Chapter XXII: , and Last (7)

It will be observed that, in contrasting the two poles of realism, we have not made any allusion to the absence or the presence of imagination; and this because the word is so liable to misconception. But if we are correct in distinguishing the realism of youth from the realism of senility, by saying that in the one case every circumstance is recognised as a necessity, every detail is viewed as eternally and universally true, while in the other all is more or less regarded as chance-work, which might or might not have been—what is this but saying, that in the one case facts appeal to the imagination, in the other merely to sense? It is the imagination that magnifies insular facts into continental truths, and immortalises momentary feelings by raising them into eternal laws. The Imagination is, _par excellence_, the faculty of generalisation—a fact which the psychologists commonly overlook. It indeed always regards the concrete, always regards the individual; and that is the great fact which the psychologists are accustomed to dwell upon, while at the same time they overlook the principal characteristic of imagination, which is this, that it never regards the individual merely as an individual, nor the concrete merely as a concrete; it regards the individual as representative of a species, and the concrete as a type of something more general. The imagination is to our other faculties what Cuvier or Owen is to other men. Give to Professor Owen a single bone—even the single bone of an extinct animal, and he will determine the size and position of every other bone, and the entire structure of the bird or beast. Give to the imagination a single fact, and it has the same marvellous significance, and myriads of other facts link on to it by the most inevitable obligation. And it is because in this temper the youthful mind seizes upon facts, that even when it clings to them far more tenaciously, and dwells upon them far more minutely than superannuated minds do, its realism has a worth and a hopefulness to which any other kind of realism can make no pretensions. The realism of dotage is gossip—merest gossip. The lace in a Dutch portrait—every thread and loop painted, what is it but old wives’ gossip? Compare this uninteresting imitation of point lace, velvets, and silks and satins, with the young Titian painting in the eye of one of his figures the reflection of a window. This is the realism of a boy, that is the realism of old women.

The drift of our argument will now be apparent. We have shown that the distinguishing feature of the modern drama is its tendency to Realism, and that it exhibits this tendency at present in common with the other imitative arts. We have also shown that the tendency to realism is characteristic of art in two periods of its history—namely, its rise and its decline; and we have endeavoured to explain the difference between the realism that characterises the rise of art, and the realism that marks its decadence. Then here arises the question of questions: To which period does the realism that signalises at present the imitative arts in general, and the dramatic art in particular, belong? Is it the realism of progress, or the realism of decay? It is the most difficult question of all; at least, it is the question to which it is most difficult in our present circumstances to give a very decided answer. Having stated the law and summed up the evidence, we should certainly be glad to shift to a jury the responsibility of pronouncing an absolute verdict as to the question of fact. The difficulty of pronouncing such a verdict is easily accounted for. In a period which is one of revival and not of imitation, it is most natural that we should find the two kinds of realism more or less blending together—the literalness of an exhausted epoch, and the faithfulness of a regenerated life. And amid all the pre-Raphaelitism of the stage and of the picture-galleries, it is nothing wonderful that we should find much to condemn, much of that literalness which is unworthy and imbecile. When, to quote an extreme instance—when Thurtell’s gig, with “some of the real water from the pond,” is exhibited on the boards of the Surrey Theatre, it is such another exhibition as we find in the degradation of the Roman drama—a degradation, by the way, which old Thomas Heywood describes as amongst the highest honours of the drama. There is so much naïveté in his description that we shall quote it:—

“Julius Cæsar himself, for his pleasure, became an actor, being in
shape, state, voice, judgment, and all other occurrents, exterior and
interior, excellent. Amongst many other parts acted by him in person,
it is recorded of him that, with general applause in his own theatre,
he played Hercules Furens; and, amongst many other arguments of his
completeness, excellence, and extraordinary care in his action, it is
thus reported of him: Being in the depth of a passion, one of his
servants (as his part then fell out) presenting Lychas, who before had
from Dejanira brought him the poisoned shirt, dipt in the blood of the
centaur Nessus, he, in the middest of his torture and fury, finding
this Lychas hid in a remote corner (appointed him to creep into of
purpose), although he was, as our tragedians use, but seemingly to
kill him by some false imagined wound, yet was Cæsar so carried away
with the violence of his practised fury, and by the perfect shape of
the madness of Hercules to which he had fashioned all his active
spirits, that he slew him dead at his foot, and after swung him,
_terque quaterque_ (as the poet says) about his head. It was the
manner of their emperors in those days, in their public tragedies, to
choose out the fittest amongst such as for capital offences were
condemned to die, and employ them in such parts as were to be killed
in the tragedy, who of themselves would make suit rather to die with
resolution, and by the hands of such princely actors, than otherwise
to suffer a shameful and most detestable end.”

And this, which honest old Heywood is willing to commend because done by an emperor, is in fact, _parvis componere magna_, the exact parallel to the incident already mentioned—the rat-killing in the pantomime of _Whittington and his Cat_. It is parallel also, in a certain degree, to one of Mr Phelps’s early extravagances, who, in his determination to adhere to the text of Shakespeare, actually ended _Macbeth_ by the exhibition of the traitor’s head—“Reenter Macduff, with Macbeth’s head on a pole.” One is inclined to believe that had he not been himself the Macbeth of the evening, he would have made arrangements to exhibit the veritable head of the actor who performed the part.

