Prose Masterpieces from Modern Essayists, Volume 3 of 3 — Reading Notes
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talian was the home also of the sternest race of whom the story of mankind retains a record. And again, when we are told that the Spaniards are superstitious because Spain is a country of earthquakes, we remember Japan, the spot in all the world where earthquakes are most frequent, and where at the same time there is the most serene disbelief in any supernatural agency whatsoever.
Moreover, if men grow into what they are by natural laws, they cannot help being what they are; and if they cannot help being what they are, a good deal will have to be altered in our general view of human obligations and responsibilities.
That, however, in these theories there is a great deal of truth, is quite certain, were there but a hope that those who maintain them would be contented with that admission. A man born in a Mahometan country grows up a Mahometan; in a Catholic country, a Catholic; in a Protestant country, a Protestant. His opinions are like his language: he learns to think as he learns to speak; and it is absurd to suppose him responsible for being what nature makes him. We take pains to educate children. There is a good education and a bad education; there are rules well ascertained by which characters are influenced; and, clearly enough, it is no mere matter for a boy's free will whether he turns out well or ill. We try to train him into good habits; we keep him out of the way of temptations; we see that he is well taught; we mix kindness and strictness; we surround him with every good influence we can command. These are what are termed the advantages of a good education; and if we fail to provide those under our care with it, and if they go wrong, the responsibility we feel is as much ours as theirs. This is at once an admission of the power over us of outward circumstances.
In the same way, we allow for the strength of temptations, and the like.
In general, it is perfectly obvious that men do necessarily absorb, out of the influences in which they grow up, something which gives a complexion to their whole after-character.
When historians have to relate great social or speculative changes, the overthrow of a monarchy, or the establishment of a creed, they do but half their duty if they merely relate the events. In an account, for instance, of the rise of Mahometanism, it is not enough to describe the character of the Prophet, the ends which he set before him, the means which he made use of, and the effect which he produced; the historian must show what there was in the condition of the Eastern races which enabled Mahomet to act upon, them so powerfully; their existing beliefs, their existing moral and political condition.
In our estimate of the past, and in our calculations of the future, in the judgments which we pass upon one another, we measure responsibility, not by the thing done, but by the opportunities which people have had of knowing better or worse. In the efforts which we make to keep our children from bad associations or friends, we admit that external circumstances have a powerful effect in making men what they are.
But are circumstances every thing? That is the whole question. A science of history, if it is more than a misleading name, implies that the relation between cause and effect holds in human things as completely as in all others; that the origin of human actions is not to be looked for in mysterious properties of the mind, but in influences which are palpable and ponderable.
When natural causes are liable to be set aside and neutralized by what is called volition, the word Science is out of place. If it is free to man to choose what he will do or not do, there is no adequate science of him. If there is a science of him, there is no free choice, and the praise or blame with which we regard one another are impertinent and out of place.
I am trespassing upon these ethical grounds because, unless I do, the subject cannot be made intelligible. Mankind are but an aggregate of individuals; History is but the record of individual action: and what is true of the part is true of the whole.
We feel keenly about such things, and, when the logic becomes perplexing, we are apt to grow rhetorical about them. But rhetoric is only misleading. Whatever the truth may be, it is best that we should know it; and for truth of any kind we should keep our heads and hearts as cool as we can.
This volume collects five essays by Victorian intellectuals who shared a platform but not a method. James Anthony Froude opens with a lecture questioning whether history can be a science, likening it to 'a child's box of letters' that can be rearranged to spell any meaning. Edward A. Freeman follows with a philological argument linking race and language, while W. E. Gladstone compares British and American governance, noting that the Federal Executive 'is born anew of the nation at the end of each four years, and dies at the end.' John Henry Newman and Leslie Stephen then take up matters of private judgment and plain speaking, each in a markedly different key.
Froude's Skeptical Frame
Froude begins by disarming his audience: 'I fear it is a dry subject,' he admits, and immediately undercuts the very phrase 'Science of History' as an incongruity, 'as if we were to talk of the color of sound.' His metaphor of the child's letter-box—'We have only to pick out such letters as we want, arrange them as we like, and say nothing about those which do not suit our purpose'—sets a tone of epistemological caution. He then pivots to a tribute to the late Mr. Buckle, praising his 'patient reticence' and twenty years of quiet labor. The contrast between Buckle's self-effacing method and the grand claims of a 'science' of history is left implicit but unmistakable. Froude's voice is conversational yet pointed, using the lecture format to question the very enterprise he has been asked to defend.
Freeman's Philological Turn
Freeman's essay 'Race and Language' shifts the ground from abstract theory to concrete linguistic evidence. His method is taxonomic: he treats language as a marker of ethnic identity, arguing that philology can trace migrations and affiliations that written records obscure. The prose is dense with examples, but his central claim is that 'race' is not a biological given but a cultural and linguistic construct. Unlike Froude's skeptical metaphors, Freeman builds his case through accumulation of detail, treating language families as historical actors. The essay exemplifies the Victorian confidence in scientific classification applied to human societies, though modern readers will note the absence of the racial theories that later became toxic. Freeman's tone is that of a lecturer who expects his audience to follow technical reasoning.
Gladstone's Constitutional Comparisons
Gladstone's 'Kin Beyond Sea' examines American institutions through a British lens. He identifies 'three stages of distinct advancement' in the formation of the Federal Government: the Confederation, the Constitution, and the post-Civil War settlement that made the Union supreme. His language is legalistic and measured: the 'great arcanum imperii' of parliamentary omnipotence, he notes, has become 'the acknowledged property of the three branches of the Federal Legislature.' Yet he also observes that 'the actual attributions of the State authorities cover by far the largest part of the province of government.' Gladstone is careful to avoid outright praise or blame, but his comparison of executive terms—the President 'born anew' every four years—implies a critique of British hereditary succession. The essay is a statesman's analysis, not a philosopher's.
Newman and Stephen on Authority and Candor
Newman's 'Private Judgment' and Stephen's 'An Apology for Plainspeaking' form a contrasting pair. Newman, writing from a Catholic perspective, defends the role of authority in matters of faith, arguing that private judgment must be exercised within a tradition. His prose is sinuous, qualifying each claim with careful distinctions. Stephen, by contrast, adopts a blunt, almost combative tone: his title itself is a provocation. He argues for directness in intellectual discourse, dismissing euphemism and evasion. Where Newman builds a case through dialectical refinement, Stephen uses plain declarative sentences and ironic asides. Together, they illustrate the range of rhetorical strategies available to Victorian essayists—from the subtle to the forthright—and the deep divisions over how truth should be sought and spoken.
Readers approaching these essays should attend to the authors' rhetorical choices as much as their arguments. Froude's metaphors, Freeman's classifications, Gladstone's comparisons, Newman's qualifications, and Stephen's bluntness are not mere style; they are methods of persuasion that reveal each writer's assumptions about knowledge, authority, and audience. The volume offers a compact case study in Victorian intellectual prose, where form and content are inseparable.
Reading these Victorians argue about empire and faith, I kept thinkng how their certainties feel both distant and familiar. There’s a particular weight when Gladstone nearly stumbles over his own careful clauses, softening a blow he knows he’s about to deliver. It reminded me of the quieter, more uncomfortable questions in Aspects of Jewish power in the United States — Text and Context, where the old rhetoric of power turns inward, unblinking. A strange echo across a century.
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