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diff --git a/17437-h/17437-h.htm b/17437-h/17437-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e6b2bc4 --- /dev/null +++ b/17437-h/17437-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9049 @@ +<!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>Health and Education</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 */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + color: gray;} + + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">Health and Education, by Charles Kingsley</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Health and Education, by Charles Kingsley + + +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: Health and Education + + +Author: Charles Kingsley + + + +Release Date: December 31, 2005 [eBook #17437] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HEALTH AND EDUCATION*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed from the 1874 W. Isbister & Co. edition by David +Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p> +<h1>HEALTH AND EDUCATION</h1> +<p><span class="smcap">by the</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">Rev</span>. CHARLES KINGSLEY, <span class="smcap">f.l.s., +f.g.s.<br /> +Canon of Westminster</span></p> +<p>W. ISBISTER & CO.<br /> +56, LUDGATE HILL, LONDON<br /> +1874</p> +<p>[<i>All rights reserved</i>]</p> +<h2>THE SCIENCE OF HEALTH</h2> +<p>Whether the British race is improving or degenerating? What, +if it seem probably degenerating, are the causes of so great an evil? +How they can be, if not destroyed, at least arrested?—These are +questions worthy the attention, not of statesmen only and medical men, +but of every father and mother in these isles. I shall say somewhat +about them in this Essay; and say it in a form which ought to be intelligible +to fathers and mothers of every class, from the highest to the lowest, +in hopes of convincing some of them at least that the science of health, +now so utterly neglected in our curriculum of so-called education, ought +to be taught—the rudiments of it at least—in every school, +college, and university.</p> +<p>We talk of our hardy forefathers; and rightly. But they were +hardy, just as the savage is usually hardy, because none but the hardy +lived. They may have been able to say of themselves—as they +do in a state paper of 1515, now well known through the pages of Mr. +Froude—“What comyn folk of all the world may compare with +the comyns of England, in riches, freedom, liberty, welfare, and all +prosperity? What comyn folk is so mighty, and so strong in the +felde, as the comyns of England?” They may have been fed +on “great shins of beef,” till they became, as Benvenuto +Cellini calls them, “the English wild beasts.” But +they increased in numbers slowly, if at all, for centuries. Those +terrible laws of natural selection, which issue in “the survival +of the fittest,” cleared off the less fit, in every generation, +principally by infantile disease, often by wholesale famine and pestilence; +and left, on the whole, only those of the strongest constitutions to +perpetuate a hardy, valiant, and enterprising race.</p> +<p>At last came a sudden and unprecedented change. In the first +years of the century, steam and commerce produced an enormous increase +in the population. Millions of fresh human beings found employment, +married, brought up children who found employment in their turn, and +learnt to live more or less civilised lives. An event, doubtless, +for which God is to be thanked. A quite new phase of humanity, +bringing with it new vices and new dangers: but bringing, also, not +merely new comforts, but new noblenesses, new generosities, new conceptions +of duty, and of how that duty should be done. It is childish to +regret the old times, when our soot-grimed manufacturing districts were +green with lonely farms. To murmur at the transformation would +be, I believe, to murmur at the will of Him without whom not a sparrow +falls to the ground.</p> +<blockquote><p>“The old order changeth, yielding place to the +new,<br /> +And God fulfils himself in many ways,<br /> +Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Our duty is, instead of longing for the good old custom, to take +care of the good new custom, lest it should corrupt the world in like +wise. And it may do so thus:—</p> +<p>The rapid increase of population during the first half of this century +began at a moment when the British stock was specially exhausted; namely, +about the end of the long French war. There may have been periods +of exhaustion, at least in England, before that. There may have +been one here, as there seems to have been on the Continent, after the +Crusades; and another after the Wars of the Roses. There was certainly +a period of severe exhaustion at the end of Elizabeth’s reign, +due both to the long Spanish and Irish wars and to the terrible endemics +introduced from abroad; an exhaustion which may have caused, in part, +the national weakness which hung upon us during the reign of the Stuarts. +But after none of these did the survival of the less fit suddenly become +more easy; or the discovery of steam power, and the acquisition of a +colonial empire, create at once a fresh demand for human beings and +a fresh supply of food for them. Britain, at the beginning of +the nineteenth century, was in an altogether new social situation.</p> +<p>At the beginning of the great French war; and, indeed, ever since +the beginning of the war with Spain in 1739—often snubbed as the +“war about Jenkins’s ear”—but which was, as +I hold, one of the most just, as it was one of the most popular, of +all our wars; after, too, the once famous “forty fine harvests” +of the eighteenth century, the British people, from the gentleman who +led to the soldier or sailor who followed, were one of the mightiest +and most capable races which the world has ever seen, comparable best +to the old Roman, at his mightiest and most capable period. That, +at least, their works testify. They created—as far as man +can be said to create anything—the British Empire. They +won for us our colonies, our commerce, the mastery of the seas of all +the world. But at what a cost—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Their bones are scattered far and wide,<br /> +By mount, and stream, and sea.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Year after year, till the final triumph of Waterloo, not battle only, +but worse destroyers than shot and shell—fatigue and disease—had +been carrying off our stoutest, ablest, healthiest young men, each of +whom represented, alas! a maiden left unmarried at home, or married, +in default, to a less able man. The strongest went to the war; +each who fell left a weaklier man to continue the race; while of those +who did not fall, too many returned with tainted and weakened constitutions, +to injure, it may be, generations yet unborn. The middle classes, +being mostly engaged in peaceful pursuits, suffered less of this decimation +of their finest young men; and to that fact I attribute much of their +increasing preponderance, social, political, and intellectual, to this +very day. One cannot walk the streets of any of our great commercial +cities without seeing plenty of men, young and middle-aged, whose whole +bearing and stature shows that the manly vigour of our middle class +is anything but exhausted. In Liverpool, especially, I have been +much struck not only with the vigorous countenance, but with the bodily +size of the mercantile men on ’Change. But it must be remembered +always, first, that these men are the very élite of their class; +the cleverest men; the men capable of doing most work; and next, that +they are, almost all of them, from the great merchant who has his villa +out of town, and perhaps his moor in the Highlands, down to the sturdy +young volunteer who serves in the haberdasher’s shop, country-bred +men; and that the question is, not what they are like now, but what +their children and grand-children, especially the fine young volunteer’s, +will be like? And a very serious question I hold that to be; and +for this reason:</p> +<p>War is, without doubt, the most hideous physical curse which fallen +man inflicts upon himself; and for this simple reason, that it reverses +the very laws of nature, and is more cruel even than pestilence. +For instead of issuing in the survival of the fittest, it issues in +the survival of the less fit: and therefore, if protracted, must deteriorate +generations yet unborn. And yet a peace such as we now enjoy, +prosperous, civilised, humane, is fraught, though to a less degree, +with the very same ill effect.</p> +<p>In the first place, tens of thousands—Who knows it not?—lead +sedentary and unwholesome lives, stooping, asphyxiated, employing as +small a fraction of their bodies as of their minds. And all this +in dwellings, workshops, what not?—the influences, the very atmosphere +of which tend not to health, but to unhealth, and to drunkenness as +a solace under the feeling of unhealth and depression. And that +such a life must tell upon their offspring, and if their offspring grow +up under similar circumstances, upon their offspring’s offspring, +till a whole population may become permanently degraded, who does not +know? For who that walks through the by-streets of any great city +does not see? Moreover, and this is one of the most fearful problems +with which modern civilisation has to deal—we interfere with natural +selection by our conscientious care of life, as surely as does war itself. +If war kills the most fit to live, we save alive those who—looking +at them from a merely physical point of view—are most fit to die. +Everything which makes it more easy to live; every sanatory reform, +prevention of pestilence, medical discovery, amelioration of climate, +drainage of soil, improvement in dwelling-houses, workhouses, gaols; +every reformatory school, every hospital, every cure of drunkenness, +every influence, in short, which has—so I am told—increased +the average length of life in these islands, by nearly one-third, since +the first establishment of life insurances, one hundred and fifty years +ago; every influence of this kind, I say, saves persons alive who would +otherwise have died; and the great majority of these will be, even in +surgical and zymotic cases, those of least resisting power; who are +thus preserved to produce in time a still less powerful progeny.</p> +<p>Do I say that we ought not to save these people, if we can? +God forbid. The weakly, the diseased, whether infant or adult, +is here on earth; a British citizen; no more responsible for his own +weakness than for his own existence. Society, that is, in plain +English, we and our ancestors, are responsible for both; and we must +fulfil the duty, and keep him in life; and, if we can, heal, strengthen, +develop him to the utmost; and make the best of that which “fate +and our own deservings” have given us to deal with. I do +not speak of higher motives still; motives which to every minister of +religion must be paramount and awful. I speak merely of physical +and social motives, such as appeal to the conscience of every man—the +instinct which bids every human-hearted man or woman to save life, alleviate +pain, like Him who causes His sun to shine on the evil and on the good, +and His rain to fall on the just and on the unjust.</p> +<p>But it is palpable, that in so doing we must, year by year, preserve +a large percentage of weakly persons, who, marrying freely in their +own class, must produce weaklier children, and they weaklier children +still. Must, did I say? There are those who are of opinion—and +I, after watching and comparing the histories of many families, indeed, +of every one with whom I have come in contact for now five-and-thirty +years, in town and country, can only fear that their opinion is but +too well founded on fact—that in the great majority of cases, +in all classes whatsoever, the children are not equal to their parents, +nor they, again, to their grandparents of the beginning of the century; +and that this degrading process goes on most surely, and most rapidly, +in our large towns, and in proportion to the antiquity of those towns, +and therefore in proportion to the number of generations during which +the degrading influences have been at work.</p> +<p>This and cognate dangers have been felt more and more deeply, as +the years have rolled on, by students of human society. To ward +them off, theory after theory has been put on paper, especially in France, +which deserve high praise for their ingenuity, less for their morality, +and, I fear, still less for their common-sense. For the theorist +in his closet is certain to ignore, as inconvenient to the construction +of his Utopia, certain of those broad facts of human nature which every +active parish priest, medical man, or poor-law guardian has to face +every day of his life.</p> +<p>Society and British human nature are what they have become by the +indirect influences of long ages, and we can no more reconstruct the +one than we can change the other. We can no more mend men by theories +than we can by coercion—to which, by the by, almost all these +theorists look longingly as their final hope and mainstay. We +must teach men to mend their own matters, of their own reason, and their +own free-will. We must teach them that they are the arbiters of +their own destinies; and, to a fearfully great degree, of their children’s +destinies after them. We must teach them not merely that they +ought to be free, but that they are free, whether they know it or not, +for good and for evil. And we must do that in this case, by teaching +them sound practical science; the science of physiology, as applied +to health. So, and so only, can we check—I do not say stop +entirely—though I believe even that to be ideally possible; but +at least check the process of degradation which I believe to be surely +going on, not merely in these islands, but in every civilised country +in the world, in proportion to its civilisation.</p> +<p>It is still a question whether science has fully discovered those +laws of hereditary health, the disregard of which causes so many marriages +disastrous to generations yet unborn. But much valuable light +has been thrown on this most mysterious and most important subject during +the last few years. That light—and I thank God for it—is +widening and deepening rapidly. And I doubt not that, in a generation +or two more, enough will be known to be thrown into the shape of practical +and proveable rules; and that, if not a public opinion, yet at least, +what is more useful far, a wide-spread private opinion, will grow up, +especially among educated women, which will prevent many a tragedy and +save many a life.</p> +<p>But, as to the laws of personal health: enough, and more than enough, +is known already, to be applied safely and easily by any adults, however +unlearned, to the preservation not only of their own health, but of +that of their children.</p> +<p>The value of healthy habitations, of personal cleanliness, of pure +air and pure water, of various kinds of food, according as each tends +to make bone, fat, or muscle, provided only—provided only—that +the food be unadulterated; the value of various kinds of clothing, and +physical exercise, of a free and equal development of the brain-power, +without undue overstrain in any one direction; in one word, the method +of producing, as far as possible, the mentem sanam in corpore sano, +and the wonderful and blessed effects of such obedience to those laws +of nature, which are nothing but the good will of God expressed in facts—their +wonderful and blessed tendency, I say, to eliminate the germs of hereditary +disease, and to actually regenerate the human system—all this +is known; known as fully and clearly as any human knowledge need be +known; it is written in dozens of popular books and pamphlets. +And why should this divine voice, which cries to man, tending to sink +into effeminate barbarism through his own hasty and partial civilisation,—“It +is not too late. For your bodies, as for your spirits, there is +an upward, as well as a downward path. You, or if not you, at +least the children whom you have brought into the world, for whom you +toil, for whom you hoard, for whom you pray, for whom you would give +your lives,—they still may be healthy, strong, it may be beautiful, +and have all the intellectual and social, as well as the physical advantages, +which health, strength, and beauty give.”—Ah, why is this +divine voice now, as of old, Wisdom crying in the streets, and no man +regarding her? I appeal to women, who are initiated, as we men +can never be, into the stern mysteries of pain, and sorrow, and self-sacrifice;—they +who bring forth children, weep over children, slave for children, and, +if they have none of their own, then slave, with the holy instinct of +the sexless bee, for the children of others—Let them say, shall +this thing be?</p> +<p>Let my readers pardon me if I seem to write too earnestly. +That I speak neither more nor less than the truth, every medical man +knows full well. Not only as a very humble student of physiology, +but as a parish priest of thirty years’ standing, I have seen +so much unnecessary misery; and I have in other cases seen similar misery +so simply avoided; that the sense of the vastness of the evil is intensified +by my sense of the easiness of the cure.</p> +<p>Why, then—to come to practical suggestions—should there +not be opened in every great town in these realms a public school of +health? It might connect itself with—I hold that it should +form an integral part of—some existing educational institute. +But it should at least give practical lectures, for fees small enough +to put them within the reach of any respectable man or woman, however +poor. I cannot but hope that such schools of health, if opened +in the great manufacturing towns of England and Scotland, and, indeed, +in such an Irish town as Belfast, would obtain pupils in plenty, and +pupils who would thoroughly profit by what they hear. The people +of these towns are, most of them, specially accustomed by their own +trades to the application of scientific laws. To them, therefore, +the application of any fresh physical laws to a fresh set of facts, +would have nothing strange in it. They have already something +of that inductive habit of mind which is the groundwork of all rational +understanding or action. They would not turn the deaf and contemptuous +ear with which the savage and the superstitious receive the revelation +of nature’s mysteries. Why should not, with so hopeful an +audience, the experiment be tried far and wide, of giving lectures on +health, as supplementary to those lectures on animal physiology which +are, I am happy to say, becoming more and more common? Why should +not people be taught—they are already being taught at Birmingham—something +about the tissues of the body, their structure and uses, the circulation +of the blood, respiration, chemical changes in the air respired, amount +breathed, digestion, nature of food, absorption, secretion, structure +of the nervous system,—in fact, be taught something of how their +own bodies are made and how they work? Teaching of this kind ought +to, and will, in some more civilised age and country, be held a necessary +element in the school-course of every child, just as necessary as reading, +writing, and arithmetic; for it is after all the most necessary branch +of that “technical education” of which we hear so much just +now, namely, the technic, or art, of keeping oneself alive and well.</p> +<p>But we can hardly stop there. After we have taught the condition +of health, we must teach also the condition of disease; of those diseases +specially which tend to lessen wholesale the health of townsfolk, exposed +to an artificial mode of life. Surely young men and women should +be taught something of the causes of zymotic disease, and of scrofula, +consumption, rickets, dipsomania, cerebral derangement, and such like. +They should be shown the practical value of pure air, pure water, unadulterated +food, sweet and dry dwellings. Is there one of them, man or woman, +who would not be the safer and happier, and the more useful to his or +her neighbours, if they had acquired some sound notions about those +questions of drainage on which their own lives and the lives of their +children may every day depend? I say—women as well as men. +I should have said women rather than men. For it is the women +who have the ordering of the household, the bringing up of the children; +the women who bide at home, while the men are away, it may be at the +other end of the earth.</p> +<p>And if any say, as they have a right to say—“But these +are subjects which can hardly be taught to young women in public lectures;” +I rejoin,—Of course not, unless they are taught by women,—by +women, of course, duly educated and legally qualified. Let such +teach to women, what every woman ought to know, and what her parents +will very properly object to her hearing from almost any man. +This is one of the main reasons why I have, for twenty years past, advocated +the training of women for the medical profession; and one which countervails, +in my mind, all possible objections to such a movement. And now, +thank God, I am seeing the common sense of Great Britain, and indeed +of every civilised nation, gradually coming round to that which seemed +to me, when I first conceived of it, a dream too chimerical to be cherished +save in secret—the restoring woman to her natural share in that +sacred office of healer, which she held in the Middle Ages, and from +which she was thrust out during the sixteenth century.</p> +<p>I am most happy to see, for instance, that the National Health Society, +<a name="citation15"></a><a href="#footnote15">{15}</a> which I earnestly +recommend to the attention of my readers, announces a “Course +of Lectures for Ladies on Elementary Physiology and Hygiene, by Miss +Chessar,” to which I am also most happy to see, governesses are +admitted at half-fees. Alas! how much misery, disease, and even +death, might have been prevented, had governesses been taught such matters +thirty years ago, I, for one, know too well. May the day soon +come when there will be educated women enough to give such lectures +throughout these realms, to rich as well as poor,—for the rich, +strange to say, need them often as much as the poor do,—and that +we may live to see, in every great town, health classes for women as +well as for men, sending forth year by year more young women and young +men taught, not only to take care of themselves and of their families, +but to exercise moral influence over their fellow-citizens, as champions +in the battle against dirt and drunkenness, disease and death.</p> +<p>There may be those who would answer—or rather, there would +certainly have been those who would have so answered thirty years ago, +before the so-called materialism of advanced science had taught us some +practical wisdom about education, and reminded people that they have +bodies as well as minds and souls—“You say, we are likely +to grow weaklier, unhealthier. And if it were so, what matter? +Mind makes the man, not body. We do not want our children to be +stupid giants and bravos; but clever, able, highly educated, however +weakly Providence or the laws of nature may have chosen to make them. +Let them overstrain their brains a little; let them contract their chests, +and injure their digestion and their eyesight, by sitting at desks, +poring over books. Intellect is what we want. Intellect +makes money. Intellect makes the world. We would rather +see our son a genius than an athlete.” Well: and so would +I. But what if intellect alone does not even make money, save +as Messrs. Dodson & Fogg, Sampson Brass, and Montagu Tigg were wont +to make it, unless backed by an able, enduring, healthy physique, such +as I have seen, almost without exception, in those successful men of +business whom I have had the honour and the pleasure of knowing? +What if intellect, or what is now called intellect, did not make the +world, or the smallest wheel or cog of it? What if, for want of +obeying the laws of nature, parents bred up neither a genius nor an +athlete, but only an incapable unhappy personage, with a huge upright +forehead, like that of a Byzantine Greek, filled with some sort of pap +instead of brains, and tempted alternately to fanaticism and strong +drink? We must, in the great majority of cases have the corpus +sanem if we want the mentem sanem; and healthy bodies are the only trustworthy +organs for healthy minds. Which is cause and which is effect, +I shall not stay to debate here. But wherever we find a population +generally weakly, stunted, scrofulous, we find in them a corresponding +type of brain, which cannot be trusted to do good work; which is capable +more or less of madness, whether solitary or epidemic. It may +be very active; it may be very quick at catching at new and grand ideas—all +the more quick, perhaps, on account of its own secret <i>malaise</i> +and self-discontent: but it will be irritable, spasmodic, hysterical. +It will be apt to mistake capacity of talk for capacity of action, excitement +for earnestness, virulence for force, and, too often, cruelty for justice. +It will lose manful independence, individuality, originality; and when +men act, they will act, from the consciousness of personal weakness, +like sheep rushing over a hedge, leaning against each other, exhorting +each other to be brave, and swaying about in mobs and masses. +These were the intellectual weaknesses which, as I read history, followed +on physical degradation in Imperial Rome, in Alexandria, in Byzantium. +Have we not seen them reappear, under fearful forms, in Paris but the +other day?</p> +<p>I do not blame; I do not judge. My theory, which I hold, and +shall hold, to be fairly founded on a wide induction, forbids me to +blame and to judge: because it tells me that these defects are mainly +physical; that those who exhibit them are mainly to be pitied, as victims +of the sins or ignorance of their forefathers. But it tells me +too, that those who, professing to be educated men, and therefore bound +to know better, treat these physical phenomena as spiritual, healthy, +and praiseworthy; who even exasperate them, that they may make capital +out of the weaknesses of fallen man, are the most contemptible and yet +the most dangerous of public enemies, let them cloak their quackery +under whatsoever patriotic, or scientific, or even sacred words.</p> +<p>There are those again honest, kindly, sensible, practical men, many +of them; men whom I have no wish to offend; whom I had rather ask to +teach me some of their own experience and common sense, which has learned +to discern, like good statesmen, not only what ought to be done, but +what can be done—there are those, I say, who would sooner see +this whole question let alone. Their feeling, as far as I can +analyse it, seems to be, that the evils of which I have been complaining, +are on the whole inevitable: or, if not, that we can mend so very little +of them, that it is wisest to leave them alone altogether, lest, like +certain sewers, “the more you stir them, the more they smell.” +They fear lest we should unsettle the minds of the many for whom these +evils will never be mended; lest we make them discontented; discontented +with their houses, their occupations, their food, their whole social +arrangements; and all in vain.</p> +<p>I should answer, in all courtesy and humility—for I sympathise +deeply with such men and women, and respect them deeply likewise—But +are not people discontented already, from the lowest to the highest? +And ought a man, in such a piecemeal, foolish, greedy, sinful world +as this is, and always has been, to be anything but discontented? +If he thinks that things are going all right, must he not have a most +beggarly conception of what going right means? And if things are +not going right, can it be anything but good for him to see that they +are not going right? Can truth and fact harm any human being? +I shall not believe so, as long as I have a Bible wherein to believe. +For my part, I should like to make every man, woman, and child whom +I meet discontented with themselves, even as I am discontented with +myself. I should like to awaken in them, about their physical, +their intellectual, their moral condition, that divine discontent which +is the parent, first of upward aspiration and then of self-control, +thought, effort to fulfil that aspiration even in part. For to +be discontented with the divine discontent, and to be ashamed with the +noble shame, is the very germ and first upgrowth of all virtue. +Men begin at first, as boys begin when they grumble at their school +and their schoolmasters, to lay the blame on others; to be discontented +with their circumstances—the things which stand around them; and +to cry, “Oh that I had this!” “Oh that I had +that!” But that way no deliverance lies. That discontent +only ends in revolt and rebellion, social or political; and that, again, +still in the same worship of circumstances—but this time desperate—which +ends, let it disguise itself under what fine names it will, in what +the old Greeks called a tyranny; in which—as in the Spanish republics +of America, and in France more than once—all have become the voluntary +slaves of one man, because each man fancies that the one man can improve +his circumstances for him.</p> +<p>But the wise man will learn, like Epictetus the heroic slave, the +slave of Epaphroditus, Nero’s minion—and in what baser and +uglier circumstances could human being find himself?—to find out +the secret of being truly free; namely, to be discontented with no man +and no thing save himself. To say not—“Oh that I had +this and that!” but “Oh that I were this and that!” +Then, by God’s help—and that heroic slave, heathen though +he was, believed and trusted in God’s help—“I will +make myself that which God has shown me that I ought to be and can be.”</p> +<p>Ten thousand a-year, or ten million a-year, as Epictetus saw full +well, cannot mend that vulgar discontent with circumstances, which he +had felt—and who with more right?—and conquered, and despised. +For that is the discontent of children, wanting always more holidays +and more sweets. But I wish my readers to have, and to cherish, +the discontent of men and women.</p> +<p>Therefore I would make men and women discontented, with the divine +and wholesome discontent, at their own physical frame, and at that of +their children. I would accustom their eyes to those precious +heirlooms of the human race, the statues of the old Greeks; to their +tender grandeur, their chaste healthfulness, their unconscious, because +perfect, might: and say—There; these are tokens to you, and to +all generations yet unborn, of what man could be once; of what he can +be again if he will obey those laws of nature which are the voice of +God. I would make them discontented with the ugliness and closeness +of their dwellings; I would make the men discontented with the fashion +of their garments, and still more just now the women, of all ranks, +with the fashion of theirs; and with everything around them which they +have the power of improving, if it be at all ungraceful, superfluous, +tawdry, ridiculous, unwholesome. I would make them discontented +with what they call their education, and say to them—You call +the three Royal R’s education? They are not education: no +more is the knowledge which would enable you to take the highest prizes +given by the Society of Arts, or any other body. They are not +education: they are only instruction; a necessary groundwork, in an +age like this, for making practical use of your education: but not the +education itself.</p> +<p>And if they asked me, What then education meant? I should point them, +first, I think, to noble old Lilly’s noble old ‘Euphues,’ +of three hundred years ago, and ask them to consider what it says about +education, and especially this passage concerning that mere knowledge +which is now-a-days strangely miscalled education. “There +are two principal and peculiar gifts in the nature of man, knowledge +and reason. The one”—that is reason—“commandeth, +and the other”—that is knowledge—“obeyeth. +These things neither the whirling wheel of fortune can change, nor the +deceitful cavillings of worldlings separate, neither sickness abate, +nor age abolish.” And next I should point them to those +pages in Mr. Gladstone’s ‘Juventus Mundi,’ where he +describes the ideal training of a Greek youth in Homer’s days; +and say,—There: that is an education fit for a really civilised +man, even though he never saw a book in his life; the full, proportionate, +harmonious educing—that is, bringing out and developing—of +all the faculties of his body, mind, and heart, till he becomes at once +a reverent yet a self-assured, a graceful and yet a valiant, an able +and yet an eloquent personage.</p> +<p>And if any should say to me—“But what has this to do +with science? Homer’s Greeks knew no science;” I should +rejoin—But they had, pre-eminently above all ancient races which +we know, the scientific instinct; the teachableness and modesty; the +clear eye and quick ear; the hearty reverence for fact and nature, and +for the human body, and mind, and spirit; for human nature, in a word, +in its completeness, as the highest fact upon this earth. Therefore +they became in after years, not only the great colonisers and the great +civilisers of the old world—the most practical people, I hold, +which the world ever saw; but the parents of all sound physics as well +as of all sound metaphysics. Their very religion, in spite of +its imperfections, helped forward their education, not in spite of, +but by means of, that anthropomorphism which we sometimes too hastily +decry. As Mr. Gladstone says in a passage which I must quote at +length—“As regarded all other functions of our nature, outside +the domain of the life to Godward—all those functions which are +summed up in what St. Paul calls the flesh and the mind, the psychic +and bodily life, the tendency of the system was to exalt the human element, +by proposing a model of beauty, strength, and wisdom, in all their combinations, +so elevated that the effort to attain them required a continual upward +strain. It made divinity attainable; and thus it effectually directed +the thought and aim of man</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Along the line of limitless desires.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Such a scheme of religion, though failing grossly in the government +of the passions, and in upholding the standard of moral duties, tended +powerfully to produce a lofty self-respect, and a large, free, and varied +conception of humanity. It incorporated itself in schemes of notable +discipline for mind and body, indeed of a lifelong education; and these +habits of mind and action had their marked results (to omit many other +greatnesses) in a philosophy, literature, and art, which remain to this +day unrivalled or unsurpassed.”</p> +<p>So much those old Greeks did for their own education, without science +and without Christianity. We who have both: what might we not +do, if we would be true to our advantages, and to ourselves?</p> +<h2>THE TWO BREATHS. A LECTURE DELIVERED AT WINCHESTER, MAY 31, +1869.</h2> +<p>Ladies,—I have been honoured by a second invitation to address +you here, from the lady to whose public spirit the establishment of +these lectures is due. I dare not refuse it: because it gives +me an opportunity of speaking on a matter, knowledge and ignorance about +which may seriously affect your health and happiness, and that of the +children with whom you may have to do. I must apologize if I say +many things which are well known to many persons in this room: they +ought to be well known to all; and it is generally best to assume total +ignorance in one’s hearers, and to begin from the beginning.</p> +<p>I shall try to be as simple as possible; to trouble you as little +as possible with scientific terms; to be practical; and at the same +time, if possible, interesting.</p> +<p>I should wish to call this lecture “The Two Breaths:” +not merely “The Breath;” and for this reason: every time +you breathe, you breathe two different breaths; you take in one, you +give out another. The composition of those two breaths is different. +Their effects are different. The breath which has been breathed +out must not be breathed in again. To tell you why it must not +would lead me into anatomical details, not quite in place here as yet: +though the day will come, I trust, when every woman entrusted with the +care of children will be expected to know something about them. +But this I may say—Those who habitually take in fresh breath will +probably grow up large, strong, ruddy, cheerful, active, clear-headed, +fit for their work. Those who habitually take in the breath which +has been breathed out by themselves, or any other living creature, will +certainly grow up, if they grow up at all, small, weak, pale, nervous, +depressed, unfit for work, and tempted continually to resort to stimulants, +and become drunkards.</p> +<p>If you want to see how different the breath breathed out is from +the breath taken in, you have only to try a somewhat cruel experiment, +but one which people too often try upon themselves, their children, +and their work-people. If you take any small animal with lungs +like your own—a mouse, for instance—and force it to breathe +no air but what you have breathed already; if you put it in a close +box, and while you take in breath from the outer air, send out your +breath through a tube, into that box, the animal will soon faint; if +you go on long with this process, it will die.</p> +<p>Take a second instance, which I beg to press most seriously on the +notice of mothers, governesses, and nurses: If you allow a child to +get into the habit of sleeping with its head under the bed-clothes, +and thereby breathing its own breath over and over again, that child +will assuredly grow pale, weak, and ill. Medical men have cases +on record of scrofula appearing in children previously healthy, which +could only be accounted for from this habit, and which ceased when the +habit stopped. Let me again entreat your attention to this undoubted +fact.</p> +<p>Take another instance, which is only too common: If you are in a +crowded room, with plenty of fire and lights and company, doors and +windows all shut tight, how often you feel faint—so faint, that +you may require smelling-salts or some other stimulant. The cause +of your faintness is just the same as that of the mouse’s fainting +in the box: you and your friends, and, as I shall show you presently, +the fire and the candles likewise, having been all breathing each other’s +breaths, over and over again, till the air has become unfit to support +life. You are doing your best to enact over again the Highland +tragedy, of which Sir James Simpson tells in his lectures to the working-classes +of Edinburgh, when at a Christmas meeting thirty-six persons danced +all night in a small room with a low ceiling, keeping the doors and +windows shut. The atmosphere of the room was noxious beyond description; +and the effect was, that seven of the party were soon after seized with +typhus fever, of which two died. You are inflicting on yourselves +the torments of the poor dog, who is kept at the Grotto del Cane, near +Naples, to be stupified, for the amusement of visitors, by the carbonic +acid gas of the Grotto, and brought to life again by being dragged into +the fresh air; nay, you are inflicting upon yourselves the torments +of the famous Black Hole of Calcutta; and, if there was no chimney in +the room, by which some fresh air could enter, the candles would soon +burn blue—as they do, you know, when ghosts appear; your brains +become disturbed; and you yourselves run the risk of becoming ghosts, +and the candles of actually going out.</p> +<p>Of this last fact there is no doubt; for if, instead of putting a +mouse into the box, you will put a lighted candle, and breathe into +the tube, as before, however gently, you will in a short time put the +candle out.</p> +<p>Now, how is this? First, what is the difference between the +breath you take in and the breath you give out? And next, why +has it a similar effect on animal life and a lighted candle?</p> +<p>The difference is this. The breath which you take in is, or +ought to be, pure air, composed, on the whole, of oxygen and nitrogen, +with a minute portion of carbonic acid.</p> +<p>The breath which you give out is an impure air, to which has been +added, among other matters which will not support life, an excess of +carbonic acid.</p> +<p>That this is the fact you can prove for yourselves by a simple experiment. +Get a little lime water at the chemist’s, and breathe into it +through a glass tube; your breath will at once make the lime-water milky. +The carbonic acid of your breath has laid hold of the lime, and made +it visible as white carbonate of lime—in plain English, as common +chalk.</p> +<p>Now, I do not wish, as I said, to load your memories with scientific +terms: but I beseech you to remember at least these two—oxygen +gas and carbonic acid gas; and to remember that, as surely as oxygen +feeds the fire of life, so surely does carbonic acid put it out.</p> +<p>I say, “the fire of life.” In that expression lies +the answer to our second question: Why does our breath produce a similar +effect upon the mouse and the lighted candle? Every one of us +is, as it were, a living fire. Were we not, how could we be always +warmer than the air outside us? There is a process going on perpetually +in each of us, similar to that by which coals are burnt in the fire, +oil in a lamp, wax in a candle, and the earth itself in a volcano. +To keep each of those fires alight, oxygen is needed; and the products +of combustion, as they are called, are more or less the same in each +case—carbonic acid and steam.</p> +<p>These facts justify the expression I just made use of—which +may have seemed to some of you fantastical—that the fire and the +candles in the crowded room were breathing the same breath as you were. +It is but too true. An average fire in the grate requires, to +keep it burning, as much oxygen as several human beings do; each candle +or lamp must have its share of oxygen likewise, and that a very considerable +one; and an average gas-burner—pray attend to this, you who live +in rooms lighted with gas—consumes as much oxygen as several candles. +All alike are making carbonic acid. The carbonic acid of the fire +happily escapes up the chimney in the smoke: but the carbonic acid from +the human beings and the candles remains to poison the room, unless +it be ventilated.</p> +<p>Now, I think you may understand one of the simplest, and yet most +terrible, cases of want of ventilation—death by the fumes of charcoal. +A human being shut up in a room, of which every crack is closed, with +a pan of burning charcoal, falls asleep, never to wake again. +His inward fire is competing with the fire of the charcoal for the oxygen +of the room; both are making carbonic acid out of it: but the charcoal, +being the stronger of the two, gets all the oxygen to itself, and leaves +the human being nothing to inhale but the carbonic acid which it has +made. The human being, being the weaker, dies first: but the charcoal +dies also. When it has exhausted all the oxygen of the room, it +cools, goes out, and is found in the morning half-consumed beside its +victim. If you put a giant or an elephant, I should conceive, +into that room, instead of a human being, the case would be reversed +for a time: the elephant would put out the burning charcoal by the carbonic +acid from his mighty lungs; and then, when he had exhausted all the +air in the room, die likewise of his own carbonic acid.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Now, I think, we may see what ventilation means, and why it is needed.</p> +<p>Ventilation means simply letting out the foul air, and letting in +the fresh air; letting out the air which has been breathed by men or +by candles, and letting in the air which has not. To understand +how to do that, we must remember a most simple chemical law, that a +gas as it is warmed expands, and therefore becomes lighter; as it cools, +it contracts, and becomes heavier.</p> +<p>Now the carbonic acid in the breath which comes out of our mouth +is warm, lighter than the air, and rises to the ceiling; and therefore +in any unventilated room full of people, there is a layer of foul air +along the ceiling. You might soon test that for yourselves, if +you could mount a ladder and put your heads there aloft. You do +test it for yourselves when you sit in the galleries of churches and +theatres, where the air is palpably more foul, and therefore more injurious, +than down below.</p> +<p>Where, again, work-people are employed in a crowded house of many +storeys, the health of those who work on the upper floors always suffers +most.</p> +<p>In the old monkey-house of the Zoological Gardens, when the cages +were on the old plan, tier upon tier, the poor little fellows in the +uppermost tier—so I have been told—always died first of +the monkey’s constitutional complaint, consumption, simply from +breathing the warm breath of their friends below. But since the +cages have been altered, and made to range side by side from top to +bottom, consumption—I understand—has vastly diminished among +them.</p> +<p>The first question in ventilation, therefore, is to get this carbonic +acid safe out of the room, while it is warm and light and close to the +ceiling; for if you do not, this happens—The carbonic acid gas +cools and becomes heavier; for carbonic acid, at the same temperature +as common air, is so much heavier than common air, that you may actually—if +you are handy enough—turn it from one vessel to another, and pour +out for your enemy a glass of invisible poison. So down to the +floor this heavy carbonic acid comes, and lies along it, just as it +lies often in the bottom of old wells, or old brewers’ vats, as +a stratum of poison, killing occasionally the men who descend into it. +Hence, as foolish a practice as I know is that of sleeping on the floor; +for towards the small hours, when the room gets cold, the sleeper on +the floor is breathing carbonic acid.</p> +<p>And here one word to those ladies who interest themselves with the +poor. The poor are too apt in times of distress to pawn their +bedsteads and keep their beds. Never, if you have influence, let +that happen. Keep the bedstead, whatever else may go, to save +the sleeper from the carbonic acid on the floor.</p> +<p>How, then, shall we get rid of the foul air at the top of the room? +After all that has been written and tried on ventilation, I know no +simpler method than putting into the chimney one of Arnott’s ventilators, +which may be bought and fixed for a few shillings; always remembering +that it must be fixed into the chimney as near the ceiling as possible. +I can speak of these ventilators from twenty-five years’ experience. +Living in a house with low ceilings, liable to become overcharged with +carbonic acid, which produces sleepiness in the evening, I have found +that these ventilators keep the air fresh and pure; and I consider the +presence of one of these ventilators in a room more valuable than three +or four feet additional height of ceiling. I have found, too, +that their working proves how necessary they are, from this simple fact:—You +would suppose that, as the ventilator opens freely into the chimney, +the smoke would be blown down through it in high winds, and blacken +the ceiling: but this is just what does not happen. If the ventilator +be at all properly poised, so as to shut with a violent gust of wind, +it will at all other moments keep itself permanently open; proving thereby +that there is an up-draught of heated air continually escaping from +the ceiling up the chimney. Another very simple method of ventilation +is employed in those excellent cottages which Her Majesty has built +for her labourers round Windsor. Over each door a sheet of perforated +zinc, some 18 inches square, is fixed; allowing the foul air to escape +into the passage; and in the ceiling of the passage a similar sheet +of zinc, allowing it to escape into the roof. Fresh air, meanwhile, +should be obtained from outside, by piercing the windows, or otherwise. +And here let me give one hint to all builders of houses. If possible, +let bedroom windows open at the top as well as at the bottom.</p> +<p>Let me impress the necessity of using some such contrivances, not +only on parents and educators, but on those who employ work-people, +and above all on those who employ young women in shops or in work-rooms. +What their condition may be in this city I know not; but most painful +it has been to me in other places, when passing through warehouses or +work-rooms, to see the pale, sodden, and, as the French would say “etiolated” +countenances of the girls who were passing the greater part of the day +in them; and painful, also, to breathe an atmosphere of which habit +had, alas! made them unconscious, but which to one coming out of the +open air was altogether noxious, and shocking also; for it was fostering +the seeds of death, not only in the present but in future generations.</p> +<p>Why should this be? Every one will agree that good ventilation +is necessary in a hospital, because people cannot get well without fresh +air. Do they not see that by the same reasoning good ventilation +is necessary everywhere, because people cannot remain well without fresh +air? Let me entreat those who employ women in work-rooms, if they +have no time to read through such books as Dr. Andrew Combe’s +‘Physiology applied to Health and Education,’ and Madame +de Wahl’s ‘Practical Hints on the Moral, Mental, and Physical +Training of Girls,’ to procure certain tracts published by Messrs. +Jarrold, Paternoster Row, for the Ladies’ Sanitary Association; +especially one which bears on this subject, ‘The Black-Hole in +our own Bedrooms;’ Dr. Lankester’s ‘School Manual +of Health;’ or a manual on ventilation, published by the Metropolitan +Working Classes Association for the Improvement of Public Health.</p> +<p>I look forward—I say it openly—to some period of higher +civilisation, when the Acts of Parliament for the ventilation of factories +and workshops shall be largely extended, and made far more stringent; +when officers of public health shall be empowered to enforce the ventilation +of every room in which persons are employed for hire; and empowered +also to demand a proper system of ventilation for every new house, whether +in country or in town. To that, I believe, we must come: but I +had sooner far see these improvements carried out, as befits the citizens +of a free country, in the spirit of the Gospel rather than in that of +the Law; carried out, not compulsorily and from fear of fines, but voluntarily, +from a sense of duty, honour, and humanity. I appeal, therefore, +to the good feeling of all whom it may concern, whether the health of +those whom they employ, and therefore the supply of fresh air which +they absolutely need, are not matters for which they are not, more or +less, responsible to their country and their God.</p> +<p>And if any excellent person of the old school should answer me—“Why +make all this fuss about ventilation? Our forefathers got on very +well without it”—I must answer that, begging their pardons, +our ancestors did nothing of the kind. Our ancestors got on usually +very ill in these matters: and when they got on well, it was because +they had good ventilation in spite of themselves.</p> +<p>First. They got on very ill. To quote a few remarkable +instances of longevity, or to tell me that men were larger and stronger +on the average in old times, is to yield to the old fallacy of fancying +that savages were peculiarly healthy, because those who were seen were +active and strong. The simple answer is, that the strong alone +survived, while the majority died from the severity of the training. +Savages do not increase in number; and our ancestors increased but very +slowly for many centuries. I am not going to disgust my audience +with statistics of disease: but knowing something, as I happen to do, +of the social state and of the health of the Middle and Elizabethan +Ages, I have no hesitation in saying that the average of disease and +death was far greater then than it is now. Epidemics of many kinds, +typhus, ague, plague—all diseases which were caused more or less +by bad air—devastated this land and Europe in those days with +a horrible intensity, to which even the choleras of our times are mild. +The back streets, the hospitals, the gaols, the barracks, the camps—every +place in which any large number of persons congregated, were so many +nests of pestilence, engendered by uncleanliness, which denied alike +the water which was drunk and the air which was breathed; and as a single +fact, of which the tables of insurance companies assure us, the average +of human life in England has increased twenty-five per cent. since the +reign of George I., owing simply to our more rational and cleanly habits +of life.</p> +<p>But secondly, I said that when our ancestors got on well, they did +so because they got ventilation in spite of themselves. Luckily +for them, their houses were ill-built; their doors and windows would +not shut. They had lattice-windowed houses, too; to live in one +of which, as I can testify from long experience, is as thoroughly ventilating +as living in a lantern with the horn broken out. It was because +their houses were full of draughts, and still more, in the early middle +age, because they had no glass, and stopped out the air only by a shutter +at night, that they sought for shelter rather than for fresh air, of +which they sometimes had too much; and, to escape the wind, built their +houses in holes, such as that in which the old city of Winchester stands. +Shelter, I believe, as much as the desire to be near fish in Lent, and +to occupy the rich alluvium of the valleys, made the monks of Old England +choose the river-banks for the sites of their abbeys. They made +a mistake therein, which, like most mistakes, did not go unpunished. +These low situations, especially while the forests were yet thick on +the hills around, were the perennial haunts of fever and ague, produced +by subtle vegetable poisons, carried in the carbonic acid given off +by rotting vegetation. So there, again, they fell in with man’s +old enemy—bad air.</p> +<p>Still, as long as the doors and windows did not shut, some free circulation +of air remained. But now, our doors and windows shut only too +tight. We have plate-glass instead of lattices; and we have replaced +the draughty and smoky, but really wholesome open chimney, with its +wide corners and settles, by narrow registers, and even by stoves. +We have done all we can, in fact, to seal ourselves up hermetically +from the outer air, and to breathe our own breaths over and over again; +and we pay the penalty of it in a thousand ways unknown to our ancestors, +through whose rooms all the winds of heaven whistled, and who were glad +enough to shelter themselves from draughts in the sitting-room by the +high screen round the fire, and in the sleeping-room by the thick curtains +of the four-post bedstead, which is now rapidly disappearing before +a higher civilisation. We therefore absolutely require to make +for ourselves the very ventilation from which our ancestors tried to +escape.</p> +<p>But, ladies, there is an old and true proverb, that you may bring +a horse to the water, but you cannot make him drink. And in like +wise it is too true, that you may bring people to the fresh air, but +you cannot make them breathe it. Their own folly, or the folly +of their parents and educators, prevents their lungs being duly filled +and duly emptied. Therefore, the blood is not duly oxygenated, +and the whole system goes wrong.</p> +<p>Paleness, weakness, consumption, scrofula, and too many other ailments, +are the consequences of ill-filled lungs. For without well-filled +lungs, robust health is impossible.</p> +<p>And if any one shall answer—“We do not want robust health +so much as intellectual attainment. The mortal body, being the +lower organ, must take its chance, and be even sacrificed, if need be, +to the higher organ—the immortal mind:”—To such I +reply, You cannot do it. The laws of nature, which are the express +will of God, laugh such attempts to scorn. Every organ of the +body is formed out of the blood; and if the blood be vitiated, every +organ suffers in proportion to its delicacy; and the brain, being the +most delicate and highly specialised of all organs, suffers most of +all and soonest of all, as every one knows who has tried to work his +brain when his digestion was the least out of order. Nay, the +very morals will suffer. From ill-filled lungs, which signify +ill-repaired blood, arise year by year an amount not merely of disease, +but of folly, temper, laziness, intemperance, madness, and, let me tell +you fairly, crime—the sum of which will never be known till that +great day when men shall be called to account for all deeds done in +the body, whether they be good or evil.</p> +<p>I must refer you on this subject again to Andrew Combe’s ‘Physiology,’ +especially chapters iv. and vii.; and also to chapter x. of Madame de +Wahl’s excellent book. I will only say this shortly, that +the three most common causes of ill-filled lungs, in children and in +young ladies, are stillness, silence, and stays.</p> +<p>First, stillness; a sedentary life, and want of exercise. A +girl is kept for hours sitting on a form writing or reading, to do which +she must lean forward; and if her schoolmistress cruelly attempts to +make her sit upright, and thereby keep the spine in an attitude for +which Nature did not intend it, she is thereby doing her best to bring +on that disease, so fearfully common in girls’ schools, lateral +curvature of the spine. But practically the girl will stoop forward. +And what happens? The lower ribs are pressed into the body, thereby +displacing more or less something inside. The diaphragm in the +meantime, which is the very bellows of the lungs, remains loose; the +lungs are never properly filled or emptied; and an excess of carbonic +acid accumulates at the bottom of them. What follows? Frequent +sighing to get rid of it; heaviness of head; depression of the whole +nervous system under the influence of the poison of the lungs; and when +the poor child gets up from her weary work, what is the first thing +she probably does? She lifts up her chest, stretches, yawns, and +breathes deeply—Nature’s voice, Nature’s instinctive +cure, which is probably regarded as ungraceful, as what is called “lolling” +is. As if sitting upright was not an attitude in itself essentially +ungraceful, and such as no artist would care to draw. As if “lolling,” +which means putting the body in the attitude of the most perfect ease +compatible with a fully expanded chest, was not in itself essentially +graceful, and to be seen in every reposing figure in Greek bas-reliefs +and vases; graceful, and like all graceful actions, healthful at the +same time. The only tolerably wholesome attitude of repose, which +I see allowed in average school-rooms, is lying on the back on the floor, +or on a sloping board, in which case the lungs must be fully expanded. +But even so, a pillow, or some equivalent, ought to be placed under +the small of the back: or the spine will be strained at its very weakest +point.</p> +<p>I now go on to the second mistake—enforced silence. Moderate +reading aloud is good: but where there is any tendency to irritability +of throat or lungs, too much moderation cannot be used. You may +as well try to cure a diseased lung by working it, as to cure a lame +horse by galloping him. But where the breathing organs are of +average health, let it be said once and for all, that children and young +people cannot make too much noise. The parents who cannot bear +the noise of their children have no right to have brought them into +the world. The schoolmistress who enforces silence on her pupils +is committing—unintentionally no doubt, but still committing—an +offence against reason, worthy only of a convent. Every shout, +every burst of laughter, every song—nay, in the case of infants, +as physiologists well know, every moderate fit of crying—conduces +to health, by rapidly filling and emptying the lung, and changing the +blood more rapidly from black to red, that is, from death to life. +Andrew Combe tells a story of a large charity school, in which the young +girls were, for the sake of their health, shut up in the hall and school-room +during play hours, from November till March, and no romping or noise +allowed. The natural consequences were, the great majority of +them fell ill; and I am afraid that a great deal of illness has been +from time to time contracted in certain school-rooms, simply through +this one cause of enforced silence. Some cause or other there +must be for the amount of ill-health and weakliness which prevails especially +among girls of the middle classes in towns, who have not, poor things, +the opportunities which richer girls have, of keeping themselves in +strong health by riding, skating, archery—that last quite an admirable +exercise for the chest and lungs, and far preferable to croquet, which +involves too much unwholesome stooping.—Even playing at ball, +if milliners and shop-girls had room to indulge in one after their sedentary +work, might bring fresh spirits to many a heart, and fresh colour to +many a cheek. I spoke just now of the Greeks. I suppose +you will all allow that the Greeks were, as far as we know, the most +beautiful race which the world ever saw. Every educated man knows +that they were also the cleverest of all races; and, next to his Bible, +thanks God for Greek literature.</p> +<p>Now, these people had made physical as well as intellectual education +a science as well as a study. Their women practised graceful, +and in some cases even athletic, exercises. They developed, by +a free and healthy life, those figures which remain everlasting and +unapproachable models of human beauty: but—to come to my third +point—they wore no stays. The first mention of stays that +I have ever found is in the letters of dear old Synesius, Bishop of +Cyrene, on the Greek coast of Africa, about four hundred years after +the Christian era. He tells us how, when he was shipwrecked on +a remote part of the coast, and he and the rest of the passengers were +starving on cockles and limpets, there was among them a slave girl out +of the far East, who had a pinched wasp-waist, such as you may see on +the old Hindoo sculptures, and such as you may see in any street in +a British town. And when the Greek ladies of the neighbourhood +found her out, they sent for her from house to house, to behold, with +astonishment and laughter, this new and prodigious waist, with which +it seemed to them it was impossible for a human being to breathe or +live; and they petted the poor girl, and fed her, as they might a dwarf +or a giantess, till she got quite fat and comfortable, while her owners +had not enough to eat. So strange and ridiculous seemed our present +fashion to the descendants of those who, centuries before, had imagined, +because they had seen living and moving, those glorious statues which +we pretend to admire, but refuse to imitate.</p> +<p>It seems to me that a few centuries hence, when mankind has learnt +to fear God more, and therefore to obey more strictly those laws of +nature and of science which are the will of God—it seems to me, +I say, that in those days the present fashion of tight lacing will be +looked back upon as a contemptible and barbarous superstition, denoting +a very low level of civilisation in the peoples which have practised +it. That for generations past women should have been in the habit—not +to please men, who do not care about the matter as a point of beauty—but +simply to vie with each other in obedience to something called fashion—that +they should, I say, have been in the habit of deliberately crushing +that part of the body which should be specially left free, contracting +and displacing their lungs, their heart, and all the most vital and +important organs, and entailing thereby disease, not only on themselves +but on their children after them; that for forty years past physicians +should have been telling them of the folly of what they have been doing: +and that they should as yet, in the great majority of cases, not only +turn a deaf ear to all warnings, but actually deny the offence, of which +one glance of the physician or the sculptor, who know what shape the +human body ought to be, brings them in guilty: this, I say, is an instance +of—what shall I call it?—which deserves at once the lash, +not merely of the satirist, but of any theologian who really believes +that God made the physical universe. Let me, I pray you, appeal +to your common sense for a moment. When any one chooses a horse +or a dog, whether for strength, for speed, or for any other useful purpose, +the first thing almost to be looked at is the girth round the ribs; +the room for heart and lungs. Exactly in proportion to that will +be the animal’s general healthiness, power of endurance, and value +in many other ways. If you will look at eminent lawyers and famous +orators, who have attained a healthy old age, you will see that in every +case they are men, like the late Lord Palmerston, and others whom I +could mention, of remarkable size, not merely in the upper, but in the +lower part of the chest; men who had, therefore, a peculiar power of +using the diaphragm to fill and to clear the lungs, and therefore to +oxygenate the blood of the whole body. Now, it is just these lower +ribs, across which the diaphragm is stretched like the head of a drum, +which stays contract to a minimum. If you advised owners of horses +and hounds to put their horses or their hounds into stays, and lace +them up tight, in order to increase their beauty, you would receive, +I doubt not, a very courteous, but certainly a very decided, refusal +to do that which would spoil not merely the animals themselves, but +the whole stud or the whole kennel for years to come. And if you +advised an orator to put himself into tight stays, he, no doubt, again +would give a courteous answer; but he would reply—if he was a +really educated man—that to comply with your request would involve +his giving up public work, under the probable penalty of being dead +within the twelvemonth.</p> +<p>And how much work of every kind, intellectual as well as physical, +is spoiled or hindered; how many deaths occur from consumption and other +complaints which are the result of this habit of tight lacing, is known +partly to the medical men, who lift up their voices in vain, and known +fully to Him who will not interfere with the least of His own physical +laws to save human beings from the consequences of their own wilful +folly.</p> +<p>And now—to end this lecture with more pleasing thoughts—What +becomes of this breath which passes from your lips? Is it merely +harmful; merely waste? God forbid! God has forbidden that +anything should be merely harmful or merely waste in this so wise and +well-made world. The carbonic acid which passes from your lips +at every breath—ay, even that which oozes from the volcano crater +when the eruption is past—is a precious boon to thousands of things +of which you have daily need. Indeed there is a sort of hint at +physical truth in the old fairy tale of the girl, from whose lips, as +she spoke, fell pearls and diamonds; for the carbonic acid of your breath +may help hereafter to make the pure carbonate of lime of a pearl, or +the still purer carbon of a diamond. Nay, it may go—in such +a world of transformations do we live—to make atoms of coal strata, +which shall lie buried for ages beneath deep seas, shall be upheaved +in continents which are yet unborn, and there be burnt for the use of +a future race of men, and resolved into their original elements. +Coal, wise men tell us, is on the whole breath and sunlight; the breath +of living creatures who have lived in the vast swamps and forests of +some primæval world, and the sunlight which transmuted that breath +into the leaves and stems of trees, magically locked up for ages in +that black stone, to become, when it is burnt at last, light and carbonic +acid, as it was at first. For though you must not breathe your +breath again, you may at least eat your breath, if you will allow the +sun to transmute it for you into vegetables; or you may enjoy its fragrance +and its colour in the shape of a lily or a rose. When you walk +in a sunlit garden, every word you speak, every breath you breathe, +is feeding the plants and flowers around. The delicate surface +of the green leaves absorbs the carbonic acid, and parts it into its +elements, retaining the carbon to make woody fibre, and courteously +returning you the oxygen to mingle with the fresh air, and be inhaled +by your lungs once more. Thus do you feed the plants; just as +the plants feed you; while the great life-giving sun feeds both; and +the geranium standing in the sick child’s window does not merely +rejoice his eye and mind by its beauty and freshness, but repays honestly +the trouble spent on it; absorbing the breath which the child needs +not, and giving to him the breath which he needs.</p> +<p>So are the services of all things constituted according to a Divine +and wonderful order, and knit together in mutual dependence and mutual +helpfulness.—A fact to be remembered with hope and comfort; but +also with awe and fear. For as in that which is above nature, +so in nature itself; he that breaks one physical law is guilty of all. +The whole universe, as it were, takes up arms against him; and all nature, +with her numberless and unseen powers, is ready to avenge herself on +him, and on his children after him, he knows not when nor where. +He, on the other hand, who obeys the laws of nature with his whole heart +and mind, will find all things working together to him for good. +He is at peace with the physical universe. He is helped and befriended +alike by the sun above his head and the dust beneath his feet: because +he is obeying the will and mind of Him who made sun, and dust, and all +things; and who has given them a law which cannot be broken.</p> +<h2>THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE.</h2> +<p>The more I have contemplated that ancient story of the Fall, the +more it has seemed to me within the range of probability, and even of +experience. It must have happened somewhere for the first time; +for it has happened only too many times since. It has happened, +as far as I can ascertain, in every race, and every age, and every grade +of civilisation. It is happening round us now in every region +of the globe. Always and everywhere, it seems to me, have poor +human beings been tempted to eat of some “tree of knowledge,” +that they may be, even for an hour, as gods; wise, but with a false +wisdom; careless, but with a frantic carelessness; and happy, but with +a happiness which, when the excitement is past, leaves too often—as +with that hapless pair in Eden—depression, shame, and fear. +Everywhere, and in all ages, as far as I can ascertain, has man been +inventing stimulants and narcotics to supply that want of vitality of +which he is so painfully aware; and has asked nature, and not God, to +clear the dull brain, and comfort the weary spirit.</p> +<p>This has been, and will be perhaps for many a century to come, almost +the most fearful failing of this poor, exceptional, over-organised, +diseased, and truly fallen being called man, who is in doubt daily whether +he be a god or an ape; and in trying wildly to become the former, ends +but too often in becoming the latter.</p> +<p>For man, whether savage or civilised, feels, and has felt in every +age, that there is something wrong with him. He usually confesses +this fact—as is to be expected—of his fellow-men, rather +than of himself; and shows his sense that there is something wrong with +them by complaining of, hating, and killing them. But he cannot +always conceal from himself the fact that he, too, is wrong, as well +as they; and as he will not usually kill himself, he tries wild ways +to make himself at least feel—if not to be—somewhat “better.” +Philosophers may bid him be content; and tell him that he is what he +ought to be, and what nature has made him. But he cares nothing +for the philosophers. He knows, usually, that he is not what he +ought to be; that he carries about with him, in most cases, a body more +or less diseased and decrepit, incapable of doing all the work which +he feels that he himself could do, or expressing all the emotions which +he himself longs to express; a dull brain and dull senses, which cramp +the eager infinity within him; as—so Goethe once said with pity—the +horse’s single hoof cramps the fine intelligence and generosity +of his nature, and forbids him even to grasp an object, like the more +stupid cat, and baser monkey. And man has a self, too, within, +from which he longs too often to escape, as from a household ghost; +who pulls out, at unfortunately rude and unwelcome hours, the ledger +of memory. And so when the tempter—be he who he may—says +to him “Take this, and you will ‘feel better’—Take +this, and you shall be as gods, knowing good and evil:” then, +if the temptation was, as the old story says, too much for man while +healthy and unfallen, what must it be for his unhealthy and fallen children? +In vain we say to man—</p> +<blockquote><p>“’Tis life, not death, for which you pant;<br /> +’Tis life, whereof your nerves are scant;<br /> +More life, and fuller, that you want.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>And your tree of knowledge is not the tree of life: it is, in every +case, the tree of death; of decrepitude, madness, misery. He prefers +the voice of the tempter—“Thou shalt not surely die.” +Nay, he will say at last,—“Better be as gods awhile, and +die: than be the crawling, insufficient thing I am; and live.”</p> +<p>He—did I say? Alas! I must say she likewise. +The sacred story is only too true to fact, when it represents the woman +as falling, not merely at the same time as the man, but before the man. +Only let us remember that it represents the woman as tempted; tempted, +seemingly, by a rational being, of lower race, and yet of superior cunning; +who must, therefore, have fallen before the woman. Who or what +the being was, who is called the Serpent in our translation of Genesis, +it is not for me to say. We have absolutely, I think, no facts +from which to judge; and Rabbinical traditions need trouble no man much. +But I fancy that a missionary, preaching on this story to Negroes; telling +them plainly that the “Serpent” meant the first Obeah man; +and then comparing the experiences of that hapless pair in Eden, with +their own after certain orgies not yet extinct in Africa and elsewhere, +would be only too well understood: so well, indeed, that he might run +some risk of eating himself, not of the tree of life, but of that of +death. The sorcerer or sorceress tempting the woman; and then +the woman tempting the man; this seems to be, certainly among savage +peoples, and, alas! too often among civilised peoples also, the usual +course of the world-wide tragedy.</p> +<p>But—paradoxical as it may seem—the woman’s yielding +before the man is not altogether to her dishonour, as those old monks +used to allege who hated, and too often tortured, the sex whom they +could not enjoy. It is not to the woman’s dishonour, if +she felt, before her husband, higher aspirations than those after mere +animal pleasure. To be as gods, knowing good and evil, is a vain +and foolish, but not a base and brutal, wish. She proved herself +thereby—though at an awful cost—a woman, and not an animal. +And indeed the woman’s more delicate organisation, her more vivid +emotions, her more voluble fancy, as well as her mere physical weakness +and weariness, have been to her, in all ages, a special source of temptation +which it is to her honour that she has resisted so much better than +the physically stronger, and therefore more culpable, man.</p> +<p>As for what the tree of knowledge was, there really is no need for +us to waste our time in guessing. If it was not one plant, then +it was another. It may have been something which has long since +perished off the earth. It may have been—as some learned +men have guessed—the sacred Soma, or Homa, of the early Brahmin +race; and that may have been a still existing narcotic species of Asclepias. +It certainly was not the vine. The language of the Hebrew Scripture +concerning it, and the sacred use to which it is consecrated in the +Gospels, forbid that notion utterly; at least to those who know enough +of antiquity to pass by, with a smile, the theory that the wines mentioned +in Scripture were not intoxicating. And yet—as a fresh corroboration +of what I am trying to say—how fearfully has that noble gift to +man been abused for the same end as a hundred other vegetable products, +ever since those mythic days when Dionusos brought the vine from the +far East, amid troops of human Mænads and half-human Satyrs; and +the Bacchæ tore Pentheus in pieces on Cithæron, for daring +to intrude upon their sacred rites; and since those historic days, too, +when, less than two hundred years before the Christian era, the Bacchic +rites spread from Southern Italy into Etruria, and thence to the matrons +of Rome; and under the guidance of Pœnia Annia, a Campanian lady, +took at last shapes of which no man must speak, but which had to be +put down with terrible but just severity, by the Consuls and the Senate.</p> +<p>But it matters little, I say, what this same tree of knowledge was. +Was every vine on earth destroyed to-morrow, and every vegetable also +from which alcohol is now distilled, man would soon discover something +else wherewith to satisfy the insatiate craving. Has he not done +so already? Has not almost every people had its tree of knowledge, +often more deadly than any distilled liquor, from the absinthe of the +cultivated Frenchman, and the opium of the cultivated Chinese, down +to the bush-poisons wherewith the tropic sorcerer initiates his dupes +into the knowledge of good and evil, and the fungus from which the Samoiede +extracts in autumn a few days of brutal happiness, before the setting +in of the long six months’ night? God grant that modern +science may not bring to light fresh substitutes for alcohol, opium, +and the rest; and give the white races, in that state of effeminate +and godless quasi-civilisation which I sometimes fear is creeping upon +them, fresh means of destroying themselves delicately and pleasantly +off the face of the earth.</p> +<p>It is said by some that drunkenness is on the increase in this island. +I have no trusty proof of it: but I can believe it possible; for every +cause of drunkenness seems on the increase. Overwork of body and +mind; circumstances which depress health; temptation to drink, and drink +again, at every corner of the streets; and finally, money, and ever +more money, in the hands of uneducated people, who have not the desire, +and too often not the means, of spending it in any save the lowest pleasures. +These, it seems to me, are the true causes of drunkenness, increasing +or not. And if we wish to become a more temperate nation, we must +lessen them, if we cannot eradicate them.</p> +<p>First, overwork. We all live too fast, and work too hard. +“All things are full of labour, man cannot utter it.” +In the heavy struggle for existence which goes on all around us, each +man is tasked more and more—if he be really worth buying and using—to +the utmost of his powers all day long. The weak have to compete +on equal terms with the strong; and crave, in consequence, for artificial +strength. How we shall stop that I know not, while every man is +“making haste to be rich, and piercing himself through with many +sorrows, and falling into foolish and hurtful lusts, which drown men +in destruction and perdition.” How we shall stop that, I +say, I know not. The old prophet may have been right when he said, +“Surely it is not of the Lord that the people shall labour in +the very fire, and weary themselves for very vanity;” and in some +juster, wiser, more sober system of society—somewhat more like +the Kingdom of The Father come on earth—it may be that poor human +beings will not need to toil so hard, and to keep themselves up to their +work by stimulants, but will have time to sit down, and look around +them, and think of God, and of God’s quiet universe, with something +of quiet in themselves; something of rational leisure, and manful sobriety +of mind, as well as of body.</p> +<p>But it seems to me also, that in such a state of society, when—as +it was once well put—“every one has stopped running about +like rats:”—that those who work hard, whether with muscle +or with brain, would not be surrounded, as now, with every circumstance +which tempts toward drink; by every circumstance which depresses the +vital energies, and leaves them an easy prey to pestilence itself; by +bad light, bad air, bad food, bad water, bad smells, bad occupations, +which weaken the muscles, cramp the chest, disorder the digestion. +Let any rational man, fresh from the country—in which I presume +God, having made it, meant all men, more or less, to live—go through +the back streets of any city, or through whole districts of the “black +countries” of England: and then ask himself—Is it the will +of God that His human children should live and toil in such dens, such +deserts, such dark places of the earth? Let him ask himself—Can +they live and toil there without contracting a probably diseased habit +of body; without contracting a certainly dull, weary, sordid habit of +mind, which craves for any pleasure, however brutal, to escape from +its own stupidity and emptiness? When I run through, by rail, +certain parts of the iron-producing country—streets of furnaces, +collieries, slag heaps, mud, slop, brick house-rows, smoke, dirt—and +that is all; and when I am told, whether truly or falsely, that the +main thing which the well-paid and well-fed men of those abominable +wastes care for is—good fighting-dogs: I can only answer, that +I am not surprised.</p> +<p>I say—as I have said elsewhere, and shall do my best to say +again—that the craving for drink and narcotics, especially that +engendered in our great cities, is not a disease, but a symptom of disease; +of a far deeper disease than any which drunkenness can produce; namely, +of the growing degeneracy of a population striving in vain by stimulants +and narcotics to fight against those slow poisons with which our greedy +barbarism, miscalled civilisation, has surrounded them from the cradle +to the grave. I may be answered that the old German, Angle, Dane, +drank heavily. I know it: but why did they drink, save for the +same reason that the fenman drank, and his wife took opium, at least +till the fens were drained? why but to keep off the depressing effects +of the malaria of swamps and new clearings, which told on them—who +always settled in the lowest grounds—in the shape of fever and +ague? Here it may be answered again, that stimulants have been, +during the memory of man, the destruction of the Red Indian race in +America. I reply boldly, that I do not believe it. There +is evidence enough in Jaques Cartier’s ‘Voyages to the Rivers +of Canada;’ and evidence more than enough in Strachey’s +‘Travaile in Virginia’—to quote only two authorities +out of many—to prove that the Red Indians, when the white man +first met with them, were, in North and South alike, a diseased, decaying, +and, as all their traditions confess, decreasing race. Such a +race would naturally crave for “the water of life,” the +“usque-bagh,” or whisky, as we have contracted the old name +now. But I should have thought that the white man, by introducing +among these poor creatures iron, fire-arms, blankets, and above all +horses wherewith to follow the buffalo-herds which they could never +follow on foot, must have done ten times more towards keeping them alive, +than he has done towards destroying them by giving them the chance of +a week’s drunkenness twice a year, when they came in to his forts +to sell the skins which, without his gifts, they would never have got.</p> +<p>Such a race would, of course, if wanting vitality, crave for stimulants. +But if the stimulants, and not the original want of vitality, combined +with morals utterly detestable, and worthy only of the gallows—and +here I know what I say, and dare not tell what I know, from eye-witnesses—have +been the cause of the Red Indians’ extinction: then how is it, +let me ask, that the Irishman and the Scotsman have, often to their +great harm, been drinking as much whisky—and usually very bad +whisky—not merely twice a year, but as often as they could get +it, during the whole “iron age;” and, for aught any one +can tell, during the “bronze age,” and the “stone +age” before that: and yet are still the most healthy, able, valiant, +and prolific races in Europe? Had they drunk less whisky they +would, doubtless, have been more healthy, able, valiant, and perhaps +even more prolific, than they are now. They show no sign, however, +as yet, of going the way of the Red Indian.</p> +<p>But if the craving for stimulants and narcotics is a token of deficient +vitality: then the deadliest foe of that craving, and all its miserable +results, is surely the Sanatory Reformer; the man who preaches, and—as +far as ignorance and vested interests will allow him, procures—for +the masses, pure air, pure sunlight, pure water, pure dwelling-houses, +pure food. Not merely every fresh drinking-fountain: but every +fresh public bath and wash-house, every fresh open space, every fresh +growing tree, every fresh open window, every fresh flower in that window—each +of these is so much, as the old Persians would have said, conquered +for Ormuzd, the god of light and life, out of the dominion of Ahriman, +the king of darkness and of death; so much taken from the causes of +drunkenness and disease, and added to the causes of sobriety and health.</p> +<p>Meanwhile one thing is clear: that if this present barbarism and +anarchy of covetousness, miscalled modern civilisation, were tamed and +drilled into something more like a Kingdom of God on earth: then we +should not see the reckless and needless multiplication of liquor shops, +which disgraces this country now.</p> +<p>As a single instance: in one country parish of nine hundred inhabitants, +in which the population has increased only one-ninth in the last fifty +years, there are now practically eight public-houses, where fifty years +ago there were but two. One, that is, for every hundred and ten—or +rather, omitting children, farmers, shopkeepers, gentlemen, and their +households, one for every fifty of the inhabitants. In the face +of the allurements, often of the basest kind, which these dens offer, +the clergyman and the schoolmaster struggle in vain to keep up night-schools +and young men’s clubs, and to inculcate habits of providence.</p> +<p>The young labourers over a great part of the south and east, at least, +of England,—though never so well off, for several generations, +as they are now—are growing up thriftless, shiftless; inferior, +it seems to me, to their grandfathers in everything, save that they +can usually read and write, and their grandfathers could not; and that +they wear smart cheap cloth clothes, instead of their grandfathers’ +smock-frocks.</p> +<p>And if it be so in the country: how must it be in towns? There +must come a thorough change in the present licensing system, in spite +of all the “pressure” which certain powerful vested interests +may bring to bear on governments. And it is the duty of every +good citizen, who cares for his countrymen, and for their children after +them, to help in bringing about that change as speedily as possible.</p> +<p>Again: I said just now that a probable cause of increasing drunkenness +was the increasing material prosperity of thousands who knew no recreation +beyond low animal pleasure. If I am right—and I believe +that I am right—I must urge on those who wish drunkenness to decrease, +the necessity of providing more, and more refined recreation for the +people.</p> +<p>Men drink, and women too, remember, not merely to supply exhaustion; +not merely to drive away care: but often simply to drive away dulness. +They have nothing to do save to think over what they have done in the +day, or what they expect to do to-morrow; and they escape from that +dreary round of business thought, in liquor or narcotics. There +are still those, by no means of the hand-working class, but absorbed +all day by business, who drink heavily at night in their own comfortable +homes, simply to recreate their overburdened minds. Such cases, +doubtless, are far less common than they were fifty years ago: but why? +Is not the decrease of drinking among the richer classes certainly due +to the increased refinement and variety of their tastes and occupations? +In cultivating the æsthetic side of man’s nature; in engaging +him with the beautiful, the pure, the wonderful, the truly natural; +with painting, poetry, music, horticulture, physical science—in +all this lies recreation, in the true and literal sense of that word, +namely, the recreating and mending of the exhausted mind and feelings, +such as no rational man will now neglect, either for himself, his children, +or his work-people.</p> +<p>But how little of all this is open to the masses, all should know +but too well. How little opportunity the average hand-worker, +or his wife, has of eating of any tree of knowledge, save of the very +basest kind, is but too palpable. We are mending, thank God, in +this respect. Free libraries and museums have sprung up of late +in other cities beside London. God’s blessing rest upon +them all. And the Crystal Palace, and still later, the Bethnal +Green Museum, have been, I believe, of far more use than many average +sermons and lectures from many average orators.</p> +<p>But are we not still far behind the old Greeks, and the Romans of +the Empire likewise, in the amount of amusement and instruction, and +even of shelter, which we provide for the people? Recollect the—to +me—disgraceful fact; that there is not, as far as I am aware, +throughout the whole of London, a single portico or other covered place, +in which the people can take refuge during a shower: and this in the +climate of England! Where they do take refuge on a wet day the +publican knows but too well; as he knows also where thousands of the +lower classes, simply for want of any other place to be in, save their +own sordid dwellings, spend as much as they are permitted of the Sabbath +day. Let us put down “Sunday drinking” by all means, +if we can. But let us remember that by closing the public-house +on Sunday, we prevent no man or woman from carrying home as much poison +as they choose on Saturday night, to brutalise themselves therewith, +perhaps for eight-and-forty hours. And let us see—in the +name of Him who said that He had made the Sabbath for man, and not man +for the Sabbath—let us see, I say, if we cannot do something to +prevent the townsman’s Sabbath being, not a day of rest, but a +day of mere idleness; the day of most temptation, because of most dulness, +of the whole seven.</p> +<p>And here, perhaps, some sweet soul may look up reprovingly and say—He +talks of rest. Does he forget, and would he have the working man +forget, that all these outward palliatives will never touch the seat +of the disease, the unrest of the soul within? Does he forget, +and would he have the working man forget, who it was who said—who +only has the right to say—“Come unto Me, all ye who are +weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest”? Ah no, +sweet soul. I know your words are true. I know that what +we all want is inward rest; rest of heart and brain; the calm, strong, +self-contained, self-denying character; which needs no stimulants, for +it has no fits of depression; which needs no narcotics, for it has no +fits of excitement; which needs no ascetic restraints, for it is strong +enough to use God’s gifts without abusing them; the character, +in a word, which is truly temperate, not in drink or food merely, but +in all desires, thoughts, and actions; freed from the wild lusts and +ambitions to which that old Adam yielded, and, seeking for light and +life by means forbidden, found thereby disease and death. Yes; +I know that; and know, too, that that rest is found, only where you +have already found it.</p> +<p>And yet: in such a world as this; governed by a Being who has made +sunshine, and flowers, and green grass, and the song of birds, and happy +human smiles; and who would educate by them—if we would let Him—His +human children from the cradle to the grave; in such a world as this, +will you grudge any particle of that education, even any harmless substitute +for it, to those spirits in prison, whose surroundings too often tempt +them, from the cradle to the grave, to fancy that the world is composed +of bricks and iron, and governed by inspectors and policemen? +Preach to those spirits in prison, as you know far better than we parsons +how to preach: but let them have besides some glimpses of the splendid +fact, that outside their prison-house is a world which God, not man, +has made; wherein grows everywhere that tree of knowledge which is likewise +the tree of life; and that they have a right to some small share of +its beauty, and its wonder, and its rest, for their own health of soul +and body, and for the health of their children after them.</p> +<h2>NAUSICAA IN LONDON: OR, THE LOWER EDUCATION OF WOMAN.</h2> +<p>Fresh from the Marbles of the British Museum, I went my way through +London streets. My brain was still full of fair and grand forms; +the forms of men and women whose every limb and attitude betokened perfect +health, and grace, and power, and a self-possession and self-restraint +so habitual and complete that it had become unconscious, and undistinguishable +from the native freedom of the savage. For I had been up and down +the corridors of those Greek sculptures, which remain as a perpetual +sermon to rich and poor, amid our artificial, unwholesome, and it may +be decaying pseudo-civilisation; saying with looks more expressive than +all words—Such men and women can be; for such they have been; +and such you may be yet, if you will use that science of which you too +often only boast. Above all, I had been pondering over the awful +and yet tender beauty of the maiden figures from the Parthenon and its +kindred temples. And these, or such as these, I thought to myself, +were the sisters of the men who fought at Marathon and Salamis; the +mothers of many a man among the ten thousand whom Xenophon led back +from Babylon to the Black Sea shore; the ancestresses of many a man +who conquered the East in Alexander’s host, and fought with Porus +in the far Punjab. And were these women mere dolls? These +men mere gladiators? Were they not the parents of philosophy, +science, poetry, the plastic arts? We talk of education now. +Are we more educated than were the ancient Greeks? Do we know +anything about education, physical, intellectual, or æsthetic, +and I may say moral likewise—religious education, of course, in +our sense of the word, they had none—but do we know anything about +education of which they have not taught us at least the rudiments? +Are there not some branches of education which they perfected, once +and for ever; leaving us northern barbarians to follow, or else not +to follow, their example? To produce health, that is, harmony +and sympathy, proportion and grace, in every faculty of mind and body—that +was their notion of education. To produce that, the text-book +of their childhood was the poetry of Homer, and not of—But I am +treading on dangerous ground. It was for this that the seafaring +Greek lad was taught to find his ideal in Ulysses; while his sister +at home found hers, it may be, in Nausicaa. It was for this, that +when perhaps the most complete and exquisite of all the Greeks, Sophocles +the good, beloved by gods and men, represented on the Athenian stage +his drama of Nausicaa, and, as usual, could not—for he had no +voice—himself take a speaking part, he was content to do one thing +in which he specially excelled; and dressed and masked as a girl, to +play at ball amid the chorus of Nausicaa’s maidens.</p> +<p>That drama of Nausicaa is lost; and if I dare say so of any play +of Sophocles’, I scarce regret it. It is well, perhaps, +that we have no second conception of the scene, to interfere with the +simplicity, so grand, and yet so tender, of Homer’s idyllic episode.</p> +<p>Nausicaa, it must be remembered, is the daughter of a king. +But not of a king in the exclusive modern European or old Eastern sense. +Her father, Alcinous, is simply “primus inter pares” among +a community of merchants, who are called “kings” likewise; +and Mayor for life—so to speak—of a new trading city, a +nascent Genoa or Venice, on the shore of the Mediterranean. But +the girl Nausicaa, as she sleeps in her “carved chamber,” +is “like the immortals in form and face;” and two handmaidens +who sleep on each side of the polished door “have beauty from +the Graces.”</p> +<p>To her there enters, in the shape of some maiden friend, none less +than Pallas Athené herself, intent on saving worthily her favourite, +the shipwrecked Ulysses; and bids her in a dream go forth—and +wash the clothes. <a name="citation72"></a><a href="#footnote72">{72}</a></p> +<blockquote><p>“Nausicaa, wherefore doth thy mother bear<br /> +Child so forgetful? This long time doth rest,<br /> +Like lumber in the house, much raiment fair.<br /> +Soon must thou wed, and be thyself well-drest,<br /> +And find thy bridegroom raiment of the best.<br /> +These are the things whence good repute is born,<br /> +And praises that make glad a parent’s breast.<br /> +Come, let us both go washing with the morn;<br /> +So shalt thou have clothes becoming to be worn.</p> +<p>“Know that thy maidenhood is not for long,<br /> +Whom the Phœacian chiefs already woo,<br /> +Lords of the land whence thou thyself art sprung.<br /> +Soon as the shining dawn comes forth anew,<br /> +For wain and mules thy noble father sue,<br /> +Which to the place of washing shall convey<br /> +Girdles and shawls and rugs of splendid hue.<br /> +This for thyself were better than essay<br /> +Thither to walk: the place is distant a long way.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Startled by her dream, Nausicaa awakes, and goes to find her parents—</p> +<blockquote><p>“One by the hearth sat, with the maids around,<br /> +And on the skeins of yarn, sea-purpled, spent<br /> +Her morning toil. Him to the council bound,<br /> +Called by the honoured kings, just going forth she found.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>And calling him, as she might now, “Pappa phile,” Dear +Papa, asks for the mule waggon: but it is her father’s and her +five brothers’ clothes she fain would wash,—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Ashamed to name her marriage to her father dear.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But he understood all—and she goes forth in the mule waggon, +with the clothes, after her mother has put in “a chest of all +kinds of delicate food, and meat, and wine in a goatskin;” and +last but not least, the indispensable cruse of oil for anointing after +the bath, to which both Jews, Greeks, and Romans owed so much health +and beauty. And then we read in the simple verse of a poet too +refined, like the rest of his race, to see anything mean or ridiculous +in that which was not ugly and unnatural, how she and her maids got +into the “polished waggon,” “with good wheels,” +and she “took the whip and the studded reins,” and “beat +them till they started;” and how the mules “rattled” +away, and “pulled against each other,” till</p> +<blockquote><p>“When they came to the fair flowing river<br /> +Which feeds good lavatories all the year,<br /> +Fitted to cleanse all sullied robes soever,<br /> +They from the wain the mules unharnessed there,<br /> +And chased them free, to crop their juicy fare<br /> +By the swift river, on the margin green;<br /> +Then to the waters dashed the clothes they bare<br /> +And in the stream-filled trenches stamped them clean.</p> +<p>“Which, having washed and cleansed, they spread before<br /> +The sunbeams, on the beach, where most did lie<br /> +Thick pebbles, by the sea-wave washed ashore.<br /> +So, having left them in the heat to dry,<br /> +They to the bath went down, and by-and-by,<br /> +Rubbed with rich oil, their midday meal essay,<br /> +Couched in green turf, the river rolling nigh.<br /> +Then, throwing off their veils, at ball they play,<br /> +While the white-armed Nausicaa leads the choral lay.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The mere beauty of this scene all will feel, who have the sense of +beauty in them. Yet it is not on that aspect which I wish to dwell, +but on its healthfulness. Exercise is taken, in measured time, +to the sound of song, as a duty almost, as well as an amusement. +For this game of ball, which is here mentioned for the first time in +human literature, nearly three thousand years ago, was held by the Greeks +and by the Romans after them, to be an almost necessary part of a liberal +education; principally, doubtless, from the development which it produced +in the upper half of the body, not merely to the arms, but to the chest, +by raising and expanding the ribs, and to all the muscles of the torso, +whether perpendicular or oblique. The elasticity and grace which +it was believed to give were so much prized, that a room for ball-play, +and a teacher of the art, were integral parts of every gymnasium; and +the Athenians went so far as to bestow on one famous ballplayer, Aristonicus +of Carystia, a statue and the rights of citizenship. The rough +and hardy young Spartans, when passing from boyhood into manhood, received +the title of ball-players, seemingly from the game which it was then +their special duty to learn. In the case of Nausicaa and her maidens, +the game would just bring into their right places all that is liable +to be contracted and weakened in women, so many of whose occupations +must needs be sedentary and stooping; while the song which accompanied +the game at once filled the lungs regularly and rhythmically, and prevented +violent motion, or unseemly attitude. We, the civilised, need +physiologists to remind us of these simple facts, and even then do not +act on them. Those old half-barbarous Greeks had found them out +for themselves, and, moreover, acted on them.</p> +<p>But fair Nausicaa must have been—some will say—surely +a mere child of nature, and an uncultivated person?</p> +<p>So far from it, that her whole demeanour and speech show culture +of the very highest sort, full of “sweetness and light.”—Intelligent +and fearless, quick to perceive the bearings of her strange and sudden +adventure, quick to perceive the character of Ulysses, quick to answer +his lofty and refined pleading by words as lofty and refined, and pious +withal;—for it is she who speaks to her handmaids the once so +famous words:</p> +<blockquote><p>“Strangers and poor men all are sent from Zeus;<br /> + And alms, though small, are sweet”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Clear of intellect, prompt of action, modest of demeanour, shrinking +from the slightest breath of scandal; while she is not ashamed, when +Ulysses, bathed and dressed, looks himself again, to whisper to her +maidens her wish that the Gods might send her such a spouse.—This +is Nausicaa as Homer draws her; and as many a scholar and poet since +Homer has accepted her for the ideal of noble maidenhood. I ask +my readers to study for themselves her interview with Ulysses, in Mr. +Worsley’s translation, or rather in the grand simplicity of the +original Greek, <a name="citation76"></a><a href="#footnote76">{76}</a> +and judge whether Nausicaa is not as perfect a lady as the poet who +imagined her—or, it may be, drew her from life—must have +been a perfect gentleman; both complete in those “manners” +which, says the old proverb, “make the man:” but which are +the woman herself; because with her—who acts more by emotion than +by calculation—manners are the outward and visible tokens of her +inward and spiritual grace, or disgrace; and flow instinctively, whether +good or bad, from the instincts of her inner nature.</p> +<p>True, Nausicaa could neither read nor write. No more, most +probably, could the author of the Odyssey. No more, for that matter, +could Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, though they were plainly, both in mind +and manners, most highly-cultivated men. Reading and writing, +of course, have now become necessaries of humanity; and are to be given +to every human being, that he may start fair in the race of life. +But I am not aware that Greek women improved much, either in manners, +morals, or happiness, by acquiring them in after centuries. A +wise man would sooner see his daughter a Nausicaa than a Sappho, an +Aspasia, a Cleopatra, or even an Hypatia.</p> +<p>Full of such thoughts, I went through London streets, among the Nausicaas +of the present day; the girls of the period; the daughters and hereafter +mothers of our future rulers, the great Demos or commercial middle class +of the greatest mercantile city in the world: and noted what I had noted +with fear and sorrow, many a day, for many a year; a type, and an increasing +type, of young women who certainly had not had the “advantages,” +“educational” and other, of that Greek Nausicaa of old.</p> +<p>Of course, in such a city as London, to which the best of everything, +physical and other, gravitates, I could not but pass, now and then, +beautiful persons, who made me proud of those “grandes Anglaises +aux joues rouges,” whom the Parisiennes ridicule—and envy. +But I could not help suspecting that their looks showed them to be either +country-bred, or born of country parents; and this suspicion was strengthened +by the fact, that when compared with their mothers, the mother’s +physique was, in the majority of cases, superior to the daughters’. +Painful it was, to one accustomed to the ruddy well-grown peasant girl, +stalwart, even when, as often, squat and plain, to remark the exceedingly +small size of the average young woman; by which I do not mean mere want +of height—that is a little matter—but want of breadth likewise; +a general want of those large frames, which indicate usually a power +of keeping strong and healthy not merely the muscles, but the brain +itself.</p> +<p>Poor little things. I passed hundreds—I pass hundreds +every day—trying to hide their littleness by the nasty mass of +false hair—or what does duty for it; and by the ugly and useless +hat which is stuck upon it, making the head thereby look ridiculously +large and heavy; and by the high heels on which they totter onward, +having forgotten, or never learnt, the simple art of walking; their +bodies tilted forward in that ungraceful attitude which is called—why +that name of all others?—a “Grecian bend;” seemingly +kept on their feet, and kept together at all, in that strange attitude, +by tight stays which prevented all graceful and healthy motion of the +hips or sides; their raiment, meanwhile, being purposely misshapen in +this direction and in that, to hide—it must be presumed—deficiencies +of form. If that chignon and those heels had been taken off, the +figure which would have remained would have been that too often of a +puny girl of sixteen. And yet there was no doubt that these women +were not only full grown, but some of them, alas! wives and mothers.</p> +<p>Poor little things.—And this they have gained by so-called +civilisation: the power of aping the “fashions” by which +the worn-out Parisienne hides her own personal defects; and of making +themselves, by innate want of that taste which the Parisienne possesses, +only the cause of something like a sneer from many a cultivated man; +and of something like a sneer, too, from yonder gipsy woman who passes +by, with bold bright face, and swinging hip, and footstep stately and +elastic; far better dressed, according to all true canons of taste, +than most town-girls; and thanking her fate that she and her “Rom” +are no house-dwellers and gaslight-sightseers, but fatten on free air +upon the open moor.</p> +<p>But the face which is beneath that chignon and that hat? Well—it +is sometimes pretty: but how seldom handsome, which is a higher quality +by far. It is not, strange to say, a well-fed face. Plenty +of money, and perhaps too much, is spent on those fine clothes. +It had been better, to judge from the complexion, if some of that money +had been spent in solid wholesome food. She looks as if she lived—as +she too often does, I hear—on tea and bread-and-butter, or rather +on bread with the minimum of butter. For as the want of bone indicates +a deficiency of phosphatic food, so does the want of flesh about the +cheeks indicate a deficiency of hydrocarbon. Poor little Nausicaa:—that +is not her fault. Our boasted civilisation has not even taught +her what to eat, as it certainly has not increased her appetite; and +she knows not—what every country fellow knows—that without +plenty of butter and other fatty matters, she is not likely to keep +even warm. Better to eat nasty fat bacon now, than to supply the +want of it some few years hence by nastier cod-liver oil. But +there is no one yet to tell her that, and a dozen other equally simple +facts, for her own sake, and for the sake of that coming Demos which +she is to bring into the world; a Demos which, if we can only keep it +healthy in body and brain, has before it so splendid a future: but which, +if body and brain degrade beneath the influence of modern barbarism, +is but too likely to follow the Demos of ancient Byzantium, or of modern +Paris.</p> +<p>Ay, but her intellect. She is so clever, and she reads so much, +and she is going to be taught to read so much more.</p> +<p>Ah, well—there was once a science called physiognomy. +The Greeks, from what I can learn, knew more of it than any people since: +though the Italian painters and sculptors must have known much; far +more than we. In a more scientific civilisation there will be +such a science once more: but its laws, though still in the empiric +stage, are not altogether forgotten by some. Little children have +often a fine and clear instinct of them. Many cultivated and experienced +women have a fine and clear instinct of them likewise. And some +such would tell us that there is intellect in plenty in the modern Nausicaa: +but not of the quality which they desire for their country’s future +good. Self-consciousness, eagerness, volubility, petulance, in +countenance, in gesture, and in voice—which last is too often +most harsh and artificial, the breath being sent forth through the closed +teeth, and almost entirely at the corners of the mouth—and, with +all this, a weariness often about the wrinkling forehead and the drooping +lids;—all these, which are growing too common, not among the Demos +only, nor only in the towns, are signs, they think, of the unrest of +unhealth, physical, intellectual, spiritual. At least they are +as different as two types of physiognomy in the same race can be, from +the expression both of face and gesture, in those old Greek sculptures, +and in the old Italian painters; and, it must be said, in the portraits +of Reynolds, and Gainsborough, Copley, and Romney. Not such, one +thinks, must have been the mothers of Britain during the latter half +of the last century and the beginning of the present; when their sons, +at times, were holding half the world at bay.</p> +<p>And if Nausicaa has become such in town: what is she when she goes +to the seaside, not to wash the clothes in fresh-water, but herself +in salt—the very salt-water, laden with decaying organisms, from +which, though not polluted further by a dozen sewers, Ulysses had to +cleanse himself, anointing, too, with oil, ere he was fit to appear +in the company of Nausicaa of Greece? She dirties herself with +the dirty salt-water; and probably chills and tires herself by walking +thither and back, and staying in too long; and then flaunts on the pier, +bedizened in garments which, for monstrosity of form and disharmony +of colours, would have set that Greek Nausicaa’s teeth on edge, +or those of any average Hindoo woman now. Or, even sadder still, +she sits on chairs and benches all the weary afternoon, her head drooped +on her chest, over some novel from the “Library;” and then +returns to tea and shrimps, and lodgings of which the fragrance is not +unsuggestive, sometimes not unproductive, of typhoid fever. Ah, +poor Nausicaa of England! That is a sad sight to some who think +about the present, and have read about the past. It is not a sad +sight to see your old father—tradesman, or clerk, or what not—who +has done good work in his day, and hopes to do some more, sitting by +your old mother, who has done good work in her day—among the rest, +that heaviest work of all, the bringing you into the world and keeping +you in it till now—honest, kindly, cheerful folk enough, and not +inefficient in their own calling; though an average Northumbrian, or +Highlander, or Irish Easterling, beside carrying a brain of five times +the intellectual force, could drive five such men over the cliff with +his bare hands. It is not a sad sight, I say, to see them sitting +about upon those seaside benches, looking out listlessly at the water, +and the ships, and the sunlight, and enjoying, like so many flies upon +a wall, the novel act of doing nothing. It is not the old for +whom wise men are sad: but for you. Where is your vitality? +Where is your “Lebensglückseligkeit,” your enjoyment +of superfluous life and power? Why can you not even dance and +sing, till now and then, at night, perhaps, when you ought to be safe +in bed, but when the weak brain, after receiving the day’s nourishment, +has roused itself a second time into a false excitement of gaslight +pleasure? What there is left of it is all going into that foolish +book, which the womanly element in you, still healthy and alive, delights +in; because it places you in fancy in situations in which you will never +stand, and inspires you with emotions, some of which, it may be, you +had better never feel. Poor Nausicaa—old, some men think, +before you have been ever young.</p> +<p>And now they are going to “develop” you; and let you +have your share in “the higher education of women,” by making +you read more books, and do more sums, and pass examinations, and stoop +over desks at night after stooping over some other employment all day; +and to teach you Latin, and even Greek.</p> +<p>Well, we will gladly teach you Greek, if you learn thereby to read +the history of Nausicaa of old, and what manner of maiden she was, and +what was her education. You will admire her, doubtless. +But do not let your admiration limit itself to drawing a meagre half-mediævalized +design of her—as she never looked. Copy in your own person; +and even if you do not descend as low—or rise as high—as +washing the household clothes, at least learn to play at ball; and sing, +in the open air and sunshine, not in theatres and concert-rooms by gaslight; +and take decent care of your own health; and dress not like a “Parisienne”—nor, +of course, like Nausicaa of old, for that is to ask too much:—but +somewhat more like an average Highland lassie; and try to look like +her, and be like her, of whom Wordsworth sang—</p> +<blockquote><p> “A mien and face<br /> +In which full plainly I can trace<br /> +Benignity and home-bred sense,<br /> +Ripening in perfect innocence.<br /> +Here scattered, like a random seed,<br /> +Remote from men, thou dost not need<br /> +The embarrassed look of shy distress<br /> +And maidenly shamefacedness.<br /> +Thou wear’st upon thy forehead clear<br /> +The freedom of a mountaineer.<br /> +A face with gladness overspread,<br /> +Soft smiles, by human kindness bred,<br /> +And seemliness complete, that sways<br /> +Thy courtesies, about thee plays.<br /> +With no restraint, save such as springs<br /> +From quick and eager visitings<br /> +Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach<br /> +Of thy few words of English speech.<br /> +A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife<br /> +That gives thy gestures grace and life.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Ah, yet unspoilt Nausicaa of the North; descendant of the dark tender-hearted +Celtic girl, and the fair deep-hearted Scandinavian Viking, thank God +for thy heather and fresh air, and the kine thou tendest, and the wool +thou spinnest; and come not to seek thy fortune, child, in wicked London +town; nor import, as they tell me thou art doing fast, the ugly fashions +of that London town, clumsy copies of Parisian cockneydom, into thy +Highland home; nor give up the healthful and graceful, free and modest +dress of thy mother and thy mother’s mother, to disfigure the +little kirk on Sabbath days with crinoline and corset, high-heeled boots, +and other women’s hair.</p> +<p>It is proposed, just now, to assimilate the education of girls more +and more to that of boys. If that means that girls are merely +to learn more lessons, and to study what their brothers are taught, +in addition to what their mothers were taught; then it is to be hoped, +at least by physiologists and patriots, that the scheme will sink into +that limbo whither, in a free and tolerably rational country, all imperfect +and ill-considered schemes are sure to gravitate. But if the proposal +be a bonâ fide one: then it must be borne in mind that in the +public schools of England, and in all private schools, I presume, which +take their tone from them, cricket and football are more or less compulsory, +being considered integral parts of an Englishman’s education; +and that they are likely to remain so, in spite of all reclamations: +because masters and boys alike know that games do not, in the long run, +interfere with a boy’s work; that the same boy will very often +excel in both; that the games keep him in health for his work; that +the spirit with which he takes to his games when in the lower school, +is a fair test of the spirit with which he will take to his work when +he rises into the higher school; and that nothing is worse for a boy +than to fall into that loafing, tuck-shop-haunting set, who neither +play hard nor work hard, and are usually extravagant, and often vicious. +Moreover, they know well that games conduce, not merely to physical, +but to moral health; that in the playing-field boys acquire virtues +which no books can give them; not merely daring and endurance, but, +better still, temper, self-restraint, fairness, honour, unenvious approbation +of another’s success, and all that “give and take” +of life which stand a man in such good stead when he goes forth into +the world, and without which, indeed, his success is always maimed and +partial.</p> +<p>Now: if the promoters of higher education for women will compel girls +to any training analogous to our public school games; if, for instance, +they will insist on that most natural and wholesome of all exercises, +dancing, in order to develop the lower half of the body; on singing, +to expand the lungs and regulate the breath; and on some games—ball +or what not—which will ensure that raised chest, and upright carriage, +and general strength of the upper torso, without which full oxygenation +of the blood, and therefore general health, is impossible; if they will +sternly forbid tight stays, high heels, and all which interferes with +free growth and free motion; if they will consider carefully all which +has been written on the “half-time system” by Mr. Chadwick +and others; and accept the certain physical law that, in order to renovate +the brain day by day, the growing creature must have plenty of fresh +air and play, and that the child who learns for four hours and plays +for four hours, will learn more, and learn it more easily, than the +child who learns for the whole eight hours; if, in short, they will +teach girls not merely to understand the Greek tongue, but to copy somewhat +of the Greek physical training, of that “music and gymnastic” +which helped to make the cleverest race of the old world the ablest +race likewise: then they will earn the gratitude of the patriot and +the physiologist, by doing their best to stay the downward tendencies +of the physique, and therefore ultimately of the morale, in the coming +generation of English women.</p> +<p>I am sorry to say that, as yet, I hear of but one movement in this +direction among the promoters of the “higher education of women.” +<a name="citation88"></a><a href="#footnote88">{88}</a> I trust +that the subject will be taken up methodically by those gifted ladies; +who have acquainted themselves, and are labouring to acquaint other +women, with the first principles of health; and that they may avail +to prevent the coming generations, under the unwholesome stimulant of +competitive examinations, and so forth, from “developing” +into so many Chinese-dwarfs—or idiots.</p> +<h2>THE AIR-MOTHERS.</h2> +<blockquote><p>“Die Natur ist die Bewegung.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Who are these who follow us softly over the moor in the autumn eve? +Their wings brush and rustle in the fir-boughs, and they whisper before +us and behind, as if they called gently to each other, like birds flocking +homeward to their nests.</p> +<p>The woodpecker on the pine-stems knows them, and laughs aloud for +joy as they pass. The rooks above the pasture know them, and wheel +round and tumble in their play. The brown leaves on the oak trees +know them, and flutter faintly, and beckon as they pass. And in +the chattering of the dry leaves there is a meaning, and a cry of weary +things which long for rest.</p> +<p>“Take us home, take us home, you soft air-mothers, now our +fathers the sunbeams are grown dull. Our green summer beauty is +all draggled, and our faces are grown wan and wan; and the buds, the +children whom we nourished, thrust us off, ungrateful, from our seats. +Waft us down, you soft air-mothers, upon your wings to the quiet earth, +that we may go to our home, as all things go, and become air and sunlight +once again.”</p> +<p>And the bold young fir-seeds know them, and rattle impatient in their +cones. “Blow stronger, blow fiercer, slow air-mothers, and +shake us from our prisons of dead wood, that we may fly and spin away +north-eastward, each on his horny wing. Help us but to touch the +moorland yonder, and we will take good care of ourselves henceforth; +we will dive like arrows through the heather, and drive our sharp beaks +into the soil, and rise again as green trees toward the sunlight, and +spread out lusty boughs.”</p> +<p>They never think, bold fools, of what is coming, to bring them low +in the midst of their pride; of the reckless axe which will fell them, +and the saw which will shape them into logs; and the trains which will +roar and rattle over them, as they lie buried in the gravel of the way, +till they are ground and rotted into powder, and dug up and flung upon +the fire, that they too may return home, like all things, and become +air and sunlight once again.</p> +<p>And the air-mothers hear their prayers, and do their bidding: but +faintly; for they themselves are tired and sad.</p> +<p>Tired and sad are the air-mothers, and their garments rent and wan. +Look at them as they stream over the black forest, before the dim south-western +sun; long lines and wreaths of melancholy grey, stained with dull yellow +or dead dun. They have come far across the seas, and done many +a wild deed upon their way; and now that they have reached the land, +like shipwrecked sailors, they will lie down and weep till they can +weep no more.</p> +<p>Ah, how different were those soft air-mothers when, invisible to +mortal eyes, they started on their long sky-journey, five thousand miles +across the sea! Out of the blazing caldron which lies between +the two New Worlds, they leapt up when the great sun called them, in +whirls and spouts of clear hot steam; and rushed of their own passion +to the northward, while the whirling earth-ball whirled them east. +So north-eastward they rushed aloft, across the gay West Indian isles, +leaving below the glitter of the flying-fish, and the sidelong eyes +of cruel sharks; above the cane-fields and the plaintain-gardens, and +the cocoa-groves which fringe the shores; above the rocks which throbbed +with earthquakes, and the peaks of old volcanoes, cinder-strewn; while, +far beneath, the ghosts of their dead sisters hurried home upon the +north-east breeze.</p> +<p>Wild deeds they did as they rushed onward, and struggled and fought +among themselves, up and down, and round and backward, in the fury of +their blind hot youth. They heeded not the tree as they snapped +it, nor the ship as they whelmed it in the waves; nor the cry of the +sinking sailor, nor the need of his little ones on shore; hasty and +selfish even as children, and, like children, tamed by their own rage. +For they tired themselves by struggling with each other, and by tearing +the heavy water into waves; and their wings grew clogged with sea-spray, +and soaked more and more with steam. But at last the sea grew +cold beneath them, and their clear steam shrank to mist; and they saw +themselves and each other wrapped in dull rain-laden clouds. They +then drew their white cloud-garments round them, and veiled themselves +for very shame; and said, “We have been wild and wayward: and, +alas! our pure bright youth is gone. But we will do one good deed +yet ere we die, and so we shall not have lived in vain. We will +glide onward to the land, and weep there; and refresh all things with +soft warm rain; and make the grass grow, the buds burst; quench the +thirst of man and beast, and wash the soiled world clean.”</p> +<p>So they are wandering past us, the air-mothers, to weep the leaves +into their graves; to weep the seeds into their seed-beds, and weep +the soil into the plains; to get the rich earth ready for the winter, +and then creep northward to the ice-world, and there die.</p> +<p>Weary, and still more weary, slowly, and more slowly still, they +will journey on far northward, across fast-chilling seas. For +a doom is laid upon them, never to be still again, till they rest at +the North Pole itself, the still axle of the spinning world; and sink +in death around it, and become white snow-clad ghosts.</p> +<p>But will they live again, those chilled air-mothers? Yes, they +must live again. For all things move for ever; and not even ghosts +can rest. So the corpses of their sisters, piling on them from +above, press them outward, press them southward toward the sun once +more; across the floes and round the icebergs, weeping tears of snow +and sleet, while men hate their wild harsh voices, and shrink before +their bitter breath. They know not that the cold bleak snow-storms, +as they hurtle from the black north-east, bear back the ghosts of the +soft air-mothers, as penitents, to their father, the great sun.</p> +<p>But as they fly southwards, warm life thrills them, and they drop +their loads of sleet and snow; and meet their young live sisters from +the south, and greet them with flash and thunder-peal. And, please +God, before many weeks are over, as we run Westward Ho, we shall overtake +the ghosts of these air-mothers, hurrying back toward their father, +the great sun. Fresh and bright under the fresh bright heaven, +they will race with us toward our home, to gain new heat, new life, +new power, and set forth about their work once more. Men call +them the south-west wind, those air-mothers; and their ghosts the north-east +trade; and value them, and rightly, because they bear the traders out +and home across the sea. But wise men, and little children, should +look on them with more seeing eyes; and say, “May not these winds +be living creatures? They, too, are thoughts of God, to whom all +live.”</p> +<p>For is not our life like their life? Do we not come and go +as they? Out of God’s boundless bosom, the fount of life, +we came; through selfish, stormy youth, and contrite tears—just +not too late; through manhood not altogether useless; through slow and +chill old age, we return from Whence we came; to the Bosom of God once +more—to go forth again, it may be, with fresh knowledge, and fresh +powers, to nobler work. Amen.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Such was the prophecy which I learnt, or seemed to learn, from the +south-western wind off the Atlantic, on a certain delectable evening. +And it was fulfilled at night, as far as the gentle air-mothers could +fulfil it, for foolish man.</p> +<blockquote><p>“There was a roaring in the woods all night;<br /> +The rain came heavily and fell in floods;<br /> +But now the sun is rising calm and bright,<br /> +The birds are singing in the distant woods;<br /> +Over his own sweet voice the stock-dove broods,<br /> +The jay makes answer as the magpie chatters,<br /> +And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But was I a gloomy and distempered man, if, upon such a morn as that, +I stood on the little bridge across a certain brook, and watched the +water run, with something of a sigh? Or if, when the schoolboy +beside me lamented that the floods would surely be out, and his day’s +fishing spoiled, I said to him—“Ah, my boy, that is a little +matter. Look at what you are seeing now, and understand what barbarism +and waste mean. Look at all that beautiful water which God has +sent us hither off the Atlantic, without trouble or expense to us. +Thousands, and tens of thousands, of gallons will run under this bridge +to-day; and what shall we do with it? Nothing. And yet: +think only of the mills which that water would have turned. Think +how it might have kept up health and cleanliness in poor creatures packed +away in the back streets of the nearest town, or even in London itself. +Think even how country folk, in many parts of England, in three months’ +time, may be crying out for rain, and afraid of short crops, and fever, +and scarlatina, and cattle-plague, for want of the very water which +we are now letting run back, wasted, into the sea from whence it came. +And yet we call ourselves a civilised people.”</p> +<p>It is not wise, I know, to preach to boys. And yet, sometimes, +a man must speak his heart; even, like Midas’ slave, to the reeds +by the river side. And I had so often, fishing up and down full +many a stream, whispered my story to those same river-reeds; and told +them that my Lord the Sovereign Demos had, like old Midas, asses’ +ears in spite of all his gold, that I thought I might for once tell +it the boy likewise, in hope that he might help his generation to mend +that which my own generation does not seem like to mend.</p> +<p>I might have said more to him: but did not. For it is not well +to destroy too early the child’s illusion, that people must be +wise because they are grown up, and have votes, and rule—or think +they rule—the world. The child will find out how true that +is soon enough for himself. If the truth be forced on him by the +hot words of those with whom he lives, it is apt to breed in him that +contempt, stormful and therefore barren, which makes revolutions; and +not that pity, calm and therefore helpful, which makes reforms.</p> +<p>So I might have said to him, but did not—</p> +<p>And then men pray for rain:</p> +<p>My boy, did you ever hear the old Eastern legend about the Gipsies? +How they were such good musicians, that some great Indian Sultan sent +for the whole tribe, and planted them near his palace, and gave them +land, and ploughs to break it up, and seed to sow it, that they might +dwell there, and play and sing to him.</p> +<p>But when the winter arrived, the Gipsies all came to the Sultan, +and cried that they were starving. “But what have you done +with the seed-corn which I gave you?” “O Light of +the Age, we ate it in the summer.” “And what have +you done with the ploughs which I gave you?” “O Glory +of the Universe, we burnt them to bake the corn withal.”</p> +<p>Then said that great Sultan—“Like the butterflies you +have lived; and like the butterflies you shall wander.” +So he drove them out. And that is how the Gipsies came hither +from the East.</p> +<p>Now suppose that the Sultan of all Sultans, who sends the rain, should +make a like answer to us foolish human beings, when we prayed for rain: +“But what have you done with the rain which I gave you six months +since?” “We have let it run into the sea.” +“Then, ere you ask for more rain, make places wherein you can +keep it when you have it.” “But that would be, in +most cases, too expensive. We can employ our capital more profitably +in other directions.”</p> +<p>It is not for me to say what answer might be made to such an excuse. +I think a child’s still unsophisticated sense of right and wrong +would soon supply one; and probably one—considering the complexity, +and difficulty, and novelty, of the whole question—somewhat too +harsh; as children’s judgments are wont to be.</p> +<p>But would it not be well if our children, without being taught to +blame anyone for what is past, were taught something about what ought +to be done now, what must be done soon, with the rainfall of these islands; +and about other and kindred health-questions, on the solution of which +depends, and will depend more and more, the life of millions? +One would have thought that those public schools and colleges which +desire to monopolise the education of the owners of the soil; of the +great employers of labour; of the clergy; and of all, indeed, who ought +to be acquainted with the duties of property, the conditions of public +health, and, in a word, with the general laws of what is now called +Social Science—one would have thought, I say, that these public +schools and colleges would have taught their scholars somewhat at least +about such matters, that they might go forth into life with at least +some rough notions of the causes which make people healthy or unhealthy, +rich or poor, comfortable or wretched, useful or dangerous to the State. +But as long as our great educational institutions, safe, or fancying +themselves safe, in some enchanted castle, shut out by ancient magic +from the living world, put a premium on Latin and Greek verses: a wise +father will, during the holidays, talk now and then, I hope, somewhat +after this fashion:—</p> +<p>You must understand, my boy, that all the water in the country comes +out of the sky, and from nowhere else; and that, therefore, to save +and store the water when it falls is a question of life and death to +crops, and man, and beast; for with or without water is life or death. +If I took, for instance, the water from the moors above and turned it +over yonder field, I could double, and more than double, the crops in +that field henceforth.</p> +<p>Then why do I not do it?</p> +<p>Only because the field lies higher than the house; and if—now +here is one thing which you and every civilised man should know—if +you have water-meadows, or any “irrigated” land, as it is +called, above a house, or even on a level with it, it is certain to +breed not merely cold and damp, but fever or ague. Our forefathers +did not understand this; and they built their houses, as this is built, +in the lowest places they could find: sometimes because they wished +to be near ponds, from whence they could get fish in Lent; but more +often, I think, because they wanted to be sheltered from the wind. +They had no glass, as we have, in their windows; or, at least, only +latticed casements, which let in the wind and cold; and they shrank +from high and exposed, and therefore really healthy, spots. But +now that we have good glass, and sash windows, and doors that will shut +tight, we can build warm houses where we like. And if you ever +have to do with the building of cottages, remember that it is your duty +to the people who will live in them, and therefore to the State, to +see that they stand high and dry, where no water can drain down into +their foundations, and where fog, and the poisonous gases which are +given out by rotting vegetables, cannot drain down either. You +will learn more about all that when you learn, as every civilised lad +should in these days, something about chemistry, and the laws of fluids +and gases. But you know already that flowers are cut off by frost +in the low grounds sooner than in the high; and that the fog at night +always lies along the brooks; and that the sour moor-smell which warns +us to shut our windows at sunset, comes down from the hill, and not +up from the valley. Now all these things are caused by one and +the same law; that cold air is heavier than warm; and, therefore, like +so much water, must run down hill.</p> +<p>But what about the rainfall?</p> +<p>Well, I have wandered a little from the rainfall: though not as far +as you fancy; for fever and ague and rheumatism usually mean—rain +in the wrong place. But if you knew how much illness, and torturing +pain, and death, and sorrow arise, even to this very day, from ignorance +of these simple laws, then you would bear them carefully in mind, and +wish to know more about them. But now for water being life to +the beasts. Do you remember—though you are hardly old enough—the +cattle-plague? How the beasts died, or had to be killed and buried, +by tens of thousands; and how misery and ruin fell on hundreds of honest +men and women over many of the richest counties of England: but how +we in this vale had no cattle-plague; and how there was none—as +far as I recollect—in the uplands of Devon and Cornwall, nor of +Wales, nor of the Scotch Highlands? Now, do you know why that +was? Simply because we here, like those other uplanders, are in +such a country as Palestine was before the foolish Jews cut down all +their timber, and so destroyed their own rainfall—a “land +of brooks of water, of fountains and depths that spring out of valleys +and hills.” There is hardly a field here that has not, thank +God, its running brook, or its sweet spring, from which our cattle were +drinking their health and life, while in the clay-lands of Cheshire, +and in the Cambridgeshire fens—which were drained utterly dry—the +poor things drank no water, too often, save that of the very same putrid +ponds in which they had been standing all day long, to cool themselves, +and to keep off the flies. I do not say, of course, that bad water +caused the cattle-plague. It came by infection from the East of +Europe. But I say that bad water made the cattle ready to take +it, and made it spread over the country; and when you are old enough +I will give you plenty of proof—some from the herds of your own +kinsmen—that what I say is true.</p> +<p>And as for pure water being life to human beings: why have we never +fever here, and scarcely ever diseases like fever—zymotics, as +the doctors call them? Or, if a case comes into our parish from +outside, why does the fever never spread? For the very same reason +that we had no cattle-plague. Because we have more pure water +close to every cottage than we need. And this I tell you: that +the only two outbreaks of deadly disease which we have had here for +thirty years, were both of them, as far as I could see, to be traced +to filthy water having got into the poor folk’s wells. Water, +you must remember, just as it is life when pure, is death when foul. +For it can carry, unseen to the eye, and even when it looks clear and +sparkling, and tastes soft and sweet, poisons which have perhaps killed +more human beings than ever were killed in battle. You have read, +perhaps, how the Athenians, when they were dying of the plague, accused +the Lacedæmonians outside the walls of poisoning their wells; +or how, in some of the pestilences of the middle ages, the common people +used to accuse the poor harmless Jews of poisoning the wells, and set +upon them and murdered them horribly. They were right, I do not +doubt, in their notion that the well-water was giving them the pestilence: +but they had not sense to see that they were poisoning the wells themselves +by their dirt and carelessness; or, in the case of poor besieged Athens, +probably by mere overcrowding, which has cost many a life ere now, and +will cost more. And I am sorry to tell you, my little man, that +even now too many people have no more sense than they had, and die in +consequence. If you could see a battle-field, and men shot down, +writhing and dying in hundreds by shell and bullet, would not that seem +to you a horrid sight? Then—I do not wish to make you sad +too early, but this is a fact which everyone should know—that +more people, and not strong men only, but women and little children +too, are killed and wounded in Great Britain every year by bad water +and want of water together, than were killed and wounded in any battle +which has been fought since you were born. Medical men know this +well. And when you are older, you may see it for yourself in the +Registrar-General’s reports, blue-books, pamphlets, and so on, +without end.</p> +<p>But why do not people stop such a horrible loss of life?