and the Liberals were enraged with him; it does not even hurt him that George the Third and the Tories were enchanted with him.  His greatness is that he lived in a world which neither English Liberalism nor English Toryism is apt to enter;—­the world of ideas, not the world of catchwords and party habits.  So far is it from being really true of him that he “to party gave up what was meant for mankind,"[32] that at the very end of his fierce struggle with the French Revolution, after all his invectives against its false pretensions, hollowness, and madness, with his sincere convictions of its mischievousness, he can close a memorandum on the best means of combating it, some of the last pages he ever wrote,—­the Thoughts on French Affairs, in December 1791,—­with these striking words:—­

“The evil is stated, in my opinion, as it exists.  The remedy must be where power, wisdom, and information, I hope, are more united with good intentions than they can be with me.  I have done with this subject, I believe, forever.  It has given me many anxious moments for the last two years. If a great change is to be made in human affairs, the minds of men will be fitted to it; the general opinions and feelings will draw that way.  Every fear, every hope will forward it:  and then they who persist in opposing this mighty current in human affairs, will appear rather to resist the decrees of Providence itself, than the mere designs of men.  They will not be resolute and firm, but perverse and obstinate.”

That return of Burke upon himself has always seemed to me one of the finest things in English literature, or indeed in any literature.  That is what I call living by ideas:  when one side of a question has long had your earnest support, when all your feelings are engaged, when you hear all round you no language but one, when your party talks this language like a steam-engine and can imagine no other,—­still to be able to think, still to be irresistibly carried, if so it be, by the current of thought to the opposite side of the question, and, like Balaam,[33] to be unable to speak anything but what the Lord has put in your mouth.  I know nothing more striking, and I must add that I know nothing more un-English.

For the Englishman in general is like my friend the Member of Parliament, and believes, point-blank, that for a thing to be an anomaly is absolutely no objection to it whatever.  He is like the Lord Auckland[34] of Burke’s day, who, in a memorandum on the French Revolution, talks of “certain miscreants, assuming the name of philosophers, who have presumed themselves capable of establishing a new system of society.”  The Englishman has been called a political animal, and he values what is political and practical so much that ideas easily become objects of dislike in his eyes, and thinkers “miscreants,” because ideas and thinkers have rashly meddled with politics and practice.  This would be all very well if