the great dancing-master, and ah, what things in the type and [Greek:  idea] of an article, cries an editor with the enthusiasm of his calling; such proportion, measure, comprehension, variety of topics, pithiness of treatment, all within a space appointed with Procrustean rigour.  This is what the soul of the volunteer contributor is dull to.  Of the minor vexations who can tell?  There is one single tribulation dire enough to poison life ­even if there were no other ­and this is disorderly manuscript.  Empson, Mr. Napier’s well-known contributor, was one of the worst offenders; he would never even take the trouble to mark his paragraphs.  It is my misfortune to have a manuscript before me at this moment that would fill thirty of these pages, and yet from beginning to end there is no indication that it is not to be read at a single breath.  The paragraph ought to be, and in all good writers it is, as real and as sensible a division as the sentence.  It is an organic member in prose composition, with a beginning, a middle, and an end, just as a stanza is an organic and definite member in the composition of an ode, “I fear my manuscript is rather disorderly,” says another, “but I will correct carefully in print.”  Just so.  Because he is too heedless to do his work in a workmanlike way, he first inflicts fatigue and vexation on the editor whom he expects to read his paper; second, he inflicts considerable and quite needless expense on the publisher; and thirdly, he inflicts a great deal of tedious and thankless labour on the printers, who are for the most part far more meritorious persons than fifth-rate authors.  It is true that Burke returned such disordered proofs that the printer usually found it least troublesome to set the whole afresh, and Miss Martineau tells a story of a Scotch compositor who fled from Edinburgh to avoid Carlyle’s manuscript, and to his horror was presently confronted with a piece of the too familiar copy which made him cry, “Lord, have mercy!  Have you got that man to print for!” But most editors will cheerfully forgive such transgressions to all contributors who will guarantee that they write as well as Burke or Carlyle.  Alas! it is usually the case that those who have least excuse are the worst offenders.  The slovenliest manuscripts come from persons to whom the difference between an hour and a minute is of the very smallest importance.  This, however, is a digression, only to be excused partly by the natural desire to say a word against one’s persecutors, and partly by a hope that some persons of sensitive conscience may be led to ponder whether there may not be after all some moral obligations even towards editors and printers.

Mr. Napier had one famous contributor, who stands out alone in the history of editors.  Lord Brougham’s traditional connection with the Review, ­he had begun to write either in its first or third number, and had written in it ever since ­his encyclopædic ignorance, his power, his great fame in the country, and the prestige which his connection reflected on the Review, all made him a personage with whom it would have been most imprudent to quarrel.  Yet the position in which Mr. Napier was placed after Brougham’s breach with the Whigs, was one of the most difficult in which the conductor of a great organ could possibly be placed.  The Review was the representative, the champion, and the mouthpiece of the Whig party, and of the Whigs who were in office.  Before William IV. dismissed the Whigs in 1834 as arbitrarily as his father had dismissed the Whigs in 1784, Brougham had covered himself with disrepute among his party by a thousand pranks, and after the dismissal he disgusted them by asking the new Chancellor to make him Chief Baron of the Exchequer.  When Lord Melbourne returned to power in the following year, this and other escapades were remembered against him.  “If left out,” said Lord Melbourne, “he would indeed be dangerous; but if taken in, he would simply be destructive.”  So Brougham was left out, Pepys was made Chancellor, and the Premier compared himself to a man who has broken with a termagant mistress and married the best of cooks.  Mr. Napier was not so happy.  The termagant was left on his hands.  He had to keep terms with a contributor who hated with deadly hatred the very government that the Review existed to support.  No editor ever had such a contributor as Brougham in the long history of editorial torment since the world began.  He scolds, he storms, he hectors, he lectures; he is for ever threatening desertion and prophesying ruin; he exhausts the vocabulary of opprobrium against his correspondent’s best friends; they are silly slaves, base traitors, a vile clique “whose treatment of me has been the very ne plus ultra of ingratitude, baseness, and treachery.”  He got the Review and its editor into a scrape which shook the world at the time (1834), by betraying Cabinet secrets to spite Lord Durham.  His cries against his adversaries are as violent as the threats of Ajax in his tent, and as loud as the bellowings of Philoctetes at the mouth of his cave.  Here is one instance out of a hundred: ­

