Part 22

It is not easy to mark out and discriminate the intellectual character of a man like this; for there are few men so undividable—few with whom the ordinary separation of mental and physical is so complete an impossibility. He is one whole individual person, honest and genuine in all his appearances, and entirely transcending as a man, in natural force and influence, anything that can be said of him in any special character as author, politician, or wit. To our own thinking, Sydney Smith is a complete impersonation of English breadth, manliness, and reality. He is no diver into things unseen, nor has he a strong wing skyward; but he walks upon the resounding earth with a sturdy tread, and has the clearest and most healthful perception of all the actual duties and common principles of life. This strong realisation of good and evil, according to the ordinary conditions of humanity—actual, present, visible benefit or disadvantage—seems the most marked feature of at least his political writings. The Plymley Letters, for instance, never touch upon the soul of the question they discuss. So far as they go, they are admirably clear and pointed—a distinct and powerful exposition of all the phases of expediency; but there they pause, and go no farther. The argument touches only things external, inducements and consequences. These are stated so forcibly and clearly that we do not wonder at their immediate effect and popularity; for the common mind is easily swayed by reasoning of this practical and tangible description, and it is impossible to misunderstand so undeniable a statement of advantage and disadvantage. But the grand principles on either side of the question—the old lofty notion of a Christian nation, and the duty it owed to God, on the one hand, and the rights of conscience and individual belief upon the other—find no place in the plea. Our native Scottish tendency to consider things “in the abstract” was a favourite subject of Sydney’s gleeful and kindly ridicule. It is the last temptation in the world to which he himself was like to yield; and indeed it is remarkable to note his entire want of this northern foible—his strong English bias to the practical and evident. He has no idea of throwing the whole weight of his cause upon a mere theoretic right and wrong. His first step is to intrench and fortify his position—to build himself round with a Torres Vedras of realities, distinct to touch and vision; and while a preacher of another mind solemnly denounces what is _wrong_, it is his business to show you what is foolish—to point out the spot where your enemy can have you at disadvantage—to appeal to your common experience, your knowledge of men and of the world. The strain of his argument throughout hangs upon the external and palpable—the principles of general truth are not in his way. He takes for granted the first elements of the controversy, and hurries on to the practical results of it. Peter Plymley has not much to say upon the Catholic Question; but he has a great deal to say upon the chronic disaffection of Ireland, and the uncomfortable chances of an invasion on a coast which discontented Catholics were not likely to make great efforts to defend. With this view of the subject he is armed and eloquent. But this is not the highest view of the subject, though it may be a popular and telling one. In his own life, Sydney Smith held a nobler creed, and pursued his way with unfailing firmness, though it led him entirely beyond the warm and wealthy regions of ecclesiastical preferment; but in his argument the balance which he makes is always a balance of things positive. Perhaps something of the force and manliness of his style is owing to this practical species of reasoning. We give him credit for his “way of putting a thing”—so at least do Dr Doyle and Lady Holland, without perceiving that the weight and obviousness is in the _thing_ rather than the _way_. We are tempted to quote the conversation between the Rev. Romanist and the Rev. Anglican, in illustration of this irresistible style of argument common to Sydney Smith:—

He proposed that Government should pay the Catholic priests. “They would not take it,” said Dr Doyle. “Do you mean to say, that if every priest in Ireland received to-morrow morning a Government letter with a hundred pounds, first quarter of their year’s income, that they would refuse it?” “Ah, Mr Smith,” said Dr Doyle, “you’ve such a way of putting things!”

This is a very good example of his prevailing tendency. The _argumentum ad hominem_ is the soul of Sydney’s philosophy. You are sure of a home-thrust, positive and unevadable, when you enter into discussion with this most practical of understandings. Perhaps you do not agree with him; very probably to your thinking there are principles involved of more importance than these obvious safeties or dangers; but the nature of his implements gives him force and precision; he never strikes vaguely; his sword is no visionary sword, but a most English and most evident weapon—sheer steel.

