Colloquies on Society
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Robert Southey >> Colloquies on Society
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9 COLLOQUIES ON SOCIETY.
INTRODUCTION.
It was in 1824 that Robert Southey, then fifty years old, published
"Sir Thomas More, or Colloquies on the Progress and Prospects of
Society," a book in two octavo volumes with plates illustrating lake
scenery. There were later editions of the book in 1829, and in
1831, and there was an edition in one volume in 1837, at the
beginning of the reign of Queen Victoria.
These dialogues with a meditative and patriotic ghost form separate
dissertations upon various questions that concern the progress of
society. Omitting a few dissertations that have lost the interest
they had when the subjects they discussed were burning questions of
the time, this volume retains the whole machinery of Southey's book.
It gives unabridged the Colloquies that deal with the main
principles of social life as Southey saw them in his latter days;
and it includes, of course, the pleasant Colloquy that presents to
us Southey himself, happy in his library, descanting on the course
of time as illustrated by the bodies and the souls of books. As
this volume does not reproduce all the Colloquies arranged by
Southey under the main title of "Sir Thomas More," it avoids use of
the main title, and ventures only to describe itself as "Colloquies
on Society, by Robert Southey."
They are of great interest, for they present to us the form and
character of the conservative reaction in a mind that was in youth
impatient for reform. In Southey, as in Wordsworth, the reaction
followed on experience of failure in the way taken by the
revolutionists of France, with whose aims for the regeneration of
Europe they had been in warmest accord. Neither Wordsworth nor
Southey ever lowered the ideal of a higher life for man on earth.
Southey retains it in these Colloquies, although he balances his own
hope with the questionings of the ghost, and if he does look for a
crowning race, regards it, with Tennyson, as a
"FAR OFF divine event
To which the whole Creation moves."
The conviction brought to men like Wordsworth and Southey by the
failure of the French Revolution to attain its aim in the sudden
elevation of society was not of vanity in the aim, but of vanity in
any hope of its immediate attainment by main force. Southey makes
More say to himself upon this question (page 37), "I admit that such
an improved condition of society as you contemplate is possible, and
that it ought always to be kept in view; but the error of supposing
it too near, of fancying that there is a short road to it, is, of
all the errors of these times, the most pernicious, because it
seduces the young and generous, and betrays them imperceptibly into
an alliance with whatever is flagitious and detestable." All strong
reaction of mind tends towards excess in the opposite direction.
Southey's detestation of the excesses of vile men that brought shame
upon a revolutionary movement to which some of the purest hopes of
earnest youth had given impulse, drove him, as it drove Wordsworth,
into dread of everything that sought with passionate energy
immediate change of evil into good. But in his own way no man ever
strove more patiently than Southey to make evil good; and in his own
home and his own life he gave good reason to one to whom he was as a
father, and who knew his daily thoughts and deeds, to speak of him
as "upon the whole the best man I have ever known."
In the days when this book was written, Southey lived at Greta Hall,
by Keswick, and had gathered a large library about him. He was Poet
Laureate. He had a pension from the Civil List, worth less than 200
pounds a year, and he was living at peace upon a little income
enlarged by his yearly earnings as a writer. In 1818 his whole
private fortune was 400 pounds in consols. In 1821 he had added to
that some savings, and gave all to a ruined friend who had been good
to him in former years. Yet in those days he refused an offer of
2,000 pounds a year to come to London and write for the Times. He
was happiest in his home by Skiddaw, with his books about him and
his wife about him.
Ten years after the publishing of these Colloquies, Southey's wife,
who had been, as Southey said, "for forty years the life of his
life," had to be placed in a lunatic asylum. She returned to him to
die, and then his gentleness became still gentler as his own mind
failed. He died in 1843. Three years before his death his friend
Wordsworth visited him at Keswick, and was not recognised. But when
Southey was told who it was, "then," Wordsworth wrote, "his eyes
flashed for a moment with their former brightness, but he sank into
the state in which I had found him, patting with both his hands his
books affectionately, like a child."