“That is a trifle, and I only mention it to beg of you to pluck up a little courage, and not be alarmed every time any of the little knot of threateners annoy you. They want to break off all kind of connection between me and the Edinburgh Review.  I have long seen it.  Their fury against the article in the last number knows no bounds, and they will never cease till they worry you out of your connection with me, and get the whole control of the Review into their own hands, by forcing you to resign it yourself.  A party and a personal engine is all they want to make it.  What possible right can any of these silly slaves have to object to my opinion being ­what it truly is ­against the Holland House theory of Lord Chatham’s madness?  I know that Lord Grenville treated it with contempt.  I know others now living who did so too, and I know that so stout a Whig as Sir P. Francis was clearly of that opinion, and he knew Lord Chatham personally.  I had every ground to believe that Horace Walpole, a vile, malignant, and unnatural wretch, though a very clever writer of Letters, was nine-tenths of the Holland House authority for the tale.  I knew that a baser man in character, or a meaner in capacity than the first Lord Holland existed not, even in those days of job and mediocrity.  Why, then, was I bound to take a false view because Lord Holland’s family have inherited his hatred of a great rival?”

Another instance is as follows: ­

“I solicit your best attention to the fate which seems hastening upon the Edinburgh Review.  The having always been free from the least control of booksellers is one of its principal distinctions, and long was peculiarly so ­perhaps it still has it nearly to itself.  But if it shall become a Treasury journal, I hardly see any great advantage in one kind of independence without the rest.  Nay, I doubt if its literary freedom, any more than its political, will long survive.  Books will be treated according as the Treasury, or their under-strappers, regard the authors....  But, is it after all possible that the Review should be suffered to sink into such a state of subserviency that it dares not insert any discussion upon a general question of politics because it might give umbrage to the Government of the day?  I pass over the undeniable fact that it is underlings only whom you are scared by, and that the Ministers themselves have no such inordinate pretension as to dream of interfering.  I say nothing of those underlings generally, except this, that I well know the race, and a more despicable, above all, in point of judgment, exists not.  Never mind their threats, they can do no harm.  Even if any of them are contributors, be assured they never will withdraw because you choose to keep your course free and independent.”

Mr. Napier, who seems to have been one of the most considerate and high-minded of men, was moved to energetic remonstrance on this occasion.  Lord Brougham explained his strong language away, but he was incapable of really controlling himself, and the strain was never lessened until 1843, when the correspondence ceases, and we learn that there had been a quarrel between him and his too long-suffering correspondent.  Yet John Allen, ­that able scholar and conspicuous figure in the annals of Holland House ­wrote of Brougham to Mr. Napier: ­“He is not a malignant or bad-hearted man, but he is an unscrupulous one, and where his passions are concerned or his vanity irritated, there is no excess of which he is not capable.”  Of Brougham’s strong and manly sense, when passion or vanity did not cloud it, and even of a sort of careful justice, these letters give more than one instance.  The Quarterly Review, for instance, had an article on Romilly’s Memoirs, which to Romilly’s friends seemed to do him less than justice.  Brougham took a more sensible view.

“Surely we had no right whatever to expect that they whom Romilly had all his life so stoutly opposed, and who were treated by him with great harshness, should treat him as his friends would do, and at the very moment when a most injudicious act of his family was bringing out all his secret thoughts against them.  Only place yourself in the same position, and suppose that Canning’s private journals had been published, ­the journals he may have kept while the bitterest enemy of the Whigs, and in every page of which there must have been some passage offensive to the feelings of the living and of the friends of the dead.  Would any mercy have been shown to Canning’s character and memory by any of the Whig party, either in society or in Reviews?  Would the line have been drawn of only attacking Canning’s executors, who published the papers, and leaving Canning himself untouched?  Clearly and certainly not, and yet I am putting a very much weaker case, for we had joined Canning, and all political enmity was at an end:  whereas the Tories and Romilly never had for an hour laid aside their mutual hostility.”

And if he was capable of equity, Brougham was also capable of hearty admiration, even of an old friend who had on later occasions gone into a line which he intensely disliked.  It is a relief in the pages of blusterous anger and raging censure to come upon what he says of Jeffrey.