But while it is impossible to deny the existence of such a baneful realism, is this all? and does there not predominate at the same time a far more healthy tendency? Are not Mr Charles Kean’s revivals of _King John_ and _Macbeth_—are not Mr Phelps’s revivals, notwithstanding his early vagary—of this kind? Is not, for example, the historic fidelity with which _Macbeth_ is represented in the Princess’s Theatre, something entirely different in kind from that species of realism which in the soliloquy,

“Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle towards my hand?”

actually exhibited a dagger hanging in the air? There can be very little doubt of it; and it may be said generally that the realism displayed is most frequently of the earnest and healthy sort. If any misgiving should arise with regard to this in the case of the drama, one has a right to refer to the realism manifested at the very same time in the kindred art of painting, and if not entirely to interpret the one by the other, still to regard the analogy as of great importance. There are many of us who cannot admire pre-Raphaelitism, with all its extravagance and presumption, but at all events we do not regard its faults as the results of mental paralysis. They are the faults of youth, not of age—of the pleasant springtime which the pre-Raphaelites love to paint, when the leaves come forth in all their delicacy, almost diaphonous against the light, so that we trace the tender veins and fibres in all their minute windings—not of the yellowing autumn, when again all nature comes before us with excessive minuteness of detail, but the detail of faded leaves and the curious reticulation of their skeletons.

Right or wrong, it is at least more pleasant to look thus hopefully on the future of the drama than to fold one’s hands, shrug one’s shoulders, and give up all as lost. The drama! they say—fiddlesticks! the drama has all gone to the opera. Very well: and why should not the drama go to the opera? the music will do it no harm—on the contrary, a great deal of good. It is quite true that the opera, or, to speak more generally, the musical tendencies of the present time, act to the hurt of the existing theatres; but pity the man who ventures to dream that the fortunes of the British drama are to be identified with the fortunes of the present theatres, as at present conducted. On the contrary, it would probably be no great misfortune to the British drama, if, with one or two exceptions, they were all burnt to the ground; and however adverse to the drama the present musical taste may appear to be, it is not so really, but full of promise, if the dramatists would only see and use the opportunity. What is the use of running down illustration, dioramas, and concerts? Would it not be better for the dramatists to write up to them? The British drama has at the present moment two special haunts—the theatre and the concert-hall. It is needless for the dramatic authors to complain that their pieces are damned. Who cares for their pieces? All they have to say has no relation to our present habitudes and thoughts. If they will write for the theatres, let them write something worthy of illustration, and be as realistic in their writing as Mr Kean is in his acting, and in his stage appointments. And let them invade the concert-halls, where a new drama is springing up for the amusement of those who cannot away with the theatre.

Their position in the theatre at present is not good, is not creditable to them as a body, although we are far from looking on it with despair, and are far from saying that Othello’s occupation is gone. It may be worth our while to recognise clearly the position which the drama has always occupied in this country.

