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diff --git a/12651-h/12651-h.htm b/12651-h/12651-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f3c044b --- /dev/null +++ b/12651-h/12651-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,8404 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>The Humour of Homer and Other Essays</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4 { + text-align: left; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">The Humour of Homer and Other Essays, by Samuel Butler</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Humour of Homer and Other Essays, by +Samuel Butler, Edited by R. A. Streatfeild + + +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: The Humour of Homer and Other Essays + +Author: Samuel Butler + +Release Date: June 18, 2004 [eBook #12651] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: US-ASCII + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HUMOUR OF HOMER AND OTHER +ESSAYS*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p> +<h1>The Humour of Homer and Other Essays</h1> +<h2>Introduction<br /> +By R. A. Streatfeild</h2> +<p>The nucleus of this book is the collection of essays by Samuel Butler, +which was originally published by Mr. Grant Richards in 1904 under the +title Essays on Life, Art and Science, and reissued by Mr. Fifield in +1908. To these are now added another essay, entitled “The +Humour of Homer,” a biographical sketch of the author kindly contributed +by Mr. Henry Festing Jones, which will add materially to the value of +the edition, and a portrait in photogravure from a photograph taken +in 1889—the period of the essays.</p> +<p style="text-align:center"> +<a href="images/butler.jpg"> +<img src="images/butler.jpg" alt="Photograph of Samuel Butler." /> +</a> +</p> +<p style="text-align:center">From a photograph +made by Pizzetta in Varallo in 1889. Emery Walker Ltd., ph. sc.</p> +<p>“The Humour of Homer” was originally delivered as a lecture +at the Working Men’s College in Great Ormond Street on the 30th +January, 1892, the day on which Butler first promulgated his theory +of the Trapanese origin of the <i>Odyssey</i> in a letter to the <i>Athenæum</i>. +Later in the same year it was published with some additional matter +by Messrs. Metcalfe and Co. of Cambridge. For the next five years +Butler was engaged upon researches into the origin and authorship of +the <i>Odyssey</i>, the results of which are embodied in his book <i>The +Authoress of the</i> “<i>Odyssey</i>,” originally published +by Messrs. Longman in 1897. Butler incorporated a good deal of +“The Humour of Homer” into <i>The Authoress of the</i> “<i>Odyssey</i>,” +but the section relating to the <i>Iliad</i> naturally found no place +in the later work. For the sake of this alone “The Humour +of Homer” deserves to be better known. Written as it was +for an artisan audience and professing to deal only with one side of +Homer’s genius, “The Humour of Homer” must not, of +course, be taken as an exhaustive statement of Butler’s views +upon Homeric questions. It touches but lightly on important points, +particularly regarding the origin and authorship of the <i>Odyssey</i>, +which are treated at much greater length in <i>The Authoress of the</i> +“<i>Odyssey</i>.”</p> +<p>Nevertheless, “The Humour of Homer” appears to me to +have a special value as a kind of general introduction to Butler’s +more detailed study of the <i>Odyssey</i>. His attitude towards +the Homeric poems is here expressed with extraordinary freshness and +force. What that attitude was is best explained by his own words: +“If a person would understand either the <i>Odyssey</i> or any +other ancient work, he must never look at the dead without seeing the +living in them, nor at the living without thinking of the dead. +We are too fond of seeing the ancients as one thing and the moderns +as another.” Butler did not undervalue the philological +and archæological importance of the <i>Iliad</i> and the <i>Odyssey</i>, +but it was mainly as human documents that they appealed to him. +This, I am inclined to suspect, was the root of the objection of academic +critics to him and his theories. They did not so much resent the +suggestion that the author of the <i>Odyssey</i> was a woman; they could +not endure that he should be treated as a human being.</p> +<p>Of the remaining essays two were originally delivered as lectures; +the others appeared first in <i>The Universal Review</i> in 1888, 1889 +and 1890. I should perhaps explain why two other essays which +also appeared in <i>The Universal Review</i> are not included in this +collection. The first of these, entitled “L’Affaire +Holbein-Rippel,” relates to a drawing of Holbein’s “Danse +des Paysans” in the Basle Museum, which is usually described as +a copy, but which Butler believed to be the work of Holbein himself. +This essay requires to be illustrated in so elaborate a manner that +it was impossible to include it in a book of this size. The second +essay, which is a sketch of the career of the sculptor Tabachetti, was +published as the first section of an article, entitled “A Sculptor +and a Shrine,” of which the second part is here given under the +title “The Sanctuary of Montrigone.” The section devoted +to the sculptor contains all that Butler then knew about Tabachetti, +but since it was written various documents have come to light, principally +through the investigations of Cavaliere Francesco Negri, of Casale Monferrato, +which negative some of Butler’s conclusions. Had Butler +lived, I do not doubt that he would have revised his essay in the light +of Cavaliere Negri’s discoveries, the value of which he fully +recognized. As it stands the essay requires so much revision that +I have decided to omit it altogether and to postpone giving English +readers a full account of Tabachetti’s career until a second edition +of Butler’s “Ex Voto,” in which Tabachetti’s +work is discussed in detail, is required. Meanwhile I have given +a brief summary of the main facts of Tabachetti’s life in a note +(p. 195) to the essay on “Art in the Valley of Saas.” +Anyone who desires further details concerning the sculptor and his work +will find them in Cavaliere Negri’s pamphlet “Il Santuario +di Crea” (Alessandria, 1902).</p> +<p>The three essays grouped together under the title <i>The Deadlock +in Darwinism</i> may be regarded as a postscript to Butler’s four +books on evolution, viz. <i>Life and Habit</i>, <i>Evolution Old and +New</i>, <i>Unconscious Memory</i>, and <i>Luck or Cunning</i>? +When these essays were first published in book form in 1904, I ventured +to give a brief summary of Butler’s position with regard to the +main problem of evolution. I need now only refer readers to Mr. +Festing Jones’s biographical sketch and, for fuller details, to +the masterly introduction contributed by Professor Marcus Hartog to +the new edition of <i>Unconscious Memory</i> (A. C. Fifield, 1910), +and recently reprinted in his <i>Problems of Life and Reproduction</i> +(John Murray, 1913), in which Butler’s work in the field of biology +and his share in the various controversies connected with the study +of evolution are discussed with the authority of a specialist.</p> +<p>R. A. STREATFEILD. <i>July</i>, 1913.</p> +<h2>Sketch of the Life of Samuel Butler<br /> +Author of Erewhon<br /> +(1835-1902)<br /> +by Henry Festing Jones</h2> +<h3>Note</h3> +<p><i>This sketch of Butler’s life</i>, <i>together with the portrait +which forms the frontispiece to this volume</i>, <i>first appeared in +December</i>, <i>1902</i>, <i>in</i> The Eagle, <i>the magazine of St. +John’s College</i>, <i>Cambridge. I revised the sketch and +read it before the British Homœopathic Association at 43 Russell +Square</i>, <i>London</i>, <i>W.C</i>., <i>on the 9th February</i>, +<i>1910; some of Butler’s music was performed by Miss Grainger +Kerr</i>, <i>Mr. R. A. Streatfeild</i>, <i>Mr. J. A. Fuller Maitland</i>, +<i>and Mr. H. J. T. Wood</i>, <i>the secretary of the Association. +I again revised it and read it before the Historical Society of St. +John’s College</i>, <i>Cambridge</i>, <i>in the combination room +of the college on the 16th November</i>, <i>1910; the Master (Mr. R. +F. Scott</i>), <i>who was also Vice-Chancellor of the University</i>, +<i>was in the chair</i>, <i>and a vote of thanks was proposed by Professor +William Bateson</i>, <i>F.R.S.</i></p> +<p><i>As the full Memoir of Butler on which I am engaged is not yet +ready for publication</i>, <i>I have again revised the sketch</i>, <i>and +it is here published in response to many demands for some account of +his life.</i></p> +<p><i>H. F. J.<br /> +August</i>, 1913.</p> +<h3>Sketch of the Life of Samuel Butler<br /> +Author of Erewhon (1835-1902)</h3> +<p>Samuel Butler was born on the 4th December, 1835, at the Rectory, +Langar, near Bingham, in Nottinghamshire. His father was the Rev. +Thomas Butler, then Rector of Langar, afterwards one of the canons of +Lincoln Cathedral, and his mother was Fanny Worsley, daughter of John +Philip Worsley of Arno’s Vale, Bristol, sugar-refiner. His +grandfather was Dr. Samuel Butler, the famous headmaster of Shrewsbury +School, afterwards Bishop of Lichfield. The Butlers are not related +either to the author of <i>Hudibras</i>, or to the author of the <i>Analogy</i>, +or to the present Master of Trinity College, Cambridge.</p> +<p>Butler’s father, after being at school at Shrewsbury under +Dr. Butler, went up to St. John’s College, Cambridge; he took +his degree in 1829, being seventh classic and twentieth senior optime; +he was ordained and returned to Shrewsbury, where he was for some time +assistant master at the school under Dr. Butler. He married in +1832 and left Shrewsbury for Langar. He was a learned botanist, +and made a collection of dried plants which he gave to the Town Museum +of Shrewsbury.</p> +<p>Butler’s childhood and early life were spent at Langar among +the surroundings of an English country rectory, and his education was +begun by his father. In 1843, when he was only eight years old, +the first great event in his life occurred; the family, consisting of +his father and mother, his two sisters, his brother and himself, went +to Italy. The South-Eastern Railway stopped at Ashford, whence +they travelled to Dover in their own carriage; the carriage was put +on board the steamboat, they crossed the Channel, and proceeded to Cologne, +up the Rhine to Basle and on through Switzerland into Italy, through +Parma, where Napoleon’s widow was still reigning, Modena, Bologna, +Florence, and so to Rome. They had to drive where there was no +railway, and there was then none in all Italy except between Naples +and Castellamare. They seemed to pass a fresh custom-house every +day, but, by tipping the searchers, generally got through without inconvenience. +The bread was sour and the Italian butter rank and cheesy—often +uneatable. Beggars ran after the carriage all day long and when +they got nothing jeered at the travellers and called them heretics. +They spent half the winter in Rome, and the children were taken up to +the top of St. Peter’s as a treat to celebrate their father’s +birthday. In the Sistine Chapel they saw the cardinals kiss the +toe of Pope Gregory XVI, and in the Corso, in broad daylight, they saw +a monk come rolling down a staircase like a sack of potatoes, bundled +into the street by a man and his wife. The second half of the +winter was spent in Naples. This early introduction to the land +which he always thought of and often referred to as his second country +made an ineffaceable impression upon him.</p> +<p>In January, 1846, he went to school at Allesley, near Coventry, under +the Rev. E. Gibson. He seldom referred to his life there, though +sometimes he would say something that showed he had not forgotten all +about it. For instance, in 1900 Mr. Sydney C. Cockerell, now the +Director of the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge, showed him a medieval +missal, laboriously illuminated. He found that it fatigued him +to look at it, and said that such books ought never to be made. +Cockerell replied that such books relieved the tedium of divine service, +on which Butler made a note ending thus:</p> +<blockquote><p>Give me rather a robin or a peripatetic cat like the +one whose loss the parishioners of St. Clement Danes are still deploring. +When I was at school at Allesley the boy who knelt opposite me at morning +prayers, with his face not more than a yard away from mine, used to +blow pretty little bubbles with his saliva which he would send sailing +off the tip of his tongue like miniature soap bubbles; they very soon +broke, but they had a career of a foot or two. I never saw anyone +else able to get saliva bubbles right away from him and, though I have +endeavoured for some fifty years and more to acquire the art, I never +yet could start the bubble off my tongue without its bursting. +Now things like this really do relieve the tedium of church, but no +missal that I have ever seen will do anything except increase it.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>In 1848 he left Allesley and went to Shrewsbury under the Rev. B. +H. Kennedy. Many of the recollections of his school life at Shrewsbury +are reproduced for the school life of Ernest Pontifex at Roughborough +in <i>The Way of All Flesh</i>, Dr. Skinner being Dr. Kennedy.</p> +<p>During these years he first heard the music of Handel; it went straight +to his heart and satisfied a longing which the music of other composers +had only awakened and intensified. He became as one of the listening +brethren who stood around “when Jubal struck the chorded shell” +in the <i>Song for Saint Cecilia’s Day</i>:</p> +<blockquote><p>Less than a god, they thought, there could not dwell<br /> +Within the hollow of that shell<br /> +That spoke so sweetly and so well.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>This was the second great event in his life, and henceforward Italy +and Handel were always present at the bottom of his mind as a kind of +double pedal to every thought, word, and deed. Almost the last +thing he ever asked me to do for him, within a few days of his death, +was to bring <i>Solomon</i> that he might refresh his memory as to the +harmonies of “With thee th’ unsheltered moor I’d trace.” +He often tried to like the music of Bach and Beethoven, but found himself +compelled to give them up—they bored him too much. Nor was +he more successful with the other great composers; Haydn, for instance, +was a sort of Horace, an agreeable, facile man of the world, while Mozart, +who must have loved Handel, for he wrote additional accompaniments to +the <i>Messiah</i>, failed to move him. It was not that he disputed +the greatness of these composers, but he was out of sympathy with them, +and never could forgive the last two for having led music astray from +the Handel tradition and paved the road from Bach to Beethoven. +Everything connected with Handel interested him. He remembered +old Mr. Brooke, Rector of Gamston, North Notts, who had been present +at the Handel Commemoration in 1784, and his great-aunt, Miss Susannah +Apthorp, of Cambridge, had known a lady who had sat upon Handel’s +knee. He often regretted that these were his only links with “the +greatest of all composers.”</p> +<p>Besides his love for Handel he had a strong liking for drawing, and, +during the winter of 1853-4, his family again took him to Italy, where, +being now eighteen, he looked on the works of the old masters with intelligence.</p> +<p>In October, 1854, he went into residence at St. John’s College, +Cambridge. He showed no aptitude for any particular branch of +academic study, nevertheless he impressed his friends as being likely +to make his mark. Just as he used reminiscences of his own schooldays +at Shrewsbury for Ernest’s life at Roughborough, so he used reminiscences +of his own Cambridge days for those of Ernest. When the Simeonites, +in <i>The Way of All Flesh</i>, “distributed tracts, dropping +them at night in good men’s letter boxes while they slept, their +tracts got burnt or met with even worse contumely.” Ernest +Pontifex went so far as to parody one of these tracts and to get a copy +of the parody “dropped into each of the Simeonites’ boxes.” +Ernest did this in the novel because Butler had done it in real life. +Mr. A. T. Bartholomew, of the University Library, has found, among the +Cambridge papers of the late J. Willis Clark’s collection, three +printed pieces belonging to the year 1855 bearing on the subject. +He speaks of them in an article headed “Samuel Butler and the +Simeonites,” and signed A. T. B. in the <i>Cambridge Magazine</i>, +1st March, 1913; the first is “a genuine Simeonite tract; the +other two are parodies. All three are anonymous. At the +top of the second parody is written ‘By S. Butler, March 31.’” +The article gives extracts from the genuine tract and the whole of Butler’s +parody.</p> +<p>Besides parodying Simeonite tracts, Butler wrote various other papers +during his undergraduate days, some of which, preserved by one of his +contemporaries, who remained a lifelong friend, the Rev. Canon Joseph +M’Cormick, now Rector of St. James’s, Piccadilly, are reproduced +in <i>The Note-Books of Samuel Butler</i> (1912).</p> +<p>He also steered the Lady Margaret first boat, and Canon M’Cormick +told me of a mishap that occurred on the last night of the races in +1857. Lady Margaret had been head of the river since 1854, Canon +M’Cormick was rowing 5, Philip Pennant Pearson (afterwards P. +Pennant) was 7, Canon Kynaston, of Durham (whose name formerly was Snow), +was stroke, and Butler was cox. When the cox let go of the bung +at starting, the rope caught in his rudder lines, and Lady Margaret +was nearly bumped by Second Trinity. They escaped, however, and +their pursuers were so much exhausted by their efforts to catch them +that they were themselves bumped by First Trinity at the next corner. +Butler wrote home about it:</p> +<blockquote><p>11 March, 1857. Dear Mamma: My foreboding about +steering was on the last day nearly verified by an accident which was +more deplorable than culpable the effects of which would have been ruinous +had not the presence of mind of No. 7 in the boat rescued us from the +very jaws of defeat. The scene is one which never can fade from +my remembrance and will be connected always with the gentlemanly conduct +of the crew in neither using opprobrious language nor gesture towards +your unfortunate son but treating him with the most graceful forbearance; +for in most cases when an accident happens which in itself is but slight, +but is visited with serious consequences, most people get carried away +with the impression created by the last so as to entirely forget the +accidental nature of the cause and if we had been quite bumped I should +have been ruined, as it is I get praise for coolness and good steering +as much as and more than blame for my accident and the crew are so delighted +at having rowed a race such as never was seen before that they are satisfied +completely. All the spectators saw the race and were delighted; +another inch and I should never have held up my head again. One +thing is safe, it will never happen again.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The <i>Eagle</i>, “a magazine supported by members of St. John’s +College,” issued its first number in the Lent term of 1858; it +contains an article by Butler “On English Composition and Other +Matters,” signed “Cellarius”:</p> +<blockquote><p>Most readers will have anticipated me in admitting that +a man should be clear of his meaning before he endeavours to give it +any kind of utterance, and that, having made up his mind what to say, +the less thought he takes how to say it, more than briefly, pointedly +and plainly, the better.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>From this it appears that, when only just over twenty-two, Butler +had already discovered and adopted those principles of writing from +which he never departed.</p> +<p>In the fifth number of the <i>Eagle</i> is an article, “Our +Tour,” also signed “Cellarius”; it is an account of +a tour made in June, 1857, with a friend whose name he Italianized into +Giuseppe Verdi, through France into North Italy, and was written, so +he says, to show how they got so much into three weeks and spent only +£25; they did not, however, spend quite so much, for the article +goes on, after bringing them back to England, “Next day came safely +home to dear old St. John’s, cash in hand 7d.” <a name="citation19"></a><a href="#footnote19">{19}</a></p> +<p>Butler worked hard with Shilleto, an old pupil of his grandfather, +and was bracketed 12th in the Classical Tripos of 1858. Canon +M’Cormick told me that he would no doubt have been higher but +for the fact that he at first intended to go out in mathematics; it +was only during the last year of his time that he returned to the classics, +and his being so high as he was spoke well for the classical education +of Shrewsbury.</p> +<p>It had always been an understood thing that he was to follow in the +footsteps of his father and grandfather and become a clergyman; accordingly, +after taking his degree, he went to London and began to prepare for +ordination, living and working among the poor as lay assistant under +the Rev. Philip Perring, Curate of St. James’s, Piccadilly, an +old pupil of Dr. Butler at Shrewsbury. <a name="citation20"></a><a href="#footnote20">{20}</a> +Placed among such surroundings, he felt bound to think out for himself +many theological questions which at this time were first presented to +him, and, the conclusion being forced upon him that he could not believe +in the efficacy of infant baptism, he declined to be ordained.</p> +<p>It was now his desire to become an artist; this, however, did not +meet with the approval of his family, and he returned to Cambridge to +try for pupils and, if possible, to get a fellowship. He liked +being at Cambridge, but there were few pupils and, as there seemed to +be little chance of a fellowship, his father wished him to come down +and adopt some profession. A long correspondence took place in +the course of which many alternatives were considered. There are +letters about his becoming a farmer in England, a tutor, a homœopathic +doctor, an artist, or a publisher, and the possibilities of the army, +the bar, and diplomacy. Finally it was decided that he should +emigrate to New Zealand. His passage was paid, and he was to sail +in the <i>Burmah</i>, but a cousin of his received information about +this vessel which caused him, much against his will, to get back his +passage money and take a berth in the <i>Roman Emperor</i>, which sailed +from Gravesend on one of the last days of September, 1859. On +that night, for the first time in his life, he did not say his prayers. +“I suppose the sense of change was so great that it shook them +quietly off. I was not then a sceptic; I had got as far as disbelief +in infant baptism, but no further. I felt no compunction of conscience, +however, about leaving off my morning and evening prayers—simply +I could no longer say them.”</p> +<p>The <i>Roman Emperor</i>, after a voyage every incident of which +interested him deeply, arrived outside Port Lyttelton. The captain +shouted to the pilot who came to take them in:</p> +<p>“Has the <i>Robert Small</i> arrived?”</p> +<p>“No,” replied the pilot, “nor yet the <i>Burmah</i>.”</p> +<p>And Butler, writing home to his people, adds the comment: “You +may imagine what I felt.”</p> +<p>The <i>Burmah</i> was never heard of again.</p> +<p>He spent some time looking round, considering what to do and how +to employ the money with which his father was ready to supply him, and +determined upon sheep-farming. He made several excursions looking +for country, and ultimately took up a run which is still called Mesopotamia, +the name he gave it because it is situated among the head-waters of +the Rangitata.</p> +<p>It was necessary to have a horse, and he bought one for £55, +which was not considered dear. He wrote home that the horse’s +name was “Doctor”: “I hope he is a Homœopathist.” +From this, and from the fact that he had already contemplated becoming +a homœopathic doctor himself, I conclude that he had made the +acquaintance of Dr. Robert Ellis Dudgeon, the eminent homœopathist, +while he was doing parish work in London. After his return to +England Dr. Dudgeon was his medical adviser, and remained one of his +most intimate friends until the end of his life. Doctor, the horse, +is introduced into <i>Erewhon Revisited</i>; the shepherd in Chapter +XXVI tells John Higgs that Doctor “would pick fords better than +that gentleman could, I know, and if the gentleman fell off him he would +just stay stock still.”</p> +<p>Butler carried on his run for about four and a half years, and the +open-air life agreed with him; he ascribed to this the good health he +afterwards enjoyed. The following, taken from a notebook he kept +in the colony and destroyed, gives a glimpse of one side of his life +there; he preserved the note because it recalled New Zealand so vividly.</p> +<blockquote><p>April, 1861. It is Sunday. We rose later +than usual. There are five of us sleeping in the hut. I +sleep in a bunk on one side of the fire; Mr. Haast, <a name="citation22"></a><a href="#footnote22">{22}</a> +a German who is making a geological survey of the province, sleeps upon +the opposite one; my bullock-driver and hut-keeper have two bunks at +the far end of the hut, along the wall, while my shepherd lies in the +loft among the tea and sugar and flour. It was a fine morning, +and we turned out about seven o’clock.</p> +<p>The usual mutton and bread for breakfast with a pudding made of flour +and water baked in the camp oven after a joint of meat—Yorkshire +pudding, but without eggs. While we were at breakfast a robin +perched on the table and sat there a good while pecking at the sugar. +We went on breakfasting with little heed to the robin, and the robin +went on pecking with little heed to us. After breakfast Pey, my +bullock-driver, went to fetch the horses up from a spot about two miles +down the river, where they often run; we wanted to go pig-hunting.</p> +<p>I go into the garden and gather a few peascods for seed till the +horses should come up. Then Cook, the shepherd, says that a fire +has sprung up on the other side of the river. Who could have lit +it? Probably someone who had intended coming to my place on the +preceding evening and has missed his way, for there is no track of any +sort between here and Phillips’s. In a quarter of an hour +he lit another fire lower down, and by that time, the horses having +come up, Haast and myself—remembering how Dr. Sinclair had just +been drowned so near the same spot—think it safer to ride over +to him and put him across the river. The river was very low and +so clear that we could see every stone. On getting to the river-bed +we lit a fire and did the same on leaving it; our tracks would guide +anyone over the intervening ground.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Besides his occupation with the sheep, he found time to play the +piano, to read and to write. In the library of St. John’s +College, Cambridge, are two copies of the Greek Testament, very fully +annotated by him at the University and in the colony. He also +read the <i>Origin of Species</i>, which, as everyone knows, was published +in 1859. He became “one of Mr. Darwin’s many enthusiastic +admirers, and wrote a philosophic dialogue (the most offensive form, +except poetry and books of travel into supposed unknown countries, that +even literature can assume) upon the <i>Origin of Species</i>” +(<i>Unconscious Memory</i>, close of Chapter I). This dialogue, +unsigned, was printed in the <i>Press</i>, Canterbury, New Zealand, +on 20th December, 1862. A copy of the paper was sent to Charles +Darwin, who forwarded it to a, presumably, English editor with a letter, +now in the Canterbury Museum, New Zealand, speaking of the dialogue +as “remarkable from its spirit and from giving so clear and accurate +an account of Mr. D’s theory.” It is possible that +Butler himself sent the newspaper containing his dialogue to Mr. Darwin; +if so he did not disclose his name, for Darwin says in his letter that +he does not know who the author was. Butler was closely connected +with the <i>Press</i>, which was founded by James Edward FitzGerald, +the first Superintendent of the Province, in May, 1861; he frequently +contributed to its pages, and once, during FitzGerald’s absence, +had charge of it for a short time, though he was never its actual editor. +The <i>Press</i> reprinted the dialogue and the correspondence which +followed its original appearance on 8th June, 1912.</p> +<p>On 13th June, 1863, the <i>Press</i> printed a letter by Butler signed +“Cellarius” and headed “Darwin among the Machines,” +reprinted in <i>The Note-Books of Samuel Butler</i> (1912). The +letter begins:</p> +<p>“Sir: There are few things of which the present generation +is more justly proud than of the wonderful improvements which are daily +taking place in all sorts of mechanical appliances”; and goes +on to say that, as the vegetable kingdom was developed from the mineral, +and as the animal kingdom supervened upon the vegetable, “so now, +in the last few ages, an entirely new kingdom has sprung up of which +we as yet have only seen what will one day be considered the antediluvian +types of the race.” He then speaks of the minute members +which compose the beautiful and intelligent little animal which we call +the watch, and of how it has gradually been evolved from the clumsy +brass clocks of the thirteenth century. Then comes the question: +Who will be man’s successor? To which the answer is: We +are ourselves creating our own successors. Man will become to +the machine what the horse and the dog are to man; the conclusion being +that machines are, or are becoming, animate. In 1863 Butler’s +family published in his name <i>A First Year in Canterbury Settlement</i>, +which, as the preface states, was compiled from his letters home, his +journal and extracts from two papers contributed to the <i>Eagle</i>. +These two papers had appeared in the <i>Eagle</i> as three articles +entitled “Our Emigrant” and signed “Cellarius.” +The proof sheets of the book went out to New Zealand for correction +and were sent back in the <i>Colombo</i>, which was as unfortunate as +the <i>Burmah</i>, for she was wrecked. The proofs, however, were +fished up, though so nearly washed out as to be almost undecipherable. +Butler would have been just as well pleased if they had remained at +the bottom of the Indian Ocean, for he never liked the book and always +spoke of it as being full of youthful priggishness; but I think he was +a little hard upon it. Years afterwards, in one of his later books, +after quoting two passages from Mr. Grant Allen and pointing out why +he considered the second to be a recantation of the first, he wrote: +“When Mr. Allen does make stepping-stones of his dead selves he +jumps upon them to some tune.” And he was perhaps a little +inclined to treat his own dead self too much in the same spirit.</p> +<p>Butler did very well with the sheep, sold out in 1864 and returned +via Callao to England. He travelled with three friends whose acquaintance +he had made in the colony; one was Charles Paine Pauli, to whom he dedicated +<i>Life and Habit</i>. He arrived in August, 1864, in London, +where he took chambers consisting of a sitting-room, a bedroom, a painting-room +and a pantry, at 15 Clifford’s Inn, second floor (north). +The net financial result of the sheep-farming and the selling out was +that he practically doubled his capital, that is to say he had about +£8000. This he left in New Zealand, invested on mortgage +at 10 per cent, the then current rate in the colony; it produced more +than enough for him to live upon in the very simple way that suited +him best, and life in the Inns of Court resembles life at Cambridge +in that it reduces the cares of housekeeping to a minimum; it suited +him so well that he never changed his rooms, remaining there thirty-eight +years till his death.</p> +<p>He was now his own master and able at last to turn to painting. +He studied at the art school in Streatham Street, Bloomsbury, which +had formerly been managed by Henry Sass, but, in Butler’s time, +was being carried on by Francis Stephen Gary, son of the Rev. Henry +Francis Gary, who had been a school-fellow of Dr. Butler at Rugby and +is well known as the translator of Dante and the friend of Charles Lamb. +Among his fellow-students was Mr. H. R. Robertson, who told me that +the young artists got hold of the legend, which is in some of the books +about Lamb, that when Francis Stephen Gary was a boy and there was a +talk at his father’s house as to what profession he should take +up, Lamb, who was present, said:</p> +<p>“I should make him an apo-po-pothe-Cary.”</p> +<p>They used to repeat this story freely among themselves, being, no +doubt, amused by the Lamb-like pun, but also enjoying the malicious +pleasure of hinting that it might have been as well for their art education +if the advice of the gentle humorist had been followed. Anyone +who wants to know what kind of an artist F. S. Cary was can see his +picture of Charles and Mary Lamb in the National Portrait Gallery. +In 1865 Butler sent from London to New Zealand an article entitled “Lucubratio +Ebria,” which was published in the <i>Press</i> of 29th July, +1865. It treated machines from a point of view different from +that adopted in “Darwin among the Machines,” and was one +of the steps that led to <i>Erewhon</i> and ultimately to <i>Life and +Habit</i>. The article is reproduced in <i>The Note-Books of Samuel +Butler</i> (1912).</p> +<p>Butler also studied art at South Kensington, but by 1867 he had begun +to go to Heatherley’s School of Art in Newman Street, where he +continued going for many years. He made a number of friends at +Heatherley’s, and among them Miss Eliza Mary Anne Savage. +There also he first met Charles Gogin, who, in 1896, painted the portrait +of Butler which is now in the National Portrait Gallery. He described +himself as an artist in the Post Office Directory, and between 1868 +and 1876 exhibited at the Royal Academy about a dozen pictures, of which +the most important was “Mr. Heatherley’s Holiday,” +hung on the line in 1874. He left it by his will to his college +friend Jason Smith, whose representatives, after his death, in 1910, +gave it to the nation and it is now in the National Gallery of British +Art. Mr. Heatherley never went away for a holiday; he once had +to go out of town on business and did not return till the next day; +one of the students asked him how he had got on, saying no doubt he +had enjoyed the change and that he must have found it refreshing to +sleep for once out of London.</p> +<p>“No,” said Heatherley, “I did not like it. +Country air has no body.”</p> +<p>The consequence was that, whenever there was a holiday and the school +was shut, Heatherley employed the time in mending the skeleton; Butler’s +picture represents him so engaged in a corner of the studio. In +this way he got his model for nothing. Sometimes he hung up a +looking-glass near one of his windows and painted his own portrait. +Many of these he painted out, but after his death we found a little +store of them in his rooms, some of the early ones very curious. +Of the best of them one is now at Canterbury, New Zealand, one at St. +John’s College, Cambridge, and one at the Schools, Shrewsbury.</p> +<p>This is Butler’s own account of himself, taken from a letter +to Sir Julius von Haast; although written in 1865 it is true of his +mode of life for many years:</p> +<blockquote><p>I have been taking lessons in painting ever since I arrived, +I was always very fond of it and mean to stick to it; it suits me and +I am not without hopes that I shall do well at it. I live almost +the life of a recluse, seeing very few people and going nowhere that +I can help—I mean in the way of parties and so forth; if my friends +had their way they would fritter away my time without any remorse; but +I made a regular stand against it from the beginning and so, having +my time pretty much in my own hands, work hard; I find, as I am sure +you must find, that it is next to impossible to combine what is commonly +called society and work.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But the time saved from society was not all devoted to painting. +He modified his letter to the <i>Press</i> about “Darwin among +the Machines” and, so modified, it appeared in 1865 as “The +Mechanical Creation” in the <i>Reasoner</i>, a paper then published +in London by Mr. G. J. Holyoake. And his mind returned to the +considerations which had determined him to decline to be ordained. +In 1865 he printed anonymously a pamphlet which he had begun in New +Zealand, the result of his study of the Greek Testament, entitled <i>The +Evidence for the Resurrection of Jesus Christ as given by the four Evangelists +critically examined</i>. After weighing this evidence and comparing +one account with another, he came to the conclusion that Jesus Christ +did not die upon the cross. It is improbable that a man officially +executed should escape death, but the alternative, that a man actually +dead should return to life, seemed to Butler more improbable still and +unsupported by such evidence as he found in the gospels. From +this evidence he concluded that Christ swooned and recovered consciousness +after his body had passed into the keeping of Joseph of Arimathæa. +He did not suppose fraud on the part of the first preachers of Christianity; +they sincerely believed that Christ died and rose again. Joseph +and Nicodemus probably knew the truth but kept silence. The idea +of what might follow from belief in one single supposed miracle was +never hereafter absent from Butler’s mind.</p> +<p>In 1869, having been working too hard, he went abroad for a long +change. On his way back, at the Albergo La Luna, in Venice, he +met an elderly Russian lady in whose company he spent most of his time +there. She was no doubt impressed by his versatility and charmed, +as everyone always was, by his conversation and original views on the +many subjects that interested him. We may be sure he told her +all about himself and what he had done and was intending to do. +At the end of his stay, when he was taking leave of her, she said:</p> +<p>“Et maintenant, Monsieur, vous allez créer,” meaning, +as he understood her, that he had been looking long enough at the work +of others and should now do something of his own.</p> +<p>This sank into him and pained him. He was nearly thirty-five, +and hitherto all had been admiration, vague aspiration and despair; +he had produced in painting nothing but a few sketches and studies, +and in literature only a few ephemeral articles, a collection of youthful +letters and a pamphlet on the Resurrection; moreover, to none of his +work had anyone paid the slightest attention. This was a poor +return for all the money which had been spent upon his education, as +Theobald would have said in <i>The Way of All Flesh</i>. He returned +home dejected, but resolved that things should be different in the future. +While in this frame of mind he received a visit from one of his New +Zealand friends, the late Sir F. Napier Broome, afterwards Governor +of Western Australia, who incidentally suggested his rewriting his New +Zealand articles. The idea pleased him; it might not be creating, +but at least it would be doing something. So he set to work on +Sundays and in the evenings, as relaxation from his profession of painting, +and, taking his New Zealand article, “Darwin among the Machines,” +and another, “The World of the Unborn,” as a starting point +and helping himself with a few sentences from <i>A First Year in Canterbury +Settlement</i>, he gradually formed <i>Erewhon</i>. He sent the +MS. bit by bit, as it was written, to Miss Savage for her criticism +and approval. He had the usual difficulty about finding a publisher. +Chapman and Hall refused the book on the advice of George Meredith, +who was then their reader, and in the end he published it at his own +expense through Messrs. Trübner.</p> +<p>Mr. Sydney C. Cockerell told me that in 1912 Mr. Bertram Dobell, +second-hand bookseller of Charing Cross Road, offered a copy of <i>Erewhon</i> +for £1 10s.; it was thus described in his catalogue: “Unique +copy with the following note in the author’s handwriting on the +half-title: ‘To Miss E. M. A. Savage this first copy of <i>Erewhon</i> +with the author’s best thanks for many invaluable suggestions +and corrections.’” When Mr. Cockerell inquired for +the book it was sold. After Miss Savage’s death in 1885 +all Butler’s letters to her were returned to him, including the +letter he wrote when he sent her this copy of <i>Erewhon</i>. +He gave her the first copy issued of all his books that were published +in her lifetime, and, no doubt, wrote an inscription in each. +If the present possessors of any of them should happen to read this +sketch I hope they will communicate with me, as I should like to see +these books. I should also like to see some numbers of the <i>Drawing-Room +Gazette</i>, which about this time belonged to or was edited by a Mrs. +Briggs. Miss Savage wrote a review of <i>Erewhon</i>, which appeared +in the number for 8th June, 1872, and Butler quoted a sentence from +her review among the press notices in the second edition. She +persuaded him to write for Mrs. Briggs notices of concerts at which +Handel’s music was performed. In 1901 he made a note on +one of his letters that he was thankful there were no copies of the +<i>Drawing-Room Gazette</i> in the British Museum, meaning that he did +not want people to read his musical criticisms; nevertheless, I hope +some day to come across back numbers containing his articles.</p> +<p>The opening of <i>Erewhon</i> is based upon Butler’s colonial +experiences; some of the descriptions remind one of passages in <i>A +First Year in Canterbury Settlement</i>, where he speaks of the excursions +he made with Doctor when looking for sheep-country. The walk over +the range as far as the statues is taken from the Upper Rangitata district, +with some alterations; but the walk down from the statues into Erewhon +is reminiscent of the Leventina Valley in the Canton Ticino. The +great chords, which are like the music moaned by the statues, are from +the prelude to the first of Handel’s <i>Trois Leçons</i>; +he used to say:</p> +<p>“One feels them in the diaphragm—they are, as it were, +the groaning and labouring of all creation travailing together until +now.”</p> +<p>There is a place in New Zealand named Erewhon, after the book; it +is marked on the large maps, a township about fifty miles west of Napier +in the Hawke Bay Province (North Island). I am told that people +in New Zealand sometimes call their houses Erewhon and occasionally +spell the word Erehwon which Butler did not intend; he treated wh as +a single letter, as one would treat th. Among other traces of +Erewhon now existing in real life are Butler’s Stones on the Hokitika +Pass, so called because of a legend that they were in his mind when +he described the statues.</p> +<p>The book was translated into Dutch in 1873 and into German in 1897.</p> +<p>Butler wrote to Charles Darwin to explain what he meant by the “Book +of the Machines”: “I am sincerely sorry that some of the +critics should have thought I was laughing at your theory, a thing which +I never meant to do and should be shocked at having done.” +Soon after this Butler was invited to Down and paid two visits to Mr. +Darwin there; he thus became acquainted with all the family and for +some years was on intimate terms with Mr. (now Sir) Francis Darwin.</p> +<p>It is easy to see by the light of subsequent events that we should +probably have had something not unlike <i>Erewhon</i> sooner or later, +even without the Russian lady and Sir F. N. Broome, to whose promptings, +owing to a certain diffidence which never left him, he was perhaps inclined +to attribute too much importance. But he would not have agreed +with this view at the time; he looked upon himself as a painter and +upon <i>Erewhon</i> as an interruption. It had come, like one +of those creatures from the Land of the Unborn, pestering him and refusing +to leave him at peace until he consented to give it bodily shape. +It was only a little one, and he saw no likelihood of its having any +successors. So he satisfied its demands and then, supposing that +he had written himself out, looked forward to a future in which nothing +should interfere with the painting. Nevertheless, when another +of the unborn came teasing him he yielded to its importunities and allowed +himself to become the author of <i>The Fair Haven</i>, which is his +pamphlet on the Resurrection, enlarged and preceded by a realistic memoir +of the pseudonymous author, John Pickard Owen. In the library +of St. John’s College, Cambridge, are two copies of the pamphlet +with pages cut out; he used these pages in forming the MS. of <i>The +Fair Haven</i>. To have published this book as by the author of +<i>Erewhon</i> would have been to give away the irony and satire. +And he had another reason for not disclosing his name; he remembered +that as soon as curiosity about the authorship of <i>Erewhon</i> was +satisfied, the weekly sales fell from fifty down to only two or three. +But, as he always talked openly of whatever was in his mind, he soon +let out the secret of the authorship of <i>The Fair Haven</i>, and it +became advisable to put his name to a second edition.</p> +<p>One result of his submitting the MS. of <i>Erewhon</i> to Miss Savage +was that she thought he ought to write a novel, and urged him to do +so. I have no doubt that he wrote the memoir of John Pickard Owen +with the idea of quieting Miss Savage and also as an experiment to ascertain +whether he was likely to succeed with a novel. The result seems +to have satisfied him, for, not long after <i>The Fair Haven</i>, he +began <i>The Way of All Flesh</i>, sending the MS. to Miss Savage, as +he did everything he wrote, for her approval and putting her into the +book as Ernest’s Aunt Alethea. He continued writing it in +the intervals of other work until her death in February, 1885, after +which he did not touch it. It was published in 1903 by Mr. R. +A. Streatfeild, his literary executor.</p> +<p>Soon after <i>The Fair Haven</i> Butler began to be aware that his +letter in the <i>Press</i>, “Darwin among the Machines,” +was descending with further modifications and developing in his mind +into a theory about evolution which took shape as <i>Life and Habit</i>; +but the writing of this very remarkable and suggestive book was delayed +and the painting interrupted by absence from England on business in +Canada. He had been persuaded by a college friend, a member of +one of the great banking families, to call in his colonial mortgages +and to put the money into several new companies. He was going +to make thirty or forty per cent instead of only ten. One of these +companies was a Canadian undertaking, of which he became a director; +it was necessary for someone to go to headquarters and investigate its +affairs; he went, and was much occupied by the business for two or three +years. By the beginning of 1876 he had returned finally to London, +but most of his money was lost and his financial position for the next +ten years caused him very serious anxiety. His personal expenditure +was already so low that it was hardly possible to reduce it, and he +set to work at his profession more industriously than ever, hoping to +paint something that he could sell, his spare time being occupied with +<i>Life and Habit</i>, which was the subject that really interested +him more deeply than any other.</p> +<p>Following his letter in the <i>Press</i>, wherein he had seen machines +as in process of becoming animate, he went on to regard them as living +organs and limbs which we had made outside ourselves. What would +follow if we reversed this and regarded our limbs and organs as machines +which we had manufactured as parts of our bodies? In the first +place, how did we come to make them without knowing anything about it? +But then, how comes anybody to do anything unconsciously? The +answer usually would be: By habit. But can a man be said to do +a thing by habit when he has never done it before? His ancestors +have done it, but not he. Can the habit have been acquired by +them for his benefit? Not unless he and his ancestors are the +same person. Perhaps, then, they are the same person.</p> +<p>In February, 1876, partly to clear his mind and partly to tell someone, +he wrote down his thoughts in a letter to his namesake, Thomas William +Gale Butler, a fellow art-student who was then in New Zealand; so much +of the letter as concerns the growth of his theory is given in <i>The +Note-Books of Samuel Butler</i> (1912) and a résumé of +the theory will be found at the end of the last of the essays in this +volume, “The Deadlock in Darwinism.” In September, +1877, when <i>Life and Habit</i> was on the eve of publication, Mr. +Francis Darwin came to lunch with him in Clifford’s Inn and, in +course of conversation, told him that Professor Ray Lankester had written +something in <i>Nature</i> about a lecture by Dr. Ewald Hering of Prague, +delivered so long ago as 1870, “On Memory as a Universal Function +of Organized Matter.” This rather alarmed Butler, but he +deferred looking up the reference until after December, 1877, when his +book was out, and then, to his relief, he found that Hering’s +theory was very similar to his own, so that, instead of having something +sprung upon him which would have caused him to want to alter his book, +he was supported. He at once wrote to the <i>Athenæum</i>, +calling attention to Hering’s lecture, and then pursued his studies +in evolution.</p> +<p><i>Life and Habit</i> was followed in 1879 by <i>Evolution Old and +New</i>, wherein he compared the teleological or purposive view of evolution +taken by Buffon, Dr. Erasmus Darwin, and Lamarck with the view taken +by Charles Darwin, and came to the conclusion that the old was better. +But while agreeing with the earlier writers in thinking that the variations +whose accumulation results in species were originally due to intelligence, +he could not take the view that the intelligence resided in an external +personal God. He had done with all that when he gave up the Resurrection +of Jesus Christ from the dead. He proposed to place the intelligence +inside the creature (“The Deadlock in Darwinism” post).</p> +<p>In 1880 he continued the subject by publishing <i>Unconscious Memory</i>. +Chapter IV of this book is concerned with a personal quarrel between +himself and Charles Darwin which arose out of the publication by Charles +Darwin of Dr. Krause’s <i>Life of Erasmus Darwin</i>. We +need not enter into particulars here, the matter is fully dealt with +in a pamphlet, <i>Charles Darwin and Samuel Butler: A Step towards Reconciliation</i>, +which I wrote in 1911, the result of a correspondence between Mr. Francis +Darwin and myself. Before this correspondence took place Mr. Francis +Darwin had made several public allusions to <i>Life and Habit</i>; and +in September, 1908, in his inaugural address to the British Association +at Dublin, he did Butler the posthumous honour of quoting from his translation +of Hering’s lecture “On Memory,” which is in <i>Unconscious +Memory</i>, and of mentioning Butler as having enunciated the theory +contained in <i>Life and Habit.</i></p> +<p>In 1886 Butler published his last book on evolution, <i>Luck or Cunning +as the Main Means of Organic Modification</i>? His other contributions +to the subject are some essays, written for the <i>Examiner</i> in 1879, +“God the Known and God the Unknown,” which were re-published +by Mr. Fifield in 1909, and the articles “The Deadlock in Darwinism” +which appeared in the <i>Universal Review</i> in 1890 and are contained +in this volume; some further notes on evolution will be found in <i>The +Note-Books of Samuel Butler</i> (1912).</p> +<p>It was while he was writing <i>Life and Habit</i> that I first met +him. For several years he had been in the habit of spending six +or eight weeks of the summer in Italy and the Canton Ticino, generally +making Faido his headquarters. Many a page of his books was written +while resting by the fountain of some subalpine village or waiting in +the shade of the chestnuts till the light came so that he could continue +a sketch. Every year he returned home by a different route, and +thus gradually became acquainted with every part of the Canton and North +Italy. There is scarcely a town or village, a point of view, a +building, statue or picture in all this country with which he was not +familiar. In 1878 he happened to be on the Sacro Monte above Varese +at the time I took my holiday; there I joined him, and nearly every +year afterwards we were in Italy together.</p> +<p>He was always a delightful companion, and perhaps at his gayest on +these occasions. “A man’s holiday,” he would +say, “is his garden,” and he set out to enjoy himself and +to make everyone about him enjoy themselves too. I told him the +old schoolboy muddle about Sir Walter Raleigh introducing tobacco and +saying: “We shall this day light up such a fire in England as +I trust shall never be put out.” He had not heard it before +and, though amused, appeared preoccupied, and perhaps a little jealous, +during the rest of the evening. Next morning, while he was pouring +out his coffee, his eyes twinkled and he said, with assumed carelessness:</p> +<p>“By the by, do you remember?—wasn’t it Columbus +who bashed the egg down on the table and said ‘Eppur non si muove’?”</p> +<p>He was welcome wherever he went, full of fun and ready to play while +doing the honours of the country. Many of the peasants were old +friends, and every day we were sure to meet someone who remembered him. +Perhaps it would be an old woman labouring along under a burden; she +would smile and stop, take his hand and tell him how happy she was to +meet him again and repeat her thanks for the empty wine bottle he had +given her after an out-of-door luncheon in her neighbourhood four or +five years before. There was another who had rowed him many times +across the Lago di Orta and had never been in a train but once in her +life, when she went to Novara to her son’s wedding. He always +remembered all about these people and asked how the potatoes were doing +this year and whether the grandchildren were growing up into fine boys +and girls, and he never forgot to inquire after the son who had gone +to be a waiter in New York. At Civiasco there is a restaurant +which used to be kept by a jolly old lady, known for miles round as +La Martina; we always lunched with her on our way over the Colma to +and from Varallo-Sesia. On one occasion we were accompanied by +two English ladies and, one being a teetotaller, Butler maliciously +instructed La Martina to make the <i>sabbaglione</i> so that it should +be <i>forte</i> and <i>abbondante</i>, and to say that the Marsala, +with which it was more than flavoured, was nothing but vinegar. +La Martina never forgot that when she looked in to see how things were +going, he was pretending to lick the dish clean. These journeys +provided the material for a book which he thought of calling “Verdi +Prati,” after one of Handel’s most beautiful songs; but +he changed his mind, and it appeared at the end of 1881 as <i>Alps and +Sanctuaries of Piedmont and the Canton Ticino</i> with more than eighty +illustrations, nearly all by Butler. Charles Gogin made an etching +for the frontispiece, drew some of the pictures, and put figures into +others; half a dozen are mine. They were all redrawn in ink from +sketches made on the spot, in oil, water-colour, and pencil. There +were also many illustrations of another kind—extracts from Handel’s +music, each chosen because Butler thought it suitable to the spirit +of the scene he wished to bring before the reader. The introduction +concludes with these words: “I have chosen Italy as my second +country, and would dedicate this book to her as a thank-offering for +the happiness she has afforded me.”</p> +<p>In the spring of 1883 he began to compose music, and in 1885 we published +together an album of minuets, gavottes, and fugues. This led to +our writing <i>Narcissus</i>, which is an Oratorio Buffo in the Handelian +manner—that is as nearly so as we could make it. It is a +mistake to suppose that all Handel’s oratorios are upon sacred +subjects; some of them are secular. And not only so, but, whatever +the subject, Handel was never at a loss in treating anything that came +into his words by way of allusion or illustration. As Butler puts +it in one of his sonnets:</p> +<blockquote><p>He who gave eyes to ears and showed in sound<br /> +All thoughts and things in earth or heaven above—<br /> +From fire and hailstones running along the ground<br /> +To Galatea grieving for her love—<br /> +He who could show to all unseeing eyes<br /> +Glad shepherds watching o’er their flocks by night,<br /> +Or Iphis angel-wafted to the skies,<br /> +Or Jordan standing as an heap upright—</p> +</blockquote> +<p>And so on. But there is one subject which Handel never treated—I +mean the Money Market. Perhaps he avoided it intentionally; he +was twice bankrupt, and Mr. R. A. Streatfeild tells me that the British +Museum possesses a MS. letter from him giving instructions as to the +payment of the dividends on £500 South Sea Stock. Let us +hope he sold out before the bubble burst; if so, he was more fortunate +than Butler, who was at this time of his life in great anxiety about +his own financial affairs. It seemed a pity that Dr. Morell had +never offered Handel some such words as these:</p> +<blockquote><p>The steadfast funds maintain their wonted state<br /> +While all the other markets fluctuate.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Butler wondered whether Handel would have sent the steadfast funds +up above par and maintained them on an inverted pedal with all the other +markets fluctuating iniquitously round them like the sheep that turn +every one to his own way in the <i>Messiah</i>. He thought something +of the kind ought to have been done, and in the absence of Handel and +Dr. Morell we determined to write an oratorio that should attempt to +supply the want. In order to make our libretto as plausible as +possible, we adopted the dictum of Monsieur Jourdain’s Maître +à danser: “Lorsqu’on a des personnes à faire +parler en musique, il faut bien que, pour la vraisemblance, on donne +dans la bergerie.” Narcissus is accordingly a shepherd in +love with Amaryllis; they come to London with other shepherds and lose +their money in imprudent speculations on the Stock Exchange. In +the second part the aunt and godmother of Narcissus, having died at +an advanced age worth one hundred thousand pounds, all of which she +has bequeathed to her nephew and godson, the obstacle to his union with +Amaryllis is removed. The money is invested in consols and all +ends happily.</p> +<p>In December, 1886, Butler’s father died, and his financial +difficulties ceased. He engaged Alfred Emery Cathie as clerk, +but made no other change, except that he bought a pair of new hair brushes +and a larger wash-hand basin. Any change in his mode of life was +an event. When in London he got up at 6.30 in the summer and 7.30 +in the winter, went into his sitting-room, lighted the fire, put the +kettle on and returned to bed. In half an hour he got up again, +fetched the kettle of hot water, emptied it into the cold water that +was already in his bath, refilled the kettle and put it back on the +fire. After dressing, he came into his sitting-room, made tea +and cooked, in his Dutch oven, something he had bought the day before. +His laundress was an elderly woman, and he could not trouble her to +come to his rooms so early in the morning; on the other hand, he could +not stay in bed until he thought it right for her to go out; so it ended +in his doing a great deal for himself. He then got his breakfast +and read the <i>Times</i>. At 9.30 Alfred came, with whom he discussed +anything requiring attention, and soon afterwards his laundress arrived. +Then he started to walk to the British Museum, where he arrived about +10.30, every alternate morning calling at the butcher’s in Fetter +Lane to order his meat. In the Reading Room at the Museum he sat +at Block B (“B for Butler”) and spent an hour “posting +his notes”—that is reconsidering, rewriting, amplifying, +shortening, and indexing the contents of the little note-book he always +carried in his pocket. After the notes he went on till 1.30 with +whatever book he happened to be writing.</p> +<p>On three days of the week he dined in a restaurant on his way home, +and on the other days he dined in his chambers where his laundress had +cooked his dinner. At two o’clock Alfred returned (having +been home to dinner with his wife and children) and got tea ready for +him. He then wrote letters and attended to his accounts till 3.45, +when he smoked his first cigarette. He used to smoke a great deal, +but, believing it to be bad for him, took to cigarettes instead of pipes, +and gradually smoked less and less, making it a rule not to begin till +some particular hour, and pushing this hour later and later in the day, +till it settled itself at 3.45. There was no water laid on in +his rooms, and every day he fetched one can full from the tap in the +court, Alfred fetching the rest. When anyone expostulated with +him about cooking his own breakfast and fetching his own water, he replied +that it was good for him to have a change of occupation. This +was partly the fact, but the real reason, which he could not tell everyone, +was that he shrank from inconveniencing anybody; he always paid more +than was necessary when anything was done for him, and was not happy +then unless he did some of the work himself.</p> +<p>At 5.30 he got his evening meal, he called it his tea, and it was +little more than a facsimile of breakfast. Alfred left in time +to post the letters before six. Butler then wrote music till about +8, when he came to see me in Staple Inn, returning to Clifford’s +Inn by about 10. After a light supper, latterly not more than +a piece of toast and a glass of milk, he played one game of his own +particular kind of Patience, prepared his breakfast things and fire +ready for the next morning, smoked his seventh and last cigarette, and +went to bed at eleven o’clock.</p> +<p>He was fond of the theatre, but avoided serious pieces. He +preferred to take his Shakespeare from the book, finding that the spirit +of the plays rather evaporated under modern theatrical treatment. +In one of his books he brightens up the old illustration of <i>Hamlet</i> +without the Prince of Denmark by putting it thus: “If the character +of Hamlet be entirely omitted, the play must suffer, even though Henry +Irving himself be cast for the title-role.” Anyone going +to the theatre in this spirit would be likely to be less disappointed +by performances that were comic or even frankly farcical. Latterly, +when he grew slightly deaf, listening to any kind of piece became too +much of an effort; nevertheless, he continued to the last the habit +of going to one pantomime every winter.</p> +<p>There were about twenty houses where he visited, but he seldom accepted +an invitation to dinner—it upset the regularity of his life; besides, +he belonged to no club and had no means of returning hospitality. +When two colonial friends called unexpectedly about noon one day, soon +after he settled in London, he went to the nearest cook-shop in Fetter +Lane and returned carrying a dish of hot roast pork and greens. +This was all very well once in a way, but not the sort of thing to be +repeated indefinitely.</p> +<p>On Thursdays, instead of going to the Museum, he often took a day +off, going into the country sketching or walking, and on Sundays, whatever +the weather, he nearly always went into the country walking; his map +of the district for thirty miles round London is covered all over with +red lines showing where he had been. He sometimes went out of +town from Saturday to Monday, and for over twenty years spent Christmas +at Boulogne-sur-Mer.</p> +<p>There is a Sacro Monte at Varallo-Sesia with many chapels, each containing +life-sized statues and frescoes illustrating the life of Christ. +Butler had visited this sanctuary repeatedly, and was a great favourite +with the townspeople, who knew that he was studying the statues and +frescoes in the chapels, and who remembered that in the preface to <i>Alps +and Sanctuaries</i> he had declared his intention of writing about them. +In August, 1887, the Varallesi brought matters to a head by giving him +a civic dinner on the Mountain. Everyone was present, there were +several speeches and, when we were coming down the slippery mountain +path after it was all over, he said to me:</p> +<p>“You know, there’s nothing for it now but to write that +book about the Sacro Monte at once. It must be the next thing +I do.”</p> +<p>Accordingly, on returning home, he took up photography and, immediately +after Christmas, went back to Varallo to photograph the statues and +collect material. Much research was necessary and many visits +to out-of-the-way sanctuaries which might have contained work by the +sculptor Tabachetti, whom he was rescuing from oblivion and identifying +with the Flemish Jean de Wespin. One of these visits, made after +his book was published, forms the subject of “The Sanctuary of +Montrigone,” reproduced in this volume. <i>Ex Voto</i>, +the book about Varallo, appeared in 1888, and an Italian translation +by Cavaliere Angelo Rizzetti was published at Novara in 1894.