“I can truly say that there never in all my life crossed my mind one single unkind feeling respecting him, or indeed any feeling but that of the warmest affection and the most unmingled admiration of his character, believing and knowing him to be as excellent and amiable as he is great in the ordinary, and, as I think, the far less important sense of the word.”

Of the value of Brougham’s contributions we cannot now judge.  They will not, in spite of their energy and force, bear re-reading to-day, and perhaps the same may be said of three-fourths of Jeffrey’s once famous essays.  Brougham’s self-confidence is heroic.  He believed that he could make a speech for Bolingbroke, but by-and-by he had sense enough to see that, in order to attempt this, he ought to read Bolingbroke for a year, and then practise for another year.  In 1838 he thought nothing of undertaking, amid all the demands of active life, such a bagatelle as a History of the French Revolution.  “I have some little knack of narrative,” he says, “the most difficult by far of all styles, and never yet attained in perfection but by Hume and Livy; and I bring as much oratory and science to the task as most of my predecessors.”  But what sort of science?  And what has oratory to do with it?  And how could he deceive himself into thinking that he could retire to write a history?  Nobody that ever lived would have more speedily found out the truth of Voltaire’s saying, “Le repos est une bonne chose, maïs l’ennui est son frère.”  The truth is that one learns, after a certain observation of the world, to divide one’s amazement pretty equally between the literary voluptuary or over-fastidious collegian, on the one hand, who is so impressed by the size of his subject that he never does more than collect material and make notes, and the presumptuous politician, on the other hand, who thinks that he can write a history or settle the issues of philosophy and theology in odd half-hours.  The one is so enfeebled in will and literary energy after his viginti annorum lucubrationes; the other is so accustomed to be content with the hurry, the unfinishedness, the rough-and-ready methods of practical affairs, and they both in different ways measure the worth and seriousness of literature so wrongly in relation to the rest of human interests.

The relations between Lord Brougham and Mr. Napier naturally suggest a good many reflections on the vexed question of the comparative advantages of the old and the new theory of a periodical.  The new theory is that a periodical should not be an organ but an open pulpit‚ and that each writer should sign his name.  Without disrespect to ably conducted and eminent contemporaries of long standing‚ it may be said that the tide of opinion and favour is setting in this direction.  Yet‚ on the whole‚ experience perhaps leads to a doubt whether the gains of the system of signature are so very considerable as some of us once expected.  An editor on the new system is no doubt relieved of a certain measure of responsibility.  Lord Cockburn’s panegyric on the first great editor may show what was expected from a man in such a position as Jeffrey’s.  “He had to discover‚ and to train‚ authors; to discern what truth and the public mind required; to suggest subjects; to reject‚ and‚ more offensive still‚ to improve‚ contributions; to keep down absurdities; to infuse spirit; to excite the timid; to repress violence; to soothe jealousies; to quell mutinies; to watch times; and all this in the morning of the reviewing day‚ before experience had taught editors conciliatory firmness‚ and contributors reasonable submission.  He directed and controlled the elements he presided over with a master’s judgment.  There was not one of his associates who could have even held these elements together for a single year....  Inferior to these excellences‚ but still important‚ was his dexterity in revising the writings of others.  Without altering the general tone or character of the composition‚ he had great skill in leaving out defective ideas or words‚ and in so aiding the original by lively or graceful touches‚ that reasonable authors were surprised and charmed on seeing how much better they looked than they thought they would” .

From such toils and dangers as these the editor of a Review with signed articles is in the main happily free.  He has usually suggestions to make, for his experience has probably given him points of view as to the effectiveness of this or that feature of an article for its own purpose, which would not occur to a writer.  The writer is absorbed in his subject, and has been less accustomed to think of the public.  But this exercise of a claim to a general acquiescence in the judgment and experience of a man who has the best reasons for trying to judge rightly, is a very different thing from the duty of drilling contributors and dressing contributions as they were dressed and drilled by Jeffrey.  As Southey said, when groaning under the mutilations inflicted by Gifford on Iris contributions to the Quarterly, “there must be a power expurgatory in the hands of the editor; and the misfortune is that editors frequently think it incumbent on them to use that power merely because they have it” (Southey’s Life, i.  This is probably true on the anonymous system, where the editor is answerable for every word, and for the literary form no less than for the substantial soundness or interest of an article.  In a man of weakish literary vanity ­Jeffrey was evidently full of it ­there may well be a constant itch to set his betters right in trifles, as Gifford thought that he could mend Southey’s adjectives.  To a vain editor, or a too masterful editor, the temptation under the anonymous system is no doubt strong.  M. Buloz, it is true, the renowned conductor of the Revue des deux Mondes, is said to have insisted on, and to have freely practised, the fullest editorial prerogative over articles that were openly signed by the most eminent names in France.  But M. Buloz had no competitor, and those who did not choose to submit to his Sultanic despotism were shut out from the only pulpit whence they were sure of addressing the congregation that they wanted.  In England contributors are better off; and no editor of a signed periodical would feel either bound or permitted to take such trouble about mere wording of sentences as Gifford and Jeffrey were in the habit of taking.