</p> +<p>Well, my dear boy, the true causes of it have only been known for +the last thirty or forty years; and we English are, as good King Alfred +found us to his sorrow a thousand years ago, very slow to move, even +when we see a thing ought to be done. Let us hope that in this +matter—we have been so in most matters as yet—we shall be +like the tortoise in the fable, and not the hare; and by moving slowly, +but surely, win the race at last. But now think for yourself: +and see what you would do to save these people from being poisoned by +bad water. Remember that the plain question is this—The +rainwater comes down from heaven as water, and nothing but water. +Rainwater is the only pure water, after all. How would you save +that for the poor people who have none? There; run away and hunt +rabbits on the moor: but look, meanwhile, how you would save some of +this beautiful and precious water which is roaring away into the sea.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Well? What would you do? Make ponds, you say, like the +old monks’ ponds, now all broken down. Dam all the glens +across their mouths, and turn them into reservoirs.</p> +<p>“Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings”—Well, +that will have to be done. That is being done more and more, more +or less well. The good people of Glasgow did it first, I think; +and now the good people of Manchester, and of other northern towns, +have done it, and have saved many a human life thereby already. +But it must be done, some day, all over England and Wales, and great +part of Scotland. For the mountain tops and moors, my boy, by +a beautiful law of nature, compensate for their own poverty by yielding +a wealth which the rich lowlands cannot yield. You do not understand? +Then see. Yon moor above can grow neither corn nor grass. +But one thing it can grow, and does grow, without which we should have +no corn nor grass, and that is—water. Not only does far +more rain fall up there than falls here down below, but even in drought +the high moors condense the moisture into dew, and so yield some water, +even when the lowlands are burnt up with drought. The reason of +that you must learn hereafter. That it is so, you should know +yourself. For on the high chalk downs, you know, where farmers +make a sheep-pond, they never, if they are wise, make it in a valley +or on a hill-side, but on the bleakest top of the very highest down; +and there, if they can once get it filled with snow and rain in winter, +the blessed dews of night will keep some water in it all the summer +through, while the ponds below are utterly dried up. And even +so it is, as I know, with this very moor. Corn and grass it will +not grow, because there is too little “staple,” that is, +soluble minerals, in the sandy soil. But how much water it might +grow, you may judge roughly for yourself, by remembering how many brooks +like this are running off it now to carry mere dirt into the river, +and then into the sea.</p> +<p>But why should we not make dams at once; and save the water?</p> +<p>Because we cannot afford it. No one would buy the water when +we had stored it. The rich in town and country will always take +care—and quite right they are—to have water enough for themselves, +and for their servants too, whatever it may cost them. But the +poorer people are—and therefore usually, alas! the more ignorant—the +less water they get; and the less they care to have water; and the less +they are inclined to pay for it; and the more, I am sorry to say, they +waste what little they do get; and I am still more sorry to say, spoil, +and even steal and sell—in London at least—the stop-cocks +and lead-pipes which bring the water into their houses. So that +keeping a water-shop is a very troublesome and uncertain business; and +one which is not likely to pay us or any one round here.</p> +<p>But why not let some company manage it, as they manage railways, +and gas, and other things?</p> +<p>Ah—you have been overhearing a good deal about companies of +late, I see. But this I will tell you; that when you grow up, +and have a vote and influence, it will be your duty, if you intend to +be a good citizen, not only not to put the water-supply of England into +the hands of fresh companies, but to help to take out of their hands +what water-supply they manage already, especially in London; and likewise +the gas-supply; and the railroads; and everything else, in a word, which +everybody uses, and must use. For you must understand—at +least as soon as you can—that though the men who make up companies +are no worse than other men, and some of them, as you ought to know, +very good men; yet what they have to look to is their profits; and the +less water they supply, and the worse it is, the more profit they make. +For most water, I am sorry to say, is fouled before the water companies +can get to it, as this water which runs past us will be, and as the +Thames water above London is. Therefore it has to be cleansed, +or partly cleansed, at a very great expense. So water companies +have to be inspected—in plain English, watched—at a very +heavy expense to the nation, by government officers; and compelled to +do their best, and take their utmost care. And so it has come +to pass that the London water is not now nearly as bad as some of it +was thirty years ago, when it was no more fit to drink than that in +the cattle yard tank. But still we must have more water, and better, +in London; for it is growing year by year. There are more than +three millions of people already in what we call London; and ere you +are an old man there may be between four and five millions. Now +to supply all these people with water is a duty which we must not leave +to any private companies. It must be done by a public authority, +as is fit and proper in a free self-governing country. In this +matter, as in all others, we will try to do what the Royal Commission +told us four years ago we ought to do. I hope that you will see, +though I may not, the day when what we call London, but which is really, +nine-tenths of it, only a great nest of separate villages huddled together, +will be divided into three great self-governing cities, London, Westminster, +and Southwark; each with its own corporation, like that of the venerable +and well-governed City of London; each managing its own water-supply, +gas-supply, and sewage, and other matters besides; and managing them, +like Dublin, Glasgow, Manchester, Liverpool, and other great northern +towns, far more cheaply and far better than any companies can do it +for them.</p> +<p>But where shall we get water enough for all these millions of people? +There are no mountains near London. But we might give them the +water off our moors.</p> +<p>No, no, my boy.</p> +<blockquote><p>“He that will not when he may,<br /> +When he will, he shall have nay.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Some fifteen years ago the Londoners might have had water from us; +and I was one of those who did my best to get it for them: but the water +companies did not choose to take it; and now this part of England is +growing so populous and so valuable that it wants all its little rainfall +for itself. So there is another leaf torn out of the Sibylline +books for the poor old water companies. You do not understand: +you will some day. But you may comfort yourself about London. +For it happens to be, I think, the luckiest city in the world; and if +it had not been, we should have had pestilence on pestilence in it, +as terrible as the great plague of Charles II.’s time. The +old Britons, without knowing in the least what they were doing, settled +old London city in the very centre of the most wonderful natural reservoir +in this island, or perhaps in all Europe; which reaches from Kent into +Wiltshire, and round again into Suffolk; and that is, the dear old chalk +downs.</p> +<p>Why, they are always dry.</p> +<p>Yes. But the turf on them never burns up, and the streams which +flow through them never run dry, and seldom or never flood either. +Do you not know, from Winchester, that that is true? Then where +is all the rain and snow gone, which falls on them year by year, but +into the chalk itself, and into the greensands, too, below the chalk? +There it is, soaked up as by a sponge, in quantity incalculable; enough, +some think, to supply London, let it grow as huge as it may. I +wish I too were sure of that. But the Commission has shown itself +so wise and fair, and brave likewise—too brave, I am sorry to +say, for some who might have supported them—that it is not for +me to gainsay their opinion.</p> +<p>But if there was not water enough in the chalk, are not the Londoners +rich enough to bring it from any distance?</p> +<p>My boy, in this also we will agree with the Commission—that +we ought not to rob Peter to pay Paul, and take water to a distance +which other people close at hand may want. Look at the map of +England and southern Scotland; and see for yourself what is just, according +to geography and nature. There are four mountain-ranges; four +great water-fields. First, the hills of the Border. Their +rainfall ought to be stored for the Lothians and the extreme north of +England. Then the Yorkshire and Derbyshire hills—the central +chine of England. Their rainfall is being stored already, to the +honour of the shrewd northern men, for the manufacturing counties east +and west of the hills. Then come the lake mountains—the +finest water-field of all, because more rain by far falls there than +in any place in England. But they will be wanted to supply Lancashire, +and some day Liverpool itself; for Liverpool is now using rain which +belongs more justly to other towns; and besides, there are plenty of +counties and towns, down into Cheshire, which would be glad of what +water Lancashire does not want. And last come the Snowdon mountains, +a noble water-field, which I know well; for an old dream of mine has +been, that ere I died I should see all the rain of the Carnedds, and +the Glyders, and Siabod, and Snowdon itself, carried across the Conway +river to feed the mining districts of North Wales, where the streams +are now all foul with oil and lead; and then on into the western coal +and iron fields, to Wolverhampton and Birmingham itself: and if I were +the engineer who got that done, I should be happier—prouder I +dare not say—than if I had painted nobler pictures than Raffaelle, +or written nobler plays than Shakespeare. I say that, boy, in +most deliberate earnest. But meanwhile, do you not see that in +districts where coal and iron may be found, and fresh manufactures may +spring up any day in any place, each district has a right to claim the +nearest rainfall for itself? And now, when we have got the water +into its proper place, let us see what we shall do with it.</p> +<p>But why do you say we? Can you and I do all this?</p> +<p>My boy, are not you and I free citizens; part of the people, the +Commons—as the good old word runs—of this country? +And are we not—or ought we not to be in time—beside that, +educated men? By the people, remember, I mean, not only the hand-working +man who has just got a vote; I mean the clergy of all denominations; +and the gentlemen of the press; and last, but not least, the scientific +men. If those four classes together were to tell every government—“Free +water we will have, and as much as we reasonably choose;” and +tell every candidate for the House of Commons,—“Unless you +promise to get us as much free water as we reasonably choose, we will +not return you to Parliament:” then, I think, we four should put +such a “pressure” on government as no water companies, or +other vested interests, could long resist. And if any of those +four classes should hang back, and waste their time and influence over +matters far less important and less pressing, the other three must laugh +at them, and more than laugh at them; and ask them—“Why +have you education, why have you influence, why have you votes, why +are you freemen and not slaves, if not to preserve the comfort, the +decency, the health, the lives of men, women, and children—most +of those latter your own wives and your own children?”</p> +<p>But what shall we do with the water?</p> +<p>Well, after all, that is a more practical matter than speculations +grounded on the supposition that all classes will do their duty. +But the first thing we will do will be to give to the very poorest houses +a constant supply, at high pressure; so that everybody may take as much +water as he likes, instead of having to keep the water in little cisterns, +where it gets foul and putrid only too often.</p> +<p>But will they not waste it then?</p> +<p>So far from it, wherever the water has been laid on at high pressure, +the waste, which is terrible now—some say that in London one-third +of the water is wasted—begins to lessen; and both water and expense +are saved. If you will only think, you will see one reason why. +If a woman leaves a high-pressure tap running, she will flood her place +and her neighbour’s too. She will be like the magician’s +servant, who called up the demon to draw water for him; and so he did: +but when he had begun he would not stop, and if the magician had not +come home, man and house would have been washed away.</p> +<p>But if it saves money, why do not the water companies do it?</p> +<p>Because—and really here there are many excuses for the poor +old water companies, when so many of them swerve and gib at the very +mention of constant water-supply, like a poor horse set to draw a load +which he feels is too heavy for him—because, to keep everything +in order among dirty, careless, and often drunken people, there must +be officers with lawful authority—water-policemen we will call +them—who can enter people’s houses when they will, and if +they find anything wrong with the water, set it to rights with a high +hand, and even summon the people who have set it wrong. And that +is a power which, in a free country, must never be given to the servants +of any private company, but only to the officers of a corporation or +of the government.</p> +<p>And what shall we do with the rest of the water?</p> +<p>Well, we shall have, I believe, so much to spare that we may at least +do this—In each district of each city, and the centre of each +town, we may build public baths and lavatories, where poor men and women +may get their warm baths when they will; for now they usually never +bathe at all, because they will not—and ought not, if they be +hard-worked folk—bathe in cold water during nine months of the +year. And there they shall wash their clothes, and dry them by +steam; instead of washing them as now, at home, either under back sheds, +where they catch cold and rheumatism, or too often, alas! in their own +living rooms, in an atmosphere of foul vapour, which drives the father +to the public-house and the children into the streets; and which not +only prevents the clothes from being thoroughly dried again, but is, +my dear boy, as you will know when you are older, a very hot-bed of +disease. And they shall have other comforts, and even luxuries, +these public lavatories; and be made, in time, graceful and refining, +as well as merely useful. Nay, we will even, I think, have in +front of each of them a real fountain; not like the drinking-fountains—though +they are great and needful boons—which you see here and there +about the streets, with a tiny dribble of water to a great deal of expensive +stone: but real fountains, which shall leap, and sparkle, and plash, +and gurgle; and fill the place with life, and light, and coolness; and +sing in the people’s ears the sweetest of all earthly songs—save +the song of a mother over her child—the song of “The Laughing +Water.”</p> +<p>But will not that be a waste?</p> +<p>Yes, my boy. And for that very reason, I think we, the people, +will have our fountains; if it be but to make our governments, and corporations, +and all public bodies and officers, remember that they all—save +Her Majesty the Queen—are our servants; and not we theirs; and +that we choose to have water, not only to wash with, but to play with, +if we like. And I believe—for the world, as you will find, +is full not only of just but of generous souls—that if the water-supply +were set really right, there would be found, in many a city, many a +generous man who, over and above his compulsory water-rate, would give +his poor fellow-townsmen such a real fountain as those which ennoble +the great square at Carcasonne and the great square at Nismes; to be +“a thing of beauty and a joy for ever.”</p> +<p>And now, if you want to go back to your Latin and Greek, you shall +translate for me into Latin—I do not expect you to do it into +Greek, though it would turn very well into Greek, for the Greeks knew +all about the matter long before the Romans—what follows here; +and you shall verify the facts and the names, &c., in it from your +dictionaries of antiquity and biography, that you may remember all the +better what it says. And by that time, I think, you will have +learnt something more useful to yourself, and, I hope, to your country +hereafter, than if you had learnt to patch together the neatest Greek +and Latin verses which have appeared since the days of Mr. Canning.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>I have often amused myself, by fancying one question which an old +Roman emperor would ask, were he to rise from his grave and visit the +sights of London under the guidance of some minister of state. +The august shade would, doubtless, admire, our railroads and bridges, +our cathedrals and our public parks, and much more of which we need +not be ashamed. But after a while, I think, he would look round, +whether in London or in most of our great cities, inquiringly and in +vain, for one class of buildings, which in his empire were wont to be +almost as conspicuous and as splendid, because, in public opinion, almost +as necessary, as the basilicas and temples—“And where,” +he would ask, “are your public baths?” And if the +minister of state who was his guide should answer—“O great +Cæsar, I really do not know. I believe there are some somewhere +at the back of that ugly building which we call the National Gallery; +and I think there have been some meetings lately in the East End, and +an amateur concert at the Albert Hall, for restoring, by private subscriptions, +some baths and wash-houses in Bethnal Green, which had fallen to decay. +And there may be two or three more about the metropolis; for parish +vestries have powers by Act of Parliament to establish such places, +if they think fit, and choose to pay for them out of the rates:”—Then, +I think, the august shade might well make answer—“We used +to call you, in old Rome, northern barbarians. It seems that you +have not lost all your barbarian habits. Are you aware that, in +every city in the Roman empire, there were, as a matter of course, public +baths open, not only to the poorest freeman, but to the slave, usually +for the payment of the smallest current coin, and often gratuitously? +Are you aware that in Rome itself, millionaire after millionaire, emperor +after emperor, from Menenius Agrippa and Nero down to Diocletian and +Constantine, built baths, and yet more baths; and connected with them +gymnasia for exercise, lecture-rooms, libraries, and porticos, wherein +the people might have shade and shelter, and rest?—I remark, by-the-by, +that I have not seen in all your London a single covered place in which +the people may take shelter during a shower—Are you aware that +these baths were of the most magnificent architecture, decorated with +marbles, paintings, sculptures, fountains, what not? And yet I +had heard, in Hades down below, that you prided yourselves here on the +study of the learned languages; and, indeed, taught little but Greek +and Latin at your public schools?”</p> +<p>Then, if the minister should make reply—“Oh yes, we know +all this. Even since the revival of letters in the end of the +fifteenth century a whole literature has been written—a great +deal of it, I fear, by pedants who seldom washed even their hands and +faces—about your Greek and Roman baths. We visit their colossal +ruins in Italy and elsewhere with awe and admiration; and the discovery +of a new Roman bath in any old city of our isles sets all our antiquaries +buzzing with interest.”</p> +<p>“Then why,” the shade might ask, “do you not copy +an example which you so much admire? Surely England must be much +in want, either of water, or of fuel to heat it with?”</p> +<p>“On the contrary, our rainfall is almost too great; our soil +so damp that we have had to invent a whole art of subsoil drainage unknown +to you; while, as for fuel, our coal-mines make us the great fuel-exporting +people of the world.”</p> +<p>What a quiet sneer might curl the lip of a Constantine as he replied—“Not +in vain, as I said, did we call you, some fifteen hundred years ago, +the barbarians of the north. But tell me, good barbarian, whom +I know to be both brave and wise—for the fame of your young British +empire has reached us even in the realms below, and we recognise in +you, with all respect, a people more like us Romans than any which has +appeared on earth for many centuries—how is it you have forgotten +that sacred duty of keeping the people clean, which you surely at one +time learnt from us? When your ancestors entered our armies, and +rose, some of them, to be great generals, and even emperors, like those +two Teuton peasants, Justin and Justinian, who, long after my days, +reigned in my own Constantinople: then, at least, you saw baths, and +used them; and felt, after the bath, that you were civilised men, and +not ‘sordidi ac fœtentes,’ as we used to call you +when fresh out of your bullock-waggons and cattle-pens. How is +it that you have forgotten that lesson?”</p> +<p>The minister, I fear, would have to answer that our ancestors were +barbarous enough, not only to destroy the Roman cities, and temples, +and basilicas, and statues, but the Roman baths likewise; and then retired, +each man to his own freehold in the country, to live a life not much +more cleanly or more graceful than that of the swine which were his +favourite food. But he would have a right to plead, as an excuse, +that not only in England, but throughout the whole of the conquered +Latin empire, the Latin priesthood, who, in some respects, were—to +their honour—the representatives of Roman civilisation and the +protectors of its remnants, were the determined enemies of its cleanliness; +that they looked on personal dirt—like the old hermits of the +Thebaid—as a sign of sanctity; and discouraged—as they are +said to do still in some of the Romance countries of Europe—the +use of the bath, as not only luxurious, but also indecent.</p> +<p>At which answer, it seems to me, another sneer might curl the lip +of the august shade, as he said to himself—“This, at least, +I did not expect, when I made Christianity the state religion of my +empire. But you, good barbarian, look clean enough. You +do not look on dirt as a sign of sanctity?”</p> +<p>“On the contrary, sire, the upper classes of our empire boast +of being the cleanliest—perhaps the only perfectly cleanly—people +in the world: except, of course, the savages of the South Seas. +And dirt is so far from being a thing which we admire, that our scientific +men—than whom the world has never seen wiser—have proved +to us, for a whole generation past, that dirt is the fertile cause of +disease and drunkenness, misery and recklessness.”</p> +<p>“And, therefore,” replies the shade, ere he disappears, +“of discontent and revolution; followed by a tyranny endured, +as in Rome and many another place, by men once free; because tyranny +will at least do for them what they are too lazy, and cowardly, and +greedy to do for themselves. Farewell, and prosper; as you seem +likely to prosper, on the whole. But if you wish me to consider +you a civilised nation: let me hear that you have brought a great river +from the depths of the earth, be they a thousand fathoms deep, or from +your nearest mountains, be they five hundred miles away; and have washed +out London’s dirt—and your own shame. Till then, abstain +from judging too harshly a Constantine, or even a Caracalla; for they, +whatever were their sins, built baths, and kept their people clean. +But do your gymnasia—your schools and universities, teach your +youth nought about all this?”</p> +<h2>THRIFT. A LECTURE DELIVERED AT WINCHESTER, MARCH 17, 1869.</h2> +<p>Ladies,—I have chosen for the title of this lecture a practical +and prosaic word, because I intend the lecture itself to be as practical +and prosaic as I can make it, without becoming altogether dull.</p> +<p>The question of the better or worse education of women is one far +too important for vague sentiment, wild aspirations, or Utopian dreams.</p> +<p>It is a practical question, on which depends not merely money or +comfort, but too often health and life, as the consequences of a good +education, or disease and death—I know too well of what I speak—as +the consequences of a bad one.</p> +<p>I beg you, therefore, to put out of your minds at the outset any +fancy that I wish for a social revolution in the position of women; +or that I wish to see them educated by exactly the same methods, and +in exactly the same subjects, as men. British lads, on an average, +are far too ill-taught still, in spite of all recent improvements, for +me to wish that British girls should be taught in the same way.</p> +<p>Moreover, whatever defects there may have been—and defects +there must be in all things human—in the past education of British +women, it has been most certainly a splendid moral success. It +has made, by the grace of God, British women the best wives, mothers, +daughters, aunts, sisters, that the world, as far as I can discover, +has yet seen.</p> +<p>Let those who will sneer at the women of England. We who have +to do the work and to fight the battle of life know the inspiration +which we derive from their virtue, their counsel, their tenderness, +and—but too often—from their compassion and their forgiveness. +There is, I doubt not, still left in England many a man with chivalry +and patriotism enough to challenge the world to show so perfect a specimen +of humanity as a cultivated British woman.</p> +<p>But just because a cultivated British woman is so perfect a personage; +therefore I wish to see all British women cultivated. Because +the womanhood of England is so precious a treasure; I wish to see none +of it wasted. It is an invaluable capital, or material, out of +which the greatest possible profit to the nation must be made. +And that can only be done by thrift; and that, again, can only be attained +by knowledge.</p> +<p>Consider that word thrift. If you will look at Dr. Johnson’s +Dictionary, or if you know your Shakespeare, you will see that thrift +signified originally profits, gain, riches gotten—in a word, the +marks of a man’s thriving.</p> +<p>How, then, did the word thrift get to mean parsimony, frugality, +the opposite of waste? Just in the same way as economy—which +first, of course, meant the management of a household—got to mean +also the opposite of waste.</p> +<p>It was found that in commerce, in husbandry, in any process, in fact, +men throve in proportion as they saved their capital, their material, +their force.</p> +<p>Now this is a great law which runs through life; one of those laws +of nature—call them, rather, laws of God—which apply not +merely to political economy, to commerce, and to mechanics; but to physiology, +to society; to the intellect, to the heart, of every person in this +room.</p> +<p>The secret of thriving is thrift; saving of force; to get as much +work as possible done with the least expenditure of power, the least +jar and obstruction, the least wear and tear.</p> +<p>And the secret of thrift is knowledge. In proportion as you +know the laws and nature of a subject, you will be able to work at it +easily, surely, rapidly, successfully; instead of wasting your money +or your energies in mistaken schemes, irregular efforts, which end in +disappointment and exhaustion.</p> +<p>The secret of thrift, I say, is knowledge. The more you know, +the more you can save yourself and that which belongs to you; and can +do more work with less effort.</p> +<p>A knowledge of the laws of commercial credit, we all know, saves +capital, enabling a less capital to do the work of a greater. +Knowledge of the electric telegraph saves time; knowledge of writing +saves human speech and locomotion; knowledge of domestic economy saves +income; knowledge of sanitary laws saves health and life; knowledge +of the laws of the intellect saves wear and tear of brain; and knowledge +of the laws of the spirit—what does it not save?</p> +<p>A well-educated moral sense, a well-regulated character, saves from +idleness and ennui, alternating with sentimentality and excitement, +those tenderer emotions, those deeper passions, those nobler aspirations +of humanity, which are the heritage of the woman far more than of the +man; and which are potent in her, for evil or for good, in proportion +as they are left to run wild and undisciplined, or are trained and developed +into graceful, harmonious, self-restraining strength, beautiful in themselves, +and a blessing to all who come under their influence.</p> +<p>What, therefore, I recommend to ladies in this lecture is thrift; +thrift of themselves and of their own powers: and knowledge as the parent +of thrift.</p> +<p>And because it is well to begin with the lower applications of thrift, +and to work up to the higher, I am much pleased to hear that the first +course of the proposed lectures to women in this place will be one on +domestic economy.</p> +<p>I presume that the learned gentleman who will deliver these lectures +will be the last to mean by that term the mere saving of money; that +he will tell you, as—being a German—he will have good reason +to know, that the young lady who learns thrift in domestic economy is +also learning thrift of the very highest faculties of her immortal spirit. +He will tell you, I doubt not—for he must know—how you may +see in Germany young ladies living in what we more luxurious British +would consider something like poverty; cooking, waiting at table, and +performing many a household office which would be here considered menial; +and yet finding time for a cultivation of the intellect, which is, unfortunately, +too rare in Great Britain.</p> +<p>The truth is, that we British are too wealthy. We make money, +if not too rapidly for the good of the nation at large, yet too rapidly, +I fear, for the good of the daughters of those who make it. Their +temptation—I do not, of course, say they all yield to it—but +their temptation is, to waste of the very simplest—I had almost +said, if I may be pardoned the expression, of the most barbaric—kind; +to an oriental waste of money, and waste of time; to a fondness for +mere finery, pardonable enough, but still a waste; and to the mistaken +fancy that it is the mark of a lady to sit idle and let servants do +everything for her.</p> +<p>Such women may well take a lesson by contrast from the pure and noble, +useful and cultivated thrift of an average German young lady—for +ladies these German women are, in every possible sense of the word.</p> +<p>But it is not of this sort of waste of which I wish to speak to-day. +I only mention the matter in passing, to show that high intellectual +culture is not incompatible with the performance of homely household +duties, and that the moral success of which I spoke just now need not +be injured, any more than it is in Germany, by intellectual success +likewise. I trust that these words may reassure those parents, +if any such there be here, who may fear that these lectures will withdraw +women from their existing sphere of interest and activity. That +they should entertain such a fear is not surprising, after the extravagant +opinions and schemes which have been lately broached in various quarters.</p> +<p>The programme to these lectures expressly disclaims any such intentions; +and I, as a husband and a father, expressly disclaim any such intention +likewise.</p> +<p>“To fit women for the more enlightened performance of their +special duties;” to help them towards learning how to do better +what we doubt not they are already doing well; is, I honestly believe, +the only object of the promoters of this scheme.</p> +<p>Let us see now how some of these special duties can be better performed +by help of a little enlightenment as to the laws which regulate them.</p> +<p>Now, no man will deny—certainly no man who is past forty-five, +and whose digestion is beginning to quail before the lumps of beef and +mutton which are the boast of a British kitchen, and to prefer, with +Justice Shallow, and, I presume, Sir John Falstaff also, “any +pretty little tiny kickshaws”—no man, I say, who has reached +that age, but will feel it a practical comfort to him to know that the +young ladies of his family are at all events good cooks; and understand, +as the French do, thrift in the matter of food.</p> +<p>Neither will any parent who wishes, naturally enough, that his daughters +should cost him as little as possible; and wishes, naturally enough +also, that they should be as well dressed as possible, deny that it +would be a good thing for them to be practical milliners and mantua-makers; +and, by making their own clothes gracefully and well, exercise thrift +in clothing.</p> +<p>But, beside this thrift in clothing, I am not alone, I believe, in +wishing for some thrift in the energy which produces it. Labour +misapplied, you will agree, is labour wasted; and as dress, I presume, +is intended to adorn the person of the wearer, the making a dress which +only disfigures her may be considered as a plain case of waste. +It would be impertinent in me to go into any details: but it is impossible +to walk about the streets now without passing young people who must +be under a deep delusion as to the success of their own toilette. +Instead of graceful and noble simplicity of form, instead of combinations +of colour at once rich and delicate, because in accordance with the +chromatic laws of nature, one meets with phenomena more and more painful +to the eye, and startling to common sense, till one would be hardly +more astonished, and certainly hardly more shocked, if in a year or +two one should pass some one going about like a Chinese lady, with pinched +feet, or like a savage of the Amazons, with a wooden bung through her +lower lip. It is easy to complain of these monstrosities: but +impossible to cure them, it seems to me, without an education of the +taste, an education in those laws of nature which produce beauty in +form and beauty in colour. For that the cause of these failures +lies in want of education is patent. They are most common in—I +had almost said they are confined to—those classes of well-to-do +persons who are the least educated; who have no standard of taste of +their own; and who do not acquire any from cultivated friends and relations: +who, in consequence, dress themselves blindly according to what they +conceive to be the Paris fashions, conveyed at third-hand through an +equally uneducated dressmaker; in innocent ignorance of the fact—for +fact I believe it to be—that Paris fashions are invented now not +in the least for the sake of beauty, but for the sake of producing, +through variety, increased expenditure, and thereby increased employment; +according to the strange system which now prevails in France of compelling, +if not prosperity, at least the signs of it; and like schoolboys before +a holiday, nailing up the head of the weather glass to insure fine weather.</p> +<p>Let British ladies educate themselves in those laws of beauty which +are as eternal as any other of nature’s laws; which may be seen +fulfilled, as Mr. Ruskin tells us, so eloquently in every flower and +every leaf, in every sweeping down and rippling wave: and they will +be able to invent graceful and economical dresses for themselves, without +importing tawdry and expensive ugliness from France.</p> +<p>Let me now go a step further, and ask you to consider this.—There +are in England now a vast number, and an increasing number, of young +women who, from various circumstances which we all know, must in after +life be either the mistresses of their own fortunes, or the earners +of their own bread. And, to do that wisely and well, they must +be more or less women of business; and to be women of business, they +must know something of the meaning of the words capital, profit, price, +value, labour, wages, and of the relation between those two last. +In a word, they must know a little political economy. Nay, I sometimes +think that the mistress of every household might find, not only thrift +of money, but thrift of brain; freedom from mistakes, anxieties, worries +of many kinds, all of which eat out the health as well as the heart, +by a little sound knowledge of the principles of political economy.</p> +<p>When we consider that every mistress of a household is continually +buying, if not selling; that she is continually hiring and employing +labour in the form of servants; and very often, into the bargain, keeping +her husband’s accounts: I cannot but think that her hard-worked +brain might be clearer, and her hard-tried desire to do her duty by +every subject in her little kingdom, might be more easily satisfied, +had she read something of what Mr. John Stuart Mill has written, especially +on the duties of employer and employed. A capitalist, a commercialist, +an employer of labour, and an accountant—every mistress of a household +is all these, whether she likes it or not; and it would be surely well +for her, in so very complicated a state of society as this, not to trust +merely to that mother-wit, that intuitive sagacity and innate power +of ruling her fellow-creatures, which carries women so nobly through +their work in simpler and less civilised societies.</p> +<p>And here I stop to answer those who may say—as I have heard +it said—That a woman’s intellect is not fit for business; +that when a woman takes to business, she is apt to do it ill, and unpleasantly +likewise; to be more suspicious, more irritable, more grasping, more +unreasonable, than regular men of business would be; that—as I +have heard it put—“a woman does not fight fair.” +The answer is simple. That a woman’s intellect is eminently +fitted for business is proved by the enormous amount of business she +gets through without any special training for it: but those faults in +a woman of which some men complain are simply the results of her not +having had a special training. She does not know the laws of business. +She does not know the rules of the game she is playing; and therefore +she is playing it in the dark, in fear and suspicion, apt to judge of +questions on personal grounds, often offending those with whom she has +to do, and oftener still making herself miserable over matters of law +or of business, on which a little sound knowledge would set her head +and her heart at rest.</p> +<p>When I have seen widows, having the care of children, of a great +household, of a great estate, of a great business, struggling heroically, +and yet often mistakenly; blamed severely for selfishness and ambition, +while they were really sacrificing themselves with the divine instinct +of a mother for their children’s interest: I have stood by with +mingled admiration and pity, and said to myself—“How nobly +she is doing the work without teaching! How much more nobly would +she have done it had she been taught! She is now doing the work +at the most enormous waste of energy and of virtue: had she had knowledge, +thrift would have followed it; she would have done more work with far +less trouble. She will probably kill herself if she goes on: sound +knowledge would have saved her health, saved her heart, saved her friends, +and helped the very loved ones for whom she labours, not always with +success.”</p> +<p>A little political economy, therefore, will at least do no harm to +a woman; especially if she have to take care of herself in after life; +neither, I think, will she be much harmed by some sound knowledge of +another subject, which I see promised in these lectures,—“Natural +philosophy, in its various branches, such as the chemistry of common +life, light, heat, electricity, &c., &c.”</p> +<p>A little knowledge of the laws of light, for instance, would teach +many women that by shutting themselves up day after day, week after +week, in darkened rooms, they are as certainly committing a waste of +health, destroying their vital energy, and diseasing their brains, as +if they were taking so much poison the whole time.</p> +<p>A little knowledge of the laws of heat would teach women not to clothe +themselves and their children after foolish and insufficient fashions, +which in this climate sow the seeds of a dozen different diseases, and +have to be atoned for by perpetual anxieties, and by perpetual doctors’ +bills; and as for a little knowledge of the laws of electricity, one +thrift I am sure it would produce—thrift to us men, of having +to answer continual inquiries as to what the weather is going to be, +when a slight knowledge of the barometer, or of the form of the clouds +and the direction of the wind, would enable many a lady to judge for +herself, and not, after inquiry on inquiry, disregard all warnings, +go out on the first appearance of a strip of blue sky, and come home +wet through, with what she calls “only a chill,” but which +really means a nail driven into her coffin—a probable shortening, +though it may be a very small one, of her mortal life; because the food +of the next twenty-four hours, which should have gone to keep the vital +heat at its normal standard, will have to be wasted in raising it up +to that standard, from which it has fallen by a chill.</p> +<p>Ladies; these are subjects on which I must beg to speak a little +more at length, premising them by one statement, which may seem jest, +but is solemn earnest—that, if the medical men of this or any +other city were what the world now calls “alive to their own interests”—that +is, to the mere making of money; instead of being, what medical men +are, the most generous, disinterested, and high-minded class in these +realms, then they would oppose by all means in their power the delivery +of lectures on natural philosophy to women. For if women act upon +what they learn in those lectures—and having women’s hearts, +they will act upon it—there ought to follow a decrease of sickness +and an increase of health, especially among children; a thrift of life, +and a thrift of expense besides, which would very seriously affect the +income of medical men.</p> +<p>For let me ask you, ladies, with all courtesy, but with all earnestness—Are +you aware of certain facts, of which every one of those excellent medical +men is too well aware? Are you aware that more human beings are +killed in England every year by unnecessary and preventable diseases +than were killed at Waterloo or at Sadowa? Are you aware that +the great majority of those victims are children? Are you aware +that the diseases which carry them off are for the most part such as +ought to be specially under the control of the women who love them, +pet them, educate them, and would in many cases, if need be, lay down +their lives for them? Are you aware, again, of the vast amount +of disease which, so both wise mothers and wise doctors assure me, is +engendered in the sleeping-room from simple ignorance of the laws of +ventilation, and in the school-room likewise, from simple ignorance +of the laws of physiology? from an ignorance of which I shall mention +no other case here save one—that too often from ignorance of signs +of approaching disease, a child is punished for what is called idleness, +listlessness, wilfulness, sulkiness; and punished, too, in the unwisest +way—by an increase of tasks and confinement to the house, thus +overtasking still more a brain already overtasked, and depressing still +more, by robbing it of oxygen and of exercise, a system already depressed? +Are you aware, I ask again, of all this? I speak earnestly upon +this point, because I speak with experience. As a single instance: +a medical man, a friend of mine, passing by his own school-room, heard +one of his own little girls screaming and crying, and went in. +The governess, an excellent woman, but wholly ignorant of the laws of +physiology, complained that the child had of late become obstinate and +would not learn; and that therefore she must punish her by keeping her +indoors over the unlearnt lessons. The father, who knew that the +child was usually a very good one, looked at her carefully for a little +while; sent her out of the school-room; and then said, “That child +must not open a book for a month.” “If I had not acted +so,” he said to me, “I should have had that child dead of +brain-disease within the year.”</p> +<p>Now, in the face of such facts as these, is it too much to ask of +mothers, sisters, aunts, nurses, governesses—all who may be occupied +in the care of children, especially of girls—that they should +study thrift of human health and human life, by studying somewhat the +laws of life and health? There are books—I may say a whole +literature of books—written by scientific doctors on these matters, +which are in my mind far more important to the school-room than half +the trashy accomplishments, so-called, which are expected to be known +by governesses. But are they bought? Are they even to be +bought, from most country booksellers? Ah, for a little knowledge +of the laws to the neglect of which is owing so much fearful disease, +which, if it does not produce immediate death, too often leaves the +constitution impaired for years to come. Ah the waste of health +and strength in the young; the waste, too, of anxiety and misery in +those who love and tend them. How much of it might be saved by +a little rational education in those laws of nature which are the will +of God about the welfare of our bodies, and which, therefore, we are +as much bound to know and to obey, as we are bound to know and obey +the spiritual laws whereon depends the welfare of our souls.</p> +<p>Pardon me, ladies, if I have given a moment’s pain to any one +here: but I appeal to every medical man in the room whether I have not +spoken the truth; and having such an opportunity as this, I felt that +I must speak for the sake of children, and of women likewise, or else +for ever hereafter hold my peace.</p> +<p>Let me pass on from this painful subject—for painful it has +been to me for many years—to a question of intellectual thrift—by +which I mean just now thrift of words; thrift of truth; restraint of +the tongue; accuracy and modesty in statement.</p> +<p>Mothers complain to me that girls are apt to be—not intentionally +untruthful—but exaggerative, prejudiced, incorrect, in repeating +a conversation or describing an event; and that from this fault arise, +as is to be expected, misunderstandings, quarrels, rumours, slanders, +scandals, and what not.</p> +<p>Now, for this waste of words there is but one cure: and if I be told +that it is a natural fault of women; that they cannot take the calm +judicial view of matters which men boast, and often boast most wrongly, +that they can take; that under the influence of hope, fear, delicate +antipathy, honest moral indignation, they will let their eyes and ears +be governed by their feelings; and see and hear only what they wish +to see and hear: I answer, that it is not for me as a man to start such +a theory; but that if it be true, it is an additional argument for some +education which will correct this supposed natural defect. And +I say deliberately that there is but one sort of education which will +correct it; one which will teach young women to observe facts accurately, +judge them calmly, and describe them carefully, without adding or distorting: +and that is, some training in natural science.</p> +<p>I beg you not to be startled: but if you are, then test the truth +of my theory by playing to-night at the game called “Russian Scandal;” +in which a story, repeated in secret by one player to the other, comes +out at the end of the game, owing to the inaccurate and—forgive +me if I say it—uneducated brains through which it has passed, +utterly unlike its original; not only ludicrously maimed and distorted, +but often with the most fantastic additions of events, details, names, +dates, places, which each player will aver that he received from the +player before him. I am afraid that too much of the average gossip +of every city, town, and village is little more than a game of “Russian +Scandal;” with this difference, that while one is but a game, +the other is but too mischievous earnest.</p> +<p>But now, if among your party there shall be an average lawyer, medical +man, or man of science, you will find that he, and perhaps he alone, +will be able to retail accurately the story which has been told him. +And why? Simply because his mind has been trained to deal with +facts; to ascertain exactly what he does see or hear, and to imprint +its leading features strongly and clearly on his memory.</p> +<p>Now, you certainly cannot make young ladies barristers or attorneys; +nor employ their brains in getting up cases, civil or criminal; and +as for chemistry, they and their parents may have a reasonable antipathy +to smells, blackened fingers, and occasional explosions and poisonings. +But you may make them something of botanists, zoologists, geologists.</p> +<p>I could say much on this point: allow me at least to say this: I +verily believe that any young lady who would employ some of her leisure +time in collecting wild flowers, carefully examining them, verifying +them, and arranging them; or who would in her summer trip to the sea-coast +do the same by the common objects of the shore, instead of wasting her +holiday, as one sees hundreds doing, in lounging on benches on the esplanade, +reading worthless novels, and criticizing dresses—that such a +young lady, I say, would not only open her own mind to a world of wonder, +beauty, and wisdom, which, if it did not make her a more reverent and +pious soul, she cannot be the woman which I take for granted she is; +but would save herself from the habit—I had almost said the necessity—of +gossip; because she would have things to think of and not merely persons; +facts instead of fancies; while she would acquire something of accuracy, +of patience, of methodical observation and judgment, which would stand +her in good stead in the events of daily life, and increase her power +of bridling her tongue and her imagination. “God is in heaven, +and thou upon earth; therefore let thy words be few;” is the lesson +which those are learning all day long who study the works of God with +reverent accuracy, lest by misrepresenting them they should be tempted +to say that God has done that which He has not; and in that wholesome +discipline I long that women as well as men should share.</p> +<p>And now I come to a thrift of the highest kind, as contrasted with +a waste the most deplorable and ruinous of all; thrift of those faculties +which connect us with the unseen and spiritual world; with humanity, +with Christ, with God; thrift of the immortal spirit. I am not +going now to give you a sermon on duty. You hear such, I doubt +not, in church every Sunday, far better than I can preach to you. +I am going to speak rather of thrift of the heart, thrift of the emotions. +How they are wasted in these days in reading what are called sensation +novels, all know but too well; how British literature—all that +the best hearts and intellects among our forefathers have bequeathed +to us—is neglected for light fiction, the reading of which is, +as a lady well said, “the worst form of intemperance—dram-drinking +and opium-eating, intellectual and moral.”</p> +<p>I know that the young will delight—they have delighted in all +ages, and will to the end of time—in fictions which deal with +that “oldest tale which is for ever new.” Novels will +be read: but that is all the more reason why women should be trained, +by the perusal of a higher, broader, deeper literature, to distinguish +the good novel from the bad, the moral from the immoral, the noble from +the base, the true work of art from the sham which hides its shallowness +and vulgarity under a tangled plot and melodramatic situations. +She should learn—and that she can only learn by cultivation—to +discern with joy, and drink in with reverence, the good, the beautiful, +and the true; and to turn with the fine scorn of a pure and strong womanhood +from the bad, the ugly, and the false.</p> +<p>And if any parent should be inclined to reply—“Why lay +so much stress upon educating a girl in British literature? Is +it not far more important to make our daughters read religious books?” +I answer—Of course it is. I take for granted that that is +done in a Christian land. But I beg you to recollect that there +are books and books; and that in these days of a free press it is impossible, +in the long run, to prevent girls reading books of very different shades +of opinion, and very different religious worth. It may be, therefore, +of the very highest importance to a girl to have her intellect, her +taste, her emotions, her moral sense, in a word, her whole womanhood, +so cultivated and regulated that she shall herself be able to discern +the true from the false, the orthodox from the unorthodox, the truly +devout from the merely sentimental, the Gospel from its counterfeits.</p> +<p>I should have thought that there never had been in Britain, since +the Reformation, a crisis at which young Englishwomen required more +careful cultivation on these matters; if at least they are to be saved +from making themselves and their families miserable; and from ending—as +I have known too many end—with broken hearts, broken brains, broken +health, and an early grave.</p> +<p>Take warning by what you see abroad. In every country where +the women are uneducated, unoccupied; where their only literature is +French novels or translations of them—in every one of those countries +the women, even to the highest, are the slaves of superstition, and +the puppets of priests. In proportion as, in certain other countries—notably, +I will say, in Scotland—the women are highly educated, family +life and family secrets are sacred, and the woman owns allegiance and +devotion to no confessor or director, but to her own husband or to her +own family.</p> +<p>I say plainly, that if any parents wish their daughters to succumb +at last to some quackery or superstition, whether calling itself scientific, +or calling itself religious—and there are too many of both just +now—they cannot more certainly effect their purpose than by allowing +her to grow up ignorant, frivolous, luxurious, vain; with her emotions +excited, but not satisfied, by the reading of foolish and even immoral +novels.</p> +<p>In such a case the more delicate and graceful the organization, the +more noble and earnest the nature, which has been neglected, the more +certain it is—I know too well what I am saying—to go astray.</p> +<p>The time of depression, disappointment, vacuity, all but despair, +must come. The immortal spirit, finding no healthy satisfaction +for its highest aspirations, is but too likely to betake itself to an +unhealthy and exciting superstition. Ashamed of its own long self-indulgence, +it is but too likely to flee from itself into a morbid asceticism. +Not having been taught its God-given and natural duties in the world, +it is but too likely to betake itself, from the mere craving for action, +to self-invented and unnatural duties out of the world. Ignorant +of true science, yet craving to understand the wonders of nature and +of spirit, it is but too likely to betake itself to nonscience—nonsense +as it is usually called—whether of spirit-rapping and mesmerism, +or of miraculous relics and winking pictures. Longing for guidance +and teaching, and never having been taught to guide and teach itself, +it is but too likely to deliver itself up in self-despair to the guidance +and teaching of those who, whether they be quacks or fanatics, look +on uneducated women as their natural prey.</p> +<p>You will see, I am sure, from what I have said, that it is not my +wish that you should become mere learned women; mere female pedants, +as useless and unpleasing as male pedants are wont to be. The +education which I set before you is not to be got by mere hearing lectures +or reading books: for it is an education of your whole character; a +self-education; which really means a committing of yourself to God, +that He may educate you. Hearing lectures is good, for it will +teach you how much there is to be known, and how little you know. +Reading books is good, for it will give you habits of regular and diligent +study. And therefore I urge on you strongly private study, especially +in case a library should be formed here of books on those most practical +subjects of which I have been speaking. But, after all, both lectures +and books are good, mainly in as far as they furnish matter for reflection: +while the desire to reflect and the ability to reflect must come, as +I believe, from above. The honest craving after light and power, +after knowledge, wisdom, active usefulness, must come—and may +it come to you—by the inspiration of the Spirit of God.</p> +<p>One word more, and I have done. Let me ask women to educate +themselves, not for their own sakes merely, but for the sake of others. +For, whether they will or not, they must educate others. I do +not speak merely of those who may be engaged in the work of direct teaching; +that they ought to be well taught themselves, who can doubt? I +speak of those—and in so doing I speak of every woman, young and +old—who exercises as wife, as mother, as aunt, as sister, or as +friend, an influence, indirect it may be, and unconscious, but still +potent and practical, on the minds and characters of those about them, +especially of men. How potent and practical that influence is, +those know best who know most of the world and most of human nature. +There are those who consider—and I agree with them—that +the education of boys under the age of twelve years ought to be entrusted +as much as possible to women. Let me ask—of what period +of youth and of manhood does not the same hold true? I pity the +ignorance and conceit of the man who fancies that he has nothing left +to learn from cultivated women. I should have thought that the +very mission of woman was to be, in the highest sense, the educator +of man from infancy to old age; that that was the work towards which +all the God-given capacities of women pointed; for which they were to +be educated to the highest pitch. I should have thought that it +was the glory of woman that she was sent into the world to live for +others, rather than for herself; and therefore I should say—Let +her smallest rights be respected, her smallest wrongs redressed: but +let her never be persuaded to forget that she is sent into the world +to teach man—what, I believe, she has been teaching him all along, +even in the savage state—namely, that there is something more +necessary than the claiming of rights, and that is, the performing of +duties; to teach him specially, in these so-called intellectual days, +that there is something more than intellect, and that is—purity +and virtue. Let her never be persuaded to forget that her calling +is not the lower and more earthly one of self-assertion, but the higher +and the diviner calling of self-sacrifice; and let her never desert +that higher life, which lives in others and for others, like her Redeemer +and her Lord.</p> +<p>And if any should answer that this doctrine would keep woman a dependant +and a slave, I rejoin—Not so: it would keep her what she should +be—the mistress of all around her, because mistress of herself. +And more, I should express a fear that those who made that answer had +not yet seen into the mystery of true greatness and true strength; that +they did not yet understand the true magnanimity, the true royalty of +that spirit, by which the Son of man came not to be ministered unto, +but to minister, and to give His life a ransom for many.</p> +<p>Surely that is woman’s calling—to teach man: and to teach +him what? To teach him, after all, that his calling is the same +as hers, if he will but see the things which belong to his peace. +To temper his fiercer, coarser, more self-assertive nature, by the contact +of her gentleness, purity, self-sacrifice. To make him see that +not by blare of trumpets, not by noise, wrath, greed, ambition, intrigue, +puffery, is good and lasting work to be done on earth: but by wise self-distrust, +by silent labour, by lofty self-control, by that charity which hopeth +all things, believeth all things, endureth all things; by such an example, +in short, as women now in tens of thousands set to those around them; +such as they will show more and more, the more their whole womanhood +is educated to employ its powers without waste and without haste in +harmonious unity. Let the woman begin in girlhood, if such be +her happy lot—to quote the words of a great poet, a great philosopher, +and a great Churchman, William Wordsworth—let her begin, I say—</p> +<blockquote><p>“With all things round about her drawn<br /> +From May-time and the cheerful dawn;<br /> +A dancing shape, an image gay,<br /> +To haunt, to startle, and waylay.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Let her develop onwards—</p> +<blockquote><p>“A spirit, yet a woman too,<br /> +With household motions light and free,<br /> +And steps of virgin liberty.<br /> +A countenance in which shall meet<br /> +Sweet records, promises as sweet;<br /> +A creature not too bright and good<br /> +For human nature’s daily food;<br /> +For transient sorrows, simple wiles,<br /> +Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But let her highest and her final development be that which not nature, +but self-education alone can bring—that which makes her once and +for ever—</p> +<blockquote><p>“A being breathing thoughtful breath;<br /> +A traveller betwixt life and death.<br /> +With reason firm, with temperate will,<br /> +Endurance, foresight, strength and skill.<br /> +A perfect woman, nobly planned,<br /> +To warn, to comfort and command.<br /> +And yet a spirit still and bright<br /> +With something of an angel light.”</p> +</blockquote> +<h2>THE STUDY OF NATURAL HISTORY.<br /> +A LECTURE DELIVERED TO THE OFFICERS OF THE ROYAL ARTILLERY, WOOLWICH.</h2> +<p>Gentlemen:—When I accepted the honour of lecturing here, I +took for granted that so select an audience would expect from me not +mere amusement, but somewhat of instruction; or, if that be too ambitious +a word for me to use, at least some fresh hint—if I were able +to give one—as to how they should fulfil the ideal of military +men in such an age as this.</p> +<p>To touch on military matters, even had I been conversant with them, +seemed to me an impertinence. I am bound to take for granted that +every man knows his own business best; and I incline more and more to +the opinion that military men should be left to work out the problems +of their art for themselves, without the advice or criticism of civilians. +But I hold—and I am sure that you will agree with me—that +if the soldier is to be thus trusted by the nation, and left to himself +to do his own work his own way, he must be educated in all practical +matters as highly as the average of educated civilians. He must +know all that they know, and his own art beside. Just as a clergyman, +being a man plus a priest, is bound to be a man, and a good man, over +and above his priesthood, so is the soldier bound to be a civilian, +and a highly-educated civilian, plus his soldierly qualities and acquirements.</p> +<p>It seemed to me, therefore, that I might, without impertinence, ask +you to consider a branch of knowledge which is becoming yearly more +and more important in the eyes of well-educated civilians; of which, +therefore, the soldier ought at least to know something, in order to +put him on a par with the general intelligence of the nation. +I do not say that he is to devote much time to it, or to follow it up +into specialities: but that he ought to be well grounded in its principles +and methods; that he ought to be aware of its importance and its usefulness; +that so, if he comes into contact—as he will more and more—with +scientific men, he may understand them, respect them, befriend them, +and be befriended by them in turn; and how desirable this last result +is, I shall tell you hereafter.</p> +<p>There are those, I doubt not, among my audience who do not need the +advice which I shall presume to give to-night; who belong to that fast +increasing class among officers of whom I have often said—and +I have found scientific men cordially agree with me—that they +are the most modest and the most teachable of men. But even in +their case there can be no harm in going over deliberately a question +of such importance; in putting it, as it were, into shape; and insisting +on arguments which may perhaps not have occurred to some of them.</p> +<p>Let me, in the first place, reassure those—if any such there +be—who may suppose, from the title of my lecture, that I am only +going to recommend them to collect weeds and butterflies, “rats +and mice, and such small deer.” Far from it. The honourable +title of Natural History has, and unwisely, been restricted too much +of late years to the mere study of plants and animals. I desire +to restore the words to their original and proper meaning—the +History of Nature; that is, of all that is born, and grows in time; +in short, of all natural objects.</p> +<p>If anyone shall say—By that definition you make not only geology +and chemistry branches of natural history, but meteorology and astronomy +likewise—I cannot deny it. They deal, each of them, with +realms of Nature. Geology is, literally, the natural history of +soils and lands; chemistry the natural history of compounds, organic +and inorganic; meteorology the natural history of climates; astronomy +the natural history of planetary and solar bodies. And more, you +cannot now study deeply any branch of what is popularly called Natural +History—that is, plants and animals—without finding it necessary +to learn something, and more and more as you go deeper, of those very +sciences. As the marvellous interdependence of all natural objects +and forces unfolds itself more and more, so the once separate sciences, +which treated of different classes of natural objects, are forced to +interpenetrate, as it were; and to supplement themselves by knowledge +borrowed from each other. Thus—to give a single instance—no +man can now be a first-rate botanist unless he be also no mean meteorologist, +no mean geologist, and—as Mr. Darwin has shown in his extraordinary +discoveries about the fertilisation of plants by insects—no mean +entomologist likewise.</p> +<p>It is difficult, therefore, and indeed somewhat unwise and unfair, +to put any limit to the term Natural History, save that it shall deal +only with nature and with matter; and shall not pretend—as some +would have it to do just now—to go out of its own sphere to meddle +with moral and spiritual matters. But, for practical purposes, +we may define the natural history of any given spot as the history of +the causes which have made it what it is, and filled it with the natural +objects which it holds. And if anyone would know how to study +the natural history of a place, and how to write it, let him read—and +if he has read its delightful pages in youth, read once again—that +hitherto unrivalled little monograph, White’s ‘Natural History +of Selborne;’ and let him then try, by the light of improved science, +to do for any district where he may be stationed, what White did for +Selborne nearly one hundred years ago. Let him study its plants, +its animals, its soils and rocks; and last, but not least, its scenery, +as the total outcome of what the soils, and plants, and animals have +made it. I say, have made it. How far the nature of the +soils and the rocks will affect the scenery of a district may be well +learnt from a very clever and interesting little book of Professor Geikie’s, +on ‘The Scenery of Scotland, as affected by its Geological Structure.’ +How far the plants and trees affect not merely the general beauty, the +richness or barrenness of a country, but also its very shape; the rate +at which the hills are destroyed and washed into the lowland; the rate +at which the seaboard is being removed by the action of waves—all +these are branches of study which is becoming more and more important.</p> +<p>And even in the study of animals and their effects on the vegetation, +questions of really deep interest will arise. You will find that +certain plants and trees cannot thrive in a district, while others can, +because the former are browsed down by cattle, or their seeds eaten +by birds, and the latter are not; that certain seeds are carried in +the coats of animals, or wafted abroad by winds—others are not; +certain trees destroyed wholesale by insects, while others are not; +that in a hundred ways the animal and vegetable life of a district act +and react upon each other, and that the climate, the average temperature, +the maximum and minimum temperatures, the rainfall, act on them, and +in the case of the vegetation, are reacted on again by them. The +diminution of rainfall by the destruction of forests, its increase by +replanting them, and the effect of both on the healthiness or unhealthiness +of a place—as in the case of the Mauritius, where a once healthy +island has become pestilential, seemingly from the clearing away of +the vegetation on the banks of streams—all this, though to study +it deeply requires a fair knowledge of meteorology, and even of a science +or two more, is surely well worth the attention of any educated man +who is put in charge of the health and lives of human beings.