</p> +<p>“Quis Desiderio . . .?” the second essay in this volume, +was developed in 1888 from something in a letter from Miss Savage nearly +ten years earlier. On the 15th of December, 1878, in acknowledging +this letter, Butler wrote:</p> +<blockquote><p>I am sure that any tree or flower nursed by Miss Cobbe +would be the very first to fade away and that her gazelles would die +long before they ever came to know her well. The sight of the +brass buttons on her pea-jacket would settle them out of hand.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>There was an enclosure in Miss Savage’s letter, but it is unfortunately +lost; I suppose it must have been a newspaper cutting with an allusion +to Moore’s poem and perhaps a portrait of Miss Frances Power Cobbe—pea-jacket, +brass buttons, and all.</p> +<p>On the 10th November, 1879, Miss Savage, having been ill, wrote to +Butler:</p> +<blockquote><p>I have been dipping into the books of Moses, being sometimes +at a loss for something to read while shut up in my apartment. +You know that I have never read the Bible much, consequently there is +generally something of a novelty that I hit on. As you do know +your Bible well, perhaps you can tell me what became of Aaron. +The account given of his end in Numbers XX is extremely ambiguous and +unsatisfactory. Evidently he did not come by his death fairly, +but whether he was murdered secretly for the furtherance of some private +ends, or publicly in a State sacrifice, I can’t make out. +I myself rather incline to the former opinion, but I should like to +know what the experts say about it. A very nice, exciting little +tale might be made out of it in the style of the police stories in All +the Year Round called “The Mystery of Mount Hor or What became +of Aaron?” Don’t forget to write to me.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Butler’s people had been suggesting that he should try to earn +money by writing in magazines, and Miss Savage was falling in with the +idea and offering a practical suggestion. I do not find that he +had anything to tell her about the death of Aaron. On 23rd March, +1880, she wrote:</p> +<blockquote><p>Dear Mr. Butler: Read the subjoined poem of Wordsworth +and let me know what you understand its meaning to be. Of course +I have my opinion, which I think of communicating to the Wordsworth +Society. You can belong to that Society for the small sum of 2/6 +per annum. I think of joining because it is cheap.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>“The subjoined poem” was the one beginning: “She +dwelt among the untrodden ways,” and Butler made this note on +the letter:</p> +<blockquote><p>To the foregoing letter I answered that I concluded Miss +Savage meant to imply that Wordsworth had murdered Lucy in order to +escape a prosecution for breach of promise.</p> +<p>Miss Savage to Butler.</p> +<p>2nd April, 1880: My dear Mr. Butler: I don’t think you see +all that I do in the poem, and I am afraid that the suggestion of a +DARK SECRET in the poet’s life is not so very obvious after all. +I was hoping you would propose to devote yourself for a few months to +reading the Excursion, his letters, &c., with a view to following +up the clue, and I am disappointed though, to say the truth, the idea +of a crime had not flashed upon me when I wrote to you. How well +the works of great men repay attention and study! But you, who +know your Bible so well, how was it that you did not detect the plagiarism +in the last verse? Just refer to the account of the disappearance +of Aaron (I have not a Bible at hand, we want one sadly in the club) +but I am sure that the words are identical [I cannot see what Miss Savage +meant. 1901. S. B.] Cassell’s Magazine have +offered a prize for setting the poem to music, and I fell to thinking +how it could be treated musically, and so came to a right comprehension +of it.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Although Butler, when editing Miss Savage’s letters in 1901, +could not see the resemblance between Wordsworth’s poem and Numbers +XX., he at once saw a strong likeness between Lucy and Moore’s +heroine whom he had been keeping in an accessible pigeon-hole of his +memory ever since his letter about Miss Frances Power Cobbe. He +now sent Lucy to keep her company and often spoke of the pair of them +as probably the two most disagreeable young women in English literature—an +opinion which he must have expressed to Miss Savage and with which I +have no doubt she agreed.</p> +<p>In the spring of 1888, on his return from photographing the statues +at Varallo, he found, to his disgust, that the authorities of the British +Museum had removed Frost’s <i>Lives of Eminent Christians</i> +from its accustomed shelf in the Reading Room. Soon afterwards +Harry Quilter asked him to write for the <i>Universal Review</i> and +he responded with “Quis Desiderio . . .?” In this +essay he compares himself to Wordsworth and dwells on the points of +resemblance between Lucy and the book of whose assistance he had now +been deprived in a passage which echoes the opening of Chapter V of +<i>Ex Voto</i>, where he points out the resemblances between Varallo +and Jerusalem.</p> +<p>Early in 1888 the leading members of the Shrewsbury Archæological +Society asked Butler to write a memoir of his grandfather and of his +father for their Quarterly Journal. This he undertook to do when +he should have finished <i>Ex Voto</i>. In December, 1888, his +sisters, with the idea of helping him to write the memoir, gave him +his grandfather’s correspondence, which extended from 1790 to +1839. On looking over these very voluminous papers he became penetrated +with an almost Chinese reverence for his ancestor and, after getting +the Archæological Society to absolve him from his promise to write +the memoir, set about a full life of Dr. Butler, which was not published +till 1896. The delay was caused partly by the immense quantity +of documents he had to sift and digest, the number of people he had +to consult and the many letters he had to write, and partly by something +that arose out of <i>Narcissus</i>, which we published in June, 1888.</p> +<p>Butler was not satisfied with having written only half of this work; +he wanted it to have a successor, so that by adding his two halves together, +he could say he had written a whole Handelian oratorio. While +staying with his sisters at Shrewsbury with this idea in his mind, he +casually took up a book by Alfred Ainger about Charles Lamb and therein +stumbled upon something about the <i>Odyssey</i>. It was years +since he had looked at the poem, but, from what he remembered, he thought +it might provide a suitable subject for musical treatment. He +did not, however, want to put Dr. Butler aside, so I undertook to investigate. +It is stated on the title-page of both <i>Narcissus</i> and <i>Ulysses</i> +that the words were written and the music composed by both of us. +As to the music, each piece bears the initials of the one who actually +composed it. As to the words, it was necessary first to settle +some general scheme and this, in the case of <i>Narcissus</i>, grew +in the course of conversation. The scheme of <i>Ulysses</i> was +constructed in a more formal way and Butler had perhaps rather less +to do with it. We were bound by the <i>Odyssey</i>, which is, +of course, too long to be treated fully, and I selected incidents that +attracted me and settled the order of the songs and choruses. +For this purpose, as I out-Shakespeare Shakespeare in the smallness +of my Greek, I used <i>The Adventures of Ulysses</i> by Charles Lamb, +which we should have known nothing about but for Ainger’s book. +Butler acquiesced in my proposals, but, when it came to the words themselves, +he wrote practically all the libretto, as he had done in the case of +<i>Narcissus</i>; I did no more than suggest a few phrases and a few +lines here and there.</p> +<p>We had sent <i>Narcissus</i> for review to the papers, and, as a +consequence, about this time, made the acquaintance of Mr. J. A. Fuller +Maitland, then musical critic of the <i>Times</i>; he introduced us +to that learned musician William Smith Rockstro, under whom we studied +medieval counterpoint while composing <i>Ulysses</i>. We had already +made some progress with it when it occurred to Butler that it would +not take long and might, perhaps, be safer if he were to look at the +original poem, just to make sure that Lamb had not misled me. +Not having forgotten all his Greek, he bought a copy of the <i>Odyssey</i> +and was so fascinated by it that he could not put it down. When +he came to the Phœacian episode of Ulysses at Scheria he felt +he must be reading the description of a real place and that something +in the personality of the author was eluding him. For months he +was puzzled, and, to help in clearing up the mystery, set about translating +the poem. In August, 1891, he had preceded me to Chiavenna and +on a letter I wrote him, telling him when to expect me, he made this +note:</p> +<blockquote><p>It was during the few days I was at Chiavenna (at the +Hotel Grotta Crimée) that I hit upon the feminine authorship +of the Odyssey. I did not find out its having been written at +Trapani till January, 1892.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>He suspected that the authoress in describing both Scheria and Ithaca +was drawing from her native country and searched on the Admiralty charts +for the features enumerated in the poem; this led him to the conclusion +that the country could only be Trapani, Mount Eryx, and the Ægadean +Islands. As soon as he could after this discovery he went to Sicily +to study the locality and found it in all respects suitable for his +theory; indeed, it was astonishing how things kept turning up to support +his view. It is all in his book <i>The Authoress of the Odyssey</i>, +published in 1897 and dedicated to his friend Cavaliere Biagio Ingroja +of Calatafimi.</p> +<p>His first visit to Sicily was in 1892, in August—a hot time +of the year, but it was his custom to go abroad in the autumn. +He returned to Sicily every year (except one), but latterly went in +the spring. He made many friends all over the island, and after +his death the people of Calatafimi called a street by his name, the +Via Samuel Butler, “thus,” as Ingroja wrote when he announced +the event to me, “honouring a great man’s memory, handing +down his name to posterity, and doing homage to the friendly English +nation.” Besides showing that the <i>Odyssey</i> was written +by a woman in Sicily and translating the poem into English prose, he +also translated the <i>Iliad</i>, and, in March, 1895, went to Greece +and the Troad to see the country therein described, where he found nothing +to cause him to disagree with the received theories.</p> +<p>It has been said of him in a general way that the fact of an opinion +being commonly held was enough to make him profess the opposite. +It was enough to make him examine the opinion for himself, when it affected +any of the many subjects which interested him, and if, after giving +it his best attention, he found it did not hold water, then no weight +of authority could make him say that it did. This matter of the +geography of the <i>Iliad</i> is only one among many commonly received +opinions which he examined for himself and found no reason to dispute; +on these he considered it unnecessary to write.</p> +<p>It is characteristic of his passion for doing things thoroughly that +he learnt nearly the whole of the <i>Odyssey</i> and the <i>Iliad</i> +by heart. He had a Pickering copy of each poem, which he carried +in his pocket and referred to in railway trains, both in England and +Italy, when saying the poems over to himself. These two little +books are now in the library of St. John’s College, Cambridge. +He was, however, disappointed to find that he could not retain more +than a book or two at a time and that, on learning more, he forgot what +he had learnt first; but he was about sixty at the time. Shakespeare’s +Sonnets, on which he published a book in 1899, gave him less trouble +in this respect; he knew them all by heart, and also their order, and +one consequence of this was that he wrote some sonnets in the Shakespearian +form. He found this intimate knowledge of the poet’s work +more useful for his purpose than reading commentaries by those who were +less familiar with it. “A commentary on a poem,” he +would say, “may be useful as material on which to form an estimate +of the commentator, but the poem itself is the most important document +you can consult, and it is impossible to know it too intimately if you +want to form an opinion about it and its author.”</p> +<p>It was always the author, the work of God, that interested him more +than the book—the work of man; the painter more than the picture; +the composer more than the music. “If a writer, a painter, +or a musician makes me feel that he held those things to be lovable +which I myself hold to be lovable I am satisfied; art is only interesting +in so far as it reveals the personality of the artist.” +Handel was, of course, “the greatest of all musicians.” +Among the painters he chiefly loved Giovanni Bellini, Carpaccio, Gaudenzio +Ferrari, Rembrandt, Holbein, Velasquez, and De Hooghe; in poetry Shakespeare, +Homer, and the Authoress of the <i>Odyssey</i>; and in architecture +the man, whoever he was, who designed the Temple of Neptune at Paestum. +Life being short, he did not see why he should waste any of it in the +company of inferior people when he had these. And he treated those +he met in daily life in the same spirit: it was what he found them to +be that attracted or repelled him; what others thought about them was +of little or no consequence.</p> +<p>And now, at the end of his life, his thoughts reverted to the two +subjects which had occupied him more than thirty years previously—namely, +<i>Erewhon</i> and the evidence for the death and resurrection of Jesus +Christ. The idea of what might follow from belief in one single +supposed miracle had been slumbering during all those years and at last +rose again in the form of a sequel to <i>Erewhon</i>. In <i>Erewhon +Revisited</i> Mr. Higgs returns to find that the Erewhonians now believe +in him as a god in consequence of the supposed miracle of his going +up in a balloon to induce his heavenly father to send the rain. +Mr. Higgs and the reader know that there was no miracle in the case, +but Butler wanted to show that whether it was a miracle or not did not +signify provided that the people believed it to be one. And so +Mr. Higgs is present in the temple which is being dedicated to him and +his worship.</p> +<p>The existence of his son George was an after-thought and gave occasion +for the second leading idea of the book—the story of a father +trying to win the love of a hitherto unknown son by risking his life +in order to show himself worthy of it—and succeeding.</p> +<p>Butler’s health had already begun to fail, and when he started +for Sicily on Good Friday, 1902, it was for the last time: he knew he +was unfit to travel, but was determined to go, and was looking forward +to meeting Mr. and Mrs. J. A. Fuller Maitland, whom he was to accompany +over the Odyssean scenes at Trapani and Mount Eryx. But he did +not get beyond Palermo; there he was so much worse that he could not +leave his room. In a few weeks he was well enough to be removed +to Naples, and Alfred went out and brought him home to London. +He was taken to a nursing home in St. John’s Wood where he lay +for a month, attended by his old friend Dr. Dudgeon, and where he died +on the 18th June, 1902.</p> +<p>There was a great deal he still wanted to do. He had intended +to revise <i>The Way of All Flesh</i>, to write a book about Tabachetti, +and to publish a new edition of <i>Ex Voto</i> with the mistakes corrected. +Also he wished to reconsider the articles reprinted in this volume and +was looking forward to painting more sketches and composing more music. +While lying ill and very feeble within a few days of the end, and not +knowing whether it was to be the end or not, he said to me:</p> +<p>“I am much better to-day. I don’t feel at all as +though I were going to die. Of course, it will be all wrong if +I do get well, for there is my literary position to be considered. +First I write <i>Erewhon</i>—that is my opening subject; then, +after modulating freely through all my other books and the music and +so on, I return gracefully to my original key and write <i>Erewhon Revisited</i>. +Obviously, now is the proper moment to come to a full close, make my +bow and retire; but I believe I am getting well after all. It’s +very inartistic, but I cannot help it.”</p> +<p>Some of his readers complain that they often do not know whether +he is serious or jesting. He wrote of Lord Beaconsfield: “Earnestness +was his greatest danger, but if he did not quite overcome it (as indeed +who can? it is the last enemy that shall be subdued), he managed to +veil it with a fair amount of success.” To veil his own +earnestness he turned most naturally to humour, employing it in a spirit +of reverence, as all the great humorists have done, to express his deepest +and most serious convictions. He was aware that he ran the risk +of being misunderstood by some, but he also knew that it is useless +to try to please all, and, like Mozart, he wrote to please himself and +a few intimate friends.</p> +<p>I cannot speak at length of his kindness, consideration, and sympathy; +nor of his generosity, the extent of which was very great and can never +be known—it was sometimes exercised in unexpected ways, as when +he gave my laundress a shilling because it was “such a beastly +foggy morning”; nor of his slightly archaic courtliness—unless +among people he knew well he usually left the room backwards, bowing +to the company; nor of his punctiliousness, industry, and painstaking +attention to detail—he kept accurate accounts not only of all +his property by double entry but also of his daily expenditure, which +he balanced to a halfpenny every evening, and his handwriting, always +beautiful and legible, was more so at sixty-six than at twenty-six; +nor of his patience and cheerfulness during years of anxiety when he +had few to sympathize with him; nor of the strange mixture of simplicity +and shrewdness that caused one who knew him well to say: “II sait +tout; il ne sait rien; il est poète.”</p> +<p>Epitaphs always fascinated him, and formerly he used to say he should +like to be buried at Langar and to have on his tombstone the subject +of the last of Handel’s <i>Six Great Fugues</i>. He called +this “The Old Man Fugue,” and said it was like an epitaph +composed for himself by one who was very old and tired and sorry for +things; and he made young Ernest Pontifex in <i>The Way of all Flesh</i> +offer it to Edward Overton as an epitaph for his Aunt Alethea. +Butler, however, left off wanting any tombstone long before he died. +In accordance with his wish his body was cremated, and a week later +Alfred and I returned to Woking and buried his ashes under the shrubs +in the garden of the crematorium, with nothing to mark the spot.</p> +<h2>The Humour of Homer <a name="citation59"></a><a href="#footnote59">{59}</a></h2> +<p>The first of the two great poems commonly ascribed to Homer is called +the <i>Iliad</i>—a title which we may be sure was not given it +by the author. It professes to treat of a quarrel between Agamemnon +and Achilles that broke out while the Greeks were besieging the city +of Troy, and it does, indeed, deal largely with the consequences of +this quarrel; whether, however, the ostensible subject did not conceal +another that was nearer the poet’s heart—I mean the last +days, death, and burial of Hector—is a point that I cannot determine. +Nor yet can I determine how much of the <i>Iliad</i> as we now have +it is by Homer, and how much by a later writer or writers. This +is a very vexed question, but I myself believe the <i>Iliad</i> to be +entirely by a single poet.</p> +<p>The second poem commonly ascribed to the same author is called the +<i>Odyssey</i>. It deals with the adventures of Ulysses during +his ten years of wandering after Troy had fallen. These two works +have of late years been believed to be by different authors. The +<i>Iliad</i> is now generally held to be the older work by some one +or two hundred years.</p> +<p>The leading ideas of the <i>Iliad</i> are love, war, and plunder, +though this last is less insisted on than the other two. The key-note +is struck with a woman’s charms, and a quarrel among men for their +possession. It is a woman who is at the bottom of the Trojan war +itself. Woman throughout the <i>Iliad</i> is a being to be loved, +teased, laughed at, and if necessary carried off. We are told +in one place of a fine bronze cauldron for heating water which was worth +twenty oxen, whereas a few lines lower down a good serviceable maid-of-all-work +is valued at four oxen. I think there is a spice of malicious +humour in this valuation, and am confirmed in this opinion by noting +that though woman in the <i>Iliad</i> is on one occasion depicted as +a wife so faithful and affectionate that nothing more perfect can be +found either in real life or fiction, yet as a general rule she is drawn +as teasing, scolding, thwarting, contradicting, and hoodwinking the +sex that has the effrontery to deem itself her lord and master. +Whether or no this view may have arisen from any domestic difficulties +between Homer and his wife is a point which again I find it impossible +to determine.</p> +<p>We cannot refrain from contemplating such possibilities. If +we are to be at home with Homer there must be no sitting on the edge +of one’s chair dazzled by the splendour of his reputation. +He was after all only a literary man, and those who occupy themselves +with letters must approach him as a very honoured member of their own +fraternity, but still as one who must have felt, thought, and acted +much as themselves. He struck oil, while we for the most part +succeed in boring only; still we are his literary brethren, and if we +would read his lines intelligently we must also read between them. +That one so shrewd, and yet a dreamer of such dreams as have been vouchsafed +to few indeed besides himself—that one so genially sceptical, +and so given to looking into the heart of a matter, should have been +in such perfect harmony with his surroundings as to think himself in +the best of all possible worlds—this is not believable. +The world is always more or less out of joint to the poet—generally +more so; and unfortunately he always thinks it more or less his business +to set it right—generally more so. We are all of us more +or less poets—generally, indeed, less so; still we feel and think, +and to think at all is to be out of harmony with much that we think +about. We may be sure, then, that Homer had his full share of +troubles, and also that traces of these abound up and down his work +if we could only identify them, for everything that everyone does is +in some measure a portrait of himself; but here comes the difficulty—not +to read between the lines, not to try and detect the hidden features +of the writer—this is to be a dull, unsympathetic, incurious reader; +and on the other hand to try and read between them is to be in danger +of running after every Will o’ the Wisp that conceit may raise +for our delusion.</p> +<p>I believe it will help you better to understand the broad humour +of the <i>Iliad</i>, which we shall presently reach, if you will allow +me to say a little more about the general characteristics of the poem. +Over and above the love and war that are his main themes, there is another +which the author never loses sight of—I mean distrust and dislike +of the ideas of his time as regards the gods and omens. No poet +ever made gods in his own image more defiantly than the author of the +<i>Iliad</i>. In the likeness of man created he them, and the +only excuse for him is that he obviously desired his readers not to +take them seriously. This at least is the impression he leaves +upon his reader, and when so great a man as Homer leaves an impression +it must be presumed that he does so intentionally. It may be almost +said that he has made the gods take the worse, not the better, side +of man’s nature upon them, and to be in all respects as we ourselves—yet +without virtue. It should be noted, however, that the gods on +the Trojan side are treated far more leniently than those who help the +Greeks.</p> +<p>The chief gods on the Grecian side are Juno, Minerva, and Neptune. +Juno, as you will shortly see, is a scolding wife, who in spite of all +Jove’s bluster wears the breeches, or tries exceedingly hard to +do so. Minerva is an angry termagant—mean, mischief-making, +and vindictive. She begins by pulling Achilles’ hair, and +later on she knocks the helmet from off the head of Mars. She +hates Venus, and tells the Grecian hero Diomede that he had better not +wound any of the other gods, but that he is to hit Venus if he can, +which he presently does ‘because he sees that she is feeble and +not like Minerva or Bellona.’ Neptune is a bitter hater.</p> +<p>Apollo, Mars, Venus, Diana, and Jove, so far as his wife will let +him, are on the Trojan side. These, as I have said, meet with +better, though still somewhat contemptuous, treatment at the poet’s +hand. Jove, however, is being mocked and laughed at from first +to last, and if one moral can be drawn from the <i>Iliad</i> more clearly +than another, it is that he is only to be trusted to a very limited +extent. Homer’s position, in fact, as regards divine interference +is the very opposite of David’s. David writes, “Put +not your trust in princes nor in any child of man; there is no sure +help but from the Lord.” With Homer it is, “Put not +your trust in Jove neither in any omen from heaven; there is but one +good omen—to fight for one’s country. Fortune favours +the brave; heaven helps those who help themselves.”</p> +<p>The god who comes off best is Vulcan, the lame, hobbling, old blacksmith, +who is the laughing-stock of all the others, and whose exquisitely graceful +skilful workmanship forms such an effective contrast to the uncouth +exterior of the workman. Him, as a man of genius and an artist, +and furthermore as a somewhat despised artist, Homer treats, if with +playfulness, still with respect, in spite of the fact that circumstances +have thrown him more on the side of the Greeks than of the Trojans, +with whom I understand Homer’s sympathies mainly to lie.</p> +<p>The poet either dislikes music or is at best insensible to it. +Great poets very commonly are so. Achilles, indeed, does on one +occasion sing to his own accompaniment on the lyre, but we are not told +that it was any pleasure to hear him, and Patroclus, who was in the +tent at the time, was not enjoying it; he was only waiting for Achilles +to leave off. But though not fond of music, Homer has a very keen +sense of the beauties of nature, and is constantly referring both in +and out of season to all manner of homely incidents that are as familiar +to us as to himself. Sparks in the train of a shooting-star; a +cloud of dust upon a high road; foresters going out to cut wood in a +forest; the shrill cry of the cicale; children making walls of sand +on the sea-shore, or teasing wasps when they have found a wasps’ +nest; a poor but very honest woman who gains a pittance for her children +by selling wool, and weighs it very carefully; a child clinging to its +mother’s dress and crying to be taken up and carried—none +of these things escape him. Neither in the <i>Iliad</i> nor the +<i>Odyssey</i> do we ever receive so much as a hint as to the time of +year at which any of the events described are happening; but on one +occasion the author of the <i>Iliad</i> really has told us that it was +a very fine day, and this not from a business point of view, but out +of pure regard to the weather for its own sake.</p> +<p>With one more observation I will conclude my preliminary remarks +about the <i>Iliad</i>. I cannot find its author within the four +corners of the work itself. I believe the writer of the <i>Odyssey</i> +to appear in the poem as a prominent and very fascinating character +whom we shall presently meet, but there is no one in the <i>Iliad</i> +on whom I can put my finger with even a passing idea that he may be +the author. Still, if under some severe penalty I were compelled +to find him, I should say it was just possible that he might consider +his own lot to have been more or less like that which he forecasts for +Astyanax, the infant son of Hector. At any rate his intimate acquaintance +with the topography of Troy, which is now well ascertained, and still +more his obvious attempt to excuse the non-existence of a great wall +which, according to his story, ought to be there and which he knew had +never existed, so that no trace could remain, while there were abundant +traces of all the other features he describes—these facts convince +me that he was in all probability a native of the Troad, or country +round Troy. His plausibly concealed Trojan sympathies, and more +particularly the aggravated exaggeration with which the flight of Hector +is described, suggest to me, coming as they do from an astute and humorous +writer, that he may have been a Trojan, at any rate by the mother’s +side, made captive, enslaved, compelled to sing the glories of his captors, +and determined so to overdo them that if his masters cannot see through +the irony others sooner or later shall. This, however, is highly +speculative, and there are other views that are perhaps more true, but +which I cannot now consider.</p> +<p>I will now ask you to form your own opinions as to whether Homer +is or is not a shrewd and humorous writer.</p> +<p>Achilles, whose quarrel with Agamemnon is the ostensible subject +of the poem, is son to a marine goddess named Thetis, who had rendered +Jove an important service at a time when he was in great difficulties. +Achilles, therefore, begs his mother Thetis to go up to Jove and ask +him to let the Trojans discomfit the Greeks for a time, so that Agamemnon +may find he cannot get on without Achilles’ help, and may thus +be brought to reason.</p> +<p>Thetis tells her son that for the moment there is nothing to be done, +inasmuch as the gods are all of them away from home. They are +gone to pay a visit to Oceanus in Central Africa, and will not be back +for another ten or twelve days; she will see what can be done, however, +as soon as ever they return. This in due course she does, going +up to Olympus and laying hold of Jove by the knee and by the chin. +I may say in passing that it is still a common Italian form of salutation +to catch people by the chin. Twice during the last summer I have +been so seized in token of affectionate greeting, once by a lady and +once by a gentleman.</p> +<p>Thetis tells her tale to Jove, and concludes by saying that he is +to say straight out ‘yes’ or ‘no’ whether he +will do what she asks. Of course he can please himself, but she +should like to know how she stands.</p> +<p>“It will be a plaguy business,” answers Jove, “for +me to offend Juno and put up with all the bitter tongue she will give +me. As it is, she is always nagging at me and saying I help the +Trojans, still, go away now at once before she finds out that you have +been here, and leave the rest to me. See, I nod my head to you, +and this is the most solemn form of covenant into which I can enter. +I never go back upon it, nor shilly-shally with anybody when I have +once nodded my head.” Which, by the way, amounts to an admission +that he does shilly-shally sometimes.</p> +<p>Then he frowns and nods, shaking the hair on his immortal head till +Olympus rocks again. Thetis goes off under the sea and Jove returns +to his own palace. All the other gods stand up when they see him +coming, for they do not dare to remain sitting while he passes, but +Juno knows he has been hatching mischief against the Greeks with Thetis, +so she attacks him in the following words:</p> +<p>“You traitorous scoundrel,” she exclaims, “which +of the gods have you been taking into your counsel now? You are +always trying to settle matters behind my back, and never tell me, if +you can help it, a single word about your designs.”</p> +<p>“‘Juno,’ replied the father of gods and men, ‘you +must not expect to be told everything that I am thinking about: you +are my wife, it is true, but you might not be able always to understand +my meaning; in so far as it is proper for you to know of my intentions +you are the first person to whom I communicate them either among the +gods or among mankind, but there are certain points which I reserve +entirely for myself, and the less you try to pry into these, or meddle +with them, the better for you.’”</p> +<p>“‘Dread son of Saturn,’ answered Juno, ‘what +in the world are you talking about? I meddle and pry? No +one, I am sure, can have his own way in everything more absolutely than +you have. Still I have a strong misgiving that the old merman’s +daughter Thetis has been talking you over. I saw her hugging your +knees this very self-same morning, and I suspect you have been promising +her to kill any number of people down at the Grecian ships, in order +to gratify Achilles.’”</p> +<p>“‘Wife,’ replied Jove, ‘I can do nothing +but you suspect me. You will not do yourself any good, for the +more you go on like that the more I dislike you, and it may fare badly +with you. If I mean to have it so, I mean to have it so, you had +better therefore sit still and hold your tongue as I tell you, for if +I once begin to lay my hands about you, there is not a god in heaven +who will be of the smallest use to you.’</p> +<p>“When Juno heard this she thought it better to submit, so she +sat down without a word, but all the gods throughout Jove’s mansion +were very much perturbed. Presently the cunning workman Vulcan +tried to pacify his mother Juno, and said, ‘It will never do for +you two to go on quarrelling and setting heaven in an uproar about a +pack of mortals. The thing will not bear talking about. +If such counsels are to prevail a god will not be able to get his dinner +in peace. Let me then advise my mother (and I am sure it is her +own opinion) to make her peace with my dear father, lest he should scold +her still further, and spoil our banquet; for if he does wish to turn +us all out there can be no question about his being perfectly able to +do so. Say something civil to him, therefore, and then perhaps +he will not hurt us.’</p> +<p>“As he spoke he took a large cup of nectar and put it into +his mother’s hands, saying, ‘Bear it, my dear mother, and +make the best of it. I love you dearly and should be very sorry +to see you get a thrashing. I should not be able to help you, +for my father Jove is not a safe person to differ from. You know +once before when I was trying to help you he caught me by the foot and +chucked me from the heavenly threshold. I was all day long falling +from morn to eve, but at sunset I came to ground on the island of Lemnos, +and there was very little life left in me, till the Sintians came and +tended me.’</p> +<p>“On this Juno smiled, and with a laugh took the cup from her +son’s hand. Then Vulcan went about among all other gods +drawing nectar for them from his goblet, and they laughed immoderately +as they saw him bustling about the heavenly mansion.”</p> +<p>Then presently the gods go home to bed, each one in his own house +that Vulcan had cunningly built for him or her. Finally Jove himself +went to the bed which he generally occupied; and Jove his wife went +with him.</p> +<p>There is another quarrel between Jove and Juno at the beginning of +the fourth book.</p> +<p>The gods are sitting on the golden floor of Jove’s palace and +drinking one another’s health in the nectar with which Hebe from +time to time supplies them. Jove begins to tease Juno, and to +provoke her with some sarcastic remarks that are pointed at her though +not addressed to her directly.</p> +<p>“‘Menelaus,’ he exclaimed, ‘has two good +friends among the goddesses, Juno and Minerva, but they only sit still +and look on, while Venus on the other hand takes much better care of +Paris, and defends him when he is in danger. She has only just +this moment been rescuing him when he made sure he was at death’s +door, for the victory really did lie with Menelaus. We must think +what we are to do about all this. Shall we renew strife between +the combatants or shall we make them friends again? I think the +best plan would be for the City of Priam to remain unpillaged, but for +Menelaus to have his wife Helen sent back to him.’</p> +<p>“Minerva and Juno groaned in spirit when they heard this. +They were sitting side by side, and thinking what mischief they could +do to the Trojans. Minerva for her part said not one word, but +sat scowling at her father, for she was in a furious passion with him, +but Juno could not contain herself, so she said—</p> +<p>“‘What, pray, son of Saturn, is all this about? +Is my trouble then to go for nothing, and all the pains that I have +taken, to say nothing of my horses, and the way we have sweated and +toiled to get the people together against Priam and his children? +You can do as you please, but you must not expect all of us to agree +with you.’</p> +<p>“And Jove answered, ‘Wife, what harm have Priam and Priam’s +children done you that you rage so furiously against them, and want +to sack their city? Will nothing do for you but you must eat Priam +with his sons and all the Trojans into the bargain? Have it your +own way then, for I will not quarrel with you—only remember what +I tell you: if at any time I want to sack a city that belongs to any +friend of yours, it will be no use your trying to hinder me, you will +have to let me do it, for I only yield to you now with the greatest +reluctance. If there was one city under the sun which I respected +more than another it was Troy with its king and people. My altars +there have never been without the savour of fat or of burnt sacrifice +and all my dues were paid.’</p> +<p>“‘My own favourite cities,’ answered Juno, ‘are +Argos, Sparta, and Mycenæ. Sack them whenever you may be +displeased with them. I shall not make the smallest protest against +your doing so. It would be no use if I did, for you are much stronger +than I am, only I will not submit to seeing my own work wasted. +I am a goddess of the same race as yourself. I am Saturn’s +eldest daughter and am not only nearly related to you in blood, but +I am wife to yourself, and you are king over the gods. Let it +be a case, then, of give and take between us, and the other gods will +follow our lead. Tell Minerva, therefore, to go down at once and +set the Greeks and Trojans by the ears again, and let her so manage +it that the Trojans shall break their oaths and be the aggressors.’”</p> +<p>This is the very thing to suit Minerva, so she goes at once and persuades +the Trojans to break their oath.</p> +<p>In a later book we are told that Jove has positively forbidden the +gods to interfere further in the struggle. Juno therefore determines +to hoodwink him. First she bolted herself inside her own room +on the top of Mount Ida and had a thorough good wash. Then she +scented herself, brushed her golden hair, put on her very best dress +and all her jewels. When she had done this, she went to Venus +and besought her for the loan of her charms.</p> +<p>“‘You must not be angry with me, Venus,’ she began, +‘for being on the Grecian side while you are yourself on the Trojan; +but you know every one falls in love with you at once, and I want you +to lend me some of your attractions. I have to pay a visit at +the world’s end to Oceanus and Mother Tethys. They took +me in and were very good to me when Jove turned Saturn out of heaven +and shut him up under the sea. They have been quarrelling this +long time past and will not speak to one another. So I must go +and see them, for if I can only make them friends again I am sure that +they will be grateful to me for ever afterwards.’”</p> +<p>Venus thought this reasonable, so she took off her girdle and lent +it to Juno, an act by the way which argues more good nature than prudence +on her part. Then Juno goes down to Thrace, and in search of Sleep +the brother of Death. She finds him and shakes hands with him. +Then she tells him she is going up to Olympus to make love to Jove, +and that while she is occupying his attention Sleep is to send him off +into a deep slumber.</p> +<p>Sleep says he dares not do it. He would lull any of the other +gods, but Juno must remember that she had got him into a great scrape +once before in this way, and Jove hurled the gods about all over the +palace, and would have made an end of him once for all, if he had not +fled under the protection of Night, whom Jove did not venture to offend.</p> +<p>Juno bribes him, however, with a promise that if he will consent +she will marry him to the youngest of the Graces, Pasithea. On +this he yields; the pair then go up to the top of Mount Ida, and Sleep +gets into a high pine tree just in front of Jove.</p> +<p>As soon as Jove sees Juno, armed as she for the moment was with all +the attractions of Venus, he falls desperately in love with her, and +says she is the only goddess he ever really loved. True, there +had been the wife of Ixion and Danae, and Europa and Semele, and Alcmena, +and Latona, not to mention herself in days gone by, but he never loved +any of these as he now loved her, in spite of his having been married +to her for so many years. What then does she want?</p> +<p>Juno tells him the same rigmarole about Oceanus and Mother Tethys +that she had told Venus, and when she has done Jove tries to embrace +her.</p> +<p>“What,” exclaims Juno, “kiss me in such a public +place as the top of Mount Ida! Impossible! I could never +show my face in Olympus again, but I have a private room of my own and”—“What +nonsense, my love!” exclaims the sire of gods and men as he catches +her in his arms. On this Sleep sends him into a deep slumber, +and Juno then sends Sleep to bid Neptune go off to help the Greeks at +once.</p> +<p>When Jove awakes and finds the trick that has been played upon him, +he is very angry and blusters a good deal as usual, but somehow or another +it turns out that he has got to stand it and make the best of it.</p> +<p>In an earlier book he has said that he is not surprised at anything +Juno may do, for she always has crossed him and always will; but he +cannot put up with such disobedience from his own daughter Minerva. +Somehow or another, however, here too as usual it turns out that he +has got to stand it. “And then,” Minerva exclaims +in yet another place (VIII. 373), “I suppose he will be calling +me his grey-eyed darling again, presently.”</p> +<p>Towards the end of the poem the gods have a set-to among themselves. +Minerva sends Mars sprawling, Venus comes to his assistance, but Minerva +knocks her down and leaves her. Neptune challenges Apollo, but +Apollo says it is not proper for a god to fight his own uncle, and declines +the contest. His sister Diana taunts him with cowardice, so Juno +grips her by the wrist and boxes her ears till she writhes again. +Latona, the mother of Apollo and Diana, then challenges Mercury, but +Mercury says that he is not going to fight with any of Jove’s +wives, so if she chooses to say she has beaten him she is welcome to +do so. Then Latona picks up poor Diana’s bow and arrows +that have fallen from her during her encounter with Juno, and Diana +meanwhile flies up to the knees of her father Jove, sobbing and sighing +till her ambrosial robe trembles all around her.</p> +<p>“Jove drew her towards him, and smiling pleasantly exclaimed, +‘My dear child, which of the heavenly beings has been wicked enough +to behave in this way to you, as though you had been doing something +naughty?’</p> +<p>“‘Your wife, Juno,’ answered Diana, ‘has +been ill-treating me; all our quarrels always begin with her.’”</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>The above extracts must suffice as examples of the kind of divine +comedy in which Homer brings the gods and goddesses upon the scene. +Among mortals the humour, what there is of it, is confined mainly to +the grim taunts which the heroes fling at one another when they are +fighting, and more especially to crowing over a fallen foe. The +most subtle passage is the one in which Briseis, the captive woman about +whom Achilles and Agamemnon have quarrelled, is restored by Agamemnon +to Achilles. Briseis on her return to the tent of Achilles finds +that while she has been with Agamemnon, Patroclus has been killed by +Hector, and his dead body is now lying in state. She flings herself +upon the corpse and exclaims—</p> +<p>“How one misfortune does keep falling upon me after another! +I saw the man to whom my father and mother had married me killed before +my eyes, and my three own dear brothers perished along with him; but +you, Patroclus, even when Achilles was sacking our city and killing +my husband, told me that I was not to cry; for you said that Achilles +himself should marry me, and take me back with him to Phthia, where +we should have a wedding feast among the Myrmidons. You were always +kind to me, and I should never cease to grieve for you.”</p> +<p>This may of course be seriously intended, but Homer was an acute +writer, and if we had met with such a passage in Thackeray we should +have taken him to mean that so long as a woman can get a new husband, +she does not much care about losing the old one—a sentiment which +I hope no one will imagine that I for one moment endorse or approve +of, and which I can only explain as a piece of sarcasm aimed possibly +at Mrs. Homer.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>And now let us turn to the <i>Odyssey</i>, a work which I myself +think of as the <i>Iliad’s</i> better half or wife. Here +we have a poem of more varied interest, instinct with not less genius, +and on the whole I should say, if less robust, nevertheless of still +greater fascination—one, moreover, the irony of which is pointed +neither at gods nor woman, but with one single and perhaps intercalated +exception, at man. Gods and women may sometimes do wrong things, +but, except as regards the intrigue between Mars and Venus just referred +to, they are never laughed at. The scepticism of the <i>Iliad</i> +is that of Hume or Gibbon; that of the <i>Odyssey</i> (if any) is like +the occasional mild irreverence of the Vicar’s daughter. +When Jove says he will do a thing, there is no uncertainty about his +doing it. Juno hardly appears at all, and when she does she never +quarrels with her husband. Minerva has more to do than any of +the other gods or goddesses, but she has nothing in common with the +Minerva whom we have already seen in the <i>Iliad</i>. In the +<i>Odyssey</i> she is the fairy god-mother who seems to have no object +in life but to protect Ulysses and Telemachus, and keep them straight +at any touch and turn of difficulty. If she has any other function, +it is to be patroness of the arts and of all intellectual development. +The Minerva of the <i>Odyssey</i> may indeed sit on a rafter like a +swallow and hold up her ægis to strike panic into the suitors +while Ulysses kills them; but she is a perfect lady, and would no more +knock Mars and Venus down one after the other than she would stand on +her head. She is, in fact, a distinct person in all respects from +the Minerva of the <i>Iliad</i>. Of the remaining gods Neptune, +as the persecutor of the hero, comes worst off; but even he is treated +as though he were a very important person.</p> +<p>In the <i>Odyssey</i> the gods no longer live in houses and sleep +in four-post bedsteads, but the conception of their abode, like that +of their existence altogether, is far more spiritual. Nobody knows +exactly where they live, but they say it is in Olympus, where there +is neither rain nor hail nor snow, and the wind never beats roughly; +but it abides in everlasting sunshine, and in great peacefulness of +light wherein the blessed gods are illumined for ever and ever. +It is hardly possible to conceive anything more different from the Olympus +of the <i>Iliad.</i></p> +<p>Another very material point of difference between the <i>Iliad</i> +and the <i>Odyssey</i> lies in the fact that the Homer of the <i>Iliad</i> +always knows what he is talking about, while the supposed Homer of the +<i>Odyssey</i> often makes mistakes that betray an almost incredible +ignorance of detail. Thus the giant Polyphemus drives in his ewes +home from their pasture, and milks them. The lambs of course have +not been running with them; they have been left in the yards, so they +have had nothing to eat. When he has milked the ewes, the giant +lets each one of them have her lamb—to get, I suppose, what strippings +it can, and beyond this what milk the ewe may yield during the night. +In the morning, however, Polyphemus milks the ewes again. Hence +it is plain either that he expected his lambs to thrive on one pull +<i>per diem</i> at a milked ewe, and to be kind enough not to suck their +mothers, though left with them all night through, or else that the writer +of the <i>Odyssey</i> had very hazy notions about the relations between +lambs and ewes, and of the ordinary methods of procedure on an upland +dairy-farm.</p> +<p>In nautical matters the same inexperience is betrayed. The +writer knows all about the corn and wine that must be put on board; +the store-room in which these are kept and the getting of them are described +inimitably, but there the knowledge ends; the other things put on board +are “the things that are generally taken on board ships.” +So on a voyage we are told that the sailors do whatever is wanted doing, +but we have no details. There is a shipwreck, which does duty +more than once without the alteration of a word. I have seen such +a shipwreck at Drury Lane. Anyone, moreover, who reads any authentic +account of actual adventures will perceive at once that those of the +<i>Odyssey</i> are the creation of one who has had no history. +Ulysses has to make a raft; he makes it about as broad as they generally +make a good big ship, but we do not seem to have been at the pains to +measure a good big ship.</p> +<p>I will add no more however on this head. The leading characteristics +of the <i>Iliad</i>, as we saw, were love, war, and plunder. The +leading idea of the <i>Odyssey</i> is the infatuation of man, and the +key-note is struck in the opening paragraph, where we are told how the +sailors of Ulysses must needs, in spite of every warning, kill and eat +the cattle of the sun-god, and perished accordingly.</p> +<p>A few lines lower down the same note is struck with even greater +emphasis. The gods have met in council, and Jove happens at the +moment to be thinking of Ægisthus, who had met his death at the +hand of Agamemnon’s son Orestes, in spite of the solemn warning +that Jove had sent him through the mouth of Mercury. It does not +seem necessary for Jove to turn his attention to Clytemnestra, the partner +of Ægisthus’s guilt. Of this lady we are presently +told that she was naturally of an excellent disposition, and would never +have gone wrong but for the loss of the protector in whose charge Agamemnon +had left her. When she was left alone without an adviser—well, +if a base designing man took to flattering and misleading her—what +else could be expected? The infatuation of man, with its corollary, +the superior excellence of woman, is the leading theme; next to this +come art, religion, and, I am almost ashamed to add, money. There +is no love-business in the <i>Odyssey</i> except the return of a bald +elderly married man to his elderly wife and grown-up son after an absence +of twenty years, and furious at having been robbed of so much money +in the meantime. But this can hardly be called love-business; +it is at the utmost domesticity. There is a charming young princess, +Nausicaa, but though she affects a passing tenderness for the elderly +hero of her creation as soon as Minerva has curled his bald old hair +for him and tittivated him up all over, she makes it abundantly plain +that she will not look at a single one of her actual flesh and blood +admirers. There is a leading young gentleman, Telemachus, who +is nothing if he is not πεπνυμενος, +or canny, well-principled, and discreet; he has an amiable and most +sensible young male friend who says that he does not like crying at +meal times—he will cry in the forenoon on an empty stomach as +much as anyone pleases, but he cannot attend properly to his dinner +and cry at the same time. Well, there is no lady provided either +for this nice young man or for Telemachus. They are left high +and dry as bachelors. Two goddesses indeed, Circe and Calypso, +do one after the other take possession of Ulysses, but the way in which +he accepts a situation which after all was none of his seeking, and +which it is plain he does not care two straws about, is, I believe, +dictated solely by a desire to exhibit the easy infidelity of Ulysses +himself in contrast with the unswerving constancy and fidelity of his +wife Penelope. Throughout the <i>Odyssey</i> the men do not really +care for women, nor the women for men; they have to pretend to do so +now and again, but it is a got-up thing, and the general attitude of +the sexes towards one another is very much that of Helen, who says that +her husband Menelaus is really not deficient in person or understanding: +or again of Penelope herself, who, on being asked by Ulysses on his +return what she thought of him, said that she did not think very much +of him nor very little of him; in fact, she did not think much about +him one way or the other. True, later on she relents and becomes +more effusive; in fact, when she and Ulysses sat up talking in bed and +Ulysses told her the story of his adventures, she never went to sleep +once. Ulysses never had to nudge her with his elbow and say, “Come, +wake up, Penelope, you are not listening”; but, in spite of the +devotion exhibited here, the love-business in the <i>Odyssey</i> is +artificial and described by one who had never felt it, whereas in the +<i>Iliad</i> it is spontaneous and obviously genuine, as by one who +knows all about it perfectly well. The love-business in fact of +the <i>Odyssey</i> is turned on as we turn on the gas—when we +cannot get on without it, but not otherwise.</p> +<p>A fascinating brilliant girl, who naturally adopts for her patroness +the blue-stocking Minerva; a man-hatress, as clever girls so often are, +and determined to pay the author of the <i>Iliad</i> out for his treatment +of her sex by insisting on its superior moral, not to say intellectual, +capacity, and on the self-sufficient imbecility of man unless he has +a woman always at his elbow to keep him tolerably straight and in his +proper place—this, and not the musty fusty old bust we see in +libraries, is the kind of person who I believe wrote the <i>Odyssey</i>. +Of course in reality the work must be written by a man, because they +say so at Oxford and Cambridge, and they know everything down in Oxford +and Cambridge; but I venture to say that if the <i>Odyssey</i> were +to appear anonymously for the first time now, and to be sent round to +the papers for review, there is not even a professional critic who would +not see that it is a woman’s writing and not a man’s. +But letting this pass, I can hardly doubt, for reasons which I gave +in yesterday’s <i>Athenæum</i>, and for others that I cannot +now insist upon, that the poem was written by a native of Trapani on +the coast of Sicily, near Marsala. Fancy what the position of +a young, ardent, brilliant woman must have been in a small Sicilian +sea-port, say some eight or nine hundred years before the birth of Christ. +It makes one shudder to think of it. Night after night she hears +the dreary blind old bard Demodocus drawl out his interminable recitals +taken from our present <i>Iliad</i>, or from some other of the many +poems now lost that dealt with the adventures of the Greeks before Troy +or on their homeward journey. Man and his doings! always the same +old story, and woman always to be treated either as a toy or as a beast +of burden, or at any rate as an incubus. Why not sing of woman +also as she is when she is unattached and free from the trammels and +persecutions of this tiresome tyrant, this insufferably self-conceited +bore and booby, man?</p> +<p>“I wish, my dear,” exclaims her mother Arete, after one +of these little outbreaks, “that you would do it yourself. +I am sure you could do it beautifully if you would only give your mind +to it.”</p> +<p>“Very well, mother,” she replies, “and I will bring +in all about you and father, and how I go out for a washing-day with +the maids,”—and she kept her word, as I will presently show +you.</p> +<p>I should tell you that Ulysses, having got away from the goddess +Calypso, with whom he had been living for some seven or eight years +on a lonely and very distant island in mid-ocean, is shipwrecked on +the coast of Phæacia, the chief town of which is Scheria. +After swimming some forty-eight hours in the water he effects a landing +at the mouth of a stream, and, not having a rag of clothes on his back, +covers himself up under a heap of dried leaves and goes to sleep. +I will now translate from the <i>Odyssey</i> itself.</p> +<p>“So here Ulysses slept, worn out with labour and sorrow; but +Minerva went off to the chief town of the Phæacians, a people +who used to live in Hypereia near the wicked Cyclopes. Now the +Cyclopes were stronger than they and plundered them, so Nausithous settled +them in Scheria far from those who would loot them. He ran a wall +round about the city, built houses and temples, and allotted the lands +among his people; but he was gathered to his fathers, and the good king +Alcinous was now reigning. To his palace then Minerva hastened +that she might help Ulysses to get home.</p> +<p>“She went straight to the painted bedroom of Nausicaa, who +was daughter to King Alcinous, and lovely as a goddess. Near her +there slept two maids-in-waiting, both very pretty, one on either side +of the doorway, which was closed with a beautifully made door. +She took the form of the famous Captain Dumas’s daughter, who +was a bosom friend of Nausicaa and just her own age; then coming into +the room like a breath of wind she stood near the head of the bed and +said—</p> +<p>“‘Nausicaa, what could your mother have been about to +have such a lazy daughter? Here are your clothes all lying in +disorder, yet you are going to be married almost directly, and should +not only be well-dressed yourself, but should see that those about you +look clean and tidy also. This is the way to make people speak +well of you, and it will please your father and mother, so suppose we +make to-morrow a washing day, and begin the first thing in the morning. +I will come and help you, for all the best young men among your own +people are courting you, and you are not going to remain a maid much +longer. Ask your father, then, to have a horse and cart ready +for us at daybreak to take the linen and baskets, and you can ride too, +which will be much pleasanter for you than walking, for the washing +ground is a long way out of the town.’</p> +<p>“When she had thus spoken Minerva went back to Olympus. +By and by morning came, and as soon as Nausicaa woke she began thinking +about her dream. She went to the other end of the house to tell +her father and mother all about it, and found them in their own room. +Her mother was sitting by the fireside spinning with her maids-in-waiting +all around her, and she happened to catch her father just as he was +going out to attend a meeting of the Town Council which the Phæacian +aldermen had convened. So she stopped him and said, ‘Papa, +dear, could you manage to let me have a good big waggon? I want +to take all our dirty clothes to the river and wash them. You +are the chief man here, so you ought to have a clean shirt on when you +attend meetings of the Council. Moreover, you have five sons at +home, two of them married and the other three are good-looking young +bachelors; you know they always like to have clean linen when they go +out to a dance, and I have been thinking about all this.’”</p> +<p>You will observe that though Nausicaa dreams that she is going to +be married shortly, and that all the best young men of Scheria are in +love with her, she does not dream that she has fallen in love with any +one of them in particular, and that thus every preparation is made for +her getting married except the selection of the bridegroom.</p> +<p>You will also note that Nausicaa has to keep her father up to putting +a clean shirt on when he ought to have one, whereas her young brothers +appear to keep herself up to having a clean shirt ready for them when +they want one. These little touches are so lifelike and so feminine +that they suggest drawing from life by a female member of Alcinous’s +own family who knew his character from behind the scenes.</p> +<p>I would also say before proceeding further that in some parts of +France and Germany it is still the custom to have but one or at most +two great washing days in the year. Each household is provided +with an enormous quantity of linen, which when dirty is just soaked +and rinsed, and then put aside till the great washing day of the year. +This is why Nausicaa wants a waggon, and has to go so far afield. +If it was only a few collars and a pocket-handkerchief or two she could +no doubt have found water enough near at hand. The big spring +or autumn wash, however, is evidently intended.</p> +<p>Returning now to the <i>Odyssey</i>, when he had heard what Nausicaa +wanted Alcinous said:</p> +<p>“‘You shall have the mules, my love, and whatever else +you have a mind for, so be off with you.’</p> +<p>“Then he told the servants, and they got the waggon out and +harnessed the mules, while the princess brought the clothes down from +the linen room and placed them on the waggon. Her mother got ready +a nice basket of provisions with all sorts of good things, and a goatskin +full of wine. The princess now got into the waggon, and her mother +gave her a golden cruse of oil that she and her maids might anoint themselves.</p> +<p>“Then Nausicaa took the whip and reins and gave the mules a +touch which sent them off at a good pace. They pulled without +nagging, and carried not only Nausicaa and her wash of clothes, but +the women also who were with her.</p> +<p>“When they got to the river they went to the washing pools, +through which even in summer there ran enough pure water to wash any +quantity of linen, no matter how dirty. Here they unharnessed +the mules and turned them out to feed in the sweet juicy grass that +grew by the river-side. They got the clothes out of the waggon, +brought them to the water, and vied with one another in treading upon +them and banging them about to get the dirt out of them. When +they had got them quite clean, they laid them out by the seaside where +the waves had raised a high beach of shingle, and set about washing +and anointing themselves with olive oil. Then they got their dinner +by the side of the river, and waited for the sun to finish drying the +clothes. By and by, after dinner, they took off their head-dresses +and began to play at ball, and Nausicaa sang to them.”</p> +<p>I think you will agree with me that there is no haziness—no +milking of ewes that have had a lamb with them all night—here. +The writer is at home and on her own ground.</p> +<p>“When they had done folding the clothes and were putting the +mules to the waggon before starting home again, Minerva thought it was +time Ulysses should wake up and see the handsome girl who was to take +him to the city of the Phæacians. So the princess threw +a ball at one of the maids, which missed the maid and fell into the +water. On this they all shouted, and the noise they made woke +up Ulysses, who sat up in his bed of leaves and wondered where in the +world he could have got to.</p> +<p>“Then he crept from under the bush beneath which he had slept, +broke off a thick bough so as to cover his nakedness, and advanced towards +Nausicaa and her maids; these last all ran away, but Nausicaa stood +her ground, for Minerva had put courage into her heart, so she kept +quite still, and Ulysses could not make up his mind whether it would +be better to go up to her, throw himself at her feet, and embrace her +knees as a suppliant—[in which case, of course, he would have +to drop the bough] or whether it would be better for him to make an +apology to her at a reasonable distance, and ask her to be good enough +to give him some clothes and show him the way to the town. On +the whole he thought it would be better to keep at arm’s length, +in case the princess should take offence at his coming too near her.”</p> +<p>Let me say in passing that this is one of many passages which have +led me to conclude that the <i>Odyssey</i> is written by a woman. +A girl, such as Nausicaa describes herself, young, unmarried, unattached, +and hence, after all, knowing little of what men feel on these matters, +having by a cruel freak of inspiration got her hero into such an awkward +predicament, might conceivably imagine that he would argue as she represents +him, but no man, except such a woman’s tailor as could never have +written such a masterpiece as the <i>Odyssey</i>, would ever get his +hero into such an undignified scrape at all, much less represent him +as arguing as Ulysses does. I suppose Minerva was so busy making +Nausicaa brave that she had no time to put a little sense into Ulysses’ +head, and remind him that he was nothing if not full of sagacity and +resource. To return—</p> +<p>Ulysses now begins with the most judicious apology that his unaided +imagination can suggest. “I beg your ladyship’s pardon,” +he exclaims, “but are you goddess or are you a mortal woman? +If you are a goddess and live in heaven, there can be no doubt but you +are Jove’s daughter Diana, for your face and figure are exactly +like hers,” and so on in a long speech which I need not further +quote from.