There is, however, another side to this, from an editor’s point of view.  With responsibility ­not merely for commas and niceties and literary kickshaws, but in its old sense ­disappears also a portion of the interest of editorial labour.  One would suppose it must be more interesting to command a man-of-war than a trading vessel; it would be more interesting to lead a regiment than to keep a tilting-yard.  But the times are not ripe for such enterprises.  Of literary ability of a good and serviceable kind there is a hundred or five hundred times more in the country than there was when Jeffrey, Smith, Brougham, and Horner devised their Review in a ninth storey in Edinburgh seventy-six years ago.  It is the cohesion of a political creed that is gone, and the strength and fervour of a political school.  The principles that inspired that group of strong men have been worked out.  After their reforms had been achieved, the next great school was economic, and though it produced one fine orator, its work was at no time literary.  The Manchester school with all their shortcomings had at least the signal distinction of attaching their views on special political questions to a general and presiding conception of the modern phase of civilisation, as industrial and pacific.  The next party of advance, when it is formed, will certainly borrow from Cobden and Bright their hatred of war and their hatred of imperialism.  After the sagacity and enlightenment of this school came the school of persiflage.  A knot of vigorous and brilliant men towards 1856 rallied round the late editor of the Saturday Review, ­and a strange chief he was for such a group, ­but their flag was that of the Red Rover.  They gave Philistinism many a shrewd blow, but perhaps at the same time helped to some degree ­with other far deeper and stronger forces ­to produce that sceptical and centrifugal state of mind, which now tends to nullify organised liberalism and paralyse the spirit of improvement.  The Benthamites, led first by James Mill, and afterwards in a secondary degree by John Mill, had pushed a number of political improvements in the radical and democratic direction during the time when the Edinburgh so powerfully represented more orthodox liberalism.  They were the last important group of men who started together from a set of common principles, accepted a common programme of practical applications, and set to work in earnest and with due order and distribution of parts to advocate the common cause.

At present there is no similar agreement either among the younger men in parliament, or among a sufficiently numerous group of writers outside of parliament.  The Edinburgh Reviewers were most of them students of the university of that city.  The Westminster Reviewers had all sat at the feet of Bentham.  Each group had thus a common doctrine and a positive doctrine.  In practical politics it does not much matter by what different roads men have travelled to a given position.  But in an organ intended to lead public opinion towards certain changes, or to hold it steadfast against wayward gusts of passion, its strength would be increased a hundredfold if all the writers in it were inspired by that thorough unity of conviction which comes from sincerely accepting a common set of principles to start from, and reaching practical conclusions by the same route.  We are probably not very far from a time when such a group might form itself, and its work would for some years lie in the formation of a general body of opinion, rather than in practical realisation of this or that measure.  The success of the French Republic, the peaceful order of the United States, perhaps some trouble within our own borders, will lead men with open minds to such a conception of a high and stable type of national life as will unite a sufficient number of them in a common project for pressing with systematic iteration for a complete set of organic changes.  A country with such a land-system, such an electoral system, such a monarchy, as ours, has a trying time before it.  Those will be doing good service who shall unite to prepare opinion for the inevitable changes.  At the present moment the only motto that can be inscribed on the flag of a liberal Review is the general device of Progress, each writer interpreting it in his own sense, and within such limits as he may set for himself.  For such a state of things signature is the natural condition, and an editor, even of a signed Review, would hardly decline to accept the account of his function which we find Jeffrey giving to Mr. Napier: ­“There are three legitimate considerations by which you should be guided in your conduct as editor generally, and particularly as to the admission or rejection of important articles of a political sor.  The effect of your decision on the other contributors upon whom you mainly rely; 2. its effect on the sale and circulation, and on the just authority of the work with the great body of its readers; and, 3. your own deliberate opinion as to the safety or danger of the doctrines maintained in the article under consideration, and its tendency either to promote or retard the practical adoption of those liberal principles to which, and their practical advancement, you must always consider the journal as devoted.”

