An Essay on History: Epistle the Third

SAY thou! whose eye has, like the Lynx's beam,
Pierc'd the deep windings of this mazy stream,
Say, from what source the various Poisons glide,
That darken History's discolour'd tide;
Whose purer waters to the mind dispense
The wealth of Virtue, and the fruits of Sense!—
These Poisons flow, collective and apart,
From Public Vanity, and Private Art.
At first Delusion built her safe retreat
On the broad base of National Conceit:
Nations, like Men, in Flattery confide,
The slaves of Fancy, and the dupes of Pride.
Each petty region of the peopled earth,
Howe'er debas'd by intellectual dearth,
Still proudly boasted of her claims to share
The richest portion of celestial care:
For her she saw the rival Gods engage,
And Heaven convuls'd with elemental rage.
To her the thunder's roar, the lightning's fire,
Confirm'd their favour, or denounc'd their ire.
To seize this foible, daring Hist'ry threw
Illusive terrors o'er each scene she drew;
Nor would her spirit, in the heat of youth,
Watch, with a Vestal's care, the lamp of Truth;
But, wildly mounting in a Witch's form,
Her voice delighted to condense the storm;
With showers of blood th' astonish'd earth to drench,
The frame of Nature from its base to wrench;
In Horror's veil involve her plain events,
And shake th' affrighted world with dire portents.
Still softer arts her subtle spirit try'd,
To win the easy faith of Public Pride:
She told what Powers, in times of early date,
Gave consecration to the infant State;
Mark'd the blest spot by sacred Founders trod,
And all th' atchievements of the guardian God.
Thus while, like Fame, she rests upon the land,
Her figure grows; her magic limbs expand;
Her tow'ring head, to high Olympus tost,
Pierces the sky, and in that blaze is lost.

Yet bold Philosophy at length destroy'd
The brilliant phantoms of th' Historic void;
Her scrutinizing eye, whose search severe
Rivals the pressure of Ithuriel's spear,
Permits no fraudful semblance to escape,
But turns each Marvel to its real shape.
The blazing meteors fall from Hist'ry's sphere;
Her darling Demi-gods no more appear;
No more the Nations, with heroic joy,
Boast their descent from Heaven-descended Troy:
On FRANCIO now the Gallic page is mute,
And British Story drops the name of BRUTE.
What other failings from this fountain flow'd,
Ill-measur'd fame on martial feats bestow'd,
And heaps, enlarg'd to mountains of the slain,
The miracles of valour, still remain.
But of all faults, that injur'd Truth may blame,
Those proud mistakes the first indulgence claim,
Where Public Zeal the ardent Pen betrays,
And Patriot Passions swell the partial praise.
Ev'n private Vanity may pardon find,
When built on Worth, and with Instruction join'd:
In British Annalists more rarely found,
This venial foible springs on foreign ground;
'Tis theirs, who scribble near the Seine or Loire,
Those lively Heroes of the light Memoir!

Defects more hateful to ingenuous eyes,
In Adulation's servile arts arise:
Mean Child of Int'rest! as her Parent base!
Her charms Deformity! her wealth Disgrace!
Dimm'd by her breath, the light of Learning fades;
Her breath the wisest of mankind degrades,
And BACON's self, for mental glory born,
Meets, as her slave, our pity, or our scorn.
Unhappy Genius! in whose wond'rous mind
The sordid Reptile and the Seraph join'd;
Now traversing the world on Wisdom's wings,
Now basely crouching to the last of Kings:
Thy fault, which Freedom with regret surveys,
This useful Truth, in strongest light, displays;
That not sufficient are those shining parts,
Which shed new radiance o'er concenter'd arts;
To reach with glory the Historic goal
Demands a firm, an independent soul,
An eagle-eye, that with undazzled gaze
Can look on Majesty's meridian blaze.
But Adulation, in the worst of times,
Throws her broad mantle o'er imperial crimes;
In Hist'ry's field, her abject toils delight
To shut the scenes of Nature from our sight,
Each human Virtue in one mass to fling,
And of that mountain make the statue of a King.
Yet oft her labours, slighted or abhorr'd,
Receive in present scorn their just reward;
Scorn from that Idol, at whose feet she lays
The sordid offering of her venal praise.

As crown'd with Indian laurels, nobly won,
His conquest ended, Philip's warlike Son
Sail'd down th' Hydaspes in a voyage of sport,
The chief Historian of his sumptuous court
Read his description of the single fight,
Where Porus yielded to young Ammon's might;
And, like a Scribe in courtly arts adroit,
Most largely magnify'd his Lord's exploit:
Tho' ever on the stretch to Glory's goal,
Fame the first passion of his fiery soul!
Fierce from his seat the indignant Hero sprung,
And o'er the vessel's side the volume flung;
Then, as he saw the fawning Scribler shrink,
"Thus should the Author with his Writing sink,
"Who stifles Truth in Flattery's disguise,
"And buries honest Fame beneath a load of Lies."

