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Autobiographic Sketches

T >> Thomas de Quincey >> Autobiographic Sketches




From the Bath Grammar School I was removed, in consequence of an
accident, by which at first it was supposed that my skull had been
fractured; and the surgeon who attended me at one time talked of
trepanning. This was an awful word; but at present I doubt whether in
reality any thing very serious had happened. In fact, I was always
under a nervous panic for my head, and certainly exaggerated my internal
feelings without meaning to do so; and this misled the medical
attendants. During a long illness which succeeded, my mother, amongst
other books past all counting, read to me, in Hoole's translation, the
whole of the "Orlando Furioso;" meaning by _the whole_ the entire
twenty-four books into which Hoole had condensed the original forty-six
of Ariosto; and, from my own experience at that time, I am disposed
to think that the homeliness of this version is an advantage, from not
calling off the attention at all from the narration to the narrator.
At this time also I first read the "Paradise Lost;" but, oddly enough,
in the edition of Bentley, that great _paradiorthotaes_, (or
pseudo-restorer of the text.) At the close of my illness, the head
master called upon my mother, in company with his son-in-law, Mr.
Wilkins, as did a certain Irish Colonel Bowes, who had sons at the
school, requesting earnestly, in terms most flattering to myself, that
I might be suffered to remain there. But it illustrates my mother's
moral austerity, that she was shocked at my hearing compliments to my
own merits, and was altogether disturbed at what doubtless these
gentlemen expected to see received with maternal pride. She declined
to let me continue at the Bath School; and I went to another, at
Winkfield, in the county of Wilts, of which the chief recommendation
lay in the religious character of the master.


FOOTNOTES

[1] "_Grammar School_."--By the way, as the grammar schools of England
are amongst her most eminent distinctions, and, with submission to the
innumerable wretches (gentlemen I should say) that hate England "worse
than toad or asp," have never been rivalled by any corresponding
institutions in other lands, I may as well take this opportunity of
explaining the word _grammar_, which most people misapprehend. Men
suppose a grammar school to mean a school where they teach grammar. But
this is not the true meaning, and tends to calumniate such schools by
ignoring their highest functions. Limiting by a false limitation the
earliest object contemplated by such schools, they obtain a plausible
pretext for representing all beyond grammar as something extraneous and
casual that did not enter into the original or normal conception of the
founders, and that may therefore have been due to alien suggestion. But
now, when Suetonius writes a little book, bearing this title, "De
Illustribus Grammaticis," what does he mean? What is it that he promises?
A memoir upon the eminent _grammarians_ of Rome? Not at all, but a memoir
upon the distinguished literati of Rome. _Grammatica_ does certainly mean
sometimes grammar; but it is also the best Latin word for literature. A
_grammaticus_ is what the French express by the word _litterateur_. We
unfortunately have no corresponding term in English: a _man of letters_
is our awkward periphrasis in the singular, (too apt, as our jest books
remind us, to suggest the postman;) whilst in the plural we resort to the
Latin word _literati_. The school which professes to teach _grammatica_,
professes, therefore, the culture of literature in the widest and most
liberal extent, and is opposed _generically_ to schools for teaching
mechanic arts; and, within its own _sub-genus_ of schools dedicated to
liberal objects, is opposed to schools for teaching mathematics, or, more
widely, to schools for teaching science.

[2] "_Class_," or "_form_."--One knows not how to make one's self
intelligible, so different are the terms locally.

[3] To _them_ in the next stage of the ward succeeded Sir Michael
Seymour, and Lord Cochrane, (the present Earl of Dundonald,) and Lord
Camelford. The two last were the regular fireeaters of the day. Sir
Horatio Nelson being already an admiral, was no longer looked to for
insulated exploits of brilliant adventure: his name was now connected
with larger and combined attacks, less dashing and adventurous, because
including heavier responsibilities.

[4] Lord Camelford was, I believe, his first cousin; Sir Sidney's mother
and Lady Camelford being sisters. But Lord Camelford was then absent from
Bath.




CHAPTER VI.

I ENTER THE WORLD.


