Volume 79 — SYDNEY SMITH.

The art of criticism is a branch of literature peculiar and separate, rigidly marked out from all the other branches of this gentle craft. An author, like a mother, throws all his personal prestige, all his hope, and all his riches, into that frail rich-freighted argosy, the book, which is doubtless his, but yet a separate entity, and by no means him; and almost in proportion to the power of his genius, and the elevation of his aim, his book outshines and overtops its maker, and becomes of the two the more real and tangible existence. It is indeed the inevitable tendency of art, in all its loftier labours, to glorify the work rather than the worker. The man perforce moves in a limited circle, the book goes everywhere. It is true that we are all much in the habit of saying that the author is better than the book; but this is an extremely questionable proposition, and one which experience constantly controverts. Also we all make comments—and on what subject have we been so unanimously eloquent?—on the wide reception given to the productions, and the small amount of public acknowledgment bestowed, on the persons, of English men of literature. Yes, they may do those things better in France; but it is not all our English conventionalism, nor is the “stony British stare” with which the man of land petrifies the man of letters in these realms by any means a primary or even a secondary cause of that want of social rank and estimation of which we all complain. Instead of that, it is the normal position of authorhood, the bonâ fide and genuine condition of a man who has voluntarily transferred his wealth, his aspirations, and his power, to another existence, even though that existence is a creation of his own. The writer of a great book is an abdicated monarch; out of his cloister, discrowned, but triumphant, he watches the other king whom he has made, going forth gloriously, a youth and a bridegroom, to take the world by storm. There are other modes of fame for him who has a mind to enjoy it in his own person; but it is scarcely to be disputed, to our thinking, that the very first principle of art is to glorify the book, the picture, or the image, over the mind that brought them forth.

But criticism does what literature proper does not pretend to do. Happy the man who first hit upon the brilliant expedient of reviewing! The works of the critic are of their nature fugitive and ephemeral; but the same nature gives them innumerable advantages—immediate influence, instant superiority, a dazzling and unlaborious reputation. The works are almost nothing in many cases, but the men have leaped upon the popular platform, and mastered the reins of the popular vehicle in the twinkling of an eye. From whence it comes that the greater critics of modern literature are all known to us rather as persons than as writers. The younger generation, to whom the birth-hour of the Edinburgh, that Pallas Athene, in her buff and blue, is a remote historic epoch, have known all their lives the names of Jeffrey and of Sydney Smith; but we venture to say that this knowledge, so far from being based upon the actual productions of these distinguished and brilliant writers, would suffer diminution rather than increase from the most careful study of their several books. It is an entire mistake to send back these versatile and animated personages into the obscure of authorship; their reputation stands out a world above and beyond the volumes that bear their names. They have made no act of abdication in favour of a book; they are orators, impassioned, eager, partial; they are men, each in his own person, storming at us with individual opinions, laughter, indignation, contemptuousness, making splendid blunders, brilliant successes, and leaving echoes of their own undaunted voices in the common din of every day. Their reputation is immediate, sudden, personal—not the fame of a book, but the renown of a man.

And to this cause we may attribute the very evident fact, that some of the most notable men of the last generation have left little behind them to justify the extraordinary reputation bestowed on them by their contemporaries. Even our own St Christopher, the genial giant of Maga, is not sufficiently represented in the world of books—and his brilliant rivals of the opposite party have none of them left a Noctes. These men entirely eclipse the published works that bear their name. We know what their opinions were, much more by the primitive vehicle of oral tradition, than by the aid of print or publisher. Their position was that of speakers, not of writers; their periodical address to the public was a personal and direct address, out of a natural pulpit, where the audience saw the orator, as well as the orator saw the audience, and the immediate response was marvellous. But there is compensation in all things; the author “had up” before this bench of judges, and gloriously cut to pieces to the triumph and admiration of all beholders, has his quiet revenge over his old castigators. The critic, like Dives, has all his good things in his lifetime; it is the nature of his fame to decrease, and fade into a recollection. The man dies; the book lives on.

