The Press.
London, England, 1855-11-03 00:00:00

THE PRESS.

events, wit, imagination, criticism, the art of
composing, the talent of describing, or any
other, is, in his opinion, intelligence; but he
gives such a description of intelligence as to
make it comprise some of the highest powers
of the human mind. Thus he speaks of it :
There is one quality essential, preferable to every other,
which should distinguish the historian, and which consti-
tutes his veritable superiority : it is intelligence. I will
endeavour to explain what I mean by this word. We often
remark in a child, a workman, or a statesman, something
which is not called wit (esprit), because it is wanting in
brilliancy, but which is called intelligence, because he who
is endowed with it seizes at once what is said to him, sees

and understands from half a word, comprehends if he be a
child what is taught him, if he be a workman the work
given to him to execute, if he be a statesman events, their
courses, and their consequences. The latter, too, by
means of intelligence, divines men's characters and in-
clinations, the conduct which is to be expected from them,
and is surprised and embarrassed at nothing, though often
affected at everything. That is what is called intelligence,
and in practice that simple quality which does not aim at
producing effect is of more utility in life than all the gifts
of the mind, genius excepted, because it possesses eclat,
force, extent, and promptitude.
It is this quality, applied to the great objects of history,
which, in my opinion, is the essential quality of the
narrator, and which, when it exists, brings after it all
others, provided that to the gift of nature he adds the ex-
perience derived from practice. In fact, with what I call
intelligence, the historian separates the true from the
false, does not allow himself to be deceived by the vain
traditions or the false rumours of history,—possesses
criticism ; he seizes thoroughly the characters of men and
of the times; he exaggerates nothing; he makes nothing
neither too great nor too little ; he gives to each personage
his veritable traits ; he removes false colours—of all orna-
ments the most displeasing in history—and paints justly ;
he penetrates into the secret springs of things; he under-
stands and causes to be understood how they are accom-
plished ; diplomacy, administration, war, marine, he places
these various objects within the reach of the majority of
mankind, because he knows how to seize them in their
generality intelligible to all ; and when he has thus suc-
ceeded in possessing himself of the numerous elements of
which a vast recital must be composed, the order in which
he must present them must be found in the order of events,
for he who has been able to seize the mysterious tie which
unites them, and the manner in which they produce one
another, has discovered the most beautiful order of narra-
tion, because it is the most natural; and if, moreover, he
be net of icy coldness in presence of the great scenes of
the life of nations, he weaves the whole strongly together,
and presents it with ease and spirit; he leaves to the
stream of time its fluidity, its power, and even its grace,
forcing none of its movements, changing none of its
beautiful windings. Finally—the supreme condition—he
is equitable, because nothing calms and diminishes
passions so much as the profound knowledge of men. I
do not say that that knowledge puts an end to all severity,
for that would be a misfortune ; but when a man knows
humanity and its weakness, when he knows what dominates
and leads it, he has—without hating evil the less or loving
good the less—more indulgence for the man who has
allowed himself to be led to evil by the thousand seduc-
tions of the human heart, and he does not the less adore
him who, in spite of all base temptations, has known how
to keep his heart up to the level of the good, the noble, and
the great.
As to the style in which history should be
written, M. Thiers (with perhaps a malicious
allusion to a certain Whig historian of our own
country) declares that it should be one which is
" neither perceived nor felt,"—fit to be com-
pared to a glass of exquisite purity. It should
be simple, clear, precise,—but at times elevated
when the great interests of humanity are in
question. This is precisely his own style, and
perhaps illnatured people may be tempted to
exclaim " Vous etes orfevre M. Jesse !"
But, after all, it is not the reflections on the
qualities and style proper for the historian
which form the most interesting feature of the
preliminary address of M. Thiers,—though,
assuredly, anything such a man may say on
such a subject will arrest the thoughtful reader.
What, however, has, as we arc informed, excited
most attention in Paris, and what will cer-
tainly be read with marked curiosity in this
country, is a sort of confession of political
faith, combined with an appreciation of his
great hero, Napoleon. We translate somewhat
largely from it :
I have passed twenty-five years in public life, and more
than thirty in the study of history. I have particularly
devoted myself to the annals of my time—of that at least
which ended when my youth commenced. After having
written the history of the French Revolution, I have en-
deavoured to write that of the Consulate and the Empire.
I do not know what the public will think of my
work. There is, however, one judgment which, if Ido not
deceive myself, it will pass, and that is, that it is imprinted
with a profound sentiment of justice and truth. I began
it in 1840, under a king whom I served and loved, although
opposing him on some points. I continued it under the
Republic, and I terminate it under the Empire, re-estab-
lished by the nephew of the great man whose actions I
have related. I entertain one hope, and that is, that no
one will perceive in my writings a trace of these different
epochs, not only in the basis of my judgments, but even in

