The Press. — London, England, 1855-12-29 00:00:00

7 DECEMBER 29,1855. study them, is their singular, and we fear almost unapproachable, impartiality. Not absolute impartiality, for that is impos sible. They were men with human passions, and citizens with their national traditions. But there was none of that desperate earnest ness in favour of particular governmental doctrines which distinguishes the moderns They had their sympathies and their antipa thies, but they were rather confined to parties than to principles ; and they were entirely free, be it remembered, from the irritating in fluence of religious animosity. Their pre judices, in fact, as compared to ours, were " as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water " unto wine." Now, of all the impartial and cool-headed observers which the world has ever seen, per haps Aristotle was the most so. In addition to this, his political experience was enormous. From the numerous Polities scattered along the shores of the Mediterranean he could draw an inexhaustible fund of illustrations. His mind was of a singularly practical and logical character. He was not likely to be led astray by visionary schemes of perfection, nor had he, on the other hand, any unworthy con ception of the dignity of political science. We should at first, then, be disposed to imagine that any treatise on political philoso phy proceeding from a writer so qualified must in its conclusions be final—that he would have fathomed most of the difficulties which beset Government, and, as far as human inge nuity could attain, have removed them. Yet not even the most ardent admirers of Aristotle will contend that he has done this. Read, indeed, by the light which Thucydides, Plato, and Aristophanes shed upon his pages, he is still pregnant with instruction ; yet the in fluence which " The Politics " has exercised over the human mind is undoubtedly much less than the author anticipated, and less even than has been exercised by many far inferior writers. There are many reasons, perhaps, why Aristotle should not have done more than he did, but there are two more pro minent than the rest. The first was, the smallness of the communities upon which his inductions were based, to the direct effects of which upon our own interpretation of Aristotle we shall presently revert. The second and more important is to be sought in the character of his own mind. We have just said that it was practical and logical : it was so to a fault. When Aristotle looked abroad upon the Grecian world, he would see that pretty nearly every known form of poli tical constitution had been worked out, yet none had sufficed to insure national inde pendence What, then, was the remedy? To collect together examples of each kind ; to analyse them carefully; to detect in each its respective elements of strength and weakness ; and thus to deduce the scheme of a irOX‘Tita which should combine as many of the former with a few of the latter as human frailty would admit of? Or was it to regard existing facts as of secondary importance ; to look into the nature of things, and endeavour to discover, a priori, what was the true character of Govern ment, and to trust almost entirely to those faculties which tell us that two and two make four with greater certainty than our senses can tell us that a stone is a stone ? The former was the method of Aristotle, the latter of Plato. It followed as an obvious conse quence from the former theory that Aristotle should consider the existing materials as adequate to his purpose ; and his purpose was strengthened by his love of analysis This habit of logical division, in itself invaluable, from his servant became almost his master — ins( much that when he had, in Mr. Congreve's words, " registered the phenomena of Greek society," he seemed to fancy that his task was accomplished. Herein, we contend, consists his inferiority to Plato ; yet it is on this very ground that Mr. Congreve, somewhat strangely, endeavours to prove that he was superior. If, as his editor admits, it was a defect in Aristotle that he considered his diLta sufficient for the formation of a final judgment, how can we be justified in finding fault with Plato for thinking the reverse ? If these " registered phenomena " were inadequate to the require ments of science ; we cannot blame the Vhilo- THE PRESS. sopher who looked beyond them. How far we may accept his deductions is another question, but we clearly cannot allow it as a merit iu Aristotle that he did not perceive his own short comings—that he did not try what it is granted was the only chance he had of constructing a permanent system. To derive real benefit from the perusal of " The Politics," the student should, in our opinion, learn to regard them in the light of a supplement to the Republic and the Laws. After all, the practical conclu sions of the two are not widely different , and although Aristotle is every now and then be trayed into a sneer against Plato, whom we must continue to believe, with Mr. Maurice, he felt he did not quite understand, yet we do not for a moment suppose that Plato himself would have found anything to object to in Aristotle. _ _ _ It is time we should say something of Mr. Congreve as a commentator. This gentleman has, we believe, hitherto been contented to rest his reputation on other grounds than those of pure scholarship. But his present work cannot be considered wanting in that department ; and we understand it is very favorably spoken of in the scholastic world. Wherever he confines himself—and we wish it was oftener—to the discussion of idioms and readings, he is simple, lucid, and sensible ; but no sooner does his pen get within the charmed circle of politics than he becomes vague, hasty, and irrelevant. This last-men tioned fault is more especially noticeable: he puts constructions on his author's words which we are confident were never intended, and in dulges in dissertations which are as foreign to his subject as they are stale to his readers. We could quote innumerable instances of this, if our space permitted us ; as it is, we will merely refer our readers to the fourth and eleventh chapters of the second book, the fourth and eleventh of the sixth book, and the beginning of the eighth book on the subject of political lorri , rn, for confirmation of our charge. In the first-mentioned passage of the sixth book the fault is indeed rather on the other side—he has told us too little of the matter under discussion, instead of too much. Aristotle is speaking of the dan gerous condition of those states in which 4qiatAevrix, the mere sudden decrees of a popular assembly, or iirvre. n .,,vra, the per sonal commands of a despot, can override the law of the land. Mr. Congreve's note on this rather distasteful passage is as follows : The Athenian democracy was