</p> +<p>“Stranger,” replied Nausicaa, as soon as the speech was +ended, “you seem to be a very sensible well-disposed person. +There is no accounting for luck; Jove gives good or ill to every man, +just as he chooses, so you must take your lot, and make the best of +it.” She then tells him she will give him clothes and everything +else that a foreigner in distress can reasonably expect. She calls +back her maids, scolds them for running away, and tells them to take +Ulysses and wash him in the river after giving him something to eat +and drink. So the maids give him the little gold cruse of oil +and tell him to go and wash himself, and as they seem to have completely +recovered from their alarm, Ulysses is compelled to say, “Young +ladies, please stand a little on one side, that I may wash the brine +from off my shoulders and anoint myself with oil; for it is long enough +since my skin has had a drop of oil upon it. I cannot wash as +long as you keep standing there. I have no clothes on, and it +makes me very uncomfortable.”</p> +<p>So they stood aside and went and told Nausicaa. Meanwhile (I +am translating closely), “Minerva made him look taller and stronger +than before; she gave him some more hair on the top of his head, and +made it flow down in curls most beautifully; in fact she glorified him +about the head and shoulders as a cunning workman who has studied under +Vulcan or Minerva enriches a fine piece of plate by gilding it.”</p> +<p>Again I argue that I am reading a description of as it were a prehistoric +Mr. Knightley by a not less prehistoric Jane Austen—with this +difference that I believe Nausicaa is quietly laughing at her hero and +sees through him, whereas Jane Austen takes Mr. Knightley seriously.</p> +<p>“Hush, my pretty maids,” exclaimed Nausicaa as soon as +she saw Ulysses coming back with his hair curled, “hush, for I +want to say something. I believe the gods in heaven have sent +this man here. There is something very remarkable about him. +When I first saw him I thought him quite plain and commonplace, and +now I consider him one of the handsomest men I ever saw in my life. +I should like my future husband [who, it is plain, then, is not yet +decided upon] to be just such another as he is, if he would only stay +here, and not want to go away. However, give him something to +eat and drink.”</p> +<p>Nausicaa now says they must be starting homeward; so she tells Ulysses +that she will drive on first herself, but that he is to follow after +her with the maids. She does not want to be seen coming into the +town with him; and then follows another passage which clearly shows +that for all the talk she has made about getting married she has no +present intention of changing her name.</p> +<p>“‘I am afraid,’ she says, ‘of the gossip +and scandal which may be set on foot about me behind my back, for there +are some very ill-natured people in the town, and some low fellow, if +he met us, might say, ‘Who is this fine-looking stranger who is +going about with Nausicaa? Where did she pick him up? I +suppose she is going to marry him, or perhaps he is some shipwrecked +sailor from foreign parts; or has some god come down from heaven in +answer to her prayers, and she is going to live with him? It would +be a good thing if she would take herself off and find a husband somewhere +else, for she will not look at one of the many excellent young Phæacians +who are in love with her’; and I could not complain, for I should +myself think ill of any girl whom I saw going about with men unknown +to her father and mother, and without having been married to him in +the face of all the world.’”</p> +<p>This passage could never have been written by the local bard, who +was in great measure dependent on Nausicaa’s family; he would +never speak thus of his patron’s daughter; either the passage +is Nausicaa’s apology for herself, written by herself, or it is +pure invention, and this last, considering the close adherence to the +actual topography of Trapani on the Sicilian Coast, and a great deal +else that I cannot lay before you here, appears to me improbable.</p> +<p>Nausicaa then gives Ulysses directions by which he can find her father’s +house. “When you have got past the courtyard,” she +says, “go straight through the main hall, till you come to my +mother’s room. You will find her sitting by the fire and +spinning her purple wool by firelight. She will make a lovely +picture as she leans back against a column with her maids ranged behind +her. Facing her stands my father’s seat in which he sits +and topes like an immortal god. Never mind him, but go up to my +mother and lay your hands upon her knees, if you would be forwarded +on your homeward voyage.” From which I conclude that Arete +ruled Alcinous, and Nausicaa ruled Arete.</p> +<p>Ulysses follows his instructions aided by Minerva, who makes him +invisible as he passes through the town and through the crowds of Phæacian +guests who are feasting in the king’s palace. When he has +reached the queen, the cloak of thick darkness falls off, and he is +revealed to all present, kneeling at the feet of Queen Arete, to whom +he makes his appeal. It has already been made apparent in a passage +extolling her virtue at some length, but which I have not been able +to quote, that Queen Arete is, in the eyes of the writer, a much more +important person than her husband Alcinous.</p> +<p>Every one, of course, is very much surprised at seeing Ulysses, but +after a little discussion, from which it appears that the writer considers +Alcinous to be a person who requires a good deal of keeping straight +in other matters besides clean linen, it is settled that Ulysses shall +be fêted on the following day and then escorted home. Ulysses +now has supper and remains with Alcinous and Arete after the other guests +are gone away for the night. So the three sit by the fire while +the servants take away the things, and Arete is the first to speak. +She has been uneasy for some time about Ulysses’ clothes, which +she recognized as her own make, and at last she says, “Stranger, +there is a question or two that I should like to put to you myself. +Who in the world are you? And who gave you those clothes? +Did you not say you had come here from beyond the seas?”</p> +<p>Ulysses explains matters, but still withholds his name, nevertheless +Alcinous (who seems to have shared in the general opinion that it was +high time his daughter got married, and that, provided she married somebody, +it did not much matter who the bridegroom might be) exclaimed, “By +Father Jove, Minerva, and Apollo, now that I see what kind of a person +you are and how exactly our opinions coincide upon every subject, I +should so like it if you would stay with us always, marry Nausicaa, +and become my son-in-law.” Ulysses turns the conversation +immediately, and meanwhile Queen Arete told her maids to put a bed in +the corridor, and make it with red blankets, and it was to have at least +one counterpane. They were also to put a woollen nightgown for +Ulysses. “The maids took a torch, and made the bed as fast +as they could: when they had done so they came up to Ulysses and said, +‘This way, sir, if you please, your room is quite ready’; +and Ulysses was very glad to hear them say so.”</p> +<p>On the following day Alcinous holds a meeting of the Phæacians +and proposes that Ulysses should have a ship got ready to take him home +at once: this being settled he invites all the leading people, and the +fifty-two sailors who are to man Ulysses’ ship, to come up to +his own house, and he will give them a banquet—for which he kills +a dozen sheep, eight pigs, and two oxen. Immediately after gorging +themselves at the banquet they have a series of athletic competitions, +and from this I gather the poem to have been written by one who saw +nothing very odd in letting people compete in sports requiring very +violent exercise immediately after a heavy meal. Such a course +may have been usual in those days, but certainly is not generally adopted +in our own.</p> +<p>At the games Alcinous makes himself as ridiculous as he always does, +and Ulysses behaves much as the hero of the preceding afternoon might +be expected to do—but on his praising the Phæacians towards +the close of the proceedings Alcinous says he is a person of such singular +judgment that they really must all of them make him a very handsome +present. “Twelve of you,” he exclaims, “are +magistrates, and there is myself—that makes thirteen; suppose +we give him each one of us a clean cloak, a tunic, and a talent of gold,”—which +in those days was worth about two hundred and fifty pounds.</p> +<p>This is unanimously agreed to, and in the evening, towards sundown, +the presents began to make their appearance at the palace of King Alcinous, +and the king’s sons, perhaps prudently as you will presently see, +place them in the keeping of their mother Arete.</p> +<p>When the presents have all arrived, Alcinous says to Arete, “Wife, +go and fetch the best chest we have, and put a clean cloak and a tunic +in it. In the meantime Ulysses will take a bath.”</p> +<p>Arete orders the maids to heat a bath, brings the chest, packs up +the raiment and gold which the Phæacians have brought, and adds +a cloak and a good tunic as King Alcinous’s own contribution.</p> +<p>Yes, but where—and that is what we are never told—is +the £250 which he ought to have contributed as well as the cloak +and tunic? And where is the beautiful gold goblet which he had +also promised?</p> +<p>“See to the fastening yourself,” says Queen Arete to +Ulysses, “for fear anyone should rob you while you are asleep +in the ship.”</p> +<p>Ulysses, we may be sure, was well aware that Alcinous’s £250 +was not in the box, nor yet the goblet, but he took the hint at once +and made the chest fast without the delay of a moment, with a bond which +the cunning goddess Circe had taught him.</p> +<p>He does not seem to have thought his chance of getting the £250 +and the goblet, and having to unpack his box again, was so great as +his chance of having his box tampered with before he got it away, if +he neglected to double-lock it at once and put the key in his pocket. +He has always a keen eye to money; indeed the whole <i>Odyssey</i> turns +on what is substantially a money quarrel, so this time without the prompting +of Minerva he does one of the very few sensible things which he does, +on his own account, throughout the whole poem.</p> +<p>Supper is now served, and when it is over, Ulysses, pressed by Alcinous, +announces his name and begins the story of his adventures.</p> +<p>It is with profound regret that I find myself unable to quote any +of the fascinating episodes with which his narrative abounds, but I +have said I was going to lecture on the humour of Homer—that is +to say of the <i>Iliad</i> and the <i>Odyssey</i>—and must not +be diverted from my subject. I cannot, however, resist the account +which Ulysses gives of his meeting with his mother in Hades, the place +of departed spirits, which he has visited by the advice of Circe. +His mother comes up to him and asks him how he managed to get into Hades, +being still alive. I will translate freely, but quite closely, +from Ulysses’ own words, as spoken to the Phæacians.</p> +<p>“And I said, ‘Mother, I had to come here to consult the +ghost of the old Theban prophet Teiresias, I have never yet been near +Greece, nor set foot on my native land, and have had nothing but one +long run of ill luck from the day I set out with Agamemnon to fight +at Troy. But tell me how you came here yourself? Did you +have a long and painful illness or did heaven vouchsafe you a gentle +easy passage to eternity? Tell me also about my father and my +son? Is my property still in their hands, or has someone else +got hold of it who thinks that I shall not return to claim it? +How, again, is my wife conducting herself? Does she live with +her son and make a home for him, or has she married again?’</p> +<p>“My mother answered, ‘Your wife is still mistress of +your house, but she is in very great straits and spends the greater +part of her time in tears. No one has actually taken possession +of your property, and Telemachus still holds it. He has to accept +a great many invitations, and gives much the sort of entertainments +in return that may be expected from one in his position. Your +father remains in the old place, and never goes near the town; he is +very badly off, and has neither bed nor bedding, nor a stick of furniture +of any kind. In winter he sleeps on the floor in front of the +fire with the men, and his clothes are in a shocking state, but in summer, +when the warm weather comes on again, he sleeps out in the vineyard +on a bed of vine leaves. He takes on very much about your not +having returned, and suffers more and more as he grows older: as for +me I died of nothing whatever in the world but grief about yourself. +There was not a thing the matter with me, but my prolonged anxiety on +your account was too much for me, and in the end it just wore me out.’”</p> +<p>In the course of time Ulysses comes to a pause in his narrative and +Queen Arete makes a little speech.</p> +<p>“‘What do you think,’ she said to the Phæacians, +‘of such a guest as this? Did you ever see anyone at once +so good-looking and so clever? It is true, indeed, that his visit +is paid more particularly to myself, but you all participate in the +honour conferred upon us by a visitor of such distinction. Do +not be in a hurry to send him off, nor stingy in the presents you make +to one in so great need; for you are all of you very well off.’”</p> +<p>You will note that the queen does not say “<i>we</i> are all +of <i>us</i> very well off.”</p> +<p>“Then the hero Echeneus, who was the oldest man among them, +added a few words of his own. ‘My friends,’ he said, +‘there cannot be two opinions about the graciousness and sagacity +of the remarks that have just fallen from Her Majesty; nevertheless +it is with His Majesty King Alcinous that the decision must ultimately +rest.’</p> +<p>“‘The thing shall be done,’ exclaimed Alcinous, +‘if I am still king over the Phæacians. As for our +guest, I know he is anxious to resume his journey, still we must persuade +him if we can to stay with us until to-morrow, by which time I shall +be able to get together the balance of the sum which I mean to press +on his acceptance.’”</p> +<p>So here we have it straight out that the monarch knew he had only +contributed the coat and waistcoat, and did not know exactly how he +was to lay his hands on the £250. What with piracy—for +we have been told of at least one case in which Alcinous had looted +a town and stolen his housemaid Eurymedusa—what with insufficient +changes of linen, toping like an immortal god, swaggering at large, +and open-handed hospitality, it is plain and by no means surprising +that Alcinous is out at elbows; nor can there be a better example of +the difference between the occasional broad comedy of the <i>Iliad</i> +and the delicate but very bitter satire of the <i>Odyssey</i> than the +way in which the fact that Alcinous is in money difficulties is allowed +to steal upon us, as contrasted with the obvious humour of the quarrels +between Jove and Juno. At any rate we can hardly wonder at Ulysses +having felt that to a monarch of such mixed character the unfastened +box might prove a temptation greater than he could resist. To +return, however, to the story—</p> +<p>“If it please your Majesty,” said he, in answer to King +Alcinous, “I should be delighted to stay here for another twelve +months, and to accept from your hands the vast treasures and the escort +which you are go generous as to promise me. I should obviously +gain by doing so, for I should return fuller-handed to my own people +and should thus be both more respected and more loved by my acquaintance. +Still to receive such presents—”</p> +<p>The king perceived his embarrassment, and at once relieved him. +“No one,” he exclaimed, “who looks at you can for +one moment take you for a charlatan or a swindler. I know there +are many of these unscrupulous persons going about just now with such +plausible stories that it is very hard to disbelieve them; there is, +however, a finish about your style which convinces me of your good disposition,” +and so on for more than I have space to quote; after which Ulysses again +proceeds with his adventures.</p> +<p>When he had finished them Alcinous insists that the leading Phæacians +should each one of them give Ulysses a still further present of a large +kitchen copper and a three-legged stand to set it on, “but,” +he continues, “as the expense of all these presents is really +too heavy for the purse of any private individual, I shall charge the +whole of them on the rates”: literally, “We will repay ourselves +by getting it in from among the people, for this is too heavy a present +for the purse of a private individual.” And what this can +mean except charging it on the rates I do not know.</p> +<p>Of course everyone else sends up his tripod and his cauldron, but +we hear nothing about any, either tripod or cauldron, from King Alcinous. +He is very fussy next morning stowing them under the ship’s benches, +but his time and trouble seem to be the extent of his contribution. +It is hardly necessary to say that Ulysses had to go away without the +£250, and that we never hear of the promised goblet being presented. +Still he had done pretty well.</p> +<p>I have not quoted anything like all the absurd remarks made by Alcinous, +nor shown you nearly as completely as I could do if I had more time +how obviously the writer is quietly laughing at him in her sleeve. +She understands his little ways as she understands those of Menelaus, +who tells Telemachus and Pisistratus that if they like he will take +them a personally conducted tour round the Peloponnese, and that they +can make a good thing out of it, for everyone will give them something—fancy +Helen or Queen Arete making such a proposal as this. They are +never laughed at, but then they are women, whereas Alcinous and Menelaus +are men, and this makes all the difference.</p> +<p>And now in conclusion let me point out the irony of literature in +connection with this astonishing work. Here is a poem in which +the hero and heroine have already been married many years before it +begins: it is marked by a total absence of love-business in such sense +as we understand it: its interest centres mainly in the fact of a bald +elderly gentleman, whose little remaining hair is red, being eaten out +of house and home during his absence by a number of young men who are +courting the supposed widow—a widow who, if she be fair and fat, +can hardly also be less than forty. Can any subject seem more +hopeless? Moreover, this subject so initially faulty is treated +with a carelessness in respect of consistency, ignorance of commonly +known details, and disregard of ordinary canons, that can hardly be +surpassed, and yet I cannot think that in the whole range of literature +there is a work which can be decisively placed above it. I am +afraid you will hardly accept this; I do not see how you can be expected +to do so, for in the first place there is no even tolerable prose translation, +and in the second, the <i>Odyssey</i>, like the <i>Iliad</i>, has been +a school book for over two thousand five hundred years, and what more +cruel revenge than this can dullness take on genius? The <i>Iliad</i> +and <i>Odyssey</i> have been used as text-books for education during +at least two thousand five hundred years, and yet it is only during +the last forty or fifty that people have begun to see that they are +by different authors. There was, indeed, so I learn from Colonel +Mure’s valuable work, a band of scholars some few hundreds of +years before the birth of Christ, who refused to see the <i>Iliad</i> +and <i>Odyssey</i> as by the same author, but they were snubbed and +snuffed out, and for more than two thousand years were considered to +have been finally refuted. Can there be any more scathing satire +upon the value of literary criticism? It would seem as though +Minerva had shed the same thick darkness over both the poems as she +shed over Ulysses, so that they might go in and out among the dons of +Oxford and Cambridge from generation to generation, and none should +see them. If I am right, as I believe I am, in holding the <i>Odyssey</i> +to have been written by a young woman, was ever sleeping beauty more +effectually concealed behind a more impenetrable hedge of dulness?—and +she will have to sleep a good many years yet before anyone wakes her +effectually. But what else can one expect from people, not one +of whom has been at the very slight exertion of noting a few of the +writer’s main topographical indications, and then looking for +them in an Admiralty chart or two? Can any step be more obvious +and easy—indeed, it is so simple that I am ashamed of myself for +not having taken it forty years ago. Students of the <i>Odyssey</i> +for the most part are so engrossed with the force of the zeugma, and +of the enclitic particle yε; they take so much more interest +in the digamma and in the Æolic dialect, than they do in the living +spirit that sits behind all these things and alone gives them their +importance, that, naturally enough, not caring about the personality, +it remains and always must remain invisible to them.</p> +<p>If I have helped to make it any less invisible to yourselves, let +me ask you to pardon the somewhat querulous tone of my concluding remarks.</p> +<h2>Quis Desiderio . . .? <a name="citation99"></a><a href="#footnote99">{99}</a></h2> +<p>Like Mr. Wilkie Collins, I, too, have been asked to lay some of my +literary experiences before the readers of the <i>Universal Review</i>. +It occurred to me that the <i>Review</i> must be indeed universal before +it could open its pages to one so obscure as myself; but, nothing daunted +by the distinguished company among which I was for the first time asked +to move, I resolved to do as I was told, and went to the British Museum +to see what books I had written. Having refreshed my memory by +a glance at the catalogue, I was about to try and diminish the large +and ever-increasing circle of my non-readers when I became aware of +a calamity that brought me to a standstill, and indeed bids fair, so +far as I can see at present, to put an end to my literary existence +altogether.</p> +<p>I should explain that I cannot write unless I have a sloping desk, +and the reading-room of the British Museum, where alone I can compose +freely, is unprovided with sloping desks. Like every other organism, +if I cannot get exactly what I want I make shift with the next thing +to it; true, there are no desks in the reading-room, but, as I once +heard a visitor from the country say, “it contains a large number +of very interesting works.” I know it was not right, and +hope the Museum authorities will not be severe upon me if any of them +reads this confession; but I wanted a desk, and set myself to consider +which of the many very interesting works which a grateful nation places +at the disposal of its would-be authors was best suited for my purpose.</p> +<p>For mere reading I suppose one book is pretty much as good as another; +but the choice of a desk-book is a more serious matter. It must +be neither too thick nor too thin; it must be large enough to make a +substantial support; it must be strongly bound so as not to yield or +give; it must not be too troublesome to carry backwards and forwards; +and it must live on shelf C, D, or E, so that there need be no stooping +or reaching too high. These are the conditions which a really +good book must fulfil; simple, however, as they are, it is surprising +how few volumes comply with them satisfactorily; moreover, being perhaps +too sensitively conscientious, I allowed another consideration to influence +me, and was sincerely anxious not to take a book which would be in constant +use for reference by readers, more especially as, if I did this, I might +find myself disturbed by the officials.</p> +<p>For weeks I made experiments upon sundry poetical and philosophical +works, whose names I have forgotten, but could not succeed in finding +my ideal desk, until at length, more by luck than cunning, I happened +to light upon Frost’s <i>Lives of Eminent Christians</i>, which +I had no sooner tried than I discovered it to be the very perfection +and <i>ne plus ultra</i> of everything that a book should be. +It lived in Case No. 2008, and I accordingly took at once to sitting +in Row B, where for the last dozen years or so I have sat ever since.</p> +<p>The first thing I have done whenever I went to the Museum has been +to take down Frost’s <i>Lives of Eminent Christians</i> and carry +it to my seat. It is not the custom of modern writers to refer +to the works to which they are most deeply indebted, and I have never, +that I remember, mentioned it by name before; but it is to this book +alone that I have looked for support during many years of literary labour, +and it is round this to me invaluable volume that all my own have page +by page grown up. There is none in the Museum to which I have +been under anything like such constant obligation, none which I can +so ill spare, and none which I would choose so readily if I were allowed +to select one single volume and keep it for my own.</p> +<p>On finding myself asked for a contribution to the <i>Universal Review</i>, +I went, as I have explained, to the Museum, and presently repaired to +bookcase No. 2008 to get my favourite volume. Alas! it was in +the room no longer. It was not in use, for its place was filled +up already; besides, no one ever used it but myself. Whether the +ghost of the late Mr. Frost has been so eminently unchristian as to +interfere, or whether the authorities have removed the book in ignorance +of the steady demand which there has been for it on the part of at least +one reader, are points I cannot determine. All I know is that +the book is gone, and I feel as Wordsworth is generally supposed to +have felt when he became aware that Lucy was in her grave, and exclaimed +so emphatically that this would make a considerable difference to him, +or words to that effect.</p> +<p>Now I think of it, Frost’s <i>Lives of Eminent Christians</i> +was very like Lucy. The one resided at Dovedale in Derbyshire, +the other in Great Russell Street, Bloomsbury. I admit that I +do not see the resemblance here at this moment, but if I try to develop +my perception I shall doubtless ere long find a marvellously striking +one. In other respects, however, than mere local habitat the likeness +is obvious. Lucy was not particularly attractive either inside +or out—no more was Frost’s <i>Lives of Eminent Christians</i>; +there were few to praise her, and of those few still fewer could bring +themselves to like her; indeed, Wordsworth himself seems to have been +the only person who thought much about her one way or the other. +In like manner, I believe I was the only reader who thought much one +way or the other about Frost’s <i>Lives of Eminent Christians</i>, +but this in itself was one of the attractions of the book; and as for +the grief we respectively felt and feel, I believe my own to be as deep +as Wordsworth’s, if not more so.</p> +<p>I said above, “as Wordsworth is generally supposed to have +felt”; for anyone imbued with the spirit of modern science will +read Wordsworth’s poem with different eyes from those of a mere +literary critic. He will note that Wordsworth is most careful +not to explain the nature of the difference which the death of Lucy +will occasion to him. He tells us that there will be a difference; +but there the matter ends. The superficial reader takes it that +he was very sorry she was dead; it is, of course, possible that he may +have actually been so, but he has not said this. On the contrary, +he has hinted plainly that she was ugly, and generally disliked; she +was only like a violet when she was half-hidden from the view, and only +fair as a star when there were so few stars out that it was practically +impossible to make an invidious comparison. If there were as many +as even two stars the likeness was felt to be at an end. If Wordsworth +had imprudently promised to marry this young person during a time when +he had been unusually long in keeping to good resolutions, and had afterwards +seen someone whom he liked better, then Lucy’s death would undoubtedly +have made a considerable difference to him, and this is all that he +has ever said that it would do. What right have we to put glosses +upon the masterly reticence of a poet, and credit him with feelings +possibly the very reverse of those he actually entertained?</p> +<p>Sometimes, indeed, I have been inclined to think that a mystery is +being hinted at more dark than any critic has suspected. I do +not happen to possess a copy of the poem, but the writer, if I am not +mistaken, says that “few could know when Lucy ceased to be.” +“Ceased to be” is a suspiciously euphemistic expression, +and the words “few could know” are not applicable to the +ordinary peaceful death of a domestic servant such as Lucy appears to +have been. No matter how obscure the deceased, any number of people +commonly can know the day and hour of his or her demise, whereas in +this case we are expressly told it would be impossible for them to do +so. Wordsworth was nothing if not accurate, and would not have +said that few could know, but that few actually did know, unless he +was aware of circumstances that precluded all but those implicated in +the crime of her death from knowing the precise moment of its occurrence. +If Lucy was the kind of person not obscurely portrayed in the poem; +if Wordsworth had murdered her, either by cutting her throat or smothering +her, in concert, perhaps, with his friends Southey and Coleridge; and +if he had thus found himself released from an engagement which had become +irksome to him, or possibly from the threat of an action for breach +of promise, then there is not a syllable in the poem with which he crowns +his crime that is not alive with meaning. On any other supposition +to the general reader it is unintelligible.</p> +<p>We cannot be too guarded in the interpretations we put upon the words +of great poets. Take the young lady who never loved the dear gazelle—and +I don’t believe she did; we are apt to think that Moore intended +us to see in this creation of his fancy a sweet, amiable, but most unfortunate +young woman, whereas all he has told us about her points to an exactly +opposite conclusion. In reality, he wished us to see a young lady +who had been a habitual complainer from her earliest childhood; whose +plants had always died as soon as she bought them, while those belonging +to her neighbours had flourished. The inference is obvious, nor +can we reasonably doubt that Moore intended us to draw it; if her plants +were the very first to fade away, she was evidently the very first to +neglect or otherwise maltreat them. She did not give them enough +water, or left the door of her fern-case open when she was cooking her +dinner at the gas stove, or kept them too near the paraffin oil, or +other like folly; and as for her temper, see what the gazelles did; +as long as they did not know her “well,” they could just +manage to exist, but when they got to understand her real character, +one after another felt that death was the only course open to it, and +accordingly died rather than live with such a mistress. True, +the young lady herself said the gazelles loved her; but disagreeable +people are apt to think themselves amiable, and in view of the course +invariably taken by the gazelles themselves anyone accustomed to weigh +evidence will hold that she was probably mistaken.</p> +<p>I must, however, return to Frost’s <i>Lives of Eminent Christians</i>. +I will leave none of the ambiguity about my words in which Moore and +Wordsworth seem to have delighted. I am very sorry the book is +gone, and know not where to turn for its successor. Till I have +found a substitute I can write no more, and I do not know how to find +even a tolerable one. I should try a volume of Migne’s <i>Complete +Course of Patrology</i>, but I do not like books in more than one volume, +for the volumes vary in thickness, and one never can remember which +one took; the four volumes, however, of Bede in Giles’s <i>Anglican +Fathers</i> are not open to this objection, and I have reserved them +for favourable consideration. Mather’s <i>Magnalia</i> might +do, but the binding does not please me; Cureton’s <i>Corpus Ignatianum</i> +might also do if it were not too thin. I do not like taking Norton’s +<i>Genuineness of the Gospels</i>, as it is just possible someone may +be wanting to know whether the Gospels are genuine or not, and be unable +to find out because I have got Mr. Norton’s book. Baxter’s +<i>Church History of England</i>, Lingard’s <i>Anglo-Saxon Church</i>, +and Cardwell’s <i>Documentary Annals</i>, though none of them +as good as Frost, are works of considerable merit; but on the whole +I think Arvine’s <i>Cyclopedia of Moral and Religious Anecdote</i> +is perhaps the one book in the room which comes within measurable distance +of Frost. I should probably try this book first, but it has a +fatal objection in its too seductive title. “I am not curious,” +as Miss Lottie Venne says in one of her parts, “but I like to +know,” and I might be tempted to pervert the book from its natural +uses and open it, so as to find out what kind of a thing a moral and +religious anecdote is. I know, of course, that there are a great +many anecdotes in the Bible, but no one thinks of calling them either +moral or religious, though some of them certainly seem as if they might +fairly find a place in Mr. Arvine’s work. There are some +things, however, which it is better not to know, and take it all round +I do not think I should be wise in putting myself in the way of temptation, +and adopting Arvine as the successor to my beloved and lamented Frost.</p> +<p>Some successor I must find, or I must give up writing altogether, +and this I should be sorry to do. I have only as yet written about +a third, or from that—counting works written but not published—to +a half of the books which I have set myself to write. It would +not so much matter if old age was not staring me in the face. +Dr. Parr said it was “a beastly shame for an old man not to have +laid down a good cellar of port in his youth”; I, like the greater +number, I suppose, of those who write books at all, write in order that +I may have something to read in my old age when I can write no longer. +I know what I shall like better than anyone can tell me, and write accordingly; +if my career is nipped in the bud, as seems only too likely, I really +do not know where else I can turn for present agreeable occupation, +nor yet how to make suitable provision for my later years. Other +writers can, of course, make excellent provision for their own old ages, +but they cannot do so for mine, any more than I should succeed if I +were to try to cater for theirs. It is one of those cases in which +no man can make agreement for his brother.</p> +<p>I have no heart for continuing this article, and if I had, I have +nothing of interest to say. No one’s literary career can +have been smoother or more unchequered than mine. I have published +all my books at my own expense, and paid for them in due course. +What can be conceivably more unromantic? For some years I had +a little literary grievance against the authorities of the British Museum +because they would insist on saying in their catalogue that I had published +three sermons on Infidelity in the year 1820. I thought I had +not, and got them out to see. They were rather funny, but they +were not mine. Now, however, this grievance has been removed. +I had another little quarrel with them because they would describe me +as “of St. John’s College, Cambridge,” an establishment +for which I have the most profound veneration, but with which I have +not had the honour to be connected for some quarter of a century. +At last they said they would change this description if I would only +tell them what I was, for, though they had done their best to find out, +they had themselves failed. I replied with modest pride that I +was a Bachelor of Arts. I keep all my other letters inside my +name, not outside. They mused and said it was unfortunate that +I was not a Master of Arts. Could I not get myself made a Master? +I said I understood that a Mastership was an article the University +could not do under about five pounds, and that I was not disposed to +go sixpence higher than three ten. They again said it was a pity, +for it would be very inconvenient to them if I did not keep to something +between a bishop and a poet. I might be anything I liked in reason, +provided I showed proper respect for the alphabet; but they had got +me between “Samuel Butler, bishop,” and “Samuel Butler, +poet.” It would be very troublesome to shift me, and bachelor +came before bishop. This was reasonable, so I replied that, under +those circumstances, if they pleased, I thought I would like to be a +philosophical writer. They embraced the solution, and, no matter +what I write now, I must remain a philosophical writer as long as I +live, for the alphabet will hardly be altered in my time, and I must +be something between “Bis” and “Poe.” +If I could get a volume of my excellent namesake’s <i>Hudibras</i> +out of the list of my works, I should be robbed of my last shred of +literary grievance, so I say nothing about this, but keep it secret, +lest some worse thing should happen to me. Besides, I have a great +respect for my namesake, and always say that if <i>Erewhon</i> had been +a racehorse it would have been got by <i>Hudibras</i> out of <i>Analogy</i>. +Someone said this to me many years ago, and I felt so much flattered +that I have been repeating the remark as my own ever since.</p> +<p>But how small are these grievances as compared with those endured +without a murmur by hundreds of writers far more deserving than myself. +When I see the scores and hundreds of workers in the reading-room who +have done so much more than I have, but whose work is absolutely fruitless +to themselves, and when I think of the prompt recognition obtained by +my own work, I ask myself what I have done to be thus rewarded. +On the other hand, the feeling that I have succeeded far beyond my deserts +hitherto, makes it all the harder for me to acquiesce without complaint +in the extinction of a career which I honestly believe to be a promising +one; and once more I repeat that, unless the Museum authorities give +me back my Frost, or put a locked clasp on Arvine, my career must be +extinguished. Give me back Frost, and, if life and health are +spared, I will write another dozen of volumes yet before I hang up my +fiddle—if so serious a confusion of metaphors may be pardoned. +I know from long experience how kind and considerate both the late and +present superintendents of the reading-room were and are, but I doubt +how far either of them would be disposed to help me on this occasion; +continue, however, to rob me of my Frost, and, whatever else I may do, +I will write no more books.</p> +<p><i>Note by Dr. Garnett</i>, <i>British Museum</i>.—The frost +has broken up. Mr. Butler is restored to literature. Mr. +Mudie may make himself easy. England will still boast a humorist; +and the late Mr. Darwin (to whose posthumous machinations the removal +of the book was owing) will continue to be confounded.—R. GARNETT.</p> +<h2>Ramblings in Cheapside <a name="citation110"></a><a href="#footnote110">{110}</a></h2> +<p>Walking the other day in Cheapside I saw some turtles in Mr. Sweeting’s +window, and was tempted to stay and look at them. As I did so +I was struck not more by the defences with which they were hedged about, +than by the fatuousness of trying to hedge that in at all which, if +hedged thoroughly, must die of its own defencefulness. The holes +for the head and feet through which the turtle leaks out, as it were, +on to the exterior world, and through which it again absorbs the exterior +world into itself—“catching on” through them to things +that are thus both turtle and not turtle at one and the same time—these +holes stultify the armour, and show it to have been designed by a creature +with more of faithfulness to a fixed idea, and hence one-sidedness, +than of that quick sense of relative importances and their changes, +which is the main factor of good living.</p> +<p>The turtle obviously had no sense of proportion; it differed so widely +from myself that I could not comprehend it; and as this word occurred +to me, it occurred also that until my body comprehended its body in +a physical material sense, neither would my mind be able to comprehend +its mind with any thoroughness. For unity of mind can only be +consummated by unity of body; everything, therefore, must be in some +respects both knave and fool to all that which has not eaten it, or +by which it has not been eaten. As long as the turtle was in the +window and I in the street outside, there was no chance of our comprehending +one another.</p> +<p>Nevertheless, I knew that I could get it to agree with me if I could +so effectually buttonhole and fasten on to it as to eat it. Most +men have an easy method with turtle soup, and I had no misgiving but +that if I could bring my first premise to bear I should prove the better +reasoner. My difficulty lay in this initial process, for I had +not with me the argument that would alone compel Mr. Sweeting to think +that I ought to be allowed to convert the turtles—I mean I had +no money in my pocket. No missionary enterprise can be carried +on without any money at all, but even so small a sum as half a crown +would, I suppose, have enabled me to bring the turtle partly round, +and with many half-crowns I could in time no doubt convert the lot, +for the turtle needs must go where the money drives. If, as is +alleged, the world stands on a turtle, the turtle stands on money. +No money no turtle. As for money, that stands on opinion, credit, +trust, faith—things that, though highly material in connection +with money, are still of immaterial essence.</p> +<p>The steps are perfectly plain. The men who caught the turtles +brought a fairly strong and definite opinion to bear upon them, that +passed into action, and later on into money. They thought the +turtles would come that way, and verified their opinion; on this, will +and action were generated, with the result that the men turned the turtles +on their backs and carried them off. Mr. Sweeting touched these +men with money, which is the outward and visible sign of verified opinion. +The customer touches Mr. Sweeting with money, Mr. Sweeting touches the +waiter and the cook with money. They touch the turtle with skill +and verified opinion. Finally, the customer applies the clinching +argument that brushes all sophisms aside, and bids the turtle stand +protoplasm to protoplasm with himself, to know even as it is known.</p> +<p>But it must be all touch, touch, touch; skill, opinion, power, and +money, passing in and out with one another in any order we like, but +still link to link and touch to touch. If there is failure anywhere +in respect of opinion, skill, power, or money, either as regards quantity +or quality, the chain can be no stronger than its weakest link, and +the turtle and the clinching argument will fly asunder. Of course, +if there is an initial failure in connection, through defect in any +member of the chain, or of connection between the links, it will no +more be attempted to bring the turtle and the clinching argument together, +than it will to chain up a dog with two pieces of broken chain that +are disconnected. The contact throughout must be conceived as +absolute; and yet perfect contact is inconceivable by us, for on becoming +perfect it ceases to be contact, and becomes essential, once for all +inseverable, identity. The most absolute contact short of this +is still contact by courtesy only. So here, as everywhere else, +Eurydice glides off as we are about to grasp her. We can see nothing +face to face; our utmost seeing is but a fumbling of blind finger-ends +in an overcrowded pocket.</p> +<p>Presently my own blind finger-ends fished up the conclusion, that +as I had neither time nor money to spend on perfecting the chain that +would put me in full spiritual contact with Mr. Sweeting’s turtles, +I had better leave them to complete their education at someone else’s +expense rather than mine, so I walked on towards the Bank. As +I did so it struck me how continually we are met by this melting of +one existence into another. The limits of the body seem well defined +enough as definitions go, but definitions seldom go far. What, +for example, can seem more distinct from a man than his banker or his +solicitor? Yet these are commonly so much parts of him that he +can no more cut them off and grow new ones, than he can grow new legs +or arms; neither must he wound his solicitor; a wound in the solicitor +is a very serious thing. As for his bank—failure of his +bank’s action may be as fatal to a man <i>as</i> failure of his +heart. I have said nothing about the medical or spiritual adviser, +but most men grow into the society that surrounds them by the help of +these four main tap-roots, and not only into the world of humanity, +but into the universe at large. We can, indeed, grow butchers, +bakers, and greengrocers, almost <i>ad libitum</i>, but these are low +developments, and correspond to skin, hair, or finger-nails. Those +of us again who are not highly enough organized to have grown a solicitor +or banker can generally repair the loss of whatever social organization +they may possess as freely as lizards are said to grow new tails; but +this with the higher social, as well as organic, developments is only +possible to a very limited extent.</p> +<p>The doctrine of metempsychosis, or transmigration of souls—a +doctrine to which the foregoing considerations are for the most part +easy corollaries—crops up no matter in what direction we allow +our thoughts to wander. And we meet instances of transmigration +of body as well as of soul. I do not mean that both body and soul +have transmigrated together, far from it; but that, as we can often +recognize a transmigrated mind in an alien body, so we not less often +see a body that is clearly only a transmigration, linked on to someone +else’s new and alien soul. We meet people every day whose +bodies are evidently those of men and women long dead, but whose appearance +we know through their portraits. We see them going about in omnibuses, +railway carriages, and in all public places. The cards have been +shuffled, and they have drawn fresh lots in life and nationalities, +but anyone fairly well up in medieval and last-century portraiture knows +them at a glance.</p> +<p>Going down once towards Italy I saw a young man in the train whom +I recognized, only he seemed to have got younger. He was with +a friend, and his face was in continual play, but for some little time +I puzzled in vain to recollect where it was that I had seen him before. +All of a sudden I remembered he was King Francis I of France. +I had hitherto thought the face of this king impossible, but when I +saw it in play I understood it. His great contemporary Henry VIII +keeps a restaurant in Oxford Street. Falstaff drove one of the +St. Gothard diligences for many years, and only retired when the railway +was opened. Titian once made me a pair of boots at Vicenza, and +not very good ones. At Modena I had my hair cut by a young man +whom I perceived to be Raffaelle. The model who sat to him for +his celebrated Madonnas is first lady in a confectionery establishment +at Montreal. She has a little motherly pimple on the left side +of her nose that is misleading at first, but on examination she is readily +recognized; probably Raffaelle’s model had the pimple too, but +Raffaelle left it out—as he would.</p> +<p>Handel, of course, is Madame Patey. Give Madame Patey Handel’s +wig and clothes, and there would be no telling her from Handel. +It is not only that the features and the shape of the head are the same, +but there is a certain imperiousness of expression and attitude about +Handel which he hardly attempts to conceal in Madame Patey. It +is a curious coincidence that he should continue to be such an incomparable +renderer of his own music. Pope Julius II was the late Mr. Darwin. +Rameses II is a blind woman now, and stands in Holborn, holding a tin +mug. I never could understand why I always found myself humming +“They oppressed them with burthens” when I passed her, till +one day I was looking in Mr. Spooner’s window in the Strand, and +saw a photograph of Rameses II. Mary Queen of Scots wears surgical +boots and is subject to fits, near the Horse Shoe in Tottenham Court +Road.</p> +<p>Michael Angelo is a commissionaire; I saw him on board the <i>Glen +Rosa</i>, which used to run every day from London to Clacton-on-Sea +and back. It gave me quite a turn when I saw him coming down the +stairs from the upper deck, with his bronzed face, flattened nose, and +with the familiar bar upon his forehead. I never liked Michael +Angelo, and never shall, but I am afraid of him, and was near trying +to hide when I saw him coming towards me. He had not got his commissionaire’s +uniform on, and I did not know he was one till I met him a month or +so later in the Strand. When we got to Blackwall the music struck +up and people began to dance. I never saw a man dance so much +in my life. He did not miss a dance all the way to Clacton, nor +all the way back again, and when not dancing he was flirting and cracking +jokes. I could hardly believe my eyes when I reflected that this +man had painted the famous “Last Judgment,” and had made +all those statues.</p> +<p>Dante is, or was a year or two ago, a waiter at Brissago on the Lago +Maggiore, only he is better-tempered-looking, and has a more intellectual +expression. He gave me his ideas upon beauty: “Tutto ch’ +è vero è bello,” he exclaimed, with all his old +self-confidence. I am not afraid of Dante. I know people +by their friends, and he went about with Virgil, so I said with some +severity, “No, Dante, il naso della Signora Robinson è +vero, ma non è bello”; and he admitted I was right. +Beatrice’s name is Towler; she is waitress at a small inn in German +Switzerland. I used to sit at my window and hear people call “Towler, +Towler, Towler,” fifty times in a forenoon. She was the +exact antithesis to Abra; Abra, if I remember, used to come before they +called her name, but no matter how often they called Towler, everyone +came before she did. I suppose they spelt her name Taula, but +to me it sounded Towler; I never, however, met anyone else with this +name. She was a sweet, artless little hussy, who made me play +the piano to her, and she said it was lovely. Of course I only +played my own compositions; so I believed her, and it all went off very +nicely. I thought it might save trouble if I did not tell her +who she really was, so I said nothing about it.</p> +<p>I met Socrates once. He was my muleteer on an excursion which +I will not name, for fear it should identify the man. The moment +I saw my guide I knew he was somebody, but for the life of me I could +not remember who. All of a sudden it flashed across me that he +was Socrates. He talked enough for six, but it was all in <i>dialetto</i>, +so I could not understand him, nor, when I had discovered who he was, +did I much try to do so. He was a good creature, a trifle given +to stealing fruit and vegetables, but an amiable man enough. He +had had a long day with his mule and me, and he only asked me five francs. +I gave him ten, for I pitied his poor old patched boots, and there was +a meekness about him that touched me. “And now, Socrates,” +said I at parting, “we go on our several ways, you to steal tomatoes, +I to filch ideas from other people; for the rest—which of these +two roads will be the better going, our father which is in heaven knows, +but we know not.”</p> +<p>I have never seen Mendelssohn, but there is a fresco of him on the +terrace, or open-air dining-room, of an inn at Chiavenna. He is +not called Mendelssohn, but I knew him by his legs. He is in the +costume of a dandy of some five-and-forty years ago, is smoking a cigar, +and appears to be making an offer of marriage to his cook. Beethoven +both my friend Mr. H. Festing Jones and I have had the good fortune +to meet; he is an engineer now, and does not know one note from another; +he has quite lost his deafness, is married, and is, of course, a little +squat man with the same refractory hair that he always had. It +was very interesting to watch him, and Jones remarked that before the +end of dinner he had become positively posthumous. One morning +I was told the Beethovens were going away, and before long I met their +two heavy boxes being carried down the stairs. The boxes were +so squab and like their owners, that I half thought for a moment that +they were inside, and should hardly have been surprised to see them +spring up like a couple of Jacks-in-the-box. “Sono indentro?” +said I, with a frown of wonder, pointing to the boxes. The porters +knew what I meant, and laughed. But there is no end to the list +of people whom I have been able to recognize, and before I had got through +it myself, I found I had walked some distance, and had involuntarily +paused in front of a second-hand bookstall.</p> +<p>I do not like books. I believe I have the smallest library +of any literary man in London, and I have no wish to increase it. +I keep my books at the British Museum and at Mudie’s, and it makes +me very angry if anyone gives me one for my private library. I +once heard two ladies disputing in a railway carriage as to whether +one of them had or had not been wasting money. “I spent +it in books,” said the accused, “and it’s not wasting +money to buy books.” “Indeed, my dear, I think it +is,” was the rejoinder, and in practice I agree with it. +Webster’s Dictionary, Whitaker’s Almanack, and Bradshaw’s +Railway Guide should be sufficient for any ordinary library; it will +be time enough to go beyond these when the mass of useful and entertaining +matter which they provide has been mastered. Nevertheless, I admit +that sometimes, if not particularly busy, I stop at a second-hand bookstall +and turn over a book or two from mere force of habit.</p> +<p>I know not what made me pick up a copy of Æschylus—of +course in an English version—or rather I know not what made Æschylus +take up with me, for he took me rather than I him; but no sooner had +he got me than he began puzzling me, as he has done any time this forty +years, to know wherein his transcendent merit can be supposed to lie. +To me he is, like the greater number of classics in all ages and countries, +a literary Struldbrug, rather than a true ambrosia-fed immortal. +There are true immortals, but they are few and far between; most classics +are as great impostors dead as they were when living, and while posing +as gods are, five-sevenths of them, only Struldbrugs. It comforts +me to remember that Aristophanes liked Æschylus no better than +I do. True, he praises him by comparison with Sophocles and Euripides, +but he only does so that he may run down these last more effectively. +Aristophanes is a safe man to follow, nor do I see why it should not +be as correct to laugh with him as to pull a long face with the Greek +Professors; but this is neither here nor there, for no one really cares +about Æschylus; the more interesting question is how he contrived +to make so many people for so many years pretend to care about him.</p> +<p>Perhaps he married somebody’s daughter. If a man would +get hold of the public ear, he must pay, marry, or fight. I have +never understood that <i>Æschylus</i> was a man of means, and +the fighters do not write poetry, so I suppose he must have married +a theatrical manager’s daughter, and got his plays brought out +that way. The ear of any age or country is like its land, air, +and water; it seems limitless but is really limited, and is already +in the keeping of those who naturally enough will have no squatting +on such valuable property. It is written and talked up to as closely +as the means of subsistence are bred up to by a teeming population. +There is not a square inch of it but is in private hands, and he who +would freehold any part of it must do so by purchase, marriage, or fighting, +in the usual way—and fighting gives the longest, safest tenure. +The public itself has hardly more voice in the question who shall have +its ear, than the land has in choosing its owners. It is farmed +as those who own it think most profitable to themselves, and small blame +to them; nevertheless, it has a residuum of mulishness which the land +has not, and does sometimes dispossess its tenants. It is in this +residuum that those who fight place their hope and trust.</p> +<p>Or perhaps Æschylus squared the leading critics of his time. +When one comes to think of it, he must have done so, for how is it conceivable +that such plays should have had such runs if he had not? I met +a lady one year in Switzerland who had some parrots that always travelled +with her and were the idols of her life. These parrots would not +let anyone read aloud in their presence, unless they heard their own +names introduced from time to time. If these were freely interpolated +into the text they would remain as still as stones, for they thought +the reading was about themselves. If it was not about them it +could not be allowed. The leaders of literature are like these +parrots; they do not look at what a man writes, nor if they did would +they understand it much better than the parrots do; but they like the +sound of their own names, and if these are freely interpolated in a +tone they take as friendly, they may even give ear to an outsider. +Otherwise they will scream him off if they can.</p> +<p>I should not advise anyone with ordinary independence of mind to +attempt the public ear unless he is confident that he can out-lung and +out-last his own generation; for if he has any force, people will and +ought to be on their guard against him, inasmuch as there is no knowing +where he may not take them. Besides, they have staked their money +on the wrong men so often without suspecting it, that when there comes +one whom they do suspect it would be madness not to bet against him. +True, he may die before he has out screamed his opponents, but that +has nothing to do with it. If his scream was well pitched it will +sound clearer when he is dead. We do not know what death is. +If we know so little about life which we have experienced, how shall +we know about death which we have not—and in the nature of things +never can? Everyone, as I said years ago in <i>Alps and Sanctuaries</i>, +is an immortal to himself, for he cannot know that he is dead until +he is dead, and when dead how can he know anything about anything? +All we know is, that even the humblest dead may live long after all +trace of the body has disappeared; we see them doing it in the bodies +and memories of those that come after them; and not a few live so much +longer and more effectually than is desirable, that it has been necessary +to get rid of them by Act of Parliament. It is love that alone +gives life, and the truest life is that which we live not in ourselves +but vicariously in others, and with which we have no concern. +Our concern is so to order ourselves that we may be of the number of +them that enter into life—although we know it not.</p> +<p>Æschylus did so order himself; but his life is not of that +inspiriting kind that can be won through fighting the good fight only—or +being believed to have fought it. His voice is the echo of a drone, +drone-begotten and drone-sustained. It is not a tone that a man +must utter or die—nay, even though he die; and likely enough half +the allusions and hard passages in Æschylus of which we can make +neither head nor tail are in reality only puffs of some of the literary +leaders of his time.</p> +<p>The lady above referred to told me more about her parrots. +She was like a Nasmyth’s hammer going slow—very gentle, +but irresistible. She always read the newspaper to them. +What was the use of having a newspaper if one did not read it to one’s +parrots?</p> +<p>“And have you divined,” I asked, “to which side +they incline in politics?”</p> +<p>“They do not like Mr. Gladstone,” was the somewhat freezing +answer; “this is the only point on which we disagree, for I adore +him. Don’t ask more about this, it is a great grief to me. +I tell them everything,” she continued, “and hide no secret +from them.”</p> +<p>“But can any parrot be trusted to keep a secret?”</p> +<p>“Mine can.”</p> +<p>“And on Sundays do you give them the same course of reading +as on a week-day, or do you make a difference?”</p> +<p>“On Sundays I always read them a genealogical chapter from +the Old or New Testament, for I can thus introduce their names without +profanity. I always keep tea by me in case they should ask for +it in the night, and I have an Etna to warm it for them; they take milk +and sugar. The old white-headed clergyman came to see them last +night; it was very painful, for Jocko reminded him so strongly of his +late . . . ”</p> +<p>I thought she was going to say “wife,” but it proved +to have been only of a parrot that he had once known and loved.</p> +<p>One evening she was in difficulties about the quarantine, which was +enforced that year on the Italian frontier. The local doctor had +gone down that morning to see the Italian doctor and arrange some details. +“Then, perhaps, my dear,” she said to her husband, “he +is the quarantine.” “No, my love,” replied her +husband. “The quarantine is not a person, it is a place +where they put people”; but she would not be comforted, and suspected +the quarantine as an enemy that might at any moment pounce out upon +her and her parrots. So a lady told me once that she had been +in like trouble about the anthem. She read in her Prayer Book +that in choirs and places where they sing “here followeth the +anthem,” yet the person with this most mysteriously sounding name +never did follow. They had a choir, and no one could say the church +was not a place where they sang, for they did sing—both chants +and hymns. Why, then, this persistent slackness on the part of +the anthem, who at this juncture should follow her papa, the rector, +into the reading-desk? No doubt he would come some day, and then +what would he be like? Fair or dark? Tall or short? +Would he be bald and wear spectacles like papa, would he be young and +good-looking? Anyhow, there was something wrong, for it was announced +that he would follow, and he never did follow; therefore there was no +knowing what he might not do next.</p> +<p>I heard of the parrots a year or two later as giving lessons in Italian +to an English maid. I do not know what their terms were. +Alas! since then both they and their mistress have joined the majority. +When the poor lady felt her end was near she desired (and the responsibility +for this must rest with her, not me) that the birds might be destroyed, +as fearing that they might come to be neglected, and knowing that they +could never be loved again as she had loved them. On being told +that all was over, she said, “Thank you,” and immediately +expired.</p> +<p>Reflecting in such random fashion, and strolling with no greater +method, I worked my way back through Cheapside and found myself once +more in front of Sweeting’s window. Again the turtles attracted +me. They were alive, and so far at any rate they agreed with me. +Nay, they had eyes, mouths, legs, if not arms, and feet, so there was +much in which we were both of a mind, but surely they must be mistaken +in arming themselves so very heavily. Any creature on getting +what the turtle aimed at would overreach itself and be landed not in +safety but annihilation. It should have no communion with the +outside world at all, for death could creep in wherever the creature +could creep out; and it must creep out somewhere if it was to hook on +to outside things. What death can be more absolute than such absolute +isolation? Perfect death, indeed, if it were attainable (which +it is not), is as near perfect security as we can reach, but it is not +the kind of security aimed at by any animal that is at the pains of +defending itself. For such want to have things both ways, desiring +the livingness of life without its perils, and the safety of death without +its deadness, and some of us do actually get this for a considerable +time, but we do not get it by plating ourselves with armour as the turtle +does. We tried this in the Middle Ages, and no longer mock ourselves +with the weight of armour that our forefathers carried in battle. +Indeed the more deadly the weapons of attack become the more we go into +the fight slug-wise.</p> +<p>Slugs have ridden their contempt for defensive armour as much to +death as the turtles their pursuit of it. They have hardly more +than skin enough to hold themselves together; they court death every +time they cross the road. Yet death comes not to them more than +to the turtle, whose defences are so great that there is little left +inside to be defended. Moreover, the slugs fare best in the long +run, for turtles are dying out, while slugs are not, and there must +be millions of slugs all the world over for every single turtle. +Of the two vanities, therefore, that of the slug seems most substantial.</p> +<p>In either case the creature thinks itself safe, but is sure to be +found out sooner or later; nor is it easy to explain this mockery save +by reflecting that everything must have its meat in due season, and +that meat can only be found for such a multitude of mouths by giving +everything as meat in due season to something else. This is like +the Kilkenny cats, or robbing Peter to pay Paul; but it is the way of +the world, and as every animal must contribute in kind to the picnic +of the universe, one does not see what better arrangement could be made +than the providing each race with a hereditary fallacy, which shall +in the end get it into a scrape, but which shall generally stand the +wear and tear of life for some time. “<i>Do ut des</i>” +is the writing on all flesh to him that eats it; and no creature is +dearer to itself than it is to some other that would devour it.