Yes, at this stage of my life, viz., in my fifteenth year, and from
this sequestered school, ankle deep I first stepped into the world.
At Winkfield I had staid about a year, or not much more, when I received
a letter from a young friend of my own age, Lord Westport, [1] the son of
Lord Altamont, inviting me to accompany him to Ireland for the ensuing
summer and autumn. This invitation was repeated by his tutor; and my
mother, after some consideration, allowed me to accept it.

In the spring of 1800, accordingly, I went up to Eton, for the purpose
of joining my friend. Here I several times visited the gardens of the
queen's villa at Frogmore; and, privileged by my young friend's
introduction, I had opportunities of seeing and hearing the queen and
all the princesses; which at that time was a novelty in my life,
naturally a good deal prized. Lord Westport's mother had been, before
her marriage, Lady Louisa Howe, daughter to the great admiral, Earl
Howe, and intimately known to the royal family, who, on her account,
took a continual and especial notice of her son.

On one of these occasions I had the honor of a brief interview with
the king. Madame De Campan mentions, as an amusing incident in her
early life, though terrific at the time, and overwhelming to her sense
of shame, that not long after her establishment at Versailles, in the
service of some one amongst the daughters of Louis XV., having as yet
never seen the king, she was one day suddenly introduced to his
particular notice, under the following circumstances: The time was
morning; the young lady was not fifteen; her spirits were as the spirits
of a fawn in May; her _tour_ of duty for the day was either not come,
or was gone; and, finding herself alone in a spacious room, what more
reasonable thing could she do than amuse herself with _making cheeses?_
that is, whirling round, according to a fashion practised by young
ladies both in France and England, and pirouetting until the petticoat
is inflated like a balloon, and then sinking into a courtesy.
Mademoiselle was very solemnly rising from one of these courtesies,
in the centre of her collapsing petticoats, when a slight noise alarmed
her. Jealous of intruding eyes, yet not dreading more than a servant
at worst, she turned, and, O Heavens! whom should she behold but his
most Christian majesty advancing upon her, with a brilliant suite of
gentlemen, young and old, equipped for the chase, who had been all
silent spectators of her performances? From the king to the last of
the train, all bowed to her, and all laughed without restraint, as
they passed the abashed amateur of cheese making. But she, to speak
Homerically, wished in that hour that the earth might gape and cover
her confusion. Lord Westport and I were about the age of mademoiselle,
and not much more decorously engaged, when a turn brought us full in
view of a royal party coming along one of the walks at Frogmore. We
were, in fact, theorizing and practically commenting on the art of
throwing stones. Boys have a peculiar contempt for female attempts in
that way. For, besides that girls fling wide of the mark, with a
certainty that might have won the applause of Galerius, [2] there is a
peculiar sling and rotary motion of the arm in launching a stone, which
no girl ever _can_ attain. From ancient practice, I was somewhat of
a proficient in this art, and was discussing the philosophy of female
failures, illustrating my doctrines with pebbles, as the case happened
to demand; whilst Lord Westport was practising on the peculiar whirl
of the wrist with a shilling; when suddenly he turned the head of the
coin towards me with a significant glance, and in a low voice he
muttered some words, of which I caught "_Grace of God_," "_France_
[3] _and Ireland_," "_Defender off the Faith, and so forth._" This solemn
recitation of the legend on the coin was meant as a fanciful way of
apprising me that the king was approaching; for Lord W. had himself lost
somewhat of the awe natural to a young person in a first situation of
this nature, through his frequent admissions to the royal presence. For
my own part, I was as yet a stranger even to the king's person. I had,
indeed, seen most or all the princesses in the way I have mentioned
above; and occasionally, in the streets of Windsor, the sudden
disappearance of all hats from all heads had admonished me that some
royal personage or other was then traversing (or, if not traversing, was
crossing) the street; but either his majesty had never been of the party,
or, from distance, I had failed to distinguish him. Now, for the first
time, I was meeting him nearly face to face; for, though the walk we
occupied was not that in which the royal party were moving, it ran so
near it, and was connected by so many cross walks at short intervals,
that it was a matter of necessity for us, as we were now observed, to
go and present ourselves. What happened was pretty nearly as follows:
The king, having first spoken with great kindness to my companion,
inquiring circumstantially about his mother and grandmother, as persons
particularly well known to himself, then turned his eye upon me. My
name, it seems, had been communicated to him; he did not, therefore,
inquire about that. Was I of Eton? This was his first question. I
replied that I was not, but hoped I should be. Had I a father living?
I had not: my father had been dead about eight years. "But you have
a mother?" I had. "And she thinks of sending you to Eton?" I answered,
that she had expressed such an intention in my hearing; but I was not
sure whether that might not be in order to waive an argument with the
person to whom she spoke, who happened to have been an Etonian. "O,
but all people think highly of Eton; every body praises Eton. Your
mother does right to inquire; there can be no harm in that; but the
more she inquires, the more she will be satisfied--that I can answer
for."