1051

the niceties of my language I hope that it will not
be perceived that such a day I *as in possession of power,
such a day proscribed, such another peaceably happy in
my retirement I do nut say that my personal
opinions will not be found; I should be ashamed if they
were not to be so: but they will be found in the last volume
such as they appeared iu the first.
I have always loved true greatness, that which reposes
on the possible, and true liberty, that which is compatible
with the infirmity of human societies. These sentiments
I had when I was born; I shall have them when 1 die; and
I have not abandoned them to write the history of Napo-
leon. But Ido not believe that they have deprived the
judgments I have passed on him of rectitude—l believe
rather that they have contributed to enlighten them. No
mortal in history has appeared to me to unite more power-
ful and more varied faculties, and after having meditated
on the end of his career Ido not change my opinion. But
when I commenced his history, 1 thought, as I think in
terminating it, that the abuse of his prodigious faculties
precipitated him to his fall; and I thought, as I think now,
that the impetuosity of his genius, joined to the absence of
any check, was the cause of his misfortunes and of ours.
Whilst profoundly admiring him, whilst feeling strong
sympathy for his grand, active, ardent character, 1 have
always regretted that his natural want of moderation, and
the liberty which was left him to abandon himself thereto,
precipitated him into an abyss. In a poetical point of
view, he is not less interesting for his fall—perhaps he is
more so. lu a political and patriotic point of view, he
deserves just and severe judgment. but at all the epochs
of his career, l have endeavoured to represent him such as
he was; and he will be found, 1 am convinced, iu the latter
pan. of my recital—when in 1811 and 1812 he carried the
blindness of success up to delirium—what he was at the

beginning
The genius of Napoleon in the presence of history is
out of the pale of discussion. But what in my opinion is
not so, is the liberty which was left him to exercise his
will unrestrained and to do everything. My conviction on
this point dates, not from 1855 or 1852, but from the day
on which I began to think, )!bra man to be able to do all
that he is capable of willing is, in my opinion, the
greatest of misfortunes. Judges who see in Napoleon a
man of genius only do not. see all : for he was a man of the
greatest good sense that ever existed, and yet he arrived at.
adopting the wildest policy. Despotism can du everytbing
wilt, men, since it was able to pervert the sound sense of
Napoleon. My readers, then, will find in my book the
constant trace of this conviction!, and how could it be
otherwise ? It is forty years since 1 began to think, and I
have always thought the same thing. 1 shall be told that
I am prejudiced, but no matter—the prejudice has lasted
all my life. I know well all the dangers of liberty, and,
what is worse, its littlenesses : who should know them if
those who have endeavoured to found liberty and have
failed do not? But there is something still worse : it is the
power to do everything left even to the best and wisest of
men. It is often said that liberty prevents this or that
being done—such a movement from being raised—such a
line of action from being exercised in the world. But this
is the result of my long reflections—that if sometimes
Governments require to be stimulated, they more fre-
quently required to Le restrained ; that if sometimes
they are disposed to inactiou, wore generally they are dis-
posed to undertake too much in politics, in war, in expense,
and that a little restriction on their movements can never
be a misfortune. It is said, it is true, " But who will
restrain the liberty destined to restrain the power of one
man ?" I answer," All." 1 know that a country may
sometimes go astray, and I have seen it ; but it does so
less frequently and less completely than a single man.
After stating that these opinions aro not
dictated by personal interest, and that since
his retirement from public affairs and resump-
tion of the literary profession "he was never
more happy," M. Thiers thus concludes :-
1 demand pardon for having quitted the lofty regions of
history to enter for a moment into those of contemporary
controversies. But I was anxious, in avowing the opinions
which will be remarked in this book, to invoke an excuse
for my perseverance in corrections which date from the
first years of my life. It will be seen, lam sure, in these
later volumes that I am an ardent admirer of Napoleon,
a more ardent friend of France, but that I deplore that that
extraordinary man had power to do all—all even to ruining
himself. At the same time 1 am immensely thankful to him
for having left us, in leaving us glory, the seed of heroes—a
precious seed, which has just sprung up again in our
country, and has given us the conquerors of Sebastopol.
Yes, even without. him, our soldiers, his pupils, have been
as great and as successful as they formerly were with hint !
May they always be so, and may our armies, whatever may
be the government which directs them, be always
triumphant ! The greatest set-off to being nothing in
one's country is to see that country be in the world all that,
it ought to be.
So much for the introduction of M. Thiers.
In another article we shall speak of his book.

The Works of Professor Wilson. " Noctes
Ambrosiante." Vol. 11. Edited by Pro-
fessor Ferrier. London : Blackwoods.

THis volume of the " Noctes," though con-
taining some brilliant matter, is decidedly in-
ferior to its predecessor. The style is equally
energetic, but it is less fresh, and there is
much commonplace in its pages. We Liar
that four volumes of the " Noctes " is too
much, especially as the editor has confined
the publication exclusively to the papers of

1052

Professor Wilson. There are few songs in the
volume, and there is far too much of discus-
sion of optimal:evil reputations that have en-
tirely passed away. The manner, also, in
which Scotland and Scots'amen are lauded, in
season and out of season, will not be relished
by English readers. The pibroch of the
north is soon apt to become monotonous to
southern ears.