</p> +<p>Nor is there any statement or proposition more invulnerable than +living forms are. Propositions prey upon and are grounded upon +one another just like living forms. They support one another as +plants and animals do; they are based ultimately on credit, or faith, +rather than the cash of irrefragable conviction. The whole universe +is carried on on the credit system, and if the mutual confidence on +which it is based were to collapse, it must itself collapse immediately. +Just or unjust, it lives by faith; it is based on vague and impalpable +opinion that by some inscrutable process passes into will and action, +and is made manifest in matter and in flesh: it is meteoric—suspended +in mid-air; it is the baseless fabric of a vision so vast, so vivid, +and so gorgeous that no base can seem more broad than such stupendous +baselessness, and yet any man can bring it about his ears by being over-curious; +when faith fails, a system based on faith fails also.</p> +<p>Whether the universe is really a paying concern, or whether it is +an inflated bubble that must burst sooner or later, this is another +matter. If people were to demand cash payment in irrefragable +certainty for everything that they have taken hitherto as paper money +on the credit of the bank of public opinion, is there money enough behind +it all to stand so great a drain even on so great a reserve? Probably +there is not, but happily there can be no such panic, for even though +the cultured classes may do so, the uncultured are too dull to have +brains enough to commit such stupendous folly. It takes a long +course of academic training to educate a man up to the standard which +he must reach before he can entertain such questions seriously, and +by a merciful dispensation of Providence university training is almost +as costly as it is unprofitable. The majority will thus be always +unable to afford it, and will base their opinions on mother wit and +current opinion rather than on demonstration.</p> +<p>So I turned my steps homewards; I saw a good many more things on +my way home, but I was told that I was not to see more this time than +I could get into twelve pages of the <i>Universal Review</i>; I must +therefore reserve any remark which I think might perhaps entertain the +reader for another occasion.</p> +<h2>The Aunt, the Nieces, and the Dog <a name="citation127"></a><a href="#footnote127">{127}</a></h2> +<p>When a thing is old, broken, and useless we throw it on the dust-heap, +but when it is sufficiently old, sufficiently broken, and sufficiently +useless we give money for it, put it into a museum, and read papers +over it which people come long distances to hear. By and by, when +the whirligig of time has brought on another revenge, the museum itself +becomes a dust-heap, and remains so till after long ages it is rediscovered, +and valued as belonging to a neo-rubbish age—containing, perhaps, +traces of a still older paleo-rubbish civilization. So when people +are old, indigent, and in all respects incapable, we hold them in greater +and greater contempt as their poverty and impotence increase, till they +reach the pitch when they are actually at the point to die, whereon +they become sublime. Then we place every resource our hospitals +can command at their disposal, and show no stint in our consideration +for them.</p> +<p>It is the same with all our interests. We care most about extremes +of importance and of unimportance; but extremes of importance are tainted +with fear, and a very imperfect fear casteth out love. Extremes +of unimportance cannot hurt us, therefore we are well disposed towards +them; the means may come to do so, therefore we do not love them. +Hence we pick a fly out of a milk-jug and watch with pleasure over its +recovery, for we are confident that under no conceivable circumstances +will it want to borrow money from us; but we feel less sure about a +mouse, so we show it no quarter. The compilers of our almanacs +well know this tendency of our natures, so they tell us, not when Noah +went into the ark, nor when the temple of Jerusalem was dedicated, but +that Lindley Murray, grammarian, died January 16th, 1826. This +is not because they could not find so many as three hundred and sixty-five +events of considerable interest since the creation of the world, but +because they well know we would rather hear of something less interesting. +We care most about what concerns us either very closely, or so little +that practically we have nothing whatever to do with it.</p> +<p>I once asked a young Italian, who professed to have a considerable +knowledge of English literature, which of all our poems pleased him +best. He replied without a moment’s hesitation:</p> +<blockquote><p>“Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle,<br /> + The cow jumped over the moon;<br /> +The little dog laughed to see such sport,<br /> + And the dish ran away with the spoon.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>He said this was better than anything in Italian. They had +Dante and Tasso, and ever so many more great poets, but they had nothing +comparable to “Hey diddle diddle,” nor had he been able +to conceive how anyone could have written it. Did I know the author’s +name, and had we given him a statue? On this I told him of the +young lady of Harrow who would go to church in a barrow, and plied him +with whatever rhyming nonsense I could call to mind, but it was no use; +all of these things had an element of reality that robbed them of half +their charm, whereas “Hey diddle diddle” had nothing in +it that could conceivably concern him.</p> +<p>So again it is with the things that gall us most. What is it +that rises up against us at odd times and smites us in the face again +and again for years after it has happened? That we spent all the +best years of our life in learning what we have found to be a swindle, +and to have been known to be a swindle by those who took money for misleading +us? That those on whom we most leaned most betrayed us? +That we have only come to feel our strength when there is little strength +left of any kind to feel? These things will hardly much disturb +a man of ordinary good temper. But that he should have said this +or that little unkind and wanton saying; that he should have gone away +from this or that hotel and given a shilling too little to the waiter; +that his clothes were shabby at such or such a garden-party—these +things gall us <i>as</i> a corn will sometimes do, though the loss of +a limb may not be seriously felt.</p> +<p>I have been reminded lately of these considerations with more than +common force by reading the very voluminous correspondence left by my +grandfather, Dr. Butler, of Shrewsbury, whose memoirs I am engaged in +writing. I have found a large number of interesting letters on +subjects of serious import, but must confess that it is to the hardly +less numerous lighter letters that I have been most attracted, nor do +I feel sure that my eminent namesake did not share my predilection. +Among other letters in my possession I have one bundle that has been +kept apart, and has evidently no connection with Dr. Butler’s +own life. I cannot use these letters, therefore, for my book, +but over and above the charm of their inspired spelling, I find them +of such an extremely trivial nature that I incline to hope the reader +may derive as much amusement from them as I have done myself, and venture +to give them the publicity here which I must refuse them in my book. +The dates and signatures have, with the exception of Mrs. Newton’s, +been carefully erased, but I have collected that they were written by +the two servants of a single lady who resided at no great distance from +London, to two nieces of the said lady who lived in London itself. +The aunt never writes, but always gets one of the servants to do so +for her. She appears either as “your aunt” or as “She”; +her name is not given, but she is evidently looked upon with a good +deal of awe by all who had to do with her.</p> +<p>The letters almost all of them relate to visits either of the aunt +to London, or of the nieces to the aunt’s home, which, from occasional +allusions to hopping, I gather to have been in Kent, Sussex, or Surrey. +I have arranged them to the best of my power, and take the following +to be the earliest. It has no signature, but is not in the handwriting +of the servant who styles herself Elizabeth, or Mrs. Newton. It +runs:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“MADAM,—Your Aunt Wishes me to inform you +she will be glad if you will let hir know if you think of coming To +hir House thiss month or Next as she cannot have you in September on +a kount of the Hoping If you ar coming she thinkes she had batter Go +to London on the Day you com to hir House she says you shall have everry +Thing raddy for you at hir House and Mrs. Newton to meet you and stay +with you till She returnes a gann.</p> +<p>“if you arnot Coming thiss Summer She will be in London before +thiss Month is out and will Sleep on the Sofy As She willnot be in London +more thann two nits. and She Says she willnot truble you on anny a kount +as She Will returne the Same Day before She will plage you anny more. +but She thanks you for asking hir to London. but She says She cannot +leve the house at prassant She sayhir Survants ar to do for you as she +cannot lodge yours nor she willnot have thim in at the house anny more +to brake and destroy hir thinks and beslive hir and make up Lies by +hir and Skandel as your too did She says she mens to pay fore 2 Nits +and one day, She says the Pepelwill let hir have it if you ask thim +to let hir: you Will be so good as to let hir know sun: wish She is +to do, as She says She dos not care anny thing a bout it. which way +tiss she is batter than She was and desirs hir Love to bouth bouth.</p> +<p>“Your aunt wises to know how the silk Clocks ar madup [how +the silk cloaks are made up] with a Cape or a wood as she is a goin +to have one madeup to rideout in in hir littel shas [chaise].</p> +<p>“Charles is a butty and so good.</p> +<p>“Mr & Mrs Newton ar quite wall & desires to be remembered +to you.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>I can throw no light on the meaning of the verb to “beslive.” +Each letter in the MS. is so admirably formed that there can be no question +about the word being as I have given it. Nor have I been able +to discover what is referred to by the words “Charles is a butty +and so good.” We shall presently meet with a Charles who +“flies in the Fier,” but that Charles appears to have been +in London, whereas this one is evidently in Kent, or wherever the aunt +lived.</p> +<p>The next letter is from Mrs. Newton:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“DER MISS ---, I Receve your Letter your Aunt is +vary Ill and Lowspireted I Donte think your Aunt wood Git up all Day +if My Sister Wasnot to Persage her We all Think hir lif is two monopolous. +you Wish to know Who Was Liveing With your Aunt. that is My Sister +and Willian --- and Cariline --- as Cock and Old Poll Pepper is Come +to Stay With her a Littel Wile and I hoped [hopped] for Your Aunt, and +Harry has Worked for your Aunt all the Summer. Your Aunt and Harry +Whent to the Wells Races and Spent a very Pleasant Day your Aunt has +Lost Old Fanney Sow She Died about a Week a Go Harry he Wanted your +Aunt to have her killed and send her to London and Shee Wold Fech her +£11 the Farmers have Lost a Great Deal of Cattel such as Hogs +and Cows What theay call the Plage I Whent to your Aunt as you Wish +Mee to Do But She Told Mee She Did not wont aney Boddy She Told Mee +She Should Like to Come up to see you But She Cant Come know for she +is Boddyley ill and Harry Donte Work there know But he Go up there Once +in Two or Three Day Harry Offered is self to Go up to Live With your +Aunt But She Made him know Ancer. I hav Been up to your Aunt at +Work for 5 Weeks Hopping and Ragluting Your Aunt Donte Eat nor Drink +But vary Littel indeed.</p> +<p>“I am Happy to Say We are Both Quite Well and I am Glad no +hear you are Both Quite Well</p> +<p>“MRS NEWTON.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>This seems to have made the nieces propose to pay a visit to their +aunt, perhaps to try and relieve the monopoly of her existence and cheer +her up a little. In their letter, doubtless, the dog motive is +introduced that is so finely developed presently by Mrs. Newton. +I should like to have been able to give the theme as enounced by the +nieces themselves, but their letters are not before me. Mrs. Newton +writes:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“MY DEAR GIRLS,—Your Aunt receiv your Letter +your Aunt will Be vary glad to see you as it quite a greeable if it +tis to you and Shee is Quite Willing to Eair the beds and the Rooms +if you Like to Trust to hir and the Servantes; if not I may Go up there +as you Wish. My Sister Sleeps in the Best Room as she allways +Did and the Coock in the garret and you Can have the Rooms the same +as you allways Did as your Aunt Donte set in the Parlour She Continlery +Sets in the Ciching. your Aunt says she Cannot Part from the dog know +hows and She Says he will not hurt you for he is Like a Child and I +can safeley say My Self he wonte hurt you as She Cannot Sleep in the +Room With out him as he allWay Sleep in the Same Room as She Dose. +your Aunt is agreeable to Git in What Coles and Wood you Wish for I +am know happy to say your Aunt is in as Good health as ever She Was +and She is happy to hear you are Both Well your Aunt Wishes for Ancer +By Return of Post.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The nieces replied that their aunt must choose between the dog and +them, and Mrs. Newton sends a second letter which brings her development +to a climax. It runs:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“DEAR MISS --- I have Receve your Letter and i +Whent up to your Aunt as you Wish me and i Try to Perveal With her about +the Dog But she Wold not Put the Dog away nor it alow him to Be Tied +up But She Still Wishes you to Come as Shee says the Dog Shall not interrup +you for She Donte alow the Dog nor it the Cats to Go in the Parlour +never sence She has had it Donup ferfere of Spoiling the Paint your +Aunt think it vary Strange you Should Be so vary Much afraid of a Dog +and She says you Cant Go out in London But What you are up a gance one +and She says She Wonte Trust the Dog in know one hands But her Owne +for She is afraid theay Will not fill is Belley as he Lives upon Rost +Beeff and Rost and Boil Moutten Wich he Eats More then the Servantes +in the House there is not aney One Wold Beable to Give Sattefacktion +upon that account Harry offerd to Take the Dog But She Wood not Trust +him in our hands so I Cold not Do aney thing With her your Aunt youse +to Tell Me When we was at your House in London She Did not know how +to make you amens and i Told her know it was the Time to Do it But i +Considder She sets the Dog Before you your Aunt keep know Beer know +Sprits know Wines in the House of aney Sort Oneley a Little Barl of +Wine I made her in the Summer the Workmen and servantes are a Blige +to Drink wauter Morning Noon and Night your Aunt the Same She Donte +Low her Self aney Tee nor Coffee But is Loocking Wonderful Well</p> +<p>“I Still Remane your Humble Servant Mrs Newton</p> +<p>“I am vary sorry to think the Dog Perventes your Comeing</p> +<p>“I am Glad to hear you are Both Well and we are the same.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The nieces remained firm, and from the following letter it is plain +the aunt gave way. The dog motive is repeated <i>pianissimo</i>, +and is not returned to—not at least by Mrs. Newton.</p> +<blockquote><p>“DEAR MISS ---, I Receve your Letter on Thursday +i Whent to your Aunt and i see her and She is a Greable to everry thing +i asked her and seme so vary Much Please to see you Both Next Tuseday +and she has sent for the Faggots to Day and she Will Send for the Coles +to Morrow and i will Go up there to Morrow Morning and Make the Fiers +and Tend to the Beds and sleep in it Till you Come Down your Aunt sends +her Love to you Both and she is Quite well your Aunt Wishes you wold +Write againe Before you Come as she ma Expeckye and the Dog is not to +Gointo the Parlor a Tall</p> +<p>“your Aunt kind Love to you Both & hopes you Wonte Fail +in Coming according to Prommis</p> +<p>“MRS NEWTON.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>From a later letter it appears that the nieces did not pay their +visit after all, and what is worse a letter had miscarried, and the +aunt sat up expecting them from seven till twelve at night, and Harry +had paid for “Faggots and Coles quarter of Hund. Faggots +Half tun of Coles 1<i>l</i>. 1s. 3<i>d</i>.” Shortly afterwards, +however, “She” again talks of coming up to London herself +and writes through her servant:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“My Dear girls i Receve your kind letter & +I am happy to hear you ar both Well and I Was in hopes of seeing of +you Both Down at My House this spring to stay a Wile I am Quite well +my self in Helth But vary Low Spireted I am vary sorry to hear the Misforting +of Poor charles & how he cum to flie in the Fier I cannot think. +I should like to know if he is dead or a Live, and I shall come to London +in August & stay three or four daies if it is agreable to you. +Mrs. Newton has lost her mother in Law 4 day March & I hope you +send me word Wather charles is Dead or a Live as soon as possible, and +will you send me word what Little Betty is for I cannot make her out.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The next letter is a new handwriting, and tells the nieces of their +aunt’s death in the following terms:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“DEAR MISS ---, It is my most painful duty to inform +you that your dear aunt expired this morning comparatively easy as Hannah +informs me and in so doing restored her soul to the custody of him whom +she considered to be alone worthy of its care.</p> +<p>“The doctor had visited her about five minutes previously and +had applied a blister.</p> +<p>“You and your sister will I am sure excuse further details +at present and believe me with kindest remembrances to remain</p> +<p>“Yours truly, &c.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>After a few days a lawyer’s letter informs the nieces that +their aunt had left them the bulk of her not very considerable property, +but had charged them with an annuity of £1 a week to be paid to +Harry and Mrs. Newton so long as the dog lived.</p> +<p>The only other letters by Mrs. Newton are written on paper of a different +and more modern size; they leave an impression of having been written +a good many years later. I take them as they come. The first +is very short:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“DEAR MISS ---, i write to say i cannot possiblely +come on Wednesday as we have killed a pig. your’s truely,</p> +<p>“ELIZABETH NEWTON.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The second runs:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“DEAR MISS ---, i hope you are both quite well +in health & your Leg much better i am happy to say i am getting +quite well again i hope Amandy has reached you safe by this time i sent +a small parcle by Amandy, there was half a dozen Pats of butter & +the Cakes was very homely and not so light as i could wish i hope by +this time Sarah Ann has promised she will stay untill next monday as +i think a few daies longer will not make much diferance and as her young +man has been very considerate to wait so long as he has i think he would +for a few days Longer dear Miss --- I wash for William and i have not +got his clothes yet as it has been delayed by the carrier & i cannot +possiblely get it done before Sunday and i do not Like traviling on +a Sunday but to oblige you i would come but to come sooner i cannot +possiblely but i hope Sarah Ann will be prevailed on once more as She +has so many times i feel sure if she tells her young man he will have +patient for he is a very kind young man</p> +<p>“i remain your sincerely</p> +<p>“ELIZABETH NEWTON.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The last letter in my collection seems written almost within measurable +distance of the Christmas-card era. The sheet is headed by a beautifully +embossed device of some holly in red and green, wishing the recipient +of the letter a merry Xmas and a happy new year, while the border is +crimped and edged with blue. I know not what it is, but there +is something in the writer’s highly finished style that reminds +me of Mendelssohn. It would almost do for the words of one of +his celebrated “Lieder ohne Worte”:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“DEAR MISS MARIA,—I hasten to acknowledge +the receipt of your kind note with the inclosure for which I return +my best thanks. I need scarcely say how glad I was to know that +the volumes secured your approval, and that the announcement of the +improvement in the condition of your Sister’s legs afforded me +infinite pleasure. The gratifying news encouraged me in the hope +that now the nature of the disorder is comprehended her legs will—notwithstanding +the process may be gradual—ultimately get quite well. The +pretty Robin Redbreast which lay ensconced in your epistle, conveyed +to me, in terms more eloquent than words, how much you desired me those +Compliments which the little missive he bore in his bill expressed; +the emblem is sweetly pretty, and now that we are again allowed to felicitate +each other on another recurrence of the season of the Christian’s +rejoicing, permit me to tender to yourself, and by you to your Sister, +mine and my Wife’s heartfelt congratulations and warmest wishes +with respect to the coming year. It is a common belief that if +we take a retrospective view of each departing year, as it behoves us +annually to do, we shall find the blessings which we have received to +immeasurably outnumber our causes of sorrow. Speaking for myself +I can fully subscribe to that sentiment, and doubtless neither Miss +--- nor yourself are exceptions. Miss ---’s illness and +consequent confinement to the house has been a severe trial, but in +that trouble an opportunity was afforded you to prove a Sister’s +devotion and she has been enabled to realise a larger (if possible) +display of sisterly affection.</p> +<p>“A happy Christmas to you both, and may the new year prove +a Cornucopia from which still greater blessings than even those we have +hitherto received, shall issue, to benefit us all by contributing to +our temporal happiness and, what is of higher importance, conducing +to our felicity hereafter.</p> +<p>“I was sorry to hear that you were so annoyed with mice and +rats, and if I should have an opportunity to obtain a nice cat I will +do so and send my boy to your house with it.</p> +<p>“I remain,</p> +<p>“Yours truly.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>How little what is commonly called education can do after all towards +the formation of a good style, and what a delightful volume might not +be entitled “Half Hours with the Worst Authors.” Why, +the finest word I know of in the English language was coined, not by +my poor old grandfather, whose education had left little to desire, +nor by any of the admirable scholars whom he in his turn educated, but +by an old matron who presided over one of the halls, or houses of his +school. This good lady, whose name by the way was Bromfield, had +a fine high temper of her own, or thought it politic to affect one. +One night when the boys were particularly noisy she burst like a hurricane +into the hall, collared a youngster, and told him he was the “rampingest-scampingest-rackety-tackety-tow-row-roaringest +boy in the whole school.” Would Mrs. Newton have been able +to set the aunt and the dog before us so vividly if she had been more +highly educated? Would Mrs. Bromfield have been able to forge +and hurl her thunderbolt of a word if she had been taught how to do +so, or indeed been at much pains to create it at all? It came. +It was her χαρισμα. She did +not probably know that she had done what the greatest scholar would +have had to rack his brains over for many an hour before he could even +approach. Tradition says that having brought down her boy she +looked round the hall in triumph, and then after a moment’s lull +said, “Young gentlemen, prayers are excused,” and left them.</p> +<p>I have sometimes thought that, after all, the main use of a classical +education consists in the check it gives to originality, and the way +in which it prevents an inconvenient number of people from using their +own eyes. That we will not be at the trouble of looking at things +for ourselves if we can get anyone to tell us what we ought to see goes +without saying, and it is the business of schools and universities to +assist us in this respect. The theory of evolution teaches that +any power not worked at pretty high pressure will deteriorate: originality +and freedom from affectation are all very well in their way, but we +can easily have too much of them, and it is better that none should +be either original or free from cant but those who insist on being so, +no matter what hindrances obstruct, nor what incentives are offered +them to see things through the regulation medium. To insist on +seeing things for oneself is to be an ιδιωτης, +or in plain English, an idiot; nor do I see any safer check against +general vigour and clearness of thought, with consequent terseness of +expression, than that provided by the curricula of our universities +and schools of public instruction. If a young man, in spite of +every effort to fit him with blinkers, will insist on getting rid of +them, he must do so at his own risk. He will not be long in finding +out his mistake. Our public schools and universities play the +beneficent part in our social scheme that cattle do in forests: they +browse the seedlings down and prevent the growth of all but the luckiest +and sturdiest. Of course, if there are too many either cattle +or schools, they browse so effectually that they find no more food, +and starve till equilibrium is restored; but it seems to be a provision +of nature that there should always be these alternate periods, during +which either the cattle or the trees are getting the best of it; and, +indeed, without such provision we should have neither the one nor the +other. At this moment the cattle, doubtless, are in the ascendant, +and if university extension proceeds much farther, we shall assuredly +have no more Mrs. Newtons and Mrs. Bromfields; but whatever is is best, +and, on the whole, I should propose to let things find pretty much their +own level.</p> +<p>However this may be, who can question that the treasures hidden in +many a country house contain sleeping beauties even fairer than those +that I have endeavoured to waken from long sleep in the foregoing article? +How many Mrs. Quicklys are there not living in London at this present +moment? For that Mrs. Quickly was an invention of Shakespeare’s +I will not believe. The old woman from whom he drew said every +word that he put into Mrs. Quickly’s mouth, and a great deal more +which he did not and perhaps could not make use of. This question, +however, would again lead me far from my subject, which I should mar +were I to dwell upon it longer, and therefore leave with the hope that +it may give my readers absolutely no food whatever for reflection.</p> +<h2>How to Make the Best of Life <a name="citation142"></a><a href="#footnote142">{142}</a></h2> +<p>I have been asked to speak on the question how to make the best of +life, but may as well confess at once that I know nothing about it. +I cannot think that I have made the best of my own life, nor is it likely +that I shall make much better of what may or may not remain to me. +I do not even know how to make the best of the twenty minutes that your +committee has placed at my disposal, and as for life as a whole, who +ever yet made the best of such a colossal opportunity by conscious effort +and deliberation? In little things no doubt deliberate and conscious +effort will help us, but we are speaking of large issues, and such kingdoms +of heaven as the making the best of these come not by observation.</p> +<p>The question, therefore, on which I have undertaken to address you +is, as you must all know, fatuous, if it be faced seriously. Life +is like playing a violin solo in public and learning the instrument +as one goes on. One cannot make the best of such impossibilities, +and the question is doubly fatuous until we are told which of our two +lives—the conscious or the unconscious—is held by the asker +to be the truer life. Which does the question contemplate—the +life we know, or the life which others may know, but which we know not?</p> +<p>Death gives a life to some men and women compared with which their +so-called existence here is as nothing. Which is the truer life +of Shakespeare, Handel, that divine woman who wrote the <i>Odyssey</i>, +and of Jane Austen—the life which palpitated with sensible warm +motion within their own bodies, or that in virtue of which they are +still palpitating in ours? In whose consciousness does their truest +life consist—their own, or ours? Can Shakespeare be said +to have begun his true life till a hundred years or so after he was +dead and buried? His physical life was but as an embryonic stage, +a coming up out of darkness, a twilight and dawn before the sunrise +of that life of the world to come which he was to enjoy hereafter. +We all live for a while after we are gone hence, but we are for the +most part stillborn, or at any rate die in infancy, as regards that +life which every age and country has recognized as higher and truer +than the one of which we are now sentient. As the life of the +race is larger, longer, and in all respects more to be considered than +that of the individual, so is the life we live in others larger and +more important than the one we live in ourselves. This appears +nowhere perhaps more plainly than in the case of great teachers, who +often in the lives of their pupils produce an effect that reaches far +beyond anything produced while their single lives were yet unsupplemented +by those other lives into which they infused their own.</p> +<p>Death to such people is the ending of a short life, but it does not +touch the life they are already living in those whom they have taught; +and happily, as none can know when he shall die, so none can make sure +that he too shall not live long beyond the grave; for the life after +death is like money before it—no one can be sure that it may not +fall to him or her even at the eleventh hour. Money and immortality +come in such odd unaccountable ways that no one is cut off from hope. +We may not have made either of them for ourselves, but yet another may +give them to us in virtue of his or her love, which shall illumine us +for ever, and establish us in some heavenly mansion whereof we neither +dreamed nor shall ever dream. Look at the Doge Loredano Loredani, +the old man’s smile upon whose face has been reproduced so faithfully +in so many lands that it can never henceforth be forgotten—would +he have had one hundredth part of the life he now lives had he not been +linked awhile with one of those heaven-sent men who know <i>che cosa +è amor</i>? Look at Rembrandt’s old woman in our +National Gallery; had she died before she was eighty-three years old +she would not have been living now. Then, when she was eighty-three, +immortality perched upon her as a bird on a withered bough.</p> +<p>I seem to hear someone say that this is a mockery, a piece of special +pleading, a giving of stones to those that ask for bread. Life +is not life unless we can feel it, and a life limited to a knowledge +of such fraction of our work as may happen to survive us is no true +life in other people; salve it as we may, death is not life any more +than black is white.</p> +<p>The objection is not so true as it sounds. I do not deny that +we had rather not die, nor do I pretend that much even in the case of +the most favoured few can survive them beyond the grave. It is +only because this is so that our own life is possible; others have made +room for us, and we should make room for others in our turn without +undue repining. What I maintain is that a not inconsiderable number +of people do actually attain to a life beyond the grave which we can +all feel forcibly enough, whether they can do so or not—that this +life tends with increasing civilization to become more and more potent, +and that it is better worth considering, in spite of its being unfelt +by ourselves, than any which we have felt or can ever feel in our own +persons.</p> +<p>Take an extreme case. A group of people are photographed by +Edison’s new process—say Titiens, Trebelli, and Jenny Lind, +with any two of the finest men singers the age has known—let them +be photographed incessantly for half an hour while they perform a scene +in <i>Lohengrin</i>; let all be done stereoscopically. Let them +be phonographed at the same time so that their minutest shades of intonation +are preserved, let the slides be coloured by a competent artist, and +then let the scene be called suddenly into sight and sound, say a hundred +years hence. Are those people dead or alive? Dead to themselves +they are, but while they live so powerfully and so livingly in us, which +is the greater paradox—to say that they are alive or that they +are dead? To myself it seems that their life in others would be +more truly life than their death to themselves is death. Granted +that they do not present all the phenomena of life—who ever does +so even when he is held to be alive? We are held to be alive because +we present a sufficient number of living phenomena to let the others +go without saying; those who see us take the part for the whole here +as in everything else, and surely, in the case supposed above, the phenomena +of life predominate so powerfully over those of death, that the people +themselves must be held to be more alive than dead. Our living +personality is, as the word implies, only our mask, and those who still +own such a mask as I have supposed have a living personality. +Granted again that the case just put is an extreme one; still many a +man and many a woman has so stamped him or herself on his work that, +though we would gladly have the aid of such accessories as we doubtless +presently shall have to the livingness of our great dead, we can see +them very sufficiently through the masterpieces they have left us.</p> +<p>As for their own unconsciousness I do not deny it. The life +of the embryo was unconscious before birth, and so is the life—I +am speaking only of the life revealed to us by natural religion—after +death. But as the embryonic and infant life of which we were unconscious +was the most potent factor in our after life of consciousness, so the +effect which we may unconsciously produce in others after death, and +it may be even before it on those who have never seen us, is in all +sober seriousness our truer and more abiding life, and the one which +those who would make the best of their sojourn here will take most into +their consideration.</p> +<p>Unconsciousness is no bar to livingness. Our conscious actions +are a drop in the sea as compared with our unconscious ones. Could +we know all the life that is in us by way of circulation, nutrition, +breathing, waste and repair, we should learn what an infinitesimally +small part consciousness plays in our present existence; yet our unconscious +life is as truly life as our conscious life, and though it is unconscious +to itself it emerges into an indirect and vicarious consciousness in +our other and conscious self, which exists but in virtue of our unconscious +self. So we have also a vicarious consciousness in others. +The unconscious life of those that have gone before us has in great +part moulded us into such men and women as we are, and our own unconscious +lives will in like manner have a vicarious consciousness in others, +though we be dead enough to it in ourselves.</p> +<p>If it is again urged that it matters not to us how much we may be +alive in others, if we are to know nothing about it, I reply that the +common instinct of all who are worth considering gives the lie to such +cynicism. I see here present some who have achieved, and others +who no doubt will achieve, success in literature. Will one of +them hesitate to admit that it is a lively pleasure to her to feel that +on the other side of the world someone may be smiling happily over her +work, and that she is thus living in that person though she knows nothing +about it? Here it seems to me that true faith comes in. +Faith does not consist, as the Sunday School pupil said, “in the +power of believing that which we know to be untrue.” It +consists in holding fast that which the healthiest and most kindly instincts +of the best and most sensible men and women are intuitively possessed +of, without caring to require much evidence further than the fact that +such people are so convinced; and for my own part I find the best men +and women I know unanimous in feeling that life in others, even though +we know nothing about it, is nevertheless a thing to be desired and +gratefully accepted if we can get it either before death or after. +I observe also that a large number of men and women do actually attain +to such life, and in some cases continue so to live, if not for ever, +yet to what is practically much the same thing. Our life then +in this world is, to natural religion as much as to revealed, a period +of probation. The use we make of it is to settle how far we are +to enter into another, and whether that other is to be a heaven of just +affection or a hell of righteous condemnation.</p> +<p>Who, then, are the most likely so to run that they may obtain this +veritable prize of our high calling? Setting aside such lucky +numbers, drawn as it were in the lottery of immortality, which I have +referred to casually above, and setting aside also the chances and changes +from which even immortality is not exempt, who on the whole are most +likely to live anew in the affectionate thoughts of those who never +so much as saw them in the flesh, and know not even their names? +There is a <i>nisus</i>, a straining in the dull dumb economy of things, +in virtue of which some, whether they will it and know it or no, are +more likely to live after death than others, and who are these? +Those who aimed at it as by some great thing that they would do to make +them famous? Those who have lived most in themselves and for themselves, +or those who have been most ensouled consciously, but perhaps better +unconsciously, directly but more often indirectly, by the most living +souls past and present that have flitted near them? Can we think +of a man or woman who grips us firmly, at the thought of whom we kindle +when we are alone in our honest daw’s plumes, with none to admire +or shrug his shoulders, can we think of one such, the secret of whose +power does not lie in the charm of his or her personality—that +is to say, in the wideness of his or her sympathy with, and therefore +life in and communion with other people? In the wreckage that +comes ashore from the sea of time there is much tinsel stuff that we +must preserve and study if we would know our own times and people; granted +that many a dead charlatan lives long and enters largely and necessarily +into our own lives; we use them and throw them away when we have done +with them. I do not speak of these, I do not speak of the Virgils +and Alexander Popes, and who can say how many more whose names I dare +not mention for fear of offending. They are as stuffed birds or +beasts in a museum; serviceable no doubt from a scientific standpoint, +but with no vivid or vivifying hold upon us. They seem to be alive, +but are not. I am speaking of those who do actually live in us, +and move us to higher achievements though they be long dead, whose life +thrusts out our own and overrides it. I speak of those who draw +us ever more towards them from youth to age, and to think of whom is +to feel at once that we are in the hands of those we love, and whom +we would most wish to resemble. What is the secret of the hold +that these people have upon us? Is it not that while, conventionally +speaking, alive, they most merged their lives in, and were in fullest +communion with those among whom they lived? They found their lives +in losing them. We never love the memory of anyone unless we feel +that he or she was himself or herself a lover.</p> +<p>I have seen it urged, again, in querulous accents, that the so-called +immortality even of the most immortal is not for ever. I see a +passage to this effect in a book that is making a stir as I write. +I will quote it. The writer says:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“So, it seems to me, is the immortality we so glibly +predicate of departed artists. If they survive at all, it is but +a shadowy life they live, moving on through the gradations of slow decay +to distant but inevitable death. They can no longer, as heretofore, +speak directly to the hearts of their fellow-men, evoking their tears +or laughter, and all the pleasures, be they sad or merry, of which imagination +holds the secret. Driven from the market-place they become first +the companions of the student, then the victims of the specialist. +He who would still hold familiar intercourse with them must train himself +to penetrate the veil which in ever-thickening folds conceals them from +the ordinary gaze; he must catch the tone of a vanished society, he +must move in a circle of alien associations, he must think in a language +not his own.” <a name="citation150"></a><a href="#footnote150">{150}</a></p> +</blockquote> +<p>This is crying for the moon, or rather pretending to cry for it, +for the writer is obviously insincere. I see the <i>Saturday Review</i> +says the passage I have just quoted “reaches almost to poetry,” +and indeed I find many blank verses in it, some of them very aggressive. +No prose is free from an occasional blank verse, and a good writer will +not go hunting over his work to rout them out, but nine or ten in little +more than as many lines is indeed reaching too near to poetry for good +prose. This, however, is a trifle, and might pass if the tone +of the writer was not so obviously that of cheap pessimism. I +know not which is cheapest, pessimism or optimism. One forces +lights, the other darks; both are equally untrue to good art, and equally +sure of their effect with the groundlings. The one extenuates, +the other sets down in malice. The first is the more amiable lie, +but both are lies, and are known to be so by those who utter them. +Talk about catching the tone of a vanished society to understand Rembrandt +or Giovanni Bellini! It is nonsense—the folds do not thicken +in front of these men; we understand them as well as those among whom +they went about in the flesh, and perhaps better. Homer and Shakespeare +speak to us probably far more effectually than they did to the men of +their own time, and most likely we have them at their best. I +cannot think that Shakespeare talked better than we hear him now in +<i>Hamlet</i> or <i>Henry the Fourth</i>; like enough he would have +been found a very disappointing person in a drawing-room. People +stamp themselves on their work; if they have not done so they are naught, +if they have we have them; and for the most part they stamp themselves +deeper on their work than on their talk. No doubt Shakespeare +and Handel will be one day clean forgotten, as though they had never +been born. The world will in the end die; mortality therefore +itself is not immortal, and when death dies the life of these men will +die with it—but not sooner. It is enough that they should +live within us and move us for many ages as they have and will. +Such immortality, therefore, as some men and women are born to achieve, +or have thrust upon them, is a practical if not a technical immortality, +and he who would have more let him have nothing.</p> +<p>I see I have drifted into speaking rather of how to make the best +of death than of life, but who can speak of life without his thoughts +turning instantly to that which is beyond it? He or she who has +made the best of the life after death has made the best of the life +before it; who cares one straw for any such chances and changes as will +commonly befall him here if he is upheld by the full and certain hope +of everlasting life in the affections of those that shall come after? +If the life after death is happy in the hearts of others, it matters +little how unhappy was the life before it.</p> +<p>And now I leave my subject, not without misgiving that I shall have +disappointed you. But for the great attention which is being paid +to the work from which I have quoted above, I should not have thought +it well to insist on points with which you are, I doubt not, as fully +impressed as I am: but that book weakens the sanctions of natural religion, +and minimizes the comfort which it affords us, while it does more to +undermine than to support the foundations of what is commonly called +belief. Therefore I was glad to embrace this opportunity of protesting. +Otherwise I should not have been so serious on a matter that transcends +all seriousness. Lord Beaconsfield cut it shorter with more effect. +When asked to give a rule of life for the son of a friend he said, “Do +not let him try and find out who wrote the letters of Junius.” +Pressed for further counsel, he added, “Nor yet who was the man +in the iron mask”—and he would say no more. Don’t +bore people. And yet I am by no means sure that a good many people +do not think themselves ill-used unless he who addresses them has thoroughly +well bored them—especially if they have paid any money for hearing +him. My great namesake said, “Surely the pleasure is as +great of being cheated as to cheat,” and great as the pleasure +both of cheating and boring undoubtedly is, I believe he was right. +So I remember a poem which came out some thirty years ago in <i>Punch</i>, +about a young lady who went forth in quest to “Some burden make +or burden bear, but which she did not greatly care, oh Miserie.” +So, again, all the holy men and women who in the Middle Ages professed +to have discovered how to make the best of life took care that being +bored, if not cheated, should have a large place in their programme. +Still there are limits, and I close not without fear that I may have +exceeded them.</p> +<h2>The Sanctuary of Montrigone <a name="citation153a"></a><a href="#footnote153a">{153a}</a></h2> +<p>The only place in the Valsesia, except Varallo, where I at present +suspect the presence of Tabachetti <a name="citation153b"></a><a href="#footnote153b">{153b}</a> +is at Montrigone, a little-known sanctuary dedicated to St. Anne, about +three-quarters of a mile south of Borgo-Sesia station. The situation +is, of course, lovely, but the sanctuary does not offer any features +of architectural interest. The sacristan told me it was founded +in 1631; and in 1644 Giovanni d’Enrico, while engaged in superintending +and completing the work undertaken here by himself and Giacomo Ferro, +fell ill and died. I do not know whether or no there was an earlier +sanctuary on the same site, but was told it was built on the demolition +of a stronghold belonging to the Counts of Biandrate.</p> +<p>The incidents which it illustrates are treated with even more than +the homeliness usual in works of this description when not dealing with +such solemn events as the death and passion of Christ. Except +when these subjects were being represented, something of the latitude, +and even humour, allowed in the old mystery plays was permitted, doubtless +from a desire to render the work more attractive to the peasants, who +were the most numerous and most important pilgrims. It is not +until faith begins to be weak that it fears an occasionally lighter +treatment of semi-sacred subjects, and it is impossible to convey an +accurate idea of the spirit prevailing at this hamlet of sanctuary without +attuning oneself somewhat to the more pagan character of the place. +Of irreverence, in the sense of a desire to laugh at things that are +of high and serious import, there is not a trace, but at the same time +there is a certain unbending of the bow at Montrigone which is not perceivable +at Varallo.</p> +<p>The first chapel to the left on entering the church is that of the +Birth of the Virgin. St. Anne is sitting up in bed. She +is not at all ill—in fact, considering that the Virgin has only +been born about five minutes, she is wonderful; still the doctors think +it may be perhaps better that she should keep her room for half an hour +longer, so the bed has been festooned with red and white paper roses, +and the counterpane is covered with bouquets in baskets and in vases +of glass and china. These cannot have been there during the actual +birth of the Virgin, so I suppose they had been in readiness, and were +brought in from an adjoining room as soon as the baby had been born. +A lady on her left is bringing in some more flowers, which St. Anne +is receiving with a smile and most gracious gesture of the hands. +The first thing she asked for, when the birth was over, was for her +three silver hearts. These were immediately brought to her, and +she has got them all on, tied round her neck with a piece of blue silk +ribbon.</p> +<p>Dear mamma has come. We felt sure she would, and that any little +misunderstandings between her and Joachim would ere long be forgotten +and forgiven. They are both so good and sensible, if they would +only understand one another. At any rate, here she is, in high +state at the right hand of the bed. She is dressed in black, for +she has lost her husband some few years previously, but I do not believe +a smarter, sprier old lady for her years could be found in Palestine, +nor yet that either Giovanni d’Enrico or Giacomo Ferro could have +conceived or executed such a character. The sacristan wanted to +have it that she was not a woman at all, but was a portrait of St. Joachim, +the Virgin’s father. “Sembra una donna,” he +pleaded more than once, “ma non è donna.” Surely, +however, in works of art even more than in other things, there is no +“is” but seeming, and if a figure seems female it must be +taken as such. Besides, I asked one of the leading doctors at +Varallo whether the figure was man or woman. He said it was evident +I was not married, for that if I had been I should have seen at once +that she was not only a woman but a mother-in-law of the first magnitude, +or, as he called it, “una suocera tremenda,” and this without +knowing that I wanted her to be a mother-in-law myself. Unfortunately +she had no real drapery, so I could not settle the question as my friend +Mr. H. F. Jones and I had been able to do at Varallo with the figure +of Eve that had been turned into a Roman soldier assisting at the capture +of Christ. I am not, however, disposed to waste more time upon +anything so obvious, and will content myself with saying that we have +here the Virgin’s grandmother. I had never had the pleasure, +so far as I remembered, of meeting this lady before, and was glad to +have an opportunity of making her acquaintance.</p> +<p>Tradition says that it was she who chose the Virgin’s name, +and if so, what a debt of gratitude do we not owe her for her judicious +selection! It makes one shudder to think what might have happened +if she had named the child Keren-Happuch, as poor Job’s daughter +was called. How could we have said, “Ave Keren-Happuch!” +What would the musicians have done? I forget whether Maher-Shalal-Hash-Baz +was a man or a woman, but there were plenty of names quite as unmanageable +at the Virgin’s grandmother’s option, and we cannot sufficiently +thank her for having chosen one that is so euphonious in every language +which we need take into account. For this reason alone we should +not grudge her her portrait, but we should try to draw the line here. +I do not think we ought to give the Virgin’s great-grandmother +a statue. Where is it to end? It is like Mr. Crookes’s +ultimissimate atoms; we used to draw the line at ultimate atoms, and +now it seems we are to go a step farther back and have ultimissimate +atoms. How long, I wonder, will it be before we feel that it will +be a material help to us to have ultimissimissimate atoms? Quavers +stopped at demi-semi-demi, but there is no reason to suppose that either +atoms or ancestresses of the Virgin will be so complacent.</p> +<p>I have said that on St. Anne’s left hand there is a lady who +is bringing in some flowers. St. Anne was always passionately +fond of flowers. There is a pretty story told about her in one +of the Fathers, I forget which, to the effect that when a child she +was asked which she liked best—cakes or flowers? She could +not yet speak plainly and lisped out, “Oh fowses, pretty fowses”; +she added, however, with a sigh and as a kind of wistful corollary, +“but cakes are very nice.” She is not to have any +cakes just now, but as soon as she has done thanking the lady for her +beautiful nosegay, she is to have a couple of nice new-laid eggs, that +are being brought her by another lady. Valsesian women immediately +after their confinement always have eggs beaten up with wine and sugar, +and one can tell a Valsesian Birth of the Virgin from a Venetian or +a Florentine by the presence of the eggs. I learned this from +an eminent Valsesian professor of medicine, who told me that, though +not according to received rules, the eggs never seemed to do any harm. +Here they are evidently to be beaten up, for there is neither spoon +nor egg-cup, and we cannot suppose that they were hard-boiled. +On the other hand, in the Middle Ages Italians never used egg-cups and +spoons for boiled eggs. The medieval boiled egg was always eaten +by dipping bread into the yolk.</p> +<p>Behind the lady who is bringing in the eggs is the under-under-nurse +who is at the fire warming a towel. In the foreground we have +the regulation midwife holding the regulation baby (who, by the way, +was an astonishingly fine child for only five minutes old). Then +comes the under-nurse—a good buxom creature, who, as usual, is +feeling the water in the bath to see that it is of the right temperature. +Next to her is the head-nurse, who is arranging the cradle. Behind +the head-nurse is the under-under-nurse’s drudge, who is just +going out upon some errands. Lastly—for by this time we +have got all round the chapel—we arrive at the Virgin’s +grandmother’s body-guard, a stately, responsible-looking lady, +standing in waiting upon her mistress. I put it to the reader—is +it conceivable that St. Joachim should have been allowed in such a room +at such a time, or that he should have had the courage to avail himself +of the permission, even though it had been extended to him? At +any rate, is it conceivable that he should have been allowed to sit +on St. Anne’s right hand, laying down the law with a “Marry, +come up” here, and a “Marry, go down” there, and a +couple of such unabashed collars as the old lady has put on for the +occasion?</p> +<p>Moreover (for I may as well demolish this mischievous confusion between +St. Joachim and his mother-in-law once and for all), the merest tyro +in hagiology knows that St. Joachim was not at home when the Virgin +was born. He had been hustled out of the temple for having no +children, and had fled desolate and dismayed into the wilderness. +It shows how silly people are, for all the time he was going, if they +had only waited a little, to be the father of the most remarkable person +of purely human origin who had ever been born, and such a parent as +this should surely not be hurried. The story is told in the frescoes +of the chapel of Loreto, only a quarter of an hour’s walk from +Varallo, and no one can have known it better than D’Enrico. +The frescoes are explained by written passages that tell us how, when +Joachim was in the desert, an angel came to him in the guise of a fair, +civil young gentleman, and told him the Virgin was to be born. +Then, later on, the same young gentleman appeared to him again, and +bade him “in God’s name be comforted, and turn again to +his content,” for the Virgin had been actually born. On +which St. Joachim, who seems to have been of opinion that marriage after +all <i>was</i> rather a failure, said that, as things were going on +so nicely without him, he would stay in the desert just a little longer, +and offered up a lamb as a pretext to gain time. Perhaps he guessed +about his mother-in-law, or he may have asked the angel. Of course, +even in spite of such evidence as this, I may be mistaken about the +Virgin’s grandmother’s sex, and the sacristan may be right; +but I can only say that if the lady sitting by St. Anne’s bedside +at Montrigone is the Virgin’s father—well, in that case +I must reconsider a good deal that I have been accustomed to believe +was beyond question.</p> +<p>Taken singly, I suppose that none of the figures in the chapel, except +the Virgin’s grandmother, should be rated very highly. The +under-nurse is the next best figure, and might very well be Tabachetti’s, +for neither Giovanni d’Enrico nor Giacomo Ferro was successful +with his female characters. There is not a single really comfortable +woman in any chapel by either of them on the Sacro Monte at Varallo. +Tabachetti, on the other hand, delighted in women; if they were young +he made them comely and engaging, if they were old he gave them dignity +and individual character, and the under-nurse is much more in accordance +with Tabachetti’s habitual mental attitude than with D’Enrico’s +or Giacomo Ferro’s. Still there are only four figures out +of the eleven that are mere otiose supers, and taking the work as a +whole it leaves a pleasant impression as being throughout naïve +and homely, and sometimes, which is of less importance, technically +excellent.</p> +<p>Allowance must, of course, be made for tawdry accessories and repeated +coats of shiny oleaginous paint—very disagreeable where it has +peeled off and almost more so where it has not. What work could +stand against such treatment as the Valsesian terra-cotta figures have +had to put up with? Take the Venus of Milo; let her be done in +terra-cotta, and have run, not much, but still something, in the baking; +paint her pink, two oils, all over, and then varnish her—it will +help to preserve the paint; glue a lot of horsehair on to her pate, +half of which shall have come off, leaving the glue still showing; scrape +her, not too thoroughly, get the village drawing-master to paint her +again, and the drawing-master in the next provincial town to put a forest +background behind her with the brightest emerald-green leaves that he +can do for the money; let this painting and scraping and repainting +be repeated several times over; festoon her with pink and white flowers +made of tissue paper; surround her with the cheapest German imitations +of the cheapest decorations that Birmingham can produce; let the night +air and winter fogs get at her for three hundred years, and how easy, +I wonder, will it be to see the goddess who will be still in great part +there? True, in the case of the Birth of the Virgin chapel at +Montrigone, there is no real hair and no fresco background, but time +has had abundant opportunities without these. I will conclude +my notice of this chapel by saying that on the left, above the door +through which the under-under-nurse’s drudge is about to pass, +there is a good painted terra-cotta bust, said—but I believe on +no authority—to be a portrait of Giovanni d’Enrico. +Others say that the Virgin’s grandmother is Giovanni d’Enrico, +but this is even more absurd than supposing her to be St. Joachim.</p> +<p>The next chapel to the Birth of the Virgin is that of the <i>Sposalizio</i>. +There is no figure here which suggests Tabachetti, but still there are +some very good ones. The best have no taint of <i>barocco</i>; +the man who did them, whoever he may have been, had evidently a good +deal of life and go, was taking reasonable pains, and did not know too +much. Where this is the case no work can fail to please. +Some of the figures have real hair and some terra-cotta. There +is no fresco background worth mentioning. A man sitting on the +steps of the altar with a book on his lap, and holding up his hand to +another, who is leaning over him and talking to him, is among the best +figures; some of the disappointed suitors who are breaking their wands +are also very good.</p> +<p>The angel in the Annunciation chapel, which comes next in order, +is a fine, burly, ship’s-figurehead, commercial-hotel sort of +being enough, but the Virgin is very ordinary. There is no real +hair and no fresco background, only three dingy old blistered pictures +of no interest whatever.</p> +<p>In the Visit of Mary to Elizabeth there are three pleasing subordinate +lady attendants, two to the left and one to the right of the principal +figures; but these figures themselves are not satisfactory. There +is no fresco background. Some of the figures have real hair and +some terra-cotta.</p> +<p>In the Circumcision and Purification chapel—for both these +events seem contemplated in the one that follows—there are doves, +but there is neither dog nor knife. Still Simeon, who has the +infant Saviour in his arms, is looking at him in a way which can only +mean that, knife or no knife, the matter is not going to end here. +At Varallo they have now got a dreadful knife for the Circumcision chapel. +They had none last winter. What they have now got would do very +well to kill a bullock with, but could not be used professionally with +safety for any animal smaller than a rhinoceros. I imagine that +someone was sent to Novara to buy a knife, and that, thinking it was +for the Massacre of the Innocents chapel, he got the biggest he could +see. Then when he brought it back people said “chow” +several times, and put it upon the table and went away.</p> +<p>Returning to Montrigone, the Simeon is an excellent figure, and the +Virgin is fairly good, but the prophetess Anna, who stands just behind +her, is by far the most interesting in the group, and is alone enough +to make me feel sure that Tabachetti gave more or less help here, as +he had done years before at Orta. She, too, like the Virgin’s +grandmother, is a widow lady, and wears collars of a cut that seems +to have prevailed ever since the Virgin was born some twenty years previously. +There is a largeness and simplicity of treatment about the figure to +which none but an artist of the highest rank can reach, and D’Enrico +was not more than a second or third-rate man. The hood is like +Handel’s Truth sailing upon the broad wings of Time, a prophetic +strain that nothing but the old experience of a great poet can reach. +The lips of the prophetess are for the moment closed, but she has been +prophesying all the morning, and the people round the wall in the background +are in ecstasies at the lucidity with which she has explained all sorts +of difficulties that they had never been able to understand till now. +They are putting their forefingers on their thumbs and their thumbs +on their forefingers, and saying how clearly they see it all and what +a wonderful woman Anna is. A prophet indeed is not generally without +honour save in his own country, but then a country is generally not +without honour save with its own prophet, and Anna has been glorifying +her country rather than reviling it. Besides, the rule may not +have applied to prophetesses.</p> +<p>The Death of the Virgin is the last of the six chapels inside the +church itself. The Apostles, who of course are present, have all +of them real hair, but, if I may say so, they want a wash and a brush-up +so very badly that I cannot feel any confidence in writing about them. +I should say that, take them all round, they are a good average sample +of apostle as apostles generally go. Two or three of them are +nervously anxious to find appropriate quotations in books that lie open +before them, which they are searching with eager haste; but I do not +see one figure about which I should like to say positively that it is +either good or bad. There is a good bust of a man, matching the +one in the Birth of the Virgin chapel, which is said to be a portrait +of Giovanni d’Enrico, but it is not known whom it represents.</p> +<p>Outside the church, in three contiguous cells that form part of the +foundations, are:—</p> +<p>1. A dead Christ, the head of which is very impressive, while +the rest of the figure is poor. I examined the treatment of the +hair, which is terra-cotta, and compared it with all other like hair +in the chapels above described; I could find nothing like it, and think +it most likely that Giacomo Ferro did the figure, and got Tabachetti +to do the head, or that they brought the head from some unused figure +by Tabachetti at Varallo, for I know no other artist of the time and +neighbourhood who could have done it.</p> +<p>2. A Magdalene in the desert. The desert is a little +coal-cellar of an arch, containing a skull and a profusion of pink and +white paper bouquets, the two largest of which the Magdalene is hugging +while she is saying her prayers. She is a very self-sufficient +lady, who we may be sure will not stay in the desert a day longer than +she can help, and while there will flirt even with the skull if she +can find nothing better to flirt with. I cannot think that her +repentance is as yet genuine, and as for her praying there is no object +in her doing so, for she does not want anything.