But modern Princes, having less to lose,
Rarely these insults on their name accuse:
In Dedications quietly inurn'd,
They take more lying Praise than Ammon spurn'd;
And Learning's pliant Sons, to flattery prone,
Bend with such blind obeisance to the throne,
The basest King that ever curst the earth,
Finds many a witness to attest his worth:
Tho' dead, still flatter'd by some abject slave,
He spreads contagious poison from his grave,
While sordid hopes th' Historian's hand entice
To varnish ev'n the tomb of Royal Vice.

Tho' Nature wept with desolated Spain,
In tears of blood, the second Philip's reign;
Tho' such deep sins deform'd his sullen mind,
As merit execration from mankind:
A mighty empire by his crimes undone;
A people massacred; a murder'd son:
Tho' Heaven's displeasure stopt his parting breath,
To bear long loathsome pangs of hideous death;
Flattery can still the Ruffian's praise repeat,
And call this Waster of the earth discreet:
Still can HERRERA, mourning o'er his urn,
His dying pangs to blissful rapture turn,
And paint the King, from earth by curses driven,
A Saint, accepted by approving Heaven!

But arts of deeper guile, and baser wrong,
To Adulation's subtle Scribes belong:
They oft, their present idols to exalt,
Profanely burst the consecrated vault;
Steal from the buried Chief bright Honour's plume,
Or stain with Slander's gall the Statesman's tomb:
Stay, sacrilegious slaves! with reverence tread
O'er the blest ashes of the worthy dead!
See! where, uninjur'd by the charnel's damp,
The Vestal, Virtue, with undying lamp,
Fond of her toil, and jealous of her trust,
Sits the keen Guardian of their sacred dust,
And thus indignant, from the depth of earth,
Checks your vile aim, and vindicates their worth:
"Hence ye! who buried excellence belied,
"To sooth the sordid spleen of living Pride;
"Go! gild with Adulation's feeble ray
"Th' imperial pageant of your passing day!
"Nor hope to stain, on base Detraction's scroll,
"A TULLY's morals, or a SIDNEY's soul!"—
Just Nature will abhor, and Virtue scorn,
That Pen, tho' eloquence its page adorn,
Which, brib'd by Interest, or from vain pretence
To subtler Wit, and deep-discerning Sense,
Would blot the praise on public toils bestow'd,
And Patriot passions, as a jest, explode.

Less abject failings spring from Party-rage,
The pest most frequent in th' Historic page;
That common jaundice of the turbid brain,
Which leaves the heart unconscious of a stain,
Yet suffers not the clouded mind to view
Or men, or actions, in their native hue:
For Party mingles, in her feverish dreams,
Credulity and Doubt's most wild extremes:
She gazes thro' a glass, whose different ends
Reduce her foes, and magnify her friends:
Delusion ever on her spirit dwells;
And to the worst excess its fury swells,
When Superstition's raging passions roll
Their savage frenzy thro' the Bigot's soul.

Nor less the blemish, tho' of different kind,
From false Philosophy's conceits refin'd!
Her subtle influence, on History shed,
Strikes the fine nerve of Admiration dead,
(That nerve despis'd by sceptic sons of earth,
Yet still a vital spring of human worth.)
This artful juggler, with a skill so nice,
Shifts the light forms of Virtue and of Vice,
That, ere they wake abhorrence or delight,
Behold! they both are vanish'd from the sight;
And Nature's warm affections, thus destroy'd,
Leave in the puzzled mind a lifeless void.

Far other views the liberal Genius fire,
Whose toils to pure Historic praise aspire;
Nor Moderation's dupe, nor Faction's brave,
Nor Guilt's apologist, nor Flattery's slave:
Wise, but not cunning; temperate, not cold;
Servant of Truth, and in that service bold;
Free from all bias, save that just controul
By which mild Nature sways the manly soul,
And Reason's philanthropic spirit draws
To Virtue's interest, and Freedom's cause;
Those great ennoblers of the human name,
Pure springs of Power, of Happiness, and Fame!
To teach their influence, and spread their sway,
The just Historian winds his toilsome way;
From silent darkness, creeping o'er the earth,
Redeems the sinking trace of useful worth;
In Vice's bosom marks the latent thorn,
And brands that public pest with public scorn.
A lively teacher in a moral school!
In that great office steady, clear, and cool!
Pleas'd to promote the welfare of mankind,
And by informing meliorate the mind!
Such the bright task committed to his care!
Boundless its use; but its completion rare.