The writer of the work before us,^[31] brief and modest as is her execution of her labour of love, is diffident of the reception which it may meet with at the hands of the public. Lady Holland’s doubts on this question have been, doubtless, set at rest long ere now; and we are after date in offering her the comfort of our opinion, so far as that may go. Yet we cannot help saying, that with such a man as Sydney Smith, a biography was a necessity—a right belonging to him, and a duty owed to us. During his own time he was—not a moral essayist, though all the world crowded to his lectures—not an Edinburgh Reviewer, though he himself was the Jove from whose brain that armed Minerva sprang—nor, last and least, a Canon of St Paul’s. He was Sydney Smith—it was enough distinction—official character would not stick to so manful and mirthful a personage; it was not possible to seize upon one part of his sunshiny and genial nature, and make of it a supposititious man. There was no catching him even in profile; wherever he went, he went with his whole breadth in full array of errors and excellences, ampler than his canonicals. It is folly to say that such a life was uneventful, or that such a person was not a fit subject for biography. In fact, he was the fittest of subjects; and as the world never before knew him so well, it is safe to say that, not even in the sudden triumph of his first great enterprise, not in the excitement of the times of Plymley, nor in the fury of American repudiation, was the name of Sydney Smith so distinguished or so popular as now.

This is the doing of his daughter and his wife. Honour to the love which would not be discouraged! The mother has not been permitted to see how thoroughly and cordially the world appreciates that honest and noble Englishman, of whose fame she was the loyal conservator; but to have carried out so well her mother’s purpose, and to have seen how completely the public mind adopts and justifies their own loving estimate of the head of their household, must be, to Lady Holland, sufficient reward.

Sydney Smith was the son of a gentleman, clever enough and rich enough to be a somewhat remarkable and “picturesque” personage, but not, so far as appears, a very influential one, either as regarded the character or fortune of his sons. The boys were clever beyond precedent; so clever, that their schoolfellows made solemn protest against the injustice of being compelled to strive for prizes with “the Smiths,” who were always sure to win. Sydney, the most distinguished of the brotherhood, was captain of the school at Winchester, and, in Oxford, a Fellow of New College. If popular report speaks true, such learned celibates are always lovers of good cheer; and in those days, according to Lady Holland, port wine was the prevailing Helicon; for medievalism had not then come into fashion, and learned leisure hung heavy upon the colleges. In the thronged world of youth and intelligence, within and around these ancient walls, it is easy to suppose how great an influence, had he sought it, must have fallen to such a man as Sydney Smith—not to say that society was his natural element, and conversation his special and remarkable gift. Under these circumstances—at an age in which every one loves to excel, and in a place where he had unusual opportunities of distinguishing himself—the young Fellow, seeking neither pleasure nor influence, stoutly turned his back upon temptation, and lived, like a brave man as he was, upon his hundred pounds a-year. Sydney was of other mettle than those hapless men of genius whose “light from heaven” is a light which leads astray; and it is singular to observe that the prevailing characteristic of this famous wit and man of society, at this most perilous portion of his life, was steadfast, honest, self-denying independence. Such an example is rare; and no one who wishes to form a true estimate of the hero of this story, should omit to note this triumph of his youth.