“Shikspur? Shikspur? who wrote it?” says Kitty, in _High Life below Stairs_, when the worshipful Lady Bab asks her if she had never read Shikspur. There are perhaps not many Mrs Kitties of the present day who would give a similar answer. But although the name of the great dramatist has become a household word amongst us, and his works are perhaps better known than those of any other writer in the language, he is known rather as an author to be read than as a dramatist whose plays are to be witnessed. It is not to be denied that upon the great majority of the British people, and especially of the middle classes, the theatre has had little or no influence. It is utterly ignored by them. From the days of Elizabeth and James, when the mayor and aldermen of London did what they could to discountenance the drama, and to oust Shakespeare and Burbage from the Blackfriars’ Theatre, up to this present hour, the playhouses, frequented by the aristocracy of birth and the aristocracy of education, and the players honoured as “His Majesty’s Servants,” or, “The Lord Chamberlain’s Company,” have been regarded with suspicion by the sober citizens of the middle class. When the theatres rose into importance, the Puritans rose into importance, and the former have never recovered from the denunciations of the latter. These denunciations, it is true, were often most intemperate, and based on the most ridiculous grounds (as when Gosson denounced the acting of women’s parts by boys as the sin which brought the fiery judgment of heaven upon Sodom and Gomorrah), yet when in so many of the plays of the period, and still more of the profligate reign of the second Charles, we find profanity, obscenity, and hardness of heart presented as the most brilliant of qualities, it is nothing wonderful that the commonalty should have been estranged. From the memory of those impurities the theatre has never entirely recovered, and there are multitudes among us nowadays who regard it as little better than a lazaretto. It has indeed been very much altered, so that in every respectable theatre he must be nearly as squeamish as those Americans who are said by Sam Slick to have put trousers on the legs of their pianofortes, who is offended with what he sees or hears: and yet still the old repugnance remains; as if, like the man who had the devil cast out of him, the people regard it as a house swept and garnished only to receive seven other devils worse than before. The fact is, that it is not enough to introduce a negative morality into the theatres: it is not enough that the old devil should have been smoked out, and the house swept and garnished, if we find no positive substitute. It is a genuine and noble substitute that is wanted, not electroplate, nor nickel silver. The most offensive part of stage morality at present is its hypocrisy. We should infinitely prefer seeing the downright licentiousness of Etherege and Sedley to the sham sentiment and the canting virtues that sometimes take the place of it on the modern stage—we mean especially in the afterpieces. The former is an open enemy, the other a disguised one. And until we have true poetry in the sentiment, and true chivalry in the action, and that reverence which is implied in poetry and chivalry, it is not likely that the English people, as a whole, will ever look to the theatres. At present, the greater number of dramatic writers seem to expend their energies in the most ephemeral manner. The burlesques and pantomimes, we have said, are about the best things produced on the British stage. They are often very amusing, and display a strange prodigality of power—but power all run to seed. The wit consists of punning; the humour consists of practical jokes, horrible grimace, and elaborate buffoonery; the dialogue is in the vernacular of the London taverns and caves of harmony;[14] the plot is not simply improbable, it is impossible and incomprehensible; the characters are little better than marionettes, and their sentiments the sentiments of puppets. Of course there are exceptions, and brilliant ones they are. Bulwer Lytton, Sheridan Knowles, Douglas Jerrold, Charles Reade, and a few others, have shown what they can do in a more serious vein. But, as a whole, the dramatic literature of the day is, as it has ever been since the Restoration, more remarkable for quantity than quality. Few persons out of London, and not many even in London, are well acquainted with that literature, the extent of its surface, the multiplicity of its currents, its utter shallowness, and the incredible mud that lies at the bottom of it; and were we to attempt a very slight analysis of its contents, run up a few statistics, give one or two extracts, and, in a word, describe it in its proper colours, a tale would probably be unfolded which would not only somewhat astonish those who, living in the provinces, seldom or never enter a theatre, and are thus blessedly ignorant of the carrion fare on which metropolitan playgoers fatten at half-price, but would also make some of those who frequent the dramatic temple not a little ashamed that afterpieces which are unreadable for their insipidity,[15] disgusting for their bad taste, and still worse, contemptible, although not so much for their licentiousness as for the cant and tremendous humbug of their hypocritical moralities, should have power, in the hands of a clever actor, to charm the purer sensibilities of their nature to sleep, so that, as if glamour had been cast in their eyes, trickery and tinsel pass for reality, falsehood appears to be true, evil good, and ugliness beautiful. In such a state of things it is not likely that the theatre should achieve a popularity which it has never enjoyed; and certainly its entire spirit must be revolutionised ere it can find a large welcome in the heart of the nation. Read the modern novelists and read the modern dramatists, and observe the difference of tone. There is in the common run of modern dramas—whether tragedy, comedy, or farce—such an utter absence of noble purpose, that not a whole army of claqueurs could ever succeed in establishing their popularity.

The fact is, the Muse of the British drama seems at this moment inclined to vacate the theatres, and to take up her abode in the halls and concert-rooms. Like the old fairies of the story-books, who, disgusted with the treatment they receive in one family, go and bestow their favours on the household next door, the dramatic Muse—a very old fairy indeed—is tired of the position assigned to her in the theatres. What is that? On the ceiling, gracefully gyrating round the gaselier, are the four lightly-draped muses of the theatre, with dagger, and mask, and harp, and castanets in hand, while certain naked amorini carry festoons of flowers before them, and from every jutty, frieze, and coign of vantage on the cornice, horned satyrs and ivy-crowned bacchantes leer out with astonishment. The Muse of the British drama is tired of dancing over the gaselier, dancing over our heads, and wishes to come down to our hearts, and so she enters the music-halls and concert-rooms, where she patronises two distinct classes of entertainments, the one more strictly lyrical, the other more strictly dramatic.

With regard to the more musical kind of entertainment, it must have been observed, that while songs and ballads, and instrumentation have a large sphere assigned to them, the operatic airs are day by day assuming more and more importance. It is quite true that a cavatina sung in a concert-room is very different from the same cavatina sung on the stage. The singing in a concert-room is like the singing of statues—so expressionless. We would rather not look at a concert-singer—one who is merely a concert-singer. Goethe makes the same remark with respect to singers generally. They remind one of the ludicrous story which the monks report of St Benedict,—that he was heard singing psalms two or three weeks before he was born, and saw the light of day. You hear these singers singing long before their faces are born, long before they attain the life of expression. Exceptions of course there are occasionally, and chiefly when a duet, a trio, or a quartette is to be sung. And it requires only an operatic singer, whose reputation as prima donna or primo tenore will excuse such a liberty, to throw a truly dramatic expression into the solos, for the practice to become general. Why should not some attempt be made by those who can, to escape from the starched formality of the concert-room—to forget that they are in dress boots and white gloves—and to impart somewhat of the animation of the theatre into the pieces of music which they hold so affectionately in their hands, because it saves their hands from even the inclination to gesticulate? And with glee and madrigal unions in every town, why do not the dramatists see their opportunity, and infuse somewhat more of the dramatic element into those part songs, out of which in time a little drama might arise? Everything has its insignificant beginnings, and, discreetly managed, the incoherence of our concerts might gradually be developed into the organic unity of the drama. It is coming to this, in fact. The music-halls are becoming theatres under a new and unobjectionable name.