Sir Thomas More, whose ghost communicates with Robert Southey, was
born in 1478, and at the age of fifty-seven was beheaded for
fidelity to conscience, on the 6th of July, 1535. He was, like
Southey, a man of purest character, and in 1516, when his age was
thirty-eight, there was published at Louvain his "Utopia," which
sketched wittily an ideal commonwealth that was based on practical
and earnest thought upon what constitutes a state, and in what
direction to look for amendment of ills. More also withdrew from
his most advanced post of opinion. When he wrote "Utopia" he
advocated absolute freedom of opinion in matters of religion; in
after years he believed it necessary to enforce conformity. King
Henry VIII., stiff in his own opinions, had always believed that;
and because More would not say that he was of one mind with him in
the matter of the divorce of Katherine he sent him to the scaffold.
H. M.
COLLOQUY I.--THE INTRODUCTION.
"Posso aver certezza, e non paura,
Che raccontando quel che m' e accaduto,
Il ver diro, ne mi sara creduto."
"Orlando Innamorato," c. 5. st. 53.
It was during that melancholy November when the death of the
Princess Charlotte had diffused throughout Great Britain a more
general sorrow than had ever before been known in these kingdoms; I
was sitting alone at evening in my library, and my thoughts had
wandered from the book before me to the circumstances which made
this national calamity be felt almost like a private affliction.
While I was thus musing the post-woman arrived. My letters told me
there was nothing exaggerated in the public accounts of the
impression which this sudden loss had produced; that wherever you
went you found the women of the family weeping, and that men could
scarcely speak of the event without tears; that in all the better
parts of the metropolis there was a sort of palsied feeling which
seemed to affect the whole current of active life; and that for
several days there prevailed in the streets a stillness like that of
the Sabbath, but without its repose. I opened the newspaper; it was
still bordered with broad mourning lines, and was filled with
details concerning the deceased Princess. Her coffin and the
ceremonies at her funeral were described as minutely as the order of
her nuptials and her bridal dress had been, in the same journal,
scarce eighteen months before. "Man," says Sir Thomas Brown, "is a
noble animal, splendid in ashes, and pompous in the grave;
solemnising nativities and deaths with equal lustre, nor omitting
ceremonies of bravery in the infamy of his nature." These things
led me in spirit to the vault, and I thought of the memorable dead
among whom her mortal remains were now deposited. Possessed with
such imaginations I leaned back upon the sofa and closed my eyes.
Ere long I was awakened from that conscious state of slumber in
which the stream of fancy floweth as it listeth by the entrance of
an elderly personage of grave and dignified appearance. His
countenance and manner were remarkably benign, and announced a high
degree of intellectual rank, and he accosted me in a voice of
uncommon sweetness, saying, "Montesinos, a stranger from a distant
country may intrude upon you without those credentials which in
other cases you have a right to require." "From America!" I
replied, rising to salute him. Some of the most gratifying visits
which I have ever received have been from that part of the world.
It gives me indeed more pleasure than I can express to welcome such
travellers as have sometimes found their way from New England to
those lakes and mountains; men who have not forgotten what they owe
to their ancient mother; whose principles, and talents, and
attainments would render them an ornament to any country, and might
almost lead me to hope that their republican constitution may be
more permanent than all other considerations would induce me either
to suppose or wish.
"You judge of me," he made answer, "by my speech. I am, however,
English by birth, and come now from a more distant country than
America, wherein I have long been naturalised." Without explaining
himself further, or allowing me time to make the inquiry which would
naturally have followed, he asked me if I were not thinking of the
Princess Charlotte when he disturbed me. "That," said I, "may
easily be divined. All persons whose hearts are not filled with
their own grief are thinking of her at this time. It had just
occurred to me that on two former occasions when the heir apparent
of England was cut off in the prime of life the nation was on the
eve of a religious revolution in the first instance, and of a
political one in the second."
"Prince Arthur and Prince Henry," he replied. "Do you notice this
as ominous, or merely as remarkable?"
"Merely as remarkable," was my answer. "Yet there are certain moods
of mind in which we can scarcely help ascribing an ominous
importance to any remarkable coincidence wherein things of moment
are concerned."
"Are you superstitious?" said he. "Understand me as using the word
for want of a more appropriate one--not in its ordinary and
contemptuous acceptation."