Critics have said "Tho' high th' Historian's charge,
His Laws are simple tho' his Province large;
Two obvious rules ensure his full success—
To speak no Falsehood; and no Truth suppress:
Art must to other works a lustre lend,
But History pleases, howsoe'er it's penn'd."

Perchance in ruder periods; but in those,
Where all the luxury of Learning flows,
To Truth's plain fare no palate will submit,
Each reader grows an Epicure in Wit;
And Knowledge must his nicer taste beguile
With all the poignant charms of Attic style.
The curious Scholar, in his judgment choice,
Expects no common Notes from History's voice;
But all the tones, that all the passions suit,
From the bold Trumpet to the tender Lute:
Yet if thro' Music's scale her voice should range,
Now high, now low, with many a pleasing change,
Grace must thro' every variation glide,
In every movement Majesty preside:
With ease not careless, tho' correct not cold;
Soft without languor, without harshness bold.

Tho' Affectation can all works debase,
In Language, as in Life, the bane of Grace!
Regarded ever with a scornful smile,
She most is censur'd in th' Historic style:
Yet her insinuating power is such,
Not ev'n the Greeks escap'd her baleful touch;
Hence the fictitious Speech, and long Harangue,
Too oft, like weights, on ancient Story hang.
Less fond of labour, modern Pens devise
Affected beauties of inferior size:
They in a narrower compass boldly strike
The fancied Portrait, with no feature like;
And Nature's simple colouring vainly quit,
To boast the brilliant glare of fading Wit.
Those works alone may that blest fate expect
To live thro' time, unconscious of neglect,
That catch, in springing from no sordid source,
The ease of Nature, and of Truth the force.

But not ev'n Truth, with bright expression grac'd,
Nor all Description's powers, in lucid order plac'd,
Not even these a fond regard engage,
Or bind attention to th' Historic page,
If distant tribes compose th' ill-chosen Theme,
Whose savage virtues wake no warm esteem;
Where Faith and Valour spring from Honour's grave,
Only to form th' Assassin and the Slave.
From Turkish tyrants, stain'd with servile gore,
Enquiry turns; and Learning's sighs deplore,
While o'er his name Neglect's cold shadow rolls,
A waste of Genius in the toil of KNOLLES.
There are, we own, whose magic power is such,
Their hands embellish whatsoe'er they touch:
Their bright Mosaic so enchants our eyes,
By nice Arrangement, and contrasted Dies,
What mean materials in the texture lurk,
Serve but to raise the wonder of the work.
Yet from th' Historian (as such power is rare)
The choice of Matter claims no trifling care.

'Tis not alone collected Wealth's display,
Nor the proud fabric of extended Sway,
That mark (tho' both the eye of Wonder fill)
The happy Subject for Historic skill:
Wherever Nature, tho' in narrow space,
Fosters, by Freedom's aid, a liberal race;
Sees Virtue save them from Oppression's den,
And cries with exultation, "These are Men;"
Tho' in Boeotia or Batavia born,
Their deeds the Story of the World adorn.

The Subject fix'd, with force and beauty fraught,
Just Disposition claims yet deeper thought;
To cast enlivening Order's lucid grace
O'er all the crouded fields of Time and Space;
To shew each wheel of Power in all its force,
And trace the streams of Action from their source;
To catch, with spirit and precision join'd,
The varying features of the human Mind;
The Grace, the Strength, that Nature's children draw
From Arts, from Science, Policy, and Law;
Opinion's fashion, Wisdom's firmer plan,
And all that marks the character of Man.
Of all the parts, that History's volume fill,
The just Digression claims the nicest skill;
As the swift Hero, in the Olympic race,
Ran with less toil along the open space;
But round the Goal to form the narrow curve,
Call'd forth his utmost strength from every nerve.

The Subject's various powers let Study tell!
And teach th' Historian on what points to dwell!
How in due shades to sink each meaner part,
And pour on nobler forms the radiance of his art!
Tho' Patriot Love the curious spirit fires
With thirst to hear th' atchievements of his Sires;
And British story wins the British mind
With all the charms that fond attention bind;
Its early periods, barbarous and remote,
Please not, tho' drawn by Pens of noblest note:
O'er those rude scenes Confusion's shadows dwell,
Beyond the power of Genius to dispell;
Mists! which ev'n MILTON's splendid mind enshroud;
Lost in the darkness of the Saxon cloud!