With regard to the more dramatic entertainments that are so popular in those public halls, the new life is still more apparent. We do not simply refer to dramatic readings, although these too have a vast influence—an influence as superior to that of the Elgin marbles in the British Museum, to which we once heard the plays of Shakespeare irreverently compared, as the spell of the Ladye of Branksome, who could raise the spirits to her bidding, was to the power of William of Deloraine, who lifted the massy tombstone, and fetched the mystic book from the coffin of the departed wizard; an influence, too, as superior to that of the rhapsodists who travelled through the cities of Greece reciting the lays of Homer (for they recited these lays in detached fragments), as the palace of Aladdin, built in a night, is superior to the single brick that Scholasticos carried about with him as a specimen of the house which he wanted to sell. It is needless to dwell, however, upon this influence, important and ennobling though it be, because its tendency is to keep alive the memory of the past; and we wish rather to indicate the new life that is stirring. Albert Smith’s Ascent of Mont Blanc is the best specimen of a class of entertainments that are now very popular—perhaps the most popular of all, and which, when further and duly developed, promise to rival the present theatres. Mr Albert Smith goes to Mont Blanc, returns, gets Mr Beverley to paint the scenes through which he travelled, and enlivens those scenes by the description and impersonation of what he saw and heard. We have no doubt that Mr Smith’s entertainment is far more amusing, far more intellectual, and ten thousand times more artistic, than anything of the kind which England could furnish in the thirteenth or fourteenth century; and he will not resent the comparison if we say that he reminds us of the holy palmers and pilgrims who, in those crusading centuries, returned from Palestine, and with the aid of rude pictures—“the city of Jerusalem, with towers and pinnacles,—Old Tobye’s House,—A Fyrmament with a fyry cloud, and a double cloud,”—attempted in miracle plays and mysteries to convey an idea of the scenes they themselves had witnessed in the Holy Land, or of the events which in the olden time had been enacted there, and so laid the foundations of a theatre that ultimately grew into the fair proportions of the Elizabethan drama, as the rude earthwork which Romulus in the Palilia founded on the Palatine, grew in greatness and in pride, until it embraced the seven hills, a city of palaces and the marble mistress of the world. We might have run the comparison still more closely, if we had not forgotten for the moment Mr Smith’s Eastern Travels and Overland Route. No matter. In these entertainments we find a certain resemblance to the miracle plays out of which the modern drama was developed; and do we not also find a certain nineteenth century likeness of the ancient moralities, in these life-dramas, death-dramas, and devil-dramas, in which our young poets delight to sow their wild oats; giving us all manner of caprices for imagination, hysterics for passion, revolting descriptions for the sublime, soliloquy for dialogue, and dialogue for action? Yea, verily, and out of all these elements we are not without hope that a drama may yet arise more worthy of fame than that which at present exists. But again, we repeat, no more Shakespearean imitations, and legitimate suicide; let the dramatists be wise in their generation, accept the tendencies of the time, and think the thoughts and wear the dress of this year 1856.

LESSONS FROM THE WAR.

The glimpse of peace just afforded us is almost as startling as the news of battle, so general has been the impression that the war must inevitably continue. Peace on such satisfactory grounds as are probable will descend on the heated nation like dew. Those who, after sending forth their sons, brothers, lovers, to the war, have been steeling themselves in the Spartan school, scarcely daring to hope again to see their soldier alive and unwounded, trying to believe that if they see him no more they will lament for him only with the chastened grief due to him who falls in arms, will have all their sternness melted in their breasts to warm soft hope. The soldier himself, shivering on those desolate Crimean plains before an invisible foe, and casting many a prolonged mental glance to the homes of England, will see the red glories of the anticipated campaign contrasted vividly with the cool fresh tints of peace—peace, a word to him suggestive hitherto of dim and dubious delights, once his, but perhaps to be his no more, and only to be dwelt on for a few short moments when some echo from England had quenched the ever-present din of arms. And, to touch on lower though yet more wide-spreading interests, there are many to whom the sordid thought, that they will no more be called on to contribute the share of expense which, in one form or another, was exacted from them by the war, will bring more pleasure than any accession of glory to England. For ourselves, peace on the basis of unconditional acceptance by Russia of the terms dictated by Austria, will leave us nothing to regret. But, turning for a space from this newer topic, let us glance at the position in which these chances of peace have found us, and speak, as it is still sound policy to speak, as though there were certain to be war in the coming year.

