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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/12025-0.txt b/12025-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2f526c9 --- /dev/null +++ b/12025-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,15918 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12025 *** + +ENGLISH PROSE + +A SERIES OF RELATED ESSAYS FOR THE DISCUSSION AND PRACTICE +OF THE ART OF WRITING + +SELECTED AND EDITED + +BY + +FREDERICK WILLIAM ROE, PH.D. + +OF THE UNIVERSITY OF WISCONSIN + +AND + +GEORGE ROY ELLIOTT, PH.D. + +OF BOWDOIN COLLEGE + +1913 + + + +PREFACE + + +The selections in the present volume, designed primarily for the +discussion and practice in college classes of the art of composition, +have been arranged under a scheme which the editors believe to be new. +There are nine related groups. Each successive group represents a +different phase of life, beginning with character and personality, and +concluding with art and literature. The whole together, as the table of +contents will show, thus presents a body of ideas that includes +practically all the great departments of human thought and interest. + +It is evident that certain ideals of teaching composition underlie the +scheme. The editors believe heartily with Pater that "the chief stimulus +of good style is to possess a full, rich, complex matter to grapple +with". Instruction in writing, it is to be feared, too often neglects +this sound doctrine and places an emphasis upon formal matters that +seems disproportionate, especially when form is made to appear as a +thing apart. Form and content go together and one must not suffer at the +expense of the other. But a sustained interest in the ways and means of +correct expression is aroused only when the student feels that he has +something to express. Instructors often contend indeed that the ideas of +undergraduates are far to seek, and that most of the time in the +class-room is therefore best spent upon formal exercises and drill. The +editors do not share this view. They believe that there is no class of +people more responsive to new ideas and impressions than college +students, and none more eager, when normally stimulated, to express +themselves in writing. They have therefore aimed to present a series of +related selections that would arouse thought and provoke oral discussion +in the class-room, as well as furnish suitable models of style. In most +cases the pieces are too long to be adequately handled in one class +hour. A live topic may well be discussed for several hours, until its +various sides have been examined and students are awakened to the many +questions at issue. The editors have aimed, also, to supply selections +so rich and vital in content that instructors themselves will feel +challenged to add to the class discussion from their own knowledge and +experience, and so turn a stream of fresh ideas upon "stock notions". +Thus English composition, which in many courses in our larger +institutions is now almost the only non-special study, can be made a +direct means of liberalization in the meaning and art of life, as well +as an instrument for correct and effective writing. + +The present volume therefore differs from others in the same field. Many +recent collections contain pieces too short and unrelated to satisfy the +ideals suggested above--ideals which, the editors feel sure, are held by +an increasing number of teachers. And older and newer collections alike +have been constructed primarily with the purpose of illustrating the +conventional categories,--description, narration, exposition. Teachers +of composition everywhere are becoming distrustful of an arrangement +which is frankly at variance with the actual practice of writing, and +are of the opinion that it is better to set the student to the task of +composition without confining him too narrowly to one form of discourse. +The editors have deliberately avoided, however, the other extreme, which +is reflected in one or two recent volumes, of choosing pieces of one +type to the exclusion of all others. In collections of this kind variety +in form and subject-matter is fully as important as richness of content. +Instructors who believe in the use of the types of discourse as the most +practicable means of instruction, will find all the types liberally +represented in the present volume. And in order to meet their +requirements even more adequately, the editors have included two short +stories at the end, as examples of narration with a plot. + +Much attention has been given to the suggestions at the end of the +volume with the aim of making them practically serviceable and, at the +same time, as free as possible from duplication of class work. This aim, +the editors came to believe, could best be attained by providing for +each group of selections definite suggestions of theme-subjects to be +derived by the student from supplementary readings closely related to +that group. + +F.W.R. +G.R.E. + +MADISON, WISCONSIN, +May, 1913. + + + +CONTENTS + + +I. THE PERSONAL LIFE. + + 1. Self-Reliance...............RALPH WALDO EMERSON + + 2. Early Education + at Herne Hill.............JOHN RUSKIN + + 3. A Crisis in My + Mental History............JOHN STUART MILL + + 4. Old China...................CHARLES LAMB + +II. EDUCATION. + + 5. What is Education?..........THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY + + 6. Knowledge Viewed in + Relation to Learning .....JOHN HENRY NEWMAN + + 7. Literature and Science......MATTHEW ARNOLD + + 8. How to Read.................FREDERIC HARRISON + +III. RECREATION AND TRAVELS. + + 9. On Going a Journey..........WILLIAM HAZLITT + + 10. Regrets of a Mountaineer....LESLIE STEPHEN + +IV. SOCIAL LIFE AND MANNERS. + + 11. Behavior....................RALPH WALDO EMERSON + + 12. Manners and Fashion.........HERBERT SPENCER + + 13. Talk and Talkers............ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + +V. PUBLIC AFFAIRS. + + 14. The Social Value + of the College-bred.......WILLIAM JAMES + + 15. The Law of + Human Progress............HENRY GEORGE + + 16. The Morals of Trade.........HERBERT SPENCER + +VI. SCIENCE. + + 17. The Physical Basis + of Life...................THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY + + 18. Mental Powers of + Men and Animals...........CHARLES DARWIN + + 19. The Importance of Dust......ALFRED RUSSEL WALLACE + +VII. NATURE. + + 20. The Battle of the Ants......HENRY DAVID THOREAU + + 21. A Windstorm + in the Forests............JOHN MUIR + + 22. Walden Pond.................HENRY DAVID THOREAU + + 23. Extracts from + Modern Painters...........JOHN RUSKIN + +VIII. CONDUCT AND INNER LIFE. + + 24. The Stoics.. .............WILLIAM EDWARD HARTPOLE LECKY + + 25. Enthusiasm of Humanity......JOHN ROBERT SEELEY + + 26. Loyalty and Insight.........JOSIAH ROYCE + +IX. LITERATURE AND ART. + + 27. Poetry for Poetry's Sake.... A.C. BRADLEY + + 28. Greek Tragedy................G. LOWES DICKINSON + + 29. Shakespeare..................THOMAS CARLYLE + + 30. Charles Lamb.................WALTER PATER + + 31. Dr. Heidegger's Experiment...NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE + + 32. Markheim.....................ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + + +SUPPLEMENTARY READINGS. + +With some topics for Discussion and Composition. + + + +ENGLISH PROSE + + + + +SELF-RELIANCE[1] + +RALPH WALDO EMERSON + + +I read the other day some verses written by an eminent painter which +were original and not conventional. Always the soul hears an admonition +in such lines, let the subject be what it may. The sentiment they instil +is of more value than any thought they may contain. To believe your own +thought, to believe that what is true for you in your private heart is +true for all men,--that is genius. Speak your latent conviction, and it +shall be the universal sense; for always the inmost becomes the +outmost--and our first thought is rendered back to us by the trumpets of +the Last Judgment. Familiar as the voice of the mind is to each, the +highest merit we ascribe to Moses, Plato and Milton is that they set at +naught books and traditions, and spoke not what men, but what they +thought. A man should learn to detect and watch that gleam of light +which flashes across his mind from within, more than the luster of the +firmament of bards and sages. Yet he dismisses without notice his +thought, because it is his. In every work of genius we recognize our own +rejected thoughts; they come back to us with a certain alienated +majesty. Great works of art have no more affecting lesson for us than +this. They teach us to abide by our spontaneous impression with +good-humored inflexibility then most when the whole cry of voices is on +the other side. Else to-morrow a stranger will say with masterly good +sense precisely what we have thought and felt all the time, and we shall +be forced to take with shame our own opinion from another. + +There is a time in every man's education when he arrives at the +conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he +must take himself for better for worse as his portion; that though the +wide universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to +him but through his toil bestowed on that plot of ground which is given +to him to till. The power which resides in him is new in nature, and +none but he knows what that is which he can do, nor does he know until +he has tried. Not for nothing one face, one character, one fact, makes +much impression on him, and another none. It is not without +preestablished harmony, this sculpture in the memory. The eye was placed +where one ray should fall, that it might testify of that particular ray. +Bravely let him speak the utmost syllable of his confession. We but half +express ourselves, and are ashamed of that divine idea which each of us +represents. It may be safely trusted as proportionate and of good +issues, so it be faithfully imparted, but God will not have his work +made manifest by cowards. It needs a divine man to exhibit anything +divine. A man is relieved and gay when he has put his heart into his +work and done his best; but what he has said or done otherwise shall +give him no peace. It is a deliverance which does not deliver. In the +attempt his genius deserts him; no muse befriends; no invention, no +hope. + +Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string. Accept the +place the divine providence has found for you, the society of your +contemporaries, the connection of events. Great men have always done so, +and confided themselves childlike to the genius of their age, betraying +their perception that the Eternal was stirring at their heart, working +through their hands, predominating in all their being. And we are now +men, and must accept in the highest mind the same transcendent destiny; +and not pinched in a corner, not cowards fleeing before a revolution, +but redeemers and benefactors, pious aspirants to be noble clay under +the Almighty effort let us advance on Chaos and the Dark. + +What pretty oracles nature yields us on this text in the face and +behavior of children, babes, and even brutes. That divided and rebel +mind, that distrust of a sentiment because our arithmetic has computed +the strength and means opposed to our purpose, these have not. Their +mind being whole, their eye is as yet unconquered, and when we look in +their faces, we are disconcerted. Infancy conforms to nobody; all +conform to it; so that one babe commonly makes four or five out of the +adults who prattle and play to it. So God has armed youth and puberty +and manhood no less with its own piquancy and charm, and made it +enviable and gracious and its claims not to be put by, if it will stand +by itself. Do not think the youth has no force, because he cannot speak +to you and me. Hark! in the next room who spoke so clear and emphatic? +Good Heaven! it is he! it is that very lump of bashfulness and phlegm +which for weeks has done nothing but eat when you were by, and now rolls +out these words like bell-strokes. It seems he knows how to speak to his +contemporaries. Bashful or bold then, he will know how to make us +seniors very unnecessary. + +The nonchalance of boys who are sure of a dinner, and would disdain as +much as a lord to do or say aught to conciliate one, is the +healthy attitude of human nature. How is a boy the master of +society!--independent, irresponsible, looking out from his corner on +such people and facts as pass by, he tries and sentences them on their +merits, in the swift, summary way of boys, as good, bad, interesting, +silly, eloquent, troublesome. He cumbers himself never about +consequences, about interests; he gives an independent, genuine verdict. +You must court him; he does not court you. But the man is as it were +clapped into jail by his consciousness. As soon as he has once acted or +spoken with éclat he is a committed person, watched by the sympathy or +the hatred of hundreds, whose affections must now enter into his +account. There is no Lethe for this. Ah, that he could pass again into +his neutral, godlike independence! Who can thus lose all pledge and, +having observed, observe again from the same unaffected, unbiased, +unbribable, unaffrighted innocence, must always be formidable, must +always engage the poet's and the man's regards. Of such an immortal +youth the force would be felt. He would utter opinions on all passing +affairs, which being seen to be not private but necessary, would sink +like darts into the ear of men and put them in fear. + +These are the voices which we hear in solitude, but they grow faint and +inaudible as we enter into the world. Society everywhere is in +conspiracy against the manhood of every one of its members. Society is a +joint-stock company, in which the members agree, for the better securing +of his bread to each shareholder, to surrender the liberty and culture +of the eater. The virtue in most request is conformity. Self-reliance is +its aversion. It loves not realities and creators, but names and +customs. + +Whoso would be a man, must be a nonconformist. He who would gather +immortal palms must not be hindered by the name of goodness, but must +explore if it be goodness. Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity +of our own mind. Absolve you to yourself, and you shall have the +suffrage of the world. I remember an answer which when quite young I was +prompted to make to a valued adviser who was wont to importune me with +the deaf old doctrines of the church. On my saying, What have I to do +with the sacredness of traditions, if I live wholly from within? my +friend suggested,--"But these impulses may be from below, not from +above." I replied, "They do not seem to me to be such; but if I am the +devil's child, I will live then from the devil." No law can be sacred to +me but that of my nature. Good and bad are but names very readily +transferable to that or this; the only right is what is after my +constitution; the only wrong what is against it. A man is to carry +himself in the presence of all opposition as if every thing were titular +and ephemeral but he. I am ashamed to think how easily we capitulate to +badges and names, to large societies and dead institutions. Every decent +and well-spoken individual affects and sways me more than is right. I +ought to go upright and vital, and speak the rude truth in all ways. If +malice and vanity wear the coat of philanthropy, shall that pass? If an +angry bigot assumes this bountiful cause of Abolition, and comes to me +with his last news from Barbadoes, why should I not say to him, "Go love +thy infant; love thy wood-chopper; be good-natured and modest; have that +grace; and never varnish your hard, uncharitable ambition with this +incredible tenderness for black folk a thousand miles off. Thy love afar +is spite at home." Rough and graceless would be such greeting, but truth +is handsomer than the affectation of love. Your goodness must have some +edge to it,--else it is none. The doctrine of hatred must be preached, +as the counteraction of the doctrine of love, when that pules and +whines. I shun father and mother and wife and brother when my genius +calls me. I would write on the lintels of the door-post, _Whim_. I hope +it is somewhat better than whim at last, but we cannot spend the day in +explanation. Expect me not to show cause why I seek or why I exclude +company. Then, again, do not tell me, as a good man did to-day, of my +obligation to put all poor men in good situations. Are they _my_ poor? I +tell thee, thou foolish philanthropist, that I grudge the dollar, the +dime, the cent I give to such men as do not belong to me and to whom I +do not belong. There is a class of persons to whom by all spiritual +affinity I am bought and sold; for them I will go to prison if need be; +but your miscellaneous popular charities; the education at college of +fools; the building of meeting-houses to the vain end to which many now +stand; alms to sots, and the thousandfold Relief Societies;--though I +confess with shame I sometimes succumb and give the dollar, it is a +wicked dollar, which by-and-by I shall have the manhood to withhold. + +Virtues are, in the popular estimate, rather the exception than the +rule. There is the man _and_ his virtues. Men do what is called a good +action, as some piece of courage or charity, much as they would pay a +fine in expiation of daily non-appearance on parade. Their works are +done as an apology or extenuation of their living in the world,--as +invalids and the insane pay a high board. Their virtues are penances. I +do not wish to expiate, but to live. My life is not an apology, but a +life. It is for itself and not for a spectacle. I much prefer that it +should be of a lower strain, so it be genuine and equal, than that it +should be glittering and unsteady. I wish it to be sound and sweet, and +not to need diet and bleeding. My life should be unique; it should be an +alms, a battle, a conquest, a medicine. I ask primary evidence that you +are a man, and refuse this appeal from the man to his actions. I know +that for myself it makes no difference whether I do or forbear those +actions which are reckoned excellent. I cannot consent to pay for a +privilege where I have intrinsic right. Few and mean as my gifts may be, +I actually am, and do not need for my own assurance or the assurance of +my fellows any secondary testimony. + +What I must do is all that concerns me, not what the people think. This +rule, equally arduous in actual and in intellectual life, may serve for +the whole distinction between greatness and meanness. It is the harder +because you will always find those who think they know what is your duty +better than you know it. It is easy in the world to live after the +world's opinion; it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the +great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect +sweetness the independence of solitude. + +The objection to conforming to usages that have become dead to you is +that it scatters your force. It loses your time and blurs the impression +of your character. If you maintain a dead church, contribute to a dead +Bible Society, vote with a great party either for the Government or +against it, spread your table like base housekeepers,--under all these +screens I have difficulty to detect the precise man you are. And of +course so much force is withdrawn from your proper life. But do your +thing, and I shall know you. Do your work, and you shall reinforce +yourself. A man must consider what a blindman's-bluff is this game of +conformity. If I know your sect I anticipate your argument. I hear a +preacher announce for his text and topic the expediency of one of the +institutions of his church. Do I not know beforehand that not possibly +can he say a new and spontaneous word? Do I not know that with all this +ostentation of examining the grounds of the institution he will do no +such thing? Do I not know that he is pledged to himself not to look but +at one side, the permitted side, not as a man, but as a parish minister? +He is a retained attorney, and these airs of the bench are the emptiest +affectation. Well, most men have bound their eyes with one or another +handkerchief, and attached themselves to some one of these communities +of opinion. This conformity makes them not false in a few particulars, +authors of a few lies, but false in all particulars. Their every truth +is not quite true. Their two is not the real two, their four not the +real four: so that every word they say chagrins us and we know not where +to begin to set them right. Meantime nature is not slow to equip us in +the prison-uniform of the party to which we adhere. We come to wear one +cut of face and figure, and acquire by degrees the gentlest asinine +expression. There is a mortifying experience in particular, which does +not fail to wreak itself also in the general history; I mean "the +foolish face of praise," the forced smile which we put on in company +where we do not feel at ease, in answer to conversation which does not +interest us. The muscles, not spontaneously moved but moved by a low +usurping wilfulness, grow tight about the outline of the face, and make +the most disagreeable sensation; a sensation of rebuke and warning which +no brave young man will suffer twice. + +For non-conformity the world whips you with its displeasure. And +therefore a man must know how to estimate a sour face. The bystanders +look askance on him in the public street or in the friend's parlor. If +this aversation had its origin in contempt and resistance like his own +he might well go home with a sad countenance; but the sour faces of the +multitude, like their sweet faces, have no deep cause,--disguise no god, +but are put on and off as the wind blows and a newspaper directs. Yet is +the discontent of the multitude more formidable than that of the senate +and the college. It is easy enough for a firm man who knows the world to +brook the rage of the cultivated classes. Their rage is decorous and +prudent, for they are timid, as being very vulnerable themselves. But +when to their feminine rage the indignation of the people is added, when +the ignorant and the poor are aroused, when the unintelligent brute +force that lies at the bottom of society is made to growl and mow, it +needs the habit of magnanimity and religion to treat it godlike as a +trifle of no concernment. + +The other terror that scares us from self-trust is our consistency; a +reverence for our past act or word because the eyes of others have no +other data for computing our orbit than our past acts, and we are loath +to disappoint them. + +But why should you keep your head over your shoulder? Why drag about +this monstrous corpse of your memory, lest you contradict somewhat you +have stated in this or that public place? Suppose you should contradict +yourself; what then? It seems to be a rule of wisdom never to rely on +your memory alone, scarcely even in acts of pure memory, but to bring +the past for judgment into the thousand-eyed present, and live ever in a +new day. Trust your emotion. In your metaphysics you have denied +personality to the Deity, yet when the devout motions of the soul come, +yield to them heart and life, though they should clothe God with shape +and color. Leave your theory, as Joseph his coat in the hand of the +harlot, and flee. + +A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by +little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great +soul has simply nothing to do. He may as well concern himself with his +shadow on the wall. Out upon your guarded lips! Sew them up with +packthread, do. Else if you would be a man speak what you think to-day +in words as hard as cannon balls, and to-morrow speak what to-morrow +thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said +to-day. Ah, then, exclaim the aged ladies, you shall be sure to be +misunderstood! Misunderstood! It is a right fool's word. Is it so bad +then to be misunderstood? Pythagoras was misunderstood, and Socrates, +and Jesus, and Luther, and Copernicus, and Galileo, and Newton, and +every pure and wise spirit that ever took flesh. To be great is to be +misunderstood. + +I suppose no man can violate his nature. All the sallies of his will are +rounded in by the law of his being, as the inequalities of Andes and +Himmaleh are insignificant in the curve of the sphere. Nor does it +matter how you gauge and try him. A character is like an acrostic or +Alexandrian stanza;--read it forward, backward, or across, it still +spells the same thing. In this pleasing contrite wood-life which God +allows me, let me record day by day my honest thought without prospect +or retrospect, and, I cannot doubt, it will be found symmetrical, though +I mean it not and see it not. My book should smell of pines and resound +with the hum of insects. The swallow over my window should interweave +that thread or straw he carries in his bill into my web also. We pass +for what we are. Character teaches above our wills. Men imagine that +they communicate their virtue or vice only by overt actions, and do not +see that virtue or vice emit a breath every moment. + +Fear never but you shall be consistent in whatever variety of actions, +so they be each honest and natural in their hour. For of one will, the +actions will be harmonious, however unlike they seem. These varieties +are lost sight of when seen at a little distance, at a little height of +thought. One tendency unites them all. The voyage of the best ship is a +zigzag line of a hundred tacks. This is only microscopic criticism. See +the line from a sufficient distance, and it straightens itself to the +average tendency. Your genuine action will explain itself and will +explain your other genuine actions. Your conformity explains nothing. +Act singly, and what you have already done singly will justify you now. +Greatness always appeals to the future. If I can be great enough now to +do right and scorn eyes, I must have done so much right before as to +defend me now. Be it how it will, do right now. Always scorn appearances +and you always may. The force of character is cumulative. All the +foregone days of virtue work their health into this. What makes the +majesty of the heroes of the senate and the field, which so fills the +imagination? The consciousness of a train of great days and victories +behind. There they all stand and shed an united light on the advancing +actor. He is attended as by a visible escort of angels to every man's +eye. That is it which throws thunder into Chatham's voice, and dignity +into Washington's port, and America into Adams's eye. Honor is venerable +to us because it is no ephemeris. It is always ancient virtue. We +worship it to-day because it is not of to-day. We love it and pay it +homage because it is not a trap for our love and homage, but is +self-dependent, self-derived, and therefore of an old immaculate +pedigree, even if shown in a young person. + +I hope in these days we have heard the last of conformity and +consistency. Let the words be gazetted and ridiculous henceforward. +Instead of the gong for dinner, let us hear a whistle from the Spartan +fife. Let us bow and apologize never more. A great man is coming to eat +at my house. I do not wish to please him; I wish that he should wish to +please me. I will stand here for humanity, and though I would make it +kind, I would make it true. Let us affront and reprimand the smooth +mediocrity and squalid contentment of the times, and hurl in the face of +custom and trade and office, the fact which is the upshot of all +history, that there is a great responsible Thinker and Actor moving +wherever moves a man; that a true man belongs to no other time or place, +but is the center of things. Where he is, there is nature. He measures +you and all men and all events. You are constrained to accept his +standard. Ordinarily, every body in society reminds us of somewhat else, +or of some other person. Character, reality, reminds you of nothing +else; it takes place of the whole creation. The man must be so much that +he must make all circumstances indifferent--put all means into the +shade. This: all great men are and do. Every true man is a cause, a +country, and an age; requires infinite spaces and numbers and time fully +to accomplish his thought;--and posterity seem to follow his steps as a +procession. A man Caesar is born, and for ages after we have a Roman +Empire. Christ is born, and millions of minds so grow and cleave to his +genius that he is confounded with virtue and the possible of man. An +institution is the lengthened shadow of one man; as, the Reformation, of +Luther; Quakerism, of Fox; Methodism, of Wesley; Abolition, of Clarkson. +Scipio, Milton called "the height of Rome;" and all history resolves +itself very easily into the biography of a few stout and earnest +persons. + +Let a man then know his worth, and keep things under his feet. Let him +not peep or steal, or skulk up and down with the air of a charity-boy, a +bastard, or an interloper in the world which exists for him. But the man +in the street, finding no worth in himself which corresponds to the +force which built a tower or sculptured a marble god, feels poor when he +looks on these. To him a palace, a statue, or a costly book has an alien +and forbidding air, much like a gay equipage, and seems to say like +that, "Who are you, sir?" Yet they all are his, suitors for his notice, +petitioners to his faculties that they will come out and take +possession. The picture waits for my verdict; it is not to command me, +but I am to settle its claim to praise. That popular fable of the sot +who was picked up dead drunk in the street, carried to the duke's +house, washed and dressed and laid in the duke's bed, and, on his +waking, treated with all obsequious ceremony like the duke, and assured +that he had been insane--owes its popularity to the fact that it +symbolizes so well the state of man, who is in the world a sort of sot, +but now and then wakes up, exercises his reason and finds himself a true +prince. + +Our reading is mendicant and sycophantic. In history our imagination +makes fools of us, plays us false. Kingdom and lordship, power and +estate, are a gaudier vocabulary than private John and Edward in a small +house and common day's work: but the things of life are the same to +both: the sum total of both is the same. Why all this deference to +Alfred and Scanderbeg and Gustavus? Suppose they were virtuous; did they +wear out virtue? As great a stake depends on your private act to-day as +followed their public and renowned steps. When private men shall act +with original views, the luster will be transferred from the actions of +kings to those of gentlemen. + +The world has indeed been instructed by its kings, who have so +magnetized the eyes of nations. It has been taught by this colossal +symbol the mutual reverence that is due from man to man. The joyful +loyalty with which men have everywhere suffered the king, the noble, or +the great proprietor to walk among them, by a law of his own, make his +own scale of men and things and reverse theirs, pay for benefits not +with money but with honor, and represent the Law in his person, was the +hieroglyphic by which they obscurely signified their consciousness of +their own right and comeliness, the right of every man. + +The magnetism which all original action exerts is explained when we +inquire the reason of self-trust. Who is the Trustee? What is the +aboriginal Self, on which a universal reliance may be grounded? What is +the nature and power of that science-baffling star, without parallax, +without calculable elements, which shoots a ray of beauty even into +trivial and impure actions, if the least mark of independence appear? +The inquiry leads us to that source, at once the essence of genius, the +essence of virtue, and the essence of life, which we call Spontaneity or +Instinct. We denote this primary wisdom as Intuition, whilst all later +teachings are tuitions. In that deep force, the last fact behind which +analysis cannot go, all things find their common origin. For the sense +of being which in calm hours rises, we know not how, in the soul, is not +diverse from things, from space, from light, from time, from man, but +one with them and proceedeth obviously from the same source whence their +life and being also proceedeth. We first share the life by which things +exist and afterward see them as appearances in nature and forget that we +have shared their cause. Here is the fountain of action and the fountain +of thought. Here are the lungs of that inspiration which giveth man +wisdom, of that inspiration of man which cannot be denied without +impiety and atheism. We lie in the lap of immense intelligence, which +makes us organs of its activity and receivers of its truth. When we +discern justice, when we discern truth, we do nothing of ourselves, but +allow a passage to its beams. If we ask whence this comes, if we seek to +pry into the soul that causes--all metaphysics, all philosophy is at +fault. Its presence or its absence is all we can affirm. Every man +discerns between the voluntary acts of his mind and his involuntary +perceptions. And to his involuntary perceptions: he knows a perfect +respect is due. He may err in the expression of them, but he knows that +these things are so, like day and night, not to be disputed. All my +wilful actions and acquisitions are but roving;--the most trivial +reverie, the faintest native emotion, are domestic and divine. +Thoughtless people contradict as readily the statement of perceptions as +of opinions, or rather much more readily; for they do not distinguish +between perception and notion. They fancy that I choose to see this or +that thing. But perception is not whimsical, but fatal. If I see a +trait, my children will see it after me, and in course of time all +mankind,--although it may chance that no one has seen it before me. For +my perception of it is as much a fact as the sun. + +The relations of the soul to the divine spirit are so pure that it is +profane to seek to interpose helps. It must be that when God speaketh he +should communicate, not one thing, but all things; should fill the world +with his voice; should scatter forth light, nature, time, souls, from +the center of the present thought; and new date and new create the +whole. Whenever a mind is simple and receives a divine wisdom, then old +things pass away,--means, teachers, texts, temples fall; it lives now, +and absorbs past and future into the present hour. All things are made +sacred by relation to it,--one thing as much as another. All things are +dissolved to their center by their cause, and in the universal miracle +petty and particular miracles disappear. This is and must be. If +therefore a man claims to know and speak of God and carries you backward +to the phraseology of some old moldered nation in another country, in +another world, believe him not. Is the acorn better than the oak which +is its fulness and completion? Is the parent better than the child into +whom he has cast his ripened being? Whence then this worship of the +past? The centuries are conspirators against the sanity and majesty of +the soul. Time and space are but physiological colors which the eye +maketh, but the soul is light; where it is, is day; where it was, is +night; and history is an impertinence and an injury if it be any thing +more than a cheerful apologue or parable of my being and becoming. + +Man is timid and apologetic; he is no longer upright; he dares not say +"I think," "I am," but quotes some saint or sage. He is ashamed before +the blade of grass or the blowing rose. These roses under my window make +no reference to former roses or to better ones; they are for what they +are; they exist with God to-day. There is no time to them. There is +simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence. Before +a leaf-bud has burst, its whole life acts; in the full-blown flower +there is no more; in the leafless root there is no less. Its nature is +satisfied and it satisfies nature in all moments alike. There is no time +to it. But man postpones or remembers; he does not live in the present, +but with reverted eye laments the past, or, heedless of the riches that +surround him, stands on tiptoe to foresee the future. He cannot be happy +and strong until he too lives with nature in the present, above time. + +This should be plain enough. Yet see what strong intellects dare not yet +hear God himself unless he speak the phraseology of I know not what +David, or Jeremiah, or Paul. We shall not always set so great a price on +a few texts, on a few lives. We are like children who repeat by rote the +sentences of grandames and tutors, and, as they grow older, of the men +of talents and character they chance to see,--painfully recollecting the +exact words they spoke; afterward, when they come into the point of view +which those had who uttered these sayings, they understand them and are +willing to let the words go; for at any time they can use words as good +when occasion comes. So was it with us, so will it be, if we proceed. If +we live truly, we shall see truly. It is as easy for the strong man to +be strong, as it is for the weak to be weak. When we have new +perception, we shall gladly disburden the memory of its hoarded +treasures as old rubbish. When a man lives with God, his voice shall be +as sweet as the murmur of the brook and the rustle of the corn. + +And now at last the highest truth on this subject remains unsaid; +probably cannot be said; for all that we say is the far off remembering +of the intuition: That thought, by what I can now nearest approach to +say it, is this: When good is near you, when you have life in +yourself,--it is not by any known or appointed way; you shall not +discern the foot-prints of any other; you shall not see the face of man; +you shall not hear any name;--the way, the thought, the good, shall be +wholly strange and new. It shall exclude all other being. You take the +way from man, not to man. All persons that ever existed are its fugitive +ministers. There shall be no fear in it. Fear and hope are alike +beneath it. It asks nothing. There is somewhat low even in hope. We are +then in vision. There is nothing that can be called gratitude, nor +properly joy. The soul is raised over passion. It seeth identity and +eternal causation. It is a perceiving that Truth and Right are. Hence it +becomes a Tranquillity out of the knowing that all things go well. Vast +spaces of nature; the Atlantic Ocean, the South Sea; vast intervals of +time, years, centuries, are of no account. This which I think and feel +underlay that former state of life and circumstances, as it does +underlie my present and will always all circumstances, and what is +called life and what is called death. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 1: From Essays, First Series, 1841; the second half of the +essay has here been omitted.] + + + + +EARLY EDUCATION AT HERNE HILL[2] + +JOHN RUSKIN + + +When I was about four years old my father found himself able to buy the +lease of a house on Herne Hill, a rustic eminence four miles south of +the "Standard in Cornhill"; of which the leafy seclusion remains, in all +essential points of character, unchanged to this day: certain Gothic +splendours, lately indulged in by our wealthier neighbours, being the +only serious innovations; and these are so graciously concealed by the +fine trees of their grounds, that the passing viator remains unappalled +by them; and I can still walk up and down the piece of road between the +Fox tavern and the Herne Hill station, imagining myself four years old. + +Our house was the northernmost of a group which stand accurately on the +top or dome of the hill, where the ground is for a small space level, as +the snows are, (I understand), on the dome of Mont Blanc; presently +falling, however, in what may be, in the London clay formation, +considered a precipitous slope, to our valley of Chamouni (or of +Dulwich) on the east; and with a softer descent into Cold Harbor lane on +the west: on the south, no less beautifully declining to the dale of the +Effra, (doubtless shortened from Effrena, signifying the "Unbridled" +river; recently, I regret to say, bricked over for the convenience of +Mr. Biffin, chemist, and others); while on the north, prolonged indeed +with slight depression some half mile or so, and receiving, in the +parish of Lambeth, the chivalric title of "Champion Hill," it plunges +down at last to efface itself in the plains of Peckham, and the rural +barbarism of Goose Green. + +The group, of which our house was the quarter, consisted of two +precisely similar partner-couples of houses, gardens and all to match; +still the two highest blocks of buildings seen from Norwood on the crest +of the ridge; so that the house itself, three-storied, with garrets +above, commanded, in those comparatively smokeless days, a very notable +view from its garret windows, of the Norwood hills on one side, and the +winter sunrise over them; and of the valley of the Thames on the other, +with Windsor telescopically clear in the distance, and Harrow, +conspicuous always in fine weather to open vision against the summer +sunset. It had front and back garden in sufficient proportion to its +size; the front, richly set with old evergreens, and well-grown lilac +and laburnum; the back, seventy yards long by twenty wide, renowned over +all the hill for its pears and apples, which had been chosen with +extreme care by our predecessor, (shame on me to forget the name of a +man to whom I owe so much!)--and possessing also a strong old mulberry +tree, a tall white-heart cherry tree, a black Kentish one, and an almost +unbroken hedge, all round, of alternate gooseberry and currant bush; +decked, in due season, (for the ground was wholly beneficent), with +magical splendour of abundant fruit: fresh green, soft amber, and +rough-bristled crimson bending the spinous branches; clustered pearl and +pendent ruby joyfully discoverable under the large leaves that looked +like vine. + +The differences of primal importance which I observed between the nature +of this garden, and that of Eden, as I had imagined it, were, that, in +this one, _all_ the fruit was forbidden; and there were no companionable +beasts: in other respects the little domain answered every purpose of +paradise to me; and the climate, in that cycle of our years, allowed me +to pass most of my life in it. My mother never gave me more to learn +than she knew I could easily get learnt, if I set myself honestly to +work, by twelve o'clock. She never allowed anything to disturb me when +my task was set; if it was not said rightly by twelve o'clock, I was +kept in till I knew it, and in general, even when Latin Grammar came to +supplement the Psalms, I was my own master for at least an hour before +half-past one dinner, and for the rest of the afternoon. + +My mother, herself finding her chief personal pleasure in her flowers, +was often planting, or pruning beside me, at least if I chose to stay +beside _her_. I never thought of doing anything behind her back which I +would not have done before her face; and her presence was therefore no +restraint to me; but, also, no particular pleasure, for, from having +always been left so much alone, I had generally my own little affairs to +see after; and, on the whole, by the time I was seven years old, was +already getting too independent, mentally, even of my father and mother; +and, having nobody else to be dependent upon, began to lead a very +small, perky, contented, conceited, Cock-Robinson-Crusoe sort of life, +in the central point which it appeared to me, (as it must naturally +appear to geometrical animals), that I occupied in the universe. + +This was partly the fault of my father's modesty; and partly of his +pride. He had so much more confidence in my mother's judgment as to such +matters than in his own, that he never ventured even to help, much less +to cross her, in the conduct of my education; on the other hand, in the +fixed purpose of making an ecclesiastical gentleman of me, with the +superfinest of manners, and access to the highest circles of fleshly and +spiritual society, the visits to Croydon, where I entirely loved my +aunt, and young baker-cousins, became rarer and more rare: the society +of our neighbours on the hill could not be had without breaking up our +regular and sweetly selfish manner of living; and on the whole, I had +nothing animate to care for, in a childish way, but myself, some nests +of ants, which the gardener would never leave undisturbed for me, and a +sociable bird or two; though I never had the sense or perseverance to +make one really tame. But that was partly because, if ever I managed to +bring one to be the least trustful of me, the cats got it. + +Under these circumstances, what powers of imagination I possessed, +either fastened themselves on inanimate things,--the sky, the leaves, +and pebbles, observable within the walls of Eden,--or caught at any +opportunity of flight into regions of romance, compatible with the +objective realities of existence in the nineteenth century, within a +mile and a quarter of Camberwell Green. + +Herein my father, happily, though with no definite intention other than +of pleasing me, when he found he could do so without infringing any of +my mother's rules, became my guide. I was particularly fond of watching +him shave; and was always allowed to come into his room in the morning +(under the one in which I am now writing), to be the motionless witness +of that operation. Over his dressing-table hung one of his own +water-colour drawings, made under the teaching of the elder Nasmyth; I +believe, at the High School of Edinburgh. It was done in the early +manner of tinting, which, just about the time when my father was at the +High School, Dr. Munro was teaching Turner; namely, in gray under-tints +of Prussian blue and British ink, washed with warm colour afterwards on +the lights. It represented Conway Castle, with its Frith, and, in the +foreground, a cottage, a fisherman, and a boat at the water's edge. + +When my father had finished shaving, he always told me a story about +this picture. The custom began without any initial purpose of his, in +consequence of my troublesome curiosity whether the fisherman lived in +the cottage, and where he was going to in the boat. It being settled, +for peace' sake, that he _did_ live in the cottage, and was going in the +boat to fish near the castle, the plot of the drama afterwards gradually +thickened; and became, I believe, involved with that of the tragedy of +Douglas, and of the Castle Specter, in both of which pieces my father +had performed in private theatricals, before my mother, and a select +Edinburgh audience, when he was a boy of sixteen, and she, at grave +twenty, a model housekeeper, and very scornful and religiously +suspicious of theatricals. But she was never weary of telling me, in +later years, how beautiful my father looked in his Highland dress, with +the high black feathers. + +In the afternoons, when my father returned (always punctually) from his +business, he dined, at half-past four, in the front parlour, my mother +sitting beside him to hear the events of the day, and give counsel and +encouragement with respect to the same;--chiefly the last, for my father +was apt to be vexed if orders for sherry fell the least short of their +due standard, even for a day or two. I was never present at this time, +however, and only avouch what I relate by hearsay and probable +conjecture; for between four and six it would have been a grave +misdemeanour in me if I so much as approached the parlour door. After +that, in summer time, we were all in the garden as long as the day +lasted; tea under the white-heart cherry tree; or in winter and rough +weather, at six o'clock in the drawing-room,--I having my cup of milk, +and slice of bread-and-butter, in a little recess, with a table in front +of it, wholly sacred to me; and in which I remained in the evenings as +an Idol in a niche, while my mother knitted, and my father read to +her,--and to me, so far as I chose to listen. + +The series of the Waverley novels, then drawing towards its close, was +still the chief source of delight in all households caring for +literature; and I can no more recollect the time when I did not know +them than when I did not know the Bible; but I have still a vivid +remembrance of my father's intense expression of sorrow mixed with +scorn, as he threw down Count Robert of Paris, after reading three or +four pages; and knew that the life of Scott was ended: the scorn being a +very complex and bitter feeling in him,--partly, indeed, of the book +itself, but chiefly of the wretches who were tormenting and selling the +wrecked intellect, and not a little, deep down, of the subtle dishonesty +which had essentially caused the ruin. My father never could forgive +Scott his concealment of the Ballantyne partnership. + +Such being the salutary pleasures of Herne Hill, I have next with deeper +gratitude to chronicle what I owe to my mother for the resolutely +consistent lessons which so exercised me in the Scriptures as to make +every word of them familiar to my ear in habitual music,--yet in that +familiarity reverenced, as transcending all thought, and ordaining all +conduct. + +This she effected, not by her own sayings or personal authority; but +simply by compelling me to read the book thoroughly, for myself. As soon +as I was able to read with fluency, she began a course of Bible work +with me, which never ceased till I went to Oxford. She read alternate +verses with me, watching, at first, every intonation of my voice, and +correcting the false ones, till she made me understand the verse, if +within my reach, rightly, and energetically. It might be beyond me +altogether; that she did not care about; but she made sure that as soon +as I got hold of it at all, I should get hold of it by the right end. + +In this way she began with the first verse of Genesis, and went straight +through, to the last verse of the Apocalypse; hard names, numbers, +Levitical law, and all; and began again at Genesis the next day. If a +name was hard, the better the exercise in pronunciation,--if the chapter +was tiresome, the better lesson in patience,--if loathsome, the better +lesson in faith that there was some use in its being so outspoken. After +our chapters, (from two to three a day, according to their length, the +first thing after breakfast, and no interruption from servants +allowed,--none from visitors, who either joined in the reading or had to +stay upstairs,--and none from any visitings or excursions, except real +travelling), I had to learn a few verses by heart, or repeat, to make +sure I had not lost, something of what was already known; and, with the +chapters thus gradually possessed from the first word to the last, I had +to learn the whole body of the fine old Scottish paraphrases, which are +good, melodious, and forceful verse; and to which, together with the +Bible itself, I owe the first cultivation of my ear in sound. + +It is strange that of all the pieces of the Bible which my mother thus +taught me, that which cost me most to learn, and which was, to my +child's mind, chiefly repulsive--the 119th Psalm--has now become of all +the most precious to me, in its overflowing and glorious passion of love +for the Law of God, in opposition to the abuse of it by modern preachers +of what they imagine to be His gospel. + +But it is only by deliberate effort that I recall the long morning hours +of toil, as regular as sunrise,--toil on both sides equal,--by which, +year after year, my mother forced me to learn these paraphrases, and +chapters, (the eighth of 1st Kings being one--try it, good reader, in a +leisure hour!) allowing not so much as a syllable to be missed or +misplaced; while every sentence was required to be said over and over +again till she was satisfied with the accent of it. I recollect a +struggle between us of about three weeks, concerning the accent of the +"of" in the lines + + "Shall any following spring revive + The ashes of the urn?"-- + +I insisting, partly in childish obstinacy, and partly in true instinct +for rhythm, (being wholly careless on the subject both of urns and their +contents), on reciting it with an accented _of_. It was not, I say, till +after three weeks' labor, that my mother got the accent lightened on the +"of" and laid on the "ashes," to her mind. But had it taken three years +she would have done it, having once undertaken to do it. And, assuredly, +had she not done it,--well, there's no knowing what would have happened; +but I'm very thankful she _did_. + +I have just opened my oldest (in use) Bible,--a small, closely, and very +neatly printed volume it is, printed in Edinburgh by Sir D. Hunter Blair +and J. Bruce, Printers, to the King's Most Excellent Majesty, in 1816. +Yellow, now, with age, and flexible, but not unclean, with much use, +except that the lower corners of the pages at 8th of 1st Kings, and 32d +Deuteronomy, are worn somewhat thin and dark, the learning of these two +chapters having cost me much pains. My mother's list of the chapters +with which, thus learned, she established my soul in life, has just +fallen out of it. I will take what indulgence the incurious reader can +give me, for printing the list thus accidentally occurrent: + +Exodus, chapters 15th and 20th. +2 Samuel, " 1st, from 17th verse to end. +1 Kings, " 8th. +Psalms, " 23d, 32d, 90th, 91st, 103d, 112th, 119th, 139th. +Proverbs, " 2d, 3d, 8th, 12th. +Isaiah, " 58th. +Matthew, " 5th, 6th, 7th. +Acts, " 26th. +1 Corinthians, " 13th, 15th. +James, " 4th. +Revelation, " 5th, 6th. + +And, truly, though I have picked up the elements of a little further +knowledge--in mathematics, meteorology, and the like, in after +life,--and owe not a little to the teaching of many people, this +maternal installation of my mind in that property of chapters, I count +very confidently the most precious, and, on the whole, the one +_essential_ part of all my education. + +And it is perhaps already time to mark what advantage and mischief, by +the chances of life up to seven years old, had been irrevocably +determined for me. + +I will first count my blessings (as a not unwise friend once recommended +me to do, continually; whereas I have a bad trick of always numbering +the thorns in my fingers and not the bones in them). + +And for best and truest beginning of all blessings, I had been taught +the perfect meaning of Peace, in thought, act, and word. + +I never had heard my father's or mother's voice once raised in any +question with each other; nor seen an angry, or even slightly hurt or +offended, glance in the eyes of either. I had never heard a servant +scolded; nor even suddenly, passionately, or in any severe manner, +blamed. I had never seen a moment's trouble or disorder in any household +matter; nor anything whatever either done in a hurry, or undone in due +time. I had no conception of such a feeling as anxiety; my father's +occasional vexation in the afternoons, when he had only got an order for +twelve butts after expecting one for fifteen, as I have just stated, was +never manifested to _me_; and itself related only to the question +whether his name would be a step higher or lower in the year's list of +sherry exporters; for he never spent more than half his income, and +therefore found himself little incommoded by occasional variations in +the total of it. I had never done any wrong that I knew of--beyond +occasionally delaying the commitment to heart of some improving +sentence, that I might watch a wasp on the window pane, or a bird in the +cherry tree; and I had never seen any grief. + +Next to this quite priceless gift of Peace, I had received the perfect +understanding of the natures of Obedience and Faith. I obeyed word, or +lifted finger, of father or mother, simply as a ship her helm; not only +without idea of resistance, but receiving the direction as a part of my +own life and force, a helpful law, as necessary to me in every moral +action as the law of gravity in leaping. And my practice in Faith was +soon complete: nothing ever threatened me that was not inflicted, and +nothing ever told me that was not true. + +Peace, obedience, faith; these three for chief good; next to these, the +habit of fixed attention with both eyes and mind--on which I will not +further enlarge at this moment, this being the main practical faculty of +my life, causing Mazzini to say of me, in conversation authentically +reported, a year or two before his death, that I had "the most analytic +mind in Europe." An opinion in which, so far as I am acquainted with +Europe, I am myself entirely disposed to concur. + +Lastly, an extreme perfection in palate and all other bodily senses, +given by the utter prohibition of cake, wine, comfits, or, except in +carefulest restriction, fruit; and by fine preparation of what food was +given me. Such I esteem the main blessings of my childhood;--next, let +me count the equally dominant calamities. + +First, that I had nothing to love. + +My parents were--in a sort--visible powers of nature to me, no more +loved than the sun and the moon: only I should have been annoyed and +puzzled if either of them had gone out; (how much, now, when both are +darkened!)--still less did I love God; not that I had any quarrel with +Him, or fear of Him; but simply found what people told me was His +service, disagreeable; and what people told me was His book, not +entertaining. I had no companions to quarrel with, neither; nobody to +assist, and nobody to thank. Not a servant was ever allowed to do +anything for me, but what it was their duty to do; and why should I have +been grateful to the cook for cooking, or the gardener for +gardening,--when the one dared not give me a baked potato without asking +leave, and the other would not let my ants' nests alone, because they +made the walks untidy? The evil consequence of all this was not, +however, what might perhaps have been expected, that I grew up selfish +or unaffectionate; but that, when affection did come, it came with +violence utterly rampant and unmanageable, at least by me, who never +before had anything to manage. + +For (second of chief calamities) I had nothing to endure. Danger or pain +of any kind I knew not: my strength was never exercised, my patience +never tried, and my courage never fortified. Not that I was ever afraid +of anything,--either ghosts, thunder, or beasts; and one of the nearest +approaches to insubordination which I was ever tempted into as a child, +was in passionate effort to get leave to play with the lion's cubs in +Wombwell's menagerie. + +Thirdly, I was taught no precision nor etiquette of manners; it was +enough if, in the little society we saw, I remained unobtrusive, and +replied to a question without shyness: but the shyness came later, and +increased as I grew conscious of the rudeness arising from the want of +social discipline, and found it impossible to acquire, in advanced life, +dexterity in any bodily exercise, skill in any pleasing accomplishment, +or ease and tact in ordinary behaviour. + +Lastly, and chief of evils. My judgment of right and wrong, and powers +of independent action, were left entirely undeveloped; because the +bridle and blinkers were never taken off me. Children should have their +times of being off duty, like soldiers; and when once the obedience, if +required, is certain, the little creature should be very early put for +periods of practice in complete command of itself; set on the barebacked +horse of its own will, and left to break it by its own strength. But the +ceaseless authority exercised over my youth left me, when cast out at +last into the world, unable for some time to do more than drift with its +vortices. + +My present verdict, therefore, on the general tenor of my education at +that time, must be, that it was at once too formal and too luxurious; +leaving my character, at the most important moment for its construction, +cramped indeed, but not disciplined; and only by protection innocent, +instead of by practice virtuous. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 2: From "Praeterita," _1885, Vol. I, Chapter II_.] + + + + +A CRISIS IN MY MENTAL HISTORY[3] + +JOHN STUART MILL + + +From the winter of 1821, when I first read Bentham, and especially from +the commencement of the Westminster Review, I had what might truly be +called an object in life; to be a reformer of the world. My conception +of my own happiness was entirely identified with this object. The +personal sympathies I wished for were those of fellow labourers in this +enterprise. I endeavoured to pick up as many flowers as I could by the +way; but as a serious and permanent personal satisfaction to rest upon, +my whole reliance was placed on this; and I was accustomed to felicitate +myself on the certainty of a happy life which I enjoyed, through placing +my happiness in something durable and distant, in which some progress +might be always making, while it could never be exhausted by complete +attainment. This did very well for several years, during which the +general improvement going on in the world and the idea of myself as +engaged with others in struggling to promote it, seemed enough to fill +up an interesting and animated existence. But the time came when I +awakened from this as from a dream. It was in the autumn of 1826. I was +in a dull state of nerves, such as everybody is occasionally liable to; +unsusceptible to enjoyment or pleasurable excitement; one of those moods +when what is pleasure at other times, becomes insipid or indifferent; +the state, I should think, in which converts to Methodism usually are, +when smitten by their first "conviction of sin." In this frame of mind +it occurred to me to put the question directly to myself: "Suppose that +all your objects in life were realised; that all the changes in +institutions and opinions which you are looking forward to, could be +completely effected at this very instant: would this be a great joy and +happiness to you?" And an irrepressible self-consciousness distinctly +answered, "No!" At this my heart sank within me: the whole foundation on +which my life was constructed fell down. All my happiness was to have +been found in the continual pursuit of this end. The end had ceased to +charm, and how could there ever again be any interest in the means? I +seemed to have nothing left to live for. + +At first I hoped that the cloud would pass away of itself; but it did +not. A night's sleep, the sovereign remedy for the smaller vexations of +life, had no effect on it. I awoke to a renewed consciousness of the +woful fact. I carried it with me into all companies, into all +occupations. Hardly anything had power to cause me even a few minutes' +oblivion of it. For some months the cloud seemed to grow thicker and +thicker. The lines in Coleridge's "Dejection"--I was not then acquainted +with them--exactly describe my case: + + "A grief without a pang, void, dark and drear, + A drowsy, stifled, unimpassioned grief, + Which finds no natural outlet or relief + In word, or sigh, or tear." + +In vain I sought relief from my favourite books; those memorials of past +nobleness and greatness from which I had always hitherto drawn strength +and animation. I read them now without feeling, or with the accustomed +feeling _minus_ all its charm; and I became persuaded, that my love of +mankind, and of excellence for its own sake, had worn itself out. I +sought no comfort by speaking to others of what I felt. If I had loved +any one sufficiently to make confiding my griefs a necessity, I should +not have been in the condition I was. I felt, too, that mine was not an +interesting, or in any way respectable distress. There was nothing in it +to attract sympathy. Advice, if I had known where to seek it, would +have been most precious. The words of Macbeth to the physician often +occurred to my thoughts. But there was no one on whom I could build the +faintest hope of such assistance. My father, to whom it would have been +natural to me to have recourse in any practical difficulties, was the +last person to whom, in such a case as this, I looked for help. +Everything convinced me that he had no knowledge of any such mental +state as I was suffering from, and that even if he could be made to +understand it, he was not the physician who could heal it. My education, +which was wholly his work, had been conducted without any regard to the +possibility of its ending in this result; and I saw no use in giving him +the pain of thinking that his plans had failed, when the failure was +probably irremediable, and, at all events, beyond the power of _his_ +remedies. Of other friends, I had at that time none to whom I had any +hope of making my condition intelligible. It was, however, abundantly +intelligible to myself; and the more I dwelt upon it, the more hopeless +it appeared. + +My course of study had led me to believe, that all mental and moral +feelings and qualities, whether of a good or of a bad kind, were the +results of association; that we love one thing, and hate another, take +pleasure in one sort of action or contemplation, and pain in another +sort, through the clinging of pleasurable or painful ideas to those +things, from the effect of education or of experience. As a corollary +from this, I had always heard it maintained by my father, and was myself +convinced, that the object of education should be to form the strongest +possible associations of the salutary class; associations of pleasure +with all things beneficial to the great whole, and of pain with all +things hurtful to it. This doctrine appeared inexpugnable; but it now +seemed to me, on retrospect, that my teachers had occupied themselves +but superficially with the means of forming and keeping up these +salutary associations. They seemed to have trusted altogether to the old +familiar instruments, praise and blame, reward and punishment. Now, I +did not doubt that by these means, begun early, and applied +unremittingly, intense associations of pain and pleasure, especially of +pain, might be created, and might produce desires and aversions capable +of lasting undiminished to the end of life. But there must always be +something artificial and casual in associations thus produced. The pains +and pleasures thus forcibly associated with things, are not connected +with them by any natural tie; and it is therefore, I thought, essential +to the durability of these associations, that they should have become so +intense and inveterate as to be practically indissoluble, before the +habitual exercise of the power of analysis had commenced. For I now saw, +or thought I saw, what I had always before received with +incredulity--that the habit of analysis has a tendency to wear away the +feelings: as indeed it has, when no other mental habit is cultivated, +and the analysing spirit remains without its natural complements and +correctives. The very excellence of analysis (I argued) is that it tends +to weaken and undermine whatever is the result of prejudice; that it +enables us mentally to separate ideas which have only casually clung +together: and no associations whatever could ultimately resist this +dissolving force, were it not that we owe to analysis our clearest +knowledge of the permanent sequences in nature; the real connections +between Things, not dependent on our will and feelings; natural laws, by +virtue of which, in many cases, one thing is inseparable from another in +fact; which laws, in proportion as they are clearly perceived and +imaginatively realised, cause our ideas of things which are always +joined together in Nature, to cohere more and more closely in our +thoughts. Analytic habits may thus even strengthen the associations +between causes and effects, means and ends, but tend altogether to +weaken those which are, to speak familiarly, a _mere_ matter of feeling. +They are therefore (I thought) favourable to prudence and +clear-sightedness, but a perpetual worm at the root both of the passions +and of the virtues; and, above all, fearfully undermine all desires, and +all pleasures, which are the effects of association, that is, according +to the theory I held, all except the purely physical and organic; of the +entire insufficiency of which to make life desirable, no one had a +stronger conviction than I had. These were the laws of human nature, by +which, as it seemed to me, I had been brought to my present state. All +those to whom I looked up, were of opinion that the pleasure of sympathy +with human beings, and the feelings which made the good of others, and +especially of mankind on a large scale, the object of existence, were +the greatest and surest sources of happiness. Of the truth of this I was +convinced, but to know that a feeling would make me happy if I had it, +did not give me the feeling. My education, I thought, had failed to +create these feelings in sufficient strength to resist the dissolving +influence of analysis, while the whole course of my intellectual +cultivation had made precocious and premature analysis the inveterate +habit of my mind. I was thus, as I said to myself, left stranded at the +commencement of my voyage, with a well-equipped ship and a rudder, but +no sail; without any real desire for the ends which I had been so +carefully fitted out to work for: no delight in virtue, or the general +good, but also just as little in anything else. The fountains of vanity +and ambition seemed to have dried up within me, as completely as those +of benevolence. I had had (as I reflected) some gratification of vanity +at too early an age: I had obtained some distinction, and felt myself of +some importance, before the desire of distinction and of importance had +grown into a passion: and little as it was which I had attained, yet +having been attained too early, like all pleasures enjoyed too soon, it +had made me _blasé_ and indifferent to the pursuit. Thus neither selfish +nor unselfish pleasures were pleasures to me. And there seemed no power +in nature sufficient to begin the formation of my character anew, and +create in a mind now irretrievably analytic, fresh associations of +pleasure with any of the objects of human desire. + +These were the thoughts which mingled with the dry heavy dejection of +the melancholy winter of 1826-7. During this time I was not incapable of +my usual occupations. I went on with them mechanically, by the mere +force of habit. I had been so drilled in a certain sort of mental +exercise, that I could still carry it on when all the spirit had gone +out of it. I even composed and spoke several speeches at the debating +society, how, or with what degree of success, I know not. Of four years' +continual speaking at that society, this is the only year of which I +remember next to nothing. Two lines of Coleridge, in whom alone of all +writers I have found a true description of what I felt, were often in my +thoughts, not at this time (for I had never read them), but in a later +period of the same mental malady: + + "Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve, + And hope without an object cannot live." + +In all probability my case was by no means so peculiar as I fancied it, +and I doubt not that many others have passed through a similar state; +but the idiosyncrasies of my education had given to the general +phenomenon a special character, which made it seem the natural effect of +causes that it was hardly possible for time to remove. I frequently +asked myself, if I could, or if I was bound to go on living, when life +must be passed in this manner. I generally answered to myself, that I +did not think I could possibly bear it beyond a year. When, however, not +more than half that duration of time had elapsed, a small ray of light +broke in upon my gloom. I was reading, accidentally, Marmontel's +"Memoires," and came to the passage which relates his father's death, +the distressed position of the family, and the sudden inspiration by +which he, then a mere boy, felt and made them feel that he would be +everything to them--would supply the place of all that they had lost. A +vivid conception of the scene and its feelings came over me, and I was +moved to tears. From this moment my burden grew lighter. The oppression +of the thought that all feeling was dead within me, was gone. I was no +longer hopeless: I was not a stock or a stone. I had still, it seemed, +some of the material out of which all worth of character, and all +capacity for happiness, are made. Relieved from my ever present sense of +irremediable wretchedness, I gradually found that the ordinary incidents +of life could again give me some pleasure; that I could again find +enjoyment, not intense, but sufficient for cheerfulness, in sunshine and +sky, in books, in conversation, in public affairs; and that there was, +once more, excitement, though of a moderate kind, in exerting myself for +my opinions, and for the public good. Thus the cloud gradually drew off, +and I again enjoyed life: and though I had several relapses, some of +which lasted many months, I never again was as miserable as I had been. + +The experiences of this period had two very marked effects on my +opinions and character. In the first place, they led me to adopt a +theory of life, very unlike that on which I had before acted, and having +much in common with what at that time I certainly had never heard of, +the anti-self-consciousness theory of Carlyle. I never, indeed, wavered +in the conviction that happiness is the test of all rules of conduct, +and the end of life. But I now thought that this end was only to be +attained by not making it the direct end. Those only are happy (I +thought) who have their minds fixed on some object other than their own +happiness; on the happiness of others, on the improvement of mankind, +even on some art or pursuit, followed not as a means, but as itself an +ideal end. Aiming thus at something else, they find happiness by the +way. The enjoyments of life (such was now my theory) are sufficient to +make it a pleasant thing, when they are taken _en passant_, without +being made a principal object. Once make them so, and they are +immediately felt to be insufficient. They will not bear a scrutinising +examination. Ask yourself whether you are happy, and you cease to be so. +The only chance is to treat, not happiness, but some end external to it, +as the purpose of life. Let your self-consciousness, your scrutiny, your +self-interrogation, exhaust themselves on that; and if otherwise +fortunately circumstanced you will inhale happiness with the air you +breathe, without dwelling on it or thinking about it, without either +forestalling it in imagination, or putting it to flight by fatal +questioning. This theory now became the basis of my philosophy of life. +And I still hold to it as the best theory for all those who have but a +moderate degree of sensibility and of capacity for enjoyment, that is, +for the great majority of mankind. + +The other important change which my opinions at this: time underwent, +was that I, for the first time, gave its proper place, among the prime +necessities of human well-being, to the internal culture of the +individual. I ceased to attach almost exclusive importance to the +ordering of outward circumstances, and the training of the human being +for speculation and for action. + +I had now learnt by experience that the passive susceptibilities needed +to be cultivated as well as the active capacities, and required to be +nourished and enriched as well as guided. I did not, for an instant, +lose sight of, or undervalue, that part of the truth which I had seen +before; I never turned recreant to intellectual culture, or ceased to +consider the power and practice of analysis as an essential condition +both of individual and of social improvement. But I thought that it had +consequences which required to be corrected, by joining other kinds of +cultivation with it. The maintenance of a due balance among the +faculties, now seemed to me of primary importance. The cultivation of +the feelings became one of the cardinal points in my ethical and +philosophical creed. And my thoughts and inclinations turned in an +increasing degree towards whatever seemed capable of being instrumental +to that object. + +I now began to find meaning in the things which I had read or heard +about the importance of poetry and art as instruments of human culture. +But it was some time longer before I began to know this by personal +experience. The only one of the imaginative arts in which I had from +childhood taken great pleasure, was music; the best effect of which +(and in this it surpasses perhaps every other art) consists in exciting +enthusiasm; in winding up to a high pitch those feelings of an elevated +kind which are already in the character, but to which this excitement +gives a glow and a fervour, which, though transitory at its utmost +height, is precious for sustaining them at other times. This effect of +music I had often experienced; but like all my pleasurable +susceptibilities it was suspended during the gloomy period. I had sought +relief again and again from this quarter, but found none. After the tide +had turned, and I was in process of recovery, I had been helped forward +by music, but in a much less elevated manner. I at this time first +became acquainted with Weber's Oberon, and the extreme pleasure which I +drew from its delicious melodies did me good, by showing me a source of +pleasure to which I was as susceptible as ever. The good, however, was +much impaired by the thought, that the pleasure of music (as is quite +true of such pleasure as this was, that of mere tune) fades with +familiarity, and requires either to be revived by intermittence, or fed +by continual novelty. And it is very characteristic both of my then +state, and of the general tone of my mind at this period of my life, +that I was seriously tormented by the thought of the exhaustibility of +musical combinations. The octave consists only of five tones and two +semi-tones, which can be put together in only a limited number of ways, +of which but a small proportion are beautiful: most of these, it seemed +to me, must have been already discovered, and there could not be room +for a long succession of Mozarts and Webers, to strike out, as these had +done, entirely new and surpassingly rich veins of musical beauty. This +source of anxiety may, perhaps, be thought to resemble that of the +philosophers of Laputa, who feared lest the sun should be burnt out. It +was, however, connected with the best feature in my character, and the +only good point to be found in my very unromantic and in no way +honourable distress. For though my dejection, honestly looked at, could +not be called other than egotistical, produced by the ruin, as I +thought, of my fabric of happiness, yet the destiny of mankind in +general was ever in my thoughts, and could not be separated from my own. +I felt that the flaw in my life, must be a flaw in life itself; that the +question was, whether, if the reformers of society and government could +succeed in their objects, and every person in the community were free +and in a state of physical comfort, the pleasures of life, being no +longer kept up by struggle and privation, would cease to be pleasures. +And I felt that unless I could see my way to some better hope than this +for human happiness in general my dejection must continue; but that if I +could see such an outlet, I should then look on the world with pleasure; +content as far as I was myself concerned, with any fair share of the +general lot. + +This state of my thoughts and feelings made the fact of my reading +Wordsworth for the first time (in the autumn of 1828), an important +event in my life. I took up the collection of his poems from curiosity, +with no expectation of mental relief from it, though I had before +resorted to poetry with that hope. In the worst period of my depression, +I had read through the whole of Byron (then new to me), to try whether a +poet, whose peculiar department was supposed to be that of the intenser +feelings, could rouse any feeling in me. As might be expected, I got no +good from this reading, but the reverse. The poet's state of mind was +too like my own. His was the lament of a man who had worn out all +pleasures, and who seemed to think that life, to all who possess the +good things of it, must necessarily be the vapid, uninteresting thing +which I found it. His Harold and Manfred had the same burden on them +which I had; and I was not in a frame of mind to desire any comfort from +the vehement sensual passion of his Giaours, or the sullenness of his +Laras. But while Byron was exactly what did not suit my condition, +Wordsworth was exactly what did. I had looked into the Excursion two or +three years before, and found little in it; and I should probably have +found as little, had I read it at this time. But the miscellaneous +poems, in the two-volume edition of 1815 (to which little of value was +added in the latter part of the author's life), proved to be the precise +thing for my mental wants at that particular juncture. + +In the first place, these poems addressed themselves powerfully to one +of the strongest of my pleasurable susceptibilities, the love of rural +objects and natural scenery; to which I had been indebted not only for +much of the pleasure of my life, but quite recently for relief from one +of my longest relapses into depression. In this power of rural beauty +over me, there was a foundation laid for taking pleasure in Wordsworth's +poetry; the more so, as his scenery lies mostly among mountains, which, +owing to my early Pyrenean excursion, were my ideal of natural beauty. +But Wordsworth would never have had any great effect on me, if he had +merely placed before me beautiful pictures of natural scenery. Scott +does this still better than Wordsworth, and a very second-rate landscape +does it more effectually than any poet. What made Wordsworth's poems a +medicine for my state of mind, was that they expressed, not mere outward +beauty, but states of feeling, and of thought coloured by feeling, under +the excitement of beauty. They seemed to be the very culture of the +feelings which I was in quest of. In them I seemed to draw from a source +of inward joy, of sympathetic and imaginative pleasures, which could be +shared in by all human beings; which had no connection with struggle or +imperfection, but would be made richer by every improvement in the +physical or social condition of mankind. From them I seemed to learn +what would be the perennial sources of happiness, when all the greater +evils of life shall have been removed. And I felt myself at once better +and happier as I came under their influence. There have certainly been, +even in our own age, greater poets than Wordsworth; but poetry of deeper +and loftier feeling could not have done for me at that time what his +did. I needed to be made to feel that there was real, permanent +happiness in tranquil contemplation. Wordsworth taught me this, not only +without turning away from, but with a greatly increased interest in the +common feelings and common destiny of human beings. And the delight +which these poems gave me, proved that with culture of this sort, there +was nothing to dread from the most confirmed habit of analysis. At the +conclusion of the Poems came the famous Ode, falsely called Platonic, +"Intimations of Immortality:" in which, along with more than his usual +sweetness of melody and rhythm, and along with the two passages of grand +imagery but bad philosophy so often quoted, I found that he too had had +similar experience to mine; that he also had felt that the first +freshness of youthful enjoyment of life was not lasting; but that he had +sought for compensation, and found it, in the way in which he was now +teaching me to find it. The result was that I gradually, but completely, +emerged from my habitual depression, and was never again subject to it. +I long continued to value Wordsworth less according to his intrinsic +merits, than by the measure of what he had done for me. Compared with +the greatest poets, he may be said to be the poet of unpoetical natures, +possessed of quiet and contemplative tastes. But unpoetical natures are +precisely those which require poetic cultivation. This cultivation +Wordsworth is much more fitted to give, than poets who are intrinsically +far more poets than he. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 3: From Chapter V of the Autobiography, 1874.] + + + + +OLD CHINA[4] + +CHARLES LAMB + + +I have an almost feminine partiality for old china. When I go to see any +great house, I inquire for the china-closet, and next for the +picture-gallery. I cannot defend the order of preference, but by saying +that we have all some taste or other, of too ancient a date to admit of +our remembering distinctly that it was an acquired one. I can call to +mind the first play, and the first exhibition, that I was taken to; but +I am not conscious of a time when china jars and saucers were introduced +into my imagination. + +I had no repugnance then--why should I now have?--to those little, +lawless, azure-tinctured grotesques, that, under the notion of men and +women, float about, uncircumscribed by any element in that world before +perspective--a china tea-cup. + +I like to see my old friends, whom distance cannot diminish, figuring up +in the air (so they appear to our optics), yet on _terra firma_ +still--for so we must in courtesy interpret that speck of deeper blue, +which the decorous artist, to prevent absurdity, had made to spring up +beneath their sandals. + +I love the men with women's faces, and women, if possible, with still +more womanish expressions. + +Here is a young and courtly Mandarin, handing tea to a lady from a +salver--two miles off. See how distance seems to set off respect! And +here the same lady, or another--for likeness is identity on tea-cups--is +stepping into a little fairy boat, moored on the hither side of this +calm garden river, with a dainty mincing foot, which in a right angle +of incidence (as angles go in our world) must infallibly land her in the +midst of a flowery mead--a furlong off on the other side of the same +strange stream! + +Further on--if far or near can be predicated of their world--see horses, +trees, pagodas, dancing the hays.[5] + +Here--a cow and rabbit couchant, and coextensive--so objects show, seen +through the lucid atmosphere of fine Cathay. + +I was pointing out to my cousin last evening, over our Hyson (which we +are old-fashioned enough to drink unmixed still of an afternoon), some +of these _speciosa miracula_[6] upon a set of extraordinary old blue +china (a recent purchase) which we were now for the first time using; +and could not help remarking, how favourable circumstances had been to +us of late years, that we could afford to please the eye sometimes with +trifles of this sort--when a passing sentiment seemed to overshade the +brows of my companion. I am quick at detecting these summer clouds in +Bridget. + +"I wish the good old times would come again," she said, "when we were +not quite so rich. I do not mean that I want to be poor; but there was a +middle state,"--so she was pleased to ramble on,--"in which I am sure we +were a great deal happier. A purchase is but a purchase, now that you +have money enough and to spare. Formerly it used to be a triumph. When +we coveted a cheap luxury (and, oh! how much ado I had to get you to +consent in those times!) we were used to have a debate two or three days +before, and to weigh the _for_ and _against_, and think what we might +spare it out of, and what saving we could hit upon, that should be an +equivalent. A thing was worth buying then, when we felt the money that +we paid for it. + +"Do you remember the brown suit, which you made to hang upon you, till +your friends cried shame upon you, it grew so threadbare--and all +because of that folio _Beaumont and Fletcher_, which you dragged home +late at night from Barker's in Covent-garden? Do you remember how we +eyed it for weeks before we could make up our minds to the purchase, and +had not come to a determination till it was near ten o'clock of the +Saturday night, when you set off from Islington, fearing you should be +too late--and when the old bookseller with some grumbling opened his +shop, and by the twinkling taper (for he was setting bed-ward) lighted +out the relic from his dusty treasures--and when you lugged it home, +wishing it were twice as cumbersome--and when you presented it to +me--and when we were exploring the perfectness of it (_collating_ you +called it)--and while I was repairing some of the loose leaves with +paste, which your impatience would not suffer to be left till +daybreak--was there no pleasure in being a poor man? or can those neat +black clothes which you wear now, and are so careful to keep brushed, +since we have become rich and finical, give you half the honest vanity +with which you flaunted it about in that overworn suit--your old +corbeau--for four or five weeks longer than you should have done, to +pacify your conscience for the mighty sum of fifteen--or sixteen +shillings was it?--a great affair we thought it then--which you had +lavished on the old folio. Now you can afford to buy any book that +pleases you, but I do not see that you ever bring me home any nice old +purchases now. + +"When you came home with twenty apologies for laying out a less number +of shillings upon that print after Lionardo which we christened the +'Lady Blanch'; when you looked at the purchase, and thought of the +money--and thought of the money, and looked again at the picture--was +there no pleasure in being a poor man? Now, you have nothing to do but +to walk into Colnaghi's, and buy a wilderness of Lionardos. Yet do you? + +"Then, do you remember our pleasant walks to Enfield, and Potter's bar, +and Waltham, when we had a holiday--holidays and all other fun are gone +now we are rich--and the little handbasket in which I used to deposit +our day's fare of savory cold lamb and salad--and how you would pry +about at noon-tide for some decent house, where we might go in and +produce our store--only paying for the ale that you must call for--and +speculate upon the looks of the landlady, and whether she was likely to +allow us a tablecloth--and wish for such another honest hostess as Izaak +Walton has described many a one on the pleasant banks of the Lea, when +he went a fishing--and sometimes they would prove obliging enough, and +sometimes they would look grudgingly upon us--but we had cheerful looks +still for one another, and would eat our plain food savorily, scarcely +grudging Piscator[7] his Trout Hall? Now, when we go out a day's +pleasuring, which is seldom, moreover, we _ride_ part of the way, and go +into a fine inn, and order the best of dinners, never debating the +expense, which, after all, never has half the relish of those chance +country snaps, when we were at the mercy of uncertain usage, and a +precarious welcome. + +"You are too proud to see a play anywhere now but in the pit. Do you +remember where it was we used to sit, when we saw the _Battle of +Hexham_, and the _Surrender of Calais_, and Bannister and Mrs. Bland in +the _Children in the Wood_--when we squeezed out our shilling apiece to +sit three or four times in a season in the one-shilling gallery--where +you felt all the time that you ought not to have brought me--and more +strongly I felt obligation to you for having brought me--and the +pleasure was the better for a little shame--and when the curtain drew +up, what cared we for our place in the house, or what mattered it where +we were sitting, when our thoughts were with Rosalind in Arden, or with +Viola at the Court of Illyria? You used to say that the gallery was the +best place of all for enjoying a play socially; that the relish of such +exhibitions must be in proportion to the infrequency of going; that the +company we met there, not being in general readers of plays, were +obliged to attend the more, and did attend, to what was going on on the +stage, because a word lost would have been a chasm which it was +impossible for them to fill up. With such reflections we consoled our +pride then, and I appeal to you whether, as a woman, I met generally +with less attention and accommodation than I have done since in more +expensive situations in the house? The getting in, indeed, and the +crowding up those inconvenient staircases, was bad enough,--but there +was still a law of civility to woman recognised to quite as great an +extent as we ever found in the other passages--and how a little +difficulty overcome heightened the snug seat, and the play, afterward! +Now we can only pay our money, and walk in. You cannot see, you say, in +the galleries now. I am sure we saw, and heard too, well enough +then--but sight, and all, I think, is gone with our poverty. + +"There was pleasure in eating strawberries, before they became quite +common--in the first dish of peas, while they were yet dear--to have +them for a nice supper, a treat. What treat can we have now? If we were +to treat ourselves now--that is, to have dainties a little above our +means, it would be selfish and wicked. It is the very little more that +we allow ourselves beyond what the actual poor can get at, that makes +what I call a treat--when two people living together, as we have done, +now and then indulge themselves in a cheap luxury, which both like; +while each apologises, and is willing to take both halves of the blame +to his single share. I see no harm in people making much of themselves +in that sense of the word. It may give them a hint how to make much of +others. But now--what I mean by the word--we never _do_ make much of +ourselves. None but the poor can do it. I do not mean the veriest poor +of all, but persons as we were, just above poverty. + +"I know what you were going to say, that it is mighty pleasant at the +end of the year to make all meet,--and much ado we used to have every +Thirty-first Night of December to account for our exceedings--many a +long face did you make over your puzzled accounts, and in contriving to +make it out how we had spent so much--or that we had not spent so +much--or that it was impossible we should spend so much next year--and +still we found our slender capital decreasing--but then, betwixt ways, +and projects, and compromises of one sort or another and talk of +curtailing this charge, and doing without that for the future--and the +hope that youth brings, and laughing spirits (in which you were never +poor till now), we pocketed up our loss, and in conclusion, with 'lusty +brimmers' (as you used to quote it out of _hearty, cheerful Mr. +Cotton_[8], as you called him), we used to welcome in the 'coming +guest.' Now we have no reckoning at all at the end of the old year; no +flattering promises about the new year doing better for us." + +Bridget is so sparing of her speech, on most occasions, that when she +gets into a rhetorical vein, I am careful how I interrupt it. I could +not help, however, smiling at the phantom of wealth which her dear +imagination had conjured up out of a clear income of poor ---- hundred +pounds a year. "It is true we were happier when we were poorer, but we +were also younger, my cousin. I am afraid we must put up with the +excess, for if we were to shake the superflux into the sea, we should +not much mend ourselves. That we had much to struggle with, as we grew +up together, we have reason to be most thankful. It strengthened and +knit our compact closer. We could never have been what we have been to +each other, if we had always had the sufficiency which you now complain +of. The resisting power, those natural dilations of the youthful spirit, +which circumstances can not straiten--with us are long since passed +away. Competence to age is supplementary youth, a sorry supplement +indeed, but I fear the best that is to be had. We must ride where we +formerly walked: live better and lie softer--and shall be wise to do +so--than we had means to do in those good old days you speak of. Yet +could those days return, could you and I once more walk our thirty miles +a day, could Bannister and Mrs. Bland again be young, and you and I be +young to see them, could the good old one shilling gallery days +return--they are dreams, my cousin, now, but could you and I at this +moment, instead of this quiet argument, by our well-carpeted fireside, +sitting on this luxurious sofa--be once more struggling up those +inconvenient staircases, pushed about and squeezed, and elbowed by the +poorest rabble of poor gallery scramblers--could I once more hear those +anxious shrieks of yours, and the delicious _Thank God, we are safe_, +which always followed, when the topmost stair, conquered, let in the +first light of the whole cheerful theatre down beneath us--I know not +the fathom line that ever touched a descent so deep as I would be +willing to bury more wealth in than Croesus had, or the great Jew R---- +is supposed to have, to purchase it. And now do just look at that merry +little Chinese waiter holding an umbrella, big enough for a bed-tester, +over the head of that pretty insipid half-Madonna-ish chit of a lady in +that very blue summer-house." + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 4: From "Last Essays of Elia," 1833.] + +[Footnote 5: The hays: an old English dance.] + +[Footnote 6: Speciosa miracula: beautiful marvels.] + +[Footnote 7: Piscator: The Angler--the author's spokesman in Walton's +"The Complete Angler."] + +[Footnote 8: Charles Cotton, a humorist of the seventeenth century.] + + + + +WHAT IS EDUCATION?[9] + +THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY + + +What is education? Above all things, what is our ideal of a thoroughly +liberal education?--of that education which, if we could begin life +again, we would give ourselves--of that education which, if we could +mould the fates to our own will, we would give our children? Well, I +know not what may be your conceptions upon this matter, but I will tell +you mine, and I hope I shall find that our views are not very +discrepant. + +Suppose it were perfectly certain that the life and fortune of every one +of us would, one day or other, depend upon his winning or losing a game +of chess. Don't you think that we should all consider it to be a primary +duty to learn at least the names and the moves of the pieces; to have a +notion of a gambit, and a keen eye for all the means of giving and +getting out of check? Do you not think that we should look with a +disapprobation amounting to scorn, upon the father who allowed his son, +or the state which allowed its members, to grow up without knowing a +pawn from a knight? + +Yet it is a very plain and elementary truth, that the life, the +fortune, and the happiness of every one of us, and, more or less, of +those who are connected with us, do depend upon our knowing something of +the rules of a game infinitely more difficult and complicated than +chess. It is a game which has been played for untold ages, every man and +woman of us being one of the two players in a game of his or her own. +The chess-board is the world, the pieces are the phenomena of the +universe, the rules of the game are what we call the laws of Nature. The +player on the other side is hidden from us. We know that his play is +always fair, just and patient. But also we know, to our cost, that he +never overlooks a mistake, or makes the smallest allowance for +ignorance. To the man who plays well, the highest stakes are paid, with +that sort of overflowing generosity with which the strong shows delight +in strength. And one who plays ill is checkmated--without haste, but +without remorse. + +My metaphor will remind some of you of the famous picture in which +Retzsch has depicted Satan playing at chess with man for his soul. +Substitute for the mocking fiend in that picture a calm, strong angel +who is playing for love, as we say, and would rather lose than win--and +I should accept it as an image of human life. + +Well, what I mean by Education is learning the rules of this mighty +game. In other words, education is the instruction of the intellect in +the laws of Nature, under which name I include not merely things and +their forces, but men and their ways; and the fashioning of the +affections and of the will into an earnest and loving desire to move in +harmony with those laws. For me, education means neither more nor less +than this. Anything which professes to call itself education must be +tried by this standard, and if it fails to stand the test, I will not +call it education, whatever may be the force of authority, or of +numbers, upon the other side. + +It is important to remember that, in strictness, there is no such thing +as an uneducated man. Take an extreme case. Suppose that an adult man, +in the full vigour of his faculties, could be suddenly placed in the +world, as Adam is said to have been, and then left to do as he best +might. How long would he be left uneducated? Not five minutes. Nature +would begin to teach him, through the eye, the ear, the touch, the +properties of objects. Pain and pleasure would be at his elbow telling +him to do this and avoid that; and by slow degrees the man would receive +an education which, if narrow, would be thorough, real, and adequate to +his circumstances, though there would be no extras and very few +accomplishments. + +And if to this solitary man entered a second Adam, or, better still, an +Eve, a new and greater world, that of social and moral phenomena, would +be revealed. Joys and woes, compared with which all others might seem +but faint shadows, would spring from the new relations. Happiness and +sorrow would take the place of the coarser monitors, pleasure and pain; +but conduct would still be shaped by the observation of the natural +consequences of actions; or, in other words, by the laws of the nature +of man. + +To every one of us the world was once as fresh and new as to Adam. And +then, long before we were susceptible of any other modes of instruction, +Nature took us in hand, and every minute of waking life brought its +educational influence, shaping our actions into rough accordance with +Nature's laws, so that we might not be ended untimely by too gross +disobedience. Nor should I speak of this process of education as past +for any one, be he as old as he may. For every man the world is as fresh +as it was at the first day, and as full of untold novelties for him who +has the eyes to see them. And Nature is still continuing her patient +education of us in that great university, the universe, of which we are +all members--Nature having no Test-Acts. + +Those who take honours in Nature's university, who learn the laws which +govern men and things and obey them, are the really great and successful +men in this world. The great mass of mankind are the "Poll,"[10] who +pick up just enough to get through without much discredit. Those who +won't learn at all are plucked; and then you can't come up again. +Nature's pluck means extermination. + +Thus the question of compulsory education is settled so far as Nature +is concerned. Her bill on that question was framed and passed long ago. +But, like all compulsory legislation, that of Nature is harsh and +wasteful in its operation. Ignorance is visited as sharply as wilful +disobedience--incapacity meets with the same punishment as crime. +Nature's discipline is not even a word and a blow, and the blow first; +but the blow without the word. It is left to you to find out why your +ears are boxed. + +The object of what we commonly call education--that education in which +man intervenes and which I shall distinguish as artificial education--is +to make good these defects in Nature's methods; to prepare the child to +receive Nature's education, neither incapably nor ignorantly, nor with +wilful disobedience; and to understand the preliminary symptoms of her +pleasure, without waiting for the box on the ear. In short, all +artificial education ought to be an anticipation of natural education. +And a liberal education is an artificial education which has not only +prepared a man to escape the great evils of disobedience to natural +laws, but has trained him to appreciate and to seize upon the rewards, +which Nature scatters with as free a hand as her penalties. + +That man, I think, has had a liberal education who has been so trained +in youth that his body is the ready servant of his will, and does with +ease and pleasure all the work that, as a mechanism, it is capable of; +whose intellect is a clear, cold, logic engine, with all its parts of +equal strength, and in smooth working order; ready, like a steam engine, +to be turned to any kind of work, and spin the gossamers as well as +forge the anchors of the mind; whose mind is stored with a knowledge of +the great and fundamental truths of Nature and of the laws of her +operations; one who, no stunted ascetic, is full of life and fire, but +whose passions are trained to come to heel by a vigorous will, the +servant of a tender conscience; who has learned to love all beauty, +whether of Nature or of art, to hate all vileness, and to respect others +as himself. + +Such an one and no other, I conceive, has had a liberal education; for +he is, as completely as a man can be, in harmony with Nature. He will +make the best of her, and she of him. They will get on together rarely; +she as his ever beneficent mother; he as her mouthpiece, her conscious +self, her minister and interpreter. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 9: From "A Liberal Education; and Where to Find It," 1868.] + +[Footnote 10: Poll (a slang term used at Cambridge University): those +who take a degree without honours.] + + + + +KNOWLEDGE VIEWED IN RELATION TO LEARNING[11] + +JOHN HENRY NEWMAN + + +It were well if the English, like the Greek language, possessed some +definite word to express, simply and generally, intellectual proficiency +or perfection, such as "health," as used with reference to the animal +frame, and "virtue," with reference to our moral nature. I am not able +to find such a term;--talent, ability, genius, belong distinctly to the +raw material, which is the subject-matter, not to that excellence which +is the result of exercise and training. When we turn, indeed, to the +particular kinds of intellectual perfection, words are forthcoming for +our purpose, as, for instance, judgment, taste, and skill; yet even +these belong, for the most part, to powers or habits bearing upon +practice or upon art, and not to any perfect condition of the intellect, +considered in itself. Wisdom, again, is certainly a more comprehensive +word than any other, but it has a direct relation to conduct, and to +human life. Knowledge, indeed, and science express purely intellectual +ideas but still not a state or quality of the intellect; for knowledge, +in its ordinary sense, is but one of its circumstances, denoting a +possession or a habit; and science has been appropriated to the +subject-matter of the intellect, instead of belonging in English, as it +ought to do, to the intellect itself. The consequence is that, on an +occasion like this, many words are necessary, in order, first, to bring +out and convey what surely is no difficult idea in itself,--that of the +cultivation of the intellect as an end; next, in order to recommend +what surely is no unreasonable object; and lastly, to describe and make +the mind realise the particular perfection in which that object +consists. Every one knows practically what are the constituents of +health or of virtue; and every one recognises health and virtue as ends +to be pursued; it is otherwise with intellectual excellence, and this +must be my excuse, if I seem to anyone to be bestowing a good deal of +labour on a preliminary matter. + +In default of a recognised term, I have called the perfection or virtue +of the intellect by the name of philosophy, philosophical knowledge, +enlargement of mind, or illumination, terms which are not uncommonly +given to it by writers of this day: but, whatever name we bestow on it, +it is, I believe, as a matter of history, the business of a university +to make this intellectual culture its direct scope, or to employ itself +in the education of the intellect,--just as the work of a hospital lies +in healing the sick or wounded, of a riding or fencing school, or of a +gymnasium, in exercising the limbs, of an almshouse, in aiding and +solacing the old, of an orphanage, in protecting innocence, of a +penitentiary, in restoring the guilty. I say, a university, taken in its +bare idea, and before we view it as an instrument of the church, has +this object and this mission; it contemplates neither moral impression +nor mechanical production; it professes to exercise the mind neither in +art nor in duty; its function is intellectual culture; here it may leave +its scholars, and it has done its work when it has done as much as this. +It educates the intellect to reason well in all matters, to reach out +towards truth, and to grasp it. + +This, I said in my foregoing discourse, was the object of a university, +viewed in itself, and apart from the Catholic Church, or from the state, +or from any other power which may use it; and I illustrated this in +various ways. I said that the intellect must have an excellence of its +own, for there was nothing which had not its specific good; that the +word "educate" would not be used of intellectual culture, as it is used, +had not the intellect had an end of its own; that, had it not such an +end, there would be no meaning in calling certain intellectual exercises +"liberal," in contrast with "useful," as is commonly done; that the very +notion of a philosophical temper implied it, for it threw us back upon +research and system as ends in themselves, distinct from effects and +works of any kind; that a philosophical scheme of knowledge, or system +of sciences, could not, from the nature of the case, issue in any one +definite art or pursuit, as its end; and that, on the other hand, the +discovery and contemplation of truth, to which research and +systematising led, were surely sufficient ends, though nothing beyond +them were added, and that they had ever been accounted sufficient by +mankind. + +Here then I take up the subject; and having determined that the +cultivation of the intellect is an end distinct and sufficient in +itself, and that, so far as words go, it is an enlargement or +illumination. I proceed to inquire what this mental breadth, or power, +or light, or philosophy consists in. A hospital heals a broken limb or +cures a fever: what does an institution effect, which professes the +health, not of the body, not of the soul, but of the intellect? What is +this good, which in former times, as well as our own, has been found +worth the notice, the appropriation of the Catholic Church? + +I have then to investigate, in the discourses which follow, those +qualities and characteristics of the intellect in which its cultivation +issues or rather consists; and, with a view of assisting myself in this +undertaking, I shall recur to certain questions which have already been +touched upon. These questions are three: viz. the relation of +intellectual culture, first, to _mere_ knowledge; secondly, to +_professional_ knowledge; and thirdly, to _religious_ knowledge. In +other words, are _acquirements_ and _attainments_ the scope of a +university education? or _expertness in particular arts_ and _pursuits_? +or _moral and religious proficiency_? or something besides these three? +These questions I shall examine in succession, with the purpose I have +mentioned; and I hope to be excused, if, in this anxious undertaking, I +am led to repeat what, either in these discourses or elsewhere, I have +already put upon paper. And first, of _mere knowledge_, or learning, and +its connection with intellectual illumination or philosophy. + +I suppose the _prima-facie_[12] view which the public at large would +take of a university, considering it as a place of education, is nothing +more or less than a place for acquiring a great deal of knowledge on a +great many subjects. Memory is one of the first developed of the mental +faculties; a boy's business when he goes to school is to learn, that is, +to store up things in his memory. For some years his intellect is little +more than an instrument for taking in facts, or a receptacle for storing +them; he welcomes them as fast as they come to him; he lives on what is +without; he has his eyes ever about him; he has a lively susceptibility +of impressions; he imbibes information of every kind; and little does he +make his own in a true sense of the word, living rather upon his +neighbours all around him. He has opinions, religious, political and +literary, and, for a boy, is very positive in them and sure about them; +but he gets them from his schoolfellows, or his masters, or his parents, +as the case may be. Such as he is in his other relations, such also is +he in his school exercises; his mind is observant, sharp, ready, +retentive; he is almost passive in the acquisition of knowledge. I say +this in no disparagement of the idea of a clever boy. Geography, +chronology, history, language, natural history, he heaps up the matter +of these studies as treasures for a future day. It is the seven years of +plenty with him: he gathers in by handfuls, like the Egyptians, without +counting; and though, as time goes on, there is exercise for his +argumentative powers in the elements of mathematics, and for his taste +in the poets and orators, still, while at school, or at least, till +quite the last years of his time, he acquires, and little more; and when +he is leaving for the university, he is mainly the creature of foreign +influences and circumstances, and made up of accidents, homogeneous or +not, as the case may be. Moreover, the moral habits, which are a boy's +praise, encourage and assist this result; that is, diligence, assiduity, +regularity, despatch, persevering application; for these are the direct +conditions of acquisition, and naturally lead to it. Acquirements, +again, are emphatically producible, and at a moment; they are a +something to show, both for master and scholar; an audience, even though +ignorant themselves of the subjects of an examination, can comprehend +when questions are answered and when they are not. Here again is a +reason why mental culture is in the minds of men identified with the +acquisition of knowledge. + +The same notion possesses the public mind, when it passes on from the +thought of a school to that of a university: and with the best of +reasons so far as this, that there is no true culture without +acquirements, and that philosophy presupposes knowledge. It requires a +great deal of reading, or a wide range of information, to warrant us in +putting forth our opinions on any serious subject; and without such +learning the most original mind may be able indeed to dazzle, to amuse, +to refute, to perplex, but not to come to any useful result or any +trustworthy conclusion. There are indeed persons who profess a different +view of the matter, and even act upon it. Every now and then you will +find a person of vigorous or fertile mind, who relies upon his own +resources, despises all former authors, and gives the world, with the +utmost fearlessness, his views upon religion, or history, or any other +popular subject. And his works may sell for a while; he may get a name +in his day; but this will be all. His readers are sure to find on the +long run that his doctrines are mere theories, and not the expression of +facts, that they are chaff instead of bread, and then his popularity +drops as suddenly as it rose. + +Knowledge then is the indispensable condition of expansion of mind, and +the instrument of attaining to it; this cannot be denied, it is ever to +be insisted on; I begin with it as a first principle; however, the very +truth of it carries men too far, and confirms to them the notion that it +is the whole of the matter. A narrow mind is thought to be that which +contains little knowledge; and an enlarged mind, that which holds a +great deal; and what seems to put the matter beyond dispute is, the fact +of the great number of studies which are pursued in a university, by its +very profession. Lectures are given on every kind of subject; +examinations are held; prizes awarded. There are moral, metaphysical, +physical professors; professors of languages, of history, of +mathematics, of experimental science. Lists of questions are published, +wonderful for their range and depth, variety and difficulty; treatises +are written, which carry upon their very face the evidence of extensive +reading or multifarious information; what then is wanting for mental +culture to a person of large reading and scientific attainments? what is +grasp of mind but acquirement? where shall philosophical repose be +found, but in the consciousness and enjoyment of large intellectual +possessions? + +And yet this notion is, I conceive, a mistake, and my present business +is to show that it is one, and that the end of a liberal education is +not mere knowledge, or knowledge considered in its _matter_; and I shall +best attain my object, by actually setting down some cases, which will +be generally granted to be instances of the process of enlightenment or +enlargement of mind, and others which are not, and thus, by the +comparison, you will be able to judge for yourselves, gentlemen, whether +knowledge, that is, acquirement, is after all the real principle of the +enlargement or whether that principle is not rather something beyond it. + +For instance, let a person, whose experience has hitherto been confined +to the more calm and unpretending scenery of these islands, whether here +or in England, go for the first time into parts where physical nature +puts on her wilder and more awful forms, whether at home or abroad, as +into mountainous districts; or let one, who has ever lived in a quiet +village, go for the first time to a great metropolis,--then I suppose he +will have a sensation which perhaps he never had before. He has a +feeling not in addition or increase of former feelings, but of something +different in its nature. He will perhaps be borne forward, and find for +a time that he has lost his bearings. He has made a certain progress, +and he has a consciousness of mental enlargement; he does not stand +where he did, he has a new centre, and a range of thoughts to which he +was before a stranger. + +Again, the view of the heavens which the telescope opens upon us, if +allowed to fill and possess the mind, may almost whirl it round and make +it dizzy. It brings in a flood of ideas, and is rightly called an +intellectual enlargement, whatever is meant by the term. + +And so again, the sight of beasts of prey and other foreign animals, +their strangeness, the originality (if I may use the term) of their +forms and gestures and habits, and their variety and independence of +each other, throw us out of ourselves into another creation, and as if +under another Creator, if I may so express the temptation which may come +on the mind. We seem to have new faculties, or a new exercise for our +faculties, by this addition to our knowledge; like a prisoner, who, +having been accustomed to wear manacles or fetters, suddenly finds his +arms and legs free. + +Hence physical science generally, in all its departments, as bringing +before us the exuberant riches and resources, yet the orderly course, of +the universe, elevates and excites the student, and at first, I may say, +almost takes away his breath, while in time it exercises a +tranquillising influence upon him. + +Again the study of history is said to enlarge and enlighten the mind, +and why? because, as I conceive, it gives it a power of judging of +passing events and of all events, and a conscious superiority over them, +which before it did not possess. + +And in like manner, what is called seeing the world, entering into +active life, going into society, travelling, gaining acquaintance with +the various classes of the community, coming into contact with the +principles and modes of thought of various parties, interests, and +races, their views, aims, habits and manners, their religious creeds and +forms of worship,--gaining experience how various yet how alike men +are, how low-minded, how bad, how opposed, yet how confident in their +opinions; all this exerts a perceptible influence upon the mind, which +it is impossible to mistake, be it good or be it bad, and is popularly +called its enlargement. + +And then again, the first time the mind comes across the arguments and +speculations of unbelievers, and feels what a novel light they cast upon +what he has hitherto accounted sacred; and still more, if it gives in to +them and embraces them, and throws off as so much prejudice what it has +hitherto held, and, as if waking from a dream, begins to realise to its +imagination that there is now no such thing as law and the transgression +of law, that sin is a phantom, and punishment a bugbear, that it is free +to sin, free to enjoy the world and the flesh; and still further, when +it does enjoy them, and reflects that it may think and hold just what it +will, that "the world is all before it where to choose," and what system +to build up as its own private persuasion; when this torrent of wilful +thoughts rushes over and inundates it, who will deny that the fruit of +the tree of knowledge, or what the mind takes for knowledge, has made it +one of the gods, with a sense of expansion and elevation,--an +intoxication in reality, still, so far as the subjective state of the +mind goes, an illumination? Hence the fanaticism of individuals or +nations, who suddenly cast off their Maker. Their eyes are opened; and, +like the judgment-stricken king in the tragedy, they see two suns, and a +magic universe, out of which they look back upon their former state of +faith and innocence with a sort of contempt and indignation, as if they +were then but fools, and the dupes of imposture. + +On the other hand, religion has its own enlargement, and an enlargement, +not of tumult, but of peace. It is often remarked of uneducated persons, +who have hitherto thought little of the unseen world, that, on their +turning to God, looking into themselves, regulating their hearts, +reforming their conduct, and meditating on death and judgment, heaven +and hell, they seem to become, in point of intellect, different beings +from what they were. Before, they took things as they came, and thought +no more of one thing than another. But now every event has a meaning; +they have their own estimate of whatever happens to them; they are +mindful of times and seasons, and compare the present with the past; and +the world, no longer dull, monotonous, unprofitable, and hopeless, is a +various and complicated drama, with parts and an object, and an awful +moral. + +Now from these instances, to which many more might be added, it is +plain, first, that the communication of knowledge certainly is either a +condition or the means of that sense of enlargement or enlightenment, of +which at this day we hear so much in certain quarters: this cannot be +denied; but next, it is equally plain, that such communication is not +the whole of the process. The enlargement consists, not merely in the +passive reception into the mind of a number of ideas hitherto unknown to +it, but in the mind's energetic and simultaneous action upon and towards +and among those new ideas, which are rushing in upon it. It is the +action of a formative power, reducing to order and meaning the matter of +our acquirements; it is a making the objects of our knowledge +subjectively our own, or, to use a familiar word, it is a digestion of +what we receive, into the substance of our previous state of thought; +and without this no enlargement is said to follow. There is no +enlargement, unless there be a comparison of ideas one with another, as +they come before the mind, and a systematising of them. We feel our +minds to be growing and expanding _then_, when we not only learn, but +refer what we learn to what we know already. It is not the mere addition +to our knowledge that is the illumination; but the locomotion, the +movement onwards, of that mental centre, to which both what we know, and +what we are learning, the accumulating mass of our acquirements, +gravitates. And therefore a truly great intellect, and recognised to be +such by the common opinion of mankind, such as the intellect of +Aristotle, or of St. Thomas, or of Newton, or of Goethe (I purposely +take instances within and without the Catholic pale, when I would speak +of the intellect as such), is one which takes a connected view of old +and new, past and present, far and near, and which has an insight into +the influence of all these one on another; without which there is no +whole and no centre. It possesses the knowledge, not only of things, but +also of their mutual and true relations; knowledge, not merely +considered as acquirement but as philosophy. + +Accordingly, when this analytical, distributive, harmonising process is +away, the mind experiences no enlargement, and is not reckoned as +enlightened or comprehensive, whatever it may add to its knowledge. For +instance, a great memory, as I have already said, does not make a +philosopher, any more than a dictionary can be called a grammar. There +are men who embrace in their minds a vast multitude of ideas, but with +little sensibility about their real relations towards each other. These +may be antiquarians, annalists, naturalists; they may be learned in the +law; they may be versed in statistics; they are most useful in their own +place; I should shrink from speaking disrespectfully of them; still, +there is nothing in such attainments to guarantee the absence of +narrowness of mind. If they are nothing more than well-read men, or men +of information, they have not what specially deserves the name of +culture of mind, or fulfils the type of liberal education. + +In like manner, we sometimes fall in with persons who have seen much of +the world, and of the men who, in their day, have played a conspicuous +part in it, but who generalise, nothing, and have no observation, in the +true sense of the word. They abound in information in detail, curious +and entertaining, about men and things; and, having lived under the +influence of no very clear or settled principles, religious or +political, they speak of every one and every thing, only as so many +phenomena, which are complete in themselves, and lead to nothing, not +discussing them, or teaching any truth, or instructing the hearer, but +simply talking. No one would say that these persons, well informed as +they are, had attained to any great culture of intellect or to +philosophy. + +The case is the same still more strikingly where the persons in question +are beyond dispute men of inferior powers and deficient education. +Perhaps they have been much in foreign countries, and they receive, in a +passive, otiose, unfruitful way, the various facts which are forced upon +them there. Seafaring men, for example, range from one end of the earth +to the other; but the multiplicity of external objects, which they have +encountered, forms no symmetrical and consistent picture upon their +imagination; they see the tapestry of human life, as it were on the +wrong side, and it tells no story. They sleep, and they rise up, and +they find themselves, now in Europe, now in Asia; they see visions of +great cities and wild regions; they are in the marts of commerce, or +amid the islands of the South; they gaze on Pompey's Pillar, or on the +Andes; and nothing which meets them carries them forward or backward, to +any idea beyond itself. Nothing has a drift or relation; nothing has a +history or a promise. Every thing stands by itself, and comes and goes +in its turn, like the shifting scenes of a show, which leave the +spectator where he was. Perhaps you are near such a man on a particular +occasion, and expect him to be shocked or perplexed at something which +occurs; but one thing is much the same to him as another, or, if he is +perplexed, it is as not knowing what to say, whether it is right to +admire, or to ridicule or to disapprove, while conscious that some +expression of opinion is expected from him; for in fact he has no +standard of judgment at all, and no landmarks to guide him to a +conclusion. Such is mere acquisition, and, I repeat, no one would dream +of calling it philosophy. + +Instances, such as these, confirm, by the contrast, the conclusion I +have already drawn from those which preceded them. That only is true +enlargement of mind which is the power of viewing many things at once as +one whole, of referring them severally to their true place in the +universal system, of understanding their respective values, and +determining their mutual dependence. Thus is that form of universal +knowledge, of which I have on a former occasion spoken, set up in the +individual intellect, and constitutes its perfection. Possessed of this +real illumination, the mind never views any part of the extended +subject-matter of knowledge without recollecting that it is but a part, +or without the associations which spring from this recollection. It +makes everything in some sort lead to everything else; it would +communicate the image of the whole to every separate portion, till that +whole becomes in imagination like a spirit, everywhere pervading and +penetrating its component parts, and giving them one definite meaning. +Just as our bodily organs, when mentioned, recall their function in the +body, as the word "creation" suggests the Creator, and "subjects" a +sovereign, so, in the mind of the philosopher as we are abstractedly +conceiving of him, the elements of the physical and moral world, +sciences, arts, pursuits, ranks, offices, events, opinions, +individualities, are all viewed as one with correlative functions, and +as gradually by successive combinations converging, one and all, to the +true centre. + +To have even a portion of this illuminative reason and true philosophy +is the highest state to which nature can aspire, in the way of +intellect; it puts the mind above the influences of chance and +necessity, above anxiety, suspense, unsettlement, and superstition, +which is the lot of the many. Men, whose minds are possessed with some +one object, take exaggerated views of its importance, are feverish in +the pursuit of it, make it the measure of things which are utterly +foreign to it, and are startled and despond if it happens to fail them. +They are ever in alarm or in transport. Those on the other hand who have +no object or principle whatever to hold by, lose their way every step +they take. They are thrown out, and do not know what to think or say, at +every fresh juncture; they have no view of persons, or occurrences, or +facts, which come suddenly upon them, and they hang upon the opinion of +others for want of internal resources. But the intellect, which has been +disciplined to the perfection of its powers, which knows, and thinks +while it knows, which has learned to leaven the dense mass of facts and +events with the elastic force of reason, such an intellect cannot be +partial, cannot be exclusive, cannot be impetuous, cannot be at a loss, +cannot but be patient, collected, and majestically calm, because it +discerns the end in every beginning, the origin in every end, the law in +every interruption, the limit in each delay; because it ever knows where +it stands, and how its path lies from one point to another. It is the +[Greek: tetragonos][13] of the Peripatetic, and has the _nil +admirari_[14] of the Stoic,-- + + Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas, + Atque metus omnes, et inexorabile fatum + Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari.[15] + +There are men who, when in difficulties, originate at the moment vast +ideas or dazzling projects; who, under the influence of excitement, are +able to cast a light, almost as if from inspiration, on a subject or +course of action which comes before them; who have a sudden presence of +mind equal to any emergency, rising with the occasion, and an undaunted +magnanimous bearing, and an energy and keenness which is but made +intense by opposition. This is genius, this is heroism; it is the +exhibition of a natural gift, which no culture can teach, at which no +institution can aim: here, on the contrary, we are concerned, not with +mere nature, but with training and teaching. That perfection of the +intellect, which is the result of education, and its _beau ideal_, to be +imparted to individuals in their respective measures, is the clear, +calm, accurate vision and comprehension of all things, as far as the +finite mind can embrace them, each in its place, and with its own +characteristics upon it. It is almost prophetic from its knowledge of +history; it is almost heart-searching from its knowledge of human +nature; it has almost supernatural charity from its freedom from +littleness and prejudice; it has almost the repose of faith, because +nothing can startle it; it has almost the beauty and harmony of heavenly +contemplation, so intimate is it with the eternal order of things and +the music of the spheres. + +And now, if I may take for granted that the true and adequate end of +intellectual training and of a university is not learning or +acquirement, but rather, is thought or reason exercised upon knowledge, +or what may be called philosophy, I shall be in a position to explain +the various mistakes which at the present day beset the subject of +university education. + +I say then, if we would improve the intellect, first of all, we must +ascend; we cannot gain real knowledge on a level; we must generalise, we +must reduce to method, we must have a grasp of principles, and group and +shape our acquisitions by means of them. It matters not whether our +field of operation be wide or limited; in every case, to command it, is +to mount above it. Who has not felt the irritation of mind and +impatience created by a deep, rich country, visited for the first time, +with winding lanes, and high hedges, and green steeps, and tangled +woods, and every thing smiling indeed, but in a maze? The same feeling +comes upon us in a strange city, when we have no map of its streets. +Hence you hear of practised travellers, when they first come into a +place, mounting some high hill or church tower, by way of reconnoitering +its neighbourhood. In like manner, you must be above your knowledge, not +under it, or it will oppress you; and the more you have of it, the +greater will be the load. The learning of a Salmasius or a Burman, +unless you are its master, will be your tyrant. _Imperat aut +servit_;[16] if you can wield it with a strong arm, it is a great +weapon; otherwise, + + Vis consili expers + Mole ruit suâ.[17] + +You will be overwhelmed, like Tarpeia, by the heavy wealth which you +have exacted from tributary generations. + +Instances abound; there are authors who are as pointless as they are +inexhaustible in their literary resources. They measure knowledge by +bulk, as it lies in the rude block, without symmetry, without design. +How many commentators are there on the classics, how many on Holy +Scripture, from whom we rise up, wondering at the learning which has +passed before us, and wondering why it passed! How many writers are +there of Ecclesiastical history, such as Mosheim or Du Pin, who, +breaking up their subject into details, destroy its life, and defraud us +of the whole by their anxiety about the parts! The sermons, again, of +the English divines in the seventeenth century, how often are they mere +repertories of miscellaneous and officious learning! Of course Catholics +also may read without thinking; and in their case, equally as with +Protestants, it holds good, that such knowledge is unworthy of the name, +knowledge which they have not thought through, and thought out. Such +readers are only possessed by their knowledge, not possessed of it; nay, +in matter of fact they are often even carried away by it, without any +volition of their own. Recollect, the memory can tyrannise, as well as +the imagination. Derangement, I believe, has been considered as a loss +of control over the sequence of ideas. The mind, once set in motion, is +henceforth deprived of the power of initiation, and becomes the victim +of a train of associations, one thought suggesting another, in the way +of cause and effect, as if by a mechanical process, or some physical +necessity. No one, who has had experience of men of studious habits, but +must recognise the existence of a parallel phenomenon in the case of +those who have over-stimulated the memory. In such persons reason acts +almost as feebly and as impotently as in the madman; once fairly started +on any subject whatever, they have no power of self-control; they +passively endure the succession of impulses which are evolved out of the +original exciting cause; they are passed on from one idea to another +and go steadily forward, plodding along one line of thought in spite of +the amplest concessions of the hearer, or wandering from it in endless +digression in spite of his remonstrances. Now, if, as is very certain, +no one would envy the madman the glow and originality of his +conceptions, why must we extol the cultivation of that intellect which +is the prey, not indeed of barren fancies but of barren facts, of random +intrusions from without, though not of morbid imaginations from within? +And in thus speaking, I am not denying that a strong and ready memory is +in itself a real treasure; I am not disparaging a well-stored mind, +though it be nothing besides, provided it be sober, any more than I +would despise a bookseller's shop:--it is of great value to others, even +when not so to the owner. Nor am I banishing, far from it, the +possessors of deep and multifarious learning from my ideal University; +they adorn it in the eyes of men; I do but say that they constitute no +type of the results at which it aims; that it is no great gain to the +intellect to have enlarged the memory at the expense of faculties which +are indisputably higher. + +Nor indeed am I supposing that there is any great danger, at least in +this day, of over-education; the danger is on the other side. I will +tell you, gentlemen, what has been the practical error of the last +twenty years,--not to load the memory of the student with a mass of +undigested knowledge, but to force upon him so much that he has rejected +all. It has been the error of distracting and enfeebling the mind by an +unmeaning profusion of subjects; of implying that a smattering in a +dozen branches of study is not shallowness, which it really is, but +enlargement, which it is not; of considering an acquaintance with the +learned names of things and persons and the possession of clever +duodecimos, and attendance on eloquent lecturers, and membership with +scientific institutions, and the sight of the experiments of a platform +and the specimens of a museum, that all this was not dissipation of +mind, but progress. All things now are to be learned at once, not first +one thing, then another, not one well, but many badly. Learning is to +be without exertion, without attention, without toil; without grounding, +without advance, without finishing. There is to be nothing individual in +it; and this, forsooth, is the wonder of the age. What the steam engine +does with matter, the printing press is to do with the mind; it is to +act mechanically, and the population is to be passively, almost +unconsciously enlightened, by the mere multiplication and dissemination +of volumes. Whether it be the school boy, or the school girl, or the +youth at college, or the mechanic in the town, or the politician in the +senate, all have been the victims in one way or other of this most +preposterous and pernicious of delusions. Wise men have lifted up their +voices in vain; and at length, lest their own institutions should be +outshone and should disappear in the folly of the hour, they have been +obliged, as far as they could with a good conscience, to humour a spirit +which they could not withstand, and make temporising concessions at +which they could not but inwardly smile. + +It must not be supposed that, because I so speak, therefore I have some +sort of fear of the education of the people: on the contrary, the more +education they have, the better, so that it is really education. Nor am +I an enemy to the cheap publication of scientific and literary works, +which is now in vogue: on the contrary, I consider it a great advantage, +convenience, and gain; that is, to those to whom education has given a +capacity for using them. Further, I consider such innocent recreations +as science and literature are able to furnish will be a very fit +occupation of the thoughts and the leisure of young persons, and may be +made the means of keeping them from bad employments and bad companions. +Moreover, as to that superficial acquaintance with chemistry, and +geology, and astronomy, and political economy, and modern history, and +biography, and other branches of knowledge, which periodical literature +and occasional lectures and scientific institutions diffuse through the +community, I think it a graceful accomplishment, and a suitable, nay, +in this day a necessary accomplishment, in the case of educated men. +Nor, lastly, am I disparaging or discouraging the thorough acquisition +of any one of these studies, or denying that, as far as it goes, such +thorough acquisition is a real education of the mind. All I say is, call +things by their right names, and do not confuse together ideas which are +essentially different. A thorough knowledge of one science and a +superficial acquaintance with many, are not the same thing; a smattering +of a hundred things or a memory for detail, is not a philosophical or +comprehensive view. Recreations are not education; accomplishments are +not education. Do not say, the people must be educated, when, after all, +you only mean amused, refreshed, soothed, put into good spirits and good +humour, or kept from vicious excesses. I do not say that such +amusements, such occupations of mind, are not a great gain; but they are +not education. You may as well call drawing and fencing education as a +general knowledge of botany or conchology. Stuffing birds or playing +stringed instruments is an elegant pastime, and a resource to the idle, +but it is not education; it does not form or cultivate the intellect. +Education is a high word; it is the preparation for knowledge, and it is +the imparting of knowledge in proportion to that preparation. We require +intellectual eyes to know withal, as bodily eyes for sight. We need both +objects and organs intellectual; we cannot gain them without setting +about it; we cannot gain them in our sleep, or by haphazard. The best +telescope does not dispense with eyes; the printing press or the lecture +room will assist us greatly, but we must be true to ourselves, we must +be parties in the work. A university is, according to the usual +designation, an alma mater, knowing her children one by one, not a +foundry, or a mint, or a treadmill. + +I protest to you, gentlemen, that if I had to choose between a so-called +university, which dispensed with residence and tutorial superintendence, +and gave its degrees to any person who passed an examination in a wide +range of subjects, and a university which had no professors or +examinations at all, but merely brought a number of young men together +for three or four years, and then sent them away as the University of +Oxford is said to have done some sixty years since, if I were asked +which of these two methods was the better discipline of the +intellect,--mind, I do not say which is morally the better, for it is +plain that compulsory study must be a good and idleness an intolerable +mischief,--but if I must determine which of the two courses was the more +successful in training, moulding, enlarging the mind, which sent out men +the more fitted for their secular duties, which produced better public +men, men of the world, men whose names would descend to posterity, I +have no hesitation in giving the preference to that university which did +nothing, over that which exacted of its members an acquaintance with +every science under the sun. And, paradox as this may seem, still if +results be the test of systems, the influence of the public schools and +colleges of England, in the course of the last century, at least will +bear out one side of the contrast as I have drawn it. What would come, +on the other hand, of the ideal systems of education which have +fascinated the imagination of this age, could they ever take effect, and +whether they would not produce a generation frivolous, narrow-minded, +and resourceless, intellectually considered, is a fair subject for +debate; but so far is certain, that the universities and scholastic +establishments, to which I refer, and which did little more than bring +together first boys and then youths in large numbers, these +institutions, with miserable deformities on the side of morals, with a +hollow profession of Christianity, and a heathen code of ethics,--I say, +at least they can boast of a succession of heroes and statesmen, of +literary men and philosophers, of men conspicuous for great natural +virtues, for habits of business, for knowledge of life, for practical +judgment, for cultivated tastes, for accomplishments, who have made +England what it is,--able to subdue the earth, able to domineer over +Catholics. + +How is this to be explained? I suppose as follows: When a multitude of +young men, keen, open-hearted, sympathetic, and observant, as young men +are, come together and freely mix with each other, they are sure to +learn one from another, even if there be no one to teach them; the +conversation of all is a series of lectures to each, and they gain for +themselves new ideas and views, fresh matter of thought, and distinct +principles for judging and acting, day by day. An infant has to learn +the meaning of the information which its senses convey to it, and this +seems to be its employment. It fancies all that the eye presents to it +to be close to it, till it actually learns the contrary, and thus by +practice does it ascertain the relations and uses of those first +elements of knowledge which are necessary for its animal existence. A +parallel teaching is necessary for our social being, and it is secured +by a large school or a college; and this effect may be fairly called in +its own department an enlargement of mind. It is seeing the world on a +small field with little trouble; for the pupils or students come from +very different places, and with widely different notions, and there is +much to generalise, much to adjust, much to eliminate, there are +inter-relations to be defined, and conventional rules to be established, +in the process, by which the whole assemblage is moulded together, and +gains one tone and one character. + +Let it be clearly understood, I repeat it, that I am not taking into +account moral or religious considerations; I am but saying that that +youthful community will constitute a whole, it will embody a specific +idea, it will represent a doctrine, it will administer a code of +conduct, and it will furnish principles of thought and action. It will +give birth to a living teaching, which in course of time will take the +shape of a self-perpetuating tradition, or a _genius loci_,[18] as it is +sometimes called; which haunts the home where it has been born, and +which imbues and forms more or less, and one by one, every individual +who is successively brought under its shadow. Thus it is that, +independent of direct instruction on the part of superiors, there is a +sort of self-education in the academic institutions of Protestant +England; a characteristic tone of thought, a recognised standard of +judgment is found in them, which, as developed in the individual who is +submitted to it, becomes a twofold source of strength to him, both from +the distinct stamp it impresses on his mind, and from the bond of union +which it creates between him and others,--effects which are shared by +the authorities of the place, for they themselves have been educated in +it, and at all times are exposed to the influence of its ethical +atmosphere. Here then is a real teaching, whatever be its standards and +principles, true or false; and it at least tends towards cultivation of +the intellect; it at least recognises that knowledge is something more +than a sort of passive reception of scraps and details; it is a +something, and it does a something, which never will issue from the most +strenuous efforts of a set of teachers with no mutual sympathies and no +intercommunion, of a set of examiners with no opinions which they dare +profess, and with no common principles, who are teaching or questioning +a set of youths who do not know them, and do not know each other, on a +large number of subjects, different in kind, and connected by no wide +philosophy, three times a week, or three times a year, or once in three +years, in chill lecture-rooms or on a pompous anniversary. + +Nay, self-education in any shape, in the most restricted sense, is +preferable to a system of teaching which, professing so much, really +does so little for the mind. Shut your college gates against the votary +of knowledge, throw him back upon the searchings and the efforts of his +own mind; he will gain by being spared an entrance into your babel. Few +indeed there are who can dispense with the stimulus and support of +instructors, or will do anything at all, if left to themselves. And +fewer still (though such great minds are to be found), who will not, +from such unassisted attempts, contract a self-reliance and a +self-esteem, which are not only moral evils, but serious hindrances to +the attainment of truth. And next to none, perhaps, or none, who will +not be reminded from time to time of the disadvantage under which they +lie, by their imperfect grounding, by the breaks, deficiencies, and +irregularities of their knowledge, by the eccentricity of opinion and +the confusion of principle which they exhibit. They will be too often +ignorant of what every one knows and takes for granted, of that +multitude of small truths which fall upon the mind like dust, impalpable +and ever accumulating; they may be unable to converse, they may argue +perversely, they may pride themselves on their worst paradoxes or their +grossest truisms, they may be full of their own mode of viewing things, +unwilling to be put out of their way, slow to enter into the minds of +others;--but, with these and whatever other liabilities upon their +heads, they are likely to have more thought, more mind, more philosophy, +more true enlargement, than those earnest but ill-used persons who are +forced to load their minds with a score of subjects against an +examination, who have too much on their hands to indulge themselves in +thinking or investigation, who devour premise and conclusion together +with indiscriminate greediness, who hold whole sciences on faith, and +commit demonstrations to memory, and who too often, as might be +expected, when their period of education is passed, throw up all they +have learned in disgust, having gained nothing really by their anxious +labours, except perhaps the habit of application. + +Yet such is the better specimen of the fruit of that ambitious system +which has of late years been making way among us: for its result on +ordinary minds, and on the common run of students, is less satisfactory +still; they leave their place of education simply dissipated and relaxed +by the multiplicity of subjects, which they have never really mastered, +and so shallow as not even to know their shallowness. How much better, I +say, it is for the active and thoughtful intellect, where such is to be +found, to eschew the college and the university altogether, than to +submit to a drudgery so ignoble, a mockery so contumelious! How much +more profitable for the independent mind, after the mere rudiments of +education, to range through a library at random, taking down books as +they meet him, and pursuing the trains of thought which his mother wit +suggests! How much healthier to wander into the fields, and there with +the exiled prince to find "tongues in the trees, books in the running +brooks!" How much more genuine an education is that of the poor boy in +the poem[19]--a poem, whether in conception or execution, one of the +most touching in our language--who, not in the wide world, but ranging +day by day around his widowed mother's home, "a dextrous gleaner" in a +narrow field and with only such slender outfit + + as the village school and books a few + Supplied, + +contrived from the beach, and the quay, and the fisher's boat, and the +inn's fireside, and the tradesman's shop, and the shepherd's walk, and +the smuggler's hut, and the mossy moor, and the screaming gulls, and the +restless waves, to fashion for himself a philosophy and a poetry of his +own! + +But in a large subject, I am exceeding my necessary limits. Gentlemen, I +must conclude abruptly; and postpone any summing up of my argument, +should that be necessary, to another day. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 11: Discourse VI in "The Idea of a University," 1852.] + +[Footnote 12: Prima-facie: based on one's first impression.] + +[Footnote 13: Four-square.] + +[Footnote 14: To be moved by nothing.] + +[Footnote 15: Happy is he who has come to know the sequences of things, +and is thus above all fear and the dread march of fate and the roar of +greedy Acheron.] + +[Footnote 16: It rules or it serves.] + +[Footnote 17: Brute force without intelligence falls by its own weight.] + +[Footnote 18: Genius loci: spirit of the place.] + +[Footnote 19: Crabbe's _Tales of the Hall_. This poem, let me say, I +read on its first publication, above thirty years ago, with extreme +delight, and have never lost my love of it; and on taking it up lately, +found I was even more touched by it than heretofore. A work which can +please in youth and age, seems to fulfil (in logical language) the +_accidental definition_ of a classic. (A further course of twenty years +has passed, and I bear the same witness in favour of this poem.)] + + + + +LITERATURE AND SCIENCE[20] + +MATTHEW ARNOLD + + +Practical people talk with a smile of Plato and of his absolute ideas; +and it is impossible to deny that Plato's ideas do often seem +unpractical and impracticable, and especially when one views them in +connection with the life of a great workaday world like the United +States. The necessary staple of the life of such a world Plato regards +with disdain; handicraft and trade and the working professions he +regards with disdain; but what becomes of the life of an industrial +modern community if you take handicraft and trade and the working +professions out of it? The base mechanic arts and handicrafts, says +Plato, bring about a natural weakness in the principle of excellence in +a man, so that he cannot govern the ignoble growths in him, but nurses +them, and cannot understand fostering any other. Those who exercise such +arts and trades, as they have their bodies, he says, marred by their +vulgar businesses, so they have their souls, too, bowed and broken by +them. And if one of these uncomely people has a mind to seek +self-culture and philosophy, Plato compares him to a bald little tinker, +who has scraped together money, and has got his release from service, +and has had a bath, and bought a new coat, and is rigged out like a +bridegroom about to marry the daughter of his master who has fallen into +poor and helpless estate. + +Nor do the working professions fare any better than trade at the hands +of Plato. He draws for us an inimitable picture of the working lawyer, +and of his life of bondage; he shows how this bondage from his youth up +has stunted and warped him, and made him small and crooked of soul, +encompassing him with difficulties which he is not man enough to rely on +justice and truth as means to encounter, but has recourse, for help out +of them, to falsehood and wrong. And so, says Plato, this poor creature +is bent and broken, and grows up from boy to man without a particle of +soundness in him, although exceedingly smart and clever in his own +esteem. + +One cannot refuse to admire the artist who draws these pictures. But we +say to ourselves that his ideas show the influence of a primitive and +obsolete order of things, when the warrior caste and the priestly caste +were alone in honour, and the humble work of the world was done by +slaves. We have now changed all that; the modern majority consists in +work, as Emerson declares; and in work, we may add, principally of such +plain and dusty kind as the work of cultivators of the ground, +handicraftsmen, men of trade and business, men of the working +professions. Above all is this true in a great industrious community +such as that of the United States. + +Now education, many people go on to say, is still mainly governed by the +ideas of men like Plato, who lived when the warrior caste and the +priestly or philosophical class were alone in honour, and the really +useful part of the community were slaves. It is an education fitted for +persons of leisure in such a community. This education passed from +Greece and Rome to the feudal communities of Europe, where also the +warrior caste and the priestly caste were alone held in honour, and +where the really useful and working part of the community, though not +nominally slaves as in the pagan world, were practically not much better +off than slaves, and not more seriously regarded. And how absurd it is, +people end by saying, to inflict this education upon an industrious +modern community, where very few indeed are persons of leisure, and the +mass to be considered has not leisure, but is bound, for its own great +good, and for the great good of the world at large, to plain labour and +to industrial pursuits, and the education in question tends necessarily +to make men dissatisfied with these pursuits and unfitted for them! + +That is what is said. So far I must defend Plato, as to plead that his +view of education and studies is in the general, as it seems to me, +sound enough, and fitted for all sorts and conditions of men, whatever +their pursuits may be. "An intelligent man," says Plato, "will prize +those studies which result in his soul getting soberness, righteousness, +and wisdom, and will less value the others." I cannot consider _that_ a +bad description of the aim of education, and of the motives which should +govern us in the choice of studies, whether we are preparing ourselves +for a hereditary seat in the English House of Lords or for the pork +trade in Chicago. + +Still I admit that Plato's world was not ours, that his scorn of trade +and handicraft is fantastic, that he had no conception of a great +industrial community such as that of the United States, and that such a +community must and will shape its education to suit its own needs. If +the usual education handed down to it from the past does not suit it, it +will certainly before long drop this and try another. The usual +education in the past has been mainly literary. The question is whether +the studies which were long supposed to be the best for all of us are +practically the best now; whether others are not better. The tyranny of +the past, many think, weighs on us injuriously in the predominance given +to letters in education. The question is raised whether, to meet the +needs of our modern life, the predominance ought not now to pass from +letters to science; and naturally the question is nowhere raised with +more energy than here in the United States. The design of abasing what +is called "mere literary instruction and education," and of exalting +what is called "sound, extensive, and practical scientific knowledge," +is, in this intensely modern world of the United States, even more +perhaps than in Europe, a very popular design, and makes great and rapid +progress. + +I am going to ask whether the present movement for ousting letters from +their old predominance in education, and for transferring the +predominance in education to the natural sciences; whether this brisk +and flourishing movement ought to prevail, and whether it is likely that +in the end it really will prevail. An objection may be raised which I +will anticipate. My own studies have been almost wholly in letters, and +my visits to the field of the natural sciences have been very slight and +inadequate, although those sciences have always strongly moved my +curiosity. A man of letters, it will perhaps be said, is not competent +to discuss the comparative merits of letters and natural science as +means of education. To this objection I reply, first of all, that his +incompetence if he attempts the discussion but is really incompetent for +it, will be abundantly visible; nobody will be taken in; he will have +plenty of sharp observers and critics to save mankind from that danger. +But the line I am going to follow is, as you will soon discover, so +extremely simple, that perhaps it may be followed without failure even +by one who for a more ambitious line of discussion would be quite +incompetent. + +Some of you may possibly remember a phrase of mine which has been the +object of a good deal of comment; an observation to the effect that in +our culture, the aim being _to know ourselves and the world_, we have, +as the means to this end, _to know the best which has been thought and +said in the world._ A man of science, who is also an excellent writer +and the very prince of debaters, Professor Huxley, in a discourse at the +opening of Sir Josiah Mason's College at Birmingham, laying hold of this +phrase, expanded it by quoting some more words of mine, which are these: +"The civilised world is to be regarded as now being, for intellectual +and spiritual purposes, one great confederation, bound to a joint action +and working to a common result; and whose members have for their proper +outfit a knowledge of Greek, Roman, and Eastern antiquity, and of one +another. Special local and temporary advantages being put out of +account, that modern nation will in the intellectual and spiritual +sphere make most progress, which most thoroughly carries out this +programme." + +Now on my phrase, thus enlarged, Professor Huxley remarks that when I +speak of the above-mentioned knowledge as enabling us to know ourselves +and the world, I assert _literature_ to contain the materials which +suffice for thus making us know ourselves and the world. But it is not +by any means clear, says he, that after having learned all which ancient +and modern literatures have to tell us, we have laid a sufficiently +broad and deep foundation for that criticism of life, that knowledge of +ourselves and the world, which constitutes culture. On the contrary, +Professor Huxley declares that he finds himself "wholly unable to admit +that either nations or individuals will really advance, if their outfit +draws nothing from the stores of physical science. An army without +weapons of precision, and with no particular base of operations, might +more hopefully enter upon a campaign on the Rhine, than a man, devoid of +a knowledge of what physical science has done in the last century, upon +a criticism of life." + +This shows how needful it is for those who are to discuss any matter +together, to have a common understanding as to the sense of the terms +they employ,--how needful, and how difficult. What Professor Huxley +says, implies just the reproach which is so often brought against the +study of _belles lettres_, as they are called: that the study is an +elegant one, but slight and ineffectual; a smattering of Greek and Latin +and other ornamental things, of little use for any one whose object is +to get at truth, and to be a practical man. So, too, M. Renan talks of +the "superficial humanism" of a school course which treats us as if we +were all going to be poets, writers, preachers, orators, and he opposes +this humanism to positive science, or the critical search after truth. +And there is always a tendency in those who are remonstrating against +the predominance of letters in education, to understand by letters +_belles lettres_, and by _belles lettres_ a superficial humanism, the +opposite of science or true knowledge. + +But when we talk of knowing Greek and Roman antiquity, for instance, +which is the knowledge people have called the humanities, I for my part +mean a knowledge which is something more than a superficial humanism, +mainly decorative. "I call all teaching _scientific_," says Wolf, the +critic of Homer, "which is systematically laid out and followed up to +its original sources. For example: a knowledge of classical antiquity is +scientific when the remains of classical antiquity are correctly studied +in the original languages." There can be no doubt that Wolf is perfectly +right; that all learning is scientific which is systematically laid out +and followed up to its original sources, and that a genuine humanism is +scientific. + +When I speak of knowing Greek and Roman antiquity, therefore, as a help +to knowing ourselves and the world, I mean more than a knowledge of so +much vocabulary, so much grammar, so many portions of authors in the +Greek and Latin languages; I mean knowing the Greeks and Romans, and +their life and genius, and what they were and did in the world; what we +get from them, and what is its value: That, at least, is the ideal; and +when we talk of endeavouring to know Greek and Roman antiquity, as a +help to knowing ourselves and the world, we mean endeavouring so to know +them as to satisfy this ideal, however much we may still fall short of +it. + +The same also as to knowing our own and other modern nations, with the +like aim of getting to understand ourselves and the world. To know the +best that has been thought and said by the modern nations, is to know, +says Professor Huxley, "only what modern _literatures_ have to tell us; +it is the criticism of life contained in modern literature." And yet +"the distinctive character of our times," he urges, "lies in the vast +and constantly increasing part which is played by natural knowledge." +And how, therefore, can a man, devoid of knowledge of what physical +science has done in the last century, enter hopefully upon a criticism +of modern life? + +Let us, I say, be agreed about the meaning of the terms we are using. I +talk of knowing the best which has been thought and uttered in the +world; Professor Huxley says this means knowing _literature_. Literature +is a large word; it may mean everything written with letters or printed +in a book. Euclid's _Elements_ and Newton's _Principia_ are thus +literature. All knowledge that reaches us through books is literature. +But by literature Professor Huxley means _belles lettres_. He means to +make me say, that knowing the best which has been thought and said by +the modern nations is knowing their _belles lettres_ and no more. And +this is no sufficient equipment, he argues, for a criticism of modern +life. But as I do not mean, by knowing ancient Rome, knowing merely more +or less of Latin _belles lettres_, and taking no account of Rome's +military, and political, and legal, and administrative work in the +world; and as, by knowing ancient Greece, I understand knowing her as +the giver of Greek art, and the guide to a free and right use of reason +and to scientific method, and the founder of our mathematics and physics +and astronomy and biology,--I understand knowing her as all this, and +not merely knowing certain Greek poems, and histories, and treatises, +and speeches,--so as to the knowledge of modern nations also. By knowing +modern nations, I mean not merely knowing their _belles lettres_, but +knowing also what has been done by such men as Copernicus, Galileo, +Newton, Darwin. "Our ancestors learned," says Professor Huxley, "that +the earth is the centre of the visible universe, and that man is the +cynosure of things terrestrial; and more especially was it inculcated +that the course of nature has no fixed order, but that it could be, and +constantly was, altered." But for us now, continues Professor Huxley, +"the notions of the beginning and the end of the world entertained by +our forefathers are no longer credible. It is very certain that the +earth is not the chief body in the material universe, and that the world +is not subordinated to man's use. It is even more certain that nature is +the expression of a definite order, with which nothing interferes." +"And yet," he cries, "the purely classical education advocated by the +representatives of the humanists in our day gives no inkling of all +this!" + +In due place and time I will just touch upon that vexed question of +classical education; but at present the question is as to what is meant +by knowing the best which modern nations have thought and said. It is +not knowing their _belles lettres_ merely which is meant. To know +Italian _belles lettres_ is not to know Italy, and to know English +_belles lettres_ is not to know England. Into knowing Italy and England +there comes a great deal more, Galileo and Newton amongst it. The +reproach of being a superficial humanism, a tincture of _belles +lettres_, may attach rightly enough to some other disciplines; but to +the particular discipline recommended when I proposed knowing the best +that has been thought and said in the world, it does not apply. In that +best I certainly include what in modern times has been thought and said +by the great observers and knowers of nature. + +There is, therefore, really no question between Professor Huxley and me +as to whether knowing the great results of the modern scientific study +of nature is not required as a part of our culture, as well as knowing +the products of literature and art. But to follow the processes by which +those results are reached, ought, say the friends of physical science, +to be made the staple of education for the bulk of mankind. And here +there does arise a question between those whom Professor Huxley calls +with playful sarcasm "the Levites of culture," and those whom the poor +humanist is sometimes apt to regard as its Nebuchadnezzars. + +The great results of the scientific investigation of nature we are +agreed upon knowing, but how much of our study are we bound to give to +the processes by which those results are reached? The results have their +visible bearing on human life. But all the processes, too, all the items +of fact by which those results are reached and established, are +interesting. All knowledge is interesting to a wise man, and the +knowledge of nature is interesting to all men. It is very interesting +to know, that, from the albuminous white of the egg, the chick in the +egg gets the materials for its flesh, bones, blood, and feathers; while, +from the fatty yolk of the egg, it gets the heat and energy which enable +it at length to break its shell and begin the world. It is less +interesting, perhaps, but still it is interesting, to know that when a +taper burns, the wax is converted into carbonic acid and water. +Moreover, it is quite true that the habit of dealing with facts, which +is given by the study of nature, is, as the friends of physical science +praise it for being, an excellent discipline. The appeal, in the study +of nature, is constantly to observation and experiment; not only is it +said that the thing is so, but we can be made to see that it is so. Not +only does a man tell us that when a taper burns the wax is converted +into carbonic acid and water, as a man may tell us, if he likes, that +Charon is punting his ferry boat on the river Styx, or that Victor Hugo +is a sublime poet, or Mr. Gladstone the most admirable of statesmen; but +we are made to see that the conversion into carbonic acid and water does +actually happen. This reality of natural knowledge it is, which makes +the friends of physical science contrast it, as a knowledge of things, +with the humanist's knowledge, which is, they say, a knowledge of words. +And hence Professor Huxley is moved to lay it down that, "for the +purpose of attaining real culture, an exclusively scientific education +is at least as effectual as an exclusively literary education." And a +certain President of the Section for Mechanical Science in the British +Association is, in Scripture phrase, "very bold," and declares that if a +man, in his mental training, "has substituted literature and history for +natural science, he has chosen the less useful alternative." But whether +we go these lengths or not, we must all admit that in natural science +the habit gained of dealing with facts is a most valuable discipline, +and that every one should have some experience of it. + +More than this, however, is demanded by the reformers. It is proposed to +make the training in natural science the main part of education, for +the great majority of mankind at any rate. And here, I confess, I part +company with the friends of physical science, with whom up to this point +I have been agreeing. In differing from them, however, I wish to proceed +with the utmost caution and diffidence. The smallness of my own +acquaintance with the disciplines of natural science is ever before my +mind, and I am fearful of doing these disciplines an injustice. The +ability and pugnacity of the partisans of natural science make them +formidable persons to contradict. The tone of tentative inquiry, which +befits a being of dim faculties and bounded knowledge, is the tone I +would wish to take and not to depart from. At present it seems to me, +that those who are for giving to natural knowledge, as they call it, the +chief place in the education of the majority of mankind, leave one +important thing out of their account: the constitution of human nature. +But I put this forward on the strength of some facts not at all +recondite, very far from it; facts capable of being stated in the +simplest possible fashion, and to which, if I so state them, the man of +science will, I am sure, be willing to allow their due weight. + +Deny the facts altogether, I think, he hardly can. He can hardly deny, +that when we set ourselves to enumerate the powers which go to the +building up of human life, and say that they are the power of conduct, +the power of intellect and knowledge, the power of beauty, and the power +of social life and manners--he can hardly deny that this scheme, though +drawn in rough and plain lines enough, and not pretending to scientific +exactness, does yet give a fairly true representation of the matter. +Human nature is built up by these powers; we have the need for them all. +When we have rightly met and adjusted the claims of them all, we shall +then be in a fair way for getting soberness and righteousness, with +wisdom. This is evident enough, and the friends of physical science +would admit it. + +But perhaps they may not have sufficiently observed another thing: +namely, that the several powers just mentioned are not isolated, but +there is, in the generality of mankind, a perpetual tendency to relate +them one to another in divers ways. With one such way of relating them I +am particularly concerned now. Following our instinct for intellect and +knowledge, we acquire pieces of knowledge; and presently, in the +generality of men, there arises the desire to relate these pieces of +knowledge to our sense for conduct, to our sense for beauty,--and there +is weariness and dissatisfaction if the desire is balked. Now in this +desire lies, I think, the strength of that hold which letters have upon +us. + +All knowledge is, as I said just now, interesting; and even items of +knowledge which from the nature of the case cannot well be related, but +must stand isolated in our thoughts, have their interest. Even lists of +exceptions have their interest. If we are studying Greek accents, it is +interesting to know that _pais_ and _pas_, and some other monosyllables +of the same form of declension, do not take the circumflex upon the last +syllable of the genitive plural, but vary, in this respect, from the +common rule. If we are studying physiology, it is interesting to know +that the pulmonary artery carries dark blood and the pulmonary vein +carries bright blood, departing in this respect from the common rule, +for the division of labour between the veins and the arteries. But every +one knows how we seek naturally to combine the pieces of our knowledge +together, to bring them under general rules, to relate them to +principles; and how unsatisfactory and tiresome it would be to go on +forever learning lists of exceptions, or accumulating items of fact +which must stand isolated. + +Well, that same need of relating our knowledge, which operates here +within the sphere of our knowledge itself, we shall find operating, +also, outside that sphere. We experience, as we go on learning and +knowing,--the vast majority of us experience,--the need of relating what +we have learned and known to the sense which we have in us for conduct, +to the sense which we have in us for beauty. + +A certain Greek prophetess of Mantineia in Arcadia, Diotima by name, +once explained to the philosopher Socrates that love, and impulse, and +bent of all kinds, is, in fact, nothing else but the desire in men that +good should forever be present to them. This desire for good, Diotima +assured Socrates, is our fundamental desire, of which fundamental desire +every impulse in us is only some one particular form. And therefore this +fundamental desire it is, I suppose,--this desire in men that good +should be forever present to them,--which acts in us when we feel the +impulse for relating our knowledge to our sense for conduct and to our +sense for beauty. At any rate, with men in general the instinct exists. +Such is human nature. And the instinct, it will be admitted, is +innocent, and human nature is preserved by our following the lead of its +innocent instincts. Therefore, in seeking to gratify this instinct in +question, we are following the instinct of self-preservation in +humanity. + +But, no doubt, some kinds of knowledge cannot be made to directly serve +the instinct in question, cannot be directly related to the sense for +beauty, to the sense for conduct. These are instrument-knowledges; they +lead on to other knowledges, which can. A man who passes his life in +instrument-knowledges is a specialist. They may be invaluable as +instruments to something beyond, for those who have the gift thus to +employ them; and they may be disciplines in themselves wherein it is +useful for every one to have some schooling. But it is inconceivable +that the generality of men should pass all their mental life with Greek +accents or with formal logic. My friend Professor Sylvester, who is one +of the first mathematicians in the world, holds transcendental doctrines +as to the virtue of mathematics, but those doctrines are not for common +men. In the very Senate House and heart of our English Cambridge I once +ventured, though not without an apology for my profaneness, to hazard +the opinion that for the majority of mankind a little of mathematics, +even, goes a long way. Of course this is quite consistent with their +being of immense importance as an instrument to something else; but it +is the few who have the aptitude for thus using them, not the bulk of +mankind. + +The natural sciences do not, however, stand on the same footing with +these instrument-knowledges. Experience shows us that the generality of +men will find more interest in learning that, when a taper burns, the +wax is converted into carbonic acid and water, or in learning the +explanation of the phenomenon of dew, or in learning how the circulation +of the blood is carried on, than they find in learning that the genitive +plural of _pais_ and _pas_ does not take the circumflex on the +termination. And one piece of natural knowledge is added to another, and +others are added to that, and at last we come to propositions so +interesting as Mr. Darwin's famous proposition that "our ancestor was a +hairy quadruped furnished with a tail and pointed ears, probably +arboreal in his habits." Or we come to propositions of such reach and +magnitude as those which Professor Huxley delivers, when he says that +the notions of our forefathers about the beginning and the end of the +world were all wrong and that nature is the expression of a definite +order with which nothing interferes. + +Interesting, indeed, these results of science are, important they are, +and we should all of us be acquainted with them. But what I now wish you +to mark is, that we are still, when they are propounded to us and we +receive them, we are still in the sphere of intellect and knowledge. And +for the generality of men there will be found, I say, to arise, when +they have duly taken in the proposition that their ancestor was "a hairy +quadruped furnished with a tail and pointed ears, probably arboreal in +his habits," there will be found to arise an invincible desire to relate +this proposition to the sense in us for conduct, and to the sense in us +for beauty. But this the men of science will not do for us, and will +hardly even profess to do. They will give us other pieces of knowledge, +other facts, about other animals and their ancestors, or about plants, +or about stones, or about stars; and they may finally bring us to those +great "general conceptions of the universe, which are forced upon us +all," says Professor Huxley, "by the progress of physical science." But +still it will be _knowledge_ only which they give us; knowledge not put +for us into relation with our sense for conduct, our sense for beauty, +and touched with emotion by being so put; not thus put for us, and +therefore, to the majority of mankind, after a certain while, +unsatisfying, wearying. + +Not to the born naturalist, I admit. But what do we mean by a born +naturalist? We mean a man in whom the zeal for observing nature is so +uncommonly strong and eminent, that it marks him off from the bulk of +mankind. Such a man will pass his life happily in collecting natural +knowledge and reasoning upon it, and will ask for nothing, or hardly +anything, more. I have heard it said that the sagacious and admirable +naturalist whom we lost not very long ago, Mr. Darwin, once owned to a +friend that for his part he did not experience the necessity for two +things which most men find so necessary to them,--religion and poetry; +science and the domestic affections, he thought, were enough. To a born +naturalist, I can well understand that this should seem so. So absorbing +is his occupation with nature, so strong his love for his occupation, +that he goes on acquiring natural knowledge and reasoning upon it, and +has little time or inclination for thinking about getting it related to +the desire in man for conduct, the desire in man for beauty. He relates +it to them for himself as he goes along, so far as he feels the need; +and he draws from the domestic affections all the additional solace +necessary. But then Darwins are extremely rare. Another great and +admirable master of natural knowledge, Faraday, was a Sandemanian. That +is to say, he related his knowledge to his instinct for conduct and to +his instinct for beauty, by the aid of that respectable Scottish +sectary, Robert Sandeman. And so strong, in general, is the demand of +religion and poetry to have their share in a man, to associate +themselves with his knowing, and to relieve and rejoice it, that +probably, for one man amongst us with the disposition to do as Darwin +did in this respect, there are at least fifty with the disposition to do +as Faraday. + +Education lays hold upon us, in fact, by satisfying this demand. +Professor Huxley holds up to scorn mediaeval education, with its neglect +of the knowledge of nature, its poverty even of literary studies, its +formal logic devoted to "showing how and why that which the Church said +was true must be true." But the great mediaeval universities were not +brought into being, we may be sure, by the zeal for giving a jejune and +contemptible education. Kings have been their nursing fathers, and +queens have been their nursing mothers, but not for this. The mediaeval +universities came into being, because the supposed knowledge, delivered +by Scripture and the Church, so deeply engaged men's hearts, by so +simply, easily, and powerfully relating itself to their desire for +conduct, their desire for beauty. All other knowledge was dominated by +this supposed knowledge and was subordinated to it, because of the +surpassing strength of the hold which it gained upon the affections of +men, by allying itself profoundly with their sense for conduct, their +sense for beauty. + +But now, says Professor Huxley, conceptions of the universe fatal to the +notions held by our forefathers have been forced upon us by physical +science. Grant to him that they are thus fatal, that the new conceptions +must and will soon become current everywhere, and that every one will +finally perceive them to be fatal to the beliefs of our forefathers. The +need of humane letters, as they are truly called, because they serve the +paramount desire in men that good should be forever present to +them,--the need of humane letters to establish a relation between the +new conceptions, and our instinct for beauty, our instinct for conduct, +is only the more visible. The middle age could do without humane +letters, as it could do without the study of nature, because its +supposed knowledge was made to engage its emotions so powerfully. Grant +that the supposed knowledge disappears, its power of being made to +engage the emotions will of course disappear along with it,--but the +emotions themselves, and their claim to be engaged and satisfied, will +remain. Now if we find by experience that humane letters have an +undeniable power of engaging the emotions, the importance of humane +letters in a man's training becomes not less, but greater, in proportion +to the success of modern science in extirpating what it calls "mediaeval +thinking." + +Have humane letters, then, have poetry and eloquence, the power here +attributed to them of engaging the emotions, and do they exercise it? +And if they have it and exercise it, _how_ do they exercise it, so as to +exert an influence upon man's sense for conduct, his sense for beauty? +Finally, even if they both can and do exert an influence upon the senses +in question, how are they to relate to them the results,--the modern +results,--of natural science? All these questions may be asked. First, +have poetry and eloquence the power of calling out the emotions? The +appeal is to experience. Experience shows that for the vast majority of +men, for mankind in general, they have the power. Next, do they exercise +it? They do. But then, _how_ do they exercise it so as to affect man's +sense for conduct, his sense for beauty? And this is perhaps a case for +applying the Preacher's words: "Though a man labor to seek it out, yet +he shall not find it; yea, further, though a wise man think to know it, +yet shall he not be able to find it."[21] Why should it be one thing, in +its effect upon the emotions, to say, "Patience is a virtue," and quite +another thing, in its effect upon the emotions, to say with Homer, + + [Greek: tlaeton gar Moirai thumon thesan anthropoisin--[22]] + +"for an enduring heart have the destinies appointed to the children of +men"? Why should it be one thing, in its effect upon the emotions, to +say with philosopher Spinoza, _Felicitas in eo consistit quod homo suum +esse conservare potest_--"Man's happiness consists in his being able to +preserve his own essence," and quite another thing, in its effect upon +the emotions, to say with the Gospel, "What is a man advantaged, if he +gain the whole world, and lose himself, forfeit himself?" How does this +difference of effect arise? I cannot tell, and I am not much concerned +to know; the important thing is that it does arise, and that we can +profit by it. But how, finally, are poetry and eloquence to exercise the +power of relating the modern results of natural science to man's +instinct for conduct, his instinct for beauty? And here again I answer +that I do not know _how_ they will exercise it, but that they can and +will exercise it I am sure. I do not mean that modern philosophical +poets and modern philosophical moralists are to come and relate for us, +in express terms, the results of modern scientific research to our +instinct for conduct, our instinct for beauty. But I mean that we shall +find, as a matter of experience, if we know the best that has been +thought and uttered in the world, we shall find that the art and poetry +and eloquence of men who lived, perhaps, long ago, who had the most +limited natural knowledge, who had the most erroneous conceptions about +many important matters, we shall find that this art, and poetry, and +eloquence, have in fact not only the power of refreshing and delighting +us, they have also the power,--such is the strength and worth, in +essentials, of their authors' criticism of life,--they have a +fortifying, and elevating, and quickening, and suggestive power, capable +of wonderfully helping us to relate the results of modern science to our +need for conduct, our need for beauty. Homer's conceptions of the +physical universe were, I imagine, grotesque; but really, under the +shock of hearing from modern science that "the world is not subordinated +to man's use, and that man is not the cynosure of things terrestrial," I +could, for my own part, desire no better comfort than Homer's line which +I quoted just now, + + [Greek: tlaeton gar Moirai thumon thesan anthropoisin--] + +"for an enduring heart have the destinies appointed to the children of +men!" + +And the more that men's minds are cleared, the more that the results of +science are frankly accepted, the more that poetry and eloquence come to +be received and studied as what in truth they really are,--the criticism +of life by gifted men, alive and active with extraordinary power at an +unusual number of points;--so much the more will the value of humane +letters, and of art also, which is an utterance having a like kind of +power with theirs, be felt and acknowledged, and their place in +education be secured. + +Let us therefore, all of us, avoid indeed as much as possible any +invidious comparison between the merits of humane letters, as means of +education, and the merits of the natural sciences. But when some +President of a Section for Mechanical Science insists on making the +comparison, and tells us that "he who in his training has substituted +literature and history for natural science has chosen the less useful +alternative," let us make answer to him that the student of humane +letters only, will, at least, know also the great general conceptions +brought in by modern physical science; for science, as Professor Huxley +says, forces them upon us all. But the student of the natural sciences +only, will, by our very hypothesis, know nothing of humane letters; not +to mention that in setting himself to be perpetually accumulating +natural knowledge, he sets himself to do what only specialists have in +general the gift for doing genially. And so he will probably be +unsatisfied, or at any rate incomplete, and even more incomplete than +the student of humane letters only. + +I once mentioned in a school report, how a young man in one of our +English training colleges having to paraphrase the passage in _Macbeth_ +beginning, + + Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased? + +turned this line into, "Can you not wait upon the lunatic?" And I +remarked what a curious state of things it would be, if every pupil of +our national schools knew, let us say, that the moon is two thousand one +hundred and sixty miles in diameter, and thought at the same time that a +good paraphrase for + + Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased? + +was, "Can you not wait upon the lunatic?" If one is driven to choose, I +think I would rather have a young person ignorant about the moon's +diameter, but aware that "Can you not wait upon the lunatic?" is bad, +than a young person whose education had been such as to manage things +the other way. + +Or to go higher than the pupils of our national schools. I have in my +mind's eye a member of our British Parliament who comes to travel here +in America, who afterwards relates his travels, and who shows a really +masterly knowledge of the geology of this great country and of its +mining capabilities, but who ends by gravely suggesting that the United +States should borrow a prince from our Royal Family, and should make him +their king, and should create a House of Lords of great landed +proprietors after the pattern of ours; and then America, he thinks, +would have her future happily and perfectly secured. Surely, in this +case, the President of the Section for Mechanical Science would himself +hardly say that our member of Parliament, by concentrating himself upon +geology and mineralogy, and so on, and not attending to literature and +history, had "chosen the more useful alternative." + +If then there is to be separation and option between humane letters on +the one hand, and the natural sciences on the other, the great majority +of mankind, all who have not exceptional and overpowering aptitudes for +the study of nature, would do well, I cannot but think, to choose to be +educated in humane letters rather than in the natural sciences. Letters +will call out their being at more points, will make them live more. + +I said that before I ended I would just touch on the question of +classical education, and I will keep my word. Even if literature is to +retain a large place in our education, yet Latin and Greek, say the +friends of progress, will certainly have to go. Greek is the grand +offender in the eyes of these gentlemen. The attackers of the +established course of study think that against Greek, at any rate, they +have irresistible arguments. Literature may perhaps be needed in +education, they say; but why on earth should it be Greek literature? Why +not French or German? Nay, "has not an Englishman models in his own +literature of every kind of excellence?" As before, it is not on any +weak pleadings of my own that I rely for convincing the gainsayers; it +is on the constitution of human nature itself, and on the instinct of +self-preservation in humanity. The instinct for beauty is set in human +nature, as surely as the instinct for knowledge is set there, or the +instinct for conduct. If the instinct for beauty is served by Greek +literature and art as it is served by no other literature and art, we +may trust to the instinct of self-preservation in humanity for keeping +Greek as part of our culture. We may trust to it for even making the +study of Greek more prevalent than it is now. Greek will come, I hope, +some day to be studied more rationally than at present; but it will be +increasingly studied as men increasingly feel the need in them for +beauty, and how powerfully Greek art and Greek literature can serve this +need. Women will again study Greek, as Lady Jane Grey did; I believe +that in that chain of forts, with which the fair host of the Amazons are +now engirdling our English universities,--I find that here in America, +in colleges like Smith College in Massachusetts, and Vassar College in +the State of New York, and in the happy families of the mixed +universities out West,--they are studying it already. + +_Defuit una mihi symmetria prisca_,--"The antique symmetry was the one +thing wanting to me," said Leonardo da Vinci; and he was an Italian. I +will not presume to speak for the Americans, but I am sure that, in the +Englishman, the want of this admirable symmetry of the Greeks is a +thousand times more great and crying than in any Italian. The results +of the want show themselves most glaringly, perhaps, in our +architecture, but they show themselves, also, in all our art. _Fit +details strictly combined, in view of a large general result nobly +conceived_; that is just the beautiful _symmetria prisca_ of the Greeks, +and it is just where we English fail, where all our art fails. Striking +ideas we have, and well-executed details we have; but that high symmetry +which, with satisfying and delightful effect, combines them, we seldom +or never have. The glorious beauty of the Acropolis at Athens did not +come from single fine things stuck about on that hill, a statue here, a +gateway there;--no, it arose from all things being perfectly combined +for a supreme total effect. What must not an Englishman feel about our +deficiencies in this respect, as the sense for beauty, whereof this +symmetry is an essential element, awakens and strengthens within him! +what will not one day be his respect and desire for Greece and its +_symmetria prisca_, when the scales drop from his eyes as he walks the +London streets, and he sees such a lesson in meanness as the Strand, for +instance, in its true deformity! But here we are coming to our friend +Mr. Ruskin's province, and I will not intrude upon it, for he is its +very sufficient guardian. + +And so we at last find, it seems, we find flowing in favor of the +humanities the natural and necessary stream of things, which seemed +against them when we started. The "hairy quadruped furnished with a tail +and pointed ears, probably arboreal in his habits," this good fellow +carried hidden in his nature, apparently, something destined to develop +into a necessity for humane letters. Nay, more: we seem finally to be +even led to the further conclusion that our hairy ancestor carried in +his nature, also, a necessity for Greek. + +And therefore, to say the truth, I cannot really think that humane +letters are in much actual danger of being thrust out from their leading +place in education, in spite of the array of authorities against them at +this moment. So long as human nature is what it is, their attractions +will remain irresistible. As with Greek, so with letters generally: +they will some day come, we may hope, to be studied more rationally, but +they will not lose their place. What will happen will rather be that +there will be crowded into education other matters besides, far too +many; there will be, perhaps, a period of unsettlement and confusion and +false tendency; but letters will not in the end lose their leading +place. If they lose it for a time, they will get it back again. We shall +be brought back to them by our wants and aspirations. And a poor +humanist may possess his soul in patience, neither strive nor cry, admit +the energy and brilliancy of the partisans of physical science, and +their present favor with the public, to be far greater than his own, and +still have a happy faith that the nature of things works silently on +behalf of the studies which he loves, and that, while we shall all have +to acquaint ourselves with the great results reached by modern science, +and to give ourselves as much training in its disciplines as we can +conveniently carry, yet the majority of men will always require humane +letters; and so much the more, as they have the more and the greater +results of science to relate to the need in man for conduct, and to the +need in him for beauty. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 20: From "Discourses in America," 1885.] + +[Footnote 21: From Ecclesiastes, viii. 17.] + +[Footnote 22: From the "Iliad," xxiv. 49.] + + + + +HOW TO READ[23] + +FREDERIC HARRISON + + +It is the fashion for those who have any connection with letters to +expatiate on the infinite blessings of literature, and the miraculous +achievements of the press: to extol, as a gift above price, the taste +for study and the love of reading. Far be it from me to gainsay the +inestimable value of good books, or to discourage any man from reading +the best; but I often think that we forget that other side to this +glorious view of literature--the misuse of books, the debilitating waste +of brain in aimless, promiscuous, vapid reading, or even, it may be, in +the poisonous inhalation of mere literary garbage and bad men's worst +thoughts. + +For what can a book be more than the man who wrote it? The brightest +genius seldom puts the best of his own soul into his printed page; and +some famous men have certainly put the worst of theirs. Yet are all men +desirable companions, much less teachers, able to give us advice, even +of those who get reputation and command a hearing? To put out of the +question that writing which is positively bad, are we not, amidst the +multiplicity of books and of writers, in continual danger of being drawn +off by what is stimulating rather than solid, by curiosity after +something accidentally notorious, by what has no intelligible thing to +recommend it, except that it is new? Now, to stuff our minds with what +is simply trivial, simply curious, or that which at best has but a low +nutritive power, this is to close our minds to what is solid and +enlarging, and spiritually sustaining. Whether our neglect of the great +books comes from our not reading at all, or from an incorrigible habit +of reading the little books, it ends in just the same thing. And that +thing is ignorance of all the greater literature of the world. To +neglect all the abiding parts of knowledge for the sake of the +evanescent parts is really to know nothing worth knowing. It is in the +end the same, whether we do not use our minds for serious study at all, +or whether we exhaust them by an impotent voracity for desultory +"information"--a thing as fruitful as whistling. Of the two evils I +prefer the former. At least, in that case, the mind is healthy and open. +It is not gorged and enfeebled by excess in that which cannot nourish, +much less enlarge and beautify our nature. + +But there is much more than this. Even to those who resolutely avoid the +idleness of reading what is trivial, a difficulty is presented--a +difficulty every day increasing by virtue even of our abundance of +books. What are the subjects, what are the class of books we are to +read, in what order, with what connection, to what ultimate use or +object? Even those who are resolved to read the better books are +embarrassed by a field of choice practically boundless. The longest +life, the greatest industry, joined to the most powerful memory, would +not suffice to make us profit from a hundredth part of the world of +books before us. If the great Newton said that he seemed to have been +all his life gathering a few shells on the shore, whilst a boundless +ocean of truth still lay beyond and unknown to him, how much more to +each of us must the sea of literature be a pathless immensity beyond our +powers of vision or of reach--an immensity in which industry itself is +useless without judgment, method, discipline; where it is of infinite +importance what we can learn and remember, and of utterly no importance +what we may have once looked at or heard of. Alas! the most of our +reading leaves as little mark even in our own education as the foam that +gathers round the keel of a passing boat! For myself, I am inclined to +think the most useful help to reading is to know what we should not +read, what we can keep out from that small cleared spot in the +overgrown jungle of "information," the corner which we can call our +ordered patch of fruit-bearing knowledge. The incessant accumulation of +fresh books must hinder any real knowledge of the old; for the +multiplicity of volumes becomes a bar upon our use of any. In literature +especially does it hold--that we cannot see the wood for the trees. + +How shall we choose our books? Which are the best, the eternal, +indispensable books? To all to whom reading is something more than a +refined idleness these questions recur, bringing with them the sense of +bewilderment; and a still, small voice within us is for ever crying out +for some guide across the Slough of Despond of an illimitable and +ever-swelling literature. How many a man stands beside it, as uncertain +of his pathway as the Pilgrim, when he who dreamed the immortal dream +heard him "break out with a lamentable cry; saying, what shall I do?" + +And this, which comes home to all of us at times, presses hardest upon +those who have lost the opportunity of systematic education, who have to +educate themselves, or who seek to guide the education of their young +people. Systematic reading is but little in favour even amongst studious +men; in a true sense it is hardly possible for women. A comprehensive +course of home study, and a guide to books, fit for the highest +education of women, is yet a blank page remaining to be filled. +Generations of men of culture have laboured to organise a system of +reading and materials appropriate for the methodical education of men in +academic lines. Teaching equal in mental calibre to any that is open to +men in universities, yet modified for the needs of those who must study +at home, remains in the dim pages of that melancholy volume entitled +_Libri valde desiderati._[24] + +I do not aspire to fill one of those blank pages; but I long to speak a +word or two, as the Pilgrim did to Neighbour Pliable, upon the glories +that await those who will pass through the narrow wicket-gate. On this, +if one can find anything useful to say, it may be chiefly from the +memory of the waste labour and pitiful stumbling in the dark which fill +up so much of the travail that one is fain to call one's own education. +We who have wandered in the wastes so long, and lost so much of our +lives in our wandering, may at least offer warnings to younger +wayfarers, as men who in thorny paths have borne the heat and burden of +the day might give a clue to their journey to those who have yet a +morning and a noon. As I look back and think of those cataracts of +printed stuff which honest compositors set up, meaning, let us trust, no +harm, and which at least found them in daily bread,--printed stuff which +I and the rest of us, to our infinitely small profit, have consumed with +our eyes, not even making an honest living of it, but much impairing our +substance,--I could almost reckon the printing press as amongst the +scourges of mankind. I am grown a wiser and a sadder man, importunate, +like that Ancient Mariner, to tell each blithe wedding guest the tale of +his shipwreck on the infinite sea of printers' ink, as one escaped by +mercy and grace from the region where there is water, water, everywhere, +and not a drop to drink. + +A man of power, who has got more from books than most of his +contemporaries, once said: "Form a habit of reading, do not mind what +you read; the reading of better books will come when you have a habit of +reading the inferior." We need not accept this _obiter dictum_[25] of +Lord Sherbrooke. A habit of reading idly debilitates and corrupts the +mind for all wholesome reading; the habit of reading wisely is one of +the most difficult habits to acquire, needing strong resolution and +infinite pains; and reading for mere reading's sake, instead of for the +sake of the good we gain from reading, is one of the worst and commonest +and most unwholesome habits we have. And so our inimitable humorist has +made delightful fun of the solid books,--which no gentleman's library +should be without,--the Humes, Gibbons, Adam Smiths, which, he says, are +not books at all, and prefers some "kindhearted play-book," or at times +the _Town and County Magazine_. Poor Lamb has not a little to answer +for, in the revived relish for garbage unearthed from old theatrical +dungheaps. Be it jest or earnest, I have little patience with the +Elia-tic philosophy of the frivolous. Why do we still suffer the +traditional hypocrisy about the dignity of literature--literature, I +mean, in the gross, which includes about equal parts of what is useful +and what is useless? Why are books as books, writers as writers, readers +as readers, meritorious, apart from any good in them, or anything that +we can get from them? Why do we pride ourselves on our powers of +absorbing print, as our grandfathers did on their gifts in imbibing +port, when we know that there is a mode of absorbing print which makes +it impossible that we can ever learn anything good out of books? + +Our stately Milton said in a passage which is one of the watchwords of +the English race, "as good almost kill a Man as kill a good Book." But +has he not also said that he would "have a vigilant eye how Bookes +demeane themselves, as well as men; and do sharpest justice on them as +malefactors"?... Yes! they do kill the good book who deliver up their +few and precious hours of reading to the trivial book; they make it dead +for them; they do what lies in them to destroy "the precious life-blood +of a master-spirit, imbalm'd and treasured up on purpose to a life +beyond life;" they "spill that season'd life of man preserv'd and stor'd +up in Bookes." For in the wilderness of books most men, certainly all +busy men, _must_ strictly choose. If they saturate their minds with the +idler books, the "good book," which Milton calls "an immortality rather +than a life," is dead to them: it is a book sealed up and buried. + +It is most right that in the great republic of letters there should be +freedom of intercourse and a spirit of equality. Every reader who holds +a book in his hand is free of the inmost minds of men past and present; +their lives both within and without the pale of their uttered thoughts +are unveiled to him; he needs no introduction to the greatest; he +stands on no ceremony with them; he may, if he be so minded, scribble +"doggrel" on his Shelley, or he may kick Lord Byron, if he please, into +a corner. He hears Burke perorate, and Johnson dogmatise, and Scott tell +his border tales, and Wordsworth muse on the hillside, without the leave +of any man, or the payment of any toll. In the republic of letters there +are no privileged orders or places reserved. Every man who has written a +book, even the diligent Mr. Whitaker, is in one sense an author; "a +book's a book although there's nothing in't;" and every man who can +decipher a penny journal is in one sense a reader. And your "general +reader," like the grave-digger in Hamlet, is hail-fellow with all the +mighty dead; he pats the skull of the jester; batters the cheek of lord, +lady, or courtier; and uses "imperious Caesar" to teach boys the Latin +declensions. + +But this noble equality of all writers--of all writers and of all +readers--has a perilous side to it. It is apt to make us indiscriminate +in the books we read, and somewhat contemptuous of the mighty men of the +past. Men who are most observant as to the friends they make, or the +conversation they share, are carelessness itself as to the books to whom +they entrust themselves, and the printed language with which they +saturate their minds. Yet can any friendship or society be more +important to us than that of the books which form so large a part of our +minds and even of our characters? Do we in real life take any pleasant +fellow to our homes and chat with some agreeable rascal by our +firesides, we who will take up any pleasant fellow's printed memoirs, we +who delight in the agreeable rascal when he is cut up into pages and +bound in calf? + +If any person given to reading were honestly to keep a register of all +the printed stuff that he or she consumes in a year--all the idle tales +of which the very names and the story are forgotten in a week, the +bookmaker's prattle about nothing at so much a sheet, the fugitive +trifling about silly things and empty people, the memoirs of the +unmemorable, and lives of those who never really lived at all--of what +a mountain of rubbish would it be the catalogue: Exercises for the eye +and the memory, as mechanical as if we set ourselves to learn the names, +ages, and family histories of every one who lives in our own street, the +flirtations of their maiden aunts, and the circumstances surrounding the +birth of their grandmother's first baby. + +It is impossible to give any method to our reading till we get nerve +enough to reject. The most exclusive and careful amongst us will (in +literature) take boon companions out of the street, as easily as an +idler in a tavern. "I came across such and such a book that I never +heard mentioned," says one, "and found it curious, though entirely +worthless." "I strayed on a volume by I know not whom, on a subject for +which I never cared." And so on. There are curious and worthless +creatures enough in any pot-house all day long; and there is incessant +talk in omnibus, train, or street by we know not whom, about we care not +what. Yet if a printer and a bookseller can be induced to make this +gabble as immortal as print and publication can make it, then it +straightway is literature, and in due time it becomes "curious." + +I have no intention to moralise or to indulge in a homily against the +reading of what is deliberately evil. There is not so much need for this +now, and I am not discoursing on the whole duty of man. I take that part +of our reading which by itself is no doubt harmless, entertaining, and +even gently instructive. But of this enormous mass of literature how +much deserves to be chosen out, to be preferred to all the great books +of the world, to be set apart for those precious hours which are all +that the most of us can give to solid reading? The vast proportion of +books are books that we shall never be able to read. A serious +percentage of books are not worth reading at all. The really vital books +for us we also know to be a very trifling portion of the whole. And yet +we act as if every book were as good as any other, as if it were merely +a question of order which we take up first, as if any book were good +enough for us, and as if all were alike honourable, precious, and +satisfying. Alas! books cannot be more than the men who write them; and +as a fair proportion of the human race now write books, with motives and +objects as various as human activity, books, as books, are entitled _à +priori_, until their value is proved, to the same attention and respect +as houses, steam-engines, pictures, fiddles, bonnets, and other products +of human industry. In the shelves of those libraries which are our +pride, libraries public or private, circulating or very stationary, are +to be found those great books of the world _rari nantes in gurgite +vasto_,[26] those books which are truly "the precious life-blood of a +master-spirit." But the very familiarity which their mighty fame has +bred in us makes us indifferent; we grow weary of what every one is +supposed to have read; and we take down something which looks a little +eccentric, some worthless book, on the mere ground that we never heard +of it before. + +Thus the difficulties of literature are in their way as great as those +of the world, the obstacles to finding the right friends are as great, +the peril is as great of being lost in a Babel of voices and an +ever-changing mass of beings. Books are not wiser than men, the true +books are not easier to find than the true men, the bad books or the +vulgar books are not less obtrusive and not less ubiquitous than the bad +or vulgar men are everywhere; the art of right reading is as long and +difficult to learn as the art of right living. Those who are on good +terms with the first author they meet, run as much risk as men who +surrender their time to the first passer in the street; for to be open +to every book is for the most part to gain as little as possible from +any. A man aimlessly wandering about in a crowded city is of all men the +most lonely; so he who takes up only the books that he "comes across" is +pretty certain to meet but few that are worth knowing. + +Now this danger is one to which we are specially exposed in this age. +Our high-pressure life of emergencies, our whirling industrial +organisation or disorganisation have brought us in this (as in most +things) their peculiar difficulties and drawbacks. In almost everything +vast opportunities and gigantic means of multiplying our products bring +with them new perils and troubles which are often at first neglected. +Our huge cities, where wealth is piled up and the requirements and +appliances of life extended beyond the dreams of our forefathers, seem +to breed in themselves new forms of squalor, disease, blights, or risks +to life such as we are yet unable to master. So the enormous +multiplicity of modern books is not altogether favourable to the knowing +of the best. I listen with mixed satisfaction to the paeans that they +chant over the works which issue from the press each day: how the books +poured forth from Paternoster Row might in a few years be built into a +pyramid that would fill the dome of St. Paul's. How in this mountain of +literature am I to find the really useful book? How, when I have found +it, and found its value, am I to get others to read it? How am I to keep +my head clear in the torrent and din of works, all of which distract my +attention, most of which promise me something, whilst so few fulfil that +promise? The Nile is the source of the Egyptian's bread, and without it +he perishes of hunger. But the Nile may be rather too liberal in his +flood, and then the Egyptian runs imminent risk of drowning. + +And thus there never was a time, at least during the last two hundred +years, when the difficulties in the way of making an efficient use of +books were greater than they are to-day, when the obstacles were more +real between readers and the right books to read, when it was +practically so troublesome to find out that which it is of vital +importance to know; and that not by the dearth, but by the plethora of +printed matter. For it comes to nearly the same thing whether we are +actually debarred by physical impossibility, from getting the right book +into our hand, or whether we are choked off from the right book by the +obtrusive crowd of the wrong books; so that it needs a strong character +and a resolute system of reading to keep the head cool in the storm of +literature around us. We read nowadays in the market-place--I would +rather say in some large steam factory of letter-press, where damp +sheets of new print whirl round us perpetually--if it be not rather some +noisy book-fair where literary showmen tempt us with performing dolls, +and the gongs of rival booths are stunning our ears from morn till +night. Contrast with this pandemonium of Leipsic and Paternoster Row the +sublime picture of our Milton in his early retirement at Horton, when, +musing over his coming flight to the epic heaven, practising his +pinions, as he tells Diodati, he consumed five years of solitude in +reading the ancient writers--"_Et totum rapiunt me, mea vita, +libri_."[27] + +Who now reads the ancient writers? Who systematically reads the great +writers, be they ancient or modern, whom the consent of ages has marked +out as classics: typical, immortal, peculiar teachers of our race? Alas! +the _Paradise Lost_ is lost again to us beneath an inundation of +graceful academic verse, sugary stanzas of ladylike prettiness, and +ceaseless explanations in more or less readable prose of what John +Milton meant or did not mean, or what he saw or did not see, who married +his great-aunt, and why Adam or Satan is like that, or unlike the other. +We read a perfect library about the _Paradise Lost_, but the _Paradise +Lost_ itself we do not read. + +I am not presumptuous enough to assert that the larger part of modern +literature is not worth reading in itself, that the prose is not +readable, entertaining, one may say highly instructive. Nor do I pretend +that the verses which we read so zealously in place of Milton's are not +good verses. On the contrary, I think them sweetly conceived, as musical +and as graceful as the verse of any age in our history. A great deal of +our modern literature is such that it is exceedingly difficult to +resist it, and it is undeniable that it gives us real information. It +seems perhaps unreasonable to many to assert that a decent readable book +which gives us actual instruction can be otherwise than a useful +companion and a solid gain. Possibly many people are ready to cry out +upon me as an obscurantist for venturing to doubt a genial confidence in +all literature simply as such. But the question, which weighs upon me +with such really crushing urgency is this: What are the books that in +our little remnant of reading time it is most vital for us to know? For +the true use of books is of such sacred value to us that to be simply +entertained is to cease to be taught, elevated, inspired by books; +merely to gather information of a chance kind is to close the mind to +knowledge of the urgent kind. + +Every book that we take up without a purpose is an opportunity lost of +taking up a book with a purpose--every bit of stray information which we +cram into our heads without any sense of its importance, is for the most +part a bit of the most useful information driven out of our heads and +choked off from our minds. It is so certain that information, i.e., the +knowledge, the stored thoughts and observations of mankind, is now grown +to proportions so utterly incalculable and prodigious, that even the +learned whose lives are given to study can but pick up some crumbs that +fall from the table of truth. They delve and tend but a plot in that +vast and teeming kingdom, whilst those whom active life leaves with but +a few cramped hours of study can hardly come to know the very vastness +of the field before them, or how infinitesimally small is the corner +they can traverse at the best. We know all is not of equal value. We +know that books differ in value as much as diamonds differ from the sand +on the seashore, as much as our living friend differs from a dead rat. +We know that much in the myriad-peopled world of books--very much in all +kinds--is trivial, enervating, inane, even noxious. And thus, where we +have infinite opportunities of wasting our efforts to no end, of +fatiguing our minds without enriching them, of clogging the spirit +without satisfying it, there, I cannot but think, the very infinity of +opportunities is robbing us of the actual power of using them. And thus +I come often, in my less hopeful moods, to watch the remorseless +cataract of daily literature which thunders over the remnants of the +past, as if it were a fresh impediment to the men of our day in the way +of systematic knowledge and consistent powers of thought, as if it were +destined one day to overwhelm the great inheritance of mankind in prose +and verse. + +I remember, when I was a very young man at college, that a youth, in no +spirit of paradox, but out of plenary conviction, undertook to maintain +before a body of serious students, the astounding proposition that the +invention of printing had been one of the greatest misfortunes that had +ever befallen mankind. He argued that exclusive reliance on printed +matter had destroyed the higher method of oral teaching, the +dissemination of thought by the spoken word to the attentive ear. He +insisted that the formation of a vast literary class looking to the +making of books as a means of making money, rather than as a social +duty, had multiplied books for the sake of the writers rather than for +the sake of the readers; that the reliance on books as a cheap and +common resource had done much to weaken the powers of memory; that it +destroyed the craving for a general culture of taste, and the need of +artistic expression in all the surroundings of life. And he argued, +lastly, that the sudden multiplication of all kinds of printed matter +had been fatal to the orderly arrangement of thought, and had hindered a +system of knowledge and a scheme of education. + +I am far from sharing this immature view. Of course I hold the invention +of printing to have been one of the most momentous facts in the whole +history of man. Without it universal social progress, true democratic +enlightenment, and the education of the people would have been +impossible, or very slow, even if the cultured few, as is likely, could +have advanced the knowledge of mankind without it. We place Gutenberg +amongst the small list of the unique and special benefactors of +mankind, in the sacred choir of those whose work transformed the +conditions of life, whose work, once done, could never be repeated. And +no doubt the things which our ardent friend regarded as so fatal a +disturbance of society were all inevitable and necessary, part of the +great revolution of mind through which men grew out of the mediaeval +incompleteness to a richer conception of life and of the world. + +Yet there is a sense in which this boyish anathema against printing may +become true to us by our own fault. We may create for ourselves these +very evils. For the art of printing has not been a gift wholly unmixed +with evils; it must be used wisely if it is to be a boon to man at all; +it entails on us heavy responsibilities, resolution to use it with +judgment and self-control, and the will to resist its temptations and +its perils. Indeed, we may easily so act that we may make it a clog on +the progress of the human mind, a real curse and not a boon. The power +of flying at will through space would probably extinguish civilisation +and society, for it would release us from the wholesome bondage of place +and rest. The power of hearing every word that had ever been uttered on +this planet would annihilate thought, as the power of knowing all +recorded facts by the process of turning a handle would annihilate true +science. Our human faculties and our mental forces are not enlarged +simply by multiplying our materials of knowledge and our facilities for +communication. Telephones, microphones, pantoscopes, steam-presses, and +ubiquity-engines in general may, after all, leave the poor human brain +panting and throbbing under the strain of its appliances, no bigger and +no stronger than the brains of the men who heard Moses speak, and saw +Aristotle and Archimedes pondering over a few worn rolls of crabbed +manuscript. Until some new Gutenberg or Watt can invent a machine for +magnifying the human mind, every fresh apparatus for multiplying its +work is a fresh strain on the mind, a new realm for it to order and to +rule. + +And so, I say it most confidently, the first intellectual task of our +age is rightly to order and make serviceable the vast realm of printed +material which four centuries have swept across our path. To organise +our knowledge, to systematise our reading, to save, out of the +relentless cataract of ink, the immortal thoughts of the greatest--this +is a necessity, unless the productive ingenuity of man is to lead us at +last to a measureless and pathless chaos. To know anything that turns up +is, in the infinity of knowledge, to know nothing. To read the first +book we come across, in the wilderness of books, is to learn nothing. To +turn over the pages of ten thousand volumes is to be practically +indifferent to all that is good. + +But this warns me that I am entering on a subject which is far too big +and solemn. It is plain that to organise our knowledge, even to +systematise our reading, to make a working selection of books for +general study, really implies a complete scheme of education. A scheme +of education ultimately implies a system of philosophy, a view of man's +duty and powers as a moral and social being--a religion. Before a +problem so great as this, on which readers have such different ideas and +wants, and differ so profoundly on the very premises from which we +start, before such a problem as a general theory of education, I prefer +to pause. I will keep silence even from good words. I have chosen my own +part, and adopted my own teacher. But to ask men to adopt the education +of Auguste Comte, is almost to ask them to adopt Positivism itself. + +Nor will I enlarge on the matter for thought, for foreboding, almost for +despair, that is presented to us by the fact of our familiar literary +ways and our recognised literary profession. That things infinitely +trifling in themselves: men, events, societies, phenomena, in no way +otherwise more valuable than the myriad other things which flit around +us like the sparrows on the housetop, should be glorified, magnified, +and perpetuated, set under a literary microscope and focussed in the +blaze of a literary magic-lantern--not for what they are in themselves, +but solely to amuse and excite the world by showing how it can be +done--all this is to me so amazing, so heart-breaking, that I forbear +now to treat it, as I cannot say all that I would. + +The Choice of Books is really the choice of our education, of a moral +and intellectual ideal, of the whole duty of man. But though I shrink +from any so high a theme, a few words are needed to indicate my general +point of view in the matter. + +In the first place, when we speak about books, let us avoid the +extravagance of expecting too much from books, the pedant's habit of +extolling books as synonymous with education. Books are no more +education than laws are virtue; and just as profligacy is easy within +the strict limits of law, a boundless knowledge of books may be found +with a narrow education. A man may be, as the poet saith, "deep vers'd +in books, and shallow in himself." We need to know in order that we may +feel rightly and act wisely. The thirst after truth itself may be pushed +to a degree where indulgence enfeebles our sympathies and unnerves us in +action. Of all men perhaps the book-lover needs most to be reminded that +man's business here is to know for the sake of living, not to live for +the sake of knowing. + +A healthy mode of reading would follow the lines of a sound education. +And the first canon of a sound education is to make it the instrument to +perfect the whole nature and character. Its aims are comprehensive, not +special; they regard life as a whole, not mental curiosity; they have to +give us, not so much materials, as capacities. So that, however moderate +and limited the opportunity for education, in its way it should be +always more or less symmetrical and balanced, appealing equally in turn +to the three grand intellectual elements--imagination, memory, +reflection: and so having something to give us in poetry, in history, in +science, and in philosophy. + +And thus our reading will be sadly one-sided, however voluminous it be, +if it entirely close to us any of the great types and ideals which the +creative instinct of man has produced, if it shut out from us either +the ancient world, or other European poetry, as important almost as our +own. When our reading, however deep, runs wholly into "pockets," and +exhausts itself in the literature of one age, one country, one type, +then we may be sure that it is tending to narrow or deform our minds. +And the more it leads us into curious byways and nurtures us into +indifference for the beaten highways of the world, the sooner we shall +end, if we be not specialists and students by profession, in ceasing to +treat our books as the companions and solace of our lifetime, and in +using them as the instruments of a refined sort of self-indulgence. + +A wise education, and so judicious reading, should leave no great type +of thought, no dominant phase of human nature, wholly a blank. Whether +our reading be great or small, so far as it goes, it should be general. +If our lives admit of but a short space for reading, all the more reason +that, so far as may be, it should remind us of the vast expanse of human +thought, and the wonderful variety of human nature. To read, and yet so +to read that we see nothing but a corner of literature, the loose +fringe, or flats and wastes of letters, and by reading only deepen our +natural belief that this island is the hub of the universe, and the +nineteenth century the only age worth notice, all this is really to call +in the aid of books to thicken and harden our untaught prejudices. Be it +imagination, memory, or reflection that we address--that is, in poetry, +history, science, or philosophy, our first duty is to aim at knowing +something at least of the best, at getting some definite idea of the +mighty realm whose outer rim we are permitted to approach. + +But how are we to know the best; how are we to gain this definite idea +of the vast world of letters? There are some who appear to suppose that +the "best" are known only to experts in an esoteric way, who may reveal +to inquirers what schoolboys and betting-men describe as "tips." There +are no "tips" in literature; the "best" authors are never dark horses; +we need no "crammers" and "coaches" to thrust us into the presence of +the great writers of all time. "Crammers" will only lead us wrong. It is +a thing far easier and more common than many imagine, to discover the +best. It needs no research, no learning, and is only misguided by +recondite information. The world has long ago closed the great assize of +letters and judged the first places everywhere. In such a matter the +judgment of the world, guided and informed by a long succession of +accomplished critics, is almost unerring. When some Zoilus finds +blemishes in Homer, and prefers, it may be, the work of some Apollonius +of his own discovering, we only laugh. There may be doubts about the +third and fourth rank; but the first and the second are hardly open to +discussion. The gates which lead to the Elysian fields may slowly wheel +back on their adamantine hinges to admit now and then some new and +chosen modern. But the company of the masters of those who know, and in +especial degree of the great poets, is a roll long closed and complete, +and they who are of it hold ever peaceful converse together. + +Hence we may find it a useful maxim that, if our reading be utterly +closed to the great poems of the world, there is something amiss with +our reading. If you find Milton, Dante, Calderon, Goethe, so much +"Hebrew-Greek" to you; if your Homer and Virgil, your Molière and Scott, +rest year after year undisturbed on their shelves beside your school +trigonometry and your old college text-books; if you have never opened +the _Cid, the Nibelungen, Crusoe_, and _Don Quixote_ since you were a +boy, and are wont to leave the Bible and the Imitation for some wet +Sunday afternoon--know, friend, that your reading can do you little real +good. Your mental digestion is ruined or sadly out of order. No doubt, +to thousands of intelligent educated men who call themselves readers, +the reading through a Canto of _The Purgatorio_, or a Book of the +_Paradise Lost_, is a task as irksome as it would be to decipher an +ill-written manuscript in a language that is almost forgotten. But, +although we are not to be always reading epics, and are chiefly in the +mood for slighter things, to be absolutely unable to read Milton or +Dante with enjoyment, is to be in a very bad way. Aristophanes, +Theocritus, Boccaccio, Cervantes, Molière are often as light as the +driven foam; but they are not light enough for the general reader. Their +humour is too bright and lovely for the groundlings. They are, alas! +"classics," somewhat apart from our everyday ways; they are not banal +enough for us; and so for us they slumber "unknown in a long night," +just _because_ they are immortal poets, and are not scribblers of +to-day. + +When will men understand that the reading of great books is a faculty to +be acquired, not a natural gift, at least not to those who are spoiled +by our current education and habits of life? _Ceci tuera cela_,[28] the +last great poet might have said of the first circulating library. An +insatiable appetite for new novels makes it as hard to read a +masterpiece as it seems to a Parisian boulevardier to live in a quiet +country. Until a man can truly enjoy a draft of clear water bubbling +from a mountain side, his taste is in an unwholesome state. And so he +who finds the Heliconian spring insipid should look to the state of his +nerves. Putting aside the iced air of the difficult mountain tops of +epic, tragedy, or psalm, there are some simple pieces which may serve as +an unerring test of a healthy or a vicious taste for imaginative work. +If the _Cid_, the _Vita Nuova_, the _Canterbury Tales_, Shakespeare's +_Sonnets_, and _Lycidas_ pall on a man; if he care not for Malory's +_Morte d'Arthur_ and the _Red Cross Knight_; if he thinks _Crusoe_ and +the _Vicar_ books for the young; if he thrill not with _The Ode to the +West Wind_, and _The Ode to a Grecian Urn_; if he have no stomach for +_Christabel_ or the lines written on _The Wye above Tintern Abbey_, he +should fall on his knees and pray for a cleanlier and quieter spirit. + +The intellectual system of most of us in these days needs "to purge and +to live cleanly." Only by a course of treatment shall we bring our minds +to feel at peace with the grand pure works of the world. Something we +ought all to know of the masterpieces of antiquity, and of the other +nations of Europe. To understand a great national poet, such as Dante, +Calderon, Corneille, or Goethe, is to know other types of human +civilisation in ways which a library of histories does not sufficiently +teach. The great masterpieces of the world are thus, quite apart from +the charm and solace they give us, the master instruments of a solid +education. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 23: From "The Choice of Books," 1891. Printed here by +permission of The Macmillan Company.] + +[Footnote 24: Books intensely desired.] + +[Footnote 25: Thing said in passing.] + +[Footnote 26: Floating scattered on the vast abyss.] + +[Footnote 27: "And here my books--my life--absorb me whole," Cowper's +translation of Milton's Latin Epistle to Diodati.] + +[Footnote 28: This will destroy that.] + + + + +ON GOING A JOURNEY[29] + +WILLIAM HAZLITT + + +One of the pleasantest things in the world is going a journey; but I +like to go by myself. I can enjoy society in a room; but out of doors, +nature is company enough for me. I am then never less alone than when +alone. + + "The fields his study, nature was his book." + +I cannot see the wit of walking and talking at the same time. When I am +in the country, I wish to vegetate like the country. I am not for +criticising hedge-rows and black cattle. I go out of town in order to +forget the town and all that is in it. There are those who for this +purpose go to watering-places, and carry the metropolis with them. I +like more elbow-room, and fewer encumbrances. I like solitude, when I +give myself up to it, for the sake of solitude; nor do I ask for + + ------"a friend in my retreat, + Whom I may whisper solitude is sweet." + +The soul of a journey is liberty, perfect liberty, to think, feel, do +just as one pleases. We go a journey chiefly to be free of all +impediments and of all inconveniences; to leave ourselves behind, much +more to get rid of others. It is because I want a little breathing-space +to muse on indifferent matters, where Contemplation + + "May plume her feathers and let grow her wings, + That in the various bustle of resort + Were all too ruffled, and sometimes impair'd," + +that I absent myself from the town for a while, without feeling at a +loss the moment I am left by myself. Instead of a friend in a postchaise +or in a Tilbury, to exchange good things with, and vary the same stale +topics over again, for once let me have a truce with impertinence. Give +me the clear blue sky over my head, and the green turf beneath my feet, +a winding road before me, and a three hours' march to dinner--and then +to thinking! It is hard if I cannot start some game on these lone +heaths. I laugh, I run, I leap, I sing for joy. From the point of yonder +rolling cloud, I plunge into my past being, and revel there, as the +sunburnt Indian plunges headlong into the wave that wafts him to his +native shore. Then long-forgotten things, like "sunken wrack and sumless +treasuries," burst upon my eager sight, and I begin to feel, think, and +be myself again. Instead of an awkward silence, broken by attempts at +wit or dull commonplaces, mine is that undisturbed silence of the heart +which alone is perfect eloquence. No one likes puns, alliterations, +antitheses, arguments, and analysis better than I do; but I sometimes +had rather be without them. "Leave, oh, leave me to my repose!" I have +just now other business in hand, which would seem idle to you, but is +with me "very stuff of the conscience." Is not this wild rose sweet +without a comment? Does not this daisy leap to my heart set in its coat +of emerald. Yet if I were to explain to you the circumstance that has so +endeared it to me, you would only smile. Had I not better then keep it +to myself, and let it serve me to brood over, from here to yonder craggy +point, and from thence onward to the far-distant horizon? I should be +but bad company all that way, and therefore prefer being alone. I have +heard it said that you may, when the moody fit comes on, walk or ride on +by yourself, and indulge your reveries. But this looks like a breach of +manners, a neglect of others, and you are thinking all the time that you +ought to rejoin your party. "Out upon such half-faced fellowship," say +I. I like to be either entirely to myself, or entirely at the disposal +of others; to talk or be silent, to walk or sit still, to be sociable +or solitary. I was pleased with an observation of Mr. Cobbett's that "he +thought it a bad French custom to drink our wine with our meals, and +that an Englishman ought to do only one thing at a time." So I cannot +talk and think, or indulge in melancholy musing and lively conversation +by fits and starts. "Let me have a companion of my way," says Sterne, +"were it but to remark how the shadows lengthen as the sun declines." It +is beautifully said: but in my opinion, this continual comparing of +notes interferes with the involuntary impression of things upon the +mind, and hurts the sentiment. If you only hint what you feel in a kind +of dumb show, it is insipid: if you have to explain it, it is making a +toil of a pleasure. You cannot read the book of nature, without being +perpetually put to the trouble of translating it for the benefit of +others. I am for the synthetical method on a journey, in preference to +the analytical. I am content to lay in a stock of ideas then, and to +examine and anatomise them afterwards. I want to see my vague notions +float like the down of the thistle before the breeze, and not to have +them entangled in the briars and thorns of controversy. For once, I like +to have it all my own way; and this is impossible unless you are alone, +or in such company as I do not covet. I have no objection to argue a +point with any one for twenty miles of measured road, but not for +pleasure. If you remark the scent of a beanfield crossing the road, +perhaps your fellow-traveller has no smell. If you point to a distant +object, perhaps he is short-sighted, and has to take out his glass to +look at it. There is a feeling in the air, a tone in the colour of a +cloud which hits your fancy, but the effect of which you are unable to +account for. There is then no sympathy, but an uneasy craving after it, +and a dissatisfaction which pursues you on the way, and in the end +probably produces ill humour. Now I never quarrel with myself, and take +all my own conclusions for granted till I find it necessary to defend +them against objections. It is not merely that you may not be of accord +on the objects and circumstances that present themselves before +you--these may recall a number of objects, and lead to associations too +delicate and refined to be possibly communicated to others. Yet these I +love to cherish, and sometimes still fondly clutch them, when I can +escape from the throng to do so. To give way to our feelings before +company, seems extravagance or affectation; and on the other hand, to +have to unravel this mystery of our being at every turn, and to make +others take an equal interest in it (otherwise the end is not answered) +is a task to which few are competent. We must "give it an understanding, +but no tongue." My old friend C----, however, could do both. He could go +on in the most delightful explanatory way over hill and dale, a summer's +day, and convert a landscape into a didactic poem or a Pindaric ode. "He +talked far above singing." If I could so clothe my ideas in sounding and +flowing words, I might perhaps wish to have some one with me to admire +the swelling theme; or I could be more content, were it possible for me +still to hear his echoing voice in the woods of All-Foxden. They had +"that fine madness in them which our first poets had;" and if they could +have been caught by some rare instrument, would have breathed such +strains as the following. + + ------"Here be woods as green + As any, air likewise as fresh and sweet + As when smooth Zephyrus plays on the fleet + Face of the curled stream, with flow'rs as many + As the young spring gives, and as choice as any; + Here be all new delights, cool streams and wells, + Arbours o'ergrown with woodbine, caves and dells; + Choose where thou wilt, while I sit by and sing, + Or gather rushes to make many a ring + For thy long fingers; tell thee tales of love, + How the pale Phoebe, hunting in a grove, + First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes + She took eternal fire that never dies; + How she convey'd him softly in a sleep, + His temples bound with poppy, to the steep + Head of old Latmos, where she stoops each night, + Gilding the mountain with her brother's light, + To kiss her sweetest."------ + FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS. + +Had I words and images at command like these, I would attempt to wake +the thoughts that lie slumbering on golden ridges in the evening clouds: +but at the sight of nature my fancy, poor as it is, droops and closes up +its leaves, like flowers at sunset. I can make nothing out on the +spot:--I must have time to collect myself.-- + +In general, a good thing spoils out-of-door prospects: it should be +reserved for Table-talk. L---- is for this reason, I take it, the worst +company in the world out of doors; because he is the best within. I +grant, there is one subject on which it is pleasant to talk on a +journey; and that is, what one shall have for supper when we get to our +inn at night. The open air improves this sort of conversation or +friendly altercation, by setting a keener edge on appetite. Every mile +of the road heightens the flavour of the viands we expect at the end of +it. How fine it is to enter some old town, walled and turreted, just at +the approach of nightfall, or to come to some straggling village, with +the lights streaming through the surrounding gloom; and then after +inquiring for the best entertainment that the place affords, to "take +one's ease at one's inn!" These eventful moments in our lives' history +are too precious, too full of solid, heartfelt happiness to be frittered +and dribbled away in imperfect sympathy. I would have them all to +myself, and drain them to the last drop: they will do to talk of or to +write about afterwards. What a delicate speculation it is, after +drinking whole goblets of tea, + + "The cups that cheer, but not inebriate," + +and letting the fumes ascend into the brain, to sit considering what we +shall have for supper--eggs and a rasher, a rabbit smothered in onions, +or an excellent veal-cutlet! Sancho[30] in such a situation once fixed +upon cow-heel; and his choice, though he could not help it, is not to be +disparaged. Then in the intervals of pictured scenery and Shandean +contemplation, to catch the preparation and the stir in the +kitchen--_Procul, O procul este profani!_[31] These hours are sacred to +silence and to musing, to be treasured up in the memory, and to feed the +source of smiling thoughts hereafter. I would not waste them in idle +talk; or if I must have the integrity of fancy broken in upon, I would +rather it were by a stranger than a friend. A stranger takes his hue and +character from the time and place; he is a part of the furniture and +costume of an inn. If he is a Quaker, or from the West Riding of +Yorkshire, so much the better. I do not even try to sympathise with him, +and he breaks no squares. I associate nothing with my travelling +companion but present objects and passing events. In his ignorance of me +and my affairs, I in a manner forget myself. But a friend reminds one of +other things, rips up old grievances, and destroys the abstraction of +the scene. He comes in ungraciously between us and our imaginary +character. Something is dropped in the course of conversation that gives +a hint of your profession and pursuits; or from having some one with you +that knows the less sublime portions of your history, it seems that +other people do. You are no longer a citizen of the world: but your +"unhoused free condition is put into circumscription and confine." The +_incognito_ of an inn is one of its striking privileges--"lord of one's +self, uncumber'd with a name." Oh! it is great to shake off the trammels +of the world and of public opinion--to lose our importunate, tormenting, +everlasting personal identity in the elements of nature, and become the +creature of the moment, clear of all ties--to hold to the universe only +by a dish of sweet-breads, and to owe nothing but the score of the +evening--and no longer seeking for applause and meeting with contempt, +to be known by no other title than _the Gentleman in the parlour_! One +may take one's choice of all characters in this romantic state of +uncertainty as to one's real pretensions, and become indefinitely +respectable and negatively rightworshipful. We baffle prejudice and +disappoint conjecture; and from being so to others, begin to be objects +of curiosity and wonder even to ourselves. We are no more those +hackneyed commonplaces that we appear in the world: an inn restores us +to the level of nature, and quits scores with society! I have certainly +spent some enviable hours at inns--sometimes when I have been left +entirely to myself, and have tried to solve some metaphysical problem, +as once at Witham-common, where I found out the proof that likeness is +not a case of the association of ideas--at other times, when there have +been pictures in the room, as at St. Neot's (I think it was) where I +first met with Gribelin's engravings of the Cartoons, into which I +entered at once, and at a little inn on the borders of Wales, where +there happened to be hanging some of Westall's drawings, which I +compared triumphantly (for a theory that I had, not for the admired +artist) with the figure of a girl who had ferried me over the Severn, +standing up in the boat between me and the twilight--at other times I +might mention luxuriating in books, with a peculiar interest in this +way, as I remember sitting up half the night to read Paul and Virginia, +which I picked up at an inn at Bridgewater, after being drenched in the +rain all day; and at the same place I got through two volumes of Madame +D'Arblay's Camilla. It was on the tenth of April, 1798, that I sat down +to a volume of the New Eloise, at the inn at Llangollen, over a bottle +of sherry and a cold chicken. The letter I chose was that in which St. +Preux describes his feelings as he first caught a glimpse from the +heights of the Jura of the Pays de Vaud, which I had brought with me as +a _bon bouche_[32], to crown the evening with. It was my birthday, and I +had for the first time come from a place in the neighbourhood to visit +this delightful spot. The road to Llangollen turns off between Chirk +and Wrexham; and on passing a certain point, you come all at once upon +the valley, which opens like an amphitheatre, broad, barren hills rising +in majestic state on either side, with "green upland swells that echo to +the bleat of flocks" below, and the river Dee babbling over its stony +bed in the midst of them. The valley at this time "glittered green with +sunny showers," and a budding ash-tree dipped its tender branches in the +chiding stream. How proud, how glad I was to walk along the high road +that overlooks the delicious prospect, repeating the lines which I have +just quoted from Mr. Coleridge's poems! But besides the prospect which +opened beneath my feet, another also opened to my inward sight, a +heavenly vision, on which were written, in letters large as Hope could +make them, these four words, LIBERTY, GENIUS, LOVE, VIRTUE; which have +since faded into the light of common day, or mock my idle gaze. + + "The beautiful is vanished, and returns not." + +Still I would return some time or other to this enchanted spot; but I +would return to it alone. What other self could I find to share that +influx of thoughts, of regret, and delight, the fragments of which I +could hardly conjure up to myself, so much have they been broken and +defaced! I could stand on some tall rock, and overlook the precipice of +years that separates me from what I then was. I was at that time going +shortly to visit the poet whom I have above named. Where is he now? Not +only I myself have changed; the world, which was then new to me, has +become old and incorrigible. Yet will I turn to thee in thought, O +sylvan Dee, in joy, in youth and gladness as thou then wert; and thou +shalt always be to me the river of Paradise, where I will drink of the +waters of life freely! + +There is hardly any thing that shows the short-sightedness or +capriciousness of the imagination more than travelling does. With change +of place we change our ideas; nay, our opinions and feelings. We can by +an effort indeed transport ourselves to old and long-forgotten scenes, +and then the picture of the mind revives again; but we forget those that +we have just left. It seems that we can think but of one place at a +time. The canvas of the fancy is but of a certain extent, and if we +paint one set of objects upon it, they immediately efface every other. +We cannot enlarge our conceptions, we only shift our point of view. The +landscape bares its bosom to the enraptured eye, we take our fill of it, +and seem as if we could form no other image of beauty or grandeur. We +pass on, and think no more of it: the horizon that shuts it from our +sight, also blots it from our memory like a dream. In travelling through +a wild barren country, I can form no idea of a woody and cultivated one. +It appears to me that all the world must be barren, like what I see of +it. In the country we forget the town, and in town we despise the +country. "Beyond Hyde Park," says Sir Fopling Flutter, "all is a +desert." All that part of the map that we do not see before us is a +blank. The world in our conceit of it is not much bigger than a +nutshell. It is not one prospect expanded into another, county joined to +county, kingdom to kingdom, lands to seas, making an image voluminous +and vast;--the mind can form no larger idea of space than the eye can +take in at a single glance. The rest is a name written in a map, a +calculation of arithmetic. For instance, what is the true signification +of that immense mass of territory and population, known by the name of +China, to us? An inch of paste-board on a wooden globe, of no more +account than a China orange! Things near us are seen of the size of +life: things at a distance are diminished to the size of the +understanding. We measure the universe by ourselves, and even comprehend +the texture of our own being only piecemeal. In this way, however, we +remember an infinity of things and places. The mind is like a mechanical +instrument that plays a great variety of tunes, but it must play them in +succession. One idea recalls another, but it at the same time excludes +all others. In trying to renew old recollections, we cannot as it were +unfold the whole web of our existence; we must pick out the single +threads. So in coming to a place where we have formerly lived and with +which we have intimate associations, every one must have found that the +feeling grows more vivid the nearer we approach the spot, from the mere +anticipation of the actual impression: we remember circumstances, +feelings, persons, faces, names, that we had not thought of for years; +but for the time all the rest of the world is forgotten! + +To return to the question I have quitted above. I have no objection to +go to see ruins, aqueducts, pictures, in company with a friend or a +party, but rather the contrary, for the former reason reversed. They are +intelligible matters, and will bear talking about. The sentiment here is +not tacit, but communicable and overt. Salisbury Plain is barren of +criticism, but Stonehenge will bear a discussion antiquarian, +picturesque, and philosophical. In setting out on a party of pleasure, +the first consideration always is where we shall go to; in taking a +solitary ramble, the question is what we shall meet with by the way. +"The mind is its own place;" nor are we anxious to arrive at the end of +our journey. I can myself do the honours indifferently well to works of +art and curiosity. I once took a party to Oxford with no mean +_éclat_--showed them that seat of the Muses at a distance, + + "With glistering spires and pinnacles adorn'd"-- + +descanted on the learned air that breathes from the grassy quadrangles +and stone walls of halls and colleges--was at home in the Bodleian; and +at Blenheim quite superseded the powdered Ciceroni that attended us, and +that pointed, in vain with his wand to commonplace beauties in matchless +pictures.--As another exception to the above reasoning, I should not +feel confident in venturing on a journey in a foreign country without a +companion. I should want at intervals to hear the sound of my own +language. There is an involuntary antipathy in the mind of an Englishman +to foreign manners and notions that requires the assistance of social +sympathy to carry it off. As the distance from home increases, this +relief, which was at first a luxury, becomes a passion and an appetite. +A person would almost feel stifled to find himself in the deserts of +Arabia without friends and countrymen: there must be allowed to be +something in the view of Athens or old Rome that claims the utterance of +speech; and I own that the Pyramids are too mighty for any single +contemplation. In such situations, so opposite to all one's ordinary +train of ideas, one seems a species by one's self, a limb torn off from +society, unless one can meet with instant fellowship and support.--Yet I +did not feel this want or craving very pressing once, when I first set +my foot on the laughing shores of France. Calais was peopled with +novelty and delight. The confused, busy murmur of the place was like oil +and wine poured into my ears; nor did the mariners' hymn, which was sung +from the top of an old crazy vessel in the harbour, as the sun went +down, send an alien sound into my soul. I only breathed the air of +general humanity. I walked over "the vine-covered hills and gay regions +of France," erect and satisfied; for the image of man was not cast down +and chained to the foot of arbitrary thrones: I was at no loss for +language, for that of all the great schools of painting was open to me. +The whole is vanished like a shade. Pictures, heroes, glory, freedom, +all are fled: nothing remains but the Bourbons and the French +people!--There is undoubtedly a sensation in travelling into foreign +parts that is to be had nowhere else: but it is more pleasing at the +time than lasting. It is too remote from our habitual associations to be +a common topic of discourse or reference, and, like a dream or another +state of existence, does not piece into our daily modes of life. It is +an animated but a momentary hallucination. It demands an effort to +exchange our actual for our ideal identity; and to feel the pulse of our +old transports revive very keenly, we must "jump" all our present +comforts and connections. Our romantic and itinerant character is not +to be domesticated. Dr. Johnson remarked how little foreign travel added +to the facilities of conversation in those who had been abroad. In fact, +the time we have spent there is both delightful and in one sense +instructive; but it appears to be cut out of our substantial, downright +existence, and never to join kindly on to it. We are not the same, but +another, and perhaps more enviable individual, all the time we are out +of our own country. We are lost to ourselves, as well as our friends. So +the poet somewhat quaintly sings, + + "Out of my country and myself I go." + +Those who wish to forget painful thoughts, do well to absent themselves +for a while from the ties and objects that recall them: but we can be +said only to fulfil our destiny in the place that gave us birth. I +should on this account like well enough to spend the whole of my life in +travelling abroad, if I could any where borrow another life to spend +afterwards at home! + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 29: From "Table-Talk," 1821-2.] + +[Footnote 30: Sancho Panza, a character in Cervantes' romance, "Don +Quixote."] + +[Footnote 31: Aloof, O keep aloof, ye uninitiated!] + +[Footnote 32: A titbit.] + + + + +THE REGRETS OF A MOUNTAINEER[33] + +LESLIE STEPHEN + + +I have often felt a sympathy, which almost rises to the pathetic, when +looking on at a cricket-match or boat-race. Something of the emotion +with which Gray regarded the "distant spires and antique towers" rises +within me. It is not, indeed, that I feel very deeply for the fine +ingenuous lads who, as somebody says, are about to be degraded into +tricky, selfish Members of Parliament. I have seen too much of them. +They are very fine animals; but they are rather too exclusively animal. +The soul is apt to be in too embryonic a state within these cases of +well-strung bone and muscle. It is impossible for a mere athletic +machine, however finely constructed, to appeal very deeply to one's +finer sentiments. I can scarcely look forward with even an affectation +of sorrow for the time when, if more sophisticated, it will at least +have made a nearer approach to the dignity of an intellectual being. It +is not the boys who make me feel a touch of sadness; their approaching +elevation to the dignity of manhood will raise them on the whole in the +scale of humanity; it is the older spectators whose aspect has in it +something affecting. The shaky old gentleman, who played in the days +when it was decidedly less dangerous to stand up to bowling than to a +cannon-ball, and who now hobbles about on rheumatic joints, by the help +of a stick; the corpulent elder, who rowed when boats had gangways down +their middle, and did not require as delicate a balance as an acrobat's +at the top of a living pyramid--these are the persons whom I cannot see +without an occasional sigh. They are really conscious that they have +lost something which they can never regain; or, if they momentarily +forget it, it is even more forcibly impressed upon the spectators. To +see a respectable old gentleman of sixty, weighing some fifteen stone, +suddenly forget a third of his weight and two-thirds of his years, and +attempt to caper like a boy, is indeed a startling phenomenon. To the +thoughtless, it may be simply comic; but, without being a Jaques, one +may contrive also to suck some melancholy out of it. + +Now, as I have never caught a cricket-ball, and, on the contrary, have +caught numerous crabs in my life, the sympathy which I feel for these +declining athletes is not due to any great personal interest in the +matter. But I have long anticipated that a similar day would come for +me, when I should no longer be able to pursue my favourite sport of +mountaineering. Some day I should find that the ascent of a zigzag was +as bad as a performance on the treadmill; that I could not look over a +precipice without a swimming in the head; and that I could no more jump +a crevasse than the Thames at Westminster. None of these things have +come to pass. So far as I know, my physical powers are still equal to +the ascent of Mont Blanc or the Jungfrau. But I am no less effectually +debarred--it matters not how--from mountaineering. I wander at the foot +of the gigantic Alps, and look up longingly to the summits, which are +apparently so near, and yet know that they are divided from me by an +impassable gulf. In some missionary work I have read that certain South +Sea Islanders believed in a future paradise where the good should go on +eating for ever with insatiable appetites at an inexhaustible banquet. +They were to continue their eternal dinner in a house with open +wickerwork sides; and it was to be the punishment of the damned to crawl +outside in perpetual hunger and look in through the chinks as little +boys look in through the windows of a London cookshop. With similar +feelings I lately watched through a telescope the small black dots, +which were really men, creeping up the high flanks of Mont Blanc or +Monte Rosa. The eternal snows represented for me the Elysian fields, +into which entrance was sternly forbidden, and I lingered about the spot +with a mixture of pleasure and pain, in the envious contemplation of my +more fortunate companions. + +I know there are those who will receive these assertions with civil +incredulity. Some persons assume that every pleasure with which they +cannot sympathise is necessarily affectation, and hold, as a particular +case of that doctrine, that Alpine travellers risk their lives merely +from fashion or desire of notoriety. Others are kind enough to admit +that there is something genuine in the passion, but put it on a level +with the passion for climbing greased poles. They think it derogatory to +the due dignity of Mont Blanc that he should be used as a greased pole, +and assure us that the true pleasures of the Alps are those which are +within reach of the old and the invalids, who can only creep about +villages and along high-roads. I cannot well argue with such detractors +from what I consider a noble sport. As for the first class, it is +reduced almost to a question of veracity. I say that I enjoy being on +the top of a mountain, or, indeed, halfway up a mountain; that climbing +is a pleasure to me, and would be so if no one else climbed and no one +ever heard of my climbing. They reply that they don't believe it. No +more argument is possible than if I were to say that I liked eating +olives, and some one asserted that I really eat them only out of +affectation. My reply would be simply to go on eating olives; and I hope +the reply of mountaineers will be to go on climbing Alps. The other +assault is more intelligible. Our critics admit that we have a pleasure; +but assert that it is a puerile pleasure--that it leads to an irreverent +view of mountain beauty, and to oversight of that which should really +most impress a refined and noble mind. To this I shall only make such an +indirect reply as may result from a frank confession of my own regrets +at giving up the climbing business--perhaps for ever. I am sinking, so +to speak, from the butterfly to the caterpillar stage, and, if the +creeping thing is really the highest of the two, it will appear that +there is something in the substance of my lamentations unworthy of an +intellectual being. Let me try. By way of preface, however, I admit that +mountaineering, in my sense of the word, is a sport. It is a sport +which, like fishing or shooting, brings one into contact with the +sublimest aspects of nature; and, without setting their enjoyment before +one as an ultimate end or aim, helps one indirectly to absorb and be +penetrated by their influence. Still it is strictly a sport--as strictly +as cricket, or rowing, or knurr and spell--and I have no wish to place +it on a different footing. The game is won when a mountain-top is +reached in spite of difficulties; it is lost when one is forced to +retreat; and, whether won or lost, it calls into play a great variety of +physical and intellectual energies, and gives the pleasure which always +accompanies an energetic use of our faculties. Still it suffers in some +degree from this undeniable characteristic, and especially from the +tinge which has consequently been communicated to narratives of mountain +adventures. There are two ways which have been appropriated to the +description of all sporting exploits. One is to indulge in fine writing +about them, to burst out in sentences which swell to paragraphs, and in +paragraphs which spread over pages; to plunge into ecstasies about +infinite abysses and overpowering splendours, to compare mountains to +archangels lying down in eternal winding-sheets of snow, and to convert +them into allegories about man's highest destinies and aspirations. This +is good when it is well done. Mr. Ruskin has covered the Matterhorn, for +example, with a whole web of poetical associations, in language which, +to a severe taste, is perhaps a trifle too fine, though he has done it +with an eloquence which his bitterest antagonists must freely +acknowledge. Yet most humble writers will feel that if they try to +imitate Mr. Ruskin's eloquence they will pay the penalty of becoming +ridiculous. It is not every one who can with impunity compare Alps to +archangels. Tall talk is luckily an object of suspicion to Englishmen, +and consequently most writers, and especially those who frankly adopt +the sporting view of the mountains, adopt the opposite scheme: they +affect something like cynicism; they mix descriptions of scenery with +allusions to fleas or to bitter beer; they shrink with the prevailing +dread of Englishmen from the danger of overstepping the limits of the +sublime into its proverbial opposite; and they humbly try to amuse us +because they can't strike us with awe. This, too, if I may venture to +say so, is good in its way and place; and it seems rather hard to these +luckless writers when people assume that, because they make jokes on a +mountain, they are necessarily insensible to its awful sublimities. A +sense of humour is not incompatible with imaginative sensibility; and +even Wordsworth might have been an equally powerful prophet of nature if +he could sometimes have descended from his stilts. In short, a man may +worship mountains, and yet have a quiet joke with them when he is +wandering all day in their tremendous solitudes. + +Joking, however, is, it must be admitted, a dangerous habit. I freely +avow that, in my humble contributions to Alpine literature, I have +myself made some very poor and very unseasonable witticisms. I confess +my error, and only wish that I had no worse errors to confess. Still I +think that the poor little jokes in which we mountaineers sometimes +indulge have been made liable to rather harsh constructions. We are +accused, in downright earnest, not merely of being flippant, but of an +arrogant contempt for all persons whose legs are not as strong as our +own. We are supposed seriously to wrap ourselves in our own conceit, and +to brag intolerably of our exploits. Now I will not say that no +mountaineer ever swaggers: the quality called by the vulgar "bounce" is +unluckily confined to no profession. Certainly I have seen a man +intolerably vain because he could raise a hundred-weight with his little +finger; and I dare say that the "champion bill-poster," whose name is +advertised on the walls of this metropolis, thinks excellence in +bill-posting the highest virtue of a citizen. So some men may be silly +enough to brag in all seriousness about mountain exploits. However, most +lads of twenty learn that it is silly to give themselves airs about mere +muscular eminence; and especially is this true of Alpine +exploits--first, because they require less physical prowess than almost +any other sport, and secondly, because a good amateur still feels +himself the hopeless inferior of half the Alpine peasants whom he sees. +You cannot be very conceited about a game in which the first clodhopper +you meet can give you ten minutes' start in an hour. Still a man writing +in a humorous vein naturally adopts a certain bumptious tone, just as +our friend "Punch" ostentatiously declares himself to be omniscient and +infallible. Nobody takes him at his word, or supposes that the editor of +"Punch" is really the most conceited man in all England. But we poor +mountaineers are occasionally fixed with our own careless talk by some +outsider who is not in the secret. We know ourselves to be a small sect, +and to be often laughed at; we reply by: assuming that we are the salt +of the earth, and that our amusement is the first and noblest of all +amusements. Our only retort to the good-humoured ridicule with which we +are occasionally treated is to adopt an affected strut, and to carry it +off as if we were the finest fellows in the world. We make a boast of +our shame, and say, if you laugh we must crow. But we don't really mean +anything: if we did, the only word which the English language would +afford wherewith to describe us would be the very unpleasant antithesis +to wise men, and certainly I hold that we have the average amount of +common sense. When, therefore, I see us taken to task for swaggering, I +think it a trifle hard that this merely playful affectation of +superiority should be made a serious fault. For the future I would +promise to be careful, if it were worth avoiding the misunderstanding of +men who won't take a joke. Meanwhile, I can only state that when Alpine +travellers indulge in a little swagger about their own performances and +other people's incapacity, they don't mean more than an infinitesimal +fraction of what they say, and that they know perfectly well that when +history comes to pronounce a final judgment upon the men of the time, it +won't put mountain-climbing on a level with patriotism, or even with +excellence in the fine arts. + +The reproach of real _bonâ fide_ arrogance is, so far as I know, very +little true of Alpine travellers. With the exception of the necessary +fringe hanging on to every set of human beings--consisting of persons +whose heads are weaker than their legs--the mountaineer, so far as my +experience has gone, is generally modest enough. Perhaps he sometimes +flaunts his ice-axes and ropes a little too much before the public eye +at Chamonix, as a yachtsman occasionally flourishes his nautical costume +at Cowes; but the fault may be pardoned by those not inexorable to human +weaknesses. This opinion, I know, cuts at the root of the most popular +theory as to our ruling passion. If we do not climb the Alps to gain +notoriety, for what purpose can we possibly climb them? That same +unlucky trick of joking is taken to indicate that we don't care much +about the scenery; for who, with a really susceptible soul, could be +facetious under the cliffs of Jungfrau or the ghastly precipices of the +Matterhorn? Hence people who kindly excuse us from the blame of +notoriety-hunting generally accept the "greased-pole" theory. We are, it +seems, overgrown schoolboys, who, like other schoolboys, enjoy being in +dirt, and danger, and mischief, and have as much sensibility for natural +beauty as the mountain mules. And against this, as a more serious +complaint, I wish to make my feeble protest, in order that my +lamentations on quitting the profession may not seem unworthy of a +thinking being. + +Let me try to recall some of the impressions which mountaineering has +left with me, and see whether they throw any light upon the subject. As +I gaze at the huge cliffs where I may no longer wander, I find +innumerable recollections arise--some of them dim, as though belonging +to a past existence; and some so brilliant that I can scarcely realise +my exclusion from the scenes to which they belong. I am standing at the +foot of what, to my mind, is the most glorious of all Alpine +wonders--the huge Oberland precipice, on the slopes of the Faulhorn or +the Wengern Alp. Innumerable tourists have done all that tourists can do +to cocknify (if that is the right derivative from cockney) the scenery; +but, like the Pyramids or a Gothic cathedral, it throws off the taint of +vulgarity by its imperishable majesty. Even on turf strewn with +sandwich-papers and empty bottles, even in the presence of hideous +peasant-women singing "Stand-er auf" for five centimes, we cannot but +feel the influence of Alpine beauty. When the sunlight is dying off the +snows, or the full moon lighting them up with ethereal tints, even +sandwich-papers and singing women may be forgotten. How does the memory +of scrambles along snow arêtes, of plunges--luckily not too deep--into +crevasses, of toil through long snowfields, towards a refuge that seemed +to recede as we advanced--where, to quote Tennyson with due alteration, +to the traveller toiling in immeasurable snow-- + + Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous hill + The châlet sparkles like a grain of salt;-- + +how do such memories as these harmonise with the sense of superlative +sublimity? + +One element of mountain beauty is, we shall all admit, their vast size +and steepness. That a mountain is very big, and is faced by +perpendicular walls of rock, is the first thing which strikes everybody, +and is the whole essence and outcome of a vast quantity of poetical +description. Hence the first condition towards a due appreciation of +mountain scenery is that these qualities should be impressed upon the +imagination. The mere dry statement that a mountain is so many feet in +vertical height above the sea, and contains so many tons of granite, is +nothing. Mont Blanc, is about three miles high. What of that? Three +miles is an hour's walk for a lady--an eighteen-penny cab-fare--the +distance from Hyde Park Corner to the Bank--an express train could do it +in three minutes, or a racehorse in five. It is a measure which we have +learnt to despise, looking at it from a horizontal point of view; and +accordingly most persons, on seeing the Alps for the first time, guess +them to be higher, as measured in feet, than they really are. What, +indeed, is the use of giving measures in feet to any but the scientific +mind? Who cares whether the moon is 250,000 or 2,500,000 miles distant? +Mathematicians try to impress upon us that the distance of the fixed +stars is only expressible by a row of figures which stretches across a +page; suppose it stretched across two or across a dozen pages, should we +be any the wiser, or have, in the least degree, a clearer notion of the +superlative distances? We civilly say, "Dear me!" when the astronomer +looks to us for the appropriate stare, but we only say it with the +mouth; internally our remark is, "You might as well have multiplied by a +few more millions whilst you were about it." Even astronomers, though +not a specially imaginative race, feel the impotence of figures, and try +to give us some measure which the mind can grasp a little more +conveniently. They tell us about the cannon-ball which might have been +flying ever since the time of Adam, and not yet have reached the +heavenly body, or about the stars which may not yet have become visible, +though the light has been flying to us at a rate inconceivable by the +mind for an inconceivable number of years; and they succeed in producing +a bewildering and giddy sensation, although the numbers are too vast to +admit of any accurate apprehension. + +We feel a similar need in the case of mountains. Besides the bare +statement of figures, it is necessary to have some means for grasping +the meaning of the figures. The bare tens and thousands must be clothed +with some concrete images. The statement that a mountain is 15,000 feet +high is, by itself, little more impressive, than that it is 3,000; we +want something more before we can mentally compare Mont Blanc and +Snowdon. Indeed, the same people who guess of a mountain's height at a +number of feet much exceeding the reality, show, when they are +cross-examined, that they fail to appreciate in any tolerable degree the +real meaning of the figures. An old lady one day, about 11 A.M., +proposed to walk from the Aeggischhorn to the Jungfrau-Joch, and to +return for luncheon--the distance being a good twelve hours' journey for +trained mountaineers. Every detail of which the huge mass is composed is +certain to be underestimated. A gentleman the other day pointed out to +me a grand ice-cliff at the end of a hanging glacier, which must have +been at least 100 feet high, and asked me whether that snow was three +feet deep. Nothing is more common than for tourists to mistake some huge +pinnacle of rock, as big as a church tower, for a traveller. The rocks +of the Grands Mulets, in one corner of which the châlet is hidden, are +often identified with a party ascending Mont Blanc; and I have seen +boulders as big as a house pointed out confidently as chamois. People +who make these blunders must evidently see the mountains as mere toys, +however many feet they may give them at a random guess. Huge overhanging +cliffs are to them steps within the reach of human legs; yawning +crevasses are ditches to be jumped; and foaming waterfalls are like +streams from penny squirts. Everyone knows the avalanches on the +Jungfrau, and the curiously disproportionate appearance of the little +puffs of white smoke, which are said to be the cause of the thunder; but +the disproportion ceases to an eye that has learnt really to measure +distance, and to know that these smoke-puffs, represent a cataract of +crashing blocks of ice. + +Now the first merit of mountaineering is that it enables one to have +what theologians would call an experimental faith in the size of +mountains--to substitute a real living belief for a dead intellectual +assent. It enables one, first, to assign something like its true +magnitude to a rock or snow-slope; and, secondly, to measure that +magnitude in terms of muscular exertion instead of bare mathematical +units. Suppose that we are standing upon the Wengern Alp; between the +Mönch and the Eiger there stretches a round white bank, with a curved +outline, which we may roughly compare to the back of one of Sir E. +Landseer's lions. The ordinary tourists--the old man, the woman, or the +cripple, who are supposed to appreciate the real beauties of Alpine +scenery--may look at it comfortably from their hotel. They may see its +graceful curve, the long straight lines that are ruled in delicate +shading down its sides, and the contrast of the blinding white snow with +the dark blue sky above; but they will probably guess it to be a mere +bank--a snowdrift, perhaps, which has been piled by the last storm. If +you pointed out to them one of the great rocky teeth that projected from +its summit, and said that it was a guide, they would probably remark +that he looked very small, and would fancy that he could jump over the +bank with an effort. Now a mountaineer knows, to begin with, that it is +a massive rocky rib, covered with snow, lying at a sharp angle, and +varying perhaps from 500 to 1,000 feet in height. So far he might be +accompanied by men of less soaring ambition; by an engineer who had been +mapping the country, or an artist who had been carefully observing the +mountains from their bases. They might learn in time to interpret +correctly the real meaning of shapes at which the uninitiated guess at +random. But the mountaineer can go a step further, and it is the next +step which gives the real significance to those delicate curves and +lines. He can translate the 500 or 1,000 feet of snow-slope into a more +tangible unit of measurement. To him, perhaps, they recall the memory of +a toilsome ascent, the sun beating on his head for five or six hours, +the snow returning the glare with still more parching effect; a stalwart +guide toiling all the weary time, cutting steps in hard blue ice, the +fragments hissing and spinning down the long straight grooves in the +frozen snow till they lost themselves in the yawning chasm below; and +step after step taken along the slippery staircase, till at length he +triumphantly sprang upon the summit of the tremendous wall that no human +foot had scaled before. The little black knobs that rise above the edge +represent for him huge impassable rocks, sinking on one side in scarped +slippery surfaces towards the snow-field, and on the other stooping in +one tremendous cliff to a distorted glacier thousands of feet below. The +faint blue line across the upper névé, scarcely distinguishable to the +eye, represents to one observer nothing but a trifling undulation; a +second, perhaps, knows that it means a crevasse; the mountaineer +remembers that it is the top of a huge chasm, thirty feet across, and +perhaps ten times as deep, with perpendicular sides of glimmering blue +ice, and fringed by thick rows of enormous pendent icicles. The marks +that are scored in delicate lines, such as might be ruled by a diamond +on glass, have been cut by innumerable streams trickling in hot weather +from the everlasting snow, or ploughed by succeeding avalanches that +have slipped from the huge upper snowfields above. In short, there is no +insignificant line or mark that has not its memory or its indication of +the strange phenomena of the upper world. True, the same picture is +painted upon the retina of all classes of observers; and so Porson and a +schoolboy and a peasant might receive the same physical impression from +a set of black and white marks on the page of a Greek play; but to one +they would be an incoherent conglomeration of unmeaning and capricious +lines, to another they would represent certain sounds more or less +corresponding to some English words; whilst to the scholar they would +reveal some of the noblest poetry in the world, and all the associations +of successful intellectual labour. I do not say that the difference is +quite so great in the case of the mountains; still I am certain that no +one can decipher the natural writing on the face of a snow-slope or a +precipice who has not wandered amongst their recesses, and learnt by +slow experience what is indicated by marks which an ignorant observer +would scarcely notice. True, even one who sees a mountain for the first +time may know that, as a matter of fact, a scar on the face of a cliff +means, for example, a recent fall of a rock; but between the bare +knowledge and the acquaintance with all which that knowledge +implies--the thunder of the fall, the crash of the smaller fragments, +the bounding energy of the descending mass--there is almost as much +difference as between hearing that a battle has been fought and being +present at it yourself. We have all read descriptions of Waterloo till +we are sick of the subject; but I imagine that our emotions on seeing +the shattered well of Hougomont are very inferior to those of one of the +Guard who should revisit the place where he held out for a long day +against the assaults of the French army. + +Now to an old mountaineer the Oberland cliffs are full of memories; and, +more than this, he has learnt the language spoken by every crag and +every wave of glacier. It is strange if they do not affect him rather +more powerfully than the casual visitor who has never been initiated by +practical experience into their difficulties. To him, the huge buttress +which runs down from the Mönch is something more than an irregular +pyramid, purple with white patches at the bottom and pure white at the +top. He fills up the bare outline supplied by the senses with a thousand +lively images. He sees tier above tier of rock, rising in a gradually +ascending scale of difficulty, covered at first by long lines of the +débris that have been splintered by frost from the higher wall, and +afterwards rising bare and black and threatening. He knows instinctively +which of the ledges has a dangerous look--where such a bold mountaineer +as John Lauener might slip on the polished surface, or be in danger of +an avalanche from above. He sees the little shell-like swelling at the +foot of the glacier crawling down the steep slope above, and knows that +it means an almost inaccessible wall of ice; and the steep snowfields +that rise towards the summit are suggestive of something very different +from the picture which might have existed in the mind of a German +student, who once asked me whether it was possible to make the ascent +on a mule. + +Hence, if mountains owe their influence upon the imagination in a great +degree to their size and steepness, and apparent inaccessibility--as no +one can doubt that they do, whatever may be the explanation of the fact +that people like to look at big, steep, inaccessible objects--the +advantages of the mountaineer are obvious. He can measure those +qualities on a very different scale from the ordinary traveler. He +measures the size, not by the vague abstract term of so many thousand +feet, but by the hours of labour, divided into minutes--each separately +felt--of strenuous muscular exertion. The steepness is not expressed in +degrees, but by the memory of the sensation produced when a snow-slope +seems to be rising up and smiting you in the face; when, far away from +all human help, you are clinging like a fly to the slippery side of a +mighty pinnacle in mid air. And as for the inaccessibility, no one can +measure the difficulty of climbing a hill who has not wearied his +muscles and brain in struggling against the opposing obstacles. Alpine +travellers, it is said, have removed the romance from the mountains by +climbing them. What they have really done is to prove that there exists +a narrow line by which a way may be found to the top of any given +mountain; but the clue leads through innumerable inaccessibilities; +true, you can follow one path, but to right and left are cliffs which no +human foot will ever tread, and whose terrors can only be realised when +you are in their immediate neighbourhood. The cliffs of the Matterhorn +do not bar the way to the top effectually, but it is only by forcing a +passage through them that you can really appreciate their terrible +significance. + +Hence I say that the qualities which strike every sensitive observer are +impressed upon the mountaineer with tenfold force and intensity. If he +is as accessible to poetical influences as his neighbours--and I don't +know why he should be less so--he has opened new avenues of access +between the scenery and his mind. He has learnt a language which is but +partially revealed to ordinary men. An artist is superior to an +unlearned picture-seer, not merely because he has greater natural +sensibility, but because he has improved it by methodical experience; +because his senses have been sharpened by constant practice, till he can +catch finer shades of colouring, and more delicate inflexions of line; +because, also, the lines and colours have acquired new significance, and +been associated with a thousand thoughts with which the mass of mankind +has never cared to connect them. The mountaineer is improved by a +similar process. But I know some sceptical critics will ask, does not +the way in which he is accustomed to regard mountains rather deaden +their poetical influence? Doesn't he come to look at them as mere +instruments of sport, and overlook their more spiritual teaching? Does +not all the excitement of personal adventure and the noisy apparatus of +guides, and ropes, and axes, and tobacco, and the fun of climbing, +rather dull his perceptions and incapacitate him from perceiving + + The silence that is in the starry sky, + The sleep that is among the lonely hills? + +Well, I have known some stupid and unpoetical mountaineers; and, since I +have been dismounted from my favourite hobby, I think I have met some +similar specimens among the humbler class of tourists. There are +persons, I fancy, who "do" the Alps; who look upon the Lake of Lucerne +as one more task ticked off from their memorandum book, and count up the +list of summits visible from the Görnergrat without being penetrated +with any keen sense of sublimity. And there are mountaineers who are +capable of making a pun on the top of Mont Blanc--and capable of nothing +more. Still I venture to deny that even punning is incompatible with +poetry, or that those who make the pun can have no deeper feeling in +their bosoms which they are perhaps too shamefaced to utter. + +The fact is that that which gives its inexpressible charm to +mountaineering is the incessant series of exquisite natural scenes, +which are for the most part enjoyed by the mountaineer alone. This is, I +am aware, a round assertion; but I will try to support it by a few of +the visions which are recalled to me by these Oberland cliffs, and which +I have seen profoundly enjoyed by men who perhaps never mentioned them +again, and probably in describing their adventures scrupulously avoided +the danger of being sentimental. + +Thus every traveller has occasionally done a sunrise, and a more +lamentable proceeding than the ordinary view of a sunrise can hardly be +imagined. You are cold, miserable, breakfastless; have risen shivering +from a warm bed, and in your heart long only to creep into bed again. To +the mountaineer all this is changed. He is beginning a day full of the +anticipation of a pleasant excitement. He has, perhaps, been waiting +anxiously for fine weather, to try conclusions with some huge giant not +yet scaled. He moves out with something of the feeling with which a +soldier goes to the assault of a fortress, but without the same +probability of coming home in fragments; the danger is trifling enough +to be merely exhilatory, and to give a pleasant tension to the nerves; +his muscles feel firm and springy, and his stomach--no small advantage +to the enjoyment of scenery--is in excellent order. He looks at the +sparkling stars with keen satisfaction, prepared to enjoy a fine sunrise +with all his faculties at their best, and with the added pleasure of a +good omen for his day's work. Then a huge dark mass begins to mould +itself slowly out of the darkness, the sky begins to form a background +of deep purple, against which the outline becomes gradually more +definite; one by one, the peaks catch the exquisite Alpine glow, +lighting up in rapid succession, like a vast illumination; and when at +last the steady sunlight settles upon them, and shows every rock and +glacier, without even a delicate film of mist to obscure them, he feels +his heart bound, and steps out gaily to the assault--just as the people +on the Rigi are giving thanks that the show is over and that they may +go to bed. Still grander is the sight when the mountaineer has already +reached some lofty ridge, and, as the sun rises, stands between the day +and the night--the valley still in deep sleep, with the mists lying +between the folds of the hills, and the snow-peaks standing out clear +and pale white just before the sun reaches them, whilst a broad band of +orange light runs all round the vast horizon. The glory of sunsets is +equally increased in the thin upper air. The grandest of all such sights +that live in my memory is that of a sunset from the Aiguille du Goûté. +The snow at our feet was glowing with rich light, and the shadows in our +footsteps a vivid green by the contrast. Beneath us was a vast +horizontal floor of thin level mists suspended in mid air, spread like a +canopy over the whole boundless landscape, and tinged with every hue of +sunset. Through its rents and gaps we could see the lower mountains, the +distant plains, and a fragment of the Lake of Geneva lying in a more +sober purple. Above us rose the solemn mass of Mont Blanc in the richest +glow of an Alpine sunset. The sense of lonely sublimity was almost +oppressive, and although half our party was suffering from sickness, I +believe even the guides were moved to a sense of solemn beauty. + +These grand scenic effects are occasionally seen by ordinary travellers, +though the ordinary traveller is for the most part out of temper at 3 +A.M. The mountaineer can enjoy them, both because his frame of mind is +properly trained to receive the natural beauty, and because he alone +sees them with their best accessories, amidst the silence of the eternal +snow, and the vast panoramas visible from the loftier summits. And he +has a similar advantage in most of the great natural phenomena of the +cloud and the sunshine. No sight in the Alps is more impressive than the +huge rocks of a black precipice suddenly frowning out through the chasms +of a storm-cloud. But grand as such a sight may be from the safe +verandahs of the inn at Grindelwald, it is far grander in the silence of +the Central Alps amongst the savage wilderness of rock and snow. +Another characteristic effect of the High Alps often presents itself +when one has been climbing for two or three hours, with nothing in sight +but the varying wreaths of mist that chased each other monotonously +along the rocky ribs up whose snow-covered backbone we were laboriously +fighting our way. Suddenly there is a puff of wind, and looking round we +find that we have in an instant pierced the clouds, and emerged, as it +were, on the surface of the ocean of vapour. Beneath us stretches for +hundreds of miles the level fleecy floor, and above us shines out clear +in the eternal sunshine every mountain, from Mont Blanc to Monte Rosa +and the Jungfrau. What, again, in the lower regions, can equal the +mysterious charm of gazing from the edge of a torn rocky parapet into an +apparently fathomless abyss, where nothing but what an Alpine traveller +calls a "strange formless wreathing of vapour" indicates the storm-wind +that is raging below us? I might go on indefinitely recalling the +strangely impressive scenes that frequently startle the traveller in the +waste upper world; but language is feeble indeed to convey even a +glimmering of what is to be seen to those who have not seen it for +themselves, whilst to them it can be little more than a peg upon which +to hang their own recollections. These glories, in which the mountain +Spirit reveals himself to his true worshippers, are only to be gained by +the appropriate service of climbing--at some risk, though a very +trifling risk, if he is approached with due form and ceremony--into the +furthest recesses of his shrines. And without seeing them, I maintain +that no man has really seen the Alps. + +The difference between the exoteric and the esoteric school of +mountaineers may be indicated by their different view of glaciers. At +Grindelwald, for example, it is the fashion to go and "see the +glaciers"--heaven save the mark! Ladies in costumes, heavy German +professors, Americans doing the Alps at a gallop, Cook's tourists, and +other varieties of a well-known genus, go off in shoals and see--what? +A gigantic mass of ice, strangely torn with a few of the exquisite blue +crevasses, but denied and prostrate in dirt and ruins. A stream foul +with mud oozes out from the base; the whole mass seems to be melting +fast away; the summer sun has evidently got the best of it in these +lower regions, and nothing can resist him but the great mounds of +decaying rock that strew the surface in confused lumps. It is as much +like the glacier of the upper regions as the melting fragments of snow +in a London street are like the surface of the fresh snow that has just +fallen in a country field. And by way of improving its attractions a +perpetual picnic is going on, and the ingenious natives have hewed a +tunnel into the ice, for admission to which they charge certain +centimes. The unlucky glacier reminds me at his latter end of a wretched +whale stranded on a beach, dissolving into masses of blubber, and hacked +by remorseless fishermen, instead of plunging at his ease in the deep +blue water. Far above, where the glacier begins his course, he is seen +only by the true mountaineer. There are vast amphitheatres of pure snow, +of which the glacier known to tourists is merely the insignificant +drainage, but whose very existence they do not generally suspect. They +are utterly ignorant that from the top of the icefall which they visit +you may walk for hours on the eternal ice. After a long climb you come +to the region where the glacier is truly at its noblest; where the +surface is a spotless white; where the crevasses are enormous rents +sinking to profound depths, with walls of the purest blue; where the +glacier is torn and shattered by the energetic forces which mould it, +but has an expression of superabundant power, like a full stream +fretting against its banks and plunging through the vast gorges that it +has hewn for itself in the course of centuries. The bases of the +mountains are immersed in a deluge of cockneyism--fortunately a shallow +deluge--whilst their summits rise high into the bracing air, where +everything is pure and poetical. + +The difference which I have thus endeavoured to indicate is more or +less traceable in a wider sense. The mountains are exquisitely +beautiful, indeed, from whatever points of view we contemplate them; and +the mountaineer would lose much if he never saw the beauties of the +lower valleys, of pasturages deep in flowers, and dark pine-forests with +the summits shining from far off between the stems. Only, as it seems to +me, he has the exclusive prerogative of thoroughly enjoying one--and +that the most characteristic, though by no means only, element of the +scenery. There may be a very good dinner spread before twenty people; +but if nineteen of them were teetotalers, and the twentieth drank his +wine like a man, he would be the only one to do it full justice; the +others might praise the meat or the fruits, but he would alone enjoy the +champagne; and in the great feast which Nature spreads before us (a +stock metaphor, which emboldens me to make the comparison), the high +mountain scenery acts the part of the champagne. Unluckily, too, the +teetotalers are very apt, in this case also, to sit in judgment upon +their more adventurous neighbours. Especially are they pleased to carp +at the views from high summits. I have been constantly asked, with a +covert sneer, "Did it repay you?"--a question which involves the +assumption that one wants to be repaid, as though the labour were not +itself part of the pleasure, and which implies a doubt that the view is +really enjoyable. People are always demonstrating that the lower views +are the most beautiful; and at the same time complaining that +mountaineers frequently turn back without looking at the view from the +top, as though that would necessarily imply that they cared nothing for +scenery. In opposition to which I must first remark that, as a rule, +every step of an ascent has a beauty of its own, which one is quietly +absorbing even when one is not directly making it a subject of +contemplation, and that the view from the top is generally the crowning +glory of the whole. + +It will be enough if I conclude with an attempt to illustrate this last +assertion: and I will do it by still referring to the Oberland. Every +visitor with a soul for the beautiful admires the noble form of the +Wetterhorn--the lofty snow-crowned pyramid rising in such light and yet +massive lines from its huge basement of perpendicular cliffs. The +Wetterhorn has, however, a further merit. To my mind--and I believe most +connoisseurs of mountain tops agree with me--it is one of the most +impressive summits in the Alps. It is not a sharp pinnacle like the +Weisshorn, or a cupola like Mont Blanc, or a grand rocky tooth like the +Monte Rosa, but a long and nearly horizontal knife-edge, which, as seen +from either end, has of course the appearance of a sharp-pointed cone. +It is when balanced upon this ridge--sitting astride of the knife-edge +on which one can hardly stand without giddiness--that one fully +appreciates an Alpine precipice. Mr. Justice Wills has admirably +described the first ascent, and the impression it made upon him, in a +paper which has become classical for succeeding adventurers. Behind you +the snow-slope sinks with perilous steepness towards the wilderness of +glacier and rock through which the ascent has lain. But in front the ice +sinks with even greater steepness for a few feet or yards. Then it +curves over and disappears, and the next thing that the eye catches is +the meadowland of Grindelwald, some 9,000 feet below. I have looked down +many precipices, where the eye can trace the course of every pebble that +bounds down the awful slopes, and where I have shuddered as some +dislodged fragment of rock showed the course which, in case of accident, +fragments of my own body would follow. A precipice is always, for +obvious reasons, far more terrible from above than from below. The +creeping, tingling sensation which passes through one's limbs--even when +one knows oneself to be in perfect safety--testifies to the thrilling +influence of the sight. But I have never so realised the terrors of a +terrific cliff as when I could not see it. The awful gulf which +intervened between me and the green meadows struck the imagination by +its invisibility. It was like the view which may be seen from the ridge +of a cathedral roof, where the eaves have for their immediate +background the pavement of the streets below; only this cathedral was +9,000 feet high. Now, any one standing at the foot of the Wetterhorn may +admire their stupendous massiveness and steepness; but, to feel their +influence enter in the very marrow of one's bones, it is necessary to +stand at the summit, and to fancy the one little slide down the short +ice-slope, to be followed apparently by a bound into clear air and a +fall down to the houses, from heights where only the eagle ventures to +soar. + +This is one of the Alpine beauties, which, of course, is: beyond the +power of art to imitate, and which people are therefore apt to ignore. +But it is not the only one to be seen on the high summits. It is often +said that these views are not "beautiful"--apparently because they won't +go into a picture, or, to put it more fairly, because no picture: can in +the faintest degree imitate them. But without quarrelling about words, I +think that, even if "beautiful" be not the most correct epithet, they +have a marvellously stimulating effect upon the imagination. Let us look +round from this wonderful pinnacle in mid air, and note one or two of +the most striking elements of the scenery. + +You are, in the first place, perched on a cliff, whose presence is the +more felt because it is unseen. Then you are in a region over which +eternal silence is brooding. Not a sound ever comes there, except the +occasional fall of a splintered fragment of rock, or a layer of snow; no +stream is heard trickling, and the sounds of animal life are left +thousands of feet below. The most that you can hear is some mysterious +noise made by the wind eddying round the gigantic rocks; sometimes a +strange flapping sound, as if an unearthly flag were shaking its +invisible folds in the air. The enormous tract of country over which +your view extends--most of it dim and almost dissolved into air by +distance--intensifies the strange influence of the silence. You feel the +force of the line I have quoted from Wordsworth-- + + The sleep that is among the lonely hills. + +None of the travellers whom you can see crawling at your feet has the +least conception of what is meant by the silent solitudes of the High +Alps. To you, it is like a return to the stir of active life, when, +after hours of lonely wandering, you return to hear the tinkling of the +cow-bells below; to them the same sound is the ultimate limit of the +habitable world. + +Whilst your mind is properly toned by these influences, you become +conscious of another fact, to which the common variety of tourists is +necessarily insensible. You begin to find out for the first time what +the mountains really are. On one side, you look back upon the huge +reservoirs from which the Oberland glaciers descend. You see the vast +stores from which the great rivers of Europe are replenished, the +monstrous crawling masses that are carving the mountains into shape, and +the gigantic bulwarks that separate two great quarters of the world. +From below these wild regions are half invisible; they are masked by the +outer line of mountains; and it is not till you are able to command them +from some lofty point that you can appreciate the grandeur of the huge +barriers, and the snow that is piled within their folds. There is +another half of the view equally striking. Looking towards the north, +the whole of Switzerland is couched at your feet; the Jura and the Black +Forest lie on the far horizon. And then you know what is the nature of a +really mountainous country. From below everything is seen in a kind of +distorted perspective. The people of the valley naturally think that the +valley is everything--that the country resembles old-fashioned maps, +where a few sporadic lumps are distributed amongst towns and plains. The +true proportions reveal themselves as you ascend. The valleys, you can +now see, are nothing but narrow trenches scooped out amidst a tossing +waste of mountain, just to carry off the drainage. The great ridges run +hither and thither, having it all their own way, wild and untamable +regions of rock or open grass or forest, at whose feet the valleys exist +on sufferance. Creeping about amongst the roots of the hills, you half +miss the hills themselves; you quite fail to understand the massiveness +of the mountain chains, and, therefore, the wonderful energy of the +forces that have heaved the surface of the world into these distorted +shapes. And it is to a half-conscious sense of the powers that must have +been at work that a great part of the influence of mountain scenery is +due. Geologists tell us that a theory of catastrophes is +unphilosophical; but, whatever may be the scientific truth, our minds +are impressed as though we were witnessing the results of some +incredible convulsion. At Stonehenge we ask what human beings could have +erected these strange grey monuments, and in the mountains we +instinctively ask what force can have carved out the Matterhorn, and +placed the Wetterhorn on its gigantic pedestal. Now, it is not till we +reach some commanding point that we realise the amazing extent of +country over which the solid ground has been shaking and heaving itself +in irresistible tumult. + +Something, it is true, of this last effect may be seen from such +mountains as the Rigi or the Faulhorn. There, too, one seems to be at +the centre of a vast sphere, the earth bending up in a cup-like form to +meet the sky, and the blue vault above stretching in an arch majestical +by its enormous extent. There you seem to see a sensible fraction of the +world at your feet. But the effect is far less striking when other +mountains obviously look down upon you; when, as it were, you are +looking at the waves of the great ocean of hills merely from the crest +of one of the waves themselves, and not from some lighthouse that rises +far over their heads; for the Wetterhorn, like the Eiger, Mönch, and +Jungfrau, owes one great beauty to the fact that it is on the edge of +the lower country, and stands between the real giants and the crowd of +inferior, though still enormous, masses in attendance upon them. And, in +the next place, your mind is far better adapted to receive impressions +of sublimity when you are alone, in a silent region, with a black sky +above and giant cliffs all round; with a sense still in your mind, if +not of actual danger, still of danger that would become real with the +slightest relaxation of caution, and with the world divided from you by +hours of snow and rock. + +I will go no further, not because I have no more to say, but because +descriptions of scenery soon become wearisome, and because I have, I +hope, said enough to show that the mountaineer may boast of some +intellectual pleasures; that he is not a mere scrambler, but that he +looks for poetical impressions, as well as for such small glory as his +achievements may gain in a very small circle. Something of what he gains +fortunately sticks by him: he does not quite forget the mountain +language; his eye still recognises the space and the height and the +glory of the lofty mountains. And yet there is some pain in wandering +ghostlike among the scenes of his earlier pleasures. For my part, I try +in vain to hug myself in a sense of comfort. I turn over in bed when I +hear the stamping of heavily nailed shoes along the passage of an inn +about 2 A.M. I feel the skin of my nose complacently when I see others +returning with a glistening tight aspect about that unluckily prominent +feature, and know that in a day or two it will be raw and blistered and +burning. I think, in a comfortable inn at night, of the miseries of +those who are trying to sleep in damp hay, or on hard boards of châlets, +at once cold and stuffy and haunted by innumerable fleas. I congratulate +myself on having a whole skin and unfractured bones, and on the small +danger of ever breaking them over an Alpine precipice. But yet I +secretly know that these consolations are feeble. It is little use to +avoid early rising and discomfort, and even fleas, if one also loses the +pleasures to which they were the sauce--rather too _piquante_ a sauce +occasionally, it must be admitted. The philosophy is all very well which +recommends moderate enjoyment, regular exercise, and a careful avoidance +of risk and over-excitement. That is, it is all very well so long as +risk and excitement and immoderate enjoyment are out of your power; but +it does not stand the test of looking on and seeing them just beyond +your reach. In time, no doubt, a man may grow calm; he may learn to +enjoy the pleasures and the exquisite beauties of the lower +regions--though they, too, are most fully enjoyed when they have a +contrast with beauties of a different, and pleasures of a keener +excitement. When first debarred, at any rate, one feels like a balloon +full of gas, and fixed by immovable ropes to the prosaic ground. It is +pleasant to lie on one's back in a bed of rhododendrons, and look up to +a mountain top peering at one from above a bank of cloud; but it is +pleasantest when one has qualified oneself for repose by climbing the +peak the day before and becoming familiar with its terrors and its +beauties. In time, doubtless, one may get reconciled to anything; one +may settle down to be a caterpillar, even after one has known the +pleasures of being a butterfly; one may become philosophical, and have +one's clothes let out; and even in time, perhaps--though it is almost +too terrible to contemplate--be content with a mule or a carriage, or +that lowest depth to which human beings can sink, and for which the +English language happily affords no name, a _chaise à porteurs:_ and +even in such degradation the memory of better times may be pleasant; for +I doubt much whether it is truth the poet sings-- + + That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. + +Certainly, to a philosophical mind, the sentiment is doubtful. For my +part, the fate which has cut me off, if I may use the expression, in the +flower of my youth, and doomed me to be a non-climbing animal in future, +is one which ought to exclude grumbling. I cannot indicate it more +plainly, for I might so make even the grumbling in which I have already +indulged look like a sin. I can only say that there are some very +delightful things in which it is possible to discover an infinitesimal +drop of bitterness, and that the mountaineer who undertakes to cut +himself off from his favourite pastime, even for reasons which he will +admit in his wildest moods to be more than amply sufficient, must expect +at times to feel certain pangs of regret, however quickly they may be +smothered. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 33: From "The Playground of Europe," 1871.] + + + + +BEHAVIOR[34] + +RALPH WALDO EMERSON + + +The soul which animates nature is not less significantly published in +the figure, movement, and gesture of animated bodies, than in its last +vehicle of articulate speech. This silent and subtle language is +Manners; not _what_, but _how_. Life expresses. A statue has no tongue, +and needs none. Good tableaux do not need declamation. Nature tells +every secret once. Yes, but in man she tells it all the time, by form, +attitude, gesture, mien, face, and parts of the face, and by the whole +action of the machine. The visible carriage or action of the individual, +as resulting from his organization and his will combined, we call +manners. What are they but thought entering the hands and feet, +controlling the movements of the body, the speech and behavior? + +There is always a best way of doing everything, if it be to boil an egg. +Manners are the happy ways of doing things; each once a stroke of genius +or of love,--now repeated and hardened into usage. They form at last a +rich varnish, with which the routine of life is washed, and its details +adorned. If they are superficial, so are the dew-drops which give such a +depth to the morning meadows. Manners are very communicable: men catch +them from each other. Consuelo, in the romance, boasts of the lessons +she had given the nobles in manners, on the stage: and, in real life, +Talma taught Napoleon the arts of behavior. Genius invents fine manners, +which the baron and the baroness copy very fast, and, by the advantage +of a palace, better the instruction. They stereotype the lesson they +have learned into a mode. + +The power of manners is incessant,--an element as unconcealable as +fire. The nobility cannot in any country be disguised, and no more in a +republic or a democracy than in a kingdom. No man can resist their +influence. There are certain manners which are learned in good society, +of that force, that, if a person have them, he or she must be +considered, and is everywhere welcome, though without beauty, or wealth, +or genius. Give a boy address and accomplishments, and you give him the +mastery of palaces and fortunes where he goes. He has not the trouble of +earning or owning them; they solicit him to enter and possess. We send +girls of a timid, retreating disposition to the boarding-school, to the +riding-school, to the ballroom, or wheresoever they can come into +acquaintance and nearness of leading persons of their own sex; where +they might learn address, and see it near at hand. The power of a woman +of fashion to lead, and also to daunt and repel, derives from their +belief that she knows resources and behaviors not known to them; but +when these have mastered her secret, they learn to confront her, and +recover their self-possession. + +Every day bears witness to their gentle rule. People who would obtrude, +now do not obtrude. The mediocre circle learns to demand that which +belongs to a high state of nature or of culture. Your manners are always +under examination, and by committees little suspected,--a police in +citizen's clothes,--but are awarding or denying you very high prizes +when you least think of it. + +We talk much of utilities,--but 'tis our manners that associate us. In +hours of business, we go to him who knows, or has, or does this or that +which we want, and we do not let our taste or feeling stand in the way. +But this activity over, we return to the indolent state, and wish for +those we can be at ease with; those who will go where we go, whose +manners do not offend us, whose social tone chimes with ours. When we +reflect on their persuasive and cheering force; how they recommend, +prepare, and draw people together; how, in all clubs, manners make the +members; how manners make the fortune of the ambitious youth; that, for +the most part, his manners marry him, and, for the most part, he marries +manners; when we think what keys they are, and to what secrets; what +high lessons and inspiring tokens of character they convey; and what +divination is required in us, for the reading of this fine telegraph; we +see what range the subject has, and what relations to convenience, +power, and beauty. + +Their first service is very low,--when they are the minor morals; but +'tis the beginning of civility,--to make us, I mean, endurable to each +other. We prize them for their rough-plastic, abstergent force; to get +people out of the quadruped state; to get them washed, clothed, and set +up on end; to slough their animal husks and habits; compel them to be +clean; overawe their spite and meanness, teach them to stifle the base, +and choose the generous expression, and make them know how much happier +the generous behaviors are. + +Bad behavior the laws cannot reach. Society is invested with rude, +cynical, restless, and frivolous persons who prey upon the rest, and +whom a public opinion concentrated into good manners, forms accepted by +the sense of all, can reach;--the contradictors and railers at public +and private tables, who are like terriers, who conceive it the duty of a +dog of honor to growl at any passer-by, and do the honors of the house +by barking him out of sight;--I have seen men who neigh like a horse +when you contradict them, or say something which they do not +understand;--then the overbold, who make their own invitation to your +hearth; the persevering talker, who gives you his society in large, +saturating doses; the pitiers of themselves,--a perilous class; the +frivolous Asmodeus, who relies on you to find him in ropes of sand to +twist; the monotones; in short, every stripe of absurdity;--these are +social inflictions which the magistrate cannot cure or defend you from, +and which must be intrusted to the restraining force of custom, and +proverbs, and familiar rules of behavior impressed on young people in +their school-days. + +In the hotels on the banks of the Mississippi, they print, or used to +print, among the rules of the house, that "No gentleman can be permitted +to come to the public table without his coat;" and in the same country, +in the pews of the churches, little placards plead with the worshipper +against the fury of expectoration. Charles Dickens self-sacrificingly +undertook the reformation of our American manners in unspeakable +particulars. I think the lesson was not quite lost; that it held bad +manners up, so that the churls could see the deformity. Unhappily, the +book had its own deformities. It ought not to need to print in a reading +room a caution to strangers not to speak loud; nor to persons who look +over fine engravings, that they should be handled like cobwebs and +butterflies' wings; nor to persons who look at marble statues, that they +shall not smite them with canes. But, even in the perfect civilization +of this city, such cautions are not quite needless in the Athenaeum and +City Library. + +Manners are factitious, and grow out of circumstances as well as out of +character. If you look at the pictures of patricians and of peasants, of +different periods and countries, you will see how well they match the +same classes in our towns. The modern aristocrat not only is well drawn +in Titian's Venetian doges, and in Roman coins and statues, but also in +the pictures which Commodore Perry brought home of dignitaries in Japan. +Broad lands and great interests not only arrive to such heads as can +manage them, but form manners of power. A keen eye, too, will see nice +gradations of rank, or see in the manners the degree of homage the party +is wont to receive. A prince who is accustomed every day to be courted +and deferred to by the highest grandees, acquires a corresponding +expectation, and a becoming mode of receiving and replying to this +homage. + +There are always exceptional people and modes. English grandees affect +to be farmers. Claverhouse is a fop, and, under the finish of dress, and +levity of behavior, hides the terror of his war. But Nature and Destiny +are honest, and never fail to leave their mark, to hang out a sign for +each and for every quality. It is much to conquer one's face, and +perhaps the ambitious youth thinks he has got the whole secret when he +has learned that disengaged manners are commanding. Don't be deceived by +a facile exterior. Tender men sometimes have strong wills. We had, in +Massachusetts, an old statesman, who had sat all his life in courts and +in chairs of state, without overcoming an extreme irritability of face, +voice, and bearing: when he spoke, his voice would not serve him; it +cracked, it broke, it wheezed, it piped;--little cared he; he knew that +it had got to pipe, or wheeze, or screech his argument and his +indignation. When he sat down, after speaking, he seemed in a sort of +fit, and held on to his chair with both hands: but underneath all this +irritability was a puissant will, firm and advancing, and a memory in +which lay in order and method, like geologic strata, every fact of his +history, and under the control of his will. + +Manners are partly factitious, but, mainly, there must be capacity for +culture in the blood. Else all culture is vain. The obstinate prejudice +in favor of blood, which lies at the base of the feudal and monarchical +fabrics of the old world, has some reason in common experience. Every +man,--mathematician, artist, soldier, or merchant,--looks with +confidence for some traits and talents in his own child, which he would +not dare to presume in the child of a stranger. The Orientalists are +very orthodox on this point. "Take a thorn-bush," said the emir +Abdel-Kader, "and sprinkle it for a whole year with water, it will yield +nothing but thorns. Take a date-tree, leave it without culture, and it +will always produce dates. Nobility is the date-tree, and the Arab +populace is a bush of thorns." + +A main fact in the history of manners is the wonderful expressiveness of +the human body. If it were made of glass, or of air, and the thoughts +were written on steel tablets within, it could not publish more truly +its meaning than now. Wise men read very sharply all your private +history in your look and gait and behavior. The whole economy of nature +is bent on expression. The tell-tale body is all tongues. Men are like +Geneva watches with crystal faces which expose the whole movement. They +carry the liquor of life flowing up and down in these beautiful bottles, +and announcing to the curious how it is with them. The face and eyes +reveal what the spirit is doing, how old it is, what aims it has. The +eyes indicate the antiquity of the soul, or through how many forms it +has already ascended. It almost violates the proprieties, if we say +above the breath here what the confessing eyes do not hesitate to utter +to every street passenger. + +Man cannot fix his eye on the sun, and so far seems imperfect. In +Siberia, a late traveller found men who could see the satellites of +Jupiter with their unarmed eye. In some respects the animals excel us. +The birds have a longer sight, beside the advantage by their wings of a +higher observatory. A cow can bid her calf, by secret signal, probably +of the eye, to run away, or to lie down and hide itself. The jockeys say +of certain horses, that "they look over the whole ground." The outdoor +life, and hunting, and labor, give equal vigor to the human eye. A +farmer looks out at you as strong as the horse; his eye-beam is like the +stroke of a staff. An eye can threaten like a loaded and levelled gun, +or can insult like hissing or kicking; or, in its altered mood, by beams +of kindness, it can make the heart dance with joy. + +The eye obeys exactly the action of the mind. When a thought strikes us, +the eyes fix, and remain gazing at a distance; in enumerating the names +of persons or of countries, as France, Germany, Spain, Turkey, the eyes +wink at each new name. There is no nicety of learning sought by the +mind, which the eyes do not vie in acquiring. "An artist," said Michael +Angelo, "must have his measuring tools not in the hand, but in the eye;" +and there is no end to the catalogue of its performances, whether in +indolent vision (that of health and beauty) or in strained vision (that +of art and labor). + +Eyes are bold as lions,--roving, running, leaping, here and there, far +and near. They speak all languages. They wait for no introduction; they +are no Englishmen; ask no leave of age or rank; they respect neither +poverty nor riches, neither learning nor power, nor virtue, nor sex, but +intrude, and come again, and go through and through you, in a moment of +time. What inundation of life and thought is discharged from one soul +into another through them! The glance is natural magic. The mysterious +communication established across a house between two entire strangers +moves all the springs of wonder. The communication by the glance is in +the greatest part not subject to the control of the will. It is the +bodily symbol of identity of nature. We look into the eyes to know if +this other form is another self, and the eyes will not lie, but make a +faithful confession what inhabitant is there. The revelations are +sometimes terrific. The confession of a low, usurping devil is there +made, and the observer shall seem to feel the stirring of owls, and +bats, and horned hoofs, where he looked for innocence and simplicity. +'Tis remarkable, too, that the spirit that appears at the windows of the +house does at once invest himself in a new form of his own to the mind +of the beholder. + +The eyes of men converse as much as their tongues, with the advantage, +that the ocular dialect needs no dictionary, but is understood all the +world over. When the eyes say one thing, and the tongue another, a +practised man relies on the language of the first. If the man is off his +center, the eyes show it. You can read in the eyes of your companion, +whether your argument hits him, though his tongue will not confess it. +There is a look by which a man shows he is going to say a good thing, +and a look when he has said it. Vain and forgotten are all the fine +offers and offices of hospitality, if there is no holiday in the eye. +How many furtive inclinations avowed by the eye, though dissembled by +the lips! One comes away from a company, in which, it may easily happen, +he has said nothing, and no important remark has been addressed to him, +and yet, if in sympathy with the society he shall not have a sense of +this fact, such a stream of life has been flowing into him, and out from +him, through the eyes. There are eyes, to be sure, that give no more +admission into the man than blue-berries. Others are liquid and +deep,--wells that a man might fall into;--others are aggressive and +devouring, seem to call out the police, take all too much notice, and +require crowded Broadways, and the security of millions, to protect +individuals against them. The military eye I meet, now darkly sparkling +under clerical, now under rustic brows. 'Tis the city of Lacedaemon; +'tis a stack of bayonets. There are asking eyes, asserting eyes, +prowling eyes; and eyes full of fate,--some of good, and some of +sinister omen. The alleged power to charm down insanity, or ferocity in +beasts, is a power behind the eye. It must be a victory achieved in the +will before it can be signified in the eye. 'Tis very certain that each +man carries in his eye the exact indication of his rank in the immense +scale of men, and we are always learning to read it. A complete man +should need no auxiliaries to his personal presence. Whoever looked on +him would consent to his will, being certified that his aims were +generous and universal. The reason why men do not obey us, is because +they see the mud at the bottom of our eye. + +If the organ of sight is such a vehicle of power, the other features +have their own. A man finds room in the few square inches of the face +for the traits of all his ancestors; for the expression of all his +history, and his wants. The sculptor, and Winckelmann, and Lavater, will +tell you how significant a feature is the nose; how its forms express +strength or weakness of will, and good or bad temper. The nose of Julius +Caesar, of Dante, and of Pitt, suggest "the terrors of the beak." What +refinement, and what limitations, the teeth betray! "Beware you don't +laugh," said the wise mother, "for then you show all your faults." + +Balzac left in manuscript a chapter, which he called "_Théorie de la +démarche_,"[35] in which he says: "The look, the voice, the respiration, +and the attitude or walk, are identical. But, as it has not been given +to man, the power to stand guard, at once, over these four different +simultaneous expressions of his thought, watch that one which speaks out +the truth, and you will know the whole man." + +Palaces interest us mainly in the exhibition of manners, which, in the +idle and expensive society dwelling in them, are raised to a high art. +The maxim of courts is, that manner is power. A calm and resolute +bearing, a polished speech, an embellishment of trifles, and the art of +hiding all uncomfortable feeling, are essential to the courtier: and +Saint Simon, and Cardinal de Retz, and Roederer, and an encyclopaedia of +_Mémoires_, will instruct you, if you wish, in those potent secrets. +Thus, it is a point of pride with kings to remember faces and names. It +is reported of one prince, that his head had the air of leaning +downwards, in order not to humble the crowd. There are people who come +in ever like a child with a piece of good news. It was said of the late +Lord Holland, that he always came down to breakfast with the air of a +man who had just met with some signal good-fortune. In _Notre Dame_, the +grandee took his place on the dais, with the look of one who is thinking +of something else. But we must not peep and eavesdrop at palace-doors. + +Fine manners need the support of fine manners in others. A scholar may +be a well-bred man, or he may not. The enthusiast is introduced to +polished scholars in society, and is chilled and silenced by finding +himself not in their element. They all have somewhat which he has not, +and, it seems, ought to have. But if he finds the scholar apart from his +companions, it is then the enthusiast's turn, and the scholar has no +defence, but must deal on his terms. Now they must fight the battle out +on their private strengths. What is the talent of that character so +common,--the successful man of the world,--in all marts, senates, and +drawing-rooms? Manners: mariners of power; sense to see his advantage, +and manners up to it. See him approach his man. He knows that troops +behave as they are handled at first;--that is his cheap secret; just +what happens to every two persons who meet on any affair,--one +instantly perceives that he has the key of the situation, that his will +comprehends the other's will, as the cat does the mouse; and he has only +to use courtesy, and furnish good-natured reasons to his victim to cover +up the chain, lest he be shamed into resistance. + +The theater in which this science of manners has a formal importance is +not with us a court, but dress-circles, wherein, after the close of the +day's business, men and women meet at leisure, for mutual entertainment, +in ornamented drawing-rooms. Of course, it has every variety of +attraction and merit; but, to earnest persons, to youths or maidens who +have great objects at heart, we cannot extol it highly. A well-dressed, +talkative company, where each is bent to amuse the other,--yet the +high-born Turk who came hither fancied that every woman seemed to be +suffering for a chair; that all the talkers were brained and exhausted +by the deoxygenated air; it spoiled the best persons: it put all on +stilts. Yet here are the secret biographies written and read. The aspect +of that man is repulsive; I do not wish to deal with him. The other is +irritable, shy, and on his guard. The youth looks humble and manly: I +choose him. Look on this woman. There is not beauty, nor brilliant +sayings, nor distinguished power, to serve you; but all see her gladly; +her whole air and impression are healthful. Here come the +sentimentalists, and the invalids. Here is Elise, who caught cold in +coming into the world, and has always increased it since. Here are +creep-mouse manners, and thievish manners. "Look at Northcote," said +Fuseli; "he looks like a rat that has seen a cat." In the shallow +company, easily excited, easily tired, here is the columnar Bernard: the +Alleghanies do not express more repose than his behavior. Here are the +sweet following eyes of Cecile: it seemed always that she demanded the +heart. Nothing can be more excellent in kind than the Corinthian grace +of Gertrude's manners, and yet Blanche, who has no manners, has better +manners than she; for the movements of Blanche are the sallies of a +spirit which is sufficient for the moment, and she can afford to +express every thought by instant action. + +Manners have been somewhat cynically defined to be a contrivance of wise +men to keep fools at a distance. Fashion is shrewd to detect those who +do not belong to her train, and seldom wastes her attentions. Society is +very swift in its instincts, and, if you do not belong to it, resists +and sneers at you; or quietly drops you. The first weapon enrages the +party attacked; the second is still more effective, but is not to be +resisted, as the date of the transaction is not easily found. People +grow up and grow old under this infliction, and never suspect the truth, +ascribing the solitude which acts on them very injuriously to any cause +but the right one. + +The basis of good manners is self-reliance. Necessity is the law of all +who are not self-possessed. Those who are not self-possessed, obtrude, +and pain us. Some men appear to feel that they belong to a Pariah caste. +They fear to offend, they bend and apologize, and walk through life with +a timid step. As we sometimes dream that we are in a well-dressed +company without any coat, so Godfrey acts ever as if he suffered from +some mortifying circumstance. The hero should find himself at home, +wherever he is; should impart comfort by his own security and +good-nature to all beholders. The hero is suffered to be himself. A +person of strong mind comes to perceive that for him an immunity is +secured so long as he renders to society that service which is native +and proper to him,--an immunity from all the observances, yea, and +duties, which society so tyrannically imposes on the rank and file of +its members. "Euripides," says Aspasia, "has not the fine manners of +Sophocles; but,"--she adds good-humoredly, "the movers and masters of +our souls have surely a right to throw out their limbs as carelessly as +they please on the world that belongs to them, and before the creatures +they have animated."[36] + +Manners require time, as nothing is more vulgar than haste. Friendship +should be surrounded with ceremonies and respects, and not crushed into +corners. Friendship requires more time than poor busy men can usually +command. Here comes to me Roland, with a delicacy of sentiment leading +and inwrapping him like a divine cloud or holy ghost. Tis a great +destitution to both that this should not be entertained with large +leisures, but, contrariwise, should be balked by importunate affairs. + +But through this lustrous varnish the reality is ever shining. 'Tis hard +to keep the _what_ from breaking through this pretty painting of the +_how_. The core will come to the surface. Strong will and keen +perception overpower old manners and create new; and the thought of the +present moment has a greater value than all the past. In persons of +character, we do not remark manners, because of their instantaneousness. +We are surprised by the thing done, out of all power to watch the way of +it. Yet nothing is more charming than to recognize the great style which +runs through the actions of such. People masquerade before us in their +fortunes, titles, offices, and connections, as academic or civil +presidents, or senators, or professors, or great lawyers, and impose on +the frivolous, and a good deal on each other, by these fames. At least, +it is a point of prudent good manners to treat these reputations +tenderly, as if they were merited. But the sad realist knows these +fellows at a glance, and they know him; as when in Paris the chief of +the police enters a ballroom, so many diamonded pretenders shrink and +make themselves as inconspicuous as they can, or give him a supplicating +look as they pass. "I had received," said a sybil, "I had received at +birth the fatal gift of penetration:"--and these Cassandras are always +born. + +Manners impress as they indicate real power. A man who is sure of his +point, carries a broad and contented expression, which everybody reads. +And you cannot rightly train one to an air and manner, except by making +him the kind of man of whom that manner is the natural expression. +Nature for ever puts a premium on reality. What is done for effect, is +seen to be done for effect; what is done for love, is felt to be done +for love. A man inspires affection and honor, because he was not lying +in wait for these. The things of a man for which we visit him, were done +in the dark and the cold. A little integrity is better than any career. +So deep are the sources of this surface-action, that even the size of +your companion seems to vary with his freedom of thought. Not only is he +larger, when at ease, and his thoughts generous, but everything around +him becomes variable with expression. No carpenter's rule, no rod and +chain, will measure the dimensions of any house or house-lot: go into +the house: if the proprietor is constrained and deferring, 'tis of no +importance how large his house, how beautiful his grounds,--you quickly +come to the end of all; but if the man is self-possessed, happy, and at +home, his house is deep-founded, indefinitely large and interesting, the +roof and dome buoyant as the sky. Under the humblest roof, the commonest +person in plain clothes sits there massive, cheerful, yet formidable, +like the Egyptian colossi. + +Neither Aristotle, nor Leibnitz, nor Junius, nor Champollion has set +down the grammar-rules of this dialect, older than Sanscrit; but they +who cannot yet read English, can read this. Men take each other's +measure when they meet for the first time,--and every time they meet. +How do they get this rapid knowledge, even before they speak, of each +other's power and dispositions? One would say, that the persuasion of +their speech is not in what they say,--or, that men do not convince by +their argument,--but by their personality, by who they are, and what +they said and did heretofore. A man already strong is listened to, and +everything he says is applauded. Another opposes him with sound +argument, but the argument is scouted, until by-and-by it gets into the +mind of some weighty person; then it begins to tell on the community. + +Self-reliance is the basis of behavior, as it is the guaranty that the +powers are not squandered in too much demonstration. In this country, +where school education is universal, we have a superficial culture, and +a profusion of reading and writing and expression. We parade our +nobilities in poems and orations, instead of working them up into +happiness. There is a whisper out of the ages to him who can understand +it,--"Whatever is known to thyself alone, has always very great value." +There is some reason to believe, that, when a man does not write his +poetry, it escapes by other vents through him, instead of the one vent +of writing; clings to his form and manners, whilst poets have often +nothing poetical about them except their verses. Jacobi said that, "when +a man has fully expressed his thought, he has somewhat less possession +of it." One would say, the rule is,--What a man is irresistibly urged to +say, helps him and us. In explaining his thought to others, he explains +it to himself: but when he opens it for show, it corrupts him. + +Society is the stage on which manners are shown; novels are their +literature. Novels are the journal or record of manners; and the new +importance of these books derives from the fact, that the novelist +begins to penetrate the surface, and treats this part of life more +worthily. The novels used to be all alike, and had a quite vulgar tone. +The novels used to lead us on to a foolish interest in the fortunes of +the boy and girl they described. The boy was to be raised from a humble +to a high position. He was in want of a wife and a castle, and the +object of the story was to supply him with one or both. We watched +sympathetically, step by step, his climbing, until, at last, the point +is gained, the wedding day is fixed, and we follow the gala procession +home to the castle, when the doors are slammed in our face, and the poor +reader is left outside in the cold, not enriched by so much as an idea, +or a virtuous impulse. + +But the victories of character are instant, and victories for all. Its +greatness enlarges all. We are fortified by every heroic anecdote. The +novels are as useful as Bibles, if they teach you the secret, that the +best of life is conversation, and the greatest success is confidence, or +perfect understanding between sincere people. 'Tis a French definition +of friendship, _rien que s'entendre_, good understanding. The highest +compact we can make with our fellow is,--"Let there be truth between us +two for evermore." That is the charm in all good novels, as it is the +charm in all good histories, that the heroes mutually understand, from +the first, and deal loyally, and with a profound trust in each other. It +is sublime to feel and say of another, I need never meet, or speak, or +write to him: we need not reinforce ourselves, or send tokens of +remembrance: I rely on him as on myself: if he did thus or thus, I know +it was right. + +In all the superior people I have met, I notice directness, truth spoken +more truly, as if everything of obstruction, of malformation, had been +trained away. What have they to conceal? What have they to exhibit? +Between simple and noble persons, there is always a quick intelligence: +they recognize at sight, and meet on a better ground than the talents +and skills they may chance to possess, namely, on sincerity and +uprightness. For, it is not what talents or genius a man has, but how he +is to his talents, that constitutes friendship and character. The man +that stands by himself, the universe stands by him also. It is related +of the monk Basle, that, being excommunicated by the Pope, he was, at +his death, sent in charge of an angel to find a fit place of suffering +in hell; but, such was the eloquence and good-humor of the monk, that, +wherever he went, he was received gladly, and civilly treated, even by +the most uncivil angels: and, when he came to discourse with them, +instead of contradicting or forcing him, they took his part, and adopted +his manners: and even good angels came from far to see him, and take up +their abode with him. The angel that was sent to find a place of torment +for him, attempted to remove him to a worse pit, but with no better +success; for such was the contented spirit of the monk, that he found +something to praise in every place and company, though in hell, and made +a kind of heaven of it. At last the escorting angel returned with his +prisoner to them that sent him, saying, that no phlegethon could be +found that would burn him; for that, in whatever condition, Basle +remained incorrigibly Basle. The legend says, his sentence was remitted, +and he was allowed to go into heaven, and was canonized as a saint. + +There is a stroke of magnanimity in the correspondence of Bonaparte with +his brother Joseph, when the latter was King of Spain, and complained +that he missed in Napoleon's letters the affectionate tone which had +marked their childish correspondence. "I am sorry," replies Napoleon, +"you think you shall find your brother again only in the Elysian Fields. +It is natural that at forty he should not feel towards you as he did at +twelve. But his feelings towards you have greater truth and strength. +His friendship has the features of his mind." + +How much we forgive to those who yield us the rare spectacle of heroic +manners! We will pardon them the want of books, of arts, and even of the +gentler virtues. How tenaciously we remember them! Here is a lesson +which I brought along with me in boyhood from the Latin School, and +which ranks with the best of Roman anecdotes. Marcus Scaurus was accused +by Quintus Varius Hispanus, that he had excited the allies to take arms +against the Republic. But he, full of firmness and gravity, defended +himself in this manner: "Quintus Varius Hispanus alleges that Marcus +Scaurus, President of the Senate, excited the allies to arms: Marcus +Scaurus, President of the Senate, denies it. There is no witness. Which +do you believe, Romans?" "_Utri creditis, Quirites?_" When he had said +these words, he was absolved by the assembly of the people. + +I have seen manners that make a similar impression with personal beauty; +that give the like exhilaration, and refine us like that; and, in +memorable experiences, they are suddenly better than beauty, and make +that superfluous and ugly. But they must be marked by fine perception, +the acquaintance with real beauty. They must always show self-control: +you shall not be facile, apologetic, or leaky, but king over your word; +and every gesture and action shall indicate power at rest. Then they +must be inspired by the good heart. There is no beautifier of +complexion, or form, or behavior, like the wish to scatter joy and not +pain around us. 'Tis good to give a stranger a meal, or a night's +lodging. 'Tis better to be hospitable to his good meaning and thought, +and give courage to a companion. We must be as courteous to a man as we +are to a picture, which we are willing to give the advantage of a good +light. Special precepts are not to be thought of: the talent of +well-doing contains them all. Every hour will show a duty as paramount +as that of my whim just now; and yet I will write it,--that there is one +topic peremptorily forbidden to all well-bred, to all rational mortals, +namely, their distempers. If you have not slept, or if you have slept, +or if you have headache, or sciatica, or leprosy, or thunder-stroke, I +beseech you, by all angels, to hold your peace, and not pollute the +morning, to which all the housemates bring serene and pleasant thoughts, +by corruption and groans. Come out in the azure. Love the day. Do not +leave the sky out of your landscape. The oldest and the most deserving +person should come very modestly into any newly awaked company, +respecting the divine communications, out of which all must be presumed +to have newly come. An old man who added an elevating culture to a large +experience of life, said to me, "When you come into the room, I think I +will study how to make humanity beautiful to you." + +As respects the delicate question of culture, I do not think that any +other than negative rules can be laid down. For positive rules, for +suggestion, nature alone inspires it. Who dare assume to guide a youth, +a maid, to perfect manners?--the golden mean is so delicate, +difficult,--say frankly unattainable. What finest hands would not be +clumsy to sketch the genial precepts of the young girl's demeanor? The +chances seem infinite against success; and yet success is continually +attained. There must not be secondariness, and 'tis a thousand to one +that her air and manner will at once betray that she is not primary, but +that there is some other one or many of her class, to whom she +habitually postpones herself. But nature lifts her easily, and without +knowing it, over these impossibilities, and we are continually surprised +with graces and felicities not only unteachable, but undescribable. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 34: Chapter V of "The Conduct of Life," 1860.] + +[Footnote 35: Theory of gait and demeanor.] + +[Footnote 36: From Landor's "Pericles and Aspasia."] + + + + +MANNERS AND FASHION[37] + +HERBERT SPENCER + + +Some who shun drawing-rooms do so from inability to bear the restraints +prescribed by a genuine refinement, and they would be greatly improved +by being kept under these restraints. But it is not less true that, by +adding to the legitimate restraints, which are based on convenience and +a regard for others, a host of factitious restraints based only on +convention, the refining discipline, which would else have been borne +with benefit, is rendered unbearable, and so misses its end. Excess of +government invariably defeats itself by driving away those to be +governed. And if over all who desert its entertainments in disgust +either at their emptiness or their formality, society thus loses its +salutary influence--if such not only fail to receive that moral culture +which the company of ladies, when rationally regulated, would give them, +but, in default of other relaxation, are driven into habits and +companionships which often end in gambling and drunkenness; must we not +say that here, too, is an evil not to be passed over as insignificant? + +Then consider what a blighting effect these multitudinous preparations +and ceremonies have upon the pleasures they profess to subserve. Who, on +calling to mind the occasions of his highest social enjoyments, does not +find them to have been wholly informal, perhaps impromptu? How +delightful a picnic of friends, who forget all observances save those +dictated by good nature! How pleasant the little unpretended gatherings +of book-societies, and the like; or those purely accidental meetings of +a few people well known to each other! Then, indeed, we may see that "a +man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend." Cheeks flush, and eyes +sparkle. The witty grow brilliant, and even the dull are excited into +saying good things. There is an overflow of topics; and the right +thought, and the right words to put it in, spring up unsought. Grave +alternates with gay: now serious converse, and now jokes, anecdotes, and +playful raillery. Everyone's best nature is shown, everyone's best +feelings are in pleasurable activity; and, for the time, life seems well +worth having. + +Go now and dress for some half-past eight dinner, or some ten o'clock +"at home;" and present yourself in spotless attire, with every hair +arranged to perfection. How great the difference! The enjoyment seems in +the inverse ratio of the preparation. These figures, got up with such +finish and precision, appear but half alive. They have frozen each other +by their primness; and your faculties feel the numbing effects of the +atmosphere the moment you enter it. All those thoughts, so nimble and so +apt awhile since, have disappeared--have suddenly acquired a +preternatural power of eluding you. If you venture a remark to your +neighbour, there comes a trite rejoinder, and there it ends. No subject +you can hit upon outlives half a dozen sentences. Nothing that is said +excites any real interest in you; and you feel that all you say is +listened to with apathy. By some strange magic, things that usually give +pleasure seem to have lost all charm. + +You have a taste for art. Weary of frivolous talk, you turn to the +table, and find that the book of engravings and the portfolio of +photographs are as flat as the conversation. You are fond of music. Yet +the singing, good as it is, you hear with utter indifference; and say +"Thank you" with a sense of being a profound hypocrite. Wholly at ease +though you could be, for your own part, you find that your sympathies +will not let you. You see young gentlemen feeling whether their ties are +properly adjusted, looking vacantly round, and considering what they +shall do next. You see ladies sitting disconsolately, waiting for some +one to speak to them, and wishing they had the wherewith to occupy their +fingers. You see the hostess standing about the doorway, keeping a +factitious smile on her face, and racking her brain to find the +requisite nothings with which to greet her guests as they enter. You see +numberless traits of weariness and embarrassment; and, if you have any +fellow-feeling, these cannot fail to produce a feeling of discomfort. +The disorder is catching; and do what you will you cannot resist the +general infection. You struggle against it; you make spasmodic efforts +to be lively; but none of your sallies or your good stories do more than +raise a simper or a forced laugh: intellect and feeling are alike +asphyxiated. And when, at length, yielding to your disgust, you rush +away, how great is the relief when you get into the fresh air, and see +the stars! How you "Thank God, that's over!" and half resolve to avoid +all such boredom for the future! + +What, now, is the secret of this perpetual miscarriage and +disappointment? Does not the fault lie with all these needless +adjuncts--these elaborate dressings, these set forms, these expensive +preparations, these many devices and arrangements that imply trouble and +raise expectation? Who that has lived thirty years in the world has not +discovered that Pleasure is coy; and must not be too directly pursued, +but must be caught unawares? An air from a street-piano, heard while at +work, will often gratify more than the choicest music played at a +concert by the most accomplished musicians. A single good picture seen +in a dealer's window, may give keener enjoyment than a whole exhibition +gone through with catalogue and pencil. By the time we have got ready +our elaborate apparatus by which to secure happiness, the happiness is +gone. It is too subtle to be contained in these receivers, garnished +with compliments, and fenced round with etiquette. The more we multiply +and complicate appliances, the more certain are we to drive it away. + +The reason is patent enough. These higher emotions to which social +intercourse ministers, are of extremely complex nature; they +consequently depend for their production upon very numerous conditions; +the more numerous the conditions, the greater the liability that one or +other of them will be disturbed, and the emotions consequently +prevented. It takes a considerable misfortune to destroy appetite; but +cordial sympathy with those around may be extinguished by a look or a +word. Hence it follows, that the more multiplied the _unnecessary_ +requirements with which social intercourse is surrounded, the less +likely are its pleasures to be achieved. It is difficult enough to +fulfil continuously all the _essentials_ to a pleasurable communion with +others: how much more difficult, then, must it be continuously to fulfil +a host of _non-essentials_ also! It is, indeed, impossible. The attempt +inevitably ends in the sacrifice of the first to the last--the +essentials to the non-essentials. What chance is there of getting any +genuine response from the lady who is thinking of your stupidity in +taking her in to dinner on the wrong arm? How are you likely to have +agreeable converse with the gentleman who is fuming internally because +he is not placed next to the hostess? Formalities, familiar as they may +become, necessarily occupy attention--necessarily multiply the occasions +for mistake, misunderstanding, and jealousy, on the part of one or +other--necessarily distract all minds from the thoughts and feelings +that should occupy them--necessarily, therefore, subvert those +conditions under which only any sterling intercourse is to be had. + +And this indeed is the fatal mischief which these conventions entail--a +mischief to which every other is secondary. They destroy those highest +of our pleasures which they profess to subserve. All institutions are +alike in this, that however useful, and needful even, they originally +were, they not only in the end cease to be so, but become detrimental. +While humanity is growing, they continue fixed; daily get more +mechanical and unvital; and by and by tend to strangle what they before +preserved. It is not simply that they become corrupt and fail to act; +they become obstructions. Old forms of government finally grow so +oppressive, that they must be thrown off even at the risk of reigns of +terror. Old creeds end in being dead formulas, which no longer aid but +distort and arrest the general mind; while the State-churches +administering them, come to be instruments for subsidising conservatism +and repressing progress. Old schemes of education, incarnated in public +schools and colleges, continue filling the heads of new generations with +what has become relatively useless knowledge, and, by consequence, +excluding knowledge which is useful. Not an organisation of any +kind--political, religious, literary, philanthropic--but what, by its +ever-multiplying regulations, its accumulating wealth, its yearly +addition of officers, and the creeping into it of patronage and party +feeling, eventually loses its original spirit, and sinks into a mere +lifeless mechanism, worked with a view to private ends--a mechanism +which not merely fails of its first purpose, but is a positive hindrance +to it. + +Thus is it, too, with social usages. We read of the Chinese that they +have "ponderous ceremonies transmitted from time immemorial," which make +social intercourse a burden. The court forms prescribed by monarchs for +their own exaltation, have, in all times and places, ended in consuming +the comfort of their lives. And so the artificial observances of the +dining-room and saloon, in proportion as they are many and strict, +extinguish that agreeable communion which they were originally intended +to secure. The dislike with which people commonly speak of society that +is "formal," and "stiff," and "ceremonious," implies the general +recognition of this fact; and this recognition, logically developed, +involves that all usages of behaviour which are not based on natural +requirements, are injurious. That these conventions defeat their own +ends is no new assertion. Swift, criticising the manners of his day, +says--"Wise men are often more uneasy at the over-civility of these +refiners than they could possibly be in the conversation of peasants and +mechanics." + +But it is not only in these details that the self-defeating action of +our arrangements is traceable: it is traceable in the very substance and +nature of them. Our social intercourse, as commonly managed, is a mere +semblance of the reality sought. What is it that we want? Some +sympathetic converse with our fellow-creatures: some converse that shall +not be mere dead words, but the vehicle of living thoughts and +feelings--converse in which the eyes and the face shall speak, and the +tones of the voice be full of meaning--converse which shall make us feel +no longer alone, but shall draw us closer to another, and double our own +emotions by adding another's to them. Who is there that has not, from +time to time, felt how cold and flat is all this talk about politics and +science, and the new books and the new men, and how a genuine utterance +of fellow-feeling outweighs the whole of it? Mark the words of +Bacon:--"For a crowd is not a company, and faces are but a gallery of +pictures, and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love." + +If this be true, then it is only after acquaintance has grown into +intimacy, and intimacy has ripened into friendship, that the real +communion which men need becomes possible. A rationally-formed circle +must consist almost wholly of those on terms of familiarity and regard, +with but one or two strangers. What folly, then, underlies the whole +system of our grand dinners, our "at homes," our evening +parties--assemblages made up of many who never met before, many others +who just bow to each other, many others who though familiar feel mutual +indifference, with just a few real friends lost in the general mass! You +need, but look round at the artificial expression of face, to see at +once how it is. All have their disguises on; and how can there be +sympathy between masks? No wonder that in private every one exclaims +against the stupidity of these gatherings. No wonder that hostesses get +them up rather because they must than because they wish. No wonder that +the invited go less from the expectation of pleasure than from fear of +giving offence. The whole thing is a gigantic mistake--an organised +disappointment. + +And then note, lastly, that in this case, as in all others, when an +organisation has become effete and inoperative for its legitimate +purpose, it is employed for quite other ones--quite opposite ones. What +is the usual plea put in for giving and attending these tedious +assemblies? "I admit that they are stupid and frivolous enough," replies +every man to your criticisms; "but then, you know, one must keep up +one's connections." And could you get from his wife a sincere answer, it +would be--"Like you, I am sick of these frivolities; but then, we must +get our daughters married." The one knows that there is a profession to +push, a practice to gain, a business to extend: or parliamentary +influence, or county patronage, or votes, or office, to be got: +position, berths, favours, profit. The other's thoughts run upon +husbands and settlements, wives and dowries. Worthless for their +ostensible purpose of daily bringing human beings into pleasurable +relations with each other, these cumbrous appliances of our social +intercourse are now perseveringly kept in action with a view to the +pecuniary and matrimonial results which they indirectly produce. + +Who then shall say that the reform of our system of observances is +unimportant? When we see how this system induces fashionable +extravagance, with its entailed bankruptcy and ruin--when we mark how +greatly it limits the amount of social intercourse among the less +wealthy classes--when we find that many who most need to be disciplined +by mixing with the refined are driven away by it, and led into dangerous +and often fatal courses--when we count up the many minor evils it +inflicts, the extra work which its costliness entails on all +professional and mercantile men, the damage to public taste in dress and +decoration by the setting up of its absurdities as standards for +imitation, the injury to health indicated in the faces of its devotees +at the close of the London season, the mortality of milliners and the +like, which its sudden exigencies yearly involve;--and when to all +these we add its fatal sin, that it blights, withers up, and kills that +high enjoyment it professedly ministers to--that enjoyment which is a +chief end of our hard struggling in life to obtain--shall we not +conclude that to reform our system of etiquette and fashion, is an aim +yielding to few in urgency? + +There needs, then, a protestantism in social usages. Forms that have +ceased to facilitate and have become obstructive--whether political, +religious, or other--have ever to be swept away; and eventually are so +swept away in all cases. Signs are not wanting that some change is at +hand. A host of satirists, led on by Thackeray, have been for years +engaged in bringing our sham-festivities, and our fashionable follies, +into contempt; and in their candid moods, most men laugh at the +frivolities with which they and the world in general are deluded. +Ridicule has always been a revolutionary agent. That which is habitually +assailed with sneers and sarcasms cannot long survive. Institutions that +have lost their roots in men's respect and faith are doomed; and the day +of their dissolution is not far off. The time is approaching, then, when +our system of social observances must pass through some crisis, out of +which it will come purified and comparatively simple. + +How this crisis will be brought about, no one can with any certainty +say. Whether by the continuance and increase of individual protests, or +whether by the union of many persons for the practice and propagation of +some better system, the future alone can decide. The influence of +dissentients acting without cooperation, seems, under the present state +of things, inadequate. Standing severally alone, and having no +well-defined views; frowned on by conformists, and expostulated with +even by those who secretly sympathise with them; subject to petty +persecutions, and unable to trace any benefit produced by their example; +they are apt, one by one, to give up their attempts as hopeless. The +young convention-breaker eventually finds that he pays too heavily for +his nonconformity. Hating, for example, everything that bears about it +any remnant of servility, he determines, in the ardour of his +independence, that he will uncover to no one. But what he means simply +as a general protest, he finds that ladies interpret into a personal +disrespect. Though he sees that, from the days of chivalry downwards, +these marks of supreme consideration paid to the other sex have been but +a hypocritical counterpart to the actual subjection in which men have +held them--a pretended submission to compensate for a real domination; +and though he sees that when the true dignity of women is recognised, +the mock dignities given to them will be abolished, yet he does not like +to be thus misunderstood, and so hesitates in his practice. + +In other cases, again, his courage fails him. Such of his +unconventionalities as can be attributed only to eccentricity, he has no +qualms about: for, on the whole, he feels rather complimented than +otherwise in being considered a disregarder of public opinion. But when +they are liable to be put down to ignorance, to ill-breeding, or to +poverty, he becomes a coward. However clearly the recent innovation of +eating some kinds of fish with knife and fork proves the fork-and-bread +practice to have had little but caprice for its basis, yet he dares not +wholly ignore that practice while fashion partially maintains it. Though +he thinks that a silk handkerchief is quite as appropriate for +drawing-room use as a white cambric one, he is not altogether at ease in +acting out his opinion. Then, too, be begins to perceive that his +resistance to prescription brings round disadvantageous results which he +had not calculated upon. He had expected that it would save him from a +great deal of social intercourse of a frivolous kind--that it would +offend the fools, but not the sensible people; and so would serve as a +self-acting test by which those worth knowing would be separated from +those not worth knowing. But the fools prove to be so greatly in the +majority that, by offending them, he closes against himself nearly all +the avenues through which the sensible people are to be reached. Thus he +finds that his nonconformity is frequently misinterpreted; that there +are but few directions in which he dares to carry it consistently out; +that the annoyances and disadvantages which it brings upon him are +greater than he anticipated; and that the chances of his doing any good +are very remote. Hence he gradually loses resolution, and lapses, step +by step, into the ordinary routine of observances. + +Abortive as individual protests thus generally turn out, it may possibly +be that nothing effectual will be done until there arises some organised +resistance to this invisible despotism, by which our modes and habits +are dictated. It may happen, that the government of Manners and Fashion +will be rendered less tyrannical, as the political and religious +governments have been, by some antagonistic union. Alike in Church and +State, men's first emancipations from excess of restriction were +achieved by numbers, bound together by a common creed, or a common +political faith. What remained undone while there were but individual +schismatics or rebels, was effected when there came to be many acting in +concert. It is tolerably clear that these earliest instalments of +freedom could not have been obtained in any other way; for so long as +the feeling of personal independence was weak and the rule strong, there +could never have been a sufficient number of separate dissentients to +produce the desired results. Only in these later times, during which the +secular and spiritual controls have been growing less coercive, and the +tendency towards individual liberty greater, has it become possible for +smaller and smaller sects and parties to fight against established +creeds and laws; until now men may safely stand even alone in their +antagonism. + +The failure of individual nonconformity to customs, as above +illustrated, suggests that an analogous series of changes may have to be +gone through in this case also. It is true that the _lex non scripta_ +differs from the _lex scripta_ in this, that, being unwritten, it is +more readily altered; and that it has, from time to time, been quietly +ameliorated. Nevertheless, we shall find that the analogy holds +substantially good. For in this case, as in the others, the essential +revolution is not the substituting of any one set of restraints for any +other, but the limiting or abolishing the authority which prescribes +restraints. Just as the fundamental change inaugurated by the +Reformation, was not a superseding of one creed by another, but an +ignoring of the arbiter who before dictated creeds--just as the +fundamental change which Democracy long ago commenced, was not from this +particular law to that, but from the despotism of one to the freedom of +all; so, the parallel change yet to be wrought out in this supplementary +government of which we are treating, is not the replacing of absurd +usages by sensible ones, but the dethronement of that secret, +irresponsible power which now imposes our usages, and the assertion of +the right of all individuals to choose their own usages. In rules of +living, a West-end clique is our Pope; and we are all papists, with but +a mere sprinkling of heretics. On all who decisively rebel, comes down +the penalty of excommunication, with its long catalogue of disagreeable +and, indeed, serious consequences. + +The liberty of the subject asserted in our constitution, and ever on the +increase, has yet to be wrested from this subtler tyranny. The right of +private judgment, which our ancestors wrung from the church, remains to +be claimed from this dictator of our habits. Or, as before said, to free +us from these idolatries and superstitious conformities, there has still +to come a protestantism in social usages. Parallel, therefore, as is the +change to be wrought out, it seems not improbable that it may be wrought +out in an analogous way. That influence which solitary dissentients fail +to gain, and that perseverance which they lack, may come into existence +when they unite. That persecution which the world now visits upon them +from mistaking their nonconformity for ignorance or disrespect, may +diminish when it is seen to result from principle. The penalty which +exclusion now entails may disappear when they become numerous enough to +form visiting circles of their own. And when a successful stand has +been made, and the brunt of the opposition has passed, that large amount +of secret dislike to our observances which now pervades society, may +manifest itself with sufficient power to effect the desired +emancipation. + +Whether such will be the process, time alone can decide. That community +of origin, growth, supremacy, and decadence which we have found among +all kinds of government, suggests a community in modes of change also. +On the other hand, Nature often performs substantially similar +operations, in ways apparently different. Hence these details can never +be foretold. + +Society, in all its developments, undergoes the process of exuviation. +These old forms which it successively throws off, have all been once +vitally united with it--have severally served as the protective +envelopes within which a higher humanity was being evolved. They are +cast aside only when they become hindrances--only when some inner and +better envelope has been formed; and they bequeath to us all that there +was in them of good. The periodical abolitions of tyrannical laws have +left the administration of justice not only uninjured, but purified. +Dead and buried creeds have not carried with them the essential morality +they contained, which still exists, uncontaminated by the sloughs of +superstition. And all that there is of justice and kindness and beauty, +embodied in our cumbrous forms of etiquette, will live perennially when +the forms themselves have been forgotten. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 37: From "Illustrations of Universal Progress," 1864.] + + + + +TALK AND TALKERS[38] + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + + +"Sir, we had a good talk."--JOHNSON. + +"As we must account for every idle word, so we must for every idle +silence."--FRANKLIN. + +There can be no fairer ambition than to excel in talk; to be affable, +gay, ready, clear and welcome; to have a fact, a thought, or an +illustration, pat to every subject; and not only to cheer the flight of +time among our intimates, but bear our part in that great international +congress, always sitting, where public wrongs are first declared, public +errors first corrected, and the course of public opinion shaped, day by +day, a little nearer to the right. No measure comes before Parliament +but it has been long ago prepared by the grand jury of the talkers; no +book is written that has not been largely composed by their assistance. +Literature in many of its branches is no other than the shadow of good +talk; but the imitation falls far short of the original in life, +freedom, and effect. There are always two to a talk, giving and taking, +comparing experience and according conclusions. Talk is fluid, +tentative, continually "in further search and progress;" while written +words remain fixed, become idols even to the writer, found wooden +dogmatisms, and preserve flies of obvious error in the amber of the +truth. Last and chief, while literature, gagged with linsey-woolsey, can +only deal with a fraction of the life of man, talk goes fancy free and +may call a spade a spade. It cannot, even if it would, become merely +aesthetic or merely classical like literature. A jest intervenes, the +solemn humbug is dissolved in laughter, and speech runs forth out of the +contemporary groove into the open fields of nature, cheery and cheering, +like schoolboys out of school. And it is in talk alone that we can learn +our period and ourselves. In short, the first duty of a man is to speak; +that is his chief business in this world; and talk, which is the +harmonious speech of two or more, is by far the most accessible of +pleasures. It costs nothing in money; it is all profit; it completes our +education, founds and fosters our friendships, and can be enjoyed at any +age and in almost any state of health. + +The spice of life is battle; the friendliest relations are still a kind +of contest; and if we would not forego all that is valuable in our lot, +we must continually face some other person, eye to eye, and wrestle a +fall whether in love or enmity. It is still by force of body, or power +of character or intellect, that we attain to worthy pleasures. Men and +women contend for each other in the lists of love, like rival +mesmerists; the active and adroit decide their challenges in the sports +of the body; and the sedentary sit down to chess or conversation. All +sluggish and pacific pleasures are, to the same degree, solitary and +selfish; and every durable bond between human beings is founded in or +heightened by some element of competition. Now, the relation that has +the least root in matter is undoubtedly that airy one of friendship; and +hence, I suppose, it is that good talk most commonly arises among +friends. Talk is, indeed, both the scene and instrument of friendship. +It is in talk alone that the friends can measure strength, and enjoy +that amicable counter-assertion of personality which is the gauge of +relations and the sport of life. + +A good talk is not to be had for the asking. Humours must first be +accorded in a kind of overture or prologue; hour, company and +circumstance be suited; and then, at a fit juncture, the subject, the +quarry of two heated minds, springs up like a deer out of the wood. Not +that the talker has any of the hunter's pride, though he has all and +more than all his ardour. The genuine artist follows the stream of +conversation as an angler follows the windings of a brook, not dallying +where he fails to "kill." He trusts implicitly to hazard; and he is +rewarded by continual variety, continual pleasure, and those changing +prospects of the truth that are the best of education. There is nothing +in a subject, so called, that we should regard it as an idol, or follow +it beyond the promptings of desire. Indeed, there are few subjects; and +so far as they are truly talkable, more than the half of them may be +reduced to three: that I am I, that you are you, and that there are +other people dimly understood to be not quite the same as either. +Wherever talk may range, it still runs half the time on these eternal +lines. The theme being set, each plays on himself as on an instrument; +asserts and justifies himself; ransacks his brain for instances and +opinions, and brings them forth new-minted, to his own surprise and the +admiration of his adversary. All natural talk is a festival of +ostentation; and by the laws of the game each accepts and fans the +vanity of the other. It is from that reason that we venture to lay +ourselves so open, that we dare to be so warmly eloquent, and that we +swell in each other's eyes to such a vast proportion. For talkers, once +launched, begin to overflow the limits of their ordinary selves, tower +up to the height of their secret pretensions, and give themselves out +for the heroes, brave, pious, musical, and wise, that in their most +shining moments they aspire to be. So they weave for themselves with +words and for a while inhabit a palace of delights, temple at once and +theatre, where they fill the round of the world's dignities, and feast +with the gods, exulting in Kudos.[39] And when the talk is over, each +goes his way, still flushed with vanity and admiration, still trailing +clouds of glory; each declines from the height of his ideal orgy, not in +a moment, but by slow declension. I remember, in the _entr'acte_ of an +afternoon performance, coming forth into the sunshine, in a beautiful +green, gardened corner of a romantic city; and as I sat and smoked, the +music moving in my blood, I seemed to sit there and evaporate _The +Flying Dutchman_ (for it was that I had been hearing) with a wonderful +sense of life, warmth, well-being, and pride; and the noises of the +city, voices, bells and marching feet, fell together in my ears like a +symphonious orchestra. In the same way, the excitement of a good talk +lives for a long while after in the blood, the heart still hot within +you, the brain still simmering, and the physical earth swimming around +you with the colours of the sunset. + +Natural talk, like ploughing, should turn up a large surface of life, +rather than dig mines into geological strata. Masses of experience, +anecdote, incident, cross-lights, quotation, historical instances, the +whole flotsam and jetsam of two minds forced in and in upon the matter +in hand from every point of the compass, and from every degree of mental +elevation and abasement--these are the material with which talk is +fortified, the food on which the talkers thrive. Such argument as is +proper to the exercise should still be brief and seizing. Talk should +proceed by instances; by the apposite, not the expository. It should +keep close along the lines of humanity, near the bosoms and businesses +of men, at the level where history, fiction and experience intersect and +illuminate each other. I am I, and You are You, with all my heart; but +conceive how these lean propositions change and brighten when, instead +of words, the actual you and I sit cheek by jowl, the spirit housed in +the live body, and the very clothes uttering voices to corroborate the +story in the face. Not less surprising is the change when we leave off +to speak of generalities--the bad, the good, the miser, and all the +characters of Theophrastus--and call up other men, by anecdote or +instance, in their very trick and feature; or trading on a common +knowledge, toss each other famous names, still glowing with the hues of +life. Communication is no longer by words, but by the instancing of +whole biographies, epics, systems of philosophy, and epochs of history, +in bulk. That which is understood excels that which is spoken in +quantity and quality alike; ideas thus figured and personified, change +hands, as we may say, like coin; and the speakers imply without effort +the most obscure and intricate thoughts. Strangers who have a large +common ground of reading will, for this reason, come the sooner to the +grapple of genuine converse. If they know Othello and Napoleon, Consuelo +and Clarissa Harlowe, Vautrin and Steenie Steenson, they can leave +generalities and begin at once to speak by figures. + +Conduct and art are the two subjects that arise most frequently and that +embrace the widest range of facts. A few pleasures bear discussion for +their own sake, but only those which are most social or most radically +human; and even these can only be discussed among their devotees. A +technicality is always welcome to the expert, whether in athletics, art, +or law; I have heard the best kind of talk on technicalities from such +rare and happy persons as both know and love their business. No human +being ever spoke of scenery for above two minutes at a time, which makes +me suspect we hear too much of it in literature. The weather is regarded +as the very nadir and scoff of conversational topics. And yet the +weather, the dramatic element in scenery, is far more tractable in +language, and far more human both in import and suggestion than the +stable features of the landscape. Sailors and shepherds, and the people +generally of coast and mountain, talk well of it; and it is often +excitingly presented in literature. But the tendency of all living talk +draws it back and back into the common focus of humanity. Talk is a +creature of the street and market-place, feeding on gossip; and its last +resort is still in a discussion on morals. That is the heroic form of +gossip; heroic in virtue of its high pretensions; but still gossip, +because it turns on personalities. You can keep no men long, nor +Scotchmen at all, off moral or theological discussion. These are to all +the world what law is to lawyers; they are everybody's technicalities; +the medium through which all consider life, and the dialect in which +they express their judgments. I knew three young men who walked together +daily for some two months in a solemn and beautiful forest and in +cloudless summer weather; daily they talked with unabated zest, and yet +scarce wandered that whole time beyond two subjects--theology and love. +And perhaps neither a court of love[40] nor an assembly of divines would +have granted their premises or welcomed their conclusions. + +Conclusions, indeed, are not often reached by talk any more than by +private thinking. That is not the profit. The profit is in the exercise, +and above all in the experience; for when we reason at large on any +subject, we review our state and history in life. From time to time, +however, and specially, I think, in talking art, talk becomes effective, +conquering like war, widening the boundaries of knowledge like an +exploration. A point arises; the question takes a problematical, a +baffling, yet a likely air; the talkers begin to feel lively +presentiments of some conclusion near at hand; towards this they strive +with emulous ardour, each by his own path, and struggling for first +utterance; and then one leaps upon the summit of that matter with a +shout, and almost at the same moment the other is beside him; and behold +they are agreed. Like enough, the progress is illusory, a mere cat's +cradle having been wound and unwound out of words. But the sense of +joint discovery is none the less giddy and inspiriting. And in the life +of the talker such triumphs, though imaginary, are neither few nor far +apart; they are attained with speed and pleasure, in the hour of mirth; +and by the nature of the process, they are always worthily shared. + +There is a certain attitude combative at once and deferential, eager to +fight yet most averse to quarrel, which marks out at once the talkable +man. It is not eloquence, not fairness, not obstinacy, but a certain +proportion of all of these that I love to encounter in my amicable +adversaries. They must not be pontiffs holding doctrine, but huntsmen +questing after elements of truth. Neither must they be boys to be +instructed, but fellow-teachers with whom I may wrangle and agree on +equal terms. We must reach some solution, some shadow of consent; for +without that, eager talk becomes a torture. But we do not wish to reach +it cheaply, or quickly, or without the tussle and effort Wherein +pleasure lies. + +The very best talker, with me, is one whom I shall call Spring-Heel'd +Jack. I say so, because I never knew any one who mingled so largely the +possible ingredients of converse. In the Spanish proverb, the fourth man +necessary to compound a salad, is a madman to mix it: Jack is that +madman. I know not which is more remarkable: the insane lucidity of his +conclusions, the humorous eloquence of his language, or his power of +method, bringing the whole of life into the focus of the subject +treated, mixing the conversational salad like a drunken god. He doubles +like the serpent, changes and flashes like the shaken kaleidoscope, +transmigrates bodily into the views of others, and so, in the twinkling +of an eye and with a heady rapture, turns questions inside out and +flings them empty before you on the ground, like a triumphant conjuror. +It is my common practice when a piece of conduct puzzles me, to attack +it in the presence of Jack with such grossness, such partiality and such +wearing iteration, as at length shall spur him up in its defence. In a +moment he transmigrates, dons the required character, and with +moonstruck philosophy justifies the act in question. I can fancy nothing +to compare with the _vim_ of these impersonations, the strange scale of +language, flying from Shakespeare to Kant, and from Kant to Major +Dyngwell-- + + "As fast as a musician scatters sounds + Out of an instrument--" + +the sudden, sweeping generalisations, the absurd irrelevant +particularities, the wit, wisdom, folly, humour, eloquence and bathos, +each startling in its kind, and yet all luminous in the admired disorder +of their combination. A talker of a different calibre, though belonging +to the same school, is Burly. Burly is a man of great presence; he +commands a larger atmosphere, gives the impression of a grosser mass of +character than most men. It has been said of him that his presence could +be felt in a room you entered blindfold; and the same, I think, has been +said of other powerful constitutions condemned to much physical +inaction. There is something boisterous and piratic in Burly's manner of +talk which suits well enough with this impression. He will roar you +down, he will bury his face in his hands, he will undergo passions of +revolt and agony; and meanwhile his attitude of mind is really both +conciliatory and receptive; and after Pistol has been out-Pistol'd, and +the welkin rung for hours, you begin to perceive a certain subsidence in +these spring torrents, points of agreement issue, and you end +arm-in-arm, and in a glow of mutual admiration. The outcry only serves +to make your final union the more unexpected and precious. Throughout +there has been perfect sincerity, perfect intelligence, a desire to hear +although not always to listen, and an unaffected eagerness to meet +concessions. You have, with Burly, none of the dangers that attend +debate with Spring-Heel'd Jack; who may at any moment turn his powers of +transmigration on yourself, create for you a view you never held, and +then furiously fall on you for holding it. These, at least, are my two +favourites, and both are loud, copious, intolerant talkers. This argues +that I myself am in the same category; for if we love talking at all, we +love a bright, fierce adversary, who will hold his ground, foot by foot, +in much our own manner, sell his attention dearly, and give us our full +measure of the dust and exertion of battle. Both these men can be beat +from a position, but it takes six hours to do it; a high and hard +adventure, worth attempting. With both you can pass days in an +enchanted country of the mind, with people, scenery and manners of its +own; live a life apart, more arduous, active and glowing than any real +existence; and come forth again when the talk is over, as out of a +theatre or a dream, to find the east wind still blowing and the +chimney-pots of the old battered city still around you. Jack has the far +finer mind, Burly the far more honest; Jack gives us the animated +poetry, Burly the romantic prose, of similar themes; the one glances +high like a meteor and makes a light in darkness; the other, with many +changing hues of fire, burns at the sea-level, like a conflagration; but +both have the same humour and artistic interests, the same unquenched +ardour in pursuit, the same gusts of talk and thunderclaps of +contradiction. + +Cockshot[41] is a different article, but vastly entertaining, and has +been meat and drink to me for many a long evening. His manner is dry, +brisk and pertinacious, and the choice of words not much. The point +about him is his extraordinary readiness and spirit. You can propound +nothing but he has either a theory about it ready-made, or will have one +instantly on the stocks, and proceed to lay its timbers and launch it in +your presence. "Let me see," he will say. "Give me a moment. I _should_ +have some theory for that." A blither spectacle than the vigour with +which he sets about the task, it were hard to fancy. He is possessed by +a demoniac energy, welding the elements for his life, and bending ideas, +as an athlete bends a horseshoe, with a visible and lively effort. He +has, in theorising, a compass, an art; what I would call the synthetic +gusto; something of a Herbert Spencer, who should see the fun of the +thing. You are not bound, and no more is he, to place your faith in +these brand-new opinions. But some of them are right enough, durable +even for life; and the poorest serve for a cock-shy--as when idle +people, after picnics, float a bottle on a pond and have an hour's +diversion ere, it sinks. Whichever they are, serious opinions or humours +of the moment, he still defends his ventures with indefatigable wit and +spirit, hitting savagely himself, but taking punishment like a man. He +knows and never forgets that people talk, first of all, for the sake of +talking; conducts himself in the ring, to use the old slang, like a +thorough "glutton," and honestly enjoys a telling facer from his +adversary. Cockshot is bottled effervescency, the sworn foe of sleep. +Three-in-the-morning Cockshot, says a victim. His talk is like the +driest of all imaginable dry champagnes. Sleight of hand and inimitable +quickness are the qualities by which he lives. Athelred, on the other +hand, presents you with the spectacle of a sincere and somewhat slow +nature thinking aloud. He is the most unready man I ever knew to shine +in conversation. You may see him sometimes wrestle with a refractory +jest for a minute or two together, and perhaps fail to throw it in the +end. And there is something singularly engaging, often instructive, in +the simplicity with which he thus exposes the process as well as the +result, the works as well as the dial of the clock. Withal he has his +hours of inspiration. Apt words come to him as if by accident, and, +coming from deeper down, they smack the more personally, they have the +more of fine old crusted humanity, rich in sediment and humour. There +are sayings of his in which he has stamped himself into the very grain +of the language; you would think he must have worn the words next his +skin and slept with them. Yet it is not as a sayer of particular good +things that Athelred is most to be regarded, rather as the stalwart +woodman of thought. I have pulled on a light cord often enough, while he +has been wielding the broad-axe; and between us, on this unequal, +division, many a specious fallacy has fallen. I have known him to battle +the same question night after night for years, keeping it in the reign +of talk, constantly applying it and re-applying it to life with humorous +or grave intention, and all the while, never hurrying, nor flagging, nor +taking an unfair advantage of the facts. Jack at a given moment, when +arising, as it were, from the tripod, can be more radiantly just to +those from whom he differs; but then the tenor of his thoughts is even +calumnious; while Athelred, slower to forge excuses, is yet slower to +condemn, and sits over the welter of the world, vacillating but still +judicial, and still faithfully contending with his doubts. + +Both the last talkers deal much in points of conduct and religion +studied in the "dry light" of prose. Indirectly and as if against his +will the same elements from time to time appear in the troubled and +poetic talk of Opalstein. His various and exotic knowledge, complete +although unready sympathies, and fine, full, discriminative flow of +language, fit him out to be the best of talkers; so perhaps he is with +some, not _quite_ with me--_proxime accessit_,[42] I should say. He +sings the praises of the earth and the arts, flowers and jewels, wine +and music, in a moonlight, serenading manner, as to the light guitar; +even wisdom comes from his tongue like singing; no one is, indeed, more +tuneful in the upper notes. But even while he sings the song of the +Sirens, he still hearkens to the barking of the Sphinx. Jarring Byronic +notes interrupt the flow of his Horatian humours. His mirth has +something of the tragedy of the world for its perpetual background; and +he feasts like Don Giovanni to a double orchestra, one lightly sounding +for the dance, one pealing Beethoven in the distance. He is not truly +reconciled either with life or with himself; and this instant war in his +members sometimes divides the man's attention. He does not always, +perhaps not often, frankly surrender himself in conversation. He brings +into the talk other thoughts than those which he expresses; you are +conscious that he keeps an eye on something else, that he does not shake +off the world, nor quite forget himself. Hence arise occasional +disappointments; even an occasional unfairness for his companions, who +find themselves one day giving too much, and the next, when they are +wary out of season, giving perhaps too little. Purcel is in another +class from any I have mentioned. He is no debater, but appears in +conversation, as occasion rises, in two distinct characters, one of +which I admire and fear, and the other love. In the first, he is +radiantly civil and rather silent, sits on a high, courtly hilltop, and +from that vantage-ground drops you his remarks like favours. He seems +not to share in our sublunary contentions; he wears no sign of interest; +when on a sudden there falls in a crystal of wit, so polished that the +dull do not perceive it, but so right that the sensitive are silenced. +True talk should have more body and blood, should be louder, vainer and +more declaratory of the man; the true talker should not hold so steady +an advantage over whom he speaks with; and that is one reason out of a +score why I prefer my Purcel in his second character, when he unbends +into a strain of graceful gossip, singing like the fireside kettle. In +these moods he has an elegant homeliness that rings of the true Queen +Anne. I know another person who attains, in his moments, to the +insolence of a Restoration comedy, speaking, I declare, as Congreve +wrote; but that is a sport of nature, and scarce falls under the rubric, +for there is none, alas! to give him answer. + +One last remark occurs: It is the mark of genuine conversation that the +sayings can scarce be quoted with their full effect beyond the circle of +common friends. To have their proper weight they, should appear in a +biography, and with the portrait of the speaker. Good talk is dramatic; +it is like an impromptu piece of acting where each should represent +himself to the greatest advantage; and that is the best kind of talk +where each speaker is most fully and candidly himself, and where, if you +were to shift the speeches, round from one to another, there would be +the greatest loss in significance and perspicuity. It is for this reason +that talk depends so wholly on our company. We should like to introduce +Falstaff and Mercutio, or Falstaff and Sir Toby; but Falstaff in talk +with Cordelia seems even painful. Most of us, by the Protean quality of +man, can talk to some degree with all; but the true talk, that strikes +out all the slumbering best of us, comes only with the peculiar +brethren of our spirits, is founded as deep as love in the constitution +of our being, and is a thing to relish with all our energy, while yet we +have it, and to be grateful for forever. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 38: The first of two papers on this subject written in 1881-2; +reprinted here, by permission of the publishers, from "Memories and +Portraits" in the Biographical Edition of Stevenson's Works, Charles +Scribner's Sons, 1907.] + +[Footnote 39: Kudos (Greek): glory.] + +[Footnote 40: Court of love: a mediaeval institution for the discussion +of questions of chivalry.] + +[Footnote 41: The Late Fleeming Jenkin--Author's note.] + +[Footnote 42: Proxime accessit: he comes very close to it.] + + + + +THE SOCIAL VALUE OF THE COLLEGE-BRED[43] + +WILLIAM JAMES + + +Of what use is a college training? We who have had it seldom hear the +question raised--we might be a little nonplussed to answer it offhand. A +certain amount of meditation has brought me to this as the pithiest +reply which I myself can give: The best claim that a college education +can possibly make on your respect, the best thing it can aspire to +accomplish for you, is this: that it should _help you to know a good man +when you see him_. This is as true of women's as of men's colleges; but +that it is neither a joke nor a one-sided abstraction I shall now +endeavor to show. + +What talk do we commonly hear about the contrast between college +education and the education which business or technical or professional +schools confer? The college education is called higher because it is +supposed to be so general and so disinterested. At the "schools" you get +a relatively narrow practical skill, you are told, whereas the +"colleges" give you the more liberal culture, the broader outlook, the +historical perspective, the philosophic atmosphere, or something which +phrases of that sort try to express. You are made into an efficient +instrument for doing a definite thing, you hear, at the schools; but, +apart from that, you may remain a crude and smoky kind of petroleum, +incapable of spreading light. The universities and colleges, on the +other hand, although they may leave you less efficient for this or that +practical task, suffuse your whole mentality with something more +important than skill. They redeem you, make you well-bred; they make +"good company" of you mentally. If they find you with a naturally +boorish or caddish mind, they cannot leave you so, as a technical school +may leave you. This, at least, is pretended; this is what we hear among +college-trained people when they compare their education with every +other sort. Now, exactly how much does this signify? + +It is certain, to begin with, that the narrowest trade or professional +training does something more for a man than to make a skillful practical +tool of him--it makes him also a judge of other men's skill. Whether his +trade be pleading at the bar or surgery or plastering or plumbing, it +develops a critical sense in him for that sort of occupation. He +understands the difference between second-rate and first-rate work in +his whole branch of industry; he gets to know a good job in his own line +as soon as he sees it; and getting to know this in his own line, he gets +a faint sense of what good work may mean anyhow, that may, if +circumstances favor, spread into his judgments elsewhere. Sound work, +clean work, finished work; feeble work, slack work, sham work--these +words express an identical contrast in many different departments of +activity. In so far, then, even the humblest manual trade may beget in +one a certain small degree of power to judge of good work generally. + +Now, what is supposed to be the line of us who have the higher college +training? Is there any broader line--since our education claims +primarily not to be "narrow"--in which we also are made good judges +between what is first-rate and what is second-rate only? What is +especially taught in the colleges has long been known by the name of the +"humanities," and these are often identified with Greek and Latin. But +it is only as literatures, not as languages, that Greek and Latin have +any general humanity-value; so that in a broad sense the humanities mean +literature primarily, and in a still broader sense the study of +masterpieces in almost any field of human endeavor. Literature keeps +the primacy; for it not only _consists_ of masterpieces, but is largely +_about_ masterpieces, being little more than an appreciative chronicle +of human master-strokes, so far as it takes the form of criticism and +history. You can give humanistic value to almost anything by teaching it +historically. Geology, economics, mechanics, are humanities when taught +with reference to the successive achievements of the geniuses to which +these sciences owe their being. Not taught thus, literature remains +grammar, art a catalogue, history a list of dates, and natural science a +sheet of formulas and weights and measures. + +The sifting of human creations!--nothing less than this is what we ought +to mean by the humanities. Essentially this means biography; what our +colleges should teach is, therefore, biographical history, not that of +politics merely, but of anything and everything so far as human efforts +and conquests are factors that have played their part. Studying in this +way, we learn what type's of activity have stood the test of time; we +acquire standards of the excellent: and durable. All our arts and +sciences and institutions are but so many quests of perfection on the +part of men; and when we see how diverse the types of excellence may be, +how various the tests, how flexible the adaptations, we gain a richer +sense of what the terms "better" and "worse" may signify in general. Our +critical sensibilities grow both more acute and less fanatical. We +sympathize with men's mistakes even in the act of penetrating them; we +feel the pathos of lost causes and misguided epochs even while we +applaud what overcame them. + +Such words are vague and such ideas are inadequate, but their meaning is +unmistakable. What the colleges--teaching humanities by examples which +may be special, but which must be typical and pregnant--should at least +try to give us, is a general sense of what, under various disguises, +_superiority_ has always signified and may still signify. The feeling +for a good human job anywhere, the admiration of the really admirable, +the disesteem of what is cheap and trashy and impermanent--this is what +we call the critical sense, the sense for ideal values. It is the better +part of what men know as wisdom. Some of us are wise in this way +naturally and by genius; some of us never become so. But to have spent +one's youth at college, in contact with the choice and rare and +precious, and yet still to be a blind prig or vulgarian, unable to scent +out human excellence or to divine it amid its accidents, to know it only +when ticketed and labeled and forced on us by others, this indeed should +be accounted the very calamity and shipwreck of a higher education. + +The sense for human superiority ought, then, to be considered our line, +as boring subways is the engineer's line and the surgeon's is +appendicitis. Our colleges ought to have lit up in us a lasting relish +for the better kind of man, a loss of appetite for mediocrities, and a +disgust for cheap-jacks. We ought to smell, as it were, the difference +of quality in men and their proposals when we enter the world of affairs +about us. Expertness in this might well atone for some of our +awkwardness at accounts, for some of our ignorance of dynamos. The best +claim we can make for the higher education, the best single phrase in +which we can tell what it ought to do for us, is, then, exactly what I +said: it should enable us to _know a good man when we see him_. + +That the phrase is anything but an empty epigram follows from the fact +that if you ask in what line it is most important that a democracy like +ours should have its sons and daughters skillful, you see that it is +this line more than any other. "The people in their wisdom"--this is the +kind of wisdom most needed by the people. Democracy is on its trial, and +no one knows how it will stand the ordeal. Abounding about us are +pessimistic prophets. Fickleness and violence used to be, but are no +longer, the vices which they charge to democracy. What its critics now +affirm is that its preferences are inveterately for the inferior. So it +was in the beginning, they say, and so it will be world without end. +Vulgarity enthroned and institutionalized, elbowing everything superior +from the highway, this, they tell us, is our irremediable destiny; and +the picture papers of the European continent are already drawing Uncle +Sam with the hog instead of the eagle for his heraldic emblem. The +privileged aristocracies of the foretime, with all their iniquities, did +at least preserve some taste for higher human quality and honor certain +forms of refinement by their enduring traditions. But when democracy is +sovereign, its doubters say, nobility will form a sort of invisible +church, and sincerity and refinement, stripped of honor, precedence, and +favor, will have to vegetate on sufferance in private corners. They will +have no general influence. They will be harmless eccentricities. + +Now, who can be absolutely certain that this may not be the career of +democracy? Nothing future is quite secure; states enough have inwardly +rotted; and democracy as a whole may undergo self-poisoning. But, on the +other hand, democracy is a kind of religion, and we are bound not to +admit its failure. Faiths and Utopias are the noblest exercise of human +reason, and no one with a spark of reason in him will sit down +fatalistically before the croaker's picture. The best of us are filled +with the contrary vision of a democracy stumbling through every error +till its institutions glow with justice and its customs shine with +beauty. Our better men _shall_ show the way and we _shall_ follow them; +so we are brought round again to the mission of the higher education in +helping us to know the better kind of man whenever we see him. + +The notion that a people can run itself and its affairs anonymously is +now well known to be the silliest of absurdities. Mankind does nothing +save through initiatives on the part of inventors, great or small, and +imitation by the rest of us--these are the sole factors active in human +progress. Individuals of genius show the way, and set the patterns, +which common people then adopt and follow. _The rivalry of the patterns +is the history of the world_. Our democratic problem thus is statable +in ultra-simple terms: Who are the kind of men from whom our majorities +shall take their cue? Whom shall they treat as rightful leaders? We and +our leaders are the _x_ and the _y_ of the equation here; all other +historic circumstances, be they economical, political, or intellectual, +are only the background of occasion on which the living drama works +itself out between us. + +In this very simple way does the value of our educated class define +itself: we more than others should be able to divine the worthier and +better leaders. The terms here are monstrously simplified, of course, +but such a bird's-eye view lets us immediately take our bearings. In our +democracy, where everything else is so shifting, we alumni and alumnae +of the colleges are the only permanent presence that corresponds to the +aristocracy in older countries. We have continuous traditions, as they +have; our motto, too, is _noblesse oblige_; and, unlike them, we stand +for ideal interests solely, for we have no corporate selfishness and +wield no powers of corruption. We ought to have our own +class-consciousness. "Les intellectuels!" What prouder club name could +there be than this one, used ironically by the party of "red blood," the +party of every stupid prejudice and passion, during the anti-Dreyfus +craze, to satirize the men in France who still retained some critical +sense and judgment! Critical sense, it has to be confessed, is not an +exciting term, hardly a banner to carry in processions. Affections for +old habit, currents of self-interest, and gales of passion are the +forces that keep the human ship moving; and the pressure of the +judicious pilot's hand upon the tiller is a relatively insignificant +energy. But the affections, passions, and interests are shifting, +successive, and distraught; they blow in alternation while the pilot's +hand is steadfast. He knows the compass, and, with all the leeways he is +obliged to tack toward, he always makes some headway. A small force, if +it never lets up, will accumulate effects more considerable than those +of much greater forces if these work inconsistently. The ceaseless +whisper of the more permanent ideals, the steady tug of truth and +justice, give them but time, _must_ warp the world in their direction. + +This bird's-eye view of the general steering function of the +college-bred amid the driftings of democracy ought to help us to a wider +vision of what our colleges themselves should aim at. If we are to be +the yeast cake for democracy's dough, if we are to make it rise with +culture's preferences, we must see to it that culture spreads broad +sails. We must shake the old double reefs out of the canvas into the +wind and sunshine, and let in every modern subject, sure that any +subject will prove humanistic, if its setting be kept only wide enough. + +Stevenson says somewhere to his reader: "You think you are just making +this bargain, but you are really laying down a link in the policy of +mankind." Well, your technical school should enable you to make your +bargain splendidly; but your college should show you just the place of +that kind of bargain--a pretty poor place, possibly--in the whole policy +of mankind. That is the kind of liberal outlook, of perspective, of +atmosphere, which should surround every subject as a college deals with +it. + +We of the colleges must eradicate a curious notion which numbers of good +people have about such ancient seats of learning as Harvard. To many +ignorant outsiders, that name suggests little more than a kind of +sterilized conceit and incapacity for being pleased. In Edith Wyatt's +exquisite book of Chicago sketches called "Every One his Own Way," there +is a couple who stand for culture in the sense of exclusiveness, Richard +Elliot and his feminine counterpart--feeble caricatures of mankind, +unable to know any good thing when they see it, incapable of enjoyment +unless a printed label gives them leave. Possibly this type of culture +may exist near Cambridge and Boston, there may be specimens there, for +priggishness is just like painters' colic or any other trade disease. +But every good college makes its students immune against this malady, of +which the microbe haunts the neighborhood-printed pages. It does so by +its general tone being too hearty for the microbe's life. Real culture +lives by sympathies and admirations, not by dislikes and disdains--under +all misleading wrappings it pounces unerringly upon the human core. If a +college, through the inferior human influences that have grown regnant +there, fails to catch the robuster tone, its failure is colossal, for +its social function stops: democracy gives it a wide berth, turns toward +it a deaf ear. + +"Tone," to be sure, is a terribly vague word to use, but there is no +other, and this whole meditation is over questions of tone. By their +tone are all things human either lost or saved. If democracy is to be +saved it must catch the higher, healthier tone. If we are to impress it +with our preferences, we ourselves must use the proper tone, which we, +in turn, must have caught from our own teachers. It all reverts in the +end to the action of innumerable imitative individuals upon each other +and to the question of whose tone has the highest spreading power. As a +class, we college graduates should look to it that _ours_ has spreading +power. It ought to have the highest spreading power. + +In our essential function of indicating the better men, we now have +formidable competitors outside. _McClure's Magazine,_ the _American +Magazine, Collier's Weekly_, and, in its fashion, the _World's Work_, +constitute together a real popular university along this very line. It +would be a pity if any future historian were to have to write words like +these: "By the middle of the twentieth century the higher institutions +of learning had lost all influence over public opinion in the United +States. But the mission of raising the tone of democracy, which they had +proved themselves so lamentably unfitted to exert, was assumed with rare +enthusiasm and prosecuted with extraordinary skill and success by a new +educational power; and for the clarification of their human sympathies +and elevation of their human preferences, the people at large acquired +the habit of resorting exclusively to the guidance of certain private +literary adventures, commonly designated in the market by the +affectionate name of ten-cent magazines." + +Must not we of the colleges see to it that no historian shall ever say +anything like this? Vague as the phrase of knowing a good man when you +see him may be, diffuse and indefinite as one must leave its +application, is there any other formula that describes so well the +result at which our institutions _ought_ to aim? If they do that, they +do the best thing conceivable. If they fail to do it, they fail in very +deed. It surely is a fine synthetic formula. If our faculties and +graduates could once collectively come to realize it as the great +underlying purpose toward which they have always been more or less +obscurely groping, great clearness would be shed over many of their +problems; and, as for their influence in the midst of our social system, +it would embark upon a new career of strength. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 43: First published in 1908. Reprinted by permission from +_Memories and Studies_, 1911. (Messrs. Longmans, Green and Co.)] + + + + +THE LAW OF HUMAN PROGRESS[44] + +HENRY GEORGE + + +What, then, is the law of human progress--the law under which +civilization advances? + +It must explain clearly and definitely, and not by vague generalities or +superficial analogies, why, though mankind started presumably with the +same capacities and at the same time, there now exist such wide +differences in social development. It must account for the arrested +civilizations and for the decayed and destroyed civilizations; for the +general facts as to the rise of civilization, and for the petrifying or +enervating force which the progress of civilization has heretofore +always evolved. It must account for retrogression a well as for +progression; for the differences in general character between Asiatic +and European civilizations; for the difference between classical and +modern civilizations; for the different rates at which progress goes on; +and for those bursts, and starts, and halts of progress which are so +marked as minor phenomena. And, thus, it must show us what are the +essential conditions of progress, and what social adjustments advance +and what retard it. + +It is not difficult to discover such a law. We have but to look and we +may see it. I do not pretend to give it scientific precision, but merely +to point it out. + +The incentives to progress are the desires inherent in human nature--the +desire to gratify the wants of the animal nature, the wants of the +intellectual nature, and the wants of the sympathetic nature; the desire +to be, to know, and to do--desires that short of infinity can never be +satisfied, as they grow by what they feed on. + +Mind is the instrument by which man advances, and by which each advance +is secured and made the vantage ground for new advances. Though he may +not by taking thought add a cubit to his stature, man may by taking +thought extend his knowledge of the universe and his power over it, in +what, so far as we can see, is an infinite degree. The narrow span of +human life allows the individual to go but a short distance, but though +each generation may do but little, yet generations, succeeding to the +gain of their predecessors, may gradually elevate the status of mankind, +as coral polyps, building one generation upon the work of the other, +gradually elevate themselves from the bottom of the sea. + +Mental power is, therefore, the motor of progress, and men tend to +advance in proportion to the mental power expended in progression--the +mental power which is devoted to the extension of knowledge, the +improvement of methods, and the betterment of social conditions. + +Now mental power is a fixed quantity--that is to say, there is a limit +to the work a man can do with his mind, as there is to the work he can +do with his body; therefore, the mental power which can be devoted to +progress is only what is left after what is required for non-progressive +purposes. + +These non-progressive purposes in which mental power is consumed may be +classified as maintenance and conflict. By maintenance I mean, not only +the support of existence, but the keeping up of the social condition and +the holding of advances already gained. By conflict I mean not merely +warfare and preparation for warfare, but all expenditure of mental power +in seeking the gratification of desire at the expense of others, and in +resistance to such aggression. + +To compare society to a boat. Her progress through the water will not +depend upon the exertion of her crew, but upon the exertion devoted to +propelling her. This will be lessened by any expenditure of force +required for bailing, or any expenditure of force in fighting among +themselves, or in pulling in different directions. + +Now, as in a separated state the whole powers of man are required to +maintain existence, and mental power is set free for higher uses only by +the association of men in communities, which permits the division of +labor and all the economies which come with the co-operation of, +increased numbers, association is the first essential of progress. +Improvement becomes possible as men come together in peaceful +association, and the wider and closer the association, the greater the +possibilities of improvement. And as the wasteful expenditure of mental +power in conflict becomes greater or less as the moral law which accords +to each an equality of rights is ignored or is recognized, equality (or +justice) is the second essential of progress. + +Thus association in equality is the law of progress. Association frees +mental power for expenditure in improvement, and equality, or justice, +or freedom--for the terms here signify the same thing, the recognition +of the moral law--prevents the dissipation of this power in fruitless +struggles. + +Here is the law of progress, which will explain all diversities, all +advances, all halts, and retrogressions. Men tend to progress just as +they come closer together, and by co-operation with each other increase +the mental power that may be devoted to improvement; but just as +conflict is provoked, or association develops inequality of condition +and power, this tendency to progression is lessened, checked, and +finally reversed. + +Given the same innate capacity, and it is evident that social +development will go on faster or slower, will stop or turn back, +according to the resistances it meets. In a general way these obstacles +to improvement may, in relation to the society itself, be classed as +external and internal--the first operating with greater force in the +earlier stages of civilization, the latter becoming more important in +the later stages. + +Man is social in his nature. He does not require to be caught and tamed +in order to induce him to live with his fellows. The utter helplessness +with which he enters the world, and the long period required for the +maturity of his powers, necessitate the family relation; which, as we +may observe, is wider, and in its extensions stronger, among the ruder +than among the more cultivated peoples. The first societies are +families, expanding into tribes, still holding a mutual blood +relationship, and even when they have become great nations claiming a +common descent. + +Given beings of this kind, placed on a globe of such diversified surface +and climate as this, and it is evident that, even with equal capacity, +and an equal start, social development must be very different. The first +limit or resistance to association will come from the conditions of +physical nature, and as these greatly vary with locality, corresponding +differences in social progress must show themselves. The net rapidity of +increase, and the closeness with which men, as they increase, can keep +together, will, in the rude state of knowledge in which reliance for +subsistence must be principally upon the spontaneous offerings of +nature, very largely depend upon climate, soil, and physical +conformation. Where much animal food and warm clothing are required; +where the earth seems poor and niggard; where the exuberant life of +tropical forests mocks barbarous man's puny efforts to control; where +mountains, deserts, or arms of the sea separate and isolate men; +association, and the power of improvement which it evolves, can at first +go but a little way. But on the rich plains of warm climates, where +human existence can be maintained with a smaller expenditure of force, +and from a much smaller area, men can keep closer together, and the +mental power which can at first be devoted to improvement is much +greater. Hence civilization naturally first arises in the great valleys +and table-lands where we find its earliest monuments. + +But these diversities in natural conditions, not merely thus directly +produce diversities in social development, but, by producing diversities +in social development, bring out in man himself an obstacle, or rather +an active counterforce, to improvement. As families and tribes are +separated from each other, the social feeling ceases to operate between +them, and differences arise in language, custom, tradition, religion--in +short, in the whole social web which each community, however small or +large, constantly spins. With these differences, prejudices grow, +animosities spring up, contact easily produces quarrels, aggression +begets aggression, and wrong kindles revenge.[45] And so between these +separate social aggregates arises the feeling of Ishmael and the spirit +of Cain, warfare becomes the chronic and seemingly natural relation of +societies to each other, and the powers of men are expended in attack or +defense, in mutual slaughter and mutual destruction of wealth, or in +warlike preparations. How long this hostility persists, the protective +tariffs and the standing armies of the civilized world to-day bear +witness; how difficult it is to get over the idea that it is not theft +to steal from a foreigner, the difficulty in procuring an international +copyright act will show. Can we wonder at the perpetual hostilities of +tribes and clans? Can we wonder that when each community was isolated +from the others--when each, uninfluenced by the others, was spinning its +separate web of social environment, which no individual can escape, that +war should have been the rule and peace the exception? "They were even +as we are." + +Now, warfare is the negation of association. The separation of men into +diverse tribes, by increasing warfare, thus checks improvement; while in +the localities where a large increase in numbers is possible without +much separation; civilization gains the advantage of exemption from +tribal war, even when the community as a whole is carrying on warfare +beyond its borders. Thus, where the resistance of nature to the close +association of men is slightest, the counterforce of warfare is likely +at first to be least felt; and in the rich plains where civilization +first begins, it may rise to a great height while scattered tribes are +yet barbarous. And thus, when small, separated communities exist in a +state of chronic warfare which forbids advance, the first step to their +civilization is the advent of some conquering tribe or nation that +unites these smaller communities into a larger one, in which internal +peace is preserved. Where this power of peaceable association is broken +up, either by external assaults or internal dissensions, the advance +ceases and retrogression begins. + +But it is not conquest alone that has operated to promote association, +and, by liberating mental power from the necessities of warfare, to +promote civilization. If the diversities of climate, soil, and +configuration of the earth's surface operate at first to separate +mankind, they also operate to encourage exchange. And commerce, which is +in itself a form of association or co-operation, operates to promote +civilization, not only directly, but by building up interests which are +opposed to warfare, and dispelling the ignorance which is the fertile +mother of prejudices and animosities. + +And so of religion. Though the forms it has assumed and the animosities +it has aroused have often sundered men and produced warfare, yet it has +at other times been the means of promoting association. A common worship +has often, as among the Greeks, mitigated war and furnished the basis of +union, while it is from the triumph of Christianity over the barbarians +of Europe that modern civilization springs. Had not the Christian Church +existed when the Roman Empire went to pieces, Europe, destitute of any +bond of association, might have fallen to a condition not much above +that of the North American Indians or only received civilization with an +Asiatic impress from the conquering scimiters of the invading hordes +which had been welded into a mighty power by a religion which, springing +up in the deserts of Arabia, had united tribes separated from time +immemorial, and, thence issuing, brought into the association of a +common faith a great part of the human race. + +Looking over what we know of the history of the world, we thus see +civilization everywhere springing up where men are brought into +association, and everywhere disappearing as this association is broken +up. Thus the Roman civilization, spread over Europe by the conquests +which insured internal peace, was overwhelmed by the incursions of the +northern nations that broke society again into disconnected fragments; +and the progress that now goes on in our modern civilization began as +the feudal system again began to associate men in larger communities, +and the spiritual supremacy of Rome to bring these communities into a +common relation, as her legions had done before. As the feudal bonds +grew into national autonomies, and Christianity worked the amelioration +of manners, brought forth the knowledge that during the dark days she +had hidden, bound the threads of peaceful union in her all-pervading +organization, and taught association in her religious orders, a greater +progress became possible, which, as men have been brought into closer +and closer association and co-operation, has gone on with greater and +greater force. + +But we shall never understand the course of civilization, and the +varied phenomena which its history presents, without a consideration of +what I may term the internal resistances, or counter forces, which arise +in the heart of advancing society, and which can alone explain how a +civilization once fairly started should either come of itself to a halt +or be destroyed by barbarians. + +The mental power, which is the motor of social progress, is set free by +association, which is,--what, perhaps, it may be more properly +called,--an integration. Society in this process becomes more complex; +its individuals more dependent upon each other. Occupations and +functions are specialized. Instead of wandering, population becomes +fixed. Instead of each man attempting to supply all of his wants, the +various trades and industries are separated--one man acquires skill in +one thing, and another in another thing. So, too, of knowledge, the body +of which constantly tends to become vaster than one man can grasp, and +is separated into different parts, which different individuals acquire +and pursue. So, too, the performance of religious ceremonies tends to +pass into the hands of a body of men specially devoted to that purpose, +and the preservation of order, the administration of justice, the +assignment of public duties and the distribution of awards, the conduct +of war, etc., to be made the special functions of an organized +government. In short, to use the language in which Herbert Spencer has +defined evolution, the development of society is, in relation to its +component individuals, the passing from an indefinite, incoherent +homogeneity to a definite, coherent heterogeneity. The lower the stage +of social development, the more society resembles one of those lowest of +animal organisms which are without organs or limbs, and from which a +part may be cut and yet live. The higher the stage of social +development, the more society resembles those higher organisms in which +functions and powers are specialized, and each member is vitally +dependent on the others. + +Now, this process of integration, of the specialization of functions +and powers, as it goes on in society, is, by virtue of what is probably +one of the deepest laws of human nature, accompanied by a constant +liability to inequality. I do not mean that inequality is the necessary +result of social growth, but that it is the constant tendency of social +growth if unaccompanied by changes in social adjustments, which, in the +new conditions that growth produces, will secure equality. I mean, so to +speak, that the garment of laws, customs, and political institutions, +which each society weaves for itself, is constantly tending to become +too tight as the society develops. I mean, so to speak, that man, as he +advances, threads a labyrinth, in which, if he keeps straight ahead, he +will infallibly lose his way, and through which reason and justice can +alone keep him continuously in an ascending path. + +For, while the integration which accompanies growth tends in itself to +set free mental power to work improvement, there is, both with increase +of numbers and with increase in complexity of the social organization, a +counter tendency set up to the production of a state of inequality, +which wastes mental power, and, as it increases, brings improvement to a +halt. + +To trace to its highest expression the law which thus operates to evolve +with progress the force which stops progress, would be, it seems to me, +to go far to the solution of a problem deeper than that of the genesis +of the material universe--the problem of the genesis of evil. Let me +content myself with pointing out the manner in which, as society +develops, there arise tendencies which check development. + +There are two qualities of human nature which it will be well, however, +to first call to mind. The one is the power of habit:--the tendency to +continue to do things in the same way; the other is the possibility of +mental and moral deterioration. The effect of the first in social +development is to continue habits, customs, laws and methods, long after +they have lost their original usefulness, and the effect of the other +is to permit the growth of institutions and modes of thought from which +the normal perceptions of men instinctively revolt. + +Now the growth and development of society not merely tend to make each +more and more dependent upon all, and to lessen the influence of +individuals, even over their own conditions, as compared with the +influence of society; but the effect of association or integration is to +give rise to a collective power which is distinguishable from the sum of +individual powers. Analogies, or, perhaps, rather illustrations of the +same law, may be found in all directions. As animal organisms increase +in complexity, there arise, above the life and power of the parts, a +life and power of the integrated whole; above the capability of +involuntary movements, the capability of voluntary movements. The +actions and impulses of bodies of men are, as has often been observed, +different from those which, under the same circumstances, would be +called forth in individuals. The fighting qualities of a regiment may be +very different from those of the individual soldiers. But there is no +need of illustrations. In our inquiries into the nature and rise of +rent, we traced the very thing to which I allude. Where population is +sparse, land has no value; just as men congregate together, the value of +land appears and rises--a clearly distinguishable thing from the values +produced by individual effort; a value which springs from association, +which increases as association grows greater, and disappears as +association is broken up. And the same thing is true of power in other +forms than those generally expressed in terms of wealth. + +Now, as society grows, the disposition to continue previous, social +adjustments tends to lodge this collective power, as it arises, in the +hands of a portion of the community; and this unequal distribution of +the wealth and power gained as society advances tends to produce greater +inequality, since aggression grows by what it feeds on, and the idea of +justice is blurred by the habitual toleration of injustice. + +In this way the patriarchal organization of society can easily grow +into hereditary monarchy, in which the king is as a god on earth, and +the masses of the people mere slaves of his caprice. It is natural that +the father should be the directing head of the family, and that at his +death the eldest son, as the oldest and most experienced member of the +little community, should succeed to the headship. But to continue this +arrangement as the family expands, is to lodge power in a particular +line, and the power thus lodged necessarily continues to increase, as +the common stock becomes larger and larger, and the power of the +community grows. The head of the family passes into the hereditary king, +who comes to look upon himself and to be looked upon by others as a +being of superior rights. With the growth of the collective power as +compared with the power of the individual, his power to reward and to +punish increases, and so increase the inducements to flatter and to fear +him; until finally, if the process be not disturbed, a nation grovels at +the foot of a throne, and a hundred thousand men toil for fifty years to +prepare a tomb for one of their own mortal kind. + +So the war-chief of a little band of savages is but one of their number, +whom they follow as their bravest and most wary. But when large bodies +come to act together, personal selection becomes more difficult, a +blinder obedience becomes necessary and can be enforced, and from the +very necessities of warfare when conducted on a large scale absolute +power arises. + +And so of the specialization of function. There is a manifest gain in +productive power when social growth has gone so far that instead of +every producer being summoned from his work for fighting purposes, a +regular military force can be specialized; but this inevitably tends to +the concentration of power in the hands of the military class or their +chiefs. The preservation of internal order, the administration of +justice, the construction and care of public works, and, notably, the +observances of religion, all tend in similar manner to pass into the +hands of special classes, whose disposition it is to magnify their +function and extend their power. + +But the great cause of inequality is in the natural monopoly which is +given by the possession of land. The first perceptions of men seem +always to be that land is common property; but the rude devices by which +this is at first recognized--such as annual partitions or cultivation in +common--are consistent with only a low stage of development. The idea of +property, which naturally arises with reference to things of human +production, is easily transferred to land, and an institution which when +population is sparse merely secures to the improver and user the due +reward of his labor, finally, as population becomes dense and rent +arises, operates to strip the producer of his wages. Not merely this, +but the appropriation of rent for public purposes, which is the only way +in which, with anything like a high development, land can be readily +retained as common property, becomes, when political and religious power +passes into the hands of a class, the ownership of the land by that +class, and the rest of the community become merely tenants. And wars and +conquests, which tend to the concentration of political power and to the +institution of slavery, naturally result, where social growth has given +land a value, in the appropriation of the soil. A dominant class, who +concentrate power in their hands, will likewise soon concentrate +ownership of the land. To them will fall large partitions of conquered +land, which the former inhabitants will till as tenants or serfs, and +the public domain, or common lands, which in the natural course of +social growth are left for a while in every country, and in which state +the primitive system of village culture leaves pasture and woodland, are +readily acquired, as we see by modern instances. And inequality once +established, the ownership of land tends to concentrate as development +goes on. + +I am merely attempting to set forth the general fact that as a social +development goes on, inequality tends to establish itself, and not to +point out the particular sequence, which must necessarily vary with +different conditions. But this main fact makes intelligible all the +phenomena of petrifaction and retrogression. The unequal distribution of +the power and wealth gained by the integration of men in society tends +to check, and finally to counterbalance, the force by which improvements +are made and society advances. On the one side, the masses of the +community are compelled to expend their mental powers in merely +maintaining existence. On the other side, mental power is expended in +keeping up and intensifying the system of inequality, in ostentation, +luxury, and warfare. A community divided into a class that rules and a +class that is ruled--into the very rich and the very poor--may "build +like giants and finish like jewelers;" but it will be monuments of +ruthless pride and barren vanity, or of a religion turned from its +office of elevating man into an instrument for keeping him down. +Invention may for a while to some degree go on; but it will be the +invention of refinements in luxury, not the inventions that relieve toil +and increase power. In the arcana of temples or in the chambers of court +physicians knowledge may still be sought; but it will be hidden as a +secret thing, or if it dares come out to elevate common thought or +brighten common life, it will be trodden down as a dangerous innovator. +For as it tends to lessen the mental power devoted to improvement, so +does inequality tend to render men adverse to improvement. How strong is +the disposition to adhere to old methods among the classes who are kept +in ignorance by being compelled to toil for a mere existence, is too +well known to require illustration, and on the other hand the +conservatism of the classes to whom the existing social adjustment gives +special advantages is equally apparent. This tendency to resist +innovation, even though it be improvement, is observable in every +special organization--in religion, in law, in medicine, in science, in +trade guilds; and it becomes intense just as the organization is close. +A close corporation has always an instinctive dislike of innovation and +innovators, which is but the expression of an instinctive fear that +change may tend to throw down the barriers which hedge it in from the +common herd, and so rob it of importance and power; and it is always +disposed to guard carefully its special knowledge or skill. + +It is in this way that petrifaction succeeds progress. The advance of +inequality necessarily brings improvement to a halt, and as it still +persists or provokes unavailing reactions, draws even upon the mental +power necessary for maintenance, and retrogression begins. + +These principles make intelligible the history of civilization. + +In the localities where climate, soil, and physical conformation tended +least to separate men as they increased, and where, accordingly, the +first civilizations grew up, the internal resistances to progress would +naturally develop in a more regular and thorough manner than where +smaller communities, which in their separation had developed +diversities, were afterward brought together into a closer association. +It is this, it seems to me, which accounts for the general +characteristics of the earlier civilizations as compared with the later +civilizations of Europe. Such homogeneous communities, developing from +the first without the jar of conflict between different customs, laws, +religions, etc., would show a much greater uniformity. The concentrating +and conservative forces would all, so to speak, pull together. Rival +chieftains would not counterbalance each other, nor diversities of +belief hold the growth of priestly influence in check. Political and +religious power, wealth and knowledge, would thus tend to concentrate in +the same centres. The same causes which tended to produce the hereditary +king and hereditary priest would tend to produce the hereditary artisan +and laborer, and to separate society into castes. The power which +association sets free for progress would thus be wasted, and barriers to +further progress be gradually raised. The surplus energies of the masses +would be devoted to the construction of temples, palaces, and pyramids; +to ministering to the pride and pampering the luxury of their rulers; +and should any disposition to improvement arise among the classes of +leisure it would at once be checked by the dread of innovation. Society +developing in this way must at length stop in a conservatism which +permits no further progress. + +How long such a state of complete petrifaction, when once reached, will +continue, seems to depend upon external causes, for the iron bonds of +the social environment which grows up repress disintegrating forces as +well as improvement. Such a community can be most easily conquered, for +the masses of the people are trained to a passive acquiescence in a life +of hopeless labor. If the conquerors merely take the place of the ruling +class, as the Hyksos did in Egypt and the Tartars in China, everything +will go on as before. If they ravage and destroy, the glory of palace +and temple remains but in ruins, population becomes sparse, and +knowledge and art are lost. + +European civilization differs in character from civilizations of the +Egyptian type because it springs not from the association of a +homogeneous people developing from the beginning, or at least for a long +time, under the same conditions, but from the association of peoples who +in separation had acquired distinctive social characteristics, and whose +smaller organizations longer prevented the concentration of power and +wealth in one centre. The physical conformation of the Grecian peninsula +is such as to separate the people at first into a number of small +communities. As those petty republics and nominal kingdoms ceased to +waste their energies in warfare, and the peaceable co-operation of +commerce extended, the light of civilization blazed up. But the +principle of association was never strong enough to save Greece from +inter-tribal war, and when this was put an end to by conquest, the +tendency to inequality, which had been combated with various devices by +Grecian sages and statesmen, worked its result, and Grecian valor, art, +and literature became things of the past. And so in the rise and +extension, the decline and fall, of Roman civilization, may be seen the +working of these two principles of association and equality, from the +combination of which springs progress. + +Springing from the association of the independent husbandmen and free +citizens of Italy, and gaining fresh strength from conquests which +brought hostile nations into common relations, the Roman power hushed +the world in peace. But the tendency to inequality, checking real +progress from the first, increased as the Roman civilization extended. +The Roman civilization did not petrify as did the homogeneous +civilizations where the strong bonds of custom and superstition that +held the people in subjection probably also protected them, or at any +rate kept the peace between rulers and ruled: it rotted, declined and +fell. Long before Goth or Vandal had broken through the cordon of the +legions, even while her frontiers were advancing, Rome was dead at the +heart. Great estates had ruined Italy. Inequality had dried up the +strength and destroyed the vigor of the Roman world. Government became +despotism, which even assassination could not temper; patriotism became +servility; vices the most foul flouted themselves in public; literature +sank to puerilities; learning was forgotten; fertile districts became +waste without the ravages of war--everywhere inequality produced decay, +political, mental, moral, and material. The barbarism which overwhelmed +Rome came not from without, but from within. It was the necessary +product of the system which had substituted slaves and colonii for the +independent husbandmen of Italy, and carved the provinces into estates +of senatorial families. + +Modern civilization owes its superiority to the growth of equality with +the growth of association. Two great causes contributed to this--the +splitting up of concentrated power into innumerable little centers by +the influx of the Northern nations, and the influence of Christianity. +Without the first there would have been the petrifaction and slow decay +of the Eastern Empire, where church and state were closely married and +loss of external power brought no relief of internal tyranny. And but +for the other there would have been barbarism without principle of +association or amelioration. The petty chiefs and allodial lords who +everywhere grasped local sovereignty held each other in check. Italian +cities recovered their ancient liberty, free towns were founded, village +communities took root, and serfs acquired rights in the soil they +tilled. The leaven of Teutonic ideas of equality worked through the +disorganized and disjointed fabric of society. And although society was +split up into an innumerable number of separated fragments, yet the idea +of closer association was always present--it existed in the +recollections of a universal empire; it existed in the claims of a +universal church. + +Though Christianity became distorted and alloyed in percolating through +a rotting civilization; though pagan gods were taken into her pantheon, +and pagan forms into her ritual, and pagan ideas into her creed; yet her +essential idea of the equality of men was never wholly destroyed. And +two things happened of the utmost moment to incipient civilization--the +establishment of the papacy and the celibacy of the clergy. The first +prevented the spiritual power from concentrating in the same lines as +the temporal power; and the latter prevented the establishment of a +priestly caste, during a time when all power tended to hereditary form. + +In her efforts for the abolition of slavery; in her Truce of God; in her +monastic orders; in her councils which united nations, and her edicts +which ran without regard to political boundaries; in the low-born hands +in which she placed a sign before which the proudest knelt; in her +bishops who by consecration became the peers of the greatest nobles; in +her "Servant of Servants," for so his official title ran, who, by virtue +of the ring of a simple fisherman, claimed the right to arbitrate +between nations, and whose stirrup was held by kings; the Church, in +spite of everything, was yet a promoter of association, a witness for +the natural equality of men; and by the Church herself was nurtured a +spirit that, when her early work of association and emancipation was +well-nigh done--when the ties she had knit had become strong, and the +learning she had preserved had been given to the world--broke the chains +with which she would have fettered the human mind, and in a great part +of Europe rent her organization. + +The rise and growth of European civilization is too vast and complex a +subject to be thrown into proper perspective and relation in a few +paragraphs; but in all its details, as in its main features, it +illustrates the truth that progress goes on just as society tends toward +closer association and greater equality. Civilization is co-operation. +Union and liberty are its factors. The great extension of +association--not alone in the growth of larger and denser communities, +but in the increase of commerce and the manifold exchanges which knit +each community together and link them with other though widely separated +communities; the growth of international and municipal law; the advances +in security of property and of person, in individual liberty, and +towards democratic government--advances, in short, towards the +recognition of the equal rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of +happiness--it is these that make our modern civilization so much +greater, so much higher, than any that has gone before. It is these that +have set free the mental power which has rolled back the veil of +ignorance which hid all but a small portion of the globe from men's +knowledge; which has measured the orbits of the circling spheres and +bids us see moving, pulsing life in a drop of water; which has opened to +us the antechamber of nature's mysteries and read the secrets of a +long-buried past; which has harnessed in our service physical forces +beside which man's efforts are puny; and increased productive power by a +thousand great inventions. + +In that spirit of fatalism to which I have alluded as pervading current +literature, it is the fashion to speak even of war and slavery as means +of human progress. But war, which is the opposite of association, can +aid progress only when it prevents further war or breaks down +antisocial barriers which are themselves passive war. + +As for slavery, I cannot see how it could ever have aided in +establishing freedom, and freedom, the synonym of equality is, from the +very rudest state in which man can be imagined, the stimulus and +condition of progress. Auguste Comte's idea that the institution of +slavery destroyed cannibalism is as fanciful as Elia's humorous notion +of the way mankind acquired a taste for roast pig. It assumes that a +propensity that has never been found developed in man save as the result +of the most unnatural conditions--the direst want or the most +brutalizing superstitions[46]--is an original impulse, and that he, even +in his lowest state the highest of all animals, has natural appetites +which the nobler brutes do not show. And so of the idea that slavery +began civilization by giving slave owners leisure for improvement. + +Slavery never did and never could aid improvement. Whether the community +consist of a single master and a single slave, or of thousands of +masters and millions of slaves, slavery necessarily involves a waste of +human power; for not only is slave labor less productive than free +labor, but the power of masters is likewise wasted in holding and +watching their slaves, and is called away from directions in which real +improvement lies. From first to last, slavery, like every other denial +of the natural equality of men, has hampered and prevented progress. +Just in proportion as slavery plays an important part in the social +organization does improvement cease. That in the classical world slavery +was so universal, is undoubtedly the reason why the mental activity +which so polished literature and refined art never hit on any of the +great discoveries and inventions which distinguish modern civilization. +No slave-holding people ever were an inventive people. In a +slave-holding community the upper classes may become luxurious and +polished; but never inventive. Whatever degrades the laborer and robs +him of the fruits of his toil stifles the spirit of invention and +forbids the utilization of inventions and discoveries even when made. To +freedom alone is given the spell of power which summons the genii in +whose keeping are the treasures of earth and the viewless forces of the +air. + +The law of human progress, what is it but the moral law? Just as social +adjustments promote justice, just as they acknowledge the equality of +right between man and man, just as they insure to each the perfect +liberty which is bounded only by the equal liberty of every other, must +civilization advance. Just as they fail in this, must advancing +civilization come to a halt and recede. Political economy and social +science cannot teach any lessons that are not embraced in the simple +truths that were taught to poor fishermen and Jewish peasants by One who +eighteen hundred years ago was crucified--the simple truths which, +beneath the warpings of selfishness and the distortions of superstition, +seem to underlie every religion that has ever striven to formulate the +spiritual yearnings of man. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 44: Chapter III, Book X, of "Progress and Poverty;" copyright, +1907, by Henry George, Richard F. George, and Anna G. de Mille. The +chapter is here reprinted by permission of Mr. Henry George, Junior, and +the publishers, Messrs. Doubleday, Page and Company.] + +[Footnote 45: How easy it is for ignorance to pass into contempt and +dislike; how natural it is for us to consider any difference in manners, +customs, religion, etc., as proof of the inferiority of those who differ +from us, any one who has emancipated himself in any degree from +prejudice, and who mixes with different classes, may see in civilized +society. In religion, for instance, the spirit of the hymn-- + + "I'd rather be a Baptist, and wear a shining face, + Than for to be a Methodist and always fall from grace," + +is observable in all denominations. As the English Bishop said, +"Orthodoxy is my doxy, and heterodoxy is any other doxy," while the +universal tendency is to classify all outside of the orthodoxies and +heterodoxies of the prevailing religion as heathens or atheists. And the +like tendency is observable as to all other differences.--Author's +note.] + +[Footnote 46: The Sandwich Islanders did honor to their good chiefs by +eating their bodies. Their bad and tyrannical chiefs they would not +touch. The New Zealanders had a notion that by eating their enemies they +acquired their strength and valor. And this seems to be the general +origin of eating prisoners of war.--Author's note.] + + + + +THE MORALS OF TRADE[47] + +HERBERT SPENCER + + +On all sides we have found the result of long personal experience, to be +the conviction that trade is essentially corrupt. In tones of disgust or +discouragement, reprehension or derision, according to their several +natures, men in business have one after another expressed or implied +this belief. Omitting the highest mercantile classes, a few of the less +common trades, and those exceptional cases where an entire command of +the market has been obtained, the uniform testimony of competent judges +is, that success is incompatible with strict integrity. To live in the +commercial world it appears necessary to adopt its ethical code: neither +exceeding nor falling short of it--neither being less honest nor more +honest. Those who sink below its standard are expelled; while those who +rise above it are either pulled down to it or ruined. As, in +self-defence, the civilised man becomes savage among savages; so, it +seems that in self-defence, the scrupulous trader is obliged to become +as little scrupulous as his competitors. It has been said that the law +of the animal creation is--"Eat and be eaten;" and of our trading +community it may be similarly said that its law is--Cheat and be +cheated. A system of keen competition, carried on, as it is, without +adequate moral restraint, is very much a system of commercial +cannibalism. Its alternatives are--Use the same weapons as your +antagonists, or be conquered and devoured. + +Of questions suggested by these facts, one of the most obvious is--Are +not the prejudices that have ever been entertained against trade and +traders, thus fully justified? do not these meannesses and +dishonesties, and the moral degradation they imply, warrant the +disrespect shown to men in business? A prompt affirmative answer will +probably be looked for; but we very much doubt whether it should be +given. We are rather of opinion that these delinquencies are products of +the average English character placed under special conditions. There is +no good reason for assuming that the trading classes are intrinsically +worse than other classes. Men taken at random from higher and lower +ranks, would, most likely, if similarly circumstanced, do much the same. +Indeed the mercantile world might readily recriminate. Is it a solicitor +who comments on their misdoings? They may quickly silence him by +referring to the countless dark stains on the reputation of his +fraternity. Is it a barrister? His frequent practice of putting in pleas +which he knows are not valid; and his established habit of taking fees +for work that he does not perform; make his criticism somewhat suicidal. +Does the condemnation come through the press? The condemned may remind +those who write, of the fact that it is not quite honest to utter a +positive verdict on a book merely glanced through, or to pen glowing +eulogies on the mediocre work of a friend while slighting the good one +of an enemy; and may further ask whether those who, at the dictation of +an employer, write what they disbelieve, are not guilty of the serious +offence of adulterating public opinion. + +Moreover, traders might contend that many of their delinquencies are +thrust on them by the injustice of their customers. They, and especially +drapers, might point to the fact that the habitual demand for an +abatement of price, is made in utter disregard of their reasonable +profits; and that to protect themselves against attempts to gain by +their loss, they are obliged to name prices greater than those they +intend to take. They might also urge that the strait to which they are +often brought by the non-payment of accounts due from their wealthier +customers, is itself a cause of their malpractices: obliging them, as it +does, to use all means, illegitimate as well as legitimate, for getting +the wherewith to meet their engagements. In proof of the wrongs +inflicted on them by the non-trading classes, they might instance the +well-known cases of large shopkeepers in the West-end, who have been +either ruined by the unpunctuality of their customers, or have been +obliged periodically to stop payment, as the only way of getting their +bills settled. And then, after proving that those without excuse show +this disregard of other men's claims, traders might ask whether they, +who have the excuse of having to contend with a merciless competition, +are alone to be blamed if they display a like disregard in other forms. + +Nay, even to the guardians of social rectitude--members of the +legislature--they might use the _tu quoque_ argument: asking whether +bribery of a customer's servant, is any worse than bribery of an +elector? or whether the gaining of suffrages by claptrap +hustings-speeches, containing insincere professions adapted to the taste +of the constituency, is not as bad as getting an order for goods by +delusive representations respecting their quality? No; it seems probable +that close inquiry would show few if any classes to be free from +immoralities that are as great, _relatively to the temptations_, as +those which we have been exposing. Of course they will not be so petty +or so gross where the circumstances do not prompt pettiness or +grossness; nor so constant and organised where the class-conditions have +not tended to make them habitual. But, taken with these qualifications, +we think that much might be said for the proposition that the trading +classes, neither better nor worse intrinsically than other classes, are +betrayed into their flagitious habits by external causes. + +Another question, here naturally arising, is--"Are not these evils +growing worse?" Many of the facts we have cited seem to imply that they +are. And yet there are many other facts which point as distinctly the +other way. In weighing the evidence, we must bear in mind, that the much +greater public attention at present paid to such matters, is itself a +source of error--is apt to generate the belief that evils now becoming +recognised, are evils that have recently arisen; when in truth they have +merely been hitherto disregarded, or less regarded. It has been clearly +thus with crime, with distress, with popular ignorance; and it is very +probably thus with trading-dishonesties. As it is true of individual +beings, that their height in the scale of creation may be measured by +the degree of their self-consciousness; so, in a sense, it is true of +societies. Advanced and highly-organised societies are distinguished +from lower ones by the evolution of something that stands for a _social +self-consciousness_--a consciousness in each citizen, of the state of +the aggregate of citizens. Among ourselves there has, happily, been of +late years a remarkable growth of this social self-consciousness; and we +believe that to this is chiefly ascribable the impression that +commercial malpractices are increasing. + +Such facts as have come down to us respecting the trade of past times, +confirm this view. In his "Complete English Tradesman," Defoe mentions, +among other manoeuvres of retailers, the false lights which they +introduced into their shops, for the purpose of giving delusive +appearances to their goods. He comments on the "shop rhetorick," the +"flux of falsehoods," which tradesmen habitually uttered to their +customers; and quotes their defence as being that they could not live +without lying. He says, too, that there was scarce a shopkeeper who had +not a bag of spurious or debased coin, from which he gave change +whenever he could; and that men, even the most honest, triumphed in +their skill in getting rid of bad money. These facts show that the +mercantile morals of that day were, at any rate, not better than ours; +and if we call to mind the numerous Acts of Parliament passed in old +times to prevent frauds of all kinds, we perceive the like implication. +As much may, indeed, be safely inferred from the general state of +society. + +When, reign after reign, governments debased the coinage, the moral +tone of the middle classes could scarcely have been higher than now. +Among generations whose sympathy with the claims of fellow-creatures was +so weak, that the slave-trade was not only thought justifiable, but the +initiator of it was rewarded by permission to record the feat in his +coat of arms, it is hardly possible that men respected the claims of +their fellow-citizens more than at present. Times characterized by an +administration of justice so inefficient that there were in London nests +of criminals who defied the law, and on all high roads robbers who +eluded it, cannot have been distinguished by just mercantile dealings. +While, conversely, an age which, like ours, has seen so many equitable +social changes thrust on the legislature by public opinion, is very +unlikely to be an age in which the transactions between individuals have +been growing more inequitable. Yet, on the other hand, it is undeniable +that many of the dishonesties we have described are of modern origin. +Not a few of them have become established during the last thirty years; +and others are even now arising. How are the seeming contradictions to +be reconciled? + +We believe the reconciliation is not difficult. It lies in the fact that +while the _great_ and _direct_ frauds have been diminishing, the _small_ +and _indirect_ frauds have been increasing: alike in variety and in +number. And this admission we take to be quite consistent with the +opinion that the standard of commercial morals is higher than it was. +For, if we omit, as excluded from the question, the penal +restraints--religious and legal--and ask what is the ultimate moral +restraint to the aggression of man on man, we find it to be--sympathy +with the pain inflicted. Now the keenness of the sympathy, depending on +the vividness with which this pain is realised, varies with the +conditions of the case. It may be active enough to check misdeeds which +will cause great suffering; and yet not be active enough to check +misdeeds which will cause but slight annoyance. While sufficiently acute +to prevent a man from doing that which will entail immediate injury on a +given person, it may not be sufficiently acute to prevent him from +doing that which will entail remote injuries on unknown persons. And we +find the facts to agree with this deduction, that the moral restraint +varies according to the clearness with which the evil consequences are +conceived. Many a one who would shrink from picking a pocket does not +scruple to adulterate his goods; and he who never dreams of passing base +coin, will yet be a party to joint-stock-bank deceptions. Hence, as we +say, the multiplication of the more subtle and complex forms of fraud, +is consistent with a general progress in morality; provided it is +accompanied with a decrease in the grosser forms of fraud. + +But the question which most concerns us is, not whether the morals of +trade are better or worse than they have been, but rather--why are they +so bad? Why in this civilised state of ours, is there so much that +betrays the cunning selfishness of the savage? Why, after the careful +inculcations of rectitude during education, comes there in afterlife all +this knavery? Why, in spite of all the exhortations to which the +commercial classes listen every Sunday, do they next morning recommence +their evil deeds? What is this so potent agency which almost neutralises +the discipline of education, of law, of religion? + +Various subsidiary causes that might be assigned, must be passed over, +that we may have space to deal with the chief cause. In an exhaustive +statement, something would have to be said on the credulity of +consumers, which leads them to believe in representations of impossible +advantages; and something, too, on their greediness, which, ever +prompting them to look for more than they ought to get, encourages the +sellers to offer delusive bargains. The increased difficulty of living +consequent on growing pressure of population, might perhaps come in as a +part cause; and that greater cost of bringing up a family, which results +from the higher standard of education, might be added. But all these are +relatively insignificant. The great inciter of these trading +malpractices is, intense desire for wealth. And if we ask--Why this +intense desire? the reply is--It results from the _indiscriminate +respect paid to wealth_. + +To be distinguished from the common herd--to be somebody--to make a +name, a position--this is the universal ambition; and to accumulate +riches, is alike the surest and the easiest way of fulfilling this +ambition. Very early in life all learn this. At school, the court paid +to one whose parents have called in their carriage to see him, is +conspicuous; while the poor boy, whose insufficient stock of clothes +implies the small means of his family, soon has burnt into his memory +the fact that poverty is contemptible. On entering the world, the +lessons that may have been taught about the nobility of self-sacrifice, +the reverence due to genius, the admirableness of high integrity, are +quickly neutralised by experience: men's actions proving that these are +not their standards of respect. It is soon perceived that while abundant +outward marks of deference from fellow-citizens, may almost certainly be +gained by directing every energy to the accumulation of property, they +are but rarely to be gained in any other way; and that even in the few +cases where they are otherwise gained, they are not given with entire +unreserve; but are commonly joined with a more or less manifest display +of patronage. When, seeing this, the young man further sees that while +the acquisition of property is quite possible with his mediocre +endowments, the acquirement of distinction by brilliant discoveries, or +heroic acts, or high achievements in art, implies faculties and feelings +which he does not possess; it is not difficult to understand why he +devotes himself heart and soul to business. + +We do not mean to say that men act on the consciously reasoned-out +conclusions thus indicated; but we mean that these conclusions are the +unconsciously-formed products of their daily experience. From early +childhood, the sayings and doings of all around them have generated the +idea that wealth and respectability are two sides of the same thing. +This idea, growing with their growth, and strengthening with their +strength, becomes at last almost what we may call an organic conviction. +And this organic conviction it is, which prompts the expenditure of all +their energies in money-making. We contend that the chief stimulus is +not the desire for the wealth itself; but for the applause and position +which the wealth brings. And in this belief, we find ourselves at one +with various intelligent traders with whom we have talked on the matter. + +It is incredible that men should make the sacrifices, mental and bodily, +which they do, merely to get the material benefits which money +purchases. Who would undertake an extra burden of business for the +purpose of getting a cellar of choice wines for his own drinking? He who +does it, does it that he may have choice wines to give his guests and +gain their praises. What merchant would spend an additional hour at his +office daily, merely that he might move into a larger house in a better +quarter? In so far as health and comfort are concerned, he knows he will +be a loser by the exchange; and would never be induced to make it, were +it not for the increased social consideration which the new house will +bring him. Where is the man who would lie awake at nights devising means +of increasing his income in the hope of being able to provide his wife +with a carriage, were the use of the carriage the sole consideration? It +is because of the _éclat_ which the carriage will give, that he enters +on these additional anxieties. So manifest, so trite, indeed, are these +truths, that we should be ashamed of insisting on them, did not our +argument require it. + +For if the desire for that homage which wealth brings, is the chief +stimulus to these strivings after wealth, then is the giving of this +homage (when given, as it is, with but little discrimination) the chief +cause of the dishonesties into which these strivings betray mercantile +men. When the shopkeeper, on the strength of a prosperous year and +favourable prospects, has yielded to his wife's persuasions, and +replaced the old furniture with new, at an outlay greater than his +income covers--when, instead of the hoped-for increase, the next year +brings a decrease in his returns--when he finds that his expenses are +out-running his revenue; then does he fall under the strongest +temptation to adopt some newly-introduced adulteration or other +malpractice. When, having by display gained a certain recognition, the +wholesale trader begins to give dinners appropriate only to those of ten +times his income, with expensive other entertainments to match--when, +having for a time carried on this style at a cost greater than he can +afford, he finds that he cannot discontinue it without giving up his +position: then is he most strongly prompted to enter into larger +transactions; to trade beyond his means; to seek undue credit; to get +into that ever-complicating series of misdeeds, which ends in +disgraceful bankruptcy. And if these are the facts--the undeniable +facts--then is it an unavoidable conclusion that the blind admiration +which society gives to mere wealth, and the display of wealth, is the +chief source of these multitudinous immoralities. + +Yes, the evil is deeper than appears--draws its nutriment from far below +the surface. This gigantic system of dishonesty, branching out into +every conceivable form of fraud, has roots that run underneath our whole +social fabric, and, sending fibres into every house, suck up strength +from our daily sayings and doings. In every dining-room a rootlet finds +food, when the conversation turns on So-and-so's successful +speculations, his purchase of an estate, his probable worth--on this +man's recent large legacy, and the other's advantageous match; for being +thus talked about is one form of that tacit respect which men struggle +for. Every drawing-room furnishes nourishment, in the admiration awarded +to costliness--to silks that are "rich," that is, expensive; to dresses +that contain an enormous quantity of material, that is, are expensive; +to laces that are handmade, that is, expensive; to diamonds that are +rare, that is, expensive; to china that is old, that is, expensive. And +from scores of small remarks and minutiae of behaviour, which, in all +circles, hourly imply how completely the idea of respectability +involves that of costly externals, there is drawn fresh pabulum. + +We are all implicated. We all, whether with self-approbation or not, +give expression to the established feeling. Even he who disapproves this +feeling, finds himself unable to treat virtue in threadbare apparel with +a cordiality as great as that which he would show to the same virtue +endowed with prosperity. Scarcely a man is to be found who would not +behave with more civility to a knave in broadcloth than to a knave in +fustian. Though for the deference which they have shown to the vulgar +rich, or the dishonestly successful, men afterwards compound with their +consciences by privately venting their contempt; yet when they again +come face to face with these imposing externals covering worthlessness, +they do as before. And so long as imposing worthlessness gets the +visible marks of respect, while the disrespect felt for it is hidden, it +naturally flourishes. + +Hence, then, is it that men persevere in these evil practices which all +condemn. They can so purchase a homage, which if not genuine, is yet, so +far as appearances go, as good as the best. To one whose wealth has been +gained by a life of frauds, what matters it that his name is in all +circles a synonym of roguery? Has he not been conspicuously honoured by +being twice elected mayor of his town? (we state a fact) and does not +this, joined to the personal consideration shown him, outweigh in his +estimation all that is said against him: of which he hears scarcely +anything? When, not many years after the exposure of his inequitable +dealing, a trader attains to the highest civic distinction which the +kingdom has to offer; and that, too, through the instrumentality of +those who best know his delinquency; is not the fact an encouragement to +him, and to all others, to sacrifice rectitude to aggrandisement? If, +after listening to a sermon that has by implication denounced the +dishonesties he has been guilty of, the rich ill-doer finds, on leaving +church, that his neighbours cap to him; does not this tacit approval go +far to neutralise the effect of all he has heard? The truth is, that +with the great majority of men, the visible expression of social opinion +is far the most efficient of incentives and restraints. Let any one who +wishes to estimate the strength of this control, propose to himself to +walk through the streets in the dress of a dustman, or hawk vegetables +from door to door. Let him feel, as he probably will, that he had rather +do something morally wrong than commit such a breach of usage, and +suffer the resulting derision. And he will then better estimate how +powerful a curb to men is the open disapproval of their fellows; and +how, conversely, the outward applause of their fellows is a stimulus +surpassing all others in intensity. Fully realising which facts, he will +see that the immoralities of trade are in great part traceable to an +immoral public opinion. + +Let none infer, from what has been said, that the payment of respect to +wealth rightly acquired and rightly used, is deprecated. In its original +meaning, and in due degree, the feeling which prompts such respect is +good. Primarily, wealth is the sign of mental power; and this is always +respectable. To have honestly-acquired property, implies intelligence, +energy, self-control; and these are worthy of the homage that is +indirectly paid to them by admiring their results. Moreover, the good +administration and increase of inherited property, also requires its +virtues; and therefore demands its share of approbation. And besides +being applauded for their display of faculty, men who gain and increase +wealth are to be applauded as public benefactors. For he who as +manufacturer or merchant, has, without injustice to others, realised a +fortune, is thereby proved to have discharged his functions better than +those who have been less successful. By greater skill, better judgment, +or more economy than his competitors, he has afforded the public greater +advantages. His extra profits are but a share of the extra produce +obtained by the same expenditure: the other share going to the +consumers. And similarly, the landowner who, by judicious outlay, has +increased the value (that is, the productiveness) of his estate, has +thereby added to the stock of national capital. By all means, then, let +the right acquisition and proper use of wealth, have their due share of +admiration. + +But that which we condemn as the chief cause of commercial dishonesty, +is the _indiscriminate_ admiration of wealth--an admiration that has +little or no reference to the character of the possessor. When, as very +generally happens, the external signs are reverenced, where they signify +no internal worthiness--nay, even where they cover internal +unworthiness; then does the feeling become vicious. It is this idolatry +which worships the symbol apart from the thing symbolised, that is the +root of all these evils we have been exposing. So long as men pay homage +to those social benefactors who have grown rich honestly, they give a +wholesome stimulus to industry; but when they accord a share of their +homage to those social malefactors who have grown rich dishonestly, then +do they foster corruption--then do they become accomplices in all these +frauds of commerce. + +As for remedy, it manifestly follows that there is none save a purified +public opinion. When that abhorrence which society now shows to direct +theft, is shown to theft of all degrees of indirectness, then will these +mercantile vices disappear. When not only the trader who adulterates or +gives short measure, but also the merchant who over-trades, the +bank-director who countenances an exaggerated report, and the +railway-director who repudiates his guarantee, come to be regarded as of +the same genus as the pickpocket, and are treated with like disdain; +then will the morals of trade become what they should be. + +We have little hope, however, that any such higher tone of public +opinion will shortly be reached. The present condition of things appears +to be, in great measure, a necessary accompaniment of our present phase +of progress. Throughout the civilised world, especially in England, and +above all in America, social activity is almost wholly expended in +material development. To subjugate Nature, and bring the powers of +production and distribution to their highest perfection, is the task of +our age; and probably of many future ages. And as in times when national +defence and conquest were the chief desiderata, military achievement was +honoured above all other things; so now, when the chief desideratum is +industrial growth, honour is most conspicuously given to that which +generally indicates the aiding of industrial growth. The English nation +at present displays what we may call the commercial diathesis; and the +undue admiration for wealth appears to be its concomitant--a relation +still more conspicuous in the worship of "the almighty dollar" by the +Americans. And while the commercial diathesis, with its accompanying +standard of distinction, continues, we fear the evils we have been +delineating can be but partially cured. It seems hopeless to expect that +men will distinguish between that wealth which represents personal +superiority and benefits done to society, from that which does not. The +symbols, the externals, have all the world through swayed the masses; +and must long continue to do so. Even the cultivated, who are on their +guard against the bias of associated ideas, and try to separate the real +from the seeming, cannot escape the influence of current opinion. We +must, therefore, content ourselves with looking for a slow amelioration. + +Something, however, may even now be done by vigorous protest against +adoration of mere success. And it is important that it should be done, +considering how this vicious sentiment is being fostered. When we have +one of our leading moralists preaching, with increasing vehemence, the +doctrine of sanctification by force--when we are told that while a +selfishness troubled with qualms of conscience is contemptible, a +selfishness intense enough to trample down every thing in the +unscrupulous pursuit of its ends, is worthy of all admiration--when we +find that if it be sufficiently great, power, no matter of what kind or +how directed, is held up for our reverence; we may fear lest the +prevalent applause of mere success, together with the commercial vices +which it stimulates, should be increased rather than diminished. Not at +all by this hero-worship grown into brute-worship, is society to be made +better; but by exactly the opposite--by a stern criticism of the means +through which success has been achieved; and by according honour to the +higher and less selfish modes of activity. + +And happily the signs of this more moral public opinion are already +showing themselves. It is becoming a tacitly-received doctrine that the +rich should not, as in by-gone times, spend their lives in personal +gratification; but should devote them to the general welfare. Year by +year is the improvement of the people occupying a larger share of the +attention of the upper classes. Year by year are they voluntarily +devoting more and more energy to furthering the material and mental +progress of the masses. And those among them who do not join in the +discharge of these high functions, are beginning to be looked upon with +more or less contempt by their own order. This latest and most hopeful +fact in human history--this new and better chivalry--promises to evolve +a higher standard of honour; and so to ameliorate many evils: among +others those which we have detailed. When wealth obtained by +illegitimate means inevitably brings nothing but disgrace--when to +wealth rightly acquired is accorded only its due share of homage, while +the greatest homage is given to those who consecrate their energies and +their means to the noblest ends; then may we be sure that along with +other accompanying benefits, the morals of trade will be greatly +purified. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 47: From "Essays: Moral, Political and Aesthetic," 1864.] + + + + +ON THE PHYSICAL BASIS OF LIFE[48] + +THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY + + +In order to make the title of this discourse generally intelligible, I +have translated the term "Protoplasm," which is the scientific name of +the substance of which I am about to speak, by the words "the physical +basis of life." I suppose that, to many, the idea that there is such a +thing as a physical basis, or matter, of life may be novel--so widely +spread is the conception of life as a something which works through +matter, but is independent of it; and even those who are aware that +matter and life are inseparably connected, may not be prepared for the +conclusion plainly suggested by the phrase, "_the_ physical basis or +matter of life," that there is some one kind of matter which is common +to all living beings, and that their endless diversities are bound +together by a physical, as well as an ideal, unity. In fact, when first +apprehended, such a doctrine as this appears almost shocking to common +sense. + +What, truly, can seem to be more obviously different from one another, +in faculty, in form, and in substance, than the various kinds of living +beings? What community of faculty can there be between the +brightly-coloured lichen, which so nearly resembles a mere mineral +incrustation of the bare rock on which it grows, and the painter, to +whom it is instinct with beauty, or the botanist, whom it feeds with +knowledge? + +Again, think of the microscopic fungus--a mere infinitesimal ovoid +particle, which finds space and duration enough to multiply into +countless millions in the body of a living fly; and then of the wealth +of foliage, the luxuriance of flower and fruit, which lies between this +bald sketch of a plant and the giant pine of California, towering to the +dimensions of a cathedral spire, or the Indian fig, which covers acres +with its profound shadow, and endures while nations and empires come and +go around its vast circumference. Or, turning to the other half of the +world of life, picture to yourselves the great Finner whale, hugest of +beasts that live, or have lived, disporting his eighty or ninety feet of +bone, muscle, and blubber, with easy roll, among waves in which the +stoutest ship that ever left dockyard would flounder hopelessly; and +contrast him with the invisible animalcules--mere gelatinous specks, +multitudes of which could, in fact, dance upon the point of a needle +with the same ease as the angels of the Schoolmen could, in imagination. +With these images before your minds, you may well ask, what community of +form, or structure, is there between the animalcule and the whale; or +between the fungus and the fig-tree? And, _à fortiori_[49], between all +four? + +Finally, if we regard substance, or material composition, what hidden +bond can connect the flower which a girl wears in her hair and the blood +which courses through her youthful veins; or, what is there in common +between the dense and resisting mass of the oak, or the strong fabric of +the tortoise, and those broad disks of glassy jelly which may be seen +pulsating through the waters of a calm sea, but which drain away to mere +films in the hand which raises them out of their element? + +Such objections as these must, I think, arise in the mind of every one +who ponders, for the first time, upon the conception of a single +physical basis of life underlying all the diversities of vital +existence; but I propose to demonstrate to you that, notwithstanding +these apparent difficulties, a threefold unity--namely, a unity of +power or faculty, a unity of form, and a unity of substantial +composition--does pervade the whole living world. + +No very abstruse argumentation is needed, in the first place, to prove +that the powers, or faculties, of all kinds of living matter, diverse as +they may be in degree, are substantially similar in kind. + +Goethe has condensed a survey of all powers of mankind into the +well-known epigram:-- + + "Warum treibt sich das Volk so und schreit? Es will sich ernähren, + Kinder zeugen, und die nähren so gut es vermag. + + * * * * * + + Weiter bringt es kein Mensch, stell' er sich wie er auch will."[50] + +In physiological language this means, that all the multifarious and +complicated activities of man are comprehensible under three categories. +Either they are immediately directed towards the maintenance and +development of the body, or they effect transitory changes in the +relative positions of parts of the body, or they tend towards the +continuance of the species. Even those manifestions of intellect, of +feeling, and of will, which we rightly name the higher faculties, are +not excluded from this classification, inasmuch as to every one but the +subject of them, they are known only as transitory changes in the +relative positions of parts of the body. Speech, gesture, and every +other form of human action are, in the long run, resolvable into +muscular contraction, and muscular contraction is but a transitory +change in the relative positions of the parts of a muscle. But the +scheme which is large enough to embrace the activities of the highest +form of life, covers all those of the lower creatures. The lowest plant, +or animalcule, feeds, grows, and reproduces its kind. In addition, all +animals manifest those transitory changes of form which we class under +irritability and contractility; and it is more than probable that when +the vegetable world is thoroughly explored, we shall find all plants in +possession of the same powers, at one time or other of their existence. + +I am not now alluding to such phenomena, at once rare and conspicuous, +as those exhibited by the leaflets of the sensitive plants, or the +stamens of the barberry, but to much more widely spread, and at the same +time, more subtle and hidden, manifestions of vegetable contractility. +You are doubtless aware that the common nettle owes its stinging +property to the innumerable stiff and needle-like, though exquisitely +delicate, hairs which cover its surface. Each stinging-needle tapers +from a broad base to a slender summit, which, though rounded at the end, +is of such microscopic fineness that it readily penetrates, and breaks +off in, the skin. The whole hair consists of a very delicate outer case +of wood, closely applied to the inner surface of which is a layer of +semi-fluid matter, full of innumerable granules of extreme minuteness. +This semi-fluid lining is protoplasm, which thus constitutes a kind of +bag, full of a limpid liquid, and roughly corresponding in form with the +interior of the hair which it fills. When viewed with a sufficiently +high magnifying power, the protoplasmic layer of the nettle hair is seen +to be in a condition of unceasing activity. Local contractions of the +whole thickness of its substance pass slowly and gradually from point to +point, and give rise to the appearance of progressive waves, just as the +bending of successive stalks of corn by a breeze produces the apparent +billows of a corn-field. + +But, in addition to these movements, and independently of them, the +granules are driven, in relatively rapid streams, through channels in +the protoplasm which seem to have a considerable amount of persistence. +Most commonly, the currents in adjacent parts of the protoplasm take +similar directions; and, thus, there is a general stream up one side of +the hair and down the other. But this does not prevent the existence of +partial currents which take different routes; and sometimes trains of +granules may be seen coursing swiftly in opposite directions within a +twenty-thousandth of an inch of one another; while, occasionally, +opposite streams come into direct collision, and, after a longer or +shorter struggle, one predominates. The cause of these currents seems to +lie in contractions of the protoplasm which bounds the channels in which +they flow, but which are so minute that the best microscopes show only +their effects, and not themselves. + +The spectacle afforded by the wonderful energies prisoned within the +compass of the microscopic hair of a plant, which we commonly regard as +a merely passive organism, is not easily forgotten by one who has +watched its display, continued hour after hour, without pause or sign of +weakening. The possible complexity of many other organic forms, +seemingly as simple as the protoplasm of the nettle, dawns upon one; and +the comparison of such a protoplasm to a body with an internal +circulation, which has been put forward by an eminent physiologist, +loses much of its startling character. Currents similar to those of the +hairs of the nettle have been observed in a great multitude of very +different plants, and weighty authorities have suggested that they +probably occur, in more or less perfection, in all young vegetable +cells. If such be the case, the wonderful noonday silence of a tropical +forest is, after all, due only to the dullness of our hearing; and could +our ears catch the murmur of these tiny Maelstroms, as they whirl in the +innumerable myriads of living cells which constitute each tree, we +should be stunned, as with the roar of a great city. + +Among the lower plants, it is the rule rather than the exception, that +contractility should be still more openly manifested at some periods of +their existence. The protoplasm of _Algae_ and _Fungi_ becomes, under +many circumstances, partially, or completely, freed from its woody case, +and exhibits movements of its whole mass, or is propelled by the +contractility of one, or more, hair-like prolongations of its body, +which are called vibratile cilia. And, so far as the conditions of the +manifestation of the phenomena of contractility have yet been studied, +they are the same for the plant as for the animal. Heat and electric +shocks influence both, and in the same way, though it may be in +different degrees. It is by no means my intention to suggest that there +is no difference in faculty between the lowest plant and the highest, or +between plants and animals. But the difference between the powers of the +lowest plant, or animal, and those of the highest, is one of degree, not +of kind, and depends, as Milne-Edwards long ago so well pointed out, +upon the extent to which the principle of the division of labour is +carried out in the living economy. In the lowest organism all parts are +competent to perform all functions, and one and the same portion of +protoplasm may successfully take on the function of feeding, moving, or +reproducing apparatus. In the highest, on the contrary, a great number +of parts combine to perform each function, each part doing its allotted +share of the work with great accuracy and efficiency, but being useless +for any other purpose. + +On the other hand, notwithstanding all the fundamental resemblances +which exist between the powers of the protoplasm in plants and in +animals, they present a striking difference (to which I shall advert +more at length presently), in the fact that plants can manufacture fresh +protoplasm out of mineral compounds, whereas animals are obliged to +procure it ready made, and hence, in the long run, depend upon plants. +Upon what condition this difference in the powers of the two great +divisions of the world of life depends, nothing is at present known. + +With such qualifications as arise out of the last-mentioned fact, it may +be truly said that the acts of all living things are fundamentally one. +Is any such unity predicable of their forms? Let us seek in easily +verified facts for a reply to this question. If a drop of blood be drawn +by pricking one's finger, and viewed with proper precautions, and under +a sufficiently high microscopic power, there will be seen, among the +innumerable multitude of little, circular, discoidal bodies, or +corpuscles, which float in it and give it its colour, a comparatively +small number of colourless corpuscles, of somewhat larger size and very +irregular shape. If the drop of blood be kept at the temperature of the +body, these colourless corpuscles will be seen to exhibit a marvellous +activity, changing their forms with great rapidity, drawing in and +thrusting out prolongations of their substance, and creeping about as if +they were independent organisms. + +The substance which is thus active is a mass of protoplasm, and its +activity differs in detail, rather than in principle, from that of the +protoplasm of the nettle. Under sundry circumstances the corpuscle dies +and becomes distended into a round mass, in the midst of which is seen a +smaller spherical body, which existed, but was more or less hidden, in +the living corpuscle, and is called its _nucleus_. Corpuscles of +essentially similar structure are to be found in the skin, in the lining +of the mouth, and scattered through the whole framework of the body. +Nay, more: in the earliest condition of the human organism, in that +state in which it has but just become distinguishable from the egg in +which it arises, it is nothing but an aggregation of such corpuscles, +and every organ of the body was, once, no more than such an aggregation. + +Thus a nucleated mass of protoplasm turns out to be what may be termed +the structural unit of the human body. As a matter of fact, the body, in +its earliest state, is a mere multiple of such units; and in its perfect +condition, it is a multiple of such units, variously modified. + +But does the formula which expresses the essential structural character +of the highest animal cover all the rest, as the statement of its powers +and faculties covered that of all others? Very nearly. Beast and fowl, +reptile and fish, mollusk, worm, and polype, are all composed of +structural units of the same character, namely, masses of protoplasm +with a nucleus. There are sundry very low animals, each of which, +structurally, is a mere colourless blood-corpuscle, leading an +independent life. But, at the very bottom of the animal scale, even this +simplicity becomes simplified, and all the phenomena of life are +manifested by a particle of protoplasm without a nucleus. Nor are such +organisms insignificant by reason of their want of complexity. It is a +fair question whether the protoplasm of those simplest forms of life, +which people an immense extent of the bottom of the sea, would not +outweigh that of all the higher living beings which inhabit the land put +together. And in ancient times, no less than at the present day, such +living beings as these have been the greatest of rock builders. + +What has been said of the animal world is no less true of plants. +Imbedded in the protoplasm at the broad, or attached, end of the nettle +hair, there lies a spheroidal nucleus. Careful examination further +proves that the whole substance of the nettle is made up of a repetition +of such masses of nucleated protoplasm, each contained in a wooden case, +which is modified in form, sometimes into a woody fibre, sometimes into +a duct or spiral vessel, sometimes into a pollen grain, or an ovule. +Traced back to its earliest state, the nettle arises as the man does, in +a particle of nucleated protoplasm. And in the lowest plants, as in the +lowest animals, a single mass of such protoplasm may constitute the +whole plant, or the protoplasm may exist without a nucleus. + +Under these circumstances it may well be asked, how is one mass of +non-nucleated protoplasm to be distinguished from another? why call one +"plant" and the other "animal"? + +The only reply is that, so far as form is concerned, plants and animals +are not separable, and that, in many cases, it is a mere matter of +convention whether we call a given organism an animal or a plant. There +is a living body called _Aethalium septicum_, which appears upon +decaying vegetable substances, and, in one of its forms, is common upon +the surfaces of tan-pits. In this condition it is, to all intents and +purposes, a fungus, and formerly was always regarded as such; but the +remarkable investigations of De Bary have shown that, in another +condition, the _Aethalium_ is an actively locomotive creature, and takes +in solid matters, upon which, apparently, it feeds, thus exhibiting the +most characteristic feature of animality. Is this a plant; or is it an +animal? Is it both; or is it neither? Some decide in favour of the last +supposition, and establish an intermediate kingdom, a sort of biological +No Man's Land for all these questionable forms. But, as it is admittedly +impossible to draw any distinct boundary line between this no man's land +and the vegetable world on the one hand, or the animal on the other, it +appears to me that this proceeding merely doubles the difficulty which, +before, was single. + +Protoplasm, simple or nucleated, is the formal basis of all life. It is +the clay of the potter: which, bake it and paint it as he will, remains +clay, separated by artifice, and not by nature, from the commonest brick +or sun-dried clod. + +Thus it becomes clear that all living powers are cognate, and that all +living forms are fundamentally of one character. The researches of the +chemist have revealed a no less striking uniformity of material +composition in living matter. + +In perfect strictness, it is true that chemical investigation can tell +us little or nothing, directly, of the composition of living matter, +inasmuch as such matter must needs die in the act of analysis,--and upon +this very obvious ground, objections, which I confess seem to me to be +somewhat frivolous, have been raised to the drawing of any conclusions +whatever respecting the composition of actually living matter, from that +of the dead matter of life, which alone is accessible to us. But +objectors of this class do not seem to reflect that it is also, in +strictness, true that we know nothing about the composition of any body +whatever, as it is. The statement that a crystal of calc-spar consists +of carbonate of lime, is quite true, if we only mean that, by +appropriate processes, it may be resolved into carbonic acid and +quicklime. If you pass the same carbonic acid over the very quicklime +thus obtained, you will obtain carbonate of lime again; but it will not +be calc-spar, nor anything like it. Can it, therefore, be said that +chemical analysis teaches nothing about the chemical composition of +calc-spar? Such a statement would be absurd; but it is hardly more so +than the talk one occasionally hears about the uselessness of applying +the results of chemical analysis to the living bodies which have yielded +them. + +One fact, at any rate, is out of reach of such refinements, and this is, +that all the forms of protoplasm which have yet been examined contain +the four elements, carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen, in very +complex union, and that they behave similarly towards several reagents. +To this complex combination, the nature of which has never been +determined with exactness, the name of Protein has been applied. And if +we use this term with such caution as may properly arise out of our +comparative ignorance of the things for which it stands, it may be truly +said that all protoplasm is proteinaceous, or, as the white, or albumen, +of an egg is one of the commonest examples of a nearly pure proteine +matter, we may say that all living matter is more or less albuminoid. + +Perhaps it would not yet be safe to say that all forms of protoplasm are +affected by the direct action of electric shocks; and yet the number of +cases in which the contraction of protoplasm is shown to be affected by +this agency increases every day. + +Nor can it be affirmed with perfect confidence, that all forms of +protoplasm are liable to undergo that peculiar coagulation at a +temperature of 40°-50° Centigrade, which has been called +"heat-stiffening," though Kühne's beautiful researches have proved this +occurrence to take place in so many and such diverse living beings, that +it is hardly rash to expect that the law holds good for all. + +Enough has, perhaps, been said, to prove the existence of a general +uniformity in the character of the protoplasm, or physical basis, of +life, in whatever group of living beings it may be studied. But it will +be understood that this general uniformity by no means excludes any +amount of special modifications of the fundamental substance. The +mineral, carbonate of lime, assumes an immense diversity of characters, +though no one doubts that, under all these Protean changes, is one and +the same thing. + +And now, what is the ultimate fate, and what the origin, of the matter +of life? + +Is it, as some of the older naturalists supposed, diffused throughout +the universe in molecules, which are indestructible and unchangeable in +themselves; but, in endless transmigration, unite in innumerable +permutations, into the diversified forms of life we know? Or, is the +matter of life composed of ordinary matter, differing from it only in +the manner in which its atoms are aggregated? Is it built up of ordinary +matter, and again resolved into ordinary matter when its work is done? + +Modern science does not hesitate a moment between these alternatives. +Physiology writes over the portals of life-- + + "Debemur morti nos nostraque,"[51] + +with a profounder meaning than the Roman poet attached to that +melancholy line. Under whatever disguise it takes refuge, whether fungus +or oak, worm or man, the living protoplasm not only ultimately dies and +is resolved into its mineral and lifeless constituents, but is always +dying, and, strange as the paradox may sound, could not live unless it +died. + +In the wonderful story of the _Peau de Chagrin_, the hero becomes +possessed of a magical wild ass' skin, which yields him the means of +gratifying all his wishes. But its surface represents the duration of +the proprietor's life; and for every satisfied desire the skin shrinks +in proportion to the intensity of fruition, until at length life and the +last handbreath of the _peau de chagrin_, disappear with the +gratification of a last wish. + +Balzac's studies had led him over a wide range of thought and +speculation, and his shadowing forth of physiological truth in this +strange story may have been intentional. At any rate, the matter of life +is a veritable _peau de chagrin_, and for every vital act it is somewhat +the smaller. All work implies waste, and the work of life results, +directly or indirectly, in the waste of protoplasm. + +Every word uttered by a speaker costs him some physical loss; and, in +the strictest sense, he burns that others may have light--so much +eloquence, so much of his body resolved into carbonic acid, water, and +urea. It is clear that this process of expenditure cannot go on forever. +But, happily, the protoplasmic _peau de chagrin_ differs from Balzac's +in its capacity of being repaired, and brought back to its full size, +after every exertion. + +For example, this present lecture, whatever its intellectual worth to +you, has a certain physical value to me, which is, conceivably, +expressible by the number of grains of protoplasm and other bodily +substance wasted in maintaining my vital processes during its delivery. +My _peau de chagrin_ will be distinctly smaller at the end of the +discourse than it was at the beginning. By and by, I shall probably have +recourse to the substance commonly called mutton, for the purpose of +stretching it back to its original size. Now this mutton was once the +living protoplasm, more or less modified, of another animal--a sheep. As +I shall eat it, it is the same matter altered, not only by death, but by +exposure to sundry artificial operations in the process of cooking. + +But these changes, whatever be their extent, have not rendered it +incompetent to resume its old functions as matter of life. A singular +inward laboratory, which I possess, will dissolve a certain portion of +the modified protoplasm; the solution so formed will pass into my +veins; and the subtle influences to which it will then be subjected will +convert the dead protoplasm into living protoplasm, and transubstantiate +sheep into man. + +Nor is this all. If digestion were a thing to be trifled with, I might +sup upon lobster, and the matter of life of the crustacean would undergo +the same wonderful metamorphosis into humanity. And were I to return to +my own place by sea, and undergo shipwreck, the crustacean might, and +probably would, return the compliment, and demonstrate our common nature +by turning my protoplasm into living lobster. Or, if nothing better were +to be had, I might supply my wants with mere bread, and I should find +the protoplasm of the wheat-plant to be convertible into man with no +more trouble than that of the sheep, and with far less, I fancy, than +that of the lobster. + +Hence it appears to be a matter of no great moment what animal, or what +plant, I lay under contribution for protoplasm, and the fact speaks +volumes for the general identity of that substance in all living beings. +I share this catholicity of assimilation with other animals, all of +which, so far as we know, could thrive equally well on the protoplasm of +any of their fellows, or of any plant; but here the assimilative powers +of the animal world cease. A solution of smelling-salts in water, with +an infinitesimal proportion of some other saline matters, contains all +the elementary bodies which enter into the composition of protoplasm; +but, as I need hardly say, a hogshead of that fluid would not keep a +hungry man from starving, nor would it save any animal whatever from a +like fate. An animal cannot make protoplasm, but must take it ready-made +from some other animal, or some plant--the animal's highest feat of +constructive chemistry being to convert dead protoplasm into that living +matter of life which is appropriate to itself. + +Therefore, in seeking for the origin of protoplasm, we must eventually +turn to the vegetable world. A fluid containing carbonic acid, water, +and nitrogenous salts, which offers such a Barmecide feast[52] to the +animal, is a table richly spread to multitudes of plants; and, with a +due supply of only such materials, many a plant will not only maintain +itself in vigour, but grow and multiply until it has increased a +million-fold, or a million million-fold, the quantity of protoplasm +which it originally possessed; in this way building up the matter of +life, to an indefinite extent, from the common matter of the universe. + +Thus, the animal can only raise the complex substance of dead protoplasm +to the higher power, as one may say, of living protoplasm; while the +plant can raise the less complex substances--carbonic acid, water, and +nitrogenous salts--to the same stage of living protoplasm, if not to the +same level. But the plant also has its limitations. Some of the fungi, +for example, appear to need higher compounds to start with; and no known +plant can live upon the uncompounded elements of protoplasm. A plant +supplied with pure carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen, phosphorus, +sulphur, and the like, would as infallibly die as the animal in his bath +of smelling-salts, though it would be surrounded by all the constituents +of protoplasm. Nor, indeed, need the process of simplification of +vegetable food be carried so far as this, in order to arrive at the +limit of the plant's thaumaturgy. Let water, carbonic acid, and all the +other needful constituents be supplied except nitrogenous salts, and an +ordinary plant will still be unable to manufacture protoplasm. + +Thus the matter of life, so far as we know it (and we have no right to +speculate on any other), breaks up, in consequence of that continual +death which is the condition of its manifesting vitality, into carbonic +acid, water, and nitrogenous compounds, which certainly possess no +properties but those of ordinary matter. And out of these same forms of +ordinary matter, and from none which are simpler, the vegetable world +builds up all the protoplasm which keeps the animal world a-going. +Plants are the accumulators of the power which animals distribute and +disperse. + +But it will be observed, that the existence of the matter of life +depends on the pre-existence of certain compounds; namely, carbonic +acid, water, and certain nitrogenous bodies. Withdraw any one of these +three from the world, and all vital phenomena come to an end. They are +as necessary to the protoplasm of the plant, as the protoplasm of the +plant is to that of the animal. Carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen +are all lifeless bodies. Of these, carbon and oxygen unite in certain +proportions and under certain conditions, to give rise to carbonic acid; +hydrogen and oxygen produce water; nitrogen and other elements give rise +to nitrogenous salts. These new compounds, like the elementary bodies of +which they are composed, are lifeless. But when they are brought +together, under certain conditions, they give rise to the still more +complex body, protoplasm, and this protoplasm exhibits the phenomena of +life. + +I see no break in this series of steps in molecular complication, and I +am unable to understand why the language which is applicable to any one +term of the series may not be used to any of the others. We think fit to +call different kinds of matter carbon, oxygen, hydrogen, and nitrogen, +and to speak of the various powers and activities of these substances as +the properties of the matter of which they are composed. + +When hydrogen and oxygen are mixed in a certain proportion, and an +electric spark is passed through them, they disappear, and a quantity of +water, equal in weight to the sum of their weights, appears in their +place. There is not the slightest parity between the passive and active +powers of the water and those of the oxygen and hydrogen which have +given rise to it. At 32° Fahrenheit, and far below that temperature, +oxygen and hydrogen are elastic gaseous bodies, whose particles tend to +rush away from one another with great force. Water, at the same +temperature, is a strong though brittle solid, whose particles tend to +cohere into definite geometrical shapes, and sometimes build up frosty +imitations of the most complex forms of vegetable foliage. + +Nevertheless we call these, and many other strange phenomena, the +properties of the water, and we do not hesitate to believe that, in some +way or another, they result from the properties of the component +elements of the water. We do not assume that a something called +"aquosity" entered into and took possession of the oxidated hydrogen as +soon as it was formed, and then guided the aqueous particles to their +places in the facets of the crystal, or amongst the leaflets of the +hoar-frost. On the contrary, we live in the hope and in the faith that, +by the advance of molecular physics, we shall by and by be able to see +our way as clearly from the constituents of water to the properties of +water, as we are now able to deduce the operations of a watch from the +form of its parts and the manner in which they are put together. + +Is the case in any way changed when carbonic acid, water, and +nitrogenous salts disappear, and in their place, under the influence of +pre-existing living protoplasm, an equivalent weight of the matter of +life makes its appearance? + +It is true that there is no sort of parity between the properties of the +components and the properties of the resultant, but neither was there in +the case of the water. It is also true that what I have spoken of as the +influence of pre-existing living matter is something quite +unintelligible; but does anybody quite comprehend the _modus +operandi_[53] of an electric spark, which traverses a mixture of oxygen +and hydrogen? + +What justification is there, then, for the assumption of the existence +in the living matter of a something which has no representative, or +correlative, in the not living matter which gave rise to it? What better +philosophical status has "vitality" than "aquosity"? And why should +"vitality" hope for a better fate than the other "itys" which have +disappeared since Martinus Scriblerus accounted for the operation of the +meat-jack by its inherent "meat-roasting quality," and scorned the +"materialism" of those who explained the turning of the spit by a +certain mechanism worked by the draught of the chimney? + +If scientific language is to possess a definite and constant +signification whenever it is employed, it seems to me that we are +logically bound to apply to the protoplasm, or physical basis of life, +the same conceptions as those which are held to be legitimate elsewhere. +If the phenomena exhibited by water are its properties, so are those +presented by protoplasm, living or dead, its properties. + +If the properties of water may be properly said to result from the +nature and disposition of its component molecules, I can find no +intelligible ground for refusing to say that the properties of +protoplasm result from the nature and disposition of its molecules. + +But I bid you beware that, in accepting these conclusions, you are +placing your feet on the first rung of a ladder which, in most people's +estimation, is the reverse of Jacob's and leads to the antipodes of +heaven. It may seem a small thing to admit that the dull vital actions +of a fungus, or a foraminifer, are the properties of their protoplasm, +and are the direct results of the nature of the matter of which they are +composed. But if, as I have endeavoured to prove to you, their +protoplasm is essentially identical with, and most readily converted +into, that of any animal, I can discover no logical halting-place +between the admission that such is the case, and the further concession +that all vital action may, with equal propriety, be said to be the +result of the molecular forces of the protoplasm which displays it. And +if so, it must be true, in the same sense and to the same extent, that +the thoughts to which I am now giving utterance, and your thoughts +regarding them, are the expression of molecular changes in that matter +of life which is the source of our other vital phenomena. + +Past experience leads me to be tolerably certain that, when the +propositions I have just placed before you are accessible to public +comment and criticism, they will be condemned by many zealous persons, +and perhaps by some few of the wise and thoughtful. I should not wonder +if "gross and brutal materialism" were the mildest phrase applied to +them in certain quarters. And, most undoubtedly, the terms of the +propositions are distinctly materialistic. Nevertheless two things are +certain: the one, that I hold the statements to be substantially true; +the other, that I, individually, am no materialist, but, on the +contrary, believe materialism to involve grave philosophical error. + +This union of materialistic terminology with the repudiation of +materialistic philosophy I share with some of the most thoughtful men +with whom I am acquainted. And, when I first undertook to deliver the +present discourse, it appeared to me to be a fitting opportunity to +explain how such a union is not only consistent with, but necessitated +by, sound logic. I purposed to lead you through the territory of vital +phenomena to the materialistic slough in which you find yourselves now +plunged, and then to point out to you the sole path by which, in my +judgment, extrication is possible. + + * * * * * + +Let us suppose that knowledge is absolute, and not relative, and +therefore, that our conception of matter represents that which it really +is. Let us suppose, further, that we do know more of cause and effect +than a certain definite order of succession among facts, and that we +have a knowledge of the necessity of that succession--and hence, of +necessary laws--and I, for my part, do not see what escape there is from +utter materialism and necessarianism. For it is obvious that our +knowledge of what we call the material world is, to begin with, at least +as certain and definite as that of the spiritual world, and that our +acquaintance with law is of as old a date as our knowledge of +spontaneity. Further, I take it to be demonstrable that it is utterly +impossible to prove that anything whatever may not be the effect of a +material and necessary cause, and that human logic is equally +incompetent to prove that any act is really spontaneous. A really +spontaneous act is one which, by the assumption, has no cause; and the +attempt to prove such a negative as this is, on the face of the matter, +absurd. And while it is thus a philosophical impossibility to +demonstrate that any given phenomenon is not the effect of a material +cause, any one who is acquainted with the history of science will admit, +that its progress has, in all ages, meant, and now, more than ever, +means, the extension of the province of what we call matter and +causation, and the concomitant gradual banishment from all regions of +human thought of what we call spirit and spontaneity. + +I have endeavoured, in the first part of this discourse, to give you a +conception of the direction towards which modern physiology is tending; +and I ask you, what is the difference between the conception of life as +the product of a certain disposition of material molecules, and the old +notion of an Archaeus[54] governing and directing blind matter within +each living body, except this--that here, as elsewhere, matter and law +have devoured spirit and spontaneity? And as surely as every future +grows out of past and present, so will the physiology of the future +gradually extend the realm of matter and law until it is co-extensive +with knowledge, with feeling, and with action. + +The consciousness of this great truth weighs like a nightmare, I +believe, upon many of the best minds of these days. They watch what they +conceive to be the progress of materialism, in such fear and powerless +anger as a savage feels when, during an eclipse, the great shadow creeps +over the face of the sun. The advancing tide of matter threatens to +drown their souls; the tightening grasp of law impedes their freedom; +they are alarmed lest man's moral nature be debased by the increase of +his wisdom. + +If the "New Philosophy" be worthy of the reprobation with which it is +visited, I confess their fears seem to me to be well founded. While, on +the contrary, could David Hume be consulted, I think he would smile at +their perplexities, and chide them for doing even as the heathen, and +falling down in terror before the hideous idols their own hands have +raised. + +For, after all, what do we know of this terrible "matter," except as a +name for the unknown and hypothetical cause of states of our own +consciousness? And what do we know of that "spirit" over whose +threatened extinction by matter a great lamentation is arising, like +that which was heard at the death of Pan, except that it is also a name +for an unknown and hypothetical cause, or condition, of states of +consciousness? In other words, matter and spirit are but names for the +imaginary substrata of groups of natural phenomena. + +And what is the dire necessity and "iron" law under which men groan? +Truly, most gratuitously invented bugbears. I suppose if there be an +"iron" law, it is that of gravitation; and if there be a physical +necessity, it is that a stone, unsupported, must fall to the ground. But +what is all we really know, and can know, about the latter phenomenon? +Simply, that, in all human experience, stones have fallen to the ground +under these conditions; that we have not the smallest reason for +believing that any stone so circumstanced will not fall to the ground; +and that we have, on the contrary, every reason to believe that it will +so fall. It is very convenient to indicate that all the conditions of +belief have been fulfilled in this case, by calling the statement that +unsupported stones will fall to the ground, "a law of Nature." But when, +as commonly happens, we change _will_ into _must_, we introduce an idea +of necessity which most assuredly does not lie in the observed facts, +and has no warranty that I can discover elsewhere. For my part, I +utterly repudiate and anathematise the intruder. Fact I know; and Law I +know; but what is this Necessity save an empty shadow of my own mind's +throwing? + +But, if it is certain that we can have no knowledge of the nature of +either matter or spirit, and that the notion of necessity is something +illegitimately thrust into the perfectly legitimate conception of law, +the materialistic position that there is nothing in the world but +matter, force, and necessity, is as utterly devoid of justification as +the most baseless of theological dogmas. The fundamental doctrines of +materialism, like those of spiritualism, and most other "isms," lie +outside "the limits of philosophical inquiry," and David Hume's great +service to humanity is his irrefragable demonstration of what these +limits are. Hume called himself a sceptic, and therefore others cannot +be blamed if they apply the same title to him; but that does not alter +the fact that the name, with its existing implications, does him gross +injustice. + +If a man asks me what the politics of the inhabitants of the moon are, +and I reply that I do not know; that neither I, nor any one else, has +any means of knowing; and that, under these circumstances, I decline to +trouble myself about the subject at all; I do not think he has any right +to call me a sceptic. On the contrary, in replying thus, I conceive that +I am simply honest and truthful, and show a proper regard for the +economy of time. So Hume's strong and subtle intellect takes up a great +many problems about which we are naturally curious, and shows us that +they are essentially questions of lunar politics, in their essence +incapable of being answered, and therefore not worth the attention of +men who have work to do in the world. And he thus ends one of his +essays:-- + +"If we take in hand any volume of Divinity, or school metaphysics, for +instance, let us ask, _Does it contain any abstract reasoning concerning +quantity or number?_ No. _Does it contain any experimental reasoning +concerning matter of fact and existence?_ No. Commit it then to the +flames; for it can contain nothing but sophistry and illusion."[55] + +Permit me to enforce this most wise advice. Why trouble ourselves about +matters of which, however important they may be, we do know nothing, and +can know nothing? We live in a world which is full of misery and +ignorance, and the plain duty of each and all of us is to try to make +the little corner he can influence somewhat less miserable and somewhat +less ignorant than it was before he entered it. To do this effectually +it is necessary to be fully possessed of only two beliefs: the first, +that the order of Nature is ascertainable by our faculties to an extent +which is practically unlimited; the second, that our volition[56] counts +for something as a condition of the course of events. + +Each of these beliefs can be verified experimentally, as often as we +like to try. Each, therefore, stands upon the strongest foundation upon +which any belief can rest, and forms one of our highest truths. If we +find that the ascertainment of the order of nature is facilitated by +using one terminology, or one set of symbols, rather than another, it is +our clear duty to use the former; and no harm can accrue, so long as we +bear in mind that we are dealing merely with terms and symbols. + +In itself it is of little moment whether we express the phenomena of +matter in terms of spirit; or the phenomena of spirit in terms of +matter: matter may be regarded as a form of thought, thought may be +regarded as a property of matter--each statement has a certain relative +truth. But with a view to the progress of science, the materialistic +terminology is in every way to be preferred. For it connects thought +with the other phenomena of the universe, and suggests inquiry into the +nature of those physical conditions, or concomitants of thought, which +are more or less accessible to us, and a knowledge of which may, in +future, help us to exercise the same kind of control over the world of +thought as we already possess in respect of the material world; +whereas, the alternative, or spiritualistic, terminology is utterly +barren, and leads to nothing but obscurity and confusion of ideas. + +Thus there can be little doubt, that the further science advances, the +more extensively and consistently will all the phenomena of Nature be +represented by materialistic formulae and symbols. + +But the man of science, who, forgetting the limits of philosophical +inquiry, slides from these formulae and symbols into what is commonly +understood by materialism, seems to me to place himself on a level with +the mathematician who should mistake the x's and y's with which he works +his problems, for real entities--and with this further disadvantage, as +compared with the mathematician, that the blunders of the latter are of +no practical consequence, while the errors of systematic materialism may +paralyse the energies and destroy the beauty of a life. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 48: The substance of this paper was contained in an address +which was delivered in Edinburgh in 1868. The paper was published in +"Lay Sermons," 1870.] + +[Footnote 49: _à fortiori:_ with stronger reason.] + +[Footnote 50: Why does the populace rush so and make clamor? It wishes +to eat, bring forth children, and feed these as well as it may.... No +man can do better, strive how he will.] + +[Footnote 51: We and ours must die.] + +[Footnote 52: In one of the Arabian Nights stories, a nobleman called +Barmecide set before a beggar a number of empty dishes supposed to +contain a feast.] + +[Footnote 53: Mode of working.] + +[Footnote 54: Archaeus: a spirit, having essentially the same form as +the body within which it resided.] + +[Footnote 55: Hume's Essay "Of the Academical or Sceptical Philosophy," +in the _Inquiry concerning the Human Understanding._--[Many critics of +this passage seem to forget that the subject-matter of Ethics and +Aesthetics consists of matters of fact and existence.--1892.]--Author's +note.] + +[Footnote 56: Or, to speak more accurately, the physical state of which +volition is the expression.--1892.--Author's note.] + + + + +COMPARISON OF THE MENTAL POWERS OF MAN AND THE LOWER ANIMALS[57] + +CHARLES DARWIN + + +My object in this chapter is to show that there is no fundamental +difference between man and the higher mammals in their mental faculties. +Each division of the subject might have been extended into a separate +essay, but must here be treated briefly. As no classification of the +mental powers has been universally accepted, I shall arrange my remarks +in the order most convenient for my purpose; and will select those facts +which have struck me most, with the hope that they may produce some +effect on the reader. + +As man possesses the same senses as the lower animals, his fundamental +intuitions must be the same. Man has also some few instincts in common, +as that of self-preservation, sexual love, the love of the mother for +her new-born offspring, the desire possessed by the latter to suck, and +so forth. But man, perhaps, has somewhat fewer instincts: than those +possessed by the animals which come next to him in the series. The orang +in the Eastern islands and the chimpanzee in Africa build platforms on +which they sleep; and as both species follow the same habit, it might be +argued that this was due to instinct, but we cannot feel sure that it is +not the result of both animals having similar wants and possessing +similar powers of reasoning. These apes, as we may assume, avoid the +many poisonous fruits of the tropics, and man has no such knowledge; but +as our domestic animals, when taken to foreign lands, and when first +turned out in the spring, often eat poisonous herbs, which they +afterward avoid, we cannot feel sure that the apes do not learn from +their own experience or from that of their parents what fruits to +select. It is, however, certain, as we shall presently see, that apes +have an instinctive dread of serpents, and probably of other dangerous +animals. + +The fewness and the comparative simplicity of the instincts in the +higher animals are remarkable in contrast with those of the lower +animals. Cuvier maintained that instinct and intelligence stand in an +inverse ratio to each other; and some have thought that the intellectual +faculties of the higher animals have been gradually developed from their +instincts. But Pouchet, in an interesting essay, has shown that no such +inverse ratio really exists. Those insects which possess the most +wonderful instincts are certainly the most intelligent. In the +vertebrate series, the least intelligent members, namely fishes and +amphibians, do not possess complex instincts; and among mammals the +animal most remarkable for its instincts, namely the beaver, is highly +intelligent, as will be admitted by every one who has read Mr. Morgan's +excellent work.[58] + +But although, as we learn from the above-mentioned insects and the +beaver, a high degree of intelligence is certainly compatible with +complex instincts, and although actions, at first learned voluntarily, +can soon through habit be performed with the quickness and certainty of +a reflex action, yet it is not improbable that there is a certain amount +of interference between the development of free intelligence and of +instinct, since the latter implies some inherited modification of the +brain. Little is known about the functions of the brain, but we can +perceive that as the intellectual powers become highly developed the +various parts of the brain must be connected by very intricate channels +of the freest intercommunication; and as a consequence each separate +part would perhaps tend to be less well fitted to answer to particular +sensations or associations in a definite and inherited--that is, +instinctive--manner. There seems even to exist some relation between a +low degree of intelligence and a strong tendency to the formation of +fixed, though not inherited, habits; for as a sagacious physician +remarked to me, persons who are slightly imbecile tend to act in +everything by routine or habit; and they are rendered much happier if +this is encouraged. + +I have thought this digression worth giving, because we may easily +underrate the mental powers of the higher animals, and especially of +man, when we compare their actions founded on the memory of past events, +on foresight, reason and imagination, with exactly similar actions +instinctively performed by the lower animals; in this latter case the +capacity of performing such actions has been gained, step by step, +through the variability of the mental organs and natural selection, +without any conscious intelligence on the part of the animal during each +successive generation. No doubt, as Mr. Wallace has argued, much of the +intelligent work done by man is due to imitation and not to reason; but +there is this great difference between his actions and many of those +performed by the lower animals, namely, that man cannot, on his first +trial, make, for instance, a stone hatchet or a canoe, through his power +of imitation. He has to learn his work by practice; a beaver, on the +other hand, can make its dam or canal, and a bird its nest, as well, or +nearly as well, and a spider its wonderful web quite as well, the first +time it tries as when old and experienced. + +To return to our immediate subject: the lower animals, like man, +manifestly feel pleasure and pain, happiness and misery. Happiness is +never better exhibited than by young animals, such as puppies, kittens, +lambs, etc., when playing together, like our own children. Even insects +play together, as has been described by that excellent observer, P. +Huber, who saw ants chasing and pretending to bite each other, like so +many puppies. + +The fact that the lower animals are excited by the same emotions as +ourselves is so well established that it will not be necessary to weary +the reader by many details. Terror acts in the same manner on them as on +us, causing the muscles to tremble, the heart to palpitate, the +sphincters to be relaxed, and the hair to stand on end. Suspicion, the +offspring of fear, is eminently characteristic of most wild animals. It +is, I think, impossible to read the account given by Sir E. Tennent, of +the behaviour of the female elephants used as decoys, without admitting +that they intentionally practise deceit, and well know what they are +about. Courage and timidity are extremely variable qualities in the +individuals of the same species, as is plainly seen in our dogs. Some +dogs and horses are ill-tempered and easily turn sulky; others are +good-tempered; and these qualities are certainly inherited. Every one +knows how liable animals are to furious rage and how plainly they show +it. Many, and probably true, anecdotes have been published on the +long-delayed and artful revenge of various animals. The accurate Rengger +and Brehm[59] state that the American and African monkeys which they +kept tame certainly revenged themselves. Sir Andrew Smith, a zoologist +whose scrupulous accuracy was known to many persons, told me the +following story of which he was himself an eye-witness: At the Cape of +Good Hope an officer had often plagued a certain baboon, and the animal, +seeing him approaching one Sunday for parade, poured water into a hole +and hastily made some thick mud, which he skilfully dashed over the +officer as he passed by, to the amusement of many bystanders. For long +afterwards the baboon rejoiced and triumphed whenever he saw his victim. + +The love of a dog for his master is notorious; as an old writer quaintly +says: "A dog is the only thing on this earth that luvs you more than he +luvs himself." In the agony of death a dog has been known to caress his +master, and every one has heard of the dog suffering under vivisection, +who licked the hand of the operator; this man, unless the operation was +fully justified by an increase of our knowledge, or unless he had a +heart of stone, must have felt remorse to the last hour of his life. + +As Whewell has well asked: "Who that reads the touching instances of +maternal affection, related so often of the women of all nations and of +the females of all animals, can doubt that the principle of action is +the same in the two cases?" We see maternal affection exhibited in the +most trifling details; thus, Rengger observed an American monkey (a +Cebus) carefully driving away the flies which plagued her infant; and +Duvaucel saw a Hylobates washing the face of her young ones in a stream. +So intense is the grief of female monkeys for the loss of their young +that it invariably caused the death of certain kinds kept under +confinement by Brehm in N. Africa. Orphan monkeys were always adopted +and carefully guarded by the other monkeys, both males and females. One +female baboon had so capacious a heart that she not only adopted young +monkeys of other species, but stole young dogs and cats, which she +continually carried about. Her kindness, however, did not go so far as +to share her food with her adopted offspring, at which Brehm was +surprised, as his monkeys always divided everything quite fairly with +their own young ones. An adopted kitten scratched this affectionate +baboon, who certainly had a fine intellect, for she was much astonished +at being scratched, and immediately examined the kitten's feet, and +without more ado bit off the claws.[60] In the Zoological Gardens I +heard from the keeper that an old baboon (C. chacma) had adopted a +Rhesus monkey; but when a young drill and mandrill were placed in the +cage she seemed to perceive that these monkeys, though distinct species, +were her nearer relatives, for she at once rejected the Rhesus and +adopted both of them. The young Rhesus, as I saw, was greatly +discontented at being thus rejected, and it would, like a naughty child, +annoy and attack the young drill and mandrill whenever it could do so +with safety; this conduct exciting great indignation in the old baboon. +Monkeys will also, according to Brehm, defend their master when attacked +by any one, as well as dogs to whom they are attached, from the attacks +of other dogs. But we here trench on the subjects of sympathy and +fidelity to which I shall recur. Some of Brehm's monkeys took much +delight in teasing a certain old dog whom they disliked, as well as +other animals, in various ingenious ways. + +Most of the more complex emotions are common to the higher animals and +ourselves. Every one has seen how jealous a dog is of his master's +affections if lavished on any other creature; and I have observed the +same fact with monkeys. This shows that animals not only love, but have +a desire to be loved. Animals manifestly feel emulation. They love +approbation or praise; and a dog carrying a basket for his master +exhibits in a high degree self-complacency or pride. There can, I think, +be no doubt that a dog feels shame, as distinct from fear, and something +very like modesty when begging too often for food. A great dog scorns +the snarling of a little dog, and this may be called magnanimity. +Several observers have stated that monkeys certainly dislike being +laughed at; and they sometimes invent imaginary offenses. In the +Zoological Gardens I saw a baboon who always got into a furious rage +when his keeper took out a letter or book and read it aloud to him; and +his rage was so violent that, as I witnessed on one occasion, he bit his +own leg till the blood flowed. Dogs show what may be fairly called a +sense of humour as distinct from mere play; if a bit of stick or other +such object be thrown to one, he will often carry it away for a short +distance; and then squatting down with it on the ground close before +him, will wait until his master comes quite close to take it away. The +dog will then seize it and rush away in triumph, repeating the same +maneuver, and evidently enjoying the practical joke. + +We will now turn to the more intellectual emotions and faculties, which +are very important, as forming the basis for the development of the +higher mental powers. Animals manifestly enjoy excitement, and suffer +from ennui, as may be seen with dogs, and, according to Rengger, with +monkeys. All animals feel _Wonder_ and many exhibit _Curiosity_. They +sometimes suffer from this latter quality, as when the hunter plays +antics and thus attracts them; I have witnessed this with deer, and so +it is with the wary chamois, and with some kinds of wild ducks. Brehm +gives a curious account of the instinctive dread, which his monkeys +exhibited, for snakes; but their curiosity was so great that they could +not desist from occasionally satiating their horror in a most human +fashion by lifting up the lid of the box in which the snakes were kept. +I was so much surprised at his account that I took a stuffed and +coiled-up snake into the monkey-house at the Zoological Gardens, and the +excitement thus caused was one of the most curious spectacles which I +ever beheld. Three species of Cercopithecus were the most alarmed; they +dashed about their cages and uttered sharp signal cries of danger, which +were understood by the other monkeys. A few young monkeys and one old +Anubis baboon alone took no notice of the snake. I then placed the +stuffed specimen on the ground in one of the larger compartments. After +a time all the monkeys collected round it in a large circle, and, +staring intently, presented a most ludicrous appearance. They became +extremely nervous; so that when a wooden ball, with which they were +familiar as a plaything, was accidentally moved in the straw, under +which it was partly hidden, they all instantly started away. These +monkeys behaved very differently when a dead fish, a mouse, a living +turtle, and other new objects were placed in their cages; for though at +first frightened, they soon approached, handled, and examined them. I +then placed a live snake in a paper bag, with the mouth loosely closed, +in one of the larger compartments. One of the monkeys immediately +approached, cautiously opened the bag a little, peeped in, and instantly +dashed away. Then I witnessed what Brehm has described; for monkey after +monkey, with head raised high and turned on one side, could not resist +taking a momentary peep into the upright bag, at the dreadful object +lying quietly at the bottom. It would almost appear as if monkeys had +some notion of zoological affinities, for those kept by Brehm exhibited +a strange, although mistaken, instinctive dread of innocent lizards and +frogs. An orang, also, has been known to be much alarmed at the first +sight of a turtle. + +The principle of _Imitation_ is strong in man, and especially, as I have +myself observed, with savages. In certain morbid states of the brain +this tendency is exaggerated to an extraordinary degree; some hemiplegic +patients and others, at the commencement of inflammatory softening of +the brain, unconsciously imitate every word which is uttered, whether in +their own or a foreign language, and every gesture or action which is +performed near them. Desor has remarked that no animal voluntarily +imitates an action performed by man, until, in the ascending scale, we +come to monkeys, which are well known to be ridiculous mockers. Animals, +however, sometimes imitate each other's actions; thus two species of +wolves, which had been reared by dogs, learned to bark, as does +sometimes the jackal, but whether this can be called voluntary imitation +is another question. Birds imitate the songs of their parents, and +sometimes of other birds; and parrots are notorious imitators of any +sound which they often hear. Dureau de la Malle gives an account of a +dog reared by a cat, who learned to imitate the well-known action of a +cat licking her paws, and thus washing her ears and face; this was also +witnessed by the celebrated naturalist Audouin. I have received several +confirmatory accounts; in one of these, a dog had not been suckled by a +cat, but had been brought up with one, together with kittens, and had +thus acquired the above habit, which he ever afterward practised during +his life of thirteen years. Dureau de la Malle's dog likewise learned +from the kittens to play with a ball by rolling it about with his +fore-paws and springing on it. A correspondent assures me that a cat in +his house used to put her paws into jugs of milk having too narrow a +mouth for her head. A kitten of this cat soon learned the same trick, +and practised it ever afterward whenever there was an opportunity. + +The parents of many animals, trusting to the principle of imitation in +their young, and more especially to their instinctive or inherited +tendencies, may be said to educate them. We see this when a cat brings a +live mouse to her kittens; and Dureau de la Malle has given a curious +account (in the paper above quoted) of his observations on hawks which +taught their young dexterity, as well as judgment of distances, by first +dropping through the air dead mice and sparrows, which the young +generally failed to catch, and then bringing them live birds and letting +them loose. + +Hardly any faculty is more important for the intellectual progress of +man than _Attention_. Animals clearly manifest this power, as when a cat +watches by a hole and prepares to spring on its prey. Wild animals +sometimes become so absorbed when thus engaged that they may be easily +approached. Mr. Bartlett has given me a curious proof of how variable +this faculty is in monkeys. A man who trains monkeys to act in plays +used to purchase common kinds from the Zoological Society at the price +of five pounds for each; but he offered to give double the price if he +might keep three or four of them for a few days in order to select one. +When asked how he could possibly learn so soon whether a particular +monkey would turn out a good actor, he answered that it all depended on +their power of attention. If when he was talking and explaining anything +to a monkey its attention was easily distracted, as by a fly on the +wall or other trifling object, the case was hopeless. If he tried by +punishment to make an inattentive monkey act, it turned sulky. On the +other hand, a monkey which carefully attended to him could always be +trained. + +It is almost superfluous to state that animals have excellent _memories_ +for persons and places. A baboon at the Cape of Good Hope, as I have +been informed by Sir Andrew Smith, recognised him with joy after an +absence of nine months. I had a dog who was savage and averse to all +strangers, and I purposely tried his memory after an absence of five +years and two days. I went near the stable where he lived and shouted to +him in my old manner; he showed no joy, but instantly followed me out +walking, and obeyed me exactly as if I had parted with him only half an +hour before. A train of old associations, dormant during five years, had +thus been instantaneously awakened in his mind. Even ants, as P. Huber +has clearly shown, recognised their fellow-ants belonging to the same +community after a separation of four months. Animals can certainly by +some means judge of the intervals of time between recurrent events. + +The _Imagination_ is one of the highest prerogatives of man. By this +faculty he may unite former images and ideas, independently of the will, +and thus create brilliant and novel results. A poet, as Jean Paul +Richter remarks, "who must reflect whether he shall make a character say +yes or no--to the devil with him; he is only a stupid corpse." The value +of the products of our imagination depends of course on the number, +accuracy, and clearness of our impressions, on our judgment and taste in +selecting or rejecting the involuntary combinations, and to a certain +extent on our power of voluntarily combining them. As dogs, cats, +horses, and probably all the higher animals, even birds, have vivid +dreams, and this is shown by their movements and the sounds uttered, we +must admit that they possess some power of imagination. There must be +something special which causes dogs to howl in the night, and especially +during moonlight, in that remarkable and melancholy manner called +baying. All dogs do not do so; and, according to Houzeau, they do not +then look at the moon, but at some fixed point near the horizon. Houzeau +thinks that their imaginations are disturbed by the vague outlines of +the surrounding objects, and conjure up before them fantastic images; if +this be so, their feelings may almost be called superstitious. + +Of all the faculties of the human mind, it will, I presume, be admitted +that _Reason_ stands at the summit. Only a few persons now dispute that +animals possess some power of reasoning. Animals may constantly be seen +to pause, deliberate, and resolve. It is a significant fact, that the +more the habits of any particular animal are studied by a naturalist, +the more he attributes to reason and the less to unlearned instincts. In +future chapters we shall see that some animals extremely low in the +scale apparently display a certain amount of reason. No doubt it is +often difficult to distinguish between the power of reason and that of +instinct. For instance, Dr. Hayes, in his work on "The Open Polar Sea," +repeatedly remarks that his dogs, instead of continuing to draw the +sledges in a compact body, diverged and separated when they came to thin +ice, so that their weight might be more evenly distributed. This was +often the first warning which the travellers received that the ice was +becoming thin and dangerous. Now, did the dogs act thus from the +experience of each individual, or from the example of the older and +wiser dogs, or from an inherited habit, that is from instinct? This +instinct may possibly have arisen since the time, long ago, when dogs +were first employed by the natives in drawing their sledges; or the +Arctic wolves, the parent-stock of the Esquimau dog, may have acquired +an instinct impelling them not to attack their prey in a close pack, +when on thin ice. + +We can only judge by the circumstances under which actions are +performed, whether they are due to instinct, or to reason, or to the +mere association of ideas; this latter principle, however, is +intimately connected with reason. A curious case has been given by +Professor Möbius, of a pike, separated by a plate of glass from an +adjoining aquarium stocked with fish, and who often dashed himself with +such violence against the glass in trying to catch the other fishes, +that he was sometimes completely stunned. The pike went on thus for +three months, but at last learned caution, and ceased to do so. The +plate of glass was then removed, but the pike would not attack these +particular fishes, though he would devour others which were afterward +introduced; so strongly was the idea of a violent shock associated in +his feeble mind with the attempt on his former neighbours. If a savage +who had never seen a large plate-glass window, were to dash himself even +once against it, he would for a long time afterward associate a shock +with a window-frame; but, very differently from the pike, he would +probably reflect on the nature of the impediment, and be cautious under +analogous circumstances. Now with monkeys, as we shall presently see, a +painful or merely a disagreeable impression, from an action once +performed, is sometimes sufficient to prevent the animal from repeating +it. If we attribute this difference between the monkeys and the pike +solely to the association of ideas being so much stronger and more +persistent in the one than the other, though the pike often received +much the more severe injury, can we maintain in the case of man that a +similar difference implies the possession of a fundamentally different +mind? + +Houzeau relates that, while crossing a wide and arid plain in Texas, his +two dogs suffered greatly from thirst, and that between thirty and forty +times they rushed down the hollows to search for water. These hollows +were not valleys, and there were no trees in them, or any other +difference in the vegetation, and as they were absolutely dry, there +could have been no smell of damp earth. The dogs behaved as if they knew +that a dip in the ground offered them the best chance of finding water, +and Houzeau has often witnessed the same behaviour in other animals. I +have seen, as I dare say have others, that when a small object is thrown +on the ground beyond the reach of one of the elephants in the Zoological +Gardens, he blows through his trunk on the ground beyond the object, so +that the current reflected on all sides may drive the object within his +reach. Again, a well-known ethnologist, Mr. Westropp, informs me that he +observed in Vienna a bear deliberately making with his paw a current in +some water, which was close to the bars of his cage, so as to draw a +piece of floating bread within his reach. These actions of the elephant +and bear can hardly be attributed to instinct or inherited habit, as +they would be of little use to an animal in a state of nature. Now, what +is the difference between such actions, when performed by an +uncultivated man, and by one of the higher animals? + +The savage and the dog have often found water at a low level, and the +coincidence under such circumstances has become associated in their +minds. A cultivated man would perhaps make some general proposition on +the subject; but from all that we know of savages it is extremely +doubtful whether they would do so, and a dog would certainly not. But a +savage, as well as a dog, would search in the same way, though +frequently disappointed, and in both it seems to be equally an act of +reason, whether or not any general proposition on the subject is +consciously placed before the mind. The same would apply to the elephant +and the bear making currents in the air or water. The savage would +certainly neither know nor care by what law the desired movements were +effected; yet his act would be guided by a rude process of reasoning, as +surely as would a philosopher in his longest chain of deductions. There +would no doubt be this difference between him and one of the higher +animals, that he would take notice of much slighter circumstances and +conditions, and would observe any connection between them after much +less experience, and this would be of paramount importance. I kept a +daily record of the actions of one of my infants, and when he was about +eleven months old, and before he could speak a single word, I was +continually struck with the greater quickness with which all sorts of +objects and sounds were associated together in his mind, compared with +that of the most intelligent dogs I ever knew. But the higher animals +differ in exactly the same way in this power of association from those +low in the scale, such as the pike, as well as in that of drawing +inferences and of observation. + +The promptings of reason, after very short experience, are well shown by +the following actions of American monkeys, which stand low in their +order. Rengger, a most careful observer, states that when he first gave +eggs to his monkeys in Paraguay they smashed them and thus lost much of +their contents; afterward they gently hit one end against some hard +body, and picked off the bits of shell with their fingers. After cutting +themselves only once with any sharp tool, they would not touch it again, +or would handle it with the greatest caution. Lumps of sugar were often +given them wrapped up in paper; and Rengger sometimes put a live wasp in +the paper, so that in hastily unfolding it they got stung; after this +had once happened they always held the packet to their ears to detect +any movement within. + +The following cases relate to dogs. Mr. Colquhoun winged two wild ducks, +which fell on the farther side of a stream; his retriever tried to bring +over both at once, but could not succeed; she then, though never before +known to ruffle a feather, deliberately killed one, brought over the +other, and returned for the dead bird. Colonel Hutchinson relates that +two partridges were shot at once, one being killed, the other wounded; +the latter ran away and was caught by the retriever, who on her return +came across the dead bird: "She stopped, evidently greatly puzzled, and +after one or two trials, finding she could not take it up without +permitting the escape of the winged bird, she considered a moment, then +deliberately murdered it by giving it a severe crunch, and afterward +brought away both together. This was the only known instance of her +ever having wilfully injured any game." Here we have reason, though not +quite perfect, for the retriever might have brought the wounded bird +first and then returned for the dead one, as in the case of the two +wild-ducks. I give the above cases as resting on the evidence of two +independent witnesses and because in both instances the retrievers, +after deliberation, broke through a habit which is inherited by them +(that of not killing the game retrieved), and because they show how +strong their reasoning faculty must have been to overcome a fixed habit. + +I will conclude by quoting a remark by the illustrious Humboldt. "The +muleteers in South America say, 'I will not give you the mule whose step +is easiest, but _la mas racional_--the one that reasons best;'" and, as +he adds, "this popular expression, dictated by long experience, combats +the system of animated machines better perhaps than all the arguments of +speculative philosophy." Nevertheless some writers even yet deny that +the higher animals possess a trace of reason; and they endeavour to +explain away, by what appears to be mere verbiage, all such facts as +those above given. + +It has, I think, now been shown that man and the higher animals, +especially the Primates, have some few instincts in common. All have the +same senses, intuitions, and sensations--similar passions, affections, +and emotions, even the more complex ones, such as jealousy, suspicion, +emulation, gratitude and magnanimity; they practise deceit and are +revengeful; they are sometimes susceptible to ridicule, and even have a +sense of humour; they feel wonder and curiosity; they possess the same +faculties of imitation, attention, deliberation, choice, memory, +imagination, the association of ideas, and reason, though in very +different degrees. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 57: From Chapter III of "The Descent of Man," 1871. All except +three of the author's foot-notes have been omitted.] + +[Footnote 58: "The American Beaver and his Works," 1868.--Author's +note.] + +[Footnote 59: All the following statements, given on the authority of +these two naturalists, are taken from Rengger's "Naturgesch. der +Säugethiere von Paraguay," 1830, s. 41-57, and from Brehm's +"Thierleben," B.i. s. 10-87.--Author's note.] + +[Footnote 60: A critic, without any grounds ("Quarterly Review," July, +1871, p. 72), disputes the possibility of this act as described by +Brehm, for the sake of discrediting my work. Therefore I tried, and +found that I could readily seize with my own teeth the sharp little +claws of a kitten nearly five weeks old.--Author's note.] + + + + +THE IMPORTANCE OF DUST: A SOURCE OF BEAUTY AND ESSENTIAL TO LIFE[61] + +ALFRED RUSSEL WALLACE + + +The majority of persons, if asked what were the uses of dust, would +reply that they did not know it had any, but they were sure it was a +great nuisance. It is true that dust, in our towns and in our houses, is +often not only a nuisance but a serious source of disease: while in many +countries it produces ophthalmia, often resulting in total blindness. +Dust, however, as it is usually perceived by us, is, like dirt, only +matter in the wrong place, and whatever injurious or disagreeable +effects it produces are largely due to our own dealings with nature. So +soon as we dispense with horsepower and adopt purely mechanical means of +traction and conveyance, we can almost wholly abolish disease-bearing +dust from our streets, and ultimately from all our highways; while +another kind of dust, that caused by the imperfect combustion of coal, +may be got rid of with equal facility so soon as we consider pure air, +sunlight, and natural beauty to be of more importance to the population +as a whole than are the prejudices or the vested interests of those who +produce the smoke. + +But though we can thus minimize the dangers and the inconveniences +arising from the grosser forms of dust, we cannot wholly abolish it; and +it is, indeed, fortunate we cannot do so, since it has now been +discovered that it is to the presence of dust we owe much of the beauty, +and perhaps even the very habitability of the earth we live upon. Few +of the fairy tales of science are more marvelous than these recent +discoveries as to the varied effects and important uses of dust in the +economy of nature. + +The question why the sky and the deep ocean are both blue did not much +concern the earlier physicists. It was thought to be the natural color +of pure air and water, so pale as not to be visible when small +quantities were seen, and only exhibiting its true tint when we looked +through great depth of atmosphere or of organic water. But this theory +did not explain the familiar facts of the gorgeous tints seen at sunset +and sunrise, not only in the atmosphere and on the clouds near the +horizon, but also in equally resplendent hues when the invisible sun +shines upon Alpine peaks and snowfields. A true theory should explain +all these colors, which comprise almost every tint of the rainbow. + +The explanation was found through experiments on the visibility or +non-visibility of air, which were made by the late Professor Tyndall +about the year 1868. Everyone: has seen the floating dust in a sunbeam +when sunshine enters a partially darkened room; but it is not generally +known that if there was absolutely no dust in the air the path of the +sunbeam would be totally black and invisible, while if only very little +dust was present in very minute particles the air would be as blue as +the summer sky. + +This was proved by passing a ray of electric light lengthways through a +long glass cylinder filled with air of varying degrees of purity as +regards dust. In the air of an ordinary room, however clean and well +ventilated, the interior of the, cylinder appears brilliantly +illuminated. But if the cylinder is exhausted and then filled with air +which is passed slowly through a fine gauze of intensely heated platinum +wire, so as to burn up all the floating dust particles, which are mainly +organic, the light will pass through the cylinder without illuminating +the interior, which, viewed laterally, will appear as if filled with a +dense black cloud. If, now, more air is passed into the cylinder +through the heated gauze, but so rapidly that the dust particles are not +wholly consumed, a slight blue haze will begin to appear, which will +gradually become a pure blue, equal to that of a summer sky. If more and +more dust particles are allowed to enter, the blue becomes paler, and +gradually changes to the colourless illumination of the ordinary air. + +The explanation of these phenomena is that the number of dust particles +in ordinary air is so great that they reflect abundance of light of all +wave-lengths, and thus cause the interior of the vessel containing them +to appear illuminated with white light. The air which is passed slowly +over white-hot platinum has had the dust particles destroyed, thus +showing that they were almost wholly of organic origin, which is also +indicated by their extreme lightness, causing them to float permanently +in the atmosphere. The dust being thus got rid of, and pure air being +entirely transparent, there is nothing in the cylinder to reflect the +light, which is sent through its centre in a beam of parallel rays so +that none of it strikes against the sides; hence the inside of the +cylinder appears absolutely dark. But when the larger dust particles are +wholly or partially burnt, so that only the very smallest fragments +remain, a blue light appears, because these are so minute as to reflect +chiefly the more refrangible rays, which are of shorter +wave-length--those at the blue end of the spectrum--and which are thus +scattered in all directions, while the red and yellow rays pass straight +on as before. + +We have seen that the air near the earth's surface is full of rather +coarse particles which reflect all the rays, and which therefore produce +no one colour. But higher up the particles necessarily become smaller +and smaller, since the comparatively rare atmosphere will support only +the very smallest and lightest. These exist throughout a great thickness +of air, perhaps from one mile to ten miles high or, even more, and blue +or violet rays being reflected from the innumerable particles in this +great mass of air, which is nearly uniform in all parts of the world as +regards the presence of minute dust particles, produces the constant and +nearly uniform tint we call sky-blue. A certain amount of white or +yellow light is no doubt reflected from the coarser dust in the lower +atmosphere, and slightly dilutes the blue and renders it not quite so +deep and pure as it otherwise would be. This is shown by the increasing +depth of the sky-colour when seen from the tops of lofty mountains, +while from the still greater heights attained in balloons the sky +appears of a blue-black colour, the blue reflected from the +comparatively small amount of dust particles being seen against the +intense black of stellar space. It is for the same reason that the +"Italian skies" are of so rich a blue, because the Mediterranean Sea on +one side and the snowy Alps on the other do not furnish so large a +quantity of atmospheric dust in the lower strata of air as in less +favorably situated countries, thus leaving the blue reflected by the +more uniformly distributed fine dust of the higher strata undiluted. But +these Mediterranean skies are surpassed by those of the central Pacific +ocean, where, owing to the small area of land, the lower atmosphere is +more free from coarse dust than in any other part of the world. + +If we look at the sky on a perfectly fine summer's day, we shall find +that the blue colour is the most pure and intense overhead, and when +looking high up in a direction opposite to the sun. Near the horizon it +is always less bright, while in the region immediately around the sun it +is more or less yellow. The reason of this is that near the horizon we +look through a very great thickness of the lower atmosphere, which is +full of the larger dust particles reflecting white light, and this +dilutes the pure blue of the higher atmosphere seen beyond. And in the +vicinity of the sun a good deal of the blue light is reflected back into +space by the finer dust, thus giving a yellowish tinge to that which +reaches us reflected chiefly from the coarse dust of the lower +atmosphere. At sunset and sunrise, however, this last effect is greatly +intensified, owing to the great thickness of the strata of air through +which the light reaches us. The enormous amount of this dust is well +shown by the fact that, then only, we can look full at the sun, even +when the whole sky is free from clouds and there is no apparent mist. +But the sun's rays then reach us after having passed, first, through an +enormous thickness of the higher strata of the air, the minute dust of +which reflects most of the blue rays away from us, leaving the +complementary yellow light to pass on. Then, the somewhat coarser dust +reflects the green rays, leaving a more orange coloured light to pass +on; and finally some of the yellow is reflected, leaving almost pure +red. But owing to the constant presence of air currents, arranging both +the dust and vapour in strata of varying extent and density, and of high +or low clouds, which both absorb and reflect the light in varying +degrees, we see produced all those wondrous combinations of tints and +those gorgeous ever-changing colours, which are a constant source of +admiration and delight to all who have the advantage of an uninterrupted +view to the west, and who are accustomed to watch for these not +unfrequent exhibitions of nature's kaleidoscopic colour-painting. With +every change in the altitude of the sun the display changes its +character; and most of all when it has sunk below the horizon, and, +owing to the more favourable angles, a larger quantity of the coloured +light is reflected toward us. Especially is this the case when there is +a certain amount of cloud. The clouds, so long as the sun is above the +horizon, intercept much of the light and colour; but, when the great +luminary has passed away from our direct vision, his light shines more +directly on the under sides of all the clouds and air strata of +different densities; a new and more brilliant light flushes the western +sky, and a display of gorgeous ever-changing tints occurs which are at +once the delight of the beholder and the despair of the artist. And all +this unsurpassable glory we owe to--dust! + +A remarkable confirmation of this theory was given during the two or +three years after the great eruption of Krakatoa, near Java. The +volcanic débris was shot up from the crater many miles high, and the +heavier portion of it fell upon the sea for several hundred miles +around, and was found to be mainly composed of very thin flakes of +volcanic glass. Much of this was of course ground to impalpable dust by +the violence of the discharge, and was carried up to a height of many +miles. Here it was caught by the return currents of air continually +flowing northward and southward above the equatorial zone; and since, +when these currents reach the temperate zone, where the surface rotation +of the earth is less rapid, they continually flow eastward, the fine +dust was thus carried at a great altitude completely around the earth. +Its effects were traced some months after the eruption in the appearance +of brilliant sunset glows of an exceptional character, often flushing +with crimson the whole western half of the visible sky. These glows +continued in diminishing splendour for about three years; they were seen +all over the temperate zone; and it was calculated that, before they +finally disappeared, some of this fine dust must have travelled three +times round the globe. + +The same principle is thought to explain the exquisite blue colour of +the deep seas and oceans and of many lakes and springs. Absolutely pure +water, like pure air, is colourless, but all seas and lakes, however +clear and translucent, contain abundance of very finely divided matter, +organic or inorganic, which, as in the atmosphere, reflects the blue +rays in such quantity as to overpower the white or coloured +light-reflected from the fewer and more rapidly sinking particles of +larger size. The oceanic dust is derived from many sources. Minute +organisms are constantly dying near the surface, and their skeletons, or +fragments of them, fall slowly to the bottom. The mud brought down by +rivers, though it cannot be traced on the ocean floor more than about +150 miles from land, yet no doubt furnishes many particles of organic +matter which are carried by surface currents to enormous distances and +are ultimately dissolved before they reach the bottom. A more important +source of finely divided matter is to be found in volcanic dust which, +as in the case of Krakatoa, may remain for years in the atmosphere, but +which must ultimately fall upon the surface of the earth and ocean. This +can be traced in all the deep-sea oozes. Finally there is meteoric dust, +which is continually falling to the surface of the earth, but in such +minute quantities and in such a finely-divided state that it can be +detected only in the oozes of the deepest oceans, where both inorganic +and organic débris is almost absent. + +The blue of the ocean varies in different parts from a pure blue +somewhat lighter than that of the sky, as seen about the northern tropic +in the Atlantic, to a deep indigo tint, as seen in the north temperate +portions of the same ocean: owing, probably, to differences in the +nature, quantity, and distribution of the solid matter which causes the +colour. The Mediterranean, and the deeper Swiss lakes, are also a blue +of various tints, due also to the presence of suspended matter, which +Professor Tyndall thought might be so fine that it would require ages of +quiet subsidence to reach the bottom. All the evidence goes to show, +therefore, that the exquisite blue tints of sky and ocean, as well as +all the sunset hues of sky and cloud, of mountain peak and Alpine snows, +are due to the finer particles of that very dust which, in its coarser +forms, we find so annoying and even dangerous. + +But if this production of colour and beauty were the only useful +function of dust, some persons might be disposed to dispense with it in +order to escape its less agreeable effects. It has, however, been +recently discovered that dust has another part to play in nature; a part +so important that it is doubtful whether we could even live without it. +To the presence of dust in the higher atmosphere we owe the formation of +mists, clouds, and gentle beneficial rains, instead of water spouts and +destructive torrents. + +It is barely twenty years ago since the discovery was made, first in +France by Coulier and Mascart, but more thoroughly worked out by Mr. +John Aitken in 1880. He found that if a jet of steam is admitted into +two large glass receivers,--one filled with ordinary air, the other with +air which has been filtered through cotton wool so as to keep back all +particles of solid matter,--the first will be instantly filled with +condensed vapour in the usual cloudy form, while the other vessel will +remain quite transparent. Another experiment was made, more nearly +reproducing what occurs in nature. Some water was placed in the two +vessels prepared as before. When the water had evaporated sufficiently +to saturate the air the vessels were slightly cooled; a dense cloud was +at once formed in the one while the other remained quite clear. These +experiments, and many others, show that the mere cooling of vapour in +air will not condense it into mist clouds or rain, unless _particles of +solid matter_ are present to form _nuclei_ upon which condensation can +begin. The density of the cloud is proportionate to the number of the +particles; hence the fact that the steam issuing from the safety-valve +or the chimney of a locomotive forms a dense white cloud, shows that the +air is really full of dust particles, most of which are microscopic but +none the less serving as centres of condensation for the vapour. Hence, +if there were no dust in the air, escaping steam would remain invisible; +there would be no cloud in the sky; and the vapour in the atmosphere, +constantly accumulating through evaporation from seas and oceans and +from the earth's surface, would have to find some other means of +returning to its source. + +One of these modes would be the deposition of dew, which is itself an +illustration of the principle that vapour requires solid or liquid +surfaces to condense upon; dew forms most readily and abundantly on +grass, on account of the numerous centres of condensation this affords. +Dew, however, is now formed only on clear cold nights after warm or +moist days. The air near the surface is warm and contains much vapour, +though below the point of saturation. But the innumerable points and +extensive surfaces of grass radiate heat quickly, and becoming cool, +lower the temperature of the adjacent air, which then reaches +saturation point and condenses the contained atmosphere on the grass. +Hence, if the atmosphere at the earth's surface became super-saturated +with aqueous vapour, dew would be continuously deposited, especially on +every form of vegetation, the result being that everything, including +our clothing, would be constantly dripping wet. If there were absolutely +no particles of solid matter in the upper atmosphere, all the moisture +would be returned to the earth in the form of dense mists, and frequent +and copious dews, which in forests would form torrents of rain by the +rapid condensation on the leaves. But if we suppose that solid particles +were occasionally carried higher up through violent winds or tornadoes, +then on those occasions the super-saturated atmosphere would condense +rapidly upon them, and while falling would gather almost all the +moisture in the atmosphere in that locality, resulting in masses or +sheets of water, which would be so ruinously destructive by the mere +weight and impetus of their fall that it is doubtful whether they would +not render the earth almost wholly uninhabitable. + +The chief mode of discharging the atmospheric vapour in the absence of +dust would, however, be by contact with the higher slopes of all +mountain ranges. Atmospheric vapour, being lighter than air, would +accumulate in enormous quantities in the upper strata of the atmosphere, +which would be always super-saturated and ready to condense upon any +solid or liquid surfaces. But the quantity of land comprised in the +upper half of all the mountains of the world is a very small fraction of +the total surface of the globe, and this would lead to very disastrous +results. The air in contact with the higher mountain slopes would +rapidly discharge its water, which would run down the mountain sides in +torrents. This condensation on every side of the mountains would leave a +partial vacuum which would set up currents from every direction to +restore the equilibrium, thus bringing in more super-saturated air to +suffer condensation and add its supply of water, again increasing the +in-draught of more air. The result would be that winds would be +constantly blowing toward every mountain range from all directions, +keeping up the condensation and discharging, day and night and from one +year's end to another, an amount of water equal to that which falls +during the heaviest tropical rains. All of the rain that now falls over +the whole surface of the earth and ocean, with the exception of a few +desert areas, would then fall only on rather high mountains or steep +isolated hills, tearing down their sides in huge torrents, cutting deep +ravines, and rendering all growth of vegetation impossible. The +mountains would therefore be so devastated as to be uninhabitable, and +would be equally incapable of supporting either vegetable or animal +life. + +But this constant condensation on the mountains would probably check the +deposit on the lowlands in the form of dew, because the continual +up-draught toward the higher slopes would withdraw almost the whole of +the vapour as it arose from the oceans, and other water-surfaces, and +thus leave the lower strata over the plains almost or quite dry. And if +this were the case there would be no vegetation, and therefore no animal +life, on the plains and lowlands, which would thus be all arid deserts +cut through by the great rivers formed by the meeting together of the +innumerable torrents from the mountains. + +Now, although it may not be possible to determine with perfect accuracy +what would happen under the supposed condition of the atmosphere, it is +certain that the total absence of dust would so fundamentally change the +meteorology of our globe as, not improbably, to render it uninhabitable +by man, and equally unsuitable for the larger portion of its existing +animal and vegetable life. + +Let us now briefly summarise what we owe to the universality of dust, +and especially to that most finely divided portion of it which is +constantly present in the atmosphere up to the height of many miles. +First of all it gives us the pure blue of the sky, one of the most +exquisitely beautiful colours in nature. It gives us also the glories +of the sunset and the sunrise, and all those brilliant hues seen in high +mountain regions. Half the beauty of the world would vanish with the +absence of dust. But, what is far more important than the colour of sky +and beauty of sunset, dust gives us also diffused daylight, or skylight, +that most equable, and soothing, and useful, of all illuminating +agencies. Without dust the sky would appear absolutely black, and the +stars would be visible even at noonday. The sky itself would therefore +give us no light. We should have bright glaring sunlight or intensely +dark shadows, with hardly any half-tones. From this cause alone the +world would be so totally different from what it is that all vegetable +and animal life would probably have developed into very different forms, +and even our own organisation would have been modified in order that we +might enjoy life in a world of such harsh and violent contrasts. + +In our houses we should have little light except when the sun shone +directly into them, and even then every spot out of its direct rays +would be completely dark, except for light reflected from the walls. It +would be necessary to have windows all around and the walls all white; +and on the north side of every house a high white wall would have to be +built to reflect the light and prevent that side from being in total +darkness. Even then we should have to live in a perpetual glare, or shut +out the sun altogether and use artificial light as being a far superior +article. + +Much more important would be the effects of a dust-free atmosphere in +banishing clouds, or mist, or the "gentle rain of heaven," and in giving +us in their place perpetual sunshine, desert lowlands, and mountains +devastated by unceasing floods and raging torrents, so as, apparently, +to render all life on the earth impossible. + +There are a few other phenomena, apparently due to the same general +causes, which may here be referred to. Everyone must have noticed the +difference in the atmospheric effects and general character of the light +in spring and autumn, at times when the days are of the same length, +and consequently when the sun has the same altitude at corresponding +hours. In spring we have a bluer sky and greater transparency of the +atmosphere; in autumn, even on very fine days, there is always a kind of +yellowish haze, resulting in a want of clearness in the air and purity +of colour in the sky. These phenomena are quite intelligible when we +consider that during winter less dust is formed, and more is brought +down to the earth by rain and snow, resulting in the transparent +atmosphere of spring, while exactly opposite conditions during summer +bring about the mellow autumnal light. Again, the well-known beneficial +effects of rain on vegetation, as compared with any amount of artificial +watering, though, no doubt, largely due to the minute quantity of +ammonia which the rain brings down with it from the air, must yet be +partly derived from the organic or mineral particles which serve as the +nuclei of every raindrop, and which, being so minute, are the more +readily dissolved in the soil and appropriated as nourishment by the +roots of plants. + +It will be observed that all these beneficial effects of dust are due to +its presence in such quantities as are produced by natural causes, since +both gentle showers as well as ample rains and deep blue skies are +present throughout the vast equatorial forest districts, where +dust-forming agencies seem to be at a minimum. But in all +densely-populated countries there is an enormous artificial production +of dust--from our ploughed fields, from our roads and streets, where +dust is continually formed by the iron-shod hoofs of innumerable horses, +but chiefly from our enormous combustion of fuel pouring into the air +volumes of smoke charged with unconsumed particles of carbon. This +superabundance of dust, probably many times greater than that which +would be produced under the more natural conditions which prevailed when +our country was more thinly populated, must almost certainly produce +some effect on our climate; and the particular effect it seems +calculated to produce is the increase of cloud and fog, but not +necessarily any increase of rain. Rain depends on the supply of aqueous +vapour by evaporation; on temperature, which determines the dew point; +and on changes in barometric pressure, which determine the winds. There +is probably always and everywhere enough atmospheric dust to serve as +centres of condensation at considerable altitudes, and thus to initiate +rainfall when the other conditions are favourable; but the presence of +increased quantities of dust at the lower levels must lead to the +formation of denser clouds, although the minute water-vesicles cannot +descend as rain, because, as they pass down into warmer and dryer strata +of air, they are again evaporated. + +Now, there is much evidence to show that there has been a considerable +increase in the amount of cloud, and consequent decrease in the amount +of sunshine, in all parts of our country. It is an undoubted fact that +in the Middle Ages England was a wine-producing country, and this +implies more sunshine than we have now. Sunshine has a double effect, in +heating the surface soil and thus causing more rapid growth, besides its +direct effect in ripening the fruit. This is well seen in Canada, where, +notwithstanding a six months' winter of extreme severity, vines are +grown as bushes in the open ground, and produce fruit equal to that of +our ordinary greenhouses. Some years back one of our gardening +periodicals obtained from gardeners of forty or fifty years' experience +a body of facts clearly indicating a comparatively recent change of +climate. It was stated that in many parts of the country, especially in +the north, fruits were formerly grown successfully and of good quality +in gardens where they cannot be grown now; and this occurred in places +sufficiently removed from manufacturing centres to be unaffected by any +direct deleterious influence of smoke. But an increase of cloud, and +consequent diminution of sunshine, would produce just such a result; and +this increase is almost certain to have occurred owing to the enormously +increased amount of dust thrown into the atmosphere as our country has +become more densely populated, and especially owing to the vast increase +of our smoke-producing manufactories. It seems highly probable, +therefore, that to increase the wealth of our capitalist-manufacturers +we are allowing the climate of our whole country to be greatly +deteriorated in a way which diminishes both its productiveness and its +beauty, thus injuriously affecting the enjoyment and the health of the +whole population, since sunshine is itself an essential condition of +healthy life. When this fact is thoroughly realised we shall surely put +a stop to such a reckless and wholly unnecessary production of injurious +smoke and dust. + +In conclusion, we find that the much-abused and all-pervading dust, +which, when too freely produced, deteriorates our climate and brings us +dirt, discomfort, and even disease, is, nevertheless, under natural +conditions, an essential portion of the economy of nature. It gives us +much of the beauty of natural scenery, as due to varying atmospheric +effects of sky, and cloud, and sunset tints, and thus renders life more +enjoyable; while, as an essential condition of diffused daylight and of +moderate rainfalls combined with a dry atmosphere, it appears to be +absolutely necessary for our existence upon the earth, perhaps even for +the very development of terrestrial, as opposed to aquatic life. The +overwhelming importance of the small things, and even of the despised +things, of our world has never, perhaps, been so strikingly brought home +to us as in these recent investigations into the wide-spread and +far-reaching beneficial influences of Atmospheric Dust. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 61: Chapter IX of "The Wonderful Century," copyright, 1898, by +Dodd, Mead and Company. The chapter is here reprinted by permission of +the author, Dr. Wallace, and of the publishers.] + + + + +THE BATTLE OF THE ANTS[62] + +HENRY DAVID THOREAU + + +One day when I went out to my wood-pile, or rather my pile of stumps, I +observed two large ants, the one red, the other much larger, nearly half +an inch long, and black, fiercely contending with one another. Having +once got hold they never let go, but struggled and wrestled and rolled +on the chips incessantly. Looking farther, I was surprised to find that +the chips were covered with such combatants, that it was not a +_duellum_, but a _bellum_, a war between two races of ants, the red +always pitted against the black, and frequently two red ones to one +black. The legions of these Myrmidons covered all the hills and vales in +my wood-yard, and the ground was already strewn with the dead and dying, +both red and black. It was the only battle which I have ever witnessed, +the only battlefield I ever trod while the battle was raging; +internecine war; the red republicans on the one hand, and the black +imperialists on the other. On every side they were engaged in deadly +combat, yet without any noise that I could hear, and human soldiers +never fought so resolutely. I watched a couple that were fast locked in +each other's embraces, in a little sunny valley amid the chips, now at +noon-day prepared to fight till the sun went down, or life went out. The +smaller red champion had fastened himself like a vice to his adversary's +front, and through all the tumblings on that field never for an instant +ceased to gnaw at one of his feelers near the root, having already +caused the other to go by the board; while the stronger black one dashed +him from side to side, and, as I saw on looking nearer, had already +divested him of several of his members. They fought with more +pertinacity than bull-dogs. Neither manifested the least disposition to +retreat. It was evident that their battle-cry was Conquer or Die. In the +meanwhile there came along a single red ant on the hill-side of this +valley, evidently full of excitement, who either had despatched his foe, +or had not yet taken part in the battle; probably the latter, for he had +lost none of his limbs; whose mother had charged him to return with his +shield or upon it. Or perchance he was some Achilles, who had nourished +his wrath apart, and had now come to avenge or rescue his Patroclus.[63] +He saw this unequal combat from afar,--for the blacks were nearly twice +the size of the reds; he drew near with rapid pace till he stood on his +guard within half an inch of the combatants; then, watching his +opportunity, he sprang upon the black warrior, and commenced his +operations near the root of his right foreleg, leaving the foe to select +among his own members; and so there were three united for life, as if a +new kind of attraction had been invented which put all other locks and +cements to shame. I should not have wondered by this time to find that +they had their respective musical bands stationed on some eminent chip, +and playing their national airs the while, to excite the slow and cheer +the dying combatants. I was myself excited somewhat even as if they had +been men. The more you think of it, the less the difference. And +certainly there is not the fight recorded in Concord history, at least, +if in the history of America, that will bear a moment's comparison with +this, whether for the numbers engaged in it, or for the patriotism and +heroism displayed. For numbers and for carnage it was an Austerlitz or +Dresden. Concord Fight! Two killed on the patriots' side, and Luther +Blanchard wounded! Why here every ant was a Buttrick,--"Fire! for God's +sake, fire!"--and thousands shared the fate of Davis and Hosmer. There +was not one hireling there. I have no doubt that it was a principle they +fought for, as much as our ancestors, and not to avoid a three-penny tax +on their tea; and the results of this battle will be as important and +memorable to those whom it concerns as those of the battle of Bunker +Hill, at least. + +I took up the chip on which the three I have particularly described were +struggling, carried it into my house, and placed it under a tumbler on +my window-sill, in order to see the issue. Holding a microscope to the +first-mentioned red ant, I saw that, though he was assiduously gnawing +at the near fore-leg of his enemy, having severed his remaining feeler, +his own breast was all torn away, exposing what vitals he had there to +the jaws of the black warrior, whose breast-plate was apparently too +thick for him to pierce; and the dark carbuncles of the sufferer's eyes +shone with ferocity such as war only could excite. They struggled half +an hour longer under the tumbler, and when I looked again the black +soldier had severed the heads of his foes from their bodies, and the +still living heads were hanging on either side of him like ghastly +trophies at his saddlebow, still apparently as firmly fastened as ever, +and he was endeavoring with feeble struggles, being without feelers and +with only the remnant of a leg, and I know not how many other wounds, to +divest himself of them; which at length, after half an hour more, he +accomplished. I raised the glass, and he went off over the window-sill +in that crippled state. Whether he finally survived that combat, and +spent the remainder of his days in some Hotel des Invalides, I do not +know; but I thought that his industry would not be worth much +thereafter. I never learned which party was victorious, nor the cause of +the war; but I felt for the rest of that day as if I had had my feelings +excited and harrowed by witnessing the struggle, the ferocity and +carnage, of a human battle before my door. + +Kirby and Spence tell us that the battles of ants have long been +celebrated and the date of them recorded, though they say that Huber is +the only modern author who appears to have witnessed them. "Aeneas +Sylvius," say they, "after giving a very circumstantial account of one +contested with great obstinacy by a great and small species on the trunk +of a pear tree," adds that "'This action was fought in the pontificate +of Eugenius the Fourth, in the presence of Nicholas Pistoriensis, an +eminent lawyer, who related the whole history of the battle with the +greatest fidelity.' A similar engagement between great and small ants is +recorded by Olaus Magnus, in which the small ones being victorious, are +said to have buried the bodies of their own soldiers, but left those of +their giant enemies a prey to the birds. This event happened previous to +the expulsion of the tyrant Christiern the Second from Sweden." The +battle which I witnessed took place in the Presidency of Polk, five +years before the passage of Webster's Fugitive-Slave Bill. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 62: From Chapter XII of "Walden," 1854.] + +[Footnote 63: Patroclus, in Homer's Iliad, was the friend whose death at +the hands of the Trojans roused Achilles to action.] + + + + +A WIND-STORM IN THE FORESTS[64] + +JOHN MUIR + + +The mountain winds, like the dew and rain, sunshine and snow, are +measured and bestowed with love on the forests, to develop their +strength and beauty. However restricted the scope of other forest +influences, that of the winds is universal. The snow bends and trims the +upper forests every winter, the lightning strikes a single tree here and +there, while avalanches mow down thousands at a swoop as a gardener +trims out a bed of flowers. But the winds go to every tree, fingering +every leaf and branch and furrowed hole; not one is forgotten: the +Mountain Pine towering with outstretched arms on the rugged buttresses +of the icy peaks, the lowliest and most retiring tenant of the +dells--they seek and find them all, caressing them tenderly, bending +them in lusty exercise, stimulating their growth, plucking off a leaf or +limb as required, or removing an entire tree or grove, now whispering +and cooing through the branches like a sleepy child, now roaring like +the ocean; the winds blessing the forests, the forests the winds, with +ineffable beauty and harmony as the sure result. + +After one has seen pines six feet in diameter bending like grasses +before a mountain gale, and ever and anon some giant falling with a +crash that shakes the hills, it seems astonishing that any, save the +lowest thick-set trees, could ever have found a period sufficiently +stormless to establish themselves; or once established, that they should +not sooner or later have been blown down. But when the storm is over, +and we behold the same forests tranquil again, towering fresh and +unscathed in erect majesty, and consider what centuries of storms have +fallen upon them since they were first planted: hail, to break the +tender seedlings; lightning, to scorch and shatter; snow, winds, and +avalanches, to crush and overwhelm,--while the manifest result of all +this wild storm-culture is the glorious perfection we behold: then faith +in Nature's forestry is established, and we cease to deplore the +violence of her most destructive gales, or of any other storm implement +whatsoever. + +There are two trees in the Sierra forests that are never blown down, so +long as they continue in sound health. These are the Juniper and the +Dwarf Pine of the summit peaks. Their stiff, crooked roots grip the +storm-beaten ledges like eagles' claws; while their lithe, cord-like +branches bend round compliantly, offering but slight holds for winds, +however violent. The other alpine conifers--the Needle Pine, Mountain +Pine, Two-leaved Pine, and Hemlock Spruce--are never thinned out by this +agent to any destructive extent, on account of their admirable toughness +and the closeness of their growth. In general the same is true of the +giants of the lower zones. The kingly Sugar Pine, towering aloft to a +height of more than two hundred feet, offers a fine mark to storm-winds; +but it is not densely foliaged, and its long horizontal arms swing round +compliantly in the blast, like tresses of green, fluent algae in a +brook: while the Silver Firs in most places keep their ranks well +together in united strength. + +The Yellow or Silver Pine is more frequently overturned than any other +tree on the Sierra, because its leaves and branches form a larger mass +in proportion to its height; while in many places it is planted +sparsely, leaving open lanes through which storms may enter with full +force. Furthermore, because it is distributed along the lower portion of +the range, which was the first to be left bare on the breaking up of the +ice-sheet at the close of the glacial winter, the soil it is growing +upon has been longer exposed to post-glacial weathering, and +consequently is in a more crumbling, decayed condition than the fresher +soils farther up the range, and therefore offers a less secure anchorage +for the roots. While exploring the forest zones of Mount Shasta, I +discovered the path of a hurricane strewn with thousands of pines of +this species. Great and small had been uprooted or wrenched off by sheer +force, making a clean gap, like that made by a snow avalanche. But +hurricanes capable of doing this class of work are rare in the Sierra; +and when we have explored the forests from one extremity of the range to +the other, we are compelled to believe that they are the most beautiful +on the face of the earth, however we may regard the agents that have +made them so. + +There is always something deeply exciting, not only in the sounds of +winds in the woods, which exert more or less influence over every mind, +but in their varied water-like flow as manifested by the movements of +the trees, especially those of the conifers. By no other trees are they +rendered so extensively and impressively visible; not even by the lordly +tropic palms or tree-ferns responsive to the gentlest breeze. The waving +of a forest of the giant Sequoias is indescribably impressive and +sublime; but the pines seem to me the best interpreters of winds. They +are mighty waving golden-rods, ever in tune, singing and writing +wind-music all their long century lives. Little, however, of this noble +tree-waving and tree-music will you see or hear in the strictly alpine +portion of the forests. The burly Juniper whose girth sometimes more +than equals its height, is about as rigid as the rocks on which it +grows. The slender lash-like sprays of the Dwarf Pine stream out in +wavering ripples, but the tallest and slenderest are far too unyielding +to wave even in the heaviest gales. They only shake in quick, short +vibrations. The Hemlock Spruce, however, and the Mountain Pine, and some +of the tallest thickets of the Two-leaved species, bow in storms with +considerable scope and gracefulness. But it is only in the lower and +middle zones that the meeting of winds and woods is to be seen in all +its grandeur. + +One of the most beautiful and exhilarating storms I ever enjoyed in the +Sierra occurred in December, 1874, when I happened to be exploring one +of the tributary valleys of the Yuba River. The sky and the ground and +the trees had been thoroughly rain-washed and were dry again. The day +was intensely pure: one of those incomparable bits of California winter, +warm and balmy and full of white sparkling sunshine, redolent of all the +purest influences of the spring, and at the same time enlivened with one +of the most bracing wind-storms conceivable. Instead of camping out, as +I usually do, I then chanced to be stopping at the house of a friend. +But when the storm began to sound, I lost no time in pushing out into +the woods to enjoy it. For on such occasions Nature has always something +rare to show us, and the danger to life and limb is hardly greater than +one would experience crouching deprecatingly beneath a roof. + +It was still early morning when I found myself fairly adrift. Delicious +sunshine came pouring over the hills, lighting the tops of the pines, +and setting free a steam of summery fragrance that contrasted strangely +with the wild tones of the storm. The air was mottled with pine-tassels +and bright green plumes, that went flashing past in the sunlight like +birds pursued. But there was not the slightest dustiness; nothing less +pure than leaves, and ripe pollen, and flecks of withered bracken and +moss. I heard trees falling for hours at the rate of one every two or +three minutes: some uprooted, partly on account of the loose, +water-soaked condition of the ground; others broken straight across, +where some weakness caused by fire had determined the spot. The gestures +of the various trees made a delightful study. Young Sugar Pines, light +and feathery as squirrel-tails, were bowing almost to the ground; while +the grand old patriarchs, whose massive boles had been tried in a +hundred storms, waved solemnly above them, their long, arching branches +streaming fluently on the gale, and every needle thrilling and ringing +and shedding off keen lances of light like a diamond. The Douglas +Spruces, with long sprays drawn out in level tresses, and needles massed +in a gray, shimmering glow, presented a most striking appearance as they +stood in bold relief along the hilltops. The madroños in the dells, with +their red bark and large glossy leaves tilted every way, reflected the +sunshine in throbbing spangles like those one so often sees on the +rippled surface of a glacier lake. But the Silver Pines were now the +most impressively beautiful of all. Colossal spires two hundred feet in +height waved like supple golden-rods chanting and bowing low as if in +worship; while the whole mass of their long, tremulous foliage was +kindled into one continuous blaze of white sun-fire. The force of the +gale was such that the most steadfast monarch of them all rocked down to +its roots, with a motion plainly perceptible when one leaned against it. +Nature was holding high festival, and every fiber of the most rigid +giants thrilled with glad excitement. + +I drifted on through the midst of this passionate music and motion, +across many a glen, from ridge to ridge; often halting in the lee of a +rock for shelter, or to gaze and listen. Even when the grand anthem had +swelled to its highest pitch, I could distinctly hear the varying tones +of individual trees--Spruce, and Fir, and Pine, and leafless Oak--and +even the infinitely gentle rustle of the withered grasses at my feet. +Each was expressing itself in its own way--singing its own song, and +making its own peculiar gestures--manifesting a richness of variety to +be found in no other forest I have yet seen. The coniferous woods of +Canada and the Carolinas and Florida, are made up of trees that resemble +one another about as nearly as blades of grass, and grow close together +in much the same way. Coniferous trees, in general, seldom possess +individual character, such as is manifest among Oaks and Elms. But the +California forests are made up of a greater number of distinct species +than any other in the world. And in them we find, not only a marked +differentiation into special groups, but also a marked individuality in +almost every tree, giving rise to storm effects indescribably glorious. + +Toward midday, after a long, tingling scramble through copses of hazel +and ceanothus, I gained the summit of the highest ridge in the +neighborhood; and then it occurred to me that it would be a fine thing +to climb one of the trees, to obtain a wider outlook and get my ear +close to the Aeolian music of its topmost needles. But under the +circumstances the choice of a tree was a serious matter. One whose +instep was not very strong seemed in danger of being blown down, or of +being struck by others in case they should fall; another was branchless +to a considerable height above the ground, and at the same time too +large to be grasped with arms and legs in climbing; while others were +not favorably situated for clear views. After cautiously casting about, +I made choice of the tallest of a group of Douglas Spruces that were +growing close together like a tuft of grass, no one of which seemed +likely to fall unless all the rest fell with it. Though comparatively +young, they were about a hundred feet high, and their lithe, brushy tops +were rocking and swirling in wild ecstasy. Being accustomed to climb +trees in making botanical studies, I experienced no difficulty in +reaching the top of this one; and never before did I enjoy so noble an +exhilaration of motion. The slender tops fairly flapped and swished in +the passionate torrent, bending and swirling backward and forward, round +and round, tracing indescribable combinations of vertical and horizontal +curves, while I clung with muscles firm-braced, like a bobolink on a +reed. + +In its widest sweeps my tree-top described an arc of from twenty to +thirty degrees; but I felt sure of its elastic temper, having seen +others of the same species still more severely tried--bent almost to the +ground indeed, in heavy snows--without breaking a fiber. I was therefore +safe, and free to take the wind into my pulses and enjoy the excited +forest from my superb outlook. The view from here must be extremely +beautiful in any weather. Now my eye roved over the piny hills and +dales as over fields of waving grain, and felt the light running in +ripples and broad swelling undulations across the valleys from ridge to +ridge, as the shining foliage was stirred by corresponding waves of air. +Oftentimes these waves of reflected light would break one another in +regular order, they would seem to bend forward in concentric curves, and +disappear on some hillside, like sea waves on a shelving shore. The +quantity of light reflected from the bent needles was so great as to +make whole groves appear as if covered with snow, while the black +shadows beneath the trees greatly enhanced the effect of the silvery +splendor. + +Excepting only the shadows, there was nothing somber in all this wild +sea of pines. On the contrary, notwithstanding this was the winter +season, the colors were remarkably beautiful. The shafts of the pine and +libocedrus were brown and purple, and most of the foliage was well +tinged with yellow; the laurel groves, with the pale under sides of +their leaves turned upward, made masses of gray; and then there was many +a dash of chocolate color from clumps of manzanita, and jet of vivid +crimson from the bark of the madroños; while the ground on the +hillsides, appearing here and there through openings between the groves, +displayed masses of pale purple and brown. + +The sounds of the storm corresponded gloriously with this wild +exuberance of light and motion. The profound bass of the naked branches +and boles booming like waterfalls; the quick, tense vibrations of the +pine-needles, now rising to a shrill, whistling hiss, now falling to a +silky murmur; the rustling of laurel groves in the dells, and the keen +metallic click of leaf on leaf--all this was heard in easy analysis when +the attention was calmly bent. + +The varied gestures of the multitude were seen to find advantage, so +that one could recognize the different species at a distance of several +miles by this means alone, as well as by their forms and colors and the +way they reflected the light. All seemed strong and comfortable, as if +really enjoying the storm, while responding to its most enthusiastic +greetings. We hear much nowadays concerning the universal struggle for +existence, but no struggle in the common meaning of the word was +manifest here; no recognition of danger by any tree; no deprecation; but +rather an invincible gladness, as remote from exultation as from fear. + +I kept my lofty perch for hours, frequently closing my eyes to enjoy the +music by itself, or to feast quietly on the delicious fragrance that was +streaming past. The fragrance of the woods was less marked than that +produced during warm rain, when so many balsamic buds and leaves are +steeped like tea; but from the chafing of resiny branches against each +other, and the incessant attrition of myriads of needles, the gale was +spiced to a very tonic degree. And besides the fragrance from these +local sources, there were traces of scents brought from afar. For this +wind came first from the sea, rubbing against its fresh, briny waves, +then distilled through the redwoods, threading rich ferny gulches, and +spreading itself in broad undulating currents over many a +flower-enameled ridge of the coast mountains, then across the golden +plains, up the purple foot-hills, and into these piny woods with the +varied incense gathered by the way. + +Winds are advertisements of all they touch, however much or little we +may be able to read them; telling their wanderings even by their scents +alone. Mariners detect the flowery perfume of land-winds far at sea, and +sea-winds carry the fragrance of dulce and tangle far inland, where it +is quickly recognized, though mingled with the scents of a thousand +land-flowers. As an illustration of this, I may tell here that I +breathed sea-air on the Firth of Forth, in Scotland, while a boy; then +was taken to Wisconsin, where I remained nineteen years; then, without +in all this time having breathed one breath of the sea, I walked +quietly, alone, from the middle of the Mississippi Valley to the Gulf of +Mexico, on a botanical excursion; and while in Florida, far from the +coast, my attention wholly bent on the splendid tropical vegetation +about me, I suddenly recognized a sea-breeze, as it came sifting through +the palmettos and blooming vine-tangles, which at once awakened and set +free a thousand dormant associations, and made me a boy again in +Scotland, as if all the intervening years had been annihilated. + +Most people like to look at mountain rivers, and bear them in mind; but +few care to look at the winds, though far more beautiful and sublime, +and though they become at times about as visible as flowing water. When +the north winds in winter are making upward sweeps over the curving +summits of the High Sierra, the fact is sometimes published with flying +snow-banners a mile long. Those portions of the winds thus embodied can +scarce be wholly invisible, even to the darkest imagination. And when we +look around over an agitated forest, we may see something of the wind +that stirs it, by its effects upon the trees. Yonder it descends in a +rush of water-like ripples, and sweeps over the bending pines from hill +to hill. Nearer, we see detached plumes and leaves, now speeding by on +level currents, now whirling in eddies, or escaping over the edges of +the whirls, soaring aloft on grand, upswelling domes of air, or tossing +on flame-like crests. Smooth, deep currents, cascades, falls, and +swirling eddies, sing around every tree and leaf, and over all the +varied topography of the region with telling changes of form, like +mountain rivers conforming to the features of their channels. + +After tracing the Sierra streams from their fountains to the plains, +marking where they bloom white in falls, glide in crystal plumes, surge +gray and foam-filled in bowlder-choked gorges, and slip through the +woods in long, tranquil reaches--after thus learning their language and +forms in detail, we may at length hear them chanting all together in one +grand anthem, and comprehend them all in clear inner vision, covering +the range like lace. But even this spectacle is far less sublime and not +a whit more substantial than what we may behold of these storm-streams +of air in the mountain woods. + +We all travel the Milky Way together, trees and men; but it never +occurred to me until this storm day, while swinging in the wind, that +trees are travelers, in the ordinary sense. They make many journeys; not +extensive ones, it is true; but our own little journeys, away and back +again, are only little more than tree-wavings--many of them not so much. + +When the storm began to abate, I dismounted and sauntered down through +the calming woods. The storm-tones died away, and turning toward the +east, I beheld the countless hosts of the forests hushed and tranquil, +towering above one another on the slopes of the hills like a devout +audience. The setting sun filled them with amber light, and seemed to +say, while they listened, "My peace I give unto you." + +As I gazed on the impressive scene, all the so-called ruin of the storm +was forgotten; and never before did these noble woods appear so fresh, +so joyous, so immortal. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 64: From "The Mountains of California," copyright 1894. +Printed here by permission of the Century Company.] + + + + +WALDEN POND[65] + +HENRY DAVID THOREAU + + +Occasionally, after my hoeing was done for the day, I joined some +impatient companion who had been fishing on the pond since morning, as +silent and motionless as a duck or a floating leaf, and, after +practising various kinds of philosophy, had concluded commonly, by the +time I arrived, that he belonged to the ancient sect of Coenobites. +There was one older man, an excellent fisher and skilled in all kinds of +woodcraft, who was pleased to look upon my house as a building erected +for the convenience of fishermen; and I was equally pleased when he sat +in my doorway to arrange his lines. Once in a while we sat together on +the pond, he at one end of the boat, and I at the other; but not many +words passed between us, for he had grown deaf in his later years, but +he occasionally hummed a psalm, which harmonized well enough with my +philosophy. Our intercourse was thus altogether one of unbroken harmony, +far more pleasing to remember than if it had been carried on by speech. +When, as was commonly the case, I had none to commune with, I used to +raise the echoes by striking with a paddle on the side of my boat, +filling the surrounding woods with circling and dilating sound, stirring +them up as the keeper of a menagerie his wild beasts, until I elicited a +growl from every wooded vale and hillside. + +In warm evenings I frequently sat in the boat playing the flute, and saw +the perch, which I seemed to have charmed, hovering around me, and the +moon travelling over the ribbed bottom, which was strewed with the +wrecks of the forest. Formerly I had come to this pond adventurously, +from time to time, in dark summer nights, with a companion, and making a +fire close to the water's edge, which we thought attracted the fishes, +we caught pouts with a bunch of worms strung on a thread; and when we +had done, far in the night, threw the burning brands high into the air +like sky-rockets, which, coming down into the pond, were quenched with a +loud hissing, and we were suddenly groping in total darkness. Through +this, whistling a tune, we took our way to the haunts of men again. But +now I had made my home by the shore. + +Sometimes, after staying in a village parlor till the family had all +retired, I have returned to the woods, and, partly with a view to the +next day's dinner, spent the hours of midnight fishing from a boat by +moonlight, serenaded by owls and foxes, and hearing, from time to time, +the creaking note of some unknown bird close at hand. These experiences +were very memorable and valuable to me,--anchored in forty feet of +water, and twenty or thirty rods from the shore, surrounded sometimes by +thousands of small perch and shiners, dimpling the surface with their +tails in the moonlight, and communicating by a long flaxen line with +mysterious nocturnal fishes which had their dwelling forty feet below, +or sometimes dragging sixty feet of line about the pond as I drifted in +the gentle night breeze, now and then feeling a slight vibration along +it, indicative of some life prowling about its extremity, of dull +uncertain blundering purpose there, and slow to make up its mind. At +length you slowly raise, pulling hand over hand, some homed pout +squeaking and squirming to the upper air. It was very queer, especially +in dark nights, when your thoughts had wandered to vast and cosmogonal +themes in other spheres, to feel this faint jerk, which came to +interrupt your dreams and link you to Nature again. It seemed as if I +might next cast my line upward into the air, as well as downward into +this element which was scarcely more dense. Thus I caught two fishes as +it were with one hook. + +The scenery of Walden is on a humble scale, and, though very beautiful, +does not approach to grandeur, nor can it much concern one who has not +long frequented it, or lived by its shore; yet this pond is so +remarkable for its depth and purity as to merit a particular +description. It is a clear and deep green well, half a mile long and a +mile and three quarters in circumference, and contains about sixty-one +and a half acres; a perennial spring in the midst of pine and oak woods, +without any visible inlet or outlet except by the clouds and +evaporation. The surrounding hills rise abruptly from the water to the +height of forty to eighty feet, though on the southeast and east they +attain to about one hundred and one hundred and fifty feet respectively, +within a quarter and a third of a mile. They are exclusively woodland. +All our Concord waters have two colors at least, one when viewed at a +distance, and another, more proper, close at hand. The first depends +more on the light, and follows the sky. In clear weather, in summer, +they appear blue at a little distance, especially if agitated, and at a +great distance all appear alike. In stormy weather they are sometimes of +a dark slate color. The sea, however, is said to be blue one day and +green another without any perceptible change in the atmosphere. I have +seen our river, when, the landscape being covered with snow, both water +and ice were almost as green as grass. Some consider blue "to be the +color of pure water, whether liquid or solid." But looking directly down +into our waters from a boat, they are seen to be of very different +colors. Walden is blue at one time and green at another, even from the +same point of view. Lying between the earth and the heavens, it partakes +of the color of both. Viewed from a hilltop it reflects the color of the +sky, but near at hand it is of a yellowish tint next the shore where you +can see the sand, then a light green, which gradually deepens to a +uniform dark green in the body of the pond. In some lights, viewed even +from a hilltop, it is of a vivid green next the shore. Some have +referred this to the reflection of the verdure; but it is equally green +there against the railroad sand-bank, and in the spring, before the +leaves are expanded, and it may be simply the result of the prevailing +blue mixed with the yellow of the sand. Such is the color of its iris. +This is that portion, also, where in the spring, the ice being warmed by +the heat of the sun reflected from the bottom, and also transmitted +through the earth, melts first and forms a narrow canal about the still +frozen middle. Like the rest of our waters, when much agitated, in clear +weather, so that the surface of the waves may reflect the sky at the +right angle, or because there is more light mixed with it, it appears at +a little distance of a darker blue than the sky itself; and at such a +time, being on its surface, and looking with divided vision, so as to +see the reflection, I have discerned a matchless and indescribable light +blue, such as watered or changeable silks and sword blades suggest, more +cerulean than the sky itself, alternating with the original dark green +on the opposite sides of the waves, which last appeared but muddy in +comparison. It is a vitreous greenish blue, as I remember it, like those +patches of the winter sky seen through cloud vistas in the west before +sundown. Yet a single glass of its water held up to the light is as +colorless as an equal quantity of air. It is well-known that a large +plate of glass will have a green tint, owing, as the makers say, to its +"body," but a small piece of the same will be colorless. How large a +body of Walden water would be required to reflect a green tint I have +never proved. The water of our river is black or a very dark brown to +one looking directly down on it, and like that of most ponds, imparts to +the body of one bathing in it a yellowish tinge; but this water is of +such crystalline purity that the body of the bather appears of an +alabaster whiteness, still more unnatural, which, as the limbs are +magnified and distorted withal, produces a monstrous effect, making fit +studies for a Michael Angelo. + +The water is so transparent that the bottom can easily be discerned at +the depth of twenty-five or thirty feet. Paddling over it, you may see +many feet beneath the surface the schools of perch and shiners, perhaps +only an inch long, yet the former easily distinguished by their +transverse bars, and you think that they must be ascetic fish that find +a subsistence there. Once, in the winter, many years ago, when I had +been cutting holes through the ice in order to catch pickerel, as I +stepped ashore I tossed my axe back on to the ice, but, as if some evil +genius had directed it, it slid four or five rods directly into one of +the holes, where the water was twenty-five feet deep. Out of curiosity, +I lay down on the ice and looked through the hole, until I saw the axe a +little on one side, standing on its head, with its helve erect and +gently swaying to and fro with the pulse of the pond; and there it might +have stood erect and swaying till in the course of time the handle +rotted off, if I had not disturbed it. Making another hole directly over +it with an ice chisel which I had, and cutting down the longest birch +which I could find in the neighborhood with my knife, I made a +slip-noose, which I attached to its end, and, letting it down carefully, +passed it over the knob of the handle, and drew it by a line along the +birch, and so pulled the axe out again. + +The shore is composed of a belt of smooth rounded white stones like +paving stones, excepting one or two short sand beaches, and is so steep +that in many places a single leap will carry you into water over your +head; and were it not for its remarkable transparency, that would be the +last to be seen of its bottom till it rose on the opposite side. Some +think it is bottomless. It is nowhere muddy, and a casual observer would +say that there were no weeds at all in it; and of noticeable plants, +except in the little meadows recently overflowed, which do not properly +belong to it, a closer scrutiny does not detect a flag nor a bulrush, +nor even a lily, yellow or white, but only a few small heart-leaves and +potamogetons, and perhaps a water-target or two; all which however a +bather might not perceive; and these plants are clean and bright like +the element they grow in. The stones extend a rod or two into the +water, and then the bottom is pure sand, except in the deepest parts, +where there is usually a little sediment, probably from the decay of the +leaves, which have been wafted on to it so many successive falls, and a +bright green weed is brought up on anchors even in midwinter. + +We have one other pond just like this, White Pond in Nine Acre Corner, +about two and a half miles westerly; but, though I am acquainted with +most of the ponds within a dozen miles of this center, I do not know a +third of this pure and well-like character. Successive nations perchance +have drunk at, admired, and fathomed it, and passed away, and still its +water is green and pellucid as ever. Not an intermitting spring! Perhaps +on that spring morning when Adam and Eve were driven out of Eden, Walden +Pond was already in existence, and even then breaking up in a gentle +spring rain accompanied with mist and a southerly wind, and covered with +myriads of ducks and geese, which had not heard of the fall, when still +such pure lakes sufficed them. Even then it had commenced to rise and +fall, and had clarified its waters and colored them of the hue they now +wear, and obtained a patent of heaven to be the only Walden Pond in the +world and distiller of celestial dews. Who knows in how may unremembered +nations' literatures this has been the Castalian Fountain?[66] or what +nymphs presided over it in the Golden Age? It is a gem of the first +water which Concord wears in her coronet. + +Yet perchance the first who came to this well have left some trace of +their footsteps. I have been surprised to detect encircling the pond, +even where a thickwood has just been cut down on the shore, a narrow +shelf-like path in the steep hillside, alternately rising and falling, +approaching and receding from the water's edge, as old probably as the +race of man here, worn by the feet of aboriginal hunters, and still from +time to time unwittingly trodden by the present occupants of the land. +This is particularly distinct to one standing on the middle of the pond +in winter, just after a light snow has fallen, appearing as a clear +undulating white line, unobscured by weeds and twigs, and very obvious a +quarter of a mile off in many places where in summer it is hardly +distinguishable close at hand. The snow reprints it, as it were, in +clear white type alto-relievo. The ornamented grounds of villas which +will one day be built here may still preserve some trace of this. + +The pond rises and falls, but whether regularly or not, and within what +period, nobody knows, though, as usual, many pretend to know. It is +commonly higher in the winter and lower in the summer, though not +corresponding to the general wet and dryness. I can remember when it was +a foot or two lower, and also when it was at least five feet higher, +than when I lived by it. There is a narrow sand-bar running into it, +very deep water on one side, on which I helped boil a kettle of chowder, +some six rods from the main shore, about the year 1824, which it has not +been possible to do for twenty-five years; and on the other hand, my +friends used to listen with incredulity when I told them that a few +years later I was accustomed to fish from a boat in a secluded cove in +the woods, fifteen rods from the only shore they knew, which place was +long since converted into a meadow. But the pond has risen steadily for +two years, and now, in the summer of '52, is just five feet higher than +when I lived there, or as high as it was thirty years ago, and fishing +goes on again in the meadow. This makes a difference of level, at the +outside, of six or seven feet; and yet the water shed by the surrounding +hills is insignificant in amount, and this overflow must be referred to +causes which affect the deep springs. This same summer the pond has +begun to fall again. It is remarkable that this fluctuation, whether +periodical or not, appears thus to require many years for its +accomplishment. I have observed one rise and a part of two falls, and I +expect that a dozen or fifteen years hence the water will again be as +low as I have ever known it. Flint's Pond, a mile eastward, allowing +for the disturbance occasioned by its inlets and outlets, and the +smaller intermediate ponds also, sympathize with Walden, and recently +attained their greatest height at the same time with the latter. The +same is true, as far as my observation goes, of White Pond. + +This rise and fall of Walden at long intervals serves this use at least: +the water standing at this great height for a year or more, though it +makes it difficult to walk round it, kills the shrubs and trees which +have sprung up about its edge since the last rise, pitch-pines, birches, +alders, aspens, and others, and, falling again, leaves an unobstructed +shore; for, unlike many ponds, and all waters which are subject to a +daily tide, its shore is cleanest when the water is lowest. On the side +of the pond next my house, a row of pitch-pines fifteen feet high has +been killed and tipped over as if by a lever, and thus a stop put to +their encroachments; and their size indicates how many years have +elapsed since the last rise to this height. By this fluctuation the pond +asserts its title to a shore, and thus the _shore_ is _shorn_, and the +trees cannot hold it by right of possession. These are the lips of the +lake on which no beard grows. It licks its chaps from time to time. When +the water is at its height, the alders, willows, and maples send forth a +mass of fibrous red roots several feet long from all sides of their +stems in the water, and to the height of three or four feet from the +ground, in the effort to maintain themselves; and I have known the high +blueberry bushes about the shore, which commonly produce no fruit, bear +an abundant crop under these circumstances. + +Some have been puzzled to tell how the shore became so regularly paved. +My townsmen have all heard the tradition--the oldest people tell me that +they heard it in their youth--that anciently the Indians were holding a +pow-wow upon a hill here, which rose as high into the heavens as the +pond now sinks deep into the earth, and they used much profanity, as the +story goes, though this vice is one of which the Indians were never +guilty, and while they were thus engaged the hill shook and suddenly +sank, and only one old squaw, named Walden, escaped, and from her the +pond was named. It has been conjectured that when the hill shook, these +stones rolled down its side and became the present shore. It is very +certain, at any rate, that once there was no pond here, and now there is +one; and this Indian fable does not in any respect conflict with the +account of that ancient settler whom I have mentioned, who remembers so +well when he first came here with his divining-rod, saw a thin vapor +rising from the sward, and the hazel pointed steadily downward, and he +concluded to dig a well here. As for the stones, many still think that +they are hardly to be accounted for by the action of the waves on these +hills; but I observe that the surrounding hills are remarkably full of +the same kind of stones, so that they have been obliged to pile them up +in walls on both sides of the railroad cut nearest the pond; and, +moreover, there are most stones where the shore is most abrupt; so that, +unfortunately, it is no longer a mystery to me. I detect the paver. If +the name was not derived from that of some English locality--Saffron +Walden, for instance--one might suppose that is was called, originally, +_Walled-in_ Pond. + +The pond was my well ready dug. For four months in the year its water is +as cold as it is pure at all times; and I think that it is then as good +as any, if not the best, in the town. In the winter, all water which is +exposed to the air is colder than springs and wells which are protected +from it. The temperature of the pond water which had stood in the room +where I sat from five o'clock in the afternoon till noon the next day, +the sixth of March, 1846, the thermometer having been up to 65° or 70° +some of the time, owing partly to the sun on the roof, was 42°, or one +degree colder than the water of one of the coldest wells in the village +just drawn. The temperature of the Boiling Spring the same day was 45°, +or the warmest of any water tried, though it is the coldest that I know +of in summer, when, besides, shallow and stagnant surface water is not +mingled with it. Moreover, in summer, Walden never becomes so warm as +most water which is exposed to the sun, on account of its depth. In the +warmest weather I usually placed a pailful in my cellar, where it became +cool in the night, and remained so during the day; though I also +resorted to a spring in the neighborhood. It was as good when a a week +old as the day it was dipped, and had no taste of the pump. Whoever +camps for a week in summer by the shore of a pond, needs only bury a +pail of water a few feet deep in the shade of his camp to be independent +of the luxury of ice. + +There have been caught in Walden, pickerel, one weighing seven pounds, +to say nothing of another which carried off a reel with great velocity, +which the fisherman safely set down at eight pounds because he did not +see him, perch and pouts, some of each weighing over two pounds, +shiners, chivins or roach (_Leucisus pulchellus_), a very few breams, +and a couple of eels, one weighing four pounds--I am thus particular +because the weight of a fish is commonly its only title to fame, and +these are the only eels I have heard of here; also, I have a faint +recollection of a little fish some five inches long, with silvery sides +and a greenish back, somewhat dace-like in its character, which I +mention here chiefly to link my facts to fable. Nevertheless, this pond +is not very fertile in fish. Its pickerel, though not abundant, are its +chief boast. I have seen at one time lying on the ice pickerel of at +least three different kinds: a long and shallow one, steel-colored, most +like those caught in the river; a bright golden kind, with greenish +reflections and remarkably deep, which is the most common here; and +another, golden-colored, and shaped like the last, but peppered on the +sides with small dark brown or black spots, intermixed with a few faint +blood-red ones very much like a trout. The specific name +_reticulatus_[67] would not apply to this; it should be _guttatus_[68] +rather. These are all very firm fish, and weigh more than their size +promises. The shiners, pouts, and perch, also, and indeed all the fishes +which inhabit this pond, are much cleaner, handsomer, and firmer fleshed +than those in the river and most other ponds, as the water is purer, and +they can easily be distinguished from them. Probably many ichthyologists +would make new varieties of some of them. There are also a clean race of +frogs and tortoises, and a few mussels in it; muskrats and minks leave +their traces about it, and occasionally a travelling mud-turtle visits +it. Sometimes, when I pushed off my boat in the morning, I disturbed a +great mud-turtle which had secreted himself under the boat in the night. +Ducks and geese frequent it in the spring and fall, the white-bellied +swallows (_Hirundo bicolor_) skim over it, and the peetweets (_Totanus +macularius_) "teter" along its stony shores all summer. I have sometimes +disturbed a fishhawk sitting on a white-pine over the water; but I doubt +if it is ever profaned by the wing of a gull, like Fair-Haven. At most, +it tolerates one annual loon. These are all the animals of consequence +which frequent it now. + +You may see from a boat, in calm weather, near the sandy eastern shore, +where the water is eight or ten feet deep, and also in some other parts +of the pond, some circular heaps half a dozen feet in diameter by a foot +in height, consisting of small stones less than a hen's egg in size, +where all around is bare sand. At first you wonder if the Indians could +have formed them on the ice for any purpose, and so, when the ice +melted, they sank to the bottom; but they are too regular and some of +them plainly too fresh for that. They are similar to those found in +rivers; but as there are no suckers or lampreys here, I know not by what +fish they could be made. Perhaps they are the nests of the chivin. These +lend a pleasing mystery to the bottom. + +The shore is irregular enough not to be monotonous. I have in my mind's +eye the western indented with deep bays, the bolder northern, and the +beautifully scalloped southern shore, where successive capes overlap +each other and suggest unexplored coves between. The forest has never +so good a setting, nor is so distinctly beautiful, as when seen from the +middle of a small lake amid hills which rise from the water's edge; for +the water in which it is reflected not only makes the best foreground in +such a case, but, with its winding shore, the most natural and agreeable +boundary to it. There is no rawness nor imperfection in its edge there, +as where the axe has cleared a part, or a cultivated field abuts on it. +The trees have ample room to expand on the water side, and each sends +forth its most vigorous branch in that direction. There Nature has woven +a natural selvage, and the eye rises by just gradations from the low +shrubs of the shore to the highest trees. There are few traces of man's +hand to be seen. The water laves the shore as it did a thousand years +ago. + +A lake is the landscape's most beautiful and expressive feature. It is +earth's eye; looking into which the beholder measures the depth of his +own nature. The fluviatile trees next the shore are the slender +eyelashes which fringe it, and the wooded hills and cliffs around are +its overhanging brows. + +Standing on the smooth sandy beach at the east end of the pond, in a +calm September afternoon, when a slight haze makes the opposite shore +line indistinct, I have seen whence came the expression, "the glassy +surface of a lake." When you invert your head, it looks like a thread of +finest gossamer stretched across the valley, and gleaming against the +distant pine woods, separating one stratum of the atmosphere from +another. You would think that you could walk dry under it to the +opposite hills, and that the swallows which skim over might perch on it. +Indeed, they sometimes dive below the line, as it were by mistake, and +are undeceived. As you look over the pond westward you are obliged to +employ both your hands to defend your eyes against the reflected as well +as the true sun, for they are equally bright; and if, between the two, +you survey its surface critically, it is literally as smooth as glass, +except where the skater insects, at equal intervals scattered over its +whole extent, by their motions in the sun produce the finest imaginable +sparkle on it, or, perchance, a duck plumes itself, or, as I have said, +a swallow skims so low as to touch it. It may be that in the distance a +fish describes an arc of three or four feet in the air, and there is one +bright flash where it emerges, and another where it strikes the water; +sometimes the whole silvery arc is revealed; or here and there, perhaps, +is a thistle-down floating on its surface, which the fishes dart at and +so dimple it again. It is like molten glass cooled but not congealed, +and the few motes in it are pure and beautiful like the imperfections in +glass. You may often detect a yet smoother and darker water, separated +from the rest as if by an invisible cobweb, boom of the water nymphs, +resting on it. From a hilltop you can see a fish leap in almost any +part; for not a pickerel or shiner picks an insect from this smooth +surface but it manifestly disturbs the equilibrium of the whole lake. It +is wonderful with what elaborateness this simple fact is +advertised--this piscine murder will out--and from my distant perch I +distinguish the circling undulations when they are half a dozen rods in +diameter. You can even detect a water-bug (_Gyrinus_) ceaselessly +progressing over the smooth surface a quarter of a mile off; for they +furrow the water slightly, making a conspicuous ripple bounded by two +diverging lines, but the skaters glide over it without rippling it +perceptibly. When the surface is considerably agitated there are no +skaters nor water-bugs on it, but apparently, in calm days, they leave +their havens and adventurously glide forth from the shore by short +impulses till they completely cover it. It is a soothing employment, on +one of those fine days in the fall when all the warmth of the sun is +fully appreciated, to sit on a stump on such a height as this, +overlooking the pond, and study the dimpling circles which are +incessantly inscribed on its otherwise invisible surface amid the +reflected skies and trees. Over this great expanse there is no +disturbance but it is thus at once gently smoothed away and assuaged, +as, when a vase of water is jarred, the trembling circles seek the shore +and all is smooth again. Not a fish can leap or an insect fall on the +pond but it is thus reported in circling dimples, in lines of beauty, as +it were the constant welling up of its fountain, the gentle pulsing of +its life, the heaving of its breast. The thrills of joy and thrills of +pain are undistinguishable. How peaceful the phenomena of the lake! +Again the works of man shine as in the spring. Ay, every leaf and twig +and stone and cobweb sparkles now at mid-afternoon as when covered with +dew in a spring morning. Every motion of an oar or an insect produces a +flash of light; and if an oar falls, how sweet the echo! + +In such a day in September or October, Walden is a perfect forest +mirror, set round with stones as precious to my eye as if fewer or +rarer. Nothing so fair, so pure, and at the same time so large, as a +lake, perchance, lies on the surface of the earth. Sky water. It needs +no fence. Nations come and go without defiling it. It is a mirror which +no stone can crack, whose quicksilver will never wear off, whose gilding +Nature continually repairs; no storms, no dust, can dim its surface ever +fresh--a mirror in which all impurity presented to it sinks, swept and +dusted by the sun's hazy brush--this the light dust-cloth--which retains +no breath that is breathed on it, but sends its own to float as clouds +high above its surface, and be reflected in its bosom still. + +A field of water betrays the spirit that is in the air. It is +continually receiving new life and motion from above. It is intermediate +in its nature between land and sky. On land only the grass and trees +wave, but the water itself is rippled by the wind. I see where the +breeze dashes across it by the streaks or flakes of light. It is +remarkable that we can look down on its surface. We shall, perhaps, look +down thus on the surface of air at length, and mark where a still +subtler spirit sweeps over it. + +The skaters and water-bugs finally disappear in the latter part of +October, when the severe frosts have come; and then and in November, +usually, on a calm day, there is absolutely nothing to ripple the +surface. One November afternoon, in the calm at the end of a rain storm +of several days' duration, when the sky was still completely overcast +and the air was full of mist, I observed that the pond was remarkably +smooth, so that it was difficult to distinguish its surface; though it +no longer reflected the bright tints of October, but the somber November +colors of the surrounding hills. Though I passed over it as gently as +possible, the slight undulations produced by my boat extended almost as +far as I could see, and gave a ribbed appearance to the reflections. +But, as I was looking over the surface, I saw here and there at a +distance a faint glimmer, as if some skater insects which had escaped +the frosts might be collected there, or, perchance, the surface, being +so smooth, betrayed where a spring welled up from the bottom. Paddling +gently to one of these places, I was surprised to find myself surrounded +by myriads of small perch, about five inches long, of a rich bronze +color in the green water, sporting there and constantly rising to the +surface and dimpling it, sometimes leaving bubbles on it. In such +transparent and seemingly bottomless water, reflecting the clouds, I +seemed to be floating through the air as in a balloon, and their +swimming impressed me as a kind of flight or hovering, as if they were a +compact flock of birds passing just beneath my level on the right or +left, their fins, like sails, set all around them. There were many such +schools in the pond, apparently improving the short season before winter +would draw an icy shutter over their broad skylight, sometimes giving to +the surface an appearance as if a slight breeze struck it, or a few +rain-drops fell there. When I approached carelessly and alarmed them, +they made a sudden plash and rippling with their tails, as if one had +struck the water with a brushy bough, and instantly took refuge in the +depths. At length the wind rose, the mist increased, and the waves began +to run, and the perch leaped much higher than before, half out of +water, a hundred black points, three inches long, at once above the +surface. Even as late as the fifth of December, one year, I saw some +dimples on the surface, and thinking it was going to rain hard +immediately, the air being full of mist, I made haste to take my place +at the oars and row homeward; already the rain seemed rapidly +increasing, though I felt none on my cheek, and I anticipated a thorough +soaking. But suddenly the dimples ceased, for they were produced by the +perch, which the noise of my oars had scared into the depths, and I saw +their schools dimly disappearing; so I spent a dry afternoon after all. + +An old man who used to frequent this pond nearly sixty years ago, when +it was dark with surrounding forests, tells me that in those days he +sometimes saw it all alive with ducks and other water fowl, and that +there were many eagles about it. He came here a-fishing, and used an old +log canoe which he found on the shore. It was made of two white-pine +logs dug out and pinned together, and was cut off square at the ends. It +was very clumsy, but lasted a great many years before it became +water-logged and perhaps sank to the bottom. He did not know whose it +was; it belonged to the pond. He used to make a cable for his anchor of +strips of hickory bark tied together. An old man, a potter, who lived by +the pond before the Revolution, told him once that there was an iron +chest at the bottom, and that he had seen it. Sometimes it would come +floating up to the shore; but when you went toward it, it would go back +into deep water and disappear. I was pleased to hear of the old log +canoe, which took the place of an Indian one of the same material but +more graceful construction, which perchance had first been a tree on the +bank, and then, as it were, fell into the water, to float there for a +generation, the most proper vessel for the lake. I remember that when I +first looked into these depths there were many large trunks to be seen +indistinctly lying on the bottom, which had either been blown over +formerly, or left on the ice at the last cutting, when wood was +cheaper; but now they have mostly disappeared. + +When I first paddled a boat on Walden, it was completely surrounded by +thick and lofty pine and oak woods, and in some of its coves grape vines +had run over the trees next the water and formed bowers under which a +boat could pass. The hills which form its shores are so steep, and the +woods on them were then so high, that, as you looked down from the west +end, it had the appearance of an amphitheatre for some kind of sylvan +spectacle. I have spent many an hour, when I was younger, floating over +its surface as the zephyr willed, having paddled my boat to the middle, +and lying on my back across the seats, in a summer forenoon, dreaming +awake, until I was aroused by the boat touching the sand, and I arose to +see what shore my fates had impelled me to; days when idleness was the +most attractive and productive industry. Many a forenoon have I stolen +away, preferring to spend thus the most valued part of the day; for I +was rich, if not in money, in sunny hours and summer days, and spent +them lavishly; nor do I regret that I did not waste more of them in the +workshop or at the teacher's desk. But since I left those shores the +wood-choppers have still further laid them waste, and now for many a +year there will be no more rambling through the aisles of the wood, with +occasional vistas through which you see the water. My Muse may be +excused if she is silent henceforth. How can you expect the birds to +sing when their groves are cut down? + +Now the trunks of trees on the bottom, and the old log canoe, and the +dark surrounding woods, are gone, and the villagers, who scarcely know +where it lies, instead of going to the pond to bathe or drink, are +thinking to bring its water, which should be as sacred as the Ganges at +least, to the village in a pipe, to wash their dishes with!--to earn +their Walden by the turning of a cock or drawing of a plug! That +devilish Iron Horse, whose ear-rending neigh is heard throughout the +town, has muddied the Boiling Spring with his foot, and he it is that +has browsed off all the woods on Walden shore; that Trojan horse, with a +thousand men in his belly, introduced by mercenary Greeks! Where is the +country's champion, the Moore of Moore Hall,[69] to meet him at the Deep +Cut and thrust an avenging lance between the ribs of the bloated pest? + +Nevertheless, of all the characters I have known, perhaps Walden wears +best, and best preserves its purity. Many men have been likened to it, +but few deserve that honor. Though the wood-choppers have laid bare +first this shore and then that, and the Irish have built their sties by +it, and the railroad has infringed on its border, and the ice-men have +skimmed it once, it is itself unchanged, the same water which my +youthful eyes fell on; all the change is in me. It has not acquired one +permanent wrinkle after all its ripples. It is perennially young, and I +may stand and see a swallow dip apparently to pick an insect from its +surface as of yore. It struck me again to-night, as if I had not seen it +almost daily for more than twenty years--Why, here is Walden, the same +woodland lake that I discovered so many years ago; where a forest was +cut down last winter another is springing up by its shore as lustily as +ever; the same thought is welling up to its surface that was then; it is +the same liquid joy and happiness to itself and its Maker, ay, and it +_may_ be to me. It is the work of a brave man, surely, in whom there was +no guile! He rounded this water with his hand, deepened and clarified it +in his thought, and in his will bequeathed it to Concord. I see by its +face that it is visited by the same reflection; and I can almost say, +Walden, is it you? + + It is no dream of mine, + To ornament a line; + I cannot come nearer to God and Heaven + Than I live to Walden even. + I am its stony shore, + And the breeze that passes o'er; + In the hollow of my hand + Are its water and its sand, + And its deepest resort + Lies high in my thought. + +The cars never pause to look at it; yet I fancy that the engineers and +firemen and brakemen, and those passengers who have a season ticket and +see it often, are better men for the sight. The engineer does not forget +at night, or his nature does not, that he has beheld this vision of +serenity and purity once at least during the day. Though seen but once, +it helps to wash out State-street and the engine's soot. One proposes +that it be called "God's Drop." + +I have said that Walden has no visible inlet or outlet, but it is on the +one hand distantly and indirectly related to Flint's Pond, which is more +elevated, by a chain of small ponds coming from that quarter, and on the +other directly and manifestly to Concord River, which is lower, by a +similar chain of ponds through which in some other geological period it +may have flowed; and by a little digging, which God forbid, it can be +made to flow thither again. If by living thus reserved and austere, like +a hermit in the woods, so long, it has acquired such wonderful purity, +who would not regret that the comparatively impure waters of Flint's +Pond should be mingled with it, or itself should ever go to waste its +sweetness in the ocean wave? + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 65: From Chapter IX of "Walden," 1854.] + +[Footnote 66: The Castalian Fountain on Mount Parnassus was sacred to +Apollo and the Muses.] + +[Footnote 67: With net-like markings.] + +[Footnote 68: Speckled.] + +[Footnote 69: The hero of an old ballad.] + + + + +SELECTIONS FROM RUSKIN + +A. LEAFAGE OF TREES[70] + + +One of the most remarkable characters of natural leafage is the +constancy with which, while the leaves are arranged on the spray with +exquisite regularity, that regularity is modified in their actual +effect. For as in every group of leaves some are seen sideways, forming +merely long lines, some foreshortened, some crossing each other, every +one differently turned and placed from all the others, the forms of the +leaves, though in themselves similar, give rise to a thousand strange +and differing forms in the group; and the shadows of some, passing over +the others, still farther disguise and confuse the mass until the eye +can distinguish nothing but a graceful and flexible disorder of +innumerable forms, with here and there a perfect leaf on the extremity, +or a symmetrical association of one or two, just enough to mark the +specific character and to give unity and grace, but never enough to +repeat in one group what was done in another, never enough to prevent +the eye from feeling that, however regular and mathematical may be the +structure of parts, what is composed out of them is as various and +infinite as any other part of nature. Nor does this take place in +general effect only. Break off an elm bough three feet long, in full +leaf, and lay it on the table before you, and try to draw it, leaf for +leaf. It is ten to one if in the whole bough (provided you do not twist +it about as you work) you find one form of leaf exactly like another; +perhaps you will not even have _one_ complete. Every leaf will be +oblique, or foreshortened, or curled, or crossed by another, or shaded +by another, or have something or other the matter with it; and though +the whole bough will look graceful, and symmetrical, you will scarcely +be able to tell how or why it does so, since there is not one line of it +like another.... + +But if Nature is so various when you have a bough on the table before +you, what must she be when she retires from you, and gives you her whole +mass and multitude? The leaves then at the extremities become as fine as +dust, a mere confusion of points and lines between you and the sky, a +confusion which you might as well hope to draw sea-sand particle by +particle, as to imitate leaf for leaf. This, as it comes down into the +body of the tree, gets closer, but never opaque; it is always +transparent, with crumbling lights in it letting you through to the sky; +then, out of this, come, heavier and heavier, the masses of illumined +foliage, all dazzling and inextricable, save here and there a single +leaf on the extremities; then, under these, you get deep passages of +broken irregular gloom, passing into transparent, green-lighted, misty +hollows; the twisted stems glancing through them in their pale and +entangled infinity, and the shafted sunbeams, rained from above, running +along the lustrous leaves for an instant; then lost, then caught again +on some emerald bank or knotted root, to be sent up again with a faint +reflex on the white under-sides of dim groups of drooping foliage, the +shadows of the upper boughs running in grey network down the glossy +stems, and resting in quiet chequers upon the glittering earth; but all +penetrable and transparent, and, in proportion, inextricable and +incomprehensible, except where across the labyrinth and the mystery of +the dazzling light and dream-like shadow, falls, close to us, some +solitary spray, some wreath of two or three motionless, large leaves, +the type and embodying of all that in the rest we feel and imagine, but +can never see. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 70: From "Modern Painters," Vol. I, 1843, Pt. II, Sec. VI +Chapter I.] + + + + +B. WATER[71] + + +Of all inorganic substances, acting in their own proper nature, and +without assistance or combination, water is the most wonderful. If we +think of it as the source of all the changefulness and beauty which we +have seen in clouds; then as the instrument by which the earth we have +contemplated was modelled into symmetry, and its crags chiselled into +grace; then as, in the form of snow, it robes the mountains it has made, +with that transcendent light which we could not have conceived if we had +not seen; then as it exists in the foam of the torrent, in the iris +which spans it, in the morning mist which rises from it, in the deep +crystalline pools which mirror its hanging shore, in the broad lake and +glancing river; finally, in that which is to all human minds the best +emblem of unwearied, unconquerable power, the wild, various, fantastic, +tameless unity of the sea; what shall we compare to this mighty, this +universal element, for glory and for beauty? or how shall we follow its +eternal changefulness of feeling? It is like trying to paint a soul. + +To suggest the ordinary appearance of calm water, to lay on canvas as +much evidence of surface and reflection as may make us understand that +water is meant, is, perhaps, the easiest task of art; and even ordinary +running or falling water may be sufficiently rendered, by observing +careful curves of projection with a dark ground, and breaking a little +white over it, as we see done with judgment and truth by Ruysdael. But +to paint the actual play of hue on the reflective surface, or to give +the forms and fury of water when it begins to show itself; to give the +flashing and rocket-like velocity of a noble cataract, or the precision +and grace of the sea wave, so exquisitely modelled, though so mockingly +transient, so mountainous in its form, yet so cloudlike in its motion, +with its variety and delicacy of colour, when every ripple and wreath +has some peculiar passage of reflection upon itself alone, and the +radiating and scintillating sunbeams are mixed with the dim hues of +transparent depth and dark rock below--to do this perfectly is beyond +the power of man; to do it even partially has been granted to but one or +two, even of those few who have dared to attempt it.... + +The fact is that there is hardly a road-side pond or pool which has not +as much landscape _in_ it as above it. It is not the brown, muddy, dull +thing we suppose it to be; it has a heart like ourselves, and in the +bottom of that there are the boughs of the tall trees, and the blades of +the shaking grass, and all manner of hues of variable pleasant light out +of the sky. Nay, the ugly gutter, that stagnates over the drain-bars in +the heart of the foul city, is not altogether base; down in that, if you +will look deep enough, you may see the dark serious blue of far-off sky, +and the passing of pure clouds. It is at your own will that you see in +that despised stream either the refuse of the street, or the image of +the sky. So it is with almost all other things that we unkindly despise. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 71: From "Modern Painters," Vol. I, Pt. II, Sec. V, Chapter +I.] + + + +C. THE MOUNTAIN GLORY[72] + + +The best image which the world can give of Paradise is in the slope of +the meadows, orchards, and corn-fields on the sides of a great Alp, with +its purple rocks and eternal snows above; this excellence not being in +any wise a matter referable to feeling, or individual preferences, but +demonstrable by calm enumeration of the number of lovely colours on the +rocks, the varied grouping of the trees, and quantity of noble incidents +in stream, crag, or cloud, presented to the eye at any given moment. + +For consider, first, the difference produced in the whole tone of +landscape colour by the introductions of purple, violet, and deep +ultramarine blue, which we owe to mountains. In an ordinary lowland +landscape we have the blue of the sky; the green of grass, which I will +suppose (and this is an unnecessary concession to the lowlands) entirely +fresh and bright; the green of trees; and certain elements of purple, +far more rich and beautiful than we generally should think, in their +bark and shadows (bare hedges and thickets, or tops of trees, in subdued +afternoon sunshine, are nearly perfect purple, and of an exquisite +tone), as well as in ploughed fields, and dark ground in general. But +among mountains, in addition to all this, large unbroken spaces of pure +violet and purple are introduced in their distances; and even near, by +films of cloud passing over the darkness of ravines or forests, blues +are produced of the most subtle tenderness; these azures and purples +passing into rose-colour of otherwise wholly unattainable delicacy among +the upper summits, the blue of the sky being at the same time purer and +deeper than in the plains. Nay, in some sense, a person who has never +seen the rose-colour of the rays of dawn crossing a blue mountain twelve +or fifteen miles away, can hardly be said to know what _tenderness_ in +colour means at all; _bright_ tenderness he may, indeed, see in the sky +or in a flower, but this grave tenderness of the faraway hill-purples he +cannot conceive. + +Together with this great source of pre-eminence in _mass_ of colour, we +have to estimate the influence of the finished inlaying and enamel-work +of the colour-jewellery on every stone; and that of the continual +variety in species of flower; most of the mountain flowers being, +besides, separately lovelier than the lowland ones. The wood hyacinth +and the wild rose are, indeed, the only _supreme_ flowers that the +lowlands can generally show; and the wild rose is also a mountaineer, +and more fragrant in the hills, while the wood hyacinth, at its best, +cannot match even the dark bell-gentian, leaving the light-blue +star-gentian in its uncontested queenliness, and the Alpine rose and +Highland heather wholly without similitude. The violet, lily of the +valley, crocus, and wood anemone are, I suppose, claimable partly by the +plains as well as the hills; but the large orange lily and narcissus I +have never seen but on hill pastures, and the exquisite oxalis is +pre-eminently a mountaineer. + +To this supremacy in mosses and flowers we have next to add an +inestimable gain in the continual presence and power of water. Neither +in its clearness, its colour, its fantasy of motion, its calmness of +space, depth, and reflection, or its wrath, can water be conceived by a +lowlander, out of sight of sea. A sea wave is far grander than any +torrent--but of the sea and its influences we are not now speaking; and +the sea itself, though it _can_ be clear, is never calm, among our +shores, in the sense that a mountain lake can be calm. The sea seems +only to pause; the mountain lake to sleep, and to dream. Out of sight of +the ocean a lowlander cannot be considered ever to have seen water at +all. The mantling of the pools in the rock shadows, with the golden +flakes of light sinking down through them like falling leaves, the +ringing of the thin currents among the shallows, the flash and the cloud +of the cascade, the earthquake and foam-fire of the cataract, the long +lines of alternate mirror and mist that lull the imagery of the hills +reversed in the blue of morning,--all these things belong to those hills +as their undivided inheritance. + +To this supremacy in wave and stream is joined a no less manifest +pre-eminence in the character of trees. It is possible among plains, in +the species of trees which properly belong to them, the poplars of +Amiens, for instance, to obtain a serene simplicity of grace, which, as +I said, is a better help to the study of gracefulness, as such, than any +of the wilder groupings of the hills; so, also, there are certain +conditions of symmetrical luxuriance developed in the park and avenue, +rarely rivalled in their way among mountains; and yet the mountain +superiority in foliage is, on the whole, nearly as complete as it is in +water: for exactly as there are some expressions in the broad reaches of +a navigable lowland river, such as the Loire or Thames, not, in their +way, to be matched among the rock rivers, and yet for all that a +lowlander cannot be said to have truly seen the element of water at all; +so even in the richest parks and avenues he cannot be said to have truly +seen trees. For the resources of trees are not developed until they have +difficulty to contend with; neither their tenderness of brotherly love +and harmony, till they are forced to choose their ways of various life +where there is contracted room for them, talking to each other with +their restrained branches. The various action of trees rooting +themselves in inhospitable rocks, stooping to look into ravines, hiding +from the search of glacier winds, reaching forth to the rays of rare +sunshine, crowding down together to drink at sweetest streams, climbing +hand in hand among the difficult slopes, opening in sudden dances round +the mossy knolls, gathering into companies at rest among the fragrant +fields, gliding in grave procession over the heavenward ridges--nothing +of this can be conceived among the unvexed and unvaried felicities of +the lowland forest: while to all these direct sources of greater beauty +are added, first the power of redundance,--the mere quantity of foliage +visible in the folds and on the promontories of a single Alp being +greater than that of an entire lowland landscape (unless a view from +some cathedral tower); and to this charm of redundance, that of clearer +_visibility_,--tree after tree being constantly shown in successive +height, one behind another, instead of the mere tops and flanks of +masses, as in the plains; and the forms of multitudes of them +continually defined against the clear sky, near and above, or against +white clouds entangled among their branches, instead of being confused +in dimness of distance. + +Finally, to this supremacy in foliage we have to add the still less +questionable supremacy in clouds. There is no effect of sky possible in +the lowlands which may not in equal perfection be seen among the hills; +but there are effects by tens of thousands, for ever invisible and +inconceivable to the inhabitant of the plains, manifested among the +hills in the course of one day. The mere power of familiarity with the +clouds, of walking with them and above them, alters and renders clear +our whole conception of the baseless architecture of the sky; and for +the beauty of it, there is more in a single wreath of early cloud, +pacing its way up an avenue of pines, or pausing among the points of +their fringes, than in all the white heaps that fill the arched sky of +the plains from one horizon to the other. And of the nobler cloud +manifestations,--the breaking of their troublous seas against the crags, +their black spray sparkling with lightning; or the going forth of the +morning along their pavements of moving marble, level-laid between dome +and dome of snow;--of these things there can be as little imagination or +understanding in an inhabitant of the plains as of the scenery of +another planet than his own. + +And, observe, all these superiorities are matters plainly measurable and +calculable, not in any wise to be referred to estimate of _sensation_. +Of the grandeur or expression of the hills I have not spoken; how far +they are great, or strong, or terrible, I do not for the moment +consider, because vastness, and strength, and terror, are not to all +minds subjects of desired contemplation. It may make no difference to +some men whether a natural object be large or small, whether it be +strong or feeble. But loveliness of colour, perfectness of form, +endlessness of change, wonderfulness of structure, are precious to all +undiseased human minds; and the superiority of the mountains in all +these things to the lowland is, I repeat, as measurable as the richness +of a painted window matched with a white one, or the wealth of a museum +compared with that of a simply furnished chamber. They seem to have been +built for the human race, as at once their schools and cathedrals; full +of treasures of illuminated manuscript for the scholar, kindly in simple +lessons to the worker, quiet in pale cloisters for the thinker, glorious +in holiness for the worshipper. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 72: From "Modern Painters," Vol. IV, 1856, Chapter XX.] + + + + +D. SPLENDOURS OF SUNSET[73] + + +We have been speaking hitherto of what is constant and necessary in +nature, of the ordinary effects of daylight on ordinary colours, and we +repeat again that no gorgeousness of the pallet can reach even these. +But it is a widely different thing when Nature herself takes a colouring +fit, and does something extraordinary, something really to exhibit her +power. She has a thousand ways and means of rising above herself, but +incomparably the noblest manifestations of her capability of colour are +in these sunsets among the high clouds. I speak especially of the moment +before the sun sinks, when his light turns pure rose-colour, and when +this light falls upon a zenith covered with countless cloud-forms of +inconceivable delicacy, threads and flakes of vapour, which would in +common daylight be pure snow-white, and which give, therefore, fair +field to the tone of light. There is, then, no limit to the multitude, +and no check to the intensity, of the hues assumed. The whole sky from +the zenith to the horizon becomes one molten mantling sea of colour and +fire; every black bar turns into massy gold, every ripple and wave into +unsullied shadowless crimson, and purple, and scarlet, and colours for +which there are no words in language, and no ideas in the mind--things +which can only be conceived while they are visible; the intense hollow +blue of the upper sky melting through it all, showing here deep, and +pure, and lightless; there, modulated by the filmy formless body of the +transparent vapour, till it is lost imperceptibly in its crimson and +gold. The concurrence of circumstances necessary to produce the sunsets +of which I speak does not take place above five or six times in a +summer, and then only for a space of from five to ten minutes, just as +the sun reaches the horizon. Considering how seldom people think of +looking for a sunset at all, and how seldom, if they do, they are in a +position from which it can be fully seen, the chances that their +attention should be awake, and their position favourable, during these +few flying instants of the year, are almost as nothing. What can the +citizen, who can see only the red light on the canvas of the wagon at +the end of the street, and the crimson colour of the bricks of his +neighbour's chimney, know of the flood of fire which deluges the sky +from the horizon to the zenith? What can even the quiet inhabitant of +the English lowlands, whose scene for the manifestation of the fire of +heaven is limited to the tops of hayricks, and the rooks' nests in the +old elm trees, know of the mighty passages of splendour which are tossed +from Alp to Alp over the azure of a thousand miles of champaign? Even +granting the constant vigour of observation, and supposing the +possession of such impossible knowledge, it needs but a moment's +reflection to prove how incapable the memory is of retaining for any +time the distinct image of the sources even of its most vivid +impressions. What recollection have we of the sunsets which delighted us +last year? We may know that they were magnificent, or glowing, but no +distinct image of colour or form is retained--nothing of whose _degree_ +(for the great difficulty with the memory is to retain, not facts, but +_degrees_ of fact) we could be so certain as to say of anything now +presented to us, that it is like it. If we did say so, we should be +wrong; for we may be quite certain that the energy of an impression +fades from the memory, and becomes more and more indistinct every day; +and thus we compare a faded and indistinct image with the decision and +certainty of one present to the senses. How constantly do we affirm that +the thunderstorm of last week was the most terrible one we ever saw in +our lives, because we compare it, not with the thunderstorm of last +year, but with the faded and feeble recollection of it. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 73: From "Modern Painters," Vol. I, Pt. II, Sec. II, Chapter +II.] + + + + +THE STOICS[74] + +WILLIAM EDWARD HARTPOLE LECKY + + +The Stoics asserted two cardinal principles--that virtue was the sole +legitimate object to be aspired to, and that it involved so complete an +ascendancy of the reason as altogether to extinguish the affections. The +Peripatetics and many other philosophers, who derived their opinions +chiefly from Plato, endeavoured to soften down the exaggeration of these +principles. They admitted that virtue was an object wholly distinct from +interest, and that it should be the leading motive of life; but they +maintained that happiness was also a good, and a certain regard for it +legitimate. They admitted that virtue consisted in the supremacy of the +reason over the affections, but they allowed the exercise of the latter +within restricted limits. The main distinguishing features, however, of +stoicism, the unselfish ideal and the controlling reason, were +acquiesced in, and each represents an important side of the ancient +conception of excellence which we must now proceed to examine. + +In the first we may easily trace the intellectual expression of the high +spirit of self-sacrifice which the patriotic enthusiasm had elicited. +The spirit of patriotism has this peculiar characteristic, that while it +has evoked acts of heroism which are both very numerous and very +sublime, it has done so without presenting any prospect of personal +immortality as a reward. Of all the forms of human heroism, it is +probably the most unselfish. The Spartan and the Roman died for his +country because he loved it. The martyr's ecstasy of hope had no place +in his dying hour. He gave up all he had, he closed his eyes, as he +believed, for ever, and he asked for no reward in this world or in the +next. Even the hope of posthumous fame--the most refined and +supersensual of all that can be called reward--could exist only for the +most conspicuous leaders. It was examples of this nature that formed the +culminations or ideals of ancient systems of virtue, and they naturally +led men to draw a very clear and deep distinction between the notions of +interest and of duty. It may indeed be truly said, that while the +conception of what constituted duty was often very imperfect in +antiquity, the conviction that duty, as distinguished from every +modification of selfishness, should be the supreme motive of life, was +more clearly enforced among the Stoics than in any later society. + +The reader will probably have gathered from the last chapter that there +are four distinct motives which moral teachers may propose for the +purpose of leading men to virtue. They may argue that the disposition of +events is such that prosperity will attend a virtuous life, and +adversity a vicious one--a proposition they may prove by pointing to the +normal course of affairs, and by asserting the existence of a special +Providence in behalf of the good in the present world, and of rewards +and punishments in the future. As far as these latter arguments are +concerned, the efficacy of such teaching rests upon the firmness with +which certain theological tenets are held, while the force of the first +considerations will depend upon the degree and manner in which society +is organised, for there are undoubtedly some conditions of society in +which a perfectly upright life has not even a general tendency to +prosperity. The peculiar circumstances and dispositions of individuals +will also influence largely the way in which they receive such teaching, +and, as Cicero observed, "what one utility has created, another will +often destroy." + +They may argue, again, that vice is to the mind what disease is to the +body, and that a state of virtue is in consequence a state of health. +Just as bodily health is desired for its own sake, as being the absence +of a painful or at least displeasing state, so a well-ordered and +virtuous mind may be valued for its own sake, and independently of all +the external good to which it may lead, as being a condition of +happiness; and a mind distracted by passion and vice may be avoided, not +so much because it is an obstacle in the pursuit of prosperity, as +because it is in itself essentially painful and disturbing. This +conception of virtue and vice as states of health or sickness, the one +being in itself a good, and the other in itself an evil, was a +fundamental proposition in the ethics of Plato. It was admitted, but +only to a subsidiary place, by the Stoics, and has passed more or less +into all the succeeding systems. It is especially favourable to large +and elevating conceptions of self-culture, for it leads men to dwell +much less upon isolated acts of virtue or vice than upon the habitual +condition of mind from which they spring. + +It is possible, in the third place, to argue in favour of virtue by +offering as a motive that sense of pleasure which follows the deliberate +performance of a virtuous act. This emotion is a distinct and isolated +gratification following a distinct action, and may therefore be easily +separated from that habitual placidity of temper which results from the +extinction of vicious and perturbing impulses. It is this theory which +is implied in the common exhortations to enjoy "the luxury of doing +good," and though especially strong in acts of benevolence, in which +case sympathy with the happiness created intensifies the feeling, this +pleasure attends every kind of virtue. + +These three motives of action have all this common characteristic, that +they point as their ultimate end to the happiness of the agent. The +first seeks that happiness in external circumstances; the second and +third in psychological conditions. There is, however, a fourth kind of +motive which may be urged, and which is the peculiar characteristic of +the intuitive school of moralists and the stumbling-block of its +opponents. It is asserted that we are so constituted that the notion of +duty furnishes in itself a natural motive of action of the highest +order, and wholly distinct from all the refinements and modifications of +self-interest. The coactive force of this motive is altogether +independent of surrounding circumstances, and of all forms of belief. It +is equally true for the man who believes and for the man who rejects the +Christian faith, for the believer in a future world and for the believer +in the mortality of the soul. It is not a question of happiness or +unhappiness, of reward or punishment, but of a generically different +nature. Men feel that a certain course of life is the natural end of +their being, and they feel bound, even at the expense of happiness, to +pursue it. They feel that certain acts are essentially good and noble, +and others essentially base and vile, and this perception leads them to +pursue the one and to avoid the other, irrespective of all +considerations of enjoyment. + +The school of philosophy we are reviewing furnishes the most perfect of +all historical examples of the power which the higher of these motives +can exercise over the mind. The coarser forms of self-interest were in +stoicism absolutely condemned. It was one of the first principles of +these philosophers that all things that are not in our power should be +esteemed indifferent; that the object of all mental discipline should be +to withdraw the mind from all the gifts of fortune, and that prudence +must in consequence be altogether excluded from the motives of virtue. +To enforce these principles they continually dilated upon the vanity of +human things, and upon the majesty of the independent mind, and they +indulged, though scarcely more than other sects, in many exaggerations +about the impassive tranquillity of the sage. In the Roman empire +stoicism flourished at a period which, beyond almost any other, seemed +most unfavourable to such teaching. There were reigns when, in the +emphatic words of Tacitus, "virtue was a sentence of death." In no +period had brute force more completely triumphed, in none was the +thirst for material advantages more intense, in very few was vice more +ostentatiously glorified. Yet in the midst of all these circumstances +the Stoics taught a philosophy which was not a compromise, not an +attempt to moderate the popular excesses, but which in its austere +sanctity was the extreme antithesis of all that the prevailing examples +and their own interests could dictate. And these men were no impassioned +fanatics, fired with the prospect of coming glory. They were men from +whose motives of action the belief in the immortality of the soul was +resolutely excluded. In the scepticism that accompanied the first +introduction of philosophy into Rome, in the dissolution of the old +fables about Tartarus and the Styx, and the dissemination of +Epicureanism among the people, this doctrine, notwithstanding the +beautiful reasonings of Cicero and the religious faith of a few who +clung like Plutarch to the mysteries in which it was perpetuated, had +sunk very low. An interlocutor in Cicero expressed what was probably a +common feeling, when he acknowledged that, with the writings of Plato +before him, he could believe and realise it; but when he closed the +book, the reasonings seemed to lose their power, and the world of +spirits grew pale and unreal. If Ennius could elicit the plaudits of a +theatre when he proclaimed that the gods took no part in human affairs, +Caesar could assert in the senate, without scandal and almost without +dissent, that death was the end of all things. Pliny, perhaps the +greatest of all the Roman scholars, adopting the sentiment of all the +school of Epicurus, describes the belief in a future life as a form of +madness, a puerile and a pernicious illusion. The opinions of the Stoics +were wavering and uncertain. Their first doctrine was that the soul of +man has a future and independent, but not an eternal existence, that it +survives until the conflagration that was to destroy the world when all +finite things would be absorbed in the all-pervading soul of nature. +Chrysippus, however, restricted to the best and noblest souls this +future existence, which Cleanthes had awarded to all, and among the +Roman Stoics even this was greatly doubted. The belief that the human +soul is a detached fragment of the Deity, naturally led to the belief +that after death it would be reabsorbed in the parent Spirit. The +doctrine that there is no real good but virtue deprived the Stoics of +the argument for a future world derived from unrequited merit and +unpunished crimes, and the earnestness with which they contended that a +good man should act irrespectively of reward, inclined them, as it is +said to have inclined some Jewish thinkers, to the denial of the +existence of the reward. Panaetius, the founder of Roman stoicism, +maintained that the soul perished with the body, and his opinion was +followed by Epictetus and Cornutus. Seneca contradicted himself on the +subject. Marcus Aurelius never rose beyond a vague and mournful +aspiration. Those who believed in a future world believed it faintly and +uncertainly, and even when they accepted it as a fact, they shrank from +proposing it as a motive. The whole system of stoical ethics, which +carried self-sacrifice to a point that has scarcely been equalled, and +exercised an influence which has rarely been surpassed, was evolved +without any assistance from the doctrine of a future life. Pagan +antiquity has bequeathed us few nobler treatises of morals than the "De +Officiis" of Cicero, which was avowedly an expansion of a work of +Panaetius. It has left us no grander example than that of Epictetus, the +sickly, deformed slave of a master who was notorious for his barbarity, +enfrancished late in life, but soon driven into exile by Domitian, who, +while sounding the very abyss of human misery, and looking forward to +death as to simple decomposition, was yet so filled with the sense of +the Divine presence, that his life was one continued hymn to Providence, +and his writings and his example, which appeared to his contemporaries +almost the ideal of human goodness, have not lost their consoling power +through all the ages and the vicissitudes they have survived. + +There was, however, another form of immortality which exercised a much +greater influence among the Roman moralists. The desire for reputation, +and especially for posthumous reputation--that "last infirmity of noble +minds"--assumed an extraordinary prominence among the springs of Roman +heroism, and was also the origin of that theatrical and overstrained +phraseology which the greatest of ancient moralists rarely escaped. But +we should be altogether in error if we inferred, as some have done, that +paganism never rose to the conception of virtue concealing itself from +the world, and consenting voluntarily to degradation. No characters were +more highly appreciated in antiquity than those of men who, through a +sense of duty, opposed the strong current of popular favour; of men like +Fabius, who consented for the sake of their country to incur the +reputation that is most fatal to a soldier; of men like Cato, who +remained unmoved among the scoffs, the insults, and the ridicule of an +angry crowd. Cicero, expounding the principles of stoicism, declared +that no one has attained to true philosophy who has not learnt that all +vice should be avoided, "though it were concealed from the eyes of gods +and men," and that no deeds are more laudable than those which are done +without ostentation, and far from the sight of men. The writings of the +Stoics are crowded with sentences to the same effect. "Nothing for +opinion, all for conscience." "He who wishes his virtue to be blazed +abroad is not labouring for virtue but for fame." "No one is more +virtuous than the man who sacrifices the reputation of a good man rather +than sacrifice his conscience." "I do not shrink from praise, but I +refuse to make it the end and term of right." "If you do anything to +please men, you have fallen from your estate." "Even a bad reputation +nobly earned is pleasing." "A great man is not the less great when he +lies vanquished and prostrate in the dust." "Never forget that it is +possible to be at once a divine man, yet a man unknown to all the +world." "That which is beautiful is beautiful in itself; the praise of +man adds nothing to its quality." Marcus Aurelius, following an example +that is ascribed to Pythagoras, made it a special object of mental +discipline, by continually meditating on death, and evoking, by an +effort of the imagination, whole societies that had passed away, to +acquire a realised sense of the vanity of posthumous fame. The younger +Pliny painted faithfully the ideal of stoicism when he described one of +his friends as a man "who did nothing for ostentation but all for +conscience; who sought the reward of virtue in itself, and not in the +praise of man." Nor were the Stoics less emphatic in distinguishing the +obligation from the attraction of virtue. It was on this point that they +separated from the more refined Epicureans, who were often willing to +sublimate to the highest degree the kind of pleasure they proposed as an +object, provided only it were admitted that pleasure is necessarily the +ultimate end of our actions. But this the Stoics firmly denied. +"Pleasure," they argued, "is the companion, not the guide, of our +course." "We do not love virtue because it gives us pleasure, but it +gives us pleasure because we love it." "The wise man will not sin, +though both gods and men should overlook the deed, for it is not through +the fear of punishment or of shame that he abstains from sin. It is from +the desire and obligation of what is just and good." "To ask to be paid +for virtue is as if the eye demanded a recompense for seeing, or the +feet for walking." In doing good, man "should be like the vine which has +produced grapes, and asks for nothing more after it has produced its +proper fruit." His end, according to these teachers, is not to find +peace either in life or in death. It is to do his duty, and to tell the +truth. + +The second distinguishing feature of stoicism I have noticed was the +complete suppression of the affections to make way for the absolute +ascendency of reason. There are two great divisions of character +corresponding very nearly to the stoical and epicurean temperaments I +have described--that in which the will predominates, and that in which +the desires are supreme. A good man of the first class is one whose +will, directed by a sense of duty, pursues the course he believes to be +right, in spite of strong temptations to pursue an opposite course, +arising either from his own passions and tendencies, or from the +circumstances that surround him. A good man of the second class is one +who is so happily constituted that his sympathies and desires +instinctively tend to virtuous ends. The first character is the only one +to which we can, strictly speaking, attach the idea of merit, and is +also the only one which is capable of rising to high efforts of +continuous and heroic self-sacrifice; but on the other hand, there is a +charm in the spontaneous action of the unforced desires which +disciplined virtue can perhaps never attain. The man who is consistently +generous through a sense of duty, when his natural temperament impels +him to avarice, and when every exercise of benevolence causes him a +pang, deserves in the very highest degree our admiration; but he whose +generosity costs him no effort, but is the natural gratification of his +affections, attracts a far larger measure of our love. Corresponding to +these two casts of character, we find two distinct theories of +education, the aim of the one being chiefly to strengthen the will, and +that of the other to guide the desires. The principal examples of the +first are the Spartan and stoical systems of antiquity, and, with some +modifications, the asceticism of the Middle Ages. The object of these +systems was to enable men to endure pain, to repress manifest and +acknowledged desires, to relinquish enjoyments, to establish an absolute +empire over their emotions. On the other hand, there is a method of +education which was never more prevalent than in the present day, which +exhausts its efforts in making virtue attractive, in associating it with +all the charms of imagination and of prosperity, and in thus insensibly +drawing the desires in the wished for direction. As the first system is +especially suited to a disturbed and military society, which requires +and elicits strong efforts of the will, and is therefore the special +sphere of heroic virtues, so the latter belongs naturally to a tranquil +and highly organised civilisation, which is therefore very favourable +to the amiable qualities, and it is probable that as civilisation +advances, the heroic type will, in consequence, become more and more +rare, and a kind of self-indulgent goodness more common. The +circumstances of the ancient societies led them to the former type, of +which the Stoics furnished the extreme expression in their doctrine that +the affections are of the nature of a disease--a doctrine which they +justified by the same kind of arguments as those which are now often +employed by metaphysicians to prove that love, anger and the like, can +only be ascribed by a figure of speech to the Deity. Perturbation, they +contended, is necessarily imperfection, and none of its forms can in +consequence be ascribed to a perfect being. We have a clear intuitive +perception that reason is the highest, and should be the directing power +of an intelligent being; but every act which is performed at the +instigation of the emotions is withdrawn from the empire of reason. +Hence it was inferred that while the will should be educated to act +habitually in the direction of virtue, even the emotions that seem most +fitted to second it should be absolutely proscribed. Thus Seneca has +elaborated at length the distinction between clemency and pity, the +first being one of the highest virtues, and the latter a positive vice. +Clemency, he says, is an habitual disposition to gentleness in the +application of punishments. It is that moderation which remits something +of an incurred penalty; it is the opposite of cruelty, which is an +habitual disposition to rigour. Pity, on the other hand, bears to +clemency the same kind of relation as superstition to religion. It is +the weakness of a feeble mind that flinches at the sight of suffering. +Clemency is an act of judgment, but pity disturbs the judgment. Clemency +adjudicates upon the proportion between suffering and guilt. Pity +contemplates only suffering, and gives no thoughts to its cause. +Clemency, in the midst of its noblest efforts, is perfectly passionless; +pity is unreasoning emotion. Clemency is an essential characteristic of +the sage; pity is only suited for weak women and for diseased minds. +"The sage will console those who weep, but without weeping with them; +he will succour the shipwrecked, give hospitality to the proscribed, and +alms to the poor, ... restore the son to the mother's tears, save the +captive from the arena, and even bury the criminal; but in all, his mind +and his countenance will be alike untroubled. He will feel no pity. He +will succour, he will do good, for he is born to assist his fellows, to +labour for the welfare of mankind, and to offer each one his part. His +countenance and his soul will betray no emotion as he looks upon the +withered legs, the tattered rags, the bent and emaciated frame of the +beggar. But he will help those who are worthy, and, like the gods, his +leaning will be towards the wretched.... It is only diseased eyes that +grow moist in beholding tears in other eyes, as it is no true sympathy, +but only weakness of nerves, that leads some to laugh always when others +laugh, or to yawn when others yawn." + +Cicero, in a sentence which might be adopted as the motto of stoicism, +said that Homer "attributed human qualities to the gods; it would have +been better to have imparted divine qualities to men." The remarkable +passage I have just cited serves to show the extremes to which the +Stoics pushed this imitation. And indeed, if we compare the different +virtues that have flourished among Pagans and Christians, we invariably +find that the prevailing type of excellence among the former is that in +which the will and judgment, and among the latter, that in which the +emotions are most prominent. Friendship rather than love, hospitality +rather than charity, magnanimity rather than tenderness, clemency rather +than sympathy, are the characteristics of ancient goodness. The Stoics, +who carried the suppression of the emotions farther than any other +school, laboured with great zeal to compensate the injury thus done to +the benevolent side of our nature, by greatly enlarging the sphere of +reasoned and passionless philanthropy. They taught, in the most emphatic +language, the fraternity of all men, and the consequent duty of each man +consecrating his life to the welfare of others. They developed this +general doctrine in a series of detailed precepts, which, for the range, +depth, and beauty of their charity, have never been surpassed. They even +extended their compassion to crime, and adopting the paradox of Plato, +that all guilt is ignorance, treated it as an involuntary disease, and +declared that the only legitimate ground of punishment is prevention. +But however fully they might recognise in theory their principles with +the widest and most active benevolence, they could not wholly counteract +the practical evil of a system which declared war against the whole +emotional side of our being, and reduced human virtue to a kind of +majestic egotism; proposing as examples such men as Anaxagoras, who when +told that his son had died, simply observed, "I never supposed that I +had begotten an immortal," or as Stilpo, who when his country had been +ruined, his native city captured, and his daughters carried away as +slaves or as concubines, boasted that he had lost nothing, for the sage +is independent of circumstances. The framework or theory of benevolence +might be there, but the animating spirit was absent. Men who taught that +the husband or the father should look with perfect indifference on the +death of his wife or his child, and that the philosopher, though he may +shed tears of pretended sympathy in order to console his suffering +friend, must suffer no real emotion to penetrate his breast, could never +found a true or lasting religion of benevolence. Men who refused to +recognise pain and sickness as evils were scarcely likely to be very +eager to relieve them in others. + +In truth, the Stoics, who taught that all virtue was conformity to +nature, were, in this respect, eminently false to their own principle. +Human nature, as revealed to us by reason, is a composite thing, a +constitution of many parts differing in kind and dignity, a hierarchy in +which many powers are intended to co-exist, but in different positions +of ascendency or subordination. To make the higher part of our nature +our whole nature is not to restore but to mutilate humanity, and this +mutilation has never been attempted without producing grave evils. As +philanthropists, the Stoics, through their passion for unity, were led +to the extirpation of those emotions which nature intended as the chief +springs of benevolence. As speculative philosophers, they were entangled +by the same desire in a long train of pitiable paradoxes. Their famous +doctrines that all virtues are equal, or, more correctly, are the same, +that all vices are equal, that nothing is an evil which does not affect +our will, and that pain and bereavement are, in consequence, no ills, +though partially explained away and frequently disregarded by the Roman +Stoics, were yet sufficiently prominent to give their teaching something +of an unnatural and affected appearance. Prizing only a single object, +and developing only a single side of their nature, their minds became +narrow and their views contracted. Thus, while the Epicureans, urging +men to study nature in order to banish superstition, endeavoured to +correct the ignorance of physical science which was one of the chief +impediments to the progress of the ancient mind, the Stoics for the most +part disdained a study which was other than the pursuit of virtue. While +the Epicurean poet painted in magnificent language the perpetual +progress of mankind, the Stoic was essentially retrospective, and +exhausted his strength in vain efforts to restore the simplicity of a +by-gone age. While, too, the school of Zeno produced many of the best +and greatest men who have ever lived, it must be acknowledged that its +records exhibit a rather unusual number of examples of high professions +falsified in action, and of men who, displaying in some forms the most +undoubted and transcendent virtue, fell in others far below the average +of mankind. The elder Cato, who, though not a philosopher, was a model +of philosophers, was conspicuous for his inhumanity to his slaves. +Brutus was one of the most extortionate usurers of his time, and several +citizens of Salamis died of starvation, imprisoned because they could +not pay the sum he demanded. No one eulogised more eloquently the +austere simplicity of life which stoicism advocated than Sallust, who in +a corrupt age was notorious for his rapacity. Seneca himself was +constitutionally a nervous and timid man, endeavouring, not always with +success, to support himself by a sublime philosophy. He guided, under +circumstances of extreme difficulty, the cause of virtue, and his death +is one of the noblest antiquity records; but his life was deeply marked +by the taint of flattery, and not free from the taint of avarice, and it +is unhappily certain that, after its accomplishment, he lent his pen to +conceal or varnish one of the worst crimes of Nero. The courage of Lucan +failed signally under torture, and the flattery which he bestowed upon +Nero, in his "Pharsalia," ranks with the Epigrams of Martial as probably +the extreme limit of sycophancy to which Roman literature descended. + +While, too, the main object of the Stoics was to popularise philosophy, +the high standard of self-control they exacted rendered their system +exceedingly unfit for the great majority of mankind, and for the +ordinary condition of affairs. Life is history, not poetry. It consists +mainly of little things, rarely illumined by flashes of great heroism, +rarely broken by great dangers, or demanding great exertions. A moral +system, to govern society, must accommodate itself to common characters +and mingled motives. It must be capable of influencing natures that can +never rise to an heroic level. It must tincture, modify, and mitigate +where it cannot eradicate or transform. In Christianity there are always +a few persons seeking by continual and painful efforts to reverse or +extinguish the ordinary feelings of humanity, but in the great majority +of cases the influence of the religious principle upon the mind, though +very real, is not of a nature to cause any serious strain or struggle. +It is displayed in a certain acquired spontaneity of impulse. It softens +the character, purifies and directs the imagination, blends insensibly +with the habitual modes of thought, and, without revolutionising, gives +a tone and bias to all the forms of action. But stoicism was simply a +school of heroes. It recognised no gradations of virtue or vice. It +condemned all emotions, all spontaneity, all mingled motives, all the +principles, feelings, and impulses upon which the virtue of common men +mainly depends. It was capable of acting only on moral natures that were +strung to the highest tension, and it was therefore naturally rejected +by the multitude. + +The central conception of this philosophy of self-control was the +dignity of man. Pride, which looks within, making man seek his own +approbation, as distinguished from vanity, which looks without, and +shapes its conduct according to the opinions of others, was not only +permitted in stoicism, it was its leading moral agent. The sense of +virtue, as I have elsewhere observed, occupies in this system much the +same place as the sense of sin in Christianity. Sin, in the conception +of the ancients, was simply disease, and they deemed it the part of a +wise man to correct it, but not to dwell upon its circumstances. In the +many disquisitions which Epictetus and others have left us concerning +the proper frame of mind in which man should approach death, repentance +for past sin has absolutely no place, nor do the ancients appear to have +ever realised the purifying and spiritualising influence it exercises +upon the character. And while the reality of moral disease was fully +recognised, while an ideal of lofty and indeed unattainable excellence +was continually proposed, no one doubted the essential excellence of +human nature, and very few doubted the possibility of man acquiring by +his own will a high degree of virtue. + +The doctrine of suicide was the culminating point of Roman stoicism. The +proud, self-reliant, unbending character of the philosopher, could only +be sustained when he felt that he had a sure refuge against the extreme +forms of suffering or of despair. Although virtue is not a mere creature +of interest, no great system has ever yet flourished which did not +present an ideal of happiness as well as an ideal of duty. Stoicism +taught men to hope little, but to fear nothing. It did not array death +in brilliant colours, as the path to positive felicity, but it +endeavoured to divest it, as the end of suffering, of every terror. Life +lost much of its bitterness when men had found a refuge from the storms +of fate, a speedy deliverance from dotage and pain. Death ceased to be +terrible when it was regarded rather as a remedy than as a sentence. +Life and death in the stoical system were attuned to the same key. The +deification of human virtue, the total absence of all sense of sin, the +proud stubborn will that deemed humiliation the worst of stains, +appeared alike in each. The type of its own kind was perfect. All the +virtues and all the majesty that accompany human pride, when developed +to the highest point, and directed to the noblest ends, were here +displayed. All those which accompany humility and self-abasement were +absent. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 74: From Chapter II, Vol. I, of "History of European Morals," +1869. The author's foot-notes have been omitted.] + + + + +THE ENTHUSIASM OF HUMANITY[75] + +JOHN ROBERT SEELEY + + +The first method of training this passion which Christ employed was the +direct one of making it a point of duty to feel it. To love one's +neighbour as oneself was, he said, the first and greatest _law_. And in +the Sermon on the Mount he requires the passion to be felt in such +strength as to include those whom we have most reason to hate--our +enemies and those who maliciously injure us--and delivers an imperative +precept, "Love your enemies." + +It has been shown that to do this is not, as might at first appear, in +the nature of things impossible, but the further question suggests +itself, Can it be done to order? Has the verb to love really an +imperative mood? Certainly, to say that we can love at pleasure, and by +a mere effort of will summon up a passion which does not arise of +itself, is to take up a paradoxical and novel position. Yet if this +position be really untenable, how is it possible to obey Christ's +commands? + +The difficulty seems to admit of only one solution. We are not commanded +to create by an effort of will a feeling of love in ourselves which +otherwise would have had no existence; the feeling must arise naturally +or it cannot arise at all. But a number of causes which are removable +may interfere to prevent the feeling from arising or to stifle it as it +arises, and we are commanded to remove these hindrances. It is natural +to man to love his kind, and Christ commands us only to give nature +play. He does not expect us to procure for ourselves hearts of some new +supernatural texture, but merely the heart of flesh for the heart of +stone. + +What, then, are the causes of this paralysis of the heart? The +experience of human life furnishes us readily with the answer. It +constantly happens that one whose affections were originally not less +lively than those of most men is thrown into the society of persons +destitute of sympathy or tenderness. In this society each person is +either totally indifferent to his neighbour or secretly endeavouring to +injure or overreach him. The new-comer is at first open-hearted and +cordial; he presumes every one he meets to be a friend, and is disposed +to serve and expects to be served by all alike. But his advances are met +by some with cautious reserve, by others with icy coldness, by others +with hypocritical warmth followed by treacherous injury, by others with +open hostility. The heart which naturally grew warm at the mere sight of +a human being, under the operation of this new experience slowly becomes +paralysed. There seats itself gradually in the man's mind a presumption +concerning every new face that it is the face of an enemy, and a habit +of gathering himself into an attitude of self-defence whenever he deals +with a fellow-creature. If when this new disposition has grown confirmed +and habitual, he be introduced into a society of an opposite kind and +meet with people as friendly and kind as he himself was originally, he +will not at first be able to believe in their sincerity, and the old +kindly affections from long disuse will be slow to rouse themselves +within him. Now to such a person the imperative mood of the verb to love +may fairly be used. He may properly be told to make an effort, to shake +off the distrust that oppresses him,--not to suffer unproved suspicions, +causeless jealousies, to stifle by the mere force of prejudice and +mistaken opinion the warmth of feeling natural to him. + +But we shall have a closer illustration if we suppose the cold-hearted +society itself to be addressed by a preacher who wishes to bring them +to a better mind. He too may fairly use the imperative mood of the verb +to love. For he may say, "Your mutual coldness does not spring from an +original want of the power of sympathy. If it did, admonitions would +indeed be useless. But it springs from a habit of thought which you have +formed, a maxim which has been received among you, that all men are +devoted to self-interest, that kindness is but feebleness and invites +injury. If you will at once and by a common act throw off this false +opinion of human nature, and adopt a new plan of life for yourselves and +new expectations of each other, you will find the old affections natural +to all of you, weakened indeed and chilled, but existing and capable of +being revived by an effort." + +Such a preacher might go further and say, "If but a small minority are +convinced by my words, yet let that minority for itself abandon the +selfish theory, let it renounce the safety which that theory affords in +dealing with selfish men, let it treat the enemy as if he were indeed +the friend he ought to be, let it dare to forego retaliation and even +self-defence. By this means it will shame many into kindness; by +despising self-interest for itself it will sometimes make it seem +despicable to others; by sincerity and persistency it will gradually +convert the majority to a higher law of intercourse." + +The world has been always more or less like this cold-hearted society; +the natural kindness and fellow-feeling of men have always been more or +less repressed by low-minded maxims and cynicism. But in the time of +Christ, and in the last decrepitude of ethnic morality, the selfishness +of human intercourse was much greater than the present age can easily +understand. That system of morality, even in the times when it was +powerful and in many respects beneficial, had made it almost as much a +duty to hate foreigners as to love fellow-citizens. Plato congratulates +the, Athenians on having shown in their relations to Persia, beyond all +the other Greeks, "a pure and heartfelt hatred of the foreign +nature."[76] Instead of opposing, it had sanctioned and consecrated the +savage instinct which leads us to hate whatever is strange or +unintelligible, to distrust those who live on the further side of a +river, to suppose that those whom we hear talking together in a foreign +tongue must be plotting some mischief against ourselves. The lapse of +time and the fusion of races doubtless diminished this antipathy +considerably, but at the utmost it could but be transformed into an icy +indifference, for no cause was in operation to convert it into kindness. +On the other hand, the closeness of the bond which united +fellow-citizens was considerably relaxed. Common interests and common +dangers had drawn it close; these in the wide security of the Roman +Empire had no longer a place. It had depended upon an imagined +blood-relationship; fellow-citizens could now no longer feel themselves +to be united by the tie of blood. Every town was full of resident aliens +and emancipated slaves, persons between whom and the citizens nature had +established no connection, and whose presence in the city had originally +been barely tolerated from motives of expediency. The selfishness of +modern times exists in defiance of morality, in ancient times it was +approved, sheltered, and even in part enjoined by morality. We are +therefore to consider the ancient world as a society of men in whom +natural humanity existed but had been, as it were, crusted or frosted +over. Inveterate feuds and narrow-minded local jealousies, arising out +of an isolated position or differences of language and institutions, had +created endless divisions between man and man. And as the special +virtues of antiquity, patriotism and all that it implies, had been in a +manner caused and fostered by these very divisions, they were not +regarded as evils but rather cherished as essential to morality. +Selfishness, therefore, was not a mere abuse or corruption arising out +of the infirmity of human nature, but a theory and almost a part of +moral philosophy. Humanity was cramped by a mistaken prejudice, by a +perverse presumption of the intellect. In a case like this it was +necessary and proper to prescribe humanity by direct authoritative +precept. Such a precept would have been powerless to create the feeling, +nor would it have done much to protect it from being overpowered by the +opposite passion, but the opposite passion of selfishness was at this +period justified by authority and claimed to be on the side of reason +and law. Precept is fairly matched against precept, and what the law of +love and the golden rule did for mankind was to place for the first time +the love of man as man distinctly in the list of virtues, to dissipate +the exclusive prejudices of ethnic morality, and to give selfishness the +character of sin. + +When a theory of selfishness is rife in a whole community, it is a bold +and hazardous step for a part of the community to abandon it. For in the +society of selfish people selfishness is simply self-defence; to +renounce it is to evacuate one's entrenched position, to surrender at +discretion to the enemy. If society is to disarm, it should do so by +common consent. Christ, however, though he confidently expected +ultimately to gather all mankind into his society, did not expect to do +so soon. Accordingly he commands his followers not to wait for this +consummation but, in spite of the hazardous nature of the step, to +disarm at once. They are sent forth "as sheep in the midst of wolves." +Injuries they are to expect, but they are neither to shun nor to +retaliate them. Harmless they are to be as _doves_. The discipline of +suffering will wean them more and more from self, and make the channels +of humanity freer within them; and sometimes their patience may shame +the spoiler; he may grow weary of rapacity which meets with no +resistance, and be induced to envy those who can forego without +reluctance that which he devotes every thought to acquire. + +But we shall soon be convinced that Christ could not design by a mere +edict, however authoritative, to give this passion of humanity strength +enough to make it a living and infallible principle of morality in +every man, when we consider, first, what an ardent enthusiasm he +demanded from his followers, and secondly, how frail and tender a germ +this passion naturally is in human nature. Widely diffused indeed it is, +and seldom entirely eradicated; but for the most part, at least in the +ancient world, it was crushed under a weight of predominant passions and +interests; it had seldom power enough to dictate any action, but made +itself felt in faint misgivings and relentings, which sometimes +restrained men from extremes of cruelty. Like Enceladus under Aetna, it +lay fettered at the bottom of human nature, now and then making the mass +above it quake by an uneasy change of posture. To make this outraged and +enslaved passion predominant, to give it, instead of a veto rarely used, +the whole power of government, to train it from a dim misgiving into a +clear and strong passion, required much more than a precept. The precept +had its use; it could make men feel it right to be humane and desire to +be so, but it could never inspire them with an enthusiasm of humanity. +From what source was this inspiration to be derived? + +Humanity, we have already observed, is neither a love for the whole +human race, nor a love for each individual of it, but a love for the +race, or for the ideal of man, in each individual. In other and less +pedantic words, he who is truly humane considers every human being as +such interesting and important, and without waiting to criticise each +individual specimen, pays in advance to all alike the tribute of good +wishes and sympathy. Now this favourable presumption with regard to +human beings is not a causeless prepossession, it is no idle +superstition of the mind, nor is it a natural instinct. It is a feeling +founded on the actual observation and discovery of interesting and noble +qualities in particular human beings, and it is strong or weak in +proportion as the person who has the feeling has known many or few noble +and amiable human beings. There are men who have, been so unfortunate as +to live in the perpetual society of the mean and the base; they have +never, except in a few faint glimpses, seen anything glorious or good in +human nature. With these the feeling of humanity has a perpetual +struggle for existence, their minds tend by a fatal gravitation to the +belief that the happiness or misery of such a paltry race is wholly +unimportant; they may arrive finally at a fixed condition, in which it +may be said of them without qualification, that "man delights not them, +nor woman neither." In this final stage they are men who, beyond the +routine of life, should not be trusted, being "fit for treasons, +stratagems, and spoils." On the other hand, there are those whose lot it +has been from earliest childhood to see the fair side of humanity, who +have been surrounded with clear and candid countenances, in the changes +of which might be traced the working of passions strong and simple, the +impress of a firm and tender nature, wearing when it looked abroad the +glow of sympathy, and when it looked within the bloom of modesty. They +have seen, and not once or twice, a man forget himself; they have +witnessed devotion, unselfish sorrow, unaffected delicacy, spontaneous +charity, ingenuous self-reproach; and it may be that on seeing a human +being surrender for another's good not something but his uttermost all, +they have dimly suspected in human nature a glory connecting it with the +divine. In these the passion of humanity is warm and ready to become on +occasion a burning flame; their whole minds are elevated, because they +are possessed with the dignity of that nature they share, and of the +society in the midst of which they move. + +But it is not absolutely necessary to humanity that a man shall have +seen _many_ men whom he can respect. The most lost cynic will get a new +heart by learning thoroughly to believe in the virtue of _one_ man. Our +estimate of human nature is in proportion to the best specimen of it we +have witnessed. This then it is which is wanted to raise the feeling of +humanity into an enthusiasm; when the precept of love has been given, an +image must be set before the eyes of those who are called upon to obey +it, an ideal or type of man which may be noble and amiable enough to +raise the whole race and make the meanest member of it sacred with +reflected glory. + +Did not Christ do this? Did the command to love go forth to those who +had never seen a human being they could revere? Could his followers turn +upon him and say, How can we love a creature so degraded, full of vile +wants and contemptible passions, whose little life is most harmlessly +spent when it is an empty round of eating and sleeping; a creature +destined for the grave and for oblivion when his allotted term of +fretfulness and folly has expired? Of this race Christ himself was a +member, and to this day is it not the best answer to all blasphemers of +the species, the best consolation when our sense of its degradation is +keenest, that a human brain was behind his forehead and a human heart +beating in his breast, and that within the whole creation of God nothing +more elevated or more attractive has yet been found than he? And if it +be answered that there was in his nature something exceptional and +peculiar, that humanity must not be measured by the stature of Christ, +let us remember that it was precisely thus that he wished it to be +measured, delighting to call himself the Son of Man, delighting to call +the meanest of mankind his brothers. If some human beings are abject and +contemptible, if it be incredible to us that they can have any high +dignity or destiny, do we regard them from so great a height as Christ? +Are we likely to be more pained by their faults and deficiencies than he +was? Is our standard higher than his? And yet he associated by +preference with these meanest of the race; no contempt for them did he +ever express, no suspicion that they might be less dear than the best +and wisest to the common Father, no doubt that they were naturally +capable of rising to a moral elevation like his own. There is nothing of +which a man may be prouder than of this; it is the most hopeful and +redeeming fact in history; it is precisely what was wanting to raise the +love of man as man to enthusiasm. An eternal glory has been shed upon +the human race by the love Christ bore to it. And it was because the +Edict of Universal Love went forth to men whose hearts were in no +cynical mood but possessed with a spirit of devotion to a man, that +words which at any other time, however grandly they might sound, would +have been but words, penetrated so deeply, and along with the law of +love the power of Jove was given. Therefore also the first Christians +were enabled to dispense with philosophical phrases, and instead of +saying that they loved the ideal of man in man could simply say and feel +that they loved Christ in every man. + +We have here the very kernel of the Christian moral scheme. We have +distinctly before us the end Christ proposed to himself, and the means +he considered adequate to the attainment of it. His object was, instead +of drawing up, after the example of previous legislators, a list of +actions prescribed, allowed, and prohibited, to give his disciples a +universal test by which they might discover what it was right and what +it was wrong to do. Now as the difficulty of discovering what is right +arises commonly from the prevalence of self-interest in our minds, and +as we commonly behave rightly to anyone for whom we feel affection or +sympathy, Christ considered that he who could feel sympathy for all +would behave rightly to all. But how to give to the meagre and narrow +hearts of men such enlargement? How to make them capable of a universal +sympathy? Christ believed it possible to bind men to their kind, but on +one condition--that they were first bound fast to himself. He stood +forth as the representative of men, he identified himself with the cause +and with the interests of all human beings, he was destined, as he began +before long obscurely to intimate, to lay down his life for them. Few of +us sympathise originally and directly with this devotion; few of us can +perceive in human nature itself any merit sufficient to evoke it. But it +is not so hard to love and venerate him who felt it. So vast a passion +of love, a devotion so comprehensive, elevated, deliberate and +profound, has not elsewhere been in any degree approached save by some +of his imitators. And as love provokes love, many have found it possible +to conceive for Christ an attachment the closeness of which no words can +describe, a veneration so possessing and absorbing the man within them, +that they have said, "I live no more, but Christ lives in me." Now such +a feeling carries with it of necessity the feeling of love for all human +beings. It matters no longer what quality men may exhibit; amiable or +unamiable, as the brothers of Christ, as belonging to his sacred and +consecrated kind, as the objects of his love in life and death, they +must be dear to all to whom he is dear. And those who would for a moment +know his heart and understand his life must begin by thinking of the +whole race of man, and of each member of the race, with awful reverence +and hope. + +Love, wheresoever it appears, is in its measure a law-making power. +"Love is _dutiful_ in thought and deed." And as the lover of his country +is free from the temptation to treason, so is he who loves Christ secure +from the temptation to injure any human being, whether it be himself or +another. He is indeed much more than this. He is bound and he is eager +to benefit and bless to the utmost of his power all that bear his +Master's nature, and that not merely with the good gifts of the earth, +but with whatever cherishes and trains best the Christ within them. But +for the present we are concerned merely with the power of this passion +to lift the man out of sin. The injuries he committed lightly when he +regarded his fellow-creatures simply as animals who added to the +fierceness of the brute an ingenuity and forethought that made them +doubly noxious, become horrible sacrilege when he sees in them no longer +the animal but the Christ. And that other class of crimes which belongs +more especially to ages of civilisation, and arises out of a cynical +contempt for the species, is rendered equally impossible to the man who +hears with reverence the announcement, "The good deeds you did to the +least of these my brethren you did to me." + +There are two objections which may suggest themselves at this point, the +one to intellectual, the other to practical men. The intellectual man +may say, "To discover what it is right to do in any given case is not +the province of any feeling or passion however sublime, but requires the +application of the same intellectual power which solves mathematical +problems. The common acts of life may no doubt be performed correctly by +unintellectual people, but this is because these constantly recurring +problems have been solved long ago by clever people, and the vulgar are +now in possession of the results. Whenever a new combination occurs it +is a matter for casuists; the best intentions will avail little; there +is doubtless a great difference between a good man and a bad one; the +one will do what is right when he knows it, and the other will not; but +in respect for the power of ascertaining what it is right to do, +supposing their knowledge of casuistry to be equal, they are on a par. +Goodness or the passion of humanity, or Christian love, may be a motive +inducing men to keep the law, but it has no right to be called the +law-making power. And what has Christianity added to our theoretic +knowledge of morality? It may have made men practically more moral, but +has it added anything to Aristotle's Ethics?" + +Certainly Christianity has no ambition to invade the provinces of the +moralist or the casuist. But the difficulties which beset the discovery +of the right moral course are of two kinds. There are the difficulties +which arise, from the blinding and confusing effect of selfish passions, +and which obscure from the view the end which should be aimed at in +action; when these have been overcome there arises a new set of +difficulties concerning the means by which the end should be attained. +In dealing with your neighbour the first thing to be understood is that +his interest is to be considered as well as your own; but when this has +been settled, it remains to be considered what his interest is. The +latter class of difficulties requires to be dealt with by the +intellectual or calculating faculty. The former class can only be dealt +with by the moral force of sympathy. Now it is true that the right +action will not be performed without the operation of both these +agencies. But the moral agency is the dominant one throughout; it is +that without which the very conception of law is impossible; it +overcomes those difficulties which in the vast majority of practical +cases are the most serious. The calculating casuistical faculty is, as +it were, in its employ, and it is no more improper to call it the +law-making power, although it does not ultimately decide what action is +to be performed, than to say that a house was built by one who did not +with his own hands lay the bricks and spread the mortar. + +The objection which practical men take is a very important one, as the +criticisms of such men always are, being founded commonly upon large +observation and not perverted by theory. They say that the love of +Christ does not in practice produce the nobleness and largeness of +character which has been represented as its proper and natural result; +that instead of inspiring those who feel it with reverence and hope for +their kind, it makes them exceedingly narrow in their sympathies, +disposed to deny and explain away even the most manifest virtues +displayed by men, and to despair of the future destiny of the great +majority of their fellow-creatures; that instead of binding them to +their kind, it divides them from it by a gulf which they themselves +proclaim to be impassable and eternal, and unites them only in a gloomy +conspiracy of misanthropy with each other; that it is indeed a +law-making power, but that the laws it makes are little-minded and +vexatious prohibitions of things innocent, demoralising restraints upon +the freedom of joy and the healthy instincts of nature; that it favours +hypocrisy, moroseness, and sometimes lunacy; that the only vice it has +power to check is thoughtlessness, and its only beneficial effect is +that of forcing into activity, though not always into healthy activity, +the faculty of serious reflection. + +This may be a just picture of a large class of religious men, but it is +impossible in the nature of things that such effects should be produced +by a pure personal devotion to Christ. We are to remember that nothing +has been subjected to such multiform and grotesque perversion as +Christianity. Certainly the direct love of Christ, as it was felt by its +first followers, is a rare thing among modern Christians. His character +has been so much obscured by scholasticism, as to have lost in a great +measure its attractive power. The prevalent feeling towards him now +among religious men is an awful fear of his supernatural greatness, and +a disposition to obey his commands arising partly from dread of future +punishment and hope of reward, and partly from a nobler feeling of +loyalty, which, however, is inspired rather by his office than his +person. Beyond this we may discern in them an uneasy conviction that he +requires a more personal devotion, which leads to spasmodic efforts to +kindle the feeling by means of violent raptures of panegyric and by +repeating over and getting by rote the ardent expressions of those who +really had it. That is wanting for the most part which Christ held to be +all in all, spontaneous warmth, free and generous devotion. That the +fruits of a Christianity so hollow should be poor and sickly is not +surprising. + +But that Christ's method, when rightly applied, is really of mighty +force may be shown by an argument which the severest censor of +Christians will hardly refuse to admit. Compare the ancient with the +modern world: "Look on this picture and on that." One broad distinction +in the characters of men forces itself into prominence. Among all the +men of the ancient heathen world there were scarcely one or two to whom +we might venture to apply the epithet "holy." In other words, there were +not more than one or two, if any, who besides being virtuous in their +actions were possessed with an unaffected enthusiasm of goodness, and +besides abstaining from vice regarded even a vicious thought with +horror. Probably no one will deny that in Christian countries this +higher-toned goodness, which we call holiness, has existed. Few will +maintain that it has been exceedingly rare. Perhaps the truth is, that +there has scarcely been a town in any Christian country since the time +of Christ where a century has passed without exhibiting a character of +such elevation that his mere presence has shamed the bad and made the +good better, and has been felt at times like the presence of God +Himself. And if this be so, has Christ failed? or can Christianity die? + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 75: Chapter XIV of "Ecce Homo, a Survey of the Life and work +of Jesus Christ," 1865.] + +[Footnote 76: Plato, Menexenus.