Longevity and Fame

— If all generals had died at Alexander’s age, all poets at Marlowe’s, all statesmen at Pitt’s, all philosophers at Spinoza’s, how many men would have missed reputation! Hannibal, indeed, was only 29 when he invaded Italy, Condé but 22 when he won Rocroi, and Napoleon, according to the alleged date of his birth, 27 (more probably 29) when he started on his Italian campaign; but Cæsar was 45 when he commenced the conquest of Gaul, Gustavus Adolphus 37 when he defeated Tilly at Leipsic, and Cromwell 45 when he gained Marston Moor. Frederic II., though only 28 on overrunning Silesia, was 43 when he embarked in the Seven Years’ War. Washington was 43 on his appointment to the command of the army. Wellington, had he died at 39, would have been known merely as a promising Indian officer. Keats, dying at 25, Shelley at 30, Byron at 36, had achieved fame ; but these are brilliant exceptions of precocity. Had Goethe been as short-lived as Marlowe, he simply would have been the author of Götz von Berlichingen and of Werther, works which cannot compare with those of the men just named. Even Shakespeare, early as he began to write, would not, had he died young, have bequeathed us Othello, Hamlet, Macbeth, or Lear, but merely his minor plays, some of them remodeled rather than original works. Spenser was 37 when he began publishing the Fairy Queen. Milton was 52 when he set himself to writing Paradise Lost. Dante was 37 when banished from Florence, and he had scarcely commenced his great poem. Virgil was 34 when he began the Georgies, and 44 when he began the Æneid. Tennyson, though only 21 on his first appearance in print, was 41 on the publication of In Memoriam; but Browning at 30 had issued examples of nearly all his varied work, ranging from Pauline to some of his most famous dramatic lyrics, and including Pippa Passes. Schiller, it is true, produced his Brigands, the work of fervid youth, at 22, but he was 40 when he commenced with Wallenstein his series of masterpieces. Burns, again, was famous at 27, but Scott was 37 when Marmion appeared, and Wordsworth was 44 when The Excursion saw the light, though it may have been years in preparation.

Statesmanship and youth cannot be expected to go together. Pitt, indeed, was prime minister at 24, Burleigh was Elizabeth’s minister at 38, and Walpole was premier at the same age; but Walpole’s long lease of power did not commence till he was 44. Fox was 56 when he became foreign secretary. Palmerston did not reach the highest post till he was 70, his long premiership not beginning till he was 75. Gladstone was not premier till 59. Beaconsfield, albeit premier for a few mouths at 62, was 68 when he entered on a six years’ term of office. Cavour was 50 when he undertook the liberation of Italy. Bismarck was 48 when he gained power.

Philosophy also implies mature years. Pascal, indeed, died at 39, but Bacon was 59 when he published the Novum Organum; Descartes 48 when he fully expounded his doctrines in his Principles of Philosophy; Hobbes 54 when he appeared in print; Kant 57 when he issued the Critique of Pure Reason. Rousseau, only 37 when he wrote his paradoxical defense of barbarism, was 50 when he published his Social Contract.

Historians likewise require experience of life and years of research. Buckle, it is true, died at 39, and Froude began his history at 38; but Hume and Prescott were 43 and Macaulay 48 when their first volumes appeared.

Even novelists are sometimes of tardy development. Scott was 43 when, renouncing poetry, he wrote Waverley. Manzoni, inspired by his example, was of exactly the same age when he issued I Promessi Sposi. Cervantes was 53 when Don Quixote saw the light. Thackeray was 35 before he made his first hit with Vanity Fair, and George Eliot 36 when she essayed fiction. Washington Irving was only 26 when he produced Knickerbocker, and Richter only 31 on the appearance of Hesperus; but Rabelais was probably 40 when Gargantua made him famous. Swift wrote Gulliver at 41, and Sterne Shandy at 46.

The greatest of pamphleteers, Courier, was 43 before circumstances called forth his latent gift.

For founders of sects no rule can be laid down. George Fox, in the ferment of the civil wars, began his career at 23, and Wesley commenced itinerant preaching at 35; but Mahomet was 40 when he found his vocation, and Swedenborg, had he died at 60, would have been known only as a scientist.

Great as have been some men who died young, who knows how much greater they would have been had their lives been prolonged! Might not Marlowe have rivaled Shakespeare? Yet possibly Byron had already given us his best, and Shelley and Keats might not have surpassed their early efforts. Had the author of Festus died at 23 there would have been lamentation as over Keats, but Mr. Bailey has lived half a century longer without producing a second poem. Tasso, though he lived twenty years after Jerusalem Delivered, never equaled that epic written at 31. Still, there are men whose longevity has certainly stood for much. Michel Angelo showed astonishing precocity, but he owes to his 89 years his great renown as painter, sculptor, and sonneteer. Voltaire’s fame, again, rests on the entirety of his writings, not on any single work, and on the literary dictatorship with which age invested him. Cut off twenty years of his life, and his fame would perceptibly shrink. Goethe, Emerson, Carlyle, Longfellow, Tennyson, Hugo, Dumas, all had the advantage of fullness of years, so as to be judged by bulk as well as quality. Humboldt, too, owed to his 90 years a portion of his reputation. The true comparison would obviously be between works produced at the same age, or between men dying at about the same age; but it is much easier to test achievement than capacity. Perhaps the best books (in posse) have never been written, and we often feel that the men were greater than their works. Who knows, moreover, what geniuses have died in childhood!