As for discovering and training authors, the editor under the new system has inducements that lie entirely the other way; namely, to find as many authors as possible whom the public has already discovered and accepted for itself.  Young unknown writers certainly have not gained anything by the new system.  Neither perhaps can they be said to have lost, for though of two articles of equal merit an editor would naturally choose the one which should carry the additional recommendation of a name of recognised authority, yet any marked superiority in literary brilliance or effective argument or originality of view would be only too eagerly welcomed in any Review in England.  So much public interest is now taken in periodical literature, and the honourable competition in securing variety, weight, and attractiveness is so active, that there is no risk of a literary candle remaining long under a bushel.  Miss Martineau says: ­“I have always been anxious to extend to young or struggling authors the sort of aid which would have been so precious to me in that winter of 1829-30, and I know that, in above twenty years, I have never succeeded but once.”  One of the most distinguished editors in London, who had charge of a periodical for many years, told the present writer what comes to the same thing, namely, that in no single case during all these years did a volunteer contributor of real quality, or with any promise of eminence, present himself or herself.  So many hundreds think themselves called, so few are chosen.  It used to be argued that the writer under the anonymous system was hidden behind a screen and robbed of his well-earned distinction.  In truth, however, it is impossible for a writer of real distinction to remain anonymous.  If a writer in a periodical interests the public, they are sure to find out who he is.

Again, there is folly unfathomable in a periodical affecting an eternal consistency, and giving itself the airs of continuous individuality, and being careful not to talk sense on a given question to-day because its founders talked nonsense upon it fifty years ago.  This is quite true.  There is a monstrous charlatanry about the old editorial We, but perhaps there are some tolerably obvious openings for charlatanry of a different kind under our own system.  The man who writes in his own name may sometimes be tempted to say what he knows he is expected from his position or character to say, rather than what he would have said if his personality were not concerned.  As far as honesty goes, signature perhaps offers as many inducements to one kind of insincerity, as anonymity offers to another kind.  And on the public it might perhaps be contended that there is an effect of a rather similar sort.  They are in some cases tempted away from serious discussion of the matter, into frivolous curiosity and gossip about the man.  All this criticism of the principle of which the Fortnightly Review was the earliest English adherent, will not be taken as the result in the present writer of Chamfort’s maladie des desabuses; that would be both extremely ungrateful and without excuse or reason.  It is merely a fragment of disinterested contribution to the study of a remarkable change that is passing over a not unimportant department of literature.  One gain alone counterbalances all the drawbacks, and that is a gain that could hardly have been foreseen or expected; I mean the freedom with which the great controversies of religion and theology have been discussed in the new Reviews.  The removal of the mask has led to an outburst of plain speaking on these subjects, which to Mr. Napier’s generation would have seemed simply incredible.  The frank avowal of unpopular beliefs or non-beliefs has raised the whole level of the discussion, and perhaps has been even more advantageous to the orthodox in teaching them more humility, than to the heterodox in teaching them more courage and honesty.

Let us return to Mr. Napier’s volume.  We have said that it is impossible for a great writer to be anonymous.  No reader will need to be told who among Mr. Napier’s correspondents is the writer of the following: ­

“I have been thinking sometimes, likewise, of a paper on Napoleon, a man whom, though handled to the extreme of triteness, it will be long years before we understand.  Hitherto in the English tongue, there is next to nothing that betokens insight into him, or even sincere belief of such, on the part of the writer.  I should like to study the man with what heartiness I could, and form to myself some intelligible picture of him, both as a biographical and as a historical figure, in both of which senses he is our chief contemporary wonder, and in some sort the epitome of his age.  This, however, were a task of far more difficulty than Byron, and perhaps not so promising at present.”