The word-pictures in this volume aro not so
poetically tinted as others from the same pen.
We should, for example, have expected more
from the Shepherd upon that glorious subject,
the view over Edinburgh :

01h,airl Tana Embro' a glorious city ? Sae clear the air,
yonner you see a man and woman stann in on the tap o' Arthur's
Seat ! I had nae notion there were sae molly steeples, and
spires, mid columns, and pillars, and obelisks, and dome,
in Embro' ! And at this distance the ee canna distinguish
atween them that belangs to kirks, and them that belangs
to naval monuments, and them that belangs to ile-gas com-
panies, and them that's only chitulerheids iu the
auld toun, and the tape o' groves, or single trees, sic as
poplars ; and aboon a' and ahint craigs and saft-broe'd
hills sprinkled wi sheep, lichts and shadows, and the blue
vaponry glimmer o' a midsummer day—bet, het, het, we
the barometer at ninety; but here, to us twa , bob- bobbin
attiring the fresh, cool, murmurin and faemy wee waves,
temperate as the air within the mermaid's palace.
The view of Edinburgh from the Calton-hill,
of Plymouth (with Dartmoor in the distance)
from Mount Edgecomb, and of Dublin Bay
from Killiuey•hill, arc three of the finest
coast ♦iews, with cities iu the foreground,
that can bo seen anywhere. Each of them
would bear elaborate word-painting, though
it would be difficult to portray them with the
brush of the artist. In some respects the
view of Edinburgh is the most imposing ; but
the ships of war, and other remarkable fea-
tures in the panoramic scene at Plymouth,
make it a view of unrivalled attraction.
In another part of the volume we are shown
Edinburgh in and out of " season." Here it is
in summer:—

North : Where were we, James?
Shepherd : I was abusin Embro' in simmer.
North : Why ?
Shepherd : Whey ?—a the lums smokeless! No ae
kack turnin a piece o' roastin-beef afore ae fire in ony ae
itchen in a' the new toon ! Streets and squares a' grass-
grown, sae that they !nicht be ruawn ! Shops like bee-
hives that hae dee'd in wunter ! Coaches settin ail for
Stirlin, and Perth, and Glasgow, and no ae passenger
either inside or out—only the driver keepin up his heartwi
flourishing his whop, and the guard, aittin in perfect soli-
tude, playin' an eerie spring on his bugle-horn ! The shut-
up playhouse a' covered ower wi' bills that seem to speak
o' plays acted in an antediluvian world ! Here, perhaps, a
lees in cretur, like an enrage, stauning at the mouth o' a
close, or hirpling slang, like the last relic o' the plague.
And oh ! but the stave-statue o' the late Lord Melville,
staunin a' by hinted up in the silent air, a builder and fifty
feet high, has then a ghastly seeming in the sky, like some
giant condemned to perpetual imprisonment on his
pedestal, and mournin ower the desolation of the city that
in life he loved so well, unheeded and unhonoured for a
season in the great metropolitan heart o' the country
whic'i he ante rejoiced to enrich and beatify, telling and
teaching her how to hold up. her head bauldly among the
nations, and, like a true patriot as he was, home and abroad
caring for the greatest—and the least of all her sons !
And the view of it in winter is lifelike ; but the
reader must recollect that the picture was
drawn thirty years since
Shepherd : Put to return to the near approach o' mounter.
Mankind hso again putten on worsted stocking and
Hannon drawers—white jeans and yellow nankeen troosers
has disappeared—dooble soles hae gotten a secure footen
ower pumps—hig coats wi fur, and mantles wi' miniver,
gie an agreeable muchness to the picturesque stream o'
life eddyin slang the channel o' the streets—gloves and
mittens are sae general that a red hairy haun looks rather
singular--every third body ye meet, for fear o' a sudden
blash, carries an umbrella—a' folks shave non mi bet
water—coal-carts are emptyin theirsels into ilka area—
caddies at the corners o' streets and drivers on coach-
boxes are seen warmintheuiaels by blawin on their fingers,
or whuskin theuisels wi' their open nieves across the
shoutbers—skates glitter at shop-wundows prophetic o'
frost—Mr. Finn may tak in his rod noo, for nae main thocht
of anglin till spring,—and wi' spring hovel, as wi' ither o'
our beet and bonniest freens, it may be said, out o' sicht
out o' mind,—you see heaps o' bears hung out for sale—
horses are a' hairier o' the hide—the bit toon bantam craws
tune, gild at breakfast ye maim tak taut no to pree an egg
afore smellin at it,—you meet hares carryin about in a'
qttartcrs--and gemkeopers proceedin out into the kiutra
wi' strings o' grews—sparr ow* it silent and smoky wi'
ruffled feathers waiting for crumbs on the ballustrawils—
lond is tho caoklin in the fowl-market o' Christmas geese
that oome a month at least afore the day, just like thae
annuals the Forget-lie-Note, Amulets Keepsakes, Ileejoos,
Gems, Anniversaries, Souvenirs, Friendship's Offerings,
and Wunter-Wreaths.
This voltime abounds in discussion of the
reputations'of various persons; and the dash-
n g, potlips DANI twhieh the supper.
-