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by a bullet, and bleeding through his of the Circassians was found. Howmouth.

ever, when they reached the sheepfold He was shot dead by the one bullet there inside of it they found another that had come from the sheepfold. corpse.

At this shock a momentary panic "A priest-traitor," they shouted, much seized the gang; it scattered in disorder surprised. There lay, stretched on the and each man hid himself. The body ground, a young man with his head of the chief was quickly removed. pierced through. He was dressed in a Even the cavalry disappeared, although monk's robe, but under it they saw his no other shot was heard. From the uniform stained with blood. His mouth, long silence in the woods it was finally black from the gunpowder, showed concluded that the insurgents had that he had committed suicide with the escaped. A band of the more daring pistol that lay not far from him, after Circassians, who had gotten rid of he had killed Djambalaz with his their fright, entered the woods through rifle. Had he met before this his comthe Tchelopeck road and ransacked panions, it is unknown. them thoroughly. All that they found In spite of the custom on such occawas just one insurgent, who lay fatal- sions, the bashi-bazouks did not behead ly wounded beside the trunk of an oak; him in order to carry his head on a he was about thirty years old; his face pole as a trophy of victory. The death was covered with black whiskers and of their leader they ascribed to this one of his legs was bare, wrapped dead rebel. They were contented only around with cloth. The Circassians to set fire to the sheepfold, where his understood that the band of insurgents corpse remained. It smoked till sunset had fled to the mountains.

while several of the same gang were After the misfortune at the Voll, a engaged in exterminating a company of party of Boteff's band, forty in number, thirteen patriots who had come down under the command of Pera, wandered in the afternoon from the mountains the whole night in the mountains; hun- with the purpose of wading across the gry, fatigued and dying for sleep, they river. entered at daybreak the Tchelopeck wood, and there all fell fast asleep, Eleitza has died long since; but the believing that its density would be a half-dead child survived, and is now safe protection for them.

a sturdy fellow, whose name is CapOne of the bullets from the Circas- tain P. His grandmother, when relatsians killed Pera, who without sus- ing to him these events, used to tell pecting in the least the presence of him that he owed his life not so much the enemy, was dressing his wound to the sinful prayer of the angry monk, by the oak tree. Deprived once more as to the kindness which she herself of a leader the insurgents dispersed was not able to do, though she did wish and lost themselves up in the moun- with all her heart to do it. tains. No other victim of the bullets

Ivan Vozoff.

WALTER BAGEHOT.

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I have sometimes wondered whether having been a successful man of busiBagehot has yet received his due fame. ness, an energetic journalist, and the His patent of literary rank needs, in- author of treatises which made deed, no critic's countersign. His in- mark upon political, economical and sotimate friends, R. Hutton and Sir R. ciological speculation. Whatever the Giffen, have given admirable apprecia- value of Bagebot's theories, his literary tions of his intellect and character. Sir faculty was, of course, incomparably M.E. Grant-Duff's address in a recent superior to Ricardo's. His books connumber of this Review shows how firm what his friends tell us of his condeeply he impressed a most competent versation. His mind was so alert, his. eye-witness. There is a curious testi- interest in life so keen and his powers. mony to his interest for more distant of illustration so happy, that he coulii readers. Some years ago the "Travel- give freshness even to talk upon the ers' Insurance Company” of Hartford, British Constitution and liveliness to a Connecticut, set a precedent in adver- discussion of the Bank reserve. Не. tising which authors might desire to could not, that is, be dull or commonsee imitated in England. • It published place, even on the driest or tritest of a complete edition of Bagehot's works, topics. with its own name printed in the head- If, as I fancy, Bagehot scarcely relines throughout the volumes. It em- ceived so ready a welcome as he deployed, too, a most competent editor. Mr. served, one cause is obvious. Authors, Forrest Morgan labored upon Bagehot's if I may adopt a formula which he emtext with a zeal unsurpassable by any ployed rather too often, may be divided editor of a classic. Bagebot was either into two classes, the sentimentalists incapable of correcting proofs or calm- and the cynics. There can be no doubt ly indifferent to errors;