</p> +<p>You will surely agree with me that the habit of mind required for +such a study as this, is the very same as is required for successful +military study. In fact, I should say that the same intellect +which would develop into a great military man, would develop also into +a great naturalist. I say, intellect. The military man would +require—what the naturalist would not—over and above his +intellect, a special force of will, in order to translate his theories +into fact, and make his campaigns in the field and not merely on paper. +But I am speaking only of the habit of mind required for study; of that +inductive habit of mind which works, steadily and by rule, from the +known to the unknown; that habit of mind of which it has been said:—“The +habit of seeing; the habit of knowing what we see; the habit of discerning +differences and likenesses; the habit of classifying accordingly; the +habit of searching for hypotheses which shall connect and explain those +classified facts; the habit of verifying these hypotheses by applying +them to fresh facts; the habit of throwing them away bravely if they +will not fit; the habit of general patience, diligence, accuracy, reverence +for facts for their own sake, and love of truth for its own sake; in +one word, the habit of reverent and implicit obedience to the laws of +Nature, whatever they may be—these are not merely intellectual, +but also moral habits, which will stand men in practical good stead +in every affair of life, and in every question, even the most awful, +which may come before them as rational and social beings.” +And specially valuable are they, surely, to the military man, the very +essence of whose study, to be successful, lies first in continuous and +accurate observation, and then in calm and judicious arrangement.</p> +<p>Therefore it is that I hold, and hold strongly, that the study of +physical science, far from interfering with an officer’s studies, +much less unfitting for them, must assist him in them, by keeping his +mind always in the very attitude and the very temper which they require. +If any smile at this theory of mine, let them recollect one curious +fact: that perhaps the greatest captain of the old world was trained +by perhaps the greatest philosopher of the old world—the father +of Natural History; that Aristotle was the tutor of Alexander of Macedon. +I do not fancy, of course, that Aristotle taught Alexander any Natural +History. But this we know, that he taught him to use those very +faculties by which Aristotle became a natural historian, and many things +beside; that he called out in his pupil somewhat of his own extraordinary +powers of observation, extraordinary powers of arrangement. He +helped to make him a great general: but he helped to make him more—a +great politician, coloniser, discoverer. He instilled into him +such a sense of the importance of Natural History, that Alexander helped +him nobly in his researches; and, if Athenæus is to be believed, +gave him 800 talents towards perfecting his history of animals. +Surely it is not too much to say that this close friendship between +the natural philosopher and the soldier has changed the whole course +of civilisation to this very day. Do not consider me Utopian when +I tell you, that I should like to see the study of physical science +an integral part of the curriculum of every military school. I +would train the mind of the lad who was to become hereafter an officer +in the army—and in the navy like wise—by accustoming him +to careful observation of, and sound thought about, the face of nature; +of the commonest objects under his feet, just as much as of the stars +above his head; provided always that he learnt, not at second-hand from +books, but where alone he can really learn either war or nature—in +the field; by actual observation, actual experiment. A laboratory +for chemical experiment is a good thing, it is true, as far as it goes; +but I should prefer to the laboratory a naturalists’ field club, +such as are prospering now at several of the best public schools, certain +that the boys would get more of sound inductive habits of mind, as well +as more health, manliness, and cheerfulness, amid scenes to remember +which will be a joy for ever, than they ever can by bending over retorts +and crucibles, amid smells even to remember which is a pain for ever.</p> +<p>But I would, whether a field club existed or not, require of every +young man entering the army or navy—indeed of every young man +entering any liberal profession whatsoever—a fair knowledge, such +as would enable him to pass an examination, in what the Germans call +<i>Erd-kunde</i>—earth-lore—in that knowledge of the face +of the earth and of its products, for which we English have as yet cared +so little that we have actually no English name for it, save the clumsy +and questionable one of physical geography; and, I am sorry to say, +hardly any readable school books about it, save Keith Johnston’s +‘Physical Atlas’—an acquaintance with which last I +should certainly require of young men.</p> +<p>It does seem most strange—or rather will seem most strange +100 years hence—that we, the nation of colonists, the nation of +sailors, the nation of foreign commerce, the nation of foreign military +stations, the nation of travellers for travelling’s sake, the +nation of which one man here and another there—as Schleiden sets +forth in his book, ‘The Plant,’ in a charming ideal conversation +at the Travellers’ Club—has seen and enjoyed more of the +wonders and beauties of this planet than the men of any nation, not +even excepting the Germans—that this nation, I say, should as +yet have done nothing, or all but nothing, to teach in her schools a +knowledge of that planet, of which she needs to know more, and can if +she will know more, than any other nation upon it.</p> +<p>As for the practical utility of such studies to a soldier, I only +need, I trust, to hint at it to such an assembly as this. All +must see of what advantage a rough knowledge of the botany of a district +would be to an officer leading an exploring party, or engaged in bush +warfare. To know what plants are poisonous; what plants, too, +are eatable—and many more are eatable than is usually supposed; +what plants yield oleaginous substances, whether for food or for other +uses; what plants yield vegetable acids, as preventives of scurvy; what +timbers are available for each of many different purposes; what will +resist wet, salt-water, and the attacks of insects; what, again, can +be used, at a pinch, for medicine or for styptics—and be sure, +as a wise West Indian doctor once said to me, that there is more good +medicine wild in the bush than there is in all the druggists’ +shops—surely all this is a knowledge not beneath the notice of +any enterprising officer, above all of an officer of engineers. +I only ask anyone who thinks that I may be in the right, to glance through +the lists of useful vegetable products given in Lindley’s ‘Vegetable +Kingdom’—a miracle of learning—and see the vast field +open still to a thoughtful and observant man, even while on service; +and not to forget that such knowledge, if he should hereafter leave +the service and settle, as many do, in a distant land, may be a solid +help to his future prosperity. So strongly do I feel on this matter, +that I should like to see some knowledge at least of Dr. Oliver’s +excellent little ‘First Book of Indian Botany’ required +of all officers going to our Indian Empire: but as that will not be, +at least for many a year to come, I recommend any gentlemen going to +India to get that book, and wile away the hours of the outward voyage +by acquiring knowledge which will be a continual source of interest, +and it may be now and then of profit, to them during their stay abroad.</p> +<p>And for geology, again. As I do not expect you all, or perhaps +any of you, to become such botanists as General Monro, whose recent +‘Monograph of the Bamboos’ is an honour to British botanists, +and a proof of the scientific power which is to be found here and there +among British officers: so I do not expect you to become such geologists +as Sir Roderick Murchison, or even to add such a grand chapter to the +history of extinct animals as Major Cautley did by his discoveries in +the Sewalik Hills. Nevertheless, you can learn—and I should +earnestly advise you to learn—geology and mineralogy enough to +be of great use to you in your profession, and of use, too, should you +relinquish your profession hereafter. It must be profitable for +any man, and specially for you, to know how and where to find good limestone, +building stone, road metal; it must be good to be able to distinguish +ores and mineral products; it must be good to know—as a geologist +will usually know, even in a country which he sees for the first time—where +water is likely to be found, and at what probable depth; it must be +good to know whether the water is fit for drinking or not, whether it +is unwholesome or merely muddy; it must be good to know what spots are +likely to be healthy, and what unhealthy, for encamping. The two +last questions depend, doubtless, on meteorological as well as geological +accidents: but the answers to them will be most surely found out by +the scientific man, because the facts connected with them are, like +all other facts, determined by natural laws. After what one has +heard, in past years, of barracks built in spots plainly pestilential; +of soldiers encamped in ruined cities, reeking with the dirt and poison +of centuries; of—but it is not my place to find fault; all I will +say is, that the wise and humane officer, when once his eyes are opened +to the practical value of physical science, will surely try to acquaint +himself somewhat with those laws of drainage and of climate, geological, +meteorological, chemical, which influence, often with terrible suddenness +and fury, the health of whole armies. He will not find it beyond +his province to ascertain the amount and period of rainfalls, the maxima +of heat and of cold which his troops may have to endure, and many another +point on which their health and efficiency—nay, their very life +may depend, but which are now too exclusively delegated to the doctor, +to whose province they do not really belong. For cure, I take +the liberty of believing, is the duty of the medical officer; prevention, +that of the military.</p> +<p>Thus much I can say just now—and there is much more to be said—on +the practical uses of the study of Natural History. But let me +remind you, on the other side, if Natural History will help you, you +in return can help her; and would, I doubt not, help her, and help scientific +men at home, if once you looked fairly and steadily at the immense importance +of Natural History—of the knowledge of the “face of the +earth.” I believe that all will one day feel, more or less, +that to know the earth <i>on</i> which we live, and the laws of it <i>by</i> +which we live, is a sacred duty to ourselves, to our children after +us, and to all whom we may have to command and to influence; aye, and +a duty to God likewise. For is it not a duty of common reverence +and faith towards Him, if He has put us into a beautiful and wonderful +place, and given us faculties by which we can see, and enjoy, and use +that place—is it not a duty of reverence and faith towards Him +to use these faculties, and to learn the lessons which He has laid open +for us? If you feel that, as I think you all will some day feel, +then you will surely feel likewise that it will be a good deed—I +do not say a necessary duty, but still a good deed and praiseworthy—to +help physical science forward; and to add your contributions, however +small, to our general knowledge of the earth. And how much may +be done for science by British officers, especially on foreign stations, +I need not point out. I know that much has been done, chivalrously +and well, by officers; and that men of science owe them, and give them, +hearty thanks for their labours. But I should like, I confess, +to see more done still. I should like to see every foreign station, +what one or two highly-educated officers might easily make it, an advanced +post of physical science, in regular communication with our scientific +societies at home, sending to them accurate and methodic details of +the natural history of each district—details 99/100ths of which +might seem worthless in the eyes of the public, but which would all +be precious in the eyes of scientific men, who know that no fact is +really unimportant; and more, that while plodding patiently through +seemingly unimportant facts, you may stumble on one of infinite importance, +both scientific and practical. For the student of nature, gentlemen, +if he will be but patient, diligent, methodical, is liable at any moment +to the same good fortune as befel Saul of old, when he went out to seek +his father’s asses, and found a kingdom.</p> +<p>There are those, lastly, who have neither time nor taste for the +technicalities, and nice distinctions, of formal Natural History; who +enjoy Nature, but as artists or as sportsmen, and not as men of science. +Let them follow their bent freely: but let them not suppose that in +following it they can do nothing towards enlarging our knowledge of +Nature, especially when on foreign stations. So far from it, drawings +ought always to be valuable, whether of plants, animals, or scenery, +provided only they are accurate; and the more spirited and full of genius +they are, the more accurate they are certain to be; for Nature being +alive, a lifeless copy of her is necessarily an untrue copy. Most +thankful to any officer for a mere sight of sketches will be the closet +botanist, who, to his own sorrow, knows three-fourths of his plants +only from dried specimens; or the closet zoologist, who knows his animals +from skins and bones. And if anyone answers—But I cannot +draw. I rejoin, You can at least photograph. If a young +officer, going out to foreign parts, and knowing nothing at all about +physical science, did me the honour to ask me what he could do for science, +I should tell him—Learn to photograph; take photographs of every +strange bit of rock-formation which strikes your fancy, and of every +widely extended view which may give a notion of the general lie of the +country. Append, if you can, a note or two, saying whether a plain +is rich or barren; whether the rock is sandstone, limestone, granitic, +metamorphic, or volcanic lava; and if there be more rocks than one, +which of them lies on the other; and send them to be exhibited at a +meeting of the Geological Society. I doubt not that the learned +gentlemen there will find in your photographs a valuable hint or two, +for which they will be much obliged. I learnt, for instance, what +seemed to me most valuable geological lessons, from mere glances at +drawings—I believe from photographs—of the Abyssinian ranges +about Magdala.</p> +<p>Or again, let a man, if he knows nothing of botany, not trouble himself +with collecting and drying specimens; let him simply photograph every +strange and new tree or plant he sees, to give a general notion of its +species, its look; let him append, where he can, a photograph of its +leafage, flower, fruit; and send them to Dr. Hooker, or any distinguished +botanist: and he will find that, though he may know nothing of botany, +he will have pretty certainly increased the knowledge of those who do +know.</p> +<p>The sportsman, again—I mean the sportsman of that type which +seems peculiar to these islands, who loves toil and danger for their +own sakes; he surely is a naturalist, ipso facto, though he knows it +not. He has those very habits of keen observation on which all +sound knowledge of nature is based; and he, if he will—as he may +do without interfering with his sport—can study the habits of +the animals among whom he spends wholesome and exciting days. +You have only to look over such good old books as Williams’s ‘Wild +Sports of the East,’ Campbell’s ‘Old Forest Ranger,’ +Lloyd’s ‘Scandinavian Adventures,’ and last, but not +least, Waterton’s ‘Wanderings,’ to see what valuable +additions to true zoology—the knowledge of live creatures, not +merely dead ones—British sportsmen have made, and still can make. +And as for the employment of time, which often hangs so heavily on a +soldier’s hands, really I am ready to say, if you are neither +men of science, nor draughtsmen, nor sportsmen, why go and collect beetles. +It is not very dignified, I know, nor exciting: but it will be something +to do. It cannot harm you, if you take, as beetle-hunters do, +an india-rubber sheet to lie on; and it will certainly benefit science. +Moreover, there will be a noble humility in the act. You will +confess to the public that you consider yourself only fit to catch beetles; +by which very confession you will prove yourself fit for much finer +things than catching beetles: and meanwhile, as I said before, you will +be at least out of harm’s way. At a foreign barrack once, +the happiest officer I met, because the most regularly employed, was +one who spent his time in collecting butterflies. He knew nothing +about them scientifically—not even their names. He took +them simply for their wonderful beauty and variety; and in the hope, +too—in which he was really scientific—that if he carefully +kept every form which he saw, his collection might be of use some day +to entomologists at home. A most pleasant gentleman he was; and, +I doubt not, none the worse soldier for his butterfly catching. +Commendable, also, in my eyes, was another officer—whom I have +not the pleasure of knowing—who, on a remote foreign station, +used wisely to escape from the temptations of the world into an entirely +original and most pleasant hermitage. For finding—so the +story went—that many of the finest insects kept to the tree-tops, +and never came to ground at all, he used to settle himself among the +boughs of some tree in the tropic forests, with a long-handled net and +plenty of cigars, and pass his hours in that airy flower garden, making +dashes every now and then at some splendid monster as it fluttered round +his head. His example need not be followed by everyone; but it +must be allowed that—at least as long as he was in his tree—he +was neither dawdling, grumbling, spending money, nor otherwise harming +himself, and perhaps his fellow creatures, from sheer want of employment.</p> +<p>One word more, and I have done. If I was allowed to give one +special piece of advice to a young officer, whether of the army or navy, +I would say—Respect scientific men; associate with them; learn +from them; find them to be, as you will usually, the most pleasant and +instructive of companions: but always respect them. Allow them +chivalrously, you who have an acknowledged rank, their yet unacknowledged +rank; and treat them as all the world will treat them, in a higher and +truer state of civilisation. They do not yet wear the Queen’s +uniform; they are not yet accepted servants of the State; as they will +be in some more perfectly organised and civilised land: but they are +soldiers nevertheless, and good soldiers and chivalrous, fighting their +nation’s battle, often on even less pay than you,—and with +still less chance of promotion and of fame, against most real and fatal +enemies—against ignorance of the laws of this planet, and all +the miseries which that ignorance begets. Honour them for their +work; sympathise in it; give them a helping hand in it whenever you +have an opportunity—and what opportunities you have, I have been +trying to sketch for you to-night; and more, work at it yourselves whenever +and wherever you can. Show them that the spirit which animates +them—the hatred of ignorance and disorder, and of their bestial +consequences—animates you likewise; show them that the habit of +mind which they value in themselves—the habit of accurate observation +and careful judgment—is your habit likewise; show them that you +value science, not merely because it gives better weapons of destruction +and of defence, but because it helps you to become clear-headed, large-minded, +able to take a just and accurate view of any subject which comes before +you, and to cast away every old prejudice and every hasty judgment in +the face of truth and of duty: and it will be better for you and for +them.</p> +<p>But why? What need for the soldier and the man of science to +fraternise just now? This need:—The two classes which will +have an increasing, it may be a preponderating, influence on the fate +of the human race for some time, will be the pupils of Aristotle and +those of Alexander—the men of science and the soldiers. +In spite of all appearances, and all declamations to the contrary, that +is my firm conviction. They, and they alone, will be left to rule; +because they alone, each in his own sphere, have learnt to obey. +It is therefore most needful for the welfare of society that they should +pull with, and not against each other; that they should understand each +other, respect each other, take counsel with each other, supplement +each other’s defects, bring out each other’s higher tendencies, +counteract each other’s lower ones. The scientific man has +something to learn of you, gentlemen, which I doubt not that he will +learn in good time. You, again, have—as I have been hinting +to you to-night—something to learn of him, which you, I doubt +not, will learn in good time likewise. Repeat, each of you according +to his powers, the old friendship between Aristotle and Alexander; and +so, from the sympathy and co-operation of you two, a class of thinkers +and actors may yet arise which can save this nation, and the other civilised +nations of the world, from that of which I had rather not speak; and +wish that I did not think, too often and too earnestly.</p> +<p>I may be a dreamer: and I may consider, in my turn, as wilder dreamers +than myself, certain persons who fancy that their only business in life +is to make money, the scientific man’s only business is to show +them how to make money, and the soldier’s only business to guard +their money for them. Be that as it may, the finest type of civilised +man which we are likely to see for some generations to come, will be +produced by a combination of the truly military with the truly scientific +man. I say—I may be a dreamer: but you at least, as well +as my scientific friends, will bear with me; for my dream is to your +honour.</p> +<h2>ON BIO-GEOLOGY.<br /> +AN ADDRESS GIVEN TO THE SCIENTIFIC SOCIETY OF WINCHESTER.</h2> +<p>I am not sure that the subject of my address is rightly chosen. +I am not sure that I ought not to have postponed a question of mere +natural history, to speak to you, as scientific men, on the questions +of life and death, which have been forced upon us by the awful warning +of an illustrious personage’s illness; of preventible disease, +its frightful prevalency; of the 200,000 persons who are said to have +died of fever alone since the Prince Consort’s death, ten years +ago; of the remedies; of drainage; of sewage disinfection and utilisation; +and of the assistance which you, as a body of scientific men, can give +to any effort towards saving the lives and health of our fellow-citizens +from those unseen poisons which lurk like wild beasts couched in the +jungle, ready to spring at any moment on the unsuspecting, the innocent, +the helpless. Of all this I longed to speak: but I thought it +best only to hint at it, and leave the question to your common sense +and your humanity; taking for granted that your minds, like the minds +of all right-minded Englishmen, have been of late painfully awakened +to its importance. It seemed to me almost an impertinence to say +more in a city of whose local circumstances I know little or nothing. +As an old sanitary reformer, practical, as well as theoretical, I am +but too well aware of the difficulties which beset any complete scheme +of drainage, especially in an ancient city like this; where men are +paying the penalty of their predecessors’ ignorance; and dwelling, +whether they choose or not, over fifteen centuries of accumulated dirt.</p> +<p>And, therefore, taking for granted that there is energy and intellect +enough in Winchester to conquer these difficulties in due time, I go +on to ask you to consider, for a time, a subject which is growing more +and more important and interesting, a subject the study of which will +do much towards raising the field naturalist from a mere collector of +specimens—as he was twenty years ago—to a philosopher elucidating +some of the grandest problems. I mean the infant science of Bio-geology—the +science which treats of the distribution of plants and animals over +the globe, and the causes of that distribution.</p> +<p>I doubt not that there are many here who know far more about the +subject than I; who are far better read than I am in the works of Forbes, +Darwin, Wallace, Hooker, Moritz Wagner, and the other illustrious men +who have written on it. But I may, perhaps, give a few hints which +will be of use to the younger members of this Society, and will point +out to them how to get a new relish for the pursuit of field science.</p> +<p>Bio-geology, then, begins with asking every plant or animal you meet, +large or small, not merely—What is your name? That is the +collector and classifier’s duty; and a most necessary duty it +is, and one to be performed with the most conscientious patience and +accuracy, so that a sound foundation may be built for future speculations. +But young naturalists should act not merely as Nature’s registrars +and census-takers, but as her policemen and gamekeepers; and ask everything +they meet—How did you get here? By what road did you come? +What was your last place of abode? And now you are here, how do +you get your living? Are you and your children thriving, like +decent people who can take care of themselves, or growing pauperised +and degraded, and dying out? Not that we have a fear of your becoming +a dangerous class. Madam Nature allows no dangerous classes, in +the modern sense. She has, doubtless for some wise reason, no +mercy for the weak. She rewards each organism according to its +works; and if anything grows too weak or stupid to take care of itself, +she gives it its due deserts by letting it die and disappear. +So, you plant or you animal, are you among the strong, the successful, +the multiplying, the colonising? Or are you among the weak, the +failing, the dwindling, the doomed?</p> +<p>These questions may seem somewhat rude: but you may comfort yourself +by the thought that plants and animals, though they deserve all kindness, +all admiration, deserve no courtesy—at least in this respect. +For they are, one and all, wherever you find them, vagrants and landloupers, +intruders and conquerors, who have got where they happen to be simply +by the law of the strongest—generally not without a little robbery +and murder. They have no right save that of possession; the same +by which the puffin turns out the old rabbits, eats the young ones, +and then lays her eggs in the rabbit burrow—simply because she +can.</p> +<p>Now, you will see at once that such a course of questioning will +call out a great many curious and interesting answers, if you can only +get the things to tell you their story; as you always may, if you will +cross-examine them long enough; and will lead you into many subjects +beside mere botany or entomology. So various, indeed, are the +subjects which you will thus start, that I can only hint at them now +in the most cursory fashion.</p> +<p>At the outset you will soon find yourself involved in chemical and +meteorological questions: as, for instance, when you ask—How is +it that I find one flora on the sea-shore, another on the sandstone, +another on the chalk, and another on the peat-making gravelly strata? +The usual answer would be, I presume—if we could work it out by +twenty years’ experiment, such as Mr. Lawes, of Rothampsted, has +been making on the growth of grasses and leguminous plants in different +soils and under different manures—the usual answer, I say, would +be—Because we plants want such and such mineral constituents in +our woody fibre; again, because we want a certain amount of moisture +at a certain period of the year: or, perhaps, simply because the mechanical +arrangement of the particles of a certain soil happens to suit the shape +of our roots and of their stomata. Sometimes you will get an answer +quickly enough; sometimes not. If you ask, for instance, <i>Asplenium +viride</i> how it contrives to grow plentifully in the Craven of Yorkshire +down to 600 or 800 feet above the sea, while in Snowdon it dislikes +growing lower than 2000 feet, and is not plentiful even there?—it +will reply—Because in the Craven I can get as much carbonic acid +as I want from the decomposing limestone: while on the Snowdon Silurian +I get very little; and I have to make it up by clinging to the mountain +tops, for the sake of the greater rainfall. But if you ask <i>Polopodium +calcareum</i>—How is it you choose only to grow on limestone, +while <i>Polypodium Dryopteris</i>, of which, I suspect, you are only +a variety, is ready to grow anywhere?—<i>Polypodium calcareum</i> +will refuse, as yet, to answer a word.</p> +<p>Again—I can only give you the merest string of hints—you +will find in your questionings that many plants and animals have no +reason at all to show why they should be in one place and not in another, +save the very sound reason for the latter which was suggested to me +once by a great naturalist. I was asking—Why don’t +I find such and such a species in my parish, while it is plentiful a +few miles off in exactly the same soil?—and he answered—For +the same reason that you are not in America. Because you have +not got there. Which answer threw to me a flood of light on this +whole science. Things are often where they are, simply because +they happen to have got there, and not elsewhere. But they must +have got there by some means: and those means I want young naturalists +to discover; at least to guess at.</p> +<p>A species, for instance—and I suspect it is a common case with +insects—may abound in a single spot, simply because, long years +ago, a single brood of eggs happened to hatch at a time when eggs of +other species, who would have competed against them for food, did not +hatch; and they may remain confined to that spot, though there is plenty +of good food for them outside it, simply because they do not increase +fast enough to require to spread out in search of more food. Thus +I should explain a case which I heard of lately of <i>Anthocera trifolii</i>, +abundant for years in one corner of a certain field, and only there; +while there was just as much trefoil all round for its larvæ as +there was in the selected spot. I can, I say, only give hints: +but they will suffice, I hope, to show the path of thought into which +I want young naturalists to turn their minds.</p> +<p>Or, again, you will have to inquire whether the species has not been +prevented from spreading by some natural barrier. Mr. Wallace, +whom you all of course know, has shown in his ‘Malay Archipelago’ +that a strait of deep sea can act as such a barrier between species. +Moritz Wagner has shown that, in the case of insects, a moderately broad +river may divide two closely allied species of beetles, or a very narrow +snow-range two closely allied species of moths.</p> +<p>Again, another cause, and a most common one is: that the plants cannot +spread because they find the ground beyond them already occupied by +other plants, who will not tolerate a fresh mouth, having only just +enough to feed themselves. Take the case of <i>Saxifraga hypnoides</i> +and <i>S. umbrosa</i>, “London pride.” They are two +especially strong species. They show that, <i>S. hypnoides</i> +especially, by their power of sporting, of diverging into varieties; +they show it equally by their power of thriving anywhere, if they can +only get there. They will both grow in my sandy garden, under +a rainfall of only 23 inches, more luxuriantly than in their native +mountains under a rainfall of 50 or 60 inches. Then how is it +that <i>S. hypnoides</i> cannot get down off the mountains; and that +<i>S. umbrosa</i>, though in Kerry it has got off the mountains and +down to the sea level, exterminating, I suspect, many species in its +progress, yet cannot get across county Cork? The only answer is, +I believe: that both species are continually trying to go ahead; but +that the other plants already in front of them are too strong for them, +and massacre their infants as soon as born.</p> +<p>And this brings us to another curious question: the sudden and abundant +appearance of plants, like the foxglove and <i>Epilobium angustifolium</i>, +in spots where they have never been seen before. Are their seeds, +as some think, dormant in the ground; or are the seeds which have germinated +fresh ones wafted thither by wind or otherwise, and only able to germinate +in that one spot, because there the soil is clear? General Monro, +now famous for his unequalled memoir on the bamboos, holds to the latter +theory. He pointed out to me that the <i>Epilobium</i> seeds, +being feathered, could travel with the wind; that the plant always made +its appearance first on new banks, landslips, clearings, where it had +nothing to compete against; and that the foxglove did the same. +True, and most painfully true, in the case of thistles and groundsels: +but foxglove seeds, though minute, would hardly be carried by the wind +any more than those of the white clover, which comes up so abundantly +in drained fens. Adhuc sub judice lis est, and I wish some young +naturalists would work carefully at the solution; by experiment, which +is the most sure way to find out anything.</p> +<p>But in researches in this direction they will find puzzles enough. +I will give them one which I shall be most thankful to hear they have +solved within the next seven years—How is it that we find certain +plants, namely, the thrift and the scurvy grass, abundant on the sea-shore +and common on certain mountain-tops, but nowhere between the two? +Answer me that. For I have looked at the fact for years—before, +behind, sideways, upside down, and inside out—and I cannot understand +it.</p> +<p>But all these questions, and specially, I suspect, that last one, +ought to lead the young student up to the great and complex question—How +were these islands re-peopled with plants and animals, after the long +and wholesale catastrophe of the glacial epoch?</p> +<p>I presume you all know, and will agree, that the whole of these islands, +north of the Thames, save certain ice-clad mountain-tops, were buried +for long ages under an icy sea. From whence did vegetable and +animal life crawl back to the land, as it rose again; and cover its +mantle of glacial drift with fresh life and verdure?</p> +<p>Now let me give you a few prolegomena on this matter. You must +study the plants of course, species by species. Take Watson’s +‘Cybele Britannica,’ and Moore’s ‘Cybele Hibernica;’ +and let—as Mr. Matthew Arnold would say—“your thought +play freely about them.” Look carefully, too, in the case +of each species, at the note on its distribution, which you will find +appended in Bentham’s ‘Handbook,’ and in Hooker’s +‘Student’s Flora.’ Get all the help you can, +if you wish to work the subject out, from foreign botanists, both European +and American; and I think that, on the whole, you will come to some +such theory as this for a general starting platform. We do not +owe our flora—I must keep to the flora just now—to so many +different regions, or types, as Mr. Watson conceives, but to three, +namely: an European or Germanic flora, from the south-east; an Atlantic +flora, from the south-west; a Northern flora from the north. These +three invaded us after the glacial epoch; and our general flora is their +result.</p> +<p>But this will cause you much trouble. Before you go a step +further you will have to eliminate from all your calculations most of +the plants which Watson calls glareal, <i>i.e</i>. found in cultivated +ground about habitations. And what their limit may be I think +we never shall know. But of this we may be sure; that just as +invading armies always bring with them, in forage or otherwise, some +plants from their own country—just as the Cossacks, in 1815, brought +more than one Russian plant through Germany into France—just as +you have already a crop of North German plants upon the battle-fields +of France—thus do conquering races bring new plants. The +Romans, during their 300 or 400 years of occupation and civilisation, +must have brought more species, I believe, than I dare mention. +I suspect them of having brought, not merely the common hedge elm of +the south, not merely the three species of nettle, but all our red poppies, +and a great number of the weeds which are common in our cornfields; +and when we add to them the plants which may have been brought by returning +crusaders and pilgrims; by monks from every part of Europe, by Flemings +or other dealers in foreign wool; we have to cut a huge cantle out of +our indigenous flora: only, having no records, we hardly know where +and what to cut out; and can only, we elder ones, recommend the subject +to the notice of the younger botanists, that they may work it out after +our work is done.</p> +<p>Of course these plants introduced by man, if they are cut out, must +be cut out of only one of the floras, namely, the European; for they, +probably, came from the south-east, by whatever means they came.</p> +<p>That European flora invaded us, I presume, immediately after the +glacial epoch, at a time when France and England were united, and the +German Ocean a mere network of rivers, which emptied into the deep sea +between Scotland and Scandinavia. And here I must add, that endless +questions of interest will arise to those who will study, not merely +the invasion of that truly European flora, but the invasion of reptiles, +insects, and birds, especially birds of passage, which must have followed +it as soon as the land was sufficiently covered with vegetation to support +life. Whole volumes remain to be written on this subject. +I trust that some of your younger members may live to write one of them. +The way to begin will be: to compare the flora and fauna of this part +of England very carefully with that of the southern and eastern counties; +and then to compare them again with the fauna and flora of France, Belgium, +and Holland.</p> +<p>As for the Atlantic flora, you will have to decide for yourselves +whether you accept or not the theory of a sunken Atlantic continent. +I confess that all objections to that theory, however astounding it +may seem, are outweighed in my mind by a host of facts which I can explain +by no other theory. But you must judge for yourselves; and to +do so you must study carefully the distribution of heaths, both in Europe +and at the Cape; and their non-appearance beyond the Ural Mountains, +and in America, save in Labrador, where the common ling, an older and +less specialised form, exists. You must consider, too, the plants +common to the Azores, Portugal, the West of England, Ireland, and the +Western Hebrides. In so doing young naturalists will at least +find proofs of a change in the distribution of land and water, which +will utterly astound them when they face it for the first time.</p> +<p>As for the Northern flora, the question whence it came is puzzling +enough. It seems difficult to conceive how any plants could have +survived when Scotland was an archipelago in the same ice-covered condition +as Greenland is now; and we have no proof that there existed after the +glacial epoch any northern continent from which the plants and animals +could have come back to us. The species of plants and animals +common to Britain, Scandinavia, and North America, must have spread +in pre-glacial times, when a continent joining them did exist.</p> +<p>But some light has been thrown on this question by an article, as +charming as it is able, on “The Physics of the Arctic Ice,” +by Dr. Brown, of Campster. You will find it in the ‘Quarterly +Journal of the Geological Society’ for February 1870. He +shows there that even in Greenland peaks and crags are left free enough +from ice to support a vegetation of between 300 or 400 species of flowering +plants; and, therefore, he well says, we must be careful to avoid concluding +that the plant and animal life on the dreary shores or mountain-tops +of the old glacial Scotland was poor. The same would hold good +of our mountains; and, if so, we may look with respect, even with awe, +on the Alpine plants of Wales, Scotland, and the Lake mountains, as +organisms stunted, it may be, and even degraded, by their long battle +with the elements; but venerable from their age, historic from their +endurance. Relics of an older temperate world, they have lived +through thousands of centuries of frost and fog, to sun themselves in +a temperate climate once more. I can never pick one of them without +a tinge of shame; and to exterminate one of them is to destroy for the +mere pleasure of collecting the last of a family which God has taken +the trouble to preserve for thousands of centuries.</p> +<p>I trust that these hints—for I can call them nothing more—will +at least awaken any young naturalist who has hitherto only collected +natural objects, to study the really important and interesting question—How +did these things get here?</p> +<p>Now hence arise questions which may puzzle the mind of a Hampshire +naturalist. You have in this neighbourhood, as you well know, +two, or rather three, soils, each carrying its peculiar vegetation. +First, you have the clay lying on the chalk, and carrying vast woodlands, +seemingly primeval. Next, you have the chalk, with its peculiar, +delicate, and often fragrant crop of lime-loving plants; and next you +have the poor sands and clays of the New Forest basin, saturated with +iron, and therefore carrying a moorland or peat-loving vegetation, in +many respects quite different from the others. And this moorland +soil, and this vegetation, with a few singular exceptions, repeats itself, +as I daresay you know, in the north of the county, in the Bagshot basin, +as it is called—the moors of Aldershot, Hartford Bridge, and Windsor +Forest.</p> +<p>Now what a variety of interesting questions are opened up by these +simple facts. How did these three floras get each to its present +place? Where did each come from? How did it get past or +through the other, till each set of plants, after long internecine competition, +settled itself down in the sheet of land most congenial to it? +And when did each come hither? Which is the oldest? Will +any one tell me whether the heathy flora of the moors, or the thymy +flora of the chalk downs, were the earlier inhabitants of these isles? +To these questions I cannot get any answer; and they cannot be answered +without first—a very careful study of the range of each species +of plant on the continent of Europe; and next, without careful study +of those stupendous changes in the shape of this island which have taken +place at a very late geological epoch. The composition of the +flora of our moorlands is as yet to me an utter puzzle. We have +Lycopodiums—three species—enormously ancient forms which +have survived the age of ice: but did they crawl downward hither from +the northern mountains, or upward hither from the Pyrenees? We +have the beautiful bog asphodel again—an enormously ancient form; +for it is, strange to say, common to North America and to Northern Europe, +but does not enter Asia—almost an unique instance. It must, +surely, have come from the north; and points—as do many species +of plants and animals—to the time when North Europe and North +America were joined. We have, sparingly, in North Hampshire, though, +strangely, not on the Bagshot moors, the Common or Northern Butterwort +(<i>Pinguicula vulgaris</i>); and also, in the south, the New Forest +part of the county, the delicate little <i>Pinguicula lusitanica</i>, +the only species now found in Devon and Cornwall, marking the New Forest +as the extreme eastern limit of the Atlantic flora. We have again +the heaths, which, as I have just said, are found neither in America +nor in Asia, and must, I believe, have come from some south-western +land long since submerged beneath the sea. But more, we have in +the New Forest two plants which are members of the South Europe, or +properly, the Atlantic flora; which must have come from the south and +south-east; and which are found in no other spots in these islands. +I mean the lovely <i>Gladiolus</i>, which grows abundantly under the +ferns near Lyndhurst, certainly wild but it does not approach England +elsewhere nearer than the Loire and the Rhine; and next, that delicate +orchid, the <i>Spiranthes æstivalis</i>, which is known only in +a bog near Lyndhurst and in the Channel Islands, while on the Continent +it extends from southern Europe all through France. Now, what +do these two plants mark? They give us a point in botany, though +not in time, to determine when the south of England was parted from +the opposite shores of France; and whenever that was, it was just after +the Gladiolus and Spiranthes got hither. Two little colonies of +these lovely flowers arrived just before their retreat was cut off. +They found the country already occupied with other plants; and, not +being reinforced by fresh colonists from the south, have not been able +to spread farther north than Lyndhurst. Thus, in the New Forest, +and, I may say, in the Bagshot moors, you find plants which you do not +expect, and do not find plants which you do expect; and you are, or +ought to be, puzzled, and I hope also interested, and stirred up to +find out more.</p> +<p>I spoke just now of the time when England was joined to France, as +bearing on Hampshire botany. It bears no less on Hampshire zoology. +In insects, for instance, the presence of the purple emperor and the +white admiral in our Hampshire woods, as well as the abundance of the +great stag-beetle, point to a time when the two countries were joined, +at least, as far west as Hampshire; while the absence of these insects +farther to the westward shows that the countries, if ever joined, were +already parted; and that those insects have not yet had time to spread +westward. The presence of these two butterflies, and partly of +the stag-beetle, along the south-east coast of England as far as the +primeval forests of South Lincolnshire, points—as do a hundred +other facts—to a time when the Straits of Dover either did not +exist, or were the bed of a river running from the west; and when, as +I told you just now, all the rivers which now run into the German Ocean, +from the Humber on the west to the Elbe on the east, discharged themselves +into the sea between Scotland and Norway, after wandering through a +vast lowland, covered with countless herds of mammoth, rhinoceros, gigantic +ox, and other mammals now extinct; while the birds, as far as we know; +the insects; the fresh-water fish; and even, as my friend Mr. Brady +has proved, the <i>Entomostraca</i> of the rivers, were the same in +what is now Holland as in what is now our Eastern counties. I +could dwell long on this matter. I could talk long about how certain +species of <i>Lepidoptera</i>—moths and butterflies—like +<i>Papilio Machaon</i> and <i>P. Podalirius</i>, swarm through France, +reach up to the British Channel, and have not crossed it; with the exception +of one colony of <i>Machaon</i> in the Cambridgeshire fens. I +could talk long about a similar phenomenon in the case of our migratory +and singing birds: how many exquisite species—notably those two +glorious songsters, the Orphean Warbler and Hippolais, which delight +our ears everywhere on the other side of the Channel—follow our +nightingales, blackcaps, and warblers northward every spring almost +to the Straits of Dover: but dare not cross, simply because they have +been, as it were, created since the gulf was opened, and have never +learnt from their parents how to fly over it.</p> +<p>In the case of fishes, again, I might say much on the curious fact +that the Cyprinidæ, or white fish—carp, &c.—and +their natural enemy, the pike, are indigenous, I believe, only to the +rivers, English or continental, on the eastern side of the Straits of +Dover; while the rivers on the western side were originally tenanted, +like our Hampshire streams, as now, almost entirely by trout, their +only Cyprinoid being the minnow—if it, too, be not an interloper; +and I might ask you to consider the bearing of this curious fact on +the former junction of England and France.</p> +<p>But I have only time to point out to you a few curious facts with +regard to reptiles, which should be specially interesting to a Hampshire +bio-geologist. You know, of course, that in Ireland there are +no reptiles, save the little common lizard, <i>Lacerta agilis</i>, and +a few frogs on the mountain-tops—how they got there I cannot conceive. +And you will, of course, guess, and rightly, that the reason of the +absence of reptiles is: that Ireland was parted off from England before +the creatures, which certainly spread from southern and warmer climates, +had time to get there. You know, of course, that we have a few +reptiles in England. But you may not be aware that, as soon as +you cross the Channel, you find many more species of reptiles than here, +as well as those which you find here. The magnificent green lizard +which rattles about like a rabbit in a French forest, is never found +here; simply because it had not worked northward till after the Channel +was formed. But there are three reptiles peculiar to this part +of England which should be most interesting to a Hampshire zoologist. +The one is the sand lizard (<i>L. stirpium</i>), found on Bourne-heath, +and, I suspect, in the South Hampshire moors likewise—a North +European and French species. Another, the <i>Coronella lævis</i>, +a harmless French and Austrian snake, which has been found about me, +in North Hants and South Berks, now about fifteen or twenty times. +I have had three specimens from my own parish. I believe it not +to be uncommon; and most probably to be found, by those who will look, +both in the New Forest and Woolmer. The third is the Natterjack, +or running toad (<i>Bufo Rubeta</i>), a most beautifully spotted animal, +with a yellow stripe down his back, which is common with me at Eversley, +and common also in many moorlands of Hants and Surrey; and, according +to Fleming, on heaths near London, and as far north-east as Lincolnshire; +in which case it will belong to the Germanic fauna. Now, here +again we have cases of animals which have just been able to get hither +before the severance of England and France; and which, not being reinforced +from the rear, have been forced to stop, in small and probably decreasing +colonies, on the spots nearest the coast which were fit for them.</p> +<p>I trust that I have not kept you too long over these details. +What I wish to impress upon you is that Hampshire is a county specially +fitted for the study of important bio-geological questions.</p> +<p>To work them out, you must trace the geology of Hampshire, and, indeed, +of East Dorset. You must try to form a conception of how the land +was shaped in miocene times, before that tremendous upheaval which reared +the chalk cliffs at Freshwater upright, lifting the tertiary beds upon +their northern slopes. You must ask—Was there not land to +the south of the Isle of Wight in those ages, and for ages after; and +what was its extent and shape? You must ask—When was the +gap between the Isle of Wight and the Isle of Purbeck sawn through, +leaving the Needles as remnants on one side, and Old Harry on the opposite? +And was it sawn asunder merely by the age-long gnawing of the waves? +You must ask—Where did the great river which ran from the west, +where Poole Harbour is now, and probably through what is now the Solent, +depositing brackish water-beds right and left—where, I say, did +it run into the sea? Where the Straits of Dover are now? +Or, if not there, where? What, too, is become of the land to the +Westward, composed of ancient metamorphic rocks, out of which it ran, +and deposited on what are now the Haggerstone Moors of Poole, vast beds +of grit? What was the climate on its banks when it washed down +the delicate leaves of broad-leaved trees, akin to our modern English +ones, which are found in the fine mud-sand strata of Bournemouth? +When, finally, did it dwindle down to the brook which now runs through +Wareham town? Was its bed sea, or dry land, or under an ice sheet, +during the long ages of the glacial epoch? And if you say—Who +is sufficient for these things?—Who can answer these questions? +I answer—Who but you, or your pupils after you, if you will but +try?</p> +<p>And if any shall reply—And what use if I do try? What +use, if I do try? What use if I succeed in answering every question +which you have propounded to-night? Shall I be the happier for +it? Shall I be the wiser?</p> +<p>My friends, whether you will be the happier for it, or for any knowledge +of physical science, or for any other knowledge whatsoever, I cannot +tell: that lies in the decision of a Higher Power than I; and, indeed, +to speak honestly, I do not think that bio-geology or any other branch +of physical science is likely, at first at least, to make you happy. +Neither is the study of your fellow-men. Neither is religion itself. +We were not sent into the world to be happy, but to be right; at least, +poor creatures that we are, as right as we can be; and we must be content +with being right, and not happy. For I fear, or rather I hope, +that most of us are not capable of carrying out Talleyrand’s recipe +for perfect happiness on earth—namely, a hard heart and a good +digestion. Therefore, as our hearts are, happily, not always hard, +and our digestions, unhappily, not always good, we will be content to +be made wise by physical science, even though we be not made happy.</p> +<p>And we shall be made truly wise if we be made content; content, too, +not only with what we can understand, but, content with what we do not +understand—the habit of mind which theologians call—and +rightly—faith in God; the true and solid faith, which comes often +out of sadness, and out of doubt, such as bio-geology may well stir +in us at first sight. For our first feeling will be—I know +mine was when I began to look into these matters—one somewhat +of dread and of horror.</p> +<p>Here were all these creatures, animal and vegetable, competing against +each other. And their competition was so earnest and complete, +that it did not mean—as it does among honest shopkeepers in a +civilised country—I will make a little more money than you; but—I +will crush you, enslave you, exterminate you, eat you up. “Woe +to the weak,” seems to be Nature’s watchword. The +Psalmist says, “The righteous shall inherit the land.” +If you go to a tropical forest, or, indeed, if you observe carefully +a square acre of any English land, cultivated or uncultivated, you will +find that Nature’s text at first sight looks a very different +one. She seems to say—Not the righteous, but the strong, +shall inherit the land. Plant, insect, bird, what not—Find +a weaker plant, insect, bird, than yourself, and kill it, and take possession +of its little vineyard, and no Naboth’s curse shall follow you: +but you shall inherit, and thrive therein, you, and your children after +you, if they will be only as strong and as cruel as you are. That +is Nature’s law: and is it not at first sight a fearful law? +Internecine competition, ruthless selfishness, so internecine and so +ruthless that, as I have wandered in tropic forests, where this temper +is shown more quickly and fiercely, though not in the least more evilly, +than in our slow and cold temperate one, I have said—Really these +trees and plants are as wicked as so many human beings.</p> +<p>Throughout the great republic of the organic world, the motto of +the majority is, and always has been as far back as we can see, what +it is, and always has been, with the majority of human beings, “Every +one for himself, and the devil take the hindmost.” Over-reaching +tyranny; the temper which fawns, and clings, and plays the parasite +as long as it is down, and when it has risen, fattens on its patron’s +blood and life—these, and the other works of the flesh, are the +works of average plants and animals, as far as they can practise them. +At least, so says at first sight the science of bio-geology; till the +naturalist, if he be also human and humane, is glad to escape from the +confusion and darkness of the universal battle-field of selfishness +into the order and light of Christmas-tide.</p> +<p>For then there comes to him the thought—And are these all the +facts? And is this all which the facts mean? That mutual +competition is one law of Nature, we see too plainly. But is there +not, besides that law, a law of mutual help? True it is, as the +wise man has said, that the very hyssop on the wall grows there because +all the forces of the universe could not prevent its growing. +All honour to the hyssop. A brave plant, it has fought a brave +fight, and has its just deserts—as everything in Nature has—and +so has won. But did all the powers of the universe combine to +prevent it growing? Is not that a one-sided statement of facts? +Did not all the powers of the universe also combine to make it grow, +if only it had valour and worth wherewith to grow? Did not the +rains feed it, the very mortar in the wall give lime to its roots? +Were not electricity, gravitation, and I know not what of chemical and +mechanical forces, busy about the little plant, and every cell of it, +kindly and patiently ready to help it, if it would only help itself? +Surely this is true; true of every organic thing, animal and vegetable, +and mineral, too, for aught I know: and so we must soften our sadness +at the sight of the universal mutual war by the sight of an equally +universal mutual help.</p> +<p>But more. It is true—too true if you will—that +all things live on each other. But is it not, therefore, equally +true that all things live for each other?—that self-sacrifice, +and not selfishness, is at the bottom the law of Nature, as it is the +law of Grace; and the law of bio-geology, as it is the law of all religion +and virtue worthy of the name? Is it not true that everything +has to help something else to live, whether it knows it or not?—that +not a plant or an animal can turn again to its dust without giving food +and existence to other plants, other animals?—that the very tiger, +seemingly the most useless tyrant of all tyrants, is still of use, when, +after sending out of the world suddenly, and all but painlessly, many +an animal which would without him have starved in misery through a diseased +old age, he himself dies, and, in dying, gives, by his own carcase, +the means of life and of enjoyment to a thousandfold more living creatures +than ever his paws destroyed?</p> +<p>And so, the longer one watches the great struggle for existence, +the more charitable, the more hopeful, one becomes; as one sees that, +consciously or unconsciously, the law of Nature is, after all, self-sacrifice; +unconscious in plants and animals, as far as we know; save always those +magnificent instances of true self-sacrifice shown by the social insects, +by ants, bees, and others, which put to shame by a civilization truly +noble—why should I not say divine, for God ordained it?—the +selfishness and barbarism of man. But be that as it may, in man +the law of self-sacrifice—whether unconscious or not in the animals—rises +into consciousness just as far as he is a man; and the crowning lesson +of bio-geology may be, when we have worked it out, after all, the lesson +of Christmas-tide—of the infinite self-sacrifice of God for man; +and Nature as well as religion may say to us—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Ah, could you crush that ever craving lust<br /> +For bliss, which kills all bliss, and lose your life,<br /> +Your barren unit life, to find again<br /> +A thousand times in those for whom you die—<br /> +So were you men and women, and should hold<br /> +Your rightful rank in God’s great universe,<br /> +Wherein, in heaven or earth, by will or nature,<br /> +Naught lives for self. All, all, from crown to base—<br /> +The Lamb, before the world’s foundation slain—<br /> +The angels, ministers to God’s elect—<br /> +The sun, who only shines to light the worlds—<br /> +The clouds, whose glory is to die in showers—<br /> +The fleeting streams, who in their ocean graves<br /> +Flee the decay of stagnant self-content—<br /> +The oak, ennobled by the shipwright’s axe—<br /> +The soil, which yields its marrow to the flower—<br /> +The flower, which feeds a thousand velvet worms<br /> +Born only to be prey to every bird—<br /> +All spend themselves on others: and shall man,<br /> +Whose two-fold being is the mystic knot<br /> +Which couples earth with heaven, doubly bound,<br /> +As being both worm and angel, to that service<br /> +By which both worms and angels hold their life,<br /> +Shall he, whose every breath is debt on debt,<br /> +Refuse, forsooth, to be what God has made him?<br /> +No; let him show himself the creatures’ Lord<br /> +By free-will gift of that self-sacrifice<br /> +Which they, perforce, by Nature’s laws endure.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>My friends, scientific and others, if the study of bio-geology shall +help to teach you this, or anything like this; I think that though it +may not make you more happy, it may yet make you more wise; and, therefore, +what is better than being more happy, namely, more blessed.</p> +<h2>HEROISM</h2> +<p>It is an open question whether the policeman is not demoralizing +us; and that in proportion as he does his duty well; whether the perfection +of justice and safety, the complete “preservation of body and +goods,” may not reduce the educated and comfortable classes into +that lap-dog condition in which not conscience, but comfort, doth make +cowards of us all. Our forefathers had, on the whole, to take +care of themselves; we find it more convenient to hire people to take +care of us. So much the better for us, in some respects: but, +it may be, so much the worse in others. So much the better; because, +as usually results from the division of labour, these people, having +little or nothing to do save to take care of us, do so far better than +we could; and so prevent a vast amount of violence and wrong, and therefore +of misery, especially to the weak: for which last reason we will acquiesce +in the existence of policemen and lawyers, as we do in the results of +arbitration, as the lesser of two evils. The odds in war are in +favour of the bigger bully; in arbitration, in favour of the bigger +rogue; and it is a question whether the lion or the fox be the safer +guardian of human interests. But arbitration prevents war: and +that, in three cases out of four, is full reason for employing it.</p> +<p>On the other hand, the lap-dog condition, whether in dogs or in men, +is certainly unfavourable to the growth of the higher virtues. +Safety and comfort are good, indeed, for the good; for the brave, the +self-originating, the earnest. They give to such a clear stage +and no favour wherein to work unhindered for their fellow-men. +But for the majority, who are neither brave, self-originating, nor earnest, +but the mere puppets of circumstance, safety and comfort may, and actually +do, merely make their lives mean and petty, effeminate and dull. +Therefore their hearts must be awakened, as often as possible, to take +exercise enough for health; and they must be reminded, perpetually and +importunately, of what a certain great philosopher called “whatsoever +things are true, honourable, just, pure, lovely, and of good report;” +“if there be any manhood, and any just praise, to think of such +things.”</p> +<p>This pettiness and dulness of our modern life is just what keeps +alive our stage, to which people go to see something a little less petty, +a little less dull, than what they see at home. It is, too, the +cause of—I had almost said the excuse for—the modern rage +for sensational novels. Those who read them so greedily are conscious, +poor souls, of capacities in themselves of passion and action, for good +and evil, for which their frivolous humdrum daily life gives no room, +no vent. They know too well that human nature can be more fertile, +whether in weeds and poisons, or in flowers and fruits, than it is usually +in the streets and houses of a well-ordered and tolerably sober city. +And because the study of human nature is, after all, that which is nearest +to every one and most interesting to every one, therefore they go to +fiction, since they cannot go to fact, to see what they themselves might +be had they the chance; to see what fantastic tricks before high heaven +men and women like themselves can play; and how they play them.</p> +<p>Well: it is not for me to judge, for me to blame. I will only +say that there are those who cannot read sensational novels, or, indeed, +any novels at all, just because they see so many sensational novels +being enacted round them in painful facts of sinful flesh and blood. +There are those, too, who have looked in the mirror too often to wish +to see their own disfigured visage in it any more; who are too tired +of themselves and ashamed of themselves to want to hear of people like +themselves; who want to hear of people utterly unlike themselves, more +noble, and able, and just, and sweet, and pure; who long to hear of +heroism and to converse with heroes; and who, if by chance they meet +with an heroic act, bathe their spirits in that, as in May-dew, and +feel themselves thereby, if but for an hour, more fair.</p> +<p>If any such shall chance to see these words, let me ask them to consider +with me that one word Hero, and what it means.</p> +<p>Hero; Heroic; Heroism. These words point to a phase of human +nature, the capacity for which we all have in ourselves, which is as +startling and as interesting in its manifestations as any, and which +is always beautiful, always ennobling, and therefore always attractive +to those whose hearts are not yet seared by the world or brutalized +by self-indulgence.</p> +<p>But let us first be sure what the words mean. There is no use +talking about a word till we have got at its meaning. We may use +it as a cant phrase, as a party cry on platforms; we may even hate and +persecute our fellow-men for the sake of it: but till we have clearly +settled in our own minds what a word means, it will do for fighting +with, but not for working with. Socrates of old used to tell the +young Athenians that the ground of all sound knowledge was—to +understand the true meaning of the words which were in their mouths +all day long; and Socrates was a wiser man than we shall ever see. +So, instead of beginning an oration in praise of heroism, I shall ask +my readers to think with me what heroism is.</p> +<p>Now, we shall always get most surely at the meaning of a word by +getting at its etymology—that is, at what it meant at first. +And if heroism means behaving like a hero, we must find out, it seems +to me, not merely what a hero may happen to mean just now, but what +it meant in the earliest human speech in which we find it.</p> +<p>A hero or a heroine, then, among the old Homeric Greeks, meant a +man or woman who was like the gods; and who, from that likeness, stood +superior to his or her fellow-creatures. Gods, heroes, and men, +is a threefold division of rational beings, with which we meet more +than once or twice. Those grand old Greeks felt deeply the truth +of the poet’s saying—</p> +<blockquote><p> “Unless above himself he can<br /> +Exalt himself, how poor a thing is man.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But more: the Greeks supposed these heroes to be, in some way or +other, partakers of a divine nature; akin to the gods; usually, either +they, or some ancestor of theirs, descended from a god or goddess. +Those who have read Mr. Gladstone’s ‘Juventus Mundi’ +will remember the section (cap. ix. § 6) on the modes of the approximation +between the divine and the human natures; and whether or not they agree +with the author altogether, all will agree, I think, that the first +idea of a hero or a heroine was a godlike man or godlike woman.</p> +<p>A godlike man. What varied, what infinite forms of nobleness +that word might include, ever increasing, as men’s notions of +the gods became purer and loftier, or, alas! decreasing, as their notions +became degraded. The old Greeks, with that intense admiration +of beauty which made them, in after ages, the master sculptors and draughtsmen +of their own, and, indeed, of any age, would, of course, require in +their hero, their godlike man, beauty and strength, manners, too, and +eloquence, and all outward perfections of humanity, and neglect his +moral qualities. Neglect, I say, but not ignore. The hero, +by virtue of his kindred with the gods, was always expected to be a +better man than common men, as virtue was then understood. And +how better? Let us see.</p> +<p>The hero was at least expected to be more reverent than other men +to those divine beings of whose nature he partook, whose society he +might enjoy even here on earth. He might be unfaithful to his +own high lineage; he might misuse his gifts by selfishness and self-will; +he might, like Ajax, rage with mere jealousy and wounded pride till +his rage ended in shameful madness and suicide. He might rebel +against the very gods, and all laws of right and wrong, till he perished +in his ατασθαλιη,</p> +<blockquote><p>“Smitten down, blind in his pride, for a sign and +a terror to mortals.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But he ought to have, he must have, to be true to his name of Hero, +justice, self-restraint, and αιδως—that +highest form of modesty, for which we have, alas! no name in the English +tongue; that perfect respect for the feelings of others which springs +out of perfect self-respect. And he must have, too—if he +were to be a hero of the highest type—the instinct of helpfulness; +the instinct that, if he were a kinsman of the gods, he must fight on +their side, through toil and danger, against all that was unlike them, +and therefore hateful to them. Who loves not the old legends, +unsurpassed for beauty in the literature of any race, in which the hero +stands out as the deliverer, the destroyer of evil? Theseus ridding +the land of robbers, and delivering it from the yearly tribute of boys +and maidens to be devoured by the Minotaur; Perseus slaying the Gorgon, +and rescuing Andromeda from the sea-beast; Heracles with his twelve +famous labours against giants and monsters; and all the rest—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Who dared, in the god-given might of their manhood<br /> +Greatly to do and to suffer, and far in the fens and the forests<br /> +Smite the devourers of men, heaven-hated, brood of the giants;<br /> +Transformed, strange, without like, who obey not the golden-haired rulers”—</p> +</blockquote> +<p>These are figures whose divine moral beauty has sunk into the hearts, +not merely of poets or of artists, but of men and women who suffered +and who feared; the memory of them, fables though they may have been, +ennobled the old Greek heart; they ennobled the heart of Europe in the +fifteenth century, at the rediscovery of Greek literature. So +far from contradicting the Christian ideal, they harmonised with—I +had almost said they supplemented—that more tender and saintly +ideal of heroism which had sprung up during the earlier Middle Ages. +They justified, and actually gave a new life to, the old noblenesses +of chivalry, which had grown up in the later Middle Ages as a necessary +supplement of active and manly virtue to the passive and feminine virtue +of the cloister. They inspired, mingling with these two other +elements, a literature, both in England, France, and Italy, in which +the three elements, the saintly, the chivalrous, and the Greek heroic, +have become one and undistinguishable, because all three are human, +and all three divine; a literature which developed itself in Ariosto, +in Tasso, in the Hypnerotomachia, the Arcadia, the Euphues, and other +forms, sometimes fantastic, sometimes questionable, but which reached +its perfection in our own Spenser’s ‘Fairy Queen’—perhaps +the most admirable poem which has ever been penned by mortal man.