--Author's note.] + + + + +LOYALTY AND INSIGHT[77] + +JOSIAH ROYCE + + +Upon an occasion like this, when the children, the servants, and the +friends of this institution meet for their annual festival, there is one +word that best expresses the spirit of the occasion. It is the word +"loyalty,"--loyalty to your College, to its ideals, to its life, and to +the unity and effectiveness of this life. And amongst the ideals that +inspire the life of your College, and make that life effective and +united, there is one which is prominent in all your minds, whatever your +special studies, your practical aims, or your hopes. It is the ideal of +furthering, in all your minds, what we may call insight,--the ideal of +learning to see life as it is, to know the world as we men need to know +it, and to guide our purposes as we ought to guide them. It is also the +ideal of teaching to others the art of just such insight. + +These two words, then, "loyalty" and "insight," name, one of them, the +spirit in which, upon such occasions as this, we all meet; the other, +the ideal that determines the studies and the researches of any modern +institution of learning. Upon each day of its year of work your College +says to its children and to its servants and to its community: "Let us +know, let us see, let us comprehend, let us guide life by wisdom, and in +turn let us discover new wisdom for the sake of winning new life." But +upon a day like the present one, the work of the year being laid aside, +your College asks and receives your united expression of loyalty to its +cause. Perhaps some of you may feel that for just this moment you have +left behind, at least temporarily, the task of winning insight. You +enjoy, for the hour, the fruits of toil. Study and research cease, you +may say, for to-day, while the spirit of loyalty finds its own free +expression and takes content in its holiday. + +I agree that the holidays and the working days have a different place in +our lives. But it is my purpose in this address to say something about +the connections between the spirit which rules this occasion--the spirit +of loyalty--and the ideal by which the year's work has to be +guided,--the ideal of furthering true insight. The loyalty that now +fills your minds is merely one expression of a certain spirit which +ought to pervade all our lives--not only in our studies, but in our +homes, in our offices, in our political and civic life--not merely upon +holidays, or upon other great occasions, but upon our working days; and +most of all when our tasks seem commonplace and heavy. And, on the other +hand, the insight which you seek to get whenever, in the academic world, +you work in the laboratory or in the field, in the library or in the +classroom or alone in your study, the insight that you try both to +embody in your practical life and to enrich through your +researches,--just this insight, I say, is best to be furthered by a +right cultivation of the spirit of loyalty. + +I suppose that when I utter these words, you will easily give to them a +certain general assent. But I want to devote this address to making just +such words mean more to you than at first they may appear to mean. + +First, then, let me tell you what I myself mean by the term "loyalty." +Then let me deal with my principal thesis, which is that the true spirit +of loyalty is not merely a proper accompaniment of all serious work, but +is an especially important source of a very deep insight into the +meaning of life, and, as I personally believe, into the nature of the +whole universe. + +Three sorts of persons, I have noticed, are fond of using the term +"loyalty." These are quite different types of persons; or, in any case, +they use the word upon very different occasions. But these very +differences are to my mind important. The first type of those who love +to use the term "loyalty" consists of those who employ it to express a +certain glow of enthusiastic devotion, the type of the lovers, of the +students when the athletic contests are near, of the partisans in the +heat of a political contest, or of the friends of an institution upon a +day like this. To such persons, or at least at such moments, loyalty is +conceived as something brilliantly emotional, as a passion of devotion. +The second class of those who are fond of the word "loyalty" are the +warriors and their admirers. To such persons loyalty means a willingness +to do dangerous service, to sacrifice life, to toil long and hard for +the flag that one follows. But for a third type of those who employ the +word, loyalty especially means steady, often unobtrusive, fidelity to +more or less formal obligations, such as the business world and the +workshop impose upon us. Such persons think of loyalty as, first of all, +faithfulness in obeying the law of the land, or in executing the plans +of one's official superiors, or in serving one's employer or one's +client or one's chief, or one's fraternity or other social union. In +this sense the loyal servant may be obscure and unemotional. But he is +trustworthy. Now, a word which thus so forcibly appeals to the lovers +who want to express their passionate devotion, and also to the soldiers +who want to name that obstinate following of the flag which makes +victory possible; a word which business men also sometimes use to +characterize the quietly and industriously faithful employee who obeys +orders, who betrays no secrets, and who regards the firm's interest as +his own;--well, such a word, I think, is not as much ambiguous as deep +in its meaning. For, after all, loyal emotions, loyal sacrifice of life, +loyal steadiness in obscure service, are but various symptoms of a +certain spirit which lies beneath all its various expressions. This +spirit is a well-known one. All the higher life of society depends upon +it. It may manifest itself as enthusiasm upon an occasion like this, or +as contempt for death upon the battle field, or as quiet service when +the toil of life is grim, or as the cool fidelity that pursues the daily +routine of office or of workshop or of kitchen with a steady persistence +and with a simple acceptance of traditional duties or of the day's toil. +But the spirit thus manifested is not exhausted by any of its symptoms. +The appearances of loyalty are manifold. Its meaning is one. And I +myself venture to state what the true spirit of loyalty is by defining +the term thus: By loyalty I mean the thorough-going, the voluntary, and +the practical devotion of a self to a cause. And by a cause I mean +something of the nature that the true lover has in mind when he is +wisely devoted to his love; that the faithful member of a family serves +when the family itself is the cause dear to him; that the member of a +fraternity, or the child of a college, or the devoted professional man, +or the patriot, or the martyr, or the faithful workman conceives when he +thinks of that to which he gives his life. As all these illustrations +suggest, the cause to which one can be loyal is never a mere collection +of individuals; nor is it ever a mere abstract principle. This cause, +whether in the church or the army or the workshop, in the home or in the +friendship, is some sort of unity whereby many persons are joined in one +common life. The cause to which a loyal man is devoted is of the nature +of an institution, or of a home life, or of a fraternity, wherein two or +more persons aim to become one; or of a religion, wherein the unity of +the spirit is sought through the communion of the faithful. Loyalty +respects individuals, but aims to bring them together into one common +life. Its command to the loyal is: "Be 'one undivided soul of many a +soul'". It recognizes that, when apart, individuals fail; but that when +they try to unite their lives into one common higher selfhood, to live +as if they were the expressions, the instruments, the organs of one +ideally beautiful social group, they win the only possible fulfillment +of the meaning of human existence. Through loyalty to such a cause, +through devotion to an ideally united social group, and only through +such loyalty, can the problems of human personality be solved. By +nature, and apart from some cause to which we are loyal, each of us is +but a mass of caprices, a chaos of distracting passions, a longing for +happiness that is never fulfilled, a seeking for success which never +attains its goal. Meanwhile, no merely customary morality ever +adequately guides our lives. Mere social authority never meets our +needs. But a cause, some unity of many lives in one, some call upon the +individual to give himself over to the service of an idealized +community--this gives sense to life. This, when we feel its presence, as +we do upon this occasion, we love, as the lovers love the common life of +friendship that is to make them one, or as the mothers delight in the +life that is to unite themselves and their children in the family, or as +the devout feel that through their communion in the life of their church +they become one with the Divine Spirit. For such a cause we can make +sacrifices, such as the soldier makes in following the flag. For what is +the fortune of any detached self as compared with the one cause of the +whole country? And just such a voluntary devotion to a cause can ennoble +the routine of the humblest daily business, in the office, in the +household, in the school, at the desk, or in the market place, if one +only finds the cause that can hold his devotion--be this cause his +business firm or his profession or his household or his country or his +church, or all these at once. For all these causes have their value in +this: that through the business firm, or the household, or the +profession, or the spiritual community, the lives of many human selves +are woven into one, so that our fortunes and interests are no longer +conceived as detached and private, but as a giving of ourselves in order +that the social group to which we are devoted should live its own united +life. + +With this bare indication of what I mean by loyalty, I may now say that +of late years I have attempted to show in detail, in various discussions +of our topic, that the spirit of loyalty, rightly understood, and +practically applied, furnishes an adequate solution for all the +problems of the moral life. The whole moral law can be summed up in the +two commandments: first, Be loyal; and secondly, So choose, so serve, +and so unify the life causes to which you yourself are loyal that, +through your choice, through your service, through your example, and +through your dealings with all men, you may, as far as in you lies, help +other people to be loyal to their own causes; may avoid cheating them of +their opportunities for loyalty; may inspire them with their own best +type of loyalty, and may so best serve the one great cause of the spread +of loyalty among mankind. Or, if I may borrow and adapt for a worthy end +Lincoln's immortal words, the moral law is this: Let us so live, so +love, and so serve, that loyalty "of the people, by the people, for the +people, shall not perish from the earth," but shall prosper and abound. + +The scheme of life thus suggested is, I believe, adequate. I next want +to tell what bearing the spirit of loyalty has upon insight. + +The insight that all of us most need and desire is an insight, first, +into the business of life itself, and next into the nature and meaning +of the real world in which we live. Our forefathers used to center all +their views of life and of the world about their religion. Many of the +leading minds of to-day center their modern insight about the results of +science. In consequence, what I may call the general problems of +insight, and the views of life and of the world which most of us get +from our studies, have come of late to appear very different from the +views and the problems which our own leading countrymen a century ago +regarded as most important. The result is that the great problem of the +philosophy of life to-day may be defined as the effort to see whether, +and how, you can cling to a genuinely ideal and spiritual interpretation +of your own nature and of your duty, while abandoning superstition, and +while keeping in close touch with the results of modern knowledge about +man and nature. + +Let me briefly indicate what I mean by this problem of a modern +philosophy of life. From the modern point of view great stress has been +laid upon the fact that man, as we know man, appears to be subject to +the laws of the natural world. Modern knowledge makes these laws appear +very far-reaching, very rigid, and very much of the type that we call +mechanical. We have, therefore, most of us, learned not to expect +miraculous interferences with the course of nature as aids in our human +conflict with destiny. We have been taught to regard ourselves as the +products of a long process of natural evolution. We have come to think +that man's control over nature has to take the general form which our +industrial arts illustrate, and which our recent contests with disease, +such as the wars with tuberculosis and with yellow fever, exemplify. +Man, we have been led to say, wins his way only by studying nature and +by applying his carefully won empirical knowledge to the guidance of his +arts. The business of life--so we have been moved to assert--must +therefore be guided simply by an union of plain common sense with the +scientific study of nature. The real world, we have been disposed to +say, is, on the whole, so far as we can know it, a mechanism. Therefore +the best ideal of life involves simply the more or less complete control +of this mechanism for useful and humane ends. Such, I say, is one very +commonly accepted result to which modern knowledge seems to have led +men. The practical view of life and of its business which expresses this +result has been, for many of us, twofold. First, we have been led to +this well-known precept: If you want to live wisely, you must, at all +events, avoid superstition. That is, you must not try to guide human +life by dealing with such supernatural powers, good and evil, as the +mythologies of the past used to view as the controlling forces of human +destiny. You must take natural laws as you find them. You must believe +about the real world simply what you can confirm by the verdict of human +experience. You must put no false hopes either in magic arts or in +useless appeals to the gods. You must, for instance, fight tuberculosis +not by prayer, but by knowing the conditions that produce it and the +natural processes that tend to destroy its germs. And so, in general, in +order to live well and wisely you must be a naturalist and not a +supernaturalist. Or in any case you must conform your common sense not +to the imagination that in the past peopled the dream world of humanity +with good and evil spirits, but to the carefully won insight that has +shown us that our world is one where natural law reigns unyielding, +defying equally our magic arts and our prayerful desires for divine aid. +But secondly, side by side with this decidedly positive advice, many of +us have been brought to accept a practical attitude towards the world +which has seemed to us negative and discouraging. This second attitude +may be expressed in the sad precept: Hope not to find this world in any +universal sense a world of ideal values. Nature is indifferent to +values. Values are human, and merely human. Man can indeed give to his +own life much of what he calls value, if he uses his natural knowledge +for human ends. But when he sets out upon this task, he ought to know +that, however sweet and ideal human companionship may be as it exists +among men, humanity as a whole must fight its battle with nature and +with the universe substantially alone, comfortless except for the +comforts that it wins precisely as it builds its houses; namely, by +using the mechanisms of nature for its own purposes. The world happens, +indeed, to give man some power to control natural conditions. But even +this power is due to the very fact that man also is one of nature's +products,--a product possessing a certain stability, a certain natural +plasticity and docility, a limited range of natural initiative. As a +rock may deflect a stream, so man, himself a natural mechanism, may turn +the stream of nature's energies into paths that are temporarily useful +for human purposes. But from the modern point of view the ancient plaint +of the Book of Job remains true, both for the rock and for the man: + + "The waters wear away stones, + And the hope of frail man thou destroyest." + +In the end, our relations to the universe thus seem to remain relations +to an essentially foreign power, which cares for our ideals as the +stormy sea cares for the boat, and as the bacteria care for the human +organism upon which they prey. If we ourselves, as products of nature, +are sufficiently strong mechanisms, we may be able to win, while life +lasts, many ideal goods. But just so, if the boat is well enough built, +it may weather one or another passing storm. If the body is well knit, +it may long remain immune to disease. Yet in the end the boat and the +human body fail. And in no case, so this view asserts, does the real +world essentially care for or help or encourage our ideals. Our ideals +are as foreign to the real natural world as the interests of the ship's +company are to the ocean that may tolerate, but also may drown them. Be +free from superstition, then; and next: avoid false hopes. Such are the +two theses that seem to embody for many minds the essentially modern +view of things and the essential result for the philosophy of life of +what we have now learned. + +But hereupon the question arises whether this is indeed the last word of +insight; whether this outcome of modern knowledge does indeed tell the +whole story of our relations to the real world. That this modern view +has its own share of deeper truth we all recognize. But is this the +whole truth? Have we no access whatever to any other aspect of reality +than the one which this naturalistic view emphasizes? And again, the +question still arises: Is there any place left for a religion that can +be free from superstition, that can accept just so much of the foregoing +modern results as are indeed established, and that can yet supplement +them by an insight which may show the universe to be, after all, +something more than a mechanism? In sum, are we merely stones that +deflect the stream for a while, until the waters wear them away? Or are +there spiritual hopes of humanity which the mechanism of nature cannot +destroy? Is the philosophy of life capable of giving us something more +than a naturalism--humanized merely by the thought that man, being, +after all, a well-knit and plastic mechanism, can for a time mold nature +to his ends? So much for the great problem of modern insight. Let us +turn to consider the relation of the spirit of loyalty to this problem. + +What light can a study of the spirit of loyalty, as I just defined +loyalty--what light, I say, can such a study throw upon this problem? +Very little--so some of you may say; for any discussion of the spirit of +loyalty can tell us nothing to make nature's mechanism more +comprehensible. One who favors loyalty as a way of solving life's +problems tells us about a certain ideal of human life,--an ideal which, +as I have asserted, does tend to solve our personal moral problems +precisely in so far as we are able to express this ideal in our +practical lives. In order to be loyal you indeed have no need to believe +in any of the well-known miracles of popular tradition. And equally, in +order to be loyal, you have no need, first, to decide whether nature is +or is not a mechanism; or whether the modern view of reality, as just +summarized, is or is not adequate; or whether the gods exist; or whether +man is or is not one of nature's products and temporarily well-knit and +plastic machines. Our doctrine of loyalty is founded not upon a decision +about nature's supposed mechanism, but upon a study of man's own inner +and deeper needs. It is a doctrine about the plan and the business of +human life. It seems, therefore, to be neutral as to every so-called +conflict between science and religion. + +But now, in answer to these remarks, I have to show that the doctrine of +loyalty, once rightly understood, has yet a further application. It is a +doctrine that, when more fully interpreted, helps us toward a genuine +insight, not only into the plan of life, but into the nature of things. +The philosophy of loyalty has nothing to say against precisely so much +of naturalism as is indeed an established result of common sense and of +the scientific study of nature. The theory of the loyal life involves +nothing superstitious--no trust in magic, no leaning upon the +intervention of such spiritual agencies as the old mythologies +conceived. And yet, as I shall insist, nobody can understand and +practise the loyal spirit without tending thereby to get a true view of +the nature of things, a genuine touch with reality, which cannot be +gained without seeing that, however much of a mechanism nature may +appear to be, the real world is something much more than a mechanism, +and much more significant than are the waters which wear away stones. + +Let me indicate what I mean by repeating in brief my doctrine of +loyalty--with reference to the spirit which it involves, and with +reference to the view of the realities of human life which it inevitably +includes. + +Whoever is loyal has found some cause, I have said,--a cause to which, +by his inner interests, he is indeed attracted so that the cause is +fascinating to his sentiments. But the cause is also one to which the +loyal man is meanwhile practically and voluntarily devoted, so that his +loyalty is no mere glow of enthusiasm, but is an affair of his deeds as +well as of his emotions. Loyalty I therefore defined as the +thorough-going and practical devotion of a self to a cause. Why loyalty +is a duty; how loyalty is possible for every normal human being; how it +can appear early in youth, and then grow though life; how it can be at +once faithful to its own, and yet can constantly enlarge its scope; how +it can become universally human in its interests without losing its +concreteness, and without failing to keep in touch with the personal +affections and the private concerns of the loyal person; how loyalty is +a virtue for all men, however humble and however exalted they may be; +how the loyal service of the tasks of a single possibly narrow life can +be viewed as a service of the cause of universal loyalty, and so of the +interests of all humanity; how all special duties of life can be stated +in terms of a duly generalized spirit of loyalty; and how moral +conflicts can be solved, and moral divisions made, in the light of the +principle of loyalty; all this I have asserted, although here is indeed +no time for adequate discussion. But hereupon I want to concentrate our +whole attention, not upon the consequences and applications of the +doctrine of loyalty, but upon the most central characteristic of the +loyal spirit. This central characteristic of the loyal spirit consists +in the fact that it conceives and values its cause as a reality, as an +object that has a being of its own; while the type of reality which +belongs to a cause is different from the type of reality which we +ascribe either to a thing in the physical world or to a law of nature. A +cause is never a mere mechanism. It is an essentially spiritual reality. +If the loyal human being is right in the account which he gives of his +cause, then the real world contains beings which are not mere natural +objects, and is subject to laws which, without in the least running +counter to the laws of outer nature, are the laws of an essentially +spiritual realm, whose type of being is superior to that possessed by +the order of nature which our industrial arts use. Either, then, loyalty +is altogether a service of myths, or else the causes which the loyal +serve belong to a realm of real being which is above the level of mere +natural fact and natural law. In the latter case the real world is not +indifferent to our human search for values. The modern naturalistic and +mechanical views of reality are not, indeed, false within their own +proper range, but they are inadequate to tell us the whole truth. And +reality contains, further, and is characterized by, an essentially +spiritual order of being. + +I have been speaking to persons who, as I have trusted, well know, so +far as they have yet had time to learn the lessons of life, something of +what loyalty means. Come, then, let us consider what is the sort of +object that you have present to your mind when you are loyal to a cause. +If your cause is a reality, what kind of a being is it? If causes are +realities, then in what sort of a real world do you live? + +I have already indicated that, while loyalty always includes personal +affections, while you can never be loyal to what you take to be a merely +abstract principle, nevertheless, it is equally true that you can never +be genuinely loyal merely to an individual human being, taken just as +this detached creature. You can, indeed, love your friend, viewed just +as this individual. But love for an individual is so far just a fondness +for a fascinating human presence, and is essentially capricious, whether +it lasts or is transient. You can be, and should be, loyal to your +friendship, to the union of yourself and your friend, to that ideal +comradeship which is neither of you alone, and which is not the mere +doubleness that consists of you and your friend taken as two detached +beings who happen to find one another's presence agreeable. Loyalty to a +friendship involves your willingness actively and practically to create +and maintain a life which is to be the united life of yourself and your +friend--not the life of your friend alone, nor the life of yourself and +your friend as you exist apart, but the common life, the life above and +inclusive of your distinctions, the one life that you are to live as +friends. To the tie, to the unity, to the common life, to the union of +friends, you can be loyal. Without such loyalty friendship consists only +of its routine of more or less attractive private sentiments and mere +meetings, each one of which is one more chance experience, heaped +together with other chance experiences. But with such true loyalty your +friendship becomes, at least in ideal, a new life--a life that neither +of you could have alone; a life that is not a mere round of separate +private amusements, but that belongs to a new type of dual yet unified +personality. Nor are you loyal to your friendship merely as to an +abstraction. You are loyal to it as to the common better self of both of +you, a self that lives its own real life. Either such a loyalty to your +friendship is a belief in myths, or else such a type of higher and +unified dual personality actually possesses a reality of its own,--a +reality that you cannot adequately describe by reporting, as to the +taker of a census, that you and your friend are two creatures, with two +distinct cases of a certain sort of fondness to be noted down, and with +each a separate life into which, as an incident, some such fondness +enters. No; were a census of true friendship possible, the census taker +should be required to report: Here are indeed two friends; but here is +also the ideal and yet, in some higher sense, real life of their united +personality present,--a life which belongs to neither of them alone, and +which also does not exist merely as a parcel of fragments, partly in +one, partly in the other of them. It is the life of their common +personality. It is a new spiritual person on a higher level. + +Or again, you are loyal to some such union as a family or a fraternity +represents. Or you are loyal to your class, your college, your +community, your country, your church. In all these cases, with endless +variety in the details, your loyalty has for its object each time, not +merely a group of detached personalities, but some ideally significant +common life; an union of many in one; a community which also has the +value of a person, and which, nevertheless, cannot be found distributed +about in a collection of fragments found inside the detached lives of +the individual members of the family, the club, the class, the college, +the country, the church. If this common life to which you are loyal is a +reality, then the real human world does not consist of separate +creatures alone, of the mere persons who flock in the streets and who +live in the different houses. The human world, if the loyal are right, +contains personality that is not merely shut up within the skin, now of +this, now of that, human creature. It contains personalities that no +organism confines within its bounds; that no single life, that no crowd +of detached lives, comprises. Yet this higher sort of common +personality, if the loyal are right, is as real as we separate creatures +are real. It is no abstraction. It lives. It loves, and we love it. We +enter into it. It is ours, and we belong to it. It works through us, the +fellow servants of the common cause. Yet we get our worth through +it,--the goal of our whole moral endeavor. + +For those who are not merely loyal, but also enlightened, loyalty, never +losing the definiteness and the concreteness of its devotion to some +near and directly fascinating cause, sees itself to be in actual +spiritual unity with the common cause of all the loyal, whoever they +are. The great cause for all the loyal is in reality the cause of the +spread and the furtherance of the cause of the universal loyalty of all +mankind: a cause which nobody can serve except by choosing his own +nearer and more appreciated cause--the private cause which is directly +his own--his family, his community, his friendship, his calling, and the +calling of those who serve with him. Yet such personal service--your +special life cause, your task, your vocation--is your way of furthering +the ends of universal humanity. And if you are enlightened, you know +this fact. Through your loyalty you, then, know yourself to be kin to +all the loyal. You hereupon conceive the loyal as one brotherhood, one +invisible church for which and in which you live. The spirit dwells in +this invisible church,--the holy spirit that wills the unity of all in +fidelity and in service. Hidden from you by all the natural +estrangements of the present life, this common life of all the loyal, +this cause which is the one cause of all the loyal, is that for which +you live. In spirit you are really sundered from none of those who +themselves live in the spirit. + +All this, I say, is what it is the faith of all the loyal to regard as +the real life in which we live and move and have our being, precisely in +so far as men come to understand what loyalty is. Thus, then, in +general, to be loyal is to believe that there are real causes. And to be +universally loyal is to believe that the one cause of loyalty itself, +the invisible church of all the loyal, is a reality; something as real +as we are. But causes are never detached human beings; nor are causes +ever mere crowds, heaps, collections, aggregations of human beings. +Causes are at once personal (if by person you mean the ordinary human +individual in his natural character) and _super_-personal. Persons they +are, because only where persons are found can causes be defined. +Super-personal they are, because no mere individual human creature, and +no mere pairs or groups or throngs of human beings, can ever constitute +unified causes. You cannot be loyal to a crowd as a crowd. A crowd can +shout, as at a game or a political convention. But only some sort of +organized unity of social life can either do the work of an unit or hold +the effective loyalty of the enlightened worker who does not merely +shout with the throng. And so when you are really loyal to your country, +your country does not mean to you merely the crowd, the mass of your +separate fellow citizens. Still less does it mean the mere organs, or +the separate servants of the country,--the custom house, the War +Department, the Speaker of the House, or any other office or official. +When you sing "My country, 'tis of thee," you do not mean, "My +post-office, 'tis of thee," nor yet, "My fellow citizens, 'tis of you, +just as the creatures who crowd the street and who overfill the railway +cars," that I sing. If the poet continues in his own song to celebrate +the land, the "rocks and rills," the "woods and templed hills," he is +still speaking only of symbols. What he means is the country as an +invisible but, in his opinion, perfectly real spiritual unity. General +Nogi, in a recent Japanese publication about Bushido, expressed his own +national ideal beautifully in the words: "Here the sovereign and the +people are of one family and have together endured the joys and sorrows +of thousands of years." It is that sort of being whereof one speaks when +one expresses true loyalty to the country. The country is the spiritual +entity that is none of us and all of us--none of us because it is our +unity; all of us because in it we all find our patriotic unity. + +Such, then, is the idea that the loyal have of the real nature of the +causes which they serve. I repeat, If the loyal are right, then the real +world contains other beings than mechanisms and individual human and +animal minds. It contains spiritual unities which are as real as we are, +but which certainly do not belong to the realm of a mere nature +mechanism. Does not all this put the problems of our philosophy of life +in a new light? + +But I have no doubt that you may at once reply: All this speech about +causes is after all merely more or less pleasing metaphor. As a fact, +human beings are just individual natural creatures. They throng and +struggle for existence, and love and hate and enjoy and sorrow and die. +These causes are, after all, mere dreams, or at best entities as we have +just described. The friends like to talk of being one; but there are +always two or more of them, and the unity is a pretty phrase. The +country is, in the concrete, the collection of the countrymen, with +names, formulas, songs, and so on, attached, by way of poetical license +or of convenient abbreviation or of pretty fable. The poet really meant +simply that he was fond of the landscape, and was not wholly averse to a +good many of his countrymen, and was in any case fond of a good song. +Loyalty, like the rest of human life, is an illusion. Nature is real. +The unity of the spirit is a fancy. + +This, I say, may be your objection. But herewith we indeed stand in the +presence of a certain very deep philosophical problem concerning the +true definition of what we mean by reality. Into this problem I have +neither time nor wish to enter just now. But upon one matter I must, +nevertheless, stoutly insist. It is a matter so simple, so significant, +so neglected, that I at once need and fear to mention it to you,--need +to mention it, because it puts our philosophy into a position that quite +transforms the significance of that whole modern view of nature upon +which I have been dwelling since the outset of this lecture; fear to +mention it, because the fact that it is so commonly neglected shows how +hard to be understood it has proved. + +That disheartening view of the foreign and mechanical nature of the real +world which our sciences and our industrial arts have impressed upon the +minds of so many of us; that contempt for superstition; that denial of +the supernatural, which seems to the typical modern man the beginning of +wisdom;--to what is all this view of reality due? To the results, and, +as I believe, to the really important results, of the modern study of +natural science. But what is the study of natural science? Practically +considered, viewed as one of the great moral activities of mankind, _the +study of science is a very beautiful and humane expression of a certain +exalted form of loyalty_. Science is, practically considered, the +outcome of the absolutely devoted labors of countless seekers for +natural truth. But how do we human beings get at what we call natural +truth? By observation--so men say--and by experience. But by whose +experience? By the united, by the synthesized, by the revised, +corrected, rationally criticized, above all by the common, experience of +many individuals. The possibility of science rests upon the fact that +human experience may be progressively treated so as to become more and +more an unity. The detached individual records the transit of a star, +observes a precipitate in a test tube, stains a preparation and examines +it under a microscope, collects in the field, takes notes in a +hospital--and loyally contributes his little fragment of a report to the +ideally unified and constantly growing totality called scientific human +experience. In doing this he employs his memory, and so conceives his +own personal life as an unity. But equally he aims--and herein consists +his scientific loyalty--to bring his personal experience into unity with +the whole course of human experience in so far as it bears upon his own +science. The collection of mere data is never enough. It is in the unity +of their interpretation that the achievements of science lie. This unity +is conceived in the form of scientific theories; is verified by the +comparative and critical conduct of experiments. But in all such work +how manifold are the presuppositions which we make when we attempt such +unification! Here is no place to enumerate these presuppositions. Some +of them you find discussed in the textbooks of the logic of science. +Some of them are instinctive, and almost never get discussed at all. But +it is here enough to say that we all presuppose _that human experience +has, or can by the loyal efforts of truth seekers be made to possess, a +real unity, superior in its nature and significance to any detached +observer's experience, more genuinely real than is the mere collection +of the experiences of any set of detached observers, however large_. The +student of natural science is loyal to the cause of the enlargement of +this organized and criticized realm of the common human experience. +Unless this unity of human experience is a genuine reality, unless all +the workers are living a really common life, unless each man is, +potentially at least, in a live spiritual unity with his fellows, +science itself is a mere metaphor, its truth is an illusion, its results +are myths. For science is conceived as true only by conceiving the +experiences of countless observers as the sharing of a common realm of +experience. If, as we all believe, the natural sciences do throw a real, +if indeed an inadequate, light upon the nature of things, then they do +so because no one man's experience is disconnected from the real whole +of human experience. They do so because the cause to which the loyal +study of science is devoted, the cause of the enlargement of human +experience, is a cause that has a supernatural, or, as Professor +Münsterberg loves to say, an over-individual, type of reality. Mankind +is not a mere collection of detached individuals, or man could possess +no knowledge of any unity of scientific truth. If men are really only +many, and if they have no such unity of conscious experience as loyalty +everywhere presupposes, then the cause of science also is a vain +illusion, and we have no unified knowledge of nature, only various +private fancies about nature. If we know, however ill, nature's +mechanism, we do so because human experience is not merely a collection +of detached observations, but forms an actual spiritual unity, whose +type is not that of a mechanism, whose connections are ideally +significant, whose constitution is essentially that which the ideal of +unified truth requires. + +So, then, I insist, the dilemma is upon our hands. Either the sciences +constitute a progressive, if imperfect, insight into real truth--and +then the cause of the unity of human experience is a real cause that +really can be served exactly as the lover means to be loyal to his +friendship and the patriot to his country; and then also human life +really possesses such unity as the loyal presuppose--or else none of +this is so. But then loyalty and science alike deal with metaphors and +with myths. In the first case the spiritual unity of the life that we +lead is essentially vindicated. Causes such as the loyal serve are real. +The cause of science also is real. But in that case an essentially +spiritual realm, that of the rational unity of human experience, is +real; and possesses a grade both of reality and of worth which is +superior to the grade of reality that the phenomena of nature's +mechanism exhibit to us. In the other case the sciences whose results +are supposed to be discouraging and unspiritual vanish, with all their +facts, into the realm of fable, together with the world that all the +loyal, including the faithful followers of the sciences, believe to be +real. + +I have here no time to discuss the paradoxes of a totally skeptical +philosophy. It is enough to say that such a total skepticism is, indeed, +self-refuting. The only rational view of life depends upon maintaining +that what the loyal always regard as a reality, namely, their cause, is, +indeed, despite all special illusions of this or of that form of +imperfect loyalty, essentially a type of reality which rationally +survives all criticisms and underlies all doubts. + + "They reckon ill who leave me out; + When me thy fly, I am the wings." + +This is what the genuine object of loyalty, the unity of the spiritual +life, always says to us when we examine it in the right spirit. But the +one source of our deepest insight into this unity of the spirit which +underlies all the varieties, and which leads us upward to itself past +all the sunderings and doubts of existence, is the loyal spirit itself. +Loyalty asserts: "My cause is real. I know that my cause liveth." But +the cause, however imperfectly interpreted, is always some sort of unity +of the spiritual life in which we learn to share whenever we begin to be +loyal. The more we grow in loyalty and in insight into the meaning of +our loyalty, the more we learn to think of some vast range of the unity +of spiritual life as the reality to which all the other realities +accessible to us are in one way or another subordinate, so that they +express this unity, and show more or less what it means. I believe that +a sound critical philosophy justifies the view that the loyal, precisely +in so far as they view their cause as real, as a personal, but also as +an over-individual, realm of genuine spiritual life, are comprehending, +as far as they go, the deepest nature of things. + +Religion, in its higher sense, always involves a practical relation to a +spiritual world which, in its significance, in its inclusiveness, in its +unity, and in its close and comforting touch with our most intense +personal concerns, fulfils in a supreme degree the requirements which +loyalty makes when it seeks for a worthy cause. One may have a true +religion without knowing the reason why it is true. One may also have +false religious beliefs. But in any case the affiliation of the spirit +of the higher religion with the spirit of loyalty has been manifest, I +hope, from the outset of this discussion of loyalty. By religious +insight one may very properly mean any significant and true view of an +object of religious devotion which can be obtained by any reasonable +means. + +In speaking of loyalty and insight I have also given an indication of +that source of religious insight which I believe to be, after all, the +surest, the most accessible, the most universal, and, in its deepest +essence, the most rational. The problem of the modern philosophy of life +is, we have said, the problem of keeping the spirit of religion, without +falling a prey to superstition. At the outset of this lecture I told +briefly why, in the modern world, we aim to avoid superstition. The true +reason for this aim you now see better than at first I could state that +reason. We have learned, and wisely learned, that the great cause of the +study of nature by scientific methods is one of the principal special +causes to which man can be devoted; for nothing serves more than the +pursuit of the sciences serves to bind into unity the actual work of +human civilization. To this cause of scientific study we have all +learned to be, according to our lights, loyal. But the study of science +makes us averse to the belief in magic arts, in supernatural +interferences, in special providences. The scientific spirit turns from +the legends and the superstitions that in the past have sundered men, +have inflamed the religious wars, have filled the realm of imagination +with good and evil spirits. Turns from these--to what? To a belief in a +merely mechanical reality? To a doctrine that the real world is foreign +to our ideals? To an assurance that life is vain? + +No; so to view the mission of the study of science is to view that +mission falsely. The one great lesson of the triumph of science is the +lesson of the vast significance of loyalty to the cause of science. And +this loyalty depends upon acknowledging the reality of a common, a +rational, a significant unity of human experience, a genuine cause which +men can serve. When the sciences teach us to get rid of superstition, +they do this by virtue of a loyalty to the pursuit of truth which is, as +a fact, loyalty to the cause of the spiritual unity of mankind: an unity +which the students of science conceive in terms of an unity of our human +experience of nature, but which, after all, they more or less +unconsciously interpret just as all the other loyal souls interpret +their causes; namely, as a genuine living reality, a life superior in +type to the individual lives which we lead--worthy of devoted service, +significant, and not merely an incidental play of a natural mechanism. +This unity of human experience reveals to us nature's mechanisms, but is +itself no part of the mechanism which it observes. + +If, now, we do as our general philosophy of loyalty would require: if we +take all our loyalties, in whatever forms they may appear, as more or +less enlightened but always practical revelations that there is an unity +of spiritual life which is above our present natural level, which is +worthy of our devotion, which can give sense to life, and which consists +of facts that are just as genuinely real as are the facts and the laws +of outer nature--well, can we not thus see our way towards a religious +insight which is free from superstition, which is indifferent to magic +and to miracle, which accepts all the laws of nature just in so far as +they are indeed known, but which nevertheless stoutly insists: "This +world is no mere mechanism; it is full of a spiritual unity that +transcends mere nature?" + +I believe that we can do this. I believe that what I have merely hinted +to you is capable of a much richer development than I have here given to +these thoughts. I believe, in brief, that in our loyalties we find our +best sources of a genuinely religious insight. + +Men have often said, "The true source of religious insight is +revelation; for these matters are above the powers of human reason." +Now, I am not here to discuss or to criticize anybody's type of +revelation. But this I know, and this the believers in various supposed +revelations have often admitted--that unless the aid of some interior +spiritual insight comes to be added to the merely external revelation, +one can be left in doubt by all possible signs and wonders whereby the +revelation undertakes to give us convincing external evidence. Religious +faith, indeed, relates to that which is above us, but it must arise from +that which is within us. And any faith which has indeed a worthy +religious object is either merely a mystic ecstasy, which must then be +judged, if at all, only by its fruits, or else it is a loyalty, which +never exists without seeking to bear fruit in works. Now my thesis is +that loyalty is essentially adoration with service, and that there is no +true adoration without practical loyalty. If I am right, all of the +loyal are grasping in their own ways, and according to their lights, +some form and degree of religious truth. They have won religious +insight; for they view something, at least, of the genuine spiritual +world in its real unity, and they devote themselves to that unity, to +its enlargement and enrichment. And therefore they approach more and +more to the comprehension of that true spiritual life whereof, as I +suppose, the real world essentially consists. + +Therefore I find in the growth of the spirit of loyalty which normally +belongs to any loyal life the deepset source of a genuinely significant +religious insight which belongs to just that individual in just his +stage of development. + +In brief: Be loyal; grow in loyalty. Therein lies the source of a +religious insight free from superstition. Therein also lies the solution +of the problems of the philosophy of life. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 77: Commencement address delivered at Simmons College, Boston. +Published in "William James and Other Essays," copyright, 1911. Printed +here by permission of The Macmillan Company.] + + + + +POETRY FOR POETRY'S SAKE[78] + +A.C. BRADLEY + + +The words "Poetry for poetry's sake" recall the famous phrase "Art for +Art." It is far from my purpose to examine the possible meanings of that +phrase, or all the questions it involves. I propose to state briefly +what I understand by "Poetry for poetry's sake," and then, after +guarding against one or two misapprehensions of the formula, to consider +more fully a single problem connected with it. And I must premise, +without attempting to justify them, certain explanations. We are to +consider poetry in its essence, and apart from the flaws which in most +poems accompany their poetry. We are to include in the idea of poetry +the metrical form, and not to regard this as a mere accident or a mere +vehicle. And, finally, poetry being poems, we are to think of a poem as +it actually exists; and, without aiming here at accuracy, we may say +that an actual poem is the succession of experiences--sounds, images, +thoughts, emotions--through which we pass when we are reading as +poetically as we can. Of course this imaginative experience--if I may +use the phrase for brevity--differs with every reader and every time of +reading: a poem exists in innumerable degrees. But that insurmountable +fact lies in the nature of things and does not concern us now. + +What then does the formula "Poetry for poetry's sake" tell us about this +experience? It says, as I understand it, these things. First, this +experience is an end in itself, is worth having on its own account, has +an intrinsic value. Next, its _poetic_ value is this intrinsic worth +alone. Poetry may have also an ulterior value as a means to culture or +religion; because it conveys instruction, or softens the passions, or +furthers a good cause; because it brings the poet fame or money or a +quiet conscience. So much the better: let it be valued for these reasons +too. But its ulterior worth neither is nor can directly determine its +poetic worth as a satisfying imaginative experience; and this is to be +judged entirely from within. And to these two positions the formula +would add, though not of necessity, a third. The consideration of +ulterior ends, whether by the poet in the act of composing or by the +reader in the act of experiencing, tends to lower poetic value. It does +so because it tends to change the nature of poetry by taking it out of +its own atmosphere. For its nature is to be not a part, nor yet a copy, +of the real world (as we commonly understand that phrase), but to be a +world by itself, independent, complete, autonomous; and to possess it +fully you must enter that world, conform to its laws, and ignore for the +time the beliefs, aims, and particular conditions which belong to you in +the other world of reality. + +Of the more serious misapprehensions to which these statements may give +rise I will glance only at one or two. The offensive consequences often +drawn from the formula "Art for Art" will be found to attach not to the +doctrine that Art is an end in itself, but to the doctrine that Art is +the whole or supreme end of human life. And as this latter doctrine, +which seems to me absurd, is in any case quite different from the +former, its consequences fall outside my subject. The formula "Poetry is +an end in itself" has nothing to say on the various questions of moral +judgment which arise from the fact that poetry has its place in a +many-sided life. For anything it says, the intrinsic value of poetry +might be so small, and its ulterior effects so mischievous, that it had +better not exist. The formula only tells us that we must not place in +antithesis poetry and human good, for poetry is one kind of human good; +and that we must not determine the intrinsic value of this kind of good +by direct reference to another. If we do, we shall find ourselves +maintaining what we did not expect. If poetic value lies in the +stimulation of religious feelings, _Lead kindly Light_ is no better poem +than many a tasteless version of a Psalm: if in the excitement of +patriotism, why is _Scots, wha hae_ superior to _We don't want to +fight?_ if in the mitigation of the passions, the Odes of Sappho will +win but little praise: if in instruction, Armstrong's _Art of preserving +Health_ should win much. + +Again, our formula may be accused of cutting poetry away from its +connection with life. And this accusation raises so huge a problem that +I must ask leave to be dogmatic as well as brief. There is plenty of +connection between life and poetry, but it is, so to say, a connection +underground. The two may be called different forms of the same thing: +one of them having (in the usual sense) reality, but seldom fully +satisfying imagination; while the other offers something which satisfies +imagination but has not full "reality." They are parallel developments +which nowhere meet, or, if I may use loosely a word which will be +serviceable later, they are analogues. Hence we understand one by help +of the other, and even, in a sense, care for one because of the other; +but hence also, poetry neither is life, nor, strictly speaking, a copy +of it. They differ not only because one has more mass and the other a +more perfect shape, but because they have different _kinds_ of +existence. The one touches us as beings occupying a given position in +space and time, and having feelings, desires, and purposes due to that +position: it appeals to imagination, but appeals to much besides. What +meets us in poetry has not a position in the same series of time and +space, or, if it has or had such a position, it is taken apart from much +that belonged to it there; and therefore it makes no direct appeal to +those feelings, desires, and purposes, but speaks only to contemplative +imagination--imagination the reverse of empty or emotionless, +imagination saturated with the results of "real" experience, but still +contemplative. Thus, no doubt, one main reason why poetry has poetic +value for us is that it presents to us in its own way something which we +meet in another form in nature or life; and yet the test of its poetic +value for us lies simply in the question whether it satisfies our +imagination; the rest of us, our knowledge or conscience, for example, +judging it only so far as they appear transmuted in our imagination. So +also Shakespeare's knowledge or his moral insight, Milton's greatness of +soul, Shelley's "hate of hate" and "love of love", and that desire to +help men or make them happier which may have influenced a poet in hours +of meditation--all these have, as such, no poetical worth: they have +that worth only when, passing through the unity of the poet's being, +they reappear as qualities of imagination, and then are indeed mighty +powers in the world of poetry. + +I come to a third misapprehension, and so to my main subject. This +formula, it is said, empties poetry of its meaning: it is really a +doctrine of form for form's sake. "It is of no consequence what a poet +says, so long as he says the thing well. The _what_ is poetically +indifferent: it is the _how_ that counts. Matter, subject, content, +substance, determines nothing; there is no subject with which poetry may +not deal: the form, the treatment, is everything. Nay, more: not only is +the matter indifferent, but it is the secret of Art to 'eradicate the +matter by means of the form,'"--phrases and statements like these meet +us everywhere in current criticism of literature and the other arts. +They are the stock-in-trade of writers who understand of them little +more than the fact that somehow or other they are not "bourgeois." But +we find them also seriously used by writers whom we must respect, +whether they are anonymous or not; something like one or another of them +might be quoted, for example, from Professor Saintsbury, the late R.A.M. +Stevenson, Schiller, Goethe himself; and they are the watchwords of a +school in the one country where Aesthetics has flourished. They come, as +a rule, from men who either practise one of the arts, or, from study of +it, are interested in its methods. The general reader--a being so +general that I may say what I will of him--is outraged by them. He feels +that he is being robbed of almost all that he cares for in a work of +art. "You are asking me," he says, "to look at the Dresden Madonna as if +it were a Persian rug. You are telling me that the poetic value of +_Hamlet_ lies solely in its style and versification, and that my +interest in the man and his fate is only an intellectual or moral +interest. You allege that, if I want to enjoy the poetry of _Crossing +the Bar_, I must not mind what Tennyson says there, but must consider +solely his way of saying it. But in that case I can care no more for a +poem than I do for a set of nonsense verses; and I do not believe that +the authors of _Hamlet_ and _Crossing the Bar_ regarded their poems +thus." + +These antitheses of subject, matter, substance on the one side, form, +treatment, handling on the other, are the field through which I +especially want, in this lecture, to indicate a way. It is a field of +battle; and the battle is waged for no trivial cause; but the cries of +the combatants are terribly ambiguous. Those phrases of the so-called +formalist may each mean five or six different things. Taken in one sense +they seem to me chiefly true; taken as the general reader not +unnaturally takes them, they seem to me false, and mischievous. It would +be absurd to pretend that I can end in a few minutes a controversy which +concerns the ultimate nature of Art, and leads perhaps to problems not +yet soluble; but we can at least draw some plain distinctions which, in +this controversy, are too often confused. + +In the first place, then, let us take "subject" in one particular sense; +let us understand by it that which we have in view when, looking at the +title of an unread poem, we say that the poet has chosen this or that +for his subject. The subject in this sense, so far as I can discover, is +generally something real or imaginary, as it exists in the minds of +fairly cultivated people. The subject of _Paradise Lost_ would be the +story of the Fall as that story exists in the general imagination of a +Bible-reading people. The subject of Shelley's stanzas _To a Skylark_ +would be the ideas which arise in the mind of an educated person when, +without knowing the poem, he hears the word "skylark." If the title of a +poem conveys little or nothing to us, the "subject" appears to be either +what we should gather by investigating the title in a dictionary or +other book of the kind, or else such a brief suggestion as might be +offered by a person who had read the poem, and who said, for example, +that the subject of _The Ancient Mariner_ was a sailor who killed an +albatross and suffered for his deed. + +Now the subject, in this sense (and I intend to use the word in no +other), is not, as such, inside the poem, but outside it. The contents +of the stanzas _To a Skylark_ are not the ideas suggested by the word +"skylark" to the average man; they belong to Shelley just as much as the +language does. The subject, therefore, is not the matter _of_ the poem +at all; and its opposite is not the _form_ of the poem, but the whole +poem. The subject is one thing; the poem, matter and form alike, another +thing. This being so, it is surely obvious that the poetic value cannot +lie in that subject, but lies entirely in its opposite, the poem. How +can the subject determine the value when on one and the same subject +poems may be written of all degrees of merit and demerit; or when a +perfect poem may be composed on a subject so slight as a pet sparrow, +and, if Macaulay may be trusted, a nearly worthless poem on a subject so +stupendous as the omnipresence of the Deity? The "formalist" is here +perfectly right. Nor is he insisting on something unimportant. He is +fighting against our tendency to take the work of art as a mere copy or +reminder of something already in our heads, or at the best as a +suggestion of some idea as little removed as possible from the familiar. +The sightseer who promenades a picture-gallery, remarking that this +portrait is so like his cousin, or that landscape the very image of his +birthplace, or who, after satisfying himself that one picture is about +Elijah, passes on rejoicing to discover the subject, and nothing but the +subject, of the next--what is he but an extreme example of this +tendency? Well, but the very same tendency vitiates much of our +criticism, much criticism of Shakespeare, for example, which, with all +its cleverness and partial truth, still shows that the critic never +passed from his own mind into Shakespeare's; and it may be traced even +in so fine a critic as Coleridge, as when he dwarfs the sublime struggle +of Hamlet into the image of his own unhappy weakness. Hazlitt by no +means escaped its influence. Only the third of that great trio, Lamb, +appears almost always to have rendered the conception of the composer. + +Again, it is surely true that we cannot determine beforehand what +subjects are fit for Art, or name any subject on which a good poem might +not possibly be written. To divide subjects into two groups, the +beautiful or elevating, and the ugly or vicious, and to judge poems +according as their subjects belong to one of these groups or the other, +is to fall into the same pit, to confuse with our pre-conceptions the +meaning of the poet. What the thing is in the poem he is to be judged +by, not by the thing as it was before he touched it; and how can we +venture to say beforehand that he cannot make a true poem out of +something which to us was merely alluring or dull or revolting? The +question whether, having done so, he ought to publish his poem; whether +the thing in the poet's work will not be still confused by the +incompetent Puritan or the incompetent sensualist with the thing in +_his_ mind, does not touch this point; it is a further question, one of +ethics, not of art. No doubt the upholders of "Art for art's sake" will +generally be in favour of the courageous course, of refusing to +sacrifice the better or stronger part of the public to the weaker or +worse; but their maxim in no way binds them to this view. Rossetti +suppressed one of the best of his sonnets, a sonnet chosen for +admiration by Tennyson, himself extremely sensitive about the moral +effect of poetry; suppressed it, I believe, because it was called +fleshly. One may regret Rossetti's judgment and at the same time respect +his scrupulousness; but in any case he judged in his capacity of +citizen, not in his capacity of artist. + +So far then the "formalist" appears to be right. But he goes too far, I +think, if he maintains that the subject is indifferent and that all +subjects are the same to poetry. And he does not prove his point by +observing that a good poem might be written on a pin's head, and a bad +one on the Fall of Man. That truth shows that the subject _settles_ +nothing, but not that it counts for nothing. The Fall of Man is really a +more favourable subject than a pin's head. The Fall of Man, that is to +say, offers opportunities of poetic effects wider in range and more +penetrating in appeal. And the fact is that such a subject, as it exists +in the general imagination, has some aesthetic value before the poet +touches it. It is, as you may choose to call it, an inchoate poem or the +débris of a poem. It is not an abstract idea or a bare isolated fact, +but an assemblage of figures, scenes, actions, and events, which already +appeal to emotional imagination; and it is already in some degree +organized and formed. In spite of this a bad poet would make a bad poem +on it; but then we should say he was unworthy of the subject. And we +should not say this if he wrote a bad poem on a pin's head. Conversely, +a good poem on a pin's head would almost certainly transform its subject +far more than a good poem on the Fall of Man. It might revolutionize its +subject so completely that we should say, "The subject may be a pin's +head, but the substance of the poem has very little to do with it." + +This brings us to another and a different antithesis. Those figures, +scenes, events, that form part of the subject called the Fall of Man, +are not the substance of Paradise Lost; but in Paradise Lost there are +figures, scenes, and events resembling them in some degree. These, with +much more of the same kind, may be described as its substance, and may +then be contrasted with the measured language of the poem, which will +be called its form. Subject is the opposite not of form but of the whole +poem. Substance is within the poem, and its opposite, form, is also +within the poem. I am not criticizing this antithesis at present, but +evidently it is quite different from the other. It is practically the +distinction used in the old-fashioned criticism of epic and drama, and +it flows down, not unsullied, from Aristotle. Addison, for example, in +examining _Paradise Lost_ considers in order the fable, the characters, +and the sentiments; these will be the substance: then he considers the +language, that is, the style and numbers; this will be the form. In like +manner, the substance or meaning of a lyric may be distinguished from +the form. + +Now I believe it will be found that a large part of the controversy we +are dealing with arises from a confusion between these two distinctions +of substance and form, and of subject and poem. The extreme formalist +lays his whole weight on the form because he thinks its opposite is the +mere subject. The general reader is angry, but makes the same mistake, +and gives to the subject praises that rightly belong to the substance. I +will read an example of what I mean. I can only explain the following +words of a good critic by supposing that for the moment he has fallen +into this confusion: "The mere matter of all poetry--to wit, the +appearances of nature and the thoughts and feelings of men--being +unalterable, it follows that the difference between poet and poet will +depend upon the manner of each in applying language, metre, rhyme, +cadence, and what not, to this invariable material." What has become +here of the substance of _Paradise Lost_--the story, scenery, +characters, sentiments as they are in the poem? They have vanished clean +away. Nothing is left but the form on one side, and on the other not +even the subject, but a supposed invariable material, the appearances of +nature and the thoughts and feelings of men. Is it surprising that the +whole value should then be found in the form? + +So far we have assumed that this antithesis of substance and form is +valid, and that it always has one meaning. In reality it has several, +but we will leave it in its present shape, and pass to the question of +its validity. And this question we are compelled to raise, because we +have to deal with the two contentions that the poetic value lies wholly +or mainly in the substance, and that it lies wholly or mainly in the +form. Now these contentions, whether false or true, may seem at least to +be clear; but we shall find, I think, that they are both of them false, +or both of them nonsense: false if they concern anything outside the +poem, nonsense if they apply to something in it. For what do they +evidently imply? They imply that there are in a poem two parts, factors, +or components, a substance and a form; and that you can conceive them +distinctly and separately, so that when you are speaking of the one you +are not speaking of the other. Otherwise how can you ask the question, +In which of them does the value lie? But really in a poem, apart from +defects, there are no such factors or components; and therefore it is +strictly nonsense to ask in which of them the value lies. And on the +other hand, if the substance and the form referred to are not in the +poem, then both the contentions are false, for its poetic value lies in +itself. + +What I mean is neither new nor mysterious; and it will be clear, I +believe, to any one who reads poetry poetically and who closely examines +his experience. When you are reading a poem, I would ask--not analysing +it, and much less criticizing it, but allowing it, as it proceeds, to +make its full impression on you through the exertion of your recreating +imagination--do you then apprehend and enjoy as one thing a certain +meaning or substance, and as another thing certain articulate sounds, +and do you somehow compound these two? Surely you do not, any more than +you apprehend apart, when you see some one smile, those lines in the +face which express a feeling, and the feeling that the lines express. +Just as there the lines and their meaning are to you one thing, not two, +so in poetry the meaning and the sounds are one: there is, if I may put +it so, a resonant meaning, or a meaning resonance. If you read the +line, "The sun is warm, the sky is clear," you do not experience +separately the image of a warm sun and clear sky, on the one side, and +certain unintelligible rhythmical sounds on the other; nor yet do you +experience them together, side by side; but you experience the one _in_ +the other. And in like manner when you are really reading _Hamlet_, the +action and the characters are not something which you conceive apart +from the words; you apprehend them from point to point _in_ the words, +and the words as expressions of them. Afterwards, no doubt, when you are +out of the poetic experience but remember it, you may by analysis +decompose this unity, and attend to a substance more or less isolated, +and a form more or less isolated. But these are things in your analytic +head, not in the poem, which is _poetic_ experience. And if you want to +have the poem again, you cannot find it by adding together these two +products of decomposition; you can only find it by passing back into +poetic experience. And then what you recover is no aggregate of factors, +it is a unity in which you can no more separate a substance and a form +than you can separate living blood and the life in the blood. This unity +has, if you like, various "aspects" or "sides," but they are not factors +or parts; if you try to examine one, you find it is also the other. Call +them substance and form if you please, but these are not the +reciprocally exclusive substance and form to which the two contentions +_must_ refer. They do not "agree," for they are not apart: they are one +thing from different points of view, and in that sense identical. And +this identity of content and form, you will say, is no accident; it is +of the essence of poetry in so far as it is poetry, and of all art in so +far as it is art. Just as there is in music not sound on one side and a +meaning on the other, but expressive sound, and if you ask what is the +meaning you can only answer by pointing to the sounds; just as in +painting there is not a meaning _plus_ paint, but a meaning _in_ paint, +or significant paint, and no man can really express the meaning in any +other way than in paint and in _this_ paint; so in a poem the true +content and the true form neither exist nor can be imagined apart. When +then you are asked whether the value of a poem lies in a substance got +by decomposing the poem, and present, as such, only in reflective +analysis, or whether the value lies in a form arrived at and existing in +the same way, you will answer, "It lies neither in one, nor in the +other, nor in any addition of them, but in the poem, where they are +not." + +We have then, first, an antithesis of subject and poem. This is clear +and valid; and the question in which of them does the value lie is +intelligible; and its answer is, In the poem. We have next a distinction +of substance and form. If the substance means ideas, images, and the +like taken alone, and the form means the measured language taken by +itself, this is a possible distinction, but it is a distinction of +things not in the poem, and the value lies in neither of them. If +substance and form mean anything _in_ the poem, then each is involved in +the other, and the question in which of them the value lies has no +sense. No doubt you may say, speaking loosely, that in this poet or poem +the aspect of substance is the more noticeable, and in that the aspect +of form; and you may pursue interesting discussions on this basis, +though no principle or ultimate question of value is touched by them. +And apart from that question, of course, I am not denying the usefulness +and necessity of the distinction. We cannot dispense with it. To +consider separately the action or the characters of a play, and +separately its style or versification, is both legitimate and valuable, +so long as we remember what we are doing. But the true critic in +speaking of these apart does not really think of them apart; the whole, +the poetic experience, of which they are but aspects, is always in his +mind; and he is always aiming at a richer, truer, more intense +repetition of that experience. On the other hand, when the question of +principle, of poetic value, is raised, these aspects _must_ fall apart +into components, separately conceivable; and then there arise two +heresies, equally false, that the value lies in one of two things, both +of which are outside the poem, and therefore where its value cannot lie. + +On the heresy of the separable substance a few additional words will +suffice. This heresy is seldom formulated, but perhaps some unconscious +holder of it may object: "Surely the action and the characters of +_Hamlet_ are in the play; and surely I can retain these, though I have +forgotten all the words. I admit that I do not possess the whole poem, +but I possess a part, and the most important part." And I would answer: +"If we are not concerned with any question of principle, I accept all +that you say except the last words, which do raise such a question. +Speaking loosely, I agree that the action and characters, as you perhaps +conceive them, together with a great deal more, are in the poem. Even +then, however, you must not claim to possess all of this kind that is in +the poem; for in forgetting the words you must have lost innumerable +details of the action and the characters. And, when the question of +value is raised, I must insist that the action and characters, as you +conceive them, are not in _Hamlet_ at all. If they are, point them out. +You cannot do it. What you find at any moment of that succession of +experiences called Hamlet is words. In these words, to speak loosely +again, the action and characters (more of them than you can conceive +apart) are focussed; but your experience is not a combination of them, +as ideas, on the one side, with certain sounds on the other; it is an +experience of something in which the two are indissolubly fused. If you +deny this, to be sure I can make no answer, or can only answer that I +have reason to believe that you cannot read poetically, or else are +misinterpreting your experience. But if you do not deny this, then you +will admit that the action and characters of the poem, as you separately +imagine them, are no part of it, but a product of it in your reflective +imagination, a faint analogue of one aspect of it taken in detachment +from the whole. Well, I do not dispute, I would even insist, that, in +the case of so long a poem as _Hamlet_, it may be necessary from time +to time to interrupt the poetic experience, in order to enrich it by +forming such a product and dwelling on it. Nor, in a wide sense of +'poetic,' do I question the poetic value of this product, as you think +of it apart from the poem. It resembles our recollections of the heroes +of history or legend, who move about in our imaginations, 'forms more +real than living man,' and are worth much to us though we do not +remember anything they said. Our ideas and images of the 'substance' of +a poem have this poetic value, and more, if they are at all adequate. +But they cannot determine the poetic value of the poem, for (not to +speak of the competing claims of the 'form') nothing that is outside the +poem can do that, and they, as such, are outside it." + +Let us turn to the so-called form--style and versification. There is no +such thing as mere form in poetry. All form is expression. Style may +have indeed a certain aesthetic worth in partial abstraction from the +particular matter it conveys, as in a well-built sentence you may take +pleasure in the build almost apart from the meaning. Even so style is +expressive--presents to sense, for example, the order, ease, and +rapidity with which ideas move in the writer's mind--but it is not +expressive of the meaning of that particular sentence. And it is +possible, interrupting poetic experience, to decompose it and abstract +for comparatively separate consideration this nearly formal element of +style. But the aesthetic value of style so taken is not considerable; +you could not read with pleasure for an hour a composition which had no +other merit. And in poetic experience you never apprehend this value by +itself; the style is here expressive also of a particular meaning, or +rather is one aspect of that unity whose other aspect is meaning. So +that what you apprehend may be called indifferently an expressed meaning +or a significant form. Perhaps on this point I may in Oxford appeal to +authority, that of Matthew Arnold and Walter Pater, the latter at any +rate an authority whom the formalist will not despise. What is the gist +of Pater's teaching about style, if it is not that in the end the one +virtue of style is truth or adequacy; that the word, phrase, sentence, +should express perfectly the writer's perception, feeling, image, or +thought; so that, as we read a descriptive phrase of Keats's, we +exclaim, "That is the thing itself"; so that, to quote Arnold, the words +are "symbols equivalent with the thing symbolized," or, in our technical +language, a form identical with its content? Hence in true poetry it is, +in strictness, impossible to express the meaning in any but its own +words, or to change the words without changing the meaning. A +translation of such poetry is not really the old meaning in a fresh +dress; it is a new product, something like the poem, though, if one +chooses to say so, more like it in the aspect of meaning than in the +aspect of form. + +No one who understands poetry, it seems to me, would dispute this, were +it not that, falling away from his experience, or misled by theory, he +takes the word "meaning" in a sense almost ludicrously inapplicable to +poetry. People say, for instance, "steed" and "horse" have the same +meaning; and in bad poetry they have, but not in poetry that _is_ +poetry. + + "Bring forth the horse!" The horse was brought: + In truth he was a noble steed! + +says Byron in _Mazeppa_. If the two words mean the same here, transpose +them: + + "Bring forth the steed!" The steed was brought: + In truth he was a noble horse! + +and ask again if they mean the same. Or let me take a line certainly +very free from "poetic diction:" + + To be or not to be, that is the question. + +You may say that this means the same as "What is just now occupying my +attention is the comparative disadvantages of continuing to live or +putting an end to myself." And for practical purposes--the purpose, for +example, of a coroner--it does. But as the second version altogether +misrepresents the speaker at that moment of his existence, while the +first does represent him, how can they for any but a practical or +logical purpose be said to have the same sense? Hamlet was well able to +"unpack his heart with words," but he will not unpack it with our +paraphrases. + +These considerations apply equally to versification. If I take the +famous line which describes how the souls of the dead stood waiting by +the river, imploring a passage from Charon: + + Tendebantque manus ripae ulterioris amore, + +and if I translate it, "and were stretching forth their hands in longing +for the further bank," the charm of the original has fled. Why has it +fled? Partly (but we have dealt with that) because I have substituted +for five words, and those the words of Virgil, twelve words, and those +my own. In some measure because I have turned into rhythmless prose a +line of verse which, as mere sound, has unusual beauty. But much more +because in doing so I have also changed the _meaning_ of Virgil's line. +What that meaning is _I_ cannot say: Virgil has said it. But I can see +this much, that the translation conveys a far less vivid picture of the +outstretched hands and of their remaining outstretched, and a far less +poignant sense of the distance of the shore and the longing of the +souls. And it does so partly because this picture and this sense are +conveyed not only by the obvious meaning of the words, but through the +long-drawn sound of "tendebantque," through the time occupied by the +five syllables and therefore by the idea of "ulterioris," and through +the identity of the long sound "or" in the penultimate syllables of +"ulterioris amore"--all this, and much more, apprehended not in this +analytical fashion, nor as _added_ to the beauty of mere sound and to +the obvious meaning, but in unity with them and so as expressive of the +poetic meaning of the whole. + +It is always so in fine poetry. The value of versification, when it is +indissolubly fused with meaning, can hardly be exaggerated. The gift for +feeling it, even more perhaps than the gift for feeling the value of +style, is the _specific_ gift for poetry, as distinguished from other +arts. But versification, taken, as far as possible, all by itself, has a +very different worth. Some aesthetic worth it has; how much you may +experience by reading poetry in a language of which you do not +understand a syllable. The pleasure is quite appreciable, but it is not +great; nor in actual poetic experience do you meet with it, as such, at +all. For, I repeat, it is not _added_ to the pleasure of the meaning +when you read poetry that you do understand: by some mystery the music +is then the music _of_ the meaning, and the two are one. However fond of +versification you might be, you would tire very soon of reading verses +in Chinese; and before long of reading Virgil and Dante if you were +ignorant of their languages. But take the music as it is _in_ the poem, +and there is a marvellous change. Now + + It gives a very echo to the seat + Where Love is throned; + +or "carries far into your heart," almost like music itself, the sound + + Of old, unhappy, far-off things + And battles long ago. + +What then is to be said of the following sentence of the critic quoted +before: "But when any one who knows what poetry is reads-- + + Our noisy years seem moments in the being + Of the eternal silence, + +he sees that, quite independently of the meaning, ... there is one note +added to the articulate music of the world--a note that never will leave +off resounding till the eternal silence itself gulfs it?" I must think +that the writer is deceiving himself. For I could quite understand his +enthusiasm, if it were an enthusiasm for the music of the meaning; but +as for the music, "quite independently of the meaning," so far as I can +hear it thus (and I doubt if any one who knows English can quite do so), +I find it gives some pleasure, but only a trifling pleasure. And indeed +I venture to doubt whether, considered as mere sound, the words are at +all exceptionally beautiful, as Virgil's line certainly is. + +When poetry answers to its idea and is purely or almost purely poetic, +we find the identity of form and content; and the degree of purity +attained may be tested by the degree in which we feel it hopeless to +convey the effect of a poem or passage in any form but its own. Where +the notion of doing so is simply ludicrous, you have quintessential +poetry. But a great part even of good poetry, especially in long works, +is of a mixed nature; and so we find in it no more than a partial +agreement of a form and substance which remain to some extent distinct. +This is so in many passages of Shakespeare (the greatest of poets when +he chose, but not always a conscientious poet); passages where something +was wanted for the sake of the plot, but he did not care about it or was +hurried. The conception of the passage is then distinct from the +execution, and neither is inspired. This is so also, I think, wherever +we can truly speak of merely decorative effect. We seem to perceive that +the poet had a truth or fact--philosophical, agricultural, +social--distinctly before him, and then, as we say, clothed it in +metrical and coloured language. Most argumentative, didactic, or satiric +poems are partly of this kind; and in imaginative poems anything which +is really a mere "conceit" is mere decoration. We often deceive +ourselves in this matter, for what we call decoration has often a new +and genuinely poetic content of its own; but wherever there is mere +decoration, we judge the poetry to be not wholly poetic. And so when +Wordsworth inveighed against poetic diction, though he hurled his darts +rather wildly, what he was rightly aiming at was a phraseology, not the +living body of a new content, but the mere worn-out body of an old one. + +In pure poetry it is otherwise. Pure poetry is not the decoration of a +preconceived and clearly defined matter: it springs from the creative +impulse of a vague imaginative mass pressing for development and +definition. If the poet already knew exactly what he meant to say, why +should he write the poem? The poem would in fact already be written. For +only its completion can reveal, even to him, exactly what he wanted. +When he began and while he was at work, he did not possess his meaning; +it possessed him. It was not a fully formed soul asking for a body: it +was an inchoate soul in the inchoate body of perhaps two or three vague +ideas and a few scattered phrases. The growing of this body into its +full stature and perfect shape was the same thing as the gradual +self-definition of the meaning. And this is the reason why such poems +strike us as creations, not manufactures, and have the magical effect +which mere decoration cannot produce. This is also the reason why, if we +insist on asking for the meaning of such a poem, we can only be answered +"It means itself." + +And so at last I may explain why I have troubled myself: and you with +what may seem an arid controversy about mere words. It is not so. These +heresies which would make poetry a compound of two factors--a matter +common to it with the merest prose, _plus_ a poetic form, as the one +heresy says: a poetical substance _plus_ a negligible form, as the other +says--are not only untrue, they are injurious to the dignity of poetry. +In an age already inclined to shrink from those higher realms where +poetry touches religion and philosophy, the formalist heresy encourages +men to taste poetry as they would a fine wine, which has indeed an +aesthetic value, but a small one. And then the natural man, finding an +empty form, hurls into it the matter of cheap pathos, rancid sentiment, +vulgar humour, bare lust, ravenous vanity--everything which, in +Schiller's phrase, the form should extirpate, but which no mere form can +extirpate. And the other heresy--which is indeed rather a practice than +a creed--encourages us in the habit so dear to us of putting our own +thoughts or fancies into the place of the poet's creation. What he meant +by _Hamlet_, or the _Ode to a Nightingale_, or _Abt Vogler_, we say, is +this or that which we knew already; and so we lose what he had to tell +us. But he meant what he said, and said what he meant. + +Poetry in this matter is not, as good critics of painting and music +often affirm, different from the other arts; in all of them the content +is one thing with the form. What Beethoven meant by his symphony, or +Turner by his picture, was not something which you can name, but the +picture and the symphony. Meaning they have, but _what_ meaning can be +said in no language but their own: and we know this, though some strange +delusion makes us think the meaning has less worth because we cannot put +it into words. Well, it is just the same with poetry. But because poetry +is words, we vainly fancy that some other words than its own will +express its meaning. And they will do so no more--or, if you like to +speak loosely, only a little more--than words will express the meaning +of the Dresden Madonna. Something a little like it they may indeed +express. And we may find analogues of the meaning of poetry outside it, +which may help us to appropriate it. The other arts, the best ideas of +philosophy or religion, much that nature and life offer us or force upon +us, are akin to it. But they are only akin. Nor is it the expression of +them. Poetry does not present to imagination our highest knowledge or +belief, and much less our dreams and opinions; but it, content and form +in unity, embodies in its own irreplaceable way something which embodies +itself also in other irreplaceable ways, such as philosophy or religion. +And just as each of these gives a satisfaction which the other cannot +possibly give, so we find in poetry, which cannot satisfy the needs they +meet, that which by their natures they cannot afford us. But we shall +not find it fully if we look for something else. + +And now, when all is said, the question will still recur, though now in +quite another sense, What does poetry mean? This unique expression, +which cannot be replaced by any other, still seems to be trying to +express something beyond itself. And this, we feel, is also what the +other arts, and religion, and philosophy are trying to express: and that +is what impels us to seek in vain to translate the one into the other. +About the best poetry, and not only the best, there floats an atmosphere +of infinite suggestion. The poet speaks to us of one thing, but in this +one thing there seems to lurk the secret of all. He said what he meant, +but his meaning seems to beckon away beyond itself, or rather to expand +into something boundless, which is only focussed in it; something also +which, we feel, would satisfy not only the imagination, but the whole of +us; that something within us, and without, which everywhere + + makes us seem + To patch up fragments of a dream, + Part of which comes true, and part + Beats and trembles in the heart. + +Those who are susceptible to this effect of poetry find it not only, +perhaps not most, in the ideals which she has sometimes described, but +in a child's song by Christina Rossetti about a mere crown of +wind-flowers, and in tragedies like _Lear_, where the sun seems to have +set for ever. They hear this spirit murmuring its undertone through the +_Aeneid_, and catch its voice in the song of Keats's nightingale, and +its light upon the figures on the Urn, and it pierces them no less in +Shelley's hopeless lament, _O world, O life, O time_, than in the +rapturous ecstasy of his _Life of Life_. This all-embracing perfection +cannot be expressed in poetic words or words of any kind, nor yet in +music or in colour, but the suggestion of it is in much poetry, if not +all, and poetry has in this suggestion, this "meaning," a great part of +its value. We do it wrong, and we defeat our own purposes when we try +to bend it to them: + + We do it wrong, being so majestical, + To offer it the show of violence; + For it is as the air invulnerable, + And our vain blows malicious mockery. + +It is a spirit. It comes we know not whence. It will not speak at our +bidding, nor answer in our language. It is not our servant; it is our +master. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 78: From "Oxford Lectures on Poetry," 1909. Printed by +courtesy of The Macmillan Company.] + + + + +GREEK TRAGEDY[79] + +G. LOWES DICKINSON + + +The character of Greek tragedy was determined from the very beginning by +the fact of its connection with religion. The season at which it was +performed was the festival of Dionysus; about his altar the chorus +danced; and the object of the performance was the representation of +scenes out of the lives of ancient heroes. The subject of the drama was +thus strictly prescribed; it must be selected out of a cycle of legends +familiar to the audience; and whatever freedom might be allowed to the +poet in his treatment of the theme, whatever the reflections he might +embroider upon it, the speculative or ethical views, the criticism of +contemporary life, all must be subservient to the main object originally +proposed, the setting forth, for edification as well as for delight, of +some episodes in the lives of those heroes of the past who were +considered not only to be greater than their descendants, but to be the +sons of gods and worthy themselves of worship as divine. + +By this fundamental condition the tragedy of the Greeks is distinguished +sharply, on the one hand from the Shakespearian drama, on the other from +the classical drama of the French. The tragedies of Shakespeare are +devoid, one might say, or at least comparatively devoid, of all +preconceptions. He was free to choose what subject he liked and to treat +it as he would; and no sense of obligation to religious or other points +of view, no feeling for traditions descended from a sacred past and not +lightly to be handled by those who were their trustees for the future, +sobered or restrained for evil or for good his half-barbaric genius. He +flung himself upon life with the irresponsible ardour of the discoverer +of a new continent; shaped and re-shaped it as he chose; carved from it +now the cynicism of _Measure for Measure_, now the despair of _Hamlet_ +and of _Lear_, now the radiant magnanimity of _The Tempest_, and +departed leaving behind him not a map or chart, but a series of mutually +incompatible landscapes. + +What Shakespeare gave, in short, was a many-sided representation of +life; what the Greek dramatist gave was an interpretation. But an +interpretation not simply personal to himself, but representative of the +national tradition and belief. The men whose deeds and passions he +narrated were the patterns and examples on the one hand, on the other +the warnings of his race; the gods who determined the fortunes they +sang, were working still among men; the moral laws that ruled the past +ruled the present too; and the history of the Hellenic race moved, under +a visible providence, from its divine origin onward to an end that would +be prosperous or the reverse according as later generations should +continue to observe the worship and traditions of their fathers +descended from heroes and gods. + +And it is the fact that in this sense it was representative of the +national consciousness, that distinguishes the Greek tragedy from the +classical drama of the French. For the latter, though it imitated the +ancients in outward form, was inspired with a totally different spirit. +The kings and heroes whose fortunes it narrated were not the ancestors +of the French race; they had no root in its affections, no connection +with its religious beliefs, no relation to its ethical conceptions. The +whole ideal set forth was not that which really inspired the nation, but +at best that which was supposed to inspire the court; and the whole +drama, like a tree transplanted to an alien soil, withers and dies for +lack of the nourishment which the tragedy of the Greeks unconsciously +imbibed from its encompassing air of national tradition. + +Such then was the general character of the Greek tragedy--an +interpretation of the national ideal. Let us now proceed to follow out +some of the consequences involved in this conception. + +In the first place, the theme represented is the life and fate of +ancient heroes--of personages, that is to say, greater than ordinary +men, both for good and for evil, in their qualities and in their +achievements, pregnant with fateful issues, makers or marrers of the +fortunes of the world. Tragic and terrible their destiny may be, but +never contemptible or squalid. Behind all suffering, behind sin and +crime, must lie redeeming magnanimity. A complete villain, says +Aristotle, is not a tragic character, for he has no hold upon the +sympathies; if he prosper, it is an outrage on common human feeling; if +he fall into disaster, it is merely what he deserves. Neither is it +admissible to represent the misfortunes of a thoroughly good man, for +that is merely painful and distressing; and least of all is it tolerable +gratuitously to introduce mere baseness, or madness, or other +aberrations from human nature. The true tragic hero is a man of high +place and birth who having a nature not ignoble has fallen into sin and +pays in suffering the penalty of his act. Nothing could throw more light +on the distinguishing characteristics of the Greek drama than these few +remarks of Aristotle, and nothing could better indicate how close, in +the Greek mind, was the connection between aesthetic and ethical +judgments. The canon of Aristotle would exclude as proper themes for +tragedy the character and fate, say, of Richard III--the absolutely bad +man suffering his appropriate desert; or of Kent and Cordelia--the +absolutely good, brought into unmerited affliction; and that not merely +because such themes offend the moral sense, but because by so offending +they destroy the proper pleasure of the tragic art. The whole aesthetic +effect is limited by ethical presuppositions; and to outrage these is to +defeat the very purpose of tragedy. + +Specially interesting in this connection are the strictures passed on +Euripides in the passage of the _Frogs_ of Aristophanes to which +allusion has already been made. Euripides is there accused of lowering +the tragic art by introducing--what? Women in love! The central theme of +modern tragedy! It is the boast of Aeschylus that there is not one of +his plays which touches on this subject: + + "I never allow'd of your lewd Sthenoboeas + Or filthy detestable Phaedras--not I! + Indeed I should doubt if my drama throughout + Exhibit an instance of woman in love!"[80] + +And there can be little doubt that with a Greek audience this would +count to him as a merit, and that the shifting of the centre of interest +by Euripides from the sterner passions of heroes and of kings to this +tenderer phase of human feeling would be felt even by those whom it +charmed to be a declension from the height of the older tragedy. + +And to this limitation of subject corresponds a limitation of treatment. +The Greek tragedy is composed from a definite point of view, with the +aim not merely to represent but also to interpret the theme. Underlying +the whole construction of the plot, the dialogue, the reflections, the +lyric interludes, is the intention to illustrate some general moral law, +some common and typical problem, some fundamental truth. Of the elder +dramatists at any rate, Aeschylus and Sophocles, one may even say that +it was their purpose--however imperfectly achieved--to "justify the +ways of God to man." To represent suffering as the punishment of sin is +the constant bent of Aeschylus; to justify the law of God against the +presumption of man is the central idea of Sophocles. In either case the +whole tone is essentially religious. To choose such a theme as Lear, to +treat it as Shakespeare has treated it, to leave it, as it were, +bleeding from a thousand wounds, in mute and helpless entreaty for the +healing that is never to be vouchsafed--this would have been repulsive, +if not impossible, to a Greek tragedian. Without ever descending from +concrete art to the abstractions of mere moralising, without ever +attempting to substitute a verbal formula for the full and complex +perception that grows out of a representation of life, the ancient +dramatists were nevertheless, in the whole apprehension of their theme, +determined by a more or less conscious speculative bias; the world to +them was not merely a splendid chaos, it was a divine plan; and even in +its darkest hollows, its passes most perilous and bleak, they have their +hand, though doubtful perhaps and faltering, upon the clue that is to +lead them up to the open sky. + +It is consonant with this account of the nature of Greek tragedy that it +should have laid more stress upon action than upon character. The +interest was centred on the universal bearing of certain acts and +situations, on the light which the experience represented threw on the +whole tendency and course of human life, not on the sentiments and +motives of the particular personages introduced. The characters are +broad and simple, not developing for the most part, but fixed, and +fitted therefore to be the mediums of direct action, of simple issues, +and typical situations. In the Greek tragedy the general point of view +predominates over the idiosyncrasies of particular persons. It is human +nature that is represented in the broad, not this or that highly +specialised variation; and what we have indicated as the general aim, +the interpretation of life, is never obscured by the predominance of +exceptional and so to speak, accidental characteristics. Man is the +subject of the Greek drama; the subject of the modern novel is Tom and +Dick. + +Finally, to the realisation of this general aim, the whole form of the +Greek drama was admirably adapted. It consisted very largely of +conversations between two persons, representing two opposed points of +view, and giving occasion for an almost scientific discussion of every +problem of action raised in the play; and between these conversations +were inserted lyric odes in which the chorus commented on the +situation, bestowed advice or warning, praise or blame, and finally +summed up the moral of the whole. Through the chorus, in fact, the poet +could speak in his own person, and impose upon the whole tragedy any +tone which he desired. Periodically he could drop the dramatist and +assume the preacher; and thus ensure that his play should be, what we +have seen was its recognised ideal, not merely a representation but an +interpretation of life. + +But this without ceasing to be a work of art. In attempting to analyse +in abstract terms the general character of the Greek tragedy we have +necessarily thrown into the shade what after all was its primary and +most essential aspect; an aspect, however, of which a full appreciation +could only be attained not by a mere perusal of the test, but by what is +unfortunately for ever beyond our power, the witnessing of an actual +representation as it was given on the Greek stage. For from a purely +aesthetic point of view the Greek drama must be reckoned among the most +perfect of art forms. + +Taking place in the open air, on the sunny slope of a hill, valley and +plain or islanded sea stretching away below to meet the blazing blue of +a cloudless sky, the moving pageant, thus from the first set in tune +with nature, brought to a focus of splendour the rays of every separate +art. More akin to an opera than to a play it had, as its basis, music. +For the drama had developed out of the lyric ode, and retained +throughout what was at first its only element, the dance and song of a +mimetic chorus. By this centre of rhythmic motion and pregnant melody +the burden of the tale was caught up and echoed and echoed again, as the +living globe divided into spheres of answering song, the clear and +precise significance of the plot, never obscure to the head, being thus +brought home in music to the passion of the heart, the idea embodied in +lyric verse, the verse transfigured by song, and song and verse +reflected as in a mirror to the eye by the swing and beat of the limbs +they stirred to consonance of motion. And while such was the character +of the odes that broke the action of the play, the action itself was an +appeal not less to the ear and to the eye than to the passion and the +intellect. The circumstances of the representation, the huge auditorium +in the open air, lent themselves less to "acting" in our sense of the +term, than to attitude and declamation. The actors raised on high boots +above their natural height, their faces hidden in masks and their tones +mechanically magnified, must have relied for their effects not upon +facial play, or rapid and subtle variations of voice and gesture, but +upon a certain statuesque beauty of pose, and a chanting intonation of +that majestic iambic verse whose measure would have been obscured by a +rapid and conversational delivery. The representation would thus become +moving sculpture to the eye, and to the ear, as it were, a sleep of +music between the intenser interludes of the chorus; and the spectator +without being drawn away by an imitative realism from the calm of +impassioned contemplation into the fever and fret of a veritable actor +on the scene, received an impression based throughout on that clear +intellectual foundation, that almost prosaic lucidity of sentiment and +plot, which is preserved to us in the written text, but raised by the +accompanying appeal to the sense, made as it must have been made by such +artists as the Greeks, by the grouping of forms and colours, the +recitative, the dance and the song, to such a greatness and height of +aesthetic significance as can hardly have been realised by any other +form of art production. + +The nearest modern analogy to what the ancient drama must have been is +to be found probably in the operas of Wagner, who indeed was strongly +influenced by the tragedy of the Greeks. It was his ideal like theirs, +to combine the various branches of art, employing not only music but +poetry, sculpture, painting and the dance, for the representation of his +dramatic theme; and his conception also to make art the interpreter of +life, reflecting in a national drama the national consciousness, the +highest action and the deepest passion and thought of the German race. +To consider how far in this attempt he falls short of or goes beyond the +achievement of the Greeks, and to examine the wide dissimilarities that +underlie the general identity of aim, would be to wander too far afield +from our present theme. But the comparison may be recommended to those +who are anxious to form a concrete idea of what the effect of a Greek +tragedy may have been, and to clothe in imagination the dead bones of +the literary text with the flesh and blood of a representation to the +sense. + +Meantime, to assist the reader to realise with somewhat greater +precision the bearing of the foregoing remarks, it may be worth while to +give an outline sketch of one of the most celebrated of the Greek +tragedies, the _Agamemnon_ of Aeschylus. + +The hero of the drama belongs to that heroic house whose tragic history +was among the most terrible and the most familiar to a Greek audience. +Tantalus, the founder of the family, for some offence against the gods, +was suffering in Hades the punishment which is christened by his name. +His son Pelops was stained with the blood of Myrtilus. Of the two sons +of the next generation, Thyestes seduced the wife of his brother Atreus; +and Atreus in return killed the sons of Thyestes, and made the father +unwittingly eat the flesh of the murdered boys. Agamemnon, son of +Atreus, to propitiate Artemis, sacrificed his daughter Iphigenia, and in +revenge was murdered by Clytemnestra his wife. And Clytemnestra was +killed by Orestes, her son, in atonement for the death of Agamemnon. For +generations the race had been dogged by crime and punishment; and in +choosing for his theme the murder of Agamemnon the dramatist could +assume in his audience so close a familiarity with the past history of +the House that he could call into existence by an allusive word that +sombre background of woe to enhance the terrors of his actual +presentation. The figures he brought into vivid relief joined hands with +menacing forms that faded away into the night of the future and the +past; while above them hung, intoning doom, the phantom host of Furies. + +Yet at the outset of the drama all promises well. The watchman on the +roof of the palace, in the tenth year of his watch, catches sight at +last of the signal fire that announces the capture of Troy and the +speedy return of Agamemnon. With joy he proclaims to the House the +long-delayed and welcome news; yet even in the moment of exultation lets +slip a doubtful phrase hinting at something behind, which he dares not +name, something which may turn to despair the triumph of victory. +Hereupon enter the chorus of Argive elders, chanting as they move to the +measure of a stately march. They sing how ten years before Agamemnon and +Menelaus had led forth the host of Greece, at the bidding of the Zeus +who protects hospitality, to recover for Menelaus Helen his wife, +treacherously stolen by Paris. Then, as they take their places and begin +their rhythmic dance, in a strain of impassioned verse that is at once a +narrative and a lyric hymn, they tell, or rather present in a series of +vivid images, flashing as by illumination of lightning out of a night of +veiled and sombre boding, the tale of the deed that darkened the +starting of the host--the sacrifice of Iphigenia to the goddess whose +wrath was delaying the fleet at Aulis. In verse, in music, in pantomime, +the scene lives again--the struggle in the father's heart, the +insistence of his brother chiefs, the piteous glance of the girl, and at +last the unutterable end; while above and through it all rings like a +knell of fate the refrain that is the motive of the whole drama: + + "Sing woe, sing woe, but may the Good prevail." + +At the conclusion of the ode enters Clytemnestra. She makes a formal +announcement to the chorus of the fall of Troy; describes the course of +the signal-fire from beacon to beacon as it sped, and pictures in +imagination the scenes even then taking place in the doomed city. On her +withdrawal the chorus break once more into song and dance. To the music +of a solemn hymn they point the moral of the fall of Troy, the certain +doom of violence and fraud descended upon Paris and his House. Once more +the vivid pictures flash from the night of woe--Helen in her fatal +beauty stepping lightly to her doom, the widower's nights of mourning +haunted by the ghost of love, the horrors of the war that followed, the +slain abroad and the mourners at home, the change of living flesh and +blood for the dust and ashes of the tomb. At last with a return to their +original theme, the doom of insolence, the chorus close their ode and +announce the arrival of a messenger from Troy. Talthybius, the herald, +enters as spokesman of the army and king, describing the hardships they +have suffered and the joy of the triumphant issue. To him Clytemnestra +announces, in words of which the irony is patent to the audience, her +sufferings in the absence of her husband and her delight at the prospect +of his return. He will find her, she says, as he left her, a faithful +watcher of the home, her loyalty sure, her honour undefiled. Then +follows another choral ode, similar in theme to the last, dwelling on +the woe brought by the act of Paris upon Troy, the change of the bridal +song to the trump of war and the dirge of death; contrasting, in a +profusion of splendid tropes, the beauty of Helen with the curse to +which it is bound; and insisting once more on the doom that attends +insolence and pride. At the conclusion of this song the measure changes +to a march, and the chorus turn to welcome the triumphant king. +Agamemnon enters, and behind him the veiled and silent figure of a +woman. After greeting the gods of his House, the King, in brief and +stilted phrase, acknowledges the loyalty of the chorus, but hints at +much that is amiss which it must be his first charge to set right. +Hereupon enters Clytemnestra, and in a speech of rhetorical exaggeration +tells of her anxious waiting for her lord and her inexpressible joy at +his return. In conclusion she directs that purple cloth be spread upon +his path that he may enter the house as befits a conqueror. After a show +of resistance, Agamemnon yields the point, and the contrast at which +the dramatist aims is achieved. With the pomp of an eastern monarch, +always repellent to the Greek mind, the King steps across the threshold, +steps, as the audience knows, to his death. The higher the reach of his +power and pride the more terrible and swift is the nemesis; and +Clytemnestra follows in triumph with the enigmatic cry upon her lips: +"Zeus who art god of fulfilment, fulfil my prayers." As she withdraws +the chorus begin a song of boding fear, the more terrible that it is +still indefinite. Something is going to happen--the presentiment is +sure. But what, but what? They search the night in vain. Meantime, +motionless and silent waits the figure of the veiled woman. It is +Cassandra, the prophetess, daughter of Priam of Troy, whom Agamemnon has +carried home as his prize. Clytemnestra returns to urge her to enter the +house; she makes no sign and utters no word. The queen changes her tone +from courtesy to anger and rebuke; the figure neither stirs nor speaks; +and Clytemnestra at last with an angry threat leaves her and returns to +the palace. Then, and not till then, a cry breaks from the stranger's +lips, a passionate cry to Apollo who gave her her fatal gift. All the +sombre history of the House to which she has been brought, the woe that +has been and the woe that is to come, passes in pictures across her +inner sense. In a series of broken ejaculations, not sentences but lyric +cries, she evokes the scenes of the past and of the future. Blood drips +from the palace; in its chambers the Furies crouch; the murdered sons of +Thyestes wail in its haunted courts; and ever among the visions of the +past that one of the future floats and fades, clearly discerned, +impossible to avert, the murder of a husband by a wife; and in the rear +of that, most pitiful of all, the violent death of the seer who sees in +vain and may not help. Between Cassandra and the Chorus it is a duet of +anguish and fear; in the broken lyric phrases a phantom music wails; +till at last, at what seems the breaking-point, the tension is relaxed, +and dropping into the calmer iambic recitative, Cassandra tells her +message in plainer speech and clearly proclaims the murder of the King. +Then, with a last appeal to the avenger that is to come, she enters the +palace alone to meet her death.--The stage is empty. Suddenly a cry is +heard from within; again, and then again; while the chorus hesitate the +deed is done; the doors are thrown open, and Clytemnestra is seen +standing over the corpses of her victims. All disguise is now thrown +off; the murderess avows and triumphs in her deed; she justifies it as +vengeance for the sacrifice of Iphigenia, and sees in herself not a free +human agent but the incarnate curse of the House of Tantalus. And now +for the first time appears the adulterer Aegisthus, who has planned the +whole behind the scenes. He too is an avenger, for he is the son of that +Thyestes who was made to feed on his own children's flesh. The murder of +Agamemnon is but one more link in the long chain of hereditary guilt; +and with that exposition of the pitiless law of punishment and crime +this chapter of the great drama comes to a close. But the _Agamemnon_ is +only the first of a series of three plays closely connected and meant to +be performed in succession; and the problem raised in the first of them, +the crime that cries for punishment and the punishment that is itself a +new crime, is solved in the last by a reconciliation of the powers of +heaven and hell, and the pardon of the last offender in the person of +Orestes. To sketch, however, the plan of the other dramas of the trilogy +would be to trespass too far upon our space and time. It is enough to +have illustrated, by the example of the _Agamemnon_, the general +character of a Greek tragedy; and those who care to pursue the subject +further must be referred to the text of the plays themselves. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 79: From "The Greek View of Life," 1909 (sixth edition). By +permission of Messrs. Doubleday, Page & Co.] + +[Footnote 80: From Aristophanes' "Frogs," l. 1043. Translated by Frere.] + + + + +SHAKESPEARE[81] + +THOMAS CARLYLE + + +As Dante, the Italian man, was sent into our world to embody musically +the Religion of the Middle Ages, the Religion of our Modern Europe, its +Inner Life; so Shakespeare, we may say, embodies for us the Outer Life +of our Europe as developed then, its chivalries, courtesies, humours, +ambitions, what practical way of thinking, acting, looking at the world, +men then had. As in Homer we may still construe Old Greece; so in +Shakespeare and Dante, after thousands of years, what our modern Europe +was, in Faith and in Practice, will still be legible. Dante has given us +the Faith or soul; Shakespeare, in a not less noble way, has given us +the Practice or body. This latter also we were to have; a man was sent +for it, the man Shakespeare. Just when that chivalry way of life had +reached its last finish, and was on the point of breaking down into slow +or swift dissolution, as we now see it everywhere, this other sovereign +Poet, with his seeing eye, with his perennial singing voice, was sent to +take note of it, to give long-enduring record of it. Two fit men: Dante, +deep, fierce as the central fire of the world; Shakespeare, wide, +placid, far-seeing, as the Sun, the upper light of the world. Italy +produced the one world-voice; we English had the honour of producing the +other. + +Curious enough how, as it were by mere accident, this man came to us. I +think always, so great, quiet, complete and self-sufficing is this +Shakespeare, had the Warwickshire Squire not prosecuted him for +deer-stealing, we had perhaps never heard of him as a Poet! The woods +and skies, the rustic Life of Man in Stratford there, had been enough +for this man! But indeed that strange outbudding of our whole English +Existence, which we call the Elizabethan Era, did not it too come as of +its own accord? The "Tree Igdrasil" buds and withers by its own +laws,--too deep for our scanning. Yet it does bud and wither, and every +bough and leaf of it is there, by fixed eternal laws; not a Sir Thomas +Lucy but comes at the hour fit for him. Curious, I say, and not +sufficiently considered: how everything does co-operate with all; not a +leaf rotting on the highway but is indissoluble portion of solar and +stellar systems; no thought, word or act of man but has sprung withal +out of all men, and works sooner or later, recognisably or +irrecognisably, on all men! It is all a Tree: circulation of sap and +influences, mutual communication of every minutest leaf with the lowest +talon of a root, with every other greatest and minutest portion of the +whole. The Tree Igdrasil, that has its roots down in the Kingdoms of +Hela and Death, and whose boughs overspread the highest Heaven! + +In some sense it may be said that this glorious Elizabethan Era with its +Shakespeare, as the outcome and flowerage of all which had preceded it, +is itself attributable to the Catholicism of the Middle Ages. The +Christian Faith, which was the theme of Dante's Song, had produced this +Practical Life which Shakespeare was to sing. For Religion then, as it +now and always is, was the soul of Practice; the primary vital fact in +men's life. And remark here, as rather curious, that Middle-Age +Catholicism was abolished, so far as Acts of Parliament could abolish +it, before Shakespeare, the noblest product of it, made his appearance. +He did make his appearance nevertheless. Nature at her own time, with +Catholicism or what else might be necessary, sent him forth; taking +small thought of Acts of Parliament. King-Henrys, Queen-Elizabeths go +their way; and Nature too goes hers. Acts of Parliament, on the whole, +are small, notwithstanding the noise they make. What Act of Parliament, +debate at St. Stephen's,[82] on the hustings or elsewhere, was it that +brought this Shakespeare into being? No dining at Freemasons' Tavern, +opening subscription-lists, selling of shares, and infinite other +jangling and true or false endeavouring! This Elizabethan Era, and all +its nobleness and blessedness, came without proclamation, preparation of +ours. Priceless Shakespeare was the free gift of Nature; given +altogether silently; received altogether silently, as if it had been a +thing of little account. And yet, very literally, it is a priceless +thing. One should look at that side of matters too. + +Of this Shakespeare of ours, perhaps the opinion one sometimes hears a +little idolatrously expressed is, in fact, the right one; I think the +best judgment not of this country only: but of Europe at large, is +slowly pointing to the conclusion, That Shakespeare is the chief of all +Poets hitherto; the greatest intellect who, in our recorded world, has +left record of himself in the way of Literature. On the whole, I know +not such a power of vision, such a faculty of thought, if we take all +the characters of it, in any other man. Such a calmness of depth; placid +joyous strength; all things imaged in that great soul of his so true and +clear, as in a tranquil unfathomable sea! It has been said, that in the +constructing of Shakespeare's Dramas there is, apart from all other +"faculties" as they are called, an understanding manifested, equal to +that in Bacon's _Novum Organum_. That is true; and it is not a truth +that strikes every one. It would become more apparent if we tried, any +of us for himself, how, out of Shakespeare's dramatic materials, _we_ +could fashion such a result! The built house seems all so fit,--everyway +as it should be, as if it came there by its own law and the nature of +things,--we forget the rude disorderly quarry it was shaped from. The +very perfection of the house, as if Nature herself had made it, hides +the builder's merit. Perfect, more perfect than any other man, we may +call Shakespeare in this: he discerns, knows as by instinct, what +condition he works under, what his materials are, what his own force and +its relation to them is. It is not a transitory glance of insight that +will suffice; it is deliberate illumination of the whole matter; it is a +calmly _seeing_ eye; a great intellect, in short. How a man, of some +wide thing that he has witnessed, will construct a narrative, what kind +of picture and delineation he will give of it--is the best measure you +could get of what intellect is in the man. Which circumstance is vital +and shall stand prominent; which unessential, fit to be suppressed; +where is the true _beginning_, the true sequence and ending? To find out +this, you task the whole force of insight that is in the man. He must +_understand_ the thing; according to the depth of his understanding, +will the fitness of his answer be. You will try him so. Does like join +itself to like; does the spirit of method stir in that confusion, so +that its embroilment becomes order? Can the man say, _Fiat lux_, Let +there be light; and out of chaos make a world? Precisely as there is +_light_ in himself, will he accomplish this. + +Or indeed we may say again, it is in what I called Portrait-painting, +delineating of men and things, especially of men, that Shakespeare is +great. All the greatness of the man comes out decisively here. It is +unexampled, I think, that calm creative perspicacity of Shakespeare. The +thing he looks at reveals not this or that face of it, but its inmost +heart, and generic secret: it dissolves itself as in light before him, +so that he discerns the perfect structure of it. Creative, we said: +poetic creation, what is this too but _seeing_ the thing sufficiently? +The _word_ that will describe the thing, follows of itself from such +clear intense sight of the thing. And is not Shakespeare's _morality_, +his valour, candour, tolerance, truthfulness; his whole victorious +strength and greatness, which can triumph over such obstructions, +visible there too? Great as the world! No _twisted_, poor convex-concave +mirror, reflecting all objects with its own convexities and concavities; +a perfectly _level_ mirror--that is to say withal, if we will +understand it, a man justly related to all things and men, a good man. +It is truly a lordly spectacle how this great soul takes-in all kinds of +men and objects, a Falstaff, an Othello, a Juliet, a Coriolanus; sets +them all forth to us in their round completeness; loving, just, the +equal brother of all. _Novum Organum_, and all the intellect you will +find in Bacon, is of a quite secondary order; earthy, material, poor in +comparison with this. Among modern men, one finds, in strictness, almost +nothing of the same rank. Goethe alone, since the days of Shakespeare, +reminds me of it. Of him too you say that he _saw_ the object; you may +say what he himself says of Shakespeare: "His characters are like +watches with dial-plates of transparent crystal; they show you the hour +like others, and the inward mechanism also is all visible." + +The seeing eye! It is this that discloses the inner harmony of things; +what Nature meant, what musical idea Nature has wrapped-up in these +often rough embodiments. Something she did mean. To the seeing eye that +something were discernible. Are they base, miserable things? You can +laugh over them, you can weep over them; you can in some way or other +genially relate yourself to them--you can, at lowest, hold your peace +about them, turn away your own and others' face from them, till the hour +come for practically exterminating and extinguishing them! At bottom, it +is the Poet's first gift, as it is all men's, that he have intellect +enough. He will be a Poet if he have: a Poet in word; or failing that, +perhaps still better, a Poet in act. Whether he write at all, and if so, +whether in prose or in verse, will depend on accidents: who knows on +what extremely trivial accidents,--perhaps on his having had a +singing-master, on his being taught to sing in his boyhood! But the +faculty which enables him to discern the inner heart of things, and the +harmony that dwells there (for whatsoever exists has a harmony in the +heart of it, or it would not hold together and exist), is not the result +of habits or accidents, but the gift of Nature herself; the primary +outfit for a Heroic Man in what sort soever. To the Poet, as to every +other, we say first of all _See_. If you cannot do that, it is of no use +to keep stringing rhymes together, jingling sensibilities against each +other, and _name_ yourself a Poet; there is no hope for you. If you can, +there is, in prose or verse, in action or speculation, all manner of +hope. The crabbed old Schoolmaster used to ask, when they brought him a +new pupil, "But are ye sure he's _not a dunce_?" Why, really one might +ask the same thing, in regard to every man proposed for whatsoever +function; and consider it as the one inquiry needful: Are ye sure he's +not a dunce? There is, in this world, no other entirely fatal person. + +For, in fact, I say the degree of vision that dwells in a man is a +correct measure of the man. If called to define Shakespeare's faculty, I +should say superiority of Intellect, and think I had included all under +that. What indeed are faculties? We talk of faculties as if they were +distinct, things separable; as if a man had intellect, imagination, +fancy, etc., as he has hands, feet and arms. That is a capital error. +Then again, we hear of a man's "intellectual nature," and of his "moral +nature," as if these again were divisible, and existed apart. +Necessities of language do perhaps prescribe such forms of utterance; we +must speak, I am aware, in that way, if we are to speak at all. But +words ought not to harden into things for us. It seems to me, our +apprehension of this matter is, for most part, radically falsified +thereby. We ought to know withal, and to keep forever in mind, that +these divisions are at bottom but _names_; that man's spiritual nature, +the vital Force which dwells in him, is essentially one and indivisible; +that what we call imagination, fancy, understanding, and so forth, are +but different figures of the same Power of Insight, all indissolubly +connected with each other, physiognomically related; that if we knew one +of them, we might know all of them. Morality itself, what we call the +moral quality of a man, what is this but another _side_ of the one vital +Force whereby he is and works? All that a man does is physiognomical of +him. You may see how a man would fight, by the way in which he sings; +his courage, or want of courage, is visible in the word he utters, in +the opinion he has formed, no less than in the stroke he strikes. He is +_one_; and preaches the same Self abroad in all these ways. + +Without hands a man might have feet, and could still walk: but, consider +it--without morality, intellect were impossible for him; a thoroughly +immoral _man_ could not know anything at all! To know a thing, what we +can call knowing, a man must first _love_ the thing, sympathise with it: +that is, be _virtuously_ related to it. If he have not the justice to +put down his own selfishness at every turn, the courage to stand by the +dangerous true at every turn, how shall he know? His virtues, all of +them, will lie recorded in his knowledge. Nature, with her truth, +remains to the bad, to the selfish and the pusillanimous forever a +sealed book: what such can know of Nature is mean, superficial, small; +for the uses of the day merely. But does not the very Fox know something +of Nature? Exactly so: it knows where the geese lodge! The human +Reynard, very frequent everywhere in the world, what more does he know +but this and the like of this? Nay, it should be considered too, that if +the Fox had not a certain vulpine _morality_, he could not even know +where the geese were, or get at the geese! If he spent his time in +splenetic atrabiliar reflections on his own misery, his ill usage by +Nature, Fortune and other Foxes, and so forth; and had not courage, +promptitude, practicality, and other suitable vulpine gifts and graces, +he would catch no geese. We may say of the Fox too, that his morality +and insight are of the same dimensions; different faces of the same +internal unity of vulpine life! These things are worth stating; for the +contrary of them acts with manifold very baleful perversion, in this +time: what limitations, modifications they require, your own candour +will supply. + +If I say, therefore, that Shakespeare is the greatest of Intellects, I +have said all concerning him. But there is more in Shakespeare's +intellect than we have yet seen. It is what I call an unconscious +intellect; there is more virtue in it than he himself is aware of. +Novalis beautifully remarks of him, that those Dramas of his are +Products of Nature too, deep as Nature herself. I find a great truth in +this saying. Shakespeare's Art is not Artifice; the noblest worth of it +is not there by plan or precontrivance. It grows-up from the deeps of +Nature, through this noble sincere soul, who is a voice of Nature. The +latest generations of men will find new meanings in Shakespeare, new +elucidations of their own human being; "new harmonies with the infinite +structure of the Universe; concurrences with later ideas, affinities +with the higher powers and senses of man." This well deserves +meditating. It is Nature's highest reward to a true simple great soul, +that he get thus to be _a part of herself_. Such a man's works, +whatsoever he with utmost conscious exertion and forethought shall +accomplish, grow up withal _un_consciously, from the unknown deeps in +him;--as the oak-tree grows from the Earth's bosom, as the mountains and +waters shape themselves; with a symmetry grounded on Nature's own laws, +conformable to all Truth whatsoever. How much in Shakespeare lies hid; +his sorrows, his silent struggles known to himself; much that was not +known at all, not speakable at all: like _roots_, like sap and forces +working underground! Speech is great; but Silence is greater. + +Withal the joyful tranquillity of this man is notable. I will not blame +Dante for his misery: it is as battle without victory; but true +battle,--the first, indispensable thing. Yet I call Shakespeare greater +than Dante, in that he fought truly, and did conquer. Doubt it not, he +had his own sorrows: those _Sonnets_ of his will even testify expressly +in what deep waters he had waded, and swum struggling for his life--as +what man like him ever failed to have to do? It seems to me a heedless +notion, our common one, that he sat like a bird on the bough; and sang +forth, free and offhand, never knowing the troubles of other men. Not +so; with no man is it so. How could a man travel forward from rustic +deer-poaching to such tragedy-writing, and not fall-in with sorrows by +the way? Or, still better, how could a man delineate a Hamlet, a +Coriolanus, a Macbeth, so many suffering heroic hearts, if his own +heroic heart had never suffered?--And now, in contrast with all this, +observe his mirthfulness, his genuine overflowing love of laughter! You +would say, in no point does he _exaggerate_ but only in laughter. Fiery +objurgations, words that pierce and burn, are to be found in +Shakespeare; yet he is always in measure here; never what Johnson would +remark as a specially "good hater." But his laughter seems to pour from +him in floods; he heaps all manner of ridiculous nicknames on the butt +he is bantering, tumbles and tosses him in all sorts of horse-play; you +would say, with his whole heart laughs. And then, if not always the +finest, it is always a genial laughter. Not at mere weakness, at misery +or poverty; never. No man who _can_ laugh, what we call laughing, will +laugh at these things. It is some poor character only _desiring_ to +laugh, and have the credit of wit, that does so. Laughter means +sympathy; good laughter is not "the crackling of thorns under the pot." +Even at stupidity and pretension this Shakespeare does not laugh +otherwise than genially. Dogberry and Verges tickle our very hearts; and +we dismiss them covered with explosions of laughter: but we like the +poor fellows only the better for our laughing; and hope they will get on +well there, and continue Presidents of the City-watch. Such laughter, +like sunshine on the deep sea, is very beautiful to me. + +We have no room to speak of Shakespeare's individual works; though +perhaps there is much still waiting to be said on that head. Had we, for +instance, all his plays reviewed as _Hamlet_, in _Wilhelm Meister_, is! +A thing which might, one day, be done. August Wilhelm Schlegel has a +remark on his Historical Plays, _Henry Fifth_ and the others, which is +worth remembering. He calls them a kind of National Epic. Marlborough, +you recollect, said, he knew no English History but what he had learned +from Shakespeare. There are really, if we look to it, few as memorable +Histories. The great salient points are admirably seized; all rounds +itself off, into a kind of rhythmic coherence; it is, as Schlegel says, +_epic_;--as indeed all delineation by a great thinker will be. There are +right beautiful things in those Pieces, which indeed together form one +beautiful thing. That battle of Agincourt strikes me as one of the most +perfect things, in its sort, we anywhere have of Shakespeare's. The +description of the two hosts: the wornout, jaded English; the dread +hour, big with destiny, when the battle shall begin; and then that +deathless valour: "Ye good yeomen, whose limbs were made in England!" +There is a noble Patriotism in it--far other than the "indifference" you +sometimes hear ascribed to Shakespeare. A true English heart breathes, +calm and strong, through the whole business; not boisterous, protrusive; +all the better for that. There is a sound in it like the ring of steel. +This man too had a right stroke in him, had it come to that! + +But I will say, of Shakespeare's works generally, that we have no full +impress of him there; even as full as we have of many men. His works are +so many windows, through which we see a glimpse of the world that was in +him. All his works seem, comparatively speaking, cursory, imperfect, +written under cramping circumstances; giving only here and there a note +of the full utterance of the man. Passages there are that come upon you +like splendour out of Heaven; bursts of radiance, illuminating the very +heart of the thing: you say, "That is _true_, spoken once and forever; +wheresoever and whensoever there is an open human soul, that will be +recognised as true!" Such bursts, however, make us feel that the +surrounding matter is not radiant; that it is in part, temporary, +conventional. Alas, Shakespeare had to write for the Globe Playhouse: +his great soul had to crush itself, as it could, into that and no other +mould. It was with him, then, as it is with us all. No man works save +under conditions. The sculptor, cannot set his own free Thought before +us; but his Thought as he could translate it into the stone that was +given, with the tools that were given. _Disjecta membra_[83] are all +that we find of any Poet, or of any man. + +Whoever looks intelligently at this Shakespeare may recognise that he +too was a _Prophet_, in his way; of an insight analogous to the +Prophetic, though he took it up in another strain. Nature seemed to this +man also divine; _un_speakable, deep as Tophet, high as Heaven: "We are +such stuff as Dreams are made of!" That scroll in Westminster Abbey,[84] +which few read with understanding, is of the depth of any seer. But the +man sang; did not preach, except musically. We called Dante the +melodious Priest of Middle-Age Catholicism. May we not call Shakespeare +the still more melodious Priest of a _true_ Catholicism, the "Universal +Church" of the Future and of all times? No narrow superstition, harsh +asceticism, intolerance, fanatical fierceness or perversion: a +Revelation, so far as it goes, that such a thousandfold hidden beauty +and divineness dwells in all Nature; which let all men worship as they +can! We may say without offence, that there rises a kind of universal +Psalm out of this Shakespeare too; not unfit to make itself heard among +the still more sacred Psalms. Not in disharmony with these, if we +understood them, but in harmony!--I cannot call this Shakespeare a +"Sceptic," as some do; his indifference to the creeds and theological +quarrels of his time misleading them. No: neither unpatriotic, though he +says little about his Patriotism; nor sceptic, though he says little +about his Faith. Such "indifference" was the fruit of his greatness +withal: his whole heart was in his own grand sphere of worship (we may +call it such); these other controversies, vitally important to other +men, were not vital to him. + +But call it worship, call it what you will, is it not a right glorious +thing, and set of things, this that Shakespeare has brought us? For +myself, I feel that there is actually a kind of sacredness in the fact +of such a man being sent into this Earth. Is he not an eye to us all; a +blessed heaven-sent Bringer of Light?--and, at bottom, was it not +perhaps far better that this Shakespeare, everyway an unconscious man, +was _conscious_ of no Heavenly message? He did not feel, like Mahomet, +because he saw into those internal Splendours, that he specially was the +"Prophet of God:" and was he not greater than Mahomet in that? Greater; +and also, if we compute strictly, as we did in Dante's case, more +successful. It was intrinsically an error that notion of Mahomet's, of +his supreme Prophethood; and has come down to us inextricably involved +in error to this day; dragging along with it such a coil of fables, +impurities, intolerances, as makes it a questionable step for me here +and now to say, as I have done, that Mahomet was a true Speaker at all, +and not rather an ambitious charlatan, perversity and simulacrum; no +Speaker, but a Babbler! Even in Arabia, as I compute, Mahomet will have +exhausted himself and become obsolete, while this Shakespeare, this +Dante may still be young;--while this Shakespeare may still pretend to +be a Priest of Mankind, of Arabia as of other places, for unlimited +periods to come! + +Compared with any speaker or singer one knows, even with Aeschylus or +Homer, why should he not, for veracity and universality, last like them? +He is _sincere_ as they; reaches deep down like them, to the universal +and perennial. But as for Mahomet, I think it had been better for him +_not_ to be so conscious! Alas, poor Mahomet; all that he was +_conscious_ of was a mere error; a futility and triviality--as indeed +such ever is. The truly great in him too was the unconscious: that he +was a wild Arab lion of the desert, and did speak-out with that great +thunder-voice of his, not by words which he _thought_ to be great, but +by actions, by feelings, by a history which _were_ great! His Koran has +become a stupid piece of prolix absurdity; we do not believe, like him +that God wrote that! The Great Man here too, as always' is a Force of +Nature: whatsoever is truly great in him springs-up from the +_in_articulate deeps. + +Well: this is our poor Warwickshire Peasant, who rose to be Manager of a +Playhouse, so that he could live without begging; whom the Earl of +Southampton cast some kind glances on; whom Sir Thomas Lucy, many thanks +to him, was for sending to the Treadmill! We did not account him a god, +like Odin, while he dwelt with us;--on which point there were much to be +said. But I will say rather, or repeat: In spite of the sad state +Hero-worship now lies in, consider what this Shakespeare has actually +become among us. Which Englishman we ever made, in this land of ours, +which million of Englishmen, would we not give-up rather than the +Stratford Peasant? There is no regiment of highest Dignitaries that we +would sell him for. He is the grandest thing we have yet done. For our +honour among foreign nations, as an ornament to our English Household, +what item is there that we would not surrender rather than him? Consider +now, if they asked us, Will you give-up your Indian Empire or your +Shakespeare, you English; never have had any Indian Empire, or never +have had any Shakespeare? Really it were a grave question. Official +persons would answer doubtless in official language; but we, for our +part too, should not we be forced to answer: Indian Empire, or no Indian +Empire; we cannot do without Shakespeare! Indian Empire will go, at any +rate, some day; but this Shakespeare does not go, he lasts forever with +us; we cannot give-up our Shakespeare! + +Nay, apart from spiritualities; and considering him merely as a real, +marketable, tangibly-useful possession. England, before long, this +Island of ours, will hold but a small fraction of the English: in +America, in New Holland,[85] east and west to the very Antipodes, there +will be a Saxondom covering great spaces of the Globe. And now, what is +it that can keep all these together into virtually one Nation, so that +they do not fall-out and fight, but live at peace, in brotherlike +intercourse, helping one another? This is justly regarded as the +greatest practical problem, the thing all manner of sovereignties and +governments are here to accomplish: what is it that will accomplish +this? Acts of Parliament, administrative prime-ministers cannot. America +is parted from us, so far as Parliament could part it. Call it not +fantastic, for there is much reality in it: Here, I say, is an English +King, whom no time or chance, Parliament or combination of Parliaments, +can dethrone! This King Shakespeare, does not he shine, in crowned +sovereignty, over us all, as the noblest, gentlest, yet strongest of +rallying-signs; _in_destructible; really more valuable in that point of +view than any other means or appliance whatsoever? We can fancy him as +radiant aloft over all the Nations of Englishmen, a thousand years +hence. From Paramatta, from New York, wheresoever, under what sort of +Parish-Constable soever, English men and women are, they will say to one +another: "Yes, this Shakespeare is ours; we produced him, we speak and +think by him; we are of one blood and kind with him." The most +common-sense politician, too, if he pleases, may think of that. + +Yes, truly, it is a great thing for a Nation that it get an articulate +voice; that it produce a man who will speak-forth melodiously what the +heart of it means! Italy, for example, poor Italy lies dismembered, +scattered asunder, not appearing in any protocol or treaty as a unity at +all; yet the noble Italy is actually _one_: Italy produced its Dante; +Italy can speak! The Czar of all the Russias, he is strong, with so many +bayonets, Cossacks and cannons; and does a great feat in keeping such a +tract of Earth politically together; but he cannot yet speak. Something +great in him, but it is a dumb greatness. He has had no voice of genius, +to be heard of all men and times. He must learn to speak. He is a great +dumb monster hitherto. His cannons and Cossacks will all have rusted +into nonentity, while that Dante's voice is still audible. The Nation +that has a Dante is bound together as no dumb Russia can be. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 81: From Lecture III, "The Hero as Poet," in "Heroes and +Hero-Worship," 1841.] + +[Footnote 82: St. Stephen's: House of Commons.] + +[Footnote 83: Scattered pieces.] + +[Footnote 84: The passage in Shakespeare's "Tempest" from which the +words quoted in the preceding sentence are taken, is inscribed on the +scroll in the hand of Shakespeare's statue in Westminster Abbey.] + +[Footnote 85: New Holland: Australia.] + + + + +CHARLES LAMB[86] + +WALTER PATER + + +Those English critics who at the beginning of the present century +introduced from Germany, together with some other subtleties of thought +transplanted hither not without advantage, the distinction between the +_Fancy_ and the _Imagination_, made much also of the cognate distinction +between _Wit_ and _Humour_, between that unreal and transitory mirth, +which is as the crackling of thorns under the pot, and the laughter +which blends with tears and even with the sublimities of the +imagination, and which, in its most exquisite motives, is one with +pity--the laughter of the comedies of Shakespeare, hardly less +expressive than his moods of seriousness or solemnity, of that deeply +stirred soul of sympathy in him, as flowing from which both tears and +laughter are alike genuine and contagious. + +This distinction between wit and humour, Coleridge and other kindred +critics applied, with much effect, in their studies of some of our older +English writers. And as the distinction between imagination and fancy, +made popular by Wordsworth, found its best justification in certain +essential differences of stuff in Wordsworth's own writings, so this +other critical distinction, between wit and humour, finds a sort of +visible interpretation and instance in the character and writings of +Charles Lamb;--one who lived more consistently than most writers among +subtle literary theories, and whose remains are still full of curious +interest for the student of literature as a fine art. + +The author of the _English Humourists of the Eighteenth Century,_ +coming to the humourists of the nineteenth, would have found, as is true +pre-eminently of Thackeray himself, the springs of pity in them deepened +by the deeper subjectivity, the intenser and closer living with itself, +which is characteristic of the temper of the later generation; and +therewith, the mirth also, from the amalgam of which with pity humour +proceeds, has become, in Charles Dickens, for example, freer and more +boisterous. + +To this more high-pitched feeling, since predominant in our literature, +the writings of Charles Lamb, whose life occupies the last quarter of +the eighteenth century and the first quarter of the nineteenth, are a +transition; and such union of grave, of terrible even, with gay, we may +note in the circumstances of his life, as reflected thence into his +work. We catch the aroma of a singular, homely sweetness about his first +years, spent on Thames' side, amid the red bricks and terraced gardens, +with their rich historical memories of old-fashioned legal London. Just +above the poorer class, deprived, as he says, of the "sweet food of +academic institution," he is fortunate enough to be reared in the +classical languages at an ancient school, where he becomes the companion +of Coleridge, as at a later period he was his enthusiastic disciple. So +far, the years go by with less than the usual share of boyish +difficulties; protected, one fancies, seeing what he was afterwards, by +some attraction of temper in the quaint child, small and delicate, with +a certain Jewish expression in his clear, brown complexion, eyes not +precisely of the same colour, and a slow walk adding to the staidness of +his figure; and whose infirmity of speech, increased by agitation, is +partly engaging. + +And the cheerfulness of all this, of the mere aspect of Lamb's quiet +subsequent life also, might make the more superficial reader think of +him as in himself something slight, and of his mirth as cheaply bought. +Yet we know that beneath this blithe surface there was something of the +fateful domestic horror, of the beautiful heroism and devotedness too, +of old Greek tragedy. His sister Mary, ten years his senior, in a sudden +paroxysm of madness, caused the death of her mother, and was brought to +trial for what an overstrained justice might have construed as the +greatest of crimes. She was released on the brother's pledging himself +to watch over her; and to this sister, from the age of twenty-one, +Charles Lamb sacrificed himself, "seeking thenceforth," says his +earliest biographer, "no connection which could interfere with her +supremacy in his affections, or impair his ability to sustain and +comfort her." The "feverish, romantic tie of love" he cast away in +exchange for the "charities of home." Only, from time to time, the +madness returned, affecting him too, once; and we see the brother and +sister voluntarily yielding to restraint. In estimating the humour of +_Elia_, we must no more forget the strong undercurrent of this great +misfortune and pity, than one could forget it in his actual story. So he +becomes the best critic, almost the discoverer, of Webster, a dramatist +of genius so sombre, so heavily coloured, so _macabre._[87] _Rosamund +Grey_ written in his twenty-third year, a story with something bitter +and exaggerated, an almost insane fixedness of gloom perceptible in it, +strikes clearly this note in his work. + +For himself, and from his own point of view, the exercise of his gift, +of his literary art, came to gild or sweeten a life of monotonous +labour, and seemed, as far as regarded others, no very important thing; +availing to give them a little pleasure, and inform them a little, +chiefly in a retrospective manner, but in no way concerned with the +turning of the tides of the great world. And yet this very modesty, this +unambitious way of conceiving his work, has impressed upon it a certain +exceptional enduringness. For of the remarkable English writers +contemporary with Lamb, many were greatly preoccupied with ideas of +practice--religious, moral, political--ideas which have since, in some +sense or other, entered permanently into the general consciousness; +and, these having no longer any stimulus for a generation provided with +a different stock of ideas, the writings of those who spent so much of +themselves in their propagation have lost, with posterity, something of +what they gained by them in immediate influence. Coleridge, Wordsworth, +Shelley even--sharing so largely in the unrest of their own age, and +made personally more interesting thereby, yet, of their actual work, +surrender more to the mere course of time than some of those who may +have seemed to exercise themselves hardly at all in great matters, to +have been little serious, or a little indifferent, regarding them. + +Of this number of the disinterested servants of literature, smaller in +England than in France, Charles Lamb is one. In the making of prose he +realises the principle of art for its own sake, as completely as Keats +in the making of verse. And, working ever close to the concrete, to the +details, great or small, of actual things, books, persons, and with no +part of them blurred to his vision by the intervention of mere abstract +theories, he has reached an enduring moral effect also, in a sort of +boundless sympathy. Unoccupied, as he might seem, with great matters, he +is in immediate contact with what is real, especially in its caressing +littleness, that littleness in which there is much of the whole woeful +heart of things, and meets it more than half-way with a perfect +understanding of it. What sudden, unexpected touches of pathos in +him!--bearing witness how the sorrow of humanity, the _Weltschmerz_, the +constant aching of its wounds, is ever present with him: but what a gift +also for the enjoyment of life in its subtleties, of enjoyment actually +refined by the need of some thoughtful economies and making the most of +things! Little arts of happiness he is ready to teach to others. The +quaint remarks of children which another would scarcely have heard, he +preserves--little flies in the priceless amber of his Attic wit--and has +his "Praise of chimney-sweepers" (as William Blake has written, with so +much natural pathos, the Chimney-sweeper's Song), valuing carefully +their white teeth, and fine enjoyment of white sheets in stolen sleep +at Arundel Castle, as he tells the story, anticipating something of the +mood of our deep humourists of the last generation. His simple +mother-pity for those who suffer by accident, or unkindness of nature, +blindness for instance, or fateful disease of mind like his sister's, +has something primitive in its largeness; and on behalf of ill-used +animals he is early in composing a _Pity's Gift._ + +And if, in deeper or more superficial sense, the dead _do_ care at all +for their name and fame, then how must the souls of Shakespeare and +Webster have been stirred, after so long converse with things that +stopped their ears, whether above or below the soil, at his exquisite +appreciations of them; the souls of Titian and of Hogarth too; for, what +has not been observed so generally as the excellence of his literary +criticism, Charles Lamb is a fine critic of painting also. It was as +loyal, self-forgetful work for others, for Shakespeare's self first, for +instance, and then for Shakespeare's readers, that that too was done: he +has the true scholar's way of forgetting himself in his subject. For +though "defrauded," as we saw, in his young years, "of the sweet food of +academic institution," he is yet essentially a scholar, and all his work +mainly retrospective, as I said; his own sorrows, affections, +perceptions, being alone real to him of the present. "I cannot make +these present times," he says once, "present to _me_." + +Above all, he becomes not merely an expositor, permanently valuable, but +for Englishmen almost the discoverer of the old English drama. "The book +is such as I am glad there should be," he modestly says of the +_Specimens of English Dramatic Poets who lived about the time of +Shakespeare_; to which, however, he adds in a series of notes the very +quintessence of criticism, the choicest savour and perfume of +Elizabethan poetry being sorted, and stored here, with a sort of +delicate intellectual epicureanism, which has had the effect of winning +for these, then almost forgotten, poets, one generation after another of +enthusiastic students. Could he but have known how fresh a source of +culture he was evoking there for other generations, through all those +years in which, a little wistfully, he would harp on the limitation of +his time by business, and sigh for a better fortune in regard to +literary opportunities! + +To feel strongly the charm of an old poet or moralist, the literary +charm of Burton, for instance, or Quarles, or The Duchess of Newcastle; +and then to interpret that charm, to convey it to others--he seeming to +himself but to hand on to others, in mere humble ministration, that of +which for them he is really the creator--this is the way of his +criticism; cast off in a stray letter often, or passing note, or +lightest essay or conversation. It is in such a letter, for instance, +that we come upon a singularly penetrative estimate of the genius and +writings of Defoe. + +Tracking, with an attention always alert, the whole process of their +production to its starting-point in the deep places of the mind, he +seems to realise the but half-conscious intuitions of Hogarth or +Shakespeare, and develops the great ruling unities which have swayed +their actual work; or "puts up," and takes, the one morsel of good stuff +in an old, forgotten writer. Even in what he says casually there comes +an aroma of old English; noticeable echoes, in chance turn and phrase, +of the great masters of style, the old masters. Godwin, seeing in +quotation a passage from _John Woodvil_, takes it for a choice fragment +of an old dramatist, and goes to Lamb to assist him in finding the +author. His power of delicate imitation in prose and verse reaches the +length of a fine mimicry even, as in those last essays of Elia on +Popular Fallacies, with their gentle reproduction or caricature of Sir +Thomas Browne, showing, the more completely, his mastery, by +disinterested study, of those elements of the man which were the real +source of style in that great, solemn master of old English, who, ready +to say what he has to say with fearless homeliness, yet continually +overawes one with touches of a strange utterance from worlds afar. For +it is with the delicacies of fine literature especially, its gradations +of expression, its fine judgment, its pure sense of words, of +vocabulary--things, alas! dying out in the English literature of the +present, together with the appreciation of them in our literature of the +past--that his literary mission is chiefly concerned. And yet, delicate, +refining, daintily epicurean, as he may seem, when he writes of giants +such as Hogarth or Shakespeare, though often but in a stray note, you +catch the sense of veneration with which those great names in past +literature and art brooded over his intelligence, his undiminished +impressibility by the great effects in them. Reading, commenting on +Shakespeare, he is like a man who walks alone under a grand stormy sky, +and among unwonted tricks of light, when powerful spirits might seem to +be abroad upon the air; and the grim humour of Hogarth, as he analyses +it, rises into a kind of spectral grotesque; while he too knows the +secret of fine, significant touches like theirs. + +There are traits, customs, characteristics of houses and dress, +surviving morsels of old life, such as Hogarth has transferred so +vividly into _The Rake's Progress_, or _Marriage a la Mode_, concerning +which we well understand how, common, uninteresting, or even worthless +in themselves, they have come to please us at last as things +picturesque, being set in relief against the modes of our different age. +Customs, stiff to us, stiff dresses, stiff furniture--types of cast-off +fashions, left by accident, and which no one ever meant to preserve--we +contemplate with more than good-nature, as having in them the veritable +accent of a time, not altogether to be replaced by its more solemn and +self-conscious deposits; like those tricks of individuality which we +find quite tolerable in persons, because they convey to us the secret of +lifelike expression, and with regard to which we are all to some extent +humourists. But it is part of the privilege of the genuine humourists to +anticipate this pensive mood with regard to the ways and things of his +own day; to look upon the tricks in manner of the life about him with +that same refined, purged sort of vision, which will come naturally to +those of a later generation, in observing whatever may have survived by +chance of its mere external habit. Seeing things always by the light of +an understanding more entire than is possible for ordinary minds, of the +whole mechanism of humanity, and seeing also the manner, the outward +mode or fashion, always in strict connection with the spiritual +condition which determined it, a humourist such as Charles Lamb +anticipates the enchantment of distance; and the characteristics of +places, ranks, habits of life, are transfigured for him, even now and in +advance of time, by poetic light; justifying what some might condemn as +mere sentimentality, in the effort to hand on unbroken the tradition of +such fashion or accent. "The praise of beggars," "the cries of London," +the traits of actors just grown "old," the spots in "town" where the +country, its fresh green and fresh water, still lingered on, one after +another, amidst the bustle; the quaint, dimmed, just played-out farces, +he had relished so much, coming partly through them to understand the +earlier English theatre as a thing once really alive; those fountains +and sundials of old gardens, of which he entertains such dainty +discourse:--he feels the poetry of these things, as the poetry of things +old indeed, but surviving as an actual part of the life of the present, +and as something quite different from the poetry of things flatly gone +from us and antique, which come back to us, if at all, as entire +strangers, like Scott's old Scotch-border personages, their oaths and +armour. Such gift of appreciation depends, as I said, on the habitual +apprehension of men's life as a whole--its organic wholeness, as +extending even to the least things in it--of its outward manner in +connection with its inward temper; and it involves a fine perception of +the congruities, the musical accordance between humanity and its +environment of custom, society, personal intercourse; as if all this, +with its meetings, partings, ceremonies, gesture, tones of speech, were +some delicate instrument on which an expert performer is playing. + +These are some of the characteristics of Elia, one essentially an +essayist, and of the true family of Montaigne, "never judging," as he +says, "system-wise of things, but fastening on particulars;" saying all +things as it were on chance occasion only, and by way of pastime, yet +succeeding thus, "glimpse-wise," in catching and recording more +frequently than others "the gayest, happiest attitude of things;" a +casual writer for dreamy readers, yet always giving the reader so much +more than he seemed to propose. There is something of the follower of +George Fox about him, and the Quaker's belief in the inward light coming +to one passive, to the mere wayfarer, who will be sure at all events to +lose no light which falls by the way--glimpses, suggestions, delightful +half-apprehensions, profound thoughts of old philosophers, hints of the +innermost reason in things, the full knowledge of which is held in +reserve; all the varied stuff, that is, of which genuine essays are +made. + +And with him, as with Montaigne, the desire of self-portraiture is, +below all more superficial tendencies, the real motive in writing at +all--a desire closely connected with that intimacy, that modern +subjectivity, which may be called the _Montaignesque_ element in +literature. What he designs is to give you himself, to acquaint you with +his likeness; but must do this, if at all, indirectly, being indeed +always more or less reserved, for himself and his friends; friendship +counting for so much in his life, that he is jealous of anything that +might jar or disturb it, even to the length of a sort of insincerity, to +which he assigns its quaint "praise;" this lover of stage plays +significantly welcoming a little touch of the artificiality of play to +sweeten the intercourse of actual life. + +And, in effect, a very delicate and expressive portrait of him does put +itself together for the duly meditative reader. In indirect touches of +his own work, scraps of faded old letters, what others remembered of his +talk, the man's likeness emerges; what he laughed and wept at, his +sudden elevations, and longings after absent friends, his fine +casuistries of affection and devices to jog sometimes, as he says, the +lazy happiness of perfect love, his solemn moments of higher discourse +with the young, as they came across him on occasion, and went along a +little way with him, the sudden surprised apprehension of beauties in +old literature, revealing anew the deep soul of poetry in things, and +withal the pure spirit of fun, having its way again; laughter, that most +short-lived of all things (some of Shakespeare's even being grown +hollow) wearing well with him. Much of all this comes out through his +letters, which may be regarded as a department of his essays. He is an +old-fashioned letter-writer, the essence of the old fashion of +letter-writing lying, as with true essay-writing, in the dexterous +availing oneself of accident and circumstance, in the prosecution of +deeper lines of observation; although, just as with the record of his +conversation, one loses something, in losing the actual tones of the +stammerer, still graceful in his halting, as he halted also in +composition, composing slowly and by fits, "like a Flemish painter," as +he tells us, so "it is to be regretted," says the editor of his letters, +"that in the printed letters the reader will lose the curious varieties +of writing with which the originals abound, and which are scrupulously +adapted to the subject." + +Also, he was a true "collector," delighting in the personal finding of a +thing, in the colour an old book or print gets for him by the little +accidents which attest previous ownership. Wither's _Emblems_, "that old +book and quaint," long-desired, when he finds it at last, he values none +the less because a child had coloured the plates with his paints. A +lover of household warmth everywhere, of that tempered atmosphere which +our various habitations get by men's living within them, he "sticks to +his favourite books as he did to his friends," and loved the "town," +with a jealous eye for all its characteristics, "old houses" coming to +have souls for him. The yearning for mere warmth against him in another, +makes him content, all through life, with pure brotherliness, "the most +kindly and natural species of love," as he says, in place of the +_passion_ of love. Brother and sister, sitting thus side by side, have, +of course, their anticipations how one of them must sit at last in the +faint sun alone, and set us speculating, as we read, as to precisely +what amount of melancholy really accompanied for him the approach of old +age, so steadily foreseen; make us note also with pleasure, his +successive wakings up to cheerful realities, out of a too curious musing +over what is gone and what remains, of life. In his subtle capacity for +enjoying the more refined points of earth, of human relationship, he +could throw the gleam of poetry or humour on what seemed common or +threadbare; has a care for the sighs, and the weary, humdrum +preoccupations of very weak people, down to their little pathetic +"gentilities," even; while, in the purely human temper, he can write of +death, almost like Shakespeare. + +And that care, through all his enthusiasm of discovery, for what is +accustomed, in literature, connected thus with his close clinging to +home and the earth, was congruous also with that love for the accustomed +in religion, which we may notice in him. He is one of the last votaries +of that old-world sentiment, based on the feelings of hope and awe, +which may be described as the religion of men of letters (as Sir Thomas +Browne has his _Religion of the Physician_), religion as understood by +the soberer men of letters in the last century, Addison, Gray, and +Johnson; by Jane Austen and Thackeray, later. A high way of feeling +developed largely by constant intercourse with the great things of +literature, and extended in its turn to those matters greater still, +this religion lives, in the main retrospectively, in a system of +received sentiments and beliefs; received, like those great things of +literature and art, in the first instance, on the authority of a long +tradition, in the course of which they have linked themselves in a +thousand complex ways to the conditions of human life, and no more +questioned now than the feeling one keeps by one of the greatness--say! +of Shakespeare. For Charles Lamb, such form of religion becomes the +solemn background on which the nearer and more exciting objects of his +immediate experience relieve themselves, borrowing from it an expression +of calm; its necessary atmosphere being indeed a profound quiet, that +quiet which has in it a kind of sacramental efficacy, working, we might +say, on the principle of the _opus operatum,_[88] almost without any +co-operation of one's own, towards the assertion of the higher self. +And, in truth, to men of Lamb's delicately attuned temperament mere +physical stillness has its full value; such natures seeming to long for +it sometimes, as for no merely negative thing, with a sort of mystical +sensuality. + +The writings of Charles Lamb are an excellent illustration of the value +of reserve in literature. Below his quiet, his quaintness, his humour, +and what may seem the slightness, the occasional or accidental character +of his work, there lies, as I said at starting, as in his life, a +genuinely tragic element. The gloom, reflected at its darkest in those +hard shadows of _Rosamund Grey_, is always there, though not always +realised either for himself or his readers, and restrained always in +utterance. It gives to those lighter matters on the surface of life and +literature among which he for the most part moved, a wonderful force of +expression, as if at any moment these slight words and fancies might +pierce very far into the deeper soul of things. In his writing, as in +his life, that quiet is not the low-flying of one from the first drowsy +by choice, and needing the prick of some strong passion or worldly +ambition, to stimulate him into all the energy of which he is capable; +but rather the reaction of nature, after an escape from fate, dark and +insane as in old Greek tragedy, following upon which the sense of mere +relief becomes a kind of passion, as with one who, having narrowly +escaped earthquake or shipwreck, finds a thing for grateful tears in +just sitting quiet at home, under the wall, till the end of days. + +He felt the genius of places; and I sometimes think he resembles the +places he knew and liked best, and where his lot fell--London, +sixty-five years ago, with Covent Garden and the old theatres, and the +Temple gardens still unspoiled, Thames gliding down, and beyond to north +and south the fields at Enfield or Hampton, to which, "with their living +trees," the thoughts wander "from the hard wood of the desk"--fields +fresher, and coming nearer to town then, but in one of which the present +writer remembers, on a brooding early summer's day, to have heard the +cuckoo for the first time. Here, the surface of things is certainly +humdrum, the streets dingy, the green places, where the child goes +a-maying, tame enough. But nowhere are things more apt to respond to the +brighter weather, nowhere is there so much difference between rain and +sunshine, nowhere do the clouds roll together more grandly; those quaint +suburban pastorals gather a certain quality of grandeur from the +background of the great city, with its weighty atmosphere, and portent +of storm in the rapid light on dome and bleached stone steeples. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 86: From "Appreciations," 1889.] + +[Footnote 87: Macabre: very grim.] + +[Footnote 88: Opus operatum (a phrase from Catholic theology): the work +performed through the sacraments--baptism, confirmation, etc.--the +efficacy of which is not dependent on the participants.] + + + + +DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT[89] + +NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE + + +That very singular man, old Dr. Heidegger, once invited four venerable +friends to meet him in his study. There were three white-bearded +gentlemen, Mr. Medbourne, Colonel Killigrew, and Mr. Gascoigne, and a +withered gentlewoman, whose name was the Widow Wycherly. They were all +melancholy old creatures, who had been unfortunate in life, and whose +greatest misfortune it was, that they were not long ago in their graves. +Mr. Medbourne, in the vigor of his age, had been a prosperous merchant, +but had lost his all by a frantic speculation, and was now little better +than a mendicant. Colonel Killigrew had wasted his best years, and his +health and substance, in the pursuit of sinful pleasures, which had +given birth to a brood of pains, such as the gout, and divers other +torments of soul and body. Mr. Gascoigne was a ruined politician, a man +of evil fame, or at least had been so, till time had buried him from the +knowledge of the present generation, and made him obscure instead of +infamous. As for the Widow Wycherly, tradition tells us that she was a +great beauty in her day; but, for a long while past, she had lived in +deep seclusion, on account of certain scandalous stories, which had +prejudiced the gentry of the town against her. It is a circumstance +worth mentioning, that each of these three old gentlemen, Mr. Medbourne, +Colonel Killigrew, and Mr. Gascoigne, were early lovers of the Widow +Wycherly, and had once been on the point of cutting each others' throats +for her sake. And, before proceeding further, I will merely hint, that +Dr. Heidegger and all his four guests were sometimes thought to be a +little beside themselves; as is not unfrequently the case with old +people, when worried either by present troubles or woeful recollections. + +"My dear old friends," said Dr. Heidegger, motioning them to be seated, +"I am desirous of your assistance in one of those little experiments +with which I amuse myself here in my study." + +If all stories were true, Dr. Heidegger's study must have been a very +curious place. It was a dim, old-fashioned chamber festooned with +cobwebs, and besprinkled with antique dust. Around the walls stood +several oaken bookcases, the lower shelves of which were filled with +rows of gigantic folios, and black-letter quartos, and the upper with +little parchment-covered duodecimos. Over the central bookcase was a +bronze bust of Hippocrates, with which, according to some authorities, +Dr. Heidegger was accustomed to hold consultations, in all difficult +cases of his practice. In the obscurest corner of the room stood a tall +and narrow oaken closet, with its door ajar, within which doubtfully +appeared a skeleton. Between two of the bookcases hung a looking-glass, +presenting its high and dusty plate within a tarnished gilt frame. Among +many wonderful stories related of this mirror, it was fabled that the +spirits of all the doctor's deceased patients dwelt within its verge, +and would stare him in the face whenever he looked thitherward. The +opposite side of the chamber was ornamented with the full-length +portrait of a young lady, arrayed in the faded magnificence of silk, +satin, and brocade, and with a visage as faded as her dress. Above half +a century ago Dr. Heidegger had been on the point of marriage with this +young lady; but, being affected with some slight disorder, she had +swallowed one of her lover's prescriptions, and died on the bridal +evening. The greatest curiosity of the study remains to be mentioned; it +was a ponderous folio volume, bound in black leather, with massive +silver clasps. There were no letters on the back, and nobody could tell +the title of the book. But it was well known to be a book of magic; and +once, when a chambermaid had lifted it, merely to brush away the dust, +the skeleton had rattled in its closet, the picture of the young lady +had stepped one foot upon the floor, and several ghastly faces had +peeped forth from the mirror; while the brazen head of Hippocrates +frowned, and said--"Forbear!" + +Such was Dr. Heidegger's study. On the summer afternoon of our tale, a +small round table, as black as ebony, stood in the center of the room +sustaining a cut-glass vase of beautiful form and elaborate workmanship. +The sunshine came through the window, between the heavy festoons of two +faded damask curtains, and fell directly across this vase, so that a +mild splendor was reflected from it on the ashen visages of the five old +people who sat around. Four champagne glasses were also on the table. + +"My dear old friends," repeated Dr. Heidegger, "may I reckon on your aid +in performing an exceedingly curious experiment?" + +Now Dr. Heidegger was a very strange old gentleman, whose eccentricity +had become the nucleus for a thousand fantastic stories. Some of these +fables, to my shame be it spoken, might possibly be traced back to mine +own veracious self; and if any passage of the present tale should +startle the reader's faith, I must be content to bear the stigma of a +fiction monger. + +When the doctor's four guests heard him talk of his proposed experiment, +they anticipated nothing more wonderful than the murder of a mouse in an +air pump, or the examination of a cobweb by the microscope, or some +similar nonsense, with which he was constantly in the habit of pestering +his intimates. But without waiting for a reply, Dr. Heidegger hobbled +across the chamber, and returned with the same ponderous folio, bound in +black leather, which common report affirmed to be a book of magic. +Undoing the silver clasps, he opened the volume, and took from among its +black-letter pages a rose, or what was once a rose, though now the +green leaves and crimson petals had assumed one brownish hue, and the +ancient flower seemed ready to crumble to dust in the doctor's hands. + +"This rose," said Dr. Heidegger, with a sigh, "this same withered and +crumbling flower, blossomed five and fifty years ago. It was given me by +Sylvia Ward, whose portrait hangs yonder; and I meant to wear it in my +bosom at our wedding. Five and fifty years it has been treasured between +the leaves of this old volume. Now, would you deem it possible that this +rose of half a century could ever bloom again?" + +"Nonsense!" said the Widow Wycherly, with a peevish toss of her head. +"You might as well ask whether an old woman's wrinkled face could ever +bloom again." + +"See!" answered Dr. Heidegger. + +He uncovered the vase, and threw the faded rose into the water which it +contained. At first, it lay lightly on the surface of the fluid, +appearing to imbibe none of its moisture. Soon, however, a singular +change began to be visible. The crushed and dried petals stirred, and +assumed a deepening tinge of crimson, as if the flower were reviving +from a death-like slumber; the slender stalk and twigs of foliage became +green; and there was the rose of half a century, looking as fresh as +when Sylvia Ward had first given it to her lover. It was scarcely full +blown; for some of its delicate red leaves curled modestly around its +moist bosom, within which two or three dewdrops were sparkling. + +"That is certainly a very pretty deception," said the doctor's friends; +carelessly, however, for they had witnessed greater miracles at a +conjurer's show; "pray how was it effected?" + +"Did you never hear of the 'Fountain of Youth'?" asked Dr. Heidegger, +"which Ponce De Leon, the Spanish adventurer, went in search of two or +three centuries ago?" + +"But did Ponce De Leon ever find it?" said the Widow Wycherly. + +"No," answered Dr. Heidegger, "for he never sought it in the right +place. The famous Fountain of Youth, if I am rightly informed, is +situated in the southern part of the Floridian peninsula, not far from +Lake Macaco. Its source is overshadowed by several gigantic magnolias, +which, though numberless centuries old, have been kept as fresh as +violets, by the virtues of this wonderful water. An acquaintance of +mine, knowing my curiosity in such matters, has sent me what you see in +the vase." + +"Ahem!" said Colonel Killigrew, who believed not a word of the doctor's +story; "and what may be the effect of this fluid on the human frame?" + +"You shall judge for yourself, my dear Colonel," replied Dr. Heidegger; +"and all of you, my respected friends, are welcome to so much of this +admirable fluid, as may restore to you the bloom of youth. For my own +part, having had much trouble in growing old, I am in no hurry to grow +young again. With your permission, therefore, I will merely watch the +progress of the experiment.". + +While he spoke, Dr. Heidegger had been filling the four champagne +glasses with the water of the Fountain of Youth. It was apparently +impregnated with an effervescent gas, for little bubbles were +continually ascending from the depths of the glasses, and bursting in +silvery spray at the surface. As the liquor diffused a pleasant perfume, +the old people doubted not that it possessed cordial and comfortable +properties; and, though utter sceptics as to its rejuvenescent power, +they were inclined to swallow it at once. But Dr. Heidegger besought +them to stay a moment. + +"Before you drink, my respectable old friends," said he, "it would be +well that, with the experience of a lifetime to direct you, you should +draw up a few general rules for your guidance, in passing a second time +through the perils of youth. Think what a sin and shame it would be, if, +with your peculiar advantages, you should not become patterns of virtue +and wisdom to all the young people of the age!" + +The doctor's four venerable friends made him no answer, except by a +feeble and tremulous laugh; so very ridiculous was the idea, that, +knowing how closely repentance treads behind the steps of error, they +should ever go astray again. + +"Drink, then," said the doctor, bowing; "I rejoice that I have so well +selected the subjects of my experiment." + +With palsied hands, they raised the glasses to their lips. The liquor, +if it really possessed such virtues as Dr. Heidegger imputed to it, +could not have been bestowed on four human beings who needed it more +wofully. They looked as if they had never known what youth or pleasure +was, but had been the offspring of Nature's dotage, and always the gray, +decrepit, sapless, miserable creatures, who now sat stooping round the +doctor's table, without life enough in their souls or bodies to be +animated even by the prospect of growing young again. They drank off the +water, and replaced their glasses on the table. + +Assuredly there was an almost immediate improvement in the aspect of the +party, not unlike what might have been produced by a glass of generous +wine, together with a sudden glow of cheerful sunshine, brightening over +all their visages at once. There was a healthful suffusion on their +cheeks, instead of the ashen hue that had made them look so corpse-like. +They gazed at one another, and fancied that some magic power had really +begun to smooth away the deep and sad inscriptions which Father Time had +been so long engraving on their brows. The Widow Wycherly adjusted her +cap, for she felt almost like a woman again. + +"Give us more of this wondrous water!" cried they, eagerly. "We are +younger--but we are still too old! Quick--give us more!" + +"Patience, patience!" quoth Dr. Heidegger, who sat watching the +experiment, with philosophic coolness. "You have been a long time +growing old. Surely, you might be content to grow young in half an hour! +But the water is at your service." + +Again he filled their glasses with the liquor of youth, enough of which +still remained in the vase to turn half the old people in the city to +the age of their own grandchildren. While the bubbles were yet sparkling +on the brim, the doctor's four guests snatched their glasses from the +table, and swallowed the contents at a single gulp. Was it delusion? +Even while the draught was passing down their throats, it seemed to have +wrought a change on their whole systems. Their eyes grew clear and +bright; a dark shade deepened among their silvery locks; they sat around +the table, three gentlemen, of middle age, and a woman, hardly beyond +her buxom prime. + +"My dear widow, you are charming!" cried Colonel Killigrew, whose eyes +had been fixed upon her face, while the shadows of age were flitting +from it like darkness from the crimson daybreak. + +The fair widow knew, of old, that Colonel Killigrew's compliments were +not always measured by sober truth; so she started up and ran to the +mirror, still dreading that the ugly visage of an old woman would meet +her gaze. Meanwhile, the three gentlemen behaved in such a manner as +proved that the water of the Fountain of Youth possessed some +intoxicating qualities; unless, indeed, their exhilaration of spirits +were merely a lightsome dizziness, caused by the sudden removal of the +weight of years. Mr. Gascoigne's mind seemed to run on political topics, +but whether relating to the past, present, or future, could not easily +be determined, since the same ideas and phrases have been in vogue these +fifty years. Now he rattled forth full-throated sentences about +patriotism, national glory, and the people's right; now he muttered some +perilous stuff or other, in a sly and doubtful whisper, so cautiously +that even his own conscience could scarcely catch the secret; and now, +again, he spoke in measured accents, and a deeply deferential tone, as +if a royal ear were listening to his well-turned periods. Colonel +Killigrew all this time had been trolling forth a jolly bottle song, and +ringing his glass in symphony with the chorus, while his eyes wandered +toward the buxom figure of the Widow Wycherly. On the other side of the +table, Mr. Medbourne was involved in a calculation of dollars and cents, +with which was strangely intermingled a project for supplying the East +Indies with ice, by harnessing a team of whales to the polar icebergs. + +As for the Widow Wycherly, she stood before the mirror courtesying and +simpering to her own image, and greeting it as the friend whom she loved +better than all the world beside. She thrust her face close to the +glass, to see whether some long-remembered wrinkle or crow's-foot had +indeed vanished. She examined whether the snow had so entirely melted +from her hair, that the venerable cap could be safely thrown aside. At +last, turning briskly away, she came with a sort of dancing step to the +table. + +"My dear old doctor," cried she, "pray favor me with another glass!" + +"Certainly, my dear madam, certainly!" replied the complaisant doctor; +"see! I have already filled the glasses." + +There, in fact, stood the four glasses, brimful of this wonderful water, +the delicate spray of which, as it effervesced from the surface, +resembled the tremulous glitter of diamonds. It was now so nearly +sunset, that the chamber had grown duskier than ever; but a mild and +moonlight splendor gleamed from within the vase, and rested alike on the +four guests and on the doctor's venerable figure. He sat in a +high-backed, elaborately-carved, oaken arm-chair, with a gray dignity of +aspect that might have well befitted that very Father Time, whose power +had never been disputed, save by this fortunate company. Even while +quaffing the third draught of the Fountain of Youth, they were almost +awed by the expression of his mysterious visage. + +But, the next moment, the exhilarating gush of young life shot through +their veins. They were now in the happy prime of youth. Age, with its +miserable train of cares, and sorrows, and diseases, was remembered only +as the trouble of a dream, from which they had joyously awoke. The +fresh gloss of the soul, so early lost, and without which the world's +successive scenes had been but a gallery of faded pictures, again threw +its enchantment over all their prospects. They felt like new-created +beings, in a new-created universe. + +"We are young! We are young!" they cried exultingly. + +Youth, like the extremity of age, had effaced the strongly-marked +characteristics of middle life, and mutually assimilated them all. They +were a group of merry youngsters, almost maddened with the exuberant +frolicsomeness of their years. The most singular effect of their gayety +was an impulse to mock the infirmity and decrepitude of which they had +so lately been the victims. They laughed loudly at their old-fashioned +attire, the wide-skirted coats and flapped waistcoats of the young men, +and the ancient cap and gown of the blooming girl. One limped across the +floor, like a gouty grandfather; one set a pair of spectacles astride of +his nose, and pretended to pore over the black-letter pages of the book +of magic; a third seated himself in an arm-chair, and strove to imitate +the venerable dignity of Dr. Heidegger. Then all shouted mirthfully, and +leaped about the room. The Widow Wycherly--if so fresh a damsel could be +called a widow--tripped up to the doctor's chair, with a mischievous +merriment in her rosy face. + +"Doctor, you dear old soul," cried she, "get up and dance with me!" And +then the four young people laughed louder than ever to think what a +queer figure the poor old doctor would cut. + +"Pray excuse me," answered the doctor, quietly. "I am old and rheumatic, +and my dancing days were over long ago. But either of these gay young +gentlemen will be glad of so pretty a partner." + +"Dance with me, Clara!" cried Colonel Killigrew. + +"No, no, I will be her partner!" shouted Mr. Gascoigne. + +"She promised me her hand fifty years ago!" exclaimed Mr. Medbourne. + +They all gathered round her. One caught both her hands in his passionate +grasp--another threw his arm about her waist--the third buried his hand +among the glossy curls that clustered beneath the widow's cap. Blushing, +panting, struggling, chiding, laughing, her warm breath fanning each of +their faces by turns, she strove to disengage herself, yet still +remained in their triple embrace. Never was there a livelier picture of +youthful rivalship, with bewitching beauty for the prize. Yet, by a +strange deception, owing to the duskiness of the chamber, and the +antique dresses which they still wore, the tall mirror is said to have +reflected the figures of the three old, gray, withered grand-sires, +ridiculously contending for the skinny ugliness of a shrivelled grandam. + +But they were young: their burning passions proved them so. Inflamed to +madness by the coquetry of the girl-widow, who neither granted nor quite +withheld her favors, the three rivals began to interchange threatening +glances. Still keeping hold of the fair prize, they grappled fiercely at +one another's throats. As they struggled to and fro, the table was +overturned, and the vase dashed into a thousand fragments. The precious +Water of Youth flowed in a bright stream across the floor, moistening +the wings of a butterfly, which, grown old in the decline of summer, had +alighted there to die. The insect fluttered lightly through the chamber, +and settled on the snowy head of Dr. Heidegger. + +"Come, come gentlemen!--come, Madame Wycherly," exclaimed the doctor, "I +really must protest against this riot." + +They stood still, and shivered; for it seemed as if gray Time were +calling them back from their sunny youth, far down into the chill and +darksome vale of years. They looked at old Dr. Heidegger, who sat in his +carved arm-chair, holding the rose of half a century, which he had +rescued from among the fragments of the shattered vase. At the motion +of his hand, the four rioters resumed their seats; the more readily +because their violent exertions had wearied them, youthful though they +were. + +"My poor Sylvia's rose!" ejaculated Dr. Heidegger, holding it in the +light of the sunset clouds; "it appears to be fading again." + +And so it was. Even while the party were looking at it, the flower +continued to shrivel up, till it became as dry and fragile as when the +doctor had first thrown it into the vase. He shook off the few drops of +moisture which clung to its petals. + +"I love it as well thus, as in its dewy freshness," observed he, +pressing the withered rose to his withered lips. While he spoke, the +butterfly fluttered down from the doctor's snowy head, and fell upon the +floor. + +His guests shivered again. A strange dullness, whether of the body or +spirit they could not tell, was creeping gradually over them all. They +gazed at one another, and fancied that each fleeting moment snatched +away a charm, and left a deepening furrow where none had been before. +Was it an illusion? Had the changes of a lifetime been crowded into so +brief a space, and were they now four aged people, sitting with their +old friend, Dr. Heidegger? + +"Are we grown old again, so soon?" cried they, dolefully. + +In truth they had. The Water of Youth possessed merely a virtue more +transient than that of wine. The delirium which it created had +effervesced away. Yes! they were old again. With a shuddering impulse, +that showed her a woman still, the widow clasped her skinny hands before +her face, and wished that the coffin lid were over it, since it could no +longer be beautiful. + +"Yes, friends, we are old again," said Dr. Heidegger; "and lo! the Water +of Youth is all lavished on the ground. Well--I bemoan it not; for if +the fountain gushed at my very doorstep, I would not stoop to bathe my +lips in it--no, though its delirium were for years instead of moments. +Such is the lesson ye have taught me!" + +But the doctor's four friends had taught no such lesson to themselves. +They resolved forthwith to make a pilgrimage to Florida, and quaff at +morning, noon, and night, from the Fountain of Youth. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 89: From "Twice Told Tales" 1837.] + + + + +MARKHEIM[90] + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + + +"Yes," said the dealer, "our windfalls are of various kinds. Some +customers are ignorant, and then I touch a dividend on my superior +knowledge. Some are dishonest," and here he held up the candle, so that +the light fell strongly on his visitor, "and in that case," he +continued, "I profit by my virtue." + +Markheim had but just entered from the daylight streets, and his eyes +had not yet grown familiar with the mingled shine and darkness in the +shop. At these pointed words, and before the near presence of the flame, +he blinked painfully and looked aside. + +The dealer chuckled. "You come to me on Christmas Day," he resumed, +"when you know that I am alone in my house, put up my shutters, and make +a point of refusing business. Well, you will have to pay for that; you +will have to pay for my loss of time, when I should be balancing my +books; you will have to pay, besides, for a kind of manner that I remark +in you to-day very strongly. I am the essence of discretion, and ask no +awkward questions; but when a customer cannot look me in the eye, he has +to pay for it." The dealer once more chuckled; and then, changing to his +usual business voice, though still with a note of irony, "You can give, +as usual, a clear account of how you came into the possession of the +object?" he continued. "Still your uncle's cabinet? A remarkable +collector, sir!" + +And the little pale, round-shouldered dealer stood almost on tip-toe, +looking over the top of his gold spectacles, and nodding his head with +every mark of disbelief. Markheim returned his gaze with one of infinite +pity, and a touch of horror. + +"This time," said he, "you are in error. I have not come to sell, but to +buy. I have no curios to dispose of; my uncle's cabinet is bare to the +wainscot; even were it still intact, I have done well on the Stock +Exchange, and should more likely add to it than otherwise, and my errand +to-day is simplicity itself. I seek a Christmas present for a lady," he +continued, waxing more fluent as he struck into the speech he had +prepared; "and certainly I owe you every excuse for thus disturbing you +upon so small a matter. But the thing was neglected yesterday; I must +produce my little compliment at dinner; and, as you very well know, a +rich marriage is not a thing to be neglected." + +There followed a pause, during which the dealer seemed to weigh this +statement incredulously. The ticking of many clocks among the curious +lumber of the shop, and the faint rushing of the cabs in a near +thoroughfare, filled up the interval of silence. + +"Well, sir," said the dealer, "be it so. You are an old customer after +all; and if, as you say, you have the chance of a good marriage, far be +it from me to be an obstacle. Here is a nice thing for a lady now," he +went on, "this hand glass--fifteenth century, warranted; comes from a +good collection, too, but I reserve the name, in the interests of my +customer, who was just like yourself, my dear sir, the nephew and sole +heir of a remarkable collector." + +The dealer, while he thus ran on in his dry and biting voice, had +stooped to take the object from its place; and, as he had done so, a +shock had passed through Markheim, a start both of hand and foot, a +sudden leap of many tumultuous passions to the face. It passed as +swiftly as it came, and left no trace beyond a certain trembling of the +hand that now received the glass. + +"A glass," he said hoarsely, and then paused, and repeated it more +clearly. "A glass? For Christmas? Surely not?" + +"And why not?" cried the dealer. "Why not a glass?" + +Markheim was looking upon him with an indefinable expression. "You ask +me why not?" he said. "Why, look here--look in it--look at yourself! Do +you like to see it? No! nor I--nor any man." + +The little man had jumped back when Markheim had so suddenly confronted +him with the mirror; but now, perceiving there was nothing worse on +hand, he chuckled. "Your future lady, sir, must be pretty hard favored," +said he. + +"I ask you," said Markheim, "for a Christmas present, and you give me +this--this damned reminder of years, and sins and follies--this +hand-conscience! Did you mean it? Had you a thought in your mind? Tell +me. It will be better for you if you do. Come, tell me about yourself. I +hazard a guess now, that you are in secret a very charitable man?" + +The dealer looked closely at his companion. It was very odd, Markheim +did not appear to be laughing; there was something in his face like an +eager sparkle of hope, but nothing of mirth. + +"What are you driving at?" the dealer asked. + +"Not charitable?" returned the other, gloomily. "Not charitable; not +pious; not scrupulous; unloving, unbeloved; a hand to get money, a safe +to keep it. Is that all? Dear God, man, is that all?" + +"I will tell you what it is," began the dealer, with some sharpness, and +then broke off again into a chuckle. "But I see this is a love match of +yours, and you have been drinking the lady's health." + +"Ah!" cried Markheim, with a strange curiosity. "Ah, have you been in +love? Tell me about that." + +"I," cried the dealer. "I in love! I never had the time, nor have I the +time to-day for all this nonsense. Will you take the glass?" + +"Where is the hurry?" returned Markheim. "It is very pleasant to stand +here talking; and life is so short and insecure that I would not hurry +away from any pleasure--no, not even from so mild a one as this. We +should rather cling, cling to what little we can get, like a man at a +cliff's edge. Every second is a cliff, if you think upon it--a cliff a +mile high--high enough, if we fall, to dash us out of every feature of +humanity. Hence it is best to talk pleasantly. Let us talk of each +other; why should we wear this mask? Let us be confidential. Who knows, +we might become friends?" + +"I have just one word to say to you," said the dealer. "Either make your +purchase, or walk out of my shop." + +"True, true," said Markheim. "Enough fooling. To business. Show me +something else." + +The dealer stooped once more, this time to replace the glass upon the +shelf, his thin blond hair falling over his eyes as he did so. Markheim +moved a little nearer, with one hand in the pocket of his greatcoat; he +drew himself up and filled his lungs; at the same time many different +emotions were depicted together on his face--terror, horror, and +resolve, fascination and a physical repulsion; and through a haggard +lift of his upper lip, his teeth looked out. + +"This, perhaps, may suit," observed the dealer; and then, as he began to +rearise, Markheim bounded from behind upon his victim. The long, +skewerlike dagger flashed and fell. The dealer struggled like a hen, +striking his temple on the shelf, and then tumbled on the floor in a +heap. + +Time had some score of small voices in that shop, some stately and slow +as was becoming to their great age; others garrulous and hurried. All +these told out the seconds in an intricate chorus of tickings. Then the +passage of a lad's feet, heavily running on the pavement, broke in upon +these smaller voices and startled Markheim into the consciousness of his +surroundings. He looked about him awfully. The candle stood on the +counter, its flame solemnly wagging in a draught; and by that +inconsiderable movement, the whole room was filled with noiseless bustle +and kept heaving like a sea: the tall shadows nodding, the gross blots +of darkness swelling and dwindling as with respiration, the faces of the +portraits and the china gods changing and wavering like images in +water. The inner door stood ajar, and peered into that leaguer of +shadows with a long slit of daylight like a pointing finger. + +From these fear-stricken rovings, Markheim's eyes returned to the body +of his victim, where it lay both humped and sprawling, incredibly small +and strangely meaner than in life. In these poor, miserly clothes, in +that ungainly attitude, the dealer lay like so much sawdust. Markheim +had feared to see it, and, lo! it was nothing. And yet, as he gazed, +this bundle of old clothes and pool of blood began to find eloquent +voices. There it must lie; there was none to work the cunning hinges or +direct the miracle of locomotion--there it must lie till it was found. +Found! ay, and then? Then would this dead flesh lift up a cry that would +ring over England, and fill the world with the echoes of pursuit. Ay, +dead or not, this was still the enemy. "Time was that when the brains +were out," he thought; and the first word struck into his mind. Time, +now that the deed was accomplished--time, which had closed for the +victim, had become instant and momentous for the slayer. + +The thought was yet in his mind, when, first one and then another, with +every variety of pace and voice--one deep as the bell from a cathedral +turret, another ringing on its treble notes the prelude of a waltz--the +clocks began to strike the hour of three in the afternoon. + +The sudden outbreak of so many tongues in that dumb chamber staggered +him. He began to bestir himself, going to and fro with the candle, +beleaguered by moving shadows, and startled to the soul by chance +reflections. In many rich mirrors, some of home designs, some from +Venice or Amsterdam, he saw his face repeated and repeated, as it were +an army of spies; his own eyes met and detected him; and the sound of +his own steps, lightly as they fell, vexed the surrounding quiet. And +still as he continued to fill his pockets, his mind accused him, with a +sickening iteration, of the thousand faults of his design. He should +have chosen a more quiet hour; he should have prepared an alibi; he +should not have used a knife; he should have been more cautious, and +only bound and gagged the dealer, and not killed him; he should have +been more bold, and killed the servant also; he should have done all +things otherwise; poignant regrets, weary, incessant toiling of the mind +to change what was unchangeable, to plan what was now useless, to be the +architect of the irrevocable past. Meanwhile, and behind all this +activity, brute terrors, like the scurrying of rats in a deserted attic, +filled the more remote chambers of his brain with riot; the hand of the +constable would fall heavy on his shoulder, and his nerves would jerk +like a hooked fish; or he beheld, in galloping defile, the dock, the +prison, the gallows, and the black coffin. + +Terror of the people in the street sat down before his mind like a +besieging army. It was impossible, he thought, but that some rumour of +the struggle must have reached their ears and set on edge their +curiosity; and now, in all the neighbouring houses, he divined them +sitting motionless and with uplifted ear--solitary people, condemned to +spend Christmas dwelling alone on memories of the past, and now +startlingly recalled from that tender exercise; happy family parties, +struck into silence round the table, the mother still with raised +finger: every degree and age and humour, but all, by their own hearths, +prying and hearkening and weaving the rope that was to hang him. +Sometimes it seemed to him he could not move too softly; the clink of +the tall Bohemian goblets rang out loudly like a bell; and alarmed by +the bigness of the ticking, he was tempted to stop the clocks. And then, +again, with a swift transition of his terrors, the very silence of the +place appeared a source of peril, and a thing to strike and freeze the +passer-by; and he would step more boldly, and bustle aloud among the +contents of the shop, and imitate, with elaborate bravado, the movements +of a busy man at ease in his own house. + +But he was now so pulled about by different alarms that, while one +portion of his mind was still alert and cunning, another trembled on the +brink of lunacy. One hallucination in particular took a strong hold on +his credulity. The neighbour hearkening with white face beside his +window, the passer-by arrested by a horrible surmise on the +pavement--these could at worst suspect, they could not know; through the +brick walls and shuttered windows only sounds could penetrate. But here, +within the house, was he alone? He knew he was; he had watched the +servant set forth sweethearting, in her poor best, "out for the day" +written in every ribbon and smile. Yes, he was alone, of course; and +yet, in the bulk of empty house above him, he could surely hear a stir +of delicate footing--he was surely conscious, inexplicably conscious of +some presence. Ay, surely; to every room and corner of the house his +imagination followed it; and now it was a faceless thing, and yet had +eyes to see with; and again it was a shadow of himself; and yet again +behold the image of the dead dealer, reinspired with cunning and hatred. + +At times, with a strong effort, he would glance at the open door which +still seemed to repel his eyes. The house was tall, the skylight small +and dirty, the day blind with fog; and the light that filtered down to +the ground story was exceedingly faint, and showed dimly on the +threshold of the shop. And yet, in that strip of doubtful brightness, +did there not hang wavering a shadow? + +Suddenly, from the street outside, a very jovial gentleman began to beat +with a staff on the shop-door, accompanying his blows with shouts and +railleries in which the dealer was continually called upon by name. +Markheim, smitten into ice, glanced at the dead man. But no! he lay +quite still; he was fled away far beyond earshot of these blows and +shoutings; he was sunk beneath seas of silence; and his name, which +would once have caught his notice above the howling of a storm, had +become an empty sound. And presently the jovial gentleman desisted from +his knocking and departed. + +Here was a broad hint to hurry what remained to be done, to get forth +from this accusing neighbourhood, to plunge into a bath of London +multitudes, and to reach, on the other side of day, that haven of safety +and apparent innocence--his bed. One visitor had come: at any moment +another might follow and be more obstinate. To have done the deed, and +yet not to reap the profit, would be too abhorrent a failure. The money, +that was now Markheim's concern; and as a means to that, the keys. + +He glanced over his shoulder at the open door, where the shadow was +still lingering and shivering; and with no conscious repugnance of the +mind, yet with a tremor of the belly, he drew near the body of his +victim. The human character had quite departed. Like a suit half-stuffed +with bran, the limbs lay scattered, the trunk doubled, on the floor; and +yet the thing repelled him. Although so dingy and inconsiderable to the +eye, he feared it might have more significance to the touch. He took the +body by the shoulders; and turned it on its back. It was strangely light +and supple, and the limbs, as if they had been broken, fell into the +oddest postures. The face was robbed of all expression; but it was as +pale as wax, and shockingly smeared with blood about one temple. That +was, for Markheim, the one displeasing circumstance. It carried him +back, upon the instant, to a certain fair day in a fishers' village: a +gray day, a piping wind, a crowd upon the street, the blare of brasses, +the booming of drums, the nasal voice of a ballad singer; and a boy +going to and fro, buried over head in the crowd and divided between +interest and fear, until, coming out upon the chief place of concourse, +he beheld a booth and a great screen with pictures, dismally designed, +garishly coloured: Brownrigg with her apprentice; the Mannings with +their murdered guest; Weare in the death-grip of Thurtell; and a score +besides of famous crimes. The thing was as clear as an illusion: he was +once again that little boy; he was looking once again, and with the same +sense of physical revolt, at these vile pictures; he was still stunned +by the thumping of the drums. A bar of that day's music returned upon +his memory; and at that, for the first time, a qualm came over him, a +breath of nausea, a sudden weakness of the joints, which he must +instantly resist and conquer. + +He judged it more prudent to confront than to flee from these +considerations; looking the more hardily in the dead face, bending his +mind to realise the nature and greatness of his crime. So little a while +ago that face had moved with every change of sentiment, that pale mouth +had spoken, that body had been all on fire with governable energies; and +now, and by his act, that piece of life had been arrested, as the +horologist, with interjected finger, arrests the beating of the clock. +So he reasoned in vain; he could rise to no more remorseful +consciousness; the same heart which had shuddered before the painted +effigies of crime, looked on its reality unmoved. At best, he felt a +gleam of pity for one who had been endowed in vain with all those +faculties that can make the world a garden of enchantment, one who had +never lived and who was now dead. But of penitence, no, not a tremor. + +With that, shaking himself clear of these considerations, he found the +keys and advanced towards the open door of the shop. Outside, it had +begun to rain smartly; and the sound of the shower upon the roof had +banished silence. Like some dripping cavern, the chambers of the house +were haunted by an incessant echoing, which filled the ear and mingled +with the ticking of the clocks. And, as Markheim approached the door, he +seemed to hear, in answer to his own cautious tread, the steps of +another foot withdrawing up the stair. The shadow still palpitated +loosely on the threshold. He threw a ton's weight of resolve upon his +muscles, and drew back the door. + +The faint, foggy daylight glimmered dimly on the bare floor and stairs; +on the bright suit of armour posted, halbert in hand, upon the landing; +and on the dark wood-carvings, and framed pictures that hung against the +yellow panels of the wainscot. So loud was the beating of the rain +through all the house that, in Markheim's ears, it began to be +distinguished into many different sounds. Footsteps and sighs, the tread +of regiments marching in the distance, the chink of money in the +counting, and the creaking of doors held stealthily ajar, appeared to +mingle with the patter of the drops upon the cupola and the gushing of +the water in the pipes. The sense that he was not alone grew upon him to +the verge of madness. On every side he was haunted and begirt by +presences. He heard them moving in the upper chambers; from the shop, he +heard the dead man getting to his legs; and as he began with a great +effort to mount the stairs, feet fled quietly before him and followed +stealthily behind. If he were but deaf, he thought, how tranquilly he +would possess his soul! And then again, and hearkening with ever fresh +attention, he blessed himself for that unresting sense which held the +outposts and stood a trusty sentinel upon his life. His head turned +continually on his neck; his eyes, which seemed starting from their +orbits, scouted on every side, and on every side were half-rewarded as +with the tail of something nameless vanishing. The four-and-twenty steps +to the first floor were four-and-twenty agonies. + +On that first storey, the doors stood ajar, three of them like three +ambushes, shaking his nerves like the throats of cannon. He could never +again, he felt, be sufficiently immured and fortified from men's +observing eyes; he longed to be home, girt in by walls, buried among +bedclothes, and invisible to all but God. And at that thought he +wondered a little, recollecting tales of other murderers and the fear +they were said to entertain of heavenly avengers. It was not so, at +least, with him. He feared the laws of nature, lest, in their callous +and immutable procedure, they should preserve some damning evidence of +his crime. He feared tenfold more, with a slavish, superstitious terror, +some scission in the continuity of man's experience, some wilful +illegality of nature. He played a game of skill, depending on the +rules, calculating consequence from cause; and what if nature, as the +defeated tyrant overthrew the chess-board, should break the mould of +their succession? The like had befallen Napoleon (so writers said) when +the winter changed the time of its appearance. The like might befall +Markheim: the solid walls might become transparent and reveal his doings +like those of bees in a glass hive; the stout planks might yield under +his feet like quicksands and detain him in their clutch; ay, and there +were soberer accidents that might destroy him: if, for instance, the +house should fall and imprison him beside the body of his victim; or the +house next door should fly on fire, and the firemen invade him from all +sides. These things he feared; and, in a sense, these things might be +called the hands of God reached forth against sin. But about God himself +he was at ease; his act was doubtless exceptional, but so were his +excuses, which God knew; it was there, and not among men, that he felt +sure of justice. + +When he had got safe into the drawing-room, and shut the door behind +him, he was aware of a respite from alarms. The room was quite +dismantled, uncarpeted besides, and strewn with packing cases and +incongruous furniture; several great pier-glasses, in which he beheld +himself at various angles, like an actor on a stage; many pictures, +framed and unframed, standing, with their faces to the wall; a fine +Sheraton sideboard, a cabinet of marquetry, and a great old bed, with +tapestry hangings. The windows opened to the floor; but by great good +fortune the lower part of the shutters had been closed, and this +concealed him from the neighbours. Here, then, Markheim drew in a +packing case before the cabinet, and began to search among the keys. It +was a long business, for there were many; and it was irksome, besides; +for, after all, there might be nothing in the cabinet, and time was on +the wing. But the closeness of the occupation sobered him. With the tail +of his eye he saw the door--even glanced at it from time to time +directly like a besieged commander pleased to verify the good estate of +his defences. But in truth he was at peace. The rain falling in the +street sounded natural and pleasant. Presently, on the other side, the +notes of a piano were wakened to the music of a hymn, and the voices of +many children took up the air and words. How stately, how comfortable +was the melody! How fresh the youthful voices! Markheim gave ear to it +smilingly, as he sorted out the keys; and his mind was thronged with +answerable ideas and images; church-going children and the pealing of +the high organ; children afield, bathers by the brookside, ramblers on +the brambly common, kite-flyers in the windy and cloud-navigated sky; +and then, at another cadence of the hymn, back again to church, and the +somnolence of summer Sundays, and the high genteel voice of the parson +(which he smiled a little to recall) and the painted Jacobean tombs, and +the dim lettering of the Ten Commandments in the chancel. + +And as he sat thus, at once busy and absent, he was startled to his +feet. A flash of ice, a flash of fire, a bursting gush of blood, went +over him, and then he stood transfixed and thrilling. A step mounted the +stair slowly and steadily, and presently a hand was laid upon the knob, +and the lock clicked, and the door opened. + +Fear held Markheim in a vice. What to expect he knew not, whether the +dead man walking, or the official ministers of human justice, or some +chance witness blindly stumbling in to consign him to the gallows. But +when a face was thrust into the aperture, glanced round the room, looked +at him, nodded and smiled as if in friendly recognition, and then +withdrew again, and the door closed behind it, his fear broke loose from +his control in a hoarse cry. At the sound of this the visitant returned. + +"Did you call me?" he asked pleasantly, and with that he entered the +room and closed the door behind him. + +Markheim stood and gazed at him with all his eyes. Perhaps there was a +film upon his sight, but the outlines of the newcomer seemed to change +and waver like those of the idols in the wavering candle-light of the +shop; and at times he thought he knew him; and at times he thought he +bore a likeness to himself; and always like a lump of living terror, +there lay in his bosom the conviction that this thing was not of the +earth and not of God. + +And yet the creature had a strange air of the commonplace, as he stood +looking on Markheim with a smile; and when he added, "You are looking +for the money, I believe?" it was in the tones of everyday politeness. + +Markheim made no answer. + +"I should warn you," resumed the other, "that the maid has left her +sweetheart earlier than usual and will soon be here. If Mr. Markheim be +found in this house, I need not describe to him the consequences." + +"You know me?" cried the murderer. + +The visitor smiled. "You have long been a favourite of mine," he said; +"and I have long observed and often sought to help you." + +"What are you?" cried Markheim; "the devil?" + +"What I may be," returned the other, "cannot affect the service I +propose to render you." + +"It can," cried Markheim; "it does! Be helped by you? No, never; not by +you! You do not know me yet; thank God, you do not know me!" + +"I know you," replied the visitant, with a sort of kind severity or +rather firmness. "I know you to the soul." + +"Know me!" cried Markheim. "Who can do so? My life is but a travesty and +slander on myself. I have lived to belie my nature. All men do; all men +are better than this disguise that grows about and stifles them. You see +each dragged away by life, like one whom bravos have seized and muffled +in a cloak. If they had their own control--if you could see their faces, +they would be altogether different, they would shine out for heroes and +saints! I am worse than most; myself is more overlaid; my excuse is +known to me and God. But, had I the time, I could disclose myself." + +"To me?" inquired the visitant. + +"To you before all," returned the murderer. "I supposed you were +intelligent. I thought--since you exist--you would prove a reader of the +heart. And yet you would propose to judge me by my acts! Think of it; my +acts! I was born and I have lived in a land of giants; giants have +dragged me by the wrists since I was born out of my mother--the giants +of circumstance. And you would judge me by my acts! But can you not look +within? Can you not understand that evil is hateful to me? Can you not +see within me the clear writing of conscience, never blurred by any +wilful sophistry, although too often disregarded? Can you not read me +for a thing that surely must be common as humanity--the unwilling +sinner?" + +"All this is very feelingly expressed," was the reply, "but it regards +me not. These points of consistency are beyond my province, and I care +not in the least by what compulsion you may have been dragged away, so +as you are but carried in the right direction. But time flies; the +servant delays, looking in the faces of the crowd and at the pictures on +the hoardings, but still she keeps moving nearer; and remember, it is as +if the gallows itself was striding towards you through the Christmas +streets! Shall I help you; I, who know all? Shall I tell you where to +find the money?" + +"For what price?" asked Markheim. + +"I offer you the service for a Christmas gift," returned the other. + +Markheim could not refrain from smiling with a kind of bitter triumph. +"No," said he, "I will take nothing at your hands; if I were dying of +thirst, and it was your hand that put the pitcher to my lips, I should +find the courage to refuse. It may be credulous, but I will do nothing +to commit myself to evil." + +"I have no objection to a death-bed repentance," observed the visitant. + +"Because you disbelieve their efficacy!" Markheim cried. + +"I do not say so," returned the other; "but I look on these things from +a different side, and when the life is done my interest falls. The man +has lived to serve me, to spread black looks under colour of religion, +or to sow tares in the wheat-field, as you do, in a course of weak +compliance with desire. Now that he draws so near to his deliverance, he +can add but one act of service--to repent, to die smiling, and thus to +build up in confidence and hope the more timorous of my surviving +followers. I am not so hard a master. Try me. Accept my help. Please +yourself in life as you have done hitherto; please yourself more amply, +spread your elbows at the board; and when the night begins to fall and +the curtains to be drawn, I tell you, for your greater comfort, that you +will find it even easy to compound your quarrel with your conscience, +and to make a truckling peace with God. I came but now from such a +death-bed, and the room was full of sincere mourners, listening to the +man's last words: and when I looked into that face, which had been set +as a flint against mercy, I found it smiling with hope." + +"And do you, then, suppose me such a creature?" asked Markheim. "Do you +think I have no more generous aspirations than to sin, and sin, and sin, +and, at last, sneak into heaven? My heart rises at the thought. Is this, +then, your experience of mankind? or is it because you find me with red +hands that you presume such baseness? and is this crime of murder indeed +so impious as to dry up the very springs of good?" + +"Murder is to me no special category," replied the other. "All sins are +murder, even as all life is war. I behold your race, like starving +mariners on a raft, plucking crusts out of the hands of famine and +feeding on each other's lives. I follow sins beyond the moment of their +acting; I find in all that the last consequence is death; and to my +eyes, the pretty maid who thwarts her mother with such taking graces on +a question of a ball, drips no less visibly with human gore than such a +murderer as yourself. Do I say that I follow sins? I follow virtues +also; they differ not by the thickness of a nail, they are both scythes +for the reaping angel of Death. Evil, for which I live, consists not in +action, but in character. The bad man is dear to me; not the bad act, +whose fruits, if we could follow them far enough down the hurtling +cataract of the ages, might yet be found more blessed than those of the +rarest virtues. And it is not because you have killed a dealer, but +because you are Markheim, that I offered to forward your escape." + +"I will lay my heart open to you," answered Markheim. "This crime on +which you find me is my last. On my way to it I have learned many +lessons; itself is a lesson, a momentous lesson. Hitherto I have been +driven with revolt to what I would not; I was a bond-slave to poverty, +driven and scourged. There are robust virtues that can stand in these +temptations; mine was not so: I had a thirst of pleasure. But to-day, +and out of this deed, I pluck both warning and riches--both the power +and a fresh resolve to be myself. I become in all things a free actor in +the world; I begin to see myself all changed, these hands the agents of +good, this heart at peace. Something comes over me out of the past; +something of what I have dreamed on Sabbath evenings to the sound of the +church organ, of what I forecast when I shed tears over noble books, or +talked, an innocent child, with my mother. There lies my life; I have +wandered a few years, but now I see once more my city of destination." + +"You are to use this money on the Stock Exchange, I think?" remarked the +visitor; "and there, if I mistake not, you have already lost some +thousands?" + +"Ah," said Markheim, "but this time I have a sure thing." + +"This time, again, you will lose," replied the visitor, quietly. + +"Ah, but I keep back the half!" cried Markheim. + +"That also you will lose," said the other. + +The sweat started upon Markheim's brow. "Well, then, what matter?" he +exclaimed. "Say it be lost, say I am plunged again in poverty, shall one +part of me, and that the worse, continue until the end to override the +better? Evil and good run strong in me, haling me both ways. I do not +love the one thing, I love all. I can conceive great deeds, +renunciations, martyrdoms; and though I be fallen to such a crime as +murder, pity is no stranger to my thoughts. I pity the poor; who knows +their trials better than myself? I pity and help them; I prize love, I +love honest laughter; there is no good thing nor true thing on earth but +I love it from my heart. And are my vices only to direct my life, and my +virtues to lie without effect, like some passive lumber of the mind? Not +so; good, also, is a spring of acts." + +But the visitant raised his finger. "For six-and-thirty years that you +have been in this world," said he, "through many changes of fortune and +varieties of humour, I have watched you steadily fall. Fifteen years ago +you would have started at a theft. Three years back you would have +blenched at the name of murder. Is there any crime, is there any cruelty +or meanness, from which you still recoil?--five years from now I shall +detect you in the fact! Downward, downward, lies your way; nor can +anything but death avail to stop you." + +"It is true," Markheim said huskily, "I have in some degree complied +with evil. But it is so with all: the very saints, in the mere exercise +of living, grow less dainty, and take on the tone of their +surroundings." + +"I will propound to you one simple question," said the other; "and as +you answer, I shall read to you your moral horoscope. You have grown in +many things more lax; possibly you do right to be so; and at any +account, it is the same with all men. But granting that, are you in any +one particular, however trifling, more difficult to please with your own +conduct, or do you go in all things with a looser rein?" + +"In any one?" repeated Markheim, with an anguish of consideration. "No," +he added, with despair, "in none! I have gone down in all." + +"Then," said, the visitor, "content yourself with what you are, for you +will never change; and the words of your part on this stage are +irrevocably written down." + +Markheim stood for a long while silent, and indeed it was the visitor +who first broke the silence. "That being so," he said, "shall I show you +the money?" + +"And grace?" cried Markheim. + +"Have you not tried it?" returned the other. "Two or three years ago, +did I not see you on the platform of revival meetings, and was not your +voice the loudest in the hymn?" + +"It is true," said Markheim; "and I see clearly what remains for me by +way of duty. I thank you for these lessons from my soul; my eyes are +opened, and I behold myself at last for what I am." + +At this moment, the sharp note of the door-bell rang through the house; +and the visitant, as though this were some concerted signal for which he +had been waiting, changed at once in his demeanour. + +"The maid!" he cried. "She has returned, as I forewarned you, and there +is now before you one more difficult passage. Her master, you must say, +is ill; you must let her in, with an assured but rather serious +countenance--no smiles, no overacting, and I promise you success! Once +the girl within, and the door closed, the same dexterity that has +already rid you of the dealer will relieve you of this last danger in +your path. Thenceforward you have the whole evening--the whole night, if +needful--to ransack the treasures of the house and to make good your +safety. This is help that comes to you with the mask of danger. Up!" he +cried; "up, friend; your life hangs trembling in the scales; up, and +act!" + +Markheim steadily regarded his counsellor. "If I be condemned to evil +acts," he said, "there is still one door of freedom open--I can cease +from action. If my life be an ill thing, I can lay it down. Though I be, +as you say truly, at the beck of every small temptation, I can yet, by +one decisive gesture, place myself beyond the reach of all. My love of +good is damned to barrenness; it may, and let it be! But I have still my +hatred of evil; and from that, to your galling disappointment, you shall +see that I can draw both energy and courage." + +The features of the visitor began to undergo a wonderful and lovely +change: they brightened and softened with a tender triumph; and, even as +they brightened, faded and dislimned. But Markheim did not pause to +watch or understand the transformation. He opened the door and went +downstairs very slowly, thinking to himself. His past went soberly +before him; he beheld it as it was, ugly and strenuous like a dream, +random as chance-medley--a scene of defeat. Life, as he thus reviewed +it, tempted him no longer; but on the further side he perceived a quiet +haven for his bark. He paused in the passage, and looked into the shop, +where the candle still burned by the dead body. It was strangely silent. +Thoughts of the dealer swarmed into his mind, as he stood gazing. And +then the bell once more broke out into impatient clamour. + +He confronted the maid upon the threshold with something like a smile. + +"You had better go for the police," said he; "I have killed your +master." + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 90: First published in 1885.] + + + + +SUPPLEMENTARY READINGS + +WITH SOME TOPICS FOR DISCUSSION AND FOR COMPOSITION + +(Note.--The selections named below are as a rule short; and, since they +are contained in standard works of modern prose, they are accessible in +the average library. Page numbers in parentheses refer to the present +volume.) + + +I. THE PERSONAL LIFE + +(_a_) William Hazlitt, _On Personal Character_, in "The Plain Speaker": +How the main thesis differs from that in Emerson's _Self-Reliance_ (page +1). (_b_) Walter Pater, _Diaphaneité_, in "Miscellaneous Studies": The +substance of the ideal personality here delineated, and how it differs +from the type suggested by Emerson. (_c_) Matthew Arnold, _Doing as One +Likes_, or _Hebraism and Hellenism_, in "Culture and Anarchy": The main +principles of personal endeavor suggested in either of these essays. +(_d_) Plutarch, _Marcus Cato,_ in "Lives," Vol. II of Clough's +translation: 1. Cato's Self-Reliance. 2. Cato's type of character in +American public life. (_e_) Walter Scott, fragment of _Autobiography_, +in Lockhart's "Life of Scott:" A comparison of Scott's early training +with Ruskin's. See also the early chapters of (_f_) Trevelyan's "Life of +Macaulay" and (_g_) Froude's "Life of Carlyle." (_h_) Charles Darwin, +_Autobiography_, in "Life and Letters:" 1. The change which came over +Darwin's attitude toward literature. 2. The contrast between Darwin's +type of mind and Lamb's as revealed in _Old China_ (page 40) and Pater's +essay (page 437). + + +II. EDUCATION + +(_a_) R.W. Emerson, _The American Scholar_, in "Nature, Addresses, +Lectures:" The main points in the view here given of education. 2. +Certain considerations, somewhat neglected by Emerson, but developed by +Newman (page 52). (_b_) Woodrow Wilson, _The Training of Intellect_ (an +address to the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Yale University): How far your +own course of study is fulfilling the requirements here set forth, (_c_) +William Hazlitt, _On Application to Study_, in "The Plain Speaker:" 1. +Hazlitt's view of the study of composition. 2. How the principles of +application which he advocates may be applied to some other study in +which you are interested. (_d_) T.H. Huxley, _Science and Culture_, in +"Science and Education:" 1. How far the principles here set forth bear +out Huxley's definition of education (page 47). 2. The main point at +issue between Huxley and Arnold (Arnold's essay, page 75, is a reply to +Huxley), and your own view of the matter drawn from your own experience. +(_e_) J.S. Mill, _Inaugural Address at St. Andrew's,_ in +"Dissertations," Vol. IV: Mill's main contentions as to the exact +purpose and value of the study of language and literature in +universities. (_f_) H.D. Thoreau, _Reading_, in "Walden:" The author's +views in regard to reading not done in connection with school work. +(_g_) A.G. Balfour, _Pleasures of Reading_, in "Essays and Addresses" +(written as a reply to Harrison's claims, page 97): The main points at +issue between Harrison and Balfour, and your own view of the matter. +(_h_) John Lubbock, _The Choice of Books_, in "The Pleasures of Life:" +Whether this essay goes to support Harrison's or Balfour's view, and +how. (_i_) Woodrow Wilson, essays in "Mere Literature." (_j_) John +Ruskin, _Sesame and Lilies_. (_k_) Consult several biographies of great +men--for example, Morley's _Gladstone_, Froude's _Carlyle_, Darwin's +_Life_, Huxley's _Life_--and make a comparative study of their early +reading. + + +III. RECREATION AND TRAVELS + +(_a_) George Santayana, on _Work and Play_, sections 3 and following, in +"The Sense of Beauty," Part I: 1. The distinction between working and +playing. 2. The relation between the sense of beauty and the sense of +pleasure. (_b_) William Hazlitt, _On Living to One's Self_, in "Table +Talk:" 1. The general method of enjoying life, which is developed here +and illustrated further in _On Going a Journey_ (page 116). (_c_) R.L. +Stevenson, _Walking Tours_, in "Virginibus Puerisque;" and _Roads_, in +"Essays of Travel:" 1. The several ways in which these essays reflect +Hazlitt's views; the points which are peculiar to Stevenson. 2. How far +your own methods of securing outdoor enjoyment are in accord with +Hazlitt's and Stevenson's. (_d_) W.H. Hudson, _Idle Days_, in "Idle Days +in Patagonia:" What the author's so-called idleness consisted in. (_e_) +Francis Parkman, _Hunting Indians_, in "The Oregon Trail:" The mental +experiences of the writer himself in the course of the exploit he +describes. + + +IV. SOCIAL LIFE AND MANNERS + +(_a_) R.W. Emerson, _Culture_, in "The Conduct of Life:" The relation +which the central thought bears to that of Behavior (page 154). (_b_) +Matthew Arnold, _Sweetness and Light_, in "Culture and Anarchy:" 1. The +chief motives and characteristics of culture. 2. The relation between +culture and bodily vigor. 3. The "Social Idea." 4. A comparison of +Emerson's and Arnold's attitude toward culture. (_c_) R.W. Emerson, +_Manners_, in "Essays, Second Series." How Emerson's view of the +relation between manners and fashion supplements Spencer's contention +(page 172). (_d_) Henri Bergson, _the first part of Chapter I_ in +"Laughter:" The function of laughter in social life. (_g_) William +Hazlitt, _On the Spirit of Obligations_, in "The Plain Dealer:" The +relation between good sense and good nature. (_f_) R.L. Stevenson, _The +Truth of Intercourse_, in "Virginibus Puerisque:" The complex meaning of +truthfulness in social life. (_g_) W.M. Thackeray, _George II_, in "The +Four Georges:" The chief characteristics of Georgian society. + + +V. PUBLIC AFFAIRS + +(_a_) Plato, _The Apology_, in the "Dialogues," translated by Jowett, +and by others: 1. The part played by Socrates in the public life of +Athens. 2. What function Socrates could fulfil in American public life. +(_b_) J.S. Mill, _Civilization_, in "Dissertations and Discussions," +Vol. I: The ill effects of civilization, and how they may be overcome. +(_c_) Henry George, _The Persistence of Poverty amid Advancing Wealth_, +in Book V of "Progress and Poverty:" George's exposition of the problem +tested by your own experience. (_d_) J.S. Mill, _Of the Dangers to which +Representative Government is Liable,_ in "Considerations on +Representative Government:" The extent to which Mill's contentions apply +to the United States. (_e_) Josiah Royce, _Some American Problems_, in +"The Philosophy of Loyalty:" 1. The general solution proposed. 2. How +this solution might be applied to some public or college problem you +know of. + + +VI. SCIENCE + +(_a_) Herbert Spencer, _The Genesis of Science_, in "Illustrations of +Universal Progress:" The essential nature of science. (_b_) T.H. Huxley, +_The Method of Scientific Investigation_, in "Man's Place in Nature:" +The relation between scientific and everyday modes of thinking. (_c_) +John Tyndall, _On the nature and function of the sun_, in Chapter XIV of +"Heat as a Mode of Motion:" The general relation between the facts +presented by Tyndall and those presented in _The Physical Basis of Life_ +(page 240). (_d_) A.R. Wallace, _Darwinism as Applied to Man_, in +"Darwinism": A comparison of this piece, in respect to aim and method, +with Darwin's _Mental Powers of Men and Animals_ (page 263). (_e_) +Charles Darwin, _On the flower of the ladies' slipper_, in Chapter VIII +of "Fertilization of Orchids by Insects." (_f_) T.H. Huxley, _On the +Formation of Coal_, in "Discourses Biological." + + +VII. NATURE + +(_a_) R.W. Emerson, _Nature_, in "Essays, Second Series:" The effect of +nature on the human mind. (_b_) H.D. Thoreau, _Spring_, in "Walden:" 1. +The formative principle in nature. 2. A comparison of Thoreau's attitude +toward nature, as revealed here and in "Walden Pond" (page 306), with +that of Emerson. (_c_) John Burroughs, _The Pastoral Bees_ in "Locusts +and Wild Honey:" The communal life of the bees. (_d_) W.H. Hudson, _The +Perfume of an Evening Primrose_, in "Idle Days in Patagonia:" The +association of phenomena of nature with events in one's life. (_e_) +Leslie Stephen, _Sunset on Mont Blanc_, in "The Playground of Europe:" +An analysis of the circumstances which combined to give this sunset its +peculiar interest. (_f_) John Ruskin, descriptions of _water, sky, +clouds, and foliage_ in "Modern Painters," Vol. I (look up passages +other than those selected for the present volume, page 325): in each +case, distinguish the _chief_ beautiful effect which the author wishes +to bring out. + + +VIII. CONDUCT AND INNER LIFE + +(_a_) William James, _The Will to Believe_, in "The Will to Believe, and +other Essays:" The bearing of religious conviction on volition and +conduct. (_b_) Josiah Royce, _Loyalty to Loyalty_, in "The Philosophy of +Loyalty:" 1. The exact meaning of the title. 2. How the main thesis is +fundamental for _Loyalty and Insight_ (page 365). (_c_) R.W. Emerson, +_The Over-Soul_, in "Essays, First Series:" 1. How the conception here +developed appears again in other essays of Emerson which you have read. +2. How Emerson's attitude toward spiritual truth differs from that of +James; see (_a_), above. (_d_) Josiah Royce, _What is Vital_ in +Christianity? in "William James and Other Essays:" The central thought +as compared with Seeley's (page 351). (_e_) George Santayana, _The +Poetry of Christian Dogma_, in "Poetry and Religion:" The full +significance of the title. (_f_) J.R. Seeley, _Christ's Royalty_, in +"Ecce Homo:" The significance of the term "King" as applied to Christ. +(_g_) G.L. Dickinson, _The Greek View of Religion_, in "The Greek View +of Life:" 1. How the Greek differs from the Christian view. 2. The most +admirable features of the Greek view. (_h_) Walter Pater, _A Study of +Dionysus_, in "Greek Studies:" What Dionysus was symbolic of. (_i_) +William James, _Habit_, in "Psychology," Vol. I: The significance of +habits, tested by your own experience. (_j_) W.E.H. Lecky, _The +Management of Character_, in "The Map of Life:" Specific methods by +which one may mold one's own character. + + +IX. LITERATURE AND ART + +(_a_) George Santayana, _Art and Happiness_, in "The Life of Reason," +Vol. IV: 1. What is Art? 2. The position of literature among the arts. +3. What art needs at the present day. (_b_) Walter Bagehot, On +_Wordsworth_, in "Essay on Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Browning:" The +nature of pure art. (_c_) Matthew Arnold, _Wordsworth_, in "Essays in +Criticism:" A comparison of Arnold's main thesis in regard to Wordsworth +with Bagehot's; see (_b_) above. (_d_) G.H. Lewes, _The Principle of +Sincerity_, in "The Principles of Success in Literature:" The relation +between sincerity and success in literature. (_e_) Thomas Carlyle, +_Dante_, in "On Heroes and Hero-Worship:" 1. The chief differences +between Dante and Shakespeare (see page 423). 2. How the principle of +sincerity (see (_d_) above) is illustrated in the case of Dante. (_f_) +P.B. Shelley, _Defence of Poetry_: A comparison of Shelley's attitude +toward poetry with Bradley's (page 389). (_g_) G.L. Dickinson, _Chapter +IV_ in the "Greek View of Life" (the part preceding the section +reprinted in the present volume): How the principles determining the +nature of Greek tragedy appear also in the other Greek arts. (_h_) S.H. +Butcher, _What we Owe to Greece_, in "Some Aspects of Greek Genius:" +Ideals we have inherited from the Greeks. (_i_) A.C. Bradley, _The +Substance of Shakespearean Tragedy_, in "Shakespearean Tragedy:" The +conception of the relations between good and evil which appears in +Shakespeare's tragedies. (_j_) Sophocles, _Oedipus Rex_ (translated by +Gilbert Murray): A comparison of the theme of this tragedy with the +theme of Shakespeare's _Richard III, Macbeth, or Lear_. + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of English Prose +by Frederick William Roe (edit. and select.) + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12025 *** diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e5e1c4e --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #12025 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/12025) diff --git a/old/12025-8.txt b/old/12025-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..505f4f0 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/12025-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,16341 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of English Prose +by Frederick William Roe (edit. and select.) + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: English Prose + A Series of Related Essays for the Discussion and Practice + +Author: Frederick William Roe (edit. and select.) + +Release Date: April 14, 2004 [EBook #12025] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO Latin-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ENGLISH PROSE *** + + + + +Produced by John Hagerson, Kevin Handy, Gene Smethers and PG Distributed +Proofreaders + + + + + +ENGLISH PROSE + +A SERIES OF RELATED ESSAYS FOR THE DISCUSSION AND PRACTICE +OF THE ART OF WRITING + +SELECTED AND EDITED + +BY + +FREDERICK WILLIAM ROE, PH.D. + +OF THE UNIVERSITY OF WISCONSIN + +AND + +GEORGE ROY ELLIOTT, PH.D. + +OF BOWDOIN COLLEGE + +1913 + + + +PREFACE + + +The selections in the present volume, designed primarily for the +discussion and practice in college classes of the art of composition, +have been arranged under a scheme which the editors believe to be new. +There are nine related groups. Each successive group represents a +different phase of life, beginning with character and personality, and +concluding with art and literature. The whole together, as the table of +contents will show, thus presents a body of ideas that includes +practically all the great departments of human thought and interest. + +It is evident that certain ideals of teaching composition underlie the +scheme. The editors believe heartily with Pater that "the chief stimulus +of good style is to possess a full, rich, complex matter to grapple +with". Instruction in writing, it is to be feared, too often neglects +this sound doctrine and places an emphasis upon formal matters that +seems disproportionate, especially when form is made to appear as a +thing apart. Form and content go together and one must not suffer at the +expense of the other. But a sustained interest in the ways and means of +correct expression is aroused only when the student feels that he has +something to express. Instructors often contend indeed that the ideas of +undergraduates are far to seek, and that most of the time in the +class-room is therefore best spent upon formal exercises and drill. The +editors do not share this view. They believe that there is no class of +people more responsive to new ideas and impressions than college +students, and none more eager, when normally stimulated, to express +themselves in writing. They have therefore aimed to present a series of +related selections that would arouse thought and provoke oral discussion +in the class-room, as well as furnish suitable models of style. In most +cases the pieces are too long to be adequately handled in one class +hour. A live topic may well be discussed for several hours, until its +various sides have been examined and students are awakened to the many +questions at issue. The editors have aimed, also, to supply selections +so rich and vital in content that instructors themselves will feel +challenged to add to the class discussion from their own knowledge and +experience, and so turn a stream of fresh ideas upon "stock notions". +Thus English composition, which in many courses in our larger +institutions is now almost the only non-special study, can be made a +direct means of liberalization in the meaning and art of life, as well +as an instrument for correct and effective writing. + +The present volume therefore differs from others in the same field. Many +recent collections contain pieces too short and unrelated to satisfy the +ideals suggested above--ideals which, the editors feel sure, are held by +an increasing number of teachers. And older and newer collections alike +have been constructed primarily with the purpose of illustrating the +conventional categories,--description, narration, exposition. Teachers +of composition everywhere are becoming distrustful of an arrangement +which is frankly at variance with the actual practice of writing, and +are of the opinion that it is better to set the student to the task of +composition without confining him too narrowly to one form of discourse. +The editors have deliberately avoided, however, the other extreme, which +is reflected in one or two recent volumes, of choosing pieces of one +type to the exclusion of all others. In collections of this kind variety +in form and subject-matter is fully as important as richness of content. +Instructors who believe in the use of the types of discourse as the most +practicable means of instruction, will find all the types liberally +represented in the present volume. And in order to meet their +requirements even more adequately, the editors have included two short +stories at the end, as examples of narration with a plot. + +Much attention has been given to the suggestions at the end of the +volume with the aim of making them practically serviceable and, at the +same time, as free as possible from duplication of class work. This aim, +the editors came to believe, could best be attained by providing for +each group of selections definite suggestions of theme-subjects to be +derived by the student from supplementary readings closely related to +that group. + +F.W.R. +G.R.E. + +MADISON, WISCONSIN, +May, 1913. + + + +CONTENTS + + +I. THE PERSONAL LIFE. + + 1. Self-Reliance...............RALPH WALDO EMERSON + + 2. Early Education + at Herne Hill.............JOHN RUSKIN + + 3. A Crisis in My + Mental History............JOHN STUART MILL + + 4. Old China...................CHARLES LAMB + +II. EDUCATION. + + 5. What is Education?..........THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY + + 6. Knowledge Viewed in + Relation to Learning .....JOHN HENRY NEWMAN + + 7. Literature and Science......MATTHEW ARNOLD + + 8. How to Read.................FREDERIC HARRISON + +III. RECREATION AND TRAVELS. + + 9. On Going a Journey..........WILLIAM HAZLITT + + 10. Regrets of a Mountaineer....LESLIE STEPHEN + +IV. SOCIAL LIFE AND MANNERS. + + 11. Behavior....................RALPH WALDO EMERSON + + 12. Manners and Fashion.........HERBERT SPENCER + + 13. Talk and Talkers............ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + +V. PUBLIC AFFAIRS. + + 14. The Social Value + of the College-bred.......WILLIAM JAMES + + 15. The Law of + Human Progress............HENRY GEORGE + + 16. The Morals of Trade.........HERBERT SPENCER + +VI. SCIENCE. + + 17. The Physical Basis + of Life...................THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY + + 18. Mental Powers of + Men and Animals...........CHARLES DARWIN + + 19. The Importance of Dust......ALFRED RUSSEL WALLACE + +VII. NATURE. + + 20. The Battle of the Ants......HENRY DAVID THOREAU + + 21. A Windstorm + in the Forests............JOHN MUIR + + 22. Walden Pond.................HENRY DAVID THOREAU + + 23. Extracts from + Modern Painters...........JOHN RUSKIN + +VIII. CONDUCT AND INNER LIFE. + + 24. The Stoics.. .............WILLIAM EDWARD HARTPOLE LECKY + + 25. Enthusiasm of Humanity......JOHN ROBERT SEELEY + + 26. Loyalty and Insight.........JOSIAH ROYCE + +IX. LITERATURE AND ART. + + 27. Poetry for Poetry's Sake.... A.C. BRADLEY + + 28. Greek Tragedy................G. LOWES DICKINSON + + 29. Shakespeare..................THOMAS CARLYLE + + 30. Charles Lamb.................WALTER PATER + + 31. Dr. Heidegger's Experiment...NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE + + 32. Markheim.....................ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + + +SUPPLEMENTARY READINGS. + +With some topics for Discussion and Composition. + + + +ENGLISH PROSE + + + + +SELF-RELIANCE[1] + +RALPH WALDO EMERSON + + +I read the other day some verses written by an eminent painter which +were original and not conventional. Always the soul hears an admonition +in such lines, let the subject be what it may. The sentiment they instil +is of more value than any thought they may contain. To believe your own +thought, to believe that what is true for you in your private heart is +true for all men,--that is genius. Speak your latent conviction, and it +shall be the universal sense; for always the inmost becomes the +outmost--and our first thought is rendered back to us by the trumpets of +the Last Judgment. Familiar as the voice of the mind is to each, the +highest merit we ascribe to Moses, Plato and Milton is that they set at +naught books and traditions, and spoke not what men, but what they +thought. A man should learn to detect and watch that gleam of light +which flashes across his mind from within, more than the luster of the +firmament of bards and sages. Yet he dismisses without notice his +thought, because it is his. In every work of genius we recognize our own +rejected thoughts; they come back to us with a certain alienated +majesty. Great works of art have no more affecting lesson for us than +this. They teach us to abide by our spontaneous impression with +good-humored inflexibility then most when the whole cry of voices is on +the other side. Else to-morrow a stranger will say with masterly good +sense precisely what we have thought and felt all the time, and we shall +be forced to take with shame our own opinion from another. + +There is a time in every man's education when he arrives at the +conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he +must take himself for better for worse as his portion; that though the +wide universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to +him but through his toil bestowed on that plot of ground which is given +to him to till. The power which resides in him is new in nature, and +none but he knows what that is which he can do, nor does he know until +he has tried. Not for nothing one face, one character, one fact, makes +much impression on him, and another none. It is not without +preestablished harmony, this sculpture in the memory. The eye was placed +where one ray should fall, that it might testify of that particular ray. +Bravely let him speak the utmost syllable of his confession. We but half +express ourselves, and are ashamed of that divine idea which each of us +represents. It may be safely trusted as proportionate and of good +issues, so it be faithfully imparted, but God will not have his work +made manifest by cowards. It needs a divine man to exhibit anything +divine. A man is relieved and gay when he has put his heart into his +work and done his best; but what he has said or done otherwise shall +give him no peace. It is a deliverance which does not deliver. In the +attempt his genius deserts him; no muse befriends; no invention, no +hope. + +Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string. Accept the +place the divine providence has found for you, the society of your +contemporaries, the connection of events. Great men have always done so, +and confided themselves childlike to the genius of their age, betraying +their perception that the Eternal was stirring at their heart, working +through their hands, predominating in all their being. And we are now +men, and must accept in the highest mind the same transcendent destiny; +and not pinched in a corner, not cowards fleeing before a revolution, +but redeemers and benefactors, pious aspirants to be noble clay under +the Almighty effort let us advance on Chaos and the Dark. + +What pretty oracles nature yields us on this text in the face and +behavior of children, babes, and even brutes. That divided and rebel +mind, that distrust of a sentiment because our arithmetic has computed +the strength and means opposed to our purpose, these have not. Their +mind being whole, their eye is as yet unconquered, and when we look in +their faces, we are disconcerted. Infancy conforms to nobody; all +conform to it; so that one babe commonly makes four or five out of the +adults who prattle and play to it. So God has armed youth and puberty +and manhood no less with its own piquancy and charm, and made it +enviable and gracious and its claims not to be put by, if it will stand +by itself. Do not think the youth has no force, because he cannot speak +to you and me. Hark! in the next room who spoke so clear and emphatic? +Good Heaven! it is he! it is that very lump of bashfulness and phlegm +which for weeks has done nothing but eat when you were by, and now rolls +out these words like bell-strokes. It seems he knows how to speak to his +contemporaries. Bashful or bold then, he will know how to make us +seniors very unnecessary. + +The nonchalance of boys who are sure of a dinner, and would disdain as +much as a lord to do or say aught to conciliate one, is the +healthy attitude of human nature. How is a boy the master of +society!--independent, irresponsible, looking out from his corner on +such people and facts as pass by, he tries and sentences them on their +merits, in the swift, summary way of boys, as good, bad, interesting, +silly, eloquent, troublesome. He cumbers himself never about +consequences, about interests; he gives an independent, genuine verdict. +You must court him; he does not court you. But the man is as it were +clapped into jail by his consciousness. As soon as he has once acted or +spoken with éclat he is a committed person, watched by the sympathy or +the hatred of hundreds, whose affections must now enter into his +account. There is no Lethe for this. Ah, that he could pass again into +his neutral, godlike independence! Who can thus lose all pledge and, +having observed, observe again from the same unaffected, unbiased, +unbribable, unaffrighted innocence, must always be formidable, must +always engage the poet's and the man's regards. Of such an immortal +youth the force would be felt. He would utter opinions on all passing +affairs, which being seen to be not private but necessary, would sink +like darts into the ear of men and put them in fear. + +These are the voices which we hear in solitude, but they grow faint and +inaudible as we enter into the world. Society everywhere is in +conspiracy against the manhood of every one of its members. Society is a +joint-stock company, in which the members agree, for the better securing +of his bread to each shareholder, to surrender the liberty and culture +of the eater. The virtue in most request is conformity. Self-reliance is +its aversion. It loves not realities and creators, but names and +customs. + +Whoso would be a man, must be a nonconformist. He who would gather +immortal palms must not be hindered by the name of goodness, but must +explore if it be goodness. Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity +of our own mind. Absolve you to yourself, and you shall have the +suffrage of the world. I remember an answer which when quite young I was +prompted to make to a valued adviser who was wont to importune me with +the deaf old doctrines of the church. On my saying, What have I to do +with the sacredness of traditions, if I live wholly from within? my +friend suggested,--"But these impulses may be from below, not from +above." I replied, "They do not seem to me to be such; but if I am the +devil's child, I will live then from the devil." No law can be sacred to +me but that of my nature. Good and bad are but names very readily +transferable to that or this; the only right is what is after my +constitution; the only wrong what is against it. A man is to carry +himself in the presence of all opposition as if every thing were titular +and ephemeral but he. I am ashamed to think how easily we capitulate to +badges and names, to large societies and dead institutions. Every decent +and well-spoken individual affects and sways me more than is right. I +ought to go upright and vital, and speak the rude truth in all ways. If +malice and vanity wear the coat of philanthropy, shall that pass? If an +angry bigot assumes this bountiful cause of Abolition, and comes to me +with his last news from Barbadoes, why should I not say to him, "Go love +thy infant; love thy wood-chopper; be good-natured and modest; have that +grace; and never varnish your hard, uncharitable ambition with this +incredible tenderness for black folk a thousand miles off. Thy love afar +is spite at home." Rough and graceless would be such greeting, but truth +is handsomer than the affectation of love. Your goodness must have some +edge to it,--else it is none. The doctrine of hatred must be preached, +as the counteraction of the doctrine of love, when that pules and +whines. I shun father and mother and wife and brother when my genius +calls me. I would write on the lintels of the door-post, _Whim_. I hope +it is somewhat better than whim at last, but we cannot spend the day in +explanation. Expect me not to show cause why I seek or why I exclude +company. Then, again, do not tell me, as a good man did to-day, of my +obligation to put all poor men in good situations. Are they _my_ poor? I +tell thee, thou foolish philanthropist, that I grudge the dollar, the +dime, the cent I give to such men as do not belong to me and to whom I +do not belong. There is a class of persons to whom by all spiritual +affinity I am bought and sold; for them I will go to prison if need be; +but your miscellaneous popular charities; the education at college of +fools; the building of meeting-houses to the vain end to which many now +stand; alms to sots, and the thousandfold Relief Societies;--though I +confess with shame I sometimes succumb and give the dollar, it is a +wicked dollar, which by-and-by I shall have the manhood to withhold. + +Virtues are, in the popular estimate, rather the exception than the +rule. There is the man _and_ his virtues. Men do what is called a good +action, as some piece of courage or charity, much as they would pay a +fine in expiation of daily non-appearance on parade. Their works are +done as an apology or extenuation of their living in the world,--as +invalids and the insane pay a high board. Their virtues are penances. I +do not wish to expiate, but to live. My life is not an apology, but a +life. It is for itself and not for a spectacle. I much prefer that it +should be of a lower strain, so it be genuine and equal, than that it +should be glittering and unsteady. I wish it to be sound and sweet, and +not to need diet and bleeding. My life should be unique; it should be an +alms, a battle, a conquest, a medicine. I ask primary evidence that you +are a man, and refuse this appeal from the man to his actions. I know +that for myself it makes no difference whether I do or forbear those +actions which are reckoned excellent. I cannot consent to pay for a +privilege where I have intrinsic right. Few and mean as my gifts may be, +I actually am, and do not need for my own assurance or the assurance of +my fellows any secondary testimony. + +What I must do is all that concerns me, not what the people think. This +rule, equally arduous in actual and in intellectual life, may serve for +the whole distinction between greatness and meanness. It is the harder +because you will always find those who think they know what is your duty +better than you know it. It is easy in the world to live after the +world's opinion; it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the +great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect +sweetness the independence of solitude. + +The objection to conforming to usages that have become dead to you is +that it scatters your force. It loses your time and blurs the impression +of your character. If you maintain a dead church, contribute to a dead +Bible Society, vote with a great party either for the Government or +against it, spread your table like base housekeepers,--under all these +screens I have difficulty to detect the precise man you are. And of +course so much force is withdrawn from your proper life. But do your +thing, and I shall know you. Do your work, and you shall reinforce +yourself. A man must consider what a blindman's-bluff is this game of +conformity. If I know your sect I anticipate your argument. I hear a +preacher announce for his text and topic the expediency of one of the +institutions of his church. Do I not know beforehand that not possibly +can he say a new and spontaneous word? Do I not know that with all this +ostentation of examining the grounds of the institution he will do no +such thing? Do I not know that he is pledged to himself not to look but +at one side, the permitted side, not as a man, but as a parish minister? +He is a retained attorney, and these airs of the bench are the emptiest +affectation. Well, most men have bound their eyes with one or another +handkerchief, and attached themselves to some one of these communities +of opinion. This conformity makes them not false in a few particulars, +authors of a few lies, but false in all particulars. Their every truth +is not quite true. Their two is not the real two, their four not the +real four: so that every word they say chagrins us and we know not where +to begin to set them right. Meantime nature is not slow to equip us in +the prison-uniform of the party to which we adhere. We come to wear one +cut of face and figure, and acquire by degrees the gentlest asinine +expression. There is a mortifying experience in particular, which does +not fail to wreak itself also in the general history; I mean "the +foolish face of praise," the forced smile which we put on in company +where we do not feel at ease, in answer to conversation which does not +interest us. The muscles, not spontaneously moved but moved by a low +usurping wilfulness, grow tight about the outline of the face, and make +the most disagreeable sensation; a sensation of rebuke and warning which +no brave young man will suffer twice. + +For non-conformity the world whips you with its displeasure. And +therefore a man must know how to estimate a sour face. The bystanders +look askance on him in the public street or in the friend's parlor. If +this aversation had its origin in contempt and resistance like his own +he might well go home with a sad countenance; but the sour faces of the +multitude, like their sweet faces, have no deep cause,--disguise no god, +but are put on and off as the wind blows and a newspaper directs. Yet is +the discontent of the multitude more formidable than that of the senate +and the college. It is easy enough for a firm man who knows the world to +brook the rage of the cultivated classes. Their rage is decorous and +prudent, for they are timid, as being very vulnerable themselves. But +when to their feminine rage the indignation of the people is added, when +the ignorant and the poor are aroused, when the unintelligent brute +force that lies at the bottom of society is made to growl and mow, it +needs the habit of magnanimity and religion to treat it godlike as a +trifle of no concernment. + +The other terror that scares us from self-trust is our consistency; a +reverence for our past act or word because the eyes of others have no +other data for computing our orbit than our past acts, and we are loath +to disappoint them. + +But why should you keep your head over your shoulder? Why drag about +this monstrous corpse of your memory, lest you contradict somewhat you +have stated in this or that public place? Suppose you should contradict +yourself; what then? It seems to be a rule of wisdom never to rely on +your memory alone, scarcely even in acts of pure memory, but to bring +the past for judgment into the thousand-eyed present, and live ever in a +new day. Trust your emotion. In your metaphysics you have denied +personality to the Deity, yet when the devout motions of the soul come, +yield to them heart and life, though they should clothe God with shape +and color. Leave your theory, as Joseph his coat in the hand of the +harlot, and flee. + +A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by +little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great +soul has simply nothing to do. He may as well concern himself with his +shadow on the wall. Out upon your guarded lips! Sew them up with +packthread, do. Else if you would be a man speak what you think to-day +in words as hard as cannon balls, and to-morrow speak what to-morrow +thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said +to-day. Ah, then, exclaim the aged ladies, you shall be sure to be +misunderstood! Misunderstood! It is a right fool's word. Is it so bad +then to be misunderstood? Pythagoras was misunderstood, and Socrates, +and Jesus, and Luther, and Copernicus, and Galileo, and Newton, and +every pure and wise spirit that ever took flesh. To be great is to be +misunderstood. + +I suppose no man can violate his nature. All the sallies of his will are +rounded in by the law of his being, as the inequalities of Andes and +Himmaleh are insignificant in the curve of the sphere. Nor does it +matter how you gauge and try him. A character is like an acrostic or +Alexandrian stanza;--read it forward, backward, or across, it still +spells the same thing. In this pleasing contrite wood-life which God +allows me, let me record day by day my honest thought without prospect +or retrospect, and, I cannot doubt, it will be found symmetrical, though +I mean it not and see it not. My book should smell of pines and resound +with the hum of insects. The swallow over my window should interweave +that thread or straw he carries in his bill into my web also. We pass +for what we are. Character teaches above our wills. Men imagine that +they communicate their virtue or vice only by overt actions, and do not +see that virtue or vice emit a breath every moment. + +Fear never but you shall be consistent in whatever variety of actions, +so they be each honest and natural in their hour. For of one will, the +actions will be harmonious, however unlike they seem. These varieties +are lost sight of when seen at a little distance, at a little height of +thought. One tendency unites them all. The voyage of the best ship is a +zigzag line of a hundred tacks. This is only microscopic criticism. See +the line from a sufficient distance, and it straightens itself to the +average tendency. Your genuine action will explain itself and will +explain your other genuine actions. Your conformity explains nothing. +Act singly, and what you have already done singly will justify you now. +Greatness always appeals to the future. If I can be great enough now to +do right and scorn eyes, I must have done so much right before as to +defend me now. Be it how it will, do right now. Always scorn appearances +and you always may. The force of character is cumulative. All the +foregone days of virtue work their health into this. What makes the +majesty of the heroes of the senate and the field, which so fills the +imagination? The consciousness of a train of great days and victories +behind. There they all stand and shed an united light on the advancing +actor. He is attended as by a visible escort of angels to every man's +eye. That is it which throws thunder into Chatham's voice, and dignity +into Washington's port, and America into Adams's eye. Honor is venerable +to us because it is no ephemeris. It is always ancient virtue. We +worship it to-day because it is not of to-day. We love it and pay it +homage because it is not a trap for our love and homage, but is +self-dependent, self-derived, and therefore of an old immaculate +pedigree, even if shown in a young person. + +I hope in these days we have heard the last of conformity and +consistency. Let the words be gazetted and ridiculous henceforward. +Instead of the gong for dinner, let us hear a whistle from the Spartan +fife. Let us bow and apologize never more. A great man is coming to eat +at my house. I do not wish to please him; I wish that he should wish to +please me. I will stand here for humanity, and though I would make it +kind, I would make it true. Let us affront and reprimand the smooth +mediocrity and squalid contentment of the times, and hurl in the face of +custom and trade and office, the fact which is the upshot of all +history, that there is a great responsible Thinker and Actor moving +wherever moves a man; that a true man belongs to no other time or place, +but is the center of things. Where he is, there is nature. He measures +you and all men and all events. You are constrained to accept his +standard. Ordinarily, every body in society reminds us of somewhat else, +or of some other person. Character, reality, reminds you of nothing +else; it takes place of the whole creation. The man must be so much that +he must make all circumstances indifferent--put all means into the +shade. This: all great men are and do. Every true man is a cause, a +country, and an age; requires infinite spaces and numbers and time fully +to accomplish his thought;--and posterity seem to follow his steps as a +procession. A man Caesar is born, and for ages after we have a Roman +Empire. Christ is born, and millions of minds so grow and cleave to his +genius that he is confounded with virtue and the possible of man. An +institution is the lengthened shadow of one man; as, the Reformation, of +Luther; Quakerism, of Fox; Methodism, of Wesley; Abolition, of Clarkson. +Scipio, Milton called "the height of Rome;" and all history resolves +itself very easily into the biography of a few stout and earnest +persons. + +Let a man then know his worth, and keep things under his feet. Let him +not peep or steal, or skulk up and down with the air of a charity-boy, a +bastard, or an interloper in the world which exists for him. But the man +in the street, finding no worth in himself which corresponds to the +force which built a tower or sculptured a marble god, feels poor when he +looks on these. To him a palace, a statue, or a costly book has an alien +and forbidding air, much like a gay equipage, and seems to say like +that, "Who are you, sir?" Yet they all are his, suitors for his notice, +petitioners to his faculties that they will come out and take +possession. The picture waits for my verdict; it is not to command me, +but I am to settle its claim to praise. That popular fable of the sot +who was picked up dead drunk in the street, carried to the duke's +house, washed and dressed and laid in the duke's bed, and, on his +waking, treated with all obsequious ceremony like the duke, and assured +that he had been insane--owes its popularity to the fact that it +symbolizes so well the state of man, who is in the world a sort of sot, +but now and then wakes up, exercises his reason and finds himself a true +prince. + +Our reading is mendicant and sycophantic. In history our imagination +makes fools of us, plays us false. Kingdom and lordship, power and +estate, are a gaudier vocabulary than private John and Edward in a small +house and common day's work: but the things of life are the same to +both: the sum total of both is the same. Why all this deference to +Alfred and Scanderbeg and Gustavus? Suppose they were virtuous; did they +wear out virtue? As great a stake depends on your private act to-day as +followed their public and renowned steps. When private men shall act +with original views, the luster will be transferred from the actions of +kings to those of gentlemen. + +The world has indeed been instructed by its kings, who have so +magnetized the eyes of nations. It has been taught by this colossal +symbol the mutual reverence that is due from man to man. The joyful +loyalty with which men have everywhere suffered the king, the noble, or +the great proprietor to walk among them, by a law of his own, make his +own scale of men and things and reverse theirs, pay for benefits not +with money but with honor, and represent the Law in his person, was the +hieroglyphic by which they obscurely signified their consciousness of +their own right and comeliness, the right of every man. + +The magnetism which all original action exerts is explained when we +inquire the reason of self-trust. Who is the Trustee? What is the +aboriginal Self, on which a universal reliance may be grounded? What is +the nature and power of that science-baffling star, without parallax, +without calculable elements, which shoots a ray of beauty even into +trivial and impure actions, if the least mark of independence appear? +The inquiry leads us to that source, at once the essence of genius, the +essence of virtue, and the essence of life, which we call Spontaneity or +Instinct. We denote this primary wisdom as Intuition, whilst all later +teachings are tuitions. In that deep force, the last fact behind which +analysis cannot go, all things find their common origin. For the sense +of being which in calm hours rises, we know not how, in the soul, is not +diverse from things, from space, from light, from time, from man, but +one with them and proceedeth obviously from the same source whence their +life and being also proceedeth. We first share the life by which things +exist and afterward see them as appearances in nature and forget that we +have shared their cause. Here is the fountain of action and the fountain +of thought. Here are the lungs of that inspiration which giveth man +wisdom, of that inspiration of man which cannot be denied without +impiety and atheism. We lie in the lap of immense intelligence, which +makes us organs of its activity and receivers of its truth. When we +discern justice, when we discern truth, we do nothing of ourselves, but +allow a passage to its beams. If we ask whence this comes, if we seek to +pry into the soul that causes--all metaphysics, all philosophy is at +fault. Its presence or its absence is all we can affirm. Every man +discerns between the voluntary acts of his mind and his involuntary +perceptions. And to his involuntary perceptions: he knows a perfect +respect is due. He may err in the expression of them, but he knows that +these things are so, like day and night, not to be disputed. All my +wilful actions and acquisitions are but roving;--the most trivial +reverie, the faintest native emotion, are domestic and divine. +Thoughtless people contradict as readily the statement of perceptions as +of opinions, or rather much more readily; for they do not distinguish +between perception and notion. They fancy that I choose to see this or +that thing. But perception is not whimsical, but fatal. If I see a +trait, my children will see it after me, and in course of time all +mankind,--although it may chance that no one has seen it before me. For +my perception of it is as much a fact as the sun. + +The relations of the soul to the divine spirit are so pure that it is +profane to seek to interpose helps. It must be that when God speaketh he +should communicate, not one thing, but all things; should fill the world +with his voice; should scatter forth light, nature, time, souls, from +the center of the present thought; and new date and new create the +whole. Whenever a mind is simple and receives a divine wisdom, then old +things pass away,--means, teachers, texts, temples fall; it lives now, +and absorbs past and future into the present hour. All things are made +sacred by relation to it,--one thing as much as another. All things are +dissolved to their center by their cause, and in the universal miracle +petty and particular miracles disappear. This is and must be. If +therefore a man claims to know and speak of God and carries you backward +to the phraseology of some old moldered nation in another country, in +another world, believe him not. Is the acorn better than the oak which +is its fulness and completion? Is the parent better than the child into +whom he has cast his ripened being? Whence then this worship of the +past? The centuries are conspirators against the sanity and majesty of +the soul. Time and space are but physiological colors which the eye +maketh, but the soul is light; where it is, is day; where it was, is +night; and history is an impertinence and an injury if it be any thing +more than a cheerful apologue or parable of my being and becoming. + +Man is timid and apologetic; he is no longer upright; he dares not say +"I think," "I am," but quotes some saint or sage. He is ashamed before +the blade of grass or the blowing rose. These roses under my window make +no reference to former roses or to better ones; they are for what they +are; they exist with God to-day. There is no time to them. There is +simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence. Before +a leaf-bud has burst, its whole life acts; in the full-blown flower +there is no more; in the leafless root there is no less. Its nature is +satisfied and it satisfies nature in all moments alike. There is no time +to it. But man postpones or remembers; he does not live in the present, +but with reverted eye laments the past, or, heedless of the riches that +surround him, stands on tiptoe to foresee the future. He cannot be happy +and strong until he too lives with nature in the present, above time. + +This should be plain enough. Yet see what strong intellects dare not yet +hear God himself unless he speak the phraseology of I know not what +David, or Jeremiah, or Paul. We shall not always set so great a price on +a few texts, on a few lives. We are like children who repeat by rote the +sentences of grandames and tutors, and, as they grow older, of the men +of talents and character they chance to see,--painfully recollecting the +exact words they spoke; afterward, when they come into the point of view +which those had who uttered these sayings, they understand them and are +willing to let the words go; for at any time they can use words as good +when occasion comes. So was it with us, so will it be, if we proceed. If +we live truly, we shall see truly. It is as easy for the strong man to +be strong, as it is for the weak to be weak. When we have new +perception, we shall gladly disburden the memory of its hoarded +treasures as old rubbish. When a man lives with God, his voice shall be +as sweet as the murmur of the brook and the rustle of the corn. + +And now at last the highest truth on this subject remains unsaid; +probably cannot be said; for all that we say is the far off remembering +of the intuition: That thought, by what I can now nearest approach to +say it, is this: When good is near you, when you have life in +yourself,--it is not by any known or appointed way; you shall not +discern the foot-prints of any other; you shall not see the face of man; +you shall not hear any name;--the way, the thought, the good, shall be +wholly strange and new. It shall exclude all other being. You take the +way from man, not to man. All persons that ever existed are its fugitive +ministers. There shall be no fear in it. Fear and hope are alike +beneath it. It asks nothing. There is somewhat low even in hope. We are +then in vision. There is nothing that can be called gratitude, nor +properly joy. The soul is raised over passion. It seeth identity and +eternal causation. It is a perceiving that Truth and Right are. Hence it +becomes a Tranquillity out of the knowing that all things go well. Vast +spaces of nature; the Atlantic Ocean, the South Sea; vast intervals of +time, years, centuries, are of no account. This which I think and feel +underlay that former state of life and circumstances, as it does +underlie my present and will always all circumstances, and what is +called life and what is called death. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 1: From Essays, First Series, 1841; the second half of the +essay has here been omitted.] + + + + +EARLY EDUCATION AT HERNE HILL[2] + +JOHN RUSKIN + + +When I was about four years old my father found himself able to buy the +lease of a house on Herne Hill, a rustic eminence four miles south of +the "Standard in Cornhill"; of which the leafy seclusion remains, in all +essential points of character, unchanged to this day: certain Gothic +splendours, lately indulged in by our wealthier neighbours, being the +only serious innovations; and these are so graciously concealed by the +fine trees of their grounds, that the passing viator remains unappalled +by them; and I can still walk up and down the piece of road between the +Fox tavern and the Herne Hill station, imagining myself four years old. + +Our house was the northernmost of a group which stand accurately on the +top or dome of the hill, where the ground is for a small space level, as +the snows are, (I understand), on the dome of Mont Blanc; presently +falling, however, in what may be, in the London clay formation, +considered a precipitous slope, to our valley of Chamouni (or of +Dulwich) on the east; and with a softer descent into Cold Harbor lane on +the west: on the south, no less beautifully declining to the dale of the +Effra, (doubtless shortened from Effrena, signifying the "Unbridled" +river; recently, I regret to say, bricked over for the convenience of +Mr. Biffin, chemist, and others); while on the north, prolonged indeed +with slight depression some half mile or so, and receiving, in the +parish of Lambeth, the chivalric title of "Champion Hill," it plunges +down at last to efface itself in the plains of Peckham, and the rural +barbarism of Goose Green. + +The group, of which our house was the quarter, consisted of two +precisely similar partner-couples of houses, gardens and all to match; +still the two highest blocks of buildings seen from Norwood on the crest +of the ridge; so that the house itself, three-storied, with garrets +above, commanded, in those comparatively smokeless days, a very notable +view from its garret windows, of the Norwood hills on one side, and the +winter sunrise over them; and of the valley of the Thames on the other, +with Windsor telescopically clear in the distance, and Harrow, +conspicuous always in fine weather to open vision against the summer +sunset. It had front and back garden in sufficient proportion to its +size; the front, richly set with old evergreens, and well-grown lilac +and laburnum; the back, seventy yards long by twenty wide, renowned over +all the hill for its pears and apples, which had been chosen with +extreme care by our predecessor, (shame on me to forget the name of a +man to whom I owe so much!)--and possessing also a strong old mulberry +tree, a tall white-heart cherry tree, a black Kentish one, and an almost +unbroken hedge, all round, of alternate gooseberry and currant bush; +decked, in due season, (for the ground was wholly beneficent), with +magical splendour of abundant fruit: fresh green, soft amber, and +rough-bristled crimson bending the spinous branches; clustered pearl and +pendent ruby joyfully discoverable under the large leaves that looked +like vine. + +The differences of primal importance which I observed between the nature +of this garden, and that of Eden, as I had imagined it, were, that, in +this one, _all_ the fruit was forbidden; and there were no companionable +beasts: in other respects the little domain answered every purpose of +paradise to me; and the climate, in that cycle of our years, allowed me +to pass most of my life in it. My mother never gave me more to learn +than she knew I could easily get learnt, if I set myself honestly to +work, by twelve o'clock. She never allowed anything to disturb me when +my task was set; if it was not said rightly by twelve o'clock, I was +kept in till I knew it, and in general, even when Latin Grammar came to +supplement the Psalms, I was my own master for at least an hour before +half-past one dinner, and for the rest of the afternoon. + +My mother, herself finding her chief personal pleasure in her flowers, +was often planting, or pruning beside me, at least if I chose to stay +beside _her_. I never thought of doing anything behind her back which I +would not have done before her face; and her presence was therefore no +restraint to me; but, also, no particular pleasure, for, from having +always been left so much alone, I had generally my own little affairs to +see after; and, on the whole, by the time I was seven years old, was +already getting too independent, mentally, even of my father and mother; +and, having nobody else to be dependent upon, began to lead a very +small, perky, contented, conceited, Cock-Robinson-Crusoe sort of life, +in the central point which it appeared to me, (as it must naturally +appear to geometrical animals), that I occupied in the universe. + +This was partly the fault of my father's modesty; and partly of his +pride. He had so much more confidence in my mother's judgment as to such +matters than in his own, that he never ventured even to help, much less +to cross her, in the conduct of my education; on the other hand, in the +fixed purpose of making an ecclesiastical gentleman of me, with the +superfinest of manners, and access to the highest circles of fleshly and +spiritual society, the visits to Croydon, where I entirely loved my +aunt, and young baker-cousins, became rarer and more rare: the society +of our neighbours on the hill could not be had without breaking up our +regular and sweetly selfish manner of living; and on the whole, I had +nothing animate to care for, in a childish way, but myself, some nests +of ants, which the gardener would never leave undisturbed for me, and a +sociable bird or two; though I never had the sense or perseverance to +make one really tame. But that was partly because, if ever I managed to +bring one to be the least trustful of me, the cats got it. + +Under these circumstances, what powers of imagination I possessed, +either fastened themselves on inanimate things,--the sky, the leaves, +and pebbles, observable within the walls of Eden,--or caught at any +opportunity of flight into regions of romance, compatible with the +objective realities of existence in the nineteenth century, within a +mile and a quarter of Camberwell Green. + +Herein my father, happily, though with no definite intention other than +of pleasing me, when he found he could do so without infringing any of +my mother's rules, became my guide. I was particularly fond of watching +him shave; and was always allowed to come into his room in the morning +(under the one in which I am now writing), to be the motionless witness +of that operation. Over his dressing-table hung one of his own +water-colour drawings, made under the teaching of the elder Nasmyth; I +believe, at the High School of Edinburgh. It was done in the early +manner of tinting, which, just about the time when my father was at the +High School, Dr. Munro was teaching Turner; namely, in gray under-tints +of Prussian blue and British ink, washed with warm colour afterwards on +the lights. It represented Conway Castle, with its Frith, and, in the +foreground, a cottage, a fisherman, and a boat at the water's edge. + +When my father had finished shaving, he always told me a story about +this picture. The custom began without any initial purpose of his, in +consequence of my troublesome curiosity whether the fisherman lived in +the cottage, and where he was going to in the boat. It being settled, +for peace' sake, that he _did_ live in the cottage, and was going in the +boat to fish near the castle, the plot of the drama afterwards gradually +thickened; and became, I believe, involved with that of the tragedy of +Douglas, and of the Castle Specter, in both of which pieces my father +had performed in private theatricals, before my mother, and a select +Edinburgh audience, when he was a boy of sixteen, and she, at grave +twenty, a model housekeeper, and very scornful and religiously +suspicious of theatricals. But she was never weary of telling me, in +later years, how beautiful my father looked in his Highland dress, with +the high black feathers. + +In the afternoons, when my father returned (always punctually) from his +business, he dined, at half-past four, in the front parlour, my mother +sitting beside him to hear the events of the day, and give counsel and +encouragement with respect to the same;--chiefly the last, for my father +was apt to be vexed if orders for sherry fell the least short of their +due standard, even for a day or two. I was never present at this time, +however, and only avouch what I relate by hearsay and probable +conjecture; for between four and six it would have been a grave +misdemeanour in me if I so much as approached the parlour door. After +that, in summer time, we were all in the garden as long as the day +lasted; tea under the white-heart cherry tree; or in winter and rough +weather, at six o'clock in the drawing-room,--I having my cup of milk, +and slice of bread-and-butter, in a little recess, with a table in front +of it, wholly sacred to me; and in which I remained in the evenings as +an Idol in a niche, while my mother knitted, and my father read to +her,--and to me, so far as I chose to listen. + +The series of the Waverley novels, then drawing towards its close, was +still the chief source of delight in all households caring for +literature; and I can no more recollect the time when I did not know +them than when I did not know the Bible; but I have still a vivid +remembrance of my father's intense expression of sorrow mixed with +scorn, as he threw down Count Robert of Paris, after reading three or +four pages; and knew that the life of Scott was ended: the scorn being a +very complex and bitter feeling in him,--partly, indeed, of the book +itself, but chiefly of the wretches who were tormenting and selling the +wrecked intellect, and not a little, deep down, of the subtle dishonesty +which had essentially caused the ruin. My father never could forgive +Scott his concealment of the Ballantyne partnership. + +Such being the salutary pleasures of Herne Hill, I have next with deeper +gratitude to chronicle what I owe to my mother for the resolutely +consistent lessons which so exercised me in the Scriptures as to make +every word of them familiar to my ear in habitual music,--yet in that +familiarity reverenced, as transcending all thought, and ordaining all +conduct. + +This she effected, not by her own sayings or personal authority; but +simply by compelling me to read the book thoroughly, for myself. As soon +as I was able to read with fluency, she began a course of Bible work +with me, which never ceased till I went to Oxford. She read alternate +verses with me, watching, at first, every intonation of my voice, and +correcting the false ones, till she made me understand the verse, if +within my reach, rightly, and energetically. It might be beyond me +altogether; that she did not care about; but she made sure that as soon +as I got hold of it at all, I should get hold of it by the right end. + +In this way she began with the first verse of Genesis, and went straight +through, to the last verse of the Apocalypse; hard names, numbers, +Levitical law, and all; and began again at Genesis the next day. If a +name was hard, the better the exercise in pronunciation,--if the chapter +was tiresome, the better lesson in patience,--if loathsome, the better +lesson in faith that there was some use in its being so outspoken. After +our chapters, (from two to three a day, according to their length, the +first thing after breakfast, and no interruption from servants +allowed,--none from visitors, who either joined in the reading or had to +stay upstairs,--and none from any visitings or excursions, except real +travelling), I had to learn a few verses by heart, or repeat, to make +sure I had not lost, something of what was already known; and, with the +chapters thus gradually possessed from the first word to the last, I had +to learn the whole body of the fine old Scottish paraphrases, which are +good, melodious, and forceful verse; and to which, together with the +Bible itself, I owe the first cultivation of my ear in sound. + +It is strange that of all the pieces of the Bible which my mother thus +taught me, that which cost me most to learn, and which was, to my +child's mind, chiefly repulsive--the 119th Psalm--has now become of all +the most precious to me, in its overflowing and glorious passion of love +for the Law of God, in opposition to the abuse of it by modern preachers +of what they imagine to be His gospel. + +But it is only by deliberate effort that I recall the long morning hours +of toil, as regular as sunrise,--toil on both sides equal,--by which, +year after year, my mother forced me to learn these paraphrases, and +chapters, (the eighth of 1st Kings being one--try it, good reader, in a +leisure hour!) allowing not so much as a syllable to be missed or +misplaced; while every sentence was required to be said over and over +again till she was satisfied with the accent of it. I recollect a +struggle between us of about three weeks, concerning the accent of the +"of" in the lines + + "Shall any following spring revive + The ashes of the urn?"-- + +I insisting, partly in childish obstinacy, and partly in true instinct +for rhythm, (being wholly careless on the subject both of urns and their +contents), on reciting it with an accented _of_. It was not, I say, till +after three weeks' labor, that my mother got the accent lightened on the +"of" and laid on the "ashes," to her mind. But had it taken three years +she would have done it, having once undertaken to do it. And, assuredly, +had she not done it,--well, there's no knowing what would have happened; +but I'm very thankful she _did_. + +I have just opened my oldest (in use) Bible,--a small, closely, and very +neatly printed volume it is, printed in Edinburgh by Sir D. Hunter Blair +and J. Bruce, Printers, to the King's Most Excellent Majesty, in 1816. +Yellow, now, with age, and flexible, but not unclean, with much use, +except that the lower corners of the pages at 8th of 1st Kings, and 32d +Deuteronomy, are worn somewhat thin and dark, the learning of these two +chapters having cost me much pains. My mother's list of the chapters +with which, thus learned, she established my soul in life, has just +fallen out of it. I will take what indulgence the incurious reader can +give me, for printing the list thus accidentally occurrent: + +Exodus, chapters 15th and 20th. +2 Samuel, " 1st, from 17th verse to end. +1 Kings, " 8th. +Psalms, " 23d, 32d, 90th, 91st, 103d, 112th, 119th, 139th. +Proverbs, " 2d, 3d, 8th, 12th. +Isaiah, " 58th. +Matthew, " 5th, 6th, 7th. +Acts, " 26th. +1 Corinthians, " 13th, 15th. +James, " 4th. +Revelation, " 5th, 6th. + +And, truly, though I have picked up the elements of a little further +knowledge--in mathematics, meteorology, and the like, in after +life,--and owe not a little to the teaching of many people, this +maternal installation of my mind in that property of chapters, I count +very confidently the most precious, and, on the whole, the one +_essential_ part of all my education. + +And it is perhaps already time to mark what advantage and mischief, by +the chances of life up to seven years old, had been irrevocably +determined for me. + +I will first count my blessings (as a not unwise friend once recommended +me to do, continually; whereas I have a bad trick of always numbering +the thorns in my fingers and not the bones in them). + +And for best and truest beginning of all blessings, I had been taught +the perfect meaning of Peace, in thought, act, and word. + +I never had heard my father's or mother's voice once raised in any +question with each other; nor seen an angry, or even slightly hurt or +offended, glance in the eyes of either. I had never heard a servant +scolded; nor even suddenly, passionately, or in any severe manner, +blamed. I had never seen a moment's trouble or disorder in any household +matter; nor anything whatever either done in a hurry, or undone in due +time. I had no conception of such a feeling as anxiety; my father's +occasional vexation in the afternoons, when he had only got an order for +twelve butts after expecting one for fifteen, as I have just stated, was +never manifested to _me_; and itself related only to the question +whether his name would be a step higher or lower in the year's list of +sherry exporters; for he never spent more than half his income, and +therefore found himself little incommoded by occasional variations in +the total of it. I had never done any wrong that I knew of--beyond +occasionally delaying the commitment to heart of some improving +sentence, that I might watch a wasp on the window pane, or a bird in the +cherry tree; and I had never seen any grief. + +Next to this quite priceless gift of Peace, I had received the perfect +understanding of the natures of Obedience and Faith. I obeyed word, or +lifted finger, of father or mother, simply as a ship her helm; not only +without idea of resistance, but receiving the direction as a part of my +own life and force, a helpful law, as necessary to me in every moral +action as the law of gravity in leaping. And my practice in Faith was +soon complete: nothing ever threatened me that was not inflicted, and +nothing ever told me that was not true. + +Peace, obedience, faith; these three for chief good; next to these, the +habit of fixed attention with both eyes and mind--on which I will not +further enlarge at this moment, this being the main practical faculty of +my life, causing Mazzini to say of me, in conversation authentically +reported, a year or two before his death, that I had "the most analytic +mind in Europe." An opinion in which, so far as I am acquainted with +Europe, I am myself entirely disposed to concur. + +Lastly, an extreme perfection in palate and all other bodily senses, +given by the utter prohibition of cake, wine, comfits, or, except in +carefulest restriction, fruit; and by fine preparation of what food was +given me. Such I esteem the main blessings of my childhood;--next, let +me count the equally dominant calamities. + +First, that I had nothing to love. + +My parents were--in a sort--visible powers of nature to me, no more +loved than the sun and the moon: only I should have been annoyed and +puzzled if either of them had gone out; (how much, now, when both are +darkened!)--still less did I love God; not that I had any quarrel with +Him, or fear of Him; but simply found what people told me was His +service, disagreeable; and what people told me was His book, not +entertaining. I had no companions to quarrel with, neither; nobody to +assist, and nobody to thank. Not a servant was ever allowed to do +anything for me, but what it was their duty to do; and why should I have +been grateful to the cook for cooking, or the gardener for +gardening,--when the one dared not give me a baked potato without asking +leave, and the other would not let my ants' nests alone, because they +made the walks untidy? The evil consequence of all this was not, +however, what might perhaps have been expected, that I grew up selfish +or unaffectionate; but that, when affection did come, it came with +violence utterly rampant and unmanageable, at least by me, who never +before had anything to manage. + +For (second of chief calamities) I had nothing to endure. Danger or pain +of any kind I knew not: my strength was never exercised, my patience +never tried, and my courage never fortified. Not that I was ever afraid +of anything,--either ghosts, thunder, or beasts; and one of the nearest +approaches to insubordination which I was ever tempted into as a child, +was in passionate effort to get leave to play with the lion's cubs in +Wombwell's menagerie. + +Thirdly, I was taught no precision nor etiquette of manners; it was +enough if, in the little society we saw, I remained unobtrusive, and +replied to a question without shyness: but the shyness came later, and +increased as I grew conscious of the rudeness arising from the want of +social discipline, and found it impossible to acquire, in advanced life, +dexterity in any bodily exercise, skill in any pleasing accomplishment, +or ease and tact in ordinary behaviour. + +Lastly, and chief of evils. My judgment of right and wrong, and powers +of independent action, were left entirely undeveloped; because the +bridle and blinkers were never taken off me. Children should have their +times of being off duty, like soldiers; and when once the obedience, if +required, is certain, the little creature should be very early put for +periods of practice in complete command of itself; set on the barebacked +horse of its own will, and left to break it by its own strength. But the +ceaseless authority exercised over my youth left me, when cast out at +last into the world, unable for some time to do more than drift with its +vortices. + +My present verdict, therefore, on the general tenor of my education at +that time, must be, that it was at once too formal and too luxurious; +leaving my character, at the most important moment for its construction, +cramped indeed, but not disciplined; and only by protection innocent, +instead of by practice virtuous. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 2: From "Praeterita," _1885, Vol. I, Chapter II_.] + + + + +A CRISIS IN MY MENTAL HISTORY[3] + +JOHN STUART MILL + + +From the winter of 1821, when I first read Bentham, and especially from +the commencement of the Westminster Review, I had what might truly be +called an object in life; to be a reformer of the world. My conception +of my own happiness was entirely identified with this object. The +personal sympathies I wished for were those of fellow labourers in this +enterprise. I endeavoured to pick up as many flowers as I could by the +way; but as a serious and permanent personal satisfaction to rest upon, +my whole reliance was placed on this; and I was accustomed to felicitate +myself on the certainty of a happy life which I enjoyed, through placing +my happiness in something durable and distant, in which some progress +might be always making, while it could never be exhausted by complete +attainment. This did very well for several years, during which the +general improvement going on in the world and the idea of myself as +engaged with others in struggling to promote it, seemed enough to fill +up an interesting and animated existence. But the time came when I +awakened from this as from a dream. It was in the autumn of 1826. I was +in a dull state of nerves, such as everybody is occasionally liable to; +unsusceptible to enjoyment or pleasurable excitement; one of those moods +when what is pleasure at other times, becomes insipid or indifferent; +the state, I should think, in which converts to Methodism usually are, +when smitten by their first "conviction of sin." In this frame of mind +it occurred to me to put the question directly to myself: "Suppose that +all your objects in life were realised; that all the changes in +institutions and opinions which you are looking forward to, could be +completely effected at this very instant: would this be a great joy and +happiness to you?" And an irrepressible self-consciousness distinctly +answered, "No!" At this my heart sank within me: the whole foundation on +which my life was constructed fell down. All my happiness was to have +been found in the continual pursuit of this end. The end had ceased to +charm, and how could there ever again be any interest in the means? I +seemed to have nothing left to live for. + +At first I hoped that the cloud would pass away of itself; but it did +not. A night's sleep, the sovereign remedy for the smaller vexations of +life, had no effect on it. I awoke to a renewed consciousness of the +woful fact. I carried it with me into all companies, into all +occupations. Hardly anything had power to cause me even a few minutes' +oblivion of it. For some months the cloud seemed to grow thicker and +thicker. The lines in Coleridge's "Dejection"--I was not then acquainted +with them--exactly describe my case: + + "A grief without a pang, void, dark and drear, + A drowsy, stifled, unimpassioned grief, + Which finds no natural outlet or relief + In word, or sigh, or tear." + +In vain I sought relief from my favourite books; those memorials of past +nobleness and greatness from which I had always hitherto drawn strength +and animation. I read them now without feeling, or with the accustomed +feeling _minus_ all its charm; and I became persuaded, that my love of +mankind, and of excellence for its own sake, had worn itself out. I +sought no comfort by speaking to others of what I felt. If I had loved +any one sufficiently to make confiding my griefs a necessity, I should +not have been in the condition I was. I felt, too, that mine was not an +interesting, or in any way respectable distress. There was nothing in it +to attract sympathy. Advice, if I had known where to seek it, would +have been most precious. The words of Macbeth to the physician often +occurred to my thoughts. But there was no one on whom I could build the +faintest hope of such assistance. My father, to whom it would have been +natural to me to have recourse in any practical difficulties, was the +last person to whom, in such a case as this, I looked for help. +Everything convinced me that he had no knowledge of any such mental +state as I was suffering from, and that even if he could be made to +understand it, he was not the physician who could heal it. My education, +which was wholly his work, had been conducted without any regard to the +possibility of its ending in this result; and I saw no use in giving him +the pain of thinking that his plans had failed, when the failure was +probably irremediable, and, at all events, beyond the power of _his_ +remedies. Of other friends, I had at that time none to whom I had any +hope of making my condition intelligible. It was, however, abundantly +intelligible to myself; and the more I dwelt upon it, the more hopeless +it appeared. + +My course of study had led me to believe, that all mental and moral +feelings and qualities, whether of a good or of a bad kind, were the +results of association; that we love one thing, and hate another, take +pleasure in one sort of action or contemplation, and pain in another +sort, through the clinging of pleasurable or painful ideas to those +things, from the effect of education or of experience. As a corollary +from this, I had always heard it maintained by my father, and was myself +convinced, that the object of education should be to form the strongest +possible associations of the salutary class; associations of pleasure +with all things beneficial to the great whole, and of pain with all +things hurtful to it. This doctrine appeared inexpugnable; but it now +seemed to me, on retrospect, that my teachers had occupied themselves +but superficially with the means of forming and keeping up these +salutary associations. They seemed to have trusted altogether to the old +familiar instruments, praise and blame, reward and punishment. Now, I +did not doubt that by these means, begun early, and applied +unremittingly, intense associations of pain and pleasure, especially of +pain, might be created, and might produce desires and aversions capable +of lasting undiminished to the end of life. But there must always be +something artificial and casual in associations thus produced. The pains +and pleasures thus forcibly associated with things, are not connected +with them by any natural tie; and it is therefore, I thought, essential +to the durability of these associations, that they should have become so +intense and inveterate as to be practically indissoluble, before the +habitual exercise of the power of analysis had commenced. For I now saw, +or thought I saw, what I had always before received with +incredulity--that the habit of analysis has a tendency to wear away the +feelings: as indeed it has, when no other mental habit is cultivated, +and the analysing spirit remains without its natural complements and +correctives. The very excellence of analysis (I argued) is that it tends +to weaken and undermine whatever is the result of prejudice; that it +enables us mentally to separate ideas which have only casually clung +together: and no associations whatever could ultimately resist this +dissolving force, were it not that we owe to analysis our clearest +knowledge of the permanent sequences in nature; the real connections +between Things, not dependent on our will and feelings; natural laws, by +virtue of which, in many cases, one thing is inseparable from another in +fact; which laws, in proportion as they are clearly perceived and +imaginatively realised, cause our ideas of things which are always +joined together in Nature, to cohere more and more closely in our +thoughts. Analytic habits may thus even strengthen the associations +between causes and effects, means and ends, but tend altogether to +weaken those which are, to speak familiarly, a _mere_ matter of feeling. +They are therefore (I thought) favourable to prudence and +clear-sightedness, but a perpetual worm at the root both of the passions +and of the virtues; and, above all, fearfully undermine all desires, and +all pleasures, which are the effects of association, that is, according +to the theory I held, all except the purely physical and organic; of the +entire insufficiency of which to make life desirable, no one had a +stronger conviction than I had. These were the laws of human nature, by +which, as it seemed to me, I had been brought to my present state. All +those to whom I looked up, were of opinion that the pleasure of sympathy +with human beings, and the feelings which made the good of others, and +especially of mankind on a large scale, the object of existence, were +the greatest and surest sources of happiness. Of the truth of this I was +convinced, but to know that a feeling would make me happy if I had it, +did not give me the feeling. My education, I thought, had failed to +create these feelings in sufficient strength to resist the dissolving +influence of analysis, while the whole course of my intellectual +cultivation had made precocious and premature analysis the inveterate +habit of my mind. I was thus, as I said to myself, left stranded at the +commencement of my voyage, with a well-equipped ship and a rudder, but +no sail; without any real desire for the ends which I had been so +carefully fitted out to work for: no delight in virtue, or the general +good, but also just as little in anything else. The fountains of vanity +and ambition seemed to have dried up within me, as completely as those +of benevolence. I had had (as I reflected) some gratification of vanity +at too early an age: I had obtained some distinction, and felt myself of +some importance, before the desire of distinction and of importance had +grown into a passion: and little as it was which I had attained, yet +having been attained too early, like all pleasures enjoyed too soon, it +had made me _blasé_ and indifferent to the pursuit. Thus neither selfish +nor unselfish pleasures were pleasures to me. And there seemed no power +in nature sufficient to begin the formation of my character anew, and +create in a mind now irretrievably analytic, fresh associations of +pleasure with any of the objects of human desire. + +These were the thoughts which mingled with the dry heavy dejection of +the melancholy winter of 1826-7. During this time I was not incapable of +my usual occupations. I went on with them mechanically, by the mere +force of habit. I had been so drilled in a certain sort of mental +exercise, that I could still carry it on when all the spirit had gone +out of it. I even composed and spoke several speeches at the debating +society, how, or with what degree of success, I know not. Of four years' +continual speaking at that society, this is the only year of which I +remember next to nothing. Two lines of Coleridge, in whom alone of all +writers I have found a true description of what I felt, were often in my +thoughts, not at this time (for I had never read them), but in a later +period of the same mental malady: + + "Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve, + And hope without an object cannot live." + +In all probability my case was by no means so peculiar as I fancied it, +and I doubt not that many others have passed through a similar state; +but the idiosyncrasies of my education had given to the general +phenomenon a special character, which made it seem the natural effect of +causes that it was hardly possible for time to remove. I frequently +asked myself, if I could, or if I was bound to go on living, when life +must be passed in this manner. I generally answered to myself, that I +did not think I could possibly bear it beyond a year. When, however, not +more than half that duration of time had elapsed, a small ray of light +broke in upon my gloom. I was reading, accidentally, Marmontel's +"Memoires," and came to the passage which relates his father's death, +the distressed position of the family, and the sudden inspiration by +which he, then a mere boy, felt and made them feel that he would be +everything to them--would supply the place of all that they had lost. A +vivid conception of the scene and its feelings came over me, and I was +moved to tears. From this moment my burden grew lighter. The oppression +of the thought that all feeling was dead within me, was gone. I was no +longer hopeless: I was not a stock or a stone. I had still, it seemed, +some of the material out of which all worth of character, and all +capacity for happiness, are made. Relieved from my ever present sense of +irremediable wretchedness, I gradually found that the ordinary incidents +of life could again give me some pleasure; that I could again find +enjoyment, not intense, but sufficient for cheerfulness, in sunshine and +sky, in books, in conversation, in public affairs; and that there was, +once more, excitement, though of a moderate kind, in exerting myself for +my opinions, and for the public good. Thus the cloud gradually drew off, +and I again enjoyed life: and though I had several relapses, some of +which lasted many months, I never again was as miserable as I had been. + +The experiences of this period had two very marked effects on my +opinions and character. In the first place, they led me to adopt a +theory of life, very unlike that on which I had before acted, and having +much in common with what at that time I certainly had never heard of, +the anti-self-consciousness theory of Carlyle. I never, indeed, wavered +in the conviction that happiness is the test of all rules of conduct, +and the end of life. But I now thought that this end was only to be +attained by not making it the direct end. Those only are happy (I +thought) who have their minds fixed on some object other than their own +happiness; on the happiness of others, on the improvement of mankind, +even on some art or pursuit, followed not as a means, but as itself an +ideal end. Aiming thus at something else, they find happiness by the +way. The enjoyments of life (such was now my theory) are sufficient to +make it a pleasant thing, when they are taken _en passant_, without +being made a principal object. Once make them so, and they are +immediately felt to be insufficient. They will not bear a scrutinising +examination. Ask yourself whether you are happy, and you cease to be so. +The only chance is to treat, not happiness, but some end external to it, +as the purpose of life. Let your self-consciousness, your scrutiny, your +self-interrogation, exhaust themselves on that; and if otherwise +fortunately circumstanced you will inhale happiness with the air you +breathe, without dwelling on it or thinking about it, without either +forestalling it in imagination, or putting it to flight by fatal +questioning. This theory now became the basis of my philosophy of life. +And I still hold to it as the best theory for all those who have but a +moderate degree of sensibility and of capacity for enjoyment, that is, +for the great majority of mankind. + +The other important change which my opinions at this: time underwent, +was that I, for the first time, gave its proper place, among the prime +necessities of human well-being, to the internal culture of the +individual. I ceased to attach almost exclusive importance to the +ordering of outward circumstances, and the training of the human being +for speculation and for action. + +I had now learnt by experience that the passive susceptibilities needed +to be cultivated as well as the active capacities, and required to be +nourished and enriched as well as guided. I did not, for an instant, +lose sight of, or undervalue, that part of the truth which I had seen +before; I never turned recreant to intellectual culture, or ceased to +consider the power and practice of analysis as an essential condition +both of individual and of social improvement. But I thought that it had +consequences which required to be corrected, by joining other kinds of +cultivation with it. The maintenance of a due balance among the +faculties, now seemed to me of primary importance. The cultivation of +the feelings became one of the cardinal points in my ethical and +philosophical creed. And my thoughts and inclinations turned in an +increasing degree towards whatever seemed capable of being instrumental +to that object. + +I now began to find meaning in the things which I had read or heard +about the importance of poetry and art as instruments of human culture. +But it was some time longer before I began to know this by personal +experience. The only one of the imaginative arts in which I had from +childhood taken great pleasure, was music; the best effect of which +(and in this it surpasses perhaps every other art) consists in exciting +enthusiasm; in winding up to a high pitch those feelings of an elevated +kind which are already in the character, but to which this excitement +gives a glow and a fervour, which, though transitory at its utmost +height, is precious for sustaining them at other times. This effect of +music I had often experienced; but like all my pleasurable +susceptibilities it was suspended during the gloomy period. I had sought +relief again and again from this quarter, but found none. After the tide +had turned, and I was in process of recovery, I had been helped forward +by music, but in a much less elevated manner. I at this time first +became acquainted with Weber's Oberon, and the extreme pleasure which I +drew from its delicious melodies did me good, by showing me a source of +pleasure to which I was as susceptible as ever. The good, however, was +much impaired by the thought, that the pleasure of music (as is quite +true of such pleasure as this was, that of mere tune) fades with +familiarity, and requires either to be revived by intermittence, or fed +by continual novelty. And it is very characteristic both of my then +state, and of the general tone of my mind at this period of my life, +that I was seriously tormented by the thought of the exhaustibility of +musical combinations. The octave consists only of five tones and two +semi-tones, which can be put together in only a limited number of ways, +of which but a small proportion are beautiful: most of these, it seemed +to me, must have been already discovered, and there could not be room +for a long succession of Mozarts and Webers, to strike out, as these had +done, entirely new and surpassingly rich veins of musical beauty. This +source of anxiety may, perhaps, be thought to resemble that of the +philosophers of Laputa, who feared lest the sun should be burnt out. It +was, however, connected with the best feature in my character, and the +only good point to be found in my very unromantic and in no way +honourable distress. For though my dejection, honestly looked at, could +not be called other than egotistical, produced by the ruin, as I +thought, of my fabric of happiness, yet the destiny of mankind in +general was ever in my thoughts, and could not be separated from my own. +I felt that the flaw in my life, must be a flaw in life itself; that the +question was, whether, if the reformers of society and government could +succeed in their objects, and every person in the community were free +and in a state of physical comfort, the pleasures of life, being no +longer kept up by struggle and privation, would cease to be pleasures. +And I felt that unless I could see my way to some better hope than this +for human happiness in general my dejection must continue; but that if I +could see such an outlet, I should then look on the world with pleasure; +content as far as I was myself concerned, with any fair share of the +general lot. + +This state of my thoughts and feelings made the fact of my reading +Wordsworth for the first time (in the autumn of 1828), an important +event in my life. I took up the collection of his poems from curiosity, +with no expectation of mental relief from it, though I had before +resorted to poetry with that hope. In the worst period of my depression, +I had read through the whole of Byron (then new to me), to try whether a +poet, whose peculiar department was supposed to be that of the intenser +feelings, could rouse any feeling in me. As might be expected, I got no +good from this reading, but the reverse. The poet's state of mind was +too like my own. His was the lament of a man who had worn out all +pleasures, and who seemed to think that life, to all who possess the +good things of it, must necessarily be the vapid, uninteresting thing +which I found it. His Harold and Manfred had the same burden on them +which I had; and I was not in a frame of mind to desire any comfort from +the vehement sensual passion of his Giaours, or the sullenness of his +Laras. But while Byron was exactly what did not suit my condition, +Wordsworth was exactly what did. I had looked into the Excursion two or +three years before, and found little in it; and I should probably have +found as little, had I read it at this time. But the miscellaneous +poems, in the two-volume edition of 1815 (to which little of value was +added in the latter part of the author's life), proved to be the precise +thing for my mental wants at that particular juncture. + +In the first place, these poems addressed themselves powerfully to one +of the strongest of my pleasurable susceptibilities, the love of rural +objects and natural scenery; to which I had been indebted not only for +much of the pleasure of my life, but quite recently for relief from one +of my longest relapses into depression. In this power of rural beauty +over me, there was a foundation laid for taking pleasure in Wordsworth's +poetry; the more so, as his scenery lies mostly among mountains, which, +owing to my early Pyrenean excursion, were my ideal of natural beauty. +But Wordsworth would never have had any great effect on me, if he had +merely placed before me beautiful pictures of natural scenery. Scott +does this still better than Wordsworth, and a very second-rate landscape +does it more effectually than any poet. What made Wordsworth's poems a +medicine for my state of mind, was that they expressed, not mere outward +beauty, but states of feeling, and of thought coloured by feeling, under +the excitement of beauty. They seemed to be the very culture of the +feelings which I was in quest of. In them I seemed to draw from a source +of inward joy, of sympathetic and imaginative pleasures, which could be +shared in by all human beings; which had no connection with struggle or +imperfection, but would be made richer by every improvement in the +physical or social condition of mankind. From them I seemed to learn +what would be the perennial sources of happiness, when all the greater +evils of life shall have been removed. And I felt myself at once better +and happier as I came under their influence. There have certainly been, +even in our own age, greater poets than Wordsworth; but poetry of deeper +and loftier feeling could not have done for me at that time what his +did. I needed to be made to feel that there was real, permanent +happiness in tranquil contemplation. Wordsworth taught me this, not only +without turning away from, but with a greatly increased interest in the +common feelings and common destiny of human beings. And the delight +which these poems gave me, proved that with culture of this sort, there +was nothing to dread from the most confirmed habit of analysis. At the +conclusion of the Poems came the famous Ode, falsely called Platonic, +"Intimations of Immortality:" in which, along with more than his usual +sweetness of melody and rhythm, and along with the two passages of grand +imagery but bad philosophy so often quoted, I found that he too had had +similar experience to mine; that he also had felt that the first +freshness of youthful enjoyment of life was not lasting; but that he had +sought for compensation, and found it, in the way in which he was now +teaching me to find it. The result was that I gradually, but completely, +emerged from my habitual depression, and was never again subject to it. +I long continued to value Wordsworth less according to his intrinsic +merits, than by the measure of what he had done for me. Compared with +the greatest poets, he may be said to be the poet of unpoetical natures, +possessed of quiet and contemplative tastes. But unpoetical natures are +precisely those which require poetic cultivation. This cultivation +Wordsworth is much more fitted to give, than poets who are intrinsically +far more poets than he. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 3: From Chapter V of the Autobiography, 1874.] + + + + +OLD CHINA[4] + +CHARLES LAMB + + +I have an almost feminine partiality for old china. When I go to see any +great house, I inquire for the china-closet, and next for the +picture-gallery. I cannot defend the order of preference, but by saying +that we have all some taste or other, of too ancient a date to admit of +our remembering distinctly that it was an acquired one. I can call to +mind the first play, and the first exhibition, that I was taken to; but +I am not conscious of a time when china jars and saucers were introduced +into my imagination. + +I had no repugnance then--why should I now have?--to those little, +lawless, azure-tinctured grotesques, that, under the notion of men and +women, float about, uncircumscribed by any element in that world before +perspective--a china tea-cup. + +I like to see my old friends, whom distance cannot diminish, figuring up +in the air (so they appear to our optics), yet on _terra firma_ +still--for so we must in courtesy interpret that speck of deeper blue, +which the decorous artist, to prevent absurdity, had made to spring up +beneath their sandals. + +I love the men with women's faces, and women, if possible, with still +more womanish expressions. + +Here is a young and courtly Mandarin, handing tea to a lady from a +salver--two miles off. See how distance seems to set off respect! And +here the same lady, or another--for likeness is identity on tea-cups--is +stepping into a little fairy boat, moored on the hither side of this +calm garden river, with a dainty mincing foot, which in a right angle +of incidence (as angles go in our world) must infallibly land her in the +midst of a flowery mead--a furlong off on the other side of the same +strange stream! + +Further on--if far or near can be predicated of their world--see horses, +trees, pagodas, dancing the hays.[5] + +Here--a cow and rabbit couchant, and coextensive--so objects show, seen +through the lucid atmosphere of fine Cathay. + +I was pointing out to my cousin last evening, over our Hyson (which we +are old-fashioned enough to drink unmixed still of an afternoon), some +of these _speciosa miracula_[6] upon a set of extraordinary old blue +china (a recent purchase) which we were now for the first time using; +and could not help remarking, how favourable circumstances had been to +us of late years, that we could afford to please the eye sometimes with +trifles of this sort--when a passing sentiment seemed to overshade the +brows of my companion. I am quick at detecting these summer clouds in +Bridget. + +"I wish the good old times would come again," she said, "when we were +not quite so rich. I do not mean that I want to be poor; but there was a +middle state,"--so she was pleased to ramble on,--"in which I am sure we +were a great deal happier. A purchase is but a purchase, now that you +have money enough and to spare. Formerly it used to be a triumph. When +we coveted a cheap luxury (and, oh! how much ado I had to get you to +consent in those times!) we were used to have a debate two or three days +before, and to weigh the _for_ and _against_, and think what we might +spare it out of, and what saving we could hit upon, that should be an +equivalent. A thing was worth buying then, when we felt the money that +we paid for it. + +"Do you remember the brown suit, which you made to hang upon you, till +your friends cried shame upon you, it grew so threadbare--and all +because of that folio _Beaumont and Fletcher_, which you dragged home +late at night from Barker's in Covent-garden? Do you remember how we +eyed it for weeks before we could make up our minds to the purchase, and +had not come to a determination till it was near ten o'clock of the +Saturday night, when you set off from Islington, fearing you should be +too late--and when the old bookseller with some grumbling opened his +shop, and by the twinkling taper (for he was setting bed-ward) lighted +out the relic from his dusty treasures--and when you lugged it home, +wishing it were twice as cumbersome--and when you presented it to +me--and when we were exploring the perfectness of it (_collating_ you +called it)--and while I was repairing some of the loose leaves with +paste, which your impatience would not suffer to be left till +daybreak--was there no pleasure in being a poor man? or can those neat +black clothes which you wear now, and are so careful to keep brushed, +since we have become rich and finical, give you half the honest vanity +with which you flaunted it about in that overworn suit--your old +corbeau--for four or five weeks longer than you should have done, to +pacify your conscience for the mighty sum of fifteen--or sixteen +shillings was it?--a great affair we thought it then--which you had +lavished on the old folio. Now you can afford to buy any book that +pleases you, but I do not see that you ever bring me home any nice old +purchases now. + +"When you came home with twenty apologies for laying out a less number +of shillings upon that print after Lionardo which we christened the +'Lady Blanch'; when you looked at the purchase, and thought of the +money--and thought of the money, and looked again at the picture--was +there no pleasure in being a poor man? Now, you have nothing to do but +to walk into Colnaghi's, and buy a wilderness of Lionardos. Yet do you? + +"Then, do you remember our pleasant walks to Enfield, and Potter's bar, +and Waltham, when we had a holiday--holidays and all other fun are gone +now we are rich--and the little handbasket in which I used to deposit +our day's fare of savory cold lamb and salad--and how you would pry +about at noon-tide for some decent house, where we might go in and +produce our store--only paying for the ale that you must call for--and +speculate upon the looks of the landlady, and whether she was likely to +allow us a tablecloth--and wish for such another honest hostess as Izaak +Walton has described many a one on the pleasant banks of the Lea, when +he went a fishing--and sometimes they would prove obliging enough, and +sometimes they would look grudgingly upon us--but we had cheerful looks +still for one another, and would eat our plain food savorily, scarcely +grudging Piscator[7] his Trout Hall? Now, when we go out a day's +pleasuring, which is seldom, moreover, we _ride_ part of the way, and go +into a fine inn, and order the best of dinners, never debating the +expense, which, after all, never has half the relish of those chance +country snaps, when we were at the mercy of uncertain usage, and a +precarious welcome. + +"You are too proud to see a play anywhere now but in the pit. Do you +remember where it was we used to sit, when we saw the _Battle of +Hexham_, and the _Surrender of Calais_, and Bannister and Mrs. Bland in +the _Children in the Wood_--when we squeezed out our shilling apiece to +sit three or four times in a season in the one-shilling gallery--where +you felt all the time that you ought not to have brought me--and more +strongly I felt obligation to you for having brought me--and the +pleasure was the better for a little shame--and when the curtain drew +up, what cared we for our place in the house, or what mattered it where +we were sitting, when our thoughts were with Rosalind in Arden, or with +Viola at the Court of Illyria? You used to say that the gallery was the +best place of all for enjoying a play socially; that the relish of such +exhibitions must be in proportion to the infrequency of going; that the +company we met there, not being in general readers of plays, were +obliged to attend the more, and did attend, to what was going on on the +stage, because a word lost would have been a chasm which it was +impossible for them to fill up. With such reflections we consoled our +pride then, and I appeal to you whether, as a woman, I met generally +with less attention and accommodation than I have done since in more +expensive situations in the house? The getting in, indeed, and the +crowding up those inconvenient staircases, was bad enough,--but there +was still a law of civility to woman recognised to quite as great an +extent as we ever found in the other passages--and how a little +difficulty overcome heightened the snug seat, and the play, afterward! +Now we can only pay our money, and walk in. You cannot see, you say, in +the galleries now. I am sure we saw, and heard too, well enough +then--but sight, and all, I think, is gone with our poverty. + +"There was pleasure in eating strawberries, before they became quite +common--in the first dish of peas, while they were yet dear--to have +them for a nice supper, a treat. What treat can we have now? If we were +to treat ourselves now--that is, to have dainties a little above our +means, it would be selfish and wicked. It is the very little more that +we allow ourselves beyond what the actual poor can get at, that makes +what I call a treat--when two people living together, as we have done, +now and then indulge themselves in a cheap luxury, which both like; +while each apologises, and is willing to take both halves of the blame +to his single share. I see no harm in people making much of themselves +in that sense of the word. It may give them a hint how to make much of +others. But now--what I mean by the word--we never _do_ make much of +ourselves. None but the poor can do it. I do not mean the veriest poor +of all, but persons as we were, just above poverty. + +"I know what you were going to say, that it is mighty pleasant at the +end of the year to make all meet,--and much ado we used to have every +Thirty-first Night of December to account for our exceedings--many a +long face did you make over your puzzled accounts, and in contriving to +make it out how we had spent so much--or that we had not spent so +much--or that it was impossible we should spend so much next year--and +still we found our slender capital decreasing--but then, betwixt ways, +and projects, and compromises of one sort or another and talk of +curtailing this charge, and doing without that for the future--and the +hope that youth brings, and laughing spirits (in which you were never +poor till now), we pocketed up our loss, and in conclusion, with 'lusty +brimmers' (as you used to quote it out of _hearty, cheerful Mr. +Cotton_[8], as you called him), we used to welcome in the 'coming +guest.' Now we have no reckoning at all at the end of the old year; no +flattering promises about the new year doing better for us." + +Bridget is so sparing of her speech, on most occasions, that when she +gets into a rhetorical vein, I am careful how I interrupt it. I could +not help, however, smiling at the phantom of wealth which her dear +imagination had conjured up out of a clear income of poor ---- hundred +pounds a year. "It is true we were happier when we were poorer, but we +were also younger, my cousin. I am afraid we must put up with the +excess, for if we were to shake the superflux into the sea, we should +not much mend ourselves. That we had much to struggle with, as we grew +up together, we have reason to be most thankful. It strengthened and +knit our compact closer. We could never have been what we have been to +each other, if we had always had the sufficiency which you now complain +of. The resisting power, those natural dilations of the youthful spirit, +which circumstances can not straiten--with us are long since passed +away. Competence to age is supplementary youth, a sorry supplement +indeed, but I fear the best that is to be had. We must ride where we +formerly walked: live better and lie softer--and shall be wise to do +so--than we had means to do in those good old days you speak of. Yet +could those days return, could you and I once more walk our thirty miles +a day, could Bannister and Mrs. Bland again be young, and you and I be +young to see them, could the good old one shilling gallery days +return--they are dreams, my cousin, now, but could you and I at this +moment, instead of this quiet argument, by our well-carpeted fireside, +sitting on this luxurious sofa--be once more struggling up those +inconvenient staircases, pushed about and squeezed, and elbowed by the +poorest rabble of poor gallery scramblers--could I once more hear those +anxious shrieks of yours, and the delicious _Thank God, we are safe_, +which always followed, when the topmost stair, conquered, let in the +first light of the whole cheerful theatre down beneath us--I know not +the fathom line that ever touched a descent so deep as I would be +willing to bury more wealth in than Croesus had, or the great Jew R---- +is supposed to have, to purchase it. And now do just look at that merry +little Chinese waiter holding an umbrella, big enough for a bed-tester, +over the head of that pretty insipid half-Madonna-ish chit of a lady in +that very blue summer-house." + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 4: From "Last Essays of Elia," 1833.] + +[Footnote 5: The hays: an old English dance.] + +[Footnote 6: Speciosa miracula: beautiful marvels.] + +[Footnote 7: Piscator: The Angler--the author's spokesman in Walton's +"The Complete Angler."] + +[Footnote 8: Charles Cotton, a humorist of the seventeenth century.] + + + + +WHAT IS EDUCATION?[9] + +THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY + + +What is education? Above all things, what is our ideal of a thoroughly +liberal education?--of that education which, if we could begin life +again, we would give ourselves--of that education which, if we could +mould the fates to our own will, we would give our children? Well, I +know not what may be your conceptions upon this matter, but I will tell +you mine, and I hope I shall find that our views are not very +discrepant. + +Suppose it were perfectly certain that the life and fortune of every one +of us would, one day or other, depend upon his winning or losing a game +of chess. Don't you think that we should all consider it to be a primary +duty to learn at least the names and the moves of the pieces; to have a +notion of a gambit, and a keen eye for all the means of giving and +getting out of check? Do you not think that we should look with a +disapprobation amounting to scorn, upon the father who allowed his son, +or the state which allowed its members, to grow up without knowing a +pawn from a knight? + +Yet it is a very plain and elementary truth, that the life, the +fortune, and the happiness of every one of us, and, more or less, of +those who are connected with us, do depend upon our knowing something of +the rules of a game infinitely more difficult and complicated than +chess. It is a game which has been played for untold ages, every man and +woman of us being one of the two players in a game of his or her own. +The chess-board is the world, the pieces are the phenomena of the +universe, the rules of the game are what we call the laws of Nature. The +player on the other side is hidden from us. We know that his play is +always fair, just and patient. But also we know, to our cost, that he +never overlooks a mistake, or makes the smallest allowance for +ignorance. To the man who plays well, the highest stakes are paid, with +that sort of overflowing generosity with which the strong shows delight +in strength. And one who plays ill is checkmated--without haste, but +without remorse. + +My metaphor will remind some of you of the famous picture in which +Retzsch has depicted Satan playing at chess with man for his soul. +Substitute for the mocking fiend in that picture a calm, strong angel +who is playing for love, as we say, and would rather lose than win--and +I should accept it as an image of human life. + +Well, what I mean by Education is learning the rules of this mighty +game. In other words, education is the instruction of the intellect in +the laws of Nature, under which name I include not merely things and +their forces, but men and their ways; and the fashioning of the +affections and of the will into an earnest and loving desire to move in +harmony with those laws. For me, education means neither more nor less +than this. Anything which professes to call itself education must be +tried by this standard, and if it fails to stand the test, I will not +call it education, whatever may be the force of authority, or of +numbers, upon the other side. + +It is important to remember that, in strictness, there is no such thing +as an uneducated man. Take an extreme case. Suppose that an adult man, +in the full vigour of his faculties, could be suddenly placed in the +world, as Adam is said to have been, and then left to do as he best +might. How long would he be left uneducated? Not five minutes. Nature +would begin to teach him, through the eye, the ear, the touch, the +properties of objects. Pain and pleasure would be at his elbow telling +him to do this and avoid that; and by slow degrees the man would receive +an education which, if narrow, would be thorough, real, and adequate to +his circumstances, though there would be no extras and very few +accomplishments. + +And if to this solitary man entered a second Adam, or, better still, an +Eve, a new and greater world, that of social and moral phenomena, would +be revealed. Joys and woes, compared with which all others might seem +but faint shadows, would spring from the new relations. Happiness and +sorrow would take the place of the coarser monitors, pleasure and pain; +but conduct would still be shaped by the observation of the natural +consequences of actions; or, in other words, by the laws of the nature +of man. + +To every one of us the world was once as fresh and new as to Adam. And +then, long before we were susceptible of any other modes of instruction, +Nature took us in hand, and every minute of waking life brought its +educational influence, shaping our actions into rough accordance with +Nature's laws, so that we might not be ended untimely by too gross +disobedience. Nor should I speak of this process of education as past +for any one, be he as old as he may. For every man the world is as fresh +as it was at the first day, and as full of untold novelties for him who +has the eyes to see them. And Nature is still continuing her patient +education of us in that great university, the universe, of which we are +all members--Nature having no Test-Acts. + +Those who take honours in Nature's university, who learn the laws which +govern men and things and obey them, are the really great and successful +men in this world. The great mass of mankind are the "Poll,"[10] who +pick up just enough to get through without much discredit. Those who +won't learn at all are plucked; and then you can't come up again. +Nature's pluck means extermination. + +Thus the question of compulsory education is settled so far as Nature +is concerned. Her bill on that question was framed and passed long ago. +But, like all compulsory legislation, that of Nature is harsh and +wasteful in its operation. Ignorance is visited as sharply as wilful +disobedience--incapacity meets with the same punishment as crime. +Nature's discipline is not even a word and a blow, and the blow first; +but the blow without the word. It is left to you to find out why your +ears are boxed. + +The object of what we commonly call education--that education in which +man intervenes and which I shall distinguish as artificial education--is +to make good these defects in Nature's methods; to prepare the child to +receive Nature's education, neither incapably nor ignorantly, nor with +wilful disobedience; and to understand the preliminary symptoms of her +pleasure, without waiting for the box on the ear. In short, all +artificial education ought to be an anticipation of natural education. +And a liberal education is an artificial education which has not only +prepared a man to escape the great evils of disobedience to natural +laws, but has trained him to appreciate and to seize upon the rewards, +which Nature scatters with as free a hand as her penalties. + +That man, I think, has had a liberal education who has been so trained +in youth that his body is the ready servant of his will, and does with +ease and pleasure all the work that, as a mechanism, it is capable of; +whose intellect is a clear, cold, logic engine, with all its parts of +equal strength, and in smooth working order; ready, like a steam engine, +to be turned to any kind of work, and spin the gossamers as well as +forge the anchors of the mind; whose mind is stored with a knowledge of +the great and fundamental truths of Nature and of the laws of her +operations; one who, no stunted ascetic, is full of life and fire, but +whose passions are trained to come to heel by a vigorous will, the +servant of a tender conscience; who has learned to love all beauty, +whether of Nature or of art, to hate all vileness, and to respect others +as himself. + +Such an one and no other, I conceive, has had a liberal education; for +he is, as completely as a man can be, in harmony with Nature. He will +make the best of her, and she of him. They will get on together rarely; +she as his ever beneficent mother; he as her mouthpiece, her conscious +self, her minister and interpreter. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 9: From "A Liberal Education; and Where to Find It," 1868.] + +[Footnote 10: Poll (a slang term used at Cambridge University): those +who take a degree without honours.] + + + + +KNOWLEDGE VIEWED IN RELATION TO LEARNING[11] + +JOHN HENRY NEWMAN + + +It were well if the English, like the Greek language, possessed some +definite word to express, simply and generally, intellectual proficiency +or perfection, such as "health," as used with reference to the animal +frame, and "virtue," with reference to our moral nature. I am not able +to find such a term;--talent, ability, genius, belong distinctly to the +raw material, which is the subject-matter, not to that excellence which +is the result of exercise and training. When we turn, indeed, to the +particular kinds of intellectual perfection, words are forthcoming for +our purpose, as, for instance, judgment, taste, and skill; yet even +these belong, for the most part, to powers or habits bearing upon +practice or upon art, and not to any perfect condition of the intellect, +considered in itself. Wisdom, again, is certainly a more comprehensive +word than any other, but it has a direct relation to conduct, and to +human life. Knowledge, indeed, and science express purely intellectual +ideas but still not a state or quality of the intellect; for knowledge, +in its ordinary sense, is but one of its circumstances, denoting a +possession or a habit; and science has been appropriated to the +subject-matter of the intellect, instead of belonging in English, as it +ought to do, to the intellect itself. The consequence is that, on an +occasion like this, many words are necessary, in order, first, to bring +out and convey what surely is no difficult idea in itself,--that of the +cultivation of the intellect as an end; next, in order to recommend +what surely is no unreasonable object; and lastly, to describe and make +the mind realise the particular perfection in which that object +consists. Every one knows practically what are the constituents of +health or of virtue; and every one recognises health and virtue as ends +to be pursued; it is otherwise with intellectual excellence, and this +must be my excuse, if I seem to anyone to be bestowing a good deal of +labour on a preliminary matter. + +In default of a recognised term, I have called the perfection or virtue +of the intellect by the name of philosophy, philosophical knowledge, +enlargement of mind, or illumination, terms which are not uncommonly +given to it by writers of this day: but, whatever name we bestow on it, +it is, I believe, as a matter of history, the business of a university +to make this intellectual culture its direct scope, or to employ itself +in the education of the intellect,--just as the work of a hospital lies +in healing the sick or wounded, of a riding or fencing school, or of a +gymnasium, in exercising the limbs, of an almshouse, in aiding and +solacing the old, of an orphanage, in protecting innocence, of a +penitentiary, in restoring the guilty. I say, a university, taken in its +bare idea, and before we view it as an instrument of the church, has +this object and this mission; it contemplates neither moral impression +nor mechanical production; it professes to exercise the mind neither in +art nor in duty; its function is intellectual culture; here it may leave +its scholars, and it has done its work when it has done as much as this. +It educates the intellect to reason well in all matters, to reach out +towards truth, and to grasp it. + +This, I said in my foregoing discourse, was the object of a university, +viewed in itself, and apart from the Catholic Church, or from the state, +or from any other power which may use it; and I illustrated this in +various ways. I said that the intellect must have an excellence of its +own, for there was nothing which had not its specific good; that the +word "educate" would not be used of intellectual culture, as it is used, +had not the intellect had an end of its own; that, had it not such an +end, there would be no meaning in calling certain intellectual exercises +"liberal," in contrast with "useful," as is commonly done; that the very +notion of a philosophical temper implied it, for it threw us back upon +research and system as ends in themselves, distinct from effects and +works of any kind; that a philosophical scheme of knowledge, or system +of sciences, could not, from the nature of the case, issue in any one +definite art or pursuit, as its end; and that, on the other hand, the +discovery and contemplation of truth, to which research and +systematising led, were surely sufficient ends, though nothing beyond +them were added, and that they had ever been accounted sufficient by +mankind. + +Here then I take up the subject; and having determined that the +cultivation of the intellect is an end distinct and sufficient in +itself, and that, so far as words go, it is an enlargement or +illumination. I proceed to inquire what this mental breadth, or power, +or light, or philosophy consists in. A hospital heals a broken limb or +cures a fever: what does an institution effect, which professes the +health, not of the body, not of the soul, but of the intellect? What is +this good, which in former times, as well as our own, has been found +worth the notice, the appropriation of the Catholic Church? + +I have then to investigate, in the discourses which follow, those +qualities and characteristics of the intellect in which its cultivation +issues or rather consists; and, with a view of assisting myself in this +undertaking, I shall recur to certain questions which have already been +touched upon. These questions are three: viz. the relation of +intellectual culture, first, to _mere_ knowledge; secondly, to +_professional_ knowledge; and thirdly, to _religious_ knowledge. In +other words, are _acquirements_ and _attainments_ the scope of a +university education? or _expertness in particular arts_ and _pursuits_? +or _moral and religious proficiency_? or something besides these three? +These questions I shall examine in succession, with the purpose I have +mentioned; and I hope to be excused, if, in this anxious undertaking, I +am led to repeat what, either in these discourses or elsewhere, I have +already put upon paper. And first, of _mere knowledge_, or learning, and +its connection with intellectual illumination or philosophy. + +I suppose the _prima-facie_[12] view which the public at large would +take of a university, considering it as a place of education, is nothing +more or less than a place for acquiring a great deal of knowledge on a +great many subjects. Memory is one of the first developed of the mental +faculties; a boy's business when he goes to school is to learn, that is, +to store up things in his memory. For some years his intellect is little +more than an instrument for taking in facts, or a receptacle for storing +them; he welcomes them as fast as they come to him; he lives on what is +without; he has his eyes ever about him; he has a lively susceptibility +of impressions; he imbibes information of every kind; and little does he +make his own in a true sense of the word, living rather upon his +neighbours all around him. He has opinions, religious, political and +literary, and, for a boy, is very positive in them and sure about them; +but he gets them from his schoolfellows, or his masters, or his parents, +as the case may be. Such as he is in his other relations, such also is +he in his school exercises; his mind is observant, sharp, ready, +retentive; he is almost passive in the acquisition of knowledge. I say +this in no disparagement of the idea of a clever boy. Geography, +chronology, history, language, natural history, he heaps up the matter +of these studies as treasures for a future day. It is the seven years of +plenty with him: he gathers in by handfuls, like the Egyptians, without +counting; and though, as time goes on, there is exercise for his +argumentative powers in the elements of mathematics, and for his taste +in the poets and orators, still, while at school, or at least, till +quite the last years of his time, he acquires, and little more; and when +he is leaving for the university, he is mainly the creature of foreign +influences and circumstances, and made up of accidents, homogeneous or +not, as the case may be. Moreover, the moral habits, which are a boy's +praise, encourage and assist this result; that is, diligence, assiduity, +regularity, despatch, persevering application; for these are the direct +conditions of acquisition, and naturally lead to it. Acquirements, +again, are emphatically producible, and at a moment; they are a +something to show, both for master and scholar; an audience, even though +ignorant themselves of the subjects of an examination, can comprehend +when questions are answered and when they are not. Here again is a +reason why mental culture is in the minds of men identified with the +acquisition of knowledge. + +The same notion possesses the public mind, when it passes on from the +thought of a school to that of a university: and with the best of +reasons so far as this, that there is no true culture without +acquirements, and that philosophy presupposes knowledge. It requires a +great deal of reading, or a wide range of information, to warrant us in +putting forth our opinions on any serious subject; and without such +learning the most original mind may be able indeed to dazzle, to amuse, +to refute, to perplex, but not to come to any useful result or any +trustworthy conclusion. There are indeed persons who profess a different +view of the matter, and even act upon it. Every now and then you will +find a person of vigorous or fertile mind, who relies upon his own +resources, despises all former authors, and gives the world, with the +utmost fearlessness, his views upon religion, or history, or any other +popular subject. And his works may sell for a while; he may get a name +in his day; but this will be all. His readers are sure to find on the +long run that his doctrines are mere theories, and not the expression of +facts, that they are chaff instead of bread, and then his popularity +drops as suddenly as it rose. + +Knowledge then is the indispensable condition of expansion of mind, and +the instrument of attaining to it; this cannot be denied, it is ever to +be insisted on; I begin with it as a first principle; however, the very +truth of it carries men too far, and confirms to them the notion that it +is the whole of the matter. A narrow mind is thought to be that which +contains little knowledge; and an enlarged mind, that which holds a +great deal; and what seems to put the matter beyond dispute is, the fact +of the great number of studies which are pursued in a university, by its +very profession. Lectures are given on every kind of subject; +examinations are held; prizes awarded. There are moral, metaphysical, +physical professors; professors of languages, of history, of +mathematics, of experimental science. Lists of questions are published, +wonderful for their range and depth, variety and difficulty; treatises +are written, which carry upon their very face the evidence of extensive +reading or multifarious information; what then is wanting for mental +culture to a person of large reading and scientific attainments? what is +grasp of mind but acquirement? where shall philosophical repose be +found, but in the consciousness and enjoyment of large intellectual +possessions? + +And yet this notion is, I conceive, a mistake, and my present business +is to show that it is one, and that the end of a liberal education is +not mere knowledge, or knowledge considered in its _matter_; and I shall +best attain my object, by actually setting down some cases, which will +be generally granted to be instances of the process of enlightenment or +enlargement of mind, and others which are not, and thus, by the +comparison, you will be able to judge for yourselves, gentlemen, whether +knowledge, that is, acquirement, is after all the real principle of the +enlargement or whether that principle is not rather something beyond it. + +For instance, let a person, whose experience has hitherto been confined +to the more calm and unpretending scenery of these islands, whether here +or in England, go for the first time into parts where physical nature +puts on her wilder and more awful forms, whether at home or abroad, as +into mountainous districts; or let one, who has ever lived in a quiet +village, go for the first time to a great metropolis,--then I suppose he +will have a sensation which perhaps he never had before. He has a +feeling not in addition or increase of former feelings, but of something +different in its nature. He will perhaps be borne forward, and find for +a time that he has lost his bearings. He has made a certain progress, +and he has a consciousness of mental enlargement; he does not stand +where he did, he has a new centre, and a range of thoughts to which he +was before a stranger. + +Again, the view of the heavens which the telescope opens upon us, if +allowed to fill and possess the mind, may almost whirl it round and make +it dizzy. It brings in a flood of ideas, and is rightly called an +intellectual enlargement, whatever is meant by the term. + +And so again, the sight of beasts of prey and other foreign animals, +their strangeness, the originality (if I may use the term) of their +forms and gestures and habits, and their variety and independence of +each other, throw us out of ourselves into another creation, and as if +under another Creator, if I may so express the temptation which may come +on the mind. We seem to have new faculties, or a new exercise for our +faculties, by this addition to our knowledge; like a prisoner, who, +having been accustomed to wear manacles or fetters, suddenly finds his +arms and legs free. + +Hence physical science generally, in all its departments, as bringing +before us the exuberant riches and resources, yet the orderly course, of +the universe, elevates and excites the student, and at first, I may say, +almost takes away his breath, while in time it exercises a +tranquillising influence upon him. + +Again the study of history is said to enlarge and enlighten the mind, +and why? because, as I conceive, it gives it a power of judging of +passing events and of all events, and a conscious superiority over them, +which before it did not possess. + +And in like manner, what is called seeing the world, entering into +active life, going into society, travelling, gaining acquaintance with +the various classes of the community, coming into contact with the +principles and modes of thought of various parties, interests, and +races, their views, aims, habits and manners, their religious creeds and +forms of worship,--gaining experience how various yet how alike men +are, how low-minded, how bad, how opposed, yet how confident in their +opinions; all this exerts a perceptible influence upon the mind, which +it is impossible to mistake, be it good or be it bad, and is popularly +called its enlargement. + +And then again, the first time the mind comes across the arguments and +speculations of unbelievers, and feels what a novel light they cast upon +what he has hitherto accounted sacred; and still more, if it gives in to +them and embraces them, and throws off as so much prejudice what it has +hitherto held, and, as if waking from a dream, begins to realise to its +imagination that there is now no such thing as law and the transgression +of law, that sin is a phantom, and punishment a bugbear, that it is free +to sin, free to enjoy the world and the flesh; and still further, when +it does enjoy them, and reflects that it may think and hold just what it +will, that "the world is all before it where to choose," and what system +to build up as its own private persuasion; when this torrent of wilful +thoughts rushes over and inundates it, who will deny that the fruit of +the tree of knowledge, or what the mind takes for knowledge, has made it +one of the gods, with a sense of expansion and elevation,--an +intoxication in reality, still, so far as the subjective state of the +mind goes, an illumination? Hence the fanaticism of individuals or +nations, who suddenly cast off their Maker. Their eyes are opened; and, +like the judgment-stricken king in the tragedy, they see two suns, and a +magic universe, out of which they look back upon their former state of +faith and innocence with a sort of contempt and indignation, as if they +were then but fools, and the dupes of imposture. + +On the other hand, religion has its own enlargement, and an enlargement, +not of tumult, but of peace. It is often remarked of uneducated persons, +who have hitherto thought little of the unseen world, that, on their +turning to God, looking into themselves, regulating their hearts, +reforming their conduct, and meditating on death and judgment, heaven +and hell, they seem to become, in point of intellect, different beings +from what they were. Before, they took things as they came, and thought +no more of one thing than another. But now every event has a meaning; +they have their own estimate of whatever happens to them; they are +mindful of times and seasons, and compare the present with the past; and +the world, no longer dull, monotonous, unprofitable, and hopeless, is a +various and complicated drama, with parts and an object, and an awful +moral. + +Now from these instances, to which many more might be added, it is +plain, first, that the communication of knowledge certainly is either a +condition or the means of that sense of enlargement or enlightenment, of +which at this day we hear so much in certain quarters: this cannot be +denied; but next, it is equally plain, that such communication is not +the whole of the process. The enlargement consists, not merely in the +passive reception into the mind of a number of ideas hitherto unknown to +it, but in the mind's energetic and simultaneous action upon and towards +and among those new ideas, which are rushing in upon it. It is the +action of a formative power, reducing to order and meaning the matter of +our acquirements; it is a making the objects of our knowledge +subjectively our own, or, to use a familiar word, it is a digestion of +what we receive, into the substance of our previous state of thought; +and without this no enlargement is said to follow. There is no +enlargement, unless there be a comparison of ideas one with another, as +they come before the mind, and a systematising of them. We feel our +minds to be growing and expanding _then_, when we not only learn, but +refer what we learn to what we know already. It is not the mere addition +to our knowledge that is the illumination; but the locomotion, the +movement onwards, of that mental centre, to which both what we know, and +what we are learning, the accumulating mass of our acquirements, +gravitates. And therefore a truly great intellect, and recognised to be +such by the common opinion of mankind, such as the intellect of +Aristotle, or of St. Thomas, or of Newton, or of Goethe (I purposely +take instances within and without the Catholic pale, when I would speak +of the intellect as such), is one which takes a connected view of old +and new, past and present, far and near, and which has an insight into +the influence of all these one on another; without which there is no +whole and no centre. It possesses the knowledge, not only of things, but +also of their mutual and true relations; knowledge, not merely +considered as acquirement but as philosophy. + +Accordingly, when this analytical, distributive, harmonising process is +away, the mind experiences no enlargement, and is not reckoned as +enlightened or comprehensive, whatever it may add to its knowledge. For +instance, a great memory, as I have already said, does not make a +philosopher, any more than a dictionary can be called a grammar. There +are men who embrace in their minds a vast multitude of ideas, but with +little sensibility about their real relations towards each other. These +may be antiquarians, annalists, naturalists; they may be learned in the +law; they may be versed in statistics; they are most useful in their own +place; I should shrink from speaking disrespectfully of them; still, +there is nothing in such attainments to guarantee the absence of +narrowness of mind. If they are nothing more than well-read men, or men +of information, they have not what specially deserves the name of +culture of mind, or fulfils the type of liberal education. + +In like manner, we sometimes fall in with persons who have seen much of +the world, and of the men who, in their day, have played a conspicuous +part in it, but who generalise, nothing, and have no observation, in the +true sense of the word. They abound in information in detail, curious +and entertaining, about men and things; and, having lived under the +influence of no very clear or settled principles, religious or +political, they speak of every one and every thing, only as so many +phenomena, which are complete in themselves, and lead to nothing, not +discussing them, or teaching any truth, or instructing the hearer, but +simply talking. No one would say that these persons, well informed as +they are, had attained to any great culture of intellect or to +philosophy. + +The case is the same still more strikingly where the persons in question +are beyond dispute men of inferior powers and deficient education. +Perhaps they have been much in foreign countries, and they receive, in a +passive, otiose, unfruitful way, the various facts which are forced upon +them there. Seafaring men, for example, range from one end of the earth +to the other; but the multiplicity of external objects, which they have +encountered, forms no symmetrical and consistent picture upon their +imagination; they see the tapestry of human life, as it were on the +wrong side, and it tells no story. They sleep, and they rise up, and +they find themselves, now in Europe, now in Asia; they see visions of +great cities and wild regions; they are in the marts of commerce, or +amid the islands of the South; they gaze on Pompey's Pillar, or on the +Andes; and nothing which meets them carries them forward or backward, to +any idea beyond itself. Nothing has a drift or relation; nothing has a +history or a promise. Every thing stands by itself, and comes and goes +in its turn, like the shifting scenes of a show, which leave the +spectator where he was. Perhaps you are near such a man on a particular +occasion, and expect him to be shocked or perplexed at something which +occurs; but one thing is much the same to him as another, or, if he is +perplexed, it is as not knowing what to say, whether it is right to +admire, or to ridicule or to disapprove, while conscious that some +expression of opinion is expected from him; for in fact he has no +standard of judgment at all, and no landmarks to guide him to a +conclusion. Such is mere acquisition, and, I repeat, no one would dream +of calling it philosophy. + +Instances, such as these, confirm, by the contrast, the conclusion I +have already drawn from those which preceded them. That only is true +enlargement of mind which is the power of viewing many things at once as +one whole, of referring them severally to their true place in the +universal system, of understanding their respective values, and +determining their mutual dependence. Thus is that form of universal +knowledge, of which I have on a former occasion spoken, set up in the +individual intellect, and constitutes its perfection. Possessed of this +real illumination, the mind never views any part of the extended +subject-matter of knowledge without recollecting that it is but a part, +or without the associations which spring from this recollection. It +makes everything in some sort lead to everything else; it would +communicate the image of the whole to every separate portion, till that +whole becomes in imagination like a spirit, everywhere pervading and +penetrating its component parts, and giving them one definite meaning. +Just as our bodily organs, when mentioned, recall their function in the +body, as the word "creation" suggests the Creator, and "subjects" a +sovereign, so, in the mind of the philosopher as we are abstractedly +conceiving of him, the elements of the physical and moral world, +sciences, arts, pursuits, ranks, offices, events, opinions, +individualities, are all viewed as one with correlative functions, and +as gradually by successive combinations converging, one and all, to the +true centre. + +To have even a portion of this illuminative reason and true philosophy +is the highest state to which nature can aspire, in the way of +intellect; it puts the mind above the influences of chance and +necessity, above anxiety, suspense, unsettlement, and superstition, +which is the lot of the many. Men, whose minds are possessed with some +one object, take exaggerated views of its importance, are feverish in +the pursuit of it, make it the measure of things which are utterly +foreign to it, and are startled and despond if it happens to fail them. +They are ever in alarm or in transport. Those on the other hand who have +no object or principle whatever to hold by, lose their way every step +they take. They are thrown out, and do not know what to think or say, at +every fresh juncture; they have no view of persons, or occurrences, or +facts, which come suddenly upon them, and they hang upon the opinion of +others for want of internal resources. But the intellect, which has been +disciplined to the perfection of its powers, which knows, and thinks +while it knows, which has learned to leaven the dense mass of facts and +events with the elastic force of reason, such an intellect cannot be +partial, cannot be exclusive, cannot be impetuous, cannot be at a loss, +cannot but be patient, collected, and majestically calm, because it +discerns the end in every beginning, the origin in every end, the law in +every interruption, the limit in each delay; because it ever knows where +it stands, and how its path lies from one point to another. It is the +[Greek: tetragonos][13] of the Peripatetic, and has the _nil +admirari_[14] of the Stoic,-- + + Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas, + Atque metus omnes, et inexorabile fatum + Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari.[15] + +There are men who, when in difficulties, originate at the moment vast +ideas or dazzling projects; who, under the influence of excitement, are +able to cast a light, almost as if from inspiration, on a subject or +course of action which comes before them; who have a sudden presence of +mind equal to any emergency, rising with the occasion, and an undaunted +magnanimous bearing, and an energy and keenness which is but made +intense by opposition. This is genius, this is heroism; it is the +exhibition of a natural gift, which no culture can teach, at which no +institution can aim: here, on the contrary, we are concerned, not with +mere nature, but with training and teaching. That perfection of the +intellect, which is the result of education, and its _beau ideal_, to be +imparted to individuals in their respective measures, is the clear, +calm, accurate vision and comprehension of all things, as far as the +finite mind can embrace them, each in its place, and with its own +characteristics upon it. It is almost prophetic from its knowledge of +history; it is almost heart-searching from its knowledge of human +nature; it has almost supernatural charity from its freedom from +littleness and prejudice; it has almost the repose of faith, because +nothing can startle it; it has almost the beauty and harmony of heavenly +contemplation, so intimate is it with the eternal order of things and +the music of the spheres. + +And now, if I may take for granted that the true and adequate end of +intellectual training and of a university is not learning or +acquirement, but rather, is thought or reason exercised upon knowledge, +or what may be called philosophy, I shall be in a position to explain +the various mistakes which at the present day beset the subject of +university education. + +I say then, if we would improve the intellect, first of all, we must +ascend; we cannot gain real knowledge on a level; we must generalise, we +must reduce to method, we must have a grasp of principles, and group and +shape our acquisitions by means of them. It matters not whether our +field of operation be wide or limited; in every case, to command it, is +to mount above it. Who has not felt the irritation of mind and +impatience created by a deep, rich country, visited for the first time, +with winding lanes, and high hedges, and green steeps, and tangled +woods, and every thing smiling indeed, but in a maze? The same feeling +comes upon us in a strange city, when we have no map of its streets. +Hence you hear of practised travellers, when they first come into a +place, mounting some high hill or church tower, by way of reconnoitering +its neighbourhood. In like manner, you must be above your knowledge, not +under it, or it will oppress you; and the more you have of it, the +greater will be the load. The learning of a Salmasius or a Burman, +unless you are its master, will be your tyrant. _Imperat aut +servit_;[16] if you can wield it with a strong arm, it is a great +weapon; otherwise, + + Vis consili expers + Mole ruit suâ.[17] + +You will be overwhelmed, like Tarpeia, by the heavy wealth which you +have exacted from tributary generations. + +Instances abound; there are authors who are as pointless as they are +inexhaustible in their literary resources. They measure knowledge by +bulk, as it lies in the rude block, without symmetry, without design. +How many commentators are there on the classics, how many on Holy +Scripture, from whom we rise up, wondering at the learning which has +passed before us, and wondering why it passed! How many writers are +there of Ecclesiastical history, such as Mosheim or Du Pin, who, +breaking up their subject into details, destroy its life, and defraud us +of the whole by their anxiety about the parts! The sermons, again, of +the English divines in the seventeenth century, how often are they mere +repertories of miscellaneous and officious learning! Of course Catholics +also may read without thinking; and in their case, equally as with +Protestants, it holds good, that such knowledge is unworthy of the name, +knowledge which they have not thought through, and thought out. Such +readers are only possessed by their knowledge, not possessed of it; nay, +in matter of fact they are often even carried away by it, without any +volition of their own. Recollect, the memory can tyrannise, as well as +the imagination. Derangement, I believe, has been considered as a loss +of control over the sequence of ideas. The mind, once set in motion, is +henceforth deprived of the power of initiation, and becomes the victim +of a train of associations, one thought suggesting another, in the way +of cause and effect, as if by a mechanical process, or some physical +necessity. No one, who has had experience of men of studious habits, but +must recognise the existence of a parallel phenomenon in the case of +those who have over-stimulated the memory. In such persons reason acts +almost as feebly and as impotently as in the madman; once fairly started +on any subject whatever, they have no power of self-control; they +passively endure the succession of impulses which are evolved out of the +original exciting cause; they are passed on from one idea to another +and go steadily forward, plodding along one line of thought in spite of +the amplest concessions of the hearer, or wandering from it in endless +digression in spite of his remonstrances. Now, if, as is very certain, +no one would envy the madman the glow and originality of his +conceptions, why must we extol the cultivation of that intellect which +is the prey, not indeed of barren fancies but of barren facts, of random +intrusions from without, though not of morbid imaginations from within? +And in thus speaking, I am not denying that a strong and ready memory is +in itself a real treasure; I am not disparaging a well-stored mind, +though it be nothing besides, provided it be sober, any more than I +would despise a bookseller's shop:--it is of great value to others, even +when not so to the owner. Nor am I banishing, far from it, the +possessors of deep and multifarious learning from my ideal University; +they adorn it in the eyes of men; I do but say that they constitute no +type of the results at which it aims; that it is no great gain to the +intellect to have enlarged the memory at the expense of faculties which +are indisputably higher. + +Nor indeed am I supposing that there is any great danger, at least in +this day, of over-education; the danger is on the other side. I will +tell you, gentlemen, what has been the practical error of the last +twenty years,--not to load the memory of the student with a mass of +undigested knowledge, but to force upon him so much that he has rejected +all. It has been the error of distracting and enfeebling the mind by an +unmeaning profusion of subjects; of implying that a smattering in a +dozen branches of study is not shallowness, which it really is, but +enlargement, which it is not; of considering an acquaintance with the +learned names of things and persons and the possession of clever +duodecimos, and attendance on eloquent lecturers, and membership with +scientific institutions, and the sight of the experiments of a platform +and the specimens of a museum, that all this was not dissipation of +mind, but progress. All things now are to be learned at once, not first +one thing, then another, not one well, but many badly. Learning is to +be without exertion, without attention, without toil; without grounding, +without advance, without finishing. There is to be nothing individual in +it; and this, forsooth, is the wonder of the age. What the steam engine +does with matter, the printing press is to do with the mind; it is to +act mechanically, and the population is to be passively, almost +unconsciously enlightened, by the mere multiplication and dissemination +of volumes. Whether it be the school boy, or the school girl, or the +youth at college, or the mechanic in the town, or the politician in the +senate, all have been the victims in one way or other of this most +preposterous and pernicious of delusions. Wise men have lifted up their +voices in vain; and at length, lest their own institutions should be +outshone and should disappear in the folly of the hour, they have been +obliged, as far as they could with a good conscience, to humour a spirit +which they could not withstand, and make temporising concessions at +which they could not but inwardly smile. + +It must not be supposed that, because I so speak, therefore I have some +sort of fear of the education of the people: on the contrary, the more +education they have, the better, so that it is really education. Nor am +I an enemy to the cheap publication of scientific and literary works, +which is now in vogue: on the contrary, I consider it a great advantage, +convenience, and gain; that is, to those to whom education has given a +capacity for using them. Further, I consider such innocent recreations +as science and literature are able to furnish will be a very fit +occupation of the thoughts and the leisure of young persons, and may be +made the means of keeping them from bad employments and bad companions. +Moreover, as to that superficial acquaintance with chemistry, and +geology, and astronomy, and political economy, and modern history, and +biography, and other branches of knowledge, which periodical literature +and occasional lectures and scientific institutions diffuse through the +community, I think it a graceful accomplishment, and a suitable, nay, +in this day a necessary accomplishment, in the case of educated men. +Nor, lastly, am I disparaging or discouraging the thorough acquisition +of any one of these studies, or denying that, as far as it goes, such +thorough acquisition is a real education of the mind. All I say is, call +things by their right names, and do not confuse together ideas which are +essentially different. A thorough knowledge of one science and a +superficial acquaintance with many, are not the same thing; a smattering +of a hundred things or a memory for detail, is not a philosophical or +comprehensive view. Recreations are not education; accomplishments are +not education. Do not say, the people must be educated, when, after all, +you only mean amused, refreshed, soothed, put into good spirits and good +humour, or kept from vicious excesses. I do not say that such +amusements, such occupations of mind, are not a great gain; but they are +not education. You may as well call drawing and fencing education as a +general knowledge of botany or conchology. Stuffing birds or playing +stringed instruments is an elegant pastime, and a resource to the idle, +but it is not education; it does not form or cultivate the intellect. +Education is a high word; it is the preparation for knowledge, and it is +the imparting of knowledge in proportion to that preparation. We require +intellectual eyes to know withal, as bodily eyes for sight. We need both +objects and organs intellectual; we cannot gain them without setting +about it; we cannot gain them in our sleep, or by haphazard. The best +telescope does not dispense with eyes; the printing press or the lecture +room will assist us greatly, but we must be true to ourselves, we must +be parties in the work. A university is, according to the usual +designation, an alma mater, knowing her children one by one, not a +foundry, or a mint, or a treadmill. + +I protest to you, gentlemen, that if I had to choose between a so-called +university, which dispensed with residence and tutorial superintendence, +and gave its degrees to any person who passed an examination in a wide +range of subjects, and a university which had no professors or +examinations at all, but merely brought a number of young men together +for three or four years, and then sent them away as the University of +Oxford is said to have done some sixty years since, if I were asked +which of these two methods was the better discipline of the +intellect,--mind, I do not say which is morally the better, for it is +plain that compulsory study must be a good and idleness an intolerable +mischief,--but if I must determine which of the two courses was the more +successful in training, moulding, enlarging the mind, which sent out men +the more fitted for their secular duties, which produced better public +men, men of the world, men whose names would descend to posterity, I +have no hesitation in giving the preference to that university which did +nothing, over that which exacted of its members an acquaintance with +every science under the sun. And, paradox as this may seem, still if +results be the test of systems, the influence of the public schools and +colleges of England, in the course of the last century, at least will +bear out one side of the contrast as I have drawn it. What would come, +on the other hand, of the ideal systems of education which have +fascinated the imagination of this age, could they ever take effect, and +whether they would not produce a generation frivolous, narrow-minded, +and resourceless, intellectually considered, is a fair subject for +debate; but so far is certain, that the universities and scholastic +establishments, to which I refer, and which did little more than bring +together first boys and then youths in large numbers, these +institutions, with miserable deformities on the side of morals, with a +hollow profession of Christianity, and a heathen code of ethics,--I say, +at least they can boast of a succession of heroes and statesmen, of +literary men and philosophers, of men conspicuous for great natural +virtues, for habits of business, for knowledge of life, for practical +judgment, for cultivated tastes, for accomplishments, who have made +England what it is,--able to subdue the earth, able to domineer over +Catholics. + +How is this to be explained? I suppose as follows: When a multitude of +young men, keen, open-hearted, sympathetic, and observant, as young men +are, come together and freely mix with each other, they are sure to +learn one from another, even if there be no one to teach them; the +conversation of all is a series of lectures to each, and they gain for +themselves new ideas and views, fresh matter of thought, and distinct +principles for judging and acting, day by day. An infant has to learn +the meaning of the information which its senses convey to it, and this +seems to be its employment. It fancies all that the eye presents to it +to be close to it, till it actually learns the contrary, and thus by +practice does it ascertain the relations and uses of those first +elements of knowledge which are necessary for its animal existence. A +parallel teaching is necessary for our social being, and it is secured +by a large school or a college; and this effect may be fairly called in +its own department an enlargement of mind. It is seeing the world on a +small field with little trouble; for the pupils or students come from +very different places, and with widely different notions, and there is +much to generalise, much to adjust, much to eliminate, there are +inter-relations to be defined, and conventional rules to be established, +in the process, by which the whole assemblage is moulded together, and +gains one tone and one character. + +Let it be clearly understood, I repeat it, that I am not taking into +account moral or religious considerations; I am but saying that that +youthful community will constitute a whole, it will embody a specific +idea, it will represent a doctrine, it will administer a code of +conduct, and it will furnish principles of thought and action. It will +give birth to a living teaching, which in course of time will take the +shape of a self-perpetuating tradition, or a _genius loci_,[18] as it is +sometimes called; which haunts the home where it has been born, and +which imbues and forms more or less, and one by one, every individual +who is successively brought under its shadow. Thus it is that, +independent of direct instruction on the part of superiors, there is a +sort of self-education in the academic institutions of Protestant +England; a characteristic tone of thought, a recognised standard of +judgment is found in them, which, as developed in the individual who is +submitted to it, becomes a twofold source of strength to him, both from +the distinct stamp it impresses on his mind, and from the bond of union +which it creates between him and others,--effects which are shared by +the authorities of the place, for they themselves have been educated in +it, and at all times are exposed to the influence of its ethical +atmosphere. Here then is a real teaching, whatever be its standards and +principles, true or false; and it at least tends towards cultivation of +the intellect; it at least recognises that knowledge is something more +than a sort of passive reception of scraps and details; it is a +something, and it does a something, which never will issue from the most +strenuous efforts of a set of teachers with no mutual sympathies and no +intercommunion, of a set of examiners with no opinions which they dare +profess, and with no common principles, who are teaching or questioning +a set of youths who do not know them, and do not know each other, on a +large number of subjects, different in kind, and connected by no wide +philosophy, three times a week, or three times a year, or once in three +years, in chill lecture-rooms or on a pompous anniversary. + +Nay, self-education in any shape, in the most restricted sense, is +preferable to a system of teaching which, professing so much, really +does so little for the mind. Shut your college gates against the votary +of knowledge, throw him back upon the searchings and the efforts of his +own mind; he will gain by being spared an entrance into your babel. Few +indeed there are who can dispense with the stimulus and support of +instructors, or will do anything at all, if left to themselves. And +fewer still (though such great minds are to be found), who will not, +from such unassisted attempts, contract a self-reliance and a +self-esteem, which are not only moral evils, but serious hindrances to +the attainment of truth. And next to none, perhaps, or none, who will +not be reminded from time to time of the disadvantage under which they +lie, by their imperfect grounding, by the breaks, deficiencies, and +irregularities of their knowledge, by the eccentricity of opinion and +the confusion of principle which they exhibit. They will be too often +ignorant of what every one knows and takes for granted, of that +multitude of small truths which fall upon the mind like dust, impalpable +and ever accumulating; they may be unable to converse, they may argue +perversely, they may pride themselves on their worst paradoxes or their +grossest truisms, they may be full of their own mode of viewing things, +unwilling to be put out of their way, slow to enter into the minds of +others;--but, with these and whatever other liabilities upon their +heads, they are likely to have more thought, more mind, more philosophy, +more true enlargement, than those earnest but ill-used persons who are +forced to load their minds with a score of subjects against an +examination, who have too much on their hands to indulge themselves in +thinking or investigation, who devour premise and conclusion together +with indiscriminate greediness, who hold whole sciences on faith, and +commit demonstrations to memory, and who too often, as might be +expected, when their period of education is passed, throw up all they +have learned in disgust, having gained nothing really by their anxious +labours, except perhaps the habit of application. + +Yet such is the better specimen of the fruit of that ambitious system +which has of late years been making way among us: for its result on +ordinary minds, and on the common run of students, is less satisfactory +still; they leave their place of education simply dissipated and relaxed +by the multiplicity of subjects, which they have never really mastered, +and so shallow as not even to know their shallowness. How much better, I +say, it is for the active and thoughtful intellect, where such is to be +found, to eschew the college and the university altogether, than to +submit to a drudgery so ignoble, a mockery so contumelious! How much +more profitable for the independent mind, after the mere rudiments of +education, to range through a library at random, taking down books as +they meet him, and pursuing the trains of thought which his mother wit +suggests! How much healthier to wander into the fields, and there with +the exiled prince to find "tongues in the trees, books in the running +brooks!" How much more genuine an education is that of the poor boy in +the poem[19]--a poem, whether in conception or execution, one of the +most touching in our language--who, not in the wide world, but ranging +day by day around his widowed mother's home, "a dextrous gleaner" in a +narrow field and with only such slender outfit + + as the village school and books a few + Supplied, + +contrived from the beach, and the quay, and the fisher's boat, and the +inn's fireside, and the tradesman's shop, and the shepherd's walk, and +the smuggler's hut, and the mossy moor, and the screaming gulls, and the +restless waves, to fashion for himself a philosophy and a poetry of his +own! + +But in a large subject, I am exceeding my necessary limits. Gentlemen, I +must conclude abruptly; and postpone any summing up of my argument, +should that be necessary, to another day. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 11: Discourse VI in "The Idea of a University," 1852.] + +[Footnote 12: Prima-facie: based on one's first impression.] + +[Footnote 13: Four-square.] + +[Footnote 14: To be moved by nothing.] + +[Footnote 15: Happy is he who has come to know the sequences of things, +and is thus above all fear and the dread march of fate and the roar of +greedy Acheron.] + +[Footnote 16: It rules or it serves.] + +[Footnote 17: Brute force without intelligence falls by its own weight.] + +[Footnote 18: Genius loci: spirit of the place.] + +[Footnote 19: Crabbe's _Tales of the Hall_. This poem, let me say, I +read on its first publication, above thirty years ago, with extreme +delight, and have never lost my love of it; and on taking it up lately, +found I was even more touched by it than heretofore. A work which can +please in youth and age, seems to fulfil (in logical language) the +_accidental definition_ of a classic. (A further course of twenty years +has passed, and I bear the same witness in favour of this poem.)] + + + + +LITERATURE AND SCIENCE[20] + +MATTHEW ARNOLD + + +Practical people talk with a smile of Plato and of his absolute ideas; +and it is impossible to deny that Plato's ideas do often seem +unpractical and impracticable, and especially when one views them in +connection with the life of a great workaday world like the United +States. The necessary staple of the life of such a world Plato regards +with disdain; handicraft and trade and the working professions he +regards with disdain; but what becomes of the life of an industrial +modern community if you take handicraft and trade and the working +professions out of it? The base mechanic arts and handicrafts, says +Plato, bring about a natural weakness in the principle of excellence in +a man, so that he cannot govern the ignoble growths in him, but nurses +them, and cannot understand fostering any other. Those who exercise such +arts and trades, as they have their bodies, he says, marred by their +vulgar businesses, so they have their souls, too, bowed and broken by +them. And if one of these uncomely people has a mind to seek +self-culture and philosophy, Plato compares him to a bald little tinker, +who has scraped together money, and has got his release from service, +and has had a bath, and bought a new coat, and is rigged out like a +bridegroom about to marry the daughter of his master who has fallen into +poor and helpless estate. + +Nor do the working professions fare any better than trade at the hands +of Plato. He draws for us an inimitable picture of the working lawyer, +and of his life of bondage; he shows how this bondage from his youth up +has stunted and warped him, and made him small and crooked of soul, +encompassing him with difficulties which he is not man enough to rely on +justice and truth as means to encounter, but has recourse, for help out +of them, to falsehood and wrong. And so, says Plato, this poor creature +is bent and broken, and grows up from boy to man without a particle of +soundness in him, although exceedingly smart and clever in his own +esteem. + +One cannot refuse to admire the artist who draws these pictures. But we +say to ourselves that his ideas show the influence of a primitive and +obsolete order of things, when the warrior caste and the priestly caste +were alone in honour, and the humble work of the world was done by +slaves. We have now changed all that; the modern majority consists in +work, as Emerson declares; and in work, we may add, principally of such +plain and dusty kind as the work of cultivators of the ground, +handicraftsmen, men of trade and business, men of the working +professions. Above all is this true in a great industrious community +such as that of the United States. + +Now education, many people go on to say, is still mainly governed by the +ideas of men like Plato, who lived when the warrior caste and the +priestly or philosophical class were alone in honour, and the really +useful part of the community were slaves. It is an education fitted for +persons of leisure in such a community. This education passed from +Greece and Rome to the feudal communities of Europe, where also the +warrior caste and the priestly caste were alone held in honour, and +where the really useful and working part of the community, though not +nominally slaves as in the pagan world, were practically not much better +off than slaves, and not more seriously regarded. And how absurd it is, +people end by saying, to inflict this education upon an industrious +modern community, where very few indeed are persons of leisure, and the +mass to be considered has not leisure, but is bound, for its own great +good, and for the great good of the world at large, to plain labour and +to industrial pursuits, and the education in question tends necessarily +to make men dissatisfied with these pursuits and unfitted for them! + +That is what is said. So far I must defend Plato, as to plead that his +view of education and studies is in the general, as it seems to me, +sound enough, and fitted for all sorts and conditions of men, whatever +their pursuits may be. "An intelligent man," says Plato, "will prize +those studies which result in his soul getting soberness, righteousness, +and wisdom, and will less value the others." I cannot consider _that_ a +bad description of the aim of education, and of the motives which should +govern us in the choice of studies, whether we are preparing ourselves +for a hereditary seat in the English House of Lords or for the pork +trade in Chicago. + +Still I admit that Plato's world was not ours, that his scorn of trade +and handicraft is fantastic, that he had no conception of a great +industrial community such as that of the United States, and that such a +community must and will shape its education to suit its own needs. If +the usual education handed down to it from the past does not suit it, it +will certainly before long drop this and try another. The usual +education in the past has been mainly literary. The question is whether +the studies which were long supposed to be the best for all of us are +practically the best now; whether others are not better. The tyranny of +the past, many think, weighs on us injuriously in the predominance given +to letters in education. The question is raised whether, to meet the +needs of our modern life, the predominance ought not now to pass from +letters to science; and naturally the question is nowhere raised with +more energy than here in the United States. The design of abasing what +is called "mere literary instruction and education," and of exalting +what is called "sound, extensive, and practical scientific knowledge," +is, in this intensely modern world of the United States, even more +perhaps than in Europe, a very popular design, and makes great and rapid +progress. + +I am going to ask whether the present movement for ousting letters from +their old predominance in education, and for transferring the +predominance in education to the natural sciences; whether this brisk +and flourishing movement ought to prevail, and whether it is likely that +in the end it really will prevail. An objection may be raised which I +will anticipate. My own studies have been almost wholly in letters, and +my visits to the field of the natural sciences have been very slight and +inadequate, although those sciences have always strongly moved my +curiosity. A man of letters, it will perhaps be said, is not competent +to discuss the comparative merits of letters and natural science as +means of education. To this objection I reply, first of all, that his +incompetence if he attempts the discussion but is really incompetent for +it, will be abundantly visible; nobody will be taken in; he will have +plenty of sharp observers and critics to save mankind from that danger. +But the line I am going to follow is, as you will soon discover, so +extremely simple, that perhaps it may be followed without failure even +by one who for a more ambitious line of discussion would be quite +incompetent. + +Some of you may possibly remember a phrase of mine which has been the +object of a good deal of comment; an observation to the effect that in +our culture, the aim being _to know ourselves and the world_, we have, +as the means to this end, _to know the best which has been thought and +said in the world._ A man of science, who is also an excellent writer +and the very prince of debaters, Professor Huxley, in a discourse at the +opening of Sir Josiah Mason's College at Birmingham, laying hold of this +phrase, expanded it by quoting some more words of mine, which are these: +"The civilised world is to be regarded as now being, for intellectual +and spiritual purposes, one great confederation, bound to a joint action +and working to a common result; and whose members have for their proper +outfit a knowledge of Greek, Roman, and Eastern antiquity, and of one +another. Special local and temporary advantages being put out of +account, that modern nation will in the intellectual and spiritual +sphere make most progress, which most thoroughly carries out this +programme." + +Now on my phrase, thus enlarged, Professor Huxley remarks that when I +speak of the above-mentioned knowledge as enabling us to know ourselves +and the world, I assert _literature_ to contain the materials which +suffice for thus making us know ourselves and the world. But it is not +by any means clear, says he, that after having learned all which ancient +and modern literatures have to tell us, we have laid a sufficiently +broad and deep foundation for that criticism of life, that knowledge of +ourselves and the world, which constitutes culture. On the contrary, +Professor Huxley declares that he finds himself "wholly unable to admit +that either nations or individuals will really advance, if their outfit +draws nothing from the stores of physical science. An army without +weapons of precision, and with no particular base of operations, might +more hopefully enter upon a campaign on the Rhine, than a man, devoid of +a knowledge of what physical science has done in the last century, upon +a criticism of life." + +This shows how needful it is for those who are to discuss any matter +together, to have a common understanding as to the sense of the terms +they employ,--how needful, and how difficult. What Professor Huxley +says, implies just the reproach which is so often brought against the +study of _belles lettres_, as they are called: that the study is an +elegant one, but slight and ineffectual; a smattering of Greek and Latin +and other ornamental things, of little use for any one whose object is +to get at truth, and to be a practical man. So, too, M. Renan talks of +the "superficial humanism" of a school course which treats us as if we +were all going to be poets, writers, preachers, orators, and he opposes +this humanism to positive science, or the critical search after truth. +And there is always a tendency in those who are remonstrating against +the predominance of letters in education, to understand by letters +_belles lettres_, and by _belles lettres_ a superficial humanism, the +opposite of science or true knowledge. + +But when we talk of knowing Greek and Roman antiquity, for instance, +which is the knowledge people have called the humanities, I for my part +mean a knowledge which is something more than a superficial humanism, +mainly decorative. "I call all teaching _scientific_," says Wolf, the +critic of Homer, "which is systematically laid out and followed up to +its original sources. For example: a knowledge of classical antiquity is +scientific when the remains of classical antiquity are correctly studied +in the original languages." There can be no doubt that Wolf is perfectly +right; that all learning is scientific which is systematically laid out +and followed up to its original sources, and that a genuine humanism is +scientific. + +When I speak of knowing Greek and Roman antiquity, therefore, as a help +to knowing ourselves and the world, I mean more than a knowledge of so +much vocabulary, so much grammar, so many portions of authors in the +Greek and Latin languages; I mean knowing the Greeks and Romans, and +their life and genius, and what they were and did in the world; what we +get from them, and what is its value: That, at least, is the ideal; and +when we talk of endeavouring to know Greek and Roman antiquity, as a +help to knowing ourselves and the world, we mean endeavouring so to know +them as to satisfy this ideal, however much we may still fall short of +it. + +The same also as to knowing our own and other modern nations, with the +like aim of getting to understand ourselves and the world. To know the +best that has been thought and said by the modern nations, is to know, +says Professor Huxley, "only what modern _literatures_ have to tell us; +it is the criticism of life contained in modern literature." And yet +"the distinctive character of our times," he urges, "lies in the vast +and constantly increasing part which is played by natural knowledge." +And how, therefore, can a man, devoid of knowledge of what physical +science has done in the last century, enter hopefully upon a criticism +of modern life? + +Let us, I say, be agreed about the meaning of the terms we are using. I +talk of knowing the best which has been thought and uttered in the +world; Professor Huxley says this means knowing _literature_. Literature +is a large word; it may mean everything written with letters or printed +in a book. Euclid's _Elements_ and Newton's _Principia_ are thus +literature. All knowledge that reaches us through books is literature. +But by literature Professor Huxley means _belles lettres_. He means to +make me say, that knowing the best which has been thought and said by +the modern nations is knowing their _belles lettres_ and no more. And +this is no sufficient equipment, he argues, for a criticism of modern +life. But as I do not mean, by knowing ancient Rome, knowing merely more +or less of Latin _belles lettres_, and taking no account of Rome's +military, and political, and legal, and administrative work in the +world; and as, by knowing ancient Greece, I understand knowing her as +the giver of Greek art, and the guide to a free and right use of reason +and to scientific method, and the founder of our mathematics and physics +and astronomy and biology,--I understand knowing her as all this, and +not merely knowing certain Greek poems, and histories, and treatises, +and speeches,--so as to the knowledge of modern nations also. By knowing +modern nations, I mean not merely knowing their _belles lettres_, but +knowing also what has been done by such men as Copernicus, Galileo, +Newton, Darwin. "Our ancestors learned," says Professor Huxley, "that +the earth is the centre of the visible universe, and that man is the +cynosure of things terrestrial; and more especially was it inculcated +that the course of nature has no fixed order, but that it could be, and +constantly was, altered." But for us now, continues Professor Huxley, +"the notions of the beginning and the end of the world entertained by +our forefathers are no longer credible. It is very certain that the +earth is not the chief body in the material universe, and that the world +is not subordinated to man's use. It is even more certain that nature is +the expression of a definite order, with which nothing interferes." +"And yet," he cries, "the purely classical education advocated by the +representatives of the humanists in our day gives no inkling of all +this!" + +In due place and time I will just touch upon that vexed question of +classical education; but at present the question is as to what is meant +by knowing the best which modern nations have thought and said. It is +not knowing their _belles lettres_ merely which is meant. To know +Italian _belles lettres_ is not to know Italy, and to know English +_belles lettres_ is not to know England. Into knowing Italy and England +there comes a great deal more, Galileo and Newton amongst it. The +reproach of being a superficial humanism, a tincture of _belles +lettres_, may attach rightly enough to some other disciplines; but to +the particular discipline recommended when I proposed knowing the best +that has been thought and said in the world, it does not apply. In that +best I certainly include what in modern times has been thought and said +by the great observers and knowers of nature. + +There is, therefore, really no question between Professor Huxley and me +as to whether knowing the great results of the modern scientific study +of nature is not required as a part of our culture, as well as knowing +the products of literature and art. But to follow the processes by which +those results are reached, ought, say the friends of physical science, +to be made the staple of education for the bulk of mankind. And here +there does arise a question between those whom Professor Huxley calls +with playful sarcasm "the Levites of culture," and those whom the poor +humanist is sometimes apt to regard as its Nebuchadnezzars. + +The great results of the scientific investigation of nature we are +agreed upon knowing, but how much of our study are we bound to give to +the processes by which those results are reached? The results have their +visible bearing on human life. But all the processes, too, all the items +of fact by which those results are reached and established, are +interesting. All knowledge is interesting to a wise man, and the +knowledge of nature is interesting to all men. It is very interesting +to know, that, from the albuminous white of the egg, the chick in the +egg gets the materials for its flesh, bones, blood, and feathers; while, +from the fatty yolk of the egg, it gets the heat and energy which enable +it at length to break its shell and begin the world. It is less +interesting, perhaps, but still it is interesting, to know that when a +taper burns, the wax is converted into carbonic acid and water. +Moreover, it is quite true that the habit of dealing with facts, which +is given by the study of nature, is, as the friends of physical science +praise it for being, an excellent discipline. The appeal, in the study +of nature, is constantly to observation and experiment; not only is it +said that the thing is so, but we can be made to see that it is so. Not +only does a man tell us that when a taper burns the wax is converted +into carbonic acid and water, as a man may tell us, if he likes, that +Charon is punting his ferry boat on the river Styx, or that Victor Hugo +is a sublime poet, or Mr. Gladstone the most admirable of statesmen; but +we are made to see that the conversion into carbonic acid and water does +actually happen. This reality of natural knowledge it is, which makes +the friends of physical science contrast it, as a knowledge of things, +with the humanist's knowledge, which is, they say, a knowledge of words. +And hence Professor Huxley is moved to lay it down that, "for the +purpose of attaining real culture, an exclusively scientific education +is at least as effectual as an exclusively literary education." And a +certain President of the Section for Mechanical Science in the British +Association is, in Scripture phrase, "very bold," and declares that if a +man, in his mental training, "has substituted literature and history for +natural science, he has chosen the less useful alternative." But whether +we go these lengths or not, we must all admit that in natural science +the habit gained of dealing with facts is a most valuable discipline, +and that every one should have some experience of it. + +More than this, however, is demanded by the reformers. It is proposed to +make the training in natural science the main part of education, for +the great majority of mankind at any rate. And here, I confess, I part +company with the friends of physical science, with whom up to this point +I have been agreeing. In differing from them, however, I wish to proceed +with the utmost caution and diffidence. The smallness of my own +acquaintance with the disciplines of natural science is ever before my +mind, and I am fearful of doing these disciplines an injustice. The +ability and pugnacity of the partisans of natural science make them +formidable persons to contradict. The tone of tentative inquiry, which +befits a being of dim faculties and bounded knowledge, is the tone I +would wish to take and not to depart from. At present it seems to me, +that those who are for giving to natural knowledge, as they call it, the +chief place in the education of the majority of mankind, leave one +important thing out of their account: the constitution of human nature. +But I put this forward on the strength of some facts not at all +recondite, very far from it; facts capable of being stated in the +simplest possible fashion, and to which, if I so state them, the man of +science will, I am sure, be willing to allow their due weight. + +Deny the facts altogether, I think, he hardly can. He can hardly deny, +that when we set ourselves to enumerate the powers which go to the +building up of human life, and say that they are the power of conduct, +the power of intellect and knowledge, the power of beauty, and the power +of social life and manners--he can hardly deny that this scheme, though +drawn in rough and plain lines enough, and not pretending to scientific +exactness, does yet give a fairly true representation of the matter. +Human nature is built up by these powers; we have the need for them all. +When we have rightly met and adjusted the claims of them all, we shall +then be in a fair way for getting soberness and righteousness, with +wisdom. This is evident enough, and the friends of physical science +would admit it. + +But perhaps they may not have sufficiently observed another thing: +namely, that the several powers just mentioned are not isolated, but +there is, in the generality of mankind, a perpetual tendency to relate +them one to another in divers ways. With one such way of relating them I +am particularly concerned now. Following our instinct for intellect and +knowledge, we acquire pieces of knowledge; and presently, in the +generality of men, there arises the desire to relate these pieces of +knowledge to our sense for conduct, to our sense for beauty,--and there +is weariness and dissatisfaction if the desire is balked. Now in this +desire lies, I think, the strength of that hold which letters have upon +us. + +All knowledge is, as I said just now, interesting; and even items of +knowledge which from the nature of the case cannot well be related, but +must stand isolated in our thoughts, have their interest. Even lists of +exceptions have their interest. If we are studying Greek accents, it is +interesting to know that _pais_ and _pas_, and some other monosyllables +of the same form of declension, do not take the circumflex upon the last +syllable of the genitive plural, but vary, in this respect, from the +common rule. If we are studying physiology, it is interesting to know +that the pulmonary artery carries dark blood and the pulmonary vein +carries bright blood, departing in this respect from the common rule, +for the division of labour between the veins and the arteries. But every +one knows how we seek naturally to combine the pieces of our knowledge +together, to bring them under general rules, to relate them to +principles; and how unsatisfactory and tiresome it would be to go on +forever learning lists of exceptions, or accumulating items of fact +which must stand isolated. + +Well, that same need of relating our knowledge, which operates here +within the sphere of our knowledge itself, we shall find operating, +also, outside that sphere. We experience, as we go on learning and +knowing,--the vast majority of us experience,--the need of relating what +we have learned and known to the sense which we have in us for conduct, +to the sense which we have in us for beauty. + +A certain Greek prophetess of Mantineia in Arcadia, Diotima by name, +once explained to the philosopher Socrates that love, and impulse, and +bent of all kinds, is, in fact, nothing else but the desire in men that +good should forever be present to them. This desire for good, Diotima +assured Socrates, is our fundamental desire, of which fundamental desire +every impulse in us is only some one particular form. And therefore this +fundamental desire it is, I suppose,--this desire in men that good +should be forever present to them,--which acts in us when we feel the +impulse for relating our knowledge to our sense for conduct and to our +sense for beauty. At any rate, with men in general the instinct exists. +Such is human nature. And the instinct, it will be admitted, is +innocent, and human nature is preserved by our following the lead of its +innocent instincts. Therefore, in seeking to gratify this instinct in +question, we are following the instinct of self-preservation in +humanity. + +But, no doubt, some kinds of knowledge cannot be made to directly serve +the instinct in question, cannot be directly related to the sense for +beauty, to the sense for conduct. These are instrument-knowledges; they +lead on to other knowledges, which can. A man who passes his life in +instrument-knowledges is a specialist. They may be invaluable as +instruments to something beyond, for those who have the gift thus to +employ them; and they may be disciplines in themselves wherein it is +useful for every one to have some schooling. But it is inconceivable +that the generality of men should pass all their mental life with Greek +accents or with formal logic. My friend Professor Sylvester, who is one +of the first mathematicians in the world, holds transcendental doctrines +as to the virtue of mathematics, but those doctrines are not for common +men. In the very Senate House and heart of our English Cambridge I once +ventured, though not without an apology for my profaneness, to hazard +the opinion that for the majority of mankind a little of mathematics, +even, goes a long way. Of course this is quite consistent with their +being of immense importance as an instrument to something else; but it +is the few who have the aptitude for thus using them, not the bulk of +mankind. + +The natural sciences do not, however, stand on the same footing with +these instrument-knowledges. Experience shows us that the generality of +men will find more interest in learning that, when a taper burns, the +wax is converted into carbonic acid and water, or in learning the +explanation of the phenomenon of dew, or in learning how the circulation +of the blood is carried on, than they find in learning that the genitive +plural of _pais_ and _pas_ does not take the circumflex on the +termination. And one piece of natural knowledge is added to another, and +others are added to that, and at last we come to propositions so +interesting as Mr. Darwin's famous proposition that "our ancestor was a +hairy quadruped furnished with a tail and pointed ears, probably +arboreal in his habits." Or we come to propositions of such reach and +magnitude as those which Professor Huxley delivers, when he says that +the notions of our forefathers about the beginning and the end of the +world were all wrong and that nature is the expression of a definite +order with which nothing interferes. + +Interesting, indeed, these results of science are, important they are, +and we should all of us be acquainted with them. But what I now wish you +to mark is, that we are still, when they are propounded to us and we +receive them, we are still in the sphere of intellect and knowledge. And +for the generality of men there will be found, I say, to arise, when +they have duly taken in the proposition that their ancestor was "a hairy +quadruped furnished with a tail and pointed ears, probably arboreal in +his habits," there will be found to arise an invincible desire to relate +this proposition to the sense in us for conduct, and to the sense in us +for beauty. But this the men of science will not do for us, and will +hardly even profess to do. They will give us other pieces of knowledge, +other facts, about other animals and their ancestors, or about plants, +or about stones, or about stars; and they may finally bring us to those +great "general conceptions of the universe, which are forced upon us +all," says Professor Huxley, "by the progress of physical science." But +still it will be _knowledge_ only which they give us; knowledge not put +for us into relation with our sense for conduct, our sense for beauty, +and touched with emotion by being so put; not thus put for us, and +therefore, to the majority of mankind, after a certain while, +unsatisfying, wearying. + +Not to the born naturalist, I admit. But what do we mean by a born +naturalist? We mean a man in whom the zeal for observing nature is so +uncommonly strong and eminent, that it marks him off from the bulk of +mankind. Such a man will pass his life happily in collecting natural +knowledge and reasoning upon it, and will ask for nothing, or hardly +anything, more. I have heard it said that the sagacious and admirable +naturalist whom we lost not very long ago, Mr. Darwin, once owned to a +friend that for his part he did not experience the necessity for two +things which most men find so necessary to them,--religion and poetry; +science and the domestic affections, he thought, were enough. To a born +naturalist, I can well understand that this should seem so. So absorbing +is his occupation with nature, so strong his love for his occupation, +that he goes on acquiring natural knowledge and reasoning upon it, and +has little time or inclination for thinking about getting it related to +the desire in man for conduct, the desire in man for beauty. He relates +it to them for himself as he goes along, so far as he feels the need; +and he draws from the domestic affections all the additional solace +necessary. But then Darwins are extremely rare. Another great and +admirable master of natural knowledge, Faraday, was a Sandemanian. That +is to say, he related his knowledge to his instinct for conduct and to +his instinct for beauty, by the aid of that respectable Scottish +sectary, Robert Sandeman. And so strong, in general, is the demand of +religion and poetry to have their share in a man, to associate +themselves with his knowing, and to relieve and rejoice it, that +probably, for one man amongst us with the disposition to do as Darwin +did in this respect, there are at least fifty with the disposition to do +as Faraday. + +Education lays hold upon us, in fact, by satisfying this demand. +Professor Huxley holds up to scorn mediaeval education, with its neglect +of the knowledge of nature, its poverty even of literary studies, its +formal logic devoted to "showing how and why that which the Church said +was true must be true." But the great mediaeval universities were not +brought into being, we may be sure, by the zeal for giving a jejune and +contemptible education. Kings have been their nursing fathers, and +queens have been their nursing mothers, but not for this. The mediaeval +universities came into being, because the supposed knowledge, delivered +by Scripture and the Church, so deeply engaged men's hearts, by so +simply, easily, and powerfully relating itself to their desire for +conduct, their desire for beauty. All other knowledge was dominated by +this supposed knowledge and was subordinated to it, because of the +surpassing strength of the hold which it gained upon the affections of +men, by allying itself profoundly with their sense for conduct, their +sense for beauty. + +But now, says Professor Huxley, conceptions of the universe fatal to the +notions held by our forefathers have been forced upon us by physical +science. Grant to him that they are thus fatal, that the new conceptions +must and will soon become current everywhere, and that every one will +finally perceive them to be fatal to the beliefs of our forefathers. The +need of humane letters, as they are truly called, because they serve the +paramount desire in men that good should be forever present to +them,--the need of humane letters to establish a relation between the +new conceptions, and our instinct for beauty, our instinct for conduct, +is only the more visible. The middle age could do without humane +letters, as it could do without the study of nature, because its +supposed knowledge was made to engage its emotions so powerfully. Grant +that the supposed knowledge disappears, its power of being made to +engage the emotions will of course disappear along with it,--but the +emotions themselves, and their claim to be engaged and satisfied, will +remain. Now if we find by experience that humane letters have an +undeniable power of engaging the emotions, the importance of humane +letters in a man's training becomes not less, but greater, in proportion +to the success of modern science in extirpating what it calls "mediaeval +thinking." + +Have humane letters, then, have poetry and eloquence, the power here +attributed to them of engaging the emotions, and do they exercise it? +And if they have it and exercise it, _how_ do they exercise it, so as to +exert an influence upon man's sense for conduct, his sense for beauty? +Finally, even if they both can and do exert an influence upon the senses +in question, how are they to relate to them the results,--the modern +results,--of natural science? All these questions may be asked. First, +have poetry and eloquence the power of calling out the emotions? The +appeal is to experience. Experience shows that for the vast majority of +men, for mankind in general, they have the power. Next, do they exercise +it? They do. But then, _how_ do they exercise it so as to affect man's +sense for conduct, his sense for beauty? And this is perhaps a case for +applying the Preacher's words: "Though a man labor to seek it out, yet +he shall not find it; yea, further, though a wise man think to know it, +yet shall he not be able to find it."[21] Why should it be one thing, in +its effect upon the emotions, to say, "Patience is a virtue," and quite +another thing, in its effect upon the emotions, to say with Homer, + + [Greek: tlaeton gar Moirai thumon thesan anthropoisin--[22]] + +"for an enduring heart have the destinies appointed to the children of +men"? Why should it be one thing, in its effect upon the emotions, to +say with philosopher Spinoza, _Felicitas in eo consistit quod homo suum +esse conservare potest_--"Man's happiness consists in his being able to +preserve his own essence," and quite another thing, in its effect upon +the emotions, to say with the Gospel, "What is a man advantaged, if he +gain the whole world, and lose himself, forfeit himself?" How does this +difference of effect arise? I cannot tell, and I am not much concerned +to know; the important thing is that it does arise, and that we can +profit by it. But how, finally, are poetry and eloquence to exercise the +power of relating the modern results of natural science to man's +instinct for conduct, his instinct for beauty? And here again I answer +that I do not know _how_ they will exercise it, but that they can and +will exercise it I am sure. I do not mean that modern philosophical +poets and modern philosophical moralists are to come and relate for us, +in express terms, the results of modern scientific research to our +instinct for conduct, our instinct for beauty. But I mean that we shall +find, as a matter of experience, if we know the best that has been +thought and uttered in the world, we shall find that the art and poetry +and eloquence of men who lived, perhaps, long ago, who had the most +limited natural knowledge, who had the most erroneous conceptions about +many important matters, we shall find that this art, and poetry, and +eloquence, have in fact not only the power of refreshing and delighting +us, they have also the power,--such is the strength and worth, in +essentials, of their authors' criticism of life,--they have a +fortifying, and elevating, and quickening, and suggestive power, capable +of wonderfully helping us to relate the results of modern science to our +need for conduct, our need for beauty. Homer's conceptions of the +physical universe were, I imagine, grotesque; but really, under the +shock of hearing from modern science that "the world is not subordinated +to man's use, and that man is not the cynosure of things terrestrial," I +could, for my own part, desire no better comfort than Homer's line which +I quoted just now, + + [Greek: tlaeton gar Moirai thumon thesan anthropoisin--] + +"for an enduring heart have the destinies appointed to the children of +men!" + +And the more that men's minds are cleared, the more that the results of +science are frankly accepted, the more that poetry and eloquence come to +be received and studied as what in truth they really are,--the criticism +of life by gifted men, alive and active with extraordinary power at an +unusual number of points;--so much the more will the value of humane +letters, and of art also, which is an utterance having a like kind of +power with theirs, be felt and acknowledged, and their place in +education be secured. + +Let us therefore, all of us, avoid indeed as much as possible any +invidious comparison between the merits of humane letters, as means of +education, and the merits of the natural sciences. But when some +President of a Section for Mechanical Science insists on making the +comparison, and tells us that "he who in his training has substituted +literature and history for natural science has chosen the less useful +alternative," let us make answer to him that the student of humane +letters only, will, at least, know also the great general conceptions +brought in by modern physical science; for science, as Professor Huxley +says, forces them upon us all. But the student of the natural sciences +only, will, by our very hypothesis, know nothing of humane letters; not +to mention that in setting himself to be perpetually accumulating +natural knowledge, he sets himself to do what only specialists have in +general the gift for doing genially. And so he will probably be +unsatisfied, or at any rate incomplete, and even more incomplete than +the student of humane letters only. + +I once mentioned in a school report, how a young man in one of our +English training colleges having to paraphrase the passage in _Macbeth_ +beginning, + + Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased? + +turned this line into, "Can you not wait upon the lunatic?" And I +remarked what a curious state of things it would be, if every pupil of +our national schools knew, let us say, that the moon is two thousand one +hundred and sixty miles in diameter, and thought at the same time that a +good paraphrase for + + Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased? + +was, "Can you not wait upon the lunatic?" If one is driven to choose, I +think I would rather have a young person ignorant about the moon's +diameter, but aware that "Can you not wait upon the lunatic?" is bad, +than a young person whose education had been such as to manage things +the other way. + +Or to go higher than the pupils of our national schools. I have in my +mind's eye a member of our British Parliament who comes to travel here +in America, who afterwards relates his travels, and who shows a really +masterly knowledge of the geology of this great country and of its +mining capabilities, but who ends by gravely suggesting that the United +States should borrow a prince from our Royal Family, and should make him +their king, and should create a House of Lords of great landed +proprietors after the pattern of ours; and then America, he thinks, +would have her future happily and perfectly secured. Surely, in this +case, the President of the Section for Mechanical Science would himself +hardly say that our member of Parliament, by concentrating himself upon +geology and mineralogy, and so on, and not attending to literature and +history, had "chosen the more useful alternative." + +If then there is to be separation and option between humane letters on +the one hand, and the natural sciences on the other, the great majority +of mankind, all who have not exceptional and overpowering aptitudes for +the study of nature, would do well, I cannot but think, to choose to be +educated in humane letters rather than in the natural sciences. Letters +will call out their being at more points, will make them live more. + +I said that before I ended I would just touch on the question of +classical education, and I will keep my word. Even if literature is to +retain a large place in our education, yet Latin and Greek, say the +friends of progress, will certainly have to go. Greek is the grand +offender in the eyes of these gentlemen. The attackers of the +established course of study think that against Greek, at any rate, they +have irresistible arguments. Literature may perhaps be needed in +education, they say; but why on earth should it be Greek literature? Why +not French or German? Nay, "has not an Englishman models in his own +literature of every kind of excellence?" As before, it is not on any +weak pleadings of my own that I rely for convincing the gainsayers; it +is on the constitution of human nature itself, and on the instinct of +self-preservation in humanity. The instinct for beauty is set in human +nature, as surely as the instinct for knowledge is set there, or the +instinct for conduct. If the instinct for beauty is served by Greek +literature and art as it is served by no other literature and art, we +may trust to the instinct of self-preservation in humanity for keeping +Greek as part of our culture. We may trust to it for even making the +study of Greek more prevalent than it is now. Greek will come, I hope, +some day to be studied more rationally than at present; but it will be +increasingly studied as men increasingly feel the need in them for +beauty, and how powerfully Greek art and Greek literature can serve this +need. Women will again study Greek, as Lady Jane Grey did; I believe +that in that chain of forts, with which the fair host of the Amazons are +now engirdling our English universities,--I find that here in America, +in colleges like Smith College in Massachusetts, and Vassar College in +the State of New York, and in the happy families of the mixed +universities out West,--they are studying it already. + +_Defuit una mihi symmetria prisca_,--"The antique symmetry was the one +thing wanting to me," said Leonardo da Vinci; and he was an Italian. I +will not presume to speak for the Americans, but I am sure that, in the +Englishman, the want of this admirable symmetry of the Greeks is a +thousand times more great and crying than in any Italian. The results +of the want show themselves most glaringly, perhaps, in our +architecture, but they show themselves, also, in all our art. _Fit +details strictly combined, in view of a large general result nobly +conceived_; that is just the beautiful _symmetria prisca_ of the Greeks, +and it is just where we English fail, where all our art fails. Striking +ideas we have, and well-executed details we have; but that high symmetry +which, with satisfying and delightful effect, combines them, we seldom +or never have. The glorious beauty of the Acropolis at Athens did not +come from single fine things stuck about on that hill, a statue here, a +gateway there;--no, it arose from all things being perfectly combined +for a supreme total effect. What must not an Englishman feel about our +deficiencies in this respect, as the sense for beauty, whereof this +symmetry is an essential element, awakens and strengthens within him! +what will not one day be his respect and desire for Greece and its +_symmetria prisca_, when the scales drop from his eyes as he walks the +London streets, and he sees such a lesson in meanness as the Strand, for +instance, in its true deformity! But here we are coming to our friend +Mr. Ruskin's province, and I will not intrude upon it, for he is its +very sufficient guardian. + +And so we at last find, it seems, we find flowing in favor of the +humanities the natural and necessary stream of things, which seemed +against them when we started. The "hairy quadruped furnished with a tail +and pointed ears, probably arboreal in his habits," this good fellow +carried hidden in his nature, apparently, something destined to develop +into a necessity for humane letters. Nay, more: we seem finally to be +even led to the further conclusion that our hairy ancestor carried in +his nature, also, a necessity for Greek. + +And therefore, to say the truth, I cannot really think that humane +letters are in much actual danger of being thrust out from their leading +place in education, in spite of the array of authorities against them at +this moment. So long as human nature is what it is, their attractions +will remain irresistible. As with Greek, so with letters generally: +they will some day come, we may hope, to be studied more rationally, but +they will not lose their place. What will happen will rather be that +there will be crowded into education other matters besides, far too +many; there will be, perhaps, a period of unsettlement and confusion and +false tendency; but letters will not in the end lose their leading +place. If they lose it for a time, they will get it back again. We shall +be brought back to them by our wants and aspirations. And a poor +humanist may possess his soul in patience, neither strive nor cry, admit +the energy and brilliancy of the partisans of physical science, and +their present favor with the public, to be far greater than his own, and +still have a happy faith that the nature of things works silently on +behalf of the studies which he loves, and that, while we shall all have +to acquaint ourselves with the great results reached by modern science, +and to give ourselves as much training in its disciplines as we can +conveniently carry, yet the majority of men will always require humane +letters; and so much the more, as they have the more and the greater +results of science to relate to the need in man for conduct, and to the +need in him for beauty. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 20: From "Discourses in America," 1885.] + +[Footnote 21: From Ecclesiastes, viii. 17.] + +[Footnote 22: From the "Iliad," xxiv. 49.] + + + + +HOW TO READ[23] + +FREDERIC HARRISON + + +It is the fashion for those who have any connection with letters to +expatiate on the infinite blessings of literature, and the miraculous +achievements of the press: to extol, as a gift above price, the taste +for study and the love of reading. Far be it from me to gainsay the +inestimable value of good books, or to discourage any man from reading +the best; but I often think that we forget that other side to this +glorious view of literature--the misuse of books, the debilitating waste +of brain in aimless, promiscuous, vapid reading, or even, it may be, in +the poisonous inhalation of mere literary garbage and bad men's worst +thoughts. + +For what can a book be more than the man who wrote it? The brightest +genius seldom puts the best of his own soul into his printed page; and +some famous men have certainly put the worst of theirs. Yet are all men +desirable companions, much less teachers, able to give us advice, even +of those who get reputation and command a hearing? To put out of the +question that writing which is positively bad, are we not, amidst the +multiplicity of books and of writers, in continual danger of being drawn +off by what is stimulating rather than solid, by curiosity after +something accidentally notorious, by what has no intelligible thing to +recommend it, except that it is new? Now, to stuff our minds with what +is simply trivial, simply curious, or that which at best has but a low +nutritive power, this is to close our minds to what is solid and +enlarging, and spiritually sustaining. Whether our neglect of the great +books comes from our not reading at all, or from an incorrigible habit +of reading the little books, it ends in just the same thing. And that +thing is ignorance of all the greater literature of the world. To +neglect all the abiding parts of knowledge for the sake of the +evanescent parts is really to know nothing worth knowing. It is in the +end the same, whether we do not use our minds for serious study at all, +or whether we exhaust them by an impotent voracity for desultory +"information"--a thing as fruitful as whistling. Of the two evils I +prefer the former. At least, in that case, the mind is healthy and open. +It is not gorged and enfeebled by excess in that which cannot nourish, +much less enlarge and beautify our nature. + +But there is much more than this. Even to those who resolutely avoid the +idleness of reading what is trivial, a difficulty is presented--a +difficulty every day increasing by virtue even of our abundance of +books. What are the subjects, what are the class of books we are to +read, in what order, with what connection, to what ultimate use or +object? Even those who are resolved to read the better books are +embarrassed by a field of choice practically boundless. The longest +life, the greatest industry, joined to the most powerful memory, would +not suffice to make us profit from a hundredth part of the world of +books before us. If the great Newton said that he seemed to have been +all his life gathering a few shells on the shore, whilst a boundless +ocean of truth still lay beyond and unknown to him, how much more to +each of us must the sea of literature be a pathless immensity beyond our +powers of vision or of reach--an immensity in which industry itself is +useless without judgment, method, discipline; where it is of infinite +importance what we can learn and remember, and of utterly no importance +what we may have once looked at or heard of. Alas! the most of our +reading leaves as little mark even in our own education as the foam that +gathers round the keel of a passing boat! For myself, I am inclined to +think the most useful help to reading is to know what we should not +read, what we can keep out from that small cleared spot in the +overgrown jungle of "information," the corner which we can call our +ordered patch of fruit-bearing knowledge. The incessant accumulation of +fresh books must hinder any real knowledge of the old; for the +multiplicity of volumes becomes a bar upon our use of any. In literature +especially does it hold--that we cannot see the wood for the trees. + +How shall we choose our books? Which are the best, the eternal, +indispensable books? To all to whom reading is something more than a +refined idleness these questions recur, bringing with them the sense of +bewilderment; and a still, small voice within us is for ever crying out +for some guide across the Slough of Despond of an illimitable and +ever-swelling literature. How many a man stands beside it, as uncertain +of his pathway as the Pilgrim, when he who dreamed the immortal dream +heard him "break out with a lamentable cry; saying, what shall I do?" + +And this, which comes home to all of us at times, presses hardest upon +those who have lost the opportunity of systematic education, who have to +educate themselves, or who seek to guide the education of their young +people. Systematic reading is but little in favour even amongst studious +men; in a true sense it is hardly possible for women. A comprehensive +course of home study, and a guide to books, fit for the highest +education of women, is yet a blank page remaining to be filled. +Generations of men of culture have laboured to organise a system of +reading and materials appropriate for the methodical education of men in +academic lines. Teaching equal in mental calibre to any that is open to +men in universities, yet modified for the needs of those who must study +at home, remains in the dim pages of that melancholy volume entitled +_Libri valde desiderati._[24] + +I do not aspire to fill one of those blank pages; but I long to speak a +word or two, as the Pilgrim did to Neighbour Pliable, upon the glories +that await those who will pass through the narrow wicket-gate. On this, +if one can find anything useful to say, it may be chiefly from the +memory of the waste labour and pitiful stumbling in the dark which fill +up so much of the travail that one is fain to call one's own education. +We who have wandered in the wastes so long, and lost so much of our +lives in our wandering, may at least offer warnings to younger +wayfarers, as men who in thorny paths have borne the heat and burden of +the day might give a clue to their journey to those who have yet a +morning and a noon. As I look back and think of those cataracts of +printed stuff which honest compositors set up, meaning, let us trust, no +harm, and which at least found them in daily bread,--printed stuff which +I and the rest of us, to our infinitely small profit, have consumed with +our eyes, not even making an honest living of it, but much impairing our +substance,--I could almost reckon the printing press as amongst the +scourges of mankind. I am grown a wiser and a sadder man, importunate, +like that Ancient Mariner, to tell each blithe wedding guest the tale of +his shipwreck on the infinite sea of printers' ink, as one escaped by +mercy and grace from the region where there is water, water, everywhere, +and not a drop to drink. + +A man of power, who has got more from books than most of his +contemporaries, once said: "Form a habit of reading, do not mind what +you read; the reading of better books will come when you have a habit of +reading the inferior." We need not accept this _obiter dictum_[25] of +Lord Sherbrooke. A habit of reading idly debilitates and corrupts the +mind for all wholesome reading; the habit of reading wisely is one of +the most difficult habits to acquire, needing strong resolution and +infinite pains; and reading for mere reading's sake, instead of for the +sake of the good we gain from reading, is one of the worst and commonest +and most unwholesome habits we have. And so our inimitable humorist has +made delightful fun of the solid books,--which no gentleman's library +should be without,--the Humes, Gibbons, Adam Smiths, which, he says, are +not books at all, and prefers some "kindhearted play-book," or at times +the _Town and County Magazine_. Poor Lamb has not a little to answer +for, in the revived relish for garbage unearthed from old theatrical +dungheaps. Be it jest or earnest, I have little patience with the +Elia-tic philosophy of the frivolous. Why do we still suffer the +traditional hypocrisy about the dignity of literature--literature, I +mean, in the gross, which includes about equal parts of what is useful +and what is useless? Why are books as books, writers as writers, readers +as readers, meritorious, apart from any good in them, or anything that +we can get from them? Why do we pride ourselves on our powers of +absorbing print, as our grandfathers did on their gifts in imbibing +port, when we know that there is a mode of absorbing print which makes +it impossible that we can ever learn anything good out of books? + +Our stately Milton said in a passage which is one of the watchwords of +the English race, "as good almost kill a Man as kill a good Book." But +has he not also said that he would "have a vigilant eye how Bookes +demeane themselves, as well as men; and do sharpest justice on them as +malefactors"?... Yes! they do kill the good book who deliver up their +few and precious hours of reading to the trivial book; they make it dead +for them; they do what lies in them to destroy "the precious life-blood +of a master-spirit, imbalm'd and treasured up on purpose to a life +beyond life;" they "spill that season'd life of man preserv'd and stor'd +up in Bookes." For in the wilderness of books most men, certainly all +busy men, _must_ strictly choose. If they saturate their minds with the +idler books, the "good book," which Milton calls "an immortality rather +than a life," is dead to them: it is a book sealed up and buried. + +It is most right that in the great republic of letters there should be +freedom of intercourse and a spirit of equality. Every reader who holds +a book in his hand is free of the inmost minds of men past and present; +their lives both within and without the pale of their uttered thoughts +are unveiled to him; he needs no introduction to the greatest; he +stands on no ceremony with them; he may, if he be so minded, scribble +"doggrel" on his Shelley, or he may kick Lord Byron, if he please, into +a corner. He hears Burke perorate, and Johnson dogmatise, and Scott tell +his border tales, and Wordsworth muse on the hillside, without the leave +of any man, or the payment of any toll. In the republic of letters there +are no privileged orders or places reserved. Every man who has written a +book, even the diligent Mr. Whitaker, is in one sense an author; "a +book's a book although there's nothing in't;" and every man who can +decipher a penny journal is in one sense a reader. And your "general +reader," like the grave-digger in Hamlet, is hail-fellow with all the +mighty dead; he pats the skull of the jester; batters the cheek of lord, +lady, or courtier; and uses "imperious Caesar" to teach boys the Latin +declensions. + +But this noble equality of all writers--of all writers and of all +readers--has a perilous side to it. It is apt to make us indiscriminate +in the books we read, and somewhat contemptuous of the mighty men of the +past. Men who are most observant as to the friends they make, or the +conversation they share, are carelessness itself as to the books to whom +they entrust themselves, and the printed language with which they +saturate their minds. Yet can any friendship or society be more +important to us than that of the books which form so large a part of our +minds and even of our characters? Do we in real life take any pleasant +fellow to our homes and chat with some agreeable rascal by our +firesides, we who will take up any pleasant fellow's printed memoirs, we +who delight in the agreeable rascal when he is cut up into pages and +bound in calf? + +If any person given to reading were honestly to keep a register of all +the printed stuff that he or she consumes in a year--all the idle tales +of which the very names and the story are forgotten in a week, the +bookmaker's prattle about nothing at so much a sheet, the fugitive +trifling about silly things and empty people, the memoirs of the +unmemorable, and lives of those who never really lived at all--of what +a mountain of rubbish would it be the catalogue: Exercises for the eye +and the memory, as mechanical as if we set ourselves to learn the names, +ages, and family histories of every one who lives in our own street, the +flirtations of their maiden aunts, and the circumstances surrounding the +birth of their grandmother's first baby. + +It is impossible to give any method to our reading till we get nerve +enough to reject. The most exclusive and careful amongst us will (in +literature) take boon companions out of the street, as easily as an +idler in a tavern. "I came across such and such a book that I never +heard mentioned," says one, "and found it curious, though entirely +worthless." "I strayed on a volume by I know not whom, on a subject for +which I never cared." And so on. There are curious and worthless +creatures enough in any pot-house all day long; and there is incessant +talk in omnibus, train, or street by we know not whom, about we care not +what. Yet if a printer and a bookseller can be induced to make this +gabble as immortal as print and publication can make it, then it +straightway is literature, and in due time it becomes "curious." + +I have no intention to moralise or to indulge in a homily against the +reading of what is deliberately evil. There is not so much need for this +now, and I am not discoursing on the whole duty of man. I take that part +of our reading which by itself is no doubt harmless, entertaining, and +even gently instructive. But of this enormous mass of literature how +much deserves to be chosen out, to be preferred to all the great books +of the world, to be set apart for those precious hours which are all +that the most of us can give to solid reading? The vast proportion of +books are books that we shall never be able to read. A serious +percentage of books are not worth reading at all. The really vital books +for us we also know to be a very trifling portion of the whole. And yet +we act as if every book were as good as any other, as if it were merely +a question of order which we take up first, as if any book were good +enough for us, and as if all were alike honourable, precious, and +satisfying. Alas! books cannot be more than the men who write them; and +as a fair proportion of the human race now write books, with motives and +objects as various as human activity, books, as books, are entitled _à +priori_, until their value is proved, to the same attention and respect +as houses, steam-engines, pictures, fiddles, bonnets, and other products +of human industry. In the shelves of those libraries which are our +pride, libraries public or private, circulating or very stationary, are +to be found those great books of the world _rari nantes in gurgite +vasto_,[26] those books which are truly "the precious life-blood of a +master-spirit." But the very familiarity which their mighty fame has +bred in us makes us indifferent; we grow weary of what every one is +supposed to have read; and we take down something which looks a little +eccentric, some worthless book, on the mere ground that we never heard +of it before. + +Thus the difficulties of literature are in their way as great as those +of the world, the obstacles to finding the right friends are as great, +the peril is as great of being lost in a Babel of voices and an +ever-changing mass of beings. Books are not wiser than men, the true +books are not easier to find than the true men, the bad books or the +vulgar books are not less obtrusive and not less ubiquitous than the bad +or vulgar men are everywhere; the art of right reading is as long and +difficult to learn as the art of right living. Those who are on good +terms with the first author they meet, run as much risk as men who +surrender their time to the first passer in the street; for to be open +to every book is for the most part to gain as little as possible from +any. A man aimlessly wandering about in a crowded city is of all men the +most lonely; so he who takes up only the books that he "comes across" is +pretty certain to meet but few that are worth knowing. + +Now this danger is one to which we are specially exposed in this age. +Our high-pressure life of emergencies, our whirling industrial +organisation or disorganisation have brought us in this (as in most +things) their peculiar difficulties and drawbacks. In almost everything +vast opportunities and gigantic means of multiplying our products bring +with them new perils and troubles which are often at first neglected. +Our huge cities, where wealth is piled up and the requirements and +appliances of life extended beyond the dreams of our forefathers, seem +to breed in themselves new forms of squalor, disease, blights, or risks +to life such as we are yet unable to master. So the enormous +multiplicity of modern books is not altogether favourable to the knowing +of the best. I listen with mixed satisfaction to the paeans that they +chant over the works which issue from the press each day: how the books +poured forth from Paternoster Row might in a few years be built into a +pyramid that would fill the dome of St. Paul's. How in this mountain of +literature am I to find the really useful book? How, when I have found +it, and found its value, am I to get others to read it? How am I to keep +my head clear in the torrent and din of works, all of which distract my +attention, most of which promise me something, whilst so few fulfil that +promise? The Nile is the source of the Egyptian's bread, and without it +he perishes of hunger. But the Nile may be rather too liberal in his +flood, and then the Egyptian runs imminent risk of drowning. + +And thus there never was a time, at least during the last two hundred +years, when the difficulties in the way of making an efficient use of +books were greater than they are to-day, when the obstacles were more +real between readers and the right books to read, when it was +practically so troublesome to find out that which it is of vital +importance to know; and that not by the dearth, but by the plethora of +printed matter. For it comes to nearly the same thing whether we are +actually debarred by physical impossibility, from getting the right book +into our hand, or whether we are choked off from the right book by the +obtrusive crowd of the wrong books; so that it needs a strong character +and a resolute system of reading to keep the head cool in the storm of +literature around us. We read nowadays in the market-place--I would +rather say in some large steam factory of letter-press, where damp +sheets of new print whirl round us perpetually--if it be not rather some +noisy book-fair where literary showmen tempt us with performing dolls, +and the gongs of rival booths are stunning our ears from morn till +night. Contrast with this pandemonium of Leipsic and Paternoster Row the +sublime picture of our Milton in his early retirement at Horton, when, +musing over his coming flight to the epic heaven, practising his +pinions, as he tells Diodati, he consumed five years of solitude in +reading the ancient writers--"_Et totum rapiunt me, mea vita, +libri_."[27] + +Who now reads the ancient writers? Who systematically reads the great +writers, be they ancient or modern, whom the consent of ages has marked +out as classics: typical, immortal, peculiar teachers of our race? Alas! +the _Paradise Lost_ is lost again to us beneath an inundation of +graceful academic verse, sugary stanzas of ladylike prettiness, and +ceaseless explanations in more or less readable prose of what John +Milton meant or did not mean, or what he saw or did not see, who married +his great-aunt, and why Adam or Satan is like that, or unlike the other. +We read a perfect library about the _Paradise Lost_, but the _Paradise +Lost_ itself we do not read. + +I am not presumptuous enough to assert that the larger part of modern +literature is not worth reading in itself, that the prose is not +readable, entertaining, one may say highly instructive. Nor do I pretend +that the verses which we read so zealously in place of Milton's are not +good verses. On the contrary, I think them sweetly conceived, as musical +and as graceful as the verse of any age in our history. A great deal of +our modern literature is such that it is exceedingly difficult to +resist it, and it is undeniable that it gives us real information. It +seems perhaps unreasonable to many to assert that a decent readable book +which gives us actual instruction can be otherwise than a useful +companion and a solid gain. Possibly many people are ready to cry out +upon me as an obscurantist for venturing to doubt a genial confidence in +all literature simply as such. But the question, which weighs upon me +with such really crushing urgency is this: What are the books that in +our little remnant of reading time it is most vital for us to know? For +the true use of books is of such sacred value to us that to be simply +entertained is to cease to be taught, elevated, inspired by books; +merely to gather information of a chance kind is to close the mind to +knowledge of the urgent kind. + +Every book that we take up without a purpose is an opportunity lost of +taking up a book with a purpose--every bit of stray information which we +cram into our heads without any sense of its importance, is for the most +part a bit of the most useful information driven out of our heads and +choked off from our minds. It is so certain that information, i.e., the +knowledge, the stored thoughts and observations of mankind, is now grown +to proportions so utterly incalculable and prodigious, that even the +learned whose lives are given to study can but pick up some crumbs that +fall from the table of truth. They delve and tend but a plot in that +vast and teeming kingdom, whilst those whom active life leaves with but +a few cramped hours of study can hardly come to know the very vastness +of the field before them, or how infinitesimally small is the corner +they can traverse at the best. We know all is not of equal value. We +know that books differ in value as much as diamonds differ from the sand +on the seashore, as much as our living friend differs from a dead rat. +We know that much in the myriad-peopled world of books--very much in all +kinds--is trivial, enervating, inane, even noxious. And thus, where we +have infinite opportunities of wasting our efforts to no end, of +fatiguing our minds without enriching them, of clogging the spirit +without satisfying it, there, I cannot but think, the very infinity of +opportunities is robbing us of the actual power of using them. And thus +I come often, in my less hopeful moods, to watch the remorseless +cataract of daily literature which thunders over the remnants of the +past, as if it were a fresh impediment to the men of our day in the way +of systematic knowledge and consistent powers of thought, as if it were +destined one day to overwhelm the great inheritance of mankind in prose +and verse. + +I remember, when I was a very young man at college, that a youth, in no +spirit of paradox, but out of plenary conviction, undertook to maintain +before a body of serious students, the astounding proposition that the +invention of printing had been one of the greatest misfortunes that had +ever befallen mankind. He argued that exclusive reliance on printed +matter had destroyed the higher method of oral teaching, the +dissemination of thought by the spoken word to the attentive ear. He +insisted that the formation of a vast literary class looking to the +making of books as a means of making money, rather than as a social +duty, had multiplied books for the sake of the writers rather than for +the sake of the readers; that the reliance on books as a cheap and +common resource had done much to weaken the powers of memory; that it +destroyed the craving for a general culture of taste, and the need of +artistic expression in all the surroundings of life. And he argued, +lastly, that the sudden multiplication of all kinds of printed matter +had been fatal to the orderly arrangement of thought, and had hindered a +system of knowledge and a scheme of education. + +I am far from sharing this immature view. Of course I hold the invention +of printing to have been one of the most momentous facts in the whole +history of man. Without it universal social progress, true democratic +enlightenment, and the education of the people would have been +impossible, or very slow, even if the cultured few, as is likely, could +have advanced the knowledge of mankind without it. We place Gutenberg +amongst the small list of the unique and special benefactors of +mankind, in the sacred choir of those whose work transformed the +conditions of life, whose work, once done, could never be repeated. And +no doubt the things which our ardent friend regarded as so fatal a +disturbance of society were all inevitable and necessary, part of the +great revolution of mind through which men grew out of the mediaeval +incompleteness to a richer conception of life and of the world. + +Yet there is a sense in which this boyish anathema against printing may +become true to us by our own fault. We may create for ourselves these +very evils. For the art of printing has not been a gift wholly unmixed +with evils; it must be used wisely if it is to be a boon to man at all; +it entails on us heavy responsibilities, resolution to use it with +judgment and self-control, and the will to resist its temptations and +its perils. Indeed, we may easily so act that we may make it a clog on +the progress of the human mind, a real curse and not a boon. The power +of flying at will through space would probably extinguish civilisation +and society, for it would release us from the wholesome bondage of place +and rest. The power of hearing every word that had ever been uttered on +this planet would annihilate thought, as the power of knowing all +recorded facts by the process of turning a handle would annihilate true +science. Our human faculties and our mental forces are not enlarged +simply by multiplying our materials of knowledge and our facilities for +communication. Telephones, microphones, pantoscopes, steam-presses, and +ubiquity-engines in general may, after all, leave the poor human brain +panting and throbbing under the strain of its appliances, no bigger and +no stronger than the brains of the men who heard Moses speak, and saw +Aristotle and Archimedes pondering over a few worn rolls of crabbed +manuscript. Until some new Gutenberg or Watt can invent a machine for +magnifying the human mind, every fresh apparatus for multiplying its +work is a fresh strain on the mind, a new realm for it to order and to +rule. + +And so, I say it most confidently, the first intellectual task of our +age is rightly to order and make serviceable the vast realm of printed +material which four centuries have swept across our path. To organise +our knowledge, to systematise our reading, to save, out of the +relentless cataract of ink, the immortal thoughts of the greatest--this +is a necessity, unless the productive ingenuity of man is to lead us at +last to a measureless and pathless chaos. To know anything that turns up +is, in the infinity of knowledge, to know nothing. To read the first +book we come across, in the wilderness of books, is to learn nothing. To +turn over the pages of ten thousand volumes is to be practically +indifferent to all that is good. + +But this warns me that I am entering on a subject which is far too big +and solemn. It is plain that to organise our knowledge, even to +systematise our reading, to make a working selection of books for +general study, really implies a complete scheme of education. A scheme +of education ultimately implies a system of philosophy, a view of man's +duty and powers as a moral and social being--a religion. Before a +problem so great as this, on which readers have such different ideas and +wants, and differ so profoundly on the very premises from which we +start, before such a problem as a general theory of education, I prefer +to pause. I will keep silence even from good words. I have chosen my own +part, and adopted my own teacher. But to ask men to adopt the education +of Auguste Comte, is almost to ask them to adopt Positivism itself. + +Nor will I enlarge on the matter for thought, for foreboding, almost for +despair, that is presented to us by the fact of our familiar literary +ways and our recognised literary profession. That things infinitely +trifling in themselves: men, events, societies, phenomena, in no way +otherwise more valuable than the myriad other things which flit around +us like the sparrows on the housetop, should be glorified, magnified, +and perpetuated, set under a literary microscope and focussed in the +blaze of a literary magic-lantern--not for what they are in themselves, +but solely to amuse and excite the world by showing how it can be +done--all this is to me so amazing, so heart-breaking, that I forbear +now to treat it, as I cannot say all that I would. + +The Choice of Books is really the choice of our education, of a moral +and intellectual ideal, of the whole duty of man. But though I shrink +from any so high a theme, a few words are needed to indicate my general +point of view in the matter. + +In the first place, when we speak about books, let us avoid the +extravagance of expecting too much from books, the pedant's habit of +extolling books as synonymous with education. Books are no more +education than laws are virtue; and just as profligacy is easy within +the strict limits of law, a boundless knowledge of books may be found +with a narrow education. A man may be, as the poet saith, "deep vers'd +in books, and shallow in himself." We need to know in order that we may +feel rightly and act wisely. The thirst after truth itself may be pushed +to a degree where indulgence enfeebles our sympathies and unnerves us in +action. Of all men perhaps the book-lover needs most to be reminded that +man's business here is to know for the sake of living, not to live for +the sake of knowing. + +A healthy mode of reading would follow the lines of a sound education. +And the first canon of a sound education is to make it the instrument to +perfect the whole nature and character. Its aims are comprehensive, not +special; they regard life as a whole, not mental curiosity; they have to +give us, not so much materials, as capacities. So that, however moderate +and limited the opportunity for education, in its way it should be +always more or less symmetrical and balanced, appealing equally in turn +to the three grand intellectual elements--imagination, memory, +reflection: and so having something to give us in poetry, in history, in +science, and in philosophy. + +And thus our reading will be sadly one-sided, however voluminous it be, +if it entirely close to us any of the great types and ideals which the +creative instinct of man has produced, if it shut out from us either +the ancient world, or other European poetry, as important almost as our +own. When our reading, however deep, runs wholly into "pockets," and +exhausts itself in the literature of one age, one country, one type, +then we may be sure that it is tending to narrow or deform our minds. +And the more it leads us into curious byways and nurtures us into +indifference for the beaten highways of the world, the sooner we shall +end, if we be not specialists and students by profession, in ceasing to +treat our books as the companions and solace of our lifetime, and in +using them as the instruments of a refined sort of self-indulgence. + +A wise education, and so judicious reading, should leave no great type +of thought, no dominant phase of human nature, wholly a blank. Whether +our reading be great or small, so far as it goes, it should be general. +If our lives admit of but a short space for reading, all the more reason +that, so far as may be, it should remind us of the vast expanse of human +thought, and the wonderful variety of human nature. To read, and yet so +to read that we see nothing but a corner of literature, the loose +fringe, or flats and wastes of letters, and by reading only deepen our +natural belief that this island is the hub of the universe, and the +nineteenth century the only age worth notice, all this is really to call +in the aid of books to thicken and harden our untaught prejudices. Be it +imagination, memory, or reflection that we address--that is, in poetry, +history, science, or philosophy, our first duty is to aim at knowing +something at least of the best, at getting some definite idea of the +mighty realm whose outer rim we are permitted to approach. + +But how are we to know the best; how are we to gain this definite idea +of the vast world of letters? There are some who appear to suppose that +the "best" are known only to experts in an esoteric way, who may reveal +to inquirers what schoolboys and betting-men describe as "tips." There +are no "tips" in literature; the "best" authors are never dark horses; +we need no "crammers" and "coaches" to thrust us into the presence of +the great writers of all time. "Crammers" will only lead us wrong. It is +a thing far easier and more common than many imagine, to discover the +best. It needs no research, no learning, and is only misguided by +recondite information. The world has long ago closed the great assize of +letters and judged the first places everywhere. In such a matter the +judgment of the world, guided and informed by a long succession of +accomplished critics, is almost unerring. When some Zoilus finds +blemishes in Homer, and prefers, it may be, the work of some Apollonius +of his own discovering, we only laugh. There may be doubts about the +third and fourth rank; but the first and the second are hardly open to +discussion. The gates which lead to the Elysian fields may slowly wheel +back on their adamantine hinges to admit now and then some new and +chosen modern. But the company of the masters of those who know, and in +especial degree of the great poets, is a roll long closed and complete, +and they who are of it hold ever peaceful converse together. + +Hence we may find it a useful maxim that, if our reading be utterly +closed to the great poems of the world, there is something amiss with +our reading. If you find Milton, Dante, Calderon, Goethe, so much +"Hebrew-Greek" to you; if your Homer and Virgil, your Molière and Scott, +rest year after year undisturbed on their shelves beside your school +trigonometry and your old college text-books; if you have never opened +the _Cid, the Nibelungen, Crusoe_, and _Don Quixote_ since you were a +boy, and are wont to leave the Bible and the Imitation for some wet +Sunday afternoon--know, friend, that your reading can do you little real +good. Your mental digestion is ruined or sadly out of order. No doubt, +to thousands of intelligent educated men who call themselves readers, +the reading through a Canto of _The Purgatorio_, or a Book of the +_Paradise Lost_, is a task as irksome as it would be to decipher an +ill-written manuscript in a language that is almost forgotten. But, +although we are not to be always reading epics, and are chiefly in the +mood for slighter things, to be absolutely unable to read Milton or +Dante with enjoyment, is to be in a very bad way. Aristophanes, +Theocritus, Boccaccio, Cervantes, Molière are often as light as the +driven foam; but they are not light enough for the general reader. Their +humour is too bright and lovely for the groundlings. They are, alas! +"classics," somewhat apart from our everyday ways; they are not banal +enough for us; and so for us they slumber "unknown in a long night," +just _because_ they are immortal poets, and are not scribblers of +to-day. + +When will men understand that the reading of great books is a faculty to +be acquired, not a natural gift, at least not to those who are spoiled +by our current education and habits of life? _Ceci tuera cela_,[28] the +last great poet might have said of the first circulating library. An +insatiable appetite for new novels makes it as hard to read a +masterpiece as it seems to a Parisian boulevardier to live in a quiet +country. Until a man can truly enjoy a draft of clear water bubbling +from a mountain side, his taste is in an unwholesome state. And so he +who finds the Heliconian spring insipid should look to the state of his +nerves. Putting aside the iced air of the difficult mountain tops of +epic, tragedy, or psalm, there are some simple pieces which may serve as +an unerring test of a healthy or a vicious taste for imaginative work. +If the _Cid_, the _Vita Nuova_, the _Canterbury Tales_, Shakespeare's +_Sonnets_, and _Lycidas_ pall on a man; if he care not for Malory's +_Morte d'Arthur_ and the _Red Cross Knight_; if he thinks _Crusoe_ and +the _Vicar_ books for the young; if he thrill not with _The Ode to the +West Wind_, and _The Ode to a Grecian Urn_; if he have no stomach for +_Christabel_ or the lines written on _The Wye above Tintern Abbey_, he +should fall on his knees and pray for a cleanlier and quieter spirit. + +The intellectual system of most of us in these days needs "to purge and +to live cleanly." Only by a course of treatment shall we bring our minds +to feel at peace with the grand pure works of the world. Something we +ought all to know of the masterpieces of antiquity, and of the other +nations of Europe. To understand a great national poet, such as Dante, +Calderon, Corneille, or Goethe, is to know other types of human +civilisation in ways which a library of histories does not sufficiently +teach. The great masterpieces of the world are thus, quite apart from +the charm and solace they give us, the master instruments of a solid +education. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 23: From "The Choice of Books," 1891. Printed here by +permission of The Macmillan Company.] + +[Footnote 24: Books intensely desired.] + +[Footnote 25: Thing said in passing.] + +[Footnote 26: Floating scattered on the vast abyss.] + +[Footnote 27: "And here my books--my life--absorb me whole," Cowper's +translation of Milton's Latin Epistle to Diodati.] + +[Footnote 28: This will destroy that.] + + + + +ON GOING A JOURNEY[29] + +WILLIAM HAZLITT + + +One of the pleasantest things in the world is going a journey; but I +like to go by myself. I can enjoy society in a room; but out of doors, +nature is company enough for me. I am then never less alone than when +alone. + + "The fields his study, nature was his book." + +I cannot see the wit of walking and talking at the same time. When I am +in the country, I wish to vegetate like the country. I am not for +criticising hedge-rows and black cattle. I go out of town in order to +forget the town and all that is in it. There are those who for this +purpose go to watering-places, and carry the metropolis with them. I +like more elbow-room, and fewer encumbrances. I like solitude, when I +give myself up to it, for the sake of solitude; nor do I ask for + + ------"a friend in my retreat, + Whom I may whisper solitude is sweet." + +The soul of a journey is liberty, perfect liberty, to think, feel, do +just as one pleases. We go a journey chiefly to be free of all +impediments and of all inconveniences; to leave ourselves behind, much +more to get rid of others. It is because I want a little breathing-space +to muse on indifferent matters, where Contemplation + + "May plume her feathers and let grow her wings, + That in the various bustle of resort + Were all too ruffled, and sometimes impair'd," + +that I absent myself from the town for a while, without feeling at a +loss the moment I am left by myself. Instead of a friend in a postchaise +or in a Tilbury, to exchange good things with, and vary the same stale +topics over again, for once let me have a truce with impertinence. Give +me the clear blue sky over my head, and the green turf beneath my feet, +a winding road before me, and a three hours' march to dinner--and then +to thinking! It is hard if I cannot start some game on these lone +heaths. I laugh, I run, I leap, I sing for joy. From the point of yonder +rolling cloud, I plunge into my past being, and revel there, as the +sunburnt Indian plunges headlong into the wave that wafts him to his +native shore. Then long-forgotten things, like "sunken wrack and sumless +treasuries," burst upon my eager sight, and I begin to feel, think, and +be myself again. Instead of an awkward silence, broken by attempts at +wit or dull commonplaces, mine is that undisturbed silence of the heart +which alone is perfect eloquence. No one likes puns, alliterations, +antitheses, arguments, and analysis better than I do; but I sometimes +had rather be without them. "Leave, oh, leave me to my repose!" I have +just now other business in hand, which would seem idle to you, but is +with me "very stuff of the conscience." Is not this wild rose sweet +without a comment? Does not this daisy leap to my heart set in its coat +of emerald. Yet if I were to explain to you the circumstance that has so +endeared it to me, you would only smile. Had I not better then keep it +to myself, and let it serve me to brood over, from here to yonder craggy +point, and from thence onward to the far-distant horizon? I should be +but bad company all that way, and therefore prefer being alone. I have +heard it said that you may, when the moody fit comes on, walk or ride on +by yourself, and indulge your reveries. But this looks like a breach of +manners, a neglect of others, and you are thinking all the time that you +ought to rejoin your party. "Out upon such half-faced fellowship," say +I. I like to be either entirely to myself, or entirely at the disposal +of others; to talk or be silent, to walk or sit still, to be sociable +or solitary. I was pleased with an observation of Mr. Cobbett's that "he +thought it a bad French custom to drink our wine with our meals, and +that an Englishman ought to do only one thing at a time." So I cannot +talk and think, or indulge in melancholy musing and lively conversation +by fits and starts. "Let me have a companion of my way," says Sterne, +"were it but to remark how the shadows lengthen as the sun declines." It +is beautifully said: but in my opinion, this continual comparing of +notes interferes with the involuntary impression of things upon the +mind, and hurts the sentiment. If you only hint what you feel in a kind +of dumb show, it is insipid: if you have to explain it, it is making a +toil of a pleasure. You cannot read the book of nature, without being +perpetually put to the trouble of translating it for the benefit of +others. I am for the synthetical method on a journey, in preference to +the analytical. I am content to lay in a stock of ideas then, and to +examine and anatomise them afterwards. I want to see my vague notions +float like the down of the thistle before the breeze, and not to have +them entangled in the briars and thorns of controversy. For once, I like +to have it all my own way; and this is impossible unless you are alone, +or in such company as I do not covet. I have no objection to argue a +point with any one for twenty miles of measured road, but not for +pleasure. If you remark the scent of a beanfield crossing the road, +perhaps your fellow-traveller has no smell. If you point to a distant +object, perhaps he is short-sighted, and has to take out his glass to +look at it. There is a feeling in the air, a tone in the colour of a +cloud which hits your fancy, but the effect of which you are unable to +account for. There is then no sympathy, but an uneasy craving after it, +and a dissatisfaction which pursues you on the way, and in the end +probably produces ill humour. Now I never quarrel with myself, and take +all my own conclusions for granted till I find it necessary to defend +them against objections. It is not merely that you may not be of accord +on the objects and circumstances that present themselves before +you--these may recall a number of objects, and lead to associations too +delicate and refined to be possibly communicated to others. Yet these I +love to cherish, and sometimes still fondly clutch them, when I can +escape from the throng to do so. To give way to our feelings before +company, seems extravagance or affectation; and on the other hand, to +have to unravel this mystery of our being at every turn, and to make +others take an equal interest in it (otherwise the end is not answered) +is a task to which few are competent. We must "give it an understanding, +but no tongue." My old friend C----, however, could do both. He could go +on in the most delightful explanatory way over hill and dale, a summer's +day, and convert a landscape into a didactic poem or a Pindaric ode. "He +talked far above singing." If I could so clothe my ideas in sounding and +flowing words, I might perhaps wish to have some one with me to admire +the swelling theme; or I could be more content, were it possible for me +still to hear his echoing voice in the woods of All-Foxden. They had +"that fine madness in them which our first poets had;" and if they could +have been caught by some rare instrument, would have breathed such +strains as the following. + + ------"Here be woods as green + As any, air likewise as fresh and sweet + As when smooth Zephyrus plays on the fleet + Face of the curled stream, with flow'rs as many + As the young spring gives, and as choice as any; + Here be all new delights, cool streams and wells, + Arbours o'ergrown with woodbine, caves and dells; + Choose where thou wilt, while I sit by and sing, + Or gather rushes to make many a ring + For thy long fingers; tell thee tales of love, + How the pale Phoebe, hunting in a grove, + First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes + She took eternal fire that never dies; + How she convey'd him softly in a sleep, + His temples bound with poppy, to the steep + Head of old Latmos, where she stoops each night, + Gilding the mountain with her brother's light, + To kiss her sweetest."------ + FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS. + +Had I words and images at command like these, I would attempt to wake +the thoughts that lie slumbering on golden ridges in the evening clouds: +but at the sight of nature my fancy, poor as it is, droops and closes up +its leaves, like flowers at sunset. I can make nothing out on the +spot:--I must have time to collect myself.-- + +In general, a good thing spoils out-of-door prospects: it should be +reserved for Table-talk. L---- is for this reason, I take it, the worst +company in the world out of doors; because he is the best within. I +grant, there is one subject on which it is pleasant to talk on a +journey; and that is, what one shall have for supper when we get to our +inn at night. The open air improves this sort of conversation or +friendly altercation, by setting a keener edge on appetite. Every mile +of the road heightens the flavour of the viands we expect at the end of +it. How fine it is to enter some old town, walled and turreted, just at +the approach of nightfall, or to come to some straggling village, with +the lights streaming through the surrounding gloom; and then after +inquiring for the best entertainment that the place affords, to "take +one's ease at one's inn!" These eventful moments in our lives' history +are too precious, too full of solid, heartfelt happiness to be frittered +and dribbled away in imperfect sympathy. I would have them all to +myself, and drain them to the last drop: they will do to talk of or to +write about afterwards. What a delicate speculation it is, after +drinking whole goblets of tea, + + "The cups that cheer, but not inebriate," + +and letting the fumes ascend into the brain, to sit considering what we +shall have for supper--eggs and a rasher, a rabbit smothered in onions, +or an excellent veal-cutlet! Sancho[30] in such a situation once fixed +upon cow-heel; and his choice, though he could not help it, is not to be +disparaged. Then in the intervals of pictured scenery and Shandean +contemplation, to catch the preparation and the stir in the +kitchen--_Procul, O procul este profani!_[31] These hours are sacred to +silence and to musing, to be treasured up in the memory, and to feed the +source of smiling thoughts hereafter. I would not waste them in idle +talk; or if I must have the integrity of fancy broken in upon, I would +rather it were by a stranger than a friend. A stranger takes his hue and +character from the time and place; he is a part of the furniture and +costume of an inn. If he is a Quaker, or from the West Riding of +Yorkshire, so much the better. I do not even try to sympathise with him, +and he breaks no squares. I associate nothing with my travelling +companion but present objects and passing events. In his ignorance of me +and my affairs, I in a manner forget myself. But a friend reminds one of +other things, rips up old grievances, and destroys the abstraction of +the scene. He comes in ungraciously between us and our imaginary +character. Something is dropped in the course of conversation that gives +a hint of your profession and pursuits; or from having some one with you +that knows the less sublime portions of your history, it seems that +other people do. You are no longer a citizen of the world: but your +"unhoused free condition is put into circumscription and confine." The +_incognito_ of an inn is one of its striking privileges--"lord of one's +self, uncumber'd with a name." Oh! it is great to shake off the trammels +of the world and of public opinion--to lose our importunate, tormenting, +everlasting personal identity in the elements of nature, and become the +creature of the moment, clear of all ties--to hold to the universe only +by a dish of sweet-breads, and to owe nothing but the score of the +evening--and no longer seeking for applause and meeting with contempt, +to be known by no other title than _the Gentleman in the parlour_! One +may take one's choice of all characters in this romantic state of +uncertainty as to one's real pretensions, and become indefinitely +respectable and negatively rightworshipful. We baffle prejudice and +disappoint conjecture; and from being so to others, begin to be objects +of curiosity and wonder even to ourselves. We are no more those +hackneyed commonplaces that we appear in the world: an inn restores us +to the level of nature, and quits scores with society! I have certainly +spent some enviable hours at inns--sometimes when I have been left +entirely to myself, and have tried to solve some metaphysical problem, +as once at Witham-common, where I found out the proof that likeness is +not a case of the association of ideas--at other times, when there have +been pictures in the room, as at St. Neot's (I think it was) where I +first met with Gribelin's engravings of the Cartoons, into which I +entered at once, and at a little inn on the borders of Wales, where +there happened to be hanging some of Westall's drawings, which I +compared triumphantly (for a theory that I had, not for the admired +artist) with the figure of a girl who had ferried me over the Severn, +standing up in the boat between me and the twilight--at other times I +might mention luxuriating in books, with a peculiar interest in this +way, as I remember sitting up half the night to read Paul and Virginia, +which I picked up at an inn at Bridgewater, after being drenched in the +rain all day; and at the same place I got through two volumes of Madame +D'Arblay's Camilla. It was on the tenth of April, 1798, that I sat down +to a volume of the New Eloise, at the inn at Llangollen, over a bottle +of sherry and a cold chicken. The letter I chose was that in which St. +Preux describes his feelings as he first caught a glimpse from the +heights of the Jura of the Pays de Vaud, which I had brought with me as +a _bon bouche_[32], to crown the evening with. It was my birthday, and I +had for the first time come from a place in the neighbourhood to visit +this delightful spot. The road to Llangollen turns off between Chirk +and Wrexham; and on passing a certain point, you come all at once upon +the valley, which opens like an amphitheatre, broad, barren hills rising +in majestic state on either side, with "green upland swells that echo to +the bleat of flocks" below, and the river Dee babbling over its stony +bed in the midst of them. The valley at this time "glittered green with +sunny showers," and a budding ash-tree dipped its tender branches in the +chiding stream. How proud, how glad I was to walk along the high road +that overlooks the delicious prospect, repeating the lines which I have +just quoted from Mr. Coleridge's poems! But besides the prospect which +opened beneath my feet, another also opened to my inward sight, a +heavenly vision, on which were written, in letters large as Hope could +make them, these four words, LIBERTY, GENIUS, LOVE, VIRTUE; which have +since faded into the light of common day, or mock my idle gaze. + + "The beautiful is vanished, and returns not." + +Still I would return some time or other to this enchanted spot; but I +would return to it alone. What other self could I find to share that +influx of thoughts, of regret, and delight, the fragments of which I +could hardly conjure up to myself, so much have they been broken and +defaced! I could stand on some tall rock, and overlook the precipice of +years that separates me from what I then was. I was at that time going +shortly to visit the poet whom I have above named. Where is he now? Not +only I myself have changed; the world, which was then new to me, has +become old and incorrigible. Yet will I turn to thee in thought, O +sylvan Dee, in joy, in youth and gladness as thou then wert; and thou +shalt always be to me the river of Paradise, where I will drink of the +waters of life freely! + +There is hardly any thing that shows the short-sightedness or +capriciousness of the imagination more than travelling does. With change +of place we change our ideas; nay, our opinions and feelings. We can by +an effort indeed transport ourselves to old and long-forgotten scenes, +and then the picture of the mind revives again; but we forget those that +we have just left. It seems that we can think but of one place at a +time. The canvas of the fancy is but of a certain extent, and if we +paint one set of objects upon it, they immediately efface every other. +We cannot enlarge our conceptions, we only shift our point of view. The +landscape bares its bosom to the enraptured eye, we take our fill of it, +and seem as if we could form no other image of beauty or grandeur. We +pass on, and think no more of it: the horizon that shuts it from our +sight, also blots it from our memory like a dream. In travelling through +a wild barren country, I can form no idea of a woody and cultivated one. +It appears to me that all the world must be barren, like what I see of +it. In the country we forget the town, and in town we despise the +country. "Beyond Hyde Park," says Sir Fopling Flutter, "all is a +desert." All that part of the map that we do not see before us is a +blank. The world in our conceit of it is not much bigger than a +nutshell. It is not one prospect expanded into another, county joined to +county, kingdom to kingdom, lands to seas, making an image voluminous +and vast;--the mind can form no larger idea of space than the eye can +take in at a single glance. The rest is a name written in a map, a +calculation of arithmetic. For instance, what is the true signification +of that immense mass of territory and population, known by the name of +China, to us? An inch of paste-board on a wooden globe, of no more +account than a China orange! Things near us are seen of the size of +life: things at a distance are diminished to the size of the +understanding. We measure the universe by ourselves, and even comprehend +the texture of our own being only piecemeal. In this way, however, we +remember an infinity of things and places. The mind is like a mechanical +instrument that plays a great variety of tunes, but it must play them in +succession. One idea recalls another, but it at the same time excludes +all others. In trying to renew old recollections, we cannot as it were +unfold the whole web of our existence; we must pick out the single +threads. So in coming to a place where we have formerly lived and with +which we have intimate associations, every one must have found that the +feeling grows more vivid the nearer we approach the spot, from the mere +anticipation of the actual impression: we remember circumstances, +feelings, persons, faces, names, that we had not thought of for years; +but for the time all the rest of the world is forgotten! + +To return to the question I have quitted above. I have no objection to +go to see ruins, aqueducts, pictures, in company with a friend or a +party, but rather the contrary, for the former reason reversed. They are +intelligible matters, and will bear talking about. The sentiment here is +not tacit, but communicable and overt. Salisbury Plain is barren of +criticism, but Stonehenge will bear a discussion antiquarian, +picturesque, and philosophical. In setting out on a party of pleasure, +the first consideration always is where we shall go to; in taking a +solitary ramble, the question is what we shall meet with by the way. +"The mind is its own place;" nor are we anxious to arrive at the end of +our journey. I can myself do the honours indifferently well to works of +art and curiosity. I once took a party to Oxford with no mean +_éclat_--showed them that seat of the Muses at a distance, + + "With glistering spires and pinnacles adorn'd"-- + +descanted on the learned air that breathes from the grassy quadrangles +and stone walls of halls and colleges--was at home in the Bodleian; and +at Blenheim quite superseded the powdered Ciceroni that attended us, and +that pointed, in vain with his wand to commonplace beauties in matchless +pictures.--As another exception to the above reasoning, I should not +feel confident in venturing on a journey in a foreign country without a +companion. I should want at intervals to hear the sound of my own +language. There is an involuntary antipathy in the mind of an Englishman +to foreign manners and notions that requires the assistance of social +sympathy to carry it off. As the distance from home increases, this +relief, which was at first a luxury, becomes a passion and an appetite. +A person would almost feel stifled to find himself in the deserts of +Arabia without friends and countrymen: there must be allowed to be +something in the view of Athens or old Rome that claims the utterance of +speech; and I own that the Pyramids are too mighty for any single +contemplation. In such situations, so opposite to all one's ordinary +train of ideas, one seems a species by one's self, a limb torn off from +society, unless one can meet with instant fellowship and support.--Yet I +did not feel this want or craving very pressing once, when I first set +my foot on the laughing shores of France. Calais was peopled with +novelty and delight. The confused, busy murmur of the place was like oil +and wine poured into my ears; nor did the mariners' hymn, which was sung +from the top of an old crazy vessel in the harbour, as the sun went +down, send an alien sound into my soul. I only breathed the air of +general humanity. I walked over "the vine-covered hills and gay regions +of France," erect and satisfied; for the image of man was not cast down +and chained to the foot of arbitrary thrones: I was at no loss for +language, for that of all the great schools of painting was open to me. +The whole is vanished like a shade. Pictures, heroes, glory, freedom, +all are fled: nothing remains but the Bourbons and the French +people!--There is undoubtedly a sensation in travelling into foreign +parts that is to be had nowhere else: but it is more pleasing at the +time than lasting. It is too remote from our habitual associations to be +a common topic of discourse or reference, and, like a dream or another +state of existence, does not piece into our daily modes of life. It is +an animated but a momentary hallucination. It demands an effort to +exchange our actual for our ideal identity; and to feel the pulse of our +old transports revive very keenly, we must "jump" all our present +comforts and connections. Our romantic and itinerant character is not +to be domesticated. Dr. Johnson remarked how little foreign travel added +to the facilities of conversation in those who had been abroad. In fact, +the time we have spent there is both delightful and in one sense +instructive; but it appears to be cut out of our substantial, downright +existence, and never to join kindly on to it. We are not the same, but +another, and perhaps more enviable individual, all the time we are out +of our own country. We are lost to ourselves, as well as our friends. So +the poet somewhat quaintly sings, + + "Out of my country and myself I go." + +Those who wish to forget painful thoughts, do well to absent themselves +for a while from the ties and objects that recall them: but we can be +said only to fulfil our destiny in the place that gave us birth. I +should on this account like well enough to spend the whole of my life in +travelling abroad, if I could any where borrow another life to spend +afterwards at home! + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 29: From "Table-Talk," 1821-2.] + +[Footnote 30: Sancho Panza, a character in Cervantes' romance, "Don +Quixote."] + +[Footnote 31: Aloof, O keep aloof, ye uninitiated!] + +[Footnote 32: A titbit.] + + + + +THE REGRETS OF A MOUNTAINEER[33] + +LESLIE STEPHEN + + +I have often felt a sympathy, which almost rises to the pathetic, when +looking on at a cricket-match or boat-race. Something of the emotion +with which Gray regarded the "distant spires and antique towers" rises +within me. It is not, indeed, that I feel very deeply for the fine +ingenuous lads who, as somebody says, are about to be degraded into +tricky, selfish Members of Parliament. I have seen too much of them. +They are very fine animals; but they are rather too exclusively animal. +The soul is apt to be in too embryonic a state within these cases of +well-strung bone and muscle. It is impossible for a mere athletic +machine, however finely constructed, to appeal very deeply to one's +finer sentiments. I can scarcely look forward with even an affectation +of sorrow for the time when, if more sophisticated, it will at least +have made a nearer approach to the dignity of an intellectual being. It +is not the boys who make me feel a touch of sadness; their approaching +elevation to the dignity of manhood will raise them on the whole in the +scale of humanity; it is the older spectators whose aspect has in it +something affecting. The shaky old gentleman, who played in the days +when it was decidedly less dangerous to stand up to bowling than to a +cannon-ball, and who now hobbles about on rheumatic joints, by the help +of a stick; the corpulent elder, who rowed when boats had gangways down +their middle, and did not require as delicate a balance as an acrobat's +at the top of a living pyramid--these are the persons whom I cannot see +without an occasional sigh. They are really conscious that they have +lost something which they can never regain; or, if they momentarily +forget it, it is even more forcibly impressed upon the spectators. To +see a respectable old gentleman of sixty, weighing some fifteen stone, +suddenly forget a third of his weight and two-thirds of his years, and +attempt to caper like a boy, is indeed a startling phenomenon. To the +thoughtless, it may be simply comic; but, without being a Jaques, one +may contrive also to suck some melancholy out of it. + +Now, as I have never caught a cricket-ball, and, on the contrary, have +caught numerous crabs in my life, the sympathy which I feel for these +declining athletes is not due to any great personal interest in the +matter. But I have long anticipated that a similar day would come for +me, when I should no longer be able to pursue my favourite sport of +mountaineering. Some day I should find that the ascent of a zigzag was +as bad as a performance on the treadmill; that I could not look over a +precipice without a swimming in the head; and that I could no more jump +a crevasse than the Thames at Westminster. None of these things have +come to pass. So far as I know, my physical powers are still equal to +the ascent of Mont Blanc or the Jungfrau. But I am no less effectually +debarred--it matters not how--from mountaineering. I wander at the foot +of the gigantic Alps, and look up longingly to the summits, which are +apparently so near, and yet know that they are divided from me by an +impassable gulf. In some missionary work I have read that certain South +Sea Islanders believed in a future paradise where the good should go on +eating for ever with insatiable appetites at an inexhaustible banquet. +They were to continue their eternal dinner in a house with open +wickerwork sides; and it was to be the punishment of the damned to crawl +outside in perpetual hunger and look in through the chinks as little +boys look in through the windows of a London cookshop. With similar +feelings I lately watched through a telescope the small black dots, +which were really men, creeping up the high flanks of Mont Blanc or +Monte Rosa. The eternal snows represented for me the Elysian fields, +into which entrance was sternly forbidden, and I lingered about the spot +with a mixture of pleasure and pain, in the envious contemplation of my +more fortunate companions. + +I know there are those who will receive these assertions with civil +incredulity. Some persons assume that every pleasure with which they +cannot sympathise is necessarily affectation, and hold, as a particular +case of that doctrine, that Alpine travellers risk their lives merely +from fashion or desire of notoriety. Others are kind enough to admit +that there is something genuine in the passion, but put it on a level +with the passion for climbing greased poles. They think it derogatory to +the due dignity of Mont Blanc that he should be used as a greased pole, +and assure us that the true pleasures of the Alps are those which are +within reach of the old and the invalids, who can only creep about +villages and along high-roads. I cannot well argue with such detractors +from what I consider a noble sport. As for the first class, it is +reduced almost to a question of veracity. I say that I enjoy being on +the top of a mountain, or, indeed, halfway up a mountain; that climbing +is a pleasure to me, and would be so if no one else climbed and no one +ever heard of my climbing. They reply that they don't believe it. No +more argument is possible than if I were to say that I liked eating +olives, and some one asserted that I really eat them only out of +affectation. My reply would be simply to go on eating olives; and I hope +the reply of mountaineers will be to go on climbing Alps. The other +assault is more intelligible. Our critics admit that we have a pleasure; +but assert that it is a puerile pleasure--that it leads to an irreverent +view of mountain beauty, and to oversight of that which should really +most impress a refined and noble mind. To this I shall only make such an +indirect reply as may result from a frank confession of my own regrets +at giving up the climbing business--perhaps for ever. I am sinking, so +to speak, from the butterfly to the caterpillar stage, and, if the +creeping thing is really the highest of the two, it will appear that +there is something in the substance of my lamentations unworthy of an +intellectual being. Let me try. By way of preface, however, I admit that +mountaineering, in my sense of the word, is a sport. It is a sport +which, like fishing or shooting, brings one into contact with the +sublimest aspects of nature; and, without setting their enjoyment before +one as an ultimate end or aim, helps one indirectly to absorb and be +penetrated by their influence. Still it is strictly a sport--as strictly +as cricket, or rowing, or knurr and spell--and I have no wish to place +it on a different footing. The game is won when a mountain-top is +reached in spite of difficulties; it is lost when one is forced to +retreat; and, whether won or lost, it calls into play a great variety of +physical and intellectual energies, and gives the pleasure which always +accompanies an energetic use of our faculties. Still it suffers in some +degree from this undeniable characteristic, and especially from the +tinge which has consequently been communicated to narratives of mountain +adventures. There are two ways which have been appropriated to the +description of all sporting exploits. One is to indulge in fine writing +about them, to burst out in sentences which swell to paragraphs, and in +paragraphs which spread over pages; to plunge into ecstasies about +infinite abysses and overpowering splendours, to compare mountains to +archangels lying down in eternal winding-sheets of snow, and to convert +them into allegories about man's highest destinies and aspirations. This +is good when it is well done. Mr. Ruskin has covered the Matterhorn, for +example, with a whole web of poetical associations, in language which, +to a severe taste, is perhaps a trifle too fine, though he has done it +with an eloquence which his bitterest antagonists must freely +acknowledge. Yet most humble writers will feel that if they try to +imitate Mr. Ruskin's eloquence they will pay the penalty of becoming +ridiculous. It is not every one who can with impunity compare Alps to +archangels. Tall talk is luckily an object of suspicion to Englishmen, +and consequently most writers, and especially those who frankly adopt +the sporting view of the mountains, adopt the opposite scheme: they +affect something like cynicism; they mix descriptions of scenery with +allusions to fleas or to bitter beer; they shrink with the prevailing +dread of Englishmen from the danger of overstepping the limits of the +sublime into its proverbial opposite; and they humbly try to amuse us +because they can't strike us with awe. This, too, if I may venture to +say so, is good in its way and place; and it seems rather hard to these +luckless writers when people assume that, because they make jokes on a +mountain, they are necessarily insensible to its awful sublimities. A +sense of humour is not incompatible with imaginative sensibility; and +even Wordsworth might have been an equally powerful prophet of nature if +he could sometimes have descended from his stilts. In short, a man may +worship mountains, and yet have a quiet joke with them when he is +wandering all day in their tremendous solitudes. + +Joking, however, is, it must be admitted, a dangerous habit. I freely +avow that, in my humble contributions to Alpine literature, I have +myself made some very poor and very unseasonable witticisms. I confess +my error, and only wish that I had no worse errors to confess. Still I +think that the poor little jokes in which we mountaineers sometimes +indulge have been made liable to rather harsh constructions. We are +accused, in downright earnest, not merely of being flippant, but of an +arrogant contempt for all persons whose legs are not as strong as our +own. We are supposed seriously to wrap ourselves in our own conceit, and +to brag intolerably of our exploits. Now I will not say that no +mountaineer ever swaggers: the quality called by the vulgar "bounce" is +unluckily confined to no profession. Certainly I have seen a man +intolerably vain because he could raise a hundred-weight with his little +finger; and I dare say that the "champion bill-poster," whose name is +advertised on the walls of this metropolis, thinks excellence in +bill-posting the highest virtue of a citizen. So some men may be silly +enough to brag in all seriousness about mountain exploits. However, most +lads of twenty learn that it is silly to give themselves airs about mere +muscular eminence; and especially is this true of Alpine +exploits--first, because they require less physical prowess than almost +any other sport, and secondly, because a good amateur still feels +himself the hopeless inferior of half the Alpine peasants whom he sees. +You cannot be very conceited about a game in which the first clodhopper +you meet can give you ten minutes' start in an hour. Still a man writing +in a humorous vein naturally adopts a certain bumptious tone, just as +our friend "Punch" ostentatiously declares himself to be omniscient and +infallible. Nobody takes him at his word, or supposes that the editor of +"Punch" is really the most conceited man in all England. But we poor +mountaineers are occasionally fixed with our own careless talk by some +outsider who is not in the secret. We know ourselves to be a small sect, +and to be often laughed at; we reply by: assuming that we are the salt +of the earth, and that our amusement is the first and noblest of all +amusements. Our only retort to the good-humoured ridicule with which we +are occasionally treated is to adopt an affected strut, and to carry it +off as if we were the finest fellows in the world. We make a boast of +our shame, and say, if you laugh we must crow. But we don't really mean +anything: if we did, the only word which the English language would +afford wherewith to describe us would be the very unpleasant antithesis +to wise men, and certainly I hold that we have the average amount of +common sense. When, therefore, I see us taken to task for swaggering, I +think it a trifle hard that this merely playful affectation of +superiority should be made a serious fault. For the future I would +promise to be careful, if it were worth avoiding the misunderstanding of +men who won't take a joke. Meanwhile, I can only state that when Alpine +travellers indulge in a little swagger about their own performances and +other people's incapacity, they don't mean more than an infinitesimal +fraction of what they say, and that they know perfectly well that when +history comes to pronounce a final judgment upon the men of the time, it +won't put mountain-climbing on a level with patriotism, or even with +excellence in the fine arts. + +The reproach of real _bonâ fide_ arrogance is, so far as I know, very +little true of Alpine travellers. With the exception of the necessary +fringe hanging on to every set of human beings--consisting of persons +whose heads are weaker than their legs--the mountaineer, so far as my +experience has gone, is generally modest enough. Perhaps he sometimes +flaunts his ice-axes and ropes a little too much before the public eye +at Chamonix, as a yachtsman occasionally flourishes his nautical costume +at Cowes; but the fault may be pardoned by those not inexorable to human +weaknesses. This opinion, I know, cuts at the root of the most popular +theory as to our ruling passion. If we do not climb the Alps to gain +notoriety, for what purpose can we possibly climb them? That same +unlucky trick of joking is taken to indicate that we don't care much +about the scenery; for who, with a really susceptible soul, could be +facetious under the cliffs of Jungfrau or the ghastly precipices of the +Matterhorn? Hence people who kindly excuse us from the blame of +notoriety-hunting generally accept the "greased-pole" theory. We are, it +seems, overgrown schoolboys, who, like other schoolboys, enjoy being in +dirt, and danger, and mischief, and have as much sensibility for natural +beauty as the mountain mules. And against this, as a more serious +complaint, I wish to make my feeble protest, in order that my +lamentations on quitting the profession may not seem unworthy of a +thinking being. + +Let me try to recall some of the impressions which mountaineering has +left with me, and see whether they throw any light upon the subject. As +I gaze at the huge cliffs where I may no longer wander, I find +innumerable recollections arise--some of them dim, as though belonging +to a past existence; and some so brilliant that I can scarcely realise +my exclusion from the scenes to which they belong. I am standing at the +foot of what, to my mind, is the most glorious of all Alpine +wonders--the huge Oberland precipice, on the slopes of the Faulhorn or +the Wengern Alp. Innumerable tourists have done all that tourists can do +to cocknify (if that is the right derivative from cockney) the scenery; +but, like the Pyramids or a Gothic cathedral, it throws off the taint of +vulgarity by its imperishable majesty. Even on turf strewn with +sandwich-papers and empty bottles, even in the presence of hideous +peasant-women singing "Stand-er auf" for five centimes, we cannot but +feel the influence of Alpine beauty. When the sunlight is dying off the +snows, or the full moon lighting them up with ethereal tints, even +sandwich-papers and singing women may be forgotten. How does the memory +of scrambles along snow arêtes, of plunges--luckily not too deep--into +crevasses, of toil through long snowfields, towards a refuge that seemed +to recede as we advanced--where, to quote Tennyson with due alteration, +to the traveller toiling in immeasurable snow-- + + Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous hill + The châlet sparkles like a grain of salt;-- + +how do such memories as these harmonise with the sense of superlative +sublimity? + +One element of mountain beauty is, we shall all admit, their vast size +and steepness. That a mountain is very big, and is faced by +perpendicular walls of rock, is the first thing which strikes everybody, +and is the whole essence and outcome of a vast quantity of poetical +description. Hence the first condition towards a due appreciation of +mountain scenery is that these qualities should be impressed upon the +imagination. The mere dry statement that a mountain is so many feet in +vertical height above the sea, and contains so many tons of granite, is +nothing. Mont Blanc, is about three miles high. What of that? Three +miles is an hour's walk for a lady--an eighteen-penny cab-fare--the +distance from Hyde Park Corner to the Bank--an express train could do it +in three minutes, or a racehorse in five. It is a measure which we have +learnt to despise, looking at it from a horizontal point of view; and +accordingly most persons, on seeing the Alps for the first time, guess +them to be higher, as measured in feet, than they really are. What, +indeed, is the use of giving measures in feet to any but the scientific +mind? Who cares whether the moon is 250,000 or 2,500,000 miles distant? +Mathematicians try to impress upon us that the distance of the fixed +stars is only expressible by a row of figures which stretches across a +page; suppose it stretched across two or across a dozen pages, should we +be any the wiser, or have, in the least degree, a clearer notion of the +superlative distances? We civilly say, "Dear me!" when the astronomer +looks to us for the appropriate stare, but we only say it with the +mouth; internally our remark is, "You might as well have multiplied by a +few more millions whilst you were about it." Even astronomers, though +not a specially imaginative race, feel the impotence of figures, and try +to give us some measure which the mind can grasp a little more +conveniently. They tell us about the cannon-ball which might have been +flying ever since the time of Adam, and not yet have reached the +heavenly body, or about the stars which may not yet have become visible, +though the light has been flying to us at a rate inconceivable by the +mind for an inconceivable number of years; and they succeed in producing +a bewildering and giddy sensation, although the numbers are too vast to +admit of any accurate apprehension. + +We feel a similar need in the case of mountains. Besides the bare +statement of figures, it is necessary to have some means for grasping +the meaning of the figures. The bare tens and thousands must be clothed +with some concrete images. The statement that a mountain is 15,000 feet +high is, by itself, little more impressive, than that it is 3,000; we +want something more before we can mentally compare Mont Blanc and +Snowdon. Indeed, the same people who guess of a mountain's height at a +number of feet much exceeding the reality, show, when they are +cross-examined, that they fail to appreciate in any tolerable degree the +real meaning of the figures. An old lady one day, about 11 A.M., +proposed to walk from the Aeggischhorn to the Jungfrau-Joch, and to +return for luncheon--the distance being a good twelve hours' journey for +trained mountaineers. Every detail of which the huge mass is composed is +certain to be underestimated. A gentleman the other day pointed out to +me a grand ice-cliff at the end of a hanging glacier, which must have +been at least 100 feet high, and asked me whether that snow was three +feet deep. Nothing is more common than for tourists to mistake some huge +pinnacle of rock, as big as a church tower, for a traveller. The rocks +of the Grands Mulets, in one corner of which the châlet is hidden, are +often identified with a party ascending Mont Blanc; and I have seen +boulders as big as a house pointed out confidently as chamois. People +who make these blunders must evidently see the mountains as mere toys, +however many feet they may give them at a random guess. Huge overhanging +cliffs are to them steps within the reach of human legs; yawning +crevasses are ditches to be jumped; and foaming waterfalls are like +streams from penny squirts. Everyone knows the avalanches on the +Jungfrau, and the curiously disproportionate appearance of the little +puffs of white smoke, which are said to be the cause of the thunder; but +the disproportion ceases to an eye that has learnt really to measure +distance, and to know that these smoke-puffs, represent a cataract of +crashing blocks of ice. + +Now the first merit of mountaineering is that it enables one to have +what theologians would call an experimental faith in the size of +mountains--to substitute a real living belief for a dead intellectual +assent. It enables one, first, to assign something like its true +magnitude to a rock or snow-slope; and, secondly, to measure that +magnitude in terms of muscular exertion instead of bare mathematical +units. Suppose that we are standing upon the Wengern Alp; between the +Mönch and the Eiger there stretches a round white bank, with a curved +outline, which we may roughly compare to the back of one of Sir E. +Landseer's lions. The ordinary tourists--the old man, the woman, or the +cripple, who are supposed to appreciate the real beauties of Alpine +scenery--may look at it comfortably from their hotel. They may see its +graceful curve, the long straight lines that are ruled in delicate +shading down its sides, and the contrast of the blinding white snow with +the dark blue sky above; but they will probably guess it to be a mere +bank--a snowdrift, perhaps, which has been piled by the last storm. If +you pointed out to them one of the great rocky teeth that projected from +its summit, and said that it was a guide, they would probably remark +that he looked very small, and would fancy that he could jump over the +bank with an effort. Now a mountaineer knows, to begin with, that it is +a massive rocky rib, covered with snow, lying at a sharp angle, and +varying perhaps from 500 to 1,000 feet in height. So far he might be +accompanied by men of less soaring ambition; by an engineer who had been +mapping the country, or an artist who had been carefully observing the +mountains from their bases. They might learn in time to interpret +correctly the real meaning of shapes at which the uninitiated guess at +random. But the mountaineer can go a step further, and it is the next +step which gives the real significance to those delicate curves and +lines. He can translate the 500 or 1,000 feet of snow-slope into a more +tangible unit of measurement. To him, perhaps, they recall the memory of +a toilsome ascent, the sun beating on his head for five or six hours, +the snow returning the glare with still more parching effect; a stalwart +guide toiling all the weary time, cutting steps in hard blue ice, the +fragments hissing and spinning down the long straight grooves in the +frozen snow till they lost themselves in the yawning chasm below; and +step after step taken along the slippery staircase, till at length he +triumphantly sprang upon the summit of the tremendous wall that no human +foot had scaled before. The little black knobs that rise above the edge +represent for him huge impassable rocks, sinking on one side in scarped +slippery surfaces towards the snow-field, and on the other stooping in +one tremendous cliff to a distorted glacier thousands of feet below. The +faint blue line across the upper névé, scarcely distinguishable to the +eye, represents to one observer nothing but a trifling undulation; a +second, perhaps, knows that it means a crevasse; the mountaineer +remembers that it is the top of a huge chasm, thirty feet across, and +perhaps ten times as deep, with perpendicular sides of glimmering blue +ice, and fringed by thick rows of enormous pendent icicles. The marks +that are scored in delicate lines, such as might be ruled by a diamond +on glass, have been cut by innumerable streams trickling in hot weather +from the everlasting snow, or ploughed by succeeding avalanches that +have slipped from the huge upper snowfields above. In short, there is no +insignificant line or mark that has not its memory or its indication of +the strange phenomena of the upper world. True, the same picture is +painted upon the retina of all classes of observers; and so Porson and a +schoolboy and a peasant might receive the same physical impression from +a set of black and white marks on the page of a Greek play; but to one +they would be an incoherent conglomeration of unmeaning and capricious +lines, to another they would represent certain sounds more or less +corresponding to some English words; whilst to the scholar they would +reveal some of the noblest poetry in the world, and all the associations +of successful intellectual labour. I do not say that the difference is +quite so great in the case of the mountains; still I am certain that no +one can decipher the natural writing on the face of a snow-slope or a +precipice who has not wandered amongst their recesses, and learnt by +slow experience what is indicated by marks which an ignorant observer +would scarcely notice. True, even one who sees a mountain for the first +time may know that, as a matter of fact, a scar on the face of a cliff +means, for example, a recent fall of a rock; but between the bare +knowledge and the acquaintance with all which that knowledge +implies--the thunder of the fall, the crash of the smaller fragments, +the bounding energy of the descending mass--there is almost as much +difference as between hearing that a battle has been fought and being +present at it yourself. We have all read descriptions of Waterloo till +we are sick of the subject; but I imagine that our emotions on seeing +the shattered well of Hougomont are very inferior to those of one of the +Guard who should revisit the place where he held out for a long day +against the assaults of the French army. + +Now to an old mountaineer the Oberland cliffs are full of memories; and, +more than this, he has learnt the language spoken by every crag and +every wave of glacier. It is strange if they do not affect him rather +more powerfully than the casual visitor who has never been initiated by +practical experience into their difficulties. To him, the huge buttress +which runs down from the Mönch is something more than an irregular +pyramid, purple with white patches at the bottom and pure white at the +top. He fills up the bare outline supplied by the senses with a thousand +lively images. He sees tier above tier of rock, rising in a gradually +ascending scale of difficulty, covered at first by long lines of the +débris that have been splintered by frost from the higher wall, and +afterwards rising bare and black and threatening. He knows instinctively +which of the ledges has a dangerous look--where such a bold mountaineer +as John Lauener might slip on the polished surface, or be in danger of +an avalanche from above. He sees the little shell-like swelling at the +foot of the glacier crawling down the steep slope above, and knows that +it means an almost inaccessible wall of ice; and the steep snowfields +that rise towards the summit are suggestive of something very different +from the picture which might have existed in the mind of a German +student, who once asked me whether it was possible to make the ascent +on a mule. + +Hence, if mountains owe their influence upon the imagination in a great +degree to their size and steepness, and apparent inaccessibility--as no +one can doubt that they do, whatever may be the explanation of the fact +that people like to look at big, steep, inaccessible objects--the +advantages of the mountaineer are obvious. He can measure those +qualities on a very different scale from the ordinary traveler. He +measures the size, not by the vague abstract term of so many thousand +feet, but by the hours of labour, divided into minutes--each separately +felt--of strenuous muscular exertion. The steepness is not expressed in +degrees, but by the memory of the sensation produced when a snow-slope +seems to be rising up and smiting you in the face; when, far away from +all human help, you are clinging like a fly to the slippery side of a +mighty pinnacle in mid air. And as for the inaccessibility, no one can +measure the difficulty of climbing a hill who has not wearied his +muscles and brain in struggling against the opposing obstacles. Alpine +travellers, it is said, have removed the romance from the mountains by +climbing them. What they have really done is to prove that there exists +a narrow line by which a way may be found to the top of any given +mountain; but the clue leads through innumerable inaccessibilities; +true, you can follow one path, but to right and left are cliffs which no +human foot will ever tread, and whose terrors can only be realised when +you are in their immediate neighbourhood. The cliffs of the Matterhorn +do not bar the way to the top effectually, but it is only by forcing a +passage through them that you can really appreciate their terrible +significance. + +Hence I say that the qualities which strike every sensitive observer are +impressed upon the mountaineer with tenfold force and intensity. If he +is as accessible to poetical influences as his neighbours--and I don't +know why he should be less so--he has opened new avenues of access +between the scenery and his mind. He has learnt a language which is but +partially revealed to ordinary men. An artist is superior to an +unlearned picture-seer, not merely because he has greater natural +sensibility, but because he has improved it by methodical experience; +because his senses have been sharpened by constant practice, till he can +catch finer shades of colouring, and more delicate inflexions of line; +because, also, the lines and colours have acquired new significance, and +been associated with a thousand thoughts with which the mass of mankind +has never cared to connect them. The mountaineer is improved by a +similar process. But I know some sceptical critics will ask, does not +the way in which he is accustomed to regard mountains rather deaden +their poetical influence? Doesn't he come to look at them as mere +instruments of sport, and overlook their more spiritual teaching? Does +not all the excitement of personal adventure and the noisy apparatus of +guides, and ropes, and axes, and tobacco, and the fun of climbing, +rather dull his perceptions and incapacitate him from perceiving + + The silence that is in the starry sky, + The sleep that is among the lonely hills? + +Well, I have known some stupid and unpoetical mountaineers; and, since I +have been dismounted from my favourite hobby, I think I have met some +similar specimens among the humbler class of tourists. There are +persons, I fancy, who "do" the Alps; who look upon the Lake of Lucerne +as one more task ticked off from their memorandum book, and count up the +list of summits visible from the Görnergrat without being penetrated +with any keen sense of sublimity. And there are mountaineers who are +capable of making a pun on the top of Mont Blanc--and capable of nothing +more. Still I venture to deny that even punning is incompatible with +poetry, or that those who make the pun can have no deeper feeling in +their bosoms which they are perhaps too shamefaced to utter. + +The fact is that that which gives its inexpressible charm to +mountaineering is the incessant series of exquisite natural scenes, +which are for the most part enjoyed by the mountaineer alone. This is, I +am aware, a round assertion; but I will try to support it by a few of +the visions which are recalled to me by these Oberland cliffs, and which +I have seen profoundly enjoyed by men who perhaps never mentioned them +again, and probably in describing their adventures scrupulously avoided +the danger of being sentimental. + +Thus every traveller has occasionally done a sunrise, and a more +lamentable proceeding than the ordinary view of a sunrise can hardly be +imagined. You are cold, miserable, breakfastless; have risen shivering +from a warm bed, and in your heart long only to creep into bed again. To +the mountaineer all this is changed. He is beginning a day full of the +anticipation of a pleasant excitement. He has, perhaps, been waiting +anxiously for fine weather, to try conclusions with some huge giant not +yet scaled. He moves out with something of the feeling with which a +soldier goes to the assault of a fortress, but without the same +probability of coming home in fragments; the danger is trifling enough +to be merely exhilatory, and to give a pleasant tension to the nerves; +his muscles feel firm and springy, and his stomach--no small advantage +to the enjoyment of scenery--is in excellent order. He looks at the +sparkling stars with keen satisfaction, prepared to enjoy a fine sunrise +with all his faculties at their best, and with the added pleasure of a +good omen for his day's work. Then a huge dark mass begins to mould +itself slowly out of the darkness, the sky begins to form a background +of deep purple, against which the outline becomes gradually more +definite; one by one, the peaks catch the exquisite Alpine glow, +lighting up in rapid succession, like a vast illumination; and when at +last the steady sunlight settles upon them, and shows every rock and +glacier, without even a delicate film of mist to obscure them, he feels +his heart bound, and steps out gaily to the assault--just as the people +on the Rigi are giving thanks that the show is over and that they may +go to bed. Still grander is the sight when the mountaineer has already +reached some lofty ridge, and, as the sun rises, stands between the day +and the night--the valley still in deep sleep, with the mists lying +between the folds of the hills, and the snow-peaks standing out clear +and pale white just before the sun reaches them, whilst a broad band of +orange light runs all round the vast horizon. The glory of sunsets is +equally increased in the thin upper air. The grandest of all such sights +that live in my memory is that of a sunset from the Aiguille du Goûté. +The snow at our feet was glowing with rich light, and the shadows in our +footsteps a vivid green by the contrast. Beneath us was a vast +horizontal floor of thin level mists suspended in mid air, spread like a +canopy over the whole boundless landscape, and tinged with every hue of +sunset. Through its rents and gaps we could see the lower mountains, the +distant plains, and a fragment of the Lake of Geneva lying in a more +sober purple. Above us rose the solemn mass of Mont Blanc in the richest +glow of an Alpine sunset. The sense of lonely sublimity was almost +oppressive, and although half our party was suffering from sickness, I +believe even the guides were moved to a sense of solemn beauty. + +These grand scenic effects are occasionally seen by ordinary travellers, +though the ordinary traveller is for the most part out of temper at 3 +A.M. The mountaineer can enjoy them, both because his frame of mind is +properly trained to receive the natural beauty, and because he alone +sees them with their best accessories, amidst the silence of the eternal +snow, and the vast panoramas visible from the loftier summits. And he +has a similar advantage in most of the great natural phenomena of the +cloud and the sunshine. No sight in the Alps is more impressive than the +huge rocks of a black precipice suddenly frowning out through the chasms +of a storm-cloud. But grand as such a sight may be from the safe +verandahs of the inn at Grindelwald, it is far grander in the silence of +the Central Alps amongst the savage wilderness of rock and snow. +Another characteristic effect of the High Alps often presents itself +when one has been climbing for two or three hours, with nothing in sight +but the varying wreaths of mist that chased each other monotonously +along the rocky ribs up whose snow-covered backbone we were laboriously +fighting our way. Suddenly there is a puff of wind, and looking round we +find that we have in an instant pierced the clouds, and emerged, as it +were, on the surface of the ocean of vapour. Beneath us stretches for +hundreds of miles the level fleecy floor, and above us shines out clear +in the eternal sunshine every mountain, from Mont Blanc to Monte Rosa +and the Jungfrau. What, again, in the lower regions, can equal the +mysterious charm of gazing from the edge of a torn rocky parapet into an +apparently fathomless abyss, where nothing but what an Alpine traveller +calls a "strange formless wreathing of vapour" indicates the storm-wind +that is raging below us? I might go on indefinitely recalling the +strangely impressive scenes that frequently startle the traveller in the +waste upper world; but language is feeble indeed to convey even a +glimmering of what is to be seen to those who have not seen it for +themselves, whilst to them it can be little more than a peg upon which +to hang their own recollections. These glories, in which the mountain +Spirit reveals himself to his true worshippers, are only to be gained by +the appropriate service of climbing--at some risk, though a very +trifling risk, if he is approached with due form and ceremony--into the +furthest recesses of his shrines. And without seeing them, I maintain +that no man has really seen the Alps. + +The difference between the exoteric and the esoteric school of +mountaineers may be indicated by their different view of glaciers. At +Grindelwald, for example, it is the fashion to go and "see the +glaciers"--heaven save the mark! Ladies in costumes, heavy German +professors, Americans doing the Alps at a gallop, Cook's tourists, and +other varieties of a well-known genus, go off in shoals and see--what? +A gigantic mass of ice, strangely torn with a few of the exquisite blue +crevasses, but denied and prostrate in dirt and ruins. A stream foul +with mud oozes out from the base; the whole mass seems to be melting +fast away; the summer sun has evidently got the best of it in these +lower regions, and nothing can resist him but the great mounds of +decaying rock that strew the surface in confused lumps. It is as much +like the glacier of the upper regions as the melting fragments of snow +in a London street are like the surface of the fresh snow that has just +fallen in a country field. And by way of improving its attractions a +perpetual picnic is going on, and the ingenious natives have hewed a +tunnel into the ice, for admission to which they charge certain +centimes. The unlucky glacier reminds me at his latter end of a wretched +whale stranded on a beach, dissolving into masses of blubber, and hacked +by remorseless fishermen, instead of plunging at his ease in the deep +blue water. Far above, where the glacier begins his course, he is seen +only by the true mountaineer. There are vast amphitheatres of pure snow, +of which the glacier known to tourists is merely the insignificant +drainage, but whose very existence they do not generally suspect. They +are utterly ignorant that from the top of the icefall which they visit +you may walk for hours on the eternal ice. After a long climb you come +to the region where the glacier is truly at its noblest; where the +surface is a spotless white; where the crevasses are enormous rents +sinking to profound depths, with walls of the purest blue; where the +glacier is torn and shattered by the energetic forces which mould it, +but has an expression of superabundant power, like a full stream +fretting against its banks and plunging through the vast gorges that it +has hewn for itself in the course of centuries. The bases of the +mountains are immersed in a deluge of cockneyism--fortunately a shallow +deluge--whilst their summits rise high into the bracing air, where +everything is pure and poetical. + +The difference which I have thus endeavoured to indicate is more or +less traceable in a wider sense. The mountains are exquisitely +beautiful, indeed, from whatever points of view we contemplate them; and +the mountaineer would lose much if he never saw the beauties of the +lower valleys, of pasturages deep in flowers, and dark pine-forests with +the summits shining from far off between the stems. Only, as it seems to +me, he has the exclusive prerogative of thoroughly enjoying one--and +that the most characteristic, though by no means only, element of the +scenery. There may be a very good dinner spread before twenty people; +but if nineteen of them were teetotalers, and the twentieth drank his +wine like a man, he would be the only one to do it full justice; the +others might praise the meat or the fruits, but he would alone enjoy the +champagne; and in the great feast which Nature spreads before us (a +stock metaphor, which emboldens me to make the comparison), the high +mountain scenery acts the part of the champagne. Unluckily, too, the +teetotalers are very apt, in this case also, to sit in judgment upon +their more adventurous neighbours. Especially are they pleased to carp +at the views from high summits. I have been constantly asked, with a +covert sneer, "Did it repay you?"--a question which involves the +assumption that one wants to be repaid, as though the labour were not +itself part of the pleasure, and which implies a doubt that the view is +really enjoyable. People are always demonstrating that the lower views +are the most beautiful; and at the same time complaining that +mountaineers frequently turn back without looking at the view from the +top, as though that would necessarily imply that they cared nothing for +scenery. In opposition to which I must first remark that, as a rule, +every step of an ascent has a beauty of its own, which one is quietly +absorbing even when one is not directly making it a subject of +contemplation, and that the view from the top is generally the crowning +glory of the whole. + +It will be enough if I conclude with an attempt to illustrate this last +assertion: and I will do it by still referring to the Oberland. Every +visitor with a soul for the beautiful admires the noble form of the +Wetterhorn--the lofty snow-crowned pyramid rising in such light and yet +massive lines from its huge basement of perpendicular cliffs. The +Wetterhorn has, however, a further merit. To my mind--and I believe most +connoisseurs of mountain tops agree with me--it is one of the most +impressive summits in the Alps. It is not a sharp pinnacle like the +Weisshorn, or a cupola like Mont Blanc, or a grand rocky tooth like the +Monte Rosa, but a long and nearly horizontal knife-edge, which, as seen +from either end, has of course the appearance of a sharp-pointed cone. +It is when balanced upon this ridge--sitting astride of the knife-edge +on which one can hardly stand without giddiness--that one fully +appreciates an Alpine precipice. Mr. Justice Wills has admirably +described the first ascent, and the impression it made upon him, in a +paper which has become classical for succeeding adventurers. Behind you +the snow-slope sinks with perilous steepness towards the wilderness of +glacier and rock through which the ascent has lain. But in front the ice +sinks with even greater steepness for a few feet or yards. Then it +curves over and disappears, and the next thing that the eye catches is +the meadowland of Grindelwald, some 9,000 feet below. I have looked down +many precipices, where the eye can trace the course of every pebble that +bounds down the awful slopes, and where I have shuddered as some +dislodged fragment of rock showed the course which, in case of accident, +fragments of my own body would follow. A precipice is always, for +obvious reasons, far more terrible from above than from below. The +creeping, tingling sensation which passes through one's limbs--even when +one knows oneself to be in perfect safety--testifies to the thrilling +influence of the sight. But I have never so realised the terrors of a +terrific cliff as when I could not see it. The awful gulf which +intervened between me and the green meadows struck the imagination by +its invisibility. It was like the view which may be seen from the ridge +of a cathedral roof, where the eaves have for their immediate +background the pavement of the streets below; only this cathedral was +9,000 feet high. Now, any one standing at the foot of the Wetterhorn may +admire their stupendous massiveness and steepness; but, to feel their +influence enter in the very marrow of one's bones, it is necessary to +stand at the summit, and to fancy the one little slide down the short +ice-slope, to be followed apparently by a bound into clear air and a +fall down to the houses, from heights where only the eagle ventures to +soar. + +This is one of the Alpine beauties, which, of course, is: beyond the +power of art to imitate, and which people are therefore apt to ignore. +But it is not the only one to be seen on the high summits. It is often +said that these views are not "beautiful"--apparently because they won't +go into a picture, or, to put it more fairly, because no picture: can in +the faintest degree imitate them. But without quarrelling about words, I +think that, even if "beautiful" be not the most correct epithet, they +have a marvellously stimulating effect upon the imagination. Let us look +round from this wonderful pinnacle in mid air, and note one or two of +the most striking elements of the scenery. + +You are, in the first place, perched on a cliff, whose presence is the +more felt because it is unseen. Then you are in a region over which +eternal silence is brooding. Not a sound ever comes there, except the +occasional fall of a splintered fragment of rock, or a layer of snow; no +stream is heard trickling, and the sounds of animal life are left +thousands of feet below. The most that you can hear is some mysterious +noise made by the wind eddying round the gigantic rocks; sometimes a +strange flapping sound, as if an unearthly flag were shaking its +invisible folds in the air. The enormous tract of country over which +your view extends--most of it dim and almost dissolved into air by +distance--intensifies the strange influence of the silence. You feel the +force of the line I have quoted from Wordsworth-- + + The sleep that is among the lonely hills. + +None of the travellers whom you can see crawling at your feet has the +least conception of what is meant by the silent solitudes of the High +Alps. To you, it is like a return to the stir of active life, when, +after hours of lonely wandering, you return to hear the tinkling of the +cow-bells below; to them the same sound is the ultimate limit of the +habitable world. + +Whilst your mind is properly toned by these influences, you become +conscious of another fact, to which the common variety of tourists is +necessarily insensible. You begin to find out for the first time what +the mountains really are. On one side, you look back upon the huge +reservoirs from which the Oberland glaciers descend. You see the vast +stores from which the great rivers of Europe are replenished, the +monstrous crawling masses that are carving the mountains into shape, and +the gigantic bulwarks that separate two great quarters of the world. +From below these wild regions are half invisible; they are masked by the +outer line of mountains; and it is not till you are able to command them +from some lofty point that you can appreciate the grandeur of the huge +barriers, and the snow that is piled within their folds. There is +another half of the view equally striking. Looking towards the north, +the whole of Switzerland is couched at your feet; the Jura and the Black +Forest lie on the far horizon. And then you know what is the nature of a +really mountainous country. From below everything is seen in a kind of +distorted perspective. The people of the valley naturally think that the +valley is everything--that the country resembles old-fashioned maps, +where a few sporadic lumps are distributed amongst towns and plains. The +true proportions reveal themselves as you ascend. The valleys, you can +now see, are nothing but narrow trenches scooped out amidst a tossing +waste of mountain, just to carry off the drainage. The great ridges run +hither and thither, having it all their own way, wild and untamable +regions of rock or open grass or forest, at whose feet the valleys exist +on sufferance. Creeping about amongst the roots of the hills, you half +miss the hills themselves; you quite fail to understand the massiveness +of the mountain chains, and, therefore, the wonderful energy of the +forces that have heaved the surface of the world into these distorted +shapes. And it is to a half-conscious sense of the powers that must have +been at work that a great part of the influence of mountain scenery is +due. Geologists tell us that a theory of catastrophes is +unphilosophical; but, whatever may be the scientific truth, our minds +are impressed as though we were witnessing the results of some +incredible convulsion. At Stonehenge we ask what human beings could have +erected these strange grey monuments, and in the mountains we +instinctively ask what force can have carved out the Matterhorn, and +placed the Wetterhorn on its gigantic pedestal. Now, it is not till we +reach some commanding point that we realise the amazing extent of +country over which the solid ground has been shaking and heaving itself +in irresistible tumult. + +Something, it is true, of this last effect may be seen from such +mountains as the Rigi or the Faulhorn. There, too, one seems to be at +the centre of a vast sphere, the earth bending up in a cup-like form to +meet the sky, and the blue vault above stretching in an arch majestical +by its enormous extent. There you seem to see a sensible fraction of the +world at your feet. But the effect is far less striking when other +mountains obviously look down upon you; when, as it were, you are +looking at the waves of the great ocean of hills merely from the crest +of one of the waves themselves, and not from some lighthouse that rises +far over their heads; for the Wetterhorn, like the Eiger, Mönch, and +Jungfrau, owes one great beauty to the fact that it is on the edge of +the lower country, and stands between the real giants and the crowd of +inferior, though still enormous, masses in attendance upon them. And, in +the next place, your mind is far better adapted to receive impressions +of sublimity when you are alone, in a silent region, with a black sky +above and giant cliffs all round; with a sense still in your mind, if +not of actual danger, still of danger that would become real with the +slightest relaxation of caution, and with the world divided from you by +hours of snow and rock. + +I will go no further, not because I have no more to say, but because +descriptions of scenery soon become wearisome, and because I have, I +hope, said enough to show that the mountaineer may boast of some +intellectual pleasures; that he is not a mere scrambler, but that he +looks for poetical impressions, as well as for such small glory as his +achievements may gain in a very small circle. Something of what he gains +fortunately sticks by him: he does not quite forget the mountain +language; his eye still recognises the space and the height and the +glory of the lofty mountains. And yet there is some pain in wandering +ghostlike among the scenes of his earlier pleasures. For my part, I try +in vain to hug myself in a sense of comfort. I turn over in bed when I +hear the stamping of heavily nailed shoes along the passage of an inn +about 2 A.M. I feel the skin of my nose complacently when I see others +returning with a glistening tight aspect about that unluckily prominent +feature, and know that in a day or two it will be raw and blistered and +burning. I think, in a comfortable inn at night, of the miseries of +those who are trying to sleep in damp hay, or on hard boards of châlets, +at once cold and stuffy and haunted by innumerable fleas. I congratulate +myself on having a whole skin and unfractured bones, and on the small +danger of ever breaking them over an Alpine precipice. But yet I +secretly know that these consolations are feeble. It is little use to +avoid early rising and discomfort, and even fleas, if one also loses the +pleasures to which they were the sauce--rather too _piquante_ a sauce +occasionally, it must be admitted. The philosophy is all very well which +recommends moderate enjoyment, regular exercise, and a careful avoidance +of risk and over-excitement. That is, it is all very well so long as +risk and excitement and immoderate enjoyment are out of your power; but +it does not stand the test of looking on and seeing them just beyond +your reach. In time, no doubt, a man may grow calm; he may learn to +enjoy the pleasures and the exquisite beauties of the lower +regions--though they, too, are most fully enjoyed when they have a +contrast with beauties of a different, and pleasures of a keener +excitement. When first debarred, at any rate, one feels like a balloon +full of gas, and fixed by immovable ropes to the prosaic ground. It is +pleasant to lie on one's back in a bed of rhododendrons, and look up to +a mountain top peering at one from above a bank of cloud; but it is +pleasantest when one has qualified oneself for repose by climbing the +peak the day before and becoming familiar with its terrors and its +beauties. In time, doubtless, one may get reconciled to anything; one +may settle down to be a caterpillar, even after one has known the +pleasures of being a butterfly; one may become philosophical, and have +one's clothes let out; and even in time, perhaps--though it is almost +too terrible to contemplate--be content with a mule or a carriage, or +that lowest depth to which human beings can sink, and for which the +English language happily affords no name, a _chaise à porteurs:_ and +even in such degradation the memory of better times may be pleasant; for +I doubt much whether it is truth the poet sings-- + + That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. + +Certainly, to a philosophical mind, the sentiment is doubtful. For my +part, the fate which has cut me off, if I may use the expression, in the +flower of my youth, and doomed me to be a non-climbing animal in future, +is one which ought to exclude grumbling. I cannot indicate it more +plainly, for I might so make even the grumbling in which I have already +indulged look like a sin. I can only say that there are some very +delightful things in which it is possible to discover an infinitesimal +drop of bitterness, and that the mountaineer who undertakes to cut +himself off from his favourite pastime, even for reasons which he will +admit in his wildest moods to be more than amply sufficient, must expect +at times to feel certain pangs of regret, however quickly they may be +smothered. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 33: From "The Playground of Europe," 1871.] + + + + +BEHAVIOR[34] + +RALPH WALDO EMERSON + + +The soul which animates nature is not less significantly published in +the figure, movement, and gesture of animated bodies, than in its last +vehicle of articulate speech. This silent and subtle language is +Manners; not _what_, but _how_. Life expresses. A statue has no tongue, +and needs none. Good tableaux do not need declamation. Nature tells +every secret once. Yes, but in man she tells it all the time, by form, +attitude, gesture, mien, face, and parts of the face, and by the whole +action of the machine. The visible carriage or action of the individual, +as resulting from his organization and his will combined, we call +manners. What are they but thought entering the hands and feet, +controlling the movements of the body, the speech and behavior? + +There is always a best way of doing everything, if it be to boil an egg. +Manners are the happy ways of doing things; each once a stroke of genius +or of love,--now repeated and hardened into usage. They form at last a +rich varnish, with which the routine of life is washed, and its details +adorned. If they are superficial, so are the dew-drops which give such a +depth to the morning meadows. Manners are very communicable: men catch +them from each other. Consuelo, in the romance, boasts of the lessons +she had given the nobles in manners, on the stage: and, in real life, +Talma taught Napoleon the arts of behavior. Genius invents fine manners, +which the baron and the baroness copy very fast, and, by the advantage +of a palace, better the instruction. They stereotype the lesson they +have learned into a mode. + +The power of manners is incessant,--an element as unconcealable as +fire. The nobility cannot in any country be disguised, and no more in a +republic or a democracy than in a kingdom. No man can resist their +influence. There are certain manners which are learned in good society, +of that force, that, if a person have them, he or she must be +considered, and is everywhere welcome, though without beauty, or wealth, +or genius. Give a boy address and accomplishments, and you give him the +mastery of palaces and fortunes where he goes. He has not the trouble of +earning or owning them; they solicit him to enter and possess. We send +girls of a timid, retreating disposition to the boarding-school, to the +riding-school, to the ballroom, or wheresoever they can come into +acquaintance and nearness of leading persons of their own sex; where +they might learn address, and see it near at hand. The power of a woman +of fashion to lead, and also to daunt and repel, derives from their +belief that she knows resources and behaviors not known to them; but +when these have mastered her secret, they learn to confront her, and +recover their self-possession. + +Every day bears witness to their gentle rule. People who would obtrude, +now do not obtrude. The mediocre circle learns to demand that which +belongs to a high state of nature or of culture. Your manners are always +under examination, and by committees little suspected,--a police in +citizen's clothes,--but are awarding or denying you very high prizes +when you least think of it. + +We talk much of utilities,--but 'tis our manners that associate us. In +hours of business, we go to him who knows, or has, or does this or that +which we want, and we do not let our taste or feeling stand in the way. +But this activity over, we return to the indolent state, and wish for +those we can be at ease with; those who will go where we go, whose +manners do not offend us, whose social tone chimes with ours. When we +reflect on their persuasive and cheering force; how they recommend, +prepare, and draw people together; how, in all clubs, manners make the +members; how manners make the fortune of the ambitious youth; that, for +the most part, his manners marry him, and, for the most part, he marries +manners; when we think what keys they are, and to what secrets; what +high lessons and inspiring tokens of character they convey; and what +divination is required in us, for the reading of this fine telegraph; we +see what range the subject has, and what relations to convenience, +power, and beauty. + +Their first service is very low,--when they are the minor morals; but +'tis the beginning of civility,--to make us, I mean, endurable to each +other. We prize them for their rough-plastic, abstergent force; to get +people out of the quadruped state; to get them washed, clothed, and set +up on end; to slough their animal husks and habits; compel them to be +clean; overawe their spite and meanness, teach them to stifle the base, +and choose the generous expression, and make them know how much happier +the generous behaviors are. + +Bad behavior the laws cannot reach. Society is invested with rude, +cynical, restless, and frivolous persons who prey upon the rest, and +whom a public opinion concentrated into good manners, forms accepted by +the sense of all, can reach;--the contradictors and railers at public +and private tables, who are like terriers, who conceive it the duty of a +dog of honor to growl at any passer-by, and do the honors of the house +by barking him out of sight;--I have seen men who neigh like a horse +when you contradict them, or say something which they do not +understand;--then the overbold, who make their own invitation to your +hearth; the persevering talker, who gives you his society in large, +saturating doses; the pitiers of themselves,--a perilous class; the +frivolous Asmodeus, who relies on you to find him in ropes of sand to +twist; the monotones; in short, every stripe of absurdity;--these are +social inflictions which the magistrate cannot cure or defend you from, +and which must be intrusted to the restraining force of custom, and +proverbs, and familiar rules of behavior impressed on young people in +their school-days. + +In the hotels on the banks of the Mississippi, they print, or used to +print, among the rules of the house, that "No gentleman can be permitted +to come to the public table without his coat;" and in the same country, +in the pews of the churches, little placards plead with the worshipper +against the fury of expectoration. Charles Dickens self-sacrificingly +undertook the reformation of our American manners in unspeakable +particulars. I think the lesson was not quite lost; that it held bad +manners up, so that the churls could see the deformity. Unhappily, the +book had its own deformities. It ought not to need to print in a reading +room a caution to strangers not to speak loud; nor to persons who look +over fine engravings, that they should be handled like cobwebs and +butterflies' wings; nor to persons who look at marble statues, that they +shall not smite them with canes. But, even in the perfect civilization +of this city, such cautions are not quite needless in the Athenaeum and +City Library. + +Manners are factitious, and grow out of circumstances as well as out of +character. If you look at the pictures of patricians and of peasants, of +different periods and countries, you will see how well they match the +same classes in our towns. The modern aristocrat not only is well drawn +in Titian's Venetian doges, and in Roman coins and statues, but also in +the pictures which Commodore Perry brought home of dignitaries in Japan. +Broad lands and great interests not only arrive to such heads as can +manage them, but form manners of power. A keen eye, too, will see nice +gradations of rank, or see in the manners the degree of homage the party +is wont to receive. A prince who is accustomed every day to be courted +and deferred to by the highest grandees, acquires a corresponding +expectation, and a becoming mode of receiving and replying to this +homage. + +There are always exceptional people and modes. English grandees affect +to be farmers. Claverhouse is a fop, and, under the finish of dress, and +levity of behavior, hides the terror of his war. But Nature and Destiny +are honest, and never fail to leave their mark, to hang out a sign for +each and for every quality. It is much to conquer one's face, and +perhaps the ambitious youth thinks he has got the whole secret when he +has learned that disengaged manners are commanding. Don't be deceived by +a facile exterior. Tender men sometimes have strong wills. We had, in +Massachusetts, an old statesman, who had sat all his life in courts and +in chairs of state, without overcoming an extreme irritability of face, +voice, and bearing: when he spoke, his voice would not serve him; it +cracked, it broke, it wheezed, it piped;--little cared he; he knew that +it had got to pipe, or wheeze, or screech his argument and his +indignation. When he sat down, after speaking, he seemed in a sort of +fit, and held on to his chair with both hands: but underneath all this +irritability was a puissant will, firm and advancing, and a memory in +which lay in order and method, like geologic strata, every fact of his +history, and under the control of his will. + +Manners are partly factitious, but, mainly, there must be capacity for +culture in the blood. Else all culture is vain. The obstinate prejudice +in favor of blood, which lies at the base of the feudal and monarchical +fabrics of the old world, has some reason in common experience. Every +man,--mathematician, artist, soldier, or merchant,--looks with +confidence for some traits and talents in his own child, which he would +not dare to presume in the child of a stranger. The Orientalists are +very orthodox on this point. "Take a thorn-bush," said the emir +Abdel-Kader, "and sprinkle it for a whole year with water, it will yield +nothing but thorns. Take a date-tree, leave it without culture, and it +will always produce dates. Nobility is the date-tree, and the Arab +populace is a bush of thorns." + +A main fact in the history of manners is the wonderful expressiveness of +the human body. If it were made of glass, or of air, and the thoughts +were written on steel tablets within, it could not publish more truly +its meaning than now. Wise men read very sharply all your private +history in your look and gait and behavior. The whole economy of nature +is bent on expression. The tell-tale body is all tongues. Men are like +Geneva watches with crystal faces which expose the whole movement. They +carry the liquor of life flowing up and down in these beautiful bottles, +and announcing to the curious how it is with them. The face and eyes +reveal what the spirit is doing, how old it is, what aims it has. The +eyes indicate the antiquity of the soul, or through how many forms it +has already ascended. It almost violates the proprieties, if we say +above the breath here what the confessing eyes do not hesitate to utter +to every street passenger. + +Man cannot fix his eye on the sun, and so far seems imperfect. In +Siberia, a late traveller found men who could see the satellites of +Jupiter with their unarmed eye. In some respects the animals excel us. +The birds have a longer sight, beside the advantage by their wings of a +higher observatory. A cow can bid her calf, by secret signal, probably +of the eye, to run away, or to lie down and hide itself. The jockeys say +of certain horses, that "they look over the whole ground." The outdoor +life, and hunting, and labor, give equal vigor to the human eye. A +farmer looks out at you as strong as the horse; his eye-beam is like the +stroke of a staff. An eye can threaten like a loaded and levelled gun, +or can insult like hissing or kicking; or, in its altered mood, by beams +of kindness, it can make the heart dance with joy. + +The eye obeys exactly the action of the mind. When a thought strikes us, +the eyes fix, and remain gazing at a distance; in enumerating the names +of persons or of countries, as France, Germany, Spain, Turkey, the eyes +wink at each new name. There is no nicety of learning sought by the +mind, which the eyes do not vie in acquiring. "An artist," said Michael +Angelo, "must have his measuring tools not in the hand, but in the eye;" +and there is no end to the catalogue of its performances, whether in +indolent vision (that of health and beauty) or in strained vision (that +of art and labor). + +Eyes are bold as lions,--roving, running, leaping, here and there, far +and near. They speak all languages. They wait for no introduction; they +are no Englishmen; ask no leave of age or rank; they respect neither +poverty nor riches, neither learning nor power, nor virtue, nor sex, but +intrude, and come again, and go through and through you, in a moment of +time. What inundation of life and thought is discharged from one soul +into another through them! The glance is natural magic. The mysterious +communication established across a house between two entire strangers +moves all the springs of wonder. The communication by the glance is in +the greatest part not subject to the control of the will. It is the +bodily symbol of identity of nature. We look into the eyes to know if +this other form is another self, and the eyes will not lie, but make a +faithful confession what inhabitant is there. The revelations are +sometimes terrific. The confession of a low, usurping devil is there +made, and the observer shall seem to feel the stirring of owls, and +bats, and horned hoofs, where he looked for innocence and simplicity. +'Tis remarkable, too, that the spirit that appears at the windows of the +house does at once invest himself in a new form of his own to the mind +of the beholder. + +The eyes of men converse as much as their tongues, with the advantage, +that the ocular dialect needs no dictionary, but is understood all the +world over. When the eyes say one thing, and the tongue another, a +practised man relies on the language of the first. If the man is off his +center, the eyes show it. You can read in the eyes of your companion, +whether your argument hits him, though his tongue will not confess it. +There is a look by which a man shows he is going to say a good thing, +and a look when he has said it. Vain and forgotten are all the fine +offers and offices of hospitality, if there is no holiday in the eye. +How many furtive inclinations avowed by the eye, though dissembled by +the lips! One comes away from a company, in which, it may easily happen, +he has said nothing, and no important remark has been addressed to him, +and yet, if in sympathy with the society he shall not have a sense of +this fact, such a stream of life has been flowing into him, and out from +him, through the eyes. There are eyes, to be sure, that give no more +admission into the man than blue-berries. Others are liquid and +deep,--wells that a man might fall into;--others are aggressive and +devouring, seem to call out the police, take all too much notice, and +require crowded Broadways, and the security of millions, to protect +individuals against them. The military eye I meet, now darkly sparkling +under clerical, now under rustic brows. 'Tis the city of Lacedaemon; +'tis a stack of bayonets. There are asking eyes, asserting eyes, +prowling eyes; and eyes full of fate,--some of good, and some of +sinister omen. The alleged power to charm down insanity, or ferocity in +beasts, is a power behind the eye. It must be a victory achieved in the +will before it can be signified in the eye. 'Tis very certain that each +man carries in his eye the exact indication of his rank in the immense +scale of men, and we are always learning to read it. A complete man +should need no auxiliaries to his personal presence. Whoever looked on +him would consent to his will, being certified that his aims were +generous and universal. The reason why men do not obey us, is because +they see the mud at the bottom of our eye. + +If the organ of sight is such a vehicle of power, the other features +have their own. A man finds room in the few square inches of the face +for the traits of all his ancestors; for the expression of all his +history, and his wants. The sculptor, and Winckelmann, and Lavater, will +tell you how significant a feature is the nose; how its forms express +strength or weakness of will, and good or bad temper. The nose of Julius +Caesar, of Dante, and of Pitt, suggest "the terrors of the beak." What +refinement, and what limitations, the teeth betray! "Beware you don't +laugh," said the wise mother, "for then you show all your faults." + +Balzac left in manuscript a chapter, which he called "_Théorie de la +démarche_,"[35] in which he says: "The look, the voice, the respiration, +and the attitude or walk, are identical. But, as it has not been given +to man, the power to stand guard, at once, over these four different +simultaneous expressions of his thought, watch that one which speaks out +the truth, and you will know the whole man." + +Palaces interest us mainly in the exhibition of manners, which, in the +idle and expensive society dwelling in them, are raised to a high art. +The maxim of courts is, that manner is power. A calm and resolute +bearing, a polished speech, an embellishment of trifles, and the art of +hiding all uncomfortable feeling, are essential to the courtier: and +Saint Simon, and Cardinal de Retz, and Roederer, and an encyclopaedia of +_Mémoires_, will instruct you, if you wish, in those potent secrets. +Thus, it is a point of pride with kings to remember faces and names. It +is reported of one prince, that his head had the air of leaning +downwards, in order not to humble the crowd. There are people who come +in ever like a child with a piece of good news. It was said of the late +Lord Holland, that he always came down to breakfast with the air of a +man who had just met with some signal good-fortune. In _Notre Dame_, the +grandee took his place on the dais, with the look of one who is thinking +of something else. But we must not peep and eavesdrop at palace-doors. + +Fine manners need the support of fine manners in others. A scholar may +be a well-bred man, or he may not. The enthusiast is introduced to +polished scholars in society, and is chilled and silenced by finding +himself not in their element. They all have somewhat which he has not, +and, it seems, ought to have. But if he finds the scholar apart from his +companions, it is then the enthusiast's turn, and the scholar has no +defence, but must deal on his terms. Now they must fight the battle out +on their private strengths. What is the talent of that character so +common,--the successful man of the world,--in all marts, senates, and +drawing-rooms? Manners: mariners of power; sense to see his advantage, +and manners up to it. See him approach his man. He knows that troops +behave as they are handled at first;--that is his cheap secret; just +what happens to every two persons who meet on any affair,--one +instantly perceives that he has the key of the situation, that his will +comprehends the other's will, as the cat does the mouse; and he has only +to use courtesy, and furnish good-natured reasons to his victim to cover +up the chain, lest he be shamed into resistance. + +The theater in which this science of manners has a formal importance is +not with us a court, but dress-circles, wherein, after the close of the +day's business, men and women meet at leisure, for mutual entertainment, +in ornamented drawing-rooms. Of course, it has every variety of +attraction and merit; but, to earnest persons, to youths or maidens who +have great objects at heart, we cannot extol it highly. A well-dressed, +talkative company, where each is bent to amuse the other,--yet the +high-born Turk who came hither fancied that every woman seemed to be +suffering for a chair; that all the talkers were brained and exhausted +by the deoxygenated air; it spoiled the best persons: it put all on +stilts. Yet here are the secret biographies written and read. The aspect +of that man is repulsive; I do not wish to deal with him. The other is +irritable, shy, and on his guard. The youth looks humble and manly: I +choose him. Look on this woman. There is not beauty, nor brilliant +sayings, nor distinguished power, to serve you; but all see her gladly; +her whole air and impression are healthful. Here come the +sentimentalists, and the invalids. Here is Elise, who caught cold in +coming into the world, and has always increased it since. Here are +creep-mouse manners, and thievish manners. "Look at Northcote," said +Fuseli; "he looks like a rat that has seen a cat." In the shallow +company, easily excited, easily tired, here is the columnar Bernard: the +Alleghanies do not express more repose than his behavior. Here are the +sweet following eyes of Cecile: it seemed always that she demanded the +heart. Nothing can be more excellent in kind than the Corinthian grace +of Gertrude's manners, and yet Blanche, who has no manners, has better +manners than she; for the movements of Blanche are the sallies of a +spirit which is sufficient for the moment, and she can afford to +express every thought by instant action. + +Manners have been somewhat cynically defined to be a contrivance of wise +men to keep fools at a distance. Fashion is shrewd to detect those who +do not belong to her train, and seldom wastes her attentions. Society is +very swift in its instincts, and, if you do not belong to it, resists +and sneers at you; or quietly drops you. The first weapon enrages the +party attacked; the second is still more effective, but is not to be +resisted, as the date of the transaction is not easily found. People +grow up and grow old under this infliction, and never suspect the truth, +ascribing the solitude which acts on them very injuriously to any cause +but the right one. + +The basis of good manners is self-reliance. Necessity is the law of all +who are not self-possessed. Those who are not self-possessed, obtrude, +and pain us. Some men appear to feel that they belong to a Pariah caste. +They fear to offend, they bend and apologize, and walk through life with +a timid step. As we sometimes dream that we are in a well-dressed +company without any coat, so Godfrey acts ever as if he suffered from +some mortifying circumstance. The hero should find himself at home, +wherever he is; should impart comfort by his own security and +good-nature to all beholders. The hero is suffered to be himself. A +person of strong mind comes to perceive that for him an immunity is +secured so long as he renders to society that service which is native +and proper to him,--an immunity from all the observances, yea, and +duties, which society so tyrannically imposes on the rank and file of +its members. "Euripides," says Aspasia, "has not the fine manners of +Sophocles; but,"--she adds good-humoredly, "the movers and masters of +our souls have surely a right to throw out their limbs as carelessly as +they please on the world that belongs to them, and before the creatures +they have animated."[36] + +Manners require time, as nothing is more vulgar than haste. Friendship +should be surrounded with ceremonies and respects, and not crushed into +corners. Friendship requires more time than poor busy men can usually +command. Here comes to me Roland, with a delicacy of sentiment leading +and inwrapping him like a divine cloud or holy ghost. Tis a great +destitution to both that this should not be entertained with large +leisures, but, contrariwise, should be balked by importunate affairs. + +But through this lustrous varnish the reality is ever shining. 'Tis hard +to keep the _what_ from breaking through this pretty painting of the +_how_. The core will come to the surface. Strong will and keen +perception overpower old manners and create new; and the thought of the +present moment has a greater value than all the past. In persons of +character, we do not remark manners, because of their instantaneousness. +We are surprised by the thing done, out of all power to watch the way of +it. Yet nothing is more charming than to recognize the great style which +runs through the actions of such. People masquerade before us in their +fortunes, titles, offices, and connections, as academic or civil +presidents, or senators, or professors, or great lawyers, and impose on +the frivolous, and a good deal on each other, by these fames. At least, +it is a point of prudent good manners to treat these reputations +tenderly, as if they were merited. But the sad realist knows these +fellows at a glance, and they know him; as when in Paris the chief of +the police enters a ballroom, so many diamonded pretenders shrink and +make themselves as inconspicuous as they can, or give him a supplicating +look as they pass. "I had received," said a sybil, "I had received at +birth the fatal gift of penetration:"--and these Cassandras are always +born. + +Manners impress as they indicate real power. A man who is sure of his +point, carries a broad and contented expression, which everybody reads. +And you cannot rightly train one to an air and manner, except by making +him the kind of man of whom that manner is the natural expression. +Nature for ever puts a premium on reality. What is done for effect, is +seen to be done for effect; what is done for love, is felt to be done +for love. A man inspires affection and honor, because he was not lying +in wait for these. The things of a man for which we visit him, were done +in the dark and the cold. A little integrity is better than any career. +So deep are the sources of this surface-action, that even the size of +your companion seems to vary with his freedom of thought. Not only is he +larger, when at ease, and his thoughts generous, but everything around +him becomes variable with expression. No carpenter's rule, no rod and +chain, will measure the dimensions of any house or house-lot: go into +the house: if the proprietor is constrained and deferring, 'tis of no +importance how large his house, how beautiful his grounds,--you quickly +come to the end of all; but if the man is self-possessed, happy, and at +home, his house is deep-founded, indefinitely large and interesting, the +roof and dome buoyant as the sky. Under the humblest roof, the commonest +person in plain clothes sits there massive, cheerful, yet formidable, +like the Egyptian colossi. + +Neither Aristotle, nor Leibnitz, nor Junius, nor Champollion has set +down the grammar-rules of this dialect, older than Sanscrit; but they +who cannot yet read English, can read this. Men take each other's +measure when they meet for the first time,--and every time they meet. +How do they get this rapid knowledge, even before they speak, of each +other's power and dispositions? One would say, that the persuasion of +their speech is not in what they say,--or, that men do not convince by +their argument,--but by their personality, by who they are, and what +they said and did heretofore. A man already strong is listened to, and +everything he says is applauded. Another opposes him with sound +argument, but the argument is scouted, until by-and-by it gets into the +mind of some weighty person; then it begins to tell on the community. + +Self-reliance is the basis of behavior, as it is the guaranty that the +powers are not squandered in too much demonstration. In this country, +where school education is universal, we have a superficial culture, and +a profusion of reading and writing and expression. We parade our +nobilities in poems and orations, instead of working them up into +happiness. There is a whisper out of the ages to him who can understand +it,--"Whatever is known to thyself alone, has always very great value." +There is some reason to believe, that, when a man does not write his +poetry, it escapes by other vents through him, instead of the one vent +of writing; clings to his form and manners, whilst poets have often +nothing poetical about them except their verses. Jacobi said that, "when +a man has fully expressed his thought, he has somewhat less possession +of it." One would say, the rule is,--What a man is irresistibly urged to +say, helps him and us. In explaining his thought to others, he explains +it to himself: but when he opens it for show, it corrupts him. + +Society is the stage on which manners are shown; novels are their +literature. Novels are the journal or record of manners; and the new +importance of these books derives from the fact, that the novelist +begins to penetrate the surface, and treats this part of life more +worthily. The novels used to be all alike, and had a quite vulgar tone. +The novels used to lead us on to a foolish interest in the fortunes of +the boy and girl they described. The boy was to be raised from a humble +to a high position. He was in want of a wife and a castle, and the +object of the story was to supply him with one or both. We watched +sympathetically, step by step, his climbing, until, at last, the point +is gained, the wedding day is fixed, and we follow the gala procession +home to the castle, when the doors are slammed in our face, and the poor +reader is left outside in the cold, not enriched by so much as an idea, +or a virtuous impulse. + +But the victories of character are instant, and victories for all. Its +greatness enlarges all. We are fortified by every heroic anecdote. The +novels are as useful as Bibles, if they teach you the secret, that the +best of life is conversation, and the greatest success is confidence, or +perfect understanding between sincere people. 'Tis a French definition +of friendship, _rien que s'entendre_, good understanding. The highest +compact we can make with our fellow is,--"Let there be truth between us +two for evermore." That is the charm in all good novels, as it is the +charm in all good histories, that the heroes mutually understand, from +the first, and deal loyally, and with a profound trust in each other. It +is sublime to feel and say of another, I need never meet, or speak, or +write to him: we need not reinforce ourselves, or send tokens of +remembrance: I rely on him as on myself: if he did thus or thus, I know +it was right. + +In all the superior people I have met, I notice directness, truth spoken +more truly, as if everything of obstruction, of malformation, had been +trained away. What have they to conceal? What have they to exhibit? +Between simple and noble persons, there is always a quick intelligence: +they recognize at sight, and meet on a better ground than the talents +and skills they may chance to possess, namely, on sincerity and +uprightness. For, it is not what talents or genius a man has, but how he +is to his talents, that constitutes friendship and character. The man +that stands by himself, the universe stands by him also. It is related +of the monk Basle, that, being excommunicated by the Pope, he was, at +his death, sent in charge of an angel to find a fit place of suffering +in hell; but, such was the eloquence and good-humor of the monk, that, +wherever he went, he was received gladly, and civilly treated, even by +the most uncivil angels: and, when he came to discourse with them, +instead of contradicting or forcing him, they took his part, and adopted +his manners: and even good angels came from far to see him, and take up +their abode with him. The angel that was sent to find a place of torment +for him, attempted to remove him to a worse pit, but with no better +success; for such was the contented spirit of the monk, that he found +something to praise in every place and company, though in hell, and made +a kind of heaven of it. At last the escorting angel returned with his +prisoner to them that sent him, saying, that no phlegethon could be +found that would burn him; for that, in whatever condition, Basle +remained incorrigibly Basle. The legend says, his sentence was remitted, +and he was allowed to go into heaven, and was canonized as a saint. + +There is a stroke of magnanimity in the correspondence of Bonaparte with +his brother Joseph, when the latter was King of Spain, and complained +that he missed in Napoleon's letters the affectionate tone which had +marked their childish correspondence. "I am sorry," replies Napoleon, +"you think you shall find your brother again only in the Elysian Fields. +It is natural that at forty he should not feel towards you as he did at +twelve. But his feelings towards you have greater truth and strength. +His friendship has the features of his mind." + +How much we forgive to those who yield us the rare spectacle of heroic +manners! We will pardon them the want of books, of arts, and even of the +gentler virtues. How tenaciously we remember them! Here is a lesson +which I brought along with me in boyhood from the Latin School, and +which ranks with the best of Roman anecdotes. Marcus Scaurus was accused +by Quintus Varius Hispanus, that he had excited the allies to take arms +against the Republic. But he, full of firmness and gravity, defended +himself in this manner: "Quintus Varius Hispanus alleges that Marcus +Scaurus, President of the Senate, excited the allies to arms: Marcus +Scaurus, President of the Senate, denies it. There is no witness. Which +do you believe, Romans?" "_Utri creditis, Quirites?_" When he had said +these words, he was absolved by the assembly of the people. + +I have seen manners that make a similar impression with personal beauty; +that give the like exhilaration, and refine us like that; and, in +memorable experiences, they are suddenly better than beauty, and make +that superfluous and ugly. But they must be marked by fine perception, +the acquaintance with real beauty. They must always show self-control: +you shall not be facile, apologetic, or leaky, but king over your word; +and every gesture and action shall indicate power at rest. Then they +must be inspired by the good heart. There is no beautifier of +complexion, or form, or behavior, like the wish to scatter joy and not +pain around us. 'Tis good to give a stranger a meal, or a night's +lodging. 'Tis better to be hospitable to his good meaning and thought, +and give courage to a companion. We must be as courteous to a man as we +are to a picture, which we are willing to give the advantage of a good +light. Special precepts are not to be thought of: the talent of +well-doing contains them all. Every hour will show a duty as paramount +as that of my whim just now; and yet I will write it,--that there is one +topic peremptorily forbidden to all well-bred, to all rational mortals, +namely, their distempers. If you have not slept, or if you have slept, +or if you have headache, or sciatica, or leprosy, or thunder-stroke, I +beseech you, by all angels, to hold your peace, and not pollute the +morning, to which all the housemates bring serene and pleasant thoughts, +by corruption and groans. Come out in the azure. Love the day. Do not +leave the sky out of your landscape. The oldest and the most deserving +person should come very modestly into any newly awaked company, +respecting the divine communications, out of which all must be presumed +to have newly come. An old man who added an elevating culture to a large +experience of life, said to me, "When you come into the room, I think I +will study how to make humanity beautiful to you." + +As respects the delicate question of culture, I do not think that any +other than negative rules can be laid down. For positive rules, for +suggestion, nature alone inspires it. Who dare assume to guide a youth, +a maid, to perfect manners?--the golden mean is so delicate, +difficult,--say frankly unattainable. What finest hands would not be +clumsy to sketch the genial precepts of the young girl's demeanor? The +chances seem infinite against success; and yet success is continually +attained. There must not be secondariness, and 'tis a thousand to one +that her air and manner will at once betray that she is not primary, but +that there is some other one or many of her class, to whom she +habitually postpones herself. But nature lifts her easily, and without +knowing it, over these impossibilities, and we are continually surprised +with graces and felicities not only unteachable, but undescribable. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 34: Chapter V of "The Conduct of Life," 1860.] + +[Footnote 35: Theory of gait and demeanor.] + +[Footnote 36: From Landor's "Pericles and Aspasia."] + + + + +MANNERS AND FASHION[37] + +HERBERT SPENCER + + +Some who shun drawing-rooms do so from inability to bear the restraints +prescribed by a genuine refinement, and they would be greatly improved +by being kept under these restraints. But it is not less true that, by +adding to the legitimate restraints, which are based on convenience and +a regard for others, a host of factitious restraints based only on +convention, the refining discipline, which would else have been borne +with benefit, is rendered unbearable, and so misses its end. Excess of +government invariably defeats itself by driving away those to be +governed. And if over all who desert its entertainments in disgust +either at their emptiness or their formality, society thus loses its +salutary influence--if such not only fail to receive that moral culture +which the company of ladies, when rationally regulated, would give them, +but, in default of other relaxation, are driven into habits and +companionships which often end in gambling and drunkenness; must we not +say that here, too, is an evil not to be passed over as insignificant? + +Then consider what a blighting effect these multitudinous preparations +and ceremonies have upon the pleasures they profess to subserve. Who, on +calling to mind the occasions of his highest social enjoyments, does not +find them to have been wholly informal, perhaps impromptu? How +delightful a picnic of friends, who forget all observances save those +dictated by good nature! How pleasant the little unpretended gatherings +of book-societies, and the like; or those purely accidental meetings of +a few people well known to each other! Then, indeed, we may see that "a +man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend." Cheeks flush, and eyes +sparkle. The witty grow brilliant, and even the dull are excited into +saying good things. There is an overflow of topics; and the right +thought, and the right words to put it in, spring up unsought. Grave +alternates with gay: now serious converse, and now jokes, anecdotes, and +playful raillery. Everyone's best nature is shown, everyone's best +feelings are in pleasurable activity; and, for the time, life seems well +worth having. + +Go now and dress for some half-past eight dinner, or some ten o'clock +"at home;" and present yourself in spotless attire, with every hair +arranged to perfection. How great the difference! The enjoyment seems in +the inverse ratio of the preparation. These figures, got up with such +finish and precision, appear but half alive. They have frozen each other +by their primness; and your faculties feel the numbing effects of the +atmosphere the moment you enter it. All those thoughts, so nimble and so +apt awhile since, have disappeared--have suddenly acquired a +preternatural power of eluding you. If you venture a remark to your +neighbour, there comes a trite rejoinder, and there it ends. No subject +you can hit upon outlives half a dozen sentences. Nothing that is said +excites any real interest in you; and you feel that all you say is +listened to with apathy. By some strange magic, things that usually give +pleasure seem to have lost all charm. + +You have a taste for art. Weary of frivolous talk, you turn to the +table, and find that the book of engravings and the portfolio of +photographs are as flat as the conversation. You are fond of music. Yet +the singing, good as it is, you hear with utter indifference; and say +"Thank you" with a sense of being a profound hypocrite. Wholly at ease +though you could be, for your own part, you find that your sympathies +will not let you. You see young gentlemen feeling whether their ties are +properly adjusted, looking vacantly round, and considering what they +shall do next. You see ladies sitting disconsolately, waiting for some +one to speak to them, and wishing they had the wherewith to occupy their +fingers. You see the hostess standing about the doorway, keeping a +factitious smile on her face, and racking her brain to find the +requisite nothings with which to greet her guests as they enter. You see +numberless traits of weariness and embarrassment; and, if you have any +fellow-feeling, these cannot fail to produce a feeling of discomfort. +The disorder is catching; and do what you will you cannot resist the +general infection. You struggle against it; you make spasmodic efforts +to be lively; but none of your sallies or your good stories do more than +raise a simper or a forced laugh: intellect and feeling are alike +asphyxiated. And when, at length, yielding to your disgust, you rush +away, how great is the relief when you get into the fresh air, and see +the stars! How you "Thank God, that's over!" and half resolve to avoid +all such boredom for the future! + +What, now, is the secret of this perpetual miscarriage and +disappointment? Does not the fault lie with all these needless +adjuncts--these elaborate dressings, these set forms, these expensive +preparations, these many devices and arrangements that imply trouble and +raise expectation? Who that has lived thirty years in the world has not +discovered that Pleasure is coy; and must not be too directly pursued, +but must be caught unawares? An air from a street-piano, heard while at +work, will often gratify more than the choicest music played at a +concert by the most accomplished musicians. A single good picture seen +in a dealer's window, may give keener enjoyment than a whole exhibition +gone through with catalogue and pencil. By the time we have got ready +our elaborate apparatus by which to secure happiness, the happiness is +gone. It is too subtle to be contained in these receivers, garnished +with compliments, and fenced round with etiquette. The more we multiply +and complicate appliances, the more certain are we to drive it away. + +The reason is patent enough. These higher emotions to which social +intercourse ministers, are of extremely complex nature; they +consequently depend for their production upon very numerous conditions; +the more numerous the conditions, the greater the liability that one or +other of them will be disturbed, and the emotions consequently +prevented. It takes a considerable misfortune to destroy appetite; but +cordial sympathy with those around may be extinguished by a look or a +word. Hence it follows, that the more multiplied the _unnecessary_ +requirements with which social intercourse is surrounded, the less +likely are its pleasures to be achieved. It is difficult enough to +fulfil continuously all the _essentials_ to a pleasurable communion with +others: how much more difficult, then, must it be continuously to fulfil +a host of _non-essentials_ also! It is, indeed, impossible. The attempt +inevitably ends in the sacrifice of the first to the last--the +essentials to the non-essentials. What chance is there of getting any +genuine response from the lady who is thinking of your stupidity in +taking her in to dinner on the wrong arm? How are you likely to have +agreeable converse with the gentleman who is fuming internally because +he is not placed next to the hostess? Formalities, familiar as they may +become, necessarily occupy attention--necessarily multiply the occasions +for mistake, misunderstanding, and jealousy, on the part of one or +other--necessarily distract all minds from the thoughts and feelings +that should occupy them--necessarily, therefore, subvert those +conditions under which only any sterling intercourse is to be had. + +And this indeed is the fatal mischief which these conventions entail--a +mischief to which every other is secondary. They destroy those highest +of our pleasures which they profess to subserve. All institutions are +alike in this, that however useful, and needful even, they originally +were, they not only in the end cease to be so, but become detrimental. +While humanity is growing, they continue fixed; daily get more +mechanical and unvital; and by and by tend to strangle what they before +preserved. It is not simply that they become corrupt and fail to act; +they become obstructions. Old forms of government finally grow so +oppressive, that they must be thrown off even at the risk of reigns of +terror. Old creeds end in being dead formulas, which no longer aid but +distort and arrest the general mind; while the State-churches +administering them, come to be instruments for subsidising conservatism +and repressing progress. Old schemes of education, incarnated in public +schools and colleges, continue filling the heads of new generations with +what has become relatively useless knowledge, and, by consequence, +excluding knowledge which is useful. Not an organisation of any +kind--political, religious, literary, philanthropic--but what, by its +ever-multiplying regulations, its accumulating wealth, its yearly +addition of officers, and the creeping into it of patronage and party +feeling, eventually loses its original spirit, and sinks into a mere +lifeless mechanism, worked with a view to private ends--a mechanism +which not merely fails of its first purpose, but is a positive hindrance +to it. + +Thus is it, too, with social usages. We read of the Chinese that they +have "ponderous ceremonies transmitted from time immemorial," which make +social intercourse a burden. The court forms prescribed by monarchs for +their own exaltation, have, in all times and places, ended in consuming +the comfort of their lives. And so the artificial observances of the +dining-room and saloon, in proportion as they are many and strict, +extinguish that agreeable communion which they were originally intended +to secure. The dislike with which people commonly speak of society that +is "formal," and "stiff," and "ceremonious," implies the general +recognition of this fact; and this recognition, logically developed, +involves that all usages of behaviour which are not based on natural +requirements, are injurious. That these conventions defeat their own +ends is no new assertion. Swift, criticising the manners of his day, +says--"Wise men are often more uneasy at the over-civility of these +refiners than they could possibly be in the conversation of peasants and +mechanics." + +But it is not only in these details that the self-defeating action of +our arrangements is traceable: it is traceable in the very substance and +nature of them. Our social intercourse, as commonly managed, is a mere +semblance of the reality sought. What is it that we want? Some +sympathetic converse with our fellow-creatures: some converse that shall +not be mere dead words, but the vehicle of living thoughts and +feelings--converse in which the eyes and the face shall speak, and the +tones of the voice be full of meaning--converse which shall make us feel +no longer alone, but shall draw us closer to another, and double our own +emotions by adding another's to them. Who is there that has not, from +time to time, felt how cold and flat is all this talk about politics and +science, and the new books and the new men, and how a genuine utterance +of fellow-feeling outweighs the whole of it? Mark the words of +Bacon:--"For a crowd is not a company, and faces are but a gallery of +pictures, and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love." + +If this be true, then it is only after acquaintance has grown into +intimacy, and intimacy has ripened into friendship, that the real +communion which men need becomes possible. A rationally-formed circle +must consist almost wholly of those on terms of familiarity and regard, +with but one or two strangers. What folly, then, underlies the whole +system of our grand dinners, our "at homes," our evening +parties--assemblages made up of many who never met before, many others +who just bow to each other, many others who though familiar feel mutual +indifference, with just a few real friends lost in the general mass! You +need, but look round at the artificial expression of face, to see at +once how it is. All have their disguises on; and how can there be +sympathy between masks? No wonder that in private every one exclaims +against the stupidity of these gatherings. No wonder that hostesses get +them up rather because they must than because they wish. No wonder that +the invited go less from the expectation of pleasure than from fear of +giving offence. The whole thing is a gigantic mistake--an organised +disappointment. + +And then note, lastly, that in this case, as in all others, when an +organisation has become effete and inoperative for its legitimate +purpose, it is employed for quite other ones--quite opposite ones. What +is the usual plea put in for giving and attending these tedious +assemblies? "I admit that they are stupid and frivolous enough," replies +every man to your criticisms; "but then, you know, one must keep up +one's connections." And could you get from his wife a sincere answer, it +would be--"Like you, I am sick of these frivolities; but then, we must +get our daughters married." The one knows that there is a profession to +push, a practice to gain, a business to extend: or parliamentary +influence, or county patronage, or votes, or office, to be got: +position, berths, favours, profit. The other's thoughts run upon +husbands and settlements, wives and dowries. Worthless for their +ostensible purpose of daily bringing human beings into pleasurable +relations with each other, these cumbrous appliances of our social +intercourse are now perseveringly kept in action with a view to the +pecuniary and matrimonial results which they indirectly produce. + +Who then shall say that the reform of our system of observances is +unimportant? When we see how this system induces fashionable +extravagance, with its entailed bankruptcy and ruin--when we mark how +greatly it limits the amount of social intercourse among the less +wealthy classes--when we find that many who most need to be disciplined +by mixing with the refined are driven away by it, and led into dangerous +and often fatal courses--when we count up the many minor evils it +inflicts, the extra work which its costliness entails on all +professional and mercantile men, the damage to public taste in dress and +decoration by the setting up of its absurdities as standards for +imitation, the injury to health indicated in the faces of its devotees +at the close of the London season, the mortality of milliners and the +like, which its sudden exigencies yearly involve;--and when to all +these we add its fatal sin, that it blights, withers up, and kills that +high enjoyment it professedly ministers to--that enjoyment which is a +chief end of our hard struggling in life to obtain--shall we not +conclude that to reform our system of etiquette and fashion, is an aim +yielding to few in urgency? + +There needs, then, a protestantism in social usages. Forms that have +ceased to facilitate and have become obstructive--whether political, +religious, or other--have ever to be swept away; and eventually are so +swept away in all cases. Signs are not wanting that some change is at +hand. A host of satirists, led on by Thackeray, have been for years +engaged in bringing our sham-festivities, and our fashionable follies, +into contempt; and in their candid moods, most men laugh at the +frivolities with which they and the world in general are deluded. +Ridicule has always been a revolutionary agent. That which is habitually +assailed with sneers and sarcasms cannot long survive. Institutions that +have lost their roots in men's respect and faith are doomed; and the day +of their dissolution is not far off. The time is approaching, then, when +our system of social observances must pass through some crisis, out of +which it will come purified and comparatively simple. + +How this crisis will be brought about, no one can with any certainty +say. Whether by the continuance and increase of individual protests, or +whether by the union of many persons for the practice and propagation of +some better system, the future alone can decide. The influence of +dissentients acting without cooperation, seems, under the present state +of things, inadequate. Standing severally alone, and having no +well-defined views; frowned on by conformists, and expostulated with +even by those who secretly sympathise with them; subject to petty +persecutions, and unable to trace any benefit produced by their example; +they are apt, one by one, to give up their attempts as hopeless. The +young convention-breaker eventually finds that he pays too heavily for +his nonconformity. Hating, for example, everything that bears about it +any remnant of servility, he determines, in the ardour of his +independence, that he will uncover to no one. But what he means simply +as a general protest, he finds that ladies interpret into a personal +disrespect. Though he sees that, from the days of chivalry downwards, +these marks of supreme consideration paid to the other sex have been but +a hypocritical counterpart to the actual subjection in which men have +held them--a pretended submission to compensate for a real domination; +and though he sees that when the true dignity of women is recognised, +the mock dignities given to them will be abolished, yet he does not like +to be thus misunderstood, and so hesitates in his practice. + +In other cases, again, his courage fails him. Such of his +unconventionalities as can be attributed only to eccentricity, he has no +qualms about: for, on the whole, he feels rather complimented than +otherwise in being considered a disregarder of public opinion. But when +they are liable to be put down to ignorance, to ill-breeding, or to +poverty, he becomes a coward. However clearly the recent innovation of +eating some kinds of fish with knife and fork proves the fork-and-bread +practice to have had little but caprice for its basis, yet he dares not +wholly ignore that practice while fashion partially maintains it. Though +he thinks that a silk handkerchief is quite as appropriate for +drawing-room use as a white cambric one, he is not altogether at ease in +acting out his opinion. Then, too, be begins to perceive that his +resistance to prescription brings round disadvantageous results which he +had not calculated upon. He had expected that it would save him from a +great deal of social intercourse of a frivolous kind--that it would +offend the fools, but not the sensible people; and so would serve as a +self-acting test by which those worth knowing would be separated from +those not worth knowing. But the fools prove to be so greatly in the +majority that, by offending them, he closes against himself nearly all +the avenues through which the sensible people are to be reached. Thus he +finds that his nonconformity is frequently misinterpreted; that there +are but few directions in which he dares to carry it consistently out; +that the annoyances and disadvantages which it brings upon him are +greater than he anticipated; and that the chances of his doing any good +are very remote. Hence he gradually loses resolution, and lapses, step +by step, into the ordinary routine of observances. + +Abortive as individual protests thus generally turn out, it may possibly +be that nothing effectual will be done until there arises some organised +resistance to this invisible despotism, by which our modes and habits +are dictated. It may happen, that the government of Manners and Fashion +will be rendered less tyrannical, as the political and religious +governments have been, by some antagonistic union. Alike in Church and +State, men's first emancipations from excess of restriction were +achieved by numbers, bound together by a common creed, or a common +political faith. What remained undone while there were but individual +schismatics or rebels, was effected when there came to be many acting in +concert. It is tolerably clear that these earliest instalments of +freedom could not have been obtained in any other way; for so long as +the feeling of personal independence was weak and the rule strong, there +could never have been a sufficient number of separate dissentients to +produce the desired results. Only in these later times, during which the +secular and spiritual controls have been growing less coercive, and the +tendency towards individual liberty greater, has it become possible for +smaller and smaller sects and parties to fight against established +creeds and laws; until now men may safely stand even alone in their +antagonism. + +The failure of individual nonconformity to customs, as above +illustrated, suggests that an analogous series of changes may have to be +gone through in this case also. It is true that the _lex non scripta_ +differs from the _lex scripta_ in this, that, being unwritten, it is +more readily altered; and that it has, from time to time, been quietly +ameliorated. Nevertheless, we shall find that the analogy holds +substantially good. For in this case, as in the others, the essential +revolution is not the substituting of any one set of restraints for any +other, but the limiting or abolishing the authority which prescribes +restraints. Just as the fundamental change inaugurated by the +Reformation, was not a superseding of one creed by another, but an +ignoring of the arbiter who before dictated creeds--just as the +fundamental change which Democracy long ago commenced, was not from this +particular law to that, but from the despotism of one to the freedom of +all; so, the parallel change yet to be wrought out in this supplementary +government of which we are treating, is not the replacing of absurd +usages by sensible ones, but the dethronement of that secret, +irresponsible power which now imposes our usages, and the assertion of +the right of all individuals to choose their own usages. In rules of +living, a West-end clique is our Pope; and we are all papists, with but +a mere sprinkling of heretics. On all who decisively rebel, comes down +the penalty of excommunication, with its long catalogue of disagreeable +and, indeed, serious consequences. + +The liberty of the subject asserted in our constitution, and ever on the +increase, has yet to be wrested from this subtler tyranny. The right of +private judgment, which our ancestors wrung from the church, remains to +be claimed from this dictator of our habits. Or, as before said, to free +us from these idolatries and superstitious conformities, there has still +to come a protestantism in social usages. Parallel, therefore, as is the +change to be wrought out, it seems not improbable that it may be wrought +out in an analogous way. That influence which solitary dissentients fail +to gain, and that perseverance which they lack, may come into existence +when they unite. That persecution which the world now visits upon them +from mistaking their nonconformity for ignorance or disrespect, may +diminish when it is seen to result from principle. The penalty which +exclusion now entails may disappear when they become numerous enough to +form visiting circles of their own. And when a successful stand has +been made, and the brunt of the opposition has passed, that large amount +of secret dislike to our observances which now pervades society, may +manifest itself with sufficient power to effect the desired +emancipation. + +Whether such will be the process, time alone can decide. That community +of origin, growth, supremacy, and decadence which we have found among +all kinds of government, suggests a community in modes of change also. +On the other hand, Nature often performs substantially similar +operations, in ways apparently different. Hence these details can never +be foretold. + +Society, in all its developments, undergoes the process of exuviation. +These old forms which it successively throws off, have all been once +vitally united with it--have severally served as the protective +envelopes within which a higher humanity was being evolved. They are +cast aside only when they become hindrances--only when some inner and +better envelope has been formed; and they bequeath to us all that there +was in them of good. The periodical abolitions of tyrannical laws have +left the administration of justice not only uninjured, but purified. +Dead and buried creeds have not carried with them the essential morality +they contained, which still exists, uncontaminated by the sloughs of +superstition. And all that there is of justice and kindness and beauty, +embodied in our cumbrous forms of etiquette, will live perennially when +the forms themselves have been forgotten. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 37: From "Illustrations of Universal Progress," 1864.] + + + + +TALK AND TALKERS[38] + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + + +"Sir, we had a good talk."--JOHNSON. + +"As we must account for every idle word, so we must for every idle +silence."--FRANKLIN. + +There can be no fairer ambition than to excel in talk; to be affable, +gay, ready, clear and welcome; to have a fact, a thought, or an +illustration, pat to every subject; and not only to cheer the flight of +time among our intimates, but bear our part in that great international +congress, always sitting, where public wrongs are first declared, public +errors first corrected, and the course of public opinion shaped, day by +day, a little nearer to the right. No measure comes before Parliament +but it has been long ago prepared by the grand jury of the talkers; no +book is written that has not been largely composed by their assistance. +Literature in many of its branches is no other than the shadow of good +talk; but the imitation falls far short of the original in life, +freedom, and effect. There are always two to a talk, giving and taking, +comparing experience and according conclusions. Talk is fluid, +tentative, continually "in further search and progress;" while written +words remain fixed, become idols even to the writer, found wooden +dogmatisms, and preserve flies of obvious error in the amber of the +truth. Last and chief, while literature, gagged with linsey-woolsey, can +only deal with a fraction of the life of man, talk goes fancy free and +may call a spade a spade. It cannot, even if it would, become merely +aesthetic or merely classical like literature. A jest intervenes, the +solemn humbug is dissolved in laughter, and speech runs forth out of the +contemporary groove into the open fields of nature, cheery and cheering, +like schoolboys out of school. And it is in talk alone that we can learn +our period and ourselves. In short, the first duty of a man is to speak; +that is his chief business in this world; and talk, which is the +harmonious speech of two or more, is by far the most accessible of +pleasures. It costs nothing in money; it is all profit; it completes our +education, founds and fosters our friendships, and can be enjoyed at any +age and in almost any state of health. + +The spice of life is battle; the friendliest relations are still a kind +of contest; and if we would not forego all that is valuable in our lot, +we must continually face some other person, eye to eye, and wrestle a +fall whether in love or enmity. It is still by force of body, or power +of character or intellect, that we attain to worthy pleasures. Men and +women contend for each other in the lists of love, like rival +mesmerists; the active and adroit decide their challenges in the sports +of the body; and the sedentary sit down to chess or conversation. All +sluggish and pacific pleasures are, to the same degree, solitary and +selfish; and every durable bond between human beings is founded in or +heightened by some element of competition. Now, the relation that has +the least root in matter is undoubtedly that airy one of friendship; and +hence, I suppose, it is that good talk most commonly arises among +friends. Talk is, indeed, both the scene and instrument of friendship. +It is in talk alone that the friends can measure strength, and enjoy +that amicable counter-assertion of personality which is the gauge of +relations and the sport of life. + +A good talk is not to be had for the asking. Humours must first be +accorded in a kind of overture or prologue; hour, company and +circumstance be suited; and then, at a fit juncture, the subject, the +quarry of two heated minds, springs up like a deer out of the wood. Not +that the talker has any of the hunter's pride, though he has all and +more than all his ardour. The genuine artist follows the stream of +conversation as an angler follows the windings of a brook, not dallying +where he fails to "kill." He trusts implicitly to hazard; and he is +rewarded by continual variety, continual pleasure, and those changing +prospects of the truth that are the best of education. There is nothing +in a subject, so called, that we should regard it as an idol, or follow +it beyond the promptings of desire. Indeed, there are few subjects; and +so far as they are truly talkable, more than the half of them may be +reduced to three: that I am I, that you are you, and that there are +other people dimly understood to be not quite the same as either. +Wherever talk may range, it still runs half the time on these eternal +lines. The theme being set, each plays on himself as on an instrument; +asserts and justifies himself; ransacks his brain for instances and +opinions, and brings them forth new-minted, to his own surprise and the +admiration of his adversary. All natural talk is a festival of +ostentation; and by the laws of the game each accepts and fans the +vanity of the other. It is from that reason that we venture to lay +ourselves so open, that we dare to be so warmly eloquent, and that we +swell in each other's eyes to such a vast proportion. For talkers, once +launched, begin to overflow the limits of their ordinary selves, tower +up to the height of their secret pretensions, and give themselves out +for the heroes, brave, pious, musical, and wise, that in their most +shining moments they aspire to be. So they weave for themselves with +words and for a while inhabit a palace of delights, temple at once and +theatre, where they fill the round of the world's dignities, and feast +with the gods, exulting in Kudos.[39] And when the talk is over, each +goes his way, still flushed with vanity and admiration, still trailing +clouds of glory; each declines from the height of his ideal orgy, not in +a moment, but by slow declension. I remember, in the _entr'acte_ of an +afternoon performance, coming forth into the sunshine, in a beautiful +green, gardened corner of a romantic city; and as I sat and smoked, the +music moving in my blood, I seemed to sit there and evaporate _The +Flying Dutchman_ (for it was that I had been hearing) with a wonderful +sense of life, warmth, well-being, and pride; and the noises of the +city, voices, bells and marching feet, fell together in my ears like a +symphonious orchestra. In the same way, the excitement of a good talk +lives for a long while after in the blood, the heart still hot within +you, the brain still simmering, and the physical earth swimming around +you with the colours of the sunset. + +Natural talk, like ploughing, should turn up a large surface of life, +rather than dig mines into geological strata. Masses of experience, +anecdote, incident, cross-lights, quotation, historical instances, the +whole flotsam and jetsam of two minds forced in and in upon the matter +in hand from every point of the compass, and from every degree of mental +elevation and abasement--these are the material with which talk is +fortified, the food on which the talkers thrive. Such argument as is +proper to the exercise should still be brief and seizing. Talk should +proceed by instances; by the apposite, not the expository. It should +keep close along the lines of humanity, near the bosoms and businesses +of men, at the level where history, fiction and experience intersect and +illuminate each other. I am I, and You are You, with all my heart; but +conceive how these lean propositions change and brighten when, instead +of words, the actual you and I sit cheek by jowl, the spirit housed in +the live body, and the very clothes uttering voices to corroborate the +story in the face. Not less surprising is the change when we leave off +to speak of generalities--the bad, the good, the miser, and all the +characters of Theophrastus--and call up other men, by anecdote or +instance, in their very trick and feature; or trading on a common +knowledge, toss each other famous names, still glowing with the hues of +life. Communication is no longer by words, but by the instancing of +whole biographies, epics, systems of philosophy, and epochs of history, +in bulk. That which is understood excels that which is spoken in +quantity and quality alike; ideas thus figured and personified, change +hands, as we may say, like coin; and the speakers imply without effort +the most obscure and intricate thoughts. Strangers who have a large +common ground of reading will, for this reason, come the sooner to the +grapple of genuine converse. If they know Othello and Napoleon, Consuelo +and Clarissa Harlowe, Vautrin and Steenie Steenson, they can leave +generalities and begin at once to speak by figures. + +Conduct and art are the two subjects that arise most frequently and that +embrace the widest range of facts. A few pleasures bear discussion for +their own sake, but only those which are most social or most radically +human; and even these can only be discussed among their devotees. A +technicality is always welcome to the expert, whether in athletics, art, +or law; I have heard the best kind of talk on technicalities from such +rare and happy persons as both know and love their business. No human +being ever spoke of scenery for above two minutes at a time, which makes +me suspect we hear too much of it in literature. The weather is regarded +as the very nadir and scoff of conversational topics. And yet the +weather, the dramatic element in scenery, is far more tractable in +language, and far more human both in import and suggestion than the +stable features of the landscape. Sailors and shepherds, and the people +generally of coast and mountain, talk well of it; and it is often +excitingly presented in literature. But the tendency of all living talk +draws it back and back into the common focus of humanity. Talk is a +creature of the street and market-place, feeding on gossip; and its last +resort is still in a discussion on morals. That is the heroic form of +gossip; heroic in virtue of its high pretensions; but still gossip, +because it turns on personalities. You can keep no men long, nor +Scotchmen at all, off moral or theological discussion. These are to all +the world what law is to lawyers; they are everybody's technicalities; +the medium through which all consider life, and the dialect in which +they express their judgments. I knew three young men who walked together +daily for some two months in a solemn and beautiful forest and in +cloudless summer weather; daily they talked with unabated zest, and yet +scarce wandered that whole time beyond two subjects--theology and love. +And perhaps neither a court of love[40] nor an assembly of divines would +have granted their premises or welcomed their conclusions. + +Conclusions, indeed, are not often reached by talk any more than by +private thinking. That is not the profit. The profit is in the exercise, +and above all in the experience; for when we reason at large on any +subject, we review our state and history in life. From time to time, +however, and specially, I think, in talking art, talk becomes effective, +conquering like war, widening the boundaries of knowledge like an +exploration. A point arises; the question takes a problematical, a +baffling, yet a likely air; the talkers begin to feel lively +presentiments of some conclusion near at hand; towards this they strive +with emulous ardour, each by his own path, and struggling for first +utterance; and then one leaps upon the summit of that matter with a +shout, and almost at the same moment the other is beside him; and behold +they are agreed. Like enough, the progress is illusory, a mere cat's +cradle having been wound and unwound out of words. But the sense of +joint discovery is none the less giddy and inspiriting. And in the life +of the talker such triumphs, though imaginary, are neither few nor far +apart; they are attained with speed and pleasure, in the hour of mirth; +and by the nature of the process, they are always worthily shared. + +There is a certain attitude combative at once and deferential, eager to +fight yet most averse to quarrel, which marks out at once the talkable +man. It is not eloquence, not fairness, not obstinacy, but a certain +proportion of all of these that I love to encounter in my amicable +adversaries. They must not be pontiffs holding doctrine, but huntsmen +questing after elements of truth. Neither must they be boys to be +instructed, but fellow-teachers with whom I may wrangle and agree on +equal terms. We must reach some solution, some shadow of consent; for +without that, eager talk becomes a torture. But we do not wish to reach +it cheaply, or quickly, or without the tussle and effort Wherein +pleasure lies. + +The very best talker, with me, is one whom I shall call Spring-Heel'd +Jack. I say so, because I never knew any one who mingled so largely the +possible ingredients of converse. In the Spanish proverb, the fourth man +necessary to compound a salad, is a madman to mix it: Jack is that +madman. I know not which is more remarkable: the insane lucidity of his +conclusions, the humorous eloquence of his language, or his power of +method, bringing the whole of life into the focus of the subject +treated, mixing the conversational salad like a drunken god. He doubles +like the serpent, changes and flashes like the shaken kaleidoscope, +transmigrates bodily into the views of others, and so, in the twinkling +of an eye and with a heady rapture, turns questions inside out and +flings them empty before you on the ground, like a triumphant conjuror. +It is my common practice when a piece of conduct puzzles me, to attack +it in the presence of Jack with such grossness, such partiality and such +wearing iteration, as at length shall spur him up in its defence. In a +moment he transmigrates, dons the required character, and with +moonstruck philosophy justifies the act in question. I can fancy nothing +to compare with the _vim_ of these impersonations, the strange scale of +language, flying from Shakespeare to Kant, and from Kant to Major +Dyngwell-- + + "As fast as a musician scatters sounds + Out of an instrument--" + +the sudden, sweeping generalisations, the absurd irrelevant +particularities, the wit, wisdom, folly, humour, eloquence and bathos, +each startling in its kind, and yet all luminous in the admired disorder +of their combination. A talker of a different calibre, though belonging +to the same school, is Burly. Burly is a man of great presence; he +commands a larger atmosphere, gives the impression of a grosser mass of +character than most men. It has been said of him that his presence could +be felt in a room you entered blindfold; and the same, I think, has been +said of other powerful constitutions condemned to much physical +inaction. There is something boisterous and piratic in Burly's manner of +talk which suits well enough with this impression. He will roar you +down, he will bury his face in his hands, he will undergo passions of +revolt and agony; and meanwhile his attitude of mind is really both +conciliatory and receptive; and after Pistol has been out-Pistol'd, and +the welkin rung for hours, you begin to perceive a certain subsidence in +these spring torrents, points of agreement issue, and you end +arm-in-arm, and in a glow of mutual admiration. The outcry only serves +to make your final union the more unexpected and precious. Throughout +there has been perfect sincerity, perfect intelligence, a desire to hear +although not always to listen, and an unaffected eagerness to meet +concessions. You have, with Burly, none of the dangers that attend +debate with Spring-Heel'd Jack; who may at any moment turn his powers of +transmigration on yourself, create for you a view you never held, and +then furiously fall on you for holding it. These, at least, are my two +favourites, and both are loud, copious, intolerant talkers. This argues +that I myself am in the same category; for if we love talking at all, we +love a bright, fierce adversary, who will hold his ground, foot by foot, +in much our own manner, sell his attention dearly, and give us our full +measure of the dust and exertion of battle. Both these men can be beat +from a position, but it takes six hours to do it; a high and hard +adventure, worth attempting. With both you can pass days in an +enchanted country of the mind, with people, scenery and manners of its +own; live a life apart, more arduous, active and glowing than any real +existence; and come forth again when the talk is over, as out of a +theatre or a dream, to find the east wind still blowing and the +chimney-pots of the old battered city still around you. Jack has the far +finer mind, Burly the far more honest; Jack gives us the animated +poetry, Burly the romantic prose, of similar themes; the one glances +high like a meteor and makes a light in darkness; the other, with many +changing hues of fire, burns at the sea-level, like a conflagration; but +both have the same humour and artistic interests, the same unquenched +ardour in pursuit, the same gusts of talk and thunderclaps of +contradiction. + +Cockshot[41] is a different article, but vastly entertaining, and has +been meat and drink to me for many a long evening. His manner is dry, +brisk and pertinacious, and the choice of words not much. The point +about him is his extraordinary readiness and spirit. You can propound +nothing but he has either a theory about it ready-made, or will have one +instantly on the stocks, and proceed to lay its timbers and launch it in +your presence. "Let me see," he will say. "Give me a moment. I _should_ +have some theory for that." A blither spectacle than the vigour with +which he sets about the task, it were hard to fancy. He is possessed by +a demoniac energy, welding the elements for his life, and bending ideas, +as an athlete bends a horseshoe, with a visible and lively effort. He +has, in theorising, a compass, an art; what I would call the synthetic +gusto; something of a Herbert Spencer, who should see the fun of the +thing. You are not bound, and no more is he, to place your faith in +these brand-new opinions. But some of them are right enough, durable +even for life; and the poorest serve for a cock-shy--as when idle +people, after picnics, float a bottle on a pond and have an hour's +diversion ere, it sinks. Whichever they are, serious opinions or humours +of the moment, he still defends his ventures with indefatigable wit and +spirit, hitting savagely himself, but taking punishment like a man. He +knows and never forgets that people talk, first of all, for the sake of +talking; conducts himself in the ring, to use the old slang, like a +thorough "glutton," and honestly enjoys a telling facer from his +adversary. Cockshot is bottled effervescency, the sworn foe of sleep. +Three-in-the-morning Cockshot, says a victim. His talk is like the +driest of all imaginable dry champagnes. Sleight of hand and inimitable +quickness are the qualities by which he lives. Athelred, on the other +hand, presents you with the spectacle of a sincere and somewhat slow +nature thinking aloud. He is the most unready man I ever knew to shine +in conversation. You may see him sometimes wrestle with a refractory +jest for a minute or two together, and perhaps fail to throw it in the +end. And there is something singularly engaging, often instructive, in +the simplicity with which he thus exposes the process as well as the +result, the works as well as the dial of the clock. Withal he has his +hours of inspiration. Apt words come to him as if by accident, and, +coming from deeper down, they smack the more personally, they have the +more of fine old crusted humanity, rich in sediment and humour. There +are sayings of his in which he has stamped himself into the very grain +of the language; you would think he must have worn the words next his +skin and slept with them. Yet it is not as a sayer of particular good +things that Athelred is most to be regarded, rather as the stalwart +woodman of thought. I have pulled on a light cord often enough, while he +has been wielding the broad-axe; and between us, on this unequal, +division, many a specious fallacy has fallen. I have known him to battle +the same question night after night for years, keeping it in the reign +of talk, constantly applying it and re-applying it to life with humorous +or grave intention, and all the while, never hurrying, nor flagging, nor +taking an unfair advantage of the facts. Jack at a given moment, when +arising, as it were, from the tripod, can be more radiantly just to +those from whom he differs; but then the tenor of his thoughts is even +calumnious; while Athelred, slower to forge excuses, is yet slower to +condemn, and sits over the welter of the world, vacillating but still +judicial, and still faithfully contending with his doubts. + +Both the last talkers deal much in points of conduct and religion +studied in the "dry light" of prose. Indirectly and as if against his +will the same elements from time to time appear in the troubled and +poetic talk of Opalstein. His various and exotic knowledge, complete +although unready sympathies, and fine, full, discriminative flow of +language, fit him out to be the best of talkers; so perhaps he is with +some, not _quite_ with me--_proxime accessit_,[42] I should say. He +sings the praises of the earth and the arts, flowers and jewels, wine +and music, in a moonlight, serenading manner, as to the light guitar; +even wisdom comes from his tongue like singing; no one is, indeed, more +tuneful in the upper notes. But even while he sings the song of the +Sirens, he still hearkens to the barking of the Sphinx. Jarring Byronic +notes interrupt the flow of his Horatian humours. His mirth has +something of the tragedy of the world for its perpetual background; and +he feasts like Don Giovanni to a double orchestra, one lightly sounding +for the dance, one pealing Beethoven in the distance. He is not truly +reconciled either with life or with himself; and this instant war in his +members sometimes divides the man's attention. He does not always, +perhaps not often, frankly surrender himself in conversation. He brings +into the talk other thoughts than those which he expresses; you are +conscious that he keeps an eye on something else, that he does not shake +off the world, nor quite forget himself. Hence arise occasional +disappointments; even an occasional unfairness for his companions, who +find themselves one day giving too much, and the next, when they are +wary out of season, giving perhaps too little. Purcel is in another +class from any I have mentioned. He is no debater, but appears in +conversation, as occasion rises, in two distinct characters, one of +which I admire and fear, and the other love. In the first, he is +radiantly civil and rather silent, sits on a high, courtly hilltop, and +from that vantage-ground drops you his remarks like favours. He seems +not to share in our sublunary contentions; he wears no sign of interest; +when on a sudden there falls in a crystal of wit, so polished that the +dull do not perceive it, but so right that the sensitive are silenced. +True talk should have more body and blood, should be louder, vainer and +more declaratory of the man; the true talker should not hold so steady +an advantage over whom he speaks with; and that is one reason out of a +score why I prefer my Purcel in his second character, when he unbends +into a strain of graceful gossip, singing like the fireside kettle. In +these moods he has an elegant homeliness that rings of the true Queen +Anne. I know another person who attains, in his moments, to the +insolence of a Restoration comedy, speaking, I declare, as Congreve +wrote; but that is a sport of nature, and scarce falls under the rubric, +for there is none, alas! to give him answer. + +One last remark occurs: It is the mark of genuine conversation that the +sayings can scarce be quoted with their full effect beyond the circle of +common friends. To have their proper weight they, should appear in a +biography, and with the portrait of the speaker. Good talk is dramatic; +it is like an impromptu piece of acting where each should represent +himself to the greatest advantage; and that is the best kind of talk +where each speaker is most fully and candidly himself, and where, if you +were to shift the speeches, round from one to another, there would be +the greatest loss in significance and perspicuity. It is for this reason +that talk depends so wholly on our company. We should like to introduce +Falstaff and Mercutio, or Falstaff and Sir Toby; but Falstaff in talk +with Cordelia seems even painful. Most of us, by the Protean quality of +man, can talk to some degree with all; but the true talk, that strikes +out all the slumbering best of us, comes only with the peculiar +brethren of our spirits, is founded as deep as love in the constitution +of our being, and is a thing to relish with all our energy, while yet we +have it, and to be grateful for forever. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 38: The first of two papers on this subject written in 1881-2; +reprinted here, by permission of the publishers, from "Memories and +Portraits" in the Biographical Edition of Stevenson's Works, Charles +Scribner's Sons, 1907.] + +[Footnote 39: Kudos (Greek): glory.] + +[Footnote 40: Court of love: a mediaeval institution for the discussion +of questions of chivalry.] + +[Footnote 41: The Late Fleeming Jenkin--Author's note.] + +[Footnote 42: Proxime accessit: he comes very close to it.] + + + + +THE SOCIAL VALUE OF THE COLLEGE-BRED[43] + +WILLIAM JAMES + + +Of what use is a college training? We who have had it seldom hear the +question raised--we might be a little nonplussed to answer it offhand. A +certain amount of meditation has brought me to this as the pithiest +reply which I myself can give: The best claim that a college education +can possibly make on your respect, the best thing it can aspire to +accomplish for you, is this: that it should _help you to know a good man +when you see him_. This is as true of women's as of men's colleges; but +that it is neither a joke nor a one-sided abstraction I shall now +endeavor to show. + +What talk do we commonly hear about the contrast between college +education and the education which business or technical or professional +schools confer? The college education is called higher because it is +supposed to be so general and so disinterested. At the "schools" you get +a relatively narrow practical skill, you are told, whereas the +"colleges" give you the more liberal culture, the broader outlook, the +historical perspective, the philosophic atmosphere, or something which +phrases of that sort try to express. You are made into an efficient +instrument for doing a definite thing, you hear, at the schools; but, +apart from that, you may remain a crude and smoky kind of petroleum, +incapable of spreading light. The universities and colleges, on the +other hand, although they may leave you less efficient for this or that +practical task, suffuse your whole mentality with something more +important than skill. They redeem you, make you well-bred; they make +"good company" of you mentally. If they find you with a naturally +boorish or caddish mind, they cannot leave you so, as a technical school +may leave you. This, at least, is pretended; this is what we hear among +college-trained people when they compare their education with every +other sort. Now, exactly how much does this signify? + +It is certain, to begin with, that the narrowest trade or professional +training does something more for a man than to make a skillful practical +tool of him--it makes him also a judge of other men's skill. Whether his +trade be pleading at the bar or surgery or plastering or plumbing, it +develops a critical sense in him for that sort of occupation. He +understands the difference between second-rate and first-rate work in +his whole branch of industry; he gets to know a good job in his own line +as soon as he sees it; and getting to know this in his own line, he gets +a faint sense of what good work may mean anyhow, that may, if +circumstances favor, spread into his judgments elsewhere. Sound work, +clean work, finished work; feeble work, slack work, sham work--these +words express an identical contrast in many different departments of +activity. In so far, then, even the humblest manual trade may beget in +one a certain small degree of power to judge of good work generally. + +Now, what is supposed to be the line of us who have the higher college +training? Is there any broader line--since our education claims +primarily not to be "narrow"--in which we also are made good judges +between what is first-rate and what is second-rate only? What is +especially taught in the colleges has long been known by the name of the +"humanities," and these are often identified with Greek and Latin. But +it is only as literatures, not as languages, that Greek and Latin have +any general humanity-value; so that in a broad sense the humanities mean +literature primarily, and in a still broader sense the study of +masterpieces in almost any field of human endeavor. Literature keeps +the primacy; for it not only _consists_ of masterpieces, but is largely +_about_ masterpieces, being little more than an appreciative chronicle +of human master-strokes, so far as it takes the form of criticism and +history. You can give humanistic value to almost anything by teaching it +historically. Geology, economics, mechanics, are humanities when taught +with reference to the successive achievements of the geniuses to which +these sciences owe their being. Not taught thus, literature remains +grammar, art a catalogue, history a list of dates, and natural science a +sheet of formulas and weights and measures. + +The sifting of human creations!--nothing less than this is what we ought +to mean by the humanities. Essentially this means biography; what our +colleges should teach is, therefore, biographical history, not that of +politics merely, but of anything and everything so far as human efforts +and conquests are factors that have played their part. Studying in this +way, we learn what type's of activity have stood the test of time; we +acquire standards of the excellent: and durable. All our arts and +sciences and institutions are but so many quests of perfection on the +part of men; and when we see how diverse the types of excellence may be, +how various the tests, how flexible the adaptations, we gain a richer +sense of what the terms "better" and "worse" may signify in general. Our +critical sensibilities grow both more acute and less fanatical. We +sympathize with men's mistakes even in the act of penetrating them; we +feel the pathos of lost causes and misguided epochs even while we +applaud what overcame them. + +Such words are vague and such ideas are inadequate, but their meaning is +unmistakable. What the colleges--teaching humanities by examples which +may be special, but which must be typical and pregnant--should at least +try to give us, is a general sense of what, under various disguises, +_superiority_ has always signified and may still signify. The feeling +for a good human job anywhere, the admiration of the really admirable, +the disesteem of what is cheap and trashy and impermanent--this is what +we call the critical sense, the sense for ideal values. It is the better +part of what men know as wisdom. Some of us are wise in this way +naturally and by genius; some of us never become so. But to have spent +one's youth at college, in contact with the choice and rare and +precious, and yet still to be a blind prig or vulgarian, unable to scent +out human excellence or to divine it amid its accidents, to know it only +when ticketed and labeled and forced on us by others, this indeed should +be accounted the very calamity and shipwreck of a higher education. + +The sense for human superiority ought, then, to be considered our line, +as boring subways is the engineer's line and the surgeon's is +appendicitis. Our colleges ought to have lit up in us a lasting relish +for the better kind of man, a loss of appetite for mediocrities, and a +disgust for cheap-jacks. We ought to smell, as it were, the difference +of quality in men and their proposals when we enter the world of affairs +about us. Expertness in this might well atone for some of our +awkwardness at accounts, for some of our ignorance of dynamos. The best +claim we can make for the higher education, the best single phrase in +which we can tell what it ought to do for us, is, then, exactly what I +said: it should enable us to _know a good man when we see him_. + +That the phrase is anything but an empty epigram follows from the fact +that if you ask in what line it is most important that a democracy like +ours should have its sons and daughters skillful, you see that it is +this line more than any other. "The people in their wisdom"--this is the +kind of wisdom most needed by the people. Democracy is on its trial, and +no one knows how it will stand the ordeal. Abounding about us are +pessimistic prophets. Fickleness and violence used to be, but are no +longer, the vices which they charge to democracy. What its critics now +affirm is that its preferences are inveterately for the inferior. So it +was in the beginning, they say, and so it will be world without end. +Vulgarity enthroned and institutionalized, elbowing everything superior +from the highway, this, they tell us, is our irremediable destiny; and +the picture papers of the European continent are already drawing Uncle +Sam with the hog instead of the eagle for his heraldic emblem. The +privileged aristocracies of the foretime, with all their iniquities, did +at least preserve some taste for higher human quality and honor certain +forms of refinement by their enduring traditions. But when democracy is +sovereign, its doubters say, nobility will form a sort of invisible +church, and sincerity and refinement, stripped of honor, precedence, and +favor, will have to vegetate on sufferance in private corners. They will +have no general influence. They will be harmless eccentricities. + +Now, who can be absolutely certain that this may not be the career of +democracy? Nothing future is quite secure; states enough have inwardly +rotted; and democracy as a whole may undergo self-poisoning. But, on the +other hand, democracy is a kind of religion, and we are bound not to +admit its failure. Faiths and Utopias are the noblest exercise of human +reason, and no one with a spark of reason in him will sit down +fatalistically before the croaker's picture. The best of us are filled +with the contrary vision of a democracy stumbling through every error +till its institutions glow with justice and its customs shine with +beauty. Our better men _shall_ show the way and we _shall_ follow them; +so we are brought round again to the mission of the higher education in +helping us to know the better kind of man whenever we see him. + +The notion that a people can run itself and its affairs anonymously is +now well known to be the silliest of absurdities. Mankind does nothing +save through initiatives on the part of inventors, great or small, and +imitation by the rest of us--these are the sole factors active in human +progress. Individuals of genius show the way, and set the patterns, +which common people then adopt and follow. _The rivalry of the patterns +is the history of the world_. Our democratic problem thus is statable +in ultra-simple terms: Who are the kind of men from whom our majorities +shall take their cue? Whom shall they treat as rightful leaders? We and +our leaders are the _x_ and the _y_ of the equation here; all other +historic circumstances, be they economical, political, or intellectual, +are only the background of occasion on which the living drama works +itself out between us. + +In this very simple way does the value of our educated class define +itself: we more than others should be able to divine the worthier and +better leaders. The terms here are monstrously simplified, of course, +but such a bird's-eye view lets us immediately take our bearings. In our +democracy, where everything else is so shifting, we alumni and alumnae +of the colleges are the only permanent presence that corresponds to the +aristocracy in older countries. We have continuous traditions, as they +have; our motto, too, is _noblesse oblige_; and, unlike them, we stand +for ideal interests solely, for we have no corporate selfishness and +wield no powers of corruption. We ought to have our own +class-consciousness. "Les intellectuels!" What prouder club name could +there be than this one, used ironically by the party of "red blood," the +party of every stupid prejudice and passion, during the anti-Dreyfus +craze, to satirize the men in France who still retained some critical +sense and judgment! Critical sense, it has to be confessed, is not an +exciting term, hardly a banner to carry in processions. Affections for +old habit, currents of self-interest, and gales of passion are the +forces that keep the human ship moving; and the pressure of the +judicious pilot's hand upon the tiller is a relatively insignificant +energy. But the affections, passions, and interests are shifting, +successive, and distraught; they blow in alternation while the pilot's +hand is steadfast. He knows the compass, and, with all the leeways he is +obliged to tack toward, he always makes some headway. A small force, if +it never lets up, will accumulate effects more considerable than those +of much greater forces if these work inconsistently. The ceaseless +whisper of the more permanent ideals, the steady tug of truth and +justice, give them but time, _must_ warp the world in their direction. + +This bird's-eye view of the general steering function of the +college-bred amid the driftings of democracy ought to help us to a wider +vision of what our colleges themselves should aim at. If we are to be +the yeast cake for democracy's dough, if we are to make it rise with +culture's preferences, we must see to it that culture spreads broad +sails. We must shake the old double reefs out of the canvas into the +wind and sunshine, and let in every modern subject, sure that any +subject will prove humanistic, if its setting be kept only wide enough. + +Stevenson says somewhere to his reader: "You think you are just making +this bargain, but you are really laying down a link in the policy of +mankind." Well, your technical school should enable you to make your +bargain splendidly; but your college should show you just the place of +that kind of bargain--a pretty poor place, possibly--in the whole policy +of mankind. That is the kind of liberal outlook, of perspective, of +atmosphere, which should surround every subject as a college deals with +it. + +We of the colleges must eradicate a curious notion which numbers of good +people have about such ancient seats of learning as Harvard. To many +ignorant outsiders, that name suggests little more than a kind of +sterilized conceit and incapacity for being pleased. In Edith Wyatt's +exquisite book of Chicago sketches called "Every One his Own Way," there +is a couple who stand for culture in the sense of exclusiveness, Richard +Elliot and his feminine counterpart--feeble caricatures of mankind, +unable to know any good thing when they see it, incapable of enjoyment +unless a printed label gives them leave. Possibly this type of culture +may exist near Cambridge and Boston, there may be specimens there, for +priggishness is just like painters' colic or any other trade disease. +But every good college makes its students immune against this malady, of +which the microbe haunts the neighborhood-printed pages. It does so by +its general tone being too hearty for the microbe's life. Real culture +lives by sympathies and admirations, not by dislikes and disdains--under +all misleading wrappings it pounces unerringly upon the human core. If a +college, through the inferior human influences that have grown regnant +there, fails to catch the robuster tone, its failure is colossal, for +its social function stops: democracy gives it a wide berth, turns toward +it a deaf ear. + +"Tone," to be sure, is a terribly vague word to use, but there is no +other, and this whole meditation is over questions of tone. By their +tone are all things human either lost or saved. If democracy is to be +saved it must catch the higher, healthier tone. If we are to impress it +with our preferences, we ourselves must use the proper tone, which we, +in turn, must have caught from our own teachers. It all reverts in the +end to the action of innumerable imitative individuals upon each other +and to the question of whose tone has the highest spreading power. As a +class, we college graduates should look to it that _ours_ has spreading +power. It ought to have the highest spreading power. + +In our essential function of indicating the better men, we now have +formidable competitors outside. _McClure's Magazine,_ the _American +Magazine, Collier's Weekly_, and, in its fashion, the _World's Work_, +constitute together a real popular university along this very line. It +would be a pity if any future historian were to have to write words like +these: "By the middle of the twentieth century the higher institutions +of learning had lost all influence over public opinion in the United +States. But the mission of raising the tone of democracy, which they had +proved themselves so lamentably unfitted to exert, was assumed with rare +enthusiasm and prosecuted with extraordinary skill and success by a new +educational power; and for the clarification of their human sympathies +and elevation of their human preferences, the people at large acquired +the habit of resorting exclusively to the guidance of certain private +literary adventures, commonly designated in the market by the +affectionate name of ten-cent magazines." + +Must not we of the colleges see to it that no historian shall ever say +anything like this? Vague as the phrase of knowing a good man when you +see him may be, diffuse and indefinite as one must leave its +application, is there any other formula that describes so well the +result at which our institutions _ought_ to aim? If they do that, they +do the best thing conceivable. If they fail to do it, they fail in very +deed. It surely is a fine synthetic formula. If our faculties and +graduates could once collectively come to realize it as the great +underlying purpose toward which they have always been more or less +obscurely groping, great clearness would be shed over many of their +problems; and, as for their influence in the midst of our social system, +it would embark upon a new career of strength. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 43: First published in 1908. Reprinted by permission from +_Memories and Studies_, 1911. (Messrs. Longmans, Green and Co.)] + + + + +THE LAW OF HUMAN PROGRESS[44] + +HENRY GEORGE + + +What, then, is the law of human progress--the law under which +civilization advances? + +It must explain clearly and definitely, and not by vague generalities or +superficial analogies, why, though mankind started presumably with the +same capacities and at the same time, there now exist such wide +differences in social development. It must account for the arrested +civilizations and for the decayed and destroyed civilizations; for the +general facts as to the rise of civilization, and for the petrifying or +enervating force which the progress of civilization has heretofore +always evolved. It must account for retrogression a well as for +progression; for the differences in general character between Asiatic +and European civilizations; for the difference between classical and +modern civilizations; for the different rates at which progress goes on; +and for those bursts, and starts, and halts of progress which are so +marked as minor phenomena. And, thus, it must show us what are the +essential conditions of progress, and what social adjustments advance +and what retard it. + +It is not difficult to discover such a law. We have but to look and we +may see it. I do not pretend to give it scientific precision, but merely +to point it out. + +The incentives to progress are the desires inherent in human nature--the +desire to gratify the wants of the animal nature, the wants of the +intellectual nature, and the wants of the sympathetic nature; the desire +to be, to know, and to do--desires that short of infinity can never be +satisfied, as they grow by what they feed on. + +Mind is the instrument by which man advances, and by which each advance +is secured and made the vantage ground for new advances. Though he may +not by taking thought add a cubit to his stature, man may by taking +thought extend his knowledge of the universe and his power over it, in +what, so far as we can see, is an infinite degree. The narrow span of +human life allows the individual to go but a short distance, but though +each generation may do but little, yet generations, succeeding to the +gain of their predecessors, may gradually elevate the status of mankind, +as coral polyps, building one generation upon the work of the other, +gradually elevate themselves from the bottom of the sea. + +Mental power is, therefore, the motor of progress, and men tend to +advance in proportion to the mental power expended in progression--the +mental power which is devoted to the extension of knowledge, the +improvement of methods, and the betterment of social conditions. + +Now mental power is a fixed quantity--that is to say, there is a limit +to the work a man can do with his mind, as there is to the work he can +do with his body; therefore, the mental power which can be devoted to +progress is only what is left after what is required for non-progressive +purposes. + +These non-progressive purposes in which mental power is consumed may be +classified as maintenance and conflict. By maintenance I mean, not only +the support of existence, but the keeping up of the social condition and +the holding of advances already gained. By conflict I mean not merely +warfare and preparation for warfare, but all expenditure of mental power +in seeking the gratification of desire at the expense of others, and in +resistance to such aggression. + +To compare society to a boat. Her progress through the water will not +depend upon the exertion of her crew, but upon the exertion devoted to +propelling her. This will be lessened by any expenditure of force +required for bailing, or any expenditure of force in fighting among +themselves, or in pulling in different directions. + +Now, as in a separated state the whole powers of man are required to +maintain existence, and mental power is set free for higher uses only by +the association of men in communities, which permits the division of +labor and all the economies which come with the co-operation of, +increased numbers, association is the first essential of progress. +Improvement becomes possible as men come together in peaceful +association, and the wider and closer the association, the greater the +possibilities of improvement. And as the wasteful expenditure of mental +power in conflict becomes greater or less as the moral law which accords +to each an equality of rights is ignored or is recognized, equality (or +justice) is the second essential of progress. + +Thus association in equality is the law of progress. Association frees +mental power for expenditure in improvement, and equality, or justice, +or freedom--for the terms here signify the same thing, the recognition +of the moral law--prevents the dissipation of this power in fruitless +struggles. + +Here is the law of progress, which will explain all diversities, all +advances, all halts, and retrogressions. Men tend to progress just as +they come closer together, and by co-operation with each other increase +the mental power that may be devoted to improvement; but just as +conflict is provoked, or association develops inequality of condition +and power, this tendency to progression is lessened, checked, and +finally reversed. + +Given the same innate capacity, and it is evident that social +development will go on faster or slower, will stop or turn back, +according to the resistances it meets. In a general way these obstacles +to improvement may, in relation to the society itself, be classed as +external and internal--the first operating with greater force in the +earlier stages of civilization, the latter becoming more important in +the later stages. + +Man is social in his nature. He does not require to be caught and tamed +in order to induce him to live with his fellows. The utter helplessness +with which he enters the world, and the long period required for the +maturity of his powers, necessitate the family relation; which, as we +may observe, is wider, and in its extensions stronger, among the ruder +than among the more cultivated peoples. The first societies are +families, expanding into tribes, still holding a mutual blood +relationship, and even when they have become great nations claiming a +common descent. + +Given beings of this kind, placed on a globe of such diversified surface +and climate as this, and it is evident that, even with equal capacity, +and an equal start, social development must be very different. The first +limit or resistance to association will come from the conditions of +physical nature, and as these greatly vary with locality, corresponding +differences in social progress must show themselves. The net rapidity of +increase, and the closeness with which men, as they increase, can keep +together, will, in the rude state of knowledge in which reliance for +subsistence must be principally upon the spontaneous offerings of +nature, very largely depend upon climate, soil, and physical +conformation. Where much animal food and warm clothing are required; +where the earth seems poor and niggard; where the exuberant life of +tropical forests mocks barbarous man's puny efforts to control; where +mountains, deserts, or arms of the sea separate and isolate men; +association, and the power of improvement which it evolves, can at first +go but a little way. But on the rich plains of warm climates, where +human existence can be maintained with a smaller expenditure of force, +and from a much smaller area, men can keep closer together, and the +mental power which can at first be devoted to improvement is much +greater. Hence civilization naturally first arises in the great valleys +and table-lands where we find its earliest monuments. + +But these diversities in natural conditions, not merely thus directly +produce diversities in social development, but, by producing diversities +in social development, bring out in man himself an obstacle, or rather +an active counterforce, to improvement. As families and tribes are +separated from each other, the social feeling ceases to operate between +them, and differences arise in language, custom, tradition, religion--in +short, in the whole social web which each community, however small or +large, constantly spins. With these differences, prejudices grow, +animosities spring up, contact easily produces quarrels, aggression +begets aggression, and wrong kindles revenge.[45] And so between these +separate social aggregates arises the feeling of Ishmael and the spirit +of Cain, warfare becomes the chronic and seemingly natural relation of +societies to each other, and the powers of men are expended in attack or +defense, in mutual slaughter and mutual destruction of wealth, or in +warlike preparations. How long this hostility persists, the protective +tariffs and the standing armies of the civilized world to-day bear +witness; how difficult it is to get over the idea that it is not theft +to steal from a foreigner, the difficulty in procuring an international +copyright act will show. Can we wonder at the perpetual hostilities of +tribes and clans? Can we wonder that when each community was isolated +from the others--when each, uninfluenced by the others, was spinning its +separate web of social environment, which no individual can escape, that +war should have been the rule and peace the exception? "They were even +as we are." + +Now, warfare is the negation of association. The separation of men into +diverse tribes, by increasing warfare, thus checks improvement; while in +the localities where a large increase in numbers is possible without +much separation; civilization gains the advantage of exemption from +tribal war, even when the community as a whole is carrying on warfare +beyond its borders. Thus, where the resistance of nature to the close +association of men is slightest, the counterforce of warfare is likely +at first to be least felt; and in the rich plains where civilization +first begins, it may rise to a great height while scattered tribes are +yet barbarous. And thus, when small, separated communities exist in a +state of chronic warfare which forbids advance, the first step to their +civilization is the advent of some conquering tribe or nation that +unites these smaller communities into a larger one, in which internal +peace is preserved. Where this power of peaceable association is broken +up, either by external assaults or internal dissensions, the advance +ceases and retrogression begins. + +But it is not conquest alone that has operated to promote association, +and, by liberating mental power from the necessities of warfare, to +promote civilization. If the diversities of climate, soil, and +configuration of the earth's surface operate at first to separate +mankind, they also operate to encourage exchange. And commerce, which is +in itself a form of association or co-operation, operates to promote +civilization, not only directly, but by building up interests which are +opposed to warfare, and dispelling the ignorance which is the fertile +mother of prejudices and animosities. + +And so of religion. Though the forms it has assumed and the animosities +it has aroused have often sundered men and produced warfare, yet it has +at other times been the means of promoting association. A common worship +has often, as among the Greeks, mitigated war and furnished the basis of +union, while it is from the triumph of Christianity over the barbarians +of Europe that modern civilization springs. Had not the Christian Church +existed when the Roman Empire went to pieces, Europe, destitute of any +bond of association, might have fallen to a condition not much above +that of the North American Indians or only received civilization with an +Asiatic impress from the conquering scimiters of the invading hordes +which had been welded into a mighty power by a religion which, springing +up in the deserts of Arabia, had united tribes separated from time +immemorial, and, thence issuing, brought into the association of a +common faith a great part of the human race. + +Looking over what we know of the history of the world, we thus see +civilization everywhere springing up where men are brought into +association, and everywhere disappearing as this association is broken +up. Thus the Roman civilization, spread over Europe by the conquests +which insured internal peace, was overwhelmed by the incursions of the +northern nations that broke society again into disconnected fragments; +and the progress that now goes on in our modern civilization began as +the feudal system again began to associate men in larger communities, +and the spiritual supremacy of Rome to bring these communities into a +common relation, as her legions had done before. As the feudal bonds +grew into national autonomies, and Christianity worked the amelioration +of manners, brought forth the knowledge that during the dark days she +had hidden, bound the threads of peaceful union in her all-pervading +organization, and taught association in her religious orders, a greater +progress became possible, which, as men have been brought into closer +and closer association and co-operation, has gone on with greater and +greater force. + +But we shall never understand the course of civilization, and the +varied phenomena which its history presents, without a consideration of +what I may term the internal resistances, or counter forces, which arise +in the heart of advancing society, and which can alone explain how a +civilization once fairly started should either come of itself to a halt +or be destroyed by barbarians. + +The mental power, which is the motor of social progress, is set free by +association, which is,--what, perhaps, it may be more properly +called,--an integration. Society in this process becomes more complex; +its individuals more dependent upon each other. Occupations and +functions are specialized. Instead of wandering, population becomes +fixed. Instead of each man attempting to supply all of his wants, the +various trades and industries are separated--one man acquires skill in +one thing, and another in another thing. So, too, of knowledge, the body +of which constantly tends to become vaster than one man can grasp, and +is separated into different parts, which different individuals acquire +and pursue. So, too, the performance of religious ceremonies tends to +pass into the hands of a body of men specially devoted to that purpose, +and the preservation of order, the administration of justice, the +assignment of public duties and the distribution of awards, the conduct +of war, etc., to be made the special functions of an organized +government. In short, to use the language in which Herbert Spencer has +defined evolution, the development of society is, in relation to its +component individuals, the passing from an indefinite, incoherent +homogeneity to a definite, coherent heterogeneity. The lower the stage +of social development, the more society resembles one of those lowest of +animal organisms which are without organs or limbs, and from which a +part may be cut and yet live. The higher the stage of social +development, the more society resembles those higher organisms in which +functions and powers are specialized, and each member is vitally +dependent on the others. + +Now, this process of integration, of the specialization of functions +and powers, as it goes on in society, is, by virtue of what is probably +one of the deepest laws of human nature, accompanied by a constant +liability to inequality. I do not mean that inequality is the necessary +result of social growth, but that it is the constant tendency of social +growth if unaccompanied by changes in social adjustments, which, in the +new conditions that growth produces, will secure equality. I mean, so to +speak, that the garment of laws, customs, and political institutions, +which each society weaves for itself, is constantly tending to become +too tight as the society develops. I mean, so to speak, that man, as he +advances, threads a labyrinth, in which, if he keeps straight ahead, he +will infallibly lose his way, and through which reason and justice can +alone keep him continuously in an ascending path. + +For, while the integration which accompanies growth tends in itself to +set free mental power to work improvement, there is, both with increase +of numbers and with increase in complexity of the social organization, a +counter tendency set up to the production of a state of inequality, +which wastes mental power, and, as it increases, brings improvement to a +halt. + +To trace to its highest expression the law which thus operates to evolve +with progress the force which stops progress, would be, it seems to me, +to go far to the solution of a problem deeper than that of the genesis +of the material universe--the problem of the genesis of evil. Let me +content myself with pointing out the manner in which, as society +develops, there arise tendencies which check development. + +There are two qualities of human nature which it will be well, however, +to first call to mind. The one is the power of habit:--the tendency to +continue to do things in the same way; the other is the possibility of +mental and moral deterioration. The effect of the first in social +development is to continue habits, customs, laws and methods, long after +they have lost their original usefulness, and the effect of the other +is to permit the growth of institutions and modes of thought from which +the normal perceptions of men instinctively revolt. + +Now the growth and development of society not merely tend to make each +more and more dependent upon all, and to lessen the influence of +individuals, even over their own conditions, as compared with the +influence of society; but the effect of association or integration is to +give rise to a collective power which is distinguishable from the sum of +individual powers. Analogies, or, perhaps, rather illustrations of the +same law, may be found in all directions. As animal organisms increase +in complexity, there arise, above the life and power of the parts, a +life and power of the integrated whole; above the capability of +involuntary movements, the capability of voluntary movements. The +actions and impulses of bodies of men are, as has often been observed, +different from those which, under the same circumstances, would be +called forth in individuals. The fighting qualities of a regiment may be +very different from those of the individual soldiers. But there is no +need of illustrations. In our inquiries into the nature and rise of +rent, we traced the very thing to which I allude. Where population is +sparse, land has no value; just as men congregate together, the value of +land appears and rises--a clearly distinguishable thing from the values +produced by individual effort; a value which springs from association, +which increases as association grows greater, and disappears as +association is broken up. And the same thing is true of power in other +forms than those generally expressed in terms of wealth. + +Now, as society grows, the disposition to continue previous, social +adjustments tends to lodge this collective power, as it arises, in the +hands of a portion of the community; and this unequal distribution of +the wealth and power gained as society advances tends to produce greater +inequality, since aggression grows by what it feeds on, and the idea of +justice is blurred by the habitual toleration of injustice. + +In this way the patriarchal organization of society can easily grow +into hereditary monarchy, in which the king is as a god on earth, and +the masses of the people mere slaves of his caprice. It is natural that +the father should be the directing head of the family, and that at his +death the eldest son, as the oldest and most experienced member of the +little community, should succeed to the headship. But to continue this +arrangement as the family expands, is to lodge power in a particular +line, and the power thus lodged necessarily continues to increase, as +the common stock becomes larger and larger, and the power of the +community grows. The head of the family passes into the hereditary king, +who comes to look upon himself and to be looked upon by others as a +being of superior rights. With the growth of the collective power as +compared with the power of the individual, his power to reward and to +punish increases, and so increase the inducements to flatter and to fear +him; until finally, if the process be not disturbed, a nation grovels at +the foot of a throne, and a hundred thousand men toil for fifty years to +prepare a tomb for one of their own mortal kind. + +So the war-chief of a little band of savages is but one of their number, +whom they follow as their bravest and most wary. But when large bodies +come to act together, personal selection becomes more difficult, a +blinder obedience becomes necessary and can be enforced, and from the +very necessities of warfare when conducted on a large scale absolute +power arises. + +And so of the specialization of function. There is a manifest gain in +productive power when social growth has gone so far that instead of +every producer being summoned from his work for fighting purposes, a +regular military force can be specialized; but this inevitably tends to +the concentration of power in the hands of the military class or their +chiefs. The preservation of internal order, the administration of +justice, the construction and care of public works, and, notably, the +observances of religion, all tend in similar manner to pass into the +hands of special classes, whose disposition it is to magnify their +function and extend their power. + +But the great cause of inequality is in the natural monopoly which is +given by the possession of land. The first perceptions of men seem +always to be that land is common property; but the rude devices by which +this is at first recognized--such as annual partitions or cultivation in +common--are consistent with only a low stage of development. The idea of +property, which naturally arises with reference to things of human +production, is easily transferred to land, and an institution which when +population is sparse merely secures to the improver and user the due +reward of his labor, finally, as population becomes dense and rent +arises, operates to strip the producer of his wages. Not merely this, +but the appropriation of rent for public purposes, which is the only way +in which, with anything like a high development, land can be readily +retained as common property, becomes, when political and religious power +passes into the hands of a class, the ownership of the land by that +class, and the rest of the community become merely tenants. And wars and +conquests, which tend to the concentration of political power and to the +institution of slavery, naturally result, where social growth has given +land a value, in the appropriation of the soil. A dominant class, who +concentrate power in their hands, will likewise soon concentrate +ownership of the land. To them will fall large partitions of conquered +land, which the former inhabitants will till as tenants or serfs, and +the public domain, or common lands, which in the natural course of +social growth are left for a while in every country, and in which state +the primitive system of village culture leaves pasture and woodland, are +readily acquired, as we see by modern instances. And inequality once +established, the ownership of land tends to concentrate as development +goes on. + +I am merely attempting to set forth the general fact that as a social +development goes on, inequality tends to establish itself, and not to +point out the particular sequence, which must necessarily vary with +different conditions. But this main fact makes intelligible all the +phenomena of petrifaction and retrogression. The unequal distribution of +the power and wealth gained by the integration of men in society tends +to check, and finally to counterbalance, the force by which improvements +are made and society advances. On the one side, the masses of the +community are compelled to expend their mental powers in merely +maintaining existence. On the other side, mental power is expended in +keeping up and intensifying the system of inequality, in ostentation, +luxury, and warfare. A community divided into a class that rules and a +class that is ruled--into the very rich and the very poor--may "build +like giants and finish like jewelers;" but it will be monuments of +ruthless pride and barren vanity, or of a religion turned from its +office of elevating man into an instrument for keeping him down. +Invention may for a while to some degree go on; but it will be the +invention of refinements in luxury, not the inventions that relieve toil +and increase power. In the arcana of temples or in the chambers of court +physicians knowledge may still be sought; but it will be hidden as a +secret thing, or if it dares come out to elevate common thought or +brighten common life, it will be trodden down as a dangerous innovator. +For as it tends to lessen the mental power devoted to improvement, so +does inequality tend to render men adverse to improvement. How strong is +the disposition to adhere to old methods among the classes who are kept +in ignorance by being compelled to toil for a mere existence, is too +well known to require illustration, and on the other hand the +conservatism of the classes to whom the existing social adjustment gives +special advantages is equally apparent. This tendency to resist +innovation, even though it be improvement, is observable in every +special organization--in religion, in law, in medicine, in science, in +trade guilds; and it becomes intense just as the organization is close. +A close corporation has always an instinctive dislike of innovation and +innovators, which is but the expression of an instinctive fear that +change may tend to throw down the barriers which hedge it in from the +common herd, and so rob it of importance and power; and it is always +disposed to guard carefully its special knowledge or skill. + +It is in this way that petrifaction succeeds progress. The advance of +inequality necessarily brings improvement to a halt, and as it still +persists or provokes unavailing reactions, draws even upon the mental +power necessary for maintenance, and retrogression begins. + +These principles make intelligible the history of civilization. + +In the localities where climate, soil, and physical conformation tended +least to separate men as they increased, and where, accordingly, the +first civilizations grew up, the internal resistances to progress would +naturally develop in a more regular and thorough manner than where +smaller communities, which in their separation had developed +diversities, were afterward brought together into a closer association. +It is this, it seems to me, which accounts for the general +characteristics of the earlier civilizations as compared with the later +civilizations of Europe. Such homogeneous communities, developing from +the first without the jar of conflict between different customs, laws, +religions, etc., would show a much greater uniformity. The concentrating +and conservative forces would all, so to speak, pull together. Rival +chieftains would not counterbalance each other, nor diversities of +belief hold the growth of priestly influence in check. Political and +religious power, wealth and knowledge, would thus tend to concentrate in +the same centres. The same causes which tended to produce the hereditary +king and hereditary priest would tend to produce the hereditary artisan +and laborer, and to separate society into castes. The power which +association sets free for progress would thus be wasted, and barriers to +further progress be gradually raised. The surplus energies of the masses +would be devoted to the construction of temples, palaces, and pyramids; +to ministering to the pride and pampering the luxury of their rulers; +and should any disposition to improvement arise among the classes of +leisure it would at once be checked by the dread of innovation. Society +developing in this way must at length stop in a conservatism which +permits no further progress. + +How long such a state of complete petrifaction, when once reached, will +continue, seems to depend upon external causes, for the iron bonds of +the social environment which grows up repress disintegrating forces as +well as improvement. Such a community can be most easily conquered, for +the masses of the people are trained to a passive acquiescence in a life +of hopeless labor. If the conquerors merely take the place of the ruling +class, as the Hyksos did in Egypt and the Tartars in China, everything +will go on as before. If they ravage and destroy, the glory of palace +and temple remains but in ruins, population becomes sparse, and +knowledge and art are lost. + +European civilization differs in character from civilizations of the +Egyptian type because it springs not from the association of a +homogeneous people developing from the beginning, or at least for a long +time, under the same conditions, but from the association of peoples who +in separation had acquired distinctive social characteristics, and whose +smaller organizations longer prevented the concentration of power and +wealth in one centre. The physical conformation of the Grecian peninsula +is such as to separate the people at first into a number of small +communities. As those petty republics and nominal kingdoms ceased to +waste their energies in warfare, and the peaceable co-operation of +commerce extended, the light of civilization blazed up. But the +principle of association was never strong enough to save Greece from +inter-tribal war, and when this was put an end to by conquest, the +tendency to inequality, which had been combated with various devices by +Grecian sages and statesmen, worked its result, and Grecian valor, art, +and literature became things of the past. And so in the rise and +extension, the decline and fall, of Roman civilization, may be seen the +working of these two principles of association and equality, from the +combination of which springs progress. + +Springing from the association of the independent husbandmen and free +citizens of Italy, and gaining fresh strength from conquests which +brought hostile nations into common relations, the Roman power hushed +the world in peace. But the tendency to inequality, checking real +progress from the first, increased as the Roman civilization extended. +The Roman civilization did not petrify as did the homogeneous +civilizations where the strong bonds of custom and superstition that +held the people in subjection probably also protected them, or at any +rate kept the peace between rulers and ruled: it rotted, declined and +fell. Long before Goth or Vandal had broken through the cordon of the +legions, even while her frontiers were advancing, Rome was dead at the +heart. Great estates had ruined Italy. Inequality had dried up the +strength and destroyed the vigor of the Roman world. Government became +despotism, which even assassination could not temper; patriotism became +servility; vices the most foul flouted themselves in public; literature +sank to puerilities; learning was forgotten; fertile districts became +waste without the ravages of war--everywhere inequality produced decay, +political, mental, moral, and material. The barbarism which overwhelmed +Rome came not from without, but from within. It was the necessary +product of the system which had substituted slaves and colonii for the +independent husbandmen of Italy, and carved the provinces into estates +of senatorial families. + +Modern civilization owes its superiority to the growth of equality with +the growth of association. Two great causes contributed to this--the +splitting up of concentrated power into innumerable little centers by +the influx of the Northern nations, and the influence of Christianity. +Without the first there would have been the petrifaction and slow decay +of the Eastern Empire, where church and state were closely married and +loss of external power brought no relief of internal tyranny. And but +for the other there would have been barbarism without principle of +association or amelioration. The petty chiefs and allodial lords who +everywhere grasped local sovereignty held each other in check. Italian +cities recovered their ancient liberty, free towns were founded, village +communities took root, and serfs acquired rights in the soil they +tilled. The leaven of Teutonic ideas of equality worked through the +disorganized and disjointed fabric of society. And although society was +split up into an innumerable number of separated fragments, yet the idea +of closer association was always present--it existed in the +recollections of a universal empire; it existed in the claims of a +universal church. + +Though Christianity became distorted and alloyed in percolating through +a rotting civilization; though pagan gods were taken into her pantheon, +and pagan forms into her ritual, and pagan ideas into her creed; yet her +essential idea of the equality of men was never wholly destroyed. And +two things happened of the utmost moment to incipient civilization--the +establishment of the papacy and the celibacy of the clergy. The first +prevented the spiritual power from concentrating in the same lines as +the temporal power; and the latter prevented the establishment of a +priestly caste, during a time when all power tended to hereditary form. + +In her efforts for the abolition of slavery; in her Truce of God; in her +monastic orders; in her councils which united nations, and her edicts +which ran without regard to political boundaries; in the low-born hands +in which she placed a sign before which the proudest knelt; in her +bishops who by consecration became the peers of the greatest nobles; in +her "Servant of Servants," for so his official title ran, who, by virtue +of the ring of a simple fisherman, claimed the right to arbitrate +between nations, and whose stirrup was held by kings; the Church, in +spite of everything, was yet a promoter of association, a witness for +the natural equality of men; and by the Church herself was nurtured a +spirit that, when her early work of association and emancipation was +well-nigh done--when the ties she had knit had become strong, and the +learning she had preserved had been given to the world--broke the chains +with which she would have fettered the human mind, and in a great part +of Europe rent her organization. + +The rise and growth of European civilization is too vast and complex a +subject to be thrown into proper perspective and relation in a few +paragraphs; but in all its details, as in its main features, it +illustrates the truth that progress goes on just as society tends toward +closer association and greater equality. Civilization is co-operation. +Union and liberty are its factors. The great extension of +association--not alone in the growth of larger and denser communities, +but in the increase of commerce and the manifold exchanges which knit +each community together and link them with other though widely separated +communities; the growth of international and municipal law; the advances +in security of property and of person, in individual liberty, and +towards democratic government--advances, in short, towards the +recognition of the equal rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of +happiness--it is these that make our modern civilization so much +greater, so much higher, than any that has gone before. It is these that +have set free the mental power which has rolled back the veil of +ignorance which hid all but a small portion of the globe from men's +knowledge; which has measured the orbits of the circling spheres and +bids us see moving, pulsing life in a drop of water; which has opened to +us the antechamber of nature's mysteries and read the secrets of a +long-buried past; which has harnessed in our service physical forces +beside which man's efforts are puny; and increased productive power by a +thousand great inventions. + +In that spirit of fatalism to which I have alluded as pervading current +literature, it is the fashion to speak even of war and slavery as means +of human progress. But war, which is the opposite of association, can +aid progress only when it prevents further war or breaks down +antisocial barriers which are themselves passive war. + +As for slavery, I cannot see how it could ever have aided in +establishing freedom, and freedom, the synonym of equality is, from the +very rudest state in which man can be imagined, the stimulus and +condition of progress. Auguste Comte's idea that the institution of +slavery destroyed cannibalism is as fanciful as Elia's humorous notion +of the way mankind acquired a taste for roast pig. It assumes that a +propensity that has never been found developed in man save as the result +of the most unnatural conditions--the direst want or the most +brutalizing superstitions[46]--is an original impulse, and that he, even +in his lowest state the highest of all animals, has natural appetites +which the nobler brutes do not show. And so of the idea that slavery +began civilization by giving slave owners leisure for improvement. + +Slavery never did and never could aid improvement. Whether the community +consist of a single master and a single slave, or of thousands of +masters and millions of slaves, slavery necessarily involves a waste of +human power; for not only is slave labor less productive than free +labor, but the power of masters is likewise wasted in holding and +watching their slaves, and is called away from directions in which real +improvement lies. From first to last, slavery, like every other denial +of the natural equality of men, has hampered and prevented progress. +Just in proportion as slavery plays an important part in the social +organization does improvement cease. That in the classical world slavery +was so universal, is undoubtedly the reason why the mental activity +which so polished literature and refined art never hit on any of the +great discoveries and inventions which distinguish modern civilization. +No slave-holding people ever were an inventive people. In a +slave-holding community the upper classes may become luxurious and +polished; but never inventive. Whatever degrades the laborer and robs +him of the fruits of his toil stifles the spirit of invention and +forbids the utilization of inventions and discoveries even when made. To +freedom alone is given the spell of power which summons the genii in +whose keeping are the treasures of earth and the viewless forces of the +air. + +The law of human progress, what is it but the moral law? Just as social +adjustments promote justice, just as they acknowledge the equality of +right between man and man, just as they insure to each the perfect +liberty which is bounded only by the equal liberty of every other, must +civilization advance. Just as they fail in this, must advancing +civilization come to a halt and recede. Political economy and social +science cannot teach any lessons that are not embraced in the simple +truths that were taught to poor fishermen and Jewish peasants by One who +eighteen hundred years ago was crucified--the simple truths which, +beneath the warpings of selfishness and the distortions of superstition, +seem to underlie every religion that has ever striven to formulate the +spiritual yearnings of man. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 44: Chapter III, Book X, of "Progress and Poverty;" copyright, +1907, by Henry George, Richard F. George, and Anna G. de Mille. The +chapter is here reprinted by permission of Mr. Henry George, Junior, and +the publishers, Messrs. Doubleday, Page and Company.] + +[Footnote 45: How easy it is for ignorance to pass into contempt and +dislike; how natural it is for us to consider any difference in manners, +customs, religion, etc., as proof of the inferiority of those who differ +from us, any one who has emancipated himself in any degree from +prejudice, and who mixes with different classes, may see in civilized +society. In religion, for instance, the spirit of the hymn-- + + "I'd rather be a Baptist, and wear a shining face, + Than for to be a Methodist and always fall from grace," + +is observable in all denominations. As the English Bishop said, +"Orthodoxy is my doxy, and heterodoxy is any other doxy," while the +universal tendency is to classify all outside of the orthodoxies and +heterodoxies of the prevailing religion as heathens or atheists. And the +like tendency is observable as to all other differences.--Author's +note.] + +[Footnote 46: The Sandwich Islanders did honor to their good chiefs by +eating their bodies. Their bad and tyrannical chiefs they would not +touch. The New Zealanders had a notion that by eating their enemies they +acquired their strength and valor. And this seems to be the general +origin of eating prisoners of war.--Author's note.] + + + + +THE MORALS OF TRADE[47] + +HERBERT SPENCER + + +On all sides we have found the result of long personal experience, to be +the conviction that trade is essentially corrupt. In tones of disgust or +discouragement, reprehension or derision, according to their several +natures, men in business have one after another expressed or implied +this belief. Omitting the highest mercantile classes, a few of the less +common trades, and those exceptional cases where an entire command of +the market has been obtained, the uniform testimony of competent judges +is, that success is incompatible with strict integrity. To live in the +commercial world it appears necessary to adopt its ethical code: neither +exceeding nor falling short of it--neither being less honest nor more +honest. Those who sink below its standard are expelled; while those who +rise above it are either pulled down to it or ruined. As, in +self-defence, the civilised man becomes savage among savages; so, it +seems that in self-defence, the scrupulous trader is obliged to become +as little scrupulous as his competitors. It has been said that the law +of the animal creation is--"Eat and be eaten;" and of our trading +community it may be similarly said that its law is--Cheat and be +cheated. A system of keen competition, carried on, as it is, without +adequate moral restraint, is very much a system of commercial +cannibalism. Its alternatives are--Use the same weapons as your +antagonists, or be conquered and devoured. + +Of questions suggested by these facts, one of the most obvious is--Are +not the prejudices that have ever been entertained against trade and +traders, thus fully justified? do not these meannesses and +dishonesties, and the moral degradation they imply, warrant the +disrespect shown to men in business? A prompt affirmative answer will +probably be looked for; but we very much doubt whether it should be +given. We are rather of opinion that these delinquencies are products of +the average English character placed under special conditions. There is +no good reason for assuming that the trading classes are intrinsically +worse than other classes. Men taken at random from higher and lower +ranks, would, most likely, if similarly circumstanced, do much the same. +Indeed the mercantile world might readily recriminate. Is it a solicitor +who comments on their misdoings? They may quickly silence him by +referring to the countless dark stains on the reputation of his +fraternity. Is it a barrister? His frequent practice of putting in pleas +which he knows are not valid; and his established habit of taking fees +for work that he does not perform; make his criticism somewhat suicidal. +Does the condemnation come through the press? The condemned may remind +those who write, of the fact that it is not quite honest to utter a +positive verdict on a book merely glanced through, or to pen glowing +eulogies on the mediocre work of a friend while slighting the good one +of an enemy; and may further ask whether those who, at the dictation of +an employer, write what they disbelieve, are not guilty of the serious +offence of adulterating public opinion. + +Moreover, traders might contend that many of their delinquencies are +thrust on them by the injustice of their customers. They, and especially +drapers, might point to the fact that the habitual demand for an +abatement of price, is made in utter disregard of their reasonable +profits; and that to protect themselves against attempts to gain by +their loss, they are obliged to name prices greater than those they +intend to take. They might also urge that the strait to which they are +often brought by the non-payment of accounts due from their wealthier +customers, is itself a cause of their malpractices: obliging them, as it +does, to use all means, illegitimate as well as legitimate, for getting +the wherewith to meet their engagements. In proof of the wrongs +inflicted on them by the non-trading classes, they might instance the +well-known cases of large shopkeepers in the West-end, who have been +either ruined by the unpunctuality of their customers, or have been +obliged periodically to stop payment, as the only way of getting their +bills settled. And then, after proving that those without excuse show +this disregard of other men's claims, traders might ask whether they, +who have the excuse of having to contend with a merciless competition, +are alone to be blamed if they display a like disregard in other forms. + +Nay, even to the guardians of social rectitude--members of the +legislature--they might use the _tu quoque_ argument: asking whether +bribery of a customer's servant, is any worse than bribery of an +elector? or whether the gaining of suffrages by claptrap +hustings-speeches, containing insincere professions adapted to the taste +of the constituency, is not as bad as getting an order for goods by +delusive representations respecting their quality? No; it seems probable +that close inquiry would show few if any classes to be free from +immoralities that are as great, _relatively to the temptations_, as +those which we have been exposing. Of course they will not be so petty +or so gross where the circumstances do not prompt pettiness or +grossness; nor so constant and organised where the class-conditions have +not tended to make them habitual. But, taken with these qualifications, +we think that much might be said for the proposition that the trading +classes, neither better nor worse intrinsically than other classes, are +betrayed into their flagitious habits by external causes. + +Another question, here naturally arising, is--"Are not these evils +growing worse?" Many of the facts we have cited seem to imply that they +are. And yet there are many other facts which point as distinctly the +other way. In weighing the evidence, we must bear in mind, that the much +greater public attention at present paid to such matters, is itself a +source of error--is apt to generate the belief that evils now becoming +recognised, are evils that have recently arisen; when in truth they have +merely been hitherto disregarded, or less regarded. It has been clearly +thus with crime, with distress, with popular ignorance; and it is very +probably thus with trading-dishonesties. As it is true of individual +beings, that their height in the scale of creation may be measured by +the degree of their self-consciousness; so, in a sense, it is true of +societies. Advanced and highly-organised societies are distinguished +from lower ones by the evolution of something that stands for a _social +self-consciousness_--a consciousness in each citizen, of the state of +the aggregate of citizens. Among ourselves there has, happily, been of +late years a remarkable growth of this social self-consciousness; and we +believe that to this is chiefly ascribable the impression that +commercial malpractices are increasing. + +Such facts as have come down to us respecting the trade of past times, +confirm this view. In his "Complete English Tradesman," Defoe mentions, +among other manoeuvres of retailers, the false lights which they +introduced into their shops, for the purpose of giving delusive +appearances to their goods. He comments on the "shop rhetorick," the +"flux of falsehoods," which tradesmen habitually uttered to their +customers; and quotes their defence as being that they could not live +without lying. He says, too, that there was scarce a shopkeeper who had +not a bag of spurious or debased coin, from which he gave change +whenever he could; and that men, even the most honest, triumphed in +their skill in getting rid of bad money. These facts show that the +mercantile morals of that day were, at any rate, not better than ours; +and if we call to mind the numerous Acts of Parliament passed in old +times to prevent frauds of all kinds, we perceive the like implication. +As much may, indeed, be safely inferred from the general state of +society. + +When, reign after reign, governments debased the coinage, the moral +tone of the middle classes could scarcely have been higher than now. +Among generations whose sympathy with the claims of fellow-creatures was +so weak, that the slave-trade was not only thought justifiable, but the +initiator of it was rewarded by permission to record the feat in his +coat of arms, it is hardly possible that men respected the claims of +their fellow-citizens more than at present. Times characterized by an +administration of justice so inefficient that there were in London nests +of criminals who defied the law, and on all high roads robbers who +eluded it, cannot have been distinguished by just mercantile dealings. +While, conversely, an age which, like ours, has seen so many equitable +social changes thrust on the legislature by public opinion, is very +unlikely to be an age in which the transactions between individuals have +been growing more inequitable. Yet, on the other hand, it is undeniable +that many of the dishonesties we have described are of modern origin. +Not a few of them have become established during the last thirty years; +and others are even now arising. How are the seeming contradictions to +be reconciled? + +We believe the reconciliation is not difficult. It lies in the fact that +while the _great_ and _direct_ frauds have been diminishing, the _small_ +and _indirect_ frauds have been increasing: alike in variety and in +number. And this admission we take to be quite consistent with the +opinion that the standard of commercial morals is higher than it was. +For, if we omit, as excluded from the question, the penal +restraints--religious and legal--and ask what is the ultimate moral +restraint to the aggression of man on man, we find it to be--sympathy +with the pain inflicted. Now the keenness of the sympathy, depending on +the vividness with which this pain is realised, varies with the +conditions of the case. It may be active enough to check misdeeds which +will cause great suffering; and yet not be active enough to check +misdeeds which will cause but slight annoyance. While sufficiently acute +to prevent a man from doing that which will entail immediate injury on a +given person, it may not be sufficiently acute to prevent him from +doing that which will entail remote injuries on unknown persons. And we +find the facts to agree with this deduction, that the moral restraint +varies according to the clearness with which the evil consequences are +conceived. Many a one who would shrink from picking a pocket does not +scruple to adulterate his goods; and he who never dreams of passing base +coin, will yet be a party to joint-stock-bank deceptions. Hence, as we +say, the multiplication of the more subtle and complex forms of fraud, +is consistent with a general progress in morality; provided it is +accompanied with a decrease in the grosser forms of fraud. + +But the question which most concerns us is, not whether the morals of +trade are better or worse than they have been, but rather--why are they +so bad? Why in this civilised state of ours, is there so much that +betrays the cunning selfishness of the savage? Why, after the careful +inculcations of rectitude during education, comes there in afterlife all +this knavery? Why, in spite of all the exhortations to which the +commercial classes listen every Sunday, do they next morning recommence +their evil deeds? What is this so potent agency which almost neutralises +the discipline of education, of law, of religion? + +Various subsidiary causes that might be assigned, must be passed over, +that we may have space to deal with the chief cause. In an exhaustive +statement, something would have to be said on the credulity of +consumers, which leads them to believe in representations of impossible +advantages; and something, too, on their greediness, which, ever +prompting them to look for more than they ought to get, encourages the +sellers to offer delusive bargains. The increased difficulty of living +consequent on growing pressure of population, might perhaps come in as a +part cause; and that greater cost of bringing up a family, which results +from the higher standard of education, might be added. But all these are +relatively insignificant. The great inciter of these trading +malpractices is, intense desire for wealth. And if we ask--Why this +intense desire? the reply is--It results from the _indiscriminate +respect paid to wealth_. + +To be distinguished from the common herd--to be somebody--to make a +name, a position--this is the universal ambition; and to accumulate +riches, is alike the surest and the easiest way of fulfilling this +ambition. Very early in life all learn this. At school, the court paid +to one whose parents have called in their carriage to see him, is +conspicuous; while the poor boy, whose insufficient stock of clothes +implies the small means of his family, soon has burnt into his memory +the fact that poverty is contemptible. On entering the world, the +lessons that may have been taught about the nobility of self-sacrifice, +the reverence due to genius, the admirableness of high integrity, are +quickly neutralised by experience: men's actions proving that these are +not their standards of respect. It is soon perceived that while abundant +outward marks of deference from fellow-citizens, may almost certainly be +gained by directing every energy to the accumulation of property, they +are but rarely to be gained in any other way; and that even in the few +cases where they are otherwise gained, they are not given with entire +unreserve; but are commonly joined with a more or less manifest display +of patronage. When, seeing this, the young man further sees that while +the acquisition of property is quite possible with his mediocre +endowments, the acquirement of distinction by brilliant discoveries, or +heroic acts, or high achievements in art, implies faculties and feelings +which he does not possess; it is not difficult to understand why he +devotes himself heart and soul to business. + +We do not mean to say that men act on the consciously reasoned-out +conclusions thus indicated; but we mean that these conclusions are the +unconsciously-formed products of their daily experience. From early +childhood, the sayings and doings of all around them have generated the +idea that wealth and respectability are two sides of the same thing. +This idea, growing with their growth, and strengthening with their +strength, becomes at last almost what we may call an organic conviction. +And this organic conviction it is, which prompts the expenditure of all +their energies in money-making. We contend that the chief stimulus is +not the desire for the wealth itself; but for the applause and position +which the wealth brings. And in this belief, we find ourselves at one +with various intelligent traders with whom we have talked on the matter. + +It is incredible that men should make the sacrifices, mental and bodily, +which they do, merely to get the material benefits which money +purchases. Who would undertake an extra burden of business for the +purpose of getting a cellar of choice wines for his own drinking? He who +does it, does it that he may have choice wines to give his guests and +gain their praises. What merchant would spend an additional hour at his +office daily, merely that he might move into a larger house in a better +quarter? In so far as health and comfort are concerned, he knows he will +be a loser by the exchange; and would never be induced to make it, were +it not for the increased social consideration which the new house will +bring him. Where is the man who would lie awake at nights devising means +of increasing his income in the hope of being able to provide his wife +with a carriage, were the use of the carriage the sole consideration? It +is because of the _éclat_ which the carriage will give, that he enters +on these additional anxieties. So manifest, so trite, indeed, are these +truths, that we should be ashamed of insisting on them, did not our +argument require it. + +For if the desire for that homage which wealth brings, is the chief +stimulus to these strivings after wealth, then is the giving of this +homage (when given, as it is, with but little discrimination) the chief +cause of the dishonesties into which these strivings betray mercantile +men. When the shopkeeper, on the strength of a prosperous year and +favourable prospects, has yielded to his wife's persuasions, and +replaced the old furniture with new, at an outlay greater than his +income covers--when, instead of the hoped-for increase, the next year +brings a decrease in his returns--when he finds that his expenses are +out-running his revenue; then does he fall under the strongest +temptation to adopt some newly-introduced adulteration or other +malpractice. When, having by display gained a certain recognition, the +wholesale trader begins to give dinners appropriate only to those of ten +times his income, with expensive other entertainments to match--when, +having for a time carried on this style at a cost greater than he can +afford, he finds that he cannot discontinue it without giving up his +position: then is he most strongly prompted to enter into larger +transactions; to trade beyond his means; to seek undue credit; to get +into that ever-complicating series of misdeeds, which ends in +disgraceful bankruptcy. And if these are the facts--the undeniable +facts--then is it an unavoidable conclusion that the blind admiration +which society gives to mere wealth, and the display of wealth, is the +chief source of these multitudinous immoralities. + +Yes, the evil is deeper than appears--draws its nutriment from far below +the surface. This gigantic system of dishonesty, branching out into +every conceivable form of fraud, has roots that run underneath our whole +social fabric, and, sending fibres into every house, suck up strength +from our daily sayings and doings. In every dining-room a rootlet finds +food, when the conversation turns on So-and-so's successful +speculations, his purchase of an estate, his probable worth--on this +man's recent large legacy, and the other's advantageous match; for being +thus talked about is one form of that tacit respect which men struggle +for. Every drawing-room furnishes nourishment, in the admiration awarded +to costliness--to silks that are "rich," that is, expensive; to dresses +that contain an enormous quantity of material, that is, are expensive; +to laces that are handmade, that is, expensive; to diamonds that are +rare, that is, expensive; to china that is old, that is, expensive. And +from scores of small remarks and minutiae of behaviour, which, in all +circles, hourly imply how completely the idea of respectability +involves that of costly externals, there is drawn fresh pabulum. + +We are all implicated. We all, whether with self-approbation or not, +give expression to the established feeling. Even he who disapproves this +feeling, finds himself unable to treat virtue in threadbare apparel with +a cordiality as great as that which he would show to the same virtue +endowed with prosperity. Scarcely a man is to be found who would not +behave with more civility to a knave in broadcloth than to a knave in +fustian. Though for the deference which they have shown to the vulgar +rich, or the dishonestly successful, men afterwards compound with their +consciences by privately venting their contempt; yet when they again +come face to face with these imposing externals covering worthlessness, +they do as before. And so long as imposing worthlessness gets the +visible marks of respect, while the disrespect felt for it is hidden, it +naturally flourishes. + +Hence, then, is it that men persevere in these evil practices which all +condemn. They can so purchase a homage, which if not genuine, is yet, so +far as appearances go, as good as the best. To one whose wealth has been +gained by a life of frauds, what matters it that his name is in all +circles a synonym of roguery? Has he not been conspicuously honoured by +being twice elected mayor of his town? (we state a fact) and does not +this, joined to the personal consideration shown him, outweigh in his +estimation all that is said against him: of which he hears scarcely +anything? When, not many years after the exposure of his inequitable +dealing, a trader attains to the highest civic distinction which the +kingdom has to offer; and that, too, through the instrumentality of +those who best know his delinquency; is not the fact an encouragement to +him, and to all others, to sacrifice rectitude to aggrandisement? If, +after listening to a sermon that has by implication denounced the +dishonesties he has been guilty of, the rich ill-doer finds, on leaving +church, that his neighbours cap to him; does not this tacit approval go +far to neutralise the effect of all he has heard? The truth is, that +with the great majority of men, the visible expression of social opinion +is far the most efficient of incentives and restraints. Let any one who +wishes to estimate the strength of this control, propose to himself to +walk through the streets in the dress of a dustman, or hawk vegetables +from door to door. Let him feel, as he probably will, that he had rather +do something morally wrong than commit such a breach of usage, and +suffer the resulting derision. And he will then better estimate how +powerful a curb to men is the open disapproval of their fellows; and +how, conversely, the outward applause of their fellows is a stimulus +surpassing all others in intensity. Fully realising which facts, he will +see that the immoralities of trade are in great part traceable to an +immoral public opinion. + +Let none infer, from what has been said, that the payment of respect to +wealth rightly acquired and rightly used, is deprecated. In its original +meaning, and in due degree, the feeling which prompts such respect is +good. Primarily, wealth is the sign of mental power; and this is always +respectable. To have honestly-acquired property, implies intelligence, +energy, self-control; and these are worthy of the homage that is +indirectly paid to them by admiring their results. Moreover, the good +administration and increase of inherited property, also requires its +virtues; and therefore demands its share of approbation. And besides +being applauded for their display of faculty, men who gain and increase +wealth are to be applauded as public benefactors. For he who as +manufacturer or merchant, has, without injustice to others, realised a +fortune, is thereby proved to have discharged his functions better than +those who have been less successful. By greater skill, better judgment, +or more economy than his competitors, he has afforded the public greater +advantages. His extra profits are but a share of the extra produce +obtained by the same expenditure: the other share going to the +consumers. And similarly, the landowner who, by judicious outlay, has +increased the value (that is, the productiveness) of his estate, has +thereby added to the stock of national capital. By all means, then, let +the right acquisition and proper use of wealth, have their due share of +admiration. + +But that which we condemn as the chief cause of commercial dishonesty, +is the _indiscriminate_ admiration of wealth--an admiration that has +little or no reference to the character of the possessor. When, as very +generally happens, the external signs are reverenced, where they signify +no internal worthiness--nay, even where they cover internal +unworthiness; then does the feeling become vicious. It is this idolatry +which worships the symbol apart from the thing symbolised, that is the +root of all these evils we have been exposing. So long as men pay homage +to those social benefactors who have grown rich honestly, they give a +wholesome stimulus to industry; but when they accord a share of their +homage to those social malefactors who have grown rich dishonestly, then +do they foster corruption--then do they become accomplices in all these +frauds of commerce. + +As for remedy, it manifestly follows that there is none save a purified +public opinion. When that abhorrence which society now shows to direct +theft, is shown to theft of all degrees of indirectness, then will these +mercantile vices disappear. When not only the trader who adulterates or +gives short measure, but also the merchant who over-trades, the +bank-director who countenances an exaggerated report, and the +railway-director who repudiates his guarantee, come to be regarded as of +the same genus as the pickpocket, and are treated with like disdain; +then will the morals of trade become what they should be. + +We have little hope, however, that any such higher tone of public +opinion will shortly be reached. The present condition of things appears +to be, in great measure, a necessary accompaniment of our present phase +of progress. Throughout the civilised world, especially in England, and +above all in America, social activity is almost wholly expended in +material development. To subjugate Nature, and bring the powers of +production and distribution to their highest perfection, is the task of +our age; and probably of many future ages. And as in times when national +defence and conquest were the chief desiderata, military achievement was +honoured above all other things; so now, when the chief desideratum is +industrial growth, honour is most conspicuously given to that which +generally indicates the aiding of industrial growth. The English nation +at present displays what we may call the commercial diathesis; and the +undue admiration for wealth appears to be its concomitant--a relation +still more conspicuous in the worship of "the almighty dollar" by the +Americans. And while the commercial diathesis, with its accompanying +standard of distinction, continues, we fear the evils we have been +delineating can be but partially cured. It seems hopeless to expect that +men will distinguish between that wealth which represents personal +superiority and benefits done to society, from that which does not. The +symbols, the externals, have all the world through swayed the masses; +and must long continue to do so. Even the cultivated, who are on their +guard against the bias of associated ideas, and try to separate the real +from the seeming, cannot escape the influence of current opinion. We +must, therefore, content ourselves with looking for a slow amelioration. + +Something, however, may even now be done by vigorous protest against +adoration of mere success. And it is important that it should be done, +considering how this vicious sentiment is being fostered. When we have +one of our leading moralists preaching, with increasing vehemence, the +doctrine of sanctification by force--when we are told that while a +selfishness troubled with qualms of conscience is contemptible, a +selfishness intense enough to trample down every thing in the +unscrupulous pursuit of its ends, is worthy of all admiration--when we +find that if it be sufficiently great, power, no matter of what kind or +how directed, is held up for our reverence; we may fear lest the +prevalent applause of mere success, together with the commercial vices +which it stimulates, should be increased rather than diminished. Not at +all by this hero-worship grown into brute-worship, is society to be made +better; but by exactly the opposite--by a stern criticism of the means +through which success has been achieved; and by according honour to the +higher and less selfish modes of activity. + +And happily the signs of this more moral public opinion are already +showing themselves. It is becoming a tacitly-received doctrine that the +rich should not, as in by-gone times, spend their lives in personal +gratification; but should devote them to the general welfare. Year by +year is the improvement of the people occupying a larger share of the +attention of the upper classes. Year by year are they voluntarily +devoting more and more energy to furthering the material and mental +progress of the masses. And those among them who do not join in the +discharge of these high functions, are beginning to be looked upon with +more or less contempt by their own order. This latest and most hopeful +fact in human history--this new and better chivalry--promises to evolve +a higher standard of honour; and so to ameliorate many evils: among +others those which we have detailed. When wealth obtained by +illegitimate means inevitably brings nothing but disgrace--when to +wealth rightly acquired is accorded only its due share of homage, while +the greatest homage is given to those who consecrate their energies and +their means to the noblest ends; then may we be sure that along with +other accompanying benefits, the morals of trade will be greatly +purified. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 47: From "Essays: Moral, Political and Aesthetic," 1864.] + + + + +ON THE PHYSICAL BASIS OF LIFE[48] + +THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY + + +In order to make the title of this discourse generally intelligible, I +have translated the term "Protoplasm," which is the scientific name of +the substance of which I am about to speak, by the words "the physical +basis of life." I suppose that, to many, the idea that there is such a +thing as a physical basis, or matter, of life may be novel--so widely +spread is the conception of life as a something which works through +matter, but is independent of it; and even those who are aware that +matter and life are inseparably connected, may not be prepared for the +conclusion plainly suggested by the phrase, "_the_ physical basis or +matter of life," that there is some one kind of matter which is common +to all living beings, and that their endless diversities are bound +together by a physical, as well as an ideal, unity. In fact, when first +apprehended, such a doctrine as this appears almost shocking to common +sense. + +What, truly, can seem to be more obviously different from one another, +in faculty, in form, and in substance, than the various kinds of living +beings? What community of faculty can there be between the +brightly-coloured lichen, which so nearly resembles a mere mineral +incrustation of the bare rock on which it grows, and the painter, to +whom it is instinct with beauty, or the botanist, whom it feeds with +knowledge? + +Again, think of the microscopic fungus--a mere infinitesimal ovoid +particle, which finds space and duration enough to multiply into +countless millions in the body of a living fly; and then of the wealth +of foliage, the luxuriance of flower and fruit, which lies between this +bald sketch of a plant and the giant pine of California, towering to the +dimensions of a cathedral spire, or the Indian fig, which covers acres +with its profound shadow, and endures while nations and empires come and +go around its vast circumference. Or, turning to the other half of the +world of life, picture to yourselves the great Finner whale, hugest of +beasts that live, or have lived, disporting his eighty or ninety feet of +bone, muscle, and blubber, with easy roll, among waves in which the +stoutest ship that ever left dockyard would flounder hopelessly; and +contrast him with the invisible animalcules--mere gelatinous specks, +multitudes of which could, in fact, dance upon the point of a needle +with the same ease as the angels of the Schoolmen could, in imagination. +With these images before your minds, you may well ask, what community of +form, or structure, is there between the animalcule and the whale; or +between the fungus and the fig-tree? And, _à fortiori_[49], between all +four? + +Finally, if we regard substance, or material composition, what hidden +bond can connect the flower which a girl wears in her hair and the blood +which courses through her youthful veins; or, what is there in common +between the dense and resisting mass of the oak, or the strong fabric of +the tortoise, and those broad disks of glassy jelly which may be seen +pulsating through the waters of a calm sea, but which drain away to mere +films in the hand which raises them out of their element? + +Such objections as these must, I think, arise in the mind of every one +who ponders, for the first time, upon the conception of a single +physical basis of life underlying all the diversities of vital +existence; but I propose to demonstrate to you that, notwithstanding +these apparent difficulties, a threefold unity--namely, a unity of +power or faculty, a unity of form, and a unity of substantial +composition--does pervade the whole living world. + +No very abstruse argumentation is needed, in the first place, to prove +that the powers, or faculties, of all kinds of living matter, diverse as +they may be in degree, are substantially similar in kind. + +Goethe has condensed a survey of all powers of mankind into the +well-known epigram:-- + + "Warum treibt sich das Volk so und schreit? Es will sich ernähren, + Kinder zeugen, und die nähren so gut es vermag. + + * * * * * + + Weiter bringt es kein Mensch, stell' er sich wie er auch will."