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which is the most popular. Everybody bristle with misprints and grammati- likes "geniality" in print as in talk; cal solecisms; he mangled quotations and, of course, everybody is quite right so strangely that it is difficult to ex- in the main. Yet the genial author has plain how he contrived to do it, anil, the benefit of a packed jury. Each as he rarely gave references, the task reader perhaps takes to himself the of identifying and correcting was very compliment paid to his species; what laborious. Mr. Morgan's zeal

good fellows we all are! And then we equal to the difficulty, and a British are all pleased with every accession to author again owes to an American the the tacit conspiracy for keeping up first performance of a valuable service. comfortable illusions. The poor cynic No one can read the collected works can hardly get a fair hearing. It is without recognizing the singular versa- surely desirable that somebody should tility and vivacity of Bagehot's intel- look facts in the face, instead of tak. lect. It is remarkable, says Bagebot, ing credit for the equivocal virtue that Ricardo had already made a for- called "seeing the bright side of tune and transformed the science of things.” Things in general have a very economics when he died at the age of dark side; and though the man who fifty-one. Either performance might dwells upon it gets an unpleasant have been a sufficient life occupation. name, he may be doing us an imporBagehot died at precisely the same age, tant service. We always need good

LIVING AGE. VOL. VIII. 440

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old things need not be therefore true, O brother man! nor yet the new

assailants of humbug. "Cynic,” indeed, has a very variable connotation, and it would be altogether wrong to apply the epithet to Bagehot without qualification. In Hutton's life of his friend the word inevitably comes up, but with the explanation that it refers to youthful failing, more or less outlived. Bagehot, he admits, always scorned a fool, and in early days the scorn was not yet tempered by the compassion which is the growth of later yearswhen we have come to know how many and what excellent people belong to that class. Bagehot's satirical "hear, hear," he tells us, took the heart out of young orators at debating societies and reduced the over-eloquent man to his "lowest terms.” His "cynicism" meant anything but indifference. It was combined with exuberantly high spirits and intense enjoyment of intellectual combats. University College, in Gower Street, was then, if Hutton is right, a far more "awakening" place than most Oxford colleges. Bagehot, like all clever lads, owed less to lecturers than to his contemporaries; to the impact, as he says, of thought upon thought, to "mirth and refutation, ridicule and laughter," which are the "free play of the natural mind." The young men discussed every topic, from the Corn Laws to the question whether “A is A” can be properly called a "law of thought.” Oxford, on the contrary, according to Bagehot, was recommended by authorities as a place where “the appetite for knowledge was repressed," a sleeply hollow in which the Thirtynine Articles were taken to represent ultimate logical categories. An orthodox University, of course, looked stupid enough in Gower Street, the natural home of heterodoxy. Oxford

were deeply agitated by what they innocently took to be thought, but to Bagehot, in spite of certain faint proclivities towards Catholicism, the Oxford speculations appeared to be

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which some people, like Emerson, translate as really meaning that "Nothing is either true or new." Clough, says his friend, was led to a certain discouragement--a disenchantment; a "fatigued way of looking at great subjects”—partly, as Bagehot thought, because he had been prematurely forced by Arnold's training into “moral earnestness." In fact, he had learnt that Arnold's disciples could be prigs. From that fate Bagehot was preserved by his vivid interest in life. If humbugs abounded all round, he did not become indifferent and fastidious, · but only found an ampler field for his combative propensities. How little he was tainted by priggishness "moral earnestness” appears from the curious set of letters from Paris upon the coup d'état in 1851. Bagehot there came out as a thorough cynic, and his private letters, Hutton tells us, were even more cynical than those published in the Inquirer. The readers of that papergood sound believers in The Times and the British Constitution-were naturally scandalized by the audacious young gentleman who argued that it was quite right to gag the Press and to ship off Leaders of the Opposition to Cayenne. Most young Liberals had been roused to enthusiasm by the revolutionary movements of 1848. Bagehot could only see the absurdities and the failures. He superintended the con

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struction of the barricades at Paris to amuse himself; but he was revolted by the "sallow, sincere, sour fanaticism" behind them: the real Montagnards, Who would rather shoot him than not. It is not possible, he observes, “to respect anyone who believes in human brotherhood.” That faith is too obviously nonsensical. "M. Buonaparte is entitled to very great praise. He has very good heels to his boots, and the French just want treading down and nothing else-calm, cruel, business-like oppression to take the dogmatic conceit out of their heads." J. S. Mill had praised the French spirit of generalization. That spirit had come to this, that every Parisian wanted his head tapped in order to get the formulæ and nonsense out of it. Bagehot thoroughly accepted the view of the shopkeepers, that revolutions were bad for trade, and that Louis Napoleon, who put them down, was a genuine “Saviour of Society.” A really eloquent passage upon the power of the Catholic Church suggests the more serious side of his doctrine. You may, he tells the Freethinker, disprove the creeds as much as you please; but in the end you find that the “poorest priest in the remote region of the Basses Alpes has more power over men's souls than human cultivation; his ill-mouthed masses move women's souls; can you? Ye scoff at Jupiter, yet he at least was be. lieved in; you never have been. Idol for idol, the dethroned is better than the unthroned.” Superstition, that is, may be ridiculous to the reasoner; but to the politician it is a vast and living force to be reckoned with, and there. fore to be respected. Bagehot's early leaning to Catholicism meant that he was susceptible to the historical prestige and imaginative fascinations of the Catholic Church. But then he was too thorough a Rationalist to accept Newman's recipe for suppressing doubt --that is, putting it down by an "act of