eminently legal and con stitutional, and yet there were demagogues in the ordinary sense, and there, as evervwhere else—in fact, it is a ne. cessity of government-4siaTIALIT4 were frequent, with. out superseding the real efficacy of law. But there can scarcely be any doubt that Aristotle is here making special reference to the Athenian system, which it is well known all their best men lamented in vain. Has Mr. Congreve entirely forgotten the Mitylensean decree, and other similar passages in Thucy dides ? Had it escaped him, when he wrote these words, that Demosthenes has borne special testimony against this intolerable evil in his own time ? However this may be, we must record our opinion that Mr. Congreve is by no means a trustworthy guide on the sub ject of ancient politics ; how far he may be so on modern we must discuss at another op portunity. Doctor Antonio. A Tale. By the Author of " Lorenzo Benoni." Edinburgh : Constable. Tins is a very simple but interesting and affecting story. It is the account of a young English lady, who, while travelling with her father in Italy, is injured by a fall from her carriage, and detained for some time at a road side inn, under the care of the village doctor. On the fate of these three persons our atten tion is riveted throughout ; and we feel a kind of vague idea that they must be our own rela tives we are reading of. In that artful com plexity of incidents, and those strong contrasts of character, usually considered essential to success by modern writers, " Doctor Antonio " is entirely deficient ; but in the power of stirring the emotions, and setting before our minds a vivid and finished picture, not indeed of what does happen every day, but of what we feel might, our author is surpassed by few . . d ialogue is at once forcible and natural, 1245 and his characters, though he strains at no startling effects, are well discriminated. Per haps iu Sir John Davenne we detect an absence of that conscious acquaintance with English foibles and English behaviour which betrays the hand of a foreigner; but then it is au advantage in some respects to have " the Englishman abroad" sketched, as it were, from without, and presented to us as the foreigner sees him. His style is thoroughly pure; and, indeed, on the appearance of " Lorenzo Beuoni " critics were disposed to question whether it could really have been written by an Italian. "Doctor Antonio" dis plays great dramatic power, and we seldom remember a surprise so skilfully managed as in the scene where Aubrey Daveune wishes Lucy's growing of for the hero. This young man, a captain of cavalry, coming home on leave from India, breaks suddenly in upon their delicious retreat, and is of course intro duced to Doctor Antonio. Lucy, knowing her brother's character, is apprehensive of hit conduct on the occasion, but, to her great delight, the young soldier is most courteous and familiar. The following morning the brother and sister are talking together : When Lucy, about eight next morning, after her early bath, and one or two hours of additional rest, crossed the ante-room on her way out, she found her brother already installed on the sofa, and yawning violently. " Where are you going ?" asked Aubrey. "To water my flowers. I have a nice little garden of my own; come and look at it." Aubrey raised his long length, went, looked at it, and admired it. The garden Was not her own making, war it Oh, no ! Speranza had made it. Speranza, the landlady's daughter, a very nice girl. Doctor Antonio had given Lucy most of the plants. " Are they not beautiful?' " Very, said Aubrey, adding, " Do you know, Lucy, I am quire iu love with that doctor of yours?" " Are you?" said Lucy, looking up . at him with such beaming eyes. "I have seldom seen a more commanding figure than his, and he is very gtmtlemanlike, certainly. 1 wish he were an English duke. " " Why?" said Lucy. " I assure you he is quite con tented with his lot." " Because, if he were, young lady, you would make a handsome couple." Lucy grew scarlet. "As it is," pur sued Aubrey slowly, in a clear, cruel, stern voice, " As it is, I would rather see you dead and buried than married to that man." _ . The little watering•pot slipt out of her hand, and her knees gave way. "1) it!" cried Aubrey, raising her from the ground, " you needn't take fright at a were supposition ! " And, without another word, he passed his powerful atm round hia sister's waist and led her up the stairs to the sofa. This was the first and the last time that Antonio's name was mentioned between them. Here terminates the most interesting portion of the tale, which is undoubtedly the period of Lucy's convalescence, and the delineation of that gradual and unconscious love which sprang up hetwcen the doctor and his patient. Lucy afterwards returns to Italy a rich widow, but in ill health, and is again attended by Doctor Antonio. The period in that of the Italian revolution, in which the physician is implicated. The scene in which he at length tells his love is uncommonly striking. They are discussing her former accident:— "What depths of dissimulation I discover in you," be said at last, laughing. "It seems now you took me in. Yuu positively knew your leg was broken, and said no thing about it, even to me." " No," returned Lucy; " I was resolved you should have the full benefit of your kind deception. I allowed you to cheat me av much as you pleased." Antonio answered nothing, but took the small white hand that was hanging over the arm of her chair, took it in his, and slowly and deliberately raised it to his lips. The sharp, distinct report of a volley of musketry rent the still air, and made every window and dour rattle. Antonio was on his feet in a moment, as pale as it every one of the bullets fired had gone through his heart. " What can that be?" asked Lucy, in mortal alarm. " Nothing of consequence," said Antonio, with a ;nighty effort to look unconcerned. " Probably only some tioveru• ment powder expended in saluting the opening of l'arlise went. By-the-bye, I must not be too late." As be took his hat another discharge was beard, almost, instantly followed by a brisk running fire. " There is fighting going on, 1 am sure of it," cried Lucy, terrified, and shaking all over. "Do not go, for mercy's sake ! What is the use of your going? What can one man do, and alone ?" " Satisfy his own conscience that be has done all in his power to prevent civil war," replied Antonio, with tranquil determination. " Let me go, I beseech you." " Yon shall not; cried Lacy, now quite beside herself with terror, and interposing her slight form between him and the door. Antonio looked at her. " I must go," he said. It was as if Fate had spoken Lucy felt at once unequal to struggle with that iron will. She joined her handl) like a child about to pray, looked