</p> +<p>3. In the next desert there is a very beautiful figure of St. +John the Baptist kneeling and looking upwards. This figure puzzles +me more than any other at Montrigone; it appears to be of the fifteenth +rather than the sixteenth century; it hardly reminds me of Gaudenzio, +and still less of any other Valsesian artist. It is a work of +unusual beauty, but I can form no idea as to its authorship.</p> +<p>I wrote the foregoing pages in the church at Montrigone itself, having +brought my camp-stool with me. It was Sunday; the church was open +all day, but there was no Mass said, and hardly anyone came. The +sacristan was a kind, gentle, little old man, who let me do whatever +I wanted. He sat on the doorstep of the main door, mending vestments, +and to this end was cutting up a fine piece of figured silk from one +to two hundred years old, which, if I could have got it, for half its +value, I should much like to have bought. I sat in the cool of +the church while he sat in the doorway, which was still in shadow, snipping +and snipping, and then sewing, I am sure with admirable neatness. +He made a charming picture, with the arched portico over his head, the +green grass and low church wall behind him, and then a lovely landscape +of wood and pasture and valleys and hillside. Every now and then +he would come and chirrup about Joachim, for he was pained and shocked +at my having said that his Joachim was someone else and not Joachim +at all. I said I was very sorry, but I was afraid the figure was +a woman. He asked me what he was to do. He had known it, +man and boy, this sixty years, and had always shown it as St. Joachim; +he had never heard anyone but myself question his ascription, and could +not suddenly change his mind about it at the bidding of a stranger. +At the same time he felt it was a very serious thing to continue showing +it as the Virgin’s father if it was really her grandmother. +I told him I thought this was a case for his spiritual director, and +that if he felt uncomfortable about it he should consult his parish +priest and do as he was told.</p> +<p>On leaving Montrigone, with a pleasant sense of having made acquaintance +with a new and, in many respects, interesting work, I could not get +the sacristan and our difference of opinion out of my head. What, +I asked myself, are the differences that unhappily divide Christendom, +and what are those that divide Christendom from modern schools of thought, +but a seeing of Joachims as the Virgin’s grandmothers on a larger +scale? True, we cannot call figures Joachim when we know perfectly +well that they are nothing of the kind; but I registered a vow that +henceforward when I called Joachims the Virgin’s grandmothers +I would bear more in mind than I have perhaps always hitherto done, +how hard it is for those who have been taught to see them as Joachims +to think of them as something different. I trust that I have not +been unfaithful to this vow in the preceding article. If the reader +differs from me, let me ask him to remember how hard it is for one who +has got a figure well into his head as the Virgin’s grandmother +to see it as Joachim.</p> +<h2>A Medieval Girl School <a name="citation166"></a><a href="#footnote166">{166}</a></h2> +<p>This last summer I revisited Oropa, near Biella, to see what connection +I could find between the Oropa chapels and those at Varallo. I +will take this opportunity of describing the chapels at Oropa, and more +especially the remarkable fossil, or petrified girl school, commonly +known as the <i>Dimora</i>, or Sojourn of the Virgin Mary in the Temple.</p> +<p>If I do not take these works so seriously as the reader may expect, +let me beg him, before he blames me, to go to Oropa and see the originals +for himself. Have the good people of Oropa themselves taken them +very seriously? Are we in an atmosphere where we need be at much +pains to speak with bated breath? We, as is well known, love to +take even our pleasures sadly; the Italians take even their sadness +<i>allegramente</i>, and combine devotion with amusement in a manner +that we shall do well to study if not imitate. For this best agrees +with what we gather to have been the custom of Christ himself, who, +indeed, never speaks of austerity but to condemn it. If Christianity +is to be a living faith, it must penetrate a man’s whole life, +so that he can no more rid himself of it than he can of his flesh and +bones or of his breathing. The Christianity that can be taken +up and laid down as if it were a watch or a book is Christianity in +name only. The true Christian can no more part from Christ in +mirth than in sorrow. And, after all, what is the essence of Christianity? +What is the kernel of the nut? Surely common sense and cheerfulness, +with unflinching opposition to the charlatanisms and Pharisaisms of +a man’s own times. The essence of Christianity lies neither +in dogma, nor yet in abnormally holy life, but in faith in an unseen +world, in doing one’s duty, in speaking the truth, in finding +the true life rather in others than in oneself, and in the certain hope +that he who loses his life on these behalfs finds more than he has lost. +What can Agnosticism do against such Christianity as this? I should +be shocked if anything I had ever written or shall ever write should +seem to make light of these things. I should be shocked also if +<i>I</i> did not know how to be amused with things that amiable people +obviously intended to be amusing.</p> +<p>The reader may need to be reminded that Oropa is among the somewhat +infrequent sanctuaries at which the Madonna and infant Christ are not +white, but black. I shall return to this peculiarity of Oropa +later on, but will leave it for the present. For the general characteristics +of the place I must refer the reader to my book <i>Alps and Sanctuaries</i>. +I propose to confine myself here to the ten or a dozen chapels containing +life-sized terra-cotta figures, painted up to nature, that form one +of the main features of the place. At a first glance, perhaps, +all these chapels will seem uninteresting; I venture to think, however, +that some, if not most of them, though falling a good deal short of +the best work at Varallo and Crea, are still in their own way of considerable +importance. The first chapel with which we need concern ourselves +is numbered 4, and shows the Conception of the Virgin Mary. It +represents St. Anne as kneeling before a terrific dragon or, as the +Italians call it, “insect,” about the size of a Crystal +Palace pleiosaur. This “insect” is supposed to have +just had its head badly crushed by St. Anne, who seems to be begging +its pardon. The text “Ipsa conteret caput tuum” is +written outside the chapel. The figures have no artistic interest. +As regards dragons being called insects, the reader may perhaps remember +that the island of S. Giulio, in the Lago d’Orta, was infested +with <i>insetti</i>, which S. Giulio destroyed, and which appear, in +a fresco underneath the church on the island, to have been monstrous +and ferocious dragons; but I cannot remember whether their bodies are +divided into three sections, and whether or no they have exactly six +legs—without which, I am told, they cannot be true insects.</p> +<p>The fifth chapel represents the Birth of the Virgin. Having +obtained permission to go inside it, I found the date 1715 cut large +and deep on the back of one figure before baking, and I imagine that +this date covers the whole. There is a Queen Anne feeling throughout +the composition, and if we were told that the sculptor and Francis Bird, +sculptor of the statue in front of St. Paul’s Cathedral, had studied +under the same master, we could very well believe it. The apartment +in which the Virgin was born is spacious, and in striking contrast to +the one in which she herself gave birth to the Redeemer. St. Anne +occupies the centre of the composition, in an enormous bed; on her right +there is a lady of the George Cruikshank style of beauty, and on the +left an older person. Both are gesticulating and impressing upon +St. Anne the enormous obligation she has just conferred upon mankind; +they seem also to be imploring her not to overtax her strength, but, +strange to say, they are giving her neither flowers nor anything to +eat and drink. I know no other birth of the Virgin in which St. +Anne wants so little keeping up.</p> +<p>I have explained in my book <i>Ex Voto</i>, but should perhaps repeat +here, that the distinguishing characteristic of the Birth of the Virgin, +as rendered by Valsesian artists, is that St. Anne always has eggs immediately +after the infant is born, and usually a good deal more, whereas the +Madonna never has anything to eat or drink. The eggs are in accordance +with a custom that still prevails among the peasant classes in the Valsesia, +where women on giving birth to a child generally are given a <i>sabaglione</i>—an +egg beaten up with a little wine, or rum, and sugar. East of Milan +the Virgin’s mother does not have eggs, and I suppose, from the +absence of the eggs at Oropa, that the custom above referred to does +not prevail in the Biellese district. The Virgin also is invariably +washed. St. John the Baptist, when he is born at all, which is +not very often, is also washed; but I have not observed that St. Elizabeth +has anything like the attention paid her that is given to St. Anne. +What, however, is wanting here at Oropa in meat and drink is made up +in Cupids; they swarm like flies on the walls, clouds, cornices, and +capitals of columns.</p> +<p>Against the right-hand wall are two lady-helps, each warming a towel +at a glowing fire, to be ready against the baby should come out of its +bath; while in the right-hand foreground we have the <i>levatrice</i>, +who having discharged her task, and being now so disposed, has removed +the bottle from the chimney-piece, and put it near some bread, fruit +and a chicken, over which she is about to discuss the confinement with +two other gossips. The <i>levatrice</i> is a very characteristic +figure, but the best in the chapel is the one of the head-nurse, near +the middle of the composition; she has now the infant in full charge, +and is showing it to St. Joachim, with an expression as though she were +telling him that her husband was a merry man. I am afraid Shakespeare +was dead before the sculptor was born, otherwise I should have felt +certain that he had drawn Juliet’s nurse from this figure. +As for the little Virgin herself, I believe her to be a fine boy of +about ten months old. Viewing the work as a whole, if I only felt +more sure what artistic merit really is, I should say that, though the +chapel cannot be rated very highly from some standpoints, there are +others from which it may be praised warmly enough. It is innocent +of anatomy-worship, free from affectation or swagger, and not devoid +of a good deal of homely <i>naïveté</i>. It can no +more be compared with Tabachetti or Donatello than Hogarth can with +Rembrandt or Giovanni Bellini; but as it does not transcend the limitations +of its age, so neither is it wanting in whatever merits that age possessed; +and there is no age without merits of some kind. There is no inscription +saying who made the figures, but tradition gives them to Pietro Aureggio +Termine, of Biella, commonly called Aureggio. This is confirmed +by their strong resemblance to those in the <i>Dimora</i> Chapel, in +which there is an inscription that names Aureggio as the sculptor.</p> +<p>The sixth chapel deals with the Presentation of the Virgin in the +Temple. The Virgin is very small, but it must be remembered that +she is only seven years old and she is not nearly so small as she is +at Crea, where though a life-sized figure is intended, the head is hardly +bigger than an apple. She is rushing up the steps with open arms +towards the High Priest, who is standing at the top. For her it +is nothing alarming; it is the High Priest who appears frightened; but +it will all come right in time. The Virgin seems to be saying, +“Why, don’t you know me? I’m the Virgin Mary.” +But the High Priest does not feel so sure about that, and will make +further inquiries. The scene, which comprises some twenty figures, +is animated enough, and though it hardly kindles enthusiasm, still does +not fail to please. It looks as though of somewhat older date +than the Birth of the Virgin chapel, and I should say shows more signs +of direct Valsesian influence. In Marocco’s book about Oropa +it is ascribed to Aureggio, but I find it difficult to accept this.</p> +<p>The seventh, and in many respects most interesting chapel at Oropa, +shows what is in reality a medieval Italian girl school, as nearly like +the thing itself as the artist could make it; we are expected, however, +to see in this the high-class kind of Girton College for young gentlewomen +that was attached to the Temple at Jerusalem, under the direction of +the Chief Priest’s wife, or some one of his near female relatives. +Here all well-to-do Jewish young women completed their education, and +here accordingly we find the Virgin, whose parents desired she should +shine in every accomplishment, and enjoy all the advantages their ample +means commanded.</p> +<p>I have met with no traces of the Virgin during the years between +her Presentation in the Temple and her becoming head girl at Temple +College. These years, we may be assured, can hardly have been +other than eventful; but incidents, or bits of life, are like living +forms—it is only here and there, as by rare chance, that one of +them gets arrested and fossilized; the greater number disappear like +the greater number of antediluvian molluscs, and no one can say why +one of these flies, as it were, of life should get preserved in amber +more than another. Talk, indeed, about luck and cunning; what +a grain of sand as against a hundredweight is cunning’s share +here as against luck’s. What moment could be more humdrum +and unworthy of special record than the one chosen by the artist for +the chapel we are considering? Why should this one get arrested +in its flight and made immortal when so many worthier ones have perished? +Yet preserved it assuredly is; it is as though some fairy’s wand +had struck the medieval Miss Pinkerton, Amelia Sedley, and others who +do duty instead of the Hebrew originals. It has locked them up +as sleeping beauties, whose charms all may look upon. Surely the +hours are like the women grinding at the mill—the one is taken +and the other left, and none can give the reason more than he can say +why Gallio should have won immortality by caring for none of “these +things.”</p> +<p>It seems to me, moreover, that fairies have changed their practice +now in the matter of sleeping beauties, much as shopkeepers have done +in Regent Street. Formerly the shopkeeper used to shut up his +goods behind strong shutters, so that no one might see them after closing +hours. Now he leaves everything open to the eye and turns the +gas on. So the fairies, who used to lock up their sleeping beauties +in impenetrable thickets, now leave them in the most public places they +can find, as knowing that they will there most certainly escape notice. +Look at De Hooghe; look at <i>The Pilgrim’s Progress</i>, or even +Shakespeare himself—how long they slept unawakened, though they +were in broad daylight and on the public thoroughfares all the time. +Look at Tabachetti, and the masterpieces he left at Varallo. His +figures there are exposed to the gaze of every passer-by; yet who heeds +them? Who, save a very few, even know of their existence? +Look again at Gaudenzio Ferrari, or the “Danse des Paysans,” +by Holbein, to which I ventured to call attention in the <i>Universal +Review</i>. No, no; if a thing be in Central Africa, it is the +glory of this age to find it out; so the fairies think it safer to conceal +their <i>protégés</i> under a show of openness; for the +schoolmaster is much abroad, and there is no hedge so thick or so thorny +as the dulness of culture.</p> +<p>It may be, again, that ever so many years hence, when Mr. Darwin’s +earth-worms shall have buried Oropa hundreds of feet deep, someone sinking +a well or making a railway-cutting will unearth these chapels, and will +believe them to have been houses, and to contain the <i>exuviæ</i> +of the living forms that tenanted them. In the meantime, however, +let us return to a consideration of the chapel as it may now be seen +by anyone who cares to pass that way.</p> +<p>The work consists of about forty figures in all, not counting Cupids, +and is divided into four main divisions. First, there is the large +public sitting-room or drawing-room of the College, where the elder +young ladies are engaged in various elegant employments. Three, +at a table to the left, are making a mitre for the Bishop, as may be +seen from the model on the table. Some are merely spinning or +about to spin. One young lady, sitting rather apart from the others, +is doing an elaborate piece of needlework at a tambour-frame near the +window; others are making lace or slippers, probably for the new curate; +another is struggling with a letter, or perhaps a theme, which seems +to be giving her a good deal of trouble, but which, when done, will, +I am sure, be beautiful. One dear little girl is simply reading +<i>Paul and Virginia</i> underneath the window, and is so concealed +that I hardly think she can be seen from the outside at all, though +from inside she is delightful; it was with great regret that I could +not get her into any photograph. One most amiable young woman +has got a child’s head on her lap, the child having played itself +to sleep. All are industriously and agreeably employed in some +way or other; all are plump; all are nice-looking; there is not one +Becky Sharp in the whole school; on the contrary, as in “Pious +Orgies,” all is pious—or sub-pious—and all, if not +great, is at least eminently respectable. One feels that St. Joachim +and St. Anne could not have chosen a school more judiciously, and that +if one had a daughter oneself this is exactly where one would wish to +place her. If there is a fault of any kind in the arrangements, +it is that they do not keep cats enough. The place is overrun +with mice, though what these can find to eat I know not. It occurs +to me also that the young ladies might be kept a little more free of +spiders’ webs; but in all these chapels, bats, mice, and spiders +are troublesome.</p> +<p>Off the main drawing-room on the side facing the window there is +a daïs, which is approached by a large raised semicircular step, +higher than the rest of the floor, but lower than the daïs itself. +The daïs is, of course, reserved for the venerable Lady Principal +and the under-mistresses, one of whom, by the way, is a little more +<i>mondaine</i> than might have been expected, and is admiring herself +in a looking-glass—unless, indeed, she is only looking to see +if there is a spot of ink on her face. The Lady Principal is seated +near a table, on which lie some books in expensive bindings, which I +imagine to have been presented to her by the parents of pupils who were +leaving school. One has given her a photographic album; another +a large scrapbook, for illustrations of all kinds; a third volume has +red edges, and is presumably of a devotional character. If I dared +venture another criticism, I should say it would be better not to keep +the ink-pot on the top of these books. The Lady Principal is being +read to by the monitress for the week, whose duty it was to recite selected +passages from the most approved Hebrew writers; she appears to be a +good deal outraged, possibly at the faulty intonation of the reader, +which she has long tried vainly to correct; or perhaps she has been +hearing of the atrocious way in which her forefathers had treated the +prophets, and is explaining to the young ladies how impossible it would +be, in their own more enlightened age, for a prophet to fail of recognition.</p> +<p>On the half-daïs, as I suppose the large semicircular step between +the main room and the daïs should be called, we find, first, the +monitress for the week, who stands up while she recites; and secondly, +the Virgin herself, who is the only pupil allowed a seat so near to +the august presence of the Lady Principal. She is ostensibly doing +a piece of embroidery which is stretched on a cushion on her lap, but +I should say that she was chiefly interested in the nearest of four +pretty little Cupids, who are all trying to attract her attention, though +they pay no court to any other young lady. I have sometimes wondered +whether the obviously scandalized gesture of the Lady Principal might +not be directed at these Cupids, rather than at anything the monitress +may have been reading, for she would surely find them disquieting. +Or she may be saying, “Why, bless me! I do declare the Virgin +has got another hamper, and St. Anne’s cakes are always so terribly +rich!” Certainly the hamper is there, close to the Virgin, +and the Lady Principal’s action may be well directed at it, but +it may have been sent to some other young lady, and be put on the sub-daïs +for public exhibition. It looks as if it might have come from +Fortnum and Mason’s, and I half expected to find a label, addressing +it to “The Virgin Mary, Temple College, Jerusalem,” but +if ever there was one the mice have long since eaten it. The Virgin +herself does not seem to care much about it, but if she has a fault +it is that she is generally a little apathetic.</p> +<p>Whose the hamper was, however, is a point we shall never now certainly +determine, for the best fossil is worse than the worst living form. +Why, alas! was not Mr. Edison alive when this chapel was made? +We might then have had a daily phonographic recital of the conversation, +and an announcement might be put outside the chapels, telling us at +what hours the figures would speak.</p> +<p>On either side of the main room there are two annexes opening out +from it; these are reserved chiefly for the younger children, some of +whom, I think, are little boys. In the left annex, behind the +ladies who are making a mitre, there is a child who has got a cake, +and another has some fruit—possibly given them by the Virgin—and +a third child is begging for some of it. The light failed so completely +here that I was not able to photograph any of these figures. It +was a dull September afternoon, and the clouds had settled thick round +the chapel, which is never very light, and is nearly 4000 feet above +the sea. I waited till such twilight as made it hopeless that +more detail could be got—and a queer ghostly place enough it was +to wait in—but after giving the plate an exposure of fifty minutes, +I saw I could get no more, and desisted.</p> +<p>These long photographic exposures have the advantage that one is +compelled to study a work in detail through mere lack of other employment, +and that one can take one’s notes in peace without being tempted +to hurry over them; but even so I continually find I have omitted to +note, and have clean forgotten, much that I want later on.</p> +<p>In the other annex there are also one or two younger children, but +it seems to have been set apart for conversation and relaxation more +than any other part of the establishment.</p> +<p>I have already said that the work is signed by an inscription inside +the chapel, to the effect that the sculptures are by Pietro Aureggio +Termine di Biella. It will be seen that the young ladies are exceedingly +like one another, and that the artist aimed at nothing more than a faithful +rendering of the life of his own times. Let us be thankful that +he aimed at nothing less. Perhaps his wife kept a girls’ +school; or he may have had a large family of fat, good-natured daughters, +whose little ways he had studied attentively; at all events the work +is full of spontaneous incident, and cannot fail to become more and +more interesting as the age it renders falls farther back into the past. +It is to be regretted that many artists, better-known men, have not +been satisfied with the humbler ambitions of this most amiable and interesting +sculptor. If he has left us no laboured life-studies, he has at +least done something for us which we can find nowhere else, which we +should be very sorry not to have, and the fidelity of which to Italian +life at the beginning of the eighteenth century will not be disputed.</p> +<p>The eighth chapel is that of the <i>Sposalizio</i>, is certainly +not by Aureggio, and I should say was mainly by the same sculptor who +did the Presentation in the Temple. On going inside I found the +figures had come from more than one source; some of them are constructed +so absolutely on Valsesian principles, as regards technique, that it +may be assumed they came from Varallo. Each of these last figures +is in three pieces, that are baked separately and cemented together +afterwards, hence they are more easily transported; no more clay is +used than is absolutely necessary; and the off-side of the figure is +neglected; they will be found chiefly, if not entirely, at the top of +the steps. The other figures are more solidly built, and do not +remind me in their business features of anything in the Valsesia. +There was a sculptor, Francesco Sala, of Locarno (doubtless the village +a short distance below Varallo, and not the Locarno on the Lago Maggiore), +who made designs for some of the Oropa chapels, and some of whose letters +are still preserved, but whether the Valsesian figures in this present +work are by him or not I cannot say.</p> +<p>The statues are twenty-five in number; I could find no date or signature; +the work reminds me of Montrigone; several of the figures are not at +all bad, and several have horsehair for hair, as at Varallo. The +effect of the whole composition is better than we have a right to expect +from any sculpture dating from the beginning of the eighteenth century.</p> +<p>The ninth chapel, the Annunciation, presents no feature of interest; +nor yet does the tenth, the Visit of Mary to Elizabeth. The eleventh, +the Nativity, though rather better, is still not remarkable.</p> +<p>The twelfth, the Purification, is absurdly bad, but I do not know +whether the expression of strong personal dislike to the Virgin which +the High Priest wears is intended as prophetic, or whether it is the +result of incompetence, or whether it is merely a smile gone wrong in +the baking. It is amusing to find Marocco, who has not been strict +about archæological accuracy hitherto, complain here that there +is an anachronism, inasmuch as some young ecclesiastics are dressed +as they would be at present, and one of them actually carries a wax +candle. This is not as it should be; in works like those at Oropa, +where implicit reliance is justly placed on the earnest endeavours that +have been so successfully made to thoroughly and carefully and patiently +ensure the accuracy of the minutest details, it is a pity that even +a single error should have escaped detection; this, however, has most +unfortunately happened here, and Marocco feels it his duty to put us +on our guard. He explains that the mistake arose from the sculptor’s +having taken both his general arrangement and his details from some +picture of the fourteenth or fifteenth century, when the value of the +strictest historical accuracy was not yet so fully understood.</p> +<p>It seems to me that in the matter of accuracy, priests and men of +science whether lay or regular on the one hand, and plain people whether +lay or regular on the other, are trying to play a different game, and +fail to understand one another because they do not see that their objects +are not the same. The cleric and the man of science (who is only +the cleric in his latest development) are trying to develop a throat +with two distinct passages—one that shall refuse to pass even +the smallest gnat, and another that shall gracefully gulp even the largest +camel; whereas we men of the street desire but one throat, and are content +that this shall swallow nothing bigger than a pony. Everyone knows +that there is no such effectual means of developing the power to swallow +camels as incessant watchfulness for opportunities of straining at gnats, +and this should explain many passages that puzzle us in the work both +of our clerics and our scientists. I, not being a man of science, +still continue to do what I said I did in <i>Alps and Sanctuaries</i>, +and make it a rule to earnestly and patiently and carefully swallow +a few of the smallest gnats I can find several times a day, as the best +astringent for the throat I know of.</p> +<p>The thirteenth chapel is the Marriage Feast at Cana of Galilee. +This is the best chapel as a work of art; indeed, it is the only one +which can claim to be taken quite seriously. Not that all the +figures are very good; those to the left of the composition are commonplace +enough; nor are the Christ and the giver of the feast at all remarkable; +but the ten or dozen figures of guests and attendants at the right-hand +end of the work are as good as anything of their kind can be, and remind +me so strongly of Tabachetti that I cannot doubt they were done by someone +who was indirectly influenced by that great sculptor’s work. +It is not likely that Tabachetti was alive long after 1640, by which +time he would have been about eighty years old; and the foundations +of this chapel were not laid till about 1690; the statues are probably +a few years later; they can hardly, therefore, be by one who had even +studied under Tabachetti; but until I found out the dates, and went +inside the chapel to see the way in which the figures had been constructed, +I was inclined to think they might be by Tabachetti himself, of whom, +indeed, they are not unworthy. On examining the figures I found +them more heavily constructed than Tabachetti’s are, with smaller +holes for taking out superfluous clay, and more finished on the off-sides. +Marocco says the sculptor is not known. I looked in vain for any +date or signature. Possibly the right-hand figures (for the left-hand +ones can hardly be by the same hand) may be by some sculptor from Crea, +which is at no very great distance from Oropa, who was penetrated by +Tabachetti’s influence; but whether as regards action and concert +with one another, or as regards excellence in detail, I do not see how +anything can be more realistic, and yet more harmoniously composed. +The placing of the musicians in a minstrels’ gallery helps the +effect; these musicians are six in number, and the other figures are +twenty-three. Under the table, between Christ and the giver of +the feast, there is a cat.</p> +<p>The fourteenth chapel, the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, is without +interest.</p> +<p>The fifteenth, the Coronation of the Virgin, contains forty-six angels, +twenty-six cherubs, fifty-six saints, the Holy Trinity, the Madonna +herself, and twenty-four innocents, making 156 statues in all. +Of these I am afraid there is not one of more than ordinary merit; the +most interesting is a half-length nude life-study of Disma—the +good thief. After what had been promised him it was impossible +to exclude him, but it was felt that a half-length nude figure would +be as much as he could reasonably expect.</p> +<p>Behind the sanctuary there is a semi-ruinous and wholly valueless +work, which shows the finding of the black image, which is now in the +church, but is only shown on great festivals.</p> +<p>This leads us to a consideration that I have delayed till now. +The black image is the central feature of Oropa; it is the <i>raison +d’être</i> of the whole place, and all else is a mere incrustation, +so to speak, around it. According to this image, then, which was +carved by St. Luke himself, and than which nothing can be better authenticated, +both the Madonna and the infant Christ were as black as anything can +be conceived. It is not likely that they were as black as they +have been painted; no one yet ever was so black as that; yet, even allowing +for some exaggeration on St. Luke’s part, they must have been +exceedingly black if the portrait is to be accepted; and uncompromisingly +black they accordingly are on most of the wayside chapels for many a +mile around Oropa. Yet in the chapels we have been hitherto considering—works +in which, as we know, the most punctilious regard has been shown to +accuracy—both the Virgin and Christ are uncompromisingly white. +As in the shops under the Colonnade where devotional knick-knacks are +sold, you can buy a black china image or a white one, whichever you +like; so with the pictures—the black and white are placed side +by side—<i>pagando il danaro si può scegliere</i>. +It rests not with history or with the Church to say whether the Madonna +and Child were black or white, but you may settle it for yourself, whichever +way you please, or rather you are required, with the acquiescence of +the Church, to hold that they were both black and white at one and the +same time.</p> +<p>It cannot be maintained that the Church leaves the matter undecided, +and by tolerating both types proclaims the question an open one, for +she acquiesces in the portrait by St. Luke as genuine. How, then, +justify the whiteness of the Holy Family in the chapels? If the +portrait is not known as genuine, why set such a stumbling-block in +our paths as to show us a black Madonna and a white one, both as historically +accurate, within a few yards of one another?</p> +<p>I ask this not in mockery, but as knowing that the Church must have +an explanation to give, if she would only give it, and as myself unable +to find any, even the most far-fetched, that can bring what we see at +Oropa, Loreto and elsewhere into harmony with modern conscience, either +intellectual or ethical.</p> +<p>I see, indeed, from an interesting article in the <i>Atlantic Monthly</i> +for September, 1889, entitled “The Black Madonna of Loreto,” +that black Madonnas were so frequent in ancient Christian art that “some +of the early writers of the Church felt obliged to account for it by +explaining that the Virgin was of a very dark complexion, as might be +proved by the verse of Canticles which says, ‘I am black, but +comely, O ye daughters of Jerusalem.’ Others maintained +that she became black during her sojourn in Egypt. . . . Priests, +of to-day, say that extreme age and exposure to the smoke of countless +altar-candles have caused that change in complexion which the more naïve +fathers of the Church attributed to the power of an Egyptian sun”; +but the writer ruthlessly disposes of this supposition by pointing out +that in nearly all the instances of black Madonnas it is the flesh alone +that is entirely black, the crimson of the lips, the white of the eyes, +and the draperies having preserved their original colour. The +authoress of the article (Mrs. Hilliard) goes on to tell us that Pausanias +mentions two statues of the black Venus, and says that the oldest statue +of Ceres among the Phigalenses was black. She adds that Minerva +Aglaurus, the daughter of Cecrops, at Athens, was black; that Corinth +had a black Venus, as also the Thespians; that the oracles of Dodona +and Delphi were founded by black doves, the emissaries of Venus, and +that the Isis Multimammia in the Capitol at Rome is black.</p> +<p>Sometimes I have asked myself whether the Church does not intend +to suggest that the whole story falls outside the domain of history, +and is to be held as the one great epos, or myth, common to all mankind; +adaptable by each nation according to its own several needs; translatable, +so to speak, into the facts of each individual nation, as the written +word is translatable into its language, but appertaining to the realm +of the imagination rather than to that of the understanding, and precious +for spiritual rather than literal truths. More briefly, I have +wondered whether she may not intend that such details as whether the +Virgin was white or black are of very little importance in comparison +with the basing of ethics on a story that shall appeal to black races +as well as to white ones.</p> +<p>If so, it is time we were made to understand this more clearly. +If the Church, whether of Rome or England, would lean to some such view +as this—tainted though it be with mysticism—if we could +see either great branch of the Church make a frank, authoritative attempt +to bring its teaching into greater harmony with the educated understanding +and conscience of the time, instead of trying to fetter that understanding +with bonds that gall it daily more and more profoundly; then I, for +one, in view of the difficulty and graciousness of the task, and in +view of the great importance of historical continuity, would gladly +sink much of my own private opinion as to the value of the Christian +ideal, and would gratefully help either Church or both, according to +the best of my very feeble ability. On these terms, indeed, I +could swallow not a few camels myself cheerfully enough.</p> +<p>Can we, however, see any signs as though either Rome or England will +stir hand or foot to meet us? Can any step be pointed to as though +either Church wished to make things easier for men holding the opinions +held by the late Mr. Darwin, or by Mr. Herbert Spencer and Professor +Huxley? How can those who accept evolution with any thoroughness +accept such doctrines as the Incarnation or the Redemption with any +but a quasi-allegorical and poetical interpretation? Can we conceivably +accept these doctrines in the literal sense in which the Church advances +them? And can the leaders of the Church be blind to the resistlessness +of the current that has set against those literal interpretations which +she seems to hug more and more closely the more religious life is awakened +at all? The clergyman is wanted as supplementing the doctor and +the lawyer in all civilized communities; these three keep watch on one +another, and prevent one another from becoming too powerful. I, +who distrust the <i>doctrinaire</i> in science even more than the <i>doctrinaire</i> +in religion, should view with dismay the abolition of the Church of +England, as knowing that a blatant bastard science would instantly step +into her shoes; but if some such deplorable consummation is to be avoided +in England, it can only be through more evident leaning on the part +of our clergy to such an interpretation of the Sacred History as the +presence of a black and white Madonna almost side by side at Oropa appears +to suggest.</p> +<p>I fear that in these last paragraphs I may have trenched on dangerous +ground, but it is not possible to go to such places as Oropa without +asking oneself what they mean and involve. As for the average +Italian pilgrims, they do not appear to give the matter so much as a +thought. They love Oropa, and flock to it in thousands during +the summer; the President of the Administration assured me that they +lodged, after a fashion, as many as ten thousand pilgrims on the 15th +of last August. It is astonishing how living the statues are to +these people, and how the wicked are upbraided and the good applauded. +At Varallo, since I took the photographs I published in my book <i>Ex +Voto</i>, an angry pilgrim has smashed the nose of the dwarf in Tabachetti’s +Journey to Calvary, for no other reason than inability to restrain his +indignation against one who was helping to inflict pain on Christ. +It is the real hair and the painting up to nature that does this. +Here at Oropa I found a paper on the floor of the <i>Sposalizio</i> +Chapel, which ran as follows:—</p> +<p>“By the grace of God and the will of the administrative chapter +of this sanctuary, there have come here to work --- ---, mason, --- +---, carpenter, and --- ---, plumber, all of Chiavazza, on the twenty-first +day of January, 1886, full of cold (<i>pieni di freddo</i>).</p> +<p>“They write these two lines to record their visit. They +pray the Blessed Virgin that she will maintain them safe and sound from +everything equivocal that may befall them (<i>sempre sani e salvi da +ogni equivoco li possa accadere</i>). Oh, farewell! We reverently +salute all the present statues, and especially the Blessed Virgin, and +the reader.”</p> +<p>Through the <i>Universal Review</i>, I suppose, all its readers are +to consider themselves saluted; at any rate, these good fellows, in +the effusiveness of their hearts, actually wrote the above in pencil. +I was sorely tempted to steal it, but, after copying it, left it in +the Chief Priest’s hands instead.</p> +<h2>Art in the Valley of Saas <a name="citation188"></a><a href="#footnote188">{188}</a></h2> +<p>Having been told by Mr. Fortescue, of the British Museum, that there +were some chapels at Saas-Fée which bore analogy to those at +Varallo, described in my book <i>Ex Voto</i>, I went to Saas during +this last summer, and venture now to lay my conclusions before the reader.</p> +<p>The chapels are fifteen in number, and lead up to a larger and singularly +graceful one, rather more than half-way between Saas and Saas-Fée. +This is commonly but wrongly called the chapel of St. Joseph, for it +is dedicated to the Virgin, and its situation is of such extreme beauty—the +great Fée glaciers showing through the open portico—that +it is in itself worth a pilgrimage. It is surrounded by noble +larches and overhung by rock; in front of the portico there is a small +open space covered with grass, and a huge larch, the stem of which is +girt by a rude stone seat. The portico itself contains seats for +worshippers, and a pulpit from which the preacher’s voice can +reach the many who must stand outside. The walls of the inner +chapel are hung with votive pictures, some of them very quaint and pleasing, +and not overweighted by those qualities that are usually dubbed by the +name of artistic merit. Innumerable wooden and waxen representations +of arms, legs, eyes, ears and babies tell of the cures that have been +effected during two centuries of devotion, and can hardly fail to awaken +a kindly sympathy with the long dead and forgotten folks who placed +them where they are.</p> +<p>The main interest, however, despite the extreme loveliness of the +St. Mary’s Chapel, centres rather in the small and outwardly unimportant +oratories (if they should be so called) that lead up to it. These +begin immediately with the ascent from the level ground on which the +village of Saas-im-Grund is placed, and contain scenes in the history +of the Redemption, represented by rude but spirited wooden figures, +each about two feet high, painted, gilt, and rendered as life-like in +all respects as circumstances would permit. The figures have suffered +a good deal from neglect, and are still not a little misplaced. +With the assistance, however, of the Rev. E. J. Selwyn, English Chaplain +at Saas-im-Grund, I have been able to replace many of them in their +original positions, as indicated by the parts of the figures that are +left rough-hewn and unpainted. They vary a good deal in interest, +and can be easily sneered at by those who make a trade of sneering. +Those, on the other hand, who remain unsophisticated by overmuch art-culture +will find them full of character in spite of not a little rudeness of +execution, and will be surprised at coming across such works in a place +so remote from any art-centre as Saas must have been at the time these +chapels were made. It will be my business therefore to throw what +light I can upon the questions how they came to be made at all, and +who was the artist who designed them.</p> +<p>The only documentary evidence consists in a chronicle of the valley +of Saas written in the early years of this century by the Rev. Peter +Jos. Ruppen, and published at Sion in 1851. This work makes frequent +reference to a manuscript by the Rev. Peter Joseph Clemens Lommatter, +<i>curé</i> of Saas-Fée from 1738 to 1751, which has unfortunately +been lost, so that we have no means of knowing how closely it was adhered +to. The Rev. Jos. Ant. Ruppen, the present excellent +<i>curé</i> of Saas-im-Grund, assures me that there is no reference +to the Saas-Fée oratories in the “Actes de l’Eglise” +at Saas, which I understand go a long way back; but I have not seen +these myself. Practically, then, we have no more documentary evidence +than is to be found in the published chronicle above referred to.</p> +<p>We there find it stated that the large chapel, commonly, but as above +explained, wrongly called St. Joseph’s, was built in 1687, and +enlarged by subscription in 1747. These dates appear on the building +itself, and are no doubt accurate. The writer adds that there +was no actual edifice on this site before the one now existing was built, +but there was a miraculous picture of the Virgin placed in a mural niche, +before which the pious herdsmen and devout inhabitants of the valley +worshipped under the vault of heaven. <a name="citation190"></a><a href="#footnote190">{190}</a> +A miraculous (or miracle-working) picture was always more or less rare +and important; the present site, therefore, seems to have been long +one of peculiar sanctity. Possibly the name Fée may point +to still earlier pagan mysteries on the same site.</p> +<p>As regards the fifteen small chapels, the writer says they illustrate +the fifteen mysteries of the Psalter, and were built in 1709, each householder +of the Saas-Fée contributing one chapel. He adds that Heinrich +Andenmatten, afterwards a brother of the Society of Jesus, was an especial +benefactor or promoter of the undertaking. One of the chapels, +the Ascension (No. 12 of the series), has the date 1709 painted on it; +but there is no date on any other chapel, and there seems no reason +why this should be taken as governing the whole series.</p> +<p>Over and above this, there exists in Saas a tradition, as I was told +immediately on my arrival, by an English visitor, that the chapels were +built in consequence of a flood, but I have vainly endeavoured to trace +this story to an indigenous source.</p> +<p>The internal evidence of the wooden figures themselves—nothing +analogous to which, it should be remembered, can be found in the chapel +of 1687—points to a much earlier date. I have met with no +school of sculpture belonging to the early part of the eighteenth century +to which they can be plausibly assigned; and the supposition that they +are the work of some unknown local genius who was not led up to and +left no successors may be dismissed, for the work is too scholarly to +have come from anyone but a trained sculptor. I refer of course +to those figures which the artist must be supposed to have executed +with his own hand, as, for example, the central figure of the Crucifixion +group and those of the Magdalene and St. John. The greater number +of the figures were probably, as was suggested to me by Mr. Ranshaw, +of Lowth, executed by a local wood-carver from models in clay and wax +furnished by the artist himself. Those who examine the play of +line in the hair, mantle, and sleeve of the Magdalene in the Crucifixion +group, and contrast it with the greater part of the remaining draperies, +will find little hesitation in concluding that this was the case, and +will ere long readily distinguish the two hands from which the figures +have mainly come. I say “mainly,” because there is +at least one other sculptor who may well have belonged to the year 1709, +but who fortunately has left us little. Examples of his work may +perhaps be seen in the nearest villain with a big hat in the Flagellation +chapel, and in two cherubs in the Assumption of the Virgin.</p> +<p>We may say, then, with some certainty, that the designer was a cultivated +and practised artist. We may also not less certainly conclude +that he was of Flemish origin, for the horses in the Journey to Calvary +and Crucifixion chapels, where alone there are any horses at all, are +of Flemish breed, with no trace of the Arab blood adopted by Gaudenzio +at Varallo. The character, moreover, of the villains is Northern—of +the Quentin Matsys, Martin Schongauer type, rather than Italian; the +same sub-Rubensesque feeling which is apparent in more than one chapel +at Varallo is not less evident here—especially in the Journey +to Calvary and Crucifixion chapels. There can hardly, therefore, +be a doubt that the artist was a Fleming who had worked for several +years in Italy.</p> +<p>It is also evident that he had Tabachetti’s work at Varallo +well in his mind. For not only does he adopt certain details of +costume (I refer particularly to the treatment of soldiers’ tunics) +which are peculiar to Tabachetti at Varallo, but whenever he treats +a subject which Tabachetti had treated at Varallo, as in the Flagellation, +Crowning with Thorns, and Journey to Calvary chapels, the work at Saas +is evidently nothing but a somewhat modified abridgment of that at Varallo. +When, however, as in the Annunciation, the Nativity, the Crucifixion, +and other chapels, the work at Varallo is by another than Tabachetti, +no allusion is made to it. The Saas artist has Tabachetti’s +Varallo work at his finger-ends, but betrays no acquaintance whatever +with Gaudenzio Ferrari, Gio. Ant. Paracca, or Giovanni d’Enrico.</p> +<p>Even, moreover, when Tabachetti’s work at Varallo is being +most obviously drawn from, as in the Journey to Calvary chapel, the +Saas version differs materially from that at Varallo, and is in some +respects an improvement on it. The idea of showing other horsemen +and followers coming up from behind, whose heads can be seen over the +crown of the interposing hill, is singularly effective as suggesting +a number of others that are unseen, nor can I conceive that anyone but +the original designer would follow Tabachetti’s Varallo design +with as much closeness as it has been followed here, and yet make such +a brilliantly successful modification. The stumbling, again, of +one horse (a detail almost hidden, according to Tabachetti’s wont) +is a touch which Tabachetti himself might add, but which no Saas wood-carver +who was merely adapting from a reminiscence of Tabachetti’s Varallo +chapel would be likely to introduce. These considerations have +convinced me that the designer of the chapels at Saas is none other +than Tabachetti himself, who, as has been now conclusively shown, was +a native of Dinant, in Belgium.</p> +<p>The Saas chronicler, indeed, avers that the chapels were not built +till 1709—a statement apparently corroborated by a date now visible +on one chapel; but we must remember that the chronicler did not write +until a century or so later than 1709, and though indeed, his statement +may have been taken from the lost earlier manuscript of 1738, we know +nothing about this either one way or the other. The writer may +have gone by the still existing 1709 on the Ascension chapel, whereas +this date may in fact have referred to a restoration, and not to an +original construction. There is nothing, as I have said, in the +choice of the chapel on which the date appears, to suggest that it was +intended to govern the others. I have explained that the work +is isolated and exotic. It is by one in whom Flemish and Italian +influences are alike equally predominant; by one who was saturated with +Tabachetti’s Varallo work, and who can improve upon it, but over +whom the other Varallo sculptors have no power. The style of the +work is of the sixteenth and not of the eighteenth century—with +a few obvious exceptions that suit the year 1709 exceedingly well. +Against such considerations as these, a statement made at the beginning +of this century referring to a century earlier and a promiscuous date +upon one chapel, can carry but little weight. I shall assume, +therefore, henceforward, that we have here groups designed in a plastic +material by Tabachetti, and reproduced in wood by the best local wood-sculptor +available, with the exception of a few figures cut by the artist himself.</p> +<p>We ask, then, at what period in his life did Tabachetti design these +chapels, and what led to his coming to such an out-of-the-way place +as Saas at all? We should remember that, according both to Fassola +and Torrotti (writing in 1671 and 1686 respectively), Tabachetti <a name="citation195"></a><a href="#footnote195">{195}</a> +became insane about the year 1586 or early in 1587, after having just +begun the Salutation chapel. I have explained in <i>Ex Voto</i> +that I do not believe this story. I have no doubt that Tabachetti +was declared to be mad, but I believe this to have been due to an intrigue, +set on foot in order to get a foreign artist out of the way, and to +secure the Massacre of the Innocents chapel, at that precise time undertaken, +for Gio. Ant. Paracca, who was an Italian.</p> +<p>Or he may have been sacrificed in order to facilitate the return +of the workers in stucco whom he had superseded on the Sacro Monte. +He may have been goaded into some imprudence which was seized upon as +a pretext for shutting him up; at any rate, the fact that when in 1587 +he inherited his father’s property at Dinant, his trustee (he +being expressly stated to be “<i>expatrié</i>”) was +“<i>datif</i>,” “<i>dativus</i>,” appointed +not by himself but by the court, lends colour to the statement that +he was not his own master at the time; for in later kindred deeds, now +at Namur, he appoints his own trustee. I suppose, then, that Tabachetti +was shut up in a madhouse at Varallo for a considerable time, during +which I can find no trace of him, but that eventually he escaped or +was released.</p> +<p>Whether he was a fugitive, or whether he was let out from prison, +he would in either case, in all reasonable probability, turn his face +homeward. If he was escaping, he would make immediately for the +Savoy frontier, within which Saas then lay. He would cross the +Baranca above Fobello, coming down on to Ponte Grande in the Val Anzasca. +He would go up the Val Anzasca to Macugnaga, and over the Monte Moro, +which would bring him immediately to Saas. Saas, therefore, is +the nearest and most natural place for him to make for, if he were flying +from Varallo, and here I suppose him to have halted.</p> +<p>It so happened that on the 9th of September, 1589, there was one +of the three great outbreaks of the Mattmark See that have from time +to time devastated the valley of Saas. <a name="citation196"></a><a href="#footnote196">{196}</a> +It is probable that the chapels were decided upon in consequence of +some grace shown by the miraculous picture of the Virgin, which had +mitigated a disaster occurring so soon after the anniversary of her +own Nativity. Tabachetti, arriving at this juncture, may have +offered to undertake them if the Saas people would give him an asylum. +Here, at any rate, I suppose him to have stayed till some time in 1590, +probably the second half of it; his design of eventually returning home, +if he ever entertained it, being then interrupted by a summons to Crea +near Casale, where I believe him to have worked with a few brief interruptions +thenceforward for little if at all short of half a century, or until +about the year 1640. I admit, however, that the evidence for assigning +him so long a life rests solely on the supposed identity of the figure +known as “Il Vecchietto,” in the Varallo Descent from the +Cross chapel, with the portrait of Tabachetti himself in the Ecce Homo +chapel, also at Varallo.</p> +<p>I find additional reason for thinking the chapels owe their origin +to the inundation of 9th September, 1589, in the fact that the 8th of +September is made a day of pilgrimage to the Saas-Fée chapels +throughout the whole valley of Saas. It is true the 8th of September +is the festival of the Nativity of the Virgin Mary, so that under any +circumstances this would be a great day, but the fact that not only +the people of Saas, but the whole valley down to Visp, flock to this +chapel on the 8th of September, points to the belief that some special +act of grace on the part of the Virgin was vouchsafed on this day in +connection with this chapel. A belief that it was owing to the +intervention of St. Mary of Fée that the inundation was not attended +with loss of life would be very likely to lead to the foundation of +a series of chapels leading up to the place where her miraculous picture +was placed, and to the more special celebration of her Nativity in connection +with this spot throughout the valley of Saas. I have discussed +the subject with the Rev. Jos. Ant. Ruppen, and he told me he +thought the fact that the great <i>fête</i> of the year in connection +with the Saas-Fée chapels was on the 8th of September pointed +rather strongly to the supposition that there was a connection between +these and the recorded flood of 9th September, 1589.</p> +<p>Turning to the individual chapels they are as follows:—</p> +<p>1. The Annunciation. The treatment here presents no more +analogy to that of the same subject at Varallo than is inevitable in +the nature of the subject. The Annunciation figures at Varallo +have proved to be mere draped dummies with wooden heads; Tabachetti, +even though he did the heads, which he very likely did, would take no +interest in the Varallo work with the same subject. The Annunciation, +from its very simplicity as well as from the transcendental nature of +the subject, is singularly hard to treat, and the work here, whatever +it may once have been, is now no longer remarkable.</p> +<p>2. The Salutation of Mary by Elizabeth. This group, again, +bears no analogy to the Salutation chapel at Varallo, in which Tabachetti’s +share was so small that it cannot be considered as in any way his. +It is not to be expected, therefore, that the Saas chapel should follow +the Varallo one. The figures, four in number, are pleasing and +well arranged. St. Joseph, St. Elizabeth, and St. Zacharias are +all talking at once. The Virgin is alone silent.</p> +<p>3. The Nativity is much damaged and hard to see. The +treatment bears no analogy to that adopted by Gaudenzio Ferrari at Varallo. +There is one pleasing young shepherd standing against the wall, but +some figures have no doubt (as in others of the chapels) disappeared, +and those that remain have been so shifted from their original positions +that very little idea can be formed of what the group was like when +Tabachetti left it.</p> +<p>4. The Purification. I can hardly say why this chapel +should remind me, as it does, of the Circumcision chapel at Varallo, +for there are more figures here than space at Varallo will allow. +It cannot be pretended that any single figure is of extraordinary merit, +but amongst them they tell their story with excellent effect. +Two, those of St. Joseph and St. Anna (?), that doubtless were once +more important factors in the drama, are now so much in corners near +the window that they can hardly be seen.</p> +<p>5. The Dispute in the Temple. This subject is not treated +at Varallo. Here at Saas there are only six doctors now; whether +or no there were originally more cannot be determined.</p> +<p>6. The Agony in the Garden. Tabachetti had no chapel +with this subject at Varallo, and there is no resemblance between the +Saas chapel and that by D’Enrico. The figures are no doubt +approximately in their original positions, but I have no confidence +that I have rearranged them correctly. They were in such confusion +when I first saw them that the Rev. E. J. Selwyn and myself determined +to rearrange them. They have doubtless been shifted more than +once since Tabachetti left them. The sleeping figures are all +good. St. James is perhaps a little prosaic. One Roman soldier +who is coming into the garden with a lantern, and motioning silence +with his hand, does duty for the others that are to follow him. +I should think more than one of these figures is actually carved in +wood by Tabachetti, allowance being made for the fact that he was working +in a material with which he was not familiar, and which no sculptor +of the highest rank has ever found congenial.</p> +<p>7. The Flagellation. Tabachetti has a chapel with this +subject at Varallo, and the Saas group is obviously a descent with modification +from his work there. The figure of Christ is so like the one at +Varallo that I think it must have been carved by Tabachetti himself. +The man with the hooked nose, who at Varallo is stooping to bind his +rods, is here upright: it was probably the intention to emphasize him +in the succeeding scenes as well as this, in the same way as he has +been emphasized at Varallo, but his nose got pared down in the cutting +of later scenes, and could not easily be added to. The man binding +Christ to the column at Varallo is repeated (<i>longo intervallo</i>) +here, and the whole work is one inspired by that at Varallo, though +no single figure except that of the Christ is adhered to with any very +great closeness. I think the nearer malefactor, with a goitre, +and wearing a large black hat, is either an addition of the year 1709, +or was done by the journeyman of the local sculptor who carved the greater +number of the figures. The man stooping down to bind his rods +can hardly be by the same hand as either of the two black-hatted malefactors, +but it is impossible to speak with certainty. The general effect +of the chapel is excellent, if we consider the material in which it +is executed, and the rudeness of the audience to whom it addresses itself.</p> +<p>8. The Crowning with Thorns. Here again the inspiration +is derived from Tabachetti’s Crowning with Thorns at Varallo. +The Christs in the two chapels are strikingly alike, and the general +effect is that of a residuary impression left in the mind of one who +had known the Varallo Flagellation exceedingly well.</p> +<p>9. Sta. Veronica. This and the next succeeding +chapels are the most important of the series. Tabachetti’s +Journey to Calvary at Varallo is again the source from which the present +work was taken, but, as I have already said, it has been modified in +reproduction. Mount Calvary is still shown, as at Varallo, towards +the left-hand corner of the work, but at Saas it is more towards the +middle than at Varallo, so that horsemen and soldiers may be seen coming +up behind it—a stroke that deserves the name of genius none the +less for the manifest imperfection with which it has been carried into +execution. There are only three horses fully shown, and one partly +shown. They are all of the heavy Flemish type adopted by Tabachetti +at Varallo. The man kicking the fallen Christ and the goitred +man (with the same teeth missing), who are so conspicuous in the Varallo +Journey to Calvary, reappear here, only the kicking man has much less +nose than at Varallo, probably because (as explained) the nose got whittled +away and could not be whittled back again. I observe that the +kind of lapelled tunic which Tabachetti, and only Tabachetti, adopts +at Varallo, is adopted for the centurion in this chapel, and indeed +throughout the Saas chapels this particular form of tunic is the most +usual for a Roman soldier. The work is still a very striking one, +notwithstanding its translation into wood and the decay into which it +has been allowed to fall; nor can it fail to impress the visitor who +is familiar with this class of art as coming from a man of extraordinary +dramatic power and command over the almost impossible art of composing +many figures together effectively in all-round sculpture. Whether +all the figures are even now as Tabachetti left them I cannot determine, +but Mr. Selwyn has restored Simon the Cyrenian to the position in which +he obviously ought to stand, and between us we have got the chapel into +something more like order.</p> +<p>10. The Crucifixion. This subject was treated at Varallo +not by Tabachetti but by Gaudenzio Ferrari. It confirms therefore +my opinion as to the designer of the Saas chapels to find in them no +trace of the Varallo Crucifixion, while the kind of tunic which at Varallo +is only found in chapels wherein Tabachetti worked again appears here. +The work is in a deplorable state of decay. Mr. Selwyn has greatly +improved the arrangement of the figures, but even now they are not, +I imagine, quite as Tabachetti left them. The figure of Christ +is greatly better in technical execution than that of either of the +two thieves; the folds of the drapery alone will show this even to an +unpractised eye. I do not think there can be a doubt but that +Tabachetti cut this figure himself, as also those of the Magdalene and +St. John, who stand at the foot of the cross. The thieves are +coarsely executed, with no very obvious distinction between the penitent +and the impenitent one, except that there is a fiend painted on the +ceiling over the impenitent thief. The one horse introduced into +the composition is again of the heavy Flemish type adopted by Tabachetti +at Varallo. There is great difference in the care with which the +folds on the several draperies have been cut, some being stiff and poor +enough, while others are done very sufficiently. In spite of smallness +of scale, ignoble material, disarrangement and decay, the work is still +striking.</p> +<p>11. The Resurrection. There being no chapel at Varallo +with any of the remaining subjects treated at Saas, the sculptor has +struck out a line for himself. The Christ in the Resurrection +Chapel is a carefully modelled figure, and if better painted might not +be ineffective. Three soldiers, one sleeping, alone remain. +There were probably other figures that have been lost. The sleeping +soldier is very pleasing.</p> +<p>12. The Ascension is not remarkably interesting; the Christ +appears to be, but perhaps is not, a much more modern figure than the +rest.</p> +<p>13. The Descent of the Holy Ghost. Some of the figures +along the end wall are very good, and were, I should imagine, cut by +Tabachetti himself. Those against the two side walls are not so +well cut.