From New College, by an abrupt transition, the young man falls into his fate. Why the most brilliant of Mr Robert Smith’s four sons should be the sacrifice of the family we are not told; but the elder is destined for the bar, and the younger for India, and to Sydney remains only the Church. He does not feel, nor pretend to feel, that this is his natural vocation; but he feels it “his duty to yield to his father’s wishes, and sacrifice his own.” Indeed, to take him within his own limited standing-ground, the life of Sydney Smith seems nearly a perfect one—duty, frankly accepted and honestly fulfilled, is in every period and change of his history; and so long as we take it for granted that it is only one of the learned professions which this good son enters in obedience to his father’s wishes, we cannot sufficiently admire the fortitude with which he takes up his lot. However, we warn our readers, who may entertain notions, old-fashioned or newfangled, that a clergyman should be something more than a professional man, to discharge all such fancies from their mind while they discuss this history. Sydney Smith is only to be dealt with on his own platform, and by the light of his own motives. For ourselves, we confess that this most honest, kind-hearted, and benevolent divine, is not by any means our beau ideal of a clergyman. Granting all his admirable qualities, and with due regard for the “calm dignity of his eye, mien, and voice,” his “deep earnest tones,” and “solemn impressive manner,” and also for the unfailing benevolence and kindliness of his dealings with his parishioners—in all which we perfectly believe—we still cannot help feeling that the least satisfactory view which we can have of Sydney Smith is that of his clerical position. He does not belong to it, nor it to him; he is a wit, a scholar, a man of letters, a man of politics, but in no sense, except in the merely arbitrary matter-of-fact one, is he a clergyman. Without entering into the religious question, or throwing any stigma whatever upon a man, in his own way, so honest and so admirable, we are obliged to hold by our opinion,—the common motives of honesty and propriety which govern men in the commonest of occupations, are all that are necessary in his profession of clergyman for a true judgment of Sydney Smith. It is his duty to look after the morals and comforts of his parishioners, and he does his duty; but to require of him the entire devotion of an evangelist, would be to require what he does not pretend to, and indeed disapproves of. To judge him as we judge the primitive apostles of our faith, or even to judge him as we judge an Evangelical incumbent or a Puseyite rector—men who, after their different fashions, live for this laborious business of theirs, and put their whole heart in it—would be idle and useless. He must be looked on in the light of his own motives and his own principles, and not according to any special view of ours.

And in this aspect we can admire the sacrifice which a young man, conscious of his own great powers, and no doubt conscious that in this sphere, of all others, were they least likely to do him service, made “to his father’s wishes.” He was soon put to a severe practical trial, and with equal fortitude seems to have endured his banishment to the dreary solitude of his first curacy. It was a cruel experiment. “Sydney Smith a curate in the midst of Salisbury Plain!” exclaims his biographer; and certainly the position was dismal enough. “The village consisted but of a few scattered cottages and farms”—“once a-week a butcher’s cart came over from Salisbury”—and “his only relaxation, not being able to keep a horse, was long walks over these interminable plains.” Under these circumstances one may suppose that a little of the fervour of that Methodism, at which in after days he aimed his least successful arrow, might have been the best amelioration possible to this melancholy state of things; and very sad it is indeed to send a man, with no apostolic vocation whatever, to a place which nothing but the vocation of an apostle could render bearable. Nevertheless Sydney, honest, brave, and manful, did his duty. He remained at his post, though he did not love it, and did what was required of him, if not like an apostle, at least like an honest man.

Let us pause to say that this seems to us the really distinct and predominant feature in the character of Sydney Smith. He is everywhere a full-developed Englishman, making greater account of the manly virtues than of the ethereal ones—disposed to take the plain path before him, and to tread it sturdily—given to discussing everything that comes under his notice, in its actual and practicable reality rather than its remoter essential principles—a man given to doing more than to speculating—a mind not matter-of-fact, but actual—a soul of hearty and thorough honesty. Honesty is one of the most definite principles of our nature—it leaves no misty debatable land between the false and the true; and a man who says nothing but what he believes true, and does nothing but what he believes right, may be many a time wrong, as human creatures are, yet must always be an estimable man. Sydney Smith is never quixotic—never goes positively out of his way to seek a duty which does not specially call upon him. As long as the bishop is propitious, he is quite content to leave Foston among the Yorkshire clay, without a parish-priest; but as soon as the duty places itself broad and distinct before him, he is down upon it without a moment’s pause, builds the ugly vicarage, takes possession of the unattractive parish, does whatever his hand findeth to do. In this lies the charm and force of his character; in spite of all we say ourselves, and all that other people are pleased to say concerning the sombre and foggy mood of our national mind, we, for our own part, cannot help regarding Sydney Smith as a very type and impersonation of that virtue which has the especial admiration of these islands. For we like tangible worthiness, we British people—we like something to look at, as well as to hear tell of, and rejoice with our whole hearts over the man who “goes in” at his foes, and overcomes them—who makes light of the infinite “bothers” of life, and bears its serious calamities like a man, and who carries his good cheer and his cordial heart unclouded over all. This is the national standard and type of excellence, let them speak of vapours and moroseness who will.