I smiled at the question, and replied, "Many persons would apply the
epithet to me without qualifying it. This, you know, is the age of
reason, and during the last hundred and fifty years men have been
reasoning themselves out of everything that they ought to believe
and feel. Among a certain miserable class, who are more numerous
than is commonly supposed, he who believes in a First Cause and a
future state is regarded with contempt as a superstitionist. The
religious naturalist in his turn despises the feebler mind of the
Socinian; and the Socinian looks with astonishment or pity at the
weakness of those who, having by conscientious inquiry satisfied
themselves of the authenticity of the Scriptures, are contented to
believe what is written, and acknowledge humility to be the
foundation of wisdom as well as of virtue. But for myself, many, if
not most of those even who agree with me in all essential points,
would be inclined to think me superstitious, because I am not
ashamed to avow my persuasion that there are more things in heaven
and earth than are dreamt of in their philosophy."
"You believe, then, in apparitions," said my visitor.
Montesinos.--Even so, sir. That such things should be is probable a
priori; and I cannot refuse assent to the strong evidence that such
things are, nor to the common consent which has prevailed among all
people, everywhere, in all ages a belief indeed which is truly
catholic, in the widest acceptation of the word. I am, by inquiry
and conviction, as well as by inclination and feeling, a Christian;
life would be intolerable to me if I were not so. "But," says Saint
Evremont, "the most devout cannot always command their belief, nor
the most impious their incredulity." I acknowledge with Sir Thomas
Brown that, "as in philosophy, so in divinity, there are sturdy
doubts and boisterous objections, wherewith the unhappiness of our
knowledge too nearly acquainteth us;" and I confess with him that
these are to be conquered, "not in a martial posture, but on our
knees." If then there are moments wherein I, who have satisfied my
reason, and possess a firm and assured faith, feel that I have in
this opinion a strong hold, I cannot but perceive that they who have
endeavoured to dispossess the people of their old instinctive belief
in such things have done little service to individuals and much
injury to the community.
Stranger.--Do you extend this to a belief in witchcraft?
Montesinos.--The common stories of witchcraft confute themselves, as
may be seen in all the trials for that offence. Upon this subject I
would say with my old friend Charles Lamb -
"I do not love to credit tales of magic!
Heaven's music, which is order, seems unstrung.
And this brave world
(The mystery of God) unbeautified,
Disordered, marred, where such strange things are acted."
The only inference which can be drawn from the confession of some of
the poor wretches who have suffered upon such charges is, that they
had attempted to commit the crime, and thereby incurred the guilt
and deserved the punishment. Of this indeed there have been recent
instances; and in one atrocious case the criminal escaped because
the statute against the imaginary offence is obsolete, and there
exists no law which could reach the real one.
Stranger.--He who may wish to show with what absurd perversion the
forms and technicalities of law are applied to obstruct the purposes
of justice, which they were designed to further, may find excellent
examples in England. But leaving this allow me to ask whether you
think all the stories which are related of an intercourse between
men and beings of a superior order, good or evil, are to be
disbelieved like the vulgar tales of witchcraft
Montesinos.--If you happen, sir, to have read some of those ballads
which I threw off in the high spirits of youth you may judge what my
opinion then was of the grotesque demonology of the monks and middle
ages by the use there made of it. But in the scale of existences
there may be as many orders above us as below. We know there are
creatures so minute that without the aid of our glasses they could
never have been discovered; and this fact, if it were not notorious
as well as certain, would appear not less incredible to sceptical
minds than that there should be beings which are invisible to us
because of their subtlety. That there are such I am as little able
to doubt as I am to affirm anything concerning them; but if there
are such, why not evil spirits, as well as wicked men? Many
travellers who have been conversant with savages have been fully
persuaded that their jugglers actually possessed some means of
communication with the invisible world, and exercised a supernatural
power which they derived from it. And not missionaries only have
believed this, and old travellers who lived in ages of credulity,
but more recent observers, such as Carver and Bruce, whose testimony
is of great weight, and who were neither ignorant, nor weak, nor
credulous men. What I have read concerning ordeals also staggers
me; and I am sometimes inclined to think it more possible that when
there has been full faith on all sides these appeals to divine
justice may have been answered by Him who sees the secrets of all
hearts than that modes of trial should have prevailed so long and so
generally, from some of which no person could ever have escaped
without an interposition of Providence. Thus it has appeared to me
in my calm and unbiassed judgment. Yet I confess I should want
faith to make the trial. May it not be, that by such means in dark
ages, and among blind nations, the purpose is effected of preserving
conscience and the belief of our immortality, without which the life
of our life would be extinct? And with regard to the conjurers of
the African and American savages, would it be unreasonable to
suppose that, as the most elevated devotion brings us into
fellowship with the Holy Spirit, a correspondent degree of
wickedness may effect a communion with evil intelligences? These
are mere speculations which I advance for as little as they are
worth. My serious belief amounts to this, that preternatural
impressions are sometimes communicated to us for wise purposes: and
that departed spirits are sometimes permitted to manifest
themselves.