</p> +<p>14. The Assumption of the Virgin Mary. The two large +cherubs here are obviously by a later hand, and the small ones are not +good. The figure of the Virgin herself is unexceptionable. +There were doubtless once other figures of the Apostles which have disappeared; +of these a single St. Peter (?), so hidden away in a corner near the +window that it can only be seen with difficulty, is the sole survivor.</p> +<p>15. The Coronation of the Virgin is of later date, and has +probably superseded an earlier work. It can hardly be by the designer +of the other chapels of the series. Perhaps Tabachetti had to +leave for Crea before all the chapels at Saas were finished.</p> +<p>Lastly, we have the larger chapel dedicated to St. Mary, which crowns +the series. Here there is nothing of more than common artistic +interest, unless we except the stone altar mentioned in Ruppen’s +chronicle. This is of course classical in style, and is, I should +think, very good.</p> +<p>Once more I must caution the reader against expecting to find highly +finished gems of art in the chapels I have been describing. A +wooden figure not more than two feet high clogged with many coats of +paint can hardly claim to be taken very seriously, and even those few +that were cut by Tabachetti himself were not meant to have attention +concentrated on themselves alone. As mere wood-carving the Saas-Fée +chapels will not stand comparison, for example, with the triptych of +unknown authorship in the Church of St. Anne at Gliss, close to Brieg. +But, in the first place, the work at Gliss is worthy of Holbein himself; +I know no wood-carving that can so rivet the attention; moreover it +is coloured with water-colour and not oil, so that it is tinted, not +painted; and, in the second place, the Gliss triptych belongs to a date +(1519) when artists held neither time nor impressionism as objects, +and hence, though greatly better than the Saas-Fée chapels as +regards a certain Japanese curiousness of finish and <i>naïveté</i> +of literal transcription, it cannot even enter the lists with the Saas +work as regards <i>élan</i> and dramatic effectiveness. +The difference between the two classes of work is much that between, +say, John Van Eyck or Memling and Rubens or Rembrandt, or, again, between +Giovanni Bellini and Tintoretto; the aims of the one class of work are +incompatible with those of the other. Moreover, in the Gliss triptych +the intention of the designer is carried out (whether by himself or +no) with admirable skill; whereas at Saas the wisdom of the workman +is rather of Ober-Ammergau than of the Egyptians, and the voice of the +poet is not a little drowned in that of his mouthpiece. If, however, +the reader will bear in mind these somewhat obvious considerations, +and will also remember the pathetic circumstances under which the chapels +were designed—for Tabachetti when he reached Saas was no doubt +shattered in body and mind by his four years’ imprisonment—he +will probably be not less attracted to them than I observed were many +of the visitors both at Saas-Grund and Saas-Fée with whom I had +the pleasure of examining them.</p> +<p>I will now run briefly through the other principal works in the neighbourhood +to which I think the reader would be glad to have his attention directed.</p> +<p>At Saas-Fée itself the main altar-piece is without interest, +as also one with a figure of St. Sebastian. The Virgin and Child +above the remaining altar are, so far as I remember them, very good, +and greatly superior to the smaller figures of the same altar-piece.</p> +<p>At Almagel, an hour’s walk or so above Saas-Grund—a village, +the name of which, like those of the Alphubel, the Monte Moro, and more +than one other neighbouring site, is supposed to be of Saracenic origin—the +main altar-piece represents a female saint with folded arms being beheaded +by a vigorous man to the left. These two figures are very good. +There are two somewhat inferior elders to the right, and the composition +is crowned by the Assumption of the Virgin. I like the work, but +have no idea who did it. Two bishops flanking the composition +are not so good. There are two other altars in the church: the +right-hand one has some pleasing figures, not so the left-hand.</p> +<p>In St. Joseph’s Chapel, on the mule-road between Saas-Grund +and Saas-Fée, the St. Joseph and the two children are rather +nice. In the churches and chapels which I looked into between +Saas and Stalden, I saw many florid extravagant altar-pieces, but nothing +that impressed me favourably.</p> +<p>In the parish church at Saas-Grund there are two altar-pieces which +deserve attention. In the one over the main altar the arrangement +of the Last Supper in a deep recess half-way up the composition is very +pleasing and effective; in that above the right-hand altar of the two +that stand in the body of the church there are a number of round lunettes, +about eight inches in diameter, each containing a small but spirited +group of wooden figures. I have lost my notes on these altar-pieces +and can only remember that the main one has been restored, and now belongs +to two different dates, the earlier date being, I should imagine, about +1670. A similar treatment of the Last Supper may be found near +Brieg in the church of Naters, and no doubt the two altar-pieces are +by the same man. There are, by the way, two very ambitious altars +on either side the main arch leading to the chancel in the church at +Naters, of which the one on the south side contains obvious reminiscences +of Gaudenzio Ferrari’s Sta. Maria frescoes at Varallo; but +none of the four altar-pieces in the two transepts tempted me to give +them much attention. As regards the smaller altar-piece at Saas-Grund, +analogous work may be found at Cravagliana, half-way between Varallo +and Fobello, but this last has suffered through the inveterate habit +which Italians have of showing their hatred towards the enemies of Christ +by mutilating the figures that represent them. Whether the Saas +work is by a Valsesian artist who came over to Switzerland, or whether +the Cravagliana work is by a Swiss who had come to Italy, I cannot say +without further consideration and closer examination than I have been +able to give. The altar-pieces of Mairengo, Chiggiogna, and, I +am told, Lavertezzo, all in the Canton Ticino, are by a Swiss or German +artist who has migrated southward; but the reverse migration was equally +common.</p> +<p>Being in the neighbourhood, and wishing to assure myself whether +the sculptor of the Saas-Fée chapels had or had not come lower +down the valley, I examined every church and village which I could hear +of as containing anything that might throw light on this point. +I was thus led to Vispertimenen, a village some three hours above either +Visp or Stalden. It stands very high, and is an almost untouched +example of a medieval village. The altar-piece of the main church +is even more floridly ambitious in its abundance of carving and gilding +than the many other ambitious altar-pieces with which the Canton Valais +abounds. The Apostles are receiving the Holy Ghost on the first +storey of the composition, and they certainly are receiving it with +an overjoyed alacrity and hilarious ecstasy of <i>allegria spirituale</i> +which it would not be easy to surpass. Above the village, reaching +almost to the limits beyond which there is no cultivation, there stands +a series of chapels like those I have been describing at Saas-Fée, +only much larger and more ambitious. They are twelve in number, +including the church that crowns the series. The figures they +contain are of wood (so I was assured, but I did not go inside the chapels): +they are life-size, and in some chapels there are as many as a dozen +figures. I should think they belonged to the later half of the +eighteenth century, and here, one would say, sculpture touches the ground; +at least, it is not easy to see how cheap exaggeration can sink an art +more deeply. The only things that at all pleased me were a smiling +donkey and an ecstatic cow in the Nativity chapel. Those who are +not allured by the prospect of seeing perhaps the very worst that can +be done in its own line, need not be at the pains of climbing up to +Vispertimenen. Those, on the other hand, who may find this sufficient +inducement will not be disappointed, and they will enjoy magnificent +views of the Weisshorn and the mountains near the Dom.</p> +<p>I have already referred to the triptych at Gliss. This is figured +in Wolf’s work on Chamonix and the Canton Valais, but a larger +and clearer reproduction of such an extraordinary work is greatly to +be desired. The small wooden statues above the triptych, as also +those above its modern companion in the south transept, are not less +admirable than the triptych itself. I know of no other like work +in wood, and have no clue whatever as to who the author can have been +beyond the fact that the work is purely German and eminently Holbeinesque +in character.</p> +<p>I was told of some chapels at Rarogne, five or six miles lower down +the valley than Visp. I examined them, and found they had been +stripped of their figures. The few that remained satisfied me +that we have had no loss. Above Brieg there are two other like +series of chapels. I examined the higher and more promising of +the two, but found not one single figure left. I was told by my +driver that the other series, close to the Pont Napoléon on the +Simplon road, had been also stripped of its figures, and, there being +a heavy storm at the time, have taken his word for it that this was +so.</p> +<h2>Thought and Language <a name="citation209"></a><a href="#footnote209">{209}</a></h2> +<p>Three well-known writers, Professor Max Müller, Professor Mivart, +and Mr. Alfred Russel Wallace, have lately maintained that though the +theory of descent with modification accounts for the development of +all vegetable life, and of all animals lower than man, yet that man +cannot—not at least in respect of the whole of his nature—be +held to have descended from any animal lower than himself, inasmuch +as none lower than man possesses even the germs of language. Reason, +it is contended—more especially by Professor Max Müller in +his <i>Science of Thought</i>, to which I propose confining our attention +this evening—is so inseparably connected with language, that the +two are in point of fact identical; hence it is argued that, as the +lower animals have no germs of language, they can have no germs of reason, +and the inference is drawn that man cannot be conceived as having derived +his own reasoning powers and command of language through descent from +beings in which no germ of either can be found. The relations +therefore between thought and language, interesting in themselves, acquire +additional importance from the fact of their having become the battle-ground +between those who say that the theory of descent breaks down with man, +and those who maintain that we are descended from some apelike ancestor +long since extinct.</p> +<p>The contention of those who refuse to admit man unreservedly into +the scheme of evolution is comparatively recent. The great propounders +of evolution, Buffon, Erasmus Darwin and Lamarck—not to mention +a score of others who wrote at the close of the last and early part +of this present century—had no qualms about admitting man into +their system. They have been followed in this respect by the late +Mr. Charles Darwin, and by the greatly more influential part of our +modern biologists, who hold that whatever loss of dignity we may incur +through being proved to be of humble origin, is compensated by the credit +we may claim for having advanced ourselves to such a high pitch of civilization; +this bids us expect still further progress, and glorifies our descendants +more than it abases our ancestors. But to whichever view we may +incline on sentimental grounds the fact remains that, while Charles +Darwin declared language to form no impassable barrier between man and +the lower animals, Professor Max Müller calls it the Rubicon which +no brute dare cross, and deduces hence the conclusion that man cannot +have descended from an unknown but certainly speechless ape.</p> +<p>It may perhaps be expected that I should begin a lecture on the relations +between thought and language with some definition of both these things; +but thought, as Sir William Grove said of motion, is a phenomenon “so +obvious to simple apprehension that to define it would make it more +obscure.” <a name="citation210"></a><a href="#footnote210">{210}</a> +Definitions are useful where things are new to us, but they are superfluous +about those that are already familiar, and mischievous, so far as they +are possible at all, in respect of all those things that enter so profoundly +and intimately into our being that in them we must either live or bear +no life. To vivisect the more vital processes of thought is to +suspend, if not to destroy them; for thought can think about everything +more healthily and easily than about itself. It is like its instrument +the brain, which knows nothing of any injuries inflicted upon itself. +As regards what is new to us, a definition will sometimes dilute a difficulty, +and help us to swallow that which might choke us undiluted; but to define +when we have once well swallowed is to unsettle, rather than settle, +our digestion. Definitions, again, are like steps cut in a steep +slope of ice, or shells thrown on to a greasy pavement; they give us +foothold, and enable us to advance, but when we are at our journey’s +end we want them no longer. Again, they are useful as mental fluxes, +and as helping us to fuse new ideas with our older ones. They +present us with some tags and ends of ideas that we have already mastered, +on to which we can hitch our new ones; but to multiply them in respect +of such a matter as thought, is like scratching the bite of a gnat; +the more we scratch the more we want to scratch; the more we define +the more we shall have to go on defining the words we have used in our +definitions, and shall end by setting up a serious mental raw in the +place of a small uneasiness that was after all quite endurable. +We know too well what thought is, to be able to know that we know it, +and I am persuaded there is no one in this room but understands what +is meant by thought and thinking well enough for all the purposes of +this discussion. Whoever does not know this without words will +not learn it for all the words and definitions that are laid before +him. The more, indeed, he hears, the more confused he will become. +I shall, therefore, merely premise that I use the word “thought” +in the same sense as that in which it is generally used by people who +say that they think this or that. At any rate, it will be enough +if I take Professor Max Müller’s own definition, and say +that its essence consists in a bringing together of mental images and +ideas with deductions therefrom, and with a corresponding power of detaching +them from one another. Hobbes, the Professor tells us, maintained +this long ago, when he said that all our thinking consists of addition +and subtraction—that is to say, in bringing ideas together, and +in detaching them from one another.</p> +<p>Turning from thought to language, we observe that the word is derived +from the French <i>langue</i>, or <i>tongue</i>. Strictly, therefore, +it means <i>tonguage</i>. This, however, takes account of but +a very small part of the ideas that underlie the word. It does, +indeed, seize a familiar and important detail of everyday speech, though +it may be doubted whether the tongue has more to do with speaking than +lips, teeth and throat have, but it makes no attempt at grasping and +expressing the essential characteristic of speech. Anything done +with the tongue, even though it involve no speaking at all, is <i>tonguage</i>; +eating oranges is as much tonguage as speech is. The word, therefore, +though it tells us in part how speech is effected, reveals nothing of +that ulterior meaning which is nevertheless inseparable from any right +use of the words either “speech” or “language.” +It presents us with what is indeed a very frequent adjunct of conversation, +but the use of written characters, or the finger-speech of deaf mutes, +is enough to show that the word “language” omits all reference +to the most essential characteristics of the idea, which in practice +it nevertheless very sufficiently presents to us. I hope presently +to make it clear to you how and why it should do so. The word +is incomplete in the first place, because it omits all reference to +the ideas which words, speech or language are intended to convey, and +there can be no true word without its actually or potentially conveying +an idea. Secondly, it makes no allusion to the person or persons +to whom the ideas are to be conveyed. Language is not language +unless it not only expresses fairly definite and coherent ideas, but +unless it also conveys these ideas to some other living intelligent +being, either man or brute, that can understand them. We may speak +to a dog or horse, but not to a stone. If we make pretence of +doing so we are in reality only talking to ourselves. The person +or animal spoken to is half the battle—a half, moreover, which +is essential to there being any battle at all. It takes two people +to say a thing—a sayee as well as a sayer. The one is as +essential to any true saying as the other. A. may have spoken, +but if B. has not heard there has been nothing said, and he must speak +again. True, the belief on A.’s part that he had a <i>bona +fide</i> sayee in B., saves his speech <i>qua</i> him, but it has been +barren and left no fertile issue. It has failed to fulfil the +conditions of true speech, which involve not only that A. should speak, +but also that B. should hear. True, again, we often speak of loose, +incoherent, indefinite language; but by doing so we imply, and rightly, +that we are calling that language which is not true language at all. +People, again, sometimes talk to themselves without intending that any +other person should hear them, but this is not well done, and does harm +to those who practise it. It is abnormal, whereas our concern +is with normal and essential characteristics; we may, therefore, neglect +both delirious babblings, and the cases in which a person is regarding +him or herself, as it were, from outside, and treating himself as though +he were someone else.</p> +<p>Inquiring, then, what are the essentials, the presence of which constitutes +language, while their absence negatives it altogether, we find that +Professor Max Müller restricts them to the use of grammatical articulate +words that we can write or speak, and denies that anything can be called +language unless it can be written or spoken in articulate words and +sentences. He also denies that we can think at all unless we do +so in words; that is to say, in sentences with verbs and nouns. +Indeed, he goes so far as to say upon his title-page that there can +be no reason—which I imagine comes to much the same thing as thought—without +language, and no language without reason.</p> +<p>Against the assertion that there can be no true language without +reason I have nothing to say. But when the Professor says that +there can be no reason, or thought, without language, his opponents +contend, as it seems to me, with greater force, that thought, though +infinitely aided, extended and rendered definite through the invention +of words, nevertheless existed so fully as to deserve no other name +thousands, if not millions of years before words had entered into it +at all. Words, they say, are a comparatively recent invention, +for the fuller expression of something that was already in existence.</p> +<p>Children, they urge, are often evidently thinking and reasoning, +though they can neither think nor speak in words. If you ask me +to define reason, I answer as before that this can no more be done than +thought, truth or motion can be defined. Who has answered the +question, “What is truth?” Man cannot see God and +live. We cannot go so far back upon ourselves as to undermine +our own foundations; if we try to do so we topple over, and lose that +very reason about which we vainly try to reason. If we let the +foundations be, we know well enough that they are there, and we can +build upon them in all security. We cannot, then, define reason +nor crib, cabin and confine it within a thus-far-shalt-thou-go-and-no-further. +Who can define heat or cold, or night or day? Yet, so long as +we hold fast by current consent, our chances of error for want of better +definition are so small that no sensible person will consider them. +In like manner, if we hold by current consent or common sense, which +is the same thing, about reason, we shall not find the want of an academic +definition hinder us from a reasonable conclusion. What nurse +or mother will doubt that her infant child can reason within the limits +of its own experience, long before it can formulate its reason in articulately +worded thought? If the development of any given animal is, as +our opponents themselves admit, an epitome of the history of its whole +anterior development, surely the fact that speech is an accomplishment +acquired after birth so artificially that children who have gone wild +in the woods lose it if they have ever learned it, points to the conclusion +that man’s ancestors only learned to express themselves in articulate +language at a comparatively recent period. Granted that they learn +to think and reason continually the more and more fully for having done +so, will common sense permit us to suppose that they could neither think +nor reason at all till they could convey their ideas in words?</p> +<p>I will return later to the reason of the lower animals, but will +now deal with the question what it is that constitutes language in the +most comprehensive sense that can be properly attached to it. +I have said already that language to be language at all must not only +convey fairly definite coherent ideas, but must also convey them to +another living being. Whenever two living beings have conveyed +and received ideas, there has been language, whether looks or gestures +or words spoken or written have been the vehicle by means of which the +ideas have travelled. Some ideas crawl, some run, some fly; and +in this case words are the wings they fly with, but they are only the +wings of thought or of ideas, they are not the thought or ideas themselves, +nor yet, as Professor Max Müller would have it, inseparably connected +with them. Last summer I was at an inn in Sicily, where there +was a deaf and dumb waiter; he had been born so, and could neither write +nor read. What had he to do with words or words with him? +Are we to say, then, that this most active, amiable and intelligent +fellow could neither think nor reason? One day I had had my dinner +and had left the hotel. A friend came in, and the waiter saw him +look for me in the place I generally occupied. He instantly came +up to my friend and moved his two forefingers in a way that suggested +two people going about together, this meant “your friend”; +he then moved his forefingers horizontally across his eyes, this meant, +“who wears divided spectacles”; he made two fierce marks +over the sockets of his eyes, this meant, “with the heavy eyebrows”; +he pulled his chin, and then touched his white shirt, to say that my +beard was white. Having thus identified me as a friend of the +person he was speaking to, and as having a white beard, heavy eyebrows, +and wearing divided spectacles, he made a munching movement with his +jaws to say that I had had my dinner; and finally, by making two fingers +imitate walking on the table, he explained that I had gone away. +My friend, however, wanted to know how long I had been gone, so he pulled +out his watch and looked inquiringly. The man at once slapped +himself on the back, and held up the five fingers of one hand, to say +it was five minutes ago. All this was done as rapidly as though +it had been said in words; and my friend, who knew the man well, understood +without a moment’s hesitation. Are we to say that this man +had no thought, nor reason, nor language, merely because he had not +a single word of any kind in his head, which I am assured he had not; +for, as I have said, he could not speak with his fingers? Is it +possible to deny that a dialogue—an intelligent conversation—had +passed between the two men? And if conversation, then surely it +is technical and pedantic to deny that all the essential elements of +language were present. The signs and tokens used by this poor +fellow were as rude an instrument of expression, in comparison with +ordinary language, as going on one’s hands and knees is in comparison +with walking, or as walking compared with going by train; but it is +as great an abuse of words to limit the word “language” +to mere words written or spoken, as it would be to limit the idea of +a locomotive to a railway engine. This may indeed pass in ordinary +conversation, where so much must be suppressed if talk is to be got +through at all, but it is intolerable when we are inquiring about the +relations between thought and words. To do so is to let words +become as it were the masters of thought, on the ground that the fact +of their being only its servants and appendages is so obvious that it +is generally allowed to go without saying.</p> +<p>If all that Professor Max Müller means to say is, that no animal +but man commands an articulate language, with verbs and nouns, or is +ever likely to command one (and I question whether in reality he means +much more than this), no one will differ from him. No dog or elephant +has one word for bread, another for meat, and another for water. +Yet, when we watch a cat or dog dreaming, as they often evidently do, +can we doubt that the dream is accompanied by a mental image of the +thing that is dreamed of, much like what we experience in dreams ourselves, +and much doubtless like the mental images which must have passed through +the mind of my deaf and dumb waiter? If they have mental images +in sleep, can we doubt that waking, also, they picture things before +their mind’s eyes, and see them much as we do—too vaguely +indeed to admit of our thinking that we actually see the objects themselves, +but definitely enough for us to be able to recognize the idea or object +of which we are thinking, and to connect it with any other idea, object, +or sign that we may think appropriate?</p> +<p>Here we have touched on the second essential element of language. +We laid it down, that its essence lay in the communication of an idea +from one intelligent being to another; but no ideas can be communicated +at all except by the aid of conventions to which both parties have agreed +to attach an identical meaning. The agreement may be very informal, +and may pass so unconsciously from one generation to another that its +existence can only be recognized by the aid of much introspection, but +it will be always there. A sayer, a sayee, and a convention, no +matter what, agreed upon between them as inseparably attached to the +idea which it is intended to convey—these comprise all the essentials +of language. Where these are present there is language; where +any of them are wanting there is no language. It is not necessary +for the sayee to be able to speak and become a sayer. If he comprehends +the sayer—that is to say, if he attaches the same meaning to a +certain symbol as the sayer does—if he is a party to the bargain +whereby it is agreed upon by both that any given symbol shall be attached +invariably to a certain idea, so that in virtue of the principle of +associated ideas the symbol shall never be present without immediately +carrying the idea along with it, then all the essentials of language +are complied with, and there has been true speech though never a word +was spoken.</p> +<p>The lower animals, therefore, many of them, possess a part of our +own language, though they cannot speak it, and hence do not possess +it so fully as we do. They cannot say “bread,” “meat,” +or “water,” but there are many that readily learn what ideas +they ought to attach to these symbols when they are presented to them. +It is idle to say that a cat does not know what the cat’s-meat +man means when he says “meat.” The cat knows just +as well, neither better nor worse than the cat’s-meat man does, +and a great deal better than I myself understand much that is said by +some very clever people at Oxford or Cambridge. There is more +true employment of language, more <i>bona fide</i> currency of speech, +between a sayer and a sayee who understand each other, though neither +of them can speak a word, than between a sayer who can speak with the +tongues of men and of angels without being clear about his own meaning, +and a sayee who can himself utter the same words, but who is only in +imperfect agreement with the sayer as to the ideas which the words or +symbols that he utters are intended to convey. The nature of the +symbols counts for nothing; the gist of the matter is in the perfect +harmony between sayer and sayee as to the significance that is to be +associated with them.</p> +<p>Professor Max Müller admits that we share with the lower animals +what he calls an emotional language, and continues that we may call +their interjections and imitations language if we like, as we speak +of the language of the eyes or the eloquence of mute nature, but he +warns us against mistaking metaphor for fact. It is indeed mere +metaphor to talk of the eloquence of mute nature, or the language of +winds and waves. There is no intercommunion of mind with mind +by means of a covenanted symbol; but it is only an apparent, not a real, +metaphor to say that two pairs of eyes have spoken when they have signalled +to one another something which they both understand. A schoolboy +at home for the holidays wants another plate of pudding, and does not +like to apply officially for more. He catches the servant’s +eye and looks at the pudding; the servant understands, takes his plate +without a word, and gets him some. Is it metaphor to say that +the boy asked the servant to do this, or is it not rather pedantry to +insist on the letter of a bond and deny its spirit, by denying that +language passed, on the ground that the symbols covenanted upon and +assented to by both were uttered and received by eyes and not by mouth +and ears? When the lady drank to the gentleman only with her eyes, +and he pledged with his, was there no conversation because there was +neither noun nor verb? Eyes are verbs, and glasses of wine are +good nouns enough as between those who understand one another. +Whether the ideas underlying them are expressed and conveyed by eyeage +or by tonguage is a detail that matters nothing.</p> +<p>But everything we say is metaphorical if we choose to be captious. +Scratch the simplest expressions, and you will find the metaphor. +Written words are handage, inkage and paperage; it is only by metaphor, +or substitution and transposition of ideas, that we can call them language. +They are indeed potential language, and the symbols employed presuppose +nouns, verbs, and the other parts of speech; but for the most part it +is in what we read between the lines that the profounder meaning of +any letter is conveyed. There are words unwritten and untranslatable +into any nouns that are nevertheless felt as above, about and underneath +the gross material symbols that lie scrawled upon the paper; and the +deeper the feeling with which anything is written the more pregnant +will it be of meaning which can be conveyed securely enough, but which +loses rather than gains if it is squeezed into a sentence, and limited +by the parts of speech. The language is not in the words but in +the heart-to-heartness of the thing, which is helped by words, but is +nearer and farther than they. A correspondent wrote to me once, +many years ago, “If I could think to you without words you would +understand me better.” But surely in this he was thinking +to me, and without words, and I did understand him better. . . . +So it is not by the words that I am too presumptuously venturing to +speak to-night that your opinions will be formed or modified. +They will be formed or modified, if either, by something that you will +feel, but which I have not spoken, to the full as much as by anything +that I have actually uttered. You may say that this borders on +mysticism. Perhaps it does, but there really is some mysticism +in nature.</p> +<p>To return, however, to <i>terra firma</i>. I believe I am right +in saying that the essence of language lies in the intentional conveyance +of ideas from one living being to another through the instrumentality +of arbitrary tokens or symbols agreed upon and understood by both as +being associated with the particular ideas in question. The nature +of the symbol chosen is a matter of indifference; it may be anything +that appeals to human senses, and is not too hot or too heavy; the essence +of the matter lies in a mutual covenant that whatever it is shall stand +invariably for the same thing, or nearly so.</p> +<p>We shall see this more easily if we observe the differences between +written and spoken language. The written word “stone,” +and the spoken word, are each of them symbols arrived at in the first +instance arbitrarily. They are neither of them more like the other +than they are to the idea of a stone which rises before our minds, when +we either see or hear the word, or than this idea again is like the +actual stone itself, but nevertheless the spoken symbol and the written +one each alike convey with certainty the combination of ideas to which +we have agreed to attach them.</p> +<p>The written symbol is formed with the hand, appeals to the eye, leaves +a material trace as long as paper and ink last, can travel as far as +paper and ink can travel, and can be imprinted on eye after eye practically +<i>ad infinitum</i> both as regards time and space.</p> +<p>The spoken symbol is formed by means of various organs in or about +the mouth, appeals to the ear, not the eye, perishes instantly without +material trace, and if it lives at all does so only in the minds of +those who heard it. The range of its action is no wider than that +within which a voice can be heard; and every time a fresh impression +is wanted the type must be set up anew.</p> +<p>The written symbol extends infinitely, as regards time and space, +the range within which one mind can communicate with another; it gives +the writer’s mind a life limited by the duration of ink, paper +and readers, as against that of his flesh and blood body. On the +other hand, it takes longer to learn the rules so as to be able to apply +them with ease and security, and even then they cannot be applied so +quickly and easily as those attaching to spoken symbols. Moreover, +the spoken symbols admit of a hundred quick and subtle adjuncts by way +of action, tone and expression, so that no one will use written symbols +unless either for the special advantages of permanence and travelling +power, or because he is incapacitated from using spoken ones. +This, however, is hardly to the point; the point is that these two conventional +combinations of symbols, that are as unlike one another as the Hallelujah +Chorus is to St. Paul’s Cathedral, are the one as much language +as the other; and we therefore inquire what this very patent fact reveals +to us about the more essential characteristics of language itself. +What is the common bond that unites these two classes of symbols that +seem at first sight to have nothing in common, and makes the one raise +the idea of language in our minds as readily as the other? The +bond lies in the fact that both are a set of conventional tokens or +symbols, agreed upon between the parties to whom they appeal as being +attached invariably to the same ideas, and because they are being made +as a means of communion between one mind and another—for a memorandum +made for a person’s own later use is nothing but a communication +from an earlier mind to a later and modified one; it is therefore in +reality a communication from one mind to another as much as though it +had been addressed to another person.</p> +<p>We see, therefore, that the nature of the outward and visible sign +to which the inward and spiritual idea of language is attached does +not matter. It may be the firing of a gun; it may be an old semaphore +telegraph; it may be the movements of a needle; a look, a gesture, the +breaking of a twig by an Indian to tell someone that he has passed that +way: a twig broken designedly with this end in view is a letter addressed +to whomsoever it may concern, as much as though it had been written +out in full on bark or paper. It does not matter one straw what +it is, provided it is agreed upon in concert, and stuck to. Just +as the lowest forms of life nevertheless present us with all the essential +characteristics of livingness, and are as much alive in their own humble +way as the most highly developed organisms, so the rudest intentional +and effectual communication between two minds through the instrumentality +of a concerted symbol is as much language as the most finished oratory +of Mr. Gladstone. I demur therefore to the assertion that the +lower animals have no language, inasmuch as they cannot themselves articulate +a grammatical sentence. I do not indeed pretend that when the +cat calls upon the tiles it uses what it consciously and introspectively +recognizes as language; it says what it has to say without introspection, +and in the ordinary course of business, as one of the common forms of +courtship. It no more knows that it has been using language than +M. Jourdain knew he had been speaking prose, but M. Jourdain’s +knowing or not knowing was neither here nor there.</p> +<p>Anything which can be made to hitch on invariably to a definite idea +that can carry some distance—say an inch at the least, and which +can be repeated at pleasure, can be pressed into the service of language. +Mrs. Bentley, wife of the famous Dr. Bentley of Trinity College, Cambridge, +used to send her snuff-box to the college buttery when she wanted beer, +instead of a written order. If the snuff-box came the beer was +sent, but if there was no snuff-box there was no beer. Wherein +did the snuff-box differ more from a written order, than a written order +differs from a spoken one? The snuff-box was for the time being +language. It sounds strange to say that one might take a pinch +of snuff out of a sentence, but if the servant had helped him or herself +to a pinch while carrying it to the buttery this is what would have +been done; for if a snuff-box can say “Send me a quart of beer,” +so efficiently that the beer is sent, it is impossible to say that it +is not a <i>bona fide</i> sentence. As for the recipient of the +message, the butler did not probably translate the snuff-box into articulate +nouns and verbs; as soon as he saw it he just went down into the cellar +and drew the beer, and if he thought at all, it was probably about something +else. Yet he must have been thinking without words, or he would +have drawn too much beer or too little, or have spilt it in the bringing +it up, and we may be sure that he did none of these things.</p> +<p>You will, of course, observe that if Mrs. Bentley had sent the snuff-box +to the buttery of St. John’s College instead of Trinity, it would +not have been language, for there would have been no covenant between +sayer and sayee as to what the symbol should represent, there would +have been no previously established association of ideas in the mind +of the butler of St. John’s between beer and snuff-box; the connection +was artificial, arbitrary, and by no means one of those in respect of +which an impromptu bargain might be proposed by the very symbol itself, +and assented to without previous formality by the person to whom it +was presented. More briefly, the butler of St. John’s would +not have been able to understand and read it aright. It would +have been a dead letter to him—a snuff-box and not a letter; whereas +to the butler of Trinity it was a letter and not a snuff-box. +You will also note that it was only at the moment when he was looking +at it and accepting it as a message that it flashed forth from snuff-box-hood +into the light and life of living utterance. As soon as it had +kindled the butler into sending a single quart of beer, its force was +spent until Mrs. Bentley threw her soul into it again and charged it +anew by wanting more beer, and sending it down accordingly.</p> +<p>Again, take the ring which the Earl of Essex sent to Queen Elizabeth, +but which the queen did not receive. This was intended as a sentence, +but failed to become effectual language because the sensible material +symbol never reached those sentient organs which it was intended to +affect. A book, again, however full of excellent words it may +be, is not language when it is merely standing on a bookshelf. +It speaks to no one, unless when being actually read, or quoted from +by an act of memory. It is potential language as a lucifer-match +is potential fire, but it is no more language till it is in contact +with a recipient mind, than a match is fire till it is struck, and is +being consumed.</p> +<p>A piece of music, again, without any words at all, or a song with +words that have nothing in the world to do with the ideas which it is +nevertheless made to convey, is very often effectual language. +Much lying, and all irony depends on tampering with covenanted symbols, +and making those that are usually associated with one set of ideas convey +by a sleight of mind others of a different nature. That is why +irony is intolerably fatiguing unless very sparingly used. Take +the song which Blondel sang under the window of King Richard’s +prison. There was not one syllable in it to say that Blondel was +there, and was going to help the king to get out of prison. It +was about some silly love affair, but it was a letter all the same, +and the king made language of what would otherwise have been no language, +by guessing the meaning, that is to say, by perceiving that he was expected +to enter then and there into a new covenant as to the meaning of the +symbols that were presented to him, understanding what this covenant +was to be, and acquiescing in it.</p> +<p>On the other hand, no ingenuity can torture “language” +into being a fit word to use in connection with either sounds or any +other symbols that have not been intended to convey a meaning, or again +in connection with either sounds or symbols in respect of which there +has been no covenant between sayer and sayee. When we hear people +speaking a foreign language—we will say Welsh—we feel that +though they are no doubt using what is very good language as between +themselves, there is no language whatever as far as we are concerned. +We call it lingo, not language. The Chinese letters on a tea-chest +might as well not be there, for all that they say to us, though the +Chinese find them very much to the purpose. They are a covenant +to which we have been no parties—to which our intelligence has +affixed no signature.</p> +<p>We have already seen that it is in virtue of such an understood covenant +that symbols so unlike one another as the written word “stone” +and the spoken word alike at once raise the idea of a stone in our minds. +See how the same holds good as regards the different languages that +pass current in different nations. The letters p, i, e, r, r, +e convey the idea of a stone to a Frenchman as readily as s, t, o, n, +e do to ourselves. And why? because that is the covenant that +has been struck between those who speak and those who are spoken to. +Our “stone” conveys no idea to a Frenchman, nor his “pierre” +to us, unless we have done what is commonly called acquiring one another’s +language. To acquire a foreign language is only to learn and adhere +to the covenants in respect of symbols which the nation in question +has adopted and adheres to. Till we have done this we neither +of us know the rules, so to speak, of the game that the other is playing, +and cannot, therefore, play together; but the convention being once +known and consented to, it does not matter whether we raise the idea +of a stone by the words “lapis,” or by “lithos,” +“pietra,” “pierre,” “stein,” “stane” +or “stone”; we may choose what symbols written or spoken +we choose, and one set, unless they are of unwieldy length, will do +as well as another, if we can get other people to choose the same and +stick to them; it is the accepting and sticking to them that matters, +not the symbols. The whole power of spoken language is vested +in the invariableness with which certain symbols are associated with +certain ideas. If we are strict in always connecting the same +symbols with the same ideas, we speak well, keep our meaning clear to +ourselves, and convey it readily and accurately to anyone who is also +fairly strict. If, on the other hand, we use the same combination +of symbols for one thing one day and for another the next, we abuse +our symbols instead of using them, and those who indulge in slovenly +habits in this respect ere long lose the power alike of thinking and +of expressing themselves correctly. The symbols, however, in the +first instance, may be anything in the wide world that we have a fancy +for. They have no more to do with the ideas they serve to convey +than money has with the things that it serves to buy.</p> +<p>The principle of association, as everyone knows, involves that whenever +two things have been associated sufficiently together, the suggestion +of one of them to the mind shall immediately raise a suggestion of the +other. It is in virtue of this principle that language, as we +so call it, exists at all, for the essence of language consists, as +I have said perhaps already too often, in the fixity with which certain +ideas are invariably connected with certain symbols. But this +being so, it is hard to see how we can deny that the lower animals possess +the germs of a highly rude and unspecialized, but still true language, +unless we also deny that they have any ideas at all; and this I gather +is what Professor Max Müller in a quiet way rather wishes to do. +Thus he says, “It is easy enough to show that animals communicate, +but this is a fact which has never been doubted. Dogs who growl +and bark leave no doubt in the minds of other dogs or cats, or even +of man, of what they mean, but growling and barking are not language, +nor do they even contain the elements of language.” <a name="citation230"></a><a href="#footnote230">{230}</a></p> +<p>I observe the Professor says that animals communicate without saying +what it is that they communicate. I believe this to have been +because if he said that the lower animals communicate their ideas, this +would be to admit that they have ideas; if so, and if, as they present +every appearance of doing, they can remember, reflect upon, modify these +ideas according to modified surroundings, and interchange them with +one another, how is it possible to deny them the germs of thought, language, +and reason—not to say a good deal more than the germs? It +seems to me that not knowing what else to say that animals communicated +if it was not ideas, and not knowing what mess he might not get into +if he admitted that they had ideas at all, he thought it safer to omit +his accusative case altogether.</p> +<p>That growling and barking cannot be called a very highly specialized +language goes without saying; they are, however, so much diversified +in character, according to circumstances, that they place a considerable +number of symbols at an animal’s command, and he invariably attaches +the same symbol to the same idea. A cat never purrs when she is +angry, nor spits when she is pleased. When she rubs her head against +anyone affectionately it is her symbol for saying that she is very fond +of him, and she expects, and usually finds that it will be understood. +If she sees her mistress raise her hand as though to pretend to strike +her, she knows that it is the symbol her mistress invariably attaches +to the idea of sending her away, and as such she accepts it. Granted +that the symbols in use among the lower animals are fewer and less highly +differentiated than in the case of any known human language, and therefore +that animal language is incomparably less subtle and less capable of +expressing delicate shades of meaning than our own, these differences +are nevertheless only those that exist between highly developed and +inchoate language; they do not involve those that distinguish language +from no language. They are the differences between the undifferentiated +protoplasm of the amœba and our own complex organization; they +are not the differences between life and no life. In animal language +as much as in human there is a mind intentionally making use of a symbol +accepted by another mind as invariably attached to a certain idea, in +order to produce that idea in the mind which it is desired to affect—more +briefly, there is a sayer, a sayee, and a covenanted symbol designedly +applied. Our own speech is vertebrated and articulated by means +of nouns, verbs, and the rules of grammar. A dog’s speech +is invertebrate, but I do not see how it is possible to deny that it +possesses all the essential elements of language.</p> +<p>I have said nothing about Professor R. L. Garner’s researches +into the language of apes, because they have not yet been so far verified +and accepted as to make it safe to rely upon them; but when he lays +it down that all voluntary sounds are the products of thought, and that, +if they convey a meaning to another, they perform the functions of human +speech, he says what I believe will commend itself to any unsophisticated +mind. I could have wished, however, that he had not limited himself +to sounds, and should have preferred his saying what I doubt not he +would readily accept—I mean, that all symbols or tokens of whatever +kind, if voluntarily adopted as such, are the products of thought, and +perform the functions of human speech; but I cannot too often remind +you that nothing can be considered as fulfilling the conditions of language, +except a voluntary application of a recognized token in order to convey +a more or less definite meaning, with the intention doubtless of thus +purchasing as it were some other desired meaning and consequent sensation. +It is astonishing how closely in this respect money and words resemble +one another. Money indeed may be considered as the most universal +and expressive of all languages. For gold and silver coins are +no more money when not in the actual process of being voluntarily used +in purchase, than words not so in use are language. Pounds, shillings +and pence are recognized covenanted tokens, the outward and visible +signs of an inward and spiritual purchasing power, but till in actual +use they are only potential money, as the symbols of language, whatever +they may be, are only potential language till they are passing between +two minds. It is the power and will to apply the symbols that +alone gives life to money, and as long as these are in abeyance the +money is in abeyance also; the coins may be safe in one’s pocket, +but they are as dead as a log till they begin to burn in it, and so +are our words till they begin to burn within us.</p> +<p>The real question, however, as to the substantial underlying identity +between the language of the lower animals and our own, turns upon that +other question whether or no, in spite of an immeasurable difference +of degree, the thought and reason of man and of the lower animals is +essentially the same. No one will expect a dog to master and express +the varied ideas that are incessantly arising in connection with human +affairs. He is a pauper as against a millionaire. To ask +him to do so would be like giving a street-boy sixpence and telling +him to go and buy himself a founder’s share in the New River Company. +He would not even know what was meant, and even if he did it would take +several millions of sixpences to buy one.</p> +<p>It is astonishing what a clever workman will do with very modest +tools, or again how far a thrifty housewife will make a very small sum +of money go, or again in like manner how many ideas an intelligent brute +can receive and convey with its very limited vocabulary; but no one +will pretend that a dog’s intelligence can ever reach the level +of a man’s. What we do maintain is that, within its own +limited range, it is of the same essential character as our own, and +that though a dog’s ideas in respect of human affairs are both +vague and narrow, yet in respect of canine affairs they are precise +enough and extensive enough to deserve no other name than thought or +reason. We hold moreover that they communicate their ideas in +essentially the same manner as we do—that is to say, by the instrumentality +of a code of symbols attached to certain states of mind and material +objects, in the first instance arbitrarily, but so persistently, that +the presentation of the symbol immediately carries with it the idea +which it is intended to convey. Animals can thus receive and impart +ideas on all that most concerns them. As my great namesake said +some two hundred years ago, they know “what’s what, and +that’s as high as metaphysic wit can fly.” And they +not only know what’s what themselves, but can impart to one another +any new what’s-whatness that they may have acquired, for they +are notoriously able to instruct and correct one another.</p> +<p>Against this Professor Max Müller contends that we can know +nothing of what goes on in the mind of any lower animal, inasmuch as +we are not lower animals ourselves. “We can imagine anything +we like about what passes in the mind of an animal,” he writes, +“we can know absolutely nothing.” <a name="citation234"></a><a href="#footnote234">{234}</a> +It is something to have it in evidence that he conceives animals as +having a mind at all, but it is not easy to see how they can be supposed +to have a mind, without being able to acquire ideas, and having acquired, +to read, mark, learn and inwardly digest them. Surely the mistake +of requiring too much evidence is hardly less great than that of being +contented with too little. We, too, are animals, and can no more +refuse to infer reason from certain visible actions in their case than +we can in our own. If Professor Max Müller’s plea were +allowed, we should have to deny our right to infer confidently what +passes in the mind of anyone not ourselves, inasmuch as we are not that +person. We never, indeed, can obtain irrefragable certainty about +this or any other matter, but we can be sure enough in many cases to +warrant our staking all that is most precious to us on the soundness +of our opinion. Moreover, if the Professor denies our right to +infer that animals reason, on the ground that we are not animals enough +ourselves to be able to form an opinion, with what right does he infer +so confidently himself that they do not reason? And how, if they +present every one of those appearances which we are accustomed to connect +with the communication of an idea from one mind to another, can we deny +that they have a language of their own, though it is one which in most +cases we can neither speak nor understand? How can we say that +a sentinel rook, when it sees a man with a gun and warns the other rooks +by a concerted note which they all show that they understand by immediately +taking flight, should not be credited both with reason and the germs +of language?</p> +<p>After all, a professor, whether of philology, psychology, biology, +or any other ology, is hardly the kind of person to whom we should appeal +on such an elementary question as that of animal intelligence and language. +We might as well ask a botanist to tell us whether grass grows, or a +meteorologist to tell us if it has left off raining. If it is +necessary to appeal to anyone, I should prefer the opinion of an intelligent +gamekeeper to that of any professor, however learned. The keepers, +again, at the Zoological Gardens, have exceptional opportunities for +studying the minds of animals—modified, indeed, by captivity, +but still minds of animals. Grooms, again, and dog-fanciers, are +to the full as able to form an intelligent opinion on the reason and +language of animals as any University Professor, and so are cat’s-meat +men. I have repeatedly asked gamekeepers and keepers at the Zoological +Gardens whether animals could reason and converse with one another, +and have always found myself regarded somewhat contemptuously for having +even asked the question. I once said to a friend, in the hearing +of a keeper at the Zoological Gardens, that the penguin was very stupid. +The man was furious, and jumped upon me at once. “He’s +not stupid at all,” said he; “he’s very intelligent.”</p> +<p>Who has not seen a cat, when it wishes to go out, raise its fore +paws on to the handle of the door, or as near as it can get, and look +round, evidently asking someone to turn it for her? Is it reasonable +to deny that a reasoning process is going on in the cat’s mind, +whereby she connects her wish with the steps necessary for its fulfilment, +and also with certain invariable symbols which she knows her master +or mistress will interpret? Once, in company with a friend, I +watched a cat playing with a house-fly in the window of a ground-floor +room. We were in the street, while the cat was inside. When +we came up to the window she gave us one searching look, and, having +satisfied herself that we had nothing for her, went on with her game. +She knew all about the glass in the window, and was sure we could do +nothing to molest her, so she treated us with absolute contempt, never +even looking at us again.</p> +<p>The game was this. She was to catch the fly and roll it round +and round under her paw along the window-sill, but so gently as not +to injure it nor prevent it from being able to fly again when she had +done rolling it. It was very early spring, and flies were scarce, +in fact there was not another in the whole window. She knew that +if she crippled this one, it would not be able to amuse her further, +and that she would not readily get another instead, and she liked the +feel of it under her paw. It was soft and living, and the quivering +of its wings tickled the ball of her foot in a manner that she found +particularly grateful; so she rolled it gently along the whole length +of the window-sill. It then became the fly’s turn. +He was to get up and fly about in the window, so as to recover himself +a little; then she was to catch him again, and roll him softly all along +the window-sill, as she had done before.</p> +<p>It was plain that the cat knew the rules of her game perfectly well, +and enjoyed it keenly. It was equally plain that the fly could +not make head or tail of what it was all about. If it had been +able to do so it would have gone to play in the upper part of the window, +where the cat could not reach it. Perhaps it was always hoping +to get through the glass, and escape that way; anyhow, it kept pretty +much to the same pane, no matter how often it was rolled. At last, +however, the fly, for some reason or another, did not reappear on the +pane, and the cat began looking everywhere to find it. Her annoyance +when she failed to do so was extreme. It was not only that she +had lost her fly, but that she could not conceive how she should have +ever come to do so. Presently she noted a small knot in the woodwork +of the sill, and it flashed upon her that she had accidentally killed +the fly, and that this was its dead body. She tried to move it +gently with her paw, but it was no use, and for the time she satisfied +herself that the knot and the fly had nothing to do with one another. +Every now and then, however, she returned to it as though it were the +only thing she could think of, and she would try it again. She +seemed to say she was certain there had been no knot there before—she +must have seen it if there had been; and yet, the fly could hardly have +got jammed so firmly into the wood. She was puzzled and irritated +beyond measure, and kept looking in the same place again and again, +just as we do when we have mislaid something. She was rapidly +losing temper and dignity when suddenly we saw the fly reappear from +under the cat’s stomach and make for the window-pane, at the very +moment when the cat herself was exclaiming for the fiftieth time that +she wondered where that stupid fly ever could have got to. No +man who has been hunting twenty minutes for his spectacles could be +more delighted when he suddenly finds them on his own forehead. +“So that’s where you were,” we seemed to hear her +say, as she proceeded to catch it, and again began rolling it very softly +without hurting it, under her paw.</p> +<p>My friend and I both noticed that the cat, in spite of her perplexity, +never so much as hinted that we were the culprits. The question +whether anything outside the window could do her good or harm had long +since been settled by her in the negative, and she was not going to +reopen it; she simply cut us dead, and though her annoyance was so great +that she was manifestly ready to lay the blame on anybody or anything +with or without reason, and though she must have perfectly well known +that we were watching the whole affair with amusement, she never either +asked us if we had happened to see such a thing as a fly go down our +way lately, or accused us of having taken it from her—both of +which ideas she would, I am confident, have been very well able to convey +to us if she had been so minded.</p> +<p>Now what are thought and reason if the processes that were going +through this cat’s mind were not both one and the other? +It would be childish to suppose that the cat thought in words of its +own, or in anything like words. Its thinking was probably conducted +through the instrumentality of a series of mental images. We so +habitually think in words ourselves that we find it difficult to realize +thought without words at all; our difficulty, however, in imagining +the particular manner in which the cat thinks has nothing to do with +the matter. We must answer the question whether she thinks or +no, not according to our own ease or difficulty in understanding the +particular manner of her thinking, but according as her action does +or does not appear to be of the same character as other action that +we commonly call thoughtful. To say that the cat is not intelligent, +merely on the ground that we cannot ourselves fathom her intelligence—this, +as I have elsewhere said, is to make intelligence mean the power of +being understood, rather than the power of understanding. This +nevertheless is what, for all our boasted intelligence, we generally +do. The more we can understand an animal’s ways, the more +intelligent we call it, and the less we can understand these, the more +stupid do we declare it to be. As for plants—whose punctuality +and attention to all the details and routine of their somewhat restricted +lines of business is as obvious as it is beyond all praise—we +understand the working of their minds so little that by common consent +we declare them to have no intelligence at all.</p> +<p>Before concluding I should wish to deal a little more fully with +Professor Max Müller’s contention that there can be no reason +without language, and no language without reason. Surely when +two practised pugilists are fighting, parrying each other’s blows, +and watching keenly for an unguarded point, they are thinking and reasoning +very subtly the whole time, without doing so in words. The machination +of their thoughts, as well as its expression, is actual—I mean, +effectuated and expressed by action and deed, not words. They +are unaware of any logical sequence of thought that they could follow +in words as passing through their minds at all. They may perhaps +think consciously in words now and again, but such thought will be intermittent, +and the main part of the fighting will be done without any internal +concomitance of articulated phrases. Yet we cannot doubt that +their action, however much we may disapprove of it, is guided by intelligence +and reason; nor should we doubt that a reasoning process of the same +character goes on in the minds of two dogs or fighting-cocks when they +are striving to master their opponents.</p> +<p>Do we think in words, again, when we wind up our watches, put on +our clothes, or eat our breakfasts? If we do, it is generally +about something else. We do these things almost as much without +the help of words as we wink or yawn, or perform any of those other +actions that we call reflex, as it would almost seem because they are +done without reflection. They are not, however, the less reasonable +because wordless.</p> +<p>Even when we think we are thinking in words, we do so only in half +measure. A running accompaniment of words no doubt frequently +attends our thoughts; but, unless we are writing or speaking, this accompaniment +is of the vaguest and most fitful kind, as we often find out when we +try to write down or say what we are thinking about, though we have +a fairly definite notion of it, or fancy that we have one, all the time. +The thought is not steadily and coherently governed by and moulded in +words, nor does it steadily govern them. Words and thought interact +upon and help one another, as any other mechanical appliances interact +on and help the invention that first hit upon them; but reason or thought, +for the most part, flies along over the heads of words, working its +own mysterious way in paths that are beyond our ken, though whether +some of our departmental personalities are as unconscious of what is +passing, as that central government is which we alone dub with the name +of “we” or “us,” is a point on which I will +not now touch.