Next came a question which had been suggested by my name. Had my family
come into England with the Huguenots at the revocation of the edict
of Nantz? This was a tender point with me: of all things I could not
endure to be supposed of French descent; yet it was a vexation I had
constantly to face, as most people supposed that my name argued a
French origin; whereas a Norman origin argued pretty certainly an
origin _not_ French. I replied, with some haste, "Please your majesty,
the family has been in England since the conquest." It is probable
that I colored, or showed some mark of discomposure, with which,
however, the king was not displeased, for he smiled, and said, "How
do you know that?" Here I was at a loss for a moment how to answer;
for I was sensible that it did not become me to occupy the king's
attention with any long stories or traditions about a subject so
unimportant as my own family; and yet it was necessary that I should
say something, unless I would be thought to have denied my Huguenot
descent upon no reason or authority. After a moment's hesitation, I
said, in effect, that the family from which I traced my descent had
certainly been a great and leading one at the era of the barons' wars,
as also in one at least of the crusades; and that I had myself seen
many notices of this family, not only in books of heraldry, &c., but
in the very earliest of all English books. "And what book was that?"
"Robert of Gloucester's 'Metrical Chronicle,' which I understood, from
internal evidence, to have been written about 1280." The king smiled
again, and said, "I know, I know." But what it was that he knew, long
afterwards puzzled me to conjecture. I now imagine, however, that he
meant to claim a knowledge of the book I referred to--a thing which
at that time I thought improbable, supposing the king's acquaintance
with literature not to be very extensive, nor likely to have
comprehended any knowledge at all of the blackletter period. But in
this belief I was greatly mistaken, as I was afterwards fully convinced
by the best evidence from various quarters. That library of 120,000
volumes, which George IV. presented to the nation, and which has since
gone to swell the collection at the British Museum, had been formed
(as I was often assured by persons to whom the whole history of the
library, and its growth from small rudiments, was familiarly known)
under the direct personal superintendence of George III. It was a
favorite and pet creation; and his care extended even to the dressing
of the books in appropriate bindings, and (as one man told me) to their
_health_; explaining himself to mean, that in any case where a book
was worm-eaten, or touched however slightly with the worm, the king
was anxious to prevent the injury from extending, or from infecting
others by close neighborhood; for it is supposed by many that such
injuries spread rapidly in favorable situations. One of my informants
was a German bookbinder of great respectability, settled in London,
and for many years employed by the Admiralty as a confidential binder
of records or journals containing secrets of office, &c. Through this
connection he had been recommended to the service of his majesty, whom
he used to see continually in the course of his attendance at Buckingham
House, where the books were deposited. This artist had (originally in
the way of his trade) become well acquainted with the money value of
English books; and that knowledge cannot be acquired without some
concurrent knowledge of their subject and their kind of merit.
Accordingly, he was tolerably well qualified to estimate any man's
attainments as a reading man; and from him I received such
circumstantial accounts of many conversations he had held with the
king, evidently reported with entire good faith and simplicity, that
I cannot doubt the fact of his majesty's very general acquaintance
with English literature. Not a day passed, whenever the king happened
to be at Buckingham House, without his coming into the binding room,
and minutely inspecting the progress of the binder and his allies--
the gilders, toolers, &c. From the outside of the book the transition
was natural to its value in the scale of bibliography; and in that way
my informant had ascertained that the king was well acquainted, not
only with Robert of Gloucester, but with all the other early chronicles,
published by Hearne, and, in fact, possessed that entire series which
rose at one period to so enormous a price. From this person I learned
afterwards that the king prided himself especially upon his early
folios of Shakspeare; that is to say, not merely upon the excellence
of the individual copies in a bibliographical sense, as "_tall_ copies"
and having large margins, &c., but chiefly from their value in relation
to the most authentic basis for the text of the poet. And thus it
appears, that at least two of our kings, Charles I. and George III.,
have made it their pride to profess a reverential esteem for Shakspeare.
This bookbinder added his attestation to the truth (or to the generally
reputed truth) of a story which I had heard from other authority, viz.,
that the librarian, or, if not officially the librarian, at least the
chief director in every thing relating to the books, was an illegitimate
son of Frederic, Prince of Wales, (son to George II.,) and therefore
half-brother of the king. His own taste and inclinations, it seemed,
concurred with his brother's wishes in keeping him in a subordinate
rank and an obscure station; in which, however, he enjoyed affluence
without anxiety, or trouble, or courtly envy, and the luxury, which
he most valued, of a superb library. He lived and died, I have heard,
as plain Mr. Barnard. At one time I disbelieved the story, (which
possibly may have been long known to the public,) on the ground that
even George III. would not have differed so widely from princes in
general as to leave a brother of his own, however unaspiring, wholly
undistinguished by public honors. But having since ascertained that
a naval officer, well known to my own family, and to a naval brother
of my own in particular, by assistance rendered to him repeatedly when
a midshipman in changing his ship, was undoubtedly an illegitimate son
of George III., and yet that he never rose higher than the rank of
post captain, though privately acknowledged by his father and other
members of the royal family, I found the insufficiency of that
objection. The fact is, and it does honor to the king's memory, he
reverenced the moral feelings of his country, which are, in this and
in all points of domestic morals, severe and high toned, (I say it
in defiance of writers, such as Lord Byron, Mr. Hazlitt, &c., who hated
alike the just and the unjust pretensions of England,) in a degree
absolutely incomprehensible to _Southern_ Europe. He had his frailties
like other children of Adam; but he did not seek to fix the public
attention upon them, after the fashion of Louis Quatorze, or our Charles
II., and so many other continental princes. There were living witnesses
(more than one) of _his_ aberrations as of theirs; but he, with better
feelings than they, did not choose, by placing these witnesses upon
a pedestal of honor, surmounted by heraldic trophies, to emblazon his
own transgressions to coming generations, and to force back the gaze
of a remote posterity upon his own infirmities. It was his ambition
to be the _father_ of his people in a sense not quite so literal. These
were things, however, of which at that time I had not heard.