Stranger.--If a ghost, then, were disposed to pay you a visit, you
would be in a proper state of mind for receiving such a visitor?
Montesinos.--I should not credit my senses lightly; neither should I
obstinately distrust them, after I had put the reality of the
appearance to the proof, as far as that were possible.
Stranger.--Should you like to have an opportunity afforded you?
Montesinos.--Heaven forbid! I have suffered so much in dreams from
conversing with those whom even in sleep I knew to be departed, that
an actual presence might perhaps be more than I could bear.
Stranger.--But if it were the spirit of one with whom you had no
near ties of relationship or love, how then would it affect you?
Montesinos.--That would of course be according to the circumstances
on both sides. But I entreat you not to imagine that I am any way
desirous of enduring the experiment.
Stranger.--Suppose, for example, he were to present himself as I
have done; the purport of his coming friendly; the place and
opportunity suiting, as at present; the time also considerately
chosen--after dinner; and the spirit not more abrupt in his
appearance nor more formidable in aspect than the being who now
addresses you?
Montesinos.--Why, sir, to so substantial a ghost, and of such
respectable appearance, I might, perhaps, have courage enough to say
with Hamlet,
"Thou com'st in such a questionable shape,
That I will speak to thee!"
Stranger.--Then, sir, let me introduce myself in that character, now
that our conversation has conducted us so happily to the point. I
told you truly that I was English by birth, but that I came from a
more distant country than America, and had long been naturalised
there. The country whence I come is not the New World, but the
other one: and I now declare myself in sober earnest to be a ghost.
Montesinos.--A ghost!
Stranger.--A veritable ghost, and an honest one, who went out of the
world with so good a character that he will hardly escape
canonisation if ever you get a Roman Catholic king upon the throne.
And now what test do you require?
Montesinos.--I can detect no smell of brimstone; and the candle
burns as it did before, without the slightest tinge of blue in its
flame. You look, indeed, like a spirit of health, and I might be
disposed to give entire belief to that countenance, if it were not
for the tongue that belongs to it. But you are a queer spirit,
whether good or evil!
Stranger.--The headsman thought so, when he made a ghost of me
almost three hundred years ago. I had a character through life of
loving a jest, and did not belie it at the last. But I had also as
general a reputation for sincerity, and of that also conclusive
proof was given at the same time. In serious truth, then, I am a
disembodied spirit, and the form in which I now manifest myself is
subject to none of the accidents of matter. You are still
incredulous! Feel, then, and be convinced!
My incomprehensible guest extended his hand toward me as he spoke.
I held forth mine to accept it, not, indeed, believing him, and yet
not altogether without some apprehensive emotion, as if I were about
to receive an electrical shock. The effect was more startling than
electricity would have produced. His hand had neither weight nor
substance; my fingers, when they would have closed upon it, found
nothing that they could grasp: it was intangible, though it had all
the reality of form.
"In the name of God," I exclaimed, "who are you, and wherefore are
you come?"
"Be not alarmed," he replied. "Your reason, which has shown you the
possibility of such an appearance as you now witness, must have
convinced you also that it would never be permitted for an evil end.
Examine my features well, and see if you do not recognise them.
Hans Holbein was excellent at a likeness."
I had now for the first time in my life a distinct sense of that
sort of porcupinish motion over the whole scalp which is so
frequently described by the Latin poets. It was considerably
allayed by the benignity of his countenance and the manner of his
speech, and after looking him steadily in the face I ventured to
say, for the likeness had previously struck me, "Is it Sir Thomas
More?"
"The same," he made answer, and lifting up his chin, displayed a
circle round the neck brighter in colour than the ruby. "The marks
of martyrdom," he continued, "are our insignia of honour. Fisher
and I have the purple collar, as Friar Forrest and Cranmer have the
robe of fire."