From the dreary probation of this first charge, Sydney was elevated to a tutorship, and ushered into a new and eventful life. With his pupil, the son of a Squire, to whom belongs the honour of finding out that this curate of Netherhaven was no ordinary personage, the young tutor, by a happy chance, found his way to Edinburgh. War broke out; Germany fell into trouble—well for Sydney!—and so the Jove came to Athens that the Minerva might be born. Does anybody remember how it was in those old, old days? Dearest reader, there was no Maga! there were Gentleman’s Magazines, and Scots Magazines, and other outré and antiquated productions. The broad and comprehensive survey of general events to which we are now accustomed, the universal criticism of everything and every person which is common to us all, and the perfect dauntlessness of modern journalism, were unknown to those times. And those were the days when our great men were young—when Youth was abroad in the world, with all his daring and all his eagerness. There is no particular star of youth in the horizon of this second half of the nineteenth century, but this brilliant planet was in the ascendant as the old eighteenth ended its old-fashioned career of dulness. There was Jeffrey, sharp, sparkling, and versatile; there was Brougham, vehement and impetuous; there was Sydney, in his English breadth and all-embracing mirthfulness; and there were others, all young—young, clever, daring, exuberant, full of that youthful joyous courage which defies the world. They met, they talked, they argued: strange enough, though there are published Lives of most of them, we have no clear account of those conversations—no Dies or Noctes, disclosing the eager discussions, the boundless animadversions, the satire, the fun, and the laughter of this brilliant fraternity in the high and airy habitations which suited their beginning fortune; but the result we are all very well acquainted with. Something came of the concussion of these young and eager intellects; they were all armed and ready for a grand tilt at things in general—a jubilant attack upon precedent and authority, after the manner of youth. Yes, some of them remain, ancient men—others of them have passed away in ripe old age; yet there they stand, the Revolutionists of Nature, the universal challengers, the fiery Crusaders of youth. It was not Whiggery, good our reader, though Pallas Athene is buff and blue—it was the genuine natural impulse, common to all young humankind, of pulling down the old and setting up the new.

Perhaps it is because we are better accustomed to good writing and clever speculation in these days—perhaps because there is now a wider freedom of speech and opinion than there used to be; but there is a most distinct and woeful difference, beyond dispute, between the beginning of literary enterprises in this time, and in that brilliant and eventful period when Maga was born and the Edinburgh was young. Quarterly Reviews spring up everywhere in these days—grow into little comfortable private circulations—belong to particular “interests”—are read, and influential in their sphere; but who takes note of the day or hour of their appearing, or hails the advent of the new luminary? Then, the young periodical took the world by storm—now, nobody wots of it. The difference is notable; and perhaps, after all, we may be justly doubtful whether it really is better to have a great many people to do a thing indifferently, than to have one or two who can do it well.

Yes, we were enemies at our outset; we wrestled manfully, sometimes for fame, sometimes for principle, sometimes “for love;” yet, being foes, let us rejoice over them, worthy rivals in an honourable field. Jeffrey and Sydney Smith have gone upon the last journey—Christopher North is gathered to his fathers—alas and alas! genius and fame and power are things of a day, as we are; yet it is hard to believe in their decline and decadence, when we look back upon these days of their youth.