Like one who struggles in a fog through a quagmire, England has passed through the late campaign. Advancing a few paces, plunging waist deep, pausing in bewilderment, tenfold increased by the clamour of the volunteer guides who throng officiously to the brink, and, if often supported, yet also sometimes encumbered, by the companion-hand linked in hers, she has attained a temporary halting-place. Myriad-voiced instructions, mostly resolving themselves into the simple and valuable injunction to “go in and win,” were, up to Russia’s acceptance of the proposals, still echoing from all points of the compass—many a lantern, trustworthy as an _ignis fatuus_, glimmered through the surrounding mist. Disregarding for a time the well-meant attentions of these numerous advisers, we may attempt to throw on the devious track of the past some light uncoloured by the tints of party-spirit or of popular feeling, and so try to obtain some guidance for the future.

Glancing at the past year, we see the British army in new and strange alliance with its foe of centuries. Its leaders were either untried men, or men from whom, as previous trial had shown, nothing very remarkable was to be expected. Under such circumstances, the army was required to satisfy the expectations, not merely of a sovereign or a government, but a people. Accepting it as inevitable that the people will, in the absence of a strong government, virtually charge themselves with the conduct of the war, let us at least attempt to infuse into the collective wisdom of the nation the elements of deliberation, wholesome doubt, and self-restraint. To speak either of the pity or the scorn with which the more thoughtful and comprehensive order of spirits view a whole people, who claim to be the heirs of vast experience and civilisation, blindly clamouring after some blind leader at every turn of affairs, might answer no other purpose than to excite popular hostility. Yet to know that many of those to whom the nation cannot refuse its respect view with contempt, regret, or compassion the ordinary expression of popular opinion—to know that its most positive enunciations are held as akin to the sagacity of Dogberry and Verges—to know that the angels may well be deemed to weep at the consequences of its fantasies—might excite, even in the most determined advocate of the might, majesty, and power of the people, some obscure sensation of self-distrust and shame.

After for many years regarding their army either with indifference or dislike, and systematically confining it within the narrowest limits possible, the English people, at the outbreak of the war, dismissed their troops to the scene of action with such boastful applause as would have been unbecoming if offered by a nation which had made military glory its chief aim, to a veteran army habituated to victory. Anticipations were raised which it would be nearly impossible to realise, and to fall short of which would be disgrace. Forty years before, a small English army, composed of marvellous troops led by a marvellous man, had stemmed the progress of Napoleon, achieving exploits which, though meeting at the time with much detraction, eventually raised our soldiers to the first rank in the estimation of the world. Since then, public attention had been turned to totally different matters with great success; and we had distinguished ourselves by so many achievements in science and art, and had become so accustomed to lead the way in the pursuits of peace, that for any power to presume to dispute our supremacy was regarded as an impertinence calling for a chastisement, the promptness and weight of which it would be absurd to doubt.

Hitherto our object had been to attain a military establishment which should offer no shadow of offence to the most enthusiastic admirer of liberty, or the most ardent votary of progress. When with this object it was found desirable to combine the totally different one of possessing an irresistible force in war, some error was apparent in the result of the process; and the first impulse of our philosophic and reasoning nation was anger—at first directed on no one in particular, but after a time on all concerned in the conduct of the war, without any other distinction of persons than that arising from the respective shares borne in its administration, and consequent amount of presumed criminality. By some unknown process of logic, it was concluded that a sweeping change in the conductors of the war would restore our credit as a military power, and that a general and minister or two officially buried would be as the dragon’s teeth, from whence heroes would spring. Accordingly, some were dismissed, and some abused, _pour encourager les autres_.

Public attention was now riveted closely on the war, to the absolute exclusion of all other topics. Intelligence of all kinds was eagerly demanded; and those whose business it is to supply the want, could, with all their efforts, scarcely write up to the demand. Private correspondence from the seat of war was eagerly sought and extensively published, and columns set apart for “Letters from the Camp;” the special correspondence of the daily press was copied into other journals; leading articles in periodicals daily, weekly, and monthly, were founded on the information thus received, and the exaggerated statements were sometimes coloured still more highly; and popular opinion, thus originated and formed, began to exercise so powerful a pressure on the Parliament and the Government, that a glance at its sources becomes especially important.

It is useless to argue the question of whether it is on the whole more advantageous to publish or to suppress intelligence of the projected operations, or the state of the army, since the public curiosity on these heads will continue to be gratified at all hazards. The best means were adopted for obtaining intelligence, and conveying it in a pleasant form. The special correspondents of the newspapers are of course men of great ability. No expense or trouble would be spared to secure writers capable of satisfying the high requirements of the daily press; and their letters from the camp display great literary power. As pictures of life in the field, their correspondence is of the greatest value; as a guide to public opinion on the progress of the war, we may, without offence, consider it far less satisfactory. No one pretends that these gentlemen possessed either any exclusive means of obtaining information, or any aptitude for judging of the nature, progress, and success of the operations they witnessed, beyond that which any intelligent spectator might claim. The language in which they talk of the operations of the campaign is rather a military slang than the technical expression of military art, and resembles the latter only as the work of a poetaster resembles that of a poet. Nothing would be easier than to make a collection of leading articles founded on the information thus derived, and show them to be a mere jumble of absurdity. Yet this was the kind of writing which, by appealing to a circle of readers sufficiently large to constitute the public, exercised an important effect on the administration of the war. Very different was the style of an article which appeared in the _Moniteur_, descriptive of the conduct of the campaign, the facts of which were supplied apparently from public documents, and which was evidently written by a man of military attainments.