This habit of reasoning had a singular effect upon his papers on religious subjects—we mean especially those articles on Methodism and Missions which appeared many years ago in the _Edinburgh Review_. These extraordinary productions are already altogether out of date, as indeed they must have been behind the time in which they were written, and of right belonged to a less enlightened generation; but it is marvellous to perceive how far so acute and reasonable a man could go in this grand blunder, applying his ordinary and limited rule to the immeasurable principles of truth. It is odd, and it is melancholy; for we confess it gives us little pleasure to prove over again the old truth that the schemes of Christianity are often foolishness to the wise and to the prudent. The paper on Missions is the most wonderful instance of weak argument and inappropriate reasoning. That so clear an eye did not see the wretched logic and poor expediences, the complete begging of the question and strange unworthiness of the argument, is a standing marvel. On any other subject, Sydney Smith could not have gone so far astray. His favourite mode of treatment, however effective in other regions, has no legitimate place in this. We may allow, in spite of our dread of Popery, and conscientious objection to share the powers of government with so absolute and unscrupulous an agency, that an emancipated Catholic is more likely to make a cheerful and patriotic citizen, than a Catholic bound down under penal laws could possibly be. But we are staggered to think of restraining the efforts of the evangelist, in order that we may better secure our supremacy in India over tribes of pagan weaklings, to whom, for our empire’s sake, freedom and the Gospel must remain unknown. This is a startling conclusion when plainly stated; but it is the obvious and unmistakable end of all that this very able writer, a clergyman and a man of enlightened principles, has to say upon so difficult and intricate a question. Had any of his political opponents said it, and had it been Sydney’s part to explode the fallacious reasoning, what a flood of ridicule he would have poured upon these self-same sentiments! how triumphantly he must have exposed the tame and unprofitable argument! how clearly proved that the policy of doing nothing was a policy as old as human nature, and needed no advocacy! To leave paganism alone, because caste is the most effectual means which could be invented for keeping a race in bondage—to put an end to all injudicious eagerness for conversions, because these happy idolators are very comfortable as they are, and our benevolence is thrown away,—if Sydney had not made the argument—had it only by good luck come from the other side—how Sydney could have scattered it in pieces!

Perhaps the happiest hit he ever made was that which covered the unhappy State of Pennsylvania with the shame it was worthy of. No one else could have done this so well. His indignation and vehemence—his grief at the disgrace thus brought upon a country where his own opinions were supreme—are pointed, and brought home, by the keen touch of ridicule, with a characteristic force and pungency. He is grieved; but still he has a satisfaction in pulling the stray American to pieces, and making over his jewellery to afflicted bondholders. He is angry; but still he can laugh at his proposed uniform, the S. S. for Solvent States, which he would have the New Yorkers wear upon their collars. We have all a wicked enjoyment of other people’s castigation; and we are afraid the public in general—those of them who hold no Pennsylvanian bonds—were amply consoled by Sydney Smith’s letters for the sins of their brethren. Lady Holland tells us that the excitement in America was extraordinary, and that shoals of letters, and occasional homely presents, poured upon her father from all quarters. It was a fair blow, downright and unanswerable; and no one could have a better right to assault in full force a public dishonesty than such a man as this, honest to the bottom of his heart.

We cannot undertake to predict whether or not the reputation of Sydney Smith will be a lasting reputation. His published works are not very remarkable, and they refer so entirely—saving the sketches of philosophy—to current books and current events—events and books which, to use his own phrase, have blown over—that it seems very doubtful if they can last over two or three generations. Admirable good sense, good English, and good morality, even with the zest of wit to heighten them, do not make a man immortal. They have already done their part, and earned their triumph; the future is in other hands. Herein lies the compensating principle of literature. The critic (and there have been critics more brilliant than Sydney) has his day. Yes, there he stands over all our heads, bowling us down like so many ninepins—small matter to him that in this book lies somebody’s hopes, and heart, and fortune. Little cares he for the stifled edition, the turned tide of popular favour. He goes about it coolly: it is his business—practising his deathstroke upon palpitating young poets and unhappy novel-writers, as the German executioner practised upon cabbages. We die by the score under this literary Attila. Our poor bits of laurel, our myrtle-sprigs and leaves of bay, are crushed to dust beneath his ruthless footsteps. With a barbarous triumph he rides over us, extinguishes our poor pretensions, puts us down. Never mind, humiliated brother! The critic has his day. By-and-by there will only be a distant _sough_ of him in the curious byways of historic lore. But the Book, oh patient Lazarus!—the Book will live out a century of reviewers, and be as young a hundred years hence as it is to-day.