The first idea of the Edinburgh Review originated with Sydney Smith. His proposal, as he says himself, was received “with acclamation;” and indeed it is easy to understand the exultation with which these daring young men must have anticipated possessing an organ of their own. He himself edited the first number; and though his name is not so entirely identified with this brilliant and successful enterprise as some of his colleagues, to him belongs the glory of the beginning. But his biographer does little justice to this interesting period of his life. We have glimpses of his history in Edinburgh only by means of sundry sensible and candid letters written to the father and mother of his pupil, in which, as might be expected, the said pupil, a respectable and mediocre Michael Beach, appears at greater length than his instructor. There is nothing remarkable in these letters, except the good sense and frankness with which the character of this pupil is exhibited; and this is as creditable to the young man’s parents as it is to Sydney: but save for two or three domestic incidents, we see nothing more of the man, nor how he lived during this period which had so important an influence upon all his after life. Even Sydney Smith could not make everywhere such a brilliant little nucleus of society as that which he brightened and cheered in Edinburgh. We would gladly have seen more of the five years of his northern residence, and are much disposed to grudge that Lady Holland should take this time of all others to tell us about his writings, and to make a survey of all the future succession of his articles in the Edinburgh. These we can find out for ourselves; but we might surely have had a more articulate sketch of how our hero appeared among his equals at this beginning of his life.

Shortly after the first appearance of the Review, Sydney Smith left Edinburgh, whence, having “finished” his pupil, and finding it necessary to make some more permanent provision for his family, he removed to London, where he seems—no disparagement to his manly and independent character—to have lived for some time upon his wits, making strenuous efforts to improve his condition, and bearing what he could not mend with the gayest and most light-hearted philosophy. During this time he delivered his famous lectures upon moral philosophy—about the earliest example, we suppose, of literary lecturings; a course of popular instruction which found immense favour in the eyes of a curious and discerning public. Audiences, crowded, fashionable, and clever, listened with eagerness to his exposition of the doctrines and history of metaphysics. Into this Scotchest of sciences, Sydney, who was no metaphysician, made a rapid and daring leap. We do not pause to inquire whether his style was the perfect English which some of his friends assert it to be—at least it was luminous, clear, and flowing, full of good sense, and bright with lively sparkles of wit and high intelligence. To these lectures “everybody” went; and very creditable it seems to everybody, that this unbeneficed and unaristocratic clergyman, known solely by his great and fearless talents, and as far removed from a courtier of fashion as it is possible to conceive, should have congregated together so large and so enthusiastic an audience. The manner in which the lecturer himself speaks of this popular course of philosophy, and the reputation he acquired by it, is amusing enough. Writing to Jeffrey, he says:—

“My lectures are just now at such an absurd pitch of celebrity, that I must lose a good deal of reputation before the public settles into a just equilibrium respecting them. I am most heartily ashamed of my own fame, because I am conscious I do not deserve it; and that the moment men of sense are provoked by the clamour to look into my claims, it will be at an end.”

This prediction has not been fulfilled—nor are the lectures themselves of the brilliant, faulty, and dashing description, which from this account one might suppose them to be. They are, in fact, as honest and truthful as everything else which belongs to their author. When we read them now, we cannot quite account for the sensation they made then; yet we do not throw them into the list of undeserved or fallacious successes. They merited much though not all of their fame; and the social success and reputation of their author seems to have grown and progressed from this time. He was a universal favourite in that mystical region called “Society,” at least in every quarter of it to which his political opinions gave him access; and this public appearance made him henceforth a recognisable personage to the universal public eye. He was still poor and struggling with many difficulties; but he was surrounded with fit companions, and full of exuberant spirits—an admirable example, though unfortunately a rare one, of how well a heart at ease can hold its place against all the cares of life.