</p> +<p>And why? What has made these old Greek myths live, myths though +they be, and fables, and fair dreams? What, though they have no +body, and, perhaps, never had, has given them an immortal soul, which +can speak to the immortal souls of all generations to come?</p> +<p>What but this, that in them—dim it may be and undeveloped, +but still there—lies the divine idea of self-sacrifice as the +perfection of heroism; of self-sacrifice, as the highest duty and the +highest joy of him who claims a kindred with the gods?</p> +<p>Let us say, then, that true heroism must involve self-sacrifice. +Those stories certainly involve it, whether ancient or modern, which +the hearts, not of philosophers merely, or poets, but of the poorest +and the most ignorant, have accepted instinctively as the highest form +of moral beauty—the highest form, and yet one possible to all.</p> +<p>Grace Darling rowing out into the storm toward the wreck.—The +“drunken private of the Buffs,” who, prisoner among the +Chinese, and commanded to prostrate himself and kotoo, refused in the +name of his country’s honour—“He would not bow to +any Chinaman on earth:” and so was knocked on the head, and died +surely a hero’s death.—Those soldiers of the ‘Birkenhead,’ +keeping their ranks to let the women and children escape, while they +watched the sharks who in a few minutes would be tearing them limb from +limb.—Or, to go across the Atlantic—for there are heroes +in the Far West—Mr. Bret Harte’s “Flynn of Virginia,” +on the Central Pacific Railway—the place is shown to travellers—who +sacrificed his life for his married comrade,—</p> +<blockquote><p>“There, in the drift,<br /> +Back to the wall,<br /> +He held the timbers<br /> +Ready to fall.<br /> +Then in the darkness<br /> +I heard him call,—<br /> +‘Run for your life, Jake!<br /> +Run for your wife’s sake!<br /> +Don’t wait for me.’</p> +<p>“And that was all<br /> +Heard in the din—<br /> +Heard of Tom Flynn,<br /> +Flynn of Virginia.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Or the engineer, again, on the Mississippi, who, when the steamer +caught fire, held, as he had sworn he would, her bow against the bank +till every soul save he got safe on shore,—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Through the hot black breath of the burning boat<br /> + Jim Bludso’s voice was heard;<br /> +And they all had trust in his cussedness,<br /> + And knew he would keep his word.<br /> +And sure’s you’re born, they all got off<br /> + Afore the smokestacks fell,—<br /> +And Bludso’s ghost went up alone<br /> + In the smoke of the ‘Prairie Belle.’</p> +<p>“He weren’t no saint—but at judgment<br /> + I’d run my chance with Jim<br /> +’Longside of some pious gentlemen<br /> + That wouldn’t shake hands with him.<br /> +He’d seen his duty—a dead sure thing—<br /> + And went for it there and then;<br /> +And Christ is not going to be too hard<br /> + On a man that died for men.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>To which gallant poem of Colonel John Hay’s—and he has +written many gallant and beautiful poems—I have but one demurrer: +Jim Bludso did not merely do his duty, but more than his duty. +He did a voluntary deed, to which he was bound by no code or contract, +civil or moral; just as he who introduced me to that poem won his Victoria +Cross—as many a cross, Victoria and other, has been won—by +volunteering for a deed to which he, too, was bound by no code or contract, +military or moral. And it is of the essence of self-sacrifice, +and, therefore, of heroism, that it should be voluntary; a work of supererogation, +at least towards society and man: an act to which the hero or heroine +is not bound by duty, but which is above though not against duty.</p> +<p>Nay, on the strength of that same element of self-sacrifice, I will +not grudge the epithet heroic, which my revered friend Mr. Darwin justly +applies to the poor little monkey, who once in his life did that which +was above his duty; who lived in continual terror of the great baboon, +and yet, when the brute had sprung upon his friend the keeper, and was +tearing out his throat, conquered his fear by love, and, at the risk +of instant death, sprang in turn upon his dreaded enemy, and bit and +shrieked till help arrived.</p> +<p>Some would now-a-days use that story merely to prove that the monkey’s +nature and the man’s nature are, after all, one and the same. +Well: I, at least, have never denied that there is a monkey-nature in +man as there is a peacock-nature, and a swine-nature, and a wolf-nature—of +all which four I see every day too much. The sharp and stern distinction +between men and animals, as far as their natures are concerned, is of +a more modern origin than people fancy. Of old the Assyrian took +the eagle, the ox, and the lion—and not unwisely—as the +three highest types of human capacity. The horses of Homer might +be immortal, and weep for their master’s death. The animals +and monsters of Greek myth—like the Ananzi spider of Negro fable—glide +insensibly into speech and reason. Birds—the most wonderful +of all animals in the eyes of a man of science or a poet—are sometimes +looked on as wiser, and nearer to the gods, than man. The Norseman—the +noblest and ablest human being, save the Greek, of whom history can +tell us—was not ashamed to say of the bear of his native forests +that he had “ten men’s strength and eleven men’s wisdom.” +How could Reinecke Fuchs have gained immortality, in the Middle Ages +and since, save by the truth of its too solid and humiliating theorem—that +the actions of the world of men were, on the whole, guided by passions +but too exactly like those of the lower animals? I have said, +and say again, with good old Vaughan—</p> +<blockquote><p> “Unless above himself he can<br /> +Exalt himself, how mean a thing is man.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But I cannot forget that many an old Greek poet or sage, and many +a sixteenth and seventeenth century one, would have interpreted the +monkey’s heroism from quite a different point of view; and would +have said that the poor little creature had been visited suddenly by +some “divine afflatus”—an expression quite as philosophical +and quite as intelligible as most philosophic formulas which I read +now-a-days—and had been thus raised for the moment above his abject +selfish monkey-nature, just as man requires to be raised above his. +But that theory belongs to a philosophy which is out of date and out +of fashion, and which will have to wait a century or two before it comes +into fashion again.</p> +<p>And now: if self-sacrifice and heroism be, as I believe, identical, +I must protest against a use of the word sacrifice which is growing +too common in newspaper-columns, in which we are told of an “enormous +sacrifice of life;” an expression which means merely that a great +many poor wretches have been killed, quite against their own will, and +for no purpose whatsoever: no sacrifice at all, unless it be one to +the demons of ignorance, cupidity or mismanagement.</p> +<p>The stout Whig undergraduate understood better the meaning of such +words, who, when asked, “In what sense might Charles the First +be said to be a martyr?” answered, “In the same sense that +a man might be said to be a martyr to the gout.”</p> +<p>And I must protest, in like wise, against a misuse of the words hero, +heroism, heroic, which is becoming too common, namely, applying them +to mere courage. We have borrowed the misuse, I believe, as we +have more than one beside, from the French press. I trust that +we shall neither accept it, nor the temper which inspires it. +It may be convenient for those who flatter their nation, and especially +the military part of it, into a ruinous self-conceit, to frame some +such syllogism as this—“Courage is heroism: every Frenchman +is naturally courageous: therefore every Frenchman is a hero.” +But we, who have been trained at once in a sounder school of morals, +and in a greater respect for facts, and for language as the expression +of facts, shall be careful, I hope, not to trifle thus with that potent +and awful engine—human speech. We shall eschew likewise, +I hope, a like abuse of the word moral, which has crept from the French +press now and then, not only into our own press, but into the writings +of some of our military men, who, as Englishmen, should have known better. +We were told again and again, during the late war, that the moral effect +of such a success had been great; that the morale of the troops was +excellent; or again, that the morale of the troops had suffered, or +even that they were somewhat demoralised. But when one came to +test what was really meant by these fine words, one discovered that +morals had nothing to do with the facts which they expressed; that the +troops were in the one case actuated simply by the animal passion of +hope, in the other simply by the animal passion of fear. This +abuse of the word moral has crossed, I am sorry to say, the Atlantic; +and a witty American, whom we must excuse, though we must not imitate, +when some one had been blazing away at him with a revolver, he being +unarmed, is said to have described his very natural emotions on the +occasion, by saying that he felt dreadfully demoralised. We, I +hope, shall confine the word demoralisation, as our generals of the +last century would have done, when applied to soldiers, to crime, including, +of course, the neglect of duty or of discipline; and we shall mean by +the word heroism in like manner, whether applied to a soldier or to +any human being, not mere courage; not the mere doing of duty: but the +doing of something beyond duty; something which is not in the bond; +some spontaneous and unexpected act of self-devotion.</p> +<p>I am glad, but not surprised, to see that Miss Yonge has held to +this sound distinction in her golden little book of ‘Golden Deeds;’ +and said, “Obedience, at all costs and risks, is the very essence +of a soldier’s life. It has the solid material, but it has +hardly the exceptional brightness, of a golden deed.”</p> +<p>I know that it is very difficult to draw the line between mere obedience +to duty and express heroism. I know also that it would be both +invidious and impertinent in an utterly unheroic personage like me, +to try to draw that line; and to sit at home at ease, analysing and +criticising deeds which I could not do myself: but—to give an +instance or two of what I mean—</p> +<p>To defend a post as long as it is tenable is not heroic. It +is simple duty. To defend it after it has become untenable, and +even to die in so doing, is not heroic, but a noble madness, unless +an advantage is to be gained thereby for one’s own side. +Then, indeed, it rises towards, if not into, the heroism of self-sacrifice.</p> +<p>Who, for example, will not endorse the verdict of all ages on the +conduct of those Spartans at Thermopylæ, when they sat “combing +their yellow hair for death” on the sea-shore? They devoted +themselves to hopeless destruction: but why? They felt—I +must believe that, for they behaved as if they felt—that on them +the destinies of the Western World might hang; that they were in the +forefront of the battle between civilisation and barbarism, between +freedom and despotism; and that they must teach that vast mob of Persian +slaves, whom the officers of the Great King were driving with whips +up to their lance-points, that the spirit of the old heroes was not +dead; and that the Greek, even in defeat and death, was a mightier and +a nobler man than they. And they did their work. They produced, +if you will, a “moral” effect, which has lasted even to +this very day. They struck terror into the heart, not only of +the Persian host, but of the whole Persian empire. They made the +event of that war certain, and the victories of Salamis and Platæa +comparatively easy. They made Alexander’s conquest of the +East, 150 years afterwards, not only possible at all, but permanent +when it came; and thus helped to determine the future civilisation of +the whole world.</p> +<p>They did not, of course, foresee all this. No great or inspired +man can foresee all the consequences of his deeds: but these men were, +as I hold, inspired to see somewhat at least of the mighty stake for +which they played; and to count their lives worthless, if Sparta had +sent them thither to help in that great game.</p> +<p>Or shall we refuse the name of heroic to those three German cavalry +regiments who, in the battle of Mars La Tour, were bidden to hurl themselves +upon the chassepots and mitrailleuses of the unbroken French infantry, +and went to almost certain death, over the corpses of their comrades, +on and in and through, reeling man over horse, horse over man, and clung +like bull-dogs to their work, and would hardly leave, even at the bugle-call, +till in one regiment thirteen officers out of nineteen were killed or +wounded? And why?</p> +<p>Because the French army must be stopped, if it were but for a quarter +of an hour. A respite must be gained for the exhausted Third Corps. +And how much might be done, even in a quarter of an hour, by men who +knew when, and where, and why to die. Who will refuse the name +of heroes to these men? And yet they, probably, would have utterly +declined the honour. They had but done that which was in the bond. +They were but obeying orders after all. As Miss Yonge well says +of all heroic persons—“‘I have but done that which +it was my duty to do,’ is the natural answer of those capable +of such actions. They have been constrained to them by duty or +pity; have never deemed it possible to act otherwise; and did not once +think of themselves in the matter at all.”</p> +<p>These last true words bring us to another element in heroism: its +simplicity. Whatsoever is not simple; whatsoever is affected, +boastful, wilful, covetous, tarnishes, even destroys, the heroic character +of a deed; because all these faults spring out of self. On the +other hand, wherever you find a perfectly simple, frank, unconscious +character, there you have the possibility, at least, of heroic action. +For it is nobler far to do the most commonplace duty in the household, +or behind the counter, with a single eye to duty, simply because it +must be done—nobler far, I say, than to go out of your way to +attempt a brilliant deed, with a double mind, and saying to yourself +not only—“This will be a brilliant deed,” but also—“and +it will pay me, or raise me, or set me off, into the bargain.” +Heroism knows no “into the bargain.” And therefore, +again, I must protest against applying the word heroic to any deeds, +however charitable, however toilsome, however dangerous, performed for +the sake of what certain French ladies, I am told, call “faire +son salut”—saving one’s soul in the world to come. +I do not mean to judge. Other and quite unselfish motives may +be, and doubtless often are, mixed up with that selfish one: womanly +pity and tenderness; love for, and desire to imitate, a certain incarnate +ideal of self-sacrifice, who is at once human and divine. But +that motive of saving the soul, which is too often openly proposed and +proffered, is utterly unheroic. The desire to escape pains and +penalties hereafter by pains and penalties here; the balance of present +loss against future gain—what is this but selfishness extended +out of this world into eternity? “Not worldliness,” +indeed, as a satirist once said with bitter truth, “but other-worldliness.”</p> +<p>Moreover—and the young and the enthusiastic should also bear +this in mind—though heroism means the going beyond the limits +of strict duty, it never means the going out of the path of strict duty. +If it is your duty to go to London, go thither: you may go as much further +as you choose after that. But you must go to London first. +Do your duty first; it will be time after that to talk of being heroic.</p> +<p>And therefore one must seriously warn the young, lest they mistake +for heroism and self-sacrifice what is merely pride and self-will, discontent +with the relations by which God has bound them, and the circumstances +which God has appointed for them. I have known girls think they +were doing a fine thing by leaving uncongenial parents or disagreeable +sisters, and cutting out for themselves, as they fancied, a more useful +and elevated line of life than that of mere home duties; while, after +all, poor things, they were only saying, with the Pharisees of old, +“Corban, it is a gift, by whatsoever thou mightest be profited +by me;” and in the name of God, neglecting the command of God +to honour their father and mother.</p> +<p>There are men, too, who will neglect their households and leave their +children unprovided for, and even uneducated, while they are spending +their money on philanthropic or religious hobbies of their own. +It is ill to take the children’s bread and cast it to the dogs; +or even to the angels. It is ill, I say, trying to make God presents, +before we have tried to pay God our debts. The first duty of every +man is to the wife whom he has married, and to the children whom she +has brought into the world; and to neglect them is not heroism, but +self-conceit; the conceit that a man is so necessary to Almighty God, +that God will actually allow him to do wrong, if He can only thereby +secure the man’s invaluable services. Be sure that every +motive which comes not from the single eye; every motive which springs +from self; is by its very essence unheroic, let it look as gaudy or +as beneficent as it may.</p> +<p>But I cannot go so far as to say the same of the love of approbation—the +desire for the love and respect of our fellow-men.</p> +<p>That must not be excluded from the list of heroic motives. +I know that it is, or may be proved to be, by victorious analysis, an +emotion common to us and the lower animals. And yet no man excludes +it less than that true hero, St. Paul. If those brave Spartans, +if those brave Germans, of whom I spoke just now, knew that their memories +would be wept over and worshipped by brave men and fair women, and that +their names would become watchwords to children in their fatherland: +what is that to us, save that it should make us rejoice, if we be truly +human, that they had that thought with them in their last moments to +make self-devotion more easy, and death more sweet?</p> +<p>And yet—and yet—is not the highest heroism that which +is free even from the approbation of our fellow-men, even from the approbation +of the best and wisest? The heroism which is known only to our +Father who seeth in secret? The Godlike deeds alone in the lonely +chamber? The Godlike lives lived in obscurity?—a heroism +rare among us men, who live perforce in the glare and noise of the outer +world: more common among women; women of whom the world never hears; +who, if the world discovered them, would only draw the veil more closely +over their faces and their hearts, and entreat to be left alone with +God. True, they cannot always hide. They must not always +hide; or their fellow-creatures would lose the golden lesson. +But, nevertheless, it is of the essence of the perfect and womanly heroism, +in which, as in all spiritual forces, woman transcends the man, that +it would hide if it could.</p> +<p>And it was a pleasant thought to me, when I glanced lately at the +golden deeds of woman in Miss Yonge’s book—it was a pleasant +thought to me, that I could say to myself—Ah! yes. These +heroines are known, and their fame flies through the mouths of men. +But if so, how many thousands of heroines there must have been, how +many thousands there may be now, of whom we shall never know. +But still they are there. They sow in secret the seed of which +we pluck the flower and eat the fruit, and know not that we pass the +sower daily in the street; perhaps some humble ill-drest woman, earning +painfully her own small sustenance. She who nurses a bedridden +mother, instead of sending her to the workhouse. She who spends +her heart and her money on a drunken father, a reckless brother, on +the orphans of a kinsman or a friend. She who—But why go +on with the long list of great little heroisms, with which a clergyman +at least comes in contact daily—and it is one of the most ennobling +privileges of a clergyman’s high calling that he does come in +contact with them—why go on, I say, save to commemorate one more +form of great little heroism—the commonest, and yet the least +remembered of all—namely, the heroism of an average mother? +Ah, when I think of that last broad fact, I gather hope again for poor +humanity; and this dark world looks bright, this diseased world looks +wholesome to me once more—because, whatever else it is or is not +full of, it is at least full of mothers.</p> +<p>While the satirist only sneers, as at a stock butt for his ridicule, +at the managing mother trying to get her daughters married off her hands +by chicaneries and meannesses, which every novelist knows too well how +to draw—would to heaven he, or rather, alas! she, would find some +more chivalrous employment for his or her pen—for were they not, +too, born of woman?—I only say to myself—having had always +a secret fondness for poor Rebecca, though I love Esau more than Jacob—Let +the poor thing alone. With pain she brought these girls into the +world. With pain she educated them according to her light. +With pain she is trying to obtain for them the highest earthly blessing +of which she can conceive, namely, to be well married; and if in doing +that last, she manœuvres a little, commits a few basenesses, even +tells a few untruths, what does all that come to, save this—that +in the confused intensity of her motherly self-sacrifice, she will sacrifice +for her daughters even her own conscience and her own credit? +We may sneer, if we will, at such a poor hard-driven soul when we meet +her in society: our duty, both as Christians and ladies and gentlemen, +seems to me to be—to do for her something very different indeed.</p> +<p>But to return. Looking at the amount of great little heroisms, +which are being, as I assert, enacted around us every day, no one has +a right to say, what we are all tempted to say at times—“How +can I be heroic? This is no heroic age, setting me heroic examples. +We are growing more and more comfortable, frivolous, pleasure-seeking, +money-making; more and more utilitarian; more and more mercenary in +our politics, in our morals, in our religion; thinking less and less +of honour and duty, and more and more of loss and gain. I am born +into an unheroic time. You must not ask me to become heroic in +it.”</p> +<p>I do not deny that it is more difficult to be heroic, while circumstances +are unheroic round us. We are all too apt to be the puppets of +circumstance; all too apt to follow the fashion; all too apt, like so +many minnows, to take our colour from the ground on which we lie, in +hopes, like them, of comfortable concealment, lest the new tyrant deity, +called public opinion, should spy us out, and, like Nebuchadnezzar of +old, cast us into a burning fiery furnace—which public opinion +can make very hot—for daring to worship any god or man save the +will of the temporary majority.</p> +<p>Yes, it is difficult to be anything but poor, mean, insufficient, +imperfect people, as like each other as so many sheep; and, like so +many sheep, having no will or character of our own, but rushing altogether +blindly over the same gap, in foolish fear of the same dog, who, after +all, dare not bite us; and so it always was and always will be.</p> +<p>For the third time I say,—</p> +<blockquote><p> “Unless above himself he can<br /> +Exalt himself, how poor a thing is man.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But, nevertheless, any man or woman who will, in any age and under +any circumstances, can live the heroic life and exercise heroic influences.</p> +<p>If any ask proof of this, I shall ask them, in return, to read two +novels; novels, indeed, but, in their method and their moral, partaking +of that heroic and ideal element, which will make them live, I trust, +long after thousands of mere novels have returned to their native dust. +I mean Miss Muloch’s ‘John Halifax, Gentleman,’ and +Mr. Thackeray’s ‘Esmond,’ two books which no man or +woman ought to read without being the nobler for them.</p> +<p>‘John Halifax, Gentleman,’ is simply the history of a +poor young clerk, who rises to be a wealthy mill-owner in the manufacturing +districts, in the early part of this century. But he contrives +to be an heroic and ideal clerk, and an heroic and ideal mill-owner; +and that without doing anything which the world would call heroic or +ideal, or in anywise stepping out of his sphere, minding simply his +own business, and doing the duty which lies nearest him. And how? +By getting into his head from youth the strangest notion, that in whatever +station or business he may be, he can always be what he considers a +gentleman; and that if he only behaves like a gentleman, all must go +right at last. A beautiful book. As I said before, somewhat +of an heroic and ideal book. A book which did me good when first +I read it; which ought to do any young man good who will read it, and +then try to be, like John Halifax, a gentleman, whether in the shop, +the counting-house, the bank, or the manufactory.</p> +<p>The other—an even more striking instance of the possibility, +at least, of heroism anywhere and everywhere—is Mr. Thackeray’s +‘Esmond.’ On the meaning of that book I can speak +with authority. For my dear and regretted friend told me himself +that my interpretation of it was the true one; that this was the lesson +which he meant men to learn therefrom.</p> +<p>Esmond is a man of the first half of the eighteenth century; living +in a coarse, drunken, ignorant, profligate, and altogether unheroic +age. He is—and here the high art and the high morality of +Mr. Thackeray’s genius is shown—altogether a man of his +own age. He is not a sixteenth-century or a nineteenth-century +man born out of time. His information, his politics, his religion, +are no higher than of those round him. His manners, his views +of human life, his very prejudices and faults, are those of his age. +The temptations which he conquers are just those under which the men +around him fall. But how does he conquer them? By holding +fast throughout to honour, duty, virtue. Thus, and thus alone, +he becomes an ideal eighteenth-century gentleman, an eighteenth-century +hero. This was what Mr. Thackeray meant—for he told me so +himself, I say—that it was possible, even in England’s lowest +and foulest times, to be a gentleman and a hero, if a man would but +be true to the light within him.</p> +<p>But I will go further. I will go from ideal fiction to actual, +and yet ideal, fact; and say that, as I read history, the most unheroic +age which the civilized world ever saw was also the most heroic; that +the spirit of man triumphed most utterly over his circumstances, at +the very moment when those circumstances were most against him.</p> +<p>How and why he did so is a question for philosophy in the highest +sense of that word. The fact of his having done so is matter of +history. Shall I solve my own riddle?</p> +<p>Then, have we not heard of the early Christian martyrs? Is +there a doubt that they, unlettered men, slaves, weak women, even children, +did exhibit, under an infinite sense of duty, issuing in infinite self-sacrifice, +a heroism such as the world had never seen before; did raise the ideal +of human nobleness a whole stage—rather say, a whole heaven—higher +than before; and that wherever the tale of their great deeds spread, +men accepted, even if they did not copy, those martyrs as ideal specimens +of the human race, till they were actually worshipped by succeeding +generations, wrongly, it may be, but pardonably, as a choir of lesser +deities?</p> +<p>But is there, on the other hand, a doubt that the age in which they +were heroic was the most unheroic of all ages; that they were bred, +lived, and died, under the most debasing of materialist tyrannies, with +art, literature, philosophy, family and national life dying or dead +around them, and in cities the corruption of which cannot be told for +very shame—cities, compared with which Paris is the abode of Arcadian +simplicity and innocence? When I read Petronius and Juvenal, and +recollect that they were the contemporaries of the Apostles; when—to +give an instance which scholars, and perhaps, happily, only scholars, +can appreciate—I glance once more at Trimalchio’s feast, +and remember that within a mile of that feast St. Paul may have been +preaching to a Christian congregation, some of whom—for St. Paul +makes no secret of that strange fact—may have been, ere their +conversion, partakers in just such vulgar and bestial orgies as those +which were going on in the rich freedman’s halls: after that, +I say, I can put no limit to the possibility of man’s becoming +heroic, even though he be surrounded by a hell on earth; no limit to +the capacities of any human being to form for himself or herself a high +and pure ideal of human character; and, without “playing fantastic +tricks before high heaven,” to carry out that ideal in every-day +life; and in the most commonplace circumstances, and the most menial +occupations, to live worthy of—as I conceive—our heavenly +birthright, and to imitate the heroes, who were the kinsmen of the gods.</p> +<h2>SUPERSTITION. A LECTURE DELIVERED AT THE ROYAL INSTITUTION, +LONDON.</h2> +<p>Having accepted the very great honour of being allowed to deliver +here two lectures, I have chosen as my subject Superstition and Science. +It is with Superstition that this first lecture will deal.</p> +<p>The subject seems to me especially fit for a clergyman; for he should, +more than other men, be able to avoid trenching on two subjects rightly +excluded from this Institution; namely, Theology—that is, the +knowledge of God; and Religion—that is, the knowledge of Duty. +If he knows, as he should, what is Theology, and what is Religion, then +he should best know what is not Theology, and what is not Religion.</p> +<p>For my own part, I entreat you at the outset to keep in mind that +these lectures treat of matters entirely physical; which have in reality, +and ought to have in our minds, no more to do with Theology and Religion +than the proposition that theft is wrong, has to do with the proposition +that the three angles of a triangle are equal to two right angles.</p> +<p>It is necessary to premise this, because many are of opinion that +superstition is a corruption of religion; and though they would agree +that as such, “corruptio optimi pessima,” yet they would +look on religion as the state of spiritual health, and superstition +as one of spiritual disease.</p> +<p>Others, again, holding the same notion, but not considering that +corruptio optimi pessima, have been in all ages somewhat inclined to +be merciful to superstition, as a child of reverence; as a mere accidental +misdirection of one of the noblest and most wholesome faculties of man.</p> +<p>This is not the place wherein to argue with either of these parties; +and I shall simply say that superstition seems to me altogether a physical +affection, as thoroughly material and corporeal as those of eating or +sleeping, remembering or dreaming.</p> +<p>After this, it will be necessary to define superstition, in order +to have some tolerably clear understanding of what we are talking about. +I beg leave to define it as—Fear of the unknown.</p> +<p>Johnson, who was no dialectician, and, moreover, superstitious enough +himself, gives eight different definitions of the word; which is equivalent +to confessing his inability to define it at all:—</p> +<p>“1. Unnecessary fear or scruples in religion; observance +of unnecessary and uncommanded rites or practices; religion without +morality.</p> +<p>“2. False religion; reverence of beings not proper objects +of reverence; false worship.</p> +<p>“3. Over nicety; exactness too scrupulous.”</p> +<p>Eight meanings; which, on the principle that eight eighths, or indeed +800, do not make one whole, may be considered as no definition. +His first thought, as often happens, is the best—“Unnecessary +fear.” But after that he wanders. The root-meaning +of the word is still to seek. But, indeed, the popular meaning, +thanks to popular common sense, will generally be found to contain in +itself the root-meaning.</p> +<p>Let us go back to the Latin word Superstitio. Cicero says that +the superstitious element consists in “a certain empty dread of +the gods”—a purely physical affection, if you will remember +three things:—</p> +<p>1. That dread is in itself a physical affection.</p> +<p>2. That the gods who were dreaded were, with the vulgar, who +alone dreaded them, merely impersonations of the powers of nature.</p> +<p>3. That it was physical injury which these gods were expected +to inflict.</p> +<p>But he himself agrees with this theory of mine; for he says shortly +after, that not only philosophers, but even the ancient Romans, had +separated superstition from religion; and that the word was first applied +to those who prayed all day ut liberi sui sibi superstites essent—might +survive them. On the etymology no one will depend who knows the +remarkable absence of any etymological instinct in the ancients, in +consequence of their weak grasp of that sound inductive method which +has created modern criticism. But if it be correct, it is a natural +and pathetic form for superstition to take in the minds of men who saw +their children fade and die; probably the greater number of them beneath +diseases which mankind could neither comprehend nor cure.</p> +<p>The best exemplification of what the ancients meant by superstition +is to be found in the lively and dramatic words of Aristotle’s +great pupil, Theophrastus.</p> +<p>The superstitious man, according to him, after having washed his +hands with lustral water—that is, water in which a torch from +the altar had been quenched, goes about with a laurel-leaf in his mouth, +to keep off evil influences, as the pigs in Devonshire used, in my youth, +to go about with a withe of mountain ash round their necks to keep off +the evil eye. If a weasel crosses his path, he stops, and either +throws three pebbles into the road, or, with the innate selfishness +of fear, lets some one else go before him, and attract to himself the +harm which may ensue. He has a similar dread of a screech-owl, +whom he compliments in the name of its mistress, Pallas Athene. +If he finds a serpent in his house, he sets up an altar to it. +If he pass at a four-cross-way an anointed stone, he pours oil on it, +kneels down, and adores it. If a rat has nibbled one of his sacks +he takes it for a fearful portent—a superstition which Cicero +also mentions. He dare not sit on a tomb, because it would be +assisting at his own funeral. He purifies endlessly his house, +saying that Hecate—that is, the moon—has exercised some +malign influence on it; and many other purifications he observes, of +which I shall only say that they are by their nature plainly, like the +last, meant as preservatives against unseen malarias or contagions, +possible or impossible. He assists every month with his children +at the mysteries of the Orphic priests; and finally, whenever he sees +an epileptic patient, he spits in his own bosom to avert the evil omen.</p> +<p>I have quoted, I believe, every fact given by Theophrastus; and you +will agree, I am sure, that the moving and inspiring element of such +a character is mere bodily fear of unknown evil. The only superstition +attributed to him which does not at first sight seem to have its root +in dread is that of the Orphic mysteries. But of them Müller +says that the Dionusos whom they worshipped “was an infernal deity, +connected with Hades, and was the personification, not merely of rapturous +pleasure, but of a deep sorrow for the miseries of human life.” +The Orphic societies of Greece seem to have been peculiarly ascetic, +taking no animal food save raw flesh from the sacrificed ox of Dionusos. +And Plato speaks of a lower grade of Orphic priests, Orpheotelestai, +“who used to come before the doors of the rich, and promise, by +sacrifices and expiatory songs, to release them from their own sins, +and those of their forefathers;” and such would be but too likely +to get a hearing from the man who was afraid of a weasel or an owl.</p> +<p>Now, this same bodily fear, I verily believe, will be found at the +root of all superstition whatsoever.</p> +<p>But be it so. Fear is a natural passion, and a wholesome one. +Without the instinct of self-preservation, which causes the sea-anemone +to contract its tentacles, or the fish to dash into its hover, species +would be extermined wholesale by involuntary suicide.</p> +<p>Yes; fear is wholesome enough, like all other faculties, as long +as it is controlled by reason. But what if the fear be not rational, +but irrational? What if it be, in plain homely English, blind +fear; fear of the unknown, simply because it is unknown? Is it +not likely, then, to be afraid of the wrong object? to be hurtful, ruinous +to animals as well as to man? Any one will confess that, who has +ever seen a horse inflict on himself mortal injuries, in his frantic +attempts to escape from a quite imaginary danger. I have good +reasons for believing that not only animals here and there, but whole +flocks and swarms of them, are often destroyed, even in the wild state, +by mistaken fear; by such panics, for instance, as cause a whole herd +of buffalos to rush over a bluff, and be dashed to pieces. And +remark that this capacity of panic, fear—of superstition, as I +should call it—is greatest in those animals, the dog and the horse +for instance, which have the most rapid and vivid fancy. Does +not the unlettered Highlander say all that I want to say, when he attributes +to his dog and his horse, on the strength of these very manifestations +of fear, the capacity of seeing ghosts and fairies before he can see +them himself?</p> +<p>But blind fear not only causes evil to the coward himself: it makes +him a source of evil to others; for it is the cruellest of all human +states. It transforms the man into the likeness of the cat, who, +when she is caught in a trap, or shut up in a room, has too low an intellect +to understand that you wish to release her; and, in the madness of terror, +bites and tears at the hand which tries to do her good. Yes; very +cruel is blind fear. When a man dreads he knows not what, he will +do he cares not what. When he dreads desperately, he will act +desperately. When he dreads beyond all reason, he will behave +beyond all reason. He has no law of guidance left, save the lowest +selfishness. No law of guidance: and yet his intellect, left unguided, +may be rapid and acute enough to lead him into terrible follies. +Infinitely more imaginative than the lowest animals, he is for that +very reason capable of being infinitely more foolish, more cowardly, +more superstitious. He can—what the lower animals, happily +for them, cannot—organise his folly; erect his superstitions into +a science; and create a whole mythology out of his blind fear of the +unknown. And when he has done that—Woe to the weak! +For when he has reduced his superstition to a science, then he will +reduce his cruelty to a science likewise, and write books like the Malleus +Maleficarum, and the rest of the witch-literature of the fifteenth, +sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries; of which Mr. Lecky has of late +told the world so much, and told it most faithfully and most fairly.</p> +<p>But, fear of the unknown? Is not that fear of the unseen world? +And is not that fear of the spiritual world? Pardon me: a great +deal of that fear—all of it, indeed, which is superstition—is +simply not fear of the spiritual, but of the material; and of nothing +else.</p> +<p>The spiritual world—I beg you to fix this in your minds—is +not merely an invisible world which may become visible, but an invisible +world which is by its essence invisible; a moral world, a world of right +and wrong. And spiritual fear—which is one of the noblest +of all affections, as bodily fear is one of the basest—is, if +properly defined, nothing less or more than the fear of doing wrong; +of becoming a worse man.</p> +<p>But what has that to do with mere fear of the unseen? The fancy +which conceives the fear is physical, not spiritual. Think for +yourselves. What difference is there between a savage’s +fear of a demon, and a hunter’s fear of a fall? The hunter +sees a fence. He does not know what is on the other side: but +he has seen fences like it with a great ditch on the other side, and +suspects one here likewise. He has seen horses fall at such, and +men hurt thereby. He pictures to himself his horse falling at +that fence, himself rolling in the ditch, with possibly a broken limb; +and he recoils from the picture he himself has made; and perhaps with +very good reason. His picture may have its counterpart in fact; +and he may break his leg. But his picture, like the previous pictures +from which it was compounded, is simply a physical impression on the +brain, just as much as those in dreams.</p> +<p>Now, does the fact of the ditch, the fall, and the broken leg, being +unseen and unknown, make them a spiritual ditch, a spiritual fall, a +spiritual broken leg? And does the fact of the demon and his doings, +being as yet unseen and unknown, make them spiritual, or the harm that +he may do, a spiritual harm? What does the savage fear? +Lest the demon should appear; that is, become obvious to his physical +senses, and produce an unpleasant physical effect on them. He +fears lest the fiend should entice him into the bog, break the hand-bridge +over the brook, turn into a horse and ride away with him, or jump out +from behind a tree and wring his neck—tolerably hard physical +facts, all of them; the children of physical fancy, regarded with physical +dread. Even if the superstition proved true; even if the demon +did appear; even if he wrung the traveller’s neck in sound earnest, +there would be no more spiritual agency or phenomenon in the whole tragedy +than there is in the parlour table, when spiritual somethings make spiritual +raps upon spiritual wood; and human beings, who are really spirits—and +would to heaven they would remember that fact, and what it means—believe +that anything has happened beyond a clumsy juggler’s trick.</p> +<p>You demur? Do you not see that the demon, by the mere fact +of having produced physical consequences, would have become himself +a physical agent, a member of physical Nature, and therefore to be explained, +he and his doings, by physical laws? If you do not see that conclusion +at first sight, think over it till you do.</p> +<p>It may seem to some that I have founded my theory on a very narrow +basis; that I am building up an inverted pyramid; or that, considering +the numberless, complex, fantastic shapes which superstition has assumed, +bodily fear is too simple to explain them all.</p> +<p>But if those persons will think a second time, they must agree that +my base is as broad as the phenomena which it explains; for every man +is capable of fear. And they will see, too, that the cause of +superstition must be something like fear, which is common to all men: +for all, at least as children, are capable of superstition; and that +it must be something which, like fear, is of a most simple, rudimentary, +barbaric kind; for the lowest savage, of whatever he is not capable, +is still superstitious, often to a very ugly degree. Superstition +seems, indeed, to be, next to the making of stone-weapons, the earliest +method of asserting his superiority to the brutes which has occurred +to that utterly abnormal and fantastic lusus naturæ called man.</p> +<p>Now let us put ourselves awhile, as far as we can, in the place of +that same savage; and try whether my theory will not justify itself; +whether or not superstition, with all its vagaries, may have been, indeed +must have been, the result of that ignorance and fear which he carried +about with him, every time he prowled for food through the primeval +forest.</p> +<p>A savage’s first division of nature would be, I should say, +into things which he can eat, and things which can eat him; including, +of course, his most formidable enemy, and most savoury food—his +fellow-man. In finding out what he can eat, we must remember, +he will have gone through much experience which will have inspired him +with a serious respect for the hidden wrath of nature; like those Himalayan +folk, of whom Hooker says, that as they know every poisonous plant, +they must have tried them all—not always with impunity.</p> +<p>So he gets at a third class of objects—things which he cannot +eat, and which will not eat him; but will only do him harm, as it seems +to him, out of pure malice, like poisonous plants and serpents. +There are natural accidents, too, which fall into the same category, +stones, floods, fires, avalanches. They hurt him or kill him, +surely for ends of their own. If a rock falls from the cliff above +him, what more natural than to suppose that there is some giant up there +who threw it at him? If he had been up there, and strong enough, +and had seen a man walking underneath, he would certainly have thrown +the stone at him and killed him. For first, he might have eaten +the man after; and even if he were not hungry, the man might have done +him a mischief; and it was prudent to prevent that, by doing him a mischief +first. Besides, the man might have a wife; and if he killed the +man, then the wife would, by a very ancient law common to man and animals, +become the prize of the victor. Such is the natural man, the carnal +man, the soulish man, the ανθρωπος +ψυχικος of St. Paul, with +five tolerably acute senses, which are ruled by five very acute animal +passions—hunger, sex, rage, vanity, fear. It is with the +working of the last passion, fear, that this lecture has to do.</p> +<p>So the savage concludes that there must be a giant living in the +cliff, who threw stones at him, with evil intent; and he concludes in +like wise concerning most other natural phenomena. There is something +in them which will hurt him, and therefore likes to hurt him: and if +he cannot destroy them, and so deliver himself, his fear of them grows +quite boundless. There are hundreds of natural objects on which +he learns to look with the same eyes as the little boys of Teneriffe +look on the useless and poisonous <i>Euphorbia canariensis</i>. +It is to them—according to Mr. Piazzi Smyth—a demon who +would kill them, if it could only run after them; but as it cannot, +they shout Spanish curses at it, and pelt it with volleys of stones, +“screeching with elfin joy, and using worse names than ever, when +the poisonous milk spurts out from its bruised stalks.”</p> +<p>And if such be the attitude of the uneducated man towards the permanent +terrors of nature, what will it be towards those which are sudden and +seemingly capricious?—towards storms, earthquakes, floods, blights, +pestilences? We know too well what it has been—one of blind, +and therefore often cruel, fear. How could it be otherwise? +Was Theophrastus’s superstitious man so very foolish for pouring +oil on every round stone? I think there was a great deal to be +said for him. This worship of Bætyli was rational enough. +They were aerolites, fallen from heaven. Was it not as well to +be civil to such messengers from above?—to testify by homage to +them due awe of the being who had thrown them at men, and who though +he had missed his shot that time, might not miss it the next? +I think if we, knowing nothing of either gunpowder, astronomy, or Christianity, +saw an Armstrong bolt fall within five miles of London, we should be +inclined to be very respectful to it indeed. So the aerolites, +or glacial boulders, or polished stone weapons of an extinct race, which +looked like aerolites, were the children of Ouranos the heaven, and +had souls in them. One, by one of those strange transformations +in which the logic of unreason indulges, the image of Diana of the Ephesians, +which fell down from Jupiter; another was the Ancile, the holy shield +which fell from the same place in the days of Numa Pompilius, and was +the guardian genius of Rome; and several more became notable for ages.</p> +<p>Why not? The uneducated man of genius, unacquainted alike with +metaphysics and with biology, sees, like a child, a personality in every +strange and sharply-defined object. A cloud like an angel may +be an angel; a bit of crooked root like a man may be a man turned into +wood—perhaps to be turned back again at its own will. An +erratic block has arrived where it is by strange unknown means. +Is not that an evidence of its personality? Either it has flown +hither itself, or some one has thrown it. In the former case, +it has life, and is proportionally formidable; in the latter, he who +had thrown it is formidable.</p> +<p>I know two erratic blocks of porphyry—I believe there are three—in +Cornwall, lying one on serpentine, one, I think, on slate, which—so +I was always informed as a boy—were the stones which St. Kevern +threw after St. Just when the latter stole his host’s chalice +and paten, and ran away with them to the Land’s End. Why +not? Before we knew anything about the action of icebergs and +glaciers, that is, until the last eighty years, that was as good a story +as any other; while how lifelike these boulders are, let a great poet +testify; for the fact has not escaped the delicate eye of Wordsworth:</p> +<blockquote><p>“As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie<br /> +Couched on the bald top of an eminence;<br /> +Wonder to all who do the same espy,<br /> +By what means it could thither come, and whence,<br /> +So that it seems a thing endued with sense;<br /> +Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf<br /> +Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>To the civilised poet, the fancy becomes a beautiful simile; to a +savage poet, it would have become a material and a very formidable fact. +He stands in the valley, and looks up at the boulder on the far-off +fells. He is puzzled by it. He fears it. At last he +makes up his mind. It is alive. As the shadows move over +it, he sees it move. May it not sleep there all day, and prowl +for prey all night? He had been always afraid of going up those +fells; now he will never go. There is a monster there.</p> +<p>Childish enough, no doubt. But remember that the savage is +always a child. So, indeed, are millions, as well clothed, housed, +and policed as ourselves—children from the cradle to the grave. +But of them I do not talk; because, happily for the world, their childishness +is so overlaid by the result of other men’s manhood; by an atmosphere +of civilisation and Christianity which they have accepted at second-hand +as the conclusions of minds wiser than their own, that they do all manner +of reasonable things for bad reasons, or for no reason at all, save +the passion of imitation. Not in them, but in the savage, can +we see man as he is by nature, the puppet of his senses and his passions, +the natural slave of his own fears.</p> +<p>But has the savage no other faculties, save his five senses and five +passions? I do not say that. I should be most unphilosophical +if I said it; for the history of mankind proves that he has infinitely +more in him than that. Yes: but in him that infinite more, which +is not only the noblest part of humanity; but, it may be, humanity itself, +is not to be counted as one of the roots of superstition. For +in the savage man, in whom superstition certainly originates, that infinite +more is still merely in him; inside him; a faculty: but not yet a fact. +It has not come out of him into consciousness, purpose, and act; and +is to be treated as non-existent: while what has come out, his passions +and senses, is enough to explain all the vagaries of superstition; a +vera causa for all its phenomena. And if we seem to have found +a sufficient explanation already, it is unphilosophical to look further, +at least till we have tried whether our explanation fits the facts.</p> +<p>Nevertheless, there is another faculty in the savage, to which I +have already alluded, common to him and to at least the higher vertebrates—fancy; +the power of reproducing internal images of external objects, whether +in its waking form of physical memory—if, indeed, all memory be +not physical—or in its sleeping form of dreaming. Upon this +last, which has played so very important a part in superstition in all +ages, I beg you to think a moment. Recollect your own dreams during +childhood; and recollect again that the savage is always a child. +Recollect how difficult it was for you in childhood, how difficult it +must be always for the savage, to decide whether dreams are phantasms +or realities. To the savage, I doubt not, the food he eats, the +foes he grapples with, in dreams, are as real as any waking impressions. +But, moreover, these dreams will be very often, as children’s +dreams are wont to be, of a painful and terrible kind. Perhaps +they will be always painful; perhaps his dull brain will never dream, +save under the influence of indigestion, or hunger, or an uncomfortable +attitude. And so, in addition to his waking experience of the +terrors of nature, he will have a whole dream-experience besides, of +a still more terrific kind. He walks by day past a black cavern +mouth, and thinks, with a shudder—Something ugly may live in that +ugly hole: what if it jumped out upon me? He broods over the thought +with the intensity of a narrow and unoccupied mind; and a few nights +after, he has eaten—but let us draw a veil before the larder of +a savage—his chin is pinned down on his chest, a slight congestion +of the brain comes on; and behold he finds himself again at that cavern’s +mouth, and something ugly does jump out upon him: and the cavern is +a haunted spot henceforth to him and to all his tribe. It is in +vain that his family tell him that he has been lying asleep at home +all the while. He has the evidence of his senses to prove the +contrary. He must have got out of himself, and gone into the woods. +When we remember that certain wise Greek philosophers could find no +better explanation of dreaming than that the soul left the body, and +wandered free, we cannot condemn the savage for his theory. Now, +I submit that in these simple facts we have a group of “true causes” +which are the roots of all the superstitions of the world.</p> +<p>And if any one shall complain that I am talking materialism: I shall +answer, that I am doing exactly the opposite. I am trying to eliminate +and get rid of that which is material, animal, and base; in order that +that which is truly spiritual may stand out, distinct and clear, in +its divine and eternal beauty.</p> +<p>To explain, and at the same time, as I think, to verify my hypothesis, +let me give you an example—fictitious, it is true, but probable +fact nevertheless; because it is patched up of many fragments of actual +fact: and let us see how, in following it out, we shall pass through +almost every possible form of superstition.</p> +<p>Suppose a great hollow tree, in which the formidable wasps of the +tropics have built for ages. The average savage hurries past the +spot in mere bodily fear; for if they come out against him, they will +sting him to death; till at last there comes by a savage wiser than +the rest, with more observation, reflection, imagination, independence +of will—the genius of his tribe.</p> +<p>The awful shade of the great tree, added to his terror of the wasps, +weighs on him, and excites his brain. Perhaps, too, he has had +a wife or a child stung to death by these same wasps. These wasps, +so small, yet so wise, far wiser than he: they fly, and they sting. +Ah, if he could fly and sting; how he would kill and eat, and live right +merrily. They build great towns; they rob far and wide; they never +quarrel with each other: they must have some one to teach them, to lead +them—they must have a king. And so he gets the fancy of +a Wasp-King; as the western Irish still believe in the Master Otter; +as the Red Men believe in the King of the Buffalos, and find the bones +of his ancestors in the Mammoth remains of Big-bone Lick; as the Philistines +of Ekron—to quote a notorious instance—actually worshipped +Baal-zebub, lord of the flies.</p> +<p>If they have a king, he must be inside that tree, of course. +If he, the savage, were a king, he would not work for his bread, but +sit at home and make others feed him; and so, no doubt, does the wasp-king.</p> +<p>And when he goes home he will brood over this wonderful discovery +of the wasp-king; till, like a child, he can think of nothing else. +He will go to the tree, and watch for him to come out. The wasps +will get accustomed to his motionless figure, and leave him unhurt; +till the new fancy will rise in his mind that he is a favourite of this +wasp-king: and at last he will find himself grovelling before the tree, +saying—“Oh great wasp-king, pity me, and tell your children +not to sting me, and I will bring you honey, and fruit, and flowers +to eat, and I will flatter you, and worship you, and you shall be my +king.”</p> +<p>And then he would gradually boast of his discovery; of the new mysterious +bond between him and the wasp-king; and his tribe would believe him, +and fear him; and fear him still more when he began to say, as he surely +would, not merely—“I can ask the wasp-king, and he will +tell his children not to sting you:” but—“I can ask +the wasp-king, and he will send his children, and sting you all to death.” +Vanity and ambition will have prompted the threat: but it will not be +altogether a lie. The man will more than half believe his own +words; he will quite believe them when he has repeated them a dozen +times.</p> +<p>And so he will become a great man, and a king, under the protection +of the king of the wasps; and he will become, and it may be his children +after him, priest of the wasp-king, who will be their fetish, and the +fetish of their tribe.</p> +<p>And they will prosper, under the protection of the wasp-king. +The wasp will become their moral ideal, whose virtues they must copy. +The new chief will preach to them wild eloquent words. They must +sting like wasps, revenge like wasps, hold all together like wasps, +build like wasps, work hard like wasps, rob like wasps; then, like the +wasps, they will be the terror of all around, and kill and eat all their +enemies. Soon they will call themselves The Wasps. They +will boast that their king’s father or grandfather, and soon that +the ancestor of the whole tribe, was an actual wasp; and the wasp will +become at once their eponym hero, their deity, their ideal, their civiliser; +who has taught them to build a kraal of huts, as he taught his children +to build a hive.</p> +<p>Now, if there should come to any thinking man of this tribe, at this +epoch, the new thought—Who made the world? he will be sorely puzzled. +The conception of a world has never crossed his mind before. He +never pictured to himself anything beyond the nearest ridge of mountains; +and as for a Maker, that will be a greater puzzle still. What +makers or builders more cunning than those wasps of whom his foolish +head is full? Of course, he sees it now. A Wasp made the +world; which to him entirely new guess might become an integral part +of his tribe’s creed. That would be their cosmogony. +And if, a generation or two after, another savage genius should guess +that the world was a globe hanging in the heavens, he would, if he had +imagination enough to take the thought in at all, put it to himself +in a form suited to his previous knowledge and conceptions. It +would seem to him that The Wasp flew about the skies with the world +in his mouth, as he carries a bluebottle fly; and that would be the +astronomy of his tribe henceforth. Absurd enough; but—as +every man who is acquainted with old mythical cosmogonies must know—no +more absurd than twenty similar guesses on record. Try to imagine +the gradual genesis of such myths as the Egyptian scarabæus and +egg, or the Hindoo theory that the world stood on an elephant, the elephant +on a tortoise, the tortoise on that infinite note of interrogation which, +as some one expresses it, underlies all physical speculations, and judge: +must they not have arisen in some such fashion as that which I have +pointed out?</p> +<p>This, I say, would be the culminating point of the wasp-worship, +which had sprung up out of bodily fear of being stung.</p> +<p>But times might come for it in which it would go through various +changes, through which every superstition in the world, I suppose, has +passed or is doomed to pass.</p> +<p>The wasp-men might be conquered, and possibly eaten, by a stronger +tribe than themselves. What would be the result? They would +fight valiantly at first, like wasps. But what if they began to +fail? Was not the wasp-king angry with them? Had not he +deserted them? He must be appeased; he must have his revenge. +They would take a captive, and offer him to the wasps. So did +a North American tribe, in their need, some forty years ago; when, because +their maize-crops failed, they roasted alive a captive girl, cut her +to pieces, and sowed her with their corn. I would not tell the +story, for the horror of it, did it not bear with such fearful force +on my argument. What were those Red Men thinking of? What +chain of misreasoning had they in their heads when they hit on that +as a device for making the crops grow? Who can tell? Who +can make the crooked straight, or number that which is wanting? +As said Solomon of old, so must we—“The foolishness of fools +is folly.” One thing only we can say of them, that they +were horribly afraid of famine, and took that means of ridding themselves +of their fear.</p> +<p>But what if the wasp-tribe had no captives? They would offer +slaves. What if the agony and death of slaves did not appease +the wasps? They would offer their fairest, their dearest, their +sons and their daughters, to the wasps; as the Carthaginians, in like +strait, offered in one day 200 noble boys to Moloch, the volcano-god, +whose worship they had brought out of Syria; whose original meaning +they had probably forgotten; of whom they only knew that he was a dark +and devouring being, who must be appeased with the burning bodies of +their sons and daughters. And so the veil of fancy would be lifted +again, and the whole superstition stand forth revealed as the mere offspring +of bodily fear.</p> +<p>But more; the survivors of the conquest might, perhaps, escape, and +carry their wasp-fetish into a new land. But if they became poor +and weakly, their brains and imagination, degenerating with their bodies, +would degrade their wasp-worship till they knew not what it meant. +Away from the sacred tree, in a country the wasps of which were not +so large or formidable, they would require a remembrancer of the wasp-king; +and they would make one—a wasp of wood, or what not. After +a while, according to that strange law of fancy, the root of all idolatry, +which you may see at work in every child who plays with a doll, the +symbol would become identified with the thing symbolised; they would +invest the wooden wasp with all the terrible attributes which had belonged +to the live wasps of the tree; and after a few centuries, when all remembrance +of the tree, the wasp-prophet and chieftain, and his descent from the +divine wasp—aye, even of their defeat and flight—had vanished +from their songs and legends, they would be found bowing down in fear +and trembling to a little ancient wooden wasp, which came from they +knew not whence, and meant they knew not what, save that it was a very +“old fetish,” a “great medicine,” or some such +other formula for expressing their own ignorance and dread. Just +so do the half-savage natives of Thibet, and the Irishwomen of Kerry, +by a strange coincidence—unless the ancient Irish were Buddhists, +like the Himalayans—tie just the same scraps of rag on arise, +and show men that they are not the puppets of Nature, but her lords; +and that they are to fear God, and fear naught else.</p> +<p>And so ends my true myth of the wasp-tree. No, it need not +end there; it may develop into a yet darker and more hideous form of +superstition, which Europe has often seen; which is common now among +the Negros; <a name="citation256"></a><a href="#footnote256">{256}</a> +which, we may hope, will soon be exterminated.</p> +<p>This might happen. For it, or something like it, has happened +too many times already.</p> +<p>That to the ancient women who still kept up the irrational remnant +of the wasp-worship, beneath the sacred tree, other women might resort; +not merely from curiosity, or an excited imagination, but from jealousy +and revenge. Oppressed, as woman has always been under the reign +of brute force; beaten, outraged, deserted, at best married against +her will, she has too often gone for comfort and help—and those +of the very darkest kind—to the works of darkness; and there never +were wanting—there are not wanting, even now, in remote parts +of these isles—wicked old women who would, by help of the old +superstitions, do for her what she wished. Soon would follow mysterious +deaths of rivals, of husbands, of babes; then rumours of dark rites +connected with the sacred tree, with poison, with the wasp and his sting, +with human sacrifices; lies mingled with truth, more and more confused +and frantic, the more they were misinvestigated by men mad with fear: +till there would arise one of those witch-manias, which are too common +still among the African Negros, which were too common of old among the +men of our race.</p> +<p>I say, among the men. To comprehend a witch-mania, you must +look at it as—what the witch-literature confesses it unblushingly +to be—man’s dread of Nature excited to its highest form, +as dread of woman.</p> +<p>She is to the barbarous man—she should be more and more to +the civilised man—not only the most beautiful and precious, but +the most wonderful and mysterious of all natural objects, if it be only +as the author of his physical being. She is to the savage a miracle +to be alternately adored and dreaded. He dreads her more delicate +nervous organisation, which often takes shapes to him demoniacal and +miraculous; her quicker instincts, her readier wit, which seem to him +to have in them somewhat prophetic and superhuman, which entangle him +as in an invisible net, and rule him against his will. He dreads +her very tongue, more crushing than his heaviest club, more keen than +his poisoned arrows. He dreads those habits of secresy and falsehood, +the weapons of the weak, to which savage and degraded woman always has +recourse. He dreads the very medicinal skill which she has learnt +to exercise, as nurse, comforter, and slave. He dreads those secret +ceremonies, those mysterious initiations which no man may witness, which +he has permitted to her in all ages, in so many—if not all—barbarous +and semi-barbarous races, whether Negro, American, Syrian, Greek, or +Roman, as a homage to the mysterious importance of her who brings him +into the world. If she turn against him—she, with all her +unknown powers, she who is the sharer of his deepest secrets, who prepares +his very food day by day—what harm can she not, may she not do? +And that she has good reason to turn against him, he knows too well. +What deliverance is there from this mysterious house-fiend, save brute +force? Terror, torture, murder, must be the order of the day. +Woman must be crushed, at all price, by the blind fear of the man.</p> +<p>I shall say no more. I shall draw a veil, for very pity and +shame, over the most important and most significant facts of this, the +most hideous of all human follies. I have, I think, given you +hints enough to show that it, like all other superstitions, is the child—the +last born and the ugliest child—of blind dread of the unknown.</p> +<h2>SCIENCE: A lecture delivered at the Royal Institution.</h2> +<p>I said, that Superstition was the child of Fear, and Fear the child +of Ignorance; and you might expect me to say antithetically, that Science +was the child of Courage, and Courage the child of Knowledge.</p> +<p>But these genealogies—like most metaphors—do not fit +exactly, as you may see for yourselves.</p> +<p>If fear be the child of ignorance, ignorance is also the child of +fear; the two react on, and produce each other. The more men dread +Nature, the less they wish to know about her. Why pry into her +awful secrets? It is dangerous; perhaps impious. She says +to them, as in the Egyptian temple of old—“I am Isis, and +my veil no mortal yet hath lifted.” And why should they +try or wish to lift it? If she will leave them in peace, they +will leave her in peace. It is enough that she does not destroy +them. So as ignorance bred fear, fear breeds fresh and willing +ignorance.