A mingled feeling of fear and veneration kept me silent, till I
perceived by his look that he expected and encouraged me to speak;
and collecting my spirits as well as I could, I asked him wherefore
he had thought proper to appear, and why to me rather than to any
other person?
He replied, "We reap as we have sown. Men bear with them from this
world into the intermediate state their habits of mind and stores of
knowledge, their dispositions and affections and desires; and these
become a part of our punishment, or of our reward, according to
their kind. Those persons, therefore, in whom the virtue of
patriotism has predominated continue to regard with interest their
native land, unless it be so utterly sunk in degradation that the
moral relationship between them is dissolved. Epaminondas can have
no sympathy at this time with Thebes, nor Cicero with Rome, nor
Belisarius with the imperial city of the East. But the worthies of
England retain their affection for their noble country, behold its
advancement with joy, and when serious danger appears to threaten
the goodly structure of its institutions they feel as much anxiety
as is compatible with their state of beatitude.
Montesinos.--What, then, may doubt and anxiety consist with the
happiness of heaven?
Sir Thomas More.--Heaven and hell may be said to begin on your side
the grave. In the intermediate state conscience anticipates with
unerring certainty the result of judgment. We, therefore, who have
done well can have no fear for ourselves. But inasmuch as the world
has any hold upon our affections we are liable to that anxiety which
is inseparable from terrestrial hopes. And as parents who are in
bliss regard still with parental love the children whom they have
left on earth, we, in like manner, though with a feeling different
in kind and inferior in degree, look with apprehension upon the
perils of our country.
"sub pectore forti
Vivit adhuc patriae pietas; stimulatque sepultum
Libertatis amor: pondus mortale necari
Si potuit, veteres animo post funera vires
Mansere, et prisci vivit non immemor aevi."
They are the words of old Mantuan.
Montesinos.--I am to understand, then, that you cannot see into the
ways of futurity?
Sir Thomas More.--Enlarged as our faculties are, you must not
suppose that we partake of prescience. For human actions are free,
and we exist in time. The future is to us therefore as uncertain as
to you; except only that having a clearer and more comprehensive
knowledge of the past, we are enabled to reason better from causes
to consequences, and by what has been to judge of what is likely to
be. We have this advantage also, that we are divested of all those
passions which cloud the intellects and warp the understandings of
men. You are thinking, I perceive, how much you have to learn, and
what you should first inquire of me. But expect no revelations!
Enough was revealed when man was assured of judgment after death,
and the means of salvation were afforded him. I neither come to
discover secret things nor hidden treasures; but to discourse with
you concerning these portentous and monster-breeding times; for it
is your lot, as it was mine, to live during one of the grand
climacterics of the world. And I come to you, rather than to any
other person, because you have been led to meditate upon the
corresponding changes whereby your age and mine are distinguished;
and because, notwithstanding many discrepancies and some dispathies
between us (speaking of myself as I was, and as you know me), there
are certain points of sympathy and resemblance which bring us into
contact, and enable us at once to understand each other.
Montesinos.--Et in Utopia ego.
Sir Thomas More.--You apprehend me. We have both speculated in the
joys and freedom of our youth upon the possible improvement of
society; and both in like manner have lived to dread with reason the
effects of that restless spirit which, like the Titaness Mutability
described by your immortal master, insults heaven and disturbs the
earth. By comparing the great operating causes in the age of the
Reformation, and in this age of revolutions, going back to the
former age, looking at things as I then beheld them, perceiving
wherein I judged rightly, and wherein I erred, and tracing the
progress of those causes which are now developing their whole
tremendous power, you will derive instruction, which you are a fit
person to receive and communicate; for without being solicitous
concerning present effect, you are contented to cast your bread upon
the waters. You are now acquainted with me and my intention. To-
morrow you will see me again; and I shall continue to visit you
occasionally as opportunity may serve. Meantime say nothing of what
has passed--not even to your wife. She might not like the thoughts
of a ghostly visitor: and the reputation of conversing with the
dead might be almost as inconvenient as that of dealing with the
devil. For the present, then, farewell! I will never startle you
with too sudden an apparition; but you may learn to behold my
disappearance without alarm.
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