</p> +<p>I cannot think, then, that Professor Max Müller’s contention +that thought and language are identical—and he has repeatedly +affirmed this—will ever be generally accepted. Thought is +no more identical with language than feeling is identical with the nervous +system. True, we can no more feel without a nervous system than +we can discern certain minute organisms without a microscope. +Destroy the nervous system, and we destroy feeling. Destroy the +microscope, and we can no longer see the animalcules; but our sight +of the animalcules is not the microscope, though it is effectuated by +means of the microscope, and our feeling is not the nervous system, +though the nervous system is the instrument that enables us to feel.</p> +<p>The nervous system is a device which living beings have gradually +perfected—I believe I may say quite truly—through the will +and power which they have derived from a fountain-head, the existence +of which we can infer, but which we can never apprehend. By the +help of this device, and in proportion as they have perfected it, living +beings feel ever with great definiteness, and hence formulate their +feelings in thought with more and more precision. The higher evolution +of thought has reacted on the nervous system, and the consequent higher +evolution of the nervous system has again reacted upon thought. +These things are as power and desire, or supply and demand, each one +of which is continually outstripping, and being in turn outstripped +by the other; but, in spite of their close connection and interaction, +power is not desire, nor demand supply. Language is a device evolved +sometimes by leaps and bounds, and sometimes exceedingly slowly, whereby +we help ourselves alike to greater ease, precision, and complexity of +thought, and also to more convenient interchange of thought among ourselves. +Thought found rude expression, which gradually among other forms assumed +that of words. These reacted upon thought, and thought again on +them, but thought is no more identical with words than words are with +the separate letters of which they are composed.</p> +<p>To sum up, then, and to conclude. I would ask you to see the +connection between words and ideas as in the first instance arbitrary. +No doubt in some cases an imitation of the cry of some bird or wild +beast would suggest the name that should be attached to it; occasionally +the sound of an operation such as grinding may have influenced the choice +of the letters g, r, as the root of many words that denote a grinding, +grating, grasping, crushing action; but I understand that the number +of words due to direct imitation is comparatively few in number, and +that they have been mainly coined as the result of connections so far-fetched +and fanciful as to amount practically to no connection at all. +Once chosen, however, they were adhered to for a considerable time among +the dwellers in any given place, so as to become acknowledged as the +vulgar tongue, and raise readily in the mind of the inhabitants of that +place the ideas with which they had been artificially associated.</p> +<p>As regards our being able to think and reason without words, the +Duke of Argyll has put the matter as soundly as I have yet seen it stated. +“It seems to me,” he wrote, “quite certain that we +can and do constantly think of things without thinking of any sound +or word as designating them. Language seems to me to be necessary +for the progress of thought, but not at all for the mere act of thinking. +It is a product of thought, an expression of it, a vehicle for the communication +of it, and an embodiment which is essential to its growth and continuity; +but it seems to me altogether erroneous to regard it as an inseparable +part of cogitation.”</p> +<p>The following passages, again, are quoted from Sir William Hamilton +in Professor Max Müller’s own book, with so much approval +as to lead one to suppose that the differences between himself and his +opponents are in reality less than he believes them to be.</p> +<p>“Language,” says Sir W. Hamilton, “is the attribution +of signs to our cognitions of things. But as a cognition must +have already been there before it could receive a sign, consequently +that knowledge which is denoted by the formation and application of +a word must have preceded the symbol that denotes it. A sign, +however, is necessary to give stability to our intellectual progress—to +establish each step in our advance as a new starting-point for our advance +to another beyond. A country may be overrun by an armed host, +but it is only conquered by the establishment of fortresses. Words +are the fortresses of thought. They enable us to realize our dominion +over what we have already overrun in thought; to make every intellectual +conquest the base of operations for others still beyond.”</p> +<p>“This,” says Professor Max Müller, “is a most +happy illustration,” and he proceeds to quote the following, also +from Sir William Hamilton, which he declares to be even happier still.</p> +<p>“You have all heard,” says Sir William Hamilton, “of +the process of tunnelling through a sandbank. In this operation +it is impossible to succeed unless every foot, nay, almost every inch +of our progress be secured by an arch of masonry before we attempted +the excavation of another. Now language is to the mind precisely +what the arch is to the tunnel. The power of thinking and the +power of excavation are not dependent on the words in the one case or +on the mason-work in the other; but without these subsidiaries neither +could be carried on beyond its rudimentary commencement. Though, +therefore, we allow that every movement forward in language must be +determined by an antecedent movement forward in thought, still, unless +thought be accompanied at each point of its evolutions by a corresponding +evolution of language, its further development is arrested.”</p> +<p>Man has evolved an articulate language, whereas the lower animals +seem to be without one. Man, therefore, has far outstripped them +in reasoning faculty as well as in power of expression. This, +however, does not bar the communications which the lower animals make +to one another from possessing all the essential characteristics of +language, and, as a matter of fact, wherever we can follow them we find +such communications effectuated by the aid of arbitrary symbols covenanted +upon by the living beings that wish to communicate, and persistently +associated with certain corresponding feelings, states of mind, or material +objects. Human language is nothing more than this in principle, +however much further the principle has been carried in our own case +than in that of the lower animals.</p> +<p>This being admitted, we should infer that the thought or reason on +which the language of men and animals is alike founded differs as between +men and brutes in degree but not in kind. More than this cannot +be claimed on behalf of the lower animals, even by their most enthusiastic +admirer.</p> +<h2>The Deadlock in Darwinism: Part I <a name="citation245"></a><a href="#footnote245">{245}</a></h2> +<p>It will be readily admitted that of all living writers Mr. Alfred +Russel Wallace is the one the peculiar turn of whose mind best fits +him to write on the subject of natural selection, or the accumulation +of fortunate but accidental variations through descent and the struggle +for existence. His mind in all its more essential characteristics +closely resembles that of the late Mr. Charles Darwin himself, and it +is no doubt due to this fact that he and Mr. Darwin elaborated their +famous theory at the same time, and independently of one another. +I shall have occasion in the course of the following article to show +how misled and misleading both these distinguished men have been, in +spite of their unquestionable familiarity with the whole range of animal +and vegetable phenomena. I believe it will be more respectful +to both of them to do this in the most outspoken way. I believe +their work to have been as mischievous as it has been valuable, and +as valuable as it has been mischievous; and higher, whether praise or +blame, I know not how to give. Nevertheless I would in the outset, +and with the utmost sincerity, admit concerning Messrs. Wallace and +Darwin that neither can be held as the more profound and conscientious +thinker; neither can be put forward as the more ready to acknowledge +obligation to the great writers on evolution who had preceded him, or +to place his own developments in closer and more conspicuous historical +connection with earlier thought upon the subject; neither is the more +ready to welcome criticism and to state his opponent’s case in +the most pointed and telling way in which it can be put; neither is +the more quick to encourage new truth; neither is the more genial, generous +adversary, or has the profounder horror of anything even approaching +literary or scientific want of candour; both display the same inimitable +power of putting their opinions forward in the way that shall best ensure +their acceptance; both are equally unrivalled in the tact that tells +them when silence will be golden, and when on the other hand a whole +volume of facts may be advantageously brought forward. Less than +the foregoing tribute both to Messrs. Darwin and Wallace I will not, +and more I cannot pay.</p> +<p>Let us now turn to the most authoritative exponent of latter-day +evolution—I mean to Mr. Wallace, whose work, entitled <i>Darwinism</i>, +though it should have been entitled <i>Wallaceism</i>, is still so far +Darwinistic that it develops the teaching of Mr. Darwin in the direction +given to it by Mr. Darwin himself—so far, indeed, as this can +be ascertained at all—and not in that of Lamarck. Mr. Wallace +tells us, on the first page of his preface, that he has no intention +of dealing even in outline with the vast subject of evolution in general, +and has only tried to give such an account of the theory of natural +selection as may facilitate a clear conception of Darwin’s work. +How far he has succeeded is a point on which opinion will probably be +divided. Those who find Mr. Darwin’s works clear will also +find no difficulty in understanding Mr. Wallace; those, on the other +hand, who find Mr. Darwin puzzling are little likely to be less puzzled +by Mr. Wallace. He continues:—</p> +<p>“The objections now made to Darwin’s theory apply solely +to the particular means by which the change of species has been brought +about, not to the fact of that change.”</p> +<p>But “Darwin’s theory”—as Mr. Wallace has +elsewhere proved that he understands—has no reference “to +the fact of that change”—that is to say, to the fact that +species have been modified in course of descent from other species. +This is no more Mr. Darwin’s theory than it is the reader’s +or my own. Darwin’s theory is concerned only with “the +particular means by which the change of species has been brought about”; +his contention being that this is mainly due to the natural survival +of those individuals that have happened by some accident to be born +most favourably adapted to their surroundings, or, in other words, through +accumulation in the common course of nature of the more lucky variations +that chance occasionally purveys. Mr. Wallace’s words, then, +in reality amount to this, that the objections now made to Darwin’s +theory apply solely to Darwin’s theory, which is all very well +as far as it goes, but might have been more easily apprehended if he +had simply said, “There are several objections now made to Mr. +Darwin’s theory.”</p> +<p>It must be remembered that the passage quoted above occurs on the +first page of a preface dated March, 1889, when the writer had completed +his task, and was most fully conversant with his subject. Nevertheless, +it seems indisputable either that he is still confusing evolution with +Mr. Darwin’s theory, or that he does not know when his sentences +have point and when they have none.</p> +<p>I should perhaps explain to some readers that Mr. Darwin did not +modify the main theory put forward, first by Buffon, to whom it indisputably +belongs, and adopted from him by Erasmus Darwin, Lamarck, and many other +writers in the latter half of the eighteenth century and the earlier +years of the nineteenth. The early evolutionists maintained that +all existing forms of animal and vegetable life, including man, were +derived in course of descent with modification from forms resembling +the lowest now known.</p> +<p>Mr. Darwin went as far as this, and farther no one can go. +The point at issue between him and his predecessors involves neither +the main fact of evolution, nor yet the geometrical ratio of increase, +and the struggle for existence consequent thereon. Messrs. Darwin +and Wallace have each thrown invaluable light upon these last two points, +but Buffon, as early as 1756, had made them the keystone of his system. +“The movement of nature,” he then wrote, “turns on +two immovable pivots: one, the illimitable fecundity which she has given +to all species: the other, the innumerable difficulties which reduce +the results of that fecundity.” Erasmus Darwin and Lamarck +followed in the same sense. They thus admit the survival of the +fittest as fully as Mr. Darwin himself, though they do not make use +of this particular expression. The dispute turns not upon natural +selection, which is common to all writers on evolution, but upon the +nature and causes of the variations that are supposed to be selected +from and thus accumulated. Are these mainly attributable to the +inherited effects of use and disuse, supplemented by occasional sports +and happy accidents? Or are they mainly due to sports and happy +accidents, supplemented by occasional inherited effects of use and disuse?</p> +<p>The Lamarckian system has all along been maintained by Mr. Herbert +Spencer, who, in his <i>Principles of Biology</i>, published in 1865, +showed how impossible it was that accidental variations should accumulate +at all. I am not sure how far Mr. Spencer would consent to being +called a Lamarckian pure and simple, nor yet how far it is strictly +accurate to call him one; nevertheless, I can see no important difference +in the main positions taken by him and by Lamarck.</p> +<p>The question at issue between the Lamarckians, supported by Mr. Spencer +and a growing band of those who have risen in rebellion against the +Charles-Darwinian system on the one hand, and Messrs. Darwin and Wallace +with the greater number of our more prominent biologists on the other, +involves the very existence of evolution as a workable theory. +For it is plain that what Nature can be supposed able to do by way of +choice must depend on the supply of the variations from which she is +supposed to choose. She cannot take what is not offered to her; +and so again she cannot be supposed able to accumulate unless what is +gained in one direction in one generation, or series of generations, +is little likely to be lost in those that presently succeed. Now +variations ascribed mainly to use and disuse can be supposed capable +of being accumulated, for use and disuse are fairly constant for long +periods among the individuals of the same species, and often over large +areas; moreover, conditions of existence involving changes of habit, +and thus of organization, come for the most part gradually; so that +time is given during which the organism can endeavour to adapt itself +in the requisite respects, instead of being shocked out of existence +by too sudden change. Variations, on the other hand, that are +ascribed to mere chance cannot be supposed as likely to be accumulated, +for chance is notoriously inconstant, and would not purvey the variations +in sufficiently unbroken succession, or in a sufficient number of individuals, +modified similarly in all the necessary correlations at the same time +and place to admit of their being accumulated. It is vital therefore +to the theory of evolution, as was early pointed out by the late Professor +Fleeming Jenkin and by Mr. Herbert Spencer, that variations should be +supposed to have a definite and persistent principle underlying them, +which shall tend to engender similar and simultaneous modification, +however small, in the vast majority of individuals composing any species. +The existence of such a principle and its permanence is the only thing +that can be supposed capable of acting as rudder and compass to the +accumulation of variations, and of making it hold steadily on one course +for each species, till eventually many havens, far remote from one another, +are safely reached.</p> +<p>It is obvious that the having fatally impaired the theory of his +predecessors could not warrant Mr. Darwin in claiming, as he most fatuously +did, the theory of evolution. That he is still generally believed +to have been the originator of this theory is due to the fact that he +claimed it, and that a powerful literary backing at once came forward +to support him. It seems at first sight improbable that those +who too zealously urged his claims were unaware that so much had been +written on the subject, but when we find even Mr. Wallace himself as +profoundly ignorant on this subject as he still either is, or affects +to be, there is no limit assignable to the ignorance or affected ignorance +of the kind of biologists who would write reviews in leading journals +thirty years ago. Mr. Wallace writes:—</p> +<p>“A few great naturalists, struck by the very slight difference +between many of these species, and the numerous links that exist between +the most different forms of animals and plants, and also observing that +a great many species do vary considerably in their forms, colours and +habits, conceived the idea that they might be all produced one from +the other. The most eminent of these writers was a great French +naturalist, Lamarck, who published an elaborate work, the <i>Philosophie +Zoologique</i>, in which he endeavoured to prove that all animals whatever +are descended from other species of animals. He attributed the +change of species chiefly to the effect of changes in the conditions +of life—such as climate, food, etc.; and especially to the desires +and efforts of the animals themselves to improve their condition, leading +to a modification of form or size in certain parts, owing to the well-known +physiological law that all organs are strengthened by constant use, +while they are weakened or even completely lost by disuse. . . .</p> +<p>“The only other important work dealing with the question was +the celebrated <i>Vestiges of Creation</i>, published anonymously, but +now acknowledged to have been written by the late Robert Chambers.”</p> +<p>None are so blind as those who will not see, and it would be waste +of time to argue with the invincible ignorance of one who thinks Lamarck +and Buffon conceived that all species were produced from one another, +more especially as I have already dealt at some length with the early +evolutionists in my work <i>Evolution</i>, <i>Old and New</i>, first +published ten years ago, and not, so far as I am aware, detected in +serious error or omission. If, however, Mr. Wallace still thinks +it safe to presume so far on the ignorance of his readers as to say +that the only two important works on evolution before Mr. Darwin’s +were Lamarck’s <i>Philosophie Zoologique</i> and the <i>Vestiges +of Creation</i>, how fathomable is the ignorance of the average reviewer +likely to have been thirty years ago, when the <i>Origin of Species</i> +was first published? Mr. Darwin claimed evolution as his own theory. +Of course, he would not claim it if he had no right to it. Then +by all means give him the credit of it. This was the most natural +view to take, and it was generally taken. It was not, moreover, +surprising that people failed to appreciate all the niceties of Mr. +Darwin’s “distinctive feature” which, whether distinctive +or no, was assuredly not distinct, and was never frankly contrasted +with the older view, as it would have been by one who wished it to be +understood and judged upon its merits. It was in consequence of +this omission that people failed to note how fast and loose Mr. Darwin +played with his distinctive feature, and how readily he dropped it on +occasion.</p> +<p>It may be said that the question of what was thought by the predecessors +of Mr. Darwin is, after all, personal, and of no interest to the general +public, comparable to that of the main issue—whether we are to +accept evolution or not. Granted that Buff on, Erasmus Darwin, +and Lamarck bore the burden and heat of the day before Mr. Charles Darwin +was born, they did not bring people round to their opinion, whereas +Mr. Darwin and Mr. Wallace did, and the public cannot be expected to +look beyond this broad and indisputable fact.</p> +<p>The answer to this is, that the theory which Messrs. Darwin and Wallace +have persuaded the public to accept is demonstrably false, and that +the opponents of evolution are certain in the end to triumph over it. +Paley, in his <i>Natural Theology</i>, long since brought forward far +too much evidence of design in animal organization to allow of our setting +down its marvels to the accumulation of fortunate accident, undirected +by will, effort and intelligence. Those who examine the main facts +of animal and vegetable organization without bias will, no doubt, ere +long conclude that all animals and vegetables are derived ultimately +from unicellular organisms, but they will not less readily perceive +that the evolution of species without the concomitance and direction +of mind and effort is as inconceivable as is the independent creation +of every individual species. The two facts, evolution and design, +are equally patent to plain people. There is no escaping from +either. According to Messrs. Darwin and Wallace, we may have evolution, +but are on no account to have it as mainly due to intelligent effort, +guided by ever higher and higher range of sensations, perceptions, and +ideas. We are to set it down to the shuffling of cards, or the +throwing of dice without the play, and this will never stand.</p> +<p>According to the older men, cards did indeed count for much, but +play counted for more. They denied the teleology of the time—that +is to say, the teleology that saw all adaptation to surroundings as +part of a plan devised long ages since by a quasi-anthropomorphic being +who schemed everything out much as a man would do, but on an infinitely +vaster scale. This conception they found repugnant alike to intelligence +and conscience, but, though they do not seem to have perceived it, they +left the door open for a design more true and more demonstrable than +that which they excluded. By making their variations mainly due +to effort and intelligence, they made organic development run on all-fours +with human progress, and with inventions which we have watched growing +up from small beginnings. They made the development of man from +the amoeba part and parcel of the story that may be read, though on +an infinitely smaller scale, in the development of our most powerful +marine engines from the common kettle, or of our finest microscopes +from the dew-drop.</p> +<p>The development of the steam-engine and the microscope is due to +intelligence and design, which did indeed utilize chance suggestions, +but which improved on these, and directed each step of their accumulation, +though never foreseeing more than a step or two ahead, and often not +so much as this. The fact, as I have elsewhere urged, that the +man who made the first kettle did not foresee the engines of the <i>Great +Eastern</i>, or that he who first noted the magnifying power of the +dew-drop had no conception of our present microscopes—the very +limited amount, in fact, of design and intelligence that was called +into play at any one point—this does not make us deny that the +steam-engine and microscope owe their development to design. If +each step of the road was designed, the whole journey was designed, +though the particular end was not designed when the journey was begun. +And so is it, according to the older view of evolution, with the development +of those living organs, or machines, that are born with us, as part +of the perambulating carpenter’s chest we call our bodies. +The older view gives us our design, and gives us our evolution too. +If it refuses to see a quasi-anthropomorphic God modelling each species +from without as a potter models clay, it gives us God as vivifying and +indwelling in all His creatures—He in them, and they in Him. +If it refuses to see God outside the universe, it equally refuses to +see any part of the universe as outside God. If it makes the universe +the body of God, it also makes God the soul of the universe. The +question at issue, then, between the Darwinism of Erasmus Darwin and +the neo-Darwinism of his grandson, is not a personal one, nor anything +like a personal one. It not only involves the existence of evolution, +but it affects the view we take of life and things in an endless variety +of most interesting and important ways. It is imperative, therefore, +on those who take any interest in these matters, to place side by side +in the clearest contrast the views of those who refer the evolution +of species mainly to accumulation of variations that have no other inception +than chance, and of that older school which makes design perceive and +develop still further the goods that chance provides.</p> +<p>But over and above this, which would be in itself sufficient, the +historical mode of studying any question is the only one which will +enable us to comprehend it effectually. The personal element cannot +be eliminated from the consideration of works written by living persons +for living persons. We want to know who is who—whom we can +depend upon to have no other end than the making things clear to himself +and his readers, and whom we should mistrust as having an ulterior aim +on which he is more intent than on the furthering of our better understanding. +We want to know who is doing his best to help us, and who is only trying +to make us help him, or to bolster up the system in which his interests +are vested. There is nothing that will throw more light upon these +points than the way in which a man behaves towards those who have worked +in the same field with himself, and, again, than his style. A +man’s style, as Buffon long since said, is the man himself. +By style, I do not, of course, mean grammar or rhetoric, but that style +of which Buffon again said that it is like happiness, and <i>vient de +la douceur de l’âme</i>. When we find a man concealing +worse than nullity of meaning under sentences that sound plausibly enough, +we should distrust him much as we should a fellow-traveller whom we +caught trying to steal our watch. We often cannot judge of the +truth or falsehood of facts for ourselves, but we most of us know enough +of human nature to be able to tell a good witness from a bad one.</p> +<p>However this may be, and whatever we may think of judging systems +by the directness or indirectness of those who advance them, biologists, +having committed themselves too rashly, would have been more than human +if they had not shown some pique towards those who dared to say, first, +that the theory of Messrs. Darwin and Wallace was unworkable; and secondly, +that even though it were workable it would not justify either of them +in claiming evolution. When biologists show pique at all they +generally show a good deal of pique, but pique or no pique, they shunned +Mr. Spencer’s objection above referred to with a persistency more +unanimous and obstinate than I ever remember to have seen displayed +even by professional truth-seekers. I find no rejoinder to it +from Mr. Darwin himself, between 1865 when it was first put forward, +and 1882 when Mr. Darwin died. It has been similarly “ostrichized” +by all the leading apologists of Darwinism, so far at least as I have +been able to observe, and I have followed the matter closely for many +years. Mr. Spencer has repeated and amplified it in his recent +work <i>The Factors of Organic Evolution</i>, but it still remains without +so much as an attempt at serious answer, for the perfunctory and illusory +remarks of Mr. Wallace at the end of his <i>Darwinism</i> cannot be +counted as such. The best proof of its irresistible weight is +that Mr. Darwin, though maintaining silence in respect to it, retreated +from his original position in the direction that would most obviate +Mr. Spencer’s objection.</p> +<p>Yet this objection has been repeatedly urged by the more prominent +anti-Charles-Darwinian authorities, and there is no sign that the British +public is becoming less rigorous in requiring people either to reply +to objections repeatedly urged by men of even moderate weight, or to +let judgment go by default. As regards Mr. Darwin’s claim +to the theory of evolution generally, Darwinians are beginning now to +perceive that this cannot be admitted, and either say with some hardihood +that Mr. Darwin never claimed it, or after a few saving clauses to the +effect that this theory refers only to the particular means by which +evolution has been brought about, imply forthwith thereafter none the +less that evolution is Mr. Darwin’s theory. Mr. Wallace +has done this repeatedly in his recent <i>Darwinism</i>. Indeed, +I should be by no means sure that on the first page of his preface, +in the passage about “Darwin’s theory,” which I have +already somewhat severely criticized, he was not intending evolution +by “Darwin’s theory,” if in his preceding paragraph +he had not so clearly shown that he knew evolution to be a theory of +greatly older date than Mr. Darwin’s.</p> +<p>The history of science—well exemplified by that of the development +theory—is the history of eminent men who have fought against light +and have been worsted. The tenacity with which Darwinians stick +to their accumulation of fortuitous variations is on a par with the +like tenacity shown by the illustrious Cuvier, who did his best to crush +evolution altogether. It always has been thus, and always will +be; nor is it desirable in the interests of Truth herself that it should +be otherwise. Truth is like money—lightly come, lightly +go; and if she cannot hold her own against even gross misrepresentation, +she is herself not worth holding. Misrepresentation in the long +run makes Truth as much as it mars her; hence our law courts do not +think it desirable that pleaders should speak their <i>bona fide</i> +opinions, much less that they should profess to do so. Rather +let each side hoodwink judge and jury as best it can, and let truth +flash out from collision of defence and accusation. When either +side will not collide, it is an axiom of controversy that it desires +to prevent the truth from being elicited.</p> +<p>Let us now note the courses forced upon biologists by the difficulties +of Mr. Darwin’s distinctive feature. Mr. Darwin and Mr. +Wallace, as is well known, brought the feature forward simultaneously +and independently of one another, but Mr. Wallace always believed in +it more firmly than Mr. Darwin did. Mr. Darwin as a young man +did not believe in it. He wrote before 1839, “Nature, by +making habit omnipotent and its effects hereditary, has fitted the Fuegian +for the climate and productions of his country,” <a name="citation259a"></a><a href="#footnote259a">{259a}</a> +a sentence than which nothing can coincide more fully with the older +view that use and disuse were the main purveyors of variations, or conflict +more fatally with his own subsequent distinctive feature. Moreover, +as I showed in my last work on evolution, <a name="citation259b"></a><a href="#footnote259b">{259b}</a> +in the peroration to his <i>Origin of Species</i>, he discarded his +accidental variations altogether, and fell back on the older theory, +so that the body of the <i>Origin of Species</i> supports one theory, +and the peroration another that differs from it <i>toto cœlo</i>. +Finally, in his later editions, he retreated indefinitely from his original +position, edging always more and more continually towards the theory +of his grandfather and Lamarck. These facts convince me that he +was at no time a thoroughgoing Darwinian, but was throughout an unconscious +Lamarckian, though ever anxious to conceal the fact alike from himself +and from his readers.</p> +<p>Not so with Mr. Wallace, who was both more outspoken in the first +instance, and who has persevered along the path of Wallaceism just as +Mr. Darwin with greater sagacity was ever on the retreat from Darwinism. +Mr. Wallace’s profounder faith led him in the outset to place +his theory in fuller daylight than Mr. Darwin was inclined to do. +Mr. Darwin just waved Lamarck aside, and said as little about him as +he could, while in his earlier editions Erasmus Darwin and Buffon were +not so much as named. Mr. Wallace, on the contrary, at once raised +the Lamarckian spectre, and declared it exorcized. He said the +Lamarckian hypothesis was “quite unnecessary.” The +giraffe did not “acquire its long neck by desiring to reach the +foliage of the more lofty shrubs, and constantly stretching its neck +for this purpose, but because any varieties which occurred among its +antitypes with a longer neck than usual at once secured a fresh range +of pasture over the same ground as their shorter-necked companions, +and on the first scarcity of food were thus enabled to outlive them.” +<a name="citation260"></a><a href="#footnote260">{260}</a></p> +<p>“Which occurred” is evidently “which happened to +occur” by some chance of accident unconnected with use and disuse. +The word “accident” is never used, but Mr. Wallace must +be credited with this instance of a desire to give his readers a chance +of perceiving that according to his distinctive feature evolution is +an affair of luck, rather than of cunning. Whether his readers +actually did understand this as clearly as Mr. Wallace doubtless desired +that they should, and whether greater development at this point would +not have helped them to fuller apprehension, we need not now inquire. +What was gained in distinctness might have been lost in distinctiveness, +and after all he did technically put us upon our guard.</p> +<p>Nevertheless, he too at a pinch takes refuge in Lamarckism. +In relation to the manner in which the eyes of soles, turbots, and other +flat-fish travel round the head so as to become in the end unsymmetrically +placed, he says:—</p> +<p>“The eyes of these fish are curiously distorted in order that +both eyes may be upon the upper side, where alone they would be of any +use. . . . Now if we suppose this process, which in the young +is completed in a few days or weeks, to have been spread over thousands +of generations during the development of these fish, those usually surviving +<i>whose eyes retained more and more of the position into which the +young fish tried to twist them</i> [italics mine], the change becomes +intelligible.” <a name="citation261"></a><a href="#footnote261">{261}</a> +When it was said by Professor Ray Lankester—who knows as well +as most people what Lamarck taught—that this was “flat Lamarckism,” +Mr. Wallace rejoined that it was the survival of the modified individuals +that did it all, not the efforts of the young fish to twist their eyes, +and the transmission to descendants of the effects of those efforts. +But this, as I said in my book <i>Evolution</i>, <i>Old and New</i>, +is like saying that horses are swift runners, not by reason of the causes, +whatever they were, that occasioned the direct line of their progenitors +to vary towards ever greater and greater swiftness, but because their +more slow-going uncles and aunts go away. Plain people will prefer +to say that the main cause of any accumulation of favourable modifications +consists rather in that which brings about the initial variations, and +in the fact that these can be inherited at all, than in the fact that +the unmodified individuals were not successful. People do not +become rich because the poor in large numbers go away, but because they +have been lucky, or provident, or more commonly both. If they +would keep their wealth when they have made it they must exclude luck +thenceforth to the utmost of their power and their children must follow +their example, or they will soon lose their money. The fact that +the weaker go to the wall does not bring about the greater strength +of the stronger; it is the consequence of this last and not the cause—unless, +indeed, it be contended that a knowledge that the weak go to the wall +stimulates the strong to exertions which they would not otherwise so +make, and that these exertions produce inheritable modifications. +Even in this case, however, it would be the exertions, or use and disuse, +that would be the main agents in the modification. But it is not +often that Mr. Wallace thus backslides. His present position is +that acquired (as distinguished from congenital) modifications are not +inherited at all. He does not indeed put his faith prominently +forward and pin himself to it as plainly as could be wished, but under +the heading “The Non-Heredity of Acquired Characters,” he +writes as follows on p. 440 of his recent work in reference to Professor +Weismann’s Theory of Heredity:—</p> +<p>“Certain observations on the embryology of the lower animals +are held to afford direct proof of this theory of heredity, but they +are too technical to be made clear to ordinary readers. A logical +result of the theory is the impossibility of the transmission of acquired +characters, since the molecular structure of the germ-plasm is already +determined within the embryo; and Weismann holds that there are no facts +which really prove that acquired characters can be inherited, although +their inheritance has, by most writers, been considered so probable +as hardly to stand in need of direct proof.</p> +<p>“We have already seen in the earlier part of this chapter that +many instances of change, imputed to the inheritance of acquired variations, +are really cases of selection.”</p> +<p>And the rest of the remarks tend to convey the impression that Mr. +Wallace adopts Professor Weismann’s view, but, curiously enough, +though I have gone through Mr. Wallace’s book with a special view +to this particular point, I have not been able to find him definitely +committing himself either to the assertion that acquired modifications +never are inherited, or that they sometimes are so. It is abundantly +laid down that Mr. Darwin laid too much stress on use and disuse, and +a residuary impression is left that Mr. Wallace is endorsing Professor +Weismann’s view, but I have found it impossible to collect anything +that enables me to define his position confidently in this respect.</p> +<p>This is natural enough, for Mr. Wallace has entitled his book <i>Darwinism</i>, +and a work denying that use and disuse produced any effect could not +conceivably be called Darwinism. Mr. Herbert Spencer has recently +collected many passages from <i>The Origin of Species</i> and from <i>Animals +and Plants under Domestication</i>,” <a name="citation263"></a><a href="#footnote263">{263}</a> +which show how largely, after all, use and disuse entered into Mr. Darwin’s +system, and we know that in his later years he attached still more importance +to them. It was out of the question, therefore, that Mr. Wallace +should categorically deny that their effects were inheritable. +On the other hand, the temptation to adopt Professor Weismann’s +view must have been overwhelming to one who had been already inclined +to minimize the effects of use and disuse. On the whole, one does +not see what Mr. Wallace could do, other than what he has done—unless, +of course, he changed his title, or had been no longer Mr. Wallace.</p> +<p>Besides, thanks to the works of Mr. Spencer, Professor Mivart, Professor +Semper, and very many others, there has for some time been a growing +perception that the Darwinism of Charles Darwin was doomed. Use +and disuse must either do even more than is officially recognized in +Mr. Darwin’s later concessions, or they must do a great deal less. +If they can do as much as Mr. Darwin himself said they did, why should +they not do more? Why stop where Mr. Darwin did? And again, +where in the name of all that is reasonable did he really stop? +He drew no line, and on what principle can we say that so much is possible +as effect of use and disuse, but so much more impossible? If, +as Mr. Darwin contended, disuse can so far reduce an organ as to render +it rudimentary, and in many cases get rid of it altogether, why cannot +use create as much as disuse can destroy, provided it has anything, +no matter how low in structure, to begin with? Let us know where +we stand. If it is admitted that use and disuse can do a good +deal, what does a good deal mean? And what is the proportion between +the shares attributable to use and disuse and to natural selection respectively? +If we cannot be told with absolute precision, let us at any rate have +something more definite than the statement that natural selection is +“the most important means of modification.”</p> +<p>Mr. Darwin gave us no help in this respect; and worse than this, +he contradicted himself so flatly as to show that he had very little +definite idea upon the subject at all. Thus in respect to the +winglessness of the Madeira beetles he wrote:—</p> +<p>“In some cases we might easily put down to disuse modifications +of structure, which are wholly or mainly due to natural selection. +Mr. Wollaston has discovered the remarkable fact that 200 beetles, out +of the 550 species (but more are now known) inhabiting Madeira, are +so far deficient in wings that they cannot fly; and that of the 29 endemic +genera no less than 23 have all their species in this condition! +Several facts—namely, that beetles in many parts of the world +are frequently blown out to sea and perish; that the beetles in Madeira, +as observed by Mr. Wollaston, lie much concealed until the wind lulls +and the sun shines; that the proportion of wingless beetles is larger +on the exposed Desertas than in Madeira itself; and especially the extraordinary +fact, so strongly insisted on by Mr. Wollaston, that certain large groups +of beetles, elsewhere excessively numerous, which absolutely require +the use of their wings are here almost entirely absent;—these +several considerations make me believe that the wingless condition of +so many Madeira beetles is mainly due to the action of natural selection, +<i>combined probably with disuse</i> [italics mine]. For during +many successive generations each individual beetle which flew least, +either from its wings having been ever so little less perfectly developed +or from indolent habit, will have had the best chance of surviving, +from not being blown out to sea; and, on the other hand, those beetles +which most readily took to flight would oftenest have been blown to +sea, and thus destroyed.” <a name="citation265"></a><a href="#footnote265">{265}</a></p> +<p>We should like to know, first, somewhere about how much disuse was +able to do after all, and moreover why, if it can do anything at all, +it should not be able to do all. Mr. Darwin says: “Any change +in structure and function which can be effected by small stages is within +the power of natural selection.” “And why not,” +we ask, “within the power of use and disuse?” Moreover, +on a later page we find Mr. Darwin saying:—</p> +<p>“<i>It appears probable that disuse has been the main agent +in rendering organs rudimentary</i> [italics mine]. It would at +first lead by slow steps to the more and more complete reduction of +a part, until at last it has become rudimentary—as in the case +of the eyes of animals inhabiting dark caverns, and of the wings of +birds inhabiting oceanic islands, which have seldom been forced by beasts +of prey to take flight, and have ultimately lost the power of flying. +Again, an organ, useful under certain conditions, might become injurious +under others, as <i>with the wings of beetles living on small and exposed +islands</i>; and in this case natural selection will have aided in reducing +the organ, until it was rendered harmless and rudimentary [italics mine].” +<a name="citation266"></a><a href="#footnote266">{266}</a></p> +<p>So that just as an undefined amount of use and disuse was introduced +on the earlier page to supplement the effects of natural selection in +respect of the wings of beetles on small and exposed islands, we have +here an undefined amount of natural selection introduced to supplement +the effects of use and disuse in respect of the identical phenomena. +In the one passage we find that natural selection has been the main +agent in reducing the wings, though use and disuse have had an appreciable +share in the result; in the other, it is use and disuse that have been +the main agents, though an appreciable share in the result must be ascribed +to natural selection.</p> +<p>Besides, who has seen the uncles and aunts going away with the uniformity +that is necessary for Mr. Darwin’s contention? We know that +birds and insects do often get blown out to sea and perish, but in order +to establish Mr. Darwin’s position we want the evidence of those +who watched the reduction of the wings during the many generations in +the course of which it was being effected, and who can testify that +all, or the overwhelming majority, of the beetles born with fairly well-developed +wings got blown out to sea, while those alone survived whose wings were +congenitally degenerate. Who saw them go, or can point to analogous +cases so conclusive as to compel assent from any equitable thinker?</p> +<p>Darwinians of the stamp of Mr. Thiselton Dyer, Professor Ray Lankester, +or Mr. Romanes, insist on their pound of flesh in the matter of irrefragable +demonstration. They complain of us for not bringing forward someone +who has been able to detect the movement of the hour-hand of a watch +during a second of time, and when we fail to do so, declare triumphantly +that we have no evidence that there is any connection between the beating +of a second and the movement of the hour-hand. When we say that +rain comes from the condensation of moisture in the atmosphere, they +demand of us a rain-drop from moisture not yet condensed. If they +stickle for proof and cavil on the ninth part of a hair, as they do +when we bring forward what we deem excellent instances of the transmission +of an acquired characteristic, why may not we, too, demand at any rate +some evidence that the unmodified beetles actually did always, or nearly +always, get blown out to sea, during the reduction above referred to, +and that it is to this fact, and not to the masterly inactivity of their +fathers and mothers, that the Madeira beetles owe their winglessness? +If we begin stickling for proof in this way, our opponents would not +be long in letting us know that absolute proof is unattainable on any +subject, that reasonable presumption is our highest certainty, and that +crying out for too much evidence is as bad as accepting too little. +Truth is like a photographic sensitized plate, which is equally ruined +by over and by under exposure, and the just exposure for which can never +be absolutely determined.</p> +<p>Surely if disuse can be credited with the vast powers involved in +Mr. Darwin’s statement that it has probably “been the main +agent in rendering organs rudimentary,” no limits are assignable +to the accumulated effects of habit, provided the effects of habit, +or use and disuse, are supposed, as Mr. Darwin supposed them, to be +inheritable at all. Darwinians have at length woke up to the dilemma +in which they are placed by the manner in which Mr. Darwin tried to +sit on the two stools of use and disuse, and natural selection of accidental +variations, at the same time. The knell of Charles-Darwinism is +rung in Mr. Wallace’s present book, and in the general perception +on the part of biologists that we must either assign to use and disuse +such a predominant share in modification as to make it the feature most +proper to be insisted on, or deny that the modifications, whether of +mind or body, acquired during a single lifetime, are ever transmitted +at all. If they can be inherited at all, they can be accumulated. +If they can be accumulated at all, they can be so, for anything that +appears to the contrary, to the extent of the specific and generic differences +with which we are surrounded. The only thing to do is to pluck +them out root and branch: they are as a cancer which, if the smallest +fibre be left unexcised, will grow again, and kill any system on to +which it is allowed to fasten. Mr. Wallace, therefore, may well +be excused if he casts longing eyes towards Weismannism.</p> +<p>And what was Mr. Darwin’s system? Who can make head or +tail of the inextricable muddle in which he left it? The <i>Origin +of Species</i> in its latest shape is the reduction of hedging to an +absurdity. How did Mr. Darwin himself leave it in the last chapter +of the last edition of the <i>Origin of Species</i>? He wrote:—</p> +<p>“I have now recapitulated the facts and considerations which +have thoroughly convinced me that species have been modified during +a long course of descent. This has been effected chiefly through +the natural selection of numerous, successive, slight, favourable variations; +aided in an important manner by the inherited effects of the use and +disuse of parts, and in an unimportant manner—that is, in relation +to adaptive structures whether past or present—by the direct action +of external conditions, and by variations which seem to us in our ignorance +to arise spontaneously. It appears that I formerly underrated +the frequency and value of these latter forms of variation, as leading +to permanent modifications of structure independently of natural selection.”</p> +<p>The “numerous, successive, slight, favourable variations” +above referred to are intended to be fortuitous, accidental, spontaneous. +It is the essence of Mr. Darwin’s theory that this should be so. +Mr. Darwin’s solemn statement, therefore, of his theory, after +he had done his best or his worst with it, is, when stripped of surplusage, +as follows:—</p> +<p>“The modification of species has been mainly effected by accumulation +of spontaneous variations; it has been aided in an important manner +by accumulation of variations due to use and disuse, and in an unimportant +manner by spontaneous variations; I do not even now think that spontaneous +variations have been very important, but I used once to think them less +important than I do now.”</p> +<p>It is a discouraging symptom of the age that such a system should +have been so long belauded, and it is a sign of returning intelligence +that even he who has been more especially the <i>alter ego</i> of Mr. +Darwin should have felt constrained to close the chapter of Charles-Darwinism +as a living theory, and relegate it to the important but not very creditable +place in history which it must henceforth occupy. It is astonishing, +however, that Mr. Wallace should have quoted the extract from the <i>Origin +of Species</i> just given, as he has done on p. 412 of his <i>Darwinism</i>, +without betraying any sign that he has caught its driftlessness—for +drift, other than a desire to hedge, it assuredly has not got. +The battle now turns on the question whether modifications of either +structure or instinct due to use or disuse are ever inherited, or whether +they are not. Can the effects of habit be transmitted to progeny +at all? We know that more usually they are not transmitted to +any perceptible extent, but we believe also that occasionally, and indeed +not infrequently, they are inherited and even intensified. What +are our grounds for this opinion? It will be my object to put +these forward in the following number of the <i>Universal Review.</i></p> +<h2>The Deadlock in Darwinism: Part II <a name="citation271"></a><a href="#footnote271">{271}</a></h2> +<p>At the close of my article in last month’s number of the <i>Universal +Review</i>, I said I would in this month’s issue show why the +opponents of Charles-Darwinism believe the effects of habits acquired +during the lifetime of a parent to produce an effect on their subsequent +offspring, in spite of the fact that we can rarely find the effect in +any one generation, or even in several, sufficiently marked to arrest +our attention.</p> +<p>I will now show that offspring can be, and not very infrequently +is, affected by occurrences that have produced a deep impression on +the parent organism—the effect produced on the offspring being +such as leaves no doubt that it is to be connected with the impression +produced on the parent. Having thus established the general proposition, +I will proceed to the more particular one—that habits, involving +use and disuse of special organs, with the modifications of structure +thereby engendered, produce also an effect upon offspring, which, though +seldom perceptible as regards structure in a single, or even in several +generations, is nevertheless capable of being accumulated in successive +generations till it amounts to specific and generic difference. +I have found the first point as much as I can treat within the limits +of this present article, and will avail myself of the hospitality of +the <i>Universal Review</i> next month to deal with the second.</p> +<p>The proposition which I have to defend is one which no one till recently +would have questioned, and even now those who look most askance at it +do not venture to dispute it unreservedly; they every now and then admit +it as conceivable, and even in some cases probable; nevertheless they +seek to minimize it, and to make out that there is little or no connection +between the great mass of the cells of which the body is composed, and +those cells that are alone capable of reproducing the entire organism. +The tendency is to assign to these last a life of their own, apart from, +and unconnected with that of the other cells of the body, and to cheapen +all evidence that tends to prove any response on their part to the past +history of the individual, and hence ultimately of the race.</p> +<p>Professor Weismann is the foremost exponent of those who take this +line. He has naturally been welcomed by English Charles-Darwinians; +for if his view can be sustained, then it can be contended that use +and disuse produce no transmissible effect, and the ground is cut from +under Lamarck’s feet; if, on the other hand, his view is unfounded, +the Lamarckian reaction, already strong, will gain still further strength. +The issue, therefore, is important, and is being fiercely contested +by those who have invested their all of reputation for discernment in +Charles-Darwinian securities.</p> +<p>Professor Weismann’s theory is, that at every new birth a part +of the substance which proceeds from parents and which goes to form +the new embryo is not used up in forming the new animal, but remains +apart to generate the germ-cells—or perhaps I should say “germ-plasm”—which +the new animal itself will in due course issue.</p> +<p>Contrasting the generally received view with his own, Professor Weismann +says that according to the first of these “the organism produces +germ-cells afresh again and again, and that it produces them entirely +from its own substance.” While by the second “the +germ-cells are no longer looked upon as the product of the parent’s +body, at least as far as their essential part—the specific germ-plasm—is +concerned; they are rather considered as something which is to be placed +in contrast with the <i>tout ensemble</i> of the cells which make up +the parent’s body, and the germ-cells of succeeding generations +stand in a similar relation to one another as a series of generations +of unicellular organisms arising by a continued process of cell-division.” +<a name="citation274a"></a><a href="#footnote274a">{274a}</a> +On another page he writes:—</p> +<p>“I believe that heredity depends upon the fact that a small +portion of the effective substance of the germ, the germ-plasm, remains +unchanged during the development of the ovum into an organism, and that +this part of the germ-plasm serves as a foundation from which the germ-cells +of the new organism are produced. There is, therefore, continuity +of the germ-plasm from one generation to another. One might represent +the germ-plasm by the metaphor of a long creeping root-stock from which +plants arise at intervals, these latter representing the individuals +of successive generations.” <a name="citation274b"></a><a href="#footnote274b">{274b}</a></p> +<p>Mr. Wallace, who does not appear to have read Professor Weismann’s +essays themselves, but whose remarks are, no doubt, ultimately derived +from the sequel to the passage just quoted from page 266 of Professor +Weismann’s book, contends that the impossibility of the transmission +of acquired characters follows as a logical result from Professor Weismann’s +theory, inasmuch as the molecular structure of the germ-plasm that will +go to form any succeeding generation is already predetermined within +the still unformed embryo of its predecessor; “and Weismann,” +continues Mr. Wallace, “holds that there are no facts which really +prove that acquired characters can be inherited, although their inheritance +has, by most writers, been considered so probable as hardly to stand +in need of direct proof.” <a name="citation275"></a><a href="#footnote275">{275}</a></p> +<p>Professor Weismann, in passages too numerous to quote, shows that +he recognizes this necessity, and acknowledges that the non-transmission +of acquired characters “forms the foundation of the views” +set forth in his book, p. 291.</p> +<p>Professor Ray Lankester does not commit himself absolutely to this +view, but lends it support by saying (<i>Nature</i>, December 12, 1889): +“It is hardly necessary to say that it has never yet been shown +experimentally that <i>anything</i> acquired by one generation is transmitted +to the next (putting aside diseases).”</p> +<p>Mr. Romanes, writing in <i>Nature</i>, March 13, 1890, and opposing +certain details of Professor Weismann’s theory, so far supports +it as to say that “there is the gravest possible doubt lying against +the supposition that any really inherited decrease is due to the inherited +effects of disuse.” The “gravest possible doubt” +should mean that Mr. Romanes regards it as a moral certainty that disuse +has no transmitted effect in reducing an organ, and it should follow +that he holds use to have no transmitted effect in its development. +The sequel, however, makes me uncertain how far Mr. Romanes intends +this, and I would refer the reader to the article which Mr. Romanes +has just published on Weismann in the <i>Contemporary Review</i> for +this current month.</p> +<p>The burden of Mr. Thiselton Dyer’s controversy with the Duke +of Argyll (see <i>Nature</i>, January 16, 1890, <i>et seq</i>.) was +that there was no evidence in support of the transmission of any acquired +modification. The orthodoxy of science, therefore, must be held +as giving at any rate a provisional support to Professor Weismann, but +all of them, including even Professor Weismann himself, shrink from +committing themselves to the opinion that the germ-cells of any organisms +remain in all cases unaffected by the events that occur to the other +cells of the same organism, and until they do this they have knocked +the bottom out of their case.</p> +<p>From among the passages in which Professor Weismann himself shows +a desire to hedge I may take the following from page 170 of his book:—</p> +<p>“I am also far from asserting that the germ-plasm which, as +I hold, is transmitted as the basis of heredity from one generation +to another, is absolutely unchangeable or totally uninfluenced by forces +residing in the organism within which it is transformed into germ-cells. +I am also compelled to admit it as conceivable that organisms may exert +a modifying influence upon their germ-cells, and even that such a process +is to a certain extent inevitable. The nutrition and growth of +the individual must exercise some influence upon its germ-cells . . +. ”</p> +<p>Professor Weismann does indeed go on to say that this influence must +be extremely slight, but we do not care how slight the changes produced +may be, provided they exist and can be transmitted. On an earlier +page (p. 101) he said in regard to variations generally that we should +not expect to find them conspicuous; their frequency would be enough, +if they could be accumulated. The same applies here, if stirring +events that occur to the somatic cells can produce any effect at all +on offspring. A very small effect, provided it can be repeated +and accumulated in successive generations, is all that even the most +exacting Lamarckian will ask for.</p> +<p>Having now made the reader acquainted with the position taken by +the leading Charles-Darwinian authorities, I will return to Professor +Weismann himself, who declares that the transmission of acquired characters +“at first sight certainly seems necessary,” and that “it +appears rash to attempt to dispense with its aid.” He continues:—</p> +<p>“Many phenomena only appear to be intelligible if we assume +the hereditary transmission of such acquired characters as the changes +which we ascribe to the use or disuse of particular organs, or to the +direct influence of climate. Furthermore, how can we explain instinct +as hereditary habit, unless it has gradually arisen by the accumulation, +through heredity, of habits which were practised in succeeding generations?” +<a name="citation277"></a><a href="#footnote277">{277}</a></p> +<p>I may say in passing that Professor Weismann appears to suppose that +the view of instinct just given is part of the Charles-Darwinian system, +for on page 389 of his book he says “that many observers had followed +Darwin in explaining them [instincts] as inherited habits.” +This was not Mr. Darwin’s own view of the matter. He wrote:—</p> +<p>“If we suppose any habitual action to become inherited—and +I think it can be shown that this does sometimes happen—then the +resemblance between what originally was a habit and an instinct becomes +so close as not to be distinguished. . . . But it would be the +most serious error to suppose that the greater number of instincts have +been acquired by habit in one generation, and then transmitted by inheritance +to succeeding generations. It can be clearly shown that the most +wonderful instincts with which we are acquainted, namely, those of the +hive-bee and of many ants, could not possibly have been thus acquired.”—[<i>Origin +of Species</i>, ed. 1859, p. 209.]</p> +<p>Again we read: “Domestic instincts are sometimes spoken of +as actions which have become inherited solely from long-continued and +compulsory habit, but this, I think, is not true.”—<i>Ibid</i>., +p. 214.</p> +<p>Again: “I am surprised that no one has advanced this demonstrative +case of neuter insects, against the well-known doctrine of inherited +habit, as advanced by Lamarck.”—[<i>Origin of Species</i>, +ed. 1872, p. 233.]</p> +<p>I am not aware that Lamarck advanced the doctrine that instinct is +inherited habit, but he may have done so in some work that I have not +seen.</p> +<p>It is true, as I have more than once pointed out, that in the later +editions of the <i>Origin of Species</i> it is no longer “the +<i>most</i> serious” error to refer instincts generally to inherited +habit, but it still remains “a serious error,” and this +slight relaxation of severity does not warrant Professor Weismann in +ascribing to Mr. Darwin an opinion which he emphatically condemned. +His tone, however, is so off-hand, that those who have little acquaintance +with the literature of evolution would hardly guess that he is not much +better informed on this subject than themselves.</p> +<p>Returning to the inheritance of acquired characters, Professor Weismann +says that this has never been proved either by means of direct observation +or by experiment. “It must be admitted,” he writes, +“that there are in existence numerous descriptions of cases which +tend to prove that such mutilations as the loss of fingers, the scars +of wounds, etc., are inherited by the offspring, but in these descriptions +the previous history is invariably obscure, and hence the evidence loses +all scientific value.”</p> +<p>The experiments of M. Brown-Séquard throw so much light upon +the question at issue that I will quote at some length from the summary +given by Mr. Darwin in his <i>Variation of Animals and Plants under +Domestication</i>. <a name="citation279"></a><a href="#footnote279">{279}</a> +Mr. Darwin writes:—</p> +<p>“With respect to the inheritance of structures mutilated by +injuries or altered by disease, it was until lately difficult to come +to any definite conclusion.” [Then follow several cases +in which mutilations practised for many generations are not found to +be transmitted.] “Notwithstanding,” continues Mr. +Darwin, “the above several negative cases, we now possess conclusive +evidence that the effects of operations are sometimes inherited. +Dr. Brown-Séquard gives the following summary of his observations +on guinea-pigs, and this summary is so important that I will quote the +whole:—</p> +<p>“‘1st. Appearance of epilepsy in animals born of +parents having been rendered epileptic by an injury to the spinal cord.</p> +<p>“‘2nd. Appearance of epilepsy also in animals born +of parents having been rendered epileptic by the section of the sciatic +nerve.</p> +<p>“‘3rd. A change in the shape of the ear in animals +born of parents in which such a change was the effect of a division +of the cervical sympathetic nerve.</p> +<p>“‘4th. Partial closure of the eyelids in animals +born of parents in which that state of the eyelids had been caused either +by the section of the cervical sympathetic nerve or the removal of the +superior cervical ganglion.</p> +<p>“‘5th. Exophthalmia in animals born of parents +in which an injury to the restiform body had produced that protrusion +of the eyeball. This interesting fact I have witnessed a good +many times, and I have seen the transmission of the morbid state of +the eye continue through four generations. In these animals modified +by heredity, the two eyes generally protruded, although in the parents +usually only one showed exophthalmia, the lesion having been made in +most cases only on one of the corpora restiformia.