will." In point of logic, the creed was false, though in practice, the Church might be not the less useful in its proper place. Though humbug, as Hosea Biglow remarked, has a “solid value," he won't believe it for himself. Some humbug, moreover, is purely mischievous. Both in religion and in politics dogmatism pretends to make absolute truths out of any principles that will lead to the desired conclusion. The Revolutionists illustrated the political evil; for in politics all ab

olute principles are necessarily absurd. Politics, Burke had first shown, are “made of time and place;" they are "a piece of business to be determined by sense and circumstance." The one question is whether institutions will work; not whether they can be ostensibly deduced from some arbitrary bit of abstract logic.

Bagehot's youthful audacity applied this to defend the indefensible. He was, as Hutton says, "exasperating." He sang the praises of an “unprincipled adventurer," and made light of perjury and violence. His cynicism was fourished with excessive levity, and good people's scruples needlessly flouted. Yet, assuming that Louis Napoleon deserved everything that even Victor Hugo could say of him, the letters show the real value of good, sweeping, outrageous cynicism. They raise the question which, sooner or later, has to be answered. The viler the despot the more important it is to enquire, What is the secret of his despotic power? It is all very well for popular orators to answer, “Alliance with the devil.” A more philosophic observer will remark that a state of things in which the devil has such power must be radically wrong. In proclaiming the wickedness of the successful you are proving the imbecility of the virtuous. Your own principles may be irrefragable. Then why are they impracticable? The lofty idealist refuses to

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consider such questions. The error, he assumes, cannot be in his theories, wherever else it may be. The function of the cynic is to force him to descend from the clouds and explain instead of simply denouncing. Bagehot, that is, was really putting a grave difficulty. He was only giving the most paradoxical turn to the convictions which found fuller expression in his later writing. The weaknesses of French politicians, which he described with such singular vigor, have certainly not wanted illustration from later experience. Nobody could describe

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some causes of the instability of the politi. cal order in France. Politics means business, and therefore compromise. When every man is so logical that compromise becomes a deadly sin, how can the antagonists be held together except by a despotism which at least offers material prosperity? Bagehot's special way of putting it is characteristic. Theory in the lump is bad. The most essential quality for a free people, he declares, “is much stupidity." He points his moral by describing the pleasure with which, after a surfeit of brilliant French journalism, he came across an article in The Morning Herald. There was no "sharp theory" in it, “no pointed expression, no fatiguing brilliancy,” only "a dull, creeping, satisfactory sensation that there nothing to admire." There was some good in the coup d'état, which at least suppressed the useless, endless, empty logic-chopping of smart Parisian theorizers.

Bagebot is seeking point at the expense of accuracy, and will not take the sting out of his paradoxes. His wiser readers may supply the qualifications for themselves. If the less wise are shocked, he will only smile in his sleeve. He had far too much intellect to accept the thoroughly cynical conclusions that since we can know nothing we may believe anything, and since

philosophy is delusive give up the attempt to theorize at all. On the contrary, his weakness is a rather excessive tendency to theorize. It appears in the literary criticisms, at which I can here only glance as illustrations of his habitual mental attitude. They have, above all things, the essential merits of freshness and sincerity. If he has not the special knowledge, he is absolutely free from the pedantry, of the literary expert. He has none of the cant of criticism, and never bores us with “romantic and classical" or "objective and subjective." When he wants a general theory-as he always does-he strikes one out in the heat of the moment. He has almost a trickas I have hinted-of dividing all writers into two classes: philosophers are either "seers" or "gropers;" novelists are “miscellaneous" or "sentimental;" genius is symmetrical or irregular, and so forth. Such classifications will not always bear reflection; they only give emphasis to a particular aspect; but they show how his mind is always swarming with theories, and how he looks upon literature as a man primarily interested in the wider problems of life and character which literature reflects. Critics, of course, might find fault with many of his dicta. He is sometimes commonplace because he tells us how things strike him, and not the less that they have struck every competent writer in much the same way; he writes of Shakespeare and Milton as if he had discovered them for the first time; he can at times utter a crude judgment, because he is too indifferent-if that be possible,to orthodox literary authority, and his literary criticism diverges into psychological or political speculations which are hardly relevant. That means that he is really most interested in the man behind the books. It is characteristic that he attacks the common statement about Shakespeare which declares the

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