Out of this brief but brilliant season of triumph, poverty, and happiness, it was at last the fortune of Sydney Smith to find preferment—which means, in other words, he got a living—an unobtrusive comfortable living, which permitted its incumbent to remain quietly in town, and, having no parsonage to lodge him in, considerately gave him no manner of trouble. But this state of things was much too good to last, and the unfortunate Rector, a year or two after his appointment, was summoned not only to his post, but to the less obvious duty of making that post tenable. We cannot, we are afraid, perceive much hardship in the necessity of residence, even though the parish was a parish of clay, in Yorkshire, and out of the world; but the building of the parsonage was certainly quite a different matter, and a grievous burden upon a man whose hands already were full enough. Yet the story of this settlement at Foston is the pleasantest of stories—the cheeriest, brightest, prettiest picture imaginable of a Crusoe family-scene. For ourselves, we turn from all the other triumphs of his life—and all his triumphs, so joyfully achieved, are exhilarating to hear of—to dwell upon this delightful conquest of little ills and vulgar difficulties, of brick and timber, architecture and carpentry, slow village minds, and unaccommodating circumstances. Sydney Smith never met his foes vicariously, but with shout and sound of triumph went forth against them, an host in his own person, taking everything at first hand, and trusting to no deputy. The result was, that his work was done—briskly, well, and with satisfaction to everybody; though, supposing Sydney’s successor in this clayey parish to be a medieval man, to whom gables are a point of doctrine, and Gothic porches a necessity, we fear this square box, ugly and comfortable, must have been the good priest’s death. It was a home of the brightest to its builder and his family. We will not quote the quaint history, because everybody has quoted it; but of this we are very sure, that the ugly house at Foston, with all its odd contrivances—its Immortal, its Jack Robinson, its feminine butler twelve years old, its good cheer, its comfort, its fun, and all the hospitalities of “the Rector’s Head”—are pleasanter and more lasting memorabilia than scores of Plymley letters. We know no tale of honest, simple, kindly human interest which has attracted us more.

The visitors at “the Rector’s Head” were illustrious people—noble Greys, Carlisles, and Hollands, and a flood of philosophers and literary folk as notable in their way. In this book, however, there are but slender traces of this memorable “run upon the road.” We can perceive the visitor’s carriage floundering in the ploughed field, but we do not come to any very distinct perception of the visitor. Let us not grumble; the noble Whigs and the philosophic heroes are misty and illegible; but the setting-out of the family chariot, its freight, harness, and history, is as quaint and clear as anything in the Vicar of Wakefield—and, to tell you the truth, by no means unlike the same.

From Foston our hero, now the author of Peter Plymley’s Letters, comes to greater preferment, and is advanced to Combe Florey, his vale of flowers—strange type of human successes!—at a time when grievous trouble had come upon this happy-hearted man—the loss of his eldest son;—and from this period his course is all prosperous. He does not, it is true, get his bishopric, but he is Canon of St Paul’s—is able to spend a good deal of time in his beloved London—keeps up his high reputation in the world of wit and intelligence—and finally grows rich as he grows an old man. Sorrowful is this period of old age; and even the wit of Sydney Smith cannot veil the sadness of that mournful time, when death after death breaks up the original circle—when children are gone out of the parental house, and friends vanish out of the social world. Strangest of all human desires is that universal desire to live long. How melancholy is the ending of every record of a lengthened life! It is grievous to linger upon the tale of weaknesses and sorrows. Surely this art of biography ought to be one of the weightiest of moral teachers; for even such a joyous heart as this, though everywhere it finds relief and compensation, does not escape from that lengthened sojourn in the valley of the shadow. Earl Grey, his old political leader, was upon his last sick-bed when Sydney Smith, too weak to bear even the thanks of a grateful man whom he was not too weak to serve, made an end of his benevolent and upright days; and messages of mutual sympathy and good wishes passed between these two, who had wished each other well in other and more exciting warfares. So, after a long day of manly work and honest exertion, one of the cheeriest and most courageous of lives came to its conclusion. His contemporaries had been falling around him for years—his brother died immediately after—his friend Jeffrey did not long survive him. They are now almost all gone, these old men, who were once such eloquent and daring leaders of the impetuous genius of youth. The Edinburgh Review has fallen into respectable matronhood, and no longer shivers a sparkling lance upon the powers that be. So wears the world away.