And if there is any difficulty in recognising the same hand in the next proposal, it arises only from the circumstance that it is this writer above all others who has made Benthamism a term of reproach on the lips of men less wise than himself: ­

“A far finer essay were a faithful, loving, and yet critical, and in part condemnatory, delineation of Jeremy Bentham, and his place and working in this section of the world’s history.  Bentham will not be put down by logic, and should not be put down, for we need him greatly as a backwoodsman:  neither can reconciliation be effected till the one party understands and is just to the other.  Bentham is a denyer; he denies with a loud and universally convincing voice; his fault is that he can affirm nothing, except that money is pleasant in the purse, and food in the stomach, and that by this simplest of all beliefs he can reorganise society.  He can shatter it in pieces ­no thanks to him, for its old fastenings are quite rotten ­but he cannot reorganise it; this is work for quite others than he.  Such an essay on Bentham, however, were a great task for any one; for me a very great one, and perhaps rather out of my road.”

Perhaps Carlyle would have agreed that Mr. Mill’s famous pair of essays on Bentham and Coleridge have served the purpose which he had in his mind, though we may well regret the loss of such a picture of Bentham’s philosophic personality as he would surely have given us.  It is touching to think of him whom we all know as the most honoured name among living veterans of letters, passing through the vexed ordeal of the young recruit, and battling for his own against the waywardness of critics and the blindness of publishers.  In 1831 he writes to Mr. Napier:  “All manner of perplexities have occurred in the publishing of my poor book, which perplexities I could only cut asunder, not unloose; so the MS. like an unhappy ghost still lingers on the wrong side of Styx; the Charon of ­ Street durst not risk it in his sutilis cymba, so it leaped ashore again.”  And three months later:  “I have given up the notion of hawking my little Manuscript Book about any further; for a long time it has lain quiet in its drawer, waiting for a better day.”  And yet this little book was nothing less than the History of the French Revolution.

It might be a lesson to small men to see the reasonableness, sense, and patience of these greater men.  Macaulay’s letters show him to have been a pattern of good sense and considerateness.  Mr. Carlyle seems indeed to have found Jeffrey’s editorial vigour more than could be endured: 

“My respected friend your predecessor had some difficulty with me in adjusting the respective prerogatives of Author and Editor, for though not, as I hope, insensible to fair reason, I used sometimes to rebel against what I reckoned mere authority, and this partly perhaps as a matter of literary conscience; being wont to write nothing without studying it if possible to the bottom, and writing always with an almost painful feeling of scrupulosity, that light editorial hacking and hewing to right and left was in general nowise to my mind.”

But we feel that the fault must have lain with Jeffrey; the qualifications that Lord Cockburn admired so much were not likely to be to the taste of a man of Mr. Carlyle’s grit.  That did not prevent the most original of Mr. Napier’s contributors from being one of the most just and reasonable.

“I have, barely within my time, finished that paper [’Characteristics’], to which you are now heartily welcome, if you have room for it.  The doctrines here set forth have mostly long been familiar convictions with me; yet it is perhaps only within the last twelvemonth that the public utterance of some of them could have seemed a duty.  I have striven to express myself with what guardedness was possible; and, as there will now be no time for correcting proofs, I must leave it wholly in your editorial hands.  Nay, should it on due consideration appear to you in your place (for I see that matter dimly, and nothing is clear but my own mind and the general condition of the world), unadvisable to print the paper at all, then pray understand, my dear Sir, now and always, that I am no unreasonable man; but if dogmatic enough (as Jeffrey used to call it) in my own beliefs, also truly desirous to be just towards those of others.  I shall, in all sincerity, beg of you to do, without fear of offence (for in no point of view will there be any), what you yourself see good.  A mighty work lies before the writers of this time.”

It is always interesting, to the man of letters at any rate if not to his neighbours, to find what was first thought by men of admitted competence of the beginnings of writers who are now seen to have made a mark on the world.  “When the reputation of authors is made,” said Sainte-Beuve, “it is easy to speak of them convenablement:  we have only to guide ourselves by the common opinion.  But at the start, at the moment when they are trying their first flight and are in part ignorant of themselves, then to judge them with tact, with precision, not to exaggerate their scope, to predict their flight, or divine their limits, to put the reasonable objections in the midst of all due respect ­this is the quality of the critic who is born to be a critic.”  We have been speaking of Mr. Carlyle.  This is what Jeffrey thought of him in 1832: ­