Wherefore we seriously opine that a lasting reputation as a writer is not to be expected for Sydney Smith. As long as the children’s children of his contemporaries remain to tell and to remember what they heard in the days of their youth, so long his influence as a man will live among us. Had this biography been less a work of love, and more a work of art, it might have added a longer recollection to this natural memory; for its hero is so true an example of the kind of man whom British men delight to honour, that he might well have been singled out for a popular canonisation. As it is, this simple presentment of Sydney Smith is enough to place him upon his true standing-ground, and recommend him, far above all differences of opinion, or strifes of politics, to the affectionate estimation of every reader. A man honest, courageous, and truthful, struggling bravely through the ordinary trials of everyday existence, bearing poverty and neglect, bearing flattery and favour, coming forth unharmed through more than one fiery ordeal, and with the lightest heart and kindest temper, skilled in that art of ruling himself which is greater than taking a city. A little more sentiment, or a little less practical vigour, might have broken the charm. In his own person, as he lived, he is the very hero of social success and prosperity—for under no circumstances could he have appeared an unappreciated genius or a disappointed man. We are somewhat scornful in these days of the qualities of success. Indeed, it seems a general opinion, that the higher a man’s gifts are, the less are his chances. But many a youth of genius would do well to note the teachings of such a cordial and manly life as this, and mark how the gayest heart, and the most brilliant intelligence, are honoured and exalted by such homely virtues as self-restraint and self-denial. Sydney Smith in Oxford, living upon his hundred pounds a-year; Sydney Smith in Netherhaven, honestly enduring his curacy; taking no excuse from his wit; yielding nothing to his natural love of that society in which he shone; undisheartened by a profession which he did not love, and duties for which he had no distinct vocation; honestly, under all circumstances, maintaining his honour, his independence, and his purity, is a better moral lesson than all the lecturings of all the societies in the world.

We cannot perceive any closer resemblance, for our own part, much as they are named together, between Swift and Sydney Smith, than the merely evident and external one—that both were famous wits, and both somewhat unclerical clergymen. Sydney has the mightiest advantage in moral sunshine and sweetness over the redoubtable Dean. The Canon of St Paul’s broke no hearts and injured no reputations. There is not a cloud upon his open and bright horizon, except the passing clouds of Providence, and bitterness was not in his kind and generous heart. There is only one grand blunder in his life, and that is his profession. In such a matter the dutifullest of sons is not excusable in “yielding to his father’s wishes.” We can appreciate the sacrifice, but we cannot approve it. It was filial, but it was wrong. Sydney Smith is an honest man, a truthful man, and in ordinary life unblamable. We have no right to criticise the piety or religiousness of such a person in any private position, but with a clergyman the circumstances are different—and the veriest sinner requires something more than professional propriety as the motive and inspiration of the teachers of the faith.

So strong and usual is this feeling, that we do not doubt this book must have been an entire revelation to a great majority of its readers. We knew his great reputation; we knew his wit, and the general tenor of his opinions; yet we were shy of a man whose position and fame seemed almost antagonistic, and set up in our own mind a natural opposition between the sermons of the preacher and the _bon mots_ of the wit. This biography resolves the puzzle. Full of mirth, spontaneous and unlaboured, full of honest consistency and good-will, we accept Sydney Smith as he was, and judge of him by his own principles and actions—his own standard of perfection. Who does not lack some crowning charm to add a fuller and a sweeter excellence to all the lesser virtues? This man was distinguished in all social qualities—virtuous, conscientious, incorruptible, doing bravely every duty which he perceived in his way; and we can point to no truer type of an upright and open-hearted Englishman, than the bright portrait of this modest volume, the true monument and effigies of Sydney Smith.

PEERAGES FOR LIFE.

[We rarely have two articles upon one subject in the same Number of the Magazine, but we have no hesitation in publishing the two following short papers upon the unhappy and singularly ill-timed attempt to destroy the hereditary character of one branch of the Legislature. The first paper is by an English, and the second by a Scotch lawyer.]

It is not, we hope, from any party feeling (though party feelings are, as our readers know, entitled, in our view of things, to grave and deep consideration), that we enter our protest against the measure of creating peers for life,—a measure which its authors, unless they are the most shortsighted men that ever presumed to meddle with great questions, must know will end by changing the character of the House of Lords, and which we really believe to be an attempt as rash as it is uncalled for, and as little likely to conciliate the favour of any but those who dislike a government by King, Lords, and Commons, as it is to produce any one solid or permanent advantage. To those who think that the English constitution—a constitution which has floated like an ark over the waves which have swallowed up so many of those baseless fabrics that were hailed by sciolists as the proudest efforts of legislation—should be, we do not say repaired, and improved, and fortified, but _overthrown_, to make room for “some gay creature of the element” to people the sunbeam for a moment and then to disappear—we do not address ourselves; for we could not hope to produce any effect by reasoning upon those on whom the evidence of their senses is thrown away. But we would ask such of our readers as do not belong to the class we have just mentioned, calmly and dispassionately to examine with us this important question—premising only that the Reform Bill was by no means so serious and menacing a change in the constitution of the Lower, as the creation of peers for life (if that disastrous measure is really to be accomplished), will produce in the Upper House of Parliament. The Reform Bill shuffled the cards; this measure will change the pack. It is at once exotic and obsolete.