We cannot venture to stray into those painful and elaborate definitions of wit, which so many people seem constrained to enter upon at the very name of Sydney Smith. To our humble thinking, there is an undiscriminated region of fun, a lesser and lower world than that in which Wit and Humour contend for the kingship, to which many of his triumphs belong. We do not disparage his claims as a wit; we do not deny to him that more tender and delicate touch of sentiment and kindness which seems to us the distinguishing characteristic of the humourist; we acknowledge the acute edge of his satire, and the sweeter power of that joyous ridicule which did not aim at giving pain, but dealt with its victim as old Izaak dealt with his frog, “as if he loved it.” But the general atmosphere through which this occasional flash breaks out so brilliantly, is an atmosphere of genial and spontaneous mirth, a universal suffusion of fun and high spirits, bright and natural and unoppressive. After all, many of Sydney Smith’s recorded witticisms are not particularly witty; yet it is perfectly easy to understand how, from his own lips, and in the general current of his own joyous talk, they must once have been irresistible. These felicitous absurdities will not be judged by the rule and line of criticism; they by no means fit into the regulated proportions of orthodox humour. They are not born of a distinct intellectual faculty, nor do they aim at the perfectness of individual and separate productions. Instead of that, they are the mere natural overflowings of natural character, gaiety, and high spirits. We call them wit because we recognise their author as a man from whom wit is to be expected. But who does not know that wide happy atmosphere of fun which brightens many a household circle where nobody pretends to be witty?—who does not know how contagious and irresistible is this humbler influence, and how it catches up and inspires the common talk of all our pleasant meetings, giving to almost every family a little fund of odd or merry sayings—not witty, yet the source of unfailing mirthfulness? An acknowledged wit is a man to be pitied; and there is no more woeful position in society than that of one who, when he opens his lips, be it to speak the most commonplace, sees everybody around him preparing for laughter. We can perceive a little of this dire necessity even in Sydney Smith. No doubt, it was whimsical and odd and pleasant to hear a merry voice giving such a quaint order as that to “glorify the room”—yet we are afraid, by-and-by, when people came to hear it every morning, that some indifferent member of the family circle must have been disposed to shout forth the commonplace injunction, “Draw up the blinds!” to the forestalment of Sydney. But the broad lower atmosphere of fun was full about this genial and gifted man. He speaks nonsense with the most admirable success. Nonsense is a very important ingredient in the conversation of all circles which are, or have a right to be, called brilliant. It is often an appropriate surrounding medium, through which wit may flash and play; but it is not wit, let us name it ever so arbitrarily; and for our own part, we frankly confess that an hour of common and simple fun, with one morsel of genuine wit in it—an unexpected sparkle—is much more pleasant in our eyes than an hour hard pressed with sharp and brilliant witticisms, be they the very perfection of the article—the best that can be made. But we distinctly object to confound together these two separate and differing things. We say this, not in depreciation of the acknowledged wit of our hero, but because his biographer pauses gravely at several periods of this Memoir, to give examples of the “slow perception of humour” evidenced by various people, who did not understand the happy extravagances of Sydney. We do not always agree with Lady Holland in her estimate of her father’s witticisms Here is one of her instances:—

“Miss —— the other day, walking round the grounds at Combe Florey, exclaimed, ‘Oh! why do you chain up that fine Newfoundland dog, Mr Smith?’ ‘Because it has a passion for breakfasting on parish boys.’ ‘Parish boys!’ she exclaimed; ‘does he really eat boys, Mr Smith?’ ‘Yes, he devours them, buttons and all.’ Her face of horror made me die of laughing.”

Now this is very funny, but everybody must perceive at a glance that it is neither wit nor humour, properly so called; it is pure nonsense, gay and extravagant, and in reality requires a dull understanding, receiving it in the mere literal meaning of the words, to bring out and heighten its effect. The “sayings” of this book, indeed, are by no means up to the reputation of the speaker; they are often heavily told, and sometimes in themselves far from striking. But it does not appear that the wit of Sydney Smith was of a kind to evaporate in sayings; it was not so much a thing as an atmosphere—an envelopment of mirth and sunshine, in which the whole man moved and spoke.

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.

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