“I fear Carlyle will not do, that is, if you do not take the liberties and the pains with him that I did, by striking out freely, and writing in occasionally.  The misfortune is, that he is very obstinate, and unluckily in a place like this, he finds people enough to abet and applaud him, to intercept the operation of the otherwise infallible remedy of general avoidance and neglect.  It is a great pity, for he is a man of genius and industry, and with the capacity of being an elegant and impressive writer”

The notion of Jeffrey occasionally writing elegantly and impressively into Carlyle’s proof-sheets is rather striking.  Some of Jeffrey’s other criticisms sound very curiously in our ear in these days.  It is startling to find Mill’s Logic described (1843) as a “great unreadable book, and its elaborate demonstration of axioms and truisms.”  A couple of years later Jeffrey admits, in speaking of Mr. Mill’s paper on Guizot ­“Though I have long thought very highly of his powers as a reasoner, I scarcely gave him credit for such large and sound views of realities and practical results as are displayed in this article.”  Sir James Stephen ­the distinguished sire of two distinguished contributors, who may remind more than one editor of our generation of the Horatian saying, that

  “Fortes creantur fortibus et bonis,
  ... neque imbellera féroces
     Progenerant aquilae columbam”

­this excellent writer took a more just measure of the book which Jeffrey thought unreadable.

“My more immediate object in writing is to remind you of John Mill’s book [System of Logic], of which I have lately been reading a considerable part, and I have done so with the conviction that it is one of the most remarkable productions of this nineteenth century.  Exceedingly debatable indeed, but most worthy of debate, are many of his favourite tenets, especially those of the last two or three chapters.  No man is fit to encounter him who is not thoroughly conversant with the moral sciences which he handles; and remembering what you told me of your own studies under Dugald Stewart, I cannot but recommend the affair to your own personal attention.  You will find very few men fit to be trusted with it.  You ought to be aware that, although with great circumspection, not to say timidity, Mill is an opponent of Religion in the abstract, not of any particular form of it.  That is, he evidently maintains that superhuman influences on the mind of man are but a dream, whence the inevitable conclusion that all acts of devotion and prayer are but a superstition.  That such is his real meaning, however darkly conveyed, is indisputable.  You are well aware that it is in direct conflict with my own deepest and most cherished convictions.  Yet to condemn him for holding, and for calmly publishing such views, is but to add to the difficulties of fair and full discussion, and to render truth (or supposed truth), less certain and valuable than if it had invited, and encountered, and triumphed over every assault of every honest antagonist.  I, therefore, wish Mill to be treated respectfully and handsomely.”

Few of Mr. Napier’s correspondents seem to have been more considerate.  At one period (1844) a long time had passed without any contribution from Sir James Stephen’s pen appearing in the Review.  Mr. Senior wrote a hint on the subject to the editor, and Napier seems to have communicated with Sir James Stephen, who replied in a model strain.

“Have you any offer of a paper or papers from my friend John Austin?  If you have, and if you are not aware what manner of man he is, it may not be amiss that you should be apprised that in these parts he enjoys, and deservedly, a very high and yet a peculiar reputation.  I have a great attachment to him.  He is, in the best sense of the word, a philosopher, an earnest and humble lover of wisdom.  I know not anywhere a larger minded man, and yet, eloquent as he is in speech, there is, in his written style, an involution and a lack of vivacity which renders his writings a sealed book to almost every one.  Whether he will be able to assume an easier and a lighter manner, I do not know.  If not, I rather fear for him when he stands at your bar.  All I ask is, that you would convey your judgment in measured and (as far as you can honestly) in courteous terms; for he is, for so considerable a man, strangely sensitive.  You must have an odd story to tell of your intercourse with the knights of the Order of the Quill.”

And the letter closed with what an editor values more even than decently Christian treatment, namely the suggestion of a fine subject.  This became the admirable essay on the Clapham Sect.

The author of one of the two or three most delightful biographies in all literature has published the letter to Mr. Napier in which Macaulay speaks pretty plainly what he thought about Brougham and the extent of his services to the Review.  Brougham in turn hated Macaulay, whom he calls the third or greatest bore in society that he has ever known.  He is furious ­and here Brougham was certainly not wrong ­over the “most profligate political morality” of Macaulay’s essay on Clive.