</p> +<p>And courage? We may say, and truly, that courage is the child +of knowledge. But we may say as truly, that knowledge is the child +of courage. Those Egyptian priests in the temple of Isis would +have told you that knowledge was the child of mystery, of special illumination, +of reverence, and what not; hiding under grand words their purpose of +keeping the masses ignorant, that they might be their slaves. +Reverence? I will yield to none in reverence for reverence. +I will all but agree with the wise man who said that reverence is the +root of all virtues. But which child reverences his father most? +He who comes joyfully and trustfully to meet him, that he may learn +his father’s mind, and do his will: or he who at his father’s +coming runs away and hides, lest he should be beaten for he knows not +what? There is a scientific reverence, a reverence of courage, +which is surely one of the highest forms of reverence. That, namely, +which so reveres every fact, that it dare not overlook or falsify it, +seem it never so minute; which feels that because it is a fact, it cannot +be minute, cannot be unimportant; that it must be a fact of God; a message +from God; a voice of God, as Bacon has it, revealed in things; and which +therefore, just because it stands in solemn awe of such paltry facts +as the Scolopax feather in a snipe’s pinion, or the jagged leaves +which appear capriciously in certain honeysuckles, believes that there +is likely to be some deep and wide secret underlying them, which is +worth years of thought to solve. That is reverence; a reverence +which is growing, thank God, more and more common; which will produce, +as it grows more common still, fruit which generations yet unborn shall +bless.</p> +<p>But as for that other reverence, which shuts its eyes and ears in +pious awe—what is it but cowardice decked out in state robes, +putting on the sacred Urim and Thummim, not that men may ask counsel +of the Deity, but that they may not? What is it but cowardice, +very pitiable when unmasked; and what is its child but ignorance as +pitiable, which would be ludicrous were it not so injurious? If +a man comes up to Nature as to a parrot or a monkey, with this prevailing +thought in his head—Will it bite me?—will he not be pretty +certain to make up his mind that it may bite him, and had therefore +best be left alone? It is only the man of courage—few and +far between—who will stand the chance of a first bite, in the +hope of teaching the parrot to talk, or the monkey to fire off a gun. +And it is only the man of courage—few and far between—who +will stand the chance of a first bite from Nature, which may kill him +for aught he knows—for her teeth, though clumsy, are very strong—in +order that he may tame her and break her in to his use by the very same +method by which that admirable inductive philosopher, Mr. Rarey, used +to break in his horses; first, by not being afraid of them; and next, +by trying to find out what they were thinking of. But after all, +as with animals, so with Nature; cowardice is dangerous. The surest +method of getting bitten by an animal is to be afraid of it; and the +surest method of being injured by Nature is to be afraid of it. +Only as far as we understand Nature are we safe from it; and those who +in any age counsel mankind not to pry into the secrets of the universe, +counsel them not to provide for their own life and well-being, or for +their children after them. But how few there have been in any +age who have not been afraid of Nature. How few have set themselves, +like Rarey, to tame her by finding out what she is thinking of. +The mass are glad to have the results of science, as they are to buy +Mr. Rarey’s horses after they are tamed: but for want of courage +or of wit, they had rather leave the taming process to some one else. +And therefore we may say that what knowledge of Nature we have—and +we have very little—we owe to the courage of those men—and +they have been very few—who have been inspired to face Nature +boldly; and say—or, what is better, act as if they were saying—“I +find something in me which I do not find in you; which gives me the +hope that I can grow to understand you, though you may not understand +me; that I may become your master, and not as now, you mine. And +if not, I will know: or die in the search.”</p> +<p>It is to those men, the few and far between, in a very few ages and +very few countries, who have thus risen in rebellion against Nature, +and looked it in the face with an unquailing glance, that we owe what +we call Physical Science.</p> +<p>There have been four races—or rather a very few men of each +four races—who have faced Nature after this gallant wise.</p> +<p>First, the old Jews. I speak of them, be it remembered, exclusively +from an historical, and not a religious point of view.</p> +<p>These people, at a very remote epoch, emerged from a country highly +civilised, but sunk in the superstitions of nature-worship. They +invaded and mingled with tribes whose superstitions were even more debased, +silly, and foul than those of the Egyptians from whom they escaped. +Their own masses were for centuries given up to nature-worship. +Now among those Jews arose men—a very few—sages—prophets—call +them what you will, the men were inspired heroes and philosophers—who +assumed towards nature an attitude utterly different from the rest of +their countrymen and the rest of the then world; who denounced superstition +and the dread of nature as the parent of all manner of vice and misery; +who for themselves said boldly that they discerned in the universe an +order, a unity, a permanence of law, which gave them courage instead +of fear. They found delight and not dread in the thought that +the universe obeyed a law which could not be broken; that all things +continued to that day according to a certain ordinance. They took +a view of Nature totally new in that age; healthy, human, cheerful, +loving, trustful, and yet reverent—identical with that which happily +is beginning to prevail in our own day. They defied those very +volcanic and meteoric phenomena of their land, to which their countrymen +were slaying their own children in the clefts of the rocks, and, like +Theophrastus’ superstitious man, pouring their drink-offerings +on the smooth stones of the valley; and declared that, for their part, +they would not fear, though the earth was moved, and though the hills +were carried into the midst of the sea; though the waters raged and +swelled, and the mountains shook at the tempest.</p> +<p>The fact is indisputable. And you must pardon me if I express +my belief that these men, if they had felt it their business to found +a school of inductive physical science, would, owing to that temper +of mind, have achieved a very signal success. I ground that opinion +on the remarkable, but equally indisputable fact, that no nation has +ever succeeded in perpetuating a school of inductive physical science, +save those whose minds have been saturated with this same view of Nature, +which they have—as an historic fact—slowly but thoroughly +learnt from the writings of these Jewish sages.</p> +<p>Such is the fact. The founders of inductive physical science +were not the Jews: but first the Chaldæans, next the Greeks, next +their pupils the Romans—or rather a few sages among each race. +But what success had they? The Chaldæan astronomers made +a few discoveries concerning the motions of the heavenly bodies, which, +rudimentary as they were, still prove them to have been men of rare +intellect. For a great and a patient genius must he have been, +who first distinguished the planets from the fixed stars, or worked +out the earliest astronomical calculation. But they seem to have +been crushed, as it were, by their own discoveries. They stopped +short. They gave way again to the primeval fear of Nature. +They sank into planet-worship. They invented, it would seem, that +fantastic pseudo-science of astrology, which lay for ages after as an +incubus on the human intellect and conscience. They became the +magicians and quacks of the old world; and mankind owed them thenceforth +nothing but evil. Among the Greeks and Romans, again, those sages +who dared face Nature like reasonable men, were accused by the superstitious +mob as irreverent, impious, atheists. The wisest of them all, +Socrates, was actually put to death on that charge; and finally, they +failed. School after school, in Greece and Rome, struggled to +discover, and to get a hearing for, some theory of the universe which +was founded on something like experience, reason, common sense. +They were not allowed to prosecute their attempt. The mud-ocean +of ignorance and fear in which they struggled so manfully was too strong +for them; the mud-waves closed over their heads finally, as the age +of the Antonines expired; and the last effort of Græco-Roman thought +to explain the universe was Neoplatonism—the muddiest of the muddy—an +attempt to apologise for, and organise into a system, all the nature-dreading +superstitions of the Roman world. Porphyry, Plotinus, Proclus, +poor Hypatia herself, and all her school—they may have had themselves +no bodily fear of Nature; for they were noble souls. Yet they +spent their time in justifying those who had; in apologising for the +superstitions of the very mob which they despised: just as—it +sometimes seems to me—some folk in these days are like to end +in doing; begging that the masses might be allowed to believe in anything, +however false, lest they should believe in nothing at all: as if believing +in lies could do anything but harm to any human being. And so +died the science of the old world, in a true second childhood, just +where it began.</p> +<p>The Jewish sages, I hold, taught that science was probable; the Greeks +and Romans proved that it was possible. It remained for our race, +under the teaching of both, to bring science into act and fact.</p> +<p>Many causes contributed to give them this power. They were +a personally courageous race. This earth has yet seen no braver +men than the forefathers of Christian Europe, whether Scandinavian or +Teuton, Angle or Frank. They were a practical hard-headed race, +with a strong appreciation of facts, and a strong determination to act +on them. Their laws, their society, their commerce, their colonisation, +their migrations by land and sea, proved that they were such. +They were favoured, moreover, by circumstances, or—as I should +rather put it—by that divine Providence which determined their +times, and the bounds of their habitation. They came in as the +heritors of the decaying civilisation of Greece and Rome; they colonised +territories which gave to man special fair play, but no more, in the +struggle for existence, the battle with the powers of Nature; tolerably +fertile, tolerably temperate; with boundless means of water communication; +freer than most parts of the world from those terrible natural phenomena, +like the earthquake and the hurricane, before which man lies helpless +and astounded, a child beneath the foot of a giant. Nature was +to them not so inhospitable as to starve their brains and limbs, as +it has done for the Esquimaux or Fuegian; and not so bountiful as to +crush them by its very luxuriance, as it has crushed the savages of +the tropics. They saw enough of its strength to respect it; not +enough to cower before it: and they and it have fought it out; and it +seems to me, standing either on London Bridge or on a Holland fen-dyke, +that they are winning at last. But they had a sore battle: a battle +against their own fear of the unseen. They brought with them, +out of the heart of Asia, dark and sad nature-superstitions, some of +which linger among our peasantry till this day, of elves, trolls, nixes, +and what not. Their Thor and Odin were at first, probably, only +the thunder and the wind: but they had to be appeased in the dark marches +of the forest, where hung rotting on the sacred oaks, amid carcases +of goat and horse, the carcases of human victims. No one acquainted +with the early legends and ballads of our race, but must perceive throughout +them all the prevailing tone of fear and sadness. And to their +own superstitions, they added those of the Rome which they conquered. +They dreaded the Roman she-poisoners and witches, who, like Horace’s +Canidia, still performed horrid rites in grave-yards and dark places +of the earth. They dreaded as magical the delicate images engraved +on old Greek gems. They dreaded the very Roman cities they had +destroyed. They were the work of enchanters. Like the ruins +of St. Albans here in England, they were all full of devils, guarding +the treasures which the Romans had hidden. The Cæsars became +to them magical man-gods. The poet Virgil became the prince of +necromancers. If the secrets of Nature were to be known, they +were to be known by unlawful means, by prying into the mysteries of +the old heathen magicians, or of the Mohammedan doctors of Cordova and +Seville; and those who dared to do so were respected and feared, and +often came to evil ends. It needed moral courage, then, to face +and interpret fact. Such brave men as Pope Gerbert, Roger Bacon, +Galileo, even Kepler, did not lead happy lives; some of them found themselves +in prison. All the medieval sages—even Albertus Magnus—were +stigmatised as magicians. One wonders that more of them did not +imitate poor Paracelsus, who, unable to get a hearing for his coarse +common sense, took—vain and sensual—to drinking the laudanum +which he himself had discovered, and vaunted as a priceless boon to +men; and died as the fool dieth, in spite of all his wisdom. For +the “Romani nominis umbra,” the shadow of the mighty race +whom they had conquered, lay heavy on our forefathers for centuries. +And their dread of the great heathens was really a dread of Nature, +and of the powers thereof. For when the authority of great names +has reigned unquestioned for many centuries, those names become, to +the human mind, integral and necessary parts of Nature itself. +They are, as it were, absorbed into it; they become its laws, its canons, +its demiurges, and guardian spirits; their words become regarded as +actual facts; in one word, they become a superstition, and are feared +as parts of the vast unknown; and to deny what they have said is, in +the minds of the many, not merely to fly in the face of reverent wisdom, +but to fly in the face of facts. During a great part of the middle +ages, for instance, it was impossible for an educated man to think of +Nature itself, without thinking first of what Aristotle had said of +her. Aristotle’s dicta were Nature; and when Benedetti, +at Venice, opposed in 1585 Aristotle’s opinions on violent and +natural motion, there were hundreds, perhaps, in the universities of +Europe—as there certainly were in the days of the immortal ‘Epistolæ +Obscurorum Virorum’—who were ready, in spite of all Benedetti’s +professed reverence for Aristotle, to accuse him of outraging not only +the father of philosophy, but Nature itself and its palpable and notorious +facts. For the restoration of letters in the fifteenth century +had not at first mended matters, so strong was the dread of Nature in +the minds of the masses. The minds of men had sported forth, not +toward any sound investigation of facts, but toward an eclectic resuscitation +of Neoplatonism; which endured, not without a certain beauty and use—as +let Spenser’s ‘Faery Queen’ bear witness—till +the latter half of the seventeenth century.</p> +<p>After that time a rapid change began. It is marked by—it +has been notably assisted by—the foundation of our own Royal Society. +Its causes I will not enter into; they are so inextricably mixed, I +hold, with theological questions, that they cannot be discussed here. +I will only point out to you these facts: that, from the latter part +of the seventeenth century, the noblest heads and the noblest hearts +of Europe concentrated themselves more and more on the brave and patient +investigation of physical facts, as the source of priceless future blessings +to mankind; that the eighteenth century, which it has been the fashion +of late to depreciate, did more for the welfare of mankind, in every +conceivable direction, than the whole fifteen centuries before it; that +it did this good work by boldly observing and analysing facts; that +this boldness toward facts increased in proportion as Europe became +indoctrinated with the Jewish literature; and that, notably, such men +as Kepler, Newton, Berkeley, Spinoza, Leibnitz, Descartes, in whatsoever +else they differed, agreed in this, that their attitude towards Nature +was derived from the teaching of the Jewish sages. I believe that +we are not yet fully aware how much we owe to the Jewish mind, in the +gradual emancipation of the human intellect. The connection may +not, of course, be one of cause and effect; it may be a mere coincidence. +I believe it to be a cause; one of course of very many causes: but still +an integral cause. At least the coincidence is too remarkable +a fact not to be worthy of investigation.</p> +<p>I said, just now—The emancipation of the human intellect. +I did not say—Of science, or of the scientific intellect; and +for this reason:</p> +<p>That the emancipation of science is the emancipation of the common +mind of all men. All men can partake of the gains of free scientific +thought, not merely by enjoying its physical results, but by becoming +more scientific men themselves.</p> +<p>Therefore it was, that though I began my first lecture by defining +superstition, I did not begin my second by defining its antagonist, +science. For the word science defines itself. It means simply +knowledge; that is, of course, right knowledge, or such an approximation +as can be obtained; knowledge of any natural object, its classification, +its causes, its effects; or in plain English, what it is, how it came +where it is, and what can be done with it.</p> +<p>And scientific method, likewise, needs no definition; for it is simply +the exercise of common sense. It is not a peculiar, unique, professional, +or mysterious process of the understanding: but the same which all men +employ, from the cradle to the grave, in forming correct conclusions.</p> +<p>Every one who knows the philosophic writings of Mr. John Stuart Mill, +will be familiar with this opinion. But to those who have no leisure +to study him, I should recommend the reading of Professor Huxley’s +third lecture on the origin of species.</p> +<p>In that he shows, with great logical skill, as well as with some +humour, how the man who, on rising in the morning, finds the parlour +window open, the spoons and teapot gone, the mark of a dirty hand on +the window-sill, and that of a hob-nailed boot outside, and comes to +the conclusion that some one has broken open the window and stolen the +plate, arrives at that hypothesis—for it is nothing more—by +a long and complex train of inductions and deductions, of just the same +kind as those which, according to the Baconian philosophy, are to be +used for investigating the deepest secrets of Nature.</p> +<p>This is true, even of those sciences which involve long mathematical +calculations. In fact, the stating of the problem to be solved +is the most important element in the calculation; and that is so thoroughly +a labour of common sense that an utterly uneducated man may, and often +does, state an abstruse problem clearly and correctly; seeing what ought +to be proved, and perhaps how to prove it, though he may be unable to +work the problem out, for want of mathematical knowledge.</p> +<p>But that mathematical knowledge is not—as all Cambridge men +are surely aware—the result of any special gift. It is merely +the development of those conceptions of form and number which every +human being possesses; and any person of average intellect can make +himself a fair mathematician if he will only pay continuous attention; +in plain English, think enough about the subject.</p> +<p>There are sciences, again, which do not involve mathematical calculation; +for instance, botany, zoology, geology, which are just now passing from +their old stage of classificatory sciences into the rank of organic +ones. These are, without doubt, altogether within the scope of +the merest common sense. Any man or woman of average intellect, +if they will but observe and think for themselves, freely, boldly, patiently, +accurately, may judge for themselves of the conclusions of these sciences, +may add to these conclusions fresh and important discoveries; and if +I am asked for a proof of what I assert, I point to ‘Rain and +Rivers,’ written by no professed scientific man, but by a colonel +in the Guards, known to fame only as one of the most perfect horsemen +in the world.</p> +<p>Let me illustrate my meaning by an example. A man—I do +not say a geologist, but simply a man, squire or ploughman—sees +a small valley, say one of the side-glens which open into the larger +valleys in the Windsor forest district. He wishes to ascertain +its age.</p> +<p>He has, at first sight, a very simple measure—that of denudation. +He sees that the glen is now being eaten out by a little stream, the +product of innumerable springs which arise along its sides, and which +are fed entirely by the rain on the moors above. He finds, on +observation, that this stream brings down some ten cubic yards of sand +and gravel, on an average, every year. The actual quantity of +earth which has been removed to make the glen may be several million +cubic yards. Here is an easy sum in arithmetic. At the rate +of ten cubic yards a year, the stream has taken several hundred thousand +years to make the glen.</p> +<p>You will observe that this result is obtained by mere common sense. +He has a right to assume that the stream originally began the glen, +because he finds it in the act of enlarging it; just as much right as +he has to assume, if he finds a hole in his pocket, and his last coin +in the act of falling through it, that the rest of his money has fallen +through the same hole. It is a sufficient cause, and the simplest. +A number of observations as to the present rate of denudation, and a +sum which any railroad contractor can do in his head, to determine the +solid contents of the valley, are all that are needed. The method +is that of science: but it is also that of simple common sense. +You will remember, therefore, that this is no mere theory or hypothesis, +but a pretty fair and simple conclusion from palpable facts; that the +probability lies with the belief that the glen is some hundreds of thousands +of years old; that it is not the observer’s business to prove +it further, but other persons’ to disprove it, if they can.</p> +<p>But does the matter end here? No. And, for certain reasons, +it is good that it should not end here.</p> +<p>The observer, if he be a cautious man, begins to see if he can disprove +his own conclusion; moreover, being human, he is probably somewhat awed, +if not appalled, by his own conclusion. Hundreds of thousands +of years spent in making that little glen! Common sense would +say that the longer it took to make, the less wonder there was in its +being made at last: but the instinctive human feeling is the opposite. +There is in men, and there remains in them, even after they are civilised, +and all other forms of the dread of Nature have died out in them, a +dread of size, of vast space, of vast time; that latter, mind, being +always imagined as space, as we confess when we speak instinctively +of a space of time. They will not understand that size is merely +a relative, not an absolute term; that if we were a thousand times larger +than we are, the universe would be a thousand times smaller than it +is; that if we could think a thousand times faster than we do, time +would be a thousand times longer than it is; that there is One in whom +we live, and move, and have our being, to whom one day is as a thousand +years, and a thousand years as one day. I believe this dread of +size to be merely, like all other superstitions, a result of bodily +fear; a development of the instinct which makes a little dog run away +from a big dog. Be that as it may, every observer has it; and +so the man’s conclusion seems to him strange, doubtful: he will +reconsider it.</p> +<p>Moreover, if he be an experienced man, he is well aware that first +guesses, first hypotheses, are not always the right ones; and if he +be a modest man, he will consider the fact that many thousands of thoughtful +men in all ages, and many thousands still, would say, that the glen +can only be a few thousand, or possibly a few hundred, years old. +And he will feel bound to consider their opinion; as far as it is, like +his own, drawn from facts, but no further.</p> +<p>So he casts about for all other methods by which the glen may have +been produced, to see if any one of them will account for it in a shorter +time.</p> +<p>1. Was it made by an earthquake? No; for the strata on +both sides are identical, at the same level, and in the same plane.</p> +<p>2. Or by a mighty current? If so, the flood must have +run in at the upper end, before it ran out at the lower. But nothing +has run in at the upper end. All round above are the undisturbed +gravel beds of the horizontal moor, without channel or depression.</p> +<p>3. Or by water draining off a vast flat as it was upheaved +out of the sea? That is a likely guess. The valley at its +upper end spreads out like the fingers of a hand, as the gullies in +tide-muds do.</p> +<p>But that hypothesis will not stand. There is no vast unbroken +flat behind the glen. Right and left of it are other similar glens, +parted from it by long narrow ridges: these also must be explained on +the same hypothesis; but they cannot. For there could not have +been surface-drainage to make them all, or a tenth of them. There +are no other possible hypotheses; and so he must fall back on the original +theory—the rain, the springs, the brook; they have done it all, +even as they are doing it this day.</p> +<p>But is not that still a hasty assumption? May not their denuding +power have been far greater in old times than now?</p> +<p>Why should it? Because there was more rain then than now? +That he must put out of court; there is no evidence of it whatsoever.</p> +<p>Because the land was more friable originally? Well, there is +a great deal to be said for that. The experience of every countryman +tells him that bare or fallow land is more easily washed away than land +under vegetation. And no doubt, when these gravels and sands rose +from the sea, they were barren for hundreds of years. He has some +measure of the time required, because he can tell roughly how long it +takes for sands and shingles left by the sea to become covered with +vegetation. But he must allow that the friability of the land +must have been originally much greater than now, for hundreds of years.</p> +<p>But again, does that fact really cut off any great space of time +from his hundreds of thousands of years? For when the land first +rose from the sea, that glen was not there. Some slight bay or +bend in the shore determined its site. That stream was not there. +It was split up into a million little springs, oozing side by side from +the shore, and having each a very minute denuding power, which kept +continually increasing by combination as the glen ate its way inwards, +and the rainfall drained by all these little springs was collected into +the one central stream. So that when the ground being bare was +most liable to be denuded, the water was least able to do it; and as +the denuding power of the water increased, the land, being covered with +vegetation, became more and more able to resist it. All this he +has seen, going on at the present day, in the similar gullies worn in +the soft strata of the South Hampshire coast; especially round Bournemouth.</p> +<p>So the two disturbing elements in the calculation may be fairly set +off against each other, as making a difference of only a few thousands +or tens of thousands of years either way; and the age of the glen may +fairly be, if not a million years, yet such a length of years as mankind +still speak of with bated breath, as if forsooth it would do them some +harm.</p> +<p>I trust that every scientific man in this room will agree with me, +that the imaginary squire or ploughman would have been conducting his +investigation strictly according to the laws of the Baconian philosophy. +You will remark, meanwhile, that he has not used a single scientific +term, or referred to a single scientific investigation; and has observed +nothing and thought nothing which might not have been observed and thought +by any one who chose to use his common sense, and not to be afraid.</p> +<p>But because he has come round, after all this further investigation, +to something very like his first conclusion, was all that further investigation +useless? No—a thousand times, no. It is this very +verification of hypotheses which makes the sound ones safe, and destroys +the unsound. It is this struggle with all sorts of superstitions +which makes science strong and sure, and her march irresistible, winning +ground slowly, but never receding from it. It is this buffeting +of adversity which compels her not to rest dangerously upon the shallow +sand of first guesses, and single observations; but to strike her roots +down, deep, wide, and interlaced into the solid ground of actual facts.</p> +<p>It is very necessary to insist on this point. For there have +been men in all past ages—I do not say whether there are any such +now, but I am inclined to think that there will be hereafter—men +who have tried to represent scientific method as something difficult, +mysterious, peculiar, unique, not to be attained by the unscientific +mass; and this not for the purpose of exalting science, but rather of +discrediting her. For as long as the masses, educated or uneducated, +are ignorant of what scientific method is, they will look on scientific +men, as the middle age looked on necromancers, as a privileged, but +awful and uncanny caste, possessed of mighty secrets; who may do them +great good, but may also do them great harm.</p> +<p>Which belief on the part of the masses will enable these persons +to instal themselves as the critics of science, though not scientific +men themselves: and—as Shakespeare has it—to talk of Robin +Hood, though they never shot in his bow. Thus they become mediators +to the masses between the scientific and the unscientific worlds. +They tell them—You are not to trust the conclusions of men of +science at first hand. You are not fit judges of their facts or +of their methods. It is we who will, by a cautious eclecticism, +choose out for you such of their conclusions as are safe for you; and +them we will advise you to believe. To the scientific man, on +the other hand, as often as anything is discovered unpleasing to them, +they will say, imperiously and e cathedrâ—Your new theory +contradicts the established facts of science. For they will know +well that whatever the men of science think of their assertion, the +masses will believe it; totally unaware that the speakers are by their +very terms showing their ignorance of science; and that what they call +established facts scientific men call merely provisional conclusions, +which they would throw away to-morrow without a pang were the known +facts explained better by a fresh theory, or did fresh facts require +one.</p> +<p>This has happened too often. It is in the interest of superstition +that it should happen again; and the best way to prevent it surely is +to tell the masses—Scientific method is no peculiar mystery, requiring +a peculiar initiation. It is simply common sense, combined with +uncommon courage, which includes uncommon honesty and uncommon patience; +and if you will be brave, honest, patient, and rational, you will need +no mystagogues to tell you what in science to believe and what not to +believe; for you will be just as good judges of scientific facts and +theories as those who assume the right of guiding your convictions. +You are men and women: and more than that you need not be.</p> +<p>And let me say that the man of our days whose writings exemplify +most thoroughly what I am going to say is the justly revered Mr. Thomas +Carlyle.</p> +<p>As far as I know he has never written on any scientific subject. +For aught I am aware of, he may know nothing of mathematics or chemistry, +of comparative anatomy or geology. For aught I am aware of, he +may know a great deal about them all, and, like a wise man, hold his +tongue, and give the world merely the results in the form of general +thought. But this I know; that his writings are instinct with +the very spirit of science; that he has taught men, more than any living +man, the meaning and end of science; that he has taught men moral and +intellectual courage; to face facts boldly, while they confess the divineness +of facts; not to be afraid of Nature, and not to worship nature; to +believe that man can know truth; and that only in as far as he knows +truth can he live worthily on this earth. And thus he has vindicated, +as no other man in our days has done, at once the dignity of Nature +and the dignity of spirit. That he would have made a distinguished +scientific man, we may be as certain from his writings as we may be +certain, when we see a fine old horse of a certain stamp, that he would +have made a first-class hunter, though he has been unfortunately all +his life in harness. Therefore, did I try to train a young man +of science to be true, devout, and earnest, accurate and daring, I should +say—Read what you will: but at least read Carlyle. It is +a small matter to me—and I doubt not to him—whether you +will agree with his special conclusions: but his premises and his method +are irrefragable; for they stand on the “voluntatem Dei in rebus +revelatam”—on fact and common sense.</p> +<p>And Mr. Carlyle’s writings, if I am correct in my estimate +of them, will afford a very sufficient answer to those who think that +the scientific habit of mind tends to irreverence.</p> +<p>Doubtless this accusation will always be brought against science +by those who confound reverence with fear. For from blind fear +of the unknown, science does certainly deliver man. She does by +man as he does by an unbroken colt. The colt sees by the road +side some quite new object—a cast-away boot, an old kettle, or +what not. What a fearful monster! What unknown terrific +powers may it not possess! And the colt shies across the road, +runs up the bank, rears on end; putting itself thereby, as many a man +does, in real danger. What cure is there? But one; experience. +So science takes us, as we should take the colt, gently by the halter; +and makes us simply smell at the new monster; till after a few trembling +sniffs, we discover, like the colt, that it is not a monster, but a +kettle. Yet I think, if we sum up the loss and gain, we shall +find the colt’s character has gained, rather than lost, by being +thus disabused. He learns to substitute a very rational reverence +for the man who is breaking him in, for a totally irrational reverence +for the kettle; and becomes thereby a much wiser and more useful member +of society, as does the man when disabused of his superstitions.</p> +<p>From which follows one result. That if science proposes—as +she does—to make men brave, wise, and independent, she must needs +excite unpleasant feelings in all who desire to keep men cowardly, ignorant, +and slavish. And that too many such persons have existed in all +ages is but too notorious. There have been from all time, goëtai, +quacks, powwow men, rain-makers, and necromancers of various sorts, +who having for their own purposes set forth partial, ill-grounded, fantastic, +and frightful interpretations of nature, have no love for those who +search after a true, exact, brave, and hopeful one. And therefore +it is to be feared, or hoped, science and superstition will to the world’s +end remain irreconcilable and internecine foes.</p> +<p>Conceive the feelings of an old Lapland witch, who has had for the +last fifty years all the winds in a sealskin bag, and has been selling +fair breezes to northern skippers at so much a puff, asserting her powers +so often, poor old soul, that she has got to half believe them herself,—conceive, +I say, her feelings at seeing her customers watch the Admiralty storm-signals, +and con the weather reports in the ‘Times.’ Conceive +the feelings of Sir Samuel Baker’s African friend, Katchiba, the +rain-making chief, who possessed a whole housefull of thunder and lightning—though +he did not, he confessed, keep it in a bottle as they do in England—if +Sir Samuel had had the means, and the will, of giving to Katchiba’s +Negros a course of lectures on electricity, with appropriate experiments, +and a real bottle full of real lightning among the foremost.</p> +<p>It is clear that only two methods of self-defence would have been +open to the rain-maker: namely, either to kill Sir Samuel, or to buy +his real secret of bottling the lightning, that he might use it for +his own ends. The former method—that of killing the man +of science—was found more easy in ancient times; the latter in +these modern ones. And there have been always those who, too good-natured +to kill the scientific man, have patronised knowledge, not for its own +sake, but for the use which may be made of it; who would like to keep +a tame man of science, as they would a tame poet, or a tame parrot; +who say—Let us have science by all means, but not too much of +it. It is a dangerous thing; to be doled out to the world, like +medicine, in small and cautious doses. You, the scientific man, +will of course freely discover what you choose. Only do not talk +too loudly about it: leave that to us. We understand the world, +and are meant to guide and govern it. So discover freely: and +meanwhile hand over your discoveries to us, that we may instruct and +edify the populace with so much of them as we think safe, while we keep +our position thereby, and in many cases make much money by your science. +Do that, and we will patronise you, applaud you, ask you to our houses; +and you shall be clothed in purple and fine linen, and fare sumptuously +with us every day. I know not whether these latter are not the +worst enemies which science has. They are often such excellent, +respectable, orderly, well-meaning persons. They desire so sincerely +that everyone should be wise: only not too wise. They are so utterly +unaware of the mischief they are doing. They would recoil with +horror if they were told they were so many Iscariots, betraying Truth +with a kiss.</p> +<p>But science, as yet, has withstood both terrors and blandishments. +In old times, she endured being imprisoned and slain. She came +to life again. Perhaps it was the will of Him in whom all things +live, that she should live. Perhaps it was His spirit which gave +her life.</p> +<p>She can endure, too, being starved. Her votaries have not as +yet cared much for purple and fine linen, and sumptuous fare. +There are a very few among them who, joining brilliant talents to solid +learning, have risen to deserved popularity, to titles, and to wealth. +But even their labours, it seems to me, are never rewarded in any proportion +to the time and the intellect spent on them, nor to the benefits which +they bring to mankind; while the great majority, unpaid and unknown, +toil on, and have to find in science her own reward. Better, perhaps, +that it should be so. Better for science that she should be free, +in holy poverty, to go where she will and say what she knows, than that +she should be hired out at so much a year to say things pleasing to +the many, and to those who guide the many. And so, I verily believe, +the majority of scientific men think. There are those among them +who have obeyed very faithfully St. Paul’s precept, “No +man that warreth entangleth himself with the affairs of this life.” +For they have discovered that they are engaged in a war—a veritable +war—against the rulers of darkness, against ignorance and its +twin children, fear and cruelty. Of that war they see neither +the end nor even the plan. But they are ready to go on; ready, +with Socrates, “to follow reason withersoever it leads;” +and content, meanwhile, like good soldiers in a campaign, if they can +keep tolerably in line, and use their weapons, and see a few yards ahead +of them through the smoke and the woods. They will come out somewhere +at last; they know not where nor when: but they will come out at last, +into the daylight and the open field; and be told then—perhaps +to their own astonishment—as many a gallant soldier has been told, +that by simply walking straight on, and doing the duty which lay nearest +them, they have helped to win a great battle, and slay great giants, +earning the thanks of their country and of mankind.</p> +<p>And, meanwhile, if they get their shilling a day of fighting-pay, +they are content. I had almost said, they ought to be content. +For science is, I verily believe, like virtue, its own exceeding great +reward. I can conceive few human states more enviable than that +of the man to whom, panting in the foul laboratory, or watching for +his life under the tropic forest, Isis shall for a moment lift her sacred +veil, and show him, once and for ever, the thing he dreamed not of; +some law, or even mere hint of a law, explaining one fact; but explaining +with it a thousand more, connecting them all with each other and with +the mighty whole, till order and meaning shoots through some old Chaos +of scattered observations.</p> +<p>Is not that a joy, a prize, which wealth cannot give, nor poverty +take away? What it may lead to, he knows not. Of what use +it may become, he knows not. But this he knows, that somewhere +it must lead; of some use it will be. For it is a truth; and having +found a truth, he has exorcised one more of the ghosts which haunt humanity. +He has left one object less for man to fear; one object more for man +to use. Yes, the scientific man may have this comfort, that whatever +he has done, he has done good; that he is following a mistress who has +never yet conferred aught but benefits on the human race.</p> +<p>What physical science may do hereafter I know not; but as yet she +has done this:</p> +<p>She has enormously increased the wealth of the human race; and has +therefore given employment, food, existence, to millions who, without +science, would either have starved or have never been born. She +has shown that the dictum of the early political economists, that population +has a tendency to increase faster than the means of subsistence, is +no law of humanity, but merely a tendency of the barbaric and ignorant +man, which can be counteracted by increasing manifold by scientific +means his powers of producing food. She has taught men, during +the last few years, to foresee and elude the most destructive storms; +and there is no reason for doubting, and many reasons for hoping, that +she will gradually teach men to elude other terrific forces of nature, +too powerful and too seemingly capricious for them to conquer. +She has discovered innumerable remedies and alleviations for pains and +disease. She has thrown such light on the causes of epidemics, +that we are able to say now that the presence of cholera—and probably +of all zymotic diseases—in any place, is usually a sin and a shame, +for which the owners and authorities of that place ought to be punishable +by law, as destroyers of their fellow-men; while for the weak, for those +who, in the barbarous and semi-barbarous state—and out of that +last we are only just emerging—how much has she done; an earnest +of much more which she will do? She has delivered the insane—I +may say by the scientific insight of one man, more worthy of titles +and pensions than nine-tenths of those who earn them—I mean the +great and good Pinel—from hopeless misery and torture into comparative +peace and comfort, and at least the possibility of cure. For children, +she has done much, or rather might do, would parents read and perpend +such books as Andrew Combe’s and those of other writers on physical +education. We should not then see the children, even of the rich, +done to death piecemeal by improper food, improper clothes, neglect +of ventilation and the commonest measures for preserving health. +We should not see their intellects stunted by Procrustean attempts to +teach them all the same accomplishments, to the neglect, most often, +of any sound practical training of their faculties. We should +not see slight indigestion, or temporary rushes of blood to the head, +condemned and punished as sins against Him who took up little children +in His arms and blessed them.</p> +<p>But we may have hope. When we compare education now with what +it was even forty years ago, much more with the stupid brutality of +the monastic system, we may hail for children, as well as for grown +people, the advent of the reign of common sense.</p> +<p>And for woman—What might I not say on that point? But +most of it would be fitly discussed only among physicians and biologists: +here I will say only this—Science has exterminated, at least among +civilised nations, witch-manias. Women—at least white women—are +no longer tortured or burnt alive from man’s blind fear of the +unknown. If science had done no more than that, she would deserve +the perpetual thanks and the perpetual trust, not only of the women +whom she has preserved from agony, but the men whom she has preserved +from crime.</p> +<p>These benefits have already accrued to civilised men, because they +have lately allowed a very few of their number peaceably to imitate +Mr. Rarey, and find out what nature—or rather, to speak at once +reverently and accurately, He who made nature—is thinking of; +and obey the “voluntatem Dei in rebus revelatam.” +This science has done, while yet in her infancy. What she will +do in her maturity, who dare predict? At least, in the face of +such facts as these, those who bid us fear, or restrain, or mutilate +science, bid us commit an act of folly, as well as of ingratitude, which +can only harm ourselves. For science has as yet done nothing but +good. Will any one tell me what harm it has ever done? When +any one will show me a single result of science, of the knowledge of +and use of physical facts, which has not tended directly to the benefit +of mankind, moral and spiritual, as well as physical and economic—then +I shall be tempted to believe that Solomon was wrong when he said that +the one thing to be sought after on earth, more precious than all treasure, +she who has length of days in her right hand, and in her left hand riches +and honour, whose ways are ways of pleasantness and all her paths are +peace, who is a tree of life to all who lay hold on her, and makes happy +every one who retains her, is—as you will see if you will yourselves +consult the passage—that very Wisdom—by which God has founded +the earth; and that very Understanding—by which He has established +the heavens.</p> +<h2>GROTS AND GROVES</h2> +<p>I wish this lecture to be suggestive, rather that didactic; to set +you thinking and inquiring for yourselves, rather than learning at second-hand +from me. Some among my audience, I doubt not, will neither need +to be taught by me, nor to be stirred up to inquiry for themselves. +They are already, probably, antiquarians; already better acquainted +with the subject than I am. They come hither, therefore, as critics; +I trust not as unkindly critics. They will, I hope, remember that +I am trying to excite a general interest in that very architecture in +which they delight, and so to make the public do justice to their labours. +They will therefore, I trust,</p> +<blockquote><p>“Be to my faults a little blind,<br /> +Be to my virtues very kind;”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>and if my architectural theories do not seem to them correct in all +details—well-founded I believe them myself to be—remember +that it is a slight matter to me, or to the audience, whether any special +and pet fancy of mine should be exactly true or not: but it is not a +light matter that my hearers should be awakened—and too many just +now need an actual awakening—to a right, pure, and wholesome judgment +on questions of art, especially when the soundness of that judgment +depends, as in this case, on sound judgments about human history, as +well as about natural objects.</p> +<p>Now, it befel me that, fresh from the Tropic forests, and with their +forms hanging always, as it were, in the background of my eye, I was +impressed more and more vividly the longer I looked, with the likeness +of those forest forms to the forms of our own Cathedral of Chester. +The grand and graceful Chapter-house transformed itself into one of +those green bowers, which, once seen, and never to be seen again, make +one at once richer and poorer for the rest of life. The fans of +groining sprang from the short columns, just as do the feathered boughs +of the far more beautiful Maximiliana palm, and just of the same size +and shape: and met overhead, as I have seen them meet, in aisles longer +by far than our cathedral nave. The free upright shafts, which +give such strength, and yet such lightness, to the mullions of each +window, pierced upward through those curving lines, as do the stems +of young trees through the fronds of palm; and, like them, carried the +eye and the fancy up into the infinite, and took off a sense of oppression +and captivity which the weight of the roof might have produced. +In the nave, in the choir the same vision of the Tropic forest haunted +me. The fluted columns not only resembled, but seemed copied from +the fluted stems beneath which I had ridden in the primeval woods; their +bases, their capitals, seemed copied from the bulgings at the collar +of the root, and at the spring of the boughs, produced by a check of +the redundant sap; and were garlanded often enough like the capitals +of the columns, with delicate tracery of parasite leaves and flowers; +the mouldings of the arches seemed copied from the parallel bundles +of the curving bamboo shoots; and even the flatter roof of the nave +and transepts had its antitype in that highest level of the forest aisles, +where the trees, having climbed at last to the light-food which they +seek, care no longer to grow upward, but spread out in huge limbs, almost +horizontal, reminding the eye of the four-centred arch which marks the +period of Perpendicular Gothic.</p> +<p>Nay, to this day there is one point in our cathedral which, to me, +keeps up the illusion still. As I enter the choir, and look upward +toward the left, I cannot help seeing, in the tabernacle work of the +stalls, the slender and aspiring forms of the “rastrajo;” +the delicate second growth which, as it were, rushes upward from the +earth wherever the forest is cleared; and above it, in the tall lines +of the north-west pier of the tower—even though defaced, along +the inner face of the western arch, by ugly and needless perpendicular +panelling—I seem to see the stems of huge Cedars, or Balatas, +or Ceibas, curving over, as they would do, into the great beams of the +transept roof, some seventy feet above the ground.</p> +<p>Nay, so far will the fancy lead, that I have seemed to see, in the +stained glass between the tracery of the windows, such gorgeous sheets +of colour as sometimes flash on the eye, when, far aloft, between high +stems and boughs, you catch sight of some great tree ablaze with flowers, +either its own or those of a parasite; yellow or crimson, white or purple; +and over them again the cloudless blue.</p> +<p>Now, I know well that all these dreams are dreams; that the men who +built our northern cathedrals never saw these forest forms; and that +the likeness of their work to those of Tropic nature is at most only +a corroboration of Mr. Ruskin’s dictum, that “the Gothic +did not arise out of, but developed itself into, a resemblance to vegetation. +. . . It was no chance suggestion of the form of an arch from +the bending of a bough, but the gradual and continual discovery of a +beauty in natural forms which could be more and more transferred into +those of stone, which influenced at once the hearts of the people and +the form of the edifice.” So true is this, that by a pure +and noble copying of the vegetable beauty which they had seen in their +own clime, the medieval craftsmen went so far—as I have shown +you—as to anticipate forms of vegetable beauty peculiar to Tropic +climes, which they had not seen: a fresh proof, if proof were needed, +that beauty is something absolute and independent of man; and not, as +some think, only relative, and what happens to be pleasant to the eye +of this man or that.</p> +<p>But thinking over this matter, and reading over, too, that which +Mr. Ruskin has written thereon in his ‘Stones of Venice,’ +vol. ii. cap. vi., on the nature of Gothic, I came to certain further +conclusions—or at least surmises—which I put before you +to-night, in hopes that if they have no other effect on you, they will +at least stir some of you up to read Mr. Ruskin’s works.</p> +<p>Now Mr. Ruskin says, “That the original conception of Gothic +architecture has been derived from vegetation, from the symmetry of +avenues and the interlacing of branches, is a strange and vain supposition. +It is a theory which never could have existed for a moment in the mind +of any person acquainted with early Gothic: but, however idle as a theory, +it is most valuable as a testimony to the character of the perfected +style.”</p> +<p>Doubtless so. But you must remember always that the subject +of my lecture is Grots and Groves; that I am speaking not of Gothic +architecture in general, but of Gothic ecclesiastical architecture; +and more, almost exclusively of the ecclesiastical architecture of the +Teutonic or northern nations; because in them, as I think, the resemblance +between the temple and the forest reached the fullest exactness.</p> +<p>Now the original idea of a Christian church was that of a grot; a +cave. That is a historic fact. The Christianity which was +passed on to us began to worship, hidden and persecuted, in the catacombs +of Rome, it may be often around the martyrs’ tombs, by the dim +light of candle or of torch. The candles on the Roman altars, +whatever they have been made to symbolise since then, are the hereditary +memorials of that fact. Throughout the North, in these isles as +much as in any land, the idea of the grot was, in like wise, the idea +of a church. The saint or hermit built himself a cell; dark, massive, +intended to exclude light as well as weather; or took refuge in a cave. +There he prayed and worshipped, and gathered others to pray and worship +round him, during his life. There he, often enough, became an +object of worship, in his turn, after his death. In after ages +his cave was ornamented, like that of the hermit of Montmajour by Arles; +or his cell-chapel enlarged, as those of the Scotch and Irish saints +have been, again and again; till at last a stately minster rose above +it. Still, the idea that the church was to be a grot haunted the +minds of builders.</p> +<p>But side by side with the Christian grot there was throughout the +North another form of temple, dedicated to very different gods; namely, +the trees from whose mighty stems hung the heads of the victims of Odin +or of Thor, the horse, the goat, and in time of calamity or pestilence, +of men. Trees and not grots were the temples of our forefathers.</p> +<p>Scholars know well—but they must excuse my quoting it for the +sake of those who are not scholars—the famous passage of Tacitus +which tells how our forefathers “held it beneath the dignity of +the gods to coop them within walls, or liken them to any human countenance: +but consecrated groves and woods, and called by the name of gods that +mystery which they held by faith alone;” and the equally famous +passage of Claudian, about “the vast silence of the Black Forest, +and groves awful with ancient superstition; and oaks, barbarian deities;” +and Lucan’s “groves inviolate from all antiquity, and altars +stained with human blood.”</p> +<p>To worship in such spots was an abomination to the early Christian. +It was as much a test of heathendom as the eating of horse-flesh, sacred +to Odin, and therefore unclean to Christian men. The Lombard laws +and others forbid expressly the lingering remnants of grove worship. +St. Boniface and other early missionaries hewed down in defiance the +sacred oaks, and paid sometimes for their valour with their lives.</p> +<p>It is no wonder, then, if long centuries elapsed ere the likeness +of vegetable forms began to reappear in the Christian churches of the +North. And yet both grot and grove were equally the natural temples +which the religious instinct of all deep-hearted peoples, conscious +of sin, and conscious, too, of yearnings after a perfection not to be +found on earth, chooses from the earliest stage of awakening civilisation. +In them, alone, before he had strength and skill to build nobly for +himself, could man find darkness, the mother of mystery and awe, in +which he is reminded perforce of his own ignorance and weakness; in +which he learns first to remember unseen powers, sometimes to his comfort +and elevation, sometimes only to his terror and debasement; darkness; +and with it silence and solitude, in which he can collect himself, and +shut out the noise and glare, the meanness and the coarseness, of the +world; and be alone a while with his own thoughts, his own fancy, his +own conscience, his own soul.</p> +<p>But for a while, as I have said, that darkness, solitude, and silence +were to be sought in the grot, not in the grove.</p> +<p>Then Christianity conquered the Empire. It adapted, not merely +its architecture, but its very buildings, to its worship. The +Roman Basilica became the Christian church; a noble form of building +enough, though one in which was neither darkness, solitude, nor silence, +but crowded congregations, clapping—or otherwise—the popular +preacher; or fighting about the election of a bishop or a pope, till +the holy place ran with Christian blood. The deep-hearted Northern +turned away, in weariness and disgust, from those vast halls, fitted +only for the feverish superstition of a profligate and worn-out civilisation; +and took himself, amid his own rocks and forests, moors and shores, +to a simpler and sterner architecture, which should express a creed, +sterner; and at heart far simpler; though dogmatically the same.</p> +<p>And this is, to my mind, the difference, and the noble difference, +between the so-called Norman architecture, which came hither about the +time of the Conquest; and that of Romanized Italy.</p> +<p>But the Normans were a conquering race; and one which conquered, +be it always remembered, in England at least, in the name and by the +authority of Rome. Their ecclesiastics, like the ecclesiastics +on the Continent, were the representatives of Roman civilisation, of +Rome’s right, intellectual and spiritual, to rule the world.</p> +<p>Therefore their architecture, like their creed, was Roman. +They took the massive towering Roman forms, which expressed domination; +and piled them one on the other, to express the domination of Christian +Rome over the souls, as they had represented the domination of heathen +Rome over the bodies, of men. And so side by side with the towers +of the Norman keep rose the towers of the Norman cathedral—the +two signs of a double servitude.</p> +<p>But, with the thirteenth century, there dawned an age in Northern +Europe, which I may boldly call an heroic age; heroic in its virtues +and in its crimes; an age of rich passionate youth, or rather of early +manhood; full of aspirations, of chivalry, of self-sacrifice as strange +and terrible as it was beautiful and noble, even when most misguided. +The Teutonic nations of Europe—our own forefathers most of all—having +absorbed all that heathen Rome could teach them, at least for the time +being, began to think for themselves; to have poets, philosophers, historians, +architects, of their own. The thirteenth century was especially +an age of aspiration; and its architects expressed, in buildings quite +unlike those of the preceding centuries, the aspirations of the time.</p> +<p>The Pointed Arch had been introduced half a century before. +It may be that the Crusaders saw it in the East and brought it home. +It may be that it originated from the quadripartite vaulting of the +Normans, the segmental groins of which, crossing diagonally, produced +to appearance the pointed arch. It may be that it was derived +from that mystical figure of a pointed oval form, the vesica piscis. +It may be, lastly, that it was suggested simply by the intersection +of semicircular arches, so frequently found in ornamental arcades. +The last cause may perhaps be the true one: but it matters little whence +the pointed arch came. It matters much what it meant to those +who introduced it. And at the beginning of the Transition or semi-Norman +period, it seems to have meant nothing. It was not till the thirteenth +century that it had gradually received, as it were, a soul, and had +become the exponent of a great idea. As the Norman architecture +and its forms had signified domination, so the Early English, as we +call it, signified aspiration; an idea which was perfected, as far as +it could be, in what we call the Decorated style.</p> +<p>There is an evident gap, I had almost said a gulf, between the architectural +mind of the eleventh and that of the thirteenth century. A vertical +tendency, a longing after lightness and freedom, appears; and with them +a longing to reproduce the graces of nature and art. And here +I ask you to look for yourselves at the buildings of this new era—there +is a beautiful specimen in yonder arcade <a name="citation304"></a><a href="#footnote304">{304}</a>—and +judge for yourselves whether they, and even more than they the Decorated +style into which they developed, do not remind you of the forest shapes?</p> +<p>And if they remind you: must they not have reminded those who shaped +them? Can it have been otherwise? We know that the men who +built were earnest. The carefulness, the reverence, of their work +have given a subject for some of Mr. Ruskin’s noblest chapters, +a text for some of his noblest sermons. We know that they were +students of vegetable form. That is proved by the flowers, the +leaves, even the birds, with which they enwreathed their capitals and +enriched their mouldings. Look up there, and see.</p> +<p>You cannot look at any good church-work from the thirteenth to the +middle of the fifteenth century, without seeing that leaves and flowers +were perpetually in the workman’s mind. Do you fancy that +stems and boughs were never in his mind? He kept, doubtless, in +remembrance the fundamental idea, that the Christian church should symbolise +a grot or cave. He could do no less; while he again and again +saw hermits around him dwelling and worshipping in caves, as they had +done ages before in Egypt and Syria; while he fixed, again and again, +the site of his convent and his minster in some secluded valley guarded +by cliffs and rocks, like Vale Crucis in North Wales. But his +minster stood often not among rocks only, but amid trees; in some clearing +in the primeval forest, as Vale Crucis was then. At least he could +not pass from minster to minster, from town to town, without journeying +through long miles of forest. Do you think that the awful shapes +and shadows of that forest never haunted his imagination as he built? +He would have cut down ruthlessly, as his predecessors the early missionaries +did, the sacred trees amid which Thor and Odin had been worshipped by +the heathen Saxons; amid which still darker deities were still worshipped +by the heathen tribes of Eastern Europe. But he was the descendant +of men who had worshipped in those groves; and the glamour of them was +upon him still. He peopled the wild forest with demons and fairies: +but that did not surely prevent his feeling its ennobling grandeur, +its chastening loneliness. His ancestors had held the oaks for +trees of God, even as the Jews held the Cedar, and the Hindoos likewise; +for the Deodara pine is not only, botanists tell us, the same as the +Cedar of Lebanon: but its very name—the Deodara—signifies +nought else but “The tree of God.”</p> +<p>His ancestors, I say, had held the oaks for trees of God. It +may be that as the monk sat beneath their shade with his Bible on his +knee, like good St. Boniface in the Fulda forest, he found that his +ancestors were right.</p> +<p>To understand what sort of trees they were from which he got his +inspiration: you must look, not at an average English wood, perpetually +thinned out as the trees arrive at middle age. Still less must +you look at the pines, oaks, beeches, of an English park, where each +tree has had space to develop itself freely into a more or less rounded +form. You must not even look at the tropic forests. For +there, from the immense diversity of forms, twenty varieties of tree +will grow beneath each other, forming a close-packed heap of boughs +and leaves, from the ground to a hundred feet and more aloft.</p> +<p>You should look at the North American forests of social trees—especially +of pines and firs, where trees of one species, crowded together, and +competing with equal advantages for the air and light, form themselves +into one wilderness of straight smooth shafts, surmounted by a flat +sheet of foliage, held up by boughs like the ribs of a groined roof; +while underneath the ground is bare as a cathedral floor.</p> +<p>You all know, surely, the Hemlock spruce of America; which, while +growing by itself in open ground, is the most wilful and fantastic, +as well as the most graceful, of all the firs; imitating the shape, +not of its kindred, but of an enormous tuft of fern.</p> +<p>Yet if you look at the same tree, when it has struggled long for +life from its youth amid other trees of its own kind and its own age; +you find that the lower boughs have died off from want of light, leaving +not a scar behind. The upper boughs have reached at once the light, +and their natural term of years. They are content to live, and +little more. The central trunk no longer sends up each year a +fresh perpendicular shoot to aspire above the rest: but as weary of +struggling ambition as they are, is content to become more and more +their equal as the years pass by. And this is a law of social +forest trees, which you must bear in mind, whenever I speak of the influence +of tree-forms on Gothic architecture.</p> +<p>Such forms as these are rare enough in Europe now. I never +understood how possible, how common, they must have been in medieval +Europe, till I saw in the forest of Fontainebleau a few oaks like the +oak of Charlemagne, and the Bouquet du Roi, at whose age I dare not +guess, but whose size and shape showed them to have once formed part +of a continuous wood, the like whereof remains not in these isles—perhaps +not east of the Carpathian Mountains. In them a clear shaft of +at least sixty, it may be eighty feet, carries a flat head of boughs, +each in itself a tree. In such a grove, I thought, the heathen +Gaul, even the heathen Frank, worshipped, beneath “trees of God.” +Such trees, I thought, centuries after, inspired the genius of every +builder of Gothic aisles and roofs.</p> +<p>Thus, at least, we can explain that rigidity, which Mr. Ruskin tells +us, “is a special element of Gothic architecture. Greek +and Egyptian buildings,” he says—and I should have added, +Roman buildings also, in proportion to their age, <i>i.e</i>., to the +amount of the Roman elements in them—“stand for the most +part, by their own weight and mass, one stone passively incumbent on +another: but in the Gothic vaults and traceries there is a stiffness +analogous to that of the bones of a limb, or fibres of a tree; an elastic +tension and communication of force from part to part; and also a studious +expression of this throughout every part of the building.” +In a word, Gothic vaulting and tracery have been studiously made like +to boughs of trees. Were those boughs present to the mind of the +architect? Or is the coincidence merely fortuitous? You +know already how I should answer. The cusped arch, too, was it +actually not intended to imitate vegetation? Mr. Ruskin seems +to think so. He says that it is merely the special application +to the arch of the great ornamental system of foliation, which, “whether +simple as in the cusped arch, or complicated as in tracery, arose out +of the love of leafage. Not that the form of the arch is intended +to imitate a leaf, but to be invested with the same characters of beauty +which the designer had discovered in the leaf.” Now I differ +from Mr. Ruskin with extreme hesitation. I agree that the cusped +arch is not meant to imitate a leaf. I think with Mr. Ruskin, +that it was probably first adopted on account of its superior strength; +and that it afterwards took the form of a bough. But I cannot +as yet believe that it was not at last intended to imitate a bough; +a bough of a very common form, and one in which “active rigidity” +is peculiarly shown. I mean a bough which has forked. If +the lower fork has died off, for want of light, we obtain something +like the simply cusped arch. If it be still living—but short +and stunted in comparison with the higher fork—we obtain, it seems +to me, something like the foliated cusp; both likenesses being near +enough to those of common objects to make it possible that those objects +may have suggested them. And thus, more and more boldly, the mediæval +architect learnt to copy boughs, stems, and, at last, the whole effect, +as far always as stone would allow, of a combination of rock and tree, +of grot and grove.</p> +<p>So he formed his minsters, as I believe, upon the model of those +leafy minsters in which he walked to meditate, amid the aisles which +God, not man, has built. He sent their columns aloft like the +boles of ancient trees. He wreathed their capitals, sometimes +their very shafts, with flowers and creeping shoots. He threw +their arches out, and interwove the groinings of their vaults, like +the bough-roofage overhead. He decked with foliage and fruit the +bosses above and the corbels below. He sent up out of those corbels +upright shafts along the walls, in the likeness of the trees which sprang +out of the rocks above his head. He raised those walls into great +cliffs. He pierced them with the arches of the triforium, as with +hermits’ cells. He represented in the horizontal sills of +his windows, and in his horizontal string-courses, the horizontal strata +of the rocks. He opened the windows into high and lofty glades, +broken, as in the forest, by the tracery of stems and boughs, through +which was seen, not merely the outer, but the upper world. For +he craved, as all true artists crave, for light and colour; and had +the sky above been one perpetual blue, he might have been content with +it, and left his glass transparent. But in that dark dank northern +clime, rain and snowstorm, black cloud and grey mist, were all that +he was like to see outside for nine months in the year. So he +took such light and colour as nature gave in her few gayer moods; and +set aloft his stained glass windows the hues of the noonday and the +rainbow, and the sunrise and the sunset, and the purple of the heather, +and the gold of the gorse, and the azure of the bugloss, and the crimson +of the poppy; and among them, in gorgeous robes, the angels and the +saints of heaven, and the memories of heroic virtues and heroic sufferings, +that he might lift up his own eyes and heart for ever out of the dark, +dank, sad world of the cold north, with all its coarsenesses and its +crimes, toward a realm of perpetual holiness, amid a perpetual summer +of beauty and of light; as one who—for he was true to nature, +even in that—from between the black jaws of a narrow glen, or +from beneath the black shade of gnarled trees, catches a glimpse of +far lands gay with gardens and cottages, and purple mountain ranges, +and the far off sea, and the hazy horizon melting into the hazy sky; +and finds his heart carried out into an infinite at once of freedom +and of repose.