During the whole dialogue, I did not even once remark that hesitation
and iteration of words generally attributed to George III.; indeed,
_so_ generally, that it must often have existed; but in this case, I
suppose that the brevity of his sentences operated to deliver him from
any embarrassment of utterance, such as might have attended longer and
more complex sentences, where some anxiety was natural to overtake the
thoughts as they arose. When we observed that the king had paused in
his stream of questions, which succeeded rapidly to each other, we
understood it as a signal of dismissal; and making a profound obeisance,
we retired backwards a few steps. His majesty smiled in a very gracious
manner, waved his hand towards us, and said something (I did not know
what) in a peculiarly kind accent; he then turned round, and the whole
party along with him; which set us at liberty without impropriety to
turn to the right about ourselves, and make our egress from the gardens.

This incident, to me at my age, was very naturally one of considerable
interest. One reflection it suggested afterwards, which was this: Could
it be likely that much truth of a general nature, bearing upon man and
social interests, could ever reach the ear of a king, under the etiquette
of a court, and under that one rule which seemed singly sufficient to
foreclose all natural avenues to truth?--the rule, I mean, by which it is
forbidden to address a question to the king. I was well aware, before I
saw him, that in the royal presence, like the dead soldier in Lucan, whom
the mighty necromancing witch tortures back into a momentary life, I must
have no voice except for _answers_:--

"Vox illi linguaque tantum
_Responsura_ datur." [4]