“In my eyes, his defence of Clive, and the audacious ground of it, merit execration.  It is a most serious, and, to me, a painful subject.  No ­no ­all the sentences a man can turn, even if he made them in pure taste, and not in Tom’s snip-snap taste of the lower empire, ­all won’t avail against a rotten morality.  The first and most sacred duty of a public man, and, above all, an author, is to keep by honest and true doctrine ­never to relax ­never to countenance vice ­ever to hold fast by virtue.  What?  Are we gravely to be told, at this time of day, that a set-off may be allowed for public, and, therefore, atrocious crimes, though he admits that a common felon pleads it in vain?  Gracious God, where is this to end!  What horrors will it not excuse!  Tiberius’s great capacity, his first-rate wit, that which made him the charm of society, will next, I suppose, be set up to give a splendour to the inhabitants of Capreae.  Why, Olive’s address, and his skill, and his courage are not at all more certain, nor are they qualities of a different cast.  Every great ruffian, who has filled the world with blood and tears, will be sure of an acquittal, because of his talents and his success.  After I had, and chiefly in the Edinburgh Review, been trying to restore a better, a purer, a higher standard of morals, and to wean men from the silly love of military glory, for which they are the first to pay, I find the Edinburgh Review preaching, not merely the old and common hérésies, but ten thousand times worse, adopting a vile principle never yet avowed in terms, though too often and too much taken for a guide, unknown to those who followed it, in forming their judgments of great and successful criminals.”

Of the essay on Warren Hastings he thought better, “bating some vulgarity and Macaulay’s usual want of all power of reasoning.”  Lord Cockburn wrote to Mr. Napier (1844) a word or two on Macaulay.  “Delighting as I do,” says Lord Cockburn, “in his thoughts, views, and knowledge, I feel too often compelled to curse and roar at his words and the structure of his composition.  As a corrupter of style, he is more dangerous to the young than Gibbon.  His seductive powers greater, his defects worse.”  All good critics now accept this as true.  Jeffrey, by the way, speaking of the same essay, thinks that Macaulay rates Chatham too high.  “I have always had an impression,” he says, “(though perhaps an ignorant and unjust one), that there was more good luck than wisdom in his foreign policy, and very little to admire (except his personal purity) in any part of his domestic administration.”

It is interesting to find a record, in the energetic speech of contemporary hatred, of the way in which orthodox science regarded a once famous book of heterodox philosophy.  Here is Professor Sedgwick on the Vestiges of Creation: ­

“I now know the Vestiges well, and I detest the book for its shallowness, for the intense vulgarity of its philosophy, for its gross, unblushing materialism, for its silly credulity in catering out of every fool’s dish, for its utter ignorance of what is meant by induction, for its gross (and I dare to say, filthy) views of physiology, ­most ignorant and most false, ­and for Its shameful shuffling of the facts of geology so as to make them play a rogue’s game.  I believe some woman is the author; partly from the fair dress and agreeable exterior of the Vestiges:  and partly from the utter ignorance the book displays of all sound physical logic.  A man who knew so much of the surface of Physics must, at least on some one point or other, have taken a deeper plunge; but all parts of the book are shallow....  From the bottom of my soul, I loathe and detest the Vestiges.  ’Tis a rank pill of asafoetida and arsenic, covered with gold leaf.  I do, therefore, trust that your contributor has stamped with an iron heel upon the head of the filthy abortion, and put an end to its crawlings.  There is not one subject the author handles bearing on life, of which he does not take a degrading view.”

Mr. Napier seems to have asked him to write on the book, and Sedgwick’s article, the first he ever wrote for a review, eventually appeared (1845), ­without, it is to be hoped, too much of the raging contempt of the above and other letters.  “I do feel contempt, and, I hope, I shall express it.  Eats hatched by the incubations of a goose ­dogs playing dominos ­monkeys breeding men and women ­all distinctions between natural and moral done away ­the Bible proved all a lie, and mental philosophy one mass of folly, all of it to be pounded down, and done over again in the cooking vessels of Gall and Spurzheim!” This was the beginning of a long campaign, which is just now drawing near its close.  Let us at least be glad that orthodoxy, whether scientific or religious, has mended his temper.  One among other causes of the improvement, as we have already said, is probably to be found in the greater self-restraint which comes from the fact of the writer appearing in his own proper person.