</p> +<p>And so out of the cliffs and the forests he shaped the inside of +his church. And how did he shape the outside? Look for yourselves, +and judge. But look: not at Chester, but at Salisbury. Look +at those churches which carry not mere towers, but spires, or at least +pinnacled towers approaching the pyrmidal form. The outside form +of every Gothic cathedral must be considered imperfect if it does not +culminate in something pyramidal.</p> +<p>The especial want of all Greek and Roman buildings with which we +are acquainted is the absence—save in a few and unimportant cases—of +the pyramidal form. The Egyptians knew at least the worth of the +obelisk: but the Greeks and Romans hardly knew even that: their buildings +are flat-topped. Their builders were contented with the earth +as it was. There was a great truth involved in that; which I am +the last to deny. But religions which, like the Buddhist or the +Christian, nurse a noble self-discontent, are sure to adopt sooner or +later an upward and aspiring form of building. It is not merely +that, fancying heaven to be above earth, they point towards heaven. +There is a deeper natural language in the pyramidal form of a growing +tree. It symbolises growth, or the desire of growth. The +Norman tower does nothing of the kind. It does not aspire to grow. +Look—I mention an instance with which I am most familiar—at +the Norman tower of Bury St. Edmund’s. It is graceful—awful, +if you will—but there is no aspiration in it. It is stately: +but self-content. Its horizontal courses; circular arches; above +all, its flat sky-line, seem to have risen enough: and wish to rise +no higher. For it has no touch of that unrest of soul, which is +expressed by the spire, and still more by the compound spire, with its +pinnacles, crockets, finials, which are finials only in name; for they +do not finish, and are really terminal buds, as it were, longing to +open and grow upward, even as the crockets are bracts and leaves thrown +off as the shoot has grown.</p> +<p>You feel, surely, the truth of these last words. You cannot +look at the canopy work or the pinnacle work of this cathedral without +seeing that they do not merely suggest buds and leaves, but that the +buds and leaves are there carven before your eyes. I myself cannot +look at the tabernacle work of our stalls without being reminded of +the young pine forests which clothe the Hampshire moors. But if +the details are copied from vegetable forms, why not the whole? +Is not a spire like a growing tree, a tabernacle like a fir-tree, a +compound spire like a group of firs? And if we can see that: do +you fancy that the man who planned the spire did not see it as clearly +as we do; and perhaps more clearly still?</p> +<p>I am aware, of course, that Norman architecture had sometimes its +pinnacle, a mere conical or polygonal capping. I am aware that +this form, only more and more slender, lasted on in England during the +thirteenth and the early part of the fourteenth century; and on the +Continent, under many modifications, one English kind whereof is usually +called a “broach,” of which you have a beautiful specimen +in the new church at Hoole.</p> +<p>Now, no one will deny that that broach is beautiful. But it +would be difficult to prove that its form was taken from a North European +tree. The cypress was unknown, probably, to our northern architects. +The Lombardy poplar—which has wandered hither, I know not when, +all the way from Cashmere—had not wandered then, I believe, further +than North Italy. The form is rather that of mere stone; of the +obelisk, or of the mountain peak; and they, in fact, may have at first +suggested the spire. The grandeur of an isolated mountain, even +of a dolmen or single upright stone, is evident to all.</p> +<p>But it is the grandeur, not of aspiration, but of defiance; not of +the Christian; not even of the Stoic: but rather of the Epicurean. +It says—I cannot rise. I do not care to rise. I will +be contentedly and valiantly that which I am; and face circumstances, +though I cannot conquer them. But it is defiance under defeat. +The mountain-peak does not grow, but only decays. Fretted by rains, +peeled by frost, splintered by lightning, it must down at last; and +crumble into earth, were it as old, as hard, as lofty as the Matterhorn +itself. And while it stands, it wants not only aspiration, it +wants tenderness; it wants humility; it wants the unrest which tenderness +and humility must breed, and which Mr. Ruskin so clearly recognises +in the best Gothic art. And, meanwhile, it wants naturalness. +The mere smooth spire or broach—I had almost said, even the spire +of Salisbury—is like no tall or commanding object in Nature. +It is merely the caricature of one; it may be of the mountain-peak. +The outline must be broken, must be softened, before it can express +the soul of a creed which, in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries +far more than now, was one of penitence as well as of aspiration, of +passionate emotion as well as of lofty faith. But a shape which +will express that soul must be sought, not among mineral, but among +vegetable, forms. And remember always, if we feel thus even now, +how much more must those medieval men of genius have felt thus, whose +work we now dare only copy line by line?</p> +<p>So—as it seems to me—they sought among vegetable forms +for what they needed: and they found it at once in the pine, or rather +the fir,—the spruce and silver firs of their own forests. +They are not, of course, indigenous to England. But they are so +common through all the rest of Europe, that not only would the form +suggest itself to a Continental architect, but to any English clerk +who travelled, as all did who could, across the Alps to Rome. +The fir-tree, not growing on level ground, like the oaks of Fontainebleau, +into one flat roof of foliage, but clinging to the hill-side and the +crag, old above young, spire above spire, whorl above whorl—for +the young shoots of each whorl of boughs point upward in the spring; +and now and then a whole bough, breaking away, as it were, into free +space, turns upward altogether, and forms a secondary spire on the same +tree—this surely was the form which the mediæval architect +seized, to clothe with it the sides and roof of the stone mountain which +he had built; piling up pinnacles and spires, each crocketed at the +angles; that, like a group of firs upon an isolated rock, every point +of the building might seem in act to grow toward heaven, till his idea +culminated in that glorious Minster of Cologne, which, if it ever be +completed, will be the likeness of one forest-clothed group of cliffs, +surmounted by three enormous pines.</p> +<p>One feature of the Norman temple he could keep; for it was copied +from the same nature which he was trying to copy—namely, the high-pitched +roof and gables. Mr. Ruskin lays it down as a law, that the acute +angle in roofs, gables, spires, is the distinguishing mark of northern +Gothic. It was adopted, most probably, at first from domestic +buildings. A northern house or barn must have a high-pitched roof: +or the snow will not slip off it. But that fact was not discovered +by man; it was copied by him from the rocks around. He saw the +mountain peak jut black and bare above the snows of winter; he saw those +snows slip down in sheets, rush down in torrents under the sun, from +the steep slabs of rock which coped the hill-side; and he copied, in +his roofs, the rocks above his town. But as the love for decoration +arose, he would deck his roofs as nature had decked hers, till the grey +sheets of the cathedral slates should stand out amid pinnacles and turrets +rich with foliage, as the grey mountain sides stood out amid knolls +of feathery birch and towering pine.</p> +<p>He failed, though he failed nobly. He never succeeded in attaining +a perfectly natural style.</p> +<p>The medieval architects were crippled to the last by the tradition +of artificial Roman forms. They began improving them into naturalness, +without any clear notion of what they wanted; and when that notion became +clear, it was too late. Take, as an instance, the tracery of their +windows. It is true, as Mr. Ruskin says, that they began by piercing +holes in a wall of the form of a leaf, which developed, in the rose +window, into the form of a star inside, and of a flower outside. +Look at such aloft there. Then, by introducing mullions and traceries +into the lower part of the window, they added stem and bough forms to +those flower forms. But the two did not fit. Look at the +west window of our choir, and you will see what I mean. The upright +mullions break off into bough curves graceful enough: but these are +cut short—as I hold, spoiled—by circular and triangular +forms of rose and trefoil resting on them as such forms never rest in +Nature; and the whole, though beautiful, is only half beautiful. +It is fragmentary, unmeaning, barbaric, because unnatural.</p> +<p>They failed, too, it may be, from the very paucity of the vegetable +forms they could find to copy among the flora of this colder clime; +and so, stopped short in drawing from nature, ran off into mere purposeless +luxuriance. Had they been able to add to their stock of memories +a hundred forms which they would have seen in the Tropics, they might +have gone on for centuries copying Nature without exhausting her.</p> +<p>And yet, did they exhaust even the few forms of beauty which they +saw around them? It must be confessed that they did not. +I believe that they could not, because they dared not. The unnaturalness +of the creed which they expressed always hampered them. It forbade +them to look Nature freely and lovingly in the face. It forbade +them—as one glaring example—to know anything truly of the +most beautiful of all natural objects—the human form. They +were tempted perpetually to take Nature as ornament, not as basis; and +they yielded at last to the temptation; till, in the age of Perpendicular +architecture, their very ornament became unnatural again; because conventional, +untrue, meaningless.</p> +<p>But the creed for which they worked was dying by that time, and therefore +the art which expressed it must needs die too. And even that death, +or rather the approach of it, was symbolised truly in the flatter roof, +the four-centred arch, the flat-topped tower of the fifteenth-century +church. The creed had ceased to aspire: so did the architecture. +It had ceased to grow: so did the temple. And the arch sank lower; +and the rafters grew more horizontal; and the likeness to the old tree, +content to grow no more, took the place of the likeness to the young +tree struggling toward the sky.</p> +<p>And now—unless you are tired of listening to me—a few +practical words.</p> +<p>We are restoring our old cathedral stone by stone after its ancient +model. We are also trying to build a new church. We are +building it—as most new churches in England are now built—in +a pure Gothic style.</p> +<p>Are we doing right? I do not mean morally right. It is +always morally right to build a new church, if needed, whatever be its +architecture. It is always morally right to restore an old church, +if it be beautiful and noble, as an heirloom handed down to us by our +ancestors, which we have no right—I say, no right—for the +sake of our children, and of our children’s children, to leave +to ruin.</p> +<p>But are we artistically, æsthetically right? Is the best +Gothic fit for our worship? Does it express our belief? +Or shall we choose some other style?</p> +<p>I say that it is; and that it is so because it is a style which, +if not founded on Nature, has taken into itself more of Nature, of Nature +beautiful and healthy, than any other style.</p> +<p>With greater knowledge of Nature, both geographical and scientific, +fresh styles of architecture may and will arise, as much more beautiful, +and as much more natural, than the Gothic, as Gothic is more beautiful +and natural than the Norman. Till then we must take the best models +which we have; use them; and, as it were, use them up and exhaust them. +By that time we may have learnt to improve on them; and to build churches +more Gothic than Gothic itself, more like grot and grove than even a +northern cathedral.</p> +<p>That is the direction in which we must work. And if any shall +say to us, as it has been said ere now—“After all, your +new Gothic churches are but imitations, shams, borrowed symbols, which +to you symbolise nothing. They are Romish churches, meant to express +Romish doctrine, built for a Protestant creed which they do not express, +and for a Protestant worship which they will not fit.” Then +we shall answer—Not so. The objection might be true if we +built Norman or Romanesque churches; for we should then be returning +to that very foreign and unnatural style which Rome taught our forefathers, +and from which they escaped gradually into the comparative freedom, +the comparative naturalness of that true Gothic of which Mr. Ruskin +says so well:—</p> +<blockquote><p>“It is gladdening to remember that, in its utmost +nobleness, the very temper which has been thought most averse to it, +the Protestant temper of self-dependence and inquiry, were expressed +in every case. Faith and aspiration there were in every Christian +ecclesiastical building from the first century to the fifteenth: but +the moral habits to which England in this age owes the kind of greatness +which she has—the habits of philosophical investigation, of accurate +thought, of domestic seclusion and independence, of stern self-reliance, +and sincere upright searching into religious truth,—were only +traceable in the features which were the distinctive creations of the +Gothic schools, in the varied foliage and thorny fretwork, and shadowy +niche, and buttressed pier, and fearless height of subtle pinnacle and +crested tower, sent ‘like an unperplexed question up to heaven.’”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>So says Mr. Ruskin. I, for one, endorse his gallant words. +And I think that a strong proof of their truth is to be found in two +facts, which seem at first paradoxical. First, that the new Roman +Catholic churches on the Continent—I speak especially of France, +which is the most highly cultivated Romanist country—are, like +those which the Jesuits built in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, +less and less Gothic. The former were sham-classic; the latter +are rather of a new fantastic Romanesque, or rather Byzantinesque style, +which is a real retrogression from Gothic towards earlier and less natural +schools. Next, that the Puritan communions, the Kirk of Scotland +and the English Nonconformists, as they are becoming more cultivated—and +there are now many highly cultivated men among them—are introducing +Gothic architecture more and more into their churches. There are +elements in it, it seems, which do not contradict their Puritanism; +elements which they can adapt to their own worship; namely, the very +elements which Mr. Ruskin has discerned.</p> +<p>But if they can do so, how much more can we of the Church of England? +As long as we go on where our medieval forefathers left off; as long +as we keep to the most perfect types of their work, in waiting for the +day when we shall be able to surpass them, by making our work even more +naturalistic than theirs, more truly expressive of the highest aspirations +of humanity: so long we are reverencing them, and that latent Protestantism +in them, which produced at last the Reformation.</p> +<p>And if any should say—“Nevertheless, your Protestant +Gothic church, though you made it ten times more beautiful, and more +symbolic, than Cologne Minster itself, would still be a sham. +For where would be your images? And still more, where would be +your Host? Do you not know that in the medieval church the vistas +of its arcades, the alternations of its lights and shadows, the gradations +of its colouring, and all its carefully subordinated wealth of art, +pointed to, were concentrated round, one sacred spot, as a curve, however +vast its sweep though space, tends at every moment toward a single focus? +And that spot, that focus, was, and is still, in every Romish church, +the body of God, present upon the altar in the form of bread? +Without Him, what is all your building? Your church is empty: +your altar bare; a throne without a king; an eye-socket without an eye.”</p> +<p>My friends, if we be true children of those old worthies, whom Tacitus +saw worshipping beneath the German oaks; we shall have but one answer +to that scoff:—</p> +<p>We know it; and we glory in the fact. We glory in it, as the +old Jews gloried in it, when the Roman soldiers, bursting through the +Temple, and into the Holy of Holies itself, paused in wonder and in +awe when they beheld neither God, nor image of God, but blank yet all-suggestive—the +empty mercy-seat.</p> +<p>Like theirs, our altar is an empty throne. For it symbolises +our worship of Him who dwelleth not in temples made with hands; whom +the heaven and the heaven of heavens cannot contain. Our eye-socket +holds no eye. For it symbolises our worship of that Eye which +is over all the earth; which is about our path, and about our bed, and +spies out all our ways. We need no artificial and material presence +of Deity. For we believe in That One Eternal and Universal Real +Presence—of which it is written “He is not far from any +one of us; for in God we live, and move, and have our being;” +and again, “Lo, I am with you, even to the End of the World;” +and again—“Wheresoever two or three are gathered together +in My Name, there am I in the midst of them.”</p> +<p>He is the God of nature, as well as the God of grace. For ever +He looks down on all things which He has made: and behold, they are +very good. And, therefore, we dare offer to Him, in our churches, +the most perfect works of naturalistic art, and shape them into copies +of whatever beauty He has shown us, in man or woman, in cave or mountain +peak, in tree or flower, even in bird or butterfly.</p> +<p>But Himself?—Who can see Him? Except the humble and the +contrite heart, to whom He reveals Himself as a Spirit to be worshipped +in spirit and in truth, and not in bread, nor wood, nor stone, nor gold, +nor quintessential diamond.</p> +<p>So we shall obey the sound instinct of our Christian forefathers, +when they shaped their churches into forest aisles, and decked them +with the boughs of the woodland, and the flowers of the field: but we +shall obey too, that sounder instinct of theirs, which made them at +last cast out of their own temples, as misplaced and unnatural things, +the idols which they had inherited from Rome.</p> +<p>So we shall obey the sound instinct of our heathen forefathers, when +they worshipped the unknown God beneath the oaks of the primeval forest: +but we shall obey, too, that sounder instinct of theirs, which taught +them this, at least, concerning God—That it was beneath His dignity +to coop Him within walls; and that the grandest forms of nature, as +well as the deepest consciousnesses of their own souls, revealed to +them a mysterious Being, who was to be beheld by faith alone.</p> +<h2>GEORGE BUCHANAN, SCHOLAR</h2> +<p>The scholar, in the sixteenth century, was a far more important personage +than now. The supply of learned men was very small, the demand +for them very great. During the whole of the fifteenth, and a +great part of the sixteenth century, the human mind turned more and +more from the scholastic philosophy of the Middle Ages to that of the +Romans and the Greeks; and found more and more in old Pagan Art an element +which Monastic Art had not, and which was yet necessary for the full +satisfaction of their craving after the Beautiful. At such a crisis +of thought and taste, it was natural that the classical scholar, the +man who knew old Rome, and still more old Greece, should usurp the place +of the monk, as teacher of mankind; and that scholars should form, for +a while, a new and powerful aristocracy, limited and privileged, and +all the more redoubtable, because its power lay in intellect, and had +been won by intellect alone.</p> +<p>Those who, whether poor or rich, did not fear the monk and priest, +at least feared the “scholar,” who held, so the vulgar believed, +the keys of that magic lore by which the old necromancers had built +cities like Rome, and worked marvels of mechanical and chemical skill, +which the degenerate modern could never equal.</p> +<p>If the “scholar” stopped in a town, his hostess probably +begged of him a charm against toothache or rheumatism. The penniless +knight discoursed with him on alchemy, and the chances of retrieving +his fortune by the art of transmuting metals into gold. The queen +or bishop worried him in private about casting their nativities, and +finding their fates among the stars. But the statesman, who dealt +with more practical matters, hired him as an advocate and rhetorician, +who could fight his master’s enemies with the weapons of Demosthenes +and Cicero. Wherever the scholar’s steps were turned, he +might be master of others, as long as he was master of himself. +The complaints which he so often uttered concerning the cruelty of fortune, +the fickleness of princes, and so forth, were probably no more just +then than such complaints are now. Then, as now, he got his deserts; +and the world bought him at his own price. If he chose to sell +himself to this patron and to that, he was used and thrown away: if +he chose to remain in honourable independence, he was courted and feared.</p> +<p>Among the successful scholars of the sixteenth century, none surely +is more notable than George Buchanan. The poor Scotch widow’s +son, by force of native wit, and, as I think, by force of native worth, +fights his way upward, through poverty and severest persecution, to +become the correspondent and friend of the greatest literary celebrities +of the Continent, comparable, in their opinion, to the best Latin poets +of antiquity; the preceptor of princes; the counsellor and spokesman +of Scotch statesmen in the most dangerous of times; and leaves behind +him political treatises, which have influenced not only the history +of his own country, but that of the civilised world.</p> +<p>Such a success could not be attained without making enemies, perhaps +without making mistakes. But the more we study George Buchanan’s +history, the less we shall be inclined to hunt out his failings, the +more inclined to admire his worth. A shrewd, sound-hearted, affectionate +man, with a strong love of right and scorn of wrong, and a humour withal +which saved him—except on really great occasions—from bitterness, +and helped him to laugh where narrower natures would have only snarled,—he +is, in many respects, a type of those Lowland Scots, who long preserved +his jokes, genuine or reputed, as a common household book. <a name="citation328"></a><a href="#footnote328">{328}</a> +A schoolmaster by profession, and struggling for long years amid the +temptations which, in those days, degraded his class into cruel and +sordid pedants, he rose from the mere pedagogue to be, in the best sense +of the word, a courtier; “One,” says Daniel Heinsius, “who +seemed not only born for a court, but born to amend it. He brought +to his queen that at which she could not wonder enough. For, by +affecting a certain liberty in censuring morals, he avoided all offence, +under the cloak of simplicity.” Of him and his compeers, +Turnebus, and Muretus, and their friend Andrea Govea, Ronsard, the French +court poet, said that they had nothing of the pedagogue about them but +the gown and cap. “Austere in face, and rustic in his looks,” +says David Buchanan, “but most polished in style and speech; and +continually, even in serious conversation, jesting most wittily.” +“Roughhewn, slovenly, and rude,” says Peacham, in his ‘Compleat +Gentleman,’ speaking of him, probably, as he appeared in old age, +“in his person, behaviour, and fashion; seldom caring for a better +outside than a rugge-gown girt close about him: yet his inside and conceipt +in poesie was most rich, and his sweetness and facilitie in verse most +excellent.” A typical Lowland Scot, as I said just now, +he seems to have absorbed all the best culture which France could afford +him, without losing the strength, honesty, and humour which he inherited +from his Stirlingshire kindred.</p> +<p>The story of his life is easily traced. When an old man, he +himself wrote down the main events of it, at the request of his friends; +and his sketch has been filled out by commentators, if not always favourable, +at least erudite. Born in 1506, at the Moss, in Killearn—where +an obelisk to his memory, so one reads, has been erected in this century—of +a family “rather ancient than rich,” his father dead in +the prime of manhood, his grandfather a spendthrift, he and his seven +brothers and sisters were brought up by a widowed mother, Agnes Heriot—of +whom one wishes to know more; for the rule that great sons have great +mothers probably holds good in her case. George gave signs, while +at the village school, of future scholarship; and when he was only fourteen, +his uncle James sent him to the University of Paris. Those were +hard times; and the youths, or rather boys, who meant to become scholars, +had a cruel life of it, cast desperately out on the wide world to beg +and starve, either into self-restraint and success, or into ruin of +body and soul. And a cruel life George had. Within two years +he was down in a severe illness, his uncle dead, his supplies stopped; +and the boy of sixteen got home, he does not tell how. Then he +tried soldiering; and was with Albany’s French Auxiliaries at +the ineffectual attack on Wark Castle. Marching back through deep +snow, he got a fresh illness, which kept him in bed all winter. +Then he and his brother were sent to St. Andrew’s, where he got +his B.A. at nineteen. The next summer he went to France once more; +and “fell,” he says, “into the flames of the Lutheran +sect, which was then spreading far and wide.” Two years +of penury followed; and then three years of schoolmastering in the College +of St. Barbe, which he has immortalised—at least for the few who +care to read modern Latin poetry—in his elegy on ‘The Miseries +of a Parisian Teacher of the Humanities.’ The wretched regent +master, pale and suffering, sits up all night preparing his lecture, +biting his nails, and thumping his desk; and falls asleep for a few +minutes, to start up at the sound of the four o’clock bell, and +be in school by five, his Virgil in one hand, and his rod in the other, +trying to do work on his own account at old manuscripts, and bawling +all the while at his wretched boys, who cheat him, and pay each other +to answer to truants’ names. The class is all wrong. +“One is barefoot, another’s shoe is burst, another cries, +another writes home. Then comes the rod, the sound of blows and +howls; and the day passes in tears.” “Then mass, then +another lesson, then more blows; there is hardly time to eat.”—I +have no space to finish the picture of the stupid misery which, Buchanan +says, was ruining his intellect, while it starved his body. However, +happier days came. Gilbert Kennedy, Earl of Cassilis, who seems +to have been a noble young gentleman, took him as his tutor for the +next five years; and with him he went back to Scotland.</p> +<p>But there his plain speaking got him, as it did more than once afterward, +into trouble. He took it into his head to write, in imitation +of Dunbar, a Latin poem, in which St. Francis asks him in a dream to +become a Grey Friar, and Buchanan answered in language which had the +unpleasant fault of being too clever, and—to judge from contemporary +evidence—only too true. The friars said nothing at first: +but when King James made Buchanan tutor to one of his natural sons, +they, “men professing meekness, took the matter somewhat more +angrily than befitted men so pious in the opinion of the people.” +So Buchanan himself puts it: but, to do the poor friars justice, they +must have been angels, not men, if they did not writhe somewhat under +the scourge which he had laid on them. To be told that there was +hardly a place in heaven for monks, was hard to hear and bear. +They accused him to the king of heresy: but not being then in favour +with James, they got no answer, and Buchanan was commanded to repeat +the castigation. Having found out that the friars were not to +be touched with impunity, he wrote, he says, a short and ambiguous poem. +But the king, who loved a joke, demanded something sharp and stinging, +and Buchanan obeyed by writing, but not publishing, the ‘Franciscans,’ +a long satire, compared to which the ‘Somnium’ was bland +and merciful. The storm rose. Cardinal Beaton, Buchanan +says, wanted to buy him of the king, and then, of course, burn him, +as he had just burnt five poor souls: so, knowing James’s avarice, +he fled to England, through freebooters and pestilence.</p> +<p>There he found, he says, “men of both factions being burned +on the same day and in the same fire”—a pardonable exaggeration—“by +Henry VIII., in his old age more intent on his own safety than on the +purity of religion.” So to his beloved France he went again, +to find his enemy Beaton ambassador at Paris. The capital was +too hot to hold him; and he fled south to Bourdeaux, to Andrea Govea, +the Portuguese principal of the College of Gruienne. As Professor +of Latin at Bourdeaux, we find him presenting a Latin poem to Charles +V.; and indulging that fancy of his for Latin poetry which seems to +us now-a-days a childish pedantry; which was then—when Latin was +the vernacular tongue of all scholars—a serious, if not altogether +a useful, pursuit. Of his tragedies, so famous in their day—the +‘Baptist,’ the ‘Medea,’ the ‘Jephtha,’ +and the ‘Alcestis’—there is neither space nor need +to speak here, save to notice the bold declamations in the ‘Baptist’ +against tyranny and priestcraft; and to notice also that these tragedies +gained for the poor Scotsman, in the eyes of the best scholars of Europe, +a credit amounting almost to veneration. When he returned to Paris, +he found occupation at once; and—as his Scots biographers love +to record—“three of the most learned men in the world taught +humanity in the same college,” viz., Turnebus, Muretus, and Buchanan.</p> +<p>Then followed a strange episode in his life. A university had +been founded at Coimbra, in Portugal, and Andrea Govea had been invited +to bring thither what French savans he could collect. Buchanan +went to Portugal with his brother Patrick; two more Scotsmen, Dempster +and Ramsay: and a goodly company of French scholars, whose names and +histories may be read in the erudite pages of Dr. Irving, went likewise. +All prospered in the new Temple of the Muses for a year or so. +Then its high-priest, Govea, died; and, by a peripeteia too common in +those days and countries, Buchanan and two of his friends migrated, +unwillingly, from the Temple of the Muses for that of Moloch, and found +themselves in the Inquisition.</p> +<p>Buchanan, it seems, had said that St. Augustine was more of a Lutheran +than a Catholic on the question of the mass. He and his friends +had eaten flesh in Lent; which, he says, almost everyone in Spain did. +But he was suspected, and with reason, as a heretic; the Grey Friars +formed but one brotherhood throughout Europe; and news among them travelled +surely if not fast: so that the story of the satire written in Scotland +had reached Portugal. The culprits were imprisoned, examined, +bullied—but not tortured—for a year and a half. At +the end of that time, the proofs of heresy, it seems, were insufficient; +but lest—says Buchanan with honest pride—“they should +get the reputation of having vainly tormented a man not altogether unknown,” +they sent him for some months to a monastery, to be instructed by the +monks. “The men,” he says, “were neither inhuman +nor bad, but utterly ignorant of religion;” and Buchanan solaced +himself during the intervals of their instructions, by beginning his +Latin translation of the Psalms.</p> +<p>At last he got free, and begged leave to return to France; but in +vain. Wearied out at last, he got on board a Candian ship at Lisbon, +and escaped to England. But England, he says, during the anarchy +of Edward VI.’s reign, was not a land which suited him; and he +returned to his beloved France, to fulfil the hopes which he had expressed +in his charming ‘Desiderium Lutitiæ,’ and the still +more charming, because more simple, ‘Adventus in Galliam,’ +in which he bids farewell, in most melodious verse, to “the hungry +moors of wretched Portugal, and her clods fertile in naught but penury.”</p> +<p>Some seven years succeeded of schoolmastering and verse-writing:—The +Latin paraphrase of the Psalms; another of the ‘Alcestis’ +of Euripides; an Epithalamium on the marriage of poor Mary Stuart, noble +and sincere, however fantastic and pedantic, after the manner of the +times; “Pomps,” too, for her wedding, and for other public +ceremonies, in which all the heathen gods and goddesses figure; epigrams, +panegyrics, satires, much of which latter productions he would have +consigned to the dust-heap in his old age, had not his too fond friends +persuaded him to republish the follies and coarsenesses of his youth. +He was now one of the most famous scholars in Europe, and the intimate +friend of all the great literary men. Was he to go on to the end, +die, and no more? Was he to sink into the mere pedant; or, if +he could not do that, into the mere court versifier?</p> +<p>The wars of religion saved him, as they saved many another noble +soul, from that degradation. The events of 1560-1-2 forced Buchanan, +as they forced many a learned man besides, to choose whether he would +be a child of light or a child of darkness; whether he would be a dilettante +classicist, or a preacher—it might be a martyr—of the Gospel. +Buchanan may have left France in “the troubles” merely to +enjoy in his own country elegant and learned repose. He may have +fancied that he had found it, when he saw himself, in spite of his public +profession of adherence to the Reformed Kirk, reading Livy every afternoon +with his exquisite young sovereign; master, by her favour, of the temporalities +of Crossraguel Abbey, and by the favour of Murray, Principal of St. +Leonard’s College in St. Andrew’s. Perhaps he fancied +at times that “to-morrow was to be as to-day, and much more abundant;” +that thenceforth he might read his folio, and write his epigram, and +joke his joke, as a lazy comfortable pluralist, taking his morning stroll +out to the corner where poor Wishart had been burned, above the blue +sea and the yellow sands, and looking up to the castle tower from whence +his enemy Beaton’s corpse had been hung out; with the comfortable +reflection that quietier times had come, and that whatever evil deeds +Archbishop Hamilton might dare, he would not dare to put the Principal +of St. Leonard’s into the “bottle dungeon.”</p> +<p>If such hopes ever crossed Geordie’s keen fancy, they were +disappointed suddenly and fearfully. The fire which had been kindled +in France was to reach to Scotland likewise. “Revolutions +are not made with rose-water;” and the time was at hand when all +good spirits in Scotland, and George Buchanan among them, had to choose, +once and for all, amid danger, confusion, terror, whether they would +serve God or Mammon; for to serve both would be soon impossible.</p> +<p>Which side, in that war of light and darkness, George Buchanan took, +is notorious. He saw then, as others have seen since, that the +two men in Scotland who were capable of being her captains in the strife +were Knox and Murray; and to them he gave in his allegiance heart and +soul.</p> +<p>This is the critical epoch in Buchanan’s life. By his +conduct to Queen Mary he must stand or fall. It is my belief that +he will stand. It is not my intention to enter into the details +of a matter so painful, so shocking, so prodigious; and now that that +question is finally set at rest, by the writings both of Mr. Froude +and Mr. Burton, there is no need to allude to it further, save where +Buchanan’s name is concerned. One may now have every sympathy +with Mary Stuart; one may regard with awe a figure so stately, so tragic, +in one sense so heroic,—for she reminds one rather of the heroine +of an old Greek tragedy, swept to her doom by some irresistible fate, +than of a being of our own flesh and blood, and of our modern and Christian +times. One may sympathise with the great womanhood which charmed +so many while she was alive; which has charmed, in later years, so many +noble spirits who have believed in her innocence, and have doubtless +been elevated and purified by their devotion to one who seemed to them +an ideal being. So far from regarding her as a hateful personage, +one may feel oneself forbidden to hate a woman whom God may have loved, +and may have pardoned, to judge from the punishment so swift, and yet +so enduring, which He inflicted. At least, he must so believe +who holds that punishment is a sign of mercy; that the most dreadful +of all dooms is impunity. Nay, more, those “casket” +letters and sonnets may be a relief to the mind of one who believes +in her guilt on other grounds; a relief when one finds in them a tenderness, +a sweetness, a delicacy, a magnificent self-sacrifice, however hideously +misplaced, which shows what a womanly heart was there; a heart which, +joined to that queenly brain, might have made her a blessing and a glory +to Scotland, had not the whole character been warped and ruinate from +childhood, by an education so abominable, that any one who knows what +words she must have heard, what scenes she must have beheld in France, +from her youth up, will wonder that she sinned so little: not that she +sinned so much. One may feel, in a word, that there is every excuse +for those who have asserted Mary’s innocence, because their own +high-mindedness shrank from believing her guilty: but yet Buchanan, +in his own place and time, may have felt as deeply that he could do +no otherwise than he did.</p> +<p>The charges against him, as all readers of Scotch literature know +well, may be reduced to two heads. 1st. The letters and sonnets +were forgeries. Maitland of Lethington may have forged the letters; +Buchanan, according to some, the sonnets. Whoever forged them, +Buchanan made use of them in his Detection, knowing them to be forged. +2nd. Whether Mary was innocent or not, Buchanan acted a base and ungrateful +part in putting himself in the forefront amongst her accusers. +He had been her tutor, her pensioner. She had heaped him with +favours; and, after all, she was his queen, and a defenceless woman: +and yet he returned her kindness, in the hour of her fall, by invectives +fit only for a rancorous and reckless advocate, determined to force +a verdict by the basest arts of oratory.</p> +<p>Now as to the “casket” letters. I should have thought +they bore in themselves the best evidence of being genuine. I +can add nothing to the arguments of Mr. Froude and Mr. Burton, save +this: that no one clever enough to be a forger, would have put together +documents so incoherent, and so incomplete. For the evidence of +guilt which they contain is, after all, slight and indirect, and, moreover, +superfluous altogether; seeing that Mary’s guilt was open and +palpable, before the supposed discovery of the letters, to every person +at home and abroad who had any knowledge of the facts. As for +the alleged inconsistency of the letters with proven facts: the answer +is, that whosoever wrote the letters would be more likely to know facts +which were taking place around them than any critic could be one hundred +or three hundred years afterwards. But if these mistakes as to +facts actually exist in them, they are only a fresh argument for their +authenticity. Mary, writing in agony and confusion, might easily +make a mistake: forgers would only take too good care to make none.</p> +<p>But the strongest evidence in favour of the letters and sonnets, +in spite of the arguments of good Dr. Whittaker and other apologists +for Mary, is to be found in their tone. A forger in those coarse +days would have made Mary write in some Semiramis or Roxana vein, utterly +alien to the tenderness, the delicacy, the pitiful confusion of mind, +the conscious weakness, the imploring and most feminine trust which +makes the letters, to those who—as I do—believe in them, +more pathetic than any fictitious sorrows which poets could invent. +More than one touch, indeed, of utter self-abasement, in the second +letter, is so unexpected, so subtle, and yet so true to the heart of +woman, that—as has been well said—if it was invented there +must have existed in Scotland an earlier Shakespeare; who yet has died +without leaving any other sign, for good or evil, of his dramatic genius.</p> +<p>As for the theory (totally unsupported) that Buchanan forged the +poem usually called the Sonnets; it is paying old Geordie’s genius, +however versatile it may have been, too high a compliment to believe +that he could have written both them and the Detection; while it is +paying his shrewdness too low a compliment to believe that he could +have put into them, out of mere carelessness or stupidity, the well-known +line, which seems incompatible with the theory both of the letters and +of his own Detection; and which has ere now been brought forward as +a fresh proof of Mary’s innocence.</p> +<p>And, as with the letters, so with the sonnets: their delicacy, their +grace, their reticence, are so many arguments against their having been +forged by any Scot of the sixteenth century, and least of all by one +in whose character—whatever his other virtues may have been—delicacy +was by no means the strongest point.</p> +<p>As for the complaint that Buchanan was ungrateful to Mary, it must +be said: That even if she, and not Murray, had bestowed on him the temporalities +of Crossraguel Abbey four years before, it was merely fair pay for services +fairly rendered; and I am not aware that payment, or even favours, however +gracious, bind any man’s soul and conscience in questions of highest +morality and highest public importance. And the importance of +that question cannot be exaggerated. At a moment when Scotland +seemed struggling in death-throes of anarchy, civil and religious, and +was in danger of becoming a prey either to England or to France, if +there could not be formed out of the heart of her a people, steadfast, +trusty, united, strong politically because strong in the fear of God +and the desire of righteousness—at such a moment as this, a crime +had been committed, the like of which had not been heard in Europe since +the tragedy of Joan of Naples. All Europe stood aghast. +The honour of the Scottish nation was at stake. More than Mary +or Bothwell were known to be implicated in the deed; and—as Buchanan +puts it in the opening of his ‘De Jure Regni’—“The +fault of some few was charged upon all; and the common hatred of a particular +person did redound to the whole nation; so that even such as were remote +from any suspicion were inflamed by the infamy of men’s crimes.” +<a name="citation343"></a><a href="#footnote343">{343}</a></p> +<p>To vindicate the national honour, and to punish the guilty, as well +as to save themselves from utter anarchy, the great majority of the +Scotch nation had taken measures against Mary which required explicit +justification in the sight of Europe, as Buchanan frankly confesses +in the opening of his “De Jure Regni.” The chief authors +of those measures had been summoned, perhaps unwisely and unjustly, +to answer for their conduct to the Queen of England. Queen Elizabeth—a +fact which was notorious enough then, though it has been forgotten till +the last few years—was doing her utmost to shield Mary. +Buchanan was deputed, it seems, to speak out for the people of Scotland; +and certainly never people had an abler apologist. If he spoke +fiercely, savagely, it must be remembered that he spoke of a fierce +and savage matter; if he used—and it may be abused—all the +arts of oratory, it must be remembered that he was fighting for the +honour, and it may be for the national life, of his country, and striking—as +men in such cases have a right to strike—as hard as he could. +If he makes no secret of his indignation, and even contempt, it must +be remembered that indignation and contempt may well have been real +with him, while they were real with the soundest part of his countrymen; +with that reforming middle class, comparatively untainted by French +profligacy, comparatively undebauched by feudal subservience, which +has been the leaven which has leavened the whole Scottish people in +the last three centuries with the elements of their greatness. +If, finally, he heaps up against the unhappy Queen charges which Mr. +Burton thinks incredible, it must be remembered that, as he well says, +these charges give the popular feeling about Queen Mary; and it must +be remembered also, that that popular feeling need not have been altogether +unfounded. Stories which are incredible, thank God, in these milder +days, were credible enough then, because, alas! they were so often true. +Things more ugly than any related of poor Mary, were possible enough—as +no one knew better than Buchanan—in that very French court in +which Mary had been brought up; things as ugly were possible in Scotland +then, and for at least a century later; and while we may hope that Buchanan +has overstated his case, we must not blame him too severely for yielding +to a temptation common to all men of genius when their creative power +is roused to its highest energy by a great cause and a great indignation.</p> +<p>And that the genius was there, no man can doubt; one cannot read +that “hideously eloquent” description of Kirk o’ Field, +which Mr. Burton has well chosen as a specimen of Buchanan’s style, +without seeing that we are face to face with a genius of a very lofty +order: not, indeed, of the loftiest—for there is always in Buchanan’s +work, it seems to me, a want of unconsciousness, and a want of tenderness—but +still a genius worthy to be placed beside those ancient writers from +whom he took his manner. Whether or not we agree with his contemporaries, +who say that he equalled Virgil in Latin poetry, we may place him fairly +as a prose writer by the side of Demosthenes, Cicero, or Tacitus. +And so I pass from this painful subject; only quoting—if I may +be permitted to quote—Mr. Burton’s wise and gentle verdict +on the whole. “Buchanan,” he says, “though a +zealous Protestant, had a good deal of the Catholic and sceptical spirit +of Erasmus, and an admiring eye for everything that was great and beautiful. +Like the rest of his countrymen, he bowed himself in presence of the +lustre that surrounded the early career of his mistress. More +than once he expressed his pride and reverence in the inspiration of +a genius deemed by his contemporaries to be worthy of the theme. +There is not, perhaps, to be found elsewhere in literature so solemn +a memorial of shipwrecked hopes, of a sunny opening and a stormy end, +as one finds in turning the leaves of the volume which contains the +beautiful epigram ‘Nympha Caledoniæ’ in one part, +the ‘Detectio Mariæ Reginæ’ in another; and +this contrast is, no doubt, a faithful parallel of the reaction in the +popular mind. This reaction seems to have been general, and not +limited to the Protestant party; for the conditions under which it became +almost a part of the creed of the Church of Rome to believe in her innocence +had not arisen.”</p> +<p>If Buchanan, as some of his detractors have thought, raised himself +by subserviency to the intrigues of the Regent Murray, the best heads +in Scotland seem to have been of a different opinion. The murder +of Murray did not involve Buchanan’s fall. He had avenged +it, as far as pen could do it, by that ‘Admonition Direct to the +Trew Lordis,’ in which he showed himself as great a master of +Scottish, as he was of Latin, prose. His satire of the ‘Chameleon,’ +though its publication was stopped by Maitland, must have been read +in manuscript by many of those same “True Lords;” and though +there were nobler instincts in Maitland than any Buchanan gave him credit +for, the satire breathed an honest indignation against that wily turncoat’s +misdoings, which could not but recommend the author to all honest men. +Therefore it was, I presume, and not because he was a rogue, and a hired +literary spadassin, that to the best heads in Scotland he seemed so +useful, it may be so worthy, a man, that he be provided with continually +increasing employment. As tutor to James I.; as director, for +a short time, of the chancery; as keeper of the privy seal, and privy +councillor; as one of the commissioners for codifying the laws, and +again—for in the semi-anarchic state of Scotland, government had +to do everything in the way of organisation—in the committee for +promulgating a standard Latin grammar; in the committee for reforming +the University of St. Andrew’s: in all these Buchanan’s +talents were again and again called for; and always ready. The +value of his work, especially that for the reform of St. Andrew’s, +must be judged by Scotchmen, rather than by an Englishman: but all that +one knows of it justifies Melville’s sentence in the well-known +passage in his memoirs, wherein he describes the tutors and household +of the young King. “Mr. George was a Stoic philosopher, +who looked not far before him;” in plain words, a high-minded +and right-minded man, bent on doing the duty which lay nearest him. +The worst that can be said against him during these times is, that his +name appears with the sum of £100 against it, as one of those +“who were to be entertained in Scotland by pensions out of England”; +and Ruddiman, of course, comments on the fact by saying that Buchanan +“was at length to act under the threefold character of malcontent, +reformer, and pensioner:” but it gives no proof whatsoever that +Buchanan ever received any such bribe; and in the very month, seemingly, +in which that list was written—10th March, 1579—Buchanan +had given a proof to the world that he was not likely to be bribed or +bought, by publishing a book, as offensive probably to Queen Elizabeth +as it was to his own royal pupil; namely, his famous ‘De Jure +Regni apud Scotos,’ the very primer, according to many great thinkers, +of constitutional liberty. He dedicates that book to King James, +“not only as his monitor, but also an importunate and bold exactor, +which in these his tender and flexible years may conduct him in safety +past the rocks of flattery.” He has complimented James already +on his abhorrence of flattery, “his inclination far above his +years for undertaking all heroical and noble attempts, his promptitude +in obeying his instructors and governors, and all who give him sound +admonition, and his judgment and diligence in examining affairs, so +that no man’s authority can have much weight with him unless it +be confirmed by probable reasons.” Buchanan may have thought +that nine years of his stern rule had eradicated some of James’s +ill conditions; the petulance which made him kill the Master of Mar’s +sparrow, in trying to wrest it out of his hand; the carelessness with +which—if the story told by Chytræus, on the authority of +Buchanan’s nephew, be true—James signed away his crown to +Buchanan for fifteen days, and only discovered his mistake by seeing +Buchanan act in open court the character of King of Scots. Buchanan +had at last made him a scholar; he may have fancied that he had made +him likewise a manful man: yet he may have dreaded that, as James grew +up, the old inclinations would return in stronger and uglier shapes, +and that flattery might be, as it was after all, the cause of James’s +moral ruin. He at least will be no flatterer. He opens the +dialogue which he sends to the king, with a calm but distinct assertion +of his mother’s guilt, and a justification of the conduct of men +who were now most of them past helping Buchanan, for they were laid +in their graves; and then goes on to argue fairly, but to lay down firmly, +in a sort of Socratic dialogue, those very principles by loyalty to +which the House of Hanover has reigned, and will reign, over these realms. +So with his History of Scotland; later antiquarian researches have destroyed +the value of the earlier portions of it: but they have surely increased +the value of those later portions, in which Buchanan inserted so much +which he had already spoken out in his Detection of Mary. In that +book also, “liberavit animam suam;” he spoke his mind, fearless +of consequences, in the face of a king who he must have known—for +Buchanan was no dullard—regarded him with deep dislike, who might +in a few years be able to work his ruin.</p> +<p>But those few years were not given to Buchanan. He had all +but done his work, and he hastened to get it over before the night should +come wherein no man can work. One must be excused for telling—one +would not tell it in a book intended to be read only by Scotchmen, who +know or ought to know the tale already—how the two Melvilles and +Buchanan’s nephew Thomas went to see him in Edinburgh, in September, +1581, hearing that he was ill, and his History still in the press; and +how they found the old sage, true to his schoolmaster’s instincts, +teaching the Hornbook to his servant-lad; and how he told them that +doing that was “better than stealing sheep, or sitting idle, which +was as bad,” and showed them that dedication to James I., in which +he holds up to his imitation as a hero whose equal was hardly to be +found in history, that very King David whose liberality to the Romish +Church provoked James’s witticism that “David was a sair +saint for the crown.” Andrew Melville, so James Melville +says, found fault with the style. Buchanan replied that he could +do no more for thinking of another thing, which was to die. They +then went to Arbuthnot’s printing-house, and inspected the history, +as far as that terrible passage concerning Rizzio’s burial, where +Mary is represented as “laying the miscreant almost in the arms +of Maud de Valois, the late queen.” Alarmed, and not without +reason, at such plain speaking, they stopped the press, and went back +to Buchanan’s house. Buchanan was in bed. “He +was going,” he said, “the way of welfare.” They +asked him to soften the passage; the king might prohibit the whole work. +“Tell me, man,” said Buchanan, “if I have told the +truth.” They could not, or would not, deny it. “Then +I will abide his feud, and all his kin’s; pray, pray to God for +me, and let Him direct all.” “So,” says Melville, +“by the printing of his chronicle was ended, this most learned, +wise, and godly man ended his mortal life.”</p> +<p>Camden has a hearsay story—written, it must be remembered, +in James I.’s time—that Buchanan, on his death-bed repented +of his harsh words against Queen Mary; and an old Lady Rosyth is said +to have said that when she was young a certain David Buchanan recollected +hearing some such words from George Buchanan’s own mouth. +Those who will, may read what Ruddiman and Love have said, and oversaid, +on both sides of the question: whatever conclusion they come to, it +will probably not be that to which George Chalmers comes in his life +of Ruddiman: that “Buchanan, like other liars, who by the repetition +of falsehoods are induced to consider the fiction as truth, had so often +dwelt with complacency on the forgeries of his Detections, and the figments +of his History, that he at length regarded his fictions and his forgeries +as most authentic facts.”</p> +<p>At all events his fictions and his forgeries had not paid him in +that coin which base men generally consider the only coin worth having, +namely, the good things of this life. He left nothing behind him—if +at least Dr. Irving has rightly construed the “Testament Dative” +which he gives in his appendix—save arrears to the sum of 100<i>l</i>. +of his Crossraguel pension. We may believe as we choose the story +in Mackenzie’s ‘Scotch Writers,’ that when he felt +himself dying, he asked his servant Young about the state of his funds, +and finding he had not enough to bury himself withal, ordered what he +had to be given to the poor, and said that if they did not choose to +bury him they might let him lie where he was, or cast him in a ditch, +the matter was very little to him. He was buried, it seems, at +the expense of the city of Edinburgh, in the Greyfriars’ Churchyard—one +says in a plain turf grave—among the marble monuments which covered +the bones of worse or meaner men; and whether or not the “Throughstone” +which, “sunk under the ground in the Greyfriars,” was raised +and cleaned by the Council of Edinburgh in 1701, was really George Buchanan’s, +the reigning powers troubled themselves little for several generations +where he lay.</p> +<p>For Buchanan’s politics were too advanced for his age. +Not only Catholic Scotsmen, like Blackwood, Winzet, and Ninian, but +Protestants, like Sir Thomas Craig and Sir John Wemyss, could not stomach +the ‘De Jure Regni.’ They may have had some reason +on their side. In the then anarchic state of Scotland, organisation +and unity under a common head may have been more important than the +assertion of popular rights. Be that as it may, in 1584, only +two years after his death, the Scots Parliament condemned his Dialogue +and History as untrue, and commanded all possessors of copies to deliver +them up, that they might be purged of “the offensive and extraordinary +matters” which they contained. The ‘De Jure Regni’ +was again prohibited in Scotland, in 1664, even in manuscript; and in +1683, the whole of Buchanan’s political works had the honour of +being burned by the University of Oxford, in company with those of Milton, +Languet, and others, as “pernicious books, and damnable doctrines, +destructive to the sacred persons of Princes, their state and government, +and of all human society.” And thus the seed which Buchanan +had sown, and Milton had watered—for the allegation that Milton +borrowed from Buchanan is probably true, and equally honourable to both—lay +trampled into the earth, and seemingly lifeless, till it tillered out, +and blossomed, and bore fruit to a good purpose, in the Revolution of +1688.</p> +<p>To Buchanan’s clear head and stout heart, Scotland owes, as +England owes likewise, much of her modern liberty. But Scotland’s +debt to him, it seems to me, is even greater on the count of morality, +public and private. What the morality of the Scotch upper classes +was like, in Buchanan’s early days, is too notorious; and there +remains proof enough—in the writings, for instance, of Sir David +Lindsay—that the morality of the populace which looked up to the +nobles as its example and its guide, was not a whit better. As +anarchy increased, immorality was likely to increase likewise; and Scotland +was in serious danger of falling into such a state as that into which +Poland fell, to its ruin, within a hundred and fifty years after; in +which the savagery of feudalism, without its order or its chivalry, +would be varnished over by a thin coating of French “civilisation,” +and, as in the case of Bothwell, the vices of the court of Paris should +be added to those of the Northern freebooter. To deliver Scotland +from that ruin, it was needed that she should be united into one people, +strong, not in mere political, but in moral ideas; strong by the clear +sense of right and wrong, by the belief in the government and the judgments +of a living God. And the tone which Buchanan, like Knox, adopted +concerning the great crimes of their day, helped notably that national +salvation. It gathered together, organised, strengthened, the +scattered and wavering elements of public morality. It assured +the hearts of all men who loved the right and hated the wrong; and taught +a whole nation to call acts by their just names, whoever might be the +doers of them. It appealed to the common conscience of men. +It proclaimed a universal and God-given morality, a bar at which all, +from the lowest to the highest, must alike be judged.</p> +<p>The tone was stern: but there was need of sternness. Moral +life and death were in the balance. If the Scots people were to +be told that the crimes which roused their indignation were excusable, +or beyond punishment, or to be hushed up and slipped over in any way, +there was an end of morality among them. Every man, from the greatest +to the least, would go and do likewise, according to his powers of evil. +That method was being tried in France, and in Spain likewise, during +those very years. Notorious crimes were hushed up under pretence +of loyalty; excused as political necessities; smiled away as natural +and pardonable weaknesses. The result was the utter demoralisation, +both of France and Spain. Knox and Buchanan, the one from the +stand-point of an old Hebrew prophet, the other rather from that of +a Juvenal or a Tacitus, tried the other method, and called acts by their +just names, appealing alike to conscience and to God. The result +was virtue and piety, and that manly independence of soul which is thought +compatible with hearty loyalty, in a country labouring under heavy disadvantages, +long divided almost into two hostile camps, two rival races.</p> +<p>And the good influence was soon manifest, not only in those who sided +with Buchanan and his friends, but in those who most opposed them. +The Roman Catholic preachers, who at first asserted Mary’s right +to impunity, while they allowed her guilt, grew silent for shame, and +set themselves to assert her entire innocence; while the Scots who have +followed their example have, to their honour, taken up the same ground. +They have fought Buchanan on the ground of fact, not on the ground of +morality: they have alleged—as they had a fair right to do—the +probability of intrigue and forgery in an age so profligate: the improbability +that a Queen so gifted by nature and by fortune, and confessedly for +a long while so strong and so spotless, should as it were by a sudden +insanity have proved so untrue to herself. Their noblest and purest +sympathies have been enlisted—and who can blame them?—in +loyalty to a Queen, chivalry to a woman, pity for the unfortunate and—as +they conceived—the innocent; but whether they have been right +or wrong in their view of facts, the Scotch partisans of Mary have always—as +far as I know—been right in their view of morals; they have never +deigned to admit Mary’s guilt, and then to palliate it by those +sentimental, or rather sensual, theories of human nature, too common +in a certain school of French literature,—too common, alas! in +a certain school of modern English novels. They have not said, +“She did it; but after all, was the deed so very inexcusable?” +They have said, “The deed was inexcusable: but she did not do +it.” And so the Scotch admirers of Mary, who have numbered +among them many a pure and noble, as well as many a gifted spirit, have +kept at least themselves unstained; and have shown, whether consciously +or not, that they too share in that sturdy Scotch moral sense which +has been so much strengthened—as I believe—by the plain +speech of good old George Buchanan.</p> +<h2>RONDELET, THE HUGUENOT NATURALIST <a name="citation358"></a><a href="#footnote358">{358}</a></h2> +<p>“Apollo, god of medicine, exiled from the rest of the earth, +was straying once across the Narbonnaise in Gaul, seeking to fix his +abode there. Driven from Asia, from Africa, and from the rest +of Europe, he wandered through all the towns of the province in search +of a place propitious for him and for his disciples. At last he +perceived a new city, constructed from the ruins of Maguelonne, of Lattes, +and of Substantion. He contemplated long its site, its aspect, +its neighbourhood, and resolved to establish on this hill of Montpellier +a temple for himself and his priests. All smiled on his desires. +By the genius of the soil, by the character of the inhabitants, no town +is more fit for the culture of letters, and above all of medicine. +What site is more delicious and more lovely? A heaven pure and +smiling; a city built with magnificence; men born for all the labours +of the intellect. All around vast horizons and enchanting sites—meadows, +vines, olives, green champaigns; mountains and hills, rivers, brooks, +lagoons, and the sea. Everywhere a luxuriant vegetation—everywhere +the richest production of the land and the water. Hail to thee, +sweet and dear city! Hail, happy abode of Apollo, who spreadest +afar the light of the glory of thy name!”</p> +<p>“This fine tirade,” says Dr. Maurice Raynaud—from +whose charming book on the ‘Doctors of the Time of Molière’ +I quote—“is not, as one might think, the translation of +a piece of poetry. It is simply part of a public oration by François +Fanchon, one of the most illustrious chancellors of the faculty of medicine +of Montpellier in the seventeenth century.” “From +time immemorial,” he says, “‘the faculty’ of +Montpellier had made itself remarkable by a singular mixture of the +sacred and the profane. The theses which were sustained there +began by an invocation to God, the Blessed Virgin, and St. Luke, and +ended by these words:—‘This thesis will be sustained in +the sacred Temple of Apollo.’”</p> +<p>But however extravagant Chancellor Fanchon’s praises of his +native city may seem, they are really not exaggerated. The Narbonnaise, +or Languedoc, is perhaps the most charming district of charming France. +In the far north-east gleam the white Alps; in the far south-west the +white Pyrenees; and from the purple glens and yellow downs of the Cevennes +on the northwest, the Herault slopes gently down towards the “Etangs,” +or great salt-water lagoons, and the vast alluvial flats of the Camargue, +the field of Caius Marius, where still run herds of half-wild horses, +descended from some ancient Roman stock; while beyond all glitters the +blue Mediterranean. The great almond orchards, each one sheet +of rose-colour in spring; the mulberry orchards, the oliveyards, the +vineyards, cover every foot of available upland soil: save where the +rugged and arid downs are sweet with a thousand odoriferous plants, +from which the bees extract the famous white honey of Narbonne. +The native flowers and shrubs, of a beauty and richness rather Eastern +than European, have made the ‘Flora Monspeliensis,’ and +with it the names of Rondelet and his disciples, famous among botanists; +and the strange fish and shells upon its shores afforded Rondelet materials +for his immortal work upon the ‘Animals of the Sea.’ +The innumerable wild fowl of the “Bouches du Rhône;” +the innumerable songsters and other birds of passage, many of them unknown +in these islands, and even in the north of France itself, which haunt +every copse of willow and aspen along the brook sides; the gaudy and +curious insects which thrive beneath that clear, fierce, and yet bracing +sunlight; all these have made the district of Montpellier a home prepared +by Nature for those who study and revere her.</p> +<p>Neither was Chancellor Fanchon misled by patriotism, when he said +the pleasant people who inhabit that district are fit for all the labours +of the intellect. They are a very mixed race, and like most mixed +races, quick-witted, and handsome also. There is probably much +Roman blood among them, especially in the towns; for Languedoc, or Gallia +Narbonnensis, as it was called of old, was said to be more Roman than +Rome itself. The Roman remains are more perfect and more interesting—so +the late Dr. Whewell used to say—than any to be seen now in Italy; +and the old capital, Narbonne itself, was a complete museum of Roman +antiquities ere Francis I. destroyed it, in order to fortify the city +upon a modern system against the invading armies of Charles V. +There must be much Visigothic blood likewise in Languedoc; for the Visigothic +Kings held their courts there from the fifth century, until the time +that they were crushed by the invading Moors. Spanish blood, likewise, +there may be; for much of Languedoc was held in the early Middle Age +by those descendants of Eudes of Acquitaine who established themselves +as kings of Majorca and Arragon; and Languedoc did not become entirely +French till 1349, when Philip le Bel bought Montpellier of those potentates. +The Moors, too, may have left some traces of their race behind. +They held the country from about A.D. 713 to 758, when they were finally +expelled by Charles Martel and Eudes. One sees to this day their +towers of meagre stone-work, perched on the grand Roman masonry of those +old amphitheatres, which they turned into fortresses. One may +see, too—so tradition holds—upon those very amphitheatres +the stains of the fires with which Charles Martel smoked them out; and +one may see, too, or fancy that one sees, in the aquiline features, +the bright black eyes, the lithe and graceful gestures, which are so +common in Languedoc, some touch of the old Mahommedan race, which passed +like a flood over that Christian land.</p> +<p>Whether or not the Moors left behind any traces of their blood, they +left behind, at least, traces of their learning; for the university +of Montpellier claimed to have been founded by Moors at a date of altogether +abysmal antiquity. They looked upon the Arabian physicians of +the Middle Age, on Avicenna and Averrhoes, as modern innovators, and +derived their parentage from certain mythic doctors of Cordova, who, +when the Moors were expelled from Spain in the eighth century, fled +to Montpellier, bringing with them traditions of that primeval science +which had been revealed to Adam while still in Paradise; and founded +Montpellier, the mother of all the universities in Europe. Nay, +some went further still, and told of Bengessaus and Ferragius, the physicians +of Charlemagne, and of Marilephus, chief physician of King Chilperic, +and even—if a letter of St. Bernard’s was to be believed—of +a certain bishop who went as early as the second century to consult +the doctors of Montpellier; and it would have been in vain to reply +to them that in those days, and long after them, Montpellier was not +yet built. The facts are said to be: that as early as the beginning +of the thirteenth century Montpellier had its schools of law, medicine, +and arts, which were erected into a university by Pope Nicholas IV. +in 1289.