James Anthony Froude is, beyond any doubt whatever, a very
considerable figure in modern English literature. It has, however,
for some time ceased to be a question whether his acceptability, to
the extent which it reaches, has not been due rather to the verbal
attractiveness than to the intrinsic value and trustworthiness of his
opinions and teachings. In fact, so far as a judgment can be formed
from examined specimens of his writings, it appears that our [28]
author is the bond-slave of his own phrases. To secure an artistic
perfection of style, he disregards all obstacles, not only those
presented by the requirements of verity, but such as spring from any
other kind of consideration whatsoever. The doubt may safely be
entertained whether, among modern British men of letters, there be
one of equal capability who, in the interest of the happiness of his
sentences, so cynically sacrifices what is due not only to himself as
a public instructor, but also to that public whom he professes to
instruct. Yet, as the too evident plaything of an over-permeable
moral constitution, he might set up some plea in explanation of his
ethical vagaries. He might urge, for instance, that the high culture
of which his books are all so redolent has utterly failed to imbue
him with the nil admirari sentiment, which Horace commends as the
sole specific for making men happy and keeping them so. For, as a
matter of fact, and with special reference to the work we have
undertaken to discuss, Mr. Froude, though cynical in his general
utterances regarding Negroes-of the male sex, be it noted-is, in the
main, all extravagance and self-abandonment whenever he [29] brings
an object of his arbitrary likes or dislikes under discussion. At
such times he is no observer, much less worshipper, of proportion in
his delineations. Thorough-paced, scarcely controllable, his
enthusiasm for or against admits no degree in its expression, save
and except the superlative. Hence Mr. Froude's statement of facts