</p> +<p>“‘6th. Hæmatoma and dry gangrene of the ears +in animals born of parents in which these ear-alterations had been caused +by an injury to the restiform body near the nib of the calamus.</p> +<p>“‘7th. Absence of two toes out of the three of +the hind leg, and sometimes of the three, in animals whose parents had +eaten up their hind-leg toes which had become anaesthetic from a section +of the sciatic nerve alone, or of that nerve and also of the crural. +Sometimes, instead of complete absence of the toes, only a part of one +or two or three was missing in the young, although in the parent not +only the toes but the whole foot was absent (partly eaten off, partly +destroyed by inflammation, ulceration, or gangrene).</p> +<p>“‘8th. Appearance of various morbid states of the +skin and hair of the neck and face in animals born of parents having +had similar alterations in the same parts, as effects of an injury to +the sciatic nerve.’</p> +<p>“It should be especially observed that Brown-Séquard +had bred during thirty years many thousand guinea-pigs from animals +which had not been operated upon, and not one of these manifested the +epileptic tendency. Nor has he ever seen a guinea-pig born without +toes, which was not the offspring of parents which had gnawed off their +own toes owing to the sciatic nerve having been divided. Of this +latter fact thirteen instances were carefully recorded, and a greater +number were seen; yet Brown-Séquard speaks of such cases as one +of the rarer forms of inheritance. It is a still more interesting +fact, ‘that the sciatic nerve in the congenitally toeless animal +has inherited the power of passing through all the different morbid +states which have occurred in one of its parents from the time of the +division till after its reunion with the peripheric end. It is +not, therefore, simply the power of performing an action which is inherited, +but the power of performing a whole series of actions, in a certain +order.’</p> +<p>“In most of the cases of inheritance recorded by Brown-Séquard +only one of the two parents had been operated upon and was affected. +He concludes by expressing his belief that ‘what is transmitted +is the morbid state of the nervous system,’ due to the operation +performed on the parents.”</p> +<p>Mr. Darwin proceeds to give other instances of inherited effects +of mutilations:—</p> +<p>“With the horse there seems hardly a doubt that exostoses on +the legs, caused by too much travelling on hard roads, are inherited. +Blumenbach records the case of a man who had his little finger on the +right hand almost cut off, and which in consequence grew crooked, and +his sons had the same finger on the same hand similarly crooked. +A soldier, fifteen years before his marriage, lost his left eye from +purulent ophthalmia, and his two sons were microphthalmic on the same +side.”</p> +<p>The late Professor Rolleston, whose competence as an observer no +one is likely to dispute, gave Mr. Darwin two cases as having fallen +under his own notice, one of a man whose knee had been severely wounded, +and whose child was born with the same spot marked or scarred, and the +other of one who was severely cut upon the cheek, and whose child was +born scarred in the same place. Mr. Darwin’s conclusion +was that “the effects of injuries, especially when followed by +disease, or perhaps exclusively when thus followed, are occasionally +inherited.”</p> +<p>Let us now see what Professor Weismann has to say against this. +He writes:—</p> +<p>“The only cases worthy of discussion are the well-known experiments +upon guinea-pigs conducted by the French physiologist, Brown-Séquard. +But the explanation of his results is, in my opinion, open to discussion. +In these cases we have to do with the apparent transmission of artificially +produced malformations. . . . All these effects were said to be +transmitted to descendants as far as the fifth or sixth generation.</p> +<p>“But we must inquire whether these cases are really due to +heredity, and not to simple infection. In the case of epilepsy, +at any rate, it is easy to imagine that the passage of some specific +organism through the reproductive cells may take place, as in the case +of syphilis. We are, however, entirely ignorant of the nature +of the former disease. This suggested explanation may not perhaps +apply to the other cases; but we must remember that animals which have +been subjected to such severe operations upon the nervous system have +sustained a great shock, and if they are capable of breeding, it is +only probable that they will produce weak descendants, and such as are +easily affected by disease. Such a result does not, however, explain +why the offspring should suffer from the same disease as that which +was artificially induced in the parents. But this does not appear +to have been by any means invariably the case. Brown-Séquard +himself says: ‘The changes in the eye of the offspring were of +a very variable nature, and were only occasionally exactly similar to +those observed in the parents.’</p> +<p>“There is no doubt, however, that these experiments demand +careful consideration, but before they can claim scientific recognition, +they must be subjected to rigid criticism as to the precautions taken, +the nature and number of the control experiments, etc.</p> +<p>“Up to the present time such necessary conditions have not +been sufficiently observed. The recent experiments themselves +are only described in short preliminary notices, which, as regards their +accuracy, the possibility of mistake, the precautions taken, and the +exact succession of individuals affected, afford no data on which a +scientific opinion can be founded” (pp. 81, 82).</p> +<p>The line Professor Weismann takes, therefore, is to discredit the +facts; yet on a later page we find that the experiments have since been +repeated by Obersteiner, “who has described them in a very exact +and unprejudiced manner,” and that “the fact”—(I +imagine that Professor Weismann intends “the facts”)—“cannot +be doubted.”</p> +<p>On a still later page, however, we read:—</p> +<p>“If, for instance, it could be shown that artificial mutilation +spontaneously reappears in the offspring with sufficient frequency to +exclude all possibilities of chance, then such proof [i.e. that acquired +characters can be transmitted] would be forthcoming. The transmission +of mutilations has been frequently asserted, and has been even recently +again brought forward, but all the supposed instances have broken down +when carefully examined” (p. 390).</p> +<p>Here, then, we are told that proof of the occasional transmission +of mutilations would be sufficient to establish the fact, but on p. +267 we find that no single fact is known which really proves that acquired +characters can be transmitted, “<i>for the ascertained facts which +seem to point to the transmission of artificially produced diseases +cannot be considered as proof</i>.” [Italics mine.] +Perhaps; but it was mutilation in many cases that Professor Weismann +practically admitted to have been transmitted when he declared that +Obersteiner had verified Brown-Séquard’s experiments.</p> +<p>That Professor Weismann recognizes the vital importance to his own +theory of the question whether or no mutilations can be transmitted +under any circumstances, is evident from a passage on p. 425 of his +work, on which he says: “It can hardly be doubted that mutilations +are acquired characters; they do not arise from any tendency contained +in the germ, but are merely the reaction of the body under certain external +influences. They are, as I have recently expressed it, purely +somatogenic characters—viz. characters which emanate from the +body (<i>soma</i>) only, as opposed to the germ-cells; they are, therefore, +characters that do not arise from the germ itself.</p> +<p>“If mutilations must necessarily be transmitted” [which +no one that I know of has maintained], “or even if they might +occasionally be transmitted” [which cannot, I imagine, be reasonably +questioned], “a powerful support would be given to the Lamarckian +principle, and the transmission of functional hypertrophy or atrophy +would thus become highly probable.”</p> +<p>I have not found any further attempt in Professor Weismann’s +book to deal with the evidence adduced by Mr. Darwin to show that mutilations, +if followed by diseases, are sometimes inherited; and I must leave it +to the reader to determine how far Professor Weismann has shown reason +for rejecting Mr. Darwin’s conclusion. I do not, however, +dwell upon these facts now as evidence of a transmitted change of bodily +form, or of instinct due to use and disuse or habit; what they prove +is that the germ-cells within the parent’s body do not stand apart +from the other cells of the body so completely as Professor Weismann +would have us believe, but that, as Professor Hering, of Prague, has +aptly said, they echo with more or less frequency and force to the profounder +impressions made upon other cells.</p> +<p>I may say that Professor Weismann does not more cavalierly wave aside +the mass of evidence collected by Mr. Darwin and a host of other writers, +to the effect that mutilations are sometimes inherited, than does Mr. +Wallace, who says that, “as regards mutilations, it is generally +admitted that they are not inherited, and there is ample evidence on +this point.” It is indeed generally admitted that mutilations, +when not followed by disease, are very rarely, if ever, inherited; and +Mr. Wallace’s appeal to the “ample evidence” which +he alleges to exist on this head, is much as though he should say that +there is ample evidence to show that the days are longer in summer than +in winter. “Nevertheless,” he continues, “a +few cases of apparent inheritance of mutilations have been recorded, +and these, if trustworthy, are difficulties in the way of the theory.” +. . . “The often-quoted case of a disease induced by mutilation +being inherited (Brown-Séquard’s epileptic guinea-pigs) +has been discussed by Professor Weismann and shown to be not conclusive. +The mutilation itself—a section of certain nerves—was never +inherited, but the resulting epilepsy, or a general state of weakness, +deformity, or sores, was sometimes inherited. It is, however, +possible that the mere injury introduced and encouraged the growth of +certain microbes, which, spreading through the organism, sometimes reached +the germ-cells, and thus transmitted a diseased condition to the offspring.” +<a name="citation286"></a><a href="#footnote286">{286}</a></p> +<p>I suppose a microbe which made guinea-pigs eat their toes off was +communicated to the germ-cells of an unfortunate guinea-pig which had +been already microbed by it, and made the offspring bite its toes off +too. The microbe has a good deal to answer for.</p> +<p>On the case of the deterioration of horses in the Falkland Islands +after a few generations, Professor Weismann says:—</p> +<p>“In such a case we have only to assume that the climate which +is unfavourable, and nutriment which is insufficient for horses, affect +not only the animal as a whole but also its germ-cells. This would +result in the diminution in size of the germ-cells, the effects upon +the offspring being still further intensified by the insufficient nourishment +supplied during growth. But such results would not depend upon +the transmission by the germ-cells of certain peculiarities due to the +unfavourable climate, which only appear in the full-grown horse.”</p> +<p>But Professor Weismann does not like such cases, and admits that +he cannot explain the facts in connection with the climatic varieties +of certain butterflies, except “by supposing the passive acquisition +of characters produced by the direct influence of climate.”</p> +<p>Nevertheless, in his next paragraph but one he calls such cases “doubtful,” +and proposes that for the moment they should be left aside. He +accordingly leaves them, but I have not yet found what other moment +he considered auspicious for returning to them. He tells us that +“new experiments will be necessary, and that he has himself already +begun to undertake them.” Perhaps he will give us the results +of these experiments in some future book—for that they will prove +satisfactory to him can hardly, I think, be doubted. He writes:—</p> +<p>“Leaving on one side, for the moment, these doubtful and insufficiently +investigated cases, we may still maintain that the assumption that changes +induced by external conditions in the organism as a whole are communicated +to the germ-cells after the manner indicated in Darwin’s hypothesis +of pangenesis, is wholly unnecessary for the explanation of these phenomena. +Still we cannot exclude the possibility of such a transmission occasionally +occurring, for even if the greater part of the effects must be attributable +to natural selection, there might be a smaller part in certain cases +which depends on this exceptional factor.”</p> +<p>I repeatedly tried to understand Mr. Darwin’s theory of pangenesis, +and so often failed that I long since gave the matter up in despair. +I did so with the less unwillingness because I saw that no one else +appeared to understand the theory, and that even Mr. Darwin’s +warmest adherents regarded it with disfavour. If Mr. Darwin means +that every cell of the body throws off minute particles that find their +way to the germ-cells, and hence into the new embryo, this is indeed +difficult of comprehension and belief. If he means that the rhythms +or vibrations that go on ceaselessly in every cell of the body communicate +themselves with greater or less accuracy or perturbation, as the case +may be, to the cells that go to form offspring, and that since the characteristics +of matter are determined by vibrations, in communicating vibrations +they in effect communicate matter, according to the view put forward +in the last chapter of my book <i>Luck or Cunning</i>, then we can better +understand it. I have nothing, however, to do with Mr. Darwin’s +theory of pangenesis beyond avoiding the pretence that I understand +either the theory itself or what Professor Weismann says about it; all +I am concerned with is Professor Weismann’s admission, made immediately +afterwards, that the somatic cells may, and perhaps sometimes do, impart +characteristics to the germ-cells.</p> +<p>“A complete and satisfactory refutation of such an opinion,” +he continues, “cannot be brought forward at present”; so +I suppose we must wait a little longer, but in the meantime we may again +remark that, if we admit even occasional communication of changes in +the somatic cells to the germ-cells, we have let in the thin end of +the wedge, as Mr. Darwin did when he said that use and disuse did a +good deal towards modification. Buffon, in his first volume on +the lower animals, <a name="citation288"></a><a href="#footnote288">{288}</a> +dwells on the impossibility of stopping the breach once made by admission +of variation at all. “If the point,” he writes, “were +once gained, that among animals and vegetables there had been, I do +not say several species, but even a single one, which had been produced +in the course of direct descent from another species; if, for example, +it could be once shown that the ass was but a degeneration from the +horse—then there is no farther limit to be set to the power of +Nature, and we should not be wrong in supposing that with sufficient +time she could have evolved all other organized forms from one primordial +type.” So with use and disuse and transmission of acquired +characteristics generally—once show that a single structure or +instinct is due to habit in preceding generations, and we can impose +no limit on the results achievable by accumulation in this respect, +nor shall we be wrong in conceiving it as possible that all specialization, +whether of structure or instinct, may be due ultimately to habit.</p> +<p>How far this can be shown to be probable is, of course, another matter, +but I am not immediately concerned with this; all I am concerned with +now is to show that the germ-cells not unfrequently become permanently +affected by events that have made a profound impression upon the somatic +cells, in so far that they transmit an obvious reminiscence of the impression +to the embryos which they go subsequently towards forming. This +is all that is necessary for my case, and I do not find that Professor +Weismann, after all, disputes it.</p> +<p>But here, again, comes the difficulty of saying what Professor Weismann +does, and what he does not, dispute. One moment he gives all that +is wanted for the Lamarckian contention, the next he denies common sense +the bare necessaries of life. For a more exhaustive and detailed +criticism of Professor Weismann’s position, I would refer the +reader to an admirably clear article by Mr. Sidney H. Vines, which appeared +in <i>Nature</i>, October 24, 1889. I can only say that while +reading Professor Weismann’s book, I feel as I do when I read +those of Mr. Darwin, and of a good many other writers on biology whom +I need not name. I become like a fly in a window-pane. I +see the sunshine and freedom beyond, and buzz up and down their pages, +ever hopeful to get through them to the fresh air without, but ever +kept back by a mysterious something, which I feel but cannot either +grasp or see. It was not thus when I read Buffon, Erasmus Darwin, +and Lamarck; it is not thus when I read such articles as Mr. Vines’s +just referred to. Love of self-display, and the want of singleness +of mind that it inevitably engenders—these, I suppose, are the +sins that glaze the casements of most men’s minds; and from these, +no matter how hard he tries to free himself, nor how much he despises +them, who is altogether exempt?</p> +<p>Finally, then, when we consider the immense mass of evidence referred +to briefly, but sufficiently, by Mr. Charles Darwin, and referred to +without other, for the most part, than off-hand dismissal by Professor +Weismann in the last of the essays that have been recently translated, +I do not see how anyone who brings an unbiased mind to the question +can hesitate as to the side on which the weight of testimony inclines. +Professor Weismann declares that “the transmission of mutilations +may be dismissed into the domain of fable.” <a name="citation290"></a><a href="#footnote290">{290}</a> +If so, then, whom can we trust? What is the use of science at +all if the conclusions of a man as competent as I readily admit Mr. +Darwin to have been, on the evidence laid before him from countless +sources, is to be set aside lightly and without giving the clearest +and most cogent explanation of the why and wherefore? When we +see a person “ostrichizing” the evidence which he has to +meet, as clearly as I believe Professor Weismann to be doing, we shall +in nine cases out of ten be right in supposing that he knows the evidence +to be too strong for him.</p> +<h2>The Deadlock in Darwinism: Part III</h2> +<p>Now let me return to the recent division of biological opinion into +two main streams—Lamarckism and Weismannism. Both Lamarckians +and Weismannists, not to mention mankind in general, admit that the +better adapted to its surroundings a living form may be, the more likely +it is to outbreed its compeers. The world at large, again, needs +not to be told that the normal course is not unfrequently deflected +through the fortunes of war; nevertheless, according to Lamarckians +and Erasmus-Darwinians, habitual effort, guided by ever-growing intelligence—that +is to say, by continued increase of power in the matter of knowing our +likes and dislikes—has been so much the main factor throughout +the course of organic development, that the rest, though not lost sight +of, may be allowed to go without saying. According, on the other +hand, to extreme Charles-Darwinians and Weismannists, habit, effort +and intelligence acquired during the experience of any one life goes +for nothing. Not even a little fraction of it endures to the benefit +of offspring. It dies with him in whom it is acquired, and the +heirs of a man’s body take no interest therein. To state +this doctrine is to arouse instinctive loathing; it is my fortunate +task to maintain that such a nightmare of waste and death is as baseless +as it is repulsive.</p> +<p>The split in biological opinion occasioned by the deadlock to which +Charles-Darwinism has been reduced, though comparatively recent, widens +rapidly. Ten years ago Lamarck’s name was mentioned only +as a byword for extravagance; now, we cannot take up a number of <i>Nature</i> +without seeing how hot the contention is between his followers and those +of Weismann. This must be referred, as I implied earlier, to growing +perception that Mr. Darwin should either have gone farther towards Lamarckism +or not so far. In admitting use and disuse as freely as he did, +he gave Lamarckians leverage for the overthrow of a system based ostensibly +on the accumulation of fortunate accidents. In assigning the lion’s +share of development to the accumulation of fortunate accidents, he +tempted fortuitists to try to cut the ground from under Lamarck’s +feet by denying that the effects of use and disuse can be inherited +at all. When the public had once got to understand what Lamarck +had intended, and wherein Mr. Charles Darwin had differed from him, +it became impossible for Charles-Darwinians to remain where they were, +nor is it easy to see what course was open to them except to cast about +for a theory by which they could get rid of use and disuse altogether. +Weismannism, therefore, is the inevitable outcome of the straits to +which Charles-Darwinians were reduced through the way in which their +leader had halted between two opinions.</p> +<p>This is why Charles-Darwinians, from Professor Huxley downwards, +have kept the difference between Lamarck’s opinions and those +of Mr. Darwin so much in the background. Unwillingness to make +this understood is nowhere manifested more clearly than in Dr. Francis +Darwin’s life of his father. In this work Lamarck is sneered +at once or twice and told to go away, but there is no attempt to state +the two cases side by side; from which, as from not a little else, I +conclude that Dr. Francis Darwin has descended from his father with +singularly little modification.</p> +<p>Proceeding to the evidence for the transmissions of acquired habits, +I will quote two recently adduced examples from among the many that +have been credibly attested. The first was contributed to <i>Nature</i> +(March 14, 1889) by Professor Marcus M. Hartog, who wrote:—</p> +<p>“A. B. is moderately myopic and very astigmatic in the left +eye; extremely myopic in the right. As the left eye gave such +bad images for near objects, he was compelled in childhood to mask it, +and acquired the habit of leaning his head on his left arm for writing, +so as to blind that eye, or of resting the left temple and eye on the +hand, with the elbow on the table. At the age of fifteen the eyes +were equalized by the use of suitable spectacles, and he soon lost the +habit completely and permanently. He is now the father of two +children, a boy and a girl, whose vision (tested repeatedly and fully) +is emmetropic in both eyes, so that they have not inherited the congenital +optical defect of their father. All the same, they have both of +them inherited his early acquired habit, and need constant watchfulness +to prevent their hiding the left eye when writing, by resting the head +on the left forearm or hand. Imitation is here quite out of the +question.</p> +<p>“Considering that every habit involves changes in the proportional +development of the muscular and osseous systems, and hence probably +of the nervous system also, the importance of inherited habits, natural +or acquired, cannot be overlooked in the general theory of inheritance. +I am fully aware that I shall be accused of flat Lamarckism, but a nickname +is not an argument.”</p> +<p>To this Professor Ray Lankester rejoined (<i>Nature</i>, March 21, +1889):—</p> +<p>“It is not unusual for children to rest the head on the left +forearm or hand when writing, and I doubt whether much value can be +attached to the case described by Professor Hartog. The kind of +observation which his letter suggests is, however, likely to lead to +results either for or against the transmission of acquired characters. +An old friend of mine lost his right arm when a schoolboy, and has ever +since written with his left. He has a large family and grandchildren, +but I have not heard of any of them showing a disposition to left-handedness.”</p> +<p>From <i>Nature</i> (March 21, 1889) I take the second instance communicated +by Mr. J. Jenner-Weir, who wrote as follows:—</p> +<p>“Mr. Marcus M. Hartog’s letter of March 6th, inserted +in last week’s number (p. 462), is a very valuable contribution +to the growing evidence that acquired characters may be inherited. +I have long held the view that such is often the case, and I have myself +observed several instances of the, at least I may say, apparent fact.</p> +<p>“Many years ago there was a very fine male of the <i>Capra +megaceros</i> in the gardens of the Zoological Society. To restrain +this animal from jumping over the fence of the enclosure in which he +was confined, a long and heavy chain was attached to the collar round +his neck. He was constantly in the habit of taking this chain +up by his horns and moving it from one side to another over his back; +in doing this he threw his head very much back, his horns being placed +in a line with the back. The habit had become quite chronic with +him, and was very tiresome to look at. I was very much astonished +to observe that his offspring inherited the habit, and although it was +not necessary to attach a chain to their necks, I have often seen a +young male throwing his horns over his back and shifting from side to +side an imaginary chain. The action was exactly the same as that +of his ancestor. The case of the kid of this goat appears to me +to be parallel to that of child and parent given by Mr. Hartog. +I think at the time I made this observation I informed Mr. Darwin of +the fact by letter, and he did not accuse me of ‘flat Lamarckism.’”</p> +<p>To this letter there was no rejoinder. It may be said, of course, +that the action of the offspring in each of these cases was due to accidental +coincidence only. Anything can be said, but the question turns +not on what an advocate can say, but on what a reasonably intelligent +and disinterested jury will believe; granted they might be mistaken +in accepting the foregoing stories, but the world of science, like that +of commerce, is based on the faith or confidence which both creates +and sustains them. Indeed the universe itself is but the creature +of faith, for assuredly we know of no other foundation. There +is nothing so generally and reasonably accepted—not even our own +continued identity—but questions may be raised about it that will +shortly prove unanswerable. We cannot so test every sixpence given +us in change as to be sure that we never take a bad one, and had better +sometimes be cheated than reduce caution to an absurdity. Moreover, +we have seen from the evidence given in my preceding article that the +germ-cells issuing from a parent’s body can, and do, respond to +profound impressions made on the somatic cells. This being so, +what impressions are more profound, what needs engage more assiduous +attention than those connected with self-protection, the procuring of +food, and the continuation of the species? If the mere anxiety +connected with an ill-healing wound inflicted on but one generation +is sometimes found to have so impressed the germ-cells that they hand +down its scars to offspring, how much more shall not anxieties that +have directed action of all kinds from birth till death, not in one +generation only but in a longer series of generations than the mind +can realize to itself, modify, and indeed control, the organization +of every species?</p> +<p>I see Professor S. H. Vines, in the article on Weismann’s theory +referred to in my preceding article, says Mr. Darwin “held that +it was not the sudden variations due to altered external conditions +which become permanent, but those slowly produced by what he termed +‘the accumulative action of changed conditions of life.’” +Nothing can be more soundly Lamarckian, and nothing should more conclusively +show that, whatever else Mr. Darwin was, he was not a Charles-Darwinian; +but what evidence other than inferential can from the nature of the +case be adduced in support of this, as I believe, perfectly correct +judgment? None know better than they who clamour for direct evidence +that their master was right in taking the position assigned to him by +Professor Vines, that they cannot reasonably look for it. With +us, as with themselves, modification proceeds very gradually, and it +violates our principles as much as their own to expect visible permanent +progress, in any single generation, or indeed in any number of generations +of wild species which we have yet had time to observe. Occasionally +we can find such cases, as in that of <i>Branchipus stagnalis</i>, quoted +by Mr. Wallace, or in that of the New Zealand Kea whose skin, I was +assured by the late Sir Julius von Haast, has already been modified +as a consequence of its change of food. Here we can show that +in even a few generations structure is modified under changed conditions +of existence, but as we believe these cases to occur comparatively rarely, +so it is still more rarely that they occur when and where we can watch +them. Nature is eminently conservative, and fixity of type, even +under considerable change of conditions, is surely more important for +the well-being of any species than an over-ready power of adaptation +to, it may be, passing changes. There could be no steady progress +if each generation were not mainly bound by the traditions of those +that have gone before it. It is evolution and not incessant revolution +that both parties are upholding; and this being so, rapid visible modification +must be the exception, not the rule. I have quoted direct evidence +adduced by competent observers, which is, I believe, sufficient to establish +the fact that offspring can be and is sometimes modified by the acquired +habits of a progenitor. I will now proceed to the still more, +as it appears to me, cogent proof afforded by general considerations.</p> +<p>What, let me ask, are the principal phenomena of heredity? +There must be physical continuity between parent, or parents, and offspring, +so that the offspring is, as Erasmus Darwin well said, a kind of elongation +of the life of the parent.</p> +<p>Erasmus Darwin put the matter so well that I may as well give his +words in full; he wrote:—</p> +<p>“Owing to the imperfection of language the offspring is termed +a new animal, but is in truth a branch or elongation of the parent, +since a part of the embryon animal is, or was, a part of the parent, +and therefore, in strict language, cannot be said to be entirely new +at the time of its production; and therefore it may retain some of the +habits of the parent system.</p> +<p>“At the earliest period of its existence the embryon would +seem to consist of a living filament with certain capabilities of irritation, +sensation, volition, and association, and also with some acquired habits +or propensities peculiar to the parent; the former of these are in common +with other animals; the latter seem to distinguish or produce the kind +of animal, whether man or quadruped, with the similarity of feature +or form to the parent.” <a name="citation299"></a><a href="#footnote299">{299}</a></p> +<p>Those who accept evolution insist on unbroken physical continuity +between the earliest known life and ourselves, so that we both are and +are not personally identical with the unicellular organism from which +we have descended in the course of many millions of years, exactly in +the same ways as an octogenarian both is and is not personally identical +with the microscopic impregnate ovum from which he grew up. Everything +both is and is not. There is no such thing as strict identity +between any two things in any two consecutive seconds. In strictness +they are identical and yet not identical, so that in strictness they +violate a fundamental rule of strictness—namely, that a thing +shall never be itself and not itself at one and the same time; we must +choose between logic and dealing in a practical spirit with time and +space; it is not surprising, therefore, that logic, in spite of the +show of respect outwardly paid to her, is told to stand aside when people +come to practice. In practice identity is generally held to exist +where continuity is only broken slowly and piecemeal; nevertheless, +that occasional periods of even rapid change are not held to bar identity, +appears from the fact that no one denies this to hold between the microscopically +small impregnate ovum and the born child that springs from it, nor yet, +therefore, between the impregnate ovum and the octogenarian into which +the child grows; for both ovum and octogenarian are held personally +identical with the new-born baby, and things that are identical with +the same are identical with one another.</p> +<p>The first, then, and most important element of heredity is that there +should be unbroken continuity, and hence sameness of personality, between +parents and offspring, in neither more nor less than the same sense +as that in which any other two personalities are said to be the same. +The repetition, therefore, of its developmental stages by any offspring +must be regarded as something which the embryo repeating them has already +done once, in the person of one or other parent; and if once, then, +as many times as there have been generations between any given embryo +now repeating it, and the point in life from which we started—say, +for example, the amoeba. In the case of asexually and sexually +produced organisms alike, the offspring must be held to continue the +personality of the parent or parents, and hence on the occasion of every +fresh development, to be repeating something which in the person of +its parent or parents it has done once, and if once, then any number +of times, already.</p> +<p>It is obvious, therefore, that the germ-plasm (or whatever the fancy +word for it may be) of any one generation is as physically identical +with the germ-plasm of its predecessor as any two things can be. +The difference between Professor Weismann and, we will say, Heringians +consists in the fact that the first maintains the new germ-plasm when +on the point of repeating its developmental processes to take practically +no cognisance of anything that has happened to it since the last occasion +on which it developed itself; while the latter maintain that offspring +takes much the same kind of account of what has happened to it in the +persons of its parents since the last occasion on which it developed +itself, as people in ordinary life take things that happen to them. +In daily life people let fairly normal circumstances come and go without +much heed as matters of course. If they have been lucky they make +a note of it and try to repeat their success. If they have been +unfortunate but have recovered rapidly they soon forget it; if they +have suffered long and deeply they grizzle over it and are scared and +scarred by it for a long time. The question is one of cognisance +or non-cognisance on the part of the new germs, of the more profound +impressions made on them while they were one with their parents, between +the occasion of their last preceding development and the new course +on which they are about to enter. Those who accept the theory +put forward independently by Professor Hering of Prague (whose work +on this subject is translated in my book <i>Unconscious Memory</i>) +and by myself in <i>Life and Habit</i>, believe in cognisance as do +Lamarckians generally. Weismannites, and with them the orthodoxy +of English science, find non-cognisance more acceptable.</p> +<p>If the Heringian view is accepted, that heredity is only a mode of +memory, and an extension of memory from one generation to another, then +the repetition of its development by any embryo thus becomes only the +repetition of a lesson learned by rote; and, as I have elsewhere said, +our view of life is simplified by finding that it is no longer an equation +of, say, a hundred unknown quantities, but of ninety-nine only, inasmuch +as two of the unknown quantities prove to be substantially identical. +In this case the inheritance of acquired characteristics cannot be disputed, +for it is postulated in the theory that each embryo takes note of, remembers +and is guided by the profounder impressions made upon it while in the +persons of its parents, between its present and last preceding development. +To maintain this is to maintain use and disuse to be the main factors +throughout organic development; to deny it is to deny that use and disuse +can have any conceivable effect. For the detailed reasons which +led me to my own conclusions I must refer the reader to my books <i>Life +and Habit</i> and <i>Unconscious Memory</i>, the conclusions of which +have been often adopted, but never, that I have seen, disputed. +A brief résumé of the leading points in the argument is +all that space will here allow me to give.</p> +<p>We have seen that it is a first requirement of heredity that there +shall be physical continuity between parents and offspring. This +holds good with memory. There must be continued identity between +the person remembering and the person to whom the thing that is remembered +happened. We cannot remember things that happened to someone else, +and in our absence. We can only remember having heard of them. +We have seen, however, that there is as much <i>bona-fide</i> sameness +of personality between parents and offspring up to the time at which +the offspring quits the parent’s body, as there is between the +different states of the parent himself at any two consecutive moments; +the offspring therefore, being one and the same person with its progenitors +until it quits them, can be held to remember what happened to them within, +of course, the limitations to which all memory is subject, as much as +the progenitors can remember what happened earlier to themselves. +Whether it does so remember can only be settled by observing whether +it acts as living beings commonly do when they are acting under guidance +of memory. I will endeavour to show that, though heredity and +habit based on memory go about in different dresses, yet if we catch +them separately—for they are never seen together—and strip +them there is not a mole nor strawberry-mark nor trick nor leer of the +one, but we find it in the other also.</p> +<p>What are the moles and strawberry-marks of habitual action, or actions +remembered and thus repeated? First, the more often we repeat +them the more easily and unconsciously we do them. Look at reading, +writing, walking, talking, playing the piano, etc.; the longer we have +practised any one of these acquired habits, the more easily, automatically +and unconsciously, we perform it. Look, on the other hand, broadly, +at the three points to which I called attention in <i>Life and Habit</i>:—</p> +<p>I. That we are most conscious of and have most control over +such habits as speech, the upright position, the arts and sciences—which +are acquisitions peculiar to the human race, always acquired after birth, +and not common to ourselves and any ancestor who had not become entirely +human.</p> +<p>II. That we are less conscious of and have less control over +eating and drinking [provided the food be normal], swallowing, breathing, +seeing, and hearing—which were acquisitions of our prehuman ancestry, +and for which we had provided ourselves with all the necessary apparatus +before we saw light, but which are still, geologically speaking, recent.</p> +<p>III. That we are most unconscious of and have least control +over our digestion and circulation—powers possessed even by our +invertebrate ancestry, and, geologically speaking, of extreme antiquity.</p> +<p>I have put the foregoing very broadly, but enough is given to show +the reader the gist of the argument. Let it be noted that disturbance +and departure, to any serious extent, from normal practice tends to +induce resumption of consciousness even in the case of such old habits +as breathing, seeing, and hearing, digestion and the circulation of +the blood. So it is with habitual actions in general. Let +a player be never so proficient on any instrument, he will be put out +if the normal conditions under which he plays are too widely departed +from, and will then do consciously, if indeed he can do it at all, what +he had hitherto been doing unconsciously. It is an axiom as regards +actions acquired after birth, that we never do them automatically save +as the result of long practice; the stages in the case of any acquired +facility, the inception of which we have been able to watch, have invariably +been from a nothingness of ignorant impotence to a little somethingness +of highly self-conscious, arduous performance, and thence to the unselfconsciousness +of easy mastery. I saw one year a poor blind lad of about eighteen +sitting on a wall by the wayside at Varese, playing the concertina with +his whole body, and snorting like a child. The next year the boy +no longer snorted, and he played with his fingers only; the year after +that he seemed hardly to know whether he was playing or not, it came +so easily to him. I know no exception to this rule. Where +is the intricate and at one time difficult art in which perfect automatic +ease has been reached except as the result of long practice? If, +then, wherever we can trace the development of automatism we find it +to have taken this course, is it not most reasonable to infer that it +has taken the same even when it has risen in regions that are beyond +our ken? Ought we not, whenever we see a difficult action performed +automatically, to suspect antecedent practice? Granted that without +the considerations in regard to identity presented above it would not +have been easy to see where a baby of a day old could have had the practice +which enables it to do as much as it does unconsciously, but even without +these considerations it would have been more easy to suppose that the +necessary opportunities had not been wanting, than that the easy performance +could have been gained without practice and memory.</p> +<p>When I wrote <i>Life and Habit</i> (originally published in 1877) +I said in slightly different words:—</p> +<p>“Shall we say that a baby of a day old sucks (which involves +the whole principle of the pump and hence a profound practical knowledge +of the laws of pneumatics and hydrostatics), digests, oxygenizes its +blood—millions of years before anyone had discovered oxygen—sees +and hears, operations that involve an unconscious knowledge of the facts +concerning optics and acoustics compared with which the conscious discoveries +of Newton are insignificant—shall we say that a baby can do all +these things at once, doing them so well and so regularly without being +even able to give them attention, and yet without mistake, and shall +we also say at the same time that it has not learnt to do them, and +never did them before?</p> +<p>“Such an assertion would contradict the whole experience of +mankind.”</p> +<p>I have met with nothing during the thirteen years since the foregoing +was published that has given me any qualms about its soundness. +From the point of view of the law courts and everyday life it is, of +course, nonsense; but in the kingdom of thought, as in that of heaven, +there are many mansions, and what would be extravagance in the cottage +or farm-house, as it were, of daily practice, is but common decency +in the palace of high philosophy, wherein dwells evolution. If +we leave evolution alone, we may stick to common practice and the law +courts; touch evolution and we are in another world; not higher, nor +lower, but different as harmony from counterpoint. As, however, +in the most absolute counterpoint there is still harmony, and in the +most absolute harmony still counterpoint, so high philosophy should +be still in touch with common sense, and common sense with high philosophy.</p> +<p>The common-sense view of the matter to people who are not over-curious +and to whom time is money, will be that a baby is not a baby until it +is born, and that when born it should be born in wedlock. Nevertheless, +as a sop to high philosophy, every baby is allowed to be the offspring +of its father and mother.</p> +<p>The high-philosophy view of the matter is that every human being +is still but a fresh edition of the primordial cell with the latest +additions and corrections; there has been no leap nor break in continuity +anywhere; the man of to-day is the primordial cell of millions of years +ago as truly as he is the himself of yesterday; he can only be denied +to be the one on grounds that will prove him not to be the other. +Everyone is both himself and all his direct ancestors and descendants +as well; therefore, if we would be logical, he is one also with all +his cousins, no matter how distant, for he and they are alike identical +with the primordial cell, and we have already noted it as an axiom that +things which are identical with the same are identical with one another. +This is practically making him one with all living things, whether animal +or vegetable, that ever have existed or ever will—something of +all which may have been in the mind of Sophocles when he wrote:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Nor seest thou yet the gathering hosts of ill<br /> +That shall en-one thee both with thine own self<br /> +And with thine offspring.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>And all this has come of admitting that a man may be the same person +for two days running! As for sopping common sense it will be enough +to say that these remarks are to be taken in a strictly scientific sense, +and have no appreciable importance as regards life and conduct. +True they deal with the foundations on which all life and conduct are +based, but like other foundations they are hidden out of sight, and +the sounder they are, the less we trouble ourselves about them.</p> +<p>What other main common features between heredity and memory may we +note besides the fact that neither can exist without that kind of physical +continuity which we call personal identity? First, the development +of the embryo proceeds in an established order; so must all habitual +actions based on memory. Disturb the normal order and the performance +is arrested. The better we know “God save the Queen,” +the less easily can we play or sing it backwards. The return of +memory again depends on the return of ideas associated with the particular +thing that is remembered—we remember nothing but for the presence +of these, and when enough of these are presented to us we remember everything. +So, if the development of an embryo is due to memory, we should suppose +the memory of the impregnate ovum to revert not to yesterday, when it +was in the persons of its parents, but to the last occasion on which +it was an impregnate ovum. The return of the old environment and +the presence of old associations would at once involve recollection +of the course that should be next taken, and the same should happen +throughout the whole course of development. The actual course +of development presents precisely the phenomena agreeable with this. +For fuller treatment of this point I must refer the reader to the chapter +on the abeyance of memory in my book <i>Life and Habit</i>, already +referred to.</p> +<p>Secondly, we remember best our last few performances of any given +kind, so our present performance will probably resemble some one or +other of these; we remember our earlier performances by way of residuum +only, but every now and then we revert to an earlier habit. This +feature of memory is manifested in heredity by the way in which offspring +commonly resembles most its nearer ancestors, but sometimes reverts +to earlier ones. Brothers and sisters, each as it were giving +their own version of the same story, but in different words, should +generally resemble each other more closely than more distant relations. +And this is what actually we find.</p> +<p>Thirdly, the introduction of slightly new elements into a method +already established varies it beneficially; the new is soon fused with +the old, and the monotony ceases to be oppressive. But if the +new be too foreign, we cannot fuse the old and the new—nature +seeming to hate equally too wide a deviation from ordinary practice +and none at all. This fact reappears in heredity as the beneficial +effects of occasional crossing on the one hand, and on the other, in +the generally observed sterility of hybrids. If heredity be an +affair of memory, how can an embryo, say of a mule, be expected to build +up a mule on the strength of but two mule-memories? Hybridism +causes a fault in the chain of memory, and it is to this cause that +the usual sterility of hybrids must be referred.</p> +<p>Fourthly, it requires many repeated impressions to fix a method firmly, +but when it has been engrained into us we cease to have much recollection +of the manner in which it came to be so, or indeed of any individual +repetition, but sometimes a single impression if prolonged as well as +profound, produces a lasting impression and is liable to return with +sudden force, and then to go on returning to us at intervals. +As a general rule, however, abnormal impressions cannot long hold their +own against the overwhelming preponderance of normal authority. +This appears in heredity as the normal non-inheritance of mutilations +on the one hand, and on the other as their occasional inheritance in +the case of injuries followed by disease.</p> +<p>Fifthly, if heredity and memory are essentially the same, we should +expect that no animal would develop new structures of importance after +the age at which its species begins ordinarily to continue its race; +for we cannot suppose offspring to remember anything that happens to +the parent subsequently to the parent’s ceasing to contain the +offspring within itself. From the average age, therefore, of reproduction, +offspring should cease to have any further steady, continuous memory +to fall back upon; what memory there is should be full of faults, and +as such unreliable. An organism ought to develop as long as it +is backed by memory—that is to say, until the average age at which +reproduction begins; it should then continue to go for a time on the +impetus already received, and should eventually decay through failure +of any memory to support it, and tell it what to do. This corresponds +absolutely with what we observe in organisms generally, and explains, +on the one hand, why the age of puberty marks the beginning of completed +development—a riddle hitherto not only unexplained but, so far +as I have seen, unasked; it explains, on the other hand, the phenomena +of old age—hitherto without even attempt at explanation.</p> +<p>Sixthly, those organisms that are the longest in reaching maturity +should on the average be the longest-lived, for they will have received +the most momentous impulse from the weight of memory behind them. +This harmonizes with the latest opinion as to the facts. In his +article of Weismann in the <i>Contemporary Review</i> for May, 1890, +Mr. Romanes writes: “Professor Weismann has shown that there is +throughout the metazoa a general correlation between the natural lifetime +of individuals composing any given species, and the age at which they +reach maturity or first become capable of procreation.” +This, I believe, has been the conclusion generally arrived at by biologists +for some years past.</p> +<p>Lateness, then, in the average age of reproduction appears to be +the principle underlying longevity. There does not appear at first +sight to be much connection between such distinct and apparently disconnected +phenomena as 1, the orderly normal progress of development; 2, atavism +and the resumption of feral characteristics; 3, the more ordinary resemblance +<i>inter se</i> of nearer relatives; 4, the benefit of an occasional +cross, and the usual sterility of hybrids; 5, the unconsciousness with +which alike bodily development and ordinary physiological functions +proceed, so long as they are normal; 6, the ordinary non-inheritance, +but occasional inheritance of mutilations; 7, the fact that puberty +indicates the approach of maturity; 8, the phenomena of middle life +and old age; 9, the principle underlying longevity. These phenomena +have no conceivable bearing on one another until heredity and memory +are regarded as part of the same story. Identify these two things, +and I know no phenomenon of heredity that does not immediately become +infinitely more intelligible. Is it conceivable that a theory +which harmonizes so many facts hitherto regarded as without either connection +or explanation should not deserve at any rate consideration from those +who profess to take an interest in biology?</p> +<p>It is not as though the theory were unknown, or had been condemned +by our leading men of science. Professor Ray Lankester introduced +it to English readers in an appreciative notice of Professor Hering’s +address, which appeared in <i>Nature</i>, July 13, 1876. He wrote +to the <i>Athenæum</i>, March 24, 1884, and claimed credit for +having done so, but I do not believe he has ever said more in public +about it than what I have here referred to. Mr. Romanes did indeed +try to crush it in <i>Nature</i>, January 27,1881, but in 1883, in his +<i>Mental Evolution in Animals</i>, he adopted its main conclusion without +acknowledgment. The <i>Athenæum</i>, to my unbounded surprise, +called him to task for this (March 1, 1884), and since that time he +has given the Heringian theory a sufficiently wide berth. Mr. +Wallace showed himself favourably enough disposed towards the view that +heredity and memory are part of the same story when he reviewed my book +<i>Life and Habit</i> in <i>Nature</i>, March 27, 1879, but he has never +since betrayed any sign of being aware that such a theory existed. +Mr. Herbert Spencer wrote to the <i>Athenæum</i> (April 5, 1884), +and claimed the theory for himself, but, in spite of his doing this, +he has never, that I have seen, referred to the matter again. +I have dealt sufficiently with his claim in my book <i>Luck or Cunning</i>. +Lastly, Professor Hering himself has never that I know of touched his +own theory since the single short address read in 1870, and translated +by me in 1881. Everyone, even its originator, except myself, seems +afraid to open his mouth about it. Of course the inference suggests +itself that other people have more sense than I have. I readily +admit it; but why have so many of our leaders shown such a strong hankering +after the theory, if there is nothing in it?</p> +<p>The deadlock that I have pointed out as existing in Darwinism will, +I doubt not, lead ere long to a consideration of Professor Hering’s +theory. English biologists are little likely to find Weismann +satisfactory for long, and if he breaks down there is nothing left for +them but Lamarck, supplemented by the important and elucidatory corollary +on his theory proposed by Professor Hering. When the time arrives +for this to obtain a hearing it will be confirmed, doubtless, by arguments +clearer and more forcible than any I have been able to adduce; I shall +then be delighted to resign the championship which till then I shall +continue, as for some years past, to have much pleasure in sustaining. +Heretofore my satisfaction has mainly lain in the fact that more of +our prominent men of science have seemed anxious to claim the theory +than to refute it; in the confidence thus engendered I leave it to any +fuller consideration which the outline I have above given may incline +the reader to bestow upon it.</p> +<h2>Footnotes:</h2> +<p><a name="footnote19"></a><a href="#citation19">{19}</a> I am +indebted to one of Butler’s contemporaries at Cambridge, the Rev +Dr. T. G. Bonney, F.R.S., and also to Mr. John F. Harris, both of St. +John’s College, for help in finding and dating Butler’s +youthful contributions to the <i>Eagle</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote20"></a><a href="#citation20">{20}</a> This +gentleman, on the death of his father in 1866, became the Rev. Sir Philip +Perring, Bart.</p> +<p><a name="footnote22"></a><a href="#citation22">{22}</a> The +late Sir Julius von Haast, K.C.M.G., appointed Provincial Geologist +in 1860, was ennobled by the Austrian Government and knighted by the +British. He died in 1887.</p> +<p><a name="footnote59"></a><a href="#citation59">{59}</a> A lecture +delivered at the Working Men’s College, Great Ormond Street, 30th +January, 1892.</p> +<p><a name="footnote99"></a><a href="#citation99">{99}</a> Published +in the <i>Universal Review</i>, July, 1888.</p> +<p><a name="footnote110"></a><a href="#citation110">{110}</a> +Published in the <i>Universal Review</i>, December, 1890.</p> +<p><a name="footnote127"></a><a href="#citation127">{127}</a> +Published in the <i>Universal Review</i>, May, 1889. As I have +several times been asked if the letters here reprinted were not fabricated +by Butler himself, I take this opportunity of stating that they are +authentic in every particular, and that the originals are now in my +possession.—R. A. S.</p> +<p><a name="footnote142"></a><a href="#citation142">{142}</a> +An address delivered at the Somerville Club, February 27th, 1895.</p> +<p><a name="footnote150"></a><a href="#citation150">{150}</a> +The <i>Foundations of Belief</i>, by the Right Hon. A. J. Balfour. +Longmans, 1895, p. 48.</p> +<p><a name="footnote153a"></a><a href="#citation153a">{153a}</a> +Published in the <i>Universal Review</i>, November, 1888.</p> +<p><a name="footnote153b"></a><a href="#citation153b">{153b}</a> +Since this essay was written it has been ascertained by Cavaliere Francesco +Negri, of Casale Monferrato, that Tabachetti died in 1615. If, +therefore, the Sanctuary of Montrigone was not founded until 1631, it +is plain that Tabachetti cannot have worked there. All the latest +discoveries about Tabachetti’s career will be found in Cavaliere +Negri’s pamphlet <i>Il Santuario di Crea</i> (Alessandria, 1902). +See also note on p. 195.—R. A. S.</p> +<p><a name="footnote166"></a><a href="#citation166">{166}</a> +Published in the <i>Universal Review</i>, December, 1889.</p> +<p><a name="footnote188"></a><a href="#citation188">{188}</a> +Published in the <i>Universal Review</i>, November, 1890.</p> +<p><a name="footnote190"></a><a href="#citation190">{190}</a> +M. Ruppen’s words run: “1687 wurde die Kapelle zur hohen +Stiege gebaut, 1747 durch Zusatz vergrössert und 1755 mit Orgeln +ausgestattet. Anton Ruppen, ein geschickter Steinhauer und Maurermeister +leitete den Kapellebau, und machte darin das kleinere Altärlein. +Bei der hohen Stiege war früher kein Gebetshäuslein; nur ein +wunderthätiges Bildlein der Mutter Gottes stand da in einer Mauer +vor dem fromme Hirten und viel andächtiges Volk unter freiem Himmel +beteten.</p> +<p>“1709 wurden die kleinen Kapellelein die 15 Geheimnisse des +Psalters vorstellend auf dem Wege zur hohen Stiege gebaut. Jeder +Haushalter des Viertels Fée übernahm den Bau eines dieser +Geheimnisskapellen, und ein besonderer Gutthäter dieser frommen +Unternehmung war Heinrich Andenmatten, nachhet Bruder der Gesellschaft +Jesu.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote195"></a><a href="#citation195">{195}</a> +The story of Tabachetti’s insanity and imprisonment is very doubtful, +and it is difficult to make his supposed visit to Saas fit in with the +authentic facts of his life. Cavaliere Negri, to whose pamphlet +on Tabachetti I have already referred the reader, mentions neither. +Tabachetti left his native Dinant in 1585, and from that date until +his death he appears to have lived chiefly at Varallo and Crea. +In 1588 he was working at Crea; in 1590 he was at Varallo and again +in 1594, 1599, and 1602. He died in 1615, possibly during a visit +to Varallo, though his home at the time was at Costigliole, near Asti.—R. +A. S.</p> +<p><a name="footnote196"></a><a href="#citation196">{196}</a> +This is thus chronicled by M. Ruppen: “1589 den 9 September war +eine Wassergrösse, die viel Schaden verursachte. Die Thalstrasse, +die von den Steinmatten an bis zur Kirche am Ufer der Visp lag, wurde +ganz zerstört. Man ward gezwungen eine neue Strasse in einiger +Entfernung vom Wasser durch einen alten Fussweg auszuhauen welche vier +und einerhalben Viertel der Klafter, oder 6 Schuh und 9 Zoll breit sollte” +(p. 43).</p> +<p><a name="footnote209"></a><a href="#citation209">{209}</a> +A lecture delivered at the Working Men’s College in Great Ormond +Street, March 15th, 1890; rewritten and delivered again at the Somerville +Club, February 13th, 1894.</p> +<p><a name="footnote210"></a><a href="#citation210">{210}</a> +<i>Correlation of Forces</i>, Longmans, 1874, p. 15.</p> +<p><a name="footnote230"></a><a href="#citation230">{230}</a> +<i>Three Lectures on the Science of Language</i>, Longmans, 1889, p. +4.</p> +<p><a name="footnote234"></a><a href="#citation234">{234}</a> +<i>Science of Thought</i>, Longmans, 1887, p. 9.</p> +<p><a name="footnote245"></a><a href="#citation245">{245}</a> +Published in the <i>Universal Review</i>, April, May, and June, 1890.</p> +<p><a name="footnote259a"></a><a href="#citation259a">{259a}</a> +<i>Voyages of the “Adventure” and “Beagle</i>,” +iii. p. 237.</p> +<p><a name="footnote259b"></a><a href="#citation259b">{259b}</a> +<i>Luck or Cunning</i>, pp. 170, 180.</p> +<p><a name="footnote260"></a><a href="#citation260">{260}</a> +<i>Journals of the Proceedings of the Linnean Society</i> (<i>Zoology</i>, +vol. iii.), 1859, p. 62.</p> +<p><a name="footnote261"></a><a href="#citation261">{261}</a> +<i>Darwinism</i> (Macmillan, 1889), p. 129.</p> +<p><a name="footnote263"></a><a href="#citation263">{263}</a> +See <i>Nature</i>, March 6, 1890.</p> +<p><a name="footnote265"></a><a href="#citation265">{265}</a> +<i>Origin of Species</i>, sixth edition, 1888, vol. i. p. 168.</p> +<p><a name="footnote266"></a><a href="#citation266">{266}</a> +<i>Origin of Species</i>, sixth edition, 1888, vol. ii. p. 261.</p> +<p><a name="footnote271"></a><a href="#citation271">{271}</a> +Mr. J. T. Cunningham, of the Marine Biological Laboratory, Plymouth, +has called my attention to the fact that I have ascribed to Professor +Ray Lankester a criticism on Mr. Wallace’s remarks upon the eyes +of certain flat-fish, which Professor Ray Lankester was, in reality, +only adopting—with full acknowledgment—from Mr. Cunningham. +Mr. Cunningham has left it to me whether to correct my omission publicly +or not, but he would so plainly prefer my doing so that I consider myself +bound to insert this note. Curiously enough, I find that in my +book <i>Evolution</i>, <i>Old and New</i> I gave what Lamarck actually +said upon the eyes of flat-fish, and, having been led to return to the +subject, I may as well quote his words. He wrote:—</p> +<p>“Need—always occasioned by the circumstances in which +an animal is placed, and followed by sustained efforts at gratification—can +not only modify an organ—that is to say, augment or reduce it—but +can change its position when the case requires its removal.</p> +<p>“Ocean fishes have occasion to see what is on either side of +them, and have their eyes accordingly placed on either side of their +head. Some fishes, however, have their abode near coasts on submarine +banks and inclinations, and are thus forced to flatten themselves as +much as possible in order to get as near as they can to the shore. +In this situation they receive more light from above than from below, +and find it necessary to pay attention to whatever happens to be above +them; this need has involved the displacement of their eyes, which now +take the remarkable position which we observe in the case of soles, +turbots, plaice, etc. The transfer of position is not even yet +complete in the case of these fishes, and the eyes are not, therefore, +symmetrically placed; but they are so with the skate, whose head and +whole body are equally disposed on either side a longitudinal section. +Hence the eyes of this fish are placed symmetrically upon the uppermost +side.”—<i>Philosophie Zoologique</i>, tom. i. pp. 250, 251. +Edition C. Martins. Paris, 1873.</p> +<p><a name="footnote274a"></a><a href="#citation274a">{274a}</a> +<i>Essays on Heredity</i>, etc., Oxford, 1889, p. 171.</p> +<p><a name="footnote274b"></a><a href="#citation274b">{274b}</a> +<i>Ibid</i>., p. 266.</p> +<p><a name="footnote275"></a><a href="#citation275">{275}</a> +<i>Darwinism</i>, 1889, p. 440.</p> +<p><a name="footnote277"></a><a href="#citation277">{277}</a> +Page 83.</p> +<p><a name="footnote279"></a><a href="#citation279">{279}</a> +Vol. i. p. 466, etc. Ed. 1885.</p> +<p><a name="footnote286"></a><a href="#citation286">{286}</a> +<i>Darwinism</i>, p. 440.</p> +<p><a name="footnote288"></a><a href="#citation288">{288}</a> +Tom. iv. p. 383. Ed. 1753.</p> +<p><a name="footnote290"></a><a href="#citation290">{290}</a> +Essays, etc., p. 447.</p> +<p><a name="footnote299"></a><a href="#citation299">{299}</a> +<i>Zoonomia</i>, 1794, vol. i. p. 480.</p> +<p> </p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HUMOUR OF HOMER AND OTHER</p> +<pre> +ESSAYS*** + + +***** This file should be named 12651-h.htm or 12651-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/6/5/12651 + + + +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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