It would be scarcely fair to criticise closely the letters of officers, which, intended only for the perusal of their friends at home, were often, by the indiscretion of those friends, and to the annoyance of the writers, made public. It is a very common and excusable weakness for a man to avail himself, perhaps unconsciously, of a little exaggeration in the incidents he describes, when by so doing he may become a greater hero to the domestic circle; an exaltation which, far from doing harm to any one, forms one of the cases where it is delightful to be imposed on. Each family that has a member serving with the army, sees but one figure in the foreground of every scene of the campaign. In success the figure is a hero, in time of suffering a martyr. Every one likes to appear in the former character; but there were some who, during the most trying period of the campaign, too solicitous for sympathy, gave vent to lamentations which, if fortitude under privation be a virtue, must be considered unsoldierlike and unmanly.

Upon such correspondence were founded the lucubrations of those writers at home who undertook to instruct us on the war; and if military science be necessary to a right understanding of military affairs, they must be admitted to be deficient in an important element. We put the case hypothetically, because, if military science be necessary to a right understanding of military affairs, many of our self-constituted teachers must be convicted of presumptuous absurdity. Men who would never think of interfering with the most obscure country doctor in his treatment of their sick friend—who would trust blindly to their legal adviser in a question threatening character or property—who employ architects to plan their houses, and masons to build them, and, if the structure do not answer their expectations, never think of insinuating that they could have done it better themselves, are all ready to originate or amend the plan of a campaign, to censure those intrusted with its conduct, and to interfere in its most technical particulars. Clergymen, whose warfare has hitherto been waged only with the enemy of mankind, expatiate largely on the best mode of annoying our material foe; doctors abandon the study of the nervous for that of the military system; and Satan’s occupation of finding mischief for idle hands is for the present gone; for every idler thinks himself competent to discuss and advise in a military question. Modest men, diffident of giving opinions even on subjects open to general discussion, may be heard in all companies, praising and condemning with the confidence of the most accomplished critics. All are ready to quote in support of their views the opinions of the most celebrated generals; yet, while mentioning them with the greatest respect, seem to think that excellence in the profession in which they earned their reputation is attainable by the lowest capacity. A certain degree of reserve is generally practised by those who undertake to instruct the public on topics of popular interest, but no man seems to doubt the genuineness of his inspiration on any present, past, or future phase of the war; and in pamphlet, letter, or leader, he hastens to impart his light.

While regarding the pretensions of these tacticians and strategists as about as respectable as those of barber-surgeons in pharmacy, inspired cobblers in religion, or gypsies in divination, we do not think that any amount of study or previous training renders a man’s opinions really valuable, unless he has personally visited the scene of war, and is acquainted with the topographical features of the theatre of operations. Such an acquaintance as we speak of, neither descriptions nor maps can adequately afford. We have known instances where military men of great ability or experience, whose attention had been closely riveted on the conduct of the war, entertained ideas respecting the feasibility of certain operations, which an hour’s glance at the ground would at once have convinced them were erroneous, and which they relinquished after conversing with officers from the Crimea.

Having thus glanced at the unsatisfactory nature of the grounds on which the public form opinions on the war, we may point out some of the errors most strongly persisted in. Up to the present time, referring to the Russian attack on the Turkish outposts before Balaklava, it is constantly asserted that the loss of the Woronzoff road, which the presence of the Russians on the neighbouring ridge of hills rendered too precarious for the transport of convoys, was a principal cause of the subsequent disasters and sufferings of the army. Now the Woronzoff road is nowhere less distant than between three or four miles from Balaklava; and the intervening space is as badly adapted for the construction of a road as any part of the plains or heights,—worse indeed than most; so that, until it is shown that we possessed the means of uniting Balaklava with the Woronzoff road by a practicable road, we cannot be proved to have suffered materially by the presence of the Russians there. Liprandi’s movement, in occupying these hills, is generally regarded as a stroke of generalship, creditable to him, and damaging to the Allies; but it would be difficult to point to any commensurate effect resulting from his movement; while many officers—General Bosquet, we believe, among the rest—considered he had laid himself open to a defeat; and on a subsequent view of the ground, at the reconnaissance made by Omer Pasha in April, regrets were loudly expressed by both French and English that Liprandi should have been permitted to decamp unmolested.[16]

Another delusion which took complete possession of the public was, that Balaklava was constantly in peril, and that the Russians could easily attack it. The map showed a road from thence along the coast towards Yalta, and it was supposed the enemy could approach it in that direction. But this road, narrow, stony, and broken, was naturally very difficult even for field-artillery, and was easily to be rendered totally impracticable; while the right of the intrenchments surrounding Balaklava, crossing this road, with two advanced stockades looking upon a deep and narrow glen on one side, and the sea-cliffs on the other, along which the path wound precariously, rendered a successful attack impossible. Thus Balaklava could only be attacked in front directly down the valley; on entering which, supposing the intrenchments to be won, the enemy would have found themselves in a defile, with steep rocky sides; in their front the harbour, and in their rear the plain stretching to the Tchernaya, across which the Allies, descending in superior force from the plateau, might throw themselves, and so enclose the assailants.