</p> +<p>The university of Montpellier, like—I believe—most foreign +ones, resembled more a Scotch than an English university. The +students lived, for the most part, not in colleges, but in private lodgings, +and constituted a republic of their own, ruled by an abbé of +the scholars, one of themselves, chosen by universal suffrage. +A terror they were often to the respectable burghers, for they had all +the right to carry arms; and a plague likewise, for, if they ran in +debt, their creditors were forbidden to seize their books, which, with +their swords, were generally all the property they possessed. +If, moreover, any one set up a noisy or unpleasant trade near their +lodgings, the scholars could compel the town authorities to turn him +out. They were most of them, probably, mere boys of from twelve +to twenty, living poorly, working hard, and—those at least of +them who were in the colleges—cruelly beaten daily, after the +fashion of those times; but they seem to have comforted themselves under +their troubles by a good deal of wild life out of school, by rambling +into the country on the festivals of the saints, and now and then by +acting plays; notably, that famous one which Rabelais wrote for them +in 1531: “The moral comedy of the man who had a dumb wife;” +which “joyous patelinage” remains unto this day in the shape +of a well-known comic song. That comedy young Rondelet must have +seen acted. The son of a druggist, spicer, and grocer—the +three trades were then combined—in Montpellier, and born in 1507, +he had been destined for the cloister, being a sickly lad. His +uncle, one of the canons of Maguelonne, near by, had even given him +the revenues of a small chapel—a job of nepotism which was common +enough in those days. But his heart was in science and medicine. +He set off, still a mere boy, to Paris to study there; and returned +to Montpellier, at the age of eighteen, to study again.</p> +<p>The next year, 1530, while still a scholar himself, he was appointed +procurator of the scholars—a post which brought him in a small +fee on each matriculation—and that year he took a fee, among others, +from one of the most remarkable men of that or of any age, François +Rabelais himself.</p> +<p>And what shall I say of him?—who stands alone, like Shakespeare, +in his generation; possessed of colossal learning—of all science +which could be gathered in his days—of practical and statesmanlike +wisdom—of knowledge of languages, ancient and modern, beyond all +his compeers—of eloquence, which when he speaks of pure and noble +things becomes heroic, and, as it were, inspired—of scorn for +meanness, hypocrisy, ignorance—of esteem, genuine and earnest, +for the Holy Scriptures, and for the more moderate of the Reformers +who were spreading the Scriptures in Europe,—and all this great +light wilfully hidden, not under a bushel, but under a dunghill. +He is somewhat like Socrates in face, and in character likewise; in +him, as in Socrates, the demigod and the satyr, the man and the ape, +are struggling for the mastery. In Socrates, the true man conquers, +and comes forth high and pure; in Rabelais, alas! the victor is the +ape, while the man himself sinks down in cynicism, sensuality, practical +jokes, foul talk. He returns to Paris, to live an idle, luxurious +life; to die—says the legend—saying, “I go to seek +a great perhaps,” and to leave behind him little save a school +of Pantagruelists—careless young gentlemen, whose ideal was to +laugh at everything, to believe in nothing, and to gratify their five +senses like the brutes which perish. There are those who read +his books to make them laugh; the wise man, when he reads them, will +be far more inclined to weep. Let any young man who may see these +words remember, that in him, as in Rabelais, the ape and the man are +struggling for the mastery. Let him take warning by the fate of +one who was to him as a giant to a pigmy; and think of Tennyson’s +words:—</p> +<blockquote><p> “Arise, and fly<br /> +The reeling faun, the sensual feast;<br /> +Strive upwards, working out the beast,<br /> +And let the ape and tiger die.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But to return. Down among them there at Montpellier, like a +brilliant meteor, flashed this wonderful Rabelais, in the year 1530. +He had fled, some say, for his life. Like Erasmus, he had no mind +to be a martyr, and he had been terrified at the execution of poor Louis +de Berquin, his friend, and the friend of Erasmus likewise. This +Louis de Berquin, a man well known in those days, was a gallant young +gentleman and scholar, holding a place in the court of Francis I., who +had translated into French the works of Erasmus, Luther, and Melancthon, +and had asserted that it was heretical to invoke the Virgin Mary instead +of the Holy Spirit, or to call her our Hope and our Life, which titles—Berquin +averred—belonged alone to God. Twice had the doctors of +the Sorbonne, with that terrible persecutor, Noel Beda, at their head, +seized poor Berquin, and tried to burn his books and him; twice had +that angel in human form, Marguerite d’Angoulême, sister +of Francis I., saved him from their clutches; but when Francis—taken +prisoner at the battle of Pavia—at last returned from his captivity +in Spain, the suppression of heresy and the burning of heretics seemed +to him and to his mother, Louise of Savoy, a thank-offering so acceptable +to God, that Louis Berquin—who would not, in spite of the entreaties +of Erasmus, purchase his life by silence—was burnt at last on +the Place de Grêve, being first strangled, because he was of gentle +blood.</p> +<p>Montpellier received its famous guest joyfully. Rabelais was +now forty-two years old, and a distinguished savant; so they excused +him his three years’ undergraduate’s career, and invested +him at once with the red gown of the bachelors. That red gown—or, +rather, the ragged phantom of it—is still shown at Montpellier, +and must be worn by each bachelor when he takes his degree. Unfortunately, +antiquarians assure us that the precious garment has been renewed again +and again—the students having clipped bits of it away for relics, +and clipped as earnestly from the new gowns as their predecessors had +done from the authentic original.</p> +<p>Doubtless the coming of such a man among them to lecture on the Aphorisms +of Hippocrates, and the Ars Parva of Galen, not from the Latin translations +then in use, “but from original Greek texts, with comments and +corrections of his own, must have had a great influence on the minds +of the Montpellier students; and still more influence—and that +not altogether a good one—must Rabelais’ lighter talk have +had, as he lounged—so the story goes—in his dressing-gown +upon the public place, picking up quaint stories from the cattle-drivers +off the Cevennes, and the villagers who came in to sell their olives +and their grapes, their vinegar and their vine-twig faggots, as they +do unto this day. To him may be owing much of the sound respect +for natural science, and much, too, of the contempt for the superstition +around them, which is notable in that group of great naturalists who +were boys in Montpellier at that day. Rabelais seems to have liked +Rondelet, and no wonder: he was a cheery, lovable, honest little fellow, +very fond of jokes, a great musician and player on the violin, and who, +when he grew rich, liked nothing so well as to bring into his house +any buffoon or strolling player to make fun for him. Vivacious +he was, hot-tempered, forgiving, and with a power of learning and a +power of work which were prodigious, even in those hard-working days. +Rabelais chaffs Rondelet, under the name of Rondibilis; for, indeed, +Rondelet grew up into a very round, fat, little man; but Rabelais puts +excellent sense into his mouth, cynical enough, and too cynical, but +both learned and humorous; and, if he laughs at him for being shocked +at the offer of a fee, and taking it, nevertheless, kindly enough, Rondelet +is not the first doctor who has done that, neither will he be the last.</p> +<p>Rondelet, in his turn, put on the red robe of the bachelor, and received, +on taking his degree, his due share of fisticuffs from his dearest friends, +according to the ancient custom of the University of Montpellier. +He then went off to practise medicine in a village at the foot of the +Alps, and, half-starved, to teach little children. Then he found +he must learn Greek; went off to Paris a second time, and alleviated +his poverty there somewhat by becoming tutor to a son of the Viscomte +de Turenne. There he met Gonthier of Andernach, who had taught +anatomy at Louvain to the great Vesalius, and learned from him to dissect. +We next find him setting up as a medical man amid the wild volcanic +hills of the Auvergne, struggling still with poverty, like Erasmus, +like George Buchanan, like almost every great scholar in those days; +for students then had to wander from place to place, generally on foot, +in search of new teachers, in search of books, in search of the necessaries +of life; undergoing such an amount of bodily and mental toil as makes +it wonderful that all of them did not—as some of them doubtless +did—die under the hard training, or, at best, desert the penurious +Muses for the paternal shop or plough.</p> +<p>Rondelet got his doctorate in 1537, and next year fell in love with +and married a beautiful young girl called Jeanne Sandre, who seems to +have been as poor as he.</p> +<p>But he had gained, meanwhile, a powerful patron and the patronage +of the great was then as necessary to men of letters as the patronage +of the public is now. Guillaume Pellicier, Bishop of Maguelonne—or +rather then of Montpellier itself, whither he had persuaded Paul II. +to transfer the ancient see—was a model of the literary gentleman +of the sixteenth century; a savant, a diplomat, a collector of books +and manuscripts, Greek, Hebrew, and Syriac, which formed the original +nucleus of the present library of the Louvre; a botanist, too, who loved +to wander with Rondelet collecting plants and flowers. He retired +from public life to peace and science at Montpellier, when to the evil +days of his master, Francis I., succeeded the still worse days of Henry +II., and Diana of Poitiers. That Jezebel of France could conceive +no more natural or easy way of atoning for her own sins than that of +hunting down heretics, and feasting her wicked eyes—so it is said—upon +their dying torments. Bishop Pellicier fell under suspicion of +heresy: very probably with some justice. He fell, too, under suspicion +of leading a life unworthy of a celibate churchman, a fault which—if +it really existed—was, in those days, pardonable enough in an +orthodox prelate, but not so in one whose orthodoxy was suspected. +And for a while Pellicier was in prison. After his release he +gave himself up to science, with Rondelet, and the school of disciples +who were growing up around him. They rediscovered together the +Garum, that classic sauce, whose praises had been sung of old by Horace, +Martial, and Ausonius; and so childlike, superstitious if you will, +was the reverence in the sixteenth century for classic antiquity, that +when Pellicier and Rondelet discovered that the Garum was made from +the fish called Picarel—called Garon by the fishers of Antibes, +and Giroli at Venice, both these last names corruptions of the Latin +Gerres—then did the two fashionable poets of France, Etienne Dolet +and Clement Marot, think it not unworthy of their muse to sing the praises +of the sauce which Horace had sung of old. A proud day, too, was +it for Pellicier and Rondelet, when wandering somewhere in the marshes +of the Camargue, a scent of garlic caught the nostrils of the gentle +bishop, and in the lovely pink flowers of the water-germander he recognised +the Scordium of the ancients. “The discovery,” says +Professor Planchon, “made almost as much noise as that of the +famous Garum; for at that moment of naïve fervour on behalf of +antiquity, to rediscover a plant of Dioscorides or of Pliny was a good +fortune and almost an event.”</p> +<p>I know not whether, after his death, the good bishop’s bones +reposed beneath some gorgeous tomb, bedizened with the incongruous half-Pagan +statues of the Renaissance: but this, at least, is certain, that Rondelet’s +disciples imagined for him a monument more enduring than of marble or +of brass, more graceful and more curiously wrought than all the sculptures +of Torrigiano or Cellini, Baccio Bandinelli or Michael Angelo himself. +For they named a lovely little lilac snapdragon, <i>Linaria Domini Pellicerii</i>,—“Lord +Pellicier’s toad-flax;” and that name it will keep, we may +believe, as long as winter and summer shall endure.</p> +<p>But to return. To this good patron—who was the Ambassador +at Venice—the newly-married Rondelet determined to apply for employment; +and to Venice he would have gone, leaving his bride behind, had he not +been stayed by one of those angels who sometimes walk the earth in women’s +shape. Jeanne Sandre had an elder sister, Catherine, who had brought +her up. She was married to a wealthy man, but she had no children +of her own. For four years she and her good husband had let the +Rondelets lodge with them, and now she was a widow, and to part with +them was more than she could bear. She carried Rondelet off from +the students who were seeing him safe out of the city, brought him back, +settled on him the same day half her fortune, and soon after settled +on him the whole, on the sole condition that she should live with him +and her sister. For years afterwards she watched over the pretty +young wife and her two girls and three boys—the three boys, alas! +all died young—and over Rondelet himself, who, immersed in books +and experiments, was utterly careless about money; and was to them all +a mother, advising, guiding, managing, and regarded by Rondelet with +genuine gratitude as his guardian angel.</p> +<p>Honour and good fortune, in the worldly sense, now poured in upon +the druggist’s son. Pellicier, his own bishop, stood godfather +to his first-born daughter. Montluc, Bishop of Valence, and that +wise and learned statesman, the Cardinal of Tournon, stood godfathers +a few years later to his twin boys; and what was of still more solid +worth to him, Cardinal Tournon took him to Antwerp, Bordeaux, Bayonne, +and more than once to Rome; and in these Italian journeys of his he +collected many facts for the great work of his life, that ‘History +of Fishes’ which he dedicated, naturally enough, to the cardinal. +This book with its plates is, for the time, a masterpiece of accuracy. +Those who are best acquainted with the subject say, that it is up to +the present day a key to the whole ichthyology of the Mediterranean. +Two other men, Belon and Salviani, were then at work on the same subject, +and published their books almost at the same time; a circumstance which +caused, as was natural, a three-cornered duel between the supporters +of the three naturalists, each party accusing the other of plagiarism. +The simple fact seems to be that the almost simultaneous appearance +of the three books in 1554-5 is one of those coincidences inevitable +at moments when many minds are stirred in the same direction by the +same great thoughts—coincidences which have happened in our own +day on questions of geology, biology, and astronomy; and which, when +the facts have been carefully examined, and the first flush of natural +jealousy has cooled down, have proved only that there were more wise +men than one in the world at the same time.</p> +<p>And this sixteenth century was an age in which the minds of men were +suddenly and strangely turned to examine the wonders of nature with +an earnestness, with a reverence, and therefore with an accuracy, with +which they had never been investigated before. “Nature,” +says Professor Planchon, “long veiled in mysticism and scholasticism, +was opening up infinite vistas. A new superstition, the exaggerated +worship of the ancients, was nearly hindering this movement of thought +towards facts. Nevertheless learning did her work. She rediscovered, +reconstructed, purified, commented on the texts of ancient authors. +Then came in observation, which showed that more was to be seen in one +blade of grass than in any page of Pliny. Rondelet was in the +middle of this crisis a man of transition, while he was one of progress. +He reflected the past; he opened and prepared the future. If he +commented on Dioscorides, if he remained faithful to the theories of +Galen, he founded in his ‘History of Fishes’ a monument +which our century respects. He is above all an inspirer, an initiator; +and if he wants one mark of the leader of a school, the foundation of +certain scientific doctrines, there is in his speech what is better +than all systems, the communicative power which urges a generation of +disciples along the path of independent research, with Reason for guide, +and Faith for aim.”</p> +<p>Around Rondelet, in those years, sometimes indeed in his house—for +professors in those days took private pupils as lodgers—worked +the group of botanists whom Linnæus calls “the Fathers,” +the authors of the descriptive botany of the sixteenth century. +Their names, and those of their disciples and their disciples again, +are household words in the mouth of every gardener, immortalised, like +good Bishop Pellicier, in the plants which have been named after them. +The Lobelia commemorates Lobel, one of Rondelet’s most famous +pupils, who wrote those ‘Adversaria’ which contain so many +curious sketches of Rondelet’s botanical expeditions, and who +inherited his botanical (as Joubert his biographer inherited his anatomical) +manuscripts. The Magnolia commemorates the Magnols; the Sarracenia, +Sarrasin of Lyons; the Bauhinia, Jean Bauhin; the Fuchsia, Bauhin’s +earlier German master, Leonard Fuchs; and the Clusia—the received +name of that terrible “Matapalo,” or “Scotch attorney,” +of the West Indies, which kills the hugest tree, to become as huge a +tree itself—immortalizes the great Clusius, Charles de l’Escluse, +citizen of Arras, who after studying civil law at Louvain, philosophy +at Marburg, and theology at Wittemberg under Melancthon, came to Montpellier +in 1551, to live in Rondelet’s own house, and become the greatest +botanist of his age.</p> +<p>These were Rondelet’s palmy days. He had got a theatre +of anatomy built at Montpellier, where he himself dissected publicly. +He had, says tradition, a little botanic garden, such as were springing +up then in several universities, specially in Italy. He had a +villa outside the city, whose tower, near the modern railway station, +still bears the name of the “Mas de Rondelet.” There, +too, may be seen the remnants of the great tanks, fed with water brought +through earthen pipes from the Fountain of Albe, wherein he kept the +fish whose habits he observed. Professor Planchon thinks that +he had salt-water tanks likewise; and thus he may have been the father +of all “Aquariums.” He had a large and handsome house +in the city itself, a large practice as physician in the country round; +money flowed in fast to him, and flowed out fast likewise. He +spent much upon building, pulling down, rebuilding, and sent the bills +in seemingly to his wife and to his guardian angel Catherine. +He himself had never a penny in his purse: but earned the money, and +let his ladies spend it; an equitable and pleasant division of labour +which most married men would do well to imitate. A generous, affectionate, +careless little man, he gave away, says his pupil and biographer, Joubert, +his valuable specimens to any savant who begged for them, or left them +about to be stolen by visitors, who, like too many collectors in all +ages, possessed light fingers and lighter consciences. So pacific +was he meanwhile, and so brave withal, that even in the fearful years +of the troubles, he would never carry sword, nor even tuck or dagger; +but went about on the most lonesome journeys as one who wore a charmed +life, secure in God and in his calling, which was to heal, and not to +kill.</p> +<p>These were the golden years of Rondelet’s life; but trouble +was coming on him, and a stormy sunset after a brilliant day. +He lost his sister-in-law, to whom he owed all his fortunes, and who +had watched ever since over him and his wife like a mother; then he +lost his wife herself under most painful circumstances; then his best-beloved +daughter. Then he married again, and lost the son who was born +to him; and then came, as to many of the best in those days, even sorer +trials, trials of the conscience, trials of faith.</p> +<p>For in the mean time Rondelet had become a Protestant, like many +of the wisest men round him; like, so it would seem from the event, +the majority of the university and the burghers of Montpellier. +It is not to be wondered at. Montpellier was a sort of half-way +resting-place for Protestant preachers, whether fugitive or not, who +were passing from Basle, Geneva, or Lyons, to Marguerite of Navarre’s +little Protestant court at Pau or at Nerac, where all wise and good +men, and now and then some foolish and fanatical ones, found shelter +and hospitality. Thither Calvin himself had been, passing probably +through Montpellier, and leaving—as such a man was sure to leave—the +mark of his foot behind him. At Lyons, no great distance up the +Rhone, Marguerite had helped to establish an organised Protestant community; +and when in 1536 she herself had passed through Montpellier, to visit +her brother at Valence, and Montmorency’s camp at Avignon, she +took with her doubtless Protestant chaplains of her own, who spoke wise +words—it may be that she spoke wise words herself—to the +ardent and inquiring students of Montpellier. Moreover, Rondelet +and his disciples had been for years past in constant communication +with the Protestant savants of Switzerland and Germany, among whom the +knowledge of nature was progressing as it never had progressed before. +For—it is a fact always to be remembered—it was only in +the free air of Protestant countries the natural sciences could grow +and thrive. They sprung up, indeed, in Italy after the restoration +of Greek literature in the fifteenth century; but they withered there +again only too soon under the blighting upas shade of superstition. +Transplanted to the free air of Switzerland, of Germany, of Britain, +and of Montpellier, then half Protestant, they developed rapidly and +surely, simply because the air was free; to be checked again in France +by the return of superstition with despotism super-added, until the +eve of the great French Revolution.</p> +<p>So Rondelet had been for some years Protestant. He had hidden +in his house for a long while a monk who had left his monastery. +He had himself written theological treatises: but when his Bishop Pellicier +was imprisoned on a charge of heresy, Rondelet burnt his manuscripts, +and kept his opinions to himself. Still he was a suspected heretic, +at last seemingly a notorious one; for only the year before his death, +going to visit patients at Perpignan, he was waylaid by the Spaniards, +and had to get home through bypasses of the Pyrenees, to avoid being +thrown into the Inquisition.</p> +<p>And those were times in which it was necessary for a man to be careful, +unless he had made up his mind to be burned. For more than thirty +years of Rondelet’s life the burning had gone on in his neighbourhood; +intermittently it is true: the spasms of superstitious fury being succeeded, +one may charitably hope, by pity and remorse: but still the burnings +had gone on. The Benedictine monk of St. Maur, who writes the +history of Languedoc, says, quite <i>en passant</i>, how some one was +burnt at Toulouse in 1553, luckily only in effigy, for he had escaped +to Geneva: but he adds, “next year they burned several heretics,” +it being not worth while to mention their names. In 1556 they +burned alive at Toulouse Jean Escalle, a poor Franciscan monk, who had +found his order intolerable; while one Pierre de Lavaur, who dared preach +Calvinism in the streets of Nismes, was hanged and burnt. So had +the score of judicial murders been increasing year by year, till it +had to be, as all evil scores have to be in this world, paid off with +interest, and paid off especially against the ignorant and fanatic monks +who for a whole generation, in every university and school in France, +had been howling down sound science, as well as sound religion; and +at Montpellier in 1560-1, their debt was paid them in a very ugly way. +News came down to the hot southerners of Languedoc of the so-called +conspiracy of Amboise.—How the Duc de Guise and the Cardinal de +Lorraine had butchered the best blood in France under the pretence of +a treasonable plot; how the King of Navarre and the Prince de Condé +had been arrested; then how Condé and Coligny were ready to take +up arms at the head of all the Huguenots of France, and try to stop +this lifelong torturing, by sharp shot and cold steel; then how in six +months’ time the king would assemble a general council to settle +the question between Catholics and Huguenots. The Huguenots, guessing +how that would end, resolved to settle the question for themselves. +They rose in one city after another, sacked the churches, destroyed +the images, put down by main force superstitious processions and dances; +and did many things only to be excused by the exasperation caused by +thirty years of cruelty. At Montpellier there was hard fighting, +murders—so say the Catholic historians—of priests and monks, +sack of the new cathedral, destruction of the noble convents which lay +in a ring round Montpellier. The city and the university were +in the hands of the Huguenots, and Montpellier became Protestant on +the spot.</p> +<p>Next year came the counter blow. There were heavy battles with +the Catholics all round the neighbourhood, destruction of the suburbs, +threatened siege and sack, and years of misery and poverty for Montpellier +and all who were therein.</p> +<p>Horrible was the state of France in those times of the wars of religion +which began in 1562; the times which are spoken of usually as “The +Troubles,” as if men did not wish to allude to them too openly. +Then, and afterwards in the wars of the League, deeds were done for +which language has no name. The population decreased. The +land lay untilled. The fair face of France was blackened with +burnt homesteads and ruined towns. Ghastly corpses dangled in +rows upon the trees, or floated down the blood-stained streams. +Law and order were at an end. Bands of robbers prowled in open +day, and bands of wolves likewise. But all through the horrors +of the troubles we catch sight of the little fat doctor riding all unarmed +to see his patients throughout Languedoc; going vast distances, his +biographers say, by means of regular relays of horses, till he too broke +down. Well for him, perhaps, that he broke down when he did; for +capture and recapture, massacre and pestilence, were the fate of Montpellier +and the surrounding country, till the better times of Henry IV. and +the Edict of Nantes in 1598, when liberty of worship was given to the +Protestants for a while.</p> +<p>In the burning summer of 1566 Rondeletius went a long journey to +Toulouse, seemingly upon an errand of charity, to settle some law affairs +for his relations. The sanitary state of the southern cities is +bad enough still. It must have been horrible in those days of +barbarism and misrule. Dysentery was epidemic at Toulouse then, +and Rondelet took it. He knew from the first that he should die. +He was worn out, it is said, by over-exertion; by sorrow for the miseries +of the land; by fruitless struggles to keep the peace, and to strive +for moderation in days when men were all immoderate. But he rode +away a day’s journey—he took two days over it, so weak he +was—in the blazing July sun, to a friend’s sick wife at +Realmont, and there took to his bed, and died a good man’s death. +The details of his death and last illness were written and published +by his cousin Claude Formy; and well worth reading they are to any man +who wishes to know how to die. Rondelet would have no tidings +of his illness sent to Montpellier. He was happy, he said, in +dying away from the tears of his household, and “safe from insult.” +He dreaded, one may suppose, lest priests and friars should force their +way to his bedside, and try to extort some recantation from the great +savant, the honour and glory of their city. So they sent for no +priest to Realmont: but round his bed a knot of Calvinist gentlemen +and ministers read the Scriptures, and sang David’s psalms, and +prayed; and Rondelet prayed with them through long agonies, and so went +home to God.</p> +<p>The Benedictine monk-historian of Languedoc, in all his voluminous +folios, never mentions, as far as I can find, Rondelet’s existence. +Why should he? The man was only a druggist’s son and a heretic, +who healed diseases, and collected plants, and wrote a book on fish. +But the learned men of Montpellier, and of all Europe, had a very different +opinion of him. His body was buried at Realmont: but before the +schools of Toulouse they set up a white marble slab, and an inscription +thereon setting forth his learning and his virtues; and epitaphs on +him were composed by the learned throughout Europe, not only in French +and Latin, but in Greek, Hebrew, and even Chaldee.</p> +<p>So lived and so died a noble man; more noble—to my mind—than +many a victorious warrior, or successful statesman, or canonised saint. +To know facts, and to heal diseases, were the two objects of his life. +For them he toiled, as few men have toiled; and he died in harness, +at his work—the best death any man can die.</p> +<h2>VESALIUS THE ANATOMIST</h2> +<p>I cannot begin a sketch of the life of this great man better than +by trying to describe a scene so picturesque, so tragic in the eyes +of those who are wont to mourn over human follies, so comic in the eyes +of those who prefer to laugh over them, that the reader will not be +likely to forget either it or the actors in it.</p> +<p>It is a darkened chamber in the College of Alcala, in the year 1562, +where lies, probably in a huge four-post bed, shrouded in stifling hangings, +the heir-apparent of the greatest empire in the then world, Don Carlos, +only son of Philip II., and heir-apparent of Spain, the Netherlands, +and all the Indies. A short sickly boy of sixteen, with a bull +head, a crooked shoulder, a short leg, and a brutal temper, he will +not be missed by the world if he should die. His profligate career +seems to have brought its own punishment. To the scandal of his +father, who tolerated no one’s vices save his own, as well as +to the scandal of the university authorities of Alcala, he has been +scouring the streets at the head of the most profligate students, insulting +women, even ladies of rank, and amenable only to his lovely young stepmother, +Elizabeth of Valois, Isabel de la Paz, as the Spaniards call her, the +daughter of Catherine de Medicis, and sister of the King of France. +Don Carlos should have married her, had not his worthy father found +it more advantageous for the crown of Spain, as well as more pleasant +for him Philip, to marry her himself. Whence came heart-burnings, +rage, jealousies, romances, calumnies, of which two last—in as +far at least as they concern poor Elizabeth—no wise man now believes +a word.</p> +<p>Going on some errand on which he had no business—there are +two stories, neither of them creditable nor necessary to repeat—Don +Carlos has fallen down stairs and broken his head. He comes, by +his Portuguese mother’s side, of a house deeply tainted with insanity; +and such an injury may have serious consequences. However, for +nine days the wound goes on well, and Don Carlos, having had a wholesome +fright, is, according to Doctor Olivarez, the <i>medico de camara</i>, +a very good lad, and lives on chicken broth and dried plums. But +on the tenth day comes on numbness of the left side, acute pains in +the head, and then gradually shivering, high fever, erysipelas. +His head and neck swell to an enormous size; then comes raging delirium, +then stupefaction, and Don Carlos lies as one dead.</p> +<p>A modern surgeon would, probably, thanks to that training of which +Vesalius may be almost called the father, have had little difficulty +in finding out what was the matter with the luckless lad, and little +difficulty in removing the evil, if it had not gone too far. But +the Spanish physicians were then, as many of them are said to be still, +as far behind the world in surgery as in other things; and indeed surgery +itself was then in its infancy, because men, ever since the early Greek +schools of Alexandria had died out, had been for centuries feeding their +minds with anything rather than with facts. Therefore the learned +morosophs who were gathered round Don Carlos’s sick bed had become, +according to their own confession, utterly confused, terrified, and +at their wits’ end.</p> +<p>It is the 7th of May, the eighteenth day after the accident, according +to Olivarez’ story: he and Dr. Vega have been bleeding the unhappy +prince, enlarging the wound twice, and torturing him seemingly on mere +guesses. “I believe,” says Olivarez, “that all +was done well: but as I have said, in wounds in the head there are strange +labyrinths.” So on the 7th they stand round the bed in despair. +Don Garcia de Toledo, the prince’s faithful governor, is sitting +by him, worn out with sleepless nights, and trying to supply to the +poor boy that mother’s tenderness which he has never known. +Alva too is there, stern, self-compressed, most terrible, and yet most +beautiful. He has a God on earth, and that is Philip his master; +and though he has borne much from Don Carlos already, and will have +to bear more, yet the wretched lad is to him as a son of God, a second +deity, who will by right divine succeed to the inheritance of the first; +and he watches this lesser deity struggling between life and death with +an intensity of which we, in these less loyal days, can form no notion. +One would be glad to have a glimpse of what passed through that mind, +so subtle and so ruthless, so disciplined and so loyal withal: but Alva +was a man who was not given to speak his mind, but to act it.</p> +<p>One would wish, too, for a glimpse of what was passing through the +mind of another man, who has been daily in that sick chamber, according +to Olivarez’ statement, since the first of the month: but he is +one who has had, for some years past, even more reason than Alva for +not speaking his mind. What he looked like we know well, for Titian +has painted him from the life—a tall, bold, well-dressed man, +with a noble brain, square and yet lofty, short curling locks and beard, +an eye which looks as though it feared neither man nor fiend—and +it has had good reason to fear both—and features which would be +exceeding handsome, but for the defiant snub-nose. That is Andreas +Vesalius, of Brussels, dreaded and hated by the doctors of the old school—suspect, +moreover, it would seem, to inquisitors and theologians, possibly to +Alva himself; for he has dared to dissect human bodies; he has insulted +the medievalists at Paris, Padua, Bologna, Pisa, Venice, in open theatre; +he has turned the heads of all the young surgeons in Italy and France; +he has written a great book, with prints in it, designed, some say, +by Titian—they were actually done by another Netherlander, John +of Calcar, near Cleves—in which he has dared to prove that Galen’s +anatomy was at fault throughout, and that he had been describing a monkey’s +inside when he had pretended to be describing a man’s; and thus, +by impudence and quackery, he has wormed himself—this Netherlander, +a heretic at heart, as all Netherlanders are, to God as well as to Galen—into +the confidence of the late Emperor Charles V., and gone campaigning +with him as one of his physicians, anatomising human bodies even on +the battle-field, and defacing the likeness of Deity; and worse than +that, the most religious King Philip is deceived by him likewise, and +keeps him in Madrid in wealth and honour; and now, in the prince’s +extreme danger, the king has actually sent for him, and bidden him try +his skill—a man who knows nothing save about bones and muscles +and the outside of the body, and is unworthy the name of a true physician.</p> +<p>One can conceive the rage of the old Spanish pedants at the Netherlander’s +appearance, and still more at what followed, if we are to believe Hugo +Bloet of Delft, his countryman and contemporary. <a name="citation390"></a><a href="#footnote390">{390}</a> +Vesalius, he says, saw that the surgeons had bound up the wound so tight +that an abscess had formed outside the skull, which could not break: +he asserted that the only hope lay in opening it; and did so, Philip +having given leave, “by two cross-cuts. Then the lad returned +to himself, as if awakened from a profound sleep, affirming that he +owed his restoration to life to the German doctor.”</p> +<p>Dionysius Daza, who was there with the other physicians and surgeons, +tells a different story: “The most learned, famous, and rare Baron +Vesalius,” he says, advised that the skull should be trepanned; +but his advice was not followed.</p> +<p>Olivarez’ account agrees with that of Daza. They had +opened the wounds, he says, down to the skull before Vesalius came. +Vesalius insisted that the injury lay inside the skull, and wished to +pierce it. Olivarez spends much labour in proving that Vesalius +had “no great foundation for his opinion:” but confesses +that he never changed that opinion to the last, though all the Spanish +doctors were against him. Then on the 6th, he says, the Bachelor +Torres came from Madrid, and advised that the skull should be laid bare +once more; and on the 7th, there being still doubt whether the skull +was not injured, the operation was performed—by whom it is not +said—but without any good result, or, according to Olivarez, any +discovery, save that Vesalius was wrong, and the skull uninjured.</p> +<p>“Whether this second operation of the 7th of May was performed +by Vesalius, and whether it was that of which Bloet speaks, is an open +question. Olivarez’ whole relation is apologetic, written +to justify himself and his seven Spanish colleagues, and to prove Vesalius +in the wrong. Public opinion, he confesses, had been very fierce +against him. The credit of Spanish medicine was at stake: and +we are not bound to believe implicitly a paper drawn up under such circumstances +for Philip’s eye. This, at least, we gather: that Don Carlos +was never trepanned, as is commonly said; and this, also, that whichever +of the two stories is true, equally puts Vesalius into direct, and most +unpleasant, antagonism to the Spanish doctors. <a name="citation392"></a><a href="#footnote392">{392}</a></p> +<p>But Don Carlos still lay senseless; and yielding to popular clamour, +the doctors called in the aid of a certain Moorish doctor, from Valencia, +named Priotarete, whose unguents, it was reported, had achieved many +miraculous cures. The unguent, however, to the horror of the doctors, +burned the skull till the bone was as black as the colour of ink; and +Olivarez declares he believes it to have been a preparation of pure +caustic. On the morning of the 9th of May, the Moor and his unguents +were sent away, “and went to Madrid, to send to heaven Hernando +de Vega, while the prince went back to our method of cure.”</p> +<p>Considering what happened on the morning of the 10th of May, we should +now presume that the second opening of the abscess, whether by Vesalius +or someone else, relieved the pressure on the brain; that a critical +period of exhaustion followed, probably prolonged by the Moor’s +premature caustic, which stopped the suppuration: but that God’s +good handiwork, called nature, triumphed at last; and that therefore +it came to pass that the prince was out of danger within three days +of the operation. But he was taught, it seems, to attribute his +recovery to a very different source from that of a German knife. +For on the morning of the 9th, when the Moor was gone, and Don Carlos +lay seemingly lifeless, there descended into his chamber a Deus e machinâ, +or rather a whole pantheon of greater or lesser deities, who were to +effect that which medical skill seemed not to have effected. Philip +sent into the prince’s chamber several of the precious relics +which he usually carried about with him. The miraculous image +of the Virgin of Atocha, in embroidering garments for whom, Spanish +royalty, male and female, has spent so many an hour ere now, was brought +in solemn procession and placed on an altar at the foot of the prince’s +bed; and in the afternoon there entered, with a procession likewise, +a shrine containing the bones of a holy anchorite, one Fray Diego, “whose +life and miracles,” says Olivarez, “are so notorious;” +and the bones of St. Justus and St. Pastor, the tutelar saints of the +university of Alcala. Amid solemn litanies the relics of Fray +Diego were laid upon the prince’s pillow, and the sudarium, or +mortuary cloth, which had covered his face, was placed upon the prince’s +forehead.</p> +<p>Modern science might object that the presence of so many personages, +however pious or well intentioned, in a sick chamber on a hot Spanish +May day, especially as the bath had been, for some generations past, +held in religious horror throughout Spain, as a sign of Moorish and +Mussulman tendencies, might have somewhat interfered with the chances +of the poor boy’s recovery. Nevertheless the event seems +to have satisfied Philip’s highest hopes; for that same night +(so Don Carlos afterwards related) the holy monk Diego appeared to him +in a vision, wearing the habit of St. Francis, and bearing in his hand +a cross of reeds tied with a green band. The prince stated that +he first took the apparition to be that of the blessed St. Francis; +but not seeing the stigmata, he exclaimed, “How? Dost thou +not bear the marks of the wounds?” What he replied Don Carlos +did not recollect; save that he consoled him, and told him that he should +not die of that malady.</p> +<p>Philip had returned to Madrid, and shut himself up in grief in the +great Jeronymite monastery. Elizabeth was praying for her step-son +before the miraculous images of the same city. During the night +of the 9th of May prayers went up for Don Carlos in all the churches +of Toledo, Alcala, and Madrid. Alva stood all that night at the +bed’s foot. Don Garcia de Toledo sat in the arm-chair, where +he had now sat night and day for more than a fortnight. The good +preceptor, Honorato Juan, afterwards Bishop of Osma, wrestled in prayer +for the lad the whole night through. His prayer was answered: +probably it had been answered already, without his being aware of it. +Be that as it may, about dawn Don Carlos’ heavy breathing ceased; +he fell into a quiet sleep; and when he awoke all perceived at once +that he was saved.</p> +<p>He did not recover his sight, seemingly on account of the erysipelas, +for a week more. He then opened his eyes upon the miraculous image +of Atocha, and vowed that, if he recovered, he would give to the Virgin, +at four different shrines in Spain, gold plate of four times his weight; +and silver plate of seven times his weight, when he should rise from +his couch. So on the 6th of June he rose, and was weighed in a +fur coat and a robe of damask, and his weight was three arrobas and +one pound—seventy-six pounds in all. On the 14th of June +he went to visit his father at the episcopal palace; then to all the +churches and shrines in Alcala, and of course to that of Fray Diego, +whose body it is said he contemplated for some time with edifying devotion. +The next year saw Fray Diego canonised as a saint, at the intercession +of Philip and his son; and thus Don Carlos re-entered the world, to +be a terror and a torment to all around him, and to die—not by +Philip’s cruelty, as his enemies reported too hastily indeed, +yet excusably, for they knew him to be capable of any wickedness—but +simply of constitutional insanity.</p> +<p>And now let us go back to the history of “that most learned, +famous, and rare Baron Vesalius,” who had stood by and seen all +these things done; and try if we cannot, after we have learned the history +of his early life, guess at some of his probable meditations on this +celebrated clinical case; and guess also how those meditations may have +affected seriously the events of his after life.</p> +<p>Vesalius (as I said) was a Netherlander, born at Brussels in 1513 +or 1514. His father and grandfather had been medical men of the +highest standing in a profession which then, as now, was commonly hereditary. +His real name was Wittag, an ancient family of Wesel, on the Rhine, +from which town either he or his father adopted the name of Vesalius, +according to the classicising fashion of those days. Young Vesalius +was sent to college at Louvain, where he learned rapidly. At sixteen +or seventeen he knew not only Latin, but Greek enough to correct the +proofs of Galen, and Arabic enough to become acquainted with the works +of the Mussulman physicians. He was a physicist, too, and a mathematician, +according to the knowledge of those times; but his passion—the +study to which he was destined to devote his life—was anatomy.</p> +<p>Little or nothing (it must be understood) had been done in anatomy +since the days of Galen of Pergamos, in the second century after Christ, +and very little even by him. Dissection was all but forbidden +among the ancients. The Egyptians, Herodotus tells us, used to +pursue with stones and curses the embalmers as soon as they had performed +their unpleasant office; and though Herophilus and Erasistratus are +said to have dissected many subjects under the protection of Ptolemy +Soter in Alexandria itself: yet the public feeling of the Greeks as +well as of the Romans continued the same as that of the ancient Egyptians; +and Galen was fain—as Vesalius proved—to supplement his +ignorance of the human frame by describing that of an ape. Dissection +was equally forbidden among the Mussulmans; and the great Arabic physicians +could do no more than comment on Galen. The same prejudice extended +through the middle age. Medical men were all clerks, clerici, +and as such forbidden to shed blood. The only dissection, as far +as I am aware, made during the middle age was one by Mundinus in 1306; +and his subsequent commentaries on Galen—for he dare allow his +own eyes to see no more than Galen had seen before him—constituted +the best anatomical manual in Europe till the middle of the fifteenth +century.</p> +<p>Then, in Italy at least, the classic Renaissance gave fresh life +to anatomy as to all other sciences. Especially did the improvements +in painting and sculpture stir men up to a closer study of the human +frame. Leonardo da Vinci wrote a treatise on muscular anatomy: +the artist and the sculptor often worked together, and realised that +sketch of Michael Angelo’s in which he himself is assisting Fallopius, +Vesalius’ famous pupil, to dissect. Vesalius soon found +that his thirst for facts could not be slaked by the theories of the +middle age; so in 1530 he went off to Montpellier, where Francis I. +had just founded a medical school, and where the ancient laws of the +city allowed the faculty each year the body of a criminal. From +thence, after becoming the fellow-pupil and the friend of Rondelet, +and probably also of Rabelais and those other luminaries of Montpellier, +of whom I spoke in my essay on Rondelet, he returned to Paris to study +under old Sylvius, whose real name was Jacques Dubois, <i>alias</i> +Jock o’ the Wood; and to learn less—as he complains himself—in +an anatomical theatre than a butcher might learn in his shop.</p> +<p>Were it not that the whole question of dissection is one over which +it is right to draw a reverent veil, as a thing painful, however necessary +and however innocent, it would be easy to raise ghastly laughter in +many a reader by the stories which Vesalius himself tells of his struggles +to learn anatomy.—How old Sylvius tried to demonstrate the human +frame from a bit of a dog, fumbling in vain for muscles which he could +not find, or which ought to have been there, according to Galen, and +were not; while young Vesalius, as soon as the old pedant’s back +was turned, took his place, and, to the delight of the students, found +for him—provided it were there—what he could not find himself;—how +he went body-snatching and gibbet-robbing, often at the danger of his +life, as when he and his friend were nearly torn to pieces by the cannibal +dogs who haunted the Butte de Montfaucon, or place of public execution;—how +he acquired, by a long and dangerous process, the only perfect skeleton +then in the world, and the hideous story of the robber to whom it had +belonged—all these horrors those who list may read for themselves +elsewhere. I hasten past them with this remark—that to have +gone through the toils, dangers, and disgusts which Vesalius faced, +argued in a superstitious and cruel age like his, no common physical +and moral courage, and a deep conscience that he was doing right, and +must do it at all risks in the face of a generation which, peculiarly +reckless of human life and human agony, allowed that frame which it +called the image of God to be tortured, maimed, desecrated in every +way while alive; and yet—straining at the gnat after having swallowed +the camel—forbade it to be examined when dead, though for the +purpose of alleviating the miseries of mankind.</p> +<p>The breaking out of war between Francis I. and Charles V. drove Vesalius +back to his native country and Louvain; and in 1535 we hear of him as +a surgeon in Charles V.’s army. He saw, most probably, the +Emperor’s invasion of Provence, and the disastrous retreat from +before Montmorency’s fortified camp at Avignon, through a country +in which that crafty general had destroyed every article of human food, +except the half-ripe grapes. He saw, perhaps, the Spanish soldiers, +poisoned alike by the sour fruit and by the blazing sun, falling in +hundreds along the white roads which led back into Savoy, murdered by +the peasantry whose homesteads had been destroyed, stifled by the weight +of their own armour, or desperately putting themselves, with their own +hands, out of a world which had become intolerable. Half the army +perished. Two thousand corpses lay festering between Aix and Fréjus +alone. If young Vesalius needed “subjects,” the ambition +and the crime of man found enough for him in those blazing September +days.</p> +<p>He went to Italy, probably with the remnants of the army. Where +could he have rather wished to find himself? He was at last in +the country where the human mind seemed to be growing young once more; +the country of revived arts, revived sciences, learning, languages; +and—though, alas, only for a while—of revived free thought, +such as Europe had not seen since the palmy days of Greece. Here +at least he would be appreciated; here at least he would be allowed +to think and speak: and he was appreciated. The Italian cities, +who were then, like the Athenians of old, “spending their time +in nothing else save to hear or to tell something new,” welcomed +the brave young Fleming and his novelties. Within two years he +was professor of anatomy at Padua, then the first school in the world; +then at Bologna and at Pisa at the same time; last of all at Venice, +where Titian painted that portrait of him which remains unto this day.</p> +<p>These years were for him a continual triumph; everywhere, as he demonstrated +on the human body, students crowded his theatre, or hung round him as +he walked the streets; professors left their own chairs—their +scholars having deserted them already—to go and listen humbly +or enviously to the man who could give them what all brave souls throughout +half Europe were craving for, and craving in vain: facts. And +so, year after year, was realised that scene which stands engraved in +the frontispiece of his great book—where, in the little quaint +Cinquecento theatre, saucy scholars, reverend doctors, gay gentlemen, +and even cowled monks, are crowding the floor, peeping over each other’s +shoulders, hanging on the balustrades; while in the centre, over his +“subject”—which one of those same cowled monks knew +but too well—stands young Vesalius, upright, proud, almost defiant, +as one who knows himself safe in the impregnable citadel of fact; and +in his hand the little blade of steel, destined—because wielded +in obedience to the laws of nature, which are the laws of God—to +work more benefit for the human race than all the swords which were +drawn in those days, or perhaps in any other, at the bidding of most +Catholic Emperors and most Christian Kings.</p> +<p>Those were indeed days of triumph for Vesalius; of triumph deserved, +because earned by patient and accurate toil in a good cause: but Vesalius, +being but a mortal man, may have contracted in those same days a temper +of imperiousness and self-conceit, such as he showed afterwards when +his pupil Fallopius dared to add fresh discoveries to those of his master. +And yet, in spite of all Vesalius knew, how little he knew! How +humbling to his pride it would have been had he known then—perhaps +he does know now—that he had actually again and again walked, +as it were, round and round the true theory of the circulation of the +blood, and yet never seen it; that that discovery which, once made, +is intelligible, as far as any phenomenon is intelligible, to the merest +peasant, was reserved for another century, and for one of those Englishmen +on whom Vesalius would have looked as semi-barbarians.</p> +<p>To make a long story short: three years after the publication of +his famous book, ‘De Corporis Humani Fabrica,’ he left Venice +to cure Charles V., at Regensburg, and became one of the great Emperor’s +physicians.</p> +<p>This was the crisis of Vesalius’ life. The medicine with +which he had worked the cure was China—Sarsaparilla, as we call +it now—brought home from the then newly-discovered banks of the +Paraguay and Uruguay, where its beds of tangled vine, they say, tinge +the clear waters a dark brown like that of peat, and convert whole streams +into a healthful and pleasant tonic. On the virtues of this China +(then supposed to be a root) Vesalius wrote a famous little book, into +which he contrived to interweave his opinions on things in general, +as good Bishop Berkeley did afterwards into his essay on the virtues +of tar-water. Into this book, however, Vesalius introduced—as +Bishop Berkeley did not—much, and perhaps too much, about himself; +and much, though perhaps not too much, about poor old Galen, and his +substitution of an ape’s inside for that of a human being. +The storm which had been long gathering burst upon him. The old +school, trembling for their time-honoured reign, bespattered, with all +that pedantry, ignorance, and envy could suggest, the man who dared +not only to revolutionise surgery, but to interfere with the privileged +mysteries of medicine; and, over and above, to become a favourite at +the court of the greatest of monarchs. While such as Eustachius, +himself an able discoverer, could join in the cry, it is no wonder if +a lower soul, like that of Sylvius, led it open-mouthed. He was +a mean, covetous, bad man, as George Buchanan well knew; and, according +to his nature, he wrote a furious book, ‘Ad Vesani calumnias depulsandas.’ +The punning change of Vesalius into Vesanus (madman) was but a fair +and gentle stroke for a polemic, in days in which those who could not +kill their enemies with steel or powder, held themselves justified in +doing so, if possible, by vituperation, culumny, and every engine of +moral torture. But a far more terrible weapon, and one which made +Vesalius rage, and it may be for once in his life tremble, was the charge +of impiety and heresy. The Inquisition was a very ugly place. +It was very easy to get into it, especially for a Netherlander: but +not so easy to get out. Indeed Vesalius must have trembled, when +he saw his master, Charles V., himself take fright, and actually call +on the theologians of Salamanca to decide whether it was lawful to dissect +a human body. The monks, to their honour, used their common sense, +and answered Yes. The deed was so plainly useful, that it must +be lawful likewise. But Vesalius did not feel that he had triumphed. +He dreaded, possibly, lest the storm should only have blown over for +a time. He fell, possibly, into hasty disgust at the folly of +mankind, and despair of arousing them to use their common sense, and +acknowledge their true interest and their true benefactors. At +all events, he threw into the fire—so it is said—all his +unpublished manuscripts, the records of long years of observation, and +renounced science thenceforth.</p> +<p>We hear of him after this at Brussels, and at Basle likewise—in +which latter city, in the company of physicians, naturalists, and Grecians, +he must have breathed awhile a freer air. But he seems to have +returned thence to his old master Charles V., and to have finally settled +at Madrid as a court surgeon to Philip II., who sent him, but too late, +to extract the lance splinters from the eye of the dying Henry II.</p> +<p>He was now married to a lady of rank from Brussels, Anne van Hamme +by name; and their daughter married in time Philip II.’s grand +falconer, who was doubtless a personage of no small social rank. +He was well off in worldly things; somewhat fond, it is said, of good +living and of luxury; inclined, it may be, to say, “Let us eat +and drink, for to-morrow we die,” and to sink more and more into +the mere worldling, unless some shock awoke him from his lethargy.</p> +<p>And the awakening shock did come. After eight years of court +life, he resolved early in the year 1564 to go on pilgrimage to Jerusalem.</p> +<p>The reasons for so strange a determination are wrapped in mystery +and contradiction. The common story was that he had opened a corpse +to ascertain the cause of death, and that, to the horror of the bystanders, +the heart was still seen to beat; that his enemies accused him to the +Inquisition, and that he was condemned to death, a sentence which was +commuted to that of going on pilgrimage. But here, at the very +outset, accounts differ. One says that the victim was a nobleman, +name not given; another that it was a lady’s maid, name not given. +It is most improbable, if not impossible, that Vesalius, of all men, +should have mistaken a living body for a dead one; while it is most +probable, on the other hand, that his medical enemies would gladly raise +such a calumny against him, when he was no longer in Spain to contradict +it. Meanwhile Llorente, the historian of the Inquisition, makes +no mention of Vesalius having been brought before its tribunal, while +he does mention Vesalius’ residence at Madrid. Another story +is, that he went abroad to escape the bad temper of his wife; another +that he wanted to enrich himself. Another story—and that +not an unlikely one—is, that he was jealous of the rising reputation +of his pupil Fallopius, then professor of anatomy at Venice. This +distinguished surgeon, as I said before, had written a book, in which +he had added to Vesalius’ discoveries, and corrected certain errors +of his. Vesalius had answered him hastily and angrily, quoting +his anatomy from memory; for, as he himself complained, he could not +in Spain obtain a subject for dissection; not even, he said, a single +skull. He had sent his book to Venice to be published, and had +heard, seemingly, nothing of it.</p> +<p>He may have felt that he was falling behind in the race of science, +and that it was impossible for him to carry on his studies in Madrid; +and so, angry with his own laziness and luxury, he may have felt the +old sacred fire flash up in him, and have determined to go to Italy +and become a student and a worker once more.</p> +<p>The very day that he set out, Clusius of Arras, then probably the +best botanist in the world, arrived at Madrid; and, asking the reason +of Vesalius’ departure, was told by their fellow-countryman, Charles +de Tisnacq, procurator for the affairs of the Netherlands, that Vesalius +had gone of his own free will, and with all facilities which Philip +could grant him, in performance of a vow which he had made during a +dangerous illness. Here, at least, we have a drop of information, +which seems taken from the stream sufficiently near to the fountain-head: +but it must be recollected that De Tisnacq lived in dangerous times, +and may have found it necessary to walk warily in them; that through +him had been sent, only the year before, that famous letter from William +of Orange, Horn, and Egmont, the fate whereof may be read in Mr. Motley’s +fourth chapter; that the crisis of the Netherlands which sprung out +of that letter was coming fast; and that, as De Tisnacq was on friendly +terms with Egmont, he may have felt his head at times somewhat loose +on his shoulders; especially if he had heard Alva say, as he wrote, +“that every time he saw the despatches of those three señors, +they moved his choler so, that if he did not take much care to temper +it, he would seem a frenzied man.” In such times, De Tisnacq +may have thought good to return a diplomatic answer to a fellow-countryman +concerning a third fellow-countryman, especially when that countryman, +as a former pupil of Melancthon at Wittemberg, might himself be under +suspicion of heresy, and therefore of possible treason.</p> +<p>Be this as it may, one cannot but suspect some strain of truth in +the story about the Inquisition; perhaps in that, also, of his wife’s +unkindness; for, whether or not Vesalius operated on Don Carlos, he +had seen with his own eyes that miraculous Virgin of Atocha at the bed’s +foot of the prince. He had heard his recovery attributed, not +to the operation, but to the intercession of Fray, now Saint, Diego; +<a name="citation408"></a><a href="#footnote408">{408}</a> and he must +have had his thoughts thereon, and may, in an unguarded moment, have +spoken them.</p> +<p>For he was, be it always remembered, a Netherlander. The crisis +of his country was just at hand. Rebellion was inevitable, and, +with rebellion, horrors unutterable; and, meanwhile, Don Carlos had +set his mad brain on having the command of the Netherlands. In +his rage at not having it, as all the world knows, he nearly killed +Alva with his own hands, some two years after. If it be true that +Don Carlos felt a debt of gratitude to Vesalius, he may (after his wont) +have poured out to him some wild confidence about the Netherlands, to +have even heard which would be a crime in Philip’s eyes. +And if this be but a fancy, still Vesalius was, as I just said, a Netherlander, +and one of a brain and a spirit to which Philip’s doings, and +the air of the Spanish court, must have been growing even more and more +intolerable. Hundreds of his country folk, perhaps men and women +whom he had known, were being racked, burnt alive, buried alive, at +the bidding of a jocular ruffian, Peter Titelmann, the chief inquisitor. +The “day of the <i>mau-brulez</i>,” and the wholesale massacre +which followed it, had happened but two years before; and, by all the +signs of the times, these murders and miseries were certain to increase. +And why were all these poor wretches suffering the extremity of horror, +but because they would not believe in miraculous images, and bones of +dead friars, and the rest of that science of unreason and unfact, against +which Vesalius had been fighting all his life, consciously or not, by +using reason and observing fact? What wonder if, in some burst +of noble indignation and just contempt, he forgot a moment that he had +sold his soul, and his love of science likewise, to be a luxurious, +yet uneasy, hanger-on at the tyrant’s court; and spoke unadvisedly +some word worthy of a German man?</p> +<p>As to the story of his unhappy quarrels with his wife, there may +be a grain of truth in it likewise. Vesalius’ religion must +have sat very lightly on him. The man who had robbed churchyards +and gibbets from his youth was not likely to be much afraid of apparitions +and demons. He had handled too many human bones to care much for +those of saints. He was probably, like his friends of Basle, Montpellier, +and Paris, somewhat of a heretic at heart, probably somewhat of a pagan. +His lady, Anne van Hamme, was probably a strict Catholic, as her father, +being a councillor and master of the exchequer at Brussels, was bound +to be; and freethinking in the husband, crossed by superstition in the +wife, may have caused in them that wretched vie à part, that +want of any true communion of soul, too common to this day in Catholic +countries.</p> +<p>Be these things as they may—and the exact truth of them will +now be never known—Vesalius set out to Jerusalem in the spring +of 1564. On his way he visited his old friends at Venice to see +about his book against Fallopius. The Venetian republic received +the great philosopher with open arms. Fallopius was just dead; +and the senate offered their guest the vacant chair of anatomy. +He accepted it: but went on to the East.</p> +<p>He never occupied that chair; wrecked upon the Isle of Zante, as +he was sailing back from Palestine, he died miserably of fever and want, +as thousands of pilgrims returning from the Holy Land had died before +him. A goldsmith recognised him; buried him in a chapel of the +Virgin; and put up over him a simple stone, which remained till late +years; and may remain, for aught I know, even now.</p> +<p>So perished, in the prime of life, “a martyr to his love of +science,” to quote the words of M. Burggraeve of Ghent, his able +biographer and commentator, “the prodigious man, who created a +science at an epoch when everything was still an obstacle to his progress; +a man whose whole life was a long struggle of knowledge against ignorance, +of truth against lies.”</p> +<p>Plaudite: Exeat: with Rondelet and Buchanan. And whensoever +this poor foolish world needs three such men, may God of his great mercy +send them.</p> +<h2>Footnotes</h2> +<p><a name="footnote15"></a><a href="#citation15">{15}</a> 9, +Adam Street, Adelphi, London.</p> +<p><a name="footnote72"></a><a href="#citation72">{72}</a> I quote +from the translation of the late lamented Philip Stanhope Worsley, of +Corpus Christi College, Oxford.</p> +<p><a name="footnote76"></a><a href="#citation76">{76}</a> Odyssey, +book vi. 127-315; vol. i. pp. 143-150 of Mr. Worsley’s translation.</p> +<p><a name="footnote88"></a><a href="#citation88">{88}</a> Since +this essay was written, I have been sincerely delighted to find that +my wishes had been anticipated at Girton College, near Cambridge, and +previously at Hitchin, whence the college was removed: and that the +wise ladies who superintend that establishment propose also that most +excellent institution—a swimming bath. A paper, moreover, +read before the London Association of Schoolmistresses in 1866, on “Physical +Exercises and Recreation for Girls,” deserves all attention. +May those who promote such things prosper as they deserve.</p> +<p><a name="footnote256"></a><a href="#citation256">{256}</a> +For an account of Sorcery and Fetishism among the African Negros, see +Burton’s ‘Lake Regions of Central Africa,’ vol. ii. +pp. 341-360.</p> +<p><a name="footnote304"></a><a href="#citation304">{304}</a> +An arcade in the King’s School, Chester.</p> +<p><a name="footnote328"></a><a href="#citation328">{328}</a> +So says Dr. Irving, writing in 1817. I have, however, tried in +vain to get a sight of this book. I need not tell Scotch scholars +how much I am indebted throughout this article to Dr. David living’s +erudite second edition of Buchanan’s Life.</p> +<p><a name="footnote343"></a><a href="#citation343">{343}</a> +From the quaint old translation of 1721, by “A Person of Honour +of the Kingdom of Scotland.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote358"></a><a href="#citation358">{358}</a> +A Life of Rondelet, by his pupil Laurent Joubert, is to be found appended +to his works; and with it an account of his illness and death, by his +cousin, Claude Formy, which is well worth the perusal of any man, wise +or foolish. Many interesting details beside, I owe to the courtesy +of Professor Planchon, of Montpellier, author of a discourse on ‘Rondelet +et ses Disciples,’ which appeared, with a learned and curious +Appendice, in the ‘Montpellier Médical’ for 1866.</p> +<p><a name="footnote390"></a><a href="#citation390">{390}</a> +I owe this account of Bloet’s—which appears to me the only +one trustworthy—to the courtesy and erudition of Professor Henry +Morley, who finds it quoted from Bloet’s ‘Acroama,’ +in the ‘Observationum Medicarum Rariorum, lib. vii.,’ of +John Theodore Schenk. Those who wish to know several curious passages +of Vesalius’ life, which I have not inserted in this article, +would do well to consult one by Professor Morley, ‘Anatomy in +Long Clothes,’ in ‘Fraser’s Magazine’ for November, +1853. May I express a hope, which I am sure will be shared by +all who have read Professor Morley’s biographies of Jerome Cardan +and of Cornelius Agrippa, that he will find leisure to return to the +study of Vesalius’ life; and will do for him what he has done +for the two just-mentioned writers?</p> +<p><a name="footnote392"></a><a href="#citation392">{392}</a> +Olivarez’ ‘Relacion’ is to be found in the Granvelle +State Papers. For the general account of Don Carlos’ illness, +and of the miraculous agencies by which his cure was said to have been +effected, the general reader should consult Miss Frere’s ‘Biography +of Elizabeth of Valois,’ vol. i. pp. 307-19.</p> +<p><a name="footnote408"></a><a href="#citation408">{408}</a> +In justice to poor Doctor Olivarez, it must be said, that while he allows +all force to the intercession of the Virgin and of Fray Diego, and of +“many just persons,” he cannot allow that there was any +“miracle properly so called,” because the prince was cured +according to “natural order,” and by “experimented +remedies” of the physicians.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HEALTH AND EDUCATION***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 17437-h.htm or 17437-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/7/4/3/17437 + + + +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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