[50] + +In physiological language this means, that all the multifarious and +complicated activities of man are comprehensible under three categories. +Either they are immediately directed towards the maintenance and +development of the body, or they effect transitory changes in the +relative positions of parts of the body, or they tend towards the +continuance of the species. Even those manifestions of intellect, of +feeling, and of will, which we rightly name the higher faculties, are +not excluded from this classification, inasmuch as to every one but the +subject of them, they are known only as transitory changes in the +relative positions of parts of the body. Speech, gesture, and every +other form of human action are, in the long run, resolvable into +muscular contraction, and muscular contraction is but a transitory +change in the relative positions of the parts of a muscle. But the +scheme which is large enough to embrace the activities of the highest +form of life, covers all those of the lower creatures. The lowest plant, +or animalcule, feeds, grows, and reproduces its kind. In addition, all +animals manifest those transitory changes of form which we class under +irritability and contractility; and it is more than probable that when +the vegetable world is thoroughly explored, we shall find all plants in +possession of the same powers, at one time or other of their existence. + +I am not now alluding to such phenomena, at once rare and conspicuous, +as those exhibited by the leaflets of the sensitive plants, or the +stamens of the barberry, but to much more widely spread, and at the same +time, more subtle and hidden, manifestions of vegetable contractility. +You are doubtless aware that the common nettle owes its stinging +property to the innumerable stiff and needle-like, though exquisitely +delicate, hairs which cover its surface. Each stinging-needle tapers +from a broad base to a slender summit, which, though rounded at the end, +is of such microscopic fineness that it readily penetrates, and breaks +off in, the skin. The whole hair consists of a very delicate outer case +of wood, closely applied to the inner surface of which is a layer of +semi-fluid matter, full of innumerable granules of extreme minuteness. +This semi-fluid lining is protoplasm, which thus constitutes a kind of +bag, full of a limpid liquid, and roughly corresponding in form with the +interior of the hair which it fills. When viewed with a sufficiently +high magnifying power, the protoplasmic layer of the nettle hair is seen +to be in a condition of unceasing activity. Local contractions of the +whole thickness of its substance pass slowly and gradually from point to +point, and give rise to the appearance of progressive waves, just as the +bending of successive stalks of corn by a breeze produces the apparent +billows of a corn-field. + +But, in addition to these movements, and independently of them, the +granules are driven, in relatively rapid streams, through channels in +the protoplasm which seem to have a considerable amount of persistence. +Most commonly, the currents in adjacent parts of the protoplasm take +similar directions; and, thus, there is a general stream up one side of +the hair and down the other. But this does not prevent the existence of +partial currents which take different routes; and sometimes trains of +granules may be seen coursing swiftly in opposite directions within a +twenty-thousandth of an inch of one another; while, occasionally, +opposite streams come into direct collision, and, after a longer or +shorter struggle, one predominates. The cause of these currents seems to +lie in contractions of the protoplasm which bounds the channels in which +they flow, but which are so minute that the best microscopes show only +their effects, and not themselves. + +The spectacle afforded by the wonderful energies prisoned within the +compass of the microscopic hair of a plant, which we commonly regard as +a merely passive organism, is not easily forgotten by one who has +watched its display, continued hour after hour, without pause or sign of +weakening. The possible complexity of many other organic forms, +seemingly as simple as the protoplasm of the nettle, dawns upon one; and +the comparison of such a protoplasm to a body with an internal +circulation, which has been put forward by an eminent physiologist, +loses much of its startling character. Currents similar to those of the +hairs of the nettle have been observed in a great multitude of very +different plants, and weighty authorities have suggested that they +probably occur, in more or less perfection, in all young vegetable +cells. If such be the case, the wonderful noonday silence of a tropical +forest is, after all, due only to the dullness of our hearing; and could +our ears catch the murmur of these tiny Maelstroms, as they whirl in the +innumerable myriads of living cells which constitute each tree, we +should be stunned, as with the roar of a great city. + +Among the lower plants, it is the rule rather than the exception, that +contractility should be still more openly manifested at some periods of +their existence. The protoplasm of _Algae_ and _Fungi_ becomes, under +many circumstances, partially, or completely, freed from its woody case, +and exhibits movements of its whole mass, or is propelled by the +contractility of one, or more, hair-like prolongations of its body, +which are called vibratile cilia. And, so far as the conditions of the +manifestation of the phenomena of contractility have yet been studied, +they are the same for the plant as for the animal. Heat and electric +shocks influence both, and in the same way, though it may be in +different degrees. It is by no means my intention to suggest that there +is no difference in faculty between the lowest plant and the highest, or +between plants and animals. But the difference between the powers of the +lowest plant, or animal, and those of the highest, is one of degree, not +of kind, and depends, as Milne-Edwards long ago so well pointed out, +upon the extent to which the principle of the division of labour is +carried out in the living economy. In the lowest organism all parts are +competent to perform all functions, and one and the same portion of +protoplasm may successfully take on the function of feeding, moving, or +reproducing apparatus. In the highest, on the contrary, a great number +of parts combine to perform each function, each part doing its allotted +share of the work with great accuracy and efficiency, but being useless +for any other purpose. + +On the other hand, notwithstanding all the fundamental resemblances +which exist between the powers of the protoplasm in plants and in +animals, they present a striking difference (to which I shall advert +more at length presently), in the fact that plants can manufacture fresh +protoplasm out of mineral compounds, whereas animals are obliged to +procure it ready made, and hence, in the long run, depend upon plants. +Upon what condition this difference in the powers of the two great +divisions of the world of life depends, nothing is at present known. + +With such qualifications as arise out of the last-mentioned fact, it may +be truly said that the acts of all living things are fundamentally one. +Is any such unity predicable of their forms? Let us seek in easily +verified facts for a reply to this question. If a drop of blood be drawn +by pricking one's finger, and viewed with proper precautions, and under +a sufficiently high microscopic power, there will be seen, among the +innumerable multitude of little, circular, discoidal bodies, or +corpuscles, which float in it and give it its colour, a comparatively +small number of colourless corpuscles, of somewhat larger size and very +irregular shape. If the drop of blood be kept at the temperature of the +body, these colourless corpuscles will be seen to exhibit a marvellous +activity, changing their forms with great rapidity, drawing in and +thrusting out prolongations of their substance, and creeping about as if +they were independent organisms. + +The substance which is thus active is a mass of protoplasm, and its +activity differs in detail, rather than in principle, from that of the +protoplasm of the nettle. Under sundry circumstances the corpuscle dies +and becomes distended into a round mass, in the midst of which is seen a +smaller spherical body, which existed, but was more or less hidden, in +the living corpuscle, and is called its _nucleus_. Corpuscles of +essentially similar structure are to be found in the skin, in the lining +of the mouth, and scattered through the whole framework of the body. +Nay, more: in the earliest condition of the human organism, in that +state in which it has but just become distinguishable from the egg in +which it arises, it is nothing but an aggregation of such corpuscles, +and every organ of the body was, once, no more than such an aggregation. + +Thus a nucleated mass of protoplasm turns out to be what may be termed +the structural unit of the human body. As a matter of fact, the body, in +its earliest state, is a mere multiple of such units; and in its perfect +condition, it is a multiple of such units, variously modified. + +But does the formula which expresses the essential structural character +of the highest animal cover all the rest, as the statement of its powers +and faculties covered that of all others? Very nearly. Beast and fowl, +reptile and fish, mollusk, worm, and polype, are all composed of +structural units of the same character, namely, masses of protoplasm +with a nucleus. There are sundry very low animals, each of which, +structurally, is a mere colourless blood-corpuscle, leading an +independent life. But, at the very bottom of the animal scale, even this +simplicity becomes simplified, and all the phenomena of life are +manifested by a particle of protoplasm without a nucleus. Nor are such +organisms insignificant by reason of their want of complexity. It is a +fair question whether the protoplasm of those simplest forms of life, +which people an immense extent of the bottom of the sea, would not +outweigh that of all the higher living beings which inhabit the land put +together. And in ancient times, no less than at the present day, such +living beings as these have been the greatest of rock builders. + +What has been said of the animal world is no less true of plants. +Imbedded in the protoplasm at the broad, or attached, end of the nettle +hair, there lies a spheroidal nucleus. Careful examination further +proves that the whole substance of the nettle is made up of a repetition +of such masses of nucleated protoplasm, each contained in a wooden case, +which is modified in form, sometimes into a woody fibre, sometimes into +a duct or spiral vessel, sometimes into a pollen grain, or an ovule. +Traced back to its earliest state, the nettle arises as the man does, in +a particle of nucleated protoplasm. And in the lowest plants, as in the +lowest animals, a single mass of such protoplasm may constitute the +whole plant, or the protoplasm may exist without a nucleus. + +Under these circumstances it may well be asked, how is one mass of +non-nucleated protoplasm to be distinguished from another? why call one +"plant" and the other "animal"? + +The only reply is that, so far as form is concerned, plants and animals +are not separable, and that, in many cases, it is a mere matter of +convention whether we call a given organism an animal or a plant. There +is a living body called _Aethalium septicum_, which appears upon +decaying vegetable substances, and, in one of its forms, is common upon +the surfaces of tan-pits. In this condition it is, to all intents and +purposes, a fungus, and formerly was always regarded as such; but the +remarkable investigations of De Bary have shown that, in another +condition, the _Aethalium_ is an actively locomotive creature, and takes +in solid matters, upon which, apparently, it feeds, thus exhibiting the +most characteristic feature of animality. Is this a plant; or is it an +animal? Is it both; or is it neither? Some decide in favour of the last +supposition, and establish an intermediate kingdom, a sort of biological +No Man's Land for all these questionable forms. But, as it is admittedly +impossible to draw any distinct boundary line between this no man's land +and the vegetable world on the one hand, or the animal on the other, it +appears to me that this proceeding merely doubles the difficulty which, +before, was single. + +Protoplasm, simple or nucleated, is the formal basis of all life. It is +the clay of the potter: which, bake it and paint it as he will, remains +clay, separated by artifice, and not by nature, from the commonest brick +or sun-dried clod. + +Thus it becomes clear that all living powers are cognate, and that all +living forms are fundamentally of one character. The researches of the +chemist have revealed a no less striking uniformity of material +composition in living matter. + +In perfect strictness, it is true that chemical investigation can tell +us little or nothing, directly, of the composition of living matter, +inasmuch as such matter must needs die in the act of analysis,--and upon +this very obvious ground, objections, which I confess seem to me to be +somewhat frivolous, have been raised to the drawing of any conclusions +whatever respecting the composition of actually living matter, from that +of the dead matter of life, which alone is accessible to us. But +objectors of this class do not seem to reflect that it is also, in +strictness, true that we know nothing about the composition of any body +whatever, as it is. The statement that a crystal of calc-spar consists +of carbonate of lime, is quite true, if we only mean that, by +appropriate processes, it may be resolved into carbonic acid and +quicklime. If you pass the same carbonic acid over the very quicklime +thus obtained, you will obtain carbonate of lime again; but it will not +be calc-spar, nor anything like it. Can it, therefore, be said that +chemical analysis teaches nothing about the chemical composition of +calc-spar? Such a statement would be absurd; but it is hardly more so +than the talk one occasionally hears about the uselessness of applying +the results of chemical analysis to the living bodies which have yielded +them. + +One fact, at any rate, is out of reach of such refinements, and this is, +that all the forms of protoplasm which have yet been examined contain +the four elements, carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen, in very +complex union, and that they behave similarly towards several reagents. +To this complex combination, the nature of which has never been +determined with exactness, the name of Protein has been applied. And if +we use this term with such caution as may properly arise out of our +comparative ignorance of the things for which it stands, it may be truly +said that all protoplasm is proteinaceous, or, as the white, or albumen, +of an egg is one of the commonest examples of a nearly pure proteine +matter, we may say that all living matter is more or less albuminoid. + +Perhaps it would not yet be safe to say that all forms of protoplasm are +affected by the direct action of electric shocks; and yet the number of +cases in which the contraction of protoplasm is shown to be affected by +this agency increases every day. + +Nor can it be affirmed with perfect confidence, that all forms of +protoplasm are liable to undergo that peculiar coagulation at a +temperature of 40°-50° Centigrade, which has been called +"heat-stiffening," though Kühne's beautiful researches have proved this +occurrence to take place in so many and such diverse living beings, that +it is hardly rash to expect that the law holds good for all. + +Enough has, perhaps, been said, to prove the existence of a general +uniformity in the character of the protoplasm, or physical basis, of +life, in whatever group of living beings it may be studied. But it will +be understood that this general uniformity by no means excludes any +amount of special modifications of the fundamental substance. The +mineral, carbonate of lime, assumes an immense diversity of characters, +though no one doubts that, under all these Protean changes, is one and +the same thing. + +And now, what is the ultimate fate, and what the origin, of the matter +of life? + +Is it, as some of the older naturalists supposed, diffused throughout +the universe in molecules, which are indestructible and unchangeable in +themselves; but, in endless transmigration, unite in innumerable +permutations, into the diversified forms of life we know? Or, is the +matter of life composed of ordinary matter, differing from it only in +the manner in which its atoms are aggregated? Is it built up of ordinary +matter, and again resolved into ordinary matter when its work is done? + +Modern science does not hesitate a moment between these alternatives. +Physiology writes over the portals of life-- + + "Debemur morti nos nostraque,"[51] + +with a profounder meaning than the Roman poet attached to that +melancholy line. Under whatever disguise it takes refuge, whether fungus +or oak, worm or man, the living protoplasm not only ultimately dies and +is resolved into its mineral and lifeless constituents, but is always +dying, and, strange as the paradox may sound, could not live unless it +died. + +In the wonderful story of the _Peau de Chagrin_, the hero becomes +possessed of a magical wild ass' skin, which yields him the means of +gratifying all his wishes. But its surface represents the duration of +the proprietor's life; and for every satisfied desire the skin shrinks +in proportion to the intensity of fruition, until at length life and the +last handbreath of the _peau de chagrin_, disappear with the +gratification of a last wish. + +Balzac's studies had led him over a wide range of thought and +speculation, and his shadowing forth of physiological truth in this +strange story may have been intentional. At any rate, the matter of life +is a veritable _peau de chagrin_, and for every vital act it is somewhat +the smaller. All work implies waste, and the work of life results, +directly or indirectly, in the waste of protoplasm. + +Every word uttered by a speaker costs him some physical loss; and, in +the strictest sense, he burns that others may have light--so much +eloquence, so much of his body resolved into carbonic acid, water, and +urea. It is clear that this process of expenditure cannot go on forever. +But, happily, the protoplasmic _peau de chagrin_ differs from Balzac's +in its capacity of being repaired, and brought back to its full size, +after every exertion. + +For example, this present lecture, whatever its intellectual worth to +you, has a certain physical value to me, which is, conceivably, +expressible by the number of grains of protoplasm and other bodily +substance wasted in maintaining my vital processes during its delivery. +My _peau de chagrin_ will be distinctly smaller at the end of the +discourse than it was at the beginning. By and by, I shall probably have +recourse to the substance commonly called mutton, for the purpose of +stretching it back to its original size. Now this mutton was once the +living protoplasm, more or less modified, of another animal--a sheep. As +I shall eat it, it is the same matter altered, not only by death, but by +exposure to sundry artificial operations in the process of cooking. + +But these changes, whatever be their extent, have not rendered it +incompetent to resume its old functions as matter of life. A singular +inward laboratory, which I possess, will dissolve a certain portion of +the modified protoplasm; the solution so formed will pass into my +veins; and the subtle influences to which it will then be subjected will +convert the dead protoplasm into living protoplasm, and transubstantiate +sheep into man. + +Nor is this all. If digestion were a thing to be trifled with, I might +sup upon lobster, and the matter of life of the crustacean would undergo +the same wonderful metamorphosis into humanity. And were I to return to +my own place by sea, and undergo shipwreck, the crustacean might, and +probably would, return the compliment, and demonstrate our common nature +by turning my protoplasm into living lobster. Or, if nothing better were +to be had, I might supply my wants with mere bread, and I should find +the protoplasm of the wheat-plant to be convertible into man with no +more trouble than that of the sheep, and with far less, I fancy, than +that of the lobster. + +Hence it appears to be a matter of no great moment what animal, or what +plant, I lay under contribution for protoplasm, and the fact speaks +volumes for the general identity of that substance in all living beings. +I share this catholicity of assimilation with other animals, all of +which, so far as we know, could thrive equally well on the protoplasm of +any of their fellows, or of any plant; but here the assimilative powers +of the animal world cease. A solution of smelling-salts in water, with +an infinitesimal proportion of some other saline matters, contains all +the elementary bodies which enter into the composition of protoplasm; +but, as I need hardly say, a hogshead of that fluid would not keep a +hungry man from starving, nor would it save any animal whatever from a +like fate. An animal cannot make protoplasm, but must take it ready-made +from some other animal, or some plant--the animal's highest feat of +constructive chemistry being to convert dead protoplasm into that living +matter of life which is appropriate to itself. + +Therefore, in seeking for the origin of protoplasm, we must eventually +turn to the vegetable world. A fluid containing carbonic acid, water, +and nitrogenous salts, which offers such a Barmecide feast[52] to the +animal, is a table richly spread to multitudes of plants; and, with a +due supply of only such materials, many a plant will not only maintain +itself in vigour, but grow and multiply until it has increased a +million-fold, or a million million-fold, the quantity of protoplasm +which it originally possessed; in this way building up the matter of +life, to an indefinite extent, from the common matter of the universe. + +Thus, the animal can only raise the complex substance of dead protoplasm +to the higher power, as one may say, of living protoplasm; while the +plant can raise the less complex substances--carbonic acid, water, and +nitrogenous salts--to the same stage of living protoplasm, if not to the +same level. But the plant also has its limitations. Some of the fungi, +for example, appear to need higher compounds to start with; and no known +plant can live upon the uncompounded elements of protoplasm. A plant +supplied with pure carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen, phosphorus, +sulphur, and the like, would as infallibly die as the animal in his bath +of smelling-salts, though it would be surrounded by all the constituents +of protoplasm. Nor, indeed, need the process of simplification of +vegetable food be carried so far as this, in order to arrive at the +limit of the plant's thaumaturgy. Let water, carbonic acid, and all the +other needful constituents be supplied except nitrogenous salts, and an +ordinary plant will still be unable to manufacture protoplasm. + +Thus the matter of life, so far as we know it (and we have no right to +speculate on any other), breaks up, in consequence of that continual +death which is the condition of its manifesting vitality, into carbonic +acid, water, and nitrogenous compounds, which certainly possess no +properties but those of ordinary matter. And out of these same forms of +ordinary matter, and from none which are simpler, the vegetable world +builds up all the protoplasm which keeps the animal world a-going. +Plants are the accumulators of the power which animals distribute and +disperse. + +But it will be observed, that the existence of the matter of life +depends on the pre-existence of certain compounds; namely, carbonic +acid, water, and certain nitrogenous bodies. Withdraw any one of these +three from the world, and all vital phenomena come to an end. They are +as necessary to the protoplasm of the plant, as the protoplasm of the +plant is to that of the animal. Carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen +are all lifeless bodies. Of these, carbon and oxygen unite in certain +proportions and under certain conditions, to give rise to carbonic acid; +hydrogen and oxygen produce water; nitrogen and other elements give rise +to nitrogenous salts. These new compounds, like the elementary bodies of +which they are composed, are lifeless. But when they are brought +together, under certain conditions, they give rise to the still more +complex body, protoplasm, and this protoplasm exhibits the phenomena of +life. + +I see no break in this series of steps in molecular complication, and I +am unable to understand why the language which is applicable to any one +term of the series may not be used to any of the others. We think fit to +call different kinds of matter carbon, oxygen, hydrogen, and nitrogen, +and to speak of the various powers and activities of these substances as +the properties of the matter of which they are composed. + +When hydrogen and oxygen are mixed in a certain proportion, and an +electric spark is passed through them, they disappear, and a quantity of +water, equal in weight to the sum of their weights, appears in their +place. There is not the slightest parity between the passive and active +powers of the water and those of the oxygen and hydrogen which have +given rise to it. At 32° Fahrenheit, and far below that temperature, +oxygen and hydrogen are elastic gaseous bodies, whose particles tend to +rush away from one another with great force. Water, at the same +temperature, is a strong though brittle solid, whose particles tend to +cohere into definite geometrical shapes, and sometimes build up frosty +imitations of the most complex forms of vegetable foliage. + +Nevertheless we call these, and many other strange phenomena, the +properties of the water, and we do not hesitate to believe that, in some +way or another, they result from the properties of the component +elements of the water. We do not assume that a something called +"aquosity" entered into and took possession of the oxidated hydrogen as +soon as it was formed, and then guided the aqueous particles to their +places in the facets of the crystal, or amongst the leaflets of the +hoar-frost. On the contrary, we live in the hope and in the faith that, +by the advance of molecular physics, we shall by and by be able to see +our way as clearly from the constituents of water to the properties of +water, as we are now able to deduce the operations of a watch from the +form of its parts and the manner in which they are put together. + +Is the case in any way changed when carbonic acid, water, and +nitrogenous salts disappear, and in their place, under the influence of +pre-existing living protoplasm, an equivalent weight of the matter of +life makes its appearance? + +It is true that there is no sort of parity between the properties of the +components and the properties of the resultant, but neither was there in +the case of the water. It is also true that what I have spoken of as the +influence of pre-existing living matter is something quite +unintelligible; but does anybody quite comprehend the _modus +operandi_[53] of an electric spark, which traverses a mixture of oxygen +and hydrogen? + +What justification is there, then, for the assumption of the existence +in the living matter of a something which has no representative, or +correlative, in the not living matter which gave rise to it? What better +philosophical status has "vitality" than "aquosity"? And why should +"vitality" hope for a better fate than the other "itys" which have +disappeared since Martinus Scriblerus accounted for the operation of the +meat-jack by its inherent "meat-roasting quality," and scorned the +"materialism" of those who explained the turning of the spit by a +certain mechanism worked by the draught of the chimney? + +If scientific language is to possess a definite and constant +signification whenever it is employed, it seems to me that we are +logically bound to apply to the protoplasm, or physical basis of life, +the same conceptions as those which are held to be legitimate elsewhere. +If the phenomena exhibited by water are its properties, so are those +presented by protoplasm, living or dead, its properties. + +If the properties of water may be properly said to result from the +nature and disposition of its component molecules, I can find no +intelligible ground for refusing to say that the properties of +protoplasm result from the nature and disposition of its molecules. + +But I bid you beware that, in accepting these conclusions, you are +placing your feet on the first rung of a ladder which, in most people's +estimation, is the reverse of Jacob's and leads to the antipodes of +heaven. It may seem a small thing to admit that the dull vital actions +of a fungus, or a foraminifer, are the properties of their protoplasm, +and are the direct results of the nature of the matter of which they are +composed. But if, as I have endeavoured to prove to you, their +protoplasm is essentially identical with, and most readily converted +into, that of any animal, I can discover no logical halting-place +between the admission that such is the case, and the further concession +that all vital action may, with equal propriety, be said to be the +result of the molecular forces of the protoplasm which displays it. And +if so, it must be true, in the same sense and to the same extent, that +the thoughts to which I am now giving utterance, and your thoughts +regarding them, are the expression of molecular changes in that matter +of life which is the source of our other vital phenomena. + +Past experience leads me to be tolerably certain that, when the +propositions I have just placed before you are accessible to public +comment and criticism, they will be condemned by many zealous persons, +and perhaps by some few of the wise and thoughtful. I should not wonder +if "gross and brutal materialism" were the mildest phrase applied to +them in certain quarters. And, most undoubtedly, the terms of the +propositions are distinctly materialistic. Nevertheless two things are +certain: the one, that I hold the statements to be substantially true; +the other, that I, individually, am no materialist, but, on the +contrary, believe materialism to involve grave philosophical error. + +This union of materialistic terminology with the repudiation of +materialistic philosophy I share with some of the most thoughtful men +with whom I am acquainted. And, when I first undertook to deliver the +present discourse, it appeared to me to be a fitting opportunity to +explain how such a union is not only consistent with, but necessitated +by, sound logic. I purposed to lead you through the territory of vital +phenomena to the materialistic slough in which you find yourselves now +plunged, and then to point out to you the sole path by which, in my +judgment, extrication is possible. + + * * * * * + +Let us suppose that knowledge is absolute, and not relative, and +therefore, that our conception of matter represents that which it really +is. Let us suppose, further, that we do know more of cause and effect +than a certain definite order of succession among facts, and that we +have a knowledge of the necessity of that succession--and hence, of +necessary laws--and I, for my part, do not see what escape there is from +utter materialism and necessarianism. For it is obvious that our +knowledge of what we call the material world is, to begin with, at least +as certain and definite as that of the spiritual world, and that our +acquaintance with law is of as old a date as our knowledge of +spontaneity. Further, I take it to be demonstrable that it is utterly +impossible to prove that anything whatever may not be the effect of a +material and necessary cause, and that human logic is equally +incompetent to prove that any act is really spontaneous. A really +spontaneous act is one which, by the assumption, has no cause; and the +attempt to prove such a negative as this is, on the face of the matter, +absurd. And while it is thus a philosophical impossibility to +demonstrate that any given phenomenon is not the effect of a material +cause, any one who is acquainted with the history of science will admit, +that its progress has, in all ages, meant, and now, more than ever, +means, the extension of the province of what we call matter and +causation, and the concomitant gradual banishment from all regions of +human thought of what we call spirit and spontaneity. + +I have endeavoured, in the first part of this discourse, to give you a +conception of the direction towards which modern physiology is tending; +and I ask you, what is the difference between the conception of life as +the product of a certain disposition of material molecules, and the old +notion of an Archaeus[54] governing and directing blind matter within +each living body, except this--that here, as elsewhere, matter and law +have devoured spirit and spontaneity? And as surely as every future +grows out of past and present, so will the physiology of the future +gradually extend the realm of matter and law until it is co-extensive +with knowledge, with feeling, and with action. + +The consciousness of this great truth weighs like a nightmare, I +believe, upon many of the best minds of these days. They watch what they +conceive to be the progress of materialism, in such fear and powerless +anger as a savage feels when, during an eclipse, the great shadow creeps +over the face of the sun. The advancing tide of matter threatens to +drown their souls; the tightening grasp of law impedes their freedom; +they are alarmed lest man's moral nature be debased by the increase of +his wisdom. + +If the "New Philosophy" be worthy of the reprobation with which it is +visited, I confess their fears seem to me to be well founded. While, on +the contrary, could David Hume be consulted, I think he would smile at +their perplexities, and chide them for doing even as the heathen, and +falling down in terror before the hideous idols their own hands have +raised. + +For, after all, what do we know of this terrible "matter," except as a +name for the unknown and hypothetical cause of states of our own +consciousness? And what do we know of that "spirit" over whose +threatened extinction by matter a great lamentation is arising, like +that which was heard at the death of Pan, except that it is also a name +for an unknown and hypothetical cause, or condition, of states of +consciousness? In other words, matter and spirit are but names for the +imaginary substrata of groups of natural phenomena. + +And what is the dire necessity and "iron" law under which men groan? +Truly, most gratuitously invented bugbears. I suppose if there be an +"iron" law, it is that of gravitation; and if there be a physical +necessity, it is that a stone, unsupported, must fall to the ground. But +what is all we really know, and can know, about the latter phenomenon? +Simply, that, in all human experience, stones have fallen to the ground +under these conditions; that we have not the smallest reason for +believing that any stone so circumstanced will not fall to the ground; +and that we have, on the contrary, every reason to believe that it will +so fall. It is very convenient to indicate that all the conditions of +belief have been fulfilled in this case, by calling the statement that +unsupported stones will fall to the ground, "a law of Nature." But when, +as commonly happens, we change _will_ into _must_, we introduce an idea +of necessity which most assuredly does not lie in the observed facts, +and has no warranty that I can discover elsewhere. For my part, I +utterly repudiate and anathematise the intruder. Fact I know; and Law I +know; but what is this Necessity save an empty shadow of my own mind's +throwing? + +But, if it is certain that we can have no knowledge of the nature of +either matter or spirit, and that the notion of necessity is something +illegitimately thrust into the perfectly legitimate conception of law, +the materialistic position that there is nothing in the world but +matter, force, and necessity, is as utterly devoid of justification as +the most baseless of theological dogmas. The fundamental doctrines of +materialism, like those of spiritualism, and most other "isms," lie +outside "the limits of philosophical inquiry," and David Hume's great +service to humanity is his irrefragable demonstration of what these +limits are. Hume called himself a sceptic, and therefore others cannot +be blamed if they apply the same title to him; but that does not alter +the fact that the name, with its existing implications, does him gross +injustice. + +If a man asks me what the politics of the inhabitants of the moon are, +and I reply that I do not know; that neither I, nor any one else, has +any means of knowing; and that, under these circumstances, I decline to +trouble myself about the subject at all; I do not think he has any right +to call me a sceptic. On the contrary, in replying thus, I conceive that +I am simply honest and truthful, and show a proper regard for the +economy of time. So Hume's strong and subtle intellect takes up a great +many problems about which we are naturally curious, and shows us that +they are essentially questions of lunar politics, in their essence +incapable of being answered, and therefore not worth the attention of +men who have work to do in the world. And he thus ends one of his +essays:-- + +"If we take in hand any volume of Divinity, or school metaphysics, for +instance, let us ask, _Does it contain any abstract reasoning concerning +quantity or number?_ No. _Does it contain any experimental reasoning +concerning matter of fact and existence?_ No. Commit it then to the +flames; for it can contain nothing but sophistry and illusion."[55] + +Permit me to enforce this most wise advice. Why trouble ourselves about +matters of which, however important they may be, we do know nothing, and +can know nothing? We live in a world which is full of misery and +ignorance, and the plain duty of each and all of us is to try to make +the little corner he can influence somewhat less miserable and somewhat +less ignorant than it was before he entered it. To do this effectually +it is necessary to be fully possessed of only two beliefs: the first, +that the order of Nature is ascertainable by our faculties to an extent +which is practically unlimited; the second, that our volition[56] counts +for something as a condition of the course of events. + +Each of these beliefs can be verified experimentally, as often as we +like to try. Each, therefore, stands upon the strongest foundation upon +which any belief can rest, and forms one of our highest truths. If we +find that the ascertainment of the order of nature is facilitated by +using one terminology, or one set of symbols, rather than another, it is +our clear duty to use the former; and no harm can accrue, so long as we +bear in mind that we are dealing merely with terms and symbols. + +In itself it is of little moment whether we express the phenomena of +matter in terms of spirit; or the phenomena of spirit in terms of +matter: matter may be regarded as a form of thought, thought may be +regarded as a property of matter--each statement has a certain relative +truth. But with a view to the progress of science, the materialistic +terminology is in every way to be preferred. For it connects thought +with the other phenomena of the universe, and suggests inquiry into the +nature of those physical conditions, or concomitants of thought, which +are more or less accessible to us, and a knowledge of which may, in +future, help us to exercise the same kind of control over the world of +thought as we already possess in respect of the material world; +whereas, the alternative, or spiritualistic, terminology is utterly +barren, and leads to nothing but obscurity and confusion of ideas. + +Thus there can be little doubt, that the further science advances, the +more extensively and consistently will all the phenomena of Nature be +represented by materialistic formulae and symbols. + +But the man of science, who, forgetting the limits of philosophical +inquiry, slides from these formulae and symbols into what is commonly +understood by materialism, seems to me to place himself on a level with +the mathematician who should mistake the x's and y's with which he works +his problems, for real entities--and with this further disadvantage, as +compared with the mathematician, that the blunders of the latter are of +no practical consequence, while the errors of systematic materialism may +paralyse the energies and destroy the beauty of a life. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 48: The substance of this paper was contained in an address +which was delivered in Edinburgh in 1868. The paper was published in +"Lay Sermons," 1870.] + +[Footnote 49: _à fortiori:_ with stronger reason.] + +[Footnote 50: Why does the populace rush so and make clamor? It wishes +to eat, bring forth children, and feed these as well as it may.... No +man can do better, strive how he will.] + +[Footnote 51: We and ours must die.] + +[Footnote 52: In one of the Arabian Nights stories, a nobleman called +Barmecide set before a beggar a number of empty dishes supposed to +contain a feast.] + +[Footnote 53: Mode of working.] + +[Footnote 54: Archaeus: a spirit, having essentially the same form as +the body within which it resided.] + +[Footnote 55: Hume's Essay "Of the Academical or Sceptical Philosophy," +in the _Inquiry concerning the Human Understanding._--[Many critics of +this passage seem to forget that the subject-matter of Ethics and +Aesthetics consists of matters of fact and existence.--1892.]--Author's +note.] + +[Footnote 56: Or, to speak more accurately, the physical state of which +volition is the expression.--1892.--Author's note.] + + + + +COMPARISON OF THE MENTAL POWERS OF MAN AND THE LOWER ANIMALS[57] + +CHARLES DARWIN + + +My object in this chapter is to show that there is no fundamental +difference between man and the higher mammals in their mental faculties. +Each division of the subject might have been extended into a separate +essay, but must here be treated briefly. As no classification of the +mental powers has been universally accepted, I shall arrange my remarks +in the order most convenient for my purpose; and will select those facts +which have struck me most, with the hope that they may produce some +effect on the reader. + +As man possesses the same senses as the lower animals, his fundamental +intuitions must be the same. Man has also some few instincts in common, +as that of self-preservation, sexual love, the love of the mother for +her new-born offspring, the desire possessed by the latter to suck, and +so forth. But man, perhaps, has somewhat fewer instincts: than those +possessed by the animals which come next to him in the series. The orang +in the Eastern islands and the chimpanzee in Africa build platforms on +which they sleep; and as both species follow the same habit, it might be +argued that this was due to instinct, but we cannot feel sure that it is +not the result of both animals having similar wants and possessing +similar powers of reasoning. These apes, as we may assume, avoid the +many poisonous fruits of the tropics, and man has no such knowledge; but +as our domestic animals, when taken to foreign lands, and when first +turned out in the spring, often eat poisonous herbs, which they +afterward avoid, we cannot feel sure that the apes do not learn from +their own experience or from that of their parents what fruits to +select. It is, however, certain, as we shall presently see, that apes +have an instinctive dread of serpents, and probably of other dangerous +animals. + +The fewness and the comparative simplicity of the instincts in the +higher animals are remarkable in contrast with those of the lower +animals. Cuvier maintained that instinct and intelligence stand in an +inverse ratio to each other; and some have thought that the intellectual +faculties of the higher animals have been gradually developed from their +instincts. But Pouchet, in an interesting essay, has shown that no such +inverse ratio really exists. Those insects which possess the most +wonderful instincts are certainly the most intelligent. In the +vertebrate series, the least intelligent members, namely fishes and +amphibians, do not possess complex instincts; and among mammals the +animal most remarkable for its instincts, namely the beaver, is highly +intelligent, as will be admitted by every one who has read Mr. Morgan's +excellent work.[58] + +But although, as we learn from the above-mentioned insects and the +beaver, a high degree of intelligence is certainly compatible with +complex instincts, and although actions, at first learned voluntarily, +can soon through habit be performed with the quickness and certainty of +a reflex action, yet it is not improbable that there is a certain amount +of interference between the development of free intelligence and of +instinct, since the latter implies some inherited modification of the +brain. Little is known about the functions of the brain, but we can +perceive that as the intellectual powers become highly developed the +various parts of the brain must be connected by very intricate channels +of the freest intercommunication; and as a consequence each separate +part would perhaps tend to be less well fitted to answer to particular +sensations or associations in a definite and inherited--that is, +instinctive--manner. There seems even to exist some relation between a +low degree of intelligence and a strong tendency to the formation of +fixed, though not inherited, habits; for as a sagacious physician +remarked to me, persons who are slightly imbecile tend to act in +everything by routine or habit; and they are rendered much happier if +this is encouraged. + +I have thought this digression worth giving, because we may easily +underrate the mental powers of the higher animals, and especially of +man, when we compare their actions founded on the memory of past events, +on foresight, reason and imagination, with exactly similar actions +instinctively performed by the lower animals; in this latter case the +capacity of performing such actions has been gained, step by step, +through the variability of the mental organs and natural selection, +without any conscious intelligence on the part of the animal during each +successive generation. No doubt, as Mr. Wallace has argued, much of the +intelligent work done by man is due to imitation and not to reason; but +there is this great difference between his actions and many of those +performed by the lower animals, namely, that man cannot, on his first +trial, make, for instance, a stone hatchet or a canoe, through his power +of imitation. He has to learn his work by practice; a beaver, on the +other hand, can make its dam or canal, and a bird its nest, as well, or +nearly as well, and a spider its wonderful web quite as well, the first +time it tries as when old and experienced. + +To return to our immediate subject: the lower animals, like man, +manifestly feel pleasure and pain, happiness and misery. Happiness is +never better exhibited than by young animals, such as puppies, kittens, +lambs, etc., when playing together, like our own children. Even insects +play together, as has been described by that excellent observer, P. +Huber, who saw ants chasing and pretending to bite each other, like so +many puppies. + +The fact that the lower animals are excited by the same emotions as +ourselves is so well established that it will not be necessary to weary +the reader by many details. Terror acts in the same manner on them as on +us, causing the muscles to tremble, the heart to palpitate, the +sphincters to be relaxed, and the hair to stand on end. Suspicion, the +offspring of fear, is eminently characteristic of most wild animals. It +is, I think, impossible to read the account given by Sir E. Tennent, of +the behaviour of the female elephants used as decoys, without admitting +that they intentionally practise deceit, and well know what they are +about. Courage and timidity are extremely variable qualities in the +individuals of the same species, as is plainly seen in our dogs. Some +dogs and horses are ill-tempered and easily turn sulky; others are +good-tempered; and these qualities are certainly inherited. Every one +knows how liable animals are to furious rage and how plainly they show +it. Many, and probably true, anecdotes have been published on the +long-delayed and artful revenge of various animals. The accurate Rengger +and Brehm[59] state that the American and African monkeys which they +kept tame certainly revenged themselves. Sir Andrew Smith, a zoologist +whose scrupulous accuracy was known to many persons, told me the +following story of which he was himself an eye-witness: At the Cape of +Good Hope an officer had often plagued a certain baboon, and the animal, +seeing him approaching one Sunday for parade, poured water into a hole +and hastily made some thick mud, which he skilfully dashed over the +officer as he passed by, to the amusement of many bystanders. For long +afterwards the baboon rejoiced and triumphed whenever he saw his victim. + +The love of a dog for his master is notorious; as an old writer quaintly +says: "A dog is the only thing on this earth that luvs you more than he +luvs himself." In the agony of death a dog has been known to caress his +master, and every one has heard of the dog suffering under vivisection, +who licked the hand of the operator; this man, unless the operation was +fully justified by an increase of our knowledge, or unless he had a +heart of stone, must have felt remorse to the last hour of his life. + +As Whewell has well asked: "Who that reads the touching instances of +maternal affection, related so often of the women of all nations and of +the females of all animals, can doubt that the principle of action is +the same in the two cases?" We see maternal affection exhibited in the +most trifling details; thus, Rengger observed an American monkey (a +Cebus) carefully driving away the flies which plagued her infant; and +Duvaucel saw a Hylobates washing the face of her young ones in a stream. +So intense is the grief of female monkeys for the loss of their young +that it invariably caused the death of certain kinds kept under +confinement by Brehm in N. Africa. Orphan monkeys were always adopted +and carefully guarded by the other monkeys, both males and females. One +female baboon had so capacious a heart that she not only adopted young +monkeys of other species, but stole young dogs and cats, which she +continually carried about. Her kindness, however, did not go so far as +to share her food with her adopted offspring, at which Brehm was +surprised, as his monkeys always divided everything quite fairly with +their own young ones. An adopted kitten scratched this affectionate +baboon, who certainly had a fine intellect, for she was much astonished +at being scratched, and immediately examined the kitten's feet, and +without more ado bit off the claws.[60] In the Zoological Gardens I +heard from the keeper that an old baboon (C. chacma) had adopted a +Rhesus monkey; but when a young drill and mandrill were placed in the +cage she seemed to perceive that these monkeys, though distinct species, +were her nearer relatives, for she at once rejected the Rhesus and +adopted both of them. The young Rhesus, as I saw, was greatly +discontented at being thus rejected, and it would, like a naughty child, +annoy and attack the young drill and mandrill whenever it could do so +with safety; this conduct exciting great indignation in the old baboon. +Monkeys will also, according to Brehm, defend their master when attacked +by any one, as well as dogs to whom they are attached, from the attacks +of other dogs. But we here trench on the subjects of sympathy and +fidelity to which I shall recur. Some of Brehm's monkeys took much +delight in teasing a certain old dog whom they disliked, as well as +other animals, in various ingenious ways. + +Most of the more complex emotions are common to the higher animals and +ourselves. Every one has seen how jealous a dog is of his master's +affections if lavished on any other creature; and I have observed the +same fact with monkeys. This shows that animals not only love, but have +a desire to be loved. Animals manifestly feel emulation. They love +approbation or praise; and a dog carrying a basket for his master +exhibits in a high degree self-complacency or pride. There can, I think, +be no doubt that a dog feels shame, as distinct from fear, and something +very like modesty when begging too often for food. A great dog scorns +the snarling of a little dog, and this may be called magnanimity. +Several observers have stated that monkeys certainly dislike being +laughed at; and they sometimes invent imaginary offenses. In the +Zoological Gardens I saw a baboon who always got into a furious rage +when his keeper took out a letter or book and read it aloud to him; and +his rage was so violent that, as I witnessed on one occasion, he bit his +own leg till the blood flowed. Dogs show what may be fairly called a +sense of humour as distinct from mere play; if a bit of stick or other +such object be thrown to one, he will often carry it away for a short +distance; and then squatting down with it on the ground close before +him, will wait until his master comes quite close to take it away. The +dog will then seize it and rush away in triumph, repeating the same +maneuver, and evidently enjoying the practical joke. + +We will now turn to the more intellectual emotions and faculties, which +are very important, as forming the basis for the development of the +higher mental powers. Animals manifestly enjoy excitement, and suffer +from ennui, as may be seen with dogs, and, according to Rengger, with +monkeys. All animals feel _Wonder_ and many exhibit _Curiosity_. They +sometimes suffer from this latter quality, as when the hunter plays +antics and thus attracts them; I have witnessed this with deer, and so +it is with the wary chamois, and with some kinds of wild ducks. Brehm +gives a curious account of the instinctive dread, which his monkeys +exhibited, for snakes; but their curiosity was so great that they could +not desist from occasionally satiating their horror in a most human +fashion by lifting up the lid of the box in which the snakes were kept. +I was so much surprised at his account that I took a stuffed and +coiled-up snake into the monkey-house at the Zoological Gardens, and the +excitement thus caused was one of the most curious spectacles which I +ever beheld. Three species of Cercopithecus were the most alarmed; they +dashed about their cages and uttered sharp signal cries of danger, which +were understood by the other monkeys. A few young monkeys and one old +Anubis baboon alone took no notice of the snake. I then placed the +stuffed specimen on the ground in one of the larger compartments. After +a time all the monkeys collected round it in a large circle, and, +staring intently, presented a most ludicrous appearance. They became +extremely nervous; so that when a wooden ball, with which they were +familiar as a plaything, was accidentally moved in the straw, under +which it was partly hidden, they all instantly started away. These +monkeys behaved very differently when a dead fish, a mouse, a living +turtle, and other new objects were placed in their cages; for though at +first frightened, they soon approached, handled, and examined them. I +then placed a live snake in a paper bag, with the mouth loosely closed, +in one of the larger compartments. One of the monkeys immediately +approached, cautiously opened the bag a little, peeped in, and instantly +dashed away. Then I witnessed what Brehm has described; for monkey after +monkey, with head raised high and turned on one side, could not resist +taking a momentary peep into the upright bag, at the dreadful object +lying quietly at the bottom. It would almost appear as if monkeys had +some notion of zoological affinities, for those kept by Brehm exhibited +a strange, although mistaken, instinctive dread of innocent lizards and +frogs. An orang, also, has been known to be much alarmed at the first +sight of a turtle. + +The principle of _Imitation_ is strong in man, and especially, as I have +myself observed, with savages. In certain morbid states of the brain +this tendency is exaggerated to an extraordinary degree; some hemiplegic +patients and others, at the commencement of inflammatory softening of +the brain, unconsciously imitate every word which is uttered, whether in +their own or a foreign language, and every gesture or action which is +performed near them. Desor has remarked that no animal voluntarily +imitates an action performed by man, until, in the ascending scale, we +come to monkeys, which are well known to be ridiculous mockers. Animals, +however, sometimes imitate each other's actions; thus two species of +wolves, which had been reared by dogs, learned to bark, as does +sometimes the jackal, but whether this can be called voluntary imitation +is another question. Birds imitate the songs of their parents, and +sometimes of other birds; and parrots are notorious imitators of any +sound which they often hear. Dureau de la Malle gives an account of a +dog reared by a cat, who learned to imitate the well-known action of a +cat licking her paws, and thus washing her ears and face; this was also +witnessed by the celebrated naturalist Audouin. I have received several +confirmatory accounts; in one of these, a dog had not been suckled by a +cat, but had been brought up with one, together with kittens, and had +thus acquired the above habit, which he ever afterward practised during +his life of thirteen years. Dureau de la Malle's dog likewise learned +from the kittens to play with a ball by rolling it about with his +fore-paws and springing on it. A correspondent assures me that a cat in +his house used to put her paws into jugs of milk having too narrow a +mouth for her head. A kitten of this cat soon learned the same trick, +and practised it ever afterward whenever there was an opportunity. + +The parents of many animals, trusting to the principle of imitation in +their young, and more especially to their instinctive or inherited +tendencies, may be said to educate them. We see this when a cat brings a +live mouse to her kittens; and Dureau de la Malle has given a curious +account (in the paper above quoted) of his observations on hawks which +taught their young dexterity, as well as judgment of distances, by first +dropping through the air dead mice and sparrows, which the young +generally failed to catch, and then bringing them live birds and letting +them loose. + +Hardly any faculty is more important for the intellectual progress of +man than _Attention_. Animals clearly manifest this power, as when a cat +watches by a hole and prepares to spring on its prey. Wild animals +sometimes become so absorbed when thus engaged that they may be easily +approached. Mr. Bartlett has given me a curious proof of how variable +this faculty is in monkeys. A man who trains monkeys to act in plays +used to purchase common kinds from the Zoological Society at the price +of five pounds for each; but he offered to give double the price if he +might keep three or four of them for a few days in order to select one. +When asked how he could possibly learn so soon whether a particular +monkey would turn out a good actor, he answered that it all depended on +their power of attention. If when he was talking and explaining anything +to a monkey its attention was easily distracted, as by a fly on the +wall or other trifling object, the case was hopeless. If he tried by +punishment to make an inattentive monkey act, it turned sulky. On the +other hand, a monkey which carefully attended to him could always be +trained. + +It is almost superfluous to state that animals have excellent _memories_ +for persons and places. A baboon at the Cape of Good Hope, as I have +been informed by Sir Andrew Smith, recognised him with joy after an +absence of nine months. I had a dog who was savage and averse to all +strangers, and I purposely tried his memory after an absence of five +years and two days. I went near the stable where he lived and shouted to +him in my old manner; he showed no joy, but instantly followed me out +walking, and obeyed me exactly as if I had parted with him only half an +hour before. A train of old associations, dormant during five years, had +thus been instantaneously awakened in his mind. Even ants, as P. Huber +has clearly shown, recognised their fellow-ants belonging to the same +community after a separation of four months. Animals can certainly by +some means judge of the intervals of time between recurrent events. + +The _Imagination_ is one of the highest prerogatives of man. By this +faculty he may unite former images and ideas, independently of the will, +and thus create brilliant and novel results. A poet, as Jean Paul +Richter remarks, "who must reflect whether he shall make a character say +yes or no--to the devil with him; he is only a stupid corpse." The value +of the products of our imagination depends of course on the number, +accuracy, and clearness of our impressions, on our judgment and taste in +selecting or rejecting the involuntary combinations, and to a certain +extent on our power of voluntarily combining them. As dogs, cats, +horses, and probably all the higher animals, even birds, have vivid +dreams, and this is shown by their movements and the sounds uttered, we +must admit that they possess some power of imagination. There must be +something special which causes dogs to howl in the night, and especially +during moonlight, in that remarkable and melancholy manner called +baying. All dogs do not do so; and, according to Houzeau, they do not +then look at the moon, but at some fixed point near the horizon. Houzeau +thinks that their imaginations are disturbed by the vague outlines of +the surrounding objects, and conjure up before them fantastic images; if +this be so, their feelings may almost be called superstitious. + +Of all the faculties of the human mind, it will, I presume, be admitted +that _Reason_ stands at the summit. Only a few persons now dispute that +animals possess some power of reasoning. Animals may constantly be seen +to pause, deliberate, and resolve. It is a significant fact, that the +more the habits of any particular animal are studied by a naturalist, +the more he attributes to reason and the less to unlearned instincts. In +future chapters we shall see that some animals extremely low in the +scale apparently display a certain amount of reason. No doubt it is +often difficult to distinguish between the power of reason and that of +instinct. For instance, Dr. Hayes, in his work on "The Open Polar Sea," +repeatedly remarks that his dogs, instead of continuing to draw the +sledges in a compact body, diverged and separated when they came to thin +ice, so that their weight might be more evenly distributed. This was +often the first warning which the travellers received that the ice was +becoming thin and dangerous. Now, did the dogs act thus from the +experience of each individual, or from the example of the older and +wiser dogs, or from an inherited habit, that is from instinct? This +instinct may possibly have arisen since the time, long ago, when dogs +were first employed by the natives in drawing their sledges; or the +Arctic wolves, the parent-stock of the Esquimau dog, may have acquired +an instinct impelling them not to attack their prey in a close pack, +when on thin ice. + +We can only judge by the circumstances under which actions are +performed, whether they are due to instinct, or to reason, or to the +mere association of ideas; this latter principle, however, is +intimately connected with reason. A curious case has been given by +Professor Möbius, of a pike, separated by a plate of glass from an +adjoining aquarium stocked with fish, and who often dashed himself with +such violence against the glass in trying to catch the other fishes, +that he was sometimes completely stunned. The pike went on thus for +three months, but at last learned caution, and ceased to do so. The +plate of glass was then removed, but the pike would not attack these +particular fishes, though he would devour others which were afterward +introduced; so strongly was the idea of a violent shock associated in +his feeble mind with the attempt on his former neighbours. If a savage +who had never seen a large plate-glass window, were to dash himself even +once against it, he would for a long time afterward associate a shock +with a window-frame; but, very differently from the pike, he would +probably reflect on the nature of the impediment, and be cautious under +analogous circumstances. Now with monkeys, as we shall presently see, a +painful or merely a disagreeable impression, from an action once +performed, is sometimes sufficient to prevent the animal from repeating +it. If we attribute this difference between the monkeys and the pike +solely to the association of ideas being so much stronger and more +persistent in the one than the other, though the pike often received +much the more severe injury, can we maintain in the case of man that a +similar difference implies the possession of a fundamentally different +mind? + +Houzeau relates that, while crossing a wide and arid plain in Texas, his +two dogs suffered greatly from thirst, and that between thirty and forty +times they rushed down the hollows to search for water. These hollows +were not valleys, and there were no trees in them, or any other +difference in the vegetation, and as they were absolutely dry, there +could have been no smell of damp earth. The dogs behaved as if they knew +that a dip in the ground offered them the best chance of finding water, +and Houzeau has often witnessed the same behaviour in other animals. I +have seen, as I dare say have others, that when a small object is thrown +on the ground beyond the reach of one of the elephants in the Zoological +Gardens, he blows through his trunk on the ground beyond the object, so +that the current reflected on all sides may drive the object within his +reach. Again, a well-known ethnologist, Mr. Westropp, informs me that he +observed in Vienna a bear deliberately making with his paw a current in +some water, which was close to the bars of his cage, so as to draw a +piece of floating bread within his reach. These actions of the elephant +and bear can hardly be attributed to instinct or inherited habit, as +they would be of little use to an animal in a state of nature. Now, what +is the difference between such actions, when performed by an +uncultivated man, and by one of the higher animals? + +The savage and the dog have often found water at a low level, and the +coincidence under such circumstances has become associated in their +minds. A cultivated man would perhaps make some general proposition on +the subject; but from all that we know of savages it is extremely +doubtful whether they would do so, and a dog would certainly not. But a +savage, as well as a dog, would search in the same way, though +frequently disappointed, and in both it seems to be equally an act of +reason, whether or not any general proposition on the subject is +consciously placed before the mind. The same would apply to the elephant +and the bear making currents in the air or water. The savage would +certainly neither know nor care by what law the desired movements were +effected; yet his act would be guided by a rude process of reasoning, as +surely as would a philosopher in his longest chain of deductions. There +would no doubt be this difference between him and one of the higher +animals, that he would take notice of much slighter circumstances and +conditions, and would observe any connection between them after much +less experience, and this would be of paramount importance. I kept a +daily record of the actions of one of my infants, and when he was about +eleven months old, and before he could speak a single word, I was +continually struck with the greater quickness with which all sorts of +objects and sounds were associated together in his mind, compared with +that of the most intelligent dogs I ever knew. But the higher animals +differ in exactly the same way in this power of association from those +low in the scale, such as the pike, as well as in that of drawing +inferences and of observation. + +The promptings of reason, after very short experience, are well shown by +the following actions of American monkeys, which stand low in their +order. Rengger, a most careful observer, states that when he first gave +eggs to his monkeys in Paraguay they smashed them and thus lost much of +their contents; afterward they gently hit one end against some hard +body, and picked off the bits of shell with their fingers. After cutting +themselves only once with any sharp tool, they would not touch it again, +or would handle it with the greatest caution. Lumps of sugar were often +given them wrapped up in paper; and Rengger sometimes put a live wasp in +the paper, so that in hastily unfolding it they got stung; after this +had once happened they always held the packet to their ears to detect +any movement within. + +The following cases relate to dogs. Mr. Colquhoun winged two wild ducks, +which fell on the farther side of a stream; his retriever tried to bring +over both at once, but could not succeed; she then, though never before +known to ruffle a feather, deliberately killed one, brought over the +other, and returned for the dead bird. Colonel Hutchinson relates that +two partridges were shot at once, one being killed, the other wounded; +the latter ran away and was caught by the retriever, who on her return +came across the dead bird: "She stopped, evidently greatly puzzled, and +after one or two trials, finding she could not take it up without +permitting the escape of the winged bird, she considered a moment, then +deliberately murdered it by giving it a severe crunch, and afterward +brought away both together. This was the only known instance of her +ever having wilfully injured any game." Here we have reason, though not +quite perfect, for the retriever might have brought the wounded bird +first and then returned for the dead one, as in the case of the two +wild-ducks. I give the above cases as resting on the evidence of two +independent witnesses and because in both instances the retrievers, +after deliberation, broke through a habit which is inherited by them +(that of not killing the game retrieved), and because they show how +strong their reasoning faculty must have been to overcome a fixed habit. + +I will conclude by quoting a remark by the illustrious Humboldt. "The +muleteers in South America say, 'I will not give you the mule whose step +is easiest, but _la mas racional_--the one that reasons best;'" and, as +he adds, "this popular expression, dictated by long experience, combats +the system of animated machines better perhaps than all the arguments of +speculative philosophy." Nevertheless some writers even yet deny that +the higher animals possess a trace of reason; and they endeavour to +explain away, by what appears to be mere verbiage, all such facts as +those above given. + +It has, I think, now been shown that man and the higher animals, +especially the Primates, have some few instincts in common. All have the +same senses, intuitions, and sensations--similar passions, affections, +and emotions, even the more complex ones, such as jealousy, suspicion, +emulation, gratitude and magnanimity; they practise deceit and are +revengeful; they are sometimes susceptible to ridicule, and even have a +sense of humour; they feel wonder and curiosity; they possess the same +faculties of imitation, attention, deliberation, choice, memory, +imagination, the association of ideas, and reason, though in very +different degrees. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 57: From Chapter III of "The Descent of Man," 1871. All except +three of the author's foot-notes have been omitted.] + +[Footnote 58: "The American Beaver and his Works," 1868.--Author's +note.] + +[Footnote 59: All the following statements, given on the authority of +these two naturalists, are taken from Rengger's "Naturgesch. der +Säugethiere von Paraguay," 1830, s. 41-57, and from Brehm's +"Thierleben," B.i. s. 10-87.--Author's note.] + +[Footnote 60: A critic, without any grounds ("Quarterly Review," July, +1871, p. 72), disputes the possibility of this act as described by +Brehm, for the sake of discrediting my work. Therefore I tried, and +found that I could readily seize with my own teeth the sharp little +claws of a kitten nearly five weeks old.--Author's note.] + + + + +THE IMPORTANCE OF DUST: A SOURCE OF BEAUTY AND ESSENTIAL TO LIFE[61] + +ALFRED RUSSEL WALLACE + + +The majority of persons, if asked what were the uses of dust, would +reply that they did not know it had any, but they were sure it was a +great nuisance. It is true that dust, in our towns and in our houses, is +often not only a nuisance but a serious source of disease: while in many +countries it produces ophthalmia, often resulting in total blindness. +Dust, however, as it is usually perceived by us, is, like dirt, only +matter in the wrong place, and whatever injurious or disagreeable +effects it produces are largely due to our own dealings with nature. So +soon as we dispense with horsepower and adopt purely mechanical means of +traction and conveyance, we can almost wholly abolish disease-bearing +dust from our streets, and ultimately from all our highways; while +another kind of dust, that caused by the imperfect combustion of coal, +may be got rid of with equal facility so soon as we consider pure air, +sunlight, and natural beauty to be of more importance to the population +as a whole than are the prejudices or the vested interests of those who +produce the smoke. + +But though we can thus minimize the dangers and the inconveniences +arising from the grosser forms of dust, we cannot wholly abolish it; and +it is, indeed, fortunate we cannot do so, since it has now been +discovered that it is to the presence of dust we owe much of the beauty, +and perhaps even the very habitability of the earth we live upon. Few +of the fairy tales of science are more marvelous than these recent +discoveries as to the varied effects and important uses of dust in the +economy of nature. + +The question why the sky and the deep ocean are both blue did not much +concern the earlier physicists. It was thought to be the natural color +of pure air and water, so pale as not to be visible when small +quantities were seen, and only exhibiting its true tint when we looked +through great depth of atmosphere or of organic water. But this theory +did not explain the familiar facts of the gorgeous tints seen at sunset +and sunrise, not only in the atmosphere and on the clouds near the +horizon, but also in equally resplendent hues when the invisible sun +shines upon Alpine peaks and snowfields. A true theory should explain +all these colors, which comprise almost every tint of the rainbow. + +The explanation was found through experiments on the visibility or +non-visibility of air, which were made by the late Professor Tyndall +about the year 1868. Everyone: has seen the floating dust in a sunbeam +when sunshine enters a partially darkened room; but it is not generally +known that if there was absolutely no dust in the air the path of the +sunbeam would be totally black and invisible, while if only very little +dust was present in very minute particles the air would be as blue as +the summer sky. + +This was proved by passing a ray of electric light lengthways through a +long glass cylinder filled with air of varying degrees of purity as +regards dust. In the air of an ordinary room, however clean and well +ventilated, the interior of the, cylinder appears brilliantly +illuminated. But if the cylinder is exhausted and then filled with air +which is passed slowly through a fine gauze of intensely heated platinum +wire, so as to burn up all the floating dust particles, which are mainly +organic, the light will pass through the cylinder without illuminating +the interior, which, viewed laterally, will appear as if filled with a +dense black cloud. If, now, more air is passed into the cylinder +through the heated gauze, but so rapidly that the dust particles are not +wholly consumed, a slight blue haze will begin to appear, which will +gradually become a pure blue, equal to that of a summer sky. If more and +more dust particles are allowed to enter, the blue becomes paler, and +gradually changes to the colourless illumination of the ordinary air. + +The explanation of these phenomena is that the number of dust particles +in ordinary air is so great that they reflect abundance of light of all +wave-lengths, and thus cause the interior of the vessel containing them +to appear illuminated with white light. The air which is passed slowly +over white-hot platinum has had the dust particles destroyed, thus +showing that they were almost wholly of organic origin, which is also +indicated by their extreme lightness, causing them to float permanently +in the atmosphere. The dust being thus got rid of, and pure air being +entirely transparent, there is nothing in the cylinder to reflect the +light, which is sent through its centre in a beam of parallel rays so +that none of it strikes against the sides; hence the inside of the +cylinder appears absolutely dark. But when the larger dust particles are +wholly or partially burnt, so that only the very smallest fragments +remain, a blue light appears, because these are so minute as to reflect +chiefly the more refrangible rays, which are of shorter +wave-length--those at the blue end of the spectrum--and which are thus +scattered in all directions, while the red and yellow rays pass straight +on as before. + +We have seen that the air near the earth's surface is full of rather +coarse particles which reflect all the rays, and which therefore produce +no one colour. But higher up the particles necessarily become smaller +and smaller, since the comparatively rare atmosphere will support only +the very smallest and lightest. These exist throughout a great thickness +of air, perhaps from one mile to ten miles high or, even more, and blue +or violet rays being reflected from the innumerable particles in this +great mass of air, which is nearly uniform in all parts of the world as +regards the presence of minute dust particles, produces the constant and +nearly uniform tint we call sky-blue. A certain amount of white or +yellow light is no doubt reflected from the coarser dust in the lower +atmosphere, and slightly dilutes the blue and renders it not quite so +deep and pure as it otherwise would be. This is shown by the increasing +depth of the sky-colour when seen from the tops of lofty mountains, +while from the still greater heights attained in balloons the sky +appears of a blue-black colour, the blue reflected from the +comparatively small amount of dust particles being seen against the +intense black of stellar space. It is for the same reason that the +"Italian skies" are of so rich a blue, because the Mediterranean Sea on +one side and the snowy Alps on the other do not furnish so large a +quantity of atmospheric dust in the lower strata of air as in less +favorably situated countries, thus leaving the blue reflected by the +more uniformly distributed fine dust of the higher strata undiluted. But +these Mediterranean skies are surpassed by those of the central Pacific +ocean, where, owing to the small area of land, the lower atmosphere is +more free from coarse dust than in any other part of the world. + +If we look at the sky on a perfectly fine summer's day, we shall find +that the blue colour is the most pure and intense overhead, and when +looking high up in a direction opposite to the sun. Near the horizon it +is always less bright, while in the region immediately around the sun it +is more or less yellow. The reason of this is that near the horizon we +look through a very great thickness of the lower atmosphere, which is +full of the larger dust particles reflecting white light, and this +dilutes the pure blue of the higher atmosphere seen beyond. And in the +vicinity of the sun a good deal of the blue light is reflected back into +space by the finer dust, thus giving a yellowish tinge to that which +reaches us reflected chiefly from the coarse dust of the lower +atmosphere. At sunset and sunrise, however, this last effect is greatly +intensified, owing to the great thickness of the strata of air through +which the light reaches us. The enormous amount of this dust is well +shown by the fact that, then only, we can look full at the sun, even +when the whole sky is free from clouds and there is no apparent mist. +But the sun's rays then reach us after having passed, first, through an +enormous thickness of the higher strata of the air, the minute dust of +which reflects most of the blue rays away from us, leaving the +complementary yellow light to pass on. Then, the somewhat coarser dust +reflects the green rays, leaving a more orange coloured light to pass +on; and finally some of the yellow is reflected, leaving almost pure +red. But owing to the constant presence of air currents, arranging both +the dust and vapour in strata of varying extent and density, and of high +or low clouds, which both absorb and reflect the light in varying +degrees, we see produced all those wondrous combinations of tints and +those gorgeous ever-changing colours, which are a constant source of +admiration and delight to all who have the advantage of an uninterrupted +view to the west, and who are accustomed to watch for these not +unfrequent exhibitions of nature's kaleidoscopic colour-painting. With +every change in the altitude of the sun the display changes its +character; and most of all when it has sunk below the horizon, and, +owing to the more favourable angles, a larger quantity of the coloured +light is reflected toward us. Especially is this the case when there is +a certain amount of cloud. The clouds, so long as the sun is above the +horizon, intercept much of the light and colour; but, when the great +luminary has passed away from our direct vision, his light shines more +directly on the under sides of all the clouds and air strata of +different densities; a new and more brilliant light flushes the western +sky, and a display of gorgeous ever-changing tints occurs which are at +once the delight of the beholder and the despair of the artist. And all +this unsurpassable glory we owe to--dust! + +A remarkable confirmation of this theory was given during the two or +three years after the great eruption of Krakatoa, near Java. The +volcanic débris was shot up from the crater many miles high, and the +heavier portion of it fell upon the sea for several hundred miles +around, and was found to be mainly composed of very thin flakes of +volcanic glass. Much of this was of course ground to impalpable dust by +the violence of the discharge, and was carried up to a height of many +miles. Here it was caught by the return currents of air continually +flowing northward and southward above the equatorial zone; and since, +when these currents reach the temperate zone, where the surface rotation +of the earth is less rapid, they continually flow eastward, the fine +dust was thus carried at a great altitude completely around the earth. +Its effects were traced some months after the eruption in the appearance +of brilliant sunset glows of an exceptional character, often flushing +with crimson the whole western half of the visible sky. These glows +continued in diminishing splendour for about three years; they were seen +all over the temperate zone; and it was calculated that, before they +finally disappeared, some of this fine dust must have travelled three +times round the globe. + +The same principle is thought to explain the exquisite blue colour of +the deep seas and oceans and of many lakes and springs. Absolutely pure +water, like pure air, is colourless, but all seas and lakes, however +clear and translucent, contain abundance of very finely divided matter, +organic or inorganic, which, as in the atmosphere, reflects the blue +rays in such quantity as to overpower the white or coloured +light-reflected from the fewer and more rapidly sinking particles of +larger size. The oceanic dust is derived from many sources. Minute +organisms are constantly dying near the surface, and their skeletons, or +fragments of them, fall slowly to the bottom. The mud brought down by +rivers, though it cannot be traced on the ocean floor more than about +150 miles from land, yet no doubt furnishes many particles of organic +matter which are carried by surface currents to enormous distances and +are ultimately dissolved before they reach the bottom. A more important +source of finely divided matter is to be found in volcanic dust which, +as in the case of Krakatoa, may remain for years in the atmosphere, but +which must ultimately fall upon the surface of the earth and ocean. This +can be traced in all the deep-sea oozes. Finally there is meteoric dust, +which is continually falling to the surface of the earth, but in such +minute quantities and in such a finely-divided state that it can be +detected only in the oozes of the deepest oceans, where both inorganic +and organic débris is almost absent. + +The blue of the ocean varies in different parts from a pure blue +somewhat lighter than that of the sky, as seen about the northern tropic +in the Atlantic, to a deep indigo tint, as seen in the north temperate +portions of the same ocean: owing, probably, to differences in the +nature, quantity, and distribution of the solid matter which causes the +colour. The Mediterranean, and the deeper Swiss lakes, are also a blue +of various tints, due also to the presence of suspended matter, which +Professor Tyndall thought might be so fine that it would require ages of +quiet subsidence to reach the bottom. All the evidence goes to show, +therefore, that the exquisite blue tints of sky and ocean, as well as +all the sunset hues of sky and cloud, of mountain peak and Alpine snows, +are due to the finer particles of that very dust which, in its coarser +forms, we find so annoying and even dangerous. + +But if this production of colour and beauty were the only useful +function of dust, some persons might be disposed to dispense with it in +order to escape its less agreeable effects. It has, however, been +recently discovered that dust has another part to play in nature; a part +so important that it is doubtful whether we could even live without it. +To the presence of dust in the higher atmosphere we owe the formation of +mists, clouds, and gentle beneficial rains, instead of water spouts and +destructive torrents. + +It is barely twenty years ago since the discovery was made, first in +France by Coulier and Mascart, but more thoroughly worked out by Mr. +John Aitken in 1880. He found that if a jet of steam is admitted into +two large glass receivers,--one filled with ordinary air, the other with +air which has been filtered through cotton wool so as to keep back all +particles of solid matter,--the first will be instantly filled with +condensed vapour in the usual cloudy form, while the other vessel will +remain quite transparent. Another experiment was made, more nearly +reproducing what occurs in nature. Some water was placed in the two +vessels prepared as before. When the water had evaporated sufficiently +to saturate the air the vessels were slightly cooled; a dense cloud was +at once formed in the one while the other remained quite clear. These +experiments, and many others, show that the mere cooling of vapour in +air will not condense it into mist clouds or rain, unless _particles of +solid matter_ are present to form _nuclei_ upon which condensation can +begin. The density of the cloud is proportionate to the number of the +particles; hence the fact that the steam issuing from the safety-valve +or the chimney of a locomotive forms a dense white cloud, shows that the +air is really full of dust particles, most of which are microscopic but +none the less serving as centres of condensation for the vapour. Hence, +if there were no dust in the air, escaping steam would remain invisible; +there would be no cloud in the sky; and the vapour in the atmosphere, +constantly accumulating through evaporation from seas and oceans and +from the earth's surface, would have to find some other means of +returning to its source. + +One of these modes would be the deposition of dew, which is itself an +illustration of the principle that vapour requires solid or liquid +surfaces to condense upon; dew forms most readily and abundantly on +grass, on account of the numerous centres of condensation this affords. +Dew, however, is now formed only on clear cold nights after warm or +moist days. The air near the surface is warm and contains much vapour, +though below the point of saturation. But the innumerable points and +extensive surfaces of grass radiate heat quickly, and becoming cool, +lower the temperature of the adjacent air, which then reaches +saturation point and condenses the contained atmosphere on the grass. +Hence, if the atmosphere at the earth's surface became super-saturated +with aqueous vapour, dew would be continuously deposited, especially on +every form of vegetation, the result being that everything, including +our clothing, would be constantly dripping wet. If there were absolutely +no particles of solid matter in the upper atmosphere, all the moisture +would be returned to the earth in the form of dense mists, and frequent +and copious dews, which in forests would form torrents of rain by the +rapid condensation on the leaves. But if we suppose that solid particles +were occasionally carried higher up through violent winds or tornadoes, +then on those occasions the super-saturated atmosphere would condense +rapidly upon them, and while falling would gather almost all the +moisture in the atmosphere in that locality, resulting in masses or +sheets of water, which would be so ruinously destructive by the mere +weight and impetus of their fall that it is doubtful whether they would +not render the earth almost wholly uninhabitable. + +The chief mode of discharging the atmospheric vapour in the absence of +dust would, however, be by contact with the higher slopes of all +mountain ranges. Atmospheric vapour, being lighter than air, would +accumulate in enormous quantities in the upper strata of the atmosphere, +which would be always super-saturated and ready to condense upon any +solid or liquid surfaces. But the quantity of land comprised in the +upper half of all the mountains of the world is a very small fraction of +the total surface of the globe, and this would lead to very disastrous +results. The air in contact with the higher mountain slopes would +rapidly discharge its water, which would run down the mountain sides in +torrents. This condensation on every side of the mountains would leave a +partial vacuum which would set up currents from every direction to +restore the equilibrium, thus bringing in more super-saturated air to +suffer condensation and add its supply of water, again increasing the +in-draught of more air. The result would be that winds would be +constantly blowing toward every mountain range from all directions, +keeping up the condensation and discharging, day and night and from one +year's end to another, an amount of water equal to that which falls +during the heaviest tropical rains. All of the rain that now falls over +the whole surface of the earth and ocean, with the exception of a few +desert areas, would then fall only on rather high mountains or steep +isolated hills, tearing down their sides in huge torrents, cutting deep +ravines, and rendering all growth of vegetation impossible. The +mountains would therefore be so devastated as to be uninhabitable, and +would be equally incapable of supporting either vegetable or animal +life. + +But this constant condensation on the mountains would probably check the +deposit on the lowlands in the form of dew, because the continual +up-draught toward the higher slopes would withdraw almost the whole of +the vapour as it arose from the oceans, and other water-surfaces, and +thus leave the lower strata over the plains almost or quite dry. And if +this were the case there would be no vegetation, and therefore no animal +life, on the plains and lowlands, which would thus be all arid deserts +cut through by the great rivers formed by the meeting together of the +innumerable torrents from the mountains. + +Now, although it may not be possible to determine with perfect accuracy +what would happen under the supposed condition of the atmosphere, it is +certain that the total absence of dust would so fundamentally change the +meteorology of our globe as, not improbably, to render it uninhabitable +by man, and equally unsuitable for the larger portion of its existing +animal and vegetable life. + +Let us now briefly summarise what we owe to the universality of dust, +and especially to that most finely divided portion of it which is +constantly present in the atmosphere up to the height of many miles. +First of all it gives us the pure blue of the sky, one of the most +exquisitely beautiful colours in nature. It gives us also the glories +of the sunset and the sunrise, and all those brilliant hues seen in high +mountain regions. Half the beauty of the world would vanish with the +absence of dust. But, what is far more important than the colour of sky +and beauty of sunset, dust gives us also diffused daylight, or skylight, +that most equable, and soothing, and useful, of all illuminating +agencies. Without dust the sky would appear absolutely black, and the +stars would be visible even at noonday. The sky itself would therefore +give us no light. We should have bright glaring sunlight or intensely +dark shadows, with hardly any half-tones. From this cause alone the +world would be so totally different from what it is that all vegetable +and animal life would probably have developed into very different forms, +and even our own organisation would have been modified in order that we +might enjoy life in a world of such harsh and violent contrasts. + +In our houses we should have little light except when the sun shone +directly into them, and even then every spot out of its direct rays +would be completely dark, except for light reflected from the walls. It +would be necessary to have windows all around and the walls all white; +and on the north side of every house a high white wall would have to be +built to reflect the light and prevent that side from being in total +darkness. Even then we should have to live in a perpetual glare, or shut +out the sun altogether and use artificial light as being a far superior +article. + +Much more important would be the effects of a dust-free atmosphere in +banishing clouds, or mist, or the "gentle rain of heaven," and in giving +us in their place perpetual sunshine, desert lowlands, and mountains +devastated by unceasing floods and raging torrents, so as, apparently, +to render all life on the earth impossible. + +There are a few other phenomena, apparently due to the same general +causes, which may here be referred to. Everyone must have noticed the +difference in the atmospheric effects and general character of the light +in spring and autumn, at times when the days are of the same length, +and consequently when the sun has the same altitude at corresponding +hours. In spring we have a bluer sky and greater transparency of the +atmosphere; in autumn, even on very fine days, there is always a kind of +yellowish haze, resulting in a want of clearness in the air and purity +of colour in the sky. These phenomena are quite intelligible when we +consider that during winter less dust is formed, and more is brought +down to the earth by rain and snow, resulting in the transparent +atmosphere of spring, while exactly opposite conditions during summer +bring about the mellow autumnal light. Again, the well-known beneficial +effects of rain on vegetation, as compared with any amount of artificial +watering, though, no doubt, largely due to the minute quantity of +ammonia which the rain brings down with it from the air, must yet be +partly derived from the organic or mineral particles which serve as the +nuclei of every raindrop, and which, being so minute, are the more +readily dissolved in the soil and appropriated as nourishment by the +roots of plants. + +It will be observed that all these beneficial effects of dust are due to +its presence in such quantities as are produced by natural causes, since +both gentle showers as well as ample rains and deep blue skies are +present throughout the vast equatorial forest districts, where +dust-forming agencies seem to be at a minimum. But in all +densely-populated countries there is an enormous artificial production +of dust--from our ploughed fields, from our roads and streets, where +dust is continually formed by the iron-shod hoofs of innumerable horses, +but chiefly from our enormous combustion of fuel pouring into the air +volumes of smoke charged with unconsumed particles of carbon. This +superabundance of dust, probably many times greater than that which +would be produced under the more natural conditions which prevailed when +our country was more thinly populated, must almost certainly produce +some effect on our climate; and the particular effect it seems +calculated to produce is the increase of cloud and fog, but not +necessarily any increase of rain. Rain depends on the supply of aqueous +vapour by evaporation; on temperature, which determines the dew point; +and on changes in barometric pressure, which determine the winds. There +is probably always and everywhere enough atmospheric dust to serve as +centres of condensation at considerable altitudes, and thus to initiate +rainfall when the other conditions are favourable; but the presence of +increased quantities of dust at the lower levels must lead to the +formation of denser clouds, although the minute water-vesicles cannot +descend as rain, because, as they pass down into warmer and dryer strata +of air, they are again evaporated. + +Now, there is much evidence to show that there has been a considerable +increase in the amount of cloud, and consequent decrease in the amount +of sunshine, in all parts of our country. It is an undoubted fact that +in the Middle Ages England was a wine-producing country, and this +implies more sunshine than we have now. Sunshine has a double effect, in +heating the surface soil and thus causing more rapid growth, besides its +direct effect in ripening the fruit. This is well seen in Canada, where, +notwithstanding a six months' winter of extreme severity, vines are +grown as bushes in the open ground, and produce fruit equal to that of +our ordinary greenhouses. Some years back one of our gardening +periodicals obtained from gardeners of forty or fifty years' experience +a body of facts clearly indicating a comparatively recent change of +climate. It was stated that in many parts of the country, especially in +the north, fruits were formerly grown successfully and of good quality +in gardens where they cannot be grown now; and this occurred in places +sufficiently removed from manufacturing centres to be unaffected by any +direct deleterious influence of smoke. But an increase of cloud, and +consequent diminution of sunshine, would produce just such a result; and +this increase is almost certain to have occurred owing to the enormously +increased amount of dust thrown into the atmosphere as our country has +become more densely populated, and especially owing to the vast increase +of our smoke-producing manufactories. It seems highly probable, +therefore, that to increase the wealth of our capitalist-manufacturers +we are allowing the climate of our whole country to be greatly +deteriorated in a way which diminishes both its productiveness and its +beauty, thus injuriously affecting the enjoyment and the health of the +whole population, since sunshine is itself an essential condition of +healthy life. When this fact is thoroughly realised we shall surely put +a stop to such a reckless and wholly unnecessary production of injurious +smoke and dust. + +In conclusion, we find that the much-abused and all-pervading dust, +which, when too freely produced, deteriorates our climate and brings us +dirt, discomfort, and even disease, is, nevertheless, under natural +conditions, an essential portion of the economy of nature. It gives us +much of the beauty of natural scenery, as due to varying atmospheric +effects of sky, and cloud, and sunset tints, and thus renders life more +enjoyable; while, as an essential condition of diffused daylight and of +moderate rainfalls combined with a dry atmosphere, it appears to be +absolutely necessary for our existence upon the earth, perhaps even for +the very development of terrestrial, as opposed to aquatic life. The +overwhelming importance of the small things, and even of the despised +things, of our world has never, perhaps, been so strikingly brought home +to us as in these recent investigations into the wide-spread and +far-reaching beneficial influences of Atmospheric Dust. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 61: Chapter IX of "The Wonderful Century," copyright, 1898, by +Dodd, Mead and Company. The chapter is here reprinted by permission of +the author, Dr. Wallace, and of the publishers.] + + + + +THE BATTLE OF THE ANTS[62] + +HENRY DAVID THOREAU + + +One day when I went out to my wood-pile, or rather my pile of stumps, I +observed two large ants, the one red, the other much larger, nearly half +an inch long, and black, fiercely contending with one another. Having +once got hold they never let go, but struggled and wrestled and rolled +on the chips incessantly. Looking farther, I was surprised to find that +the chips were covered with such combatants, that it was not a +_duellum_, but a _bellum_, a war between two races of ants, the red +always pitted against the black, and frequently two red ones to one +black. The legions of these Myrmidons covered all the hills and vales in +my wood-yard, and the ground was already strewn with the dead and dying, +both red and black. It was the only battle which I have ever witnessed, +the only battlefield I ever trod while the battle was raging; +internecine war; the red republicans on the one hand, and the black +imperialists on the other. On every side they were engaged in deadly +combat, yet without any noise that I could hear, and human soldiers +never fought so resolutely. I watched a couple that were fast locked in +each other's embraces, in a little sunny valley amid the chips, now at +noon-day prepared to fight till the sun went down, or life went out. The +smaller red champion had fastened himself like a vice to his adversary's +front, and through all the tumblings on that field never for an instant +ceased to gnaw at one of his feelers near the root, having already +caused the other to go by the board; while the stronger black one dashed +him from side to side, and, as I saw on looking nearer, had already +divested him of several of his members. They fought with more +pertinacity than bull-dogs. Neither manifested the least disposition to +retreat. It was evident that their battle-cry was Conquer or Die. In the +meanwhile there came along a single red ant on the hill-side of this +valley, evidently full of excitement, who either had despatched his foe, +or had not yet taken part in the battle; probably the latter, for he had +lost none of his limbs; whose mother had charged him to return with his +shield or upon it. Or perchance he was some Achilles, who had nourished +his wrath apart, and had now come to avenge or rescue his Patroclus.[63] +He saw this unequal combat from afar,--for the blacks were nearly twice +the size of the reds; he drew near with rapid pace till he stood on his +guard within half an inch of the combatants; then, watching his +opportunity, he sprang upon the black warrior, and commenced his +operations near the root of his right foreleg, leaving the foe to select +among his own members; and so there were three united for life, as if a +new kind of attraction had been invented which put all other locks and +cements to shame. I should not have wondered by this time to find that +they had their respective musical bands stationed on some eminent chip, +and playing their national airs the while, to excite the slow and cheer +the dying combatants. I was myself excited somewhat even as if they had +been men. The more you think of it, the less the difference. And +certainly there is not the fight recorded in Concord history, at least, +if in the history of America, that will bear a moment's comparison with +this, whether for the numbers engaged in it, or for the patriotism and +heroism displayed. For numbers and for carnage it was an Austerlitz or +Dresden. Concord Fight! Two killed on the patriots' side, and Luther +Blanchard wounded! Why here every ant was a Buttrick,--"Fire! for God's +sake, fire!"--and thousands shared the fate of Davis and Hosmer. There +was not one hireling there. I have no doubt that it was a principle they +fought for, as much as our ancestors, and not to avoid a three-penny tax +on their tea; and the results of this battle will be as important and +memorable to those whom it concerns as those of the battle of Bunker +Hill, at least. + +I took up the chip on which the three I have particularly described were +struggling, carried it into my house, and placed it under a tumbler on +my window-sill, in order to see the issue. Holding a microscope to the +first-mentioned red ant, I saw that, though he was assiduously gnawing +at the near fore-leg of his enemy, having severed his remaining feeler, +his own breast was all torn away, exposing what vitals he had there to +the jaws of the black warrior, whose breast-plate was apparently too +thick for him to pierce; and the dark carbuncles of the sufferer's eyes +shone with ferocity such as war only could excite. They struggled half +an hour longer under the tumbler, and when I looked again the black +soldier had severed the heads of his foes from their bodies, and the +still living heads were hanging on either side of him like ghastly +trophies at his saddlebow, still apparently as firmly fastened as ever, +and he was endeavoring with feeble struggles, being without feelers and +with only the remnant of a leg, and I know not how many other wounds, to +divest himself of them; which at length, after half an hour more, he +accomplished. I raised the glass, and he went off over the window-sill +in that crippled state. Whether he finally survived that combat, and +spent the remainder of his days in some Hotel des Invalides, I do not +know; but I thought that his industry would not be worth much +thereafter. I never learned which party was victorious, nor the cause of +the war; but I felt for the rest of that day as if I had had my feelings +excited and harrowed by witnessing the struggle, the ferocity and +carnage, of a human battle before my door. + +Kirby and Spence tell us that the battles of ants have long been +celebrated and the date of them recorded, though they say that Huber is +the only modern author who appears to have witnessed them. "Aeneas +Sylvius," say they, "after giving a very circumstantial account of one +contested with great obstinacy by a great and small species on the trunk +of a pear tree," adds that "'This action was fought in the pontificate +of Eugenius the Fourth, in the presence of Nicholas Pistoriensis, an +eminent lawyer, who related the whole history of the battle with the +greatest fidelity.' A similar engagement between great and small ants is +recorded by Olaus Magnus, in which the small ones being victorious, are +said to have buried the bodies of their own soldiers, but left those of +their giant enemies a prey to the birds. This event happened previous to +the expulsion of the tyrant Christiern the Second from Sweden." The +battle which I witnessed took place in the Presidency of Polk, five +years before the passage of Webster's Fugitive-Slave Bill. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 62: From Chapter XII of "Walden," 1854.] + +[Footnote 63: Patroclus, in Homer's Iliad, was the friend whose death at +the hands of the Trojans roused Achilles to action.] + + + + +A WIND-STORM IN THE FORESTS[64] + +JOHN MUIR + + +The mountain winds, like the dew and rain, sunshine and snow, are +measured and bestowed with love on the forests, to develop their +strength and beauty. However restricted the scope of other forest +influences, that of the winds is universal. The snow bends and trims the +upper forests every winter, the lightning strikes a single tree here and +there, while avalanches mow down thousands at a swoop as a gardener +trims out a bed of flowers. But the winds go to every tree, fingering +every leaf and branch and furrowed hole; not one is forgotten: the +Mountain Pine towering with outstretched arms on the rugged buttresses +of the icy peaks, the lowliest and most retiring tenant of the +dells--they seek and find them all, caressing them tenderly, bending +them in lusty exercise, stimulating their growth, plucking off a leaf or +limb as required, or removing an entire tree or grove, now whispering +and cooing through the branches like a sleepy child, now roaring like +the ocean; the winds blessing the forests, the forests the winds, with +ineffable beauty and harmony as the sure result. + +After one has seen pines six feet in diameter bending like grasses +before a mountain gale, and ever and anon some giant falling with a +crash that shakes the hills, it seems astonishing that any, save the +lowest thick-set trees, could ever have found a period sufficiently +stormless to establish themselves; or once established, that they should +not sooner or later have been blown down. But when the storm is over, +and we behold the same forests tranquil again, towering fresh and +unscathed in erect majesty, and consider what centuries of storms have +fallen upon them since they were first planted: hail, to break the +tender seedlings; lightning, to scorch and shatter; snow, winds, and +avalanches, to crush and overwhelm,--while the manifest result of all +this wild storm-culture is the glorious perfection we behold: then faith +in Nature's forestry is established, and we cease to deplore the +violence of her most destructive gales, or of any other storm implement +whatsoever. + +There are two trees in the Sierra forests that are never blown down, so +long as they continue in sound health. These are the Juniper and the +Dwarf Pine of the summit peaks. Their stiff, crooked roots grip the +storm-beaten ledges like eagles' claws; while their lithe, cord-like +branches bend round compliantly, offering but slight holds for winds, +however violent. The other alpine conifers--the Needle Pine, Mountain +Pine, Two-leaved Pine, and Hemlock Spruce--are never thinned out by this +agent to any destructive extent, on account of their admirable toughness +and the closeness of their growth. In general the same is true of the +giants of the lower zones. The kingly Sugar Pine, towering aloft to a +height of more than two hundred feet, offers a fine mark to storm-winds; +but it is not densely foliaged, and its long horizontal arms swing round +compliantly in the blast, like tresses of green, fluent algae in a +brook: while the Silver Firs in most places keep their ranks well +together in united strength. + +The Yellow or Silver Pine is more frequently overturned than any other +tree on the Sierra, because its leaves and branches form a larger mass +in proportion to its height; while in many places it is planted +sparsely, leaving open lanes through which storms may enter with full +force. Furthermore, because it is distributed along the lower portion of +the range, which was the first to be left bare on the breaking up of the +ice-sheet at the close of the glacial winter, the soil it is growing +upon has been longer exposed to post-glacial weathering, and +consequently is in a more crumbling, decayed condition than the fresher +soils farther up the range, and therefore offers a less secure anchorage +for the roots. While exploring the forest zones of Mount Shasta, I +discovered the path of a hurricane strewn with thousands of pines of +this species. Great and small had been uprooted or wrenched off by sheer +force, making a clean gap, like that made by a snow avalanche. But +hurricanes capable of doing this class of work are rare in the Sierra; +and when we have explored the forests from one extremity of the range to +the other, we are compelled to believe that they are the most beautiful +on the face of the earth, however we may regard the agents that have +made them so. + +There is always something deeply exciting, not only in the sounds of +winds in the woods, which exert more or less influence over every mind, +but in their varied water-like flow as manifested by the movements of +the trees, especially those of the conifers. By no other trees are they +rendered so extensively and impressively visible; not even by the lordly +tropic palms or tree-ferns responsive to the gentlest breeze. The waving +of a forest of the giant Sequoias is indescribably impressive and +sublime; but the pines seem to me the best interpreters of winds. They +are mighty waving golden-rods, ever in tune, singing and writing +wind-music all their long century lives. Little, however, of this noble +tree-waving and tree-music will you see or hear in the strictly alpine +portion of the forests. The burly Juniper whose girth sometimes more +than equals its height, is about as rigid as the rocks on which it +grows. The slender lash-like sprays of the Dwarf Pine stream out in +wavering ripples, but the tallest and slenderest are far too unyielding +to wave even in the heaviest gales. They only shake in quick, short +vibrations. The Hemlock Spruce, however, and the Mountain Pine, and some +of the tallest thickets of the Two-leaved species, bow in storms with +considerable scope and gracefulness. But it is only in the lower and +middle zones that the meeting of winds and woods is to be seen in all +its grandeur. + +One of the most beautiful and exhilarating storms I ever enjoyed in the +Sierra occurred in December, 1874, when I happened to be exploring one +of the tributary valleys of the Yuba River. The sky and the ground and +the trees had been thoroughly rain-washed and were dry again. The day +was intensely pure: one of those incomparable bits of California winter, +warm and balmy and full of white sparkling sunshine, redolent of all the +purest influences of the spring, and at the same time enlivened with one +of the most bracing wind-storms conceivable. Instead of camping out, as +I usually do, I then chanced to be stopping at the house of a friend. +But when the storm began to sound, I lost no time in pushing out into +the woods to enjoy it. For on such occasions Nature has always something +rare to show us, and the danger to life and limb is hardly greater than +one would experience crouching deprecatingly beneath a roof. + +It was still early morning when I found myself fairly adrift. Delicious +sunshine came pouring over the hills, lighting the tops of the pines, +and setting free a steam of summery fragrance that contrasted strangely +with the wild tones of the storm. The air was mottled with pine-tassels +and bright green plumes, that went flashing past in the sunlight like +birds pursued. But there was not the slightest dustiness; nothing less +pure than leaves, and ripe pollen, and flecks of withered bracken and +moss. I heard trees falling for hours at the rate of one every two or +three minutes: some uprooted, partly on account of the loose, +water-soaked condition of the ground; others broken straight across, +where some weakness caused by fire had determined the spot. The gestures +of the various trees made a delightful study. Young Sugar Pines, light +and feathery as squirrel-tails, were bowing almost to the ground; while +the grand old patriarchs, whose massive boles had been tried in a +hundred storms, waved solemnly above them, their long, arching branches +streaming fluently on the gale, and every needle thrilling and ringing +and shedding off keen lances of light like a diamond. The Douglas +Spruces, with long sprays drawn out in level tresses, and needles massed +in a gray, shimmering glow, presented a most striking appearance as they +stood in bold relief along the hilltops. The madroños in the dells, with +their red bark and large glossy leaves tilted every way, reflected the +sunshine in throbbing spangles like those one so often sees on the +rippled surface of a glacier lake. But the Silver Pines were now the +most impressively beautiful of all. Colossal spires two hundred feet in +height waved like supple golden-rods chanting and bowing low as if in +worship; while the whole mass of their long, tremulous foliage was +kindled into one continuous blaze of white sun-fire. The force of the +gale was such that the most steadfast monarch of them all rocked down to +its roots, with a motion plainly perceptible when one leaned against it. +Nature was holding high festival, and every fiber of the most rigid +giants thrilled with glad excitement. + +I drifted on through the midst of this passionate music and motion, +across many a glen, from ridge to ridge; often halting in the lee of a +rock for shelter, or to gaze and listen. Even when the grand anthem had +swelled to its highest pitch, I could distinctly hear the varying tones +of individual trees--Spruce, and Fir, and Pine, and leafless Oak--and +even the infinitely gentle rustle of the withered grasses at my feet. +Each was expressing itself in its own way--singing its own song, and +making its own peculiar gestures--manifesting a richness of variety to +be found in no other forest I have yet seen. The coniferous woods of +Canada and the Carolinas and Florida, are made up of trees that resemble +one another about as nearly as blades of grass, and grow close together +in much the same way. Coniferous trees, in general, seldom possess +individual character, such as is manifest among Oaks and Elms. But the +California forests are made up of a greater number of distinct species +than any other in the world. And in them we find, not only a marked +differentiation into special groups, but also a marked individuality in +almost every tree, giving rise to storm effects indescribably glorious. + +Toward midday, after a long, tingling scramble through copses of hazel +and ceanothus, I gained the summit of the highest ridge in the +neighborhood; and then it occurred to me that it would be a fine thing +to climb one of the trees, to obtain a wider outlook and get my ear +close to the Aeolian music of its topmost needles. But under the +circumstances the choice of a tree was a serious matter. One whose +instep was not very strong seemed in danger of being blown down, or of +being struck by others in case they should fall; another was branchless +to a considerable height above the ground, and at the same time too +large to be grasped with arms and legs in climbing; while others were +not favorably situated for clear views. After cautiously casting about, +I made choice of the tallest of a group of Douglas Spruces that were +growing close together like a tuft of grass, no one of which seemed +likely to fall unless all the rest fell with it. Though comparatively +young, they were about a hundred feet high, and their lithe, brushy tops +were rocking and swirling in wild ecstasy. Being accustomed to climb +trees in making botanical studies, I experienced no difficulty in +reaching the top of this one; and never before did I enjoy so noble an +exhilaration of motion. The slender tops fairly flapped and swished in +the passionate torrent, bending and swirling backward and forward, round +and round, tracing indescribable combinations of vertical and horizontal +curves, while I clung with muscles firm-braced, like a bobolink on a +reed. + +In its widest sweeps my tree-top described an arc of from twenty to +thirty degrees; but I felt sure of its elastic temper, having seen +others of the same species still more severely tried--bent almost to the +ground indeed, in heavy snows--without breaking a fiber. I was therefore +safe, and free to take the wind into my pulses and enjoy the excited +forest from my superb outlook. The view from here must be extremely +beautiful in any weather. Now my eye roved over the piny hills and +dales as over fields of waving grain, and felt the light running in +ripples and broad swelling undulations across the valleys from ridge to +ridge, as the shining foliage was stirred by corresponding waves of air. +Oftentimes these waves of reflected light would break one another in +regular order, they would seem to bend forward in concentric curves, and +disappear on some hillside, like sea waves on a shelving shore. The +quantity of light reflected from the bent needles was so great as to +make whole groves appear as if covered with snow, while the black +shadows beneath the trees greatly enhanced the effect of the silvery +splendor. + +Excepting only the shadows, there was nothing somber in all this wild +sea of pines. On the contrary, notwithstanding this was the winter +season, the colors were remarkably beautiful. The shafts of the pine and +libocedrus were brown and purple, and most of the foliage was well +tinged with yellow; the laurel groves, with the pale under sides of +their leaves turned upward, made masses of gray; and then there was many +a dash of chocolate color from clumps of manzanita, and jet of vivid +crimson from the bark of the madroños; while the ground on the +hillsides, appearing here and there through openings between the groves, +displayed masses of pale purple and brown. + +The sounds of the storm corresponded gloriously with this wild +exuberance of light and motion. The profound bass of the naked branches +and boles booming like waterfalls; the quick, tense vibrations of the +pine-needles, now rising to a shrill, whistling hiss, now falling to a +silky murmur; the rustling of laurel groves in the dells, and the keen +metallic click of leaf on leaf--all this was heard in easy analysis when +the attention was calmly bent. + +The varied gestures of the multitude were seen to find advantage, so +that one could recognize the different species at a distance of several +miles by this means alone, as well as by their forms and colors and the +way they reflected the light. All seemed strong and comfortable, as if +really enjoying the storm, while responding to its most enthusiastic +greetings. We hear much nowadays concerning the universal struggle for +existence, but no struggle in the common meaning of the word was +manifest here; no recognition of danger by any tree; no deprecation; but +rather an invincible gladness, as remote from exultation as from fear. + +I kept my lofty perch for hours, frequently closing my eyes to enjoy the +music by itself, or to feast quietly on the delicious fragrance that was +streaming past. The fragrance of the woods was less marked than that +produced during warm rain, when so many balsamic buds and leaves are +steeped like tea; but from the chafing of resiny branches against each +other, and the incessant attrition of myriads of needles, the gale was +spiced to a very tonic degree. And besides the fragrance from these +local sources, there were traces of scents brought from afar. For this +wind came first from the sea, rubbing against its fresh, briny waves, +then distilled through the redwoods, threading rich ferny gulches, and +spreading itself in broad undulating currents over many a +flower-enameled ridge of the coast mountains, then across the golden +plains, up the purple foot-hills, and into these piny woods with the +varied incense gathered by the way. + +Winds are advertisements of all they touch, however much or little we +may be able to read them; telling their wanderings even by their scents +alone. Mariners detect the flowery perfume of land-winds far at sea, and +sea-winds carry the fragrance of dulce and tangle far inland, where it +is quickly recognized, though mingled with the scents of a thousand +land-flowers. As an illustration of this, I may tell here that I +breathed sea-air on the Firth of Forth, in Scotland, while a boy; then +was taken to Wisconsin, where I remained nineteen years; then, without +in all this time having breathed one breath of the sea, I walked +quietly, alone, from the middle of the Mississippi Valley to the Gulf of +Mexico, on a botanical excursion; and while in Florida, far from the +coast, my attention wholly bent on the splendid tropical vegetation +about me, I suddenly recognized a sea-breeze, as it came sifting through +the palmettos and blooming vine-tangles, which at once awakened and set +free a thousand dormant associations, and made me a boy again in +Scotland, as if all the intervening years had been annihilated. + +Most people like to look at mountain rivers, and bear them in mind; but +few care to look at the winds, though far more beautiful and sublime, +and though they become at times about as visible as flowing water. When +the north winds in winter are making upward sweeps over the curving +summits of the High Sierra, the fact is sometimes published with flying +snow-banners a mile long. Those portions of the winds thus embodied can +scarce be wholly invisible, even to the darkest imagination. And when we +look around over an agitated forest, we may see something of the wind +that stirs it, by its effects upon the trees. Yonder it descends in a +rush of water-like ripples, and sweeps over the bending pines from hill +to hill. Nearer, we see detached plumes and leaves, now speeding by on +level currents, now whirling in eddies, or escaping over the edges of +the whirls, soaring aloft on grand, upswelling domes of air, or tossing +on flame-like crests. Smooth, deep currents, cascades, falls, and +swirling eddies, sing around every tree and leaf, and over all the +varied topography of the region with telling changes of form, like +mountain rivers conforming to the features of their channels. + +After tracing the Sierra streams from their fountains to the plains, +marking where they bloom white in falls, glide in crystal plumes, surge +gray and foam-filled in bowlder-choked gorges, and slip through the +woods in long, tranquil reaches--after thus learning their language and +forms in detail, we may at length hear them chanting all together in one +grand anthem, and comprehend them all in clear inner vision, covering +the range like lace. But even this spectacle is far less sublime and not +a whit more substantial than what we may behold of these storm-streams +of air in the mountain woods. + +We all travel the Milky Way together, trees and men; but it never +occurred to me until this storm day, while swinging in the wind, that +trees are travelers, in the ordinary sense. They make many journeys; not +extensive ones, it is true; but our own little journeys, away and back +again, are only little more than tree-wavings--many of them not so much. + +When the storm began to abate, I dismounted and sauntered down through +the calming woods. The storm-tones died away, and turning toward the +east, I beheld the countless hosts of the forests hushed and tranquil, +towering above one another on the slopes of the hills like a devout +audience. The setting sun filled them with amber light, and seemed to +say, while they listened, "My peace I give unto you." + +As I gazed on the impressive scene, all the so-called ruin of the storm +was forgotten; and never before did these noble woods appear so fresh, +so joyous, so immortal. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 64: From "The Mountains of California," copyright 1894. +Printed here by permission of the Century Company.] + + + + +WALDEN POND[65] + +HENRY DAVID THOREAU + + +Occasionally, after my hoeing was done for the day, I joined some +impatient companion who had been fishing on the pond since morning, as +silent and motionless as a duck or a floating leaf, and, after +practising various kinds of philosophy, had concluded commonly, by the +time I arrived, that he belonged to the ancient sect of Coenobites. +There was one older man, an excellent fisher and skilled in all kinds of +woodcraft, who was pleased to look upon my house as a building erected +for the convenience of fishermen; and I was equally pleased when he sat +in my doorway to arrange his lines. Once in a while we sat together on +the pond, he at one end of the boat, and I at the other; but not many +words passed between us, for he had grown deaf in his later years, but +he occasionally hummed a psalm, which harmonized well enough with my +philosophy. Our intercourse was thus altogether one of unbroken harmony, +far more pleasing to remember than if it had been carried on by speech. +When, as was commonly the case, I had none to commune with, I used to +raise the echoes by striking with a paddle on the side of my boat, +filling the surrounding woods with circling and dilating sound, stirring +them up as the keeper of a menagerie his wild beasts, until I elicited a +growl from every wooded vale and hillside. + +In warm evenings I frequently sat in the boat playing the flute, and saw +the perch, which I seemed to have charmed, hovering around me, and the +moon travelling over the ribbed bottom, which was strewed with the +wrecks of the forest. Formerly I had come to this pond adventurously, +from time to time, in dark summer nights, with a companion, and making a +fire close to the water's edge, which we thought attracted the fishes, +we caught pouts with a bunch of worms strung on a thread; and when we +had done, far in the night, threw the burning brands high into the air +like sky-rockets, which, coming down into the pond, were quenched with a +loud hissing, and we were suddenly groping in total darkness. Through +this, whistling a tune, we took our way to the haunts of men again. But +now I had made my home by the shore. + +Sometimes, after staying in a village parlor till the family had all +retired, I have returned to the woods, and, partly with a view to the +next day's dinner, spent the hours of midnight fishing from a boat by +moonlight, serenaded by owls and foxes, and hearing, from time to time, +the creaking note of some unknown bird close at hand. These experiences +were very memorable and valuable to me,--anchored in forty feet of +water, and twenty or thirty rods from the shore, surrounded sometimes by +thousands of small perch and shiners, dimpling the surface with their +tails in the moonlight, and communicating by a long flaxen line with +mysterious nocturnal fishes which had their dwelling forty feet below, +or sometimes dragging sixty feet of line about the pond as I drifted in +the gentle night breeze, now and then feeling a slight vibration along +it, indicative of some life prowling about its extremity, of dull +uncertain blundering purpose there, and slow to make up its mind. At +length you slowly raise, pulling hand over hand, some homed pout +squeaking and squirming to the upper air. It was very queer, especially +in dark nights, when your thoughts had wandered to vast and cosmogonal +themes in other spheres, to feel this faint jerk, which came to +interrupt your dreams and link you to Nature again. It seemed as if I +might next cast my line upward into the air, as well as downward into +this element which was scarcely more dense. Thus I caught two fishes as +it were with one hook. + +The scenery of Walden is on a humble scale, and, though very beautiful, +does not approach to grandeur, nor can it much concern one who has not +long frequented it, or lived by its shore; yet this pond is so +remarkable for its depth and purity as to merit a particular +description. It is a clear and deep green well, half a mile long and a +mile and three quarters in circumference, and contains about sixty-one +and a half acres; a perennial spring in the midst of pine and oak woods, +without any visible inlet or outlet except by the clouds and +evaporation. The surrounding hills rise abruptly from the water to the +height of forty to eighty feet, though on the southeast and east they +attain to about one hundred and one hundred and fifty feet respectively, +within a quarter and a third of a mile. They are exclusively woodland. +All our Concord waters have two colors at least, one when viewed at a +distance, and another, more proper, close at hand. The first depends +more on the light, and follows the sky. In clear weather, in summer, +they appear blue at a little distance, especially if agitated, and at a +great distance all appear alike. In stormy weather they are sometimes of +a dark slate color. The sea, however, is said to be blue one day and +green another without any perceptible change in the atmosphere. I have +seen our river, when, the landscape being covered with snow, both water +and ice were almost as green as grass. Some consider blue "to be the +color of pure water, whether liquid or solid." But looking directly down +into our waters from a boat, they are seen to be of very different +colors. Walden is blue at one time and green at another, even from the +same point of view. Lying between the earth and the heavens, it partakes +of the color of both. Viewed from a hilltop it reflects the color of the +sky, but near at hand it is of a yellowish tint next the shore where you +can see the sand, then a light green, which gradually deepens to a +uniform dark green in the body of the pond. In some lights, viewed even +from a hilltop, it is of a vivid green next the shore. Some have +referred this to the reflection of the verdure; but it is equally green +there against the railroad sand-bank, and in the spring, before the +leaves are expanded, and it may be simply the result of the prevailing +blue mixed with the yellow of the sand. Such is the color of its iris. +This is that portion, also, where in the spring, the ice being warmed by +the heat of the sun reflected from the bottom, and also transmitted +through the earth, melts first and forms a narrow canal about the still +frozen middle. Like the rest of our waters, when much agitated, in clear +weather, so that the surface of the waves may reflect the sky at the +right angle, or because there is more light mixed with it, it appears at +a little distance of a darker blue than the sky itself; and at such a +time, being on its surface, and looking with divided vision, so as to +see the reflection, I have discerned a matchless and indescribable light +blue, such as watered or changeable silks and sword blades suggest, more +cerulean than the sky itself, alternating with the original dark green +on the opposite sides of the waves, which last appeared but muddy in +comparison. It is a vitreous greenish blue, as I remember it, like those +patches of the winter sky seen through cloud vistas in the west before +sundown. Yet a single glass of its water held up to the light is as +colorless as an equal quantity of air. It is well-known that a large +plate of glass will have a green tint, owing, as the makers say, to its +"body," but a small piece of the same will be colorless. How large a +body of Walden water would be required to reflect a green tint I have +never proved. The water of our river is black or a very dark brown to +one looking directly down on it, and like that of most ponds, imparts to +the body of one bathing in it a yellowish tinge; but this water is of +such crystalline purity that the body of the bather appears of an +alabaster whiteness, still more unnatural, which, as the limbs are +magnified and distorted withal, produces a monstrous effect, making fit +studies for a Michael Angelo. + +The water is so transparent that the bottom can easily be discerned at +the depth of twenty-five or thirty feet. Paddling over it, you may see +many feet beneath the surface the schools of perch and shiners, perhaps +only an inch long, yet the former easily distinguished by their +transverse bars, and you think that they must be ascetic fish that find +a subsistence there. Once, in the winter, many years ago, when I had +been cutting holes through the ice in order to catch pickerel, as I +stepped ashore I tossed my axe back on to the ice, but, as if some evil +genius had directed it, it slid four or five rods directly into one of +the holes, where the water was twenty-five feet deep. Out of curiosity, +I lay down on the ice and looked through the hole, until I saw the axe a +little on one side, standing on its head, with its helve erect and +gently swaying to and fro with the pulse of the pond; and there it might +have stood erect and swaying till in the course of time the handle +rotted off, if I had not disturbed it. Making another hole directly over +it with an ice chisel which I had, and cutting down the longest birch +which I could find in the neighborhood with my knife, I made a +slip-noose, which I attached to its end, and, letting it down carefully, +passed it over the knob of the handle, and drew it by a line along the +birch, and so pulled the axe out again. + +The shore is composed of a belt of smooth rounded white stones like +paving stones, excepting one or two short sand beaches, and is so steep +that in many places a single leap will carry you into water over your +head; and were it not for its remarkable transparency, that would be the +last to be seen of its bottom till it rose on the opposite side. Some +think it is bottomless. It is nowhere muddy, and a casual observer would +say that there were no weeds at all in it; and of noticeable plants, +except in the little meadows recently overflowed, which do not properly +belong to it, a closer scrutiny does not detect a flag nor a bulrush, +nor even a lily, yellow or white, but only a few small heart-leaves and +potamogetons, and perhaps a water-target or two; all which however a +bather might not perceive; and these plants are clean and bright like +the element they grow in. The stones extend a rod or two into the +water, and then the bottom is pure sand, except in the deepest parts, +where there is usually a little sediment, probably from the decay of the +leaves, which have been wafted on to it so many successive falls, and a +bright green weed is brought up on anchors even in midwinter. + +We have one other pond just like this, White Pond in Nine Acre Corner, +about two and a half miles westerly; but, though I am acquainted with +most of the ponds within a dozen miles of this center, I do not know a +third of this pure and well-like character. Successive nations perchance +have drunk at, admired, and fathomed it, and passed away, and still its +water is green and pellucid as ever. Not an intermitting spring! Perhaps +on that spring morning when Adam and Eve were driven out of Eden, Walden +Pond was already in existence, and even then breaking up in a gentle +spring rain accompanied with mist and a southerly wind, and covered with +myriads of ducks and geese, which had not heard of the fall, when still +such pure lakes sufficed them. Even then it had commenced to rise and +fall, and had clarified its waters and colored them of the hue they now +wear, and obtained a patent of heaven to be the only Walden Pond in the +world and distiller of celestial dews. Who knows in how may unremembered +nations' literatures this has been the Castalian Fountain?[66] or what +nymphs presided over it in the Golden Age? It is a gem of the first +water which Concord wears in her coronet. + +Yet perchance the first who came to this well have left some trace of +their footsteps. I have been surprised to detect encircling the pond, +even where a thickwood has just been cut down on the shore, a narrow +shelf-like path in the steep hillside, alternately rising and falling, +approaching and receding from the water's edge, as old probably as the +race of man here, worn by the feet of aboriginal hunters, and still from +time to time unwittingly trodden by the present occupants of the land. +This is particularly distinct to one standing on the middle of the pond +in winter, just after a light snow has fallen, appearing as a clear +undulating white line, unobscured by weeds and twigs, and very obvious a +quarter of a mile off in many places where in summer it is hardly +distinguishable close at hand. The snow reprints it, as it were, in +clear white type alto-relievo. The ornamented grounds of villas which +will one day be built here may still preserve some trace of this. + +The pond rises and falls, but whether regularly or not, and within what +period, nobody knows, though, as usual, many pretend to know. It is +commonly higher in the winter and lower in the summer, though not +corresponding to the general wet and dryness. I can remember when it was +a foot or two lower, and also when it was at least five feet higher, +than when I lived by it. There is a narrow sand-bar running into it, +very deep water on one side, on which I helped boil a kettle of chowder, +some six rods from the main shore, about the year 1824, which it has not +been possible to do for twenty-five years; and on the other hand, my +friends used to listen with incredulity when I told them that a few +years later I was accustomed to fish from a boat in a secluded cove in +the woods, fifteen rods from the only shore they knew, which place was +long since converted into a meadow. But the pond has risen steadily for +two years, and now, in the summer of '52, is just five feet higher than +when I lived there, or as high as it was thirty years ago, and fishing +goes on again in the meadow. This makes a difference of level, at the +outside, of six or seven feet; and yet the water shed by the surrounding +hills is insignificant in amount, and this overflow must be referred to +causes which affect the deep springs. This same summer the pond has +begun to fall again. It is remarkable that this fluctuation, whether +periodical or not, appears thus to require many years for its +accomplishment. I have observed one rise and a part of two falls, and I +expect that a dozen or fifteen years hence the water will again be as +low as I have ever known it. Flint's Pond, a mile eastward, allowing +for the disturbance occasioned by its inlets and outlets, and the +smaller intermediate ponds also, sympathize with Walden, and recently +attained their greatest height at the same time with the latter. The +same is true, as far as my observation goes, of White Pond. + +This rise and fall of Walden at long intervals serves this use at least: +the water standing at this great height for a year or more, though it +makes it difficult to walk round it, kills the shrubs and trees which +have sprung up about its edge since the last rise, pitch-pines, birches, +alders, aspens, and others, and, falling again, leaves an unobstructed +shore; for, unlike many ponds, and all waters which are subject to a +daily tide, its shore is cleanest when the water is lowest. On the side +of the pond next my house, a row of pitch-pines fifteen feet high has +been killed and tipped over as if by a lever, and thus a stop put to +their encroachments; and their size indicates how many years have +elapsed since the last rise to this height. By this fluctuation the pond +asserts its title to a shore, and thus the _shore_ is _shorn_, and the +trees cannot hold it by right of possession. These are the lips of the +lake on which no beard grows. It licks its chaps from time to time. When +the water is at its height, the alders, willows, and maples send forth a +mass of fibrous red roots several feet long from all sides of their +stems in the water, and to the height of three or four feet from the +ground, in the effort to maintain themselves; and I have known the high +blueberry bushes about the shore, which commonly produce no fruit, bear +an abundant crop under these circumstances. + +Some have been puzzled to tell how the shore became so regularly paved. +My townsmen have all heard the tradition--the oldest people tell me that +they heard it in their youth--that anciently the Indians were holding a +pow-wow upon a hill here, which rose as high into the heavens as the +pond now sinks deep into the earth, and they used much profanity, as the +story goes, though this vice is one of which the Indians were never +guilty, and while they were thus engaged the hill shook and suddenly +sank, and only one old squaw, named Walden, escaped, and from her the +pond was named. It has been conjectured that when the hill shook, these +stones rolled down its side and became the present shore. It is very +certain, at any rate, that once there was no pond here, and now there is +one; and this Indian fable does not in any respect conflict with the +account of that ancient settler whom I have mentioned, who remembers so +well when he first came here with his divining-rod, saw a thin vapor +rising from the sward, and the hazel pointed steadily downward, and he +concluded to dig a well here. As for the stones, many still think that +they are hardly to be accounted for by the action of the waves on these +hills; but I observe that the surrounding hills are remarkably full of +the same kind of stones, so that they have been obliged to pile them up +in walls on both sides of the railroad cut nearest the pond; and, +moreover, there are most stones where the shore is most abrupt; so that, +unfortunately, it is no longer a mystery to me. I detect the paver. If +the name was not derived from that of some English locality--Saffron +Walden, for instance--one might suppose that is was called, originally, +_Walled-in_ Pond. + +The pond was my well ready dug. For four months in the year its water is +as cold as it is pure at all times; and I think that it is then as good +as any, if not the best, in the town. In the winter, all water which is +exposed to the air is colder than springs and wells which are protected +from it. The temperature of the pond water which had stood in the room +where I sat from five o'clock in the afternoon till noon the next day, +the sixth of March, 1846, the thermometer having been up to 65° or 70° +some of the time, owing partly to the sun on the roof, was 42°, or one +degree colder than the water of one of the coldest wells in the village +just drawn. The temperature of the Boiling Spring the same day was 45°, +or the warmest of any water tried, though it is the coldest that I know +of in summer, when, besides, shallow and stagnant surface water is not +mingled with it. Moreover, in summer, Walden never becomes so warm as +most water which is exposed to the sun, on account of its depth. In the +warmest weather I usually placed a pailful in my cellar, where it became +cool in the night, and remained so during the day; though I also +resorted to a spring in the neighborhood. It was as good when a a week +old as the day it was dipped, and had no taste of the pump. Whoever +camps for a week in summer by the shore of a pond, needs only bury a +pail of water a few feet deep in the shade of his camp to be independent +of the luxury of ice. + +There have been caught in Walden, pickerel, one weighing seven pounds, +to say nothing of another which carried off a reel with great velocity, +which the fisherman safely set down at eight pounds because he did not +see him, perch and pouts, some of each weighing over two pounds, +shiners, chivins or roach (_Leucisus pulchellus_), a very few breams, +and a couple of eels, one weighing four pounds--I am thus particular +because the weight of a fish is commonly its only title to fame, and +these are the only eels I have heard of here; also, I have a faint +recollection of a little fish some five inches long, with silvery sides +and a greenish back, somewhat dace-like in its character, which I +mention here chiefly to link my facts to fable. Nevertheless, this pond +is not very fertile in fish. Its pickerel, though not abundant, are its +chief boast. I have seen at one time lying on the ice pickerel of at +least three different kinds: a long and shallow one, steel-colored, most +like those caught in the river; a bright golden kind, with greenish +reflections and remarkably deep, which is the most common here; and +another, golden-colored, and shaped like the last, but peppered on the +sides with small dark brown or black spots, intermixed with a few faint +blood-red ones very much like a trout. The specific name +_reticulatus_[67] would not apply to this; it should be _guttatus_[68] +rather. These are all very firm fish, and weigh more than their size +promises. The shiners, pouts, and perch, also, and indeed all the fishes +which inhabit this pond, are much cleaner, handsomer, and firmer fleshed +than those in the river and most other ponds, as the water is purer, and +they can easily be distinguished from them. Probably many ichthyologists +would make new varieties of some of them. There are also a clean race of +frogs and tortoises, and a few mussels in it; muskrats and minks leave +their traces about it, and occasionally a travelling mud-turtle visits +it. Sometimes, when I pushed off my boat in the morning, I disturbed a +great mud-turtle which had secreted himself under the boat in the night. +Ducks and geese frequent it in the spring and fall, the white-bellied +swallows (_Hirundo bicolor_) skim over it, and the peetweets (_Totanus +macularius_) "teter" along its stony shores all summer. I have sometimes +disturbed a fishhawk sitting on a white-pine over the water; but I doubt +if it is ever profaned by the wing of a gull, like Fair-Haven. At most, +it tolerates one annual loon. These are all the animals of consequence +which frequent it now. + +You may see from a boat, in calm weather, near the sandy eastern shore, +where the water is eight or ten feet deep, and also in some other parts +of the pond, some circular heaps half a dozen feet in diameter by a foot +in height, consisting of small stones less than a hen's egg in size, +where all around is bare sand. At first you wonder if the Indians could +have formed them on the ice for any purpose, and so, when the ice +melted, they sank to the bottom; but they are too regular and some of +them plainly too fresh for that. They are similar to those found in +rivers; but as there are no suckers or lampreys here, I know not by what +fish they could be made. Perhaps they are the nests of the chivin. These +lend a pleasing mystery to the bottom. + +The shore is irregular enough not to be monotonous. I have in my mind's +eye the western indented with deep bays, the bolder northern, and the +beautifully scalloped southern shore, where successive capes overlap +each other and suggest unexplored coves between. The forest has never +so good a setting, nor is so distinctly beautiful, as when seen from the +middle of a small lake amid hills which rise from the water's edge; for +the water in which it is reflected not only makes the best foreground in +such a case, but, with its winding shore, the most natural and agreeable +boundary to it. There is no rawness nor imperfection in its edge there, +as where the axe has cleared a part, or a cultivated field abuts on it. +The trees have ample room to expand on the water side, and each sends +forth its most vigorous branch in that direction. There Nature has woven +a natural selvage, and the eye rises by just gradations from the low +shrubs of the shore to the highest trees. There are few traces of man's +hand to be seen. The water laves the shore as it did a thousand years +ago. + +A lake is the landscape's most beautiful and expressive feature. It is +earth's eye; looking into which the beholder measures the depth of his +own nature. The fluviatile trees next the shore are the slender +eyelashes which fringe it, and the wooded hills and cliffs around are +its overhanging brows. + +Standing on the smooth sandy beach at the east end of the pond, in a +calm September afternoon, when a slight haze makes the opposite shore +line indistinct, I have seen whence came the expression, "the glassy +surface of a lake." When you invert your head, it looks like a thread of +finest gossamer stretched across the valley, and gleaming against the +distant pine woods, separating one stratum of the atmosphere from +another. You would think that you could walk dry under it to the +opposite hills, and that the swallows which skim over might perch on it. +Indeed, they sometimes dive below the line, as it were by mistake, and +are undeceived. As you look over the pond westward you are obliged to +employ both your hands to defend your eyes against the reflected as well +as the true sun, for they are equally bright; and if, between the two, +you survey its surface critically, it is literally as smooth as glass, +except where the skater insects, at equal intervals scattered over its +whole extent, by their motions in the sun produce the finest imaginable +sparkle on it, or, perchance, a duck plumes itself, or, as I have said, +a swallow skims so low as to touch it. It may be that in the distance a +fish describes an arc of three or four feet in the air, and there is one +bright flash where it emerges, and another where it strikes the water; +sometimes the whole silvery arc is revealed; or here and there, perhaps, +is a thistle-down floating on its surface, which the fishes dart at and +so dimple it again. It is like molten glass cooled but not congealed, +and the few motes in it are pure and beautiful like the imperfections in +glass. You may often detect a yet smoother and darker water, separated +from the rest as if by an invisible cobweb, boom of the water nymphs, +resting on it. From a hilltop you can see a fish leap in almost any +part; for not a pickerel or shiner picks an insect from this smooth +surface but it manifestly disturbs the equilibrium of the whole lake. It +is wonderful with what elaborateness this simple fact is +advertised--this piscine murder will out--and from my distant perch I +distinguish the circling undulations when they are half a dozen rods in +diameter. You can even detect a water-bug (_Gyrinus_) ceaselessly +progressing over the smooth surface a quarter of a mile off; for they +furrow the water slightly, making a conspicuous ripple bounded by two +diverging lines, but the skaters glide over it without rippling it +perceptibly. When the surface is considerably agitated there are no +skaters nor water-bugs on it, but apparently, in calm days, they leave +their havens and adventurously glide forth from the shore by short +impulses till they completely cover it. It is a soothing employment, on +one of those fine days in the fall when all the warmth of the sun is +fully appreciated, to sit on a stump on such a height as this, +overlooking the pond, and study the dimpling circles which are +incessantly inscribed on its otherwise invisible surface amid the +reflected skies and trees. Over this great expanse there is no +disturbance but it is thus at once gently smoothed away and assuaged, +as, when a vase of water is jarred, the trembling circles seek the shore +and all is smooth again. Not a fish can leap or an insect fall on the +pond but it is thus reported in circling dimples, in lines of beauty, as +it were the constant welling up of its fountain, the gentle pulsing of +its life, the heaving of its breast. The thrills of joy and thrills of +pain are undistinguishable. How peaceful the phenomena of the lake! +Again the works of man shine as in the spring. Ay, every leaf and twig +and stone and cobweb sparkles now at mid-afternoon as when covered with +dew in a spring morning. Every motion of an oar or an insect produces a +flash of light; and if an oar falls, how sweet the echo! + +In such a day in September or October, Walden is a perfect forest +mirror, set round with stones as precious to my eye as if fewer or +rarer. Nothing so fair, so pure, and at the same time so large, as a +lake, perchance, lies on the surface of the earth. Sky water. It needs +no fence. Nations come and go without defiling it. It is a mirror which +no stone can crack, whose quicksilver will never wear off, whose gilding +Nature continually repairs; no storms, no dust, can dim its surface ever +fresh--a mirror in which all impurity presented to it sinks, swept and +dusted by the sun's hazy brush--this the light dust-cloth--which retains +no breath that is breathed on it, but sends its own to float as clouds +high above its surface, and be reflected in its bosom still. + +A field of water betrays the spirit that is in the air. It is +continually receiving new life and motion from above. It is intermediate +in its nature between land and sky. On land only the grass and trees +wave, but the water itself is rippled by the wind. I see where the +breeze dashes across it by the streaks or flakes of light. It is +remarkable that we can look down on its surface. We shall, perhaps, look +down thus on the surface of air at length, and mark where a still +subtler spirit sweeps over it. + +The skaters and water-bugs finally disappear in the latter part of +October, when the severe frosts have come; and then and in November, +usually, on a calm day, there is absolutely nothing to ripple the +surface. One November afternoon, in the calm at the end of a rain storm +of several days' duration, when the sky was still completely overcast +and the air was full of mist, I observed that the pond was remarkably +smooth, so that it was difficult to distinguish its surface; though it +no longer reflected the bright tints of October, but the somber November +colors of the surrounding hills. Though I passed over it as gently as +possible, the slight undulations produced by my boat extended almost as +far as I could see, and gave a ribbed appearance to the reflections. +But, as I was looking over the surface, I saw here and there at a +distance a faint glimmer, as if some skater insects which had escaped +the frosts might be collected there, or, perchance, the surface, being +so smooth, betrayed where a spring welled up from the bottom. Paddling +gently to one of these places, I was surprised to find myself surrounded +by myriads of small perch, about five inches long, of a rich bronze +color in the green water, sporting there and constantly rising to the +surface and dimpling it, sometimes leaving bubbles on it. In such +transparent and seemingly bottomless water, reflecting the clouds, I +seemed to be floating through the air as in a balloon, and their +swimming impressed me as a kind of flight or hovering, as if they were a +compact flock of birds passing just beneath my level on the right or +left, their fins, like sails, set all around them. There were many such +schools in the pond, apparently improving the short season before winter +would draw an icy shutter over their broad skylight, sometimes giving to +the surface an appearance as if a slight breeze struck it, or a few +rain-drops fell there. When I approached carelessly and alarmed them, +they made a sudden plash and rippling with their tails, as if one had +struck the water with a brushy bough, and instantly took refuge in the +depths. At length the wind rose, the mist increased, and the waves began +to run, and the perch leaped much higher than before, half out of +water, a hundred black points, three inches long, at once above the +surface. Even as late as the fifth of December, one year, I saw some +dimples on the surface, and thinking it was going to rain hard +immediately, the air being full of mist, I made haste to take my place +at the oars and row homeward; already the rain seemed rapidly +increasing, though I felt none on my cheek, and I anticipated a thorough +soaking. But suddenly the dimples ceased, for they were produced by the +perch, which the noise of my oars had scared into the depths, and I saw +their schools dimly disappearing; so I spent a dry afternoon after all. + +An old man who used to frequent this pond nearly sixty years ago, when +it was dark with surrounding forests, tells me that in those days he +sometimes saw it all alive with ducks and other water fowl, and that +there were many eagles about it. He came here a-fishing, and used an old +log canoe which he found on the shore. It was made of two white-pine +logs dug out and pinned together, and was cut off square at the ends. It +was very clumsy, but lasted a great many years before it became +water-logged and perhaps sank to the bottom. He did not know whose it +was; it belonged to the pond. He used to make a cable for his anchor of +strips of hickory bark tied together. An old man, a potter, who lived by +the pond before the Revolution, told him once that there was an iron +chest at the bottom, and that he had seen it. Sometimes it would come +floating up to the shore; but when you went toward it, it would go back +into deep water and disappear. I was pleased to hear of the old log +canoe, which took the place of an Indian one of the same material but +more graceful construction, which perchance had first been a tree on the +bank, and then, as it were, fell into the water, to float there for a +generation, the most proper vessel for the lake. I remember that when I +first looked into these depths there were many large trunks to be seen +indistinctly lying on the bottom, which had either been blown over +formerly, or left on the ice at the last cutting, when wood was +cheaper; but now they have mostly disappeared. + +When I first paddled a boat on Walden, it was completely surrounded by +thick and lofty pine and oak woods, and in some of its coves grape vines +had run over the trees next the water and formed bowers under which a +boat could pass. The hills which form its shores are so steep, and the +woods on them were then so high, that, as you looked down from the west +end, it had the appearance of an amphitheatre for some kind of sylvan +spectacle. I have spent many an hour, when I was younger, floating over +its surface as the zephyr willed, having paddled my boat to the middle, +and lying on my back across the seats, in a summer forenoon, dreaming +awake, until I was aroused by the boat touching the sand, and I arose to +see what shore my fates had impelled me to; days when idleness was the +most attractive and productive industry. Many a forenoon have I stolen +away, preferring to spend thus the most valued part of the day; for I +was rich, if not in money, in sunny hours and summer days, and spent +them lavishly; nor do I regret that I did not waste more of them in the +workshop or at the teacher's desk. But since I left those shores the +wood-choppers have still further laid them waste, and now for many a +year there will be no more rambling through the aisles of the wood, with +occasional vistas through which you see the water. My Muse may be +excused if she is silent henceforth. How can you expect the birds to +sing when their groves are cut down? + +Now the trunks of trees on the bottom, and the old log canoe, and the +dark surrounding woods, are gone, and the villagers, who scarcely know +where it lies, instead of going to the pond to bathe or drink, are +thinking to bring its water, which should be as sacred as the Ganges at +least, to the village in a pipe, to wash their dishes with!--to earn +their Walden by the turning of a cock or drawing of a plug! That +devilish Iron Horse, whose ear-rending neigh is heard throughout the +town, has muddied the Boiling Spring with his foot, and he it is that +has browsed off all the woods on Walden shore; that Trojan horse, with a +thousand men in his belly, introduced by mercenary Greeks! Where is the +country's champion, the Moore of Moore Hall,[69] to meet him at the Deep +Cut and thrust an avenging lance between the ribs of the bloated pest? + +Nevertheless, of all the characters I have known, perhaps Walden wears +best, and best preserves its purity. Many men have been likened to it, +but few deserve that honor. Though the wood-choppers have laid bare +first this shore and then that, and the Irish have built their sties by +it, and the railroad has infringed on its border, and the ice-men have +skimmed it once, it is itself unchanged, the same water which my +youthful eyes fell on; all the change is in me. It has not acquired one +permanent wrinkle after all its ripples. It is perennially young, and I +may stand and see a swallow dip apparently to pick an insect from its +surface as of yore. It struck me again to-night, as if I had not seen it +almost daily for more than twenty years--Why, here is Walden, the same +woodland lake that I discovered so many years ago; where a forest was +cut down last winter another is springing up by its shore as lustily as +ever; the same thought is welling up to its surface that was then; it is +the same liquid joy and happiness to itself and its Maker, ay, and it +_may_ be to me. It is the work of a brave man, surely, in whom there was +no guile! He rounded this water with his hand, deepened and clarified it +in his thought, and in his will bequeathed it to Concord. I see by its +face that it is visited by the same reflection; and I can almost say, +Walden, is it you? + + It is no dream of mine, + To ornament a line; + I cannot come nearer to God and Heaven + Than I live to Walden even. + I am its stony shore, + And the breeze that passes o'er; + In the hollow of my hand + Are its water and its sand, + And its deepest resort + Lies high in my thought. + +The cars never pause to look at it; yet I fancy that the engineers and +firemen and brakemen, and those passengers who have a season ticket and +see it often, are better men for the sight. The engineer does not forget +at night, or his nature does not, that he has beheld this vision of +serenity and purity once at least during the day. Though seen but once, +it helps to wash out State-street and the engine's soot. One proposes +that it be called "God's Drop." + +I have said that Walden has no visible inlet or outlet, but it is on the +one hand distantly and indirectly related to Flint's Pond, which is more +elevated, by a chain of small ponds coming from that quarter, and on the +other directly and manifestly to Concord River, which is lower, by a +similar chain of ponds through which in some other geological period it +may have flowed; and by a little digging, which God forbid, it can be +made to flow thither again. If by living thus reserved and austere, like +a hermit in the woods, so long, it has acquired such wonderful purity, +who would not regret that the comparatively impure waters of Flint's +Pond should be mingled with it, or itself should ever go to waste its +sweetness in the ocean wave? + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 65: From Chapter IX of "Walden," 1854.] + +[Footnote 66: The Castalian Fountain on Mount Parnassus was sacred to +Apollo and the Muses.] + +[Footnote 67: With net-like markings.] + +[Footnote 68: Speckled.] + +[Footnote 69: The hero of an old ballad.] + + + + +SELECTIONS FROM RUSKIN + +A. LEAFAGE OF TREES[70] + + +One of the most remarkable characters of natural leafage is the +constancy with which, while the leaves are arranged on the spray with +exquisite regularity, that regularity is modified in their actual +effect. For as in every group of leaves some are seen sideways, forming +merely long lines, some foreshortened, some crossing each other, every +one differently turned and placed from all the others, the forms of the +leaves, though in themselves similar, give rise to a thousand strange +and differing forms in the group; and the shadows of some, passing over +the others, still farther disguise and confuse the mass until the eye +can distinguish nothing but a graceful and flexible disorder of +innumerable forms, with here and there a perfect leaf on the extremity, +or a symmetrical association of one or two, just enough to mark the +specific character and to give unity and grace, but never enough to +repeat in one group what was done in another, never enough to prevent +the eye from feeling that, however regular and mathematical may be the +structure of parts, what is composed out of them is as various and +infinite as any other part of nature. Nor does this take place in +general effect only. Break off an elm bough three feet long, in full +leaf, and lay it on the table before you, and try to draw it, leaf for +leaf. It is ten to one if in the whole bough (provided you do not twist +it about as you work) you find one form of leaf exactly like another; +perhaps you will not even have _one_ complete. Every leaf will be +oblique, or foreshortened, or curled, or crossed by another, or shaded +by another, or have something or other the matter with it; and though +the whole bough will look graceful, and symmetrical, you will scarcely +be able to tell how or why it does so, since there is not one line of it +like another.... + +But if Nature is so various when you have a bough on the table before +you, what must she be when she retires from you, and gives you her whole +mass and multitude? The leaves then at the extremities become as fine as +dust, a mere confusion of points and lines between you and the sky, a +confusion which you might as well hope to draw sea-sand particle by +particle, as to imitate leaf for leaf. This, as it comes down into the +body of the tree, gets closer, but never opaque; it is always +transparent, with crumbling lights in it letting you through to the sky; +then, out of this, come, heavier and heavier, the masses of illumined +foliage, all dazzling and inextricable, save here and there a single +leaf on the extremities; then, under these, you get deep passages of +broken irregular gloom, passing into transparent, green-lighted, misty +hollows; the twisted stems glancing through them in their pale and +entangled infinity, and the shafted sunbeams, rained from above, running +along the lustrous leaves for an instant; then lost, then caught again +on some emerald bank or knotted root, to be sent up again with a faint +reflex on the white under-sides of dim groups of drooping foliage, the +shadows of the upper boughs running in grey network down the glossy +stems, and resting in quiet chequers upon the glittering earth; but all +penetrable and transparent, and, in proportion, inextricable and +incomprehensible, except where across the labyrinth and the mystery of +the dazzling light and dream-like shadow, falls, close to us, some +solitary spray, some wreath of two or three motionless, large leaves, +the type and embodying of all that in the rest we feel and imagine, but +can never see. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 70: From "Modern Painters," Vol. I, 1843, Pt. II, Sec. VI +Chapter I.] + + + + +B. WATER[71] + + +Of all inorganic substances, acting in their own proper nature, and +without assistance or combination, water is the most wonderful. If we +think of it as the source of all the changefulness and beauty which we +have seen in clouds; then as the instrument by which the earth we have +contemplated was modelled into symmetry, and its crags chiselled into +grace; then as, in the form of snow, it robes the mountains it has made, +with that transcendent light which we could not have conceived if we had +not seen; then as it exists in the foam of the torrent, in the iris +which spans it, in the morning mist which rises from it, in the deep +crystalline pools which mirror its hanging shore, in the broad lake and +glancing river; finally, in that which is to all human minds the best +emblem of unwearied, unconquerable power, the wild, various, fantastic, +tameless unity of the sea; what shall we compare to this mighty, this +universal element, for glory and for beauty? or how shall we follow its +eternal changefulness of feeling? It is like trying to paint a soul. + +To suggest the ordinary appearance of calm water, to lay on canvas as +much evidence of surface and reflection as may make us understand that +water is meant, is, perhaps, the easiest task of art; and even ordinary +running or falling water may be sufficiently rendered, by observing +careful curves of projection with a dark ground, and breaking a little +white over it, as we see done with judgment and truth by Ruysdael. But +to paint the actual play of hue on the reflective surface, or to give +the forms and fury of water when it begins to show itself; to give the +flashing and rocket-like velocity of a noble cataract, or the precision +and grace of the sea wave, so exquisitely modelled, though so mockingly +transient, so mountainous in its form, yet so cloudlike in its motion, +with its variety and delicacy of colour, when every ripple and wreath +has some peculiar passage of reflection upon itself alone, and the +radiating and scintillating sunbeams are mixed with the dim hues of +transparent depth and dark rock below--to do this perfectly is beyond +the power of man; to do it even partially has been granted to but one or +two, even of those few who have dared to attempt it.... + +The fact is that there is hardly a road-side pond or pool which has not +as much landscape _in_ it as above it. It is not the brown, muddy, dull +thing we suppose it to be; it has a heart like ourselves, and in the +bottom of that there are the boughs of the tall trees, and the blades of +the shaking grass, and all manner of hues of variable pleasant light out +of the sky. Nay, the ugly gutter, that stagnates over the drain-bars in +the heart of the foul city, is not altogether base; down in that, if you +will look deep enough, you may see the dark serious blue of far-off sky, +and the passing of pure clouds. It is at your own will that you see in +that despised stream either the refuse of the street, or the image of +the sky. So it is with almost all other things that we unkindly despise. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 71: From "Modern Painters," Vol. I, Pt. II, Sec. V, Chapter +I.] + + + +C. THE MOUNTAIN GLORY[72] + + +The best image which the world can give of Paradise is in the slope of +the meadows, orchards, and corn-fields on the sides of a great Alp, with +its purple rocks and eternal snows above; this excellence not being in +any wise a matter referable to feeling, or individual preferences, but +demonstrable by calm enumeration of the number of lovely colours on the +rocks, the varied grouping of the trees, and quantity of noble incidents +in stream, crag, or cloud, presented to the eye at any given moment. + +For consider, first, the difference produced in the whole tone of +landscape colour by the introductions of purple, violet, and deep +ultramarine blue, which we owe to mountains. In an ordinary lowland +landscape we have the blue of the sky; the green of grass, which I will +suppose (and this is an unnecessary concession to the lowlands) entirely +fresh and bright; the green of trees; and certain elements of purple, +far more rich and beautiful than we generally should think, in their +bark and shadows (bare hedges and thickets, or tops of trees, in subdued +afternoon sunshine, are nearly perfect purple, and of an exquisite +tone), as well as in ploughed fields, and dark ground in general. But +among mountains, in addition to all this, large unbroken spaces of pure +violet and purple are introduced in their distances; and even near, by +films of cloud passing over the darkness of ravines or forests, blues +are produced of the most subtle tenderness; these azures and purples +passing into rose-colour of otherwise wholly unattainable delicacy among +the upper summits, the blue of the sky being at the same time purer and +deeper than in the plains. Nay, in some sense, a person who has never +seen the rose-colour of the rays of dawn crossing a blue mountain twelve +or fifteen miles away, can hardly be said to know what _tenderness_ in +colour means at all; _bright_ tenderness he may, indeed, see in the sky +or in a flower, but this grave tenderness of the faraway hill-purples he +cannot conceive. + +Together with this great source of pre-eminence in _mass_ of colour, we +have to estimate the influence of the finished inlaying and enamel-work +of the colour-jewellery on every stone; and that of the continual +variety in species of flower; most of the mountain flowers being, +besides, separately lovelier than the lowland ones. The wood hyacinth +and the wild rose are, indeed, the only _supreme_ flowers that the +lowlands can generally show; and the wild rose is also a mountaineer, +and more fragrant in the hills, while the wood hyacinth, at its best, +cannot match even the dark bell-gentian, leaving the light-blue +star-gentian in its uncontested queenliness, and the Alpine rose and +Highland heather wholly without similitude. The violet, lily of the +valley, crocus, and wood anemone are, I suppose, claimable partly by the +plains as well as the hills; but the large orange lily and narcissus I +have never seen but on hill pastures, and the exquisite oxalis is +pre-eminently a mountaineer. + +To this supremacy in mosses and flowers we have next to add an +inestimable gain in the continual presence and power of water. Neither +in its clearness, its colour, its fantasy of motion, its calmness of +space, depth, and reflection, or its wrath, can water be conceived by a +lowlander, out of sight of sea. A sea wave is far grander than any +torrent--but of the sea and its influences we are not now speaking; and +the sea itself, though it _can_ be clear, is never calm, among our +shores, in the sense that a mountain lake can be calm. The sea seems +only to pause; the mountain lake to sleep, and to dream. Out of sight of +the ocean a lowlander cannot be considered ever to have seen water at +all. The mantling of the pools in the rock shadows, with the golden +flakes of light sinking down through them like falling leaves, the +ringing of the thin currents among the shallows, the flash and the cloud +of the cascade, the earthquake and foam-fire of the cataract, the long +lines of alternate mirror and mist that lull the imagery of the hills +reversed in the blue of morning,--all these things belong to those hills +as their undivided inheritance. + +To this supremacy in wave and stream is joined a no less manifest +pre-eminence in the character of trees. It is possible among plains, in +the species of trees which properly belong to them, the poplars of +Amiens, for instance, to obtain a serene simplicity of grace, which, as +I said, is a better help to the study of gracefulness, as such, than any +of the wilder groupings of the hills; so, also, there are certain +conditions of symmetrical luxuriance developed in the park and avenue, +rarely rivalled in their way among mountains; and yet the mountain +superiority in foliage is, on the whole, nearly as complete as it is in +water: for exactly as there are some expressions in the broad reaches of +a navigable lowland river, such as the Loire or Thames, not, in their +way, to be matched among the rock rivers, and yet for all that a +lowlander cannot be said to have truly seen the element of water at all; +so even in the richest parks and avenues he cannot be said to have truly +seen trees. For the resources of trees are not developed until they have +difficulty to contend with; neither their tenderness of brotherly love +and harmony, till they are forced to choose their ways of various life +where there is contracted room for them, talking to each other with +their restrained branches. The various action of trees rooting +themselves in inhospitable rocks, stooping to look into ravines, hiding +from the search of glacier winds, reaching forth to the rays of rare +sunshine, crowding down together to drink at sweetest streams, climbing +hand in hand among the difficult slopes, opening in sudden dances round +the mossy knolls, gathering into companies at rest among the fragrant +fields, gliding in grave procession over the heavenward ridges--nothing +of this can be conceived among the unvexed and unvaried felicities of +the lowland forest: while to all these direct sources of greater beauty +are added, first the power of redundance,--the mere quantity of foliage +visible in the folds and on the promontories of a single Alp being +greater than that of an entire lowland landscape (unless a view from +some cathedral tower); and to this charm of redundance, that of clearer +_visibility_,--tree after tree being constantly shown in successive +height, one behind another, instead of the mere tops and flanks of +masses, as in the plains; and the forms of multitudes of them +continually defined against the clear sky, near and above, or against +white clouds entangled among their branches, instead of being confused +in dimness of distance. + +Finally, to this supremacy in foliage we have to add the still less +questionable supremacy in clouds. There is no effect of sky possible in +the lowlands which may not in equal perfection be seen among the hills; +but there are effects by tens of thousands, for ever invisible and +inconceivable to the inhabitant of the plains, manifested among the +hills in the course of one day. The mere power of familiarity with the +clouds, of walking with them and above them, alters and renders clear +our whole conception of the baseless architecture of the sky; and for +the beauty of it, there is more in a single wreath of early cloud, +pacing its way up an avenue of pines, or pausing among the points of +their fringes, than in all the white heaps that fill the arched sky of +the plains from one horizon to the other. And of the nobler cloud +manifestations,--the breaking of their troublous seas against the crags, +their black spray sparkling with lightning; or the going forth of the +morning along their pavements of moving marble, level-laid between dome +and dome of snow;--of these things there can be as little imagination or +understanding in an inhabitant of the plains as of the scenery of +another planet than his own. + +And, observe, all these superiorities are matters plainly measurable and +calculable, not in any wise to be referred to estimate of _sensation_. +Of the grandeur or expression of the hills I have not spoken; how far +they are great, or strong, or terrible, I do not for the moment +consider, because vastness, and strength, and terror, are not to all +minds subjects of desired contemplation. It may make no difference to +some men whether a natural object be large or small, whether it be +strong or feeble. But loveliness of colour, perfectness of form, +endlessness of change, wonderfulness of structure, are precious to all +undiseased human minds; and the superiority of the mountains in all +these things to the lowland is, I repeat, as measurable as the richness +of a painted window matched with a white one, or the wealth of a museum +compared with that of a simply furnished chamber. They seem to have been +built for the human race, as at once their schools and cathedrals; full +of treasures of illuminated manuscript for the scholar, kindly in simple +lessons to the worker, quiet in pale cloisters for the thinker, glorious +in holiness for the worshipper. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 72: From "Modern Painters," Vol. IV, 1856, Chapter XX.] + + + + +D. SPLENDOURS OF SUNSET[73] + + +We have been speaking hitherto of what is constant and necessary in +nature, of the ordinary effects of daylight on ordinary colours, and we +repeat again that no gorgeousness of the pallet can reach even these. +But it is a widely different thing when Nature herself takes a colouring +fit, and does something extraordinary, something really to exhibit her +power. She has a thousand ways and means of rising above herself, but +incomparably the noblest manifestations of her capability of colour are +in these sunsets among the high clouds. I speak especially of the moment +before the sun sinks, when his light turns pure rose-colour, and when +this light falls upon a zenith covered with countless cloud-forms of +inconceivable delicacy, threads and flakes of vapour, which would in +common daylight be pure snow-white, and which give, therefore, fair +field to the tone of light. There is, then, no limit to the multitude, +and no check to the intensity, of the hues assumed. The whole sky from +the zenith to the horizon becomes one molten mantling sea of colour and +fire; every black bar turns into massy gold, every ripple and wave into +unsullied shadowless crimson, and purple, and scarlet, and colours for +which there are no words in language, and no ideas in the mind--things +which can only be conceived while they are visible; the intense hollow +blue of the upper sky melting through it all, showing here deep, and +pure, and lightless; there, modulated by the filmy formless body of the +transparent vapour, till it is lost imperceptibly in its crimson and +gold. The concurrence of circumstances necessary to produce the sunsets +of which I speak does not take place above five or six times in a +summer, and then only for a space of from five to ten minutes, just as +the sun reaches the horizon. Considering how seldom people think of +looking for a sunset at all, and how seldom, if they do, they are in a +position from which it can be fully seen, the chances that their +attention should be awake, and their position favourable, during these +few flying instants of the year, are almost as nothing. What can the +citizen, who can see only the red light on the canvas of the wagon at +the end of the street, and the crimson colour of the bricks of his +neighbour's chimney, know of the flood of fire which deluges the sky +from the horizon to the zenith? What can even the quiet inhabitant of +the English lowlands, whose scene for the manifestation of the fire of +heaven is limited to the tops of hayricks, and the rooks' nests in the +old elm trees, know of the mighty passages of splendour which are tossed +from Alp to Alp over the azure of a thousand miles of champaign? Even +granting the constant vigour of observation, and supposing the +possession of such impossible knowledge, it needs but a moment's +reflection to prove how incapable the memory is of retaining for any +time the distinct image of the sources even of its most vivid +impressions. What recollection have we of the sunsets which delighted us +last year? We may know that they were magnificent, or glowing, but no +distinct image of colour or form is retained--nothing of whose _degree_ +(for the great difficulty with the memory is to retain, not facts, but +_degrees_ of fact) we could be so certain as to say of anything now +presented to us, that it is like it. If we did say so, we should be +wrong; for we may be quite certain that the energy of an impression +fades from the memory, and becomes more and more indistinct every day; +and thus we compare a faded and indistinct image with the decision and +certainty of one present to the senses. How constantly do we affirm that +the thunderstorm of last week was the most terrible one we ever saw in +our lives, because we compare it, not with the thunderstorm of last +year, but with the faded and feeble recollection of it. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 73: From "Modern Painters," Vol. I, Pt. II, Sec. II, Chapter +II.] + + + + +THE STOICS[74] + +WILLIAM EDWARD HARTPOLE LECKY + + +The Stoics asserted two cardinal principles--that virtue was the sole +legitimate object to be aspired to, and that it involved so complete an +ascendancy of the reason as altogether to extinguish the affections. The +Peripatetics and many other philosophers, who derived their opinions +chiefly from Plato, endeavoured to soften down the exaggeration of these +principles. They admitted that virtue was an object wholly distinct from +interest, and that it should be the leading motive of life; but they +maintained that happiness was also a good, and a certain regard for it +legitimate. They admitted that virtue consisted in the supremacy of the +reason over the affections, but they allowed the exercise of the latter +within restricted limits. The main distinguishing features, however, of +stoicism, the unselfish ideal and the controlling reason, were +acquiesced in, and each represents an important side of the ancient +conception of excellence which we must now proceed to examine. + +In the first we may easily trace the intellectual expression of the high +spirit of self-sacrifice which the patriotic enthusiasm had elicited. +The spirit of patriotism has this peculiar characteristic, that while it +has evoked acts of heroism which are both very numerous and very +sublime, it has done so without presenting any prospect of personal +immortality as a reward. Of all the forms of human heroism, it is +probably the most unselfish. The Spartan and the Roman died for his +country because he loved it. The martyr's ecstasy of hope had no place +in his dying hour. He gave up all he had, he closed his eyes, as he +believed, for ever, and he asked for no reward in this world or in the +next. Even the hope of posthumous fame--the most refined and +supersensual of all that can be called reward--could exist only for the +most conspicuous leaders. It was examples of this nature that formed the +culminations or ideals of ancient systems of virtue, and they naturally +led men to draw a very clear and deep distinction between the notions of +interest and of duty. It may indeed be truly said, that while the +conception of what constituted duty was often very imperfect in +antiquity, the conviction that duty, as distinguished from every +modification of selfishness, should be the supreme motive of life, was +more clearly enforced among the Stoics than in any later society. + +The reader will probably have gathered from the last chapter that there +are four distinct motives which moral teachers may propose for the +purpose of leading men to virtue. They may argue that the disposition of +events is such that prosperity will attend a virtuous life, and +adversity a vicious one--a proposition they may prove by pointing to the +normal course of affairs, and by asserting the existence of a special +Providence in behalf of the good in the present world, and of rewards +and punishments in the future. As far as these latter arguments are +concerned, the efficacy of such teaching rests upon the firmness with +which certain theological tenets are held, while the force of the first +considerations will depend upon the degree and manner in which society +is organised, for there are undoubtedly some conditions of society in +which a perfectly upright life has not even a general tendency to +prosperity. The peculiar circumstances and dispositions of individuals +will also influence largely the way in which they receive such teaching, +and, as Cicero observed, "what one utility has created, another will +often destroy." + +They may argue, again, that vice is to the mind what disease is to the +body, and that a state of virtue is in consequence a state of health. +Just as bodily health is desired for its own sake, as being the absence +of a painful or at least displeasing state, so a well-ordered and +virtuous mind may be valued for its own sake, and independently of all +the external good to which it may lead, as being a condition of +happiness; and a mind distracted by passion and vice may be avoided, not +so much because it is an obstacle in the pursuit of prosperity, as +because it is in itself essentially painful and disturbing. This +conception of virtue and vice as states of health or sickness, the one +being in itself a good, and the other in itself an evil, was a +fundamental proposition in the ethics of Plato. It was admitted, but +only to a subsidiary place, by the Stoics, and has passed more or less +into all the succeeding systems. It is especially favourable to large +and elevating conceptions of self-culture, for it leads men to dwell +much less upon isolated acts of virtue or vice than upon the habitual +condition of mind from which they spring. + +It is possible, in the third place, to argue in favour of virtue by +offering as a motive that sense of pleasure which follows the deliberate +performance of a virtuous act. This emotion is a distinct and isolated +gratification following a distinct action, and may therefore be easily +separated from that habitual placidity of temper which results from the +extinction of vicious and perturbing impulses. It is this theory which +is implied in the common exhortations to enjoy "the luxury of doing +good," and though especially strong in acts of benevolence, in which +case sympathy with the happiness created intensifies the feeling, this +pleasure attends every kind of virtue. + +These three motives of action have all this common characteristic, that +they point as their ultimate end to the happiness of the agent. The +first seeks that happiness in external circumstances; the second and +third in psychological conditions. There is, however, a fourth kind of +motive which may be urged, and which is the peculiar characteristic of +the intuitive school of moralists and the stumbling-block of its +opponents. It is asserted that we are so constituted that the notion of +duty furnishes in itself a natural motive of action of the highest +order, and wholly distinct from all the refinements and modifications of +self-interest. The coactive force of this motive is altogether +independent of surrounding circumstances, and of all forms of belief. It +is equally true for the man who believes and for the man who rejects the +Christian faith, for the believer in a future world and for the believer +in the mortality of the soul. It is not a question of happiness or +unhappiness, of reward or punishment, but of a generically different +nature. Men feel that a certain course of life is the natural end of +their being, and they feel bound, even at the expense of happiness, to +pursue it. They feel that certain acts are essentially good and noble, +and others essentially base and vile, and this perception leads them to +pursue the one and to avoid the other, irrespective of all +considerations of enjoyment. + +The school of philosophy we are reviewing furnishes the most perfect of +all historical examples of the power which the higher of these motives +can exercise over the mind. The coarser forms of self-interest were in +stoicism absolutely condemned. It was one of the first principles of +these philosophers that all things that are not in our power should be +esteemed indifferent; that the object of all mental discipline should be +to withdraw the mind from all the gifts of fortune, and that prudence +must in consequence be altogether excluded from the motives of virtue. +To enforce these principles they continually dilated upon the vanity of +human things, and upon the majesty of the independent mind, and they +indulged, though scarcely more than other sects, in many exaggerations +about the impassive tranquillity of the sage. In the Roman empire +stoicism flourished at a period which, beyond almost any other, seemed +most unfavourable to such teaching. There were reigns when, in the +emphatic words of Tacitus, "virtue was a sentence of death." In no +period had brute force more completely triumphed, in none was the +thirst for material advantages more intense, in very few was vice more +ostentatiously glorified. Yet in the midst of all these circumstances +the Stoics taught a philosophy which was not a compromise, not an +attempt to moderate the popular excesses, but which in its austere +sanctity was the extreme antithesis of all that the prevailing examples +and their own interests could dictate. And these men were no impassioned +fanatics, fired with the prospect of coming glory. They were men from +whose motives of action the belief in the immortality of the soul was +resolutely excluded. In the scepticism that accompanied the first +introduction of philosophy into Rome, in the dissolution of the old +fables about Tartarus and the Styx, and the dissemination of +Epicureanism among the people, this doctrine, notwithstanding the +beautiful reasonings of Cicero and the religious faith of a few who +clung like Plutarch to the mysteries in which it was perpetuated, had +sunk very low. An interlocutor in Cicero expressed what was probably a +common feeling, when he acknowledged that, with the writings of Plato +before him, he could believe and realise it; but when he closed the +book, the reasonings seemed to lose their power, and the world of +spirits grew pale and unreal. If Ennius could elicit the plaudits of a +theatre when he proclaimed that the gods took no part in human affairs, +Caesar could assert in the senate, without scandal and almost without +dissent, that death was the end of all things. Pliny, perhaps the +greatest of all the Roman scholars, adopting the sentiment of all the +school of Epicurus, describes the belief in a future life as a form of +madness, a puerile and a pernicious illusion. The opinions of the Stoics +were wavering and uncertain. Their first doctrine was that the soul of +man has a future and independent, but not an eternal existence, that it +survives until the conflagration that was to destroy the world when all +finite things would be absorbed in the all-pervading soul of nature. +Chrysippus, however, restricted to the best and noblest souls this +future existence, which Cleanthes had awarded to all, and among the +Roman Stoics even this was greatly doubted. The belief that the human +soul is a detached fragment of the Deity, naturally led to the belief +that after death it would be reabsorbed in the parent Spirit. The +doctrine that there is no real good but virtue deprived the Stoics of +the argument for a future world derived from unrequited merit and +unpunished crimes, and the earnestness with which they contended that a +good man should act irrespectively of reward, inclined them, as it is +said to have inclined some Jewish thinkers, to the denial of the +existence of the reward. Panaetius, the founder of Roman stoicism, +maintained that the soul perished with the body, and his opinion was +followed by Epictetus and Cornutus. Seneca contradicted himself on the +subject. Marcus Aurelius never rose beyond a vague and mournful +aspiration. Those who believed in a future world believed it faintly and +uncertainly, and even when they accepted it as a fact, they shrank from +proposing it as a motive. The whole system of stoical ethics, which +carried self-sacrifice to a point that has scarcely been equalled, and +exercised an influence which has rarely been surpassed, was evolved +without any assistance from the doctrine of a future life. Pagan +antiquity has bequeathed us few nobler treatises of morals than the "De +Officiis" of Cicero, which was avowedly an expansion of a work of +Panaetius. It has left us no grander example than that of Epictetus, the +sickly, deformed slave of a master who was notorious for his barbarity, +enfrancished late in life, but soon driven into exile by Domitian, who, +while sounding the very abyss of human misery, and looking forward to +death as to simple decomposition, was yet so filled with the sense of +the Divine presence, that his life was one continued hymn to Providence, +and his writings and his example, which appeared to his contemporaries +almost the ideal of human goodness, have not lost their consoling power +through all the ages and the vicissitudes they have survived. + +There was, however, another form of immortality which exercised a much +greater influence among the Roman moralists. The desire for reputation, +and especially for posthumous reputation--that "last infirmity of noble +minds"--assumed an extraordinary prominence among the springs of Roman +heroism, and was also the origin of that theatrical and overstrained +phraseology which the greatest of ancient moralists rarely escaped. But +we should be altogether in error if we inferred, as some have done, that +paganism never rose to the conception of virtue concealing itself from +the world, and consenting voluntarily to degradation. No characters were +more highly appreciated in antiquity than those of men who, through a +sense of duty, opposed the strong current of popular favour; of men like +Fabius, who consented for the sake of their country to incur the +reputation that is most fatal to a soldier; of men like Cato, who +remained unmoved among the scoffs, the insults, and the ridicule of an +angry crowd. Cicero, expounding the principles of stoicism, declared +that no one has attained to true philosophy who has not learnt that all +vice should be avoided, "though it were concealed from the eyes of gods +and men," and that no deeds are more laudable than those which are done +without ostentation, and far from the sight of men. The writings of the +Stoics are crowded with sentences to the same effect. "Nothing for +opinion, all for conscience." "He who wishes his virtue to be blazed +abroad is not labouring for virtue but for fame." "No one is more +virtuous than the man who sacrifices the reputation of a good man rather +than sacrifice his conscience." "I do not shrink from praise, but I +refuse to make it the end and term of right." "If you do anything to +please men, you have fallen from your estate." "Even a bad reputation +nobly earned is pleasing." "A great man is not the less great when he +lies vanquished and prostrate in the dust." "Never forget that it is +possible to be at once a divine man, yet a man unknown to all the +world." "That which is beautiful is beautiful in itself; the praise of +man adds nothing to its quality." Marcus Aurelius, following an example +that is ascribed to Pythagoras, made it a special object of mental +discipline, by continually meditating on death, and evoking, by an +effort of the imagination, whole societies that had passed away, to +acquire a realised sense of the vanity of posthumous fame. The younger +Pliny painted faithfully the ideal of stoicism when he described one of +his friends as a man "who did nothing for ostentation but all for +conscience; who sought the reward of virtue in itself, and not in the +praise of man." Nor were the Stoics less emphatic in distinguishing the +obligation from the attraction of virtue. It was on this point that they +separated from the more refined Epicureans, who were often willing to +sublimate to the highest degree the kind of pleasure they proposed as an +object, provided only it were admitted that pleasure is necessarily the +ultimate end of our actions. But this the Stoics firmly denied. +"Pleasure," they argued, "is the companion, not the guide, of our +course." "We do not love virtue because it gives us pleasure, but it +gives us pleasure because we love it." "The wise man will not sin, +though both gods and men should overlook the deed, for it is not through +the fear of punishment or of shame that he abstains from sin. It is from +the desire and obligation of what is just and good." "To ask to be paid +for virtue is as if the eye demanded a recompense for seeing, or the +feet for walking." In doing good, man "should be like the vine which has +produced grapes, and asks for nothing more after it has produced its +proper fruit." His end, according to these teachers, is not to find +peace either in life or in death. It is to do his duty, and to tell the +truth. + +The second distinguishing feature of stoicism I have noticed was the +complete suppression of the affections to make way for the absolute +ascendency of reason. There are two great divisions of character +corresponding very nearly to the stoical and epicurean temperaments I +have described--that in which the will predominates, and that in which +the desires are supreme. A good man of the first class is one whose +will, directed by a sense of duty, pursues the course he believes to be +right, in spite of strong temptations to pursue an opposite course, +arising either from his own passions and tendencies, or from the +circumstances that surround him. A good man of the second class is one +who is so happily constituted that his sympathies and desires +instinctively tend to virtuous ends. The first character is the only one +to which we can, strictly speaking, attach the idea of merit, and is +also the only one which is capable of rising to high efforts of +continuous and heroic self-sacrifice; but on the other hand, there is a +charm in the spontaneous action of the unforced desires which +disciplined virtue can perhaps never attain. The man who is consistently +generous through a sense of duty, when his natural temperament impels +him to avarice, and when every exercise of benevolence causes him a +pang, deserves in the very highest degree our admiration; but he whose +generosity costs him no effort, but is the natural gratification of his +affections, attracts a far larger measure of our love. Corresponding to +these two casts of character, we find two distinct theories of +education, the aim of the one being chiefly to strengthen the will, and +that of the other to guide the desires. The principal examples of the +first are the Spartan and stoical systems of antiquity, and, with some +modifications, the asceticism of the Middle Ages. The object of these +systems was to enable men to endure pain, to repress manifest and +acknowledged desires, to relinquish enjoyments, to establish an absolute +empire over their emotions. On the other hand, there is a method of +education which was never more prevalent than in the present day, which +exhausts its efforts in making virtue attractive, in associating it with +all the charms of imagination and of prosperity, and in thus insensibly +drawing the desires in the wished for direction. As the first system is +especially suited to a disturbed and military society, which requires +and elicits strong efforts of the will, and is therefore the special +sphere of heroic virtues, so the latter belongs naturally to a tranquil +and highly organised civilisation, which is therefore very favourable +to the amiable qualities, and it is probable that as civilisation +advances, the heroic type will, in consequence, become more and more +rare, and a kind of self-indulgent goodness more common. The +circumstances of the ancient societies led them to the former type, of +which the Stoics furnished the extreme expression in their doctrine that +the affections are of the nature of a disease--a doctrine which they +justified by the same kind of arguments as those which are now often +employed by metaphysicians to prove that love, anger and the like, can +only be ascribed by a figure of speech to the Deity. Perturbation, they +contended, is necessarily imperfection, and none of its forms can in +consequence be ascribed to a perfect being. We have a clear intuitive +perception that reason is the highest, and should be the directing power +of an intelligent being; but every act which is performed at the +instigation of the emotions is withdrawn from the empire of reason. +Hence it was inferred that while the will should be educated to act +habitually in the direction of virtue, even the emotions that seem most +fitted to second it should be absolutely proscribed. Thus Seneca has +elaborated at length the distinction between clemency and pity, the +first being one of the highest virtues, and the latter a positive vice. +Clemency, he says, is an habitual disposition to gentleness in the +application of punishments. It is that moderation which remits something +of an incurred penalty; it is the opposite of cruelty, which is an +habitual disposition to rigour. Pity, on the other hand, bears to +clemency the same kind of relation as superstition to religion. It is +the weakness of a feeble mind that flinches at the sight of suffering. +Clemency is an act of judgment, but pity disturbs the judgment. Clemency +adjudicates upon the proportion between suffering and guilt. Pity +contemplates only suffering, and gives no thoughts to its cause. +Clemency, in the midst of its noblest efforts, is perfectly passionless; +pity is unreasoning emotion. Clemency is an essential characteristic of +the sage; pity is only suited for weak women and for diseased minds. +"The sage will console those who weep, but without weeping with them; +he will succour the shipwrecked, give hospitality to the proscribed, and +alms to the poor, ... restore the son to the mother's tears, save the +captive from the arena, and even bury the criminal; but in all, his mind +and his countenance will be alike untroubled. He will feel no pity. He +will succour, he will do good, for he is born to assist his fellows, to +labour for the welfare of mankind, and to offer each one his part. His +countenance and his soul will betray no emotion as he looks upon the +withered legs, the tattered rags, the bent and emaciated frame of the +beggar. But he will help those who are worthy, and, like the gods, his +leaning will be towards the wretched.... It is only diseased eyes that +grow moist in beholding tears in other eyes, as it is no true sympathy, +but only weakness of nerves, that leads some to laugh always when others +laugh, or to yawn when others yawn." + +Cicero, in a sentence which might be adopted as the motto of stoicism, +said that Homer "attributed human qualities to the gods; it would have +been better to have imparted divine qualities to men." The remarkable +passage I have just cited serves to show the extremes to which the +Stoics pushed this imitation. And indeed, if we compare the different +virtues that have flourished among Pagans and Christians, we invariably +find that the prevailing type of excellence among the former is that in +which the will and judgment, and among the latter, that in which the +emotions are most prominent. Friendship rather than love, hospitality +rather than charity, magnanimity rather than tenderness, clemency rather +than sympathy, are the characteristics of ancient goodness. The Stoics, +who carried the suppression of the emotions farther than any other +school, laboured with great zeal to compensate the injury thus done to +the benevolent side of our nature, by greatly enlarging the sphere of +reasoned and passionless philanthropy. They taught, in the most emphatic +language, the fraternity of all men, and the consequent duty of each man +consecrating his life to the welfare of others. They developed this +general doctrine in a series of detailed precepts, which, for the range, +depth, and beauty of their charity, have never been surpassed. They even +extended their compassion to crime, and adopting the paradox of Plato, +that all guilt is ignorance, treated it as an involuntary disease, and +declared that the only legitimate ground of punishment is prevention. +But however fully they might recognise in theory their principles with +the widest and most active benevolence, they could not wholly counteract +the practical evil of a system which declared war against the whole +emotional side of our being, and reduced human virtue to a kind of +majestic egotism; proposing as examples such men as Anaxagoras, who when +told that his son had died, simply observed, "I never supposed that I +had begotten an immortal," or as Stilpo, who when his country had been +ruined, his native city captured, and his daughters carried away as +slaves or as concubines, boasted that he had lost nothing, for the sage +is independent of circumstances. The framework or theory of benevolence +might be there, but the animating spirit was absent. Men who taught that +the husband or the father should look with perfect indifference on the +death of his wife or his child, and that the philosopher, though he may +shed tears of pretended sympathy in order to console his suffering +friend, must suffer no real emotion to penetrate his breast, could never +found a true or lasting religion of benevolence. Men who refused to +recognise pain and sickness as evils were scarcely likely to be very +eager to relieve them in others. + +In truth, the Stoics, who taught that all virtue was conformity to +nature, were, in this respect, eminently false to their own principle. +Human nature, as revealed to us by reason, is a composite thing, a +constitution of many parts differing in kind and dignity, a hierarchy in +which many powers are intended to co-exist, but in different positions +of ascendency or subordination. To make the higher part of our nature +our whole nature is not to restore but to mutilate humanity, and this +mutilation has never been attempted without producing grave evils. As +philanthropists, the Stoics, through their passion for unity, were led +to the extirpation of those emotions which nature intended as the chief +springs of benevolence. As speculative philosophers, they were entangled +by the same desire in a long train of pitiable paradoxes. Their famous +doctrines that all virtues are equal, or, more correctly, are the same, +that all vices are equal, that nothing is an evil which does not affect +our will, and that pain and bereavement are, in consequence, no ills, +though partially explained away and frequently disregarded by the Roman +Stoics, were yet sufficiently prominent to give their teaching something +of an unnatural and affected appearance. Prizing only a single object, +and developing only a single side of their nature, their minds became +narrow and their views contracted. Thus, while the Epicureans, urging +men to study nature in order to banish superstition, endeavoured to +correct the ignorance of physical science which was one of the chief +impediments to the progress of the ancient mind, the Stoics for the most +part disdained a study which was other than the pursuit of virtue. While +the Epicurean poet painted in magnificent language the perpetual +progress of mankind, the Stoic was essentially retrospective, and +exhausted his strength in vain efforts to restore the simplicity of a +by-gone age. While, too, the school of Zeno produced many of the best +and greatest men who have ever lived, it must be acknowledged that its +records exhibit a rather unusual number of examples of high professions +falsified in action, and of men who, displaying in some forms the most +undoubted and transcendent virtue, fell in others far below the average +of mankind. The elder Cato, who, though not a philosopher, was a model +of philosophers, was conspicuous for his inhumanity to his slaves. +Brutus was one of the most extortionate usurers of his time, and several +citizens of Salamis died of starvation, imprisoned because they could +not pay the sum he demanded. No one eulogised more eloquently the +austere simplicity of life which stoicism advocated than Sallust, who in +a corrupt age was notorious for his rapacity. Seneca himself was +constitutionally a nervous and timid man, endeavouring, not always with +success, to support himself by a sublime philosophy. He guided, under +circumstances of extreme difficulty, the cause of virtue, and his death +is one of the noblest antiquity records; but his life was deeply marked +by the taint of flattery, and not free from the taint of avarice, and it +is unhappily certain that, after its accomplishment, he lent his pen to +conceal or varnish one of the worst crimes of Nero. The courage of Lucan +failed signally under torture, and the flattery which he bestowed upon +Nero, in his "Pharsalia," ranks with the Epigrams of Martial as probably +the extreme limit of sycophancy to which Roman literature descended. + +While, too, the main object of the Stoics was to popularise philosophy, +the high standard of self-control they exacted rendered their system +exceedingly unfit for the great majority of mankind, and for the +ordinary condition of affairs. Life is history, not poetry. It consists +mainly of little things, rarely illumined by flashes of great heroism, +rarely broken by great dangers, or demanding great exertions. A moral +system, to govern society, must accommodate itself to common characters +and mingled motives. It must be capable of influencing natures that can +never rise to an heroic level. It must tincture, modify, and mitigate +where it cannot eradicate or transform. In Christianity there are always +a few persons seeking by continual and painful efforts to reverse or +extinguish the ordinary feelings of humanity, but in the great majority +of cases the influence of the religious principle upon the mind, though +very real, is not of a nature to cause any serious strain or struggle. +It is displayed in a certain acquired spontaneity of impulse. It softens +the character, purifies and directs the imagination, blends insensibly +with the habitual modes of thought, and, without revolutionising, gives +a tone and bias to all the forms of action. But stoicism was simply a +school of heroes. It recognised no gradations of virtue or vice. It +condemned all emotions, all spontaneity, all mingled motives, all the +principles, feelings, and impulses upon which the virtue of common men +mainly depends. It was capable of acting only on moral natures that were +strung to the highest tension, and it was therefore naturally rejected +by the multitude. + +The central conception of this philosophy of self-control was the +dignity of man. Pride, which looks within, making man seek his own +approbation, as distinguished from vanity, which looks without, and +shapes its conduct according to the opinions of others, was not only +permitted in stoicism, it was its leading moral agent. The sense of +virtue, as I have elsewhere observed, occupies in this system much the +same place as the sense of sin in Christianity. Sin, in the conception +of the ancients, was simply disease, and they deemed it the part of a +wise man to correct it, but not to dwell upon its circumstances. In the +many disquisitions which Epictetus and others have left us concerning +the proper frame of mind in which man should approach death, repentance +for past sin has absolutely no place, nor do the ancients appear to have +ever realised the purifying and spiritualising influence it exercises +upon the character. And while the reality of moral disease was fully +recognised, while an ideal of lofty and indeed unattainable excellence +was continually proposed, no one doubted the essential excellence of +human nature, and very few doubted the possibility of man acquiring by +his own will a high degree of virtue. + +The doctrine of suicide was the culminating point of Roman stoicism. The +proud, self-reliant, unbending character of the philosopher, could only +be sustained when he felt that he had a sure refuge against the extreme +forms of suffering or of despair. Although virtue is not a mere creature +of interest, no great system has ever yet flourished which did not +present an ideal of happiness as well as an ideal of duty. Stoicism +taught men to hope little, but to fear nothing. It did not array death +in brilliant colours, as the path to positive felicity, but it +endeavoured to divest it, as the end of suffering, of every terror. Life +lost much of its bitterness when men had found a refuge from the storms +of fate, a speedy deliverance from dotage and pain. Death ceased to be +terrible when it was regarded rather as a remedy than as a sentence. +Life and death in the stoical system were attuned to the same key. The +deification of human virtue, the total absence of all sense of sin, the +proud stubborn will that deemed humiliation the worst of stains, +appeared alike in each. The type of its own kind was perfect. All the +virtues and all the majesty that accompany human pride, when developed +to the highest point, and directed to the noblest ends, were here +displayed. All those which accompany humility and self-abasement were +absent. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 74: From Chapter II, Vol. I, of "History of European Morals," +1869. The author's foot-notes have been omitted.] + + + + +THE ENTHUSIASM OF HUMANITY[75] + +JOHN ROBERT SEELEY + + +The first method of training this passion which Christ employed was the +direct one of making it a point of duty to feel it. To love one's +neighbour as oneself was, he said, the first and greatest _law_. And in +the Sermon on the Mount he requires the passion to be felt in such +strength as to include those whom we have most reason to hate--our +enemies and those who maliciously injure us--and delivers an imperative +precept, "Love your enemies." + +It has been shown that to do this is not, as might at first appear, in +the nature of things impossible, but the further question suggests +itself, Can it be done to order? Has the verb to love really an +imperative mood? Certainly, to say that we can love at pleasure, and by +a mere effort of will summon up a passion which does not arise of +itself, is to take up a paradoxical and novel position. Yet if this +position be really untenable, how is it possible to obey Christ's +commands? + +The difficulty seems to admit of only one solution. We are not commanded +to create by an effort of will a feeling of love in ourselves which +otherwise would have had no existence; the feeling must arise naturally +or it cannot arise at all. But a number of causes which are removable +may interfere to prevent the feeling from arising or to stifle it as it +arises, and we are commanded to remove these hindrances. It is natural +to man to love his kind, and Christ commands us only to give nature +play. He does not expect us to procure for ourselves hearts of some new +supernatural texture, but merely the heart of flesh for the heart of +stone. + +What, then, are the causes of this paralysis of the heart? The +experience of human life furnishes us readily with the answer. It +constantly happens that one whose affections were originally not less +lively than those of most men is thrown into the society of persons +destitute of sympathy or tenderness. In this society each person is +either totally indifferent to his neighbour or secretly endeavouring to +injure or overreach him. The new-comer is at first open-hearted and +cordial; he presumes every one he meets to be a friend, and is disposed +to serve and expects to be served by all alike. But his advances are met +by some with cautious reserve, by others with icy coldness, by others +with hypocritical warmth followed by treacherous injury, by others with +open hostility. The heart which naturally grew warm at the mere sight of +a human being, under the operation of this new experience slowly becomes +paralysed. There seats itself gradually in the man's mind a presumption +concerning every new face that it is the face of an enemy, and a habit +of gathering himself into an attitude of self-defence whenever he deals +with a fellow-creature. If when this new disposition has grown confirmed +and habitual, he be introduced into a society of an opposite kind and +meet with people as friendly and kind as he himself was originally, he +will not at first be able to believe in their sincerity, and the old +kindly affections from long disuse will be slow to rouse themselves +within him. Now to such a person the imperative mood of the verb to love +may fairly be used. He may properly be told to make an effort, to shake +off the distrust that oppresses him,--not to suffer unproved suspicions, +causeless jealousies, to stifle by the mere force of prejudice and +mistaken opinion the warmth of feeling natural to him. + +But we shall have a closer illustration if we suppose the cold-hearted +society itself to be addressed by a preacher who wishes to bring them +to a better mind. He too may fairly use the imperative mood of the verb +to love. For he may say, "Your mutual coldness does not spring from an +original want of the power of sympathy. If it did, admonitions would +indeed be useless. But it springs from a habit of thought which you have +formed, a maxim which has been received among you, that all men are +devoted to self-interest, that kindness is but feebleness and invites +injury. If you will at once and by a common act throw off this false +opinion of human nature, and adopt a new plan of life for yourselves and +new expectations of each other, you will find the old affections natural +to all of you, weakened indeed and chilled, but existing and capable of +being revived by an effort." + +Such a preacher might go further and say, "If but a small minority are +convinced by my words, yet let that minority for itself abandon the +selfish theory, let it renounce the safety which that theory affords in +dealing with selfish men, let it treat the enemy as if he were indeed +the friend he ought to be, let it dare to forego retaliation and even +self-defence. By this means it will shame many into kindness; by +despising self-interest for itself it will sometimes make it seem +despicable to others; by sincerity and persistency it will gradually +convert the majority to a higher law of intercourse." + +The world has been always more or less like this cold-hearted society; +the natural kindness and fellow-feeling of men have always been more or +less repressed by low-minded maxims and cynicism. But in the time of +Christ, and in the last decrepitude of ethnic morality, the selfishness +of human intercourse was much greater than the present age can easily +understand. That system of morality, even in the times when it was +powerful and in many respects beneficial, had made it almost as much a +duty to hate foreigners as to love fellow-citizens. Plato congratulates +the, Athenians on having shown in their relations to Persia, beyond all +the other Greeks, "a pure and heartfelt hatred of the foreign +nature."[76] Instead of opposing, it had sanctioned and consecrated the +savage instinct which leads us to hate whatever is strange or +unintelligible, to distrust those who live on the further side of a +river, to suppose that those whom we hear talking together in a foreign +tongue must be plotting some mischief against ourselves. The lapse of +time and the fusion of races doubtless diminished this antipathy +considerably, but at the utmost it could but be transformed into an icy +indifference, for no cause was in operation to convert it into kindness. +On the other hand, the closeness of the bond which united +fellow-citizens was considerably relaxed. Common interests and common +dangers had drawn it close; these in the wide security of the Roman +Empire had no longer a place. It had depended upon an imagined +blood-relationship; fellow-citizens could now no longer feel themselves +to be united by the tie of blood. Every town was full of resident aliens +and emancipated slaves, persons between whom and the citizens nature had +established no connection, and whose presence in the city had originally +been barely tolerated from motives of expediency. The selfishness of +modern times exists in defiance of morality, in ancient times it was +approved, sheltered, and even in part enjoined by morality. We are +therefore to consider the ancient world as a society of men in whom +natural humanity existed but had been, as it were, crusted or frosted +over. Inveterate feuds and narrow-minded local jealousies, arising out +of an isolated position or differences of language and institutions, had +created endless divisions between man and man. And as the special +virtues of antiquity, patriotism and all that it implies, had been in a +manner caused and fostered by these very divisions, they were not +regarded as evils but rather cherished as essential to morality. +Selfishness, therefore, was not a mere abuse or corruption arising out +of the infirmity of human nature, but a theory and almost a part of +moral philosophy. Humanity was cramped by a mistaken prejudice, by a +perverse presumption of the intellect. In a case like this it was +necessary and proper to prescribe humanity by direct authoritative +precept. Such a precept would have been powerless to create the feeling, +nor would it have done much to protect it from being overpowered by the +opposite passion, but the opposite passion of selfishness was at this +period justified by authority and claimed to be on the side of reason +and law. Precept is fairly matched against precept, and what the law of +love and the golden rule did for mankind was to place for the first time +the love of man as man distinctly in the list of virtues, to dissipate +the exclusive prejudices of ethnic morality, and to give selfishness the +character of sin. + +When a theory of selfishness is rife in a whole community, it is a bold +and hazardous step for a part of the community to abandon it. For in the +society of selfish people selfishness is simply self-defence; to +renounce it is to evacuate one's entrenched position, to surrender at +discretion to the enemy. If society is to disarm, it should do so by +common consent. Christ, however, though he confidently expected +ultimately to gather all mankind into his society, did not expect to do +so soon. Accordingly he commands his followers not to wait for this +consummation but, in spite of the hazardous nature of the step, to +disarm at once. They are sent forth "as sheep in the midst of wolves." +Injuries they are to expect, but they are neither to shun nor to +retaliate them. Harmless they are to be as _doves_. The discipline of +suffering will wean them more and more from self, and make the channels +of humanity freer within them; and sometimes their patience may shame +the spoiler; he may grow weary of rapacity which meets with no +resistance, and be induced to envy those who can forego without +reluctance that which he devotes every thought to acquire. + +But we shall soon be convinced that Christ could not design by a mere +edict, however authoritative, to give this passion of humanity strength +enough to make it a living and infallible principle of morality in +every man, when we consider, first, what an ardent enthusiasm he +demanded from his followers, and secondly, how frail and tender a germ +this passion naturally is in human nature. Widely diffused indeed it is, +and seldom entirely eradicated; but for the most part, at least in the +ancient world, it was crushed under a weight of predominant passions and +interests; it had seldom power enough to dictate any action, but made +itself felt in faint misgivings and relentings, which sometimes +restrained men from extremes of cruelty. Like Enceladus under Aetna, it +lay fettered at the bottom of human nature, now and then making the mass +above it quake by an uneasy change of posture. To make this outraged and +enslaved passion predominant, to give it, instead of a veto rarely used, +the whole power of government, to train it from a dim misgiving into a +clear and strong passion, required much more than a precept. The precept +had its use; it could make men feel it right to be humane and desire to +be so, but it could never inspire them with an enthusiasm of humanity. +From what source was this inspiration to be derived? + +Humanity, we have already observed, is neither a love for the whole +human race, nor a love for each individual of it, but a love for the +race, or for the ideal of man, in each individual. In other and less +pedantic words, he who is truly humane considers every human being as +such interesting and important, and without waiting to criticise each +individual specimen, pays in advance to all alike the tribute of good +wishes and sympathy. Now this favourable presumption with regard to +human beings is not a causeless prepossession, it is no idle +superstition of the mind, nor is it a natural instinct. It is a feeling +founded on the actual observation and discovery of interesting and noble +qualities in particular human beings, and it is strong or weak in +proportion as the person who has the feeling has known many or few noble +and amiable human beings. There are men who have, been so unfortunate as +to live in the perpetual society of the mean and the base; they have +never, except in a few faint glimpses, seen anything glorious or good in +human nature. With these the feeling of humanity has a perpetual +struggle for existence, their minds tend by a fatal gravitation to the +belief that the happiness or misery of such a paltry race is wholly +unimportant; they may arrive finally at a fixed condition, in which it +may be said of them without qualification, that "man delights not them, +nor woman neither." In this final stage they are men who, beyond the +routine of life, should not be trusted, being "fit for treasons, +stratagems, and spoils." On the other hand, there are those whose lot it +has been from earliest childhood to see the fair side of humanity, who +have been surrounded with clear and candid countenances, in the changes +of which might be traced the working of passions strong and simple, the +impress of a firm and tender nature, wearing when it looked abroad the +glow of sympathy, and when it looked within the bloom of modesty. They +have seen, and not once or twice, a man forget himself; they have +witnessed devotion, unselfish sorrow, unaffected delicacy, spontaneous +charity, ingenuous self-reproach; and it may be that on seeing a human +being surrender for another's good not something but his uttermost all, +they have dimly suspected in human nature a glory connecting it with the +divine. In these the passion of humanity is warm and ready to become on +occasion a burning flame; their whole minds are elevated, because they +are possessed with the dignity of that nature they share, and of the +society in the midst of which they move. + +But it is not absolutely necessary to humanity that a man shall have +seen _many_ men whom he can respect. The most lost cynic will get a new +heart by learning thoroughly to believe in the virtue of _one_ man. Our +estimate of human nature is in proportion to the best specimen of it we +have witnessed. This then it is which is wanted to raise the feeling of +humanity into an enthusiasm; when the precept of love has been given, an +image must be set before the eyes of those who are called upon to obey +it, an ideal or type of man which may be noble and amiable enough to +raise the whole race and make the meanest member of it sacred with +reflected glory. + +Did not Christ do this? Did the command to love go forth to those who +had never seen a human being they could revere? Could his followers turn +upon him and say, How can we love a creature so degraded, full of vile +wants and contemptible passions, whose little life is most harmlessly +spent when it is an empty round of eating and sleeping; a creature +destined for the grave and for oblivion when his allotted term of +fretfulness and folly has expired? Of this race Christ himself was a +member, and to this day is it not the best answer to all blasphemers of +the species, the best consolation when our sense of its degradation is +keenest, that a human brain was behind his forehead and a human heart +beating in his breast, and that within the whole creation of God nothing +more elevated or more attractive has yet been found than he? And if it +be answered that there was in his nature something exceptional and +peculiar, that humanity must not be measured by the stature of Christ, +let us remember that it was precisely thus that he wished it to be +measured, delighting to call himself the Son of Man, delighting to call +the meanest of mankind his brothers. If some human beings are abject and +contemptible, if it be incredible to us that they can have any high +dignity or destiny, do we regard them from so great a height as Christ? +Are we likely to be more pained by their faults and deficiencies than he +was? Is our standard higher than his? And yet he associated by +preference with these meanest of the race; no contempt for them did he +ever express, no suspicion that they might be less dear than the best +and wisest to the common Father, no doubt that they were naturally +capable of rising to a moral elevation like his own. There is nothing of +which a man may be prouder than of this; it is the most hopeful and +redeeming fact in history; it is precisely what was wanting to raise the +love of man as man to enthusiasm. An eternal glory has been shed upon +the human race by the love Christ bore to it. And it was because the +Edict of Universal Love went forth to men whose hearts were in no +cynical mood but possessed with a spirit of devotion to a man, that +words which at any other time, however grandly they might sound, would +have been but words, penetrated so deeply, and along with the law of +love the power of Jove was given. Therefore also the first Christians +were enabled to dispense with philosophical phrases, and instead of +saying that they loved the ideal of man in man could simply say and feel +that they loved Christ in every man. + +We have here the very kernel of the Christian moral scheme. We have +distinctly before us the end Christ proposed to himself, and the means +he considered adequate to the attainment of it. His object was, instead +of drawing up, after the example of previous legislators, a list of +actions prescribed, allowed, and prohibited, to give his disciples a +universal test by which they might discover what it was right and what +it was wrong to do. Now as the difficulty of discovering what is right +arises commonly from the prevalence of self-interest in our minds, and +as we commonly behave rightly to anyone for whom we feel affection or +sympathy, Christ considered that he who could feel sympathy for all +would behave rightly to all. But how to give to the meagre and narrow +hearts of men such enlargement? How to make them capable of a universal +sympathy? Christ believed it possible to bind men to their kind, but on +one condition--that they were first bound fast to himself. He stood +forth as the representative of men, he identified himself with the cause +and with the interests of all human beings, he was destined, as he began +before long obscurely to intimate, to lay down his life for them. Few of +us sympathise originally and directly with this devotion; few of us can +perceive in human nature itself any merit sufficient to evoke it. But it +is not so hard to love and venerate him who felt it. So vast a passion +of love, a devotion so comprehensive, elevated, deliberate and +profound, has not elsewhere been in any degree approached save by some +of his imitators. And as love provokes love, many have found it possible +to conceive for Christ an attachment the closeness of which no words can +describe, a veneration so possessing and absorbing the man within them, +that they have said, "I live no more, but Christ lives in me." Now such +a feeling carries with it of necessity the feeling of love for all human +beings. It matters no longer what quality men may exhibit; amiable or +unamiable, as the brothers of Christ, as belonging to his sacred and +consecrated kind, as the objects of his love in life and death, they +must be dear to all to whom he is dear. And those who would for a moment +know his heart and understand his life must begin by thinking of the +whole race of man, and of each member of the race, with awful reverence +and hope. + +Love, wheresoever it appears, is in its measure a law-making power. +"Love is _dutiful_ in thought and deed." And as the lover of his country +is free from the temptation to treason, so is he who loves Christ secure +from the temptation to injure any human being, whether it be himself or +another. He is indeed much more than this. He is bound and he is eager +to benefit and bless to the utmost of his power all that bear his +Master's nature, and that not merely with the good gifts of the earth, +but with whatever cherishes and trains best the Christ within them. But +for the present we are concerned merely with the power of this passion +to lift the man out of sin. The injuries he committed lightly when he +regarded his fellow-creatures simply as animals who added to the +fierceness of the brute an ingenuity and forethought that made them +doubly noxious, become horrible sacrilege when he sees in them no longer +the animal but the Christ. And that other class of crimes which belongs +more especially to ages of civilisation, and arises out of a cynical +contempt for the species, is rendered equally impossible to the man who +hears with reverence the announcement, "The good deeds you did to the +least of these my brethren you did to me." + +There are two objections which may suggest themselves at this point, the +one to intellectual, the other to practical men. The intellectual man +may say, "To discover what it is right to do in any given case is not +the province of any feeling or passion however sublime, but requires the +application of the same intellectual power which solves mathematical +problems. The common acts of life may no doubt be performed correctly by +unintellectual people, but this is because these constantly recurring +problems have been solved long ago by clever people, and the vulgar are +now in possession of the results. Whenever a new combination occurs it +is a matter for casuists; the best intentions will avail little; there +is doubtless a great difference between a good man and a bad one; the +one will do what is right when he knows it, and the other will not; but +in respect for the power of ascertaining what it is right to do, +supposing their knowledge of casuistry to be equal, they are on a par. +Goodness or the passion of humanity, or Christian love, may be a motive +inducing men to keep the law, but it has no right to be called the +law-making power. And what has Christianity added to our theoretic +knowledge of morality? It may have made men practically more moral, but +has it added anything to Aristotle's Ethics?" + +Certainly Christianity has no ambition to invade the provinces of the +moralist or the casuist. But the difficulties which beset the discovery +of the right moral course are of two kinds. There are the difficulties +which arise, from the blinding and confusing effect of selfish passions, +and which obscure from the view the end which should be aimed at in +action; when these have been overcome there arises a new set of +difficulties concerning the means by which the end should be attained. +In dealing with your neighbour the first thing to be understood is that +his interest is to be considered as well as your own; but when this has +been settled, it remains to be considered what his interest is. The +latter class of difficulties requires to be dealt with by the +intellectual or calculating faculty. The former class can only be dealt +with by the moral force of sympathy. Now it is true that the right +action will not be performed without the operation of both these +agencies. But the moral agency is the dominant one throughout; it is +that without which the very conception of law is impossible; it +overcomes those difficulties which in the vast majority of practical +cases are the most serious. The calculating casuistical faculty is, as +it were, in its employ, and it is no more improper to call it the +law-making power, although it does not ultimately decide what action is +to be performed, than to say that a house was built by one who did not +with his own hands lay the bricks and spread the mortar. + +The objection which practical men take is a very important one, as the +criticisms of such men always are, being founded commonly upon large +observation and not perverted by theory. They say that the love of +Christ does not in practice produce the nobleness and largeness of +character which has been represented as its proper and natural result; +that instead of inspiring those who feel it with reverence and hope for +their kind, it makes them exceedingly narrow in their sympathies, +disposed to deny and explain away even the most manifest virtues +displayed by men, and to despair of the future destiny of the great +majority of their fellow-creatures; that instead of binding them to +their kind, it divides them from it by a gulf which they themselves +proclaim to be impassable and eternal, and unites them only in a gloomy +conspiracy of misanthropy with each other; that it is indeed a +law-making power, but that the laws it makes are little-minded and +vexatious prohibitions of things innocent, demoralising restraints upon +the freedom of joy and the healthy instincts of nature; that it favours +hypocrisy, moroseness, and sometimes lunacy; that the only vice it has +power to check is thoughtlessness, and its only beneficial effect is +that of forcing into activity, though not always into healthy activity, +the faculty of serious reflection. + +This may be a just picture of a large class of religious men, but it is +impossible in the nature of things that such effects should be produced +by a pure personal devotion to Christ. We are to remember that nothing +has been subjected to such multiform and grotesque perversion as +Christianity. Certainly the direct love of Christ, as it was felt by its +first followers, is a rare thing among modern Christians. His character +has been so much obscured by scholasticism, as to have lost in a great +measure its attractive power. The prevalent feeling towards him now +among religious men is an awful fear of his supernatural greatness, and +a disposition to obey his commands arising partly from dread of future +punishment and hope of reward, and partly from a nobler feeling of +loyalty, which, however, is inspired rather by his office than his +person. Beyond this we may discern in them an uneasy conviction that he +requires a more personal devotion, which leads to spasmodic efforts to +kindle the feeling by means of violent raptures of panegyric and by +repeating over and getting by rote the ardent expressions of those who +really had it. That is wanting for the most part which Christ held to be +all in all, spontaneous warmth, free and generous devotion. That the +fruits of a Christianity so hollow should be poor and sickly is not +surprising. + +But that Christ's method, when rightly applied, is really of mighty +force may be shown by an argument which the severest censor of +Christians will hardly refuse to admit. Compare the ancient with the +modern world: "Look on this picture and on that." One broad distinction +in the characters of men forces itself into prominence. Among all the +men of the ancient heathen world there were scarcely one or two to whom +we might venture to apply the epithet "holy." In other words, there were +not more than one or two, if any, who besides being virtuous in their +actions were possessed with an unaffected enthusiasm of goodness, and +besides abstaining from vice regarded even a vicious thought with +horror. Probably no one will deny that in Christian countries this +higher-toned goodness, which we call holiness, has existed. Few will +maintain that it has been exceedingly rare. Perhaps the truth is, that +there has scarcely been a town in any Christian country since the time +of Christ where a century has passed without exhibiting a character of +such elevation that his mere presence has shamed the bad and made the +good better, and has been felt at times like the presence of God +Himself. And if this be so, has Christ failed? or can Christianity die? + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 75: Chapter XIV of "Ecce Homo, a Survey of the Life and work +of Jesus Christ," 1865.] + +[Footnote 76: Plato, Menexenus.--Author's note.] + + + + +LOYALTY AND INSIGHT[77] + +JOSIAH ROYCE + + +Upon an occasion like this, when the children, the servants, and the +friends of this institution meet for their annual festival, there is one +word that best expresses the spirit of the occasion. It is the word +"loyalty,"--loyalty to your College, to its ideals, to its life, and to +the unity and effectiveness of this life. And amongst the ideals that +inspire the life of your College, and make that life effective and +united, there is one which is prominent in all your minds, whatever your +special studies, your practical aims, or your hopes. It is the ideal of +furthering, in all your minds, what we may call insight,--the ideal of +learning to see life as it is, to know the world as we men need to know +it, and to guide our purposes as we ought to guide them. It is also the +ideal of teaching to others the art of just such insight. + +These two words, then, "loyalty" and "insight," name, one of them, the +spirit in which, upon such occasions as this, we all meet; the other, +the ideal that determines the studies and the researches of any modern +institution of learning. Upon each day of its year of work your College +says to its children and to its servants and to its community: "Let us +know, let us see, let us comprehend, let us guide life by wisdom, and in +turn let us discover new wisdom for the sake of winning new life." But +upon a day like the present one, the work of the year being laid aside, +your College asks and receives your united expression of loyalty to its +cause. Perhaps some of you may feel that for just this moment you have +left behind, at least temporarily, the task of winning insight. You +enjoy, for the hour, the fruits of toil. Study and research cease, you +may say, for to-day, while the spirit of loyalty finds its own free +expression and takes content in its holiday. + +I agree that the holidays and the working days have a different place in +our lives. But it is my purpose in this address to say something about +the connections between the spirit which rules this occasion--the spirit +of loyalty--and the ideal by which the year's work has to be +guided,--the ideal of furthering true insight. The loyalty that now +fills your minds is merely one expression of a certain spirit which +ought to pervade all our lives--not only in our studies, but in our +homes, in our offices, in our political and civic life--not merely upon +holidays, or upon other great occasions, but upon our working days; and +most of all when our tasks seem commonplace and heavy. And, on the other +hand, the insight which you seek to get whenever, in the academic world, +you work in the laboratory or in the field, in the library or in the +classroom or alone in your study, the insight that you try both to +embody in your practical life and to enrich through your +researches,--just this insight, I say, is best to be furthered by a +right cultivation of the spirit of loyalty. + +I suppose that when I utter these words, you will easily give to them a +certain general assent. But I want to devote this address to making just +such words mean more to you than at first they may appear to mean. + +First, then, let me tell you what I myself mean by the term "loyalty." +Then let me deal with my principal thesis, which is that the true spirit +of loyalty is not merely a proper accompaniment of all serious work, but +is an especially important source of a very deep insight into the +meaning of life, and, as I personally believe, into the nature of the +whole universe. + +Three sorts of persons, I have noticed, are fond of using the term +"loyalty." These are quite different types of persons; or, in any case, +they use the word upon very different occasions. But these very +differences are to my mind important. The first type of those who love +to use the term "loyalty" consists of those who employ it to express a +certain glow of enthusiastic devotion, the type of the lovers, of the +students when the athletic contests are near, of the partisans in the +heat of a political contest, or of the friends of an institution upon a +day like this. To such persons, or at least at such moments, loyalty is +conceived as something brilliantly emotional, as a passion of devotion. +The second class of those who are fond of the word "loyalty" are the +warriors and their admirers. To such persons loyalty means a willingness +to do dangerous service, to sacrifice life, to toil long and hard for +the flag that one follows. But for a third type of those who employ the +word, loyalty especially means steady, often unobtrusive, fidelity to +more or less formal obligations, such as the business world and the +workshop impose upon us. Such persons think of loyalty as, first of all, +faithfulness in obeying the law of the land, or in executing the plans +of one's official superiors, or in serving one's employer or one's +client or one's chief, or one's fraternity or other social union. In +this sense the loyal servant may be obscure and unemotional. But he is +trustworthy. Now, a word which thus so forcibly appeals to the lovers +who want to express their passionate devotion, and also to the soldiers +who want to name that obstinate following of the flag which makes +victory possible; a word which business men also sometimes use to +characterize the quietly and industriously faithful employee who obeys +orders, who betrays no secrets, and who regards the firm's interest as +his own;--well, such a word, I think, is not as much ambiguous as deep +in its meaning. For, after all, loyal emotions, loyal sacrifice of life, +loyal steadiness in obscure service, are but various symptoms of a +certain spirit which lies beneath all its various expressions. This +spirit is a well-known one. All the higher life of society depends upon +it. It may manifest itself as enthusiasm upon an occasion like this, or +as contempt for death upon the battle field, or as quiet service when +the toil of life is grim, or as the cool fidelity that pursues the daily +routine of office or of workshop or of kitchen with a steady persistence +and with a simple acceptance of traditional duties or of the day's toil. +But the spirit thus manifested is not exhausted by any of its symptoms. +The appearances of loyalty are manifold. Its meaning is one. And I +myself venture to state what the true spirit of loyalty is by defining +the term thus: By loyalty I mean the thorough-going, the voluntary, and +the practical devotion of a self to a cause. And by a cause I mean +something of the nature that the true lover has in mind when he is +wisely devoted to his love; that the faithful member of a family serves +when the family itself is the cause dear to him; that the member of a +fraternity, or the child of a college, or the devoted professional man, +or the patriot, or the martyr, or the faithful workman conceives when he +thinks of that to which he gives his life. As all these illustrations +suggest, the cause to which one can be loyal is never a mere collection +of individuals; nor is it ever a mere abstract principle. This cause, +whether in the church or the army or the workshop, in the home or in the +friendship, is some sort of unity whereby many persons are joined in one +common life. The cause to which a loyal man is devoted is of the nature +of an institution, or of a home life, or of a fraternity, wherein two or +more persons aim to become one; or of a religion, wherein the unity of +the spirit is sought through the communion of the faithful. Loyalty +respects individuals, but aims to bring them together into one common +life. Its command to the loyal is: "Be 'one undivided soul of many a +soul'". It recognizes that, when apart, individuals fail; but that when +they try to unite their lives into one common higher selfhood, to live +as if they were the expressions, the instruments, the organs of one +ideally beautiful social group, they win the only possible fulfillment +of the meaning of human existence. Through loyalty to such a cause, +through devotion to an ideally united social group, and only through +such loyalty, can the problems of human personality be solved. By +nature, and apart from some cause to which we are loyal, each of us is +but a mass of caprices, a chaos of distracting passions, a longing for +happiness that is never fulfilled, a seeking for success which never +attains its goal. Meanwhile, no merely customary morality ever +adequately guides our lives. Mere social authority never meets our +needs. But a cause, some unity of many lives in one, some call upon the +individual to give himself over to the service of an idealized +community--this gives sense to life. This, when we feel its presence, as +we do upon this occasion, we love, as the lovers love the common life of +friendship that is to make them one, or as the mothers delight in the +life that is to unite themselves and their children in the family, or as +the devout feel that through their communion in the life of their church +they become one with the Divine Spirit. For such a cause we can make +sacrifices, such as the soldier makes in following the flag. For what is +the fortune of any detached self as compared with the one cause of the +whole country? And just such a voluntary devotion to a cause can ennoble +the routine of the humblest daily business, in the office, in the +household, in the school, at the desk, or in the market place, if one +only finds the cause that can hold his devotion--be this cause his +business firm or his profession or his household or his country or his +church, or all these at once. For all these causes have their value in +this: that through the business firm, or the household, or the +profession, or the spiritual community, the lives of many human selves +are woven into one, so that our fortunes and interests are no longer +conceived as detached and private, but as a giving of ourselves in order +that the social group to which we are devoted should live its own united +life. + +With this bare indication of what I mean by loyalty, I may now say that +of late years I have attempted to show in detail, in various discussions +of our topic, that the spirit of loyalty, rightly understood, and +practically applied, furnishes an adequate solution for all the +problems of the moral life. The whole moral law can be summed up in the +two commandments: first, Be loyal; and secondly, So choose, so serve, +and so unify the life causes to which you yourself are loyal that, +through your choice, through your service, through your example, and +through your dealings with all men, you may, as far as in you lies, help +other people to be loyal to their own causes; may avoid cheating them of +their opportunities for loyalty; may inspire them with their own best +type of loyalty, and may so best serve the one great cause of the spread +of loyalty among mankind. Or, if I may borrow and adapt for a worthy end +Lincoln's immortal words, the moral law is this: Let us so live, so +love, and so serve, that loyalty "of the people, by the people, for the +people, shall not perish from the earth," but shall prosper and abound. + +The scheme of life thus suggested is, I believe, adequate. I next want +to tell what bearing the spirit of loyalty has upon insight. + +The insight that all of us most need and desire is an insight, first, +into the business of life itself, and next into the nature and meaning +of the real world in which we live. Our forefathers used to center all +their views of life and of the world about their religion. Many of the +leading minds of to-day center their modern insight about the results of +science. In consequence, what I may call the general problems of +insight, and the views of life and of the world which most of us get +from our studies, have come of late to appear very different from the +views and the problems which our own leading countrymen a century ago +regarded as most important. The result is that the great problem of the +philosophy of life to-day may be defined as the effort to see whether, +and how, you can cling to a genuinely ideal and spiritual interpretation +of your own nature and of your duty, while abandoning superstition, and +while keeping in close touch with the results of modern knowledge about +man and nature. + +Let me briefly indicate what I mean by this problem of a modern +philosophy of life. From the modern point of view great stress has been +laid upon the fact that man, as we know man, appears to be subject to +the laws of the natural world. Modern knowledge makes these laws appear +very far-reaching, very rigid, and very much of the type that we call +mechanical. We have, therefore, most of us, learned not to expect +miraculous interferences with the course of nature as aids in our human +conflict with destiny. We have been taught to regard ourselves as the +products of a long process of natural evolution. We have come to think +that man's control over nature has to take the general form which our +industrial arts illustrate, and which our recent contests with disease, +such as the wars with tuberculosis and with yellow fever, exemplify. +Man, we have been led to say, wins his way only by studying nature and +by applying his carefully won empirical knowledge to the guidance of his +arts. The business of life--so we have been moved to assert--must +therefore be guided simply by an union of plain common sense with the +scientific study of nature. The real world, we have been disposed to +say, is, on the whole, so far as we can know it, a mechanism. Therefore +the best ideal of life involves simply the more or less complete control +of this mechanism for useful and humane ends. Such, I say, is one very +commonly accepted result to which modern knowledge seems to have led +men. The practical view of life and of its business which expresses this +result has been, for many of us, twofold. First, we have been led to +this well-known precept: If you want to live wisely, you must, at all +events, avoid superstition. That is, you must not try to guide human +life by dealing with such supernatural powers, good and evil, as the +mythologies of the past used to view as the controlling forces of human +destiny. You must take natural laws as you find them. You must believe +about the real world simply what you can confirm by the verdict of human +experience. You must put no false hopes either in magic arts or in +useless appeals to the gods. You must, for instance, fight tuberculosis +not by prayer, but by knowing the conditions that produce it and the +natural processes that tend to destroy its germs. And so, in general, in +order to live well and wisely you must be a naturalist and not a +supernaturalist. Or in any case you must conform your common sense not +to the imagination that in the past peopled the dream world of humanity +with good and evil spirits, but to the carefully won insight that has +shown us that our world is one where natural law reigns unyielding, +defying equally our magic arts and our prayerful desires for divine aid. +But secondly, side by side with this decidedly positive advice, many of +us have been brought to accept a practical attitude towards the world +which has seemed to us negative and discouraging. This second attitude +may be expressed in the sad precept: Hope not to find this world in any +universal sense a world of ideal values. Nature is indifferent to +values. Values are human, and merely human. Man can indeed give to his +own life much of what he calls value, if he uses his natural knowledge +for human ends. But when he sets out upon this task, he ought to know +that, however sweet and ideal human companionship may be as it exists +among men, humanity as a whole must fight its battle with nature and +with the universe substantially alone, comfortless except for the +comforts that it wins precisely as it builds its houses; namely, by +using the mechanisms of nature for its own purposes. The world happens, +indeed, to give man some power to control natural conditions. But even +this power is due to the very fact that man also is one of nature's +products,--a product possessing a certain stability, a certain natural +plasticity and docility, a limited range of natural initiative. As a +rock may deflect a stream, so man, himself a natural mechanism, may turn +the stream of nature's energies into paths that are temporarily useful +for human purposes. But from the modern point of view the ancient plaint +of the Book of Job remains true, both for the rock and for the man: + + "The waters wear away stones, + And the hope of frail man thou destroyest." + +In the end, our relations to the universe thus seem to remain relations +to an essentially foreign power, which cares for our ideals as the +stormy sea cares for the boat, and as the bacteria care for the human +organism upon which they prey. If we ourselves, as products of nature, +are sufficiently strong mechanisms, we may be able to win, while life +lasts, many ideal goods. But just so, if the boat is well enough built, +it may weather one or another passing storm. If the body is well knit, +it may long remain immune to disease. Yet in the end the boat and the +human body fail. And in no case, so this view asserts, does the real +world essentially care for or help or encourage our ideals. Our ideals +are as foreign to the real natural world as the interests of the ship's +company are to the ocean that may tolerate, but also may drown them. Be +free from superstition, then; and next: avoid false hopes. Such are the +two theses that seem to embody for many minds the essentially modern +view of things and the essential result for the philosophy of life of +what we have now learned. + +But hereupon the question arises whether this is indeed the last word of +insight; whether this outcome of modern knowledge does indeed tell the +whole story of our relations to the real world. That this modern view +has its own share of deeper truth we all recognize. But is this the +whole truth? Have we no access whatever to any other aspect of reality +than the one which this naturalistic view emphasizes? And again, the +question still arises: Is there any place left for a religion that can +be free from superstition, that can accept just so much of the foregoing +modern results as are indeed established, and that can yet supplement +them by an insight which may show the universe to be, after all, +something more than a mechanism? In sum, are we merely stones that +deflect the stream for a while, until the waters wear them away? Or are +there spiritual hopes of humanity which the mechanism of nature cannot +destroy? Is the philosophy of life capable of giving us something more +than a naturalism--humanized merely by the thought that man, being, +after all, a well-knit and plastic mechanism, can for a time mold nature +to his ends? So much for the great problem of modern insight. Let us +turn to consider the relation of the spirit of loyalty to this problem. + +What light can a study of the spirit of loyalty, as I just defined +loyalty--what light, I say, can such a study throw upon this problem? +Very little--so some of you may say; for any discussion of the spirit of +loyalty can tell us nothing to make nature's mechanism more +comprehensible. One who favors loyalty as a way of solving life's +problems tells us about a certain ideal of human life,--an ideal which, +as I have asserted, does tend to solve our personal moral problems +precisely in so far as we are able to express this ideal in our +practical lives. In order to be loyal you indeed have no need to believe +in any of the well-known miracles of popular tradition. And equally, in +order to be loyal, you have no need, first, to decide whether nature is +or is not a mechanism; or whether the modern view of reality, as just +summarized, is or is not adequate; or whether the gods exist; or whether +man is or is not one of nature's products and temporarily well-knit and +plastic machines. Our doctrine of loyalty is founded not upon a decision +about nature's supposed mechanism, but upon a study of man's own inner +and deeper needs. It is a doctrine about the plan and the business of +human life. It seems, therefore, to be neutral as to every so-called +conflict between science and religion. + +But now, in answer to these remarks, I have to show that the doctrine of +loyalty, once rightly understood, has yet a further application. It is a +doctrine that, when more fully interpreted, helps us toward a genuine +insight, not only into the plan of life, but into the nature of things. +The philosophy of loyalty has nothing to say against precisely so much +of naturalism as is indeed an established result of common sense and of +the scientific study of nature. The theory of the loyal life involves +nothing superstitious--no trust in magic, no leaning upon the +intervention of such spiritual agencies as the old mythologies +conceived. And yet, as I shall insist, nobody can understand and +practise the loyal spirit without tending thereby to get a true view of +the nature of things, a genuine touch with reality, which cannot be +gained without seeing that, however much of a mechanism nature may +appear to be, the real world is something much more than a mechanism, +and much more significant than are the waters which wear away stones. + +Let me indicate what I mean by repeating in brief my doctrine of +loyalty--with reference to the spirit which it involves, and with +reference to the view of the realities of human life which it inevitably +includes. + +Whoever is loyal has found some cause, I have said,--a cause to which, +by his inner interests, he is indeed attracted so that the cause is +fascinating to his sentiments. But the cause is also one to which the +loyal man is meanwhile practically and voluntarily devoted, so that his +loyalty is no mere glow of enthusiasm, but is an affair of his deeds as +well as of his emotions. Loyalty I therefore defined as the +thorough-going and practical devotion of a self to a cause. Why loyalty +is a duty; how loyalty is possible for every normal human being; how it +can appear early in youth, and then grow though life; how it can be at +once faithful to its own, and yet can constantly enlarge its scope; how +it can become universally human in its interests without losing its +concreteness, and without failing to keep in touch with the personal +affections and the private concerns of the loyal person; how loyalty is +a virtue for all men, however humble and however exalted they may be; +how the loyal service of the tasks of a single possibly narrow life can +be viewed as a service of the cause of universal loyalty, and so of the +interests of all humanity; how all special duties of life can be stated +in terms of a duly generalized spirit of loyalty; and how moral +conflicts can be solved, and moral divisions made, in the light of the +principle of loyalty; all this I have asserted, although here is indeed +no time for adequate discussion. But hereupon I want to concentrate our +whole attention, not upon the consequences and applications of the +doctrine of loyalty, but upon the most central characteristic of the +loyal spirit. This central characteristic of the loyal spirit consists +in the fact that it conceives and values its cause as a reality, as an +object that has a being of its own; while the type of reality which +belongs to a cause is different from the type of reality which we +ascribe either to a thing in the physical world or to a law of nature. A +cause is never a mere mechanism. It is an essentially spiritual reality. +If the loyal human being is right in the account which he gives of his +cause, then the real world contains beings which are not mere natural +objects, and is subject to laws which, without in the least running +counter to the laws of outer nature, are the laws of an essentially +spiritual realm, whose type of being is superior to that possessed by +the order of nature which our industrial arts use. Either, then, loyalty +is altogether a service of myths, or else the causes which the loyal +serve belong to a realm of real being which is above the level of mere +natural fact and natural law. In the latter case the real world is not +indifferent to our human search for values. The modern naturalistic and +mechanical views of reality are not, indeed, false within their own +proper range, but they are inadequate to tell us the whole truth. And +reality contains, further, and is characterized by, an essentially +spiritual order of being. + +I have been speaking to persons who, as I have trusted, well know, so +far as they have yet had time to learn the lessons of life, something of +what loyalty means. Come, then, let us consider what is the sort of +object that you have present to your mind when you are loyal to a cause. +If your cause is a reality, what kind of a being is it? If causes are +realities, then in what sort of a real world do you live? + +I have already indicated that, while loyalty always includes personal +affections, while you can never be loyal to what you take to be a merely +abstract principle, nevertheless, it is equally true that you can never +be genuinely loyal merely to an individual human being, taken just as +this detached creature. You can, indeed, love your friend, viewed just +as this individual. But love for an individual is so far just a fondness +for a fascinating human presence, and is essentially capricious, whether +it lasts or is transient. You can be, and should be, loyal to your +friendship, to the union of yourself and your friend, to that ideal +comradeship which is neither of you alone, and which is not the mere +doubleness that consists of you and your friend taken as two detached +beings who happen to find one another's presence agreeable. Loyalty to a +friendship involves your willingness actively and practically to create +and maintain a life which is to be the united life of yourself and your +friend--not the life of your friend alone, nor the life of yourself and +your friend as you exist apart, but the common life, the life above and +inclusive of your distinctions, the one life that you are to live as +friends. To the tie, to the unity, to the common life, to the union of +friends, you can be loyal. Without such loyalty friendship consists only +of its routine of more or less attractive private sentiments and mere +meetings, each one of which is one more chance experience, heaped +together with other chance experiences. But with such true loyalty your +friendship becomes, at least in ideal, a new life--a life that neither +of you could have alone; a life that is not a mere round of separate +private amusements, but that belongs to a new type of dual yet unified +personality. Nor are you loyal to your friendship merely as to an +abstraction. You are loyal to it as to the common better self of both of +you, a self that lives its own real life. Either such a loyalty to your +friendship is a belief in myths, or else such a type of higher and +unified dual personality actually possesses a reality of its own,--a +reality that you cannot adequately describe by reporting, as to the +taker of a census, that you and your friend are two creatures, with two +distinct cases of a certain sort of fondness to be noted down, and with +each a separate life into which, as an incident, some such fondness +enters. No; were a census of true friendship possible, the census taker +should be required to report: Here are indeed two friends; but here is +also the ideal and yet, in some higher sense, real life of their united +personality present,--a life which belongs to neither of them alone, and +which also does not exist merely as a parcel of fragments, partly in +one, partly in the other of them. It is the life of their common +personality. It is a new spiritual person on a higher level. + +Or again, you are loyal to some such union as a family or a fraternity +represents. Or you are loyal to your class, your college, your +community, your country, your church. In all these cases, with endless +variety in the details, your loyalty has for its object each time, not +merely a group of detached personalities, but some ideally significant +common life; an union of many in one; a community which also has the +value of a person, and which, nevertheless, cannot be found distributed +about in a collection of fragments found inside the detached lives of +the individual members of the family, the club, the class, the college, +the country, the church. If this common life to which you are loyal is a +reality, then the real human world does not consist of separate +creatures alone, of the mere persons who flock in the streets and who +live in the different houses. The human world, if the loyal are right, +contains personality that is not merely shut up within the skin, now of +this, now of that, human creature. It contains personalities that no +organism confines within its bounds; that no single life, that no crowd +of detached lives, comprises. Yet this higher sort of common +personality, if the loyal are right, is as real as we separate creatures +are real. It is no abstraction. It lives. It loves, and we love it. We +enter into it. It is ours, and we belong to it. It works through us, the +fellow servants of the common cause. Yet we get our worth through +it,--the goal of our whole moral endeavor. + +For those who are not merely loyal, but also enlightened, loyalty, never +losing the definiteness and the concreteness of its devotion to some +near and directly fascinating cause, sees itself to be in actual +spiritual unity with the common cause of all the loyal, whoever they +are. The great cause for all the loyal is in reality the cause of the +spread and the furtherance of the cause of the universal loyalty of all +mankind: a cause which nobody can serve except by choosing his own +nearer and more appreciated cause--the private cause which is directly +his own--his family, his community, his friendship, his calling, and the +calling of those who serve with him. Yet such personal service--your +special life cause, your task, your vocation--is your way of furthering +the ends of universal humanity. And if you are enlightened, you know +this fact. Through your loyalty you, then, know yourself to be kin to +all the loyal. You hereupon conceive the loyal as one brotherhood, one +invisible church for which and in which you live. The spirit dwells in +this invisible church,--the holy spirit that wills the unity of all in +fidelity and in service. Hidden from you by all the natural +estrangements of the present life, this common life of all the loyal, +this cause which is the one cause of all the loyal, is that for which +you live. In spirit you are really sundered from none of those who +themselves live in the spirit. + +All this, I say, is what it is the faith of all the loyal to regard as +the real life in which we live and move and have our being, precisely in +so far as men come to understand what loyalty is. Thus, then, in +general, to be loyal is to believe that there are real causes. And to be +universally loyal is to believe that the one cause of loyalty itself, +the invisible church of all the loyal, is a reality; something as real +as we are. But causes are never detached human beings; nor are causes +ever mere crowds, heaps, collections, aggregations of human beings. +Causes are at once personal (if by person you mean the ordinary human +individual in his natural character) and _super_-personal. Persons they +are, because only where persons are found can causes be defined. +Super-personal they are, because no mere individual human creature, and +no mere pairs or groups or throngs of human beings, can ever constitute +unified causes. You cannot be loyal to a crowd as a crowd. A crowd can +shout, as at a game or a political convention. But only some sort of +organized unity of social life can either do the work of an unit or hold +the effective loyalty of the enlightened worker who does not merely +shout with the throng. And so when you are really loyal to your country, +your country does not mean to you merely the crowd, the mass of your +separate fellow citizens. Still less does it mean the mere organs, or +the separate servants of the country,--the custom house, the War +Department, the Speaker of the House, or any other office or official. +When you sing "My country, 'tis of thee," you do not mean, "My +post-office, 'tis of thee," nor yet, "My fellow citizens, 'tis of you, +just as the creatures who crowd the street and who overfill the railway +cars," that I sing. If the poet continues in his own song to celebrate +the land, the "rocks and rills," the "woods and templed hills," he is +still speaking only of symbols. What he means is the country as an +invisible but, in his opinion, perfectly real spiritual unity. General +Nogi, in a recent Japanese publication about Bushido, expressed his own +national ideal beautifully in the words: "Here the sovereign and the +people are of one family and have together endured the joys and sorrows +of thousands of years." It is that sort of being whereof one speaks when +one expresses true loyalty to the country. The country is the spiritual +entity that is none of us and all of us--none of us because it is our +unity; all of us because in it we all find our patriotic unity. + +Such, then, is the idea that the loyal have of the real nature of the +causes which they serve. I repeat, If the loyal are right, then the real +world contains other beings than mechanisms and individual human and +animal minds. It contains spiritual unities which are as real as we are, +but which certainly do not belong to the realm of a mere nature +mechanism. Does not all this put the problems of our philosophy of life +in a new light? + +But I have no doubt that you may at once reply: All this speech about +causes is after all merely more or less pleasing metaphor. As a fact, +human beings are just individual natural creatures. They throng and +struggle for existence, and love and hate and enjoy and sorrow and die. +These causes are, after all, mere dreams, or at best entities as we have +just described. The friends like to talk of being one; but there are +always two or more of them, and the unity is a pretty phrase. The +country is, in the concrete, the collection of the countrymen, with +names, formulas, songs, and so on, attached, by way of poetical license +or of convenient abbreviation or of pretty fable. The poet really meant +simply that he was fond of the landscape, and was not wholly averse to a +good many of his countrymen, and was in any case fond of a good song. +Loyalty, like the rest of human life, is an illusion. Nature is real. +The unity of the spirit is a fancy. + +This, I say, may be your objection. But herewith we indeed stand in the +presence of a certain very deep philosophical problem concerning the +true definition of what we mean by reality. Into this problem I have +neither time nor wish to enter just now. But upon one matter I must, +nevertheless, stoutly insist. It is a matter so simple, so significant, +so neglected, that I at once need and fear to mention it to you,--need +to mention it, because it puts our philosophy into a position that quite +transforms the significance of that whole modern view of nature upon +which I have been dwelling since the outset of this lecture; fear to +mention it, because the fact that it is so commonly neglected shows how +hard to be understood it has proved. + +That disheartening view of the foreign and mechanical nature of the real +world which our sciences and our industrial arts have impressed upon the +minds of so many of us; that contempt for superstition; that denial of +the supernatural, which seems to the typical modern man the beginning of +wisdom;--to what is all this view of reality due? To the results, and, +as I believe, to the really important results, of the modern study of +natural science. But what is the study of natural science? Practically +considered, viewed as one of the great moral activities of mankind, _the +study of science is a very beautiful and humane expression of a certain +exalted form of loyalty_. Science is, practically considered, the +outcome of the absolutely devoted labors of countless seekers for +natural truth. But how do we human beings get at what we call natural +truth? By observation--so men say--and by experience. But by whose +experience? By the united, by the synthesized, by the revised, +corrected, rationally criticized, above all by the common, experience of +many individuals. The possibility of science rests upon the fact that +human experience may be progressively treated so as to become more and +more an unity. The detached individual records the transit of a star, +observes a precipitate in a test tube, stains a preparation and examines +it under a microscope, collects in the field, takes notes in a +hospital--and loyally contributes his little fragment of a report to the +ideally unified and constantly growing totality called scientific human +experience. In doing this he employs his memory, and so conceives his +own personal life as an unity. But equally he aims--and herein consists +his scientific loyalty--to bring his personal experience into unity with +the whole course of human experience in so far as it bears upon his own +science. The collection of mere data is never enough. It is in the unity +of their interpretation that the achievements of science lie. This unity +is conceived in the form of scientific theories; is verified by the +comparative and critical conduct of experiments. But in all such work +how manifold are the presuppositions which we make when we attempt such +unification! Here is no place to enumerate these presuppositions. Some +of them you find discussed in the textbooks of the logic of science. +Some of them are instinctive, and almost never get discussed at all. But +it is here enough to say that we all presuppose _that human experience +has, or can by the loyal efforts of truth seekers be made to possess, a +real unity, superior in its nature and significance to any detached +observer's experience, more genuinely real than is the mere collection +of the experiences of any set of detached observers, however large_. The +student of natural science is loyal to the cause of the enlargement of +this organized and criticized realm of the common human experience. +Unless this unity of human experience is a genuine reality, unless all +the workers are living a really common life, unless each man is, +potentially at least, in a live spiritual unity with his fellows, +science itself is a mere metaphor, its truth is an illusion, its results +are myths. For science is conceived as true only by conceiving the +experiences of countless observers as the sharing of a common realm of +experience. If, as we all believe, the natural sciences do throw a real, +if indeed an inadequate, light upon the nature of things, then they do +so because no one man's experience is disconnected from the real whole +of human experience. They do so because the cause to which the loyal +study of science is devoted, the cause of the enlargement of human +experience, is a cause that has a supernatural, or, as Professor +Münsterberg loves to say, an over-individual, type of reality. Mankind +is not a mere collection of detached individuals, or man could possess +no knowledge of any unity of scientific truth. If men are really only +many, and if they have no such unity of conscious experience as loyalty +everywhere presupposes, then the cause of science also is a vain +illusion, and we have no unified knowledge of nature, only various +private fancies about nature. If we know, however ill, nature's +mechanism, we do so because human experience is not merely a collection +of detached observations, but forms an actual spiritual unity, whose +type is not that of a mechanism, whose connections are ideally +significant, whose constitution is essentially that which the ideal of +unified truth requires. + +So, then, I insist, the dilemma is upon our hands. Either the sciences +constitute a progressive, if imperfect, insight into real truth--and +then the cause of the unity of human experience is a real cause that +really can be served exactly as the lover means to be loyal to his +friendship and the patriot to his country; and then also human life +really possesses such unity as the loyal presuppose--or else none of +this is so. But then loyalty and science alike deal with metaphors and +with myths. In the first case the spiritual unity of the life that we +lead is essentially vindicated. Causes such as the loyal serve are real. +The cause of science also is real. But in that case an essentially +spiritual realm, that of the rational unity of human experience, is +real; and possesses a grade both of reality and of worth which is +superior to the grade of reality that the phenomena of nature's +mechanism exhibit to us. In the other case the sciences whose results +are supposed to be discouraging and unspiritual vanish, with all their +facts, into the realm of fable, together with the world that all the +loyal, including the faithful followers of the sciences, believe to be +real. + +I have here no time to discuss the paradoxes of a totally skeptical +philosophy. It is enough to say that such a total skepticism is, indeed, +self-refuting. The only rational view of life depends upon maintaining +that what the loyal always regard as a reality, namely, their cause, is, +indeed, despite all special illusions of this or of that form of +imperfect loyalty, essentially a type of reality which rationally +survives all criticisms and underlies all doubts. + + "They reckon ill who leave me out; + When me thy fly, I am the wings." + +This is what the genuine object of loyalty, the unity of the spiritual +life, always says to us when we examine it in the right spirit. But the +one source of our deepest insight into this unity of the spirit which +underlies all the varieties, and which leads us upward to itself past +all the sunderings and doubts of existence, is the loyal spirit itself. +Loyalty asserts: "My cause is real. I know that my cause liveth." But +the cause, however imperfectly interpreted, is always some sort of unity +of the spiritual life in which we learn to share whenever we begin to be +loyal. The more we grow in loyalty and in insight into the meaning of +our loyalty, the more we learn to think of some vast range of the unity +of spiritual life as the reality to which all the other realities +accessible to us are in one way or another subordinate, so that they +express this unity, and show more or less what it means. I believe that +a sound critical philosophy justifies the view that the loyal, precisely +in so far as they view their cause as real, as a personal, but also as +an over-individual, realm of genuine spiritual life, are comprehending, +as far as they go, the deepest nature of things. + +Religion, in its higher sense, always involves a practical relation to a +spiritual world which, in its significance, in its inclusiveness, in its +unity, and in its close and comforting touch with our most intense +personal concerns, fulfils in a supreme degree the requirements which +loyalty makes when it seeks for a worthy cause. One may have a true +religion without knowing the reason why it is true. One may also have +false religious beliefs. But in any case the affiliation of the spirit +of the higher religion with the spirit of loyalty has been manifest, I +hope, from the outset of this discussion of loyalty. By religious +insight one may very properly mean any significant and true view of an +object of religious devotion which can be obtained by any reasonable +means. + +In speaking of loyalty and insight I have also given an indication of +that source of religious insight which I believe to be, after all, the +surest, the most accessible, the most universal, and, in its deepest +essence, the most rational. The problem of the modern philosophy of life +is, we have said, the problem of keeping the spirit of religion, without +falling a prey to superstition. At the outset of this lecture I told +briefly why, in the modern world, we aim to avoid superstition. The true +reason for this aim you now see better than at first I could state that +reason. We have learned, and wisely learned, that the great cause of the +study of nature by scientific methods is one of the principal special +causes to which man can be devoted; for nothing serves more than the +pursuit of the sciences serves to bind into unity the actual work of +human civilization. To this cause of scientific study we have all +learned to be, according to our lights, loyal. But the study of science +makes us averse to the belief in magic arts, in supernatural +interferences, in special providences. The scientific spirit turns from +the legends and the superstitions that in the past have sundered men, +have inflamed the religious wars, have filled the realm of imagination +with good and evil spirits. Turns from these--to what? To a belief in a +merely mechanical reality? To a doctrine that the real world is foreign +to our ideals? To an assurance that life is vain? + +No; so to view the mission of the study of science is to view that +mission falsely. The one great lesson of the triumph of science is the +lesson of the vast significance of loyalty to the cause of science. And +this loyalty depends upon acknowledging the reality of a common, a +rational, a significant unity of human experience, a genuine cause which +men can serve. When the sciences teach us to get rid of superstition, +they do this by virtue of a loyalty to the pursuit of truth which is, as +a fact, loyalty to the cause of the spiritual unity of mankind: an unity +which the students of science conceive in terms of an unity of our human +experience of nature, but which, after all, they more or less +unconsciously interpret just as all the other loyal souls interpret +their causes; namely, as a genuine living reality, a life superior in +type to the individual lives which we lead--worthy of devoted service, +significant, and not merely an incidental play of a natural mechanism. +This unity of human experience reveals to us nature's mechanisms, but is +itself no part of the mechanism which it observes. + +If, now, we do as our general philosophy of loyalty would require: if we +take all our loyalties, in whatever forms they may appear, as more or +less enlightened but always practical revelations that there is an unity +of spiritual life which is above our present natural level, which is +worthy of our devotion, which can give sense to life, and which consists +of facts that are just as genuinely real as are the facts and the laws +of outer nature--well, can we not thus see our way towards a religious +insight which is free from superstition, which is indifferent to magic +and to miracle, which accepts all the laws of nature just in so far as +they are indeed known, but which nevertheless stoutly insists: "This +world is no mere mechanism; it is full of a spiritual unity that +transcends mere nature?" + +I believe that we can do this. I believe that what I have merely hinted +to you is capable of a much richer development than I have here given to +these thoughts. I believe, in brief, that in our loyalties we find our +best sources of a genuinely religious insight. + +Men have often said, "The true source of religious insight is +revelation; for these matters are above the powers of human reason." +Now, I am not here to discuss or to criticize anybody's type of +revelation. But this I know, and this the believers in various supposed +revelations have often admitted--that unless the aid of some interior +spiritual insight comes to be added to the merely external revelation, +one can be left in doubt by all possible signs and wonders whereby the +revelation undertakes to give us convincing external evidence. Religious +faith, indeed, relates to that which is above us, but it must arise from +that which is within us. And any faith which has indeed a worthy +religious object is either merely a mystic ecstasy, which must then be +judged, if at all, only by its fruits, or else it is a loyalty, which +never exists without seeking to bear fruit in works. Now my thesis is +that loyalty is essentially adoration with service, and that there is no +true adoration without practical loyalty. If I am right, all of the +loyal are grasping in their own ways, and according to their lights, +some form and degree of religious truth. They have won religious +insight; for they view something, at least, of the genuine spiritual +world in its real unity, and they devote themselves to that unity, to +its enlargement and enrichment. And therefore they approach more and +more to the comprehension of that true spiritual life whereof, as I +suppose, the real world essentially consists. + +Therefore I find in the growth of the spirit of loyalty which normally +belongs to any loyal life the deepset source of a genuinely significant +religious insight which belongs to just that individual in just his +stage of development. + +In brief: Be loyal; grow in loyalty. Therein lies the source of a +religious insight free from superstition. Therein also lies the solution +of the problems of the philosophy of life. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 77: Commencement address delivered at Simmons College, Boston. +Published in "William James and Other Essays," copyright, 1911. Printed +here by permission of The Macmillan Company.] + + + + +POETRY FOR POETRY'S SAKE[78] + +A.C. BRADLEY + + +The words "Poetry for poetry's sake" recall the famous phrase "Art for +Art." It is far from my purpose to examine the possible meanings of that +phrase, or all the questions it involves. I propose to state briefly +what I understand by "Poetry for poetry's sake," and then, after +guarding against one or two misapprehensions of the formula, to consider +more fully a single problem connected with it. And I must premise, +without attempting to justify them, certain explanations. We are to +consider poetry in its essence, and apart from the flaws which in most +poems accompany their poetry. We are to include in the idea of poetry +the metrical form, and not to regard this as a mere accident or a mere +vehicle. And, finally, poetry being poems, we are to think of a poem as +it actually exists; and, without aiming here at accuracy, we may say +that an actual poem is the succession of experiences--sounds, images, +thoughts, emotions--through which we pass when we are reading as +poetically as we can. Of course this imaginative experience--if I may +use the phrase for brevity--differs with every reader and every time of +reading: a poem exists in innumerable degrees. But that insurmountable +fact lies in the nature of things and does not concern us now. + +What then does the formula "Poetry for poetry's sake" tell us about this +experience? It says, as I understand it, these things. First, this +experience is an end in itself, is worth having on its own account, has +an intrinsic value. Next, its _poetic_ value is this intrinsic worth +alone. Poetry may have also an ulterior value as a means to culture or +religion; because it conveys instruction, or softens the passions, or +furthers a good cause; because it brings the poet fame or money or a +quiet conscience. So much the better: let it be valued for these reasons +too. But its ulterior worth neither is nor can directly determine its +poetic worth as a satisfying imaginative experience; and this is to be +judged entirely from within. And to these two positions the formula +would add, though not of necessity, a third. The consideration of +ulterior ends, whether by the poet in the act of composing or by the +reader in the act of experiencing, tends to lower poetic value. It does +so because it tends to change the nature of poetry by taking it out of +its own atmosphere. For its nature is to be not a part, nor yet a copy, +of the real world (as we commonly understand that phrase), but to be a +world by itself, independent, complete, autonomous; and to possess it +fully you must enter that world, conform to its laws, and ignore for the +time the beliefs, aims, and particular conditions which belong to you in +the other world of reality. + +Of the more serious misapprehensions to which these statements may give +rise I will glance only at one or two. The offensive consequences often +drawn from the formula "Art for Art" will be found to attach not to the +doctrine that Art is an end in itself, but to the doctrine that Art is +the whole or supreme end of human life. And as this latter doctrine, +which seems to me absurd, is in any case quite different from the +former, its consequences fall outside my subject. The formula "Poetry is +an end in itself" has nothing to say on the various questions of moral +judgment which arise from the fact that poetry has its place in a +many-sided life. For anything it says, the intrinsic value of poetry +might be so small, and its ulterior effects so mischievous, that it had +better not exist. The formula only tells us that we must not place in +antithesis poetry and human good, for poetry is one kind of human good; +and that we must not determine the intrinsic value of this kind of good +by direct reference to another. If we do, we shall find ourselves +maintaining what we did not expect. If poetic value lies in the +stimulation of religious feelings, _Lead kindly Light_ is no better poem +than many a tasteless version of a Psalm: if in the excitement of +patriotism, why is _Scots, wha hae_ superior to _We don't want to +fight?_ if in the mitigation of the passions, the Odes of Sappho will +win but little praise: if in instruction, Armstrong's _Art of preserving +Health_ should win much. + +Again, our formula may be accused of cutting poetry away from its +connection with life. And this accusation raises so huge a problem that +I must ask leave to be dogmatic as well as brief. There is plenty of +connection between life and poetry, but it is, so to say, a connection +underground. The two may be called different forms of the same thing: +one of them having (in the usual sense) reality, but seldom fully +satisfying imagination; while the other offers something which satisfies +imagination but has not full "reality." They are parallel developments +which nowhere meet, or, if I may use loosely a word which will be +serviceable later, they are analogues. Hence we understand one by help +of the other, and even, in a sense, care for one because of the other; +but hence also, poetry neither is life, nor, strictly speaking, a copy +of it. They differ not only because one has more mass and the other a +more perfect shape, but because they have different _kinds_ of +existence. The one touches us as beings occupying a given position in +space and time, and having feelings, desires, and purposes due to that +position: it appeals to imagination, but appeals to much besides. What +meets us in poetry has not a position in the same series of time and +space, or, if it has or had such a position, it is taken apart from much +that belonged to it there; and therefore it makes no direct appeal to +those feelings, desires, and purposes, but speaks only to contemplative +imagination--imagination the reverse of empty or emotionless, +imagination saturated with the results of "real" experience, but still +contemplative. Thus, no doubt, one main reason why poetry has poetic +value for us is that it presents to us in its own way something which we +meet in another form in nature or life; and yet the test of its poetic +value for us lies simply in the question whether it satisfies our +imagination; the rest of us, our knowledge or conscience, for example, +judging it only so far as they appear transmuted in our imagination. So +also Shakespeare's knowledge or his moral insight, Milton's greatness of +soul, Shelley's "hate of hate" and "love of love", and that desire to +help men or make them happier which may have influenced a poet in hours +of meditation--all these have, as such, no poetical worth: they have +that worth only when, passing through the unity of the poet's being, +they reappear as qualities of imagination, and then are indeed mighty +powers in the world of poetry. + +I come to a third misapprehension, and so to my main subject. This +formula, it is said, empties poetry of its meaning: it is really a +doctrine of form for form's sake. "It is of no consequence what a poet +says, so long as he says the thing well. The _what_ is poetically +indifferent: it is the _how_ that counts. Matter, subject, content, +substance, determines nothing; there is no subject with which poetry may +not deal: the form, the treatment, is everything. Nay, more: not only is +the matter indifferent, but it is the secret of Art to 'eradicate the +matter by means of the form,'"--phrases and statements like these meet +us everywhere in current criticism of literature and the other arts. +They are the stock-in-trade of writers who understand of them little +more than the fact that somehow or other they are not "bourgeois." But +we find them also seriously used by writers whom we must respect, +whether they are anonymous or not; something like one or another of them +might be quoted, for example, from Professor Saintsbury, the late R.A.M. +Stevenson, Schiller, Goethe himself; and they are the watchwords of a +school in the one country where Aesthetics has flourished. They come, as +a rule, from men who either practise one of the arts, or, from study of +it, are interested in its methods. The general reader--a being so +general that I may say what I will of him--is outraged by them. He feels +that he is being robbed of almost all that he cares for in a work of +art. "You are asking me," he says, "to look at the Dresden Madonna as if +it were a Persian rug. You are telling me that the poetic value of +_Hamlet_ lies solely in its style and versification, and that my +interest in the man and his fate is only an intellectual or moral +interest. You allege that, if I want to enjoy the poetry of _Crossing +the Bar_, I must not mind what Tennyson says there, but must consider +solely his way of saying it. But in that case I can care no more for a +poem than I do for a set of nonsense verses; and I do not believe that +the authors of _Hamlet_ and _Crossing the Bar_ regarded their poems +thus." + +These antitheses of subject, matter, substance on the one side, form, +treatment, handling on the other, are the field through which I +especially want, in this lecture, to indicate a way. It is a field of +battle; and the battle is waged for no trivial cause; but the cries of +the combatants are terribly ambiguous. Those phrases of the so-called +formalist may each mean five or six different things. Taken in one sense +they seem to me chiefly true; taken as the general reader not +unnaturally takes them, they seem to me false, and mischievous. It would +be absurd to pretend that I can end in a few minutes a controversy which +concerns the ultimate nature of Art, and leads perhaps to problems not +yet soluble; but we can at least draw some plain distinctions which, in +this controversy, are too often confused. + +In the first place, then, let us take "subject" in one particular sense; +let us understand by it that which we have in view when, looking at the +title of an unread poem, we say that the poet has chosen this or that +for his subject. The subject in this sense, so far as I can discover, is +generally something real or imaginary, as it exists in the minds of +fairly cultivated people. The subject of _Paradise Lost_ would be the +story of the Fall as that story exists in the general imagination of a +Bible-reading people. The subject of Shelley's stanzas _To a Skylark_ +would be the ideas which arise in the mind of an educated person when, +without knowing the poem, he hears the word "skylark." If the title of a +poem conveys little or nothing to us, the "subject" appears to be either +what we should gather by investigating the title in a dictionary or +other book of the kind, or else such a brief suggestion as might be +offered by a person who had read the poem, and who said, for example, +that the subject of _The Ancient Mariner_ was a sailor who killed an +albatross and suffered for his deed. + +Now the subject, in this sense (and I intend to use the word in no +other), is not, as such, inside the poem, but outside it. The contents +of the stanzas _To a Skylark_ are not the ideas suggested by the word +"skylark" to the average man; they belong to Shelley just as much as the +language does. The subject, therefore, is not the matter _of_ the poem +at all; and its opposite is not the _form_ of the poem, but the whole +poem. The subject is one thing; the poem, matter and form alike, another +thing. This being so, it is surely obvious that the poetic value cannot +lie in that subject, but lies entirely in its opposite, the poem. How +can the subject determine the value when on one and the same subject +poems may be written of all degrees of merit and demerit; or when a +perfect poem may be composed on a subject so slight as a pet sparrow, +and, if Macaulay may be trusted, a nearly worthless poem on a subject so +stupendous as the omnipresence of the Deity? The "formalist" is here +perfectly right. Nor is he insisting on something unimportant. He is +fighting against our tendency to take the work of art as a mere copy or +reminder of something already in our heads, or at the best as a +suggestion of some idea as little removed as possible from the familiar. +The sightseer who promenades a picture-gallery, remarking that this +portrait is so like his cousin, or that landscape the very image of his +birthplace, or who, after satisfying himself that one picture is about +Elijah, passes on rejoicing to discover the subject, and nothing but the +subject, of the next--what is he but an extreme example of this +tendency? Well, but the very same tendency vitiates much of our +criticism, much criticism of Shakespeare, for example, which, with all +its cleverness and partial truth, still shows that the critic never +passed from his own mind into Shakespeare's; and it may be traced even +in so fine a critic as Coleridge, as when he dwarfs the sublime struggle +of Hamlet into the image of his own unhappy weakness. Hazlitt by no +means escaped its influence. Only the third of that great trio, Lamb, +appears almost always to have rendered the conception of the composer. + +Again, it is surely true that we cannot determine beforehand what +subjects are fit for Art, or name any subject on which a good poem might +not possibly be written. To divide subjects into two groups, the +beautiful or elevating, and the ugly or vicious, and to judge poems +according as their subjects belong to one of these groups or the other, +is to fall into the same pit, to confuse with our pre-conceptions the +meaning of the poet. What the thing is in the poem he is to be judged +by, not by the thing as it was before he touched it; and how can we +venture to say beforehand that he cannot make a true poem out of +something which to us was merely alluring or dull or revolting? The +question whether, having done so, he ought to publish his poem; whether +the thing in the poet's work will not be still confused by the +incompetent Puritan or the incompetent sensualist with the thing in +_his_ mind, does not touch this point; it is a further question, one of +ethics, not of art. No doubt the upholders of "Art for art's sake" will +generally be in favour of the courageous course, of refusing to +sacrifice the better or stronger part of the public to the weaker or +worse; but their maxim in no way binds them to this view. Rossetti +suppressed one of the best of his sonnets, a sonnet chosen for +admiration by Tennyson, himself extremely sensitive about the moral +effect of poetry; suppressed it, I believe, because it was called +fleshly. One may regret Rossetti's judgment and at the same time respect +his scrupulousness; but in any case he judged in his capacity of +citizen, not in his capacity of artist. + +So far then the "formalist" appears to be right. But he goes too far, I +think, if he maintains that the subject is indifferent and that all +subjects are the same to poetry. And he does not prove his point by +observing that a good poem might be written on a pin's head, and a bad +one on the Fall of Man. That truth shows that the subject _settles_ +nothing, but not that it counts for nothing. The Fall of Man is really a +more favourable subject than a pin's head. The Fall of Man, that is to +say, offers opportunities of poetic effects wider in range and more +penetrating in appeal. And the fact is that such a subject, as it exists +in the general imagination, has some aesthetic value before the poet +touches it. It is, as you may choose to call it, an inchoate poem or the +débris of a poem. It is not an abstract idea or a bare isolated fact, +but an assemblage of figures, scenes, actions, and events, which already +appeal to emotional imagination; and it is already in some degree +organized and formed. In spite of this a bad poet would make a bad poem +on it; but then we should say he was unworthy of the subject. And we +should not say this if he wrote a bad poem on a pin's head. Conversely, +a good poem on a pin's head would almost certainly transform its subject +far more than a good poem on the Fall of Man. It might revolutionize its +subject so completely that we should say, "The subject may be a pin's +head, but the substance of the poem has very little to do with it." + +This brings us to another and a different antithesis. Those figures, +scenes, events, that form part of the subject called the Fall of Man, +are not the substance of Paradise Lost; but in Paradise Lost there are +figures, scenes, and events resembling them in some degree. These, with +much more of the same kind, may be described as its substance, and may +then be contrasted with the measured language of the poem, which will +be called its form. Subject is the opposite not of form but of the whole +poem. Substance is within the poem, and its opposite, form, is also +within the poem. I am not criticizing this antithesis at present, but +evidently it is quite different from the other. It is practically the +distinction used in the old-fashioned criticism of epic and drama, and +it flows down, not unsullied, from Aristotle. Addison, for example, in +examining _Paradise Lost_ considers in order the fable, the characters, +and the sentiments; these will be the substance: then he considers the +language, that is, the style and numbers; this will be the form. In like +manner, the substance or meaning of a lyric may be distinguished from +the form. + +Now I believe it will be found that a large part of the controversy we +are dealing with arises from a confusion between these two distinctions +of substance and form, and of subject and poem. The extreme formalist +lays his whole weight on the form because he thinks its opposite is the +mere subject. The general reader is angry, but makes the same mistake, +and gives to the subject praises that rightly belong to the substance. I +will read an example of what I mean. I can only explain the following +words of a good critic by supposing that for the moment he has fallen +into this confusion: "The mere matter of all poetry--to wit, the +appearances of nature and the thoughts and feelings of men--being +unalterable, it follows that the difference between poet and poet will +depend upon the manner of each in applying language, metre, rhyme, +cadence, and what not, to this invariable material." What has become +here of the substance of _Paradise Lost_--the story, scenery, +characters, sentiments as they are in the poem? They have vanished clean +away. Nothing is left but the form on one side, and on the other not +even the subject, but a supposed invariable material, the appearances of +nature and the thoughts and feelings of men. Is it surprising that the +whole value should then be found in the form? + +So far we have assumed that this antithesis of substance and form is +valid, and that it always has one meaning. In reality it has several, +but we will leave it in its present shape, and pass to the question of +its validity. And this question we are compelled to raise, because we +have to deal with the two contentions that the poetic value lies wholly +or mainly in the substance, and that it lies wholly or mainly in the +form. Now these contentions, whether false or true, may seem at least to +be clear; but we shall find, I think, that they are both of them false, +or both of them nonsense: false if they concern anything outside the +poem, nonsense if they apply to something in it. For what do they +evidently imply? They imply that there are in a poem two parts, factors, +or components, a substance and a form; and that you can conceive them +distinctly and separately, so that when you are speaking of the one you +are not speaking of the other. Otherwise how can you ask the question, +In which of them does the value lie? But really in a poem, apart from +defects, there are no such factors or components; and therefore it is +strictly nonsense to ask in which of them the value lies. And on the +other hand, if the substance and the form referred to are not in the +poem, then both the contentions are false, for its poetic value lies in +itself. + +What I mean is neither new nor mysterious; and it will be clear, I +believe, to any one who reads poetry poetically and who closely examines +his experience. When you are reading a poem, I would ask--not analysing +it, and much less criticizing it, but allowing it, as it proceeds, to +make its full impression on you through the exertion of your recreating +imagination--do you then apprehend and enjoy as one thing a certain +meaning or substance, and as another thing certain articulate sounds, +and do you somehow compound these two? Surely you do not, any more than +you apprehend apart, when you see some one smile, those lines in the +face which express a feeling, and the feeling that the lines express. +Just as there the lines and their meaning are to you one thing, not two, +so in poetry the meaning and the sounds are one: there is, if I may put +it so, a resonant meaning, or a meaning resonance. If you read the +line, "The sun is warm, the sky is clear," you do not experience +separately the image of a warm sun and clear sky, on the one side, and +certain unintelligible rhythmical sounds on the other; nor yet do you +experience them together, side by side; but you experience the one _in_ +the other. And in like manner when you are really reading _Hamlet_, the +action and the characters are not something which you conceive apart +from the words; you apprehend them from point to point _in_ the words, +and the words as expressions of them. Afterwards, no doubt, when you are +out of the poetic experience but remember it, you may by analysis +decompose this unity, and attend to a substance more or less isolated, +and a form more or less isolated. But these are things in your analytic +head, not in the poem, which is _poetic_ experience. And if you want to +have the poem again, you cannot find it by adding together these two +products of decomposition; you can only find it by passing back into +poetic experience. And then what you recover is no aggregate of factors, +it is a unity in which you can no more separate a substance and a form +than you can separate living blood and the life in the blood. This unity +has, if you like, various "aspects" or "sides," but they are not factors +or parts; if you try to examine one, you find it is also the other. Call +them substance and form if you please, but these are not the +reciprocally exclusive substance and form to which the two contentions +_must_ refer. They do not "agree," for they are not apart: they are one +thing from different points of view, and in that sense identical. And +this identity of content and form, you will say, is no accident; it is +of the essence of poetry in so far as it is poetry, and of all art in so +far as it is art. Just as there is in music not sound on one side and a +meaning on the other, but expressive sound, and if you ask what is the +meaning you can only answer by pointing to the sounds; just as in +painting there is not a meaning _plus_ paint, but a meaning _in_ paint, +or significant paint, and no man can really express the meaning in any +other way than in paint and in _this_ paint; so in a poem the true +content and the true form neither exist nor can be imagined apart. When +then you are asked whether the value of a poem lies in a substance got +by decomposing the poem, and present, as such, only in reflective +analysis, or whether the value lies in a form arrived at and existing in +the same way, you will answer, "It lies neither in one, nor in the +other, nor in any addition of them, but in the poem, where they are +not." + +We have then, first, an antithesis of subject and poem. This is clear +and valid; and the question in which of them does the value lie is +intelligible; and its answer is, In the poem. We have next a distinction +of substance and form. If the substance means ideas, images, and the +like taken alone, and the form means the measured language taken by +itself, this is a possible distinction, but it is a distinction of +things not in the poem, and the value lies in neither of them. If +substance and form mean anything _in_ the poem, then each is involved in +the other, and the question in which of them the value lies has no +sense. No doubt you may say, speaking loosely, that in this poet or poem +the aspect of substance is the more noticeable, and in that the aspect +of form; and you may pursue interesting discussions on this basis, +though no principle or ultimate question of value is touched by them. +And apart from that question, of course, I am not denying the usefulness +and necessity of the distinction. We cannot dispense with it. To +consider separately the action or the characters of a play, and +separately its style or versification, is both legitimate and valuable, +so long as we remember what we are doing. But the true critic in +speaking of these apart does not really think of them apart; the whole, +the poetic experience, of which they are but aspects, is always in his +mind; and he is always aiming at a richer, truer, more intense +repetition of that experience. On the other hand, when the question of +principle, of poetic value, is raised, these aspects _must_ fall apart +into components, separately conceivable; and then there arise two +heresies, equally false, that the value lies in one of two things, both +of which are outside the poem, and therefore where its value cannot lie. + +On the heresy of the separable substance a few additional words will +suffice. This heresy is seldom formulated, but perhaps some unconscious +holder of it may object: "Surely the action and the characters of +_Hamlet_ are in the play; and surely I can retain these, though I have +forgotten all the words. I admit that I do not possess the whole poem, +but I possess a part, and the most important part." And I would answer: +"If we are not concerned with any question of principle, I accept all +that you say except the last words, which do raise such a question. +Speaking loosely, I agree that the action and characters, as you perhaps +conceive them, together with a great deal more, are in the poem. Even +then, however, you must not claim to possess all of this kind that is in +the poem; for in forgetting the words you must have lost innumerable +details of the action and the characters. And, when the question of +value is raised, I must insist that the action and characters, as you +conceive them, are not in _Hamlet_ at all. If they are, point them out. +You cannot do it. What you find at any moment of that succession of +experiences called Hamlet is words. In these words, to speak loosely +again, the action and characters (more of them than you can conceive +apart) are focussed; but your experience is not a combination of them, +as ideas, on the one side, with certain sounds on the other; it is an +experience of something in which the two are indissolubly fused. If you +deny this, to be sure I can make no answer, or can only answer that I +have reason to believe that you cannot read poetically, or else are +misinterpreting your experience. But if you do not deny this, then you +will admit that the action and characters of the poem, as you separately +imagine them, are no part of it, but a product of it in your reflective +imagination, a faint analogue of one aspect of it taken in detachment +from the whole. Well, I do not dispute, I would even insist, that, in +the case of so long a poem as _Hamlet_, it may be necessary from time +to time to interrupt the poetic experience, in order to enrich it by +forming such a product and dwelling on it. Nor, in a wide sense of +'poetic,' do I question the poetic value of this product, as you think +of it apart from the poem. It resembles our recollections of the heroes +of history or legend, who move about in our imaginations, 'forms more +real than living man,' and are worth much to us though we do not +remember anything they said. Our ideas and images of the 'substance' of +a poem have this poetic value, and more, if they are at all adequate. +But they cannot determine the poetic value of the poem, for (not to +speak of the competing claims of the 'form') nothing that is outside the +poem can do that, and they, as such, are outside it." + +Let us turn to the so-called form--style and versification. There is no +such thing as mere form in poetry. All form is expression. Style may +have indeed a certain aesthetic worth in partial abstraction from the +particular matter it conveys, as in a well-built sentence you may take +pleasure in the build almost apart from the meaning. Even so style is +expressive--presents to sense, for example, the order, ease, and +rapidity with which ideas move in the writer's mind--but it is not +expressive of the meaning of that particular sentence. And it is +possible, interrupting poetic experience, to decompose it and abstract +for comparatively separate consideration this nearly formal element of +style. But the aesthetic value of style so taken is not considerable; +you could not read with pleasure for an hour a composition which had no +other merit. And in poetic experience you never apprehend this value by +itself; the style is here expressive also of a particular meaning, or +rather is one aspect of that unity whose other aspect is meaning. So +that what you apprehend may be called indifferently an expressed meaning +or a significant form. Perhaps on this point I may in Oxford appeal to +authority, that of Matthew Arnold and Walter Pater, the latter at any +rate an authority whom the formalist will not despise. What is the gist +of Pater's teaching about style, if it is not that in the end the one +virtue of style is truth or adequacy; that the word, phrase, sentence, +should express perfectly the writer's perception, feeling, image, or +thought; so that, as we read a descriptive phrase of Keats's, we +exclaim, "That is the thing itself"; so that, to quote Arnold, the words +are "symbols equivalent with the thing symbolized," or, in our technical +language, a form identical with its content? Hence in true poetry it is, +in strictness, impossible to express the meaning in any but its own +words, or to change the words without changing the meaning. A +translation of such poetry is not really the old meaning in a fresh +dress; it is a new product, something like the poem, though, if one +chooses to say so, more like it in the aspect of meaning than in the +aspect of form. + +No one who understands poetry, it seems to me, would dispute this, were +it not that, falling away from his experience, or misled by theory, he +takes the word "meaning" in a sense almost ludicrously inapplicable to +poetry. People say, for instance, "steed" and "horse" have the same +meaning; and in bad poetry they have, but not in poetry that _is_ +poetry. + + "Bring forth the horse!" The horse was brought: + In truth he was a noble steed! + +says Byron in _Mazeppa_. If the two words mean the same here, transpose +them: + + "Bring forth the steed!" The steed was brought: + In truth he was a noble horse! + +and ask again if they mean the same. Or let me take a line certainly +very free from "poetic diction:" + + To be or not to be, that is the question. + +You may say that this means the same as "What is just now occupying my +attention is the comparative disadvantages of continuing to live or +putting an end to myself." And for practical purposes--the purpose, for +example, of a coroner--it does. But as the second version altogether +misrepresents the speaker at that moment of his existence, while the +first does represent him, how can they for any but a practical or +logical purpose be said to have the same sense? Hamlet was well able to +"unpack his heart with words," but he will not unpack it with our +paraphrases. + +These considerations apply equally to versification. If I take the +famous line which describes how the souls of the dead stood waiting by +the river, imploring a passage from Charon: + + Tendebantque manus ripae ulterioris amore, + +and if I translate it, "and were stretching forth their hands in longing +for the further bank," the charm of the original has fled. Why has it +fled? Partly (but we have dealt with that) because I have substituted +for five words, and those the words of Virgil, twelve words, and those +my own. In some measure because I have turned into rhythmless prose a +line of verse which, as mere sound, has unusual beauty. But much more +because in doing so I have also changed the _meaning_ of Virgil's line. +What that meaning is _I_ cannot say: Virgil has said it. But I can see +this much, that the translation conveys a far less vivid picture of the +outstretched hands and of their remaining outstretched, and a far less +poignant sense of the distance of the shore and the longing of the +souls. And it does so partly because this picture and this sense are +conveyed not only by the obvious meaning of the words, but through the +long-drawn sound of "tendebantque," through the time occupied by the +five syllables and therefore by the idea of "ulterioris," and through +the identity of the long sound "or" in the penultimate syllables of +"ulterioris amore"--all this, and much more, apprehended not in this +analytical fashion, nor as _added_ to the beauty of mere sound and to +the obvious meaning, but in unity with them and so as expressive of the +poetic meaning of the whole. + +It is always so in fine poetry. The value of versification, when it is +indissolubly fused with meaning, can hardly be exaggerated. The gift for +feeling it, even more perhaps than the gift for feeling the value of +style, is the _specific_ gift for poetry, as distinguished from other +arts. But versification, taken, as far as possible, all by itself, has a +very different worth. Some aesthetic worth it has; how much you may +experience by reading poetry in a language of which you do not +understand a syllable. The pleasure is quite appreciable, but it is not +great; nor in actual poetic experience do you meet with it, as such, at +all. For, I repeat, it is not _added_ to the pleasure of the meaning +when you read poetry that you do understand: by some mystery the music +is then the music _of_ the meaning, and the two are one. However fond of +versification you might be, you would tire very soon of reading verses +in Chinese; and before long of reading Virgil and Dante if you were +ignorant of their languages. But take the music as it is _in_ the poem, +and there is a marvellous change. Now + + It gives a very echo to the seat + Where Love is throned; + +or "carries far into your heart," almost like music itself, the sound + + Of old, unhappy, far-off things + And battles long ago. + +What then is to be said of the following sentence of the critic quoted +before: "But when any one who knows what poetry is reads-- + + Our noisy years seem moments in the being + Of the eternal silence, + +he sees that, quite independently of the meaning, ... there is one note +added to the articulate music of the world--a note that never will leave +off resounding till the eternal silence itself gulfs it?" I must think +that the writer is deceiving himself. For I could quite understand his +enthusiasm, if it were an enthusiasm for the music of the meaning; but +as for the music, "quite independently of the meaning," so far as I can +hear it thus (and I doubt if any one who knows English can quite do so), +I find it gives some pleasure, but only a trifling pleasure. And indeed +I venture to doubt whether, considered as mere sound, the words are at +all exceptionally beautiful, as Virgil's line certainly is. + +When poetry answers to its idea and is purely or almost purely poetic, +we find the identity of form and content; and the degree of purity +attained may be tested by the degree in which we feel it hopeless to +convey the effect of a poem or passage in any form but its own. Where +the notion of doing so is simply ludicrous, you have quintessential +poetry. But a great part even of good poetry, especially in long works, +is of a mixed nature; and so we find in it no more than a partial +agreement of a form and substance which remain to some extent distinct. +This is so in many passages of Shakespeare (the greatest of poets when +he chose, but not always a conscientious poet); passages where something +was wanted for the sake of the plot, but he did not care about it or was +hurried. The conception of the passage is then distinct from the +execution, and neither is inspired. This is so also, I think, wherever +we can truly speak of merely decorative effect. We seem to perceive that +the poet had a truth or fact--philosophical, agricultural, +social--distinctly before him, and then, as we say, clothed it in +metrical and coloured language. Most argumentative, didactic, or satiric +poems are partly of this kind; and in imaginative poems anything which +is really a mere "conceit" is mere decoration. We often deceive +ourselves in this matter, for what we call decoration has often a new +and genuinely poetic content of its own; but wherever there is mere +decoration, we judge the poetry to be not wholly poetic. And so when +Wordsworth inveighed against poetic diction, though he hurled his darts +rather wildly, what he was rightly aiming at was a phraseology, not the +living body of a new content, but the mere worn-out body of an old one. + +In pure poetry it is otherwise. Pure poetry is not the decoration of a +preconceived and clearly defined matter: it springs from the creative +impulse of a vague imaginative mass pressing for development and +definition. If the poet already knew exactly what he meant to say, why +should he write the poem? The poem would in fact already be written. For +only its completion can reveal, even to him, exactly what he wanted. +When he began and while he was at work, he did not possess his meaning; +it possessed him. It was not a fully formed soul asking for a body: it +was an inchoate soul in the inchoate body of perhaps two or three vague +ideas and a few scattered phrases. The growing of this body into its +full stature and perfect shape was the same thing as the gradual +self-definition of the meaning. And this is the reason why such poems +strike us as creations, not manufactures, and have the magical effect +which mere decoration cannot produce. This is also the reason why, if we +insist on asking for the meaning of such a poem, we can only be answered +"It means itself." + +And so at last I may explain why I have troubled myself: and you with +what may seem an arid controversy about mere words. It is not so. These +heresies which would make poetry a compound of two factors--a matter +common to it with the merest prose, _plus_ a poetic form, as the one +heresy says: a poetical substance _plus_ a negligible form, as the other +says--are not only untrue, they are injurious to the dignity of poetry. +In an age already inclined to shrink from those higher realms where +poetry touches religion and philosophy, the formalist heresy encourages +men to taste poetry as they would a fine wine, which has indeed an +aesthetic value, but a small one. And then the natural man, finding an +empty form, hurls into it the matter of cheap pathos, rancid sentiment, +vulgar humour, bare lust, ravenous vanity--everything which, in +Schiller's phrase, the form should extirpate, but which no mere form can +extirpate. And the other heresy--which is indeed rather a practice than +a creed--encourages us in the habit so dear to us of putting our own +thoughts or fancies into the place of the poet's creation. What he meant +by _Hamlet_, or the _Ode to a Nightingale_, or _Abt Vogler_, we say, is +this or that which we knew already; and so we lose what he had to tell +us. But he meant what he said, and said what he meant. + +Poetry in this matter is not, as good critics of painting and music +often affirm, different from the other arts; in all of them the content +is one thing with the form. What Beethoven meant by his symphony, or +Turner by his picture, was not something which you can name, but the +picture and the symphony. Meaning they have, but _what_ meaning can be +said in no language but their own: and we know this, though some strange +delusion makes us think the meaning has less worth because we cannot put +it into words. Well, it is just the same with poetry. But because poetry +is words, we vainly fancy that some other words than its own will +express its meaning. And they will do so no more--or, if you like to +speak loosely, only a little more--than words will express the meaning +of the Dresden Madonna. Something a little like it they may indeed +express. And we may find analogues of the meaning of poetry outside it, +which may help us to appropriate it. The other arts, the best ideas of +philosophy or religion, much that nature and life offer us or force upon +us, are akin to it. But they are only akin. Nor is it the expression of +them. Poetry does not present to imagination our highest knowledge or +belief, and much less our dreams and opinions; but it, content and form +in unity, embodies in its own irreplaceable way something which embodies +itself also in other irreplaceable ways, such as philosophy or religion. +And just as each of these gives a satisfaction which the other cannot +possibly give, so we find in poetry, which cannot satisfy the needs they +meet, that which by their natures they cannot afford us. But we shall +not find it fully if we look for something else. + +And now, when all is said, the question will still recur, though now in +quite another sense, What does poetry mean? This unique expression, +which cannot be replaced by any other, still seems to be trying to +express something beyond itself. And this, we feel, is also what the +other arts, and religion, and philosophy are trying to express: and that +is what impels us to seek in vain to translate the one into the other. +About the best poetry, and not only the best, there floats an atmosphere +of infinite suggestion. The poet speaks to us of one thing, but in this +one thing there seems to lurk the secret of all. He said what he meant, +but his meaning seems to beckon away beyond itself, or rather to expand +into something boundless, which is only focussed in it; something also +which, we feel, would satisfy not only the imagination, but the whole of +us; that something within us, and without, which everywhere + + makes us seem + To patch up fragments of a dream, + Part of which comes true, and part + Beats and trembles in the heart. + +Those who are susceptible to this effect of poetry find it not only, +perhaps not most, in the ideals which she has sometimes described, but +in a child's song by Christina Rossetti about a mere crown of +wind-flowers, and in tragedies like _Lear_, where the sun seems to have +set for ever. They hear this spirit murmuring its undertone through the +_Aeneid_, and catch its voice in the song of Keats's nightingale, and +its light upon the figures on the Urn, and it pierces them no less in +Shelley's hopeless lament, _O world, O life, O time_, than in the +rapturous ecstasy of his _Life of Life_. This all-embracing perfection +cannot be expressed in poetic words or words of any kind, nor yet in +music or in colour, but the suggestion of it is in much poetry, if not +all, and poetry has in this suggestion, this "meaning," a great part of +its value. We do it wrong, and we defeat our own purposes when we try +to bend it to them: + + We do it wrong, being so majestical, + To offer it the show of violence; + For it is as the air invulnerable, + And our vain blows malicious mockery. + +It is a spirit. It comes we know not whence. It will not speak at our +bidding, nor answer in our language. It is not our servant; it is our +master. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 78: From "Oxford Lectures on Poetry," 1909. Printed by +courtesy of The Macmillan Company.] + + + + +GREEK TRAGEDY[79] + +G. LOWES DICKINSON + + +The character of Greek tragedy was determined from the very beginning by +the fact of its connection with religion. The season at which it was +performed was the festival of Dionysus; about his altar the chorus +danced; and the object of the performance was the representation of +scenes out of the lives of ancient heroes. The subject of the drama was +thus strictly prescribed; it must be selected out of a cycle of legends +familiar to the audience; and whatever freedom might be allowed to the +poet in his treatment of the theme, whatever the reflections he might +embroider upon it, the speculative or ethical views, the criticism of +contemporary life, all must be subservient to the main object originally +proposed, the setting forth, for edification as well as for delight, of +some episodes in the lives of those heroes of the past who were +considered not only to be greater than their descendants, but to be the +sons of gods and worthy themselves of worship as divine. + +By this fundamental condition the tragedy of the Greeks is distinguished +sharply, on the one hand from the Shakespearian drama, on the other from +the classical drama of the French. The tragedies of Shakespeare are +devoid, one might say, or at least comparatively devoid, of all +preconceptions. He was free to choose what subject he liked and to treat +it as he would; and no sense of obligation to religious or other points +of view, no feeling for traditions descended from a sacred past and not +lightly to be handled by those who were their trustees for the future, +sobered or restrained for evil or for good his half-barbaric genius. He +flung himself upon life with the irresponsible ardour of the discoverer +of a new continent; shaped and re-shaped it as he chose; carved from it +now the cynicism of _Measure for Measure_, now the despair of _Hamlet_ +and of _Lear_, now the radiant magnanimity of _The Tempest_, and +departed leaving behind him not a map or chart, but a series of mutually +incompatible landscapes. + +What Shakespeare gave, in short, was a many-sided representation of +life; what the Greek dramatist gave was an interpretation. But an +interpretation not simply personal to himself, but representative of the +national tradition and belief. The men whose deeds and passions he +narrated were the patterns and examples on the one hand, on the other +the warnings of his race; the gods who determined the fortunes they +sang, were working still among men; the moral laws that ruled the past +ruled the present too; and the history of the Hellenic race moved, under +a visible providence, from its divine origin onward to an end that would +be prosperous or the reverse according as later generations should +continue to observe the worship and traditions of their fathers +descended from heroes and gods. + +And it is the fact that in this sense it was representative of the +national consciousness, that distinguishes the Greek tragedy from the +classical drama of the French. For the latter, though it imitated the +ancients in outward form, was inspired with a totally different spirit. +The kings and heroes whose fortunes it narrated were not the ancestors +of the French race; they had no root in its affections, no connection +with its religious beliefs, no relation to its ethical conceptions. The +whole ideal set forth was not that which really inspired the nation, but +at best that which was supposed to inspire the court; and the whole +drama, like a tree transplanted to an alien soil, withers and dies for +lack of the nourishment which the tragedy of the Greeks unconsciously +imbibed from its encompassing air of national tradition. + +Such then was the general character of the Greek tragedy--an +interpretation of the national ideal. Let us now proceed to follow out +some of the consequences involved in this conception. + +In the first place, the theme represented is the life and fate of +ancient heroes--of personages, that is to say, greater than ordinary +men, both for good and for evil, in their qualities and in their +achievements, pregnant with fateful issues, makers or marrers of the +fortunes of the world. Tragic and terrible their destiny may be, but +never contemptible or squalid. Behind all suffering, behind sin and +crime, must lie redeeming magnanimity. A complete villain, says +Aristotle, is not a tragic character, for he has no hold upon the +sympathies; if he prosper, it is an outrage on common human feeling; if +he fall into disaster, it is merely what he deserves. Neither is it +admissible to represent the misfortunes of a thoroughly good man, for +that is merely painful and distressing; and least of all is it tolerable +gratuitously to introduce mere baseness, or madness, or other +aberrations from human nature. The true tragic hero is a man of high +place and birth who having a nature not ignoble has fallen into sin and +pays in suffering the penalty of his act. Nothing could throw more light +on the distinguishing characteristics of the Greek drama than these few +remarks of Aristotle, and nothing could better indicate how close, in +the Greek mind, was the connection between aesthetic and ethical +judgments. The canon of Aristotle would exclude as proper themes for +tragedy the character and fate, say, of Richard III--the absolutely bad +man suffering his appropriate desert; or of Kent and Cordelia--the +absolutely good, brought into unmerited affliction; and that not merely +because such themes offend the moral sense, but because by so offending +they destroy the proper pleasure of the tragic art. The whole aesthetic +effect is limited by ethical presuppositions; and to outrage these is to +defeat the very purpose of tragedy. + +Specially interesting in this connection are the strictures passed on +Euripides in the passage of the _Frogs_ of Aristophanes to which +allusion has already been made. Euripides is there accused of lowering +the tragic art by introducing--what? Women in love! The central theme of +modern tragedy! It is the boast of Aeschylus that there is not one of +his plays which touches on this subject: + + "I never allow'd of your lewd Sthenoboeas + Or filthy detestable Phaedras--not I! + Indeed I should doubt if my drama throughout + Exhibit an instance of woman in love!"[80] + +And there can be little doubt that with a Greek audience this would +count to him as a merit, and that the shifting of the centre of interest +by Euripides from the sterner passions of heroes and of kings to this +tenderer phase of human feeling would be felt even by those whom it +charmed to be a declension from the height of the older tragedy. + +And to this limitation of subject corresponds a limitation of treatment. +The Greek tragedy is composed from a definite point of view, with the +aim not merely to represent but also to interpret the theme. Underlying +the whole construction of the plot, the dialogue, the reflections, the +lyric interludes, is the intention to illustrate some general moral law, +some common and typical problem, some fundamental truth. Of the elder +dramatists at any rate, Aeschylus and Sophocles, one may even say that +it was their purpose--however imperfectly achieved--to "justify the +ways of God to man." To represent suffering as the punishment of sin is +the constant bent of Aeschylus; to justify the law of God against the +presumption of man is the central idea of Sophocles. In either case the +whole tone is essentially religious. To choose such a theme as Lear, to +treat it as Shakespeare has treated it, to leave it, as it were, +bleeding from a thousand wounds, in mute and helpless entreaty for the +healing that is never to be vouchsafed--this would have been repulsive, +if not impossible, to a Greek tragedian. Without ever descending from +concrete art to the abstractions of mere moralising, without ever +attempting to substitute a verbal formula for the full and complex +perception that grows out of a representation of life, the ancient +dramatists were nevertheless, in the whole apprehension of their theme, +determined by a more or less conscious speculative bias; the world to +them was not merely a splendid chaos, it was a divine plan; and even in +its darkest hollows, its passes most perilous and bleak, they have their +hand, though doubtful perhaps and faltering, upon the clue that is to +lead them up to the open sky. + +It is consonant with this account of the nature of Greek tragedy that it +should have laid more stress upon action than upon character. The +interest was centred on the universal bearing of certain acts and +situations, on the light which the experience represented threw on the +whole tendency and course of human life, not on the sentiments and +motives of the particular personages introduced. The characters are +broad and simple, not developing for the most part, but fixed, and +fitted therefore to be the mediums of direct action, of simple issues, +and typical situations. In the Greek tragedy the general point of view +predominates over the idiosyncrasies of particular persons. It is human +nature that is represented in the broad, not this or that highly +specialised variation; and what we have indicated as the general aim, +the interpretation of life, is never obscured by the predominance of +exceptional and so to speak, accidental characteristics. Man is the +subject of the Greek drama; the subject of the modern novel is Tom and +Dick. + +Finally, to the realisation of this general aim, the whole form of the +Greek drama was admirably adapted. It consisted very largely of +conversations between two persons, representing two opposed points of +view, and giving occasion for an almost scientific discussion of every +problem of action raised in the play; and between these conversations +were inserted lyric odes in which the chorus commented on the +situation, bestowed advice or warning, praise or blame, and finally +summed up the moral of the whole. Through the chorus, in fact, the poet +could speak in his own person, and impose upon the whole tragedy any +tone which he desired. Periodically he could drop the dramatist and +assume the preacher; and thus ensure that his play should be, what we +have seen was its recognised ideal, not merely a representation but an +interpretation of life. + +But this without ceasing to be a work of art. In attempting to analyse +in abstract terms the general character of the Greek tragedy we have +necessarily thrown into the shade what after all was its primary and +most essential aspect; an aspect, however, of which a full appreciation +could only be attained not by a mere perusal of the test, but by what is +unfortunately for ever beyond our power, the witnessing of an actual +representation as it was given on the Greek stage. For from a purely +aesthetic point of view the Greek drama must be reckoned among the most +perfect of art forms. + +Taking place in the open air, on the sunny slope of a hill, valley and +plain or islanded sea stretching away below to meet the blazing blue of +a cloudless sky, the moving pageant, thus from the first set in tune +with nature, brought to a focus of splendour the rays of every separate +art. More akin to an opera than to a play it had, as its basis, music. +For the drama had developed out of the lyric ode, and retained +throughout what was at first its only element, the dance and song of a +mimetic chorus. By this centre of rhythmic motion and pregnant melody +the burden of the tale was caught up and echoed and echoed again, as the +living globe divided into spheres of answering song, the clear and +precise significance of the plot, never obscure to the head, being thus +brought home in music to the passion of the heart, the idea embodied in +lyric verse, the verse transfigured by song, and song and verse +reflected as in a mirror to the eye by the swing and beat of the limbs +they stirred to consonance of motion. And while such was the character +of the odes that broke the action of the play, the action itself was an +appeal not less to the ear and to the eye than to the passion and the +intellect. The circumstances of the representation, the huge auditorium +in the open air, lent themselves less to "acting" in our sense of the +term, than to attitude and declamation. The actors raised on high boots +above their natural height, their faces hidden in masks and their tones +mechanically magnified, must have relied for their effects not upon +facial play, or rapid and subtle variations of voice and gesture, but +upon a certain statuesque beauty of pose, and a chanting intonation of +that majestic iambic verse whose measure would have been obscured by a +rapid and conversational delivery. The representation would thus become +moving sculpture to the eye, and to the ear, as it were, a sleep of +music between the intenser interludes of the chorus; and the spectator +without being drawn away by an imitative realism from the calm of +impassioned contemplation into the fever and fret of a veritable actor +on the scene, received an impression based throughout on that clear +intellectual foundation, that almost prosaic lucidity of sentiment and +plot, which is preserved to us in the written text, but raised by the +accompanying appeal to the sense, made as it must have been made by such +artists as the Greeks, by the grouping of forms and colours, the +recitative, the dance and the song, to such a greatness and height of +aesthetic significance as can hardly have been realised by any other +form of art production. + +The nearest modern analogy to what the ancient drama must have been is +to be found probably in the operas of Wagner, who indeed was strongly +influenced by the tragedy of the Greeks. It was his ideal like theirs, +to combine the various branches of art, employing not only music but +poetry, sculpture, painting and the dance, for the representation of his +dramatic theme; and his conception also to make art the interpreter of +life, reflecting in a national drama the national consciousness, the +highest action and the deepest passion and thought of the German race. +To consider how far in this attempt he falls short of or goes beyond the +achievement of the Greeks, and to examine the wide dissimilarities that +underlie the general identity of aim, would be to wander too far afield +from our present theme. But the comparison may be recommended to those +who are anxious to form a concrete idea of what the effect of a Greek +tragedy may have been, and to clothe in imagination the dead bones of +the literary text with the flesh and blood of a representation to the +sense. + +Meantime, to assist the reader to realise with somewhat greater +precision the bearing of the foregoing remarks, it may be worth while to +give an outline sketch of one of the most celebrated of the Greek +tragedies, the _Agamemnon_ of Aeschylus. + +The hero of the drama belongs to that heroic house whose tragic history +was among the most terrible and the most familiar to a Greek audience. +Tantalus, the founder of the family, for some offence against the gods, +was suffering in Hades the punishment which is christened by his name. +His son Pelops was stained with the blood of Myrtilus. Of the two sons +of the next generation, Thyestes seduced the wife of his brother Atreus; +and Atreus in return killed the sons of Thyestes, and made the father +unwittingly eat the flesh of the murdered boys. Agamemnon, son of +Atreus, to propitiate Artemis, sacrificed his daughter Iphigenia, and in +revenge was murdered by Clytemnestra his wife. And Clytemnestra was +killed by Orestes, her son, in atonement for the death of Agamemnon. For +generations the race had been dogged by crime and punishment; and in +choosing for his theme the murder of Agamemnon the dramatist could +assume in his audience so close a familiarity with the past history of +the House that he could call into existence by an allusive word that +sombre background of woe to enhance the terrors of his actual +presentation. The figures he brought into vivid relief joined hands with +menacing forms that faded away into the night of the future and the +past; while above them hung, intoning doom, the phantom host of Furies. + +Yet at the outset of the drama all promises well. The watchman on the +roof of the palace, in the tenth year of his watch, catches sight at +last of the signal fire that announces the capture of Troy and the +speedy return of Agamemnon. With joy he proclaims to the House the +long-delayed and welcome news; yet even in the moment of exultation lets +slip a doubtful phrase hinting at something behind, which he dares not +name, something which may turn to despair the triumph of victory. +Hereupon enter the chorus of Argive elders, chanting as they move to the +measure of a stately march. They sing how ten years before Agamemnon and +Menelaus had led forth the host of Greece, at the bidding of the Zeus +who protects hospitality, to recover for Menelaus Helen his wife, +treacherously stolen by Paris. Then, as they take their places and begin +their rhythmic dance, in a strain of impassioned verse that is at once a +narrative and a lyric hymn, they tell, or rather present in a series of +vivid images, flashing as by illumination of lightning out of a night of +veiled and sombre boding, the tale of the deed that darkened the +starting of the host--the sacrifice of Iphigenia to the goddess whose +wrath was delaying the fleet at Aulis. In verse, in music, in pantomime, +the scene lives again--the struggle in the father's heart, the +insistence of his brother chiefs, the piteous glance of the girl, and at +last the unutterable end; while above and through it all rings like a +knell of fate the refrain that is the motive of the whole drama: + + "Sing woe, sing woe, but may the Good prevail." + +At the conclusion of the ode enters Clytemnestra. She makes a formal +announcement to the chorus of the fall of Troy; describes the course of +the signal-fire from beacon to beacon as it sped, and pictures in +imagination the scenes even then taking place in the doomed city. On her +withdrawal the chorus break once more into song and dance. To the music +of a solemn hymn they point the moral of the fall of Troy, the certain +doom of violence and fraud descended upon Paris and his House. Once more +the vivid pictures flash from the night of woe--Helen in her fatal +beauty stepping lightly to her doom, the widower's nights of mourning +haunted by the ghost of love, the horrors of the war that followed, the +slain abroad and the mourners at home, the change of living flesh and +blood for the dust and ashes of the tomb. At last with a return to their +original theme, the doom of insolence, the chorus close their ode and +announce the arrival of a messenger from Troy. Talthybius, the herald, +enters as spokesman of the army and king, describing the hardships they +have suffered and the joy of the triumphant issue. To him Clytemnestra +announces, in words of which the irony is patent to the audience, her +sufferings in the absence of her husband and her delight at the prospect +of his return. He will find her, she says, as he left her, a faithful +watcher of the home, her loyalty sure, her honour undefiled. Then +follows another choral ode, similar in theme to the last, dwelling on +the woe brought by the act of Paris upon Troy, the change of the bridal +song to the trump of war and the dirge of death; contrasting, in a +profusion of splendid tropes, the beauty of Helen with the curse to +which it is bound; and insisting once more on the doom that attends +insolence and pride. At the conclusion of this song the measure changes +to a march, and the chorus turn to welcome the triumphant king. +Agamemnon enters, and behind him the veiled and silent figure of a +woman. After greeting the gods of his House, the King, in brief and +stilted phrase, acknowledges the loyalty of the chorus, but hints at +much that is amiss which it must be his first charge to set right. +Hereupon enters Clytemnestra, and in a speech of rhetorical exaggeration +tells of her anxious waiting for her lord and her inexpressible joy at +his return. In conclusion she directs that purple cloth be spread upon +his path that he may enter the house as befits a conqueror. After a show +of resistance, Agamemnon yields the point, and the contrast at which +the dramatist aims is achieved. With the pomp of an eastern monarch, +always repellent to the Greek mind, the King steps across the threshold, +steps, as the audience knows, to his death. The higher the reach of his +power and pride the more terrible and swift is the nemesis; and +Clytemnestra follows in triumph with the enigmatic cry upon her lips: +"Zeus who art god of fulfilment, fulfil my prayers." As she withdraws +the chorus begin a song of boding fear, the more terrible that it is +still indefinite. Something is going to happen--the presentiment is +sure. But what, but what? They search the night in vain. Meantime, +motionless and silent waits the figure of the veiled woman. It is +Cassandra, the prophetess, daughter of Priam of Troy, whom Agamemnon has +carried home as his prize. Clytemnestra returns to urge her to enter the +house; she makes no sign and utters no word. The queen changes her tone +from courtesy to anger and rebuke; the figure neither stirs nor speaks; +and Clytemnestra at last with an angry threat leaves her and returns to +the palace. Then, and not till then, a cry breaks from the stranger's +lips, a passionate cry to Apollo who gave her her fatal gift. All the +sombre history of the House to which she has been brought, the woe that +has been and the woe that is to come, passes in pictures across her +inner sense. In a series of broken ejaculations, not sentences but lyric +cries, she evokes the scenes of the past and of the future. Blood drips +from the palace; in its chambers the Furies crouch; the murdered sons of +Thyestes wail in its haunted courts; and ever among the visions of the +past that one of the future floats and fades, clearly discerned, +impossible to avert, the murder of a husband by a wife; and in the rear +of that, most pitiful of all, the violent death of the seer who sees in +vain and may not help. Between Cassandra and the Chorus it is a duet of +anguish and fear; in the broken lyric phrases a phantom music wails; +till at last, at what seems the breaking-point, the tension is relaxed, +and dropping into the calmer iambic recitative, Cassandra tells her +message in plainer speech and clearly proclaims the murder of the King. +Then, with a last appeal to the avenger that is to come, she enters the +palace alone to meet her death.--The stage is empty. Suddenly a cry is +heard from within; again, and then again; while the chorus hesitate the +deed is done; the doors are thrown open, and Clytemnestra is seen +standing over the corpses of her victims. All disguise is now thrown +off; the murderess avows and triumphs in her deed; she justifies it as +vengeance for the sacrifice of Iphigenia, and sees in herself not a free +human agent but the incarnate curse of the House of Tantalus. And now +for the first time appears the adulterer Aegisthus, who has planned the +whole behind the scenes. He too is an avenger, for he is the son of that +Thyestes who was made to feed on his own children's flesh. The murder of +Agamemnon is but one more link in the long chain of hereditary guilt; +and with that exposition of the pitiless law of punishment and crime +this chapter of the great drama comes to a close. But the _Agamemnon_ is +only the first of a series of three plays closely connected and meant to +be performed in succession; and the problem raised in the first of them, +the crime that cries for punishment and the punishment that is itself a +new crime, is solved in the last by a reconciliation of the powers of +heaven and hell, and the pardon of the last offender in the person of +Orestes. To sketch, however, the plan of the other dramas of the trilogy +would be to trespass too far upon our space and time. It is enough to +have illustrated, by the example of the _Agamemnon_, the general +character of a Greek tragedy; and those who care to pursue the subject +further must be referred to the text of the plays themselves. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 79: From "The Greek View of Life," 1909 (sixth edition). By +permission of Messrs. Doubleday, Page & Co.] + +[Footnote 80: From Aristophanes' "Frogs," l. 1043. Translated by Frere.] + + + + +SHAKESPEARE[81] + +THOMAS CARLYLE + + +As Dante, the Italian man, was sent into our world to embody musically +the Religion of the Middle Ages, the Religion of our Modern Europe, its +Inner Life; so Shakespeare, we may say, embodies for us the Outer Life +of our Europe as developed then, its chivalries, courtesies, humours, +ambitions, what practical way of thinking, acting, looking at the world, +men then had. As in Homer we may still construe Old Greece; so in +Shakespeare and Dante, after thousands of years, what our modern Europe +was, in Faith and in Practice, will still be legible. Dante has given us +the Faith or soul; Shakespeare, in a not less noble way, has given us +the Practice or body. This latter also we were to have; a man was sent +for it, the man Shakespeare. Just when that chivalry way of life had +reached its last finish, and was on the point of breaking down into slow +or swift dissolution, as we now see it everywhere, this other sovereign +Poet, with his seeing eye, with his perennial singing voice, was sent to +take note of it, to give long-enduring record of it. Two fit men: Dante, +deep, fierce as the central fire of the world; Shakespeare, wide, +placid, far-seeing, as the Sun, the upper light of the world. Italy +produced the one world-voice; we English had the honour of producing the +other. + +Curious enough how, as it were by mere accident, this man came to us. I +think always, so great, quiet, complete and self-sufficing is this +Shakespeare, had the Warwickshire Squire not prosecuted him for +deer-stealing, we had perhaps never heard of him as a Poet! The woods +and skies, the rustic Life of Man in Stratford there, had been enough +for this man! But indeed that strange outbudding of our whole English +Existence, which we call the Elizabethan Era, did not it too come as of +its own accord? The "Tree Igdrasil" buds and withers by its own +laws,--too deep for our scanning. Yet it does bud and wither, and every +bough and leaf of it is there, by fixed eternal laws; not a Sir Thomas +Lucy but comes at the hour fit for him. Curious, I say, and not +sufficiently considered: how everything does co-operate with all; not a +leaf rotting on the highway but is indissoluble portion of solar and +stellar systems; no thought, word or act of man but has sprung withal +out of all men, and works sooner or later, recognisably or +irrecognisably, on all men! It is all a Tree: circulation of sap and +influences, mutual communication of every minutest leaf with the lowest +talon of a root, with every other greatest and minutest portion of the +whole. The Tree Igdrasil, that has its roots down in the Kingdoms of +Hela and Death, and whose boughs overspread the highest Heaven! + +In some sense it may be said that this glorious Elizabethan Era with its +Shakespeare, as the outcome and flowerage of all which had preceded it, +is itself attributable to the Catholicism of the Middle Ages. The +Christian Faith, which was the theme of Dante's Song, had produced this +Practical Life which Shakespeare was to sing. For Religion then, as it +now and always is, was the soul of Practice; the primary vital fact in +men's life. And remark here, as rather curious, that Middle-Age +Catholicism was abolished, so far as Acts of Parliament could abolish +it, before Shakespeare, the noblest product of it, made his appearance. +He did make his appearance nevertheless. Nature at her own time, with +Catholicism or what else might be necessary, sent him forth; taking +small thought of Acts of Parliament. King-Henrys, Queen-Elizabeths go +their way; and Nature too goes hers. Acts of Parliament, on the whole, +are small, notwithstanding the noise they make. What Act of Parliament, +debate at St. Stephen's,[82] on the hustings or elsewhere, was it that +brought this Shakespeare into being? No dining at Freemasons' Tavern, +opening subscription-lists, selling of shares, and infinite other +jangling and true or false endeavouring! This Elizabethan Era, and all +its nobleness and blessedness, came without proclamation, preparation of +ours. Priceless Shakespeare was the free gift of Nature; given +altogether silently; received altogether silently, as if it had been a +thing of little account. And yet, very literally, it is a priceless +thing. One should look at that side of matters too. + +Of this Shakespeare of ours, perhaps the opinion one sometimes hears a +little idolatrously expressed is, in fact, the right one; I think the +best judgment not of this country only: but of Europe at large, is +slowly pointing to the conclusion, That Shakespeare is the chief of all +Poets hitherto; the greatest intellect who, in our recorded world, has +left record of himself in the way of Literature. On the whole, I know +not such a power of vision, such a faculty of thought, if we take all +the characters of it, in any other man. Such a calmness of depth; placid +joyous strength; all things imaged in that great soul of his so true and +clear, as in a tranquil unfathomable sea! It has been said, that in the +constructing of Shakespeare's Dramas there is, apart from all other +"faculties" as they are called, an understanding manifested, equal to +that in Bacon's _Novum Organum_. That is true; and it is not a truth +that strikes every one. It would become more apparent if we tried, any +of us for himself, how, out of Shakespeare's dramatic materials, _we_ +could fashion such a result! The built house seems all so fit,--everyway +as it should be, as if it came there by its own law and the nature of +things,--we forget the rude disorderly quarry it was shaped from. The +very perfection of the house, as if Nature herself had made it, hides +the builder's merit. Perfect, more perfect than any other man, we may +call Shakespeare in this: he discerns, knows as by instinct, what +condition he works under, what his materials are, what his own force and +its relation to them is. It is not a transitory glance of insight that +will suffice; it is deliberate illumination of the whole matter; it is a +calmly _seeing_ eye; a great intellect, in short. How a man, of some +wide thing that he has witnessed, will construct a narrative, what kind +of picture and delineation he will give of it--is the best measure you +could get of what intellect is in the man. Which circumstance is vital +and shall stand prominent; which unessential, fit to be suppressed; +where is the true _beginning_, the true sequence and ending? To find out +this, you task the whole force of insight that is in the man. He must +_understand_ the thing; according to the depth of his understanding, +will the fitness of his answer be. You will try him so. Does like join +itself to like; does the spirit of method stir in that confusion, so +that its embroilment becomes order? Can the man say, _Fiat lux_, Let +there be light; and out of chaos make a world? Precisely as there is +_light_ in himself, will he accomplish this. + +Or indeed we may say again, it is in what I called Portrait-painting, +delineating of men and things, especially of men, that Shakespeare is +great. All the greatness of the man comes out decisively here. It is +unexampled, I think, that calm creative perspicacity of Shakespeare. The +thing he looks at reveals not this or that face of it, but its inmost +heart, and generic secret: it dissolves itself as in light before him, +so that he discerns the perfect structure of it. Creative, we said: +poetic creation, what is this too but _seeing_ the thing sufficiently? +The _word_ that will describe the thing, follows of itself from such +clear intense sight of the thing. And is not Shakespeare's _morality_, +his valour, candour, tolerance, truthfulness; his whole victorious +strength and greatness, which can triumph over such obstructions, +visible there too? Great as the world! No _twisted_, poor convex-concave +mirror, reflecting all objects with its own convexities and concavities; +a perfectly _level_ mirror--that is to say withal, if we will +understand it, a man justly related to all things and men, a good man. +It is truly a lordly spectacle how this great soul takes-in all kinds of +men and objects, a Falstaff, an Othello, a Juliet, a Coriolanus; sets +them all forth to us in their round completeness; loving, just, the +equal brother of all. _Novum Organum_, and all the intellect you will +find in Bacon, is of a quite secondary order; earthy, material, poor in +comparison with this. Among modern men, one finds, in strictness, almost +nothing of the same rank. Goethe alone, since the days of Shakespeare, +reminds me of it. Of him too you say that he _saw_ the object; you may +say what he himself says of Shakespeare: "His characters are like +watches with dial-plates of transparent crystal; they show you the hour +like others, and the inward mechanism also is all visible." + +The seeing eye! It is this that discloses the inner harmony of things; +what Nature meant, what musical idea Nature has wrapped-up in these +often rough embodiments. Something she did mean. To the seeing eye that +something were discernible. Are they base, miserable things? You can +laugh over them, you can weep over them; you can in some way or other +genially relate yourself to them--you can, at lowest, hold your peace +about them, turn away your own and others' face from them, till the hour +come for practically exterminating and extinguishing them! At bottom, it +is the Poet's first gift, as it is all men's, that he have intellect +enough. He will be a Poet if he have: a Poet in word; or failing that, +perhaps still better, a Poet in act. Whether he write at all, and if so, +whether in prose or in verse, will depend on accidents: who knows on +what extremely trivial accidents,--perhaps on his having had a +singing-master, on his being taught to sing in his boyhood! But the +faculty which enables him to discern the inner heart of things, and the +harmony that dwells there (for whatsoever exists has a harmony in the +heart of it, or it would not hold together and exist), is not the result +of habits or accidents, but the gift of Nature herself; the primary +outfit for a Heroic Man in what sort soever. To the Poet, as to every +other, we say first of all _See_. If you cannot do that, it is of no use +to keep stringing rhymes together, jingling sensibilities against each +other, and _name_ yourself a Poet; there is no hope for you. If you can, +there is, in prose or verse, in action or speculation, all manner of +hope. The crabbed old Schoolmaster used to ask, when they brought him a +new pupil, "But are ye sure he's _not a dunce_?" Why, really one might +ask the same thing, in regard to every man proposed for whatsoever +function; and consider it as the one inquiry needful: Are ye sure he's +not a dunce? There is, in this world, no other entirely fatal person. + +For, in fact, I say the degree of vision that dwells in a man is a +correct measure of the man. If called to define Shakespeare's faculty, I +should say superiority of Intellect, and think I had included all under +that. What indeed are faculties? We talk of faculties as if they were +distinct, things separable; as if a man had intellect, imagination, +fancy, etc., as he has hands, feet and arms. That is a capital error. +Then again, we hear of a man's "intellectual nature," and of his "moral +nature," as if these again were divisible, and existed apart. +Necessities of language do perhaps prescribe such forms of utterance; we +must speak, I am aware, in that way, if we are to speak at all. But +words ought not to harden into things for us. It seems to me, our +apprehension of this matter is, for most part, radically falsified +thereby. We ought to know withal, and to keep forever in mind, that +these divisions are at bottom but _names_; that man's spiritual nature, +the vital Force which dwells in him, is essentially one and indivisible; +that what we call imagination, fancy, understanding, and so forth, are +but different figures of the same Power of Insight, all indissolubly +connected with each other, physiognomically related; that if we knew one +of them, we might know all of them. Morality itself, what we call the +moral quality of a man, what is this but another _side_ of the one vital +Force whereby he is and works? All that a man does is physiognomical of +him. You may see how a man would fight, by the way in which he sings; +his courage, or want of courage, is visible in the word he utters, in +the opinion he has formed, no less than in the stroke he strikes. He is +_one_; and preaches the same Self abroad in all these ways. + +Without hands a man might have feet, and could still walk: but, consider +it--without morality, intellect were impossible for him; a thoroughly +immoral _man_ could not know anything at all! To know a thing, what we +can call knowing, a man must first _love_ the thing, sympathise with it: +that is, be _virtuously_ related to it. If he have not the justice to +put down his own selfishness at every turn, the courage to stand by the +dangerous true at every turn, how shall he know? His virtues, all of +them, will lie recorded in his knowledge. Nature, with her truth, +remains to the bad, to the selfish and the pusillanimous forever a +sealed book: what such can know of Nature is mean, superficial, small; +for the uses of the day merely. But does not the very Fox know something +of Nature? Exactly so: it knows where the geese lodge! The human +Reynard, very frequent everywhere in the world, what more does he know +but this and the like of this? Nay, it should be considered too, that if +the Fox had not a certain vulpine _morality_, he could not even know +where the geese were, or get at the geese! If he spent his time in +splenetic atrabiliar reflections on his own misery, his ill usage by +Nature, Fortune and other Foxes, and so forth; and had not courage, +promptitude, practicality, and other suitable vulpine gifts and graces, +he would catch no geese. We may say of the Fox too, that his morality +and insight are of the same dimensions; different faces of the same +internal unity of vulpine life! These things are worth stating; for the +contrary of them acts with manifold very baleful perversion, in this +time: what limitations, modifications they require, your own candour +will supply. + +If I say, therefore, that Shakespeare is the greatest of Intellects, I +have said all concerning him. But there is more in Shakespeare's +intellect than we have yet seen. It is what I call an unconscious +intellect; there is more virtue in it than he himself is aware of. +Novalis beautifully remarks of him, that those Dramas of his are +Products of Nature too, deep as Nature herself. I find a great truth in +this saying. Shakespeare's Art is not Artifice; the noblest worth of it +is not there by plan or precontrivance. It grows-up from the deeps of +Nature, through this noble sincere soul, who is a voice of Nature. The +latest generations of men will find new meanings in Shakespeare, new +elucidations of their own human being; "new harmonies with the infinite +structure of the Universe; concurrences with later ideas, affinities +with the higher powers and senses of man." This well deserves +meditating. It is Nature's highest reward to a true simple great soul, +that he get thus to be _a part of herself_. Such a man's works, +whatsoever he with utmost conscious exertion and forethought shall +accomplish, grow up withal _un_consciously, from the unknown deeps in +him;--as the oak-tree grows from the Earth's bosom, as the mountains and +waters shape themselves; with a symmetry grounded on Nature's own laws, +conformable to all Truth whatsoever. How much in Shakespeare lies hid; +his sorrows, his silent struggles known to himself; much that was not +known at all, not speakable at all: like _roots_, like sap and forces +working underground! Speech is great; but Silence is greater. + +Withal the joyful tranquillity of this man is notable. I will not blame +Dante for his misery: it is as battle without victory; but true +battle,--the first, indispensable thing. Yet I call Shakespeare greater +than Dante, in that he fought truly, and did conquer. Doubt it not, he +had his own sorrows: those _Sonnets_ of his will even testify expressly +in what deep waters he had waded, and swum struggling for his life--as +what man like him ever failed to have to do? It seems to me a heedless +notion, our common one, that he sat like a bird on the bough; and sang +forth, free and offhand, never knowing the troubles of other men. Not +so; with no man is it so. How could a man travel forward from rustic +deer-poaching to such tragedy-writing, and not fall-in with sorrows by +the way? Or, still better, how could a man delineate a Hamlet, a +Coriolanus, a Macbeth, so many suffering heroic hearts, if his own +heroic heart had never suffered?--And now, in contrast with all this, +observe his mirthfulness, his genuine overflowing love of laughter! You +would say, in no point does he _exaggerate_ but only in laughter. Fiery +objurgations, words that pierce and burn, are to be found in +Shakespeare; yet he is always in measure here; never what Johnson would +remark as a specially "good hater." But his laughter seems to pour from +him in floods; he heaps all manner of ridiculous nicknames on the butt +he is bantering, tumbles and tosses him in all sorts of horse-play; you +would say, with his whole heart laughs. And then, if not always the +finest, it is always a genial laughter. Not at mere weakness, at misery +or poverty; never. No man who _can_ laugh, what we call laughing, will +laugh at these things. It is some poor character only _desiring_ to +laugh, and have the credit of wit, that does so. Laughter means +sympathy; good laughter is not "the crackling of thorns under the pot." +Even at stupidity and pretension this Shakespeare does not laugh +otherwise than genially. Dogberry and Verges tickle our very hearts; and +we dismiss them covered with explosions of laughter: but we like the +poor fellows only the better for our laughing; and hope they will get on +well there, and continue Presidents of the City-watch. Such laughter, +like sunshine on the deep sea, is very beautiful to me. + +We have no room to speak of Shakespeare's individual works; though +perhaps there is much still waiting to be said on that head. Had we, for +instance, all his plays reviewed as _Hamlet_, in _Wilhelm Meister_, is! +A thing which might, one day, be done. August Wilhelm Schlegel has a +remark on his Historical Plays, _Henry Fifth_ and the others, which is +worth remembering. He calls them a kind of National Epic. Marlborough, +you recollect, said, he knew no English History but what he had learned +from Shakespeare. There are really, if we look to it, few as memorable +Histories. The great salient points are admirably seized; all rounds +itself off, into a kind of rhythmic coherence; it is, as Schlegel says, +_epic_;--as indeed all delineation by a great thinker will be. There are +right beautiful things in those Pieces, which indeed together form one +beautiful thing. That battle of Agincourt strikes me as one of the most +perfect things, in its sort, we anywhere have of Shakespeare's. The +description of the two hosts: the wornout, jaded English; the dread +hour, big with destiny, when the battle shall begin; and then that +deathless valour: "Ye good yeomen, whose limbs were made in England!" +There is a noble Patriotism in it--far other than the "indifference" you +sometimes hear ascribed to Shakespeare. A true English heart breathes, +calm and strong, through the whole business; not boisterous, protrusive; +all the better for that. There is a sound in it like the ring of steel. +This man too had a right stroke in him, had it come to that! + +But I will say, of Shakespeare's works generally, that we have no full +impress of him there; even as full as we have of many men. His works are +so many windows, through which we see a glimpse of the world that was in +him. All his works seem, comparatively speaking, cursory, imperfect, +written under cramping circumstances; giving only here and there a note +of the full utterance of the man. Passages there are that come upon you +like splendour out of Heaven; bursts of radiance, illuminating the very +heart of the thing: you say, "That is _true_, spoken once and forever; +wheresoever and whensoever there is an open human soul, that will be +recognised as true!" Such bursts, however, make us feel that the +surrounding matter is not radiant; that it is in part, temporary, +conventional. Alas, Shakespeare had to write for the Globe Playhouse: +his great soul had to crush itself, as it could, into that and no other +mould. It was with him, then, as it is with us all. No man works save +under conditions. The sculptor, cannot set his own free Thought before +us; but his Thought as he could translate it into the stone that was +given, with the tools that were given. _Disjecta membra_[83] are all +that we find of any Poet, or of any man. + +Whoever looks intelligently at this Shakespeare may recognise that he +too was a _Prophet_, in his way; of an insight analogous to the +Prophetic, though he took it up in another strain. Nature seemed to this +man also divine; _un_speakable, deep as Tophet, high as Heaven: "We are +such stuff as Dreams are made of!" That scroll in Westminster Abbey,[84] +which few read with understanding, is of the depth of any seer. But the +man sang; did not preach, except musically. We called Dante the +melodious Priest of Middle-Age Catholicism. May we not call Shakespeare +the still more melodious Priest of a _true_ Catholicism, the "Universal +Church" of the Future and of all times? No narrow superstition, harsh +asceticism, intolerance, fanatical fierceness or perversion: a +Revelation, so far as it goes, that such a thousandfold hidden beauty +and divineness dwells in all Nature; which let all men worship as they +can! We may say without offence, that there rises a kind of universal +Psalm out of this Shakespeare too; not unfit to make itself heard among +the still more sacred Psalms. Not in disharmony with these, if we +understood them, but in harmony!--I cannot call this Shakespeare a +"Sceptic," as some do; his indifference to the creeds and theological +quarrels of his time misleading them. No: neither unpatriotic, though he +says little about his Patriotism; nor sceptic, though he says little +about his Faith. Such "indifference" was the fruit of his greatness +withal: his whole heart was in his own grand sphere of worship (we may +call it such); these other controversies, vitally important to other +men, were not vital to him. + +But call it worship, call it what you will, is it not a right glorious +thing, and set of things, this that Shakespeare has brought us? For +myself, I feel that there is actually a kind of sacredness in the fact +of such a man being sent into this Earth. Is he not an eye to us all; a +blessed heaven-sent Bringer of Light?--and, at bottom, was it not +perhaps far better that this Shakespeare, everyway an unconscious man, +was _conscious_ of no Heavenly message? He did not feel, like Mahomet, +because he saw into those internal Splendours, that he specially was the +"Prophet of God:" and was he not greater than Mahomet in that? Greater; +and also, if we compute strictly, as we did in Dante's case, more +successful. It was intrinsically an error that notion of Mahomet's, of +his supreme Prophethood; and has come down to us inextricably involved +in error to this day; dragging along with it such a coil of fables, +impurities, intolerances, as makes it a questionable step for me here +and now to say, as I have done, that Mahomet was a true Speaker at all, +and not rather an ambitious charlatan, perversity and simulacrum; no +Speaker, but a Babbler! Even in Arabia, as I compute, Mahomet will have +exhausted himself and become obsolete, while this Shakespeare, this +Dante may still be young;--while this Shakespeare may still pretend to +be a Priest of Mankind, of Arabia as of other places, for unlimited +periods to come! + +Compared with any speaker or singer one knows, even with Aeschylus or +Homer, why should he not, for veracity and universality, last like them? +He is _sincere_ as they; reaches deep down like them, to the universal +and perennial. But as for Mahomet, I think it had been better for him +_not_ to be so conscious! Alas, poor Mahomet; all that he was +_conscious_ of was a mere error; a futility and triviality--as indeed +such ever is. The truly great in him too was the unconscious: that he +was a wild Arab lion of the desert, and did speak-out with that great +thunder-voice of his, not by words which he _thought_ to be great, but +by actions, by feelings, by a history which _were_ great! His Koran has +become a stupid piece of prolix absurdity; we do not believe, like him +that God wrote that! The Great Man here too, as always' is a Force of +Nature: whatsoever is truly great in him springs-up from the +_in_articulate deeps. + +Well: this is our poor Warwickshire Peasant, who rose to be Manager of a +Playhouse, so that he could live without begging; whom the Earl of +Southampton cast some kind glances on; whom Sir Thomas Lucy, many thanks +to him, was for sending to the Treadmill! We did not account him a god, +like Odin, while he dwelt with us;--on which point there were much to be +said. But I will say rather, or repeat: In spite of the sad state +Hero-worship now lies in, consider what this Shakespeare has actually +become among us. Which Englishman we ever made, in this land of ours, +which million of Englishmen, would we not give-up rather than the +Stratford Peasant? There is no regiment of highest Dignitaries that we +would sell him for. He is the grandest thing we have yet done. For our +honour among foreign nations, as an ornament to our English Household, +what item is there that we would not surrender rather than him? Consider +now, if they asked us, Will you give-up your Indian Empire or your +Shakespeare, you English; never have had any Indian Empire, or never +have had any Shakespeare? Really it were a grave question. Official +persons would answer doubtless in official language; but we, for our +part too, should not we be forced to answer: Indian Empire, or no Indian +Empire; we cannot do without Shakespeare! Indian Empire will go, at any +rate, some day; but this Shakespeare does not go, he lasts forever with +us; we cannot give-up our Shakespeare! + +Nay, apart from spiritualities; and considering him merely as a real, +marketable, tangibly-useful possession. England, before long, this +Island of ours, will hold but a small fraction of the English: in +America, in New Holland,[85] east and west to the very Antipodes, there +will be a Saxondom covering great spaces of the Globe. And now, what is +it that can keep all these together into virtually one Nation, so that +they do not fall-out and fight, but live at peace, in brotherlike +intercourse, helping one another? This is justly regarded as the +greatest practical problem, the thing all manner of sovereignties and +governments are here to accomplish: what is it that will accomplish +this? Acts of Parliament, administrative prime-ministers cannot. America +is parted from us, so far as Parliament could part it. Call it not +fantastic, for there is much reality in it: Here, I say, is an English +King, whom no time or chance, Parliament or combination of Parliaments, +can dethrone! This King Shakespeare, does not he shine, in crowned +sovereignty, over us all, as the noblest, gentlest, yet strongest of +rallying-signs; _in_destructible; really more valuable in that point of +view than any other means or appliance whatsoever? We can fancy him as +radiant aloft over all the Nations of Englishmen, a thousand years +hence. From Paramatta, from New York, wheresoever, under what sort of +Parish-Constable soever, English men and women are, they will say to one +another: "Yes, this Shakespeare is ours; we produced him, we speak and +think by him; we are of one blood and kind with him." The most +common-sense politician, too, if he pleases, may think of that. + +Yes, truly, it is a great thing for a Nation that it get an articulate +voice; that it produce a man who will speak-forth melodiously what the +heart of it means! Italy, for example, poor Italy lies dismembered, +scattered asunder, not appearing in any protocol or treaty as a unity at +all; yet the noble Italy is actually _one_: Italy produced its Dante; +Italy can speak! The Czar of all the Russias, he is strong, with so many +bayonets, Cossacks and cannons; and does a great feat in keeping such a +tract of Earth politically together; but he cannot yet speak. Something +great in him, but it is a dumb greatness. He has had no voice of genius, +to be heard of all men and times. He must learn to speak. He is a great +dumb monster hitherto. His cannons and Cossacks will all have rusted +into nonentity, while that Dante's voice is still audible. The Nation +that has a Dante is bound together as no dumb Russia can be. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 81: From Lecture III, "The Hero as Poet," in "Heroes and +Hero-Worship," 1841.] + +[Footnote 82: St. Stephen's: House of Commons.] + +[Footnote 83: Scattered pieces.] + +[Footnote 84: The passage in Shakespeare's "Tempest" from which the +words quoted in the preceding sentence are taken, is inscribed on the +scroll in the hand of Shakespeare's statue in Westminster Abbey.] + +[Footnote 85: New Holland: Australia.] + + + + +CHARLES LAMB[86] + +WALTER PATER + + +Those English critics who at the beginning of the present century +introduced from Germany, together with some other subtleties of thought +transplanted hither not without advantage, the distinction between the +_Fancy_ and the _Imagination_, made much also of the cognate distinction +between _Wit_ and _Humour_, between that unreal and transitory mirth, +which is as the crackling of thorns under the pot, and the laughter +which blends with tears and even with the sublimities of the +imagination, and which, in its most exquisite motives, is one with +pity--the laughter of the comedies of Shakespeare, hardly less +expressive than his moods of seriousness or solemnity, of that deeply +stirred soul of sympathy in him, as flowing from which both tears and +laughter are alike genuine and contagious. + +This distinction between wit and humour, Coleridge and other kindred +critics applied, with much effect, in their studies of some of our older +English writers. And as the distinction between imagination and fancy, +made popular by Wordsworth, found its best justification in certain +essential differences of stuff in Wordsworth's own writings, so this +other critical distinction, between wit and humour, finds a sort of +visible interpretation and instance in the character and writings of +Charles Lamb;--one who lived more consistently than most writers among +subtle literary theories, and whose remains are still full of curious +interest for the student of literature as a fine art. + +The author of the _English Humourists of the Eighteenth Century,_ +coming to the humourists of the nineteenth, would have found, as is true +pre-eminently of Thackeray himself, the springs of pity in them deepened +by the deeper subjectivity, the intenser and closer living with itself, +which is characteristic of the temper of the later generation; and +therewith, the mirth also, from the amalgam of which with pity humour +proceeds, has become, in Charles Dickens, for example, freer and more +boisterous. + +To this more high-pitched feeling, since predominant in our literature, +the writings of Charles Lamb, whose life occupies the last quarter of +the eighteenth century and the first quarter of the nineteenth, are a +transition; and such union of grave, of terrible even, with gay, we may +note in the circumstances of his life, as reflected thence into his +work. We catch the aroma of a singular, homely sweetness about his first +years, spent on Thames' side, amid the red bricks and terraced gardens, +with their rich historical memories of old-fashioned legal London. Just +above the poorer class, deprived, as he says, of the "sweet food of +academic institution," he is fortunate enough to be reared in the +classical languages at an ancient school, where he becomes the companion +of Coleridge, as at a later period he was his enthusiastic disciple. So +far, the years go by with less than the usual share of boyish +difficulties; protected, one fancies, seeing what he was afterwards, by +some attraction of temper in the quaint child, small and delicate, with +a certain Jewish expression in his clear, brown complexion, eyes not +precisely of the same colour, and a slow walk adding to the staidness of +his figure; and whose infirmity of speech, increased by agitation, is +partly engaging. + +And the cheerfulness of all this, of the mere aspect of Lamb's quiet +subsequent life also, might make the more superficial reader think of +him as in himself something slight, and of his mirth as cheaply bought. +Yet we know that beneath this blithe surface there was something of the +fateful domestic horror, of the beautiful heroism and devotedness too, +of old Greek tragedy. His sister Mary, ten years his senior, in a sudden +paroxysm of madness, caused the death of her mother, and was brought to +trial for what an overstrained justice might have construed as the +greatest of crimes. She was released on the brother's pledging himself +to watch over her; and to this sister, from the age of twenty-one, +Charles Lamb sacrificed himself, "seeking thenceforth," says his +earliest biographer, "no connection which could interfere with her +supremacy in his affections, or impair his ability to sustain and +comfort her." The "feverish, romantic tie of love" he cast away in +exchange for the "charities of home." Only, from time to time, the +madness returned, affecting him too, once; and we see the brother and +sister voluntarily yielding to restraint. In estimating the humour of +_Elia_, we must no more forget the strong undercurrent of this great +misfortune and pity, than one could forget it in his actual story. So he +becomes the best critic, almost the discoverer, of Webster, a dramatist +of genius so sombre, so heavily coloured, so _macabre._[87] _Rosamund +Grey_ written in his twenty-third year, a story with something bitter +and exaggerated, an almost insane fixedness of gloom perceptible in it, +strikes clearly this note in his work. + +For himself, and from his own point of view, the exercise of his gift, +of his literary art, came to gild or sweeten a life of monotonous +labour, and seemed, as far as regarded others, no very important thing; +availing to give them a little pleasure, and inform them a little, +chiefly in a retrospective manner, but in no way concerned with the +turning of the tides of the great world. And yet this very modesty, this +unambitious way of conceiving his work, has impressed upon it a certain +exceptional enduringness. For of the remarkable English writers +contemporary with Lamb, many were greatly preoccupied with ideas of +practice--religious, moral, political--ideas which have since, in some +sense or other, entered permanently into the general consciousness; +and, these having no longer any stimulus for a generation provided with +a different stock of ideas, the writings of those who spent so much of +themselves in their propagation have lost, with posterity, something of +what they gained by them in immediate influence. Coleridge, Wordsworth, +Shelley even--sharing so largely in the unrest of their own age, and +made personally more interesting thereby, yet, of their actual work, +surrender more to the mere course of time than some of those who may +have seemed to exercise themselves hardly at all in great matters, to +have been little serious, or a little indifferent, regarding them. + +Of this number of the disinterested servants of literature, smaller in +England than in France, Charles Lamb is one. In the making of prose he +realises the principle of art for its own sake, as completely as Keats +in the making of verse. And, working ever close to the concrete, to the +details, great or small, of actual things, books, persons, and with no +part of them blurred to his vision by the intervention of mere abstract +theories, he has reached an enduring moral effect also, in a sort of +boundless sympathy. Unoccupied, as he might seem, with great matters, he +is in immediate contact with what is real, especially in its caressing +littleness, that littleness in which there is much of the whole woeful +heart of things, and meets it more than half-way with a perfect +understanding of it. What sudden, unexpected touches of pathos in +him!--bearing witness how the sorrow of humanity, the _Weltschmerz_, the +constant aching of its wounds, is ever present with him: but what a gift +also for the enjoyment of life in its subtleties, of enjoyment actually +refined by the need of some thoughtful economies and making the most of +things! Little arts of happiness he is ready to teach to others. The +quaint remarks of children which another would scarcely have heard, he +preserves--little flies in the priceless amber of his Attic wit--and has +his "Praise of chimney-sweepers" (as William Blake has written, with so +much natural pathos, the Chimney-sweeper's Song), valuing carefully +their white teeth, and fine enjoyment of white sheets in stolen sleep +at Arundel Castle, as he tells the story, anticipating something of the +mood of our deep humourists of the last generation. His simple +mother-pity for those who suffer by accident, or unkindness of nature, +blindness for instance, or fateful disease of mind like his sister's, +has something primitive in its largeness; and on behalf of ill-used +animals he is early in composing a _Pity's Gift._ + +And if, in deeper or more superficial sense, the dead _do_ care at all +for their name and fame, then how must the souls of Shakespeare and +Webster have been stirred, after so long converse with things that +stopped their ears, whether above or below the soil, at his exquisite +appreciations of them; the souls of Titian and of Hogarth too; for, what +has not been observed so generally as the excellence of his literary +criticism, Charles Lamb is a fine critic of painting also. It was as +loyal, self-forgetful work for others, for Shakespeare's self first, for +instance, and then for Shakespeare's readers, that that too was done: he +has the true scholar's way of forgetting himself in his subject. For +though "defrauded," as we saw, in his young years, "of the sweet food of +academic institution," he is yet essentially a scholar, and all his work +mainly retrospective, as I said; his own sorrows, affections, +perceptions, being alone real to him of the present. "I cannot make +these present times," he says once, "present to _me_." + +Above all, he becomes not merely an expositor, permanently valuable, but +for Englishmen almost the discoverer of the old English drama. "The book +is such as I am glad there should be," he modestly says of the +_Specimens of English Dramatic Poets who lived about the time of +Shakespeare_; to which, however, he adds in a series of notes the very +quintessence of criticism, the choicest savour and perfume of +Elizabethan poetry being sorted, and stored here, with a sort of +delicate intellectual epicureanism, which has had the effect of winning +for these, then almost forgotten, poets, one generation after another of +enthusiastic students. Could he but have known how fresh a source of +culture he was evoking there for other generations, through all those +years in which, a little wistfully, he would harp on the limitation of +his time by business, and sigh for a better fortune in regard to +literary opportunities! + +To feel strongly the charm of an old poet or moralist, the literary +charm of Burton, for instance, or Quarles, or The Duchess of Newcastle; +and then to interpret that charm, to convey it to others--he seeming to +himself but to hand on to others, in mere humble ministration, that of +which for them he is really the creator--this is the way of his +criticism; cast off in a stray letter often, or passing note, or +lightest essay or conversation. It is in such a letter, for instance, +that we come upon a singularly penetrative estimate of the genius and +writings of Defoe. + +Tracking, with an attention always alert, the whole process of their +production to its starting-point in the deep places of the mind, he +seems to realise the but half-conscious intuitions of Hogarth or +Shakespeare, and develops the great ruling unities which have swayed +their actual work; or "puts up," and takes, the one morsel of good stuff +in an old, forgotten writer. Even in what he says casually there comes +an aroma of old English; noticeable echoes, in chance turn and phrase, +of the great masters of style, the old masters. Godwin, seeing in +quotation a passage from _John Woodvil_, takes it for a choice fragment +of an old dramatist, and goes to Lamb to assist him in finding the +author. His power of delicate imitation in prose and verse reaches the +length of a fine mimicry even, as in those last essays of Elia on +Popular Fallacies, with their gentle reproduction or caricature of Sir +Thomas Browne, showing, the more completely, his mastery, by +disinterested study, of those elements of the man which were the real +source of style in that great, solemn master of old English, who, ready +to say what he has to say with fearless homeliness, yet continually +overawes one with touches of a strange utterance from worlds afar. For +it is with the delicacies of fine literature especially, its gradations +of expression, its fine judgment, its pure sense of words, of +vocabulary--things, alas! dying out in the English literature of the +present, together with the appreciation of them in our literature of the +past--that his literary mission is chiefly concerned. And yet, delicate, +refining, daintily epicurean, as he may seem, when he writes of giants +such as Hogarth or Shakespeare, though often but in a stray note, you +catch the sense of veneration with which those great names in past +literature and art brooded over his intelligence, his undiminished +impressibility by the great effects in them. Reading, commenting on +Shakespeare, he is like a man who walks alone under a grand stormy sky, +and among unwonted tricks of light, when powerful spirits might seem to +be abroad upon the air; and the grim humour of Hogarth, as he analyses +it, rises into a kind of spectral grotesque; while he too knows the +secret of fine, significant touches like theirs. + +There are traits, customs, characteristics of houses and dress, +surviving morsels of old life, such as Hogarth has transferred so +vividly into _The Rake's Progress_, or _Marriage a la Mode_, concerning +which we well understand how, common, uninteresting, or even worthless +in themselves, they have come to please us at last as things +picturesque, being set in relief against the modes of our different age. +Customs, stiff to us, stiff dresses, stiff furniture--types of cast-off +fashions, left by accident, and which no one ever meant to preserve--we +contemplate with more than good-nature, as having in them the veritable +accent of a time, not altogether to be replaced by its more solemn and +self-conscious deposits; like those tricks of individuality which we +find quite tolerable in persons, because they convey to us the secret of +lifelike expression, and with regard to which we are all to some extent +humourists. But it is part of the privilege of the genuine humourists to +anticipate this pensive mood with regard to the ways and things of his +own day; to look upon the tricks in manner of the life about him with +that same refined, purged sort of vision, which will come naturally to +those of a later generation, in observing whatever may have survived by +chance of its mere external habit. Seeing things always by the light of +an understanding more entire than is possible for ordinary minds, of the +whole mechanism of humanity, and seeing also the manner, the outward +mode or fashion, always in strict connection with the spiritual +condition which determined it, a humourist such as Charles Lamb +anticipates the enchantment of distance; and the characteristics of +places, ranks, habits of life, are transfigured for him, even now and in +advance of time, by poetic light; justifying what some might condemn as +mere sentimentality, in the effort to hand on unbroken the tradition of +such fashion or accent. "The praise of beggars," "the cries of London," +the traits of actors just grown "old," the spots in "town" where the +country, its fresh green and fresh water, still lingered on, one after +another, amidst the bustle; the quaint, dimmed, just played-out farces, +he had relished so much, coming partly through them to understand the +earlier English theatre as a thing once really alive; those fountains +and sundials of old gardens, of which he entertains such dainty +discourse:--he feels the poetry of these things, as the poetry of things +old indeed, but surviving as an actual part of the life of the present, +and as something quite different from the poetry of things flatly gone +from us and antique, which come back to us, if at all, as entire +strangers, like Scott's old Scotch-border personages, their oaths and +armour. Such gift of appreciation depends, as I said, on the habitual +apprehension of men's life as a whole--its organic wholeness, as +extending even to the least things in it--of its outward manner in +connection with its inward temper; and it involves a fine perception of +the congruities, the musical accordance between humanity and its +environment of custom, society, personal intercourse; as if all this, +with its meetings, partings, ceremonies, gesture, tones of speech, were +some delicate instrument on which an expert performer is playing. + +These are some of the characteristics of Elia, one essentially an +essayist, and of the true family of Montaigne, "never judging," as he +says, "system-wise of things, but fastening on particulars;" saying all +things as it were on chance occasion only, and by way of pastime, yet +succeeding thus, "glimpse-wise," in catching and recording more +frequently than others "the gayest, happiest attitude of things;" a +casual writer for dreamy readers, yet always giving the reader so much +more than he seemed to propose. There is something of the follower of +George Fox about him, and the Quaker's belief in the inward light coming +to one passive, to the mere wayfarer, who will be sure at all events to +lose no light which falls by the way--glimpses, suggestions, delightful +half-apprehensions, profound thoughts of old philosophers, hints of the +innermost reason in things, the full knowledge of which is held in +reserve; all the varied stuff, that is, of which genuine essays are +made. + +And with him, as with Montaigne, the desire of self-portraiture is, +below all more superficial tendencies, the real motive in writing at +all--a desire closely connected with that intimacy, that modern +subjectivity, which may be called the _Montaignesque_ element in +literature. What he designs is to give you himself, to acquaint you with +his likeness; but must do this, if at all, indirectly, being indeed +always more or less reserved, for himself and his friends; friendship +counting for so much in his life, that he is jealous of anything that +might jar or disturb it, even to the length of a sort of insincerity, to +which he assigns its quaint "praise;" this lover of stage plays +significantly welcoming a little touch of the artificiality of play to +sweeten the intercourse of actual life. + +And, in effect, a very delicate and expressive portrait of him does put +itself together for the duly meditative reader. In indirect touches of +his own work, scraps of faded old letters, what others remembered of his +talk, the man's likeness emerges; what he laughed and wept at, his +sudden elevations, and longings after absent friends, his fine +casuistries of affection and devices to jog sometimes, as he says, the +lazy happiness of perfect love, his solemn moments of higher discourse +with the young, as they came across him on occasion, and went along a +little way with him, the sudden surprised apprehension of beauties in +old literature, revealing anew the deep soul of poetry in things, and +withal the pure spirit of fun, having its way again; laughter, that most +short-lived of all things (some of Shakespeare's even being grown +hollow) wearing well with him. Much of all this comes out through his +letters, which may be regarded as a department of his essays. He is an +old-fashioned letter-writer, the essence of the old fashion of +letter-writing lying, as with true essay-writing, in the dexterous +availing oneself of accident and circumstance, in the prosecution of +deeper lines of observation; although, just as with the record of his +conversation, one loses something, in losing the actual tones of the +stammerer, still graceful in his halting, as he halted also in +composition, composing slowly and by fits, "like a Flemish painter," as +he tells us, so "it is to be regretted," says the editor of his letters, +"that in the printed letters the reader will lose the curious varieties +of writing with which the originals abound, and which are scrupulously +adapted to the subject." + +Also, he was a true "collector," delighting in the personal finding of a +thing, in the colour an old book or print gets for him by the little +accidents which attest previous ownership. Wither's _Emblems_, "that old +book and quaint," long-desired, when he finds it at last, he values none +the less because a child had coloured the plates with his paints. A +lover of household warmth everywhere, of that tempered atmosphere which +our various habitations get by men's living within them, he "sticks to +his favourite books as he did to his friends," and loved the "town," +with a jealous eye for all its characteristics, "old houses" coming to +have souls for him. The yearning for mere warmth against him in another, +makes him content, all through life, with pure brotherliness, "the most +kindly and natural species of love," as he says, in place of the +_passion_ of love. Brother and sister, sitting thus side by side, have, +of course, their anticipations how one of them must sit at last in the +faint sun alone, and set us speculating, as we read, as to precisely +what amount of melancholy really accompanied for him the approach of old +age, so steadily foreseen; make us note also with pleasure, his +successive wakings up to cheerful realities, out of a too curious musing +over what is gone and what remains, of life. In his subtle capacity for +enjoying the more refined points of earth, of human relationship, he +could throw the gleam of poetry or humour on what seemed common or +threadbare; has a care for the sighs, and the weary, humdrum +preoccupations of very weak people, down to their little pathetic +"gentilities," even; while, in the purely human temper, he can write of +death, almost like Shakespeare. + +And that care, through all his enthusiasm of discovery, for what is +accustomed, in literature, connected thus with his close clinging to +home and the earth, was congruous also with that love for the accustomed +in religion, which we may notice in him. He is one of the last votaries +of that old-world sentiment, based on the feelings of hope and awe, +which may be described as the religion of men of letters (as Sir Thomas +Browne has his _Religion of the Physician_), religion as understood by +the soberer men of letters in the last century, Addison, Gray, and +Johnson; by Jane Austen and Thackeray, later. A high way of feeling +developed largely by constant intercourse with the great things of +literature, and extended in its turn to those matters greater still, +this religion lives, in the main retrospectively, in a system of +received sentiments and beliefs; received, like those great things of +literature and art, in the first instance, on the authority of a long +tradition, in the course of which they have linked themselves in a +thousand complex ways to the conditions of human life, and no more +questioned now than the feeling one keeps by one of the greatness--say! +of Shakespeare. For Charles Lamb, such form of religion becomes the +solemn background on which the nearer and more exciting objects of his +immediate experience relieve themselves, borrowing from it an expression +of calm; its necessary atmosphere being indeed a profound quiet, that +quiet which has in it a kind of sacramental efficacy, working, we might +say, on the principle of the _opus operatum,_[88] almost without any +co-operation of one's own, towards the assertion of the higher self. +And, in truth, to men of Lamb's delicately attuned temperament mere +physical stillness has its full value; such natures seeming to long for +it sometimes, as for no merely negative thing, with a sort of mystical +sensuality. + +The writings of Charles Lamb are an excellent illustration of the value +of reserve in literature. Below his quiet, his quaintness, his humour, +and what may seem the slightness, the occasional or accidental character +of his work, there lies, as I said at starting, as in his life, a +genuinely tragic element. The gloom, reflected at its darkest in those +hard shadows of _Rosamund Grey_, is always there, though not always +realised either for himself or his readers, and restrained always in +utterance. It gives to those lighter matters on the surface of life and +literature among which he for the most part moved, a wonderful force of +expression, as if at any moment these slight words and fancies might +pierce very far into the deeper soul of things. In his writing, as in +his life, that quiet is not the low-flying of one from the first drowsy +by choice, and needing the prick of some strong passion or worldly +ambition, to stimulate him into all the energy of which he is capable; +but rather the reaction of nature, after an escape from fate, dark and +insane as in old Greek tragedy, following upon which the sense of mere +relief becomes a kind of passion, as with one who, having narrowly +escaped earthquake or shipwreck, finds a thing for grateful tears in +just sitting quiet at home, under the wall, till the end of days. + +He felt the genius of places; and I sometimes think he resembles the +places he knew and liked best, and where his lot fell--London, +sixty-five years ago, with Covent Garden and the old theatres, and the +Temple gardens still unspoiled, Thames gliding down, and beyond to north +and south the fields at Enfield or Hampton, to which, "with their living +trees," the thoughts wander "from the hard wood of the desk"--fields +fresher, and coming nearer to town then, but in one of which the present +writer remembers, on a brooding early summer's day, to have heard the +cuckoo for the first time. Here, the surface of things is certainly +humdrum, the streets dingy, the green places, where the child goes +a-maying, tame enough. But nowhere are things more apt to respond to the +brighter weather, nowhere is there so much difference between rain and +sunshine, nowhere do the clouds roll together more grandly; those quaint +suburban pastorals gather a certain quality of grandeur from the +background of the great city, with its weighty atmosphere, and portent +of storm in the rapid light on dome and bleached stone steeples. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 86: From "Appreciations," 1889.] + +[Footnote 87: Macabre: very grim.] + +[Footnote 88: Opus operatum (a phrase from Catholic theology): the work +performed through the sacraments--baptism, confirmation, etc.--the +efficacy of which is not dependent on the participants.] + + + + +DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT[89] + +NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE + + +That very singular man, old Dr. Heidegger, once invited four venerable +friends to meet him in his study. There were three white-bearded +gentlemen, Mr. Medbourne, Colonel Killigrew, and Mr. Gascoigne, and a +withered gentlewoman, whose name was the Widow Wycherly. They were all +melancholy old creatures, who had been unfortunate in life, and whose +greatest misfortune it was, that they were not long ago in their graves. +Mr. Medbourne, in the vigor of his age, had been a prosperous merchant, +but had lost his all by a frantic speculation, and was now little better +than a mendicant. Colonel Killigrew had wasted his best years, and his +health and substance, in the pursuit of sinful pleasures, which had +given birth to a brood of pains, such as the gout, and divers other +torments of soul and body. Mr. Gascoigne was a ruined politician, a man +of evil fame, or at least had been so, till time had buried him from the +knowledge of the present generation, and made him obscure instead of +infamous. As for the Widow Wycherly, tradition tells us that she was a +great beauty in her day; but, for a long while past, she had lived in +deep seclusion, on account of certain scandalous stories, which had +prejudiced the gentry of the town against her. It is a circumstance +worth mentioning, that each of these three old gentlemen, Mr. Medbourne, +Colonel Killigrew, and Mr. Gascoigne, were early lovers of the Widow +Wycherly, and had once been on the point of cutting each others' throats +for her sake. And, before proceeding further, I will merely hint, that +Dr. Heidegger and all his four guests were sometimes thought to be a +little beside themselves; as is not unfrequently the case with old +people, when worried either by present troubles or woeful recollections. + +"My dear old friends," said Dr. Heidegger, motioning them to be seated, +"I am desirous of your assistance in one of those little experiments +with which I amuse myself here in my study." + +If all stories were true, Dr. Heidegger's study must have been a very +curious place. It was a dim, old-fashioned chamber festooned with +cobwebs, and besprinkled with antique dust. Around the walls stood +several oaken bookcases, the lower shelves of which were filled with +rows of gigantic folios, and black-letter quartos, and the upper with +little parchment-covered duodecimos. Over the central bookcase was a +bronze bust of Hippocrates, with which, according to some authorities, +Dr. Heidegger was accustomed to hold consultations, in all difficult +cases of his practice. In the obscurest corner of the room stood a tall +and narrow oaken closet, with its door ajar, within which doubtfully +appeared a skeleton. Between two of the bookcases hung a looking-glass, +presenting its high and dusty plate within a tarnished gilt frame. Among +many wonderful stories related of this mirror, it was fabled that the +spirits of all the doctor's deceased patients dwelt within its verge, +and would stare him in the face whenever he looked thitherward. The +opposite side of the chamber was ornamented with the full-length +portrait of a young lady, arrayed in the faded magnificence of silk, +satin, and brocade, and with a visage as faded as her dress. Above half +a century ago Dr. Heidegger had been on the point of marriage with this +young lady; but, being affected with some slight disorder, she had +swallowed one of her lover's prescriptions, and died on the bridal +evening. The greatest curiosity of the study remains to be mentioned; it +was a ponderous folio volume, bound in black leather, with massive +silver clasps. There were no letters on the back, and nobody could tell +the title of the book. But it was well known to be a book of magic; and +once, when a chambermaid had lifted it, merely to brush away the dust, +the skeleton had rattled in its closet, the picture of the young lady +had stepped one foot upon the floor, and several ghastly faces had +peeped forth from the mirror; while the brazen head of Hippocrates +frowned, and said--"Forbear!" + +Such was Dr. Heidegger's study. On the summer afternoon of our tale, a +small round table, as black as ebony, stood in the center of the room +sustaining a cut-glass vase of beautiful form and elaborate workmanship. +The sunshine came through the window, between the heavy festoons of two +faded damask curtains, and fell directly across this vase, so that a +mild splendor was reflected from it on the ashen visages of the five old +people who sat around. Four champagne glasses were also on the table. + +"My dear old friends," repeated Dr. Heidegger, "may I reckon on your aid +in performing an exceedingly curious experiment?" + +Now Dr. Heidegger was a very strange old gentleman, whose eccentricity +had become the nucleus for a thousand fantastic stories. Some of these +fables, to my shame be it spoken, might possibly be traced back to mine +own veracious self; and if any passage of the present tale should +startle the reader's faith, I must be content to bear the stigma of a +fiction monger. + +When the doctor's four guests heard him talk of his proposed experiment, +they anticipated nothing more wonderful than the murder of a mouse in an +air pump, or the examination of a cobweb by the microscope, or some +similar nonsense, with which he was constantly in the habit of pestering +his intimates. But without waiting for a reply, Dr. Heidegger hobbled +across the chamber, and returned with the same ponderous folio, bound in +black leather, which common report affirmed to be a book of magic. +Undoing the silver clasps, he opened the volume, and took from among its +black-letter pages a rose, or what was once a rose, though now the +green leaves and crimson petals had assumed one brownish hue, and the +ancient flower seemed ready to crumble to dust in the doctor's hands. + +"This rose," said Dr. Heidegger, with a sigh, "this same withered and +crumbling flower, blossomed five and fifty years ago. It was given me by +Sylvia Ward, whose portrait hangs yonder; and I meant to wear it in my +bosom at our wedding. Five and fifty years it has been treasured between +the leaves of this old volume. Now, would you deem it possible that this +rose of half a century could ever bloom again?" + +"Nonsense!" said the Widow Wycherly, with a peevish toss of her head. +"You might as well ask whether an old woman's wrinkled face could ever +bloom again." + +"See!" answered Dr. Heidegger. + +He uncovered the vase, and threw the faded rose into the water which it +contained. At first, it lay lightly on the surface of the fluid, +appearing to imbibe none of its moisture. Soon, however, a singular +change began to be visible. The crushed and dried petals stirred, and +assumed a deepening tinge of crimson, as if the flower were reviving +from a death-like slumber; the slender stalk and twigs of foliage became +green; and there was the rose of half a century, looking as fresh as +when Sylvia Ward had first given it to her lover. It was scarcely full +blown; for some of its delicate red leaves curled modestly around its +moist bosom, within which two or three dewdrops were sparkling. + +"That is certainly a very pretty deception," said the doctor's friends; +carelessly, however, for they had witnessed greater miracles at a +conjurer's show; "pray how was it effected?" + +"Did you never hear of the 'Fountain of Youth'?" asked Dr. Heidegger, +"which Ponce De Leon, the Spanish adventurer, went in search of two or +three centuries ago?" + +"But did Ponce De Leon ever find it?" said the Widow Wycherly. + +"No," answered Dr. Heidegger, "for he never sought it in the right +place. The famous Fountain of Youth, if I am rightly informed, is +situated in the southern part of the Floridian peninsula, not far from +Lake Macaco. Its source is overshadowed by several gigantic magnolias, +which, though numberless centuries old, have been kept as fresh as +violets, by the virtues of this wonderful water. An acquaintance of +mine, knowing my curiosity in such matters, has sent me what you see in +the vase." + +"Ahem!" said Colonel Killigrew, who believed not a word of the doctor's +story; "and what may be the effect of this fluid on the human frame?" + +"You shall judge for yourself, my dear Colonel," replied Dr. Heidegger; +"and all of you, my respected friends, are welcome to so much of this +admirable fluid, as may restore to you the bloom of youth. For my own +part, having had much trouble in growing old, I am in no hurry to grow +young again. With your permission, therefore, I will merely watch the +progress of the experiment.". + +While he spoke, Dr. Heidegger had been filling the four champagne +glasses with the water of the Fountain of Youth. It was apparently +impregnated with an effervescent gas, for little bubbles were +continually ascending from the depths of the glasses, and bursting in +silvery spray at the surface. As the liquor diffused a pleasant perfume, +the old people doubted not that it possessed cordial and comfortable +properties; and, though utter sceptics as to its rejuvenescent power, +they were inclined to swallow it at once. But Dr. Heidegger besought +them to stay a moment. + +"Before you drink, my respectable old friends," said he, "it would be +well that, with the experience of a lifetime to direct you, you should +draw up a few general rules for your guidance, in passing a second time +through the perils of youth. Think what a sin and shame it would be, if, +with your peculiar advantages, you should not become patterns of virtue +and wisdom to all the young people of the age!" + +The doctor's four venerable friends made him no answer, except by a +feeble and tremulous laugh; so very ridiculous was the idea, that, +knowing how closely repentance treads behind the steps of error, they +should ever go astray again. + +"Drink, then," said the doctor, bowing; "I rejoice that I have so well +selected the subjects of my experiment." + +With palsied hands, they raised the glasses to their lips. The liquor, +if it really possessed such virtues as Dr. Heidegger imputed to it, +could not have been bestowed on four human beings who needed it more +wofully. They looked as if they had never known what youth or pleasure +was, but had been the offspring of Nature's dotage, and always the gray, +decrepit, sapless, miserable creatures, who now sat stooping round the +doctor's table, without life enough in their souls or bodies to be +animated even by the prospect of growing young again. They drank off the +water, and replaced their glasses on the table. + +Assuredly there was an almost immediate improvement in the aspect of the +party, not unlike what might have been produced by a glass of generous +wine, together with a sudden glow of cheerful sunshine, brightening over +all their visages at once. There was a healthful suffusion on their +cheeks, instead of the ashen hue that had made them look so corpse-like. +They gazed at one another, and fancied that some magic power had really +begun to smooth away the deep and sad inscriptions which Father Time had +been so long engraving on their brows. The Widow Wycherly adjusted her +cap, for she felt almost like a woman again. + +"Give us more of this wondrous water!" cried they, eagerly. "We are +younger--but we are still too old! Quick--give us more!" + +"Patience, patience!" quoth Dr. Heidegger, who sat watching the +experiment, with philosophic coolness. "You have been a long time +growing old. Surely, you might be content to grow young in half an hour! +But the water is at your service." + +Again he filled their glasses with the liquor of youth, enough of which +still remained in the vase to turn half the old people in the city to +the age of their own grandchildren. While the bubbles were yet sparkling +on the brim, the doctor's four guests snatched their glasses from the +table, and swallowed the contents at a single gulp. Was it delusion? +Even while the draught was passing down their throats, it seemed to have +wrought a change on their whole systems. Their eyes grew clear and +bright; a dark shade deepened among their silvery locks; they sat around +the table, three gentlemen, of middle age, and a woman, hardly beyond +her buxom prime. + +"My dear widow, you are charming!" cried Colonel Killigrew, whose eyes +had been fixed upon her face, while the shadows of age were flitting +from it like darkness from the crimson daybreak. + +The fair widow knew, of old, that Colonel Killigrew's compliments were +not always measured by sober truth; so she started up and ran to the +mirror, still dreading that the ugly visage of an old woman would meet +her gaze. Meanwhile, the three gentlemen behaved in such a manner as +proved that the water of the Fountain of Youth possessed some +intoxicating qualities; unless, indeed, their exhilaration of spirits +were merely a lightsome dizziness, caused by the sudden removal of the +weight of years. Mr. Gascoigne's mind seemed to run on political topics, +but whether relating to the past, present, or future, could not easily +be determined, since the same ideas and phrases have been in vogue these +fifty years. Now he rattled forth full-throated sentences about +patriotism, national glory, and the people's right; now he muttered some +perilous stuff or other, in a sly and doubtful whisper, so cautiously +that even his own conscience could scarcely catch the secret; and now, +again, he spoke in measured accents, and a deeply deferential tone, as +if a royal ear were listening to his well-turned periods. Colonel +Killigrew all this time had been trolling forth a jolly bottle song, and +ringing his glass in symphony with the chorus, while his eyes wandered +toward the buxom figure of the Widow Wycherly. On the other side of the +table, Mr. Medbourne was involved in a calculation of dollars and cents, +with which was strangely intermingled a project for supplying the East +Indies with ice, by harnessing a team of whales to the polar icebergs. + +As for the Widow Wycherly, she stood before the mirror courtesying and +simpering to her own image, and greeting it as the friend whom she loved +better than all the world beside. She thrust her face close to the +glass, to see whether some long-remembered wrinkle or crow's-foot had +indeed vanished. She examined whether the snow had so entirely melted +from her hair, that the venerable cap could be safely thrown aside. At +last, turning briskly away, she came with a sort of dancing step to the +table. + +"My dear old doctor," cried she, "pray favor me with another glass!" + +"Certainly, my dear madam, certainly!" replied the complaisant doctor; +"see! I have already filled the glasses." + +There, in fact, stood the four glasses, brimful of this wonderful water, +the delicate spray of which, as it effervesced from the surface, +resembled the tremulous glitter of diamonds. It was now so nearly +sunset, that the chamber had grown duskier than ever; but a mild and +moonlight splendor gleamed from within the vase, and rested alike on the +four guests and on the doctor's venerable figure. He sat in a +high-backed, elaborately-carved, oaken arm-chair, with a gray dignity of +aspect that might have well befitted that very Father Time, whose power +had never been disputed, save by this fortunate company. Even while +quaffing the third draught of the Fountain of Youth, they were almost +awed by the expression of his mysterious visage. + +But, the next moment, the exhilarating gush of young life shot through +their veins. They were now in the happy prime of youth. Age, with its +miserable train of cares, and sorrows, and diseases, was remembered only +as the trouble of a dream, from which they had joyously awoke. The +fresh gloss of the soul, so early lost, and without which the world's +successive scenes had been but a gallery of faded pictures, again threw +its enchantment over all their prospects. They felt like new-created +beings, in a new-created universe. + +"We are young! We are young!" they cried exultingly. + +Youth, like the extremity of age, had effaced the strongly-marked +characteristics of middle life, and mutually assimilated them all. They +were a group of merry youngsters, almost maddened with the exuberant +frolicsomeness of their years. The most singular effect of their gayety +was an impulse to mock the infirmity and decrepitude of which they had +so lately been the victims. They laughed loudly at their old-fashioned +attire, the wide-skirted coats and flapped waistcoats of the young men, +and the ancient cap and gown of the blooming girl. One limped across the +floor, like a gouty grandfather; one set a pair of spectacles astride of +his nose, and pretended to pore over the black-letter pages of the book +of magic; a third seated himself in an arm-chair, and strove to imitate +the venerable dignity of Dr. Heidegger. Then all shouted mirthfully, and +leaped about the room. The Widow Wycherly--if so fresh a damsel could be +called a widow--tripped up to the doctor's chair, with a mischievous +merriment in her rosy face. + +"Doctor, you dear old soul," cried she, "get up and dance with me!" And +then the four young people laughed louder than ever to think what a +queer figure the poor old doctor would cut. + +"Pray excuse me," answered the doctor, quietly. "I am old and rheumatic, +and my dancing days were over long ago. But either of these gay young +gentlemen will be glad of so pretty a partner." + +"Dance with me, Clara!" cried Colonel Killigrew. + +"No, no, I will be her partner!" shouted Mr. Gascoigne. + +"She promised me her hand fifty years ago!" exclaimed Mr. Medbourne. + +They all gathered round her. One caught both her hands in his passionate +grasp--another threw his arm about her waist--the third buried his hand +among the glossy curls that clustered beneath the widow's cap. Blushing, +panting, struggling, chiding, laughing, her warm breath fanning each of +their faces by turns, she strove to disengage herself, yet still +remained in their triple embrace. Never was there a livelier picture of +youthful rivalship, with bewitching beauty for the prize. Yet, by a +strange deception, owing to the duskiness of the chamber, and the +antique dresses which they still wore, the tall mirror is said to have +reflected the figures of the three old, gray, withered grand-sires, +ridiculously contending for the skinny ugliness of a shrivelled grandam. + +But they were young: their burning passions proved them so. Inflamed to +madness by the coquetry of the girl-widow, who neither granted nor quite +withheld her favors, the three rivals began to interchange threatening +glances. Still keeping hold of the fair prize, they grappled fiercely at +one another's throats. As they struggled to and fro, the table was +overturned, and the vase dashed into a thousand fragments. The precious +Water of Youth flowed in a bright stream across the floor, moistening +the wings of a butterfly, which, grown old in the decline of summer, had +alighted there to die. The insect fluttered lightly through the chamber, +and settled on the snowy head of Dr. Heidegger. + +"Come, come gentlemen!--come, Madame Wycherly," exclaimed the doctor, "I +really must protest against this riot." + +They stood still, and shivered; for it seemed as if gray Time were +calling them back from their sunny youth, far down into the chill and +darksome vale of years. They looked at old Dr. Heidegger, who sat in his +carved arm-chair, holding the rose of half a century, which he had +rescued from among the fragments of the shattered vase. At the motion +of his hand, the four rioters resumed their seats; the more readily +because their violent exertions had wearied them, youthful though they +were. + +"My poor Sylvia's rose!" ejaculated Dr. Heidegger, holding it in the +light of the sunset clouds; "it appears to be fading again." + +And so it was. Even while the party were looking at it, the flower +continued to shrivel up, till it became as dry and fragile as when the +doctor had first thrown it into the vase. He shook off the few drops of +moisture which clung to its petals. + +"I love it as well thus, as in its dewy freshness," observed he, +pressing the withered rose to his withered lips. While he spoke, the +butterfly fluttered down from the doctor's snowy head, and fell upon the +floor. + +His guests shivered again. A strange dullness, whether of the body or +spirit they could not tell, was creeping gradually over them all. They +gazed at one another, and fancied that each fleeting moment snatched +away a charm, and left a deepening furrow where none had been before. +Was it an illusion? Had the changes of a lifetime been crowded into so +brief a space, and were they now four aged people, sitting with their +old friend, Dr. Heidegger? + +"Are we grown old again, so soon?" cried they, dolefully. + +In truth they had. The Water of Youth possessed merely a virtue more +transient than that of wine. The delirium which it created had +effervesced away. Yes! they were old again. With a shuddering impulse, +that showed her a woman still, the widow clasped her skinny hands before +her face, and wished that the coffin lid were over it, since it could no +longer be beautiful. + +"Yes, friends, we are old again," said Dr. Heidegger; "and lo! the Water +of Youth is all lavished on the ground. Well--I bemoan it not; for if +the fountain gushed at my very doorstep, I would not stoop to bathe my +lips in it--no, though its delirium were for years instead of moments. +Such is the lesson ye have taught me!" + +But the doctor's four friends had taught no such lesson to themselves. +They resolved forthwith to make a pilgrimage to Florida, and quaff at +morning, noon, and night, from the Fountain of Youth. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 89: From "Twice Told Tales" 1837.] + + + + +MARKHEIM[90] + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + + +"Yes," said the dealer, "our windfalls are of various kinds. Some +customers are ignorant, and then I touch a dividend on my superior +knowledge. Some are dishonest," and here he held up the candle, so that +the light fell strongly on his visitor, "and in that case," he +continued, "I profit by my virtue." + +Markheim had but just entered from the daylight streets, and his eyes +had not yet grown familiar with the mingled shine and darkness in the +shop. At these pointed words, and before the near presence of the flame, +he blinked painfully and looked aside. + +The dealer chuckled. "You come to me on Christmas Day," he resumed, +"when you know that I am alone in my house, put up my shutters, and make +a point of refusing business. Well, you will have to pay for that; you +will have to pay for my loss of time, when I should be balancing my +books; you will have to pay, besides, for a kind of manner that I remark +in you to-day very strongly. I am the essence of discretion, and ask no +awkward questions; but when a customer cannot look me in the eye, he has +to pay for it." The dealer once more chuckled; and then, changing to his +usual business voice, though still with a note of irony, "You can give, +as usual, a clear account of how you came into the possession of the +object?" he continued. "Still your uncle's cabinet? A remarkable +collector, sir!" + +And the little pale, round-shouldered dealer stood almost on tip-toe, +looking over the top of his gold spectacles, and nodding his head with +every mark of disbelief. Markheim returned his gaze with one of infinite +pity, and a touch of horror. + +"This time," said he, "you are in error. I have not come to sell, but to +buy. I have no curios to dispose of; my uncle's cabinet is bare to the +wainscot; even were it still intact, I have done well on the Stock +Exchange, and should more likely add to it than otherwise, and my errand +to-day is simplicity itself. I seek a Christmas present for a lady," he +continued, waxing more fluent as he struck into the speech he had +prepared; "and certainly I owe you every excuse for thus disturbing you +upon so small a matter. But the thing was neglected yesterday; I must +produce my little compliment at dinner; and, as you very well know, a +rich marriage is not a thing to be neglected." + +There followed a pause, during which the dealer seemed to weigh this +statement incredulously. The ticking of many clocks among the curious +lumber of the shop, and the faint rushing of the cabs in a near +thoroughfare, filled up the interval of silence. + +"Well, sir," said the dealer, "be it so. You are an old customer after +all; and if, as you say, you have the chance of a good marriage, far be +it from me to be an obstacle. Here is a nice thing for a lady now," he +went on, "this hand glass--fifteenth century, warranted; comes from a +good collection, too, but I reserve the name, in the interests of my +customer, who was just like yourself, my dear sir, the nephew and sole +heir of a remarkable collector." + +The dealer, while he thus ran on in his dry and biting voice, had +stooped to take the object from its place; and, as he had done so, a +shock had passed through Markheim, a start both of hand and foot, a +sudden leap of many tumultuous passions to the face. It passed as +swiftly as it came, and left no trace beyond a certain trembling of the +hand that now received the glass. + +"A glass," he said hoarsely, and then paused, and repeated it more +clearly. "A glass? For Christmas? Surely not?" + +"And why not?" cried the dealer. "Why not a glass?" + +Markheim was looking upon him with an indefinable expression. "You ask +me why not?" he said. "Why, look here--look in it--look at yourself! Do +you like to see it? No! nor I--nor any man." + +The little man had jumped back when Markheim had so suddenly confronted +him with the mirror; but now, perceiving there was nothing worse on +hand, he chuckled. "Your future lady, sir, must be pretty hard favored," +said he. + +"I ask you," said Markheim, "for a Christmas present, and you give me +this--this damned reminder of years, and sins and follies--this +hand-conscience! Did you mean it? Had you a thought in your mind? Tell +me. It will be better for you if you do. Come, tell me about yourself. I +hazard a guess now, that you are in secret a very charitable man?" + +The dealer looked closely at his companion. It was very odd, Markheim +did not appear to be laughing; there was something in his face like an +eager sparkle of hope, but nothing of mirth. + +"What are you driving at?" the dealer asked. + +"Not charitable?" returned the other, gloomily. "Not charitable; not +pious; not scrupulous; unloving, unbeloved; a hand to get money, a safe +to keep it. Is that all? Dear God, man, is that all?" + +"I will tell you what it is," began the dealer, with some sharpness, and +then broke off again into a chuckle. "But I see this is a love match of +yours, and you have been drinking the lady's health." + +"Ah!" cried Markheim, with a strange curiosity. "Ah, have you been in +love? Tell me about that." + +"I," cried the dealer. "I in love! I never had the time, nor have I the +time to-day for all this nonsense. Will you take the glass?" + +"Where is the hurry?" returned Markheim. "It is very pleasant to stand +here talking; and life is so short and insecure that I would not hurry +away from any pleasure--no, not even from so mild a one as this. We +should rather cling, cling to what little we can get, like a man at a +cliff's edge. Every second is a cliff, if you think upon it--a cliff a +mile high--high enough, if we fall, to dash us out of every feature of +humanity. Hence it is best to talk pleasantly. Let us talk of each +other; why should we wear this mask? Let us be confidential. Who knows, +we might become friends?" + +"I have just one word to say to you," said the dealer. "Either make your +purchase, or walk out of my shop." + +"True, true," said Markheim. "Enough fooling. To business. Show me +something else." + +The dealer stooped once more, this time to replace the glass upon the +shelf, his thin blond hair falling over his eyes as he did so. Markheim +moved a little nearer, with one hand in the pocket of his greatcoat; he +drew himself up and filled his lungs; at the same time many different +emotions were depicted together on his face--terror, horror, and +resolve, fascination and a physical repulsion; and through a haggard +lift of his upper lip, his teeth looked out. + +"This, perhaps, may suit," observed the dealer; and then, as he began to +rearise, Markheim bounded from behind upon his victim. The long, +skewerlike dagger flashed and fell. The dealer struggled like a hen, +striking his temple on the shelf, and then tumbled on the floor in a +heap. + +Time had some score of small voices in that shop, some stately and slow +as was becoming to their great age; others garrulous and hurried. All +these told out the seconds in an intricate chorus of tickings. Then the +passage of a lad's feet, heavily running on the pavement, broke in upon +these smaller voices and startled Markheim into the consciousness of his +surroundings. He looked about him awfully. The candle stood on the +counter, its flame solemnly wagging in a draught; and by that +inconsiderable movement, the whole room was filled with noiseless bustle +and kept heaving like a sea: the tall shadows nodding, the gross blots +of darkness swelling and dwindling as with respiration, the faces of the +portraits and the china gods changing and wavering like images in +water. The inner door stood ajar, and peered into that leaguer of +shadows with a long slit of daylight like a pointing finger. + +From these fear-stricken rovings, Markheim's eyes returned to the body +of his victim, where it lay both humped and sprawling, incredibly small +and strangely meaner than in life. In these poor, miserly clothes, in +that ungainly attitude, the dealer lay like so much sawdust. Markheim +had feared to see it, and, lo! it was nothing. And yet, as he gazed, +this bundle of old clothes and pool of blood began to find eloquent +voices. There it must lie; there was none to work the cunning hinges or +direct the miracle of locomotion--there it must lie till it was found. +Found! ay, and then? Then would this dead flesh lift up a cry that would +ring over England, and fill the world with the echoes of pursuit. Ay, +dead or not, this was still the enemy. "Time was that when the brains +were out," he thought; and the first word struck into his mind. Time, +now that the deed was accomplished--time, which had closed for the +victim, had become instant and momentous for the slayer. + +The thought was yet in his mind, when, first one and then another, with +every variety of pace and voice--one deep as the bell from a cathedral +turret, another ringing on its treble notes the prelude of a waltz--the +clocks began to strike the hour of three in the afternoon. + +The sudden outbreak of so many tongues in that dumb chamber staggered +him. He began to bestir himself, going to and fro with the candle, +beleaguered by moving shadows, and startled to the soul by chance +reflections. In many rich mirrors, some of home designs, some from +Venice or Amsterdam, he saw his face repeated and repeated, as it were +an army of spies; his own eyes met and detected him; and the sound of +his own steps, lightly as they fell, vexed the surrounding quiet. And +still as he continued to fill his pockets, his mind accused him, with a +sickening iteration, of the thousand faults of his design. He should +have chosen a more quiet hour; he should have prepared an alibi; he +should not have used a knife; he should have been more cautious, and +only bound and gagged the dealer, and not killed him; he should have +been more bold, and killed the servant also; he should have done all +things otherwise; poignant regrets, weary, incessant toiling of the mind +to change what was unchangeable, to plan what was now useless, to be the +architect of the irrevocable past. Meanwhile, and behind all this +activity, brute terrors, like the scurrying of rats in a deserted attic, +filled the more remote chambers of his brain with riot; the hand of the +constable would fall heavy on his shoulder, and his nerves would jerk +like a hooked fish; or he beheld, in galloping defile, the dock, the +prison, the gallows, and the black coffin. + +Terror of the people in the street sat down before his mind like a +besieging army. It was impossible, he thought, but that some rumour of +the struggle must have reached their ears and set on edge their +curiosity; and now, in all the neighbouring houses, he divined them +sitting motionless and with uplifted ear--solitary people, condemned to +spend Christmas dwelling alone on memories of the past, and now +startlingly recalled from that tender exercise; happy family parties, +struck into silence round the table, the mother still with raised +finger: every degree and age and humour, but all, by their own hearths, +prying and hearkening and weaving the rope that was to hang him. +Sometimes it seemed to him he could not move too softly; the clink of +the tall Bohemian goblets rang out loudly like a bell; and alarmed by +the bigness of the ticking, he was tempted to stop the clocks. And then, +again, with a swift transition of his terrors, the very silence of the +place appeared a source of peril, and a thing to strike and freeze the +passer-by; and he would step more boldly, and bustle aloud among the +contents of the shop, and imitate, with elaborate bravado, the movements +of a busy man at ease in his own house. + +But he was now so pulled about by different alarms that, while one +portion of his mind was still alert and cunning, another trembled on the +brink of lunacy. One hallucination in particular took a strong hold on +his credulity. The neighbour hearkening with white face beside his +window, the passer-by arrested by a horrible surmise on the +pavement--these could at worst suspect, they could not know; through the +brick walls and shuttered windows only sounds could penetrate. But here, +within the house, was he alone? He knew he was; he had watched the +servant set forth sweethearting, in her poor best, "out for the day" +written in every ribbon and smile. Yes, he was alone, of course; and +yet, in the bulk of empty house above him, he could surely hear a stir +of delicate footing--he was surely conscious, inexplicably conscious of +some presence. Ay, surely; to every room and corner of the house his +imagination followed it; and now it was a faceless thing, and yet had +eyes to see with; and again it was a shadow of himself; and yet again +behold the image of the dead dealer, reinspired with cunning and hatred. + +At times, with a strong effort, he would glance at the open door which +still seemed to repel his eyes. The house was tall, the skylight small +and dirty, the day blind with fog; and the light that filtered down to +the ground story was exceedingly faint, and showed dimly on the +threshold of the shop. And yet, in that strip of doubtful brightness, +did there not hang wavering a shadow? + +Suddenly, from the street outside, a very jovial gentleman began to beat +with a staff on the shop-door, accompanying his blows with shouts and +railleries in which the dealer was continually called upon by name. +Markheim, smitten into ice, glanced at the dead man. But no! he lay +quite still; he was fled away far beyond earshot of these blows and +shoutings; he was sunk beneath seas of silence; and his name, which +would once have caught his notice above the howling of a storm, had +become an empty sound. And presently the jovial gentleman desisted from +his knocking and departed. + +Here was a broad hint to hurry what remained to be done, to get forth +from this accusing neighbourhood, to plunge into a bath of London +multitudes, and to reach, on the other side of day, that haven of safety +and apparent innocence--his bed. One visitor had come: at any moment +another might follow and be more obstinate. To have done the deed, and +yet not to reap the profit, would be too abhorrent a failure. The money, +that was now Markheim's concern; and as a means to that, the keys. + +He glanced over his shoulder at the open door, where the shadow was +still lingering and shivering; and with no conscious repugnance of the +mind, yet with a tremor of the belly, he drew near the body of his +victim. The human character had quite departed. Like a suit half-stuffed +with bran, the limbs lay scattered, the trunk doubled, on the floor; and +yet the thing repelled him. Although so dingy and inconsiderable to the +eye, he feared it might have more significance to the touch. He took the +body by the shoulders; and turned it on its back. It was strangely light +and supple, and the limbs, as if they had been broken, fell into the +oddest postures. The face was robbed of all expression; but it was as +pale as wax, and shockingly smeared with blood about one temple. That +was, for Markheim, the one displeasing circumstance. It carried him +back, upon the instant, to a certain fair day in a fishers' village: a +gray day, a piping wind, a crowd upon the street, the blare of brasses, +the booming of drums, the nasal voice of a ballad singer; and a boy +going to and fro, buried over head in the crowd and divided between +interest and fear, until, coming out upon the chief place of concourse, +he beheld a booth and a great screen with pictures, dismally designed, +garishly coloured: Brownrigg with her apprentice; the Mannings with +their murdered guest; Weare in the death-grip of Thurtell; and a score +besides of famous crimes. The thing was as clear as an illusion: he was +once again that little boy; he was looking once again, and with the same +sense of physical revolt, at these vile pictures; he was still stunned +by the thumping of the drums. A bar of that day's music returned upon +his memory; and at that, for the first time, a qualm came over him, a +breath of nausea, a sudden weakness of the joints, which he must +instantly resist and conquer. + +He judged it more prudent to confront than to flee from these +considerations; looking the more hardily in the dead face, bending his +mind to realise the nature and greatness of his crime. So little a while +ago that face had moved with every change of sentiment, that pale mouth +had spoken, that body had been all on fire with governable energies; and +now, and by his act, that piece of life had been arrested, as the +horologist, with interjected finger, arrests the beating of the clock. +So he reasoned in vain; he could rise to no more remorseful +consciousness; the same heart which had shuddered before the painted +effigies of crime, looked on its reality unmoved. At best, he felt a +gleam of pity for one who had been endowed in vain with all those +faculties that can make the world a garden of enchantment, one who had +never lived and who was now dead. But of penitence, no, not a tremor. + +With that, shaking himself clear of these considerations, he found the +keys and advanced towards the open door of the shop. Outside, it had +begun to rain smartly; and the sound of the shower upon the roof had +banished silence. Like some dripping cavern, the chambers of the house +were haunted by an incessant echoing, which filled the ear and mingled +with the ticking of the clocks. And, as Markheim approached the door, he +seemed to hear, in answer to his own cautious tread, the steps of +another foot withdrawing up the stair. The shadow still palpitated +loosely on the threshold. He threw a ton's weight of resolve upon his +muscles, and drew back the door. + +The faint, foggy daylight glimmered dimly on the bare floor and stairs; +on the bright suit of armour posted, halbert in hand, upon the landing; +and on the dark wood-carvings, and framed pictures that hung against the +yellow panels of the wainscot. So loud was the beating of the rain +through all the house that, in Markheim's ears, it began to be +distinguished into many different sounds. Footsteps and sighs, the tread +of regiments marching in the distance, the chink of money in the +counting, and the creaking of doors held stealthily ajar, appeared to +mingle with the patter of the drops upon the cupola and the gushing of +the water in the pipes. The sense that he was not alone grew upon him to +the verge of madness. On every side he was haunted and begirt by +presences. He heard them moving in the upper chambers; from the shop, he +heard the dead man getting to his legs; and as he began with a great +effort to mount the stairs, feet fled quietly before him and followed +stealthily behind. If he were but deaf, he thought, how tranquilly he +would possess his soul! And then again, and hearkening with ever fresh +attention, he blessed himself for that unresting sense which held the +outposts and stood a trusty sentinel upon his life. His head turned +continually on his neck; his eyes, which seemed starting from their +orbits, scouted on every side, and on every side were half-rewarded as +with the tail of something nameless vanishing. The four-and-twenty steps +to the first floor were four-and-twenty agonies. + +On that first storey, the doors stood ajar, three of them like three +ambushes, shaking his nerves like the throats of cannon. He could never +again, he felt, be sufficiently immured and fortified from men's +observing eyes; he longed to be home, girt in by walls, buried among +bedclothes, and invisible to all but God. And at that thought he +wondered a little, recollecting tales of other murderers and the fear +they were said to entertain of heavenly avengers. It was not so, at +least, with him. He feared the laws of nature, lest, in their callous +and immutable procedure, they should preserve some damning evidence of +his crime. He feared tenfold more, with a slavish, superstitious terror, +some scission in the continuity of man's experience, some wilful +illegality of nature. He played a game of skill, depending on the +rules, calculating consequence from cause; and what if nature, as the +defeated tyrant overthrew the chess-board, should break the mould of +their succession? The like had befallen Napoleon (so writers said) when +the winter changed the time of its appearance. The like might befall +Markheim: the solid walls might become transparent and reveal his doings +like those of bees in a glass hive; the stout planks might yield under +his feet like quicksands and detain him in their clutch; ay, and there +were soberer accidents that might destroy him: if, for instance, the +house should fall and imprison him beside the body of his victim; or the +house next door should fly on fire, and the firemen invade him from all +sides. These things he feared; and, in a sense, these things might be +called the hands of God reached forth against sin. But about God himself +he was at ease; his act was doubtless exceptional, but so were his +excuses, which God knew; it was there, and not among men, that he felt +sure of justice. + +When he had got safe into the drawing-room, and shut the door behind +him, he was aware of a respite from alarms. The room was quite +dismantled, uncarpeted besides, and strewn with packing cases and +incongruous furniture; several great pier-glasses, in which he beheld +himself at various angles, like an actor on a stage; many pictures, +framed and unframed, standing, with their faces to the wall; a fine +Sheraton sideboard, a cabinet of marquetry, and a great old bed, with +tapestry hangings. The windows opened to the floor; but by great good +fortune the lower part of the shutters had been closed, and this +concealed him from the neighbours. Here, then, Markheim drew in a +packing case before the cabinet, and began to search among the keys. It +was a long business, for there were many; and it was irksome, besides; +for, after all, there might be nothing in the cabinet, and time was on +the wing. But the closeness of the occupation sobered him. With the tail +of his eye he saw the door--even glanced at it from time to time +directly like a besieged commander pleased to verify the good estate of +his defences. But in truth he was at peace. The rain falling in the +street sounded natural and pleasant. Presently, on the other side, the +notes of a piano were wakened to the music of a hymn, and the voices of +many children took up the air and words. How stately, how comfortable +was the melody! How fresh the youthful voices! Markheim gave ear to it +smilingly, as he sorted out the keys; and his mind was thronged with +answerable ideas and images; church-going children and the pealing of +the high organ; children afield, bathers by the brookside, ramblers on +the brambly common, kite-flyers in the windy and cloud-navigated sky; +and then, at another cadence of the hymn, back again to church, and the +somnolence of summer Sundays, and the high genteel voice of the parson +(which he smiled a little to recall) and the painted Jacobean tombs, and +the dim lettering of the Ten Commandments in the chancel. + +And as he sat thus, at once busy and absent, he was startled to his +feet. A flash of ice, a flash of fire, a bursting gush of blood, went +over him, and then he stood transfixed and thrilling. A step mounted the +stair slowly and steadily, and presently a hand was laid upon the knob, +and the lock clicked, and the door opened. + +Fear held Markheim in a vice. What to expect he knew not, whether the +dead man walking, or the official ministers of human justice, or some +chance witness blindly stumbling in to consign him to the gallows. But +when a face was thrust into the aperture, glanced round the room, looked +at him, nodded and smiled as if in friendly recognition, and then +withdrew again, and the door closed behind it, his fear broke loose from +his control in a hoarse cry. At the sound of this the visitant returned. + +"Did you call me?" he asked pleasantly, and with that he entered the +room and closed the door behind him. + +Markheim stood and gazed at him with all his eyes. Perhaps there was a +film upon his sight, but the outlines of the newcomer seemed to change +and waver like those of the idols in the wavering candle-light of the +shop; and at times he thought he knew him; and at times he thought he +bore a likeness to himself; and always like a lump of living terror, +there lay in his bosom the conviction that this thing was not of the +earth and not of God. + +And yet the creature had a strange air of the commonplace, as he stood +looking on Markheim with a smile; and when he added, "You are looking +for the money, I believe?" it was in the tones of everyday politeness. + +Markheim made no answer. + +"I should warn you," resumed the other, "that the maid has left her +sweetheart earlier than usual and will soon be here. If Mr. Markheim be +found in this house, I need not describe to him the consequences." + +"You know me?" cried the murderer. + +The visitor smiled. "You have long been a favourite of mine," he said; +"and I have long observed and often sought to help you." + +"What are you?" cried Markheim; "the devil?" + +"What I may be," returned the other, "cannot affect the service I +propose to render you." + +"It can," cried Markheim; "it does! Be helped by you? No, never; not by +you! You do not know me yet; thank God, you do not know me!" + +"I know you," replied the visitant, with a sort of kind severity or +rather firmness. "I know you to the soul." + +"Know me!" cried Markheim. "Who can do so? My life is but a travesty and +slander on myself. I have lived to belie my nature. All men do; all men +are better than this disguise that grows about and stifles them. You see +each dragged away by life, like one whom bravos have seized and muffled +in a cloak. If they had their own control--if you could see their faces, +they would be altogether different, they would shine out for heroes and +saints! I am worse than most; myself is more overlaid; my excuse is +known to me and God. But, had I the time, I could disclose myself." + +"To me?" inquired the visitant. + +"To you before all," returned the murderer. "I supposed you were +intelligent. I thought--since you exist--you would prove a reader of the +heart. And yet you would propose to judge me by my acts! Think of it; my +acts! I was born and I have lived in a land of giants; giants have +dragged me by the wrists since I was born out of my mother--the giants +of circumstance. And you would judge me by my acts! But can you not look +within? Can you not understand that evil is hateful to me? Can you not +see within me the clear writing of conscience, never blurred by any +wilful sophistry, although too often disregarded? Can you not read me +for a thing that surely must be common as humanity--the unwilling +sinner?" + +"All this is very feelingly expressed," was the reply, "but it regards +me not. These points of consistency are beyond my province, and I care +not in the least by what compulsion you may have been dragged away, so +as you are but carried in the right direction. But time flies; the +servant delays, looking in the faces of the crowd and at the pictures on +the hoardings, but still she keeps moving nearer; and remember, it is as +if the gallows itself was striding towards you through the Christmas +streets! Shall I help you; I, who know all? Shall I tell you where to +find the money?" + +"For what price?" asked Markheim. + +"I offer you the service for a Christmas gift," returned the other. + +Markheim could not refrain from smiling with a kind of bitter triumph. +"No," said he, "I will take nothing at your hands; if I were dying of +thirst, and it was your hand that put the pitcher to my lips, I should +find the courage to refuse. It may be credulous, but I will do nothing +to commit myself to evil." + +"I have no objection to a death-bed repentance," observed the visitant. + +"Because you disbelieve their efficacy!" Markheim cried. + +"I do not say so," returned the other; "but I look on these things from +a different side, and when the life is done my interest falls. The man +has lived to serve me, to spread black looks under colour of religion, +or to sow tares in the wheat-field, as you do, in a course of weak +compliance with desire. Now that he draws so near to his deliverance, he +can add but one act of service--to repent, to die smiling, and thus to +build up in confidence and hope the more timorous of my surviving +followers. I am not so hard a master. Try me. Accept my help. Please +yourself in life as you have done hitherto; please yourself more amply, +spread your elbows at the board; and when the night begins to fall and +the curtains to be drawn, I tell you, for your greater comfort, that you +will find it even easy to compound your quarrel with your conscience, +and to make a truckling peace with God. I came but now from such a +death-bed, and the room was full of sincere mourners, listening to the +man's last words: and when I looked into that face, which had been set +as a flint against mercy, I found it smiling with hope." + +"And do you, then, suppose me such a creature?" asked Markheim. "Do you +think I have no more generous aspirations than to sin, and sin, and sin, +and, at last, sneak into heaven? My heart rises at the thought. Is this, +then, your experience of mankind? or is it because you find me with red +hands that you presume such baseness? and is this crime of murder indeed +so impious as to dry up the very springs of good?" + +"Murder is to me no special category," replied the other. "All sins are +murder, even as all life is war. I behold your race, like starving +mariners on a raft, plucking crusts out of the hands of famine and +feeding on each other's lives. I follow sins beyond the moment of their +acting; I find in all that the last consequence is death; and to my +eyes, the pretty maid who thwarts her mother with such taking graces on +a question of a ball, drips no less visibly with human gore than such a +murderer as yourself. Do I say that I follow sins? I follow virtues +also; they differ not by the thickness of a nail, they are both scythes +for the reaping angel of Death. Evil, for which I live, consists not in +action, but in character. The bad man is dear to me; not the bad act, +whose fruits, if we could follow them far enough down the hurtling +cataract of the ages, might yet be found more blessed than those of the +rarest virtues. And it is not because you have killed a dealer, but +because you are Markheim, that I offered to forward your escape." + +"I will lay my heart open to you," answered Markheim. "This crime on +which you find me is my last. On my way to it I have learned many +lessons; itself is a lesson, a momentous lesson. Hitherto I have been +driven with revolt to what I would not; I was a bond-slave to poverty, +driven and scourged. There are robust virtues that can stand in these +temptations; mine was not so: I had a thirst of pleasure. But to-day, +and out of this deed, I pluck both warning and riches--both the power +and a fresh resolve to be myself. I become in all things a free actor in +the world; I begin to see myself all changed, these hands the agents of +good, this heart at peace. Something comes over me out of the past; +something of what I have dreamed on Sabbath evenings to the sound of the +church organ, of what I forecast when I shed tears over noble books, or +talked, an innocent child, with my mother. There lies my life; I have +wandered a few years, but now I see once more my city of destination." + +"You are to use this money on the Stock Exchange, I think?" remarked the +visitor; "and there, if I mistake not, you have already lost some +thousands?" + +"Ah," said Markheim, "but this time I have a sure thing." + +"This time, again, you will lose," replied the visitor, quietly. + +"Ah, but I keep back the half!" cried Markheim. + +"That also you will lose," said the other. + +The sweat started upon Markheim's brow. "Well, then, what matter?" he +exclaimed. "Say it be lost, say I am plunged again in poverty, shall one +part of me, and that the worse, continue until the end to override the +better? Evil and good run strong in me, haling me both ways. I do not +love the one thing, I love all. I can conceive great deeds, +renunciations, martyrdoms; and though I be fallen to such a crime as +murder, pity is no stranger to my thoughts. I pity the poor; who knows +their trials better than myself? I pity and help them; I prize love, I +love honest laughter; there is no good thing nor true thing on earth but +I love it from my heart. And are my vices only to direct my life, and my +virtues to lie without effect, like some passive lumber of the mind? Not +so; good, also, is a spring of acts." + +But the visitant raised his finger. "For six-and-thirty years that you +have been in this world," said he, "through many changes of fortune and +varieties of humour, I have watched you steadily fall. Fifteen years ago +you would have started at a theft. Three years back you would have +blenched at the name of murder. Is there any crime, is there any cruelty +or meanness, from which you still recoil?--five years from now I shall +detect you in the fact! Downward, downward, lies your way; nor can +anything but death avail to stop you." + +"It is true," Markheim said huskily, "I have in some degree complied +with evil. But it is so with all: the very saints, in the mere exercise +of living, grow less dainty, and take on the tone of their +surroundings." + +"I will propound to you one simple question," said the other; "and as +you answer, I shall read to you your moral horoscope. You have grown in +many things more lax; possibly you do right to be so; and at any +account, it is the same with all men. But granting that, are you in any +one particular, however trifling, more difficult to please with your own +conduct, or do you go in all things with a looser rein?" + +"In any one?" repeated Markheim, with an anguish of consideration. "No," +he added, with despair, "in none! I have gone down in all." + +"Then," said, the visitor, "content yourself with what you are, for you +will never change; and the words of your part on this stage are +irrevocably written down." + +Markheim stood for a long while silent, and indeed it was the visitor +who first broke the silence. "That being so," he said, "shall I show you +the money?" + +"And grace?" cried Markheim. + +"Have you not tried it?" returned the other. "Two or three years ago, +did I not see you on the platform of revival meetings, and was not your +voice the loudest in the hymn?" + +"It is true," said Markheim; "and I see clearly what remains for me by +way of duty. I thank you for these lessons from my soul; my eyes are +opened, and I behold myself at last for what I am." + +At this moment, the sharp note of the door-bell rang through the house; +and the visitant, as though this were some concerted signal for which he +had been waiting, changed at once in his demeanour. + +"The maid!" he cried. "She has returned, as I forewarned you, and there +is now before you one more difficult passage. Her master, you must say, +is ill; you must let her in, with an assured but rather serious +countenance--no smiles, no overacting, and I promise you success! Once +the girl within, and the door closed, the same dexterity that has +already rid you of the dealer will relieve you of this last danger in +your path. Thenceforward you have the whole evening--the whole night, if +needful--to ransack the treasures of the house and to make good your +safety. This is help that comes to you with the mask of danger. Up!" he +cried; "up, friend; your life hangs trembling in the scales; up, and +act!" + +Markheim steadily regarded his counsellor. "If I be condemned to evil +acts," he said, "there is still one door of freedom open--I can cease +from action. If my life be an ill thing, I can lay it down. Though I be, +as you say truly, at the beck of every small temptation, I can yet, by +one decisive gesture, place myself beyond the reach of all. My love of +good is damned to barrenness; it may, and let it be! But I have still my +hatred of evil; and from that, to your galling disappointment, you shall +see that I can draw both energy and courage." + +The features of the visitor began to undergo a wonderful and lovely +change: they brightened and softened with a tender triumph; and, even as +they brightened, faded and dislimned. But Markheim did not pause to +watch or understand the transformation. He opened the door and went +downstairs very slowly, thinking to himself. His past went soberly +before him; he beheld it as it was, ugly and strenuous like a dream, +random as chance-medley--a scene of defeat. Life, as he thus reviewed +it, tempted him no longer; but on the further side he perceived a quiet +haven for his bark. He paused in the passage, and looked into the shop, +where the candle still burned by the dead body. It was strangely silent. +Thoughts of the dealer swarmed into his mind, as he stood gazing. And +then the bell once more broke out into impatient clamour. + +He confronted the maid upon the threshold with something like a smile. + +"You had better go for the police," said he; "I have killed your +master." + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 90: First published in 1885.] + + + + +SUPPLEMENTARY READINGS + +WITH SOME TOPICS FOR DISCUSSION AND FOR COMPOSITION + +(Note.--The selections named below are as a rule short; and, since they +are contained in standard works of modern prose, they are accessible in +the average library. Page numbers in parentheses refer to the present +volume.) + + +I. THE PERSONAL LIFE + +(_a_) William Hazlitt, _On Personal Character_, in "The Plain Speaker": +How the main thesis differs from that in Emerson's _Self-Reliance_ (page +1). (_b_) Walter Pater, _Diaphaneité_, in "Miscellaneous Studies": The +substance of the ideal personality here delineated, and how it differs +from the type suggested by Emerson. (_c_) Matthew Arnold, _Doing as One +Likes_, or _Hebraism and Hellenism_, in "Culture and Anarchy": The main +principles of personal endeavor suggested in either of these essays. +(_d_) Plutarch, _Marcus Cato,_ in "Lives," Vol. II of Clough's +translation: 1. Cato's Self-Reliance. 2. Cato's type of character in +American public life. (_e_) Walter Scott, fragment of _Autobiography_, +in Lockhart's "Life of Scott:" A comparison of Scott's early training +with Ruskin's. See also the early chapters of (_f_) Trevelyan's "Life of +Macaulay" and (_g_) Froude's "Life of Carlyle." (_h_) Charles Darwin, +_Autobiography_, in "Life and Letters:" 1. The change which came over +Darwin's attitude toward literature. 2. The contrast between Darwin's +type of mind and Lamb's as revealed in _Old China_ (page 40) and Pater's +essay (page 437). + + +II. EDUCATION + +(_a_) R.W. Emerson, _The American Scholar_, in "Nature, Addresses, +Lectures:" The main points in the view here given of education. 2. +Certain considerations, somewhat neglected by Emerson, but developed by +Newman (page 52). (_b_) Woodrow Wilson, _The Training of Intellect_ (an +address to the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Yale University): How far your +own course of study is fulfilling the requirements here set forth, (_c_) +William Hazlitt, _On Application to Study_, in "The Plain Speaker:" 1. +Hazlitt's view of the study of composition. 2. How the principles of +application which he advocates may be applied to some other study in +which you are interested. (_d_) T.H. Huxley, _Science and Culture_, in +"Science and Education:" 1. How far the principles here set forth bear +out Huxley's definition of education (page 47). 2. The main point at +issue between Huxley and Arnold (Arnold's essay, page 75, is a reply to +Huxley), and your own view of the matter drawn from your own experience. +(_e_) J.S. Mill, _Inaugural Address at St. Andrew's,_ in +"Dissertations," Vol. IV: Mill's main contentions as to the exact +purpose and value of the study of language and literature in +universities. (_f_) H.D. Thoreau, _Reading_, in "Walden:" The author's +views in regard to reading not done in connection with school work. +(_g_) A.G. Balfour, _Pleasures of Reading_, in "Essays and Addresses" +(written as a reply to Harrison's claims, page 97): The main points at +issue between Harrison and Balfour, and your own view of the matter. +(_h_) John Lubbock, _The Choice of Books_, in "The Pleasures of Life:" +Whether this essay goes to support Harrison's or Balfour's view, and +how. (_i_) Woodrow Wilson, essays in "Mere Literature." (_j_) John +Ruskin, _Sesame and Lilies_. (_k_) Consult several biographies of great +men--for example, Morley's _Gladstone_, Froude's _Carlyle_, Darwin's +_Life_, Huxley's _Life_--and make a comparative study of their early +reading. + + +III. RECREATION AND TRAVELS + +(_a_) George Santayana, on _Work and Play_, sections 3 and following, in +"The Sense of Beauty," Part I: 1. The distinction between working and +playing. 2. The relation between the sense of beauty and the sense of +pleasure. (_b_) William Hazlitt, _On Living to One's Self_, in "Table +Talk:" 1. The general method of enjoying life, which is developed here +and illustrated further in _On Going a Journey_ (page 116). (_c_) R.L. +Stevenson, _Walking Tours_, in "Virginibus Puerisque;" and _Roads_, in +"Essays of Travel:" 1. The several ways in which these essays reflect +Hazlitt's views; the points which are peculiar to Stevenson. 2. How far +your own methods of securing outdoor enjoyment are in accord with +Hazlitt's and Stevenson's. (_d_) W.H. Hudson, _Idle Days_, in "Idle Days +in Patagonia:" What the author's so-called idleness consisted in. (_e_) +Francis Parkman, _Hunting Indians_, in "The Oregon Trail:" The mental +experiences of the writer himself in the course of the exploit he +describes. + + +IV. SOCIAL LIFE AND MANNERS + +(_a_) R.W. Emerson, _Culture_, in "The Conduct of Life:" The relation +which the central thought bears to that of Behavior (page 154). (_b_) +Matthew Arnold, _Sweetness and Light_, in "Culture and Anarchy:" 1. The +chief motives and characteristics of culture. 2. The relation between +culture and bodily vigor. 3. The "Social Idea." 4. A comparison of +Emerson's and Arnold's attitude toward culture. (_c_) R.W. Emerson, +_Manners_, in "Essays, Second Series." How Emerson's view of the +relation between manners and fashion supplements Spencer's contention +(page 172). (_d_) Henri Bergson, _the first part of Chapter I_ in +"Laughter:" The function of laughter in social life. (_g_) William +Hazlitt, _On the Spirit of Obligations_, in "The Plain Dealer:" The +relation between good sense and good nature. (_f_) R.L. Stevenson, _The +Truth of Intercourse_, in "Virginibus Puerisque:" The complex meaning of +truthfulness in social life. (_g_) W.M. Thackeray, _George II_, in "The +Four Georges:" The chief characteristics of Georgian society. + + +V. PUBLIC AFFAIRS + +(_a_) Plato, _The Apology_, in the "Dialogues," translated by Jowett, +and by others: 1. The part played by Socrates in the public life of +Athens. 2. What function Socrates could fulfil in American public life. +(_b_) J.S. Mill, _Civilization_, in "Dissertations and Discussions," +Vol. I: The ill effects of civilization, and how they may be overcome. +(_c_) Henry George, _The Persistence of Poverty amid Advancing Wealth_, +in Book V of "Progress and Poverty:" George's exposition of the problem +tested by your own experience. (_d_) J.S. Mill, _Of the Dangers to which +Representative Government is Liable,_ in "Considerations on +Representative Government:" The extent to which Mill's contentions apply +to the United States. (_e_) Josiah Royce, _Some American Problems_, in +"The Philosophy of Loyalty:" 1. The general solution proposed. 2. How +this solution might be applied to some public or college problem you +know of. + + +VI. SCIENCE + +(_a_) Herbert Spencer, _The Genesis of Science_, in "Illustrations of +Universal Progress:" The essential nature of science. (_b_) T.H. Huxley, +_The Method of Scientific Investigation_, in "Man's Place in Nature:" +The relation between scientific and everyday modes of thinking. (_c_) +John Tyndall, _On the nature and function of the sun_, in Chapter XIV of +"Heat as a Mode of Motion:" The general relation between the facts +presented by Tyndall and those presented in _The Physical Basis of Life_ +(page 240). (_d_) A.R. Wallace, _Darwinism as Applied to Man_, in +"Darwinism": A comparison of this piece, in respect to aim and method, +with Darwin's _Mental Powers of Men and Animals_ (page 263). (_e_) +Charles Darwin, _On the flower of the ladies' slipper_, in Chapter VIII +of "Fertilization of Orchids by Insects." (_f_) T.H. Huxley, _On the +Formation of Coal_, in "Discourses Biological." + + +VII. NATURE + +(_a_) R.W. Emerson, _Nature_, in "Essays, Second Series:" The effect of +nature on the human mind. (_b_) H.D. Thoreau, _Spring_, in "Walden:" 1. +The formative principle in nature. 2. A comparison of Thoreau's attitude +toward nature, as revealed here and in "Walden Pond" (page 306), with +that of Emerson. (_c_) John Burroughs, _The Pastoral Bees_ in "Locusts +and Wild Honey:" The communal life of the bees. (_d_) W.H. Hudson, _The +Perfume of an Evening Primrose_, in "Idle Days in Patagonia:" The +association of phenomena of nature with events in one's life. (_e_) +Leslie Stephen, _Sunset on Mont Blanc_, in "The Playground of Europe:" +An analysis of the circumstances which combined to give this sunset its +peculiar interest. (_f_) John Ruskin, descriptions of _water, sky, +clouds, and foliage_ in "Modern Painters," Vol. I (look up passages +other than those selected for the present volume, page 325): in each +case, distinguish the _chief_ beautiful effect which the author wishes +to bring out. + + +VIII. CONDUCT AND INNER LIFE + +(_a_) William James, _The Will to Believe_, in "The Will to Believe, and +other Essays:" The bearing of religious conviction on volition and +conduct. (_b_) Josiah Royce, _Loyalty to Loyalty_, in "The Philosophy of +Loyalty:" 1. The exact meaning of the title. 2. How the main thesis is +fundamental for _Loyalty and Insight_ (page 365). (_c_) R.W. Emerson, +_The Over-Soul_, in "Essays, First Series:" 1. How the conception here +developed appears again in other essays of Emerson which you have read. +2. How Emerson's attitude toward spiritual truth differs from that of +James; see (_a_), above. (_d_) Josiah Royce, _What is Vital_ in +Christianity? in "William James and Other Essays:" The central thought +as compared with Seeley's (page 351). (_e_) George Santayana, _The +Poetry of Christian Dogma_, in "Poetry and Religion:" The full +significance of the title. (_f_) J.R. Seeley, _Christ's Royalty_, in +"Ecce Homo:" The significance of the term "King" as applied to Christ. +(_g_) G.L. Dickinson, _The Greek View of Religion_, in "The Greek View +of Life:" 1. How the Greek differs from the Christian view. 2. The most +admirable features of the Greek view. (_h_) Walter Pater, _A Study of +Dionysus_, in "Greek Studies:" What Dionysus was symbolic of. (_i_) +William James, _Habit_, in "Psychology," Vol. I: The significance of +habits, tested by your own experience. (_j_) W.E.H. Lecky, _The +Management of Character_, in "The Map of Life:" Specific methods by +which one may mold one's own character. + + +IX. LITERATURE AND ART + +(_a_) George Santayana, _Art and Happiness_, in "The Life of Reason," +Vol. IV: 1. What is Art? 2. The position of literature among the arts. +3. What art needs at the present day. (_b_) Walter Bagehot, On +_Wordsworth_, in "Essay on Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Browning:" The +nature of pure art. (_c_) Matthew Arnold, _Wordsworth_, in "Essays in +Criticism:" A comparison of Arnold's main thesis in regard to Wordsworth +with Bagehot's; see (_b_) above. (_d_) G.H. Lewes, _The Principle of +Sincerity_, in "The Principles of Success in Literature:" The relation +between sincerity and success in literature. (_e_) Thomas Carlyle, +_Dante_, in "On Heroes and Hero-Worship:" 1. The chief differences +between Dante and Shakespeare (see page 423). 2. How the principle of +sincerity (see (_d_) above) is illustrated in the case of Dante. (_f_) +P.B. Shelley, _Defence of Poetry_: A comparison of Shelley's attitude +toward poetry with Bradley's (page 389). (_g_) G.L. Dickinson, _Chapter +IV_ in the "Greek View of Life" (the part preceding the section +reprinted in the present volume): How the principles determining the +nature of Greek tragedy appear also in the other Greek arts. (_h_) S.H. +Butcher, _What we Owe to Greece_, in "Some Aspects of Greek Genius:" +Ideals we have inherited from the Greeks. (_i_) A.C. Bradley, _The +Substance of Shakespearean Tragedy_, in "Shakespearean Tragedy:" The +conception of the relations between good and evil which appears in +Shakespeare's tragedies. (_j_) Sophocles, _Oedipus Rex_ (translated by +Gilbert Murray): A comparison of the theme of this tragedy with the +theme of Shakespeare's _Richard III, Macbeth, or Lear_. + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of English Prose +by Frederick William Roe (edit. and select.) + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ENGLISH PROSE *** + +***** This file should be named 12025-8.txt or 12025-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/0/0/12025/ + +Produced by John Hagerson, Kevin Handy, Gene Smethers and PG Distributed +Proofreaders + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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For +example an eBook of filename 10234 would be found at: + + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/2/3/10234 + +or filename 24689 would be found at: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/6/8/24689 + +An alternative method of locating eBooks: + https://www.gutenberg.org/GUTINDEX.ALL + + diff --git a/old/12025-8.zip b/old/12025-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..0d780f1 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/12025-8.zip diff --git a/old/12025.txt b/old/12025.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f4d5bfd --- /dev/null +++ b/old/12025.txt @@ -0,0 +1,16341 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of English Prose +by Frederick William Roe (edit. and select.) + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: English Prose + A Series of Related Essays for the Discussion and Practice + +Author: Frederick William Roe (edit. and select.) + +Release Date: April 14, 2004 [EBook #12025] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO Latin-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ENGLISH PROSE *** + + + + +Produced by John Hagerson, Kevin Handy, Gene Smethers and PG Distributed +Proofreaders + + + + + +ENGLISH PROSE + +A SERIES OF RELATED ESSAYS FOR THE DISCUSSION AND PRACTICE +OF THE ART OF WRITING + +SELECTED AND EDITED + +BY + +FREDERICK WILLIAM ROE, PH.D. + +OF THE UNIVERSITY OF WISCONSIN + +AND + +GEORGE ROY ELLIOTT, PH.D. + +OF BOWDOIN COLLEGE + +1913 + + + +PREFACE + + +The selections in the present volume, designed primarily for the +discussion and practice in college classes of the art of composition, +have been arranged under a scheme which the editors believe to be new. +There are nine related groups. Each successive group represents a +different phase of life, beginning with character and personality, and +concluding with art and literature. The whole together, as the table of +contents will show, thus presents a body of ideas that includes +practically all the great departments of human thought and interest. + +It is evident that certain ideals of teaching composition underlie the +scheme. The editors believe heartily with Pater that "the chief stimulus +of good style is to possess a full, rich, complex matter to grapple +with". Instruction in writing, it is to be feared, too often neglects +this sound doctrine and places an emphasis upon formal matters that +seems disproportionate, especially when form is made to appear as a +thing apart. Form and content go together and one must not suffer at the +expense of the other. But a sustained interest in the ways and means of +correct expression is aroused only when the student feels that he has +something to express. Instructors often contend indeed that the ideas of +undergraduates are far to seek, and that most of the time in the +class-room is therefore best spent upon formal exercises and drill. The +editors do not share this view. They believe that there is no class of +people more responsive to new ideas and impressions than college +students, and none more eager, when normally stimulated, to express +themselves in writing. They have therefore aimed to present a series of +related selections that would arouse thought and provoke oral discussion +in the class-room, as well as furnish suitable models of style. In most +cases the pieces are too long to be adequately handled in one class +hour. A live topic may well be discussed for several hours, until its +various sides have been examined and students are awakened to the many +questions at issue. The editors have aimed, also, to supply selections +so rich and vital in content that instructors themselves will feel +challenged to add to the class discussion from their own knowledge and +experience, and so turn a stream of fresh ideas upon "stock notions". +Thus English composition, which in many courses in our larger +institutions is now almost the only non-special study, can be made a +direct means of liberalization in the meaning and art of life, as well +as an instrument for correct and effective writing. + +The present volume therefore differs from others in the same field. Many +recent collections contain pieces too short and unrelated to satisfy the +ideals suggested above--ideals which, the editors feel sure, are held by +an increasing number of teachers. And older and newer collections alike +have been constructed primarily with the purpose of illustrating the +conventional categories,--description, narration, exposition. Teachers +of composition everywhere are becoming distrustful of an arrangement +which is frankly at variance with the actual practice of writing, and +are of the opinion that it is better to set the student to the task of +composition without confining him too narrowly to one form of discourse. +The editors have deliberately avoided, however, the other extreme, which +is reflected in one or two recent volumes, of choosing pieces of one +type to the exclusion of all others. In collections of this kind variety +in form and subject-matter is fully as important as richness of content. +Instructors who believe in the use of the types of discourse as the most +practicable means of instruction, will find all the types liberally +represented in the present volume. And in order to meet their +requirements even more adequately, the editors have included two short +stories at the end, as examples of narration with a plot. + +Much attention has been given to the suggestions at the end of the +volume with the aim of making them practically serviceable and, at the +same time, as free as possible from duplication of class work. This aim, +the editors came to believe, could best be attained by providing for +each group of selections definite suggestions of theme-subjects to be +derived by the student from supplementary readings closely related to +that group. + +F.W.R. +G.R.E. + +MADISON, WISCONSIN, +May, 1913. + + + +CONTENTS + + +I. THE PERSONAL LIFE. + + 1. Self-Reliance...............RALPH WALDO EMERSON + + 2. Early Education + at Herne Hill.............JOHN RUSKIN + + 3. A Crisis in My + Mental History............JOHN STUART MILL + + 4. Old China...................CHARLES LAMB + +II. EDUCATION. + + 5. What is Education?..........THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY + + 6. Knowledge Viewed in + Relation to Learning .....JOHN HENRY NEWMAN + + 7. Literature and Science......MATTHEW ARNOLD + + 8. How to Read.................FREDERIC HARRISON + +III. RECREATION AND TRAVELS. + + 9. On Going a Journey..........WILLIAM HAZLITT + + 10. Regrets of a Mountaineer....LESLIE STEPHEN + +IV. SOCIAL LIFE AND MANNERS. + + 11. Behavior....................RALPH WALDO EMERSON + + 12. Manners and Fashion.........HERBERT SPENCER + + 13. Talk and Talkers............ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + +V. PUBLIC AFFAIRS. + + 14. The Social Value + of the College-bred.......WILLIAM JAMES + + 15. The Law of + Human Progress............HENRY GEORGE + + 16. The Morals of Trade.........HERBERT SPENCER + +VI. SCIENCE. + + 17. The Physical Basis + of Life...................THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY + + 18. Mental Powers of + Men and Animals...........CHARLES DARWIN + + 19. The Importance of Dust......ALFRED RUSSEL WALLACE + +VII. NATURE. + + 20. The Battle of the Ants......HENRY DAVID THOREAU + + 21. A Windstorm + in the Forests............JOHN MUIR + + 22. Walden Pond.................HENRY DAVID THOREAU + + 23. Extracts from + Modern Painters...........JOHN RUSKIN + +VIII. CONDUCT AND INNER LIFE. + + 24. The Stoics.. .............WILLIAM EDWARD HARTPOLE LECKY + + 25. Enthusiasm of Humanity......JOHN ROBERT SEELEY + + 26. Loyalty and Insight.........JOSIAH ROYCE + +IX. LITERATURE AND ART. + + 27. Poetry for Poetry's Sake.... A.C. BRADLEY + + 28. Greek Tragedy................G. LOWES DICKINSON + + 29. Shakespeare..................THOMAS CARLYLE + + 30. Charles Lamb.................WALTER PATER + + 31. Dr. Heidegger's Experiment...NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE + + 32. Markheim.....................ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + + +SUPPLEMENTARY READINGS. + +With some topics for Discussion and Composition. + + + +ENGLISH PROSE + + + + +SELF-RELIANCE[1] + +RALPH WALDO EMERSON + + +I read the other day some verses written by an eminent painter which +were original and not conventional. Always the soul hears an admonition +in such lines, let the subject be what it may. The sentiment they instil +is of more value than any thought they may contain. To believe your own +thought, to believe that what is true for you in your private heart is +true for all men,--that is genius. Speak your latent conviction, and it +shall be the universal sense; for always the inmost becomes the +outmost--and our first thought is rendered back to us by the trumpets of +the Last Judgment. Familiar as the voice of the mind is to each, the +highest merit we ascribe to Moses, Plato and Milton is that they set at +naught books and traditions, and spoke not what men, but what they +thought. A man should learn to detect and watch that gleam of light +which flashes across his mind from within, more than the luster of the +firmament of bards and sages. Yet he dismisses without notice his +thought, because it is his. In every work of genius we recognize our own +rejected thoughts; they come back to us with a certain alienated +majesty. Great works of art have no more affecting lesson for us than +this. They teach us to abide by our spontaneous impression with +good-humored inflexibility then most when the whole cry of voices is on +the other side. Else to-morrow a stranger will say with masterly good +sense precisely what we have thought and felt all the time, and we shall +be forced to take with shame our own opinion from another. + +There is a time in every man's education when he arrives at the +conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he +must take himself for better for worse as his portion; that though the +wide universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to +him but through his toil bestowed on that plot of ground which is given +to him to till. The power which resides in him is new in nature, and +none but he knows what that is which he can do, nor does he know until +he has tried. Not for nothing one face, one character, one fact, makes +much impression on him, and another none. It is not without +preestablished harmony, this sculpture in the memory. The eye was placed +where one ray should fall, that it might testify of that particular ray. +Bravely let him speak the utmost syllable of his confession. We but half +express ourselves, and are ashamed of that divine idea which each of us +represents. It may be safely trusted as proportionate and of good +issues, so it be faithfully imparted, but God will not have his work +made manifest by cowards. It needs a divine man to exhibit anything +divine. A man is relieved and gay when he has put his heart into his +work and done his best; but what he has said or done otherwise shall +give him no peace. It is a deliverance which does not deliver. In the +attempt his genius deserts him; no muse befriends; no invention, no +hope. + +Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string. Accept the +place the divine providence has found for you, the society of your +contemporaries, the connection of events. Great men have always done so, +and confided themselves childlike to the genius of their age, betraying +their perception that the Eternal was stirring at their heart, working +through their hands, predominating in all their being. And we are now +men, and must accept in the highest mind the same transcendent destiny; +and not pinched in a corner, not cowards fleeing before a revolution, +but redeemers and benefactors, pious aspirants to be noble clay under +the Almighty effort let us advance on Chaos and the Dark. + +What pretty oracles nature yields us on this text in the face and +behavior of children, babes, and even brutes. That divided and rebel +mind, that distrust of a sentiment because our arithmetic has computed +the strength and means opposed to our purpose, these have not. Their +mind being whole, their eye is as yet unconquered, and when we look in +their faces, we are disconcerted. Infancy conforms to nobody; all +conform to it; so that one babe commonly makes four or five out of the +adults who prattle and play to it. So God has armed youth and puberty +and manhood no less with its own piquancy and charm, and made it +enviable and gracious and its claims not to be put by, if it will stand +by itself. Do not think the youth has no force, because he cannot speak +to you and me. Hark! in the next room who spoke so clear and emphatic? +Good Heaven! it is he! it is that very lump of bashfulness and phlegm +which for weeks has done nothing but eat when you were by, and now rolls +out these words like bell-strokes. It seems he knows how to speak to his +contemporaries. Bashful or bold then, he will know how to make us +seniors very unnecessary. + +The nonchalance of boys who are sure of a dinner, and would disdain as +much as a lord to do or say aught to conciliate one, is the +healthy attitude of human nature. How is a boy the master of +society!--independent, irresponsible, looking out from his corner on +such people and facts as pass by, he tries and sentences them on their +merits, in the swift, summary way of boys, as good, bad, interesting, +silly, eloquent, troublesome. He cumbers himself never about +consequences, about interests; he gives an independent, genuine verdict. +You must court him; he does not court you. But the man is as it were +clapped into jail by his consciousness. As soon as he has once acted or +spoken with eclat he is a committed person, watched by the sympathy or +the hatred of hundreds, whose affections must now enter into his +account. There is no Lethe for this. Ah, that he could pass again into +his neutral, godlike independence! Who can thus lose all pledge and, +having observed, observe again from the same unaffected, unbiased, +unbribable, unaffrighted innocence, must always be formidable, must +always engage the poet's and the man's regards. Of such an immortal +youth the force would be felt. He would utter opinions on all passing +affairs, which being seen to be not private but necessary, would sink +like darts into the ear of men and put them in fear. + +These are the voices which we hear in solitude, but they grow faint and +inaudible as we enter into the world. Society everywhere is in +conspiracy against the manhood of every one of its members. Society is a +joint-stock company, in which the members agree, for the better securing +of his bread to each shareholder, to surrender the liberty and culture +of the eater. The virtue in most request is conformity. Self-reliance is +its aversion. It loves not realities and creators, but names and +customs. + +Whoso would be a man, must be a nonconformist. He who would gather +immortal palms must not be hindered by the name of goodness, but must +explore if it be goodness. Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity +of our own mind. Absolve you to yourself, and you shall have the +suffrage of the world. I remember an answer which when quite young I was +prompted to make to a valued adviser who was wont to importune me with +the deaf old doctrines of the church. On my saying, What have I to do +with the sacredness of traditions, if I live wholly from within? my +friend suggested,--"But these impulses may be from below, not from +above." I replied, "They do not seem to me to be such; but if I am the +devil's child, I will live then from the devil." No law can be sacred to +me but that of my nature. Good and bad are but names very readily +transferable to that or this; the only right is what is after my +constitution; the only wrong what is against it. A man is to carry +himself in the presence of all opposition as if every thing were titular +and ephemeral but he. I am ashamed to think how easily we capitulate to +badges and names, to large societies and dead institutions. Every decent +and well-spoken individual affects and sways me more than is right. I +ought to go upright and vital, and speak the rude truth in all ways. If +malice and vanity wear the coat of philanthropy, shall that pass? If an +angry bigot assumes this bountiful cause of Abolition, and comes to me +with his last news from Barbadoes, why should I not say to him, "Go love +thy infant; love thy wood-chopper; be good-natured and modest; have that +grace; and never varnish your hard, uncharitable ambition with this +incredible tenderness for black folk a thousand miles off. Thy love afar +is spite at home." Rough and graceless would be such greeting, but truth +is handsomer than the affectation of love. Your goodness must have some +edge to it,--else it is none. The doctrine of hatred must be preached, +as the counteraction of the doctrine of love, when that pules and +whines. I shun father and mother and wife and brother when my genius +calls me. I would write on the lintels of the door-post, _Whim_. I hope +it is somewhat better than whim at last, but we cannot spend the day in +explanation. Expect me not to show cause why I seek or why I exclude +company. Then, again, do not tell me, as a good man did to-day, of my +obligation to put all poor men in good situations. Are they _my_ poor? I +tell thee, thou foolish philanthropist, that I grudge the dollar, the +dime, the cent I give to such men as do not belong to me and to whom I +do not belong. There is a class of persons to whom by all spiritual +affinity I am bought and sold; for them I will go to prison if need be; +but your miscellaneous popular charities; the education at college of +fools; the building of meeting-houses to the vain end to which many now +stand; alms to sots, and the thousandfold Relief Societies;--though I +confess with shame I sometimes succumb and give the dollar, it is a +wicked dollar, which by-and-by I shall have the manhood to withhold. + +Virtues are, in the popular estimate, rather the exception than the +rule. There is the man _and_ his virtues. Men do what is called a good +action, as some piece of courage or charity, much as they would pay a +fine in expiation of daily non-appearance on parade. Their works are +done as an apology or extenuation of their living in the world,--as +invalids and the insane pay a high board. Their virtues are penances. I +do not wish to expiate, but to live. My life is not an apology, but a +life. It is for itself and not for a spectacle. I much prefer that it +should be of a lower strain, so it be genuine and equal, than that it +should be glittering and unsteady. I wish it to be sound and sweet, and +not to need diet and bleeding. My life should be unique; it should be an +alms, a battle, a conquest, a medicine. I ask primary evidence that you +are a man, and refuse this appeal from the man to his actions. I know +that for myself it makes no difference whether I do or forbear those +actions which are reckoned excellent. I cannot consent to pay for a +privilege where I have intrinsic right. Few and mean as my gifts may be, +I actually am, and do not need for my own assurance or the assurance of +my fellows any secondary testimony. + +What I must do is all that concerns me, not what the people think. This +rule, equally arduous in actual and in intellectual life, may serve for +the whole distinction between greatness and meanness. It is the harder +because you will always find those who think they know what is your duty +better than you know it. It is easy in the world to live after the +world's opinion; it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the +great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect +sweetness the independence of solitude. + +The objection to conforming to usages that have become dead to you is +that it scatters your force. It loses your time and blurs the impression +of your character. If you maintain a dead church, contribute to a dead +Bible Society, vote with a great party either for the Government or +against it, spread your table like base housekeepers,--under all these +screens I have difficulty to detect the precise man you are. And of +course so much force is withdrawn from your proper life. But do your +thing, and I shall know you. Do your work, and you shall reinforce +yourself. A man must consider what a blindman's-bluff is this game of +conformity. If I know your sect I anticipate your argument. I hear a +preacher announce for his text and topic the expediency of one of the +institutions of his church. Do I not know beforehand that not possibly +can he say a new and spontaneous word? Do I not know that with all this +ostentation of examining the grounds of the institution he will do no +such thing? Do I not know that he is pledged to himself not to look but +at one side, the permitted side, not as a man, but as a parish minister? +He is a retained attorney, and these airs of the bench are the emptiest +affectation. Well, most men have bound their eyes with one or another +handkerchief, and attached themselves to some one of these communities +of opinion. This conformity makes them not false in a few particulars, +authors of a few lies, but false in all particulars. Their every truth +is not quite true. Their two is not the real two, their four not the +real four: so that every word they say chagrins us and we know not where +to begin to set them right. Meantime nature is not slow to equip us in +the prison-uniform of the party to which we adhere. We come to wear one +cut of face and figure, and acquire by degrees the gentlest asinine +expression. There is a mortifying experience in particular, which does +not fail to wreak itself also in the general history; I mean "the +foolish face of praise," the forced smile which we put on in company +where we do not feel at ease, in answer to conversation which does not +interest us. The muscles, not spontaneously moved but moved by a low +usurping wilfulness, grow tight about the outline of the face, and make +the most disagreeable sensation; a sensation of rebuke and warning which +no brave young man will suffer twice. + +For non-conformity the world whips you with its displeasure. And +therefore a man must know how to estimate a sour face. The bystanders +look askance on him in the public street or in the friend's parlor. If +this aversation had its origin in contempt and resistance like his own +he might well go home with a sad countenance; but the sour faces of the +multitude, like their sweet faces, have no deep cause,--disguise no god, +but are put on and off as the wind blows and a newspaper directs. Yet is +the discontent of the multitude more formidable than that of the senate +and the college. It is easy enough for a firm man who knows the world to +brook the rage of the cultivated classes. Their rage is decorous and +prudent, for they are timid, as being very vulnerable themselves. But +when to their feminine rage the indignation of the people is added, when +the ignorant and the poor are aroused, when the unintelligent brute +force that lies at the bottom of society is made to growl and mow, it +needs the habit of magnanimity and religion to treat it godlike as a +trifle of no concernment. + +The other terror that scares us from self-trust is our consistency; a +reverence for our past act or word because the eyes of others have no +other data for computing our orbit than our past acts, and we are loath +to disappoint them. + +But why should you keep your head over your shoulder? Why drag about +this monstrous corpse of your memory, lest you contradict somewhat you +have stated in this or that public place? Suppose you should contradict +yourself; what then? It seems to be a rule of wisdom never to rely on +your memory alone, scarcely even in acts of pure memory, but to bring +the past for judgment into the thousand-eyed present, and live ever in a +new day. Trust your emotion. In your metaphysics you have denied +personality to the Deity, yet when the devout motions of the soul come, +yield to them heart and life, though they should clothe God with shape +and color. Leave your theory, as Joseph his coat in the hand of the +harlot, and flee. + +A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by +little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great +soul has simply nothing to do. He may as well concern himself with his +shadow on the wall. Out upon your guarded lips! Sew them up with +packthread, do. Else if you would be a man speak what you think to-day +in words as hard as cannon balls, and to-morrow speak what to-morrow +thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said +to-day. Ah, then, exclaim the aged ladies, you shall be sure to be +misunderstood! Misunderstood! It is a right fool's word. Is it so bad +then to be misunderstood? Pythagoras was misunderstood, and Socrates, +and Jesus, and Luther, and Copernicus, and Galileo, and Newton, and +every pure and wise spirit that ever took flesh. To be great is to be +misunderstood. + +I suppose no man can violate his nature. All the sallies of his will are +rounded in by the law of his being, as the inequalities of Andes and +Himmaleh are insignificant in the curve of the sphere. Nor does it +matter how you gauge and try him. A character is like an acrostic or +Alexandrian stanza;--read it forward, backward, or across, it still +spells the same thing. In this pleasing contrite wood-life which God +allows me, let me record day by day my honest thought without prospect +or retrospect, and, I cannot doubt, it will be found symmetrical, though +I mean it not and see it not. My book should smell of pines and resound +with the hum of insects. The swallow over my window should interweave +that thread or straw he carries in his bill into my web also. We pass +for what we are. Character teaches above our wills. Men imagine that +they communicate their virtue or vice only by overt actions, and do not +see that virtue or vice emit a breath every moment. + +Fear never but you shall be consistent in whatever variety of actions, +so they be each honest and natural in their hour. For of one will, the +actions will be harmonious, however unlike they seem. These varieties +are lost sight of when seen at a little distance, at a little height of +thought. One tendency unites them all. The voyage of the best ship is a +zigzag line of a hundred tacks. This is only microscopic criticism. See +the line from a sufficient distance, and it straightens itself to the +average tendency. Your genuine action will explain itself and will +explain your other genuine actions. Your conformity explains nothing. +Act singly, and what you have already done singly will justify you now. +Greatness always appeals to the future. If I can be great enough now to +do right and scorn eyes, I must have done so much right before as to +defend me now. Be it how it will, do right now. Always scorn appearances +and you always may. The force of character is cumulative. All the +foregone days of virtue work their health into this. What makes the +majesty of the heroes of the senate and the field, which so fills the +imagination? The consciousness of a train of great days and victories +behind. There they all stand and shed an united light on the advancing +actor. He is attended as by a visible escort of angels to every man's +eye. That is it which throws thunder into Chatham's voice, and dignity +into Washington's port, and America into Adams's eye. Honor is venerable +to us because it is no ephemeris. It is always ancient virtue. We +worship it to-day because it is not of to-day. We love it and pay it +homage because it is not a trap for our love and homage, but is +self-dependent, self-derived, and therefore of an old immaculate +pedigree, even if shown in a young person. + +I hope in these days we have heard the last of conformity and +consistency. Let the words be gazetted and ridiculous henceforward. +Instead of the gong for dinner, let us hear a whistle from the Spartan +fife. Let us bow and apologize never more. A great man is coming to eat +at my house. I do not wish to please him; I wish that he should wish to +please me. I will stand here for humanity, and though I would make it +kind, I would make it true. Let us affront and reprimand the smooth +mediocrity and squalid contentment of the times, and hurl in the face of +custom and trade and office, the fact which is the upshot of all +history, that there is a great responsible Thinker and Actor moving +wherever moves a man; that a true man belongs to no other time or place, +but is the center of things. Where he is, there is nature. He measures +you and all men and all events. You are constrained to accept his +standard. Ordinarily, every body in society reminds us of somewhat else, +or of some other person. Character, reality, reminds you of nothing +else; it takes place of the whole creation. The man must be so much that +he must make all circumstances indifferent--put all means into the +shade. This: all great men are and do. Every true man is a cause, a +country, and an age; requires infinite spaces and numbers and time fully +to accomplish his thought;--and posterity seem to follow his steps as a +procession. A man Caesar is born, and for ages after we have a Roman +Empire. Christ is born, and millions of minds so grow and cleave to his +genius that he is confounded with virtue and the possible of man. An +institution is the lengthened shadow of one man; as, the Reformation, of +Luther; Quakerism, of Fox; Methodism, of Wesley; Abolition, of Clarkson. +Scipio, Milton called "the height of Rome;" and all history resolves +itself very easily into the biography of a few stout and earnest +persons. + +Let a man then know his worth, and keep things under his feet. Let him +not peep or steal, or skulk up and down with the air of a charity-boy, a +bastard, or an interloper in the world which exists for him. But the man +in the street, finding no worth in himself which corresponds to the +force which built a tower or sculptured a marble god, feels poor when he +looks on these. To him a palace, a statue, or a costly book has an alien +and forbidding air, much like a gay equipage, and seems to say like +that, "Who are you, sir?" Yet they all are his, suitors for his notice, +petitioners to his faculties that they will come out and take +possession. The picture waits for my verdict; it is not to command me, +but I am to settle its claim to praise. That popular fable of the sot +who was picked up dead drunk in the street, carried to the duke's +house, washed and dressed and laid in the duke's bed, and, on his +waking, treated with all obsequious ceremony like the duke, and assured +that he had been insane--owes its popularity to the fact that it +symbolizes so well the state of man, who is in the world a sort of sot, +but now and then wakes up, exercises his reason and finds himself a true +prince. + +Our reading is mendicant and sycophantic. In history our imagination +makes fools of us, plays us false. Kingdom and lordship, power and +estate, are a gaudier vocabulary than private John and Edward in a small +house and common day's work: but the things of life are the same to +both: the sum total of both is the same. Why all this deference to +Alfred and Scanderbeg and Gustavus? Suppose they were virtuous; did they +wear out virtue? As great a stake depends on your private act to-day as +followed their public and renowned steps. When private men shall act +with original views, the luster will be transferred from the actions of +kings to those of gentlemen. + +The world has indeed been instructed by its kings, who have so +magnetized the eyes of nations. It has been taught by this colossal +symbol the mutual reverence that is due from man to man. The joyful +loyalty with which men have everywhere suffered the king, the noble, or +the great proprietor to walk among them, by a law of his own, make his +own scale of men and things and reverse theirs, pay for benefits not +with money but with honor, and represent the Law in his person, was the +hieroglyphic by which they obscurely signified their consciousness of +their own right and comeliness, the right of every man. + +The magnetism which all original action exerts is explained when we +inquire the reason of self-trust. Who is the Trustee? What is the +aboriginal Self, on which a universal reliance may be grounded? What is +the nature and power of that science-baffling star, without parallax, +without calculable elements, which shoots a ray of beauty even into +trivial and impure actions, if the least mark of independence appear? +The inquiry leads us to that source, at once the essence of genius, the +essence of virtue, and the essence of life, which we call Spontaneity or +Instinct. We denote this primary wisdom as Intuition, whilst all later +teachings are tuitions. In that deep force, the last fact behind which +analysis cannot go, all things find their common origin. For the sense +of being which in calm hours rises, we know not how, in the soul, is not +diverse from things, from space, from light, from time, from man, but +one with them and proceedeth obviously from the same source whence their +life and being also proceedeth. We first share the life by which things +exist and afterward see them as appearances in nature and forget that we +have shared their cause. Here is the fountain of action and the fountain +of thought. Here are the lungs of that inspiration which giveth man +wisdom, of that inspiration of man which cannot be denied without +impiety and atheism. We lie in the lap of immense intelligence, which +makes us organs of its activity and receivers of its truth. When we +discern justice, when we discern truth, we do nothing of ourselves, but +allow a passage to its beams. If we ask whence this comes, if we seek to +pry into the soul that causes--all metaphysics, all philosophy is at +fault. Its presence or its absence is all we can affirm. Every man +discerns between the voluntary acts of his mind and his involuntary +perceptions. And to his involuntary perceptions: he knows a perfect +respect is due. He may err in the expression of them, but he knows that +these things are so, like day and night, not to be disputed. All my +wilful actions and acquisitions are but roving;--the most trivial +reverie, the faintest native emotion, are domestic and divine. +Thoughtless people contradict as readily the statement of perceptions as +of opinions, or rather much more readily; for they do not distinguish +between perception and notion. They fancy that I choose to see this or +that thing. But perception is not whimsical, but fatal. If I see a +trait, my children will see it after me, and in course of time all +mankind,--although it may chance that no one has seen it before me. For +my perception of it is as much a fact as the sun. + +The relations of the soul to the divine spirit are so pure that it is +profane to seek to interpose helps. It must be that when God speaketh he +should communicate, not one thing, but all things; should fill the world +with his voice; should scatter forth light, nature, time, souls, from +the center of the present thought; and new date and new create the +whole. Whenever a mind is simple and receives a divine wisdom, then old +things pass away,--means, teachers, texts, temples fall; it lives now, +and absorbs past and future into the present hour. All things are made +sacred by relation to it,--one thing as much as another. All things are +dissolved to their center by their cause, and in the universal miracle +petty and particular miracles disappear. This is and must be. If +therefore a man claims to know and speak of God and carries you backward +to the phraseology of some old moldered nation in another country, in +another world, believe him not. Is the acorn better than the oak which +is its fulness and completion? Is the parent better than the child into +whom he has cast his ripened being? Whence then this worship of the +past? The centuries are conspirators against the sanity and majesty of +the soul. Time and space are but physiological colors which the eye +maketh, but the soul is light; where it is, is day; where it was, is +night; and history is an impertinence and an injury if it be any thing +more than a cheerful apologue or parable of my being and becoming. + +Man is timid and apologetic; he is no longer upright; he dares not say +"I think," "I am," but quotes some saint or sage. He is ashamed before +the blade of grass or the blowing rose. These roses under my window make +no reference to former roses or to better ones; they are for what they +are; they exist with God to-day. There is no time to them. There is +simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence. Before +a leaf-bud has burst, its whole life acts; in the full-blown flower +there is no more; in the leafless root there is no less. Its nature is +satisfied and it satisfies nature in all moments alike. There is no time +to it. But man postpones or remembers; he does not live in the present, +but with reverted eye laments the past, or, heedless of the riches that +surround him, stands on tiptoe to foresee the future. He cannot be happy +and strong until he too lives with nature in the present, above time. + +This should be plain enough. Yet see what strong intellects dare not yet +hear God himself unless he speak the phraseology of I know not what +David, or Jeremiah, or Paul. We shall not always set so great a price on +a few texts, on a few lives. We are like children who repeat by rote the +sentences of grandames and tutors, and, as they grow older, of the men +of talents and character they chance to see,--painfully recollecting the +exact words they spoke; afterward, when they come into the point of view +which those had who uttered these sayings, they understand them and are +willing to let the words go; for at any time they can use words as good +when occasion comes. So was it with us, so will it be, if we proceed. If +we live truly, we shall see truly. It is as easy for the strong man to +be strong, as it is for the weak to be weak. When we have new +perception, we shall gladly disburden the memory of its hoarded +treasures as old rubbish. When a man lives with God, his voice shall be +as sweet as the murmur of the brook and the rustle of the corn. + +And now at last the highest truth on this subject remains unsaid; +probably cannot be said; for all that we say is the far off remembering +of the intuition: That thought, by what I can now nearest approach to +say it, is this: When good is near you, when you have life in +yourself,--it is not by any known or appointed way; you shall not +discern the foot-prints of any other; you shall not see the face of man; +you shall not hear any name;--the way, the thought, the good, shall be +wholly strange and new. It shall exclude all other being. You take the +way from man, not to man. All persons that ever existed are its fugitive +ministers. There shall be no fear in it. Fear and hope are alike +beneath it. It asks nothing. There is somewhat low even in hope. We are +then in vision. There is nothing that can be called gratitude, nor +properly joy. The soul is raised over passion. It seeth identity and +eternal causation. It is a perceiving that Truth and Right are. Hence it +becomes a Tranquillity out of the knowing that all things go well. Vast +spaces of nature; the Atlantic Ocean, the South Sea; vast intervals of +time, years, centuries, are of no account. This which I think and feel +underlay that former state of life and circumstances, as it does +underlie my present and will always all circumstances, and what is +called life and what is called death. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 1: From Essays, First Series, 1841; the second half of the +essay has here been omitted.] + + + + +EARLY EDUCATION AT HERNE HILL[2] + +JOHN RUSKIN + + +When I was about four years old my father found himself able to buy the +lease of a house on Herne Hill, a rustic eminence four miles south of +the "Standard in Cornhill"; of which the leafy seclusion remains, in all +essential points of character, unchanged to this day: certain Gothic +splendours, lately indulged in by our wealthier neighbours, being the +only serious innovations; and these are so graciously concealed by the +fine trees of their grounds, that the passing viator remains unappalled +by them; and I can still walk up and down the piece of road between the +Fox tavern and the Herne Hill station, imagining myself four years old. + +Our house was the northernmost of a group which stand accurately on the +top or dome of the hill, where the ground is for a small space level, as +the snows are, (I understand), on the dome of Mont Blanc; presently +falling, however, in what may be, in the London clay formation, +considered a precipitous slope, to our valley of Chamouni (or of +Dulwich) on the east; and with a softer descent into Cold Harbor lane on +the west: on the south, no less beautifully declining to the dale of the +Effra, (doubtless shortened from Effrena, signifying the "Unbridled" +river; recently, I regret to say, bricked over for the convenience of +Mr. Biffin, chemist, and others); while on the north, prolonged indeed +with slight depression some half mile or so, and receiving, in the +parish of Lambeth, the chivalric title of "Champion Hill," it plunges +down at last to efface itself in the plains of Peckham, and the rural +barbarism of Goose Green. + +The group, of which our house was the quarter, consisted of two +precisely similar partner-couples of houses, gardens and all to match; +still the two highest blocks of buildings seen from Norwood on the crest +of the ridge; so that the house itself, three-storied, with garrets +above, commanded, in those comparatively smokeless days, a very notable +view from its garret windows, of the Norwood hills on one side, and the +winter sunrise over them; and of the valley of the Thames on the other, +with Windsor telescopically clear in the distance, and Harrow, +conspicuous always in fine weather to open vision against the summer +sunset. It had front and back garden in sufficient proportion to its +size; the front, richly set with old evergreens, and well-grown lilac +and laburnum; the back, seventy yards long by twenty wide, renowned over +all the hill for its pears and apples, which had been chosen with +extreme care by our predecessor, (shame on me to forget the name of a +man to whom I owe so much!)--and possessing also a strong old mulberry +tree, a tall white-heart cherry tree, a black Kentish one, and an almost +unbroken hedge, all round, of alternate gooseberry and currant bush; +decked, in due season, (for the ground was wholly beneficent), with +magical splendour of abundant fruit: fresh green, soft amber, and +rough-bristled crimson bending the spinous branches; clustered pearl and +pendent ruby joyfully discoverable under the large leaves that looked +like vine. + +The differences of primal importance which I observed between the nature +of this garden, and that of Eden, as I had imagined it, were, that, in +this one, _all_ the fruit was forbidden; and there were no companionable +beasts: in other respects the little domain answered every purpose of +paradise to me; and the climate, in that cycle of our years, allowed me +to pass most of my life in it. My mother never gave me more to learn +than she knew I could easily get learnt, if I set myself honestly to +work, by twelve o'clock. She never allowed anything to disturb me when +my task was set; if it was not said rightly by twelve o'clock, I was +kept in till I knew it, and in general, even when Latin Grammar came to +supplement the Psalms, I was my own master for at least an hour before +half-past one dinner, and for the rest of the afternoon. + +My mother, herself finding her chief personal pleasure in her flowers, +was often planting, or pruning beside me, at least if I chose to stay +beside _her_. I never thought of doing anything behind her back which I +would not have done before her face; and her presence was therefore no +restraint to me; but, also, no particular pleasure, for, from having +always been left so much alone, I had generally my own little affairs to +see after; and, on the whole, by the time I was seven years old, was +already getting too independent, mentally, even of my father and mother; +and, having nobody else to be dependent upon, began to lead a very +small, perky, contented, conceited, Cock-Robinson-Crusoe sort of life, +in the central point which it appeared to me, (as it must naturally +appear to geometrical animals), that I occupied in the universe. + +This was partly the fault of my father's modesty; and partly of his +pride. He had so much more confidence in my mother's judgment as to such +matters than in his own, that he never ventured even to help, much less +to cross her, in the conduct of my education; on the other hand, in the +fixed purpose of making an ecclesiastical gentleman of me, with the +superfinest of manners, and access to the highest circles of fleshly and +spiritual society, the visits to Croydon, where I entirely loved my +aunt, and young baker-cousins, became rarer and more rare: the society +of our neighbours on the hill could not be had without breaking up our +regular and sweetly selfish manner of living; and on the whole, I had +nothing animate to care for, in a childish way, but myself, some nests +of ants, which the gardener would never leave undisturbed for me, and a +sociable bird or two; though I never had the sense or perseverance to +make one really tame. But that was partly because, if ever I managed to +bring one to be the least trustful of me, the cats got it. + +Under these circumstances, what powers of imagination I possessed, +either fastened themselves on inanimate things,--the sky, the leaves, +and pebbles, observable within the walls of Eden,--or caught at any +opportunity of flight into regions of romance, compatible with the +objective realities of existence in the nineteenth century, within a +mile and a quarter of Camberwell Green. + +Herein my father, happily, though with no definite intention other than +of pleasing me, when he found he could do so without infringing any of +my mother's rules, became my guide. I was particularly fond of watching +him shave; and was always allowed to come into his room in the morning +(under the one in which I am now writing), to be the motionless witness +of that operation. Over his dressing-table hung one of his own +water-colour drawings, made under the teaching of the elder Nasmyth; I +believe, at the High School of Edinburgh. It was done in the early +manner of tinting, which, just about the time when my father was at the +High School, Dr. Munro was teaching Turner; namely, in gray under-tints +of Prussian blue and British ink, washed with warm colour afterwards on +the lights. It represented Conway Castle, with its Frith, and, in the +foreground, a cottage, a fisherman, and a boat at the water's edge. + +When my father had finished shaving, he always told me a story about +this picture. The custom began without any initial purpose of his, in +consequence of my troublesome curiosity whether the fisherman lived in +the cottage, and where he was going to in the boat. It being settled, +for peace' sake, that he _did_ live in the cottage, and was going in the +boat to fish near the castle, the plot of the drama afterwards gradually +thickened; and became, I believe, involved with that of the tragedy of +Douglas, and of the Castle Specter, in both of which pieces my father +had performed in private theatricals, before my mother, and a select +Edinburgh audience, when he was a boy of sixteen, and she, at grave +twenty, a model housekeeper, and very scornful and religiously +suspicious of theatricals. But she was never weary of telling me, in +later years, how beautiful my father looked in his Highland dress, with +the high black feathers. + +In the afternoons, when my father returned (always punctually) from his +business, he dined, at half-past four, in the front parlour, my mother +sitting beside him to hear the events of the day, and give counsel and +encouragement with respect to the same;--chiefly the last, for my father +was apt to be vexed if orders for sherry fell the least short of their +due standard, even for a day or two. I was never present at this time, +however, and only avouch what I relate by hearsay and probable +conjecture; for between four and six it would have been a grave +misdemeanour in me if I so much as approached the parlour door. After +that, in summer time, we were all in the garden as long as the day +lasted; tea under the white-heart cherry tree; or in winter and rough +weather, at six o'clock in the drawing-room,--I having my cup of milk, +and slice of bread-and-butter, in a little recess, with a table in front +of it, wholly sacred to me; and in which I remained in the evenings as +an Idol in a niche, while my mother knitted, and my father read to +her,--and to me, so far as I chose to listen. + +The series of the Waverley novels, then drawing towards its close, was +still the chief source of delight in all households caring for +literature; and I can no more recollect the time when I did not know +them than when I did not know the Bible; but I have still a vivid +remembrance of my father's intense expression of sorrow mixed with +scorn, as he threw down Count Robert of Paris, after reading three or +four pages; and knew that the life of Scott was ended: the scorn being a +very complex and bitter feeling in him,--partly, indeed, of the book +itself, but chiefly of the wretches who were tormenting and selling the +wrecked intellect, and not a little, deep down, of the subtle dishonesty +which had essentially caused the ruin. My father never could forgive +Scott his concealment of the Ballantyne partnership. + +Such being the salutary pleasures of Herne Hill, I have next with deeper +gratitude to chronicle what I owe to my mother for the resolutely +consistent lessons which so exercised me in the Scriptures as to make +every word of them familiar to my ear in habitual music,--yet in that +familiarity reverenced, as transcending all thought, and ordaining all +conduct. + +This she effected, not by her own sayings or personal authority; but +simply by compelling me to read the book thoroughly, for myself. As soon +as I was able to read with fluency, she began a course of Bible work +with me, which never ceased till I went to Oxford. She read alternate +verses with me, watching, at first, every intonation of my voice, and +correcting the false ones, till she made me understand the verse, if +within my reach, rightly, and energetically. It might be beyond me +altogether; that she did not care about; but she made sure that as soon +as I got hold of it at all, I should get hold of it by the right end. + +In this way she began with the first verse of Genesis, and went straight +through, to the last verse of the Apocalypse; hard names, numbers, +Levitical law, and all; and began again at Genesis the next day. If a +name was hard, the better the exercise in pronunciation,--if the chapter +was tiresome, the better lesson in patience,--if loathsome, the better +lesson in faith that there was some use in its being so outspoken. After +our chapters, (from two to three a day, according to their length, the +first thing after breakfast, and no interruption from servants +allowed,--none from visitors, who either joined in the reading or had to +stay upstairs,--and none from any visitings or excursions, except real +travelling), I had to learn a few verses by heart, or repeat, to make +sure I had not lost, something of what was already known; and, with the +chapters thus gradually possessed from the first word to the last, I had +to learn the whole body of the fine old Scottish paraphrases, which are +good, melodious, and forceful verse; and to which, together with the +Bible itself, I owe the first cultivation of my ear in sound. + +It is strange that of all the pieces of the Bible which my mother thus +taught me, that which cost me most to learn, and which was, to my +child's mind, chiefly repulsive--the 119th Psalm--has now become of all +the most precious to me, in its overflowing and glorious passion of love +for the Law of God, in opposition to the abuse of it by modern preachers +of what they imagine to be His gospel. + +But it is only by deliberate effort that I recall the long morning hours +of toil, as regular as sunrise,--toil on both sides equal,--by which, +year after year, my mother forced me to learn these paraphrases, and +chapters, (the eighth of 1st Kings being one--try it, good reader, in a +leisure hour!) allowing not so much as a syllable to be missed or +misplaced; while every sentence was required to be said over and over +again till she was satisfied with the accent of it. I recollect a +struggle between us of about three weeks, concerning the accent of the +"of" in the lines + + "Shall any following spring revive + The ashes of the urn?"-- + +I insisting, partly in childish obstinacy, and partly in true instinct +for rhythm, (being wholly careless on the subject both of urns and their +contents), on reciting it with an accented _of_. It was not, I say, till +after three weeks' labor, that my mother got the accent lightened on the +"of" and laid on the "ashes," to her mind. But had it taken three years +she would have done it, having once undertaken to do it. And, assuredly, +had she not done it,--well, there's no knowing what would have happened; +but I'm very thankful she _did_. + +I have just opened my oldest (in use) Bible,--a small, closely, and very +neatly printed volume it is, printed in Edinburgh by Sir D. Hunter Blair +and J. Bruce, Printers, to the King's Most Excellent Majesty, in 1816. +Yellow, now, with age, and flexible, but not unclean, with much use, +except that the lower corners of the pages at 8th of 1st Kings, and 32d +Deuteronomy, are worn somewhat thin and dark, the learning of these two +chapters having cost me much pains. My mother's list of the chapters +with which, thus learned, she established my soul in life, has just +fallen out of it. I will take what indulgence the incurious reader can +give me, for printing the list thus accidentally occurrent: + +Exodus, chapters 15th and 20th. +2 Samuel, " 1st, from 17th verse to end. +1 Kings, " 8th. +Psalms, " 23d, 32d, 90th, 91st, 103d, 112th, 119th, 139th. +Proverbs, " 2d, 3d, 8th, 12th. +Isaiah, " 58th. +Matthew, " 5th, 6th, 7th. +Acts, " 26th. +1 Corinthians, " 13th, 15th. +James, " 4th. +Revelation, " 5th, 6th. + +And, truly, though I have picked up the elements of a little further +knowledge--in mathematics, meteorology, and the like, in after +life,--and owe not a little to the teaching of many people, this +maternal installation of my mind in that property of chapters, I count +very confidently the most precious, and, on the whole, the one +_essential_ part of all my education. + +And it is perhaps already time to mark what advantage and mischief, by +the chances of life up to seven years old, had been irrevocably +determined for me. + +I will first count my blessings (as a not unwise friend once recommended +me to do, continually; whereas I have a bad trick of always numbering +the thorns in my fingers and not the bones in them). + +And for best and truest beginning of all blessings, I had been taught +the perfect meaning of Peace, in thought, act, and word. + +I never had heard my father's or mother's voice once raised in any +question with each other; nor seen an angry, or even slightly hurt or +offended, glance in the eyes of either. I had never heard a servant +scolded; nor even suddenly, passionately, or in any severe manner, +blamed. I had never seen a moment's trouble or disorder in any household +matter; nor anything whatever either done in a hurry, or undone in due +time. I had no conception of such a feeling as anxiety; my father's +occasional vexation in the afternoons, when he had only got an order for +twelve butts after expecting one for fifteen, as I have just stated, was +never manifested to _me_; and itself related only to the question +whether his name would be a step higher or lower in the year's list of +sherry exporters; for he never spent more than half his income, and +therefore found himself little incommoded by occasional variations in +the total of it. I had never done any wrong that I knew of--beyond +occasionally delaying the commitment to heart of some improving +sentence, that I might watch a wasp on the window pane, or a bird in the +cherry tree; and I had never seen any grief. + +Next to this quite priceless gift of Peace, I had received the perfect +understanding of the natures of Obedience and Faith. I obeyed word, or +lifted finger, of father or mother, simply as a ship her helm; not only +without idea of resistance, but receiving the direction as a part of my +own life and force, a helpful law, as necessary to me in every moral +action as the law of gravity in leaping. And my practice in Faith was +soon complete: nothing ever threatened me that was not inflicted, and +nothing ever told me that was not true. + +Peace, obedience, faith; these three for chief good; next to these, the +habit of fixed attention with both eyes and mind--on which I will not +further enlarge at this moment, this being the main practical faculty of +my life, causing Mazzini to say of me, in conversation authentically +reported, a year or two before his death, that I had "the most analytic +mind in Europe." An opinion in which, so far as I am acquainted with +Europe, I am myself entirely disposed to concur. + +Lastly, an extreme perfection in palate and all other bodily senses, +given by the utter prohibition of cake, wine, comfits, or, except in +carefulest restriction, fruit; and by fine preparation of what food was +given me. Such I esteem the main blessings of my childhood;--next, let +me count the equally dominant calamities. + +First, that I had nothing to love. + +My parents were--in a sort--visible powers of nature to me, no more +loved than the sun and the moon: only I should have been annoyed and +puzzled if either of them had gone out; (how much, now, when both are +darkened!)--still less did I love God; not that I had any quarrel with +Him, or fear of Him; but simply found what people told me was His +service, disagreeable; and what people told me was His book, not +entertaining. I had no companions to quarrel with, neither; nobody to +assist, and nobody to thank. Not a servant was ever allowed to do +anything for me, but what it was their duty to do; and why should I have +been grateful to the cook for cooking, or the gardener for +gardening,--when the one dared not give me a baked potato without asking +leave, and the other would not let my ants' nests alone, because they +made the walks untidy? The evil consequence of all this was not, +however, what might perhaps have been expected, that I grew up selfish +or unaffectionate; but that, when affection did come, it came with +violence utterly rampant and unmanageable, at least by me, who never +before had anything to manage. + +For (second of chief calamities) I had nothing to endure. Danger or pain +of any kind I knew not: my strength was never exercised, my patience +never tried, and my courage never fortified. Not that I was ever afraid +of anything,--either ghosts, thunder, or beasts; and one of the nearest +approaches to insubordination which I was ever tempted into as a child, +was in passionate effort to get leave to play with the lion's cubs in +Wombwell's menagerie. + +Thirdly, I was taught no precision nor etiquette of manners; it was +enough if, in the little society we saw, I remained unobtrusive, and +replied to a question without shyness: but the shyness came later, and +increased as I grew conscious of the rudeness arising from the want of +social discipline, and found it impossible to acquire, in advanced life, +dexterity in any bodily exercise, skill in any pleasing accomplishment, +or ease and tact in ordinary behaviour. + +Lastly, and chief of evils. My judgment of right and wrong, and powers +of independent action, were left entirely undeveloped; because the +bridle and blinkers were never taken off me. Children should have their +times of being off duty, like soldiers; and when once the obedience, if +required, is certain, the little creature should be very early put for +periods of practice in complete command of itself; set on the barebacked +horse of its own will, and left to break it by its own strength. But the +ceaseless authority exercised over my youth left me, when cast out at +last into the world, unable for some time to do more than drift with its +vortices. + +My present verdict, therefore, on the general tenor of my education at +that time, must be, that it was at once too formal and too luxurious; +leaving my character, at the most important moment for its construction, +cramped indeed, but not disciplined; and only by protection innocent, +instead of by practice virtuous. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 2: From "Praeterita," _1885, Vol. I, Chapter II_.] + + + + +A CRISIS IN MY MENTAL HISTORY[3] + +JOHN STUART MILL + + +From the winter of 1821, when I first read Bentham, and especially from +the commencement of the Westminster Review, I had what might truly be +called an object in life; to be a reformer of the world. My conception +of my own happiness was entirely identified with this object. The +personal sympathies I wished for were those of fellow labourers in this +enterprise. I endeavoured to pick up as many flowers as I could by the +way; but as a serious and permanent personal satisfaction to rest upon, +my whole reliance was placed on this; and I was accustomed to felicitate +myself on the certainty of a happy life which I enjoyed, through placing +my happiness in something durable and distant, in which some progress +might be always making, while it could never be exhausted by complete +attainment. This did very well for several years, during which the +general improvement going on in the world and the idea of myself as +engaged with others in struggling to promote it, seemed enough to fill +up an interesting and animated existence. But the time came when I +awakened from this as from a dream. It was in the autumn of 1826. I was +in a dull state of nerves, such as everybody is occasionally liable to; +unsusceptible to enjoyment or pleasurable excitement; one of those moods +when what is pleasure at other times, becomes insipid or indifferent; +the state, I should think, in which converts to Methodism usually are, +when smitten by their first "conviction of sin." In this frame of mind +it occurred to me to put the question directly to myself: "Suppose that +all your objects in life were realised; that all the changes in +institutions and opinions which you are looking forward to, could be +completely effected at this very instant: would this be a great joy and +happiness to you?" And an irrepressible self-consciousness distinctly +answered, "No!" At this my heart sank within me: the whole foundation on +which my life was constructed fell down. All my happiness was to have +been found in the continual pursuit of this end. The end had ceased to +charm, and how could there ever again be any interest in the means? I +seemed to have nothing left to live for. + +At first I hoped that the cloud would pass away of itself; but it did +not. A night's sleep, the sovereign remedy for the smaller vexations of +life, had no effect on it. I awoke to a renewed consciousness of the +woful fact. I carried it with me into all companies, into all +occupations. Hardly anything had power to cause me even a few minutes' +oblivion of it. For some months the cloud seemed to grow thicker and +thicker. The lines in Coleridge's "Dejection"--I was not then acquainted +with them--exactly describe my case: + + "A grief without a pang, void, dark and drear, + A drowsy, stifled, unimpassioned grief, + Which finds no natural outlet or relief + In word, or sigh, or tear." + +In vain I sought relief from my favourite books; those memorials of past +nobleness and greatness from which I had always hitherto drawn strength +and animation. I read them now without feeling, or with the accustomed +feeling _minus_ all its charm; and I became persuaded, that my love of +mankind, and of excellence for its own sake, had worn itself out. I +sought no comfort by speaking to others of what I felt. If I had loved +any one sufficiently to make confiding my griefs a necessity, I should +not have been in the condition I was. I felt, too, that mine was not an +interesting, or in any way respectable distress. There was nothing in it +to attract sympathy. Advice, if I had known where to seek it, would +have been most precious. The words of Macbeth to the physician often +occurred to my thoughts. But there was no one on whom I could build the +faintest hope of such assistance. My father, to whom it would have been +natural to me to have recourse in any practical difficulties, was the +last person to whom, in such a case as this, I looked for help. +Everything convinced me that he had no knowledge of any such mental +state as I was suffering from, and that even if he could be made to +understand it, he was not the physician who could heal it. My education, +which was wholly his work, had been conducted without any regard to the +possibility of its ending in this result; and I saw no use in giving him +the pain of thinking that his plans had failed, when the failure was +probably irremediable, and, at all events, beyond the power of _his_ +remedies. Of other friends, I had at that time none to whom I had any +hope of making my condition intelligible. It was, however, abundantly +intelligible to myself; and the more I dwelt upon it, the more hopeless +it appeared. + +My course of study had led me to believe, that all mental and moral +feelings and qualities, whether of a good or of a bad kind, were the +results of association; that we love one thing, and hate another, take +pleasure in one sort of action or contemplation, and pain in another +sort, through the clinging of pleasurable or painful ideas to those +things, from the effect of education or of experience. As a corollary +from this, I had always heard it maintained by my father, and was myself +convinced, that the object of education should be to form the strongest +possible associations of the salutary class; associations of pleasure +with all things beneficial to the great whole, and of pain with all +things hurtful to it. This doctrine appeared inexpugnable; but it now +seemed to me, on retrospect, that my teachers had occupied themselves +but superficially with the means of forming and keeping up these +salutary associations. They seemed to have trusted altogether to the old +familiar instruments, praise and blame, reward and punishment. Now, I +did not doubt that by these means, begun early, and applied +unremittingly, intense associations of pain and pleasure, especially of +pain, might be created, and might produce desires and aversions capable +of lasting undiminished to the end of life. But there must always be +something artificial and casual in associations thus produced. The pains +and pleasures thus forcibly associated with things, are not connected +with them by any natural tie; and it is therefore, I thought, essential +to the durability of these associations, that they should have become so +intense and inveterate as to be practically indissoluble, before the +habitual exercise of the power of analysis had commenced. For I now saw, +or thought I saw, what I had always before received with +incredulity--that the habit of analysis has a tendency to wear away the +feelings: as indeed it has, when no other mental habit is cultivated, +and the analysing spirit remains without its natural complements and +correctives. The very excellence of analysis (I argued) is that it tends +to weaken and undermine whatever is the result of prejudice; that it +enables us mentally to separate ideas which have only casually clung +together: and no associations whatever could ultimately resist this +dissolving force, were it not that we owe to analysis our clearest +knowledge of the permanent sequences in nature; the real connections +between Things, not dependent on our will and feelings; natural laws, by +virtue of which, in many cases, one thing is inseparable from another in +fact; which laws, in proportion as they are clearly perceived and +imaginatively realised, cause our ideas of things which are always +joined together in Nature, to cohere more and more closely in our +thoughts. Analytic habits may thus even strengthen the associations +between causes and effects, means and ends, but tend altogether to +weaken those which are, to speak familiarly, a _mere_ matter of feeling. +They are therefore (I thought) favourable to prudence and +clear-sightedness, but a perpetual worm at the root both of the passions +and of the virtues; and, above all, fearfully undermine all desires, and +all pleasures, which are the effects of association, that is, according +to the theory I held, all except the purely physical and organic; of the +entire insufficiency of which to make life desirable, no one had a +stronger conviction than I had. These were the laws of human nature, by +which, as it seemed to me, I had been brought to my present state. All +those to whom I looked up, were of opinion that the pleasure of sympathy +with human beings, and the feelings which made the good of others, and +especially of mankind on a large scale, the object of existence, were +the greatest and surest sources of happiness. Of the truth of this I was +convinced, but to know that a feeling would make me happy if I had it, +did not give me the feeling. My education, I thought, had failed to +create these feelings in sufficient strength to resist the dissolving +influence of analysis, while the whole course of my intellectual +cultivation had made precocious and premature analysis the inveterate +habit of my mind. I was thus, as I said to myself, left stranded at the +commencement of my voyage, with a well-equipped ship and a rudder, but +no sail; without any real desire for the ends which I had been so +carefully fitted out to work for: no delight in virtue, or the general +good, but also just as little in anything else. The fountains of vanity +and ambition seemed to have dried up within me, as completely as those +of benevolence. I had had (as I reflected) some gratification of vanity +at too early an age: I had obtained some distinction, and felt myself of +some importance, before the desire of distinction and of importance had +grown into a passion: and little as it was which I had attained, yet +having been attained too early, like all pleasures enjoyed too soon, it +had made me _blase_ and indifferent to the pursuit. Thus neither selfish +nor unselfish pleasures were pleasures to me. And there seemed no power +in nature sufficient to begin the formation of my character anew, and +create in a mind now irretrievably analytic, fresh associations of +pleasure with any of the objects of human desire. + +These were the thoughts which mingled with the dry heavy dejection of +the melancholy winter of 1826-7. During this time I was not incapable of +my usual occupations. I went on with them mechanically, by the mere +force of habit. I had been so drilled in a certain sort of mental +exercise, that I could still carry it on when all the spirit had gone +out of it. I even composed and spoke several speeches at the debating +society, how, or with what degree of success, I know not. Of four years' +continual speaking at that society, this is the only year of which I +remember next to nothing. Two lines of Coleridge, in whom alone of all +writers I have found a true description of what I felt, were often in my +thoughts, not at this time (for I had never read them), but in a later +period of the same mental malady: + + "Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve, + And hope without an object cannot live." + +In all probability my case was by no means so peculiar as I fancied it, +and I doubt not that many others have passed through a similar state; +but the idiosyncrasies of my education had given to the general +phenomenon a special character, which made it seem the natural effect of +causes that it was hardly possible for time to remove. I frequently +asked myself, if I could, or if I was bound to go on living, when life +must be passed in this manner. I generally answered to myself, that I +did not think I could possibly bear it beyond a year. When, however, not +more than half that duration of time had elapsed, a small ray of light +broke in upon my gloom. I was reading, accidentally, Marmontel's +"Memoires," and came to the passage which relates his father's death, +the distressed position of the family, and the sudden inspiration by +which he, then a mere boy, felt and made them feel that he would be +everything to them--would supply the place of all that they had lost. A +vivid conception of the scene and its feelings came over me, and I was +moved to tears. From this moment my burden grew lighter. The oppression +of the thought that all feeling was dead within me, was gone. I was no +longer hopeless: I was not a stock or a stone. I had still, it seemed, +some of the material out of which all worth of character, and all +capacity for happiness, are made. Relieved from my ever present sense of +irremediable wretchedness, I gradually found that the ordinary incidents +of life could again give me some pleasure; that I could again find +enjoyment, not intense, but sufficient for cheerfulness, in sunshine and +sky, in books, in conversation, in public affairs; and that there was, +once more, excitement, though of a moderate kind, in exerting myself for +my opinions, and for the public good. Thus the cloud gradually drew off, +and I again enjoyed life: and though I had several relapses, some of +which lasted many months, I never again was as miserable as I had been. + +The experiences of this period had two very marked effects on my +opinions and character. In the first place, they led me to adopt a +theory of life, very unlike that on which I had before acted, and having +much in common with what at that time I certainly had never heard of, +the anti-self-consciousness theory of Carlyle. I never, indeed, wavered +in the conviction that happiness is the test of all rules of conduct, +and the end of life. But I now thought that this end was only to be +attained by not making it the direct end. Those only are happy (I +thought) who have their minds fixed on some object other than their own +happiness; on the happiness of others, on the improvement of mankind, +even on some art or pursuit, followed not as a means, but as itself an +ideal end. Aiming thus at something else, they find happiness by the +way. The enjoyments of life (such was now my theory) are sufficient to +make it a pleasant thing, when they are taken _en passant_, without +being made a principal object. Once make them so, and they are +immediately felt to be insufficient. They will not bear a scrutinising +examination. Ask yourself whether you are happy, and you cease to be so. +The only chance is to treat, not happiness, but some end external to it, +as the purpose of life. Let your self-consciousness, your scrutiny, your +self-interrogation, exhaust themselves on that; and if otherwise +fortunately circumstanced you will inhale happiness with the air you +breathe, without dwelling on it or thinking about it, without either +forestalling it in imagination, or putting it to flight by fatal +questioning. This theory now became the basis of my philosophy of life. +And I still hold to it as the best theory for all those who have but a +moderate degree of sensibility and of capacity for enjoyment, that is, +for the great majority of mankind. + +The other important change which my opinions at this: time underwent, +was that I, for the first time, gave its proper place, among the prime +necessities of human well-being, to the internal culture of the +individual. I ceased to attach almost exclusive importance to the +ordering of outward circumstances, and the training of the human being +for speculation and for action. + +I had now learnt by experience that the passive susceptibilities needed +to be cultivated as well as the active capacities, and required to be +nourished and enriched as well as guided. I did not, for an instant, +lose sight of, or undervalue, that part of the truth which I had seen +before; I never turned recreant to intellectual culture, or ceased to +consider the power and practice of analysis as an essential condition +both of individual and of social improvement. But I thought that it had +consequences which required to be corrected, by joining other kinds of +cultivation with it. The maintenance of a due balance among the +faculties, now seemed to me of primary importance. The cultivation of +the feelings became one of the cardinal points in my ethical and +philosophical creed. And my thoughts and inclinations turned in an +increasing degree towards whatever seemed capable of being instrumental +to that object. + +I now began to find meaning in the things which I had read or heard +about the importance of poetry and art as instruments of human culture. +But it was some time longer before I began to know this by personal +experience. The only one of the imaginative arts in which I had from +childhood taken great pleasure, was music; the best effect of which +(and in this it surpasses perhaps every other art) consists in exciting +enthusiasm; in winding up to a high pitch those feelings of an elevated +kind which are already in the character, but to which this excitement +gives a glow and a fervour, which, though transitory at its utmost +height, is precious for sustaining them at other times. This effect of +music I had often experienced; but like all my pleasurable +susceptibilities it was suspended during the gloomy period. I had sought +relief again and again from this quarter, but found none. After the tide +had turned, and I was in process of recovery, I had been helped forward +by music, but in a much less elevated manner. I at this time first +became acquainted with Weber's Oberon, and the extreme pleasure which I +drew from its delicious melodies did me good, by showing me a source of +pleasure to which I was as susceptible as ever. The good, however, was +much impaired by the thought, that the pleasure of music (as is quite +true of such pleasure as this was, that of mere tune) fades with +familiarity, and requires either to be revived by intermittence, or fed +by continual novelty. And it is very characteristic both of my then +state, and of the general tone of my mind at this period of my life, +that I was seriously tormented by the thought of the exhaustibility of +musical combinations. The octave consists only of five tones and two +semi-tones, which can be put together in only a limited number of ways, +of which but a small proportion are beautiful: most of these, it seemed +to me, must have been already discovered, and there could not be room +for a long succession of Mozarts and Webers, to strike out, as these had +done, entirely new and surpassingly rich veins of musical beauty. This +source of anxiety may, perhaps, be thought to resemble that of the +philosophers of Laputa, who feared lest the sun should be burnt out. It +was, however, connected with the best feature in my character, and the +only good point to be found in my very unromantic and in no way +honourable distress. For though my dejection, honestly looked at, could +not be called other than egotistical, produced by the ruin, as I +thought, of my fabric of happiness, yet the destiny of mankind in +general was ever in my thoughts, and could not be separated from my own. +I felt that the flaw in my life, must be a flaw in life itself; that the +question was, whether, if the reformers of society and government could +succeed in their objects, and every person in the community were free +and in a state of physical comfort, the pleasures of life, being no +longer kept up by struggle and privation, would cease to be pleasures. +And I felt that unless I could see my way to some better hope than this +for human happiness in general my dejection must continue; but that if I +could see such an outlet, I should then look on the world with pleasure; +content as far as I was myself concerned, with any fair share of the +general lot. + +This state of my thoughts and feelings made the fact of my reading +Wordsworth for the first time (in the autumn of 1828), an important +event in my life. I took up the collection of his poems from curiosity, +with no expectation of mental relief from it, though I had before +resorted to poetry with that hope. In the worst period of my depression, +I had read through the whole of Byron (then new to me), to try whether a +poet, whose peculiar department was supposed to be that of the intenser +feelings, could rouse any feeling in me. As might be expected, I got no +good from this reading, but the reverse. The poet's state of mind was +too like my own. His was the lament of a man who had worn out all +pleasures, and who seemed to think that life, to all who possess the +good things of it, must necessarily be the vapid, uninteresting thing +which I found it. His Harold and Manfred had the same burden on them +which I had; and I was not in a frame of mind to desire any comfort from +the vehement sensual passion of his Giaours, or the sullenness of his +Laras. But while Byron was exactly what did not suit my condition, +Wordsworth was exactly what did. I had looked into the Excursion two or +three years before, and found little in it; and I should probably have +found as little, had I read it at this time. But the miscellaneous +poems, in the two-volume edition of 1815 (to which little of value was +added in the latter part of the author's life), proved to be the precise +thing for my mental wants at that particular juncture. + +In the first place, these poems addressed themselves powerfully to one +of the strongest of my pleasurable susceptibilities, the love of rural +objects and natural scenery; to which I had been indebted not only for +much of the pleasure of my life, but quite recently for relief from one +of my longest relapses into depression. In this power of rural beauty +over me, there was a foundation laid for taking pleasure in Wordsworth's +poetry; the more so, as his scenery lies mostly among mountains, which, +owing to my early Pyrenean excursion, were my ideal of natural beauty. +But Wordsworth would never have had any great effect on me, if he had +merely placed before me beautiful pictures of natural scenery. Scott +does this still better than Wordsworth, and a very second-rate landscape +does it more effectually than any poet. What made Wordsworth's poems a +medicine for my state of mind, was that they expressed, not mere outward +beauty, but states of feeling, and of thought coloured by feeling, under +the excitement of beauty. They seemed to be the very culture of the +feelings which I was in quest of. In them I seemed to draw from a source +of inward joy, of sympathetic and imaginative pleasures, which could be +shared in by all human beings; which had no connection with struggle or +imperfection, but would be made richer by every improvement in the +physical or social condition of mankind. From them I seemed to learn +what would be the perennial sources of happiness, when all the greater +evils of life shall have been removed. And I felt myself at once better +and happier as I came under their influence. There have certainly been, +even in our own age, greater poets than Wordsworth; but poetry of deeper +and loftier feeling could not have done for me at that time what his +did. I needed to be made to feel that there was real, permanent +happiness in tranquil contemplation. Wordsworth taught me this, not only +without turning away from, but with a greatly increased interest in the +common feelings and common destiny of human beings. And the delight +which these poems gave me, proved that with culture of this sort, there +was nothing to dread from the most confirmed habit of analysis. At the +conclusion of the Poems came the famous Ode, falsely called Platonic, +"Intimations of Immortality:" in which, along with more than his usual +sweetness of melody and rhythm, and along with the two passages of grand +imagery but bad philosophy so often quoted, I found that he too had had +similar experience to mine; that he also had felt that the first +freshness of youthful enjoyment of life was not lasting; but that he had +sought for compensation, and found it, in the way in which he was now +teaching me to find it. The result was that I gradually, but completely, +emerged from my habitual depression, and was never again subject to it. +I long continued to value Wordsworth less according to his intrinsic +merits, than by the measure of what he had done for me. Compared with +the greatest poets, he may be said to be the poet of unpoetical natures, +possessed of quiet and contemplative tastes. But unpoetical natures are +precisely those which require poetic cultivation. This cultivation +Wordsworth is much more fitted to give, than poets who are intrinsically +far more poets than he. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 3: From Chapter V of the Autobiography, 1874.] + + + + +OLD CHINA[4] + +CHARLES LAMB + + +I have an almost feminine partiality for old china. When I go to see any +great house, I inquire for the china-closet, and next for the +picture-gallery. I cannot defend the order of preference, but by saying +that we have all some taste or other, of too ancient a date to admit of +our remembering distinctly that it was an acquired one. I can call to +mind the first play, and the first exhibition, that I was taken to; but +I am not conscious of a time when china jars and saucers were introduced +into my imagination. + +I had no repugnance then--why should I now have?--to those little, +lawless, azure-tinctured grotesques, that, under the notion of men and +women, float about, uncircumscribed by any element in that world before +perspective--a china tea-cup. + +I like to see my old friends, whom distance cannot diminish, figuring up +in the air (so they appear to our optics), yet on _terra firma_ +still--for so we must in courtesy interpret that speck of deeper blue, +which the decorous artist, to prevent absurdity, had made to spring up +beneath their sandals. + +I love the men with women's faces, and women, if possible, with still +more womanish expressions. + +Here is a young and courtly Mandarin, handing tea to a lady from a +salver--two miles off. See how distance seems to set off respect! And +here the same lady, or another--for likeness is identity on tea-cups--is +stepping into a little fairy boat, moored on the hither side of this +calm garden river, with a dainty mincing foot, which in a right angle +of incidence (as angles go in our world) must infallibly land her in the +midst of a flowery mead--a furlong off on the other side of the same +strange stream! + +Further on--if far or near can be predicated of their world--see horses, +trees, pagodas, dancing the hays.[5] + +Here--a cow and rabbit couchant, and coextensive--so objects show, seen +through the lucid atmosphere of fine Cathay. + +I was pointing out to my cousin last evening, over our Hyson (which we +are old-fashioned enough to drink unmixed still of an afternoon), some +of these _speciosa miracula_[6] upon a set of extraordinary old blue +china (a recent purchase) which we were now for the first time using; +and could not help remarking, how favourable circumstances had been to +us of late years, that we could afford to please the eye sometimes with +trifles of this sort--when a passing sentiment seemed to overshade the +brows of my companion. I am quick at detecting these summer clouds in +Bridget. + +"I wish the good old times would come again," she said, "when we were +not quite so rich. I do not mean that I want to be poor; but there was a +middle state,"--so she was pleased to ramble on,--"in which I am sure we +were a great deal happier. A purchase is but a purchase, now that you +have money enough and to spare. Formerly it used to be a triumph. When +we coveted a cheap luxury (and, oh! how much ado I had to get you to +consent in those times!) we were used to have a debate two or three days +before, and to weigh the _for_ and _against_, and think what we might +spare it out of, and what saving we could hit upon, that should be an +equivalent. A thing was worth buying then, when we felt the money that +we paid for it. + +"Do you remember the brown suit, which you made to hang upon you, till +your friends cried shame upon you, it grew so threadbare--and all +because of that folio _Beaumont and Fletcher_, which you dragged home +late at night from Barker's in Covent-garden? Do you remember how we +eyed it for weeks before we could make up our minds to the purchase, and +had not come to a determination till it was near ten o'clock of the +Saturday night, when you set off from Islington, fearing you should be +too late--and when the old bookseller with some grumbling opened his +shop, and by the twinkling taper (for he was setting bed-ward) lighted +out the relic from his dusty treasures--and when you lugged it home, +wishing it were twice as cumbersome--and when you presented it to +me--and when we were exploring the perfectness of it (_collating_ you +called it)--and while I was repairing some of the loose leaves with +paste, which your impatience would not suffer to be left till +daybreak--was there no pleasure in being a poor man? or can those neat +black clothes which you wear now, and are so careful to keep brushed, +since we have become rich and finical, give you half the honest vanity +with which you flaunted it about in that overworn suit--your old +corbeau--for four or five weeks longer than you should have done, to +pacify your conscience for the mighty sum of fifteen--or sixteen +shillings was it?--a great affair we thought it then--which you had +lavished on the old folio. Now you can afford to buy any book that +pleases you, but I do not see that you ever bring me home any nice old +purchases now. + +"When you came home with twenty apologies for laying out a less number +of shillings upon that print after Lionardo which we christened the +'Lady Blanch'; when you looked at the purchase, and thought of the +money--and thought of the money, and looked again at the picture--was +there no pleasure in being a poor man? Now, you have nothing to do but +to walk into Colnaghi's, and buy a wilderness of Lionardos. Yet do you? + +"Then, do you remember our pleasant walks to Enfield, and Potter's bar, +and Waltham, when we had a holiday--holidays and all other fun are gone +now we are rich--and the little handbasket in which I used to deposit +our day's fare of savory cold lamb and salad--and how you would pry +about at noon-tide for some decent house, where we might go in and +produce our store--only paying for the ale that you must call for--and +speculate upon the looks of the landlady, and whether she was likely to +allow us a tablecloth--and wish for such another honest hostess as Izaak +Walton has described many a one on the pleasant banks of the Lea, when +he went a fishing--and sometimes they would prove obliging enough, and +sometimes they would look grudgingly upon us--but we had cheerful looks +still for one another, and would eat our plain food savorily, scarcely +grudging Piscator[7] his Trout Hall? Now, when we go out a day's +pleasuring, which is seldom, moreover, we _ride_ part of the way, and go +into a fine inn, and order the best of dinners, never debating the +expense, which, after all, never has half the relish of those chance +country snaps, when we were at the mercy of uncertain usage, and a +precarious welcome. + +"You are too proud to see a play anywhere now but in the pit. Do you +remember where it was we used to sit, when we saw the _Battle of +Hexham_, and the _Surrender of Calais_, and Bannister and Mrs. Bland in +the _Children in the Wood_--when we squeezed out our shilling apiece to +sit three or four times in a season in the one-shilling gallery--where +you felt all the time that you ought not to have brought me--and more +strongly I felt obligation to you for having brought me--and the +pleasure was the better for a little shame--and when the curtain drew +up, what cared we for our place in the house, or what mattered it where +we were sitting, when our thoughts were with Rosalind in Arden, or with +Viola at the Court of Illyria? You used to say that the gallery was the +best place of all for enjoying a play socially; that the relish of such +exhibitions must be in proportion to the infrequency of going; that the +company we met there, not being in general readers of plays, were +obliged to attend the more, and did attend, to what was going on on the +stage, because a word lost would have been a chasm which it was +impossible for them to fill up. With such reflections we consoled our +pride then, and I appeal to you whether, as a woman, I met generally +with less attention and accommodation than I have done since in more +expensive situations in the house? The getting in, indeed, and the +crowding up those inconvenient staircases, was bad enough,--but there +was still a law of civility to woman recognised to quite as great an +extent as we ever found in the other passages--and how a little +difficulty overcome heightened the snug seat, and the play, afterward! +Now we can only pay our money, and walk in. You cannot see, you say, in +the galleries now. I am sure we saw, and heard too, well enough +then--but sight, and all, I think, is gone with our poverty. + +"There was pleasure in eating strawberries, before they became quite +common--in the first dish of peas, while they were yet dear--to have +them for a nice supper, a treat. What treat can we have now? If we were +to treat ourselves now--that is, to have dainties a little above our +means, it would be selfish and wicked. It is the very little more that +we allow ourselves beyond what the actual poor can get at, that makes +what I call a treat--when two people living together, as we have done, +now and then indulge themselves in a cheap luxury, which both like; +while each apologises, and is willing to take both halves of the blame +to his single share. I see no harm in people making much of themselves +in that sense of the word. It may give them a hint how to make much of +others. But now--what I mean by the word--we never _do_ make much of +ourselves. None but the poor can do it. I do not mean the veriest poor +of all, but persons as we were, just above poverty. + +"I know what you were going to say, that it is mighty pleasant at the +end of the year to make all meet,--and much ado we used to have every +Thirty-first Night of December to account for our exceedings--many a +long face did you make over your puzzled accounts, and in contriving to +make it out how we had spent so much--or that we had not spent so +much--or that it was impossible we should spend so much next year--and +still we found our slender capital decreasing--but then, betwixt ways, +and projects, and compromises of one sort or another and talk of +curtailing this charge, and doing without that for the future--and the +hope that youth brings, and laughing spirits (in which you were never +poor till now), we pocketed up our loss, and in conclusion, with 'lusty +brimmers' (as you used to quote it out of _hearty, cheerful Mr. +Cotton_[8], as you called him), we used to welcome in the 'coming +guest.' Now we have no reckoning at all at the end of the old year; no +flattering promises about the new year doing better for us." + +Bridget is so sparing of her speech, on most occasions, that when she +gets into a rhetorical vein, I am careful how I interrupt it. I could +not help, however, smiling at the phantom of wealth which her dear +imagination had conjured up out of a clear income of poor ---- hundred +pounds a year. "It is true we were happier when we were poorer, but we +were also younger, my cousin. I am afraid we must put up with the +excess, for if we were to shake the superflux into the sea, we should +not much mend ourselves. That we had much to struggle with, as we grew +up together, we have reason to be most thankful. It strengthened and +knit our compact closer. We could never have been what we have been to +each other, if we had always had the sufficiency which you now complain +of. The resisting power, those natural dilations of the youthful spirit, +which circumstances can not straiten--with us are long since passed +away. Competence to age is supplementary youth, a sorry supplement +indeed, but I fear the best that is to be had. We must ride where we +formerly walked: live better and lie softer--and shall be wise to do +so--than we had means to do in those good old days you speak of. Yet +could those days return, could you and I once more walk our thirty miles +a day, could Bannister and Mrs. Bland again be young, and you and I be +young to see them, could the good old one shilling gallery days +return--they are dreams, my cousin, now, but could you and I at this +moment, instead of this quiet argument, by our well-carpeted fireside, +sitting on this luxurious sofa--be once more struggling up those +inconvenient staircases, pushed about and squeezed, and elbowed by the +poorest rabble of poor gallery scramblers--could I once more hear those +anxious shrieks of yours, and the delicious _Thank God, we are safe_, +which always followed, when the topmost stair, conquered, let in the +first light of the whole cheerful theatre down beneath us--I know not +the fathom line that ever touched a descent so deep as I would be +willing to bury more wealth in than Croesus had, or the great Jew R---- +is supposed to have, to purchase it. And now do just look at that merry +little Chinese waiter holding an umbrella, big enough for a bed-tester, +over the head of that pretty insipid half-Madonna-ish chit of a lady in +that very blue summer-house." + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 4: From "Last Essays of Elia," 1833.] + +[Footnote 5: The hays: an old English dance.] + +[Footnote 6: Speciosa miracula: beautiful marvels.] + +[Footnote 7: Piscator: The Angler--the author's spokesman in Walton's +"The Complete Angler."] + +[Footnote 8: Charles Cotton, a humorist of the seventeenth century.] + + + + +WHAT IS EDUCATION?[9] + +THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY + + +What is education? Above all things, what is our ideal of a thoroughly +liberal education?--of that education which, if we could begin life +again, we would give ourselves--of that education which, if we could +mould the fates to our own will, we would give our children? Well, I +know not what may be your conceptions upon this matter, but I will tell +you mine, and I hope I shall find that our views are not very +discrepant. + +Suppose it were perfectly certain that the life and fortune of every one +of us would, one day or other, depend upon his winning or losing a game +of chess. Don't you think that we should all consider it to be a primary +duty to learn at least the names and the moves of the pieces; to have a +notion of a gambit, and a keen eye for all the means of giving and +getting out of check? Do you not think that we should look with a +disapprobation amounting to scorn, upon the father who allowed his son, +or the state which allowed its members, to grow up without knowing a +pawn from a knight? + +Yet it is a very plain and elementary truth, that the life, the +fortune, and the happiness of every one of us, and, more or less, of +those who are connected with us, do depend upon our knowing something of +the rules of a game infinitely more difficult and complicated than +chess. It is a game which has been played for untold ages, every man and +woman of us being one of the two players in a game of his or her own. +The chess-board is the world, the pieces are the phenomena of the +universe, the rules of the game are what we call the laws of Nature. The +player on the other side is hidden from us. We know that his play is +always fair, just and patient. But also we know, to our cost, that he +never overlooks a mistake, or makes the smallest allowance for +ignorance. To the man who plays well, the highest stakes are paid, with +that sort of overflowing generosity with which the strong shows delight +in strength. And one who plays ill is checkmated--without haste, but +without remorse. + +My metaphor will remind some of you of the famous picture in which +Retzsch has depicted Satan playing at chess with man for his soul. +Substitute for the mocking fiend in that picture a calm, strong angel +who is playing for love, as we say, and would rather lose than win--and +I should accept it as an image of human life. + +Well, what I mean by Education is learning the rules of this mighty +game. In other words, education is the instruction of the intellect in +the laws of Nature, under which name I include not merely things and +their forces, but men and their ways; and the fashioning of the +affections and of the will into an earnest and loving desire to move in +harmony with those laws. For me, education means neither more nor less +than this. Anything which professes to call itself education must be +tried by this standard, and if it fails to stand the test, I will not +call it education, whatever may be the force of authority, or of +numbers, upon the other side. + +It is important to remember that, in strictness, there is no such thing +as an uneducated man. Take an extreme case. Suppose that an adult man, +in the full vigour of his faculties, could be suddenly placed in the +world, as Adam is said to have been, and then left to do as he best +might. How long would he be left uneducated? Not five minutes. Nature +would begin to teach him, through the eye, the ear, the touch, the +properties of objects. Pain and pleasure would be at his elbow telling +him to do this and avoid that; and by slow degrees the man would receive +an education which, if narrow, would be thorough, real, and adequate to +his circumstances, though there would be no extras and very few +accomplishments. + +And if to this solitary man entered a second Adam, or, better still, an +Eve, a new and greater world, that of social and moral phenomena, would +be revealed. Joys and woes, compared with which all others might seem +but faint shadows, would spring from the new relations. Happiness and +sorrow would take the place of the coarser monitors, pleasure and pain; +but conduct would still be shaped by the observation of the natural +consequences of actions; or, in other words, by the laws of the nature +of man. + +To every one of us the world was once as fresh and new as to Adam. And +then, long before we were susceptible of any other modes of instruction, +Nature took us in hand, and every minute of waking life brought its +educational influence, shaping our actions into rough accordance with +Nature's laws, so that we might not be ended untimely by too gross +disobedience. Nor should I speak of this process of education as past +for any one, be he as old as he may. For every man the world is as fresh +as it was at the first day, and as full of untold novelties for him who +has the eyes to see them. And Nature is still continuing her patient +education of us in that great university, the universe, of which we are +all members--Nature having no Test-Acts. + +Those who take honours in Nature's university, who learn the laws which +govern men and things and obey them, are the really great and successful +men in this world. The great mass of mankind are the "Poll,"[10] who +pick up just enough to get through without much discredit. Those who +won't learn at all are plucked; and then you can't come up again. +Nature's pluck means extermination. + +Thus the question of compulsory education is settled so far as Nature +is concerned. Her bill on that question was framed and passed long ago. +But, like all compulsory legislation, that of Nature is harsh and +wasteful in its operation. Ignorance is visited as sharply as wilful +disobedience--incapacity meets with the same punishment as crime. +Nature's discipline is not even a word and a blow, and the blow first; +but the blow without the word. It is left to you to find out why your +ears are boxed. + +The object of what we commonly call education--that education in which +man intervenes and which I shall distinguish as artificial education--is +to make good these defects in Nature's methods; to prepare the child to +receive Nature's education, neither incapably nor ignorantly, nor with +wilful disobedience; and to understand the preliminary symptoms of her +pleasure, without waiting for the box on the ear. In short, all +artificial education ought to be an anticipation of natural education. +And a liberal education is an artificial education which has not only +prepared a man to escape the great evils of disobedience to natural +laws, but has trained him to appreciate and to seize upon the rewards, +which Nature scatters with as free a hand as her penalties. + +That man, I think, has had a liberal education who has been so trained +in youth that his body is the ready servant of his will, and does with +ease and pleasure all the work that, as a mechanism, it is capable of; +whose intellect is a clear, cold, logic engine, with all its parts of +equal strength, and in smooth working order; ready, like a steam engine, +to be turned to any kind of work, and spin the gossamers as well as +forge the anchors of the mind; whose mind is stored with a knowledge of +the great and fundamental truths of Nature and of the laws of her +operations; one who, no stunted ascetic, is full of life and fire, but +whose passions are trained to come to heel by a vigorous will, the +servant of a tender conscience; who has learned to love all beauty, +whether of Nature or of art, to hate all vileness, and to respect others +as himself. + +Such an one and no other, I conceive, has had a liberal education; for +he is, as completely as a man can be, in harmony with Nature. He will +make the best of her, and she of him. They will get on together rarely; +she as his ever beneficent mother; he as her mouthpiece, her conscious +self, her minister and interpreter. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 9: From "A Liberal Education; and Where to Find It," 1868.] + +[Footnote 10: Poll (a slang term used at Cambridge University): those +who take a degree without honours.] + + + + +KNOWLEDGE VIEWED IN RELATION TO LEARNING[11] + +JOHN HENRY NEWMAN + + +It were well if the English, like the Greek language, possessed some +definite word to express, simply and generally, intellectual proficiency +or perfection, such as "health," as used with reference to the animal +frame, and "virtue," with reference to our moral nature. I am not able +to find such a term;--talent, ability, genius, belong distinctly to the +raw material, which is the subject-matter, not to that excellence which +is the result of exercise and training. When we turn, indeed, to the +particular kinds of intellectual perfection, words are forthcoming for +our purpose, as, for instance, judgment, taste, and skill; yet even +these belong, for the most part, to powers or habits bearing upon +practice or upon art, and not to any perfect condition of the intellect, +considered in itself. Wisdom, again, is certainly a more comprehensive +word than any other, but it has a direct relation to conduct, and to +human life. Knowledge, indeed, and science express purely intellectual +ideas but still not a state or quality of the intellect; for knowledge, +in its ordinary sense, is but one of its circumstances, denoting a +possession or a habit; and science has been appropriated to the +subject-matter of the intellect, instead of belonging in English, as it +ought to do, to the intellect itself. The consequence is that, on an +occasion like this, many words are necessary, in order, first, to bring +out and convey what surely is no difficult idea in itself,--that of the +cultivation of the intellect as an end; next, in order to recommend +what surely is no unreasonable object; and lastly, to describe and make +the mind realise the particular perfection in which that object +consists. Every one knows practically what are the constituents of +health or of virtue; and every one recognises health and virtue as ends +to be pursued; it is otherwise with intellectual excellence, and this +must be my excuse, if I seem to anyone to be bestowing a good deal of +labour on a preliminary matter. + +In default of a recognised term, I have called the perfection or virtue +of the intellect by the name of philosophy, philosophical knowledge, +enlargement of mind, or illumination, terms which are not uncommonly +given to it by writers of this day: but, whatever name we bestow on it, +it is, I believe, as a matter of history, the business of a university +to make this intellectual culture its direct scope, or to employ itself +in the education of the intellect,--just as the work of a hospital lies +in healing the sick or wounded, of a riding or fencing school, or of a +gymnasium, in exercising the limbs, of an almshouse, in aiding and +solacing the old, of an orphanage, in protecting innocence, of a +penitentiary, in restoring the guilty. I say, a university, taken in its +bare idea, and before we view it as an instrument of the church, has +this object and this mission; it contemplates neither moral impression +nor mechanical production; it professes to exercise the mind neither in +art nor in duty; its function is intellectual culture; here it may leave +its scholars, and it has done its work when it has done as much as this. +It educates the intellect to reason well in all matters, to reach out +towards truth, and to grasp it. + +This, I said in my foregoing discourse, was the object of a university, +viewed in itself, and apart from the Catholic Church, or from the state, +or from any other power which may use it; and I illustrated this in +various ways. I said that the intellect must have an excellence of its +own, for there was nothing which had not its specific good; that the +word "educate" would not be used of intellectual culture, as it is used, +had not the intellect had an end of its own; that, had it not such an +end, there would be no meaning in calling certain intellectual exercises +"liberal," in contrast with "useful," as is commonly done; that the very +notion of a philosophical temper implied it, for it threw us back upon +research and system as ends in themselves, distinct from effects and +works of any kind; that a philosophical scheme of knowledge, or system +of sciences, could not, from the nature of the case, issue in any one +definite art or pursuit, as its end; and that, on the other hand, the +discovery and contemplation of truth, to which research and +systematising led, were surely sufficient ends, though nothing beyond +them were added, and that they had ever been accounted sufficient by +mankind. + +Here then I take up the subject; and having determined that the +cultivation of the intellect is an end distinct and sufficient in +itself, and that, so far as words go, it is an enlargement or +illumination. I proceed to inquire what this mental breadth, or power, +or light, or philosophy consists in. A hospital heals a broken limb or +cures a fever: what does an institution effect, which professes the +health, not of the body, not of the soul, but of the intellect? What is +this good, which in former times, as well as our own, has been found +worth the notice, the appropriation of the Catholic Church? + +I have then to investigate, in the discourses which follow, those +qualities and characteristics of the intellect in which its cultivation +issues or rather consists; and, with a view of assisting myself in this +undertaking, I shall recur to certain questions which have already been +touched upon. These questions are three: viz. the relation of +intellectual culture, first, to _mere_ knowledge; secondly, to +_professional_ knowledge; and thirdly, to _religious_ knowledge. In +other words, are _acquirements_ and _attainments_ the scope of a +university education? or _expertness in particular arts_ and _pursuits_? +or _moral and religious proficiency_? or something besides these three? +These questions I shall examine in succession, with the purpose I have +mentioned; and I hope to be excused, if, in this anxious undertaking, I +am led to repeat what, either in these discourses or elsewhere, I have +already put upon paper. And first, of _mere knowledge_, or learning, and +its connection with intellectual illumination or philosophy. + +I suppose the _prima-facie_[12] view which the public at large would +take of a university, considering it as a place of education, is nothing +more or less than a place for acquiring a great deal of knowledge on a +great many subjects. Memory is one of the first developed of the mental +faculties; a boy's business when he goes to school is to learn, that is, +to store up things in his memory. For some years his intellect is little +more than an instrument for taking in facts, or a receptacle for storing +them; he welcomes them as fast as they come to him; he lives on what is +without; he has his eyes ever about him; he has a lively susceptibility +of impressions; he imbibes information of every kind; and little does he +make his own in a true sense of the word, living rather upon his +neighbours all around him. He has opinions, religious, political and +literary, and, for a boy, is very positive in them and sure about them; +but he gets them from his schoolfellows, or his masters, or his parents, +as the case may be. Such as he is in his other relations, such also is +he in his school exercises; his mind is observant, sharp, ready, +retentive; he is almost passive in the acquisition of knowledge. I say +this in no disparagement of the idea of a clever boy. Geography, +chronology, history, language, natural history, he heaps up the matter +of these studies as treasures for a future day. It is the seven years of +plenty with him: he gathers in by handfuls, like the Egyptians, without +counting; and though, as time goes on, there is exercise for his +argumentative powers in the elements of mathematics, and for his taste +in the poets and orators, still, while at school, or at least, till +quite the last years of his time, he acquires, and little more; and when +he is leaving for the university, he is mainly the creature of foreign +influences and circumstances, and made up of accidents, homogeneous or +not, as the case may be. Moreover, the moral habits, which are a boy's +praise, encourage and assist this result; that is, diligence, assiduity, +regularity, despatch, persevering application; for these are the direct +conditions of acquisition, and naturally lead to it. Acquirements, +again, are emphatically producible, and at a moment; they are a +something to show, both for master and scholar; an audience, even though +ignorant themselves of the subjects of an examination, can comprehend +when questions are answered and when they are not. Here again is a +reason why mental culture is in the minds of men identified with the +acquisition of knowledge. + +The same notion possesses the public mind, when it passes on from the +thought of a school to that of a university: and with the best of +reasons so far as this, that there is no true culture without +acquirements, and that philosophy presupposes knowledge. It requires a +great deal of reading, or a wide range of information, to warrant us in +putting forth our opinions on any serious subject; and without such +learning the most original mind may be able indeed to dazzle, to amuse, +to refute, to perplex, but not to come to any useful result or any +trustworthy conclusion. There are indeed persons who profess a different +view of the matter, and even act upon it. Every now and then you will +find a person of vigorous or fertile mind, who relies upon his own +resources, despises all former authors, and gives the world, with the +utmost fearlessness, his views upon religion, or history, or any other +popular subject. And his works may sell for a while; he may get a name +in his day; but this will be all. His readers are sure to find on the +long run that his doctrines are mere theories, and not the expression of +facts, that they are chaff instead of bread, and then his popularity +drops as suddenly as it rose. + +Knowledge then is the indispensable condition of expansion of mind, and +the instrument of attaining to it; this cannot be denied, it is ever to +be insisted on; I begin with it as a first principle; however, the very +truth of it carries men too far, and confirms to them the notion that it +is the whole of the matter. A narrow mind is thought to be that which +contains little knowledge; and an enlarged mind, that which holds a +great deal; and what seems to put the matter beyond dispute is, the fact +of the great number of studies which are pursued in a university, by its +very profession. Lectures are given on every kind of subject; +examinations are held; prizes awarded. There are moral, metaphysical, +physical professors; professors of languages, of history, of +mathematics, of experimental science. Lists of questions are published, +wonderful for their range and depth, variety and difficulty; treatises +are written, which carry upon their very face the evidence of extensive +reading or multifarious information; what then is wanting for mental +culture to a person of large reading and scientific attainments? what is +grasp of mind but acquirement? where shall philosophical repose be +found, but in the consciousness and enjoyment of large intellectual +possessions? + +And yet this notion is, I conceive, a mistake, and my present business +is to show that it is one, and that the end of a liberal education is +not mere knowledge, or knowledge considered in its _matter_; and I shall +best attain my object, by actually setting down some cases, which will +be generally granted to be instances of the process of enlightenment or +enlargement of mind, and others which are not, and thus, by the +comparison, you will be able to judge for yourselves, gentlemen, whether +knowledge, that is, acquirement, is after all the real principle of the +enlargement or whether that principle is not rather something beyond it. + +For instance, let a person, whose experience has hitherto been confined +to the more calm and unpretending scenery of these islands, whether here +or in England, go for the first time into parts where physical nature +puts on her wilder and more awful forms, whether at home or abroad, as +into mountainous districts; or let one, who has ever lived in a quiet +village, go for the first time to a great metropolis,--then I suppose he +will have a sensation which perhaps he never had before. He has a +feeling not in addition or increase of former feelings, but of something +different in its nature. He will perhaps be borne forward, and find for +a time that he has lost his bearings. He has made a certain progress, +and he has a consciousness of mental enlargement; he does not stand +where he did, he has a new centre, and a range of thoughts to which he +was before a stranger. + +Again, the view of the heavens which the telescope opens upon us, if +allowed to fill and possess the mind, may almost whirl it round and make +it dizzy. It brings in a flood of ideas, and is rightly called an +intellectual enlargement, whatever is meant by the term. + +And so again, the sight of beasts of prey and other foreign animals, +their strangeness, the originality (if I may use the term) of their +forms and gestures and habits, and their variety and independence of +each other, throw us out of ourselves into another creation, and as if +under another Creator, if I may so express the temptation which may come +on the mind. We seem to have new faculties, or a new exercise for our +faculties, by this addition to our knowledge; like a prisoner, who, +having been accustomed to wear manacles or fetters, suddenly finds his +arms and legs free. + +Hence physical science generally, in all its departments, as bringing +before us the exuberant riches and resources, yet the orderly course, of +the universe, elevates and excites the student, and at first, I may say, +almost takes away his breath, while in time it exercises a +tranquillising influence upon him. + +Again the study of history is said to enlarge and enlighten the mind, +and why? because, as I conceive, it gives it a power of judging of +passing events and of all events, and a conscious superiority over them, +which before it did not possess. + +And in like manner, what is called seeing the world, entering into +active life, going into society, travelling, gaining acquaintance with +the various classes of the community, coming into contact with the +principles and modes of thought of various parties, interests, and +races, their views, aims, habits and manners, their religious creeds and +forms of worship,--gaining experience how various yet how alike men +are, how low-minded, how bad, how opposed, yet how confident in their +opinions; all this exerts a perceptible influence upon the mind, which +it is impossible to mistake, be it good or be it bad, and is popularly +called its enlargement. + +And then again, the first time the mind comes across the arguments and +speculations of unbelievers, and feels what a novel light they cast upon +what he has hitherto accounted sacred; and still more, if it gives in to +them and embraces them, and throws off as so much prejudice what it has +hitherto held, and, as if waking from a dream, begins to realise to its +imagination that there is now no such thing as law and the transgression +of law, that sin is a phantom, and punishment a bugbear, that it is free +to sin, free to enjoy the world and the flesh; and still further, when +it does enjoy them, and reflects that it may think and hold just what it +will, that "the world is all before it where to choose," and what system +to build up as its own private persuasion; when this torrent of wilful +thoughts rushes over and inundates it, who will deny that the fruit of +the tree of knowledge, or what the mind takes for knowledge, has made it +one of the gods, with a sense of expansion and elevation,--an +intoxication in reality, still, so far as the subjective state of the +mind goes, an illumination? Hence the fanaticism of individuals or +nations, who suddenly cast off their Maker. Their eyes are opened; and, +like the judgment-stricken king in the tragedy, they see two suns, and a +magic universe, out of which they look back upon their former state of +faith and innocence with a sort of contempt and indignation, as if they +were then but fools, and the dupes of imposture. + +On the other hand, religion has its own enlargement, and an enlargement, +not of tumult, but of peace. It is often remarked of uneducated persons, +who have hitherto thought little of the unseen world, that, on their +turning to God, looking into themselves, regulating their hearts, +reforming their conduct, and meditating on death and judgment, heaven +and hell, they seem to become, in point of intellect, different beings +from what they were. Before, they took things as they came, and thought +no more of one thing than another. But now every event has a meaning; +they have their own estimate of whatever happens to them; they are +mindful of times and seasons, and compare the present with the past; and +the world, no longer dull, monotonous, unprofitable, and hopeless, is a +various and complicated drama, with parts and an object, and an awful +moral. + +Now from these instances, to which many more might be added, it is +plain, first, that the communication of knowledge certainly is either a +condition or the means of that sense of enlargement or enlightenment, of +which at this day we hear so much in certain quarters: this cannot be +denied; but next, it is equally plain, that such communication is not +the whole of the process. The enlargement consists, not merely in the +passive reception into the mind of a number of ideas hitherto unknown to +it, but in the mind's energetic and simultaneous action upon and towards +and among those new ideas, which are rushing in upon it. It is the +action of a formative power, reducing to order and meaning the matter of +our acquirements; it is a making the objects of our knowledge +subjectively our own, or, to use a familiar word, it is a digestion of +what we receive, into the substance of our previous state of thought; +and without this no enlargement is said to follow. There is no +enlargement, unless there be a comparison of ideas one with another, as +they come before the mind, and a systematising of them. We feel our +minds to be growing and expanding _then_, when we not only learn, but +refer what we learn to what we know already. It is not the mere addition +to our knowledge that is the illumination; but the locomotion, the +movement onwards, of that mental centre, to which both what we know, and +what we are learning, the accumulating mass of our acquirements, +gravitates. And therefore a truly great intellect, and recognised to be +such by the common opinion of mankind, such as the intellect of +Aristotle, or of St. Thomas, or of Newton, or of Goethe (I purposely +take instances within and without the Catholic pale, when I would speak +of the intellect as such), is one which takes a connected view of old +and new, past and present, far and near, and which has an insight into +the influence of all these one on another; without which there is no +whole and no centre. It possesses the knowledge, not only of things, but +also of their mutual and true relations; knowledge, not merely +considered as acquirement but as philosophy. + +Accordingly, when this analytical, distributive, harmonising process is +away, the mind experiences no enlargement, and is not reckoned as +enlightened or comprehensive, whatever it may add to its knowledge. For +instance, a great memory, as I have already said, does not make a +philosopher, any more than a dictionary can be called a grammar. There +are men who embrace in their minds a vast multitude of ideas, but with +little sensibility about their real relations towards each other. These +may be antiquarians, annalists, naturalists; they may be learned in the +law; they may be versed in statistics; they are most useful in their own +place; I should shrink from speaking disrespectfully of them; still, +there is nothing in such attainments to guarantee the absence of +narrowness of mind. If they are nothing more than well-read men, or men +of information, they have not what specially deserves the name of +culture of mind, or fulfils the type of liberal education. + +In like manner, we sometimes fall in with persons who have seen much of +the world, and of the men who, in their day, have played a conspicuous +part in it, but who generalise, nothing, and have no observation, in the +true sense of the word. They abound in information in detail, curious +and entertaining, about men and things; and, having lived under the +influence of no very clear or settled principles, religious or +political, they speak of every one and every thing, only as so many +phenomena, which are complete in themselves, and lead to nothing, not +discussing them, or teaching any truth, or instructing the hearer, but +simply talking. No one would say that these persons, well informed as +they are, had attained to any great culture of intellect or to +philosophy. + +The case is the same still more strikingly where the persons in question +are beyond dispute men of inferior powers and deficient education. +Perhaps they have been much in foreign countries, and they receive, in a +passive, otiose, unfruitful way, the various facts which are forced upon +them there. Seafaring men, for example, range from one end of the earth +to the other; but the multiplicity of external objects, which they have +encountered, forms no symmetrical and consistent picture upon their +imagination; they see the tapestry of human life, as it were on the +wrong side, and it tells no story. They sleep, and they rise up, and +they find themselves, now in Europe, now in Asia; they see visions of +great cities and wild regions; they are in the marts of commerce, or +amid the islands of the South; they gaze on Pompey's Pillar, or on the +Andes; and nothing which meets them carries them forward or backward, to +any idea beyond itself. Nothing has a drift or relation; nothing has a +history or a promise. Every thing stands by itself, and comes and goes +in its turn, like the shifting scenes of a show, which leave the +spectator where he was. Perhaps you are near such a man on a particular +occasion, and expect him to be shocked or perplexed at something which +occurs; but one thing is much the same to him as another, or, if he is +perplexed, it is as not knowing what to say, whether it is right to +admire, or to ridicule or to disapprove, while conscious that some +expression of opinion is expected from him; for in fact he has no +standard of judgment at all, and no landmarks to guide him to a +conclusion. Such is mere acquisition, and, I repeat, no one would dream +of calling it philosophy. + +Instances, such as these, confirm, by the contrast, the conclusion I +have already drawn from those which preceded them. That only is true +enlargement of mind which is the power of viewing many things at once as +one whole, of referring them severally to their true place in the +universal system, of understanding their respective values, and +determining their mutual dependence. Thus is that form of universal +knowledge, of which I have on a former occasion spoken, set up in the +individual intellect, and constitutes its perfection. Possessed of this +real illumination, the mind never views any part of the extended +subject-matter of knowledge without recollecting that it is but a part, +or without the associations which spring from this recollection. It +makes everything in some sort lead to everything else; it would +communicate the image of the whole to every separate portion, till that +whole becomes in imagination like a spirit, everywhere pervading and +penetrating its component parts, and giving them one definite meaning. +Just as our bodily organs, when mentioned, recall their function in the +body, as the word "creation" suggests the Creator, and "subjects" a +sovereign, so, in the mind of the philosopher as we are abstractedly +conceiving of him, the elements of the physical and moral world, +sciences, arts, pursuits, ranks, offices, events, opinions, +individualities, are all viewed as one with correlative functions, and +as gradually by successive combinations converging, one and all, to the +true centre. + +To have even a portion of this illuminative reason and true philosophy +is the highest state to which nature can aspire, in the way of +intellect; it puts the mind above the influences of chance and +necessity, above anxiety, suspense, unsettlement, and superstition, +which is the lot of the many. Men, whose minds are possessed with some +one object, take exaggerated views of its importance, are feverish in +the pursuit of it, make it the measure of things which are utterly +foreign to it, and are startled and despond if it happens to fail them. +They are ever in alarm or in transport. Those on the other hand who have +no object or principle whatever to hold by, lose their way every step +they take. They are thrown out, and do not know what to think or say, at +every fresh juncture; they have no view of persons, or occurrences, or +facts, which come suddenly upon them, and they hang upon the opinion of +others for want of internal resources. But the intellect, which has been +disciplined to the perfection of its powers, which knows, and thinks +while it knows, which has learned to leaven the dense mass of facts and +events with the elastic force of reason, such an intellect cannot be +partial, cannot be exclusive, cannot be impetuous, cannot be at a loss, +cannot but be patient, collected, and majestically calm, because it +discerns the end in every beginning, the origin in every end, the law in +every interruption, the limit in each delay; because it ever knows where +it stands, and how its path lies from one point to another. It is the +[Greek: tetragonos][13] of the Peripatetic, and has the _nil +admirari_[14] of the Stoic,-- + + Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas, + Atque metus omnes, et inexorabile fatum + Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari.[15] + +There are men who, when in difficulties, originate at the moment vast +ideas or dazzling projects; who, under the influence of excitement, are +able to cast a light, almost as if from inspiration, on a subject or +course of action which comes before them; who have a sudden presence of +mind equal to any emergency, rising with the occasion, and an undaunted +magnanimous bearing, and an energy and keenness which is but made +intense by opposition. This is genius, this is heroism; it is the +exhibition of a natural gift, which no culture can teach, at which no +institution can aim: here, on the contrary, we are concerned, not with +mere nature, but with training and teaching. That perfection of the +intellect, which is the result of education, and its _beau ideal_, to be +imparted to individuals in their respective measures, is the clear, +calm, accurate vision and comprehension of all things, as far as the +finite mind can embrace them, each in its place, and with its own +characteristics upon it. It is almost prophetic from its knowledge of +history; it is almost heart-searching from its knowledge of human +nature; it has almost supernatural charity from its freedom from +littleness and prejudice; it has almost the repose of faith, because +nothing can startle it; it has almost the beauty and harmony of heavenly +contemplation, so intimate is it with the eternal order of things and +the music of the spheres. + +And now, if I may take for granted that the true and adequate end of +intellectual training and of a university is not learning or +acquirement, but rather, is thought or reason exercised upon knowledge, +or what may be called philosophy, I shall be in a position to explain +the various mistakes which at the present day beset the subject of +university education. + +I say then, if we would improve the intellect, first of all, we must +ascend; we cannot gain real knowledge on a level; we must generalise, we +must reduce to method, we must have a grasp of principles, and group and +shape our acquisitions by means of them. It matters not whether our +field of operation be wide or limited; in every case, to command it, is +to mount above it. Who has not felt the irritation of mind and +impatience created by a deep, rich country, visited for the first time, +with winding lanes, and high hedges, and green steeps, and tangled +woods, and every thing smiling indeed, but in a maze? The same feeling +comes upon us in a strange city, when we have no map of its streets. +Hence you hear of practised travellers, when they first come into a +place, mounting some high hill or church tower, by way of reconnoitering +its neighbourhood. In like manner, you must be above your knowledge, not +under it, or it will oppress you; and the more you have of it, the +greater will be the load. The learning of a Salmasius or a Burman, +unless you are its master, will be your tyrant. _Imperat aut +servit_;[16] if you can wield it with a strong arm, it is a great +weapon; otherwise, + + Vis consili expers + Mole ruit sua.[17] + +You will be overwhelmed, like Tarpeia, by the heavy wealth which you +have exacted from tributary generations. + +Instances abound; there are authors who are as pointless as they are +inexhaustible in their literary resources. They measure knowledge by +bulk, as it lies in the rude block, without symmetry, without design. +How many commentators are there on the classics, how many on Holy +Scripture, from whom we rise up, wondering at the learning which has +passed before us, and wondering why it passed! How many writers are +there of Ecclesiastical history, such as Mosheim or Du Pin, who, +breaking up their subject into details, destroy its life, and defraud us +of the whole by their anxiety about the parts! The sermons, again, of +the English divines in the seventeenth century, how often are they mere +repertories of miscellaneous and officious learning! Of course Catholics +also may read without thinking; and in their case, equally as with +Protestants, it holds good, that such knowledge is unworthy of the name, +knowledge which they have not thought through, and thought out. Such +readers are only possessed by their knowledge, not possessed of it; nay, +in matter of fact they are often even carried away by it, without any +volition of their own. Recollect, the memory can tyrannise, as well as +the imagination. Derangement, I believe, has been considered as a loss +of control over the sequence of ideas. The mind, once set in motion, is +henceforth deprived of the power of initiation, and becomes the victim +of a train of associations, one thought suggesting another, in the way +of cause and effect, as if by a mechanical process, or some physical +necessity. No one, who has had experience of men of studious habits, but +must recognise the existence of a parallel phenomenon in the case of +those who have over-stimulated the memory. In such persons reason acts +almost as feebly and as impotently as in the madman; once fairly started +on any subject whatever, they have no power of self-control; they +passively endure the succession of impulses which are evolved out of the +original exciting cause; they are passed on from one idea to another +and go steadily forward, plodding along one line of thought in spite of +the amplest concessions of the hearer, or wandering from it in endless +digression in spite of his remonstrances. Now, if, as is very certain, +no one would envy the madman the glow and originality of his +conceptions, why must we extol the cultivation of that intellect which +is the prey, not indeed of barren fancies but of barren facts, of random +intrusions from without, though not of morbid imaginations from within? +And in thus speaking, I am not denying that a strong and ready memory is +in itself a real treasure; I am not disparaging a well-stored mind, +though it be nothing besides, provided it be sober, any more than I +would despise a bookseller's shop:--it is of great value to others, even +when not so to the owner. Nor am I banishing, far from it, the +possessors of deep and multifarious learning from my ideal University; +they adorn it in the eyes of men; I do but say that they constitute no +type of the results at which it aims; that it is no great gain to the +intellect to have enlarged the memory at the expense of faculties which +are indisputably higher. + +Nor indeed am I supposing that there is any great danger, at least in +this day, of over-education; the danger is on the other side. I will +tell you, gentlemen, what has been the practical error of the last +twenty years,--not to load the memory of the student with a mass of +undigested knowledge, but to force upon him so much that he has rejected +all. It has been the error of distracting and enfeebling the mind by an +unmeaning profusion of subjects; of implying that a smattering in a +dozen branches of study is not shallowness, which it really is, but +enlargement, which it is not; of considering an acquaintance with the +learned names of things and persons and the possession of clever +duodecimos, and attendance on eloquent lecturers, and membership with +scientific institutions, and the sight of the experiments of a platform +and the specimens of a museum, that all this was not dissipation of +mind, but progress. All things now are to be learned at once, not first +one thing, then another, not one well, but many badly. Learning is to +be without exertion, without attention, without toil; without grounding, +without advance, without finishing. There is to be nothing individual in +it; and this, forsooth, is the wonder of the age. What the steam engine +does with matter, the printing press is to do with the mind; it is to +act mechanically, and the population is to be passively, almost +unconsciously enlightened, by the mere multiplication and dissemination +of volumes. Whether it be the school boy, or the school girl, or the +youth at college, or the mechanic in the town, or the politician in the +senate, all have been the victims in one way or other of this most +preposterous and pernicious of delusions. Wise men have lifted up their +voices in vain; and at length, lest their own institutions should be +outshone and should disappear in the folly of the hour, they have been +obliged, as far as they could with a good conscience, to humour a spirit +which they could not withstand, and make temporising concessions at +which they could not but inwardly smile. + +It must not be supposed that, because I so speak, therefore I have some +sort of fear of the education of the people: on the contrary, the more +education they have, the better, so that it is really education. Nor am +I an enemy to the cheap publication of scientific and literary works, +which is now in vogue: on the contrary, I consider it a great advantage, +convenience, and gain; that is, to those to whom education has given a +capacity for using them. Further, I consider such innocent recreations +as science and literature are able to furnish will be a very fit +occupation of the thoughts and the leisure of young persons, and may be +made the means of keeping them from bad employments and bad companions. +Moreover, as to that superficial acquaintance with chemistry, and +geology, and astronomy, and political economy, and modern history, and +biography, and other branches of knowledge, which periodical literature +and occasional lectures and scientific institutions diffuse through the +community, I think it a graceful accomplishment, and a suitable, nay, +in this day a necessary accomplishment, in the case of educated men. +Nor, lastly, am I disparaging or discouraging the thorough acquisition +of any one of these studies, or denying that, as far as it goes, such +thorough acquisition is a real education of the mind. All I say is, call +things by their right names, and do not confuse together ideas which are +essentially different. A thorough knowledge of one science and a +superficial acquaintance with many, are not the same thing; a smattering +of a hundred things or a memory for detail, is not a philosophical or +comprehensive view. Recreations are not education; accomplishments are +not education. Do not say, the people must be educated, when, after all, +you only mean amused, refreshed, soothed, put into good spirits and good +humour, or kept from vicious excesses. I do not say that such +amusements, such occupations of mind, are not a great gain; but they are +not education. You may as well call drawing and fencing education as a +general knowledge of botany or conchology. Stuffing birds or playing +stringed instruments is an elegant pastime, and a resource to the idle, +but it is not education; it does not form or cultivate the intellect. +Education is a high word; it is the preparation for knowledge, and it is +the imparting of knowledge in proportion to that preparation. We require +intellectual eyes to know withal, as bodily eyes for sight. We need both +objects and organs intellectual; we cannot gain them without setting +about it; we cannot gain them in our sleep, or by haphazard. The best +telescope does not dispense with eyes; the printing press or the lecture +room will assist us greatly, but we must be true to ourselves, we must +be parties in the work. A university is, according to the usual +designation, an alma mater, knowing her children one by one, not a +foundry, or a mint, or a treadmill. + +I protest to you, gentlemen, that if I had to choose between a so-called +university, which dispensed with residence and tutorial superintendence, +and gave its degrees to any person who passed an examination in a wide +range of subjects, and a university which had no professors or +examinations at all, but merely brought a number of young men together +for three or four years, and then sent them away as the University of +Oxford is said to have done some sixty years since, if I were asked +which of these two methods was the better discipline of the +intellect,--mind, I do not say which is morally the better, for it is +plain that compulsory study must be a good and idleness an intolerable +mischief,--but if I must determine which of the two courses was the more +successful in training, moulding, enlarging the mind, which sent out men +the more fitted for their secular duties, which produced better public +men, men of the world, men whose names would descend to posterity, I +have no hesitation in giving the preference to that university which did +nothing, over that which exacted of its members an acquaintance with +every science under the sun. And, paradox as this may seem, still if +results be the test of systems, the influence of the public schools and +colleges of England, in the course of the last century, at least will +bear out one side of the contrast as I have drawn it. What would come, +on the other hand, of the ideal systems of education which have +fascinated the imagination of this age, could they ever take effect, and +whether they would not produce a generation frivolous, narrow-minded, +and resourceless, intellectually considered, is a fair subject for +debate; but so far is certain, that the universities and scholastic +establishments, to which I refer, and which did little more than bring +together first boys and then youths in large numbers, these +institutions, with miserable deformities on the side of morals, with a +hollow profession of Christianity, and a heathen code of ethics,--I say, +at least they can boast of a succession of heroes and statesmen, of +literary men and philosophers, of men conspicuous for great natural +virtues, for habits of business, for knowledge of life, for practical +judgment, for cultivated tastes, for accomplishments, who have made +England what it is,--able to subdue the earth, able to domineer over +Catholics. + +How is this to be explained? I suppose as follows: When a multitude of +young men, keen, open-hearted, sympathetic, and observant, as young men +are, come together and freely mix with each other, they are sure to +learn one from another, even if there be no one to teach them; the +conversation of all is a series of lectures to each, and they gain for +themselves new ideas and views, fresh matter of thought, and distinct +principles for judging and acting, day by day. An infant has to learn +the meaning of the information which its senses convey to it, and this +seems to be its employment. It fancies all that the eye presents to it +to be close to it, till it actually learns the contrary, and thus by +practice does it ascertain the relations and uses of those first +elements of knowledge which are necessary for its animal existence. A +parallel teaching is necessary for our social being, and it is secured +by a large school or a college; and this effect may be fairly called in +its own department an enlargement of mind. It is seeing the world on a +small field with little trouble; for the pupils or students come from +very different places, and with widely different notions, and there is +much to generalise, much to adjust, much to eliminate, there are +inter-relations to be defined, and conventional rules to be established, +in the process, by which the whole assemblage is moulded together, and +gains one tone and one character. + +Let it be clearly understood, I repeat it, that I am not taking into +account moral or religious considerations; I am but saying that that +youthful community will constitute a whole, it will embody a specific +idea, it will represent a doctrine, it will administer a code of +conduct, and it will furnish principles of thought and action. It will +give birth to a living teaching, which in course of time will take the +shape of a self-perpetuating tradition, or a _genius loci_,[18] as it is +sometimes called; which haunts the home where it has been born, and +which imbues and forms more or less, and one by one, every individual +who is successively brought under its shadow. Thus it is that, +independent of direct instruction on the part of superiors, there is a +sort of self-education in the academic institutions of Protestant +England; a characteristic tone of thought, a recognised standard of +judgment is found in them, which, as developed in the individual who is +submitted to it, becomes a twofold source of strength to him, both from +the distinct stamp it impresses on his mind, and from the bond of union +which it creates between him and others,--effects which are shared by +the authorities of the place, for they themselves have been educated in +it, and at all times are exposed to the influence of its ethical +atmosphere. Here then is a real teaching, whatever be its standards and +principles, true or false; and it at least tends towards cultivation of +the intellect; it at least recognises that knowledge is something more +than a sort of passive reception of scraps and details; it is a +something, and it does a something, which never will issue from the most +strenuous efforts of a set of teachers with no mutual sympathies and no +intercommunion, of a set of examiners with no opinions which they dare +profess, and with no common principles, who are teaching or questioning +a set of youths who do not know them, and do not know each other, on a +large number of subjects, different in kind, and connected by no wide +philosophy, three times a week, or three times a year, or once in three +years, in chill lecture-rooms or on a pompous anniversary. + +Nay, self-education in any shape, in the most restricted sense, is +preferable to a system of teaching which, professing so much, really +does so little for the mind. Shut your college gates against the votary +of knowledge, throw him back upon the searchings and the efforts of his +own mind; he will gain by being spared an entrance into your babel. Few +indeed there are who can dispense with the stimulus and support of +instructors, or will do anything at all, if left to themselves. And +fewer still (though such great minds are to be found), who will not, +from such unassisted attempts, contract a self-reliance and a +self-esteem, which are not only moral evils, but serious hindrances to +the attainment of truth. And next to none, perhaps, or none, who will +not be reminded from time to time of the disadvantage under which they +lie, by their imperfect grounding, by the breaks, deficiencies, and +irregularities of their knowledge, by the eccentricity of opinion and +the confusion of principle which they exhibit. They will be too often +ignorant of what every one knows and takes for granted, of that +multitude of small truths which fall upon the mind like dust, impalpable +and ever accumulating; they may be unable to converse, they may argue +perversely, they may pride themselves on their worst paradoxes or their +grossest truisms, they may be full of their own mode of viewing things, +unwilling to be put out of their way, slow to enter into the minds of +others;--but, with these and whatever other liabilities upon their +heads, they are likely to have more thought, more mind, more philosophy, +more true enlargement, than those earnest but ill-used persons who are +forced to load their minds with a score of subjects against an +examination, who have too much on their hands to indulge themselves in +thinking or investigation, who devour premise and conclusion together +with indiscriminate greediness, who hold whole sciences on faith, and +commit demonstrations to memory, and who too often, as might be +expected, when their period of education is passed, throw up all they +have learned in disgust, having gained nothing really by their anxious +labours, except perhaps the habit of application. + +Yet such is the better specimen of the fruit of that ambitious system +which has of late years been making way among us: for its result on +ordinary minds, and on the common run of students, is less satisfactory +still; they leave their place of education simply dissipated and relaxed +by the multiplicity of subjects, which they have never really mastered, +and so shallow as not even to know their shallowness. How much better, I +say, it is for the active and thoughtful intellect, where such is to be +found, to eschew the college and the university altogether, than to +submit to a drudgery so ignoble, a mockery so contumelious! How much +more profitable for the independent mind, after the mere rudiments of +education, to range through a library at random, taking down books as +they meet him, and pursuing the trains of thought which his mother wit +suggests! How much healthier to wander into the fields, and there with +the exiled prince to find "tongues in the trees, books in the running +brooks!" How much more genuine an education is that of the poor boy in +the poem[19]--a poem, whether in conception or execution, one of the +most touching in our language--who, not in the wide world, but ranging +day by day around his widowed mother's home, "a dextrous gleaner" in a +narrow field and with only such slender outfit + + as the village school and books a few + Supplied, + +contrived from the beach, and the quay, and the fisher's boat, and the +inn's fireside, and the tradesman's shop, and the shepherd's walk, and +the smuggler's hut, and the mossy moor, and the screaming gulls, and the +restless waves, to fashion for himself a philosophy and a poetry of his +own! + +But in a large subject, I am exceeding my necessary limits. Gentlemen, I +must conclude abruptly; and postpone any summing up of my argument, +should that be necessary, to another day. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 11: Discourse VI in "The Idea of a University," 1852.] + +[Footnote 12: Prima-facie: based on one's first impression.] + +[Footnote 13: Four-square.] + +[Footnote 14: To be moved by nothing.] + +[Footnote 15: Happy is he who has come to know the sequences of things, +and is thus above all fear and the dread march of fate and the roar of +greedy Acheron.] + +[Footnote 16: It rules or it serves.] + +[Footnote 17: Brute force without intelligence falls by its own weight.] + +[Footnote 18: Genius loci: spirit of the place.] + +[Footnote 19: Crabbe's _Tales of the Hall_. This poem, let me say, I +read on its first publication, above thirty years ago, with extreme +delight, and have never lost my love of it; and on taking it up lately, +found I was even more touched by it than heretofore. A work which can +please in youth and age, seems to fulfil (in logical language) the +_accidental definition_ of a classic. (A further course of twenty years +has passed, and I bear the same witness in favour of this poem.)] + + + + +LITERATURE AND SCIENCE[20] + +MATTHEW ARNOLD + + +Practical people talk with a smile of Plato and of his absolute ideas; +and it is impossible to deny that Plato's ideas do often seem +unpractical and impracticable, and especially when one views them in +connection with the life of a great workaday world like the United +States. The necessary staple of the life of such a world Plato regards +with disdain; handicraft and trade and the working professions he +regards with disdain; but what becomes of the life of an industrial +modern community if you take handicraft and trade and the working +professions out of it? The base mechanic arts and handicrafts, says +Plato, bring about a natural weakness in the principle of excellence in +a man, so that he cannot govern the ignoble growths in him, but nurses +them, and cannot understand fostering any other. Those who exercise such +arts and trades, as they have their bodies, he says, marred by their +vulgar businesses, so they have their souls, too, bowed and broken by +them. And if one of these uncomely people has a mind to seek +self-culture and philosophy, Plato compares him to a bald little tinker, +who has scraped together money, and has got his release from service, +and has had a bath, and bought a new coat, and is rigged out like a +bridegroom about to marry the daughter of his master who has fallen into +poor and helpless estate. + +Nor do the working professions fare any better than trade at the hands +of Plato. He draws for us an inimitable picture of the working lawyer, +and of his life of bondage; he shows how this bondage from his youth up +has stunted and warped him, and made him small and crooked of soul, +encompassing him with difficulties which he is not man enough to rely on +justice and truth as means to encounter, but has recourse, for help out +of them, to falsehood and wrong. And so, says Plato, this poor creature +is bent and broken, and grows up from boy to man without a particle of +soundness in him, although exceedingly smart and clever in his own +esteem. + +One cannot refuse to admire the artist who draws these pictures. But we +say to ourselves that his ideas show the influence of a primitive and +obsolete order of things, when the warrior caste and the priestly caste +were alone in honour, and the humble work of the world was done by +slaves. We have now changed all that; the modern majority consists in +work, as Emerson declares; and in work, we may add, principally of such +plain and dusty kind as the work of cultivators of the ground, +handicraftsmen, men of trade and business, men of the working +professions. Above all is this true in a great industrious community +such as that of the United States. + +Now education, many people go on to say, is still mainly governed by the +ideas of men like Plato, who lived when the warrior caste and the +priestly or philosophical class were alone in honour, and the really +useful part of the community were slaves. It is an education fitted for +persons of leisure in such a community. This education passed from +Greece and Rome to the feudal communities of Europe, where also the +warrior caste and the priestly caste were alone held in honour, and +where the really useful and working part of the community, though not +nominally slaves as in the pagan world, were practically not much better +off than slaves, and not more seriously regarded. And how absurd it is, +people end by saying, to inflict this education upon an industrious +modern community, where very few indeed are persons of leisure, and the +mass to be considered has not leisure, but is bound, for its own great +good, and for the great good of the world at large, to plain labour and +to industrial pursuits, and the education in question tends necessarily +to make men dissatisfied with these pursuits and unfitted for them! + +That is what is said. So far I must defend Plato, as to plead that his +view of education and studies is in the general, as it seems to me, +sound enough, and fitted for all sorts and conditions of men, whatever +their pursuits may be. "An intelligent man," says Plato, "will prize +those studies which result in his soul getting soberness, righteousness, +and wisdom, and will less value the others." I cannot consider _that_ a +bad description of the aim of education, and of the motives which should +govern us in the choice of studies, whether we are preparing ourselves +for a hereditary seat in the English House of Lords or for the pork +trade in Chicago. + +Still I admit that Plato's world was not ours, that his scorn of trade +and handicraft is fantastic, that he had no conception of a great +industrial community such as that of the United States, and that such a +community must and will shape its education to suit its own needs. If +the usual education handed down to it from the past does not suit it, it +will certainly before long drop this and try another. The usual +education in the past has been mainly literary. The question is whether +the studies which were long supposed to be the best for all of us are +practically the best now; whether others are not better. The tyranny of +the past, many think, weighs on us injuriously in the predominance given +to letters in education. The question is raised whether, to meet the +needs of our modern life, the predominance ought not now to pass from +letters to science; and naturally the question is nowhere raised with +more energy than here in the United States. The design of abasing what +is called "mere literary instruction and education," and of exalting +what is called "sound, extensive, and practical scientific knowledge," +is, in this intensely modern world of the United States, even more +perhaps than in Europe, a very popular design, and makes great and rapid +progress. + +I am going to ask whether the present movement for ousting letters from +their old predominance in education, and for transferring the +predominance in education to the natural sciences; whether this brisk +and flourishing movement ought to prevail, and whether it is likely that +in the end it really will prevail. An objection may be raised which I +will anticipate. My own studies have been almost wholly in letters, and +my visits to the field of the natural sciences have been very slight and +inadequate, although those sciences have always strongly moved my +curiosity. A man of letters, it will perhaps be said, is not competent +to discuss the comparative merits of letters and natural science as +means of education. To this objection I reply, first of all, that his +incompetence if he attempts the discussion but is really incompetent for +it, will be abundantly visible; nobody will be taken in; he will have +plenty of sharp observers and critics to save mankind from that danger. +But the line I am going to follow is, as you will soon discover, so +extremely simple, that perhaps it may be followed without failure even +by one who for a more ambitious line of discussion would be quite +incompetent. + +Some of you may possibly remember a phrase of mine which has been the +object of a good deal of comment; an observation to the effect that in +our culture, the aim being _to know ourselves and the world_, we have, +as the means to this end, _to know the best which has been thought and +said in the world._ A man of science, who is also an excellent writer +and the very prince of debaters, Professor Huxley, in a discourse at the +opening of Sir Josiah Mason's College at Birmingham, laying hold of this +phrase, expanded it by quoting some more words of mine, which are these: +"The civilised world is to be regarded as now being, for intellectual +and spiritual purposes, one great confederation, bound to a joint action +and working to a common result; and whose members have for their proper +outfit a knowledge of Greek, Roman, and Eastern antiquity, and of one +another. Special local and temporary advantages being put out of +account, that modern nation will in the intellectual and spiritual +sphere make most progress, which most thoroughly carries out this +programme." + +Now on my phrase, thus enlarged, Professor Huxley remarks that when I +speak of the above-mentioned knowledge as enabling us to know ourselves +and the world, I assert _literature_ to contain the materials which +suffice for thus making us know ourselves and the world. But it is not +by any means clear, says he, that after having learned all which ancient +and modern literatures have to tell us, we have laid a sufficiently +broad and deep foundation for that criticism of life, that knowledge of +ourselves and the world, which constitutes culture. On the contrary, +Professor Huxley declares that he finds himself "wholly unable to admit +that either nations or individuals will really advance, if their outfit +draws nothing from the stores of physical science. An army without +weapons of precision, and with no particular base of operations, might +more hopefully enter upon a campaign on the Rhine, than a man, devoid of +a knowledge of what physical science has done in the last century, upon +a criticism of life." + +This shows how needful it is for those who are to discuss any matter +together, to have a common understanding as to the sense of the terms +they employ,--how needful, and how difficult. What Professor Huxley +says, implies just the reproach which is so often brought against the +study of _belles lettres_, as they are called: that the study is an +elegant one, but slight and ineffectual; a smattering of Greek and Latin +and other ornamental things, of little use for any one whose object is +to get at truth, and to be a practical man. So, too, M. Renan talks of +the "superficial humanism" of a school course which treats us as if we +were all going to be poets, writers, preachers, orators, and he opposes +this humanism to positive science, or the critical search after truth. +And there is always a tendency in those who are remonstrating against +the predominance of letters in education, to understand by letters +_belles lettres_, and by _belles lettres_ a superficial humanism, the +opposite of science or true knowledge. + +But when we talk of knowing Greek and Roman antiquity, for instance, +which is the knowledge people have called the humanities, I for my part +mean a knowledge which is something more than a superficial humanism, +mainly decorative. "I call all teaching _scientific_," says Wolf, the +critic of Homer, "which is systematically laid out and followed up to +its original sources. For example: a knowledge of classical antiquity is +scientific when the remains of classical antiquity are correctly studied +in the original languages." There can be no doubt that Wolf is perfectly +right; that all learning is scientific which is systematically laid out +and followed up to its original sources, and that a genuine humanism is +scientific. + +When I speak of knowing Greek and Roman antiquity, therefore, as a help +to knowing ourselves and the world, I mean more than a knowledge of so +much vocabulary, so much grammar, so many portions of authors in the +Greek and Latin languages; I mean knowing the Greeks and Romans, and +their life and genius, and what they were and did in the world; what we +get from them, and what is its value: That, at least, is the ideal; and +when we talk of endeavouring to know Greek and Roman antiquity, as a +help to knowing ourselves and the world, we mean endeavouring so to know +them as to satisfy this ideal, however much we may still fall short of +it. + +The same also as to knowing our own and other modern nations, with the +like aim of getting to understand ourselves and the world. To know the +best that has been thought and said by the modern nations, is to know, +says Professor Huxley, "only what modern _literatures_ have to tell us; +it is the criticism of life contained in modern literature." And yet +"the distinctive character of our times," he urges, "lies in the vast +and constantly increasing part which is played by natural knowledge." +And how, therefore, can a man, devoid of knowledge of what physical +science has done in the last century, enter hopefully upon a criticism +of modern life? + +Let us, I say, be agreed about the meaning of the terms we are using. I +talk of knowing the best which has been thought and uttered in the +world; Professor Huxley says this means knowing _literature_. Literature +is a large word; it may mean everything written with letters or printed +in a book. Euclid's _Elements_ and Newton's _Principia_ are thus +literature. All knowledge that reaches us through books is literature. +But by literature Professor Huxley means _belles lettres_. He means to +make me say, that knowing the best which has been thought and said by +the modern nations is knowing their _belles lettres_ and no more. And +this is no sufficient equipment, he argues, for a criticism of modern +life. But as I do not mean, by knowing ancient Rome, knowing merely more +or less of Latin _belles lettres_, and taking no account of Rome's +military, and political, and legal, and administrative work in the +world; and as, by knowing ancient Greece, I understand knowing her as +the giver of Greek art, and the guide to a free and right use of reason +and to scientific method, and the founder of our mathematics and physics +and astronomy and biology,--I understand knowing her as all this, and +not merely knowing certain Greek poems, and histories, and treatises, +and speeches,--so as to the knowledge of modern nations also. By knowing +modern nations, I mean not merely knowing their _belles lettres_, but +knowing also what has been done by such men as Copernicus, Galileo, +Newton, Darwin. "Our ancestors learned," says Professor Huxley, "that +the earth is the centre of the visible universe, and that man is the +cynosure of things terrestrial; and more especially was it inculcated +that the course of nature has no fixed order, but that it could be, and +constantly was, altered." But for us now, continues Professor Huxley, +"the notions of the beginning and the end of the world entertained by +our forefathers are no longer credible. It is very certain that the +earth is not the chief body in the material universe, and that the world +is not subordinated to man's use. It is even more certain that nature is +the expression of a definite order, with which nothing interferes." +"And yet," he cries, "the purely classical education advocated by the +representatives of the humanists in our day gives no inkling of all +this!" + +In due place and time I will just touch upon that vexed question of +classical education; but at present the question is as to what is meant +by knowing the best which modern nations have thought and said. It is +not knowing their _belles lettres_ merely which is meant. To know +Italian _belles lettres_ is not to know Italy, and to know English +_belles lettres_ is not to know England. Into knowing Italy and England +there comes a great deal more, Galileo and Newton amongst it. The +reproach of being a superficial humanism, a tincture of _belles +lettres_, may attach rightly enough to some other disciplines; but to +the particular discipline recommended when I proposed knowing the best +that has been thought and said in the world, it does not apply. In that +best I certainly include what in modern times has been thought and said +by the great observers and knowers of nature. + +There is, therefore, really no question between Professor Huxley and me +as to whether knowing the great results of the modern scientific study +of nature is not required as a part of our culture, as well as knowing +the products of literature and art. But to follow the processes by which +those results are reached, ought, say the friends of physical science, +to be made the staple of education for the bulk of mankind. And here +there does arise a question between those whom Professor Huxley calls +with playful sarcasm "the Levites of culture," and those whom the poor +humanist is sometimes apt to regard as its Nebuchadnezzars. + +The great results of the scientific investigation of nature we are +agreed upon knowing, but how much of our study are we bound to give to +the processes by which those results are reached? The results have their +visible bearing on human life. But all the processes, too, all the items +of fact by which those results are reached and established, are +interesting. All knowledge is interesting to a wise man, and the +knowledge of nature is interesting to all men. It is very interesting +to know, that, from the albuminous white of the egg, the chick in the +egg gets the materials for its flesh, bones, blood, and feathers; while, +from the fatty yolk of the egg, it gets the heat and energy which enable +it at length to break its shell and begin the world. It is less +interesting, perhaps, but still it is interesting, to know that when a +taper burns, the wax is converted into carbonic acid and water. +Moreover, it is quite true that the habit of dealing with facts, which +is given by the study of nature, is, as the friends of physical science +praise it for being, an excellent discipline. The appeal, in the study +of nature, is constantly to observation and experiment; not only is it +said that the thing is so, but we can be made to see that it is so. Not +only does a man tell us that when a taper burns the wax is converted +into carbonic acid and water, as a man may tell us, if he likes, that +Charon is punting his ferry boat on the river Styx, or that Victor Hugo +is a sublime poet, or Mr. Gladstone the most admirable of statesmen; but +we are made to see that the conversion into carbonic acid and water does +actually happen. This reality of natural knowledge it is, which makes +the friends of physical science contrast it, as a knowledge of things, +with the humanist's knowledge, which is, they say, a knowledge of words. +And hence Professor Huxley is moved to lay it down that, "for the +purpose of attaining real culture, an exclusively scientific education +is at least as effectual as an exclusively literary education." And a +certain President of the Section for Mechanical Science in the British +Association is, in Scripture phrase, "very bold," and declares that if a +man, in his mental training, "has substituted literature and history for +natural science, he has chosen the less useful alternative." But whether +we go these lengths or not, we must all admit that in natural science +the habit gained of dealing with facts is a most valuable discipline, +and that every one should have some experience of it. + +More than this, however, is demanded by the reformers. It is proposed to +make the training in natural science the main part of education, for +the great majority of mankind at any rate. And here, I confess, I part +company with the friends of physical science, with whom up to this point +I have been agreeing. In differing from them, however, I wish to proceed +with the utmost caution and diffidence. The smallness of my own +acquaintance with the disciplines of natural science is ever before my +mind, and I am fearful of doing these disciplines an injustice. The +ability and pugnacity of the partisans of natural science make them +formidable persons to contradict. The tone of tentative inquiry, which +befits a being of dim faculties and bounded knowledge, is the tone I +would wish to take and not to depart from. At present it seems to me, +that those who are for giving to natural knowledge, as they call it, the +chief place in the education of the majority of mankind, leave one +important thing out of their account: the constitution of human nature. +But I put this forward on the strength of some facts not at all +recondite, very far from it; facts capable of being stated in the +simplest possible fashion, and to which, if I so state them, the man of +science will, I am sure, be willing to allow their due weight. + +Deny the facts altogether, I think, he hardly can. He can hardly deny, +that when we set ourselves to enumerate the powers which go to the +building up of human life, and say that they are the power of conduct, +the power of intellect and knowledge, the power of beauty, and the power +of social life and manners--he can hardly deny that this scheme, though +drawn in rough and plain lines enough, and not pretending to scientific +exactness, does yet give a fairly true representation of the matter. +Human nature is built up by these powers; we have the need for them all. +When we have rightly met and adjusted the claims of them all, we shall +then be in a fair way for getting soberness and righteousness, with +wisdom. This is evident enough, and the friends of physical science +would admit it. + +But perhaps they may not have sufficiently observed another thing: +namely, that the several powers just mentioned are not isolated, but +there is, in the generality of mankind, a perpetual tendency to relate +them one to another in divers ways. With one such way of relating them I +am particularly concerned now. Following our instinct for intellect and +knowledge, we acquire pieces of knowledge; and presently, in the +generality of men, there arises the desire to relate these pieces of +knowledge to our sense for conduct, to our sense for beauty,--and there +is weariness and dissatisfaction if the desire is balked. Now in this +desire lies, I think, the strength of that hold which letters have upon +us. + +All knowledge is, as I said just now, interesting; and even items of +knowledge which from the nature of the case cannot well be related, but +must stand isolated in our thoughts, have their interest. Even lists of +exceptions have their interest. If we are studying Greek accents, it is +interesting to know that _pais_ and _pas_, and some other monosyllables +of the same form of declension, do not take the circumflex upon the last +syllable of the genitive plural, but vary, in this respect, from the +common rule. If we are studying physiology, it is interesting to know +that the pulmonary artery carries dark blood and the pulmonary vein +carries bright blood, departing in this respect from the common rule, +for the division of labour between the veins and the arteries. But every +one knows how we seek naturally to combine the pieces of our knowledge +together, to bring them under general rules, to relate them to +principles; and how unsatisfactory and tiresome it would be to go on +forever learning lists of exceptions, or accumulating items of fact +which must stand isolated. + +Well, that same need of relating our knowledge, which operates here +within the sphere of our knowledge itself, we shall find operating, +also, outside that sphere. We experience, as we go on learning and +knowing,--the vast majority of us experience,--the need of relating what +we have learned and known to the sense which we have in us for conduct, +to the sense which we have in us for beauty. + +A certain Greek prophetess of Mantineia in Arcadia, Diotima by name, +once explained to the philosopher Socrates that love, and impulse, and +bent of all kinds, is, in fact, nothing else but the desire in men that +good should forever be present to them. This desire for good, Diotima +assured Socrates, is our fundamental desire, of which fundamental desire +every impulse in us is only some one particular form. And therefore this +fundamental desire it is, I suppose,--this desire in men that good +should be forever present to them,--which acts in us when we feel the +impulse for relating our knowledge to our sense for conduct and to our +sense for beauty. At any rate, with men in general the instinct exists. +Such is human nature. And the instinct, it will be admitted, is +innocent, and human nature is preserved by our following the lead of its +innocent instincts. Therefore, in seeking to gratify this instinct in +question, we are following the instinct of self-preservation in +humanity. + +But, no doubt, some kinds of knowledge cannot be made to directly serve +the instinct in question, cannot be directly related to the sense for +beauty, to the sense for conduct. These are instrument-knowledges; they +lead on to other knowledges, which can. A man who passes his life in +instrument-knowledges is a specialist. They may be invaluable as +instruments to something beyond, for those who have the gift thus to +employ them; and they may be disciplines in themselves wherein it is +useful for every one to have some schooling. But it is inconceivable +that the generality of men should pass all their mental life with Greek +accents or with formal logic. My friend Professor Sylvester, who is one +of the first mathematicians in the world, holds transcendental doctrines +as to the virtue of mathematics, but those doctrines are not for common +men. In the very Senate House and heart of our English Cambridge I once +ventured, though not without an apology for my profaneness, to hazard +the opinion that for the majority of mankind a little of mathematics, +even, goes a long way. Of course this is quite consistent with their +being of immense importance as an instrument to something else; but it +is the few who have the aptitude for thus using them, not the bulk of +mankind. + +The natural sciences do not, however, stand on the same footing with +these instrument-knowledges. Experience shows us that the generality of +men will find more interest in learning that, when a taper burns, the +wax is converted into carbonic acid and water, or in learning the +explanation of the phenomenon of dew, or in learning how the circulation +of the blood is carried on, than they find in learning that the genitive +plural of _pais_ and _pas_ does not take the circumflex on the +termination. And one piece of natural knowledge is added to another, and +others are added to that, and at last we come to propositions so +interesting as Mr. Darwin's famous proposition that "our ancestor was a +hairy quadruped furnished with a tail and pointed ears, probably +arboreal in his habits." Or we come to propositions of such reach and +magnitude as those which Professor Huxley delivers, when he says that +the notions of our forefathers about the beginning and the end of the +world were all wrong and that nature is the expression of a definite +order with which nothing interferes. + +Interesting, indeed, these results of science are, important they are, +and we should all of us be acquainted with them. But what I now wish you +to mark is, that we are still, when they are propounded to us and we +receive them, we are still in the sphere of intellect and knowledge. And +for the generality of men there will be found, I say, to arise, when +they have duly taken in the proposition that their ancestor was "a hairy +quadruped furnished with a tail and pointed ears, probably arboreal in +his habits," there will be found to arise an invincible desire to relate +this proposition to the sense in us for conduct, and to the sense in us +for beauty. But this the men of science will not do for us, and will +hardly even profess to do. They will give us other pieces of knowledge, +other facts, about other animals and their ancestors, or about plants, +or about stones, or about stars; and they may finally bring us to those +great "general conceptions of the universe, which are forced upon us +all," says Professor Huxley, "by the progress of physical science." But +still it will be _knowledge_ only which they give us; knowledge not put +for us into relation with our sense for conduct, our sense for beauty, +and touched with emotion by being so put; not thus put for us, and +therefore, to the majority of mankind, after a certain while, +unsatisfying, wearying. + +Not to the born naturalist, I admit. But what do we mean by a born +naturalist? We mean a man in whom the zeal for observing nature is so +uncommonly strong and eminent, that it marks him off from the bulk of +mankind. Such a man will pass his life happily in collecting natural +knowledge and reasoning upon it, and will ask for nothing, or hardly +anything, more. I have heard it said that the sagacious and admirable +naturalist whom we lost not very long ago, Mr. Darwin, once owned to a +friend that for his part he did not experience the necessity for two +things which most men find so necessary to them,--religion and poetry; +science and the domestic affections, he thought, were enough. To a born +naturalist, I can well understand that this should seem so. So absorbing +is his occupation with nature, so strong his love for his occupation, +that he goes on acquiring natural knowledge and reasoning upon it, and +has little time or inclination for thinking about getting it related to +the desire in man for conduct, the desire in man for beauty. He relates +it to them for himself as he goes along, so far as he feels the need; +and he draws from the domestic affections all the additional solace +necessary. But then Darwins are extremely rare. Another great and +admirable master of natural knowledge, Faraday, was a Sandemanian. That +is to say, he related his knowledge to his instinct for conduct and to +his instinct for beauty, by the aid of that respectable Scottish +sectary, Robert Sandeman. And so strong, in general, is the demand of +religion and poetry to have their share in a man, to associate +themselves with his knowing, and to relieve and rejoice it, that +probably, for one man amongst us with the disposition to do as Darwin +did in this respect, there are at least fifty with the disposition to do +as Faraday. + +Education lays hold upon us, in fact, by satisfying this demand. +Professor Huxley holds up to scorn mediaeval education, with its neglect +of the knowledge of nature, its poverty even of literary studies, its +formal logic devoted to "showing how and why that which the Church said +was true must be true." But the great mediaeval universities were not +brought into being, we may be sure, by the zeal for giving a jejune and +contemptible education. Kings have been their nursing fathers, and +queens have been their nursing mothers, but not for this. The mediaeval +universities came into being, because the supposed knowledge, delivered +by Scripture and the Church, so deeply engaged men's hearts, by so +simply, easily, and powerfully relating itself to their desire for +conduct, their desire for beauty. All other knowledge was dominated by +this supposed knowledge and was subordinated to it, because of the +surpassing strength of the hold which it gained upon the affections of +men, by allying itself profoundly with their sense for conduct, their +sense for beauty. + +But now, says Professor Huxley, conceptions of the universe fatal to the +notions held by our forefathers have been forced upon us by physical +science. Grant to him that they are thus fatal, that the new conceptions +must and will soon become current everywhere, and that every one will +finally perceive them to be fatal to the beliefs of our forefathers. The +need of humane letters, as they are truly called, because they serve the +paramount desire in men that good should be forever present to +them,--the need of humane letters to establish a relation between the +new conceptions, and our instinct for beauty, our instinct for conduct, +is only the more visible. The middle age could do without humane +letters, as it could do without the study of nature, because its +supposed knowledge was made to engage its emotions so powerfully. Grant +that the supposed knowledge disappears, its power of being made to +engage the emotions will of course disappear along with it,--but the +emotions themselves, and their claim to be engaged and satisfied, will +remain. Now if we find by experience that humane letters have an +undeniable power of engaging the emotions, the importance of humane +letters in a man's training becomes not less, but greater, in proportion +to the success of modern science in extirpating what it calls "mediaeval +thinking." + +Have humane letters, then, have poetry and eloquence, the power here +attributed to them of engaging the emotions, and do they exercise it? +And if they have it and exercise it, _how_ do they exercise it, so as to +exert an influence upon man's sense for conduct, his sense for beauty? +Finally, even if they both can and do exert an influence upon the senses +in question, how are they to relate to them the results,--the modern +results,--of natural science? All these questions may be asked. First, +have poetry and eloquence the power of calling out the emotions? The +appeal is to experience. Experience shows that for the vast majority of +men, for mankind in general, they have the power. Next, do they exercise +it? They do. But then, _how_ do they exercise it so as to affect man's +sense for conduct, his sense for beauty? And this is perhaps a case for +applying the Preacher's words: "Though a man labor to seek it out, yet +he shall not find it; yea, further, though a wise man think to know it, +yet shall he not be able to find it."[21] Why should it be one thing, in +its effect upon the emotions, to say, "Patience is a virtue," and quite +another thing, in its effect upon the emotions, to say with Homer, + + [Greek: tlaeton gar Moirai thumon thesan anthropoisin--[22]] + +"for an enduring heart have the destinies appointed to the children of +men"? Why should it be one thing, in its effect upon the emotions, to +say with philosopher Spinoza, _Felicitas in eo consistit quod homo suum +esse conservare potest_--"Man's happiness consists in his being able to +preserve his own essence," and quite another thing, in its effect upon +the emotions, to say with the Gospel, "What is a man advantaged, if he +gain the whole world, and lose himself, forfeit himself?" How does this +difference of effect arise? I cannot tell, and I am not much concerned +to know; the important thing is that it does arise, and that we can +profit by it. But how, finally, are poetry and eloquence to exercise the +power of relating the modern results of natural science to man's +instinct for conduct, his instinct for beauty? And here again I answer +that I do not know _how_ they will exercise it, but that they can and +will exercise it I am sure. I do not mean that modern philosophical +poets and modern philosophical moralists are to come and relate for us, +in express terms, the results of modern scientific research to our +instinct for conduct, our instinct for beauty. But I mean that we shall +find, as a matter of experience, if we know the best that has been +thought and uttered in the world, we shall find that the art and poetry +and eloquence of men who lived, perhaps, long ago, who had the most +limited natural knowledge, who had the most erroneous conceptions about +many important matters, we shall find that this art, and poetry, and +eloquence, have in fact not only the power of refreshing and delighting +us, they have also the power,--such is the strength and worth, in +essentials, of their authors' criticism of life,--they have a +fortifying, and elevating, and quickening, and suggestive power, capable +of wonderfully helping us to relate the results of modern science to our +need for conduct, our need for beauty. Homer's conceptions of the +physical universe were, I imagine, grotesque; but really, under the +shock of hearing from modern science that "the world is not subordinated +to man's use, and that man is not the cynosure of things terrestrial," I +could, for my own part, desire no better comfort than Homer's line which +I quoted just now, + + [Greek: tlaeton gar Moirai thumon thesan anthropoisin--] + +"for an enduring heart have the destinies appointed to the children of +men!" + +And the more that men's minds are cleared, the more that the results of +science are frankly accepted, the more that poetry and eloquence come to +be received and studied as what in truth they really are,--the criticism +of life by gifted men, alive and active with extraordinary power at an +unusual number of points;--so much the more will the value of humane +letters, and of art also, which is an utterance having a like kind of +power with theirs, be felt and acknowledged, and their place in +education be secured. + +Let us therefore, all of us, avoid indeed as much as possible any +invidious comparison between the merits of humane letters, as means of +education, and the merits of the natural sciences. But when some +President of a Section for Mechanical Science insists on making the +comparison, and tells us that "he who in his training has substituted +literature and history for natural science has chosen the less useful +alternative," let us make answer to him that the student of humane +letters only, will, at least, know also the great general conceptions +brought in by modern physical science; for science, as Professor Huxley +says, forces them upon us all. But the student of the natural sciences +only, will, by our very hypothesis, know nothing of humane letters; not +to mention that in setting himself to be perpetually accumulating +natural knowledge, he sets himself to do what only specialists have in +general the gift for doing genially. And so he will probably be +unsatisfied, or at any rate incomplete, and even more incomplete than +the student of humane letters only. + +I once mentioned in a school report, how a young man in one of our +English training colleges having to paraphrase the passage in _Macbeth_ +beginning, + + Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased? + +turned this line into, "Can you not wait upon the lunatic?" And I +remarked what a curious state of things it would be, if every pupil of +our national schools knew, let us say, that the moon is two thousand one +hundred and sixty miles in diameter, and thought at the same time that a +good paraphrase for + + Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased? + +was, "Can you not wait upon the lunatic?" If one is driven to choose, I +think I would rather have a young person ignorant about the moon's +diameter, but aware that "Can you not wait upon the lunatic?" is bad, +than a young person whose education had been such as to manage things +the other way. + +Or to go higher than the pupils of our national schools. I have in my +mind's eye a member of our British Parliament who comes to travel here +in America, who afterwards relates his travels, and who shows a really +masterly knowledge of the geology of this great country and of its +mining capabilities, but who ends by gravely suggesting that the United +States should borrow a prince from our Royal Family, and should make him +their king, and should create a House of Lords of great landed +proprietors after the pattern of ours; and then America, he thinks, +would have her future happily and perfectly secured. Surely, in this +case, the President of the Section for Mechanical Science would himself +hardly say that our member of Parliament, by concentrating himself upon +geology and mineralogy, and so on, and not attending to literature and +history, had "chosen the more useful alternative." + +If then there is to be separation and option between humane letters on +the one hand, and the natural sciences on the other, the great majority +of mankind, all who have not exceptional and overpowering aptitudes for +the study of nature, would do well, I cannot but think, to choose to be +educated in humane letters rather than in the natural sciences. Letters +will call out their being at more points, will make them live more. + +I said that before I ended I would just touch on the question of +classical education, and I will keep my word. Even if literature is to +retain a large place in our education, yet Latin and Greek, say the +friends of progress, will certainly have to go. Greek is the grand +offender in the eyes of these gentlemen. The attackers of the +established course of study think that against Greek, at any rate, they +have irresistible arguments. Literature may perhaps be needed in +education, they say; but why on earth should it be Greek literature? Why +not French or German? Nay, "has not an Englishman models in his own +literature of every kind of excellence?" As before, it is not on any +weak pleadings of my own that I rely for convincing the gainsayers; it +is on the constitution of human nature itself, and on the instinct of +self-preservation in humanity. The instinct for beauty is set in human +nature, as surely as the instinct for knowledge is set there, or the +instinct for conduct. If the instinct for beauty is served by Greek +literature and art as it is served by no other literature and art, we +may trust to the instinct of self-preservation in humanity for keeping +Greek as part of our culture. We may trust to it for even making the +study of Greek more prevalent than it is now. Greek will come, I hope, +some day to be studied more rationally than at present; but it will be +increasingly studied as men increasingly feel the need in them for +beauty, and how powerfully Greek art and Greek literature can serve this +need. Women will again study Greek, as Lady Jane Grey did; I believe +that in that chain of forts, with which the fair host of the Amazons are +now engirdling our English universities,--I find that here in America, +in colleges like Smith College in Massachusetts, and Vassar College in +the State of New York, and in the happy families of the mixed +universities out West,--they are studying it already. + +_Defuit una mihi symmetria prisca_,--"The antique symmetry was the one +thing wanting to me," said Leonardo da Vinci; and he was an Italian. I +will not presume to speak for the Americans, but I am sure that, in the +Englishman, the want of this admirable symmetry of the Greeks is a +thousand times more great and crying than in any Italian. The results +of the want show themselves most glaringly, perhaps, in our +architecture, but they show themselves, also, in all our art. _Fit +details strictly combined, in view of a large general result nobly +conceived_; that is just the beautiful _symmetria prisca_ of the Greeks, +and it is just where we English fail, where all our art fails. Striking +ideas we have, and well-executed details we have; but that high symmetry +which, with satisfying and delightful effect, combines them, we seldom +or never have. The glorious beauty of the Acropolis at Athens did not +come from single fine things stuck about on that hill, a statue here, a +gateway there;--no, it arose from all things being perfectly combined +for a supreme total effect. What must not an Englishman feel about our +deficiencies in this respect, as the sense for beauty, whereof this +symmetry is an essential element, awakens and strengthens within him! +what will not one day be his respect and desire for Greece and its +_symmetria prisca_, when the scales drop from his eyes as he walks the +London streets, and he sees such a lesson in meanness as the Strand, for +instance, in its true deformity! But here we are coming to our friend +Mr. Ruskin's province, and I will not intrude upon it, for he is its +very sufficient guardian. + +And so we at last find, it seems, we find flowing in favor of the +humanities the natural and necessary stream of things, which seemed +against them when we started. The "hairy quadruped furnished with a tail +and pointed ears, probably arboreal in his habits," this good fellow +carried hidden in his nature, apparently, something destined to develop +into a necessity for humane letters. Nay, more: we seem finally to be +even led to the further conclusion that our hairy ancestor carried in +his nature, also, a necessity for Greek. + +And therefore, to say the truth, I cannot really think that humane +letters are in much actual danger of being thrust out from their leading +place in education, in spite of the array of authorities against them at +this moment. So long as human nature is what it is, their attractions +will remain irresistible. As with Greek, so with letters generally: +they will some day come, we may hope, to be studied more rationally, but +they will not lose their place. What will happen will rather be that +there will be crowded into education other matters besides, far too +many; there will be, perhaps, a period of unsettlement and confusion and +false tendency; but letters will not in the end lose their leading +place. If they lose it for a time, they will get it back again. We shall +be brought back to them by our wants and aspirations. And a poor +humanist may possess his soul in patience, neither strive nor cry, admit +the energy and brilliancy of the partisans of physical science, and +their present favor with the public, to be far greater than his own, and +still have a happy faith that the nature of things works silently on +behalf of the studies which he loves, and that, while we shall all have +to acquaint ourselves with the great results reached by modern science, +and to give ourselves as much training in its disciplines as we can +conveniently carry, yet the majority of men will always require humane +letters; and so much the more, as they have the more and the greater +results of science to relate to the need in man for conduct, and to the +need in him for beauty. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 20: From "Discourses in America," 1885.] + +[Footnote 21: From Ecclesiastes, viii. 17.] + +[Footnote 22: From the "Iliad," xxiv. 49.] + + + + +HOW TO READ[23] + +FREDERIC HARRISON + + +It is the fashion for those who have any connection with letters to +expatiate on the infinite blessings of literature, and the miraculous +achievements of the press: to extol, as a gift above price, the taste +for study and the love of reading. Far be it from me to gainsay the +inestimable value of good books, or to discourage any man from reading +the best; but I often think that we forget that other side to this +glorious view of literature--the misuse of books, the debilitating waste +of brain in aimless, promiscuous, vapid reading, or even, it may be, in +the poisonous inhalation of mere literary garbage and bad men's worst +thoughts. + +For what can a book be more than the man who wrote it? The brightest +genius seldom puts the best of his own soul into his printed page; and +some famous men have certainly put the worst of theirs. Yet are all men +desirable companions, much less teachers, able to give us advice, even +of those who get reputation and command a hearing? To put out of the +question that writing which is positively bad, are we not, amidst the +multiplicity of books and of writers, in continual danger of being drawn +off by what is stimulating rather than solid, by curiosity after +something accidentally notorious, by what has no intelligible thing to +recommend it, except that it is new? Now, to stuff our minds with what +is simply trivial, simply curious, or that which at best has but a low +nutritive power, this is to close our minds to what is solid and +enlarging, and spiritually sustaining. Whether our neglect of the great +books comes from our not reading at all, or from an incorrigible habit +of reading the little books, it ends in just the same thing. And that +thing is ignorance of all the greater literature of the world. To +neglect all the abiding parts of knowledge for the sake of the +evanescent parts is really to know nothing worth knowing. It is in the +end the same, whether we do not use our minds for serious study at all, +or whether we exhaust them by an impotent voracity for desultory +"information"--a thing as fruitful as whistling. Of the two evils I +prefer the former. At least, in that case, the mind is healthy and open. +It is not gorged and enfeebled by excess in that which cannot nourish, +much less enlarge and beautify our nature. + +But there is much more than this. Even to those who resolutely avoid the +idleness of reading what is trivial, a difficulty is presented--a +difficulty every day increasing by virtue even of our abundance of +books. What are the subjects, what are the class of books we are to +read, in what order, with what connection, to what ultimate use or +object? Even those who are resolved to read the better books are +embarrassed by a field of choice practically boundless. The longest +life, the greatest industry, joined to the most powerful memory, would +not suffice to make us profit from a hundredth part of the world of +books before us. If the great Newton said that he seemed to have been +all his life gathering a few shells on the shore, whilst a boundless +ocean of truth still lay beyond and unknown to him, how much more to +each of us must the sea of literature be a pathless immensity beyond our +powers of vision or of reach--an immensity in which industry itself is +useless without judgment, method, discipline; where it is of infinite +importance what we can learn and remember, and of utterly no importance +what we may have once looked at or heard of. Alas! the most of our +reading leaves as little mark even in our own education as the foam that +gathers round the keel of a passing boat! For myself, I am inclined to +think the most useful help to reading is to know what we should not +read, what we can keep out from that small cleared spot in the +overgrown jungle of "information," the corner which we can call our +ordered patch of fruit-bearing knowledge. The incessant accumulation of +fresh books must hinder any real knowledge of the old; for the +multiplicity of volumes becomes a bar upon our use of any. In literature +especially does it hold--that we cannot see the wood for the trees. + +How shall we choose our books? Which are the best, the eternal, +indispensable books? To all to whom reading is something more than a +refined idleness these questions recur, bringing with them the sense of +bewilderment; and a still, small voice within us is for ever crying out +for some guide across the Slough of Despond of an illimitable and +ever-swelling literature. How many a man stands beside it, as uncertain +of his pathway as the Pilgrim, when he who dreamed the immortal dream +heard him "break out with a lamentable cry; saying, what shall I do?" + +And this, which comes home to all of us at times, presses hardest upon +those who have lost the opportunity of systematic education, who have to +educate themselves, or who seek to guide the education of their young +people. Systematic reading is but little in favour even amongst studious +men; in a true sense it is hardly possible for women. A comprehensive +course of home study, and a guide to books, fit for the highest +education of women, is yet a blank page remaining to be filled. +Generations of men of culture have laboured to organise a system of +reading and materials appropriate for the methodical education of men in +academic lines. Teaching equal in mental calibre to any that is open to +men in universities, yet modified for the needs of those who must study +at home, remains in the dim pages of that melancholy volume entitled +_Libri valde desiderati._[24] + +I do not aspire to fill one of those blank pages; but I long to speak a +word or two, as the Pilgrim did to Neighbour Pliable, upon the glories +that await those who will pass through the narrow wicket-gate. On this, +if one can find anything useful to say, it may be chiefly from the +memory of the waste labour and pitiful stumbling in the dark which fill +up so much of the travail that one is fain to call one's own education. +We who have wandered in the wastes so long, and lost so much of our +lives in our wandering, may at least offer warnings to younger +wayfarers, as men who in thorny paths have borne the heat and burden of +the day might give a clue to their journey to those who have yet a +morning and a noon. As I look back and think of those cataracts of +printed stuff which honest compositors set up, meaning, let us trust, no +harm, and which at least found them in daily bread,--printed stuff which +I and the rest of us, to our infinitely small profit, have consumed with +our eyes, not even making an honest living of it, but much impairing our +substance,--I could almost reckon the printing press as amongst the +scourges of mankind. I am grown a wiser and a sadder man, importunate, +like that Ancient Mariner, to tell each blithe wedding guest the tale of +his shipwreck on the infinite sea of printers' ink, as one escaped by +mercy and grace from the region where there is water, water, everywhere, +and not a drop to drink. + +A man of power, who has got more from books than most of his +contemporaries, once said: "Form a habit of reading, do not mind what +you read; the reading of better books will come when you have a habit of +reading the inferior." We need not accept this _obiter dictum_[25] of +Lord Sherbrooke. A habit of reading idly debilitates and corrupts the +mind for all wholesome reading; the habit of reading wisely is one of +the most difficult habits to acquire, needing strong resolution and +infinite pains; and reading for mere reading's sake, instead of for the +sake of the good we gain from reading, is one of the worst and commonest +and most unwholesome habits we have. And so our inimitable humorist has +made delightful fun of the solid books,--which no gentleman's library +should be without,--the Humes, Gibbons, Adam Smiths, which, he says, are +not books at all, and prefers some "kindhearted play-book," or at times +the _Town and County Magazine_. Poor Lamb has not a little to answer +for, in the revived relish for garbage unearthed from old theatrical +dungheaps. Be it jest or earnest, I have little patience with the +Elia-tic philosophy of the frivolous. Why do we still suffer the +traditional hypocrisy about the dignity of literature--literature, I +mean, in the gross, which includes about equal parts of what is useful +and what is useless? Why are books as books, writers as writers, readers +as readers, meritorious, apart from any good in them, or anything that +we can get from them? Why do we pride ourselves on our powers of +absorbing print, as our grandfathers did on their gifts in imbibing +port, when we know that there is a mode of absorbing print which makes +it impossible that we can ever learn anything good out of books? + +Our stately Milton said in a passage which is one of the watchwords of +the English race, "as good almost kill a Man as kill a good Book." But +has he not also said that he would "have a vigilant eye how Bookes +demeane themselves, as well as men; and do sharpest justice on them as +malefactors"?... Yes! they do kill the good book who deliver up their +few and precious hours of reading to the trivial book; they make it dead +for them; they do what lies in them to destroy "the precious life-blood +of a master-spirit, imbalm'd and treasured up on purpose to a life +beyond life;" they "spill that season'd life of man preserv'd and stor'd +up in Bookes." For in the wilderness of books most men, certainly all +busy men, _must_ strictly choose. If they saturate their minds with the +idler books, the "good book," which Milton calls "an immortality rather +than a life," is dead to them: it is a book sealed up and buried. + +It is most right that in the great republic of letters there should be +freedom of intercourse and a spirit of equality. Every reader who holds +a book in his hand is free of the inmost minds of men past and present; +their lives both within and without the pale of their uttered thoughts +are unveiled to him; he needs no introduction to the greatest; he +stands on no ceremony with them; he may, if he be so minded, scribble +"doggrel" on his Shelley, or he may kick Lord Byron, if he please, into +a corner. He hears Burke perorate, and Johnson dogmatise, and Scott tell +his border tales, and Wordsworth muse on the hillside, without the leave +of any man, or the payment of any toll. In the republic of letters there +are no privileged orders or places reserved. Every man who has written a +book, even the diligent Mr. Whitaker, is in one sense an author; "a +book's a book although there's nothing in't;" and every man who can +decipher a penny journal is in one sense a reader. And your "general +reader," like the grave-digger in Hamlet, is hail-fellow with all the +mighty dead; he pats the skull of the jester; batters the cheek of lord, +lady, or courtier; and uses "imperious Caesar" to teach boys the Latin +declensions. + +But this noble equality of all writers--of all writers and of all +readers--has a perilous side to it. It is apt to make us indiscriminate +in the books we read, and somewhat contemptuous of the mighty men of the +past. Men who are most observant as to the friends they make, or the +conversation they share, are carelessness itself as to the books to whom +they entrust themselves, and the printed language with which they +saturate their minds. Yet can any friendship or society be more +important to us than that of the books which form so large a part of our +minds and even of our characters? Do we in real life take any pleasant +fellow to our homes and chat with some agreeable rascal by our +firesides, we who will take up any pleasant fellow's printed memoirs, we +who delight in the agreeable rascal when he is cut up into pages and +bound in calf? + +If any person given to reading were honestly to keep a register of all +the printed stuff that he or she consumes in a year--all the idle tales +of which the very names and the story are forgotten in a week, the +bookmaker's prattle about nothing at so much a sheet, the fugitive +trifling about silly things and empty people, the memoirs of the +unmemorable, and lives of those who never really lived at all--of what +a mountain of rubbish would it be the catalogue: Exercises for the eye +and the memory, as mechanical as if we set ourselves to learn the names, +ages, and family histories of every one who lives in our own street, the +flirtations of their maiden aunts, and the circumstances surrounding the +birth of their grandmother's first baby. + +It is impossible to give any method to our reading till we get nerve +enough to reject. The most exclusive and careful amongst us will (in +literature) take boon companions out of the street, as easily as an +idler in a tavern. "I came across such and such a book that I never +heard mentioned," says one, "and found it curious, though entirely +worthless." "I strayed on a volume by I know not whom, on a subject for +which I never cared." And so on. There are curious and worthless +creatures enough in any pot-house all day long; and there is incessant +talk in omnibus, train, or street by we know not whom, about we care not +what. Yet if a printer and a bookseller can be induced to make this +gabble as immortal as print and publication can make it, then it +straightway is literature, and in due time it becomes "curious." + +I have no intention to moralise or to indulge in a homily against the +reading of what is deliberately evil. There is not so much need for this +now, and I am not discoursing on the whole duty of man. I take that part +of our reading which by itself is no doubt harmless, entertaining, and +even gently instructive. But of this enormous mass of literature how +much deserves to be chosen out, to be preferred to all the great books +of the world, to be set apart for those precious hours which are all +that the most of us can give to solid reading? The vast proportion of +books are books that we shall never be able to read. A serious +percentage of books are not worth reading at all. The really vital books +for us we also know to be a very trifling portion of the whole. And yet +we act as if every book were as good as any other, as if it were merely +a question of order which we take up first, as if any book were good +enough for us, and as if all were alike honourable, precious, and +satisfying. Alas! books cannot be more than the men who write them; and +as a fair proportion of the human race now write books, with motives and +objects as various as human activity, books, as books, are entitled _a +priori_, until their value is proved, to the same attention and respect +as houses, steam-engines, pictures, fiddles, bonnets, and other products +of human industry. In the shelves of those libraries which are our +pride, libraries public or private, circulating or very stationary, are +to be found those great books of the world _rari nantes in gurgite +vasto_,[26] those books which are truly "the precious life-blood of a +master-spirit." But the very familiarity which their mighty fame has +bred in us makes us indifferent; we grow weary of what every one is +supposed to have read; and we take down something which looks a little +eccentric, some worthless book, on the mere ground that we never heard +of it before. + +Thus the difficulties of literature are in their way as great as those +of the world, the obstacles to finding the right friends are as great, +the peril is as great of being lost in a Babel of voices and an +ever-changing mass of beings. Books are not wiser than men, the true +books are not easier to find than the true men, the bad books or the +vulgar books are not less obtrusive and not less ubiquitous than the bad +or vulgar men are everywhere; the art of right reading is as long and +difficult to learn as the art of right living. Those who are on good +terms with the first author they meet, run as much risk as men who +surrender their time to the first passer in the street; for to be open +to every book is for the most part to gain as little as possible from +any. A man aimlessly wandering about in a crowded city is of all men the +most lonely; so he who takes up only the books that he "comes across" is +pretty certain to meet but few that are worth knowing. + +Now this danger is one to which we are specially exposed in this age. +Our high-pressure life of emergencies, our whirling industrial +organisation or disorganisation have brought us in this (as in most +things) their peculiar difficulties and drawbacks. In almost everything +vast opportunities and gigantic means of multiplying our products bring +with them new perils and troubles which are often at first neglected. +Our huge cities, where wealth is piled up and the requirements and +appliances of life extended beyond the dreams of our forefathers, seem +to breed in themselves new forms of squalor, disease, blights, or risks +to life such as we are yet unable to master. So the enormous +multiplicity of modern books is not altogether favourable to the knowing +of the best. I listen with mixed satisfaction to the paeans that they +chant over the works which issue from the press each day: how the books +poured forth from Paternoster Row might in a few years be built into a +pyramid that would fill the dome of St. Paul's. How in this mountain of +literature am I to find the really useful book? How, when I have found +it, and found its value, am I to get others to read it? How am I to keep +my head clear in the torrent and din of works, all of which distract my +attention, most of which promise me something, whilst so few fulfil that +promise? The Nile is the source of the Egyptian's bread, and without it +he perishes of hunger. But the Nile may be rather too liberal in his +flood, and then the Egyptian runs imminent risk of drowning. + +And thus there never was a time, at least during the last two hundred +years, when the difficulties in the way of making an efficient use of +books were greater than they are to-day, when the obstacles were more +real between readers and the right books to read, when it was +practically so troublesome to find out that which it is of vital +importance to know; and that not by the dearth, but by the plethora of +printed matter. For it comes to nearly the same thing whether we are +actually debarred by physical impossibility, from getting the right book +into our hand, or whether we are choked off from the right book by the +obtrusive crowd of the wrong books; so that it needs a strong character +and a resolute system of reading to keep the head cool in the storm of +literature around us. We read nowadays in the market-place--I would +rather say in some large steam factory of letter-press, where damp +sheets of new print whirl round us perpetually--if it be not rather some +noisy book-fair where literary showmen tempt us with performing dolls, +and the gongs of rival booths are stunning our ears from morn till +night. Contrast with this pandemonium of Leipsic and Paternoster Row the +sublime picture of our Milton in his early retirement at Horton, when, +musing over his coming flight to the epic heaven, practising his +pinions, as he tells Diodati, he consumed five years of solitude in +reading the ancient writers--"_Et totum rapiunt me, mea vita, +libri_."[27] + +Who now reads the ancient writers? Who systematically reads the great +writers, be they ancient or modern, whom the consent of ages has marked +out as classics: typical, immortal, peculiar teachers of our race? Alas! +the _Paradise Lost_ is lost again to us beneath an inundation of +graceful academic verse, sugary stanzas of ladylike prettiness, and +ceaseless explanations in more or less readable prose of what John +Milton meant or did not mean, or what he saw or did not see, who married +his great-aunt, and why Adam or Satan is like that, or unlike the other. +We read a perfect library about the _Paradise Lost_, but the _Paradise +Lost_ itself we do not read. + +I am not presumptuous enough to assert that the larger part of modern +literature is not worth reading in itself, that the prose is not +readable, entertaining, one may say highly instructive. Nor do I pretend +that the verses which we read so zealously in place of Milton's are not +good verses. On the contrary, I think them sweetly conceived, as musical +and as graceful as the verse of any age in our history. A great deal of +our modern literature is such that it is exceedingly difficult to +resist it, and it is undeniable that it gives us real information. It +seems perhaps unreasonable to many to assert that a decent readable book +which gives us actual instruction can be otherwise than a useful +companion and a solid gain. Possibly many people are ready to cry out +upon me as an obscurantist for venturing to doubt a genial confidence in +all literature simply as such. But the question, which weighs upon me +with such really crushing urgency is this: What are the books that in +our little remnant of reading time it is most vital for us to know? For +the true use of books is of such sacred value to us that to be simply +entertained is to cease to be taught, elevated, inspired by books; +merely to gather information of a chance kind is to close the mind to +knowledge of the urgent kind. + +Every book that we take up without a purpose is an opportunity lost of +taking up a book with a purpose--every bit of stray information which we +cram into our heads without any sense of its importance, is for the most +part a bit of the most useful information driven out of our heads and +choked off from our minds. It is so certain that information, i.e., the +knowledge, the stored thoughts and observations of mankind, is now grown +to proportions so utterly incalculable and prodigious, that even the +learned whose lives are given to study can but pick up some crumbs that +fall from the table of truth. They delve and tend but a plot in that +vast and teeming kingdom, whilst those whom active life leaves with but +a few cramped hours of study can hardly come to know the very vastness +of the field before them, or how infinitesimally small is the corner +they can traverse at the best. We know all is not of equal value. We +know that books differ in value as much as diamonds differ from the sand +on the seashore, as much as our living friend differs from a dead rat. +We know that much in the myriad-peopled world of books--very much in all +kinds--is trivial, enervating, inane, even noxious. And thus, where we +have infinite opportunities of wasting our efforts to no end, of +fatiguing our minds without enriching them, of clogging the spirit +without satisfying it, there, I cannot but think, the very infinity of +opportunities is robbing us of the actual power of using them. And thus +I come often, in my less hopeful moods, to watch the remorseless +cataract of daily literature which thunders over the remnants of the +past, as if it were a fresh impediment to the men of our day in the way +of systematic knowledge and consistent powers of thought, as if it were +destined one day to overwhelm the great inheritance of mankind in prose +and verse. + +I remember, when I was a very young man at college, that a youth, in no +spirit of paradox, but out of plenary conviction, undertook to maintain +before a body of serious students, the astounding proposition that the +invention of printing had been one of the greatest misfortunes that had +ever befallen mankind. He argued that exclusive reliance on printed +matter had destroyed the higher method of oral teaching, the +dissemination of thought by the spoken word to the attentive ear. He +insisted that the formation of a vast literary class looking to the +making of books as a means of making money, rather than as a social +duty, had multiplied books for the sake of the writers rather than for +the sake of the readers; that the reliance on books as a cheap and +common resource had done much to weaken the powers of memory; that it +destroyed the craving for a general culture of taste, and the need of +artistic expression in all the surroundings of life. And he argued, +lastly, that the sudden multiplication of all kinds of printed matter +had been fatal to the orderly arrangement of thought, and had hindered a +system of knowledge and a scheme of education. + +I am far from sharing this immature view. Of course I hold the invention +of printing to have been one of the most momentous facts in the whole +history of man. Without it universal social progress, true democratic +enlightenment, and the education of the people would have been +impossible, or very slow, even if the cultured few, as is likely, could +have advanced the knowledge of mankind without it. We place Gutenberg +amongst the small list of the unique and special benefactors of +mankind, in the sacred choir of those whose work transformed the +conditions of life, whose work, once done, could never be repeated. And +no doubt the things which our ardent friend regarded as so fatal a +disturbance of society were all inevitable and necessary, part of the +great revolution of mind through which men grew out of the mediaeval +incompleteness to a richer conception of life and of the world. + +Yet there is a sense in which this boyish anathema against printing may +become true to us by our own fault. We may create for ourselves these +very evils. For the art of printing has not been a gift wholly unmixed +with evils; it must be used wisely if it is to be a boon to man at all; +it entails on us heavy responsibilities, resolution to use it with +judgment and self-control, and the will to resist its temptations and +its perils. Indeed, we may easily so act that we may make it a clog on +the progress of the human mind, a real curse and not a boon. The power +of flying at will through space would probably extinguish civilisation +and society, for it would release us from the wholesome bondage of place +and rest. The power of hearing every word that had ever been uttered on +this planet would annihilate thought, as the power of knowing all +recorded facts by the process of turning a handle would annihilate true +science. Our human faculties and our mental forces are not enlarged +simply by multiplying our materials of knowledge and our facilities for +communication. Telephones, microphones, pantoscopes, steam-presses, and +ubiquity-engines in general may, after all, leave the poor human brain +panting and throbbing under the strain of its appliances, no bigger and +no stronger than the brains of the men who heard Moses speak, and saw +Aristotle and Archimedes pondering over a few worn rolls of crabbed +manuscript. Until some new Gutenberg or Watt can invent a machine for +magnifying the human mind, every fresh apparatus for multiplying its +work is a fresh strain on the mind, a new realm for it to order and to +rule. + +And so, I say it most confidently, the first intellectual task of our +age is rightly to order and make serviceable the vast realm of printed +material which four centuries have swept across our path. To organise +our knowledge, to systematise our reading, to save, out of the +relentless cataract of ink, the immortal thoughts of the greatest--this +is a necessity, unless the productive ingenuity of man is to lead us at +last to a measureless and pathless chaos. To know anything that turns up +is, in the infinity of knowledge, to know nothing. To read the first +book we come across, in the wilderness of books, is to learn nothing. To +turn over the pages of ten thousand volumes is to be practically +indifferent to all that is good. + +But this warns me that I am entering on a subject which is far too big +and solemn. It is plain that to organise our knowledge, even to +systematise our reading, to make a working selection of books for +general study, really implies a complete scheme of education. A scheme +of education ultimately implies a system of philosophy, a view of man's +duty and powers as a moral and social being--a religion. Before a +problem so great as this, on which readers have such different ideas and +wants, and differ so profoundly on the very premises from which we +start, before such a problem as a general theory of education, I prefer +to pause. I will keep silence even from good words. I have chosen my own +part, and adopted my own teacher. But to ask men to adopt the education +of Auguste Comte, is almost to ask them to adopt Positivism itself. + +Nor will I enlarge on the matter for thought, for foreboding, almost for +despair, that is presented to us by the fact of our familiar literary +ways and our recognised literary profession. That things infinitely +trifling in themselves: men, events, societies, phenomena, in no way +otherwise more valuable than the myriad other things which flit around +us like the sparrows on the housetop, should be glorified, magnified, +and perpetuated, set under a literary microscope and focussed in the +blaze of a literary magic-lantern--not for what they are in themselves, +but solely to amuse and excite the world by showing how it can be +done--all this is to me so amazing, so heart-breaking, that I forbear +now to treat it, as I cannot say all that I would. + +The Choice of Books is really the choice of our education, of a moral +and intellectual ideal, of the whole duty of man. But though I shrink +from any so high a theme, a few words are needed to indicate my general +point of view in the matter. + +In the first place, when we speak about books, let us avoid the +extravagance of expecting too much from books, the pedant's habit of +extolling books as synonymous with education. Books are no more +education than laws are virtue; and just as profligacy is easy within +the strict limits of law, a boundless knowledge of books may be found +with a narrow education. A man may be, as the poet saith, "deep vers'd +in books, and shallow in himself." We need to know in order that we may +feel rightly and act wisely. The thirst after truth itself may be pushed +to a degree where indulgence enfeebles our sympathies and unnerves us in +action. Of all men perhaps the book-lover needs most to be reminded that +man's business here is to know for the sake of living, not to live for +the sake of knowing. + +A healthy mode of reading would follow the lines of a sound education. +And the first canon of a sound education is to make it the instrument to +perfect the whole nature and character. Its aims are comprehensive, not +special; they regard life as a whole, not mental curiosity; they have to +give us, not so much materials, as capacities. So that, however moderate +and limited the opportunity for education, in its way it should be +always more or less symmetrical and balanced, appealing equally in turn +to the three grand intellectual elements--imagination, memory, +reflection: and so having something to give us in poetry, in history, in +science, and in philosophy. + +And thus our reading will be sadly one-sided, however voluminous it be, +if it entirely close to us any of the great types and ideals which the +creative instinct of man has produced, if it shut out from us either +the ancient world, or other European poetry, as important almost as our +own. When our reading, however deep, runs wholly into "pockets," and +exhausts itself in the literature of one age, one country, one type, +then we may be sure that it is tending to narrow or deform our minds. +And the more it leads us into curious byways and nurtures us into +indifference for the beaten highways of the world, the sooner we shall +end, if we be not specialists and students by profession, in ceasing to +treat our books as the companions and solace of our lifetime, and in +using them as the instruments of a refined sort of self-indulgence. + +A wise education, and so judicious reading, should leave no great type +of thought, no dominant phase of human nature, wholly a blank. Whether +our reading be great or small, so far as it goes, it should be general. +If our lives admit of but a short space for reading, all the more reason +that, so far as may be, it should remind us of the vast expanse of human +thought, and the wonderful variety of human nature. To read, and yet so +to read that we see nothing but a corner of literature, the loose +fringe, or flats and wastes of letters, and by reading only deepen our +natural belief that this island is the hub of the universe, and the +nineteenth century the only age worth notice, all this is really to call +in the aid of books to thicken and harden our untaught prejudices. Be it +imagination, memory, or reflection that we address--that is, in poetry, +history, science, or philosophy, our first duty is to aim at knowing +something at least of the best, at getting some definite idea of the +mighty realm whose outer rim we are permitted to approach. + +But how are we to know the best; how are we to gain this definite idea +of the vast world of letters? There are some who appear to suppose that +the "best" are known only to experts in an esoteric way, who may reveal +to inquirers what schoolboys and betting-men describe as "tips." There +are no "tips" in literature; the "best" authors are never dark horses; +we need no "crammers" and "coaches" to thrust us into the presence of +the great writers of all time. "Crammers" will only lead us wrong. It is +a thing far easier and more common than many imagine, to discover the +best. It needs no research, no learning, and is only misguided by +recondite information. The world has long ago closed the great assize of +letters and judged the first places everywhere. In such a matter the +judgment of the world, guided and informed by a long succession of +accomplished critics, is almost unerring. When some Zoilus finds +blemishes in Homer, and prefers, it may be, the work of some Apollonius +of his own discovering, we only laugh. There may be doubts about the +third and fourth rank; but the first and the second are hardly open to +discussion. The gates which lead to the Elysian fields may slowly wheel +back on their adamantine hinges to admit now and then some new and +chosen modern. But the company of the masters of those who know, and in +especial degree of the great poets, is a roll long closed and complete, +and they who are of it hold ever peaceful converse together. + +Hence we may find it a useful maxim that, if our reading be utterly +closed to the great poems of the world, there is something amiss with +our reading. If you find Milton, Dante, Calderon, Goethe, so much +"Hebrew-Greek" to you; if your Homer and Virgil, your Moliere and Scott, +rest year after year undisturbed on their shelves beside your school +trigonometry and your old college text-books; if you have never opened +the _Cid, the Nibelungen, Crusoe_, and _Don Quixote_ since you were a +boy, and are wont to leave the Bible and the Imitation for some wet +Sunday afternoon--know, friend, that your reading can do you little real +good. Your mental digestion is ruined or sadly out of order. No doubt, +to thousands of intelligent educated men who call themselves readers, +the reading through a Canto of _The Purgatorio_, or a Book of the +_Paradise Lost_, is a task as irksome as it would be to decipher an +ill-written manuscript in a language that is almost forgotten. But, +although we are not to be always reading epics, and are chiefly in the +mood for slighter things, to be absolutely unable to read Milton or +Dante with enjoyment, is to be in a very bad way. Aristophanes, +Theocritus, Boccaccio, Cervantes, Moliere are often as light as the +driven foam; but they are not light enough for the general reader. Their +humour is too bright and lovely for the groundlings. They are, alas! +"classics," somewhat apart from our everyday ways; they are not banal +enough for us; and so for us they slumber "unknown in a long night," +just _because_ they are immortal poets, and are not scribblers of +to-day. + +When will men understand that the reading of great books is a faculty to +be acquired, not a natural gift, at least not to those who are spoiled +by our current education and habits of life? _Ceci tuera cela_,[28] the +last great poet might have said of the first circulating library. An +insatiable appetite for new novels makes it as hard to read a +masterpiece as it seems to a Parisian boulevardier to live in a quiet +country. Until a man can truly enjoy a draft of clear water bubbling +from a mountain side, his taste is in an unwholesome state. And so he +who finds the Heliconian spring insipid should look to the state of his +nerves. Putting aside the iced air of the difficult mountain tops of +epic, tragedy, or psalm, there are some simple pieces which may serve as +an unerring test of a healthy or a vicious taste for imaginative work. +If the _Cid_, the _Vita Nuova_, the _Canterbury Tales_, Shakespeare's +_Sonnets_, and _Lycidas_ pall on a man; if he care not for Malory's +_Morte d'Arthur_ and the _Red Cross Knight_; if he thinks _Crusoe_ and +the _Vicar_ books for the young; if he thrill not with _The Ode to the +West Wind_, and _The Ode to a Grecian Urn_; if he have no stomach for +_Christabel_ or the lines written on _The Wye above Tintern Abbey_, he +should fall on his knees and pray for a cleanlier and quieter spirit. + +The intellectual system of most of us in these days needs "to purge and +to live cleanly." Only by a course of treatment shall we bring our minds +to feel at peace with the grand pure works of the world. Something we +ought all to know of the masterpieces of antiquity, and of the other +nations of Europe. To understand a great national poet, such as Dante, +Calderon, Corneille, or Goethe, is to know other types of human +civilisation in ways which a library of histories does not sufficiently +teach. The great masterpieces of the world are thus, quite apart from +the charm and solace they give us, the master instruments of a solid +education. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 23: From "The Choice of Books," 1891. Printed here by +permission of The Macmillan Company.] + +[Footnote 24: Books intensely desired.] + +[Footnote 25: Thing said in passing.] + +[Footnote 26: Floating scattered on the vast abyss.] + +[Footnote 27: "And here my books--my life--absorb me whole," Cowper's +translation of Milton's Latin Epistle to Diodati.] + +[Footnote 28: This will destroy that.] + + + + +ON GOING A JOURNEY[29] + +WILLIAM HAZLITT + + +One of the pleasantest things in the world is going a journey; but I +like to go by myself. I can enjoy society in a room; but out of doors, +nature is company enough for me. I am then never less alone than when +alone. + + "The fields his study, nature was his book." + +I cannot see the wit of walking and talking at the same time. When I am +in the country, I wish to vegetate like the country. I am not for +criticising hedge-rows and black cattle. I go out of town in order to +forget the town and all that is in it. There are those who for this +purpose go to watering-places, and carry the metropolis with them. I +like more elbow-room, and fewer encumbrances. I like solitude, when I +give myself up to it, for the sake of solitude; nor do I ask for + + ------"a friend in my retreat, + Whom I may whisper solitude is sweet." + +The soul of a journey is liberty, perfect liberty, to think, feel, do +just as one pleases. We go a journey chiefly to be free of all +impediments and of all inconveniences; to leave ourselves behind, much +more to get rid of others. It is because I want a little breathing-space +to muse on indifferent matters, where Contemplation + + "May plume her feathers and let grow her wings, + That in the various bustle of resort + Were all too ruffled, and sometimes impair'd," + +that I absent myself from the town for a while, without feeling at a +loss the moment I am left by myself. Instead of a friend in a postchaise +or in a Tilbury, to exchange good things with, and vary the same stale +topics over again, for once let me have a truce with impertinence. Give +me the clear blue sky over my head, and the green turf beneath my feet, +a winding road before me, and a three hours' march to dinner--and then +to thinking! It is hard if I cannot start some game on these lone +heaths. I laugh, I run, I leap, I sing for joy. From the point of yonder +rolling cloud, I plunge into my past being, and revel there, as the +sunburnt Indian plunges headlong into the wave that wafts him to his +native shore. Then long-forgotten things, like "sunken wrack and sumless +treasuries," burst upon my eager sight, and I begin to feel, think, and +be myself again. Instead of an awkward silence, broken by attempts at +wit or dull commonplaces, mine is that undisturbed silence of the heart +which alone is perfect eloquence. No one likes puns, alliterations, +antitheses, arguments, and analysis better than I do; but I sometimes +had rather be without them. "Leave, oh, leave me to my repose!" I have +just now other business in hand, which would seem idle to you, but is +with me "very stuff of the conscience." Is not this wild rose sweet +without a comment? Does not this daisy leap to my heart set in its coat +of emerald. Yet if I were to explain to you the circumstance that has so +endeared it to me, you would only smile. Had I not better then keep it +to myself, and let it serve me to brood over, from here to yonder craggy +point, and from thence onward to the far-distant horizon? I should be +but bad company all that way, and therefore prefer being alone. I have +heard it said that you may, when the moody fit comes on, walk or ride on +by yourself, and indulge your reveries. But this looks like a breach of +manners, a neglect of others, and you are thinking all the time that you +ought to rejoin your party. "Out upon such half-faced fellowship," say +I. I like to be either entirely to myself, or entirely at the disposal +of others; to talk or be silent, to walk or sit still, to be sociable +or solitary. I was pleased with an observation of Mr. Cobbett's that "he +thought it a bad French custom to drink our wine with our meals, and +that an Englishman ought to do only one thing at a time." So I cannot +talk and think, or indulge in melancholy musing and lively conversation +by fits and starts. "Let me have a companion of my way," says Sterne, +"were it but to remark how the shadows lengthen as the sun declines." It +is beautifully said: but in my opinion, this continual comparing of +notes interferes with the involuntary impression of things upon the +mind, and hurts the sentiment. If you only hint what you feel in a kind +of dumb show, it is insipid: if you have to explain it, it is making a +toil of a pleasure. You cannot read the book of nature, without being +perpetually put to the trouble of translating it for the benefit of +others. I am for the synthetical method on a journey, in preference to +the analytical. I am content to lay in a stock of ideas then, and to +examine and anatomise them afterwards. I want to see my vague notions +float like the down of the thistle before the breeze, and not to have +them entangled in the briars and thorns of controversy. For once, I like +to have it all my own way; and this is impossible unless you are alone, +or in such company as I do not covet. I have no objection to argue a +point with any one for twenty miles of measured road, but not for +pleasure. If you remark the scent of a beanfield crossing the road, +perhaps your fellow-traveller has no smell. If you point to a distant +object, perhaps he is short-sighted, and has to take out his glass to +look at it. There is a feeling in the air, a tone in the colour of a +cloud which hits your fancy, but the effect of which you are unable to +account for. There is then no sympathy, but an uneasy craving after it, +and a dissatisfaction which pursues you on the way, and in the end +probably produces ill humour. Now I never quarrel with myself, and take +all my own conclusions for granted till I find it necessary to defend +them against objections. It is not merely that you may not be of accord +on the objects and circumstances that present themselves before +you--these may recall a number of objects, and lead to associations too +delicate and refined to be possibly communicated to others. Yet these I +love to cherish, and sometimes still fondly clutch them, when I can +escape from the throng to do so. To give way to our feelings before +company, seems extravagance or affectation; and on the other hand, to +have to unravel this mystery of our being at every turn, and to make +others take an equal interest in it (otherwise the end is not answered) +is a task to which few are competent. We must "give it an understanding, +but no tongue." My old friend C----, however, could do both. He could go +on in the most delightful explanatory way over hill and dale, a summer's +day, and convert a landscape into a didactic poem or a Pindaric ode. "He +talked far above singing." If I could so clothe my ideas in sounding and +flowing words, I might perhaps wish to have some one with me to admire +the swelling theme; or I could be more content, were it possible for me +still to hear his echoing voice in the woods of All-Foxden. They had +"that fine madness in them which our first poets had;" and if they could +have been caught by some rare instrument, would have breathed such +strains as the following. + + ------"Here be woods as green + As any, air likewise as fresh and sweet + As when smooth Zephyrus plays on the fleet + Face of the curled stream, with flow'rs as many + As the young spring gives, and as choice as any; + Here be all new delights, cool streams and wells, + Arbours o'ergrown with woodbine, caves and dells; + Choose where thou wilt, while I sit by and sing, + Or gather rushes to make many a ring + For thy long fingers; tell thee tales of love, + How the pale Phoebe, hunting in a grove, + First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes + She took eternal fire that never dies; + How she convey'd him softly in a sleep, + His temples bound with poppy, to the steep + Head of old Latmos, where she stoops each night, + Gilding the mountain with her brother's light, + To kiss her sweetest."------ + FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS. + +Had I words and images at command like these, I would attempt to wake +the thoughts that lie slumbering on golden ridges in the evening clouds: +but at the sight of nature my fancy, poor as it is, droops and closes up +its leaves, like flowers at sunset. I can make nothing out on the +spot:--I must have time to collect myself.-- + +In general, a good thing spoils out-of-door prospects: it should be +reserved for Table-talk. L---- is for this reason, I take it, the worst +company in the world out of doors; because he is the best within. I +grant, there is one subject on which it is pleasant to talk on a +journey; and that is, what one shall have for supper when we get to our +inn at night. The open air improves this sort of conversation or +friendly altercation, by setting a keener edge on appetite. Every mile +of the road heightens the flavour of the viands we expect at the end of +it. How fine it is to enter some old town, walled and turreted, just at +the approach of nightfall, or to come to some straggling village, with +the lights streaming through the surrounding gloom; and then after +inquiring for the best entertainment that the place affords, to "take +one's ease at one's inn!" These eventful moments in our lives' history +are too precious, too full of solid, heartfelt happiness to be frittered +and dribbled away in imperfect sympathy. I would have them all to +myself, and drain them to the last drop: they will do to talk of or to +write about afterwards. What a delicate speculation it is, after +drinking whole goblets of tea, + + "The cups that cheer, but not inebriate," + +and letting the fumes ascend into the brain, to sit considering what we +shall have for supper--eggs and a rasher, a rabbit smothered in onions, +or an excellent veal-cutlet! Sancho[30] in such a situation once fixed +upon cow-heel; and his choice, though he could not help it, is not to be +disparaged. Then in the intervals of pictured scenery and Shandean +contemplation, to catch the preparation and the stir in the +kitchen--_Procul, O procul este profani!_[31] These hours are sacred to +silence and to musing, to be treasured up in the memory, and to feed the +source of smiling thoughts hereafter. I would not waste them in idle +talk; or if I must have the integrity of fancy broken in upon, I would +rather it were by a stranger than a friend. A stranger takes his hue and +character from the time and place; he is a part of the furniture and +costume of an inn. If he is a Quaker, or from the West Riding of +Yorkshire, so much the better. I do not even try to sympathise with him, +and he breaks no squares. I associate nothing with my travelling +companion but present objects and passing events. In his ignorance of me +and my affairs, I in a manner forget myself. But a friend reminds one of +other things, rips up old grievances, and destroys the abstraction of +the scene. He comes in ungraciously between us and our imaginary +character. Something is dropped in the course of conversation that gives +a hint of your profession and pursuits; or from having some one with you +that knows the less sublime portions of your history, it seems that +other people do. You are no longer a citizen of the world: but your +"unhoused free condition is put into circumscription and confine." The +_incognito_ of an inn is one of its striking privileges--"lord of one's +self, uncumber'd with a name." Oh! it is great to shake off the trammels +of the world and of public opinion--to lose our importunate, tormenting, +everlasting personal identity in the elements of nature, and become the +creature of the moment, clear of all ties--to hold to the universe only +by a dish of sweet-breads, and to owe nothing but the score of the +evening--and no longer seeking for applause and meeting with contempt, +to be known by no other title than _the Gentleman in the parlour_! One +may take one's choice of all characters in this romantic state of +uncertainty as to one's real pretensions, and become indefinitely +respectable and negatively rightworshipful. We baffle prejudice and +disappoint conjecture; and from being so to others, begin to be objects +of curiosity and wonder even to ourselves. We are no more those +hackneyed commonplaces that we appear in the world: an inn restores us +to the level of nature, and quits scores with society! I have certainly +spent some enviable hours at inns--sometimes when I have been left +entirely to myself, and have tried to solve some metaphysical problem, +as once at Witham-common, where I found out the proof that likeness is +not a case of the association of ideas--at other times, when there have +been pictures in the room, as at St. Neot's (I think it was) where I +first met with Gribelin's engravings of the Cartoons, into which I +entered at once, and at a little inn on the borders of Wales, where +there happened to be hanging some of Westall's drawings, which I +compared triumphantly (for a theory that I had, not for the admired +artist) with the figure of a girl who had ferried me over the Severn, +standing up in the boat between me and the twilight--at other times I +might mention luxuriating in books, with a peculiar interest in this +way, as I remember sitting up half the night to read Paul and Virginia, +which I picked up at an inn at Bridgewater, after being drenched in the +rain all day; and at the same place I got through two volumes of Madame +D'Arblay's Camilla. It was on the tenth of April, 1798, that I sat down +to a volume of the New Eloise, at the inn at Llangollen, over a bottle +of sherry and a cold chicken. The letter I chose was that in which St. +Preux describes his feelings as he first caught a glimpse from the +heights of the Jura of the Pays de Vaud, which I had brought with me as +a _bon bouche_[32], to crown the evening with. It was my birthday, and I +had for the first time come from a place in the neighbourhood to visit +this delightful spot. The road to Llangollen turns off between Chirk +and Wrexham; and on passing a certain point, you come all at once upon +the valley, which opens like an amphitheatre, broad, barren hills rising +in majestic state on either side, with "green upland swells that echo to +the bleat of flocks" below, and the river Dee babbling over its stony +bed in the midst of them. The valley at this time "glittered green with +sunny showers," and a budding ash-tree dipped its tender branches in the +chiding stream. How proud, how glad I was to walk along the high road +that overlooks the delicious prospect, repeating the lines which I have +just quoted from Mr. Coleridge's poems! But besides the prospect which +opened beneath my feet, another also opened to my inward sight, a +heavenly vision, on which were written, in letters large as Hope could +make them, these four words, LIBERTY, GENIUS, LOVE, VIRTUE; which have +since faded into the light of common day, or mock my idle gaze. + + "The beautiful is vanished, and returns not." + +Still I would return some time or other to this enchanted spot; but I +would return to it alone. What other self could I find to share that +influx of thoughts, of regret, and delight, the fragments of which I +could hardly conjure up to myself, so much have they been broken and +defaced! I could stand on some tall rock, and overlook the precipice of +years that separates me from what I then was. I was at that time going +shortly to visit the poet whom I have above named. Where is he now? Not +only I myself have changed; the world, which was then new to me, has +become old and incorrigible. Yet will I turn to thee in thought, O +sylvan Dee, in joy, in youth and gladness as thou then wert; and thou +shalt always be to me the river of Paradise, where I will drink of the +waters of life freely! + +There is hardly any thing that shows the short-sightedness or +capriciousness of the imagination more than travelling does. With change +of place we change our ideas; nay, our opinions and feelings. We can by +an effort indeed transport ourselves to old and long-forgotten scenes, +and then the picture of the mind revives again; but we forget those that +we have just left. It seems that we can think but of one place at a +time. The canvas of the fancy is but of a certain extent, and if we +paint one set of objects upon it, they immediately efface every other. +We cannot enlarge our conceptions, we only shift our point of view. The +landscape bares its bosom to the enraptured eye, we take our fill of it, +and seem as if we could form no other image of beauty or grandeur. We +pass on, and think no more of it: the horizon that shuts it from our +sight, also blots it from our memory like a dream. In travelling through +a wild barren country, I can form no idea of a woody and cultivated one. +It appears to me that all the world must be barren, like what I see of +it. In the country we forget the town, and in town we despise the +country. "Beyond Hyde Park," says Sir Fopling Flutter, "all is a +desert." All that part of the map that we do not see before us is a +blank. The world in our conceit of it is not much bigger than a +nutshell. It is not one prospect expanded into another, county joined to +county, kingdom to kingdom, lands to seas, making an image voluminous +and vast;--the mind can form no larger idea of space than the eye can +take in at a single glance. The rest is a name written in a map, a +calculation of arithmetic. For instance, what is the true signification +of that immense mass of territory and population, known by the name of +China, to us? An inch of paste-board on a wooden globe, of no more +account than a China orange! Things near us are seen of the size of +life: things at a distance are diminished to the size of the +understanding. We measure the universe by ourselves, and even comprehend +the texture of our own being only piecemeal. In this way, however, we +remember an infinity of things and places. The mind is like a mechanical +instrument that plays a great variety of tunes, but it must play them in +succession. One idea recalls another, but it at the same time excludes +all others. In trying to renew old recollections, we cannot as it were +unfold the whole web of our existence; we must pick out the single +threads. So in coming to a place where we have formerly lived and with +which we have intimate associations, every one must have found that the +feeling grows more vivid the nearer we approach the spot, from the mere +anticipation of the actual impression: we remember circumstances, +feelings, persons, faces, names, that we had not thought of for years; +but for the time all the rest of the world is forgotten! + +To return to the question I have quitted above. I have no objection to +go to see ruins, aqueducts, pictures, in company with a friend or a +party, but rather the contrary, for the former reason reversed. They are +intelligible matters, and will bear talking about. The sentiment here is +not tacit, but communicable and overt. Salisbury Plain is barren of +criticism, but Stonehenge will bear a discussion antiquarian, +picturesque, and philosophical. In setting out on a party of pleasure, +the first consideration always is where we shall go to; in taking a +solitary ramble, the question is what we shall meet with by the way. +"The mind is its own place;" nor are we anxious to arrive at the end of +our journey. I can myself do the honours indifferently well to works of +art and curiosity. I once took a party to Oxford with no mean +_eclat_--showed them that seat of the Muses at a distance, + + "With glistering spires and pinnacles adorn'd"-- + +descanted on the learned air that breathes from the grassy quadrangles +and stone walls of halls and colleges--was at home in the Bodleian; and +at Blenheim quite superseded the powdered Ciceroni that attended us, and +that pointed, in vain with his wand to commonplace beauties in matchless +pictures.--As another exception to the above reasoning, I should not +feel confident in venturing on a journey in a foreign country without a +companion. I should want at intervals to hear the sound of my own +language. There is an involuntary antipathy in the mind of an Englishman +to foreign manners and notions that requires the assistance of social +sympathy to carry it off. As the distance from home increases, this +relief, which was at first a luxury, becomes a passion and an appetite. +A person would almost feel stifled to find himself in the deserts of +Arabia without friends and countrymen: there must be allowed to be +something in the view of Athens or old Rome that claims the utterance of +speech; and I own that the Pyramids are too mighty for any single +contemplation. In such situations, so opposite to all one's ordinary +train of ideas, one seems a species by one's self, a limb torn off from +society, unless one can meet with instant fellowship and support.--Yet I +did not feel this want or craving very pressing once, when I first set +my foot on the laughing shores of France. Calais was peopled with +novelty and delight. The confused, busy murmur of the place was like oil +and wine poured into my ears; nor did the mariners' hymn, which was sung +from the top of an old crazy vessel in the harbour, as the sun went +down, send an alien sound into my soul. I only breathed the air of +general humanity. I walked over "the vine-covered hills and gay regions +of France," erect and satisfied; for the image of man was not cast down +and chained to the foot of arbitrary thrones: I was at no loss for +language, for that of all the great schools of painting was open to me. +The whole is vanished like a shade. Pictures, heroes, glory, freedom, +all are fled: nothing remains but the Bourbons and the French +people!--There is undoubtedly a sensation in travelling into foreign +parts that is to be had nowhere else: but it is more pleasing at the +time than lasting. It is too remote from our habitual associations to be +a common topic of discourse or reference, and, like a dream or another +state of existence, does not piece into our daily modes of life. It is +an animated but a momentary hallucination. It demands an effort to +exchange our actual for our ideal identity; and to feel the pulse of our +old transports revive very keenly, we must "jump" all our present +comforts and connections. Our romantic and itinerant character is not +to be domesticated. Dr. Johnson remarked how little foreign travel added +to the facilities of conversation in those who had been abroad. In fact, +the time we have spent there is both delightful and in one sense +instructive; but it appears to be cut out of our substantial, downright +existence, and never to join kindly on to it. We are not the same, but +another, and perhaps more enviable individual, all the time we are out +of our own country. We are lost to ourselves, as well as our friends. So +the poet somewhat quaintly sings, + + "Out of my country and myself I go." + +Those who wish to forget painful thoughts, do well to absent themselves +for a while from the ties and objects that recall them: but we can be +said only to fulfil our destiny in the place that gave us birth. I +should on this account like well enough to spend the whole of my life in +travelling abroad, if I could any where borrow another life to spend +afterwards at home! + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 29: From "Table-Talk," 1821-2.] + +[Footnote 30: Sancho Panza, a character in Cervantes' romance, "Don +Quixote."] + +[Footnote 31: Aloof, O keep aloof, ye uninitiated!] + +[Footnote 32: A titbit.] + + + + +THE REGRETS OF A MOUNTAINEER[33] + +LESLIE STEPHEN + + +I have often felt a sympathy, which almost rises to the pathetic, when +looking on at a cricket-match or boat-race. Something of the emotion +with which Gray regarded the "distant spires and antique towers" rises +within me. It is not, indeed, that I feel very deeply for the fine +ingenuous lads who, as somebody says, are about to be degraded into +tricky, selfish Members of Parliament. I have seen too much of them. +They are very fine animals; but they are rather too exclusively animal. +The soul is apt to be in too embryonic a state within these cases of +well-strung bone and muscle. It is impossible for a mere athletic +machine, however finely constructed, to appeal very deeply to one's +finer sentiments. I can scarcely look forward with even an affectation +of sorrow for the time when, if more sophisticated, it will at least +have made a nearer approach to the dignity of an intellectual being. It +is not the boys who make me feel a touch of sadness; their approaching +elevation to the dignity of manhood will raise them on the whole in the +scale of humanity; it is the older spectators whose aspect has in it +something affecting. The shaky old gentleman, who played in the days +when it was decidedly less dangerous to stand up to bowling than to a +cannon-ball, and who now hobbles about on rheumatic joints, by the help +of a stick; the corpulent elder, who rowed when boats had gangways down +their middle, and did not require as delicate a balance as an acrobat's +at the top of a living pyramid--these are the persons whom I cannot see +without an occasional sigh. They are really conscious that they have +lost something which they can never regain; or, if they momentarily +forget it, it is even more forcibly impressed upon the spectators. To +see a respectable old gentleman of sixty, weighing some fifteen stone, +suddenly forget a third of his weight and two-thirds of his years, and +attempt to caper like a boy, is indeed a startling phenomenon. To the +thoughtless, it may be simply comic; but, without being a Jaques, one +may contrive also to suck some melancholy out of it. + +Now, as I have never caught a cricket-ball, and, on the contrary, have +caught numerous crabs in my life, the sympathy which I feel for these +declining athletes is not due to any great personal interest in the +matter. But I have long anticipated that a similar day would come for +me, when I should no longer be able to pursue my favourite sport of +mountaineering. Some day I should find that the ascent of a zigzag was +as bad as a performance on the treadmill; that I could not look over a +precipice without a swimming in the head; and that I could no more jump +a crevasse than the Thames at Westminster. None of these things have +come to pass. So far as I know, my physical powers are still equal to +the ascent of Mont Blanc or the Jungfrau. But I am no less effectually +debarred--it matters not how--from mountaineering. I wander at the foot +of the gigantic Alps, and look up longingly to the summits, which are +apparently so near, and yet know that they are divided from me by an +impassable gulf. In some missionary work I have read that certain South +Sea Islanders believed in a future paradise where the good should go on +eating for ever with insatiable appetites at an inexhaustible banquet. +They were to continue their eternal dinner in a house with open +wickerwork sides; and it was to be the punishment of the damned to crawl +outside in perpetual hunger and look in through the chinks as little +boys look in through the windows of a London cookshop. With similar +feelings I lately watched through a telescope the small black dots, +which were really men, creeping up the high flanks of Mont Blanc or +Monte Rosa. The eternal snows represented for me the Elysian fields, +into which entrance was sternly forbidden, and I lingered about the spot +with a mixture of pleasure and pain, in the envious contemplation of my +more fortunate companions. + +I know there are those who will receive these assertions with civil +incredulity. Some persons assume that every pleasure with which they +cannot sympathise is necessarily affectation, and hold, as a particular +case of that doctrine, that Alpine travellers risk their lives merely +from fashion or desire of notoriety. Others are kind enough to admit +that there is something genuine in the passion, but put it on a level +with the passion for climbing greased poles. They think it derogatory to +the due dignity of Mont Blanc that he should be used as a greased pole, +and assure us that the true pleasures of the Alps are those which are +within reach of the old and the invalids, who can only creep about +villages and along high-roads. I cannot well argue with such detractors +from what I consider a noble sport. As for the first class, it is +reduced almost to a question of veracity. I say that I enjoy being on +the top of a mountain, or, indeed, halfway up a mountain; that climbing +is a pleasure to me, and would be so if no one else climbed and no one +ever heard of my climbing. They reply that they don't believe it. No +more argument is possible than if I were to say that I liked eating +olives, and some one asserted that I really eat them only out of +affectation. My reply would be simply to go on eating olives; and I hope +the reply of mountaineers will be to go on climbing Alps. The other +assault is more intelligible. Our critics admit that we have a pleasure; +but assert that it is a puerile pleasure--that it leads to an irreverent +view of mountain beauty, and to oversight of that which should really +most impress a refined and noble mind. To this I shall only make such an +indirect reply as may result from a frank confession of my own regrets +at giving up the climbing business--perhaps for ever. I am sinking, so +to speak, from the butterfly to the caterpillar stage, and, if the +creeping thing is really the highest of the two, it will appear that +there is something in the substance of my lamentations unworthy of an +intellectual being. Let me try. By way of preface, however, I admit that +mountaineering, in my sense of the word, is a sport. It is a sport +which, like fishing or shooting, brings one into contact with the +sublimest aspects of nature; and, without setting their enjoyment before +one as an ultimate end or aim, helps one indirectly to absorb and be +penetrated by their influence. Still it is strictly a sport--as strictly +as cricket, or rowing, or knurr and spell--and I have no wish to place +it on a different footing. The game is won when a mountain-top is +reached in spite of difficulties; it is lost when one is forced to +retreat; and, whether won or lost, it calls into play a great variety of +physical and intellectual energies, and gives the pleasure which always +accompanies an energetic use of our faculties. Still it suffers in some +degree from this undeniable characteristic, and especially from the +tinge which has consequently been communicated to narratives of mountain +adventures. There are two ways which have been appropriated to the +description of all sporting exploits. One is to indulge in fine writing +about them, to burst out in sentences which swell to paragraphs, and in +paragraphs which spread over pages; to plunge into ecstasies about +infinite abysses and overpowering splendours, to compare mountains to +archangels lying down in eternal winding-sheets of snow, and to convert +them into allegories about man's highest destinies and aspirations. This +is good when it is well done. Mr. Ruskin has covered the Matterhorn, for +example, with a whole web of poetical associations, in language which, +to a severe taste, is perhaps a trifle too fine, though he has done it +with an eloquence which his bitterest antagonists must freely +acknowledge. Yet most humble writers will feel that if they try to +imitate Mr. Ruskin's eloquence they will pay the penalty of becoming +ridiculous. It is not every one who can with impunity compare Alps to +archangels. Tall talk is luckily an object of suspicion to Englishmen, +and consequently most writers, and especially those who frankly adopt +the sporting view of the mountains, adopt the opposite scheme: they +affect something like cynicism; they mix descriptions of scenery with +allusions to fleas or to bitter beer; they shrink with the prevailing +dread of Englishmen from the danger of overstepping the limits of the +sublime into its proverbial opposite; and they humbly try to amuse us +because they can't strike us with awe. This, too, if I may venture to +say so, is good in its way and place; and it seems rather hard to these +luckless writers when people assume that, because they make jokes on a +mountain, they are necessarily insensible to its awful sublimities. A +sense of humour is not incompatible with imaginative sensibility; and +even Wordsworth might have been an equally powerful prophet of nature if +he could sometimes have descended from his stilts. In short, a man may +worship mountains, and yet have a quiet joke with them when he is +wandering all day in their tremendous solitudes. + +Joking, however, is, it must be admitted, a dangerous habit. I freely +avow that, in my humble contributions to Alpine literature, I have +myself made some very poor and very unseasonable witticisms. I confess +my error, and only wish that I had no worse errors to confess. Still I +think that the poor little jokes in which we mountaineers sometimes +indulge have been made liable to rather harsh constructions. We are +accused, in downright earnest, not merely of being flippant, but of an +arrogant contempt for all persons whose legs are not as strong as our +own. We are supposed seriously to wrap ourselves in our own conceit, and +to brag intolerably of our exploits. Now I will not say that no +mountaineer ever swaggers: the quality called by the vulgar "bounce" is +unluckily confined to no profession. Certainly I have seen a man +intolerably vain because he could raise a hundred-weight with his little +finger; and I dare say that the "champion bill-poster," whose name is +advertised on the walls of this metropolis, thinks excellence in +bill-posting the highest virtue of a citizen. So some men may be silly +enough to brag in all seriousness about mountain exploits. However, most +lads of twenty learn that it is silly to give themselves airs about mere +muscular eminence; and especially is this true of Alpine +exploits--first, because they require less physical prowess than almost +any other sport, and secondly, because a good amateur still feels +himself the hopeless inferior of half the Alpine peasants whom he sees. +You cannot be very conceited about a game in which the first clodhopper +you meet can give you ten minutes' start in an hour. Still a man writing +in a humorous vein naturally adopts a certain bumptious tone, just as +our friend "Punch" ostentatiously declares himself to be omniscient and +infallible. Nobody takes him at his word, or supposes that the editor of +"Punch" is really the most conceited man in all England. But we poor +mountaineers are occasionally fixed with our own careless talk by some +outsider who is not in the secret. We know ourselves to be a small sect, +and to be often laughed at; we reply by: assuming that we are the salt +of the earth, and that our amusement is the first and noblest of all +amusements. Our only retort to the good-humoured ridicule with which we +are occasionally treated is to adopt an affected strut, and to carry it +off as if we were the finest fellows in the world. We make a boast of +our shame, and say, if you laugh we must crow. But we don't really mean +anything: if we did, the only word which the English language would +afford wherewith to describe us would be the very unpleasant antithesis +to wise men, and certainly I hold that we have the average amount of +common sense. When, therefore, I see us taken to task for swaggering, I +think it a trifle hard that this merely playful affectation of +superiority should be made a serious fault. For the future I would +promise to be careful, if it were worth avoiding the misunderstanding of +men who won't take a joke. Meanwhile, I can only state that when Alpine +travellers indulge in a little swagger about their own performances and +other people's incapacity, they don't mean more than an infinitesimal +fraction of what they say, and that they know perfectly well that when +history comes to pronounce a final judgment upon the men of the time, it +won't put mountain-climbing on a level with patriotism, or even with +excellence in the fine arts. + +The reproach of real _bona fide_ arrogance is, so far as I know, very +little true of Alpine travellers. With the exception of the necessary +fringe hanging on to every set of human beings--consisting of persons +whose heads are weaker than their legs--the mountaineer, so far as my +experience has gone, is generally modest enough. Perhaps he sometimes +flaunts his ice-axes and ropes a little too much before the public eye +at Chamonix, as a yachtsman occasionally flourishes his nautical costume +at Cowes; but the fault may be pardoned by those not inexorable to human +weaknesses. This opinion, I know, cuts at the root of the most popular +theory as to our ruling passion. If we do not climb the Alps to gain +notoriety, for what purpose can we possibly climb them? That same +unlucky trick of joking is taken to indicate that we don't care much +about the scenery; for who, with a really susceptible soul, could be +facetious under the cliffs of Jungfrau or the ghastly precipices of the +Matterhorn? Hence people who kindly excuse us from the blame of +notoriety-hunting generally accept the "greased-pole" theory. We are, it +seems, overgrown schoolboys, who, like other schoolboys, enjoy being in +dirt, and danger, and mischief, and have as much sensibility for natural +beauty as the mountain mules. And against this, as a more serious +complaint, I wish to make my feeble protest, in order that my +lamentations on quitting the profession may not seem unworthy of a +thinking being. + +Let me try to recall some of the impressions which mountaineering has +left with me, and see whether they throw any light upon the subject. As +I gaze at the huge cliffs where I may no longer wander, I find +innumerable recollections arise--some of them dim, as though belonging +to a past existence; and some so brilliant that I can scarcely realise +my exclusion from the scenes to which they belong. I am standing at the +foot of what, to my mind, is the most glorious of all Alpine +wonders--the huge Oberland precipice, on the slopes of the Faulhorn or +the Wengern Alp. Innumerable tourists have done all that tourists can do +to cocknify (if that is the right derivative from cockney) the scenery; +but, like the Pyramids or a Gothic cathedral, it throws off the taint of +vulgarity by its imperishable majesty. Even on turf strewn with +sandwich-papers and empty bottles, even in the presence of hideous +peasant-women singing "Stand-er auf" for five centimes, we cannot but +feel the influence of Alpine beauty. When the sunlight is dying off the +snows, or the full moon lighting them up with ethereal tints, even +sandwich-papers and singing women may be forgotten. How does the memory +of scrambles along snow aretes, of plunges--luckily not too deep--into +crevasses, of toil through long snowfields, towards a refuge that seemed +to recede as we advanced--where, to quote Tennyson with due alteration, +to the traveller toiling in immeasurable snow-- + + Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous hill + The chalet sparkles like a grain of salt;-- + +how do such memories as these harmonise with the sense of superlative +sublimity? + +One element of mountain beauty is, we shall all admit, their vast size +and steepness. That a mountain is very big, and is faced by +perpendicular walls of rock, is the first thing which strikes everybody, +and is the whole essence and outcome of a vast quantity of poetical +description. Hence the first condition towards a due appreciation of +mountain scenery is that these qualities should be impressed upon the +imagination. The mere dry statement that a mountain is so many feet in +vertical height above the sea, and contains so many tons of granite, is +nothing. Mont Blanc, is about three miles high. What of that? Three +miles is an hour's walk for a lady--an eighteen-penny cab-fare--the +distance from Hyde Park Corner to the Bank--an express train could do it +in three minutes, or a racehorse in five. It is a measure which we have +learnt to despise, looking at it from a horizontal point of view; and +accordingly most persons, on seeing the Alps for the first time, guess +them to be higher, as measured in feet, than they really are. What, +indeed, is the use of giving measures in feet to any but the scientific +mind? Who cares whether the moon is 250,000 or 2,500,000 miles distant? +Mathematicians try to impress upon us that the distance of the fixed +stars is only expressible by a row of figures which stretches across a +page; suppose it stretched across two or across a dozen pages, should we +be any the wiser, or have, in the least degree, a clearer notion of the +superlative distances? We civilly say, "Dear me!" when the astronomer +looks to us for the appropriate stare, but we only say it with the +mouth; internally our remark is, "You might as well have multiplied by a +few more millions whilst you were about it." Even astronomers, though +not a specially imaginative race, feel the impotence of figures, and try +to give us some measure which the mind can grasp a little more +conveniently. They tell us about the cannon-ball which might have been +flying ever since the time of Adam, and not yet have reached the +heavenly body, or about the stars which may not yet have become visible, +though the light has been flying to us at a rate inconceivable by the +mind for an inconceivable number of years; and they succeed in producing +a bewildering and giddy sensation, although the numbers are too vast to +admit of any accurate apprehension. + +We feel a similar need in the case of mountains. Besides the bare +statement of figures, it is necessary to have some means for grasping +the meaning of the figures. The bare tens and thousands must be clothed +with some concrete images. The statement that a mountain is 15,000 feet +high is, by itself, little more impressive, than that it is 3,000; we +want something more before we can mentally compare Mont Blanc and +Snowdon. Indeed, the same people who guess of a mountain's height at a +number of feet much exceeding the reality, show, when they are +cross-examined, that they fail to appreciate in any tolerable degree the +real meaning of the figures. An old lady one day, about 11 A.M., +proposed to walk from the Aeggischhorn to the Jungfrau-Joch, and to +return for luncheon--the distance being a good twelve hours' journey for +trained mountaineers. Every detail of which the huge mass is composed is +certain to be underestimated. A gentleman the other day pointed out to +me a grand ice-cliff at the end of a hanging glacier, which must have +been at least 100 feet high, and asked me whether that snow was three +feet deep. Nothing is more common than for tourists to mistake some huge +pinnacle of rock, as big as a church tower, for a traveller. The rocks +of the Grands Mulets, in one corner of which the chalet is hidden, are +often identified with a party ascending Mont Blanc; and I have seen +boulders as big as a house pointed out confidently as chamois. People +who make these blunders must evidently see the mountains as mere toys, +however many feet they may give them at a random guess. Huge overhanging +cliffs are to them steps within the reach of human legs; yawning +crevasses are ditches to be jumped; and foaming waterfalls are like +streams from penny squirts. Everyone knows the avalanches on the +Jungfrau, and the curiously disproportionate appearance of the little +puffs of white smoke, which are said to be the cause of the thunder; but +the disproportion ceases to an eye that has learnt really to measure +distance, and to know that these smoke-puffs, represent a cataract of +crashing blocks of ice. + +Now the first merit of mountaineering is that it enables one to have +what theologians would call an experimental faith in the size of +mountains--to substitute a real living belief for a dead intellectual +assent. It enables one, first, to assign something like its true +magnitude to a rock or snow-slope; and, secondly, to measure that +magnitude in terms of muscular exertion instead of bare mathematical +units. Suppose that we are standing upon the Wengern Alp; between the +Moench and the Eiger there stretches a round white bank, with a curved +outline, which we may roughly compare to the back of one of Sir E. +Landseer's lions. The ordinary tourists--the old man, the woman, or the +cripple, who are supposed to appreciate the real beauties of Alpine +scenery--may look at it comfortably from their hotel. They may see its +graceful curve, the long straight lines that are ruled in delicate +shading down its sides, and the contrast of the blinding white snow with +the dark blue sky above; but they will probably guess it to be a mere +bank--a snowdrift, perhaps, which has been piled by the last storm. If +you pointed out to them one of the great rocky teeth that projected from +its summit, and said that it was a guide, they would probably remark +that he looked very small, and would fancy that he could jump over the +bank with an effort. Now a mountaineer knows, to begin with, that it is +a massive rocky rib, covered with snow, lying at a sharp angle, and +varying perhaps from 500 to 1,000 feet in height. So far he might be +accompanied by men of less soaring ambition; by an engineer who had been +mapping the country, or an artist who had been carefully observing the +mountains from their bases. They might learn in time to interpret +correctly the real meaning of shapes at which the uninitiated guess at +random. But the mountaineer can go a step further, and it is the next +step which gives the real significance to those delicate curves and +lines. He can translate the 500 or 1,000 feet of snow-slope into a more +tangible unit of measurement. To him, perhaps, they recall the memory of +a toilsome ascent, the sun beating on his head for five or six hours, +the snow returning the glare with still more parching effect; a stalwart +guide toiling all the weary time, cutting steps in hard blue ice, the +fragments hissing and spinning down the long straight grooves in the +frozen snow till they lost themselves in the yawning chasm below; and +step after step taken along the slippery staircase, till at length he +triumphantly sprang upon the summit of the tremendous wall that no human +foot had scaled before. The little black knobs that rise above the edge +represent for him huge impassable rocks, sinking on one side in scarped +slippery surfaces towards the snow-field, and on the other stooping in +one tremendous cliff to a distorted glacier thousands of feet below. The +faint blue line across the upper neve, scarcely distinguishable to the +eye, represents to one observer nothing but a trifling undulation; a +second, perhaps, knows that it means a crevasse; the mountaineer +remembers that it is the top of a huge chasm, thirty feet across, and +perhaps ten times as deep, with perpendicular sides of glimmering blue +ice, and fringed by thick rows of enormous pendent icicles. The marks +that are scored in delicate lines, such as might be ruled by a diamond +on glass, have been cut by innumerable streams trickling in hot weather +from the everlasting snow, or ploughed by succeeding avalanches that +have slipped from the huge upper snowfields above. In short, there is no +insignificant line or mark that has not its memory or its indication of +the strange phenomena of the upper world. True, the same picture is +painted upon the retina of all classes of observers; and so Porson and a +schoolboy and a peasant might receive the same physical impression from +a set of black and white marks on the page of a Greek play; but to one +they would be an incoherent conglomeration of unmeaning and capricious +lines, to another they would represent certain sounds more or less +corresponding to some English words; whilst to the scholar they would +reveal some of the noblest poetry in the world, and all the associations +of successful intellectual labour. I do not say that the difference is +quite so great in the case of the mountains; still I am certain that no +one can decipher the natural writing on the face of a snow-slope or a +precipice who has not wandered amongst their recesses, and learnt by +slow experience what is indicated by marks which an ignorant observer +would scarcely notice. True, even one who sees a mountain for the first +time may know that, as a matter of fact, a scar on the face of a cliff +means, for example, a recent fall of a rock; but between the bare +knowledge and the acquaintance with all which that knowledge +implies--the thunder of the fall, the crash of the smaller fragments, +the bounding energy of the descending mass--there is almost as much +difference as between hearing that a battle has been fought and being +present at it yourself. We have all read descriptions of Waterloo till +we are sick of the subject; but I imagine that our emotions on seeing +the shattered well of Hougomont are very inferior to those of one of the +Guard who should revisit the place where he held out for a long day +against the assaults of the French army. + +Now to an old mountaineer the Oberland cliffs are full of memories; and, +more than this, he has learnt the language spoken by every crag and +every wave of glacier. It is strange if they do not affect him rather +more powerfully than the casual visitor who has never been initiated by +practical experience into their difficulties. To him, the huge buttress +which runs down from the Moench is something more than an irregular +pyramid, purple with white patches at the bottom and pure white at the +top. He fills up the bare outline supplied by the senses with a thousand +lively images. He sees tier above tier of rock, rising in a gradually +ascending scale of difficulty, covered at first by long lines of the +debris that have been splintered by frost from the higher wall, and +afterwards rising bare and black and threatening. He knows instinctively +which of the ledges has a dangerous look--where such a bold mountaineer +as John Lauener might slip on the polished surface, or be in danger of +an avalanche from above. He sees the little shell-like swelling at the +foot of the glacier crawling down the steep slope above, and knows that +it means an almost inaccessible wall of ice; and the steep snowfields +that rise towards the summit are suggestive of something very different +from the picture which might have existed in the mind of a German +student, who once asked me whether it was possible to make the ascent +on a mule. + +Hence, if mountains owe their influence upon the imagination in a great +degree to their size and steepness, and apparent inaccessibility--as no +one can doubt that they do, whatever may be the explanation of the fact +that people like to look at big, steep, inaccessible objects--the +advantages of the mountaineer are obvious. He can measure those +qualities on a very different scale from the ordinary traveler. He +measures the size, not by the vague abstract term of so many thousand +feet, but by the hours of labour, divided into minutes--each separately +felt--of strenuous muscular exertion. The steepness is not expressed in +degrees, but by the memory of the sensation produced when a snow-slope +seems to be rising up and smiting you in the face; when, far away from +all human help, you are clinging like a fly to the slippery side of a +mighty pinnacle in mid air. And as for the inaccessibility, no one can +measure the difficulty of climbing a hill who has not wearied his +muscles and brain in struggling against the opposing obstacles. Alpine +travellers, it is said, have removed the romance from the mountains by +climbing them. What they have really done is to prove that there exists +a narrow line by which a way may be found to the top of any given +mountain; but the clue leads through innumerable inaccessibilities; +true, you can follow one path, but to right and left are cliffs which no +human foot will ever tread, and whose terrors can only be realised when +you are in their immediate neighbourhood. The cliffs of the Matterhorn +do not bar the way to the top effectually, but it is only by forcing a +passage through them that you can really appreciate their terrible +significance. + +Hence I say that the qualities which strike every sensitive observer are +impressed upon the mountaineer with tenfold force and intensity. If he +is as accessible to poetical influences as his neighbours--and I don't +know why he should be less so--he has opened new avenues of access +between the scenery and his mind. He has learnt a language which is but +partially revealed to ordinary men. An artist is superior to an +unlearned picture-seer, not merely because he has greater natural +sensibility, but because he has improved it by methodical experience; +because his senses have been sharpened by constant practice, till he can +catch finer shades of colouring, and more delicate inflexions of line; +because, also, the lines and colours have acquired new significance, and +been associated with a thousand thoughts with which the mass of mankind +has never cared to connect them. The mountaineer is improved by a +similar process. But I know some sceptical critics will ask, does not +the way in which he is accustomed to regard mountains rather deaden +their poetical influence? Doesn't he come to look at them as mere +instruments of sport, and overlook their more spiritual teaching? Does +not all the excitement of personal adventure and the noisy apparatus of +guides, and ropes, and axes, and tobacco, and the fun of climbing, +rather dull his perceptions and incapacitate him from perceiving + + The silence that is in the starry sky, + The sleep that is among the lonely hills? + +Well, I have known some stupid and unpoetical mountaineers; and, since I +have been dismounted from my favourite hobby, I think I have met some +similar specimens among the humbler class of tourists. There are +persons, I fancy, who "do" the Alps; who look upon the Lake of Lucerne +as one more task ticked off from their memorandum book, and count up the +list of summits visible from the Goernergrat without being penetrated +with any keen sense of sublimity. And there are mountaineers who are +capable of making a pun on the top of Mont Blanc--and capable of nothing +more. Still I venture to deny that even punning is incompatible with +poetry, or that those who make the pun can have no deeper feeling in +their bosoms which they are perhaps too shamefaced to utter. + +The fact is that that which gives its inexpressible charm to +mountaineering is the incessant series of exquisite natural scenes, +which are for the most part enjoyed by the mountaineer alone. This is, I +am aware, a round assertion; but I will try to support it by a few of +the visions which are recalled to me by these Oberland cliffs, and which +I have seen profoundly enjoyed by men who perhaps never mentioned them +again, and probably in describing their adventures scrupulously avoided +the danger of being sentimental. + +Thus every traveller has occasionally done a sunrise, and a more +lamentable proceeding than the ordinary view of a sunrise can hardly be +imagined. You are cold, miserable, breakfastless; have risen shivering +from a warm bed, and in your heart long only to creep into bed again. To +the mountaineer all this is changed. He is beginning a day full of the +anticipation of a pleasant excitement. He has, perhaps, been waiting +anxiously for fine weather, to try conclusions with some huge giant not +yet scaled. He moves out with something of the feeling with which a +soldier goes to the assault of a fortress, but without the same +probability of coming home in fragments; the danger is trifling enough +to be merely exhilatory, and to give a pleasant tension to the nerves; +his muscles feel firm and springy, and his stomach--no small advantage +to the enjoyment of scenery--is in excellent order. He looks at the +sparkling stars with keen satisfaction, prepared to enjoy a fine sunrise +with all his faculties at their best, and with the added pleasure of a +good omen for his day's work. Then a huge dark mass begins to mould +itself slowly out of the darkness, the sky begins to form a background +of deep purple, against which the outline becomes gradually more +definite; one by one, the peaks catch the exquisite Alpine glow, +lighting up in rapid succession, like a vast illumination; and when at +last the steady sunlight settles upon them, and shows every rock and +glacier, without even a delicate film of mist to obscure them, he feels +his heart bound, and steps out gaily to the assault--just as the people +on the Rigi are giving thanks that the show is over and that they may +go to bed. Still grander is the sight when the mountaineer has already +reached some lofty ridge, and, as the sun rises, stands between the day +and the night--the valley still in deep sleep, with the mists lying +between the folds of the hills, and the snow-peaks standing out clear +and pale white just before the sun reaches them, whilst a broad band of +orange light runs all round the vast horizon. The glory of sunsets is +equally increased in the thin upper air. The grandest of all such sights +that live in my memory is that of a sunset from the Aiguille du Goute. +The snow at our feet was glowing with rich light, and the shadows in our +footsteps a vivid green by the contrast. Beneath us was a vast +horizontal floor of thin level mists suspended in mid air, spread like a +canopy over the whole boundless landscape, and tinged with every hue of +sunset. Through its rents and gaps we could see the lower mountains, the +distant plains, and a fragment of the Lake of Geneva lying in a more +sober purple. Above us rose the solemn mass of Mont Blanc in the richest +glow of an Alpine sunset. The sense of lonely sublimity was almost +oppressive, and although half our party was suffering from sickness, I +believe even the guides were moved to a sense of solemn beauty. + +These grand scenic effects are occasionally seen by ordinary travellers, +though the ordinary traveller is for the most part out of temper at 3 +A.M. The mountaineer can enjoy them, both because his frame of mind is +properly trained to receive the natural beauty, and because he alone +sees them with their best accessories, amidst the silence of the eternal +snow, and the vast panoramas visible from the loftier summits. And he +has a similar advantage in most of the great natural phenomena of the +cloud and the sunshine. No sight in the Alps is more impressive than the +huge rocks of a black precipice suddenly frowning out through the chasms +of a storm-cloud. But grand as such a sight may be from the safe +verandahs of the inn at Grindelwald, it is far grander in the silence of +the Central Alps amongst the savage wilderness of rock and snow. +Another characteristic effect of the High Alps often presents itself +when one has been climbing for two or three hours, with nothing in sight +but the varying wreaths of mist that chased each other monotonously +along the rocky ribs up whose snow-covered backbone we were laboriously +fighting our way. Suddenly there is a puff of wind, and looking round we +find that we have in an instant pierced the clouds, and emerged, as it +were, on the surface of the ocean of vapour. Beneath us stretches for +hundreds of miles the level fleecy floor, and above us shines out clear +in the eternal sunshine every mountain, from Mont Blanc to Monte Rosa +and the Jungfrau. What, again, in the lower regions, can equal the +mysterious charm of gazing from the edge of a torn rocky parapet into an +apparently fathomless abyss, where nothing but what an Alpine traveller +calls a "strange formless wreathing of vapour" indicates the storm-wind +that is raging below us? I might go on indefinitely recalling the +strangely impressive scenes that frequently startle the traveller in the +waste upper world; but language is feeble indeed to convey even a +glimmering of what is to be seen to those who have not seen it for +themselves, whilst to them it can be little more than a peg upon which +to hang their own recollections. These glories, in which the mountain +Spirit reveals himself to his true worshippers, are only to be gained by +the appropriate service of climbing--at some risk, though a very +trifling risk, if he is approached with due form and ceremony--into the +furthest recesses of his shrines. And without seeing them, I maintain +that no man has really seen the Alps. + +The difference between the exoteric and the esoteric school of +mountaineers may be indicated by their different view of glaciers. At +Grindelwald, for example, it is the fashion to go and "see the +glaciers"--heaven save the mark! Ladies in costumes, heavy German +professors, Americans doing the Alps at a gallop, Cook's tourists, and +other varieties of a well-known genus, go off in shoals and see--what? +A gigantic mass of ice, strangely torn with a few of the exquisite blue +crevasses, but denied and prostrate in dirt and ruins. A stream foul +with mud oozes out from the base; the whole mass seems to be melting +fast away; the summer sun has evidently got the best of it in these +lower regions, and nothing can resist him but the great mounds of +decaying rock that strew the surface in confused lumps. It is as much +like the glacier of the upper regions as the melting fragments of snow +in a London street are like the surface of the fresh snow that has just +fallen in a country field. And by way of improving its attractions a +perpetual picnic is going on, and the ingenious natives have hewed a +tunnel into the ice, for admission to which they charge certain +centimes. The unlucky glacier reminds me at his latter end of a wretched +whale stranded on a beach, dissolving into masses of blubber, and hacked +by remorseless fishermen, instead of plunging at his ease in the deep +blue water. Far above, where the glacier begins his course, he is seen +only by the true mountaineer. There are vast amphitheatres of pure snow, +of which the glacier known to tourists is merely the insignificant +drainage, but whose very existence they do not generally suspect. They +are utterly ignorant that from the top of the icefall which they visit +you may walk for hours on the eternal ice. After a long climb you come +to the region where the glacier is truly at its noblest; where the +surface is a spotless white; where the crevasses are enormous rents +sinking to profound depths, with walls of the purest blue; where the +glacier is torn and shattered by the energetic forces which mould it, +but has an expression of superabundant power, like a full stream +fretting against its banks and plunging through the vast gorges that it +has hewn for itself in the course of centuries. The bases of the +mountains are immersed in a deluge of cockneyism--fortunately a shallow +deluge--whilst their summits rise high into the bracing air, where +everything is pure and poetical. + +The difference which I have thus endeavoured to indicate is more or +less traceable in a wider sense. The mountains are exquisitely +beautiful, indeed, from whatever points of view we contemplate them; and +the mountaineer would lose much if he never saw the beauties of the +lower valleys, of pasturages deep in flowers, and dark pine-forests with +the summits shining from far off between the stems. Only, as it seems to +me, he has the exclusive prerogative of thoroughly enjoying one--and +that the most characteristic, though by no means only, element of the +scenery. There may be a very good dinner spread before twenty people; +but if nineteen of them were teetotalers, and the twentieth drank his +wine like a man, he would be the only one to do it full justice; the +others might praise the meat or the fruits, but he would alone enjoy the +champagne; and in the great feast which Nature spreads before us (a +stock metaphor, which emboldens me to make the comparison), the high +mountain scenery acts the part of the champagne. Unluckily, too, the +teetotalers are very apt, in this case also, to sit in judgment upon +their more adventurous neighbours. Especially are they pleased to carp +at the views from high summits. I have been constantly asked, with a +covert sneer, "Did it repay you?"--a question which involves the +assumption that one wants to be repaid, as though the labour were not +itself part of the pleasure, and which implies a doubt that the view is +really enjoyable. People are always demonstrating that the lower views +are the most beautiful; and at the same time complaining that +mountaineers frequently turn back without looking at the view from the +top, as though that would necessarily imply that they cared nothing for +scenery. In opposition to which I must first remark that, as a rule, +every step of an ascent has a beauty of its own, which one is quietly +absorbing even when one is not directly making it a subject of +contemplation, and that the view from the top is generally the crowning +glory of the whole. + +It will be enough if I conclude with an attempt to illustrate this last +assertion: and I will do it by still referring to the Oberland. Every +visitor with a soul for the beautiful admires the noble form of the +Wetterhorn--the lofty snow-crowned pyramid rising in such light and yet +massive lines from its huge basement of perpendicular cliffs. The +Wetterhorn has, however, a further merit. To my mind--and I believe most +connoisseurs of mountain tops agree with me--it is one of the most +impressive summits in the Alps. It is not a sharp pinnacle like the +Weisshorn, or a cupola like Mont Blanc, or a grand rocky tooth like the +Monte Rosa, but a long and nearly horizontal knife-edge, which, as seen +from either end, has of course the appearance of a sharp-pointed cone. +It is when balanced upon this ridge--sitting astride of the knife-edge +on which one can hardly stand without giddiness--that one fully +appreciates an Alpine precipice. Mr. Justice Wills has admirably +described the first ascent, and the impression it made upon him, in a +paper which has become classical for succeeding adventurers. Behind you +the snow-slope sinks with perilous steepness towards the wilderness of +glacier and rock through which the ascent has lain. But in front the ice +sinks with even greater steepness for a few feet or yards. Then it +curves over and disappears, and the next thing that the eye catches is +the meadowland of Grindelwald, some 9,000 feet below. I have looked down +many precipices, where the eye can trace the course of every pebble that +bounds down the awful slopes, and where I have shuddered as some +dislodged fragment of rock showed the course which, in case of accident, +fragments of my own body would follow. A precipice is always, for +obvious reasons, far more terrible from above than from below. The +creeping, tingling sensation which passes through one's limbs--even when +one knows oneself to be in perfect safety--testifies to the thrilling +influence of the sight. But I have never so realised the terrors of a +terrific cliff as when I could not see it. The awful gulf which +intervened between me and the green meadows struck the imagination by +its invisibility. It was like the view which may be seen from the ridge +of a cathedral roof, where the eaves have for their immediate +background the pavement of the streets below; only this cathedral was +9,000 feet high. Now, any one standing at the foot of the Wetterhorn may +admire their stupendous massiveness and steepness; but, to feel their +influence enter in the very marrow of one's bones, it is necessary to +stand at the summit, and to fancy the one little slide down the short +ice-slope, to be followed apparently by a bound into clear air and a +fall down to the houses, from heights where only the eagle ventures to +soar. + +This is one of the Alpine beauties, which, of course, is: beyond the +power of art to imitate, and which people are therefore apt to ignore. +But it is not the only one to be seen on the high summits. It is often +said that these views are not "beautiful"--apparently because they won't +go into a picture, or, to put it more fairly, because no picture: can in +the faintest degree imitate them. But without quarrelling about words, I +think that, even if "beautiful" be not the most correct epithet, they +have a marvellously stimulating effect upon the imagination. Let us look +round from this wonderful pinnacle in mid air, and note one or two of +the most striking elements of the scenery. + +You are, in the first place, perched on a cliff, whose presence is the +more felt because it is unseen. Then you are in a region over which +eternal silence is brooding. Not a sound ever comes there, except the +occasional fall of a splintered fragment of rock, or a layer of snow; no +stream is heard trickling, and the sounds of animal life are left +thousands of feet below. The most that you can hear is some mysterious +noise made by the wind eddying round the gigantic rocks; sometimes a +strange flapping sound, as if an unearthly flag were shaking its +invisible folds in the air. The enormous tract of country over which +your view extends--most of it dim and almost dissolved into air by +distance--intensifies the strange influence of the silence. You feel the +force of the line I have quoted from Wordsworth-- + + The sleep that is among the lonely hills. + +None of the travellers whom you can see crawling at your feet has the +least conception of what is meant by the silent solitudes of the High +Alps. To you, it is like a return to the stir of active life, when, +after hours of lonely wandering, you return to hear the tinkling of the +cow-bells below; to them the same sound is the ultimate limit of the +habitable world. + +Whilst your mind is properly toned by these influences, you become +conscious of another fact, to which the common variety of tourists is +necessarily insensible. You begin to find out for the first time what +the mountains really are. On one side, you look back upon the huge +reservoirs from which the Oberland glaciers descend. You see the vast +stores from which the great rivers of Europe are replenished, the +monstrous crawling masses that are carving the mountains into shape, and +the gigantic bulwarks that separate two great quarters of the world. +From below these wild regions are half invisible; they are masked by the +outer line of mountains; and it is not till you are able to command them +from some lofty point that you can appreciate the grandeur of the huge +barriers, and the snow that is piled within their folds. There is +another half of the view equally striking. Looking towards the north, +the whole of Switzerland is couched at your feet; the Jura and the Black +Forest lie on the far horizon. And then you know what is the nature of a +really mountainous country. From below everything is seen in a kind of +distorted perspective. The people of the valley naturally think that the +valley is everything--that the country resembles old-fashioned maps, +where a few sporadic lumps are distributed amongst towns and plains. The +true proportions reveal themselves as you ascend. The valleys, you can +now see, are nothing but narrow trenches scooped out amidst a tossing +waste of mountain, just to carry off the drainage. The great ridges run +hither and thither, having it all their own way, wild and untamable +regions of rock or open grass or forest, at whose feet the valleys exist +on sufferance. Creeping about amongst the roots of the hills, you half +miss the hills themselves; you quite fail to understand the massiveness +of the mountain chains, and, therefore, the wonderful energy of the +forces that have heaved the surface of the world into these distorted +shapes. And it is to a half-conscious sense of the powers that must have +been at work that a great part of the influence of mountain scenery is +due. Geologists tell us that a theory of catastrophes is +unphilosophical; but, whatever may be the scientific truth, our minds +are impressed as though we were witnessing the results of some +incredible convulsion. At Stonehenge we ask what human beings could have +erected these strange grey monuments, and in the mountains we +instinctively ask what force can have carved out the Matterhorn, and +placed the Wetterhorn on its gigantic pedestal. Now, it is not till we +reach some commanding point that we realise the amazing extent of +country over which the solid ground has been shaking and heaving itself +in irresistible tumult. + +Something, it is true, of this last effect may be seen from such +mountains as the Rigi or the Faulhorn. There, too, one seems to be at +the centre of a vast sphere, the earth bending up in a cup-like form to +meet the sky, and the blue vault above stretching in an arch majestical +by its enormous extent. There you seem to see a sensible fraction of the +world at your feet. But the effect is far less striking when other +mountains obviously look down upon you; when, as it were, you are +looking at the waves of the great ocean of hills merely from the crest +of one of the waves themselves, and not from some lighthouse that rises +far over their heads; for the Wetterhorn, like the Eiger, Moench, and +Jungfrau, owes one great beauty to the fact that it is on the edge of +the lower country, and stands between the real giants and the crowd of +inferior, though still enormous, masses in attendance upon them. And, in +the next place, your mind is far better adapted to receive impressions +of sublimity when you are alone, in a silent region, with a black sky +above and giant cliffs all round; with a sense still in your mind, if +not of actual danger, still of danger that would become real with the +slightest relaxation of caution, and with the world divided from you by +hours of snow and rock. + +I will go no further, not because I have no more to say, but because +descriptions of scenery soon become wearisome, and because I have, I +hope, said enough to show that the mountaineer may boast of some +intellectual pleasures; that he is not a mere scrambler, but that he +looks for poetical impressions, as well as for such small glory as his +achievements may gain in a very small circle. Something of what he gains +fortunately sticks by him: he does not quite forget the mountain +language; his eye still recognises the space and the height and the +glory of the lofty mountains. And yet there is some pain in wandering +ghostlike among the scenes of his earlier pleasures. For my part, I try +in vain to hug myself in a sense of comfort. I turn over in bed when I +hear the stamping of heavily nailed shoes along the passage of an inn +about 2 A.M. I feel the skin of my nose complacently when I see others +returning with a glistening tight aspect about that unluckily prominent +feature, and know that in a day or two it will be raw and blistered and +burning. I think, in a comfortable inn at night, of the miseries of +those who are trying to sleep in damp hay, or on hard boards of chalets, +at once cold and stuffy and haunted by innumerable fleas. I congratulate +myself on having a whole skin and unfractured bones, and on the small +danger of ever breaking them over an Alpine precipice. But yet I +secretly know that these consolations are feeble. It is little use to +avoid early rising and discomfort, and even fleas, if one also loses the +pleasures to which they were the sauce--rather too _piquante_ a sauce +occasionally, it must be admitted. The philosophy is all very well which +recommends moderate enjoyment, regular exercise, and a careful avoidance +of risk and over-excitement. That is, it is all very well so long as +risk and excitement and immoderate enjoyment are out of your power; but +it does not stand the test of looking on and seeing them just beyond +your reach. In time, no doubt, a man may grow calm; he may learn to +enjoy the pleasures and the exquisite beauties of the lower +regions--though they, too, are most fully enjoyed when they have a +contrast with beauties of a different, and pleasures of a keener +excitement. When first debarred, at any rate, one feels like a balloon +full of gas, and fixed by immovable ropes to the prosaic ground. It is +pleasant to lie on one's back in a bed of rhododendrons, and look up to +a mountain top peering at one from above a bank of cloud; but it is +pleasantest when one has qualified oneself for repose by climbing the +peak the day before and becoming familiar with its terrors and its +beauties. In time, doubtless, one may get reconciled to anything; one +may settle down to be a caterpillar, even after one has known the +pleasures of being a butterfly; one may become philosophical, and have +one's clothes let out; and even in time, perhaps--though it is almost +too terrible to contemplate--be content with a mule or a carriage, or +that lowest depth to which human beings can sink, and for which the +English language happily affords no name, a _chaise a porteurs:_ and +even in such degradation the memory of better times may be pleasant; for +I doubt much whether it is truth the poet sings-- + + That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. + +Certainly, to a philosophical mind, the sentiment is doubtful. For my +part, the fate which has cut me off, if I may use the expression, in the +flower of my youth, and doomed me to be a non-climbing animal in future, +is one which ought to exclude grumbling. I cannot indicate it more +plainly, for I might so make even the grumbling in which I have already +indulged look like a sin. I can only say that there are some very +delightful things in which it is possible to discover an infinitesimal +drop of bitterness, and that the mountaineer who undertakes to cut +himself off from his favourite pastime, even for reasons which he will +admit in his wildest moods to be more than amply sufficient, must expect +at times to feel certain pangs of regret, however quickly they may be +smothered. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 33: From "The Playground of Europe," 1871.] + + + + +BEHAVIOR[34] + +RALPH WALDO EMERSON + + +The soul which animates nature is not less significantly published in +the figure, movement, and gesture of animated bodies, than in its last +vehicle of articulate speech. This silent and subtle language is +Manners; not _what_, but _how_. Life expresses. A statue has no tongue, +and needs none. Good tableaux do not need declamation. Nature tells +every secret once. Yes, but in man she tells it all the time, by form, +attitude, gesture, mien, face, and parts of the face, and by the whole +action of the machine. The visible carriage or action of the individual, +as resulting from his organization and his will combined, we call +manners. What are they but thought entering the hands and feet, +controlling the movements of the body, the speech and behavior? + +There is always a best way of doing everything, if it be to boil an egg. +Manners are the happy ways of doing things; each once a stroke of genius +or of love,--now repeated and hardened into usage. They form at last a +rich varnish, with which the routine of life is washed, and its details +adorned. If they are superficial, so are the dew-drops which give such a +depth to the morning meadows. Manners are very communicable: men catch +them from each other. Consuelo, in the romance, boasts of the lessons +she had given the nobles in manners, on the stage: and, in real life, +Talma taught Napoleon the arts of behavior. Genius invents fine manners, +which the baron and the baroness copy very fast, and, by the advantage +of a palace, better the instruction. They stereotype the lesson they +have learned into a mode. + +The power of manners is incessant,--an element as unconcealable as +fire. The nobility cannot in any country be disguised, and no more in a +republic or a democracy than in a kingdom. No man can resist their +influence. There are certain manners which are learned in good society, +of that force, that, if a person have them, he or she must be +considered, and is everywhere welcome, though without beauty, or wealth, +or genius. Give a boy address and accomplishments, and you give him the +mastery of palaces and fortunes where he goes. He has not the trouble of +earning or owning them; they solicit him to enter and possess. We send +girls of a timid, retreating disposition to the boarding-school, to the +riding-school, to the ballroom, or wheresoever they can come into +acquaintance and nearness of leading persons of their own sex; where +they might learn address, and see it near at hand. The power of a woman +of fashion to lead, and also to daunt and repel, derives from their +belief that she knows resources and behaviors not known to them; but +when these have mastered her secret, they learn to confront her, and +recover their self-possession. + +Every day bears witness to their gentle rule. People who would obtrude, +now do not obtrude. The mediocre circle learns to demand that which +belongs to a high state of nature or of culture. Your manners are always +under examination, and by committees little suspected,--a police in +citizen's clothes,--but are awarding or denying you very high prizes +when you least think of it. + +We talk much of utilities,--but 'tis our manners that associate us. In +hours of business, we go to him who knows, or has, or does this or that +which we want, and we do not let our taste or feeling stand in the way. +But this activity over, we return to the indolent state, and wish for +those we can be at ease with; those who will go where we go, whose +manners do not offend us, whose social tone chimes with ours. When we +reflect on their persuasive and cheering force; how they recommend, +prepare, and draw people together; how, in all clubs, manners make the +members; how manners make the fortune of the ambitious youth; that, for +the most part, his manners marry him, and, for the most part, he marries +manners; when we think what keys they are, and to what secrets; what +high lessons and inspiring tokens of character they convey; and what +divination is required in us, for the reading of this fine telegraph; we +see what range the subject has, and what relations to convenience, +power, and beauty. + +Their first service is very low,--when they are the minor morals; but +'tis the beginning of civility,--to make us, I mean, endurable to each +other. We prize them for their rough-plastic, abstergent force; to get +people out of the quadruped state; to get them washed, clothed, and set +up on end; to slough their animal husks and habits; compel them to be +clean; overawe their spite and meanness, teach them to stifle the base, +and choose the generous expression, and make them know how much happier +the generous behaviors are. + +Bad behavior the laws cannot reach. Society is invested with rude, +cynical, restless, and frivolous persons who prey upon the rest, and +whom a public opinion concentrated into good manners, forms accepted by +the sense of all, can reach;--the contradictors and railers at public +and private tables, who are like terriers, who conceive it the duty of a +dog of honor to growl at any passer-by, and do the honors of the house +by barking him out of sight;--I have seen men who neigh like a horse +when you contradict them, or say something which they do not +understand;--then the overbold, who make their own invitation to your +hearth; the persevering talker, who gives you his society in large, +saturating doses; the pitiers of themselves,--a perilous class; the +frivolous Asmodeus, who relies on you to find him in ropes of sand to +twist; the monotones; in short, every stripe of absurdity;--these are +social inflictions which the magistrate cannot cure or defend you from, +and which must be intrusted to the restraining force of custom, and +proverbs, and familiar rules of behavior impressed on young people in +their school-days. + +In the hotels on the banks of the Mississippi, they print, or used to +print, among the rules of the house, that "No gentleman can be permitted +to come to the public table without his coat;" and in the same country, +in the pews of the churches, little placards plead with the worshipper +against the fury of expectoration. Charles Dickens self-sacrificingly +undertook the reformation of our American manners in unspeakable +particulars. I think the lesson was not quite lost; that it held bad +manners up, so that the churls could see the deformity. Unhappily, the +book had its own deformities. It ought not to need to print in a reading +room a caution to strangers not to speak loud; nor to persons who look +over fine engravings, that they should be handled like cobwebs and +butterflies' wings; nor to persons who look at marble statues, that they +shall not smite them with canes. But, even in the perfect civilization +of this city, such cautions are not quite needless in the Athenaeum and +City Library. + +Manners are factitious, and grow out of circumstances as well as out of +character. If you look at the pictures of patricians and of peasants, of +different periods and countries, you will see how well they match the +same classes in our towns. The modern aristocrat not only is well drawn +in Titian's Venetian doges, and in Roman coins and statues, but also in +the pictures which Commodore Perry brought home of dignitaries in Japan. +Broad lands and great interests not only arrive to such heads as can +manage them, but form manners of power. A keen eye, too, will see nice +gradations of rank, or see in the manners the degree of homage the party +is wont to receive. A prince who is accustomed every day to be courted +and deferred to by the highest grandees, acquires a corresponding +expectation, and a becoming mode of receiving and replying to this +homage. + +There are always exceptional people and modes. English grandees affect +to be farmers. Claverhouse is a fop, and, under the finish of dress, and +levity of behavior, hides the terror of his war. But Nature and Destiny +are honest, and never fail to leave their mark, to hang out a sign for +each and for every quality. It is much to conquer one's face, and +perhaps the ambitious youth thinks he has got the whole secret when he +has learned that disengaged manners are commanding. Don't be deceived by +a facile exterior. Tender men sometimes have strong wills. We had, in +Massachusetts, an old statesman, who had sat all his life in courts and +in chairs of state, without overcoming an extreme irritability of face, +voice, and bearing: when he spoke, his voice would not serve him; it +cracked, it broke, it wheezed, it piped;--little cared he; he knew that +it had got to pipe, or wheeze, or screech his argument and his +indignation. When he sat down, after speaking, he seemed in a sort of +fit, and held on to his chair with both hands: but underneath all this +irritability was a puissant will, firm and advancing, and a memory in +which lay in order and method, like geologic strata, every fact of his +history, and under the control of his will. + +Manners are partly factitious, but, mainly, there must be capacity for +culture in the blood. Else all culture is vain. The obstinate prejudice +in favor of blood, which lies at the base of the feudal and monarchical +fabrics of the old world, has some reason in common experience. Every +man,--mathematician, artist, soldier, or merchant,--looks with +confidence for some traits and talents in his own child, which he would +not dare to presume in the child of a stranger. The Orientalists are +very orthodox on this point. "Take a thorn-bush," said the emir +Abdel-Kader, "and sprinkle it for a whole year with water, it will yield +nothing but thorns. Take a date-tree, leave it without culture, and it +will always produce dates. Nobility is the date-tree, and the Arab +populace is a bush of thorns." + +A main fact in the history of manners is the wonderful expressiveness of +the human body. If it were made of glass, or of air, and the thoughts +were written on steel tablets within, it could not publish more truly +its meaning than now. Wise men read very sharply all your private +history in your look and gait and behavior. The whole economy of nature +is bent on expression. The tell-tale body is all tongues. Men are like +Geneva watches with crystal faces which expose the whole movement. They +carry the liquor of life flowing up and down in these beautiful bottles, +and announcing to the curious how it is with them. The face and eyes +reveal what the spirit is doing, how old it is, what aims it has. The +eyes indicate the antiquity of the soul, or through how many forms it +has already ascended. It almost violates the proprieties, if we say +above the breath here what the confessing eyes do not hesitate to utter +to every street passenger. + +Man cannot fix his eye on the sun, and so far seems imperfect. In +Siberia, a late traveller found men who could see the satellites of +Jupiter with their unarmed eye. In some respects the animals excel us. +The birds have a longer sight, beside the advantage by their wings of a +higher observatory. A cow can bid her calf, by secret signal, probably +of the eye, to run away, or to lie down and hide itself. The jockeys say +of certain horses, that "they look over the whole ground." The outdoor +life, and hunting, and labor, give equal vigor to the human eye. A +farmer looks out at you as strong as the horse; his eye-beam is like the +stroke of a staff. An eye can threaten like a loaded and levelled gun, +or can insult like hissing or kicking; or, in its altered mood, by beams +of kindness, it can make the heart dance with joy. + +The eye obeys exactly the action of the mind. When a thought strikes us, +the eyes fix, and remain gazing at a distance; in enumerating the names +of persons or of countries, as France, Germany, Spain, Turkey, the eyes +wink at each new name. There is no nicety of learning sought by the +mind, which the eyes do not vie in acquiring. "An artist," said Michael +Angelo, "must have his measuring tools not in the hand, but in the eye;" +and there is no end to the catalogue of its performances, whether in +indolent vision (that of health and beauty) or in strained vision (that +of art and labor). + +Eyes are bold as lions,--roving, running, leaping, here and there, far +and near. They speak all languages. They wait for no introduction; they +are no Englishmen; ask no leave of age or rank; they respect neither +poverty nor riches, neither learning nor power, nor virtue, nor sex, but +intrude, and come again, and go through and through you, in a moment of +time. What inundation of life and thought is discharged from one soul +into another through them! The glance is natural magic. The mysterious +communication established across a house between two entire strangers +moves all the springs of wonder. The communication by the glance is in +the greatest part not subject to the control of the will. It is the +bodily symbol of identity of nature. We look into the eyes to know if +this other form is another self, and the eyes will not lie, but make a +faithful confession what inhabitant is there. The revelations are +sometimes terrific. The confession of a low, usurping devil is there +made, and the observer shall seem to feel the stirring of owls, and +bats, and horned hoofs, where he looked for innocence and simplicity. +'Tis remarkable, too, that the spirit that appears at the windows of the +house does at once invest himself in a new form of his own to the mind +of the beholder. + +The eyes of men converse as much as their tongues, with the advantage, +that the ocular dialect needs no dictionary, but is understood all the +world over. When the eyes say one thing, and the tongue another, a +practised man relies on the language of the first. If the man is off his +center, the eyes show it. You can read in the eyes of your companion, +whether your argument hits him, though his tongue will not confess it. +There is a look by which a man shows he is going to say a good thing, +and a look when he has said it. Vain and forgotten are all the fine +offers and offices of hospitality, if there is no holiday in the eye. +How many furtive inclinations avowed by the eye, though dissembled by +the lips! One comes away from a company, in which, it may easily happen, +he has said nothing, and no important remark has been addressed to him, +and yet, if in sympathy with the society he shall not have a sense of +this fact, such a stream of life has been flowing into him, and out from +him, through the eyes. There are eyes, to be sure, that give no more +admission into the man than blue-berries. Others are liquid and +deep,--wells that a man might fall into;--others are aggressive and +devouring, seem to call out the police, take all too much notice, and +require crowded Broadways, and the security of millions, to protect +individuals against them. The military eye I meet, now darkly sparkling +under clerical, now under rustic brows. 'Tis the city of Lacedaemon; +'tis a stack of bayonets. There are asking eyes, asserting eyes, +prowling eyes; and eyes full of fate,--some of good, and some of +sinister omen. The alleged power to charm down insanity, or ferocity in +beasts, is a power behind the eye. It must be a victory achieved in the +will before it can be signified in the eye. 'Tis very certain that each +man carries in his eye the exact indication of his rank in the immense +scale of men, and we are always learning to read it. A complete man +should need no auxiliaries to his personal presence. Whoever looked on +him would consent to his will, being certified that his aims were +generous and universal. The reason why men do not obey us, is because +they see the mud at the bottom of our eye. + +If the organ of sight is such a vehicle of power, the other features +have their own. A man finds room in the few square inches of the face +for the traits of all his ancestors; for the expression of all his +history, and his wants. The sculptor, and Winckelmann, and Lavater, will +tell you how significant a feature is the nose; how its forms express +strength or weakness of will, and good or bad temper. The nose of Julius +Caesar, of Dante, and of Pitt, suggest "the terrors of the beak." What +refinement, and what limitations, the teeth betray! "Beware you don't +laugh," said the wise mother, "for then you show all your faults." + +Balzac left in manuscript a chapter, which he called "_Theorie de la +demarche_,"[35] in which he says: "The look, the voice, the respiration, +and the attitude or walk, are identical. But, as it has not been given +to man, the power to stand guard, at once, over these four different +simultaneous expressions of his thought, watch that one which speaks out +the truth, and you will know the whole man." + +Palaces interest us mainly in the exhibition of manners, which, in the +idle and expensive society dwelling in them, are raised to a high art. +The maxim of courts is, that manner is power. A calm and resolute +bearing, a polished speech, an embellishment of trifles, and the art of +hiding all uncomfortable feeling, are essential to the courtier: and +Saint Simon, and Cardinal de Retz, and Roederer, and an encyclopaedia of +_Memoires_, will instruct you, if you wish, in those potent secrets. +Thus, it is a point of pride with kings to remember faces and names. It +is reported of one prince, that his head had the air of leaning +downwards, in order not to humble the crowd. There are people who come +in ever like a child with a piece of good news. It was said of the late +Lord Holland, that he always came down to breakfast with the air of a +man who had just met with some signal good-fortune. In _Notre Dame_, the +grandee took his place on the dais, with the look of one who is thinking +of something else. But we must not peep and eavesdrop at palace-doors. + +Fine manners need the support of fine manners in others. A scholar may +be a well-bred man, or he may not. The enthusiast is introduced to +polished scholars in society, and is chilled and silenced by finding +himself not in their element. They all have somewhat which he has not, +and, it seems, ought to have. But if he finds the scholar apart from his +companions, it is then the enthusiast's turn, and the scholar has no +defence, but must deal on his terms. Now they must fight the battle out +on their private strengths. What is the talent of that character so +common,--the successful man of the world,--in all marts, senates, and +drawing-rooms? Manners: mariners of power; sense to see his advantage, +and manners up to it. See him approach his man. He knows that troops +behave as they are handled at first;--that is his cheap secret; just +what happens to every two persons who meet on any affair,--one +instantly perceives that he has the key of the situation, that his will +comprehends the other's will, as the cat does the mouse; and he has only +to use courtesy, and furnish good-natured reasons to his victim to cover +up the chain, lest he be shamed into resistance. + +The theater in which this science of manners has a formal importance is +not with us a court, but dress-circles, wherein, after the close of the +day's business, men and women meet at leisure, for mutual entertainment, +in ornamented drawing-rooms. Of course, it has every variety of +attraction and merit; but, to earnest persons, to youths or maidens who +have great objects at heart, we cannot extol it highly. A well-dressed, +talkative company, where each is bent to amuse the other,--yet the +high-born Turk who came hither fancied that every woman seemed to be +suffering for a chair; that all the talkers were brained and exhausted +by the deoxygenated air; it spoiled the best persons: it put all on +stilts. Yet here are the secret biographies written and read. The aspect +of that man is repulsive; I do not wish to deal with him. The other is +irritable, shy, and on his guard. The youth looks humble and manly: I +choose him. Look on this woman. There is not beauty, nor brilliant +sayings, nor distinguished power, to serve you; but all see her gladly; +her whole air and impression are healthful. Here come the +sentimentalists, and the invalids. Here is Elise, who caught cold in +coming into the world, and has always increased it since. Here are +creep-mouse manners, and thievish manners. "Look at Northcote," said +Fuseli; "he looks like a rat that has seen a cat." In the shallow +company, easily excited, easily tired, here is the columnar Bernard: the +Alleghanies do not express more repose than his behavior. Here are the +sweet following eyes of Cecile: it seemed always that she demanded the +heart. Nothing can be more excellent in kind than the Corinthian grace +of Gertrude's manners, and yet Blanche, who has no manners, has better +manners than she; for the movements of Blanche are the sallies of a +spirit which is sufficient for the moment, and she can afford to +express every thought by instant action. + +Manners have been somewhat cynically defined to be a contrivance of wise +men to keep fools at a distance. Fashion is shrewd to detect those who +do not belong to her train, and seldom wastes her attentions. Society is +very swift in its instincts, and, if you do not belong to it, resists +and sneers at you; or quietly drops you. The first weapon enrages the +party attacked; the second is still more effective, but is not to be +resisted, as the date of the transaction is not easily found. People +grow up and grow old under this infliction, and never suspect the truth, +ascribing the solitude which acts on them very injuriously to any cause +but the right one. + +The basis of good manners is self-reliance. Necessity is the law of all +who are not self-possessed. Those who are not self-possessed, obtrude, +and pain us. Some men appear to feel that they belong to a Pariah caste. +They fear to offend, they bend and apologize, and walk through life with +a timid step. As we sometimes dream that we are in a well-dressed +company without any coat, so Godfrey acts ever as if he suffered from +some mortifying circumstance. The hero should find himself at home, +wherever he is; should impart comfort by his own security and +good-nature to all beholders. The hero is suffered to be himself. A +person of strong mind comes to perceive that for him an immunity is +secured so long as he renders to society that service which is native +and proper to him,--an immunity from all the observances, yea, and +duties, which society so tyrannically imposes on the rank and file of +its members. "Euripides," says Aspasia, "has not the fine manners of +Sophocles; but,"--she adds good-humoredly, "the movers and masters of +our souls have surely a right to throw out their limbs as carelessly as +they please on the world that belongs to them, and before the creatures +they have animated."[36] + +Manners require time, as nothing is more vulgar than haste. Friendship +should be surrounded with ceremonies and respects, and not crushed into +corners. Friendship requires more time than poor busy men can usually +command. Here comes to me Roland, with a delicacy of sentiment leading +and inwrapping him like a divine cloud or holy ghost. Tis a great +destitution to both that this should not be entertained with large +leisures, but, contrariwise, should be balked by importunate affairs. + +But through this lustrous varnish the reality is ever shining. 'Tis hard +to keep the _what_ from breaking through this pretty painting of the +_how_. The core will come to the surface. Strong will and keen +perception overpower old manners and create new; and the thought of the +present moment has a greater value than all the past. In persons of +character, we do not remark manners, because of their instantaneousness. +We are surprised by the thing done, out of all power to watch the way of +it. Yet nothing is more charming than to recognize the great style which +runs through the actions of such. People masquerade before us in their +fortunes, titles, offices, and connections, as academic or civil +presidents, or senators, or professors, or great lawyers, and impose on +the frivolous, and a good deal on each other, by these fames. At least, +it is a point of prudent good manners to treat these reputations +tenderly, as if they were merited. But the sad realist knows these +fellows at a glance, and they know him; as when in Paris the chief of +the police enters a ballroom, so many diamonded pretenders shrink and +make themselves as inconspicuous as they can, or give him a supplicating +look as they pass. "I had received," said a sybil, "I had received at +birth the fatal gift of penetration:"--and these Cassandras are always +born. + +Manners impress as they indicate real power. A man who is sure of his +point, carries a broad and contented expression, which everybody reads. +And you cannot rightly train one to an air and manner, except by making +him the kind of man of whom that manner is the natural expression. +Nature for ever puts a premium on reality. What is done for effect, is +seen to be done for effect; what is done for love, is felt to be done +for love. A man inspires affection and honor, because he was not lying +in wait for these. The things of a man for which we visit him, were done +in the dark and the cold. A little integrity is better than any career. +So deep are the sources of this surface-action, that even the size of +your companion seems to vary with his freedom of thought. Not only is he +larger, when at ease, and his thoughts generous, but everything around +him becomes variable with expression. No carpenter's rule, no rod and +chain, will measure the dimensions of any house or house-lot: go into +the house: if the proprietor is constrained and deferring, 'tis of no +importance how large his house, how beautiful his grounds,--you quickly +come to the end of all; but if the man is self-possessed, happy, and at +home, his house is deep-founded, indefinitely large and interesting, the +roof and dome buoyant as the sky. Under the humblest roof, the commonest +person in plain clothes sits there massive, cheerful, yet formidable, +like the Egyptian colossi. + +Neither Aristotle, nor Leibnitz, nor Junius, nor Champollion has set +down the grammar-rules of this dialect, older than Sanscrit; but they +who cannot yet read English, can read this. Men take each other's +measure when they meet for the first time,--and every time they meet. +How do they get this rapid knowledge, even before they speak, of each +other's power and dispositions? One would say, that the persuasion of +their speech is not in what they say,--or, that men do not convince by +their argument,--but by their personality, by who they are, and what +they said and did heretofore. A man already strong is listened to, and +everything he says is applauded. Another opposes him with sound +argument, but the argument is scouted, until by-and-by it gets into the +mind of some weighty person; then it begins to tell on the community. + +Self-reliance is the basis of behavior, as it is the guaranty that the +powers are not squandered in too much demonstration. In this country, +where school education is universal, we have a superficial culture, and +a profusion of reading and writing and expression. We parade our +nobilities in poems and orations, instead of working them up into +happiness. There is a whisper out of the ages to him who can understand +it,--"Whatever is known to thyself alone, has always very great value." +There is some reason to believe, that, when a man does not write his +poetry, it escapes by other vents through him, instead of the one vent +of writing; clings to his form and manners, whilst poets have often +nothing poetical about them except their verses. Jacobi said that, "when +a man has fully expressed his thought, he has somewhat less possession +of it." One would say, the rule is,--What a man is irresistibly urged to +say, helps him and us. In explaining his thought to others, he explains +it to himself: but when he opens it for show, it corrupts him. + +Society is the stage on which manners are shown; novels are their +literature. Novels are the journal or record of manners; and the new +importance of these books derives from the fact, that the novelist +begins to penetrate the surface, and treats this part of life more +worthily. The novels used to be all alike, and had a quite vulgar tone. +The novels used to lead us on to a foolish interest in the fortunes of +the boy and girl they described. The boy was to be raised from a humble +to a high position. He was in want of a wife and a castle, and the +object of the story was to supply him with one or both. We watched +sympathetically, step by step, his climbing, until, at last, the point +is gained, the wedding day is fixed, and we follow the gala procession +home to the castle, when the doors are slammed in our face, and the poor +reader is left outside in the cold, not enriched by so much as an idea, +or a virtuous impulse. + +But the victories of character are instant, and victories for all. Its +greatness enlarges all. We are fortified by every heroic anecdote. The +novels are as useful as Bibles, if they teach you the secret, that the +best of life is conversation, and the greatest success is confidence, or +perfect understanding between sincere people. 'Tis a French definition +of friendship, _rien que s'entendre_, good understanding. The highest +compact we can make with our fellow is,--"Let there be truth between us +two for evermore." That is the charm in all good novels, as it is the +charm in all good histories, that the heroes mutually understand, from +the first, and deal loyally, and with a profound trust in each other. It +is sublime to feel and say of another, I need never meet, or speak, or +write to him: we need not reinforce ourselves, or send tokens of +remembrance: I rely on him as on myself: if he did thus or thus, I know +it was right. + +In all the superior people I have met, I notice directness, truth spoken +more truly, as if everything of obstruction, of malformation, had been +trained away. What have they to conceal? What have they to exhibit? +Between simple and noble persons, there is always a quick intelligence: +they recognize at sight, and meet on a better ground than the talents +and skills they may chance to possess, namely, on sincerity and +uprightness. For, it is not what talents or genius a man has, but how he +is to his talents, that constitutes friendship and character. The man +that stands by himself, the universe stands by him also. It is related +of the monk Basle, that, being excommunicated by the Pope, he was, at +his death, sent in charge of an angel to find a fit place of suffering +in hell; but, such was the eloquence and good-humor of the monk, that, +wherever he went, he was received gladly, and civilly treated, even by +the most uncivil angels: and, when he came to discourse with them, +instead of contradicting or forcing him, they took his part, and adopted +his manners: and even good angels came from far to see him, and take up +their abode with him. The angel that was sent to find a place of torment +for him, attempted to remove him to a worse pit, but with no better +success; for such was the contented spirit of the monk, that he found +something to praise in every place and company, though in hell, and made +a kind of heaven of it. At last the escorting angel returned with his +prisoner to them that sent him, saying, that no phlegethon could be +found that would burn him; for that, in whatever condition, Basle +remained incorrigibly Basle. The legend says, his sentence was remitted, +and he was allowed to go into heaven, and was canonized as a saint. + +There is a stroke of magnanimity in the correspondence of Bonaparte with +his brother Joseph, when the latter was King of Spain, and complained +that he missed in Napoleon's letters the affectionate tone which had +marked their childish correspondence. "I am sorry," replies Napoleon, +"you think you shall find your brother again only in the Elysian Fields. +It is natural that at forty he should not feel towards you as he did at +twelve. But his feelings towards you have greater truth and strength. +His friendship has the features of his mind." + +How much we forgive to those who yield us the rare spectacle of heroic +manners! We will pardon them the want of books, of arts, and even of the +gentler virtues. How tenaciously we remember them! Here is a lesson +which I brought along with me in boyhood from the Latin School, and +which ranks with the best of Roman anecdotes. Marcus Scaurus was accused +by Quintus Varius Hispanus, that he had excited the allies to take arms +against the Republic. But he, full of firmness and gravity, defended +himself in this manner: "Quintus Varius Hispanus alleges that Marcus +Scaurus, President of the Senate, excited the allies to arms: Marcus +Scaurus, President of the Senate, denies it. There is no witness. Which +do you believe, Romans?" "_Utri creditis, Quirites?_" When he had said +these words, he was absolved by the assembly of the people. + +I have seen manners that make a similar impression with personal beauty; +that give the like exhilaration, and refine us like that; and, in +memorable experiences, they are suddenly better than beauty, and make +that superfluous and ugly. But they must be marked by fine perception, +the acquaintance with real beauty. They must always show self-control: +you shall not be facile, apologetic, or leaky, but king over your word; +and every gesture and action shall indicate power at rest. Then they +must be inspired by the good heart. There is no beautifier of +complexion, or form, or behavior, like the wish to scatter joy and not +pain around us. 'Tis good to give a stranger a meal, or a night's +lodging. 'Tis better to be hospitable to his good meaning and thought, +and give courage to a companion. We must be as courteous to a man as we +are to a picture, which we are willing to give the advantage of a good +light. Special precepts are not to be thought of: the talent of +well-doing contains them all. Every hour will show a duty as paramount +as that of my whim just now; and yet I will write it,--that there is one +topic peremptorily forbidden to all well-bred, to all rational mortals, +namely, their distempers. If you have not slept, or if you have slept, +or if you have headache, or sciatica, or leprosy, or thunder-stroke, I +beseech you, by all angels, to hold your peace, and not pollute the +morning, to which all the housemates bring serene and pleasant thoughts, +by corruption and groans. Come out in the azure. Love the day. Do not +leave the sky out of your landscape. The oldest and the most deserving +person should come very modestly into any newly awaked company, +respecting the divine communications, out of which all must be presumed +to have newly come. An old man who added an elevating culture to a large +experience of life, said to me, "When you come into the room, I think I +will study how to make humanity beautiful to you." + +As respects the delicate question of culture, I do not think that any +other than negative rules can be laid down. For positive rules, for +suggestion, nature alone inspires it. Who dare assume to guide a youth, +a maid, to perfect manners?--the golden mean is so delicate, +difficult,--say frankly unattainable. What finest hands would not be +clumsy to sketch the genial precepts of the young girl's demeanor? The +chances seem infinite against success; and yet success is continually +attained. There must not be secondariness, and 'tis a thousand to one +that her air and manner will at once betray that she is not primary, but +that there is some other one or many of her class, to whom she +habitually postpones herself. But nature lifts her easily, and without +knowing it, over these impossibilities, and we are continually surprised +with graces and felicities not only unteachable, but undescribable. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 34: Chapter V of "The Conduct of Life," 1860.] + +[Footnote 35: Theory of gait and demeanor.] + +[Footnote 36: From Landor's "Pericles and Aspasia."] + + + + +MANNERS AND FASHION[37] + +HERBERT SPENCER + + +Some who shun drawing-rooms do so from inability to bear the restraints +prescribed by a genuine refinement, and they would be greatly improved +by being kept under these restraints. But it is not less true that, by +adding to the legitimate restraints, which are based on convenience and +a regard for others, a host of factitious restraints based only on +convention, the refining discipline, which would else have been borne +with benefit, is rendered unbearable, and so misses its end. Excess of +government invariably defeats itself by driving away those to be +governed. And if over all who desert its entertainments in disgust +either at their emptiness or their formality, society thus loses its +salutary influence--if such not only fail to receive that moral culture +which the company of ladies, when rationally regulated, would give them, +but, in default of other relaxation, are driven into habits and +companionships which often end in gambling and drunkenness; must we not +say that here, too, is an evil not to be passed over as insignificant? + +Then consider what a blighting effect these multitudinous preparations +and ceremonies have upon the pleasures they profess to subserve. Who, on +calling to mind the occasions of his highest social enjoyments, does not +find them to have been wholly informal, perhaps impromptu? How +delightful a picnic of friends, who forget all observances save those +dictated by good nature! How pleasant the little unpretended gatherings +of book-societies, and the like; or those purely accidental meetings of +a few people well known to each other! Then, indeed, we may see that "a +man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend." Cheeks flush, and eyes +sparkle. The witty grow brilliant, and even the dull are excited into +saying good things. There is an overflow of topics; and the right +thought, and the right words to put it in, spring up unsought. Grave +alternates with gay: now serious converse, and now jokes, anecdotes, and +playful raillery. Everyone's best nature is shown, everyone's best +feelings are in pleasurable activity; and, for the time, life seems well +worth having. + +Go now and dress for some half-past eight dinner, or some ten o'clock +"at home;" and present yourself in spotless attire, with every hair +arranged to perfection. How great the difference! The enjoyment seems in +the inverse ratio of the preparation. These figures, got up with such +finish and precision, appear but half alive. They have frozen each other +by their primness; and your faculties feel the numbing effects of the +atmosphere the moment you enter it. All those thoughts, so nimble and so +apt awhile since, have disappeared--have suddenly acquired a +preternatural power of eluding you. If you venture a remark to your +neighbour, there comes a trite rejoinder, and there it ends. No subject +you can hit upon outlives half a dozen sentences. Nothing that is said +excites any real interest in you; and you feel that all you say is +listened to with apathy. By some strange magic, things that usually give +pleasure seem to have lost all charm. + +You have a taste for art. Weary of frivolous talk, you turn to the +table, and find that the book of engravings and the portfolio of +photographs are as flat as the conversation. You are fond of music. Yet +the singing, good as it is, you hear with utter indifference; and say +"Thank you" with a sense of being a profound hypocrite. Wholly at ease +though you could be, for your own part, you find that your sympathies +will not let you. You see young gentlemen feeling whether their ties are +properly adjusted, looking vacantly round, and considering what they +shall do next. You see ladies sitting disconsolately, waiting for some +one to speak to them, and wishing they had the wherewith to occupy their +fingers. You see the hostess standing about the doorway, keeping a +factitious smile on her face, and racking her brain to find the +requisite nothings with which to greet her guests as they enter. You see +numberless traits of weariness and embarrassment; and, if you have any +fellow-feeling, these cannot fail to produce a feeling of discomfort. +The disorder is catching; and do what you will you cannot resist the +general infection. You struggle against it; you make spasmodic efforts +to be lively; but none of your sallies or your good stories do more than +raise a simper or a forced laugh: intellect and feeling are alike +asphyxiated. And when, at length, yielding to your disgust, you rush +away, how great is the relief when you get into the fresh air, and see +the stars! How you "Thank God, that's over!" and half resolve to avoid +all such boredom for the future! + +What, now, is the secret of this perpetual miscarriage and +disappointment? Does not the fault lie with all these needless +adjuncts--these elaborate dressings, these set forms, these expensive +preparations, these many devices and arrangements that imply trouble and +raise expectation? Who that has lived thirty years in the world has not +discovered that Pleasure is coy; and must not be too directly pursued, +but must be caught unawares? An air from a street-piano, heard while at +work, will often gratify more than the choicest music played at a +concert by the most accomplished musicians. A single good picture seen +in a dealer's window, may give keener enjoyment than a whole exhibition +gone through with catalogue and pencil. By the time we have got ready +our elaborate apparatus by which to secure happiness, the happiness is +gone. It is too subtle to be contained in these receivers, garnished +with compliments, and fenced round with etiquette. The more we multiply +and complicate appliances, the more certain are we to drive it away. + +The reason is patent enough. These higher emotions to which social +intercourse ministers, are of extremely complex nature; they +consequently depend for their production upon very numerous conditions; +the more numerous the conditions, the greater the liability that one or +other of them will be disturbed, and the emotions consequently +prevented. It takes a considerable misfortune to destroy appetite; but +cordial sympathy with those around may be extinguished by a look or a +word. Hence it follows, that the more multiplied the _unnecessary_ +requirements with which social intercourse is surrounded, the less +likely are its pleasures to be achieved. It is difficult enough to +fulfil continuously all the _essentials_ to a pleasurable communion with +others: how much more difficult, then, must it be continuously to fulfil +a host of _non-essentials_ also! It is, indeed, impossible. The attempt +inevitably ends in the sacrifice of the first to the last--the +essentials to the non-essentials. What chance is there of getting any +genuine response from the lady who is thinking of your stupidity in +taking her in to dinner on the wrong arm? How are you likely to have +agreeable converse with the gentleman who is fuming internally because +he is not placed next to the hostess? Formalities, familiar as they may +become, necessarily occupy attention--necessarily multiply the occasions +for mistake, misunderstanding, and jealousy, on the part of one or +other--necessarily distract all minds from the thoughts and feelings +that should occupy them--necessarily, therefore, subvert those +conditions under which only any sterling intercourse is to be had. + +And this indeed is the fatal mischief which these conventions entail--a +mischief to which every other is secondary. They destroy those highest +of our pleasures which they profess to subserve. All institutions are +alike in this, that however useful, and needful even, they originally +were, they not only in the end cease to be so, but become detrimental. +While humanity is growing, they continue fixed; daily get more +mechanical and unvital; and by and by tend to strangle what they before +preserved. It is not simply that they become corrupt and fail to act; +they become obstructions. Old forms of government finally grow so +oppressive, that they must be thrown off even at the risk of reigns of +terror. Old creeds end in being dead formulas, which no longer aid but +distort and arrest the general mind; while the State-churches +administering them, come to be instruments for subsidising conservatism +and repressing progress. Old schemes of education, incarnated in public +schools and colleges, continue filling the heads of new generations with +what has become relatively useless knowledge, and, by consequence, +excluding knowledge which is useful. Not an organisation of any +kind--political, religious, literary, philanthropic--but what, by its +ever-multiplying regulations, its accumulating wealth, its yearly +addition of officers, and the creeping into it of patronage and party +feeling, eventually loses its original spirit, and sinks into a mere +lifeless mechanism, worked with a view to private ends--a mechanism +which not merely fails of its first purpose, but is a positive hindrance +to it. + +Thus is it, too, with social usages. We read of the Chinese that they +have "ponderous ceremonies transmitted from time immemorial," which make +social intercourse a burden. The court forms prescribed by monarchs for +their own exaltation, have, in all times and places, ended in consuming +the comfort of their lives. And so the artificial observances of the +dining-room and saloon, in proportion as they are many and strict, +extinguish that agreeable communion which they were originally intended +to secure. The dislike with which people commonly speak of society that +is "formal," and "stiff," and "ceremonious," implies the general +recognition of this fact; and this recognition, logically developed, +involves that all usages of behaviour which are not based on natural +requirements, are injurious. That these conventions defeat their own +ends is no new assertion. Swift, criticising the manners of his day, +says--"Wise men are often more uneasy at the over-civility of these +refiners than they could possibly be in the conversation of peasants and +mechanics." + +But it is not only in these details that the self-defeating action of +our arrangements is traceable: it is traceable in the very substance and +nature of them. Our social intercourse, as commonly managed, is a mere +semblance of the reality sought. What is it that we want? Some +sympathetic converse with our fellow-creatures: some converse that shall +not be mere dead words, but the vehicle of living thoughts and +feelings--converse in which the eyes and the face shall speak, and the +tones of the voice be full of meaning--converse which shall make us feel +no longer alone, but shall draw us closer to another, and double our own +emotions by adding another's to them. Who is there that has not, from +time to time, felt how cold and flat is all this talk about politics and +science, and the new books and the new men, and how a genuine utterance +of fellow-feeling outweighs the whole of it? Mark the words of +Bacon:--"For a crowd is not a company, and faces are but a gallery of +pictures, and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love." + +If this be true, then it is only after acquaintance has grown into +intimacy, and intimacy has ripened into friendship, that the real +communion which men need becomes possible. A rationally-formed circle +must consist almost wholly of those on terms of familiarity and regard, +with but one or two strangers. What folly, then, underlies the whole +system of our grand dinners, our "at homes," our evening +parties--assemblages made up of many who never met before, many others +who just bow to each other, many others who though familiar feel mutual +indifference, with just a few real friends lost in the general mass! You +need, but look round at the artificial expression of face, to see at +once how it is. All have their disguises on; and how can there be +sympathy between masks? No wonder that in private every one exclaims +against the stupidity of these gatherings. No wonder that hostesses get +them up rather because they must than because they wish. No wonder that +the invited go less from the expectation of pleasure than from fear of +giving offence. The whole thing is a gigantic mistake--an organised +disappointment. + +And then note, lastly, that in this case, as in all others, when an +organisation has become effete and inoperative for its legitimate +purpose, it is employed for quite other ones--quite opposite ones. What +is the usual plea put in for giving and attending these tedious +assemblies? "I admit that they are stupid and frivolous enough," replies +every man to your criticisms; "but then, you know, one must keep up +one's connections." And could you get from his wife a sincere answer, it +would be--"Like you, I am sick of these frivolities; but then, we must +get our daughters married." The one knows that there is a profession to +push, a practice to gain, a business to extend: or parliamentary +influence, or county patronage, or votes, or office, to be got: +position, berths, favours, profit. The other's thoughts run upon +husbands and settlements, wives and dowries. Worthless for their +ostensible purpose of daily bringing human beings into pleasurable +relations with each other, these cumbrous appliances of our social +intercourse are now perseveringly kept in action with a view to the +pecuniary and matrimonial results which they indirectly produce. + +Who then shall say that the reform of our system of observances is +unimportant? When we see how this system induces fashionable +extravagance, with its entailed bankruptcy and ruin--when we mark how +greatly it limits the amount of social intercourse among the less +wealthy classes--when we find that many who most need to be disciplined +by mixing with the refined are driven away by it, and led into dangerous +and often fatal courses--when we count up the many minor evils it +inflicts, the extra work which its costliness entails on all +professional and mercantile men, the damage to public taste in dress and +decoration by the setting up of its absurdities as standards for +imitation, the injury to health indicated in the faces of its devotees +at the close of the London season, the mortality of milliners and the +like, which its sudden exigencies yearly involve;--and when to all +these we add its fatal sin, that it blights, withers up, and kills that +high enjoyment it professedly ministers to--that enjoyment which is a +chief end of our hard struggling in life to obtain--shall we not +conclude that to reform our system of etiquette and fashion, is an aim +yielding to few in urgency? + +There needs, then, a protestantism in social usages. Forms that have +ceased to facilitate and have become obstructive--whether political, +religious, or other--have ever to be swept away; and eventually are so +swept away in all cases. Signs are not wanting that some change is at +hand. A host of satirists, led on by Thackeray, have been for years +engaged in bringing our sham-festivities, and our fashionable follies, +into contempt; and in their candid moods, most men laugh at the +frivolities with which they and the world in general are deluded. +Ridicule has always been a revolutionary agent. That which is habitually +assailed with sneers and sarcasms cannot long survive. Institutions that +have lost their roots in men's respect and faith are doomed; and the day +of their dissolution is not far off. The time is approaching, then, when +our system of social observances must pass through some crisis, out of +which it will come purified and comparatively simple. + +How this crisis will be brought about, no one can with any certainty +say. Whether by the continuance and increase of individual protests, or +whether by the union of many persons for the practice and propagation of +some better system, the future alone can decide. The influence of +dissentients acting without cooperation, seems, under the present state +of things, inadequate. Standing severally alone, and having no +well-defined views; frowned on by conformists, and expostulated with +even by those who secretly sympathise with them; subject to petty +persecutions, and unable to trace any benefit produced by their example; +they are apt, one by one, to give up their attempts as hopeless. The +young convention-breaker eventually finds that he pays too heavily for +his nonconformity. Hating, for example, everything that bears about it +any remnant of servility, he determines, in the ardour of his +independence, that he will uncover to no one. But what he means simply +as a general protest, he finds that ladies interpret into a personal +disrespect. Though he sees that, from the days of chivalry downwards, +these marks of supreme consideration paid to the other sex have been but +a hypocritical counterpart to the actual subjection in which men have +held them--a pretended submission to compensate for a real domination; +and though he sees that when the true dignity of women is recognised, +the mock dignities given to them will be abolished, yet he does not like +to be thus misunderstood, and so hesitates in his practice. + +In other cases, again, his courage fails him. Such of his +unconventionalities as can be attributed only to eccentricity, he has no +qualms about: for, on the whole, he feels rather complimented than +otherwise in being considered a disregarder of public opinion. But when +they are liable to be put down to ignorance, to ill-breeding, or to +poverty, he becomes a coward. However clearly the recent innovation of +eating some kinds of fish with knife and fork proves the fork-and-bread +practice to have had little but caprice for its basis, yet he dares not +wholly ignore that practice while fashion partially maintains it. Though +he thinks that a silk handkerchief is quite as appropriate for +drawing-room use as a white cambric one, he is not altogether at ease in +acting out his opinion. Then, too, be begins to perceive that his +resistance to prescription brings round disadvantageous results which he +had not calculated upon. He had expected that it would save him from a +great deal of social intercourse of a frivolous kind--that it would +offend the fools, but not the sensible people; and so would serve as a +self-acting test by which those worth knowing would be separated from +those not worth knowing. But the fools prove to be so greatly in the +majority that, by offending them, he closes against himself nearly all +the avenues through which the sensible people are to be reached. Thus he +finds that his nonconformity is frequently misinterpreted; that there +are but few directions in which he dares to carry it consistently out; +that the annoyances and disadvantages which it brings upon him are +greater than he anticipated; and that the chances of his doing any good +are very remote. Hence he gradually loses resolution, and lapses, step +by step, into the ordinary routine of observances. + +Abortive as individual protests thus generally turn out, it may possibly +be that nothing effectual will be done until there arises some organised +resistance to this invisible despotism, by which our modes and habits +are dictated. It may happen, that the government of Manners and Fashion +will be rendered less tyrannical, as the political and religious +governments have been, by some antagonistic union. Alike in Church and +State, men's first emancipations from excess of restriction were +achieved by numbers, bound together by a common creed, or a common +political faith. What remained undone while there were but individual +schismatics or rebels, was effected when there came to be many acting in +concert. It is tolerably clear that these earliest instalments of +freedom could not have been obtained in any other way; for so long as +the feeling of personal independence was weak and the rule strong, there +could never have been a sufficient number of separate dissentients to +produce the desired results. Only in these later times, during which the +secular and spiritual controls have been growing less coercive, and the +tendency towards individual liberty greater, has it become possible for +smaller and smaller sects and parties to fight against established +creeds and laws; until now men may safely stand even alone in their +antagonism. + +The failure of individual nonconformity to customs, as above +illustrated, suggests that an analogous series of changes may have to be +gone through in this case also. It is true that the _lex non scripta_ +differs from the _lex scripta_ in this, that, being unwritten, it is +more readily altered; and that it has, from time to time, been quietly +ameliorated. Nevertheless, we shall find that the analogy holds +substantially good. For in this case, as in the others, the essential +revolution is not the substituting of any one set of restraints for any +other, but the limiting or abolishing the authority which prescribes +restraints. Just as the fundamental change inaugurated by the +Reformation, was not a superseding of one creed by another, but an +ignoring of the arbiter who before dictated creeds--just as the +fundamental change which Democracy long ago commenced, was not from this +particular law to that, but from the despotism of one to the freedom of +all; so, the parallel change yet to be wrought out in this supplementary +government of which we are treating, is not the replacing of absurd +usages by sensible ones, but the dethronement of that secret, +irresponsible power which now imposes our usages, and the assertion of +the right of all individuals to choose their own usages. In rules of +living, a West-end clique is our Pope; and we are all papists, with but +a mere sprinkling of heretics. On all who decisively rebel, comes down +the penalty of excommunication, with its long catalogue of disagreeable +and, indeed, serious consequences. + +The liberty of the subject asserted in our constitution, and ever on the +increase, has yet to be wrested from this subtler tyranny. The right of +private judgment, which our ancestors wrung from the church, remains to +be claimed from this dictator of our habits. Or, as before said, to free +us from these idolatries and superstitious conformities, there has still +to come a protestantism in social usages. Parallel, therefore, as is the +change to be wrought out, it seems not improbable that it may be wrought +out in an analogous way. That influence which solitary dissentients fail +to gain, and that perseverance which they lack, may come into existence +when they unite. That persecution which the world now visits upon them +from mistaking their nonconformity for ignorance or disrespect, may +diminish when it is seen to result from principle. The penalty which +exclusion now entails may disappear when they become numerous enough to +form visiting circles of their own. And when a successful stand has +been made, and the brunt of the opposition has passed, that large amount +of secret dislike to our observances which now pervades society, may +manifest itself with sufficient power to effect the desired +emancipation. + +Whether such will be the process, time alone can decide. That community +of origin, growth, supremacy, and decadence which we have found among +all kinds of government, suggests a community in modes of change also. +On the other hand, Nature often performs substantially similar +operations, in ways apparently different. Hence these details can never +be foretold. + +Society, in all its developments, undergoes the process of exuviation. +These old forms which it successively throws off, have all been once +vitally united with it--have severally served as the protective +envelopes within which a higher humanity was being evolved. They are +cast aside only when they become hindrances--only when some inner and +better envelope has been formed; and they bequeath to us all that there +was in them of good. The periodical abolitions of tyrannical laws have +left the administration of justice not only uninjured, but purified. +Dead and buried creeds have not carried with them the essential morality +they contained, which still exists, uncontaminated by the sloughs of +superstition. And all that there is of justice and kindness and beauty, +embodied in our cumbrous forms of etiquette, will live perennially when +the forms themselves have been forgotten. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 37: From "Illustrations of Universal Progress," 1864.] + + + + +TALK AND TALKERS[38] + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + + +"Sir, we had a good talk."--JOHNSON. + +"As we must account for every idle word, so we must for every idle +silence."--FRANKLIN. + +There can be no fairer ambition than to excel in talk; to be affable, +gay, ready, clear and welcome; to have a fact, a thought, or an +illustration, pat to every subject; and not only to cheer the flight of +time among our intimates, but bear our part in that great international +congress, always sitting, where public wrongs are first declared, public +errors first corrected, and the course of public opinion shaped, day by +day, a little nearer to the right. No measure comes before Parliament +but it has been long ago prepared by the grand jury of the talkers; no +book is written that has not been largely composed by their assistance. +Literature in many of its branches is no other than the shadow of good +talk; but the imitation falls far short of the original in life, +freedom, and effect. There are always two to a talk, giving and taking, +comparing experience and according conclusions. Talk is fluid, +tentative, continually "in further search and progress;" while written +words remain fixed, become idols even to the writer, found wooden +dogmatisms, and preserve flies of obvious error in the amber of the +truth. Last and chief, while literature, gagged with linsey-woolsey, can +only deal with a fraction of the life of man, talk goes fancy free and +may call a spade a spade. It cannot, even if it would, become merely +aesthetic or merely classical like literature. A jest intervenes, the +solemn humbug is dissolved in laughter, and speech runs forth out of the +contemporary groove into the open fields of nature, cheery and cheering, +like schoolboys out of school. And it is in talk alone that we can learn +our period and ourselves. In short, the first duty of a man is to speak; +that is his chief business in this world; and talk, which is the +harmonious speech of two or more, is by far the most accessible of +pleasures. It costs nothing in money; it is all profit; it completes our +education, founds and fosters our friendships, and can be enjoyed at any +age and in almost any state of health. + +The spice of life is battle; the friendliest relations are still a kind +of contest; and if we would not forego all that is valuable in our lot, +we must continually face some other person, eye to eye, and wrestle a +fall whether in love or enmity. It is still by force of body, or power +of character or intellect, that we attain to worthy pleasures. Men and +women contend for each other in the lists of love, like rival +mesmerists; the active and adroit decide their challenges in the sports +of the body; and the sedentary sit down to chess or conversation. All +sluggish and pacific pleasures are, to the same degree, solitary and +selfish; and every durable bond between human beings is founded in or +heightened by some element of competition. Now, the relation that has +the least root in matter is undoubtedly that airy one of friendship; and +hence, I suppose, it is that good talk most commonly arises among +friends. Talk is, indeed, both the scene and instrument of friendship. +It is in talk alone that the friends can measure strength, and enjoy +that amicable counter-assertion of personality which is the gauge of +relations and the sport of life. + +A good talk is not to be had for the asking. Humours must first be +accorded in a kind of overture or prologue; hour, company and +circumstance be suited; and then, at a fit juncture, the subject, the +quarry of two heated minds, springs up like a deer out of the wood. Not +that the talker has any of the hunter's pride, though he has all and +more than all his ardour. The genuine artist follows the stream of +conversation as an angler follows the windings of a brook, not dallying +where he fails to "kill." He trusts implicitly to hazard; and he is +rewarded by continual variety, continual pleasure, and those changing +prospects of the truth that are the best of education. There is nothing +in a subject, so called, that we should regard it as an idol, or follow +it beyond the promptings of desire. Indeed, there are few subjects; and +so far as they are truly talkable, more than the half of them may be +reduced to three: that I am I, that you are you, and that there are +other people dimly understood to be not quite the same as either. +Wherever talk may range, it still runs half the time on these eternal +lines. The theme being set, each plays on himself as on an instrument; +asserts and justifies himself; ransacks his brain for instances and +opinions, and brings them forth new-minted, to his own surprise and the +admiration of his adversary. All natural talk is a festival of +ostentation; and by the laws of the game each accepts and fans the +vanity of the other. It is from that reason that we venture to lay +ourselves so open, that we dare to be so warmly eloquent, and that we +swell in each other's eyes to such a vast proportion. For talkers, once +launched, begin to overflow the limits of their ordinary selves, tower +up to the height of their secret pretensions, and give themselves out +for the heroes, brave, pious, musical, and wise, that in their most +shining moments they aspire to be. So they weave for themselves with +words and for a while inhabit a palace of delights, temple at once and +theatre, where they fill the round of the world's dignities, and feast +with the gods, exulting in Kudos.[39] And when the talk is over, each +goes his way, still flushed with vanity and admiration, still trailing +clouds of glory; each declines from the height of his ideal orgy, not in +a moment, but by slow declension. I remember, in the _entr'acte_ of an +afternoon performance, coming forth into the sunshine, in a beautiful +green, gardened corner of a romantic city; and as I sat and smoked, the +music moving in my blood, I seemed to sit there and evaporate _The +Flying Dutchman_ (for it was that I had been hearing) with a wonderful +sense of life, warmth, well-being, and pride; and the noises of the +city, voices, bells and marching feet, fell together in my ears like a +symphonious orchestra. In the same way, the excitement of a good talk +lives for a long while after in the blood, the heart still hot within +you, the brain still simmering, and the physical earth swimming around +you with the colours of the sunset. + +Natural talk, like ploughing, should turn up a large surface of life, +rather than dig mines into geological strata. Masses of experience, +anecdote, incident, cross-lights, quotation, historical instances, the +whole flotsam and jetsam of two minds forced in and in upon the matter +in hand from every point of the compass, and from every degree of mental +elevation and abasement--these are the material with which talk is +fortified, the food on which the talkers thrive. Such argument as is +proper to the exercise should still be brief and seizing. Talk should +proceed by instances; by the apposite, not the expository. It should +keep close along the lines of humanity, near the bosoms and businesses +of men, at the level where history, fiction and experience intersect and +illuminate each other. I am I, and You are You, with all my heart; but +conceive how these lean propositions change and brighten when, instead +of words, the actual you and I sit cheek by jowl, the spirit housed in +the live body, and the very clothes uttering voices to corroborate the +story in the face. Not less surprising is the change when we leave off +to speak of generalities--the bad, the good, the miser, and all the +characters of Theophrastus--and call up other men, by anecdote or +instance, in their very trick and feature; or trading on a common +knowledge, toss each other famous names, still glowing with the hues of +life. Communication is no longer by words, but by the instancing of +whole biographies, epics, systems of philosophy, and epochs of history, +in bulk. That which is understood excels that which is spoken in +quantity and quality alike; ideas thus figured and personified, change +hands, as we may say, like coin; and the speakers imply without effort +the most obscure and intricate thoughts. Strangers who have a large +common ground of reading will, for this reason, come the sooner to the +grapple of genuine converse. If they know Othello and Napoleon, Consuelo +and Clarissa Harlowe, Vautrin and Steenie Steenson, they can leave +generalities and begin at once to speak by figures. + +Conduct and art are the two subjects that arise most frequently and that +embrace the widest range of facts. A few pleasures bear discussion for +their own sake, but only those which are most social or most radically +human; and even these can only be discussed among their devotees. A +technicality is always welcome to the expert, whether in athletics, art, +or law; I have heard the best kind of talk on technicalities from such +rare and happy persons as both know and love their business. No human +being ever spoke of scenery for above two minutes at a time, which makes +me suspect we hear too much of it in literature. The weather is regarded +as the very nadir and scoff of conversational topics. And yet the +weather, the dramatic element in scenery, is far more tractable in +language, and far more human both in import and suggestion than the +stable features of the landscape. Sailors and shepherds, and the people +generally of coast and mountain, talk well of it; and it is often +excitingly presented in literature. But the tendency of all living talk +draws it back and back into the common focus of humanity. Talk is a +creature of the street and market-place, feeding on gossip; and its last +resort is still in a discussion on morals. That is the heroic form of +gossip; heroic in virtue of its high pretensions; but still gossip, +because it turns on personalities. You can keep no men long, nor +Scotchmen at all, off moral or theological discussion. These are to all +the world what law is to lawyers; they are everybody's technicalities; +the medium through which all consider life, and the dialect in which +they express their judgments. I knew three young men who walked together +daily for some two months in a solemn and beautiful forest and in +cloudless summer weather; daily they talked with unabated zest, and yet +scarce wandered that whole time beyond two subjects--theology and love. +And perhaps neither a court of love[40] nor an assembly of divines would +have granted their premises or welcomed their conclusions. + +Conclusions, indeed, are not often reached by talk any more than by +private thinking. That is not the profit. The profit is in the exercise, +and above all in the experience; for when we reason at large on any +subject, we review our state and history in life. From time to time, +however, and specially, I think, in talking art, talk becomes effective, +conquering like war, widening the boundaries of knowledge like an +exploration. A point arises; the question takes a problematical, a +baffling, yet a likely air; the talkers begin to feel lively +presentiments of some conclusion near at hand; towards this they strive +with emulous ardour, each by his own path, and struggling for first +utterance; and then one leaps upon the summit of that matter with a +shout, and almost at the same moment the other is beside him; and behold +they are agreed. Like enough, the progress is illusory, a mere cat's +cradle having been wound and unwound out of words. But the sense of +joint discovery is none the less giddy and inspiriting. And in the life +of the talker such triumphs, though imaginary, are neither few nor far +apart; they are attained with speed and pleasure, in the hour of mirth; +and by the nature of the process, they are always worthily shared. + +There is a certain attitude combative at once and deferential, eager to +fight yet most averse to quarrel, which marks out at once the talkable +man. It is not eloquence, not fairness, not obstinacy, but a certain +proportion of all of these that I love to encounter in my amicable +adversaries. They must not be pontiffs holding doctrine, but huntsmen +questing after elements of truth. Neither must they be boys to be +instructed, but fellow-teachers with whom I may wrangle and agree on +equal terms. We must reach some solution, some shadow of consent; for +without that, eager talk becomes a torture. But we do not wish to reach +it cheaply, or quickly, or without the tussle and effort Wherein +pleasure lies. + +The very best talker, with me, is one whom I shall call Spring-Heel'd +Jack. I say so, because I never knew any one who mingled so largely the +possible ingredients of converse. In the Spanish proverb, the fourth man +necessary to compound a salad, is a madman to mix it: Jack is that +madman. I know not which is more remarkable: the insane lucidity of his +conclusions, the humorous eloquence of his language, or his power of +method, bringing the whole of life into the focus of the subject +treated, mixing the conversational salad like a drunken god. He doubles +like the serpent, changes and flashes like the shaken kaleidoscope, +transmigrates bodily into the views of others, and so, in the twinkling +of an eye and with a heady rapture, turns questions inside out and +flings them empty before you on the ground, like a triumphant conjuror. +It is my common practice when a piece of conduct puzzles me, to attack +it in the presence of Jack with such grossness, such partiality and such +wearing iteration, as at length shall spur him up in its defence. In a +moment he transmigrates, dons the required character, and with +moonstruck philosophy justifies the act in question. I can fancy nothing +to compare with the _vim_ of these impersonations, the strange scale of +language, flying from Shakespeare to Kant, and from Kant to Major +Dyngwell-- + + "As fast as a musician scatters sounds + Out of an instrument--" + +the sudden, sweeping generalisations, the absurd irrelevant +particularities, the wit, wisdom, folly, humour, eloquence and bathos, +each startling in its kind, and yet all luminous in the admired disorder +of their combination. A talker of a different calibre, though belonging +to the same school, is Burly. Burly is a man of great presence; he +commands a larger atmosphere, gives the impression of a grosser mass of +character than most men. It has been said of him that his presence could +be felt in a room you entered blindfold; and the same, I think, has been +said of other powerful constitutions condemned to much physical +inaction. There is something boisterous and piratic in Burly's manner of +talk which suits well enough with this impression. He will roar you +down, he will bury his face in his hands, he will undergo passions of +revolt and agony; and meanwhile his attitude of mind is really both +conciliatory and receptive; and after Pistol has been out-Pistol'd, and +the welkin rung for hours, you begin to perceive a certain subsidence in +these spring torrents, points of agreement issue, and you end +arm-in-arm, and in a glow of mutual admiration. The outcry only serves +to make your final union the more unexpected and precious. Throughout +there has been perfect sincerity, perfect intelligence, a desire to hear +although not always to listen, and an unaffected eagerness to meet +concessions. You have, with Burly, none of the dangers that attend +debate with Spring-Heel'd Jack; who may at any moment turn his powers of +transmigration on yourself, create for you a view you never held, and +then furiously fall on you for holding it. These, at least, are my two +favourites, and both are loud, copious, intolerant talkers. This argues +that I myself am in the same category; for if we love talking at all, we +love a bright, fierce adversary, who will hold his ground, foot by foot, +in much our own manner, sell his attention dearly, and give us our full +measure of the dust and exertion of battle. Both these men can be beat +from a position, but it takes six hours to do it; a high and hard +adventure, worth attempting. With both you can pass days in an +enchanted country of the mind, with people, scenery and manners of its +own; live a life apart, more arduous, active and glowing than any real +existence; and come forth again when the talk is over, as out of a +theatre or a dream, to find the east wind still blowing and the +chimney-pots of the old battered city still around you. Jack has the far +finer mind, Burly the far more honest; Jack gives us the animated +poetry, Burly the romantic prose, of similar themes; the one glances +high like a meteor and makes a light in darkness; the other, with many +changing hues of fire, burns at the sea-level, like a conflagration; but +both have the same humour and artistic interests, the same unquenched +ardour in pursuit, the same gusts of talk and thunderclaps of +contradiction. + +Cockshot[41] is a different article, but vastly entertaining, and has +been meat and drink to me for many a long evening. His manner is dry, +brisk and pertinacious, and the choice of words not much. The point +about him is his extraordinary readiness and spirit. You can propound +nothing but he has either a theory about it ready-made, or will have one +instantly on the stocks, and proceed to lay its timbers and launch it in +your presence. "Let me see," he will say. "Give me a moment. I _should_ +have some theory for that." A blither spectacle than the vigour with +which he sets about the task, it were hard to fancy. He is possessed by +a demoniac energy, welding the elements for his life, and bending ideas, +as an athlete bends a horseshoe, with a visible and lively effort. He +has, in theorising, a compass, an art; what I would call the synthetic +gusto; something of a Herbert Spencer, who should see the fun of the +thing. You are not bound, and no more is he, to place your faith in +these brand-new opinions. But some of them are right enough, durable +even for life; and the poorest serve for a cock-shy--as when idle +people, after picnics, float a bottle on a pond and have an hour's +diversion ere, it sinks. Whichever they are, serious opinions or humours +of the moment, he still defends his ventures with indefatigable wit and +spirit, hitting savagely himself, but taking punishment like a man. He +knows and never forgets that people talk, first of all, for the sake of +talking; conducts himself in the ring, to use the old slang, like a +thorough "glutton," and honestly enjoys a telling facer from his +adversary. Cockshot is bottled effervescency, the sworn foe of sleep. +Three-in-the-morning Cockshot, says a victim. His talk is like the +driest of all imaginable dry champagnes. Sleight of hand and inimitable +quickness are the qualities by which he lives. Athelred, on the other +hand, presents you with the spectacle of a sincere and somewhat slow +nature thinking aloud. He is the most unready man I ever knew to shine +in conversation. You may see him sometimes wrestle with a refractory +jest for a minute or two together, and perhaps fail to throw it in the +end. And there is something singularly engaging, often instructive, in +the simplicity with which he thus exposes the process as well as the +result, the works as well as the dial of the clock. Withal he has his +hours of inspiration. Apt words come to him as if by accident, and, +coming from deeper down, they smack the more personally, they have the +more of fine old crusted humanity, rich in sediment and humour. There +are sayings of his in which he has stamped himself into the very grain +of the language; you would think he must have worn the words next his +skin and slept with them. Yet it is not as a sayer of particular good +things that Athelred is most to be regarded, rather as the stalwart +woodman of thought. I have pulled on a light cord often enough, while he +has been wielding the broad-axe; and between us, on this unequal, +division, many a specious fallacy has fallen. I have known him to battle +the same question night after night for years, keeping it in the reign +of talk, constantly applying it and re-applying it to life with humorous +or grave intention, and all the while, never hurrying, nor flagging, nor +taking an unfair advantage of the facts. Jack at a given moment, when +arising, as it were, from the tripod, can be more radiantly just to +those from whom he differs; but then the tenor of his thoughts is even +calumnious; while Athelred, slower to forge excuses, is yet slower to +condemn, and sits over the welter of the world, vacillating but still +judicial, and still faithfully contending with his doubts. + +Both the last talkers deal much in points of conduct and religion +studied in the "dry light" of prose. Indirectly and as if against his +will the same elements from time to time appear in the troubled and +poetic talk of Opalstein. His various and exotic knowledge, complete +although unready sympathies, and fine, full, discriminative flow of +language, fit him out to be the best of talkers; so perhaps he is with +some, not _quite_ with me--_proxime accessit_,[42] I should say. He +sings the praises of the earth and the arts, flowers and jewels, wine +and music, in a moonlight, serenading manner, as to the light guitar; +even wisdom comes from his tongue like singing; no one is, indeed, more +tuneful in the upper notes. But even while he sings the song of the +Sirens, he still hearkens to the barking of the Sphinx. Jarring Byronic +notes interrupt the flow of his Horatian humours. His mirth has +something of the tragedy of the world for its perpetual background; and +he feasts like Don Giovanni to a double orchestra, one lightly sounding +for the dance, one pealing Beethoven in the distance. He is not truly +reconciled either with life or with himself; and this instant war in his +members sometimes divides the man's attention. He does not always, +perhaps not often, frankly surrender himself in conversation. He brings +into the talk other thoughts than those which he expresses; you are +conscious that he keeps an eye on something else, that he does not shake +off the world, nor quite forget himself. Hence arise occasional +disappointments; even an occasional unfairness for his companions, who +find themselves one day giving too much, and the next, when they are +wary out of season, giving perhaps too little. Purcel is in another +class from any I have mentioned. He is no debater, but appears in +conversation, as occasion rises, in two distinct characters, one of +which I admire and fear, and the other love. In the first, he is +radiantly civil and rather silent, sits on a high, courtly hilltop, and +from that vantage-ground drops you his remarks like favours. He seems +not to share in our sublunary contentions; he wears no sign of interest; +when on a sudden there falls in a crystal of wit, so polished that the +dull do not perceive it, but so right that the sensitive are silenced. +True talk should have more body and blood, should be louder, vainer and +more declaratory of the man; the true talker should not hold so steady +an advantage over whom he speaks with; and that is one reason out of a +score why I prefer my Purcel in his second character, when he unbends +into a strain of graceful gossip, singing like the fireside kettle. In +these moods he has an elegant homeliness that rings of the true Queen +Anne. I know another person who attains, in his moments, to the +insolence of a Restoration comedy, speaking, I declare, as Congreve +wrote; but that is a sport of nature, and scarce falls under the rubric, +for there is none, alas! to give him answer. + +One last remark occurs: It is the mark of genuine conversation that the +sayings can scarce be quoted with their full effect beyond the circle of +common friends. To have their proper weight they, should appear in a +biography, and with the portrait of the speaker. Good talk is dramatic; +it is like an impromptu piece of acting where each should represent +himself to the greatest advantage; and that is the best kind of talk +where each speaker is most fully and candidly himself, and where, if you +were to shift the speeches, round from one to another, there would be +the greatest loss in significance and perspicuity. It is for this reason +that talk depends so wholly on our company. We should like to introduce +Falstaff and Mercutio, or Falstaff and Sir Toby; but Falstaff in talk +with Cordelia seems even painful. Most of us, by the Protean quality of +man, can talk to some degree with all; but the true talk, that strikes +out all the slumbering best of us, comes only with the peculiar +brethren of our spirits, is founded as deep as love in the constitution +of our being, and is a thing to relish with all our energy, while yet we +have it, and to be grateful for forever. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 38: The first of two papers on this subject written in 1881-2; +reprinted here, by permission of the publishers, from "Memories and +Portraits" in the Biographical Edition of Stevenson's Works, Charles +Scribner's Sons, 1907.] + +[Footnote 39: Kudos (Greek): glory.] + +[Footnote 40: Court of love: a mediaeval institution for the discussion +of questions of chivalry.] + +[Footnote 41: The Late Fleeming Jenkin--Author's note.] + +[Footnote 42: Proxime accessit: he comes very close to it.] + + + + +THE SOCIAL VALUE OF THE COLLEGE-BRED[43] + +WILLIAM JAMES + + +Of what use is a college training? We who have had it seldom hear the +question raised--we might be a little nonplussed to answer it offhand. A +certain amount of meditation has brought me to this as the pithiest +reply which I myself can give: The best claim that a college education +can possibly make on your respect, the best thing it can aspire to +accomplish for you, is this: that it should _help you to know a good man +when you see him_. This is as true of women's as of men's colleges; but +that it is neither a joke nor a one-sided abstraction I shall now +endeavor to show. + +What talk do we commonly hear about the contrast between college +education and the education which business or technical or professional +schools confer? The college education is called higher because it is +supposed to be so general and so disinterested. At the "schools" you get +a relatively narrow practical skill, you are told, whereas the +"colleges" give you the more liberal culture, the broader outlook, the +historical perspective, the philosophic atmosphere, or something which +phrases of that sort try to express. You are made into an efficient +instrument for doing a definite thing, you hear, at the schools; but, +apart from that, you may remain a crude and smoky kind of petroleum, +incapable of spreading light. The universities and colleges, on the +other hand, although they may leave you less efficient for this or that +practical task, suffuse your whole mentality with something more +important than skill. They redeem you, make you well-bred; they make +"good company" of you mentally. If they find you with a naturally +boorish or caddish mind, they cannot leave you so, as a technical school +may leave you. This, at least, is pretended; this is what we hear among +college-trained people when they compare their education with every +other sort. Now, exactly how much does this signify? + +It is certain, to begin with, that the narrowest trade or professional +training does something more for a man than to make a skillful practical +tool of him--it makes him also a judge of other men's skill. Whether his +trade be pleading at the bar or surgery or plastering or plumbing, it +develops a critical sense in him for that sort of occupation. He +understands the difference between second-rate and first-rate work in +his whole branch of industry; he gets to know a good job in his own line +as soon as he sees it; and getting to know this in his own line, he gets +a faint sense of what good work may mean anyhow, that may, if +circumstances favor, spread into his judgments elsewhere. Sound work, +clean work, finished work; feeble work, slack work, sham work--these +words express an identical contrast in many different departments of +activity. In so far, then, even the humblest manual trade may beget in +one a certain small degree of power to judge of good work generally. + +Now, what is supposed to be the line of us who have the higher college +training? Is there any broader line--since our education claims +primarily not to be "narrow"--in which we also are made good judges +between what is first-rate and what is second-rate only? What is +especially taught in the colleges has long been known by the name of the +"humanities," and these are often identified with Greek and Latin. But +it is only as literatures, not as languages, that Greek and Latin have +any general humanity-value; so that in a broad sense the humanities mean +literature primarily, and in a still broader sense the study of +masterpieces in almost any field of human endeavor. Literature keeps +the primacy; for it not only _consists_ of masterpieces, but is largely +_about_ masterpieces, being little more than an appreciative chronicle +of human master-strokes, so far as it takes the form of criticism and +history. You can give humanistic value to almost anything by teaching it +historically. Geology, economics, mechanics, are humanities when taught +with reference to the successive achievements of the geniuses to which +these sciences owe their being. Not taught thus, literature remains +grammar, art a catalogue, history a list of dates, and natural science a +sheet of formulas and weights and measures. + +The sifting of human creations!--nothing less than this is what we ought +to mean by the humanities. Essentially this means biography; what our +colleges should teach is, therefore, biographical history, not that of +politics merely, but of anything and everything so far as human efforts +and conquests are factors that have played their part. Studying in this +way, we learn what type's of activity have stood the test of time; we +acquire standards of the excellent: and durable. All our arts and +sciences and institutions are but so many quests of perfection on the +part of men; and when we see how diverse the types of excellence may be, +how various the tests, how flexible the adaptations, we gain a richer +sense of what the terms "better" and "worse" may signify in general. Our +critical sensibilities grow both more acute and less fanatical. We +sympathize with men's mistakes even in the act of penetrating them; we +feel the pathos of lost causes and misguided epochs even while we +applaud what overcame them. + +Such words are vague and such ideas are inadequate, but their meaning is +unmistakable. What the colleges--teaching humanities by examples which +may be special, but which must be typical and pregnant--should at least +try to give us, is a general sense of what, under various disguises, +_superiority_ has always signified and may still signify. The feeling +for a good human job anywhere, the admiration of the really admirable, +the disesteem of what is cheap and trashy and impermanent--this is what +we call the critical sense, the sense for ideal values. It is the better +part of what men know as wisdom. Some of us are wise in this way +naturally and by genius; some of us never become so. But to have spent +one's youth at college, in contact with the choice and rare and +precious, and yet still to be a blind prig or vulgarian, unable to scent +out human excellence or to divine it amid its accidents, to know it only +when ticketed and labeled and forced on us by others, this indeed should +be accounted the very calamity and shipwreck of a higher education. + +The sense for human superiority ought, then, to be considered our line, +as boring subways is the engineer's line and the surgeon's is +appendicitis. Our colleges ought to have lit up in us a lasting relish +for the better kind of man, a loss of appetite for mediocrities, and a +disgust for cheap-jacks. We ought to smell, as it were, the difference +of quality in men and their proposals when we enter the world of affairs +about us. Expertness in this might well atone for some of our +awkwardness at accounts, for some of our ignorance of dynamos. The best +claim we can make for the higher education, the best single phrase in +which we can tell what it ought to do for us, is, then, exactly what I +said: it should enable us to _know a good man when we see him_. + +That the phrase is anything but an empty epigram follows from the fact +that if you ask in what line it is most important that a democracy like +ours should have its sons and daughters skillful, you see that it is +this line more than any other. "The people in their wisdom"--this is the +kind of wisdom most needed by the people. Democracy is on its trial, and +no one knows how it will stand the ordeal. Abounding about us are +pessimistic prophets. Fickleness and violence used to be, but are no +longer, the vices which they charge to democracy. What its critics now +affirm is that its preferences are inveterately for the inferior. So it +was in the beginning, they say, and so it will be world without end. +Vulgarity enthroned and institutionalized, elbowing everything superior +from the highway, this, they tell us, is our irremediable destiny; and +the picture papers of the European continent are already drawing Uncle +Sam with the hog instead of the eagle for his heraldic emblem. The +privileged aristocracies of the foretime, with all their iniquities, did +at least preserve some taste for higher human quality and honor certain +forms of refinement by their enduring traditions. But when democracy is +sovereign, its doubters say, nobility will form a sort of invisible +church, and sincerity and refinement, stripped of honor, precedence, and +favor, will have to vegetate on sufferance in private corners. They will +have no general influence. They will be harmless eccentricities. + +Now, who can be absolutely certain that this may not be the career of +democracy? Nothing future is quite secure; states enough have inwardly +rotted; and democracy as a whole may undergo self-poisoning. But, on the +other hand, democracy is a kind of religion, and we are bound not to +admit its failure. Faiths and Utopias are the noblest exercise of human +reason, and no one with a spark of reason in him will sit down +fatalistically before the croaker's picture. The best of us are filled +with the contrary vision of a democracy stumbling through every error +till its institutions glow with justice and its customs shine with +beauty. Our better men _shall_ show the way and we _shall_ follow them; +so we are brought round again to the mission of the higher education in +helping us to know the better kind of man whenever we see him. + +The notion that a people can run itself and its affairs anonymously is +now well known to be the silliest of absurdities. Mankind does nothing +save through initiatives on the part of inventors, great or small, and +imitation by the rest of us--these are the sole factors active in human +progress. Individuals of genius show the way, and set the patterns, +which common people then adopt and follow. _The rivalry of the patterns +is the history of the world_. Our democratic problem thus is statable +in ultra-simple terms: Who are the kind of men from whom our majorities +shall take their cue? Whom shall they treat as rightful leaders? We and +our leaders are the _x_ and the _y_ of the equation here; all other +historic circumstances, be they economical, political, or intellectual, +are only the background of occasion on which the living drama works +itself out between us. + +In this very simple way does the value of our educated class define +itself: we more than others should be able to divine the worthier and +better leaders. The terms here are monstrously simplified, of course, +but such a bird's-eye view lets us immediately take our bearings. In our +democracy, where everything else is so shifting, we alumni and alumnae +of the colleges are the only permanent presence that corresponds to the +aristocracy in older countries. We have continuous traditions, as they +have; our motto, too, is _noblesse oblige_; and, unlike them, we stand +for ideal interests solely, for we have no corporate selfishness and +wield no powers of corruption. We ought to have our own +class-consciousness. "Les intellectuels!" What prouder club name could +there be than this one, used ironically by the party of "red blood," the +party of every stupid prejudice and passion, during the anti-Dreyfus +craze, to satirize the men in France who still retained some critical +sense and judgment! Critical sense, it has to be confessed, is not an +exciting term, hardly a banner to carry in processions. Affections for +old habit, currents of self-interest, and gales of passion are the +forces that keep the human ship moving; and the pressure of the +judicious pilot's hand upon the tiller is a relatively insignificant +energy. But the affections, passions, and interests are shifting, +successive, and distraught; they blow in alternation while the pilot's +hand is steadfast. He knows the compass, and, with all the leeways he is +obliged to tack toward, he always makes some headway. A small force, if +it never lets up, will accumulate effects more considerable than those +of much greater forces if these work inconsistently. The ceaseless +whisper of the more permanent ideals, the steady tug of truth and +justice, give them but time, _must_ warp the world in their direction. + +This bird's-eye view of the general steering function of the +college-bred amid the driftings of democracy ought to help us to a wider +vision of what our colleges themselves should aim at. If we are to be +the yeast cake for democracy's dough, if we are to make it rise with +culture's preferences, we must see to it that culture spreads broad +sails. We must shake the old double reefs out of the canvas into the +wind and sunshine, and let in every modern subject, sure that any +subject will prove humanistic, if its setting be kept only wide enough. + +Stevenson says somewhere to his reader: "You think you are just making +this bargain, but you are really laying down a link in the policy of +mankind." Well, your technical school should enable you to make your +bargain splendidly; but your college should show you just the place of +that kind of bargain--a pretty poor place, possibly--in the whole policy +of mankind. That is the kind of liberal outlook, of perspective, of +atmosphere, which should surround every subject as a college deals with +it. + +We of the colleges must eradicate a curious notion which numbers of good +people have about such ancient seats of learning as Harvard. To many +ignorant outsiders, that name suggests little more than a kind of +sterilized conceit and incapacity for being pleased. In Edith Wyatt's +exquisite book of Chicago sketches called "Every One his Own Way," there +is a couple who stand for culture in the sense of exclusiveness, Richard +Elliot and his feminine counterpart--feeble caricatures of mankind, +unable to know any good thing when they see it, incapable of enjoyment +unless a printed label gives them leave. Possibly this type of culture +may exist near Cambridge and Boston, there may be specimens there, for +priggishness is just like painters' colic or any other trade disease. +But every good college makes its students immune against this malady, of +which the microbe haunts the neighborhood-printed pages. It does so by +its general tone being too hearty for the microbe's life. Real culture +lives by sympathies and admirations, not by dislikes and disdains--under +all misleading wrappings it pounces unerringly upon the human core. If a +college, through the inferior human influences that have grown regnant +there, fails to catch the robuster tone, its failure is colossal, for +its social function stops: democracy gives it a wide berth, turns toward +it a deaf ear. + +"Tone," to be sure, is a terribly vague word to use, but there is no +other, and this whole meditation is over questions of tone. By their +tone are all things human either lost or saved. If democracy is to be +saved it must catch the higher, healthier tone. If we are to impress it +with our preferences, we ourselves must use the proper tone, which we, +in turn, must have caught from our own teachers. It all reverts in the +end to the action of innumerable imitative individuals upon each other +and to the question of whose tone has the highest spreading power. As a +class, we college graduates should look to it that _ours_ has spreading +power. It ought to have the highest spreading power. + +In our essential function of indicating the better men, we now have +formidable competitors outside. _McClure's Magazine,_ the _American +Magazine, Collier's Weekly_, and, in its fashion, the _World's Work_, +constitute together a real popular university along this very line. It +would be a pity if any future historian were to have to write words like +these: "By the middle of the twentieth century the higher institutions +of learning had lost all influence over public opinion in the United +States. But the mission of raising the tone of democracy, which they had +proved themselves so lamentably unfitted to exert, was assumed with rare +enthusiasm and prosecuted with extraordinary skill and success by a new +educational power; and for the clarification of their human sympathies +and elevation of their human preferences, the people at large acquired +the habit of resorting exclusively to the guidance of certain private +literary adventures, commonly designated in the market by the +affectionate name of ten-cent magazines." + +Must not we of the colleges see to it that no historian shall ever say +anything like this? Vague as the phrase of knowing a good man when you +see him may be, diffuse and indefinite as one must leave its +application, is there any other formula that describes so well the +result at which our institutions _ought_ to aim? If they do that, they +do the best thing conceivable. If they fail to do it, they fail in very +deed. It surely is a fine synthetic formula. If our faculties and +graduates could once collectively come to realize it as the great +underlying purpose toward which they have always been more or less +obscurely groping, great clearness would be shed over many of their +problems; and, as for their influence in the midst of our social system, +it would embark upon a new career of strength. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 43: First published in 1908. Reprinted by permission from +_Memories and Studies_, 1911. (Messrs. Longmans, Green and Co.)] + + + + +THE LAW OF HUMAN PROGRESS[44] + +HENRY GEORGE + + +What, then, is the law of human progress--the law under which +civilization advances? + +It must explain clearly and definitely, and not by vague generalities or +superficial analogies, why, though mankind started presumably with the +same capacities and at the same time, there now exist such wide +differences in social development. It must account for the arrested +civilizations and for the decayed and destroyed civilizations; for the +general facts as to the rise of civilization, and for the petrifying or +enervating force which the progress of civilization has heretofore +always evolved. It must account for retrogression a well as for +progression; for the differences in general character between Asiatic +and European civilizations; for the difference between classical and +modern civilizations; for the different rates at which progress goes on; +and for those bursts, and starts, and halts of progress which are so +marked as minor phenomena. And, thus, it must show us what are the +essential conditions of progress, and what social adjustments advance +and what retard it. + +It is not difficult to discover such a law. We have but to look and we +may see it. I do not pretend to give it scientific precision, but merely +to point it out. + +The incentives to progress are the desires inherent in human nature--the +desire to gratify the wants of the animal nature, the wants of the +intellectual nature, and the wants of the sympathetic nature; the desire +to be, to know, and to do--desires that short of infinity can never be +satisfied, as they grow by what they feed on. + +Mind is the instrument by which man advances, and by which each advance +is secured and made the vantage ground for new advances. Though he may +not by taking thought add a cubit to his stature, man may by taking +thought extend his knowledge of the universe and his power over it, in +what, so far as we can see, is an infinite degree. The narrow span of +human life allows the individual to go but a short distance, but though +each generation may do but little, yet generations, succeeding to the +gain of their predecessors, may gradually elevate the status of mankind, +as coral polyps, building one generation upon the work of the other, +gradually elevate themselves from the bottom of the sea. + +Mental power is, therefore, the motor of progress, and men tend to +advance in proportion to the mental power expended in progression--the +mental power which is devoted to the extension of knowledge, the +improvement of methods, and the betterment of social conditions. + +Now mental power is a fixed quantity--that is to say, there is a limit +to the work a man can do with his mind, as there is to the work he can +do with his body; therefore, the mental power which can be devoted to +progress is only what is left after what is required for non-progressive +purposes. + +These non-progressive purposes in which mental power is consumed may be +classified as maintenance and conflict. By maintenance I mean, not only +the support of existence, but the keeping up of the social condition and +the holding of advances already gained. By conflict I mean not merely +warfare and preparation for warfare, but all expenditure of mental power +in seeking the gratification of desire at the expense of others, and in +resistance to such aggression. + +To compare society to a boat. Her progress through the water will not +depend upon the exertion of her crew, but upon the exertion devoted to +propelling her. This will be lessened by any expenditure of force +required for bailing, or any expenditure of force in fighting among +themselves, or in pulling in different directions. + +Now, as in a separated state the whole powers of man are required to +maintain existence, and mental power is set free for higher uses only by +the association of men in communities, which permits the division of +labor and all the economies which come with the co-operation of, +increased numbers, association is the first essential of progress. +Improvement becomes possible as men come together in peaceful +association, and the wider and closer the association, the greater the +possibilities of improvement. And as the wasteful expenditure of mental +power in conflict becomes greater or less as the moral law which accords +to each an equality of rights is ignored or is recognized, equality (or +justice) is the second essential of progress. + +Thus association in equality is the law of progress. Association frees +mental power for expenditure in improvement, and equality, or justice, +or freedom--for the terms here signify the same thing, the recognition +of the moral law--prevents the dissipation of this power in fruitless +struggles. + +Here is the law of progress, which will explain all diversities, all +advances, all halts, and retrogressions. Men tend to progress just as +they come closer together, and by co-operation with each other increase +the mental power that may be devoted to improvement; but just as +conflict is provoked, or association develops inequality of condition +and power, this tendency to progression is lessened, checked, and +finally reversed. + +Given the same innate capacity, and it is evident that social +development will go on faster or slower, will stop or turn back, +according to the resistances it meets. In a general way these obstacles +to improvement may, in relation to the society itself, be classed as +external and internal--the first operating with greater force in the +earlier stages of civilization, the latter becoming more important in +the later stages. + +Man is social in his nature. He does not require to be caught and tamed +in order to induce him to live with his fellows. The utter helplessness +with which he enters the world, and the long period required for the +maturity of his powers, necessitate the family relation; which, as we +may observe, is wider, and in its extensions stronger, among the ruder +than among the more cultivated peoples. The first societies are +families, expanding into tribes, still holding a mutual blood +relationship, and even when they have become great nations claiming a +common descent. + +Given beings of this kind, placed on a globe of such diversified surface +and climate as this, and it is evident that, even with equal capacity, +and an equal start, social development must be very different. The first +limit or resistance to association will come from the conditions of +physical nature, and as these greatly vary with locality, corresponding +differences in social progress must show themselves. The net rapidity of +increase, and the closeness with which men, as they increase, can keep +together, will, in the rude state of knowledge in which reliance for +subsistence must be principally upon the spontaneous offerings of +nature, very largely depend upon climate, soil, and physical +conformation. Where much animal food and warm clothing are required; +where the earth seems poor and niggard; where the exuberant life of +tropical forests mocks barbarous man's puny efforts to control; where +mountains, deserts, or arms of the sea separate and isolate men; +association, and the power of improvement which it evolves, can at first +go but a little way. But on the rich plains of warm climates, where +human existence can be maintained with a smaller expenditure of force, +and from a much smaller area, men can keep closer together, and the +mental power which can at first be devoted to improvement is much +greater. Hence civilization naturally first arises in the great valleys +and table-lands where we find its earliest monuments. + +But these diversities in natural conditions, not merely thus directly +produce diversities in social development, but, by producing diversities +in social development, bring out in man himself an obstacle, or rather +an active counterforce, to improvement. As families and tribes are +separated from each other, the social feeling ceases to operate between +them, and differences arise in language, custom, tradition, religion--in +short, in the whole social web which each community, however small or +large, constantly spins. With these differences, prejudices grow, +animosities spring up, contact easily produces quarrels, aggression +begets aggression, and wrong kindles revenge.[45] And so between these +separate social aggregates arises the feeling of Ishmael and the spirit +of Cain, warfare becomes the chronic and seemingly natural relation of +societies to each other, and the powers of men are expended in attack or +defense, in mutual slaughter and mutual destruction of wealth, or in +warlike preparations. How long this hostility persists, the protective +tariffs and the standing armies of the civilized world to-day bear +witness; how difficult it is to get over the idea that it is not theft +to steal from a foreigner, the difficulty in procuring an international +copyright act will show. Can we wonder at the perpetual hostilities of +tribes and clans? Can we wonder that when each community was isolated +from the others--when each, uninfluenced by the others, was spinning its +separate web of social environment, which no individual can escape, that +war should have been the rule and peace the exception? "They were even +as we are." + +Now, warfare is the negation of association. The separation of men into +diverse tribes, by increasing warfare, thus checks improvement; while in +the localities where a large increase in numbers is possible without +much separation; civilization gains the advantage of exemption from +tribal war, even when the community as a whole is carrying on warfare +beyond its borders. Thus, where the resistance of nature to the close +association of men is slightest, the counterforce of warfare is likely +at first to be least felt; and in the rich plains where civilization +first begins, it may rise to a great height while scattered tribes are +yet barbarous. And thus, when small, separated communities exist in a +state of chronic warfare which forbids advance, the first step to their +civilization is the advent of some conquering tribe or nation that +unites these smaller communities into a larger one, in which internal +peace is preserved. Where this power of peaceable association is broken +up, either by external assaults or internal dissensions, the advance +ceases and retrogression begins. + +But it is not conquest alone that has operated to promote association, +and, by liberating mental power from the necessities of warfare, to +promote civilization. If the diversities of climate, soil, and +configuration of the earth's surface operate at first to separate +mankind, they also operate to encourage exchange. And commerce, which is +in itself a form of association or co-operation, operates to promote +civilization, not only directly, but by building up interests which are +opposed to warfare, and dispelling the ignorance which is the fertile +mother of prejudices and animosities. + +And so of religion. Though the forms it has assumed and the animosities +it has aroused have often sundered men and produced warfare, yet it has +at other times been the means of promoting association. A common worship +has often, as among the Greeks, mitigated war and furnished the basis of +union, while it is from the triumph of Christianity over the barbarians +of Europe that modern civilization springs. Had not the Christian Church +existed when the Roman Empire went to pieces, Europe, destitute of any +bond of association, might have fallen to a condition not much above +that of the North American Indians or only received civilization with an +Asiatic impress from the conquering scimiters of the invading hordes +which had been welded into a mighty power by a religion which, springing +up in the deserts of Arabia, had united tribes separated from time +immemorial, and, thence issuing, brought into the association of a +common faith a great part of the human race. + +Looking over what we know of the history of the world, we thus see +civilization everywhere springing up where men are brought into +association, and everywhere disappearing as this association is broken +up. Thus the Roman civilization, spread over Europe by the conquests +which insured internal peace, was overwhelmed by the incursions of the +northern nations that broke society again into disconnected fragments; +and the progress that now goes on in our modern civilization began as +the feudal system again began to associate men in larger communities, +and the spiritual supremacy of Rome to bring these communities into a +common relation, as her legions had done before. As the feudal bonds +grew into national autonomies, and Christianity worked the amelioration +of manners, brought forth the knowledge that during the dark days she +had hidden, bound the threads of peaceful union in her all-pervading +organization, and taught association in her religious orders, a greater +progress became possible, which, as men have been brought into closer +and closer association and co-operation, has gone on with greater and +greater force. + +But we shall never understand the course of civilization, and the +varied phenomena which its history presents, without a consideration of +what I may term the internal resistances, or counter forces, which arise +in the heart of advancing society, and which can alone explain how a +civilization once fairly started should either come of itself to a halt +or be destroyed by barbarians. + +The mental power, which is the motor of social progress, is set free by +association, which is,--what, perhaps, it may be more properly +called,--an integration. Society in this process becomes more complex; +its individuals more dependent upon each other. Occupations and +functions are specialized. Instead of wandering, population becomes +fixed. Instead of each man attempting to supply all of his wants, the +various trades and industries are separated--one man acquires skill in +one thing, and another in another thing. So, too, of knowledge, the body +of which constantly tends to become vaster than one man can grasp, and +is separated into different parts, which different individuals acquire +and pursue. So, too, the performance of religious ceremonies tends to +pass into the hands of a body of men specially devoted to that purpose, +and the preservation of order, the administration of justice, the +assignment of public duties and the distribution of awards, the conduct +of war, etc., to be made the special functions of an organized +government. In short, to use the language in which Herbert Spencer has +defined evolution, the development of society is, in relation to its +component individuals, the passing from an indefinite, incoherent +homogeneity to a definite, coherent heterogeneity. The lower the stage +of social development, the more society resembles one of those lowest of +animal organisms which are without organs or limbs, and from which a +part may be cut and yet live. The higher the stage of social +development, the more society resembles those higher organisms in which +functions and powers are specialized, and each member is vitally +dependent on the others. + +Now, this process of integration, of the specialization of functions +and powers, as it goes on in society, is, by virtue of what is probably +one of the deepest laws of human nature, accompanied by a constant +liability to inequality. I do not mean that inequality is the necessary +result of social growth, but that it is the constant tendency of social +growth if unaccompanied by changes in social adjustments, which, in the +new conditions that growth produces, will secure equality. I mean, so to +speak, that the garment of laws, customs, and political institutions, +which each society weaves for itself, is constantly tending to become +too tight as the society develops. I mean, so to speak, that man, as he +advances, threads a labyrinth, in which, if he keeps straight ahead, he +will infallibly lose his way, and through which reason and justice can +alone keep him continuously in an ascending path. + +For, while the integration which accompanies growth tends in itself to +set free mental power to work improvement, there is, both with increase +of numbers and with increase in complexity of the social organization, a +counter tendency set up to the production of a state of inequality, +which wastes mental power, and, as it increases, brings improvement to a +halt. + +To trace to its highest expression the law which thus operates to evolve +with progress the force which stops progress, would be, it seems to me, +to go far to the solution of a problem deeper than that of the genesis +of the material universe--the problem of the genesis of evil. Let me +content myself with pointing out the manner in which, as society +develops, there arise tendencies which check development. + +There are two qualities of human nature which it will be well, however, +to first call to mind. The one is the power of habit:--the tendency to +continue to do things in the same way; the other is the possibility of +mental and moral deterioration. The effect of the first in social +development is to continue habits, customs, laws and methods, long after +they have lost their original usefulness, and the effect of the other +is to permit the growth of institutions and modes of thought from which +the normal perceptions of men instinctively revolt. + +Now the growth and development of society not merely tend to make each +more and more dependent upon all, and to lessen the influence of +individuals, even over their own conditions, as compared with the +influence of society; but the effect of association or integration is to +give rise to a collective power which is distinguishable from the sum of +individual powers. Analogies, or, perhaps, rather illustrations of the +same law, may be found in all directions. As animal organisms increase +in complexity, there arise, above the life and power of the parts, a +life and power of the integrated whole; above the capability of +involuntary movements, the capability of voluntary movements. The +actions and impulses of bodies of men are, as has often been observed, +different from those which, under the same circumstances, would be +called forth in individuals. The fighting qualities of a regiment may be +very different from those of the individual soldiers. But there is no +need of illustrations. In our inquiries into the nature and rise of +rent, we traced the very thing to which I allude. Where population is +sparse, land has no value; just as men congregate together, the value of +land appears and rises--a clearly distinguishable thing from the values +produced by individual effort; a value which springs from association, +which increases as association grows greater, and disappears as +association is broken up. And the same thing is true of power in other +forms than those generally expressed in terms of wealth. + +Now, as society grows, the disposition to continue previous, social +adjustments tends to lodge this collective power, as it arises, in the +hands of a portion of the community; and this unequal distribution of +the wealth and power gained as society advances tends to produce greater +inequality, since aggression grows by what it feeds on, and the idea of +justice is blurred by the habitual toleration of injustice. + +In this way the patriarchal organization of society can easily grow +into hereditary monarchy, in which the king is as a god on earth, and +the masses of the people mere slaves of his caprice. It is natural that +the father should be the directing head of the family, and that at his +death the eldest son, as the oldest and most experienced member of the +little community, should succeed to the headship. But to continue this +arrangement as the family expands, is to lodge power in a particular +line, and the power thus lodged necessarily continues to increase, as +the common stock becomes larger and larger, and the power of the +community grows. The head of the family passes into the hereditary king, +who comes to look upon himself and to be looked upon by others as a +being of superior rights. With the growth of the collective power as +compared with the power of the individual, his power to reward and to +punish increases, and so increase the inducements to flatter and to fear +him; until finally, if the process be not disturbed, a nation grovels at +the foot of a throne, and a hundred thousand men toil for fifty years to +prepare a tomb for one of their own mortal kind. + +So the war-chief of a little band of savages is but one of their number, +whom they follow as their bravest and most wary. But when large bodies +come to act together, personal selection becomes more difficult, a +blinder obedience becomes necessary and can be enforced, and from the +very necessities of warfare when conducted on a large scale absolute +power arises. + +And so of the specialization of function. There is a manifest gain in +productive power when social growth has gone so far that instead of +every producer being summoned from his work for fighting purposes, a +regular military force can be specialized; but this inevitably tends to +the concentration of power in the hands of the military class or their +chiefs. The preservation of internal order, the administration of +justice, the construction and care of public works, and, notably, the +observances of religion, all tend in similar manner to pass into the +hands of special classes, whose disposition it is to magnify their +function and extend their power. + +But the great cause of inequality is in the natural monopoly which is +given by the possession of land. The first perceptions of men seem +always to be that land is common property; but the rude devices by which +this is at first recognized--such as annual partitions or cultivation in +common--are consistent with only a low stage of development. The idea of +property, which naturally arises with reference to things of human +production, is easily transferred to land, and an institution which when +population is sparse merely secures to the improver and user the due +reward of his labor, finally, as population becomes dense and rent +arises, operates to strip the producer of his wages. Not merely this, +but the appropriation of rent for public purposes, which is the only way +in which, with anything like a high development, land can be readily +retained as common property, becomes, when political and religious power +passes into the hands of a class, the ownership of the land by that +class, and the rest of the community become merely tenants. And wars and +conquests, which tend to the concentration of political power and to the +institution of slavery, naturally result, where social growth has given +land a value, in the appropriation of the soil. A dominant class, who +concentrate power in their hands, will likewise soon concentrate +ownership of the land. To them will fall large partitions of conquered +land, which the former inhabitants will till as tenants or serfs, and +the public domain, or common lands, which in the natural course of +social growth are left for a while in every country, and in which state +the primitive system of village culture leaves pasture and woodland, are +readily acquired, as we see by modern instances. And inequality once +established, the ownership of land tends to concentrate as development +goes on. + +I am merely attempting to set forth the general fact that as a social +development goes on, inequality tends to establish itself, and not to +point out the particular sequence, which must necessarily vary with +different conditions. But this main fact makes intelligible all the +phenomena of petrifaction and retrogression. The unequal distribution of +the power and wealth gained by the integration of men in society tends +to check, and finally to counterbalance, the force by which improvements +are made and society advances. On the one side, the masses of the +community are compelled to expend their mental powers in merely +maintaining existence. On the other side, mental power is expended in +keeping up and intensifying the system of inequality, in ostentation, +luxury, and warfare. A community divided into a class that rules and a +class that is ruled--into the very rich and the very poor--may "build +like giants and finish like jewelers;" but it will be monuments of +ruthless pride and barren vanity, or of a religion turned from its +office of elevating man into an instrument for keeping him down. +Invention may for a while to some degree go on; but it will be the +invention of refinements in luxury, not the inventions that relieve toil +and increase power. In the arcana of temples or in the chambers of court +physicians knowledge may still be sought; but it will be hidden as a +secret thing, or if it dares come out to elevate common thought or +brighten common life, it will be trodden down as a dangerous innovator. +For as it tends to lessen the mental power devoted to improvement, so +does inequality tend to render men adverse to improvement. How strong is +the disposition to adhere to old methods among the classes who are kept +in ignorance by being compelled to toil for a mere existence, is too +well known to require illustration, and on the other hand the +conservatism of the classes to whom the existing social adjustment gives +special advantages is equally apparent. This tendency to resist +innovation, even though it be improvement, is observable in every +special organization--in religion, in law, in medicine, in science, in +trade guilds; and it becomes intense just as the organization is close. +A close corporation has always an instinctive dislike of innovation and +innovators, which is but the expression of an instinctive fear that +change may tend to throw down the barriers which hedge it in from the +common herd, and so rob it of importance and power; and it is always +disposed to guard carefully its special knowledge or skill. + +It is in this way that petrifaction succeeds progress. The advance of +inequality necessarily brings improvement to a halt, and as it still +persists or provokes unavailing reactions, draws even upon the mental +power necessary for maintenance, and retrogression begins. + +These principles make intelligible the history of civilization. + +In the localities where climate, soil, and physical conformation tended +least to separate men as they increased, and where, accordingly, the +first civilizations grew up, the internal resistances to progress would +naturally develop in a more regular and thorough manner than where +smaller communities, which in their separation had developed +diversities, were afterward brought together into a closer association. +It is this, it seems to me, which accounts for the general +characteristics of the earlier civilizations as compared with the later +civilizations of Europe. Such homogeneous communities, developing from +the first without the jar of conflict between different customs, laws, +religions, etc., would show a much greater uniformity. The concentrating +and conservative forces would all, so to speak, pull together. Rival +chieftains would not counterbalance each other, nor diversities of +belief hold the growth of priestly influence in check. Political and +religious power, wealth and knowledge, would thus tend to concentrate in +the same centres. The same causes which tended to produce the hereditary +king and hereditary priest would tend to produce the hereditary artisan +and laborer, and to separate society into castes. The power which +association sets free for progress would thus be wasted, and barriers to +further progress be gradually raised. The surplus energies of the masses +would be devoted to the construction of temples, palaces, and pyramids; +to ministering to the pride and pampering the luxury of their rulers; +and should any disposition to improvement arise among the classes of +leisure it would at once be checked by the dread of innovation. Society +developing in this way must at length stop in a conservatism which +permits no further progress. + +How long such a state of complete petrifaction, when once reached, will +continue, seems to depend upon external causes, for the iron bonds of +the social environment which grows up repress disintegrating forces as +well as improvement. Such a community can be most easily conquered, for +the masses of the people are trained to a passive acquiescence in a life +of hopeless labor. If the conquerors merely take the place of the ruling +class, as the Hyksos did in Egypt and the Tartars in China, everything +will go on as before. If they ravage and destroy, the glory of palace +and temple remains but in ruins, population becomes sparse, and +knowledge and art are lost. + +European civilization differs in character from civilizations of the +Egyptian type because it springs not from the association of a +homogeneous people developing from the beginning, or at least for a long +time, under the same conditions, but from the association of peoples who +in separation had acquired distinctive social characteristics, and whose +smaller organizations longer prevented the concentration of power and +wealth in one centre. The physical conformation of the Grecian peninsula +is such as to separate the people at first into a number of small +communities. As those petty republics and nominal kingdoms ceased to +waste their energies in warfare, and the peaceable co-operation of +commerce extended, the light of civilization blazed up. But the +principle of association was never strong enough to save Greece from +inter-tribal war, and when this was put an end to by conquest, the +tendency to inequality, which had been combated with various devices by +Grecian sages and statesmen, worked its result, and Grecian valor, art, +and literature became things of the past. And so in the rise and +extension, the decline and fall, of Roman civilization, may be seen the +working of these two principles of association and equality, from the +combination of which springs progress. + +Springing from the association of the independent husbandmen and free +citizens of Italy, and gaining fresh strength from conquests which +brought hostile nations into common relations, the Roman power hushed +the world in peace. But the tendency to inequality, checking real +progress from the first, increased as the Roman civilization extended. +The Roman civilization did not petrify as did the homogeneous +civilizations where the strong bonds of custom and superstition that +held the people in subjection probably also protected them, or at any +rate kept the peace between rulers and ruled: it rotted, declined and +fell. Long before Goth or Vandal had broken through the cordon of the +legions, even while her frontiers were advancing, Rome was dead at the +heart. Great estates had ruined Italy. Inequality had dried up the +strength and destroyed the vigor of the Roman world. Government became +despotism, which even assassination could not temper; patriotism became +servility; vices the most foul flouted themselves in public; literature +sank to puerilities; learning was forgotten; fertile districts became +waste without the ravages of war--everywhere inequality produced decay, +political, mental, moral, and material. The barbarism which overwhelmed +Rome came not from without, but from within. It was the necessary +product of the system which had substituted slaves and colonii for the +independent husbandmen of Italy, and carved the provinces into estates +of senatorial families. + +Modern civilization owes its superiority to the growth of equality with +the growth of association. Two great causes contributed to this--the +splitting up of concentrated power into innumerable little centers by +the influx of the Northern nations, and the influence of Christianity. +Without the first there would have been the petrifaction and slow decay +of the Eastern Empire, where church and state were closely married and +loss of external power brought no relief of internal tyranny. And but +for the other there would have been barbarism without principle of +association or amelioration. The petty chiefs and allodial lords who +everywhere grasped local sovereignty held each other in check. Italian +cities recovered their ancient liberty, free towns were founded, village +communities took root, and serfs acquired rights in the soil they +tilled. The leaven of Teutonic ideas of equality worked through the +disorganized and disjointed fabric of society. And although society was +split up into an innumerable number of separated fragments, yet the idea +of closer association was always present--it existed in the +recollections of a universal empire; it existed in the claims of a +universal church. + +Though Christianity became distorted and alloyed in percolating through +a rotting civilization; though pagan gods were taken into her pantheon, +and pagan forms into her ritual, and pagan ideas into her creed; yet her +essential idea of the equality of men was never wholly destroyed. And +two things happened of the utmost moment to incipient civilization--the +establishment of the papacy and the celibacy of the clergy. The first +prevented the spiritual power from concentrating in the same lines as +the temporal power; and the latter prevented the establishment of a +priestly caste, during a time when all power tended to hereditary form. + +In her efforts for the abolition of slavery; in her Truce of God; in her +monastic orders; in her councils which united nations, and her edicts +which ran without regard to political boundaries; in the low-born hands +in which she placed a sign before which the proudest knelt; in her +bishops who by consecration became the peers of the greatest nobles; in +her "Servant of Servants," for so his official title ran, who, by virtue +of the ring of a simple fisherman, claimed the right to arbitrate +between nations, and whose stirrup was held by kings; the Church, in +spite of everything, was yet a promoter of association, a witness for +the natural equality of men; and by the Church herself was nurtured a +spirit that, when her early work of association and emancipation was +well-nigh done--when the ties she had knit had become strong, and the +learning she had preserved had been given to the world--broke the chains +with which she would have fettered the human mind, and in a great part +of Europe rent her organization. + +The rise and growth of European civilization is too vast and complex a +subject to be thrown into proper perspective and relation in a few +paragraphs; but in all its details, as in its main features, it +illustrates the truth that progress goes on just as society tends toward +closer association and greater equality. Civilization is co-operation. +Union and liberty are its factors. The great extension of +association--not alone in the growth of larger and denser communities, +but in the increase of commerce and the manifold exchanges which knit +each community together and link them with other though widely separated +communities; the growth of international and municipal law; the advances +in security of property and of person, in individual liberty, and +towards democratic government--advances, in short, towards the +recognition of the equal rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of +happiness--it is these that make our modern civilization so much +greater, so much higher, than any that has gone before. It is these that +have set free the mental power which has rolled back the veil of +ignorance which hid all but a small portion of the globe from men's +knowledge; which has measured the orbits of the circling spheres and +bids us see moving, pulsing life in a drop of water; which has opened to +us the antechamber of nature's mysteries and read the secrets of a +long-buried past; which has harnessed in our service physical forces +beside which man's efforts are puny; and increased productive power by a +thousand great inventions. + +In that spirit of fatalism to which I have alluded as pervading current +literature, it is the fashion to speak even of war and slavery as means +of human progress. But war, which is the opposite of association, can +aid progress only when it prevents further war or breaks down +antisocial barriers which are themselves passive war. + +As for slavery, I cannot see how it could ever have aided in +establishing freedom, and freedom, the synonym of equality is, from the +very rudest state in which man can be imagined, the stimulus and +condition of progress. Auguste Comte's idea that the institution of +slavery destroyed cannibalism is as fanciful as Elia's humorous notion +of the way mankind acquired a taste for roast pig. It assumes that a +propensity that has never been found developed in man save as the result +of the most unnatural conditions--the direst want or the most +brutalizing superstitions[46]--is an original impulse, and that he, even +in his lowest state the highest of all animals, has natural appetites +which the nobler brutes do not show. And so of the idea that slavery +began civilization by giving slave owners leisure for improvement. + +Slavery never did and never could aid improvement. Whether the community +consist of a single master and a single slave, or of thousands of +masters and millions of slaves, slavery necessarily involves a waste of +human power; for not only is slave labor less productive than free +labor, but the power of masters is likewise wasted in holding and +watching their slaves, and is called away from directions in which real +improvement lies. From first to last, slavery, like every other denial +of the natural equality of men, has hampered and prevented progress. +Just in proportion as slavery plays an important part in the social +organization does improvement cease. That in the classical world slavery +was so universal, is undoubtedly the reason why the mental activity +which so polished literature and refined art never hit on any of the +great discoveries and inventions which distinguish modern civilization. +No slave-holding people ever were an inventive people. In a +slave-holding community the upper classes may become luxurious and +polished; but never inventive. Whatever degrades the laborer and robs +him of the fruits of his toil stifles the spirit of invention and +forbids the utilization of inventions and discoveries even when made. To +freedom alone is given the spell of power which summons the genii in +whose keeping are the treasures of earth and the viewless forces of the +air. + +The law of human progress, what is it but the moral law? Just as social +adjustments promote justice, just as they acknowledge the equality of +right between man and man, just as they insure to each the perfect +liberty which is bounded only by the equal liberty of every other, must +civilization advance. Just as they fail in this, must advancing +civilization come to a halt and recede. Political economy and social +science cannot teach any lessons that are not embraced in the simple +truths that were taught to poor fishermen and Jewish peasants by One who +eighteen hundred years ago was crucified--the simple truths which, +beneath the warpings of selfishness and the distortions of superstition, +seem to underlie every religion that has ever striven to formulate the +spiritual yearnings of man. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 44: Chapter III, Book X, of "Progress and Poverty;" copyright, +1907, by Henry George, Richard F. George, and Anna G. de Mille. The +chapter is here reprinted by permission of Mr. Henry George, Junior, and +the publishers, Messrs. Doubleday, Page and Company.] + +[Footnote 45: How easy it is for ignorance to pass into contempt and +dislike; how natural it is for us to consider any difference in manners, +customs, religion, etc., as proof of the inferiority of those who differ +from us, any one who has emancipated himself in any degree from +prejudice, and who mixes with different classes, may see in civilized +society. In religion, for instance, the spirit of the hymn-- + + "I'd rather be a Baptist, and wear a shining face, + Than for to be a Methodist and always fall from grace," + +is observable in all denominations. As the English Bishop said, +"Orthodoxy is my doxy, and heterodoxy is any other doxy," while the +universal tendency is to classify all outside of the orthodoxies and +heterodoxies of the prevailing religion as heathens or atheists. And the +like tendency is observable as to all other differences.--Author's +note.] + +[Footnote 46: The Sandwich Islanders did honor to their good chiefs by +eating their bodies. Their bad and tyrannical chiefs they would not +touch. The New Zealanders had a notion that by eating their enemies they +acquired their strength and valor. And this seems to be the general +origin of eating prisoners of war.--Author's note.] + + + + +THE MORALS OF TRADE[47] + +HERBERT SPENCER + + +On all sides we have found the result of long personal experience, to be +the conviction that trade is essentially corrupt. In tones of disgust or +discouragement, reprehension or derision, according to their several +natures, men in business have one after another expressed or implied +this belief. Omitting the highest mercantile classes, a few of the less +common trades, and those exceptional cases where an entire command of +the market has been obtained, the uniform testimony of competent judges +is, that success is incompatible with strict integrity. To live in the +commercial world it appears necessary to adopt its ethical code: neither +exceeding nor falling short of it--neither being less honest nor more +honest. Those who sink below its standard are expelled; while those who +rise above it are either pulled down to it or ruined. As, in +self-defence, the civilised man becomes savage among savages; so, it +seems that in self-defence, the scrupulous trader is obliged to become +as little scrupulous as his competitors. It has been said that the law +of the animal creation is--"Eat and be eaten;" and of our trading +community it may be similarly said that its law is--Cheat and be +cheated. A system of keen competition, carried on, as it is, without +adequate moral restraint, is very much a system of commercial +cannibalism. Its alternatives are--Use the same weapons as your +antagonists, or be conquered and devoured. + +Of questions suggested by these facts, one of the most obvious is--Are +not the prejudices that have ever been entertained against trade and +traders, thus fully justified? do not these meannesses and +dishonesties, and the moral degradation they imply, warrant the +disrespect shown to men in business? A prompt affirmative answer will +probably be looked for; but we very much doubt whether it should be +given. We are rather of opinion that these delinquencies are products of +the average English character placed under special conditions. There is +no good reason for assuming that the trading classes are intrinsically +worse than other classes. Men taken at random from higher and lower +ranks, would, most likely, if similarly circumstanced, do much the same. +Indeed the mercantile world might readily recriminate. Is it a solicitor +who comments on their misdoings? They may quickly silence him by +referring to the countless dark stains on the reputation of his +fraternity. Is it a barrister? His frequent practice of putting in pleas +which he knows are not valid; and his established habit of taking fees +for work that he does not perform; make his criticism somewhat suicidal. +Does the condemnation come through the press? The condemned may remind +those who write, of the fact that it is not quite honest to utter a +positive verdict on a book merely glanced through, or to pen glowing +eulogies on the mediocre work of a friend while slighting the good one +of an enemy; and may further ask whether those who, at the dictation of +an employer, write what they disbelieve, are not guilty of the serious +offence of adulterating public opinion. + +Moreover, traders might contend that many of their delinquencies are +thrust on them by the injustice of their customers. They, and especially +drapers, might point to the fact that the habitual demand for an +abatement of price, is made in utter disregard of their reasonable +profits; and that to protect themselves against attempts to gain by +their loss, they are obliged to name prices greater than those they +intend to take. They might also urge that the strait to which they are +often brought by the non-payment of accounts due from their wealthier +customers, is itself a cause of their malpractices: obliging them, as it +does, to use all means, illegitimate as well as legitimate, for getting +the wherewith to meet their engagements. In proof of the wrongs +inflicted on them by the non-trading classes, they might instance the +well-known cases of large shopkeepers in the West-end, who have been +either ruined by the unpunctuality of their customers, or have been +obliged periodically to stop payment, as the only way of getting their +bills settled. And then, after proving that those without excuse show +this disregard of other men's claims, traders might ask whether they, +who have the excuse of having to contend with a merciless competition, +are alone to be blamed if they display a like disregard in other forms. + +Nay, even to the guardians of social rectitude--members of the +legislature--they might use the _tu quoque_ argument: asking whether +bribery of a customer's servant, is any worse than bribery of an +elector? or whether the gaining of suffrages by claptrap +hustings-speeches, containing insincere professions adapted to the taste +of the constituency, is not as bad as getting an order for goods by +delusive representations respecting their quality? No; it seems probable +that close inquiry would show few if any classes to be free from +immoralities that are as great, _relatively to the temptations_, as +those which we have been exposing. Of course they will not be so petty +or so gross where the circumstances do not prompt pettiness or +grossness; nor so constant and organised where the class-conditions have +not tended to make them habitual. But, taken with these qualifications, +we think that much might be said for the proposition that the trading +classes, neither better nor worse intrinsically than other classes, are +betrayed into their flagitious habits by external causes. + +Another question, here naturally arising, is--"Are not these evils +growing worse?" Many of the facts we have cited seem to imply that they +are. And yet there are many other facts which point as distinctly the +other way. In weighing the evidence, we must bear in mind, that the much +greater public attention at present paid to such matters, is itself a +source of error--is apt to generate the belief that evils now becoming +recognised, are evils that have recently arisen; when in truth they have +merely been hitherto disregarded, or less regarded. It has been clearly +thus with crime, with distress, with popular ignorance; and it is very +probably thus with trading-dishonesties. As it is true of individual +beings, that their height in the scale of creation may be measured by +the degree of their self-consciousness; so, in a sense, it is true of +societies. Advanced and highly-organised societies are distinguished +from lower ones by the evolution of something that stands for a _social +self-consciousness_--a consciousness in each citizen, of the state of +the aggregate of citizens. Among ourselves there has, happily, been of +late years a remarkable growth of this social self-consciousness; and we +believe that to this is chiefly ascribable the impression that +commercial malpractices are increasing. + +Such facts as have come down to us respecting the trade of past times, +confirm this view. In his "Complete English Tradesman," Defoe mentions, +among other manoeuvres of retailers, the false lights which they +introduced into their shops, for the purpose of giving delusive +appearances to their goods. He comments on the "shop rhetorick," the +"flux of falsehoods," which tradesmen habitually uttered to their +customers; and quotes their defence as being that they could not live +without lying. He says, too, that there was scarce a shopkeeper who had +not a bag of spurious or debased coin, from which he gave change +whenever he could; and that men, even the most honest, triumphed in +their skill in getting rid of bad money. These facts show that the +mercantile morals of that day were, at any rate, not better than ours; +and if we call to mind the numerous Acts of Parliament passed in old +times to prevent frauds of all kinds, we perceive the like implication. +As much may, indeed, be safely inferred from the general state of +society. + +When, reign after reign, governments debased the coinage, the moral +tone of the middle classes could scarcely have been higher than now. +Among generations whose sympathy with the claims of fellow-creatures was +so weak, that the slave-trade was not only thought justifiable, but the +initiator of it was rewarded by permission to record the feat in his +coat of arms, it is hardly possible that men respected the claims of +their fellow-citizens more than at present. Times characterized by an +administration of justice so inefficient that there were in London nests +of criminals who defied the law, and on all high roads robbers who +eluded it, cannot have been distinguished by just mercantile dealings. +While, conversely, an age which, like ours, has seen so many equitable +social changes thrust on the legislature by public opinion, is very +unlikely to be an age in which the transactions between individuals have +been growing more inequitable. Yet, on the other hand, it is undeniable +that many of the dishonesties we have described are of modern origin. +Not a few of them have become established during the last thirty years; +and others are even now arising. How are the seeming contradictions to +be reconciled? + +We believe the reconciliation is not difficult. It lies in the fact that +while the _great_ and _direct_ frauds have been diminishing, the _small_ +and _indirect_ frauds have been increasing: alike in variety and in +number. And this admission we take to be quite consistent with the +opinion that the standard of commercial morals is higher than it was. +For, if we omit, as excluded from the question, the penal +restraints--religious and legal--and ask what is the ultimate moral +restraint to the aggression of man on man, we find it to be--sympathy +with the pain inflicted. Now the keenness of the sympathy, depending on +the vividness with which this pain is realised, varies with the +conditions of the case. It may be active enough to check misdeeds which +will cause great suffering; and yet not be active enough to check +misdeeds which will cause but slight annoyance. While sufficiently acute +to prevent a man from doing that which will entail immediate injury on a +given person, it may not be sufficiently acute to prevent him from +doing that which will entail remote injuries on unknown persons. And we +find the facts to agree with this deduction, that the moral restraint +varies according to the clearness with which the evil consequences are +conceived. Many a one who would shrink from picking a pocket does not +scruple to adulterate his goods; and he who never dreams of passing base +coin, will yet be a party to joint-stock-bank deceptions. Hence, as we +say, the multiplication of the more subtle and complex forms of fraud, +is consistent with a general progress in morality; provided it is +accompanied with a decrease in the grosser forms of fraud. + +But the question which most concerns us is, not whether the morals of +trade are better or worse than they have been, but rather--why are they +so bad? Why in this civilised state of ours, is there so much that +betrays the cunning selfishness of the savage? Why, after the careful +inculcations of rectitude during education, comes there in afterlife all +this knavery? Why, in spite of all the exhortations to which the +commercial classes listen every Sunday, do they next morning recommence +their evil deeds? What is this so potent agency which almost neutralises +the discipline of education, of law, of religion? + +Various subsidiary causes that might be assigned, must be passed over, +that we may have space to deal with the chief cause. In an exhaustive +statement, something would have to be said on the credulity of +consumers, which leads them to believe in representations of impossible +advantages; and something, too, on their greediness, which, ever +prompting them to look for more than they ought to get, encourages the +sellers to offer delusive bargains. The increased difficulty of living +consequent on growing pressure of population, might perhaps come in as a +part cause; and that greater cost of bringing up a family, which results +from the higher standard of education, might be added. But all these are +relatively insignificant. The great inciter of these trading +malpractices is, intense desire for wealth. And if we ask--Why this +intense desire? the reply is--It results from the _indiscriminate +respect paid to wealth_. + +To be distinguished from the common herd--to be somebody--to make a +name, a position--this is the universal ambition; and to accumulate +riches, is alike the surest and the easiest way of fulfilling this +ambition. Very early in life all learn this. At school, the court paid +to one whose parents have called in their carriage to see him, is +conspicuous; while the poor boy, whose insufficient stock of clothes +implies the small means of his family, soon has burnt into his memory +the fact that poverty is contemptible. On entering the world, the +lessons that may have been taught about the nobility of self-sacrifice, +the reverence due to genius, the admirableness of high integrity, are +quickly neutralised by experience: men's actions proving that these are +not their standards of respect. It is soon perceived that while abundant +outward marks of deference from fellow-citizens, may almost certainly be +gained by directing every energy to the accumulation of property, they +are but rarely to be gained in any other way; and that even in the few +cases where they are otherwise gained, they are not given with entire +unreserve; but are commonly joined with a more or less manifest display +of patronage. When, seeing this, the young man further sees that while +the acquisition of property is quite possible with his mediocre +endowments, the acquirement of distinction by brilliant discoveries, or +heroic acts, or high achievements in art, implies faculties and feelings +which he does not possess; it is not difficult to understand why he +devotes himself heart and soul to business. + +We do not mean to say that men act on the consciously reasoned-out +conclusions thus indicated; but we mean that these conclusions are the +unconsciously-formed products of their daily experience. From early +childhood, the sayings and doings of all around them have generated the +idea that wealth and respectability are two sides of the same thing. +This idea, growing with their growth, and strengthening with their +strength, becomes at last almost what we may call an organic conviction. +And this organic conviction it is, which prompts the expenditure of all +their energies in money-making. We contend that the chief stimulus is +not the desire for the wealth itself; but for the applause and position +which the wealth brings. And in this belief, we find ourselves at one +with various intelligent traders with whom we have talked on the matter. + +It is incredible that men should make the sacrifices, mental and bodily, +which they do, merely to get the material benefits which money +purchases. Who would undertake an extra burden of business for the +purpose of getting a cellar of choice wines for his own drinking? He who +does it, does it that he may have choice wines to give his guests and +gain their praises. What merchant would spend an additional hour at his +office daily, merely that he might move into a larger house in a better +quarter? In so far as health and comfort are concerned, he knows he will +be a loser by the exchange; and would never be induced to make it, were +it not for the increased social consideration which the new house will +bring him. Where is the man who would lie awake at nights devising means +of increasing his income in the hope of being able to provide his wife +with a carriage, were the use of the carriage the sole consideration? It +is because of the _eclat_ which the carriage will give, that he enters +on these additional anxieties. So manifest, so trite, indeed, are these +truths, that we should be ashamed of insisting on them, did not our +argument require it. + +For if the desire for that homage which wealth brings, is the chief +stimulus to these strivings after wealth, then is the giving of this +homage (when given, as it is, with but little discrimination) the chief +cause of the dishonesties into which these strivings betray mercantile +men. When the shopkeeper, on the strength of a prosperous year and +favourable prospects, has yielded to his wife's persuasions, and +replaced the old furniture with new, at an outlay greater than his +income covers--when, instead of the hoped-for increase, the next year +brings a decrease in his returns--when he finds that his expenses are +out-running his revenue; then does he fall under the strongest +temptation to adopt some newly-introduced adulteration or other +malpractice. When, having by display gained a certain recognition, the +wholesale trader begins to give dinners appropriate only to those of ten +times his income, with expensive other entertainments to match--when, +having for a time carried on this style at a cost greater than he can +afford, he finds that he cannot discontinue it without giving up his +position: then is he most strongly prompted to enter into larger +transactions; to trade beyond his means; to seek undue credit; to get +into that ever-complicating series of misdeeds, which ends in +disgraceful bankruptcy. And if these are the facts--the undeniable +facts--then is it an unavoidable conclusion that the blind admiration +which society gives to mere wealth, and the display of wealth, is the +chief source of these multitudinous immoralities. + +Yes, the evil is deeper than appears--draws its nutriment from far below +the surface. This gigantic system of dishonesty, branching out into +every conceivable form of fraud, has roots that run underneath our whole +social fabric, and, sending fibres into every house, suck up strength +from our daily sayings and doings. In every dining-room a rootlet finds +food, when the conversation turns on So-and-so's successful +speculations, his purchase of an estate, his probable worth--on this +man's recent large legacy, and the other's advantageous match; for being +thus talked about is one form of that tacit respect which men struggle +for. Every drawing-room furnishes nourishment, in the admiration awarded +to costliness--to silks that are "rich," that is, expensive; to dresses +that contain an enormous quantity of material, that is, are expensive; +to laces that are handmade, that is, expensive; to diamonds that are +rare, that is, expensive; to china that is old, that is, expensive. And +from scores of small remarks and minutiae of behaviour, which, in all +circles, hourly imply how completely the idea of respectability +involves that of costly externals, there is drawn fresh pabulum. + +We are all implicated. We all, whether with self-approbation or not, +give expression to the established feeling. Even he who disapproves this +feeling, finds himself unable to treat virtue in threadbare apparel with +a cordiality as great as that which he would show to the same virtue +endowed with prosperity. Scarcely a man is to be found who would not +behave with more civility to a knave in broadcloth than to a knave in +fustian. Though for the deference which they have shown to the vulgar +rich, or the dishonestly successful, men afterwards compound with their +consciences by privately venting their contempt; yet when they again +come face to face with these imposing externals covering worthlessness, +they do as before. And so long as imposing worthlessness gets the +visible marks of respect, while the disrespect felt for it is hidden, it +naturally flourishes. + +Hence, then, is it that men persevere in these evil practices which all +condemn. They can so purchase a homage, which if not genuine, is yet, so +far as appearances go, as good as the best. To one whose wealth has been +gained by a life of frauds, what matters it that his name is in all +circles a synonym of roguery? Has he not been conspicuously honoured by +being twice elected mayor of his town? (we state a fact) and does not +this, joined to the personal consideration shown him, outweigh in his +estimation all that is said against him: of which he hears scarcely +anything? When, not many years after the exposure of his inequitable +dealing, a trader attains to the highest civic distinction which the +kingdom has to offer; and that, too, through the instrumentality of +those who best know his delinquency; is not the fact an encouragement to +him, and to all others, to sacrifice rectitude to aggrandisement? If, +after listening to a sermon that has by implication denounced the +dishonesties he has been guilty of, the rich ill-doer finds, on leaving +church, that his neighbours cap to him; does not this tacit approval go +far to neutralise the effect of all he has heard? The truth is, that +with the great majority of men, the visible expression of social opinion +is far the most efficient of incentives and restraints. Let any one who +wishes to estimate the strength of this control, propose to himself to +walk through the streets in the dress of a dustman, or hawk vegetables +from door to door. Let him feel, as he probably will, that he had rather +do something morally wrong than commit such a breach of usage, and +suffer the resulting derision. And he will then better estimate how +powerful a curb to men is the open disapproval of their fellows; and +how, conversely, the outward applause of their fellows is a stimulus +surpassing all others in intensity. Fully realising which facts, he will +see that the immoralities of trade are in great part traceable to an +immoral public opinion. + +Let none infer, from what has been said, that the payment of respect to +wealth rightly acquired and rightly used, is deprecated. In its original +meaning, and in due degree, the feeling which prompts such respect is +good. Primarily, wealth is the sign of mental power; and this is always +respectable. To have honestly-acquired property, implies intelligence, +energy, self-control; and these are worthy of the homage that is +indirectly paid to them by admiring their results. Moreover, the good +administration and increase of inherited property, also requires its +virtues; and therefore demands its share of approbation. And besides +being applauded for their display of faculty, men who gain and increase +wealth are to be applauded as public benefactors. For he who as +manufacturer or merchant, has, without injustice to others, realised a +fortune, is thereby proved to have discharged his functions better than +those who have been less successful. By greater skill, better judgment, +or more economy than his competitors, he has afforded the public greater +advantages. His extra profits are but a share of the extra produce +obtained by the same expenditure: the other share going to the +consumers. And similarly, the landowner who, by judicious outlay, has +increased the value (that is, the productiveness) of his estate, has +thereby added to the stock of national capital. By all means, then, let +the right acquisition and proper use of wealth, have their due share of +admiration. + +But that which we condemn as the chief cause of commercial dishonesty, +is the _indiscriminate_ admiration of wealth--an admiration that has +little or no reference to the character of the possessor. When, as very +generally happens, the external signs are reverenced, where they signify +no internal worthiness--nay, even where they cover internal +unworthiness; then does the feeling become vicious. It is this idolatry +which worships the symbol apart from the thing symbolised, that is the +root of all these evils we have been exposing. So long as men pay homage +to those social benefactors who have grown rich honestly, they give a +wholesome stimulus to industry; but when they accord a share of their +homage to those social malefactors who have grown rich dishonestly, then +do they foster corruption--then do they become accomplices in all these +frauds of commerce. + +As for remedy, it manifestly follows that there is none save a purified +public opinion. When that abhorrence which society now shows to direct +theft, is shown to theft of all degrees of indirectness, then will these +mercantile vices disappear. When not only the trader who adulterates or +gives short measure, but also the merchant who over-trades, the +bank-director who countenances an exaggerated report, and the +railway-director who repudiates his guarantee, come to be regarded as of +the same genus as the pickpocket, and are treated with like disdain; +then will the morals of trade become what they should be. + +We have little hope, however, that any such higher tone of public +opinion will shortly be reached. The present condition of things appears +to be, in great measure, a necessary accompaniment of our present phase +of progress. Throughout the civilised world, especially in England, and +above all in America, social activity is almost wholly expended in +material development. To subjugate Nature, and bring the powers of +production and distribution to their highest perfection, is the task of +our age; and probably of many future ages. And as in times when national +defence and conquest were the chief desiderata, military achievement was +honoured above all other things; so now, when the chief desideratum is +industrial growth, honour is most conspicuously given to that which +generally indicates the aiding of industrial growth. The English nation +at present displays what we may call the commercial diathesis; and the +undue admiration for wealth appears to be its concomitant--a relation +still more conspicuous in the worship of "the almighty dollar" by the +Americans. And while the commercial diathesis, with its accompanying +standard of distinction, continues, we fear the evils we have been +delineating can be but partially cured. It seems hopeless to expect that +men will distinguish between that wealth which represents personal +superiority and benefits done to society, from that which does not. The +symbols, the externals, have all the world through swayed the masses; +and must long continue to do so. Even the cultivated, who are on their +guard against the bias of associated ideas, and try to separate the real +from the seeming, cannot escape the influence of current opinion. We +must, therefore, content ourselves with looking for a slow amelioration. + +Something, however, may even now be done by vigorous protest against +adoration of mere success. And it is important that it should be done, +considering how this vicious sentiment is being fostered. When we have +one of our leading moralists preaching, with increasing vehemence, the +doctrine of sanctification by force--when we are told that while a +selfishness troubled with qualms of conscience is contemptible, a +selfishness intense enough to trample down every thing in the +unscrupulous pursuit of its ends, is worthy of all admiration--when we +find that if it be sufficiently great, power, no matter of what kind or +how directed, is held up for our reverence; we may fear lest the +prevalent applause of mere success, together with the commercial vices +which it stimulates, should be increased rather than diminished. Not at +all by this hero-worship grown into brute-worship, is society to be made +better; but by exactly the opposite--by a stern criticism of the means +through which success has been achieved; and by according honour to the +higher and less selfish modes of activity. + +And happily the signs of this more moral public opinion are already +showing themselves. It is becoming a tacitly-received doctrine that the +rich should not, as in by-gone times, spend their lives in personal +gratification; but should devote them to the general welfare. Year by +year is the improvement of the people occupying a larger share of the +attention of the upper classes. Year by year are they voluntarily +devoting more and more energy to furthering the material and mental +progress of the masses. And those among them who do not join in the +discharge of these high functions, are beginning to be looked upon with +more or less contempt by their own order. This latest and most hopeful +fact in human history--this new and better chivalry--promises to evolve +a higher standard of honour; and so to ameliorate many evils: among +others those which we have detailed. When wealth obtained by +illegitimate means inevitably brings nothing but disgrace--when to +wealth rightly acquired is accorded only its due share of homage, while +the greatest homage is given to those who consecrate their energies and +their means to the noblest ends; then may we be sure that along with +other accompanying benefits, the morals of trade will be greatly +purified. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 47: From "Essays: Moral, Political and Aesthetic," 1864.] + + + + +ON THE PHYSICAL BASIS OF LIFE[48] + +THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY + + +In order to make the title of this discourse generally intelligible, I +have translated the term "Protoplasm," which is the scientific name of +the substance of which I am about to speak, by the words "the physical +basis of life." I suppose that, to many, the idea that there is such a +thing as a physical basis, or matter, of life may be novel--so widely +spread is the conception of life as a something which works through +matter, but is independent of it; and even those who are aware that +matter and life are inseparably connected, may not be prepared for the +conclusion plainly suggested by the phrase, "_the_ physical basis or +matter of life," that there is some one kind of matter which is common +to all living beings, and that their endless diversities are bound +together by a physical, as well as an ideal, unity. In fact, when first +apprehended, such a doctrine as this appears almost shocking to common +sense. + +What, truly, can seem to be more obviously different from one another, +in faculty, in form, and in substance, than the various kinds of living +beings? What community of faculty can there be between the +brightly-coloured lichen, which so nearly resembles a mere mineral +incrustation of the bare rock on which it grows, and the painter, to +whom it is instinct with beauty, or the botanist, whom it feeds with +knowledge? + +Again, think of the microscopic fungus--a mere infinitesimal ovoid +particle, which finds space and duration enough to multiply into +countless millions in the body of a living fly; and then of the wealth +of foliage, the luxuriance of flower and fruit, which lies between this +bald sketch of a plant and the giant pine of California, towering to the +dimensions of a cathedral spire, or the Indian fig, which covers acres +with its profound shadow, and endures while nations and empires come and +go around its vast circumference. Or, turning to the other half of the +world of life, picture to yourselves the great Finner whale, hugest of +beasts that live, or have lived, disporting his eighty or ninety feet of +bone, muscle, and blubber, with easy roll, among waves in which the +stoutest ship that ever left dockyard would flounder hopelessly; and +contrast him with the invisible animalcules--mere gelatinous specks, +multitudes of which could, in fact, dance upon the point of a needle +with the same ease as the angels of the Schoolmen could, in imagination. +With these images before your minds, you may well ask, what community of +form, or structure, is there between the animalcule and the whale; or +between the fungus and the fig-tree? And, _a fortiori_[49], between all +four? + +Finally, if we regard substance, or material composition, what hidden +bond can connect the flower which a girl wears in her hair and the blood +which courses through her youthful veins; or, what is there in common +between the dense and resisting mass of the oak, or the strong fabric of +the tortoise, and those broad disks of glassy jelly which may be seen +pulsating through the waters of a calm sea, but which drain away to mere +films in the hand which raises them out of their element? + +Such objections as these must, I think, arise in the mind of every one +who ponders, for the first time, upon the conception of a single +physical basis of life underlying all the diversities of vital +existence; but I propose to demonstrate to you that, notwithstanding +these apparent difficulties, a threefold unity--namely, a unity of +power or faculty, a unity of form, and a unity of substantial +composition--does pervade the whole living world. + +No very abstruse argumentation is needed, in the first place, to prove +that the powers, or faculties, of all kinds of living matter, diverse as +they may be in degree, are substantially similar in kind. + +Goethe has condensed a survey of all powers of mankind into the +well-known epigram:-- + + "Warum treibt sich das Volk so und schreit? Es will sich ernaehren, + Kinder zeugen, und die naehren so gut es vermag. + + * * * * * + + Weiter bringt es kein Mensch, stell' er sich wie er auch will."[50] + +In physiological language this means, that all the multifarious and +complicated activities of man are comprehensible under three categories. +Either they are immediately directed towards the maintenance and +development of the body, or they effect transitory changes in the +relative positions of parts of the body, or they tend towards the +continuance of the species. Even those manifestions of intellect, of +feeling, and of will, which we rightly name the higher faculties, are +not excluded from this classification, inasmuch as to every one but the +subject of them, they are known only as transitory changes in the +relative positions of parts of the body. Speech, gesture, and every +other form of human action are, in the long run, resolvable into +muscular contraction, and muscular contraction is but a transitory +change in the relative positions of the parts of a muscle. But the +scheme which is large enough to embrace the activities of the highest +form of life, covers all those of the lower creatures. The lowest plant, +or animalcule, feeds, grows, and reproduces its kind. In addition, all +animals manifest those transitory changes of form which we class under +irritability and contractility; and it is more than probable that when +the vegetable world is thoroughly explored, we shall find all plants in +possession of the same powers, at one time or other of their existence. + +I am not now alluding to such phenomena, at once rare and conspicuous, +as those exhibited by the leaflets of the sensitive plants, or the +stamens of the barberry, but to much more widely spread, and at the same +time, more subtle and hidden, manifestions of vegetable contractility. +You are doubtless aware that the common nettle owes its stinging +property to the innumerable stiff and needle-like, though exquisitely +delicate, hairs which cover its surface. Each stinging-needle tapers +from a broad base to a slender summit, which, though rounded at the end, +is of such microscopic fineness that it readily penetrates, and breaks +off in, the skin. The whole hair consists of a very delicate outer case +of wood, closely applied to the inner surface of which is a layer of +semi-fluid matter, full of innumerable granules of extreme minuteness. +This semi-fluid lining is protoplasm, which thus constitutes a kind of +bag, full of a limpid liquid, and roughly corresponding in form with the +interior of the hair which it fills. When viewed with a sufficiently +high magnifying power, the protoplasmic layer of the nettle hair is seen +to be in a condition of unceasing activity. Local contractions of the +whole thickness of its substance pass slowly and gradually from point to +point, and give rise to the appearance of progressive waves, just as the +bending of successive stalks of corn by a breeze produces the apparent +billows of a corn-field. + +But, in addition to these movements, and independently of them, the +granules are driven, in relatively rapid streams, through channels in +the protoplasm which seem to have a considerable amount of persistence. +Most commonly, the currents in adjacent parts of the protoplasm take +similar directions; and, thus, there is a general stream up one side of +the hair and down the other. But this does not prevent the existence of +partial currents which take different routes; and sometimes trains of +granules may be seen coursing swiftly in opposite directions within a +twenty-thousandth of an inch of one another; while, occasionally, +opposite streams come into direct collision, and, after a longer or +shorter struggle, one predominates. The cause of these currents seems to +lie in contractions of the protoplasm which bounds the channels in which +they flow, but which are so minute that the best microscopes show only +their effects, and not themselves. + +The spectacle afforded by the wonderful energies prisoned within the +compass of the microscopic hair of a plant, which we commonly regard as +a merely passive organism, is not easily forgotten by one who has +watched its display, continued hour after hour, without pause or sign of +weakening. The possible complexity of many other organic forms, +seemingly as simple as the protoplasm of the nettle, dawns upon one; and +the comparison of such a protoplasm to a body with an internal +circulation, which has been put forward by an eminent physiologist, +loses much of its startling character. Currents similar to those of the +hairs of the nettle have been observed in a great multitude of very +different plants, and weighty authorities have suggested that they +probably occur, in more or less perfection, in all young vegetable +cells. If such be the case, the wonderful noonday silence of a tropical +forest is, after all, due only to the dullness of our hearing; and could +our ears catch the murmur of these tiny Maelstroms, as they whirl in the +innumerable myriads of living cells which constitute each tree, we +should be stunned, as with the roar of a great city. + +Among the lower plants, it is the rule rather than the exception, that +contractility should be still more openly manifested at some periods of +their existence. The protoplasm of _Algae_ and _Fungi_ becomes, under +many circumstances, partially, or completely, freed from its woody case, +and exhibits movements of its whole mass, or is propelled by the +contractility of one, or more, hair-like prolongations of its body, +which are called vibratile cilia. And, so far as the conditions of the +manifestation of the phenomena of contractility have yet been studied, +they are the same for the plant as for the animal. Heat and electric +shocks influence both, and in the same way, though it may be in +different degrees. It is by no means my intention to suggest that there +is no difference in faculty between the lowest plant and the highest, or +between plants and animals. But the difference between the powers of the +lowest plant, or animal, and those of the highest, is one of degree, not +of kind, and depends, as Milne-Edwards long ago so well pointed out, +upon the extent to which the principle of the division of labour is +carried out in the living economy. In the lowest organism all parts are +competent to perform all functions, and one and the same portion of +protoplasm may successfully take on the function of feeding, moving, or +reproducing apparatus. In the highest, on the contrary, a great number +of parts combine to perform each function, each part doing its allotted +share of the work with great accuracy and efficiency, but being useless +for any other purpose. + +On the other hand, notwithstanding all the fundamental resemblances +which exist between the powers of the protoplasm in plants and in +animals, they present a striking difference (to which I shall advert +more at length presently), in the fact that plants can manufacture fresh +protoplasm out of mineral compounds, whereas animals are obliged to +procure it ready made, and hence, in the long run, depend upon plants. +Upon what condition this difference in the powers of the two great +divisions of the world of life depends, nothing is at present known. + +With such qualifications as arise out of the last-mentioned fact, it may +be truly said that the acts of all living things are fundamentally one. +Is any such unity predicable of their forms? Let us seek in easily +verified facts for a reply to this question. If a drop of blood be drawn +by pricking one's finger, and viewed with proper precautions, and under +a sufficiently high microscopic power, there will be seen, among the +innumerable multitude of little, circular, discoidal bodies, or +corpuscles, which float in it and give it its colour, a comparatively +small number of colourless corpuscles, of somewhat larger size and very +irregular shape. If the drop of blood be kept at the temperature of the +body, these colourless corpuscles will be seen to exhibit a marvellous +activity, changing their forms with great rapidity, drawing in and +thrusting out prolongations of their substance, and creeping about as if +they were independent organisms. + +The substance which is thus active is a mass of protoplasm, and its +activity differs in detail, rather than in principle, from that of the +protoplasm of the nettle. Under sundry circumstances the corpuscle dies +and becomes distended into a round mass, in the midst of which is seen a +smaller spherical body, which existed, but was more or less hidden, in +the living corpuscle, and is called its _nucleus_. Corpuscles of +essentially similar structure are to be found in the skin, in the lining +of the mouth, and scattered through the whole framework of the body. +Nay, more: in the earliest condition of the human organism, in that +state in which it has but just become distinguishable from the egg in +which it arises, it is nothing but an aggregation of such corpuscles, +and every organ of the body was, once, no more than such an aggregation. + +Thus a nucleated mass of protoplasm turns out to be what may be termed +the structural unit of the human body. As a matter of fact, the body, in +its earliest state, is a mere multiple of such units; and in its perfect +condition, it is a multiple of such units, variously modified. + +But does the formula which expresses the essential structural character +of the highest animal cover all the rest, as the statement of its powers +and faculties covered that of all others? Very nearly. Beast and fowl, +reptile and fish, mollusk, worm, and polype, are all composed of +structural units of the same character, namely, masses of protoplasm +with a nucleus. There are sundry very low animals, each of which, +structurally, is a mere colourless blood-corpuscle, leading an +independent life. But, at the very bottom of the animal scale, even this +simplicity becomes simplified, and all the phenomena of life are +manifested by a particle of protoplasm without a nucleus. Nor are such +organisms insignificant by reason of their want of complexity. It is a +fair question whether the protoplasm of those simplest forms of life, +which people an immense extent of the bottom of the sea, would not +outweigh that of all the higher living beings which inhabit the land put +together. And in ancient times, no less than at the present day, such +living beings as these have been the greatest of rock builders. + +What has been said of the animal world is no less true of plants. +Imbedded in the protoplasm at the broad, or attached, end of the nettle +hair, there lies a spheroidal nucleus. Careful examination further +proves that the whole substance of the nettle is made up of a repetition +of such masses of nucleated protoplasm, each contained in a wooden case, +which is modified in form, sometimes into a woody fibre, sometimes into +a duct or spiral vessel, sometimes into a pollen grain, or an ovule. +Traced back to its earliest state, the nettle arises as the man does, in +a particle of nucleated protoplasm. And in the lowest plants, as in the +lowest animals, a single mass of such protoplasm may constitute the +whole plant, or the protoplasm may exist without a nucleus. + +Under these circumstances it may well be asked, how is one mass of +non-nucleated protoplasm to be distinguished from another? why call one +"plant" and the other "animal"? + +The only reply is that, so far as form is concerned, plants and animals +are not separable, and that, in many cases, it is a mere matter of +convention whether we call a given organism an animal or a plant. There +is a living body called _Aethalium septicum_, which appears upon +decaying vegetable substances, and, in one of its forms, is common upon +the surfaces of tan-pits. In this condition it is, to all intents and +purposes, a fungus, and formerly was always regarded as such; but the +remarkable investigations of De Bary have shown that, in another +condition, the _Aethalium_ is an actively locomotive creature, and takes +in solid matters, upon which, apparently, it feeds, thus exhibiting the +most characteristic feature of animality. Is this a plant; or is it an +animal? Is it both; or is it neither? Some decide in favour of the last +supposition, and establish an intermediate kingdom, a sort of biological +No Man's Land for all these questionable forms. But, as it is admittedly +impossible to draw any distinct boundary line between this no man's land +and the vegetable world on the one hand, or the animal on the other, it +appears to me that this proceeding merely doubles the difficulty which, +before, was single. + +Protoplasm, simple or nucleated, is the formal basis of all life. It is +the clay of the potter: which, bake it and paint it as he will, remains +clay, separated by artifice, and not by nature, from the commonest brick +or sun-dried clod. + +Thus it becomes clear that all living powers are cognate, and that all +living forms are fundamentally of one character. The researches of the +chemist have revealed a no less striking uniformity of material +composition in living matter. + +In perfect strictness, it is true that chemical investigation can tell +us little or nothing, directly, of the composition of living matter, +inasmuch as such matter must needs die in the act of analysis,--and upon +this very obvious ground, objections, which I confess seem to me to be +somewhat frivolous, have been raised to the drawing of any conclusions +whatever respecting the composition of actually living matter, from that +of the dead matter of life, which alone is accessible to us. But +objectors of this class do not seem to reflect that it is also, in +strictness, true that we know nothing about the composition of any body +whatever, as it is. The statement that a crystal of calc-spar consists +of carbonate of lime, is quite true, if we only mean that, by +appropriate processes, it may be resolved into carbonic acid and +quicklime. If you pass the same carbonic acid over the very quicklime +thus obtained, you will obtain carbonate of lime again; but it will not +be calc-spar, nor anything like it. Can it, therefore, be said that +chemical analysis teaches nothing about the chemical composition of +calc-spar? Such a statement would be absurd; but it is hardly more so +than the talk one occasionally hears about the uselessness of applying +the results of chemical analysis to the living bodies which have yielded +them. + +One fact, at any rate, is out of reach of such refinements, and this is, +that all the forms of protoplasm which have yet been examined contain +the four elements, carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen, in very +complex union, and that they behave similarly towards several reagents. +To this complex combination, the nature of which has never been +determined with exactness, the name of Protein has been applied. And if +we use this term with such caution as may properly arise out of our +comparative ignorance of the things for which it stands, it may be truly +said that all protoplasm is proteinaceous, or, as the white, or albumen, +of an egg is one of the commonest examples of a nearly pure proteine +matter, we may say that all living matter is more or less albuminoid. + +Perhaps it would not yet be safe to say that all forms of protoplasm are +affected by the direct action of electric shocks; and yet the number of +cases in which the contraction of protoplasm is shown to be affected by +this agency increases every day. + +Nor can it be affirmed with perfect confidence, that all forms of +protoplasm are liable to undergo that peculiar coagulation at a +temperature of 40 deg.-50 deg. Centigrade, which has been called +"heat-stiffening," though Kuehne's beautiful researches have proved this +occurrence to take place in so many and such diverse living beings, that +it is hardly rash to expect that the law holds good for all. + +Enough has, perhaps, been said, to prove the existence of a general +uniformity in the character of the protoplasm, or physical basis, of +life, in whatever group of living beings it may be studied. But it will +be understood that this general uniformity by no means excludes any +amount of special modifications of the fundamental substance. The +mineral, carbonate of lime, assumes an immense diversity of characters, +though no one doubts that, under all these Protean changes, is one and +the same thing. + +And now, what is the ultimate fate, and what the origin, of the matter +of life? + +Is it, as some of the older naturalists supposed, diffused throughout +the universe in molecules, which are indestructible and unchangeable in +themselves; but, in endless transmigration, unite in innumerable +permutations, into the diversified forms of life we know? Or, is the +matter of life composed of ordinary matter, differing from it only in +the manner in which its atoms are aggregated? Is it built up of ordinary +matter, and again resolved into ordinary matter when its work is done? + +Modern science does not hesitate a moment between these alternatives. +Physiology writes over the portals of life-- + + "Debemur morti nos nostraque,"[51] + +with a profounder meaning than the Roman poet attached to that +melancholy line. Under whatever disguise it takes refuge, whether fungus +or oak, worm or man, the living protoplasm not only ultimately dies and +is resolved into its mineral and lifeless constituents, but is always +dying, and, strange as the paradox may sound, could not live unless it +died. + +In the wonderful story of the _Peau de Chagrin_, the hero becomes +possessed of a magical wild ass' skin, which yields him the means of +gratifying all his wishes. But its surface represents the duration of +the proprietor's life; and for every satisfied desire the skin shrinks +in proportion to the intensity of fruition, until at length life and the +last handbreath of the _peau de chagrin_, disappear with the +gratification of a last wish. + +Balzac's studies had led him over a wide range of thought and +speculation, and his shadowing forth of physiological truth in this +strange story may have been intentional. At any rate, the matter of life +is a veritable _peau de chagrin_, and for every vital act it is somewhat +the smaller. All work implies waste, and the work of life results, +directly or indirectly, in the waste of protoplasm. + +Every word uttered by a speaker costs him some physical loss; and, in +the strictest sense, he burns that others may have light--so much +eloquence, so much of his body resolved into carbonic acid, water, and +urea. It is clear that this process of expenditure cannot go on forever. +But, happily, the protoplasmic _peau de chagrin_ differs from Balzac's +in its capacity of being repaired, and brought back to its full size, +after every exertion. + +For example, this present lecture, whatever its intellectual worth to +you, has a certain physical value to me, which is, conceivably, +expressible by the number of grains of protoplasm and other bodily +substance wasted in maintaining my vital processes during its delivery. +My _peau de chagrin_ will be distinctly smaller at the end of the +discourse than it was at the beginning. By and by, I shall probably have +recourse to the substance commonly called mutton, for the purpose of +stretching it back to its original size. Now this mutton was once the +living protoplasm, more or less modified, of another animal--a sheep. As +I shall eat it, it is the same matter altered, not only by death, but by +exposure to sundry artificial operations in the process of cooking. + +But these changes, whatever be their extent, have not rendered it +incompetent to resume its old functions as matter of life. A singular +inward laboratory, which I possess, will dissolve a certain portion of +the modified protoplasm; the solution so formed will pass into my +veins; and the subtle influences to which it will then be subjected will +convert the dead protoplasm into living protoplasm, and transubstantiate +sheep into man. + +Nor is this all. If digestion were a thing to be trifled with, I might +sup upon lobster, and the matter of life of the crustacean would undergo +the same wonderful metamorphosis into humanity. And were I to return to +my own place by sea, and undergo shipwreck, the crustacean might, and +probably would, return the compliment, and demonstrate our common nature +by turning my protoplasm into living lobster. Or, if nothing better were +to be had, I might supply my wants with mere bread, and I should find +the protoplasm of the wheat-plant to be convertible into man with no +more trouble than that of the sheep, and with far less, I fancy, than +that of the lobster. + +Hence it appears to be a matter of no great moment what animal, or what +plant, I lay under contribution for protoplasm, and the fact speaks +volumes for the general identity of that substance in all living beings. +I share this catholicity of assimilation with other animals, all of +which, so far as we know, could thrive equally well on the protoplasm of +any of their fellows, or of any plant; but here the assimilative powers +of the animal world cease. A solution of smelling-salts in water, with +an infinitesimal proportion of some other saline matters, contains all +the elementary bodies which enter into the composition of protoplasm; +but, as I need hardly say, a hogshead of that fluid would not keep a +hungry man from starving, nor would it save any animal whatever from a +like fate. An animal cannot make protoplasm, but must take it ready-made +from some other animal, or some plant--the animal's highest feat of +constructive chemistry being to convert dead protoplasm into that living +matter of life which is appropriate to itself. + +Therefore, in seeking for the origin of protoplasm, we must eventually +turn to the vegetable world. A fluid containing carbonic acid, water, +and nitrogenous salts, which offers such a Barmecide feast[52] to the +animal, is a table richly spread to multitudes of plants; and, with a +due supply of only such materials, many a plant will not only maintain +itself in vigour, but grow and multiply until it has increased a +million-fold, or a million million-fold, the quantity of protoplasm +which it originally possessed; in this way building up the matter of +life, to an indefinite extent, from the common matter of the universe. + +Thus, the animal can only raise the complex substance of dead protoplasm +to the higher power, as one may say, of living protoplasm; while the +plant can raise the less complex substances--carbonic acid, water, and +nitrogenous salts--to the same stage of living protoplasm, if not to the +same level. But the plant also has its limitations. Some of the fungi, +for example, appear to need higher compounds to start with; and no known +plant can live upon the uncompounded elements of protoplasm. A plant +supplied with pure carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen, phosphorus, +sulphur, and the like, would as infallibly die as the animal in his bath +of smelling-salts, though it would be surrounded by all the constituents +of protoplasm. Nor, indeed, need the process of simplification of +vegetable food be carried so far as this, in order to arrive at the +limit of the plant's thaumaturgy. Let water, carbonic acid, and all the +other needful constituents be supplied except nitrogenous salts, and an +ordinary plant will still be unable to manufacture protoplasm. + +Thus the matter of life, so far as we know it (and we have no right to +speculate on any other), breaks up, in consequence of that continual +death which is the condition of its manifesting vitality, into carbonic +acid, water, and nitrogenous compounds, which certainly possess no +properties but those of ordinary matter. And out of these same forms of +ordinary matter, and from none which are simpler, the vegetable world +builds up all the protoplasm which keeps the animal world a-going. +Plants are the accumulators of the power which animals distribute and +disperse. + +But it will be observed, that the existence of the matter of life +depends on the pre-existence of certain compounds; namely, carbonic +acid, water, and certain nitrogenous bodies. Withdraw any one of these +three from the world, and all vital phenomena come to an end. They are +as necessary to the protoplasm of the plant, as the protoplasm of the +plant is to that of the animal. Carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen +are all lifeless bodies. Of these, carbon and oxygen unite in certain +proportions and under certain conditions, to give rise to carbonic acid; +hydrogen and oxygen produce water; nitrogen and other elements give rise +to nitrogenous salts. These new compounds, like the elementary bodies of +which they are composed, are lifeless. But when they are brought +together, under certain conditions, they give rise to the still more +complex body, protoplasm, and this protoplasm exhibits the phenomena of +life. + +I see no break in this series of steps in molecular complication, and I +am unable to understand why the language which is applicable to any one +term of the series may not be used to any of the others. We think fit to +call different kinds of matter carbon, oxygen, hydrogen, and nitrogen, +and to speak of the various powers and activities of these substances as +the properties of the matter of which they are composed. + +When hydrogen and oxygen are mixed in a certain proportion, and an +electric spark is passed through them, they disappear, and a quantity of +water, equal in weight to the sum of their weights, appears in their +place. There is not the slightest parity between the passive and active +powers of the water and those of the oxygen and hydrogen which have +given rise to it. At 32 deg. Fahrenheit, and far below that temperature, +oxygen and hydrogen are elastic gaseous bodies, whose particles tend to +rush away from one another with great force. Water, at the same +temperature, is a strong though brittle solid, whose particles tend to +cohere into definite geometrical shapes, and sometimes build up frosty +imitations of the most complex forms of vegetable foliage. + +Nevertheless we call these, and many other strange phenomena, the +properties of the water, and we do not hesitate to believe that, in some +way or another, they result from the properties of the component +elements of the water. We do not assume that a something called +"aquosity" entered into and took possession of the oxidated hydrogen as +soon as it was formed, and then guided the aqueous particles to their +places in the facets of the crystal, or amongst the leaflets of the +hoar-frost. On the contrary, we live in the hope and in the faith that, +by the advance of molecular physics, we shall by and by be able to see +our way as clearly from the constituents of water to the properties of +water, as we are now able to deduce the operations of a watch from the +form of its parts and the manner in which they are put together. + +Is the case in any way changed when carbonic acid, water, and +nitrogenous salts disappear, and in their place, under the influence of +pre-existing living protoplasm, an equivalent weight of the matter of +life makes its appearance? + +It is true that there is no sort of parity between the properties of the +components and the properties of the resultant, but neither was there in +the case of the water. It is also true that what I have spoken of as the +influence of pre-existing living matter is something quite +unintelligible; but does anybody quite comprehend the _modus +operandi_[53] of an electric spark, which traverses a mixture of oxygen +and hydrogen? + +What justification is there, then, for the assumption of the existence +in the living matter of a something which has no representative, or +correlative, in the not living matter which gave rise to it? What better +philosophical status has "vitality" than "aquosity"? And why should +"vitality" hope for a better fate than the other "itys" which have +disappeared since Martinus Scriblerus accounted for the operation of the +meat-jack by its inherent "meat-roasting quality," and scorned the +"materialism" of those who explained the turning of the spit by a +certain mechanism worked by the draught of the chimney? + +If scientific language is to possess a definite and constant +signification whenever it is employed, it seems to me that we are +logically bound to apply to the protoplasm, or physical basis of life, +the same conceptions as those which are held to be legitimate elsewhere. +If the phenomena exhibited by water are its properties, so are those +presented by protoplasm, living or dead, its properties. + +If the properties of water may be properly said to result from the +nature and disposition of its component molecules, I can find no +intelligible ground for refusing to say that the properties of +protoplasm result from the nature and disposition of its molecules. + +But I bid you beware that, in accepting these conclusions, you are +placing your feet on the first rung of a ladder which, in most people's +estimation, is the reverse of Jacob's and leads to the antipodes of +heaven. It may seem a small thing to admit that the dull vital actions +of a fungus, or a foraminifer, are the properties of their protoplasm, +and are the direct results of the nature of the matter of which they are +composed. But if, as I have endeavoured to prove to you, their +protoplasm is essentially identical with, and most readily converted +into, that of any animal, I can discover no logical halting-place +between the admission that such is the case, and the further concession +that all vital action may, with equal propriety, be said to be the +result of the molecular forces of the protoplasm which displays it. And +if so, it must be true, in the same sense and to the same extent, that +the thoughts to which I am now giving utterance, and your thoughts +regarding them, are the expression of molecular changes in that matter +of life which is the source of our other vital phenomena. + +Past experience leads me to be tolerably certain that, when the +propositions I have just placed before you are accessible to public +comment and criticism, they will be condemned by many zealous persons, +and perhaps by some few of the wise and thoughtful. I should not wonder +if "gross and brutal materialism" were the mildest phrase applied to +them in certain quarters. And, most undoubtedly, the terms of the +propositions are distinctly materialistic. Nevertheless two things are +certain: the one, that I hold the statements to be substantially true; +the other, that I, individually, am no materialist, but, on the +contrary, believe materialism to involve grave philosophical error. + +This union of materialistic terminology with the repudiation of +materialistic philosophy I share with some of the most thoughtful men +with whom I am acquainted. And, when I first undertook to deliver the +present discourse, it appeared to me to be a fitting opportunity to +explain how such a union is not only consistent with, but necessitated +by, sound logic. I purposed to lead you through the territory of vital +phenomena to the materialistic slough in which you find yourselves now +plunged, and then to point out to you the sole path by which, in my +judgment, extrication is possible. + + * * * * * + +Let us suppose that knowledge is absolute, and not relative, and +therefore, that our conception of matter represents that which it really +is. Let us suppose, further, that we do know more of cause and effect +than a certain definite order of succession among facts, and that we +have a knowledge of the necessity of that succession--and hence, of +necessary laws--and I, for my part, do not see what escape there is from +utter materialism and necessarianism. For it is obvious that our +knowledge of what we call the material world is, to begin with, at least +as certain and definite as that of the spiritual world, and that our +acquaintance with law is of as old a date as our knowledge of +spontaneity. Further, I take it to be demonstrable that it is utterly +impossible to prove that anything whatever may not be the effect of a +material and necessary cause, and that human logic is equally +incompetent to prove that any act is really spontaneous. A really +spontaneous act is one which, by the assumption, has no cause; and the +attempt to prove such a negative as this is, on the face of the matter, +absurd. And while it is thus a philosophical impossibility to +demonstrate that any given phenomenon is not the effect of a material +cause, any one who is acquainted with the history of science will admit, +that its progress has, in all ages, meant, and now, more than ever, +means, the extension of the province of what we call matter and +causation, and the concomitant gradual banishment from all regions of +human thought of what we call spirit and spontaneity. + +I have endeavoured, in the first part of this discourse, to give you a +conception of the direction towards which modern physiology is tending; +and I ask you, what is the difference between the conception of life as +the product of a certain disposition of material molecules, and the old +notion of an Archaeus[54] governing and directing blind matter within +each living body, except this--that here, as elsewhere, matter and law +have devoured spirit and spontaneity? And as surely as every future +grows out of past and present, so will the physiology of the future +gradually extend the realm of matter and law until it is co-extensive +with knowledge, with feeling, and with action. + +The consciousness of this great truth weighs like a nightmare, I +believe, upon many of the best minds of these days. They watch what they +conceive to be the progress of materialism, in such fear and powerless +anger as a savage feels when, during an eclipse, the great shadow creeps +over the face of the sun. The advancing tide of matter threatens to +drown their souls; the tightening grasp of law impedes their freedom; +they are alarmed lest man's moral nature be debased by the increase of +his wisdom. + +If the "New Philosophy" be worthy of the reprobation with which it is +visited, I confess their fears seem to me to be well founded. While, on +the contrary, could David Hume be consulted, I think he would smile at +their perplexities, and chide them for doing even as the heathen, and +falling down in terror before the hideous idols their own hands have +raised. + +For, after all, what do we know of this terrible "matter," except as a +name for the unknown and hypothetical cause of states of our own +consciousness? And what do we know of that "spirit" over whose +threatened extinction by matter a great lamentation is arising, like +that which was heard at the death of Pan, except that it is also a name +for an unknown and hypothetical cause, or condition, of states of +consciousness? In other words, matter and spirit are but names for the +imaginary substrata of groups of natural phenomena. + +And what is the dire necessity and "iron" law under which men groan? +Truly, most gratuitously invented bugbears. I suppose if there be an +"iron" law, it is that of gravitation; and if there be a physical +necessity, it is that a stone, unsupported, must fall to the ground. But +what is all we really know, and can know, about the latter phenomenon? +Simply, that, in all human experience, stones have fallen to the ground +under these conditions; that we have not the smallest reason for +believing that any stone so circumstanced will not fall to the ground; +and that we have, on the contrary, every reason to believe that it will +so fall. It is very convenient to indicate that all the conditions of +belief have been fulfilled in this case, by calling the statement that +unsupported stones will fall to the ground, "a law of Nature." But when, +as commonly happens, we change _will_ into _must_, we introduce an idea +of necessity which most assuredly does not lie in the observed facts, +and has no warranty that I can discover elsewhere. For my part, I +utterly repudiate and anathematise the intruder. Fact I know; and Law I +know; but what is this Necessity save an empty shadow of my own mind's +throwing? + +But, if it is certain that we can have no knowledge of the nature of +either matter or spirit, and that the notion of necessity is something +illegitimately thrust into the perfectly legitimate conception of law, +the materialistic position that there is nothing in the world but +matter, force, and necessity, is as utterly devoid of justification as +the most baseless of theological dogmas. The fundamental doctrines of +materialism, like those of spiritualism, and most other "isms," lie +outside "the limits of philosophical inquiry," and David Hume's great +service to humanity is his irrefragable demonstration of what these +limits are. Hume called himself a sceptic, and therefore others cannot +be blamed if they apply the same title to him; but that does not alter +the fact that the name, with its existing implications, does him gross +injustice. + +If a man asks me what the politics of the inhabitants of the moon are, +and I reply that I do not know; that neither I, nor any one else, has +any means of knowing; and that, under these circumstances, I decline to +trouble myself about the subject at all; I do not think he has any right +to call me a sceptic. On the contrary, in replying thus, I conceive that +I am simply honest and truthful, and show a proper regard for the +economy of time. So Hume's strong and subtle intellect takes up a great +many problems about which we are naturally curious, and shows us that +they are essentially questions of lunar politics, in their essence +incapable of being answered, and therefore not worth the attention of +men who have work to do in the world. And he thus ends one of his +essays:-- + +"If we take in hand any volume of Divinity, or school metaphysics, for +instance, let us ask, _Does it contain any abstract reasoning concerning +quantity or number?_ No. _Does it contain any experimental reasoning +concerning matter of fact and existence?_ No. Commit it then to the +flames; for it can contain nothing but sophistry and illusion."[55] + +Permit me to enforce this most wise advice. Why trouble ourselves about +matters of which, however important they may be, we do know nothing, and +can know nothing? We live in a world which is full of misery and +ignorance, and the plain duty of each and all of us is to try to make +the little corner he can influence somewhat less miserable and somewhat +less ignorant than it was before he entered it. To do this effectually +it is necessary to be fully possessed of only two beliefs: the first, +that the order of Nature is ascertainable by our faculties to an extent +which is practically unlimited; the second, that our volition[56] counts +for something as a condition of the course of events. + +Each of these beliefs can be verified experimentally, as often as we +like to try. Each, therefore, stands upon the strongest foundation upon +which any belief can rest, and forms one of our highest truths. If we +find that the ascertainment of the order of nature is facilitated by +using one terminology, or one set of symbols, rather than another, it is +our clear duty to use the former; and no harm can accrue, so long as we +bear in mind that we are dealing merely with terms and symbols. + +In itself it is of little moment whether we express the phenomena of +matter in terms of spirit; or the phenomena of spirit in terms of +matter: matter may be regarded as a form of thought, thought may be +regarded as a property of matter--each statement has a certain relative +truth. But with a view to the progress of science, the materialistic +terminology is in every way to be preferred. For it connects thought +with the other phenomena of the universe, and suggests inquiry into the +nature of those physical conditions, or concomitants of thought, which +are more or less accessible to us, and a knowledge of which may, in +future, help us to exercise the same kind of control over the world of +thought as we already possess in respect of the material world; +whereas, the alternative, or spiritualistic, terminology is utterly +barren, and leads to nothing but obscurity and confusion of ideas. + +Thus there can be little doubt, that the further science advances, the +more extensively and consistently will all the phenomena of Nature be +represented by materialistic formulae and symbols. + +But the man of science, who, forgetting the limits of philosophical +inquiry, slides from these formulae and symbols into what is commonly +understood by materialism, seems to me to place himself on a level with +the mathematician who should mistake the x's and y's with which he works +his problems, for real entities--and with this further disadvantage, as +compared with the mathematician, that the blunders of the latter are of +no practical consequence, while the errors of systematic materialism may +paralyse the energies and destroy the beauty of a life. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 48: The substance of this paper was contained in an address +which was delivered in Edinburgh in 1868. The paper was published in +"Lay Sermons," 1870.] + +[Footnote 49: _a fortiori:_ with stronger reason.] + +[Footnote 50: Why does the populace rush so and make clamor? It wishes +to eat, bring forth children, and feed these as well as it may.... No +man can do better, strive how he will.] + +[Footnote 51: We and ours must die.] + +[Footnote 52: In one of the Arabian Nights stories, a nobleman called +Barmecide set before a beggar a number of empty dishes supposed to +contain a feast.] + +[Footnote 53: Mode of working.] + +[Footnote 54: Archaeus: a spirit, having essentially the same form as +the body within which it resided.] + +[Footnote 55: Hume's Essay "Of the Academical or Sceptical Philosophy," +in the _Inquiry concerning the Human Understanding._--[Many critics of +this passage seem to forget that the subject-matter of Ethics and +Aesthetics consists of matters of fact and existence.--1892.]--Author's +note.] + +[Footnote 56: Or, to speak more accurately, the physical state of which +volition is the expression.--1892.--Author's note.] + + + + +COMPARISON OF THE MENTAL POWERS OF MAN AND THE LOWER ANIMALS[57] + +CHARLES DARWIN + + +My object in this chapter is to show that there is no fundamental +difference between man and the higher mammals in their mental faculties. +Each division of the subject might have been extended into a separate +essay, but must here be treated briefly. As no classification of the +mental powers has been universally accepted, I shall arrange my remarks +in the order most convenient for my purpose; and will select those facts +which have struck me most, with the hope that they may produce some +effect on the reader. + +As man possesses the same senses as the lower animals, his fundamental +intuitions must be the same. Man has also some few instincts in common, +as that of self-preservation, sexual love, the love of the mother for +her new-born offspring, the desire possessed by the latter to suck, and +so forth. But man, perhaps, has somewhat fewer instincts: than those +possessed by the animals which come next to him in the series. The orang +in the Eastern islands and the chimpanzee in Africa build platforms on +which they sleep; and as both species follow the same habit, it might be +argued that this was due to instinct, but we cannot feel sure that it is +not the result of both animals having similar wants and possessing +similar powers of reasoning. These apes, as we may assume, avoid the +many poisonous fruits of the tropics, and man has no such knowledge; but +as our domestic animals, when taken to foreign lands, and when first +turned out in the spring, often eat poisonous herbs, which they +afterward avoid, we cannot feel sure that the apes do not learn from +their own experience or from that of their parents what fruits to +select. It is, however, certain, as we shall presently see, that apes +have an instinctive dread of serpents, and probably of other dangerous +animals. + +The fewness and the comparative simplicity of the instincts in the +higher animals are remarkable in contrast with those of the lower +animals. Cuvier maintained that instinct and intelligence stand in an +inverse ratio to each other; and some have thought that the intellectual +faculties of the higher animals have been gradually developed from their +instincts. But Pouchet, in an interesting essay, has shown that no such +inverse ratio really exists. Those insects which possess the most +wonderful instincts are certainly the most intelligent. In the +vertebrate series, the least intelligent members, namely fishes and +amphibians, do not possess complex instincts; and among mammals the +animal most remarkable for its instincts, namely the beaver, is highly +intelligent, as will be admitted by every one who has read Mr. Morgan's +excellent work.[58] + +But although, as we learn from the above-mentioned insects and the +beaver, a high degree of intelligence is certainly compatible with +complex instincts, and although actions, at first learned voluntarily, +can soon through habit be performed with the quickness and certainty of +a reflex action, yet it is not improbable that there is a certain amount +of interference between the development of free intelligence and of +instinct, since the latter implies some inherited modification of the +brain. Little is known about the functions of the brain, but we can +perceive that as the intellectual powers become highly developed the +various parts of the brain must be connected by very intricate channels +of the freest intercommunication; and as a consequence each separate +part would perhaps tend to be less well fitted to answer to particular +sensations or associations in a definite and inherited--that is, +instinctive--manner. There seems even to exist some relation between a +low degree of intelligence and a strong tendency to the formation of +fixed, though not inherited, habits; for as a sagacious physician +remarked to me, persons who are slightly imbecile tend to act in +everything by routine or habit; and they are rendered much happier if +this is encouraged. + +I have thought this digression worth giving, because we may easily +underrate the mental powers of the higher animals, and especially of +man, when we compare their actions founded on the memory of past events, +on foresight, reason and imagination, with exactly similar actions +instinctively performed by the lower animals; in this latter case the +capacity of performing such actions has been gained, step by step, +through the variability of the mental organs and natural selection, +without any conscious intelligence on the part of the animal during each +successive generation. No doubt, as Mr. Wallace has argued, much of the +intelligent work done by man is due to imitation and not to reason; but +there is this great difference between his actions and many of those +performed by the lower animals, namely, that man cannot, on his first +trial, make, for instance, a stone hatchet or a canoe, through his power +of imitation. He has to learn his work by practice; a beaver, on the +other hand, can make its dam or canal, and a bird its nest, as well, or +nearly as well, and a spider its wonderful web quite as well, the first +time it tries as when old and experienced. + +To return to our immediate subject: the lower animals, like man, +manifestly feel pleasure and pain, happiness and misery. Happiness is +never better exhibited than by young animals, such as puppies, kittens, +lambs, etc., when playing together, like our own children. Even insects +play together, as has been described by that excellent observer, P. +Huber, who saw ants chasing and pretending to bite each other, like so +many puppies. + +The fact that the lower animals are excited by the same emotions as +ourselves is so well established that it will not be necessary to weary +the reader by many details. Terror acts in the same manner on them as on +us, causing the muscles to tremble, the heart to palpitate, the +sphincters to be relaxed, and the hair to stand on end. Suspicion, the +offspring of fear, is eminently characteristic of most wild animals. It +is, I think, impossible to read the account given by Sir E. Tennent, of +the behaviour of the female elephants used as decoys, without admitting +that they intentionally practise deceit, and well know what they are +about. Courage and timidity are extremely variable qualities in the +individuals of the same species, as is plainly seen in our dogs. Some +dogs and horses are ill-tempered and easily turn sulky; others are +good-tempered; and these qualities are certainly inherited. Every one +knows how liable animals are to furious rage and how plainly they show +it. Many, and probably true, anecdotes have been published on the +long-delayed and artful revenge of various animals. The accurate Rengger +and Brehm[59] state that the American and African monkeys which they +kept tame certainly revenged themselves. Sir Andrew Smith, a zoologist +whose scrupulous accuracy was known to many persons, told me the +following story of which he was himself an eye-witness: At the Cape of +Good Hope an officer had often plagued a certain baboon, and the animal, +seeing him approaching one Sunday for parade, poured water into a hole +and hastily made some thick mud, which he skilfully dashed over the +officer as he passed by, to the amusement of many bystanders. For long +afterwards the baboon rejoiced and triumphed whenever he saw his victim. + +The love of a dog for his master is notorious; as an old writer quaintly +says: "A dog is the only thing on this earth that luvs you more than he +luvs himself." In the agony of death a dog has been known to caress his +master, and every one has heard of the dog suffering under vivisection, +who licked the hand of the operator; this man, unless the operation was +fully justified by an increase of our knowledge, or unless he had a +heart of stone, must have felt remorse to the last hour of his life. + +As Whewell has well asked: "Who that reads the touching instances of +maternal affection, related so often of the women of all nations and of +the females of all animals, can doubt that the principle of action is +the same in the two cases?" We see maternal affection exhibited in the +most trifling details; thus, Rengger observed an American monkey (a +Cebus) carefully driving away the flies which plagued her infant; and +Duvaucel saw a Hylobates washing the face of her young ones in a stream. +So intense is the grief of female monkeys for the loss of their young +that it invariably caused the death of certain kinds kept under +confinement by Brehm in N. Africa. Orphan monkeys were always adopted +and carefully guarded by the other monkeys, both males and females. One +female baboon had so capacious a heart that she not only adopted young +monkeys of other species, but stole young dogs and cats, which she +continually carried about. Her kindness, however, did not go so far as +to share her food with her adopted offspring, at which Brehm was +surprised, as his monkeys always divided everything quite fairly with +their own young ones. An adopted kitten scratched this affectionate +baboon, who certainly had a fine intellect, for she was much astonished +at being scratched, and immediately examined the kitten's feet, and +without more ado bit off the claws.[60] In the Zoological Gardens I +heard from the keeper that an old baboon (C. chacma) had adopted a +Rhesus monkey; but when a young drill and mandrill were placed in the +cage she seemed to perceive that these monkeys, though distinct species, +were her nearer relatives, for she at once rejected the Rhesus and +adopted both of them. The young Rhesus, as I saw, was greatly +discontented at being thus rejected, and it would, like a naughty child, +annoy and attack the young drill and mandrill whenever it could do so +with safety; this conduct exciting great indignation in the old baboon. +Monkeys will also, according to Brehm, defend their master when attacked +by any one, as well as dogs to whom they are attached, from the attacks +of other dogs. But we here trench on the subjects of sympathy and +fidelity to which I shall recur. Some of Brehm's monkeys took much +delight in teasing a certain old dog whom they disliked, as well as +other animals, in various ingenious ways. + +Most of the more complex emotions are common to the higher animals and +ourselves. Every one has seen how jealous a dog is of his master's +affections if lavished on any other creature; and I have observed the +same fact with monkeys. This shows that animals not only love, but have +a desire to be loved. Animals manifestly feel emulation. They love +approbation or praise; and a dog carrying a basket for his master +exhibits in a high degree self-complacency or pride. There can, I think, +be no doubt that a dog feels shame, as distinct from fear, and something +very like modesty when begging too often for food. A great dog scorns +the snarling of a little dog, and this may be called magnanimity. +Several observers have stated that monkeys certainly dislike being +laughed at; and they sometimes invent imaginary offenses. In the +Zoological Gardens I saw a baboon who always got into a furious rage +when his keeper took out a letter or book and read it aloud to him; and +his rage was so violent that, as I witnessed on one occasion, he bit his +own leg till the blood flowed. Dogs show what may be fairly called a +sense of humour as distinct from mere play; if a bit of stick or other +such object be thrown to one, he will often carry it away for a short +distance; and then squatting down with it on the ground close before +him, will wait until his master comes quite close to take it away. The +dog will then seize it and rush away in triumph, repeating the same +maneuver, and evidently enjoying the practical joke. + +We will now turn to the more intellectual emotions and faculties, which +are very important, as forming the basis for the development of the +higher mental powers. Animals manifestly enjoy excitement, and suffer +from ennui, as may be seen with dogs, and, according to Rengger, with +monkeys. All animals feel _Wonder_ and many exhibit _Curiosity_. They +sometimes suffer from this latter quality, as when the hunter plays +antics and thus attracts them; I have witnessed this with deer, and so +it is with the wary chamois, and with some kinds of wild ducks. Brehm +gives a curious account of the instinctive dread, which his monkeys +exhibited, for snakes; but their curiosity was so great that they could +not desist from occasionally satiating their horror in a most human +fashion by lifting up the lid of the box in which the snakes were kept. +I was so much surprised at his account that I took a stuffed and +coiled-up snake into the monkey-house at the Zoological Gardens, and the +excitement thus caused was one of the most curious spectacles which I +ever beheld. Three species of Cercopithecus were the most alarmed; they +dashed about their cages and uttered sharp signal cries of danger, which +were understood by the other monkeys. A few young monkeys and one old +Anubis baboon alone took no notice of the snake. I then placed the +stuffed specimen on the ground in one of the larger compartments. After +a time all the monkeys collected round it in a large circle, and, +staring intently, presented a most ludicrous appearance. They became +extremely nervous; so that when a wooden ball, with which they were +familiar as a plaything, was accidentally moved in the straw, under +which it was partly hidden, they all instantly started away. These +monkeys behaved very differently when a dead fish, a mouse, a living +turtle, and other new objects were placed in their cages; for though at +first frightened, they soon approached, handled, and examined them. I +then placed a live snake in a paper bag, with the mouth loosely closed, +in one of the larger compartments. One of the monkeys immediately +approached, cautiously opened the bag a little, peeped in, and instantly +dashed away. Then I witnessed what Brehm has described; for monkey after +monkey, with head raised high and turned on one side, could not resist +taking a momentary peep into the upright bag, at the dreadful object +lying quietly at the bottom. It would almost appear as if monkeys had +some notion of zoological affinities, for those kept by Brehm exhibited +a strange, although mistaken, instinctive dread of innocent lizards and +frogs. An orang, also, has been known to be much alarmed at the first +sight of a turtle. + +The principle of _Imitation_ is strong in man, and especially, as I have +myself observed, with savages. In certain morbid states of the brain +this tendency is exaggerated to an extraordinary degree; some hemiplegic +patients and others, at the commencement of inflammatory softening of +the brain, unconsciously imitate every word which is uttered, whether in +their own or a foreign language, and every gesture or action which is +performed near them. Desor has remarked that no animal voluntarily +imitates an action performed by man, until, in the ascending scale, we +come to monkeys, which are well known to be ridiculous mockers. Animals, +however, sometimes imitate each other's actions; thus two species of +wolves, which had been reared by dogs, learned to bark, as does +sometimes the jackal, but whether this can be called voluntary imitation +is another question. Birds imitate the songs of their parents, and +sometimes of other birds; and parrots are notorious imitators of any +sound which they often hear. Dureau de la Malle gives an account of a +dog reared by a cat, who learned to imitate the well-known action of a +cat licking her paws, and thus washing her ears and face; this was also +witnessed by the celebrated naturalist Audouin. I have received several +confirmatory accounts; in one of these, a dog had not been suckled by a +cat, but had been brought up with one, together with kittens, and had +thus acquired the above habit, which he ever afterward practised during +his life of thirteen years. Dureau de la Malle's dog likewise learned +from the kittens to play with a ball by rolling it about with his +fore-paws and springing on it. A correspondent assures me that a cat in +his house used to put her paws into jugs of milk having too narrow a +mouth for her head. A kitten of this cat soon learned the same trick, +and practised it ever afterward whenever there was an opportunity. + +The parents of many animals, trusting to the principle of imitation in +their young, and more especially to their instinctive or inherited +tendencies, may be said to educate them. We see this when a cat brings a +live mouse to her kittens; and Dureau de la Malle has given a curious +account (in the paper above quoted) of his observations on hawks which +taught their young dexterity, as well as judgment of distances, by first +dropping through the air dead mice and sparrows, which the young +generally failed to catch, and then bringing them live birds and letting +them loose. + +Hardly any faculty is more important for the intellectual progress of +man than _Attention_. Animals clearly manifest this power, as when a cat +watches by a hole and prepares to spring on its prey. Wild animals +sometimes become so absorbed when thus engaged that they may be easily +approached. Mr. Bartlett has given me a curious proof of how variable +this faculty is in monkeys. A man who trains monkeys to act in plays +used to purchase common kinds from the Zoological Society at the price +of five pounds for each; but he offered to give double the price if he +might keep three or four of them for a few days in order to select one. +When asked how he could possibly learn so soon whether a particular +monkey would turn out a good actor, he answered that it all depended on +their power of attention. If when he was talking and explaining anything +to a monkey its attention was easily distracted, as by a fly on the +wall or other trifling object, the case was hopeless. If he tried by +punishment to make an inattentive monkey act, it turned sulky. On the +other hand, a monkey which carefully attended to him could always be +trained. + +It is almost superfluous to state that animals have excellent _memories_ +for persons and places. A baboon at the Cape of Good Hope, as I have +been informed by Sir Andrew Smith, recognised him with joy after an +absence of nine months. I had a dog who was savage and averse to all +strangers, and I purposely tried his memory after an absence of five +years and two days. I went near the stable where he lived and shouted to +him in my old manner; he showed no joy, but instantly followed me out +walking, and obeyed me exactly as if I had parted with him only half an +hour before. A train of old associations, dormant during five years, had +thus been instantaneously awakened in his mind. Even ants, as P. Huber +has clearly shown, recognised their fellow-ants belonging to the same +community after a separation of four months. Animals can certainly by +some means judge of the intervals of time between recurrent events. + +The _Imagination_ is one of the highest prerogatives of man. By this +faculty he may unite former images and ideas, independently of the will, +and thus create brilliant and novel results. A poet, as Jean Paul +Richter remarks, "who must reflect whether he shall make a character say +yes or no--to the devil with him; he is only a stupid corpse." The value +of the products of our imagination depends of course on the number, +accuracy, and clearness of our impressions, on our judgment and taste in +selecting or rejecting the involuntary combinations, and to a certain +extent on our power of voluntarily combining them. As dogs, cats, +horses, and probably all the higher animals, even birds, have vivid +dreams, and this is shown by their movements and the sounds uttered, we +must admit that they possess some power of imagination. There must be +something special which causes dogs to howl in the night, and especially +during moonlight, in that remarkable and melancholy manner called +baying. All dogs do not do so; and, according to Houzeau, they do not +then look at the moon, but at some fixed point near the horizon. Houzeau +thinks that their imaginations are disturbed by the vague outlines of +the surrounding objects, and conjure up before them fantastic images; if +this be so, their feelings may almost be called superstitious. + +Of all the faculties of the human mind, it will, I presume, be admitted +that _Reason_ stands at the summit. Only a few persons now dispute that +animals possess some power of reasoning. Animals may constantly be seen +to pause, deliberate, and resolve. It is a significant fact, that the +more the habits of any particular animal are studied by a naturalist, +the more he attributes to reason and the less to unlearned instincts. In +future chapters we shall see that some animals extremely low in the +scale apparently display a certain amount of reason. No doubt it is +often difficult to distinguish between the power of reason and that of +instinct. For instance, Dr. Hayes, in his work on "The Open Polar Sea," +repeatedly remarks that his dogs, instead of continuing to draw the +sledges in a compact body, diverged and separated when they came to thin +ice, so that their weight might be more evenly distributed. This was +often the first warning which the travellers received that the ice was +becoming thin and dangerous. Now, did the dogs act thus from the +experience of each individual, or from the example of the older and +wiser dogs, or from an inherited habit, that is from instinct? This +instinct may possibly have arisen since the time, long ago, when dogs +were first employed by the natives in drawing their sledges; or the +Arctic wolves, the parent-stock of the Esquimau dog, may have acquired +an instinct impelling them not to attack their prey in a close pack, +when on thin ice. + +We can only judge by the circumstances under which actions are +performed, whether they are due to instinct, or to reason, or to the +mere association of ideas; this latter principle, however, is +intimately connected with reason. A curious case has been given by +Professor Moebius, of a pike, separated by a plate of glass from an +adjoining aquarium stocked with fish, and who often dashed himself with +such violence against the glass in trying to catch the other fishes, +that he was sometimes completely stunned. The pike went on thus for +three months, but at last learned caution, and ceased to do so. The +plate of glass was then removed, but the pike would not attack these +particular fishes, though he would devour others which were afterward +introduced; so strongly was the idea of a violent shock associated in +his feeble mind with the attempt on his former neighbours. If a savage +who had never seen a large plate-glass window, were to dash himself even +once against it, he would for a long time afterward associate a shock +with a window-frame; but, very differently from the pike, he would +probably reflect on the nature of the impediment, and be cautious under +analogous circumstances. Now with monkeys, as we shall presently see, a +painful or merely a disagreeable impression, from an action once +performed, is sometimes sufficient to prevent the animal from repeating +it. If we attribute this difference between the monkeys and the pike +solely to the association of ideas being so much stronger and more +persistent in the one than the other, though the pike often received +much the more severe injury, can we maintain in the case of man that a +similar difference implies the possession of a fundamentally different +mind? + +Houzeau relates that, while crossing a wide and arid plain in Texas, his +two dogs suffered greatly from thirst, and that between thirty and forty +times they rushed down the hollows to search for water. These hollows +were not valleys, and there were no trees in them, or any other +difference in the vegetation, and as they were absolutely dry, there +could have been no smell of damp earth. The dogs behaved as if they knew +that a dip in the ground offered them the best chance of finding water, +and Houzeau has often witnessed the same behaviour in other animals. I +have seen, as I dare say have others, that when a small object is thrown +on the ground beyond the reach of one of the elephants in the Zoological +Gardens, he blows through his trunk on the ground beyond the object, so +that the current reflected on all sides may drive the object within his +reach. Again, a well-known ethnologist, Mr. Westropp, informs me that he +observed in Vienna a bear deliberately making with his paw a current in +some water, which was close to the bars of his cage, so as to draw a +piece of floating bread within his reach. These actions of the elephant +and bear can hardly be attributed to instinct or inherited habit, as +they would be of little use to an animal in a state of nature. Now, what +is the difference between such actions, when performed by an +uncultivated man, and by one of the higher animals? + +The savage and the dog have often found water at a low level, and the +coincidence under such circumstances has become associated in their +minds. A cultivated man would perhaps make some general proposition on +the subject; but from all that we know of savages it is extremely +doubtful whether they would do so, and a dog would certainly not. But a +savage, as well as a dog, would search in the same way, though +frequently disappointed, and in both it seems to be equally an act of +reason, whether or not any general proposition on the subject is +consciously placed before the mind. The same would apply to the elephant +and the bear making currents in the air or water. The savage would +certainly neither know nor care by what law the desired movements were +effected; yet his act would be guided by a rude process of reasoning, as +surely as would a philosopher in his longest chain of deductions. There +would no doubt be this difference between him and one of the higher +animals, that he would take notice of much slighter circumstances and +conditions, and would observe any connection between them after much +less experience, and this would be of paramount importance. I kept a +daily record of the actions of one of my infants, and when he was about +eleven months old, and before he could speak a single word, I was +continually struck with the greater quickness with which all sorts of +objects and sounds were associated together in his mind, compared with +that of the most intelligent dogs I ever knew. But the higher animals +differ in exactly the same way in this power of association from those +low in the scale, such as the pike, as well as in that of drawing +inferences and of observation. + +The promptings of reason, after very short experience, are well shown by +the following actions of American monkeys, which stand low in their +order. Rengger, a most careful observer, states that when he first gave +eggs to his monkeys in Paraguay they smashed them and thus lost much of +their contents; afterward they gently hit one end against some hard +body, and picked off the bits of shell with their fingers. After cutting +themselves only once with any sharp tool, they would not touch it again, +or would handle it with the greatest caution. Lumps of sugar were often +given them wrapped up in paper; and Rengger sometimes put a live wasp in +the paper, so that in hastily unfolding it they got stung; after this +had once happened they always held the packet to their ears to detect +any movement within. + +The following cases relate to dogs. Mr. Colquhoun winged two wild ducks, +which fell on the farther side of a stream; his retriever tried to bring +over both at once, but could not succeed; she then, though never before +known to ruffle a feather, deliberately killed one, brought over the +other, and returned for the dead bird. Colonel Hutchinson relates that +two partridges were shot at once, one being killed, the other wounded; +the latter ran away and was caught by the retriever, who on her return +came across the dead bird: "She stopped, evidently greatly puzzled, and +after one or two trials, finding she could not take it up without +permitting the escape of the winged bird, she considered a moment, then +deliberately murdered it by giving it a severe crunch, and afterward +brought away both together. This was the only known instance of her +ever having wilfully injured any game." Here we have reason, though not +quite perfect, for the retriever might have brought the wounded bird +first and then returned for the dead one, as in the case of the two +wild-ducks. I give the above cases as resting on the evidence of two +independent witnesses and because in both instances the retrievers, +after deliberation, broke through a habit which is inherited by them +(that of not killing the game retrieved), and because they show how +strong their reasoning faculty must have been to overcome a fixed habit. + +I will conclude by quoting a remark by the illustrious Humboldt. "The +muleteers in South America say, 'I will not give you the mule whose step +is easiest, but _la mas racional_--the one that reasons best;'" and, as +he adds, "this popular expression, dictated by long experience, combats +the system of animated machines better perhaps than all the arguments of +speculative philosophy." Nevertheless some writers even yet deny that +the higher animals possess a trace of reason; and they endeavour to +explain away, by what appears to be mere verbiage, all such facts as +those above given. + +It has, I think, now been shown that man and the higher animals, +especially the Primates, have some few instincts in common. All have the +same senses, intuitions, and sensations--similar passions, affections, +and emotions, even the more complex ones, such as jealousy, suspicion, +emulation, gratitude and magnanimity; they practise deceit and are +revengeful; they are sometimes susceptible to ridicule, and even have a +sense of humour; they feel wonder and curiosity; they possess the same +faculties of imitation, attention, deliberation, choice, memory, +imagination, the association of ideas, and reason, though in very +different degrees. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 57: From Chapter III of "The Descent of Man," 1871. All except +three of the author's foot-notes have been omitted.] + +[Footnote 58: "The American Beaver and his Works," 1868.--Author's +note.] + +[Footnote 59: All the following statements, given on the authority of +these two naturalists, are taken from Rengger's "Naturgesch. der +Saeugethiere von Paraguay," 1830, s. 41-57, and from Brehm's +"Thierleben," B.i. s. 10-87.--Author's note.] + +[Footnote 60: A critic, without any grounds ("Quarterly Review," July, +1871, p. 72), disputes the possibility of this act as described by +Brehm, for the sake of discrediting my work. Therefore I tried, and +found that I could readily seize with my own teeth the sharp little +claws of a kitten nearly five weeks old.--Author's note.] + + + + +THE IMPORTANCE OF DUST: A SOURCE OF BEAUTY AND ESSENTIAL TO LIFE[61] + +ALFRED RUSSEL WALLACE + + +The majority of persons, if asked what were the uses of dust, would +reply that they did not know it had any, but they were sure it was a +great nuisance. It is true that dust, in our towns and in our houses, is +often not only a nuisance but a serious source of disease: while in many +countries it produces ophthalmia, often resulting in total blindness. +Dust, however, as it is usually perceived by us, is, like dirt, only +matter in the wrong place, and whatever injurious or disagreeable +effects it produces are largely due to our own dealings with nature. So +soon as we dispense with horsepower and adopt purely mechanical means of +traction and conveyance, we can almost wholly abolish disease-bearing +dust from our streets, and ultimately from all our highways; while +another kind of dust, that caused by the imperfect combustion of coal, +may be got rid of with equal facility so soon as we consider pure air, +sunlight, and natural beauty to be of more importance to the population +as a whole than are the prejudices or the vested interests of those who +produce the smoke. + +But though we can thus minimize the dangers and the inconveniences +arising from the grosser forms of dust, we cannot wholly abolish it; and +it is, indeed, fortunate we cannot do so, since it has now been +discovered that it is to the presence of dust we owe much of the beauty, +and perhaps even the very habitability of the earth we live upon. Few +of the fairy tales of science are more marvelous than these recent +discoveries as to the varied effects and important uses of dust in the +economy of nature. + +The question why the sky and the deep ocean are both blue did not much +concern the earlier physicists. It was thought to be the natural color +of pure air and water, so pale as not to be visible when small +quantities were seen, and only exhibiting its true tint when we looked +through great depth of atmosphere or of organic water. But this theory +did not explain the familiar facts of the gorgeous tints seen at sunset +and sunrise, not only in the atmosphere and on the clouds near the +horizon, but also in equally resplendent hues when the invisible sun +shines upon Alpine peaks and snowfields. A true theory should explain +all these colors, which comprise almost every tint of the rainbow. + +The explanation was found through experiments on the visibility or +non-visibility of air, which were made by the late Professor Tyndall +about the year 1868. Everyone: has seen the floating dust in a sunbeam +when sunshine enters a partially darkened room; but it is not generally +known that if there was absolutely no dust in the air the path of the +sunbeam would be totally black and invisible, while if only very little +dust was present in very minute particles the air would be as blue as +the summer sky. + +This was proved by passing a ray of electric light lengthways through a +long glass cylinder filled with air of varying degrees of purity as +regards dust. In the air of an ordinary room, however clean and well +ventilated, the interior of the, cylinder appears brilliantly +illuminated. But if the cylinder is exhausted and then filled with air +which is passed slowly through a fine gauze of intensely heated platinum +wire, so as to burn up all the floating dust particles, which are mainly +organic, the light will pass through the cylinder without illuminating +the interior, which, viewed laterally, will appear as if filled with a +dense black cloud. If, now, more air is passed into the cylinder +through the heated gauze, but so rapidly that the dust particles are not +wholly consumed, a slight blue haze will begin to appear, which will +gradually become a pure blue, equal to that of a summer sky. If more and +more dust particles are allowed to enter, the blue becomes paler, and +gradually changes to the colourless illumination of the ordinary air. + +The explanation of these phenomena is that the number of dust particles +in ordinary air is so great that they reflect abundance of light of all +wave-lengths, and thus cause the interior of the vessel containing them +to appear illuminated with white light. The air which is passed slowly +over white-hot platinum has had the dust particles destroyed, thus +showing that they were almost wholly of organic origin, which is also +indicated by their extreme lightness, causing them to float permanently +in the atmosphere. The dust being thus got rid of, and pure air being +entirely transparent, there is nothing in the cylinder to reflect the +light, which is sent through its centre in a beam of parallel rays so +that none of it strikes against the sides; hence the inside of the +cylinder appears absolutely dark. But when the larger dust particles are +wholly or partially burnt, so that only the very smallest fragments +remain, a blue light appears, because these are so minute as to reflect +chiefly the more refrangible rays, which are of shorter +wave-length--those at the blue end of the spectrum--and which are thus +scattered in all directions, while the red and yellow rays pass straight +on as before. + +We have seen that the air near the earth's surface is full of rather +coarse particles which reflect all the rays, and which therefore produce +no one colour. But higher up the particles necessarily become smaller +and smaller, since the comparatively rare atmosphere will support only +the very smallest and lightest. These exist throughout a great thickness +of air, perhaps from one mile to ten miles high or, even more, and blue +or violet rays being reflected from the innumerable particles in this +great mass of air, which is nearly uniform in all parts of the world as +regards the presence of minute dust particles, produces the constant and +nearly uniform tint we call sky-blue. A certain amount of white or +yellow light is no doubt reflected from the coarser dust in the lower +atmosphere, and slightly dilutes the blue and renders it not quite so +deep and pure as it otherwise would be. This is shown by the increasing +depth of the sky-colour when seen from the tops of lofty mountains, +while from the still greater heights attained in balloons the sky +appears of a blue-black colour, the blue reflected from the +comparatively small amount of dust particles being seen against the +intense black of stellar space. It is for the same reason that the +"Italian skies" are of so rich a blue, because the Mediterranean Sea on +one side and the snowy Alps on the other do not furnish so large a +quantity of atmospheric dust in the lower strata of air as in less +favorably situated countries, thus leaving the blue reflected by the +more uniformly distributed fine dust of the higher strata undiluted. But +these Mediterranean skies are surpassed by those of the central Pacific +ocean, where, owing to the small area of land, the lower atmosphere is +more free from coarse dust than in any other part of the world. + +If we look at the sky on a perfectly fine summer's day, we shall find +that the blue colour is the most pure and intense overhead, and when +looking high up in a direction opposite to the sun. Near the horizon it +is always less bright, while in the region immediately around the sun it +is more or less yellow. The reason of this is that near the horizon we +look through a very great thickness of the lower atmosphere, which is +full of the larger dust particles reflecting white light, and this +dilutes the pure blue of the higher atmosphere seen beyond. And in the +vicinity of the sun a good deal of the blue light is reflected back into +space by the finer dust, thus giving a yellowish tinge to that which +reaches us reflected chiefly from the coarse dust of the lower +atmosphere. At sunset and sunrise, however, this last effect is greatly +intensified, owing to the great thickness of the strata of air through +which the light reaches us. The enormous amount of this dust is well +shown by the fact that, then only, we can look full at the sun, even +when the whole sky is free from clouds and there is no apparent mist. +But the sun's rays then reach us after having passed, first, through an +enormous thickness of the higher strata of the air, the minute dust of +which reflects most of the blue rays away from us, leaving the +complementary yellow light to pass on. Then, the somewhat coarser dust +reflects the green rays, leaving a more orange coloured light to pass +on; and finally some of the yellow is reflected, leaving almost pure +red. But owing to the constant presence of air currents, arranging both +the dust and vapour in strata of varying extent and density, and of high +or low clouds, which both absorb and reflect the light in varying +degrees, we see produced all those wondrous combinations of tints and +those gorgeous ever-changing colours, which are a constant source of +admiration and delight to all who have the advantage of an uninterrupted +view to the west, and who are accustomed to watch for these not +unfrequent exhibitions of nature's kaleidoscopic colour-painting. With +every change in the altitude of the sun the display changes its +character; and most of all when it has sunk below the horizon, and, +owing to the more favourable angles, a larger quantity of the coloured +light is reflected toward us. Especially is this the case when there is +a certain amount of cloud. The clouds, so long as the sun is above the +horizon, intercept much of the light and colour; but, when the great +luminary has passed away from our direct vision, his light shines more +directly on the under sides of all the clouds and air strata of +different densities; a new and more brilliant light flushes the western +sky, and a display of gorgeous ever-changing tints occurs which are at +once the delight of the beholder and the despair of the artist. And all +this unsurpassable glory we owe to--dust! + +A remarkable confirmation of this theory was given during the two or +three years after the great eruption of Krakatoa, near Java. The +volcanic debris was shot up from the crater many miles high, and the +heavier portion of it fell upon the sea for several hundred miles +around, and was found to be mainly composed of very thin flakes of +volcanic glass. Much of this was of course ground to impalpable dust by +the violence of the discharge, and was carried up to a height of many +miles. Here it was caught by the return currents of air continually +flowing northward and southward above the equatorial zone; and since, +when these currents reach the temperate zone, where the surface rotation +of the earth is less rapid, they continually flow eastward, the fine +dust was thus carried at a great altitude completely around the earth. +Its effects were traced some months after the eruption in the appearance +of brilliant sunset glows of an exceptional character, often flushing +with crimson the whole western half of the visible sky. These glows +continued in diminishing splendour for about three years; they were seen +all over the temperate zone; and it was calculated that, before they +finally disappeared, some of this fine dust must have travelled three +times round the globe. + +The same principle is thought to explain the exquisite blue colour of +the deep seas and oceans and of many lakes and springs. Absolutely pure +water, like pure air, is colourless, but all seas and lakes, however +clear and translucent, contain abundance of very finely divided matter, +organic or inorganic, which, as in the atmosphere, reflects the blue +rays in such quantity as to overpower the white or coloured +light-reflected from the fewer and more rapidly sinking particles of +larger size. The oceanic dust is derived from many sources. Minute +organisms are constantly dying near the surface, and their skeletons, or +fragments of them, fall slowly to the bottom. The mud brought down by +rivers, though it cannot be traced on the ocean floor more than about +150 miles from land, yet no doubt furnishes many particles of organic +matter which are carried by surface currents to enormous distances and +are ultimately dissolved before they reach the bottom. A more important +source of finely divided matter is to be found in volcanic dust which, +as in the case of Krakatoa, may remain for years in the atmosphere, but +which must ultimately fall upon the surface of the earth and ocean. This +can be traced in all the deep-sea oozes. Finally there is meteoric dust, +which is continually falling to the surface of the earth, but in such +minute quantities and in such a finely-divided state that it can be +detected only in the oozes of the deepest oceans, where both inorganic +and organic debris is almost absent. + +The blue of the ocean varies in different parts from a pure blue +somewhat lighter than that of the sky, as seen about the northern tropic +in the Atlantic, to a deep indigo tint, as seen in the north temperate +portions of the same ocean: owing, probably, to differences in the +nature, quantity, and distribution of the solid matter which causes the +colour. The Mediterranean, and the deeper Swiss lakes, are also a blue +of various tints, due also to the presence of suspended matter, which +Professor Tyndall thought might be so fine that it would require ages of +quiet subsidence to reach the bottom. All the evidence goes to show, +therefore, that the exquisite blue tints of sky and ocean, as well as +all the sunset hues of sky and cloud, of mountain peak and Alpine snows, +are due to the finer particles of that very dust which, in its coarser +forms, we find so annoying and even dangerous. + +But if this production of colour and beauty were the only useful +function of dust, some persons might be disposed to dispense with it in +order to escape its less agreeable effects. It has, however, been +recently discovered that dust has another part to play in nature; a part +so important that it is doubtful whether we could even live without it. +To the presence of dust in the higher atmosphere we owe the formation of +mists, clouds, and gentle beneficial rains, instead of water spouts and +destructive torrents. + +It is barely twenty years ago since the discovery was made, first in +France by Coulier and Mascart, but more thoroughly worked out by Mr. +John Aitken in 1880. He found that if a jet of steam is admitted into +two large glass receivers,--one filled with ordinary air, the other with +air which has been filtered through cotton wool so as to keep back all +particles of solid matter,--the first will be instantly filled with +condensed vapour in the usual cloudy form, while the other vessel will +remain quite transparent. Another experiment was made, more nearly +reproducing what occurs in nature. Some water was placed in the two +vessels prepared as before. When the water had evaporated sufficiently +to saturate the air the vessels were slightly cooled; a dense cloud was +at once formed in the one while the other remained quite clear. These +experiments, and many others, show that the mere cooling of vapour in +air will not condense it into mist clouds or rain, unless _particles of +solid matter_ are present to form _nuclei_ upon which condensation can +begin. The density of the cloud is proportionate to the number of the +particles; hence the fact that the steam issuing from the safety-valve +or the chimney of a locomotive forms a dense white cloud, shows that the +air is really full of dust particles, most of which are microscopic but +none the less serving as centres of condensation for the vapour. Hence, +if there were no dust in the air, escaping steam would remain invisible; +there would be no cloud in the sky; and the vapour in the atmosphere, +constantly accumulating through evaporation from seas and oceans and +from the earth's surface, would have to find some other means of +returning to its source. + +One of these modes would be the deposition of dew, which is itself an +illustration of the principle that vapour requires solid or liquid +surfaces to condense upon; dew forms most readily and abundantly on +grass, on account of the numerous centres of condensation this affords. +Dew, however, is now formed only on clear cold nights after warm or +moist days. The air near the surface is warm and contains much vapour, +though below the point of saturation. But the innumerable points and +extensive surfaces of grass radiate heat quickly, and becoming cool, +lower the temperature of the adjacent air, which then reaches +saturation point and condenses the contained atmosphere on the grass. +Hence, if the atmosphere at the earth's surface became super-saturated +with aqueous vapour, dew would be continuously deposited, especially on +every form of vegetation, the result being that everything, including +our clothing, would be constantly dripping wet. If there were absolutely +no particles of solid matter in the upper atmosphere, all the moisture +would be returned to the earth in the form of dense mists, and frequent +and copious dews, which in forests would form torrents of rain by the +rapid condensation on the leaves. But if we suppose that solid particles +were occasionally carried higher up through violent winds or tornadoes, +then on those occasions the super-saturated atmosphere would condense +rapidly upon them, and while falling would gather almost all the +moisture in the atmosphere in that locality, resulting in masses or +sheets of water, which would be so ruinously destructive by the mere +weight and impetus of their fall that it is doubtful whether they would +not render the earth almost wholly uninhabitable. + +The chief mode of discharging the atmospheric vapour in the absence of +dust would, however, be by contact with the higher slopes of all +mountain ranges. Atmospheric vapour, being lighter than air, would +accumulate in enormous quantities in the upper strata of the atmosphere, +which would be always super-saturated and ready to condense upon any +solid or liquid surfaces. But the quantity of land comprised in the +upper half of all the mountains of the world is a very small fraction of +the total surface of the globe, and this would lead to very disastrous +results. The air in contact with the higher mountain slopes would +rapidly discharge its water, which would run down the mountain sides in +torrents. This condensation on every side of the mountains would leave a +partial vacuum which would set up currents from every direction to +restore the equilibrium, thus bringing in more super-saturated air to +suffer condensation and add its supply of water, again increasing the +in-draught of more air. The result would be that winds would be +constantly blowing toward every mountain range from all directions, +keeping up the condensation and discharging, day and night and from one +year's end to another, an amount of water equal to that which falls +during the heaviest tropical rains. All of the rain that now falls over +the whole surface of the earth and ocean, with the exception of a few +desert areas, would then fall only on rather high mountains or steep +isolated hills, tearing down their sides in huge torrents, cutting deep +ravines, and rendering all growth of vegetation impossible. The +mountains would therefore be so devastated as to be uninhabitable, and +would be equally incapable of supporting either vegetable or animal +life. + +But this constant condensation on the mountains would probably check the +deposit on the lowlands in the form of dew, because the continual +up-draught toward the higher slopes would withdraw almost the whole of +the vapour as it arose from the oceans, and other water-surfaces, and +thus leave the lower strata over the plains almost or quite dry. And if +this were the case there would be no vegetation, and therefore no animal +life, on the plains and lowlands, which would thus be all arid deserts +cut through by the great rivers formed by the meeting together of the +innumerable torrents from the mountains. + +Now, although it may not be possible to determine with perfect accuracy +what would happen under the supposed condition of the atmosphere, it is +certain that the total absence of dust would so fundamentally change the +meteorology of our globe as, not improbably, to render it uninhabitable +by man, and equally unsuitable for the larger portion of its existing +animal and vegetable life. + +Let us now briefly summarise what we owe to the universality of dust, +and especially to that most finely divided portion of it which is +constantly present in the atmosphere up to the height of many miles. +First of all it gives us the pure blue of the sky, one of the most +exquisitely beautiful colours in nature. It gives us also the glories +of the sunset and the sunrise, and all those brilliant hues seen in high +mountain regions. Half the beauty of the world would vanish with the +absence of dust. But, what is far more important than the colour of sky +and beauty of sunset, dust gives us also diffused daylight, or skylight, +that most equable, and soothing, and useful, of all illuminating +agencies. Without dust the sky would appear absolutely black, and the +stars would be visible even at noonday. The sky itself would therefore +give us no light. We should have bright glaring sunlight or intensely +dark shadows, with hardly any half-tones. From this cause alone the +world would be so totally different from what it is that all vegetable +and animal life would probably have developed into very different forms, +and even our own organisation would have been modified in order that we +might enjoy life in a world of such harsh and violent contrasts. + +In our houses we should have little light except when the sun shone +directly into them, and even then every spot out of its direct rays +would be completely dark, except for light reflected from the walls. It +would be necessary to have windows all around and the walls all white; +and on the north side of every house a high white wall would have to be +built to reflect the light and prevent that side from being in total +darkness. Even then we should have to live in a perpetual glare, or shut +out the sun altogether and use artificial light as being a far superior +article. + +Much more important would be the effects of a dust-free atmosphere in +banishing clouds, or mist, or the "gentle rain of heaven," and in giving +us in their place perpetual sunshine, desert lowlands, and mountains +devastated by unceasing floods and raging torrents, so as, apparently, +to render all life on the earth impossible. + +There are a few other phenomena, apparently due to the same general +causes, which may here be referred to. Everyone must have noticed the +difference in the atmospheric effects and general character of the light +in spring and autumn, at times when the days are of the same length, +and consequently when the sun has the same altitude at corresponding +hours. In spring we have a bluer sky and greater transparency of the +atmosphere; in autumn, even on very fine days, there is always a kind of +yellowish haze, resulting in a want of clearness in the air and purity +of colour in the sky. These phenomena are quite intelligible when we +consider that during winter less dust is formed, and more is brought +down to the earth by rain and snow, resulting in the transparent +atmosphere of spring, while exactly opposite conditions during summer +bring about the mellow autumnal light. Again, the well-known beneficial +effects of rain on vegetation, as compared with any amount of artificial +watering, though, no doubt, largely due to the minute quantity of +ammonia which the rain brings down with it from the air, must yet be +partly derived from the organic or mineral particles which serve as the +nuclei of every raindrop, and which, being so minute, are the more +readily dissolved in the soil and appropriated as nourishment by the +roots of plants. + +It will be observed that all these beneficial effects of dust are due to +its presence in such quantities as are produced by natural causes, since +both gentle showers as well as ample rains and deep blue skies are +present throughout the vast equatorial forest districts, where +dust-forming agencies seem to be at a minimum. But in all +densely-populated countries there is an enormous artificial production +of dust--from our ploughed fields, from our roads and streets, where +dust is continually formed by the iron-shod hoofs of innumerable horses, +but chiefly from our enormous combustion of fuel pouring into the air +volumes of smoke charged with unconsumed particles of carbon. This +superabundance of dust, probably many times greater than that which +would be produced under the more natural conditions which prevailed when +our country was more thinly populated, must almost certainly produce +some effect on our climate; and the particular effect it seems +calculated to produce is the increase of cloud and fog, but not +necessarily any increase of rain. Rain depends on the supply of aqueous +vapour by evaporation; on temperature, which determines the dew point; +and on changes in barometric pressure, which determine the winds. There +is probably always and everywhere enough atmospheric dust to serve as +centres of condensation at considerable altitudes, and thus to initiate +rainfall when the other conditions are favourable; but the presence of +increased quantities of dust at the lower levels must lead to the +formation of denser clouds, although the minute water-vesicles cannot +descend as rain, because, as they pass down into warmer and dryer strata +of air, they are again evaporated. + +Now, there is much evidence to show that there has been a considerable +increase in the amount of cloud, and consequent decrease in the amount +of sunshine, in all parts of our country. It is an undoubted fact that +in the Middle Ages England was a wine-producing country, and this +implies more sunshine than we have now. Sunshine has a double effect, in +heating the surface soil and thus causing more rapid growth, besides its +direct effect in ripening the fruit. This is well seen in Canada, where, +notwithstanding a six months' winter of extreme severity, vines are +grown as bushes in the open ground, and produce fruit equal to that of +our ordinary greenhouses. Some years back one of our gardening +periodicals obtained from gardeners of forty or fifty years' experience +a body of facts clearly indicating a comparatively recent change of +climate. It was stated that in many parts of the country, especially in +the north, fruits were formerly grown successfully and of good quality +in gardens where they cannot be grown now; and this occurred in places +sufficiently removed from manufacturing centres to be unaffected by any +direct deleterious influence of smoke. But an increase of cloud, and +consequent diminution of sunshine, would produce just such a result; and +this increase is almost certain to have occurred owing to the enormously +increased amount of dust thrown into the atmosphere as our country has +become more densely populated, and especially owing to the vast increase +of our smoke-producing manufactories. It seems highly probable, +therefore, that to increase the wealth of our capitalist-manufacturers +we are allowing the climate of our whole country to be greatly +deteriorated in a way which diminishes both its productiveness and its +beauty, thus injuriously affecting the enjoyment and the health of the +whole population, since sunshine is itself an essential condition of +healthy life. When this fact is thoroughly realised we shall surely put +a stop to such a reckless and wholly unnecessary production of injurious +smoke and dust. + +In conclusion, we find that the much-abused and all-pervading dust, +which, when too freely produced, deteriorates our climate and brings us +dirt, discomfort, and even disease, is, nevertheless, under natural +conditions, an essential portion of the economy of nature. It gives us +much of the beauty of natural scenery, as due to varying atmospheric +effects of sky, and cloud, and sunset tints, and thus renders life more +enjoyable; while, as an essential condition of diffused daylight and of +moderate rainfalls combined with a dry atmosphere, it appears to be +absolutely necessary for our existence upon the earth, perhaps even for +the very development of terrestrial, as opposed to aquatic life. The +overwhelming importance of the small things, and even of the despised +things, of our world has never, perhaps, been so strikingly brought home +to us as in these recent investigations into the wide-spread and +far-reaching beneficial influences of Atmospheric Dust. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 61: Chapter IX of "The Wonderful Century," copyright, 1898, by +Dodd, Mead and Company. The chapter is here reprinted by permission of +the author, Dr. Wallace, and of the publishers.] + + + + +THE BATTLE OF THE ANTS[62] + +HENRY DAVID THOREAU + + +One day when I went out to my wood-pile, or rather my pile of stumps, I +observed two large ants, the one red, the other much larger, nearly half +an inch long, and black, fiercely contending with one another. Having +once got hold they never let go, but struggled and wrestled and rolled +on the chips incessantly. Looking farther, I was surprised to find that +the chips were covered with such combatants, that it was not a +_duellum_, but a _bellum_, a war between two races of ants, the red +always pitted against the black, and frequently two red ones to one +black. The legions of these Myrmidons covered all the hills and vales in +my wood-yard, and the ground was already strewn with the dead and dying, +both red and black. It was the only battle which I have ever witnessed, +the only battlefield I ever trod while the battle was raging; +internecine war; the red republicans on the one hand, and the black +imperialists on the other. On every side they were engaged in deadly +combat, yet without any noise that I could hear, and human soldiers +never fought so resolutely. I watched a couple that were fast locked in +each other's embraces, in a little sunny valley amid the chips, now at +noon-day prepared to fight till the sun went down, or life went out. The +smaller red champion had fastened himself like a vice to his adversary's +front, and through all the tumblings on that field never for an instant +ceased to gnaw at one of his feelers near the root, having already +caused the other to go by the board; while the stronger black one dashed +him from side to side, and, as I saw on looking nearer, had already +divested him of several of his members. They fought with more +pertinacity than bull-dogs. Neither manifested the least disposition to +retreat. It was evident that their battle-cry was Conquer or Die. In the +meanwhile there came along a single red ant on the hill-side of this +valley, evidently full of excitement, who either had despatched his foe, +or had not yet taken part in the battle; probably the latter, for he had +lost none of his limbs; whose mother had charged him to return with his +shield or upon it. Or perchance he was some Achilles, who had nourished +his wrath apart, and had now come to avenge or rescue his Patroclus.[63] +He saw this unequal combat from afar,--for the blacks were nearly twice +the size of the reds; he drew near with rapid pace till he stood on his +guard within half an inch of the combatants; then, watching his +opportunity, he sprang upon the black warrior, and commenced his +operations near the root of his right foreleg, leaving the foe to select +among his own members; and so there were three united for life, as if a +new kind of attraction had been invented which put all other locks and +cements to shame. I should not have wondered by this time to find that +they had their respective musical bands stationed on some eminent chip, +and playing their national airs the while, to excite the slow and cheer +the dying combatants. I was myself excited somewhat even as if they had +been men. The more you think of it, the less the difference. And +certainly there is not the fight recorded in Concord history, at least, +if in the history of America, that will bear a moment's comparison with +this, whether for the numbers engaged in it, or for the patriotism and +heroism displayed. For numbers and for carnage it was an Austerlitz or +Dresden. Concord Fight! Two killed on the patriots' side, and Luther +Blanchard wounded! Why here every ant was a Buttrick,--"Fire! for God's +sake, fire!"--and thousands shared the fate of Davis and Hosmer. There +was not one hireling there. I have no doubt that it was a principle they +fought for, as much as our ancestors, and not to avoid a three-penny tax +on their tea; and the results of this battle will be as important and +memorable to those whom it concerns as those of the battle of Bunker +Hill, at least. + +I took up the chip on which the three I have particularly described were +struggling, carried it into my house, and placed it under a tumbler on +my window-sill, in order to see the issue. Holding a microscope to the +first-mentioned red ant, I saw that, though he was assiduously gnawing +at the near fore-leg of his enemy, having severed his remaining feeler, +his own breast was all torn away, exposing what vitals he had there to +the jaws of the black warrior, whose breast-plate was apparently too +thick for him to pierce; and the dark carbuncles of the sufferer's eyes +shone with ferocity such as war only could excite. They struggled half +an hour longer under the tumbler, and when I looked again the black +soldier had severed the heads of his foes from their bodies, and the +still living heads were hanging on either side of him like ghastly +trophies at his saddlebow, still apparently as firmly fastened as ever, +and he was endeavoring with feeble struggles, being without feelers and +with only the remnant of a leg, and I know not how many other wounds, to +divest himself of them; which at length, after half an hour more, he +accomplished. I raised the glass, and he went off over the window-sill +in that crippled state. Whether he finally survived that combat, and +spent the remainder of his days in some Hotel des Invalides, I do not +know; but I thought that his industry would not be worth much +thereafter. I never learned which party was victorious, nor the cause of +the war; but I felt for the rest of that day as if I had had my feelings +excited and harrowed by witnessing the struggle, the ferocity and +carnage, of a human battle before my door. + +Kirby and Spence tell us that the battles of ants have long been +celebrated and the date of them recorded, though they say that Huber is +the only modern author who appears to have witnessed them. "Aeneas +Sylvius," say they, "after giving a very circumstantial account of one +contested with great obstinacy by a great and small species on the trunk +of a pear tree," adds that "'This action was fought in the pontificate +of Eugenius the Fourth, in the presence of Nicholas Pistoriensis, an +eminent lawyer, who related the whole history of the battle with the +greatest fidelity.' A similar engagement between great and small ants is +recorded by Olaus Magnus, in which the small ones being victorious, are +said to have buried the bodies of their own soldiers, but left those of +their giant enemies a prey to the birds. This event happened previous to +the expulsion of the tyrant Christiern the Second from Sweden." The +battle which I witnessed took place in the Presidency of Polk, five +years before the passage of Webster's Fugitive-Slave Bill. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 62: From Chapter XII of "Walden," 1854.] + +[Footnote 63: Patroclus, in Homer's Iliad, was the friend whose death at +the hands of the Trojans roused Achilles to action.] + + + + +A WIND-STORM IN THE FORESTS[64] + +JOHN MUIR + + +The mountain winds, like the dew and rain, sunshine and snow, are +measured and bestowed with love on the forests, to develop their +strength and beauty. However restricted the scope of other forest +influences, that of the winds is universal. The snow bends and trims the +upper forests every winter, the lightning strikes a single tree here and +there, while avalanches mow down thousands at a swoop as a gardener +trims out a bed of flowers. But the winds go to every tree, fingering +every leaf and branch and furrowed hole; not one is forgotten: the +Mountain Pine towering with outstretched arms on the rugged buttresses +of the icy peaks, the lowliest and most retiring tenant of the +dells--they seek and find them all, caressing them tenderly, bending +them in lusty exercise, stimulating their growth, plucking off a leaf or +limb as required, or removing an entire tree or grove, now whispering +and cooing through the branches like a sleepy child, now roaring like +the ocean; the winds blessing the forests, the forests the winds, with +ineffable beauty and harmony as the sure result. + +After one has seen pines six feet in diameter bending like grasses +before a mountain gale, and ever and anon some giant falling with a +crash that shakes the hills, it seems astonishing that any, save the +lowest thick-set trees, could ever have found a period sufficiently +stormless to establish themselves; or once established, that they should +not sooner or later have been blown down. But when the storm is over, +and we behold the same forests tranquil again, towering fresh and +unscathed in erect majesty, and consider what centuries of storms have +fallen upon them since they were first planted: hail, to break the +tender seedlings; lightning, to scorch and shatter; snow, winds, and +avalanches, to crush and overwhelm,--while the manifest result of all +this wild storm-culture is the glorious perfection we behold: then faith +in Nature's forestry is established, and we cease to deplore the +violence of her most destructive gales, or of any other storm implement +whatsoever. + +There are two trees in the Sierra forests that are never blown down, so +long as they continue in sound health. These are the Juniper and the +Dwarf Pine of the summit peaks. Their stiff, crooked roots grip the +storm-beaten ledges like eagles' claws; while their lithe, cord-like +branches bend round compliantly, offering but slight holds for winds, +however violent. The other alpine conifers--the Needle Pine, Mountain +Pine, Two-leaved Pine, and Hemlock Spruce--are never thinned out by this +agent to any destructive extent, on account of their admirable toughness +and the closeness of their growth. In general the same is true of the +giants of the lower zones. The kingly Sugar Pine, towering aloft to a +height of more than two hundred feet, offers a fine mark to storm-winds; +but it is not densely foliaged, and its long horizontal arms swing round +compliantly in the blast, like tresses of green, fluent algae in a +brook: while the Silver Firs in most places keep their ranks well +together in united strength. + +The Yellow or Silver Pine is more frequently overturned than any other +tree on the Sierra, because its leaves and branches form a larger mass +in proportion to its height; while in many places it is planted +sparsely, leaving open lanes through which storms may enter with full +force. Furthermore, because it is distributed along the lower portion of +the range, which was the first to be left bare on the breaking up of the +ice-sheet at the close of the glacial winter, the soil it is growing +upon has been longer exposed to post-glacial weathering, and +consequently is in a more crumbling, decayed condition than the fresher +soils farther up the range, and therefore offers a less secure anchorage +for the roots. While exploring the forest zones of Mount Shasta, I +discovered the path of a hurricane strewn with thousands of pines of +this species. Great and small had been uprooted or wrenched off by sheer +force, making a clean gap, like that made by a snow avalanche. But +hurricanes capable of doing this class of work are rare in the Sierra; +and when we have explored the forests from one extremity of the range to +the other, we are compelled to believe that they are the most beautiful +on the face of the earth, however we may regard the agents that have +made them so. + +There is always something deeply exciting, not only in the sounds of +winds in the woods, which exert more or less influence over every mind, +but in their varied water-like flow as manifested by the movements of +the trees, especially those of the conifers. By no other trees are they +rendered so extensively and impressively visible; not even by the lordly +tropic palms or tree-ferns responsive to the gentlest breeze. The waving +of a forest of the giant Sequoias is indescribably impressive and +sublime; but the pines seem to me the best interpreters of winds. They +are mighty waving golden-rods, ever in tune, singing and writing +wind-music all their long century lives. Little, however, of this noble +tree-waving and tree-music will you see or hear in the strictly alpine +portion of the forests. The burly Juniper whose girth sometimes more +than equals its height, is about as rigid as the rocks on which it +grows. The slender lash-like sprays of the Dwarf Pine stream out in +wavering ripples, but the tallest and slenderest are far too unyielding +to wave even in the heaviest gales. They only shake in quick, short +vibrations. The Hemlock Spruce, however, and the Mountain Pine, and some +of the tallest thickets of the Two-leaved species, bow in storms with +considerable scope and gracefulness. But it is only in the lower and +middle zones that the meeting of winds and woods is to be seen in all +its grandeur. + +One of the most beautiful and exhilarating storms I ever enjoyed in the +Sierra occurred in December, 1874, when I happened to be exploring one +of the tributary valleys of the Yuba River. The sky and the ground and +the trees had been thoroughly rain-washed and were dry again. The day +was intensely pure: one of those incomparable bits of California winter, +warm and balmy and full of white sparkling sunshine, redolent of all the +purest influences of the spring, and at the same time enlivened with one +of the most bracing wind-storms conceivable. Instead of camping out, as +I usually do, I then chanced to be stopping at the house of a friend. +But when the storm began to sound, I lost no time in pushing out into +the woods to enjoy it. For on such occasions Nature has always something +rare to show us, and the danger to life and limb is hardly greater than +one would experience crouching deprecatingly beneath a roof. + +It was still early morning when I found myself fairly adrift. Delicious +sunshine came pouring over the hills, lighting the tops of the pines, +and setting free a steam of summery fragrance that contrasted strangely +with the wild tones of the storm. The air was mottled with pine-tassels +and bright green plumes, that went flashing past in the sunlight like +birds pursued. But there was not the slightest dustiness; nothing less +pure than leaves, and ripe pollen, and flecks of withered bracken and +moss. I heard trees falling for hours at the rate of one every two or +three minutes: some uprooted, partly on account of the loose, +water-soaked condition of the ground; others broken straight across, +where some weakness caused by fire had determined the spot. The gestures +of the various trees made a delightful study. Young Sugar Pines, light +and feathery as squirrel-tails, were bowing almost to the ground; while +the grand old patriarchs, whose massive boles had been tried in a +hundred storms, waved solemnly above them, their long, arching branches +streaming fluently on the gale, and every needle thrilling and ringing +and shedding off keen lances of light like a diamond. The Douglas +Spruces, with long sprays drawn out in level tresses, and needles massed +in a gray, shimmering glow, presented a most striking appearance as they +stood in bold relief along the hilltops. The madronos in the dells, with +their red bark and large glossy leaves tilted every way, reflected the +sunshine in throbbing spangles like those one so often sees on the +rippled surface of a glacier lake. But the Silver Pines were now the +most impressively beautiful of all. Colossal spires two hundred feet in +height waved like supple golden-rods chanting and bowing low as if in +worship; while the whole mass of their long, tremulous foliage was +kindled into one continuous blaze of white sun-fire. The force of the +gale was such that the most steadfast monarch of them all rocked down to +its roots, with a motion plainly perceptible when one leaned against it. +Nature was holding high festival, and every fiber of the most rigid +giants thrilled with glad excitement. + +I drifted on through the midst of this passionate music and motion, +across many a glen, from ridge to ridge; often halting in the lee of a +rock for shelter, or to gaze and listen. Even when the grand anthem had +swelled to its highest pitch, I could distinctly hear the varying tones +of individual trees--Spruce, and Fir, and Pine, and leafless Oak--and +even the infinitely gentle rustle of the withered grasses at my feet. +Each was expressing itself in its own way--singing its own song, and +making its own peculiar gestures--manifesting a richness of variety to +be found in no other forest I have yet seen. The coniferous woods of +Canada and the Carolinas and Florida, are made up of trees that resemble +one another about as nearly as blades of grass, and grow close together +in much the same way. Coniferous trees, in general, seldom possess +individual character, such as is manifest among Oaks and Elms. But the +California forests are made up of a greater number of distinct species +than any other in the world. And in them we find, not only a marked +differentiation into special groups, but also a marked individuality in +almost every tree, giving rise to storm effects indescribably glorious. + +Toward midday, after a long, tingling scramble through copses of hazel +and ceanothus, I gained the summit of the highest ridge in the +neighborhood; and then it occurred to me that it would be a fine thing +to climb one of the trees, to obtain a wider outlook and get my ear +close to the Aeolian music of its topmost needles. But under the +circumstances the choice of a tree was a serious matter. One whose +instep was not very strong seemed in danger of being blown down, or of +being struck by others in case they should fall; another was branchless +to a considerable height above the ground, and at the same time too +large to be grasped with arms and legs in climbing; while others were +not favorably situated for clear views. After cautiously casting about, +I made choice of the tallest of a group of Douglas Spruces that were +growing close together like a tuft of grass, no one of which seemed +likely to fall unless all the rest fell with it. Though comparatively +young, they were about a hundred feet high, and their lithe, brushy tops +were rocking and swirling in wild ecstasy. Being accustomed to climb +trees in making botanical studies, I experienced no difficulty in +reaching the top of this one; and never before did I enjoy so noble an +exhilaration of motion. The slender tops fairly flapped and swished in +the passionate torrent, bending and swirling backward and forward, round +and round, tracing indescribable combinations of vertical and horizontal +curves, while I clung with muscles firm-braced, like a bobolink on a +reed. + +In its widest sweeps my tree-top described an arc of from twenty to +thirty degrees; but I felt sure of its elastic temper, having seen +others of the same species still more severely tried--bent almost to the +ground indeed, in heavy snows--without breaking a fiber. I was therefore +safe, and free to take the wind into my pulses and enjoy the excited +forest from my superb outlook. The view from here must be extremely +beautiful in any weather. Now my eye roved over the piny hills and +dales as over fields of waving grain, and felt the light running in +ripples and broad swelling undulations across the valleys from ridge to +ridge, as the shining foliage was stirred by corresponding waves of air. +Oftentimes these waves of reflected light would break one another in +regular order, they would seem to bend forward in concentric curves, and +disappear on some hillside, like sea waves on a shelving shore. The +quantity of light reflected from the bent needles was so great as to +make whole groves appear as if covered with snow, while the black +shadows beneath the trees greatly enhanced the effect of the silvery +splendor. + +Excepting only the shadows, there was nothing somber in all this wild +sea of pines. On the contrary, notwithstanding this was the winter +season, the colors were remarkably beautiful. The shafts of the pine and +libocedrus were brown and purple, and most of the foliage was well +tinged with yellow; the laurel groves, with the pale under sides of +their leaves turned upward, made masses of gray; and then there was many +a dash of chocolate color from clumps of manzanita, and jet of vivid +crimson from the bark of the madronos; while the ground on the +hillsides, appearing here and there through openings between the groves, +displayed masses of pale purple and brown. + +The sounds of the storm corresponded gloriously with this wild +exuberance of light and motion. The profound bass of the naked branches +and boles booming like waterfalls; the quick, tense vibrations of the +pine-needles, now rising to a shrill, whistling hiss, now falling to a +silky murmur; the rustling of laurel groves in the dells, and the keen +metallic click of leaf on leaf--all this was heard in easy analysis when +the attention was calmly bent. + +The varied gestures of the multitude were seen to find advantage, so +that one could recognize the different species at a distance of several +miles by this means alone, as well as by their forms and colors and the +way they reflected the light. All seemed strong and comfortable, as if +really enjoying the storm, while responding to its most enthusiastic +greetings. We hear much nowadays concerning the universal struggle for +existence, but no struggle in the common meaning of the word was +manifest here; no recognition of danger by any tree; no deprecation; but +rather an invincible gladness, as remote from exultation as from fear. + +I kept my lofty perch for hours, frequently closing my eyes to enjoy the +music by itself, or to feast quietly on the delicious fragrance that was +streaming past. The fragrance of the woods was less marked than that +produced during warm rain, when so many balsamic buds and leaves are +steeped like tea; but from the chafing of resiny branches against each +other, and the incessant attrition of myriads of needles, the gale was +spiced to a very tonic degree. And besides the fragrance from these +local sources, there were traces of scents brought from afar. For this +wind came first from the sea, rubbing against its fresh, briny waves, +then distilled through the redwoods, threading rich ferny gulches, and +spreading itself in broad undulating currents over many a +flower-enameled ridge of the coast mountains, then across the golden +plains, up the purple foot-hills, and into these piny woods with the +varied incense gathered by the way. + +Winds are advertisements of all they touch, however much or little we +may be able to read them; telling their wanderings even by their scents +alone. Mariners detect the flowery perfume of land-winds far at sea, and +sea-winds carry the fragrance of dulce and tangle far inland, where it +is quickly recognized, though mingled with the scents of a thousand +land-flowers. As an illustration of this, I may tell here that I +breathed sea-air on the Firth of Forth, in Scotland, while a boy; then +was taken to Wisconsin, where I remained nineteen years; then, without +in all this time having breathed one breath of the sea, I walked +quietly, alone, from the middle of the Mississippi Valley to the Gulf of +Mexico, on a botanical excursion; and while in Florida, far from the +coast, my attention wholly bent on the splendid tropical vegetation +about me, I suddenly recognized a sea-breeze, as it came sifting through +the palmettos and blooming vine-tangles, which at once awakened and set +free a thousand dormant associations, and made me a boy again in +Scotland, as if all the intervening years had been annihilated. + +Most people like to look at mountain rivers, and bear them in mind; but +few care to look at the winds, though far more beautiful and sublime, +and though they become at times about as visible as flowing water. When +the north winds in winter are making upward sweeps over the curving +summits of the High Sierra, the fact is sometimes published with flying +snow-banners a mile long. Those portions of the winds thus embodied can +scarce be wholly invisible, even to the darkest imagination. And when we +look around over an agitated forest, we may see something of the wind +that stirs it, by its effects upon the trees. Yonder it descends in a +rush of water-like ripples, and sweeps over the bending pines from hill +to hill. Nearer, we see detached plumes and leaves, now speeding by on +level currents, now whirling in eddies, or escaping over the edges of +the whirls, soaring aloft on grand, upswelling domes of air, or tossing +on flame-like crests. Smooth, deep currents, cascades, falls, and +swirling eddies, sing around every tree and leaf, and over all the +varied topography of the region with telling changes of form, like +mountain rivers conforming to the features of their channels. + +After tracing the Sierra streams from their fountains to the plains, +marking where they bloom white in falls, glide in crystal plumes, surge +gray and foam-filled in bowlder-choked gorges, and slip through the +woods in long, tranquil reaches--after thus learning their language and +forms in detail, we may at length hear them chanting all together in one +grand anthem, and comprehend them all in clear inner vision, covering +the range like lace. But even this spectacle is far less sublime and not +a whit more substantial than what we may behold of these storm-streams +of air in the mountain woods. + +We all travel the Milky Way together, trees and men; but it never +occurred to me until this storm day, while swinging in the wind, that +trees are travelers, in the ordinary sense. They make many journeys; not +extensive ones, it is true; but our own little journeys, away and back +again, are only little more than tree-wavings--many of them not so much. + +When the storm began to abate, I dismounted and sauntered down through +the calming woods. The storm-tones died away, and turning toward the +east, I beheld the countless hosts of the forests hushed and tranquil, +towering above one another on the slopes of the hills like a devout +audience. The setting sun filled them with amber light, and seemed to +say, while they listened, "My peace I give unto you." + +As I gazed on the impressive scene, all the so-called ruin of the storm +was forgotten; and never before did these noble woods appear so fresh, +so joyous, so immortal. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 64: From "The Mountains of California," copyright 1894. +Printed here by permission of the Century Company.] + + + + +WALDEN POND[65] + +HENRY DAVID THOREAU + + +Occasionally, after my hoeing was done for the day, I joined some +impatient companion who had been fishing on the pond since morning, as +silent and motionless as a duck or a floating leaf, and, after +practising various kinds of philosophy, had concluded commonly, by the +time I arrived, that he belonged to the ancient sect of Coenobites. +There was one older man, an excellent fisher and skilled in all kinds of +woodcraft, who was pleased to look upon my house as a building erected +for the convenience of fishermen; and I was equally pleased when he sat +in my doorway to arrange his lines. Once in a while we sat together on +the pond, he at one end of the boat, and I at the other; but not many +words passed between us, for he had grown deaf in his later years, but +he occasionally hummed a psalm, which harmonized well enough with my +philosophy. Our intercourse was thus altogether one of unbroken harmony, +far more pleasing to remember than if it had been carried on by speech. +When, as was commonly the case, I had none to commune with, I used to +raise the echoes by striking with a paddle on the side of my boat, +filling the surrounding woods with circling and dilating sound, stirring +them up as the keeper of a menagerie his wild beasts, until I elicited a +growl from every wooded vale and hillside. + +In warm evenings I frequently sat in the boat playing the flute, and saw +the perch, which I seemed to have charmed, hovering around me, and the +moon travelling over the ribbed bottom, which was strewed with the +wrecks of the forest. Formerly I had come to this pond adventurously, +from time to time, in dark summer nights, with a companion, and making a +fire close to the water's edge, which we thought attracted the fishes, +we caught pouts with a bunch of worms strung on a thread; and when we +had done, far in the night, threw the burning brands high into the air +like sky-rockets, which, coming down into the pond, were quenched with a +loud hissing, and we were suddenly groping in total darkness. Through +this, whistling a tune, we took our way to the haunts of men again. But +now I had made my home by the shore. + +Sometimes, after staying in a village parlor till the family had all +retired, I have returned to the woods, and, partly with a view to the +next day's dinner, spent the hours of midnight fishing from a boat by +moonlight, serenaded by owls and foxes, and hearing, from time to time, +the creaking note of some unknown bird close at hand. These experiences +were very memorable and valuable to me,--anchored in forty feet of +water, and twenty or thirty rods from the shore, surrounded sometimes by +thousands of small perch and shiners, dimpling the surface with their +tails in the moonlight, and communicating by a long flaxen line with +mysterious nocturnal fishes which had their dwelling forty feet below, +or sometimes dragging sixty feet of line about the pond as I drifted in +the gentle night breeze, now and then feeling a slight vibration along +it, indicative of some life prowling about its extremity, of dull +uncertain blundering purpose there, and slow to make up its mind. At +length you slowly raise, pulling hand over hand, some homed pout +squeaking and squirming to the upper air. It was very queer, especially +in dark nights, when your thoughts had wandered to vast and cosmogonal +themes in other spheres, to feel this faint jerk, which came to +interrupt your dreams and link you to Nature again. It seemed as if I +might next cast my line upward into the air, as well as downward into +this element which was scarcely more dense. Thus I caught two fishes as +it were with one hook. + +The scenery of Walden is on a humble scale, and, though very beautiful, +does not approach to grandeur, nor can it much concern one who has not +long frequented it, or lived by its shore; yet this pond is so +remarkable for its depth and purity as to merit a particular +description. It is a clear and deep green well, half a mile long and a +mile and three quarters in circumference, and contains about sixty-one +and a half acres; a perennial spring in the midst of pine and oak woods, +without any visible inlet or outlet except by the clouds and +evaporation. The surrounding hills rise abruptly from the water to the +height of forty to eighty feet, though on the southeast and east they +attain to about one hundred and one hundred and fifty feet respectively, +within a quarter and a third of a mile. They are exclusively woodland. +All our Concord waters have two colors at least, one when viewed at a +distance, and another, more proper, close at hand. The first depends +more on the light, and follows the sky. In clear weather, in summer, +they appear blue at a little distance, especially if agitated, and at a +great distance all appear alike. In stormy weather they are sometimes of +a dark slate color. The sea, however, is said to be blue one day and +green another without any perceptible change in the atmosphere. I have +seen our river, when, the landscape being covered with snow, both water +and ice were almost as green as grass. Some consider blue "to be the +color of pure water, whether liquid or solid." But looking directly down +into our waters from a boat, they are seen to be of very different +colors. Walden is blue at one time and green at another, even from the +same point of view. Lying between the earth and the heavens, it partakes +of the color of both. Viewed from a hilltop it reflects the color of the +sky, but near at hand it is of a yellowish tint next the shore where you +can see the sand, then a light green, which gradually deepens to a +uniform dark green in the body of the pond. In some lights, viewed even +from a hilltop, it is of a vivid green next the shore. Some have +referred this to the reflection of the verdure; but it is equally green +there against the railroad sand-bank, and in the spring, before the +leaves are expanded, and it may be simply the result of the prevailing +blue mixed with the yellow of the sand. Such is the color of its iris. +This is that portion, also, where in the spring, the ice being warmed by +the heat of the sun reflected from the bottom, and also transmitted +through the earth, melts first and forms a narrow canal about the still +frozen middle. Like the rest of our waters, when much agitated, in clear +weather, so that the surface of the waves may reflect the sky at the +right angle, or because there is more light mixed with it, it appears at +a little distance of a darker blue than the sky itself; and at such a +time, being on its surface, and looking with divided vision, so as to +see the reflection, I have discerned a matchless and indescribable light +blue, such as watered or changeable silks and sword blades suggest, more +cerulean than the sky itself, alternating with the original dark green +on the opposite sides of the waves, which last appeared but muddy in +comparison. It is a vitreous greenish blue, as I remember it, like those +patches of the winter sky seen through cloud vistas in the west before +sundown. Yet a single glass of its water held up to the light is as +colorless as an equal quantity of air. It is well-known that a large +plate of glass will have a green tint, owing, as the makers say, to its +"body," but a small piece of the same will be colorless. How large a +body of Walden water would be required to reflect a green tint I have +never proved. The water of our river is black or a very dark brown to +one looking directly down on it, and like that of most ponds, imparts to +the body of one bathing in it a yellowish tinge; but this water is of +such crystalline purity that the body of the bather appears of an +alabaster whiteness, still more unnatural, which, as the limbs are +magnified and distorted withal, produces a monstrous effect, making fit +studies for a Michael Angelo. + +The water is so transparent that the bottom can easily be discerned at +the depth of twenty-five or thirty feet. Paddling over it, you may see +many feet beneath the surface the schools of perch and shiners, perhaps +only an inch long, yet the former easily distinguished by their +transverse bars, and you think that they must be ascetic fish that find +a subsistence there. Once, in the winter, many years ago, when I had +been cutting holes through the ice in order to catch pickerel, as I +stepped ashore I tossed my axe back on to the ice, but, as if some evil +genius had directed it, it slid four or five rods directly into one of +the holes, where the water was twenty-five feet deep. Out of curiosity, +I lay down on the ice and looked through the hole, until I saw the axe a +little on one side, standing on its head, with its helve erect and +gently swaying to and fro with the pulse of the pond; and there it might +have stood erect and swaying till in the course of time the handle +rotted off, if I had not disturbed it. Making another hole directly over +it with an ice chisel which I had, and cutting down the longest birch +which I could find in the neighborhood with my knife, I made a +slip-noose, which I attached to its end, and, letting it down carefully, +passed it over the knob of the handle, and drew it by a line along the +birch, and so pulled the axe out again. + +The shore is composed of a belt of smooth rounded white stones like +paving stones, excepting one or two short sand beaches, and is so steep +that in many places a single leap will carry you into water over your +head; and were it not for its remarkable transparency, that would be the +last to be seen of its bottom till it rose on the opposite side. Some +think it is bottomless. It is nowhere muddy, and a casual observer would +say that there were no weeds at all in it; and of noticeable plants, +except in the little meadows recently overflowed, which do not properly +belong to it, a closer scrutiny does not detect a flag nor a bulrush, +nor even a lily, yellow or white, but only a few small heart-leaves and +potamogetons, and perhaps a water-target or two; all which however a +bather might not perceive; and these plants are clean and bright like +the element they grow in. The stones extend a rod or two into the +water, and then the bottom is pure sand, except in the deepest parts, +where there is usually a little sediment, probably from the decay of the +leaves, which have been wafted on to it so many successive falls, and a +bright green weed is brought up on anchors even in midwinter. + +We have one other pond just like this, White Pond in Nine Acre Corner, +about two and a half miles westerly; but, though I am acquainted with +most of the ponds within a dozen miles of this center, I do not know a +third of this pure and well-like character. Successive nations perchance +have drunk at, admired, and fathomed it, and passed away, and still its +water is green and pellucid as ever. Not an intermitting spring! Perhaps +on that spring morning when Adam and Eve were driven out of Eden, Walden +Pond was already in existence, and even then breaking up in a gentle +spring rain accompanied with mist and a southerly wind, and covered with +myriads of ducks and geese, which had not heard of the fall, when still +such pure lakes sufficed them. Even then it had commenced to rise and +fall, and had clarified its waters and colored them of the hue they now +wear, and obtained a patent of heaven to be the only Walden Pond in the +world and distiller of celestial dews. Who knows in how may unremembered +nations' literatures this has been the Castalian Fountain?[66] or what +nymphs presided over it in the Golden Age? It is a gem of the first +water which Concord wears in her coronet. + +Yet perchance the first who came to this well have left some trace of +their footsteps. I have been surprised to detect encircling the pond, +even where a thickwood has just been cut down on the shore, a narrow +shelf-like path in the steep hillside, alternately rising and falling, +approaching and receding from the water's edge, as old probably as the +race of man here, worn by the feet of aboriginal hunters, and still from +time to time unwittingly trodden by the present occupants of the land. +This is particularly distinct to one standing on the middle of the pond +in winter, just after a light snow has fallen, appearing as a clear +undulating white line, unobscured by weeds and twigs, and very obvious a +quarter of a mile off in many places where in summer it is hardly +distinguishable close at hand. The snow reprints it, as it were, in +clear white type alto-relievo. The ornamented grounds of villas which +will one day be built here may still preserve some trace of this. + +The pond rises and falls, but whether regularly or not, and within what +period, nobody knows, though, as usual, many pretend to know. It is +commonly higher in the winter and lower in the summer, though not +corresponding to the general wet and dryness. I can remember when it was +a foot or two lower, and also when it was at least five feet higher, +than when I lived by it. There is a narrow sand-bar running into it, +very deep water on one side, on which I helped boil a kettle of chowder, +some six rods from the main shore, about the year 1824, which it has not +been possible to do for twenty-five years; and on the other hand, my +friends used to listen with incredulity when I told them that a few +years later I was accustomed to fish from a boat in a secluded cove in +the woods, fifteen rods from the only shore they knew, which place was +long since converted into a meadow. But the pond has risen steadily for +two years, and now, in the summer of '52, is just five feet higher than +when I lived there, or as high as it was thirty years ago, and fishing +goes on again in the meadow. This makes a difference of level, at the +outside, of six or seven feet; and yet the water shed by the surrounding +hills is insignificant in amount, and this overflow must be referred to +causes which affect the deep springs. This same summer the pond has +begun to fall again. It is remarkable that this fluctuation, whether +periodical or not, appears thus to require many years for its +accomplishment. I have observed one rise and a part of two falls, and I +expect that a dozen or fifteen years hence the water will again be as +low as I have ever known it. Flint's Pond, a mile eastward, allowing +for the disturbance occasioned by its inlets and outlets, and the +smaller intermediate ponds also, sympathize with Walden, and recently +attained their greatest height at the same time with the latter. The +same is true, as far as my observation goes, of White Pond. + +This rise and fall of Walden at long intervals serves this use at least: +the water standing at this great height for a year or more, though it +makes it difficult to walk round it, kills the shrubs and trees which +have sprung up about its edge since the last rise, pitch-pines, birches, +alders, aspens, and others, and, falling again, leaves an unobstructed +shore; for, unlike many ponds, and all waters which are subject to a +daily tide, its shore is cleanest when the water is lowest. On the side +of the pond next my house, a row of pitch-pines fifteen feet high has +been killed and tipped over as if by a lever, and thus a stop put to +their encroachments; and their size indicates how many years have +elapsed since the last rise to this height. By this fluctuation the pond +asserts its title to a shore, and thus the _shore_ is _shorn_, and the +trees cannot hold it by right of possession. These are the lips of the +lake on which no beard grows. It licks its chaps from time to time. When +the water is at its height, the alders, willows, and maples send forth a +mass of fibrous red roots several feet long from all sides of their +stems in the water, and to the height of three or four feet from the +ground, in the effort to maintain themselves; and I have known the high +blueberry bushes about the shore, which commonly produce no fruit, bear +an abundant crop under these circumstances. + +Some have been puzzled to tell how the shore became so regularly paved. +My townsmen have all heard the tradition--the oldest people tell me that +they heard it in their youth--that anciently the Indians were holding a +pow-wow upon a hill here, which rose as high into the heavens as the +pond now sinks deep into the earth, and they used much profanity, as the +story goes, though this vice is one of which the Indians were never +guilty, and while they were thus engaged the hill shook and suddenly +sank, and only one old squaw, named Walden, escaped, and from her the +pond was named. It has been conjectured that when the hill shook, these +stones rolled down its side and became the present shore. It is very +certain, at any rate, that once there was no pond here, and now there is +one; and this Indian fable does not in any respect conflict with the +account of that ancient settler whom I have mentioned, who remembers so +well when he first came here with his divining-rod, saw a thin vapor +rising from the sward, and the hazel pointed steadily downward, and he +concluded to dig a well here. As for the stones, many still think that +they are hardly to be accounted for by the action of the waves on these +hills; but I observe that the surrounding hills are remarkably full of +the same kind of stones, so that they have been obliged to pile them up +in walls on both sides of the railroad cut nearest the pond; and, +moreover, there are most stones where the shore is most abrupt; so that, +unfortunately, it is no longer a mystery to me. I detect the paver. If +the name was not derived from that of some English locality--Saffron +Walden, for instance--one might suppose that is was called, originally, +_Walled-in_ Pond. + +The pond was my well ready dug. For four months in the year its water is +as cold as it is pure at all times; and I think that it is then as good +as any, if not the best, in the town. In the winter, all water which is +exposed to the air is colder than springs and wells which are protected +from it. The temperature of the pond water which had stood in the room +where I sat from five o'clock in the afternoon till noon the next day, +the sixth of March, 1846, the thermometer having been up to 65 deg. or 70 deg. +some of the time, owing partly to the sun on the roof, was 42 deg., or one +degree colder than the water of one of the coldest wells in the village +just drawn. The temperature of the Boiling Spring the same day was 45 deg., +or the warmest of any water tried, though it is the coldest that I know +of in summer, when, besides, shallow and stagnant surface water is not +mingled with it. Moreover, in summer, Walden never becomes so warm as +most water which is exposed to the sun, on account of its depth. In the +warmest weather I usually placed a pailful in my cellar, where it became +cool in the night, and remained so during the day; though I also +resorted to a spring in the neighborhood. It was as good when a a week +old as the day it was dipped, and had no taste of the pump. Whoever +camps for a week in summer by the shore of a pond, needs only bury a +pail of water a few feet deep in the shade of his camp to be independent +of the luxury of ice. + +There have been caught in Walden, pickerel, one weighing seven pounds, +to say nothing of another which carried off a reel with great velocity, +which the fisherman safely set down at eight pounds because he did not +see him, perch and pouts, some of each weighing over two pounds, +shiners, chivins or roach (_Leucisus pulchellus_), a very few breams, +and a couple of eels, one weighing four pounds--I am thus particular +because the weight of a fish is commonly its only title to fame, and +these are the only eels I have heard of here; also, I have a faint +recollection of a little fish some five inches long, with silvery sides +and a greenish back, somewhat dace-like in its character, which I +mention here chiefly to link my facts to fable. Nevertheless, this pond +is not very fertile in fish. Its pickerel, though not abundant, are its +chief boast. I have seen at one time lying on the ice pickerel of at +least three different kinds: a long and shallow one, steel-colored, most +like those caught in the river; a bright golden kind, with greenish +reflections and remarkably deep, which is the most common here; and +another, golden-colored, and shaped like the last, but peppered on the +sides with small dark brown or black spots, intermixed with a few faint +blood-red ones very much like a trout. The specific name +_reticulatus_[67] would not apply to this; it should be _guttatus_[68] +rather. These are all very firm fish, and weigh more than their size +promises. The shiners, pouts, and perch, also, and indeed all the fishes +which inhabit this pond, are much cleaner, handsomer, and firmer fleshed +than those in the river and most other ponds, as the water is purer, and +they can easily be distinguished from them. Probably many ichthyologists +would make new varieties of some of them. There are also a clean race of +frogs and tortoises, and a few mussels in it; muskrats and minks leave +their traces about it, and occasionally a travelling mud-turtle visits +it. Sometimes, when I pushed off my boat in the morning, I disturbed a +great mud-turtle which had secreted himself under the boat in the night. +Ducks and geese frequent it in the spring and fall, the white-bellied +swallows (_Hirundo bicolor_) skim over it, and the peetweets (_Totanus +macularius_) "teter" along its stony shores all summer. I have sometimes +disturbed a fishhawk sitting on a white-pine over the water; but I doubt +if it is ever profaned by the wing of a gull, like Fair-Haven. At most, +it tolerates one annual loon. These are all the animals of consequence +which frequent it now. + +You may see from a boat, in calm weather, near the sandy eastern shore, +where the water is eight or ten feet deep, and also in some other parts +of the pond, some circular heaps half a dozen feet in diameter by a foot +in height, consisting of small stones less than a hen's egg in size, +where all around is bare sand. At first you wonder if the Indians could +have formed them on the ice for any purpose, and so, when the ice +melted, they sank to the bottom; but they are too regular and some of +them plainly too fresh for that. They are similar to those found in +rivers; but as there are no suckers or lampreys here, I know not by what +fish they could be made. Perhaps they are the nests of the chivin. These +lend a pleasing mystery to the bottom. + +The shore is irregular enough not to be monotonous. I have in my mind's +eye the western indented with deep bays, the bolder northern, and the +beautifully scalloped southern shore, where successive capes overlap +each other and suggest unexplored coves between. The forest has never +so good a setting, nor is so distinctly beautiful, as when seen from the +middle of a small lake amid hills which rise from the water's edge; for +the water in which it is reflected not only makes the best foreground in +such a case, but, with its winding shore, the most natural and agreeable +boundary to it. There is no rawness nor imperfection in its edge there, +as where the axe has cleared a part, or a cultivated field abuts on it. +The trees have ample room to expand on the water side, and each sends +forth its most vigorous branch in that direction. There Nature has woven +a natural selvage, and the eye rises by just gradations from the low +shrubs of the shore to the highest trees. There are few traces of man's +hand to be seen. The water laves the shore as it did a thousand years +ago. + +A lake is the landscape's most beautiful and expressive feature. It is +earth's eye; looking into which the beholder measures the depth of his +own nature. The fluviatile trees next the shore are the slender +eyelashes which fringe it, and the wooded hills and cliffs around are +its overhanging brows. + +Standing on the smooth sandy beach at the east end of the pond, in a +calm September afternoon, when a slight haze makes the opposite shore +line indistinct, I have seen whence came the expression, "the glassy +surface of a lake." When you invert your head, it looks like a thread of +finest gossamer stretched across the valley, and gleaming against the +distant pine woods, separating one stratum of the atmosphere from +another. You would think that you could walk dry under it to the +opposite hills, and that the swallows which skim over might perch on it. +Indeed, they sometimes dive below the line, as it were by mistake, and +are undeceived. As you look over the pond westward you are obliged to +employ both your hands to defend your eyes against the reflected as well +as the true sun, for they are equally bright; and if, between the two, +you survey its surface critically, it is literally as smooth as glass, +except where the skater insects, at equal intervals scattered over its +whole extent, by their motions in the sun produce the finest imaginable +sparkle on it, or, perchance, a duck plumes itself, or, as I have said, +a swallow skims so low as to touch it. It may be that in the distance a +fish describes an arc of three or four feet in the air, and there is one +bright flash where it emerges, and another where it strikes the water; +sometimes the whole silvery arc is revealed; or here and there, perhaps, +is a thistle-down floating on its surface, which the fishes dart at and +so dimple it again. It is like molten glass cooled but not congealed, +and the few motes in it are pure and beautiful like the imperfections in +glass. You may often detect a yet smoother and darker water, separated +from the rest as if by an invisible cobweb, boom of the water nymphs, +resting on it. From a hilltop you can see a fish leap in almost any +part; for not a pickerel or shiner picks an insect from this smooth +surface but it manifestly disturbs the equilibrium of the whole lake. It +is wonderful with what elaborateness this simple fact is +advertised--this piscine murder will out--and from my distant perch I +distinguish the circling undulations when they are half a dozen rods in +diameter. You can even detect a water-bug (_Gyrinus_) ceaselessly +progressing over the smooth surface a quarter of a mile off; for they +furrow the water slightly, making a conspicuous ripple bounded by two +diverging lines, but the skaters glide over it without rippling it +perceptibly. When the surface is considerably agitated there are no +skaters nor water-bugs on it, but apparently, in calm days, they leave +their havens and adventurously glide forth from the shore by short +impulses till they completely cover it. It is a soothing employment, on +one of those fine days in the fall when all the warmth of the sun is +fully appreciated, to sit on a stump on such a height as this, +overlooking the pond, and study the dimpling circles which are +incessantly inscribed on its otherwise invisible surface amid the +reflected skies and trees. Over this great expanse there is no +disturbance but it is thus at once gently smoothed away and assuaged, +as, when a vase of water is jarred, the trembling circles seek the shore +and all is smooth again. Not a fish can leap or an insect fall on the +pond but it is thus reported in circling dimples, in lines of beauty, as +it were the constant welling up of its fountain, the gentle pulsing of +its life, the heaving of its breast. The thrills of joy and thrills of +pain are undistinguishable. How peaceful the phenomena of the lake! +Again the works of man shine as in the spring. Ay, every leaf and twig +and stone and cobweb sparkles now at mid-afternoon as when covered with +dew in a spring morning. Every motion of an oar or an insect produces a +flash of light; and if an oar falls, how sweet the echo! + +In such a day in September or October, Walden is a perfect forest +mirror, set round with stones as precious to my eye as if fewer or +rarer. Nothing so fair, so pure, and at the same time so large, as a +lake, perchance, lies on the surface of the earth. Sky water. It needs +no fence. Nations come and go without defiling it. It is a mirror which +no stone can crack, whose quicksilver will never wear off, whose gilding +Nature continually repairs; no storms, no dust, can dim its surface ever +fresh--a mirror in which all impurity presented to it sinks, swept and +dusted by the sun's hazy brush--this the light dust-cloth--which retains +no breath that is breathed on it, but sends its own to float as clouds +high above its surface, and be reflected in its bosom still. + +A field of water betrays the spirit that is in the air. It is +continually receiving new life and motion from above. It is intermediate +in its nature between land and sky. On land only the grass and trees +wave, but the water itself is rippled by the wind. I see where the +breeze dashes across it by the streaks or flakes of light. It is +remarkable that we can look down on its surface. We shall, perhaps, look +down thus on the surface of air at length, and mark where a still +subtler spirit sweeps over it. + +The skaters and water-bugs finally disappear in the latter part of +October, when the severe frosts have come; and then and in November, +usually, on a calm day, there is absolutely nothing to ripple the +surface. One November afternoon, in the calm at the end of a rain storm +of several days' duration, when the sky was still completely overcast +and the air was full of mist, I observed that the pond was remarkably +smooth, so that it was difficult to distinguish its surface; though it +no longer reflected the bright tints of October, but the somber November +colors of the surrounding hills. Though I passed over it as gently as +possible, the slight undulations produced by my boat extended almost as +far as I could see, and gave a ribbed appearance to the reflections. +But, as I was looking over the surface, I saw here and there at a +distance a faint glimmer, as if some skater insects which had escaped +the frosts might be collected there, or, perchance, the surface, being +so smooth, betrayed where a spring welled up from the bottom. Paddling +gently to one of these places, I was surprised to find myself surrounded +by myriads of small perch, about five inches long, of a rich bronze +color in the green water, sporting there and constantly rising to the +surface and dimpling it, sometimes leaving bubbles on it. In such +transparent and seemingly bottomless water, reflecting the clouds, I +seemed to be floating through the air as in a balloon, and their +swimming impressed me as a kind of flight or hovering, as if they were a +compact flock of birds passing just beneath my level on the right or +left, their fins, like sails, set all around them. There were many such +schools in the pond, apparently improving the short season before winter +would draw an icy shutter over their broad skylight, sometimes giving to +the surface an appearance as if a slight breeze struck it, or a few +rain-drops fell there. When I approached carelessly and alarmed them, +they made a sudden plash and rippling with their tails, as if one had +struck the water with a brushy bough, and instantly took refuge in the +depths. At length the wind rose, the mist increased, and the waves began +to run, and the perch leaped much higher than before, half out of +water, a hundred black points, three inches long, at once above the +surface. Even as late as the fifth of December, one year, I saw some +dimples on the surface, and thinking it was going to rain hard +immediately, the air being full of mist, I made haste to take my place +at the oars and row homeward; already the rain seemed rapidly +increasing, though I felt none on my cheek, and I anticipated a thorough +soaking. But suddenly the dimples ceased, for they were produced by the +perch, which the noise of my oars had scared into the depths, and I saw +their schools dimly disappearing; so I spent a dry afternoon after all. + +An old man who used to frequent this pond nearly sixty years ago, when +it was dark with surrounding forests, tells me that in those days he +sometimes saw it all alive with ducks and other water fowl, and that +there were many eagles about it. He came here a-fishing, and used an old +log canoe which he found on the shore. It was made of two white-pine +logs dug out and pinned together, and was cut off square at the ends. It +was very clumsy, but lasted a great many years before it became +water-logged and perhaps sank to the bottom. He did not know whose it +was; it belonged to the pond. He used to make a cable for his anchor of +strips of hickory bark tied together. An old man, a potter, who lived by +the pond before the Revolution, told him once that there was an iron +chest at the bottom, and that he had seen it. Sometimes it would come +floating up to the shore; but when you went toward it, it would go back +into deep water and disappear. I was pleased to hear of the old log +canoe, which took the place of an Indian one of the same material but +more graceful construction, which perchance had first been a tree on the +bank, and then, as it were, fell into the water, to float there for a +generation, the most proper vessel for the lake. I remember that when I +first looked into these depths there were many large trunks to be seen +indistinctly lying on the bottom, which had either been blown over +formerly, or left on the ice at the last cutting, when wood was +cheaper; but now they have mostly disappeared. + +When I first paddled a boat on Walden, it was completely surrounded by +thick and lofty pine and oak woods, and in some of its coves grape vines +had run over the trees next the water and formed bowers under which a +boat could pass. The hills which form its shores are so steep, and the +woods on them were then so high, that, as you looked down from the west +end, it had the appearance of an amphitheatre for some kind of sylvan +spectacle. I have spent many an hour, when I was younger, floating over +its surface as the zephyr willed, having paddled my boat to the middle, +and lying on my back across the seats, in a summer forenoon, dreaming +awake, until I was aroused by the boat touching the sand, and I arose to +see what shore my fates had impelled me to; days when idleness was the +most attractive and productive industry. Many a forenoon have I stolen +away, preferring to spend thus the most valued part of the day; for I +was rich, if not in money, in sunny hours and summer days, and spent +them lavishly; nor do I regret that I did not waste more of them in the +workshop or at the teacher's desk. But since I left those shores the +wood-choppers have still further laid them waste, and now for many a +year there will be no more rambling through the aisles of the wood, with +occasional vistas through which you see the water. My Muse may be +excused if she is silent henceforth. How can you expect the birds to +sing when their groves are cut down? + +Now the trunks of trees on the bottom, and the old log canoe, and the +dark surrounding woods, are gone, and the villagers, who scarcely know +where it lies, instead of going to the pond to bathe or drink, are +thinking to bring its water, which should be as sacred as the Ganges at +least, to the village in a pipe, to wash their dishes with!--to earn +their Walden by the turning of a cock or drawing of a plug! That +devilish Iron Horse, whose ear-rending neigh is heard throughout the +town, has muddied the Boiling Spring with his foot, and he it is that +has browsed off all the woods on Walden shore; that Trojan horse, with a +thousand men in his belly, introduced by mercenary Greeks! Where is the +country's champion, the Moore of Moore Hall,[69] to meet him at the Deep +Cut and thrust an avenging lance between the ribs of the bloated pest? + +Nevertheless, of all the characters I have known, perhaps Walden wears +best, and best preserves its purity. Many men have been likened to it, +but few deserve that honor. Though the wood-choppers have laid bare +first this shore and then that, and the Irish have built their sties by +it, and the railroad has infringed on its border, and the ice-men have +skimmed it once, it is itself unchanged, the same water which my +youthful eyes fell on; all the change is in me. It has not acquired one +permanent wrinkle after all its ripples. It is perennially young, and I +may stand and see a swallow dip apparently to pick an insect from its +surface as of yore. It struck me again to-night, as if I had not seen it +almost daily for more than twenty years--Why, here is Walden, the same +woodland lake that I discovered so many years ago; where a forest was +cut down last winter another is springing up by its shore as lustily as +ever; the same thought is welling up to its surface that was then; it is +the same liquid joy and happiness to itself and its Maker, ay, and it +_may_ be to me. It is the work of a brave man, surely, in whom there was +no guile! He rounded this water with his hand, deepened and clarified it +in his thought, and in his will bequeathed it to Concord. I see by its +face that it is visited by the same reflection; and I can almost say, +Walden, is it you? + + It is no dream of mine, + To ornament a line; + I cannot come nearer to God and Heaven + Than I live to Walden even. + I am its stony shore, + And the breeze that passes o'er; + In the hollow of my hand + Are its water and its sand, + And its deepest resort + Lies high in my thought. + +The cars never pause to look at it; yet I fancy that the engineers and +firemen and brakemen, and those passengers who have a season ticket and +see it often, are better men for the sight. The engineer does not forget +at night, or his nature does not, that he has beheld this vision of +serenity and purity once at least during the day. Though seen but once, +it helps to wash out State-street and the engine's soot. One proposes +that it be called "God's Drop." + +I have said that Walden has no visible inlet or outlet, but it is on the +one hand distantly and indirectly related to Flint's Pond, which is more +elevated, by a chain of small ponds coming from that quarter, and on the +other directly and manifestly to Concord River, which is lower, by a +similar chain of ponds through which in some other geological period it +may have flowed; and by a little digging, which God forbid, it can be +made to flow thither again. If by living thus reserved and austere, like +a hermit in the woods, so long, it has acquired such wonderful purity, +who would not regret that the comparatively impure waters of Flint's +Pond should be mingled with it, or itself should ever go to waste its +sweetness in the ocean wave? + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 65: From Chapter IX of "Walden," 1854.] + +[Footnote 66: The Castalian Fountain on Mount Parnassus was sacred to +Apollo and the Muses.] + +[Footnote 67: With net-like markings.] + +[Footnote 68: Speckled.] + +[Footnote 69: The hero of an old ballad.] + + + + +SELECTIONS FROM RUSKIN + +A. LEAFAGE OF TREES[70] + + +One of the most remarkable characters of natural leafage is the +constancy with which, while the leaves are arranged on the spray with +exquisite regularity, that regularity is modified in their actual +effect. For as in every group of leaves some are seen sideways, forming +merely long lines, some foreshortened, some crossing each other, every +one differently turned and placed from all the others, the forms of the +leaves, though in themselves similar, give rise to a thousand strange +and differing forms in the group; and the shadows of some, passing over +the others, still farther disguise and confuse the mass until the eye +can distinguish nothing but a graceful and flexible disorder of +innumerable forms, with here and there a perfect leaf on the extremity, +or a symmetrical association of one or two, just enough to mark the +specific character and to give unity and grace, but never enough to +repeat in one group what was done in another, never enough to prevent +the eye from feeling that, however regular and mathematical may be the +structure of parts, what is composed out of them is as various and +infinite as any other part of nature. Nor does this take place in +general effect only. Break off an elm bough three feet long, in full +leaf, and lay it on the table before you, and try to draw it, leaf for +leaf. It is ten to one if in the whole bough (provided you do not twist +it about as you work) you find one form of leaf exactly like another; +perhaps you will not even have _one_ complete. Every leaf will be +oblique, or foreshortened, or curled, or crossed by another, or shaded +by another, or have something or other the matter with it; and though +the whole bough will look graceful, and symmetrical, you will scarcely +be able to tell how or why it does so, since there is not one line of it +like another.... + +But if Nature is so various when you have a bough on the table before +you, what must she be when she retires from you, and gives you her whole +mass and multitude? The leaves then at the extremities become as fine as +dust, a mere confusion of points and lines between you and the sky, a +confusion which you might as well hope to draw sea-sand particle by +particle, as to imitate leaf for leaf. This, as it comes down into the +body of the tree, gets closer, but never opaque; it is always +transparent, with crumbling lights in it letting you through to the sky; +then, out of this, come, heavier and heavier, the masses of illumined +foliage, all dazzling and inextricable, save here and there a single +leaf on the extremities; then, under these, you get deep passages of +broken irregular gloom, passing into transparent, green-lighted, misty +hollows; the twisted stems glancing through them in their pale and +entangled infinity, and the shafted sunbeams, rained from above, running +along the lustrous leaves for an instant; then lost, then caught again +on some emerald bank or knotted root, to be sent up again with a faint +reflex on the white under-sides of dim groups of drooping foliage, the +shadows of the upper boughs running in grey network down the glossy +stems, and resting in quiet chequers upon the glittering earth; but all +penetrable and transparent, and, in proportion, inextricable and +incomprehensible, except where across the labyrinth and the mystery of +the dazzling light and dream-like shadow, falls, close to us, some +solitary spray, some wreath of two or three motionless, large leaves, +the type and embodying of all that in the rest we feel and imagine, but +can never see. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 70: From "Modern Painters," Vol. I, 1843, Pt. II, Sec. VI +Chapter I.] + + + + +B. WATER[71] + + +Of all inorganic substances, acting in their own proper nature, and +without assistance or combination, water is the most wonderful. If we +think of it as the source of all the changefulness and beauty which we +have seen in clouds; then as the instrument by which the earth we have +contemplated was modelled into symmetry, and its crags chiselled into +grace; then as, in the form of snow, it robes the mountains it has made, +with that transcendent light which we could not have conceived if we had +not seen; then as it exists in the foam of the torrent, in the iris +which spans it, in the morning mist which rises from it, in the deep +crystalline pools which mirror its hanging shore, in the broad lake and +glancing river; finally, in that which is to all human minds the best +emblem of unwearied, unconquerable power, the wild, various, fantastic, +tameless unity of the sea; what shall we compare to this mighty, this +universal element, for glory and for beauty? or how shall we follow its +eternal changefulness of feeling? It is like trying to paint a soul. + +To suggest the ordinary appearance of calm water, to lay on canvas as +much evidence of surface and reflection as may make us understand that +water is meant, is, perhaps, the easiest task of art; and even ordinary +running or falling water may be sufficiently rendered, by observing +careful curves of projection with a dark ground, and breaking a little +white over it, as we see done with judgment and truth by Ruysdael. But +to paint the actual play of hue on the reflective surface, or to give +the forms and fury of water when it begins to show itself; to give the +flashing and rocket-like velocity of a noble cataract, or the precision +and grace of the sea wave, so exquisitely modelled, though so mockingly +transient, so mountainous in its form, yet so cloudlike in its motion, +with its variety and delicacy of colour, when every ripple and wreath +has some peculiar passage of reflection upon itself alone, and the +radiating and scintillating sunbeams are mixed with the dim hues of +transparent depth and dark rock below--to do this perfectly is beyond +the power of man; to do it even partially has been granted to but one or +two, even of those few who have dared to attempt it.... + +The fact is that there is hardly a road-side pond or pool which has not +as much landscape _in_ it as above it. It is not the brown, muddy, dull +thing we suppose it to be; it has a heart like ourselves, and in the +bottom of that there are the boughs of the tall trees, and the blades of +the shaking grass, and all manner of hues of variable pleasant light out +of the sky. Nay, the ugly gutter, that stagnates over the drain-bars in +the heart of the foul city, is not altogether base; down in that, if you +will look deep enough, you may see the dark serious blue of far-off sky, +and the passing of pure clouds. It is at your own will that you see in +that despised stream either the refuse of the street, or the image of +the sky. So it is with almost all other things that we unkindly despise. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 71: From "Modern Painters," Vol. I, Pt. II, Sec. V, Chapter +I.] + + + +C. THE MOUNTAIN GLORY[72] + + +The best image which the world can give of Paradise is in the slope of +the meadows, orchards, and corn-fields on the sides of a great Alp, with +its purple rocks and eternal snows above; this excellence not being in +any wise a matter referable to feeling, or individual preferences, but +demonstrable by calm enumeration of the number of lovely colours on the +rocks, the varied grouping of the trees, and quantity of noble incidents +in stream, crag, or cloud, presented to the eye at any given moment. + +For consider, first, the difference produced in the whole tone of +landscape colour by the introductions of purple, violet, and deep +ultramarine blue, which we owe to mountains. In an ordinary lowland +landscape we have the blue of the sky; the green of grass, which I will +suppose (and this is an unnecessary concession to the lowlands) entirely +fresh and bright; the green of trees; and certain elements of purple, +far more rich and beautiful than we generally should think, in their +bark and shadows (bare hedges and thickets, or tops of trees, in subdued +afternoon sunshine, are nearly perfect purple, and of an exquisite +tone), as well as in ploughed fields, and dark ground in general. But +among mountains, in addition to all this, large unbroken spaces of pure +violet and purple are introduced in their distances; and even near, by +films of cloud passing over the darkness of ravines or forests, blues +are produced of the most subtle tenderness; these azures and purples +passing into rose-colour of otherwise wholly unattainable delicacy among +the upper summits, the blue of the sky being at the same time purer and +deeper than in the plains. Nay, in some sense, a person who has never +seen the rose-colour of the rays of dawn crossing a blue mountain twelve +or fifteen miles away, can hardly be said to know what _tenderness_ in +colour means at all; _bright_ tenderness he may, indeed, see in the sky +or in a flower, but this grave tenderness of the faraway hill-purples he +cannot conceive. + +Together with this great source of pre-eminence in _mass_ of colour, we +have to estimate the influence of the finished inlaying and enamel-work +of the colour-jewellery on every stone; and that of the continual +variety in species of flower; most of the mountain flowers being, +besides, separately lovelier than the lowland ones. The wood hyacinth +and the wild rose are, indeed, the only _supreme_ flowers that the +lowlands can generally show; and the wild rose is also a mountaineer, +and more fragrant in the hills, while the wood hyacinth, at its best, +cannot match even the dark bell-gentian, leaving the light-blue +star-gentian in its uncontested queenliness, and the Alpine rose and +Highland heather wholly without similitude. The violet, lily of the +valley, crocus, and wood anemone are, I suppose, claimable partly by the +plains as well as the hills; but the large orange lily and narcissus I +have never seen but on hill pastures, and the exquisite oxalis is +pre-eminently a mountaineer. + +To this supremacy in mosses and flowers we have next to add an +inestimable gain in the continual presence and power of water. Neither +in its clearness, its colour, its fantasy of motion, its calmness of +space, depth, and reflection, or its wrath, can water be conceived by a +lowlander, out of sight of sea. A sea wave is far grander than any +torrent--but of the sea and its influences we are not now speaking; and +the sea itself, though it _can_ be clear, is never calm, among our +shores, in the sense that a mountain lake can be calm. The sea seems +only to pause; the mountain lake to sleep, and to dream. Out of sight of +the ocean a lowlander cannot be considered ever to have seen water at +all. The mantling of the pools in the rock shadows, with the golden +flakes of light sinking down through them like falling leaves, the +ringing of the thin currents among the shallows, the flash and the cloud +of the cascade, the earthquake and foam-fire of the cataract, the long +lines of alternate mirror and mist that lull the imagery of the hills +reversed in the blue of morning,--all these things belong to those hills +as their undivided inheritance. + +To this supremacy in wave and stream is joined a no less manifest +pre-eminence in the character of trees. It is possible among plains, in +the species of trees which properly belong to them, the poplars of +Amiens, for instance, to obtain a serene simplicity of grace, which, as +I said, is a better help to the study of gracefulness, as such, than any +of the wilder groupings of the hills; so, also, there are certain +conditions of symmetrical luxuriance developed in the park and avenue, +rarely rivalled in their way among mountains; and yet the mountain +superiority in foliage is, on the whole, nearly as complete as it is in +water: for exactly as there are some expressions in the broad reaches of +a navigable lowland river, such as the Loire or Thames, not, in their +way, to be matched among the rock rivers, and yet for all that a +lowlander cannot be said to have truly seen the element of water at all; +so even in the richest parks and avenues he cannot be said to have truly +seen trees. For the resources of trees are not developed until they have +difficulty to contend with; neither their tenderness of brotherly love +and harmony, till they are forced to choose their ways of various life +where there is contracted room for them, talking to each other with +their restrained branches. The various action of trees rooting +themselves in inhospitable rocks, stooping to look into ravines, hiding +from the search of glacier winds, reaching forth to the rays of rare +sunshine, crowding down together to drink at sweetest streams, climbing +hand in hand among the difficult slopes, opening in sudden dances round +the mossy knolls, gathering into companies at rest among the fragrant +fields, gliding in grave procession over the heavenward ridges--nothing +of this can be conceived among the unvexed and unvaried felicities of +the lowland forest: while to all these direct sources of greater beauty +are added, first the power of redundance,--the mere quantity of foliage +visible in the folds and on the promontories of a single Alp being +greater than that of an entire lowland landscape (unless a view from +some cathedral tower); and to this charm of redundance, that of clearer +_visibility_,--tree after tree being constantly shown in successive +height, one behind another, instead of the mere tops and flanks of +masses, as in the plains; and the forms of multitudes of them +continually defined against the clear sky, near and above, or against +white clouds entangled among their branches, instead of being confused +in dimness of distance. + +Finally, to this supremacy in foliage we have to add the still less +questionable supremacy in clouds. There is no effect of sky possible in +the lowlands which may not in equal perfection be seen among the hills; +but there are effects by tens of thousands, for ever invisible and +inconceivable to the inhabitant of the plains, manifested among the +hills in the course of one day. The mere power of familiarity with the +clouds, of walking with them and above them, alters and renders clear +our whole conception of the baseless architecture of the sky; and for +the beauty of it, there is more in a single wreath of early cloud, +pacing its way up an avenue of pines, or pausing among the points of +their fringes, than in all the white heaps that fill the arched sky of +the plains from one horizon to the other. And of the nobler cloud +manifestations,--the breaking of their troublous seas against the crags, +their black spray sparkling with lightning; or the going forth of the +morning along their pavements of moving marble, level-laid between dome +and dome of snow;--of these things there can be as little imagination or +understanding in an inhabitant of the plains as of the scenery of +another planet than his own. + +And, observe, all these superiorities are matters plainly measurable and +calculable, not in any wise to be referred to estimate of _sensation_. +Of the grandeur or expression of the hills I have not spoken; how far +they are great, or strong, or terrible, I do not for the moment +consider, because vastness, and strength, and terror, are not to all +minds subjects of desired contemplation. It may make no difference to +some men whether a natural object be large or small, whether it be +strong or feeble. But loveliness of colour, perfectness of form, +endlessness of change, wonderfulness of structure, are precious to all +undiseased human minds; and the superiority of the mountains in all +these things to the lowland is, I repeat, as measurable as the richness +of a painted window matched with a white one, or the wealth of a museum +compared with that of a simply furnished chamber. They seem to have been +built for the human race, as at once their schools and cathedrals; full +of treasures of illuminated manuscript for the scholar, kindly in simple +lessons to the worker, quiet in pale cloisters for the thinker, glorious +in holiness for the worshipper. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 72: From "Modern Painters," Vol. IV, 1856, Chapter XX.] + + + + +D. SPLENDOURS OF SUNSET[73] + + +We have been speaking hitherto of what is constant and necessary in +nature, of the ordinary effects of daylight on ordinary colours, and we +repeat again that no gorgeousness of the pallet can reach even these. +But it is a widely different thing when Nature herself takes a colouring +fit, and does something extraordinary, something really to exhibit her +power. She has a thousand ways and means of rising above herself, but +incomparably the noblest manifestations of her capability of colour are +in these sunsets among the high clouds. I speak especially of the moment +before the sun sinks, when his light turns pure rose-colour, and when +this light falls upon a zenith covered with countless cloud-forms of +inconceivable delicacy, threads and flakes of vapour, which would in +common daylight be pure snow-white, and which give, therefore, fair +field to the tone of light. There is, then, no limit to the multitude, +and no check to the intensity, of the hues assumed. The whole sky from +the zenith to the horizon becomes one molten mantling sea of colour and +fire; every black bar turns into massy gold, every ripple and wave into +unsullied shadowless crimson, and purple, and scarlet, and colours for +which there are no words in language, and no ideas in the mind--things +which can only be conceived while they are visible; the intense hollow +blue of the upper sky melting through it all, showing here deep, and +pure, and lightless; there, modulated by the filmy formless body of the +transparent vapour, till it is lost imperceptibly in its crimson and +gold. The concurrence of circumstances necessary to produce the sunsets +of which I speak does not take place above five or six times in a +summer, and then only for a space of from five to ten minutes, just as +the sun reaches the horizon. Considering how seldom people think of +looking for a sunset at all, and how seldom, if they do, they are in a +position from which it can be fully seen, the chances that their +attention should be awake, and their position favourable, during these +few flying instants of the year, are almost as nothing. What can the +citizen, who can see only the red light on the canvas of the wagon at +the end of the street, and the crimson colour of the bricks of his +neighbour's chimney, know of the flood of fire which deluges the sky +from the horizon to the zenith? What can even the quiet inhabitant of +the English lowlands, whose scene for the manifestation of the fire of +heaven is limited to the tops of hayricks, and the rooks' nests in the +old elm trees, know of the mighty passages of splendour which are tossed +from Alp to Alp over the azure of a thousand miles of champaign? Even +granting the constant vigour of observation, and supposing the +possession of such impossible knowledge, it needs but a moment's +reflection to prove how incapable the memory is of retaining for any +time the distinct image of the sources even of its most vivid +impressions. What recollection have we of the sunsets which delighted us +last year? We may know that they were magnificent, or glowing, but no +distinct image of colour or form is retained--nothing of whose _degree_ +(for the great difficulty with the memory is to retain, not facts, but +_degrees_ of fact) we could be so certain as to say of anything now +presented to us, that it is like it. If we did say so, we should be +wrong; for we may be quite certain that the energy of an impression +fades from the memory, and becomes more and more indistinct every day; +and thus we compare a faded and indistinct image with the decision and +certainty of one present to the senses. How constantly do we affirm that +the thunderstorm of last week was the most terrible one we ever saw in +our lives, because we compare it, not with the thunderstorm of last +year, but with the faded and feeble recollection of it. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 73: From "Modern Painters," Vol. I, Pt. II, Sec. II, Chapter +II.] + + + + +THE STOICS[74] + +WILLIAM EDWARD HARTPOLE LECKY + + +The Stoics asserted two cardinal principles--that virtue was the sole +legitimate object to be aspired to, and that it involved so complete an +ascendancy of the reason as altogether to extinguish the affections. The +Peripatetics and many other philosophers, who derived their opinions +chiefly from Plato, endeavoured to soften down the exaggeration of these +principles. They admitted that virtue was an object wholly distinct from +interest, and that it should be the leading motive of life; but they +maintained that happiness was also a good, and a certain regard for it +legitimate. They admitted that virtue consisted in the supremacy of the +reason over the affections, but they allowed the exercise of the latter +within restricted limits. The main distinguishing features, however, of +stoicism, the unselfish ideal and the controlling reason, were +acquiesced in, and each represents an important side of the ancient +conception of excellence which we must now proceed to examine. + +In the first we may easily trace the intellectual expression of the high +spirit of self-sacrifice which the patriotic enthusiasm had elicited. +The spirit of patriotism has this peculiar characteristic, that while it +has evoked acts of heroism which are both very numerous and very +sublime, it has done so without presenting any prospect of personal +immortality as a reward. Of all the forms of human heroism, it is +probably the most unselfish. The Spartan and the Roman died for his +country because he loved it. The martyr's ecstasy of hope had no place +in his dying hour. He gave up all he had, he closed his eyes, as he +believed, for ever, and he asked for no reward in this world or in the +next. Even the hope of posthumous fame--the most refined and +supersensual of all that can be called reward--could exist only for the +most conspicuous leaders. It was examples of this nature that formed the +culminations or ideals of ancient systems of virtue, and they naturally +led men to draw a very clear and deep distinction between the notions of +interest and of duty. It may indeed be truly said, that while the +conception of what constituted duty was often very imperfect in +antiquity, the conviction that duty, as distinguished from every +modification of selfishness, should be the supreme motive of life, was +more clearly enforced among the Stoics than in any later society. + +The reader will probably have gathered from the last chapter that there +are four distinct motives which moral teachers may propose for the +purpose of leading men to virtue. They may argue that the disposition of +events is such that prosperity will attend a virtuous life, and +adversity a vicious one--a proposition they may prove by pointing to the +normal course of affairs, and by asserting the existence of a special +Providence in behalf of the good in the present world, and of rewards +and punishments in the future. As far as these latter arguments are +concerned, the efficacy of such teaching rests upon the firmness with +which certain theological tenets are held, while the force of the first +considerations will depend upon the degree and manner in which society +is organised, for there are undoubtedly some conditions of society in +which a perfectly upright life has not even a general tendency to +prosperity. The peculiar circumstances and dispositions of individuals +will also influence largely the way in which they receive such teaching, +and, as Cicero observed, "what one utility has created, another will +often destroy." + +They may argue, again, that vice is to the mind what disease is to the +body, and that a state of virtue is in consequence a state of health. +Just as bodily health is desired for its own sake, as being the absence +of a painful or at least displeasing state, so a well-ordered and +virtuous mind may be valued for its own sake, and independently of all +the external good to which it may lead, as being a condition of +happiness; and a mind distracted by passion and vice may be avoided, not +so much because it is an obstacle in the pursuit of prosperity, as +because it is in itself essentially painful and disturbing. This +conception of virtue and vice as states of health or sickness, the one +being in itself a good, and the other in itself an evil, was a +fundamental proposition in the ethics of Plato. It was admitted, but +only to a subsidiary place, by the Stoics, and has passed more or less +into all the succeeding systems. It is especially favourable to large +and elevating conceptions of self-culture, for it leads men to dwell +much less upon isolated acts of virtue or vice than upon the habitual +condition of mind from which they spring. + +It is possible, in the third place, to argue in favour of virtue by +offering as a motive that sense of pleasure which follows the deliberate +performance of a virtuous act. This emotion is a distinct and isolated +gratification following a distinct action, and may therefore be easily +separated from that habitual placidity of temper which results from the +extinction of vicious and perturbing impulses. It is this theory which +is implied in the common exhortations to enjoy "the luxury of doing +good," and though especially strong in acts of benevolence, in which +case sympathy with the happiness created intensifies the feeling, this +pleasure attends every kind of virtue. + +These three motives of action have all this common characteristic, that +they point as their ultimate end to the happiness of the agent. The +first seeks that happiness in external circumstances; the second and +third in psychological conditions. There is, however, a fourth kind of +motive which may be urged, and which is the peculiar characteristic of +the intuitive school of moralists and the stumbling-block of its +opponents. It is asserted that we are so constituted that the notion of +duty furnishes in itself a natural motive of action of the highest +order, and wholly distinct from all the refinements and modifications of +self-interest. The coactive force of this motive is altogether +independent of surrounding circumstances, and of all forms of belief. It +is equally true for the man who believes and for the man who rejects the +Christian faith, for the believer in a future world and for the believer +in the mortality of the soul. It is not a question of happiness or +unhappiness, of reward or punishment, but of a generically different +nature. Men feel that a certain course of life is the natural end of +their being, and they feel bound, even at the expense of happiness, to +pursue it. They feel that certain acts are essentially good and noble, +and others essentially base and vile, and this perception leads them to +pursue the one and to avoid the other, irrespective of all +considerations of enjoyment. + +The school of philosophy we are reviewing furnishes the most perfect of +all historical examples of the power which the higher of these motives +can exercise over the mind. The coarser forms of self-interest were in +stoicism absolutely condemned. It was one of the first principles of +these philosophers that all things that are not in our power should be +esteemed indifferent; that the object of all mental discipline should be +to withdraw the mind from all the gifts of fortune, and that prudence +must in consequence be altogether excluded from the motives of virtue. +To enforce these principles they continually dilated upon the vanity of +human things, and upon the majesty of the independent mind, and they +indulged, though scarcely more than other sects, in many exaggerations +about the impassive tranquillity of the sage. In the Roman empire +stoicism flourished at a period which, beyond almost any other, seemed +most unfavourable to such teaching. There were reigns when, in the +emphatic words of Tacitus, "virtue was a sentence of death." In no +period had brute force more completely triumphed, in none was the +thirst for material advantages more intense, in very few was vice more +ostentatiously glorified. Yet in the midst of all these circumstances +the Stoics taught a philosophy which was not a compromise, not an +attempt to moderate the popular excesses, but which in its austere +sanctity was the extreme antithesis of all that the prevailing examples +and their own interests could dictate. And these men were no impassioned +fanatics, fired with the prospect of coming glory. They were men from +whose motives of action the belief in the immortality of the soul was +resolutely excluded. In the scepticism that accompanied the first +introduction of philosophy into Rome, in the dissolution of the old +fables about Tartarus and the Styx, and the dissemination of +Epicureanism among the people, this doctrine, notwithstanding the +beautiful reasonings of Cicero and the religious faith of a few who +clung like Plutarch to the mysteries in which it was perpetuated, had +sunk very low. An interlocutor in Cicero expressed what was probably a +common feeling, when he acknowledged that, with the writings of Plato +before him, he could believe and realise it; but when he closed the +book, the reasonings seemed to lose their power, and the world of +spirits grew pale and unreal. If Ennius could elicit the plaudits of a +theatre when he proclaimed that the gods took no part in human affairs, +Caesar could assert in the senate, without scandal and almost without +dissent, that death was the end of all things. Pliny, perhaps the +greatest of all the Roman scholars, adopting the sentiment of all the +school of Epicurus, describes the belief in a future life as a form of +madness, a puerile and a pernicious illusion. The opinions of the Stoics +were wavering and uncertain. Their first doctrine was that the soul of +man has a future and independent, but not an eternal existence, that it +survives until the conflagration that was to destroy the world when all +finite things would be absorbed in the all-pervading soul of nature. +Chrysippus, however, restricted to the best and noblest souls this +future existence, which Cleanthes had awarded to all, and among the +Roman Stoics even this was greatly doubted. The belief that the human +soul is a detached fragment of the Deity, naturally led to the belief +that after death it would be reabsorbed in the parent Spirit. The +doctrine that there is no real good but virtue deprived the Stoics of +the argument for a future world derived from unrequited merit and +unpunished crimes, and the earnestness with which they contended that a +good man should act irrespectively of reward, inclined them, as it is +said to have inclined some Jewish thinkers, to the denial of the +existence of the reward. Panaetius, the founder of Roman stoicism, +maintained that the soul perished with the body, and his opinion was +followed by Epictetus and Cornutus. Seneca contradicted himself on the +subject. Marcus Aurelius never rose beyond a vague and mournful +aspiration. Those who believed in a future world believed it faintly and +uncertainly, and even when they accepted it as a fact, they shrank from +proposing it as a motive. The whole system of stoical ethics, which +carried self-sacrifice to a point that has scarcely been equalled, and +exercised an influence which has rarely been surpassed, was evolved +without any assistance from the doctrine of a future life. Pagan +antiquity has bequeathed us few nobler treatises of morals than the "De +Officiis" of Cicero, which was avowedly an expansion of a work of +Panaetius. It has left us no grander example than that of Epictetus, the +sickly, deformed slave of a master who was notorious for his barbarity, +enfrancished late in life, but soon driven into exile by Domitian, who, +while sounding the very abyss of human misery, and looking forward to +death as to simple decomposition, was yet so filled with the sense of +the Divine presence, that his life was one continued hymn to Providence, +and his writings and his example, which appeared to his contemporaries +almost the ideal of human goodness, have not lost their consoling power +through all the ages and the vicissitudes they have survived. + +There was, however, another form of immortality which exercised a much +greater influence among the Roman moralists. The desire for reputation, +and especially for posthumous reputation--that "last infirmity of noble +minds"--assumed an extraordinary prominence among the springs of Roman +heroism, and was also the origin of that theatrical and overstrained +phraseology which the greatest of ancient moralists rarely escaped. But +we should be altogether in error if we inferred, as some have done, that +paganism never rose to the conception of virtue concealing itself from +the world, and consenting voluntarily to degradation. No characters were +more highly appreciated in antiquity than those of men who, through a +sense of duty, opposed the strong current of popular favour; of men like +Fabius, who consented for the sake of their country to incur the +reputation that is most fatal to a soldier; of men like Cato, who +remained unmoved among the scoffs, the insults, and the ridicule of an +angry crowd. Cicero, expounding the principles of stoicism, declared +that no one has attained to true philosophy who has not learnt that all +vice should be avoided, "though it were concealed from the eyes of gods +and men," and that no deeds are more laudable than those which are done +without ostentation, and far from the sight of men. The writings of the +Stoics are crowded with sentences to the same effect. "Nothing for +opinion, all for conscience." "He who wishes his virtue to be blazed +abroad is not labouring for virtue but for fame." "No one is more +virtuous than the man who sacrifices the reputation of a good man rather +than sacrifice his conscience." "I do not shrink from praise, but I +refuse to make it the end and term of right." "If you do anything to +please men, you have fallen from your estate." "Even a bad reputation +nobly earned is pleasing." "A great man is not the less great when he +lies vanquished and prostrate in the dust." "Never forget that it is +possible to be at once a divine man, yet a man unknown to all the +world." "That which is beautiful is beautiful in itself; the praise of +man adds nothing to its quality." Marcus Aurelius, following an example +that is ascribed to Pythagoras, made it a special object of mental +discipline, by continually meditating on death, and evoking, by an +effort of the imagination, whole societies that had passed away, to +acquire a realised sense of the vanity of posthumous fame. The younger +Pliny painted faithfully the ideal of stoicism when he described one of +his friends as a man "who did nothing for ostentation but all for +conscience; who sought the reward of virtue in itself, and not in the +praise of man." Nor were the Stoics less emphatic in distinguishing the +obligation from the attraction of virtue. It was on this point that they +separated from the more refined Epicureans, who were often willing to +sublimate to the highest degree the kind of pleasure they proposed as an +object, provided only it were admitted that pleasure is necessarily the +ultimate end of our actions. But this the Stoics firmly denied. +"Pleasure," they argued, "is the companion, not the guide, of our +course." "We do not love virtue because it gives us pleasure, but it +gives us pleasure because we love it." "The wise man will not sin, +though both gods and men should overlook the deed, for it is not through +the fear of punishment or of shame that he abstains from sin. It is from +the desire and obligation of what is just and good." "To ask to be paid +for virtue is as if the eye demanded a recompense for seeing, or the +feet for walking." In doing good, man "should be like the vine which has +produced grapes, and asks for nothing more after it has produced its +proper fruit." His end, according to these teachers, is not to find +peace either in life or in death. It is to do his duty, and to tell the +truth. + +The second distinguishing feature of stoicism I have noticed was the +complete suppression of the affections to make way for the absolute +ascendency of reason. There are two great divisions of character +corresponding very nearly to the stoical and epicurean temperaments I +have described--that in which the will predominates, and that in which +the desires are supreme. A good man of the first class is one whose +will, directed by a sense of duty, pursues the course he believes to be +right, in spite of strong temptations to pursue an opposite course, +arising either from his own passions and tendencies, or from the +circumstances that surround him. A good man of the second class is one +who is so happily constituted that his sympathies and desires +instinctively tend to virtuous ends. The first character is the only one +to which we can, strictly speaking, attach the idea of merit, and is +also the only one which is capable of rising to high efforts of +continuous and heroic self-sacrifice; but on the other hand, there is a +charm in the spontaneous action of the unforced desires which +disciplined virtue can perhaps never attain. The man who is consistently +generous through a sense of duty, when his natural temperament impels +him to avarice, and when every exercise of benevolence causes him a +pang, deserves in the very highest degree our admiration; but he whose +generosity costs him no effort, but is the natural gratification of his +affections, attracts a far larger measure of our love. Corresponding to +these two casts of character, we find two distinct theories of +education, the aim of the one being chiefly to strengthen the will, and +that of the other to guide the desires. The principal examples of the +first are the Spartan and stoical systems of antiquity, and, with some +modifications, the asceticism of the Middle Ages. The object of these +systems was to enable men to endure pain, to repress manifest and +acknowledged desires, to relinquish enjoyments, to establish an absolute +empire over their emotions. On the other hand, there is a method of +education which was never more prevalent than in the present day, which +exhausts its efforts in making virtue attractive, in associating it with +all the charms of imagination and of prosperity, and in thus insensibly +drawing the desires in the wished for direction. As the first system is +especially suited to a disturbed and military society, which requires +and elicits strong efforts of the will, and is therefore the special +sphere of heroic virtues, so the latter belongs naturally to a tranquil +and highly organised civilisation, which is therefore very favourable +to the amiable qualities, and it is probable that as civilisation +advances, the heroic type will, in consequence, become more and more +rare, and a kind of self-indulgent goodness more common. The +circumstances of the ancient societies led them to the former type, of +which the Stoics furnished the extreme expression in their doctrine that +the affections are of the nature of a disease--a doctrine which they +justified by the same kind of arguments as those which are now often +employed by metaphysicians to prove that love, anger and the like, can +only be ascribed by a figure of speech to the Deity. Perturbation, they +contended, is necessarily imperfection, and none of its forms can in +consequence be ascribed to a perfect being. We have a clear intuitive +perception that reason is the highest, and should be the directing power +of an intelligent being; but every act which is performed at the +instigation of the emotions is withdrawn from the empire of reason. +Hence it was inferred that while the will should be educated to act +habitually in the direction of virtue, even the emotions that seem most +fitted to second it should be absolutely proscribed. Thus Seneca has +elaborated at length the distinction between clemency and pity, the +first being one of the highest virtues, and the latter a positive vice. +Clemency, he says, is an habitual disposition to gentleness in the +application of punishments. It is that moderation which remits something +of an incurred penalty; it is the opposite of cruelty, which is an +habitual disposition to rigour. Pity, on the other hand, bears to +clemency the same kind of relation as superstition to religion. It is +the weakness of a feeble mind that flinches at the sight of suffering. +Clemency is an act of judgment, but pity disturbs the judgment. Clemency +adjudicates upon the proportion between suffering and guilt. Pity +contemplates only suffering, and gives no thoughts to its cause. +Clemency, in the midst of its noblest efforts, is perfectly passionless; +pity is unreasoning emotion. Clemency is an essential characteristic of +the sage; pity is only suited for weak women and for diseased minds. +"The sage will console those who weep, but without weeping with them; +he will succour the shipwrecked, give hospitality to the proscribed, and +alms to the poor, ... restore the son to the mother's tears, save the +captive from the arena, and even bury the criminal; but in all, his mind +and his countenance will be alike untroubled. He will feel no pity. He +will succour, he will do good, for he is born to assist his fellows, to +labour for the welfare of mankind, and to offer each one his part. His +countenance and his soul will betray no emotion as he looks upon the +withered legs, the tattered rags, the bent and emaciated frame of the +beggar. But he will help those who are worthy, and, like the gods, his +leaning will be towards the wretched.... It is only diseased eyes that +grow moist in beholding tears in other eyes, as it is no true sympathy, +but only weakness of nerves, that leads some to laugh always when others +laugh, or to yawn when others yawn." + +Cicero, in a sentence which might be adopted as the motto of stoicism, +said that Homer "attributed human qualities to the gods; it would have +been better to have imparted divine qualities to men." The remarkable +passage I have just cited serves to show the extremes to which the +Stoics pushed this imitation. And indeed, if we compare the different +virtues that have flourished among Pagans and Christians, we invariably +find that the prevailing type of excellence among the former is that in +which the will and judgment, and among the latter, that in which the +emotions are most prominent. Friendship rather than love, hospitality +rather than charity, magnanimity rather than tenderness, clemency rather +than sympathy, are the characteristics of ancient goodness. The Stoics, +who carried the suppression of the emotions farther than any other +school, laboured with great zeal to compensate the injury thus done to +the benevolent side of our nature, by greatly enlarging the sphere of +reasoned and passionless philanthropy. They taught, in the most emphatic +language, the fraternity of all men, and the consequent duty of each man +consecrating his life to the welfare of others. They developed this +general doctrine in a series of detailed precepts, which, for the range, +depth, and beauty of their charity, have never been surpassed. They even +extended their compassion to crime, and adopting the paradox of Plato, +that all guilt is ignorance, treated it as an involuntary disease, and +declared that the only legitimate ground of punishment is prevention. +But however fully they might recognise in theory their principles with +the widest and most active benevolence, they could not wholly counteract +the practical evil of a system which declared war against the whole +emotional side of our being, and reduced human virtue to a kind of +majestic egotism; proposing as examples such men as Anaxagoras, who when +told that his son had died, simply observed, "I never supposed that I +had begotten an immortal," or as Stilpo, who when his country had been +ruined, his native city captured, and his daughters carried away as +slaves or as concubines, boasted that he had lost nothing, for the sage +is independent of circumstances. The framework or theory of benevolence +might be there, but the animating spirit was absent. Men who taught that +the husband or the father should look with perfect indifference on the +death of his wife or his child, and that the philosopher, though he may +shed tears of pretended sympathy in order to console his suffering +friend, must suffer no real emotion to penetrate his breast, could never +found a true or lasting religion of benevolence. Men who refused to +recognise pain and sickness as evils were scarcely likely to be very +eager to relieve them in others. + +In truth, the Stoics, who taught that all virtue was conformity to +nature, were, in this respect, eminently false to their own principle. +Human nature, as revealed to us by reason, is a composite thing, a +constitution of many parts differing in kind and dignity, a hierarchy in +which many powers are intended to co-exist, but in different positions +of ascendency or subordination. To make the higher part of our nature +our whole nature is not to restore but to mutilate humanity, and this +mutilation has never been attempted without producing grave evils. As +philanthropists, the Stoics, through their passion for unity, were led +to the extirpation of those emotions which nature intended as the chief +springs of benevolence. As speculative philosophers, they were entangled +by the same desire in a long train of pitiable paradoxes. Their famous +doctrines that all virtues are equal, or, more correctly, are the same, +that all vices are equal, that nothing is an evil which does not affect +our will, and that pain and bereavement are, in consequence, no ills, +though partially explained away and frequently disregarded by the Roman +Stoics, were yet sufficiently prominent to give their teaching something +of an unnatural and affected appearance. Prizing only a single object, +and developing only a single side of their nature, their minds became +narrow and their views contracted. Thus, while the Epicureans, urging +men to study nature in order to banish superstition, endeavoured to +correct the ignorance of physical science which was one of the chief +impediments to the progress of the ancient mind, the Stoics for the most +part disdained a study which was other than the pursuit of virtue. While +the Epicurean poet painted in magnificent language the perpetual +progress of mankind, the Stoic was essentially retrospective, and +exhausted his strength in vain efforts to restore the simplicity of a +by-gone age. While, too, the school of Zeno produced many of the best +and greatest men who have ever lived, it must be acknowledged that its +records exhibit a rather unusual number of examples of high professions +falsified in action, and of men who, displaying in some forms the most +undoubted and transcendent virtue, fell in others far below the average +of mankind. The elder Cato, who, though not a philosopher, was a model +of philosophers, was conspicuous for his inhumanity to his slaves. +Brutus was one of the most extortionate usurers of his time, and several +citizens of Salamis died of starvation, imprisoned because they could +not pay the sum he demanded. No one eulogised more eloquently the +austere simplicity of life which stoicism advocated than Sallust, who in +a corrupt age was notorious for his rapacity. Seneca himself was +constitutionally a nervous and timid man, endeavouring, not always with +success, to support himself by a sublime philosophy. He guided, under +circumstances of extreme difficulty, the cause of virtue, and his death +is one of the noblest antiquity records; but his life was deeply marked +by the taint of flattery, and not free from the taint of avarice, and it +is unhappily certain that, after its accomplishment, he lent his pen to +conceal or varnish one of the worst crimes of Nero. The courage of Lucan +failed signally under torture, and the flattery which he bestowed upon +Nero, in his "Pharsalia," ranks with the Epigrams of Martial as probably +the extreme limit of sycophancy to which Roman literature descended. + +While, too, the main object of the Stoics was to popularise philosophy, +the high standard of self-control they exacted rendered their system +exceedingly unfit for the great majority of mankind, and for the +ordinary condition of affairs. Life is history, not poetry. It consists +mainly of little things, rarely illumined by flashes of great heroism, +rarely broken by great dangers, or demanding great exertions. A moral +system, to govern society, must accommodate itself to common characters +and mingled motives. It must be capable of influencing natures that can +never rise to an heroic level. It must tincture, modify, and mitigate +where it cannot eradicate or transform. In Christianity there are always +a few persons seeking by continual and painful efforts to reverse or +extinguish the ordinary feelings of humanity, but in the great majority +of cases the influence of the religious principle upon the mind, though +very real, is not of a nature to cause any serious strain or struggle. +It is displayed in a certain acquired spontaneity of impulse. It softens +the character, purifies and directs the imagination, blends insensibly +with the habitual modes of thought, and, without revolutionising, gives +a tone and bias to all the forms of action. But stoicism was simply a +school of heroes. It recognised no gradations of virtue or vice. It +condemned all emotions, all spontaneity, all mingled motives, all the +principles, feelings, and impulses upon which the virtue of common men +mainly depends. It was capable of acting only on moral natures that were +strung to the highest tension, and it was therefore naturally rejected +by the multitude. + +The central conception of this philosophy of self-control was the +dignity of man. Pride, which looks within, making man seek his own +approbation, as distinguished from vanity, which looks without, and +shapes its conduct according to the opinions of others, was not only +permitted in stoicism, it was its leading moral agent. The sense of +virtue, as I have elsewhere observed, occupies in this system much the +same place as the sense of sin in Christianity. Sin, in the conception +of the ancients, was simply disease, and they deemed it the part of a +wise man to correct it, but not to dwell upon its circumstances. In the +many disquisitions which Epictetus and others have left us concerning +the proper frame of mind in which man should approach death, repentance +for past sin has absolutely no place, nor do the ancients appear to have +ever realised the purifying and spiritualising influence it exercises +upon the character. And while the reality of moral disease was fully +recognised, while an ideal of lofty and indeed unattainable excellence +was continually proposed, no one doubted the essential excellence of +human nature, and very few doubted the possibility of man acquiring by +his own will a high degree of virtue. + +The doctrine of suicide was the culminating point of Roman stoicism. The +proud, self-reliant, unbending character of the philosopher, could only +be sustained when he felt that he had a sure refuge against the extreme +forms of suffering or of despair. Although virtue is not a mere creature +of interest, no great system has ever yet flourished which did not +present an ideal of happiness as well as an ideal of duty. Stoicism +taught men to hope little, but to fear nothing. It did not array death +in brilliant colours, as the path to positive felicity, but it +endeavoured to divest it, as the end of suffering, of every terror. Life +lost much of its bitterness when men had found a refuge from the storms +of fate, a speedy deliverance from dotage and pain. Death ceased to be +terrible when it was regarded rather as a remedy than as a sentence. +Life and death in the stoical system were attuned to the same key. The +deification of human virtue, the total absence of all sense of sin, the +proud stubborn will that deemed humiliation the worst of stains, +appeared alike in each. The type of its own kind was perfect. All the +virtues and all the majesty that accompany human pride, when developed +to the highest point, and directed to the noblest ends, were here +displayed. All those which accompany humility and self-abasement were +absent. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 74: From Chapter II, Vol. I, of "History of European Morals," +1869. The author's foot-notes have been omitted.] + + + + +THE ENTHUSIASM OF HUMANITY[75] + +JOHN ROBERT SEELEY + + +The first method of training this passion which Christ employed was the +direct one of making it a point of duty to feel it. To love one's +neighbour as oneself was, he said, the first and greatest _law_. And in +the Sermon on the Mount he requires the passion to be felt in such +strength as to include those whom we have most reason to hate--our +enemies and those who maliciously injure us--and delivers an imperative +precept, "Love your enemies." + +It has been shown that to do this is not, as might at first appear, in +the nature of things impossible, but the further question suggests +itself, Can it be done to order? Has the verb to love really an +imperative mood? Certainly, to say that we can love at pleasure, and by +a mere effort of will summon up a passion which does not arise of +itself, is to take up a paradoxical and novel position. Yet if this +position be really untenable, how is it possible to obey Christ's +commands? + +The difficulty seems to admit of only one solution. We are not commanded +to create by an effort of will a feeling of love in ourselves which +otherwise would have had no existence; the feeling must arise naturally +or it cannot arise at all. But a number of causes which are removable +may interfere to prevent the feeling from arising or to stifle it as it +arises, and we are commanded to remove these hindrances. It is natural +to man to love his kind, and Christ commands us only to give nature +play. He does not expect us to procure for ourselves hearts of some new +supernatural texture, but merely the heart of flesh for the heart of +stone. + +What, then, are the causes of this paralysis of the heart? The +experience of human life furnishes us readily with the answer. It +constantly happens that one whose affections were originally not less +lively than those of most men is thrown into the society of persons +destitute of sympathy or tenderness. In this society each person is +either totally indifferent to his neighbour or secretly endeavouring to +injure or overreach him. The new-comer is at first open-hearted and +cordial; he presumes every one he meets to be a friend, and is disposed +to serve and expects to be served by all alike. But his advances are met +by some with cautious reserve, by others with icy coldness, by others +with hypocritical warmth followed by treacherous injury, by others with +open hostility. The heart which naturally grew warm at the mere sight of +a human being, under the operation of this new experience slowly becomes +paralysed. There seats itself gradually in the man's mind a presumption +concerning every new face that it is the face of an enemy, and a habit +of gathering himself into an attitude of self-defence whenever he deals +with a fellow-creature. If when this new disposition has grown confirmed +and habitual, he be introduced into a society of an opposite kind and +meet with people as friendly and kind as he himself was originally, he +will not at first be able to believe in their sincerity, and the old +kindly affections from long disuse will be slow to rouse themselves +within him. Now to such a person the imperative mood of the verb to love +may fairly be used. He may properly be told to make an effort, to shake +off the distrust that oppresses him,--not to suffer unproved suspicions, +causeless jealousies, to stifle by the mere force of prejudice and +mistaken opinion the warmth of feeling natural to him. + +But we shall have a closer illustration if we suppose the cold-hearted +society itself to be addressed by a preacher who wishes to bring them +to a better mind. He too may fairly use the imperative mood of the verb +to love. For he may say, "Your mutual coldness does not spring from an +original want of the power of sympathy. If it did, admonitions would +indeed be useless. But it springs from a habit of thought which you have +formed, a maxim which has been received among you, that all men are +devoted to self-interest, that kindness is but feebleness and invites +injury. If you will at once and by a common act throw off this false +opinion of human nature, and adopt a new plan of life for yourselves and +new expectations of each other, you will find the old affections natural +to all of you, weakened indeed and chilled, but existing and capable of +being revived by an effort." + +Such a preacher might go further and say, "If but a small minority are +convinced by my words, yet let that minority for itself abandon the +selfish theory, let it renounce the safety which that theory affords in +dealing with selfish men, let it treat the enemy as if he were indeed +the friend he ought to be, let it dare to forego retaliation and even +self-defence. By this means it will shame many into kindness; by +despising self-interest for itself it will sometimes make it seem +despicable to others; by sincerity and persistency it will gradually +convert the majority to a higher law of intercourse." + +The world has been always more or less like this cold-hearted society; +the natural kindness and fellow-feeling of men have always been more or +less repressed by low-minded maxims and cynicism. But in the time of +Christ, and in the last decrepitude of ethnic morality, the selfishness +of human intercourse was much greater than the present age can easily +understand. That system of morality, even in the times when it was +powerful and in many respects beneficial, had made it almost as much a +duty to hate foreigners as to love fellow-citizens. Plato congratulates +the, Athenians on having shown in their relations to Persia, beyond all +the other Greeks, "a pure and heartfelt hatred of the foreign +nature."[76] Instead of opposing, it had sanctioned and consecrated the +savage instinct which leads us to hate whatever is strange or +unintelligible, to distrust those who live on the further side of a +river, to suppose that those whom we hear talking together in a foreign +tongue must be plotting some mischief against ourselves. The lapse of +time and the fusion of races doubtless diminished this antipathy +considerably, but at the utmost it could but be transformed into an icy +indifference, for no cause was in operation to convert it into kindness. +On the other hand, the closeness of the bond which united +fellow-citizens was considerably relaxed. Common interests and common +dangers had drawn it close; these in the wide security of the Roman +Empire had no longer a place. It had depended upon an imagined +blood-relationship; fellow-citizens could now no longer feel themselves +to be united by the tie of blood. Every town was full of resident aliens +and emancipated slaves, persons between whom and the citizens nature had +established no connection, and whose presence in the city had originally +been barely tolerated from motives of expediency. The selfishness of +modern times exists in defiance of morality, in ancient times it was +approved, sheltered, and even in part enjoined by morality. We are +therefore to consider the ancient world as a society of men in whom +natural humanity existed but had been, as it were, crusted or frosted +over. Inveterate feuds and narrow-minded local jealousies, arising out +of an isolated position or differences of language and institutions, had +created endless divisions between man and man. And as the special +virtues of antiquity, patriotism and all that it implies, had been in a +manner caused and fostered by these very divisions, they were not +regarded as evils but rather cherished as essential to morality. +Selfishness, therefore, was not a mere abuse or corruption arising out +of the infirmity of human nature, but a theory and almost a part of +moral philosophy. Humanity was cramped by a mistaken prejudice, by a +perverse presumption of the intellect. In a case like this it was +necessary and proper to prescribe humanity by direct authoritative +precept. Such a precept would have been powerless to create the feeling, +nor would it have done much to protect it from being overpowered by the +opposite passion, but the opposite passion of selfishness was at this +period justified by authority and claimed to be on the side of reason +and law. Precept is fairly matched against precept, and what the law of +love and the golden rule did for mankind was to place for the first time +the love of man as man distinctly in the list of virtues, to dissipate +the exclusive prejudices of ethnic morality, and to give selfishness the +character of sin. + +When a theory of selfishness is rife in a whole community, it is a bold +and hazardous step for a part of the community to abandon it. For in the +society of selfish people selfishness is simply self-defence; to +renounce it is to evacuate one's entrenched position, to surrender at +discretion to the enemy. If society is to disarm, it should do so by +common consent. Christ, however, though he confidently expected +ultimately to gather all mankind into his society, did not expect to do +so soon. Accordingly he commands his followers not to wait for this +consummation but, in spite of the hazardous nature of the step, to +disarm at once. They are sent forth "as sheep in the midst of wolves." +Injuries they are to expect, but they are neither to shun nor to +retaliate them. Harmless they are to be as _doves_. The discipline of +suffering will wean them more and more from self, and make the channels +of humanity freer within them; and sometimes their patience may shame +the spoiler; he may grow weary of rapacity which meets with no +resistance, and be induced to envy those who can forego without +reluctance that which he devotes every thought to acquire. + +But we shall soon be convinced that Christ could not design by a mere +edict, however authoritative, to give this passion of humanity strength +enough to make it a living and infallible principle of morality in +every man, when we consider, first, what an ardent enthusiasm he +demanded from his followers, and secondly, how frail and tender a germ +this passion naturally is in human nature. Widely diffused indeed it is, +and seldom entirely eradicated; but for the most part, at least in the +ancient world, it was crushed under a weight of predominant passions and +interests; it had seldom power enough to dictate any action, but made +itself felt in faint misgivings and relentings, which sometimes +restrained men from extremes of cruelty. Like Enceladus under Aetna, it +lay fettered at the bottom of human nature, now and then making the mass +above it quake by an uneasy change of posture. To make this outraged and +enslaved passion predominant, to give it, instead of a veto rarely used, +the whole power of government, to train it from a dim misgiving into a +clear and strong passion, required much more than a precept. The precept +had its use; it could make men feel it right to be humane and desire to +be so, but it could never inspire them with an enthusiasm of humanity. +From what source was this inspiration to be derived? + +Humanity, we have already observed, is neither a love for the whole +human race, nor a love for each individual of it, but a love for the +race, or for the ideal of man, in each individual. In other and less +pedantic words, he who is truly humane considers every human being as +such interesting and important, and without waiting to criticise each +individual specimen, pays in advance to all alike the tribute of good +wishes and sympathy. Now this favourable presumption with regard to +human beings is not a causeless prepossession, it is no idle +superstition of the mind, nor is it a natural instinct. It is a feeling +founded on the actual observation and discovery of interesting and noble +qualities in particular human beings, and it is strong or weak in +proportion as the person who has the feeling has known many or few noble +and amiable human beings. There are men who have, been so unfortunate as +to live in the perpetual society of the mean and the base; they have +never, except in a few faint glimpses, seen anything glorious or good in +human nature. With these the feeling of humanity has a perpetual +struggle for existence, their minds tend by a fatal gravitation to the +belief that the happiness or misery of such a paltry race is wholly +unimportant; they may arrive finally at a fixed condition, in which it +may be said of them without qualification, that "man delights not them, +nor woman neither." In this final stage they are men who, beyond the +routine of life, should not be trusted, being "fit for treasons, +stratagems, and spoils." On the other hand, there are those whose lot it +has been from earliest childhood to see the fair side of humanity, who +have been surrounded with clear and candid countenances, in the changes +of which might be traced the working of passions strong and simple, the +impress of a firm and tender nature, wearing when it looked abroad the +glow of sympathy, and when it looked within the bloom of modesty. They +have seen, and not once or twice, a man forget himself; they have +witnessed devotion, unselfish sorrow, unaffected delicacy, spontaneous +charity, ingenuous self-reproach; and it may be that on seeing a human +being surrender for another's good not something but his uttermost all, +they have dimly suspected in human nature a glory connecting it with the +divine. In these the passion of humanity is warm and ready to become on +occasion a burning flame; their whole minds are elevated, because they +are possessed with the dignity of that nature they share, and of the +society in the midst of which they move. + +But it is not absolutely necessary to humanity that a man shall have +seen _many_ men whom he can respect. The most lost cynic will get a new +heart by learning thoroughly to believe in the virtue of _one_ man. Our +estimate of human nature is in proportion to the best specimen of it we +have witnessed. This then it is which is wanted to raise the feeling of +humanity into an enthusiasm; when the precept of love has been given, an +image must be set before the eyes of those who are called upon to obey +it, an ideal or type of man which may be noble and amiable enough to +raise the whole race and make the meanest member of it sacred with +reflected glory. + +Did not Christ do this? Did the command to love go forth to those who +had never seen a human being they could revere? Could his followers turn +upon him and say, How can we love a creature so degraded, full of vile +wants and contemptible passions, whose little life is most harmlessly +spent when it is an empty round of eating and sleeping; a creature +destined for the grave and for oblivion when his allotted term of +fretfulness and folly has expired? Of this race Christ himself was a +member, and to this day is it not the best answer to all blasphemers of +the species, the best consolation when our sense of its degradation is +keenest, that a human brain was behind his forehead and a human heart +beating in his breast, and that within the whole creation of God nothing +more elevated or more attractive has yet been found than he? And if it +be answered that there was in his nature something exceptional and +peculiar, that humanity must not be measured by the stature of Christ, +let us remember that it was precisely thus that he wished it to be +measured, delighting to call himself the Son of Man, delighting to call +the meanest of mankind his brothers. If some human beings are abject and +contemptible, if it be incredible to us that they can have any high +dignity or destiny, do we regard them from so great a height as Christ? +Are we likely to be more pained by their faults and deficiencies than he +was? Is our standard higher than his? And yet he associated by +preference with these meanest of the race; no contempt for them did he +ever express, no suspicion that they might be less dear than the best +and wisest to the common Father, no doubt that they were naturally +capable of rising to a moral elevation like his own. There is nothing of +which a man may be prouder than of this; it is the most hopeful and +redeeming fact in history; it is precisely what was wanting to raise the +love of man as man to enthusiasm. An eternal glory has been shed upon +the human race by the love Christ bore to it. And it was because the +Edict of Universal Love went forth to men whose hearts were in no +cynical mood but possessed with a spirit of devotion to a man, that +words which at any other time, however grandly they might sound, would +have been but words, penetrated so deeply, and along with the law of +love the power of Jove was given. Therefore also the first Christians +were enabled to dispense with philosophical phrases, and instead of +saying that they loved the ideal of man in man could simply say and feel +that they loved Christ in every man. + +We have here the very kernel of the Christian moral scheme. We have +distinctly before us the end Christ proposed to himself, and the means +he considered adequate to the attainment of it. His object was, instead +of drawing up, after the example of previous legislators, a list of +actions prescribed, allowed, and prohibited, to give his disciples a +universal test by which they might discover what it was right and what +it was wrong to do. Now as the difficulty of discovering what is right +arises commonly from the prevalence of self-interest in our minds, and +as we commonly behave rightly to anyone for whom we feel affection or +sympathy, Christ considered that he who could feel sympathy for all +would behave rightly to all. But how to give to the meagre and narrow +hearts of men such enlargement? How to make them capable of a universal +sympathy? Christ believed it possible to bind men to their kind, but on +one condition--that they were first bound fast to himself. He stood +forth as the representative of men, he identified himself with the cause +and with the interests of all human beings, he was destined, as he began +before long obscurely to intimate, to lay down his life for them. Few of +us sympathise originally and directly with this devotion; few of us can +perceive in human nature itself any merit sufficient to evoke it. But it +is not so hard to love and venerate him who felt it. So vast a passion +of love, a devotion so comprehensive, elevated, deliberate and +profound, has not elsewhere been in any degree approached save by some +of his imitators. And as love provokes love, many have found it possible +to conceive for Christ an attachment the closeness of which no words can +describe, a veneration so possessing and absorbing the man within them, +that they have said, "I live no more, but Christ lives in me." Now such +a feeling carries with it of necessity the feeling of love for all human +beings. It matters no longer what quality men may exhibit; amiable or +unamiable, as the brothers of Christ, as belonging to his sacred and +consecrated kind, as the objects of his love in life and death, they +must be dear to all to whom he is dear. And those who would for a moment +know his heart and understand his life must begin by thinking of the +whole race of man, and of each member of the race, with awful reverence +and hope. + +Love, wheresoever it appears, is in its measure a law-making power. +"Love is _dutiful_ in thought and deed." And as the lover of his country +is free from the temptation to treason, so is he who loves Christ secure +from the temptation to injure any human being, whether it be himself or +another. He is indeed much more than this. He is bound and he is eager +to benefit and bless to the utmost of his power all that bear his +Master's nature, and that not merely with the good gifts of the earth, +but with whatever cherishes and trains best the Christ within them. But +for the present we are concerned merely with the power of this passion +to lift the man out of sin. The injuries he committed lightly when he +regarded his fellow-creatures simply as animals who added to the +fierceness of the brute an ingenuity and forethought that made them +doubly noxious, become horrible sacrilege when he sees in them no longer +the animal but the Christ. And that other class of crimes which belongs +more especially to ages of civilisation, and arises out of a cynical +contempt for the species, is rendered equally impossible to the man who +hears with reverence the announcement, "The good deeds you did to the +least of these my brethren you did to me." + +There are two objections which may suggest themselves at this point, the +one to intellectual, the other to practical men. The intellectual man +may say, "To discover what it is right to do in any given case is not +the province of any feeling or passion however sublime, but requires the +application of the same intellectual power which solves mathematical +problems. The common acts of life may no doubt be performed correctly by +unintellectual people, but this is because these constantly recurring +problems have been solved long ago by clever people, and the vulgar are +now in possession of the results. Whenever a new combination occurs it +is a matter for casuists; the best intentions will avail little; there +is doubtless a great difference between a good man and a bad one; the +one will do what is right when he knows it, and the other will not; but +in respect for the power of ascertaining what it is right to do, +supposing their knowledge of casuistry to be equal, they are on a par. +Goodness or the passion of humanity, or Christian love, may be a motive +inducing men to keep the law, but it has no right to be called the +law-making power. And what has Christianity added to our theoretic +knowledge of morality? It may have made men practically more moral, but +has it added anything to Aristotle's Ethics?" + +Certainly Christianity has no ambition to invade the provinces of the +moralist or the casuist. But the difficulties which beset the discovery +of the right moral course are of two kinds. There are the difficulties +which arise, from the blinding and confusing effect of selfish passions, +and which obscure from the view the end which should be aimed at in +action; when these have been overcome there arises a new set of +difficulties concerning the means by which the end should be attained. +In dealing with your neighbour the first thing to be understood is that +his interest is to be considered as well as your own; but when this has +been settled, it remains to be considered what his interest is. The +latter class of difficulties requires to be dealt with by the +intellectual or calculating faculty. The former class can only be dealt +with by the moral force of sympathy. Now it is true that the right +action will not be performed without the operation of both these +agencies. But the moral agency is the dominant one throughout; it is +that without which the very conception of law is impossible; it +overcomes those difficulties which in the vast majority of practical +cases are the most serious. The calculating casuistical faculty is, as +it were, in its employ, and it is no more improper to call it the +law-making power, although it does not ultimately decide what action is +to be performed, than to say that a house was built by one who did not +with his own hands lay the bricks and spread the mortar. + +The objection which practical men take is a very important one, as the +criticisms of such men always are, being founded commonly upon large +observation and not perverted by theory. They say that the love of +Christ does not in practice produce the nobleness and largeness of +character which has been represented as its proper and natural result; +that instead of inspiring those who feel it with reverence and hope for +their kind, it makes them exceedingly narrow in their sympathies, +disposed to deny and explain away even the most manifest virtues +displayed by men, and to despair of the future destiny of the great +majority of their fellow-creatures; that instead of binding them to +their kind, it divides them from it by a gulf which they themselves +proclaim to be impassable and eternal, and unites them only in a gloomy +conspiracy of misanthropy with each other; that it is indeed a +law-making power, but that the laws it makes are little-minded and +vexatious prohibitions of things innocent, demoralising restraints upon +the freedom of joy and the healthy instincts of nature; that it favours +hypocrisy, moroseness, and sometimes lunacy; that the only vice it has +power to check is thoughtlessness, and its only beneficial effect is +that of forcing into activity, though not always into healthy activity, +the faculty of serious reflection. + +This may be a just picture of a large class of religious men, but it is +impossible in the nature of things that such effects should be produced +by a pure personal devotion to Christ. We are to remember that nothing +has been subjected to such multiform and grotesque perversion as +Christianity. Certainly the direct love of Christ, as it was felt by its +first followers, is a rare thing among modern Christians. His character +has been so much obscured by scholasticism, as to have lost in a great +measure its attractive power. The prevalent feeling towards him now +among religious men is an awful fear of his supernatural greatness, and +a disposition to obey his commands arising partly from dread of future +punishment and hope of reward, and partly from a nobler feeling of +loyalty, which, however, is inspired rather by his office than his +person. Beyond this we may discern in them an uneasy conviction that he +requires a more personal devotion, which leads to spasmodic efforts to +kindle the feeling by means of violent raptures of panegyric and by +repeating over and getting by rote the ardent expressions of those who +really had it. That is wanting for the most part which Christ held to be +all in all, spontaneous warmth, free and generous devotion. That the +fruits of a Christianity so hollow should be poor and sickly is not +surprising. + +But that Christ's method, when rightly applied, is really of mighty +force may be shown by an argument which the severest censor of +Christians will hardly refuse to admit. Compare the ancient with the +modern world: "Look on this picture and on that." One broad distinction +in the characters of men forces itself into prominence. Among all the +men of the ancient heathen world there were scarcely one or two to whom +we might venture to apply the epithet "holy." In other words, there were +not more than one or two, if any, who besides being virtuous in their +actions were possessed with an unaffected enthusiasm of goodness, and +besides abstaining from vice regarded even a vicious thought with +horror. Probably no one will deny that in Christian countries this +higher-toned goodness, which we call holiness, has existed. Few will +maintain that it has been exceedingly rare. Perhaps the truth is, that +there has scarcely been a town in any Christian country since the time +of Christ where a century has passed without exhibiting a character of +such elevation that his mere presence has shamed the bad and made the +good better, and has been felt at times like the presence of God +Himself. And if this be so, has Christ failed? or can Christianity die? + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 75: Chapter XIV of "Ecce Homo, a Survey of the Life and work +of Jesus Christ," 1865.] + +[Footnote 76: Plato, Menexenus.--Author's note.] + + + + +LOYALTY AND INSIGHT[77] + +JOSIAH ROYCE + + +Upon an occasion like this, when the children, the servants, and the +friends of this institution meet for their annual festival, there is one +word that best expresses the spirit of the occasion. It is the word +"loyalty,"--loyalty to your College, to its ideals, to its life, and to +the unity and effectiveness of this life. And amongst the ideals that +inspire the life of your College, and make that life effective and +united, there is one which is prominent in all your minds, whatever your +special studies, your practical aims, or your hopes. It is the ideal of +furthering, in all your minds, what we may call insight,--the ideal of +learning to see life as it is, to know the world as we men need to know +it, and to guide our purposes as we ought to guide them. It is also the +ideal of teaching to others the art of just such insight. + +These two words, then, "loyalty" and "insight," name, one of them, the +spirit in which, upon such occasions as this, we all meet; the other, +the ideal that determines the studies and the researches of any modern +institution of learning. Upon each day of its year of work your College +says to its children and to its servants and to its community: "Let us +know, let us see, let us comprehend, let us guide life by wisdom, and in +turn let us discover new wisdom for the sake of winning new life." But +upon a day like the present one, the work of the year being laid aside, +your College asks and receives your united expression of loyalty to its +cause. Perhaps some of you may feel that for just this moment you have +left behind, at least temporarily, the task of winning insight. You +enjoy, for the hour, the fruits of toil. Study and research cease, you +may say, for to-day, while the spirit of loyalty finds its own free +expression and takes content in its holiday. + +I agree that the holidays and the working days have a different place in +our lives. But it is my purpose in this address to say something about +the connections between the spirit which rules this occasion--the spirit +of loyalty--and the ideal by which the year's work has to be +guided,--the ideal of furthering true insight. The loyalty that now +fills your minds is merely one expression of a certain spirit which +ought to pervade all our lives--not only in our studies, but in our +homes, in our offices, in our political and civic life--not merely upon +holidays, or upon other great occasions, but upon our working days; and +most of all when our tasks seem commonplace and heavy. And, on the other +hand, the insight which you seek to get whenever, in the academic world, +you work in the laboratory or in the field, in the library or in the +classroom or alone in your study, the insight that you try both to +embody in your practical life and to enrich through your +researches,--just this insight, I say, is best to be furthered by a +right cultivation of the spirit of loyalty. + +I suppose that when I utter these words, you will easily give to them a +certain general assent. But I want to devote this address to making just +such words mean more to you than at first they may appear to mean. + +First, then, let me tell you what I myself mean by the term "loyalty." +Then let me deal with my principal thesis, which is that the true spirit +of loyalty is not merely a proper accompaniment of all serious work, but +is an especially important source of a very deep insight into the +meaning of life, and, as I personally believe, into the nature of the +whole universe. + +Three sorts of persons, I have noticed, are fond of using the term +"loyalty." These are quite different types of persons; or, in any case, +they use the word upon very different occasions. But these very +differences are to my mind important. The first type of those who love +to use the term "loyalty" consists of those who employ it to express a +certain glow of enthusiastic devotion, the type of the lovers, of the +students when the athletic contests are near, of the partisans in the +heat of a political contest, or of the friends of an institution upon a +day like this. To such persons, or at least at such moments, loyalty is +conceived as something brilliantly emotional, as a passion of devotion. +The second class of those who are fond of the word "loyalty" are the +warriors and their admirers. To such persons loyalty means a willingness +to do dangerous service, to sacrifice life, to toil long and hard for +the flag that one follows. But for a third type of those who employ the +word, loyalty especially means steady, often unobtrusive, fidelity to +more or less formal obligations, such as the business world and the +workshop impose upon us. Such persons think of loyalty as, first of all, +faithfulness in obeying the law of the land, or in executing the plans +of one's official superiors, or in serving one's employer or one's +client or one's chief, or one's fraternity or other social union. In +this sense the loyal servant may be obscure and unemotional. But he is +trustworthy. Now, a word which thus so forcibly appeals to the lovers +who want to express their passionate devotion, and also to the soldiers +who want to name that obstinate following of the flag which makes +victory possible; a word which business men also sometimes use to +characterize the quietly and industriously faithful employee who obeys +orders, who betrays no secrets, and who regards the firm's interest as +his own;--well, such a word, I think, is not as much ambiguous as deep +in its meaning. For, after all, loyal emotions, loyal sacrifice of life, +loyal steadiness in obscure service, are but various symptoms of a +certain spirit which lies beneath all its various expressions. This +spirit is a well-known one. All the higher life of society depends upon +it. It may manifest itself as enthusiasm upon an occasion like this, or +as contempt for death upon the battle field, or as quiet service when +the toil of life is grim, or as the cool fidelity that pursues the daily +routine of office or of workshop or of kitchen with a steady persistence +and with a simple acceptance of traditional duties or of the day's toil. +But the spirit thus manifested is not exhausted by any of its symptoms. +The appearances of loyalty are manifold. Its meaning is one. And I +myself venture to state what the true spirit of loyalty is by defining +the term thus: By loyalty I mean the thorough-going, the voluntary, and +the practical devotion of a self to a cause. And by a cause I mean +something of the nature that the true lover has in mind when he is +wisely devoted to his love; that the faithful member of a family serves +when the family itself is the cause dear to him; that the member of a +fraternity, or the child of a college, or the devoted professional man, +or the patriot, or the martyr, or the faithful workman conceives when he +thinks of that to which he gives his life. As all these illustrations +suggest, the cause to which one can be loyal is never a mere collection +of individuals; nor is it ever a mere abstract principle. This cause, +whether in the church or the army or the workshop, in the home or in the +friendship, is some sort of unity whereby many persons are joined in one +common life. The cause to which a loyal man is devoted is of the nature +of an institution, or of a home life, or of a fraternity, wherein two or +more persons aim to become one; or of a religion, wherein the unity of +the spirit is sought through the communion of the faithful. Loyalty +respects individuals, but aims to bring them together into one common +life. Its command to the loyal is: "Be 'one undivided soul of many a +soul'". It recognizes that, when apart, individuals fail; but that when +they try to unite their lives into one common higher selfhood, to live +as if they were the expressions, the instruments, the organs of one +ideally beautiful social group, they win the only possible fulfillment +of the meaning of human existence. Through loyalty to such a cause, +through devotion to an ideally united social group, and only through +such loyalty, can the problems of human personality be solved. By +nature, and apart from some cause to which we are loyal, each of us is +but a mass of caprices, a chaos of distracting passions, a longing for +happiness that is never fulfilled, a seeking for success which never +attains its goal. Meanwhile, no merely customary morality ever +adequately guides our lives. Mere social authority never meets our +needs. But a cause, some unity of many lives in one, some call upon the +individual to give himself over to the service of an idealized +community--this gives sense to life. This, when we feel its presence, as +we do upon this occasion, we love, as the lovers love the common life of +friendship that is to make them one, or as the mothers delight in the +life that is to unite themselves and their children in the family, or as +the devout feel that through their communion in the life of their church +they become one with the Divine Spirit. For such a cause we can make +sacrifices, such as the soldier makes in following the flag. For what is +the fortune of any detached self as compared with the one cause of the +whole country? And just such a voluntary devotion to a cause can ennoble +the routine of the humblest daily business, in the office, in the +household, in the school, at the desk, or in the market place, if one +only finds the cause that can hold his devotion--be this cause his +business firm or his profession or his household or his country or his +church, or all these at once. For all these causes have their value in +this: that through the business firm, or the household, or the +profession, or the spiritual community, the lives of many human selves +are woven into one, so that our fortunes and interests are no longer +conceived as detached and private, but as a giving of ourselves in order +that the social group to which we are devoted should live its own united +life. + +With this bare indication of what I mean by loyalty, I may now say that +of late years I have attempted to show in detail, in various discussions +of our topic, that the spirit of loyalty, rightly understood, and +practically applied, furnishes an adequate solution for all the +problems of the moral life. The whole moral law can be summed up in the +two commandments: first, Be loyal; and secondly, So choose, so serve, +and so unify the life causes to which you yourself are loyal that, +through your choice, through your service, through your example, and +through your dealings with all men, you may, as far as in you lies, help +other people to be loyal to their own causes; may avoid cheating them of +their opportunities for loyalty; may inspire them with their own best +type of loyalty, and may so best serve the one great cause of the spread +of loyalty among mankind. Or, if I may borrow and adapt for a worthy end +Lincoln's immortal words, the moral law is this: Let us so live, so +love, and so serve, that loyalty "of the people, by the people, for the +people, shall not perish from the earth," but shall prosper and abound. + +The scheme of life thus suggested is, I believe, adequate. I next want +to tell what bearing the spirit of loyalty has upon insight. + +The insight that all of us most need and desire is an insight, first, +into the business of life itself, and next into the nature and meaning +of the real world in which we live. Our forefathers used to center all +their views of life and of the world about their religion. Many of the +leading minds of to-day center their modern insight about the results of +science. In consequence, what I may call the general problems of +insight, and the views of life and of the world which most of us get +from our studies, have come of late to appear very different from the +views and the problems which our own leading countrymen a century ago +regarded as most important. The result is that the great problem of the +philosophy of life to-day may be defined as the effort to see whether, +and how, you can cling to a genuinely ideal and spiritual interpretation +of your own nature and of your duty, while abandoning superstition, and +while keeping in close touch with the results of modern knowledge about +man and nature. + +Let me briefly indicate what I mean by this problem of a modern +philosophy of life. From the modern point of view great stress has been +laid upon the fact that man, as we know man, appears to be subject to +the laws of the natural world. Modern knowledge makes these laws appear +very far-reaching, very rigid, and very much of the type that we call +mechanical. We have, therefore, most of us, learned not to expect +miraculous interferences with the course of nature as aids in our human +conflict with destiny. We have been taught to regard ourselves as the +products of a long process of natural evolution. We have come to think +that man's control over nature has to take the general form which our +industrial arts illustrate, and which our recent contests with disease, +such as the wars with tuberculosis and with yellow fever, exemplify. +Man, we have been led to say, wins his way only by studying nature and +by applying his carefully won empirical knowledge to the guidance of his +arts. The business of life--so we have been moved to assert--must +therefore be guided simply by an union of plain common sense with the +scientific study of nature. The real world, we have been disposed to +say, is, on the whole, so far as we can know it, a mechanism. Therefore +the best ideal of life involves simply the more or less complete control +of this mechanism for useful and humane ends. Such, I say, is one very +commonly accepted result to which modern knowledge seems to have led +men. The practical view of life and of its business which expresses this +result has been, for many of us, twofold. First, we have been led to +this well-known precept: If you want to live wisely, you must, at all +events, avoid superstition. That is, you must not try to guide human +life by dealing with such supernatural powers, good and evil, as the +mythologies of the past used to view as the controlling forces of human +destiny. You must take natural laws as you find them. You must believe +about the real world simply what you can confirm by the verdict of human +experience. You must put no false hopes either in magic arts or in +useless appeals to the gods. You must, for instance, fight tuberculosis +not by prayer, but by knowing the conditions that produce it and the +natural processes that tend to destroy its germs. And so, in general, in +order to live well and wisely you must be a naturalist and not a +supernaturalist. Or in any case you must conform your common sense not +to the imagination that in the past peopled the dream world of humanity +with good and evil spirits, but to the carefully won insight that has +shown us that our world is one where natural law reigns unyielding, +defying equally our magic arts and our prayerful desires for divine aid. +But secondly, side by side with this decidedly positive advice, many of +us have been brought to accept a practical attitude towards the world +which has seemed to us negative and discouraging. This second attitude +may be expressed in the sad precept: Hope not to find this world in any +universal sense a world of ideal values. Nature is indifferent to +values. Values are human, and merely human. Man can indeed give to his +own life much of what he calls value, if he uses his natural knowledge +for human ends. But when he sets out upon this task, he ought to know +that, however sweet and ideal human companionship may be as it exists +among men, humanity as a whole must fight its battle with nature and +with the universe substantially alone, comfortless except for the +comforts that it wins precisely as it builds its houses; namely, by +using the mechanisms of nature for its own purposes. The world happens, +indeed, to give man some power to control natural conditions. But even +this power is due to the very fact that man also is one of nature's +products,--a product possessing a certain stability, a certain natural +plasticity and docility, a limited range of natural initiative. As a +rock may deflect a stream, so man, himself a natural mechanism, may turn +the stream of nature's energies into paths that are temporarily useful +for human purposes. But from the modern point of view the ancient plaint +of the Book of Job remains true, both for the rock and for the man: + + "The waters wear away stones, + And the hope of frail man thou destroyest." + +In the end, our relations to the universe thus seem to remain relations +to an essentially foreign power, which cares for our ideals as the +stormy sea cares for the boat, and as the bacteria care for the human +organism upon which they prey. If we ourselves, as products of nature, +are sufficiently strong mechanisms, we may be able to win, while life +lasts, many ideal goods. But just so, if the boat is well enough built, +it may weather one or another passing storm. If the body is well knit, +it may long remain immune to disease. Yet in the end the boat and the +human body fail. And in no case, so this view asserts, does the real +world essentially care for or help or encourage our ideals. Our ideals +are as foreign to the real natural world as the interests of the ship's +company are to the ocean that may tolerate, but also may drown them. Be +free from superstition, then; and next: avoid false hopes. Such are the +two theses that seem to embody for many minds the essentially modern +view of things and the essential result for the philosophy of life of +what we have now learned. + +But hereupon the question arises whether this is indeed the last word of +insight; whether this outcome of modern knowledge does indeed tell the +whole story of our relations to the real world. That this modern view +has its own share of deeper truth we all recognize. But is this the +whole truth? Have we no access whatever to any other aspect of reality +than the one which this naturalistic view emphasizes? And again, the +question still arises: Is there any place left for a religion that can +be free from superstition, that can accept just so much of the foregoing +modern results as are indeed established, and that can yet supplement +them by an insight which may show the universe to be, after all, +something more than a mechanism? In sum, are we merely stones that +deflect the stream for a while, until the waters wear them away? Or are +there spiritual hopes of humanity which the mechanism of nature cannot +destroy? Is the philosophy of life capable of giving us something more +than a naturalism--humanized merely by the thought that man, being, +after all, a well-knit and plastic mechanism, can for a time mold nature +to his ends? So much for the great problem of modern insight. Let us +turn to consider the relation of the spirit of loyalty to this problem. + +What light can a study of the spirit of loyalty, as I just defined +loyalty--what light, I say, can such a study throw upon this problem? +Very little--so some of you may say; for any discussion of the spirit of +loyalty can tell us nothing to make nature's mechanism more +comprehensible. One who favors loyalty as a way of solving life's +problems tells us about a certain ideal of human life,--an ideal which, +as I have asserted, does tend to solve our personal moral problems +precisely in so far as we are able to express this ideal in our +practical lives. In order to be loyal you indeed have no need to believe +in any of the well-known miracles of popular tradition. And equally, in +order to be loyal, you have no need, first, to decide whether nature is +or is not a mechanism; or whether the modern view of reality, as just +summarized, is or is not adequate; or whether the gods exist; or whether +man is or is not one of nature's products and temporarily well-knit and +plastic machines. Our doctrine of loyalty is founded not upon a decision +about nature's supposed mechanism, but upon a study of man's own inner +and deeper needs. It is a doctrine about the plan and the business of +human life. It seems, therefore, to be neutral as to every so-called +conflict between science and religion. + +But now, in answer to these remarks, I have to show that the doctrine of +loyalty, once rightly understood, has yet a further application. It is a +doctrine that, when more fully interpreted, helps us toward a genuine +insight, not only into the plan of life, but into the nature of things. +The philosophy of loyalty has nothing to say against precisely so much +of naturalism as is indeed an established result of common sense and of +the scientific study of nature. The theory of the loyal life involves +nothing superstitious--no trust in magic, no leaning upon the +intervention of such spiritual agencies as the old mythologies +conceived. And yet, as I shall insist, nobody can understand and +practise the loyal spirit without tending thereby to get a true view of +the nature of things, a genuine touch with reality, which cannot be +gained without seeing that, however much of a mechanism nature may +appear to be, the real world is something much more than a mechanism, +and much more significant than are the waters which wear away stones. + +Let me indicate what I mean by repeating in brief my doctrine of +loyalty--with reference to the spirit which it involves, and with +reference to the view of the realities of human life which it inevitably +includes. + +Whoever is loyal has found some cause, I have said,--a cause to which, +by his inner interests, he is indeed attracted so that the cause is +fascinating to his sentiments. But the cause is also one to which the +loyal man is meanwhile practically and voluntarily devoted, so that his +loyalty is no mere glow of enthusiasm, but is an affair of his deeds as +well as of his emotions. Loyalty I therefore defined as the +thorough-going and practical devotion of a self to a cause. Why loyalty +is a duty; how loyalty is possible for every normal human being; how it +can appear early in youth, and then grow though life; how it can be at +once faithful to its own, and yet can constantly enlarge its scope; how +it can become universally human in its interests without losing its +concreteness, and without failing to keep in touch with the personal +affections and the private concerns of the loyal person; how loyalty is +a virtue for all men, however humble and however exalted they may be; +how the loyal service of the tasks of a single possibly narrow life can +be viewed as a service of the cause of universal loyalty, and so of the +interests of all humanity; how all special duties of life can be stated +in terms of a duly generalized spirit of loyalty; and how moral +conflicts can be solved, and moral divisions made, in the light of the +principle of loyalty; all this I have asserted, although here is indeed +no time for adequate discussion. But hereupon I want to concentrate our +whole attention, not upon the consequences and applications of the +doctrine of loyalty, but upon the most central characteristic of the +loyal spirit. This central characteristic of the loyal spirit consists +in the fact that it conceives and values its cause as a reality, as an +object that has a being of its own; while the type of reality which +belongs to a cause is different from the type of reality which we +ascribe either to a thing in the physical world or to a law of nature. A +cause is never a mere mechanism. It is an essentially spiritual reality. +If the loyal human being is right in the account which he gives of his +cause, then the real world contains beings which are not mere natural +objects, and is subject to laws which, without in the least running +counter to the laws of outer nature, are the laws of an essentially +spiritual realm, whose type of being is superior to that possessed by +the order of nature which our industrial arts use. Either, then, loyalty +is altogether a service of myths, or else the causes which the loyal +serve belong to a realm of real being which is above the level of mere +natural fact and natural law. In the latter case the real world is not +indifferent to our human search for values. The modern naturalistic and +mechanical views of reality are not, indeed, false within their own +proper range, but they are inadequate to tell us the whole truth. And +reality contains, further, and is characterized by, an essentially +spiritual order of being. + +I have been speaking to persons who, as I have trusted, well know, so +far as they have yet had time to learn the lessons of life, something of +what loyalty means. Come, then, let us consider what is the sort of +object that you have present to your mind when you are loyal to a cause. +If your cause is a reality, what kind of a being is it? If causes are +realities, then in what sort of a real world do you live? + +I have already indicated that, while loyalty always includes personal +affections, while you can never be loyal to what you take to be a merely +abstract principle, nevertheless, it is equally true that you can never +be genuinely loyal merely to an individual human being, taken just as +this detached creature. You can, indeed, love your friend, viewed just +as this individual. But love for an individual is so far just a fondness +for a fascinating human presence, and is essentially capricious, whether +it lasts or is transient. You can be, and should be, loyal to your +friendship, to the union of yourself and your friend, to that ideal +comradeship which is neither of you alone, and which is not the mere +doubleness that consists of you and your friend taken as two detached +beings who happen to find one another's presence agreeable. Loyalty to a +friendship involves your willingness actively and practically to create +and maintain a life which is to be the united life of yourself and your +friend--not the life of your friend alone, nor the life of yourself and +your friend as you exist apart, but the common life, the life above and +inclusive of your distinctions, the one life that you are to live as +friends. To the tie, to the unity, to the common life, to the union of +friends, you can be loyal. Without such loyalty friendship consists only +of its routine of more or less attractive private sentiments and mere +meetings, each one of which is one more chance experience, heaped +together with other chance experiences. But with such true loyalty your +friendship becomes, at least in ideal, a new life--a life that neither +of you could have alone; a life that is not a mere round of separate +private amusements, but that belongs to a new type of dual yet unified +personality. Nor are you loyal to your friendship merely as to an +abstraction. You are loyal to it as to the common better self of both of +you, a self that lives its own real life. Either such a loyalty to your +friendship is a belief in myths, or else such a type of higher and +unified dual personality actually possesses a reality of its own,--a +reality that you cannot adequately describe by reporting, as to the +taker of a census, that you and your friend are two creatures, with two +distinct cases of a certain sort of fondness to be noted down, and with +each a separate life into which, as an incident, some such fondness +enters. No; were a census of true friendship possible, the census taker +should be required to report: Here are indeed two friends; but here is +also the ideal and yet, in some higher sense, real life of their united +personality present,--a life which belongs to neither of them alone, and +which also does not exist merely as a parcel of fragments, partly in +one, partly in the other of them. It is the life of their common +personality. It is a new spiritual person on a higher level. + +Or again, you are loyal to some such union as a family or a fraternity +represents. Or you are loyal to your class, your college, your +community, your country, your church. In all these cases, with endless +variety in the details, your loyalty has for its object each time, not +merely a group of detached personalities, but some ideally significant +common life; an union of many in one; a community which also has the +value of a person, and which, nevertheless, cannot be found distributed +about in a collection of fragments found inside the detached lives of +the individual members of the family, the club, the class, the college, +the country, the church. If this common life to which you are loyal is a +reality, then the real human world does not consist of separate +creatures alone, of the mere persons who flock in the streets and who +live in the different houses. The human world, if the loyal are right, +contains personality that is not merely shut up within the skin, now of +this, now of that, human creature. It contains personalities that no +organism confines within its bounds; that no single life, that no crowd +of detached lives, comprises. Yet this higher sort of common +personality, if the loyal are right, is as real as we separate creatures +are real. It is no abstraction. It lives. It loves, and we love it. We +enter into it. It is ours, and we belong to it. It works through us, the +fellow servants of the common cause. Yet we get our worth through +it,--the goal of our whole moral endeavor. + +For those who are not merely loyal, but also enlightened, loyalty, never +losing the definiteness and the concreteness of its devotion to some +near and directly fascinating cause, sees itself to be in actual +spiritual unity with the common cause of all the loyal, whoever they +are. The great cause for all the loyal is in reality the cause of the +spread and the furtherance of the cause of the universal loyalty of all +mankind: a cause which nobody can serve except by choosing his own +nearer and more appreciated cause--the private cause which is directly +his own--his family, his community, his friendship, his calling, and the +calling of those who serve with him. Yet such personal service--your +special life cause, your task, your vocation--is your way of furthering +the ends of universal humanity. And if you are enlightened, you know +this fact. Through your loyalty you, then, know yourself to be kin to +all the loyal. You hereupon conceive the loyal as one brotherhood, one +invisible church for which and in which you live. The spirit dwells in +this invisible church,--the holy spirit that wills the unity of all in +fidelity and in service. Hidden from you by all the natural +estrangements of the present life, this common life of all the loyal, +this cause which is the one cause of all the loyal, is that for which +you live. In spirit you are really sundered from none of those who +themselves live in the spirit. + +All this, I say, is what it is the faith of all the loyal to regard as +the real life in which we live and move and have our being, precisely in +so far as men come to understand what loyalty is. Thus, then, in +general, to be loyal is to believe that there are real causes. And to be +universally loyal is to believe that the one cause of loyalty itself, +the invisible church of all the loyal, is a reality; something as real +as we are. But causes are never detached human beings; nor are causes +ever mere crowds, heaps, collections, aggregations of human beings. +Causes are at once personal (if by person you mean the ordinary human +individual in his natural character) and _super_-personal. Persons they +are, because only where persons are found can causes be defined. +Super-personal they are, because no mere individual human creature, and +no mere pairs or groups or throngs of human beings, can ever constitute +unified causes. You cannot be loyal to a crowd as a crowd. A crowd can +shout, as at a game or a political convention. But only some sort of +organized unity of social life can either do the work of an unit or hold +the effective loyalty of the enlightened worker who does not merely +shout with the throng. And so when you are really loyal to your country, +your country does not mean to you merely the crowd, the mass of your +separate fellow citizens. Still less does it mean the mere organs, or +the separate servants of the country,--the custom house, the War +Department, the Speaker of the House, or any other office or official. +When you sing "My country, 'tis of thee," you do not mean, "My +post-office, 'tis of thee," nor yet, "My fellow citizens, 'tis of you, +just as the creatures who crowd the street and who overfill the railway +cars," that I sing. If the poet continues in his own song to celebrate +the land, the "rocks and rills," the "woods and templed hills," he is +still speaking only of symbols. What he means is the country as an +invisible but, in his opinion, perfectly real spiritual unity. General +Nogi, in a recent Japanese publication about Bushido, expressed his own +national ideal beautifully in the words: "Here the sovereign and the +people are of one family and have together endured the joys and sorrows +of thousands of years." It is that sort of being whereof one speaks when +one expresses true loyalty to the country. The country is the spiritual +entity that is none of us and all of us--none of us because it is our +unity; all of us because in it we all find our patriotic unity. + +Such, then, is the idea that the loyal have of the real nature of the +causes which they serve. I repeat, If the loyal are right, then the real +world contains other beings than mechanisms and individual human and +animal minds. It contains spiritual unities which are as real as we are, +but which certainly do not belong to the realm of a mere nature +mechanism. Does not all this put the problems of our philosophy of life +in a new light? + +But I have no doubt that you may at once reply: All this speech about +causes is after all merely more or less pleasing metaphor. As a fact, +human beings are just individual natural creatures. They throng and +struggle for existence, and love and hate and enjoy and sorrow and die. +These causes are, after all, mere dreams, or at best entities as we have +just described. The friends like to talk of being one; but there are +always two or more of them, and the unity is a pretty phrase. The +country is, in the concrete, the collection of the countrymen, with +names, formulas, songs, and so on, attached, by way of poetical license +or of convenient abbreviation or of pretty fable. The poet really meant +simply that he was fond of the landscape, and was not wholly averse to a +good many of his countrymen, and was in any case fond of a good song. +Loyalty, like the rest of human life, is an illusion. Nature is real. +The unity of the spirit is a fancy. + +This, I say, may be your objection. But herewith we indeed stand in the +presence of a certain very deep philosophical problem concerning the +true definition of what we mean by reality. Into this problem I have +neither time nor wish to enter just now. But upon one matter I must, +nevertheless, stoutly insist. It is a matter so simple, so significant, +so neglected, that I at once need and fear to mention it to you,--need +to mention it, because it puts our philosophy into a position that quite +transforms the significance of that whole modern view of nature upon +which I have been dwelling since the outset of this lecture; fear to +mention it, because the fact that it is so commonly neglected shows how +hard to be understood it has proved. + +That disheartening view of the foreign and mechanical nature of the real +world which our sciences and our industrial arts have impressed upon the +minds of so many of us; that contempt for superstition; that denial of +the supernatural, which seems to the typical modern man the beginning of +wisdom;--to what is all this view of reality due? To the results, and, +as I believe, to the really important results, of the modern study of +natural science. But what is the study of natural science? Practically +considered, viewed as one of the great moral activities of mankind, _the +study of science is a very beautiful and humane expression of a certain +exalted form of loyalty_. Science is, practically considered, the +outcome of the absolutely devoted labors of countless seekers for +natural truth. But how do we human beings get at what we call natural +truth? By observation--so men say--and by experience. But by whose +experience? By the united, by the synthesized, by the revised, +corrected, rationally criticized, above all by the common, experience of +many individuals. The possibility of science rests upon the fact that +human experience may be progressively treated so as to become more and +more an unity. The detached individual records the transit of a star, +observes a precipitate in a test tube, stains a preparation and examines +it under a microscope, collects in the field, takes notes in a +hospital--and loyally contributes his little fragment of a report to the +ideally unified and constantly growing totality called scientific human +experience. In doing this he employs his memory, and so conceives his +own personal life as an unity. But equally he aims--and herein consists +his scientific loyalty--to bring his personal experience into unity with +the whole course of human experience in so far as it bears upon his own +science. The collection of mere data is never enough. It is in the unity +of their interpretation that the achievements of science lie. This unity +is conceived in the form of scientific theories; is verified by the +comparative and critical conduct of experiments. But in all such work +how manifold are the presuppositions which we make when we attempt such +unification! Here is no place to enumerate these presuppositions. Some +of them you find discussed in the textbooks of the logic of science. +Some of them are instinctive, and almost never get discussed at all. But +it is here enough to say that we all presuppose _that human experience +has, or can by the loyal efforts of truth seekers be made to possess, a +real unity, superior in its nature and significance to any detached +observer's experience, more genuinely real than is the mere collection +of the experiences of any set of detached observers, however large_. The +student of natural science is loyal to the cause of the enlargement of +this organized and criticized realm of the common human experience. +Unless this unity of human experience is a genuine reality, unless all +the workers are living a really common life, unless each man is, +potentially at least, in a live spiritual unity with his fellows, +science itself is a mere metaphor, its truth is an illusion, its results +are myths. For science is conceived as true only by conceiving the +experiences of countless observers as the sharing of a common realm of +experience. If, as we all believe, the natural sciences do throw a real, +if indeed an inadequate, light upon the nature of things, then they do +so because no one man's experience is disconnected from the real whole +of human experience. They do so because the cause to which the loyal +study of science is devoted, the cause of the enlargement of human +experience, is a cause that has a supernatural, or, as Professor +Muensterberg loves to say, an over-individual, type of reality. Mankind +is not a mere collection of detached individuals, or man could possess +no knowledge of any unity of scientific truth. If men are really only +many, and if they have no such unity of conscious experience as loyalty +everywhere presupposes, then the cause of science also is a vain +illusion, and we have no unified knowledge of nature, only various +private fancies about nature. If we know, however ill, nature's +mechanism, we do so because human experience is not merely a collection +of detached observations, but forms an actual spiritual unity, whose +type is not that of a mechanism, whose connections are ideally +significant, whose constitution is essentially that which the ideal of +unified truth requires. + +So, then, I insist, the dilemma is upon our hands. Either the sciences +constitute a progressive, if imperfect, insight into real truth--and +then the cause of the unity of human experience is a real cause that +really can be served exactly as the lover means to be loyal to his +friendship and the patriot to his country; and then also human life +really possesses such unity as the loyal presuppose--or else none of +this is so. But then loyalty and science alike deal with metaphors and +with myths. In the first case the spiritual unity of the life that we +lead is essentially vindicated. Causes such as the loyal serve are real. +The cause of science also is real. But in that case an essentially +spiritual realm, that of the rational unity of human experience, is +real; and possesses a grade both of reality and of worth which is +superior to the grade of reality that the phenomena of nature's +mechanism exhibit to us. In the other case the sciences whose results +are supposed to be discouraging and unspiritual vanish, with all their +facts, into the realm of fable, together with the world that all the +loyal, including the faithful followers of the sciences, believe to be +real. + +I have here no time to discuss the paradoxes of a totally skeptical +philosophy. It is enough to say that such a total skepticism is, indeed, +self-refuting. The only rational view of life depends upon maintaining +that what the loyal always regard as a reality, namely, their cause, is, +indeed, despite all special illusions of this or of that form of +imperfect loyalty, essentially a type of reality which rationally +survives all criticisms and underlies all doubts. + + "They reckon ill who leave me out; + When me thy fly, I am the wings." + +This is what the genuine object of loyalty, the unity of the spiritual +life, always says to us when we examine it in the right spirit. But the +one source of our deepest insight into this unity of the spirit which +underlies all the varieties, and which leads us upward to itself past +all the sunderings and doubts of existence, is the loyal spirit itself. +Loyalty asserts: "My cause is real. I know that my cause liveth." But +the cause, however imperfectly interpreted, is always some sort of unity +of the spiritual life in which we learn to share whenever we begin to be +loyal. The more we grow in loyalty and in insight into the meaning of +our loyalty, the more we learn to think of some vast range of the unity +of spiritual life as the reality to which all the other realities +accessible to us are in one way or another subordinate, so that they +express this unity, and show more or less what it means. I believe that +a sound critical philosophy justifies the view that the loyal, precisely +in so far as they view their cause as real, as a personal, but also as +an over-individual, realm of genuine spiritual life, are comprehending, +as far as they go, the deepest nature of things. + +Religion, in its higher sense, always involves a practical relation to a +spiritual world which, in its significance, in its inclusiveness, in its +unity, and in its close and comforting touch with our most intense +personal concerns, fulfils in a supreme degree the requirements which +loyalty makes when it seeks for a worthy cause. One may have a true +religion without knowing the reason why it is true. One may also have +false religious beliefs. But in any case the affiliation of the spirit +of the higher religion with the spirit of loyalty has been manifest, I +hope, from the outset of this discussion of loyalty. By religious +insight one may very properly mean any significant and true view of an +object of religious devotion which can be obtained by any reasonable +means. + +In speaking of loyalty and insight I have also given an indication of +that source of religious insight which I believe to be, after all, the +surest, the most accessible, the most universal, and, in its deepest +essence, the most rational. The problem of the modern philosophy of life +is, we have said, the problem of keeping the spirit of religion, without +falling a prey to superstition. At the outset of this lecture I told +briefly why, in the modern world, we aim to avoid superstition. The true +reason for this aim you now see better than at first I could state that +reason. We have learned, and wisely learned, that the great cause of the +study of nature by scientific methods is one of the principal special +causes to which man can be devoted; for nothing serves more than the +pursuit of the sciences serves to bind into unity the actual work of +human civilization. To this cause of scientific study we have all +learned to be, according to our lights, loyal. But the study of science +makes us averse to the belief in magic arts, in supernatural +interferences, in special providences. The scientific spirit turns from +the legends and the superstitions that in the past have sundered men, +have inflamed the religious wars, have filled the realm of imagination +with good and evil spirits. Turns from these--to what? To a belief in a +merely mechanical reality? To a doctrine that the real world is foreign +to our ideals? To an assurance that life is vain? + +No; so to view the mission of the study of science is to view that +mission falsely. The one great lesson of the triumph of science is the +lesson of the vast significance of loyalty to the cause of science. And +this loyalty depends upon acknowledging the reality of a common, a +rational, a significant unity of human experience, a genuine cause which +men can serve. When the sciences teach us to get rid of superstition, +they do this by virtue of a loyalty to the pursuit of truth which is, as +a fact, loyalty to the cause of the spiritual unity of mankind: an unity +which the students of science conceive in terms of an unity of our human +experience of nature, but which, after all, they more or less +unconsciously interpret just as all the other loyal souls interpret +their causes; namely, as a genuine living reality, a life superior in +type to the individual lives which we lead--worthy of devoted service, +significant, and not merely an incidental play of a natural mechanism. +This unity of human experience reveals to us nature's mechanisms, but is +itself no part of the mechanism which it observes. + +If, now, we do as our general philosophy of loyalty would require: if we +take all our loyalties, in whatever forms they may appear, as more or +less enlightened but always practical revelations that there is an unity +of spiritual life which is above our present natural level, which is +worthy of our devotion, which can give sense to life, and which consists +of facts that are just as genuinely real as are the facts and the laws +of outer nature--well, can we not thus see our way towards a religious +insight which is free from superstition, which is indifferent to magic +and to miracle, which accepts all the laws of nature just in so far as +they are indeed known, but which nevertheless stoutly insists: "This +world is no mere mechanism; it is full of a spiritual unity that +transcends mere nature?" + +I believe that we can do this. I believe that what I have merely hinted +to you is capable of a much richer development than I have here given to +these thoughts. I believe, in brief, that in our loyalties we find our +best sources of a genuinely religious insight. + +Men have often said, "The true source of religious insight is +revelation; for these matters are above the powers of human reason." +Now, I am not here to discuss or to criticize anybody's type of +revelation. But this I know, and this the believers in various supposed +revelations have often admitted--that unless the aid of some interior +spiritual insight comes to be added to the merely external revelation, +one can be left in doubt by all possible signs and wonders whereby the +revelation undertakes to give us convincing external evidence. Religious +faith, indeed, relates to that which is above us, but it must arise from +that which is within us. And any faith which has indeed a worthy +religious object is either merely a mystic ecstasy, which must then be +judged, if at all, only by its fruits, or else it is a loyalty, which +never exists without seeking to bear fruit in works. Now my thesis is +that loyalty is essentially adoration with service, and that there is no +true adoration without practical loyalty. If I am right, all of the +loyal are grasping in their own ways, and according to their lights, +some form and degree of religious truth. They have won religious +insight; for they view something, at least, of the genuine spiritual +world in its real unity, and they devote themselves to that unity, to +its enlargement and enrichment. And therefore they approach more and +more to the comprehension of that true spiritual life whereof, as I +suppose, the real world essentially consists. + +Therefore I find in the growth of the spirit of loyalty which normally +belongs to any loyal life the deepset source of a genuinely significant +religious insight which belongs to just that individual in just his +stage of development. + +In brief: Be loyal; grow in loyalty. Therein lies the source of a +religious insight free from superstition. Therein also lies the solution +of the problems of the philosophy of life. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 77: Commencement address delivered at Simmons College, Boston. +Published in "William James and Other Essays," copyright, 1911. Printed +here by permission of The Macmillan Company.] + + + + +POETRY FOR POETRY'S SAKE[78] + +A.C. BRADLEY + + +The words "Poetry for poetry's sake" recall the famous phrase "Art for +Art." It is far from my purpose to examine the possible meanings of that +phrase, or all the questions it involves. I propose to state briefly +what I understand by "Poetry for poetry's sake," and then, after +guarding against one or two misapprehensions of the formula, to consider +more fully a single problem connected with it. And I must premise, +without attempting to justify them, certain explanations. We are to +consider poetry in its essence, and apart from the flaws which in most +poems accompany their poetry. We are to include in the idea of poetry +the metrical form, and not to regard this as a mere accident or a mere +vehicle. And, finally, poetry being poems, we are to think of a poem as +it actually exists; and, without aiming here at accuracy, we may say +that an actual poem is the succession of experiences--sounds, images, +thoughts, emotions--through which we pass when we are reading as +poetically as we can. Of course this imaginative experience--if I may +use the phrase for brevity--differs with every reader and every time of +reading: a poem exists in innumerable degrees. But that insurmountable +fact lies in the nature of things and does not concern us now. + +What then does the formula "Poetry for poetry's sake" tell us about this +experience? It says, as I understand it, these things. First, this +experience is an end in itself, is worth having on its own account, has +an intrinsic value. Next, its _poetic_ value is this intrinsic worth +alone. Poetry may have also an ulterior value as a means to culture or +religion; because it conveys instruction, or softens the passions, or +furthers a good cause; because it brings the poet fame or money or a +quiet conscience. So much the better: let it be valued for these reasons +too. But its ulterior worth neither is nor can directly determine its +poetic worth as a satisfying imaginative experience; and this is to be +judged entirely from within. And to these two positions the formula +would add, though not of necessity, a third. The consideration of +ulterior ends, whether by the poet in the act of composing or by the +reader in the act of experiencing, tends to lower poetic value. It does +so because it tends to change the nature of poetry by taking it out of +its own atmosphere. For its nature is to be not a part, nor yet a copy, +of the real world (as we commonly understand that phrase), but to be a +world by itself, independent, complete, autonomous; and to possess it +fully you must enter that world, conform to its laws, and ignore for the +time the beliefs, aims, and particular conditions which belong to you in +the other world of reality. + +Of the more serious misapprehensions to which these statements may give +rise I will glance only at one or two. The offensive consequences often +drawn from the formula "Art for Art" will be found to attach not to the +doctrine that Art is an end in itself, but to the doctrine that Art is +the whole or supreme end of human life. And as this latter doctrine, +which seems to me absurd, is in any case quite different from the +former, its consequences fall outside my subject. The formula "Poetry is +an end in itself" has nothing to say on the various questions of moral +judgment which arise from the fact that poetry has its place in a +many-sided life. For anything it says, the intrinsic value of poetry +might be so small, and its ulterior effects so mischievous, that it had +better not exist. The formula only tells us that we must not place in +antithesis poetry and human good, for poetry is one kind of human good; +and that we must not determine the intrinsic value of this kind of good +by direct reference to another. If we do, we shall find ourselves +maintaining what we did not expect. If poetic value lies in the +stimulation of religious feelings, _Lead kindly Light_ is no better poem +than many a tasteless version of a Psalm: if in the excitement of +patriotism, why is _Scots, wha hae_ superior to _We don't want to +fight?_ if in the mitigation of the passions, the Odes of Sappho will +win but little praise: if in instruction, Armstrong's _Art of preserving +Health_ should win much. + +Again, our formula may be accused of cutting poetry away from its +connection with life. And this accusation raises so huge a problem that +I must ask leave to be dogmatic as well as brief. There is plenty of +connection between life and poetry, but it is, so to say, a connection +underground. The two may be called different forms of the same thing: +one of them having (in the usual sense) reality, but seldom fully +satisfying imagination; while the other offers something which satisfies +imagination but has not full "reality." They are parallel developments +which nowhere meet, or, if I may use loosely a word which will be +serviceable later, they are analogues. Hence we understand one by help +of the other, and even, in a sense, care for one because of the other; +but hence also, poetry neither is life, nor, strictly speaking, a copy +of it. They differ not only because one has more mass and the other a +more perfect shape, but because they have different _kinds_ of +existence. The one touches us as beings occupying a given position in +space and time, and having feelings, desires, and purposes due to that +position: it appeals to imagination, but appeals to much besides. What +meets us in poetry has not a position in the same series of time and +space, or, if it has or had such a position, it is taken apart from much +that belonged to it there; and therefore it makes no direct appeal to +those feelings, desires, and purposes, but speaks only to contemplative +imagination--imagination the reverse of empty or emotionless, +imagination saturated with the results of "real" experience, but still +contemplative. Thus, no doubt, one main reason why poetry has poetic +value for us is that it presents to us in its own way something which we +meet in another form in nature or life; and yet the test of its poetic +value for us lies simply in the question whether it satisfies our +imagination; the rest of us, our knowledge or conscience, for example, +judging it only so far as they appear transmuted in our imagination. So +also Shakespeare's knowledge or his moral insight, Milton's greatness of +soul, Shelley's "hate of hate" and "love of love", and that desire to +help men or make them happier which may have influenced a poet in hours +of meditation--all these have, as such, no poetical worth: they have +that worth only when, passing through the unity of the poet's being, +they reappear as qualities of imagination, and then are indeed mighty +powers in the world of poetry. + +I come to a third misapprehension, and so to my main subject. This +formula, it is said, empties poetry of its meaning: it is really a +doctrine of form for form's sake. "It is of no consequence what a poet +says, so long as he says the thing well. The _what_ is poetically +indifferent: it is the _how_ that counts. Matter, subject, content, +substance, determines nothing; there is no subject with which poetry may +not deal: the form, the treatment, is everything. Nay, more: not only is +the matter indifferent, but it is the secret of Art to 'eradicate the +matter by means of the form,'"--phrases and statements like these meet +us everywhere in current criticism of literature and the other arts. +They are the stock-in-trade of writers who understand of them little +more than the fact that somehow or other they are not "bourgeois." But +we find them also seriously used by writers whom we must respect, +whether they are anonymous or not; something like one or another of them +might be quoted, for example, from Professor Saintsbury, the late R.A.M. +Stevenson, Schiller, Goethe himself; and they are the watchwords of a +school in the one country where Aesthetics has flourished. They come, as +a rule, from men who either practise one of the arts, or, from study of +it, are interested in its methods. The general reader--a being so +general that I may say what I will of him--is outraged by them. He feels +that he is being robbed of almost all that he cares for in a work of +art. "You are asking me," he says, "to look at the Dresden Madonna as if +it were a Persian rug. You are telling me that the poetic value of +_Hamlet_ lies solely in its style and versification, and that my +interest in the man and his fate is only an intellectual or moral +interest. You allege that, if I want to enjoy the poetry of _Crossing +the Bar_, I must not mind what Tennyson says there, but must consider +solely his way of saying it. But in that case I can care no more for a +poem than I do for a set of nonsense verses; and I do not believe that +the authors of _Hamlet_ and _Crossing the Bar_ regarded their poems +thus." + +These antitheses of subject, matter, substance on the one side, form, +treatment, handling on the other, are the field through which I +especially want, in this lecture, to indicate a way. It is a field of +battle; and the battle is waged for no trivial cause; but the cries of +the combatants are terribly ambiguous. Those phrases of the so-called +formalist may each mean five or six different things. Taken in one sense +they seem to me chiefly true; taken as the general reader not +unnaturally takes them, they seem to me false, and mischievous. It would +be absurd to pretend that I can end in a few minutes a controversy which +concerns the ultimate nature of Art, and leads perhaps to problems not +yet soluble; but we can at least draw some plain distinctions which, in +this controversy, are too often confused. + +In the first place, then, let us take "subject" in one particular sense; +let us understand by it that which we have in view when, looking at the +title of an unread poem, we say that the poet has chosen this or that +for his subject. The subject in this sense, so far as I can discover, is +generally something real or imaginary, as it exists in the minds of +fairly cultivated people. The subject of _Paradise Lost_ would be the +story of the Fall as that story exists in the general imagination of a +Bible-reading people. The subject of Shelley's stanzas _To a Skylark_ +would be the ideas which arise in the mind of an educated person when, +without knowing the poem, he hears the word "skylark." If the title of a +poem conveys little or nothing to us, the "subject" appears to be either +what we should gather by investigating the title in a dictionary or +other book of the kind, or else such a brief suggestion as might be +offered by a person who had read the poem, and who said, for example, +that the subject of _The Ancient Mariner_ was a sailor who killed an +albatross and suffered for his deed. + +Now the subject, in this sense (and I intend to use the word in no +other), is not, as such, inside the poem, but outside it. The contents +of the stanzas _To a Skylark_ are not the ideas suggested by the word +"skylark" to the average man; they belong to Shelley just as much as the +language does. The subject, therefore, is not the matter _of_ the poem +at all; and its opposite is not the _form_ of the poem, but the whole +poem. The subject is one thing; the poem, matter and form alike, another +thing. This being so, it is surely obvious that the poetic value cannot +lie in that subject, but lies entirely in its opposite, the poem. How +can the subject determine the value when on one and the same subject +poems may be written of all degrees of merit and demerit; or when a +perfect poem may be composed on a subject so slight as a pet sparrow, +and, if Macaulay may be trusted, a nearly worthless poem on a subject so +stupendous as the omnipresence of the Deity? The "formalist" is here +perfectly right. Nor is he insisting on something unimportant. He is +fighting against our tendency to take the work of art as a mere copy or +reminder of something already in our heads, or at the best as a +suggestion of some idea as little removed as possible from the familiar. +The sightseer who promenades a picture-gallery, remarking that this +portrait is so like his cousin, or that landscape the very image of his +birthplace, or who, after satisfying himself that one picture is about +Elijah, passes on rejoicing to discover the subject, and nothing but the +subject, of the next--what is he but an extreme example of this +tendency? Well, but the very same tendency vitiates much of our +criticism, much criticism of Shakespeare, for example, which, with all +its cleverness and partial truth, still shows that the critic never +passed from his own mind into Shakespeare's; and it may be traced even +in so fine a critic as Coleridge, as when he dwarfs the sublime struggle +of Hamlet into the image of his own unhappy weakness. Hazlitt by no +means escaped its influence. Only the third of that great trio, Lamb, +appears almost always to have rendered the conception of the composer. + +Again, it is surely true that we cannot determine beforehand what +subjects are fit for Art, or name any subject on which a good poem might +not possibly be written. To divide subjects into two groups, the +beautiful or elevating, and the ugly or vicious, and to judge poems +according as their subjects belong to one of these groups or the other, +is to fall into the same pit, to confuse with our pre-conceptions the +meaning of the poet. What the thing is in the poem he is to be judged +by, not by the thing as it was before he touched it; and how can we +venture to say beforehand that he cannot make a true poem out of +something which to us was merely alluring or dull or revolting? The +question whether, having done so, he ought to publish his poem; whether +the thing in the poet's work will not be still confused by the +incompetent Puritan or the incompetent sensualist with the thing in +_his_ mind, does not touch this point; it is a further question, one of +ethics, not of art. No doubt the upholders of "Art for art's sake" will +generally be in favour of the courageous course, of refusing to +sacrifice the better or stronger part of the public to the weaker or +worse; but their maxim in no way binds them to this view. Rossetti +suppressed one of the best of his sonnets, a sonnet chosen for +admiration by Tennyson, himself extremely sensitive about the moral +effect of poetry; suppressed it, I believe, because it was called +fleshly. One may regret Rossetti's judgment and at the same time respect +his scrupulousness; but in any case he judged in his capacity of +citizen, not in his capacity of artist. + +So far then the "formalist" appears to be right. But he goes too far, I +think, if he maintains that the subject is indifferent and that all +subjects are the same to poetry. And he does not prove his point by +observing that a good poem might be written on a pin's head, and a bad +one on the Fall of Man. That truth shows that the subject _settles_ +nothing, but not that it counts for nothing. The Fall of Man is really a +more favourable subject than a pin's head. The Fall of Man, that is to +say, offers opportunities of poetic effects wider in range and more +penetrating in appeal. And the fact is that such a subject, as it exists +in the general imagination, has some aesthetic value before the poet +touches it. It is, as you may choose to call it, an inchoate poem or the +debris of a poem. It is not an abstract idea or a bare isolated fact, +but an assemblage of figures, scenes, actions, and events, which already +appeal to emotional imagination; and it is already in some degree +organized and formed. In spite of this a bad poet would make a bad poem +on it; but then we should say he was unworthy of the subject. And we +should not say this if he wrote a bad poem on a pin's head. Conversely, +a good poem on a pin's head would almost certainly transform its subject +far more than a good poem on the Fall of Man. It might revolutionize its +subject so completely that we should say, "The subject may be a pin's +head, but the substance of the poem has very little to do with it." + +This brings us to another and a different antithesis. Those figures, +scenes, events, that form part of the subject called the Fall of Man, +are not the substance of Paradise Lost; but in Paradise Lost there are +figures, scenes, and events resembling them in some degree. These, with +much more of the same kind, may be described as its substance, and may +then be contrasted with the measured language of the poem, which will +be called its form. Subject is the opposite not of form but of the whole +poem. Substance is within the poem, and its opposite, form, is also +within the poem. I am not criticizing this antithesis at present, but +evidently it is quite different from the other. It is practically the +distinction used in the old-fashioned criticism of epic and drama, and +it flows down, not unsullied, from Aristotle. Addison, for example, in +examining _Paradise Lost_ considers in order the fable, the characters, +and the sentiments; these will be the substance: then he considers the +language, that is, the style and numbers; this will be the form. In like +manner, the substance or meaning of a lyric may be distinguished from +the form. + +Now I believe it will be found that a large part of the controversy we +are dealing with arises from a confusion between these two distinctions +of substance and form, and of subject and poem. The extreme formalist +lays his whole weight on the form because he thinks its opposite is the +mere subject. The general reader is angry, but makes the same mistake, +and gives to the subject praises that rightly belong to the substance. I +will read an example of what I mean. I can only explain the following +words of a good critic by supposing that for the moment he has fallen +into this confusion: "The mere matter of all poetry--to wit, the +appearances of nature and the thoughts and feelings of men--being +unalterable, it follows that the difference between poet and poet will +depend upon the manner of each in applying language, metre, rhyme, +cadence, and what not, to this invariable material." What has become +here of the substance of _Paradise Lost_--the story, scenery, +characters, sentiments as they are in the poem? They have vanished clean +away. Nothing is left but the form on one side, and on the other not +even the subject, but a supposed invariable material, the appearances of +nature and the thoughts and feelings of men. Is it surprising that the +whole value should then be found in the form? + +So far we have assumed that this antithesis of substance and form is +valid, and that it always has one meaning. In reality it has several, +but we will leave it in its present shape, and pass to the question of +its validity. And this question we are compelled to raise, because we +have to deal with the two contentions that the poetic value lies wholly +or mainly in the substance, and that it lies wholly or mainly in the +form. Now these contentions, whether false or true, may seem at least to +be clear; but we shall find, I think, that they are both of them false, +or both of them nonsense: false if they concern anything outside the +poem, nonsense if they apply to something in it. For what do they +evidently imply? They imply that there are in a poem two parts, factors, +or components, a substance and a form; and that you can conceive them +distinctly and separately, so that when you are speaking of the one you +are not speaking of the other. Otherwise how can you ask the question, +In which of them does the value lie? But really in a poem, apart from +defects, there are no such factors or components; and therefore it is +strictly nonsense to ask in which of them the value lies. And on the +other hand, if the substance and the form referred to are not in the +poem, then both the contentions are false, for its poetic value lies in +itself. + +What I mean is neither new nor mysterious; and it will be clear, I +believe, to any one who reads poetry poetically and who closely examines +his experience. When you are reading a poem, I would ask--not analysing +it, and much less criticizing it, but allowing it, as it proceeds, to +make its full impression on you through the exertion of your recreating +imagination--do you then apprehend and enjoy as one thing a certain +meaning or substance, and as another thing certain articulate sounds, +and do you somehow compound these two? Surely you do not, any more than +you apprehend apart, when you see some one smile, those lines in the +face which express a feeling, and the feeling that the lines express. +Just as there the lines and their meaning are to you one thing, not two, +so in poetry the meaning and the sounds are one: there is, if I may put +it so, a resonant meaning, or a meaning resonance. If you read the +line, "The sun is warm, the sky is clear," you do not experience +separately the image of a warm sun and clear sky, on the one side, and +certain unintelligible rhythmical sounds on the other; nor yet do you +experience them together, side by side; but you experience the one _in_ +the other. And in like manner when you are really reading _Hamlet_, the +action and the characters are not something which you conceive apart +from the words; you apprehend them from point to point _in_ the words, +and the words as expressions of them. Afterwards, no doubt, when you are +out of the poetic experience but remember it, you may by analysis +decompose this unity, and attend to a substance more or less isolated, +and a form more or less isolated. But these are things in your analytic +head, not in the poem, which is _poetic_ experience. And if you want to +have the poem again, you cannot find it by adding together these two +products of decomposition; you can only find it by passing back into +poetic experience. And then what you recover is no aggregate of factors, +it is a unity in which you can no more separate a substance and a form +than you can separate living blood and the life in the blood. This unity +has, if you like, various "aspects" or "sides," but they are not factors +or parts; if you try to examine one, you find it is also the other. Call +them substance and form if you please, but these are not the +reciprocally exclusive substance and form to which the two contentions +_must_ refer. They do not "agree," for they are not apart: they are one +thing from different points of view, and in that sense identical. And +this identity of content and form, you will say, is no accident; it is +of the essence of poetry in so far as it is poetry, and of all art in so +far as it is art. Just as there is in music not sound on one side and a +meaning on the other, but expressive sound, and if you ask what is the +meaning you can only answer by pointing to the sounds; just as in +painting there is not a meaning _plus_ paint, but a meaning _in_ paint, +or significant paint, and no man can really express the meaning in any +other way than in paint and in _this_ paint; so in a poem the true +content and the true form neither exist nor can be imagined apart. When +then you are asked whether the value of a poem lies in a substance got +by decomposing the poem, and present, as such, only in reflective +analysis, or whether the value lies in a form arrived at and existing in +the same way, you will answer, "It lies neither in one, nor in the +other, nor in any addition of them, but in the poem, where they are +not." + +We have then, first, an antithesis of subject and poem. This is clear +and valid; and the question in which of them does the value lie is +intelligible; and its answer is, In the poem. We have next a distinction +of substance and form. If the substance means ideas, images, and the +like taken alone, and the form means the measured language taken by +itself, this is a possible distinction, but it is a distinction of +things not in the poem, and the value lies in neither of them. If +substance and form mean anything _in_ the poem, then each is involved in +the other, and the question in which of them the value lies has no +sense. No doubt you may say, speaking loosely, that in this poet or poem +the aspect of substance is the more noticeable, and in that the aspect +of form; and you may pursue interesting discussions on this basis, +though no principle or ultimate question of value is touched by them. +And apart from that question, of course, I am not denying the usefulness +and necessity of the distinction. We cannot dispense with it. To +consider separately the action or the characters of a play, and +separately its style or versification, is both legitimate and valuable, +so long as we remember what we are doing. But the true critic in +speaking of these apart does not really think of them apart; the whole, +the poetic experience, of which they are but aspects, is always in his +mind; and he is always aiming at a richer, truer, more intense +repetition of that experience. On the other hand, when the question of +principle, of poetic value, is raised, these aspects _must_ fall apart +into components, separately conceivable; and then there arise two +heresies, equally false, that the value lies in one of two things, both +of which are outside the poem, and therefore where its value cannot lie. + +On the heresy of the separable substance a few additional words will +suffice. This heresy is seldom formulated, but perhaps some unconscious +holder of it may object: "Surely the action and the characters of +_Hamlet_ are in the play; and surely I can retain these, though I have +forgotten all the words. I admit that I do not possess the whole poem, +but I possess a part, and the most important part." And I would answer: +"If we are not concerned with any question of principle, I accept all +that you say except the last words, which do raise such a question. +Speaking loosely, I agree that the action and characters, as you perhaps +conceive them, together with a great deal more, are in the poem. Even +then, however, you must not claim to possess all of this kind that is in +the poem; for in forgetting the words you must have lost innumerable +details of the action and the characters. And, when the question of +value is raised, I must insist that the action and characters, as you +conceive them, are not in _Hamlet_ at all. If they are, point them out. +You cannot do it. What you find at any moment of that succession of +experiences called Hamlet is words. In these words, to speak loosely +again, the action and characters (more of them than you can conceive +apart) are focussed; but your experience is not a combination of them, +as ideas, on the one side, with certain sounds on the other; it is an +experience of something in which the two are indissolubly fused. If you +deny this, to be sure I can make no answer, or can only answer that I +have reason to believe that you cannot read poetically, or else are +misinterpreting your experience. But if you do not deny this, then you +will admit that the action and characters of the poem, as you separately +imagine them, are no part of it, but a product of it in your reflective +imagination, a faint analogue of one aspect of it taken in detachment +from the whole. Well, I do not dispute, I would even insist, that, in +the case of so long a poem as _Hamlet_, it may be necessary from time +to time to interrupt the poetic experience, in order to enrich it by +forming such a product and dwelling on it. Nor, in a wide sense of +'poetic,' do I question the poetic value of this product, as you think +of it apart from the poem. It resembles our recollections of the heroes +of history or legend, who move about in our imaginations, 'forms more +real than living man,' and are worth much to us though we do not +remember anything they said. Our ideas and images of the 'substance' of +a poem have this poetic value, and more, if they are at all adequate. +But they cannot determine the poetic value of the poem, for (not to +speak of the competing claims of the 'form') nothing that is outside the +poem can do that, and they, as such, are outside it." + +Let us turn to the so-called form--style and versification. There is no +such thing as mere form in poetry. All form is expression. Style may +have indeed a certain aesthetic worth in partial abstraction from the +particular matter it conveys, as in a well-built sentence you may take +pleasure in the build almost apart from the meaning. Even so style is +expressive--presents to sense, for example, the order, ease, and +rapidity with which ideas move in the writer's mind--but it is not +expressive of the meaning of that particular sentence. And it is +possible, interrupting poetic experience, to decompose it and abstract +for comparatively separate consideration this nearly formal element of +style. But the aesthetic value of style so taken is not considerable; +you could not read with pleasure for an hour a composition which had no +other merit. And in poetic experience you never apprehend this value by +itself; the style is here expressive also of a particular meaning, or +rather is one aspect of that unity whose other aspect is meaning. So +that what you apprehend may be called indifferently an expressed meaning +or a significant form. Perhaps on this point I may in Oxford appeal to +authority, that of Matthew Arnold and Walter Pater, the latter at any +rate an authority whom the formalist will not despise. What is the gist +of Pater's teaching about style, if it is not that in the end the one +virtue of style is truth or adequacy; that the word, phrase, sentence, +should express perfectly the writer's perception, feeling, image, or +thought; so that, as we read a descriptive phrase of Keats's, we +exclaim, "That is the thing itself"; so that, to quote Arnold, the words +are "symbols equivalent with the thing symbolized," or, in our technical +language, a form identical with its content? Hence in true poetry it is, +in strictness, impossible to express the meaning in any but its own +words, or to change the words without changing the meaning. A +translation of such poetry is not really the old meaning in a fresh +dress; it is a new product, something like the poem, though, if one +chooses to say so, more like it in the aspect of meaning than in the +aspect of form. + +No one who understands poetry, it seems to me, would dispute this, were +it not that, falling away from his experience, or misled by theory, he +takes the word "meaning" in a sense almost ludicrously inapplicable to +poetry. People say, for instance, "steed" and "horse" have the same +meaning; and in bad poetry they have, but not in poetry that _is_ +poetry. + + "Bring forth the horse!" The horse was brought: + In truth he was a noble steed! + +says Byron in _Mazeppa_. If the two words mean the same here, transpose +them: + + "Bring forth the steed!" The steed was brought: + In truth he was a noble horse! + +and ask again if they mean the same. Or let me take a line certainly +very free from "poetic diction:" + + To be or not to be, that is the question. + +You may say that this means the same as "What is just now occupying my +attention is the comparative disadvantages of continuing to live or +putting an end to myself." And for practical purposes--the purpose, for +example, of a coroner--it does. But as the second version altogether +misrepresents the speaker at that moment of his existence, while the +first does represent him, how can they for any but a practical or +logical purpose be said to have the same sense? Hamlet was well able to +"unpack his heart with words," but he will not unpack it with our +paraphrases. + +These considerations apply equally to versification. If I take the +famous line which describes how the souls of the dead stood waiting by +the river, imploring a passage from Charon: + + Tendebantque manus ripae ulterioris amore, + +and if I translate it, "and were stretching forth their hands in longing +for the further bank," the charm of the original has fled. Why has it +fled? Partly (but we have dealt with that) because I have substituted +for five words, and those the words of Virgil, twelve words, and those +my own. In some measure because I have turned into rhythmless prose a +line of verse which, as mere sound, has unusual beauty. But much more +because in doing so I have also changed the _meaning_ of Virgil's line. +What that meaning is _I_ cannot say: Virgil has said it. But I can see +this much, that the translation conveys a far less vivid picture of the +outstretched hands and of their remaining outstretched, and a far less +poignant sense of the distance of the shore and the longing of the +souls. And it does so partly because this picture and this sense are +conveyed not only by the obvious meaning of the words, but through the +long-drawn sound of "tendebantque," through the time occupied by the +five syllables and therefore by the idea of "ulterioris," and through +the identity of the long sound "or" in the penultimate syllables of +"ulterioris amore"--all this, and much more, apprehended not in this +analytical fashion, nor as _added_ to the beauty of mere sound and to +the obvious meaning, but in unity with them and so as expressive of the +poetic meaning of the whole. + +It is always so in fine poetry. The value of versification, when it is +indissolubly fused with meaning, can hardly be exaggerated. The gift for +feeling it, even more perhaps than the gift for feeling the value of +style, is the _specific_ gift for poetry, as distinguished from other +arts. But versification, taken, as far as possible, all by itself, has a +very different worth. Some aesthetic worth it has; how much you may +experience by reading poetry in a language of which you do not +understand a syllable. The pleasure is quite appreciable, but it is not +great; nor in actual poetic experience do you meet with it, as such, at +all. For, I repeat, it is not _added_ to the pleasure of the meaning +when you read poetry that you do understand: by some mystery the music +is then the music _of_ the meaning, and the two are one. However fond of +versification you might be, you would tire very soon of reading verses +in Chinese; and before long of reading Virgil and Dante if you were +ignorant of their languages. But take the music as it is _in_ the poem, +and there is a marvellous change. Now + + It gives a very echo to the seat + Where Love is throned; + +or "carries far into your heart," almost like music itself, the sound + + Of old, unhappy, far-off things + And battles long ago. + +What then is to be said of the following sentence of the critic quoted +before: "But when any one who knows what poetry is reads-- + + Our noisy years seem moments in the being + Of the eternal silence, + +he sees that, quite independently of the meaning, ... there is one note +added to the articulate music of the world--a note that never will leave +off resounding till the eternal silence itself gulfs it?" I must think +that the writer is deceiving himself. For I could quite understand his +enthusiasm, if it were an enthusiasm for the music of the meaning; but +as for the music, "quite independently of the meaning," so far as I can +hear it thus (and I doubt if any one who knows English can quite do so), +I find it gives some pleasure, but only a trifling pleasure. And indeed +I venture to doubt whether, considered as mere sound, the words are at +all exceptionally beautiful, as Virgil's line certainly is. + +When poetry answers to its idea and is purely or almost purely poetic, +we find the identity of form and content; and the degree of purity +attained may be tested by the degree in which we feel it hopeless to +convey the effect of a poem or passage in any form but its own. Where +the notion of doing so is simply ludicrous, you have quintessential +poetry. But a great part even of good poetry, especially in long works, +is of a mixed nature; and so we find in it no more than a partial +agreement of a form and substance which remain to some extent distinct. +This is so in many passages of Shakespeare (the greatest of poets when +he chose, but not always a conscientious poet); passages where something +was wanted for the sake of the plot, but he did not care about it or was +hurried. The conception of the passage is then distinct from the +execution, and neither is inspired. This is so also, I think, wherever +we can truly speak of merely decorative effect. We seem to perceive that +the poet had a truth or fact--philosophical, agricultural, +social--distinctly before him, and then, as we say, clothed it in +metrical and coloured language. Most argumentative, didactic, or satiric +poems are partly of this kind; and in imaginative poems anything which +is really a mere "conceit" is mere decoration. We often deceive +ourselves in this matter, for what we call decoration has often a new +and genuinely poetic content of its own; but wherever there is mere +decoration, we judge the poetry to be not wholly poetic. And so when +Wordsworth inveighed against poetic diction, though he hurled his darts +rather wildly, what he was rightly aiming at was a phraseology, not the +living body of a new content, but the mere worn-out body of an old one. + +In pure poetry it is otherwise. Pure poetry is not the decoration of a +preconceived and clearly defined matter: it springs from the creative +impulse of a vague imaginative mass pressing for development and +definition. If the poet already knew exactly what he meant to say, why +should he write the poem? The poem would in fact already be written. For +only its completion can reveal, even to him, exactly what he wanted. +When he began and while he was at work, he did not possess his meaning; +it possessed him. It was not a fully formed soul asking for a body: it +was an inchoate soul in the inchoate body of perhaps two or three vague +ideas and a few scattered phrases. The growing of this body into its +full stature and perfect shape was the same thing as the gradual +self-definition of the meaning. And this is the reason why such poems +strike us as creations, not manufactures, and have the magical effect +which mere decoration cannot produce. This is also the reason why, if we +insist on asking for the meaning of such a poem, we can only be answered +"It means itself." + +And so at last I may explain why I have troubled myself: and you with +what may seem an arid controversy about mere words. It is not so. These +heresies which would make poetry a compound of two factors--a matter +common to it with the merest prose, _plus_ a poetic form, as the one +heresy says: a poetical substance _plus_ a negligible form, as the other +says--are not only untrue, they are injurious to the dignity of poetry. +In an age already inclined to shrink from those higher realms where +poetry touches religion and philosophy, the formalist heresy encourages +men to taste poetry as they would a fine wine, which has indeed an +aesthetic value, but a small one. And then the natural man, finding an +empty form, hurls into it the matter of cheap pathos, rancid sentiment, +vulgar humour, bare lust, ravenous vanity--everything which, in +Schiller's phrase, the form should extirpate, but which no mere form can +extirpate. And the other heresy--which is indeed rather a practice than +a creed--encourages us in the habit so dear to us of putting our own +thoughts or fancies into the place of the poet's creation. What he meant +by _Hamlet_, or the _Ode to a Nightingale_, or _Abt Vogler_, we say, is +this or that which we knew already; and so we lose what he had to tell +us. But he meant what he said, and said what he meant. + +Poetry in this matter is not, as good critics of painting and music +often affirm, different from the other arts; in all of them the content +is one thing with the form. What Beethoven meant by his symphony, or +Turner by his picture, was not something which you can name, but the +picture and the symphony. Meaning they have, but _what_ meaning can be +said in no language but their own: and we know this, though some strange +delusion makes us think the meaning has less worth because we cannot put +it into words. Well, it is just the same with poetry. But because poetry +is words, we vainly fancy that some other words than its own will +express its meaning. And they will do so no more--or, if you like to +speak loosely, only a little more--than words will express the meaning +of the Dresden Madonna. Something a little like it they may indeed +express. And we may find analogues of the meaning of poetry outside it, +which may help us to appropriate it. The other arts, the best ideas of +philosophy or religion, much that nature and life offer us or force upon +us, are akin to it. But they are only akin. Nor is it the expression of +them. Poetry does not present to imagination our highest knowledge or +belief, and much less our dreams and opinions; but it, content and form +in unity, embodies in its own irreplaceable way something which embodies +itself also in other irreplaceable ways, such as philosophy or religion. +And just as each of these gives a satisfaction which the other cannot +possibly give, so we find in poetry, which cannot satisfy the needs they +meet, that which by their natures they cannot afford us. But we shall +not find it fully if we look for something else. + +And now, when all is said, the question will still recur, though now in +quite another sense, What does poetry mean? This unique expression, +which cannot be replaced by any other, still seems to be trying to +express something beyond itself. And this, we feel, is also what the +other arts, and religion, and philosophy are trying to express: and that +is what impels us to seek in vain to translate the one into the other. +About the best poetry, and not only the best, there floats an atmosphere +of infinite suggestion. The poet speaks to us of one thing, but in this +one thing there seems to lurk the secret of all. He said what he meant, +but his meaning seems to beckon away beyond itself, or rather to expand +into something boundless, which is only focussed in it; something also +which, we feel, would satisfy not only the imagination, but the whole of +us; that something within us, and without, which everywhere + + makes us seem + To patch up fragments of a dream, + Part of which comes true, and part + Beats and trembles in the heart. + +Those who are susceptible to this effect of poetry find it not only, +perhaps not most, in the ideals which she has sometimes described, but +in a child's song by Christina Rossetti about a mere crown of +wind-flowers, and in tragedies like _Lear_, where the sun seems to have +set for ever. They hear this spirit murmuring its undertone through the +_Aeneid_, and catch its voice in the song of Keats's nightingale, and +its light upon the figures on the Urn, and it pierces them no less in +Shelley's hopeless lament, _O world, O life, O time_, than in the +rapturous ecstasy of his _Life of Life_. This all-embracing perfection +cannot be expressed in poetic words or words of any kind, nor yet in +music or in colour, but the suggestion of it is in much poetry, if not +all, and poetry has in this suggestion, this "meaning," a great part of +its value. We do it wrong, and we defeat our own purposes when we try +to bend it to them: + + We do it wrong, being so majestical, + To offer it the show of violence; + For it is as the air invulnerable, + And our vain blows malicious mockery. + +It is a spirit. It comes we know not whence. It will not speak at our +bidding, nor answer in our language. It is not our servant; it is our +master. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 78: From "Oxford Lectures on Poetry," 1909. Printed by +courtesy of The Macmillan Company.] + + + + +GREEK TRAGEDY[79] + +G. LOWES DICKINSON + + +The character of Greek tragedy was determined from the very beginning by +the fact of its connection with religion. The season at which it was +performed was the festival of Dionysus; about his altar the chorus +danced; and the object of the performance was the representation of +scenes out of the lives of ancient heroes. The subject of the drama was +thus strictly prescribed; it must be selected out of a cycle of legends +familiar to the audience; and whatever freedom might be allowed to the +poet in his treatment of the theme, whatever the reflections he might +embroider upon it, the speculative or ethical views, the criticism of +contemporary life, all must be subservient to the main object originally +proposed, the setting forth, for edification as well as for delight, of +some episodes in the lives of those heroes of the past who were +considered not only to be greater than their descendants, but to be the +sons of gods and worthy themselves of worship as divine. + +By this fundamental condition the tragedy of the Greeks is distinguished +sharply, on the one hand from the Shakespearian drama, on the other from +the classical drama of the French. The tragedies of Shakespeare are +devoid, one might say, or at least comparatively devoid, of all +preconceptions. He was free to choose what subject he liked and to treat +it as he would; and no sense of obligation to religious or other points +of view, no feeling for traditions descended from a sacred past and not +lightly to be handled by those who were their trustees for the future, +sobered or restrained for evil or for good his half-barbaric genius. He +flung himself upon life with the irresponsible ardour of the discoverer +of a new continent; shaped and re-shaped it as he chose; carved from it +now the cynicism of _Measure for Measure_, now the despair of _Hamlet_ +and of _Lear_, now the radiant magnanimity of _The Tempest_, and +departed leaving behind him not a map or chart, but a series of mutually +incompatible landscapes. + +What Shakespeare gave, in short, was a many-sided representation of +life; what the Greek dramatist gave was an interpretation. But an +interpretation not simply personal to himself, but representative of the +national tradition and belief. The men whose deeds and passions he +narrated were the patterns and examples on the one hand, on the other +the warnings of his race; the gods who determined the fortunes they +sang, were working still among men; the moral laws that ruled the past +ruled the present too; and the history of the Hellenic race moved, under +a visible providence, from its divine origin onward to an end that would +be prosperous or the reverse according as later generations should +continue to observe the worship and traditions of their fathers +descended from heroes and gods. + +And it is the fact that in this sense it was representative of the +national consciousness, that distinguishes the Greek tragedy from the +classical drama of the French. For the latter, though it imitated the +ancients in outward form, was inspired with a totally different spirit. +The kings and heroes whose fortunes it narrated were not the ancestors +of the French race; they had no root in its affections, no connection +with its religious beliefs, no relation to its ethical conceptions. The +whole ideal set forth was not that which really inspired the nation, but +at best that which was supposed to inspire the court; and the whole +drama, like a tree transplanted to an alien soil, withers and dies for +lack of the nourishment which the tragedy of the Greeks unconsciously +imbibed from its encompassing air of national tradition. + +Such then was the general character of the Greek tragedy--an +interpretation of the national ideal. Let us now proceed to follow out +some of the consequences involved in this conception. + +In the first place, the theme represented is the life and fate of +ancient heroes--of personages, that is to say, greater than ordinary +men, both for good and for evil, in their qualities and in their +achievements, pregnant with fateful issues, makers or marrers of the +fortunes of the world. Tragic and terrible their destiny may be, but +never contemptible or squalid. Behind all suffering, behind sin and +crime, must lie redeeming magnanimity. A complete villain, says +Aristotle, is not a tragic character, for he has no hold upon the +sympathies; if he prosper, it is an outrage on common human feeling; if +he fall into disaster, it is merely what he deserves. Neither is it +admissible to represent the misfortunes of a thoroughly good man, for +that is merely painful and distressing; and least of all is it tolerable +gratuitously to introduce mere baseness, or madness, or other +aberrations from human nature. The true tragic hero is a man of high +place and birth who having a nature not ignoble has fallen into sin and +pays in suffering the penalty of his act. Nothing could throw more light +on the distinguishing characteristics of the Greek drama than these few +remarks of Aristotle, and nothing could better indicate how close, in +the Greek mind, was the connection between aesthetic and ethical +judgments. The canon of Aristotle would exclude as proper themes for +tragedy the character and fate, say, of Richard III--the absolutely bad +man suffering his appropriate desert; or of Kent and Cordelia--the +absolutely good, brought into unmerited affliction; and that not merely +because such themes offend the moral sense, but because by so offending +they destroy the proper pleasure of the tragic art. The whole aesthetic +effect is limited by ethical presuppositions; and to outrage these is to +defeat the very purpose of tragedy. + +Specially interesting in this connection are the strictures passed on +Euripides in the passage of the _Frogs_ of Aristophanes to which +allusion has already been made. Euripides is there accused of lowering +the tragic art by introducing--what? Women in love! The central theme of +modern tragedy! It is the boast of Aeschylus that there is not one of +his plays which touches on this subject: + + "I never allow'd of your lewd Sthenoboeas + Or filthy detestable Phaedras--not I! + Indeed I should doubt if my drama throughout + Exhibit an instance of woman in love!"[80] + +And there can be little doubt that with a Greek audience this would +count to him as a merit, and that the shifting of the centre of interest +by Euripides from the sterner passions of heroes and of kings to this +tenderer phase of human feeling would be felt even by those whom it +charmed to be a declension from the height of the older tragedy. + +And to this limitation of subject corresponds a limitation of treatment. +The Greek tragedy is composed from a definite point of view, with the +aim not merely to represent but also to interpret the theme. Underlying +the whole construction of the plot, the dialogue, the reflections, the +lyric interludes, is the intention to illustrate some general moral law, +some common and typical problem, some fundamental truth. Of the elder +dramatists at any rate, Aeschylus and Sophocles, one may even say that +it was their purpose--however imperfectly achieved--to "justify the +ways of God to man." To represent suffering as the punishment of sin is +the constant bent of Aeschylus; to justify the law of God against the +presumption of man is the central idea of Sophocles. In either case the +whole tone is essentially religious. To choose such a theme as Lear, to +treat it as Shakespeare has treated it, to leave it, as it were, +bleeding from a thousand wounds, in mute and helpless entreaty for the +healing that is never to be vouchsafed--this would have been repulsive, +if not impossible, to a Greek tragedian. Without ever descending from +concrete art to the abstractions of mere moralising, without ever +attempting to substitute a verbal formula for the full and complex +perception that grows out of a representation of life, the ancient +dramatists were nevertheless, in the whole apprehension of their theme, +determined by a more or less conscious speculative bias; the world to +them was not merely a splendid chaos, it was a divine plan; and even in +its darkest hollows, its passes most perilous and bleak, they have their +hand, though doubtful perhaps and faltering, upon the clue that is to +lead them up to the open sky. + +It is consonant with this account of the nature of Greek tragedy that it +should have laid more stress upon action than upon character. The +interest was centred on the universal bearing of certain acts and +situations, on the light which the experience represented threw on the +whole tendency and course of human life, not on the sentiments and +motives of the particular personages introduced. The characters are +broad and simple, not developing for the most part, but fixed, and +fitted therefore to be the mediums of direct action, of simple issues, +and typical situations. In the Greek tragedy the general point of view +predominates over the idiosyncrasies of particular persons. It is human +nature that is represented in the broad, not this or that highly +specialised variation; and what we have indicated as the general aim, +the interpretation of life, is never obscured by the predominance of +exceptional and so to speak, accidental characteristics. Man is the +subject of the Greek drama; the subject of the modern novel is Tom and +Dick. + +Finally, to the realisation of this general aim, the whole form of the +Greek drama was admirably adapted. It consisted very largely of +conversations between two persons, representing two opposed points of +view, and giving occasion for an almost scientific discussion of every +problem of action raised in the play; and between these conversations +were inserted lyric odes in which the chorus commented on the +situation, bestowed advice or warning, praise or blame, and finally +summed up the moral of the whole. Through the chorus, in fact, the poet +could speak in his own person, and impose upon the whole tragedy any +tone which he desired. Periodically he could drop the dramatist and +assume the preacher; and thus ensure that his play should be, what we +have seen was its recognised ideal, not merely a representation but an +interpretation of life. + +But this without ceasing to be a work of art. In attempting to analyse +in abstract terms the general character of the Greek tragedy we have +necessarily thrown into the shade what after all was its primary and +most essential aspect; an aspect, however, of which a full appreciation +could only be attained not by a mere perusal of the test, but by what is +unfortunately for ever beyond our power, the witnessing of an actual +representation as it was given on the Greek stage. For from a purely +aesthetic point of view the Greek drama must be reckoned among the most +perfect of art forms. + +Taking place in the open air, on the sunny slope of a hill, valley and +plain or islanded sea stretching away below to meet the blazing blue of +a cloudless sky, the moving pageant, thus from the first set in tune +with nature, brought to a focus of splendour the rays of every separate +art. More akin to an opera than to a play it had, as its basis, music. +For the drama had developed out of the lyric ode, and retained +throughout what was at first its only element, the dance and song of a +mimetic chorus. By this centre of rhythmic motion and pregnant melody +the burden of the tale was caught up and echoed and echoed again, as the +living globe divided into spheres of answering song, the clear and +precise significance of the plot, never obscure to the head, being thus +brought home in music to the passion of the heart, the idea embodied in +lyric verse, the verse transfigured by song, and song and verse +reflected as in a mirror to the eye by the swing and beat of the limbs +they stirred to consonance of motion. And while such was the character +of the odes that broke the action of the play, the action itself was an +appeal not less to the ear and to the eye than to the passion and the +intellect. The circumstances of the representation, the huge auditorium +in the open air, lent themselves less to "acting" in our sense of the +term, than to attitude and declamation. The actors raised on high boots +above their natural height, their faces hidden in masks and their tones +mechanically magnified, must have relied for their effects not upon +facial play, or rapid and subtle variations of voice and gesture, but +upon a certain statuesque beauty of pose, and a chanting intonation of +that majestic iambic verse whose measure would have been obscured by a +rapid and conversational delivery. The representation would thus become +moving sculpture to the eye, and to the ear, as it were, a sleep of +music between the intenser interludes of the chorus; and the spectator +without being drawn away by an imitative realism from the calm of +impassioned contemplation into the fever and fret of a veritable actor +on the scene, received an impression based throughout on that clear +intellectual foundation, that almost prosaic lucidity of sentiment and +plot, which is preserved to us in the written text, but raised by the +accompanying appeal to the sense, made as it must have been made by such +artists as the Greeks, by the grouping of forms and colours, the +recitative, the dance and the song, to such a greatness and height of +aesthetic significance as can hardly have been realised by any other +form of art production. + +The nearest modern analogy to what the ancient drama must have been is +to be found probably in the operas of Wagner, who indeed was strongly +influenced by the tragedy of the Greeks. It was his ideal like theirs, +to combine the various branches of art, employing not only music but +poetry, sculpture, painting and the dance, for the representation of his +dramatic theme; and his conception also to make art the interpreter of +life, reflecting in a national drama the national consciousness, the +highest action and the deepest passion and thought of the German race. +To consider how far in this attempt he falls short of or goes beyond the +achievement of the Greeks, and to examine the wide dissimilarities that +underlie the general identity of aim, would be to wander too far afield +from our present theme. But the comparison may be recommended to those +who are anxious to form a concrete idea of what the effect of a Greek +tragedy may have been, and to clothe in imagination the dead bones of +the literary text with the flesh and blood of a representation to the +sense. + +Meantime, to assist the reader to realise with somewhat greater +precision the bearing of the foregoing remarks, it may be worth while to +give an outline sketch of one of the most celebrated of the Greek +tragedies, the _Agamemnon_ of Aeschylus. + +The hero of the drama belongs to that heroic house whose tragic history +was among the most terrible and the most familiar to a Greek audience. +Tantalus, the founder of the family, for some offence against the gods, +was suffering in Hades the punishment which is christened by his name. +His son Pelops was stained with the blood of Myrtilus. Of the two sons +of the next generation, Thyestes seduced the wife of his brother Atreus; +and Atreus in return killed the sons of Thyestes, and made the father +unwittingly eat the flesh of the murdered boys. Agamemnon, son of +Atreus, to propitiate Artemis, sacrificed his daughter Iphigenia, and in +revenge was murdered by Clytemnestra his wife. And Clytemnestra was +killed by Orestes, her son, in atonement for the death of Agamemnon. For +generations the race had been dogged by crime and punishment; and in +choosing for his theme the murder of Agamemnon the dramatist could +assume in his audience so close a familiarity with the past history of +the House that he could call into existence by an allusive word that +sombre background of woe to enhance the terrors of his actual +presentation. The figures he brought into vivid relief joined hands with +menacing forms that faded away into the night of the future and the +past; while above them hung, intoning doom, the phantom host of Furies. + +Yet at the outset of the drama all promises well. The watchman on the +roof of the palace, in the tenth year of his watch, catches sight at +last of the signal fire that announces the capture of Troy and the +speedy return of Agamemnon. With joy he proclaims to the House the +long-delayed and welcome news; yet even in the moment of exultation lets +slip a doubtful phrase hinting at something behind, which he dares not +name, something which may turn to despair the triumph of victory. +Hereupon enter the chorus of Argive elders, chanting as they move to the +measure of a stately march. They sing how ten years before Agamemnon and +Menelaus had led forth the host of Greece, at the bidding of the Zeus +who protects hospitality, to recover for Menelaus Helen his wife, +treacherously stolen by Paris. Then, as they take their places and begin +their rhythmic dance, in a strain of impassioned verse that is at once a +narrative and a lyric hymn, they tell, or rather present in a series of +vivid images, flashing as by illumination of lightning out of a night of +veiled and sombre boding, the tale of the deed that darkened the +starting of the host--the sacrifice of Iphigenia to the goddess whose +wrath was delaying the fleet at Aulis. In verse, in music, in pantomime, +the scene lives again--the struggle in the father's heart, the +insistence of his brother chiefs, the piteous glance of the girl, and at +last the unutterable end; while above and through it all rings like a +knell of fate the refrain that is the motive of the whole drama: + + "Sing woe, sing woe, but may the Good prevail." + +At the conclusion of the ode enters Clytemnestra. She makes a formal +announcement to the chorus of the fall of Troy; describes the course of +the signal-fire from beacon to beacon as it sped, and pictures in +imagination the scenes even then taking place in the doomed city. On her +withdrawal the chorus break once more into song and dance. To the music +of a solemn hymn they point the moral of the fall of Troy, the certain +doom of violence and fraud descended upon Paris and his House. Once more +the vivid pictures flash from the night of woe--Helen in her fatal +beauty stepping lightly to her doom, the widower's nights of mourning +haunted by the ghost of love, the horrors of the war that followed, the +slain abroad and the mourners at home, the change of living flesh and +blood for the dust and ashes of the tomb. At last with a return to their +original theme, the doom of insolence, the chorus close their ode and +announce the arrival of a messenger from Troy. Talthybius, the herald, +enters as spokesman of the army and king, describing the hardships they +have suffered and the joy of the triumphant issue. To him Clytemnestra +announces, in words of which the irony is patent to the audience, her +sufferings in the absence of her husband and her delight at the prospect +of his return. He will find her, she says, as he left her, a faithful +watcher of the home, her loyalty sure, her honour undefiled. Then +follows another choral ode, similar in theme to the last, dwelling on +the woe brought by the act of Paris upon Troy, the change of the bridal +song to the trump of war and the dirge of death; contrasting, in a +profusion of splendid tropes, the beauty of Helen with the curse to +which it is bound; and insisting once more on the doom that attends +insolence and pride. At the conclusion of this song the measure changes +to a march, and the chorus turn to welcome the triumphant king. +Agamemnon enters, and behind him the veiled and silent figure of a +woman. After greeting the gods of his House, the King, in brief and +stilted phrase, acknowledges the loyalty of the chorus, but hints at +much that is amiss which it must be his first charge to set right. +Hereupon enters Clytemnestra, and in a speech of rhetorical exaggeration +tells of her anxious waiting for her lord and her inexpressible joy at +his return. In conclusion she directs that purple cloth be spread upon +his path that he may enter the house as befits a conqueror. After a show +of resistance, Agamemnon yields the point, and the contrast at which +the dramatist aims is achieved. With the pomp of an eastern monarch, +always repellent to the Greek mind, the King steps across the threshold, +steps, as the audience knows, to his death. The higher the reach of his +power and pride the more terrible and swift is the nemesis; and +Clytemnestra follows in triumph with the enigmatic cry upon her lips: +"Zeus who art god of fulfilment, fulfil my prayers." As she withdraws +the chorus begin a song of boding fear, the more terrible that it is +still indefinite. Something is going to happen--the presentiment is +sure. But what, but what? They search the night in vain. Meantime, +motionless and silent waits the figure of the veiled woman. It is +Cassandra, the prophetess, daughter of Priam of Troy, whom Agamemnon has +carried home as his prize. Clytemnestra returns to urge her to enter the +house; she makes no sign and utters no word. The queen changes her tone +from courtesy to anger and rebuke; the figure neither stirs nor speaks; +and Clytemnestra at last with an angry threat leaves her and returns to +the palace. Then, and not till then, a cry breaks from the stranger's +lips, a passionate cry to Apollo who gave her her fatal gift. All the +sombre history of the House to which she has been brought, the woe that +has been and the woe that is to come, passes in pictures across her +inner sense. In a series of broken ejaculations, not sentences but lyric +cries, she evokes the scenes of the past and of the future. Blood drips +from the palace; in its chambers the Furies crouch; the murdered sons of +Thyestes wail in its haunted courts; and ever among the visions of the +past that one of the future floats and fades, clearly discerned, +impossible to avert, the murder of a husband by a wife; and in the rear +of that, most pitiful of all, the violent death of the seer who sees in +vain and may not help. Between Cassandra and the Chorus it is a duet of +anguish and fear; in the broken lyric phrases a phantom music wails; +till at last, at what seems the breaking-point, the tension is relaxed, +and dropping into the calmer iambic recitative, Cassandra tells her +message in plainer speech and clearly proclaims the murder of the King. +Then, with a last appeal to the avenger that is to come, she enters the +palace alone to meet her death.--The stage is empty. Suddenly a cry is +heard from within; again, and then again; while the chorus hesitate the +deed is done; the doors are thrown open, and Clytemnestra is seen +standing over the corpses of her victims. All disguise is now thrown +off; the murderess avows and triumphs in her deed; she justifies it as +vengeance for the sacrifice of Iphigenia, and sees in herself not a free +human agent but the incarnate curse of the House of Tantalus. And now +for the first time appears the adulterer Aegisthus, who has planned the +whole behind the scenes. He too is an avenger, for he is the son of that +Thyestes who was made to feed on his own children's flesh. The murder of +Agamemnon is but one more link in the long chain of hereditary guilt; +and with that exposition of the pitiless law of punishment and crime +this chapter of the great drama comes to a close. But the _Agamemnon_ is +only the first of a series of three plays closely connected and meant to +be performed in succession; and the problem raised in the first of them, +the crime that cries for punishment and the punishment that is itself a +new crime, is solved in the last by a reconciliation of the powers of +heaven and hell, and the pardon of the last offender in the person of +Orestes. To sketch, however, the plan of the other dramas of the trilogy +would be to trespass too far upon our space and time. It is enough to +have illustrated, by the example of the _Agamemnon_, the general +character of a Greek tragedy; and those who care to pursue the subject +further must be referred to the text of the plays themselves. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 79: From "The Greek View of Life," 1909 (sixth edition). By +permission of Messrs. Doubleday, Page & Co.] + +[Footnote 80: From Aristophanes' "Frogs," l. 1043. Translated by Frere.] + + + + +SHAKESPEARE[81] + +THOMAS CARLYLE + + +As Dante, the Italian man, was sent into our world to embody musically +the Religion of the Middle Ages, the Religion of our Modern Europe, its +Inner Life; so Shakespeare, we may say, embodies for us the Outer Life +of our Europe as developed then, its chivalries, courtesies, humours, +ambitions, what practical way of thinking, acting, looking at the world, +men then had. As in Homer we may still construe Old Greece; so in +Shakespeare and Dante, after thousands of years, what our modern Europe +was, in Faith and in Practice, will still be legible. Dante has given us +the Faith or soul; Shakespeare, in a not less noble way, has given us +the Practice or body. This latter also we were to have; a man was sent +for it, the man Shakespeare. Just when that chivalry way of life had +reached its last finish, and was on the point of breaking down into slow +or swift dissolution, as we now see it everywhere, this other sovereign +Poet, with his seeing eye, with his perennial singing voice, was sent to +take note of it, to give long-enduring record of it. Two fit men: Dante, +deep, fierce as the central fire of the world; Shakespeare, wide, +placid, far-seeing, as the Sun, the upper light of the world. Italy +produced the one world-voice; we English had the honour of producing the +other. + +Curious enough how, as it were by mere accident, this man came to us. I +think always, so great, quiet, complete and self-sufficing is this +Shakespeare, had the Warwickshire Squire not prosecuted him for +deer-stealing, we had perhaps never heard of him as a Poet! The woods +and skies, the rustic Life of Man in Stratford there, had been enough +for this man! But indeed that strange outbudding of our whole English +Existence, which we call the Elizabethan Era, did not it too come as of +its own accord? The "Tree Igdrasil" buds and withers by its own +laws,--too deep for our scanning. Yet it does bud and wither, and every +bough and leaf of it is there, by fixed eternal laws; not a Sir Thomas +Lucy but comes at the hour fit for him. Curious, I say, and not +sufficiently considered: how everything does co-operate with all; not a +leaf rotting on the highway but is indissoluble portion of solar and +stellar systems; no thought, word or act of man but has sprung withal +out of all men, and works sooner or later, recognisably or +irrecognisably, on all men! It is all a Tree: circulation of sap and +influences, mutual communication of every minutest leaf with the lowest +talon of a root, with every other greatest and minutest portion of the +whole. The Tree Igdrasil, that has its roots down in the Kingdoms of +Hela and Death, and whose boughs overspread the highest Heaven! + +In some sense it may be said that this glorious Elizabethan Era with its +Shakespeare, as the outcome and flowerage of all which had preceded it, +is itself attributable to the Catholicism of the Middle Ages. The +Christian Faith, which was the theme of Dante's Song, had produced this +Practical Life which Shakespeare was to sing. For Religion then, as it +now and always is, was the soul of Practice; the primary vital fact in +men's life. And remark here, as rather curious, that Middle-Age +Catholicism was abolished, so far as Acts of Parliament could abolish +it, before Shakespeare, the noblest product of it, made his appearance. +He did make his appearance nevertheless. Nature at her own time, with +Catholicism or what else might be necessary, sent him forth; taking +small thought of Acts of Parliament. King-Henrys, Queen-Elizabeths go +their way; and Nature too goes hers. Acts of Parliament, on the whole, +are small, notwithstanding the noise they make. What Act of Parliament, +debate at St. Stephen's,[82] on the hustings or elsewhere, was it that +brought this Shakespeare into being? No dining at Freemasons' Tavern, +opening subscription-lists, selling of shares, and infinite other +jangling and true or false endeavouring! This Elizabethan Era, and all +its nobleness and blessedness, came without proclamation, preparation of +ours. Priceless Shakespeare was the free gift of Nature; given +altogether silently; received altogether silently, as if it had been a +thing of little account. And yet, very literally, it is a priceless +thing. One should look at that side of matters too. + +Of this Shakespeare of ours, perhaps the opinion one sometimes hears a +little idolatrously expressed is, in fact, the right one; I think the +best judgment not of this country only: but of Europe at large, is +slowly pointing to the conclusion, That Shakespeare is the chief of all +Poets hitherto; the greatest intellect who, in our recorded world, has +left record of himself in the way of Literature. On the whole, I know +not such a power of vision, such a faculty of thought, if we take all +the characters of it, in any other man. Such a calmness of depth; placid +joyous strength; all things imaged in that great soul of his so true and +clear, as in a tranquil unfathomable sea! It has been said, that in the +constructing of Shakespeare's Dramas there is, apart from all other +"faculties" as they are called, an understanding manifested, equal to +that in Bacon's _Novum Organum_. That is true; and it is not a truth +that strikes every one. It would become more apparent if we tried, any +of us for himself, how, out of Shakespeare's dramatic materials, _we_ +could fashion such a result! The built house seems all so fit,--everyway +as it should be, as if it came there by its own law and the nature of +things,--we forget the rude disorderly quarry it was shaped from. The +very perfection of the house, as if Nature herself had made it, hides +the builder's merit. Perfect, more perfect than any other man, we may +call Shakespeare in this: he discerns, knows as by instinct, what +condition he works under, what his materials are, what his own force and +its relation to them is. It is not a transitory glance of insight that +will suffice; it is deliberate illumination of the whole matter; it is a +calmly _seeing_ eye; a great intellect, in short. How a man, of some +wide thing that he has witnessed, will construct a narrative, what kind +of picture and delineation he will give of it--is the best measure you +could get of what intellect is in the man. Which circumstance is vital +and shall stand prominent; which unessential, fit to be suppressed; +where is the true _beginning_, the true sequence and ending? To find out +this, you task the whole force of insight that is in the man. He must +_understand_ the thing; according to the depth of his understanding, +will the fitness of his answer be. You will try him so. Does like join +itself to like; does the spirit of method stir in that confusion, so +that its embroilment becomes order? Can the man say, _Fiat lux_, Let +there be light; and out of chaos make a world? Precisely as there is +_light_ in himself, will he accomplish this. + +Or indeed we may say again, it is in what I called Portrait-painting, +delineating of men and things, especially of men, that Shakespeare is +great. All the greatness of the man comes out decisively here. It is +unexampled, I think, that calm creative perspicacity of Shakespeare. The +thing he looks at reveals not this or that face of it, but its inmost +heart, and generic secret: it dissolves itself as in light before him, +so that he discerns the perfect structure of it. Creative, we said: +poetic creation, what is this too but _seeing_ the thing sufficiently? +The _word_ that will describe the thing, follows of itself from such +clear intense sight of the thing. And is not Shakespeare's _morality_, +his valour, candour, tolerance, truthfulness; his whole victorious +strength and greatness, which can triumph over such obstructions, +visible there too? Great as the world! No _twisted_, poor convex-concave +mirror, reflecting all objects with its own convexities and concavities; +a perfectly _level_ mirror--that is to say withal, if we will +understand it, a man justly related to all things and men, a good man. +It is truly a lordly spectacle how this great soul takes-in all kinds of +men and objects, a Falstaff, an Othello, a Juliet, a Coriolanus; sets +them all forth to us in their round completeness; loving, just, the +equal brother of all. _Novum Organum_, and all the intellect you will +find in Bacon, is of a quite secondary order; earthy, material, poor in +comparison with this. Among modern men, one finds, in strictness, almost +nothing of the same rank. Goethe alone, since the days of Shakespeare, +reminds me of it. Of him too you say that he _saw_ the object; you may +say what he himself says of Shakespeare: "His characters are like +watches with dial-plates of transparent crystal; they show you the hour +like others, and the inward mechanism also is all visible." + +The seeing eye! It is this that discloses the inner harmony of things; +what Nature meant, what musical idea Nature has wrapped-up in these +often rough embodiments. Something she did mean. To the seeing eye that +something were discernible. Are they base, miserable things? You can +laugh over them, you can weep over them; you can in some way or other +genially relate yourself to them--you can, at lowest, hold your peace +about them, turn away your own and others' face from them, till the hour +come for practically exterminating and extinguishing them! At bottom, it +is the Poet's first gift, as it is all men's, that he have intellect +enough. He will be a Poet if he have: a Poet in word; or failing that, +perhaps still better, a Poet in act. Whether he write at all, and if so, +whether in prose or in verse, will depend on accidents: who knows on +what extremely trivial accidents,--perhaps on his having had a +singing-master, on his being taught to sing in his boyhood! But the +faculty which enables him to discern the inner heart of things, and the +harmony that dwells there (for whatsoever exists has a harmony in the +heart of it, or it would not hold together and exist), is not the result +of habits or accidents, but the gift of Nature herself; the primary +outfit for a Heroic Man in what sort soever. To the Poet, as to every +other, we say first of all _See_. If you cannot do that, it is of no use +to keep stringing rhymes together, jingling sensibilities against each +other, and _name_ yourself a Poet; there is no hope for you. If you can, +there is, in prose or verse, in action or speculation, all manner of +hope. The crabbed old Schoolmaster used to ask, when they brought him a +new pupil, "But are ye sure he's _not a dunce_?" Why, really one might +ask the same thing, in regard to every man proposed for whatsoever +function; and consider it as the one inquiry needful: Are ye sure he's +not a dunce? There is, in this world, no other entirely fatal person. + +For, in fact, I say the degree of vision that dwells in a man is a +correct measure of the man. If called to define Shakespeare's faculty, I +should say superiority of Intellect, and think I had included all under +that. What indeed are faculties? We talk of faculties as if they were +distinct, things separable; as if a man had intellect, imagination, +fancy, etc., as he has hands, feet and arms. That is a capital error. +Then again, we hear of a man's "intellectual nature," and of his "moral +nature," as if these again were divisible, and existed apart. +Necessities of language do perhaps prescribe such forms of utterance; we +must speak, I am aware, in that way, if we are to speak at all. But +words ought not to harden into things for us. It seems to me, our +apprehension of this matter is, for most part, radically falsified +thereby. We ought to know withal, and to keep forever in mind, that +these divisions are at bottom but _names_; that man's spiritual nature, +the vital Force which dwells in him, is essentially one and indivisible; +that what we call imagination, fancy, understanding, and so forth, are +but different figures of the same Power of Insight, all indissolubly +connected with each other, physiognomically related; that if we knew one +of them, we might know all of them. Morality itself, what we call the +moral quality of a man, what is this but another _side_ of the one vital +Force whereby he is and works? All that a man does is physiognomical of +him. You may see how a man would fight, by the way in which he sings; +his courage, or want of courage, is visible in the word he utters, in +the opinion he has formed, no less than in the stroke he strikes. He is +_one_; and preaches the same Self abroad in all these ways. + +Without hands a man might have feet, and could still walk: but, consider +it--without morality, intellect were impossible for him; a thoroughly +immoral _man_ could not know anything at all! To know a thing, what we +can call knowing, a man must first _love_ the thing, sympathise with it: +that is, be _virtuously_ related to it. If he have not the justice to +put down his own selfishness at every turn, the courage to stand by the +dangerous true at every turn, how shall he know? His virtues, all of +them, will lie recorded in his knowledge. Nature, with her truth, +remains to the bad, to the selfish and the pusillanimous forever a +sealed book: what such can know of Nature is mean, superficial, small; +for the uses of the day merely. But does not the very Fox know something +of Nature? Exactly so: it knows where the geese lodge! The human +Reynard, very frequent everywhere in the world, what more does he know +but this and the like of this? Nay, it should be considered too, that if +the Fox had not a certain vulpine _morality_, he could not even know +where the geese were, or get at the geese! If he spent his time in +splenetic atrabiliar reflections on his own misery, his ill usage by +Nature, Fortune and other Foxes, and so forth; and had not courage, +promptitude, practicality, and other suitable vulpine gifts and graces, +he would catch no geese. We may say of the Fox too, that his morality +and insight are of the same dimensions; different faces of the same +internal unity of vulpine life! These things are worth stating; for the +contrary of them acts with manifold very baleful perversion, in this +time: what limitations, modifications they require, your own candour +will supply. + +If I say, therefore, that Shakespeare is the greatest of Intellects, I +have said all concerning him. But there is more in Shakespeare's +intellect than we have yet seen. It is what I call an unconscious +intellect; there is more virtue in it than he himself is aware of. +Novalis beautifully remarks of him, that those Dramas of his are +Products of Nature too, deep as Nature herself. I find a great truth in +this saying. Shakespeare's Art is not Artifice; the noblest worth of it +is not there by plan or precontrivance. It grows-up from the deeps of +Nature, through this noble sincere soul, who is a voice of Nature. The +latest generations of men will find new meanings in Shakespeare, new +elucidations of their own human being; "new harmonies with the infinite +structure of the Universe; concurrences with later ideas, affinities +with the higher powers and senses of man." This well deserves +meditating. It is Nature's highest reward to a true simple great soul, +that he get thus to be _a part of herself_. Such a man's works, +whatsoever he with utmost conscious exertion and forethought shall +accomplish, grow up withal _un_consciously, from the unknown deeps in +him;--as the oak-tree grows from the Earth's bosom, as the mountains and +waters shape themselves; with a symmetry grounded on Nature's own laws, +conformable to all Truth whatsoever. How much in Shakespeare lies hid; +his sorrows, his silent struggles known to himself; much that was not +known at all, not speakable at all: like _roots_, like sap and forces +working underground! Speech is great; but Silence is greater. + +Withal the joyful tranquillity of this man is notable. I will not blame +Dante for his misery: it is as battle without victory; but true +battle,--the first, indispensable thing. Yet I call Shakespeare greater +than Dante, in that he fought truly, and did conquer. Doubt it not, he +had his own sorrows: those _Sonnets_ of his will even testify expressly +in what deep waters he had waded, and swum struggling for his life--as +what man like him ever failed to have to do? It seems to me a heedless +notion, our common one, that he sat like a bird on the bough; and sang +forth, free and offhand, never knowing the troubles of other men. Not +so; with no man is it so. How could a man travel forward from rustic +deer-poaching to such tragedy-writing, and not fall-in with sorrows by +the way? Or, still better, how could a man delineate a Hamlet, a +Coriolanus, a Macbeth, so many suffering heroic hearts, if his own +heroic heart had never suffered?--And now, in contrast with all this, +observe his mirthfulness, his genuine overflowing love of laughter! You +would say, in no point does he _exaggerate_ but only in laughter. Fiery +objurgations, words that pierce and burn, are to be found in +Shakespeare; yet he is always in measure here; never what Johnson would +remark as a specially "good hater." But his laughter seems to pour from +him in floods; he heaps all manner of ridiculous nicknames on the butt +he is bantering, tumbles and tosses him in all sorts of horse-play; you +would say, with his whole heart laughs. And then, if not always the +finest, it is always a genial laughter. Not at mere weakness, at misery +or poverty; never. No man who _can_ laugh, what we call laughing, will +laugh at these things. It is some poor character only _desiring_ to +laugh, and have the credit of wit, that does so. Laughter means +sympathy; good laughter is not "the crackling of thorns under the pot." +Even at stupidity and pretension this Shakespeare does not laugh +otherwise than genially. Dogberry and Verges tickle our very hearts; and +we dismiss them covered with explosions of laughter: but we like the +poor fellows only the better for our laughing; and hope they will get on +well there, and continue Presidents of the City-watch. Such laughter, +like sunshine on the deep sea, is very beautiful to me. + +We have no room to speak of Shakespeare's individual works; though +perhaps there is much still waiting to be said on that head. Had we, for +instance, all his plays reviewed as _Hamlet_, in _Wilhelm Meister_, is! +A thing which might, one day, be done. August Wilhelm Schlegel has a +remark on his Historical Plays, _Henry Fifth_ and the others, which is +worth remembering. He calls them a kind of National Epic. Marlborough, +you recollect, said, he knew no English History but what he had learned +from Shakespeare. There are really, if we look to it, few as memorable +Histories. The great salient points are admirably seized; all rounds +itself off, into a kind of rhythmic coherence; it is, as Schlegel says, +_epic_;--as indeed all delineation by a great thinker will be. There are +right beautiful things in those Pieces, which indeed together form one +beautiful thing. That battle of Agincourt strikes me as one of the most +perfect things, in its sort, we anywhere have of Shakespeare's. The +description of the two hosts: the wornout, jaded English; the dread +hour, big with destiny, when the battle shall begin; and then that +deathless valour: "Ye good yeomen, whose limbs were made in England!" +There is a noble Patriotism in it--far other than the "indifference" you +sometimes hear ascribed to Shakespeare. A true English heart breathes, +calm and strong, through the whole business; not boisterous, protrusive; +all the better for that. There is a sound in it like the ring of steel. +This man too had a right stroke in him, had it come to that! + +But I will say, of Shakespeare's works generally, that we have no full +impress of him there; even as full as we have of many men. His works are +so many windows, through which we see a glimpse of the world that was in +him. All his works seem, comparatively speaking, cursory, imperfect, +written under cramping circumstances; giving only here and there a note +of the full utterance of the man. Passages there are that come upon you +like splendour out of Heaven; bursts of radiance, illuminating the very +heart of the thing: you say, "That is _true_, spoken once and forever; +wheresoever and whensoever there is an open human soul, that will be +recognised as true!" Such bursts, however, make us feel that the +surrounding matter is not radiant; that it is in part, temporary, +conventional. Alas, Shakespeare had to write for the Globe Playhouse: +his great soul had to crush itself, as it could, into that and no other +mould. It was with him, then, as it is with us all. No man works save +under conditions. The sculptor, cannot set his own free Thought before +us; but his Thought as he could translate it into the stone that was +given, with the tools that were given. _Disjecta membra_[83] are all +that we find of any Poet, or of any man. + +Whoever looks intelligently at this Shakespeare may recognise that he +too was a _Prophet_, in his way; of an insight analogous to the +Prophetic, though he took it up in another strain. Nature seemed to this +man also divine; _un_speakable, deep as Tophet, high as Heaven: "We are +such stuff as Dreams are made of!" That scroll in Westminster Abbey,[84] +which few read with understanding, is of the depth of any seer. But the +man sang; did not preach, except musically. We called Dante the +melodious Priest of Middle-Age Catholicism. May we not call Shakespeare +the still more melodious Priest of a _true_ Catholicism, the "Universal +Church" of the Future and of all times? No narrow superstition, harsh +asceticism, intolerance, fanatical fierceness or perversion: a +Revelation, so far as it goes, that such a thousandfold hidden beauty +and divineness dwells in all Nature; which let all men worship as they +can! We may say without offence, that there rises a kind of universal +Psalm out of this Shakespeare too; not unfit to make itself heard among +the still more sacred Psalms. Not in disharmony with these, if we +understood them, but in harmony!--I cannot call this Shakespeare a +"Sceptic," as some do; his indifference to the creeds and theological +quarrels of his time misleading them. No: neither unpatriotic, though he +says little about his Patriotism; nor sceptic, though he says little +about his Faith. Such "indifference" was the fruit of his greatness +withal: his whole heart was in his own grand sphere of worship (we may +call it such); these other controversies, vitally important to other +men, were not vital to him. + +But call it worship, call it what you will, is it not a right glorious +thing, and set of things, this that Shakespeare has brought us? For +myself, I feel that there is actually a kind of sacredness in the fact +of such a man being sent into this Earth. Is he not an eye to us all; a +blessed heaven-sent Bringer of Light?--and, at bottom, was it not +perhaps far better that this Shakespeare, everyway an unconscious man, +was _conscious_ of no Heavenly message? He did not feel, like Mahomet, +because he saw into those internal Splendours, that he specially was the +"Prophet of God:" and was he not greater than Mahomet in that? Greater; +and also, if we compute strictly, as we did in Dante's case, more +successful. It was intrinsically an error that notion of Mahomet's, of +his supreme Prophethood; and has come down to us inextricably involved +in error to this day; dragging along with it such a coil of fables, +impurities, intolerances, as makes it a questionable step for me here +and now to say, as I have done, that Mahomet was a true Speaker at all, +and not rather an ambitious charlatan, perversity and simulacrum; no +Speaker, but a Babbler! Even in Arabia, as I compute, Mahomet will have +exhausted himself and become obsolete, while this Shakespeare, this +Dante may still be young;--while this Shakespeare may still pretend to +be a Priest of Mankind, of Arabia as of other places, for unlimited +periods to come! + +Compared with any speaker or singer one knows, even with Aeschylus or +Homer, why should he not, for veracity and universality, last like them? +He is _sincere_ as they; reaches deep down like them, to the universal +and perennial. But as for Mahomet, I think it had been better for him +_not_ to be so conscious! Alas, poor Mahomet; all that he was +_conscious_ of was a mere error; a futility and triviality--as indeed +such ever is. The truly great in him too was the unconscious: that he +was a wild Arab lion of the desert, and did speak-out with that great +thunder-voice of his, not by words which he _thought_ to be great, but +by actions, by feelings, by a history which _were_ great! His Koran has +become a stupid piece of prolix absurdity; we do not believe, like him +that God wrote that! The Great Man here too, as always' is a Force of +Nature: whatsoever is truly great in him springs-up from the +_in_articulate deeps. + +Well: this is our poor Warwickshire Peasant, who rose to be Manager of a +Playhouse, so that he could live without begging; whom the Earl of +Southampton cast some kind glances on; whom Sir Thomas Lucy, many thanks +to him, was for sending to the Treadmill! We did not account him a god, +like Odin, while he dwelt with us;--on which point there were much to be +said. But I will say rather, or repeat: In spite of the sad state +Hero-worship now lies in, consider what this Shakespeare has actually +become among us. Which Englishman we ever made, in this land of ours, +which million of Englishmen, would we not give-up rather than the +Stratford Peasant? There is no regiment of highest Dignitaries that we +would sell him for. He is the grandest thing we have yet done. For our +honour among foreign nations, as an ornament to our English Household, +what item is there that we would not surrender rather than him? Consider +now, if they asked us, Will you give-up your Indian Empire or your +Shakespeare, you English; never have had any Indian Empire, or never +have had any Shakespeare? Really it were a grave question. Official +persons would answer doubtless in official language; but we, for our +part too, should not we be forced to answer: Indian Empire, or no Indian +Empire; we cannot do without Shakespeare! Indian Empire will go, at any +rate, some day; but this Shakespeare does not go, he lasts forever with +us; we cannot give-up our Shakespeare! + +Nay, apart from spiritualities; and considering him merely as a real, +marketable, tangibly-useful possession. England, before long, this +Island of ours, will hold but a small fraction of the English: in +America, in New Holland,[85] east and west to the very Antipodes, there +will be a Saxondom covering great spaces of the Globe. And now, what is +it that can keep all these together into virtually one Nation, so that +they do not fall-out and fight, but live at peace, in brotherlike +intercourse, helping one another? This is justly regarded as the +greatest practical problem, the thing all manner of sovereignties and +governments are here to accomplish: what is it that will accomplish +this? Acts of Parliament, administrative prime-ministers cannot. America +is parted from us, so far as Parliament could part it. Call it not +fantastic, for there is much reality in it: Here, I say, is an English +King, whom no time or chance, Parliament or combination of Parliaments, +can dethrone! This King Shakespeare, does not he shine, in crowned +sovereignty, over us all, as the noblest, gentlest, yet strongest of +rallying-signs; _in_destructible; really more valuable in that point of +view than any other means or appliance whatsoever? We can fancy him as +radiant aloft over all the Nations of Englishmen, a thousand years +hence. From Paramatta, from New York, wheresoever, under what sort of +Parish-Constable soever, English men and women are, they will say to one +another: "Yes, this Shakespeare is ours; we produced him, we speak and +think by him; we are of one blood and kind with him." The most +common-sense politician, too, if he pleases, may think of that. + +Yes, truly, it is a great thing for a Nation that it get an articulate +voice; that it produce a man who will speak-forth melodiously what the +heart of it means! Italy, for example, poor Italy lies dismembered, +scattered asunder, not appearing in any protocol or treaty as a unity at +all; yet the noble Italy is actually _one_: Italy produced its Dante; +Italy can speak! The Czar of all the Russias, he is strong, with so many +bayonets, Cossacks and cannons; and does a great feat in keeping such a +tract of Earth politically together; but he cannot yet speak. Something +great in him, but it is a dumb greatness. He has had no voice of genius, +to be heard of all men and times. He must learn to speak. He is a great +dumb monster hitherto. His cannons and Cossacks will all have rusted +into nonentity, while that Dante's voice is still audible. The Nation +that has a Dante is bound together as no dumb Russia can be. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 81: From Lecture III, "The Hero as Poet," in "Heroes and +Hero-Worship," 1841.] + +[Footnote 82: St. Stephen's: House of Commons.] + +[Footnote 83: Scattered pieces.] + +[Footnote 84: The passage in Shakespeare's "Tempest" from which the +words quoted in the preceding sentence are taken, is inscribed on the +scroll in the hand of Shakespeare's statue in Westminster Abbey.] + +[Footnote 85: New Holland: Australia.] + + + + +CHARLES LAMB[86] + +WALTER PATER + + +Those English critics who at the beginning of the present century +introduced from Germany, together with some other subtleties of thought +transplanted hither not without advantage, the distinction between the +_Fancy_ and the _Imagination_, made much also of the cognate distinction +between _Wit_ and _Humour_, between that unreal and transitory mirth, +which is as the crackling of thorns under the pot, and the laughter +which blends with tears and even with the sublimities of the +imagination, and which, in its most exquisite motives, is one with +pity--the laughter of the comedies of Shakespeare, hardly less +expressive than his moods of seriousness or solemnity, of that deeply +stirred soul of sympathy in him, as flowing from which both tears and +laughter are alike genuine and contagious. + +This distinction between wit and humour, Coleridge and other kindred +critics applied, with much effect, in their studies of some of our older +English writers. And as the distinction between imagination and fancy, +made popular by Wordsworth, found its best justification in certain +essential differences of stuff in Wordsworth's own writings, so this +other critical distinction, between wit and humour, finds a sort of +visible interpretation and instance in the character and writings of +Charles Lamb;--one who lived more consistently than most writers among +subtle literary theories, and whose remains are still full of curious +interest for the student of literature as a fine art. + +The author of the _English Humourists of the Eighteenth Century,_ +coming to the humourists of the nineteenth, would have found, as is true +pre-eminently of Thackeray himself, the springs of pity in them deepened +by the deeper subjectivity, the intenser and closer living with itself, +which is characteristic of the temper of the later generation; and +therewith, the mirth also, from the amalgam of which with pity humour +proceeds, has become, in Charles Dickens, for example, freer and more +boisterous. + +To this more high-pitched feeling, since predominant in our literature, +the writings of Charles Lamb, whose life occupies the last quarter of +the eighteenth century and the first quarter of the nineteenth, are a +transition; and such union of grave, of terrible even, with gay, we may +note in the circumstances of his life, as reflected thence into his +work. We catch the aroma of a singular, homely sweetness about his first +years, spent on Thames' side, amid the red bricks and terraced gardens, +with their rich historical memories of old-fashioned legal London. Just +above the poorer class, deprived, as he says, of the "sweet food of +academic institution," he is fortunate enough to be reared in the +classical languages at an ancient school, where he becomes the companion +of Coleridge, as at a later period he was his enthusiastic disciple. So +far, the years go by with less than the usual share of boyish +difficulties; protected, one fancies, seeing what he was afterwards, by +some attraction of temper in the quaint child, small and delicate, with +a certain Jewish expression in his clear, brown complexion, eyes not +precisely of the same colour, and a slow walk adding to the staidness of +his figure; and whose infirmity of speech, increased by agitation, is +partly engaging. + +And the cheerfulness of all this, of the mere aspect of Lamb's quiet +subsequent life also, might make the more superficial reader think of +him as in himself something slight, and of his mirth as cheaply bought. +Yet we know that beneath this blithe surface there was something of the +fateful domestic horror, of the beautiful heroism and devotedness too, +of old Greek tragedy. His sister Mary, ten years his senior, in a sudden +paroxysm of madness, caused the death of her mother, and was brought to +trial for what an overstrained justice might have construed as the +greatest of crimes. She was released on the brother's pledging himself +to watch over her; and to this sister, from the age of twenty-one, +Charles Lamb sacrificed himself, "seeking thenceforth," says his +earliest biographer, "no connection which could interfere with her +supremacy in his affections, or impair his ability to sustain and +comfort her." The "feverish, romantic tie of love" he cast away in +exchange for the "charities of home." Only, from time to time, the +madness returned, affecting him too, once; and we see the brother and +sister voluntarily yielding to restraint. In estimating the humour of +_Elia_, we must no more forget the strong undercurrent of this great +misfortune and pity, than one could forget it in his actual story. So he +becomes the best critic, almost the discoverer, of Webster, a dramatist +of genius so sombre, so heavily coloured, so _macabre._[87] _Rosamund +Grey_ written in his twenty-third year, a story with something bitter +and exaggerated, an almost insane fixedness of gloom perceptible in it, +strikes clearly this note in his work. + +For himself, and from his own point of view, the exercise of his gift, +of his literary art, came to gild or sweeten a life of monotonous +labour, and seemed, as far as regarded others, no very important thing; +availing to give them a little pleasure, and inform them a little, +chiefly in a retrospective manner, but in no way concerned with the +turning of the tides of the great world. And yet this very modesty, this +unambitious way of conceiving his work, has impressed upon it a certain +exceptional enduringness. For of the remarkable English writers +contemporary with Lamb, many were greatly preoccupied with ideas of +practice--religious, moral, political--ideas which have since, in some +sense or other, entered permanently into the general consciousness; +and, these having no longer any stimulus for a generation provided with +a different stock of ideas, the writings of those who spent so much of +themselves in their propagation have lost, with posterity, something of +what they gained by them in immediate influence. Coleridge, Wordsworth, +Shelley even--sharing so largely in the unrest of their own age, and +made personally more interesting thereby, yet, of their actual work, +surrender more to the mere course of time than some of those who may +have seemed to exercise themselves hardly at all in great matters, to +have been little serious, or a little indifferent, regarding them. + +Of this number of the disinterested servants of literature, smaller in +England than in France, Charles Lamb is one. In the making of prose he +realises the principle of art for its own sake, as completely as Keats +in the making of verse. And, working ever close to the concrete, to the +details, great or small, of actual things, books, persons, and with no +part of them blurred to his vision by the intervention of mere abstract +theories, he has reached an enduring moral effect also, in a sort of +boundless sympathy. Unoccupied, as he might seem, with great matters, he +is in immediate contact with what is real, especially in its caressing +littleness, that littleness in which there is much of the whole woeful +heart of things, and meets it more than half-way with a perfect +understanding of it. What sudden, unexpected touches of pathos in +him!--bearing witness how the sorrow of humanity, the _Weltschmerz_, the +constant aching of its wounds, is ever present with him: but what a gift +also for the enjoyment of life in its subtleties, of enjoyment actually +refined by the need of some thoughtful economies and making the most of +things! Little arts of happiness he is ready to teach to others. The +quaint remarks of children which another would scarcely have heard, he +preserves--little flies in the priceless amber of his Attic wit--and has +his "Praise of chimney-sweepers" (as William Blake has written, with so +much natural pathos, the Chimney-sweeper's Song), valuing carefully +their white teeth, and fine enjoyment of white sheets in stolen sleep +at Arundel Castle, as he tells the story, anticipating something of the +mood of our deep humourists of the last generation. His simple +mother-pity for those who suffer by accident, or unkindness of nature, +blindness for instance, or fateful disease of mind like his sister's, +has something primitive in its largeness; and on behalf of ill-used +animals he is early in composing a _Pity's Gift._ + +And if, in deeper or more superficial sense, the dead _do_ care at all +for their name and fame, then how must the souls of Shakespeare and +Webster have been stirred, after so long converse with things that +stopped their ears, whether above or below the soil, at his exquisite +appreciations of them; the souls of Titian and of Hogarth too; for, what +has not been observed so generally as the excellence of his literary +criticism, Charles Lamb is a fine critic of painting also. It was as +loyal, self-forgetful work for others, for Shakespeare's self first, for +instance, and then for Shakespeare's readers, that that too was done: he +has the true scholar's way of forgetting himself in his subject. For +though "defrauded," as we saw, in his young years, "of the sweet food of +academic institution," he is yet essentially a scholar, and all his work +mainly retrospective, as I said; his own sorrows, affections, +perceptions, being alone real to him of the present. "I cannot make +these present times," he says once, "present to _me_." + +Above all, he becomes not merely an expositor, permanently valuable, but +for Englishmen almost the discoverer of the old English drama. "The book +is such as I am glad there should be," he modestly says of the +_Specimens of English Dramatic Poets who lived about the time of +Shakespeare_; to which, however, he adds in a series of notes the very +quintessence of criticism, the choicest savour and perfume of +Elizabethan poetry being sorted, and stored here, with a sort of +delicate intellectual epicureanism, which has had the effect of winning +for these, then almost forgotten, poets, one generation after another of +enthusiastic students. Could he but have known how fresh a source of +culture he was evoking there for other generations, through all those +years in which, a little wistfully, he would harp on the limitation of +his time by business, and sigh for a better fortune in regard to +literary opportunities! + +To feel strongly the charm of an old poet or moralist, the literary +charm of Burton, for instance, or Quarles, or The Duchess of Newcastle; +and then to interpret that charm, to convey it to others--he seeming to +himself but to hand on to others, in mere humble ministration, that of +which for them he is really the creator--this is the way of his +criticism; cast off in a stray letter often, or passing note, or +lightest essay or conversation. It is in such a letter, for instance, +that we come upon a singularly penetrative estimate of the genius and +writings of Defoe. + +Tracking, with an attention always alert, the whole process of their +production to its starting-point in the deep places of the mind, he +seems to realise the but half-conscious intuitions of Hogarth or +Shakespeare, and develops the great ruling unities which have swayed +their actual work; or "puts up," and takes, the one morsel of good stuff +in an old, forgotten writer. Even in what he says casually there comes +an aroma of old English; noticeable echoes, in chance turn and phrase, +of the great masters of style, the old masters. Godwin, seeing in +quotation a passage from _John Woodvil_, takes it for a choice fragment +of an old dramatist, and goes to Lamb to assist him in finding the +author. His power of delicate imitation in prose and verse reaches the +length of a fine mimicry even, as in those last essays of Elia on +Popular Fallacies, with their gentle reproduction or caricature of Sir +Thomas Browne, showing, the more completely, his mastery, by +disinterested study, of those elements of the man which were the real +source of style in that great, solemn master of old English, who, ready +to say what he has to say with fearless homeliness, yet continually +overawes one with touches of a strange utterance from worlds afar. For +it is with the delicacies of fine literature especially, its gradations +of expression, its fine judgment, its pure sense of words, of +vocabulary--things, alas! dying out in the English literature of the +present, together with the appreciation of them in our literature of the +past--that his literary mission is chiefly concerned. And yet, delicate, +refining, daintily epicurean, as he may seem, when he writes of giants +such as Hogarth or Shakespeare, though often but in a stray note, you +catch the sense of veneration with which those great names in past +literature and art brooded over his intelligence, his undiminished +impressibility by the great effects in them. Reading, commenting on +Shakespeare, he is like a man who walks alone under a grand stormy sky, +and among unwonted tricks of light, when powerful spirits might seem to +be abroad upon the air; and the grim humour of Hogarth, as he analyses +it, rises into a kind of spectral grotesque; while he too knows the +secret of fine, significant touches like theirs. + +There are traits, customs, characteristics of houses and dress, +surviving morsels of old life, such as Hogarth has transferred so +vividly into _The Rake's Progress_, or _Marriage a la Mode_, concerning +which we well understand how, common, uninteresting, or even worthless +in themselves, they have come to please us at last as things +picturesque, being set in relief against the modes of our different age. +Customs, stiff to us, stiff dresses, stiff furniture--types of cast-off +fashions, left by accident, and which no one ever meant to preserve--we +contemplate with more than good-nature, as having in them the veritable +accent of a time, not altogether to be replaced by its more solemn and +self-conscious deposits; like those tricks of individuality which we +find quite tolerable in persons, because they convey to us the secret of +lifelike expression, and with regard to which we are all to some extent +humourists. But it is part of the privilege of the genuine humourists to +anticipate this pensive mood with regard to the ways and things of his +own day; to look upon the tricks in manner of the life about him with +that same refined, purged sort of vision, which will come naturally to +those of a later generation, in observing whatever may have survived by +chance of its mere external habit. Seeing things always by the light of +an understanding more entire than is possible for ordinary minds, of the +whole mechanism of humanity, and seeing also the manner, the outward +mode or fashion, always in strict connection with the spiritual +condition which determined it, a humourist such as Charles Lamb +anticipates the enchantment of distance; and the characteristics of +places, ranks, habits of life, are transfigured for him, even now and in +advance of time, by poetic light; justifying what some might condemn as +mere sentimentality, in the effort to hand on unbroken the tradition of +such fashion or accent. "The praise of beggars," "the cries of London," +the traits of actors just grown "old," the spots in "town" where the +country, its fresh green and fresh water, still lingered on, one after +another, amidst the bustle; the quaint, dimmed, just played-out farces, +he had relished so much, coming partly through them to understand the +earlier English theatre as a thing once really alive; those fountains +and sundials of old gardens, of which he entertains such dainty +discourse:--he feels the poetry of these things, as the poetry of things +old indeed, but surviving as an actual part of the life of the present, +and as something quite different from the poetry of things flatly gone +from us and antique, which come back to us, if at all, as entire +strangers, like Scott's old Scotch-border personages, their oaths and +armour. Such gift of appreciation depends, as I said, on the habitual +apprehension of men's life as a whole--its organic wholeness, as +extending even to the least things in it--of its outward manner in +connection with its inward temper; and it involves a fine perception of +the congruities, the musical accordance between humanity and its +environment of custom, society, personal intercourse; as if all this, +with its meetings, partings, ceremonies, gesture, tones of speech, were +some delicate instrument on which an expert performer is playing. + +These are some of the characteristics of Elia, one essentially an +essayist, and of the true family of Montaigne, "never judging," as he +says, "system-wise of things, but fastening on particulars;" saying all +things as it were on chance occasion only, and by way of pastime, yet +succeeding thus, "glimpse-wise," in catching and recording more +frequently than others "the gayest, happiest attitude of things;" a +casual writer for dreamy readers, yet always giving the reader so much +more than he seemed to propose. There is something of the follower of +George Fox about him, and the Quaker's belief in the inward light coming +to one passive, to the mere wayfarer, who will be sure at all events to +lose no light which falls by the way--glimpses, suggestions, delightful +half-apprehensions, profound thoughts of old philosophers, hints of the +innermost reason in things, the full knowledge of which is held in +reserve; all the varied stuff, that is, of which genuine essays are +made. + +And with him, as with Montaigne, the desire of self-portraiture is, +below all more superficial tendencies, the real motive in writing at +all--a desire closely connected with that intimacy, that modern +subjectivity, which may be called the _Montaignesque_ element in +literature. What he designs is to give you himself, to acquaint you with +his likeness; but must do this, if at all, indirectly, being indeed +always more or less reserved, for himself and his friends; friendship +counting for so much in his life, that he is jealous of anything that +might jar or disturb it, even to the length of a sort of insincerity, to +which he assigns its quaint "praise;" this lover of stage plays +significantly welcoming a little touch of the artificiality of play to +sweeten the intercourse of actual life. + +And, in effect, a very delicate and expressive portrait of him does put +itself together for the duly meditative reader. In indirect touches of +his own work, scraps of faded old letters, what others remembered of his +talk, the man's likeness emerges; what he laughed and wept at, his +sudden elevations, and longings after absent friends, his fine +casuistries of affection and devices to jog sometimes, as he says, the +lazy happiness of perfect love, his solemn moments of higher discourse +with the young, as they came across him on occasion, and went along a +little way with him, the sudden surprised apprehension of beauties in +old literature, revealing anew the deep soul of poetry in things, and +withal the pure spirit of fun, having its way again; laughter, that most +short-lived of all things (some of Shakespeare's even being grown +hollow) wearing well with him. Much of all this comes out through his +letters, which may be regarded as a department of his essays. He is an +old-fashioned letter-writer, the essence of the old fashion of +letter-writing lying, as with true essay-writing, in the dexterous +availing oneself of accident and circumstance, in the prosecution of +deeper lines of observation; although, just as with the record of his +conversation, one loses something, in losing the actual tones of the +stammerer, still graceful in his halting, as he halted also in +composition, composing slowly and by fits, "like a Flemish painter," as +he tells us, so "it is to be regretted," says the editor of his letters, +"that in the printed letters the reader will lose the curious varieties +of writing with which the originals abound, and which are scrupulously +adapted to the subject." + +Also, he was a true "collector," delighting in the personal finding of a +thing, in the colour an old book or print gets for him by the little +accidents which attest previous ownership. Wither's _Emblems_, "that old +book and quaint," long-desired, when he finds it at last, he values none +the less because a child had coloured the plates with his paints. A +lover of household warmth everywhere, of that tempered atmosphere which +our various habitations get by men's living within them, he "sticks to +his favourite books as he did to his friends," and loved the "town," +with a jealous eye for all its characteristics, "old houses" coming to +have souls for him. The yearning for mere warmth against him in another, +makes him content, all through life, with pure brotherliness, "the most +kindly and natural species of love," as he says, in place of the +_passion_ of love. Brother and sister, sitting thus side by side, have, +of course, their anticipations how one of them must sit at last in the +faint sun alone, and set us speculating, as we read, as to precisely +what amount of melancholy really accompanied for him the approach of old +age, so steadily foreseen; make us note also with pleasure, his +successive wakings up to cheerful realities, out of a too curious musing +over what is gone and what remains, of life. In his subtle capacity for +enjoying the more refined points of earth, of human relationship, he +could throw the gleam of poetry or humour on what seemed common or +threadbare; has a care for the sighs, and the weary, humdrum +preoccupations of very weak people, down to their little pathetic +"gentilities," even; while, in the purely human temper, he can write of +death, almost like Shakespeare. + +And that care, through all his enthusiasm of discovery, for what is +accustomed, in literature, connected thus with his close clinging to +home and the earth, was congruous also with that love for the accustomed +in religion, which we may notice in him. He is one of the last votaries +of that old-world sentiment, based on the feelings of hope and awe, +which may be described as the religion of men of letters (as Sir Thomas +Browne has his _Religion of the Physician_), religion as understood by +the soberer men of letters in the last century, Addison, Gray, and +Johnson; by Jane Austen and Thackeray, later. A high way of feeling +developed largely by constant intercourse with the great things of +literature, and extended in its turn to those matters greater still, +this religion lives, in the main retrospectively, in a system of +received sentiments and beliefs; received, like those great things of +literature and art, in the first instance, on the authority of a long +tradition, in the course of which they have linked themselves in a +thousand complex ways to the conditions of human life, and no more +questioned now than the feeling one keeps by one of the greatness--say! +of Shakespeare. For Charles Lamb, such form of religion becomes the +solemn background on which the nearer and more exciting objects of his +immediate experience relieve themselves, borrowing from it an expression +of calm; its necessary atmosphere being indeed a profound quiet, that +quiet which has in it a kind of sacramental efficacy, working, we might +say, on the principle of the _opus operatum,_[88] almost without any +co-operation of one's own, towards the assertion of the higher self. +And, in truth, to men of Lamb's delicately attuned temperament mere +physical stillness has its full value; such natures seeming to long for +it sometimes, as for no merely negative thing, with a sort of mystical +sensuality. + +The writings of Charles Lamb are an excellent illustration of the value +of reserve in literature. Below his quiet, his quaintness, his humour, +and what may seem the slightness, the occasional or accidental character +of his work, there lies, as I said at starting, as in his life, a +genuinely tragic element. The gloom, reflected at its darkest in those +hard shadows of _Rosamund Grey_, is always there, though not always +realised either for himself or his readers, and restrained always in +utterance. It gives to those lighter matters on the surface of life and +literature among which he for the most part moved, a wonderful force of +expression, as if at any moment these slight words and fancies might +pierce very far into the deeper soul of things. In his writing, as in +his life, that quiet is not the low-flying of one from the first drowsy +by choice, and needing the prick of some strong passion or worldly +ambition, to stimulate him into all the energy of which he is capable; +but rather the reaction of nature, after an escape from fate, dark and +insane as in old Greek tragedy, following upon which the sense of mere +relief becomes a kind of passion, as with one who, having narrowly +escaped earthquake or shipwreck, finds a thing for grateful tears in +just sitting quiet at home, under the wall, till the end of days. + +He felt the genius of places; and I sometimes think he resembles the +places he knew and liked best, and where his lot fell--London, +sixty-five years ago, with Covent Garden and the old theatres, and the +Temple gardens still unspoiled, Thames gliding down, and beyond to north +and south the fields at Enfield or Hampton, to which, "with their living +trees," the thoughts wander "from the hard wood of the desk"--fields +fresher, and coming nearer to town then, but in one of which the present +writer remembers, on a brooding early summer's day, to have heard the +cuckoo for the first time. Here, the surface of things is certainly +humdrum, the streets dingy, the green places, where the child goes +a-maying, tame enough. But nowhere are things more apt to respond to the +brighter weather, nowhere is there so much difference between rain and +sunshine, nowhere do the clouds roll together more grandly; those quaint +suburban pastorals gather a certain quality of grandeur from the +background of the great city, with its weighty atmosphere, and portent +of storm in the rapid light on dome and bleached stone steeples. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 86: From "Appreciations," 1889.] + +[Footnote 87: Macabre: very grim.] + +[Footnote 88: Opus operatum (a phrase from Catholic theology): the work +performed through the sacraments--baptism, confirmation, etc.--the +efficacy of which is not dependent on the participants.] + + + + +DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT[89] + +NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE + + +That very singular man, old Dr. Heidegger, once invited four venerable +friends to meet him in his study. There were three white-bearded +gentlemen, Mr. Medbourne, Colonel Killigrew, and Mr. Gascoigne, and a +withered gentlewoman, whose name was the Widow Wycherly. They were all +melancholy old creatures, who had been unfortunate in life, and whose +greatest misfortune it was, that they were not long ago in their graves. +Mr. Medbourne, in the vigor of his age, had been a prosperous merchant, +but had lost his all by a frantic speculation, and was now little better +than a mendicant. Colonel Killigrew had wasted his best years, and his +health and substance, in the pursuit of sinful pleasures, which had +given birth to a brood of pains, such as the gout, and divers other +torments of soul and body. Mr. Gascoigne was a ruined politician, a man +of evil fame, or at least had been so, till time had buried him from the +knowledge of the present generation, and made him obscure instead of +infamous. As for the Widow Wycherly, tradition tells us that she was a +great beauty in her day; but, for a long while past, she had lived in +deep seclusion, on account of certain scandalous stories, which had +prejudiced the gentry of the town against her. It is a circumstance +worth mentioning, that each of these three old gentlemen, Mr. Medbourne, +Colonel Killigrew, and Mr. Gascoigne, were early lovers of the Widow +Wycherly, and had once been on the point of cutting each others' throats +for her sake. And, before proceeding further, I will merely hint, that +Dr. Heidegger and all his four guests were sometimes thought to be a +little beside themselves; as is not unfrequently the case with old +people, when worried either by present troubles or woeful recollections. + +"My dear old friends," said Dr. Heidegger, motioning them to be seated, +"I am desirous of your assistance in one of those little experiments +with which I amuse myself here in my study." + +If all stories were true, Dr. Heidegger's study must have been a very +curious place. It was a dim, old-fashioned chamber festooned with +cobwebs, and besprinkled with antique dust. Around the walls stood +several oaken bookcases, the lower shelves of which were filled with +rows of gigantic folios, and black-letter quartos, and the upper with +little parchment-covered duodecimos. Over the central bookcase was a +bronze bust of Hippocrates, with which, according to some authorities, +Dr. Heidegger was accustomed to hold consultations, in all difficult +cases of his practice. In the obscurest corner of the room stood a tall +and narrow oaken closet, with its door ajar, within which doubtfully +appeared a skeleton. Between two of the bookcases hung a looking-glass, +presenting its high and dusty plate within a tarnished gilt frame. Among +many wonderful stories related of this mirror, it was fabled that the +spirits of all the doctor's deceased patients dwelt within its verge, +and would stare him in the face whenever he looked thitherward. The +opposite side of the chamber was ornamented with the full-length +portrait of a young lady, arrayed in the faded magnificence of silk, +satin, and brocade, and with a visage as faded as her dress. Above half +a century ago Dr. Heidegger had been on the point of marriage with this +young lady; but, being affected with some slight disorder, she had +swallowed one of her lover's prescriptions, and died on the bridal +evening. The greatest curiosity of the study remains to be mentioned; it +was a ponderous folio volume, bound in black leather, with massive +silver clasps. There were no letters on the back, and nobody could tell +the title of the book. But it was well known to be a book of magic; and +once, when a chambermaid had lifted it, merely to brush away the dust, +the skeleton had rattled in its closet, the picture of the young lady +had stepped one foot upon the floor, and several ghastly faces had +peeped forth from the mirror; while the brazen head of Hippocrates +frowned, and said--"Forbear!" + +Such was Dr. Heidegger's study. On the summer afternoon of our tale, a +small round table, as black as ebony, stood in the center of the room +sustaining a cut-glass vase of beautiful form and elaborate workmanship. +The sunshine came through the window, between the heavy festoons of two +faded damask curtains, and fell directly across this vase, so that a +mild splendor was reflected from it on the ashen visages of the five old +people who sat around. Four champagne glasses were also on the table. + +"My dear old friends," repeated Dr. Heidegger, "may I reckon on your aid +in performing an exceedingly curious experiment?" + +Now Dr. Heidegger was a very strange old gentleman, whose eccentricity +had become the nucleus for a thousand fantastic stories. Some of these +fables, to my shame be it spoken, might possibly be traced back to mine +own veracious self; and if any passage of the present tale should +startle the reader's faith, I must be content to bear the stigma of a +fiction monger. + +When the doctor's four guests heard him talk of his proposed experiment, +they anticipated nothing more wonderful than the murder of a mouse in an +air pump, or the examination of a cobweb by the microscope, or some +similar nonsense, with which he was constantly in the habit of pestering +his intimates. But without waiting for a reply, Dr. Heidegger hobbled +across the chamber, and returned with the same ponderous folio, bound in +black leather, which common report affirmed to be a book of magic. +Undoing the silver clasps, he opened the volume, and took from among its +black-letter pages a rose, or what was once a rose, though now the +green leaves and crimson petals had assumed one brownish hue, and the +ancient flower seemed ready to crumble to dust in the doctor's hands. + +"This rose," said Dr. Heidegger, with a sigh, "this same withered and +crumbling flower, blossomed five and fifty years ago. It was given me by +Sylvia Ward, whose portrait hangs yonder; and I meant to wear it in my +bosom at our wedding. Five and fifty years it has been treasured between +the leaves of this old volume. Now, would you deem it possible that this +rose of half a century could ever bloom again?" + +"Nonsense!" said the Widow Wycherly, with a peevish toss of her head. +"You might as well ask whether an old woman's wrinkled face could ever +bloom again." + +"See!" answered Dr. Heidegger. + +He uncovered the vase, and threw the faded rose into the water which it +contained. At first, it lay lightly on the surface of the fluid, +appearing to imbibe none of its moisture. Soon, however, a singular +change began to be visible. The crushed and dried petals stirred, and +assumed a deepening tinge of crimson, as if the flower were reviving +from a death-like slumber; the slender stalk and twigs of foliage became +green; and there was the rose of half a century, looking as fresh as +when Sylvia Ward had first given it to her lover. It was scarcely full +blown; for some of its delicate red leaves curled modestly around its +moist bosom, within which two or three dewdrops were sparkling. + +"That is certainly a very pretty deception," said the doctor's friends; +carelessly, however, for they had witnessed greater miracles at a +conjurer's show; "pray how was it effected?" + +"Did you never hear of the 'Fountain of Youth'?" asked Dr. Heidegger, +"which Ponce De Leon, the Spanish adventurer, went in search of two or +three centuries ago?" + +"But did Ponce De Leon ever find it?" said the Widow Wycherly. + +"No," answered Dr. Heidegger, "for he never sought it in the right +place. The famous Fountain of Youth, if I am rightly informed, is +situated in the southern part of the Floridian peninsula, not far from +Lake Macaco. Its source is overshadowed by several gigantic magnolias, +which, though numberless centuries old, have been kept as fresh as +violets, by the virtues of this wonderful water. An acquaintance of +mine, knowing my curiosity in such matters, has sent me what you see in +the vase." + +"Ahem!" said Colonel Killigrew, who believed not a word of the doctor's +story; "and what may be the effect of this fluid on the human frame?" + +"You shall judge for yourself, my dear Colonel," replied Dr. Heidegger; +"and all of you, my respected friends, are welcome to so much of this +admirable fluid, as may restore to you the bloom of youth. For my own +part, having had much trouble in growing old, I am in no hurry to grow +young again. With your permission, therefore, I will merely watch the +progress of the experiment.". + +While he spoke, Dr. Heidegger had been filling the four champagne +glasses with the water of the Fountain of Youth. It was apparently +impregnated with an effervescent gas, for little bubbles were +continually ascending from the depths of the glasses, and bursting in +silvery spray at the surface. As the liquor diffused a pleasant perfume, +the old people doubted not that it possessed cordial and comfortable +properties; and, though utter sceptics as to its rejuvenescent power, +they were inclined to swallow it at once. But Dr. Heidegger besought +them to stay a moment. + +"Before you drink, my respectable old friends," said he, "it would be +well that, with the experience of a lifetime to direct you, you should +draw up a few general rules for your guidance, in passing a second time +through the perils of youth. Think what a sin and shame it would be, if, +with your peculiar advantages, you should not become patterns of virtue +and wisdom to all the young people of the age!" + +The doctor's four venerable friends made him no answer, except by a +feeble and tremulous laugh; so very ridiculous was the idea, that, +knowing how closely repentance treads behind the steps of error, they +should ever go astray again. + +"Drink, then," said the doctor, bowing; "I rejoice that I have so well +selected the subjects of my experiment." + +With palsied hands, they raised the glasses to their lips. The liquor, +if it really possessed such virtues as Dr. Heidegger imputed to it, +could not have been bestowed on four human beings who needed it more +wofully. They looked as if they had never known what youth or pleasure +was, but had been the offspring of Nature's dotage, and always the gray, +decrepit, sapless, miserable creatures, who now sat stooping round the +doctor's table, without life enough in their souls or bodies to be +animated even by the prospect of growing young again. They drank off the +water, and replaced their glasses on the table. + +Assuredly there was an almost immediate improvement in the aspect of the +party, not unlike what might have been produced by a glass of generous +wine, together with a sudden glow of cheerful sunshine, brightening over +all their visages at once. There was a healthful suffusion on their +cheeks, instead of the ashen hue that had made them look so corpse-like. +They gazed at one another, and fancied that some magic power had really +begun to smooth away the deep and sad inscriptions which Father Time had +been so long engraving on their brows. The Widow Wycherly adjusted her +cap, for she felt almost like a woman again. + +"Give us more of this wondrous water!" cried they, eagerly. "We are +younger--but we are still too old! Quick--give us more!" + +"Patience, patience!" quoth Dr. Heidegger, who sat watching the +experiment, with philosophic coolness. "You have been a long time +growing old. Surely, you might be content to grow young in half an hour! +But the water is at your service." + +Again he filled their glasses with the liquor of youth, enough of which +still remained in the vase to turn half the old people in the city to +the age of their own grandchildren. While the bubbles were yet sparkling +on the brim, the doctor's four guests snatched their glasses from the +table, and swallowed the contents at a single gulp. Was it delusion? +Even while the draught was passing down their throats, it seemed to have +wrought a change on their whole systems. Their eyes grew clear and +bright; a dark shade deepened among their silvery locks; they sat around +the table, three gentlemen, of middle age, and a woman, hardly beyond +her buxom prime. + +"My dear widow, you are charming!" cried Colonel Killigrew, whose eyes +had been fixed upon her face, while the shadows of age were flitting +from it like darkness from the crimson daybreak. + +The fair widow knew, of old, that Colonel Killigrew's compliments were +not always measured by sober truth; so she started up and ran to the +mirror, still dreading that the ugly visage of an old woman would meet +her gaze. Meanwhile, the three gentlemen behaved in such a manner as +proved that the water of the Fountain of Youth possessed some +intoxicating qualities; unless, indeed, their exhilaration of spirits +were merely a lightsome dizziness, caused by the sudden removal of the +weight of years. Mr. Gascoigne's mind seemed to run on political topics, +but whether relating to the past, present, or future, could not easily +be determined, since the same ideas and phrases have been in vogue these +fifty years. Now he rattled forth full-throated sentences about +patriotism, national glory, and the people's right; now he muttered some +perilous stuff or other, in a sly and doubtful whisper, so cautiously +that even his own conscience could scarcely catch the secret; and now, +again, he spoke in measured accents, and a deeply deferential tone, as +if a royal ear were listening to his well-turned periods. Colonel +Killigrew all this time had been trolling forth a jolly bottle song, and +ringing his glass in symphony with the chorus, while his eyes wandered +toward the buxom figure of the Widow Wycherly. On the other side of the +table, Mr. Medbourne was involved in a calculation of dollars and cents, +with which was strangely intermingled a project for supplying the East +Indies with ice, by harnessing a team of whales to the polar icebergs. + +As for the Widow Wycherly, she stood before the mirror courtesying and +simpering to her own image, and greeting it as the friend whom she loved +better than all the world beside. She thrust her face close to the +glass, to see whether some long-remembered wrinkle or crow's-foot had +indeed vanished. She examined whether the snow had so entirely melted +from her hair, that the venerable cap could be safely thrown aside. At +last, turning briskly away, she came with a sort of dancing step to the +table. + +"My dear old doctor," cried she, "pray favor me with another glass!" + +"Certainly, my dear madam, certainly!" replied the complaisant doctor; +"see! I have already filled the glasses." + +There, in fact, stood the four glasses, brimful of this wonderful water, +the delicate spray of which, as it effervesced from the surface, +resembled the tremulous glitter of diamonds. It was now so nearly +sunset, that the chamber had grown duskier than ever; but a mild and +moonlight splendor gleamed from within the vase, and rested alike on the +four guests and on the doctor's venerable figure. He sat in a +high-backed, elaborately-carved, oaken arm-chair, with a gray dignity of +aspect that might have well befitted that very Father Time, whose power +had never been disputed, save by this fortunate company. Even while +quaffing the third draught of the Fountain of Youth, they were almost +awed by the expression of his mysterious visage. + +But, the next moment, the exhilarating gush of young life shot through +their veins. They were now in the happy prime of youth. Age, with its +miserable train of cares, and sorrows, and diseases, was remembered only +as the trouble of a dream, from which they had joyously awoke. The +fresh gloss of the soul, so early lost, and without which the world's +successive scenes had been but a gallery of faded pictures, again threw +its enchantment over all their prospects. They felt like new-created +beings, in a new-created universe. + +"We are young! We are young!" they cried exultingly. + +Youth, like the extremity of age, had effaced the strongly-marked +characteristics of middle life, and mutually assimilated them all. They +were a group of merry youngsters, almost maddened with the exuberant +frolicsomeness of their years. The most singular effect of their gayety +was an impulse to mock the infirmity and decrepitude of which they had +so lately been the victims. They laughed loudly at their old-fashioned +attire, the wide-skirted coats and flapped waistcoats of the young men, +and the ancient cap and gown of the blooming girl. One limped across the +floor, like a gouty grandfather; one set a pair of spectacles astride of +his nose, and pretended to pore over the black-letter pages of the book +of magic; a third seated himself in an arm-chair, and strove to imitate +the venerable dignity of Dr. Heidegger. Then all shouted mirthfully, and +leaped about the room. The Widow Wycherly--if so fresh a damsel could be +called a widow--tripped up to the doctor's chair, with a mischievous +merriment in her rosy face. + +"Doctor, you dear old soul," cried she, "get up and dance with me!" And +then the four young people laughed louder than ever to think what a +queer figure the poor old doctor would cut. + +"Pray excuse me," answered the doctor, quietly. "I am old and rheumatic, +and my dancing days were over long ago. But either of these gay young +gentlemen will be glad of so pretty a partner." + +"Dance with me, Clara!" cried Colonel Killigrew. + +"No, no, I will be her partner!" shouted Mr. Gascoigne. + +"She promised me her hand fifty years ago!" exclaimed Mr. Medbourne. + +They all gathered round her. One caught both her hands in his passionate +grasp--another threw his arm about her waist--the third buried his hand +among the glossy curls that clustered beneath the widow's cap. Blushing, +panting, struggling, chiding, laughing, her warm breath fanning each of +their faces by turns, she strove to disengage herself, yet still +remained in their triple embrace. Never was there a livelier picture of +youthful rivalship, with bewitching beauty for the prize. Yet, by a +strange deception, owing to the duskiness of the chamber, and the +antique dresses which they still wore, the tall mirror is said to have +reflected the figures of the three old, gray, withered grand-sires, +ridiculously contending for the skinny ugliness of a shrivelled grandam. + +But they were young: their burning passions proved them so. Inflamed to +madness by the coquetry of the girl-widow, who neither granted nor quite +withheld her favors, the three rivals began to interchange threatening +glances. Still keeping hold of the fair prize, they grappled fiercely at +one another's throats. As they struggled to and fro, the table was +overturned, and the vase dashed into a thousand fragments. The precious +Water of Youth flowed in a bright stream across the floor, moistening +the wings of a butterfly, which, grown old in the decline of summer, had +alighted there to die. The insect fluttered lightly through the chamber, +and settled on the snowy head of Dr. Heidegger. + +"Come, come gentlemen!--come, Madame Wycherly," exclaimed the doctor, "I +really must protest against this riot." + +They stood still, and shivered; for it seemed as if gray Time were +calling them back from their sunny youth, far down into the chill and +darksome vale of years. They looked at old Dr. Heidegger, who sat in his +carved arm-chair, holding the rose of half a century, which he had +rescued from among the fragments of the shattered vase. At the motion +of his hand, the four rioters resumed their seats; the more readily +because their violent exertions had wearied them, youthful though they +were. + +"My poor Sylvia's rose!" ejaculated Dr. Heidegger, holding it in the +light of the sunset clouds; "it appears to be fading again." + +And so it was. Even while the party were looking at it, the flower +continued to shrivel up, till it became as dry and fragile as when the +doctor had first thrown it into the vase. He shook off the few drops of +moisture which clung to its petals. + +"I love it as well thus, as in its dewy freshness," observed he, +pressing the withered rose to his withered lips. While he spoke, the +butterfly fluttered down from the doctor's snowy head, and fell upon the +floor. + +His guests shivered again. A strange dullness, whether of the body or +spirit they could not tell, was creeping gradually over them all. They +gazed at one another, and fancied that each fleeting moment snatched +away a charm, and left a deepening furrow where none had been before. +Was it an illusion? Had the changes of a lifetime been crowded into so +brief a space, and were they now four aged people, sitting with their +old friend, Dr. Heidegger? + +"Are we grown old again, so soon?" cried they, dolefully. + +In truth they had. The Water of Youth possessed merely a virtue more +transient than that of wine. The delirium which it created had +effervesced away. Yes! they were old again. With a shuddering impulse, +that showed her a woman still, the widow clasped her skinny hands before +her face, and wished that the coffin lid were over it, since it could no +longer be beautiful. + +"Yes, friends, we are old again," said Dr. Heidegger; "and lo! the Water +of Youth is all lavished on the ground. Well--I bemoan it not; for if +the fountain gushed at my very doorstep, I would not stoop to bathe my +lips in it--no, though its delirium were for years instead of moments. +Such is the lesson ye have taught me!" + +But the doctor's four friends had taught no such lesson to themselves. +They resolved forthwith to make a pilgrimage to Florida, and quaff at +morning, noon, and night, from the Fountain of Youth. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 89: From "Twice Told Tales" 1837.] + + + + +MARKHEIM[90] + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + + +"Yes," said the dealer, "our windfalls are of various kinds. Some +customers are ignorant, and then I touch a dividend on my superior +knowledge. Some are dishonest," and here he held up the candle, so that +the light fell strongly on his visitor, "and in that case," he +continued, "I profit by my virtue." + +Markheim had but just entered from the daylight streets, and his eyes +had not yet grown familiar with the mingled shine and darkness in the +shop. At these pointed words, and before the near presence of the flame, +he blinked painfully and looked aside. + +The dealer chuckled. "You come to me on Christmas Day," he resumed, +"when you know that I am alone in my house, put up my shutters, and make +a point of refusing business. Well, you will have to pay for that; you +will have to pay for my loss of time, when I should be balancing my +books; you will have to pay, besides, for a kind of manner that I remark +in you to-day very strongly. I am the essence of discretion, and ask no +awkward questions; but when a customer cannot look me in the eye, he has +to pay for it." The dealer once more chuckled; and then, changing to his +usual business voice, though still with a note of irony, "You can give, +as usual, a clear account of how you came into the possession of the +object?" he continued. "Still your uncle's cabinet? A remarkable +collector, sir!" + +And the little pale, round-shouldered dealer stood almost on tip-toe, +looking over the top of his gold spectacles, and nodding his head with +every mark of disbelief. Markheim returned his gaze with one of infinite +pity, and a touch of horror. + +"This time," said he, "you are in error. I have not come to sell, but to +buy. I have no curios to dispose of; my uncle's cabinet is bare to the +wainscot; even were it still intact, I have done well on the Stock +Exchange, and should more likely add to it than otherwise, and my errand +to-day is simplicity itself. I seek a Christmas present for a lady," he +continued, waxing more fluent as he struck into the speech he had +prepared; "and certainly I owe you every excuse for thus disturbing you +upon so small a matter. But the thing was neglected yesterday; I must +produce my little compliment at dinner; and, as you very well know, a +rich marriage is not a thing to be neglected." + +There followed a pause, during which the dealer seemed to weigh this +statement incredulously. The ticking of many clocks among the curious +lumber of the shop, and the faint rushing of the cabs in a near +thoroughfare, filled up the interval of silence. + +"Well, sir," said the dealer, "be it so. You are an old customer after +all; and if, as you say, you have the chance of a good marriage, far be +it from me to be an obstacle. Here is a nice thing for a lady now," he +went on, "this hand glass--fifteenth century, warranted; comes from a +good collection, too, but I reserve the name, in the interests of my +customer, who was just like yourself, my dear sir, the nephew and sole +heir of a remarkable collector." + +The dealer, while he thus ran on in his dry and biting voice, had +stooped to take the object from its place; and, as he had done so, a +shock had passed through Markheim, a start both of hand and foot, a +sudden leap of many tumultuous passions to the face. It passed as +swiftly as it came, and left no trace beyond a certain trembling of the +hand that now received the glass. + +"A glass," he said hoarsely, and then paused, and repeated it more +clearly. "A glass? For Christmas? Surely not?" + +"And why not?" cried the dealer. "Why not a glass?" + +Markheim was looking upon him with an indefinable expression. "You ask +me why not?" he said. "Why, look here--look in it--look at yourself! Do +you like to see it? No! nor I--nor any man." + +The little man had jumped back when Markheim had so suddenly confronted +him with the mirror; but now, perceiving there was nothing worse on +hand, he chuckled. "Your future lady, sir, must be pretty hard favored," +said he. + +"I ask you," said Markheim, "for a Christmas present, and you give me +this--this damned reminder of years, and sins and follies--this +hand-conscience! Did you mean it? Had you a thought in your mind? Tell +me. It will be better for you if you do. Come, tell me about yourself. I +hazard a guess now, that you are in secret a very charitable man?" + +The dealer looked closely at his companion. It was very odd, Markheim +did not appear to be laughing; there was something in his face like an +eager sparkle of hope, but nothing of mirth. + +"What are you driving at?" the dealer asked. + +"Not charitable?" returned the other, gloomily. "Not charitable; not +pious; not scrupulous; unloving, unbeloved; a hand to get money, a safe +to keep it. Is that all? Dear God, man, is that all?" + +"I will tell you what it is," began the dealer, with some sharpness, and +then broke off again into a chuckle. "But I see this is a love match of +yours, and you have been drinking the lady's health." + +"Ah!" cried Markheim, with a strange curiosity. "Ah, have you been in +love? Tell me about that." + +"I," cried the dealer. "I in love! I never had the time, nor have I the +time to-day for all this nonsense. Will you take the glass?" + +"Where is the hurry?" returned Markheim. "It is very pleasant to stand +here talking; and life is so short and insecure that I would not hurry +away from any pleasure--no, not even from so mild a one as this. We +should rather cling, cling to what little we can get, like a man at a +cliff's edge. Every second is a cliff, if you think upon it--a cliff a +mile high--high enough, if we fall, to dash us out of every feature of +humanity. Hence it is best to talk pleasantly. Let us talk of each +other; why should we wear this mask? Let us be confidential. Who knows, +we might become friends?" + +"I have just one word to say to you," said the dealer. "Either make your +purchase, or walk out of my shop." + +"True, true," said Markheim. "Enough fooling. To business. Show me +something else." + +The dealer stooped once more, this time to replace the glass upon the +shelf, his thin blond hair falling over his eyes as he did so. Markheim +moved a little nearer, with one hand in the pocket of his greatcoat; he +drew himself up and filled his lungs; at the same time many different +emotions were depicted together on his face--terror, horror, and +resolve, fascination and a physical repulsion; and through a haggard +lift of his upper lip, his teeth looked out. + +"This, perhaps, may suit," observed the dealer; and then, as he began to +rearise, Markheim bounded from behind upon his victim. The long, +skewerlike dagger flashed and fell. The dealer struggled like a hen, +striking his temple on the shelf, and then tumbled on the floor in a +heap. + +Time had some score of small voices in that shop, some stately and slow +as was becoming to their great age; others garrulous and hurried. All +these told out the seconds in an intricate chorus of tickings. Then the +passage of a lad's feet, heavily running on the pavement, broke in upon +these smaller voices and startled Markheim into the consciousness of his +surroundings. He looked about him awfully. The candle stood on the +counter, its flame solemnly wagging in a draught; and by that +inconsiderable movement, the whole room was filled with noiseless bustle +and kept heaving like a sea: the tall shadows nodding, the gross blots +of darkness swelling and dwindling as with respiration, the faces of the +portraits and the china gods changing and wavering like images in +water. The inner door stood ajar, and peered into that leaguer of +shadows with a long slit of daylight like a pointing finger. + +From these fear-stricken rovings, Markheim's eyes returned to the body +of his victim, where it lay both humped and sprawling, incredibly small +and strangely meaner than in life. In these poor, miserly clothes, in +that ungainly attitude, the dealer lay like so much sawdust. Markheim +had feared to see it, and, lo! it was nothing. And yet, as he gazed, +this bundle of old clothes and pool of blood began to find eloquent +voices. There it must lie; there was none to work the cunning hinges or +direct the miracle of locomotion--there it must lie till it was found. +Found! ay, and then? Then would this dead flesh lift up a cry that would +ring over England, and fill the world with the echoes of pursuit. Ay, +dead or not, this was still the enemy. "Time was that when the brains +were out," he thought; and the first word struck into his mind. Time, +now that the deed was accomplished--time, which had closed for the +victim, had become instant and momentous for the slayer. + +The thought was yet in his mind, when, first one and then another, with +every variety of pace and voice--one deep as the bell from a cathedral +turret, another ringing on its treble notes the prelude of a waltz--the +clocks began to strike the hour of three in the afternoon. + +The sudden outbreak of so many tongues in that dumb chamber staggered +him. He began to bestir himself, going to and fro with the candle, +beleaguered by moving shadows, and startled to the soul by chance +reflections. In many rich mirrors, some of home designs, some from +Venice or Amsterdam, he saw his face repeated and repeated, as it were +an army of spies; his own eyes met and detected him; and the sound of +his own steps, lightly as they fell, vexed the surrounding quiet. And +still as he continued to fill his pockets, his mind accused him, with a +sickening iteration, of the thousand faults of his design. He should +have chosen a more quiet hour; he should have prepared an alibi; he +should not have used a knife; he should have been more cautious, and +only bound and gagged the dealer, and not killed him; he should have +been more bold, and killed the servant also; he should have done all +things otherwise; poignant regrets, weary, incessant toiling of the mind +to change what was unchangeable, to plan what was now useless, to be the +architect of the irrevocable past. Meanwhile, and behind all this +activity, brute terrors, like the scurrying of rats in a deserted attic, +filled the more remote chambers of his brain with riot; the hand of the +constable would fall heavy on his shoulder, and his nerves would jerk +like a hooked fish; or he beheld, in galloping defile, the dock, the +prison, the gallows, and the black coffin. + +Terror of the people in the street sat down before his mind like a +besieging army. It was impossible, he thought, but that some rumour of +the struggle must have reached their ears and set on edge their +curiosity; and now, in all the neighbouring houses, he divined them +sitting motionless and with uplifted ear--solitary people, condemned to +spend Christmas dwelling alone on memories of the past, and now +startlingly recalled from that tender exercise; happy family parties, +struck into silence round the table, the mother still with raised +finger: every degree and age and humour, but all, by their own hearths, +prying and hearkening and weaving the rope that was to hang him. +Sometimes it seemed to him he could not move too softly; the clink of +the tall Bohemian goblets rang out loudly like a bell; and alarmed by +the bigness of the ticking, he was tempted to stop the clocks. And then, +again, with a swift transition of his terrors, the very silence of the +place appeared a source of peril, and a thing to strike and freeze the +passer-by; and he would step more boldly, and bustle aloud among the +contents of the shop, and imitate, with elaborate bravado, the movements +of a busy man at ease in his own house. + +But he was now so pulled about by different alarms that, while one +portion of his mind was still alert and cunning, another trembled on the +brink of lunacy. One hallucination in particular took a strong hold on +his credulity. The neighbour hearkening with white face beside his +window, the passer-by arrested by a horrible surmise on the +pavement--these could at worst suspect, they could not know; through the +brick walls and shuttered windows only sounds could penetrate. But here, +within the house, was he alone? He knew he was; he had watched the +servant set forth sweethearting, in her poor best, "out for the day" +written in every ribbon and smile. Yes, he was alone, of course; and +yet, in the bulk of empty house above him, he could surely hear a stir +of delicate footing--he was surely conscious, inexplicably conscious of +some presence. Ay, surely; to every room and corner of the house his +imagination followed it; and now it was a faceless thing, and yet had +eyes to see with; and again it was a shadow of himself; and yet again +behold the image of the dead dealer, reinspired with cunning and hatred. + +At times, with a strong effort, he would glance at the open door which +still seemed to repel his eyes. The house was tall, the skylight small +and dirty, the day blind with fog; and the light that filtered down to +the ground story was exceedingly faint, and showed dimly on the +threshold of the shop. And yet, in that strip of doubtful brightness, +did there not hang wavering a shadow? + +Suddenly, from the street outside, a very jovial gentleman began to beat +with a staff on the shop-door, accompanying his blows with shouts and +railleries in which the dealer was continually called upon by name. +Markheim, smitten into ice, glanced at the dead man. But no! he lay +quite still; he was fled away far beyond earshot of these blows and +shoutings; he was sunk beneath seas of silence; and his name, which +would once have caught his notice above the howling of a storm, had +become an empty sound. And presently the jovial gentleman desisted from +his knocking and departed. + +Here was a broad hint to hurry what remained to be done, to get forth +from this accusing neighbourhood, to plunge into a bath of London +multitudes, and to reach, on the other side of day, that haven of safety +and apparent innocence--his bed. One visitor had come: at any moment +another might follow and be more obstinate. To have done the deed, and +yet not to reap the profit, would be too abhorrent a failure. The money, +that was now Markheim's concern; and as a means to that, the keys. + +He glanced over his shoulder at the open door, where the shadow was +still lingering and shivering; and with no conscious repugnance of the +mind, yet with a tremor of the belly, he drew near the body of his +victim. The human character had quite departed. Like a suit half-stuffed +with bran, the limbs lay scattered, the trunk doubled, on the floor; and +yet the thing repelled him. Although so dingy and inconsiderable to the +eye, he feared it might have more significance to the touch. He took the +body by the shoulders; and turned it on its back. It was strangely light +and supple, and the limbs, as if they had been broken, fell into the +oddest postures. The face was robbed of all expression; but it was as +pale as wax, and shockingly smeared with blood about one temple. That +was, for Markheim, the one displeasing circumstance. It carried him +back, upon the instant, to a certain fair day in a fishers' village: a +gray day, a piping wind, a crowd upon the street, the blare of brasses, +the booming of drums, the nasal voice of a ballad singer; and a boy +going to and fro, buried over head in the crowd and divided between +interest and fear, until, coming out upon the chief place of concourse, +he beheld a booth and a great screen with pictures, dismally designed, +garishly coloured: Brownrigg with her apprentice; the Mannings with +their murdered guest; Weare in the death-grip of Thurtell; and a score +besides of famous crimes. The thing was as clear as an illusion: he was +once again that little boy; he was looking once again, and with the same +sense of physical revolt, at these vile pictures; he was still stunned +by the thumping of the drums. A bar of that day's music returned upon +his memory; and at that, for the first time, a qualm came over him, a +breath of nausea, a sudden weakness of the joints, which he must +instantly resist and conquer. + +He judged it more prudent to confront than to flee from these +considerations; looking the more hardily in the dead face, bending his +mind to realise the nature and greatness of his crime. So little a while +ago that face had moved with every change of sentiment, that pale mouth +had spoken, that body had been all on fire with governable energies; and +now, and by his act, that piece of life had been arrested, as the +horologist, with interjected finger, arrests the beating of the clock. +So he reasoned in vain; he could rise to no more remorseful +consciousness; the same heart which had shuddered before the painted +effigies of crime, looked on its reality unmoved. At best, he felt a +gleam of pity for one who had been endowed in vain with all those +faculties that can make the world a garden of enchantment, one who had +never lived and who was now dead. But of penitence, no, not a tremor. + +With that, shaking himself clear of these considerations, he found the +keys and advanced towards the open door of the shop. Outside, it had +begun to rain smartly; and the sound of the shower upon the roof had +banished silence. Like some dripping cavern, the chambers of the house +were haunted by an incessant echoing, which filled the ear and mingled +with the ticking of the clocks. And, as Markheim approached the door, he +seemed to hear, in answer to his own cautious tread, the steps of +another foot withdrawing up the stair. The shadow still palpitated +loosely on the threshold. He threw a ton's weight of resolve upon his +muscles, and drew back the door. + +The faint, foggy daylight glimmered dimly on the bare floor and stairs; +on the bright suit of armour posted, halbert in hand, upon the landing; +and on the dark wood-carvings, and framed pictures that hung against the +yellow panels of the wainscot. So loud was the beating of the rain +through all the house that, in Markheim's ears, it began to be +distinguished into many different sounds. Footsteps and sighs, the tread +of regiments marching in the distance, the chink of money in the +counting, and the creaking of doors held stealthily ajar, appeared to +mingle with the patter of the drops upon the cupola and the gushing of +the water in the pipes. The sense that he was not alone grew upon him to +the verge of madness. On every side he was haunted and begirt by +presences. He heard them moving in the upper chambers; from the shop, he +heard the dead man getting to his legs; and as he began with a great +effort to mount the stairs, feet fled quietly before him and followed +stealthily behind. If he were but deaf, he thought, how tranquilly he +would possess his soul! And then again, and hearkening with ever fresh +attention, he blessed himself for that unresting sense which held the +outposts and stood a trusty sentinel upon his life. His head turned +continually on his neck; his eyes, which seemed starting from their +orbits, scouted on every side, and on every side were half-rewarded as +with the tail of something nameless vanishing. The four-and-twenty steps +to the first floor were four-and-twenty agonies. + +On that first storey, the doors stood ajar, three of them like three +ambushes, shaking his nerves like the throats of cannon. He could never +again, he felt, be sufficiently immured and fortified from men's +observing eyes; he longed to be home, girt in by walls, buried among +bedclothes, and invisible to all but God. And at that thought he +wondered a little, recollecting tales of other murderers and the fear +they were said to entertain of heavenly avengers. It was not so, at +least, with him. He feared the laws of nature, lest, in their callous +and immutable procedure, they should preserve some damning evidence of +his crime. He feared tenfold more, with a slavish, superstitious terror, +some scission in the continuity of man's experience, some wilful +illegality of nature. He played a game of skill, depending on the +rules, calculating consequence from cause; and what if nature, as the +defeated tyrant overthrew the chess-board, should break the mould of +their succession? The like had befallen Napoleon (so writers said) when +the winter changed the time of its appearance. The like might befall +Markheim: the solid walls might become transparent and reveal his doings +like those of bees in a glass hive; the stout planks might yield under +his feet like quicksands and detain him in their clutch; ay, and there +were soberer accidents that might destroy him: if, for instance, the +house should fall and imprison him beside the body of his victim; or the +house next door should fly on fire, and the firemen invade him from all +sides. These things he feared; and, in a sense, these things might be +called the hands of God reached forth against sin. But about God himself +he was at ease; his act was doubtless exceptional, but so were his +excuses, which God knew; it was there, and not among men, that he felt +sure of justice. + +When he had got safe into the drawing-room, and shut the door behind +him, he was aware of a respite from alarms. The room was quite +dismantled, uncarpeted besides, and strewn with packing cases and +incongruous furniture; several great pier-glasses, in which he beheld +himself at various angles, like an actor on a stage; many pictures, +framed and unframed, standing, with their faces to the wall; a fine +Sheraton sideboard, a cabinet of marquetry, and a great old bed, with +tapestry hangings. The windows opened to the floor; but by great good +fortune the lower part of the shutters had been closed, and this +concealed him from the neighbours. Here, then, Markheim drew in a +packing case before the cabinet, and began to search among the keys. It +was a long business, for there were many; and it was irksome, besides; +for, after all, there might be nothing in the cabinet, and time was on +the wing. But the closeness of the occupation sobered him. With the tail +of his eye he saw the door--even glanced at it from time to time +directly like a besieged commander pleased to verify the good estate of +his defences. But in truth he was at peace. The rain falling in the +street sounded natural and pleasant. Presently, on the other side, the +notes of a piano were wakened to the music of a hymn, and the voices of +many children took up the air and words. How stately, how comfortable +was the melody! How fresh the youthful voices! Markheim gave ear to it +smilingly, as he sorted out the keys; and his mind was thronged with +answerable ideas and images; church-going children and the pealing of +the high organ; children afield, bathers by the brookside, ramblers on +the brambly common, kite-flyers in the windy and cloud-navigated sky; +and then, at another cadence of the hymn, back again to church, and the +somnolence of summer Sundays, and the high genteel voice of the parson +(which he smiled a little to recall) and the painted Jacobean tombs, and +the dim lettering of the Ten Commandments in the chancel. + +And as he sat thus, at once busy and absent, he was startled to his +feet. A flash of ice, a flash of fire, a bursting gush of blood, went +over him, and then he stood transfixed and thrilling. A step mounted the +stair slowly and steadily, and presently a hand was laid upon the knob, +and the lock clicked, and the door opened. + +Fear held Markheim in a vice. What to expect he knew not, whether the +dead man walking, or the official ministers of human justice, or some +chance witness blindly stumbling in to consign him to the gallows. But +when a face was thrust into the aperture, glanced round the room, looked +at him, nodded and smiled as if in friendly recognition, and then +withdrew again, and the door closed behind it, his fear broke loose from +his control in a hoarse cry. At the sound of this the visitant returned. + +"Did you call me?" he asked pleasantly, and with that he entered the +room and closed the door behind him. + +Markheim stood and gazed at him with all his eyes. Perhaps there was a +film upon his sight, but the outlines of the newcomer seemed to change +and waver like those of the idols in the wavering candle-light of the +shop; and at times he thought he knew him; and at times he thought he +bore a likeness to himself; and always like a lump of living terror, +there lay in his bosom the conviction that this thing was not of the +earth and not of God. + +And yet the creature had a strange air of the commonplace, as he stood +looking on Markheim with a smile; and when he added, "You are looking +for the money, I believe?" it was in the tones of everyday politeness. + +Markheim made no answer. + +"I should warn you," resumed the other, "that the maid has left her +sweetheart earlier than usual and will soon be here. If Mr. Markheim be +found in this house, I need not describe to him the consequences." + +"You know me?" cried the murderer. + +The visitor smiled. "You have long been a favourite of mine," he said; +"and I have long observed and often sought to help you." + +"What are you?" cried Markheim; "the devil?" + +"What I may be," returned the other, "cannot affect the service I +propose to render you." + +"It can," cried Markheim; "it does! Be helped by you? No, never; not by +you! You do not know me yet; thank God, you do not know me!" + +"I know you," replied the visitant, with a sort of kind severity or +rather firmness. "I know you to the soul." + +"Know me!" cried Markheim. "Who can do so? My life is but a travesty and +slander on myself. I have lived to belie my nature. All men do; all men +are better than this disguise that grows about and stifles them. You see +each dragged away by life, like one whom bravos have seized and muffled +in a cloak. If they had their own control--if you could see their faces, +they would be altogether different, they would shine out for heroes and +saints! I am worse than most; myself is more overlaid; my excuse is +known to me and God. But, had I the time, I could disclose myself." + +"To me?" inquired the visitant. + +"To you before all," returned the murderer. "I supposed you were +intelligent. I thought--since you exist--you would prove a reader of the +heart. And yet you would propose to judge me by my acts! Think of it; my +acts! I was born and I have lived in a land of giants; giants have +dragged me by the wrists since I was born out of my mother--the giants +of circumstance. And you would judge me by my acts! But can you not look +within? Can you not understand that evil is hateful to me? Can you not +see within me the clear writing of conscience, never blurred by any +wilful sophistry, although too often disregarded? Can you not read me +for a thing that surely must be common as humanity--the unwilling +sinner?" + +"All this is very feelingly expressed," was the reply, "but it regards +me not. These points of consistency are beyond my province, and I care +not in the least by what compulsion you may have been dragged away, so +as you are but carried in the right direction. But time flies; the +servant delays, looking in the faces of the crowd and at the pictures on +the hoardings, but still she keeps moving nearer; and remember, it is as +if the gallows itself was striding towards you through the Christmas +streets! Shall I help you; I, who know all? Shall I tell you where to +find the money?" + +"For what price?" asked Markheim. + +"I offer you the service for a Christmas gift," returned the other. + +Markheim could not refrain from smiling with a kind of bitter triumph. +"No," said he, "I will take nothing at your hands; if I were dying of +thirst, and it was your hand that put the pitcher to my lips, I should +find the courage to refuse. It may be credulous, but I will do nothing +to commit myself to evil." + +"I have no objection to a death-bed repentance," observed the visitant. + +"Because you disbelieve their efficacy!" Markheim cried. + +"I do not say so," returned the other; "but I look on these things from +a different side, and when the life is done my interest falls. The man +has lived to serve me, to spread black looks under colour of religion, +or to sow tares in the wheat-field, as you do, in a course of weak +compliance with desire. Now that he draws so near to his deliverance, he +can add but one act of service--to repent, to die smiling, and thus to +build up in confidence and hope the more timorous of my surviving +followers. I am not so hard a master. Try me. Accept my help. Please +yourself in life as you have done hitherto; please yourself more amply, +spread your elbows at the board; and when the night begins to fall and +the curtains to be drawn, I tell you, for your greater comfort, that you +will find it even easy to compound your quarrel with your conscience, +and to make a truckling peace with God. I came but now from such a +death-bed, and the room was full of sincere mourners, listening to the +man's last words: and when I looked into that face, which had been set +as a flint against mercy, I found it smiling with hope." + +"And do you, then, suppose me such a creature?" asked Markheim. "Do you +think I have no more generous aspirations than to sin, and sin, and sin, +and, at last, sneak into heaven? My heart rises at the thought. Is this, +then, your experience of mankind? or is it because you find me with red +hands that you presume such baseness? and is this crime of murder indeed +so impious as to dry up the very springs of good?" + +"Murder is to me no special category," replied the other. "All sins are +murder, even as all life is war. I behold your race, like starving +mariners on a raft, plucking crusts out of the hands of famine and +feeding on each other's lives. I follow sins beyond the moment of their +acting; I find in all that the last consequence is death; and to my +eyes, the pretty maid who thwarts her mother with such taking graces on +a question of a ball, drips no less visibly with human gore than such a +murderer as yourself. Do I say that I follow sins? I follow virtues +also; they differ not by the thickness of a nail, they are both scythes +for the reaping angel of Death. Evil, for which I live, consists not in +action, but in character. The bad man is dear to me; not the bad act, +whose fruits, if we could follow them far enough down the hurtling +cataract of the ages, might yet be found more blessed than those of the +rarest virtues. And it is not because you have killed a dealer, but +because you are Markheim, that I offered to forward your escape." + +"I will lay my heart open to you," answered Markheim. "This crime on +which you find me is my last. On my way to it I have learned many +lessons; itself is a lesson, a momentous lesson. Hitherto I have been +driven with revolt to what I would not; I was a bond-slave to poverty, +driven and scourged. There are robust virtues that can stand in these +temptations; mine was not so: I had a thirst of pleasure. But to-day, +and out of this deed, I pluck both warning and riches--both the power +and a fresh resolve to be myself. I become in all things a free actor in +the world; I begin to see myself all changed, these hands the agents of +good, this heart at peace. Something comes over me out of the past; +something of what I have dreamed on Sabbath evenings to the sound of the +church organ, of what I forecast when I shed tears over noble books, or +talked, an innocent child, with my mother. There lies my life; I have +wandered a few years, but now I see once more my city of destination." + +"You are to use this money on the Stock Exchange, I think?" remarked the +visitor; "and there, if I mistake not, you have already lost some +thousands?" + +"Ah," said Markheim, "but this time I have a sure thing." + +"This time, again, you will lose," replied the visitor, quietly. + +"Ah, but I keep back the half!" cried Markheim. + +"That also you will lose," said the other. + +The sweat started upon Markheim's brow. "Well, then, what matter?" he +exclaimed. "Say it be lost, say I am plunged again in poverty, shall one +part of me, and that the worse, continue until the end to override the +better? Evil and good run strong in me, haling me both ways. I do not +love the one thing, I love all. I can conceive great deeds, +renunciations, martyrdoms; and though I be fallen to such a crime as +murder, pity is no stranger to my thoughts. I pity the poor; who knows +their trials better than myself? I pity and help them; I prize love, I +love honest laughter; there is no good thing nor true thing on earth but +I love it from my heart. And are my vices only to direct my life, and my +virtues to lie without effect, like some passive lumber of the mind? Not +so; good, also, is a spring of acts." + +But the visitant raised his finger. "For six-and-thirty years that you +have been in this world," said he, "through many changes of fortune and +varieties of humour, I have watched you steadily fall. Fifteen years ago +you would have started at a theft. Three years back you would have +blenched at the name of murder. Is there any crime, is there any cruelty +or meanness, from which you still recoil?--five years from now I shall +detect you in the fact! Downward, downward, lies your way; nor can +anything but death avail to stop you." + +"It is true," Markheim said huskily, "I have in some degree complied +with evil. But it is so with all: the very saints, in the mere exercise +of living, grow less dainty, and take on the tone of their +surroundings." + +"I will propound to you one simple question," said the other; "and as +you answer, I shall read to you your moral horoscope. You have grown in +many things more lax; possibly you do right to be so; and at any +account, it is the same with all men. But granting that, are you in any +one particular, however trifling, more difficult to please with your own +conduct, or do you go in all things with a looser rein?" + +"In any one?" repeated Markheim, with an anguish of consideration. "No," +he added, with despair, "in none! I have gone down in all." + +"Then," said, the visitor, "content yourself with what you are, for you +will never change; and the words of your part on this stage are +irrevocably written down." + +Markheim stood for a long while silent, and indeed it was the visitor +who first broke the silence. "That being so," he said, "shall I show you +the money?" + +"And grace?" cried Markheim. + +"Have you not tried it?" returned the other. "Two or three years ago, +did I not see you on the platform of revival meetings, and was not your +voice the loudest in the hymn?" + +"It is true," said Markheim; "and I see clearly what remains for me by +way of duty. I thank you for these lessons from my soul; my eyes are +opened, and I behold myself at last for what I am." + +At this moment, the sharp note of the door-bell rang through the house; +and the visitant, as though this were some concerted signal for which he +had been waiting, changed at once in his demeanour. + +"The maid!" he cried. "She has returned, as I forewarned you, and there +is now before you one more difficult passage. Her master, you must say, +is ill; you must let her in, with an assured but rather serious +countenance--no smiles, no overacting, and I promise you success! Once +the girl within, and the door closed, the same dexterity that has +already rid you of the dealer will relieve you of this last danger in +your path. Thenceforward you have the whole evening--the whole night, if +needful--to ransack the treasures of the house and to make good your +safety. This is help that comes to you with the mask of danger. Up!" he +cried; "up, friend; your life hangs trembling in the scales; up, and +act!" + +Markheim steadily regarded his counsellor. "If I be condemned to evil +acts," he said, "there is still one door of freedom open--I can cease +from action. If my life be an ill thing, I can lay it down. Though I be, +as you say truly, at the beck of every small temptation, I can yet, by +one decisive gesture, place myself beyond the reach of all. My love of +good is damned to barrenness; it may, and let it be! But I have still my +hatred of evil; and from that, to your galling disappointment, you shall +see that I can draw both energy and courage." + +The features of the visitor began to undergo a wonderful and lovely +change: they brightened and softened with a tender triumph; and, even as +they brightened, faded and dislimned. But Markheim did not pause to +watch or understand the transformation. He opened the door and went +downstairs very slowly, thinking to himself. His past went soberly +before him; he beheld it as it was, ugly and strenuous like a dream, +random as chance-medley--a scene of defeat. Life, as he thus reviewed +it, tempted him no longer; but on the further side he perceived a quiet +haven for his bark. He paused in the passage, and looked into the shop, +where the candle still burned by the dead body. It was strangely silent. +Thoughts of the dealer swarmed into his mind, as he stood gazing. And +then the bell once more broke out into impatient clamour. + +He confronted the maid upon the threshold with something like a smile. + +"You had better go for the police," said he; "I have killed your +master." + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 90: First published in 1885.] + + + + +SUPPLEMENTARY READINGS + +WITH SOME TOPICS FOR DISCUSSION AND FOR COMPOSITION + +(Note.--The selections named below are as a rule short; and, since they +are contained in standard works of modern prose, they are accessible in +the average library. Page numbers in parentheses refer to the present +volume.) + + +I. THE PERSONAL LIFE + +(_a_) William Hazlitt, _On Personal Character_, in "The Plain Speaker": +How the main thesis differs from that in Emerson's _Self-Reliance_ (page +1). (_b_) Walter Pater, _Diaphaneite_, in "Miscellaneous Studies": The +substance of the ideal personality here delineated, and how it differs +from the type suggested by Emerson. (_c_) Matthew Arnold, _Doing as One +Likes_, or _Hebraism and Hellenism_, in "Culture and Anarchy": The main +principles of personal endeavor suggested in either of these essays. +(_d_) Plutarch, _Marcus Cato,_ in "Lives," Vol. II of Clough's +translation: 1. Cato's Self-Reliance. 2. Cato's type of character in +American public life. (_e_) Walter Scott, fragment of _Autobiography_, +in Lockhart's "Life of Scott:" A comparison of Scott's early training +with Ruskin's. See also the early chapters of (_f_) Trevelyan's "Life of +Macaulay" and (_g_) Froude's "Life of Carlyle." (_h_) Charles Darwin, +_Autobiography_, in "Life and Letters:" 1. The change which came over +Darwin's attitude toward literature. 2. The contrast between Darwin's +type of mind and Lamb's as revealed in _Old China_ (page 40) and Pater's +essay (page 437). + + +II. EDUCATION + +(_a_) R.W. Emerson, _The American Scholar_, in "Nature, Addresses, +Lectures:" The main points in the view here given of education. 2. +Certain considerations, somewhat neglected by Emerson, but developed by +Newman (page 52). (_b_) Woodrow Wilson, _The Training of Intellect_ (an +address to the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Yale University): How far your +own course of study is fulfilling the requirements here set forth, (_c_) +William Hazlitt, _On Application to Study_, in "The Plain Speaker:" 1. +Hazlitt's view of the study of composition. 2. How the principles of +application which he advocates may be applied to some other study in +which you are interested. (_d_) T.H. Huxley, _Science and Culture_, in +"Science and Education:" 1. How far the principles here set forth bear +out Huxley's definition of education (page 47). 2. The main point at +issue between Huxley and Arnold (Arnold's essay, page 75, is a reply to +Huxley), and your own view of the matter drawn from your own experience. +(_e_) J.S. Mill, _Inaugural Address at St. Andrew's,_ in +"Dissertations," Vol. IV: Mill's main contentions as to the exact +purpose and value of the study of language and literature in +universities. (_f_) H.D. Thoreau, _Reading_, in "Walden:" The author's +views in regard to reading not done in connection with school work. +(_g_) A.G. Balfour, _Pleasures of Reading_, in "Essays and Addresses" +(written as a reply to Harrison's claims, page 97): The main points at +issue between Harrison and Balfour, and your own view of the matter. +(_h_) John Lubbock, _The Choice of Books_, in "The Pleasures of Life:" +Whether this essay goes to support Harrison's or Balfour's view, and +how. (_i_) Woodrow Wilson, essays in "Mere Literature." (_j_) John +Ruskin, _Sesame and Lilies_. (_k_) Consult several biographies of great +men--for example, Morley's _Gladstone_, Froude's _Carlyle_, Darwin's +_Life_, Huxley's _Life_--and make a comparative study of their early +reading. + + +III. RECREATION AND TRAVELS + +(_a_) George Santayana, on _Work and Play_, sections 3 and following, in +"The Sense of Beauty," Part I: 1. The distinction between working and +playing. 2. The relation between the sense of beauty and the sense of +pleasure. (_b_) William Hazlitt, _On Living to One's Self_, in "Table +Talk:" 1. The general method of enjoying life, which is developed here +and illustrated further in _On Going a Journey_ (page 116). (_c_) R.L. +Stevenson, _Walking Tours_, in "Virginibus Puerisque;" and _Roads_, in +"Essays of Travel:" 1. The several ways in which these essays reflect +Hazlitt's views; the points which are peculiar to Stevenson. 2. How far +your own methods of securing outdoor enjoyment are in accord with +Hazlitt's and Stevenson's. (_d_) W.H. Hudson, _Idle Days_, in "Idle Days +in Patagonia:" What the author's so-called idleness consisted in. (_e_) +Francis Parkman, _Hunting Indians_, in "The Oregon Trail:" The mental +experiences of the writer himself in the course of the exploit he +describes. + + +IV. SOCIAL LIFE AND MANNERS + +(_a_) R.W. Emerson, _Culture_, in "The Conduct of Life:" The relation +which the central thought bears to that of Behavior (page 154). (_b_) +Matthew Arnold, _Sweetness and Light_, in "Culture and Anarchy:" 1. The +chief motives and characteristics of culture. 2. The relation between +culture and bodily vigor. 3. The "Social Idea." 4. A comparison of +Emerson's and Arnold's attitude toward culture. (_c_) R.W. Emerson, +_Manners_, in "Essays, Second Series." How Emerson's view of the +relation between manners and fashion supplements Spencer's contention +(page 172). (_d_) Henri Bergson, _the first part of Chapter I_ in +"Laughter:" The function of laughter in social life. (_g_) William +Hazlitt, _On the Spirit of Obligations_, in "The Plain Dealer:" The +relation between good sense and good nature. (_f_) R.L. Stevenson, _The +Truth of Intercourse_, in "Virginibus Puerisque:" The complex meaning of +truthfulness in social life. (_g_) W.M. Thackeray, _George II_, in "The +Four Georges:" The chief characteristics of Georgian society. + + +V. PUBLIC AFFAIRS + +(_a_) Plato, _The Apology_, in the "Dialogues," translated by Jowett, +and by others: 1. The part played by Socrates in the public life of +Athens. 2. What function Socrates could fulfil in American public life. +(_b_) J.S. Mill, _Civilization_, in "Dissertations and Discussions," +Vol. I: The ill effects of civilization, and how they may be overcome. +(_c_) Henry George, _The Persistence of Poverty amid Advancing Wealth_, +in Book V of "Progress and Poverty:" George's exposition of the problem +tested by your own experience. (_d_) J.S. Mill, _Of the Dangers to which +Representative Government is Liable,_ in "Considerations on +Representative Government:" The extent to which Mill's contentions apply +to the United States. (_e_) Josiah Royce, _Some American Problems_, in +"The Philosophy of Loyalty:" 1. The general solution proposed. 2. How +this solution might be applied to some public or college problem you +know of. + + +VI. SCIENCE + +(_a_) Herbert Spencer, _The Genesis of Science_, in "Illustrations of +Universal Progress:" The essential nature of science. (_b_) T.H. Huxley, +_The Method of Scientific Investigation_, in "Man's Place in Nature:" +The relation between scientific and everyday modes of thinking. (_c_) +John Tyndall, _On the nature and function of the sun_, in Chapter XIV of +"Heat as a Mode of Motion:" The general relation between the facts +presented by Tyndall and those presented in _The Physical Basis of Life_ +(page 240). (_d_) A.R. Wallace, _Darwinism as Applied to Man_, in +"Darwinism": A comparison of this piece, in respect to aim and method, +with Darwin's _Mental Powers of Men and Animals_ (page 263). (_e_) +Charles Darwin, _On the flower of the ladies' slipper_, in Chapter VIII +of "Fertilization of Orchids by Insects." (_f_) T.H. Huxley, _On the +Formation of Coal_, in "Discourses Biological." + + +VII. NATURE + +(_a_) R.W. Emerson, _Nature_, in "Essays, Second Series:" The effect of +nature on the human mind. (_b_) H.D. Thoreau, _Spring_, in "Walden:" 1. +The formative principle in nature. 2. A comparison of Thoreau's attitude +toward nature, as revealed here and in "Walden Pond" (page 306), with +that of Emerson. (_c_) John Burroughs, _The Pastoral Bees_ in "Locusts +and Wild Honey:" The communal life of the bees. (_d_) W.H. Hudson, _The +Perfume of an Evening Primrose_, in "Idle Days in Patagonia:" The +association of phenomena of nature with events in one's life. (_e_) +Leslie Stephen, _Sunset on Mont Blanc_, in "The Playground of Europe:" +An analysis of the circumstances which combined to give this sunset its +peculiar interest. (_f_) John Ruskin, descriptions of _water, sky, +clouds, and foliage_ in "Modern Painters," Vol. I (look up passages +other than those selected for the present volume, page 325): in each +case, distinguish the _chief_ beautiful effect which the author wishes +to bring out. + + +VIII. CONDUCT AND INNER LIFE + +(_a_) William James, _The Will to Believe_, in "The Will to Believe, and +other Essays:" The bearing of religious conviction on volition and +conduct. (_b_) Josiah Royce, _Loyalty to Loyalty_, in "The Philosophy of +Loyalty:" 1. The exact meaning of the title. 2. How the main thesis is +fundamental for _Loyalty and Insight_ (page 365). (_c_) R.W. Emerson, +_The Over-Soul_, in "Essays, First Series:" 1. How the conception here +developed appears again in other essays of Emerson which you have read. +2. How Emerson's attitude toward spiritual truth differs from that of +James; see (_a_), above. (_d_) Josiah Royce, _What is Vital_ in +Christianity? in "William James and Other Essays:" The central thought +as compared with Seeley's (page 351). (_e_) George Santayana, _The +Poetry of Christian Dogma_, in "Poetry and Religion:" The full +significance of the title. (_f_) J.R. Seeley, _Christ's Royalty_, in +"Ecce Homo:" The significance of the term "King" as applied to Christ. +(_g_) G.L. Dickinson, _The Greek View of Religion_, in "The Greek View +of Life:" 1. How the Greek differs from the Christian view. 2. The most +admirable features of the Greek view. (_h_) Walter Pater, _A Study of +Dionysus_, in "Greek Studies:" What Dionysus was symbolic of. (_i_) +William James, _Habit_, in "Psychology," Vol. I: The significance of +habits, tested by your own experience. (_j_) W.E.H. Lecky, _The +Management of Character_, in "The Map of Life:" Specific methods by +which one may mold one's own character. + + +IX. LITERATURE AND ART + +(_a_) George Santayana, _Art and Happiness_, in "The Life of Reason," +Vol. IV: 1. What is Art? 2. The position of literature among the arts. +3. What art needs at the present day. (_b_) Walter Bagehot, On +_Wordsworth_, in "Essay on Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Browning:" The +nature of pure art. (_c_) Matthew Arnold, _Wordsworth_, in "Essays in +Criticism:" A comparison of Arnold's main thesis in regard to Wordsworth +with Bagehot's; see (_b_) above. (_d_) G.H. Lewes, _The Principle of +Sincerity_, in "The Principles of Success in Literature:" The relation +between sincerity and success in literature. (_e_) Thomas Carlyle, +_Dante_, in "On Heroes and Hero-Worship:" 1. The chief differences +between Dante and Shakespeare (see page 423). 2. How the principle of +sincerity (see (_d_) above) is illustrated in the case of Dante. (_f_) +P.B. Shelley, _Defence of Poetry_: A comparison of Shelley's attitude +toward poetry with Bradley's (page 389). (_g_) G.L. Dickinson, _Chapter +IV_ in the "Greek View of Life" (the part preceding the section +reprinted in the present volume): How the principles determining the +nature of Greek tragedy appear also in the other Greek arts. (_h_) S.H. +Butcher, _What we Owe to Greece_, in "Some Aspects of Greek Genius:" +Ideals we have inherited from the Greeks. (_i_) A.C. Bradley, _The +Substance of Shakespearean Tragedy_, in "Shakespearean Tragedy:" The +conception of the relations between good and evil which appears in +Shakespeare's tragedies. (_j_) Sophocles, _Oedipus Rex_ (translated by +Gilbert Murray): A comparison of the theme of this tragedy with the +theme of Shakespeare's _Richard III, Macbeth, or Lear_. + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of English Prose +by Frederick William Roe (edit. and select.) + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ENGLISH PROSE *** + +***** This file should be named 12025.txt or 12025.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/0/0/12025/ + +Produced by John Hagerson, Kevin Handy, Gene Smethers and PG Distributed +Proofreaders + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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