More lately, the public has been persuaded that a direct advance against the Russian position was practicable; and that, if it were deemed unadvisable so to attack the position, it might easily be turned. Consequently, the advance of the French to the Belbek, after the conclusion of the siege, was watched with extreme interest at home, and great disappointment was felt when no result was attained. Yet those on the spot who had viewed the ground could have entertained no expectation of any success—must rather, indeed, have felt satisfaction that the French right, after being so extended, was withdrawn without disaster within the range surrounding the valley of Baidar. For if the reader, taking his map, will trace the line of heights extending from Inkermann by Mackenzie’s Farm to the Belbek, and will then imagine them to terminate at top in a steep perpendicular wall of chalky cliff, supporting the large plateau extending all round to the Belbek valley, on which the Russians were encamped—and will also observe that the one path up the plateau is guarded by the enemy, and the few narrow defiles which penetrate the heights are also held by them—he will have no difficulty in perceiving that to extend the Allied right was to give the enemy an opportunity, instantly perceived from their exalted point of view, of concentrating at the required point a superior force, marching through the defiles, and cutting off, or directly attacking, the French corps operating in advance.

These errors, although mortifying, and rendering the public unreasonably dissatisfied, produced no other ill consequences. But there have been other delusions, as obstinately maintained, the unfortunate results of which are but too visible. Such is the constant comparison to our disadvantage drawn between ourselves and the French. This is obviously a delicate subject to deal with, when an endeavour to be just to ourselves must almost necessarily offend our allies, whose own tact and good feeling have prevented them from adopting even the faintest echo of the depreciatory clamour raised by our countrymen, and would be ill repaid by invidious remarks. Yet surely we may be allowed to remind our readers that, in all the actions in the field during the earlier stage of the campaign, the English bore the brunt of the battle. Without offence, too, we may point to the records of the siege to prove that the French suffered repulses, on more than one occasion, no less sanguinary and discouraging than ours from the Redan: such, for instance, as the attack on the hills known afterwards as the White Works, east of Careening Bay, where our allies were defeated with slaughter, and did not renew the attack. Nor do we see any impolicy in asking what would have been the feeling in England, judging from its expression since, if it had been our batteries, instead of those of the French, which were silenced after a few hours’ fire at the commencement of the siege on the 17th of October? What indignation! what sarcasm! what abuse of our generals, engineers, and artillery! what glowing caustic eulogies of our gallant allies, depicted as maintaining the contest single-handed, and generously continuing their own fire to save their crushed and discomfited coadjutors from total ruin, though the ammunition, so scarce then in the trenches, and so painfully accumulated, was thereby expended without hope of success! Had the reverse of this picture at that time been drawn, it would have been highly impolitic, but perfectly true. And let us also allude to the report, which we believe to be an arrant falsehood, of English soldiers being protected from the first rigours of winter by French uniforms—and to the utter and apparently systematic disregard of all aid conferred by us on our allies—to show the important nature of which, we need only remind our readers of the number of powerful guns, and the vast quantities of ammunition, with which we, at various periods of the siege, furnished the French batteries. Too little stress has also been laid on the superiority we may venture to claim for the fire of our artillery throughout the siege: a superiority always apparent to those who watched the practice of the batteries from commanding points. That the services of our siege-artillery were appreciated by the French, is evident from the published despatch of Sir Richard Dacres, where it is stated that the assistance rendered by our fire was often warmly acknowledged by the French commanders. But where, in press or people, are we to expect the echoes of applause?

Again, to pass from particular instances to a wider field, let us inquire into the grounds of the preference so invariably and strenuously shown for the French military system, as having proved itself very superior to our own. Where, we would ask, is the evidence of this superiority? Has it appeared in the production of great generals? We really believe the French army would be as much puzzled as the English to select a man, young, enterprising, experienced, scientific, and sagacious, to be to it a tower of strength, and an assurance of victory. We know the English regimental officers to be younger than the French, whose system entails the existence of old subalterns and venerable captains: we know that ours are no less gallant than theirs: nor can an instance be pointed out where our discipline has appeared to disadvantage beside theirs. Let us at once record our opinion that no troops in Europe are more subordinate, better disciplined, or better led, than ours—and we will not do the gallant gentlemen who lead them the wrong to suppose that a different education, or a larger infusion from the ranks, would tend to exalt the valour or the morale of our army.

While we at once grant that our commanders have failed to display any great genius in the war, we think the treatment of them by the public altogether unreasonable. Gentlemen stricken in years, who have never in their lives been distinguished for anything in particular, and who have spent half a century in the world without impressing their nearest relations or most intimate friends with the idea that they possess remarkable capacity, far less genius, are suddenly placed in a position demanding a rare union of high qualities. This sudden elevation of course fails to elicit what they never claimed to possess—and men who would have passed most respectably through the more sequestered walks of life, are suddenly covered with obloquy, because they do not exhibit, on their giddy eminence, that mastery over men and circumstances of which few examples are vouchsafed to the world in a century.