I was to originate nothing myself; and at my age, before so exalted
a personage, the mere instincts of reverential demeanor would at any
rate have dictated such a rule. But what becomes of that man's general
condition of mind in relation to all the great objects moving on the
field of human experience, where it is a law generally for almost all
who approach him, that they shall confine themselves to replies,
absolute responses, or, at most, to a prosecution or carrying forward
of a proposition delivered by the _protagonist_, or supreme leader of
the conversation? For it must be remembered that, generally speaking,
the effect of putting no question is to transfer into the other party's
hands the entire _originating_ movement of the dialogue; and thus, in
a musical metaphor, the great man is the sole modulator and determiner
of the key in which the conversation proceeds. It is true, that
sometimes, by travelling a little beyond the question in your answer,
you may enlarge the basis, so as to bring up some new train of thought
which you wish to introduce, and may suggest fresh matter as effectually
as if you had the liberty of more openly guiding the conversation,
whether by way of question or by direct origination of a topic; but
this depends on skill to improve an opening, or vigilance to seize it
at the instant, and, after all, much upon accident; to say nothing of
the crime, (a sort of petty treason, perhaps, or, what is it?) if you
should be detected in your "improvements" and "enlargements of basis."
The king might say, "Friend, I must tell my attorney general to speak
with you, for I detect a kind of treason in your replies. They go too
far. They include something which tempts my majesty to a notice; which
is, in fact, for the long and the short of it, that you have been
circumventing me half unconsciously into answering a question which
has silently been insinuated by _you_." Freedom of communication,
unfettered movement of thought, there can be none under such a ritual,
which tends violently to a Byzantine, or even to a Chinese result of
freezing, as it were, all natural and healthy play of the faculties
under the petrific mace of absolute ceremonial and fixed precedent.
For it will hardly be objected, that the privileged condition of a few
official councillors and state ministers, whose hurry and oppression
of thought from public care will rarely allow them to speak on any
other subject than business, _can_ be a remedy large enough for so
large an evil. True it is, that a peculiarly frank or jovial temperament
in a sovereign may do much for a season to thaw this punctilious reserve
and ungenial constraint; but _that_ is an accident, and personal to
an individual. And, on the other hand, to balance even this, it may
be remarked, that, in all noble and fashionable society, where there
happens to be a pride in sustaining what is deemed a good _tone_ in
conversation, it is peculiarly aimed at, (and even artificially
managed,) that no lingering or loitering upon one theme, no protracted
discussion, shall be allowed. And, doubtless, as regards merely the
treatment of convivial or purely _social_ communication of ideas,
(which also is a great art,) this practice is right. I admit willingly
that an uncultured brute, who is detected at an elegant table in the
atrocity of absolute discussion or disputation, ought to be summarily
removed by a police officer; and possibly the law will warrant his
being held to bail for one or two years, according to the enormity of
his case. But men are not always enjoying, or seeking to enjoy, social
pleasure; they seek also, and have need to seek continually, both
through books and men, intellectual growth, fresh power, fresh strength,
to keep themselves ahead or abreast of this moving, surging, billowing
world of ours; especially in these modern times, when society revolves
through so many new phases, and shifts its aspects with so much more
velocity than in past ages. A king, especially of this country, needs,
beyond most other men, to keep himself in a continual state of
communication, as it were, by some vital and _organic_ sympathy, with
the most essential of these changes. And yet this punctilio of
etiquette, like some vicious forms of law or technical fictions grown
too narrow for the age, which will not allow of cases coming before
the court in a shape desired alike by the plaintiff and the defendant,
is so framed as to defeat equally the wishes of a prince disposed to
gather knowledge wherever he can find it, and of those who may be best
fitted to give it.

For a few minutes on three other occasions, before we finally quitted
Eton, I again saw the king, and always with renewed interest. He was
kind to every body--condescending and affable in a degree which I am
bound to remember with personal gratitude; and one thing I _had_ heard
of him, which even then, and much more as my mind opened to a wider
compass of deeper reflection, won my respect. I have always reverenced
a man of whom it could be truly said that he had once, and once only,
(for more than once implies another unsoundness in the quality of the
passion,) been desperately in love; in love, that is to say, in a
terrific excess, so as to dally, under suitable circumstances, with
the thoughts of cutting his own throat, or even (as the case might be)
the throat of her whom he loved above all this world. It will be
understood that I am not justifying such enormities; on the contrary,
they are wrong, exceedingly wrong; but it is evident that people in
general feel pretty much as I do, from the extreme sympathy with which
the public always pursue the fate of any criminal who has committed
a murder of this class, even though tainted (as generally it is) with
jealousy, which, in itself, wherever it argues habitual mistrust, is
an ignoble passion. [5]

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