Neglect alone repays their slight offence,
Whose wand'ring wearies our bewilder'd sense:
But just Abhorrence brands his guilty name,
Who dares to vilify his Country's fame;
With Slander's rage the pen of History grasp,
And pour from thence the poison of the Asp;
The murd'rous falsehood, stifling Honour's breath!
The slavish tenet, Public Virtue's death!
With all that undermines a Nation's health,
And robs the People of their richest wealth!
Ye tools of Tyranny! whose servile guile
Would thus pollute the records of our isle,
Behold your Leader curst with public hate,
And read your just reward in BRADY's fate!

O sacred Liberty! shall Faction's train
Pervert the reverend archives of thy reign?
Shall slaves traduce the blood thy votaries spilt,
Blaspheming Glory with the name of Guilt?
And shall no Son of thine their wiles o'erwhelm,
And clear the story of thy injur'd realm?
To this bright task some British spirit raise,
With powers surpassing ev'n a LIVY's praise!
Thro' this long wilderness his march inspire,
And make thy temperate flame his leading fire!
Teach his keen eye, and comprehensive soul,
To pierce each darker part, and grasp the whole!
Let Truth's undoubted signet seal his page,
And Glory guard the work from age to age!
That British minds from this pure source may draw
Sense of thy Rights, and passion for thy Law,
Wisdom to prize, and Honour, that aspires
To reach that virtue which adorn'd our Sires!

But not alone our native land attracts;
Far different Nations boast their splendid facts:
In ancient Story the rich fruits unite
Of civil Wisdom and sublime Delight:
At Rome's proud name Attention's spirits rise,
Rome, the first idol of our infant eyes!
Use and Importance mark the vast design,
Clearly to trace her periods of Decline.
Yet here, O GIBBON! what long toils ensue?
How winds the labyrinth? how fails the clue?
Tho' rude materials Time's deep trenches fill,
A radiant structure rises from thy skill;
Whose splendor, springing from a dreary waste,
Enchants the wondering eye of Public Taste.
Thus to the ancient traveller, whose way
Across the hideous sands of Syria lay,
The Desart blaz'd with sudden glory bright;
And rich Palmyra rush'd upon his sight.

But O! what foes beset each honour'd Name,
Advancing in the path of letter'd fame!
To stop thy progress, and insult thy pen,
The fierce Polemic issues from his den.

Think not my Verse means blindly to engage
In rash defence of thy profaner page!
Tho' keen her spirit, her attachment fond,
Base service cannot suit with Friendship's bond;
Too firm from Duty's sacred path to turn,
She breathes an honest sigh of deep concern,
And pities Genius, when his wild career
Gives Faith a wound, or Innocence a fear.
Humility herself, divinely mild,
Sublime Religion's meek and modest child,
Like the dumb Son of CROESUS, in the strife,
Where Force assail'd his Father's sacred life,
Breaks silence, and, with filial duty warm,
Bids thee revere her Parent's hallow'd form!

Far other sounds the ear of Learning stun,
From proud Theology's contentious Son;
Less eager to correct, than to revile,
Rage in his voice! and Rancour in his style!
His idle scoffs with coarse reproof deride
Thy generous thirst of Praise, and liberal Pride;
Since thy frank spirit dares that wish avow,
Which Nature owns, and Wisdom must allow!
The noble Instinct, Love of lasting Fame,
Was wisely planted in the human frame:
From hence the brightest rays of History flow;
To this their Vigour and their Use they owe.
Nor scorns fair Virtue this untainted source,
From hence she often draws her lovely force:
For Heaven this passion with our life combin'd,
Which, like a central power, impels the languid mind.
When, clear from Envy's cloud, that general pest!
It burns most brightly in the Author's breast,
Its soothing hopes his various pains beguile,
And give to Learning's face her sweetest smile:
What joy, to think his Genius may create
Existence far beyond the common date!
His Wealth of Mind to latest ages give,
And in Futurity's affection live!
From unborn beauty, still to Fancy dear,
Draw with soft magic the delightful tear;
Or thro' the bosom of far distant Youth,
Spread the warm glow of Liberty and Truth!

O GIBBON! by thy frank ambition taught,
Let me like thee maintain th' enlivening thought,
That, from Oblivion's killing cloud secure,
My Hope may prosper and my Verse endure:
While thy bright Name, on History's car sublime,
Rolls in just triumph o'er the field of Time,
May I, unfaltering, thy long march attend,
No flattering Slave! but an applauding Friend!
Display th' imperfect sketch I fondly drew,
Of that wide province, where thy laurels grew;
And, honour'd with a wreath of humbler bays,
Join the loud Paean of thy lasting praise!