To point out how the public has been as indiscriminate and unreasonable in its praise as its censure, would be a more invidious task. But it has frequently happened, that the eulogies showered on some fortunate individual have not been endorsed by the opinion of the army. Reputations, beginning nobody knows how, have taken shape and substance. The mischief of this is, that these will be the men selected for trust in a future emergency. Where there is so little opportunity for individuals to distinguish themselves, chance confers a small prominence on some who, thus lifted from the level of the crowd, become marked men—and to be marked where there is so little competition is to be famous. To us who note this, all history grows a chapter of accidents: we have an uneasy doubt whether Horatius really did keep the bridge, or Leonidas the pass—how much of his fame Coriolanus may owe to aristocratic connection, Scipio to his relation with a forgotten war-minister, or Alcibiades to private interest at the Athenian Horse Guards. Still, it is well to find that the public, with all its disposition to censure, retains the desire to praise; and we are the less disposed to except against its encomiums, because we should be puzzled to show how they might be better directed. The campaign has been singularly barren of opportunity for showing capacity. In most cases some divisions of an invading army possess a certain independence of movement, and their commanders have a field for showing their powers. Advanced guards from these and from the main body are commanded by officers of lower rank, who, in the attack or defence of a farm or a village, in the passage of a difficult stream, in the surprise of a convoy, or the collection of information, have an opportunity of displaying their qualities. But in the advance from Old Fort, the army marched entire across wide open plains, seeing only the retiring skirmishers of the enemy, entering abandoned villages, and passing the different natural obstacles unmolested, except at the Alma. None of the sense of enterprise, and of being engaged in scientific operations, which lends such glow and interest to civilised warfare, animated the troops traversing these desolate regions. Extensive plains, vast fields of coppice, or tumbled masses of hills, unbrightened by spots of culture or signs of human habitation, almost destitute even of roads, spread round the army, which dwindled to insignificance in the large sweep of the monotonous horizon. Then came the eleven months’ siege, when the prescribed daily duty of the trenches left no field open for invention, resource, or sagacity. In such circumstances, military genius remained latent in the army. That it exists we have no doubt; and we should expect in the course of another campaign to see brows, now perchance obscure, wreathed with merited laurels; but whether any truly great general, such as Wellington, Marlborough, or Napoleon is to be found in either army, is a point of which we may well doubt, when we remember how rare such beings are—how happy must be the combination of circumstances which lifts them to the point where they are recognised, and that we live, moreover, in an age when those pre-eminent spirits, which become landmarks for time, seem almost to have ceased their visits to earth.

Meantime it is curious to observe how the nation, uneasy at being baulked of its desire for a leader, proposes to make good the deficiency. Besides the somewhat arbitrary and unpromising plan already alluded to, of seizing upon ordinary men and commanding them to become great by virtue of their position and responsibility, other methods are proposed for eliciting the sparks of genius. The most favourite scheme at present is the education of our officers. Masters are appointed to examine candidates for commissions in different branches of science and literature; and, from the specimens we have seen of the examination papers, we may expect, supposing a reasonable proportion of the questions to be answered, shortly to see some very erudite men in the army, for it appears to us that the heart of the Admirable Crichton would have broke before he had got through a tithe of them. What shadow of a chance would the most accomplished Russian officer have, if opposed to a man who could, offhand, “write a short life of Milton, with dates,” “perform the eudiometric analysis of atmospheric air,” “tell what smoky quartz is,” “give a summary of Cousin’s argument against the philosophy of Locke,” and “draw a map of Britain in the time of the Roman occupation:” which are a few of the achievements demanded of the candidates in August 1855. “What is the origin of Roman satire?” is asked of the military aspirant by the Rev. G. Butler, one of the examiners, who, we should think, possibly became, on the occasion, the origin of some English satire. “Compose,” says another of them, the Rev. C. Trench, “an essay which shall not exceed thirty lines, on the following subject: In what way may England hope to avoid such a conflict with her colonies as led to the American War of Independence?” We hope Mr Labouchere will at once see the propriety of resigning his post to the author of the prize essay on this subject, whose faculty of compendiously settling such knotty points, in thirty lines, would be invaluable in the colonial, or any other department of State. “What is the object,” asks J. D. Morell, Esq., “which Kant proposed to himself in writing the _Critick of Pure Reason_?” to point out which might possibly have been acceptable to Kant himself. The Rev. R. W. Browne, after demanding an explanation of the terms, “Rhapsodist,” and “Cyclian Poet,” asks, “What are the conditions most favourable to the growth of epic poetry?” the best answer to which we shall be happy to accept as an article for the Magazine, as also the reply to the demand of A. H. Clough, Esq., for “a history of translations into English,” which we will publish in parts. Under these new conditions we are certainly likely to get commanders such as the world never saw before. Fancy the bewilderment of poor old Jomini, prince of strategists, at being required to tell the Rev. G. Butler what he knew “of the military organisation of the Samnites,”—or the perplexity of the Duke of Wellington, when requested by the Rev. Mr Browne to “illustrate from Homer the respect paid to the rites of hospitality.”